|I WAS so excited by the importance of Mary's accidental discovery that
I folded up the paper, thrust it into my pocket, and was turning towards
the desk, when Mary, in an aggrieved voice, recalled herself to my
attention.
“Well, miss, maybe it ain't my business, and, maybe, it is, and I don't
want to push myself forward, but--”
“Oh, Mary,” I said, “indeed it is your business, and a very important
business, too, and just as soon as I think it safe to tell you, I will,
every word of it; only I have to ask you to trust me just a little bit
further, and to let me make use of this paper. You don't imagine how
terribly important it is to me!”
I could see that Mary was shocked by my uncanny knowledge. “Indeed, Miss
Gale, if you can make anything out of that heathen writin'--”
I smiled as reassuringly as I could. “It is not heathenish. It is
Russian, and it was written by a sort of clergy man.”
“Oh, miss! And under the rustic bench in our arbor!”
“Yes, Mary. I know it all sounds as wild as a dream, and I can't explain
it just yet, but you will trust me, Mary, a little longer, and keep the
secret of this paper to yourself? Don't mention it; don't even whisper
of it; don't show that you have ever heard of such a thing--everything
depends upon this.”
Mary had stood up, and now smoothed down her apron and drew in a
doubtful, whistling breath which she presently expelled in sharp, little
tongue-clicks--“Teks! Teks! Teks!” I translated all this readily. She
did not like my superior and secret knowledge; she did not like my air
of cool captaincy; she did not like my reserve, nor my disposal of her
“devil-paper.” But the good soul could not help but be loyalty itself.
She made no more protest than that of the “Teks!”--then said, in a
rather sad but perfectly dependable voice, “Very good, miss.”
I came over and patted her on the shoulder.
“Mary, you are the best woman in the world and the best friend I ever
had.”
This brought her around completely. Her natural, honest, kindly smile
broke out upon her face.
“Bless you, miss,” she said heartily, “I'd do most anything for you. You
can trust me not to speak of the paper.”
“I know I can, Mary dear.”
When she had gone I did go over to my desk and took out a slip of paper.
After some careful thinking I printed in ink a few lines in Russian
script.
“At eleven o'clock of next Wednesday morning I will meet you in the
ice-cream parlor of the only drug-store in Pine Cone. Be prepared to
translate the Slavonic curiosity, and be assured of a reward.” I dared
not risk any signature, but, for fear there might be something in these
lines that would rouse the suspicion of their authenticity, I racked my
brain for some signal that might be a convincing one. At last I pulled
out a red-gold hair from my head, placed it on the paper as though it
had fallen there, and folded it in. Then I put my paper into a blank
envelope, which I sealed and secreted in my dress. This done, I tore
the letter Mary had found into a hundred minute pieces and burned
them, hiding the ashes in my window-box of flowers. I had memorized the
address and name of Mr. Gast.
At lunch I asked Mrs. Brane, who had sufficiently recovered from her
headache to appear, whether she would n't like me to go over to Pine
Cone and buy her the shade hat for which she had been longing ever
since Mary had reported the arrival of some Philippine millinery in the
principal shop. I said that I felt the need of a good, long walk.
Henry, without a flicker of interest in my request, went on with perfect
and discreet performance of table-duty, but I felt that he was mentally
pricking up his ears. He must have wondered what the purpose of my
expedition really was. I hoped that, if any rumor of it reached the
ears of my double, she would take the precaution of keeping close in
her mysterious hiding-place during my absence. It was absurd how I felt
responsible for the life of every member of the household. Paul Dabney
did not ask to accompany me on my walk, though Mrs. Brane evidently
expected him to. He was absent and silent at lunch, crumbled his bread,
and wore his air of demure detachment like a shield. He was as white as
the table napery, but had a cool, self-reliant expression that for some
reason annoyed me.
I started on my long and lonely walk about half an hour after lunch. I
was nervous and fearful, and wished that I, too, had a pocket such as
Paul Dabney's bulging one where, so often, I fancied he kept his right
hand on the smooth handle of an automatic. I thought scornfully of his
timidity. My own danger was so enormously greater than his, and his own
was so enormously greater than he could possibly suspect.
