Mrs. Spash nodded confirmatively. "Yes, in Spy Pond--over South Quinanog
way. He was swimming all alone. He was taken with cramps way out in the
middle of the Pond. Finally somebody saw him struggling and they put out
in a boat, but they were too late. Miss Murray was in the garden when
they brought him back on a shutter. I was with her. I can see the way
her face looked now. She didn't say anything. Not a word! She turned to
stone. And it didn't seem to me that she ever came back to flesh again.
They was to be married in October. He was a splendid man. He came from
New York."
"Yes. Curiously enough I spent a few days in what used to be his rooms,"
Lindsay informed her.
"That so?" But it was quite apparent that nothing outside the radius of
Quinanog interested Mrs. Spash deeply. She made no further comment.
"Was she very much in love with Lewis?" Lindsay ventured.
"In love! I wish you could see their eyes when they looked at each
other. They'd met late. Miss Murray had always had lots of attention.
But she never seemed to care for anybody--though she'd flirt a
little--until she met Mr. Lewis. It was love at first sight with them."
She proceeded.
"Well, Miss Murray died five years after Mr. Lewis. She died--well, I
don't know exactly what it was. But she had _attacks_. She was a
terrible sufferer. And she was worried--money matters worried her. You
see, little Cherry's mother died when she was born and her father soon
after. Miss Murray'd always had Cherry and felt responsible for her. I
know, because she told me. 'It ain't myself, Eunice Spash,' she said to
me more'n once. 'It's little Cherry.' Anyway, she was alone when her
last attack came. She'd sent for a cousin--I forget the name--to be with
her, and she was up in Boston getting a nurse, and I was in the other
side of the house. I never heard a sound. We found her dead in the
middle of the floor--there." Her crooked forefinger indicated the spot.
"Seemed she'd got up and tried to get to the door to call. But she
dropped and died halfway. She was all contorted. Her face looked--Not so
much suffering of the body as-- Well, you could see it in her face that
it come to her that she was going, and Cherry was left with nothing."
"What became of that cousin?" Lindsay inquired. "I have asked everybody
in the neighborhood, but nobody seems to know."
"And I don't know. She went to Boston, taking Cherry with her. For a
time we heard from Cherry now and then--she'd write letters to the
children. Then we lost sight of her. I don't know whether Miss Murray's
cousin's living or dead; Cherry either."
Lindsay felt that he could have assured her that Cherry was alive; but
his conclusion rested on premises too gauzy for him to hazard the
statement.
Mrs. Spash sighed. She arose, led the way into the hall. "This was Mr.
Monroe's room; and Mr. Gale's room was back of his. He liked the room
that overlooked the garden. Mr. Monroe--"
"That's the big man, the sculptor," Lindsay hazarded.
"How'd you know?" Mrs. Spash pounced on him again.
"Oh, I've talked with a lot of people in the neighborhood," Lindsay
returned evasively.
"That Mr. Monroe," Mrs. Spash glided on easily, "was a case and a half.
Nothing but talk and laugh every moment he was in the house. I used to
admire to have him come."
"Where is he?" Lindsay asked easily. He hoped Mrs. Spash did not guess
how, mentally, he hung upon her answer.
"He went to Italy--to Florence--after Miss Murray died." Mrs. Spash
stopped. "He was in love with Miss Murray. Had been for years. She
wouldn't have him though. He was an awful nice man. Sometimes I thought
she would have him. But after Mr. Lewis came-- Queer, worn't it? I don't
know whether Mr. Monroe's alive or dead."
Again Lindsay felt that he could have assured her that he was alive, but
again gauzy premises inhibited exact conclusions.
"The last I heard of him he was in Rome. 'Tain't likely he's alive now.
_Land_, no! He'd be well over seventy--close onto seventy-five. Mr. Gale
was in love with her too. He was younger. I don't think he ever told
Miss Murray, I never _did_ know if she knew. You couldn't fool me
though. Well, I started out to show you this house. I must be gitting
on. You've seen the slave quarters and the whipping-post upstairs?"
