The sun was pretty well down over the west when I found Elaine in the
great hall. I had slept through the day. She had ordered dinner in the
library, and was awaiting me. “How did you know I should be ready at
this time?” I asked.
“Oh,” she replied, “The walls of this house have ears. You needed a
good sleep after last night. I feel greatly indebted to you. Our boy is
doing splendidly.”
What hope for a man who wishes to say something when a woman wills that
he must not? Here was the woman, the lady hostess, not the approachable
girl of the canoe voyage, and I learned a lesson in restraint, found
myself drawn away from any encroachment on the personal; intensely
interested in a rare quality of mind, beautifully, absorbingly
unfolded. Yes, the evening was one of agony and I retired uncertain
of myself, baffled, convinced that no thought of me other than as the
brother’s friend and her guest during his absence had ever occurred to
her.
Next day we were seated on opposite sides of a luncheon table on
the upper veranda. The sun was bright. I was about to pull down the
Venetian curtain, when Hugh, a Chinaman at his heels, bounded up the
east stairway. After greeting his sister with an embrace and me with a
handshake, Hugh said,
“This is Fong Wing, who will hereafter make his home with us. He was
legally free yesterday morning, but I gave him time to buy an outfit;
Elaine, he is yours, the best lady’s maid in Canada. The warden’s
family wished him to stay; though he has nominally been in prison for
five years, during most of the time he has served as a maid in the
family of the warden. They became much attached to Fong.”
Turning to the Chinaman, Hugh said, “Fong, this is your new mistress,
Miss Elaine. Guard her as you would your life, and obey her; and this
is my friend, Mr. Montrose.”
What is the age of a Chinaman after he has seen forty or fifty years?
The queue was missing; shorn clean, his bullet head sported a million
bristles sticking straight out. His round satin cap was in his hand. He
bowed to me, looked with lamblike eyes into the face of Elaine, knelt,
took her right hand and placing it on his bristly pate, said,
“Missie catch one good China boy; good cook; good hair dresser, make
good music,” arose and held a chair that Elaine might resume her seat
at the table.
Hugh took Fong along presumably to show him his quarters and shortly
after joined us, laughingly saying, “At last, sister, we have one
cheerful, talkative guest in this house of silent men. Fong is a
talker. I would stake my life on his faithfulness. His parting with the
warden’s three young lady daughters was comically pathetic.”
“What was his crime?”
“He was given twenty years for using a hatchet promiscuously on
a member of a rival tong and glad to get out. Regards me as his
benefactor and feels that for fifteen years I shall own him, body and
soul.”
Recital of the attempt of Haig to escape and details of the rescue
seemed to sober Hugh who was in high spirits. I hoped he would ask
Elaine how she knew that the runaway was at the Blank place, but when
she mentioned that we had gone there at her request, Hugh’s eyes only
took on a saddened expression as he turned them toward those of his
sister.
“Montrose, I shall tell you Haig’s story some day,” Hugh said.
Elaine, who had been turning the leaves of a fashion magazine which
Hugh had brought, started up, saying, “I must see what they’re going to
wear this winter. Where did you put Fong?”
“In the green room, but you need not leave us. No secrets between Mr.
Montrose and me that you may not hear,” Hugh replied.
Her answer was a pat on his hand, and surprise of surprises, a glance
at me more frank and friendly than she had vouchsafed during Hugh’s
absence.
We were smoking and looking out over the river, calm and beautiful and
for a time both were silent, then Hugh said, “I am very glad that you
saved Haig, Montrose. Had he gotten to his old home, he would have
spoiled my plans. I have a fine place for him as soon as he regains
his poise. The boy was innocent of any crime, the greatest piece of
injustice and cruelty that I ever came across in the many cases which I
have investigated.
“You must know that in the best-managed of villages, vice resorts
cannot be kept out. Valleyford is a clean village, but it once harbored
one such place, kept by a woman who supported an innocent daughter at a
Toronto school through the use of her home by girls who plied a vicious
trade, alluring young men of the village, and many older men, I am
afraid, for gain.
