HOW COLLINS FELT ABOUT IT
Rosemary walked alone in the south gardens. These beautiful terraced
plots lay either side of the lagoon, and ended only at the broken stone
fence that bounded Spooky Hollow.
This fence, not unusual in New England, was merely a succession of flat,
unevenly shaped stones, most of them pointed, standing in a ragged row
between the gardens and the swampy jungle of undergrowth. They had a
slight appearance of old and neglected gravestones, and their grim, gaunt
shapes added to the eerie aspect of the place.
One had fallen over to a horizontal position and Rosemary went and sat
upon it.
The girl was stunned. Not yet did she feel grief, sorrow, or despair
at her uncle’s revelations; not yet could she look ahead or plan for
her future; she couldn’t even realize the situation. She was dazed,
bewildered,—her mind a senseless blank.
Wrapped in her long fur coat, a small fur hat drawn down over her brow,
she nestled into the deep coat-collar and tried to collect her wits, to
marshal her thoughts, to make some plans.
But she could not think coherently. Her memories raced back to the dear,
kind father—who was not her father! to the loving, beautiful mother—who
was not her mother! Oh, it couldn’t be true,—it must be an awful dream!
Then the dear Antan, who had died—not her aunt—not Antan at all! Uncle
Homer not her uncle—Greatlarch not her home—
Wonderful Greatlarch! Rosemary loved every tower and turret of the
splendid old pile. Every bit of marble and wood-carving was her joy and
delight. And she was put out of Greatlarch—put out because she had no
right there—no claim or inheritance in its ownership.
It was too incredible, she could not believe it!
And then the tears came, and poor Rosemary buried her face in her fur
sleeves and her whole slender frame shook with convulsive, heartrending
sobs.
She tried to stop but it was impossible, so she let herself go and cried
until she was physically exhausted from her wild bursts of grief.
Everything swept away at once! Home, relatives, parents, even her name!
She was a homeless, nameless orphan,—a wanderer on the face of the earth!
She knew her Uncle Homer well enough to understand his attitude.
He had always objected to the presence of her young friends in the house.
He hated anything that obtruded to the slightest degree on his even
routine of life, and many a time Antan had stood between Rosemary and
Uncle Homer’s displeasure.
And now, without his sister’s presence, Rosemary was not surprised at his
desire to have her out of his house.
That was bad enough,—to leave Greatlarch was a tragedy of itself,—but it
was lost sight of when she remembered the other and worse misfortune that
had come to her.
What could she do? But her brain still refused to plan. Every fresh
realization of her parents, her birth, brought the tears anew, and it
seemed to Rosemary she was at the end of her endurance.
She could have borne the shock of her parentage if she could have
remained at Greatlarch with Uncle Homer. She could have borne to leave
Greatlarch if she could have gone forth as Rosemary Vincent, in truth.
But the two blows were too much for her, and she bent under them like one
of the slender white birches before the chill autumn wind.
As she sat, motionless, her face hidden, her whole body shivering with
cold and quivering with agony, she heard faint strains of music.
“The Wild Harp,” she thought, but so great was her apathy, she paid
little attention to it.
Subconsciously, she heard the weird, wailing sounds, an incoherent
melody, eerie as a banshee’s cry.
It was twilight, the early twilight of the late November afternoon, and
as Rosemary glanced uneasily toward the Hollow, she imagined the Harp
strains came from there.
It was almost like an æolian harp, but that makes only accidental
harmonies. This, though disconnected and fragmentary, had a certain
sequence of notes that betokened an intelligent agency of some sort.
Abstractedly she gazed into the deepening shadows of the Hollow, and
a sudden determination came to her to walk into it, and—never to come
out. If a supernatural agency was in there, was making that weird music,
perhaps it might attack her and put an end to a life that had become
unbearable. Better so, she thought, and half rose to go, when a man’s
voice sounded through the gathering gloom.
