diff options
| author | Roger Frank <rfrank@pglaf.org> | 2025-10-14 20:09:26 -0700 |
|---|---|---|
| committer | Roger Frank <rfrank@pglaf.org> | 2025-10-14 20:09:26 -0700 |
| commit | bb85cc5423e64110c78914fe6caa4e5d1b2ae994 (patch) | |
| tree | 9437fd788deb0994a9ad341ebbfbe09d4dd5bcfc /38060-h | |
Diffstat (limited to '38060-h')
| -rw-r--r-- | 38060-h/38060-h.htm | 7857 |
1 files changed, 7857 insertions, 0 deletions
diff --git a/38060-h/38060-h.htm b/38060-h/38060-h.htm new file mode 100644 index 0000000..1c87375 --- /dev/null +++ b/38060-h/38060-h.htm @@ -0,0 +1,7857 @@ +<!DOCTYPE html PUBLIC "-//W3C//DTD XHTML 1.0 Transitional//EN" "http://www.w3.org/TR/xhtml1/DTD/xhtml1-transitional.dtd"> +<html xmlns="http://www.w3.org/1999/xhtml"> +<head> + <meta http-equiv="Content-Type" content="text/html; charset=utf-8" /> + <meta name="generator" content="ppgen" /> + <meta name="author" content="Inez Haynes Irwin" /> + <meta name="date" content="1921" /> + <title>Out of the Air, by Inez Haynes Irwin</title> + <style type="text/css"> + body { margin-left: 10%; margin-right: 10%; margin-top: 10%; margin-bottom: 10%; + text-align: justify; } + p { margin-top:.7071em; margin-bottom:.7071em; text-align:justify; } + .pagenum { display:inline; font-size:x-small; text-align:right; text-indent:0; + position:absolute; right:2%; padding:1px 3px; font-style:normal; + font-variant:normal; font-weight:normal; text-decoration:none; + background-color:inherit; border:1px solid #eee; } + .pncolor { color:silver; } + .sc { font-variant:small-caps; } + hr.solid { border:none; border-bottom: 1px solid black; width:100%; margin: 1em auto; } + div.chapter { margin-top:3em; margin-bottom:1em; } + p.cln0 { text-align:center; display: block; font-size:larger; } + </style> + </head> +<body> + + +<pre> + +The Project Gutenberg EBook of Out of the Air, by Inez Haynes Irwin + +This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with +almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or +re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included +with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org + + +Title: Out of the Air + +Author: Inez Haynes Irwin + +Release Date: November 19, 2011 [EBook #38060] + +Language: English + +Character set encoding: UTF-8 + +*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK OUT OF THE AIR *** + + + + +Produced by Roger Frank and the Online Distributed +Proofreading Team at https://www.pgdp.net + + + + + + +</pre> + +<!-- +:author "Inez Haynes Irwin" +:date "1921" +:title "Out of the Air, by Inez Haynes Irwin" +--> + + +<p style="text-align:center;font-size: 1.5em;margin-top: 1.0em;margin-bottom: 1.0em;">OUT OF THE AIR</p> + +<p style="text-align:center;">BY</p> + +<p style="text-align:center;margin-bottom: 2.0em;">INEZ HAYNES IRWIN</p> + +<p style="text-align:center;">GROSSET & DUNLAP</p> + +<p style="text-align:center;">PUBLISHERS—NEW YORK</p> + +<p style="text-align:center;font-size: 0.8em;">Made in the United States of America</p> + +<p style="margin-top:4em;"> </p> + +<p style="text-align:center;font-size: 0.8em;margin-bottom: 0.0em;">COPYRIGHT, 1920, 1921, BY</p> + +<p style="text-align:center;font-size: 0.8em;margin-top: 0.0em;margin-bottom: 0.5em;">METROPOLITAN PUBLICATIONS, INC.</p> + +<p style="text-align:center;font-size: 0.8em;margin-bottom: 0.0em;">COPYRIGHT, 1921, BY</p> + +<p style="text-align:center;font-size: 0.8em;margin-top: 0.0em;">HARCOURT, BRACE AND COMPANY, INC.</p> + +<p style="margin-top:4em;"> </p> + +<p style="text-align:center;">TO</p> + +<p style="text-align:center;">BILLY AND PHYLLIS</p> + +<p style="margin-top:4em;"> </p> +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_3'></a>3</span> + +<p style="text-align:center;font-size: 1.2em;">OUT OF THE AIR</p> +<div class='chapter'> +<a id='I'></a> +<p class='cln0'>I</p> +</div> + + +<p>“... so I’ll answer your questions in the order +you ask them. No, I don’t want ever to fly again. +My last pay-hop was two Saturdays ago and I +got my discharge papers yesterday. God willing, +I’ll never again ride anything more dangerous +than a velocipede. I’m now a respectable American +citizen, and for the future I’m going to confine +my locomotion to the well-known earth. Get +that, Spink Sparrel! The earth! In fact....”</p> + +<p>David Lindsay suddenly looked up from his +typewriting. Under his window, Washington +Square simmered in the premature heat of an +early June day. But he did not even glance in +that direction. Instead, his eyes sought the doorway +leading from the front room to the back of +the apartment. Apparently he was not seeking +inspiration; it was as though he had been +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_4'></a>4</span> +suddenly jerked out of himself. After an absent +second, his eye sank to the page and the brisk +clatter of his machine began again.</p> + +<p>“... after the woman you recommended, +Mrs. Whatever-her-name-is, shoveled off a few +tons of dust. It’s great! It’s the key house of +New York, isn’t it? And when you look right +through the Arch straight up Fifth Avenue, you +feel as though you owned the whole town. And +what an air all this chaste antique New England +stuff gives it! Who’d ever thought you’d turn +out—you big rough-neck you—to be a collector of +antiques? Not that I haven’t fallen myself for +the sailor’s chest and the butterfly table and the +glass lamps. I actually salaam to that sampler. +And these furnishings seem especially appropriate +when I remember that Jeffrey Lewis lived here +once. You don’t know how much that adds to the +connotation of this place.”</p> + +<p>Again—but absently—Lindsay looked up. +And again, ignoring Washington Square, which +offered an effect as of a formal garden to the +long pink-red palace on its north side—plumy +treetops, geometrical grass areas, weaving paths; +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_5'></a>5</span> +elegant little summer-houses—his gaze went with +a seeking look to the doorway.</p> + +<p>“Question No. 2. I haven’t any plans of my +own at present and I am quite eligible to the thing +you suggest. You say that no one wants to read +anything about the war. I don’t blame them. I +wish I could fall asleep for a month and wake up +with no recollection of it. I suppose it’s that +state of mind which prevents people from writing +their recollections immediately. Of course we’ll +all do that ultimately, I suppose—even people +who, like myself, aren’t professional writers. +Don’t imagine that I’m going on with the writing +game. I haven’t the divine afflatus. I’m just letting +myself drift along with these two jobs until +I get that <i>guerre</i> out of my system; can look +around to find what I really want to do. I’m +willing to write my experiences within a reasonable +interval; but not at once. Everything is as +vivid in my mind of course as it’s possible to be; +but I don’t want to have to think of it. That’s +why your suggestion in regard to Lutetia Murray +strikes me so favorably. I should really like to +do that biography. I’m in the mood for +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_6'></a>6</span> +something gentle and pastoral. And then of course +I have a sense of proprietorship in regard to +Lutetia, not alone because she was my literary find +or that it was my thesis on her which got me +my A in English 12. But, in addition, I developed +a sort of platonic, long-distance, with-the-eye-of-the-mind-only +crush on her. And yet, I +don’t know....”</p> + +<p>Again Lindsay’s eyes came up from his paper. +For the third time he ignored Washington Square +swarming with lumbering green busses and dusky-haired +Italian babies; puppies, perambulators, +and pedestrians. Again his glance went mechanically +to the door leading to the back of the apartment.</p> + +<p>“You certainly have left an atmosphere in this +joint, Spink. Somehow I feel always as if you +were in the room. How it would be possible for +such a pop-eyed, freckle-faced Piute as you to +pack an astral body is more than I can understand. +It’s here though—that sense of your presence. +The other day I caught myself saying, ‘Oh, +Spink!’ to the empty air. But to return to +Lutetia, I can’t tell you how the prospect tempts. +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_7'></a>7</span> +Once on a <i>permission</i> in the spring of ’16, I finds +myself in Lyons. There are to be gentle acrobatic +doings in the best Gallic manner in the Park on +Sunday. I gallops out to see the sports. One +place, I comes across several scores of <i>poilus</i>—on +their <i>permissions</i> similar—squatting on the +ground and doing—what do you suppose? Picking +violets. Yep—picking violets. I says to myself +then, I says, ‘These frogs sure are queer +guys.’ But now, Spink, I understand. I don’t +want to do anything more strenuous myself than +picking violets, unless it’s selling baby blankets, or +holding yarn for old ladies. Perhaps by an enormous +effort I might summon the energy to run a +tea-room.”</p> + +<p>Lindsay stopped his typewriting again. This +time he stared fixedly at Washington Square. His +eyes followed a pink-smocked, bob-haired maiden +hurrying across the Park; but apparently she did +not register. He turned abruptly with a—“Hello, +old top, what do you want?”</p> + +<p>The doorway, being empty, made no answer.</p> + +<p>Having apparently forgotten his remark the +instant it was dropped, Lindsay went on writing.</p> +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_8'></a>8</span> + +<p>“I admit I’m thinking over that proposition. +Among my things in storage here, I have all +Lutetia’s works, including those unsuccessful and +very rare pomes of hers; even that blooming +thesis I wrote. The thesis would, of course, read +rotten now, but it might provide data that would +save research. When do you propose to bring +out this new edition, and how do you account for +that recent demand for her? Of course it establishes +me as some swell prophet. I always said +she’d bob up again, you know. Then it looked as +though she was as dead as the dodo. It isn’t the +work alone that appeals to me; it’s doing it in +Lutetia’s own town, which is apparently the exact +kind of dead little burg I’m looking for—Quinanog, +isn’t it? Come to think of it, Spink, +my favorite occupation at this moment would be +making daisy-chains or oak-wreaths. I’ll think +it...”</p> + +<p>He jumped spasmodically; jerked his head +about; glanced over his shoulder at the doorway—</p> + +<p>“What I’d really like to do, is the biography +of Lutetia for about one month; then—for about +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_9'></a>9</span> +three months—my experiences at the war which, +I understand, are to be put away in the manuscript +safe of the publishing firm of Dunbar, +Cabot and Elsingham to be published when the +demand for war stuff begins again. That, I +reckon, is what I should do if I’m going to do +it at all. Write it while it’s fresh—as I’m not a +professional. But I can’t at this moment say yes, +and I can’t say no. I’d like to stay a little longer +in New York. I’d like to renew acquaintance +with the old burg. I can afford to thrash round a +bit, you know, if I like. There’s ten thousand +dollars that my uncle left me, in the bank waiting +me. When that’s spent, of course I’ll have to +go to work.</p> + +<p>“You ask me for my impressions of America—as +a returned sky-warrior. Of course I’ve only +been here a week and I haven’t talked with so +very many people yet. But everybody is remarkably +omniscient. I can’t tell them anything about +the late war. Sometimes they ask me a question, +but they never listen to my answer. No, I listen +to them. And they’re very informing, believe me. +Most of them think that the cavalry won the war +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_10'></a>10</span> +and that we went over the top to the sound of fife +and drum. For myself...”</p> + +<p>Again he jumped; turned his head; stared into +the doorway. After an instant of apparent expectancy, +he sighed. He arose and, with an +elaborate saunter, moved over to the mirror hanging +above the mantel; looked at his reflection with +the air of one longing to see something human. +The mirror was old; narrow and dim; gold +framed. A gay little picture of a ship, bellying to +full sail, filled the space above the looking-glass. +The face, which contemplated him with the same +unseeing carelessness with which he contemplated +it, was the face of twenty-five—handsome; dark. +It was long and lean. The continuous flying of +two years had dyed it a deep wine-red; had +bronzed and burnished it. And apparently the +experiences that went with that flying had cooled +and hardened it. It was now but a smoothly +handsome mask which blanked all expression of +his emotions.</p> + +<p>Even as his eye fixed itself on his own reflected +eye, his head jerked sideways again; he +stared expectantly at the open doorway. After +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_11'></a>11</span> +an interval in which nothing appeared, he +sauntered through that door; and—with almost +an effect of premeditated carelessness—through +the two little rooms, which so uselessly fill the +central space of many New York houses, to the +big sunny bedroom at the back.</p> + +<p>The windows looked out on a paintable series +of backyards: on a sketchable huddle of old, +stained, leaning wooden houses. At the opposite +window, a purple-haired, violet-eyed foreign girl +in a faded yellow blouse was making artificial +nasturtiums; flame-colored velvet petals, like a +drift of burning snow, heaped the table in front +of her. A black cat sunned itself on the window +ledge. On a distant roof, a boy with a long pole +was herding a flock of pigeons. They made glittering +swirls of motion and quick V-wheelings, +that flashed the gray of their wings like blades +and the white of their breasts like glass. Their +sudden turns filled the air with mirrors. Lindsay +watched their flight with the critical air of a rival. +Suddenly he turned as though someone had called +him; glanced inquiringly back at the doorway....</p> +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_12'></a>12</span> + +<p>When, a few minutes later, he sauntered into +the Rochambeau, immaculate in the old gray suit +he had put off when he donned the French uniform +four years before, he was the pink of summer +coolness and the quintessence of military +calm. The little, low-ceilinged series of rooms, +just below the level of the street, were crowded; +filled with smoke, talk, and laughter. Lindsay at +length found a table, looked about him, discovered +himself to be among strangers. He ordered +a cocktail, swearing at the price to the sympathetic +French waiter, who made an excited response in +French and assisted him to order an elaborate +dinner. Lindsay propped his paper against his +water-glass; concentrated on it as one prepared +for lonely eating. With the little-necks, however, +came diversion. From behind the waiter’s +crooked arm appeared the satiny dark head of a +girl. Lindsay leaped to his feet, held out his +hand.</p> + +<p>“Good Lord, Gratia! Where in the world did +you come from!”</p> + +<p>The girl put both her pretty hands out. “I <i>can</i> +shake hands with you, David, now that you’re in +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_13'></a>13</span> +civies. I don’t like that green and yellow ribbon +in your buttonhole though. I’m a pacifist, you +know, and I’ve got to tell you where I stand before +we can talk.”</p> + +<p>“All right,” Lindsay accepted cheerfully. +“You’re a darn pretty pacifist, Gratia. Of +course you don’t know what you’re talking about. +But as long as you talk about anything, I’ll +listen.”</p> + +<p>Gratia had cut her hair short, but she had +introduced a style of hair-dressing new even to +Greenwich Village. She combed its sleek abundance +straight back to her neck and left it. There, +following its own devices, it turned up in the most +delightful curls. Her large dark eyes were set +in a skin of pale amber and in the midst of a +piquant assortment of features. She had a way, +just before speaking, of lifting her sleek head +high on the top of her slim neck. And then she +was like a beautiful young seal emerging from the +water.</p> + +<p>“Oh, I’m perfectly serious!” the pretty pacifist +asserted. “You know I never have believed +in war. Dora says you’ve come back loving the +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_14'></a>14</span> +French. How you can admire a people who—” +After a while she paused to take breath and then, +with the characteristic lift of her head, “Belgians—the +Congo—Algeciras—Morocco— And as +for England—Ireland—India—Egypt—” The +glib, conventional patter dripped readily from her +soft lips.</p> + +<p>Lindsay listened, apparently entranced. +“Gratia, you’re too pretty for any use!” he +asserted indulgently after the next pause in which +she dove under the water and reappeared sleek-haired +as ever. “I’m not going to argue with +you. I’m going to tell you one thing that will be +a shock to you, though. The French don’t like +war either. And the reason is—now prepare +yourself—they know more about the horrors of +war in <i>one</i> minute than you will in a thousand +years. What are you doing with yourself, these +days, Gratia?”</p> + +<p>“Oh, running a shop; making smocks, working +on batiks, painting, writing <i>vers libre</i>,” Gratia +admitted.</p> + +<p>“I mean, what do you do with your leisure?” +Lindsay demanded, after prolonged meditation.</p> +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_15'></a>15</span> + +<p>Gratia ignored this persiflage. “I’m thinking +of taking up psycho-analysis,” she confided. “It +interests me enormously. I think I ought to do +rather well with it.”</p> + +<p>“I offer myself as your first victim. Why, +you’ll make millions! Every man in New York +will want to be psyched. What’s the news, +Gratia? I’m dying for gossip.”</p> + +<p>Gratia did her best to feed this appetite. Declining +dinner, she sipped the tall cool green drink +which Lindsay ordered for her. She poured out +a flood of talk; but all the time her eyes were flitting +from table to table. And often she interrupted +her comments on the absent with remarks +about the present.</p> + +<p>“Yes, Aussie was killed in Italy, flying. Will +Arden was wounded in the Argonne. George +Jennings died of the flu in Paris—see that big +blonde over there, Dave? She’s the Village dressmaker +now—Dark Dale is in Russia—can’t get +out. Putty Doane was taken prisoner by the Germans +at—Oh, see that gang of up-towners—aren’t +they snippy and patronizing and silly? But +Molly Fearing is our best war sensation. You +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_16'></a>16</span> +know what a tiny frightened mouse of a thing she +was. She went into the ‘Y.’ She was in the +trenches the day of the Armistice—<i>talked</i> with +Germans; not prisoners, you understand—but the +retreating Germans. Her letters are wonderful. +She’s crazy about it over there. I wouldn’t be +surprised if she never came back— Oh, Dave, +don’t look now; but as soon as you can, get that +tall red-headed girl in the corner, Marie Maroo. +She does the most marvelous drawings you ever +saw. She belongs to that new Vortex School. +And then Joel— Oh, there’s Ernestine Phillips +and her father. You want to meet her father. +He’s a riot. Octogenarian, too! He’s just come +from some remote hamlet in Vermont. Ernestine’s +showing him a properly expurgated edition +of the Village. Hi, Ernestine! He’s a +Civil War veteran. Ernest’s crazy to see you, +Dave!”</p> + +<p>The middle-aged, rather rough-featured +woman standing in the doorway turned at +Gratia’s call. Her movement revealed the head +and shoulders of a tall, gaunt, very old man, a +little rough-featured like his daughter; +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_17'></a>17</span> +white-haired and white-mustached. She hurried at once +to Lindsay’s table.</p> + +<p>“Oh, Dave!” She took both Lindsay’s +hands. “I <i>am</i> glad to see you! How I have +worried about you! My father, Dave. Father, +this is David Lindsay, the young aviator I was +telling you about, who had such extraordinary experiences +in France. You remember the one I +mean, father. He served for two years with the +French Army before we declared war.”</p> + +<p>Mr. Phillips extended a long arm which +dangled a long hand. “Pleased to meet you, sir! +You’re the first flier I’ve had a chance to talk with. +I expect folks make life a perfect misery to you—but +if you don’t mind answering questions—”</p> + +<p>“Shoot!” Lindsay permitted serenely. “I’m +nearly bursting with suppressed information. +How are you, Ernestine?”</p> + +<p>“Pretty frazzled like the rest of us,” Ernestine +answered. Ernestine had one fine feature; a pair +of large dark serene eyes. Now they flamed with +a troubled fire. “The war did all kinds of things +to my psychology, of course. I suppose I am the +most despised woman in the Village at this +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_18'></a>18</span> +moment because I don’t seem to be either a militarist +or a pacifist. I don’t believe in war, but I +don’t see how we could have kept out of it; or +how France could have prevented it.”</p> + +<p>“Ernestine!” Lindsay said warmly. “I just +love <i>you</i>. Contrary to the generally accepted +opinion of the pacifists, France did not deliberately +bring this war on herself. Nor did she +keep it up four years for her private amusement. +She hasn’t enjoyed one minute of it. I don’t expect +Gratia to believe me, but perhaps you will. +These four years of death, destruction, and devastation +haven’t entertained France a particle.”</p> + +<p>“Well, of course—” Ernestine was beginning, +“but what’s the use?” Her eyes met Lindsay’s +in a perplexed, comprehending stare. Lindsay +shook his handsome head gayly. “No use whatever,” +he said. “I’m rapidly growing taciturn.”</p> + +<p>“What I would like to ask you,” Mr. Phillips +broke in, “does war seem such a pretty thing to +you, young man, after you’ve seen a little of it? +I remember in ’65 most of us came back thinking +that Sherman hadn’t used strong enough language.”</p> +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_19'></a>19</span> + +<p>“Mr. Phillips,” Lindsay answered, “if there’s +ever another war, it will take fifteen thousand +dollars to send me a postcard telling me about it.”</p> + +<p>The talk drifted away from the war: turned +to prohibition; came back to it again. Lindsay +answered Mr. Phillips’s questions with enthusiastic +thoroughness. They pertained mainly to his +training at Pau and Avord, but Lindsay volunteered +a detailed comparison of the American +military method with the French. “I’ll always +be glad though,” he concluded, “that I had that +experience with the French Army. And of course +when our troops got over, I was all ready to fly.”</p> + +<p>“Then the French uniform is so charming,” +Gratia put in, consciously sarcastic.</p> + +<p>Lindsay slapped her slim wrist indulgently and +continued to answer Mr. Phillips’s questions. +Ernestine listened, the look of trouble growing +in her serene eyes. Gratia listened, diving under +water after her shocked exclamations and reappearing +glistening.</p> + +<p>“Oh, there’s Matty Packington!” Gratia +broke in. “You haven’t met Matty yet, Dave. +Hi, Matty! You <i>must</i> know Matty. She’s a +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_20'></a>20</span> +sketch. She’s one of those people who say the +things other people only dare think. You won’t +believe her.” She rattled one of her staccato +explanations; “society girl—first a slumming tour +through the Village—perfectly crazy about it—studio +in McDougal Alley—yeowoman—becoming +uniform—Rolls-Royce—salutes—”</p> + +<p>Matty Packington approached the table with a +composed flutter. The two men arose. Gratia +met her halfway; performed the introductions. +In a minute the conversation was out of everybody’s +hands and in Miss Packington’s. As +Gratia prophesied, Lindsay found it difficult to +believe her. She started at an extraordinary +speed and she maintained it without break.</p> + +<p>“Oh, Mr. Lindsay, aren’t you heartbroken +now that it is all over? You must tell me all +about your experiences sometime. It must have +been too thrilling for words. But don’t you think—<i>don’t</i> +you think—they stopped the war too +soon? If I were Foch I wouldn’t have been satisfied +until I’d occupied all Germany, devastated +just as much territory as those beasts devastated +in France, and executed all those monsters who cut +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_21'></a>21</span> +off the Belgian babies’ hands. Don’t you think +so?”</p> + +<p>Lindsay contemplated the lady who put this +interesting question to him. She was fair and +fairy-like; a little, light-shot golden blonde; all +slim lines and opalescent colors. Her hair fluttered +like whirled light from under her piquantly +cocked military cap. The stress of her emotion +added for the instant to the bigness and blueness +of her eyes.</p> + +<p>“Well, for myself,” he remarked finally, “I +can do with a little peace for a while. And then +to carry out your wishes, Miss Packington, Foch +would have had to sacrifice a quarter of a million +more Allied soldiers. But I sometimes think the +men at the front were a bit thoughtless of the +entertainment of the civilians. Somehow we <i>did</i> +get it into our heads that we ought to close this +war up as soon as possible. Another time perhaps +we’d know better.”</p> + +<p>Miss Packington received this characteristically; +that is to say, she did not receive it at +all. For by the time Lindsay had begun his last +sentence, she had embarked on a monologue +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_22'></a>22</span> +directed this time to Gratia. The talk flew back +and forth, grew general; grew concrete; grew abstract; +grew personal. It bubbled up into monologues +from Gratia and Matty. It thinned down +to questions from Ernestine and Mr. Phillips. +Drinks came; were followed by other drinks. All +about them, tables emptied and filled, uniforms +predominating; and all to the accompaniment of +chatter; gay mirth; drifting smoke-films and refilled +glasses. Latecomers stopped to shake +hands with Lindsay, to join the party for a drink; +to smoke a cigarette; floated away to other parties. +But the nucleus of their party remained the same.</p> + +<p>David answered with patience all questions, +stopped patiently halfway through his own +answer to reply to other questions. At about midnight +he rose abruptly. He had just brought to +the end a careful and succinct statement in which +he declared that he had seen no Belgian children +with their hands cut off; no crucified Canadians.</p> + +<p>“Folks,” he addressed the company genially, +“I’m going to admit to you I’m tired.” Inwardly +he added, “I won’t indicate which ones +of you make me the most tired; but almost all of +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_23'></a>23</span> +you give me an awful pain.” He added aloud, +“It’s the hay for me this instant. Good-night!”</p> + +<p>Back once more in his rooms, he did not light +up. Instead he sat at the window and gazed out. +Straight ahead, two lines of golden beads curving +up the Avenue seemed to connect the Arch with +the distant horizon. The deep azure of the sky +was faintly powdered with stars. But for its occasional +lights, of a purplish silver, the Square +would have been a mere mystery of trees. But +those lights seemed to anchor what was half +vision to earth. And they threw interlaced leaf +shadows on the ceiling above Lindsay’s head. It +was as though he sat in some ghostly bower. +Looking fixedly through the Arch, his face grew +somber. Suddenly he jerked about and stared +through the doorway which led into the back +rooms.</p> + +<p>Nothing appeared—</p> + +<p>After a while he lighted one gas jet—after an +instant’s hesitation another—</p> + +<p style="font-size:smaller"> </p> + +<p>In the middle of the night, Lindsay suddenly +found himself sitting upright. His mouth was +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_24'></a>24</span> +wide open, parched; his eyes were wide open, +staring.... A chilly prickling tingled along his +scalp.... But the strangest phenomenon was his +heart, which, though swelled to an incredible bulk, +nimbly leaped, heavily pounded....</p> + +<p>Lindsay recognized the motion which inundated +him to be fear; overpowering, shameless, abject +fear. But of what? In the instant in which he +gave way to self-analysis, memory supplied him +with a vague impression. <i>Something</i> had come +to his bed and, leaning over, had stared into his +face—</p> + +<p>That <i>something</i> was not human.</p> + +<p>Lindsay fought for control. By an initial feat +of courage, his fumbling fingers lighted a candle +which stood on the tiny Sheraton table at his bedside. +On a second impulse, but only after an +interval in which consciously but desperately he +grasped at his vanishing manhood, he leaped out +of bed; lighted the gas. Then carrying the +lighted candle, he went from one to another of +the four rooms of the apartment. In each room +he lighted every gas jet until the place blazed. +He searched it thoroughly: dark corners and +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_25'></a>25</span> +darker closets; jetty strata of shadow under +couches.</p> + +<p>He was alone.</p> + +<p>After a while he went back to bed. But his +courage was not equal to darkness again. +Though ultimately he fell asleep, the gas blazed +all night.</p> + +<p style="font-size:smaller"> </p> + +<p>Lindsay awoke rather jaded the next morning. +He wandered from room to room submitting to +one slash of his razor at this mirror and to another +at that.</p> + +<p>At one period of this process, “Rum nightmare +I had last night!” he remarked casually to +the unresponsive air.</p> + +<p>He cooked his own breakfast; piled up the +dishes and settled himself to his correspondence +again. “This letter is getting to be a book, +Spink,” he began. “But I feel every moment as +though I wanted to add more. I slept on your +proposition last night, but I don’t feel any nearer +a decision. Quinanog and Lutetia tempt me; but +then so does New York. By the way, have you +any pictures of Lutetia? I had one in my rooms +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_26'></a>26</span> +at Holworthy. Must be kicking around among +my things. I cut it out of the annual catalogue +of your book-house. Photograph as I remember. +She was some pip. I’d like—”</p> + +<p>He started suddenly, turned his head toward +the doorway leading to the back rooms. The +doorway was empty. Lindsay arose from his +chair, sauntered in a leisurely manner through +the rooms. He investigated closets again. +“Damn it all!” he muttered.</p> + +<p>He resumed his letter. “You’re right about +writing my experiences now. I had a long footless +talk with some boobs last night, and it was +curious how things came back under their questions. +I had quite forgotten them temporarily, +and of course I shall forget them for keeps if +I don’t begin to put them down. I have a few +scattered notes here and there. I meant, of +course, to keep a diary, but believe me, a man +engaged in a war is too busy for the pursuit of +letters. But just as soon as I make up my +mind—”</p> + +<p>Another interval. Absently Lindsay addressed +an envelope. Spinney K. Sparrel, Esq., Park +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_27'></a>27</span> +Street, Boston; attacked the list of other long-neglected +correspondents. Suddenly his head +jerked upward; pivoted again. After an instant’s +observation of the empty doorway, he +pulled his face forward; resumed his work. Page +after page slid onto the roller of his machine, +submitted to the tattoo of its little lettered teeth, +emerged neatly inscribed. Suddenly he leaped to +his feet; swung about.</p> + +<p>The doorway was empty.</p> + +<p>“Who are you?” he interrogated the empty +air, “and what do you want? If you can tell me, +speak—and I’ll do anything in my power to help +you. But if you can’t tell me, for God’s sake go +away!”</p> + +<p style="font-size:smaller"> </p> + +<p>That night—it happened again. There came +the same sudden start, stricken, panting, perspiring, +out of deep sleep; the same frantic search +of the apartment with all the lights burning; the +same late, broken drowse; the same jaded +awakening.</p> + +<p>As before, he set himself doggedly to work. +And, as before, somewhere in the middle of the +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_28'></a>28</span> +morning, he wheeled about swiftly in his chair to +glare through the open doorway. “I wonder +if I’m going nutty!” he exclaimed aloud.</p> + +<p style="font-size:smaller"> </p> + +<p>Three days went by. Lindsay’s nights were so +broken that he took long naps in the afternoon. +His days had turned into periods of idle revery. +The letter to Spink Sparrel was still unfinished. +He worked spasmodically at his typewriter: but +he completed nothing. The third night he started +toward the Rochambeau with the intention of +getting a room. But halfway across the Park, he +stopped and retraced his steps. “I can’t let you +beat me!” he muttered audibly, after he arrived +in the empty apartment.</p> + +<p>It did not beat him that night; for he stayed +in the apartment until dawn broke. But from midnight +on, he lay with every light in the place +going. At sunrise, he dressed and went out for a +walk. And the moment the sounds of everyday +life began to humanize the neighborhood, he returned; +sat down to his machine.</p> + +<p>“Spink, old dear, my mind is made up. I accept! +I’ll do Lutetia for you; and, by God, I’ll +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_29'></a>29</span> +do her well! I’m starting for Boston tomorrow +night on the midnight. I’ll call at the office about +noon and we’ll go to luncheon together. I’ll dig +out my thesis and books from storage, and if +you’ll get all your dope and data together, I can +go right to it. I’m going to Quinanog tomorrow +afternoon. I need a change. Everybody here +makes me tired. The pacifists make me wild and +the militarists make me wilder. Civilians is nuts +when it comes to a war. The only person I can +talk about it with is somebody who’s been there. +And anybody who’s been there has the good sense +not to want to talk about it. I don’t ever want to +hear of that war again. Personally, I, David +Lindsay, meaning me, want to swing in a hammock +on a pleasant, cool, vine-hung piazza; read +Lutetia at intervals and write some little pieces +subsequent. Yours, David.”</p> + +<div class='chapter'> +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_30'></a>30</span> +<a id='II'></a> +<p class='cln0'>II</p> +</div> + +<p>Susannah Ayer dragged herself out of her sleepless +night and started to get up. But halfway +through her first rising motion, something seemed +to leave her—to leave her spirit rather than her +body. She collapsed in a droop-shouldered +huddle onto the bed. Her red hair had come +out of its thick braids; it streamed forward over +her white face; streaked her nightgown with +glowing strands. She pushed it out of her eyes +and sat for a long interval with her face in her +hands. Finally she rose and went to the dresser. +Haggardly she stared into the glass at her reflection, +and haggardly her reflection stared back at +her. “I don’t wonder you look different, Glorious +Susie,” she addressed herself wordlessly, +“because you <i>are</i> different. I wonder if you can +ever wash away that experience—”</p> + +<p>She poured water into the basin until it almost +brimmed; and dropped her face into it. After +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_31'></a>31</span> +her sponge bath, she contemplated herself again +in the glass. Some color had crept into the pearly +whiteness of her cheek. Her dark-fringed eyes +seemed a little less shadow-encircled. She turned +their turquoise glance to the picture of a woman—a +miniature painted on ivory—which hung beside +the dresser.</p> + +<p>“Glorious Lutie,” she apostrophized it, “you +don’t know how I wish you were here. You +don’t know how much I need you now. I need +you so much, Glorious Lutie—I’m frightened!”</p> + +<p>The miniature, after the impersonal manner of +pictures, made no response to this call for help. +Susannah sighed deeply. And for a moment she +stood a figure almost tragic, her eyes darkening +as she looked into space, her young mouth setting +its soft scarlet into hard lines. In another moment +she pulled herself out of this daze and continued +her dressing.</p> + +<p>An hour and a half later, when, cool and lithe +in her blue linen suit, she entered the uptown skyscraper +which housed the Carbonado Mining +Company, her spirits took a sudden leap. After +all, here <i>was</i> help. It was not the help she most +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_32'></a>32</span> +desired and needed—the confidence and advice of +another woman—but at least she would get instant +sympathy, ultimate understanding.</p> + +<p>Anyone, however depressed his mood, must +have felt his spirits rise as he stepped into the +Admolian Building. It was so new that its terra-cotta +walls without, its white-enameled tiling +within, seemed always to have been freshly +scrubbed and dusted. It was so high that, with a +first acrobatic impulse, it leaped twenty stories +above ground; and with a second, soared into a +tower which touched the clouds. That had not +exhausted its strength. It dug in below ground, +and there spread out into rooms, eternally electric-lighted. +From the eleventh story up, its wide +windows surveyed every purlieu of Manhattan. +Its spacious elevators seemed magically to defy +gravitation. A touch started their swift flight +heavenward; a touch started their soft drop +earthward. Every floor housed offices where fortunes +were being made—and lost—at any rate, +changing hands. There was an element of buoyancy +in the air, an atmosphere of success. People +moved more quickly, talked more briskly, from +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_33'></a>33</span> +the moment they entered the Admolian Building. +As always, it raised the spirits of Susannah Ayer. +The set look vanished from her eyes; some of +their normal brilliancy flowed back into them. +Her mouth relaxed— When the elevator came +to a padded halt at the eighteenth floor, she had +become almost herself again.</p> + +<p>She stopped before the first in a series of +offices. Black-printed letters on the ground glass +of the door read:</p> + +<div style="font-style:italic;"> +<p style='margin-top:0;margin-bottom:0;text-align:center'>46</p> +<p style='margin-top:0;margin-bottom:0;text-align:center'>Carbonado Mining Company</p> +<p style='margin-top:0;margin-bottom:0;text-align:center'>Private. Enter No. 47</p> +</div> + +<p>An accommodating hand pointed in the direction +of No. 47. Susannah unlocked the door and with +a little sigh, as of relief, stepped in.</p> + +<p>Other offices stretched along the line of the +corridor, bearing the inscriptions, respectively, +“No. 48, H. Withington Warner, President and +General Manager; No. 49, Joseph Byan, Vice-President; +No. 50, Michael O’Hearn, Secretary +and Treasurer.” Ultimately, Susannah’s own +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_34'></a>34</span> +door would flaunt the proud motto, “No. 51, +Susannah Ayer, Manager Women’s Department.”</p> + +<p>Susannah threaded the inner corridor to her own +office. She hung up her hat and jacket; opened +her mail; ran through it. Then she lifted the +cover from her typewriter and began mechanically +to brush and oil it. Her mind was not on her +work; it had not been on the letters. It kept +speeding back to last night. She did not want to +think of last night again—at least not until she +must. She pulled her thoughts into her control; +made them flow back over the past months. And +as they sped in those pleasant channels, involuntarily +her mood went with them. Had any girl +ever been so fortunate, she wondered. She put it +to herself in simple declaratives—</p> + +<p>Here she was, all alone in New York and in +New York for the first time, settled—interestingly +and pleasantly settled. Eight months before, she +had stepped out of business college without a hundred +dollars in the world; her course in stenography, +typewriting, and secretarial work had +taken the last of her inherited funds. Without +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_35'></a>35</span> +kith or kin, she was a working-woman, now, on +her own responsibility. Two months of apprenticeship, +one stenographer among fifty, in the +great offices of the Maxwell Mills, and Barty +Joyce, almost the sole remaining friend who remembered +the past glories of her family, had advised +her to try New York.