Out of the Air

by Inez Haynes Gillmore

  IX

  Lindsay sat in the big living-room beside the refectory table. Mrs.Spash moved about the room dusting; setting its scanty furnishings torights. On the long table before him was set out a series of tinyvillages, some Chinese, some Japanese: little pink or green-edged housesin 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 bitof looking-glass, here and there, made ponds. Ducks floated on them, andboats; 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.

  "That's just what Miss Murray used to do," Mrs. Spash observed. "She'dplay with them toys for hours at a time. And of course Cherry loved themmore than anything in the house. That's the reason I stole them andburied them."

  "How did you manage that exactly?" Lindsay asked.

  "Oh, that was easy enough," Mrs. Spash confessed cheerfully. "BetweenMiss Murray's death and the auction, I was here a lot, fixing up. Theyall trusted me, of course. Those toys was all set out in little villagesby the Dew Pond. Nobody knew that they were there. So I just did them upin tissue paper and put them in that big tin box and hid them in thebushes. One night late I came back and buried them. Folks didn't thinkof them for a long time after the auction. You see, nobody had touchedthem during Miss Murray's illness. And when they did remember them, theythought they had disappeared during the sale." Mrs. Spash paused amoment. Her face assumed an expression of extreme disapproval. "Otherthings disappeared during the sale," she accused, lowering her voice.

  "Who took them?" Lindsay asked.

  All the caution of the Yankee appeared in Mrs. Spash's voice. "I don'tknow as I'd like to say, because it isn't a thing anybody can prove. Ihave my suspicions though."

  Lindsay did not continue these inquiries.

  "Where did Miss Murray get all these toys?"

  "Well, a lot of 'em came from China. Miss Murray had a great-uncle whowas a sea-captain. He used to go on them long whaling voyages. Hebrought them to her different times. Miss Murray had played with themwhen she was a child, and so she liked to have little Cherry play withthem. 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 outin little towns--jess about as you've got 'em there. There was twolittle places on the shore that Miss Murray had all cut down, so's thebushes wouldn't be too tall. They useter call the pond the PacificOcean. One of them cleared places was the China coast and the other theJapanese coast. They'd stay there for hours, floating little boats backand forth from China to Japan. And how they'd laugh! I useter listen totheir voices coming through the window. But then, the house was alwaysfull of laughter. It began at seven o'clock in the morning, when theygot up, and it never stopped until--after midnight sometimes--when theywent to bed. Oh, it was such a gay place in those days."

  Lindsay arose and stretched. But the stretching did not seem so much anexpression of fatigue or drowsiness as the demand of his spirit forimmediate activity of some sort. He sat down again instantly. Under hisdowncast lids, his eyes were bright. "These walls are soaked withlaughter," he remarked.

  "Yes," Mrs. Spash seemed to understand. "But there was tears too andplenty of them--in the last years."

  "I suppose there were," Lindsay agreed. He did not speak for a moment;nor did Mrs. Spash. There came a silence so concentrated that thesunlight poured into it tangible gold. Then, outside a thick white cloudcaught the sun in its woolly net. The world gloomed again.

  "She's sad still," Lindsay dropped in absent comment.

  "Yes," Mrs. Spash agreed.

  "I wonder what she wants?" Lindsay addressed this to himself. His voicewas so low that perhaps Mrs. Spash did not hear it. At any rate she madeno answer.

  Another silence came.

  Mrs. Spash finished her dusting. But she lingered. Lindsay still sat atthe table; but his eyes had left the little villages arranged there.They went through the door and gazed out into the brilliant patch ofsunlight on the grass. There spread under his eyes a narrow stretch oflawn, 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, winered. Beyond stretched further expanses of lawn. One tall, widewine-glass elm spread a perfect circle of emerald shade. One low, thickcopper-beech dropped an irregular splotch of luminous shadow. Beyond allthis ran the gray, lichened stone wall. And beyond the stone wall cameunredeemed jungle. Mrs. Spash began, all over again, to dust and toarrange the scanty furniture. After a while she spoke.

  "Mr. Lindsay--"

  Lindsay started abruptly.

  "Mr. Lindsay--that time you fainted when you first saw me, setting outthere on the door-stone, you remember--?"

  Lindsay nodded.

  "Well, who was you expecting to see?"

  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 athim. Their glances met midway. The old eyes pierced the young eyes withan intent scrutiny. The young eyes stabbed the old eyes with an intenseinterrogation. Lindsay did not answer her question directly. Instead helaughed.

