 11 The Secret of the Old Pavilion I was as sane that night as I have ever been in my life. I am quite sure of this, though I had had a merry time enough earlier in the evening with my friends in the Old Pavilion, that time honored retreat of my ancestors, whose desolation I had thought to dissipate with a little harmless revelry. Wine does not disturb my reason, the little wine I had drank under that unwholesome roof, nor am I a man given to sudden excitements or untoward impulses. Yet this thing happened to me. It was after leaving the Pavilion. My companions had all ridden away and I was standing on the lawn beyond my library windows, recalling my pleasure with them and gazing somewhat idly I own at the bare portion of the old wall where the tree fell a year ago, the place where the moon strikes with such a glitter when it rides high, as it did that night. When, believe it or not, it is all one to me, I became conscious of a sudden mental dread, inexplicable and alarming, which, seizing me after an hour of unmixed pleasure and gaiety, took such a firm grip upon my imagination that I feign would have turned my back upon the night and its influences, only my eyes would not leave that open space of wall where I now saw pass. Not the shadow, but the veritable body of a large black hungry looking dog, which, while I looked, turned into the open gateway connecting with the Pavilion and disappeared. With it went the oppression which held me spellbound. The ice melted from my blood. I could move my limbs and again control my thoughts and exercise my will. Forcing a laugh I whistled to that dog. The lights with which the banquet had been illuminated were out and every servant had left the place, but the tables had not been entirely cleared and I could well understand what had drawn this strange animal thither. I whistled then and whistled peremptorily, but no dog answered my call. Angry for the rules are strict at my stables in regard to wandering brutes, I strode toward the Pavilion. Entering the great gap in the wall where the gate had once hung, I surveyed the dismal interior before me, with feelings I could not but consider odd in a strong man like myself. Though the wine was scarcely dry in the glass which an hour before I had raised in this very spot amid cheers of laughter, I found it a difficult matter to re-enter there now in the dead of night alone and without light. For this building, harmless as it had always seemed, had been in a way cursed. For no reason that he ever gave my father had doomed this ancient adjunct to our home to perpetual solitude and decay. By his will he had forbidden it to be destroyed, a wish respected by my guardians and afterward by myself, and though there was nothing to hinder its being cared for and in a manner used, the dismal influence which had pervaded the place ever since his death had, under the sensations I have mentioned, deepened into horror and an unspeakable repugnance. Yet never having had any reason to believe myself a coward I took boldly enough the few steps necessary to carry me inside its dismal precincts, and, meeting with nothing but darkness and silence, began to whistle again for the dog I had certainly seen enter here. But no dog appeared. Hastening out I took my way toward the stables. As I did so I glanced back, and again my eyes fell on that place in the wall gleaming white in the moonlight. Again I felt the chill, the horror. Again my eyes remained glued to this one spot, and again I beheld the passing of the dog, running with jaws extended and head held low. Fearsome uncanny, supernaturally horrible, a thing to flee from, if one could only flee instead of standing stock still on the sword, gazing with eyes that seemed starting from their sockets till it had plunged through the gap in the wall and again disappeared. The occult and the imaginary have never appealed to me, and the moment I felt myself a man again I hurried on to the stables to call up my man Jared. But halfway there I paused, struck by an odd remembrance. This father of mine, Philo Ocampa, had died, or so his old servants had said, under peculiar circumstances. I had forgotten them till now. Such stories make poor headway with me. But if I was not mistaken the facts were these. He had been ailing long, and his nurses had got used to the sight of his gaunt white figure sitting propped up but speechless, in the great bed opposite the stretch of blank wall in the corner bedroom, where a picture of his first wife, the wife of his youth, had once hung, but which for some years now had been removed to where there were fewer shadows and more light. He had never been a talkative man, and in all the five years of my own memory of him I had never heard him raise his voice except in command, or when the duties of hospitality required it. Now with the shadow of death upon him he was absolutely speechless, and his nurses were obliged to guess at his wishes by the movement of his hands or the direction of his eyes. Yet he was not morose, and sometimes was seen to struggle with the guards holding his tongue as though he would feign have loosed them himself from their inexorable control. Yet he never succeeded in doing so, and the nurses sat by him and saw no difference in him, till suddenly the candle poised on the table nearby, flickered and went out, leaving only moonlight in the room. It was moonlight so brilliant that the place seemed brighter than before, though the beams were all concentrated on one spot, a blank spot in the middle of the wall upon which those two dim orbs in the bed were fixed in expectancy, none there understood, for none knew that the summons had come and that for him the angel of death was at that moment standing in the room. Yet as moonlight is not the natural light for a sick man's bedside, one amongst them had risen for another candle, when something, I had never stopped to hear them say what, made him pause and look back when he saw distinctly outlined upon the white wall space I have mentioned the figure, the unimaginable figure of a dog, large, fierce and hungry looking which dashed by and was gone. Simultaneously a cry came from the bed, the first words for months, Aline, the name of his girl-wife dead and gone for years. All spring some to chase the dog, one to aid and comfort the sick man. But no dog was there, nor did he need comfort more. He had died with that cry on his lips and as they gazed at his face sunk low now in his pillow as if he had started up and fallen back a dead weight they felt the terror of the moment grow upon them till they too were speechless. For the aged features were drawn into lines of unspeakable anguish and horror. But as the night passed and morning came all these lines smoothed out and when they buried him those who had known him well talked of the beautiful serenity which illuminated the face which, since their first remembrance of him, had carried the secret of a profound and unbroken melancholy. Of the dog nothing was said, even in whispers, till time had hallowed that grave and the little children about grown to be men and women. Then the gorillity of age had its way. This story and the images it called up came like a shock as I halted there, and instead of going on into the stables I turned my steps toward the house, where I summoned from his bed a certain old servant who had lived longer in the family than myself. Bidding him briggle lantern I waited for him on the porch and when he came I told him what I had seen. Finally I knew that it was no new story to him. He turned very pale and set down the lantern which was shaking very visibly in his hand. "'Did you look up?' he asked, when you were in the pavilion I mean. "'No, why should I? The dog was on the ground, besides. Let us go down to the pavilion,' he whispered. I want to see for myself if—if—if what, Jared?' He turned his eyes on me but did not answer. Stooping I lifted the lantern and put it in his hand. He was quaking like a leaf, but there was a determination in his face, far beyond the ordinary. What made him quake? He who knew of this dog only by hearsay. And what, in spite of this fear, gave him such resolution? I followed in his wake to see what it was. The moon still shone clear upon the lawn and it was with a certain renewal of my former apprehensions that I approached the spot on the wall where I had seen what I was satisfied not to see again. But though I glanced that way, what man could have avoided it, I perceived nothing but the bare paint, and we went on and passed without a word, Jared leading the way. But once on the threshold of the pavilion itself, it was for him to show the coward. Turning he made me a gesture when I did not understand, and seeing that I did not understand it he said after a fearful look around, Do not mind the dog. That was but an appearance. Lift your eyes to the ceiling, over there, at the extreme end toward the south. Do you see? What do you see? Nothing, I replied, amazed at what struck me as utter folly. Nothing, he repeated in a relieved voice as he lifted up his lantern. Ah, came in a short muttered shriek from his lips as he pointed up. Here and there, along the farther ceiling, over which the light now played freely and fully. What is that spot? And that spot? And that? They were not there today. I was in here before the banquet, and I would have seen. What is it? Master, what is it? They call it. Well, well, what do they call it? I asked impatiently. Blood, do you not see that it is blood? What else is red and shiny and shows in such great drops? Nonsense, I vociferated, taken the lantern in my own hand. Blood on the ceiling of my old pavilion? Where could it come from? There was no quarrel, no fight, only hilarity. Where did the dog come from? he whispered. I dropped my arm, staring at him, and mingled anger and certain half-understood sympathy. You think these stains, I begin? Are as unreal as the dog? Yes, Master. Feeling as if I were in a dream I tossed up the lantern again. The drops were still there, but no longer single or scattered. From side to side, the ceiling at this one end of the building oozed with the thick red moisture to which he had given so dreadful a name. Stepping back for fear the stains would resolve themselves into rain and drop upon my forehead, I stared at Jared, who had now retreated toward the door. What makes you think it blood, I demanded? Because some have smelt and tasted it, we have never talked about it, but this is not an uncommon occurrence. Tomorrow all these stains will be gone. They come when the dog circles the wall. Whence no one knows. It is our mystery. All the old servants have heard of it more than once. The new ones have never been told, nor would I have told you if you had not seen the dog. It was a matter of honor with us. I looked at him, saw that he believed every word he had said, threw another glance at the ceiling, and led the way out. When we had reached the house again, I said, You are acquainted with the tradition underlying these appearances as you call them? What is it? He would not tell me. He knew no more than he had already stated, gossip and old wives' tales. But later a certain manuscript came into my possession through my lawyer, which I will append to this. It was written by my unhappy father some little time before his last illness, and given into the