We stood before a doorway of dark wood, heavy but not pretentious, and
showing some carving in the subdued light thrown by a lamp enclosed in
glass and set into the heavy jamb on the left.
The building seemed to be one-storied, and of stone. It stretched away
on either side of the door into the night. I could not make even a
guess as to its dimensions, but it loomed large in my imagination.
“We are home,” Craighead said, throwing back the heavy oak door and
holding it apparently with left arm outstretched and with head slightly
bowed; a mute invitation to me to precede him across the portal of
Craighead Hall.
I stepped into what was evidently an upper reception hall, as directly
in front of me was the top tread of a broad stairway. My host said in
a quiet tone, “I have brought you in the nearest way,” closed the door
and preceded me down the stair.
I noted two things--the house was silent, and he did not lock the door.
We descended a broad stairway with wide oak bannisters on either side,
the lower steps flaring out to at least a dozen feet to the left of the
center of a great audience hall. In front was a huge doorway, evidently
the main entrance to the house. Small, diamond-shaped, leaded glass
windows lined either side and the top of the massive two-leaved door;
plain square cut-glass lighted lamps, presenting the appearance of
vases, cast their glow to meet that of similar lamps on the staircase.
Stretching away to the right was a table, its polished surface
glistening as though alive, as far as my vision could penetrate in the
subdued light thrown by a row of lamps set into the walls. Heavy black
oak paneling went from polished floor to beamed ceiling, and apparently
some fifteen to twenty feet away the dying embers of a wood fire in a
mass of carving sent up little spurts of flame, throwing shadows back
of beams that looked colossal. A medieval hall, lifted bodily from some
old-world castle, an Elsinore, some Baron’s lair, where lolled and
drank and quarreled, brutal but brave, a race of desperate men, happily
long extinct.
Rooted to the spot, I looked in amazement down the length of the
polished table and the illusion was complete. Instantly there flashed
over me the thought that I should witness the stately procession of
flunkies in crimson and yellow preceding the Baron and his lady, or
hear the measured tramp, tramp of the halberdiers as they filed in and
took their places followed by the Lord of the Castle and his roistering
friends.
I felt Craighead’s fingers on my shoulder, heard his voice say as from
a distance, so absorbed was I in these strange surroundings, “Pardon me
a moment, will you step into the library? I must speak to my sister,”
and he ran lightly up the stairs, leaving me bewildered.
No word of any sister or other woman in this strange establishment
had come to me or crossed my mind. I had turned toward the stair when
addressed, and as Craighead disappeared, my brain sharply pictured my
host as at best peculiar, perhaps more so than that word would express.
The library--where was it?
As though in reply to my mental query came a quiet, “The library, sir,”
and I turned to find a man standing near me, who, certainly to my
thinking, had arisen from nowhere, a man, indicating an open door at
some distance to the right, as I faced the stairway.
The man preceded me to the door, stood and bowed me through. He was
dressed quietly in dark colored tweeds.
Some friend of my host who would join me, I speculated, and was
surprised to hear the door close without a word from him and to find
myself alone in a large room, paneled like the hall in black oak. Two
French windows at one end, a fireplace half-way down the wall opposite
where I entered, a large screen at the farther end, a table or two,
heavy chairs all about, a lounge and books, books from floor to ceiling
and from end to end almost. Two large hunting scenes in oil covered a
portion of one wall.
No touch of woman’s softness was here. The lights, shaded to cast their
full strength at certain points, served but to accentuate the severity
of the room. It dawned on me, as I entered from the orchard, that this
old-world building must sit on the side of a hill, that here, miles and
miles from a railroad or access to any port--right here--was mystery,
tragedy perhaps. A chill ran through me. One could fairly hear the
silence of this mammoth house.
I crossed to the window--its frame extended to the floor--drew aside
a curtain, and was peering out onto a wide veranda. I started as
though struck a blow as I heard my host say: “My sister presents her
compliments and begs to be excused, Mr.----”
“Montrose,” I replied, noting in my host an abstraction, an air of
dejection, saddening and depressing beyond description. “Gordon
Montrose; Scotch, as Scottish as your name, Craighead, would lead me
to believe you, though your lineaments are not perhaps as Scotch as
mine,” and to give the man opportunity to find himself, I rambled on,
“I have all the romantic leaning of the Scot and let me add, all his
curiosity, and this house, this palace hidden away in the wilds of
Canada, certainly arouses my entire inheritance in that direction. I am
delighted to have the privilege of being your guest for the night.”
