I’ve been asked to tell the part of this story in which I figure. I’ve
done that kind of work before, so I’m not as shy as I was that first
time, and since then I’ve studied some, and come up against fine people,
and I’m older—twenty-seven on my last birthday. But as I said then, so
I’ll say now—don’t expect any stylish writing from me. At the
switchboard there’s still ginger in me, but with the pen I’m one of the
"also rans."
Fortunately for me, I was always a good one to throw a bluff and, having
made a few excursions into the halls of the rich and great, I felt I
could be safely featured as a nursery governess. She belongs in the
layer between the top and bottom and doesn’t mix with either. I wouldn’t
have to play down to the kitchen standards or up to the parlor ones,
just move along, sort of lonesome, in the neutral ground between. As for
teaching the child, I knew I could do that as well as the girls who are
marking time until they marry, or the decayed ladies who employ their
declining years and intellects that way.
It didn’t seem to me hard to size up the family. Mrs. Janney was the
head of it, the middle and both ends—a real queen who didn’t need a
crown or a throne to make people bow the knee. Mr. Janney was a good,
kind old gentleman who was too law-abiding to get rich any way but the
way he did. Mrs. Price wasn’t up to their measure—an only child, born
with a silver lining. She was one of those slimpsy, thin women that a
man would be afraid to hug for fear she’d crack in his arms or snap in
the middle. She was very cordial and pleasant to me and I will say she
was fond of her little girl.
When I came to the servants I couldn’t see but what every one of them
registered honesty. If it had been printed on their foreheads with a
rubber stamp it couldn’t have been plainer. There were only two new ones
in the outfit—girls, one of them my chambermaid—and no one, not even a
sleuth desperate for glory, could have considered them. Outside there
were gardeners and chauffeurs—in all there were twenty-one people
employed—but it was the same with them. They were a decent, well-paid
lot, the garage men and head gardener living on the place, the laborers
lodged in the village.
The one person my eye lingered on was Miss Maitland the Secretary. Not
that there was anything suspicious about her, but that she wasn’t as
simple and easy to see into as the others. She was a handsome girl, tall
and well made, sticking close to her job and not having much to do with
any one. Her study was just under the day nursery where we had lessons
and had its own door on to the piazza. When she wasn’t at work, she’d
either sit there reading or go off walking by herself and there was
something solitary and serious about her that interested me. The nursery
window was a good look-out, commanding the lawns and garden and with the
tennis court to one side. After lessons I’d let the blinds down and coil
up there on a cushion, and I saw her several times coming in and going
out, always alone, and always looking thoughtful and depressed.
To get any information about her I had to be very careful for Mrs.
Janney thought the world of her, but I managed to worm out some facts,
though nothing of any importance. She had come to Mrs. Janney from a
friend who had had her as secretary for two years. She was entirely
dependent on her work for her living, was an orphan, and had no
followers. The only thing the least degree out of line was that several
times during the spring and the early summer she had asked for more days
and afternoons off than formerly. Mrs. Janney didn’t seem to think
anything of this and I didn’t either. The girl—settled down in her place
and knowing it secure—was slackening up on her first speed.
There were a lot of people coming and going in the house—oftenest, Mr.
Richard Ferguson. I’d heard of him—everybody has—millions, unmarried,
and so forth and so on. I hadn’t been there thirty-six hours before I
saw that Mrs. Price had an eye for him. That’s putting it in a
considerate, refined way. If I was the cat some women are, I’d say she
was camped on his trail, with her lassoo ready in her hand. Of course
she’d work it the way ladies do, very genteel, pretend to be lazy if he
wanted to play tennis and when he was off for a swim wonder if she had
the energy to walk to the beach. But she always got there; every time,
rain or shine, she’d be awake at the switch. I didn’t know whether he
responded—you couldn’t tell. He was the kind who was jolly and affable
to everybody; even if he was a plutocrat you had to like him.
I had a good deal of time to myself—lessons only lasted two hours—and I
roamed round the neighborhood studying it. The second afternoon I went
into the woods, where there’s a short-cut that goes past Council Oaks to
the beach. Off the path, branching to the right, I found two smaller
trails both leading to the same place—a pond, surrounded by trees, and
with a wharf, a rustic bench, and two bathing houses, where the trails
ended. In my room that evening I asked Ellen, my chambermaid, about the
pond and she told me it was called Little Fresh and that the bathing
houses and wharf had been built by the former owner of Grasslands. But
the first year of Mrs. Janney’s occupation a boy from the village had
been drowned there, since when Mrs. Janney had forbidden any one to go
near or bathe in Little Fresh. She had put up trespassing signs and
locked the bath houses, and no one ever went there now, because, anyway
if you didn’t go in and get drowned, folks said you might catch malaria.
