THE MYSTERY
Was it a long time—weary hours and hours—before Annie Laurie found her
way down the stairs? She never could be sure. A man, whom she did not
at first recognize, was leaving her father’s room. For a second she felt
like rushing at him to tell him that he, a stranger, should not be in
there—in that sacred chamber where her father lay dead and defenseless.
Then she saw that it was Mr. Disbrow, the undertaker, and realized what
his task had been. He had been making her father ready for his last
resting place.
But surely the man was not ashamed of his task! He shot one glance at
Annie Laurie, and then without speaking, hastened down the stairs and out
of the front door. Was he sorry for her and at a loss to say how sorry,
and so had run away? Annie Laurie could understand that. She would have
felt much the same way herself. Yet it was, she decided, an odd way for
a man to feel who was so often in the house of mourning as an undertaker
naturally would be. However, it mattered little. She was glad he hadn’t
spoken to her. And yet, when she thought of him as Sam’s father, it was
curious that he hadn’t. Of course it might be that he knew nothing of
the good friendship which existed between Sam and herself, and he might
not approve of it anyway. The Disbrows were great for keeping to
themselves. So were the Paces, but the Paces were busy folk; they liked
their neighbors even if they didn’t see much of them. But one always had
the feeling that the Disbrows shut themselves away from society because
they had something against it—nobody quite knew what. Only Sam—Sam was
different. He was made to live in the world and to enjoy it.
A vision of him, wide-shouldered, brown-haired—his hair would have curled
a trifle if he had not continually discouraged it—brown-eyed, smiling,
frank, energetic, arose before Annie Laurie. He had a ringing laugh, and
the neighbors said he dared to laugh even in that silent shut-up house
where his mother lay on her sofa, with mouse-like, cross-eyed Hannah
watching beside her. It came over Annie Laurie that she had disliked
them for things that were none of their fault. Mrs. Disbrow couldn’t
help being ill; Hannah couldn’t help being cross-eyed; and it was
beautiful of her to be always beside her mother.
Yet, as she paced the floor of her bedroom thinking about her father,
with her tortured thoughts leaping this way and that as if they were
struggling to escape from sorrow, a conviction came over her that
sickness often was the fault of the person who suffered from it. She
knew that an atmosphere of gloom hung over Sam’s house; that if he opened
up the windows Hannah was told to close them; if he brought in flowers
they had to be thrown out because they gave his mother a cold; if he
built a fire in the fireplace for cheerfulness, it was considered unsafe,
owing to a defect in the chimney. The stove was sufficient—and indeed
more than sufficient, since the temperature of the room was at least
eighty the winter through. Poor Sam! Annie Laurie knew that he had
suggested that the chimney be mended so that they might sometimes sit by
the open fire, letting the raging stove subside; he had urged Hannah to
have an operation that would set her eyes straight, but the family had
been too fearful of the results. So they sat in gloom and hideousness
within their power to remedy. At least that was how it looked to Sam’s
impatient, energetic nature, and Annie Laurie took the same view.
Miss Zillah came in after a time, with arms and words of comfort for her
girl.
“Carin called up about seven o’clock,” she said, after a time when Annie
Laurie had wept out her grief on her good aunt’s shoulder. “She seemed
to know you were in trouble, though I don’t understand how she could have
found out.”
Annie Laurie told her of the signalling.
“Well, she wanted to come right over to you, but I told her to wait until
to-morrow. Was I right?”
Annie Laurie nodded.
“Get undressed now, poor one,” soothed Aunt Zillah. “See, I’ll open your
bed and warm it for you. Put on this flannel nightgown, that’s a dear.
And I’ll bring you a glass of milk—unless you want something heartier.”
It was wonderful, being petted like this. She had led a chilly life, had
Annie Laurie. She had known kindness, but not, it must be confessed,
warm love. Yet now Aunt Zillah’s compassion and affection wrapped her
about like a cloak. How did the old song run?
“Come under my plaidie, the night’s gaun to fa’;
Come in frae the cauld blast, the drift and the snaw;
Come under my plaidie and sit down beside me,
There’s room in’t, dear lassie, believe me, for twa.”
Yes, she would get in under Aunt Zillah’s plaidie and she would let the
dear old lady know that she was grateful to her for having asked her.
So, when she had drunk the warm fresh milk and been tucked in her bed,
she put her arms around Aunt Zillah’s wrinkled neck and gave her a long,
long hug.
“We’ll never, never go back on each other, will we?” she whispered
tremulously.
“Never, lass, never,” responded the old lady, the tears dripping from her
eyes on Annie Laurie’s upturned face. So, sweetened by a sorrow, which
was after all but a natural and right sorrow such as must come to all,
Annie Laurie sank into the dead sleep of grief.
