Lindsay sat in the big living-room beside the refectory table. Mrs.
Spash moved about the room dusting; setting its scanty furnishings to
rights. On the long table before him was set out a series of tiny
villages, some Chinese, some Japanese: little pink or green-edged houses
in white porcelain; little thatched-roofed houses in brown adobe;
pagodas; bridges; pavilions. Dozens of tiny figures, some on mules,
others on foot, and many loaded with burdens walked the streets. A bit
of looking-glass, here and there, made ponds. Ducks floated on them, and
boats; queer Oriental-looking skiffs, manned by tiny, half-clad sailors;
Chinese junks. In neighboring pastures, domestic animals grazed.
Roosters, hens, chickens grouped in back areas.
"That's just what Miss Murray used to do," Mrs. Spash observed. "She'd
play with them toys for hours at a time. And of course Cherry loved them
more than anything in the house. That's the reason I stole them and
buried them."
"How did you manage that exactly?" Lindsay asked.
"Oh, that was easy enough," Mrs. Spash confessed cheerfully. "Between
Miss Murray's death and the auction, I was here a lot, fixing up. They
all trusted me, of course. Those toys was all set out in little villages
by the Dew Pond. Nobody knew that they were there. So I just did them up
in tissue paper and put them in that big tin box and hid them in the
bushes. One night late I came back and buried them. Folks didn't think
of them for a long time after the auction. You see, nobody had touched
them during Miss Murray's illness. And when they did remember them, they
thought they had disappeared during the sale." Mrs. Spash paused a
moment. Her face assumed an expression of extreme disapproval. "Other
things disappeared during the sale," she accused, lowering her voice.
"Who took them?" Lindsay asked.
All the caution of the Yankee appeared in Mrs. Spash's voice. "I don't
know as I'd like to say, because it isn't a thing anybody can prove. I
have my suspicions though."
Lindsay did not continue these inquiries.
"Where did Miss Murray get all these toys?"
"Well, a lot of 'em came from China. Miss Murray had a great-uncle who
was a sea-captain. He used to go on them long whaling voyages. He
brought them to her different times. Miss Murray had played with them
when she was a child, and so she liked to have little Cherry play with
them. Sometimes they'd all go out to the Dew Pond--Miss Murray, Mr.
Monroe, Mr. Gale, Mr. Lewis, and spend a whole afternoon laying them out
in little towns--jess about as you've got 'em there. There was two
little places on the shore that Miss Murray had all cut down, so's the
bushes wouldn't be too tall. They useter call the pond the Pacific
Ocean. One of them cleared places was the China coast and the other the
Japanese coast. They'd stay there for hours, floating little boats back
and forth from China to Japan. And how they'd laugh! I useter listen to
their voices coming through the window. But then, the house was always
full of laughter. It began at seven o'clock in the morning, when they
got up, and it never stopped until--after midnight sometimes--when they
went to bed. Oh, it was such a gay place in those days."
Lindsay arose and stretched. But the stretching did not seem so much an
expression of fatigue or drowsiness as the demand of his spirit for
immediate activity of some sort. He sat down again instantly. Under his
downcast lids, his eyes were bright. "These walls are soaked with
laughter," he remarked.
"Yes," Mrs. Spash seemed to understand. "But there was tears too and
plenty of them--in the last years."
"I suppose there were," Lindsay agreed. He did not speak for a moment;
nor did Mrs. Spash. There came a silence so concentrated that the
sunlight poured into it tangible gold. Then, outside a thick white cloud
caught the sun in its woolly net. The world gloomed again.
"She's sad still," Lindsay dropped in absent comment.
"Yes," Mrs. Spash agreed.
"I wonder what she wants?" Lindsay addressed this to himself. His voice
was so low that perhaps Mrs. Spash did not hear it. At any rate she made
no answer.
Another silence came.
Mrs. Spash finished her dusting. But she lingered. Lindsay still sat at
the table; but his eyes had left the little villages arranged there.
