enter into a discussion with this woman on the very subject I had just
shrunk from talking over with the locksmith. "Girls as frail and nervous
as she is, sometimes astonish one at a pinch. I do not think Lucetta
lacks daring."
"You don't know her. Why, I have seen her jump at the sight of a spider,
and heaven knows that they are common enough among the decaying walls in
which she lives. A puny chit, Miss Butterworth; pretty enough, but weak.
The very kind to draw lovers, but not to hold them. Yet every one pities
her, her smile is so heart-broken."
"With ghosts to trouble her and a lover to bemoan, she has surely some
excuse for that," said I.
"Yes, I don't deny it. But why has she a lover to bemoan? He seemed a
proper man and much beyond the ordinary. Why let him go as she did? Even
her sister admits that she loved him."
"I am not acquainted with the circumstances," I suggested.
"Well, there isn't much of a story to it. He is a young man from over
the mountains, well educated, and with something of a fortune of his
own. He came here to visit the Spears, I believe, and seeing Lucetta
leaning one day on the gate in front of her house, he fell in love with
her and began to pay her his attentions. That was before the lane got
its present bad name, but not before one or two men had vanished from
among us. William--that is her brother, you know--has always been
anxious to have his sisters marry, so he did not stand in the way, and
no more did Miss Knollys, but after two or three weeks of doubtful
courtship, the young man went away, and that was the end of it. And a
great pity, too, say I, for once clear of that house, Lucetta would grow
into another person. Sunshine and love are necessities to most women,
Miss Butterworth, especially to such as are weakly and timid."
I thought the qualification excellent.
"You are right," I assented, "and I should like to see the result of
them upon Lucetta." Then, with an attempt to still further sound this
woman's mind and with it the united mind of the whole village, I
remarked: "The young do not usually throw aside such prospects without
excellent reasons. Have you never thought that Lucetta was governed by
principle in discarding this very excellent young man?"
"Principle? What principle could she have had in letting a desirable
husband go?"
"She may have thought the match an undesirable one for him."
"For him? Well, I never thought of that. True, she may. They are known
to be poor, but poverty don't count in such old families as theirs. I
hardly think she would be influenced by any such consideration. Now, if
this had happened since the lane got its bad name and all this stir had
been made about the disappearance of certain folks within its precincts,
I might have given some weight to your suggestion--women are so queer.
But this happened long ago and at a time when the family was highly
thought of, leastwise the girls, for William does not go for much, you
know--too stupid and too brutal."
William! Would the utterance of that name heighten my suggestion? I
surveyed her closely, but could detect no change in her somewhat puzzled
countenance.
"My allusions were not in reference to the disappearances," said I. "I
was thinking of something else. Lucetta is not well."
"Ah, I know! They say she has some kind of heart complaint, but that was
not true then. Why, her cheeks were like roses in those days, and her
figure as plump and pretty as any you could see among our village
beauties. No, Miss Butterworth, it was through her weakness she lost
him. She probably palled upon his taste. It was noticed that he held his
head very high in going out of town."
"Has he married since?" I asked.
"Not to my knowledge, ma'am."
"Then he loved her," I declared.
She looked at me quite curiously. Doubtless that word sounds a little
queer on my lips, but that shall not deter me from using it when the
circumstances seem to require. Besides, there was once a time--But
there, I promised to fall into no digressions.
"You should have been married yourself, Miss Butterworth," said she.
I was amazed, first at her daring, and secondly that I was so little
angry at this sudden turning of the tables upon myself. But then the
woman meant no offence, rather intended a compliment.
"I am very well contented as I am," I returned. "_I_ am neither sickly
nor timid."
She smiled, looked as if she thought it only common politeness to agree
with me, and tried to say so, but finding the situation too much for
her, coughed and discreetly held her peace. I came to her rescue with a
new question:
"Have the women of the Knollys family ever been successful in love? The
mother of these girls, say--she who was Miss Althea Burroughs--was her
life with her husband happy? I have always been curious to know. She and
I were schoolmates."
