VII
When Lindsay pulled back from the quiet gray void which had enshroudedhim, he was lying on the grass. Far, far away, as though pasted againstthe brilliant blue sky, was a face. Gradually the sky receded. The facecame nearer. It topped, he gradually gathered, the tiny slenderblack-silk figure of a little old lady. "Do you feel all right now?" itasked.
Lindsay wished that she would not question him. He was immenselypreoccupied with what seemed essentially private matters. But theinstinct of courtesy prodded him. "Very much, thank you," he answeredweakly. He closed his eyes again. He became conscious of a wet clothsopping his forehead and cheeks. A breeze tingled on the bare flesh ofhis neck and chest. He opened his eyes again; sat up. "Do you mean totell me I fainted?" he demanded with his customary vigor.
"That's exactly what you did, young man," the old lady answered. "Theinstant you looked at me! I was setting with my back to the door. Youcould have knocked me down with a feather, when you fell overbackwards."
"Have I been out long?"
"Not more'n a moment. I flaxed around and got some water and brought youto in a jiffy. You ain't an invalid, are you?"
"Far from it," Lindsay reassured her. "I'm afraid, though, I've beenworking too long in the hot sun this morning."
"Like as not!" the little old lady agreed briskly. "I guess you'rehungry too," she hazarded. "Now you just get up and lay in the hammockand I'm going to make you some lunch. I see there was some eggs thereand milk and tea. I'll have you some scrambled eggs fixed in no time. Myname is Spash--Mrs. Spash."
"My name is Lindsay--David Lindsay."
Lindsay found himself submitting without a murmur to the little oldlady's program. He lay quiescent in the hammock and let the tides ofvitality flow back.... Mrs. Spash's prophecy, if anything,underestimated her energy. In an incredibly short time she had produced,in collaboration with the oil stove, eggs scrambled on bread deliciouslytoasted, tea of a revivifying heat and strength.
"Gee, that tastes good!" Lindsay applauded. He sighed. "It certainlytakes a woman!"
"What are you doing here?" Mrs. Spash inquired. "Batching it?"
"Yes, I think that describes the process," Lindsay admitted. After aninstant, "How did you happen to be on the doorstep?"
"Well, I don't wonder you ask," Mrs. Spash declared. "I didn't know theMurray 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 livedhere once for years."
Lindsay sat upright. "Did you by chance live here when Lutetia Murraywas alive?"
"Well, I should say I did!" Mrs. Spash answered. "I lived here the lasttwenty years of Lutetia Murray's life. I was her housekeeper, as youmight say."
Lindsay stared at her. He started to speak. It was obvious thatconflicting comments fought for expression, but all he managed tosay--and ineptly enough--was: "Oh, you knew her, then?"
"Knew her!" Mrs. Spash seemed to search among her vocabulary for words.Or perhaps it was her soul for emotions. "Yes, I knew her," sheconcluded with a feeble breathlessness.
"You've lived in this house, then, for twenty years," Lindsay repeated,musing.
"Yes, all of that." Mrs. Spash appeared to muse also. For an instant thetwo followed their own preoccupations. Then as though they led them tothe same _impasse_, their eyes lifted simultaneously; met. They smiled.
"I've bought this house, Mrs. Spash," Lindsay confided. "And you nevercan guess why."
Mrs. Spash started what appeared to be a comment. It deteriorated into alittle inarticulate murmur.
"I bought it," Lindsay went on, "because when I was in college, I fellin love with Lutetia Murray." And then, at Mrs. Spash's wide-eyed, fadedstare, "Not with Miss Murray herself--I never saw her--but with herbooks. I read everything she wrote and I wrote in college what we call athesis on her."
"Sort of essay or composition," Mrs. Spash defined thesis to herself.
"Exactly," Lindsay permitted.
"She was--she was--" Mrs. Spash began in a dispassionate sort of way.She concluded in a kind of frenzy. "She was an angel."
"Oh yes, she's that all right. I have never seen anybody so lovely."
Mrs. Spash made a swift conversational pounce. "I thought you said you'dnever seen her."
