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The Pocket Books
A series designed to represent the three aspects of American
romance,--adventure, mystery and humor
THE AMETHYST BOX By Anna Katharine Green
A detective story of a Newport wedding
THE HOUSE IN THE MIST By Anna Katharine Green
A tale of unexpected fortunes. Including also The Ruby and
the Caldron
ENCHANTMENT By Harold MacGrath
Short stories of whimsical adventure
THE PRINCESS ELOPES By Harold MacGrath
An extravagant romance of a European Duchy
THE MOTORMANIACS By Lloyd Osbourne
Tales of the road and the automobile
[Illustration]
THE HOUSE IN THE MIST
_By_
ANNA KATHARINE GREEN
Author of
The Millionaire Baby
The Amethyst Box
The Filigree Ball, etc., etc.
INDIANAPOLIS
THE BOBBS-MERRILL COMPANY
PUBLISHERS
COPYRIGHT 1905
THE BOBBS-MERRILL COMPANY
CONTENTS
THE HOUSE IN THE MIST
I AN OPEN DOOR
II WITH MY EAR TO THE WAINSCOTING
III A LIFE DRAMA
IV THE FINAL SHOCK
THE RUBY AND THE CALDRON
THE HOUSE IN THE MIST
I
AN OPEN DOOR
It was a night to drive any man indoors. Not only was the darkness
impenetrable, but the raw mist enveloping hill and valley made the open
road anything but desirable to a belated wayfarer like myself.
Being young, untrammeled, and naturally indifferent to danger, I was not
averse to adventure; and having my fortune to make, was always on the
look-out for El Dorado, which, to ardent souls, lies ever beyond the
next turning. Consequently, when I saw a light shimmering through the
mist at my right, I resolved to make for it and the shelter it so
opportunely offered.
But I did not realize then, as I do now, that shelter does not
necessarily imply refuge, or I might not have undertaken this adventure
with so light a heart. Yet, who knows? The impulses of an unfettered
spirit lean toward daring, and youth, as I have said, seeks the strange,
the unknown and, sometimes, the terrible.
My path toward this light was by no means an easy one. After confused
wanderings through tangled hedges, and a struggle with obstacles of
whose nature I received the most curious impression in the surrounding
murk, I arrived in front of a long, low building which, to my
astonishment, I found standing with doors and windows open to the
pervading mist, save for one square casement through which the light
shone from a row of candles placed on a long mahogany table.
The quiet and seeming emptiness of this odd and picturesque building
made me pause. I am not much affected by visible danger, but this silent
room, with its air of sinister expectancy, struck me most unpleasantly,
and I was about to reconsider my first impulse and withdraw again to the
road, when a second look, thrown back upon the comfortable interior I
was leaving, convinced me of my folly and sent me straight toward the
door which stood so invitingly open.
But half-way up the path, my progress was again stayed by the sight of a
man issuing from the house I had so rashly looked upon as devoid of all
human presence. He seemed in haste and, at the moment my eye first fell
on him, was engaged in replacing his watch in his pocket.
But he did not shut the door behind him, which I thought odd, especially
as his final glance had been a backward one, and seemed to take in all
the appointments of the place he was so hurriedly leaving.
As we met, he raised his hat. This likewise struck me as peculiar, for
the deference he displayed was more marked than that usually bestowed on
strangers, while his lack of surprise at an encounter more or less
startling in such a mist was calculated to puzzle an ordinary man like
myself. Indeed, he was so little impressed by my presence there that he
was for passing me without a word or any other hint of good fellowship,
save the bow of which I have spoken. But this did not suit me. I was
hungry, cold, and eager for creature comforts, and the house before me
gave forth not only heat, but a savory odor which in itself was an
invitation hard to ignore. I therefore accosted the man.
"Will bed and supper be provided me here?" I asked. "I am tired out with
a long tramp over the hills, and hungry enough to pay anything in
reason--"
I stopped, for the man had disappeared. He had not paused at my appeal
and the mist had swallowed him. But at the break in my sentence, his
voice came back in good-natured tones and I heard:
"Supper will be ready at nine, and there are beds for all. Enter, sir;
you are the first to arrive, but the others can not be far behind."
A queer greeting, certainly. But when I strove to question him as to its
meaning, his voice returned to me from such a distance that I doubted if
my words had reached him with any more distinctness than his answer
reached me.
"Well!" thought I, "it isn't as if a lodging had been denied me. He
invited me to enter, and enter I will."
The house, to which I now naturally directed a glance of much more
careful scrutiny than before, was no ordinary farm-building, but a
rambling old mansion, made conspicuously larger here and there by
jutting porches and more than one convenient lean-to. Though furnished,
warmed and lighted with candles, as I have previously described, it had
about it an air of disuse which made me feel myself an intruder, in
spite of the welcome I had received. But I was not in a position to
stand upon ceremony, and ere long I found myself inside the great room
and before the blazing logs whose glow had lighted up the doorway and
added its own attraction to the other allurements of the inviting place.
