Читать книгу Spooky Hollow - Carolyn Wells - Страница 6

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“That man up there is a queer bird,” Mellish declared to his wife, as he joined her in the kitchen.

“As how?” Mrs. Mellish inquired, with slight interest.

The main kitchen at Greatlarch was a spacious room with walls of pure white marble. Spotless all its appointments and speckless Mrs. Mellish had them kept.

Of a truth she dwelt in marble halls, and having plenty of vassals and serfs at her side, she secured the immaculate tidiness in which her soul delighted, and which, incidentally, Mr. Vincent exacted.

No oversight of Susan Mellish was necessary. Cook she was, but also she was queen of her own domain and life below stairs went on with no more friction or dissension than above. In the household, Homer Vincent’s motto was: “Peace at Any Price,” and if an underling disturbed it, there was a rapid substitution.

Nor was there any ripple in the smooth-flowing current of the family life. Homer Vincent saw to that. Not that the man was domineering. On the contrary, he was a loving and kind brother and uncle. His tastes were simple, even though luxurious. He asked only smooth-running household machinery and no interference in his own pursuits.

Anne Vincent was nominally housekeeper, and indeed she kept up a careful oversight, but Susan Mellish was so thoughtful, so capable, so meticulously watchful of details there was little or nothing for Miss Anne to do.

The whole household worshipped the master, and he repaid them by liberal wages and comfortable living.

The servants’ quarters included delightful sitting-rooms and dining-room, and their sleeping-rooms were most pleasant and beautifully appointed.

A feature of the house was Homer Vincent’s own suite. Above his Tower room on the first floor was his smoking-room on the second floor. Back of this followed his bedroom and elaborate bath. Next, his library, with large open terrace that in winter became a sun parlor.

These rooms, of rarest marbles and woods, with French panels of paintings, mirrors, and rich brocades, were appointed in perfect taste. No gimcrackery ornaments, but dignified furniture and a few fine paintings and vases.

The library was a joy. Comfort and beauty of the highest degree were combined with utilitarian bookracks and tables.

These rooms ran along the whole east side of the house, ending with the library and terrace, which looked down toward the Temple as well as off to the east.

They were directly above the lower Tower room, the dining-room and breakfast-room and the family living-room. The other side was taken up by the reception room, the great organ wing, and, back of that, the drawing-room. Between the two sides were the wide entrance hall, and the wonderful Atrium.

Above the Atrium, at the south end, was Miss Vincent’s room, on a mezzanine floor, and above that, on a second mezzanine, was John Haydock’s room.

The floor above held six large guest rooms and the servants’ bedrooms were higher still. However, electric elevators did away with the discomforts of stair climbing, and the many floors, cellars, and sub-cellars were easy of access.

And the two Mellishes, with Miss Anne watchfully observing, held the reins of government of this establishment, and so great was their efficiency, so true their system and method, that a jar of any sort was exceedingly rare, and, because of its rarity, was fully and promptly forgiven by Homer Vincent.

“Yes, a queer bird,” Mellish repeated, shaking his head. “He’s that dark, now.”

“Dark?”

“You heard me! Yes, I said dark. Dark complected, dark eyes, dark hair, dark hands, and dark clothes.”

“Not dressed up?”

“No, but that isn’t it, he’s almost dark enough to be a Creolian.”

Mellish was a good butler, but made an occasional slip in his diction. One can’t know everything.

“Yes, Susan, he’s not our sort, and I know it. He’s peculiar,—that’s what he is,—peculiar.”

“So’s the master.”

“Ah, that’s different. The Vincent peculiarities are of the right sort. This man, now,—well, Susan, he was so took up with the place, he could scarce eat his dinner.”

“Small wonder. The place is a fair marvel to those who’ve not seen it.”

“It isn’t that. I’ve seen guests before, who were overwhellumed by it. But this chap,—he, why he had an appraising glance for it,—yes, sir, appraising,—that’s the word.”

“Mellish, you’re daft. Appraising, was he? Like he meant to buy it!”

Susan’s ironic scorn would have withered any one but her husband.