charge of the legal representative of our family, with the express injunction that its seal was to remain intact if for twenty years the apparition which had haunted him did not present itself to the eyes of any of his children. But if within that time his experience should repeat itself in theirs, this document was to be handed over to the occupant of Homewood. Nineteen out of the twenty years had elapsed, without the dog being seen, or the sealing of the pavilion dropping blood. But not the twentieth, hence the document was mine. You can easily conceive with what feelings I opened it. It was headed with this simple line, my story which I can write but could never tell. I am cursed with an inability to speak when I am most deeply moved, either by anger or tenderness. This misfortune has wrecked my life. On the verge of old age the sorrows and the mistakes of my early life fill my thoughts so completely that I see but one face, hear but one voice. Yet when she was living then she could see and hear. My tongue was silent and she never knew. Aline, my Aline. I married her when I was thirty-five and she eighteen. All the world knows this. But what it does not know is that I loved her. Toy, plaything that she was, a body without a mind, or so I considered her. While she had but followed the wishes of her relatives in giving her sweet youth to a cold and reticent man, who might love, indeed, but who had no power to tell that love, or even to show it in the ways which women like and which she liked as I found out when it was too late. I could not help but love her. It was ingrained within me, a part of the curse of my life to love this gentle, thoughtless, alluring thing to which I had given my name. She had a smile. It did not come often, which tore at my heartstrings as it welled up, just stirring the dimples in her cheeks, and died away again in a strange and moving sweetness. Although I reckoned her at her worth, knew that her charm was all physical, that she neither did nor could understand a passion like mine much less return it, it was none the less irresistible, and I have known myself to stand before a certain bookshelf in the turn of the stairway for many minutes together, because I knew that she would soon be coming down. And that, when she did, some ribbon from her gown would flutter by me, and I should feel the soft contact and go away happy to my books. Yet if she stopped to look back at me, I could only return her look with one she doubtless called harsh, for she had not eyes to see below the surface. I tell you all this lest you may not understand. She was not your mother, and you may begrudge me the affection I felt for her. If so, thrust these leaves into the fire, and seek not the explanation of what has surprised you, for there is no word written here, which does not find its meaning in the intense love I bore for her, my young girl wife, and the tragedy which this love has brought into my life. She was light and body, slight in mind, and of slight feeling. I first discovered this last on the day I put my mother's ring on her finger. She laughed as I fitted it close and kissed her little hand. Not from embarrassment or childish impulse, I could have understood that. But, indifferently, like one who did not know and never could. Yet I married her, and for six months lived in a fool's paradise. Then came that ball. It was held near here, very near, at one of our neighbors, in fact. I remember that we walked, and that, coming to the driveway, I lifted her and carried her across. Not with a smile do not think it, more like with a frown, though my heart was warm and happy, for when I set her down she shook herself and I thought she did it to hide a shudder, and then I could not have spoken a word had my life depended on it. I little knew what lay back of that shudder. Even after I had seen her dance with him, not only once but twice, I never dreamed that her thoughts, light though they were, were not at all with me. It took that morsel of paper and the plain words it contained to satisfy me of this, and then, but passion is making me incoherent. What do you know of that scrap of paper hidden from the whole world from the moment I first read it, till this hour of full confession? It fluttered from someone's hand during the dance. I did not see whose. I only saw it after it had fallen at my feet, and as it lay there open I naturally read the words. They were written by a man to a woman, urging flight and setting the hour in place for meeting. I was conscious of shame in reading it, and let these last details escape me. As I put it in my pocket I remember thinking, some poor devil made miserable, for there had been hint in it of the husband. But I had no thought, I swear it before God, of who that husband was till I beheld her flip back through the open doorway with terror in her mean and searching eyes fixed on the floor. Then hell opened before me, and I saw my happiness go down into gulfs I had never before sounded, even in my imagination. But even at that hour my countenance scarcely changed. I was opposite a mirror and I caught a glimpse of myself as I moved. But there must have been some change in my voice, for when I addressed her she started and turned her face upon me with a wild and pathetic look, which knocked so at my heart that I wished I had never read those words, and so I could return her the paper with no misgivings as to its contents. But having read it I could not do this, so beyond a petty greeting I said nothing and let the moment pass, and she with it, for couples were dancing and she was soon again in the world. I am not a dancing man myself and I had leisure to think and madden myself with contemplation of my wrecked life and questions as to what I should do to her and to him and to the world where such things could happen. I had forgotten the details of time and place or rather had put them out of my mind and I would not look at the words again, could not. But as the minutes went by the remembrance returned, startling and convincing that the hour was to and the place, our old pavilion. I walked about after that like a man in whose breast the sources of life are frozen. I chatted, I who never chatted, with women and with men. I even smiled once. That was when my little white-faced wife asked me if it were not time to go home. Even a man under torture might find strength to smile if the inquisitor should ask if he were not ready to be released. And we went home. I did not carry her this time across the driveway, but when we parted in the library where I always spent an hour before retiring I picked out a lily from a vase of flowers standing on my desk and held it out to her. She stared at it for a moment, quite as white as the lily, then she slowly put out her hand and took it. I felt no mercy after that and bade her good night with the remark that I should have to write far into the morning and that she need not worry over my light, which I should not probably put out till she was half through with her night's rest. For answer she dropped the lily. I found it next morning lying withered in brown in the hallway. That light did burn far into the morning, but I was not there to trim it. Before the fatal hour had struck I had left the house and made my way to the pavilion. As I crossed the sword I saw the gleam of a lantern at the masthead of a small boat riding near our own landing-place, and I understood where he was at this hour and by what route he hoped to take my darling. A route she will never travel thought I, striving to keep out of my mind and conscience, the vision of another route, another travel, which that sweet young body might take if my mood held in my purpose strengthened. There was no moon that night, and the cops in which our pavilion stands was like a blot against the starless heavens. As I drew near it my dog, the invariable companion of my walks, lifted a short, sharp bark from the stables. But I knew whose hand had fastened him, and I went on without giving him a thought. At the door of the pavilion I stopped. Shallow was dark within as without, and the silence was something to overwhelm the heart. She was not there then, nor was he. But he would be coming soon and up or down between the double-heads rose. I went to meet him. It was a small detail but possibly a necessary one. In her eyes he was probably handsome and gifted with all that I openly lacked. But he was shallow and small for a man like me to be concerned about. I laughed inwardly and with conceivable scorn as I heard the faint fall of his footsteps in the darkness. It was nearly two, and he meant to be prompt. Our coming together in that narrow path was very much what I expected it to be. I had put out my arms and touched the head on either side so that he could not escape me. When I heard him drawing close, I found the voice I had not had for her, and observed very quietly and with the cold politeness of a messenger. My wife finds herself indisposed since the ball, and begs to be excused from joining you in the pleasant sale you proposed for her. That and no more, except then when he started and almost fell into my arms I found strength to add, the wind blows fresh to-night and you will have no difficulty in leaving this shore. The difficulty will be to return. I had no heart to kill him. He was young and he was frightened. I heard the sob in his throat and I dropped my arm and he went flying down to the river. This was child's play. The rest? My portion is to tell it forty years ago it all befell until now no words of it had ever left my lips. There was no sound of her advancing tread across the lawn as I stepped back into my own grounds to enter the pavilion. But as I left the path and put foot inside the wall I heard a far faint sound like the harsh closing of a door in timid hands, followed by another bark from the dog, louder and sharper than the first, for he did not recognize my Aileen as mistress, though I had striven for six months to teach him the place she held in my heart. By this I knew she was coming and that what preparations I had to make must be made soon. There were not many. Entering the well-known place I lit the lantern I had brought with me and set it down upon the floor. It cast a feeble light about the entrance, but left great shadows in the rear. This I had calculated on and into these shadows I now stepped. The pavilion, as you remember it, is not what it was then. I had used it little, fancying more my own library up at the house, but it was not utterly without furnishings, and to young eyes might even look attractive with love or fancied love to mellow its harsh lines and lend romance to its solitude. At this hour and under these circumstances it was a dismal whole to me, and as I stood there waiting I thought how the place fitted the deed, if deed it was to be. I had always thought her timid, afraid of the night and all-threatening things, but as I listened to the sound of her soft footfall at the door I realized that even her breast could go strong under the influence of real or fancied passion. It was a shock, but I did not cry out, only set my teeth together and turned a little so that what light there was would fall on my form rather than on my face. She entered, I felt rather than heard the tremulous push she gave to the door and the quick drawing in of