“Miss Vincent!” Prentiss exclaimed, “out here all alone? You’ll catch
your death of cold!”
“I wish I might,” she said, mournfully, scarcely noting or caring that
she was speaking to a new and casual acquaintance.
“Now, now, my child,” Prentiss said, puzzled, but seeing her agitation,
and quickly deciding that kindliness was his cue, “don’t despair so
utterly. Your dear auntie was much to you, but you have much left in
life—”
“I have nothing left! I have no life—no name—no home!”
“Why—what do you mean?” Prentiss was utterly astounded. He couldn’t
imagine what she meant, and wondered if the tragedy had turned her brain.
Rosemary hesitated a moment, but the situation was too strong for her.
She had no one to turn to for advice or help. She had put away all
thought of Bryce Collins from her forever. She would never face him with
her terrible story, she would never want to hear his pitying sympathy.
She was a nameless, homeless girl, not fit to be the wife of any man with
a name and a heritage.
Nor would she ever willingly see Lulie Eaton again. Lulie had been a dear
friend, but Rosemary knew her well enough to realize that her friendship
never would stand the strain of Uncle Homer’s story.
The Mellishes would stand by her through thick and thin,—of that Rosemary
was certain. But they were only servants, and Uncle Homer’s servants.
What could they do for her?
And so, the impulse to speak freely to Prentiss was strong. He was an
intelligent, experienced man of the world. He might tell her what to do.
So Rosemary did tell him, and he listened attentively. She gave him the
facts of her parentage, as her uncle had related them, and she admitted
her utter helplessness and bewilderment.
“You poor child!” Prentiss exclaimed. “You dear child—” and he restrained
a sudden impulse to take her in his arms and comfort her.
For Rosemary was very lovely in her abandonment of grief. Her imploring
eyes, gazing through tear-wet lashes, her quivering lips, beseeching
help, her little hands nervously clasping one of his own, would have
thrilled a far less impressionable man than the Burlington Hawkeye.
But he quickly saw that the girl was utterly unconscious of his
personality, utterly oblivious to the fact that she was appealing to his
impulses, and that she was merely pouring out her woe to him, because he
happened to be there, and she must speak or go mad.
He said quietly, “Suppose we go in the house, and sit by a comfortable
fire to discuss these things. If you are going to leave Greatlarch, you
may as well enjoy its comforts while you can. Come, won’t you?”
And, like a trusting child, Rosemary went with him.
Homer Vincent was playing the organ as they entered.
Rosemary listened a moment, and then nodded her head in satisfaction. At
least, he was in a calm frame of mind. Close harmonies rolled through
the dimly lighted house, and Rosemary led Prentiss to the pleasant
living-room, snapped on the lights, and rang for Mellish to mend the fire.
“And bring tea, mayn’t he?” suggested Prentiss, and Rosemary agreed.
“Now,” the detective said, “would it be better to call in your uncle and
discuss your future plans? Or shall we just talk them over by ourselves?”
“By ourselves,” she said, promptly. “If Uncle Homer wants to, he will
join us without being called.”
But their talk was desultory, and without definite result.
As a matter of fact, Prentiss did not believe Vincent would really send
the girl away. He thought it was more likely a threat, in order to get
her to agree to have less company and fewer intrusions upon his own
retirement and solitude.
A strange man, Prentiss deemed Homer Vincent, but, after all, a just and
kind one. Not a man who would really turn away his brother’s child, even
though she were only an adopted daughter.
An adopted child, he argued, who had lived all her life with her adopted
parents and their family connections, was entitled to recognition of
some sort. And though he knew Vincent’s solitary habits and eccentric
disposition, yet he felt sure he would provide properly for Rosemary
either in his home or out of it.
He had sympathized with her and did still, but he felt certain she was
exaggerating the case, and that while she must realize she was not a
Vincent, yet she would doubtless get used to that in time and pick up her
life and happiness again.
