"Those were wonderful days, Mr. Thane,--when those two children were growing up." She sighed. "David is four years older than Alix, but ever since she was a tiny child she seemed older than he was.
I guess it was because he was so big and strong that he just couldn"t bear to lord it over her like most boys do with girls. He was kind of like a big shepherd dog. Always watching over her and--dear me, I"ll never forget the time they got lost in the woods up above here. That was when she was about seven. They were not found till next morning. We had everybody for miles around beating the woods for them all night long. Well, sir, that boy had taken off his coat and put it on her, and his stockings too, and he had even removed his shirt to make a sort of m.u.f.fler to wrap around her throat, because she always had sore throats and croup when she was a child.
And when the men found them, he was sitting up against a tree sound asleep, almost frozen stiff, with her in his lap and his cold little arms around her. It was late in September and the nights were cold.
Then there was the time when she fell off the side of the ferry boat and he jumped in after her,--with his best suit on, the little rascal,--and held her up till Josh Wilson stopped the ferry and old Mr. White, who was crossing with his team, managed to throw a buggy rein out to him and pull him in. The water out there in the middle of the river is ten feet deep, Mr. Thane, and David was just learning how to swim. And they BOTH had croup that night. My goodness, I thought that boy was going to die. But, my land, that seems ages ago. Here they are, a grown, man and woman, and probably don"t even remember those happy days."
"That"s the horrible penalty one pays for growing up, Mrs. Strong."
"I guess you"re right. Of course, they write to each other every once in a while,--but nothing is like it used to be. Alix had a letter from Davy only a day or so ago. You"d think she might occasionally tell me some of the things he writes about,--but she never does.
She never opens her mouth about them. And he never writes anything to me about what she writes to him. I suppose that"s the way of the world. When they were little they used to come to me with everything.
"You see, I came here to keep house for Mr. Windom soon after old Maria Bliss died. My husband died when David was six years old.
Alix was only four years old when I came here, Mr. Thane. This house was new,--just finished. I"ll never forget the rage Mr. Windom got into when he found out that Alix and David were going up to the old farmhouse where her mother died and were using one of the upstairs rooms as a "den." They got in through a cellar window, it seems.
They were each writing a novel, and that was where they worked and read what they had written to each other. That lasted only about six weeks or so before Mr. Windom found out about it. He was terrible.
You see, without knowing it, they had picked out the room that was most sacred to him. It was his wife"s own room,--where she died and where Alix"s mother was born and where she also died,--and where our Alix was born.
"Of course, at that time n.o.body knew about Edward Crown. We all thought he was alive somewhere. The children never went there again. No, sirree! They both ought to have known better than to go at all. Alix was fifteen years old when that happened, and Davy was going to college in the winter time."
"Did your son live here in the house with you all those years?"
inquired Courtney.
"We lived in the first cottage down the lane from here. Mr. Windom was a very thoughtful man. He did not want me to live here in the house with him because of what people might say. You see, I was a young woman then, and--well, people are not always kind, you know."
She spoke simply and without the slightest embarra.s.sment.
He looked hard at her half-averted face and was suddenly confronted by the realization that this grey, motherly woman must have been young once, like Alix, and pretty. As it is with the young, he could not think of her except as old. He had always thought of his mother as old; it was impossible to think of her as having once been young and gay like the girls he knew. Yes, Mrs. Strong must have been young and pretty and desirable,--somebody"s sweetheart, somebody"s "girl." The thought astonished him.
II
Shortly afterward he took his departure. There was a frown of annoyance on his brow as he strode briskly up the lane in the direction of the crossroads, half a mile or more above the village. As usual, he thought aloud.
"There"s no way of finding out just how things stand between them.
The old lady doesn"t know anything, that"s a cinch. If she really knew she would have let it out to me. I"ll never get a better chance to pump her than I had today. She doesn"t know. You can see she hopes her son will get her. That"s as plain as the nose on your face. But she doesn"t know anything. Is that a good sign or a bad one? I wish I knew. Alix isn"t the sort to forget. Maybe Strong has gotten over it and not she. It"s darned aggravating, that"s what it is. There must be some good reason why she"s never married. I wonder if she"s still keen about him. This talk of Charlie Webster"s may be plain bunk. If she hates him,--why? That"s the question.
WHY does she hate him? There must be some reason beside that debt he owed to old Windom. Gad, I wish I could have seen that letter he wrote her when he sent the cheque. Well, anyhow, it"s up to me to get busy. That"s sure!"
His walk took him past the Windomville Cemetery and up the gravel turnpike leading to the city. Alix had traversed this road an hour or so earlier. Swinging around a bend in the highway, he came in view of the abandoned farmhouse half a mile ahead.
It was a familiar object by this time, for he had pa.s.sed it many times, not only on his solitary walks but on several occasions with Alix. The desolate house, with its weed-grown yard, its dilapidated paling fence, its atmosphere of decay, had always possessed a certain fascination for him. He secretly confessed to a queer little sensation as of awe whenever he looked upon the empty, green-shuttered house. It suggested death. More than once he had paused in the road below the rickety gate to gaze intently at the closed windows, or to scrutinize the tangled ma.s.s of weeds and rose bushes that almost hid the porch and its approach from view.