“During the summer holiday season, Haig, who was only seventeen, was
celebrating with four older boys from college. They all took several
drinks and finally repaired to this house on the suggestion of one of
the boys that they go to see some girls. Unfortunately, the daughter
had unexpectedly reached home that evening and met three nice
appearing girl boarders and received the five boy callers, innocent of
the evil calling of her companions, the mother being at the grocer’s.
The obvious happened; the daughter was abused, warrants for the five
were issued next day at the mother’s instance.
“James Haig, on hearing of the warrant, walked into the sheriff’s
office; his brother, nineteen, resisted arrest in Manitoba and was
killed; another of the boys after wounding a policeman in Sarnia was
shot and died before the other three were placed on trial. The trio was
convicted and sentenced to twenty years in the penitentiary though the
four girls, and all three boys testified that Jimmie Haig merely met
the girls, had been so desperately ill that he lay out on the porch
until supported home by his brother. This was his first experience with
liquor.”
Hugh paused, added in an aside, “What a terrible curse is liquor. It
has filled penitentiaries. I wish it could be abolished,” then resumed:
“The crime is a serious one and is severely punished in Canada, but
there were mitigating circumstances and I shall never rest until
I have the other two boys under this roof. The stern old Scot who
passed sentence on these youths seemed to take a vicious delight in
disregarding a recommendation to mercy for James Haig, made by the
equally stern jury of farmers. The poor boy was in hell for five years
as a punishment for taking a drink. None of the boys was vicious; they
were only foolish.
“I saw the mother of these two lost sons die of grief, followed soon
after by the proud father whose spirit was broken by the disgrace and
when six months ago after nearly three years’ effort, I brought Haig
across the river here, a frail, broken young man, parents dead, home
and inheritance lost, no spirit, I felt no elation; felt that there was
scant justice in the world. This case as no other made me appreciate
that truly ‘man’s inhumanity to man makes countless millions mourn.’
“Think of this boy facing his schoolmates; while absolutely innocent
of any crime he carries the prison stigma; people not fit to tie his
shoe-laces will shun him as a jailbird. ‘Oh justice, how many crimes
are committed in thy name!’”
Hugh had arisen and walked the veranda in long strides; pity mingled
with passion seemed to almost overpower him. I hastened to suggest that
we go and cheer up the boy, adding, “and tonight I wish to discuss with
you another subject.”
“Gordon,” Hugh said, and I was pleased at the use of my Christian name,
“I have got to tell you the whole story. Strange that we humans should
find relief in sharing with others our worries,” and he put his arm
over my shoulder as we went into the house.
“Thank you, Hugh,” I replied, feeling my duplicity. I wished to discuss
Elaine, not her strange malady. I had decided that I had found the only
woman in the world beside whom I would be satisfied to walk through
life and whatever her trouble might be, I wanted her. Forgotten her
seizure, the fact that I knew so little of her, everything save that I
longed to have the privilege of caring for her.
A man whom I had noticed working about the boathouse intercepted us as
we were in the upper hall, asking Hugh’s permission for the “guests”
to try a night at spearing fish. Hugh readily assented and suggested
that possibly I might like to take a hand in the sport, explaining
that a flat-bottomed boat would be used; a “jack,” a sort of cradle
fixed about four feet high from the boat’s bow, filled with pine knots,
furnished the light, the spearmen stood forward and could easily see
the fish through six feet of water.
We reached Haig’s room and I marvelled at the man Craighead as he took
the boy’s hand, chiding him as gently as though he were his son, though
the difference in years as between the two was not great. I was taken
into the conversation and gleaned much of interest regarding Hugh’s
work.
Later in the men’s dining room, I listened after introduction to at
least twenty men ranging in age from possibly twenty-five to sixty, to
Hugh’s interesting talk to these “guests.” Inquiry as to work, how
the fall plowing, the land clearing, road building, ditch digging and
dairying were progressing. I thought what a splendid thing this salving
of human souls was, what a wonderful thing, if all ex-convicts on
regaining freedom could be taken to a retreat like this and kept until
the prison pallor was replaced by sunburn, until the broken will was
re-established and at least a measure of self-respect attained.