  "I guess I don't have to answer you," he declared. "I had seen her oftenthen.... I had seen the others too.... I don't know why _you_ shouldhave frightened me when _they_ didn't.... I think it was that I wasn'texpecting anything human.... I've seen them since.... They neverfrighten me."

  Mrs. Spash's reply was simple enough. "I see them all the time." Sheadded, with a delicate lilt of triumph, "I've seen them for years--"

  Lindsay continued to look at her--and now his gaze was somber; even alittle despairing. "What do they want? What does _she_ want?"

  Mrs. Spash's reply came instantly, although there were pauses in herwords. "I don't know. I've tried.... I can't make out." She accompaniedthese simple statements with a reinforcing decisive nod of her littlehead.

  "I can't guess either--I can't conjecture-- There's something she wantsme to do. She can't tell me. And they're trying to help her tell me. Allexcept the little girl--"

  "Do you see the little girl?" Mrs. Spash demanded. "Well, I declare!That's very queer, I must say. I never see Cherry."

  "I wish I saw her oftener," Lindsay laughed ruefully. "_She_ doesn't askanything of me. She's just herself. But the others--Gale--Monroe-- MyGod! It's killing me!" He laughed again, and this time with a realamusement.

  Mrs. Spash interrupted his laughter. "Do you see Mr. Monroe?" she askedin a pleased tone. "Well, I declare! Aren't you the fortunate creature.I never see _him_!"

  "All the time," Lindsay answered shortly. "If I could only get it. Ifeel so stupid, so incredibly gross and lumbering and heavy. I'd doanything--"

  He arose and walked over to the picture of Lutetia Murray which stillhung above the fireplace. He stared at her hard. "I'd do anything forher, if I could only find out what it was."

  "Yes," Mrs. Spash admitted dispassionately, "that's the thing everybodyfelt about her, they'd do anything for her. Not that she ever asked themto do anything--"

  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, inthis last revolution, it hauls, out of the past, these pictures of twodecades ago? Or is it that there are superimposed one on the other tworevolving worlds--theirs and ours--and _theirs_ or _ours_ has stopped aninstant, so that I can glance into _theirs_? I feel as though I were inthe dark of a camera obscura gazing into their brightness. Or have thosetwo years in the air permanently broken my psychology; so that throughthat rift I shall always have the power to look into strange worlds? Oram I just piercing another dimension?"

  Mrs. Spash had been following him with her faded, calm old eyes.Apparently she guessed these questions were not addressed to her. Shekept silence.

  "
I've racked my brain. I lie awake nights and tear the universe topieces. I outguess guessing and outconjecture conjecture. My thoughtsfly to the end of space. My wonder invades the very citadel of fancy. Mysurmises storm the last outpost of reality. But it beats me. I can't getit." Lindsay stopped. Mrs. Spash made no comment. Apparently her twentyyears' training among artists had prepared her for monologues of thissort. She listened; but it was obvious that she did not understand; didnot expect to understand.

  "Does she want me to stay _here_ or go _there_?" Lindsay demanded of theair. "If _here_, what does she want me to do? If _there_--where is_there_? If _there_, what does she want me to do _there_? Is her errandconcerned 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 eyeson 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 Idon't do it soon, it will be too late."

  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."

  "But how--" Lindsay objected. "And when--"

  "I don't know--but she'll tell you somehow. She's cute-- She's awfulcute. You mark my words, she'll find a way."

  "That's the reason I don't have you in the house yet, Mrs. Spash,"Lindsay explained.

  "Oh, you don't have to tell me that," Mrs. Spash announced, triumphantbecause of her own perspicuity.

  "It's only that I have a feeling that she can do it more easily if we'realone. That's why I send you home at night. She comes oftenest in theevening when I'm alone. They all do. Oh, it's quite a procession somenights. They come one after another, all trying--" He paused. "Sometimesthis room is so full of their torture that I-- You know, it all beganbefore I came here. It began in an apartment in New York. It was inJeffrey Lewis' old rooms. He tried to tell me first, you see."

  "Did you see Mr. Lewis there?" Mrs. Spash asked this as casually asthough she had said, "Has the postman been here this morning?" Sheadded, "I see him here."

  "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 thatfrightened me. I wouldn't have been frightened if I had seen him. It washe, really, who sent me here. I work it out that he couldn't get it overand he sent me to Lutetia because he thought she could. I wonder--" hestopped short. This explanation came as though something had flashedelectrically through his mind. But he did not pursue that wonder.

  "Well, don't you get discouraged," Mrs. Spash reiterated. "You mark mywords, she'll manage to say what she's got to say."

