Читать книгу The Doom of Stark House - Percy Keese Fitzhugh - Страница 8

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Three things divided the country of Beyond, the vast forest dipping off into the trackless northwest, the miles of undulating, fertile valley and the rushing waters of the river. In the exact center of the valley stood the House of Stark, a two-storied rambling structure of logs and stone that looked more like a fortress than a home, with its several sprawling wings. The wings had all been added on to the log cabin of the first Tallman Stark.

Chester told Hal all this as the sleigh slid downward to the valley and they saw through the thick veil of the storm, a brilliant array of yellow lights grinning like so many evil eyes. Stark House supplied its own power—Tallman Stark could not bear the black gloom of night.

Two bright lights adorning the posts of the great gate gleamed coldly out over the drifting snow and cast strange shadows across the all but obliterated trail. Hal leaned out, interested in the horses which seemed filled with a sudden zest now that they were home. Their fatigue, so apparent during the last part of the journey, had miraculously disappeared and they pulled up to the gate, neighing with delight.

“Boy, that’s a touch of civilization in a lonesome place like this,” he said, nodding at the lights. “Who’d ever think to find electric lights on the gate-posts out here on the edge of things! I was expecting kerosene lamps.”

“No,” said Chester thoughtfully, “Dad’s made this place modern in every respect. By all the rules of the game, so much electric light ought to make it cheerful and warm but it isn’t—it’s too glaring. Nothing mellow about it.”

Voices shouting in broken English could be heard above the screaming wind, then the Stark gate opened and two short, fur-clad figures emerged under the light. They approached the sleigh gesticulating and talking a guttural patois to which Jacques Bonner occasionally offered a monosyllabic reply.

“That’s Ed—Edouard Bonner and Alonzo Bonner,” said Chester simply. “They’re both cousins of Jacques.”

“Now I’m beginning to get under the skin of the Bonners, huh?” Hal said whimsically.

“Nobody has ever got under the skin of a Bonner, Hal. At least I’ve never heard of such a thing. But you might be able to manage it—you do such things.”

Hal smiled. He was thinking seriously about what Chester had said. At length he asked, “What’s the delay—what are they talking about? Do you understand their gibberish?”

“A little. Enough to know that they’re telling Jacques they were beginning to be afraid we wouldn’t be able to get the horses through the drifts. I was deucedly worried about it myself. Whoever goes to Sainte Beauve in the morning will have to go on snowshoes. Even if this stops within a few hours the horses wouldn’t have a chance.”

Jacques Bonner, at this point, muttered something in a decisive manner and slapped the reins smartly against the gleaming hides of the horses. Ed and Lon stepped aside and, nodding to Chester, kept pace with the sleigh as it ploughed through the snow-banked driveway.

Noble, white-spruce trees lined this circular approach to Stark House and in and around the solemn, stately park Hal glimpsed clumps of firs and balsams. Their needle-leafed boughs swung frantically in the gale, emitting weird swishing sounds in every lull of the moaning wind and over the surface of the snow their massive outlines cast grotesque shadows. Truly, they looked like some standing army ever on the defensive; the fate and fortunes of Stark House was the keynote of their existence.

A porté-cochere of glistening white stone soon cut them off from the storm and they came to a stop before four broad stone steps leading up to the wide veranda. A light flashed on over the stout log door and Jacques wormed his cumbersome frame down to the ground, pulling after him the many pieces of baggage.

With these deposited on the veranda, the cousins Bonner disappeared into the night leading the horses and the sleigh. Hal glanced after them and following Chester up the steps, said, “Do we see much of the Siamese twins?”

“Who—Ed and Lon?” Chester asked, chuckling.

“Yes.”

“Only in passing, Hal. They do the outside work—stables, etc.—Jacques’ under dogs. They live in his cottage; it’s around the balsams on the left side of the gate. You’ll see it in the morning.”

“Oh, I’m not so curious, Ches. I just want to get things straightened out so I’ll know who’s who and what’s what.”

“Well, Ed’s wife is Rose and Lon’s wife is Agnes. They’re our maids-of-all-work and twins. I can seldom tell them apart. They haven’t enough personality to make any difference. Like their husbands they pass in and out and work efficiently.” He lowered his voice to a whisper. “It’s Jacques and Rene we have to reckon with, Hal. You’ll soon find that out. But here we are.”

The door opened at that juncture and a small, stolid woman with Indian-like features admitted Jacques with the baggage, then nodded impersonally to Chester and Hal. Shutting the door softly, she took their coats.

“M’sieu Stark say he wait dinner—you come in right away.”

Chester nodded and taking Hal’s arm fraternally, guided him through the wide, brilliantly lighted hall. Trophies of all kinds hung on the walls and the polished floors were covered with soft bear rugs. Over these they walked noiselessly and just before reaching the foot of the wide stairway, Hal was piloted into a doorway at the right.

“Dining room,” Chester explained. “It’s great that the guv’nor waited for us. Guess they were just about to begin.”