They went through the door and gazed out into the brilliant patch of
sunlight on the grass. There spread under his eyes a narrow stretch of
lawn, all sun-touched velvet; beyond a big crescent of garden.
Low-growing zinnias in futuristic colors, high phlox in pastel colors;
higher, Canterbury bells, deep blue; highest of all, hollyhocks, wine
red. Beyond stretched further expanses of lawn. One tall, wide
wine-glass elm spread a perfect circle of emerald shade. One low, thick
copper-beech dropped an irregular splotch of luminous shadow. Beyond all
this ran the gray, lichened stone wall. And beyond the stone wall came
unredeemed jungle. Mrs. Spash began, all over again, to dust and to
arrange the scanty furniture. After a while she spoke.
"Mr. Lindsay--"
Lindsay started abruptly.
"Mr. Lindsay--that time you fainted when you first saw me, setting out
there on the door-stone, you remember--?"
Lindsay nodded.
"Well, who was you expecting to see?"
Lindsay, alert now as a wire spring, turned on her, not his eyes alone,
nor his head; but his whole body. Mrs. Spash was looking straight at
him. Their glances met midway. The old eyes pierced the young eyes with
an intent scrutiny. The young eyes stabbed the old eyes with an intense
interrogation. Lindsay did not answer her question directly. Instead he
laughed.
"I guess I don't have to answer you," he declared. "I had seen her often
then.... I had seen the others too.... I don't know why _you_ should
have frightened me when _they_ didn't.... I think it was that I wasn't
expecting anything human.... I've seen them since.... They never
frighten me."
Mrs. Spash's reply was simple enough. "I see them all the time." She
added, with a delicate lilt of triumph, "I've seen them for years--"
Lindsay continued to look at her--and now his gaze was somber; even a
little despairing. "What do they want? What does _she_ want?"
Mrs. Spash's reply came instantly, although there were pauses in her
words. "I don't know. I've tried.... I can't make out." She accompanied
these simple statements with a reinforcing decisive nod of her little
head.
"I can't guess either--I can't conjecture-- There's something she wants
me to do. She can't tell me. And they're trying to help her tell me. All
except the little girl--"
"Do you see the little girl?" Mrs. Spash demanded. "Well, I declare!
That's very queer, I must say. I never see Cherry."
"I wish I saw her oftener," Lindsay laughed ruefully. "_She_ doesn't ask
anything of me. She's just herself. But the others--Gale--Monroe-- My
God! It's killing me!" He laughed again, and this time with a real
amusement.
Mrs. Spash interrupted his laughter. "Do you see Mr. Monroe?" she asked
in a pleased tone. "Well, I declare! Aren't you the fortunate creature.
I never see _him_!"
"All the time," Lindsay answered shortly. "If I could only get it. I
feel so stupid, so incredibly gross and lumbering and heavy. I'd do
anything--"
He arose and walked over to the picture of Lutetia Murray which still
hung above the fireplace. He stared at her hard. "I'd do anything for
her, if I could only find out what it was."
"Yes," Mrs. Spash admitted dispassionately, "that's the thing everybody
felt about her, they'd do anything for her. Not that she ever asked them
to do anything--"
Lindsay began to pace the length of the long room. "What is happening?
Has the old ramshackle time-machine finally broken a spring so that, in
this last revolution, it hauls, out of the past, these pictures of two
decades ago? Or is it that there are superimposed one on the other two
revolving worlds--theirs and ours--and _theirs_ or _ours_ has stopped an
instant, so that I can glance into _theirs_? I feel as though I were in
the dark of a camera obscura gazing into their brightness. Or have those
two years in the air permanently broken my psychology; so that through
that rift I shall always have the power to look into strange worlds? Or
am I just piercing another dimension?"
Mrs. Spash had been following him with her faded, calm old eyes.
Apparently she guessed these questions were not addressed to her. She
kept silence.