her breath as she put her foot across the threshold. These sapped my courage. This fear, this almost hesitation, drew me from thoughts of myself to thoughts of her, and it was in a daze of mingled purposes and regrets that I felt her at last at my side. Walter fell softly doubtfully from her lips. It was the name of him, the dip of whose oars as he made for his boat I could now faintly hear in the river below us. Turning I looked her in the face. You are late, said I. God gave me words in my extremity. Walter has gone. Then as the madness of terror replaced love in her eyes, I lifted her forcibly and carried her to the window where I drew aside the vines. That is his boat's lantern you see drawing away from the dock. I bade him God's speed. He will not come again. Without a word she looked, then fell back on my arm. It was not life which foresook her face and left her whole, sweet body inert that I could have borne, for did she not merit death, who had killed my love, killed me? But happiness, the glow of youthful blood, the dreams of a youthful brain. And seeing this, seeing that the heart I thought a child's heart had gone down in this shipwreck, I felt my anger swell and master me body and soul, and before I knew it I was towering over her and she was cowering at my feet, crushed and with hands held up in defense, hands that had been like rose-leaves in my grasp, futile hands, but raised now in entreaty for her life to me, to me who had loved her. Why did they not move me? Why did my muscles tighten instead of relax? I do not know. I had never thought myself a cruel man, but at that instant I felt that this toy of my strong manhood had done harm far beyond its value, and that it would comfort me to break it and toss it far aside. Only I could not bear the cry which now left her lips. I am so young. Not yet, not yet, Philo. I am so young. Let me live a little while. Was it a woman's plea, conscious of the tenderness she appealed to, or only a child's instinctive grasping after life, just life? If it were the first, it would be easy to finish, but a child's terror, a child's longing that pulled hard at my manhood and under the possibility my own arm fell. Instantly her head dropped. No defense did she utter no further plea did she make. She simply waited. You have deserved death, this I managed to utter. But if you will swear to obey me, you shall not pay your forfeit till you have had a further taste of life. Not in my house. There is not sufficient freedom within its walls for you. But in the broad world, where people dance and sing and grow old at their leisure without duty and without care. For three months you shall have this, and have it to your heart's content. Then you shall come back to me, truly, my wife, if your heart so prompts. If not, to tell me of your failure and quit me forever. But here I fear my voice grew terrible for her hands instinctively rose again. Those three months must be lived unstained. As you are in God's sight this hour, I demand of you to swear that, if you forget this or disregard it or for any cause subject my name to dishonor, that you will return unbidden at the first moment your reason returns to you, to take what punishment I will. On this condition I send you away to night, Aline, will you promise? She did not answer but her face rose. I did not understand its look. There was pathos in it and something else. That something else troubled me. Are you dissatisfied, I asked? Is the time too short? Do you want more months for dancing? She shook her head and the little hands rose again. Do not send me away, she faintly entreated. I do not know why, but I had rather stay. With me? Impossible. Are you ready to promise, Aline? Then she rose and looked me in the eye with courage, almost with resolution. As I live, said she, and I knew she would keep her word. The next thing I remember of that night was the sight of her little white shivering figure looking out at me from the carriage that was to carry her away. The night was cold and I had tucked her in with as much care as I might have done the evening before when I still worshipped her, still thought her mine, or at least as much mine as she was anyones. When I had done this and had pressed a generous gift into her hand I took a minute at the carriage door in pity of her aspect. She looked so pinched and pale, so dazed and hopeless. Had she been alone, but the companion with whom I had provided her was at her side and my tongue was tied. I turned and the driver started up the horses. Philo, I heard blown by me on the wind. Was it she who called? No, for there was anguish in the cry, the anguish of a woman, and she was only a frightened, disheartened child whom I had sent away to dance. One month, two months went by and I began to take up my life, another and she would be home for good or ill. I thought that I could live through that other. I had heard of her, not from her, that I did not require. And the stories were all of the same character. She was enjoying life in the great city to which I had sent her, radiant at night if a little spiritless by day. She was at balls, at concerts, and at theaters. She wore jewels and shone with the best. I may be proud of her conquests and the sweetness and dignity with which she bore herself. Thus her friends wrote. But she wrote nothing. I had not required it. Once someone, a visitor at the house, spoke of having seen her. She was surrounded with admirers, he had said. How early our American women ripen was his comment. She held her head like one who had held sway for years. But I thought her a trifle worn as if pleasure absorbed too much of her sleep. You must look out for her, judge. But I smiled grimly enough, I own, to think just how I was looking out for her. Then came the thunderbolt. I am told that no one ever sees her in the daytime, that she is always busy, days. But she does not look as if she took that time for rest. What can your little wife be doing? You ought to hurry up that important opinion of yours and go see. She was right. What was she doing? And why shouldn't I go see? There was no obstacle but my own will. But that is the greatest obstacle a man can have. I remained at Homewood, but the four weeks of our further probation looked like a year. Meanwhile I had my way with the pavilion. I have shown you my heart, sometimes at its best, often at its worst. I will show it to you again in this. I had a wall built around it, close against the thicket in which it lay embedded. This wall was painted white, and near it I had lamps placed which were lit at nightfall. Should a figure pass that wall I could see it from my window. No one could enter that doorway now without running the risk of my seeing him from where I sat at my desk. Did I feel easier? I do not know that I did. I merely followed an impulse I dared not name to myself. Two weeks of this final month went by. Then it was in the evening. Someone came running up from the grounds with the message that Mrs. Ocampa had ridden into the gate, but that she was not ready to enter the house. Would I meet her at the pavilion? I was in the library at my desk with my eyes on the wall when this was told to me. I had just seen a fierce figure of that unmanageable dog of mine run by that white surface, and my lips were open to order him tied up when he and everything else in the world was forgotten in this crushing news of her return. For the three months were not up and her presence here could mean but one thing, that she had found temptation too much for her, and she had come back to tell me so in obedience to her promise. I will go meet Mrs. Ocampa, I said. The man stared. I will go meet Mrs. Ocampa now, I repeated and tried to rise. But my limbs refused, death had entered my heart, and it was some few minutes before I found myself upon the lawn outside. When I got there I was trembling and so uncertain of movement that I tottered at the gate, but seeing signs of her presence within I straightened myself and went in. She was standing at the extreme end of the room when I entered, in the full light of the solitary moonbeam which shot in at the western casement. She had thrown aside her hat and coat and never in all my life had I seen anything so ethereal as the worn face and wasted form she thus disclosed. Had it not been for the haunting and pathetic smile which by some freak of fate gave poignancy to her otherwise infantile beauty I should not have known the woman who stood there with my name formed on her lips. Destroyed was my thought, and the rage which I felt that moment against fate flushed my whole being and my arms went up, not in threat against her, but to an avenging heaven when I heard an impetus rush, an angry growl, and the delicate trembling figure went down under the leap of the monstrous animal which I had taught to love me but could never teach to love her. In horror and unspeakable anguish of soul I called off the dog and stooped with bitter cries I took her in my arms. Hurt, I gasped. Hurt, Aline, I looked at her anxiously. No, she whispered. Happy. And before I realized my own feelings or the passion with which I drew her to my breast she had nestled her head against my heart, smiled, and died. The shock of the dog's onslaught had killed her. I would not believe it at first, but when I was quite sure I took out the pistol I carried in my breast and shot the cowering brute midway between the eyes. When this was done I turned back to her, but there was no light but the moon and I needed no other. The clear beams falling on her face made her look pure and stainless and sweet. I could almost have loved her again as I marked the tender smile which lingered from the passing moment on her lips. Happy, she had said. What did she mean by that happy? As I asked myself I heard a cry. The companion who had been with her had rushed in the doorway and was gazing in sorrow and amazement at the white form lying outstretched and senseless against that farther wall. Oh, she cried in a tone that assured me she had not seen the dog lying in his blood at my back. Dead already, dead at first glance, at the first word. Ah, she knew better than I, poor lamb. I thought she would get well if she once got home. She wearied so for you, sir, and for Homewood. I thought myself quite mad past understanding a right the words addressed to me. She wearied, I began. With all her soul for you and Homewood, the young woman repeated, that is, since her illness developed. Her illness? Yes, she has been ill ever since she went away. The cold of the first journey was too much for her. But she kept up for several weeks, doing what no other woman ever did before, with so little strength and so little hope. Danced at night, and, and, and what by day, what, I could hardly get the words out of my mouth. Studied, learned what she thought you would like. French music politics. It was to have been a surprise. Poor soul. It took her very life. She did not sleep. Oh, sir, what is it? I was standing over her, probably a terrifying figure. Lights were playing before my eyes. Strange sounds were in my ears. Everything about me seemed resolving itself into chaos. What do you mean, I finally gasped. She studied to please me? Why did she come back then so soon? I paused, choked. I had been about to give away my secret. I mean, why did she come thus suddenly