UNCLE AND NIECE
The dreary November afternoon passed, and the shadows lengthened and
deepened the gloom that hung over Greatlarch.
The Avenue trees waved their long branches as a soughing wind swept
through them. The pines sang and whistled and the dense tangle down
behind the Mausoleum was black and eerie, more than ever justifying its
name of Spooky Hollow. Mrs. Mellish stood staring out of a rear window,
almost certain she could hear faint strains of the Wild Harp.
“Come away, now, Susan,” commanded her spouse. “It’s no spook music
you’ll hear, savin’ that which you make in your own ears—”
“Hush your blether, Mellish,—I want no coddlin’ from you.” And then, with
true feminine inconsistency, she turned to her husband and threw herself
into his arms, sobbing convulsively.
“Therey, therey, now, Soodie, cry an ye want to, it’ll do ye good,” and
he patted her shoulder and smoothed her hair, and comforted her by his
strong protecting arms.
“It’s Miss Rosemary,” Susan said, wiping her eyes. “I can’t stand it to
see the child so gone-like. She wanders about, her eyes wide and staring,
and that full of sadness!”
“She loved her Antan,—that she did,” and Mellish nodded his gray head.
“There’s a terrible moil, Susan. Who killed Miss Anne?—answer me that
now!”
“No mortal hand,” and Mrs. Mellish gazed solemnly into space. “Never
could a human hand do it, you see, for the door was locked, and the poor
lady in there alone. Comes the ghost of the other lady who met her death
in that very room, and,—the wicked, evil thing,—she killed our Miss Anne!
Or where’s the knife? How could a human, mortal villain kill her and
leave no weepon? Or how get out through a locked door? Answer me that,
Mellish, now!”
“No, I can’t. Yet ’twas no spook, of that I’m certain!”
Susan Mellish held up her finger, listening.
“Hark at the organ, now,” she said; “Master’s fair crazy with his grief!”
The great organ pealed and rolled its melodies through the house. Fugues
and dirges of the greatest masters were played with a strong, sure touch
and a powerful, agonizing sorrow, like the cry of a lost soul.
One funeral march after another sounded as Homer Vincent strove to quiet
his perturbed spirit by the aid of his one great passion—music.
Rosemary stood in the Atrium, looking through the plate-glass doors down
across the terrace, across the lagoon to the white Mausoleum and to the
black Spooky Hollow beyond it.
She had put on a black dress, of plain and simple cut, and her white arms
shone in the dusk as she leaned them up against the window and hid her
face upon them.
“If he doesn’t stop that music,” she thought, “I shall go crazy! I never
heard him play so like one inspired! It is heartrending, crucifying, yet
it has a triumphant note,—like the triumph of Death. Poor Uncle Homer, he
must be almost beside himself with grief,—I know by the way he plays. And
he has no other solace—I wish he would let me talk to him,—I’d like to
talk about Antan—but he doesn’t want me to mention her name—”
And then, through the long shadowy room, lighted only by a faint radiance
from the Entrance Hall, came softly a footfall, and Rosemary turned to
see Lulie Eaton, her friend whom she had visited the night before.
“Rosemary,” and Lulie put her arms round her, “I want you to go home with
me, and stay a few days. At least, until the funeral. Won’t you? It will
be so much better for you, and—your uncle won’t mind, will he?”
“I don’t know,” Rosemary hesitated; “it’s good of you, Lulie,—I’d be glad
to go,—if I ought to—”
“Of course you ought to,—you owe it to yourself to get out of this
atmosphere—oh, have they found out anything—about—”
“About Antan? No, not a thing. The detectives are at their wits’ end,
Uncle Homer is nearly distracted—listen to that awful music—”
“It is desperately sad, but, what a wonderful performer he is!”
“Oh, yes,—there, now he is improvising,—that means he’s a little easier
in his mind,—let’s go and ask him if I may go with you.”
The two girls went to the organ room, the high walls and domed ceiling
giving back the music and making the place seem more than ever like a
church.
With a feeling of awe, almost of fear, they tip-toed toward the silent
figure on the organ bench.
The light was low, the branches of the tall trees waved against the
windows with weird sounds.
Seeing the girls, Vincent paused, slowly trailing his softly touched
chords off to nothingness.
“What is it, Rosemary?” he said, wearily pushing back the thick hair from
his brow. “How do you do, Miss Eaton?”
Lulie Eaton dared her request.
“Oh, Mr. Vincent,” she said, “I’ve come to take Rosemary home with me for
a few days,—mayn’t she go?”
“If she chooses.” Homer Vincent spoke coldly, and again his hands hovered
above the keys.
“Oh, Uncle,” Rosemary cried, “I won’t go if you don’t want me to, Uncle
Homer. Indeed, I won’t.”
