XI
MEN, WOMEN, AND GHOSTS
Mr. Simsbury gave me quite an amiable bow as I entered the buggy. Thismade it easy for me to say:
"You are on hand early this morning. Do you sleep in the Knollys house?"
The stare he gave me had the least bit of suspicion in it.
"I live over yonder," he said, pointing with his whip across theintervening woods to the main road. "I come through the marshes to mybreakfast; my old woman says they owes me three meals, and three meals Imust have."
It was the longest sentence with which he had honored me. Finding him ina talkative mood, I prepared to make myself agreeable, a proceedingwhich he seemed to appreciate, for he began to sniff and pay greatattention to his horse, which he was elaborately turning about.
"Why do you go that way?" I protested. "Isn't it the longest way to thevillage?"
"It's the way I'm most accustomed to," said he. "But we can go the otherway if you like. Perhaps we will get a glimpse of Deacon Spear. He's awidower, you know."
The leer with which he said this was intolerable. I bridled up--but no,I will not admit that I so much as manifested by my manner that Iunderstood him. I merely expressed my wish to go the old way.
He whipped up the horse at once, almost laughing outright. I began tothink this man capable of most any wicked deed. He was forced, however,to pull up suddenly. Directly in our path was the stooping figure of awoman. She did not move as we advanced, and so we had no alternative butto stop. Not till the horse's head touched her shoulder did she move.Then she rose up and looked at us somewhat indignantly.
"Didn't you hear us?" I asked, willing to open conversation with the oldcrone, whom I had no difficulty in recognizing as Mother Jane.
"She's deaf--deaf, as a post," muttered Mr. Simsbury. "No use shoutingat her." His tone was brusque, yet I noticed he waited with greatpatience for her to hobble out of the way.
Meanwhile I was watching the old creature with much interest. She hadnot a common face or a common manner. She was gray, she was toothless,she was haggard, and she was bent, but she was not ordinary or just oneof the crowd of old women to be seen on country doorsteps. There wasforce in her aged movements and a strong individuality in the glancesshe shot at us as she backed slowly out of the roadway.
"Do they say she is imbecile?" I asked. "She looks far from foolish tome."
"Hearken a bit," said he. "Don't you see she is muttering? She talks toherself all the time." And in fact her lips were moving.
"I cannot hear her," I said. "Make her come nearer. Somehow the oldcreature interests me."
He at once beckoned to the crone; but he might as well have beckoned tothe tree against which she had pushed herself. She neither answered himnor gave any indication that she understood the gesture he had made. Yether eyes never moved from our faces.
"Well, well," said I, "she seems dull as well as deaf. You had betterdrive on." But before he could give the necessary jerk of the reins, Icaught sight of some pennyroyal growing about the front of the cottage afew steps beyond, and, pointing to it with some eagerness, I cried: "Ifthere isn't some of the very herb I want to take home with me! Do youthink she would give me a handful of it if I paid her?"
With an obliging grunt he again pulled up. "If you can make herunderstand," said he.
I thought it worth the effort. Though Mr. Gryce had been at pains totell me there was no harm in this woman and that I need not evenconsider her in any inquiries I might be called upon to make, Iremembered that Mr. Gryce had sometimes made mistakes in just suchmatters as these, and that Amelia Butterworth had then felt herselfcalled upon to set him right. If that could happen once, why not twice?At all events, I was not going to lose the least chance of making theacquaintance of the people living in this lane. Had he not himself saidthat only in this way could we hope to come upon the clue that hadeluded all open efforts to find it?
Knowing that the sight of money is the strongest appeal that can be madeto one living in such abject poverty as this woman, making the blind tosee and the deaf to hear, I drew out my purse and held up before her apiece of silver. She bounded as if she had been shot, and when I held ittoward her came greedily forward and stood close beside the wheelslooking up.
"For you," I indicated, after making a motion toward the plant which hadattracted my attention.