Though the open door made a draft which was anything but pleasant, I did
not feel like closing it, and was astonished to observe the effect of
the mist through the square thus left open to the night. It was not an
agreeable one, and, instinctively turning my back upon that quarter of
the room, I let my eyes roam over the wainscoted walls and the odd
pieces of furniture which gave such an air of old-fashioned richness to
the place. As nothing of the kind had ever fallen under my eyes before,
I should have thoroughly enjoyed this opportunity of gratifying my taste
for the curious and the beautiful, if the quaint old chairs I saw
standing about me on every side had not all been empty. But the solitude
of the place, so much more oppressive than the solitude of the road I
had left, struck cold to my heart, and I missed the cheer rightfully
belonging to such attractive surroundings. Suddenly I bethought me of
the many other apartments likely to be found in so spacious a dwelling,
and going to the nearest door, I opened it and called out for the master
of the house. But only an echo came back, and, returning to the fire, I
sat down before the cheering blaze, in quiet acceptance of a situation
too lonely for comfort, yet not without a certain piquant interest for a
man of free mind and adventurous disposition like myself.
After all, if supper was to be served at nine, someone must be expected
to eat it: I should surely not be left much longer without companions.
Meanwhile ample amusement awaited me in the contemplation of a picture
which, next to the large fireplace, was the most prominent object in the
room. This picture was a portrait, and a remarkable one. The countenance
it portrayed was both characteristic and forcible, and so interested me
that in studying it I quite forgot both hunger and weariness. Indeed its
effect upon me was such that, after gazing at it uninterruptedly for a
few minutes, I discovered that its various features--the narrow eyes in
which a hint of craft gave a strange gleam to their native intelligence;
the steadfast chin, strong as the rock of the hills I had wearily
tramped all day; the cunning wrinkles which yet did not interfere with
a latent great-heartedness that made the face as attractive as it was
puzzling--had so established themselves in my mind that I continued to
see them before me whichever way I turned, and found it impossible to
shake off their influence even after I had resolutely set my mind in
another direction by endeavoring to recall what I knew of the town into
which I had strayed.
I had come from Scranton and was now, according to my best judgment, in
one of those rural districts of western Pennsylvania which breed such
strange and sturdy characters. But of this special neighborhood, its
inhabitants and its industries, I knew nothing nor was likely to, so
long as I remained in the solitude I have endeavored to describe.
But these impressions and these thoughts--if thoughts they
were--presently received a check. A loud "Halloo" rose from somewhere in
the mist, followed by a string of muttered imprecations, which convinced
me that the person now attempting to approach the house was encountering
some of the many difficulties which had beset me in the same
undertaking a few minutes before.
I therefore raised my voice and shouted out, "Here! this way!" after
which I sat still and awaited developments.
There was a huge clock in one of the corners, whose loud tick filled up
every interval of silence. By this clock it was just ten minutes to
eight when two gentlemen (I should say men, and coarse men at that)
crossed the open threshold and entered the house.
Their appearance was more or less noteworthy--unpleasantly so, I am
obliged to add. One was red-faced and obese, the other was tall, thin
and wiry and showed as many seams in his face as a blighted apple.
Neither of the two had anything to recommend him either in appearance or
address, save a certain veneer of polite assumption as transparent as it
was offensive. As I listened to the forced sallies of the one and the
hollow laugh of the other, I was glad that I was large of frame and
strong of arm and used to all kinds of men and--brutes.
As these two new-comers seemed no more astonished at my presence than
the man I had met at the gate, I checked the question which
instinctively rose to my lips and with a simple bow,--responded to by a
more or less familiar nod from either,--accepted the situation with all
the _sang-froid_ the occasion seemed to demand. Perhaps this was wise,
perhaps it was not; there was little opportunity to judge, for the start
they both gave as they encountered the eyes of the picture before
mentioned drew my attention to a consideration of the different ways in
which men, however similar in other respects, express sudden and
unlooked-for emotion. The big man simply allowed his astonishment,
dread, or whatever the feeling was which moved him, to ooze forth in a
cold and deathly perspiration which robbed his cheeks of color and cast
a bluish shadow over his narrow and retreating temples; while the thin
and waspish man, caught in the same trap (for trap I saw it was),
shouted aloud in his ill-timed mirth, the false and cruel character of
which would have made me shudder, if all expression of feeling on my
part had not been held in check by the interest I immediately
experienced in the display of open bravado with which, in another
moment, these two tried to carry off their mutual embarrassment.
"Good likeness, eh?" laughed the seamy-faced man. "Quite an idea, that!
Makes him one of us again! Well, he's welcome--in oils. Can't say much
to us from canvas, eh?" And the rafters above him vibrated, as his
violent efforts at joviality went up in loud and louder assertion from
his thin throat.
A nudge from the other's elbow stopped him and I saw them both cast
half-lowering, half-inquisitive glances in my direction.
"One of the Witherspoon boys?" queried one.
"Perhaps," snarled the other. "I never saw but one of them. There are
five, aren't there? Eustace believed in marrying off his gals young."
"Damn him, yes. And he'd have married them off younger if he had known
how numbers were going to count some day among the Westonhaughs." And
he laughed again in a way I should certainly have felt it my business to
resent, if my indignation as well as the ill-timed allusions which had
called it forth had not been put to an end by a fresh arrival through
the veiling mist which hung like a shroud at the doorway.