“Forget it for a time, Miss Rosemary,” he said, as the advent of tea and
hot crumpets absorbed his own attention. “At least, you’ll stay here for
the present,—while I’m tracking down this Johnson man.”
“Have you any clue to his whereabouts?” the girl asked, half-heartedly.
She was interested in the search for Johnson, but her own troubles had
obliterated all thought of him.
“Not quite that, but I’m going down to New York to look up the jewelry
firms whose cards he left with your uncle. Surely they can tell me all
about him,—I mean his home and habits, and that will help us to find him.”
“But if he has run away,—which, of course, he has,—and if he has sold
that valuable ruby,—which, of course, he has,—he has money enough to take
him anywhere, and he has doubtless gone out beyond civilization, and so,
how can you ever find him?”
“That’s all true, but missing men are often found, and no criminal is
quite clever enough to cover all his tracks. Besides, he can’t sell that
ruby at present. It’s too large and important to offer to a pawnbroker or
to a ‘fence,’ as they are called. Still, he probably has money enough for
his escape. I’m banking on his overlooking some trace or some clue that
will lead me to him.”
“Have you any real clues?”
“Oh, yes. The business cards, the synthetic rubies,—surely they can be
traced to the laboratory where they were made. Then there’s the hat and
coat and umbrella—”
“You know, Mr. Prentiss, it’s too absurd to think of that man running
away without his hat or coat. The umbrella he might easily forget, but
not the others.”
“Oh, he didn’t forget them, as I see it. He was probably frightened away.
Perhaps he heard the watchman on his rounds, or thought he heard some one
near him. And he ran off hurriedly, without stopping for anything.”
“How could he get away? The grounds are locked and guarded.”
“But, Miss Rosemary, he did get away. We’ve searched the place too
thoroughly to allow of his concealment here. Now, as we know he did get
away, it’s futile to guess how he did it. The thing is to find him.”
“Yes, I see that. And I hope you will recover my ruby. That, at least, is
my own, and I don’t want that horrid man to have it.”
“I’ll surely make a try for that,” Prentiss said, glad to note her
interest in it.
And then, to Rosemary’s intense surprise, Homer Vincent and Bryce Collins
came into the room together.
“Will you give us some tea?” asked Vincent, in a pleasant tone, and still
stupefied at Collins’ appearance, Rosemary tilted the teakettle over a
fresh cup.
“We’re going to have a conclave,” Vincent said, as he took an easy chair,
and the ubiquitous Mellish, suddenly appearing, set a small table beside
him for his cup. “Mr. Collins called to see you, Rosemary, and I received
him; and I have told him the story of your birth, as I have already told
it to you.”
“And I don’t believe a word of it!” Bryce Collins declared.
“I wish I needn’t,” Vincent said, a little sadly. “I’d rather, indeed,
that Rosemary were my own niece. I have always loved her as such,—and
this disclosure was bound to come sooner or later. I often talked it
over with my sister, and we agreed that we never could let Rosemary marry
without acquainting the man of her choice with the truth of her birth. It
wouldn’t be fair to him or to her. I think now, it would have been better
if Rosemary had known all her life that she was an adopted daughter of my
brother and his wife. But they preferred to let her grow up in ignorance
of the fact, and this is the result.”
“I’m glad they did!” Rosemary burst out. “At least I’ve had twenty-one
years of happiness,—even if I am miserable the rest of my days.”
“But you needn’t be, Rosemary,” Vincent said; “as you well know, many
children are adopted, and lead the happiest of lives. That this knowledge
has come to you just now, is because of my brother’s plan of keeping you
in ignorance during his life, and my sister’s disinclination to tell you
during her life. I, too, would have spared you the knowledge, except, as
I said, that Mr. Collins came to me, and asked for your hand in marriage.
I could not honorably let him marry you under your assumed name,—so, what
could I do, but tell him the truth?”
“It is not the truth,” Bryce Collins reiterated.