without warning me of what I might expect? I would have gone. I told her so, but she was very determined to come to you herself, to this very pavilion. She had set the time later, but this morning the doctor told her that her symptoms were alarming and without consulting him or heeding the advice of any of us, she started for home. She was buoyant on the way, and more than once I heard her softly repeating your name. Her heart was very loving. Oh, sir, you are ill. No, no, I cried, crushing my hand against my mouth to keep down the cry of anguish and despair which tore its way from my heart. Before other hands touch her, other eyes see her. Tell me when she began. I will not say to love me, but to weary for me and homeward. Perhaps she has told you herself. Here is the letter, sir. She bade me give you if she did not reach here alive. She wrote it this morning after the doctor told her what I have said. Give, give. She put it in my hand. I glanced at it in the moonlight, read the first few words, and felt the world real around me. Thresting the letter in my breast, I bade the woman who watched me with fascinated eyes to go now and rouse the house. When she was gone I stepped back into the shadows and catching hold of the murderous beast. I dragged him out about the wall to the thick clump of bushes. Here I left him and went back to my darling. When they came in they found her in my arms. Her head had fallen back and I was staring, staring at her white throat. That night when all was done for her which could be done I shut myself into my library and again opened that precious letter. I give it to show how men may be mistaken when they seek to weigh women's souls. My husband, I love you. As I shall be dead when you read this I may say so without fear of rebuff. I did not love you then. I did not love anybody. I was thoughtless and fond of pleasure and craved affectionate words. He saw this and worked on my folly. But when his project failed and I saw his boat creep away I found that what feeling I had was for the man who had thwarted him and I felt myself saved. If I had not taken cold that night I might have lived to prove this. I know that you do not love me very much but perhaps you would have done so had you seen me grow a little wiser and more like what your wife should be. I was trying when, oh Filo, I cannot write. I cannot think. I am coming to you. I love. Forgive and take me back again. Alive or dead. I love you. I love. As I finished the light which had been burning low suddenly went out. The window which opened before me was still unshuttered. Before me across the wide spaces of the lawn showed the pavilion wall white in the moonlight. As I stared in horror at it a trembling seized my whole body and the hair on my head rose. The dark figure of a running dog had passed across it the dog which lay dead under the bushes. God's punishment I murmured and laid my head down on the pathetic letter and sobbed. The morning found me there. It was not till later that the man sent to bury the dog came to me with a cry. Something is wrong with the pavilion. When I went down to close the window I found the ceiling at that end of the rune strangely dabbled. It looks like blood and the spots grew as I looked. A gas bruised in spirit and broken of heart I went down after that sweet body was laid in the grave to look. The stains he had spoken of were gone but I lived to see them reappear as have you. God have mercy on our souls. End of Chapter 11 Chapter 12 of The Millionaire Baby. This LibriVox recording is in the public domain. The Millionaire Baby by Anna K. Green Chapter 12, Behind the Wall. A most pathetic and awesome story I exclaimed, after the pause which instinctively followed the completion of this tale, read as few of its kind had ever been read by this woman of infinite resources in feeling and expression. Is it not? Do you wonder that a visit in the dead of night to a spot associated with such superstitious horrors should frighten me? She added as she bundled up the scattered sheets with a reckless hand. I do not. I am not sure but that I am a bit frightened myself, I smiled, following with my eye a single sheet which had escaped to the floor. Allow me, I cried, stooping to lift it. As I did so I observed that it was the first sheet, the torn one, and that a line or so of writing was visible at the top which I was sure had not been amongst those she read. What words are those? I asked. I don't know, they're half gone as you can see. They have nothing to do with the story. I read you the whole of that. Mr. says she was of her moods and expressions. I detected traces of some slight confusion. The putting up of the partition is not explained, I remarked. Oh! that was put up in horror of the stains which from time to time broke out on the ceiling at that end of the room. I wished to ask her if this was her conclusion, or if that line or two I had mentioned was more intelligible than she acknowledged it to be, but I refrained from a sense of propriety. If she appreciated my forbearance she did not show it. Rising she thrust the papers into a cupboard, casting a scarcely perceptible glance at the clock as she did so. I took the hint and rose. Instantly she was all smiles. You have forgotten something, Mr. Trevitt. Surely you did not intend to carry away with you my key to the bungalow. I was thinking of it, I returned lightly. I am not quite through with that key. Then before she could recover from her surprise I added with such suavity as I had been able to acquire in my intercourse with my more cultivated clients. I have to thank you, Mrs. Carew, for an hour of thrilling interest. Absorbed though I am in the present mystery my mind has room for one old one. Possibly because there is sometimes a marked connection between old family events and new. There may be some such connection in this case. I should like the opportunity of assuring myself there is not. She said nothing. I thought I understood why. More suavely yet I continued with a slight, a very slight movement toward the door. Rarely have I had the pleasure of listening to such a tale read by such an interpreter. It will always remain in my memory, Mrs. Carew. But the episode is over and I return to my present duty and the bungalow. The bungalow? You are going back to the bungalow? Immediately. What for? Didn't you see all there was to see? Not quite. I don't know what there can be left. Nothing of consequence, most likely, but you cannot wish me to have any doubts on the subject? No, no, of course not. The carelessness of her tone did not communicate itself to her manner. Seeing that my unexpected proposition had roused her alarm I grew wary and remarked, I was always overscrupulous. With a lift of her shoulders a dainty gesture which I congratulated myself I could see unmoved. She held out her hand in mute appeal for the key. But seeing that I was not to be shaken in my purpose reached for the wrap she had tossed over a chair and tied it again over her head. What are you going to do? I asked. A company you, she declared. Again I thought the place frightened you. It does, she replied. I had rather visit any other spot on the whole world. But if it is your intention to go back there it is mine to go with you. You are very good, I replied. But I was seriously disconcerted notwithstanding. I had reckoned upon a quiet hour in the bungalow by myself. Moreover, I did not understand her motive for never trusting me there alone. Yet, as this very distrust was suggestive, I put a good face on the matter and welcomed her company with becoming a lacquery. After all I might gain more than I could possibly lose by having her under my eye for a while longer. Strong as was her self-control there were moments when the real woman showed herself and these moments were productive. As we were passing out she paused to extinguish a lamp which was slightly smoking. I also thought she paused to listen an instant. At all events her ears returned toward the stairs down which there came the murmur of two voices, one of them the little boys. It is time Harry was asleep, she cried. I promised to sing to him. You won't be long, will you? You need not be very long, was my significant retort. I cannot speak for myself. Was I playing with her curiosity or anxieties or whatever it was that affected her? I hardly knew. I spoke as impulse directed and waited in cold blood, or was it hot blood, to see how she took it. Carelessly enough, for she was a famous actress except one taken by surprise. Checking an evident desire of calling out some direction up the stairs she followed me to the door remarking cheerfully, "'You cannot be very long either. The place is not large enough.' My excuse, or rather the one I made to myself for thus returning to a place I had seemingly exhausted, was this. In the quick turn I had made in leaving on the former occasion, my foot had struck the edge of the large rug nailed over the center of the floor, and unaccountably loosened it. To rectify this mishap, and also to see how so slight a shock could have lifted the large brass nails by which it had been held down to the floor, seemed reason enough for my action. But how to draw her attention to so insignificant a fact, without incurring her ridicule, I could not decide in our brief passage back to the bungalow. And consequently was greatly relieved when upon opening the door and turning my lantern on the scene, I discovered that in our absence the rug had torn itself further free from the floor, and now lay, with one of its corners well curled over, the corner farthest from the door and nearest the divan, where little Gwendolyn had been lying when she was lifted and carried away. Where?" Mrs. Carew saw it, too, and cast me a startled look which I met with a smile possibly as ambiguous as the feeling which prompted it. Who has been here, she asked. Ourselves. Did we do that? I did, or rather my foot struck the edge of the rug as I turned to go out with you. Shall I replace it and press back the nails? If you will be so good. Do what she would, there was eagerness in her tone. Remarking this, I decided to give another and closer look at the floor and the nails. I found the ladder had not been properly inserted, or, rather, there were two indentions for each nail, a deep one and a quite shallow. This caused me to make some examinations of the others, those which had not been drawn up from the floor, and I found that one or two of them were equally insecure, but not all, only those about this one corner. Mrs. Carew, who had paused, confused and faltering in the doorway, in her dismay at seeing me engaging in this inspection instead of replacing the rug as I had proposed, now advanced to step, so that our glances met as I looked up with the remark. This rug seems to have been lately raised at this corner. Do you know if the police had it up? I don't. I believe so. Oh, Mr. Trevitt, she cried as I rose to my feet with the corner of the rug in my hand. What are you going to do? She had run forward impetuously and was now standing very close beside me, inconveniently close. I am going to raise this rug, I informed her, that is, just at this corner. Pardon me, I shall have to ask you to move. Certainly, of course, she stammered. Oh, what is going to happen now? Then as she watched me, there is something