Part 19 (1/2)
For a moment Irene sat motionless, looking at the window. Then she turned to the stand, where the lamp was, and extinguished the light.
An hour, perhaps, she sat upright in bed, considering what she should do. Then again she reached out in the darkness and felt for her scissors. Securing them, she drew the chair cus.h.i.+on upon the bed and felt along its edge for the place she had sewn. She could not determine for some time which was the right edge but at last she found where the st.i.tches seemed a little tighter drawn than elsewhere and this place she managed to rip open. To her joy she found the letter and drew it out with a sigh of relief.
But now what to do with it was a question of vital importance. She dared not relight her lamp and she was helpless when out of her chair.
So she put back the cus.h.i.+on, slid from the bed into the chair and wheeled herself in the dark to her dresser, which had a chenille cover.
Underneath this cover she spread the letter, deeming that so simple a hiding-place was likely to be overlooked in a hasty search and feeling that the letter would be safe there for the night, at least.
She now returned to her bed. There was no use trying to resew the cus.h.i.+on in the dark. She lay awake for a long time, feeling a certain thrill of delight in the belief that she was a conspirator despite her crippled condition and that she was conspiring for the benefit of her dear friend Mary Louise. Finally she sank into a deep slumber and did not waken till the sun was streaming in at the window and Mary Louise knocked upon her door to call her.
”You're lazy this morning,” laughed Mary Louise, entering. ”Let me help you dress for breakfast.”
Irene thanked her. No one but this girl friend was ever permitted to a.s.sist her in dressing, as she felt proud of her ability to serve herself. Her toilet was almost complete when Mary Louise suddenly exclaimed:
”Why, what has become of your chair cus.h.i.+on?”
Irene looked toward the chair. The cus.h.i.+on was gone.
”Never mind,” she said, although her face wore a troubled expression.
”I must have left it somewhere. Here; I'll put a pillow in its place until I find it.”
CHAPTER XIX
AN ARTFUL CONFESSION
This Monday morning Bub appeared at the Lodge and had the car ready before Mr. Conant had finished his breakfast. Mary Louise decided to drive to Millbank with them, just for the pleasure of the trip, and although the boy evidently regarded her presence with distinct disapproval he made no verbal objection.
As Irene wheeled herself out upon the porch to see them start, Mary Louise called to her:
”Here's your chair cus.h.i.+on, Irene, lying on the steps and quite wet with dew. I never supposed you could be so careless. And you'd better sew up that rip before it gets bigger,” she added, handing the cus.h.i.+on to her friend.
”I will,” Irene quietly returned.
Bub proved himself a good driver before they had gone a mile and it pleased Mr. Conant to observe that the boy made the trip down the treacherous mountain road with admirable caution. Once on the level, however, he ”stepped on it,” as he expressed it, and dashed past the Huddle and over the plain as if training for the Grand Prix.
It amused Mary Louise to watch their quaint little driver, barefooted and in blue-jeans and hickory s.h.i.+rt, with the heavy Scotch golf cap pulled over his eyes, taking his task of handling the car as seriously as might any city chauffeur and executing it fully as well.
During the trip the girl conversed with Mr. Conant.
”Do you remember our referring to an old letter, the other day?” she asked.
”Yes,” said he.
”Irene found it in one of those secondhand books you bought in New York, and she said it spoke of both my mother and my grandfather.”
”The deuce it did!” he exclaimed, evidently startled by the information.
”It must have been quite an old letter,” continued Mary Louise, musingly.