She glanced from me to the herb and nodded with quick appreciation. Asin a flash she seemed to take in the fact that I was a stranger, a citylady with memories of the country and this humble plant, and hurrying toit with the same swiftness she had displayed in advancing to thecarriage, she tore off several of the sprays and brought them back tome, holding out her hand for the money.
I had never seen greater eagerness, and I think even Mr. Simsbury wasastonished at this proof of her poverty or her greed. I was inclined tothink it the latter, for her portly figure was far from looking eitherill-fed or poorly cared for. Her dress was of decent calico, and herpipe had evidently been lately filled, for I could smell the odor oftobacco about her. Indeed, as I afterward heard, the good people of X.had never allowed her to suffer. Yet her fingers closed upon that coinas if in it she grasped the salvation of her life, and into her eyesleaped a light that made her look almost young, though she must havebeen fully eighty.
"What do you suppose she will do with that?" I asked Mr. Simsbury, asshe turned away in an evident fear I might repent of my bargain.
"Hark!" was his brief response. "She is talking now."
I did hearken, and heard these words fall from her quickly moving lips:
"Seventy; twenty-eight; and now ten."
Jargon; for I had given her twenty-five cents, an amount quite differentfrom any she had mentioned.
"Seventy!" She was repeating the figures again, this time in a tone ofalmost frenzied elation. "Seventy; twenty-eight; and now ten! Won'tLizzie be surprised! Seventy; twenty--" I heard no more--she had boundedinto her cottage and shut the door.
"Waal, what do you think of her now?" chuckled Mr. Simsbury, touching uphis horse. "She's always like that, saying over numbers, and mutteringabout Lizzie. Lizzie was her daughter. Forty years ago she ran off witha man from Boston, and for thirty-eight years she's been lying in aMassachusetts grave. But her mother still thinks she is alive and iscoming back. Nothing will ever make her think different. But she'sharmless, perfectly harmless. You needn't be afeard of her."
This, because I cast a look behind me of more than ordinary curiosity, Isuppose. Why were they all so sure she was harmless? I had thought herexpression a little alarming at times, especially when she took themoney from my hand. If I had refused it or even held it back a little, Ithink she would have fallen upon me tooth and nail. I wished I couldtake a peep into her cottage. Mr. Gryce had described it as four wallsand nothing more, and indeed it was small and of the humblestproportions; but the fluttering of some half-dozen pigeons about itseaves proved it to be a home and, as such, of interest to me, who amoften able to read character from a person's habitual surroundings.
There was no yard attached to this simple building, only a small openplace in front in which a few of the commonest vegetables grew, such asturnips, carrots, and onions. Elsewhere towered the forest--the greatpine forest through which this portion of the road ran.
Mr. Simsbury had been so talkative up to now that I was in hope he wouldenter into some details about the persons and things we encountered,which might assist me in the acquaintanceship I was anxious to make. Buthis loquaciousness ended with this small adventure I have justdescribed. Not till we were well quit of the pines and had entered intothe main thoroughfare did he deign to respond to any of my suggestions,and then it was in a manner totally unsatisfactory and quiteuncommunicative. The only time he deigned to offer a remark was when weemerged from the forest and came upon the little crippled child, lookingfrom its window. Then he cried:
"Why, how's this? That's Sue you see there, and her time isn't tillarternoon. Rob allers sits there of a mornin'. I wonder if t
he littlechap's sick. S'pose I ask."
As this was just what I would have suggested if he had given me time, Inodded complacently, and we drove up and stopped.
The piping voice of the child at once spoke up:
"How d' ye do, Mr. Simsbury? Ma's in the kitchen. Rob isn't feelin' goodto-day."
I thought her tone had a touch of mysteriousness in it. I greeted thepale little thing, and asked if Rob was often sick.
"Never," she answered, "except, like me, he can't walk. But I'm not totalk about it, ma says. I'd like to, but----"
Ma's face appearing at this moment over her shoulder put an end to herinnocent garrulity.
