THE HAUNTED FARM
"'Where every prospect pleases,'" said Diana, "'and only man is vile.'"
They had crossed the field and come up to the height of the road which
commanded an extensive view of the bay and other islands. They stood
still for a minute.
"Are you at all interested in metaphysics, Miss Diana?" asked her
companion.
"I think I am. I am interested in everything."
"I don't like the latter half of that quotation," said Mrs. Lowell. "It
stands to reason that God couldn't create anything vile."
"No, of course," agreed the girl. "It is man who makes himself vile."
"God's man couldn't do that either," returned Mrs. Lowell. "There is no
potentiality in him for vileness."
"Then," said Diana, "how do you explain Mr. Gayne and his like?"
"He is a man whose real selfhood is buried under a mass of selfishness
and cruelty, the beliefs of error and mortality. God doesn't even know
what the poor creature believes, and all his mistakes and blundering
will have to be blotted out finally by suffering, unless he should learn
to turn to the Love that is always available; for God can't know
anything unlike Himself."
"Your ideas are quite new to me," said the girl. "I am an Episcopalian."
Mrs. Lowell smiled. She understood this final tone.
"Then you are satisfied, I see."
"So far as religion goes, yes."
"Religion goes all the way, my dear girl."
They turned to the right and continued their walk.
"The islanders call this direction 'up-along,' Mr. Blake told me," said
Diana. "If we had turned south we should have gone 'down-along.' Isn't
that quaint? Mr. Barrison's grandmother lives down-along. He took me to
see her the other day, the sweetest old lady."
"That refreshing young man hails from here, then?"
"Yes. He is the Viking type, is he not? I can picture him in the prow of
one of those strange Norse ships. Physically he seems an anachronism."
Mrs. Lowell smiled. "Physically, perhaps, but colloquially he is
certainly an up-to-the-minute American."
"He is an eminent singer and has shown himself a hero in arriving at
that point."
"A hero, really?"
"Yes, but most unconsciously so."
"He is certainly as unaffected and straightforward as a child," said
Mrs. Lowell. "I hope he will sing for us."
"I have heard him once," said Diana. "It was merely a nonsense song,
because he had only an heirloom of a piano--a harp he called it, and I
imagine harpsichords did sound similar to that. Now, we are on a high
point of the island, Mrs. Lowell."
They paused again and, looking off, saw a vast ocean in all directions,
foam breaking on its ledges. Mrs. Lowell drew a long breath of delight.
"'Every prospect pleases,'" she said.
"Does it not seem a pity," returned Diana, "that it is our duty to hunt
for a vile, imitation man?"
Mrs. Lowell laughed. "He is scarcely even an imitation," she replied.
"But come," she sighed, "let us go after him. I wonder what gave this
farm its reputation." They walked on.
"I'll ask Mr. Blake," began Diana. "Oh, here he comes now."
The carpenter was returning down the island preparing to take up his
freight duties on the wharf. Diana accosted him and introduced him to
Mrs. Lowell.
The latter shook hands with Matt, her radiant smile beaming, "I am glad
to meet you, Mr. Blake," she said. "You seem to be Miss Wilbur's oracle.
She is always quoting you, and I am rather curious about this farm up
here. Why do they call it haunted?"
"Oh," said Blake, "let any place be left empty a few years, and windows
get loose, and blinds bang, and it's called haunted."
"I suppose that is often true," said Mrs. Lowell. "It is an abandoned
farm, then?"
"Yes, for many years."
"I don't know why I have never inspected it," said Diana, "when who
knows but it is the very homestead for me?"
Matt Blake shook his head and smiled. "The old house is crumbling away.
There is a part of it that'll keep the rain off, and there Mr. Gayne
keeps his stuff."
"Stuff?" echoed Mrs. Lowell interrogatively.
"Brushes and paints and pencils and all his outfit," said Blake.
"Oh, oh, yes," replied the lady. "You know in the West a squatter claims
complete rights to the land he has settled on. I hope Mr. Gayne hasn't
established an ownership up there that will make us seem like intruders.
We thought we would like to see this exciting place."
"'Tain't exciting," said Matt Blake with another shake of the head.
"It's asleep and snoring, the Dexter farm is."
"Who does own the place?" asked Diana with interest.
"It would take a pretty smart lawyer to find that out," was the reply.
"It's been in litigation longer than it's been haunted. There's three
women, I believe, pullin' and haulin' on it."
"I think I might pull and haul, too, if I find I like it," said Diana
with her most dreamy serenity, and Matt Blake laughed.
"Well, you won't," he returned. "'Twould give a body the Injun blues to
live there. How Mr. Gayne can stand it even in the daytime is a mystery
to me; and there don't either o' the claimants really want it. They live
around the State somewheres. I s'pose it would be hard to buy 'em out
at that, because landowners here seem to think the island's goin' to
turn into a regular Newport and that they'll make a fortune if they only
hang on."
