Katie

by Michael McDowell

  “I have borne much . . .” said Nedda drily. Jewel was more easily read than she would have been pleased to know. “Say what you have to say, Jewel.”

  “Last night, in the salon,” Jewel began hurriedly, with no trace of the reticence she had just professed, “I was sitting at draughts with Philomela, when into the center of the room, brazen as brass, walks Mr. Onions’s ‘young cousin.’ ” Jewel affected to blush. “You know what I should mean to say, Aunt Nedda. She was thrown off by him at the racetrack yesterday morning and then expected that everything should go along quite the same for her when she was no longer under his protection. I turned my head away and cautioned Philo not to look – such women often at­tempt to insinuate themselves with respectable persons. But, to my complete astonishment, Philo stands from the table, upset­ting all the draughts, and walks directly over to her, takes her arm, and strolls with her out onto the terrace. Lord, Aunt Nedda, I was ashamed to witness it! Philo took her arm as if she had been a duchess! I blushed for you.”

  Nedda Maitland made no reply, but indicated that Jewel should continue with her narration.

  “Of course when I had recovered my composure, and when I was tolerably certain that I wasn’t being watched after by the entire salon, I slipped out by another door and strolled onto the piazza. The moon was shining, and I could see them standing by the fountain in the garden, talking, intimate as you please. I wouldn’t see that again for a dollar bill! And before I had time to shut my eyes, Philo rummaged in her porte-monnaie and pulled out a stack of notes thick as my thumb and handed ’em to her. Aunt Nedda,” said Jewel in a solemn voice, “Philomela Drax gave hard cash to the fallenest woman in the entire hotel.”

  Nedda Maitland was silent a moment, then asked her niece, “Did you get close enough to hear any of their conversation?”

  Jewel shook her head eagerly no. “Though I tried. I snuck round the other side of the fountain, but the water kept me from hearing anything, and if I had got closer, they would have seen me.”

  “The lady to whom Philomela was speaking—”

  “Lady!”

  “—is called Ida Yearance,” said Nedda blandly. “She was a former acquaintance of Philomela’s, temporarily embarrassed for funds. The deficiency was made up by Philomela.”

  “You already knew of this?”

  “Philomela came to me last evening.”

  “And she admitted that she was acquainted with that woman?”

  “Yes,” replied Nedda imperturbably. “A laundress once in my employ murdered two of her children – twins, I believe – but that does not make me an accessory to the crime. Philomela was acting entirely out of charity. I was pleased to recompense her for the money that she gave Miss Yearance.”

  “Miss . . .” sneered Jewel.

  “It is very early in the morning to be casting such large stones, Jewel. By the end of the day you may find that the favor has been returned, with interest.”

  “What do you mean, Aunt Nedda?”

  “Jewel,” said Nedda in a serious tone, “what was your motive in coming to me with this tale?”

  “I merely wanted to let you know what sort of young woman you had in your employ.”

  “Did you imagine that I was not well acquainted with Philo­mela?”

  “Philomela was consorting with a notorious – courtesan! And was seen by the entire hotel to have done so! You will not be able to remain here!”

  “I think I may all the same,” said Nedda. “However, Jewel, since the incident seems so greatly to have affected you, I think you may wish to join your parents at the Clarendon.”

  Jewel stammered, “No, Aunt Nedda, I—”

  “Go now,” said Nedda. “You’ll probably find Jacob and Caro­line at breakfast. I’ll have your things packed and sent over. Come now, kiss me good-bye, and I’m very sorry that you feel so strongly about this that you’re obliged to leave me.”

  “No, I—”

  “Hush! Not another word, Jewel. I couldn’t bear to think that I had persuaded you to compromise your principles in remaining in the same rooms with Philomela. No doubt we’ll meet one another on Broadway – though since I’ll be in Philomela’s com­pany, you may not wish to acknowledge me . . .”

  Jewel was mortified that her plan should have come out so contrarily to expectation. At the Clarendon, she suppressed the matter of Ida Yearance and told her parents only that Philo had contrived, through a series of elaborate lies, to remove her from her aunt’s good graces and from her suite.

  “That girl is a worm!” cried Caroline Varley.

  “I’ll speak to Nedda,” said Jacob pompously.

  “No!” cried Jewel anxiously. “Say nothing about it, please. Aunt Nedda will quickly come to see that she’s nurturing a viper. Please, I want to leave Saratoga, I want to go back to New Egypt.”