under it, a door in the floor. Mrs. O'Cumper never told me of this. Do you suppose she knew it, I inquired, looking up into her face, which was very near but not near enough to be in the full light of the lantern, which was pointed another way. This rug appears to have been almost sluttered to the floor everywhere but here. There! It is thrown back. Now, if you will be so very good as to hold the lantern, I will try and lift the door. I cannot. See how my hands shake? What are we about to discover? Nothing, I pray. Nothing suspense would be better than that. I think you will be able to hold it, I urged, pressing the lantern upon her. Yes, I have never been devoid of courage. But don't ask me to descend with you, she prayed as she lifted the lantern and turned it dexterously enough on that portion of the door, where a ring lay outlined in the depths of its outermost plank. I will not, but you will come just the same. You cannot help it, I hazarded. As with the point of my knife-blade I lifted the small round of wood which filled into the ring and thus made the floor level. Now if this door is not locked we will have it up, I cried, pulling at the ring with a will. The door was not locked and it came up readily enough, discovering some half-dozen steps down which I immediately proceeded to climb. Oh, I cannot stay here alone, she protested, and prepared to follow me in haste, just as I expected her to do the moment she saw the light withdrawn. Step carefully, I enjoined, if you will honor me with your hand. But she was at my side before the words were well out. What is it? What kind of place do you make it out to be? And is there anything here you do not want to see? I flashed the light around and, incidentally, on her she was not trembling now. Her cheeks were blazing red and her eyes were blazing. She was looking at me and not at the darksome place about her. But as this was natural, it being a woman's way to look for what she desires to learn in the face of the man, who was at the moment her protector, I shifted the light into the nooks and corners of the low damp cellar in which we now found ourselves. Bins for wine and beer I observed, but nothing in them. Then as I measured the space before me with my eye, it runs under the whole of the house. See, it is much larger than the room above. Yes, she mechanically repeated. I lowered the lantern to the floor, but quickly raised it again. What is that on the other side, I queried. I am sure there is a break in the wall over in that corner. I cannot see, she gasped. Certainly she was very much frightened. Are you going to cross the floor? Yes, and if you do not wish to follow me, sit down on those steps. No, I will go where you go, but this is very fearful. Why, what is the matter? I had stepped aside in order to avoid a trail of footprints I saw extending across the cellar floor. Come around this way, I urged. If you will follow me, I will keep you from being too much frightened. She did, as I told her. Softly her steps fell in behind mine, and thus with wary tread and peering eyes we made our way to the remote end, where we found, or rather where I found, that the break which I had noticed in the uniformity of the wall was occasioned by a pile of old boxes arranged so as to make steps up to a hole cut through the floor above. With a sharp movement I wheeled upon her. Do you see that, I asked, pointing back over my shoulder. Steps, she cried, going up into that part of the building where—where? Will you attempt them with me, or will you stay here in the darkness? I will stay here. It was said with a shortened breath, but she seemed less frightened than when we started across the cellar. At all events a fine look of daring had displaced the tremulous aspect which had so changed the character of her countenance a few minutes before. I will make sure at work of it, I assured her, as I hastily ran up the steps. Drop your face into your hands, and you will not be conscious of the darkness. Besides I will talk to you all the time. There I have worked my way up through the hole. I have placed my lantern on the floor above, and I see—what, are you coming? Yes, I am coming. Indeed, she was close behind me, maintaining her footing on the toppling boxes by a grip on my disengaged arm. Can you see, I asked. Wait, let me pull you up, we might as well stand on the floor as on these boxes. Climbing into the room above I offered her my hand, and in another moment we stood together in the noisome precincts of that abominable spot, with whose doleful story she had just made me acquainted. A square of impenetrable gloom confronted me at first glance. What might not be the result of a second? I turned to consult the appearance of the lady beside me before I took this second look. Had she the strength to stand this ordeal? Was she much moved or possibly more moved than myself? As a woman and the intimate friend of the Ocampas she should be. But I could not perceive that she was. For some reason, once in view of this mysterious place, she was strangely, inexplicably, impassibly calm. Can you bear it, I queried? I must only end it quickly. I will, I replied, and I held out my lantern. I am not a superstitious man, but instinctively I looked up before I looked about me. I have no doubt that Mrs. Caru did the same. But no stains were to be seen on those blackened boards now, or rather they were dark with one continuous stain, and next moment I examined with eager scrutiny the place itself. Accustomed to the appearance of the cheerful and well furnished room on the other side of the partition, it was a shock to me—I will not say what it was to her—to meet the bearer decaying walls and mouldering of this dismal whole. True, we had just come from a description of the place in all the neglect of its many years of desolation. Yet the smart finish of the open portion we had just left poorly prepared us for what we here encountered. But the first impression over—an impression which was to recur to me many a night afterward in dreams—I remembered the near and more imperative cause which had drawn us thither, and turning the light into each and every corner, I looked eagerly for what I so much dreaded to find. A couch to which some old cushion still clung stood against the far wall. Thank God it was empty! So were all the corners of the room. Nothing living and nothing dead. Turning quickly upon Mrs. Caru I made haste to assure her that our fears were quite unfounded. But she was not even looking my way. Her eyes were on the ground, and she seemed merely waiting, in some impatience evidently, but merely waiting for me to finish and be gone. This was certainly odd, for the place was calculated in itself to rouse curiosity, especially in one who knew its story. A table, thick with dust and blurred with dampness, still gave tokens of bygone festivity, among which a bottle and some glasses stood conspicuous. Cards were there, too, dingy and green with mold, some on the tables, some on the floor. While the open lid of a small desk pushed up close to a bookshelf, full of books, still held a rusty pen and the remnants of what looked like the moldering sheets of unused paper. As for the rest, desolation, neglect, horror. But no child, the relief was enormous. It is a dreadful place, I exclaimed, but it might have been worse. Do you want to see things nearer? Shall we cross the floor? No, no, we have not found Gwendolyn. Let us go. Oh, let us go! A thrill of feeling had crept into her voice. Who could wonder? Yet I was not ready to humor her very natural sensibilities by leaving so abruptly. The floor interested me. The cushions of that old couch interested me. The sawn boards surrounding the hole, indeed, many things interested me. We will go in a moment, I assured her. But first cast your eyes along the floor. Don't you see that someone has preceded us here and that not so very long ago? Someone with dainty feet and a skirt that fell on the ground, in short, a woman and a lady. I don't see, she faltered, very much frightened. Then quickly, show me, show me. I pointed out the marks and the heavy dust along the neglected floor. They were unmistakable. Oh, she cried, what it is to be a detective. But who could have been here? Who would want to be here? I think it is horrible myself, and if I were alone I should faint from terror and the close air. We will not remain much longer, I assured her, going straight to the couch. I do not like it either, but... What have you found now? Her voice seemed to come from a great distance behind me. Was this on account of the state of her nerves or mine? I am willing to think the latter, for at that moment my eye took into unexpected details. A dent as of a child's head in one of the mangy sofa pillows and a crushed bit of colored sugar, which must once have been a bit of choice confectionary. Someone, besides a lady, has been here, I decided, pointing to the one and bringing back the other. See, this bit of candy is quite fresh. You must acknowledge that. This was not walled up years ago with the rest of the things we see about us. Her eyes stared at the sugary morsel I held out toward her in my open palm. Then she made a sudden rush, which took her to the side of the couch. Gwendolyn here, she moaned. Gwendolyn here? Yes, I began. Do not. But she had already left the spot and was backing toward the opening up which we had come. As she met my eye, she made a quick turn and plunged below. I must have air, she gasped. With a glance at the floor over which she had so rapidly passed, I hastily followed her, smiling grimly to myself. Intentionally or unintentionally, she had by this quick passage to and fro, effectually confused if not entirely obliterated, those evidences of a former intrusion which, with misguided judgment, I had just pointed out to her. But recalling the still more perfect line of footprints left below, to which I had not called her attention, I felt that I could afford to ignore the present mishap. As I reached the cellar bottom I called to her, for she was already half way across. Did you notice where the boards have been sawed? I asked. The sawdust is still on the floor and it smells as fresh as if the saw had been at work there yesterday. No doubt, no doubt, she answered back over her shoulder, still hurrying on, so that I had to run lest she should attempt the steps in the utter darkness. When I reached the floor of the bungalow, she was in the open door, panting. I watched her with one eye. I drew back the trap into place and replaced the rug and the three nails I had loosened. Then I shut the slide of the lantern and joined her where she stood. Do you feel better, I asked? It was a dismal quarter of an hour. But it was not a lost one. She drew the door too and locked it before she answered. Then it was with a question. What do you make of all this, Mr. Trevot? I replied as directly as the circumstance is demanded. Madam, it is a startling answer to the question you put me before we first left your house. You asked, then, if the child in the wagon was Gwendolyn. How could it have been she with this evidence before us of her having been concealed here at the very time that wagon was being driven away from—I do not think you have reason enough, she began, and stopped, and did not speak again until we halted at the foot of her own porch. Then, with