No! Society had not yet awakened to the advantages of such
humanitarianism. It remained for an individual fortunately provided
with the means as well as the will to furnish a haven for these social
outcasts who otherwise with poisoned minds and shrunken souls would
slink back to the old haunts, re-enact their crime, or failing in
vicious courage, live as best they could, the prey of every minion of
the guardians of society; fortunate if permitted to remain at large,
slinking through the world carrying always on face or in walk, the mark
of Cain.
We had watched the boat’s lights as the men went joyously out into the
quiet river. I found that they talked and jested; the older “guests”
seemingly endeavoring to draw out the later recruits in conversation.
I preferred to try my luck at the sport later on.
Elaine, with a peculiar look at her brother, absent-minded, it
appeared, had excused herself while Hugh and I were smoking over our
coffee, before walking down to the landing. A slight chill was in the
air.
Ten o’clock found us in the library. Lying back on the pillows of a
couch in the shadowy room, with hands clasped back of his head, Hugh
said reminiscently.
“McFarlane was a splendid fellow, seemed old to me at the time, though
not more than thirty; on the train, the ship, he looked after our
comfort; kept both Alix and myself much interested through his own
curiosity and peculiar remarks on what he observed.
“When greatly interested or excited, he lapsed into Scotch so broad
that the words were almost unintelligible to me. Craighead affairs were
not discussed, though I remember endeavoring to learn something about
my forebears.
“When we reached Glasgow, it was night. We were bundled into a
four-wheeled carriage, McFarlane giving the driver directions, and I
caught the name Hill Head, a name which I had heard father and John
Hallowed mention occasionally. It rained slightly, and the air seemed
hollow. I can even now distinctly hear the hoofbeats of the horses as
we crossed the wooden bridge over the little Kelvin River separating
the city from Hill Head borough, also McFarlane’s voice saying, ‘We
are a’most there the noo.’
“My nerves were tense as we drove through a gateway with stone pillars
in a high brick wall hiding from our view a great square three-story
building until we were right upon it. The house was dark, except for a
glimmer through diamond-shaped panes of glass, on each side a massive
door opening onto a stone-paved terrace.
“We alighted and waited until McFarlane spoke to our coachman, then
walked across the stone flagging to the door which a dour-faced man was
holding open.
“As we children entered, a sad-eyed, middle-aged woman in nurse’s
attire looked at us sharply and said, ‘Puir bairnies, puir bairnies,
and the mither buried this day week.’
“Alix screamed.
“‘What do you mean?’ McFarlane exclaimed, ‘Dead? Mrs. Craighead dead?’
“And the woman said, ‘Dead, aye, dead puir thing, gang awa’ hame to her
mon when the wee ane came.’
“I lost consciousness; with the exhaustion of hurried travel,
seasickness, the terrible shock of hearing that my sainted mother was
no more; what could be expected?
“When I recovered my senses after a night’s rest, the first thing that
greeted me was Alix, swollen-eyed, holding close to her face a wee
baby in a knitted white something.”
Hugh paused, a look indescribable came into his eyes raised to mine
and he said, “Gordon, this was Elaine, thus named in compliance with
mother’s expressed wish. Elaine, the finest, bravest little comforter
that God ever gave to a brother. I resented at that time the ‘will
of God’ as the nurse put it in saying that mother gave her life that
this little thing might live, but from the day that her little fingers
grasped mine, to this hour, I have had no love for any creature on
earth approaching my love for my little sister.
“McFarlane took entire charge of the little family of three. We had
plenty of money on which to live nicely and travel; always McFarlane,
Alix, baby, and nurse and myself.
“We stayed in the great gloomy house for months, then went to southern
France. I was out of school for a year, sickly. Finally we took a small
residence in Edinburgh where I attended school.
“During all the years until I was twenty-one and had my A. B. degree,
McFarlane evaded my every question as to my family history. He had had
himself appointed our legal guardian and had mapped out my career. I
was to be a lawyer, as we call it.
“I had now reached man’s estate, a citizen of the City of Edinburgh,
studious, a dreamer rather than a doer, my mind always painting
pictures of the old place, reverting frequently to John Blank and I
had always determined that I should come back when Elaine grew up.