"Do not speak such desecrating words!" begged Diana. "Do not hint at
waking the island from its alluring, scented dream."
Matt Blake gave her a patient stare. "Just as you say," he returned. He
had already, as a fruit of many interviews with Diana, given her up as a
conundrum. He tipped his hat and continued on his way.
The two companions pursued theirs, and soon came to where a rather steep
hill led down to the northern beach.
"Now, we do not go down there unless we wish to be 'set across.' That is
what they call it: set across to the next island, our near neighbor."
"We must do it some day," replied Mrs. Lowell, looking at that other
green hill rising out of the sea.
As they stood gazing, they saw a man run across the rocks on its shore
and hail a rowboat which came to meet him.
"It is within rowing distance, isn't it?" said Mrs. Lowell.
"Yes. Little Genevieve told me, one can always find some fisherman who
is willing to act as a ferry." Diana looked about. "I think we shall be
obliged to ask our path to the farm. Let us go to that cottage over
there. It is probably on our way."
They proceeded to a house near the road where cats and chickens seemed
equally numerous, and knocked.
"Will you tell us how to get to the Dexter farm?" asked Diana of the
woman who answered the summons.
The woman pointed. "You go right up that way to Brook Cove and you'll
really be on the farm then if you keep to the right bank. You'll see the
old house near a big willow tree."
They thanked her and moved on.
"What pleasant voices these people have," said Diana. "They have not
been obliged to shout above clanging trolleys and auto horns."
"No; all except Genevieve," returned Mrs. Lowell. "I should guess that
she had been brought up in a boiler factory."
"Yet it is a piercing sweetness," protested Diana.
Mrs. Lowell laughed. "The island can do no wrong, eh?"
"Perhaps I am somewhat partial," admitted the girl.
They sprang along over the rough hillside, and at last came to a deep,
precipitous cleft in its shore. The rocky sides of the hollow were
decked with clumps of clinging shrub and evergreen and the clear water
lapped a miniature beach.
"Why Brook Cove?" asked Mrs. Lowell. "I suppose there must be one about
here. What a mystery the springs are in the midst of all this salt
water. Miss Burridge says everybody has a well."
Diana gave her her most dreamy and seraphic look.
"Angels fold their wings and rest
In this haven of the blest,"
she replied.
"I wish only angels did," sighed Mrs. Lowell. "You remind me of our
errand."
"Don't you think we might spare a few minutes for repose?" asked Diana,
looking wistfully at the bank where the grass grew close and green to
the very edge of the chasm.
"You want to sit down and let your feet hang over," laughed Mrs. Lowell.
"You may as well confess it."
As she spoke, a man appeared on the other side of the cove. He skirted
it and, hurrying, passed them and disappeared in a grove of fir trees.
Mrs. Lowell looked at her companion with large eyes.
"All the Sherlock Holmes in me responds to that man," she said in a low
tone. "This is no time to let our feet hang over. He probably is the
very one who came across in the rowboat and he is on an errand. His
whole manner showed it. We're on the right bank. So we're on the farm
now. Let us go into those woods and see what happens."
"Shall we not be intruding?" said Diana, hesitating.
"I hope so," returned Mrs. Lowell valiantly, and she seized her
companion's hand and drew her toward the grove. There a winding path
greeted them, a lover's lane, between close-growing firs, and together
they sped along the scented aisle. The man was the swifter and, by the
time they emerged from the fir grove, he was approaching a huge willow
tree near the crumbling farmhouse built in a hollow with protecting
mounds of green hills and trees on three sides of it.
They saw Gayne come out of the house and shake hands with the man,
giving him a most effusive welcome, but before he had had opportunity
to do more than this, the host descried the other visitors.
The eyes of both young women being excellent, they were able to observe
the lightning change which took place in the pleased excitement of his
face. The ugly frown that appeared was banished as soon as he could
control himself. He said something to the other man, and the latter
walked on to a rise of ground where he stood to enjoy the view, and
Gayne came to meet the ladies.
"Ah, good-day," he said with as pleasant a manner as he could command.
"Your explorations are leading you far this morning."
"Is this the Dexter farm?" asked Mrs. Lowell.
"The very same," replied Gayne lightly. "I see its creepy reputation has
aroused your curiosity. Too bad there isn't more here to gratify it. It
is a very tame place by daylight, as you see."
"The house is a ruin, they tell me. Doesn't it seem a pity that should
have been allowed? The place is full of possibilities, isn't it?"
"I should say not," returned Gayne, speaking curtly in spite of his best
efforts. "It is about the least attractive part of the island. Far from
the open ocean, no place to bathe, cuddled into a hollow, no views."