  "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 theway, Mrs. Spash," Lindsay veered as though remembering suddenlysomething he had forgotten, "do other people see them?"

  "No--at least I never heard tell that they did."

  "How did the rumor get about that the place was haunted, then?"

  "I spread it," Mrs. Spash explained. "I didn't want folks breaking in tosee if there was anything to steal. And I didn't want them poking aboutthe place."

  "How did you spread it?"

  "I told children," Mrs. Spash said simply. "Less than a month, folkswere seeing all kinds of ridic'lous ghosts here. Nobody likes to go byalone at night."

  "It's a curious thing," Lindsay reverted to his main theme, "that I knowher message has nothing to do with this biography. I don't know how Iknow it; but I do. Of course, that would be the first thing a man wouldthink of. It is something more instant, more acute. It beats mealtogether. All I can do is wait."

  "Now don't you think any more about it, Mr. Lindsay," Mrs. Spashadvised. "You go upstairs and set to work. I'm going to get you up thebest lunch today you've had yet."

  "That's the dope," Lindsay agreed. "The only way to take a man's mindoff his troubles is to give him a good dinner. You'll have to work hard,though, Eunice Spash, to beat your own record."

  Lindsay arose and sauntered into the front hall and up the stairs. Heturned into the room at the right which he had reserved for work, nowthat Mrs. Spash was on the premises. At this moment, it was flooded withsunlight.... A faint odor of the honeysuckle vine at the corner seemedto emanate from the light itself....

  Instantly ... he realized ... that the room was not empty.

  Lindsay became feverishly active. Eyes down, he mechanically shuffledhis papers. He collected yesterday's written manuscript, brought theedges 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 pointin his penholder. He moved the ink-bottle. But this availed his spiritnothing. "I am incredibly stupid," he said aloud. His voice was low, butit rang as hollowly as though he were from another world. "If you couldonly speak to me. Can't you speak to me?"

  He did not raise his eyes. But he waited for a long interval, duringwhich the silence in the room became so heavy and cold that it almostblotted out the sunlight.

  "But have patience with me. I want to serve you. Oh, you don't know howI want to serve you. I give you my word, I'll get it sometime and Ithink not too late. I'll kill myself if I don't. I'm putting all I amand all I have into trying to understand. Don't give me up. It's onlybecause I'm flesh and blood."

  He stopped and raised his eyes.

  The room was empty.

  That afternoon Lindsay took a walk so long, so devil-driven that he cameback streaming perspiration from every pore. Mrs. Spash regarded himwith a glance in which disapproval struggled with sympathy. "I don'tknow as you'd ought to wear yourself out like that, Mr. Lindsay. Later,perhaps you'll need all your strength--"

  "Very likely you're right, Mrs. Spash," Lindsay agreed. "But I've beentrying to work it out."

  Mrs. Spash left as usual at about seven. By nine, the last remnant ofthe long twilight, a collaboration of midsummer with daylight-saving,had disappeared. Lindsay lighted his lamp and sat down with Lutetia'spoems. The room was peculiarly cheerful. The beautiful Murray sideboard,recently discovered and recovered, held its accustomed place between thetwo windows. The old Murray clock, a little ship swinging back and forthabove its brass face, ticked in the corner. The old whale-oil lamps hadresumed their stand, one at either end of the mantel. Old pieces, oldthough not Lutetia's--they were gone irretrievably--bits picked up hereand there, made the deep sea-shell corner cabinet brilliant with thecolor of old china, glimmery with the shine of old pewter, sparkly withthe glitter of old glass. Many chairs--windsors, comb-backs, a Bostonrocker--filled the empty spaces with an old-time flavor. In traditionalplaces, high old glasses held flowers. The single anachronism was thebig, nickel, green-shaded student lamp.

  Lindsay needed rest, but he could not go to bed. He knew perfectly wellthat he was exhausted, but he knew equally well that he was not drowsy.His state of mind was abnormal. Perhaps the three large cups ofjet-black coffee that he had drunk at dinner helped in this matter. Butwhatever the cause, he was conscious of every atom of this exaggeratedspiritual alertness; of the speed with which his thoughts drove; of thealmost insupportable mental clarity through which they shot.

  "If this keeps up," he meditated, "it's no use my going to bed at alltonight. I could not possibly sleep."

