Ewing's Lady

by Harry Leon Wilson

"Mr. Ewing, my old friend, Dr. Birley."

Her voice was no longer halting and shallow, as it had been the moment before when her barriers were down. Ewing swiftly confirmed his impression of the previous day: this was a lady of immeasurable pride, a one-time beauty who perhaps treasured the authority her charms had once conferred upon her, wielding it with little old-fashioned graces. She seemed to him at the moment to be an almost excessively mannered person, interesting, but unapproachable.

He stopped on his way to her chair and shook hands with the big man, who had come forward. This person was quite as formidable as the curious old lady, but he was eminently kind of look.

"Sit here, Mr. Ewing." He indicated a chair.

"I asked you to come and see me—" The old lady had begun in low, even tones, but paused, and Ewing was again struck by this seeming of agitation which had made him remark her the day before.

"Mrs. Lowndes was interested to hear of your life in the West," said the big man easily, "and she was good enough to ask me to meet you also. We were both interested in knowing of you from the Bartells."

"There is so much we do not understand here in New York," put in Mrs. Lowndes, rather vaguely, Ewing thought. He looked from one to the other. The lady puzzled him, but the big man drew him from his embarrassment, helping him to an ease which he could hardly have achieved with his hostess alone.

Without knowing quite how he began he was presently talking. Unconsciously he directed his speech to the man, who kept kind eyes on him and led him by questions when he paused. He was aware that the woman listened and that her eyes searched his face, but he divined, without meeting them, that they were more curious than kind, and several times, as she moved in her chair, he seemed to feel sharp little points of hostility radiating toward him.

But the big man drew him more and more from the consciousness of her presence, so that he all but forgot her. It seemed entirely natural to him that he should be telling this friendly inquirer of his early life, the first memories of his father and mother, and of the queer, shifting home they had known. As he told of the death of his mother—both listeners had seemed strangely alert for that—he was startled by a sound from the lady—a catching of breath and a gasp of pain. He turned quickly, but observed only a stiffly courteous gesture bidding him continue.

He stopped in confusion, feeling that a strange quiet had come upon the room. The questions from the big man had ceased, and the woman drooped in her chair until he could no longer distinguish her outline through the deepening dusk. Nor was there any sound when his own voice ceased. Neither figure stirred. He was oppressed by the awkwardness of it.