"You were? You knew Althea Knollys when she was a girl? Wasn't she
charming, ma'am? Did you ever see a livelier girl or one with more knack
at winning affection? Why, she couldn't sit down with you a half-hour
before you felt like sharing everything you had with her. It made no
difference whether you were man or woman, it was all the same. She had
but to turn those mischievous, pleading eyes upon you for you to become
a fool at once. Yet her end was sad, ma'am; too sad, when you remember
that she died at the very height of her beauty alone and in a foreign
land. But I have not answered your question. Were she and the judge
happy together? I have never heard to the contrary, ma'am. I'm sure he
mourned her faithfully enough. Some think that her loss killed him. He
did not survive her more than three years."
"The children do not favor her much," said I, "but I see an expression
now and then in Lucetta which reminds me of her mother."
"They are all Knollys," said she. "Even William has traits which, with a
few more brains back of them, would remind you of his grandfather, who
was the plainest of his race."
I was glad that the talk had reverted to William.
"He seems to lack heart, as well as brains," I said. "I marvel that his
sisters put up with him as well as they do."
"They cannot help it. He is not a fellow to be fooled with. Besides, he
holds third share in the house. If they could sell it! But, deary me,
who would buy an old tumble-down place like that, on a road you cannot
get folks who have any consideration for their lives to enter for love
or money? But excuse me, ma'am; I forgot that you are living just now on
that very road. I'm sure I beg a thousand pardons."
"I am living there as a guest," I returned. "I have nothing to do with
its reputation--except to brave it."
"A courageous thing to do, ma'am, and one that may do the road some
good. If you can spend a month with the Knollys girls and come out of
their house at the end as hale and hearty as you entered it, it will be
the best proof possible that there is less to be feared there than some
people think. I shall be glad if you can do it, ma'am, for I like the
girls and would be glad to have the reputation of the place restored."
"Pshaw!" was my final comment. "The credulity of the town has had as
much to do with its loss as they themselves. That educated people such
as I see here should believe in ghosts!"
I say final, for at this moment the good lady, springing up, put an end
to our conversation. She had just seen a buggy pass the window.
"It's Mr. Trohm," she exclaimed. "Ma'am, if you wish to return home
before Mr. Simsbury comes back you may be able to do so with this
gentleman. He's a most obliging man, and lives less than a quarter of a
mile from the Misses Knollys."
I did not say I had already met the gentleman. Why, I do not know. I
only drew myself up and waited with some small inner perturbation for
the result of the inquiry I saw she had gone to make.
XIV
I FORGET MY AGE, OR, RATHER, REMEMBER IT
Mr. Trohm did not disappoint my expectations. In another moment I
perceived him standing in the open doorway with the most genial smile on
his lips.
"Miss Butterworth," said he, "I feel too honored. If you will deign to
accept a seat in my buggy, I shall only be too happy to drive you home."
I have always liked the manners of country gentlemen. There is just a
touch of formality in their bearing which has been quite eliminated from
that of their city brothers. I therefore became gracious at once and
accepted the seat he offered me without any hesitation.
The heads that showed themselves at the neighboring windows warned us to
hasten on our route. Mr. Trohm, with a snap of his whip, touched up his
horse, and we rode in dignified calm away from the hotel steps into the
wide village street known as the main road. The fact that Mr. Gryce had
told me that this was the one man I could trust, joined to my own
excellent knowledge of human nature and the persons in whom explicit
confidence can be put, made the moment one of great satisfaction to me.
I was about to make my appearance at the Knollys mansion two hours
before I was expected, and thus outwit Lucetta by means of the one man
whose assistance I could conscientiously accept.
We were not slow in beginning conversation. The fine air, the prosperous
condition of the town offered themes upon which we found it quite easy
to dilate, and so naturally and easily did our acquaintanceship progress
that we had turned the corner into Lost Man's Lane before I quite
realized it. The entrance from the village offered a sharp contrast to
the one I had already traversed. There it was but a narrow opening
between sombre and unduly crowding trees. Here it was the gradual
melting of a village street into a narrow and less frequented road,
which only after passing Deacon Spear's house assumed that aspect of
wildness which a quarter of a mile farther on deepened into something
positively sombre and repellent.