This time it was for me to experience a shock of something like fear.
Yet the personage who called up this unlooked-for sensation in my
naturally hardy nature was old and, to all appearance, harmless from
disability, if not from good will. His form was bent over upon itself
like a bow; and only from the glances he shot from his upturned eyes was
the fact made evident that a redoubtable nature, full of force and
malignity, had just brought its quota of evil into a room already
overflowing with dangerous and menacing passions.
As this old wretch, either from the feebleness of age or from the
infirmity I have mentioned, had great difficulty in walking, he had
brought with him a small boy, whose business it was to direct his
tottering steps as best he could.
But once settled in his chair, he drove away this boy with his pointed
oak stick, and with some harsh words about caring for the horse and
being on time in the morning, he sent him out into the mist. As this
little shivering and pathetic figure vanished, the old man drew, with
gasp and haw, a number of deep breaths which shook his bent back and did
their share, no doubt, in restoring his own disturbed circulation. Then,
with a sinister twist which brought his pointed chin and twinkling eyes
again into view, he remarked:
"Haven't ye a word for kinsman Luke, you two? It isn't often I get out
among ye. Shakee, nephew! Shakee, Hector! And now who's the boy in the
window? My eyes aren't what they used to be, but he don't seem to favor
the Westonhaughs over-much. One of Salmon's four grandchildren, think
'e? Or a shoot from Eustace's gnarled old trunk? His gals all married
Americans, and one of them, I've been told, was a yellow-haired giant
like this fellow."
As this description pointed directly toward me, I was about to venture a
response on my own account, when my attention, as well as theirs, was
freshly attracted by a loud "Whoa!" at the gate, followed by the hasty
but assured entrance of a dapper, wizen, but perfectly preserved little
old gentleman with a bag in his hand. Looking askance with eyes that
were like two beads, first at the two men who were now elbowing each
other for the best place before the fire, and then at the revolting
figure in the chair, he bestowed his greeting, which consisted of an
elaborate bow, not on them, but upon the picture hanging so
conspicuously on the open wall before him; and then, taking me within
the scope of his quick, circling glance, cried out with an assumption of
great cordiality:
"Good evening, gentlemen; good evening one, good evening all. Nothing
like being on the tick. I'm sorry the night has turned out so badly.
Some may find it too thick for travel. That would be bad, eh? very
bad--for _them_."
As none of the men he openly addressed saw fit to answer, save by the
hitch of a shoulder or a leer quickly suppressed, I kept silent also.
But this reticence, marked as it was, did not seem to offend the
new-comer. Shaking the wet from the umbrella he held, he stood the
dripping article up in a corner and then came and placed his feet on the
fender. To do this he had to crowd between the two men already occupying
the best part of the hearth. But he showed no concern at incommoding
them, and bore their cross looks and threatening gestures with
professional equanimity.
"You know me?" he now unexpectedly snapped, bestowing another look over
his shoulder at that oppressive figure in the chair. (Did I say that I
had risen when the latter sat?) "I'm no Westonhaugh, I; nor yet a
Witherspoon nor a Clapsaddle. I'm only Smead, the lawyer. Mr. Anthony
Westonhaugh's lawyer," he repeated, with another glance of recognition
in the direction of the picture. "I drew up his last will and testament,
and, until all of his wishes have been duly carried out, am entitled by
the terms of that will to be regarded both legally and socially as his
representative. This you all know, but it is my way to make everything
clear as I proceed. A lawyer's trick, no doubt. I do not pretend to be
entirely exempt from such."
A grumble from the large man, who seemed to have been disturbed in some
absorbing calculation he was carrying on, mingled with a few muttered
words of forced acknowledgment from the restless old sinner in the
chair, made it unnecessary for me to reply, even if the last comer had
given me the opportunity.
"It's getting late!" he cried, with an easy garrulity rather amusing,
under the circumstances. "Two more trains came in as I left the depot.
If old Phil was on hand with his wagon, several more members of this
interesting family may be here before the clock strikes; if not, the
assemblage is like to be small. Too small," I heard him grumble a minute
after, under his breath.
"I wish it were a matter of one," spoke up the big man, striking his
breast in a way to make it perfectly apparent whom he meant by that word
one. And having (if I may judge by the mingled laugh and growl of his
companions) thus shown his hand both figuratively and literally, he
relapsed into the calculation which seemed to absorb all of his
unoccupied moments.
"Generous, very!" commented the lawyer in a murmur which was more than
audible. "Pity that sentiments of such broad benevolence should go
unrewarded."
This, because at that very instant wheels were heard in front, also a
jangle of voices, in some controversy about fares, which promised
anything but a pleasing addition to the already none too desirable
company.
"I suppose that's sister Janet," snarled out the one addressed as
Hector. There was no love in his voice, despite the relationship hinted
at, and I awaited the entrance of this woman with some curiosity.
But her appearance, heralded by many a puff and pant which the damp air
exaggerated in a prodigious way, did not seem to warrant the interest I
had shown in it. As she stepped into the room, I saw only a big frowsy
woman, who had attempted to make a show with a new silk dress and a hat
in the latest fashion, but who had lamentably failed, owing to the
slouchiness of her figure and some misadventure by which her hat had
been set awry on her head and her usual complacency destroyed. Later, I
noted that her down-looking eyes had a false twinkle in them, and that,
commonplace as she looked, she was one to steer clear of in times of
necessity and distress.