  He found Lutetia's poems agreeable solace at this moment. They containedno anodyne for his restlessness; but at least they did not increase it.Her poetry had not been considered successful, but Lindsay liked it. Itwas erratic in meter; irregular in rhythm. But at times it astounded himwith a delicate precision of expression; at moments it surprised himwith an opulence of fancy. He read on and on--

  Suddenly that mental indicator--was it a flutter of his spirit or merelya lowering of the spiritual temperature?--apprised him that he was notalone.... But as usual, after he realized that his privacy had beeninvaded, he continued to read; his gaze caught, as though actually tied,by the print.... After a while he shut the book.... But he s
till satwith his hand clutching it, one finger marking the place.... He did notlift his eyes when he spoke....

  "Tell the others to go," he demanded.

  * * * * *

  After a while he arose. He did not move to the other end of the room nordid he glance once in that direction. But on his side, he paced up anddown with a stern, long-strided prowl. He spoke aloud.

  "Listen to me!" His tone was peremptory. "We've got to understand eachother tonight. I can't endure it any longer; for I know as well as youthat the time is getting short. You can't speak to me. But I can speakto you. Lutetia, you've got to outdo yourself tonight. You must give mea sign. Do you understand? You _must_ show me. Now summon all that youhave of strength, whatever it is, to give me that sign--do youunderstand, _all you have_. Listen! Whatever it is that you want me todo, it isn't here. I know that now. I know it because I've been here twomonths-- Whatever it is, it must be put through somewhere else. An ideacame to me this morning. I spent all the afternoon thinking it out.Maybe I've got a clue. It all started in New York. _He_ tried to get itto me there. Listen! Tell me! Quick! Quick! Quick! Do you want me to goto New York?"

  The answer was instantaneous. As though some giant hand had seized thehouse in its grip, it shook. Shook for an infinitesimal fraction of aninstant. Almost, it seemed to Lindsay, walls quivered; panes rattled;shutters banged, doors slammed. And yet in the next infinitesimalfraction of that instant he knew that he had heard no tangible sound.Something more exquisite than sound had filled that unmeasurableinterval with shattering, deafening confusion.

  Lindsay turned with a sharp wheel; glared into the dark of the otherside of the room.

  * * * * *

  Lindsay dashed upstairs to his desk. There he found a time-table. Theten-fifteen from Quinanog would give him ample time to catch themidnight to New York. He might not be able to get a sleeping berth; butthe thing he needed least, at that moment, was sleep. In fact, he wouldrather sit up all night. He flung a few things into his suitcase; dashedoff a note to Mrs. Spash. In an incredibly short time, he was stridingover the two miles of road which led to the station.

  There happened to be an unreserved upper berth. It was a superfluousluxury as far as Lindsay was concerned. He lay in it during whatremained of the night, his eyes shut but his spirit more wakeful than hehad ever known it. "Every revolution of these wheels," he said once tohimself, "brings me nearer to it, whatever it is." He arose early; wasthe first to invade the washroom; the first to step off the train; thefirst to leap into a taxicab. He gave the address of Spink's apartmentsto the driver. "Get there faster than you can!" he ordered briefly. Theman looked at him--and then proceeded to break the speed law.

  Washington Square was hardly awake when they churned up to the sidewalk.Lindsay let himself in the door; bounded lightly up the two flights ofstairs; unlocked the door of Spink's apartment. Everything was silentthere. The dust of two months of vacancy lay on the furnishings. Lindsaystood in the center of the room, contemplating the door which ledbackward into the rest of the apartment.

  "Well, old top, _you're_ not going to trouble me any longer. I get thatwith my first breath. I've done what _she_ wanted and what _you_ wantedso far. Now what in the name of heaven is the next move?"

  He stood in the center of the room waiting, listening.

  And then into his hearing, stretched to its final capacity, came sound.Just _sound_ at first; then a dull murmur. Lindsay's hair rose with aprickling progress from his scalp. But that murmur was human. Itcontinued.

  Lindsay went to the door, opened it, and stepped out into the hall. Themurmur grew louder. It was a woman's voice; a girl's voice; unmistakablythe voice of youth. It came from the little room next to Spink'sapartment.

  Again Lindsay listened. The monotone broke; grew jagged; grew shrill;became monotonous again. Suddenly the truth dawned on him. It was thevoice of madness or of delirium.

  He advanced to the door and knocked. Nobody answered. The monotonecontinued. He knocked again. Nobody answered. The monotone continued. Hetried the knob. The door was locked. With his hand still on the knob, heput his shoulder to the door; gave it a slow resistless pressure. Itburst open.