“Susan, you’re a witch. That’s it exactly. Not that he meant such a thing, he’s a poor man. I’m thinking,—but that was the way he looked at it.”

“Drop him, Mellish. You’ve no sense tonight. Are you dismissed?”

“Yes. Mr. Vincent said he’d not need me more. They’re shut in the Tower room, Miss Anne and all. They’re talking business. I can’t make that felly out.”

“Did he look sinister?”

“What a woman you are for the word, Susan! No, it wasn’t that,—he looked more—er—determined,—yes, that’s what that man is,—determined.”

“Determination can’t move the master. I’m bound he’ll be a match for anybody’s determination.”

“Oh, it isn’t a clash of wills—or that. But there’s a matter between them of some sort,—and Miss Anne’s in it, too.”

“And you’re eaten alive with curiosity, that’s what you are, man! Now, get about your business. And see to it the plumber is ordered in the morning. There’s a trickle in the cold storage room sink,—it only needs a washer,—and the hothouse hamper didn’t come today,—send Dickson to the station for it at sunup—and be sure to speak to Carson about his flirting with Francine—it won’t do.”

As she talked, Susan was busily engaged in mixing and kneading the breakfast rolls. This was a duty that could be entrusted to no lesser artist in baking, for Susan’s rolls were nothing short of perfection, but it required all her care and attention to keep them so.

In upon this engrossed couple drifted Francine, the pert little French maid, who, though Miss Anne’s exclusive property, also looked after Rosemary now and then.

“That man!” she exclaimed, with a shrug of her slender shoulders, “Mon Dieu, but he is the beast!”

“Where did you see him?” and Mellish whirled on her.

“There, there, now, old man, don’t lose any temper! Miss Anne rang for me to get her a scarf. They’re all in the Tower room, and they’re talking most—”

“Angrily?” demanded Susan, whose curiosity was more aroused than she would admit to her husband.

“No, not so much that,—as,—oh,—la, la,—excitement,—all talking at once,—argument—see?”

“What are they talking about?” This from Mellish,—who asked to know.

“That I can’t say. When I entered all converse stopped. But I could see the—atmosphere, the attitudes,—and the dark man—oh, he is a terror! Such a low voice—”

“Oh, you couldn’t hear him through the closed door!” and Mellish glared at her.

“Non, Monsieur! Are you not desolate that I could not?”

Pretty Francine was a saucy piece and dearly loved to ballyrag the dignified butler. But both the Mellishes liked her, though they kept a wary eye on her coquettish ways with certain servants of the other sex.

“Is he threatening them?” Susan asked.

“Not quite that—but—”

“But you know absolutely nothing at all of what is going on!” Mellish spoke sharply. “You’re only pretending you do. Stop discussing your betters and get about your work.”

“I’ve no work to do until Miss Anne wishes to retire. She will ring for me.”

“Then go and read your book. Or get some sewing. But don’t you dare go outside the door!” Thus Susan admonished her, knowing full well the girl’s secret intention of slipping out for a few moments to join Carson, the chauffeur, in a stolen interview.

So Francine dawdled about until the bell rang and then presented her demure self at the door of the Tower room.

Apparently the matter, whatever it was, had been most amicably settled, for the three were smiling and contented looking as Francine scanned their faces.

John Haydock was a dark man,—not like a Creole at all, but merely markedly a brunette. His otherwise unnoticeable face wore a look of satisfaction, and as he stepped out into the hall, he had again that expression that could, perhaps, be called appraising. Yet small wonder, for his deep and enthusiastic interest in the house led him to examine its various beauties and marvels, and few could do so without involuntary thought of the great outlay involved.

“I will go with my sister to her room,” Vincent was saying, “and you must amuse yourself a few moments. Then I will rejoin you for a good-night cigar, and then we will ourselves retire early.”

As was his nightly custom, Homer Vincent escorted his sister to her room. Francine followed, and paused at the door, with her usual discretion.