I must confess, however, that it taxed my nerve severely to cross the
bridge over the quicksand that afternoon. It had been mended, of course,
the very evening of Paul's accident but I tested every plank before I
gave it my weight, and I clung to the railing with both clammy hands.
Not until I reached the other bank did I let the breath out of my lungs.
On the dusty, shady highroad courage returned to me, and I walked ahead
at a good pace. I did want very strongly to reach that bridge again
before dark. I would not trust my letter to the rural delivery box near
“The Pines” lane. I was determined to mail it at the post-office, and
to be sure that it went out by the evening mail. I was successful,
addressed the blank envelope, and slipped it in, bought Mrs. Brane's
hat, and, hurrying home, found myself in time for five o'clock tea. I
had met with no misadventure of any kind; not even a shadow had fallen
on my path; but I was as tired as though I had been through every terror
that had tormented my imagination. I went to bed that night and slept
well.
The four days that followed the mailing of my letter were as still as
the proverbial lull before the storm. We all went quietly about our
lives. Whatever mutiny was hidden in the souls of Henry and his female
accomplice smouldered there without explosion. Sara, indeed, was sullen,
and obeyed my orders with an air of resentment. Paul Dabney seemed to be
immersed in study. It looked to me sometimes as though every one in
the house was waiting, as breathlessly and secretly as I was, for the
meeting with that unknown Servant of the Eternal Eye. Certainly it
was curious that on the very Wednesday morning Mrs. Brane should have
decided to send Gregory, the old horse, to Pine Cone, for a new pair of
shoes, and that she should herself have suggested my going with George
for a little outing. Her face was perfectly innocent, but I could
not refrain from asking her, “What made you think of sending me, Mrs.
Brane?”
She gave me a knowing, teasing little look. “Somebody takes a great
interest in your health, proud Maisie,” she said.
Paul Dabney! I was not a little startled by the opportuneness of his
interest. It was, to say the least, a trifle odd that he should want me
to drive to Pine Cone on the very morning of my appointment. I was half
minded to refuse to drive with George, then decided that this refusal
would only serve to point any suspicion that Paul Dabney might be
entertaining of me, so I agreed meekly to the arrangement and set off in
due time seated in the brake-cart by George's substantial side. He was
undoubtedly a comfort to me, and I kept him chattering all the way. He
had lost the air of bravado he had shown on our first drive together,
for “The Pines” had been, to all appearances, a place of supreme
tranquillity since Robbie's death. His talk was all of the country-side,
a string of complaints. The roads needed mending, the fences were down,
“government don't do nothin' fer this yere po' place.” He pointed out
a tall, ragged, dead pine near a turn in the road, I remember, and
groaned, “Jes a tech to send that tree plum oveh yeah on the top of
us-all, missy.” This complaint was one of a hundred and stuck in my mind
because of later happenings.
We jogged into Pine Cone at eleven, and I occupied myself variously till
the hour of the appointment, when, with a sickish feeling of nervous
suspense, I forced my steps towards the drug-store. I went in through
the fly-screen door, and passed the soda-water fountain and the counters
where stale candy and coarse calicoes beckoned for a purchaser, and I
went on between green rep, tasseled portières to the damp, dark, inner
room where the marble-topped tables, vacant of food, seemed to attract,
by some mysterious promise, a swarm of dull and sluggish flies whose
mournful buzzing filled the stagnant air.
There was one person in the ice-cream parlor--a man. I moved doubtfully
towards him, and he lifted his head. This head was a replica of the
pre-Raphaelite figures of Christ, a long, oval, high-browed countenance,
with smooth, long, yellow hair parted in the middle of the brow, with
oblong eyes, a long nose, a mouth drooping exaggeratedly at the corners,
and a very long, silky, yellow beard, also parted in the middle and
hanging in two rippling points almost to his waist. He was dressed in
a rusty black suit, the very long sleeves of which hung down quite over
his hands.
At sight of me he turned pale, rose, the dolorous mouth drooping more
extremely. “Madame,” he said in the lisping, clumsy speech of those
whose supply of teeth falls short of lingual demands, “is as prompt as
the justice of Heaven.” And he bowed and cringed painfully.