  It was a small room and furnished with the conventional furnishings of abedroom. Lindsay saw but two things in it. One was a girl, sitting up inthe bed in the corner; a beautiful slim creature with streaming loosered hair; her cheeks vivid with fever spots; her eyes brilliant withfever-light. It was she who emitted the monotone.

  The other thing was a miniature, standing against the glass on thebureau. A miniature of a beautiful woman in the full lusciousness of agolden blonde maturity.

  The woman of the miniature was Lutetia Murray.

  The girl--

  X

  She felt that the room was full of sunshine. Even through her glued-downlids she caught the darting dazzle of it. She knew that the air was fullof bird voices. Even through her drowse-filmed ears, she caught thesinging sound of them. She would like to lift her lids. She would liketo wake up. But after all it was a little too easy to sleep. The impulsewith which she sank back to slumber was so soft that it was scarcelyimpulse. It dropped her slowly into an enormous dark, a colossal quiet.

  Presently she drifted to the top of that dark quiet. Again the sunlightflowed into the channels of seeing. Again the birds picked on thestrings of hearing. By an enormous effort she opened her eyes.

  She stared from her bed straight at a window. A big vine stretched filmsof green leaf across it. It seemed to color the sunshine that pouredonto the floor--green. She looked at the window for a long time.Presently she discovered among the leaves a crimson, vase-like flower.

  "Why, how thick the trumpet-vine has grown!" she said aloud.

  It seemed to her that there was a movement at her side. But thatmovement 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 hourlater, perhaps five minutes--she opened her eyes. Again she stared atthe window. Again the wonder of growth absorbed her thought; passed outof it. She looked about the room. Her little bedroom set, painted a softcreamy yellow with long tendrils of golden vine, stood out softlyagainst the faded green cartridge paper.

  "Why! Why have they put the bureau over there?" she demanded aloud ofthe miniature of Glorious Lutie which hung beside the bureau. With avague alarm, her eyes sped from point to point. The dado of Weejubsstood out as though freshly restored. But all her pictures were gone;the four colored prints, Spring, Summer, Autumn, Winter--each the headof a little girl, decked with buds or flowers, fruit or furs, hadvanished. The faded squares where they had hung showed on the walls. Oh,woe, her favorite of all, "My Little White Kittens," had disappearedtoo. On the other hand--on table, on bureau, and on commode-top--crowdedthe little Chinese toys.

  "Why, when did they bring them in from the Dew Pond?" she asked herself,again aloud.

  With a sudden stab of memory, she reached her hand up on the wall. Howcurious! Only yesterday she could scarcely touch the spring; now herhand went far beyond it. She pressed. The little panel opened slowly.She raised herself in bed and looked through the aperture.

  Glorious Lutie's room was stark--bare, save for a bed and her longwooden writing-table.

  Her thoughts flew madly ... suddenly her whole acceptance of thingscrumbled. Why! She wasn't Cherie and eight. She was Susannah andtwenty-five; and the last time she had been anywhere she had been in NewYork.... Lightnings of memory tore at her ... the Carbonado MiningCompany ... Eloise ... a Salvation Army woman on the street ... roofers.Yet this was Blue Meadows. She did not have to pinch herself or press onher sleepy eyelids. It _was_ Blue Meadows. The trumpet-vine, though asgigantic as Jack's beanstalk, proved it. The painted furniture provedit. The Chinese toys proved it. Yes, and if she wanted the final touchthat clinched all argument, there beside the head of the bed was themaple gazelle. This really was not the final proof. The final proof wash
uman and it entered the room at that moment in the person of Mrs.Spash. And Mrs. Spash--in her old, quaint inaccurate way--was callingher as Cherry.

  Susannah burst into tears.

  * * * * *

  "Oh, I feel so much better now," Susannah said after a little talk; moresleep; then talk again. "I'm going to be perfectly well in a littlewhile. I want to get up. And oh, dear Mrs. Spash--do you remember howsometimes I used to call you Mrs. Splash? I do want as soon as possibleto see Mr. Lindsay and his cousin--Miss Stockbridge, did you say? I wantto thank them, of course. How can I ever thank them enough? And I wantto 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 youand 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 wantto publish some of them; they are so lovely, so full of our games--andjingles, and even drawings. Couldn't I sit up now?"

  "I don't see why not," Mrs. Spash said. "You've slept for nearlytwenty-six hours, Cherry. You waked up once--or half-waked up. We gaveyou some hot milk and you went right to sleep again."

  "It's going to make me well--just being at Blue Meadows," Susannahprophesied. "If I could only stay-- But I'm grateful for a day, anhour."

