The Blue Window/Chapter 3
TWO weeks after her mother's funeral, Hildegarde Carew came to her father's place in Maryland. The house was set on a hill from which it took its name—Round Hill—and overlooked the Chesapeake. It was of red brick, with white-painted porches of wood, and was not imposing. It was half a mile from the station, and as there was no conveyance, Hildegarde walked, carrying her bag.
It was eleven o'clock in the morning, and Louis Carew was still in bed. It was a carved mahogany bed, with cupids and angels on the posts, and a faded canopy. From where he lay, Carew could see through a wide window the road which led from the station. And so he saw his daughter coming, not knowing that she was his daughter.
"Who's that woman?" he demanded of his secretary.
The secretary stood up. He was glad to know that any one was coming. He was bored to death. "Looks like a book-agent."
"Don't let her in."
"As you please."
The secretary was not obsequious. His social status paralleled that of his employer; they had been together since the War—and had fought together political battles and financial ones. It had been stimulating—exciting. Almost as thrilling, young Meriweather thought, as the Marne and some moments in the Argonne.
He picked up his pencil. Louis Carew was dictating an important paper. They had worked on it for several mornings. While he dictated, Carew would drink cup after cup of strong coffee, with toast and bacon. The secretary breakfasted early, with a ride before his work began. Today he would have another ride after lunch, and then type the matter which Carew had dictated. He and Carew would dine with the Hulburts—a mile or two away—and would come back and work until long after midnight.
The girl was ascending the hill. The sun shone full upon her. She walked lightly, with her head well up. Once she stopped to take off her heavy cape. Then she came on, all in black with her black bag.
"I can't see," Carew said with irritation, "why any one would come as far as this on the chance of selling books."
"They know you are big game if they can get you."
"Not so big as some of them think, if they knew my debts."
"But they don't. And they won't if I can help it. We've got to pull you out."
"I'd get in again."
Meriweather laughed. "I'm not so pessimistic."
Downstairs the bell rang. "There she is," Carew ejaculated.
A negro servant came up presently. "A young lady to see Mr. Carew."
"Did she say what she wanted?" Carew demanded.
She had not, it seemed, except that it was important.
"She's probably selling books. You go down, Merry."
Meriweather went and returned. "She says that she must see you; that she's a relative. Her name is Hildegarde Carew."
"Never heard of her."
"She insists it is important."
"But, great guns—I never get up at this time in the morning."
"I told her that, and she said she would wait."
"Let her wait then. Put her in the library and have Sampson take in something to eat. I'll finish this and dress—"
Meriweather, delivering the message, put it pleasantly. The girl was a lady and not to be treated with incivility. Mr. Carew was much occupied with an important matter until noon. Could she wait?
She could. Meriweather led the way to the library and gave orders to Sampson for refreshment.
The girl protested. "I really don't want anything."
"You must have had an early breakfast. It is a long ride from Baltimore."
"I didn't have any breakfast. I came through last night from the West and went straight up to Mr. Carew's office. They told me he was out here and that he had retired from active business."
"He has." Meriweather did not explain that Carew had failed in a crash and was out of the office altogether.
"Will you make yourself comfortable?" he said. "Sampson will bring you some tea and a sandwich or two. I am sure you need it—"
She smiled up at him, and he found something wistful and appealing in her manner. He wondered what she wanted of Carew and hoped that, whatever she wanted, she might get it.
He drew a chair for her to the fire. "There are plenty of books—and the magazines—"
"Thank you so much. I shall be all right, and glad to rest."
She took off her hat and thus proclaimed to him her lack of sophistication. The women he knew lived in their hats—ate in them, played cards in them. He sometimes wondered if they slept in them.
Without her hat, he was puzzled by a resemblance. Then, suddenly, he had it!
"You have the Carew top-knot," he told her. "Every one of them has that waved lock on the forehead."
She flushed a little. "I didn't know," she said. "I—I live in the West."
He pointed to a portrait over the mantel. "There's one of them," he said.
It was a dashing picture of a young man in the red coat of an English officer. Red cheeks, thin lips, cool gray eyes, and that sweep of black hair.
"Carew's great-grandfather—good-looking chap."
The girl's heart leaped. Her own great-great-grandfather! This charming gentleman! It gave her a new sense of values. Relatives had hitherto meant to her Aunt Olivia and Aunt Catherine. There was a photograph of her mother's father, the country doctor, a substantial old codger, but nothing like this, dashing, gay, distinguished.
When Meriweather left her presently, she looked around the room. The library was high-ceiled, hung with faded yellow brocade. The walls were lined with mahogany bookcases, and there was a drop-leaf table with a bronze lamp. Bronze book-ends held together a varied assortment of new books. The fireplace in which great logs glowed was set massively in Italian marble—and above it was the dashing portrait.
Altogether it was a satisfying room for one who loved beauty. Hildegarde wondered how her mother could have left it. "I would have forgiven anything rather than go back to the farm."
When Sampson came in with the tray, he drew a small, low table to where Hildegarde sat by the fire. He had a fine, bronze face which seemed to match the room. He served her deftly and left her to eat alone. There were thin, delicious sandwiches and delicate sugar cakes; the tea was in a slender, silver pot. Hildegarde, as she ate, contrasted the food and service with that she had known at home. Again she wondered at her mother's strength.