</p> + +<p>“Susannah,” he said, “now is the time to strike—now +while the men are away and while the girls +are still on war jobs. Get yourself entrenched before +they come back. You’ve the makings of a +wonderful office helper.”</p> + +<p>Susannah, with a glorious sense of adventure +once she was started, took his advice and moved +to New York. For a week, she answered advertisements, +visited offices; and she found that Barty +was right. She had the refusal of half a dozen +jobs. From them she selected the offer of the +Carbonado Mining Company—partly because she +liked Mr. Warner, and partly because it seemed +to offer the best future. Mr. Warner said to her +in their first interview:</p> + +<p>“We are looking for a clever woman whom we +can specially train in the methods of our +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_36'></a>36</span> +somewhat peculiar business. If you qualify, we shall +advance you to a superior position.”</p> + +<p>That “superior position” had fallen into her +hand like a ripe peach. Within a week, Mr. +Warner had called her into the private office for +a long business talk.</p> + +<p>“Miss Ayer,” he said, “you seem to be making +good. I am going to tell you frankly that if +you continue to meet our requirements, we shall +continue to advance you and pay you accordingly. +You see, our business—” Mr. Warner’s voice +always swelled a little when he said “our business”—“our +business involves a great deal of +letter-writing to women investors and some personal +interviews. Now we believe—both Mr. +Byan and I—that women investing money like to +deal with one of their own sex. We have been +looking for just the right woman. A candidate +for the position must have tact, understanding, +and clearness of written expression. We have +been trying to find such a woman; and frankly, +the search has been difficult. You know how war +work—quite rightly, of course—has monopolized +the able women of the country. We have +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_37'></a>37</span> +tried out half a dozen girls; but the less said +about them the better. For two weeks we will +let you try your hand at correspondence with +women investors. If your work is satisfactory, +it means a permanent job at twice your present +salary.”</p> + +<p>Her work had pleased them! It had pleased +them instantly. But oh, how she had worked to +please them and to continue to please! Every +letter she sent out—and after explaining the Carbonado +Company and its attractions, Mr. Warner +let her compose all the letters to women—was a +study in condensed and graceful expression. At +the end of the fortnight Mr. Warner engaged her +permanently. He went even further. He said:</p> + +<p>“Miss Ayer, we’re going to make you manager +of our women’s department; and we’re going to +put your name with ours on the letterhead of the +new office stationery.” When the day came that +she first signed herself “Susannah Ayer, Manager +Women’s Department,” she felt as though all the +fairy tales she ever read had come true.</p> + +<p>Susannah, as she was assured again and again, +continued to give satisfaction. No wonder; for +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_38'></a>38</span> +she liked her job. The work interested her so +much that she always longed to get to the office in +the morning, almost hated to leave it at night. +It was a pleasant office, bright and spacious. +Everything was new, even to the capacious waste +basket. Her big, shiny mahogany desk stood +close to the window. And from that window she +surveyed the colorful, brick-and-stone West Side +of Manhattan, the Hudson, and the city-spotted, +town-dotted stretches beyond. The clouds hung +close; sometimes their white and silver argosies +seemed to besiege her. Once, she almost thought +the new moon would bounce through her window. +Snow noiselessly, winds tumultuously, assailed +her; but she sat as impervious as though in an +enchanted tower. Gray days made only a suaver +magic, thunderstorms a madder enchantment, +about her eyrie.</p> + +<p>The human surroundings were just as pleasant. +Though the Carbonado Company worked only +with selected clients, though they transacted most +of their business by mail, there were many visitors—some +customers; others, apparently, merely +friends of Mr. Warner, Mr. Byan, and Mr. +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_39'></a>39</span> +O’Hearn—who dropped in of afternoons to chat +a while. Pleasant, jolly men most of these. +Snatches of their talk, usually enigmatic, +floated to her across the tops of the partitions; it +gave the office an exciting atmosphere of something +doing. And then—it happened that Susannah’s +way of life had brought her into contact +with but few men—everything was so <i>manny</i>.</p> + +<p>She stood a little in awe of H. Withington +Warner, president and general manager. Mr. +Warner was middle-aged and iron-gray. That +last adjective perfectly described him—iron-gray. +Everything about him was gray; his straight, +thick hair; his clear, incisive eyes; even his colorless +skin. And his personality had a quality of +iron. There was about him a fascinating element +of duality. Sometimes he seemed to Susannah a +little like a clergyman. And sometimes he made +her think of an actor. This histrionic aspect, she +decided, was due to his hair, a bit long; to his +features, floridly classic; to his manner, frequently +courtly; to his voice, occasionally oratorical. +This, however, showed only in his lighter moments. +Much of the time, of course, he was +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_40'></a>40</span> +merely brisk and businesslike. Whatever his +tone, it carried you along. To Susannah, he was +always charming.</p> + +<p>If she stood a little in awe of H. Withington +Warner, she made up by feeling on terms of the +utmost equality with Michael O’Hearn, secretary +and treasurer of the Carbonado Mining Company. +Mr. O’Hearn—the others called him +“Mike”—was a little Irishman. He had a +short stumpy figure and a short stumpy +face. Moreover, he looked as though +someone had delivered him a denting blow +in the middle of his profile. From this indentation +jutted in one direction his long, protuberant, +rounded forehead; peaked in another his upturned +nose. The rest of him was sandy hair +and sandy complexion, and an agreeable pair of +long-lashed Irish eyes. He was the wit of the +office, keeping everyone in constant good temper. +Susannah felt very friendly toward Mr. O’Hearn. +This was strange, because he rarely spoke to her. +But somehow, for all that, he had the gift of +seeming friendly. Susannah trusted him as she +trusted Mr. Warner, though in a different way.</p> +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_41'></a>41</span> + +<p>In regard to Joseph Byan, the third member +of the combination, Susannah had her unformulated +reservations. Perhaps it was because Byan +really interested her more than the other two. +Byan was little and slender; perfectly formed and +rather fine-featured; swift as a cat in his darting +movements. In his blue eyes shone a look of +vague pathos and on his lips floated—Susannah +decided that this was the only way to express it—a +vague, a rather sweet smile. Susannah’s job +had not at first brought her as much into contact +with Mr. Byan as with Mr. Warner. His work, +she learned, lay mostly outside of the office. But +once, during her third week, he had come into her +office and dictated a letter; had lingered, when he +had finished with the business in hand, for a little +talk. The conversation, in some curious turn, +veered to the subject of firearms. He was speaking +of the various patterns of revolvers. He +stood before her, a slim, perfectly proportioned +figure whose clothes, of an almost feminine nicety +and cut, seemed to follow every line of the body +beneath. Suddenly, one of his slight hands made +a swift gesture. There appeared—from where, +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_42'></a>42</span> +she could not guess—a little, ugly-looking black +revolver. With it, he illustrated his point. +Since, he had never passed through the office without +Susannah’s glance playing over him like a +flame. Nowhere along the smooth lines of his +figure could she catch the bulge of that little toy +of death. Despite his suave gentleness, there was +a believable quality about Byan; his personality +carried conviction, just as did that of the others. +Susannah trusted him, too; but again in a different +way.</p> + +<p>On the very day when Mr. Byan showed her +the revolver, she was passing the open door of +Mr. Warner’s office; and she heard the full, +round voice of the Chief saying:</p> + +<p>“Remember, Joe, rule number one: no clients +or employ—” Byan hastily closed the door on +the tail of that sentence. Sometimes she wondered +how it ended.</p> + +<p>A cog in the machine, Susannah had never fully +understood the business. That was not really +necessary; Mr. Warner himself kept her informed +on what she needed to know. He explained +in the beginning the glorious opportunity +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_43'></a>43</span> +for investors. From time to time, he added new +details, as for example the glowing reports of +their chief engineer or their special expert. +Susannah knew that they were paying three per +cent dividends a month—and in April there was +a special dividend of two per cent. Besides, they +were about to break into a “mother lode”—the +reports of their experts proved that—and when +that happened, no one could tell just how high the +dividends might be. True, these dividend payments +were often made a little irregularly. One +of the things which Susannah did not understand, +did not try to understand, was why a certain list +of preferred stockholders was now and then given +an extra dividend; nor why at times Mr. Warner +would transfer a name from one list to another.</p> + +<p>“I’m thinking of saving my money and investing +myself in Carbonado stock!” said Susannah +to Mr. Warner one day.</p> + +<p>“Don’t,” said Mr. Warner; and then with a +touch of his clerical manner: “We prefer to keep +our office force and our investors entirely separate +factors for the present. We are trying to +avoid the reproach of letting our people in on the +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_44'></a>44</span> +ground floor. When our ship comes in—when we +open the mother lode—you shall be taken care +of!”</p> + +<p>So, for six months, everything went perfectly. +Susannah had absorbed herself completely in her +job. This was an easy thing to do when the +business was so fascinating. She had gone for +five months at this pace when she realized that +she had not taken the leisure to make friends. +Except the three partners—mere shadows to her—and +the people at her boarding-house—also +mere shadows to her—she knew only Eloise. +Not that the friendship of Eloise was a thing to +pass over lightly. Eloise was a host in herself.</p> + +<p>They had met at the Dorothy Dorr, a semi-charitable +home for young business women, at +which Susannah stayed during her first week in +New York. Eloise was an heiress, of that species +known to the newspapers as a “society girl.” +Pretty, piquant, gay, extravagant, she dabbled in +picturesque charities, and the Dorothy Dorr was +her pet. Sometimes in the summer, when she ran +up to town, she even lodged there. By natural +affinity, she had picked Susannah out of the crowd. +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_45'></a>45</span> +By the time Susannah was established in her new +job and had moved to a boarding-house, they had +become friends. But the friendship of Eloise +could not be very satisfactory. She was too busy; +and, indeed, too often out of town. From her +social fastnesses, she made sudden, dashing forays +on Susannah; took her to luncheon, dinner, or the +theater; then she would retreat to upper Fifth +Avenue, and Susannah would not see her for a +fortnight or a month.</p> + +<p>Then, that terrible, perplexing yesterday. If +she could only expunge yesterday from her life—or +at least from her memory!</p> + +<p>Of course, there were events leading up to yesterday. +Chief among them was the appearance in +the office, some weeks before, of Mr. Ozias +Cowler, from Iowa. Mr. Cowler, Susannah gathered +from the manner of the office, was a customer +of importance. He was middle-aged. No, why +mince matters—he was an old man who looked +middle-aged. He was old, because his hair had +gone quite white, and his face had fallen into +areas broken by wrinkles. But he appeared to the +first glance middle-aged, because the skin of those +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_46'></a>46</span> +areas was ruddy and warm; because his eyes +were as clear and blue as in youth. He looked—well, +Susannah decided that he looked <i>fatherly</i>. +He was quiet in his step and quiet in his manner. +Though he appeared to her in the light of a customer +rather than that of an acquaintance, +Susannah was inclined to like him, as she liked +everyone and everything about the Carbonado +offices.</p> + +<p>Susannah gathered in time that Mr. Cowler +had a great deal of money, and that he had come +to New York to invest it. Of course the Carbonado +Mining Company—and this included Susannah +herself—saw the best of reasons why it +should be invested with them. But evidently, he +was a hard, cautious customer. He came again +and again. He sat closeted for long intervals +with Mr. Warner. Sometimes Mr. Byan came +into these conferences. Mr. Cowler was always +going to luncheon with the one and to dinner with +the other. He even went to a baseball game +with Mr. O’Hearn. But, although he visited the +office more and more frequently, she gathered that +the investment was not forthcoming. Susannah +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_47'></a>47</span> +knew how frequently he was coming because, in +spite of the little, admonitory black hand on the +ground-glass door, he always entered, not by the +reception room, but by her office. Usually, he preceded +his long talk with Mr. Warner by a little +chat with her. Evidently, he had not yet caught +the quick gait of New York business; for as he +left—again through Susannah’s office—he would +stop for a longer talk. Once or twice, Susannah +had to excuse herself in order to go on with her +work. She had been a little afraid that Mr. +Warner would comment on these delays in office +routine. But, although Mr. Warner once or twice +glanced into her office during these intervals, he +never interfered.</p> + +<p>Then came—yesterday.</p> + +<p>Early in the morning, Mr. Warner said:</p> + +<p>“Miss Ayer, I wonder if you can do a favor +for us?” He went on, without waiting for +Susannah’s answer: “Cowler—you know what a +helpless person he is—wants to go to dinner and +the theater tonight. It happens that none of us +can accompany him. We’ve all made the kind of +engagement which can’t be broken—business. +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_48'></a>48</span> +He feels a little self-conscious. You know, his +money came to him late, and he has never been +to a big city before. I suspect he is afraid to +enter a fashionable restaurant alone. He wants +to go to Sherry’s and to the theater afterward—” +Mr. Warner paused to smile genially. “He’s +something of a hick, you know, and especially in +regard to this Sherry and midnight cabaret stuff.” +Mr. Warner rarely used slang; and when he did, +his smile seemed to put it into quotation marks. +“True to type, he has bought tickets in the front +row. After the show, he wants to go to one of +the midnight cabarets. Would you be willing to +steer him through all this? The show is <i>Let’s +Beat It</i>.”</p> + +<p>Susannah expressed herself as delighted; and +indeed she was. To herself she admitted that +Mr. Cowler was no more of a “hick” in regard +to Broadway, Sherry’s, and midnight cabarets +than she herself. But about admitting this, she +had all the self-consciousness of the newly arrived +New Yorker.</p> + +<p>“That is very good of you, Miss Ayer,” said +Mr. Warner, appearing much relieved. “You +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_49'></a>49</span> +may go home this afternoon an hour earlier.” +Again Mr. Warner passed from his incisive, gray-hued +sobriety to an expansive geniality. “I know +that in these circumstances, ladies like to take time +over their toilettes.” He smiled at Susannah, a +smile more expansive than any she had ever seen +on his face; it showed to the back molars his +handsome, white, regular teeth.</p> + +<p>Mr. Cowler called for her in a taxicab at seven +and—</p> + +<p style="font-size:smaller"> </p> + +<p>She heard Mr. Warner’s door open and shut. +Footsteps sounded in the corridor—that was Mr. +O’Hearn’s voice. She glanced at her wrist-watch. +Half-past nine. The partners had arrived early +this morning, of all mornings. They were night +birds, all three, seldom appearing before half-past +ten, and often working in the office late after she +had gone. Susannah stopped mid-sentence a +letter which she was tapping out to a widow in +Iowa, rose, moved toward the door. At the +threshold, she stopped, a deep blush suffusing her +face. So she paused for a moment, irresolute. +When finally she started down the corridor, Mr. +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_50'></a>50</span> +Warner emerged from the door of his own office, +met her face to face. And as his eyes rested on +hers, she was puzzled by the expression on his +smooth countenance. Was it anxiety? His expression +seemed to question her—then it flowed +into his cordial smile.</p> + +<p>Susannah was first to speak:</p> + +<p>“Good-morning, Mr. Warner. May I see you +alone for a moment?”</p> + +<p>“Certainly!” With his best courtliness of +manner, he bowed her into his private office. +“Won’t you have a seat?”</p> + +<p>Susannah sat down.</p> + +<p>“It’s about—about Mr. Cowler and last +night.” She paused.</p> + +<p>“Oh,” asked Mr. Warner, carelessly, casually, +“did you have a pleasant evening?”</p> + +<p>“It’s about that I wanted to talk with you,” +Susannah faltered. Suddenly, her embarrassment +broke, and she became perfectly composed. +“Mr. Warner, I dislike to tell you all this, because +I know how it will shock you to hear it. +But you will understand that I have no choice in +the matter. It is very hard to speak of, and I +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_51'></a>51</span> +don’t know exactly how to express it, but, Mr. +Warner, Mr. Cowler insulted me grossly last +evening ... so grossly that I left the table +where we were eating after the theater and ... +and ... well, perhaps you can guess my state +of mind when I tell you that I was actually afraid +to take a taxi. Of course, I see now how foolish +that was. But I ... I ran all the way home.”</p> + +<p>For an instant, Mr. Warner’s fine, incisive +geniality did not change. Then suddenly it broke +into a look of sympathetic understanding. “I am +sorry, Miss Ayer,” he declared gravely, “I am +indeed sorry.” His clergyman aspect was for the +moment in the ascendent. He might have been +talking from the pulpit. His voice took its oratorical +tone. “It seems incredible that men +should do such things—incredible. But one must, +I suppose, make allowances. A rural type alone +in a great city and surrounded by all the intoxicating +aspects of that city. It undoubtedly unbalanced +him. Moreover, Miss Ayer, I may say +without flattery that you are more than attractive. +And then, he is unaccustomed to drinking—”</p> +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_52'></a>52</span> + +<p>“Oh, he had not drunk anything to speak of,” +Susannah interrupted. “A little claret at dinner. +He had ordered champagne, but this ... this +episode occurred before it came.”</p> + +<p>“Incredible!” again murmured Mr. Warner. +“Inexplicable!” he added. He paused for a +moment. “You wish me to see that he apologizes?”</p> + +<p>“I don’t ask that. I am only telling you so +that you may understand why I can never speak +to him again. For of course I don’t want to see +him as long as I live. I thought perhaps ... +that if he comes here again ... you might +manage so that he doesn’t enter through my +office.”</p> + +<p>“We can probably manage that,” Mr. Warner +agreed urbanely. “Of course we can manage +that. He is, you see, a prospective client, and a +very profitable one. We must continue to do business +with him as usual.”</p> + +<p>“Oh, of course!” gasped Susannah. “Please +don’t think I’m trying to interfere with your +business. I understand perfectly. It is only that +I—but of course you understand. I don’t want +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_53'></a>53</span> +to see him again.” She rose. Her lithe figure +came up to the last inch of its height; the attitude +gave her the effect of a column. Her head was +like a glowing alabaster lamp set at the top of +that column. All the trouble had faded out of +her face. The set, scarlet lines in her mouth had +melted to their normal scarlet curves. The light +had come back in a brilliant flood to her turquoise +eyes. In this uprush of spirit, her red hair seemed +even to bristle and to glisten. She sparkled +visibly. “And now, I guess I’ll get back to +work,” she said. “Oh, by the way, I found in +my mail this morning a letter addressed, not to +the women’s department, but to the firm. I +opened it, but of course by accident.”</p> + +<p>Mr. Warner drew the letter from its envelope, +began casually running through it. The conversation +seemed now to be ended; Susannah moved +toward the door. From his perusal of the letter, +Mr. Warner stabbed at her back with one quick, +alarmed glance, and:</p> + +<p>“Oh, Miss Ayer, don’t go yet,” he said. His +tone was a little tense and sharp. But he continued +to peruse the letter. As he finished the last +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_54'></a>54</span> +page, he looked up. Again, his tone seemed peculiar; +and he hesitated before he spoke.</p> + +<p>“Er—did you make out the signature on +this?” he asked.</p> + +<p>“No—it puzzled me,” replied Susannah.</p> + +<p>“Sit down again, please,” said Mr. Warner. +Now his manner had that accent of suavity, that +velvety actor quality, which usually he reserved +solely for women clients. “I’m awfully sorry, +but I’m afraid I shall have to ask you to see Mr. +Cowler again.”</p> + +<p>“Mr. Warner, I ... I simply could not do +that. I can never speak to him again. You don’t +know.... You can’t guess.... Why, I +could scarcely tell my own mother ... if I +had one....”</p> + +<p>“It seems quite shocking to you, of course, +and—Wait a moment—” Mr. Warner rose +and walked toward the door leading to Byan’s +office. But he seemed suddenly to change his +mind. “I know exactly how you must feel,” he +said, returning. “Believe me, my dear young +lady, I enter perfectly into your emotions. +Shocked susceptibilities! Wounded pride! All +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_55'></a>55</span> +perfectly natural, even exemplary. But, Miss +Ayer, this is a strange world. And in some +aspects a very unsatisfactory one. We have to +put up with many things we don’t like. I, for +instance. You could not guess the many disagreeable +experiences to which I submit daily. I hate +them as much as anyone, but business compels me +to endure them. Now you, in your position as +manager of the Women’s Department—”</p> + +<p>“Nothing,” Susannah interrupted steadily, +“could induce me knowingly to submit again to +what happened last night. I would rather throw +up my job. I would rather die.”</p> + +<p>“But, my dear Miss Ayer, you are not the only +young lady in this city who has been through such +experiences. If women will invade industry, they +must take the consequences. Actresses, shopgirls, +woman-buyers accept these things as a matter of +course—as all in the day’s work. Indeed, many +stenographers complain of unpleasant experiences. +You have been exceedingly fortunate. +Have we not in this office paid you every possible +respect?”</p> + +<p>“Of course you have! It is because you have +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_56'></a>56</span> +been so kind that I came to you at once, hoping +... believing ... that you would understand. +It never occurred to me that you....”</p> + +<p>“Of course I understand,” Mr. Warner insisted, +in his most soothing tone. “It’s all very +dreadful. What I am trying to point out to you +is that whatever you do or wherever you go in a +great city, the same thing is likely to happen. I +am trying to prove to you that you are especially +protected here. You like your work, don’t you?”</p> + +<p>“I love it!” Susannah protested with fervor.</p> + +<p>“Then I think you will do well to ignore the +incident. Come, my child,”—Mr. Warner was +now a combination of guiding pastor and admonishing +parent,—“forget this deplorable incident. +When Mr. Cowler comes in this afternoon, meet +him as though nothing had happened. Undoubtedly +he is now bitterly regretting his mistake. +Unquestionably he will apologize. And +the next time he asks you to go out with him, he +will have learned how to treat a young lady so +admirable and estimable, and you can accept his +invitation with an untroubled spirit.”</p> + +<p>“If I meet Mr. Cowler I will treat him exactly +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_57'></a>57</span> +as though nothing had happened,” Susannah declared +steadily. “I mean that upon meeting him +I will bow. I will even—if you ask it—give him +any information he may want about the business. +But as to going anywhere with him again—I must +decline absolutely.”</p> + +<p>“But that is one of the services which we shall +have to demand from time to time. Clients come +to town. They want an attractive young lady, +a lady who will be a credit to them—a description +which, I may say, perfectly applies to you—to accompany +them about the city. That will be a +part of your duties in future. Had the occasion +arisen before, it would have been a part of your +duties in the past. If Mr. Cowler asks you again +to accompany him for the evening, we shall expect +you to go.”</p> + +<p>“You never told me,” said Susannah after a +perceptible interval, during which directly and +piercingly she met Mr. Warner’s gentle gaze, +“that you expected this sort of thing.”</p> + +<p>“My dear young lady,” replied Mr. Warner +with a kind of bland elegance, “I am very sorry +if I did not make that clear.”</p> +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_58'></a>58</span> + +<p>“Then,” said Susannah—so unexpectedly that +it was unexpected even to herself—“I shall have +to give up my position. Please look for another +secretary. I shall consider it a favor if you get +her as soon as possible.”</p> + +<p>Another pause; and then Mr. Warner asked:</p> + +<p>“Would you mind waiting here for just a few +moments before you make that decision final?”</p> + +<p>“I will wait,” agreed Susannah. “But I will +not change my decision.”</p> + +<p>Mr. Warner did not seem at all surprised or +annoyed. He arose abruptly, started toward +Byan’s office. This time he entered and closed +the door behind him. A moment later, Susannah +realized from the muffled sounds which filtered +through the partition that the partners were in +conference. She caught the velvety tones of +Byan; O’Hearn’s soft lilt. And as she sat there, +idly tapping the desk with a penholder, something +among the memories of that confused morning +crept into her mind; spread until it blotted out +even the memory of Mr. Cowler. That letter—what +did it mean? In her listless, inattentive +state of mind, she had opened it carelessly, read +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_59'></a>59</span> +it through before she realized that it was addressed +not to the Women’s Department, but to +the company. Had anyone asked her, a moment +after she laid it down, just what it said, she could +not have answered. Now, her perplexed loneliness +brought it all out on the tablets of her mind +as the chemical brings out the picture from the +blankness of a photographic plate. She glanced +at the desk. The letter was not there—Mr. +Warner had taken it with him.</p> + +<p>The man with the illegible signature wrote +from Nevada. He had seen, during a visit to +Kansas City, the circulars of the Carbonado Mining +Company. After his return, he had passed +through Carbonado. “I wondered, when I saw +your literature, whether there had been a new +strike in that busted camp,” he wrote. “There +hadn’t. Carbonado now consists of one store-keeper +and a few retired prospectors who are trying +to scrape something from the corners of the +old Buffalo Boy property. That camp was +worked out in the eighties—and it was never +much but promises at that.” As for the photographs +which decorated the Carbonado +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_60'></a>60</span> +Company’s circulars, this man recognized at least one +of them as a picture of a property he knew in +Utah. Finally, he asked sarcastically just how +long they expected to keep up the graft. “It’s +the old game, isn’t it?” he inquired, “pay three +per cent for a while and then get out with the +capital.” Three per cent a month—that <i>was</i> +exactly what the Carbonado Company was paying. +She wondered—</p> + +<p>Conjecture for Susannah would have been certainty +could she have heard the conversation just +the other side of that closed door. At the moment +when the contents of this letter flashed back +into her mind, the letter itself lay on Mr. Byan’s +polished mahogany table. Beside it lay a pile of +penciled memoranda through which fluttered from +time to time the nervous hand of H. Withington +Warner. Susannah would scarcely have known +her genial employer. The mask of actor and +clergyman had slipped from his face. His cheeks +seemed to fall flat and flabby. His eyes had lost +their benevolence. His mouth was set as hard +as a trap, the corners drooping. Across the table +from him, too, sat a transformed Byan. His +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_61'></a>61</span> +smooth, regular features had sharpened to the +likeness of a rat’s. His voice, however, was still +velvety; even though it had just flung at Warner +a string of oaths.</p> + +<p>“I told you we ought to’ve let go and skipped +six weeks ago,” he said, “that was the time for +the touch-off. Secret Service still chasin’ Heinies—everythin’ +coming in and nothin’ going out. +The suckers had already stopped biting and then +you go and hand out two more monthly dividends +and settle all the bills like you intended to stay +in business forever. What did we want with this +royal suite here, and ours a correspondence game? +What do we split if we stop today? Twelve hundred +dollars. Twelve hundred dollars! We land +this Cowler—see!”</p> + +<p>Warner, unperturbed, swept his glance to +O’Hearn, who sat huddled up in his chair, searching +with his glance now one of his partners, now +the other.</p> + +<p>“Mike,” he said, “you’re certain about your +tip on the fly cops?”</p> + +<p>“Dead sure!” responded O’Hearn. “The +regular bulls ain’t touching mining operations just +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_62'></a>62</span> +now. It’s up to the Secret Service. In two weeks +more they’ll be all cleaned up on the war, and +then they’ll be reorganizing their little committee +on high finance. That there Inspector Laughlin +will take charge. He knows you, Boss. Then”—O’Hearn +spread his hands with a gesture of +finality—“about a week more and they’ll get +round to us. Three weeks is all we’re safe to go. +They stop our mail and then—the pinch maybe. +The tip’s straight from you-know-who. The +pinch—see!”</p> + +<p>At the repetition of that word “pinch,” Byan’s +countenance changed subtly. It was as though he +had winced within. But he spoke in his usual +velvety tone.</p> + +<p>“Less than three weeks—h’m! How much is +Cowler good for?”</p> + +<p>“About a hundred thou’—big or nothing,” +replied Warner. He was drawing stars and +circles on the desk blotter. “He can’t be landed +without the girl. If he’d tumbled for the Lizzies +you shook at him—but he didn’t—it’s this red-headed +doll in our office or nothing. And I’ve +told you—”</p> +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_63'></a>63</span> + +<p>Here O’Hearn threw himself abruptly into the +conversation.</p> + +<p>“Lave out th’ girrul,” he said. Usually +O’Hearn’s Irish showed in his speech only by a +slight twist at the turn of his tongue. Now it +reverted to a thick brogue. “I’ll not have anythin’ +to do—”</p> + +<p>“We’ll leave in or take out exactly what I +say,” put in Warner smoothly. “Exactly what +I say,” he repeated. At this direct thrust, Byan +lifted his somewhat dreamy eyes. He dropped +them again. Then Warner, his gaze directly on +O’Hearn’s face, made a swift, sinister gesture. +He drew a forefinger round his own throat, and +completed the motion by pointing directly upward. +O’Hearn, his face suddenly going a little +pale, subsided. Warner broke into the sweet, +Christian smile of his office manner. Subtly, he +seemed to take command. His personality filled +the room as he leaned forward over the table and +summed everything up.</p> + +<p>“As for your noise about quitting six weeks +ago,” he said, “how was I to know that the +suckers were going to stop running? We looked +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_64'></a>64</span> +good for three months then. We’ve got three +weeks to go. All right. As for the pinch, they +won’t get us unless the wad gives out. Every +stage of this game has been submitted to a lawyer. +We’re just a hair inside—but inside all the same. +<i>But</i> if we can’t come through liberally to him +when we’re really in trouble, we might as well +measure ourselves for stripes. He’s that kind +of lawyer. With a hundred thousand dollars—” +he seemed to roll that phrase under his tongue—“we +can stay and make snoots at the Secret Service +or beat it elsewhere, just as we please. Ozias +Cowler can furnish the hundred thou’. But he’ll +take only one bait. I’ve tried ’em all—flies, +worms, beetles, and grasshoppers—and there’s +only one. And that one is trying to wriggle off +the hook. I thought last night when I sent her +out with him that maybe she would fall for him. +The rest would have been easy. But she only +worked up a case of this here maidenly virtue. +On top of that, she reads this letter. Of course, +she has read it, though she don’t know I know. +I squeezed that out of her.</p> + +<p>“There,” concluded Warner, “that’s the +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_65'></a>65</span> +layout, isn’t it?” He turned to Byan; and his smiling, +office manner came over his expression. +“What would you say, Joe? You’re by way of +being an expert on this kind of bait.” In the +Carbonado Mining Company, Warner ruled +partly through his quality of personal force, but +partly through fear, the cement of underworld +society. Just as he shook at O’Hearn from time +to time the threat conveyed by that sinister gesture, +he held over Byan the knowledge of that +trade and traffic, shameful even among criminals, +from which Byan had risen to be a pander of low +finance. At this thrust, however, Byan did not +pale, as had O’Hearn. His expression became +only the more inscrutable.</p> + +<p>“You should have let me break her in when +I wanted to, months ago,” he said. “I’d ’a’ had +her ready now. He won’t fall for anyone else. +I’ve offered those other Molls to him, but he’s +crushed on her and won’t look at anybody else. +So we’ve got to put the screws on her. They’re +all cowards inside—yellow every one.”</p> + +<p>“Meaning?” inquired Warner.</p> + +<p>“She’s in it up to her neck with us,” said Byan. +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_66'></a>66</span> +“We saw to that. All right. If we should go +up against it, she’d have a hell of a time proving +to a jury that she didn’t know what her letters to +customers were all about. Now wouldn’t she? +Ask yourself. Looked like hard luck to me when +she saw that letter just when she’d slapped the +face of this Cowler. But maybe it’s a regular +godsend. Put it to her straight that this business +is a graft, that we’re due to go up against it in +three weeks unless something nice happens, and +that she’s in it as deep as any of us. When she’s +so scared she can’t see, let her know that she has +got one way out—fall for Cowler and help us +touch him for his hundred thousand. Make her +think that it’s the stir sure if she don’t, and a +clean getaway if she does.”</p> + +<p>“Suppose,” continued Warner in the manner of +one weighing every chance, “she goes with her +troubles to some wise guy?”</p> + +<p>“She’s got no friends here,” said Byan. “I +looked into that. Runs around with one fluff, but +she don’t count. If she’s scared enough, I tell +you, she’ll never dare peep—and she’ll come +round.”</p> +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_67'></a>67</span> + +<p>“Suppose she beats it?” suggested Warner.</p> + +<p>“Well, Mike and I can shadow her, can’t +we?” replied Byan. “If she tries to get out by +rail, we can stop her and put on the screws right +away. The screws!” repeated Byan, as one who +liked the idea. “And if she does hold out a +while, nothin’s lost. You’ve got the old dope +worked up to the idea she’s interested in him, +haven’t you? Well, if she don’t fall right away, +you can take a little time explaining to him why +she acted that way last night. Maybe best to +dangle her a while, anyway—get him so anxious +to see her that he’ll fall for anything when you +bring her round. I’ll be tightening up the screws, +and when he’s ripe I’ll deliver her.”</p> + +<p>“The screws,” repeated O’Hearn. “Meanin’—?”</p> + +<p>“Leave that to me,” said Byan. “I know +how.”</p> + +<p>Warner smiled; but it was not the genial beam +of his office manner. For when the corners of +his drooping mouth lifted, they showed merely a +gleam of canine teeth, which lay on his lip like +fangs.</p> +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_68'></a>68</span> + +<p>“I suppose, when it’s over, she’s your personal +property,” he concluded.</p> + +<p>“Oh, sure!” responded Byan carelessly.</p> + +<p>“You’ll not—” began O’Hearn; but this time +it was Warner who interrupted.</p> + +<p>“Mickey,” he said, “any arrangements between +this lady and Byan are their own private +affair—after the touch-off, which may stand you +twenty-five thousand shiners. Besides—” He +did not make his threatening gesture now, but +merely flashed that smile of fangs and sinister +suggestion. Then he rose.</p> + +<p>“All right,” he said. “Come on—all of you—and +I’ll give her that little business talk, before +she’s had time to think and work up another +notion. Maybe she’ll fall for it right +away.”</p> + +<p>“Not right away, she won’t,” Byan promulgated +from the depths of his experience, “but before +I’m through, she will.”</p> + +<p style="font-size:smaller"> </p> + +<p>The three men came filing into the room where +Susannah sat, her elbows on the desk, her chin on +her hands. She rose abruptly and faced them, +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_69'></a>69</span> +eyes wide, lips parted. Mr. Warner wore +his office manner; his smile was now benevolent.</p> + +<p>“I have been telling Mr. Byan and Mr. +O’Hearn about your experience and your decision, +Miss Ayer,” began Mr. Warner.</p> + +<p>Susannah blushed deeply; and for an instant +her lashes swept over a sudden stern flame in her +eyes. Then she lifted them and looked with a +noncommittal openness from one face to the +other. “I think I have nothing to add,” she +said.</p> + +<p>“Yes, but perhaps we have,” Mr. Warner informed +her gently. “Sit down, Miss Ayer. Sit +down, boys.”</p> + +<p>The three men seated themselves. “Thank +you,” said Susannah; but she continued to stand. +Byan rose thereupon, and stood lolling in the corner, +his vague smile floating on his lips. O’Hearn +dropped his chin almost to that point on his chest +where his folded arms rested. His lips drooped. +Occasionally he studied the situation from under +his protuberant forehead.</p> + +<p>“Miss Ayer,” Warner went on after a pause, +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_70'></a>70</span> +“you read that letter—the one you handed to me +this morning?”</p> + +<p>Susannah hesitated for an almost imperceptible +moment. “Yes,” she admitted, “entirely by mistake.”</p> + +<p>“I am going to tell you something that it will +surprise you to hear, Miss Ayer. What this +fellow says is all true. Carbonado is merely a—a +convenient name, let us say. In other words, +we are engaged in selling fake stocks to suckers. +To be still more explicit, we are conducting a +criminal business. We could be arrested at any +moment and sent to jail. To the Federal penitentiary, +in fact. I suppose that is a great surprise +to you?”