Books: Quill's Window

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"That's the horrible penalty one pays for growing up, Mrs. Strong."

"I guess you're right. Of course, they write to each other every once
in a while,--but nothing is like it used to be. Alix had a letter
from Davy only a day or so ago. You'd think she might occasionally
tell me some of the things he writes about,--but she never does.
She never opens her mouth about them. And he never writes anything
to me about what she writes to him. I suppose that's the way of the
world. When they were little they used to come to me with everything.

"You see, I came here to keep house for Mr. Windom soon after old
Maria Bliss died. My husband died when David was six years old.
Alix was only four years old when I came here, Mr. Thane. This house
was new,--just finished. I'll never forget the rage Mr. Windom got
into when he found out that Alix and David were going up to the old
farmhouse where her mother died and were using one of the upstairs
rooms as a 'den.' They got in through a cellar window, it seems.
They were each writing a novel, and that was where they worked and
read what they had written to each other. That lasted only about six
weeks or so before Mr. Windom found out about it. He was terrible.
You see, without knowing it, they had picked out the room that was
most sacred to him. It was his wife's own room,--where she died and
where Alix's mother was born and where she also died,--and where
our Alix was born.

"Of course, at that time nobody knew about Edward Crown. We
all thought he was alive somewhere. The children never went there
again. No, sirree! They both ought to have known better than to
go at all. Alix was fifteen years old when that happened, and Davy
was going to college in the winter time."

"Did your son live here in the house with you all those years?"
inquired Courtney.

"We lived in the first cottage down the lane from here. Mr. Windom
was a very thoughtful man. He did not want me to live here in the
house with him because of what people might say. You see, I was a
young woman then, and--well, people are not always kind, you know."
She spoke simply and without the slightest embarrassment.

He looked hard at her half-averted face and was suddenly confronted
by the realization that this grey, motherly woman must have been
young once, like Alix, and pretty. As it is with the young, he
could not think of her except as old. He had always thought of his
mother as old; it was impossible to think of her as having once
been young and gay like the girls he knew. Yes, Mrs. Strong must
have been young and pretty and desirable,--somebody's sweetheart,
somebody's "girl." The thought astonished him.

II

Shortly afterward he took his departure. There was a frown of annoyance
on his brow as he strode briskly up the lane in the direction of
the crossroads, half a mile or more above the village. As usual,
he thought aloud.

"There's no way of finding out just how things stand between them.
The old lady doesn't know anything, that's a cinch. If she really
knew she would have let it out to me. I'll never get a better
chance to pump her than I had today. She doesn't know. You can see
she hopes her son will get her. That's as plain as the nose on your
face. But she doesn't know anything. Is that a good sign or a bad
one? I wish I knew. Alix isn't the sort to forget. Maybe Strong has
gotten over it and not she. It's darned aggravating, that's what
it is. There must be some good reason why she's never married. I
wonder if she's still keen about him. This talk of Charlie Webster's
may be plain bunk. If she hates him,--why? That's the question.
WHY does she hate him? There must be some reason beside that debt
he owed to old Windom. Gad, I wish I could have seen that letter
he wrote her when he sent the cheque. Well, anyhow, it's up to me
to get busy. That's sure!"

His walk took him past the Windomville Cemetery and up the gravel
turnpike leading to the city. Alix had traversed this road an hour
or so earlier. Swinging around a bend in the highway, he came in
view of the abandoned farmhouse half a mile ahead.

It was a familiar object by this time, for he had passed it many
times, not only on his solitary walks but on several occasions with
Alix. The desolate house, with its weed-grown yard, its dilapidated
paling fence, its atmosphere of decay, had always possessed
a certain fascination for him. He secretly confessed to a queer
little sensation as of awe whenever he looked upon the empty,
green-shuttered house. It suggested death. More than once he had
paused in the road below the rickety gate to gaze intently at the
closed windows, or to scrutinize the tangled mass of weeds and
rose bushes that almost hid the porch and its approach from view.
He was never without the strange feeling that the body of Edward
Crown might still be lying at the foot of the hidden steps.