  * * * * *

  Later, she came slowly down the stairs--one hand on the rail, the otherholding Mrs. Spash's arm. She wore her faded creamy-pink, creamy-yellowJapanese kimono, held in prim plaits by the broad sash, a big obi bow atthe back. Her red hair lay forward in two long glittering braids. Herface was still pale, but her eyes overran with a lucent blue excitement.It caught on her eyelashes and made stars there.

  A slim young man in flannels; tall with a muscular litheness; dark witha burnished tan; handsome; arose from his work at the long refectorytable. He came forward smiling--his hand outstretched. "My cousin, MissStockbridge, has run in to Boston to do some shopping," he explained. "Ican't tell you how glad I am to see you up, or how glad she will be." Hetook her disengaged arm and reinforced Mrs. Spash's efforts. They guidedher into a big wing chair. The young man found a footstool for her.

  "I suppose I'm not dreaming, Mr. Lindsay," Susannah apprised himtremulously. "And yet how can it be anything but a dream? I left thisplace fifteen years ago and I have never seen it since. How did I getback here? How did you find me? How did you know who I was? And whatmade you so heavenly good as to bring me here? I remember fragments hereand there-- Mrs. Spash tells me I've had the flu."

  Lindsay laughed. "That's all easily explained," he said with asmoothness almost meretricious. "I happened to go to New York onbusiness. As usual I went to my friend Sparrel's apartment. You were illand delirious in the next room. I heard you; forced the door open andsent at once for a doctor. He pronounced it a belated case of flu. So Itelephoned for Miss Stockbridge; we moved you into my apartment andafter you passed the crisis--thank God, you escaped pneumonia!--I askedthe doctor if I could bring you over here. He agreed that the countryair would be the very best thing for you, and yet would not advise me todo it. He thought it was taking too great a risk. But I felt--I can'ttell you how strongly I felt it--that it would be the best thing foryou. My cousin stood by me, and I took the chance. Sometimes now,though, I shudder at my own foolhardiness. You don't remember--or doyou?--that I went through the formality of asking your consent."

  "I do remember now--vaguely," Susannah laughed. "Isn't it lucky Ididn't--in my weakness--say no?"

  Lindsay laughed again. "I shouldn't have paid any attention to it, ifyou had. I knew that this was what you needed. You were sleeping thenabout twenty-five hours out of the twenty-four. So one night we broughtyou in a taxi to the boat and took the night trip to Boston. The boatwas making its return trip that night, but I bribed them to let you stayon 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. Thatwas yesterday afternoon. It was dark when we got here. You didn't evenopen your eyes when I carried you into the house. In the meantime I hadwired Mrs. Spash--and she fixed up your room, as much like the way itused to be when you were a child, as she could remember."

  "It's all too marvelous," Susannah murmured. New brilliancies werewelling up into her turquoise eyes, the deep dark fringes of lash couldnot hold them; the stars kept dropping off their tips. Fresh spurts ofcolor invaded her face. Nervously her long white hands pulled at hercoppery braids.

  "There are so many questions I shall ask you," she went on, "when I'mstrong enough. But some I must ask you now. How did you happen to comehere? And when did the idea of writing Glorious Lutie's--myaunt'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, nowbeing Susannah Ayer, I was formerly Susannah Delano?"

  "There was the miniature of Miss Murray hanging on your wall. That mademe sure--in--in some inexplicable way--that you were the little lostCherry. And of course we went through your handbag to make sure. Wefound some letters addressed to Susannah Delano Ayer. But will you tellme how you _do_ happen to be Susannah Ayer, when you were formerlySusannah Delano, alias Cherry--or Cherie?"

  "I went from here to Providence to live with a large family of cousins.Their name was Ayer, and I was so often called Ayer that finally I tookthe name." Susannah paused, and then with a sudden impulse towardconfidence, she went on. "I grew up with my cousins. I was the youngestof them all. The two oldest girls married, one a Californian, the othera Canadian. I haven't seen them for years. The three boys are scatteredall over everywhere, by the war. My uncle died first; then my aunt. Sheleft me the five hundred dollars with which I got my business training."

  The look of one who is absorbing passionately all that is being said tohim was on Lindsay's face. But a little perplexity troubled it."Glorious Lutie?" he repeated interrogatively.

  "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_Cherie_. And we had a game--the Abracadabra game. When she was tellingme a story--her stories were _marvels_; they went on for days anddays--and she got tired, she could always stop it by saying,Abracadabra! If I didn't reply instantly with Abracadabra, the storystopped. Of course she always caught my little wits napping--I was soabsorbed in the story that I could only stutter and pant, trying toremember that long word."