Lindsay flushed abjectly. "No," he admitted. "But you see I have apicture of her." He pointed to the mantel.
"Yes, I noticed that when I came in to get some water." Strangely enoughMrs. Spash did not, for a moment, look at the picture. Instead shestared at Lindsay. Lindsay submitted easily enough to this examination.After a while Mrs. Spash appeared to abandon her scrutiny of him. Shetrotted over to the fireplace; studied Lutetia's likeness.
"I don't know as I ever see that one--it don't half do her justice--Ihate a profile picture--" She pronounced "profile" to rhyme with"wood-pile." "None of her pictures ever did do her justice. Her beautywas 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 hotthe sun was. And then her expression-- Well, it was justbeautiful--changing all the time."
Lindsay was only half listening. He was, with an amused glint in hiseyes, studying Mrs. Spash's spare, erect black-silk figure. She was arelic perfectly preserved, he reflected, of mid-Victorianism. Her blackwas of the kind that is accurately described by the word decent. And shewore fittingly a little black, beaded cape with a black shade-hat thattilted forward over her face at a decided slant. Her straight, white,abundant hair was apparently parted in the middle under her hat. At anyrate, the neat white parting continued over the crown of her head to hervery neck, where it concealed itself under a flat black-silk bow. Hergnarled, blue-veined hands had been covered with the lace mitts that nowlay on the table. Her little wrinkled face was neat-featured. The irisesof her eyes were a faded blue and the whites were blue also; and thisput a note of youthful color among her wrinkles.
But Lindsay lost interest in these details; for, obviously, a new ideacaught him in its instant clutch. "Oh, Mrs. Spash," he suggested, "wouldyou be so good as to take me through this house? I want you to tell mewho occupied the rooms. This is not mere idle curiosity on my part. Yousee Miss Murray's publishers have decided to bring out a new edition ofher works. They want me to write a life of Miss Murray. I'm askingeverybody who knows anything about her all kinds of questions."
Mrs. Spash received all this with that unstirred composure whichindicates non-comprehension of the main issue.
"Of course I'm interested on my own account too," Lindsay went on."She's such a wonderful creature, so charming and so beautiful, sosweet, so unbearably poignant and sad. I can't understand," he concludedabsently, "why she is so sad."
Mrs. Spash seemed to comprehend instantly. "It's the way she died," sheexplained vaguely, "and how everything was left!" She walked in littleswift pattering steps, and with the accustomed air of one who knows herway, through the side door into the addition. "This was Miss Murray'sown living-room," she told Lindsay. "She had that little bit of astairway made, she _said_, so's too many folks couldn't come up to herroom at once. Not that that made any difference. Wherever she was, thewhole household went."
With little nipping steps Mrs. Spash ascended the stairway. Lindsayfollowed.
"Did Miss Murray die in her room?" Lindsay asked.
"How did you know this was her room?" Mrs. Spash demanded.
"I don't know exactly. I just guessed it," Lindsay answered. "I sleephere myself," he hurriedly threw off.
"Yes. She died here. She was all alone when she died. You see--" Mrs.Spash sat down on the one chair and, instantly sensing her mood, Lindsaysat down on the bed.
"You see, things hadn't gone very well for Miss Murray the last years ofher life. Her books didn't sell-- And she spent money like water. Shewas allus the most open-hearted, open-handed creature you can imagine.She allus had the house full of company! And then there was the littlegirl--Cherry--who lived with her. At the end, things were bad. No moneycoming in. And Mi
ss Murray sick all the time."
"You say she was alone when she died," Lindsay gently brought her backto the track.
"Yes--except for little Cherry, who slept right througheverything--childlike. Cherry had that room." Mrs. Spash jerked anangular thumb back.
Lindsay nodded. "Yes, I guessed that--with all the drawings--"
"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 themvery much myself--too dauby. You had to stand way off from them 'forethey'd look like anything _a-tall_. But he used to get as high as fivehundred dollars for them. Oh, what excitement there was in this housewhile he was decorating Cherry's room! And little Cherry chattering likea magpie! Mr. Gale made up a whole long story about the Weejubs on herwalls. Lord, I've forgotten half of it; but Cherry could rattle it alloff as _fast_. Miss Murray had that door between her room and Cherry'smade small on purpose. She said Cherry could come into her room whenevershe wanted to, as long as she was a little girl. But when Cherry grewup, she was going to make it hard for her. But she promised when Cherrywas sixteen years old she shouldn't have to call her auntie anymore--she could call her jess Lutetia. Queer idea, worn't it?"
