sit in Carter's parlor?"
"Mr. Simsbury," said I as soon as I could recover from the mingled
exertion and embarrassment of my descent to terra firma, "felt it
necessary to take the horse to the shoer's. That is a half-day's work,
as you know, and I felt confident that he and especially you would be
glad to have me accept any means for escaping so dreary a waiting."
The grunt he uttered was eloquent of anything but satisfaction.
"I'll go tell the girls," he said. But he didn't go till he had seen Mr.
Trohm enter his buggy and drive slowly off.
That all this did not add to my liking for William goes without saying.
_BOOK II_
THE FLOWER PARLOR
XV
LUCETTA FULFILS MY EXPECTATION OF HER
It was not till Mr. Trohm had driven away that I noticed, in the shadow
of the trees on the opposite side of the road, a horse tied up, whose
empty saddle bespoke a visitor within. At any other gate and on any
other road this would not have struck me as worthy of notice, much less
of comment. But here, and after all that I had heard during the morning,
the circumstance was so unexpected I could not help showing my
astonishment.
"A visitor?" I asked.
"Some one to see Lucetta."
William had no sooner said this than I saw he was in a state of high
excitement. He had probably been in this condition when we drove up, but
my attention being directed elsewhere I had not noticed it. Now,
however, it was perfectly plain to me, and it did not seem quite the
excitement of displeasure, though hardly that of joy.
"She doesn't expect you yet," he pursued, as I turned sharply toward the
house, "and if you interrupt her--D--n it, if I thought you would
interrupt her----"
I thought it time to teach him a lesson in manners.
"Mr. Knollys," I interposed somewhat severely, "I am a lady. Why should
I interrupt your sister or give her or you a moment of pain?"
"I don't know," he muttered. "You are so very quick I was afraid you
might think it necessary to join her in the parlor. She is perfectly
able to take care of herself, Miss Butterworth, and if she don't do
it--" The rest was lost in indistinct guttural sounds.
I made no effort to answer this tirade. I took my usual course in quite
my usual way to the front steps and proceeded to mount them without so
much as looking behind me to see whether or not this uncouth
representative of the Knollys name had kept at my heels or not.
Entering the door, which was open, I came without any effort on my part
upon Lucetta and her visitor, who proved to be a young gentleman. They
were standing together in the middle of the hall and were so absorbed in
what they were saying that they neither saw nor heard me. I was
therefore enabled to catch the following sentences, which struck me as
of some moment. The first was uttered by her, and in very pleading
tones:
"A week--I only ask a week. Then perhaps I can give you an answer which
will satisfy you."
His reply, in manner if not in matter, proclaimed him the lover of whom
I had so lately heard.
"I cannot, dear girl; indeed, I cannot. My whole future depends upon my
immediately making the move in which I have asked you to join me. If I
wait a week, my opportunity will be gone, Lucetta. You know me and you
know how I love you. Then come----"
A rude hand on my shoulder distracted my attention. William stood
lowering behind me and, as I turned, whispered in my ear:
"You must come round the other way. Lucetta is so touchy, the sight of
you will drive every sensible idea out of her head."
His blundering whisper did what my presence and by no means light
footsteps had failed to do. With a start Lucetta turned and, meeting my
eye, drew back in visible confusion. The young man followed her hastily.
"Is it good-by, Lucetta?" he pleaded, with a fine, manly ignoring of our
presence that roused my admiration.
She did not answer. Her look was enough. William, seeing it, turned
furious at once, and, bounding by me, faced the young man with an oath.
"You're a fool to take no from a silly chit like that," he vociferated.
"If I loved a girl as you say you love Lucetta, I'd have her if I had to
carry her away by force. She'd stop screaming before she was well out of
the lane. I know women. While you listen to them they'll talk and talk;
but once let a man take matters into his own hands and--" A snap of his
fingers finished the sentence. I thought the fellow brutal, but scarcely
so stupid as I had heretofore considered him.
His words, however, might just as well have been uttered into empty air.