I speak of Deacon Spear because he was sitting on his front doorstep
when we rode by. As he was a resident in the lane, I did not fail to
take notice of him, though guardedly and with such restraint as a
knowledge of his widowed condition rendered both wise and proper.
He was not an agreeable-looking person, at least to me. His hair was
sleek, his beard well cared for, his whole person in good if not
prosperous condition, but he had the self-satisfied expression I detest,
and looked after us with an aspect of surprise I chose to consider a
trifle impertinent. Perhaps he envied Mr. Trohm. If so, he may have had
good reason for it--it is not for me to judge.
Up to now I had seen only a few scrub bushes at the side of the road,
with here and there a solitary poplar to enliven the dead level on
either side of us; but after we had ridden by the fence which sets the
boundary to the good deacon's land, I noticed such a change in the
appearance of the lane that I could not but exclaim over the natural as
well as cultivated beauties which every passing moment was bringing
before me.
Mr. Trohm could not conceal his pleasure.
"These are my lands," said he. "I have bestowed unremitting attention
upon them for years. It is my hobby, madam. There is not a tree you see
that has not received my careful attention. Yonder orchard was set out
by me, and the fruit it yields--Madam, I hope you will remain long
enough with us to taste a certain rare and luscious peach that I brought
from France a few years ago. It gives promise of reaching its full
perfection this year, and I shall be gratified indeed if you can give it
your approval."
This was politeness indeed, especially as I knew what value men like him
set upon each individual fruit they watch ripen under their care.
Testifying my appreciation of his kindness, I endeavored to introduce
another and less harmless and perhaps less personally interesting topic
of conversation. The chimneys of his house were beginning to show over
the trees, and I had heard nothing from this man on the subject which
should have been the most interesting of all to me at this moment. And
he was the only person in town I was at liberty to really confide in,
and possibly the only man in town who could give me a reliable statement
of the reasons why the family I was visiting was regarded in a doubtful
light not only by the credulous villagers, but by the New York police. I
began by an allusion to the phantom coach.
"I hear," said I, "that this lane has other claims to attention beyond
those afforded by the mysteries connected with it. I hear that it has at
times a ghostly visitant in the shape of a spectral horse and carriage."
"Yes," he replied, with a seeming understanding that was very
flattering; "do not spare the lane one of its honors. It has its nightly
horror as well as its daily fear. I wish the one were as unreal as the
other."
"You act as if both were unreal to you," said I. "The contrast between
your appearance and that of some other members of the lane is quite
marked."
"You refer"--he seemed to hate to speak--"to the Misses Knollys, I
presume."
I endeavored to treat the subject lightly.
"To your young enemy, Lucetta," I smilingly replied.
He had been looking at me in a perfectly modest and respectful manner,
but he dropped his eyes at this and busied himself abstractedly, and yet
I thought with some intention, in removing a fly from the horse's flank
with the tip of his whip.
"I will not acknowledge her as an enemy," he quietly returned in
strictly modulated tones. "I like the girl too well."
The fly had been by this time dislodged, but he did not look up.
"And William?" I suggested. "What do you think of William?"
Slowly he straightened himself. Slowly he dropped the whip back into its
socket. I thought he was going to answer, when suddenly his whole
attitude changed and he turned upon me a beaming face full of nothing
but pleasure.
"The road takes a turn here. In another moment you will see my house."
And even while he spoke it burst upon us, and I instantly forgot that I
had just ventured on a somewhat hazardous question.
It was such a pretty place, and it was so beautifully and exquisitely
kept. There was a charm about its rose-encircled porch that is only to
be found in very old places that have been appreciatively cared for. A
high fence painted white inclosed a lawn like velvet, and the house
itself, shining with a fresh coat of yellow paint, bore signs of comfort
in its white-curtained windows not usually to be found in the solitary
dwelling of a bachelor. I found my eyes roving over each detail with
delight, and almost blushed, or, rather, had I been twenty years younger
might have been thought to blush, as I met his eyes and saw how much my
pleasure gratified him.
"You must excuse me if I express too much admiration for what I see
before me," I said, with what I have every reason to believe was a
highly successful effort to hide my confusion. "I have always had a
great leaning towards well-ordered walks and trimly kept flower-beds--a
leaning, alas! which I have found myself unable to gratify."
