Part 16 (1/2)
”Oh,” said the old man, nodding, ”them was made by a big machine that come in here las' week. You see this house 's bin shet up 'bout ten years, ever sence ol' Jedge Gordon died. B'longs to Miss Jean--her that run off with the Eye-talyin. She kinder wants to sell it, and kinder not--ye see--”
”Yes,” interrupted Carmichael, ”but about that big machine--when did you say it was here?”
”P'raps four or five days ago; I think it was a We'nsday. Two fellers from Philadelfy--said they wanted to look at the house, tho't of buyin' it. So I bro't 'em in, but when they seen the outside of it they said they didn't want to look at it no more--too big and too crumbly!”
”And since then no one has been here?”
”Not a soul--leastways n.o.body that I seen. I don't s'pose you think o'
buyin' the house, doc'! It's too lonely for an office, ain't it?”
”You're right, Scudder, much too lonely. But I'd like to look through the old place, if you will take me in.”
The hall, with the two chairs and the table, on which a kitchen lamp with a half-inch of oil in it was standing, gave no sign of recent habitation. Carmichael glanced around him and hurried up the stairway to the bedroom. A tall four-poster stood in one corner, with a coverlet apparently hiding a mattress and some pillows. A dressing-table stood against the wall, and in the middle of the floor there were a few chairs. A half-open closet door showed a pile of yellow linen. The daylight sifted dimly into the room through the cracks of the shutters.
”Scudder,” said Carmichael, ”I want you to look around carefully and tell me whether you see any signs of any one having been here lately.”
The old man stared, and turned his eyes slowly about the room. Then he shook his head.
”Can't say as I do. Looks pretty much as it did when me and my wife breshed it up in October. Ye see it's kinder clean fer an old house--not much dust from the road here. That linen and that bed's bin here sence I c'n remember. Them burnt logs mus' be left over from old Jedge Gordon's time. He died in here. But what's the matter, doc'? Ye think tramps or burglers----”
”No,” said Carmichael, ”but what would you say if I told you that I was called here last night to see a patient, and that the patient was the Miss Jean Gordon of whom you have just told me?”
”What d'ye mean?” said the old man, gaping. Then he gazed at the doctor pityingly, and shook his head. ”I know ye ain't a drinkin' man, doc', so I wouldn't say nothin'. But I guess ye bin dreamin'. Why, las' time Miss Jean writ to me--her name's Mortimer now, and her husband's a kinder Barrin or some sorter furrin n.o.ble,--she was in Paris, not mor'n two weeks ago! Said she was dyin' to come back to the ol' place agin, but she wa'n't none too well, and didn't guess she c'd manage it. Ef ye said ye seen her here las' night--why--well, I'd jest think ye'd bin dreamin'. P'raps ye're a little under the weather--bin workin' too hard?”
”I never was better, Scudder, but sometimes curious notions come to me. I wanted to see how you would take this one. Now we'll go downstairs again.”
The old man laughed, but doubtfully, as if he was still puzzled by the talk, and they descended the creaking, dusty stairs. Carmichael turned at once into the dining-room.
The rubbish was still in the fireplace, the chairs ranged along the wall. There were no dishes on the long table; but at the head of it two chairs; and at the foot, one; and in front of that, lying on the table, a folded bit of paper. Carmichael picked it up and opened it.
It was his prescription for the nitrite of amyl.
He hesitated a moment; then refolded the paper and put it in his vest-pocket.
Seated in his car, with his hand on the lever, he turned to Scudder, who was watching him with curious eyes.
”I'm very much obliged to you, Scudder, for taking me through the house. And I'll be more obliged to you if you'll just keep it to yourself--what I said to you about last night.”
”Sure,” said the old man, nodding gravely. ”I like ye, doc', and that kinder talk might do ye harm here in Calvinton. We don't hold much to dreams and visions down this way. But, say, 'twas a mighty interestin'
dream, wa'n't it? I guess Miss Jean hones for them white pillars, many a day--they sorter stand for old times. They draw ye, don't they?”
”Yes, my friend,” said Carmichael as he moved the lever, ”they speak of the past. There is a magic in those white pillars. They draw you.”
THE EFFECTUAL FERVENT PRAYER
”O-o-o! Danny, oho-o-o! five o'clock!”
The clear young voice of Esther North floated across the snowy fields to the hill where the children of Glendour were coasting. Her brother Daniel, plodding up the trampled path beside the glairy track with half a dozen other boys, dragging the bob-sled on which his little sister Ruth was seated, heard the call with vague sentiments of dislike and rebellion. His twelve years rose up in arms against being ordered by a girl, even if she was sixteen and had begun to put up her hair and lengthen her skirts. She was a nice girl, to be sure--the prettiest in Glendour. But she might have had more sense than to call out that way before all the crowd. He had a good mind to pretend not to hear her.