The young man he so violently addressed appeared hardly to have heard
him, and as for Lucetta, she was so nearly insensible from misery that
she had sufficient ado to keep herself from falling at her lover's feet.
"Lucetta, Lucetta, is it then good-by? You will not go with me?"
"I cannot. William, here, knows that I cannot. I must wait till----"
But here her brother seized her so violently by the wrist that she
stopped from sheer pain, I fear. However that was, she turned pale as
death under his clutch, and, when he tried to utter some hot, passionate
words into her ear, shook her head, but did not speak, though her lover
was gazing with a last, final appeal into her eyes. The delicate girl
was bearing out my estimate of her.
Seeing her thus unresponsive, William flung her hand from him and turned
upon me.
"It's your fault," he cried. "You _would_ come in----"
But, at this, Lucetta, recovering her poise in a moment, cried out
shrilly:
"For shame, William! What has Miss Butterworth to do with this? You are
not helping me with your roughness. God knows I find this hour hard
enough, without this show of anxiety on your part to be rid of me."
"There's woman's gratitude for you," was his snarling reply. "I offer to
take all the responsibilities on my own shoulders and make it right
with--with her sister, and all that, and she calls it desire to get rid
of her. Well, have your own way," he growled, storming down the hall;
"I'm done with it for one."
The young man, whose attitude of reserve, mixed with a strange and
lingering tenderness for this girl, whom he evidently loved without
fully understanding her, was every minute winning more and more of my
admiration, had meanwhile raised her trembling hand to his lips in what
was, as we all could see, a last farewell.
In another moment he was walking by us, giving me as he passed a low bow
that for all its grace did not succeed in hiding from me the deep and
heartfelt disappointment with which he quitted this house. As his figure
passed through the door, hiding for one moment the sunshine, I felt an
oppression such as has not often visited my healthy nature, and when it
passed and disappeared, something like the good spirit of the place
seemed to go with it, leaving in its place doubt, gloom, and a morbid
apprehension of that unknown something which in Lucetta's eyes had
rendered his dismissal necessary.
"Where's Saracen? I declare I'm nothing but a fool without that dog,"
shouted William. "If he has to be tied up another day--" But shame was
not entirely eliminated from his breast, for at Lucetta's reproachful
"William!" he sheepishly dropped his head and strode out, muttering some
words I was fain to accept as an apology.
I had expected to encounter a wreck in Lucetta, as, this episode in her
life closed, she turned toward me. But I did not yet know this girl,
whose frailty seemed to lie mostly in her physique. Though she was
suffering far more than her defence of me to her brother would seem to
denote, there was a spirit in her approach and a steady look in her dark
eye which assured me that I could not calculate upon any loss in
Lucetta's keenness, in case we came to an issue over the mystery that
was eating into the happiness as well as the honor of this household.
"I am glad to see you," were her unexpected words. "The gentleman who
has just gone out was a lover of mine; at least he once professed to
care for me very much, and I should have been glad to have married him,
but there were reasons which I once thought most excellent why this
seemed anything but expedient, and so I sent him away. To-day he came
without warning to ask me to go away with him, after the hastiest of
ceremonies, to South America, where a splendid prospect has suddenly
opened for him. You see, don't you, that I could not do that; that it
would be the height of selfishness in me to leave Loreen--to leave
William----"
"Who seems only too anxious to be left," I put in, as her voice trailed
off in the first evidence of embarrassment she had shown since she faced
me.
"William is a difficult man to understand," was her firm but quiet
retort. "From his talk you would judge him to be morose, if not
positively unkind, but in action--" She did not tell me how he was in
action. Perhaps her truthfulness got the better of her, or perhaps she
saw it would be hard work to prejudice me now in his favor.
XVI
LOREEN
Lucetta had said to her departing lover, that in a week she might be
able (were he willing or in a position to wait) to give him a more
satisfactory answer. Why in a week?
