She heaved a sigh, and then, seeing my eye travelling slowly over the gray discolored walls which were not relieved by so much as a solitary print, she pointed to a bell-rope near the head of the bed, and considerately remarked:
“If you wish anything in the night, or are disturbed in any way, pull that. It communicates with my room, and I will be only too glad to come to you.”
I glanced up at the rope, ran my eye along the wire communicating with it, and saw that it was broken sheer off before it even entered into the wall.
“I am afraid you will not hear me,” I answered, pointing to the break.
She flushed a deep scarlet, and for a moment looked as embarrassed as ever her sister had done.
“I did not know,” she murmured. “The house is so old, everything is more or less out of repair.” And she made haste to quit the room.
I stepped after her in grim determination.
“But there is no key to the door,” I objected.
She came back with a look that was as nearly desperate as her placid features were capable of.
“I know,” she said, “I know. We have nothing. But if you are not afraid—and of what could you be afraid in this house, under our protection, and with a good dog outside?—you will bear with things tonight, and—Good God!” she murmured, but not so low but that my excited sense caught every syllable, “can she have heard? Has the reputation of this place gone abroad? Miss Butterworth,” she repeated earnestly, “the house contains no cause of terror for you. Nothing threatens our guest, nor need you have the least concern for yourself or us, whether the night passes in quiet or whether it is broken by unaccountable sounds. They will have no reference to anything in which you are interested.”
“Ah, ha,” thought I, “won’t they! You give me credit for much indifference, my dear.” But I said nothing beyond a few soothing phrases, which I made purposely short, seeing that every moment I detained her was just so much unnecessary torture to her. Then I went back to my room and carefully closed the door. My first night in this dismal and strangely ordered house had opened anything but propitiously.
CHAPTER VII
THE FIRST NIGHT
I spoke with a due regard to truth when I assured Miss Knollys that I entertained no fears at the prospect of sleeping apart from the rest of the family. I am a woman of courage—or so I have always believed—and at home occupy my second floor alone without the least apprehension. But there is a difference in these two abiding-places, as I think you are ready by this time to acknowledge, and, though I felt little of what is called fear, I certainly did not experience my usual satisfaction in the minute preparations with which I am accustomed to make myself comfortable for the night. There was a gloom both within and without the four bare walls between which I now found myself shut, which I would have been something less than human not to feel, and though I had no dread of being overcome by it, I was glad to add something to the cheer of the spot by opening my trunk and taking out a few of those little matters of personal equipment without which the brightest room looks barren and a den like this too desolate for habitation.
Then I took a good look about me to see how I could obtain for myself some sense of security. The bed was light and could be pulled in front of the door. This was something. There was but one window, and that was closely draped with some thick, dark stuff, very funereal in its appearance. Going to it, I pulled aside the thick folds and looked out. A mass of heavy foliage at once met my eye, obstructing the view of the sky and adding much to the lonesomeness of the situation. I let the curtain fall again and sat down in a chair to think.
The shortness of the candle-end with which I had been provided had struck me as significant, so significant that I had not allowed it to burn long after Miss Knollys had left me. If these girls, charming, no doubt, but sly, had thought to shorten my watch by shortening my candle, I would give them no cause to think but that their ruse had been successful. The foresight which causes me to add a winter wrap to my stock of clothing even when the weather is at the hottest, leads me to place a half dozen or so of candles in my travelling trunk, and so I had only to open a little oblong box in the upper tray to have the means at my disposal of keeping a light all night.
So far, so good. I had a light, but had I anything else in case William Knollys—but with this thought Miss Knollys’s look and reassuring words recurred to me. “Whatever you may hear—if you hear anything—will have no reference to yourself and need not disturb you.”
This was comforting certainly, from a selfish standpoint; but did it relieve my mind concerning others?
Not knowing what to think of it all, and fully conscious that sleep would not visit me under existing circumstances, I finally made up my mind not to lie down till better assured that sleep on my part would be desirable. So after making the various little arrangements already alluded to, I drew over my shoulders a comfortable shawl and set myself to listen for what I feared would be more than one dreary hour of this not to be envied night.
And here just let me stop to mention that, carefully considered as all my precautions were, I had forgotten one thing upon leaving home which at this minute made me very nearly miserable. I had not included among my effects the alcohol lamp and all the other private and particular conveniences which I possess for making tea in my own apartment. Had I but had them with me, and had I been able to make and sip a cup of my own delicious tea through the ordeal of listening for whatever sounds might come to disturb the midnight stillness of this house, what relief it would have been to my spirits and in what a different light I might have regarded Mr. Gryce and the mission with which I had been intrusted. But I not only lacked this element of comfort, but the satisfaction of thinking that it was any one’s fault but my own. Lena had laid her hand on that teapot, but I had shaken my head, fearing that the sight of it might offend the eyes of my young hostesses. But I had not calculated upon being put in a remote corner like this of a house large enough to accommodate a dozen families, and if ever I travel again—
But this is a matter personal to Amelia Butterworth, and of no interest to you. I will not inflict my little foibles upon you again.