Mrs. Spash's old eyes so narrowed before an oncoming flood ofreminiscence that they seemed to retreat to the back of her head, wherethey diminished to blue sparks. For a moment the room was silent. Then"Let me show you something! You'd oughter know it, seein' it's yourhouse. There's some, though, I wouldn't show it to."
She pattered with her surprising quickness to the back wall. She presseda spot in the paneling and a small square of the wood moved slowly back.
"You see, Miss Murray's bed ran along that wall, just as Cherry's did inthe other room. Mornings and evenings they used to open this panel andtalk to each other."
Lindsay's eyes filmed even as Mrs. Spash's had. Mentally he saw the twofaces bending toward the opening....
"But you was asking about Miss Murray's death-- As I say, things didn'tgo well with her. I didn't understand how it all happened. Folks stoppedbuying her books, I guess. Anyway, when she died, there was nothingleft. And there was debts. The house and everything in it was sold--atauction. 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 'emand making fun of 'em-- She had beautiful things, but they went fornothing a-tall. They jess about paid her debts."
Lindsay groaned. "But her death--"
"Oh yes, as I was sayin'. You see, Miss Murray worn't ever the sameafter Mr. Lewis died. You know about that?"
Lindsay nodded. "He was drowned."
Mrs. Spash nodded confirmatively. "Yes, in Spy Pond--over South Quinanogway. He was swimming all alone. He was taken with cramps way out in themiddle of the Pond. Finally somebody saw him struggling and they put outin a boat, but they were too late. Miss Murray was in the garden whenthey brought him back on a shutter. I was with her. I can see the wayher face looked now. She didn't say anything. Not a word! She turned tostone. 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 fromNew York."
"Yes. Curiously enough I spent a few days in what used to be his rooms,"Lindsay informed her.
"That so?" But it was quite apparent that nothing outside the radius ofQuinanog interested Mrs. Spash deeply. She made no further comment.
"Was she very much in love with Lewis?" Lindsay ventured.
"In love! I wish you could see their eyes when they looked at eachother. They'd met late. Miss Murray had always had lots of attention.But she never seemed to care for anybody--though she'd flirt alittle--until she met Mr. Lewis. It was love at first sight with them."
She proceeded.
"Well, Miss Murray died five years after Mr. Lewis. She died--well, Idon't know exactly what it was. But she had _attacks_. She was aterrible sufferer. And she was worried--money matters worried her. Yousee, little Cherry's mother died when she was born and her father soonafter. Miss Murray'd always had Cherry and felt responsible for her. Iknow, because she told me. 'It ain't myself, Eunice Spash,' she said tome more'n once. 'It's little Cherry.' Anyway, she was alone when herlast attack came. She'd sent for a cousin--I forget the name--to be withher, and she was up in Boston getting a nurse, and I was in the otherside of the house. I never heard a sound. We found her dead in themiddle 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 shedropped and died halfway. She was all contorted. Her face looked--Not somuch suffering of the body as-- Well, you could see it in her face thatit come to her that she was going, and Cherry was left with nothing."
"What became of that cousin?" Lindsay inquired. "I have asked everybodyin the neighborhood, but nobody seems to know."
"And I don't know. She went to Boston, taking Cherry with her. For atime we heard from Cherry now and then--she'd write letters to thechildren. Then we lost sight of her. I don't know whether Miss Murray'scousin's living or dead; Cherry either."
Lindsay felt that he could have assured her that Cherry was alive; buthis conclusion rested on premises too gauzy for him to hazard thestatement.
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 roomthat overlooked the garden. Mr. Monroe--"
"That's the big man, the sculptor," Lindsay hazarded.
"How'd you know?" Mrs. Spash pounced on him again.