She, too, evidently expected to find the door open and people assembled,
but she had not anticipated being confronted by the portrait on the
wall, and cringed in an unpleasant way as she stumbled by it into one of
the ill-lighted corners.
The old man, who had doubtless caught the rustle of her dress as she
passed him, emitted one short sentence.
"Almost late," said he.
Her answer was a sputter of words.
"It's the fault of that driver," she complained. "If he had taken one
drop more at the half-way house, I might really not have got here at
all. That would not have inconvenienced you. But oh! what a grudge I
would have owed that skinflint brother of ours"--here she shook her fist
at the picture "for making our good luck depend upon our arrival within
two short strokes of the clock!"
"There are several to come yet," blandly observed the lawyer. But before
the words were well out of his mouth, we all became aware of a new
presence--a woman, whose somber grace and quiet bearing gave distinction
to her unobtrusive entrance, and caused a feeling of something like awe
to follow the first sight of her cold features and deep, heavily-fringed
eyes. But this soon passed in the more human sentiment awakened by the
soft pleading which infused her gaze with a touching femininity. She
wore a long loose garment which fell without a fold from chin to foot,
and in her arms she seemed to carry something.
Never before had I seen so beautiful a woman. As I was contemplating
her, with respect but yet with a masculine intentness I could not quite
suppress, two or three other persons came in. And now I began to notice
that the eyes of all these people turned mainly one way, and that was
toward the clock. Another small circumstance likewise drew my attention.
Whenever any one entered,--and there were one or two additional arrivals
during the five minutes preceding the striking of the hour,--a frown
settled for an instant on every brow, giving to each and all a similar
look, for the interpretation of which I lacked the key. Yet not on every
brow either. There was one which remained undisturbed and showed only a
grand patience.
As the hands of the big clock neared the point of eight, a furtive
smile appeared on more than one face; and when the hour rang out, a sigh
of satisfaction swept through the room, to which the little old lawyer
responded with a worldly-wise grunt, as he moved from his place and
proceeded to the door.
This he had scarcely shut when a chorus of voices rose from without.
Three or four lingerers had pushed their way as far as the gate, only to
see the door of the house shut in their faces.
"Too late!" growled old man Luke from between the locks of his long
beard.
"Too late!" shrieked the woman who had come so near being late herself.
"Too late!" smoothly acquiesced the lawyer, locking and bolting the door
with a deft and assured hand.
But the four or five persons who thus found themselves barred out did
not accept without a struggle the decision of the more fortunate ones
assembled within. More than one hand began pounding on the door, and we
could hear cries of, "The train was behind time!" "Your clock is fast!"
"You are cheating us; you want it all for yourselves!" "We will have the
law on you!" and other bitter adjurations unintelligible to me from my
ignorance of the circumstances which called them forth.
But the wary old lawyer simply shook his head and answered nothing;
whereat a murmur of gratification rose from within, and a howl of almost
frenzied dismay from without, which latter presently received point from
a startling vision which now appeared at the casement where the lights
burned. A man's face looked in, and behind it, that of a woman, so wild
and maddened by some sort of heart-break that I found my sympathies
aroused in spite of the glare of evil passions which made both of these
countenances something less than human.
But the lawyer met the stare of these four eyes with a quiet chuckle,
which found its echo in the ill-advised mirth of those about him; and
moving over to the window where they still peered in, he drew together
the two heavy shutters which hitherto had stood back against the wall,
and, fastening them with a bar, shut out the sight of this despair, if
he could not shut out the protests which ever and anon were shouted
through the key-hole.
Meanwhile, one form had sat through this whole incident without a
gesture; and on the quiet brow, from which I could not keep my eyes, no
shadows appeared save the perpetual one of native melancholy, which was
at once the source of its attraction and the secret of its power.
Into what sort of gathering had I stumbled? And why did I prefer to
await developments rather than ask the simplest question of any one
about me?
Meantime the lawyer had proceeded to make certain preparations. With the
help of one or two willing hands, he had drawn the great table into the
middle of the room and, having seen the candles restored to their
places, began to open his small bag and take from it a roll of paper and
several flat documents. Laying the latter in the center of the table
and slowly unrolling the former, he consulted, with his foxy eyes, the
faces surrounding him, and smiled with secret malevolence, as he noted
that every chair and every form were turned away from the picture before
which he had bent with such obvious courtesy, on entering. I alone stood
erect, and this possibly was why a gleam of curiosity was noticeable in
his glance, as he ended his scrutiny of my countenance and bent his gaze
again upon the paper he held.
"Heavens!" thought I. "What shall I answer this man if he asks me why I
continued to remain in a spot where I have so little business." The
impulse came to go. But such was the effect of this strange convocation
of persons, at night and in a mist which was itself a nightmare, that I
failed to take action and remained riveted to my place, while Mr. Smead
consulted his roll and finally asked in a business-like tone, quite
unlike his previous sarcastic speech, the names of those whom he had the
pleasure of seeing before him.