He was never without the strange feeling that the body of Edward Crown might still be lying at the foot of the hidden steps.
Now he approached the place with a new and deeper interest.
Strangely enough, it had been shorn within the hour of much that was grim and terrifying. It was no longer a house to inspire dread and uneasiness. Two young and venturesome spirits had invaded its silent precincts, there to dream in safety and seclusion, unhaunted by its spectres, undisturbed by its secret. In one of its darkened rooms they had set up a "workshop," a "playhouse." A glaze came over his eyes as he wondered what had transpired in that room during the surrept.i.tious six weeks" tenancy. Had David Strong kissed her?
Had she kissed David Strong? Were promises made and futures planned?
His throat was tight with the swell of jealousy.
He stopped at the gate. After a moment"s hesitation he lifted the rusty latch and jerked the gate open far enough to allow him to squeeze through. Then he paused to sweep the landscape with an inquiring eye. Far up the pike a load of fodder moved slowly.
There were cattle in the pasture near at hand, but no human being to observe his actions. In a distant upland field men were moving among a mult.i.tude of corn-shocks, trailing the horses and wagons that belonged to Alix Crown. Crows cawed in the trees on the eastern edge of the strip of meadowland, and on high soared two or three big birds,--hawks or buzzards, he knew not which,--circling slowly in the arc of the steel blue sky.
Confident that he was un.o.bserved, he made his way up the half-buried walk to the porch, and, deliberately mounting the steps, tried the door-k.n.o.b. As he expected, the door was locked. After another searching look in all directions, he started off through the tangle of weeds and burdocks to circle the house. He pa.s.sed through what once must have been the tennis-court of Alix the First,--now a weedy patch,--and came to the back door. Below him lay the deserted stables and outbuildings, facing the barnyard in which a few worn-out farm implements were to be seen, weather-beaten skeletons of a past generation.
There was no sign of human life. A lean and threadbare scarecrow flapped his ragged coat-sleeves in the wind that swept across the barren garden patch farther up the slope,--this was the nearest approach to human life that came within the range of vision. And as if to invite jovial companionship, this pathetic gentleman wore his ancient straw hat c.o.c.ked rakishly over what would have been his left ear if he had had any ears at all.
While standing before the gate, Courtney had come to a sudden, amazing decision. He resolved to enter and explore the house if it were possible to do so. He remembered that Mrs. Strong, in pursuing the subject, had declared that Alix and David were not even permitted to return to the house for their literary products; moreover, she doubted very much whether the former had taken the trouble to recover them after she became sole possessor of the property. If they were still there, with other tangible proofs of an adolescent intimacy, he saw no reason why he should not lay eyes,--or even hands,--upon them. He saw no wrong in the undertaking. It was a justifiable adventure, viewed from the standpoint of a lover whose claim was in doubt.
The back door was locked and the window shutters securely nailed.
Entrance to the cellar was barred by heavy scantlings fastened across the sloping hatch. In the barnyard he found a stout single-tree.
With this he succeeded in prying off the two scantlings. The staple holding the padlock was easily withdrawn from one of the rotten boards.
Descending the steps, he found himself in the small, musty cellar.
The vault-like room was empty save for a couple of barrels standing in a corner and a small pile of firewood under the stairs that led to regions above. Selecting a f.a.ggot of kindling-wood from this pile, he fashioned a torch by whittling the end into a confusion of partially detached slivers. This he lighted with a match, and then mounted the stairs.
The door at the head opened at the lifting of an old-fashioned latch. A thick screen of cobwebs almost closed the upper half of the aperture. He burnt it away with the flaming torch, and pa.s.sed on into the kitchen. He was grateful for the snapping fire of the f.a.ggot, for otherwise the silence of the grave would have fallen about him as he stood motionless for a moment peering about the empty room. No light penetrated from the outside. The air was dead.
Spiders had clothed the corners and the ceiling with their silk, over which the dust of years lay thick and ugly. He felt, with a queer little shiver, that the eyes of a thousand spiders peered gloatingly down upon him from the murky fastnesses.
He hurried on. The rooms on the lower floor had been stripped of all signs of habitation. His footsteps resounded throughout the house. Boards creaked under his tread. Without actually realizing what he was doing, he began to tiptoe toward the stairway that led to the upper floor. He laughed at himself for this precaution, and yet could not rid himself of the feeling that some one was listening, that the stealth of the midnight burglar was necessary. The stairs groaned under his weight, the dust-covered banister cracked loudly when he laid his hand upon it. He had the strange notion that they were sounding the alarm to some guardian occupant of the premises,--to a slumbering ghost perhaps.