"Do not apologize," he hastened to say. "You but redouble my own
pleasure in thus honoring my poor efforts with your regard. I have
spared no pains, madam, I have spared no pains to render this place
beautiful, and most of what you see, I am proud to say, has been
accomplished by my own hands."
"Indeed!" I cried in some surprise, letting my eye rest with
satisfaction on the top of a long well-sweep that was one of the
picturesque features of the place.
"It may have been folly," he remarked, with a gloating sweep of his eye
over the velvet lawn and flowering shrubs--a peculiar look that seemed
to express something more than the mere delight of possession, "but I
seemed to begrudge any hired assistance in the tending of plants every
one of which seems to me like a personal friend."
"I understand," was my somewhat un-Butterworthian reply. I really did
not quite know myself. "What a contrast to the dismal grounds at the
other end of the lane!"
This was more in my usual vein. He seemed to feel the difference, for
his expression changed at my remark.
"Oh, that den!" he exclaimed, bitterly; then, seeing me look a little
shocked, he added, with an admirable return to his old manner, "I call
any place a den where flowers do not grow." And jumping from the buggy,
he gathered an exquisite bunch of heliotrope, which he pressed upon me.
"I love sunshine, beds of roses, fountains, and a sweep of lawn like
this we see before us. But do not let me bore you. You have probably
lingered long enough at the old bachelor's place and now would like to
drive on. I will be with you in a moment. Doubtful as it is whether I
shall soon again be so fortunate as to be able to offer you any
hospitality, I would like to bring you a glass of wine--or, for I see
your eyes roaming longingly toward my old-fashioned well, would you like
a draft of water fresh from the bucket?"
I assured him I did not drink wine, at which I thought his eyes
brightened, but that neither did I indulge in water when in a heat, as
at present, at which he looked disappointed and came somewhat
reluctantly back to the buggy.
He brightened up, however, the moment he was again at my side.
"Now for the woods," he exclaimed, with what was undoubtedly a forced
laugh.
I thought the opportunity one I ought not to slight.
"Do you think," said I, "that it is in those woods the disappearances
occur of which Miss Knollys has told me?"
He showed the same hesitancy as before to enter upon this subject.
"I think the less you allow your mind to dwell on this matter the
better," said he--"that is, if you are going to remain long in this
lane. I do not expend any more thought upon it than is barely necessary,
or I should not retain sufficient courage to remain among my roses and
my fruits. I wonder--pardon me the indiscretion--that you could bring
yourself to enter so ill-reputed a neighborhood. You must be a very
brave woman."
"I thought it my duty--" I began. "Althea Knollys was my friend, and I
felt I owed a duty toward her children. Besides--" Should I tell Mr.
Trohm my real errand in this place? Mr. Gryce had intimated that he was
in the confidence of the police, and if so, his assistance in case of
necessity might be of inestimable value to me. Yet if no such necessity
should arise would I want this man to know that Amelia Butterworth--No,
I would not take him into my confidence--not yet. I would only try to
get at his idea of where the blame lay--that is, if he had any.
"Besides," he suggested in polite reminder, after waiting a minute or
two for me to continue.
"Did I say besides?" was my innocent rejoinder. "I think I meant that
after seeing them my sense of the importance of that duty had increased.
William especially seems to be a young man of very doubtful amiability."
Immediately the non-commital look returned to Mr. Trohm's face.
"I have no fault to find with William," said he. "He's not the most
agreeable companion in the world perhaps, but he has a pretty fancy for
fruit--a very pretty fancy."
"One can hardly wonder at that in a neighbor of Mr. Trohm," said I,
watching his look, which was fixed somewhat gloomily upon the forest of
trees now rapidly closing in around us.
"Perhaps not, perhaps not, madam. The sight of a blossoming honeysuckle
hanging from an arbor such as runs along my south walls is a great
stimulant to one's taste, madam, I'll not deny that."
"But William?" I repeated, determined not to let the subject go; "have
you never thought he was a little indifferent to his sisters?"
"A little, madam."
"And a trifle rough to everything but his dogs?"
"A trifle, madam."
