Читать книгу Red of the Redfields - Grace S. Richmond - Страница 8

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Felix Rowe followed Doctor Burns up the gravel path to the old house, the two collies who had rushed to meet them leaping nearly shoulder-high about them, and barking wildly.

"Yes, you're fine boys," declared Burns, addressing them, "but don't lose your heads—you may need 'em. I thought so—nobody needs to ring a door-bell with you to announce them."

As the door opened Felix was thinking with a good deal of curiosity of the Mrs. Redfield whom Burns had several times mentioned, and who, it seemed to him, was likely to be the person with whom he was to have most to do. He thought he knew what she would be like, and he dreaded her. A matronly woman, undoubtedly, who would want to be very kind. She would try to "be a mother" to him. Well, he'd have to let her see he didn't want any "mothering"—the Lord knew he'd had enough of anxious questions as to how he was feeling—which was his conception of being mothered. Still, judging by Doctor Burns himself, she might not be that sort, either. Perhaps she'd be more of a nurse. That was it—he had it now—that was why Burns wasn't giving him any orders. The orders had already been given to the nurse. It was she who would take him in charge, and report back over the telephone to the Doctor. Very clever of Burns to make him think he was on his own, and then turn him over to somebody who would lay down schedules for him—measure out what he was to eat and drink—take his cigarettes away——

The door opened. A tall, thin man stood in the doorway; black spectacles stood out owlishly from a face which was more pallid than Felix's. For an instant the new arrival recoiled from the sight of one who was evidently not in health. But the sound of the voice speaking surprised him, it was so firm and clear.

"That you, Red? Mr. Rowe with you? Come in—come in. How do you do, Mr. Rowe? You're very welcome."

And Felix, putting his hand into the thin one outstretched, found it taken in a hearty grasp, which felt like that of a strong man.

"Can't stay, thank you, Linc. This is Felix Rowe—you have him by the hand. Mr. Lincoln Redfield, Rowe. I'm presenting you to him as your host. You'll find him a host of parts. Ah, here's Marcia—Mrs. Redfield, this is Mr. Rowe."

She had come into the hall, following her husband, and the light from the lamp on a table near the door fell full on her face. Felix Rowe gazed at her with a most extraordinary impression of being in the presence of somebody the like of whom he had met only in places far from such as this. Certainly he had not expected to see her here—this—this—lady of quality. Why, yes, he knew where he had met her—in a receiving line somewhere—at a college commencement—at a garden party for officers in France—on a committee of prominent women called for some big cause—some place like that. Not in a country farmhouse, or what had been a farmhouse. Such women weren't found in such places; it wasn't possible.

She had given him her hand, her steady, clear eyes looked straight into his. "How do you do, Mr. Rowe. We're very glad to see you."

Many times before in his life had Felix Rowe noted that fewer words even than these can unerringly indicate the type of person whom one is meeting for the first time. The quality of the voice itself, the inflection, as well as the words spoken, tell the story. Lips may well hesitate before they form the betraying syllables, but lips seldom do. The truth is out: there's no disguising possible after that.

"You're an educated woman, anyhow," said Felix to himself. "Not that it matters. If you're educated, you probably can't cook."

But he replied like a mannerly young man, if a sick one. Almost immediately she took him to his room. He expected her to suggest that he lie down at once, that she would bring him a tray. But she did nothing of the sort.

"We have supper in half an hour," she said. "Come down when you are ready." And left him to look about his quarters.

Well, again! What sort of room was this? It was a fairly large, square room, at the back corner of the square house, one window looking down the road, the other off toward distant hills, and nearer, down upon the October remnants of a garden, with ragged small yellow and white chrysanthemums fringing its borders. The impression of the room itself was of a clean, warm comfort. There were bookshelves; a round table with a student lamp; the woven rag rugs upon the brown-painted floor had bright streaks of red. On the old-fashioned bureau stood a copper bowl filled with scarlet salvia, reflecting itself vividly in the oval glass. And on the walls were photographs of—what?—ivied college quadrangles, a football team, a procession of dignitaries in hoods and gowns. Snapshots of gay young dogs pranking it in private quarters. A print of Abraham Lincoln—one of Theodore Roosevelt—one of Field-Marshal Foch—one of Eleanora Duse. Good heavens!—Was somebody posing? Of course! But here was a clever cartoon—a roistering, side-splitting, brilliant thing, worth preserving. It was impossible not to remember how he himself had gloated over it when it came out in one of the New York dailies, just after the war. And here was a brown rotogravure cut from a Sunday edition, a group of pretty girls in theatrical costumes—the picture had been carefully clipped and pinned to the wall. Beauties—jolly!