"How d' ye do, Mr. Simsbury?" came a second time from the window, butthis time in very different tones. "What's the child been saying? She'sso sot up at being allowed to take her brother's place in the winderthat she don't know how to keep her tongue still. Rob's a littlelanguid, that's all. You'll see him in his old place to-morrow." And shedrew back as if in polite intimation that we might drive on.
Mr. Simsbury responded to the suggestion, and in another moment we weretrotting down the road. Had we stayed a minute longer, I think the childwould have said something more or less interesting to hear.
The horse, which had brought us thus far at a pretty sharp trot, nowbegan to lag, which so attracted Mr. Simsbury's attention, that heforgot to answer even by a grunt more than half of my questions. Hespent most of his time looking at the nag's hind feet, and finally, justas we came in sight of the stores, he found his tongue sufficiently toannounce that the horse was casting a shoe and that he would be obligedto go to the blacksmith's with her.
"Humph, and how long will that take?" I asked.
He hesitated so long, rubbing his nose with his finger, that I grewsuspicious and cast a glance at the horse's foot myself. The shoe wasloose. I began to hear it clang.
"Waal, it may be a matter of a couple of hours," he finally drawled. "Wehave no blacksmith in town, and the ride up there is two miles. Sorry ithappened, ma'am, but there's all sorts of shops here, you see, and I'veallers heard that a woman can easily spend two hours haggling away inshops."
I glanced at the two ill-furnished windows he pointed out, thought ofArnold & Constable's, Tiffany's, and the other New York establishments Ihad been in the habit of visiting, and suppressed my disdain. Either theman was a fool or he was acting a part in the interests of Lucetta andher family. I rather inclined to the latter supposition. If the plan wasto keep me out most of the morning why could that shoe not have beenloosened before the mare left the stable?
"I made all necessary purchases while in New York," said I, "but if youmust get the horse shod, why, take her off and do it. I suppose there isa hotel parlor near here where I can sit."
"Oh, yes," and he made haste to point out to me where the hotel stood."And it's a very nice place, ma'am. Mrs. Carter, the landlady, is thenicest sort of person. Only you won't try to go home, ma'am, on foot?You'll wait till I come back for you?"
"It isn't likely I'll go streaking through Lost Man's Lane alone," Iexclaimed indignantly. "I'd rather sit in Mrs. Carter's parlor tillnight."
"And I would advise you to," he said. "No use making gossip for thevillage folks. They have enough to talk about as it is."
Not exactly seeing the force of this reasoning, but quite willing to beleft to my own devices for a little while, I pointed to a locksmith'sshop I saw near by, and bade him put me down there.
With a sniff I declined to interpret into a token of disapproval, hedrove me up to the shop and awkwardly assisted me to alight.
"Trunk key missing?" he ventured to inquire before getting back into hisseat.
I did not think it necessary to reply, but walked immediately into theshop. He looked dissatisfied at this, but whatever his feelings were herefrained from any expression of them, and presently mounted to hisplace and drove off. I was left confronting the decent man whorepresented the lock-fitting interests in X.
I found some difficulty in broaching my errand. Finally I said:
"Miss Knollys, who lives up the road, wishes a key fitted to one of herdoors. Will you come or send a man to her house to-day? She is toooccupied to see about it herself."
The man must have been struck by my appearance, for he stared at mequite curiously for a minute. Then he gave a hem and a haw and said:
"Certainly. What kind of a door is it?" When I had answered, he gave meanother curious glance and seemed uneasy to step back to where hisassistant was working with a file.
"You will be sure to come in time to have the lock fitted before night?"I said in that peremptory manner of mine which means simply, "I keep mypromises and expect you to keep yours."
His "Certainly" struck me as a little weaker this time, possibly becausehis curiosity was excited. "Are you the lady from New York who isstaying with them?" he asked, stepping back, seemingly quite unawed bymy positive demeanor.
"Yes," said I, thawing a trifle; "I am Miss Butterworth."
He looked at me almost as if I were a curiosity.
"And did you sleep there last night?" he urged.
I thought it best to thaw still more.