"Yes. _Everybody_ could tell me about the whipping-post and the slave
quarters. But the things I wanted to know--"
"Well, it's natural enough that folks shouldn't know much about her.
Miss Murray was a lady that didn't talk about her own affairs and she
kept sort of to herself, as you might say. She wasn't the kind that ran
in on folks. She wrote by fits and starts. Sometimes she'd stay up late
at night. She _allus_ wrote new-moon time. She said the light of the
crescent moon inspired her. How they used to make fun of her about that!
But she'd write with all of them about, laughing and talking and playing
the piano or singing--and dancing even. The house was so lively those
days--they was all great trainers. And yet she could fall asleep right
in the midst of all that confusion. Well--so you see she wasn't given to
making calls. And then there was always so much to do and so many folks
around at home. Have you been upstairs in the barn?"
"No--not yet. The stairs were all broken away. I had just finished
mending them when I had the pleasure of making your acquaintance."
They both smiled reminiscently.
"Let's go up there now--there must be a lot of things--" She ended her
sentence a little vaguely as the old sometimes do. But the movement with
which she arose from her chair and trotted toward the stairs was full of
an anticipation almost youthful.
"The garden used to be so pretty," she sighed as they started on the
well-worn trail to the barn. "Miss Murray worn't what you might call
practical, but she could make flowers grow. She never cooked, nor sewed,
nor anything sensible, but she'd work in that garden till-- There was
certain combinations of flowers that she used to like; hollyhocks,
especially the garnet ones so dark they was almost black, surrounded by
them blue Canterbury bells; and then phlox in all colors, white and pink
and magenta and lavender and purple. I think there was some things put
out here," she interrupted herself vaguely, "that nobody wanted at the
auction. There wasn't even a bid on them."
She trotted up the stairs like a pony that has suddenly become aged.
Lindsay followed, two steps at a time. The upper story of the barn was
the confused mass of objects that the lumber room of any large household
inevitably collects. Broken chairs; tables, bureaux; rejected pieces of
china; kitchen furnishings; a rusty stove, old boxes; bandboxes; broken
trunks; torn bags.
"There! That's the table Miss Murray used to do her writing at. She said
there never had been a table built big enough for her. I expect that's
why nobody bought it at the auction. 'Twas too big for mortal use, you
might say. The same reason I expect is why the dining-room table didn't
sell either."
"Where did she write?" Lindsay asked, measuring the table with his eye.
"All summer in the south living-room. But when it come winter, she'd
often take her things and set right in front of the fire in the
living-room. Then she'd write at that long table you're writing on."
"This table goes back to the south living-room tomorrow," Lindsay
decided almost inaudibly. "Can you tell me the exact spot?"
"I guess I _can_. Lord knows I've got down on my hands and knees and
dusted the legs often enough. Miss Murray said, though it was soft wood,
it was the oldest piece in the house. She bought it at some old tavern
where they was having a sale. She said it dated back--long before
Revolutionary times--to Colonial days."
"Could you tell me, I wonder, about the rest of Miss Murray's
furniture?" Lindsay came suddenly from out a deep revery. "Do you
remember who bought it? I would like to buy back all that I can get. I'd
like to make the old place look, as much as possible, as it used to
look."
Mrs. Spash flashed him a quick intent look. Then she meditated. "I think
I could probably tell you where most every piece went. The Drakes got
the Field bed and the ivory-keyhole bureau and the ivory-keyhole desk;
and Miss Garnet got the elephant and Mis' Manson got the gazelles--"
"Elephant! Gazelles!" Lindsay interrupted.
"The gazelles," Mrs. Spash smiled indulgently. "Well, it does sound
queer, but Miss Murray used to call those little thin-legged candle
tables that folks use, _gazelles_. The elephant was a great high chest
of drawers. Mis' Manson got the maple gazelles--" She proceeded in what
promised to be an indefinite category.