Now he approached the place with a new and deeper interest.
Strangely enough, it had been shorn within the hour of much that
was grim and terrifying. It was no longer a house to inspire dread
and uneasiness. Two young and venturesome spirits had invaded its
silent precincts, there to dream in safety and seclusion, unhaunted
by its spectres, undisturbed by its secret. In one of its darkened
rooms they had set up a "workshop," a "playhouse." A glaze came
over his eyes as he wondered what had transpired in that room during
the surreptitious six weeks' tenancy. Had David Strong kissed her?
Had she kissed David Strong? Were promises made and futures planned?
His throat was tight with the swell of jealousy.

He stopped at the gate. After a moment's hesitation he lifted
the rusty latch and jerked the gate open far enough to allow him
to squeeze through. Then he paused to sweep the landscape with
an inquiring eye. Far up the pike a load of fodder moved slowly.
There were cattle in the pasture near at hand, but no human being
to observe his actions. In a distant upland field men were moving
among a multitude of corn-shocks, trailing the horses and wagons
that belonged to Alix Crown. Crows cawed in the trees on the eastern
edge of the strip of meadowland, and on high soared two or three
big birds,--hawks or buzzards, he knew not which,--circling slowly
in the arc of the steel blue sky.

Confident that he was unobserved, he made his way up the half-buried
walk to the porch, and, deliberately mounting the steps, tried
the door-knob. As he expected, the door was locked. After another
searching look in all directions, he started off through the tangle
of weeds and burdocks to circle the house. He passed through what
once must have been the tennis-court of Alix the First,--now a
weedy patch,--and came to the back door. Below him lay the deserted
stables and outbuildings, facing the barnyard in which a few worn-out
farm implements were to be seen, weather-beaten skeletons of a past
generation.

There was no sign of human life. A lean and threadbare scarecrow
flapped his ragged coat-sleeves in the wind that swept across the
barren garden patch farther up the slope,--this was the nearest
approach to human life that came within the range of vision. And
as if to invite jovial companionship, this pathetic gentleman wore
his ancient straw hat cocked rakishly over what would have been
his left ear if he had had any ears at all.

While standing before the gate, Courtney had come to a sudden,
amazing decision. He resolved to enter and explore the house if it
were possible to do so. He remembered that Mrs. Strong, in pursuing
the subject, had declared that Alix and David were not even permitted
to return to the house for their literary products; moreover,
she doubted very much whether the former had taken the trouble to
recover them after she became sole possessor of the property. If
they were still there, with other tangible proofs of an adolescent
intimacy, he saw no reason why he should not lay eyes,--or even
hands,--upon them. He saw no wrong in the undertaking. It was a
justifiable adventure, viewed from the standpoint of a lover whose
claim was in doubt.

The back door was locked and the window shutters securely nailed.
Entrance to the cellar was barred by heavy scantlings fastened across
the sloping hatch. In the barnyard he found a stout single-tree.
With this he succeeded in prying off the two scantlings. The staple
holding the padlock was easily withdrawn from one of the rotten
boards.

Descending the steps, he found himself in the small, musty cellar.
The vault-like room was empty save for a couple of barrels standing
in a corner and a small pile of firewood under the stairs that led
to regions above. Selecting a faggot of kindling-wood from this
pile, he fashioned a torch by whittling the end into a confusion
of partially detached slivers. This he lighted with a match, and
then mounted the stairs.

The door at the head opened at the lifting of an old-fashioned
latch. A thick screen of cobwebs almost closed the upper half of
the aperture. He burnt it away with the flaming torch, and passed
on into the kitchen. He was grateful for the snapping fire of the
faggot, for otherwise the silence of the grave would have fallen
about him as he stood motionless for a moment peering about the
empty room. No light penetrated from the outside. The air was dead.
Spiders had clothed the corners and the ceiling with their silk,
over which the dust of years lay thick and ugly. He felt, with
a queer little shiver, that the eyes of a thousand spiders peered
gloatingly down upon him from the murky fastnesses.