“Elaine was a bright youngster, ‘muckle tae bricht,’ old nurse would
say. Though frail in appearance, she had wonderful vitality, was a
good student, her mind as she came into her teens running to the queer
things in literature and history. She studied especially the old Bible,
the edition with the apocrypha, the fourteen books of the Septuagint
and the Vulgate, added to the Hebrew scriptures, the net result being
avoidance of churches and preaching, a most awful thing to McFarlane
and to the local dominie, who assured Alix, the little mother of the
household, that the ‘girlie was headed straicht for Hell.’
“Alix was a splendid woman, with many friends, but McFarlane’s business
interviews with her were so frequent that all suitors were discouraged.
The course of our lives ran smoothly and we were very happy together.
“One day, McFarlane on returning from a two-hour business engagement
with Alix, as he explained it, asked me to accompany him to Glasgow
that I might sign some papers connected with my father’s estate.
“Arrived at the gloomy city, dreading a visit to the ugly house of my
forefathers, I was surprised and pleased when we alighted at a clean,
bright-looking hotel where we shared a room, repairing next morning
to the city hall, where I signed, McFarlane signed, a clerk witnessed,
another official signed and put a great blue seal with ribbons on a
number of papers.
“To another room, where a more important, if possible, personage than
the blue seal handler, critically examined every paper presented; I
remember feeling an anxiety equalling that of examination day when my
coveted A. B. was in the balance and was greatly relieved when the
judge finally affixed his signature to one of the documents, shoved all
of them over to a clerk at a desk on a lower level and told McFarlane,
‘You have been a good steward, sir,’ and looking keenly at me, added,
‘and this is the young man, and no blood of his, who has circumvented
the iron will of old Alexander Craighead; the old man will turn in his
grave tonight.’
“I almost ran from the building, urging McFarlane for an explanation of
the judge’s remarks.
“‘Naething, naething at a’; the auld judge is garrulous,’ was all I
could elicit.
“It never occurred to me to read what I was signing, but when in
our hotel room, McFarlane spread before me what he explained was a
power of attorney, giving him authority to handle my affairs until I
should revoke it; I read the document carefully and knowing nothing of
business, balked at signing. Finally I signed, after McFarlane produced
a document of similar import bearing Alix’s signature and I returned
to Edinburgh alone, the master of a property about which I knew
nothing, nor did I care, as life went along as before.
“I took my post-graduate course, graduated at law, spent six months
traveling in Europe and yet I had no idea as to the extent of my
inheritance. You may think, friend Montrose, that for a man holding
a Master’s degree I was a dullard; the fact is, Alix mothered me,
managed, I thought, all business matters, though it was really
McFarlane’s steady head that did everything needful.
“I was twenty-four; my time was almost wholly devoted to study. We
always called our friend ‘Mr. McFarlane,’ though once I overheard Alix
use his Christian name, saying,
“‘No, James, time enough when we must tell him.’
“I sensed an understanding between my elder sister and McFarlane, even
surmised that they might marry, thought the secret they were keeping
from me was an engagement, as they were much together when McFarlane
was not away in Glasgow.
“Alix did not wish me to return to Canada, but while in Europe, I
planned a visit to Craighead Hall before taking a place in a law office
secured through our faithful friend’s influence.
“Faithful old John Hallowed’s letters and accounts had all through the
years kept us in touch with the old place.
“Strange that Elaine, who had never seen this old mansion should have
developed a greater interest in it than either Alix or I retained. She
knew how many acres had been cleared, all about the enlargement of the
orchard and the wonderful success of the fruit grafting. We talked over
every item in Hallowed’s reports, otherwise I fear my interest might
have flagged.
“John Blank had become almost a myth. One day I was crossing from
Calais to Dover, homeward bound after seeing the world; sitting in
one of the uncomfortable chairs on deck I found myself looking at the
profile of an old lady--the young ones failed to interest me even then.
“Something in the half face before me carried me back to a deft blue
room and the block house down the back channel and the woman who
dressed me, whom John Blank called Margie. Ridiculous, I thought. This
plainly but handsomely gowned lady could not be the roughly dressed
woman of the long ago. I walked past her and inspection only tended to
confirm my first thought.