The old man in the chair spoke up first.
"Luke Westonhaugh," he announced.
"Very good!" responded the lawyer.
"Hector Westonhaugh," came from the thin man.
A nod and a look toward the next.
"John Westonhaugh."
"Nephew?" asked the lawyer.
"Yes."
"Go on, and be quick; supper will be ready at nine."
"Eunice Westonhaugh," spoke up a soft voice.
I felt my heart bound as if some inner echo responded to that name.
"Daughter of whom?"
"Hudson Westonhaugh," she gently faltered. "My father is dead--died last
night;--I am his only heir."
A grumble of dissatisfaction and a glint of unrelieved hate came from
the doubled-up figure, whose malevolence had so revolted me.
But the lawyer was not to be shaken.
"Very good! It is fortunate you trusted your feet rather than the
train. And now you! What is your name?"
He was looking, not at me as I had at first feared, but at the man next
to me, a slim but slippery youth, whose small red eyes made me shudder.
"William Witherspoon."
"Barbara's son?"
"Yes."
"Where are your brothers?"
"One of them, I think, is outside"--here he laughed;--"the other
is--_sick_."
The way he uttered this word made me set him down as one to be
especially wary of when he smiled. But then I had already passed
judgment on him at my first view.
"And you, madam?"--this to the large, dowdy woman with the uncertain
eye, a contrast to the young and melancholy Eunice.
"Janet Clapsaddle," she replied, waddling hungrily forward and getting
unpleasantly near the speaker, for he moved off as she approached, and
took his stand in the clear place at the head of the table.
"Very good, Mistress Clapsaddle. You were a Westonhaugh, I believe?"
"You _believe_, sneak-faced hypocrite that you are!" she blurted out. "I
don't understand your lawyer ways. I like plain speaking myself. Don't
you know me, and Luke and Hector, and--and most of us indeed, except
that puny, white-faced girl yonder, whom, having been brought up on the
other side of the Ridge, we have none of us seen since she was a
screaming baby in Hildegarde's arms. And the young gentleman over
there,"--here she indicated me--"who shows so little likeness to the
rest of the family. He will have to make it pretty plain who his father
was before we shall feel like acknowledging him, either as the son of
one of Eustace's girls, or a chip from brother Salmon's hard old block."
As this caused all eyes to turn upon me, even _hers_, I smiled as I
stepped forward. The lawyer did not return that smile.
"What is your name?" he asked shortly and sharply, as if he distrusted
me.
"Hugh Austin," was my quiet reply.
"There is no such name on the list," snapped old Smead, with an
authoritative gesture toward those who seemed anxious to enter a
protest.
"Probably not," I returned, "for I am neither a Witherspoon, a
Westonhaugh nor a Clapsaddle. I am merely a chance wayfarer passing
through the town on my way west. I thought this house was a tavern, or
at least a place I could lodge in. The man I met in the doorway told me
as much, and so I am here. If my company is not agreeable, or if you
wish this room to yourselves, let me go into the kitchen. I promise not
to meddle with the supper, hungry as I am. Or perhaps you wish me to
join the crowd outside; it seems to be increasing."
"No, no," came from all parts of the room. "Don't let the door be
opened. Nothing could keep Lemuel and his crowd out if they once got
foot over the threshold."
The lawyer rubbed his chin. He seemed to be in some sort of quandary.
First he scrutinized me from under his shaggy brows with a sharp gleam
of suspicion; then his features softened and, with a side glance at the
young woman who called herself Eunice, (perhaps, because she was worth
looking at, perhaps because she had partly risen at my words), he
slipped toward a door I had before observed in the wainscoting on the
left of the mantelpiece, and softly opened it upon what looked like a
narrow staircase.
"We can not let you go out," said he; "and we can not let you have a
finger in our viands before the hour comes for serving them; so if you
will be so good as to follow this staircase to the top, you will find it
ends in a room comfortable enough for the wayfarer you call yourself. In
that room you can rest till the way is clear for you to continue your
travels. Better, we can not do for you. This house is not a tavern, but
the somewhat valuable property of--" He turned with a bow and smile, as
every one there drew a deep breath; but no one ventured to end that
sentence.
I would have given all my future prospects (which, by the way, were not
very great) to remain in that room. The oddity of the situation; the
mystery of the occurrence; the suspense I saw in every face; the
eagerness of the cries I heard redoubled from time to time outside; the
malevolence but poorly disguised in the old lawyer's countenance; and,
above all, the presence of that noble-looking woman, which was the one
off-set to the general tone of villainy with which the room was charged,
filled me with curiosity, if I might call it by no other name, that made
my acquiescence in the demand thus made upon me positively heroic. But
there seemed no other course for me to follow, and with a last lingering
glance at the genial fire and a quick look about me, which happily
encountered hers, I stooped my head to suit the low and narrow doorway
opened for my accommodation, and instantly found myself in darkness. The
door had been immediately closed by the lawyer's impatient hand.