  "That's a Peter Ibbetson trick," Lindsay commented.

  * * * * *

  The talk, thus begun, lasted for the three hours which elapsed beforeMiss Stockbridge's return. Two narratives ran through their talk;Lindsay's, which dealt with superficial matters, began with his returnto America from France; Susannah's, which began with that sad day,fifteen years ago, when she saw Blue Meadows for the last time. Butneither narrative went straight. They zig-zagged; they curved, theycircled. Those deviations were the result of racing up squirrel tracksof opinion and theory; of little excursions into the allied experiencesof youth; even of talks on books. Once it was interrupted by thenoiseless entry of Mrs. Spash, who deposited a tray which contained aglass of milk, a pair of dropped eggs, a little mound of buttered toast.Susannah suddenly found herself hungry. She drained her glass, ate botheggs, devoured the last crumb of toast.

  After this, she felt so vigorous that she fell in with Lindsay'ssuggestion that she walk to the door. There she stood on the door-stonefor a preoccupied, half-joyful, half-melancholy interval studying thegarden. Then, leaning on his arm, she ventured as far as the seat underthe copper-beech. Later, even, she went to the barn and the Dew Pond.Before she could get tired, Lindsay brought her back, reestablishing herin the chair. Then--and not till then--and following another impulse toconfide in Lindsay, Susannah told him the whole story of the Carbon
adoMining Company. Perhaps his point of view on that matter gave her hersecond accession of vitality. He paced up and down the room during hernarrative; his hands, fists. But he laughed their threats to scorn. "Nowdon't give another thought to that gang of crooks!" he adjured her. "Iknow a man in New York--a lawyer. I'll have him look up that crowd andput the fear of God into them. They'll probably be flown by that time,however. Undoubtedly they were making ready for their getaway. Don'tthink of it again. They can't hurt you half as much as that bee that'strying to get in the door." He was silent for a moment, staring fixedlydown at his own manuscript on the table. "By God!" he burst outsuddenly, "I've half a mind to beat it on to New York. I'd like to bepresent. I'd have some things to say--and do."

  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 toyou--and your cousin. But it's mainly because I've not had the strengthyet. I don't know how I'm going to repay you. I don't know how I'm evengoing to tell you. What I owe you--just in money--let alone eternalgratitude."

  "Now, that's all arranged," Lindsay said smoothly. "You don't know whata find you were. You're an angel from heaven. You're a Christmas presentin 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 onlybe secretary but collaborator. As soon as you're well enough, we'll goto work every morning and we'll work together until it's done."

  Susannah leaned back, snuggled into the soft recess of the comfortablechair. She dropped her lids over the dazzling brilliancy of her eyes. "Isuppose I ought to say no. I suppose I ought to have some proper prideabout accepting so much kindness. I suppose I ought to show somefirmness of mind, pawn all my possessions and get back to work in NewYork or Boston. Girls in novels always do those things. But I know Ishall do none of them. I shall say yes. For I haven't been so happysince Glorious Lutie died."

  "Oh," Lindsay exclaimed quickly as though glad to reduce this dangerousemotional excitement. "There comes the lost Anna Sophia Stockbridge.She's a dandy. I think you'll like her. It's awfully hard not to."

  * * * * *

  The instant Susannah had disappeared with Miss Stockbridge up thestairs, Mrs. Spash appeared in the Long Room. Apparently, she came witha definite object--an object in no way connected with the futile dustingmovements she began to emit.

  Lindsay watched her.

  Suddenly Mrs. Spash's eyes came up; met his. They gazed at each other along moment; a gaze that was luminous with question and answer.

  "She's gone," Lindsay announced after a while.

  Mrs. Spash nodded briskly.

  "She'll never come back," Lindsay added.

  Again Mrs. Spash nodded briskly.

  "They've all gone," Lindsay stated.

  For the third time Mrs. Spash briskly nodded.

  "When Cherie came, _they_ left," Lindsay concluded.

  "They'd done what they wanted to do," Mrs. Spash vouchsafed. "Broughtyou and Cherry together. So there was no need. She took them away. She'dadmire to stay. That's like her. But she don't want to make the placeseem--well, _queer_. So, as she allus did, she gives up her wish."

  "Mrs. Spash," Lindsay exploded suddenly after a long pause, "we've_never_ seen them. You understand we've never seen them; either of us.They never were here."

  Mrs. Spash nodded for the fourth time.