“Would you like to be left alone in this house, Rosemary?” Vincent asked,
as, barely touching the keys, he made them sound like a faint echo of a
sweet, sad strain.
“No!” and the girl shuddered at the thought.
“Yet you would leave me—”
“But I didn’t know you cared to have me here, Uncle. You don’t like to
have me mention Antan, you don’t even talk to me—”
“My dear, there is some grief too deep for words,—yet human companionship
is a help and a comfort, even though ordinary conversation is out of
the question. And you can help by looking after the house. Can you not
fill Antan’s place to a degree? Can you not order the meals and give out
supplies,—or, whatever your Aunt did?”
Rosemary smiled a little at his idea of her Aunt’s duties. For, she
thought, Miss Vincent did none of these things, the two Mellishes
arranged all such details. But Vincent was not the sort of man who knew
what was going on in the domestic department.
However, Rosemary sensed the fact that her uncle wanted her to stay by
him, if only as a moral support, and though she would have preferred to
go with Lulie, yet she felt a certain pride in the idea that he wanted
her at home.
Not exactly afraid of her uncle, Rosemary never could quite conquer a
feeling of awe of him, and a dread of running counter to his will in any
way. But she had long ago learned that if conditions were right, if there
was no flaw in the arrangements that made for his creature comfort, she
need never look for any but the kindest and most courteous treatment from
him. But if any of his orders were not fulfilled accurately, if any meal
was a moment late, any course imperfectly cooked or served, any book or
smoking-stand moved one iota from its accustomed place, then, as Rosemary
had often had occasion to notice, his sister or his niece received,
however undeserved, a portion of his reprimand.
So Rosemary declined to go with her friend, and after a short visit,
Lulie went off alone.
“What were you two girls talking about?” Vincent asked, as he left the
organ and joined Rosemary in the living-room.
The lights were on, now, and the beautiful room was warm and cheerful.
But the girl seemed struck dumb. She blushed and remained silent,
raising her troubled eyes to her uncle’s face only to drop them again in
confusion.
“I can read your thoughts the same as if you had spoken, my dear,” her
uncle said, a tinge of displeasure in his tone. “You talked of young
Collins. Has he been here to see you?”
“No, Uncle, not since you forbade it.”
Rosemary’s tone was gentle, her voice steady, but in her golden-brown
eyes there shone a sudden light, that was rebellious, almost mutinous.
Vincent caught this gleam, and said, in real irritation, “I do think,
Rosemary, at this time, when I am in such deep grief, you might be less
selfishly inclined to brood sullenly over your own petty grievances.
You know my dislike for Bryce Collins, you know I will not hear of your
marrying him; why not, then, give over thinking about it?”
“Did you ever love anybody, Uncle?” she asked, quietly, mentally adding,
“except yourself!”
Vincent gave her a curious glance, and then said, sadly, “I loved your
Aunt Anne. She was my dear sister, and now that she has been so terribly
taken away from me,—away from us, I should think, Rosemary, that you
would turn your thoughts to your great loss, even if you have no sympathy
or sorrow for mine.”
“Oh, Uncle, don’t talk to me like that! I do feel sorry for you, I do
grieve for Antan,—oh, I can’t realize she’s gone! What shall I do without
her?”
“A very grave question, my child. But now, we must make some necessary
arrangements for the funeral. My sister must be buried with the dignity
and beauty befitting her life. And you must help, for there are many
details to be looked after.”
“Yes, Uncle, anything I can do to help or to lessen your load of care and
responsibility, I am glad to undertake.”
“That’s the way to talk, my dear child. Now, listen and I’ll tell you
what you can do.”
And when the talk was over, Rosemary found herself weighted down with her
share of the errands and arrangements necessary for the obsequies that
Homer Vincent deemed appropriate for his sister.
Not that he desired any ostentation or display.
But his directions as to the music, the flowers, the clergyman’s address,
the luncheon to be prepared for guests from a distance, and the thousand
and one things that he mentioned seemed to Rosemary to make a task both
burdensome and difficult.
However, she relied on the Mellishes for much help, and she was so glad
to be of some real assistance to her uncle, that she willingly promised
all he asked.
And then they drifted into a discussion of the terrible circumstances,
as mysterious this minute as they had been early in the morning when the
discovery had been made.
“Uncle,” Rosemary cried, “who killed Antan,—and how? I must know those
two things or I shall go out of my mind! I can’t conceive of any possible
explanation, can you?”
“No, Rosemary, I can’t. It is as great a mystery as it is a tragedy,—and
I can’t say any more than that.”
“No, Uncle, we can’t say more than that. But somebody killed her,—that we
know. How, then, did he get out of the room, and what did he do with the
knife?”
“Those, Rosemary, are the unanswerable questions. And I must say I don’t
believe these dunderheaded detectives that are on the job can ever solve
the mystery. Do you?”