Such reticence seemed unnecessary. I was almost angry, but restrained
myself and pursued quietly, "The girls, on the contrary, seem devoted to
him?"
"Women have that weakness."
"And act as if they would do--what would they not do for him?"
"Miss Butterworth, I have never seen a more amiable woman than yourself.
Will you promise me one thing?"
His manner was respect itself, his smile genial and highly contagious. I
could not help responding to it in the way he expected.
"Do not talk to me about this family. It is a painful subject to me.
Lucetta--you know the girl, and I shall not be able to prejudice you
against her--has conceived the idea that I encourage William in an
intimacy of which she does not approve. She does not want him to talk to
me. William has a loose tongue in his head and sometimes drops unguarded
words about their doings, which if any but William spoke--But there, I
am forgetting one of the most important rules of my own life, which is
to keep my mouth from babbling and my tongue from guile. Influence of a
congenial companion, madam; it is irresistible sometimes, especially to
a man living so much alone as myself."
I considered his fault very pardonable, but did not say so lest I should
frighten his confidences away.
"I thought there was something wrong between you," I said. "Lucetta
acted almost afraid of you this morning. I should think she would be
glad of the friendship of so good a neighbor."
His face took on a very sombre look.
"She is afraid of me," he admitted, "afraid of what I have seen or may
see of--their poverty," he added, with an odd emphasis. I scarcely think
he expected to deceive me.
I did not push the subject an inch farther. I saw it had gone as far as
discretion permitted at this time.
We had reached the heart of the forest and were rapidly approaching the
Knollys house. As the tops of its great chimneys rose above the foliage,
I saw his aspect suddenly change.
"I don't know why I should so hate to leave you here," he remarked.
I myself thought the prospect of re-entering the Knollys mansion
somewhat uninviting after the pleasant ride I had had and the glimpse
which had been given me of a really cheery home and pleasant
surroundings.
"This morning I looked upon you as a somewhat daring woman, the progress
of whose stay here would be watched by me with interest, but after the
companionship of the last half-hour I am conscious of an anxiety in your
regard which makes me doubly wish that Miss Knollys had not shut me out
from her home. Are you sure you wish to enter this house again, madam?"
I was surprised--really surprised--at the feeling he showed. If my
well-disciplined heart had known how to flutter it would probably have
fluttered then, but happily the restraint of years did not fail me in
this emergency. Taking advantage of the emotion which had betrayed him
into an acknowledgment of his real feelings regarding the dangers
lurking in this home, despite the check he had endeavored to put upon
his lips, I said, with an attempt at _naivete_ only to be excused by the
exigencies of the occasion:
"Why, I thought you considered this domicile perfectly harmless. You
like the girls and have no fault to find with William. Can it be that
this great building has another occupant? I do not allude to ghosts.
Neither of us are likely to believe in the supernatural."
"Miss Butterworth, you have me at a disadvantage. I do not know of any
other occupant which the house can hold save the three young people you
have mentioned. If I seem to feel any doubt of them--but I don't feel
any doubt. I only dread any place for you which is not watched over by
someone interested in your defence. The danger threatening the
inhabitants of this lane is such a veiled one. If we knew where it
lurked, we would no longer call it danger. Sometimes I think the ghosts
you allude to are not as innocent as mere spectres usually are. But
don't let me frighten you. Don't--" How quick his voice changed! "Ah,
William, I have brought back your guest, you see! I couldn't let her sit
out the noon hour in old Carter's parlor. That would be too much for
even so amiable a person as Miss Butterworth to endure."
I had hardly realized we were so near the gate and certainly was
surprised to find William anywhere within hearing. That his appearance
at this moment was anything but welcome, must be evident to every one.
The sentence which it interrupted might have contained the most
important advice, or at the least a warning I could ill afford to lose.
But destiny was against me, and being one who accepts the inevitable
with good grace, I prepared to alight, with Mr. Trohm's assistance.
The bunch of heliotrope I held was a little in my way or I should have
managed the jump with confidence and dignified agility. As it was, I
tripped slightly, which brought out a chuckle from William that at the
moment seemed more wicked to me than any crime. Meanwhile he had not let
matters proceed thus far without putting more than one question.