  “We have these rooms two weeks longer!” cried Jewel’s mother.

  Jacob Varley, however, on whom the expenses of Saratoga were a drain, eagerly took up his daughter’s suggestion.

  Father and daughter carried the matter, and that evening the Varleys paid a farewell call to Nedda Maitland. Caroline wanted to be cold, Jewel wanted to be sullen, Jacob would have liked to carry himself with offended dignity – but Nedda Maitland was rich, and the Varleys could not risk cutting themselves off from her.

  “Ah, Nedda,” said Jacob, “shall Jewel visit you in New York this autumn? I know you once strongly suggested such a plan.”

  “I don’t know when I shall return to the city, Jacob, and when I’m back, I don’t know how long I shall remain. I suspect my attention will be taken up with Henry, and I fear I would neglect Jewel.”

  “Jewel would love to see her Cousin Henry again,” said Caro­line.

  “Yes!” cried Jewel, almost her first word that evening.

  “Henry will be very pleased to see all of you, I’m sure,” replied Nedda. “But when he returns, I think I will keep him to myself for a little while. I have never been apart from him for so long as this, and I miss his presence terribly.”

  It was apparent to the Varleys that Nedda wasn’t to be pushed in this matter. They took their leave, and at the station Jewel wept with frustration.

  All her scheming had had the effect only of leaving Philo Drax alone in the field, to acquire without opposition the affection and preferment of Nedda Maitland, and perhaps even the love of Nedda’s son Henry.

  Chapter 42

  LAST DAYS AT SARATOGA SPRINGS

  Neither Nedda nor Philo was sorry to see Jewel leave Saratoga, though the two women were left entirely in one another’s com­pany for the remainder of their stay at the Springs. They had planned to remain until the fourth of September, a Monday, when all the rest of the fashionable world would return to New York and repopulate the city’s streets.

  The final few days of the season were to be riotous with balls, soirées, special races, monster croquet parties, mammoth boating excursions and the like, and Nedda intended that she and Philo should see and be seen, do and have done, as the gay­est inhabitants of that place.

  Philo and Nedda Maitland had found in one another a perfect daughter and a perfect mother. Nedda was handsome, elegant, rich, and unselfish – everything that Philo would have wished Mary Drax to be, for that unhappy woman’s sake as well as for Philo’s own. And Philo was what such a mother would want in her daughter: handsome too, poised, self-reliant, trustworthy, a fit companion under all circumstances. Neither intended, if it could be helped, to let the other go.

  On Friday afternoon when they had lately returned from watch­ing a croquet match between the inhabitants of the Con­gress Hall and the lodgers at the Grand Hotel, and Nedda was lying on a lounge that had been pushed up directly beneath the windows, there was a knock at the door of the suite.

  Philo being closest went to open it. In the doorway stood a tall man with a vast auburn beard, dressed all in white – the white in great contrast to his sunburnt brow and hands.

  “Yes, please �
� what’s wanted?” asked Philo politely.

  The man did not answer immediately, but stared at her with furrowed, puzzled brows. She could not make out the expression of his mouth beneath his beard. At last he said, “Why were you not on Thirteenth Street?”

  The voice she recognized. “Mr. Maitland!” she cried. “Why are you here?”

  “I think I deserve an answer to the same question,” he laughed. “I am here to visit Mother. But why are you here?”

  “I am your mother’s secretary,” said Philo with a becoming blush.

  “That was not to be expected,” replied Henry with some amusement. “May I walk in, please?”

  She had stood blocking his way, but immediately stepped aside, again blushing.

  “How did you come to be acquainted with Mother?” he asked.

  In a few words Philo told him.

  “That was remarkable fortune,” he commented. “For you both, I suspect. Where is Mother?”

  Philo knocked at Nedda’s chamber, and at that lady’s sum­mons, opened the door. Henry walked in, and Philo closed the door behind him, not wishing to intrude upon the reunion of the mother and her son.

  Yet she was called in almost immediately.

  “Mother,” Henry was saying, “this was the young lady I told you about just before I went away – the young lady I wanted you to take particular notice of.”

  “Yes, but you neglected to give me either her name or her street and number.”

  “You found one another easily enough, it appears.”

  “Philomela has had many trials since you left, Henry.”

  Henry’s brow clouded.

  “Have you not protected her?”