“Oh, I don’t know anything about such things, Uncle dear. But they do
seem unable to discover anything or to suggest anything. Tell me more
about that Johnson man, Uncle. Was he a—a gentleman?”
“Why, no, Rosemary, not as we look upon a gentleman. Yet he had decent
manners and presentable appearance. I wish I had never seen him!”
“Do you think he killed Antan?”
“How can I say I think so, when I can’t imagine his motive for such a
deed. Unless, of course, he stole her ruby. Too bad, dear,—that gem was
to have been yours.”
“Yes, I know. But, Uncle, when a strange man comes here, and acts in such
an extraordinary manner,—not going to bed at all,—and then mysteriously
disappears, and we find Antan dead,—isn’t there logical reason to think
maybe he did it?”
“There certainly is, Rosemary, and I shall never rest till we find that
man! It must be possible to find him. He can’t have dropped out of
existence. But that’s where I thought the detectives would do better
work. I supposed they would get on his trail somehow, almost immediately.
I thought detectives could always trace a fugitive,—always find a
skulking, hiding villain. But they seem not to know which way to turn!”
“Yes, I noticed that. And that Mr. Lane knows even less, I should say.”
“Yes, he’s a numskull. But the little detective, that one called
Brown, seems rather alert, and wide awake, yet he can’t get anywhere,
apparently; unless they do something soon, I shall call in a more expert
detective.”
“Can you do that? Right over their heads, I mean?”
“I most certainly shall. My sister’s death must be avenged, if any effort
of mine can accomplish it. But I do admit it seems a problem impossible
of solution.”
“The facts are so irreconcilable,” the girl said, musingly. “I can’t see
any conceivable way the deed could have been done, and the room left
locked and the weapon missing.”
“Rosemary, there’s only one explanation. But I am not yet quite able
to believe in it.” Vincent’s voice was low and his direct gaze was so
piercing, that the girl was startled. She felt an uncanny, a sinister
presentiment of his meaning.
“Oh, Uncle Homer,” she cried, “you don’t mean—you can’t mean Mrs.
Lamont—” She looked over her shoulder, and out the window toward the
Temple where once had rested the mortal remains of that other victim.
“I’ve always been a practical hard-headed unbeliever in spiritualism,”
Vincent said, slowly, “but I am so staggered by this thing, so puzzled to
think of any possible explanation, however improbable, that, as I say,
I see no other way to look but toward the supernatural. Yet I will not
as yet put myself on record as going over to the spiritualistic belief,
only, unless we can unearth some evidence, find some clues, I cannot say
what I may do.”
“Uncle Homer,” and Rosemary’s face looked wondering, “I heard the Harp
last night.”
“You imagined it, dear. How could you hear what doesn’t exist?”
“But I did,—I’m sure of it. It was between two and three o’clock. I was
wakeful, and I was tempted to get up and go to some south window. But I
didn’t, and yet, even in my own room, which is north, I heard faintly the
low wailing strains of the Wild Harp. Have you never heard it, Uncle?”
“I have sometimes thought I did, child, but I put it down to imagination.
Leave me now, Rosemary,—I am very weary, and I must think over some
matters by myself.”
So Rosemary went in search of the two Mellishes and they discussed the
arrangements for the funeral services of Anne Vincent.
To Rosemary’s own surprise, but not to Mrs. Mellish’s, it soon transpired
that the girl was not at all wise or experienced in household matters.
Anne Vincent had been the guiding spirit, the directing hand of the
establishment, and though she had occasionally called on her niece for
some slight assistance, it was always mere routine work, and carefully
under the elder woman’s own supervision.
So when the cook began to ask about how many chickens and hams should
be prepared for the cold luncheon, and what sweets should be provided,
Rosemary found herself quite at sea, and told Mrs. Mellish and her
husband to get whatever they deemed best.
“That’s all very well,” and Melly shook her head; “all very well, Miss
Rosemary,—but your uncle won’t like it a bit, if you don’t fill your
aunt’s place. Many’s the little thing she did for him, many’s the time
she looked out for him and stood between him and some bit of a bother. Be
careful now, Miss Rosemary, to do such things yourself. Keep a constant
watch on your uncle. See that everything is ready to his hand when he
reaches out his hand to get it—meaning, of course, such as is outside the
duties of me and Mellish.”
“I don’t know what you mean, Melly. What am I to do? Darn his socks,—that
sort of thing?”
“That, of course, Miss—and his buttons and all. But hand him a paper or a
book that he’s glancing about for,—offer to play Russian Bank with him,
when he’s in just the mood for it,—gather from his symptoms what sort of
food he’ll want for dinner,—that’s the way Miss Anne looked after him.”
“Good gracious, Melly, I can’t do those things! Why, I don’t know how to
play that stupid old card game! And I didn’t know he had symptoms!”