</p> + +<p>Though she had guessed something of this ever +since she recalled the contents of the letter, the +cold-blooded statement came indeed with all the +force of a surprise. Susannah’s figure stiffened +as though she had touched a live wire. The +crimson flush drained out of her face. And she +heard herself saying, as though in another’s voice +and far away, the inadequate words: “How perfectly +terrible!”</p> +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_71'></a>71</span> + +<p>“Exactly so!” agreed Warner. “Only you +haven’t the remotest idea how terrible. Miss +Ayer, this company—you as well as the rest of +us—needs money and needs it right away. Ozias +Cowler has money—a great deal of money. +Somebody’s bound to get it—and why not we? +We use various means to get money out of +suckers. There’s only one way with Cowler. +He’s stuck on you. You can get it from him. We +want you to do that—we expect you to do that.”</p> + +<p>Susannah stared at him. “Mr. Warner, I +think you are crazy. I could no more do that +... I couldn’t ... I wouldn’t even know +how ... my resignation goes into effect immediately. +I couldn’t possibly stay here another +minute.” She turned to leave the office.</p> + +<p>“Just one moment!” Mr. Warner’s words +purled on. His tone was low, his accent bland—but +his voice stopped her instantly. “Miss +Ayer, you don’t understand yet. Unless we get +some money—a great deal of money—we shan’t +last another two weeks. The situation is—but I +won’t take the time to explain that. Unless we +clean up that aforesaid money, we go to jail—for +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_72'></a>72</span> +a good long term. If we get the money—we +don’t. Never mind the details. I assure you it’s +true.”</p> + +<p>“I’m sorry,” said Susannah, her lips scarcely +moving as she spoke, “but I fail to see what I +have to do with that—”</p> + +<p>“I was about to go on to say, Miss Ayer, that +you have everything to do with it. You must be +aware, if you look back over your service with us, +that you are as much involved as anyone. Your +name is on our letterhead. You have signed hundreds +and perhaps thousands of letters to woman +investors. Putting a disagreeable fact rather +baldly, what happens to us happens to you. If +it’s the stir—if it’s jail—for us, it’s jail for you.”</p> + +<p>Susannah stared at him. She grew rigid. But +she roused herself to a trembling weak defense.</p> + +<p>“I’ll tell them, if they arrest me ... all +that has gone on here ...” she began.</p> + +<p>“If you do,” put in Mr. Warner smoothly, +“you only create for yourself an unfavorable impression. +You put yourself in the position of +going back on your pals, and it will not get you +immunity. If Mr. Cowler comes through, you +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_73'></a>73</span> +are entitled to a share of the proceeds. Whether +you take it or no is a matter for your private +feelings. But the main point is that with Cowler +in, this thing will be fixed, and without him in, +you are in jail or a fugitive from justice.”</p> + +<p>He paused now and looked at Susannah—paused +not as one who pities but as one who asks +himself if he has said enough. Susannah’s face +proved that he had.</p> + +<p>“Now of course you won’t feel like working +this morning. And I don’t blame you. Go home +and think it over. Your first instinct, probably, +will be to see a lawyer. For your own sake, I +advise you not to do that. For ours, I hope you +do. If he tells you the truth, he will show you +how deeply involved you are in this thing. No +lawyer whom you can command will handle your +case. What you’d better do is lie down and take +a nap. Then at about five o’clock this afternoon, +send for hot coffee and doll yourself up—Mr. +Cowler will call for you at seven.”</p> + +<p style="font-size:smaller"> </p> + +<p>Susannah took part of Mr. Warner’s advice. +She went home immediately. But she did not take +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_74'></a>74</span> +a nap. Instead, she walked up and down her bedroom +for an hour, thinking hard. She could think +now; in her passage home on the Subway, her first +wild panic had beaten its desperate black wings +to quiet. What Warner had told her she now +believed implicitly. She was as much caught in +the trap as any one of the three crooks with +whom she had been associated. The only difference +was that she did not mean to stay in the +trap. She meant to escape. Also she did not +mean to let it drive her from the city in which she +was challenging success. She meant to stay in New +York. She meant to escape. But how?</p> + +<p>If there were only somebody to whom she could +go! She had in New York a few acquaintances—but +no real friends. Besides, she didn’t want +anybody to know; all she wanted was to get away +from—to vanish from their sight. But where +could she go—when—how?</p> + +<p>Fortunately she had plenty of money on hand, +plenty at least for her immediate purposes. She +owned a few pawnable things, though only a few. +But at present what she needed, more even than +money, was time. She must get away at once. +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_75'></a>75</span> +But again where? For a moment resurgent panic +tore her. Then common sense seemed to offer +a solution. Here she was in the biggest city in +the country; the biggest in the world. She had +heard somewhere that a big city was the best place +in the world to hide in. She would hide in New +York. Then—</p> + +<p>She had forgotten one terrifying fact. Byan +boarded in the same house.</p> + +<p>She realized why now. A fortnight before—shortly +after Mr. Cowler appeared in the office—he +had come to her for advice. He had given +up one bachelor apartment, he said, and was taking +another. Repairs had become inevitable in +the new apartment. He did not want to go to a +hotel. Did she know of a good boarding-house +in which to spend a month? She did, of course—her +own. Byan came there the next day; although, +curiously enough, she saw but little of +him. They had separate tables, and his meal-hours +and hers were different.</p> + +<p>Byan usually came in at about six o’clock. But +today he might follow her. She must work +quickly.</p> +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_76'></a>76</span> + +<p>She pulled her trunk out from under the bed +and began in frenzied haste to pack it. Down +came all the pictures from her walls. Into the +trunk went most of her clothes; some of her toilet +articles; her half-dozen books; her stationery; all +her slender Lares and Penates. When she had +finished with her trunk, she packed her suitcase. +As many thin dresses as she could crush in—inconsequent +necessities—her storm boots; her +tooth-brush—</p> + +<p>Then she wrote a note to her landlady. It +read: “Dear Mrs. Ray: I have been suddenly +called away from the city. Will you keep my +trunk until I send for it? Yours in great haste +and some trouble, Susannah Ayer.” She put it +with her board money in an envelope, addressed +to Mrs. Ray, and placed it on the trunk.</p> + +<p>At three o’clock, her suitcase in one hand, her +bag and her umbrella in the other, her long cape +over her arm, she ventured into the hall.</p> + +<p>It was vacant and silent.</p> + +<p>She stole silently down the stairs. She met +nobody. She noiselessly opened the front door. +Apparently nobody noticed her. She walked +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_77'></a>77</span> +briskly down the steps; turned toward the +Avenue. At the corner something impelled her +to look back.</p> + +<p>Byan, his look directed downward, two fingers +fumbling in his side pocket for his key, was briskly +ascending the steps.</p> + +<div class='chapter'> +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_78'></a>78</span> +<a id='III'></a> +<p class='cln0'>III</p> +</div> + +<p>Lindsay drove directly from the Quinanog +station to the Quinanog Arms. The Arms proved +to be a tiny mid-Victorian hotel, not an inexact +replica—and by no means a discreditable one—of +many small rustic hotels that he had seen in +England and France. Indeed Quinanog, as he +caught it in glimpses, might have been one part +of France or one part of England—that region +which only the English Channel prevents from +being the same country. The motor, which conducted +him from the station to the Arms, drove +on roads in which high wine-glass elms made +Gothic arches; between wide meadowy stretches, +brilliant with buttercups, daisies, iris; unassertive, +well-proportioned houses with roomy vegetable +plots and tiny patches here and there of flower +garden. He arrived at so early an hour that +the best of the long friendly day stretched before +him. He felt disposed to spend it merely in reading +and smoking. He had plenty to smoke; he +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_79'></a>79</span> +had seen to that himself in New York. And he +had plenty to read; Spink Sparrel had seen to +that in Boston. The bottom of one of his trunks +was covered with Lutetia Murray’s works.</p> + +<p>But although he smoked a great deal, he did +not read at all. Until luncheon he merely followed +his impulses. Those impulses took him a +little way down the main street, which ran between +comfortable, white colonial houses, set +back from the road. He walked through the tiny +triangular Common. He visited the little, poster-hung +post-office; looked into the big neatly arranged +general store; strolled back again. His +impulses then led him to explore the grounds of +the Arms and deposited him finally in the hammock +on the side porch. After a simple and very +well-cooked luncheon, his languor broke into a +sudden restlessness. “Where is the Murray +place?” he asked of the proprietor of the Arms, +whose name, the letterhead of the Arms stationery +stated, was Hyde.</p> + +<p>“The Murray place!” Hyde repeated inquiringly. +He was a long, noncommittal-looking person +with big pale blue eyes illuminating a sandy +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_80'></a>80</span> +baldness. “Oh, the <i>Murray</i> place! You mean +the old Murray place.”</p> + +<p>“I mean the house, whichever and wherever it +is, that Lutetia Murray, the author, used to +live in.”</p> + +<p>“Oh, sure! I get you. You see it’s been +empty for such a long spell that we forget all +about it. The old Murray place is on the road +to West Quinanog.”</p> + +<p>“It isn’t occupied, you say?”</p> + +<p>“Lord, no! Hasn’t been lived in since—well, +since Lutetia Murray died. And that was—let +me see—” Hyde cast a reflective eye upward. +“Ten, eleven, twelve—oh, fifteen or twenty, I +should say. Yes, all of fifteen years.”</p> + +<p>“Does it still belong in the Murray family?”</p> + +<p>“Lord bless your soul, no. There hasn’t been +a Murray around these parts since—well, since +Lutetia Murray died.”</p> + +<p>“Who owns it now?”</p> + +<p>“The Turners. They bought it when it came +up for sale after Miss Murray’s death.”</p> + +<p>“Well, weren’t there any heirs?”</p> + +<p>“There was a niece—her brother’s little girl. +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_81'></a>81</span> +They had to sell the place and everything in it. +There never <i>was</i> a sale in Quinanog like that. +Why, folks say that the mahogany would bring +fancy prices in New York nowadays.”</p> + +<p>“Didn’t they get as much as they should +have?” Lindsay asked idly.</p> + +<p>“Oh Lord, no! And they found her estate +was awful involved, and the debts et up about all +the auction brought in.”</p> + +<p>“What became of the little girl?”</p> + +<p>“Some cousins took her.”</p> + +<p>“Where is she now?”</p> + +<p>“Never heard tell.”</p> + +<p>“Has anybody ever lived in the Murray place +since the family left?”</p> + +<p>“No, I believe not.”</p> + +<p>“Is it to let?”</p> + +<p>“Yes, and for sale.”</p> + +<p>“Well, why hasn’t it let or sold?”</p> + +<p>“Oh, I dunno exactly. It’s a great big barn +of a place. Kinda ramshackle, and of course it’s +off the main-traveled road. You’d need a flivver, +at least, to live there nowadays. And there ain’t +a single modern improvement in it. No +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_82'></a>82</span> +bathroom, nor electric lights, not set tubs, nor any of +the things that women like. No garage neither.”</p> + +<p>“Every disability you quote makes it sound all +the better to me,” Lindsay commented. He meditated +a moment. “I’d like to go over and look +at it this afternoon. Is there anyone here to drive +me?”</p> + +<p>“Yes, Dick’ll take you in the runabout.” +Hyde appeared to meditate in his turn, and he +cocked an inquiring eye in Lindsay’s direction. +“You wasn’t thinking of hiring the place, was +you?”</p> + +<p>Lindsay laughed. “I should say I wasn’t. +No, I just wanted to look at it.”</p> + +<p>“I was going to say,” Hyde went on, “that +it’s a very pleasant location. City folks always +think it’s a lovely spot. If you was thinking of +hiring it, my brother’s the agent.”</p> + +<p>Lindsay laughed again. “Hiring a house is +about as far from my plans at present as returning +to France.”</p> + +<p>“Well,” Hyde commented dryly, “judging +from the way the Quinanog boys feel, I guess I +know just about how much you want to do that.”</p> +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_83'></a>83</span> + +<p>“How soon can we go to the Murray place?” +Lindsay inquired.</p> + +<p>“Now—as far as Dick’s concerned.”</p> + +<p>“By the way,” Hyde dropped, as he turned toward +the garage, “the Murrays called the place +Blue Medders.”</p> + +<p>“Blue Meadows,” Lindsay repeated aloud. +And to himself, “Blue Meadows.” And again, +though wordlessly, “Blue Meadows.” It was apparent +that he liked the sound and the image the +sound evoked.</p> + +<p>The runabout chugged to Blue Meadows in +less than ten minutes. The road branched off +from the State highway at the least frequented +place in its ample stretch; ran for a long way to +West Quinanog. On this side road, houses were +few and they grew fewer and fewer until they left +Blue Meadows quite by itself. Its situation, +though solitary, was not lonely. It sat near the +road. Perhaps, Lindsay decided, it would have +been too near if stately wine-glass elms, feathered +with leaves all along their lissom trunks, in collaboration +with a high lilac hedge now past its +blooming, had not helped to sequester it. From +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_84'></a>84</span> +the street, the house showed only a roof with two +capacious chimneys, the upper story of its gray +clapboarded façade.</p> + +<p>Dick, a gangling freckled youth, slowed down +the machine as if in preparation for a stop. “I’ve +got the key,” he volunteered, “if you want to +go in.”</p> + +<p>Until that moment Lindsay had entertained no +idea of going in. But Dick’s words fired his +imagination. “Thanks, I think I will.”</p> + +<p>Dick handed over the long, delicately wrought +key. He made no move to follow Lindsay out +of the car. “If you don’t mind,” he said, “I’ll +run down the road to see a cousin of mine. How +soon before you’ll want to start back?”</p> + +<p>“Oh, give me half an hour or so,” Lindsay +decided carelessly.</p> + +<p>The runabout chugged into the green arch +which imprisoned the distance.</p> + +<p>Alone, Lindsay strolled between lilac bushes +and over the sunken flags which led to the front +door. Then, changing his mind, he made an appraising +tour about the outside of the place.</p> + +<p>Blue Meadows was a big old house: big, so +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_85'></a>85</span> +it seemed to his amateur judgment, by an incredible +number of rooms; and old—and here his +judgment, though swift, was more accurate—to +the time of two hundred years. Outside, it had +all the earmarks of Colonial architecture—plain +lines, stark walls, the windows, with twenty-four +lights, geometrically placed; but its lovely lines, +its beautiful proportions, and the soft plushy nap +which time had laid upon its front clapboardings +mitigated all its severities. The shingles of the +roof and sides were weather-beaten and gray, the +blinds a deep old blue. At one side jutted an +incongruous modern addition; into the second +story of which was set a galleried piazza. At the +other side stretched an endless series of additions, +tapering in size to a tiny shed.</p> + +<p>“This is Lutetia’s house!” Lindsay stopped to +muse. “Is it true that I spent two years with the +French Army? Is it true that I served two more +with the American Army? Oh, to think you didn’t +live to see all that, Lutetia!”</p> + +<p>A lattice arched over the doorway and on it a +big climbing rose was just coming into bud. The +beautiful door showed the pointed architrave, +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_86'></a>86</span> +the leaded side panels, the fanlight, the engaged +columns, of Colonial times. It resisted the first +attack of the key, but yielded finally to Lindsay’s +persuasion. He stepped into the hall.</p> + +<p>It was a rectangular hall, running straight to +the back of the house. Pairs of doors, opposite +each other, gaped on both sides. At the left arose +a slender straight stairway, mahogany-railed. +Lindsay strolled from one room to the other, +opening windows and blinds. They were big +square rooms, finished in the conventional +Colonial manner, with fireplaces and fireplace cupboards. +The wallpaper, faded and stained, was +of course quite bare of pictures and ornaments. +He stopped to examine the carving on the white, +painted panels above the fireplace—garlands of +flowers caught with torches and masks.</p> + +<p>Smiling to himself, Lindsay returned to the +hall. “Oh, Lutetia, I should like to have seen +you here!” he remarked wordlessly.</p> + +<p>Behind the stairway, at the back, appeared +another door. He opened it into darkness. +Fumbling in his pocket, he produced a box of +matches, lighted his way through the blackness; +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_87'></a>87</span> +again opened windows and shutters. This proved +to be the long back room so common in Colonial +homes; running the entire width of the house. +There were two fireplaces. One was small, with +a Franklin stove. The other—Lindsay calculated +that it would take six-foot logs. Four well-grown +children, shoulder to shoulder, could have +walked into it. This room was not entirely +empty. In the center—by a miracle his stumbling +progress had just avoided it—was a long table of +the refectory type. Lindsay studied the position +of the two fireplaces. He examined the ceiling. +“You threw the whole lot of little rooms together +to make this big room, Lutetia. You’re a lady +quite of my own architectural taste. I, too, like +a lot of space.”</p> + +<p>He continued his explorations. From one side +of the long living-room extended kitchen, laundry; +servants’ rooms and servants’ dining-room; an +endless maze of butteries, pantries, sheds. Lindsay +gave them short shrift. At the other side, +however, lay a little half-oval room, the first floor +of that Victorian addition which he had marked +from the outside.</p> +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_88'></a>88</span> + +<p>“Oh, Lutetia, Lutetia, how could you, how +could you?” he burst out at first glance. “To +add this modern bit to that fine Colonial stateliness! +Perhaps we’re not kindred souls after all.”</p> + +<p>Hugging the wall of this room and leading to +the second floor was a stairway so narrow that +only one person could mount it at a time. Lindsay +proved this to his own satisfaction by ascending +it. It opened into a big back room of the +main house, the one with the galleried piazza. +Lindsay opened all the windows here; and then +went rapidly from room to room, letting in the +June sunshine.</p> + +<p>They were all empty, of course—and yet, in a +dozen plaintive ways—faded wall spaces, which +showed the exact size of pictures, nails with carpet +tufts still clinging to them, a forgotten window +shade or two—they spoke eloquently of habitation. +Indeed, the whole place had a friendly atmosphere, +Lindsay reflected; there was none of +the cold, dead connotation of most long-empty +houses. This old place was spiritually warm, as +though some reflection of a long-ago vivid life +still hung among its shadows. From the dust, the +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_89'></a>89</span> +stains, the cobwebs, it might have been vacant for +a century. From the welcoming warmth of its +quiet rooms, it might have been vacant but for a +day.</p> + +<p>Through the back windows, Lindsay looked +down onto what must once have been a huge +rectangle of lawn; and near the house, what must +once have been an oval of flower garden. The +lawn, stretching to a stone wall—beyond which +towered a chaos of trees—was now knee-deep in +timothy-grass; the garden had reverted to jungle. +He studied the garden. Close to the house, an +enormous syringa bush heaped into a mountain of +fragrant snow. Near, a smoke-bush was just beginning +to bubble into rounds of blood-scarlet +gauze. Strangled rosebushes showed yellow or +crimson. Afar an enormous patch of tiger lilies +gave the effect of a bizarre, orchidous tropical +group. The rest was an indiscriminate early-summer +tangle of sumac; elderberry; bayberry; +silver birches; wild roses; daisies; buttercups; and +what would later be Queen Anne’s lace and +goldenrod. From a back corner window, it +seemed to him that he caught a glint of water; +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_90'></a>90</span> +but he could not recapture it from any other point +of view. However, he lost all memory of this in +a more affording discovery. For the front windows +gave him the reason of the name, Blue +Meadows. Across the road stretched a series +of meadows, all bluish purple with blooming +iris.</p> + +<p>Lindsay contemplated this charming prospect +for a long interval.</p> + +<p>“And now, Lutetia,” he suddenly turned and +addressed the empty rooms, “I want to find <i>your</i> +room. Which of these six was it?”</p> + +<p>Retracing his steps, he went from room to +room until, many times, he had made a complete +survey of the second floor. He crossed and recrossed +his own trail, as the excitement of the +quest mounted in him.</p> + +<p>“Ah!” he exclaimed aloud, “here it is! You +can’t escape your soul-mate, Lutetia.”</p> + +<p>It was not because the room was so much +bigger than the rest that he made this decision; +it was only because it was so much more quaint. +At one side it merged, by means of a slender doorway, +with the galleried piazza. From it, by +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_91'></a>91</span> +means of that tiny flight of stairs, Lutetia could +have descended to the first floor of that mid-Victorian +addition. “I take it all back, Lutetia,” +he approved. “Middle of the nineteenth century +or not, it’s a wonder—this combination.” At the +back of Lutetia’s room was a third door; as slender +as the door leading to the gallery, but much +lower; not four feet high. Lindsay pushed it +open, crawled on hands and knees through it. He +had of course, on his first exploration, entered +the small room into which it led. But he had +gone in and out without careful examination; it +had seemed merely a four-walled room. Coming +into it, however, from Lutetia’s bedroom, it suddenly +acquired character.</p> + +<p>The walls were papered in white. And on the +mid-Victorian dado scarcely legible now, he suddenly +discovered drawings. Drawings of a curious +character and of a more curious technique. +He followed their fluttery maze from wall to wall—a +flight of little beings, winged at the shoulders +and knees, with flying locks and strange finlike +hands and feet; fanciful, comic, tender.</p> + +<p>“Oh!” Lindsay emitted aloud. “Ah!” And +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_92'></a>92</span> +in an instant: “I see! This room belonged to +that child Hyde spoke of.”</p> + +<p>He ascended to the garret. This was of +course the big storeroom of the Colonial imagination. +It too was quite empty. At one spot a +post—obviously not a roof-support—ran from +floor to ceiling. Lindsay gazed about a little +unseeingly. “I wonder what that post was for?” +he questioned himself absently. After a while, +“What’s become of that child?” he demanded of +circumambient space.</p> + +<p>As though this offered food for reflection, he +descended by means of the main stairway to the +lower floor; sat on the doorsteps a while. He +mused—gazing out into the green-colored, sweet-scented +June afternoon. After an interval he +arose and repeated his voyage of exploration.</p> + +<p>Again he was struck with the friendly quality +of the old place. That physical dampness, which +long vacant houses hold in solution, seemed entirely +to have disappeared before the flood of +June sunshine. The spiritual chill, which always +accompanies it—that sinister quality so connotative +of congregations of evil spirits—he again +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_93'></a>93</span> +observed was completely lacking. As he emerged +from one room to enter another, it seemed to him +that the one back of him filled with—<i>companionship</i>, +he described it to himself. As he continued +his explorations, it seemed to him that the room +he was about to enter would offer him not ghostly +but human welcome. That human welcome did +not come, of course. Instead, there surged upon +him the rich odors of the lilacs and syringas; the +staccato greetings of the birds.</p> + +<p>After a while he went downstairs again. Sitting +in the front doorway, he fell into a rich +revery.</p> + +<p>This was where Lutetia Murray wrote the +books which had so intrigued his boyish fancy. +Mentally he ran over the list: <i>The Sport of the +Goddesses</i>, <i>The Weary Time</i>, <i>Mary Towle</i>, <i>Old +Age</i>, <i>Intervals</i>, <i>With Pitfall and with Gin</i>, +<i>Cynthia Ware</i>— Details came up before his +mental vision which he had entirely forgotten and +now only half remembered; dramatic moments; +descriptive passages; conversational interludes; +scenes; epigrams.... He tried to imagine +Lutetia Murray at Blue Meadows. The picture +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_94'></a>94</span> +which, in college, he had cut from a book-house +catalogue, flashed before him; he had found it +among his papers. The figure was standing.... +He had looked at it only yesterday, but his masculine +observation retained no details of the gown +except that it left her neck and arms bare. The +face was in profile. The curling hair rose to a +high mass on her head. The delicate features +were <i>mignonne</i>, except for the delicious, warm, +lusciously cut mouth— Was she blonde or brunet +he wondered. She died at forty-five. To David +Lindsay at twenty-two, forty-five had seemed a respectable +old age. To David Lindsay at twenty-eight, +it seemed almost young. She was dead, +of course, when he began to read her. Oh, if he +could only have met her! It was a great pity that +she had died so young. Her work—he had made +a point of this in his thesis—had already swung +from an erratic, highly colored first period into a +more balanced, carefully characterized second +period; was just emerging into a third period that +was the union of these two; big and rounded and +satisfying. But death had cut that development +short. In the last four years Lindsay had seen +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_95'></a>95</span> +a great deal of death and often in atrocious form. +He had long ago concluded that he had thought +on the end of man all the thoughts that were in +him. But now, sitting in the scented warmth of +Lutetia’s trellised doorway, he found that there +were still other thoughts which he could think.</p> + +<p style="font-size:smaller"> </p> + +<p>The runabout chugged up the road presently. +“Ben waiting long?” the freckled Dick asked +with a cheery shamelessness.</p> + +<p>“No, I’ve been looking the house over. Wonderful +old place, isn’t it?”</p> + +<p>“Don’t care much for it myself,” Dick answered. +“I don’t like anything old—old houses +or that old truck the summer folks are always +buying. Things can’t be too new or up-to-date +for me.”</p> + +<p>Lindsay did not appear at first to hear this; he +was still bemused from the experiences of the +afternoon. But as they approached the Arms, he +emerged from his daze with a belated reply. +“Well, I suppose a lot of people feel the way +you do,” he remarked vaguely. “Mr. Hyde tells +me that the Murray place hasn’t been let for +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_96'></a>96</span> +fifteen years. I expect the rest of the people around +here don’t like old houses.”</p> + +<p>“Oh, that ain’t the reason the Murray house +hasn’t let,” Dick explained with the scorn of +rustic omniscience. “They say it’s haunted.”</p> + +<p style="font-size:smaller"> </p> + +<p>“What rent do they ask for the Murray +house?” Lindsay asked Hyde that evening.</p> + +<p>Hyde scratched the back of his head. His face +contracted with that mental agony which afflicts +the Yankee when an exact statement is demanded +of him. “Well, I shouldn’t be surprised if you +could get it for two hundred dollars the season,” +he finally brought out.</p> + +<p>Lindsay considered, but apparently not Hyde’s +answer; for presently he came out with a different +question. “Why do they say it’s haunted?”</p> + +<p>Hyde emitted a short contemptuous laugh. +“Did you ever hear of any house in the country +that’s been empty for a number of years that +worn’t considered haunted?”</p> + +<p>“No,” Lindsay admitted. “I am disappointed, +though. I had hoped you would be able +to tell me about the ghost.”</p> +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_97'></a>97</span> + +<p>“Well, I can’t,” Hyde asserted scornfully, +“nor nobody else neither.”</p> + +<p>The two men smoked in silence.</p> + +<p>After a while Lindsay made the motions preliminary +to rising. He knocked the ashes out of +his pipe; put his pipe in his pocket; withdrew his +feet from their comfortable elevation on the +piazza rail. Finally he assembled his full height +on the floor, but not without a prolonged stretching +movement. “Well,” he said, halfway +through the yawn, “I guess you can tell that +brother of yours that I’m going to hire the +Murray house for the season.”</p> + +<p>Hyde was equally if not more <i>dégagé</i>. He did +not move; nor did he change his expression. +“All right,” he commented without enthusiasm, +“I’ll let him know. How soon would you like to +go in, say?”</p> + +<p>“As soon as I can buy a bed.” Lindsay disappeared +through the doorway.</p> + +<p style="font-size:smaller"> </p> + +<p>Two days later Lindsay found himself comfortably +settled at Blue Meadows. Upstairs—he +had of course chosen Lutetia’s room—was a cot +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_98'></a>98</span> +and a bureau of soft wood. Downstairs was a +limited assortment of cheap china; cheaper +cutlery; the meagerest possible cooking equipment.</p> + +<p>But there was an atmosphere given to Lindsay’s +room by Lutetia’s own picture hanging +above the bureau. And another to the living-room +by Lutetia’s own works—a miscellaneous +collection of ugly-proportioned, ugly-colored, late-nineteenth-century +volumes—ranged on the broad +shelf above the fireplace; by Lindsay’s writing +materials scattered over the refectory table. Economical +as he had been inside, he had exploded +into extravagance outside. A Gloucester hammock +swung at the back. A collection of garden +materials which included a scythe, a spade, a +sickle, a lawn-mower, and a hose filled one corner +of the barn. Already—his back still complained +of the process—he had cut the spacious lawn.</p> + +<p>He was at one and the same time sanely placid +and wildly happy.</p> + +<p>Every morning he awoke with the sun and the +birds. Adapting himself with an instant spiritual +content to the fact that he was no longer in France +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_99'></a>99</span> +and would not have to fly, he turned over to take +another nap. An hour or two later, he was up +and eating his self-prepared breakfast. The rest +of the day was reading Lutetia; musing on +Lutetia; “scything” or “sickling,” as he called +it in his letters to Spink, in the garden; reflecting +on Lutetia; exploring the neighborhood on foot; +meditating on Lutetia; reading and rereading the +mass of Spink’s data on Lutetia; hosing the +garden; making notes on Spink’s data on Lutetia +and thinking of his notes on Spink’s data on +Lutetia. He awoke in the morning with Lutetia +on his mind. He fell asleep at night with Lutetia +in his heart. He had come to realize that Lutetia, +the author, was even better than he had supposed +her. His college thesis had described her merely +as the Mrs. Gaskell of New England. Now, +mentally, he promoted her to its Jane Austen. +His youth had risen to the lure of her color and +fecundity, but his youngness had not realized how +rich she was in humor; how wise; what a tenderness +for people informed her careful, realistic +detail. It was a triumph to find her even better +than the flattering dictum of his boyish judgment.</p> +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_100'></a>100</span> + +<p>Exploring Lutetia’s domain gave results only +second in satisfaction to exploring Lutetia’s mind. +It was obvious at his first inspection that the +garden had once stretched contrasting glories of +color and perfume. A careful study from the +windows was even more productive than a close +survey. There, definitely, he could trace the remains +of flower-plots; pleached paths; low hedges +and lichened rocks. Resurrecting that garden +would be an integral part of the joy of resurrecting +Lutetia. By this time also, he had explored +the barn. There, a big roomy lower floor sustained +only part of a broken stairway. The +equally roomy upper floor seemed, from such +glimpses as he could get below, to be piled with +rubbish. Some day, he promised himself, he +would clean it out. Beyond, and to the right of +the barn, bounded by the stone wall, scrambled a +miniature wilderness. That wilderness evaded +every effort of exploration. Only an axe could +clear a trail there. Another day he would tackle +the wilderness. But in the meantime he would +devote himself to garden and lawn; in the meantime +also loaf and invite his soul. After all, that +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_101'></a>101</span> +was his main reason for coming to Quinanog. +Whenever he thought of this, he took immediately +to the Gloucester hammock.</p> + +<p>Every morning he walked briskly over the long +mile of road, shaded with wine-glass elms, slashed +with vistas of pasture, pond, and brook which lay +between Blue Meadows and the Quinanog post-office. +When he had inquired for his mail—usually +he had none—he strolled over to the general +store and made his few simple purchases. +He had followed this routine for ten days before +it occurred to him that he had not seen a +newspaper since he settled himself at Blue +Meadows. “I’ll let it go that way, I guess,” he +said to himself. He noticed at first with a little +embarrassment and then with amusement that the +groups in the post-office waiting for mail, the customers +at the general store, were all quietly watching +him. And one morning this floated to him +from behind a pile of cracker boxes:</p> + +<p>“He’s the nut that’s taken the Murray place. +Lives all alone—batching it. Some sort of highbrow.”</p> + +<p>Gradually, however, he made acquaintance. +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_102'></a>102</span> +Silas Turner, who owned the next farm to Blue +Meadows, offered him a ride one morning on the +road. Out of a vague conversation on the +weather and real estate, Mr. Turner dropped one +interesting fact. He had known Lutetia Murray. +This revelation kept Lindsay chatting for half an +hour while Mr. Turner spilled a mass of uncorrelated +details. Such as Miss Murray’s neighborliness; +the time her cow ran away and Art +Curtis brought it back; how Miss Murray admired +Mis’ Turner’s beach plum jelly so much +that Mis’ Turner always made some extra just +for her. As they parted he let fall dispassionately: +“She was a mighty handsome woman. +Fine figure!” He added, still dispassionately but +with an effect somehow of enthusiastic conviction, +“She kept her looks to the last day of her life.”</p> + +<p>Useless, all this, for a biography, Lindsay reflected; +but it gave him an idea. He bought that +day a second-hand bicycle at the Quinanog +garage; and thereafter, when the devil of restlessness +stirred in his young muscles, he trundled +about the countryside in search of those families +mentioned in Lutetia’s letters. Some were +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_103'></a>103</span> +utterly gone from Quinanog, some were not affording, +and some added useful detail; as when old +Mrs. Apperson produced a dozen letters written +from Europe during Lutetia’s first trip abroad. +“I’d have admired to go to Europe, but it never +came so’s I could,” said Mrs. Apperson. “When +Miss Murray went, she wrote me from every city, +telling me all about it. I read ’em over a lot—makes +me feel as though I’d been there too. And +every Decoration Day,” she added inconsequently, +“I put a bunch of heliotrope on her grave. She +just loved the smell of heliotrope.”</p> + +<p>Somehow, Lindsay had never even thought of +Lutetia’s grave. The next day he made that pilgrimage. +The graveyard lay near the town +center, overtopped by the pine-covered hill which +bore three austere white buildings—church, town-hall, +and grange. The grave itself was in a patch +of modern tombstones, surrounded by the flaking +slabs of two centuries ago. The stone was +featureless, ill-proportioned; the inscription recorded +nothing but her name and the dates of +her birth and death.</p> + +<p>The note which most often came out of these +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_104'></a>104</span> +wayside gossipings was a high one—of the gaiety +and the brilliancy of the Blue Meadows hospitality. +Apparently people were coming and going +all the time; some distinguished; some undiscovered: +but all with personality. When Lindsay +returned from such a talk, the old house glowed +like an opal—so full did it seem of the colors of +those vivacious days.</p> + +<p>But he was not quite content to be long away +from his own fireside. The friendly atmosphere +of the Murray house continued to exercise its enchanting +sway. He always felt that one room +became occupied the instant he left it, that the +one he was about to enter was already occupied—and +this feeling grew day by day, augmented. +It brought him back to the house always with a +sense of expectancy. “Lutetia’s house is my +hotel-lobby, my movie, my theater, my grand +opera, my cabaret,” he wrote Spink. “There’s +a strange fascination about it—a fascination with +an element of eternal promise.”</p> + +<p>At times, when he entered the trellised doorway, +he found himself expecting someone to come +forward to greet him. It kept occurring to him +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_105'></a>105</span> +that a neighbor had stopped to call, was waiting +inside for him. Sometimes in the middle of the +night he would drift slowly out of a delicious sleep +to a sense, equally delicious, of being most gently +and lovingly companioned in the room; sometimes +in the morning he would wake up with a +snap, as though the house were full of company. +For a moment the whole place would seem brilliant +and gay, and then—it was as though a bubble +burst in the air—he was alone. “It’s almost as +good,” he wrote Spink, “as though you were +here yourself, you goggle-eyed hick, you!” Once +or twice he caught himself talking aloud; addressing +the empty air. He stifled this impulse, however. +“People always have a tendency to get +bughouse,” he explained to Spink, “when they +live alone. I used to do that in your rooms. I’m +going to try to keep sane as long as possible.”</p> + +<p>Ten days increased rather than diminished this +impression. By this time he had burned his thesis +and was now making notes that were part the +direct product of Spink’s data and part the byproduct +of Lutetia’s own works. The syringas +were beginning to run down; but the roses were +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_106'></a>106</span> +coming out in great numbers. The hollyhocks +had opened flares of color under the living-room +window. The lawn was as close to plush as +constant care could make it. The garden was +not yet quite cleaned out. He was glad, for he +liked working there. It was not a whit less +friendly than the house. Indeed, he felt so companioned +there that sometimes he looked up suddenly +to see who was watching his efforts to resurrect +a neglected rosebush; or to uproot a flourishing +patch of poison ivy. The evenings were long, +and as—consciously girlish and in quotation +marks he wrote Spink—“lovely.” His big lamp +made a spot of golden color in the shadowy long +room. One northeaster, which lasted three days, +gave him dark and damp excuse for three days of +roaring fire. Much of that time he sat opposite +the blazing logs in the big, rush-bottomed piazza +chair which he had purchased, smoking and reading +Lutetia. Now and then, he looked up at +Lutetia’s picture, which he had finally brought +down from his bedroom.