Hal’s entrance into that long, stately room was a never-to-be-forgotten event. The cold brilliancy of many lights shone down upon the snowy cloth of the dining table and though he was aware of a young man, aristocratic and mild-mannered looking, and a dark, sullen young woman, there were only two faces in that little group which he was distinctly conscious of. A middle-aged man was smiling at him, sadly sweet, and at his right, a small, blue-eyed, fair-haired girl watched him approach with full lips slightly parted. Hal knew them to be Tallman Stark and his daughter, Phoebe. One knew that without being told.

Tallman Stark rose out of his chair, a powerful man with an almost delicate complexion and white, bushy hair. With both capable hands outstretched, he welcomed his son and Hal simultaneously. A smile played about his generous mouth but the look of fear in his wide gray eyes belied all suggestion of mirth.

Being almost of a size with Hal he put a paternal arm about his broad shoulders and introduced him around the table. Della Stark, his elder daughter, was the dark young woman; she greeted the guest with a wan, impersonal smile. Jerard Mathieu, the young man, aristocratic and mild-mannered looking, acknowledged the introduction with a bland countenance.

It was Phoebe, however, Tallman Stark’s younger daughter, of whom Hal was still conscious after he had been assigned a place at the table and the soup was being served. He was still thinking of what she said and how she said it, and for some reason he could not keep his eyes from tracing the delicate rose-like pattern of color in her fair cheeks. How well did she like Mathieu? Hal pondered the deep question, then suddenly became aware that his host was speaking to him.

“The journey to Beyond must have seemed interminable to a city-bred chap like yourself, Hal,” he was saying.

“Not interminable, Mr. Stark,” Hal answered after swallowing his crumpet almost whole; “just interesting. I didn’t think there was so much space—I felt swallowed up in it. You’re certainly on the edge of things up here.”

Mr. Stark’s haunting gray eyes sought his plate and he nodded his majestic white head several times. His voice had a tired sound when he spoke again.

“On the edge of things, yes,” he said more to himself than to his guest. “Strange I never thought of it that way before. But it just covers the situation...on the edge of things.” He looked up almost startled, then smiled quickly at Hal. “There’s been seven generations of Starks at Beyond. Some of us have gone away but we always come back sometime.” He bit his full under lip and a look akin to pain passed across his smooth face.

“We Starks may be isolated here, Mr. Keen, but we’re happy,” Della interposed suddenly. Her voice was high-pitched and icy, and a frown furrowed the olive smoothness of her forehead. Clearly, she was on the defensive, for she added: “We have each other.”

Hal’s handsome face lighted with a brilliant smile.

“And you’re very lucky, Miss Della,” he said serenely, “not only to have each other, but to live on the edge of things. I wasn’t being critical—I was envious. Your brother Ches, here, can tell you what a weakness I have for being on the edge of things. It’s the danger of not knowing whether or not one can keep from falling off. That’s what I love—the danger!”

A hush had fallen over the table and Hal cast a furtive glance around to find that Tallman Stark again sat with downcast eyes. That pained look too was again evident and Hal had the uncomfortable feeling that his remark was the cause. Why, he could not understand and he looked from one to another, questioningly.

“We don’t fall off anything and there’s absolutely no danger up here,” snapped Della with narrowed eyes. “It’s silly to suggest such a thing. One would think we were up in the Barren Lands. Of course, we have long, cold winters but there’s sport to be found outdoors.”

“Ripping sports too, old chap,” Jerard Mathieu said in a thin, piping voice. He looked at Hal, his light blue eyes seeming to wander all over his head.

Hal studied the fair-haired aristocrat and was trying to make up his mind whether or not he liked the fellow, when Phoebe’s low, sweet voice fell on his ears.

“Jerard isn’t being terribly truthful with you if he’s trying to make you believe that you’ll find any sports outdoors tomorrow,” she was saying. “It’ll be days and days before the river’s packed enough again for us to skate and the sledding won’t be good until the snow’s packed hard. But if you like skiing...”

“Talking of skiing, Dad,” Chester interposed suddenly, “there’s one of us or some of us will have to go to Sainte Beauve the first thing in the morning. Jacques made a very interesting discovery just below Black Swamp. He saw this thing come floating down the river—we thought at first it was a great big box, but...”

“Pardonnez, M’sieu Chester,” Jacques Bonner’s guttural voice interrupted from the kitchen door. He was looking straight at Tallman Stark and a vague smile flitted about his swarthy face. “It wasn’t box, M’sieu Chester think it was—it was...what you call ’eem chest, cedar chest. ’Eem was buried maybe twenty year because I pick ’eem open with jackknife and we see in the mud inside a skeleton.”

“Skeleton!” screamed Phoebe, horrified.

“Oh, I say!” Jerard Mathieu exclaimed.

Della Stark’s tight-lipped mouth was drawn into a thin, red line. She was looking anxiously at her father and Hal, following the line of her gaze, saw something that caused him anxiety too.

Tallman Stark was rising from the table slowly and staring at Jacques Bonner’s smiling face like one transfixed.