"Do you think I could buy any of those things back?" Lindsay asked after
listening patiently to the end.
"Some of them, I guess. I have a few things in my attic I'll sell
you--and some I'll give you. I'd admire to see them in the old place
once more."
"You must let me buy them all," Lindsay protested.
"Well, we'll see about that," Mrs. Spash disposed of this disagreement
easily. "Have you seen the Dew Pond yet?"
"The Dew Pond!" Lindsay echoed.
"The little pond beyond the barn," Mrs. Spash explained. Then, as though
a great light dawned, "Oh, of course it's all so growed up round it
you'd never notice it. Come and I'll show it to you."
Lindsay followed her out of the barn. This was all like a dream, he
reflected--but then everything was like a dream nowadays. He had lived
in a dream for two months now. Mrs. Spash struck into a path which led
beyond the barn.
The trail grew narrower and narrower; threatened after a while to
disappear. Lindsay finally took the lead, broke a path. They came
presently on a pond so tiny that it was not a pond at all; it was a
pool. Water-lilies choked it; forget-me-nots bordered it; high wild
roses screened it.
Lindsay stood looking for a long time into it. "It's the Merry Mere of
_Mary Towle_," he meditated aloud. Mrs. Spash received this in the
uninterrogative silence with which she had received other of his
confidences. She apparently fell back easily into the ways of literary
folk.
"I remember now I got a glint of water from one of the upstairs
bedrooms," Lindsay went on, "the first time I came into the house. But I
forgot it instantly; and I've never noticed it since."
"Wait a moment!" Mrs. Spash seemed afraid that he would leave. "There's
something else." She attempted to push her way through the jungle in the
direction of the house. For an instant her progress was easy, then
bushes and vines caught her. Lindsay sprang to her assistance.
"There's something here--that was left," she panted. "Folks have
forgotten all about--" She dropped explanatory phrases.
Heedless of tearing thorns and piercing prickers, Lindsay crashed on.
Mrs. Spash watched expectantly.
"There!" she called with satisfaction.
On a cairn of rocks, filmed over by years of exposure to the weather,
stood what Lindsay immediately recognized to be a large old rum-jar. The
sun found exposed spots on its surface, brought out its rich olive
color.
"After Mr. Lewis died," Mrs. Spash explained, "Miss Murray went abroad
for a year. She went to Egypt. She put this here when she came home.
Then you could see it from the house. The sun shone on it something
handsome. She told me once she went into a temple on the Nile cut out of
the living-rock, where there was room after room, one right back of the
other. In the last one, there was an altar; and once a year, the first
ray of the rising sun would strike through all the rooms and lay on that
altar. Worn't that cute? I allus thought she had that in mind when she
put this here."
Lindsay contemplated the old rum-jar. Mrs. Spash contemplated him. And
suddenly it was as though she were looking at Lindsay from a new point
of view.
Lindsay's face had changed subtly in the last two months. The sun of
Quinanog had added but little to the tan and burn with which three years
of flying had crusted it. He was still very handsome. It was not,
however, this comeliness that Mrs. Spash seemed to be examining. The
experiences at Quinanog had softened the deliberate stoicism of his
look. Rather they had fed some inner softness; had fired it. His air was
now one of perpetual question. Yet dreams often invaded his eyes;
blurred them; drooped his lips.
"It's all unbelievable," Lindsay suddenly commented, "I don't believe
it. I don't believe you. I don't believe myself."
Mrs. Spash still kept her eyes fixed on the young man's face. Her look
had grown piercing.
"Have you a shovel handy?" she surprisingly asked.
"Yes, why?"
Mrs. Spash did not answer immediately. He turned and looked at her. She
was still gazing at him hard; but the light from some long-harbored
emotion of her dulled old soul was shining bluely in her dulled old
eyes.
"I want you should get it," she ordered briefly. "There's something
right here," she pointed, "that I want you to dig up."