"I've racked my brain. I lie awake nights and tear the universe to
pieces. I outguess guessing and outconjecture conjecture. My thoughts
fly to the end of space. My wonder invades the very citadel of fancy. My
surmises storm the last outpost of reality. But it beats me. I can't get
it." Lindsay stopped. Mrs. Spash made no comment. Apparently her twenty
years' training among artists had prepared her for monologues of this
sort. She listened; but it was obvious that she did not understand; did
not expect to understand.
"Does she want me to stay _here_ or go _there_?" Lindsay demanded of the
air. "If _here_, what does she want me to do? If _there_--where is
_there_? If _there_, what does she want me to do _there_? Is her errand
concerned with the living or the dead? If the living, who? If the dead,
who? Where to find them? How to find them?" He turned his glowing eyes
on Mrs. Spash. "I only know two things. She wants me to do something.
She wants me to do it soon. Oh, I suppose I know another thing-- If I
don't do it soon, it will be too late."
Mrs. Spash was still following him with her placid, blue, old gaze.
"There, there!" she said soothingly. "Now don't you get too excited, Mr.
Lindsay. It'll all come to you."
"But how--" Lindsay objected. "And when--"
"I don't know--but she'll tell you somehow. She's cute-- She's awful
cute. You mark my words, she'll find a way."
"That's the reason I don't have you in the house yet, Mrs. Spash,"
Lindsay explained.
"Oh, you don't have to tell me that," Mrs. Spash announced, triumphant
because of her own perspicuity.
"It's only that I have a feeling that she can do it more easily if we're
alone. That's why I send you home at night. She comes oftenest in the
evening when I'm alone. They all do. Oh, it's quite a procession some
nights. They come one after another, all trying--" He paused. "Sometimes
this room is so full of their torture that I-- You know, it all began
before I came here. It began in an apartment in New York. It was in
Jeffrey Lewis' old rooms. He tried to tell me first, you see."
"Did you see Mr. Lewis there?" Mrs. Spash asked this as casually as
though she had said, "Has the postman been here this morning?" She
added, "I see him here."
"No, I didn't see him," Lindsay explained grimly, "but I felt him. And,
believe me, I knew he was there. He was the only one of the lot that
frightened me. I wouldn't have been frightened if I had seen him. It was
he, really, who sent me here. I work it out that he couldn't get it over
and he sent me to Lutetia because he thought she could. I wonder--" he
stopped short. This explanation came as though something had flashed
electrically through his mind. But he did not pursue that wonder.
"Well, don't you get discouraged," Mrs. Spash reiterated. "You mark my
words, she'll manage to say what she's got to say."
"Well, it's time I went to work," Lindsay remarked a little listlessly.
"After all, the life of Lutetia Murray must get finished. Oh, by the
way, Mrs. Spash," Lindsay veered as though remembering suddenly
something he had forgotten, "do other people see them?"
"No--at least I never heard tell that they did."
"How did the rumor get about that the place was haunted, then?"
"I spread it," Mrs. Spash explained. "I didn't want folks breaking in to
see if there was anything to steal. And I didn't want them poking about
the place."
"How did you spread it?"
"I told children," Mrs. Spash said simply. "Less than a month, folks
were seeing all kinds of ridic'lous ghosts here. Nobody likes to go by
alone at night."
"It's a curious thing," Lindsay reverted to his main theme, "that I know
her message has nothing to do with this biography. I don't know how I
know it; but I do. Of course, that would be the first thing a man would
think of. It is something more instant, more acute. It beats me
altogether. All I can do is wait."
"Now don't you think any more about it, Mr. Lindsay," Mrs. Spash
advised. "You go upstairs and set to work. I'm going to get you up the
best lunch today you've had yet."
"That's the dope," Lindsay agreed. "The only way to take a man's mind
off his troubles is to give him a good dinner. You'll have to work hard,
though, Eunice Spash, to beat your own record."
Lindsay arose and sauntered into the front hall and up the stairs. He
turned into the room at the right which he had reserved for work, now
that Mrs. Spash was on the premises. At this moment, it was flooded with
sunlight.... A faint odor of the honeysuckle vine at the corner seemed
to emanate from the light itself....