That her hesitation sprang from the mere dislike of leaving her sister
so suddenly, or that she had sacrificed her life's happiness to any
childish idea of decorum, I did not think probable. The spirit she had
shown, her immovable attitude under a temptation which had not only
romance to recommend it, but everything else which could affect a young
and sensitive woman, argued in my mind the existence of some uncompleted
duty of so exacting and imperative a nature that she could not even
consider the greatest interests of her own life until this one thing was
out of her way. William's rude question of the morning, "What shall we
do with the old girl till it is all over?" recurred to me in support of
this theory, making me feel that I needed no further confirmation, to be
quite certain that a crisis was approaching in this house which would
tax my powers to the utmost and call perhaps for the use of the whistle
which I had received from Mr. Gryce, and which, following his
instructions, I had tied carefully about my neck. Yet how could I
associate Lucetta with crime, or dream of the police in connection with
the serene Loreen, whose every look was a rebuke to all that was false,
vile, or even common? Easily, my readers, easily, with that great,
hulking William in my remembrance. To shield _him_, to hide perhaps his
deformity of soul from the world, even such gentle and gracious women as
these have been known to enter into acts which to an unprejudiced eye
and an unbiased conscience would seem little short of fiendish. Love for
an unworthy relative, or rather the sense of duty toward those of one's
own blood, has driven many a clear-minded woman to her ruin, as may be
seen any day in the police annals.
I am quite aware that I have not as yet put into definite words the
suspicion upon which I was now prepared to work. Up to this time it had
been too vague, or rather of too monstrous a character for me not to
consider other theories, such as, for instance, the possible connection
of old Mother Jane with the unaccountable disappearances which had taken
place in this lane. But after this scene, the increased assurance I was
hourly receiving that something extraordinary and out of keeping with
the customary appearances of the household was secretly going on in some
one of the various chambers of that long corridor I had been prevented
from entering, forced me to accept and act upon the belief that these
young women held in charge a prisoner of some kind, of whose presence in
the house they dreaded the discovery.
Now, who could this prisoner be?
Common sense supplied me with but one answer; Silly Rufus, the boy who
within a few days had vanished from among the good people of this
seemingly guileless community.
This theory once established in my mind, I applied myself to a
consideration of the means at my disposal for determining its validity.
The simplest, surest, but least satisfactory to one of my nature was to
summon the police and have the house thoroughly searched, but this
involved, in case I had been deceived by appearances--as was possible
even to a woman of my experience and discrimination,--a scandal and an
opprobrium which I would be the last to inflict upon Althea's children,
unless justice to the rest of the world demanded it.
It was in consideration of this very fact, perhaps, that I had been
chosen for this duty instead of some regular police spy. Mr. Gryce, as I
very well knew, has made it his rule of life never to risk the
reputation of any man or woman without reasons so excellent as to carry
their own exoneration with them, and should I, a woman, with full as
much heart as himself, if not quite as much brain (at least in the
estimation of people in general), by any premature exposure of my
suspicions, subject these young friends of mine to humiliations they are
far too weak and too poor to rise above?
No, rather would I trust a little longer to my own perspicacity and make
sure by the use of my own eyes that the situation called for the
interference I had, as you may say, at the end of the cord I wore about
my neck.
Lucetta had not asked me how I came to be back so much sooner than she
had reason to expect me. The unlooked-for arrival of her lover had
probably put all idea of her former plans out of her head. I therefore
gave her the shortest of explanations when we met at the dinner table.
Nothing further seemed to be necessary, for the girls were even more
abstracted than before, and William positively boorish till a warning
glance from Loreen recalled him to his better self, which meant silence.
The afternoon was spent in very much the same way as the evening before.
Neither sister remained an instant with me after the other entered my
company, and though the alternations were less frequent than at that
time, their peculiarities were more marked and less naturally accounted
for. It was while Loreen was with me that I made the suggestion which
had been hovering on my lips ever since the noon.