“I am glad indeed to have you here,” Craighead interposed before I
could add that the strange surroundings into which my search for
Hogarth had brought me added greatly to my desire for the story
connecting the life of this young man with that of the sleeper just
outside the little cemetery whose marble marking read “John Blank.”
Craighead continued, “This certainly is a unique old place when one
looks at the surroundings. My father was, shall we say, eccentric. He
loved his home in Scotland and transplanted to this place of exile as
much of the inside of his boyhood home as was possible, but the light
of day will dispel many of your illusions. In the meantime, let us see
what the chef has provided for us. You must be famished after such an
unaccustomed amount of exercise,” adding, “City chaps, as I well know
from experience, seldom get the exercise required by natural laws.”
As we turned toward a table evidently hidden by a screen which had
been silently spirited away, a door at the end of the room opened, as
though in answer to the inquiry. A well-dressed man with nothing of the
butler air, entered and lowering his eyes to the floor said, “Served,
sir.”
The dinner was everything to be desired. Mutton broth with barley,
fish, roast partridge, everything well-cooked and served from a table
behind the large screen by the man who had opened the library door.
Seated across the table from my host I could not avoid noting as he
directed the conversation to my work and away from himself that he was
preoccupied, uneasy, I thought. He looked old and care-worn for a man
evidently not much past thirty. My mind was not on our conversation,
nor was his. I wished to ply him with questions, but there was a
something in his face which forbade a crudity.
Who were these silent serving men? Could they by any possibility be
manumitted criminals? No, their mien gave the lie to any such thought,
nor did they carry the subservient air of house servants.
By what magic did our food find a resting place behind the screen at
the end of the room? I mentally placed the kitchen at least eighty feet
away on what I calculated was the west end of the building, beyond the
great hall. The house must back into the solid hill on the north.
What an eery place! What tragedy in the life of man or woman,
especially one possessing ample means; for the entire inside finish
of the house including furnishings and books by the thousand must
have come across the Atlantic to this far-off spot, and this called
for heavy expenditure of money! What state of mind could have induced
isolation in this God-forsaken spot in the wilderness?
All these thoughts crowded through my mind as we talked of affairs in
the outside world, and back of it all was the desire for Craighead’s
story.
My ruminations were brought to a sudden stop. I found myself and my
host standing. A panel in the apparently solid west wall of the room
was open and framed an apparition, a picture in white, or was it a
wonderfully beautiful girl just budding into young womanhood?
I could not believe the picture animate until she spoke. The voice
had that carrying quality, that slight terminative inflection and
refinement characteristic of the cultured Englishwoman.
Her eyes rested for a second on my face, then she turned to Craighead,
her lips parted and I heard her say, “Pardon me, Hughie, I did not know
that you had returned.”
My host, showing embarrassment, took her hand, leading her to the
table, saying, “Mr. Montrose, my sister, Elaine.”
Inwardly I cursed my faltering tongue as it stammered something
unintelligible. I was no callow youth, had met many beautiful
women without embarrassment, but while heart and head made graceful
acknowledgment of the honor, yes, even such response as would a Sir
Galahad to the fair chatelaine of the castle in which he found himself
a guest, my tongue was tied.
I heard her, as from a great distance, say, “I trust you will be happy
here, sir,” as she looked at me with interested sympathy, showing
through dark sad eyes. Then turning to her brother she said, “I shall
not intrude. I will have my dinner served upstairs.”
Quickly as I recognized the mistake, Craighead forestalled me in
thought. “Elaine, what a blunderer I am. Mr. Montrose is my friend,
not one of our usual guests. He is engaged as we are, in helping
unfortunates. Won’t you join us? We shall both be delighted to have
our coffee and liqueur extended indefinitely for the pleasure of your
company.”
Gracefully the young lady came to me, offering her hand, and, as I
bent over it, she said, “Mr. Montrose, may I also have the privilege
of calling you friend? Hugh and I are so close, his friend is my
friend.” And when she added to the little compliment a smile so
innocent and winning, I felt that I had never before seen so beautiful
a picture. She stood so slim and straight, delicate and refined, yes,
over-refined, I thought, and yet there was lacking nothing in youthful
vigor and confidence; as much a contradiction as her brother.
