Tomorrow About This Time (11 page)

The words were indelibly graven on his soul. He had not thought of them in years, but they were there just as sharply discernible as when that day he stole into her room to ask some trivial request for the next day’s pleasure and came upon her unawares and stood breathless as in the presence of the Most High, stealing away on tiptoe not to disturb her, lying wakeful in his bed till far into the night! Ah! He turned sharply toward the two, and his voice jarred a discord as he spoke to break the spell of solemnity.

“Come home with us and take dinner, Bannard!”

He had not intended to give that invitation. It had been the furthest from his thoughts only a moment before, but his tongue had spoken without leave. Now that it was given he found ease in the thought of a guest. Why not? He liked the young man. A guest more or less made little difference in the strange makeup of his sudden family. Perhaps it might even help out the embarrassing situation. But he was not prepared for the quick lighting of the young man’s face.

“That would be great!” he responded. “But—” and his eyes sought the girl’s face for the flicker of a glance, “are you quite sure you want—guests this first evening?”

“Oh, yes, come along!” said Greeves impatiently, half sorry now he had asked him, yet determined not to go back on his invitation. And Silver’s eyes gave him a pleasant impersonal welcome.

“I’ll be there at five o’clock,” he said looking at his watch. “I must meet the little mother out in the cemetery first, and there’s an old man who is dying—I must drop in there a few moments. I think I can make it by five. Will that be too soon? There’s something I’ve been wanting to talk over with you ever since I knew you were coming. Will you have a few minutes to spare?”

“Make it by five and we’ll have tea in the garden. Silver-Alice, can you make tea?” His tone was a shy attempt at playfulness, but it brought a great light into the girl’s eyes as she turned a sparkling face.

“Oh, surely!”

“Then make it five. I acquired a foreign habit of drinking tea in the afternoon while I was over there. We’ll have plenty of time for a talk then. We dine at seven.” Then suddenly it occurred to him that he had another daughter awaiting him and that the prospect was anything but pleasant, so with an almost brusque manner he left hurriedly. Turning back at the door he said to the minister: “Oh, by the way. What has become of that young person, Blink, I think you called him? We had an engagement with him this morning, hadn’t we? I had completely forgotten it. Do you know where I could find him to make my apologies?”

“He is washing my car at present,” laughed the minister. “I shall see him before long and can deliver your message. You needn’t worry about Blink. He is very wise for his years.”

“Well, suppose you tell him to drop in to dinner at seven. Tell him we’ll talk over bait after dinner.”

Terrence Bannard’s eyes registered appreciation.

“Thank you,” he said. “I doubt if he’ll come. He’s shy and proud among ladies, but he’ll appreciate the invitation.”

“Oh, that’s all right!” said the older man not in the least realizing that he was getting a large party on his hands but determined to discharge his obligations to the young friend of the evening before. “Tell him to come. I liked him.”

They were gone down the maple-shaded street, and the minister stood for an instant in the doorway watching the graceful girl as she walked beside her father, with a look in his eyes that would have brought the spyglasses of his congregation on him if any had been there to tell the tale.

Meanwhile, Athalie, never long content at a time, grew restless with her book, and wriggling out from the finery on the bed, stole to the door and listened. All was quiet downstairs except a distant subdued kitchen sound somewhere off toward the back. That impudent housekeeper was away about her business. Now was Athalie’s time to pry.

Removing her shoes and substituting blue satin slippers she stole cautiously down the hall and tried her father’s door, the front room on the same side of the hall with her own but separated by deep closets, one belonging to her room, the other to his.

She stood curiously staring around. It was a boy’s room, with college photographs and pennants and lacrosse sticks being its chief adornings. Only a bag filled with toiletries and a locked suitcase gave evidence of the entrance of the owner after the years of absence. Patterson Greeves had been too weary and too perturbed to unpack or make any changes since his arrival the night before. Athalie made very sure that there was nothing among his belongings to give any clue to his present character. She went stealthily from bag to suitcase, even opened bureau drawers, but no picture or letter or anything was brought to light that might be of possible interest, though she conducted her search with the manner and wisdom of a young detective.

Coming out she closed the door again and stole across the hall to the room that had been Aunt Lavinia’s.

Her eyes took in the details sharply, the old-fashioned neatness and comfort, and quiet beauty of the room, and the fact that the other girl had been taken there rather than herself, the front room, that best room in the house, with the big sunny windows to the street and at the side! Jealousy filled her heart, and her full, petulant lips came out in ugly lines. She walked quickly to the bed, snatched Silver’s hat and gloves, and flung them across the room behind a chair. She picked up her handbag and went through it carefully, ruthlessly tearing in half and restoring to its silken pocket a small photograph of a woman, the woman whose portrait was downstairs she felt sure. Then she went over to the closet and flung wide the door. After a moment’s survey of two or three shrouded dresses of outdated design that hung there, she gathered them up and flung them on a chair. Then she went back to her own room and selected an armful of her clothes and returning began to hang them on the hooks.

All at once she became aware that someone was near, and turning, her arms still half full of finery, she found herself facing Silver.

Not in the least abashed she looked her up and down contemptuously a full second before either spoke. Then Athalie asked rudely: “Well! Who are
you?”

“I beg your pardon,” said Silver hesitating on the threshold, “am I intruding? Have I made a mistake? I was told this was my room—”

“Well it isn’t,” said Athalie roughly. “I’m going to take it myself! I don’t like the room that old frump gave me so I’m moving over here. You can have my room when I get out if you’re going to stay overnight. I’m Athalie Greeves, and this is my father’s house, so
what I say goes!”

