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Authors: Peggy Gaddis

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Chapter Five

Before the end
of the week, Hilary had settled in so completely that she was beginning to feel at home. The guests liked her, responding to her warmth and friendliness, and the routine was so well established that late one afternoon one of the ward maids came to call her to the front office, to receive a new guest.


It

s Miz

Middleton

s afternoon off, and everybody else is busy, and Ethel, at the switchboard, said I was to call you,

announced the smiling maid.

Hilary went quickly down the long corridor toward the lobby, and saw a little group standing waiting for her: two women in their mid-thirties, smartly dressed and groomed; two men a few years older, equally well-tailored. And in the centre of the group was a small, slender, white-haired woman in her early seventies. Her clothes were smart, expensive, well
-
chosen. But somehow Hilary felt that she was not quite comfortable in them; that the black and white tweed coat, above a neat black crepe frock with filmy lace at the throat, a small, fashionable hat perched on top of neatly waved, faintly

blued

hair, were all too new and foreign to the woman

s own taste. She held in both her hands a capacious and handsome black suede bag, and Hilary

s discerning eyes saw that the gloved hands were shaking as they gripped the bag. Beneath the smartly unbecoming hat, the faded blue eyes held panic.


Good afternoon,

Hilary greeted them with a friendly smile that took in the entire group.

May I help you? I

m Miss Westbrook.


Thanks, that

s very good of you,

said one of the men,
coming forward.

I

m Jud Barton, and this is my wife, and my sister Jill and her husband, Elliott Fleming, Miss Westbrook. And this is my mother, Mrs. Barton. We were notified that you had a vacancy here and we might bring Mother to stay awhile and see if she likes it.

The old woman spoke swiftly, and because of the panic in her faded eyes, Hilary was startled at the smooth composure with which she said,

Oh, I

m sure I

ll love it here, Juddy. Such a beautiful place.

Hilary gave her a warm, friendly smile and put out her hand.


I know we can make you comfortable here, Mrs. Barton.

Her voice held such kindness that a bit of the terror faded from the blue eyes.

I only hope we can make you happy. We

ll try very hard to do just that.


Could we please see her room, Miss Westbrook?

asked Jill.


Of course. Will you come this way, please?

Hilary led the way down the corridor to a door which she opened, and stood aside to let the four enter the room.

But the old woman stood huddled in the doorway, her hand clinging tightly to Hilary

s, her eyes moving swiftly from corner to corner of the small, elegantly furnished room, the deeply carpeted floor, the door that stood partly open into a neat and comfortable bath.


Why, Mother, there

s a TV set,

Jill Fleming said eagerly.


Now you can watch all your favorite programs without anybody to interfere,

said Jud Barton with false heartiness as he watched his mother anxiously.


Oh, it

s lovely, just lovely,

the old woman said in that amazingly smooth, composed voice; like a docile, well
-
brought up child given a present it does not want.


And you can invite your friends in to tea—She
can
, can

t she?

Jill Fleming broke off to ask Hilary.


Of course.

Hilary smiled.

There

s a very nice recreation room down the hall opposite the lobby, and tea is served there every afternoon. There

s a color TV set there, and games, papers, magazines, and books.


You see, darling?

Jill

s eyes were big with tears, though she was smiling determinedly.

You

ll be happy and comfortable, and we

ll come to see you and bring the children. You

ll see, it

s going to be fun!

Mrs. Barton gave them a hardy smile, and Hilary was deeply touched at the realization of the effort it must have cost her.


Now, stop fussing, children, and run along,

she ordered them firmly.

You

ve got a long drive ahead and—oh, do drive carefully.

She held up beautifully during the leavetaking, and Hilary walked back down the corridor with the four.


It just about kills me to turn her out like this. Oh Jud, how could we? How could we?

Jill Fleming burst out softly, and her husband put his arm about her and drew her close.


Now, listen, honey, we

re
not
turning her out! We

ve been all over this for the past six months,

he reminded her, a hint of anger in his voice.

We all agreed she could no longer live alone in that big old house of hers. We tried it with companions and housekeepers and it didn

t work. We

ve done the only thing we could; we

ve found the finest place in the state, maybe in the South. Anyway, you saw her room; you see the surroundings. Isn

t that better than her being all alone and lonely in that big old barn of a house? And you know how miserable she was when she came to visit us; she couldn

t wait to get home
...