  * * * * *

  That night after his cousin and his guest had gone to bed, Lindsaywandered about the place. The moon was big enough to turn his paths intostreams of light. He walked through the flower garden; into the barn;about the Dew Pond. The tallest hollyhocks scarcely moved, so quiet wasthe night. The little pond showed no ripple except a flash of themoonlight. The barn was a cavern of gloom. Lindsay gazed at everythingas though from a new point of view.

  An immeasurable content filled him.

  After a while he returned to the house. His picture of Lutetia Murraystill hung over the mantel in the living-room. He gazed at it for a longwhile. Then he turned away. As he looked down the length of theliving-room, there was in his face a whimsical expression, half of anachieved happiness, half of a lurking regret. "This house has never beenso full of people since I've been here," he mused, "and yet never was itso empty. My beloved ghosts, I miss you. But you've not all gone afterall. 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--"

  His thoughts broke halfway. They took another turn. "I wonder if it everhappened to any other man before in the history of the world to see thelittle-girl ghost of the woman--"

  * * * * *

  Blue Meadows had for several weeks now been projecting pictures from itsstoried past into the light of everyday. Could it have projected intothat everyday one picture from the future, it would have been somethinglike this.

  * * * * *

  Susannah came into the south living-room. Her husband was standingbetween the two windows.

  "Davy," she exclaimed joyfully, "I've located the lowboy. A Mrs. Nortonin West Hassett owns it. Of course she's asking a perfectly prohibitiveprice, but of course we've got to have it."

  "Yes," Lindsay answered absently, "we've got to have it."

  "I'm glad we found things so slowly," Susannah dreamily. "It adds to thewonder and magic of it all. It makes the dream last longer. It keeps ourromance always at the boiling point."

  She put one arm about her husband's neck and kissed him. Lindsay turned;kissed her.

  "At least we have the major pieces back," Susannah said contentedly."And little Lutetia Murray Lindsay will grow up in almost the samesurroundings that Susannah Ayer enjoyed. Oh--today--when I carried herover to the wall of the nursery, she noticed the Weejubs; she actuallyput her hand out to touch them."

  "Oh, there's something here for you--from Rome--just came in the mail,"Lindsay exclaimed. "It's addressed to Susannah Delano too."

  "From Rome!" Susannah ejaculated. "Susannah Delano!" She cut the stringsof the package. Under the wrappings appeared--swathed in tissue paper--apicture. A letter dropped from the envelope. Susannah seized it; turnedto the signature.

  "Garrison Monroe!" she ejaculated. "Oh, dear dear Uncle Garry, he'salive after all!" She read the letter aloud, the tears welling in hereyes.

  "How wonderful!" she commented when she finished. "You see, he'sapparently specialized in tomb-sculpture."

  She pulled the tissue paper from the picture. Their heads met, examiningit.

  "Oh, how lovely!" Susannah exclaimed in a hushed voice. And "It'sbeautiful!" Lindsay agreed in a low tone.

  It was the photograph of a bit of sculptured marble; a woman swathed inrippling draperies lying, at ease, on her side. One hand, palm upward,fingers a little curled, lay by her cheek; the other fell across herbreast. A veil partially obscured the delicate profile. But from everyveiled feature, from every line of the figure, from every fold in thedrapery, exuded rest.

  "It's perfect!" Susannah said, still in a low tone. "Perfect. Many atime she's fallen asleep just like than when we've all been talking andlaughing. When she slept, her hand always lay close to her face as it ishere. She always wore long floating scarves. You see he had to do herface from photographs ... and memory.... He's used that scarf device toconceal.... How beautiful! How beautiful!"

  There came silence.

  "Mrs. Spash says he was in love with her," Susannah went on. "Of courseI was too young. I didn't realize it. But it's all here, I think. Didyou notice that part of the letter where he says that for the last yearor two his mind has been full of her? And of all his life here? That'svery pathetic, isn't it? Now there will be a fitting monument overher.... He says it will be here in a few months. We must send himpictures when it'
s put on her grave. How happy it makes me! He says he'snearly eighty.... How beautiful.... You're not listening to me," sheaccused her husband with sudden indignation. But her indignationtempered itself by a flurry of little kisses when, following thedirection of his piercing gaze, she saw it ended on the miniature whichhung beside the secretary. "Looking at Glorious Lutie!" she mockedtenderly. "How that miniature fascinates you! Sometimes," she added,obviously inventing whimsical cause for grievance, "sometimes I thinkyou're as much in love with her as you are with me."

  "If I am," Lindsay agreed, "it's because there's so much of you in her."

  THE END

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