</p> + +<p>Perhaps it was the picture which made him +feel more companioned here than anywhere in +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_107'></a>107</span> +the house or out. The living-room was peculiarly +rich with presence, so rich that he left it reluctantly +at night and returned to it as quickly as +possible in the morning; so rich that often he +smiled, though why he could not have said; so +rich that in the evening he often looked up suddenly +from his book and stared into its shadowy +length for a long, moveless—and breathlessly expectant—interval.</p> + +<p>Indeed that sensation so concretely, so steadily, +so persistently augmented that one evening—</p> + +<p>He had been reading ever since dark; and it +was getting late. Finally he arose; closed the +door and windows. He came back to the table +and stood leaning against it, idly whistling the +<i>Sambre et Meuse</i> through his teeth, while he +looked at Lutetia’s portrait.</p> + +<p>He took up <i>The Sport of the Goddesses</i> just +to look it over ... turned a page or two ... +became immersed.... Suddenly ... he realized +that he was not alone....</p> + +<p>He was not alone. That was conclusive. That +he suddenly and absolutely knew; though how he +knew it he could not guess. His eyes stopped, in +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_108'></a>108</span> +the midst of Lutetia’s single grim murder, fixed on +the printed line. He could not move them along +that line. He did not mind that. But he could +not move them off the page. And he did mind +that; for he wanted—most intensely wanted—to +lift his gaze. After lifting it, he presently discovered, +he would want to project it to the left. +Whoever his visitor was, it sat at the left. +That he knew, completely, absolutely, and conclusively; +but again, how he knew it, he did not +know.</p> + +<p>An immeasurable interval passed.</p> + +<p>He tried to raise his eyes. He could not accomplish +it. The air grew thick; his hands, still holding +the book, turned cold and hard as clamps of +iron. His eyes smarted from their unwinking immobility. +This was absurd. Breaking this +deathly ossification was just a matter of will. He +made himself turn a page. Five lines down he +decided; he would look up. But he did not look +up. He could not. He wanted to see ... but +something stronger than desire and will withheld +him. He read; turned another page. Five lines +down....</p> +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_109'></a>109</span> + +<p>Ah ... the paralysing chill was moving off.... +In a moment ... he was going to be +able.... In a moment....</p> + +<p>He lifted his eyes.... He gazed steadily to +the left....</p> + +<div class='chapter'> +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_110'></a>110</span> +<a id='IV'></a> +<p class='cln0'>IV</p> +</div> + +<p>Before night Susannah had found a room which +exactly suited her purpose. This was as much a +matter of design as of luck. She had heard of the +place before. It was a large building in the West +Twenties which had formerly been the imposing +parsonage of an imposing and very important +church. The church had long ago gone the way +of all old Manhattan buildings. But the parsonage, +divided into an infinite number of cubby-hole +rooms, had become a lodging-house. A lodging-house +with a difference, however. For whereas +in the ordinary establishment of this kind, one +paid rent to a landlady who lived on the spot, here +one paid it to an agent who came from somewhere, +promptly every Monday morning, for the +purpose of collection. It was a perfect hiding-place. +You did not know your neighbor. Your +neighbor did not know you. With due care, one +could plan his life so that he met nobody.</p> +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_111'></a>111</span> + +<p>Susannah, except for a choice of rooms, did not +for an interval plan her life at all. She made that +choice instantly, however. Of two rooms situated +exactly opposite each other at the back of the +second floor, she chose one because it overlooked +a yard containing a tree. It was a tiny room, +whitewashed; meagerly and nondescriptly furnished. +But the door-frame and window-frame offered +decoration. Following the ecclesiastical design +of the whole house, they peaked into triangles +of carved wood.</p> + +<p>Susannah gave scant observation to any of +these things. Once alone in her room, she locked +the door. Then she removed two things from her +suitcase—a nightgown and the miniature of Glorious +Lutie. The latter she suspended by a thumbtack +beside the mirror of her bureau. Then she +undressed and went to bed. She slept fitfully all +the rest of that day and all that night. Early in +the morning she crept out, bought herself, at a +Seventh Avenue delicatessen shop, a jar of milk +and a loaf of bread. She lunched and dined in +her room. She breakfasted next morning on the +remains.</p> +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_112'></a>112</span> + +<p>Her sleep was deep and dreamless; but in her +waking moments her thoughts pursued the same +treadmill.</p> + +<p>“Glorious Lutie,” she began one of the wordless +monologues which she was always addressing +to the miniature, “I ought to have known long +ago that they were a gang of crooks! Why don’t +we trust our intuitions? I suppose it’s because our +intuitions are not always right. I can’t quite go +with anything so magic, so irrational as intuition! +And then again I’m afraid I’m too logical. But +I’m always having the same thing happen to me. +Perhaps I’m talking with somebody I have met +for the first time. Suddenly that person makes +a statement. Instantly—it’s like a little hammer +knocking on my mind—something inside me says: +‘That is a lie. He is lying deliberately and he +knows he lies.’ Now you would think that I +would trust that lead, that I would follow it implicitly. +But do I? No! Never! I pay no +more attention to it than as though it never happened. +And generally my intuition is right. But +always I find it out too late. Now that little hammer +has been knocking its warnings about the +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_113'></a>113</span> +Warner-Byan-O’Hearn bunch ever since I started +to work for them. But I could not <i>make</i> myself +pay any attention to it. I did not want to believe +it, for one thing. And then of course the work +was awfully interesting. I kept calling myself all +kinds of names for thinking— And they <i>were</i> +kind. I <i>wouldn’t</i> believe it. But my intuition +kept telling me that Warner was a hypocrite. +And as for Byan—”</p> + +<p>Perhaps Susannah could not voice, even to +Glorious Lutie, the thoughts that flooded her +mind when she conjured up the image of Byan. +For in her heart Susannah knew that Byan admired +her overmuch, that he would have liked to +flirt with her, that he had started— But Warner +had called him off. The enigmatic phrase, which +had come to her from Warner’s office and in +Warner’s voice, recurred. “Keep off clients and +office employ—” Susannah knew the end of it +now—“employees” of course. Warner’s rule +for his fellow crooks was that they must not flirt +with clients or the office force. Again and again +in her fitful wakefulness she saw Byan standing +before her; slim, blade-like; his smartly cut suit +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_114'></a>114</span> +adhering, as though pasted there, to the lithe lines +of his active body. And then suddenly that revolver +which came from—where? Byan was of +course the most attractive of them all. That +floating, pathetic smile revealed such white teeth! +That deep look came from eyes so long-lashed! +Warner with his pseudo-clergyman, pseudo-actor +oratory, deep-voiced and vibrant, was the most +obvious. O’Hearn, his lids perpetually down, except +when they lifted swiftly to let his glance lick +up detail, was the most mysterious. But Byan +was the most attractive—</p> + +<p>“Yes, Glorious Lutie, I was always receiving +letters which started that little hammer of intuition +knocking. I was always overhearing bits of +conversation which started it; although often I +could not understand a word. I was always trying +to piece things together—wondering— Well, +the next time I’ll know better. I’ve learned my +lesson. But oh—think, think, <i>think</i> what I’ve +helped to do. They robbed widows and orphans +and all kinds of helpless people. Of course I +didn’t know I was doing it. But that’s going to +haunt me for a long, long time. I wish there were +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_115'></a>115</span> +some way I could make up. I’ve come out of it +safe. But they—oh, I mustn’t think of this. I +<i>mustn’t</i>. I can’t stand it if I do. Oh, Glorious +Lutie, believe me, my guardian angel was certainly +on <i>that</i> job. Otherwise I don’t know what would +have become of me. Are you my guardian angel, +I wonder?”</p> + +<p>When Susannah finally arose for good, she discovered, +naturally enough, that she was hungry. +She went out immediately and, in the nearest +Child’s restaurant, ordered a dinner which she +afterward described to Glorious Lutie as “magnanimously, +munificently, magnificently masculine.” +It consisted mainly of sirloin steak and +boiled potatoes, “and I certainly ate my fill of +them both.” Then she took a little aimless, circumscribed +walk; returned to her room. She unpacked +her tightly stratified suitcase; hung her +clothes in her little closet; ranged her small +articles in the bureau drawer. As though she +were going to start clean in her new career, she +bathed and washed her hair in the public bathroom +on the second floor. Coming back into her +room, she sat for a long time before the window +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_116'></a>116</span> +while her dripping locks dried. She sat there +through the dusk.</p> + +<p>“After all, Glorious Lutie,” she reflected contentedly, +“why do I ever live in anything bigger +than a hall bedroom? All a girl needs is a bed, +a bureau, one chair and a closet, and that is +exactly what I’ve got. And for full measure they +have thrown in all those ducky little backyards +and a tree. I don’t expect you to believe it, but +I tell you true. A tree in Manhattan. How do +you suppose it got by the censor! And just now, +if you please, a tiny new moon all tangled up in its +branches. It’s trying its best to get out, but it +can’t make it. I never saw a new moon struggle +so hard. Honest, I can hear it pant for breath. +It looks like a silver fish that tried to leap out of +this window and got caught in a green net. I suppose +your Glorious Susie must be thinking of annexing +a job sometime, Glorious Lutie. Or else +we’ll cease to eat. But for a few days I won’t, if +you don’t mind; I’m fed up on jobs. And I’ve +lost my taste for offices. No, I think I’ll take +those few days off and do a rubberneck trip +around Manhattan. I feel like looking on +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_117'></a>117</span> +innocent objects that can’t speak or think. And for a +time I don’t want to go any place where I’d be +likely to see my friends of the Carbonado Mining +Company. After a while the thought of them +won’t bother me so. Probably by this time they +have hired some other poor girl. Perhaps she +won’t mind Mr. Cowler though. Anyway, +I’m free of them.”</p> + +<p>When Susannah awoke the next morning, which +was the third of her occupancy of the little room, +some of her normal vitality had flowed back, her +spirits began to mount. She sang—she even +whistled—as she bathed and dressed; and she indulged +in no more than the usual number of exasperated +exclamations over the uncoilableness of +her freshly shampooed, sparkling hair. “Why +do we launder our tresses, I ask you, Glorious +Lutie?” she questioned once. “And oh, why +didn’t I have regular gold hair like yours instead +of this garnet mane? I look like—I look like—Azinnia! +But oh, I ought never to complain +when I reflect that I’ve escaped the curse of white +eyelashes.”</p> + +<p>A consideration first of the shimmery day +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_118'></a>118</span> +outside, and next of the clothes hanging in her closet, +deflected her attention from this grievance. She +chose from her closet a salmon-colored linen gown, +slightly faded to a delicate golden rose. It was a +long, slim dress and it made as much as possible +of every inch of Susannah’s long slimness. Moreover, +it was notably successful in bringing out the +blue of her brilliant eyes, the red of her brilliant +hair, the contrasting white of her smooth warm +skin. That face now so shone and smelled of soap +that, the instant she caught sight of it in the glass, +she pulled open the top drawer of her bureau and +powdered it frantically.</p> + +<p>“I always shine, Glorious Lutie, as though I +had washed with brass polish. I don’t remember +that you ever glistened. But I do remember that +you always smelled as sweet as—roses, or new-mown +hay, or heliotrope. I wonder what powder +you did use? And it was a very foxy move on +your part, to have yourself painted in just that +soft swirl of blue tulle. You look as though you +were rising from a cloud. I wonder what your +dresses were like? I seem to remember pale +blues and pinks; very delicate yellows and the +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_119'></a>119</span> +most silvery grays. It seems to me that tulle and +tarlatan and maline were your dope. Do you +think, Glorious Lutie, when I reach your age, I +shall be as good-looking as you?”</p> + +<p>Glorious Lutie, with that reticence which distinguishes +the inhabitants of portraits, made no +answer. But an observer might have said that +the young face, staring alternately at the mirror +and at the miniature, would some day mature to +a face very like the one which stared back at it +from the gold frame. Both were blonde. But +where Glorious Lutie’s eyes were a misty brown-lashed +azure, Glorious Susie’s were a spirited +dark-lashed turquoise. Glorious Lutie’s hair was +like a golden crown, beautifully carved and burnished. +Glorious Susie’s turbulent mane was red, +and it made a rumpled, coppery bunch in her neck. +However, family resemblances peered from every +angle of the two faces, although differences of +temperament made sharp contrast of their expressions. +Glorious Lutie was all soft, dreamy tenderness; +Susannah, all spirit, active charm, resolution.</p> + +<p>Susannah spent three days—almost carefree—of +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_120'></a>120</span> +of what she described to the miniature as “touristing.” +She had very little time to converse with +Glorious Lutie; for the little room saw her only +at morning and night. But she gave her confidante +a detailed account of the day’s adventures. +“It was the Bronx Zoo this morning, Glorious +Lutie,” she would say. “Have you ever noticed +how satisfactory little beasties are? They don’t +lay traps for you and try to put you in a tortured +position that you can’t wriggle out of?” Though +her question was humorous in spirit, Susannah’s +eyes grew black, as with a sudden terror. “No, +<i>we</i> lay traps for <i>them</i>. I guess I’ve never before +even tried to guess what it means to be trapped?” +Or, “It was the Art Museum this afternoon, +Glorious Lutie. I’ve looked at everything from +a pretty nearly life-size replica of the Parthenon +to a needle used by a little Egyptian girl ten million +years ago. I’m so full of information and +dope and facts that, if an autopsy were to be held +over me at this moment, it would be found that +my brain had turned into an Encyclopædia +Britannica. In fact, I will modestly admit that I +know everything.” Or, “It was the Aquarium +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_121'></a>121</span> +this morning, Glorious Lutie. Why didn’t you +tell me that fish were interesting? I’ve always +hated a fish. They won’t roll over or jump +through for you and practically none of them bark +or sing—or anything. I have always thought of +them only as something you eat unwillingly on +Fridays. But some of them are really beautiful; +and interesting. I stayed there three hours; and +I suppose if it hadn’t been for the horrid stenchy +smell I’d be there yet.”</p> + +<p>But in spite of these vivacious, wordless monologues, +her spirits were a long time rising to their +normal height. The frightened look had not completely +left her eyes; and often on her long, lonely +walks, she would stop short suddenly, trembling +like a spirited horse, as though some inner consideration +harassed her. Then she would take up +her walk at a frantic pace. Ultimately, however, +she succeeded in leaving those terrifying considerations +behind. And inevitably in the end, the +resilience of youth conquered. The day came +when Susannah leaped out of bed as lightly as +though it were her first morning in New York.</p> + +<p>“Glorious Lutie,” began her ante-breakfast +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_122'></a>122</span> +address, “we are not a millionairess; ergo, today +we buy all the morning papers and read them at +breakfast in order to hunt for a job via the ads. +And perhaps the next time your Glorious Susie +begins to earn money, you might advise her to +save a little against an unexpected situation. Of +course I shouldn’t have squandered my money the +way I did. But I never had had so much before +in my life—and oh, the joy of having cut-steel +buckles and a perfectly beautiful raincoat—and +my first set of furs—and perfumery and everything.”</p> + +<p>The advertising columns were not, she found +(and attributed it to the return of so many men +from France), very fecund. Each newspaper offered +only from two to six chances worth considering. +One, which appeared in all of them, +seemed to afford the best opening. It read:</p> + +<blockquote> +<p>“<i>Wanted</i>: A stenographer, lady-like appearance +and address, with some executive experience. +Steady job and quick advancement to right +woman. Apply between 9 and 11, room 1009, +Carman Building.”</p> +</blockquote> + +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_123'></a>123</span> + +<p>“I am requested to apply for this spectacular +job at the office itself, Glorious Lutie,” she confided +on her return to her room, “and I’m going +out immediately after it. It’s a romantic thing, +getting a job through an advertisement. I hope +I float up to the forty-sixth floor of a skyscraper, +sail into a suite of offices which fill the entire top +story; all Turkish rugs on the highly polished +floor; all expensive paintings on the delicately +tinted walls; all cut flowers with yard-long stems +in the finely cut crystal vases. I should like to find +there a new employer; tall, young, handsome, and +dark. Dark he must be, Glorious Lutie. I cannot +marry a blond; our children would be albinos. +He would address me thus: ‘Most Beauteous +Blonde—you arrive at a moment when we are so +much in need of a secretary that if you don’t immediately +seat yourself at yon machine, we shall +go out of business. Your salary is one hundred +dollars a week. This exquisite rose-lined boudoir +is for your private use. You will find a bunch of +fresh violets on your desk every morning. May +I offer you my Rolls-Royce to bring you back and +forth to work? And,’ having fallen in love +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_124'></a>124</span> +with me instantly, ‘how soon may I ask you to +marry me?’”</p> + +<p>Susannah took the Subway to Wall Street; +walked through that busy city-cañon to the Carman +Building. She strode into the elevator, +almost empty in the hour which followed the +morning rush; started to emerge, as directed by +the elevator-man, at the tenth floor. But she did +not emerge. Instead, her face as white as paper, +she leaped back into the elevator; ascended with +it to the top floor; descended with it; hurriedly +left the building.</p> + +<p>That first casual glance down the corridor had +given her a glimpse of H. Withington Warner +sauntering slowly away from the elevator.</p> + +<p>“Say, Eloise,” she said late that afternoon +over the telephone to the friend she had made at +the Dorothy Dorr Home. “When can I see you?... +Yes.... No.... Well, you see +I’m out of a job at present.... No, I can’t +tell you about it. This is a rooming-house. +There is no telephone in my room. I am telephoning +from the hall. And so I’d rather wait +until I see you. But in brief, I’m eating at Child’s, +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_125'></a>125</span> +soda-fountains and even peanut stands. I’m really +getting back my girlish figure. Only I think I’m +going to be a regular O. Henry story. Headlines +as follows: <i>Beautiful Titian-haired</i> (mark that +<i>Titian-haired</i>, Eloise) <i>Blonde Dead of Starvation. +Drops Dead on Fifth Avenue. Too Proud +to Beg.</i> I hope that none of those wicked reporters +will guess that my new shoes with the +cut-steel buckles cost thirty-five dollars. All +right! All right.... The ‘Attic’ at seven. +I’ll be there promptly as usual and you’ll get +there late as usual.... Oh yes, you will! +Thanks awfully, Eloise. I feel just like going +out to dinner.”</p> + +<p>Eloise, living up to her promise, made so noble +an effort that she was only ten minutes late. +Then, as usual, she came dashing and sparkling +into the room; a slim brown girl, much browner +than usual, for her coat of seashore tan; with narrow +topaz eyes and deep dimples; very smart in +embroidered linen and summer furs. The Attic +restaurant occupied the whole top floor of a very +high, downtown West Side skyscraper. Its main +business came at luncheon, so the girls sat almost +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_126'></a>126</span> +alone in its long, cool quiet. They found a table +in a little stall whose window overhung the gray, +fog-swathed river which seamlessly joined gray +fog-misted sky. A moon, opaque as a scarlet +wafer, seemed to be pasted at a spot that could be +either river or sky. The girls ordered their inconsequent +dinner. They talked their inconsequent +girl chatter. They drank each a glass of +May wine.</p> + +<p>Susannah had quite recovered her poise and +her spirit. She described her new room with +great detail. She suggested that Eloise, whom +she invariably addressed as, “you pampered minion +of millions, you!” should call on her in that +scrubby hall bedroom. In fact, her narrative +went from joke to joke in a vein so steadily and +so augmentingly gay that, when Eloise had paid +the bill and they sat dawdling over their coffee, +suddenly she found herself on the verge of breaking +her vow of secrecy, of relating the horrors +of the last week.</p> + +<p>“Eloise,” she began, “I’m going to tell you +something that I don’t want you ever to—”</p> + +<p>And then the words dried on her lips. Her +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_127'></a>127</span> +tongue seemed to turn to wood. She paled. She +froze. Her eyes set on—</p> + +<p>O’Hearn was walking into the Attic.</p> + +<p>He did not perceive that instant terror of petrification; +for it happened he did not even glance in +their direction. He walked, self-absorbed apparently, +to the other end of the room. But his +face—Susannah got it clearly—was stony too. It +had the look somehow of a man about to perform +a deed repugnant to him.</p> + +<p>“What’s the matter, Sue?” Eloise asked in +alarm. “You look awfully ill all of a sudden.”</p> + +<p>“The fact is,” Susannah answered with instant +composure, “I feel a little faint, Eloise. Do you +mind if we go now? I really should like to have +a little air.”</p> + +<p>“Not at all,” Eloise answered. “Any time +you say. Come on!”</p> + +<p>They made rapidly for the elevator. Susannah +did not glance back. But inwardly she thanked +her guardian-angel for the fortuitous miracle by +which intervening waiters formed a screen. Not +until they had walked block after block, turning +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_128'></a>128</span> +and twisting at her own suggestion, did Susannah +feel safe.</p> + +<p>“Oh, what was it you were going to tell me, +Susannah,” Eloise interrupted suddenly, “just before +we left the Attic?”</p> + +<p>“I don’t seem to remember at this moment,” +Susannah evaded. “Perhaps it will come to me +later.”</p> + +<p style="font-size:smaller"> </p> + +<p>Susannah did not sleep very well that night. +But by morning she had recovered her poise. +“Glorious Lutie,” she said wordlessly from her +bed, “I think I’ll go seriously to the business of +getting a job. It’ll take my mind off—things. +I’m going to ignore that little <i>rencontre</i> of yesterday. +Don’t you despair. The handsome young +employer with his romantic eyes and movie-star +eyelashes awaits me somewhere. And just as +soon as we’re married, you shall be hung in a +manner befitting your birth and station in a drawing-room +as big as Central Park. I wish it +weren’t so darn hot. Somehow too, I don’t feel +so strong about answering ads in <i>person</i> as I did +two days ago.”</p> +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_129'></a>129</span> + +<p>On her way to breakfast she bought all the +newspapers. She spent her morning answering +advertisements by letter. She received no replies +to this first batch; but she pursued the same course +for three days.</p> + +<p>“Glorious Lutie,” she addressed the miniature +a few days later, “this is beginning to get +serious. I am now almost within sight of the +end bill in my wad. In point of fact I will not +conceal from you that today I pawned my one +and only jewel—my jade ring. You don’t know +how naked I feel without it. It will keep us for—perhaps +it will last three weeks. And after +that— However, I don’t think we’ll either of +us starve. You don’t take any sustenance and I +take very little these days. I wish this weather +would change. You are so cool living in that blue +cloud, Glorious Lutie, that you don’t appreciate +what it’s like when it’s ninety in the shade and still +going up. I’m getting pretty sick of it. I guess,” +she concluded, smiling, “I’ll make out a list of the +friends I can appeal to in case of need.”</p> + +<p>The idea seemed to raise her spirits. She sat +down and turned to the unused memorandum +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_130'></a>130</span> +portion of her diary. Her list ran something like +this:</p> + +<p>New York—</p> + +<p>No. 1—First and foremost—Eloise, who, being +an heiress and the owner of a check-book, +never has any real cash and always borrows +from me.</p> + +<p>Providence—</p> + +<p>No. 2—Barty Joyce—Always has money because +he’s prudent—and the salt of the earth—</p> + +<p>P.S. Eloise never pays the money back that she +borrows from me—</p> + +<p>“Will you tell me, Glorious Lutie, why I don’t +fall in love with Barty and why he doesn’t fall in +love with me? There’s something awfully out +about me. I don’t think I’ve been in love more +than six times; and the only serious one was the +policeman on the beat who had a wife and five +children.”</p> + +<p>Providence again—</p> + +<p>No. 3—The Coburns—nice, comfy, middle-aged +folks; not rich; the best friends a girl could +possibly have.</p> + +<p>No. 4—</p> +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_131'></a>131</span> + +<p>But here she yawned loudly and relinquished +the whole proceeding.</p> + +<p>That afternoon Susannah visited several employment +agencies which dealt with office help. +She answered all the inquiries that their questionnaires +put to her; omitting any reference to the +Carbonado Mining Company. It was late in the +afternoon when she finished. She walked slowly +homeward down the Avenue. Outside of her +own door, she tried to decide whether she would +go immediately to dinner or lie down first. A +sudden fatigue forced decision in favor of a +nap. She walked wearily up the first flight of +stairs. Ahead, someone was ascending the second +flight—a man. He turned down the hall. +She followed. He stopped at the room opposite +hers; fumbled unsuccessfully with the key. As +she approached, she glanced casually in his +direction.</p> + +<p>It was Byan.</p> + +<div class='chapter'> +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_132'></a>132</span> +<a id='V'></a> +<p class='cln0'>V</p> +</div> + +<p><span class='sc'>Dear Spink:</span></p> + +<p>This is the kind of letter one never writes. But +if you knew my mental chaos.... And I’ve +got to tell somebody about the thing that I can +speak about to nobody. If I don’t.... What +do you suppose I’ve done? I’ve bought a house. +Yep— I’m a property owner now. Of course +you guess! Or do you guess? It’s the Murray +place. I could just make it and have enough left +over for a year or two or three. But after that, +Spink, I’m going to work because I’ll have to.</p> + +<p>I suppose you’re wondering why I did it. +You’re not puzzled half as much as I am; although +in one way I know exactly why I did it. +Perhaps I didn’t do it at all. Anyway, I didn’t +do it of my own volition. Somebody made me. +I’m going to tell you about that presently.</p> + +<p>Yes, it’s all mine: beautiful old square-roomed +house with its carved panelings and its generous +Colonial fireplaces; its slender doors and amusing +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_133'></a>133</span> +door-latches; an upstairs of ample bedrooms; an +old garret with slave quarters; the downstairs +with that little, charmingly incongruous, galleried, +mid-Victorian addition; barn; lawn; flower-garden. +And how beautiful I’m making that +flower-garden you’ll never suspect till you see it. +But you won’t see it for quite a while—I withdraw +all my invitations to visit me. I don’t want +you now, Spink; although I never wanted you so +much in my life. I’ll want you later, I think. Of +course it isn’t from you personally—you beetle-eyed +old scout—that I’m withdrawing my invitation; +it’s from any flesh-and-blood being. If you +had an astral self— I don’t want anybody. I +never wanted to be alone so much in my life. In +a moment I’m going to tell you why.</p> + +<p>And the wine-glass elms are mine; and the lilacs +and syringas and the smoke-bush and the hollyhocks; +and all the things I’ve planted; my Canterbury +bells (if they come up); my deep, rich +dahlias and my flame-colored phlox (if ditto). +All mine! Gee, Spink, I never felt so rich in my +life, because what I’ve enumerated isn’t twenty-five +per cent of what I own. In a minute I’m +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_134'></a>134</span> +going to tell you what the remaining seventy-five +per cent is.</p> + +<p>This place is full of birds and bees. I watch +them from the house. Spink, we flying-men are +boobs. Have you ever watched a bee fly? I +spend hours, it seems to me, just studying them—trying +to crab their act. And the other day there +was an air-fight just over my roof. A chicken-hawk +attacked by the whole bird population. It +was a reproduction in miniature of a bombing-machine +pursued by a dozen combat-planes. +Spink, it was the best flying I’ve ever seen. You +should have seen the sparrows keeping on his tail! +The little birds relied on their quickness of attack, +just as combat planes do. They attacked from all +angles with such rapidity that the hawk could do +nothing but run for his life. The little birds +circled about, waiting for the moment to dive. A +combat-plane dives; its machines go ta-ta-ta-ta-ta-ta +and it turns off before the gunner can swing +his guns over. The birds dived, picked furiously +at his eyes while the hawk turned bewildered from +one attack to another. But the little birds did +something that planes can’t even attempt—they +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_135'></a>135</span> +hovered over him almost motionless, waiting their +moment to attack. Here I am talking of flying! +Flying! Did I ever fly? When I got to New +York, Greenwich Village seemed strange and unnatural, +just a pasteboard dream. Pau—Avord—Verdun—were +the only real things in my life. +Now <i>they’re</i> shadows like Greenwich Village. +Quinanog—the Murray place—and Lutetia—seem +the only real things.</p> + +<p>I’m going to tell you all about it in a moment. +I sure am. The world seems to be full of landing-places, +but for some reason I can’t land. +Every time, I seem to come short on the field; +or overshoot it. Perhaps it’s because I feel it +ought not to be told— Perhaps it’s because I feel +you won’t believe me—</p> + +<p>But I’ve got to do it. So here goes!</p> + +<p>Spink, the remaining seventy-five per cent that +I own in this place is— This place is haunted. +Not by a ghost, but by <i>ghosts</i>! There are not +one of them, but four. Three I see occasionally. +But one of the quartet—I see her all the time. +She is Lutetia.</p> + +<p>It began— Well, it all goes back to your +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_136'></a>136</span> +rooms in New York. They’re haunted too, but +you don’t know it, you wall-eyed old grave-digger, +you. Not because you’re inept or unsensitive or +anything stupid— It’s because there’s something +they want to say to <i>me</i>—a message they want to +give to me alone. But I can’t stop to go into that +now. To return to your apartment, <i>something</i> +... used to come ... to my bed at night +... and bend over me ... I don’t know +who it was or what it was, except that it was +masculine. And how I knew that, I dunno.</p> + +<p>It bothered me. One reason why I came down +here was that I thought I was going crazy. Perhaps +I have gone crazy. Anyway, if I have I +like it. But here I am again! It’s as though +the world slipped out from under me. I can fly +on and on or climb, but it’s the coming down that +baffles me. When I cut the motor off and the +noise dies away, I feel sick and afraid; the bus +seems to take its own head. Now for a landing—even +if I do smash.</p> + +<p>From the moment I entered this house, I felt +as though there were others here. Not specifically, +you understand. At first, it was only a +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_137'></a>137</span> +sensation of warmth in the atmosphere that grew to +a feeling of friendliness that deepened to a sense +of companionship until— Well, I found myself +in a mood of eternal expectancy. Something was +going to happen but I didn’t know what or how +or when.... Oh yes, in a <i>way</i> I knew what. I +was going to see something. Some time—I felt +dimly—when I should enter one of these rooms, +so stark and yet so occupied, somebody would be +there to greet me ... or some day turning a +corner I should come suddenly on.... I did not +dread that experience, Spink, I give you my word. +I reveled in the expectancy of it. It was beautiful; +it was rich. I wasn’t anything of what you +call <i>afraid</i>. I wanted it to happen.</p> + +<p>And it did happen.</p> + +<p>One evening, as usual, I was reading Lutetia. +I was sitting in my big chair beside the refectory +table. Outside, it was a perfect night I remember; +dark and still, and the stars so big that they +seemed to spill out of the heavens. Inside, the +lamp was bright. My eyes were on my book. +Suddenly.... I was not alone. Don’t ask me +how I knew it. Only take it from me that I did. +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_138'></a>138</span> +I knew it all right. For—<i>oh, Spink</i>—(I’ve underlined +that just like a girl) all in a flash I didn’t +want—to look up. I wanted to go away from +this place and to go with considerable speed, not +glancing back. It was the worst sensation that I +have ever known—worse even than a night raid. +After a while something came back; courage I +suppose you’d call it; a kind of calm, a poise. +Anyway, I found that I was going to be able to +look up presently and not mind it....</p> + +<p>Of course I knew whom I was going to +see....</p> + +<p>I did look up. And I did see— It was +Lutetia. Spink, if you try to say those things that +people always say—that it was imagination, that +I was overwrought, that my mind, moving all +the day among the facts and realities of Lutetia’s +life, suddenly projected a picture—I’ll never +speak to you again. There she sat, her elbow +resting on the arm of her chair, her chin in +her hand, looking at me. I can’t tell you +how long she stayed. But all the time she was +there she looked at me. And all that time I +looked at her. I don’t think, Spink, I have ever +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_139'></a>139</span> +guessed how much eyes can say. Her eyes said +so much that I think I could write the whole rest +of the night about them. Except that I’m not +quite sure what they said. It was all entreaty; +oh, blazing, blasting, blinding entreaty.... Of +that I am sure. But what she asked of me I +haven’t the remotest idea. After a while ... +something impelled me to look down at my book +again. When I lifted my eyes Lutetia was gone.</p> + +<p>That wasn’t all, Spink; for that night, or the +next day— But I’m going to try to keep to a +consecutive story. I didn’t go to bed immediately. +I didn’t feel like sleeping. You can understand it +was considerable of a shock. And very thrilling. +Literally thrilling! I shook. It didn’t bother me +an atom after it was over. I wasn’t the least +afraid. But I vibrated for hours. I walked four +or five miles—where, I don’t know. I must have +passed the Fallows place, because I recall the +scent of honeysuckle. But I assure you I seemed +to be walking through the stars.... She is +beautiful. I can’t tell you how beautiful because +I have no colors to give you; no flesh to go by. +Perhaps she is not beautiful, but lovely. What +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_140'></a>140</span> +queer things words are! I have called females +<i>pretty</i> and <i>stunning</i> and even <i>fascinating</i> and <i>beautiful</i>. +I think I never called any woman <i>lovely</i> +before. I’ve been that young. But I’m not as +young as I was yesterday. I’m a century, an age, +an æon older. I was obsessed though. If you +believe it, when I went to bed, I had only one idea +in my mind—a hope that she would come back +soon.</p> + +<p>She didn’t come back soon—at least not that +night. But somebody else did....</p> + +<p>In the middle of the night, I suddenly found +myself, wide-eyed and clear-minded, sitting upright +in bed and listening to something. I don’t +know what I had heard, but I remember with +perfect clearness—Spink, you tell me this is a +dream and I’ll murder you—what I immediately +did and what I subsequently saw. I got up quite +calmly and lighted a candle. Then I opened the +door.</p> + +<p>Do you remember my writing you that the +chamber, just back of the one I occupy, must have +been the room of a child—Lutetia’s little niece? +The door of that room, of course, leads into +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_141'></a>141</span> +the hall as mine does. As I stood there, shading +my candle from the draft, that door opened and +there emerged from the room—what do you suppose?</p> + +<p>A little girl.</p> + +<p>I say—a little girl. She wasn’t, you understand, +a real little girl. Nor was she a dead +little girl. Instantly I knew that—just as instantly +as I had known that Lutetia <i>was</i> dead. I mean, +and I hope this phraseology is technically correct, +that Lutetia, as I saw her, was the ghost of someone +who had once lived. This little girl was an +apparition; an appearance projected through +space of some one who now lives. That or—oh, +how difficult this is, Spink—a sloughed-off, +astral self left in this old place; or—but I won’t +go into that.</p> + +<p>I stood there, as I said, shading my candle. +The little girl closed her door with a meticulous +care. Did I hear the ghost of a click? Perhaps +my ear supplied that. By one hand she was dragging +a big doll—one of those rag-dolls children +have. I couldn’t tell you anything about Lutetia—except +that she was lovely—ineffably lovely. +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_142'></a>142</span> +But I can tell you all about this little girl. She +was pigtailed and freckled. The pigtails were +short, very thick, so tight that their ends snapped +upwards, like hundreds of little-girl pigtails that I +have seen. There was a row of tangled little ringlets +on her forehead. She didn’t look at me. She +didn’t know that I was there. She proceeded +straight across the hall, busily stub-toeing her way +like any freckled, pigtailed little girl, the doll +dragging on the floor behind her, until she reached +the garret stairs. She opened the garret door, +closed it with the same meticulous care. The last +I got was a little white glimpse of her down-dropped +face, as she pulled the rag-doll’s leg away +from the shutting door.