“You must learn, then, Miss Rosemary.” Mellish himself spoke now, and
very seriously. “Your uncle is a good man and a kind man if he is
comfortable. If not,—oh, well, Miss, you know him!”
“Of course I do. And I know you two look out for all his real wants. I’ll
do anything I can, of course, but I guess he’ll have to diagnose his own
symptoms, and select his special foods himself. As to this luncheon,
Melly, order whatever you think best. Be sure to have enough, that’s all,
for relatives and friends will come from all the country round. And,
Melly, I don’t know much about ordering and such things. Antan never let
me help her much or tried to teach me anything about housekeeping.”
“You should know, Miss Rosemary. It’s right every young lady should be a
housekeeper, such as your aunt, rest her soul, was. Now, if you’ll let
me, I’ll teach you, and you’ll soon learn, for you’ve a quick wit and
handy fingers.”
“All right, Melly, and we’ll begin after all this trouble has cleared up
a little. Melly, who killed Antan?”
“The Ghost Lady, Miss Rosemary. Didn’t I hear her playin’ on her Wild
Harp—”
“Why, so did I, Melly. What time did you hear it?”
“As it might be say two or three o’clock of the mornin’, Miss.”
“That’s the very time I heard it! Melly, how could a ghost kill anybody,
with a dagger?”
“Likewise, Miss Rosemary, how could a human kill anybody with a dagger,
and go away leaving the door locked behind him?”
Mellish, who had mysteriously disappeared, returned and whispered to the
girl.
“I opine, Miss Rosemary,” he said, softly, “if you was to step out this
little back door now,—just step out, you know,—you might—well, just step
out now. I opine you won’t be sorry.”
Having more than a suspicion of what Mellish was opining about, Rosemary
stepped out of the small door that gave on an areaway.
As she had hoped, there stood the tall, thin form of Bryce Collins.
“Oh,” she whispered, “you ought not to have come—how did you dare?”
“I felt I must see you, Rosemary; it’s too utterly absurd to be forbidden
the house,—for no reason at all—”
“I know it, Bryce,—but Uncle Homer is terribly upset anyway, and if he
sees you—”
“He won’t see me. I just want a few minutes with you, dear. Can’t we go
inside,—somewhere?”
“No, I don’t dare. Melly has just been telling me I must look after Uncle
Homer as Antan used to. And, surely, I can’t allow anything that he has
so positively forbidden. He’d—oh, I don’t know what he’d do!”
“What would he do, dear? Fly in a passion?”
“No, I’ve never seen him do that. But he’d be so displeased, he’d reprove
me so—”
“Rosemary, it’s idiotic for a girl twenty-one years old to be so afraid
of anybody! Your uncle is not your father, and even if he were—”
“Don’t talk like that, Bryce. He’s the same as a father to me. Ever since
my own dear father died, five years ago, Uncle Homer has done all for
me that a father could do, and more than a great many fathers do. I’ve
seen the other girls,—their fathers aren’t half as good to them as Uncle
is to me. And now Antan is gone, I owe it to him to be obedient and to
observe all his commands.”
“Don’t you love me, dear?”
Bryce Collins was a tall, slender man, but his physique showed strength,
and his bearing was that of an assured, determined nature.
His deep blue eyes were honest and straightforward, and his smooth-shaven
face showed a chin that betokened will power to the point of
stubbornness. And Collins was stubborn. He clung to an opinion or a
determination like a puppy to a root, and he never gave up.
Now, at twenty-six, he was an insistent suitor of Rosemary Vincent, but
his plea was denied by her uncle.
Homer Vincent gave no reason for his decision,—it was not his habit to
give reasons,—but he declared it was final. To Rosemary he said she was
too young to think of marriage yet, and he preferred that she should
never marry. He hinted that he and his sister Anne had been much happier
in their lives than their brother, Rosemary’s father, who had married
young. In any case, he told the girl she must give up all thought of
Bryce Collins, and, unable to do otherwise, Rosemary had submitted to
his decree.
And as the girl was by no means of a sly or deceitful nature, she obeyed
the spirit of her uncle’s dictum as well as the letter.
That is, she did so, as far as she could; but Collins, with his
indomitable will and his firm determination, would not let her give him
up finally, unless she would tell him she did not care for him.
This Rosemary could not do, for she loved Bryce, and hoped against hope,
that some day her uncle would relent.
Now, in view of the tragedy that hung over the house, Rosemary was more
than ever afraid to have Collins’ presence known, and yet, never before
had she felt so strong a wish, a need, for his presence.
And his gentle tone, his whispered question, seemed to take away all her
power of resistance.
“Yes,” she said, “I love you,” and eagerly he clasped her in his waiting
arms.
“Bless her heart! Whatever is coming to her?” and wiping her eyes, Melly
turned from the window, where she had been watching the pair.