the frank accent most in keeping with her general manner, however much I might distrust both accent and manner, she added as if no interval had intervened. If those signs you noted are proofs to you that Gwendolyn was shut up in that walled-off portion of the bungalow while some were seeking her in the water and others in the wagon, then where is she now? CHAPTER XIII It was a leading question which I was not surprised to see accompanied by a very sharp look, from beneath the cloudy wrap she had wound about her head. You suspect some one, or some thing, continued Mrs. Carew with a return of the indefinable manner which had characterized her in the beginning of our interview. Whom? What? I should have liked to answer her candidly, and in the spirit, if not the words, of the prophet of old, but her womanliness disarmed me. With her eyes on me I could get no further than a polite acknowledgment of defeat. Mrs. Carew, I am all at sea. We shall have to begin again. Yes, she answered like an echo, was it sadly or gladly, you will have to begin again. Then with a regretful accent, and I cannot help you for I am going to sail to-morrow, I positively must go. Cablegrams from the other side hurry me. I shall have to leave Mrs. Ocampa in the midst of her distress. And what time does your steamer sail, Mrs. Carew? At five o'clock in the afternoon from the Cunard Docks. Nearly sixteen hours from now. Perhaps fate, or my efforts, will favor us before then with some solution of this disheartening problem. Let us hope so. A quick shudder to hide which she was reaching out her hand, when the door behind us opened and a colored girl looked out. Instantly, and with the slightest possible loss of self-possession, Mrs. Carew turned to motion the intruder back, when the girl suddenly blurted out. Oh, Mrs. Carew, Harry is so restless. He is sleepy, he says. I will be up instantly. Tell him that I will be up instantly. Then as the girl disappeared she added, with a quick smile. You see, I haven't any toys for him. Not being a mother I forgot to put them in his trunk. As though in response to these words the maid again showed herself in the doorway. Oh, Mrs. Carew, she eagerly exclaimed. There is a little toy in the hall here, brought over by Mrs. Ocampa's maid. The girl said that hearing that the little boy fretted, Mrs. Ocampa had picked out one of her little girl's play things and sent it over with her love. It's a little horse, ma'am, with a curly mane and a long tail. I am sure to a-please, Master Harry. Mrs. Carew turned upon me, a look brimming with feeling. What thoughtfulness, what self-control, she cried. Take up the horse, Dinah. It was one of Gwendolyn's favorite play things, she explained to me as the girl vanished. I did not answer. I was hearing again in my mind that desolate cry of, Philo, Philo, Philo, which an hour or so before had wrung down from Mrs. Ocampa's open window. There had been a wildness in the tone which spoke of a tossing head on a feverish pillow. Certainly an irreconcilable picture with the one just suggested by Mrs. Carew of the considerate friend sending out the toys of her lost one to a neighbor's peevish child. Mrs. Carew appeared to notice the preoccupation with which I lingered on the lower step. You like children, she hazarded, or have you interested yourself in this matter purely from business reasons? Business reasons were sufficient, was my guarded reply, but I like children very much. I should be most happy if I could see this little Harry of yours nearer. I have only seen him from a distance, you know. He drew back a step. Then she met my look squarely in the moonlight. Her face was flushed, but I attempted no apology for a presumption which could have but one excuse. I meant that she should understand me if I did not her. You must love children, she remarked, but not with her usual correctness of tone. Then before I could attempt an answer to the implied sarcasm a proud light came into her eyes, and with a gracious bend of her fine figure she met my look with one equally as Frank, and cheerfully declared, You shall come early in the morning. In another moment she had vanished inside and closed the door. I was defeated for the nonce, or else she was all she appeared to be, and I a dreaming fool. CHAPTER XIV As I moved slowly away into the night the question thus raised in my own mind assumed greater and more vital consequence. Was she a true woman, or what my fears had pictured her? The scheming, unprincipled abductor of Gwendolyn Okampa. She looked true, sometimes acted so, but I had heard and seen what would arouse any man's suspicion. And though I was not in a position to say, Mrs. Karoo, this was not your first visit to that scene of old tragedy. You have been there before, and with Gwendolyn in your arms. I was morally certain that this was so, that Mrs. Okampa's most trusted friend was responsible for the disappearance of her child, and I was not quite sure that the child was not now under her very roof. It was very late by this time, but I meant if possible to settle some of these doubts before I left the neighborhood of the cottage. How? By getting a glimpse of Mrs. Karoo with her mask off in the company of the child, if I could compass it. If not, then entirely alone with her own thoughts, plans, and subtleties. It was an act more in line with my partner's towns than my own, but I could not afford to let this deter me. I had had my chance with her face to face. For many hours I had been in her company. I had seen her in her various stages of emotion, sometimes real, sometimes assumed, but at no moment had I been sure of her, possibly because at no moment had she been sure of me. In our first visit to the bungalow, in her own little library, during the reading of that engrossing tale, by which she had so evidently attempted to lull my suspicions awakened by her one irrepressible show of alarm on the scene of Gwendolyn's disappearance, and afterwards when she saw that they might be so lulled but not dispelled, in the cellar and above all in that walled-off room where we had come across the signs of Gwendolyn's presence, which even she could not disavow. She had felt my eyes upon her and had made me conscious that she had so felt them. Now she must believe them removed, and if I could but gain the glimpse I speak of, I should see this woman as she was. I thought I could manage this. I had listened to the maid's steps as she returned up the stairs, and I believe I knew in what direction they had tended after she reached the floor above. I would just see if one of the windows on the south side was lighted, and if so, if it was in any way accessible. To make my way through the shrubbery without rousing the attention of any one inside or out required a circumspection that tried me greatly. But by dint of strong self-control I succeeded in getting to the vantage place I sought, without attracting attention or causing a single window to fly up. This reassured me, and perceiving a square of light in the dark mass of wall before me, I peered amongst the trees overlooking this part of the building, for one I could climb without too much difficulty. The one which looked most feasible was a maple with low-growing branches, and throwing off my coat I was soon halfway to its top, and on a level, or nearly so, with the window on which I had fixed my eye. There were no curtains to this window, the house being half dismantled in anticipation of Mrs. Carew's departure. But it was still protected by a shade, and this was drawn down nearly to the ledge. But not quite. A narrow space in dervined which, to an eye placed where mine was, offered a peephole of more or less satisfactory proportions, and this space I soon saw, widened perceptibly from time to time as the wind caught at the shade and blew it in. With utmost caution I shifted my position, till I could bring my eye fairly in line with the interior of this room, and finding that the glimpse given revealed little but a blue wall and some snowy linen, I waited for a breeze to blow that I might see more. It came speedily, and in a gust which lifted the shade and thus disclosed the hole inside of the room. It was an instantaneous glimpse, but in that moment the picture projected upon my eye satisfied me that, despite my doubts, despite my causes for suspicion, I had been doing this woman the greatest injustice in supposing that her relation to the child she had brought into her home were other than she had made out. She had come up as she had promised, and had seated herself on the bed with her face turned toward the window. I could thus catch its whole expression, an expression this time involuntary and natural as the feelings which prompted it. The child with his newly obtained toy clutched in one hand, knelt on the coverlet with his head pressed against her breast saying his prayers. I could hear his soft murmur though I could not catch the words. But sweet as was the sight of his little white-clad form burying his head with its mass of dusky curls against the breast which he most confided, it was not this alone which gave to the moment its most sacred character. It was the rapturous look with which Mrs. Karoo gazed down on his little head, the mother look, which admits of nothing false, and which when once seen on a woman's face, whether she be mother in fact or mother only in heart, idealizes her in the mind forever. Eloquent with love and holy devotion the scene flashed upon my eyes for only a moment and was gone. But that moment made its impression and settled for good in all the question with which I had started upon this venture. She was the true woman, and I was the dreaming fool. As I realized this I also realized that three days out of the seven were gone. CHAPTER XV. A FANTASM I certainly had every right to conclude that this would end my adventures for the day. But I soon found that I was destined to have yet another experience before returning to my home in New York. The weather had changed during the last hour, and at the moment I emerged from the shadows of the hedge-row into the open space fronting the Ocampa dock, a gleam of lightning shot across the west, and by it I saw what looked like a dusky figure of a man leaning against a pile at the extreme right end of the boathouse. Something in the immobility maintained by this figure, in face of the quick flashes which from time to time lit up the scene, reminded me of the presence I had come upon hours before in front of Mrs. Carew's house, and moved by the instinct of my calling I took advantage of the few minutes yet remaining before train time to make my way in its direction, cautiously, of course, and with due allowance for the possible illumination following those fitful bursts of light which brought everything to view in one moment, only to plunge it all back into the profoundest obscurity the next. I had two motives for my proceeding. One, as I say, sprang from the natural instinct of investigation. The other was kindlier and less personal. I did not understand the meaning of the posture which this person had now assumed, nor did I like it. Why should this man, why should any man, stand like this at the dead of night, staring into waters, which, if they had their tale to tell, had not told it yet, unless his interest in the story read there was linked with emotions