He hurried on. The rooms on the lower floor had been stripped of
all signs of habitation. His footsteps resounded throughout the
house. Boards creaked under his tread. Without actually realizing
what he was doing, he began to tiptoe toward the stairway that led
to the upper floor. He laughed at himself for this precaution, and
yet could not rid himself of the feeling that some one was listening,
that the stealth of the midnight burglar was necessary. The stairs
groaned under his weight, the dust-covered banister cracked loudly
when he laid his hand upon it. He had the strange notion that they
were sounding the alarm to some guardian occupant of the premises,--to
a slumbering ghost perhaps.

He came at last to the room where Alix and David had played at
book-writing. In the centre stood a kitchen table, on either side
of which was a rudely constructed bench,--evidently the handiwork
of David Strong. Two strips of rag carpet served as a rug. At each
end of the table was a candlestick containing a half-used tallow
candle. There was a single ink pot, but there were two penholders
beside it, and a couple of blue blotters. Nearby were two ancient
but substantial rocking chairs,--singularly out of place,--no
doubt discarded survivors of long-distant days of comfort, rescued
from an attic storeroom by the young trespassers. A scrap basket,
half-full of torn and crumpled sheets of paper, stood conveniently
near the table.

He lighted both of the candles and extinguished the flickering
faggot. The steady glow of the candlelight filled the room. On the
mantel above the blackened fireplace he saw a small, white framed
mirror. A forgotten pair of gloves lay beside it, and two or three
hairpins. He picked up the gloves, slapped them against his leg
to rid them of accumulated dust, and then stuck them into his coat
pocket. They were long and slim and soiled by wear.

A closet door, standing partly open, drew him across the room.
Hanging from one of the hooks was a moth-eaten vicuna smoking jacket
of blue. Beside this garment hung a girl's bright red blazer, with
black collar; protecting, business-like paper cuffs were still
attached. In the corner of the closet reposed a broom, a mop and
an empty pail.

He smiled at the thought of young Alix sweeping and scrubbing the
floor of this sequestered retreat.

Returning to the table, he pulled out the drawer, and there, side
by side, lay two neat but far from voluminous manuscripts, each
weighted down by the unused portion of the scratch pad from which
the written sheets had been torn. One was in the bold, superior
scrawl of a boy, the other ineffably feminine in its painstaking
regard for legibility and tidiness.

III

These literary efforts had been cut off short in their infancy.
David's vigorously written pages, marred by frequent scratchings
and erasures, far outnumbered Alix's. He was in the midst of Chapter
Three of a novel entitled "The Phantom Singer" when the calamitous
interruption came. Alix's work had progressed to Chapter Five.
Inspection revealed the further fact that she was thrifty. She
had written on both sides of the sheets, while the prodigal David
confined himself to the inexorable "one side of the sheet only."
There were unmistakable indications of editorial arrogance on
the part of Alix on every sheet of David's manuscript. Her small,
precise hand was to be seen here, there and everywhere,--sometimes
in the substitution of a single word, often in the rewriting of an
entire sentence. But nowhere on her own pages was to be found so
much as a scratch by the clumsy hand of her fellow novelist.

Her story bore the fetching title: "Lady Mordaunt's Lover."

Courtney read the first page of her script. A sudden wave of remorse,
even guilt, swept through him. Back in his mind he pictured her
bending studiously, earnestly to the task, her heart in every line
she was penning, her dear little brow wrinkled in thought. He could
almost visualize the dark, wavy hair, the soft white neck,--as
if he were standing behind looking down upon her as she struggled
with an obstinate muse,--and the quick, gentle rise and fall of
her young breast. He could see her lift her head now and then to
stare dreamily at the ceiling, searching there for inspiration. He
could see the cramped, tense fingers that gripped the pen as she
wrote these precious lines,--with David scratching away laboriously
at the opposite end of the table. A strange tenderness entered his
soul. Something akin to reverence took possession of him. He had
invaded sanctuary.