“Come on in, Francine,” Vincent decreed. “I’m not chatting with Miss Anne tonight. Get to rest, dear, and try to forget this whole matter. As you know, I’m only anxious to do what is wise and right. You shall cast the final decision as to all details and tomorrow we will draw up contracts and all that.”

“How good you are, Homer; and though it was a long confab I do not feel so very tired. Fix my powder, dear, and go back to Mr. Johnson. He is a—not quite our sort,—is he, Homer?”

“Not quite, dear,—but he is a good business man, I judge, and he seems honest.”

Miss Vincent required a small dose of opiate each night, and fearing lest she should mistake the quantity prescribed, or that Francine might be careless, Homer Vincent himself each night measured out the portion for her.

“There you are,” he said, as he carefully gauged the dose. “Give it to her when she’s ready, Francine. Good night, Anne, dear.”

He left his sister in Francine’s capable hands and went down to rejoin his guest. It was a mark of respect, if not of liking, that he took John Haydock up to his own library for their smoke.

Though sybaritic in many ways, Vincent did not employ a valet. His preference was to have Mellish arrange his bedroom and night things, and then to retire by himself whenever it pleased him to do so. Like his sister, he was a poor sleeper, and often prowled round the house, upstairs and down, during many of the small hours.

On the soft rugs his footfalls disturbed nobody, or if they did, no one was alarmed, so, in this, as in all other matters, Vincent pleased himself.

On this night, when at last he was alone in his own bedroom he bethought himself of some matters he wished to attend to, that necessitated his going downstairs to his private room. He had not yet begun to undress, and as he went down the stairs and through the hall, where a dim light burned all night, he met the night watchman, Hoskins. This was by no means an unusual occurrence, for Hoskins came on every night at midnight, and made certain prescribed routes through the premises.

Vincent gave the man a pleasant nod and went on his way. Though this Tower room was sacred to his use, it was by no means kept locked or difficult of access. Indeed, the door usually stood open, though in the room itself were two wall safes, concealed by decorative hangings and also a secret panel which was so cleverly hidden as to be perhaps impossible of discovery.

It is at this point that Rosemary comes into this story.

She comes in a motor-car, out of which she steps softly, as the car reaches the wooded part of the driveway.

Unafraid, because she knows Hoskins is not far away, and because this is by no means her first experience of the sort, she makes her way silently toward the house.

She cannot be seen gliding through the shadows, and she takes good care she shall not be heard.

Reaching the stone arch of the entrance, she slips through, and pauses to reconnoitre. No lights are on save those in her uncle’s suite, and one in his Tower room below.

“Aha,” thinks the sagacious young woman, “up yet,—the old Prowler, is he? Well, we’ll see what we’ll do about it. I don’t want to hang around long tonight!”

As may be gathered, Rosemary had overstayed her allowed time, and greatly desired to get into the house and up to her room unnoticed. For Homer Vincent was a bit strict about his niece’s behavior, and if truth be told, his restrictions were rather necessary and all for Rosemary’s good.

Not that the girl was wilful or wayward, but at twenty-one, the hour of midnight seems to strike very early in the evening, and usually just when the fun is at its height. Yet it was a Medo-Persian law that Rosemary should be in the house by twelve o’clock—and to give her just due, she almost always was.

But tonight had been a gay and pleasant party, and she had been tempted to remain beyond the hour.

The afternoon’s portent of snow had been fulfilled, and though the squall had been short, it was severe, and now, though it was not snowing, there was enough fallen snow and cold dampness to make any tarrying outside exceedingly uncomfortable.

So Rosemary crept to the great window that was at the southern exposure of the Tower room, and peeped in at her uncle.

Wrapped in her fur motor coat, a brown toque spilling its plumes down one side of her pretty, eager face, Rosemary shivered as she picked her way through the soft wet snow, but nodded in satisfaction as she saw her uncle’s very evident absorption in whatever matter claimed his attention.

About to turn away, she paused a moment to notice him as he opened a secret panel. She had known of the existence of this, but had never before seen it opened.