He came at last to the room where Alix and David had played at book-writing. In the centre stood a kitchen table, on either side of which was a rudely constructed bench,--evidently the handiwork of David Strong. Two strips of rag carpet served as a rug. At each end of the table was a candlestick containing a half-used tallow candle. There was a single ink pot, but there were two penholders beside it, and a couple of blue blotters. Nearby were two ancient but substantial rocking chairs,--singularly out of place,--no doubt discarded survivors of long-distant days of comfort, rescued from an attic storeroom by the young trespa.s.sers. A sc.r.a.p basket, half-full of torn and crumpled sheets of paper, stood conveniently near the table.
He lighted both of the candles and extinguished the flickering f.a.ggot. The steady glow of the candlelight filled the room. On the mantel above the blackened fireplace he saw a small, white framed mirror. A forgotten pair of gloves lay beside it, and two or three hairpins. He picked up the gloves, slapped them against his leg to rid them of acc.u.mulated dust, and then stuck them into his coat pocket. They were long and slim and soiled by wear.
A closet door, standing partly open, drew him across the room.
Hanging from one of the hooks was a moth-eaten vicuna smoking jacket of blue. Beside this garment hung a girl"s bright red blazer, with black collar; protecting, business-like paper cuffs were still attached. In the corner of the closet reposed a broom, a mop and an empty pail.
He smiled at the thought of young Alix sweeping and scrubbing the floor of this sequestered retreat.
Returning to the table, he pulled out the drawer, and there, side by side, lay two neat but far from voluminous ma.n.u.scripts, each weighted down by the unused portion of the scratch pad from which the written sheets had been torn. One was in the bold, superior scrawl of a boy, the other ineffably feminine in its painstaking regard for legibility and tidiness.
III
These literary efforts had been cut off short in their infancy.
David"s vigorously written pages, marred by frequent scratchings and erasures, far outnumbered Alix"s. He was in the midst of Chapter Three of a novel ent.i.tled "The Phantom Singer" when the calamitous interruption came. Alix"s work had progressed to Chapter Five.
Inspection revealed the further fact that she was thrifty. She had written on both sides of the sheets, while the prodigal David confined himself to the inexorable "one side of the sheet only."
There were unmistakable indications of editorial arrogance on the part of Alix on every sheet of David"s ma.n.u.script. Her small, precise hand was to be seen here, there and everywhere,--sometimes in the subst.i.tution of a single word, often in the rewriting of an entire sentence. But nowhere on her own pages was to be found so much as a scratch by the clumsy hand of her fellow novelist.
Her story bore the fetching t.i.tle: "Lady Mordaunt"s Lover."
Courtney read the first page of her script. A sudden wave of remorse, even guilt, swept through him. Back in his mind he pictured her bending studiously, earnestly to the task, her heart in every line she was penning, her dear little brow wrinkled in thought. He could almost visualize the dark, wavy hair, the soft white neck,--as if he were standing behind looking down upon her as she struggled with an obstinate muse,--and the quick, gentle rise and fall of her young breast. He could see her lift her head now and then to stare dreamily at the ceiling, searching there for inspiration. He could see the cramped, tense fingers that gripped the pen as she wrote these precious lines,--with David scratching away laboriously at the opposite end of the table. A strange tenderness entered his soul. Something akin to reverence took possession of him. He had invaded sanctuary.
Slowly, almost tenderly, he replaced the ma.n.u.script in the drawer beside its bristling mate. Then he resolutely closed the drawer, blew out the candles, and strode swiftly from the room and down the creaking stairs, lighting the way with matches. Even as he convicted himself of wrong, he justified himself as right. The virtuous renunciation balanced, aye, overbalanced,--the account with cupidity.
He was saying to himself as he made his way down to the cellar:
"It would be downright rotten to take that story of hers, even as a joke,--and I came mighty near to doing it. Thank the Lord, I didn"t. Of course, it"s piffle,--both of "em,--but I just COULDN"T take hers away for no other reason than to get a good laugh out of it. Anyhow, my conscience is clear. I put it back where she left it,--and that"s the end of it so far as I"m concerned. d.a.m.n these cobwebs! Good Lord, I wonder if any of these spiders are poisonous!"
Brushing the cobwebs from his face as he ran, he hurried across the cellar and bolted up the steps, out into the brilliant sunlight.
He made frantic efforts to remove the disgusting webs from his garments, his eyes darting everywhere in search of the evil insects.
Presently he set to work replacing the staple and padlock, inserting the nails in the holes they had left in the rotting board. He did his best to fasten the scantlings down, making a sorry job of it, and then, as he prepared to leave the premises, he was suddenly seized by the uncanny feeling that some one was watching him.
His gaze swept the fields, the barn lot, even the high gra.s.s that surrounded the house. There was no one in sight, and yet he could FEEL the eyes of an invisible watcher.
Up in the garden patch, the scarecrow flapped his empty sleeves.
His hat was still tilted jauntily over his absent ear. It was ridiculous to suppose that that uncanny object could see,--yet somehow it seemed to Courtney that it WAS looking at him, looking at him with malicious, accusing eyes.