  “Notwithstanding . . .” said Nedda.

  “What has happened to you, Miss Philo?” asked Henry.

  “Please . . .” said Philo with a smile. “Tell us about your voyage. Is Brazil an unending jungle, or is it an unending plain?”

  And so the afternoon was consumed. Henry related his voyage and sojourn in South America, and later Philo gave a brief recital of her troubles: the theft of her money, the discovery of the Slapes on Christopher Street, the death of Ella LaFavour, and the disappearance of the murderous family.

  “Your recent history is considerably more exotic than mine,” said Henry. “I was only in South America.” Then he added ser­iously, “What are the chances that the Slapes will be found and tried?”

  “Not very good, I fear,” said Philo. “They aren’t clever, but they are cunning.”

  “Please,” said Nedda, “we are here together for the first time in five months; let us speak of pleasant things.” And she told all over again her chance meeting with Philo on the Broadway stage.

  Just when Nedda had decided to dismiss her son to unpack and dress for dinner, he held up his hand. “One more thing,” he said. “Do you think I have returned from a four-months’ voyage empty-handed, Mother?” He took from the pocket of his coat a wooden box, ornately carved of some rare wood. He handed it to Nedda, who found inside it a diamond necklace which quite outshone anything that was on display in Tiffany’s cases there at Saratoga. When Philo had admired it, Henry turned to her and from another pocket withdrew a smaller, plain case. It contained a necklace of coral with matching earrings.

  “These are not for me!” she protested.

  “I went with these to Thirteenth Street, but you were not there. I confess I was angry with you then—”

  “Angry? Why?” Philo asked with some alarm.

  “Because you were gone and had left no word where I might find you.”

  “Ahh,” said Philo, “but I was with your mother. . . .”

  “I did not know that,” Henry reminded her. “At any rate these are for you.”

  That evening the three went off to a ball at the Columbian Hotel, and Henry danced with Philo and his mother all evening long. He was an object of much comment, for his beard and his sunburnt face forestalled immediate recognition, and he had not been in the Saratoga habit for several years past.

  By morning however, it was known all over Saratoga that Henry Maitland – whose eligibility was treasured by Every Mamma from Washington Square to the Reservoir – had come to Sara­toga to visit his mother. Every Mamma was enthusiastic, but Every Daughter pointed out that at the ball he hadn’t even looked at a girl other than Philomela Drax. Every Daughter didn’t even have the comfort of seeing Jewel Varley’s discomfort, she who had always boasted the inside track with her cousin.

  More than the coral he had brought her from Brazil, Philo treasured the thought that Henry, so soon after his return to New York, had gone searching for her on West Thirteenth Street.

  These last three days at Saratoga were a dream and a delight for Philo. All the plans that she and Nedda had made now in­cluded Henry, who was as faithful to them as Philo was to Nedda. Philo and Henry’s engagement began to be talked about as almost a sure thing. It was fortunate that Philo heard none of this gossip, for she would instantly have withdrawn herself from consideration.

  After all, she was poor, and Henry Maitland was very rich. She had a privileged position in the Maitland household as secretary to his mother, and she would never have allowed herself to betray Nedda Maitland by setting herself up as a match for her son. It would be only a reversal of the common tale of the apprentice who married his master’s daughter. Philo felt the impropriety almost as strongly as the Varleys would have.

  But with the conviction that she would never be to Henry more than his mother’s secretary – she felt she knew him well enough to be convinced that he would never betray Nedda Mait­land either – Philo allowed herself full enjoyment of Henry’s com­pany. She was stirred to be his partner on the floor, felt privi­leged to walk by his side down Broadway, was more edified by his idle conversation than by the sermons of Henry Ward Beecher.

  It was perfectly apparent to every other female in Saratoga – from the governor’s wife to Jim Fiske’s mistress to the laundress of the hotel – that Philomela Drax was in love with Henry Mait­land.

  Chapter 43

  PHILO’S VOW

  Philo did not regret leaving Saratoga. The sylvan beauty of the place was too much at odds with the studied artificiality of New York fashion. So far as opulence of dress went Jewel Varley her­self was scarcely a contender at Saratoga, and such vaga­ries were more suited to a city, Philo thought, which itself was studied and artificial. And too, at Saratoga she felt useless. All of Nedda’s cor­respondence and all of Nedda’s errands never required more than an hour’s effort – and Philo had an inkling what a month at Saratoga might cost. She wished to return to New York, where she might do more for Nedda and where her upkeep as an employee would be less.