Vincent looked at him curiously.
“I don’t follow your thought, Bryce,” he said; “why do you say that when
I tell you the facts as they are?”
“Because Rosemary is all Vincent,” Collins declared. “Those topaz eyes
of hers are just like her Aunt Anne’s were. Her nose is shaped like your
own, Mr. Vincent, and she has the manner and ways of her aunt in many
particulars.”
“I wish your arguments could carry weight,” Homer Vincent said, looking
kindly at Rosemary; “but let me call your attention to the fact that Mr.
Prentiss here has eyes of that same peculiar color, and he is not related
to the Vincents. Also, Rosemary’s manners and ways are of course modeled
on those of her aunt, with whom she has lived for five years, and also,
doubtless, she learned Vincent traits and habits from my brother, with
whom she lived thirteen years.”
“Why,” Rosemary exclaimed, “I’m twenty-one, Uncle Homer. You make me out
only eighteen!”
“You were three years old when you were adopted, Rosemary,” Vincent said;
“you lived in the asylum the first three years of your life.”
Bryce Collins looked serious.
“Will you give me the dates, sir?” he said.
“Certainly. Suppose we all go into my Tower room, where are all the
papers and documents referring to the matter. Mr. Prentiss, will you not
come, too? Your advice may be useful.”
As the other two left the room, Collins drew Rosemary to him, and
whispered, “Trust me, dear, I’ll straighten out this moil. You are a
Vincent, I’m sure of it! And I’ll prove it, too!”
Rosemary’s heart fell. She was glad of Bryce’s comforting tone, but his
words meant nothing. She knew the story was true. She knew Homer Vincent
was telling the facts and there was no denying them. And she would have
preferred Bryce’s assurance of his love for her, whatever her name might
really be, to his protestations of unbelief of the story.
The four, seated in the Tower room, watched with interest as Homer
Vincent opened the sliding panel and took out some bundles of papers and
letters.
“This is not exactly a secret panel,” he said, noting the curious
glances, “but it is a private hiding-place. One has only to press this
embossed ornament on the panel, and it slides open—as you see.”
The Burlington Hawkeye fastened his alert eyes on the slide, but Collins
paid little attention to it. He was eagerly awaiting a sight of the
papers.
“There are no articles of adoption or anything of that sort,” Vincent
said; “it is possible my brother had some, but at his death all his
personal effects were put into my hands, and I searched in vain for some
such documents. But I have here letters from him and from his wife, which
tell in full detail of the adoption of little Rosemary.
“As may be seen from his marriage certificate, which I have here, my
brother was married in 1904. Here is a letter from him and one from his
bride telling my sister and myself of his marriage. We did not attend the
wedding as he was travelling in France at the time, and was married in
Paris.
“Here is a whole packet of letters from both of them, written in the year
following. You may read them at your leisure, Rosemary, and indeed, they
are at the disposal of any one interested. They tell of the happiness of
the young couple, and of their joy in anticipation of the advent of a
child.
“Later here are the letters that tell of the birth of a daughter in 1905.
And sad letters follow, telling of the early death of the baby. Soon
after that,—here is the letter,—they decided to adopt a little one in
hope of easing the heart of the sorrowing mother.
“Visiting the asylum, they were struck by the beauty and charm of a child
of three years,—our Rosemary. My sister-in-law preferred a child older
than a mere infant, and, too, they thought she showed a vague likeness to
the Vincents. This explains, Bryce, the resemblance you have noted.
“So the little girl was taken into their home, at first on trial,
and then gladly adopted permanently. I daresay it was because of the
temporary arrangement at first, that papers of adoption were not formally
made out. Or it may be that my brother did not wish them. At any rate,
there were none drawn up, and the little Rosemary simply grew up as the
real daughter of her adopted parents. I do not mean that my brother
and his wife pretended she was their own child, or wished to deceive
anybody. But she was as a daughter to them, and when, at her mother’s
death, Rosemary and her father went to live in Seattle, he said nothing
about her adoption and she passed as his own. All this I learned from
his letters, which were regular though not frequent throughout his life.