It seemed a long time before a step in the hall set her heart to beating wildly. She had rehearsed a thousand things to say to her father, but not one of them seemed now appropriate. Amid all this elegance she felt an upstart. Why had she thought that she might come back and fit herself in? Might she not find herself like her mother, crude and looked down upon?
As he entered, her father said, "I am sorry to have kept you waiting."
She rose and stood there with her soul shaken. She had not thought he would be like this. She had had in mind, perhaps, the miniature that had been in the lacquered box, or the portrait of the dashing gentleman in the red coat, the sweep of black hair, the cool, clear eyes.
But the hair of this man was gray, and his eyes were tired. His tall figure had a sag at the shoulders. He wore out-of-door clothes, a Norfolk coat and knickerbockers. He had a cap in his hand.
He came forward. "Meriweather says you are a relative. And that you are from the West. I did not know there were any Western Carews of our branch."
Her throat was dry. "I am your daughter."
A quick lift of his head, startled. "My daughter?"
"Yes. My mother was Elizabeth Musgrove."
Dead silence, then he came closer. So close that he almost touched her. "You don't look like her."
"No."
"How old are you?"
"Eighteen."
Another silence. Then, "Why have you come now?"
"My mother is dead. She died two weeks ago."
His face did not change. He put out his hand and caught at the back of one of the big chairs. Turned it so that it faced her, at the other side of the fireplace. Sat down.
Another long silence. And out of it, "What do you want me to do?"
"My mother told me to come. I have a letter that she left for me. I did not know until I read it that you were alive."
He leaned forward. "She kept it away from you?"
"From everybody except her sisters. People thought she was a widow."
He considered that for a moment. "Yet in the end she sent you to me?"
"Yes."
He did not pursue the subject. He sat there, weighing, apparently, the unusual situation which confronted him; measuring this girl, who called herself his daughter, with a keen glance.
"You're a Carew all right," he said at last abruptly. "You look like me and like all the rest of us. You've got our hair and eyes."
She felt embarrassed by his scrutiny, wished that he would talk of her mother.
"You ought to have more color in your cheeks," he went on. "Do you ride?"
"A little."
"Dance?"
"A little."
"Any accomplishments? French?"
"Ma mère m'a enseignée ce qu'elle savait."
"Vous êtes une très bonne élève." He surveyed her with speculating eyes, then seemed to come to a quick decision. "Is there any reason why you can't stay on for a while? We might as well settle that now. I've a horse that you can ride, and you can dance with Meriweather and talk French with me."
Far back in his eyes was a spark of laughter. But she did not see it. The world was whirling about her. She was hot with resentment. She had come on a sacred errand, and he was talking about the color in her cheeks and what horse she should ride!
"Oh," she gasped, "do you think I'd stay?"
"Why not?"
"I don't know whether I can make it clear. But my mother loved you—to the very end. And because she loved you and because she loved me—she wanted to bring us together. Yet, when I come and tell you she is dead, you act as if I were giving you news from the morning paper—"
He interrupted her. "My dear child, I can't stand any more tragedy. Life at this moment for me isn't cakes and ale. I've been stabbed in the back by my friends and hooted at by my enemies. I'm not in a mood to be hurt by raked-up memories."
He was standing now with his foot on the low fender, his arm on the mantel-shelf. "I've lost everything I had. I'm head over heels in debt. This old house is my final refuge. And my back's to the wall."
It seemed to her incredible that he should talk like that. Poverty, in her mind, was associated with crushing physical effort and sordid surroundings. It had to do with scrubbing, and sweeping, and cooking three meals a day, and washing dishes, and bending one's back over the weeds in the garden.
And here was this elegant gentleman with a servant to bring delicious and delectable things on a silver tray, and with a secretary to jump at his call. A man who could stay in bed until noon!
She spoke out of her thoughts. "If I had a house like this," she said, "I would think it was all I wanted in the world. Do you know that my mother worked in the fields before she died?"
"Elizabeth?"
"Yes. The people out there say that hard work killed her."
"Hard work?"
"Yes. She didn't have any servants. She got up before daylight on winter mornings, and built the fire, and on cold nights she'd take a lantern and go out to the barn and feed the stock."
"And she did this rather than stay with me?"
"She wouldn't stay where she wasn't wanted."
"I did want her."
With breath almost suspended, she looked up at him. "You mean—?"
"Yes—letting her go was—horrible—"
"But you loved somebody else."
"She told you that? Well, I did. I'm afraid I can't make you understand. I shan't try. I don't want to think about it." Again that high note, of irritation.
She stood up, reached for her little hat, pulled it down over her smoky curls, and picked up her bag. "I'm sorry I came," she said. "I didn't know you didn't want to think about her. I think about her all the time."
He put out his hand. "You're not going."
He lifted the hat from her head and set it beyond her reach on the mantel.
"I like you best without it," he said. "You've got the family top-knot and the family temper— And you'll have to learn that when I am cross my heart—hurts—"
He took both of her hands in his, lifted one of them, and kissed it. "Having you here," he said gently, "will be like having my own youth back again. You're like me, and I love you for it. I've got you, and you're going to stay."