I sat down opposite to him, and gave the languid, pimply-faced youth who
came an order for two plates of ice-cream. I was horribly embarrassed
and confused, but by a mighty effort I maintained an air of
self-possession. The priest--I should have known him for a renegade
priest anywhere--sat meekly with his hidden hands resting on the table
before him, and his great, smooth lids pulled down over his eyes. Once
he looked up for an instant.
“Madame preserves her youth,” he lisped, “as though she had lived upon
the blood of babes.” And he ran the tip of his tongue over his lips.
This horrible speech was, no doubt, exactly suited to the taste of my
counterpart. I knew that I was expected to laugh, and I dragged my lips
across my teeth in imitation of the ghastly smile. It passed muster.
He fell upon his ice-cream, when it was brought to him, like a starved
creature, and then I noticed the horrible deformity of his hands. He
hooked a twisted stump about the handle of his spoon. Nearly all the
fingers were gone; what was left were mere torn fragments of bone and
tendon. His hands must have been horribly crushed, the top part of the
hands crushed off entirely. It made me sick to look at them.
I produced my chart, and passed it over to him. He paused in his repast,
wiped off his lips and beard, took out a blank sheet of paper from one
of his ragged pockets, and translated with great rapidity, scribbling
down the lines with a stump of a pencil about which he wrapped his
crooked index stump very cleverly. He grew quite hot with excitement as
he wrote; his enormous forehead turned pink. He smacked his lips:
“_Nu_, madame, _Boje moe_, what a reward for your great, your excellent
courage!”
He handed back both pages to me, and began on his ice-cream again. I
took the translation and read it eagerly.
“The crown alone is worth every risk, almost every crime. Each jewel
is a fortune to dream about. The robe is encrusted with the wealth of
magic. If each stone is taken out and offered cautiously for sale at
different and widely separated places, the danger of detection would now
be very slight. You will have at each sale the dowry of a queen. And all
of this splendor is hidden in the wall. There are two ways of reaching
it. The easier is through the hole in the kitchen closet, the closet
under the stairs. These are directions, easy to remember and easier to
follow: Go up the sixteen steps, go along the passage to the inclined
plane. Ascend the inclined plane. Count five rafters from the first
perpendicular rafter from the top of the plane on your left side. The
fifth rafter, if strongly moved, pulls forward. Behind it, on end,
stands the iron box. The key is hidden back of the eighteenth brick to
the left of the fifth rafter on the row which is the thirtieth from the
floor of the passage. Have courage, have self-control, have always a
watchful eye for Her. She knows.”
This was not signed. Now, I did a careful thing. I read this translation
over five or six times. And then I memorized the directions. Sixteen
steps up, ascend the inclined plane, five rafters from the one on your
left at the top of the plane, the eighteenth brick to the left of the
fifth rafter in the thirtieth row. And then I repeated “sixteen, five,
eighteen, thirty,” till they made an unforgettable jingle in my brain.
“You will not forget me, madame?” murmured the priest, this time in
Russian. “Madame ruined me, and madame will lift me up.” I lifted my
eyes from the paper and smiled that horrible smile.
“I will not forget you,” I said in the same tongue. “You will still be
at the address?”
“Until you advise me to change it,” he said cringingly.
“Excellent. _Do svedania_.”
He stood up and blessed me. I bent my head, and he stalked out, his
long, light hair flapping against his shoulders as he walked. The clerks
at the drug-store counter gaped and tittered at him. I followed him to
the door. There he made me another bow, smiled a big, toothless smile,
mounted his motor-cycle, and went off at a tremendous speed, his
deformed hands hooked over the bars, the wind of his own motion sending
the long points of his beard flying behind him like pennons.
A few moments after his departure another man came out of the saloon
opposite, walked quickly to another motor-cycle, mounted it, and went
humming after the cloud of dust that hid my mysterious translator.
It was odd that sleepy Pine Cone should at the same time entertain two
such travelers on this vehicle; it was even more odd that the second
traveler bore so extraordinary a likeness to one of Mrs. Brane's outdoor
men, those whom she had described to me as her pet charity.