II
WITH MY EAR TO THE WAINSCOTING
No move more unwise could have been made by the old lawyer,--that is, if
his intention had been to rid himself of an unwelcome witness. For,
finding myself thrust thus suddenly from the scene, I naturally stood
still instead of mounting the stairs, and, by standing still, discovered
that though shut from sight I was not from sound. Distinctly through the
panel of the door, which was much thinner, no doubt, than the old fox
imagined, I heard one of the men present shout out:
"Well, that makes the number less by _one_!"
The murmur which followed this remark came plainly to my ears, and,
greatly rejoicing over what I considered my good luck, I settled myself
on the lowest step of the stairs in the hope of catching some word
which would reveal to me the mystery of this scene.
It was not long in coming. Old Smead had now his audience before him in
good shape, and his next words were of a character to make evident the
purpose of this meeting.
"Heirs of Anthony Westonhaugh, deceased," he began in a sing-song voice
strangely unmusical, "I congratulate you upon your good fortune at being
at this especial moment on the inner rather than outer side of your
amiable relative's front door. His will, which you have assembled to
hear read, is well known to you. By it his whole property--(not so large
as some of you might wish, but yet a goodly property for farmers like
yourselves)--is to be divided this night, share and share alike, among
such of his relatives as have found it convenient to be present here
between the strokes of half-past seven and eight. If some of our friends
have failed us through sloth, sickness or the misfortune of mistaking
the road, they have our sympathy, but they can not have _his dollars_."
"Can not have his dollars!" echoed a rasping voice which, from its
smothered sound, probably came from the bearded lips of the old
reprobate in the chair.
The lawyer waited for one or two other repetitions of this phrase (a
phrase which, for some unimaginable reason, seemed to give him an odd
sort of pleasure), then he went on with greater distinctness and a
certain sly emphasis, chilling in effect but very professional:
"Ladies and gentlemen: Shall I read this will?"
"No, no! The division! the division! Tell us what we are to have!" rose
in a shout about him.
There was a pause. I could imagine the sharp eyes of the lawyer
traveling from face to face as each thus gave voice to his cupidity, and
the thin curl of his lips as he remarked in a slow tantalizing way:
"There was more in the old man's clutches than you think."
A gasp of greed shook the partition against which my ear was pressed.
Some one must have drawn up against the wainscoting since my departure
from the room. I found myself wondering which of them it was. Meantime
old Smead was having his say, with the smoothness of a man who perfectly
understands what is required of him.
"Mr. Westonhaugh would not have put you to so much trouble or had you
wait so long if he had not expected to reward you amply. There are
shares in this bag which are worth thousands instead of hundreds. Now,
now! stop that! hands off! hands off! there are calculations to make
first. How many of you are there? Count up, some of you."
"Nine!" called out a voice with such rapacious eagerness that the word
was almost unintelligible.
"Nine." How slowly the old knave spoke! What pleasure he seemed to take
in the suspense he purposely made as exasperating as possible!
"Well, if each one gets his share, he may count himself richer by two
hundred thousand dollars than when he came in here to-night."
Two hundred thousand dollars! They had expected no more than thirty.
Surprise made them speechless,--that is, for a moment; then a
pandemonium of hurrahs, shrieks and loud-voiced enthusiasm made the room
ring, till wonder seized them again, and a sudden silence fell, through
which I caught a far-off wail of grief from the disappointed ones
without, which, heard in the dark and narrow place in which I was
confined, had a peculiarly weird and desolate effect.
Perhaps it likewise was heard by some of the fortunate ones within!
Perhaps one head, to mark which, in this moment of universal elation, I
would have given a year from my life, turned toward the dark without, in
recognition of the despair thus piteously voiced; but if so, no token of
the same came to me, and I could but hope that she had shown, by some
such movement, the natural sympathy of her sex.
Meanwhile the lawyer was addressing the company in his smoothest and
most sarcastic tones.
"Mr. Westonhaugh was a wise man, a very wise man," he droned. "He
foresaw what your pleasure would be, and left a letter for you. But
before I read it, before I invite you to the board he ordered to be
spread for you in honor of this happy occasion, there is one appeal he
bade me make to those I should find assembled here. As you know, he was
not personally acquainted with all the children and grandchildren of his
many brothers and sisters. Salmon's sons, for instance, were perfect
strangers to him, and all those boys and girls of the Evans' branch have
never been long enough this side of the mountains for him to know their
names, much less their temper or their lives. Yet his heirs--or such was
his wish, his great wish--must be honest men, righteous in their
dealings, and of stainless lives. If therefore, any one among you feels
that for reasons he need not state, he has no right to accept his share
of Anthony Westonhaugh's bounty, then that person is requested to
withdraw before this letter to his heirs is read."
Withdraw? Was the man a fool? _Withdraw?_--these cormorants! these
suckers of blood! these harpies and vultures! I laughed as I imagined
sneaking Hector, malicious Luke or brutal John responding to this naive
appeal, and then found myself wondering why no echo of my mirth came
from the men themselves. They must have seen much more plainly than I
did the ludicrousness of their weak old kinsman's demand; yet Luke was
still; Hector was still; and even John, and the three or four others I
have mentioned gave forth no audible token of disdain or surprise. I was
asking myself what sentiment of awe or fear restrained these selfish
souls, when I became conscious of a movement within, which presently
resolved itself into a departing foot-step.