such as it was my business to know. For those most openly concerned in Gwendolyn's loss the search had ceased. Why then this lone and lingering watch on the part of one who might, for all I knew, be some overzealous detective, but who I was rather inclined to believe was a person much more closely concerned in the child's fate, vis-à-vis the next errand-law, Mr. Rathbone? If it were he his presence there savored of mystery or its savored of the tragic. The latter seemed the more likely hypothesis, judging from the expression of his face, as seen by me under the lantern. It behoofed me, then, to approach him, but to approach him in the shadow of the boathouse. What passed in the next few minutes seemed to me unreal and dreamlike. I was tired, I suppose, and so more than usually susceptible. Night had no unfamiliar effects for me, even night on the borders of this great river, nor was my occupation a new one, or the expectation I felt, as fearful and absorbing as that with which, an hour or two before I had raised my lantern in that room in which the doleful mystery, of half a century back, trenched upon the still more moving mystery of today. Yet that experience had the sharpness of fact, while this had only the vagueness of a phantasm. I was very near him, but the lightning had ceased to flash, and I found it impossible to discern whether or not the form I had come there to identify, yet lingered in its old position against the pile. I therefore awaited the next gleam with great anxiety, an anxiety only partially alleviated by the certainty I felt of hearing the faint, scarcely recognizable sound of his breathing. Had the storm passed over, would no more flashes come? Ah, he is moving, that is the sigh I hear. No detectives exclamation of impatience, but a sufferer's sigh of depression or remorse. What was in the man's mind? A steamboat or some equally brilliantly illuminated craft was passing, far out in the channel. The shimmer of its lights gave sudden cheer to the distant prospect, the churning of its paddles, suggesting life and action and irresistibly drew my eyes that way. Would he follow? Would I find his attitude changed? Ah, the long-delayed flash has come and gone. He is standing there yet, but no longer in an attitude of contemplation. On the contrary he is bending over the waters, searching with eager aspect where so many had searched before him, and in the instant, as his face and form leaped into sight, I beheld his clenched right hand fall on his breast, and heard on his lips the one word. Guilty. CHAPTER 16 I was one of the first to procure and read a New York paper next morning. Would I discover in the columns any hint of the preceding days' events in Yonkers, which, if known, must forever upset the wagon theory? No, that secret was still my secret, only shared by the doctor, who, so far as I understood him, had no intention of breaking his self-imposed silence, till his fears of some disaster to the little one had received confirmation. I had therefore several hours before me yet for free work. The first thing I did was to hunt up Miss Graham. She met me with eagerness, and eagerness I found it difficult to dispel with my disappointing news in regards to Dr. Poole. He is not the man, said I. Can you think of any other? She shook her head, her large gray eyes, showing astonishment, and what I felt bound to regard as an honest bewilderment. I wish to mention a name, said I. One I know, she asked. Yes. I know of no other person capable of wrongdoing that child. You are probably right, but there is a gentleman one interested in the family, a man with something to gain. Mr. Rathbone, you must not mention him in any such connection. He is one of the best men I know. Kind, good, and oh so sensitive. A dozen fortunes wouldn't tempt a man of his stamp to do any one living a wrong, let alone a little innocent child. I know, but there are other temptations greater than money to some men, infinitely greater to one as sensitive as you say he is. What if he loved a woman? What if his only hope of winning her? You must not think that of him, she again interposed. She could make a villain of him. I have seen him too many times in circumstances which show a man's good character. He is good through and through and in all that concerns Gwendolyn honourable to the core. I once saw him save her life at the risk of his own. You did, when, years ago? No, lately within the last year. Tell me the circumstances. She did. They were convincing. As I listened to the phantasm of the night before assumed fainter and fainter proportions. When she had finished I warmly remarked that I was glad to hear the story of so heroic an act. And I was, not that I ascribed too deep a significance to the word, which had escaped Mr. Rathbone on the dock, but because I was glad to have my instinctive confidence in the man verified by facts. It seemed to clear the way before me. Ellie, said I, it seemed both natural and proper to call her by that name now. What explanation would you give if under the circumstances all circumstances are possible, you know? You heard this gentleman speak of feeling guilty in connection with Gwendolyn Ocampa. I should have to know the circumstances, was her quiet answer. Let me imagine some. Say that it was night, late night, at an hour when the most hardened among us are in a particularly responsive condition. Say that he had been spending hours near the house of the woman he had long loved, but had quite disparate of winning in his greatly hampered condition, and with the fever of this longing upon him, but restrained by emotions of the nature which we cannot surmise, had now found his way down to the river. To the spot where the boats have clustered, and men crouched in the gruesome and unveiling search we know of. Say that he hung there long over the water gazing down in silence, in solitude alone, as he thought, with his own conscience and the suggestions offered by that running stream where some still think, despite facts, despite all the probabilities, that Gwendolyn had found rest, and when his heart was full, should be seen to strike his breast and utter with a quick turn of his face up the hill this one word, guilty. What would I think? This, that being overwrought by the struggle you mention, a struggle we can possibly understand when we consider the unavoidable consciousness which must be his, of the great change which would be affected in all his prospects if Gwendolyn should not be found, he gave the name of guilt to feelings which some would call simply human. Ellie, you are an oracle. This thought of hers had been my thought ever since I had time really to reflect upon the matter. I wonder if you will have an equally wise reply to give to my next question. I cannot say from my intuition I am really not wise. Intuition is above wisdom. Does your intuition tell you that Mrs. Karoo is the true friend she professes to be to Mrs. Ocampa? Ah, that is a different thing. The clear brow I loved, there, how words escape a man, lost its smoothness, and her eyes took on a troubled aspect while her words came slowly. I do not know how to answer that offhand. Sometimes I have felt that her very soul was knit to that of Mrs. Ocampa, and again I have had my doubts. But never deep ones, never any such as would make it easy for me to answer the question you have just put me. Was her love for Gwendolyn sincere, I asked? Oh, yes. Oh, yes. That is, I always thought so, and with no qualification, till something in her conduct when she first heard of Gwendolyn's disappearance, I cannot describe it, gave me a sense of disappointment. She was shocked, of course, and she was grieved, but not hopelessly so. There was something lacking in her manner, we all felt it. Mrs. Ocampa felt it, and let her dear friend go the moment she showed the slightest inclination to do so. There were excuses for Mrs. Karoo, just at that time, said I. You forget the new interest which had come into her life. It was natural that she should be preoccupied. The thoughts of her little nephew, replied Miss Graham. True, true, but she had been so fond of Gwendolyn, and you would have thought. But why all this talk of Mrs. Karoo? You don't believe. Surely you cannot believe. That Mrs. Karoo is a charming woman. Oh, yes, but I do. Mr. Rathbone shows good taste. Ah, is she the one? Did you not know it? No. Yet I have seen them together many times. Now I understand much that it always been a mystery to me. He never pressed his suit. He loved, but he never harassed her. Oh, he is a good man. This with emphasis. Is she a good woman? Miss Graham's eyes suddenly fell then rose again until they met mine fully and frankly. I have no reason, said she, to believe her otherwise. I have never seen anything in her to hinder my esteem only. Finish that only. She does not appeal to me as many less gifted women do. Perhaps I'm secretly jealous of the extreme fondness Gwendolyn has always shown for her. If so, the fault is in me, not in her. What I said in reply is not germane to this story. After being assured by a few more discreet inquiries in some other perfectly safe quarters, that Miss Graham's opinion of Mr. Rathbone was shared by those who beat new him, I returned to the one spot most likely to afford me a clue to, if not an explanation of, this elusive mystery. What did I propose to myself? First, to revisit Mrs. Carew and make the acquaintance of the boy Harry. I no longer doubted his being just what she called him, but she had asked me to call for this purpose and I had no excuse for declining the invitation, even if I had desired to do so. Afterward, but first let us finish with Mrs. Carew. As she entered her reception room that morning she looked so bright, that is, with the instinctive brightness of a naturally vivacious temperament, that I wondered if I had been mistaken in my thought that she had had no sleep all that night, simply because many of the lights in her house had not been put out till morning. But as inspection of her face revealed lines of care, which only her smile could afface, when she was not quite ready for smiles, affable and gracious as she showed herself. Her first words, just as I expected, were, There is nothing in the papers about the child in the wagon. No, everything does not get into the papers. Well, what we saw and what we found in the bungalow last night? I hardly think so. This is our own special clue, Mrs. Carew, if it is a clue. You seem to regard it as such. With a shrug I declared that we had come upon a mystery of some kind. But the child is not dead. That you feel demonstrated. Or don't you, as I said last night I do not know what to think. Ah, is that the little boy? Yes, she gaily responded, as the glad step of a child was heard descending the stairs. Harry, come here, Harry, she cried, with a joyous accent which a child's presence seemed to call out in some women. Here is a gentleman who would like to shake hands with you. A sprite of a child entered, a perfect sunbeam irradiating the whole room. If, under the confidence induced by the vision I had had of him on his knees the night before, any suspicion remained in my mind of his being Gwendolyn Ocampa in disguise, it vanished at the sight of the fearless head lifted high in boyish freedom, and the gaze swish-swish of the whip in his nervous