I might have followed this train of thought to its logical conclusion,
I might even have remembered that one of these same men had followed the
Baron's departure from “The Pines,” had I not, at the moment, glanced in
the opposite direction and seen, far along the wide, dusty highway, the
departing brake-cart with George's fat person perched upon its seat. I
was possessed by indignation. He was actually leaving Pine Cone without
me. He was already too far away to hear my angry shout even if he had
not been deaf. As I watched helplessly, Gregory reached the top of the
hill, deliberately passed it, and pulled the brake-cart, dilapidated
whip, fat George, and all, out of my sight. There was nothing for it but
a walk home. I got a wretched lunch in the ice cream parlor, and set out
in no very good humor. As soon as I was out of sight of the town, I took
out my translation of the chart, refreshed my memory for the last time,
tore it into a thousand tiny bits, and buried the shreds deep in the
sandy soil of the roadside. I kept the original Slavonic writing in the
bosom of my dress. I meant in my own good time to let this paper fall
into the hands of the thieves, and so, having notified the police, to
catch them in the very hiding-place.
I stepped along rapidly. It was now past noon, a mild November day
of Indian summer warmth and softness; the pines swung their fragrant
branches against the sky. It was very still and pleasant on the woody
road. I was really glad that George had forgotten me. As I came round
one of the pretty turns of the road I heard a great, groaning rush of
sound, and, hurrying my steps, found that the great dead pine George had
pointed out to me had, indeed, true to his prophecy, fallen across the
road. It was a great, ragged giant of a tree, and as the bank on one
side of the road was steep and high, I was forced to go well into the
woods on the other, and to circle about the enormous root which stood
up like a wall between me and the road. Back of the tree I stepped down
into a hollow, and, as I stepped, looking carefully to my footing, for
the ground was very rough, a heavy smother of cloth fell over my head
and shoulders, and I was thrown violently backward to the ground. At the
same instant the stuff was pulled tight across my mouth. I could hardly
breathe, much less cry out. I was half suffocated and blind as a mole.
My arms were seized, and drawn back of me and tied at the wrists. The
hands that did this were fine and cold, and strong as steel. They were
a woman's hands, and I could feel the brush of skirts. It froze my blood
to know that I was being handled and trussed up by a pitiless image of
myself.
Having made me entirely blind, dumb, and helpless as a log, the creature
proceeded to search me with the most intolerable thoroughness. Of
course, the paper I had taken from the bookcase was promptly found, and
I heard a little gasp of satisfaction, followed by a low oath when she
discovered the nature of the script. She was no doubt furious at not
being able to find any translation. I was roughly handled, dragged about
on the stony ground, tossed this way and that, while the cold, hurried,
clever fingers thrust themselves through my clothing. At last they
fairly stripped me, every article was shaken out or torn apart, a
knife cut off the top of my head-covering, leaving my face in its tight
smother, my hair was taken down, shaken out, combed with hasty and
painful claws. When, after a horrible lifetime of fear and disgust,
anger and pain, the thing that handled me discovered that there was
really nothing further of any value to her upon me, she gave way to
a fury of disappointment. There, in the still woods, she cursed with
disgusting oaths, she beat me with her hands, with branches she found
near me on the ground.
“Discipline,” she said, “discipline, and be thankful, my girl, that I
don't do you a worse injury. I can't stand being angry unless I make
somebody squirm for it. Besides, I mean you to lie quiet for a day or
two, till I need you again.”
I did squirm, and she showed no mercy.
Nevertheless, she began to be afraid, I suppose, of being discovered at
her cruelty. She threw my clothes over me, laughed at my plight, and I
heard her light footsteps going away from me into the woods.
I lay there, raging, sobbing, struggling, till long after dusk, then,
my hands becoming gradually loosened, I wriggled one hand free, tore the
rope from the other, rid myself of the sacking on my head and sat up,
panting, trembling, exhausted, bathed in sweat. Slowly I got into my
clothes and smoothed my torn hair, crying with the pain of my hurts.