Some conscience there had been awakened. Some one was crossing the floor
toward the door. Who? I waited in anxious expectancy for the word which
was to enlighten me. Happily it came soon, and from the old lawyer's
lips.
"You do not feel yourself worthy?" he queried, in tones I had not heard
from him before. "Why? What have you done that you should forego an
inheritance to which these others feel themselves honestly entitled?"
The voice which answered gave both my mind and heart a shock. It was
_she_ who had risen at this call. _She_, the only true-faced person
there!
Anxiously I listened for her reply. Alas! it was one of action rather
than speech. As I afterward heard, she simply opened her long cloak and
showed a little infant slumbering in her arms.
"This is my reason," said she. "I have sinned in the eyes of the world,
therefore I can not take my share of Uncle Anthony's money. I did not
know he exacted an unblemished record from those he expected to enrich,
or I would not have come."
The sob which followed these last words showed at what a cost she thus
renounced a fortune of which she, of all present, perhaps, stood in the
greatest need; but there was no lingering in her step; and to me, who
understood her fault only through the faint sound of infantile wailing
which accompanied her departure, there was a nobility in her action
which raised her in an instant to an almost ideal height of unselfish
virtue.
Perhaps they felt this, too. Perhaps even these hardened men and the
more than hardened woman whose presence was in itself a blight,
recognized heroism when they saw it; for when the lawyer, with a certain
obvious reluctance, laid his hand on the bolts of the door with the
remark: "This is not my work, you know; I am but following out
instructions very minutely given me," the smothered growls and grunts
which rose in reply lacked the venom which had been infused into all
their previous comments.
"I think our friends out there are far enough withdrawn, by this time,
for us to hazard the opening of the door," the lawyer now remarked.
"Madam, I hope you will speedily find your way to some comfortable
shelter."
Then the door opened, and after a moment, closed again in a silence
which at least was respectful. Yet I warrant there was not a soul
remaining who had not already figured in his mind to what extent his own
fortune had been increased by the failure of one of their number to
inherit.
As for me, my whole interest in the affair was at an end, and I was only
anxious to find my way to where this desolate woman faced the mist with
her unfed baby in her arms.
III
A LIFE DRAMA
But to reach this wanderer, it was first necessary for me to escape from
the house. This proved simple enough. The up-stairs room toward which I
rushed had a window overlooking one of the many lean-tos already
mentioned. This window was fastened, but I had no difficulty in
unlocking it or in finding my way to the ground from the top of the
lean-to. But once again on terra-firma, I discovered that the mist was
now so thick that it had all the effect of a fog at sea. It was icy cold
as well, and clung about me so that I presently began to shudder most
violently, and, strong man though I was, wish myself back in the little
attic bedroom from which I had climbed in search of one in more unhappy
case than myself.
But these feelings did not cause me to return. If I found the night
cold, she must find it bitter. If desolation oppressed my naturally
hopeful spirit, must it not be more overwhelming yet to one whose
memories were sad and whose future was doubtful? And the child! What
infant could live in an air like this! Edging away from the house, I
called out her name, but no answer came back. The persons whom we had
heard flitting in restless longing about the house a few moments before
had left in rage and she, possibly, with them. Yet I could not imagine
her joining herself to people of their stamp. There had been a
solitariness in her aspect which seemed to forbid any such
companionship. Whatever her story, at least she had nothing in common
with the two ill-favored persons whose faces I had seen looking in at
the casement. No; I should find her alone, but where? Certainly the ring
of mist, surrounding me at that moment, offered me little prospect of
finding her anywhere, either easily or soon.
Again I raised my voice, and again I failed to meet with response.
Then, fearing to leave the house lest I should be quite lost amid the
fences and brush lying between it and the road, I began to feel my way
along the walls, calling softly now, instead of loudly, so anxious was I
not to miss any chance of carrying comfort, if not succor, to the woman
I was seeking. But the night gave back no sound, and when I came to the
open door of a shed, I welcomed the refuge it offered and stepped in. I
was, of course, confronted by darkness,--a different darkness from that
without, blanket-like and impenetrable. But when after a moment of
intense listening I heard a soft sound as of weariful breathing, I was
seized anew by hope, and, feeling in my pocket for my match-box, I made
a light and looked around.
My intuitions had not deceived me; she was there. Sitting on the floor
with her cheek pressed against the wall, she revealed to my eager
scrutiny only the outlines of her pure, pale profile; but in those
outlines and on those pure, pale features, I saw such an abandonment of
hope, mingled with such quiet endurance, that my whole soul melted
before it, and it was with difficulty I managed to say:
"Pardon! I do not wish to intrude; but I am shut out of the house also;
and the night is raw and cold. Can I do nothing for your comfort or
for--for the child's?"
She turned toward me and I saw a tremulous gleam of pleasure disturb the
somber stillness of her face; then the match went out in my hand, and we
were again in complete darkness. But the little wail, which at the same
instant rose from between her arms, filled up the pause, as her sweet
"Hush!" filled my heart.
"I am used to the cold," came in another moment from the place where she
crouched. "It is the child--she is hungry; and I--I walked
here--feeling, hoping that, as my father's heir, I might partake in some
slight measure of Uncle Anthony's money. Though my father cast me out
before he died, and I have neither home nor money, I do not complain. I
forfeited all when--" another wail, another gentle "hush!"--then
silence.