Mrs. Lowell met his impatient look.
"I thought the very reason you chose this for a sort of artist camp was
on account of the views," she said pleasantly.
"A headquarters. A headquarters only," said Gayne quickly. "I haven't
locomotor ataxia, you know," he added, laughing; "I can still get
about."
"I should like very much to see that old house," said Mrs. Lowell, her
gaze wandering over to it. "We interrupted your greeting of a friend.
Please don't let us detain you. We will just roam around here a bit."
Nicholas Gayne hesitated for an instant as the young women moved toward
the house, but he followed them.
"There is nothing to see, I assure you, and it's an unsafe place. The
floors are rotting; you are liable to fall through anywhere. I really
feel as if I ought to beg you to confine your curiosity to the outside."
"You speak quite like the owner of the place," said Mrs. Lowell, with an
access of dignity not lost upon Gayne. "We will absolve you if any
accident befalls us."
The man's frown at her reply was so unpleasant that Diana felt some
timidity and took her friend's arm.
"Another time, perhaps," she suggested.
"Why not now, since we are here," returned Mrs. Lowell calmly. "A
haunted house isn't to be seen every day." She smiled. "Do join your
friend, Mr. Gayne. He seems to have found some view well worth looking
at. We shall not stay long."
"Oh, take your time," returned Gayne, seeing that he could not prevent
the intrusion, and altering his manner to that of a host. "Perhaps you
would like to see my artist camp as you call it. I did find one spot
where there is a dry season and my canvases can be safe."
He led the way into the farmhouse. The paper on the little hallway in
oval designs of faded green landscapes had peeled and was hanging from
the wall. They passed into a living-room where tattered and splintered
furniture and a rusty stove met the eye. Back of this was the artist's
den evidently. A table stood in the center, on which reposed a palette,
some brushes, a couple of sketch-books, and a portfolio. Against the
side of the room were a few canvases leaning against the wall, and in
bold relief, supported against the table, stood a pickaxe and a shovel.
Mrs. Lowell regarded Gayne's flushed countenance as he picked up the
tools and pushed them behind a screen.
"Your still-life studies, appropriate to an abandoned farm?" she
laughed.
"They don't look very artistic, I must say," returned Gayne. "Of course,
I'm an amateur of the amateurs," he went on, picking up the portfolio
(he pronounced it _amatoor_), "but a man is all the better for having a
fad, no matter how footless. Since you are here and have caught me
red-handed, you may as well know the worst."
He opened the portfolio and threw down a couple of crayon sketches of
woods, water, and rocks.
"But these are good!" exclaimed Mrs. Lowell, in a tone of such
astonishment that it could scarcely be considered complimentary.
Gayne shrugged his shoulders, as Diana, looking over her friend, added
her approval.
"I make no pretensions," he repeated. "I amuse myself."
His guests lingered a minute over the sketches, then looked about the
forlorn old homestead, but as each step was closely accompanied by
Gayne, they soon took their departure, passing the stranger on his
knoll as they walked toward the sea, over grassy hill and fragrant
spruce-filled hollow. The stranger, as they passed, kept his hands
folded behind him and stared stolidly ahead.
"Were you ever more astonished?" asked Mrs. Lowell in a low tone as if
the balsamic breeze could carry her words back.
"Your suspicion that the man is sailing under false colors seems to be
incorrect," replied Diana.
"He's a rascal!" declared Mrs. Lowell with conviction.
"Artists often are, I believe," returned Diana.
"I wish with all my heart I could know what he and his visitor will talk
about during the next half-hour, and what that pick and shovel meant.
Why was he so sorry to see us?" Mrs. Lowell's brows drew together in
perplexity.
"Perhaps they are going to search for smugglers' treasures, or pirate
gold," suggested Diana.
Her companion smiled. "Perhaps so. The man has some reason for promoting
the foolish ghost talk and resenting visitors to his preserves. Of
course, the treasure idea is as foolish as the phantoms, and just as
little likely to fool a modern man in his senses."
Diana shook her head. "It is certainly rather irritating to have him
assume jurisdiction over that ruin which is open and free to all," she
said. "I dislike his personality extremely, but his pencil has a sure
touch and those sketches showed an appreciation of values."
"If he did them," said Mrs. Lowell thoughtfully.
Diana smiled. "You surely are consistent."
Her companion drew a deep breath. "A man who can treat that fragile,
sensitive, lonely boy as he does--his own brother's son at that--can
plan to crush him and sweep him out of his way as he would an
insect--that man is dangerously wicked, and so long as the matter has
come to my notice, I must share in the responsibility."
"He would be a merciless enemy," said Diana warningly.
Mrs. Lowell shook her head. "I shall pray for the wisdom of the serpent
and the harmlessness of the dove," she said.