It had been an orgy of rage and cruelty, and I had been, God knows, a
helpless victim. Nevertheless, the discipline inflicted upon me did not
break my spirit. I was lashed and stung to a cold rage of hatred and
disgust. I would outwit the creature, hunt her down, and give her
to justice so that she might suffer for her sins. I could not well
understand the furious boldness of her action of this afternoon. Why did
she leave me to make my escape, to go back to “The Pines,” to tell my
story and so to set the police on her track? For some reason she must
rely on my holding my tongue. As I stumbled on my painful way, the
reason came to me with some certainty. She thought that I, too, meant to
steal the fortune. It would not enter the head of a criminal that such
a temptation could be resisted by a penniless girl of my history. And,
indeed, what other explanation could she possibly entertain for my
previous secretiveness? Naturally, she could not understand my desire to
triumph over Paul Dabney. And this desire was as strong in me as ever
it had been. Indeed, I felt that in a certain way the events of the
afternoon left me with slight advantage over my double. It was now a
race between us. She knew that I was on the track of the treasure; she
knew that I knew of her intentions. I had the translation; she had not.
She would have it soon enough, I was sure; therefore I must be quick. No
later than that night, or, at farthest, the following night, while she
still fancied me laid up by the beating I had received, I must contrive
to get at Mrs. Brane's fortune. Dreadful as my experience had been, I
was still bent upon the success of my venture; truly I believe I was
more bent upon it.
If I failed now, there was no knowing what consequences might fall upon
“The Pines” household and upon me. Very easily--I trembled to think how
easily--some member of the family might be murdered and I be made to
appear the murderess. I had, by my bold course, provided blind justice
with a half-dozen witnesses against my innocence. The Baron, the priest,
Sara, Henry, Paul Dabney--not one of them but could stand up and swear
to my criminality, perhaps to a score of past crimes.
As I limped and stumbled home, wiping the tears from my eyes and the
blood from my chafed face, I decided to keep the truth of my adventure
to myself. An accident of some kind I must invent to explain my plight.
I decided that the fallen pine would have to bear the blame for my cuts
and bruises. I would say that I had been caught by the slashing outer
branches as it fell.
Before I reached the gateway of “The Pines,” in fact, just as I was
dragging myself up the steep slope from the swamp, a will-o'-the-wisp
of light came dancing to meet me. The circle of its glow presently made
visible the unmistakable flat feet of George, who, at sight of me, broke
into a chant of relief and of reproach.
He set down his lamp before me and held up his hands.
“My lordamassy, Miss Gale, what fo' yo' put dis yere po' ole nigger in
sech a wo'ld o' mis'ry? Here am Massa Dabney a-tarin' up de groun' all
aroun' about hie an' a-callin' me names coz I done obey yo' instid o'
him. An' he done gib me one dolleh, yessa, an' yo'-all done gib me two.
I tole him de trufe. Yessa, I says, one dolleh done tuk me to Pine Cone
an' two dollehs done bring me back.”
I pushed my hair from my tired forehead. “You mean I told you to drive
home without me, George?”
George danced a nigger dance of despair--a sort of cake-walk, grotesque
and laughable in the circle of lantern-light.
“Oh, lawsamassy, don' nobody 'member nothin' they done say to a po' ole
niggerman like George? Yo' come out, miss, while I was a-harnessin'
Gregory, an' yo' gib de dollehs an' yo' say, 'Be sho to drive away back
to de house af teh Gregory got his new shoes without waitin' fer me.'
Yo' say yo' like de walk. There, now! Yo'-all do commence to begin to
recollec', don' yo'?”
“Yes, yes. I do, of course, George,” I agreed faintly--what use to
disclaim this minor action of my double? “Give me your arm, there's a
good fellow. I've been hurt.”
He was as tender as a “mammy,” all but carried me up to the house and
handed me over to Paul Dabney, who was pacing the hall like a caged
tiger, and who received me with a feverish eagerness, rather like the
pounce of a watchful beast of prey. I told my story--or, rather, my
fabrication--to him and Mrs. Brane and Mary. Paul did not join in the
ejaculation of sympathy and affection; he tried to be stoically cynical
even in the face of my quite apparent weakness and pain, but I thought
his eyes and mouth corners rather betrayed his self-control, and he
helped me carefully, with a sort of restrained passion, up to my room,
where I refused poor Mary's offers of help and ministered to myself as
best I could.
I was really in a pitiful condition; the beating had been delivered with
the intention of laying me up, and I began to think that it would be
successful. I don't mind admitting that I cried myself to sleep that
night.