"Wonder Mother didn't take that down, when she expurgated the room, after Sonny went back to school," Felix murmured. "Overlooked it. Everything else has a high moral tone, suited to the growing youth. Suited to me, too, I suppose. I'm to be exposed to all the virtues here, evidently. Suppose there's a Bible somewhere—that's all that's lacking."

He glanced about, in search of it. No? Nor a Biblical calendar? Not even a motto, surrounded with flowers, to lift up his soul? But he did come across something surprising printed on a card, and stuck in the corner of an old mirror between the windows.

The second-rate is excellence—for the second rate.—Joubert.

That was revealing! He'd have to admit that a chap who would cut that out and pin it up where he could see it must have been doing some studying—and thinking. That wasn't a pose. If a fellow were trying to pose he wouldn't cut out that quiet stab, he'd take something reverberating, like one of Kipling's Barrack Room Ballads.

Well—time to go downstairs? He'd rather go to bed, now he thought about it again. He was so desperately tired. Queer Mrs. Redfield couldn't see that. If ever he should have had supper on a tray it was to-night. Not that he wanted to be coddled like an invalid, but he certainly shouldn't be treated like a well man. Practically no sleep last night, a tiresome journey, a seventeen-mile drive with the car windows open in spite of his shivers—and now expected to come down and join the family circle. A blind man and a middle-aged woman—anybody else? Still, he rather wanted to see Mrs. Redfield again. There was something about her—there certainly was!

He went down heavily. There was a pleasant smell of cookery in the air—spicy. He felt almost hungry—not quite; hollow, more exactly expressed it. He found himself stumbling over the threshold, limp with sudden faintness—a sensation to which he was well accustomed.

Nobody took any notice of his weakness. Mrs. Redfield invited him out into the dining-room, where he had to continue to stand long enough to be introduced to a bright-eyed old man who told him at once that he was very deaf. The middle-aged blind man sat opposite the deaf old one, and Felix was placed opposite Mrs. Redfield. This appeared to constitute the family circle, at present, anyhow. What a place for a sick young man!

Yet—there was Mrs. Redfield. As he looked across at her, Felix had to admit that her being there was going to make a difference. You couldn't say there was nobody there for him if she was there. He had seen a whole room in an art gallery given up to one picture—nothing else was needed. But—blindness and deafness—they were in the room with the picture—they would spoil it. Would they?

Meanwhile, there was a cup of bouillon before him, hot and clear and strong; little crisp fingers of toast to eat with it, also hot. The cup and saucer were of old blue-and-white. There was a bowl of orange and flame coloured nasturtiums in the centre of the table. Felix drank his bouillon and felt a little relief from the hollow faintness. Then came a plate of hash—corned-beef hash, browned all over the top, and a long, slim green pickle served on the plate with it. Invalid diet? It didn't look like it. Later came a hot red baked apple with its centre filled with raisins, cream poured over the whole. Delicious! Evidently the educated woman could cook, or tell somebody else how. Yet there seemed to be nobody else. She rose from the table and brought these things in herself, and there was no clatter of dishes from the kitchen, nor talking.

As for talking at the table, there wasn't more than he could bear of that. But what there was had a flavour, a certain unexpected quality. The blind man made some observations on current events, and his wife replied to them. The deaf man said a word or two now and then which had a touch of humour in it. They didn't bother Felix with questions, but he felt himself politely included. He didn't have much to say; he was too tired. He didn't intend to begin by bearing a part in the conversation at table; it was too much bother, and he meant to let them understand that he was a silent chap, anyhow. He'd talk when he felt like it, and when he didn't he was to be let alone.

The one thing he wanted, when supper was over, was to go to bed. Nobody interfered with that. He went up to his room and unpacked his bag. He expected somebody to come up, preferably Mrs. Redfield, to see if he was comfortable—if he had everything he wanted. She didn't. But in the bathroom, which he had been shown was next his own room opening from the hall, he found bath-towels hung over the corner of the tub.—That bathroom! There was something about it which caught his fancy. It had the cheapest sort of fixtures, a painted gray floor with a blue rag rug on it, an old bureau painted a light gray, there were racks of clean towels. It had a freshness, a nicety, a suggestion of habitual cleanliness for everybody, which attracted him. At home the bathrooms weren't kept quite neat; garments were left in them; the maid was careless about scrubbing the costly porcelain tub—Felix detested oversights like these. This clean, scrupulously fresh room, with its fragrance of soap and outer air, made him want his bath instantly in the painted tin tub.

After the bath he got into his bed. The sheets were cotton, the blankets were cotton, the mattress was probably cotton, too. But the whole effect was of comfort. He waited a little, still expectant of a visitor to ask him if he wanted any further attention. While he was waiting he fell asleep.