"I consider this," I observed, in one of the pauses of our more than
fitful conversation, "one of the most interesting houses it has ever
been my good fortune to enter. Would you mind my roaming about a bit
just to enjoy the old-time flavor of its great empty rooms? I know they
are mostly closed and possibly unfurnished, but to a connoisseur like
myself in colonial architecture, this rather adds to, than detracts
from, their interest."
"Impossible," she was going to say, but caught herself back in time and
changed the imperative word to one more conciliatory if equally
unyielding.
"I am sorry, Miss Butterworth, to deny you this gratification, but the
condition of the rooms and the unhappy excitement into which we have
been thrown by the unfortunate visit paid to Lucetta by a gentleman to
whom she is only too much attached, make it quite impossible for me to
consider any such undertaking to-day. To-morrow I may find it easier;
but, if not, be assured you shall see every nook and corner of this
house before you finally leave it."
"Thank you. I will remember that. To one of my tastes an ancient room in
a time-honored mansion like this, affords a delight not to be understood
by one who knows less of the last century's life. The legends connected
with your great drawing-room below [we were sitting in my room, I having
refused to be cooped up in their dreary side parlor, and she not having
offered me any other spot more cheerful] are sufficient in themselves to
hold me entranced for an hour. I heard one of them to-day."
"Which?"
She spoke more quickly than usual, and for her quite sharply.
"That of Lucetta's namesake," I explained. "She who rode through the
night after a daughter who had won her lover's heart away from her.
"Ah, it is a well-known tale, but I think Mrs. Carter might have left
its relation to us. Did she tell you anything else?"
"No other tradition of this place," I assured her.
"I am glad she was so considerate. But why--if you will pardon me--did
she happen to light upon that story? We have not heard those incidents
spoken of for years."
"Not since the phantom coach flew through this road the last time," I
ventured, with a smile that should have disarmed her from suspecting any
ulterior motive on my part in thus introducing a subject which could not
be altogether pleasing to her.
"The phantom coach! Have you heard of that?"
I wish it had been Lucetta who had said this and to whom my reply was
due. The opportunities would have been much greater for an injudicious
display of feeling on her part and for a suitable conclusion on mine.
But it was Loreen, and she never forgot herself. So I had to content
myself with the persuasion that her voice was just a whit less clear
than usual and her serenity enough impaired for her to look out of my
one high and dismal window instead of into my face.
"My dear,"--I had not called her this before, though the term had
frequently risen to my lips in answer to Lucetta--"you should have gone
with me into the village to-day. Then you would not need to ask if I had
heard of the phantom coach."
The probe had reached the quick at last. She looked quite startled.
"You amaze me," she said. "What do you mean, Miss Butterworth? Why
should I not have needed to ask?"
"Because you would have heard it whispered about in every lane and
corner. It is common talk in town to-day. You must know why, Miss
Knollys."
She was not looking out of the window now. She was looking at me.
"I assure you," she murmured, "I do not know at all. Nothing could be
more incomprehensible to me. Explain yourself, I entreat you. The
phantom coach is but a myth to me, interesting only as involving certain
long-vanished ancestors of mine."
"Of course," I assented. "No one of real sense could regard it in any
other light. But villagers will talk, and they say--you will soon know
what, if I do not tell you myself--that it passed through the lane on
Tuesday night."
"Tuesday night!" Her composure had been regained, but not so entirely
but that her voice slightly trembled. "That was before you came. I hope
it was not an omen."
I was in no mood for pleasantry.
"They say that the passing of this apparition denotes misfortune to
those who see it. I am therefore obviously exempt. But you--did you see
it? I am just curious to know if it is visible to those who live in the
lane. It ought to have turned in here. Were you fortunate enough to have
been awake at that moment and to have seen this spectral appearance?"
She shuddered. I was not mistaken in believing I saw this sign of
emotion, for I was watching her very closely, and the movement was
unmistakable.
"I have never seen anything ghostly in my life," said she. "I am not at
all superstitious."
If I had been ill-natured or if I had thought it wise to press her too
closely, I might have inquired why she looked so pale and trembled so
visibly.
