CHAPTER XX.
THE STONE IN THE GARDEN.
OCTOBER 11, 1791.
This morning the post brought two letters for my strange guests. Beinganxious to see how they would be received, I carried them up to MadameLetellier's room myself.
The ladies were sitting together, the daughter embroidering. At thesight of the letters in my hand they both rose, the daughter reaching mefirst.
"Let me have them!" she cried, a glad, bright color showing for a momenton her cheek.
"From your father?" asked the mother, in a tone of nonchalance that didnot deceive me.
The girl shook her head. A smile as exquisite as it was sad made hermouth beautiful. "From--" she began, but stopped, whether from aninstinct of maidenly shame or some secret signal from her mother, Icannot say.
"Well, never mind," the mother exclaimed, and turned away toward thewindow in a manner that gave me my dismissal.
So I went out, having learned nothing, save the fact that mademoisellehad a lover, and that her lips could smile.
They did not smile again, however. Next day she looked whiter than ever,and languid as a broken blossom.
"She is ill," declared madame. "The stairs she has to climb are too muchfor her."
"Ah, ha!" thought I to myself. "That is the first move," and waited forthe next development.
It has not come as soon as I expected. Two days have passed, and thoughMademoiselle Letellier grows paler and thinner, nothing more has beensaid about the stairs. But the time has not passed without its incident,and a serious enough one, too, if these women are, as I fear, in thesecret of the hidden chamber.
It is this: In the garden is a white stone. It is plain-finished butunlettered. It marks the resting-place of Honora Urquhart. For reasonswhich we all thought good, we have taken no uninterested person into thesecret of this grave, any more than we have into that of the hiddenchamber.
Consequently no one in the house but myself could answer MadameLetellier, when, stopping in her short walk up and down the garden path,she asked what the white stone meant and what it marked. I would notanswer her. I had seen from the window where I stood the quick surprisewith which she had come to a standstill at the sight of this stone, andI had caught the tremble in her usually steady voice as she made theinquiry I have mentioned above. I therefore hastened down and joined herbefore she had left the spot.
"You are wondering what this stone means," I observed, with anindifferent tone calculated to set her at her ease. Then suddenly, andwith a changed voice and a secret look into her face, I added: "It is aheadstone; a dead body lies here."
She quivered, and her lids fell. For all her self-possession--and she isthe most self-possessed person I ever saw in my life--she showed achange that gave me new thoughts and made me summon up all the strengthI am mistress of, in order to preserve the composure which her agitationhad so deeply shaken.
"You shock me," were her first words, uttered very slowly, and with atransparent show of indifference. "It is not usual to find a gardenused for a burial place. May I ask whose body lies here? That of somefaithful black or of a favorite horse?"
"It is not that of a horse," I returned, calmly. And greatly pleased tofind that I had placed her in a position where she would be obliged topress the question if she would learn anything more, I walked slowly on,convinced that she would follow me.
She did, giving me short side glances, which I bore with an equanimitythat much belied the tempest of doubt, repugnance and horror that werestruggling blindly in my breast. But she did not renew the subject ofthe grave. Instead of that, she opened one of her most fascinatingconversations, endeavoring by her wiles and graces to get at myconfidence and insure my good will.
And I was hypocrite enough to deceive her into thinking she had done so.Though I showed her no great warmth, I carefully restrained myself frombetraying my real feelings, allowing her to talk on, and giving her nowand then an encouraging word or an inviting smile.
For I felt that she was a serpent and must be met as such. If she werethe woman I thought her, I should gain nothing and lose all by betrayingmy distrust, while if she felt me to be her dupe I might yet light uponthe secret of her interest in the oak parlor.
Her daughter was waiting for us in the doorway when we reached thehouse. At the sight of her pure face, with its tender gray eyes andfaultless features, a strong revulsion seized me, and I found itdifficult not to raise my arms in protest between her beauty and winningwomanliness and the subtile and treacherous-hearted being who glided sosmoothly toward her. But the movement, had I made it, would have been invain. At the sight of each other's faces a lovely smile arose on thedaughter's lips, while on the mother's flashed a look of love whichwould be unmistakable even on the countenance of a tiger, and which wasat this moment so vivid and so real that I never doubted again, if I hadever doubted before, that mademoiselle was her own child--flesh of herflesh, and bone of her bone.
"Ah, mamma," cried one soft voice, "I have been so lonesome!"
"Darling," returned the other, in tones as true and caressing, "I willnot leave you again, even for a walk, till you are quite well." Andtaking her by the waist, she led her down the hall toward the stairs,looking back at me as she did so, and saying: "I cannot take her toAlbany until she is better. You must think what we can do to make herstrong again, Mrs. Truax." And she sighed as she looked up the shortflight of stairs her daughter had to climb.
* * * * *
OCTOBER 15, 1791.
That stone in the garden seems to possess a magnetic attraction formadame. She is over it or near it half the time. If I go out in theearly morning to gather grapes for dinner, there she is before me,pacing up and down the paths converging to that spot, and gazing witheager eyes at that simple stone, as if by the force of her will shewould extract its secret and make it tell her what she evidently burnsto know. If I want flowers for the parlor mantel, and hurry into thegarden during the heat of the day, there is madame with a huge hat onher head, plucking asters or pulling down apples from the low-hangingbranches of the trees. It is the same at nightfall. Suspicious, alwayssuspicious now, I frequently stop, in passing through the upper westernhall, to take a peep from the one window that overlooks this part of thegarden. I invariably see her there; and remembering that her daughter isill, remembering that in my hearing she promised that daughter that shewould not leave her again, I feel impelled at times to remind her of thefact, and see what reply will follow. But I know. She will say that sheis not well herself; that the breeze from the river does her good; thatshe loves nature, and sleeps better after a ramble under the stars. Icannot disconcert her--not for long--and I cannot compete with her involubility and conversational address, so I will continue to play adiscreet part and wait.
