“That’s Lettice, she was the baby when we left — and we have small Tom — that’s all.”
“Why don’t you sit down?” Pierce asked.
“Because I am going to fetch you a cool drink,” Bettina replied. She went away and he sat on, motionless. Their talk had been nothing but commonplace and yet that was extraordinary. He had talked to her as casually as though she were his real sister-in-law — as casually but not as intimately. He felt dazed and shaken. The world was completely upset. Here was where his own brother lived! But the house was a home. The garden was pretty and well kept and the walls were lined with flower beds. This room was clean and pleasant — a man’s room, full of books. Through the open windows a scent drifted in which he could not recognize. He lay back in Tom’s chair and closed his eyes and smelled the scent, a clean spiced odor. No one knew where he was. He could rest here. Tom’s world — not his world — but so quiet and clean—
He must have dropped asleep. When he came back to himself Bettina was standing there again, looking at him with pitying soft eyes. She held a silver tray and on it a slender glass, frosted cold. She set the tray upon the table beside him.
“Indeed you are tired,” she said in her rich voice. “When you have drunk this let me take you upstairs to Tom’s room. You can stretch yourself on his bed and sleep.”
“Don’t tell Sally I’m here,” he begged. “I’m too tired.”
“I won’t tell her,” she promised.
“What’s that sweet smell?” he asked.
“White clematis,” she replied.
He drank the cool sharp drink thirstily in a few gulps and rose to his feet and followed her upstairs. Tom’s room — then he did not share a room with Bettina. Yes, he could recognize Tom’s room. It was a big room, with little furniture but that little solid and good. The windows were open, but the shutters were drawn, and the late afternoon breeze fluttered the white curtains. Bettina drew back the covers of the bed and he saw smooth white linen sheets. He wanted to sleep and sleep.
“Tom has a bathroom right there,” she pointed to a door. “He has rigged himself up a shower bath, he calls it. It’s really wonderful. It will refresh you. Sleep and don’t wake until you wake yourself. No one will call you.”
She went away, and he stood looking about the dim, cool room. It had every small comfort that could be devised. Cold water stood in a pitcher by Tom’s bed, books on the table, a bed lamp, a fire place for winter, a soft woven rag rug under his feet, a handwoven coverlet on the bed of delft blue and white. Bettina’s work everywhere! He opened the door of the bathroom, and saw Tom’s shower bath. He had heard of such things but had never seen one. He undressed, stood under something that looked like a flower sprinkler, pulled a chain and felt a rain of cool water descend upon him from a hidden tank above his head. He wiped himself dry with a handwoven towel, and opened drawers in Tom’s bureaus until he found a nightshirt. Everything was in order, the clothes smelled clean and fresh with green lavender. He dropped upon the bed and was instantly asleep.
Some time in the night he awoke. The chime of a clock in the house was still ringing in his ears. He could not tell the hour because he did not know how many times it had struck before he woke. But the moonlight was lying across the floor in stripes of gold. He sat up and listened. The house was still. Everyone was asleep. No, he heard voices, muted, floating upward from under his window, Tom’s voice, then Bettina’s. He got up and put on his shirt and trousers and opened his door. A hanging oil lamp lit the stairs and he went down, guided by the voices, to the end of the downstairs hall. He opened a door and there on a narrow brick terrace facing the garden, he saw Tom.
He was shocked to see the moonlight silver upon Tom’s head. Tom greyhaired already, ahead of him!
“Tom!” he called softly, and Tom turned his head. His face was the same, thinner, but kind and severe together.
“Pierce!”
The two men ran into each other’s arms without shame.
“How good of you to come!” Tom murmured.
“Nonsense!” Pierce said. He looked at. Tom with wet eyes. “I don’t know why I didn’t come before.”
“Sit down, Pierce. He’s hungry, Bettina,” Tom declared.
“Maybe I am,” Pierce admitted.
“I have your supper waiting,” Bettina said.
They went into the house, into the dining room, and at the table two places were laid.
“You two sit down, please,” Bettina said. “Tom, you have a bite, too?”
“Only a little of your cold chicken broth, my dear,” Tom said.
Bettina went away, and the two brothers looked at each other by the light of the candles Bettina had placed on the table.
“I want to ask you a thousand things,” Pierce said abruptly.
“I want to answer them all,” Tom said steadily.
“I don’t know how long I can stay,” Pierce went on. “The railroad is in a mess.”
“But now you will come back again and again,” Tom replied.
Pierce smiled and Bettina came in with food. It was delicious food and he was ravenous. While they ate Bettina came and went silently. He did not know where to begin with Tom. He wanted to tell him everything at once and he wanted to hear everything at once, and yet he did not know where to begin. And Tom sat in his easy quiet, without haste, in a relaxed peace. When Bettina had brought the iced lemon custard he looked up at her.
“Sit down now, Bettina,” he said.
She sat down naturally at the end of the table, and Pierce could not but see her beauty. She had kept her slender figure. Tonight she wore a gown of soft green stuff — muslin, perhaps, or silk — he did not know stuffs. But it was not rustling or stiff. White lace lay on her shoulders and in a knot on her bosom. Her dark hair sparkled with a few threads of silver, and she had put a white jasmine in the big coil at her nape. The old fire and anger of her youth had gone from her dark eyes. They were full of peace, tinged with sadness. Bettina, Tom’s wife — if ever he saw a woman who looked a wife it was she. He was surprised at his acceptance of her.
“We had a very interesting afternoon,” Tom was saying, half lightly. “Sally’s mind is keen. She wants to see everything — know everything. That’s remarkable, Pierce.”
“Has she been here?” Pierce asked.
“Every day,” Tom said.,
They hesitated. Then Pierce asked bluntly, “How does she take it, Tom?”
“Without a sign,” Tom answered. He drank his tumbler of water and Bettina filled it again. “I’ve wanted to ask you something,” Tom went on.
Pierce had finished his custard. “Why not?” he replied. He was beginning to feel wonderfully comfortable, rested and fed.
“Your son John writes to me, Pierce,” Tom went on. “He wants to come and visit us. I said he had to ask you. He says that you wouldn’t understand.”
Pierce grinned. “I don’t know why children always think their parents are nitwits.”
“He’s afraid of his mother,” Tom said.
“Then he is the nitwit,” Pierce said robustly. “Of course, Lucinda would object. But what of it?”
“Then shall I tell him—”
“You tell him to give me a chance,” Pierce said, pushing back his chair.
They went back to the moonlit terrace. Bettina poured their coffee and then rose. “I think I shall retire, Tom, if you don’t mind.” She put out her hand and he took it and kissed it. He looked at her searchingly. “Only if you’re tired,” he said. “I’d rather you stayed with us.”
“There’s tomorrow,” she said gently and went away.
In the silent garden, the moonlight outlining, the shrubs in shadows and silvering the flowers, the two men sat on, smoking. The silence continued. But it was not heavy upon them now nor uneasy. It was peace, deep peace.