Instantly ... he realized ... that the room was not empty.
Lindsay became feverishly active. Eyes down, he mechanically shuffled
his papers. He collected yesterday's written manuscript, brought the
edges down on the table in successive clicks, until they made an even,
rectangular pile. He laid his pencils out in a row. He changed the point
in his penholder. He moved the ink-bottle. But this availed his spirit
nothing. "I am incredibly stupid," he said aloud. His voice was low, but
it rang as hollowly as though he were from another world. "If you could
only speak to me. Can't you speak to me?"
He did not raise his eyes. But he waited for a long interval, during
which the silence in the room became so heavy and cold that it almost
blotted out the sunlight.
"But have patience with me. I want to serve you. Oh, you don't know how
I want to serve you. I give you my word, I'll get it sometime and I
think not too late. I'll kill myself if I don't. I'm putting all I am
and all I have into trying to understand. Don't give me up. It's only
because I'm flesh and blood."
He stopped and raised his eyes.
The room was empty.
That afternoon Lindsay took a walk so long, so devil-driven that he came
back streaming perspiration from every pore. Mrs. Spash regarded him
with a glance in which disapproval struggled with sympathy. "I don't
know as you'd ought to wear yourself out like that, Mr. Lindsay. Later,
perhaps you'll need all your strength--"
"Very likely you're right, Mrs. Spash," Lindsay agreed. "But I've been
trying to work it out."
Mrs. Spash left as usual at about seven. By nine, the last remnant of
the long twilight, a collaboration of midsummer with daylight-saving,
had disappeared. Lindsay lighted his lamp and sat down with Lutetia's
poems. The room was peculiarly cheerful. The beautiful Murray sideboard,
recently discovered and recovered, held its accustomed place between the
two windows. The old Murray clock, a little ship swinging back and forth
above its brass face, ticked in the corner. The old whale-oil lamps had
resumed their stand, one at either end of the mantel. Old pieces, old
though not Lutetia's--they were gone irretrievably--bits picked up here
and there, made the deep sea-shell corner cabinet brilliant with the
color of old china, glimmery with the shine of old pewter, sparkly with
the glitter of old glass. Many chairs--windsors, comb-backs, a Boston
rocker--filled the empty spaces with an old-time flavor. In traditional
places, high old glasses held flowers. The single anachronism was the
big, nickel, green-shaded student lamp.
Lindsay needed rest, but he could not go to bed. He knew perfectly well
that he was exhausted, but he knew equally well that he was not drowsy.
His state of mind was abnormal. Perhaps the three large cups of
jet-black coffee that he had drunk at dinner helped in this matter. But
whatever the cause, he was conscious of every atom of this exaggerated
spiritual alertness; of the speed with which his thoughts drove; of the
almost insupportable mental clarity through which they shot.
"If this keeps up," he meditated, "it's no use my going to bed at all
tonight. I could not possibly sleep."
He found Lutetia's poems agreeable solace at this moment. They contained
no anodyne for his restlessness; but at least they did not increase it.
Her poetry had not been considered successful, but Lindsay liked it. It
was erratic in meter; irregular in rhythm. But at times it astounded him
with a delicate precision of expression; at moments it surprised him
with an opulence of fancy. He read on and on--
Suddenly that mental indicator--was it a flutter of his spirit or merely
a lowering of the spiritual temperature?--apprised him that he was not
alone.... But as usual, after he realized that his privacy had been
invaded, he continued to read; his gaze caught, as though actually tied,
by the print.... After a while he shut the book.... But he still sat
with his hand clutching it, one finger marking the place.... He did not
lift his eyes when he spoke....
"Tell the others to go," he demanded.
* * * * *
After a while he arose. He did not move to the other end of the room nor
did he glance once in that direction. But on his side, he paced up and
down with a stern, long-strided prowl. He spoke aloud.