Slowly, almost tenderly, he replaced the manuscript in the drawer
beside its bristling mate. Then he resolutely closed the drawer,
blew out the candles, and strode swiftly from the room and down the
creaking stairs, lighting the way with matches. Even as he convicted
himself of wrong, he justified himself as right. The virtuous
renunciation balanced, aye, overbalanced,--the account with cupidity.
He was saying to himself as he made his way down to the cellar:

"It would be downright rotten to take that story of hers, even
as a joke,--and I came mighty near to doing it. Thank the Lord, I
didn't. Of course, it's piffle,--both of 'em,--but I just COULDN'T
take hers away for no other reason than to get a good laugh out of
it. Anyhow, my conscience is clear. I put it back where she left
it,--and that's the end of it so far as I'm concerned. Damn these
cobwebs! Good Lord, I wonder if any of these spiders are poisonous!"

Brushing the cobwebs from his face as he ran, he hurried across the
cellar and bolted up the steps, out into the brilliant sunlight.
He made frantic efforts to remove the disgusting webs from his
garments, his eyes darting everywhere in search of the evil insects.

Presently he set to work replacing the staple and padlock, inserting
the nails in the holes they had left in the rotting board. He did
his best to fasten the scantlings down, making a sorry job of it,
and then, as he prepared to leave the premises, he was suddenly
seized by the uncanny feeling that some one was watching him.
His gaze swept the fields, the barn lot, even the high grass that
surrounded the house. There was no one in sight, and yet he could
FEEL the eyes of an invisible watcher.

Up in the garden patch, the scarecrow flapped his empty sleeves.
His hat was still tilted jauntily over his absent ear. It was
ridiculous to suppose that that uncanny object could see,--yet
somehow it seemed to Courtney that it WAS looking at him, looking
at him with malicious, accusing eyes.

Not once, but half a dozen times, he turned in the road to glance
over his shoulder at the house he had left behind. Always his gaze
went to the scarecrow. He shivered slightly and cursed himself for
a fool. The silly thing COULDN'T be looking at him! What nonsense!
Still he breathed a sigh of relief when he turned the bend and was
safely screened from view by the grove of oaks that crowned the
hill above the village.

Several automobiles passed him as he trudged along the pike; an old
man afoot driving a little herd of sheep gave him a cheery "good
morning," but received no response.

"I wish I hadn't gone into that beastly house," he was repeating
to himself, a scowl in his eyes. "It gave me the 'Willies.' Jolly
lot of satisfaction I got out of it,--I don't think. I daresay he
kissed her a good many times up there in that,--But, Lord, what's
the sense of worrying about something that happened ten years ago?"

At the dinner table that noon, Charlie Webster suddenly inquired:

"Well, what have YOU been up to this morning, Court?"

Courtney started guiltily and shot a quick, inquiring look at the
speaker. Satisfied that there was no veiled significance in Charlie's
question, he replied:

"Took a long ramble up the pike. The air is like wine today. I
walked out as far as the old Windom house."

Charlie was interested. "Is that so? Did you see Amos Vick's daughter
hanging around the place?"

"Amos Vick's--you mean Rosabel?" He swallowed hard. "No, I didn't
see her. Was she over there?"

"Jim Bagley was in the office half an hour or so ago. As he was
coming past the house in his Ford he saw her standing at the front
gate, so he stopped and asked her what she was doing over on this
side of the river. She'd been over here spending the night with
Annie Jordan,--that's Phil Jordan's girl, you know, the township
assessor,--and went out for a long walk this morning. She looked
awful tired and sort of sickly, so Jim told her to hop in and he'd
give her a lift back to Phil's house. She got in with him and he
left her at Phil's."

"I saw her walking down to the ferry with Annie as I was coming
over from the office a little while ago," said Doc Simpson.

