Читать книгу The Ghost of Melody Lane - Lilian Garis - Страница 3

Table of Contents

There was only one way to go home, though to Carol it did not seem to matter which way she went. Just outside the marbleized lobby of the moving picture theatre she stood, looking first down Cedar Street, which would lead her home, and then over Fourth Street, which wound out of town toward the trolleys, busses, and a railroad station.

But Carol did not sigh as she took the road to her little home. Instead she squared her fine shoulders and perked up her head until another blue-black tangle of hair shot out from the side of her small hat.

“And yet,” she was remembering, “I knew it was coming.”

The early afternoon performance had just dislodged its few patrons, for money was scarce in Oakleigh, just as in other places, and few were reckless enough to spend any on picture matinées. That was why this had happened to Carol.

“I’ve lost my job.” She could not help telling herself the cruel fact. “And now what are we going to do?”

Oakleigh’s cozy little theatre, the Silvertone, had kept its organ and kept Carol on, playing it, long after other places had substituted the sound music that came with the films. People liked Carol’s playing, and she studied hard to please them. But now the management could no longer afford the extra expense and Carol’s eighteen dollars per week. The very last pay check was tucked into her brown purse with some business cards she was wondering about.

“I’ll have to go right over to Long Hill,” she was deciding. “And, worse yet, I’ll have to buy gas. Good thing we have the old flivver. I never could get out of town twice a day without that. Providing,” she mocked herself, “I get the job.”

In the late afternoon few persons stop to say hello. They merely call a hasty greeting and run along, as they did now, while Carol rushed past them because she just had to hurry.

There were her father and Cecy to confront. Her father, poor dear, would try to cheer her up, but she dreaded that beaten look in his tired eyes, the look that had come there and had remained ever since he lost his splendid position last year because of his poor health which, somehow, did not seem to improve in spite of doctoring.

“Dad will want to start right off again tomorrow on the everlasting looking which just wears out hearts and shoes,” mused Carol as she almost bumped into a man barging along as if the whole sidewalk were his. But the dreaded look in her father’s dear, loving eyes would not be as hard to deal with as would Cecy. She was a trial, always. Younger than Carol, she had played baby; always shirked, except in cooking, for she liked to cook. She read just because she loved to read; had to wear glasses because she had not taken care of her eyes; had to see a doctor once in a while because she ate candy and shouldn’t. In fact, Cecy was as unlike Carol as a sister possibly could be. Even the mother who had spoiled Cecy admitted before she closed her eyes that long, dark evening, which brought no morning to her: “Cecy should try to be more practical.”

“I suppose I’ll find her making fudge with the last of the sugar,” Carol was desperately telling herself as she hurried along. Then came a sudden revulsion. She stopped short, turned down a side street, and with a new look on her face murmured:

“I just can’t stand it! I’m not going to stand it! I’m not going home with the bad news—just yet. I’m going to see Cousin Kitty and have a last, mad, grand riot of music on her wonderful pipe organ before I have to come down to earth again. Yes, I’ll go see Cousin Kitty and play and play and play——”

With a new objective, Carol swung along, her head up, her eyes brighter, and with that same stray lock of her blue-black hair streaming in the wind she hurried on, managed to catch one of the infrequent busses and sank into a seat. It was rather a long distance to Melody Lane, that picturesque, strange, tree-shaded thoroughfare where Oak Lodge added to its mysteriousness.

Mrs. Katheryn Becket, once “Kitty Adair,” known to a large and delighted public because of her singing and acting, lived in a big, gloomy old mansion, Oak Lodge, on the other side of town. The old house was set in a large estate, at least it had once been an estate, though it had now rather fallen into ruin and was difficult to care for.

“Cousin Kitty” Carol and many of her girl friends called the beautiful, elderly lady, who though no longer an actress, had still her passion for music. She had formed and trained the girls’ Choral Club and had given Carol all her organ lessons without charge. At times Mrs. Becket had delightful entertainments at her big house, based on “home talent” and fortified by that always alluring professional talent, willing to come out from the city to help.

But lately something had been wrong. Since Mr. Becket’s sudden death, about a year and a half ago, a change had gradually come over the fine old place he had bought for his wife.

There had been rumors that the house was haunted—that ghosts came in the wee hours and played mournful music on the great organ. No one quite believed these stories, but many did begin to feel that there was something strange about the house on Melody Lane.

