The Anna Katharine Green Mystery Megapack

by Anna Katharine Green

  I am not a sentimental woman, but this story as thus told gave me a thrill I do not know as I really regret experiencing.

  “What was this unhappy mother’s name?” I asked.

  “Lucetta,” was the unexpected and none too reassuring answer.

  CHAPTER XIII

  GOSSIP

  This name once mentioned called for more gossip, but of a somewhat different nature.

  “The Lucetta of today is not like her ancient namesake,” observed Mrs. Carter. “She may have the heart to love, but she is not capable of showing that love by any act of daring.”

  “I don’t know about that,” I replied, astonished that I felt willing to enter into a discussion with this woman on the very subject I had just shrunk from talking over with the locksmith. “Girls as frail and nervous as she is, sometimes astonish one at a pinch. I do not think Lucetta lacks daring.”

  “You don’t know her. Why, I have seen her jump at the sight of a spider, and heaven knows that they are common enough among the decaying walls in which she lives. A puny chit, Miss Butterworth; pretty enough, but weak. The very kind to draw lovers, but not to hold them. Yet every one pities her, her smile is so heart-broken.”

  “With ghosts to trouble her and a lover to bemoan, she has surely some excuse for that,” said I.

  “Yes, I don’t deny it. But why has she a lover to bemoan? He seemed a proper man and much beyond the ordinary. Why let him go as she did? Even her sister admits that she loved him.”

  “I am not acquainted with the circumstances,” I suggested.

  “Well, there isn’t much of a story to it. He is a young man from over the mountains, well educated, and with something of a fortune of his own. He came here to visit the Spears, I believe, and seeing Lucetta leaning one day on the gate in front of her house, he fell in love with her and began to pay her his attentions. That was before the lane got its present bad name, but not before one or two men had vanished from among us. William—that is her brother, you know—has always been anxious to have his sisters marry, so he did not stand in the way, and no more did Miss Knollys, but after two or three weeks of doubtful courtship, the young man went away, and that was the end of it. And a great pity, too, say I, for once clear of that house, Lucetta would grow into another person. Sunshine and love are necessities to most women, Miss Butterworth, especially to such as are weakly and timid.”

  I thought the qualification excellent.

  “You are right,” I assented, “and I should like to see the result of them upon Lucetta.” Then, with an attempt to still further sound this woman’s mind and with it the united mind of the whole village, I remarked: “The young do not usually throw aside such prospects without excellent reasons. Have you never thought that Lucetta was governed by principle in discarding this very excellent young man?”

  “Principle? What principle could she have had in letting a desirable husband go?”

  “She may have thought the match an undesirable one for him.”

  “For him? Well, I never thought of that. True, she may. They are known to be poor, but poverty don’t count in such old families as theirs. I hardly think she would be influenced by any such consideration. Now, if this had happened since the lane got its bad name and all this stir had been made about the disappearance of certain folks within its precincts, I might have given some weight to your suggestion—women are so queer. But this happened long ago and at a time when the family was highly thought of, leastwise the girls, for William does not go for much, you know—too stupid and too brutal.”

  William! Would the utterance of that name heighten my suggestion? I surveyed her closely, but could detect no change in her somewhat puzzled countenance.

  “My allusions were not in reference to the disappearances,” said I. “I was thinking of something else. Lucetta is not well.”

  “Ah, I know! They say she has some kind of heart complaint, but that was not true then. Why, her cheeks were like roses in those days, and her figure as plump and pretty as any you could see among our village beauties. No, Miss Butterworth, it was through her weakness she lost him. She probably palled upon his taste. It was noticed that he held his head very high in going out of town.”

  “Has he married since?” I asked.

  “Not to my knowledge, ma’am.”

  “Then he loved her,” I declared.

  She looked at me quite curiously. Doubtless that word sounds a little queer on my lips, but that shall not deter me from using it when the circumstances seem to require. Besides, there was once a time—But there, I promised to fall into no digressions.

  “You should have been married yourself, Miss Butterworth,” said she.

  I was amazed, first at her daring, and secondly that I was so little angry at this sudden turning of the tables upon myself. But then the woman meant no offence, rather intended a compliment.

  “I am very well contented as I am,” I returned. “I am neither sickly nor timid.”

  She smiled, looked as if she thought it only common politeness to agree with me, and tried to say so, but finding the situation too much for her, coughed and discreetly held her peace. I came to her rescue with a new question:

  “Have the women of the Knollys family ever been successful in love? The mother of these girls, say—she who was Miss Althea Burroughs—was her life with her husband happy? I have always been curious to know. She and I were schoolmates.”

  “You were? You knew Althea Knollys when she was a girl? Wasn’t she charming, ma’am? Did you ever see a livelier girl or one with more knack at winning affection? Why, she couldn’t sit down with you a half-hour before you felt like sharing everything you had with her. It made no difference whether you were man or woman, it was all the same. She had but to turn those mischievous, pleading eyes upon you for you to become a fool at once. Yet her end was sad, ma’am; too sad, when you remember that she died at the very height of her beauty alone and in a foreign land. But I have not answered your question. Were she and the judge happy together? I have never heard to the contrary, ma’am. I’m sure he mourned her faithfully enough. Some think that her loss killed him. He did not survive her more than three years.”