"Of course," I said. "Where do you think I would sleep? The young ladiesare friends of mine."
He rapped abstractedly on the counter with a small key he was holding.
"Excuse me," said he, with some remembrance of my position toward him asa stranger, "but weren't you afraid?"
"Afraid?" I echoed. "Afraid in Miss Knollys' house?"
"Why, then, do you want a key to your door?" he asked, with a slightappearance of excitement. "We don't lock doors here in the village; atleast we didn't."
"I did not say it was my door," I began, but, feeling that this was aprevarication not only unworthy of me, but one that he was entirely toosharp to accept, I added stiffly: "It is for my door. I am notaccustomed even at home to sleep with my room unlocked."
"Oh," he murmured, totally unconvinced, "I thought you might have got ascare. Folks somehow are afraid of that old place, it's so big andghost-like. I don't think you would find any one in this village whowould sleep there all night."
"A pleasing preparation for my rest to-night," I grimly laughed."Dangers on the road and ghosts in the house. Happily I don't believe inthe latter."
The gesture he made showed incredulity. He had ceased rapping with thekey or even to show any wish to join his assistant. All his thoughts forthe moment seemed to be concentrated on me.
"You don't know little Rob," he inquired, "the crippled lad who lives atthe head of the lane?"
"No," I said; "I haven't been in town a day yet, but I mean to know Roband his sister too. Two cripples in one family rouse my interest."
He did not say why he had spoken of the child, but began tapping withhis key again.
"And you are sure you saw nothing?" he whispered. "Lots of things canhappen in a lonely road like that."
"Not if everybody is as afraid to enter it as you say your villagersare," I retorted.
But he didn't yield a jot.
"Some folks don't mind present dangers," said he. "Spirits----"
But he received no encouragement in his return to this topic. "You don'tbelieve in spirits?" said he. "Well, they are doubtful sort of folks,but when honest and respectable people such as live in this town, whenchildren even, see what answers to nothing but phantoms, then I rememberwhat a wiser man than any of us once said----But perhaps you don't readShakespeare, madam?"
Nonplussed for the moment, but interested in the man's talk more thanwas consistent with my need of haste, I said with some spirit, for itstruck me as very ridiculous that this country mechanic should questionmy knowledge of the greatest dramatist of all time, "Shakespeare and theBible form the staple of my reading." At which he gave me a little nodof apology and hastened to say:
"Then you know what I mean--Hamlet's remark to Horatio, madam, 'Thereare more things,' etc. Your memory will readily supply you with thewords."
I signifi
ed my satisfaction and perfect comprehension of his meaning,and, feeling that something important lay behind his words, I endeavoredto make him speak more explicitly.
"The Misses Knollys show no terror of their home," I observed. "Theycannot believe in spirits either."
"Miss Knollys is a woman of a great deal of character," said he. "Butlook at Lucetta. There is a face for you, for a girl not yet out of hertwenties; and such a round-cheeked lass as she was once! Now what hasmade the change? The sights and sounds of that old house, I say. Nothingelse would give her that scared look--nothing merely mortal, I mean."
This was going a step too far. I could not discuss Lucetta with thisstranger, anxious as I was to hear what he had to say about her.
"I don't know," I remonstrated, taking up my black satin bag, withoutwhich I never stir. "One would think the terrors of the lane she livesin might account for some appearance of fear on her part."
"So it might," he assented, but with no great heartiness. "But Lucettahas never spoken of those dangers. The people in the lane do not seem tofear them. Even Deacon Spear says that, set aside the wickedness of thething, he rather enjoys the quiet which the ill repute of the lane giveshim. I don't understand this indifference myself. I have no relish forhorrible mysteries or for ghosts either."
"You won't forget the key?" I suggested shortly, preparing to walk out,in my dread lest he should again introduce the subject of Lucetta.
"No," said he, "I won't forget it." His tone should have warned me thatI need not expect to have a locked door that night.
Lost Man's Lane: A Second Episode in the Life of Amelia Butterworth Page 12