Fascinated, she saw him searching among its contents, though she could discern nothing definitely. The window had a thin film of curtain material, and she really saw little beyond the moving silhouette and the furniture of the room. Moreover, it suddenly came to her that she was rudely spying upon another’s movements in a way she had no right to do, and blushing to herself in the darkness, she turned quickly away.

Rosy from the icy air, her cheeks glowed; and curled up by the dampness, her red-brown hair made little tendrils that blew across her face. She smuggled into her fur collar and even welcomed the warmth of the long russet plume that fell over one ear.

Carefully she slipped back again to the great front door, which she well knew Hoskins had not yet locked for the night. Turning the knob slowly, the opening door made no sound, and in a moment Rosemary was inside.

And it was just at that moment that Homer Vincent elected to return to his bedroom. But the girl quickly stepped behind one of the great columns, and stood in its protecting shadow while her uncle went up the stairs.

She thought he limped a little more than usual, as he sometimes did when tired, and a wave of regret swept through her tender heart that she had disobeyed his orders.

“I’ll never do it again,” she resolved. “Uncle Homer is too good to me for me to slight his wishes. I’m a wicked old thing!”

But a healthy, girlish hunger was more in evidence with her just then than her feeling of conscience-stricken remorse, and she turned her silent steps toward the dining-room. Here Mellish usually left for her some tempting bit of food on a tray in a cold cupboard, and investigating, Rosemary found a little mold of jellied chicken, with two buttered finger-rolls and a plate of fruit.

Snapping on a small table light, she sat down to enjoy her little feast.

Hoskins, passing, looked in and smiled at her. It was not the first time he had smiled at such a scene.

Soon Rosemary finished her lunch, and gathering up her fur coat, went softly upstairs.

She paused at the door of her Aunt’s room. Sometimes, if Miss Anne were awake, she liked to have Rosemary come in and tell her of the party. But the sound of heavy asthmatic breathing proved Miss Anne asleep, and the girl went on to her own rooms.

Her boudoir was the Tower room over the reception room and her bedroom was next back of that. Everything was in readiness and it was but a short time before Rosemary slumbered as soundly, if not as audibly, as her aunt.

Hoskins went his rounds stolidly. He was a good and faithful watchman, largely because he had not the brains required for any higher calling. His route he meticulously followed, punching his time clocks as required, and throwing the flash of his electric lantern in dark corners.

His orders took him outside and around the house as well as through the lower floors. The upper floors he was not required to patrol.

As usual, he found no disturbing element and trudged around his appointed path like a patient ox. He had long since ceased to wonder at the beauty and grandeur of Greatlarch,—to him it was merely the home of his employer.

He repeatedly tracked the soft wet snow in his journeys round the house, removing his damp overshoes when making his inside rounds.

His shift ended at seven o’clock, and at that hour he gladly went into the kitchen, where a hot breakfast awaited him.

“Nasty mess underfoot,” he confided to the maid who served him. “Don’t go out today, my dear, lessen you have to.”

“The sun’s out bright,” she demurred, looking from the window.

“Yes, and that makes it all the wuss. Meltin’ an’ thawin’—sloppy weather, my dear.”

As Hoskins’ “my dears” were matters of habit rather than real affection, the girl paid but slight attention and went about her business.

The routine of breakfast preparations went on. The Mellishes appeared on the stroke of seven-thirty, as was their wont. They gravely inspected the work of their underlings and then set about their own superior duties.

All was in readiness at eight, though it was an entirely uncertain question as to when the family would appear.

They were subject to moods or whims, sometimes having breakfast together and again having trays carried to any rooms that pleased them.

Mellish opined, however, that this morning would see the family congregated in the breakfast-room because of the presence of a guest.

And shortly after eight Homer Vincent appeared.

Though always impatient at a delay not of his own causing, he showed no irritation and said to Mellish he would wait for Mr. Johnson to come down.

Then Rosemary appeared. Such a pretty Rosemary, her brown eyes smiling, her animated little face showing a frank curiosity.

“Good morning,” she cried, “who’s here? Francine says there’s a guest.”

“Yes, but he isn’t down yet. A Mr. Johnson, who came to see Antan and myself on some business affair.”