  On the morning of the day they were to leave, while the maids were packing their bags, Philo knocked on the door of Mrs. Maitland’s parlor and was admitted. Nedda turned and was about to speak, but stopped when she saw Philo’s appearance.

  “Dear, you look haggard,” she said at last. “Are you so very sorry to leave Saratoga?”

  Philo shook her head. “Bad dreams,” she replied. “No more than that.”

  “Well,” said Nedda with a smile, “this is morning, and dreams do not pursue us beyond the pillow.”

  “Mrs. Maitland,” said Philo slowly, “last night I dreamt that Katie Slape murdered you. I dreamt that she killed you with a razor that was tied to her hand.”

  “Of course you dream, Philomela,” said Nedda hastily, but the image was discomforting to her, “and we all dream terrible dreams. But you needn’t—”

  “And I woke up,” Philo went on, “and I realized that Katie Slape had murdered the three people in the world who meant anything to me: my grandfather, my mother, and Ella LaFavour. Now I have only you, and I was frightened that Katie would come and . . .”

  Nedda shook her head.

  “. . . and take you away too,” finished Philo bravely.

  “She won’t. She doesn’t know I’m alive.”

/>   Philo laughed. “You don’t know Katie Slape. There’s nothing she doesn’t know, nothing she can’t find out. I think we ought to be on our guard,” she concluded soberly.

  “They’re running from the law,” argued Nedda. “They’re fugitives. They’ve stolen your thirty thousand dollars and they’ve killed at least ten persons. They’ve not the time to come to Sara­toga and find us out. And we’ll be just as safe on Twenty-sixth Street. They dare not return to New York. The police know them, know their names, know their appearance. They—”

  “They don’t think like you or I, Mrs. Maitland. If they were concerned with the punishments of the law, would they have murdered seven women and a child in their own house? Would they have left me behind at Parrock Farm alive? Would Katie have butchered my mother, whom she had never even seen before, when they already possessed the fortune that mother was heir to? What they’ve done – in Goshen, and New Egypt, and New York – none of it makes any sense. Even supposing you and I were criminals, we would never act in the same manner. They’re not rational – and that’s what frightens me.”

  Nedda’s brows contracted. “You’re still frightened? I didn’t know . . .”

  “The police will never find them,” Philo went on feverishly. She hadn’t spoken about these matters since Ella’s death, but now her anger and her fear spilled out. “I’ve been reading the papers every day. There’s a report of a girl in Kentucky who does card tricks, and they go after her, ready to collar Katie Slape dis­guised as a Quaker. Hannah’s in Mexico and John’s in Canada, trapping. They split up, they stayed together, one of ’em’s dead of the fever, one was drowned in a sack like an unwanted kitten. The Slapes won’t let themselves be found – but they’ll find me! They’ll come after me the way they came after my mother.”

  Nedda drew back stiffly, but Philo laid her perspiring hand on Nedda’s arm. There was a wildness in Philo’s eye that Nedda had never seen before.

  “They’re demons!” whispered Philo. “A family of devils out of a smoky hell come to lay waste to me and mine. My grandfather’s face was smeared with the soil that choked him to death. The walls of the room where I slept every night for eighteen years I saw covered in my mother’s blood. In all my life I had one friend my own age, and two months ago I saw her brains spilled out on the stair carpet that the Slapes had worn down with their footsteps. I’ve been poor all my life – I’ve thought myself rich if I had a nickel in my pocket that didn’t have to be set aside to pay the rent – and the Slapes stole from me thirty thousand dollars in hard cash! The law doesn’t know all this – all the law knows is a dead girl on the staircase and seven persons dead beneath the cellar floor – but the Slapes know well enough what they’ve done to me. And the harm they’ve done already is inducement enough for them to harm me more. I’m here at Saratoga with you and Henry, and every night we dine together, and every night we dance, and I smile and I know I’ve never been so happy in my life – then I remember the Slapes. And I think: ‘Katie Slape may murder me tomorrow.’ I’ve made a vow – and that vow is to see every one of them dead. I’ll turn hound, and I’ll track ’em to their lairs. I’ll see ’em hanged, and that night I’ll sleep at the foot of the gallows. Their rotting bodies will smell sweet to me!”