“My interest was such that it attracted her attention and fearing that
my actions would justly lay me under a charge of rudeness, at least, I
stepped up to her, bowed and said, ‘Madam, pardon me, are you not Mrs.
Blank from Canada?’
“She paled, appeared annoyed, rather seemed startled, then after
hesitating while we looked at each other, eye to eye, said, ‘No, young
man, I am not Mrs. Blank of Canada,’ arose and disappeared in the
boat’s interior.
“I stammered an apology wholly lost on her.
“Going directly to London I was surprised but delighted to meet
McFarlane at the hotel. He said Alix had informed him of the probable
date of my arrival there and as we were talking in the lounge even
before I had been assigned a room, two men whom I would have sworn were
Scotland Yard operatives appeared and he excused himself saying they
were friends with whom he wished to discuss some private matters.
“At dinner that night I mentioned the episode on the boat. When the
name Mrs. Blank was mentioned, McFarlane started, almost leaving his
chair and had me repeat the exact language used by the lady and myself.
I inquired as to his interest. He had calmed, said it merely related to
my oft repeated story of my adventure in the home of the deformed man
and changed the subject, informing me that he had to meet an old friend
and was already a little late.
“I finished dinner alone, thinking that the canny Scot was not very
cordial, considering our extended separation.
“Next day, McFarlane pleaded a bit of urgent business; we were to
have returned together to Edinburgh. He had to stay in London. I could
not wait, must see my sisters, so I traveled alone. What joy in that
reunion! Alix was even more beautiful than when I had left home. Elaine
was a tall, ethereal, big-eyed child.
“I took my place at a high desk and for three years devoted myself
assiduously to running errands, copying bills, then briefs, doing the
grinding, gruelling inside work considered a necessary stepping-stone
to the lower round of the ladder which all solicitors must climb, and
my ambition did not stop there. I wished to become an advocate, a
barrister. I worked hard, devoted much time previously spent with my
sisters to study after work hours.
“One day Alix told me that Elaine was fourteen. I awoke to the
realization that here was a young lady, almost; I thought her
beautiful, as I do now; apparently she was delicate; she never tired of
study, was an omnivorous reader and a good listener, especially when
matters pertaining to Craighead Hall were discussed.
“In this year came the turning point in her life and mine.”
Hugh sighed, looked dreamily at the long shadows thrown on a bookcase
by the leading running perpendicularly with the flame of the one
lamp, which, with one other, served to remove the library from total
darkness, hesitated, then said,
“It seems a sacrilege to open up even to your friendly, yes, I venture
to say more than friendly--sympathetic--ears, even the first chapter in
our book of secrets.
“Elaine is more to me than is existence. Her infirmity, for I cannot
now regard it as other than a terrible affliction, though once, God
forgive me, I looked upon her peculiar ability to penetrate the
impenetrable, to draw aside the veil separating the here from the
hereafter and receive messages from the dead--I looked upon this
unheard of ability as a gift--a sacred thing, sacred,” and Hugh’s voice
trailed off into a low sibilance.
The light over the fireplace sputtered and went out. Everything was in
shadow, a mist seemed to gather about Hugh’s reclining form--or was it
the change wrought through lessening of the light? I, Gordon Montrose,
saw, or thought I saw, a man of fifty or more years of age bending over
Hugh. I missed his features, they were indistinct.
In my excitement I started to my feet, calling, “Hugh! Hugh!” and then
only we two men, I standing all a-tremble, Hugh calm, but sitting up,
were in the room.
“Let us retire, Gordon,” Hugh said. “I cannot go on tonight.”
Excitedly I asked, “Did you see the man bending over you?”
“No, I seldom see him,” Hugh replied, smiling wanly.
“Then,” I answered, “am I taking on the spirit of this haunted old
place? Perhaps I am only like many good Scots, seeing my weird,” and I
think I laughed lowly, half-heartedly, the sound an apology, for Hugh
was silent and his manner embarrassed, while it kept me from further
comment or inquiry.
Hugh gave no sign, but took the one remaining lamp from its setting,
preceded me upstairs, opened my bedroom door, and said, “Good
night--and good morning,” and still carrying the lamp, my room being
lighted, walked down the corridor out of sight.
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