Rosemary had a funny little way of pronouncing Aunt Anne, and as it sounded like Antan, the nickname had become habitual.

“Nice?” she asked, briefly.

“Rather,” her uncle returned. “Good business chap, fairly good looking, decent manners, but no particular charm.”

“Doesn’t sound much,” Rosemary observed; “may I begin my breakfast?”

“Oh, let’s wait a few moments. I told him eight o’clock, he’ll surely be down in a few moments.” And then Francine burst into the room, breathless and wild-eyed with wonder.

“But what do you think?” she cried, quite forgetting her formalities. “Miss Anne—I cannot rouse her and her door is bolted!”

Homer Vincent looked at her coldly.

“Remember your manners, Francine,” he said in a tone of reproach. “Your information does not warrant such carelessness of address. Is Miss Vincent still sleeping?”

“That’s just it, sir, I do not know. Always I hear her bell by eight o’clock at latest. Now, I go and tap, but she answers not,—nor do I hear her moving about inside her chamber.”

“Did you not go in?”

“But the door is locked,—bolted on the inside. Always she bolts it at night, but the bolt is always off before this time in the day!”

Francine was a trim little figure, her plain black dress and white cap and apron well becoming her. She was excitable, but this time her concern was deeper than mere excited curiosity. Plainly, she was alarmed.

Vincent saw this, and spoke more kindly.

“Run up again, Francine, and rattle the door. I will go with you, if you wish.”

“Oh, do, sir, I did rattle at the door, and there was no response. And I did not hear her breathing—she—she breathes deeply, you know.”

This was a discreet allusion to Miss Anne’s asthma, which at times was distinctly in evidence.

“Francine, I’m sure you’re needlessly excited; however, Mellish will go up and see—”

The butler turned slowly toward the door, and Vincent said:

“No matter, Mellish, I’ll go myself,” and then, noting Rosemary’s frightened glance, he added, “we’ll all go.”

He led the way to Miss Anne’s bedroom, the great south room on the mezzanine above the hall.

The short flight of steps ended in a broad landing, the bedroom door in its center. The door had been a heavy one of carved antique oak. But Miss Anne had disliked it, saying it was like a prison door. So her brother had had it removed and replaced by a light swing door, covered with rose-colored velour and studded round its edges with brass-headed nails.

This door had a small bolt on the inside, but it was only to insure privacy, not at all a protection from possible marauders.

Homer Vincent tapped at this door, calling “Anne—Anne, dear!”

There was no response and Vincent pressed his ear to the door.

The others watched, breathlessly, and Rosemary shrank back in nameless dread while Francine fluttered and gave voice to voluble French expletives.

“Be quiet, Francine!” Vincent commanded, and Mrs. Mellish, who had joined the group, gave the French girl an admonitory shake.

“I shall break in the door,” Vincent said; “it’s a flimsy thing. Stand back, Rosemary. Mellish, push here, as I strike.”

The combined strength of the two men easily forced the door, and Mellish fell into the room first. Vincent, following, hurried to his sister’s bed. The beautiful room, built for the first mistress of the house, had a raised dais, a sort of low platform for the bed to stand on. Also, from the ceiling depended an elaborate cornice that surrounded the space designed for the bed and from which hung voluminous curtains of silk brocade.

In the shadowy gloom of these curtains lay Miss Anne, and as her brother reached the bedside and pushed away the hangings to see his sister, he cried out in a horrified voice, “Keep back! Mellish, keep back Miss Rosemary!”

Waving a warning hand at them, Vincent leaned over the still form and then turned round, his hands clenched and horror on his face.

“My sister is dead!” he cried. “She—she—oh, take that child away!”

“I will not be taken away, Uncle Homer,” Rosemary cried. “I’m not a baby! Let me know the truth! What has happened?”

Breaking away from the restraining arms of Mrs. Mellish, unheeding Mellish’s effort to stop her, she ran to the bedside and herself looked inside the long curtains.

She saw a white, dead face, staring eyes and a nightdress stained with crimson drops.