The next few days were blurred and strange. Friends came to the house.
Flowers arrived in boxes. There were many telephone messages. The aunts
were called up from the telegraph office. There was business to do at
the cemetery; arrangements to make at the church. Through it all, Annie
Laurie strove to do her part. There would be time enough for grieving
afterward, she decided. The thing now was not to let too heavy a burden
fall on her aunts, who were, as Annie Laurie seemed to discover for the
first time, really getting to be old ladies.
But at last it all was over. The house was quiet and peaceful. And the
help on the farm came to Miss Adnah for instructions.
It must have been three days after the funeral that Mr. Carson called one
afternoon and asked to see Annie Laurie and her aunts. It was like him,
in his thoughtfulness to include her, Annie Laurie thought. She did not
know that Charles Carson, who liked almost everybody and who had the best
will in the world toward all mankind, nevertheless, knowing as much of
human nature as he did, thought it best to take her at once into council
concerning matters that would affect her future life.
He was received in the stiff little parlor, the two sisters sitting
opposite him in prim dignity, and Annie Laurie instinctively putting her
chair near his.
“I am sure you will pardon me for speaking to you concerning your
affairs,” he said in his hearty way. “I would not venture to do so
uninvited, were it not a matter that in a way concerns me also.”
“Yes, sir,” said Miss Adnah and Miss Zillah in unison. Annie Laurie
fixed her reddish-brown eyes upon him with devotion, and said nothing.
“The day before Mr. Pace died,” he went on, “I paid him twenty thousand
dollars in cash.”
Annie Laurie stared; the sisters started.
“It seemed to me foolish enough to pass such a sum of money over in
simple currency, but as you probably know, your brother”—he was now
addressing himself to the elder ladies—“had a prejudice against banks. I
wished to give him my check. He said he had no use for checks. He
wanted money. It was a curious idiosyncrasy of his, but since he wished
it that way I humored him. He put the roll of bills into his pocket—I
paid the money to him at Mr. Heller’s bank—and drove away with it. That
was Saturday afternoon. He died Sunday. I have come to inquire—with
only neighborly motives, I beg you to believe—whether or not you have
seen anything of that roll of bills.”
There was a slight pause. Then:
“I have seen nothing of it, sir,” said Miss Adnah.
“Nor I, sir,” added Miss Zillah.
“Oh, and there must have been more money,” broke in Annie Laurie, “much,
much more! I know papa always had a lot, Mr. Carson, but I haven’t an
idea where he kept it. None of us had. If we ever asked him for money
he would go away for a time and presently come back with the bills he
meant to give us. He had some place where he hid it, and I used to think
he ought to tell some one of us where it was.”
“I should think so, indeed,” said Mr. Carson rather heatedly. “Then you
haven’t any of you a notion where he kept his funds?”
“Not an earthly idea!” cried Annie Laurie.
“We haven’t the faintest notion, sir,” said Miss Adnah. “I will confess
now that sister and I got up in the night—last night it was—and looked
everywhere in his room. We even lifted the edges of the carpet and took
the back off the steel engravings. We looked, of course, in the bureau,
and the chest and the closet. We found nothing. It was our intention to
begin to-night searching in the other rooms of the house.”
“But why in the night, ladies?”
Miss Adnah looked rather offended, as if Mr. Carson had gone a little too
far in asking such questions. But Miss Zillah broke out with:
“Oh, you see, sir, it seemed so silly and absurd for us to have to do a
thing like that. My opinion is that brother Simeon should have kept up
with the times and used a bank like other men. I hate to have the
neighbors know what trouble and embarrassment he has put us to.”
Miss Adnah looked at her sister in amazement. She, who was so gentle of
judgment and of speech, was actually criticising a Pace—and her own dead
brother at that! But Mr. Carson turned a look of appreciation on the
flushed little face of the old lady.
“The Paces are not all cranks, anyway,” was his thought. “This Miss
Zillah seems a very sensible sort of a woman—quite fit to be related to
Annie Laurie.”
The reflection would have surprised Miss Adnah very much had she known of
it, for she regarded herself as a person of singular good sense. Indeed,
she secretly thought that she had, so far as the Paces were concerned,
rather a monopoly of it. Zillah she regarded as something of a dreamer,
too sentimental, or “soft,” as she put it, by half; and she felt very
disapproving when she heard her pass uncomplimentary judgment upon one of
the family. That was a privilege which Miss Adnah reserved for herself.