</p> + +<p>I waited there a long time—until my candle +guttered to nothing. She did not return. I did +not see her or anybody else again that night.</p> + +<p>I went back to bed and fell immediately into +a perfectly quiet, dreamless sleep. The next +morning early, I went over to Hyde’s brother—his +name is Corning—and bought this house. +Perhaps you can tell me why I did it. I don’t +exactly know myself; for of course I couldn’t +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_143'></a>143</span> +afford it. I realized only that I could not—I +simply and absolutely could <i>not</i>—let anybody else +buy Lutetia.</p> + +<p>You think, of course, that I’ve finished now, +Spink. But that isn’t all. Not by a million Persian +parasangs—all. She has come again. I +mean Lutetia. For that matter, they both have +come again. But I’ll try to tell my story categorically.</p> + +<p>It was a night or two later; another dewy, +placid large-starred night— Strange how this +beautiful weather keeps up! I had been reading +as usual; but my mind was as vacant as a glass +bell from which you have exhausted the air. I +was rereading, I remember, Lutetia’s <i>The Sport +of the Goddesses</i>. Spink, how that woman could +write! And.... Again I became aware that +I wasn’t alone. Just as definitely, I knew that it +was not Lutetia this time; nor even Little Pigtails. +This time, and perhaps it’s because I’m getting +used to this sort of thing, I had a sense of—not +<i>fear</i>—but only of what I’ll call a <i>spiritual diffidence</i>.</p> + +<p>Yet instantly I looked up.</p> +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_144'></a>144</span> + +<p>He—it was a <i>he</i> this time—was standing in the +doorway, which leads from this big living-room +into the front hall. We were vis-à-vis—tête-à-tête +one might say. He was looking straight at +me and I—I assure you, Spink—I looked straight +at him.</p> + +<p>Spink, you have never heard of a jovial ghost, +have you? I’m sure I haven’t. But this was or +could have been a jovial ghost. He was big—not +fat but ample—middle-aged, more than +middle-aged. He wore an enormous beard cut +square like the men in Assyrian mural tablets. +Hair a little long. I assure you he was the handsomest +old beggar that I have ever seen. He +looked like a portrait by Titian. I got—it’s like +holding a photographic negative up to the light +and trying to get the figures on it—that he wore +a sort of flowing gown; it made him stately. And +one of those little round caps that conceal or +protect baldness. I can’t describe him. How the +devil <i>can</i> you describe a ghost? I mean an apparition. +For he isn’t dead either—any more than +the little girls is. He’s alive somewhere.</p> + +<p>Well, our steady exchange of looks went on +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_145'></a>145</span> +and on and on. If I could have said anything +it would have been: “What do you want of me, +you handsome old beggar?” What he would +have said to me I don’t know; although he was +trying with all his ghostly strength to put some +message over. How he was trying! It was that +effort that kept him from being what he was—<i>is</i>—jovial. +God, how that gaze burned—tore—ate. +It grew insupportable after a while—it was +melting me to nothingness. I dropped my eyes. +Suddenly I could lift them, for I knew he was +gone. Somehow I had the feeling that a monstrous +bomb had noiselessly exploded in the room. +His going troubled me no more than his coming. +I remember I said aloud: “I’m sorry I couldn’t +get you, old top! Better luck next time!”</p> + +<p>I got up from my chair after a few minutes to +take my usual before-going-to-bed walk. I walked +about the room; absent-mindedly putting things to +rights—the way women do. My mind—and I +suspect my eyes too—were still so full of him that +when, on stepping outside, I came across another—I +was conscious of some shock. Again not of +fear, but of a terrific surprise.</p> +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_146'></a>146</span> + +<p>Are you getting all this, Spink? Oh, of course +you’re not, because you don’t believe it. But try +to believe it. Put yourself in my place! Try to +get the wonder, the magic, the terror, the touch +now and then of horror, but above all the fierce +thrill—of living with a family of ghosts?</p> + +<p>This one—the fourth—was a man too. About +thirty, I should say. And awfully charming. +Yes, you spaniel-eyed fish, you, one man is +saying this of another man. He was awfully +charming. Short, dark. He wore—again it is +like holding a negative up to the light—he wore +white ducks or flannels. He stood very easily, his +weight—listen to me, his <i>weight</i>—mainly on one +foot and one hand curved against his hip. In the +other hand, he carried his pipe. He looked at +me—God, how he looked at me! How, for that +matter, they all look at me! They want something, +Spink. Of me. They’re trying to tell me. +I can’t get it, though. But, believe me, I’m +trying. This was worse than the old fellow. For +this one, like Lutetia, was dead. And he, like her, +was trying to put his message across a world, +whereas the old fellow had only to pierce a +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_147'></a>147</span> +dimension. How he looked at me; held me; bored +into me. It was like sustaining visual vitriol.... +How he looked at me! It became horrible.... +Pretty soon I realized I wasn’t going +to be able to stand it....</p> + +<p>Yet I stayed with it as long as he did, and of +course we continued to glare at each other. I +don’t exactly know what the etiquette of these +meetings is; but I seem to feel vaguely that it’s +up to me to stay with them as long as they’re +here. This time, it must have been all of five +minutes, although it seemed longer ... much +longer ... and I, all the time, trying to hold +on. Then suddenly something happened. I don’t +know what it was, but one instant he was there, +and another he wasn’t. Don’t ask me how he +went away. I don’t know. He simply ceased to +be; and yet so swifter-than-instantly, so exquisitely, +so subtly that my only question was—even +though my mind was still stinging from his gaze—had +he been there at all. It was as though the +tree back of him had instantaneously absorbed +him. It was a shock too—that disappearance.</p> + +<p>Well, again I went out for a hike. I walked +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_148'></a>148</span> +anywhere—everywhere. How far I don’t know. +But half the night. Again it was as though I +marched through the stars....</p> + +<p>I haven’t seen the old painter again—I call him +painter simply because he wore that long robe. +And I haven’t seen the young guy again. But I +see Lutetia all the time. She comes and goes. +Sometimes when I enter the living-room, I find +her already there.... Sometimes when I leave +it, I know she enters by another door.... We +spend long evenings together.... I can’t write +when she’s about; but curiously enough I can +sometimes read; that is to say, I can read Lutetia. +I try to read because moments come when I realize +that she prefers me not to look at her. It’s when +she’s exhausted from trying to give me her message. +Or when she’s girding herself up for another +go. At those moments, the room is full of +a frightful struggle; a gigantic spiritual concentration. +It seems to me I could not look even if +she wanted me. Oh, how she tries, Spink! It +wrings my heart. She’s so helpless, so hopeless—so +gentle, so tender, so lovely! It’s all my own +stupidity. The iron-wall stupidity of flesh and +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_149'></a>149</span> +blood. Perhaps, if I were to kill myself—and I +think I could do that for her.... Only she +doesn’t want me to do that.... But what does +she want me to do? If I could only....</p> + +<p style="font-size:smaller"> </p> + +<p>Lindsay had written steadily the whole evening; +written at a violent speed and with a fierce +intensity. Now his speed died down. His hands +dropped from the typewriter. That mental intensity +evaporated. He became aware....</p> + +<p>He was not alone.</p> + +<p>The long living-room was doubly cheerful that +night. The inevitable tracks of living had begun +to humanize it. A big old bean-pot full of purple +iris sat on one end of the refectory table. Lindsay’s +books and notebooks; his paper and envelopes; +his pens and pencils sprawled over the +length of table between him and the iris. That +the night was a little cool, Lindsay had seized as +pretext to build a huge fire. The high, jagged +flames conspired with the steady glow of the big +lamp to rout the shadows from everywhere but +the extreme corners.</p> + +<p>No more than—after her coming—he was +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_150'></a>150</span> +alone was Lutetia alone. It was, Lindsay reflected, +a picture almost as posed as for a camera. +Lutetia sat; and leaning against her, close to her +knee, stood a pigtailed little girl. She might have +been listening to a story; for her little ear was +cocked in Lutetia’s direction. That attitude +brought to Lindsay’s observation a delicious, snub-nosed +child profile. She gazed unseeingly over her +shoulder to a far corner. And Lutetia gazed +straight over the child’s head at Lindsay—</p> + +<p>They sat for a long time—a long long time—thus. +The little girl’s vague eyes still fixed themselves +on the shadows as on magic realms that +were being constantly unrolled to her. Lutetia’s +eyes still sought Lindsay’s. And Lindsay’s eyes +remained on Lutetia’s; held there by the agony +of her effort and the exquisite torture of his own +bewilderment.</p> + +<p>After a while he arose. With slow, precise +movements, he gathered up the pages of his letter +to Spink. He arranged them carefully according +to their numbers—twelve typewritten pages. He +walked leisurely with them over to the fireplace +and deposited them in the flames.</p> +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_151'></a>151</span> + +<p>When he turned, the room was empty.</p> + +<p>The next day brought storm again.</p> + +<p style="font-size:smaller"> </p> + +<p>The coolness of the night vanished finally before +the sparkling sunshine of a wind-swept day. +Lindsay wrote for an hour or two. Then he +gave himself up to what he called the “chores.” +He washed his few dishes. He toiled on the lawn +and in the garden. He finished the work of repairing +the broken stairway in the barn. At the +close of this last effort, he even cast a longing +look in the direction of the rubbish collection in +the second story of the barn. But his digestion +apprised him that this voyage of discovery must +be put off until after luncheon. He emerged from +the back entrance of the barn, made his way, +contrary to his usual custom, by a circuitous route +to the front of the house. He stopped to tack up +a trail of rosebush which had pulled loose from +the trellis there. He felt unaccountably tired. +When he entered the house he was conscious for +the first time of a kind of loneliness....</p> + +<p>He had not seen Lutetia, nor any of her companions, +for three days. He admitted to +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_152'></a>152</span> +himself that he missed the tremendous excitement +of the last fortnight. But particularly he missed +Lutetia. He paused absently to glance into the +two front rooms, still as empty as on the day he +had first seen them. He wandered upstairs into +his bedroom. From there, he journeyed to the +child’s room beyond; examined again the dim +drawings on the wall. It occurred to him that, +by going over them with crayons, he could restore +some of their lost vividness. The idea brought +a little spurt of exhilaration to his jaded spirit. +He returned to his own room, just for the sake +of descending Lutetia’s little private stairway to +what must have been her private living-room below. +He walked absently and a little slowly; +still conscious of loneliness. He did not pause +long in the living-room, although he made a tentative +move in the direction of the kitchen. Still +absently and quite mechanically he opened the +back door; started to step out onto the broad flat +stone which made the step....</p> + +<p>Most unexpectedly—and shockingly, he was +not alone. A tiny figure ... black ... sat +on the doorstep; sat so close to the door that, as +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_153'></a>153</span> +it rose, his curdling flesh warned him he had +almost touched it. A curious thing happened. +Lindsay swayed, pitched; fell backwards, white +and moveless.</p> + +<div class='chapter'> +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_154'></a>154</span> +<a id='VI'></a> +<p class='cln0'>VI</p> +</div> + +<p>“How did they find me, Glorious Lutie?” Susannah +asked next morning. “How <i>did</i> they find +me? If I could only teach myself to listen to the +warning of those little hammers. Something +told me when I saw Warner walking along the +corridor of the Carman Building that he was not +there by accident. Something told me when I +ran into O’Hearn at the Attic the other night that +<i>he</i> was not <i>there</i> by accident. They have been +following me all the time. They’ve known what +I’ve been doing every moment. Just as Byan +knows where I am now. How did they do it? +I’ve never suspected it for a moment. I’ve never +seen anybody. I’m frightened, Glorious Lutie; +I’m dreadfully frightened. I don’t know where +to turn. If I only had a real friend— But perhaps +that wouldn’t help as much as I think. For +I’m afraid—I’m too afraid to tell <i>anybody</i>—”</p> + +<p>All this, she said as usual, wordlessly. But +she said it from her bed, her eyes fixed in a +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_155'></a>155</span> +lackluster stare on the little oval gleam of the +miniature.</p> + +<p>“I don’t know what I’d do without you, Glorious +Lutie, to tell my troubles to. You’re a great +deal more than a picture to me. You’re a real +presence— Oh, if you could only see for me +now. I wonder if Byan is still in his room? I +wonder what he’s going to do. I mean—what is +the next move? Oh, of course he’s there! He +wants to talk with me. But I won’t let him talk +with me. I’ll stay in this room until I starve! +And he can’t telephone. How can he put over +what he wants to say?”</p> + +<p>That question answered itself automatically +when she dragged herself up from bed. A white +square glimmered beside her door. She pounced +upon it.</p> + +<blockquote> +<p>“<span class='sc'>Dear Miss Ayer</span>:</p> + +<p>“Of course we have known where you were and +what you were doing every instant since you left +the office. We did not interfere with your quitting +your boarding-house because we preferred to +give you a few days to think things over. I hope +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_156'></a>156</span> +you’ve been enjoying your little excursions to the +Museum and the Aquarium. We knew you’d +come to your senses after a while and be ready +to talk business. That is why you’ve had those +little, accidental meetings from time to time. +That advertisement for a job in the Carman +Building was a decoy ad. It is useless for you +to try to get away from us.</p> + +<p>“And in the meantime the situation is getting +more and more desperate. You know why. Now +listen. We can clean up on that little business +deal in three days. Do you know what that +means? Maybe a hundred thousand dollars. +We’ll let you in. Your share would be twelve +thousand five hundred. Don’t that sound pretty +good to you? You can avoid any trouble by going +away with us. Or you can go alone and nobody +will bother you. We’ll give you the dope on that; +for believe me, we know how. And you wouldn’t +have to do a thing you don’t want to do. We’ve +got grandpa tamed now in regard to you. We’ve +told him that you’re a lady, and won’t stand for +that rough stuff. He’s wild about you, and crazy +to see you, and make it all right again. Now why +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_157'></a>157</span> +not use a little sense? Slip a note under my door +across the way and tell me that you’ll doll yourself +up and be ready to go to dinner with him +tonight at seven.”</p> + +<p>A postscript added: “This is unsigned and +typewritten on your own typewriter and so +couldn’t be used by anyone who didn’t like our +way of doing business. For your own safety +though, I advise you to burn it.”</p> +</blockquote> + +<p>This last was the one bit of advice in the letter +which Susannah followed. She lighted a match +and burned it over her water basin. Then she +forced her protesting throat to swallow a glass +of milk. She ate some crackers. After that she +went to bed.</p> + +<p>What to do and where to go! Over and over +again, she turned the meager possibilities of her +situation. Nothing offered escape. A hackneyed +phrase floated into her mind—“woman’s wit.” +From time immemorial it had been a bromidiom +that any woman, however stupid, could outwit any +man, however clever. Was it true? Perhaps not +all the time, and perhaps sometimes. That was +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_158'></a>158</span> +the only way though—she must pit her nimble, +inexperienced woman’s wit against their heavier +but trained man’s wit. Her problem was to get +out of this house, unseen. But how? All kinds +of fantastic schemes floated through her tired +mind. If she could only disguise herself— But +she would have to go out first to get the disguise. +And Byan was across the hall, waiting for just +that move. If there were only a convenient fire-escape! +But of course he would anticipate that. +If she could only summon a taxi, leap into it and +drive for an hour! But she would have to telephone +for the taxi in the outside hall, where Byan +could hear her. On and on, she drove her tired +mind; inventing schemes more and more impracticable. +For a long time, that woman’s wit +spawned nothing—</p> + +<p>Then suddenly a curious idea came to her. It +was so ridiculous that she rejected it instantly. +Ridiculous—and it stood ninety-nine per cent +chance of failure; offered but one per cent chance +of success. Nevertheless it recurred. It offered +more and more suggestion, more and more temptation. +True, it was a thing barely possible; true +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_159'></a>159</span> +also, that it was the only thing possible. But +could she put it through? Had she the nerve? +Had she the strength?</p> + +<p>She must find both the nerve and the strength.</p> + +<p>She bathed and dressed quickly and with a +growing steadiness. She packed her belongings +into her suitcase, put Glorious Lutie’s miniature +in her handbag.</p> + +<p>She sat down at her bureau and wrote a note:</p> + +<p>“If you will come to my room, after you have +had your breakfast, I will talk the matter over +with you. I will not leave the building before +you return. I will be ready to see you at ten +o’clock.”</p> + +<p>She opened her door, walked across the corridor; +slipped the note under the door of Byan’s +room. Then she hurried back; locked her door; +sat down and waited, her hands clasped. Her +hands grew colder and colder until they seemed +like marble, but all the time her mind seemed to +steady and clarify.</p> + +<p>After a long while she heard Byan’s door open. +She heard his steps retreating down the hall and +over the stairs.</p> +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_160'></a>160</span> + +<p>Ten minutes later, Susannah appeared, suitcase +in hand, at the janitor’s office on the first floor. +“I’m Miss Ayer in No. 9, second floor,” she said. +“May I leave this suitcase here? I’ve just +thought that I wanted to go to a friend’s room on +the fifth floor and I don’t want to lug it up all +those stairs.”</p> + +<p>The janitor considered her for a puzzled +second. Of course he was in Byan’s pay, Susannah +reflected.</p> + +<p>“Sure,” he answered uncertainly after a while.</p> + +<p>“I’m expecting a gentleman to call on me,” +Susannah went on steadily. “Tell him I’ll be +on the fifth floor at No. 9. My friend is out,” +she ended in glib explanation, “but she’s left her +key with me. There’s a little work that I wanted +to do on her typewriter.” The janitor—she had +worked this out in advance—must know that +Room 9, fifth floor—was occupied by a woman +who owned a typewriter. Susannah established +that when, a few days before, she had restored +to its owner a letter shoved by mistake under her +own door.</p> + +<p>Susannah deposited her bag on the floor in the +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_161'></a>161</span> +janitor’s office. She walked steadily up the stairs +to the second floor. She felt the janitor’s gaze +on the first flight of her progress. She stopped +just before she reached her own room, glanced +back. She was alone there. The janitor had not +followed her. Perhaps Byan’s instructions to him +were only to watch the door. With a swift +pounce, she ran to Byan’s door, turned the knob.</p> + +<p>It opened.</p> + +<p>She ran to the closet; opened that. As she +suspected, it was empty. Indeed, her swift glance +had discovered no signs of occupancy in the room. +Even the bed was undisturbed. Byan had hired +it, of course, just for the purpose of being there +that one night. Susannah closed the closet door +after her, so that the merest crack let in the air +she should demand—and waited. In that desperate +hour when she lay thinking, the idea had +suddenly flashed into her mind that there was only +one place in the house where Byan would not look +for her. That place was his own room. But it +would not have occurred to her to take refuge +there if she had not noted, even in her taut terror +of the night before, that when Byan entered his +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_162'></a>162</span> +own room he had omitted to lock the door after +him. As indeed, why should he? There was +nothing to steal in it but Byan. Moreover, of +course Byan had sat up all night—his door unlocked—ready +to forestall any effort of hers to +escape.</p> + +<p style="font-size:smaller"> </p> + +<p>An hour later Susannah heard a padded, rather +brisk step ascending the stairs, coming along the +hall. It was Byan, of course—no one could mistake +his pace. He knocked on the door of her +room; at first gently, then insistently. A pause. +Then he tried the knob, again at first gently, then +insistently. His steps retreated down the hall and +the stairs. He must have got a pass-key from the +janitor, for when, a long minute later, she heard +his steps return, the scraping of a lock sounded +from across the hall. She heard her somewhat +rusty door-hinges creak. There followed a low +whistle as of surprise, then an irregular succession +of steps and creaks proving that he was +looking under the bed, was inspecting the closet. +She heard him retreat again down the stairs, and +braced herself to endure a longer wait. At last, +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_163'></a>163</span> +two pairs of feet sounded on the stairs. Had her +ruse fully succeeded—would they mount at once +to Room 9, fifth floor? No—they were coming +again along the second-floor corridor. With a +tingle of nerves in her temples and cheeks, she +realized that she had reached the supreme moment +of peril. They began knocking at every +door on the second-floor corridors. Once she +heard a muffled colloquy—the impatient tones of +some strange man, the apologetic voice of the +janitor. At other doors she heard, shortly after +the knock, the scraping of the pass-key. Now +they were in the room just beyond the wall of the +closet where she was crouching. She heard them +enter and emerge—the moment had come! But +their footsteps passed her door; an instant later, +she heard the pass-key grate in the door of the +room on the other side. Then—one hand shaking +convulsively on the knob of Byan’s closet door—she +heard them go flying up the stairs to the +third story—the fourth—</p> + +<p style="font-size:smaller"> </p> + +<p>Before noon of that haunted, hunted morning, +Susannah found a room in a curious way. When +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_164'></a>164</span> +she escaped from the house in the West Twenties, +she had walked westward almost to the river. +In a little den of a restaurant just off the docks, +she ordered breakfast and the morning newspapers. +But when she tried to look over the +advertising columns with a view to finding a room, +she had a violent fit of trembling. The members +of the Carbonado Mining Company, she recalled +to herself, were studying those advertisements +just as closely as she; and perhaps at that very +moment.</p> + +<p>Hiding in a great city! Why, she thought to +herself, it’s the only place where you can’t hide!</p> + +<p>Susannah dawdled over breakfast as long as +she dared. She found herself wincing as she +emerged onto the busy dingy street of docks. She +stopped under the shade of an awning and controlled +the abnormal fluttering of her heart while +she thought out her situation. She dared no +longer walk the streets. She dared not go to a +real-estate agent. How, then, might she find a +room and a hiding-place?</p> + +<p>Then a Salvation Army girl came picking her +way across the crowded, cluttered dock-pavement +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_165'></a>165</span> +toward her awning. And Susannah had a sudden +impulse which she afterwards described to Glorious +Lutie as a stroke of genius. She came out to +the edge of the pavement and accosted the Blue +Bonnet.</p> + +<p>“Do you know of any place where a girl who’s +a stranger in New York may find a cheap and +respectable lodging?” she asked.</p> + +<p>The Salvation Army girl gave her a long, +steady scrutiny from under the scoop of her +bonnet.</p> + +<p>“My sister keeps a rooming-house up on +Eighth Avenue,” she said finally. “She always +has an extra room, and she will take you in, I +guess. Have you a bit of paper? I’ll write her +a note.”</p> + +<p>Susannah flew, swift as a homing dove, to the +address. The landlady, a shapeless, featureless, +middle-aged blonde, read the note; herself gave a +long glance of scrutiny, and showed the room. +Susannah’s examination was merely perfunctory. +In fact, she looked with eyes which saw not. +Probably never before did a shabby, battered bedchamber, +stained as to ceiling, peeling as to +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_166'></a>166</span> +wallpaper, carelessly patched as to carpet, indescribably +broken-down and nondescript as to furniture, +seem a very paradise to the eyes of twenty-five.</p> + +<p>The bed was humpy, but it was a double bed; +and clean. Susannah sank on to it. She did not +rise for a long time. Then, true to her accepted +etiquette on occasions of this kind, she drew the +miniature from her handbag and pinned it on to +the wall beside her bureau.</p> + +<p>“Glorious Lutie,” her thoughts ran, “I’m as +weak as a sick cat. If there was ever a girl +more terrified, more friendless, more worn-out +than I feel at this moment, I’d like to know how +she got that way. I want to crawl into that bed +and stay there for a week just reveling in the +thought that I’m safe. Safe, Glorious Lutie. +Safe! Alone with you. And nobody to be afraid +of. Our funds are running low of course. I’ve +nothing to pawn except you. But don’t be afraid—I’ll +never pawn you. If we have to go down, +we’ll go down together and with all sails set. I’ve +got an awful hate and fear on this job-hunting +business now. Heaven knows I don’t want much +money; only enough to live on. I guess I won’t +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_167'></a>167</span> +try to be a high-class queen of secretaries any +longer—or at least for the present. My lay is +to lie low for a month or two. I’ll rest for a few +days. Then I’ll go into—what? What, Glorious +Lutie, tell me what? I’ve got it! Domestic +service. That’s my escape. I’ve certainly got +brains enough to be a second girl and they never +could find me tucked away in somebody’s house, +especially if I never take my afternoons out. +Which, believe me, Glorious Lutie, I won’t. I’ll +spend them all with you. Oh, what an idea that +is! I’ll wait around here for about a week and +then I’ll tackle one of the domestic service +agencies. If I know anything about after-the-war +conditions, I’ll be snapped up like hot cakes.”</p> + +<p>Keeping her promise to herself, Susannah +stayed as much as possible indoors. The landlady +consented to give her breakfast, but she +would do no more—even that was an accommodation. +In gratitude, Susannah took care of her +own room. She kept it in spotless order; she even +pottered with repairs. With breakfast at home, +she had no need to leave the house of mornings. +She went without luncheon; and late in the +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_168'></a>168</span> +afternoon, before the home-going flood from the offices, +she had dinner in a Child’s restaurant round +the corner. For the rest of the time, she read +the landlady’s books—few, and mostly cheap. +But they included a set of Dickens; and she renewed +acquaintance with a novelist whom she +loved for himself and who called up memories of +her happiest times. But her mood with Dickens +was curiously capricious. His deaths and persecutions +and poignant tragedies she could no longer +endure—they swept her into a gulf of black +melancholy. On the second day of her voluntary +imprisonment, she glanced through <i>Bleak House</i>; +stumbled into the wanderings of Little Jo through +the streets of London. Suddenly she surprised +herself by a fit of hysterical, trembling tears. +This explosion cleared her mental airs; but afterward +she skipped through Dickens, picking and +choosing his humors, his love-passages, his gargantuan +feasts in wayside inns.</p> + +<p>When her eyes grew weary with reading, or +when she ran into one of those passages which +brought the black cloud, Susannah gazed vacantly +out of the window.</p> +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_169'></a>169</span> + +<p>Her lodging-house stood on a corner; she had +a back, corner room on the third floor. The +house next door, on the side street, finished to the +rear in a two-story shed. Its roof lay almost +under her window. The landlady, upon showing +the room, had called her attention to this shed. +“We’ve got no regular fire escapes, dearie,” she +said, “but in case of trouble, you’re all right. +You just step out here and if the skylight ain’t +open, somebody’ll get you down with a ladder. +A person can’t be too careful about fires!” +Across the skylight lay a few scanty backyards—treeless, +grassless, uninteresting. This city area +of yards and sheds seemed to be the club, the +Rialto for all the stray cats of Eighth Avenue. +Susannah named them, endowed them with personalities. +Their squabbles, their amours, their +melodramatic stalking, gave her a kind of +apathetic interest.</p> + +<p>The interest lessened as three days went by, +and the apathy deepened. “It’s my state of +mind, Glorious Lutie,” she apprised the miniature. +“It’s this weight that’s on my spirit. It’s +fear. Just as soon as I can get my mind off—I +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_170'></a>170</span> +mean just as soon as I become convinced that I’m +never going to be bothered again, it will go, I’m +sure. Of course I can’t help feeling as I do. But +I ought not to. I’m perfectly safe now. In a few +days those crooks won’t trouble about me any +more. It will be too late. And I know it.”</p> + +<p>She reiterated those last two sentences as though +Glorious Lutie were a difficult person to convince. +The next morning, however, came diversion. +Work—roofing—began on the shed just under +her window. Susannah watched the workmen +with an interest that held, at first, an element of +determined concentration. The roofers, an +elderly man and a younger one, incredibly dirty +in their blackened overalls, which were soon +matched by face and hands, were very conscious +at first of the brilliant tawny head just above. +Once, muffled by the window, she caught an allusion +to white horses. But Susannah ignored +this; continued to watch them disappearing and +emerging through the open skylight, setting up +their melting-pot, arranging their sheets of +tin.</p> + +<p>Before she was out of bed next morning they +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_171'></a>171</span> +were making a metallic clatter with their hammers. +In her normal state, Susannah was a creature +almost without nerves. She even retained a +little of the child’s enjoyment of a racket for its +own sake. But now—the din annoyed her, +annoyed her unspeakably. She crept languidly +out of bed, peeped through the edge of the curtain. +They were just beginning work. It would +keep up all day.</p> + +<p>“I can’t stand this!” said Susannah aloud; and +then began one of her wordless addresses to the +miniature.</p> + +<p>“I guess the time has come, anyhow, to strike +into pastures new. Behold, Glorious Lutie, your +Glorious Susie descending from the high and +mighty position of pampered secretary to that of +driven slave. Tomorrow morn I apply for a job +as second girl. If it weren’t for this headache, +I’d do it today.”</p> + +<p>However, the hammering only intensified her +headache; she must get outside. So when the +landlady arrived with her breakfast, Susannah inquired +for the address of the nearest employment +office. She dressed, and descended to the street. +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_172'></a>172</span> +As always, of late, she had a shrinking as she +stepped out into the open world of men and +women. When she had controlled this, she +moved with a curious apathy to the old, battered +ground-floor office with yellow signs over its front +windows, where girls found work at domestic service. +Presently, she was registered, was sitting on +a long bench with a row of women ranging from +slatternly to cheaply smart. She scarcely observed +them. That apathy was settling deeper +about her spirits; her only sensation was her dull +headache. Somehow, when she sat still it was +not wholly an unpleasant headache. Then the +voice of the sharp-faced woman at the desk in the +corner called her name. It tore the veil, woke +her as though from sleep. She rose, to face her +first chance—a thin, severe woman with a mouth +like a steel trap.</p> + +<p>This first chance furnished no opening, however; +neither, as the morning wore away, did several +other chances. The process of getting a second +maid’s job was at the same time more difficult +and less difficult than she had thought. Susannah +had forgotten that people always ask servants for +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_173'></a>173</span> +references. She had supposed her carefully +worked out explanation would cover that situation—that +she had been a stenographer in Providence; +that she had come to New York soon after +the Armistice was signed, hoping for a bigger outlook; +that the returning soldiers were snapping up +all the jobs; that she had tried again and again +for a position; that her money was fast going; +that she had been advised to enter domestic service. +Housekeepers from rich establishments and +the mistresses of small ones interviewed her; but +the lack of references laid an impassable barrier. +In the afternoon, however, luck changed. A suburbanite +from Jamaica, a round, grizzled, middle-aged +woman, desperately in need of a second girl, +cut through all the red-tape that had held the +others up. “You’re perfectly honest,” she said +meditatively, “about admitting you’ve had no experience, +and you <i>look</i> trustworthy.”</p> + +<p>“I assure you, madam,”—Susannah was eager, +but wary; not too eager. She even laughed a little—“I +am honest—so honest that it hurts.”</p> + +<p>“The only thing is,” her interlocutor went on +hesitatingly; “you must pardon me for putting it +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_174'></a>174</span> +so bluntly; but we might as well be open with +each other. I’m afraid you’ll feel a little above +your position.”</p> + +<p>“Well,” Susannah responded honestly, “to be +straightforward with <i>you</i>, I suppose I shall. But +I give you my word, I’ll never <i>show</i> it. And +that’s the only thing that counts, isn’t it?”</p> + +<p>The woman smiled.</p> + +<p>“I must confess I like you,” she burst out impulsively. +“But how am I going to know that +you’re—all right?”</p> + +<p>Susannah sighed. “I understand your situation +perfectly. I don’t know how you’re to know +I’m all right—morally or just in the matter of +mere honesty. For there’s nobody but me to tell +you that I’m moral and honest. And of course +I’m prejudiced.”</p> + +<p>“Well, anyway I’m going to risk it. I’m engaging +you now. It is understood—ten dollars +a week; and alternate Thursdays and Sundays out. +I don’t want you until tomorrow because I want +my former maid out of the house before you +come. Now will you promise me that you’ll take +the nine train tomorrow?”</p> +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_175'></a>175</span> + +<p>“I promise,” Susannah agreed.</p> + +<p>“But that reminds me,” the woman came on +another difficulty, “what’s to guarantee that +you’ll stay with me?”</p> + +<p>“I guarantee,” Susannah said steadily, “that +if you keep to your end of the agreement, I’ll stay +with you at least three months.”</p> + +<p>The woman sparkled. “All right, I’ll expect +you tomorrow on the nine train. I’ll be there +with the Ford to meet you. Here are the directions.” +She scribbled busily on a card.</p> + +<p>Susannah walked home as one who treads on +air. The veil of apathy had broken. And in +spite of her headache, which caught her by fits and +starts, her mood broke into a joy so wild that it +sent her pirouetting about the room. “Glorious +Lutie, I never felt so happy in my life. So gayly, +grandly, gorgeously, gor-gloriously happy! All +my troubles are over. I’m safe.” And on the +strength of that security, she washed and ironed +her lavender linen suit. Her headache was better +again. Perhaps if she went out now to an early +dinner, it might disappear altogether. But how +languorous she felt, how indisposed to effort. She +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_176'></a>176</span> +would sit and read a while. She opened <i>Pickwick +Papers</i> on its last pages. She had almost finished +the book.</p> + +<p>“I suppose it will be a long time before I have +a chance to do any more reading,” she meditated. +“So I think I’ll finish this. You’ve helped me +through a hard passage in my life, Charles +Dickens, and I thank you with all my heart.”</p> + +<p>But she could not read. As soon as she sat +down by the window and settled her eyes on the +book, the headache returned. The men were still +at work on the roof, hammering away at one +corner. Every blow seemed to strike her skull. +Midway of the roof, the skylight yawned open; +their extra tools were laid out beside it. At five +o’clock they would quit for the day. Usually she +disliked to have them go. In spite of their noise, +she felt that still. They gave her a kind of warm, +human sense of companionship. And they had +become accustomed to her appearances at the +window. Their flirtatious first glances had ceased +for want of encouragement. They scarcely +seemed to see her when they looked up. But now—that +hammering at her skull! Susannah +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_177'></a>177</span> +suddenly rose and closed the window, hot though the +day was, against this torrent of sound. As +though its futile shield would give added protection, +she drew the curtain. In the dimmed light +she sat rocking, her head in her hands. Her face +was fire-hot—why, she wondered— The hammering +stopped. They were soldering now. +They were always doing that; beating the tin +sheets into place and stopping to solder them. +There would be silence for a time. In a moment, +she would open the window for a breath of air on +her burning face....</p> + +<p>She started at a knock on her door, low, quick, +but abrupt. Before she could answer, it opened. +His face shadowed in the three-quarters light, but +his form perfectly outlined, instantly recognizable—stood +Warner. Behind Warner was Byan, and +behind Byan, O’Hearn.