A few days after that Bébita asked me to go into the woods with her and
look for lady-slippers; the kitchen maid had found two and Bébita had to
see if there weren’t any left for her. Everybody said it was too late
for them, but that didn’t faze Bébita who had the kitchen maid’s word
for it and was set upon going.
The woods were lovely, all green and shimmery with sunlight. We took the
trail I’ve spoken of, I strolling along the path, and Bébita hunting
about in the underbrush for the flowers. I was some little distance
ahead of her when I saw a figure moving behind the screen of trees
toward the right. I could only catch it in broken bits through the
leaves, hear the footsteps soft on the moss, and I didn’t know whether
it was a man or a woman. Then it came into view, out of the trail that
led to Little Fresh Pond, and I saw it was a man, who stopped short at
the sight of me.
He was good-looking, the dark kind, naturally brown, and sunburned on
top of it until he was as swarthy as an Indian, the little mustache on
his upper lip as black as if it was painted on with ink. Now I’m not one
that thinks men ought to be stunned by my beauty, but also I don’t
expect to be stared at as if the sight of me was an unpleasant shock.
And that’s the way that piratical guy acted, standing rooted, glaring
angry from under his eyebrows.
I was going to pass on haughty, when Bébita’s voice came from behind in
a joyful cry of "Popsy." She rushed by me, her arms spread out, and
fairly jumped at him. The ugly look went from his face as if you’d wiped
it off with a sponge, and the one that took its place made him another
man. He caught her up and held her against him, and she locked her feet
behind his waist and her hands behind his neck swinging off from him and
laughing out:
"Oh, Popsy, I was looking for lady-slippers and I found _you_."
"Well," he said, gazing at her like he couldn’t look enough, "would you
rather have found a lady-slipper?"
She hugged up against him, awful sweet and cunning.
"Oh, Popsy, that’s a joke. I like you better than all the lady-slippers
in the world. Where have you been?"
"Over on the bluff, calling on some people. I’m taking a short cut
through the woods."
"Where are you going now?"
"To Cedar Brook. My car’s out there on the road at the end of the path."
I knew Bébita had been told not to speak of her father. I’d heard it
from Annie and Mrs. Janney had cautioned me, if she asked any questions,
to say that he had gone away and was not coming back. Children are
queer, take in more than you think, and I believe the little thing felt
something of the tragedy of it. Anyway she said nothing more on that
subject, but loosing one hand, waved it at me.
"That’s my new governess, Miss Rogers. I’m studying lessons with her."
He looked at me, and having no free hand, just nodded. Though his
expression wasn’t as unfriendly as it had been, it didn’t suggest any
desire to know me better. He turned back to Bébita.
"Dearie, you’ll have to let go for I must jog along. I’ve a date to play
tennis at Cedar Brook and I’m late now."
He kissed her and she loosened her hold sliding through his arms to the
ground. Then with a few last words of good-by he swung off down the
path. Bébita looked after him till the trees hid him, gave a sigh, and
without a word pushed her little hand into mine and walked along beside
me. She seemed sobered for a while, then picked up heart, began to look
about her, and was soon back at her hunt for the flowers.
I was nearing the second path to Little Fresh, when again I saw a figure
coming behind the trees. This time it showed in a moving pattern of
lilac and the sight made me brisk up for I’d seen Miss Maitland that
morning in a lilac linen dress. I quickened my step until I came to a
turning from which I could look up the branch trail, and sure enough,
there she was, walking very lightly and spying out ahead. At the sight
of me she too stopped and looked annoyed. But women are a good deal
quicker than men—in a minute the look was gone and she was all smiles of
welcome.
"Oh, Miss Rogers, and Bébita too! How nice to meet you. Are you going to
the beach?"
Bébita explained our quest and said she was going to give it up—there
wasn’t a single lady-slipper left.
Miss Maitland’s smile was kind and consoling:
"I could have told you that. They’re gone for this year."
"Have _you_ been looking for them?" Bébita asked.
No, Miss Maitland had been to the beach for a bath, and as the closed
season for lady-slippers had begun, we turned back, Bébita and the
Secretary in front, I meekly following. In answer to the child’s
questions Miss Maitland said she had taken a long swim, out beyond the
raft.