Eleven o’clock came and went. I had heard no sound. Twelve, and I began to think that all was not quite so still as before; that I certainly could hear now and then faint noises as of a door creaking on its hinges, or the smothered sound of stealthily moving feet. Yet all was so far from being distinct, that for some time I hesitated to acknowledge to myself that anything could be going on in the house, which was not to be looked for in a home professing to be simply the abode of a decent young man and two very quiet-appearing young ladies; and even after the noises and whispering had increased to such an extent that I could even distinguish the sullen tones of the brother from the softer and more carefully modulated accents of Lucetta and her sister, I found myself ready to explain the matter by any conjecture short of that which involved these delicate young ladies in any scheme of secret wickedness.
But when I found there was likely to be no diminution in the various noises and movements that were taking place in the front of the house, and that only something much out of the ordinary could account for so much disturbance in a country home so long after midnight, I decided that only a person insensible to all sight and sound could be expected to remain asleep under such circumstances, and that I would be perfectly justified in their eyes in opening my door and taking a peep down the corridor. So without further ado, I drew my bed aside and glanced out.
All was perfectly dark and silent in the great house. The only light visible came from the candle burning in the room behind me, and as for sound, it was almost too still—it was the stillness of intent rather than that of natural repose.
This was so unexpected that for an instant I stood baffled and wondering. Then my nose went up, and I laughed quietly to myself. I could see nothing and I could hear nothing; but Amelia Butterworth, like most of her kind, boasts of more than two senses, and happil
y there was something to smell. A quickly blown-out candle leaves a witness behind it to sensitive nostrils like mine, and this witness assured me that the darkness was deceptive. Some one had just passed the head of my corridor with a light, and because the light was extinguished it did not follow that the person who held it was far away. Indeed, I thought that now I heard a palpitating breath.
“Humph,” I cried aloud, but as if in unconscious communion with myself, “it is not often I have so vivid a dream! I was sure that I heard steps in the hall. I fear I’m growing nervous.”
Nothing moved. No one answered me.
“Miss Knollys!” I called firmly.
No reply.
“Lucetta, dear!”
I thought this appeal would go unanswered also, but when I raised my voice for the third time, a sudden rushing sound took place down the corridor, and Lucetta’s excited figure, fully dressed, appeared in the faint circle of light caused by my now rapidly waning candle.
“Miss Butterworth, what is the matter?” she asked, making as if she would draw me into my room—a proceeding which I took good care she should not succeed in.
Giving a glance at her dress, which was the same she had worn at the supper table, I laughingly retorted:
“Isn’t that a question I might better ask you? It is two o’clock by my watch, and you, for all your apparent delicacy, are still up. What does it mean, my dear? Have I put you out so completely by my coming that none of you can sleep?”
Her eyes, which had fallen before mine, quickly looked up.
“I am sorry,” she began, flushing and trying to take a peep into my room, possibly to see if I had been to bed. “We did not mean to disturb you, but—but—oh, Miss Butterworth, pray excuse our makeshifts and our poverty. We wished to fix up another room for you, and were ashamed to have you see how little we had to do it with, so we were moving some things out of our own room tonight, and—”
Here her voice broke, and she burst into an almost uncontrollable flood of tears.
“Don’t,” she entreated, “don’t,” as, quite thoroughly ashamed, I began to utter some excuses. “I shall be all right in a moment. I am used to humiliations. Only”—and her whole body seemed to join in the plea, it trembled so—”do not, I pray, speak quite so loud. My brother is more sensitive than even Loreen and myself about these things, and if he should hear—”
Here a suppressed oath from way down the hall assured me that he did hear, but I gave no sign of my recognition of this fact, and Lucetta added quickly: “He would not forgive us for our carelessness in waking you. He is rough sometimes, but so good at heart, so good.”
This, with the other small matter I have just mentioned, caused a revulsion in my feelings. He good? I did not believe it. Yet her eyes showed no wavering when I interrogated them with mine, and feeling that I had perhaps been doing them all an injustice, and that what I had seen was, as she evidently meant to intimate, due to their efforts to make a sudden guest comfortable amid their poverty, I put the best face I could on the matter and gave the poor, pitiful, pleading face a kiss. I was startled to feel how cold her forehead was, and, more and more concerned, loaded her down with such assurances of appreciation as came to my lips, and sent her back to her own room with an injunction not to trouble herself any more about fixing up any other room for me. “Only,” I added, as her whole face showed relief, “we will go to the locksmith tomorrow and get a key; and after tonight you will be kind enough to see that I have a cup of tea brought to my room just before I retire. I am no good without my cup of tea, my dear. What keeps other people awake makes me sleep.”
“Oh, you shall have your tea!” she cried, with an eagerness that was almost unnatural, and then, slipping from my grasp, she uttered another hasty apology for having roused me from my sleep and ran hastily back.
I stretched out my arm for the candle guttering in my room and held it up to light her. She seemed to shrink at sight of its rays, and the last vision I had of her speeding figure showed me that same look of dread on her pallid features which had aroused my interest in our first interview.
“She may have explained why the three of them are up at this time of night,” I muttered, “but she has not explained why her every conversation is seasoned by an expression of fear.”