little hand. Harry is plain, hoarse, he cried, galloping toward me in what he evidently considered true jockey-style. I made a gesture and stopped him. How do you do, little man? What did you say your name is? Harry, this very stoutly. Harry what? Harry Carew? No, Harry, just Harry. And how do you like it here? I like it, I like it better than my old home. Where was your old home? I don't know, I didn't like it. He was with uncongenial people, and he is very sensitive, put in Mrs. Carew softly. I like it here, he repeated, and I like the big ocean. I am going on the ocean, and I like horses. Get up, Dandy! and he cracked his whip and was off again on his imaginary trot. I felt very foolish over the doubts I had so openly evinced. This was not only a boy to the marrow of his bones, but he was, as any eye could see, the near relative she called him. In my embarrassment I rose. At all events I soon found myself standing near the door with Mrs. Carew. A fine fellow I enthusiastically exclaimed, and startlingly like you in expression, he is your nephew, I believe? Yes, she replied somewhat wistfully, I thought. I felt that I should apologize for, well, perhaps for the change she must have discerned in my manner. The likeness caused me a shock. I was not prepared for it, I suppose. She looked at me, wonderingly. I have never heard anyone speak of it before. I am glad that you see it. And she seemed glad, very glad. But I know that for some reason she was gladder yet when I turned to depart. However, she did not hasten me. What are you going to do next, she inquired as she courteously led the way, through the piles of heaped boxes and baskets, the number of which had rather grown than diminished since my visit the evening before? Pardon my asking. Short to my last means, said I, see and talk with Mrs. Ocampa. An instant of hesitation on her part, so short, however, that I could hardly detect it, then she declared, But you cannot do that. Why not? She is ill. I am sure that they will let no one approach her. One of her maids was in this morning. She did not even ask me to come over. I am sorry, said I, but I shall make the effort. The illness which affects Mrs. Ocampa can best be cured by the restoration of her child. But you have not found Gwendolyn, she replied. No, but I have discovered footprints on the dust of the bungalow floor, and, as you know, a bit of candy which looks as if it had been crushed in a sleeping child's hand, and I am in need of every aid possible in order to make the most of these discoveries. They may point the way to Gwendolyn's present whereabouts, and they may not, but they shall be given every chance. Woop! Get up! Get up! broke in a childish voice from the upper landing. Am I not right, I asked? Always. Only, I am sorry for Mrs. Ocampa. May I tell you? As I laid my hand upon the outer doorknob, just how to approach her? Certainly if you would be so good. I would not ask for Miss Porter. Ask for Celia. She is Mrs. Ocampa's special maid. Let her carry your message if you feel that it will do any good to disturb her. Thank you. The recommendation is valuable. Good morning, Mrs. Karoo. I may not see you again. May I wish you a safe journey? Certainly. Are we not almost friends? Why did I not make my bow and go? There was nothing more to be said, at least by me. Was I held by something in her manner? Doubtless. For while I was thus reasoning with myself, she followed me out unto the porch, and with some remark as to the beauty of the morning, led me to an opening in the vines whence a fine view could be caught of the river. But it was not for the view she had brought me there. This was evident enough from her manner, and soon she paused in her observations of the beauties of nature, and with a strange ringing emphasis, for which I was not altogether prepared, remarked with feeling. I may be making a mistake. I was always an unconventional woman, but I think you ought to know something about Mrs. Ocampa's private history before you see her. It's not a common one, at least its romantic elements, and an acquaintance with some of its features is almost necessary to you, if you expect to approach her on so delicate a matter with any hope of success. But perhaps you are better informed on this subject than I supposed. Detectives are a mind of secret intelligence, I am told. Possibly you have already learned from some other source, the story of her marriage in homecoming to Homewood, and the particular circumstances around her early married life? No, I disclaimed in great relief, and I have no doubt with unnecessary vivacity. On the contrary, I have never heard anything said in regard to it. Would you like to? Men have not the curiosity of women, and I do not wish to bore you, but I see that I shall not do that, she exclaimed. Sit down, Mr. Trevitt, I shall not detain you long. I have not much time myself. As she sank into a chair in saying this, I had no alternative but to follow her example. I took pains, however, to choose one which brought me into the shadow of the vines, for I felt some embarrassment at this new turning conversation, and was conscious that I should have more or less difficulty in hiding my only too intense interest in all that concerned the lady of whom we were speaking. Mrs. O'Cumpa was a western woman, Mrs. Karoo began softly, the oldest of five daughters. There was not much money in the family, but she had beauty, all commanding, all conquering beauty, not the beauty you see in her today, but the exquisite, pervasive loveliness which seizes upon the imagination as well as moves the heart. I have a picture of her at eighteen, but never mind that. Was it affection for her friend which made Mrs. Karoo's always rich voice so very mellow? I wished I knew, but I was successful, I think, in keeping that wish out of my face, and preserving my manner of the simply polite listener. Mr. O'Cumpa was on a hunting trip, she proceeded, after a slight glance my way. He had traveled the world over and seen beautiful women everywhere, but there was something in Marian Allison which he had found in no other, and at the end of their first interview he determined to make her his wife, a man of impulses but also a man of steady resolution. Mr. Trevitt, perhaps you know this? I bowed, a strong man, I remarked, and a romantic one. He had this intention from the first, as I have said, but he wished to make himself sure of her heart. He knew how his advantage is counted, how hard it is for a woman to disassociate the man from his belongings, and, having a spirit of some daring, he resolved that this pearl of the West, so I have heard him call her, should marry the man and not his money. Was he as wealthy then as now? Almost. Possibly he was not quite such a power in the financial world, but he had homeward in almost as beautiful a condition as now, though the new house was not put up till after his marriage. He courted her, not as the landscape painter of Tennyson's poems, but as a rising young businessman who had made his way sufficiently to give her a good home. This home he did not have to describe, since her own imagination immediately pictured it as much below the one she lived in. And he was years younger than her, hardworking father. Delighted with this naivete he took pains not to disabuse her mind, of the simple prospects with which she was evidently so well satisfied, hence succeeded in marrying her, and bringing her as far as our station below there, without her having the least suspicion of the splendor she was destined for. And now, Mr. Trevitt, picture if you can, the scene of that first arrival. I have heard it described by him, and I have heard it described by her. He was plainly dressed, so was she, and lest the surprise should come before the proper moment he had brought her on a train little patronized by his friends. The sumptuousness of the solitary equipage standing at the depot platform must in consequence have struck her all the more forcibly, and when he turned and asked her if she did not admire this fine turnout you can imagine the lovely smile with which she acknowledged its splendor, and then turned away to look up and down for the streetcar she expected to take with him to their new bridal home. He says that he caught her back with the remark that he was glad she liked it because it was hers and many more like it. But she insisted that he did not say a word, only smiled in a way to make her see for whom the carriage door was being held open. Such was her entrance into wealth and love and alas into trouble. For the latter followed hard upon the two first. Mr. O'Cumpa's mother, who had held sway at Homewood for thirty years or more, was hard as the nether millstone. She was a wrath-bone and had brought both wealth and aristocratic connections into the family. She had no sympathy for penniless beauties, she was a very plain woman herself, and made those first few years of her daughter-in-law's life as nearly miserable as any woman's can be who adores her husband. I have heard that it was a common experience for this sharp tongue-old lady to taunt her with the fact that she brought nothing into the family but herself, not even a towel. And when two years had passed and no child came, the biting criticisms became so frequent that a cloud fell over the young wife-sensitive beauty which no after-happiness had ever succeeded in fully dispelling. Matters went better after Gwendolyn came, but in reckoning up the possible defects in Mrs. O'Cumpa's character you should never forget the twist that may have been given to it by that mother-in-law. I have heard of Madame O'Cumpa, I remarked, rising, anxious to end an interview whose purport was more or less enigmatic to me. She is dead now, happily. A woman like that is accountable for much more than she herself ever realizes. But one thing she never succeeded in doing. She never shook Mr. O'Cumpa's love for his wife or hers for him. Whether it was the result of that early romantic episode of which I have spoken, or whether their natures are peculiarly congenial, the bond between them has always been one of exceptional strength and purity. It will be their comfort now, I remarked. Mrs. Carew smiled, but in a dubious way that added to my perplexity, and made me question more seriously than ever just what her motive had been in subjecting me to these very intimate reminiscences of one I was about to approach on an errand of whose purport she could have only a general idea. Had she read my innermost soul, did she wish to save her friend or save herself, or even save me from the result of a blind use of such tools as were the only ones afforded me? Impossible to determine. She was at this present moment, as she had always been, in fact, an insolvable problem to me. And it was not at this hurried time and with such serious work before me that I could venture to make any attempt to understand her. You will let me know of the outcome of your talk with Mrs. O'Cumpa, she cried, as I moved to the front of the porch. It was for me to look dubious now. I could make no such promise as that. I will let you know the instant there is any good news, I assured her. And with that I moved off, but not before hearing the peremptory command with which she entered the house. Now, Dina, quick! Evidently her preparations for a departure were to be pushed.