"Oh, I've talked with a lot of people in the neighborhood," Lindsayreturned evasively.
"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 toadmire to have him come."
"Where is he?" Lindsay asked easily. He hoped Mrs. Spash did not guesshow, mentally, he hung upon her answer.
"He went to Italy--to Florence--after Miss Murray died." Mrs. Spashstopped. "He was in love with Miss Murray. Had been for years. Shewouldn't have him though. He was an awful nice man. Sometimes I thoughtshe would have him. But after Mr. Lewis came-- Queer, worn't it? I don'tknow whether Mr. Monroe's alive or dead."
Again Lindsay felt that he could have assured her that he was alive, butagain gauzy premises inhibited exact conclusions.
"The last I heard of him he was in Rome. 'Tain't likely he's alive now._Land_, no! He'd be well over seventy--close onto seventy-five. Mr. Galewas in love with her too. He was younger. I don't think he ever toldMiss Murray, I never _did_ know if she knew. You couldn't fool methough. Well, I started out to show you this house. I must be gittingon. You've seen the slave quarters and the whipping-post upstairs?"
"Yes. _Everybody_ could tell me about the whipping-post and the slavequarters. But the things I wanted to know--"
"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 shekept sort of to herself, as you might say. She wasn't the kind that ranin on folks. She wrote by fits and starts. Sometimes she'd stay up lateat night. She _allus_ wrote new-moon time. She said the light of thecrescent 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 playingthe piano or singing--and dancing even. The house was so lively thosedays--they was all great trainers. And yet she could fall asleep rightin the midst of all that confusion. Well--so you see she wasn't given tomaking calls. And then there was always so much to do and so many folksaround at home. Have you been upstairs in the barn?"
"No--not yet. The stairs were all broken away. I had just finishedmending them when I had the pleasure of making your acquaintance."
They both smiled reminiscently.
"Let's go up there now--there must be a lot of things--" She ended hersentence a little vaguely as the old sometimes do. But the movement withwhich she arose from her chair and trotted toward the stairs was full ofan anticipation almost youthful.
"The garden used to be so pretty," she sighed as they started on thewell-worn trail to the barn. "Miss Murray worn't what you might callpractical, but she could make flowers grow. She never cooked, nor sewed,nor anything sensible, but she'd work in that garden till-- There wascertain combinations of flowers that she used to like; hollyhocks,especially the garnet ones so dark they was almost black, surrounded bythem blue Canterbury bells; and then phlox in all colors, white and pinkand magenta and lavender and purple. I think there was some things putout here," she interrupted herself vaguely, "that nobody wanted at theauction. There wasn't even a bid on them."
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 wasthe confused mass of objects that the lumber room of any large householdinevitably collects. Broken chairs; tables, bureaux; rejected pieces ofchina; kitchen furnishings; a rusty stove, old boxes; bandboxes; brokentrunks; torn bags.
"There! That's the table Miss Murray used to do her writing at. She saidthere never had been a table built big enough for her. I expect that'swhy nobody bought it at the auction. 'Twas too big for mortal use, youmight say. The same reason I expect is why the dining-room table didn'tsell either."
"Where did she write?" Lindsay asked, measuring the table with his eye.
"All summer in the south living-room. But when it come winter, she'doften take her things and set right in front of the fire in theliving-room. Then she'd write at that long table you're writing on."
"This table goes back to the south living-room tomorrow," Lindsaydecided almost inaudibly. "Can you tell me the exact spot?"
"I guess I _can_. Lord knows I've got down on my hands and knees anddusted 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 tavernwhere they was having a sale. She said it dated back--long beforeRevolutionary times--to Colonial days."
"Could you tell me, I wonder, about the rest of Miss Murray'sfurniture?" Lindsay came suddenly from out a deep revery. "Do youremember who bought it? I would like to buy back all that I can get. I'dlike to make the old place look, as much as possible, as it used tolook."
Mrs. Spash flashed him a quick intent look. Then she meditated. "I thinkI could probably tell you where most every piece went. The Drakes gotthe Field bed and the ivory-keyhole bureau and the ivory-keyhole desk;and Miss Garnet got the elephant and Mis' Manson got the gazelles--"
"Elephant! Gazelles!" Lindsay interrupted.