However, it was always a relief for Carol to go to Mrs. Becket’s, for the often tired girl always found surcease around the great organ whose deep notes seemed to be a voice from the sky. Carol loved Mrs. Becket as she loved her music, and the thought, now, that at least for a little while she could sense the flow of melody around her, not hampered by having to play something to fit trite films, made a brief break in the tension of worry.

“Oh, Carol! How nice of you to come and see me!” greeted Mrs. Becket as she opened the door.

“I—I just had to come!” was the murmured reply.

“You had to come? Is anything the matter? Oh, you mean you are hungry for music, is that it?”

“Yes, part of it!” Carol laughed a short, little laugh that had less of mirth in it than she could have wished. “Do you mind if I go to the organ—just for a little while?”

“Not at all—only you can’t go just yet. You see——”

Mrs. Becket paused and seemed to be listening. From a distant part of the old mansion, where the organ loft was built, there came a few harsh notes vibrating through the half-darkness, for Mrs. Becket never did seem to care for bright lights.

“Some one is playing!” Carol exclaimed, and she wondered, for she knew neither Jacob, the grouchy man of all work, nor Mrs. Becket’s maid were ever allowed near the great organ.

“No, not playing, Carol, dear, just mending. I suppose he accidently touched a key, for I left the power on so he could see if anything else was wrong.”

“Something wrong with the organ?” Carol almost gasped. “Oh——!”

“Nothing serious, my dear. That is, nothing wrong with the keys, the motor, or the pipes, or the stops. But part of the railing seemed to me to be weak, and the bench of late has developed a tendency to be ‘wobbily,’ to quote Mr. Bancroft.”

“Mr. Bancroft?” repeated Carol, wonderingly.

“Yes. Mr. Lenton Bancroft, but, as he says himself, ‘everybody around these here parts allers calls me Len,’” and Mrs. Becket imitated so well the garrulous tones of an old, crabbed man, that Carol laughed almost like some of the higher, tremulous notes of the great organ.

“Who is Len Bancroft?” asked Carol, when she and Cousin Kitty had finished their mutual mirth.

“A carpenter I had to call in,” was the answer. “He’s a strange, queer old man. I don’t like him. There’s an odd look in his eyes, sort of stupid, probably.”

“Why did you call him in?” asked Carol. “Does he live around here? I don’t remember the name.”

“No, he comes from Burrtown. Jacob knew of him and got him for me. He seems to be a good carpenter, but I don’t know whether or not he knows anything about organs, though Jacob says he does and Mr. Bancroft, himself, admits the charge,” Mrs. Becket explained. “I left him and Jacob in the loft, to come and answer the door,” she went on. “The carpenter has been here nearly all day and he has just finished. So if you want to come along——”

“I’d love to,” murmured Carol, her fingers longing to touch the shining ivory keys.

“Come along then.” Mrs. Becket led the way to the tower room, almost a complete ell built off the great hall, where the massive organ had been installed. In the first hall they passed Jacob Vroom, who was furnace man, gardener, butler, and whatever else seemed to be called for in the way of help around Oak Lodge.

“Has the carpenter finished, Jacob?” asked Mrs. Becket.

“Yes’m, jest about. He says it ain’t what he’d call a good job, but it’s good an’ firm.”

“That’s what I wanted,” Mrs. Becket responded. “Was that him or you trying to play, Jacob?” Her voice was sterner now.

“You know I wouldn’t, Mrs. Becket,” Jacob seemed hurt. “I never put a finger on the keys. But Len might have; couldn’t say.”

“I suppose so. Well, I’m glad he’s finished.”

A tall, lanky man, with a seamed, lined nutcracker kind of face, arose from a little clutter of shavings and sawdust, dusting off his overalls as he stood up with a chisel in his hand. He had suddenly appeared from the rear of the great organ, like some gnome who had been engaged in putting new and sinister notes into a perfect melody.

“Is everything all right, Mr. Bancroft?” asked Mrs. Becket.

“Yes’m, I’ve got th’ rail solid now. A elephant could lean ag’in it now an’ not bust it.”

“But I don’t allow elephants in here,” was the quick retort. “I hope you haven’t one in prospect.”