</p> + +<p>All the blood of her heart seemed to strike in +one wave on Susannah’s aching head, and then to +recede. She knew both the tingling of terror and +the numbness of horror. Prickling, stinging +darts volleyed her face, her hands, her feet; and +yet she seemed to be freezing to stone.</p> +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_178'></a>178</span> + +<p>They came into the room before anyone spoke—Warner +first. Byan lolled to a place in the corner; +the three-quarters light, filtering through the +thin fabric of the flimsy, yellow curtain, revealed +his clean profile, his mysterious half-smile. +O’Hearn stood just at the entrance. He did not +continue to look at her. His eyes sought the +floor.</p> + +<p>Warner was speaking now:</p> + +<p>“Good-evening, Miss Ayer. We have come to +finish up that little piece of business with you. It +has been delayed as long as it can be. Pardon us +for breaking in upon you like this. Your landlady +tried to prevent us, but we assured her that +you would want to see us. As I think you will +when you come to your senses and hear what I +have to say.”</p> + +<p>He stopped, as though awaiting her reply. But +Susannah made no answer. She had dropped her +eyes now; her hands lay limp in her lap. And in +this pause, a curious piece of byplay passed between +Warner and O’Hearn. The master of this +trio caught the glance of his assistant and, with a +swift motion of three fingers toward the lapel of +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_179'></a>179</span> +his coat, gave him that “office” in the underworld +sign manual—which means “look things +over.” O’Hearn, moving so lightly that Susannah +scarcely noted his passage, stepped to the +window, lifted the edge of the curtain. He took a +swift, intent look outside and returned to Warner. +His back to Susannah, he spoke with his lips, +scarcely vocalizing the words.</p> + +<p>“No getaway there, Boss—straight drop—” +he said.</p> + +<p>Warner was speaking again.</p> + +<p>“Your landlady says we may have her parlor +for our conference. Wouldn’t you prefer to make +yourself presentable for the street and then join +us there—in about ten minutes, say?”</p> + +<p>Ten minutes—this gave her a chance to play +for time—the only chance she had. She looked +up. Nothing on the clean-cut, pearl-white exterior +of her face gave a clue to the anarchy +within; nothing, even, in her black-fringed, blue +gaze the tautly-held scarlet lips. Her fire-bright +head lifted a little higher and she gazed steadily +into Warner’s eyes, as she spoke in a voice which +seemed to her to belong to someone else:</p> +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_180'></a>180</span> + +<p>“I can give you a few minutes, but I have not +changed my determination.”</p> + +<p>“But I think you will,” said Warner. “I +really think you will. Before we go, I might +remind you that we have been extremely gentle +and patient with you, Miss Ayer. I might also +remind you that you have never succeeded in giving +us the slip. You were very clever when you +escaped from your last lodging. We don’t know +yet exactly how you did it. Perhaps you will tell +us in the course of our little talk this afternoon. +But you were not quite clever enough. You did +not figure that with such important matters pending, +we would have the outside of the house +watched as well as the inside. So that you may +not think our meeting this afternoon is accidental, +let me remind you that you have an engagement +for tomorrow afternoon in Jamaica—to take a +job as second maid. What we have to offer you +this afternoon will probably be so attractive that +you will overlook that engagement.”</p> + +<p>He paused.</p> + +<p>“I will be with you in ten minutes,” said Susannah. +She was conscious of no emotion now—only +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_181'></a>181</span> +that her head ached, and that the faded roses +in the old carpet were entwined with forget-me-nots—a +thing she had never noticed before.</p> + +<p>“Thank you.” Warner made her a gallant +little bow. “Mr. Byan and I will wait in the +parlor. Until we come to an understanding, we +shall have to continue the old arrangement. It +will therefore be necessary for Mr. O’Hearn +to watch in the hall. If you do not arrive +in ten minutes—this room will probably +do as well as the parlor. Until then, Miss +Ayer!”</p> + +<p>He opened the door, passed out. Byan retreated +after him, flashing one of his pathetically +sweet, floating smiles. Susannah looked up now, +followed their movements as the felon must +follow the movements of the man with the rope. +O’Hearn had been standing close to Susannah, +his veiling lashes down. He fell in behind the +other two. But before he joined the file, those +lashes came up in a quick glance which stabbed +Susannah. His hand came up too. He was +pointing to the window. And then he spoke two +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_182'></a>182</span> +words in a whisper so low that they carried only +to the ears of Susannah, scarce three feet away—so +low that she could not have made them out but +for the exaggerated, expressive movement of his +lips.</p> + +<p>“Skylight—quick—” he said. He made for +the door in the wake of the other two.</p> + +<p>For the fraction of an instant Susannah did +not comprehend. And then suddenly one of those +little intuitive blows which she was always receiving +and ignoring gave, on the hard surface of her +mind, a faint tap. This time, she was conscious +of it. This time, she trusted it instantly. This +time, it told her what to do.</p> + +<p>“I’ll be with you as soon as I get dolled up,” +she called.</p> + +<p>“That’s right,” came the suave voice of +Warner from the hall.</p> + +<p>She closed the door. She listened while two +sets of footsteps descended the stairs. She heard +a third set, which must be O’Hearn’s, retreat for +a few paces and then stop. She fell swiftly to +work. She put on her hat and cape. She took +the miniature, thumbtack and all, from the wall, +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_183'></a>183</span> +and put it in her wrist bag. “Help me, Glorious +Lutie,” she called from the depths of her soul. +“Help me! Help me! Help me! I’m lost if +you don’t help me! I can’t do it any more alone.”</p> + +<div class='chapter'> +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_184'></a>184</span> +<a id='VII'></a> +<p class='cln0'>VII</p> +</div> + +<p>When Lindsay pulled back from the quiet gray +void which had enshrouded him, he was lying on +the grass. Far, far away, as though pasted +against the brilliant blue sky, was a face. Gradually +the sky receded. The face came nearer. +It topped, he gradually gathered, the tiny slender +black-silk figure of a little old lady. “Do you feel +all right now?” it asked.</p> + +<p>Lindsay wished that she would not question +him. He was immensely preoccupied with what +seemed essentially private matters. But the instinct +of courtesy prodded him. “Very much, +thank you,” he answered weakly. He closed his +eyes again. He became conscious of a wet cloth +sopping his forehead and cheeks. A breeze +tingled on the bare flesh of his neck and chest. +He opened his eyes again; sat up. “Do you mean +to tell me I fainted?” he demanded with his customary +vigor.</p> + +<p>“That’s exactly what you did, young man,” +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_185'></a>185</span> +the old lady answered. “The instant you looked +at me! I was setting with my back to the door. +You could have knocked me down with a feather, +when you fell over backwards.”</p> + +<p>“Have I been out long?”</p> + +<p>“Not more’n a moment. I flaxed around and +got some water and brought you to in a jiffy. You +ain’t an invalid, are you?”</p> + +<p>“Far from it,” Lindsay reassured her. “I’m +afraid, though, I’ve been working too long in the +hot sun this morning.”</p> + +<p>“Like as not!” the little old lady agreed +briskly. “I guess you’re hungry too,” she hazarded. +“Now you just get up and lay in the +hammock and I’m going to make you some lunch. +I see there was some eggs there and milk and tea. +I’ll have you some scrambled eggs fixed in no time. +My name is Spash—Mrs. Spash.”</p> + +<p>“My name is Lindsay—David Lindsay.”</p> + +<p>Lindsay found himself submitting without a +murmur to the little old lady’s program. He lay +quiescent in the hammock and let the tides of +vitality flow back.... Mrs. Spash’s prophecy, +if anything, underestimated her energy. In an +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_186'></a>186</span> +incredibly short time she had produced, in collaboration +with the oil stove, eggs scrambled on +bread deliciously toasted, tea of a revivifying heat +and strength.</p> + +<p>“Gee, that tastes good!” Lindsay applauded. +He sighed. “It certainly takes a woman!”</p> + +<p>“What are you doing here?” Mrs. Spash inquired. +“Batching it?”</p> + +<p>“Yes, I think that describes the process,” Lindsay +admitted. After an instant, “How did you +happen to be on the doorstep?”</p> + +<p>“Well, I don’t wonder you ask,” Mrs. Spash +declared. “I didn’t know the Murray place was +let and—well, I was making one of my regular +visits. You see, I come here often. I’m pretty +fond of this old house. I lived here once for +years.”</p> + +<p>Lindsay sat upright. “Did you by chance live +here when Lutetia Murray was alive?”</p> + +<p>“Well, I should say I did!” Mrs. Spash answered. +“I lived here the last twenty years of +Lutetia Murray’s life. I was her housekeeper, as +you might say.”</p> + +<p>Lindsay stared at her. He started to speak. +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_187'></a>187</span> +It was obvious that conflicting comments fought +for expression, but all he managed to say—and ineptly +enough—was: “Oh, you knew her, then?”</p> + +<p>“Knew her!” Mrs. Spash seemed to search +among her vocabulary for words. Or perhaps it +was her soul for emotions. “Yes, I knew her,” +she concluded with a feeble breathlessness.</p> + +<p>“You’ve lived in this house, then, for twenty +years,” Lindsay repeated, musing.</p> + +<p>“Yes, all of that.” Mrs. Spash appeared to +muse also. For an instant the two followed their +own preoccupations. Then as though they led +them to the same <i>impasse</i>, their eyes lifted simultaneously; +met. They smiled.</p> + +<p>“I’ve bought this house, Mrs. Spash,” Lindsay +confided. “And you never can guess why.”</p> + +<p>Mrs. Spash started what appeared to be a comment. +It deteriorated into a little inarticulate +murmur.</p> + +<p>“I bought it,” Lindsay went on, “because when +I was in college, I fell in love with Lutetia Murray.” +And then, at Mrs. Spash’s wide-eyed, faded +stare, “Not with Miss Murray herself—I never +saw her—but with her books. I read everything +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_188'></a>188</span> +she wrote and I wrote in college what we call a +thesis on her.”</p> + +<p>“Sort of essay or composition,” Mrs. Spash +defined thesis to herself.</p> + +<p>“Exactly,” Lindsay permitted.</p> + +<p>“She was—she was—” Mrs. Spash began in a +dispassionate sort of way. She concluded in a +kind of frenzy. “She was an angel.”</p> + +<p>“Oh yes, she’s that all right. I have never +seen anybody so lovely.”</p> + +<p>Mrs. Spash made a swift conversational +pounce. “I thought you said you’d never seen +her.”</p> + +<p>Lindsay flushed abjectly. “No,” he admitted. +“But you see I have a picture of her.” He +pointed to the mantel.</p> + +<p>“Yes, I noticed that when I came in to get +some water.” Strangely enough Mrs. Spash did +not, for a moment, look at the picture. Instead +she stared at Lindsay. Lindsay submitted easily +enough to this examination. After a while Mrs. +Spash appeared to abandon her scrutiny of him. +She trotted over to the fireplace; studied Lutetia’s +likeness.</p> +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_189'></a>189</span> + +<p>“I don’t know as I ever see that one—it don’t +half do her justice—I hate a profile picture—” +She pronounced “profile” to rhyme with “wood-pile.” +“None of her pictures ever did do her +justice. Her beauty was mostly in her hair and +her eyes. She had a beautiful skin too, though she +never took no care of it. Never wore a hat—no +matter how hot the sun was. And then her expression— Well, +it was just beautiful—changing +all the time.”</p> + +<p>Lindsay was only half listening. He was, with +an amused glint in his eyes, studying Mrs. Spash’s +spare, erect black-silk figure. She was a relic perfectly +preserved, he reflected, of mid-Victorianism. +Her black was of the kind that is accurately +described by the word decent. And she wore +fittingly a little black, beaded cape with a black +shade-hat that tilted forward over her face at a +decided slant. Her straight, white, abundant hair +was apparently parted in the middle under her +hat. At any rate, the neat white parting continued +over the crown of her head to her very neck, +where it concealed itself under a flat black-silk +bow. Her gnarled, blue-veined hands had been +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_190'></a>190</span> +covered with the lace mitts that now lay on the +table. Her little wrinkled face was neat-featured. +The irises of her eyes were a +faded blue and the whites were blue also; and +this put a note of youthful color among her +wrinkles.</p> + +<p>But Lindsay lost interest in these details; for, +obviously, a new idea caught him in its instant +clutch. “Oh, Mrs. Spash,” he suggested, +“would you be so good as to take me through +this house? I want you to tell me who occupied +the rooms. This is not mere idle curiosity on my +part. You see Miss Murray’s publishers have decided +to bring out a new edition of her works. +They want me to write a life of Miss Murray. +I’m asking everybody who knows anything about +her all kinds of questions.”</p> + +<p>Mrs. Spash received all this with that unstirred +composure which indicates non-comprehension of +the main issue.</p> + +<p>“Of course I’m interested on my own account +too,” Lindsay went on. “She’s such a wonderful +creature, so charming and so beautiful, so +sweet, so unbearably poignant and sad. I can’t +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_191'></a>191</span> +understand,” he concluded absently, “why she is +so sad.”</p> + +<p>Mrs. Spash seemed to comprehend instantly. +“It’s the way she died,” she explained vaguely, +“and how everything was left!” She walked in +little swift pattering steps, and with the accustomed +air of one who knows her way, through the +side door into the addition. “This was Miss +Murray’s own living-room,” she told Lindsay. +“She had that little bit of a stairway made, she +<i>said</i>, so’s too many folks couldn’t come up to her +room at once. Not that that made any difference. +Wherever she was, the whole household +went.”</p> + +<p>With little nipping steps Mrs. Spash ascended +the stairway. Lindsay followed.</p> + +<p>“Did Miss Murray die in her room?” Lindsay +asked.</p> + +<p>“How did you know this was her room?” +Mrs. Spash demanded.</p> + +<p>“I don’t know exactly. I just guessed it,” +Lindsay answered. “I sleep here myself,” he +hurriedly threw off.</p> + +<p>“Yes. She died here. She was all alone when +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_192'></a>192</span> +she died. You see—" Mrs. Spash sat down on +the one chair and, instantly sensing her mood, +Lindsay sat down on the bed.</p> + +<p>“You see, things hadn’t gone very well for +Miss Murray the last years of her life. Her +books didn’t sell— And she spent money like +water. She was allus the most open-hearted, +open-handed creature you can imagine. She allus +had the house full of company! And then there +was the little girl—Cherry—who lived with her. +At the end, things were bad. No money +coming in. And Miss Murray sick all the +time.”</p> + +<p>“You say she was alone when she died,” Lindsay +gently brought her back to the track.</p> + +<p>“Yes—except for little Cherry, who slept right +through everything—childlike. Cherry had that +room.” Mrs. Spash jerked an angular thumb +back.</p> + +<p>Lindsay nodded. “Yes, I guessed that—with +all the drawings—”</p> + +<p>“The Weejubs! Mr. Gale drew them pictures +for Cherry. He was an artist. He used to paint +pictures out in the backyard there. I didn’t fancy +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_193'></a>193</span> +them very much myself—too dauby. You had to +stand way off from them ’fore they’d look like +anything <i>a-tall</i>. But he used to get as high as five +hundred dollars for them. Oh, what excitement +there was in this house while he was decorating +Cherry’s room! And little Cherry chattering like +a magpie! Mr. Gale made up a whole long story +about the Weejubs on her walls. Lord, I’ve forgotten +half of it; but Cherry could rattle it all +off as <i>fast</i>. Miss Murray had that door between +her room and Cherry’s made small on purpose. +She said Cherry could come into her room whenever +she wanted to, as long as she was a little girl. +But when Cherry grew up, she was going to +make it hard for her. But she promised when +Cherry was sixteen years old she shouldn’t +have to call her auntie any more—she could +call her jess Lutetia. Queer idea, worn’t +it?”</p> + +<p>Mrs. Spash’s old eyes so narrowed before an +oncoming flood of reminiscence that they seemed +to retreat to the back of her head, where they +diminished to blue sparks. For a moment the +room was silent. Then “Let me show you +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_194'></a>194</span> +something! You’d oughter know it, seein’ it’s your +house. There’s some, though, I wouldn’t show +it to.”</p> + +<p>She pattered with her surprising quickness to +the back wall. She pressed a spot in the paneling +and a small square of the wood moved slowly +back.</p> + +<p>“You see, Miss Murray’s bed ran along that +wall, just as Cherry’s did in the other room. +Mornings and evenings they used to open this +panel and talk to each other.”</p> + +<p>Lindsay’s eyes filmed even as Mrs. Spash’s had. +Mentally he saw the two faces bending toward +the opening....</p> + +<p>“But you was asking about Miss Murray’s +death— As I say, things didn’t go well with her. +I didn’t understand how it all happened. Folks +stopped buying her books, I guess. Anyway, +when she died, there was nothing left. And +there was debts. The house and everything in it +was sold—at auction. It was awful to see Miss +Murray’s things all out on the lawn. And a great +crowd of gawks—riff-raff from everywhere—looking +at ’em and making fun of ’em— She had +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_195'></a>195</span> +beautiful things, but they went for nothing a-tall. +They jess about paid her debts.”</p> + +<p>Lindsay groaned. “But her death—”</p> + +<p>“Oh yes, as I was sayin’. You see, Miss Murray +worn’t ever the same after Mr. Lewis died. +You know about that?”</p> + +<p>Lindsay nodded. “He was drowned.”</p> + +<p>Mrs. Spash nodded confirmatively. “Yes, in +Spy Pond—over South Quinanog way. He was +swimming all alone. He was taken with cramps +way out in the middle of the Pond. Finally somebody +saw him struggling and they put out in a +boat, but they were too late. Miss Murray was +in the garden when they brought him back on a +shutter. I was with her. I can see the way her +face looked now. She didn’t say anything. Not +a word! She turned to stone. And it didn’t seem +to me that she ever came back to flesh again. +They was to be married in October. He was a +splendid man. He came from New York.”</p> + +<p>“Yes. Curiously enough I spent a few days +in what used to be his rooms,” Lindsay informed +her.</p> + +<p>“That so?” But it was quite apparent that +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_196'></a>196</span> +nothing outside the radius of Quinanog interested +Mrs. Spash deeply. She made no further comment.</p> + +<p>“Was she very much in love with Lewis?” +Lindsay ventured.</p> + +<p>“In love! I wish you could see their eyes when +they looked at each other. They’d met late. +Miss Murray had always had lots of attention. +But she never seemed to care for anybody—though +she’d flirt a little—until she met Mr. +Lewis. It was love at first sight with them.”</p> + +<p>She proceeded.</p> + +<p>“Well, Miss Murray died five years after Mr. +Lewis. She died—well, I don’t know exactly what +it was. But she had <i>attacks</i>. She was a terrible +sufferer. And she was worried—money matters +worried her. You see, little Cherry’s mother died +when she was born and her father soon after. +Miss Murray’d always had Cherry and felt responsible +for her. I know, because she told me. ‘It +ain’t myself, Eunice Spash,’ she said to me more’n +once. ‘It’s little Cherry.’ Anyway, she was +alone when her last attack came. She’d sent for +a cousin—I forget the name—to be with her, and +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_197'></a>197</span> +she was up in Boston getting a nurse, and I was +in the other side of the house. I never heard a +sound. We found her dead in the middle of the +floor—there.” Her crooked forefinger indicated +the spot. “Seemed she’d got up and tried to get +to the door to call. But she dropped and died +halfway. She was all contorted. Her face +looked—Not so much suffering of the body as— Well, +you could see it in her face that it come to +her that she was going, and Cherry was left with +nothing.”</p> + +<p>“What became of that cousin?” Lindsay inquired. +“I have asked everybody in the neighborhood, +but nobody seems to know.”</p> + +<p>“And I don’t know. She went to Boston, taking +Cherry with her. For a time we heard from +Cherry now and then—she’d write letters to the +children. Then we lost sight of her. I don’t +know whether Miss Murray’s cousin’s living or +dead; Cherry either.”</p> + +<p>Lindsay felt that he could have assured her that +Cherry was alive; but his conclusion rested on +premises too gauzy for him to hazard the statement.</p> +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_198'></a>198</span> + +<p>Mrs. Spash sighed. She arose, led the way into +the hall. “This was Mr. Monroe’s room; and +Mr. Gale’s room was back of his. He liked the +room that overlooked the garden. Mr. +Monroe—”</p> + +<p>“That’s the big man, the sculptor,” Lindsay +hazarded.</p> + +<p>“How’d you know?” Mrs. Spash pounced on +him again.</p> + +<p>“Oh, I’ve talked with a lot of people in the +neighborhood,” Lindsay returned evasively.</p> + +<p>“That Mr. Monroe,” Mrs. Spash glided on +easily, “was a case and a half. Nothing but +talk and laugh every moment he was in the house. +I used to admire to have him come.”</p> + +<p>“Where is he?” Lindsay asked easily. He +hoped Mrs. Spash did not guess how, mentally, +he hung upon her answer.</p> + +<p>“He went to Italy—to Florence—after Miss +Murray died.” Mrs. Spash stopped. “He was +in love with Miss Murray. Had been for years. +She wouldn’t have him though. He was an awful +nice man. Sometimes I thought she would have +him. But after Mr. Lewis came— Queer, +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_199'></a>199</span> +worn’t it? I don’t know whether Mr. Monroe’s +alive or dead.”</p> + +<p>Again Lindsay felt that he could have assured +her that he was alive, but again gauzy premises +inhibited exact conclusions.</p> + +<p>“The last I heard of him he was in Rome. +’Tain’t likely he’s alive now. <i>Land</i>, no! He’d +be well over seventy—close onto seventy-five. +Mr. Gale was in love with her too. He was +younger. I don’t think he ever told Miss Murray, +I never <i>did</i> know if she knew. You couldn’t +fool me though. Well, I started out to show you +this house. I must be gitting on. You’ve seen +the slave quarters and the whipping-post upstairs?”</p> + +<p>“Yes. <i>Everybody</i> could tell me about the +whipping-post and the slave quarters. But the +things I wanted to know—”</p> + +<p>“Well, it’s natural enough that folks shouldn’t +know much about her. Miss Murray was a lady +that didn’t talk about her own affairs and she kept +sort of to herself, as you might say. She wasn’t +the kind that ran in on folks. She wrote by fits +and starts. Sometimes she’d stay up late at night. +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_200'></a>200</span> +She <i>allus</i> wrote new-moon time. She said the +light of the crescent moon inspired her. How +they used to make fun of her about that! But +she’d write with all of them about, laughing and +talking and playing the piano or singing—and +dancing even. The house was so lively those days—they +was all great trainers. And yet she could +fall asleep right in the midst of all that confusion. +Well—so you see she wasn’t given to making calls. +And then there was always so much to do and so +many folks around at home. Have you been upstairs +in the barn?”</p> + +<p>“No—not yet. The stairs were all broken +away. I had just finished mending them when I +had the pleasure of making your acquaintance.”</p> + +<p>They both smiled reminiscently.</p> + +<p>“Let’s go up there now—there must be a lot +of things—” She ended her sentence a little +vaguely as the old sometimes do. But the movement +with which she arose from her chair and +trotted toward the stairs was full of an anticipation +almost youthful.</p> + +<p>“The garden used to be so pretty,” she sighed +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_201'></a>201</span> +as they started on the well-worn trail to the barn. +“Miss Murray worn’t what you might call practical, +but she could make flowers grow. She never +cooked, nor sewed, nor anything sensible, but +she’d work in that garden till— There was certain +combinations of flowers that she used to like; +hollyhocks, especially the garnet ones so dark +they was almost black, surrounded by them blue +Canterbury bells; and then phlox in all colors, +white and pink and magenta and lavender and +purple. I think there was some things put out +here,” she interrupted herself vaguely, “that nobody +wanted at the auction. There wasn’t even a +bid on them.”</p> + +<p>She trotted up the stairs like a pony that has +suddenly become aged. Lindsay followed, two +steps at a time. The upper story of the barn was +the confused mass of objects that the lumber room +of any large household inevitably collects. +Broken chairs; tables, bureaux; rejected pieces +of china; kitchen furnishings; a rusty stove, +old boxes; bandboxes; broken trunks; torn +bags.</p> + +<p>“There! That’s the table Miss Murray used +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_202'></a>202</span> +to do her writing at. She said there never had +been a table built big enough for her. I expect +that’s why nobody bought it at the auction. +’Twas too big for mortal use, you might say. +The same reason I expect is why the dining-room +table didn’t sell either.”</p> + +<p>“Where did she write?” Lindsay asked, measuring +the table with his eye.</p> + +<p>“All summer in the south living-room. But +when it come winter, she’d often take her things +and set right in front of the fire in the living-room. +Then she’d write at that long table you’re +writing on.”</p> + +<p>“This table goes back to the south living-room +tomorrow,” Lindsay decided almost inaudibly. +“Can you tell me the exact spot?”</p> + +<p>“I guess I <i>can</i>. Lord knows I’ve got down on +my hands and knees and dusted the legs often +enough. Miss Murray said, though it was soft +wood, it was the oldest piece in the house. She +bought it at some old tavern where they was +having a sale. She said it dated back—long +before Revolutionary times—to Colonial +days.”</p> +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_203'></a>203</span> + +<p>“Could you tell me, I wonder, about the rest +of Miss Murray’s furniture?” Lindsay came +suddenly from out a deep revery. “Do you remember +who bought it? I would like to buy back +all that I can get. I’d like to make the old place +look, as much as possible, as it used to look.”</p> + +<p>Mrs. Spash flashed him a quick intent look. +Then she meditated. “I think I could probably +tell you where most every piece went. The +Drakes got the Field bed and the ivory-keyhole +bureau and the ivory-keyhole desk; and Miss +Garnet got the elephant and Mis’ Manson got the +gazelles—”</p> + +<p>“Elephant! Gazelles!” Lindsay interrupted.</p> + +<p>“The gazelles,” Mrs. Spash smiled indulgently. +“Well, it does sound queer, but Miss +Murray used to call those little thin-legged candle +tables that folks use, <i>gazelles</i>. The elephant was +a great high chest of drawers. Mis’ Manson got +the maple gazelles—” She proceeded in what +promised to be an indefinite category.</p> + +<p>“Do you think I could buy any of those things +back?” Lindsay asked after listening patiently to +the end.</p> +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_204'></a>204</span> + +<p>“Some of them, I guess. I have a few things +in my attic I’ll sell you—and some I’ll give you. +I’d admire to see them in the old place once +more.”</p> + +<p>“You must let me buy them all,” Lindsay protested.</p> + +<p>“Well, we’ll see about that,” Mrs. Spash disposed +of this disagreement easily. “Have you +seen the Dew Pond yet?”</p> + +<p>“The Dew Pond!” Lindsay echoed.</p> + +<p>“The little pond beyond the barn,” Mrs. Spash +explained. Then, as though a great light dawned, +“Oh, of course it’s all so growed up round it +you’d never notice it. Come and I’ll show it to +you.”</p> + +<p>Lindsay followed her out of the barn. This +was all like a dream, he reflected—but then everything +was like a dream nowadays. He had lived +in a dream for two months now. Mrs. Spash +struck into a path which led beyond the +barn.</p> + +<p>The trail grew narrower and narrower; threatened +after a while to disappear. Lindsay finally +took the lead, broke a path. They came presently +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_205'></a>205</span> +on a pond so tiny that it was not a pond at all; +it was a pool. Water-lilies choked it; forget-me-nots +bordered it; high wild roses screened it.</p> + +<p>Lindsay stood looking for a long time into it. +“It’s the Merry Mere of <i>Mary Towle</i>,” he meditated +aloud. Mrs. Spash received this in the uninterrogative +silence with which she had received +other of his confidences. She apparently fell back +easily into the ways of literary folk.</p> + +<p>“I remember now I got a glint of water from +one of the upstairs bedrooms,” Lindsay went on, +“the first time I came into the house. But I +forgot it instantly; and I’ve never noticed it +since.”</p> + +<p>“Wait a moment!” Mrs. Spash seemed +afraid that he would leave. “There’s something +else.” She attempted to push her way through +the jungle in the direction of the house. For an +instant her progress was easy, then bushes and +vines caught her. Lindsay sprang to her assistance.</p> + +<p>“There’s something here—that was left,” she +panted. “Folks have forgotten all about—” +She dropped explanatory phrases.</p> +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_206'></a>206</span> + +<p>Heedless of tearing thorns and piercing +prickers, Lindsay crashed on. Mrs. Spash +watched expectantly.</p> + +<p>“There!” she called with satisfaction.</p> + +<p>On a cairn of rocks, filmed over by years of +exposure to the weather, stood what Lindsay immediately +recognized to be a large old rum-jar. +The sun found exposed spots on its surface, +brought out its rich olive color.</p> + +<p>“After Mr. Lewis died,” Mrs. Spash explained, +“Miss Murray went abroad for a year. +She went to Egypt. She put this here when she +came home. Then you could see it from the +house. The sun shone on it something handsome. +She told me once she went into a temple on the +Nile cut out of the living-rock, where there was +room after room, one right back of the other. In +the last one, there was an altar; and once a year, +the first ray of the rising sun would strike through +all the rooms and lay on that altar. Worn’t that +cute? I allus thought she had that in mind when +she put this here.”</p> + +<p>Lindsay contemplated the old rum-jar. Mrs. +Spash contemplated him. And suddenly it was as +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_207'></a>207</span> +though she were looking at Lindsay from a new +point of view.</p> + +<p>Lindsay’s face had changed subtly in the last +two months. The sun of Quinanog had added but +little to the tan and burn with which three years +of flying had crusted it. He was still very handsome. +It was not, however, this comeliness that +Mrs. Spash seemed to be examining. The experiences +at Quinanog had softened the deliberate +stoicism of his look. Rather they had fed some +inner softness; had fired it. His air was now one +of perpetual question. Yet dreams often invaded +his eyes; blurred them; drooped his lips.</p> + +<p>“It’s all unbelievable,” Lindsay suddenly commented, +“I don’t believe it. I don’t believe you. +I don’t believe myself.”</p> + +<p>Mrs. Spash still kept her eyes fixed on the +young man’s face. Her look had grown piercing.</p> + +<p>“Have you a shovel handy?” she surprisingly +asked.</p> + +<p>“Yes, why?”</p> + +<p>Mrs. Spash did not answer immediately. He +turned and looked at her. She was still gazing at +him hard; but the light from some long-harbored +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_208'></a>208</span> +emotion of her dulled old soul was shining bluely +in her dulled old eyes.</p> + +<p>“I want you should get it,” she ordered +briefly. “There’s something right here,” she +pointed, “that I want you to dig up.”</p> + +<div class='chapter'> +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_209'></a>209</span> +<a id='VIII'></a> +<p class='cln0'>VIII</p> +</div> + +<p>Susannah let herself lightly down on the tin +roof; it was scarcely a step from her window. +With deliberate caution, she turned and drew the +shade. Then she tiptoed toward the skylight. +The workmen were still soldering; the older man, +with the air of one performing a delicate operation, +lay stretched out flat, holding some kind of +receptacle; the younger was pouring molten lead +from a ladle. Try as she might, she could not +prevent her feet from making a slight tapping on +the tin. The older man glanced sharply up. +“Look out!” called the younger, and he bent +again to his work. Almost running now, she +stepped into the gaping hole of the skylight. The +stairs were very steep—practically a ladder. As +she disappeared from view, she heard a quick +“What the hell!” from the roof above her.</p> + +<p>Susannah hurried forward along a dark passage, +looking for stairs. The passage jutted, became +lighter, went forward again. This must +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_210'></a>210</span> +be the point where the shed-addition joined the +main building. She was in the hallway of a dingy, +conventional flat-house, with doors to right and +left. One of these doors opened; a woman in a +faded calico dress looked her over, the glance including +the traveling-bag; then picked up a letter +from the hall-floor, and closed it again. Susannah +found herself controlling an impulse to run. But +no steps sounded behind her—she was not as +yet pursued. And there was the stairway—at the +very front of the house! She descended the two +flights to the entrance. There, for a moment, she +paused. As soon as Warner discovered her +flight, they would be after her. The workmen +would point the way. The street—and quick—was +the only chance. Noiselessly she opened the +door. At the head of the steps leading to the +street, she stopped long enough for a look to right +and left. Only a scattered afternoon crowd—no +Warner, no Byan. An Eighth Avenue tram-car +was ringing its gong violently. On a sudden impulse +of safety, she shot down the steps, ran past +her own door to the corner. An open southbound +car had drawn up, was taking on +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_211'></a>211</span> +passengers. She reached it just as the conductor was +about to give the forward signal, and was almost +jerked off her feet as she stepped onto the platform. +Steadying herself, she looked, in the brief +moment afforded by the bumpy crossing of the +car, down the side street.</p> + +<p>The entrances of her own house at the corner, +the entrances to the house she had just left, were +blank and undisturbed; no one was following her. +She paid her fare, and settled down on the end +of a cross-seat.</p> + +<p>And now she was aware not of relief or reaction +or fear, but solely of her headache. It had +changed in character. It had become a furious +internal bombardment of her brows. If she +turned her eyes to right or left, she seemed to be +dragging weights across the front of her brain. +Yet this headache did not seem quite a part of +herself. It was as though she knew, by a supernormal +sensitiveness, the symptoms of someone +else. It was as though suddenly she had become +two people. Anyway, it had ceased to be personal. +And somewhere else within her head was +growing a delicious feeling of freedom, of +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_212'></a>212</span> +lightness, of escape from a wheel. Her evasion of +the Carbonado Mining Company did not account +for all that; she felt free from everything. “I’m +not going to take any more rooms,” she said to +herself. “I’m going to sleep out of doors now, +like the birds. People find you when you take +rooms. Where shall I begin?” She considered; +and then one of those little hammers of intuition +seemed to tap on her brain. Again, she did not +resist. “Why, Washington Square of course!” +she said to herself.</p> + +<p>The car was threading now the narrow ways +of Greenwich Village. It stopped; Susannah +stepped off. The rest seemed for a long time to +be just wandering. But that curious sense of duality +had vanished. She was one person again. She +did not find Washington Square easily; but then, +it made no difference whether she ever found it. +For New York and the world were so amusing +when once you were free! You could laugh at +everything—the passing crowds, surging as +though business really mattered; the Carbonado +Mining Company; the grisly old fool in their +toils, and Susannah Ayer. You could laugh even +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_213'></a>213</span> +at the climate—for sometimes it seemed very hot, +which was right in summer, and sometimes cold, +which wasn’t right at all. You could laugh at the +headache, when it tied ridiculous knots in your +forehead. There was the Arch—Washington +Square at last.</p> + +<p>But it wasn’t time to sleep in Washington +Square yet. The birds hadn’t gone to bed. Sparrows +were still pecking and squabbling along the +borders of the flower-beds. Besides, New York +was still flowing, on its homeward surge from office +and workshop, down the paths. Susannah +sat down on a bench and considered. She had a +disposition to stay there—why was she so weak? +Oh, of course she hadn’t eaten. People always +had dinner before going to bed. She must eat—and +she had money. She shook out her pocketbook +into her lap. A ten-dollar bill, a one-dollar +bill, and some small change. She must dine gloriously—free +creatures always did that when they +had money. Besides, she was never going to pay +any more room rent. Susannah rose, strolled up +Fifth Avenue. The crowd was thinning out. +That was pleasant, too. She disliked to get out +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_214'></a>214</span> +of the way of people. She was crossing Twenty-third +Street now; and now she was before the correct, +white façade of the Hague House. A +proper and expensive place for dinner.</p> + +<p>Susannah found it very hard to speak to the +waiter. It was like talking to someone through a +partition. It seemed difficult even to move her +lips; they felt wooden.</p> + +<p>“A petite marmite, please; then I’ll see what +more I want,” she heard herself saying at last.</p> + +<p>But when the petite marmite came, steaming in +its big, red casserole, she found herself quite disinclined +to eat—almost unable to eat. She managed +only two or three mouthfuls of the broth; +then dallied with the beef. Perhaps it was because +instantly—and for no reason whatever—she +had become two people again. Perhaps it +was because she had been drinking so much ice-water. +It couldn’t be because H. Withington +Warner was sitting at the next table to the right. +It couldn’t be that—because she had told him, +when first she saw him sitting there, that she was +no longer afraid of the Carbonado Company. +And indeed, when she turned to the left and saw +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_215'></a>215</span> +him sitting there also—when by degrees she discovered +that there was one of him at every table +in the room, she thought of Alice in the Trial +Scene in Wonderland, and became as contemptuous +as Alice. “After all,” she said, “you’re +only a pack of cards.”