* * * * *
OCTOBER 17, 1791.
Madame has become bolder, or her curiosity more impatient. Hitherto shehas been content with haunting the garden, and walking over and aboutthat one place in it which possesses peculiar interest for her and me.But this evening, when she thought no one was looking, when after ahurried survey of the house and grounds she failed to detect my sharpeyes behind the curtain of the upper window, she threw aside discretion,knelt down on the sod of that grave, and pushed aside the grass thatgrows about the stone, doubtless to see if there was any marks orinscription upon it. There are none, but I determined she should not besure of this, so before she could satisfy herself, I threw up the windowbehind which I stood, making so much noise that it alarmed her, and shehastily rose.
I met her hasty look with a smile which it was too dark for her to see,and a cheerful good evening which I presume fell with anything but acheerful sound upon her ears.
"It is a lovely evening," I cried. "Have you been admiring the sunset?"
"Ah, so much!" was her quick reply, and she began to saunter in slowly.But I knew she left her thoughts out there with that mysterious grave.
* * * * *
12 M.
Another midnight adventure! Late as it is, I must put it down, for Icannot sleep, and to-morrow will bring its own story.
I had gone to bed, but not to sleep. The anxieties under which I nowlabor, the sense of mystery which pervades the whole house, and thesecret but ever-present apprehension of some impending catastrophe,which has followed me ever since these women came into the house, layheavily on my mind, and prevented all rest. The change of room may alsohave added to my disturbance. I am wedded to old things, old ways, andhabitual surroundings. I was not at home in this small and stuffyapartment, with its one narrow window and wretched accommodations. Norcould I forget near what it lay, nor rid myself of the horror which itswalls gave me whenever I realized, as I invariably did at night, thatonly a slight partition separated me from the secret chamber, with itsghastly memories and ever to be remembered horrors.
I was lying, then, awake, when some impulse--was it a magneticone?--caused me to rise and look out of the window. I did not seeanything unusual--not at first--and I drew back. But the impulsereturned, and I looked again, and this time perceived among the shadowsof the trees something stirring in the garden, though what I could nottell, for the night was unusually dark, and my window very poorlysituated for seeing.
But that there was something there was enough, and after another vainattempt to satisfy myself as to its character, I dressed and went outinto the hall, determined to ascertain if any outlet to the house wasopen.
I did not take a light, for I know the corridors as I do my own hand.But I almost wished I had as I sped from door to door and window towindow; for the events which had blotted my house with mystery werebeginning to work upon my mind, and I felt afraid, not of my shadow, forI could not see it, but of my step, and the great gulfs of darkness thatwere continually opening before my eyes.
However, I did not draw back, and I did not delay. I tried the frontdoor, and found it locked; then the south door, and finally the one inthe kitchen. This last was ajar. I knew then what had happened. Madamehas had more than one talk with Chloe lately, and the good negress hasnot been proof against her wiles, and has taught her the secret of thekitchen lock. I shall talk to Chloe to-morrow. But, meantime, I mustfollow madame.
But should I? I know what she is doing in the garden. She is wanderinground and round that grave. If I saw her I could not be any surer of thefact, and I would but reveal my own suspicions to her by showing myselfas a spy. No; I will remain here in the shadows of the kitchen, and waitfor her to return. The watch may be weird, but no weirder than that of aprevious night. Besides, it will not be a long one; the air is toochilly outside for her to risk a lengthy stay in it. I shall soonperceive her dark figure glide in through the doorway.
And I did. Almost before I had withdrawn into my corner I heard thefaint fall of feet on the stone without, then the subdued butunmistakable sound of the opening door, and lastly the locking of it andthe hasty tread of footsteps as she glided across the brick flagging anddisappeared into the hall beyond.
"She has laid the ghost of her unrest for to-night," thought I."To-morrow it will rise again." And I felt my first movement of pity forher.
Alas! does that unrest spring from premeditated or already accomplishedguilt? Whichever it may be--and I am ready to believe in either orboth--she is a burdened creature, and the weight of her fears or herintentions lies heavily upon her. But she hides the fact with consummateaddress, and when under the eyes of people smiles so brightly andconducts herself with such a charming grace that half the guests thatcome and go consider her as lovely and more captivating than herdaughter. What would they think if they could see her as I do rising inthe night to roam about a grave, the unmarked head-stone of whichbaffles her scrutiny?
* * * * *
OCTOBER 18, 1791.
This morning I rose at daybreak, and going into the garden, surveyed thespot which I had imagined traversed by Madame Letellier the nightbefore. I found it slightly trampled, but what interested me a greatdeal more than this was the fact that, on a certain portion of thesurface of the stone I have so often mentioned, there were to be seensmall particles of a white substance, which I soon discovered to be wax.
Thus the mystery of her midnight visit is solved. She has been taking animpression of what, in her one short glimpse of yesterday evening, shehad thought to be an inscription. What a wonderful woman she is! Whatskill she shows; what secrecy and what purpose. If she cannot compassher end in one way, she will in another; and I begin to have,notwithstanding my repugnance and fear, a wholesome respect for herability and the relentless determination which she shows in every actionshe performs.
When she finds that her wax shows her nothing but the naturalexcrescences and roughnesses of an unhewn stone, will she persist in hervisits to the garden? I think not.
* * * * *
OCTOBER 19, 1791.
My last surmise was a true one. Madame has not spent a half hour alltold in the garden since that night. She has turned her attention againto the oak parlor, and soon we shall see her make some decided move inregard to it.
The Forsaken Inn: A Novel Page 20