And thus brooding, I went back to my room and, pushing the bed again against the door, lay down upon it and out of sheer chagrin fell fast asleep.
CHAPTER VIII
ON THE STAIRS
I did not wake up till morning. The room was so dark that in all probability I should not have wakened then, if my habits of exact punctuality had not been aided by a gentle knock at my door.
“Who’s there?” I called, for I could not say “Come in” till I had moved my bed and made way for the door to open.
“Hannah with warm water,” replied a voice, at which I made haste to rise. Hannah was the woman who had waited on us at dinner.
The sight of her pleasant countenance, which nevertheless looked a trifle haggard, was a welcome relief after the sombre features of the night. Addressing her with my usual brusqueness, but with quite my usual kindness, I asked how the young ladies were feeling this morning.
Her answer made a great show of frankness.
“Oh, they are much as usual,” said she. “Miss Loreen is in the kitchen and Miss Lucetta will soon be here to inquire how you are. I hope you passed a good night yourself, ma’am.”
I had slept more than I ought to, perhaps, and made haste to reassure her as to my own condition. Then seeing that a little talk would not be unwelcome to this hearty woman, tired to death possibly with life in this dreary house, I made some excuse for keeping her a few minutes, saying as I did so:
“What an immense dwelling this is for four persons to live in, or have you another inmate whom I have not seen?”
I thought her buxom color showed a momentary sign of failing, but it all came back with her answer, which was given in a round, hearty voice.
“Oh, I’m the only maid, ma’am. I cook and sweep and all. I couldn’t abide another near me. Even Mr. Simsbury, who tends the cow and horse and who only comes in for his dinner, worries me by spells. I like to have my own way in the kitchen, except when the young ladies choose to come in. Is there anything more you want, ma’am, and do you prefer tea or coffee for breakfast?”
I told her that I always drank coffee in the morning, and would have liked to have added a question or two, but she gave me no chance. As she went out I saw her glance at my candlestick. There was only a half-burned end in it. She is calculating, too, how long I sat up, thought I.
Lucetta stood at the head of the stairs as I went down.
“Will you excuse me for a few moments?” said she. “I am not quite ready to follow you, but will be soon.”
“I will take a look at the grounds.”
I thought she hesitated for a moment; then her face lighted up. “Be sure you don’t encounter the dog,” she cried, and slipped hastily down a side hall I had not noticed the night before.
“Ah, a good way to keep me in,” I reasoned. “But I shall see the grounds yet if I have to poison that dog.” Notwithstanding, I made no haste to leave the house. I don’t believe in tempting Providence, especially where a dog is concerned.
Instead of that, I stood still and looked up and down the halls, endeavoring to get some idea of their plan and of the location of my own room in reference to the rest.
I found that the main hall ran at right angles to the long corridor down which I had just come, and noting that the doors opening into it were of a size and finish vastly superior to those I had passed in the corridor just mentioned, I judged that the best bedrooms all lay front, and that I had been quartered at the end of what had once been considered as the servants’ hall. At my right, as I looked down the stairs, ran a wall with a break, which looked like an opening into another corridor, and indeed I afterward learned that the long series of rooms of which mine was the last, had its counterp
art on the other side of this enormous dwelling, giving to the house the shape of a long, square U.
I was looking in some wonderment at this opening and marvelling over the extravagant hospitality of those old days which necessitated such a number of rooms in a private gentleman’s home, when I heard a door open and two voices speaking. One was rough and careless, unmistakably that of William Knollys. The other was slow and timid, and was just as unmistakably that of the man who had driven me to this house the day before. They were talking of some elderly person, and I had good sense enough not to allow my indignation to blind me to the fact that by that elderly person they meant me. This is important, for their words were not without significance.
“How shall we keep the old girl out of the house till it is all over?” was what I heard from William’s surly lips.
“Lucetta has a plan,” was the hardly distinguishable answer. “I am to take—”
That was all I could hear; a closing door shut off the remainder. Something, then, was going on in this house, of a dark if not mysterious character, and the attempts made by these two interesting and devoted girls to cover up the fact, by explanations founded on their poverty, had been but subterfuges after all. Grieved on their account, but inwardly grateful to the imprudence of their more than reckless brother, for this not-to-be-mistaken glimpse into the truth, I slowly descended the stairs, in that state of complete self-possession which is given by a secret knowledge of the intentions formed against us by those whose actions we have reason to suspect.
Henceforth I had but one duty—to penetrate the mystery of this household. Whether it was the one suspected by Mr. Gryce or another of a less evil and dangerous character hardly mattered in my eyes. While the blight of it rested upon this family, eyes would be lowered and heads shaken at their name. This, if I could help it, must no longer be. If guilt lay at the bottom of all this fear, then this guilt must be known; if innocence—I thought of the brother’s lowering brow and felt it incompatible with innocence, but remembering Mr. Gryce’s remarks on this subject, read an instant lecture to myself and, putting all conclusions aside, devoted the few minutes in which I found myself alone in the dining-room to a careful preparation of my mind for its duty, which was not likely to be of the simplest character if Lucetta’s keen wits were to be pitted against mine.
The Anna Katharine Green Mystery Megapack Page 36