  “The children do not favor her much,” said I, “but I see an expression now and then in Lucetta which reminds me of her mother.”

  “They are all Knollys,” said she. “Even William has traits which, with a few more brains back of them, would remind you of his grandfather, who was the plainest of his race.”

  I was glad that the talk had reverted to William.

  “He seems to lack heart, as well as brains,” I said. “I marvel that his sisters put up with him as well as they do.”

  “They cannot help it. He is not a fellow to be fooled with. Besides, he holds third share in the house. If they could sell it! But, deary me, who would buy an old tumble-down place like that, on a road you cannot get folks who have any consideration for their lives to enter for love or money? But excuse me, ma’am; I forgot that you are living just now on that very road. I’m sure I beg a thousand pardons.”

  “I am living there as a guest,” I returned. “I have nothing to do with its reputation—except to brave it.”

  “A courageous thing to do, ma’am, and one that may do the road some good. If you can spend a month with the Knollys girls and come out of their house at the end as hale and hearty as you entered it, it will be the best proof possible that there is less to be feared there than some people think. I shall be glad if you can do it, ma’am, for I like the girls and would be glad to have the reputation of the place restored.”

  “Pshaw!” was my final comment. “The credulity of the town has had as much to do with its loss as they themselves. That educated people such as I see here should believe in ghosts!”

  I say final, for at this moment the good lady, springing up, put an end to our conversation. She had just seen a buggy pass the window.

  “It’s Mr. Trohm,” she exclaimed. “Ma’am, if you wish to return home bef
ore Mr. Simsbury comes back you may be able to do so with this gentleman. He’s a most obliging man, and lives less than a quarter of a mile from the Misses Knollys.”

  I did not say I had already met the gentleman. Why, I do not know. I only drew myself up and waited with some small inner perturbation for the result of the inquiry I saw she had gone to make.

  CHAPTER XIV

  I FORGET MY AGE, OR, RATHER, REMEMBER IT

  Mr. Trohm did not disappoint my expectations. In another moment I perceived him standing in the open doorway with the most genial smile on his lips.

  “Miss Butterworth,” said he, “I feel too honored. If you will deign to accept a seat in my buggy, I shall only be too happy to drive you home.”

  I have always liked the manners of country gentlemen. There is just a touch of formality in their bearing which has been quite eliminated from that of their city brothers. I therefore became gracious at once and accepted the seat he offered me without any hesitation.

  The heads that showed themselves at the neighboring windows warned us to hasten on our route. Mr. Trohm, with a snap of his whip, touched up his horse, and we rode in dignified calm away from the hotel steps into the wide village street known as the main road. The fact that Mr. Gryce had told me that this was the one man I could trust, joined to my own excellent knowledge of human nature and the persons in whom explicit confidence can be put, made the moment one of great satisfaction to me. I was about to make my appearance at the Knollys mansion two hours before I was expected, and thus outwit Lucetta by means of the one man whose assistance I could conscientiously accept.

  We were not slow in beginning conversation. The fine air, the prosperous condition of the town offered themes upon which we found it quite easy to dilate, and so naturally and easily did our acquaintanceship progress that we had turned the corner into Lost Man’s Lane before I quite realized it. The entrance from the village offered a sharp contrast to the one I had already traversed. There it was but a narrow opening between sombre and unduly crowding trees. Here it was the gradual melting of a village street into a narrow and less frequented road, which only after passing Deacon Spear’s house assumed that aspect of wildness which a quarter of a mile farther on deepened into something positively sombre and repellent.

  I speak of Deacon Spear because he was sitting on his front doorstep when we rode by. As he was a resident in the lane, I did not fail to take notice of him, though guardedly and with such restraint as a knowledge of his widowed condition rendered both wise and proper.

  He was not an agreeable-looking person, at least to me. His hair was sleek, his beard well cared for, his whole person in good if not prosperous condition, but he had the self-satisfied expression I detest, and looked after us with an aspect of surprise I chose to consider a trifle impertinent. Perhaps he envied Mr. Trohm. If so, he may have had good reason for it—it is not for me to judge.

  Up to now I had seen only a few scrub bushes at the side of the road, with here and there a solitary poplar to enliven the dead level on either side of us; but after we had ridden by the fence which sets the boundary to the good deacon’s land, I noticed such a change in the appearance of the lane that I could not but exclaim over the natural as well as cultivated beauties which every passing moment was bringing before me.

  Mr. Trohm could not conceal his pleasure.