Silver stood quite still for an instant, the smile frozen on her lips, her eyes taking in the details of this impossible sister, her ears trying to refuse the evidence of the sounds they had heard. Something seemed to flicker and go out in her face, a stricken look flitted over it, succeeded by a sweet dignity and a lifting of her chin that in another might have amounted to haughtiness. Then she said quietly: “I see. Well, I will not trouble you.”

She walked over to the other side of the bed, recovered her hat and gloves, took up her handbag, and went out and down the stairs. Athalie did not stop to notice where she went nor care. She went on arranging her garments on the hooks, an ugly expression on her heavy young brow.

Silver passed quietly downstairs and found an unobtrusive resting place for hat and gloves on the table in the depth of the wide hall and then went on to a door that opened to a wide bricked terrace with the garden just below, reached by mossy brick steps set in the sod and edged by crocuses and daffodils. Beyond, a flare of color and the perfume of hyacinths and tulips lured the senses, and the subtle breath of lilies-of-the-valley stole from out of the deep-green border of the terrace. Silver stood for a moment looking out and trying to quiet the excited beating of her heart from the encounter. Trying to think what she ought to do. Wondering why her father had said nothing about this strange inmate of the house. Wondering why she had forgotten to ask him who the girl was she had seen on the stairs when she arrived. Thinking that in all likelihood the attitude of this other girl would make even a visit to her father impossible and grieving at the thought.

Already Molly and Anne Truesdale were bustling around, setting out a leaved table on the terrace, spreading it with fine old embroidered linen and delicate cups of other days, quaint heavy silver, plates of delectable cookies, and squares of spicy gingerbread. The pleasant garden and the bright show of flowers, the coming guest, and the air of happiness seemed not to belong to her. She felt a sudden loneliness, as if she were intruding, abashed in the presence of the things she could enjoy, appalled by the fact of this other girl in the house. The story then had been true that they had heard—that there had been a child by her father’s second marriage. And she must have lived instead of dying as rumor had brought to them. Her father had never written a word about either birth or death to her grandfather and grandmother. She wondered again, why? Her loyal heart refused to admit that her father had been wrong. He was her father. Perhaps there was some excuse. Perhaps there was some explanation.

Sudden tears came at this juncture and threatened to overflow. In a panic she withdrew into the shadows of the hall, lest the servants should see her, and almost ran into her father’s arms as he came down toward the door to see if his orders had been understood. He passed a loving arm around her, gently, as if he were almost afraid to touch her, almost shyly, she thought, and he whispered very low: “I’m glad you’ve come—Silver-Alice!”

Then Anne bustled in to ask some question and Silver slipped back to the library for a moment searching for her handkerchief, and so got control of herself. She came back to walk down the terrace with her father and see the places where he used to play as a child and hear all about the old fountain and the fairy tales he used to make up about it. Walking like that she almost forgot the sister upstairs who was so ungracious, almost forgot that sometime she would have to speak about her if her father did not speak first.

There was a cloud on her father’s brow. She noticed it first as they paused beside the sundial and she traced the line of clear-cut shadow half between the four and five of the quaint old figures. A sundial. How delightful! It was like digging up antiquities. Her heart leaped to the poetry of it. Then she looked up and saw the shadow on the stern sad face above her. Something was troubling him. What was it? Her presence here? Perhaps he knew how distasteful it was to the girl upstairs, and he did not know what to do. Perhaps it was best for her not to stay at all—perhaps—!

She put out a wistful hand and touched his sleeve. “Father!”

“Yes,” he said as if answering the thought of her heart. “There is something I must tell you, child. Come over to the old arbor and let us sit down. It is—unpleasant.”

“Is it about—Athalie, Father?” she asked as she turned to follow him.

He stopped and looked at her astonished.

“How did you know? Had anyone sent you word she was coming?” with quick suspicion in his voice. Lilla was quite capable of preparing such a setting for the arrival of her daughter. She seemed to have a sort of demoniacal insight into what would be exquisite torture for him. But Silver shook her head.

“Oh, no. But I saw her standing on the stairs behind you when I arrived, and again upstairs just now. She was moving her things into the room where I had taken off my hat. She asked me who I was. I am almost sure she does not like my coming. I think—Father—it isn’t quite convenient for you to have me visit you just now. I believe it would be better if I went back tonight and perhaps came again later, in a few years when she is older, or away on a visit or something. I would not like to make you trouble. And it has been wonderful to see you and to talk with you for even this short time. I shall never feel quite alone in the world again now that I know I have a father—
such
a father!”

“Stop!” His voice was choked with consternation, anger, something else that sounded almost like humility! Strange to see that expression sitting unaccustomedly on Patterson Greeves’s haughty features.

“Don’t say any more things like that, Silver,” he said brokenly. “I can’t bear them. It is bad enough to have got in such a mess. Bad enough to have a daughter like that! Bad enough to have her come here unannounced—she came only a few minutes before you did—without having you reproach me by flying up and leaving. You
cannot
leave me now, my child! You must stay by and help me.
I need you!”

“Oh, Father!” She put out a loving hand to his arm again, and he drew her within his embrace and down the path toward the summerhouse.

Athalie saw them, coming to the window of her own room her arms full of more finery, and she stood and gazed. Suddenly she dropped her armful, and great jealous tears of rage welled into her large bold eyes. From her handsome full lips a smothered sound almost like a roar of some enraged young animal came and was quickly suppressed. For a moment she watched, then she turned around and began to search wildly among the confusion of clothing on bed and chairs and to hastily dress herself in other attire.