“You see, sir,” Miss Zillah went on, blurting out a family secret which
Miss Adnah would have starved rather than let anyone know, “we haven’t a
cent in the world. The small amount which my sister and I had in our
purses has been used up during the last few days. We owe for all the
expenses of our brother’s funeral. Really, I may say that we don’t know
which way to turn.”
“My dear Miss Zillah,” responded Mr. Carson, “I will place a sum of money
at your disposal immediately.”
Why, Miss Adnah wondered, did he turn to Zillah instead of to her? It
seemed to her that it ought to be evident to anyone that she was now the
head of the house.
“Moreover,” Mr. Carson went on, “I will deposit the sum in the bank and
send you the bank book. I know this will be more in accord with your
ideas.”
There was a little twinkle in his eye as he said this, but Miss Zillah
did not catch it. She was really much flattered that he should think her
a person capable of conducting things in a businesslike way, and she
would not have shown by the flutter of an eyelash how frightened she
really was at the suggestion.
“Then,” continued Mr. Carson, “our next business will be to find that
money. I propose that you call in one or two trusty neighbors, not given
to gossiping, and that they assist you in looking over the premises. The
money must be here somewhere. It merely devolves on us to find it.”
Miss Adnah made a gesture of distress.
“I don’t believe, sir,” she said, “that you can have any notion of how
intensely distressing it is to us to do such a thing. And I may say that
we have no neighbors who wouldn’t gossip. If you have any such, please
show them to me.”
Annie Laurie, who knew her Aunt Adnah’s tempestuous nature, saw that a
storm was rising, and she cast about for a way of diverting it.
“Aunt Adnah,” she broke in, “let Azalea and Carin help us hunt. You know
if it’s a secret they’ll never, never, tell it. We’ve pledged ourselves
to keep each other’s secrets, you see. And no one can look as hard as we
girls can. We’re like ferrets.”
“An excellent idea, Miss Pace,” said Mr. Carson, nodding at Aunt Adnah.
“Let the members of the Triple Alliance have a hand at it. It will seem
natural enough for Annie Laurie’s friends to be here with her in her
trouble; the girls will tell nothing; and their keen young wits are the
best ones imaginable to set at this task.”
Upon consultation it struck the sisters that this would be the case. Bad
as it would be to have three “young-ones” ranging over their orderly
house, tearing up this and that, they would at least take the thing only
as a sort of game. They wouldn’t be ill-natured and sneering about it as
their elders might be.
So it was agreed that they would accept Mr. Carson’s offer of a generous
loan of money, and that on Saturday the three girls were to start in
under the direction of the Misses Pace, and make a search of both house
and yard.
“Their eyes certainly are sharper than ours, Adnah,” Miss Zillah said.
“Yes,” snapped Miss Adnah, worn and weary with the difficulties of life,
“they’re sharp enough. Oh, Zillah, Zillah, why should we Paces be
humiliated like this?”
“No humiliation about it, sister,” Miss Zillah replied. “Take things a
little easier, Adnah; let some one help us out. We’re very much
shaken—very much shaken, indeed. We’re getting old, and we’ve had a
great sorrow. If folks want to help, why let ’em.”
There was no doubt about it, they were shaken. The excitement and
courage that had borne them up at first, failed them as the week went on.
Miss Adnah, who had felt herself so able to attend to the business of the
farm, not only found it beyond her power to give an order, but she found
it impossible to fix her mind on the bookkeeping, which was a necessary
part of the business. Annie Laurie had been obliged to consult with the
help after her school hours, and to straighten out the accounts as best
she could during the evening. They felt the need of a strong, quiet man
of affairs—a good, reliable overseer—but the men who were helping them
were not of that sort, and they knew of no one in the country who seemed
to meet their need.
Saturday morning by nine o’clock, according to Annie Laurie’s invitation,
Azalea and Carin arrived on their ponies. These being given to the
stable men, the two girls, in no little awe at entering a house of
sorrow, came in to pay their respects to Miss Zillah and her sister. The
two sat shivering before the fire, tearful and nervous, and even Miss
Adnah was now willing to give over the search for their lost fortune into
the hands of these respectful and sympathetic girls.
“At first, my dear girls,” said Aunt Zillah brokenly, “it seemed as if we
couldn’t let anyone in to help us and it’s hard enough now, but we’d
rather it would be you than anyone.”
“Oh, Miss Zillah,” cried Azalea in her impulsive way, “we understand just
how you feel. But Annie Laurie’s fortune just must be found, mustn’t it?
Why, it’s a quest, you know. A sacred quest—like you read about.”
That glow which was Azalea’s greatest charm, lit up her dark face and
Miss Zillah felt that here was a girl who was one of them. She need fear
nothing from her. As for that sweet-faced Carson girl, with her golden
hair and her lovely voice, how could anyone do anything but trust her?