</p> + +<p>With a flourish, the waiter set the dinner-card +before her, asking: “What will you have next, +Madame?” Oh yes, she was dining!</p> + +<p>“I think I can’t eat any more—the bill, please,” +she heard one of her selves saying. That self, she +discovered, took calm cognizance of everything +about her; listened to conversation. As the +waiter turned his back, that half of her saw that +Mr. Warner wasn’t there any more; neither at +the table on her right, nor anywhere. But when +she had paid the bill, tipped, and risen to go, the +other self discovered that he was back again at +every table; and that with every Warner was a +Byan and an O’Hearn. “I am snapping my +fingers at them, though nobody sees it,” she said +to both her selves. “I can’t imagine how they +ever troubled me so much. They don’t know +what I’m doing! I’m sleeping out of doors; they +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_216'></a>216</span> +can find me only in rooms!” As though staggered +by her complete composure, not one of this +triplicate multitude of enemies followed her outside.</p> + +<p>“Now I’ll go to Washington Square,” she said, +realizing that her personalities had merged again. +“The birds must be in bed.” She took a bus; +and sank into languor and that curious, impersonal +headache until the conductor, calling +“All out,” at the south terminus, recalled to her +that she was going somewhere. “I must have +been asleep,” she thought. “Isn’t this a wonderful +world?”</p> + +<p>The long, early summer twilight was just beginning +to draw about the world. The day lingered +though—in an exquisite luminousness. All +around her the city was grappling tentatively with +oncoming dusk. On a few of the passing limousines, +the front lamps struck a garish note. Near, +the Fifth Avenue lights were like slowly burning +bonfires in the trees; in the distance, seemingly +suspended by chains so delicate that they were invisible, +they diminished to pots of gold. The six-o’clock +rush had long ago ceased. Now everyone +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_217'></a>217</span> +sauntered; for everyone was freshly caparisoned +for the wonderful night glories of midsummer +Manhattan.</p> + +<p>Susannah sat down on a bench in Washington +Square and surveyed this free world. Though +her eyes burned, they saw crystal-clear. All about +her Italian-town mixed democratically with Greenwich +Village; made contrasting color and noise. +Fat Italian mothers, snatching the post-sunset +breezes, chattered from bench to bench while +they nursed babies. On other benches, lovers +clasped hands. Children played over the grass. +The birds twittered and the trees murmured. +Every color darted pricklingly distinct to Susannah’s +avid eyes, burning and heavy though it +was. Every sound came distinct to her avid ears, +though it sounded through a ringing.</p> + +<p>The Fifth Avenue busses were clumping and +lumbering in swift succession to their stopping-places. +How much, Susannah thought, they +looked like prehistoric beetles; colossally big; +armored to an incredible hardness and polish. +And, already, roped-off crowds of people were patiently +waiting upstairs seats. As each bus +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_218'></a>218</span> +stopped, there came momentary scramble and +confusion until inside and out they filled up. She +watched this process for a long, long time.</p> + +<p>“I can’t go to sleep yet,” she said to herself +finally, “the people won’t let me. One can’t sleep +in this wonderful world. Where does one go +after dinner? Oh, to the theater, of course! On +Broadway!” She found herself drifting, happily +though languorously, through the arch and northward.</p> + +<p>Twilight had settled down; had become dusk; +had become night. New York was so brilliant +that it almost hurt. It was deep dusk and yet the +atmosphere was like a purple river flowing between +stiff cañon-like buildings. Everywhere in +that purple river glittered golden lights. And, +floating through it, were mermaids and mermen +of an extreme beauty. Susannah passed from +Fifth Avenue to Broadway. She stopped under +one of the most brilliant palace-fronts of light, +and bought a ticket in the front row. The curtain +was just rising on the second act of a musical +comedy. Susannah would have been hazy about +the plot anyway, for the simple reason that there +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_219'></a>219</span> +was no plot. But tonight she was peculiarly hazy, +because she enjoyed the dancing so much that she +became oblivious to everything else. Indeed, at +times she seemed to be dancing with the dancers. +The illusion was so complete that she grew dizzy; +and clung to the arm of her seat. She did not +want to divide into two people again.</p> + +<p>After a while, though, this sensation disappeared +in a more intriguing one. For suddenly +she discovered that the audience consisted entirely +of her and the Carbonado Mining Company. H. +Withington Warners, by the hundred, filled the +orchestra seats. Byans, by the score, filled the +balcony. O’Hearns, by the dozen, filled the gallery. +But this did not perturb her. “You’re only +a pack of cards,” she accused them mentally. +And she stayed to the very end.</p> + +<p>“I thought so,” she remarked contemptuously +as she turned to go out. For the Carbonado Mining +Company had vanished into thin air. She +was the only real person who left the theater.</p> + +<p>When she came out on the street again, her +headache had stopped and the languor was over. +There was a beautiful lightness to her whole +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_220'></a>220</span> +body. That lightness impelled her to walk with +the crowd. But—she suddenly discovered—she +was not walking. She was <i>floating</i>. She even +flew—only she did not rise very high. She kept +an even level, about a foot above the pavement; +but at that height she was like a feather. And in +a wink—how this extraordinary division happened, +she could not guess—she was two people +once more.</p> + +<p>New York was again blooming; but this time +with its transient, vivacious after-the-theater +vividness. Crowds were pouring up; pouring +down, deflecting into side streets; emerging from +side streets. Everywhere was light. Taxicabs and +motors raced and spun and backed and turned; +they churned, sizzled, spluttered, and foamed—scattering +light. Tram-cars, the low-set, armored +cruisers of Broadway, flashed smoothly past, +overbrimming with light. The tops of the buildings +held great congregations of dancing stars. +Light poured down their sides.</p> + +<p>Susannah floated with the strong main current +of the crowd up Broadway and then, with a side +current, a little down Broadway. Eddies took +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_221'></a>221</span> +her into Forty-second Street, and whirled her +back. And all the time she was in the crowd, but +not of it—she was above it. She was looking +down on people—she could see the tops of their +heads. Susannah kept chuckling over an extraordinary +truth she discovered.</p> + +<p>“I must remember to tell Glorious Lutie,” she +said to herself, “how few people ever brush their +hats.”</p> + +<p>While one self was noting this amusing fact, +however, the other was listening to conversations; +the snatches of talk that drifted up to her.</p> + +<p>“Let’s go to a midnight show somewhere,” +a peevish wife-voice suggested.</p> + +<p>“No, <i>sir</i>!” a gruff husband-voice answered. +“Li’l’ ole beddo looks pretty good to muh. I +can’t hit the hay too soon.”</p> + +<p>“What’s Broadway got on Market Street?” +a blithe boy’s voice demanded. “Take the view +from Twin Peaks at night. Why, it has Broadway +beat forty ways from the jack.”</p> + +<p>“I’ll say so!” a girl’s voice agreed.</p> + +<p>Theaters were empty now, but restaurants were +filling. In an incredibly short time, this +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_222'></a>222</span> +phantasmagoria of movement, this kaleidoscope of +color, this hurly-burly of sound had shattered, +melted, fallen to silence. People disappeared as +though by magic from the street; now there were +great gaps of sidewalk where nobody appeared. +Susannah—both of her, because now she seemed +to have become two people permanently—felt +lonely. She quickened her pace, her floating +rather, to catch up with a figure ahead. It was +a girl, just an everyday girl, in a white linen suit +and a white sailor hat topping a mass of black +hair. She carried a handbag. Susannah found +herself following, step by step, behind this girl +whose face she had as yet not seen. She was +floating; yet every time she tried to see the top +of that sailor hat her vision became blurred. It +was annoying; but this stealthy pursuit was pleasant, +somehow—satisfying.</p> + +<p>“They’ve been shadowing me,” said Susannah +to herself. “Now I’m shadowing. I’ve helped +the Carbonado Company to rob orphans. I’m +going to break my promise to go to Jamaica tomorrow. +Isn’t it glorious to float and be a +criminal!”</p> +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_223'></a>223</span> + +<p>So she followed westward on Forty-second +Street and reached the Public Library corner of +Fifth Avenue, which stretched now deserted except +where knots of people awaited the omnibusses. +Such a knot had gathered on that corner. +Suddenly the girl in white raised her hand, waved; +a woman in a light-blue summer evening gown answered +her signal from the crowd; they ran toward +each other. They were going to have a +talk. Susannah floated toward them. The air-currents +made her a little wabbly—but wasn’t it +fun, eavesdropping and caring not the least bit +about manners!</p> + +<p>“My train doesn’t start until one,” said the +white linen suit. “It’s no use going back to my +room—the night is so hot. I’ve been to the +Summer Garden, and I’m killing time.”</p> + +<p>“Oh,” asked blue dress, “did you sublet your +room?”</p> + +<p>“No,” said the white linen suit, “I’ll be gone +for only a month, and I decided it wasn’t worth +while. I’ll have it all ready when I get back. +I’ve even left the key under the rug in the +hall.”</p> +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_224'></a>224</span> + +<p>“I wouldn’t ever do that!” came the voice of +the blue dress.</p> + +<p>“Well,” said the linen suit, “you know <i>me</i>! I +always lose keys. I’m convinced that when I get +to Boston, I shan’t have my trunk key! And +there isn’t much to steal.”</p> + +<p>“Still, I’d feel nervous if I were you.”</p> + +<p>“I don’t see why. Nobody stays up on the +top floor, where I am—that is, in the summer. +All the other rooms are in one apartment, and the +young man who lives there has been away for +ages. The people on the ground floor own the +house. I get the room for almost nothing by +taking care of it and the hall. I haven’t seen +anyone else on the floor since the man in the +apartment went away. That’s why I love the +place—you feel so independent!”</p> + +<p>“I think I know the house,” said blue dress. +“The old house with the fanlight entrance, isn’t +it? Mary Merle used to have a ducky little flat +on the second floor, didn’t she?”</p> + +<p>“Yes—Number Fifty-seven and a Half—”</p> + +<p>Susannah was floating down the Avenue now. +But floating with more difficulty. Why was there +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_225'></a>225</span> +effort about floating? And why did she keep repeating, +“Number Fifty-seven and a Half, Washington +Square, top floor, key under the rug?”</p> + +<p>She met few people. A policeman stared at her +for a moment, then turned indifferently away. +How surprising that her floating made no impression +upon him! But then, there was no law +against floating! Once she drifted past H. Withington +Warner, who was staring into a shop window. +He did not see her. Susannah had to +inhibit her chuckles when, floating a foot above +his head, she realized for the first time that he +dyed his hair. Why could she see that? He +should have his hat on—or was she seeing +through his hat?</p> + +<p>She was passing under the arch into Washington +Square. But she wasn’t floating any longer. +She was dragging weights; she was wading +through something like tar, which clung to her +feet. She was coughing violently. She had been +coughing for a long time. Night in New York +was no longer beautiful; glorious. Tragic horrors +were rasping in her head. There was +Warner. And there was Byan. She could not +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_226'></a>226</span> +snap her fingers at them now.... But she +knew how to get away from them ... she must +rest....</p> + +<p>She cut off a segment of Washington Square, +looking for a number. There was a fanlight; +and, plain in the street lamps, seeming for a moment +the only object in the world, the number +“Fifty-seven and a Half.” The outer door gave +to her touch. A dim point of gaslight burned in +the hall. She floated again for a minute as she +mounted the stairs.... She was before a door.... +She was on her hands and knees fumbling +under the rug.... She was dragging herself up +by the door-knob....</p> + +<p>The key opened the door.</p> + +<p>Light, streaming from somewhere in the backyard +areas, illuminated a wide white bed.</p> + +<p>“I am sick, Glorious Lutie—I think I am very +sick,” said Susannah. “Watch me, won’t you? +Keep Warner out!” Fumbling in the bag, she +drew out the miniature, set it up against the +mirror on the bureau beside the bed—just where +she could see it plainly in the shaft of light.</p> + +<p>She locked the door. She lay down.</p> + +<div class='chapter'> +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_227'></a>227</span> +<a id='IX'></a> +<p class='cln0'>IX</p> +</div> + +<p>Lindsay sat in the big living-room beside the +refectory table. Mrs. Spash moved about the +room dusting; setting its scanty furnishings to +rights. On the long table before him was set out +a series of tiny villages, some Chinese, some +Japanese: little pink or green-edged houses in +white porcelain; little thatched-roofed houses in +brown adobe; pagodas; bridges; pavilions. +Dozens of tiny figures, some on mules, others on +foot, and many loaded with burdens walked the +streets. A bit of looking-glass, here and there, +made ponds. Ducks floated on them, and boats; +queer Oriental-looking skiffs, manned by tiny, +half-clad sailors; Chinese junks. In neighboring +pastures, domestic animals grazed. Roosters, +hens, chickens grouped in back areas.</p> + +<p>“That’s just what Miss Murray used to do,” +Mrs. Spash observed. “She’d play with them toys +for hours at a time. And of course Cherry loved +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_228'></a>228</span> +them more than anything in the house. That’s +the reason I stole them and buried them.”</p> + +<p>“How did you manage that exactly?” Lindsay +asked.</p> + +<p>“Oh, that was easy enough,” Mrs. Spash confessed +cheerfully. “Between Miss Murray’s +death and the auction, I was here a lot, fixing +up. They all trusted me, of course. Those toys +was all set out in little villages by the Dew Pond. +Nobody knew that they were there. So I just +did them up in tissue paper and put them in that +big tin box and hid them in the bushes. One +night late I came back and buried them. Folks +didn’t think of them for a long time after the +auction. You see, nobody had touched them during +Miss Murray’s illness. And when they did +remember them, they thought they had disappeared +during the sale.” Mrs. Spash paused a +moment. Her face assumed an expression of extreme +disapproval. “Other things disappeared +during the sale,” she accused, lowering her voice.</p> + +<p>“Who took them?” Lindsay asked.</p> + +<p>All the caution of the Yankee appeared in Mrs. +Spash’s voice. “I don’t know as I’d like to say, +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_229'></a>229</span> +because it isn’t a thing anybody can prove. I +have my suspicions though.”</p> + +<p>Lindsay did not continue these inquiries.</p> + +<p>“Where did Miss Murray get all these toys?”</p> + +<p>“Well, a lot of ’em came from China. Miss +Murray had a great-uncle who was a sea-captain. +He used to go on them long whaling voyages. +He brought them to her different times. Miss +Murray had played with them when she was a +child, and so she liked to have little Cherry play +with them. Sometimes they’d all go out to the +Dew Pond—Miss Murray, Mr. Monroe, Mr. +Gale, Mr. Lewis, and spend a whole afternoon +laying them out in little towns—jess about as +you’ve got ’em there. There was two little places +on the shore that Miss Murray had all cut down, +so’s the bushes wouldn’t be too tall. They useter +call the pond the Pacific Ocean. One of them +cleared places was the China coast and the other +the Japanese coast. They’d stay there for hours, +floating little boats back and forth from China +to Japan. And how they’d laugh! I useter listen +to their voices coming through the window. But +then, the house was always full of laughter. It +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_230'></a>230</span> +began at seven o’clock in the morning, when they +got up, and it never stopped until—after midnight +sometimes—when they went to bed. Oh, it +was such a gay place in those days.”</p> + +<p>Lindsay arose and stretched. But the stretching +did not seem so much an expression of fatigue +or drowsiness as the demand of his spirit for immediate +activity of some sort. He sat down +again instantly. Under his downcast lids, his +eyes were bright. “These walls are soaked with +laughter,” he remarked.</p> + +<p>“Yes,” Mrs. Spash seemed to understand. +“But there was tears too and plenty of them—in +the last years.”</p> + +<p>“I suppose there were,” Lindsay agreed. He +did not speak for a moment; nor did Mrs. Spash. +There came a silence so concentrated that the +sunlight poured into it tangible gold. Then, outside +a thick white cloud caught the sun in its +woolly net. The world gloomed again.</p> + +<p>“She’s sad still,” Lindsay dropped in absent +comment.</p> + +<p>“Yes,” Mrs. Spash agreed.</p> + +<p>“I wonder what she wants?” Lindsay +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_231'></a>231</span> +addressed this to himself. His voice was so low +that perhaps Mrs. Spash did not hear it. At any +rate she made no answer.</p> + +<p>Another silence came.</p> + +<p>Mrs. Spash finished her dusting. But she +lingered. Lindsay still sat at the table; but his +eyes had left the little villages arranged there. +They went through the door and gazed out into +the brilliant patch of sunlight on the grass. +There spread under his eyes a narrow stretch of +lawn, all sun-touched velvet; beyond a big crescent +of garden. Low-growing zinnias in futuristic +colors, high phlox in pastel colors; higher, Canterbury +bells, deep blue; highest of all, hollyhocks, +wine red. Beyond stretched further expanses of +lawn. One tall, wide wine-glass elm spread a perfect +circle of emerald shade. One low, thick +copper-beech dropped an irregular splotch of +luminous shadow. Beyond all this ran the gray, +lichened stone wall. And beyond the stone wall +came unredeemed jungle. Mrs. Spash began, all +over again, to dust and to arrange the scanty furniture. +After a while she spoke.</p> + +<p>“Mr. Lindsay—”</p> +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_232'></a>232</span> + +<p>Lindsay started abruptly.</p> + +<p>“Mr. Lindsay—that time you fainted when +you first saw me, setting out there on the door-stone, +you remember—?”</p> + +<p>Lindsay nodded.</p> + +<p>“Well, who was you expecting to see?”</p> + +<p>Lindsay, alert now as a wire spring, turned on +her, not his eyes alone, nor his head; but his whole +body. Mrs. Spash was looking straight at him. +Their glances met midway. The old eyes +pierced the young eyes with an intent scrutiny. +The young eyes stabbed the old eyes with an intense +interrogation. Lindsay did not answer her +question directly. Instead he laughed.</p> + +<p>“I guess I don’t have to answer you,” he declared. +“I had seen her often then.... I +had seen the others too.... I don’t know why +<i>you</i> should have frightened me when <i>they</i> didn’t.... +I think it was that I wasn’t expecting anything +human.... I’ve seen them since.... +They never frighten me.”</p> + +<p>Mrs. Spash’s reply was simple enough. “I +see them all the time.” She added, with a delicate +lilt of triumph, “I’ve seen them for years—”</p> +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_233'></a>233</span> + +<p>Lindsay continued to look at her—and now +his gaze was somber; even a little despairing. +“What do they want? What does <i>she</i> +want?”</p> + +<p>Mrs. Spash’s reply came instantly, although +there were pauses in her words. “I don’t know. +I’ve tried.... I can’t make out.” She accompanied +these simple statements with a reinforcing +decisive nod of her little head.</p> + +<p>“I can’t guess either—I can’t conjecture— There’s +something she wants me to do. She can’t +tell me. And they’re trying to help her tell me. +All except the little girl—”</p> + +<p>“Do you see the little girl?” Mrs. Spash demanded. +“Well, I declare! That’s very queer, +I must say. I never see Cherry.”</p> + +<p>“I wish I saw her oftener,” Lindsay laughed +ruefully. “<i>She</i> doesn’t ask anything of me. +She’s just herself. But the others—Gale—Monroe— My +God! It’s killing me!” He +laughed again, and this time with a real amusement.</p> + +<p>Mrs. Spash interrupted his laughter. “Do you +see Mr. Monroe?” she asked in a pleased tone. +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_234'></a>234</span> +“Well, I declare! Aren’t you the fortunate creature. +I never see <i>him</i>!”</p> + +<p>“All the time,” Lindsay answered shortly. +“If I could only get it. I feel so stupid, so incredibly +gross and lumbering and heavy. I’d do +anything—”</p> + +<p>He arose and walked over to the picture of +Lutetia Murray which still hung above the fireplace. +He stared at her hard. “I’d do anything +for her, if I could only find out what it was.”</p> + +<p>“Yes,” Mrs. Spash admitted dispassionately, +“that’s the thing everybody felt about her, they’d +do anything for her. Not that she ever asked +them to do anything—”</p> + +<p>Lindsay began to pace the length of the long +room. “What is happening? Has the old ramshackle +time-machine finally broken a spring so +that, in this last revolution, it hauls, out of the +past, these pictures of two decades ago? Or is +it that there are superimposed one on the other +two revolving worlds—theirs and ours—and +<i>theirs</i> or <i>ours</i> has stopped an instant, so that I +can glance into <i>theirs</i>? I feel as though I were +in the dark of a camera obscura gazing into their +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_235'></a>235</span> +brightness. Or have those two years in the air +permanently broken my psychology; so that +through that rift I shall always have the power to +look into strange worlds? Or am I just piercing +another dimension?”</p> + +<p>Mrs. Spash had been following him with her +faded, calm old eyes. Apparently she guessed +these questions were not addressed to her. She +kept silence.</p> + +<p>“I’ve racked my brain. I lie awake nights and +tear the universe to pieces. I outguess guessing +and outconjecture conjecture. My thoughts fly to +the end of space. My wonder invades the very +citadel of fancy. My surmises storm the last outpost +of reality. But it beats me. I can’t get it.” +Lindsay stopped. Mrs. Spash made no comment. +Apparently her twenty years’ training among +artists had prepared her for monologues of this +sort. She listened; but it was obvious that she did +not understand; did not expect to understand.</p> + +<p>“Does she want me to stay <i>here</i> or go <i>there</i>?” +Lindsay demanded of the air. “If <i>here</i>, what +does she want me to do? If <i>there</i>—where is +<i>there</i>? If <i>there</i>, what does she want me to do +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_236'></a>236</span> +<i>there</i>? Is her errand concerned with the living +or the dead? If the living, who? If the dead, +who? Where to find them? How to find them?” +He turned his glowing eyes on Mrs. Spash. “I +only know two things. She wants me to do something. +She wants me to do it soon. Oh, I suppose +I know another thing— If I don’t do it +soon, it will be too late.”</p> + +<p>Mrs. Spash was still following him with her +placid, blue, old gaze. “There, there!” she said +soothingly. “Now don’t you get too excited, Mr. +Lindsay. It’ll all come to you.”</p> + +<p>“But how—” Lindsay objected. “And +when—”</p> + +<p>“I don’t know—but she’ll tell you somehow. +She’s cute— She’s awful cute. You mark my +words, she’ll find a way.”</p> + +<p>“That’s the reason I don’t have you in the +house yet, Mrs. Spash,” Lindsay explained.</p> + +<p>“Oh, you don’t have to tell me that,” Mrs. +Spash announced, triumphant because of her own +perspicuity.</p> + +<p>“It’s only that I have a feeling that she can +do it more easily if we’re alone. That’s why I +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_237'></a>237</span> +send you home at night. She comes oftenest in +the evening when I’m alone. They all do. Oh, +it’s quite a procession some nights. They come +one after another, all trying—” He paused. +“Sometimes this room is so full of their torture +that I— You know, it all began before I came +here. It began in an apartment in New York. +It was in Jeffrey Lewis’ old rooms. He tried to +tell me first, you see.”</p> + +<p>“Did you see Mr. Lewis there?” Mrs. Spash +asked this as casually as though she had said, +“Has the postman been here this morning?” +She added, “I see him here.”</p> + +<p>“No, I didn’t see him,” Lindsay explained +grimly, “but I felt him. And, believe me, I +knew he was there. He was the only one of the +lot that frightened me. I wouldn’t have been +frightened if I had seen him. It was he, really, +who sent me here. I work it out that he couldn’t +get it over and he sent me to Lutetia because he +thought she could. I wonder—” he stopped +short. This explanation came as though something +had flashed electrically through his mind. +But he did not pursue that wonder.</p> +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_238'></a>238</span> + +<p>“Well, don’t you get discouraged,” Mrs. Spash +reiterated. “You mark my words, she’ll manage +to say what she’s got to say.”</p> + +<p>“Well, it’s time I went to work,” Lindsay remarked +a little listlessly. “After all, the life +of Lutetia Murray must get finished. Oh, by +the way, Mrs. Spash,” Lindsay veered as though +remembering suddenly something he had forgotten, +“do other people see them?”</p> + +<p>“No—at least I never heard tell that they +did.”</p> + +<p>“How did the rumor get about that the place +was haunted, then?”</p> + +<p>“I spread it,” Mrs. Spash explained. “I +didn’t want folks breaking in to see if there was +anything to steal. And I didn’t want them poking +about the place.”</p> + +<p>“How did you spread it?”</p> + +<p>“I told children,” Mrs. Spash said simply. +“Less than a month, folks were seeing all kinds of +ridic’lous ghosts here. Nobody likes to go by +alone at night.”</p> + +<p>“It’s a curious thing,” Lindsay reverted to his +main theme, “that I know her message has +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_239'></a>239</span> +nothing to do with this biography. I don’t know how +I know it; but I do. Of course, that would be the +first thing a man would think of. It is something +more instant, more acute. It beats me altogether. +All I can do is wait.”</p> + +<p>“Now don’t you think any more about it, Mr. +Lindsay,” Mrs. Spash advised. “You go upstairs +and set to work. I’m going to get you up +the best lunch today you’ve had yet.”</p> + +<p>“That’s the dope,” Lindsay agreed. “The +only way to take a man’s mind off his troubles is +to give him a good dinner. You’ll have to work +hard, though, Eunice Spash, to beat your own +record.”</p> + +<p>Lindsay arose and sauntered into the front hall +and up the stairs. He turned into the room at +the right which he had reserved for work, now +that Mrs. Spash was on the premises. At this +moment, it was flooded with sunlight.... A +faint odor of the honeysuckle vine at the corner +seemed to emanate from the light itself....</p> + +<p>Instantly ... he realized ... that the +room was not empty.</p> + +<p>Lindsay became feverishly active. Eyes down, +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_240'></a>240</span> +he mechanically shuffled his papers. He collected +yesterday’s written manuscript, brought the edges +down on the table in successive clicks, until they +made an even, rectangular pile. He laid his +pencils out in a row. He changed the point in +his penholder. He moved the ink-bottle. But +this availed his spirit nothing. “I am incredibly +stupid,” he said aloud. His voice was low, but it +rang as hollowly as though he were from another +world. “If you could only speak to me. Can’t +you speak to me?”</p> + +<p>He did not raise his eyes. But he waited for a +long interval, during which the silence in the room +became so heavy and cold that it almost blotted +out the sunlight.</p> + +<p>“But have patience with me. I want to serve +you. Oh, you don’t know how I want to serve +you. I give you my word, I’ll get it sometime and +I think not too late. I’ll kill myself if I don’t. +I’m putting all I am and all I have into trying to +understand. Don’t give me up. It’s only because +I’m flesh and blood.”</p> + +<p>He stopped and raised his eyes.</p> + +<p>The room was empty.</p> +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_241'></a>241</span> + +<p>That afternoon Lindsay took a walk so long, +so devil-driven that he came back streaming perspiration +from every pore. Mrs. Spash regarded +him with a glance in which disapproval struggled +with sympathy. “I don’t know as you’d ought to +wear yourself out like that, Mr. Lindsay. Later, +perhaps you’ll need all your strength—”</p> + +<p>“Very likely you’re right, Mrs. Spash,” Lindsay +agreed. “But I’ve been trying to work it +out.”</p> + +<p>Mrs. Spash left as usual at about seven. By +nine, the last remnant of the long twilight, a collaboration +of midsummer with daylight-saving, +had disappeared. Lindsay lighted his lamp and +sat down with Lutetia’s poems. The room was +peculiarly cheerful. The beautiful Murray sideboard, +recently discovered and recovered, held its +accustomed place between the two windows. The +old Murray clock, a little ship swinging back and +forth above its brass face, ticked in the corner. +The old whale-oil lamps had resumed their stand, +one at either end of the mantel. Old pieces, old +though not Lutetia’s—they were gone irretrievably—bits +picked up here and there, made the +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_242'></a>242</span> +deep sea-shell corner cabinet brilliant with the +color of old china, glimmery with the shine of old +pewter, sparkly with the glitter of old glass. +Many chairs—windsors, comb-backs, a Boston +rocker—filled the empty spaces with an old-time +flavor. In traditional places, high old glasses held +flowers. The single anachronism was the big, +nickel, green-shaded student lamp.</p> + +<p>Lindsay needed rest, but he could not go to bed. +He knew perfectly well that he was exhausted, but +he knew equally well that he was not drowsy. His +state of mind was abnormal. Perhaps the three +large cups of jet-black coffee that he had drunk at +dinner helped in this matter. But whatever the +cause, he was conscious of every atom of this exaggerated +spiritual alertness; of the speed with +which his thoughts drove; of the almost insupportable +mental clarity through which they shot.</p> + +<p>“If this keeps up,” he meditated, “it’s no use +my going to bed at all tonight. I could not possibly +sleep.”</p> + +<p>He found Lutetia’s poems agreeable solace at +this moment. They contained no anodyne for his +restlessness; but at least they did not increase it. +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_243'></a>243</span> +Her poetry had not been considered successful, but +Lindsay liked it. It was erratic in meter; irregular +in rhythm. But at times it astounded him with a +delicate precision of expression; at moments it +surprised him with an opulence of fancy. He read +on and on—</p> + +<p>Suddenly that mental indicator—was it a +flutter of his spirit or merely a lowering of the +spiritual temperature?—apprised him that he was +not alone.... But as usual, after he realized +that his privacy had been invaded, he continued to +read; his gaze caught, as though actually tied, by +the print.... After a while he shut the +book.... But he still sat with his hand clutching +it, one finger marking the place.... He +did not lift his eyes when he spoke....</p> + +<p>“Tell the others to go,” he demanded.</p> + +<p style="font-size:smaller"> </p> + +<p>After a while he arose. He did not move to +the other end of the room nor did he glance once +in that direction. But on his side, he paced up and +down with a stern, long-strided prowl. He spoke +aloud.</p> +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_244'></a>244</span> + +<p>“Listen to me!” His tone was peremptory. +“We’ve got to understand each other tonight. I +can’t endure it any longer; for I know as well as +you that the time is getting short. You can’t speak +to me. But I can speak to you. Lutetia, you’ve +got to outdo yourself tonight. You must give me +a sign. Do you understand? You <i>must</i> show me. +Now summon all that you have of strength, whatever +it is, to give me that sign—do you understand, +<i>all you have</i>. Listen! Whatever it is that +you want me to do, it isn’t here. I know that +now. I know it because I’ve been here two +months— Whatever it is, it must be put through +somewhere else. An idea came to me this morning. +I spent all the afternoon thinking it out. +Maybe I’ve got a clue. It all started in New +York. <i>He</i> tried to get it to me there. Listen! +Tell me! Quick! Quick! Quick! Do you want +me to go to New York?”</p> + +<p>The answer was instantaneous. As though +some giant hand had seized the house in its grip, +it shook. Shook for an infinitesimal fraction of +an instant. Almost, it seemed to Lindsay, walls +quivered; panes rattled; shutters banged, doors +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_245'></a>245</span> +slammed. And yet in the next infinitesimal +fraction of that instant he knew that he +had heard no tangible sound. Something more +exquisite than sound had filled that unmeasurable +interval with shattering, deafening confusion.</p> + +<p>Lindsay turned with a sharp wheel; glared into +the dark of the other side of the room.</p> + +<p style="font-size:smaller"> </p> + +<p>Lindsay dashed upstairs to his desk. There +he found a time-table. The ten-fifteen from +Quinanog would give him ample time to catch the +midnight to New York. He might not be able +to get a sleeping berth; but the thing he needed +least, at that moment, was sleep. In fact, he +would rather sit up all night. He flung a few +things into his suitcase; dashed off a note to Mrs. +Spash. In an incredibly short time, he was striding +over the two miles of road which led to the +station.</p> + +<p>There happened to be an unreserved upper +berth. It was a superfluous luxury as far as Lindsay +was concerned. He lay in it during what remained +of the night, his eyes shut but his spirit +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_246'></a>246</span> +more wakeful than he had ever known it. +“Every revolution of these wheels,” he said once +to himself, “brings me nearer to it, whatever it +is.” He arose early; was the first to invade the +washroom; the first to step off the train; the first +to leap into a taxicab. He gave the address of +Spink’s apartments to the driver. “Get there +faster than you can!” he ordered briefly. The +man looked at him—and then proceeded to break +the speed law.</p> + +<p>Washington Square was hardly awake when +they churned up to the sidewalk. Lindsay let himself +in the door; bounded lightly up the two +flights of stairs; unlocked the door of Spink’s +apartment. Everything was silent there. The +dust of two months of vacancy lay on the furnishings. +Lindsay stood in the center of the room, +contemplating the door which led backward into +the rest of the apartment.</p> + +<p>“Well, old top, <i>you’re</i> not going to trouble me +any longer. I get that with my first breath. I’ve +done what <i>she</i> wanted and what <i>you</i> wanted so +far. Now what in the name of heaven is the next +move?”</p> +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_247'></a>247</span> + +<p>He stood in the center of the room waiting, +listening.</p> + +<p>And then into his hearing, stretched to its final +capacity, came sound. Just <i>sound</i> at first; then +a dull murmur. Lindsay’s hair rose with a +prickling progress from his scalp. But that murmur +was human. It continued.</p> + +<p>Lindsay went to the door, opened it, and +stepped out into the hall. The murmur grew +louder. It was a woman’s voice; a girl’s voice; +unmistakably the voice of youth. It came from +the little room next to Spink’s apartment.</p> + +<p>Again Lindsay listened. The monotone broke; +grew jagged; grew shrill; became monotonous +again. Suddenly the truth dawned on him. It +was the voice of madness or of delirium.</p> + +<p>He advanced to the door and knocked. Nobody +answered. The monotone continued. He +knocked again. Nobody answered. The monotone +continued. He tried the knob. The door was +locked. With his hand still on the knob, he put +his shoulder to the door; gave it a slow resistless +pressure. It burst open.</p> + +<p>It was a small room and furnished with the +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_248'></a>248</span> +conventional furnishings of a bedroom. Lindsay saw +but two things in it. One was a girl, sitting up in +the bed in the corner; a beautiful slim creature +with streaming loose red hair; her cheeks vivid +with fever spots; her eyes brilliant with fever-light. +It was she who emitted the monotone.</p> + +<p>The other thing was a miniature, standing +against the glass on the bureau. A miniature of a +beautiful woman in the full lusciousness of a +golden blonde maturity.</p> + +<p>The woman of the miniature was Lutetia +Murray.</p> + +<p>The girl—</p> + +<div class='chapter'> +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_249'></a>249</span> +<a id='X'></a> +<p class='cln0'>X</p> +</div> + +<p>She felt that the room was full of sunshine. +Even through her glued-down lids she caught the +darting dazzle of it. She knew that the air was +full of bird voices. Even through her drowse-filmed +ears, she caught the singing sound of them. +She would like to lift her lids. She would like to +wake up. But after all it was a little too easy to +sleep. The impulse with which she sank back to +slumber was so soft that it was scarcely impulse. +It dropped her slowly into an enormous dark, a +colossal quiet.</p> + +<p>Presently she drifted to the top of that dark +quiet. Again the sunlight flowed into the channels +of seeing. Again the birds picked on the strings +of hearing. By an enormous effort she opened +her eyes.</p> + +<p>She stared from her bed straight at a window. +A big vine stretched films of green leaf across it. +It seemed to color the sunshine that poured onto +the floor—green. She looked at the window +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_250'></a>250</span> +for a long time. Presently she discovered among +the leaves a crimson, vase-like flower.</p> + +<p>“Why, how thick the trumpet-vine has +grown!” she said aloud.</p> + +<p>It seemed to her that there was a movement at +her side. But that movement did not interest her. +She did not fall into a well this time. She drifted +off on a tide of sleep. Presently—perhaps it was +an hour later, perhaps five minutes—she opened +her eyes. Again she stared at the window. +Again the wonder of growth absorbed her +thought; passed out of it. She looked about the +room. Her little bedroom set, painted a soft +creamy yellow with long tendrils of golden vine, +stood out softly against the faded green cartridge +paper.</p> + +<p>“Why! Why have they put the bureau over +there?” she demanded aloud of the miniature of +Glorious Lutie which hung beside the bureau. +With a vague alarm, her eyes sped from point to +point. The dado of Weejubs stood out as though +freshly restored. But all her pictures were gone; +the four colored prints, Spring, Summer, Autumn, +Winter—each the head of a little girl, decked +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_251'></a>251</span> +with buds or flowers, fruit or furs, had vanished. +The faded squares where they had hung showed +on the walls. Oh, woe, her favorite of all, “My +Little White Kittens,” had disappeared too. On +the other hand—on table, on bureau, and on commode-top—crowded +the little Chinese toys.