“What, ma’am?” Len seemed a bit taken aback, and Mrs. Becket, seeing he had no sense of humor, let it go.

“About the bench?” she asked.

“Oh, yes’m, I tightened that, too. This is a mighty fine organ, ain’t it, ma’am?”

“It has always been considered so.”

“That’s what I thought.”

“Do you know anything about organs, Mr. Bancroft?”

“Well, not what you could really call knowin’. But I know wood, Mrs. Becket. Wood’s my specialty. I couldn’t put back in the busted rail jest the same kind of wood it had in it original, but I done the best I could. The bench I jest had to tighten.”

“Well, I’m glad everything is all right. You touched some of the keys, didn’t you?”

“Oh, you heard that, did you?” and Len seemed a bit surprised.

“The organ carries to the farthest part of the house,” said Mrs. Becket, while Carol looked at the crabbed old carpenter, looked again, and decided she didn’t like him. Not that it mattered.

“Yes’m, I saw you had the power on an’ I jest sort of wanted to see how one of these things sounded close by. So I touched a few keys. I hope I didn’t do no harm.”

Mrs. Becket did not answer. She sat down at the bench, assured herself, by rocking to and fro, that it was now firm, and then she put her feet on the great lever keys that emitted the trembling notes, pulled out a few stops and, touching the ivory black and white keys, sent a burst of wild, haunting melody vibrating through the mansion.

“That’s grand, ma’am, jest grand!” complimented the strange carpenter as he gathered up his tools. “Shall I clean up this mess or——”

“Jacob will clean it up, thank you. And let him have your bill, Mr. Bancroft.”

“Yes’m, I will. But there’s no hurry about that. I’ll have to come back in a couple of days, anyhow.”

“Come back? What for? I thought you said you had finished.”

“Wa’al, I have, sort of.” Len Bancroft’s face was bent over his chest of tools. “But I might want to look an’ make sure them joints ain’t slipped none. The glue has to set, you know.”

“Oh, by all means come back if you need to,” said Mrs. Becket.

“Yes’m, I shall,” promised Mr. Bancroft. “You see, it’s all in knowin’ wood—all in knowin’ wood!” and he seemed to chuckle like a sardonic gnome as he went behind the organ for a moment.

Then, with another promise to come again in a few days, “to sorter look things over,” the strange carpenter melted away in the darkness that, save for a few dim lights, shrouded the organ loft.

“Well, I’m glad he’s gone,” murmured Mrs. Becket with a sigh of relief as she and Carol were left to themselves.

“So am I. So you think I might play now?”

“Surely, Carol. Just look and see if the air motor is full on. There is no telling what that silly man might have done—trying a few keys.”

Carol went behind the instrument, looked at the indicator, listened to the dull, almost silent hum of the motor, and was about to come back in front to the repaired bench, where Mrs. Becket awaited her, when she saw some peculiar marks on the corner of the great organ.

“Just as if some one had been cutting slivers out,” Carol mused. “I wonder if that ugly gnome of a carpenter could have done some damage, by accident, and be afraid to speak of it,” she asked herself.

Delaying a moment, she looked again at the strange marks—cuts and slashes they seemed to be in the very woodwork of the organ itself.

“Is anything wrong?” called Cousin Kitty.

“Wrong? Oh, no!” Carol made a sudden resolve not to mention what she had seen. It might make Mrs. Becket worry and, as Carol well knew, she had troubles enough as it was. “If it’s anything, which I can see by daylight,” Carol mused, “I can tell her then, and she can force that ugly little man to make it good. But perhaps it isn’t anything.”

“Come and play,” Mrs. Becket invited. “I believe I am hungry for music, and I don’t feel like making it myself. Come and play, my dear,” she urged again.

As Carol sat down at the bench, adjusted her feet to the pedal stops, and ran her fingers softly over the smooth ivory keys, old Jacob was letting Len out of the side door.

“Yes, I know wood!” chuckled the nutcracker face to himself. “I sure do, an’ if that old organ is what I feel certain it is—why—” He went into a mirthless chuckle.

He turned to look up at a lighted window on which was the shadow of Carol Duncan at the organ bench, and as she swung into the pealing notes of a soothing melody, old Len Bancroft shuffled down the road.

The deepening twilight cast his shadow before him, a ghostly, sinister shadow that appeared to dance up and down in unholy glee.