Yes, it was all as it should be. They were old women and must give their
cares into the hands of others.
So the three girls began their never-to-be-forgotten search for Annie
Laurie’s lost fortune.
Although the aunts had gone over the dead man’s room, they thought best
to begin there. So thorough was their search that they even ripped open
the lining of his coats; they looked in his shoes; they investigated his
hat linings. Nothing was found.
Then they searched the hallways, the pantries and cupboards. They looked
throughout the parlor, through the living room, through the kitchen.
They had one of the men in to pull up the window sills. They took the
bricks from the hearth. Nightfall found them wearily searching the dusty
debris in the old attic.
Sunday was a day of rest for all of these people, but it was very, very
hard for them to sit in idleness while their imaginations were rioting
through the Pace property, searching out every corner and cubbyhole for
the lost money. Naturally enough, Monday found the girls in no condition
to settle down to their studies, and as Mrs. Carson said, it was so much
more important that the money should be found than that they should learn
a lesson or two, that they were excused from school and permitted to
resume their search.
The yard was their point of attack this morning. They looked over every
inch of it, but nowhere did they see anything save the hard, frozen
surface. No hollow tree offered a place for hiding. The solid
substructure of the house forbade them to hope for anything there. Next
they went to the barns, the stables and outhouses, but here the prospect
was discouraging indeed.
“Besides,” said Annie Laurie, “when papa wanted to get money for any
purpose he always went to his own room and locked the door. It seemed as
if he must have kept it with him.”
“But how can that be,” argued Carin, dropping white and worn into her
chair—they were in Annie Laurie’s room,—“when nothing has been found
anywhere about his clothes? Why, the only pocketbook he appeared to have
was that little one for silver. Didn’t you ever see him with a large
leather pocketbook, Annie?”
“Never,” said Annie Laurie. “Never.”
“But now, when papa paid him that twenty thousand dollars,” Carin
insisted. “Do you suppose he brought that home in his hand the way a
child would a penny, or rolled it up in his pocket where it could fall
out any minute? It doesn’t seem reasonable; honestly it doesn’t.”
And then, suddenly, Azalea had a vision. She saw a man come into a dark
room—a room lighted only by a flickering fire. She saw him lay aside his
coat, unscrew his tin arm, take something from the mantel shelf, place it
within, then replace the arm and the coat. She remembered how he had
asked her if she ever dreamed, and how she had said she never told her
dreams, and he had said that was right. And she had remembered the look
that had gone from him to her and back again—a look which was a promise
on her part not to tell what she had seen and a message from him of
confidence in her. She sat rigid, going over the scene again before she
spoke. When she did the girls hardly recognized her voice.
“I know!” she said—not very loud.
“You know?” The others cried it together.
“He kept his money in his tin arm.”
“No!”
“Yes.”
“How do you know?”
“I saw him put some there once.”
“When?”
“Where?”
“The night Annie Laurie and I fell asleep on the sofa.”
“Tell me more, ’Zalie.”
“Yes, yes, I will. I’ll tell you everything. Oh, Annie Laurie, was the
tin arm buried with him?”
“No—no, I’m sure it wasn’t. It was hanging on a nail in his bedroom the
day after he was buried, but the aunts couldn’t bear to see it there and
they carried it to the attic.”
“Then the money couldn’t have been in it after all.”
“Oh, it might still be there. Let’s go see.”
Up to the attic they went, trembling with eagerness. There, sure enough,
from a beam hung the tin arm. Annie Laurie could not quite bring herself
to touch it. It seemed almost like a part of her father. But Azalea
took it down, convinced that she was right. She looked into it; carried
it to one of the windows and looked again. She ran her fingers into the
hand of it. She turned her disappointed face toward her friends. There
was nothing there.
“All the same,” she said with earnestness, “it _was_ there.”
“But then some one has taken it out.”
“That’s it,” said Carin. “Some one has taken it out.”
“Not the aunts!” cried Annie Laurie, fiercely.
“Oh, mercy no,” agreed Azalea, “not the aunts.”
“But who else handled the arm?” asked Carin.
Annie Laurie stood thinking. Then a deep flush spread over her face.
“I—I don’t—who else could have?” she stammered. She couldn’t bear to
place anyone under suspicion.
But Azalea was more impulsive.
“Why Mr. Disbrow, the undertaker, of course,” she said. “He must have
taken it off. He must have—” she stopped and the three stared at each
other.
And then Annie Laurie remembered how he had crowded by her in the hall,
not speaking, and looking the other way.