"Listen to me!" His tone was peremptory. "We've got to understand each
other tonight. I can't endure it any longer; for I know as well as you
that the time is getting short. You can't speak to me. But I can speak
to you. Lutetia, you've got to outdo yourself tonight. You must give me
a sign. Do you understand? You _must_ show me. Now summon all that you
have of strength, whatever it is, to give me that sign--do you
understand, _all you have_. Listen! Whatever it is that you want me to
do, it isn't here. I know that now. I know it because I've been here two
months-- Whatever it is, it must be put through somewhere else. An idea
came to me this morning. I spent all the afternoon thinking it out.
Maybe I've got a clue. It all started in New York. _He_ tried to get it
to me there. Listen! Tell me! Quick! Quick! Quick! Do you want me to go
to New York?"
The answer was instantaneous. As though some giant hand had seized the
house in its grip, it shook. Shook for an infinitesimal fraction of an
instant. Almost, it seemed to Lindsay, walls quivered; panes rattled;
shutters banged, doors slammed. And yet in the next infinitesimal
fraction of that instant he knew that he had heard no tangible sound.
Something more exquisite than sound had filled that unmeasurable
interval with shattering, deafening confusion.
Lindsay turned with a sharp wheel; glared into the dark of the other
side of the room.
* * * * *
Lindsay dashed upstairs to his desk. There he found a time-table. The
ten-fifteen from Quinanog would give him ample time to catch the
midnight to New York. He might not be able to get a sleeping berth; but
the thing he needed least, at that moment, was sleep. In fact, he would
rather sit up all night. He flung a few things into his suitcase; dashed
off a note to Mrs. Spash. In an incredibly short time, he was striding
over the two miles of road which led to the station.
There happened to be an unreserved upper berth. It was a superfluous
luxury as far as Lindsay was concerned. He lay in it during what
remained of the night, his eyes shut but his spirit more wakeful than he
had ever known it. "Every revolution of these wheels," he said once to
himself, "brings me nearer to it, whatever it is." He arose early; was
the first to invade the washroom; the first to step off the train; the
first to leap into a taxicab. He gave the address of Spink's apartments
to the driver. "Get there faster than you can!" he ordered briefly. The
man looked at him--and then proceeded to break the speed law.
Washington Square was hardly awake when they churned up to the sidewalk.
Lindsay let himself in the door; bounded lightly up the two flights of
stairs; unlocked the door of Spink's apartment. Everything was silent
there. The dust of two months of vacancy lay on the furnishings. Lindsay
stood in the center of the room, contemplating the door which led
backward into the rest of the apartment.
"Well, old top, _you're_ not going to trouble me any longer. I get that
with my first breath. I've done what _she_ wanted and what _you_ wanted
so far. Now what in the name of heaven is the next move?"
He stood in the center of the room waiting, listening.
And then into his hearing, stretched to its final capacity, came sound.
Just _sound_ at first; then a dull murmur. Lindsay's hair rose with a
prickling progress from his scalp. But that murmur was human. It
continued.
Lindsay went to the door, opened it, and stepped out into the hall. The
murmur grew louder. It was a woman's voice; a girl's voice; unmistakably
the voice of youth. It came from the little room next to Spink's
apartment.
Again Lindsay listened. The monotone broke; grew jagged; grew shrill;
became monotonous again. Suddenly the truth dawned on him. It was the
voice of madness or of delirium.
He advanced to the door and knocked. Nobody answered. The monotone
continued. He knocked again. Nobody answered. The monotone continued. He
tried the knob. The door was locked. With his hand still on the knob, he
put his shoulder to the door; gave it a slow resistless pressure. It
burst open.
It was a small room and furnished with the conventional furnishings of a
bedroom. Lindsay saw but two things in it. One was a girl, sitting up in
the bed in the corner; a beautiful slim creature with streaming loose
red hair; her cheeks vivid with fever spots; her eyes brilliant with
fever-light. It was she who emitted the monotone.
The other thing was a miniature, standing against the glass on the
bureau. A miniature of a beautiful woman in the full lusciousness of a
golden blonde maturity.
The woman of the miniature was Lutetia Murray.