  “These are my lands,” said he. “I have bestowed unremitting attention upon them for years. It is my hobby, madam. There is not a tree you see that has not received my careful attention. Yonder orchard was set out by me, and the fruit it yields—Madam, I hope you will remain long enough with us to taste a certain rare and luscious peach that I brought from France a few years ago. It gives promise of reaching its full perfection this year, and I shall be gratified indeed if you can give it your approval.”

  This was politeness indeed, especially as I knew what value men like him set upon each individual fruit they watch ripen under their care. Testifying my appreciation of his kindness, I endeavored to introduce another and less harmless and perhaps less personally interesting topic of conversation. The chimneys of his house were beginning to show over the trees, and I had heard nothing from this man on the subject which should have been the most interesting of all to me at this moment. And he was the only person in town I was at liberty to really confide in, and possibly the only man in town who could give me a reliable statement of the reasons why the family I was visiting was regarded in a doubtful light not only by the credulous villagers, but by the New York police. I began by an allusion to the phantom coach.

  “I hear,” said I, “that this lane has other claims to attention beyond those afforded by the mysteries connected with it. I hear that it has at times a ghostly visitant in the shape of a spectral horse and carriage.”

  “Yes,” he replied, with a seeming understanding that was very flattering; “do not spare the lane one of its honors. It has its nightly horror as well as its daily fear. I wish the one were as unreal as the other.”

  “You act as if both were unreal to you,” said I. “The contrast between your appearance and that of some other members of the lane is quite marked.”

  “You refer”—he seemed to hate to speak—”to the Misses Knollys, I presume.”

  I endeavored to treat the subject lightly.

  “To your young enemy, Lucetta,” I smilingly replied.

  He had been looking at me in a perfectly modest and respectful manner, but he dropped his eyes at this and busied himself abstractedly, and yet I thought with some intention, in removing a fly from the horse’s flank with the tip of his whip.

  “I will not acknowledge her as an enemy,” he quietly returned in strictly modulated tones. “I like the girl too well.”

  The fly had been by this time dislodged, but he did not look up.

  “And William?” I suggested. “What do you think of William?”

  Slowly he straightened himself. Slowly he dropped the whip back into its socket. I thought he was going to answer, when suddenly his whole attitude changed and he turned upon me a beaming face full of nothing but pleasure.

  “The road takes a turn here. In another moment you will see my house.” And even while he spoke it burst upon us, and I instantly forgot that I had just ventured on a somewhat hazardous question.

  It was such a pretty place, and it was so beautifully and exquisitely kept. There was a charm about its rose-encircled porch that is only to be found in very old places that have been appreciatively cared for. A high fence painted white inclosed a lawn like velvet, and the house itself, shining with a fresh coat of yellow paint, bore signs of comfort in its white-curtained windows not usually to be found in the solitary dwelling of a bachelor. I found my eyes roving over each detail with delight, and almost blushed, or, rather, had I been twenty years younger might have been thought to blush, as I met his eyes and saw how much my pleasure gratified him.

  “You must excuse me if I express too much admiration for what I see before me,” I said, with what I have every reason to believe was a highly successful effort to hide my confusion. “I have always had a great leaning towards well-ordered walks and trimly kept flower-beds—a leaning, alas! which I have found myself unable to gratify.”

  “Do not apologize,” he hastened to say. “You but redouble my own pleasure in thus honoring my poor efforts with your regard. I have spared no pains, madam, I have spared no pains to render this place beautiful, and most of what you see, I am proud to say, has been accomplished by my own hands.”

  “Indeed!” I cried in some surprise, letting my eye rest with satisfaction on the top of a long well-sweep that was one of the picturesque features of the place.

  “It may have been folly,” he remarked, with a gloating sweep of his eye over the velvet lawn and flowering shrubs—a peculiar look that seemed to express something more than the mere delight of possession, “but I seemed to begrudge any hired assistance in the tending of plants every one of which seems to me like a personal friend.”


  “I understand,” was my somewhat un-Butterworthian reply. I really did not quite know myself. “What a contrast to the dismal grounds at the other end of the lane!”

  This was more in my usual vein. He seemed to feel the difference, for his expression changed at my remark.

  “Oh, that den!” he exclaimed, bitterly; then, seeing me look a little shocked, he added, with an admirable return to his old manner, “I call any place a den where flowers do not grow.” And jumping from the buggy, he gathered an exquisite bunch of heliotrope, which he pressed upon me. “I love sunshine, beds of roses, fountains, and a sweep of lawn like this we see before us. But do not let me bore you. You have probably lingered long enough at the old bachelor’s place and now would like to drive on. I will be with you in a moment. Doubtful as it is whether I shall soon again be so fortunate as to be able to offer you any hospitality, I would like to bring you a glass of wine—or, for I see your eyes roaming longingly toward my old-fashioned well, would you like a draft of water fresh from the bucket?”

  I assured him I did not drink wine, at which I thought his eyes brightened, but that neither did I indulge in water when in a heat, as at present, at which he looked disappointed and came somewhat reluctantly back to the buggy.

  He brightened up, however, the moment he was again at my side.