I looked into her large questioning brown eyes as I assured her, in
a reply registering not a little embarrassment, that I was honored,
was fortunate, and sincerely trusted that in some way I should be
brought to the test that I might demonstrate my appreciation of the
honor. Rather an unusual, but sincere, declaration for me, a confirmed
bachelor of almost thirty.
As I seated her between Mr. Craighead and myself, I looked down on a
wonderful mass of molten gold crowning a well-shaped head. As we talked
seriously, or as the conversation touched on events in my country,
stirring or portentous, the pupils of her eyes dilated, changing from
brown to black, and the white hand in which the veins showed faintly,
would noticeably tremble. She seemed so deadly in earnest and so
interested in world affairs that one forgot her youth and gave to her
expressed opinion a weight usually reserved for that of the more mature.
Never did we touch on matters intimate to the Craighead private life. I
found the young lady adroit in drawing me out, making as much a study
of me as I of her, apparently. I learned that she and her brother had
spent many years abroad, had never separated, and that there was a
sister then abroad, also.
The brother seemed uneasy, his eyes seldom left his sister’s face, and
I wondered if he might not entertain a fear that the conversation would
in some way revert to the request “to be excused” which she certainly
had never made. I may not say that the thought left me wholly free of
embarrassment. I was sorely puzzled, amazed at meeting here in such
strange surroundings a lady, a mere girl, but with all the poise of the
young woman of society, capable of discussing interestingly questions
far beyond the sphere of the little Canadian principality which it
seemed they seldom left.
We were discussing the translation into Greek and Coptic of the
writings of Moses, about 300 B. C. at the court of Ptolemy Philadelphus
in Alexandria, Egypt. The brother who, I learned, held a Master’s
degree from Edinburgh University, advanced the theory that Euclid,
who was a dweller at Ptolemy’s court, had much to do with the cryptic
figures in the Pentateuch; that the mystic numbers were his, and that
the translation from the original by 72 Levites, each in a separate
cell, in 72 days, into five books, Genesis to Deuteronomy, meant that
the entire history of man, from the beginning, including all laws
necessary for his guidance during the circle of life, was represented
by Euclid in this way: the five books representing man’s senses, the
circle of life 360 degrees formed by five times seventy-two.
“A trick of Mr. Euclid’s,” Hugh was continuing, and I was thinking,
“Here is a man who treats Holy Writ rather lightly,” and wondered
to what subdivision of the Protestant church the brother and sister
claimed affiliation, for I knew that the little edifice where I had met
Craighead was not Catholic.
I had been studying the brother’s face as he talked, when I was
startled at seeing the sister suddenly straighten back in her chair,
extend her right arm over the table with the little finger only resting
thereon, the thumb and forefinger placed as though holding a pen or
pencil.
The evident rigidity of the arm and hand flashed over my mind’s eye. I
looked into her face. To what could be attributed the terrible change
that had taken place? A moment before a beautiful, vivacious girl,
now a gray-faced woman. Beads of dew covered an ashen forehead. Her
eyes looked through and past me. It seemed as though they pierced even
the wall in the shadows at the far end of the room. She seemed to be
listening.
Involuntarily I placed my hand on hers. It was icy cold and moist.
Speechless I arose, but before I could open my lips to tender an offer
of aid, her brother who had not taken his gaze from his sister’s face
nor moved, said in a low tone, “Please be seated. Do not touch her. My
sister is subject to these seizures. It will pass in a little while.”
Then she spoke, not to either of us, but as though addressing somebody
present who had spoken to her.
“Yes, yes, I’ll go. Yes, all right dear, though you are mistaken. He is
Hugh’s friend and mine,” the last two words were hesitatingly uttered,
as she quietly arose, turned and walked toward the west wall apparently
unaware of the presence of either her brother or myself.
Hugh preceded her and opened the panel through means, which my excited
condition prevented my observing, and my hostess, my brilliant young
chatelaine, passed from sight through the wall, without uttering a
word, as though walking in a sleep.
Hugh stood in the opening looking up.
[Illustration]