He looked beyond at several old ladies and old men who were coming down the corridor toward the clubroom, laughing and chatting, and turned his wife around to face them.


See? These are the people who will be her friends,

he told her.

People of her own generation, whom she will understand and who can understand her and who

ll never be bored by her. Oh, you know we all got bored with her sometimes; that

s natural and inevitable. But now
...”

He looked up at Hilary and tried to grin, but the effort was not too successful.


We love her dearly, Miss Westbrook, and we honestly want her happiness above everything else in the world, and that

s why we

ve brought her here. Please don

t think we are

turning her out, will you?


Of course not, Mr. Fleming,

Hilary told him quite sincerely.

This place was built and is maintained just for people like your mother. And we

ll take the very best care of her, I promise you.

Jill drew a long, hard breath, mopped her eyes with her husband

s handkerchief, and asked Hilary,

The brochure
did
say there was a doctor in constant attendance, didn

t it?


Of course,

said Hilary.

Would you like to talk to him? I

ll see if he

s free, if you

ll just wait here?

They stood huddled in a little group, while Hilary went into Dr. Marsden

s office and closed the door behind her.

Dr. Marsden looked up at her, and a faint frown touched his lean, dark face.


Yes, Nurse?

he managed to keep his voice from sounding impatient, but she realized it was an effort.


A new patient—

she began.


Not a patient, Miss—Westbrook, isn

t it?

he corrected her, and there was a faintly sardonic tone to his voice.

A new guest.

Hilary

s eyebrows mounted ever so slightly, but she answered him coolly,

I

m sorry. A new guest, Mrs. Barton, has arrived. Her family would like to talk to you, to assure themselves she will be well taken care of.

Now Dr. Marsden

s scowl was frank, as he ran his fingers through his hair that stood up in a
crew-cut
above his brown face.


Bring them in, Miss Westbrook,

he yielded.

You

d better see about getting the guest settled. I

ll talk to the family.


Yes, Doctor,

said Hilary.

She smiled at Mrs. Barton

s family as they trooped in, closed the door gently behind them and went back to room 312.

She tapped lightly at the door, heard a murmur she took to be permission to enter, and opened the door to find Mrs. Barton perched miserably on the edge of the deeply cushioned, well-upholstered armchair.


Have they gone?

she asked huskily.

There was depth of misery in the old voice that struck at Hilary.


They

re talking to the doctor,

she answered gently.

Mrs. Barton still wore the absurdly unbecoming but very
fashionable hat, held her gloves and her handbag. She had not even removed her coat, and as she looked up at Hilary there was something so piteous in her eyes that Hilary wanted to weep in sympathy for the homesickness that was already sweeping over the little creature.


They

re good children,

said Mrs. Barton, her voice low and shaken.

They love me and they want the best for me. But they worried so about me living all alone, I couldn

t make them believe I
liked
it. They kept saying,

But, Mother, suppose you were taken sick in the night, suppose you had an accident, suppose the house caught fire

—as if I wouldn

t have sense enough to telephone for help if I needed it!

Hilary waited, letting her talk out the ache in her old heart.


I hated to leave my garden,

said Mrs. Barton huskily.

Oh, of course there

s nothing much showing in it now. It

s
too early. But the forsythia is in bloom, and oh, it

s so lovely. I

m glad I didn

t have to leave when the iris was in bloom! I

m—famous for my iris. I win all the prizes at the flower show with it. I have hundreds, every known variety and
...”
Suddenly the tears came, and she wept like a heartbroken child, while Hilary knelt beside her and put her arms about her and held her close.

At last Mrs. Barton pulled herself erect, her face raddled by tears, fumbling helplessly in her capacious bag for a scrap of a lace-trimmed handkerchief that was completely inadequate.

Hilary went into the bathroom, wet a wash cloth in cold water and brought it back. Smiling, she mopped the old face and heard Mrs. Barton offer apologies for the tears.


I almost never cry,

she stammered.

It

s just that—that everything seems so strange.


Of course it does, but you

ll soon get adjusted. You

ll find friends here, and the first thing you know you

ll be having a wonderful time. You wait and see,

Hilary promised her, with a determined gaiety she hoped sounded more convincing in Mrs. Barton

s ears than in her own.

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