Then, when his sudden death occurred, in a frightful motor accident, I
went out there at once, settled up his estate and brought Rosemary home
with me.
“Knowing she was ignorant of the truth, my sister and I never told her.
Often we talked it over, often had anxious and worried hours wondering
what was our duty, and how best to tell Rosemary what she must eventually
know.
“And then my sister was taken from me, and I had to face our family
problem alone. There was but one way open to me. Rosemary has grown to be
a woman. No longer a child, the truth was her due, and she had to have
it. No woman would want to be allowed to marry a man in ignorance of such
a truth. No man should be allowed to marry a woman under such a delusion.
Tell me, Rosemary, tell me, Bryce, tell me, Mr. Prentiss, did I not do
right, did I not do my duty, however hard a task, when I told Rosemary
the truth?”
Homer Vincent’s face was troubled, his voice shook a little, but he
looked squarely in the faces of one after another as he awaited their
answers.
Rosemary, sobbing, could not respond. Bryce Collins, convinced at last,
was speechless with surprise and consternation.
So the Burlington Hawkeye answered. He spoke slowly and cautiously.
“I suppose, Mr. Vincent, there was no other way to proceed. You are sure
of all you have told us?”
“There are the letters.” Homer Vincent spoke wearily, as if worn out by
the harrowing scene. “As you can see, they are written and posted in
Paris on the dates I have mentioned. Good heavens, man, do you suppose I
trumped up this yarn? The letters bear their truth stamped on their face!
I have scores more of my brother’s letters, you may compare them—but,”
his voice dropped to a quieter key, “you have only to read those letters
from my sister-in-law, to realize that they are from a heartbroken mother
mourning the loss of her own baby, and later from a cheerful-hearted
woman glad in the possession of her adopted little one.”
“I don’t remember anything about being in the asylum,” Rosemary said,
slowly. “Don’t children remember their experiences at three years old?”
“You never did,” Vincent said. “Your aunt and I frequently quizzed you
when you first came here, to see how far back you could remember. And
you never spoke of anything that happened before you lived with my
brother.”
“Yes,” Rosemary said, “I remember such questionings by you and Antan.”
Prentiss had been reading the letters hastily, but with deep absorption.
“Of course it’s true,” he said, throwing down the last one. “Those
letters are too positively genuine to admit of the slightest doubt. But
would you not think that Mr. Carl Vincent would have made some provision
for his adopted daughter in his will?”
“I have no doubt he meant to do so,” Vincent returned. “But he, like
many another man, postponed the matter, and then death overtook him
without warning. But no one can say that my sister and myself treated
Rosemary as other than our own niece. We have indulged her every whim;
given her every luxury, and surrounded her with all the joys and comforts
of a beautiful home. If now, that my sister is no longer here, and
I, myself, am in advancing years,—if now, I feel that I cannot have
the responsibility of the ordering of the life of a vivacious young
lady,—it can scarcely be wondered at. And, since I am willing to make
generous provision for her maintenance, and since she is not really
a blood-relative of mine, I feel that I should not be too severely
criticized for consulting my own well-being in the matter.”
“As you always have done and always will do!” blurted out Collins. “You
are a selfish, self-indulgent, self-centered man, Mr. Vincent! You have
no sympathy nor consideration for the helpless girl you thrust from your
roof! You!—”
“Just a moment, Mr. Collins. What about yourself? Do you want to marry
the nameless girl you thought was my niece? Do you want to give your
children a nameless mother? Where now are your protestations of love and
devotion to Rosemary?”
Collins put a strong, protecting arm round the sobbing girl beside him.
“My love and devotion are stronger than ever,” he declared. “I do want to
marry her—and at once. It matters not to me who her parents were—she is
my love—my Rosemary!”