"The gazelles," Mrs. Spash smiled indulgently. "Well, it does soundqueer, but Miss Murray used to call those little thin-legged candletables that folks use, _gazelles_. The elephant was a great high chestof drawers. Mis' Manson got the maple gazelles--" She proceeded in whatpromised to be an indefinite category.
"Do you think I could buy any of those things back?" Lindsay asked afterlistening patiently to the end.
"Some of them, I guess. I have a few things in my attic I'll sellyou--and some I'll give you. I'd admire to see them in the old placeonce more."
"You must let me buy them all," Lindsay protested.
"Well, we'll see about that," Mrs. Spash disposed of this disagreementeasily. "Have you seen the Dew Pond yet?"
"The Dew Pond!" Lindsay echoed.
"The little pond beyond the barn," Mrs. Spash explained. Then, as thougha great light dawned, "Oh, of course it's all so growed up round ityou'd never notice it. Come and I'll show it to you."
Lindsay followed her out of the barn. This was all like a dream, hereflected--but then everything was like a dream nowadays. He had livedin a dream for two months now. Mrs. Spash struck into a path which ledbeyond the barn.
The trail grew narrower and narrower; threatened after a while todisappear. Lindsay finally took the lead, broke a path. They camepresently on a pond so tiny that it was not a pond at all; it was apool. Water-lilies choked it; forget-me-nots bordered it; high wildroses screened it.
Lindsay stood looking for a long time into it. "It's the Merry Mere of_Mary Towle_," he meditated aloud. Mrs. Spash received this in theuninterrogative silence with which she had received other of hisconfidences. She apparently fell back easily into the ways of literaryfolk.
"I remember now I got a glint of water from one of the upstairsbedrooms," Lindsay went on, "the first time I came into the house. But Iforgot it instantly; and I've never noticed it since."
"Wait a moment!" Mrs. Spash seemed afraid that he would leave. "There'ssomething else." She attempted to push her way through the jungle in thedirection of the house. For an instant her progress was easy, thenbushes and vines caught her. Lindsay sprang to her assistance.
"There's something here--that was left," she panted. "Folks haveforgotten all about--" She dropped explanatory phrases.
Heedless of tearing thorns and piercing prickers, Lindsay crashed on.Mrs. Spash watched expectantly.
"There!" she called with satisfaction.
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. Thesun found exposed spots on its surface, brought out its rich olivecolor.
"After Mr. Lewis died," Mrs. Spash explained, "Miss Murray went abroadfor 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 somethinghandsome. She told me once she went into a temple on the Nile cut out ofthe living-rock, where there was room after room, one right back of theother. In the last one, there was an altar; and once a year, the firstray of the rising sun would strike through all the rooms and lay on thataltar. Worn't that cute? I allus thought she had that in mind when sheput this here."
Lindsay contemplated the old rum-jar. Mrs. Spash contemplated him. Andsuddenly it was as though she were looking at Lindsay from a new pointof view.
Lindsay's face had changed subtly in the last two months. The sun ofQuinanog had added but little to the tan and burn with which three yearsof flying had crusted it. He was still very handsome. It was not,however, this comeliness that Mrs. Spash seemed to be examining. Theexperiences at Quinanog had softened the deliberate stoicism of hislook. Rather they had fed some inner softness; had fired it. His air wasnow one of perpetual question. Yet dreams often invaded his eyes;blurred them; drooped his lips.
"It's all unbelievable," Lindsay suddenly commented, "I don't believeit. I don't believe you. I don't believe myself."
Mrs. Spash still kept her eyes fixed on the young man's face. Her lookhad grown piercing.
"Have you a shovel handy?" she surprisingly asked.
"Yes, why?"
Mrs. Spash did not answer immediately. He turned and looked at her. Shewas still gazing at him hard; but the light from some long-harboredemotion of her dulled old soul was shining bluely in her dulled oldeyes.
"I want you should get it," she ordered briefly. "There's somethingright here," she pointed, "that I want you to dig up."
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