Suddenly Bébita popped out with:
"Did you see my Daddy?"
There was a slight pause before she answered; when she did her voice was
full of surprise:
"Mr. Price! Was he on the beach?"
"No, in the woods. We met him. He was taking a short cut."
Miss Maitland said she hadn’t seen him, that he must have been some
distance in front of her, and changed the subject.
While they were talking I was thinking and absently looking at her back.
They’d both come out of the branch trails that led to Little Fresh; they
had taken different paths and not come at the same time; they had each
got a jar when they saw me. As I thought, my eyes went wandering over
her back and finally stopped at the nape of her neck. The hair was drawn
up from it and hidden under her hat. I could see the roots and the
little curly locks that drooped down against the white skin. And
suddenly I noticed something—they were perfectly dry, not a damp spot,
not a wet hair. The best bathing cap in the world couldn’t keep the
water out like that. She had not been bathing at all, she had been with
Chapman Price at Little Fresh Pond. And they wanted no one to know; were
sufficiently anxious to lie about it.
The next day in a conference with Mrs. Janney, I asked her if Mr. Price
had ever shown any interest in Miss Maitland. She was amazed, as shocked
as if I’d asked if Mr. Janney had ever been in love with the cook.
Chapman Price had taken no more notice of Miss Maitland than common
politeness demanded, in fact, she thought that of late he had rather
shunned her. She was curious to know why I asked such a question, and
when I said I had to ask any and every sort of question or she’d be
paying a detective’s salary to a nursery governess, she saw the sense of
it and quieted down.
That was more than I did. The way things were opening up, I was getting
that small, inner thrill, that feeling like your nerves are tingling
that comes to me when the darkness begins to break. I didn’t see much,
just the first, faint glimmer, but it was the right kind.
Two days later a thing happened that changed the glimmer to a wide
bright ray. It was this way:
In the afternoon the family, unless they had a party of their own, were
always out. The only person who stayed around was Miss Maitland,
sometimes working over her books, sometimes sitting about sewing or
reading. That day—about four—I’d seen her as I passed the study window
writing at her desk. I’d gone on into the big central hall where I
wasn’t supposed to belong, but feeling safe with everybody scattered, I
thought I’d make myself comfortable and take a look at the morning
papers. I’d just cuddled down in the corner of the sofa with my favorite
daily when I heard the telephone ring.
Now the bell of the telephone is to me like the trumpet to the old war
horse. And hearing it that way, tingling in the quiet of the big,
deserted house, I got a flash that any one wanting to talk to Miss
Maitland and knowing the habits of the family would choose that hour.
There was a ’phone in the lower story—in a closet at the end of the
hall—and the extension one was upstairs in a sort of curtained recess
off the main corridor just outside my door. I rose off the sofa as if
lifted by a charge of dynamite and slid for the stairs. As I sprinted up
I heard the door of Miss Maitland’s study open.
The upper hall was deserted and I dashed noiseless into that alcove
place, one hand lifting off the receiver as soft as a feather, the other
pressed against my mouth to smother the sound of my breathing. On the
floor below Esther Maitland had just connected; I got her first
sentence, quiet and clear as if she was in the room with me:
"Yes. This is Grasslands."
A man’s voice answered:
"That you, Esther?"
I could tell she recognized it, for instantly hers changed, showed fear
and a sort of pleading:
"Oh, why do you call me up here? I told you not to."
"My dear girl, it’s all right—I know they’re all out at this hour."
"The servants—I’m afraid of them—and there’s a new nursery governess
come."
"I know. I met her in the woods that day. Did you?"
"Of course I did. How could I help it? I said I’d been bathing. We
mustn’t go there again—it’s much better to write."
The man gave a laugh that was good-humored and easy:
"Don’t take it so hard. There’s not the slightest need to be worried. I
called you up to say everything was O. K."
Her answer came with a deep, sighing breath:
"It may be now—but how can we tell? The first excitement’s dying down
but that doesn’t mean they’re not doing anything. Don’t think for a
moment, because it’s worked right so far, that we’re out of the woods."
"I’m wise to all that, I know them better than you do. And the fellow
that knows has got it all over the fellow that doesn’t. Watchful
waiting—that’s our motto."
"Very well, then _let_ it be watchful. And don’t call me up unless it’s
urgent. I can see you in town when I go in. I won’t talk any more.
Good-by."
I heard the stillness of a dead wire and then before I let myself think,
flew into my room, found a pad and pencil and wrote it down word for
word.