But my natural kindness, together with an instinct of caution,
restrained me, and I only remarked:
"There you are sensible, Miss Knollys--doubly so as a denizen of this
house, which, Mrs. Carter was obliging enough to suggest to me, is
considered by many as haunted."
The straightening of Miss Knollys' lips augured no good to Mrs. Carter.
"Now I only wish it was," I laughed dryly. "I should really like to meet
a ghost, say, in your great drawing-room, which I am forbidden to
enter."
"You are not forbidden," she hastily returned. "You may explore it now
if you will excuse me from accompanying you; but you will meet no
ghosts. The hour is not propitious."
Taken aback by her sudden amenity, I hesitated for a moment. Would it be
worth while for me to search a room she was willing to have me enter?
No, and yet any knowledge which could be obtained in regard to this
house might be of use to me or to Mr. Gryce. I decided to embrace her
offer, after first testing her with one other question.
"Would you prefer to have me steal down these corridors at night and
dare their dusky recesses at a time when spectres are supposed to walk
the halls they once flitted through in happy consciousness?"
"Hardly." She made the greatest effort to sustain the jest, but her
concern and dread were manifest. "I think I had better give you the keys
now, than subject you to the drafts and chilling discomforts of this old
place at midnight."
I rose with a semblance of eager anticipation.
"I will take you at your word," said I. "The keys, my dear. I am going
to visit a haunted room for the first time in my life."
I do not think she was deceived by this feigned ebullition. Perhaps it
was too much out of keeping with my ordinary manner, but she gave no
sign of surprise and rose in her turn with an air suggestive of relief.
"Excuse me, if I precede you," she begged. "I will meet you at the head
of the corridor with the keys."
I was in hopes she would be long enough in obtaining them to allow me to
stroll along the front hall to the opening into the corridor I was so
anxious to enter. But the spryness I showed, seemed to have a
corresponding effect upon her, for she almost flew down the passageway
before me and was back at my side before I could take a step in the
coveted direction.
"These will take you into any room on the first floor," said she. "You
will meet with dust and Lucetta's abhorrence, spiders, but for these I
shall make no apologies. Girls who cannot provide comforts for the few
rooms they utilize, cannot be expected to keep in order the large and
disused apartments of a former generation."
"I hate dirt and despise spiders," was my dry retort, "but I am willing
to brave both for the pleasure of satisfying my love for the antique."
At which she handed me the keys, with a calm smile which was not without
its element of sadness.
"I will be here on your return," she said, leaning over the banisters to
speak to me as I took my first steps down. "I shall want to hear whether
you are repaid for your trouble."
I thanked her and proceeded on my way, somewhat doubtful whether by so
doing I was making the best possible use of my opportunities.
XVII
THE FLOWER PARLOR
The lower hall did not correspond exactly with the one above. It was
larger, and through its connection with the front door, presented the
shape of a letter T--that is, to the superficial observer who was not
acquainted with the size of the house and had not had the opportunity of
remarking that at the extremities of the upper hall making this T, were
two imposing doors usually found shut except at meal-times, when the
left-hand one was thrown open, disclosing a long and dismal corridor
similar to the ones above. Half-way down this corridor was the
dining-room, into which I had now been taken three times.
The right-hand one, I had no doubt, led the way into the great
drawing-room or dancing-hall which I had started out to see.
Proceeding first to the front of the house, where some glimmer of light
penetrated from the open sitting-room door, I looked the keys over and
read what was written on the several tags attached to them. They were
seven in number, and bore some such names as these: "Blue Chamber,"
"Library," "Flower Parlor," "Shell Cabinet," "Dark Parlor"--all of which
was very suggestive, and, to an antiquarian like myself, most alluring.
But it was upon a key marked "A" I first fixed my attention. This, I had
been told, would open the large door at the extremity of the upper hall,
and when I made a trial with it I found it to move easily, though
somewhat gratingly, in the lock, releasing the great doors, which in
another moment swung inward with a growling sound which might have been
startling to a nervous person filled with the legends of the place.