I lit another match. "Look in my face!" I prayed. "I am a stranger, and
you would be showing only proper prudence not to trust me. But I
overheard your words when you withdrew from the room where your fortune
lay; and I honor you, madam. If food can be got for your little one, I
will get it."
I caught sight of the convulsive clasp with which she drew to her breast
the tiny bundle she held, then darkness fell again.
"A little bread," she entreated; "a little milk--ah, baby, baby, hush!"
"But where can I get it?" I cried. "They are at table inside. I hear
them shouting over their good cheer. But perhaps there are neighbors
near by; do you know?"
"There are no neighbors," she replied. "What is got must be got here. I
know a way to the kitchen; I used to visit Uncle Anthony when a little
child; if you have the courage--"
I laughed. This token of confidence seemed to reassure her. I heard her
move; possibly she stood up.
"In the further corner of this shed," said she, "there used to be a
trap, connecting this floor with an underground passage-way. A ladder
stood against the trap, and the small cellar at the foot communicated by
means of an iron-bound door with the large one under the house. Eighteen
years ago the wood of that door was old; now it should be rotten. If you
have the strength--"
"I will make the effort and see," said I. "But when I am in the cellar,
what then?"
"Follow the wall to the right; you will come to a stone staircase. As
this staircase has no railing, be careful in ascending it. At the top
you will find a door; it leads into a pantry adjoining the kitchen. Some
one will be in that pantry. Some one will give you a bite for the child;
and when she is quieted and the sun has risen, I will go away. It is my
duty to do so. My uncle was always upright, if cold. He was perfectly
justified in exacting rectitude in his heirs."
I might have rejoined by asking if she detected rectitude in the faces
of the greedy throng she had left behind her with the guardian of this
estate; but I did not. I was too intent upon following out her
directions. Lighting another match, I sought the trap. Alas! it was
burdened with a pile of sticks and rubbish which looked as if they had
lain there for years. As these had to be removed in total darkness, it
took me some time. But once this debris had been scattered and thrown
aside, I had no difficulty in finding the trap and, as the ladder was
still there, I was soon on the cellar-bottom. When, by the reassuring
shout I gave, she knew that I had advanced thus far, she spoke, and her
voice had a soft and thrilling sound.
"Do not forget your own needs," she said. "We two are not so hungry that
we can not wait for you to take a mouthful. I will sing to the baby.
Good-by."
These ten minutes we had spent together had made us friends. The warmth,
the strength which this discovery brought, gave to my arm a force that
made that old oak door go down before me in three vigorous pushes.
Had the eight fortunate ones above not been indulging in a noisy
celebration of their good luck, they must have heard the clatter of this
door when it fell. But good eating, good drink, and the prospect of an
immediate fortune far beyond their wildest dreams, made all ears deaf;
and no pause occurred in the shouts of laughter and the hum of
good-fellowship which sifted down between the beams supporting the house
above my head. Consequently little or no courage was required for the
completion of my adventure; and before long I came upon the staircase
and the door leading from its top into the pantry. The next minute I was
in front of that door.
But here a surprise awaited me. The noise which had hitherto been loud
now became deafening, and I realized that, contrary to Eunice
Westonhaugh's expectation, the supper had been spread in the kitchen and
that I was likely to run amuck of the whole despicable crowd in any
effort I might make to get a bite for the famished baby.
I therefore naturally hesitated to push open the door, fearing to draw
attention to myself; and when I did succeed in lifting the latch and
making a small crack, I was so astonished by the sudden lull in the
general babble, that I drew hastily back and was for descending the
stairs in sudden retreat.
But I was prevented from carrying out this cowardly impulse, by catching
the sound of the lawyer's voice, addressing the assembled guests.
"You have eaten and you have drunk," he was saying; "you are therefore
ready for the final toast. Brothers, nephews--heirs all of Anthony
Westonhaugh, I rise to propose the name of your generous benefactor,
who, if spirits walk this earth, must certainly be with us to-night."
A grumble from more than one throat and an uneasy hitch from such
shoulders as I could see through my narrow vantage-hole testified to the
rather doubtful pleasure with which this suggestion was received. But
the lawyer's tones lost none of their animation as he went on to say:
"The bottle, from which your glasses are to be replenished for this
final draft, he has himself provided. So anxious was he that it should
be of the very best and altogether worthy of the occasion it is to
celebrate, that he gave into my charge, almost with his dying breath,
this key, telling me that it would unlock a cupboard here in which he
had placed a bottle of wine of the very rarest vintage. This is the key,
and yonder, if I do not mistake, is the cupboard."
They had already quaffed a dozen toasts. Perhaps this was why they
accepted this proposition in a sort of panting silence, which remained
unbroken while the lawyer crossed the floor, unlocked the cupboard and
brought out before them a bottle which he held up before their eyes with
a simulated glee almost saturnine.
"Isn't that a bottle to make your eyes dance? The very cobwebs on it are
eloquent. And see! look at this label. Tokay, friends, real Tokay! How
many of you ever had the opportunity of drinking real Tokay before?"