</p> + +<p>“Why, when did they bring them in from the +Dew Pond?” she asked herself, again aloud.</p> + +<p>With a sudden stab of memory, she reached her +hand up on the wall. How curious! Only yesterday +she could scarcely touch the spring; now +her hand went far beyond it. She pressed. The +little panel opened slowly. She raised herself in +bed and looked through the aperture.</p> + +<p>Glorious Lutie’s room was stark—bare, save +for a bed and her long wooden writing-table.</p> + +<p>Her thoughts flew madly ... suddenly her +whole acceptance of things crumbled. Why! She +wasn’t Cherie and eight. She was Susannah and +twenty-five; and the last time she had been anywhere +she had been in New York.... Lightnings +of memory tore at her ... the Carbonado +Mining Company ... Eloise ... +a Salvation Army woman on the street ... +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_252'></a>252</span> +roofers. Yet this was Blue Meadows. She +did not have to pinch herself or press on her +sleepy eyelids. It <i>was</i> Blue Meadows. The +trumpet-vine, though as gigantic as Jack’s beanstalk, +proved it. The painted furniture proved it. +The Chinese toys proved it. Yes, and if she +wanted the final touch that clinched all argument, +there beside the head of the bed was the maple +gazelle. This really was not the final proof. The +final proof was human and it entered the room at +that moment in the person of Mrs. Spash. And +Mrs. Spash—in her old, quaint inaccurate way—was +calling her as Cherry.</p> + +<p>Susannah burst into tears.</p> + +<p style="font-size:smaller"> </p> + +<p>“Oh, I feel so much better now,” Susannah +said after a little talk; more sleep; then talk again. +“I’m going to be perfectly well in a little while. +I want to get up. And oh, dear Mrs. Spash—do +you remember how sometimes I used to call you +Mrs. Splash? I do want as soon as possible to +see Mr. Lindsay and his cousin—Miss Stockbridge, +did you say? I want to thank them, of +course. How can I ever thank them enough? +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_253'></a>253</span> +And I want to talk to him about the biography. +Oh, I’m sure I can give him so much. And I can +make out a list of people who can tell him all the +things you and I don’t remember; or never knew. +And then, in my trunk in New York, is a package +of all Glorious Lutie’s letters to me. I think he +will want to publish some of them; they are so +lovely, so full of our games—and jingles, and even +drawings. Couldn’t I sit up now?”</p> + +<p>“I don’t see why not,” Mrs. Spash said. +“You’ve slept for nearly twenty-six hours, +Cherry. You waked up once—or half-waked up. +We gave you some hot milk and you went right +to sleep again.”</p> + +<p>“It’s going to make me well—just being at +Blue Meadows,” Susannah prophesied. “If I +could only stay— But I’m grateful for a day, an +hour.”</p> + +<p style="font-size:smaller"> </p> + +<p>Later, she came slowly down the stairs—one +hand on the rail, the other holding Mrs. Spash’s +arm. She wore her faded creamy-pink, creamy-yellow +Japanese kimono, held in prim plaits by the +broad sash, a big obi bow at the back. Her red +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_254'></a>254</span> +hair lay forward in two long glittering braids. +Her face was still pale, but her eyes overran with +a lucent blue excitement. It caught on her eyelashes +and made stars there.</p> + +<p>A slim young man in flannels; tall with a muscular +litheness; dark with a burnished tan; handsome; +arose from his work at the long refectory +table. He came forward smiling—his hand outstretched. +“My cousin, Miss Stockbridge, has +run in to Boston to do some shopping,” he explained. +“I can’t tell you how glad I am to see +you up, or how glad she will be.” He took her +disengaged arm and reinforced Mrs. Spash’s efforts. +They guided her into a big wing chair. +The young man found a footstool for her.</p> + +<p>“I suppose I’m not dreaming, Mr. Lindsay,” +Susannah apprised him tremulously. “And yet +how can it be anything but a dream? I left this +place fifteen years ago and I have never seen it +since. How did I get back here? How did you +find me? How did you know who I was? And +what made you so heavenly good as to bring me +here? I remember fragments here and there— Mrs. +Spash tells me I’ve had the flu.”</p> +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_255'></a>255</span> + +<p>Lindsay laughed. “That’s all easily explained,” +he said with a smoothness almost +meretricious. “I happened to go to New York +on business. As usual I went to my friend Sparrel’s +apartment. You were ill and delirious in +the next room. I heard you; forced the door open +and sent at once for a doctor. He pronounced +it a belated case of flu. So I telephoned for Miss +Stockbridge; we moved you into my apartment +and after you passed the crisis—thank +God, you escaped pneumonia!—I asked the doctor +if I could bring you over here. He agreed that the +country air would be the very best thing for you, +and yet would not advise me to do it. He thought +it was taking too great a risk. But I felt—I can’t +tell you how strongly I felt it—that it would be +the best thing for you. My cousin stood by me, +and I took the chance. Sometimes now, though, I +shudder at my own foolhardiness. You don’t remember—or +do you?—that I went through the +formality of asking your consent.”</p> + +<p>“I do remember now—vaguely,” Susannah +laughed. “Isn’t it lucky I didn’t—in my weakness—say +no?”</p> +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_256'></a>256</span> + +<p>Lindsay laughed again. “I shouldn’t have +paid any attention to it, if you had. I knew that +this was what you needed. You were sleeping +then about twenty-five hours out of the twenty-four. +So one night we brought you in a taxi to +the boat and took the night trip to Boston. The +boat was making its return trip that night, but I +bribed them to let you stay on it all day until it +was almost ready to sail. Late in the afternoon, +we brought you in an automobile to Quinanog. +You slept all the way. That was yesterday afternoon. +It was dark when we got here. You didn’t +even open your eyes when I carried you into the +house. In the meantime I had wired Mrs. Spash—and +she fixed up your room, as much like the +way it used to be when you were a child, as she +could remember.”</p> + +<p>“It’s all too marvelous,” Susannah murmured. +New brilliancies were welling up into her turquoise +eyes, the deep dark fringes of lash could +not hold them; the stars kept dropping off their +tips. Fresh spurts of color invaded her face. +Nervously her long white hands pulled at her coppery +braids.</p> +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_257'></a>257</span> + +<p>“There are so many questions I shall ask you,” +she went on, “when I’m strong enough. But some +I must ask you now. How did you happen to +come here? And when did the idea of writing +Glorious Lutie’s—my aunt’s—biography occur to +you? And how did you come to know Mrs. +Spash? Where did you find the little Chinese +toys? And my painted bedroom set? And the +sideboard there? And the six-legged highboy? +Oh dear, a hundred, thousand, million things. +But first of all, how did you know that, now being +Susannah Ayer, I was formerly Susannah +Delano?”</p> + +<p>“There was the miniature of Miss Murray +hanging on your wall. That made me sure—in—in +some inexplicable way—that you were the little +lost Cherry. And of course we went through your +handbag to make sure. We found some letters +addressed to Susannah Delano Ayer. But will you +tell me how you <i>do</i> happen to be Susannah Ayer, +when you were formerly Susannah Delano, alias +Cherry—or Cherie?”</p> + +<p>“I went from here to Providence to live with a +large family of cousins. Their name was Ayer, +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_258'></a>258</span> +and I was so often called Ayer that finally I took +the name.” Susannah paused, and then with a +sudden impulse toward confidence, she went on. +“I grew up with my cousins. I was the youngest +of them all. The two oldest girls married, one +a Californian, the other a Canadian. I haven’t +seen them for years. The three boys are scattered +all over everywhere, by the war. My uncle died +first; then my aunt. She left me the five hundred +dollars with which I got my business +training.”</p> + +<p>The look of one who is absorbing passionately +all that is being said to him was on Lindsay’s face. +But a little perplexity troubled it. “Glorious +Lutie?” he repeated interrogatively.</p> + +<p>“Oh, of course,” Susannah murmured. “I +always called her Glorious Lutie. She always +called me Glorious Susie—that is when she didn’t +call me <i>Cherie</i>. And we had a game—the +Abracadabra game. When she was telling me a +story—her stories were <i>marvels</i>; they went on for +days and days—and she got tired, she could +always stop it by saying, Abracadabra! If I +didn’t reply instantly with Abracadabra, the story +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_259'></a>259</span> +stopped. Of course she always caught my little +wits napping—I was so absorbed in the story that +I could only stutter and pant, trying to remember +that long word.”</p> + +<p>“That’s a Peter Ibbetson trick,” Lindsay commented.</p> + +<p style="font-size:smaller"> </p> + +<p>The talk, thus begun, lasted for the three hours +which elapsed before Miss Stockbridge’s return. +Two narratives ran through their talk; Lindsay’s, +which dealt with superficial matters, began with +his return to America from France; Susannah’s, +which began with that sad day, fifteen years ago, +when she saw Blue Meadows for the last time. +But neither narrative went straight. They zig-zagged; +they curved, they circled. Those deviations +were the result of racing up squirrel tracks +of opinion and theory; of little excursions into the +allied experiences of youth; even of talks on +books. Once it was interrupted by the noiseless +entry of Mrs. Spash, who deposited a tray which +contained a glass of milk, a pair of dropped eggs, +a little mound of buttered toast. Susannah suddenly +found herself hungry. She drained her +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_260'></a>260</span> +glass, ate both eggs, devoured the last crumb of +toast.</p> + +<p>After this, she felt so vigorous that she +fell in with Lindsay’s suggestion that she walk +to the door. There she stood on the +door-stone for a preoccupied, half-joyful, half-melancholy +interval studying the garden. Then, +leaning on his arm, she ventured as far as the seat +under the copper-beech. Later, even, she went +to the barn and the Dew Pond. Before she +could get tired, Lindsay brought her back, reestablishing +her in the chair. Then—and not till +then—and following another impulse to confide +in Lindsay, Susannah told him the whole story of +the Carbonado Mining Company. Perhaps his +point of view on that matter gave her her second +accession of vitality. He paced up and down the +room during her narrative; his hands, fists. But +he laughed their threats to scorn. “Now don’t +give another thought to that gang of crooks!” he +adjured her. “I know a man in New York—a +lawyer. I’ll have him look up that crowd and put +the fear of God into them. They’ll probably be +flown by that time, however. Undoubtedly they +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_261'></a>261</span> +were making ready for their getaway. Don’t +think of it again. They can’t hurt you half as +much as that bee that’s trying to get in the door.” +He was silent for a moment, staring fixedly down +at his own manuscript on the table. “By God!” +he burst out suddenly, “I’ve half a mind to beat +it on to New York. I’d like to be present. I’d +have some things to say—and do.”</p> + +<p>Somewhere toward the end of this long talk, +“I’ve not said a word yet, Mr. Lindsay,” Susannah +interpolated timidly, “of how grateful I am +to you—and your cousin. But it’s mainly because +I’ve not had the strength yet. I don’t know how +I’m going to repay you. I don’t know how I’m +even going to tell you. What I owe you—just in +money—let alone eternal gratitude.”</p> + +<p>“Now, that’s all arranged,” Lindsay said +smoothly. “You don’t know what a find you +were. You’re an angel from heaven. You’re a +Christmas present in July. For a long time I’ve +realized that I needed a secretary. Somebody’s +got to help me on Lutetia’s life or I’ll never get it +done. Who better qualified than Lutetia’s own +niece? In fact you will not only be secretary but +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_262'></a>262</span> +collaborator. As soon as you’re well enough, +we’ll go to work every morning and we’ll work +together until it’s done.”</p> + +<p>Susannah leaned back, snuggled into the soft +recess of the comfortable chair. She dropped her +lids over the dazzling brilliancy of her eyes. “I +suppose I ought to say no. I suppose I ought to +have some proper pride about accepting so much +kindness. I suppose I ought to show some firmness +of mind, pawn all my possessions and get back +to work in New York or Boston. Girls in novels +always do those things. But I know I shall do +none of them. I shall say yes. For I haven’t +been so happy since Glorious Lutie died.”</p> + +<p>“Oh,” Lindsay exclaimed quickly as though +glad to reduce this dangerous emotional excitement. +“There comes the lost Anna Sophia +Stockbridge. She’s a dandy. I think you’ll like +her. It’s awfully hard not to.”</p> + +<p style="font-size:smaller"> </p> + +<p>The instant Susannah had disappeared with +Miss Stockbridge up the stairs, Mrs. Spash appeared +in the Long Room. Apparently, she came +with a definite object—an object in no way +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_263'></a>263</span> +connected with the futile dusting movements she +began to emit.</p> + +<p>Lindsay watched her.</p> + +<p>Suddenly Mrs. Spash’s eyes came up; met his. +They gazed at each other a long moment; a gaze +that was luminous with question and answer.</p> + +<p>“She’s gone,” Lindsay announced after a +while.</p> + +<p>Mrs. Spash nodded briskly.</p> + +<p>“She’ll never come back,” Lindsay added.</p> + +<p>Again Mrs. Spash nodded briskly.</p> + +<p>“They’ve all gone,” Lindsay stated.</p> + +<p>For the third time Mrs. Spash briskly nodded.</p> + +<p>“When Cherie came, <i>they</i> left,” Lindsay concluded.</p> + +<p>“They’d done what they wanted to do,” Mrs. +Spash vouchsafed. “Brought you and Cherry together. +So there was no need. She took them +away. She’d admire to stay. That’s like her. +But she don’t want to make the place seem—well, +<i>queer</i>. So, as she allus did, she gives up her +wish.”</p> + +<p>“Mrs. Spash,” Lindsay exploded suddenly +after a long pause, “we’ve <i>never</i> seen them. You +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_264'></a>264</span> +understand we’ve never seen them; either of us. +They never were here.”</p> + +<p>Mrs. Spash nodded for the fourth time.</p> + +<p style="font-size:smaller"> </p> + +<p>That night after his cousin and his guest had +gone to bed, Lindsay wandered about the place. +The moon was big enough to turn his paths into +streams of light. He walked through the flower +garden; into the barn; about the Dew Pond. The +tallest hollyhocks scarcely moved, so quiet was the +night. The little pond showed no ripple except +a flash of the moonlight. The barn was a cavern +of gloom. Lindsay gazed at everything as though +from a new point of view.</p> + +<p>An immeasurable content filled him.</p> + +<p>After a while he returned to the house. His +picture of Lutetia Murray still hung over the +mantel in the living-room. He gazed at it for a +long while. Then he turned away. As he looked +down the length of the living-room, there was in +his face a whimsical expression, half of an +achieved happiness, half of a lurking regret. +“This house has never been so full of people +since I’ve been here,” he mused, “and yet never +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_265'></a>265</span> +was it so empty. My beloved ghosts, I miss you. +But you’ve not all gone after all. You’ve left one +little ghost behind. Lutetia, I thank you for her. +How I wish you could come again to see.... But +you’re right. Don’t come! Not that I’m +afraid. You’re too lovely—”</p> + +<p>His thoughts broke halfway. They took another +turn. “I wonder if it ever happened to +any other man before in the history of the world +to see the little-girl ghost of the woman—”</p> + +<p style="font-size:smaller"> </p> + +<p>Blue Meadows had for several weeks now been +projecting pictures from its storied past into the +light of everyday. Could it have projected into +that everyday one picture from the future, it +would have been something like this.</p> + +<p style="font-size:smaller"> </p> + +<p>Susannah came into the south living-room. +Her husband was standing between the two +windows.</p> + +<p>“Davy,” she exclaimed joyfully, “I’ve located +the lowboy. A Mrs. Norton in West Hassett +owns it. Of course she’s asking a perfectly prohibitive +price, but of course we’ve got to have it.”</p> +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_266'></a>266</span> + +<p>“Yes,” Lindsay answered absently, “we’ve got +to have it.”</p> + +<p>“I’m glad we found things so slowly,” Susannah +dreamily. “It adds to the wonder and +magic of it all. It makes the dream last longer. +It keeps our romance always at the boiling +point.”</p> + +<p>She put one arm about her husband’s neck and +kissed him. Lindsay turned; kissed her.</p> + +<p>“At least we have the major pieces back,” +Susannah said contentedly. “And little Lutetia +Murray Lindsay will grow up in almost the same +surroundings that Susannah Ayer enjoyed. Oh—today—when +I carried her over to the wall of the +nursery, she noticed the Weejubs; she actually put +her hand out to touch them.”</p> + +<p>“Oh, there’s something here for you—from +Rome—just came in the mail,” Lindsay exclaimed. +“It’s addressed to Susannah Delano +too.”</p> + +<p>“From Rome!” Susannah ejaculated. +“Susannah Delano!” She cut the strings of +the package. Under the wrappings appeared—swathed +in tissue paper—a picture. A letter +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_267'></a>267</span> +dropped from the envelope. Susannah seized it; +turned to the signature.</p> + +<p>“Garrison Monroe!” she ejaculated. “Oh, +dear dear Uncle Garry, he’s alive after all!” She +read the letter aloud, the tears welling in her +eyes.</p> + +<p>“How wonderful!” she commented when she +finished. “You see, he’s apparently specialized in +tomb-sculpture.”</p> + +<p>She pulled the tissue paper from the picture. +Their heads met, examining it.</p> + +<p>“Oh, how lovely!” Susannah exclaimed in a +hushed voice. And “It’s beautiful!” Lindsay +agreed in a low tone.</p> + +<p>It was the photograph of a bit of sculptured +marble; a woman swathed in rippling draperies +lying, at ease, on her side. One hand, palm upward, +fingers a little curled, lay by her cheek; the +other fell across her breast. A veil partially obscured +the delicate profile. But from every veiled +feature, from every line of the figure, from every +fold in the drapery, exuded rest.</p> + +<p>“It’s perfect!” Susannah said, still in a low +tone. “Perfect. Many a time she’s fallen asleep +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_268'></a>268</span> +just like than when we’ve all been talking and +laughing. When she slept, her hand always lay +close to her face as it is here. She always wore +long floating scarves. You see he had to do her +face from photographs ... and memory.... He’s +used that scarf device to conceal.... How +beautiful! How beautiful!”</p> + +<p>There came silence.</p> + +<p>“Mrs. Spash says he was in love with her,” +Susannah went on. “Of course I was too young. +I didn’t realize it. But it’s all here, I think. Did +you notice that part of the letter where he says +that for the last year or two his mind has been +full of her? And of all his life here? That’s +very pathetic, isn’t it? Now there will be a fitting +monument over her.... He says it will +be here in a few months. We must send him +pictures when it’s put on her grave. How happy +it makes me! He says he’s nearly eighty.... How +beautiful.... You’re not listening to +me,” she accused her husband with sudden indignation. +But her indignation tempered itself by a +flurry of little kisses when, following the direction +of his piercing gaze, she saw it ended on +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_269'></a>269</span> +the miniature which hung beside the secretary. +“Looking at Glorious Lutie!” she mocked tenderly. +“How that miniature fascinates you! +Sometimes,” she added, obviously inventing whimsical +cause for grievance, “sometimes I think +you’re as much in love with her as you are with +me.”</p> + +<p>“If I am,” Lindsay agreed, “it’s because +there’s so much of you in her.”</p> + +<p style="text-align:center;">THE END</p> + +<hr class='solid' /> + +<p style="text-align:center;">“<i>The Books You Like to Read +at the Price You Like to Pay</i>”</p> + +<p style="text-align:center;font-size: 1.2em;"><i>There Are Two Sides +to Everything</i>—</p> + +<p>—including the wrapper which covers +every Grosset & Dunlap book. When +you feel in the mood for a good romance, +refer to the carefully selected list +of modern fiction comprising most of +the successes by prominent writers of +the day which is printed on the back of +every Grosset & Dunlap book wrapper.</p> + +<p>You will find more than five hundred +titles to choose from—books for every +mood and every taste and every pocketbook.</p> + +<p><i>Don’t forget the other side, but in case +the wrapper is lost, write to the publishers +for a complete catalog.</i></p> + +<p style="text-align:center;"><i>There is a Grosset & Dunlap Book +for every mood and for every taste</i></p> + + + + + + + +<pre> + + + + + +End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of Out of the Air, by Inez Haynes Irwin + +*** END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK OUT OF THE AIR *** + +***** This file should be named 38060-h.htm or 38060-h.zip ***** +This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: + https://www.gutenberg.org/3/8/0/6/38060/ + +Produced by Roger Frank and the Online Distributed +Proofreading Team at https://www.pgdp.net + + +Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions +will be renamed. + +Creating the works from public domain print editions means that no +one owns a United States copyright in these works, so the Foundation +(and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United States without +permission and without paying copyright royalties. Special rules, +set forth in the General Terms of Use part of this license, apply to +copying and distributing Project Gutenberg-tm electronic works to +protect the PROJECT GUTENBERG-tm concept and trademark. Project +Gutenberg is a registered trademark, and may not be used if you +charge for the eBooks, unless you receive specific permission. If you +do not charge anything for copies of this eBook, complying with the +rules is very easy. You may use this eBook for nearly any purpose +such as creation of derivative works, reports, performances and +research. They may be modified and printed and given away--you may do +practically ANYTHING with public domain eBooks. Redistribution is +subject to the trademark license, especially commercial +redistribution. + + + +*** START: FULL LICENSE *** + +THE FULL PROJECT GUTENBERG LICENSE +PLEASE READ THIS BEFORE YOU DISTRIBUTE OR USE THIS WORK + +To protect the Project Gutenberg-tm mission of promoting the free +distribution of electronic works, by using or distributing this work +(or any other work associated in any way with the phrase "Project +Gutenberg"), you agree to comply with all the terms of the Full Project +Gutenberg-tm License (available with this file or online at +https://gutenberg.org/license). + + +Section 1. General Terms of Use and Redistributing Project Gutenberg-tm +electronic works + +1.A. By reading or using any part of this Project Gutenberg-tm +electronic work, you indicate that you have read, understand, agree to +and accept all the terms of this license and intellectual property +(trademark/copyright) agreement. If you do not agree to abide by all +the terms of this agreement, you must cease using and return or destroy +all copies of Project Gutenberg-tm electronic works in your possession. +If you paid a fee for obtaining a copy of or access to a Project +Gutenberg-tm electronic work and you do not agree to be bound by the +terms of this agreement, you may obtain a refund from the person or +entity to whom you paid the fee as set forth in paragraph 1.E.8. + +1.B. "Project Gutenberg" is a registered trademark. It may only be +used on or associated in any way with an electronic work by people who +agree to be bound by the terms of this agreement. There are a few +things that you can do with most Project Gutenberg-tm electronic works +even without complying with the full terms of this agreement. See +paragraph 1.C below. There are a lot of things you can do with Project +Gutenberg-tm electronic works if you follow the terms of this agreement +and help preserve free future access to Project Gutenberg-tm electronic +works. See paragraph 1.E below. + +1.C. The Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation ("the Foundation" +or PGLAF), owns a compilation copyright in the collection of Project +Gutenberg-tm electronic works. Nearly all the individual works in the +collection are in the public domain in the United States. If an +individual work is in the public domain in the United States and you are +located in the United States, we do not claim a right to prevent you from +copying, distributing, performing, displaying or creating derivative +works based on the work as long as all references to Project Gutenberg +are removed. Of course, we hope that you will support the Project +Gutenberg-tm mission of promoting free access to electronic works by +freely sharing Project Gutenberg-tm works in compliance with the terms of +this agreement for keeping the Project Gutenberg-tm name associated with +the work. You can easily comply with the terms of this agreement by +keeping this work in the same format with its attached full Project +Gutenberg-tm License when you share it without charge with others. + +1.D. The copyright laws of the place where you are located also govern +what you can do with this work. Copyright laws in most countries are in +a constant state of change. If you are outside the United States, check +the laws of your country in addition to the terms of this agreement +before downloading, copying, displaying, performing, distributing or +creating derivative works based on this work or any other Project +Gutenberg-tm work. The Foundation makes no representations concerning +the copyright status of any work in any country outside the United +States. + +1.E. Unless you have removed all references to Project Gutenberg: + +1.E.1. The following sentence, with active links to, or other immediate +access to, the full Project Gutenberg-tm License must appear prominently +whenever any copy of a Project Gutenberg-tm work (any work on which the +phrase "Project Gutenberg" appears, or with which the phrase "Project +Gutenberg" is associated) is accessed, displayed, performed, viewed, +copied or distributed: + +This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with +almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or +re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included +with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org + +1.E.2. If an individual Project Gutenberg-tm electronic work is derived +from the public domain (does not contain a notice indicating that it is +posted with permission of the copyright holder), the work can be copied +and distributed to anyone in the United States without paying any fees +or charges. If you are redistributing or providing access to a work +with the phrase "Project Gutenberg" associated with or appearing on the +work, you must comply either with the requirements of paragraphs 1.E.1 +through 1.E.7 or obtain permission for the use of the work and the +Project Gutenberg-tm trademark as set forth in paragraphs 1.E.8 or +1.E.9. + +1.E.3. If an individual Project Gutenberg-tm electronic work is posted +with the permission of the copyright holder, your use and distribution +must comply with both paragraphs 1.E.1 through 1.E.7 and any additional +terms imposed by the copyright holder. Additional terms will be linked +to the Project Gutenberg-tm License for all works posted with the +permission of the copyright holder found at the beginning of this work. + +1.E.4. Do not unlink or detach or remove the full Project Gutenberg-tm +License terms from this work, or any files containing a part of this +work or any other work associated with Project Gutenberg-tm. + +1.E.5. Do not copy, display, perform, distribute or redistribute this +electronic work, or any part of this electronic work, without +prominently displaying the sentence set forth in paragraph 1.E.1 with +active links or immediate access to the full terms of the Project +Gutenberg-tm License. + +1.E.6. You may convert to and distribute this work in any binary, +compressed, marked up, nonproprietary or proprietary form, including any +word processing or hypertext form. However, if you provide access to or +distribute copies of a Project Gutenberg-tm work in a format other than +"Plain Vanilla ASCII" or other format used in the official version +posted on the official Project Gutenberg-tm web site (www.gutenberg.org), +you must, at no additional cost, fee or expense to the user, provide a +copy, a means of exporting a copy, or a means of obtaining a copy upon +request, of the work in its original "Plain Vanilla ASCII" or other +form. Any alternate format must include the full Project Gutenberg-tm +License as specified in paragraph 1.E.1. + +1.E.7. Do not charge a fee for access to, viewing, displaying, +performing, copying or distributing any Project Gutenberg-tm works +unless you comply with paragraph 1.E.8 or 1.E.9. + +1.E.8. You may charge a reasonable fee for copies of or providing +access to or distributing Project Gutenberg-tm electronic works provided +that + +- You pay a royalty fee of 20% of the gross profits you derive from + the use of Project Gutenberg-tm works calculated using the method + you already use to calculate your applicable taxes. The fee is + owed to the owner of the Project Gutenberg-tm trademark, but he + has agreed to donate royalties under this paragraph to the + Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation. Royalty payments + must be paid within 60 days following each date on which you + prepare (or are legally required to prepare) your periodic tax + returns. Royalty payments should be clearly marked as such and + sent to the Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation at the + address specified in Section 4, "Information about donations to + the Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation." + +- You provide a full refund of any money paid by a user who notifies + you in writing (or by e-mail) within 30 days of receipt that s/he + does not agree to the terms of the full Project Gutenberg-tm + License. You must require such a user to return or + destroy all copies of the works possessed in a physical medium + and discontinue all use of and all access to other copies of + Project Gutenberg-tm works. + +- You provide, in accordance with paragraph 1.F.3, a full refund of any + money paid for a work or a replacement copy, if a defect in the + electronic work is discovered and reported to you within 90 days + of receipt of the work. + +- You comply with all other terms of this agreement for free + distribution of Project Gutenberg-tm works. + +1.E.9. If you wish to charge a fee or distribute a Project Gutenberg-tm +electronic work or group of works on different terms than are set +forth in this agreement, you must obtain permission in writing from +both the Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation and Michael +Hart, the owner of the Project Gutenberg-tm trademark. Contact the +Foundation as set forth in Section 3 below. + +1.F. + +1.F.1. Project Gutenberg volunteers and employees expend considerable +effort to identify, do copyright research on, transcribe and proofread +public domain works in creating the Project Gutenberg-tm +collection. Despite these efforts, Project Gutenberg-tm electronic +works, and the medium on which they may be stored, may contain +"Defects," such as, but not limited to, incomplete, inaccurate or +corrupt data, transcription errors, a copyright or other intellectual +property infringement, a defective or damaged disk or other medium, a +computer virus, or computer codes that damage or cannot be read by +your equipment. + +1.F.2. LIMITED WARRANTY, DISCLAIMER OF DAMAGES - Except for the "Right +of Replacement or Refund" described in paragraph 1.F.3, the Project +Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation, the owner of the Project +Gutenberg-tm trademark, and any other party distributing a Project +Gutenberg-tm electronic work under this agreement, disclaim all +liability to you for damages, costs and expenses, including legal +fees. YOU AGREE THAT YOU HAVE NO REMEDIES FOR NEGLIGENCE, STRICT +LIABILITY, BREACH OF WARRANTY OR BREACH OF CONTRACT EXCEPT THOSE +PROVIDED IN PARAGRAPH 1.F.3. YOU AGREE THAT THE FOUNDATION, THE +TRADEMARK OWNER, AND ANY DISTRIBUTOR UNDER THIS AGREEMENT WILL NOT BE +LIABLE TO YOU FOR ACTUAL, DIRECT, INDIRECT, CONSEQUENTIAL, PUNITIVE OR +INCIDENTAL DAMAGES EVEN IF YOU GIVE NOTICE OF THE POSSIBILITY OF SUCH +DAMAGE. + +1.F.3. LIMITED RIGHT OF REPLACEMENT OR REFUND - If you discover a +defect in this electronic work within 90 days of receiving it, you can +receive a refund of the money (if any) you paid for it by sending a +written explanation to the person you received the work from. If you +received the work on a physical medium, you must return the medium with +your written explanation. The person or entity that provided you with +the defective work may elect to provide a replacement copy in lieu of a +refund. If you received the work electronically, the person or entity +providing it to you may choose to give you a second opportunity to +receive the work electronically in lieu of a refund. If the second copy +is also defective, you may demand a refund in writing without further +opportunities to fix the problem. + +1.F.4. Except for the limited right of replacement or refund set forth +in paragraph 1.F.3, this work is provided to you 'AS-IS' WITH NO OTHER +WARRANTIES OF ANY KIND, EXPRESS OR IMPLIED, INCLUDING BUT NOT LIMITED TO +WARRANTIES OF MERCHANTIBILITY OR FITNESS FOR ANY PURPOSE. + +1.F.5. Some states do not allow disclaimers of certain implied +warranties or the exclusion or limitation of certain types of damages. +If any disclaimer or limitation set forth in this agreement violates the +law of the state applicable to this agreement, the agreement shall be +interpreted to make the maximum disclaimer or limitation permitted by +the applicable state law. The invalidity or unenforceability of any +provision of this agreement shall not void the remaining provisions. + +1.F.6. INDEMNITY - You agree to indemnify and hold the Foundation, the +trademark owner, any agent or employee of the Foundation, anyone +providing copies of Project Gutenberg-tm electronic works in accordance +with this agreement, and any volunteers associated with the production, +promotion and distribution of Project Gutenberg-tm electronic works, +harmless from all liability, costs and expenses, including legal fees, +that arise directly or indirectly from any of the following which you do +or cause to occur: (a) distribution of this or any Project Gutenberg-tm +work, (b) alteration, modification, or additions or deletions to any +Project Gutenberg-tm work, and (c) any Defect you cause. + + +Section 2. Information about the Mission of Project Gutenberg-tm + +Project Gutenberg-tm is synonymous with the free distribution of +electronic works in formats readable by the widest variety of computers +including obsolete, old, middle-aged and new computers. It exists +because of the efforts of hundreds of volunteers and donations from +people in all walks of life. + +Volunteers and financial support to provide volunteers with the +assistance they need are critical to reaching Project Gutenberg-tm's +goals and ensuring that the Project Gutenberg-tm collection will +remain freely available for generations to come. In 2001, the Project +Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation was created to provide a secure +and permanent future for Project Gutenberg-tm and future generations. +To learn more about the Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation +and how your efforts and donations can help, see Sections 3 and 4 +and the Foundation web page at https://www.pglaf.org. + + +Section 3. Information about the Project Gutenberg Literary Archive +Foundation + +The Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation is a non profit +501(c)(3) educational corporation organized under the laws of the +state of Mississippi and granted tax exempt status by the Internal +Revenue Service. The Foundation's EIN or federal tax identification +number is 64-6221541. Its 501(c)(3) letter is posted at +https://pglaf.org/fundraising. Contributions to the Project Gutenberg +Literary Archive Foundation are tax deductible to the full extent +permitted by U.S. federal laws and your state's laws. + +The Foundation's principal office is located at 4557 Melan Dr. S. +Fairbanks, AK, 99712., but its volunteers and employees are scattered +throughout numerous locations. Its business office is located at +809 North 1500 West, Salt Lake City, UT 84116, (801) 596-1887, email +business@pglaf.org. Email contact links and up to date contact +information can be found at the Foundation's web site and official +page at https://pglaf.org + +For additional contact information: + Dr. Gregory B. Newby + Chief Executive and Director + gbnewby@pglaf.org + + +Section 4. Information about Donations to the Project Gutenberg +Literary Archive Foundation + +Project Gutenberg-tm depends upon and cannot survive without wide +spread public support and donations to carry out its mission of +increasing the number of public domain and licensed works that can be +freely distributed in machine readable form accessible by the widest +array of equipment including outdated equipment. Many small donations +($1 to $5,000) are particularly important to maintaining tax exempt +status with the IRS. + +The Foundation is committed to complying with the laws regulating +charities and charitable donations in all 50 states of the United +States. Compliance requirements are not uniform and it takes a +considerable effort, much paperwork and many fees to meet and keep up +with these requirements. We do not solicit donations in locations +where we have not received written confirmation of compliance. To +SEND DONATIONS or determine the status of compliance for any +particular state visit https://pglaf.org + +While we cannot and do not solicit contributions from states where we +have not met the solicitation requirements, we know of no prohibition +against accepting unsolicited donations from donors in such states who +approach us with offers to donate. + +International donations are gratefully accepted, but we cannot make +any statements concerning tax treatment of donations received from +outside the United States. U.S. laws alone swamp our small staff. + +Please check the Project Gutenberg Web pages for current donation +methods and addresses. Donations are accepted in a number of other +ways including including checks, online payments and credit card +donations. To donate, please visit: https://pglaf.org/donate + + +Section 5. General Information About Project Gutenberg-tm electronic +works. + +Professor Michael S. Hart was the originator of the Project Gutenberg-tm +concept of a library of electronic works that could be freely shared +with anyone. For thirty years, he produced and distributed Project +Gutenberg-tm eBooks with only a loose network of volunteer support. + + +Project Gutenberg-tm eBooks are often created from several printed +editions, all of which are confirmed as Public Domain in the U.S. +unless a copyright notice is included. Thus, we do not necessarily +keep eBooks in compliance with any particular paper edition. + + +Most people start at our Web site which has the main PG search facility: + + https://www.gutenberg.org + +This Web site includes information about Project Gutenberg-tm, +including how to make donations to the Project Gutenberg Literary +Archive Foundation, how to help produce our new eBooks, and how to +subscribe to our email newsletter to hear about new eBooks. + + +</pre> + +</body> +</html> |