"Sorry I didn't meet her," said Courtney. "She's jolly good fun,--and
I certainly was in need of somebody to cheer me up this morning.
For the first time since I came out here I was homesick for New
York,--and mother. It must have been our talk last night about the
theatres and all that."

CHAPTER XII

WORDS AND LETTEBS

Mary Blythe and her brother arrived on Tuesday for a two days' visit.
Alix motored to town and brought them out in the automobile. She
was surprised and gratified when Courtney, revoking his own decree,
volunteered to go up with her to meet the visitors at the railway
station in the city. But when the day came, he was ill and unable
to leave his room. The cold, steady rains of the past few days had
brought on an attack of pleurisy, and the doctor ordered him to
remain in bed. He grumbled a great deal over missing the little
dinner Alix was giving on the first night of their stay, and sent
more than one lamentation forth in the shape of notes carried up
to the house on the knoll by Jim House, the venerable handy-man at
Dowd's Tavern.

"I really don't recall him," said Addison Blythe, frowning
thoughtfully. "He probably came to the sector after I left, Miss
Crown. I've got a complete roster at home of all the fellows who
served in the American Ambulance up to the time it was taken over.
I'd like to meet him. I may have run across him any number of times.
Names didn't mean much, you see, except in cases where we hung out
together in one place for some time. I would remember his face,
of course. Faces made impressions, and that's more than names did.
Courtney Thane? Seems to me I have a vague recollection of that
name. You say he was afterward flying with the British?"

"Yes. He was wounded and gassed at--at--let me think. What was the
name of the place? Only a few weeks before the armistice."

"There was a great deal doing a few weeks before the armistice,"
said Blythe, smiling. "You'll have to be a little more definite than
that. The air was full of British aeroplanes from London clear to
Palestine. What is he doing here?"

"Recovering his health. He has had two attacks of pneumonia, you
see,--and a touch of typhoid. His family originally lived in this
country. The old Thane farm is almost directly across the river
from Windomville. Courtney's father was born there, but went east
to live during the first Cleveland administration. He had some kind
of a political appointment in Washington, and married a Congressman's
daughter from Georgia, I think--anyhow, it was one of the Southern
states. He is really quite fascinating, Mary. You would lose your
heart to him, I am sure."

"And, pray, have you offered any reward for yours?" inquired Mary
Blythe, smiling as she studied her friend's face rather narrowly.

Alix met her challenging gaze steadily. A sharper observer than
Mary Blythe might have detected the faintest shadow of a cloud in
the dark, honest eyes.

"When I lose it, dear, I shall say 'good riddance' and live happily
ever after without one," she replied airily.

The next morning she started off with her guests for a drive down
the river, to visit the old fort and the remains of the Indian
village. Stopping at the grain elevator, she beckoned to Charlie
Webster. The fat little manager came bustling out, beaming with
pleasure.

"How is Mr. Thane today, Charlie?" she inquired, after introducing
him to the Blythes.

Charlie pursed his lips and looked wise. "Well, all I can say is,
he's doing as well as could be expected. Temperature normal, pulse
fluctuating, appetite good, respiration improved by a good many
cusswords, mustard plaster itching like all get out,--but otherwise
he's at the point of death. I was in to see him after breakfast.
He was sitting up in bed and getting ready to tell Doc Smith what
he thinks of him for ordering him to stay in the house till he
says he can go out. He is terribly upset because he can't get up
to Alix's to see you, Mr. Blythe. I never saw a feller so cut up
about a thing as he is."

"He must not think of coming out in this kind of weather," cried
Alix firmly. "It would be--"

"Oh, he's not thinking of coming out," interrupted Charlie quietly.

"I am sorry not to have met him," said Blythe. "We probably have
a lot of mutual friends."

A queer little light flashed into Charlie Webster's eyes and lingered
for an instant.

"He's terribly anxious to meet you. It wouldn't surprise me at all
if he got up today sometime and in spite of Doc Smith hustled over
to call on you. I'll tell you what we might do, Alix. If Mr. Blythe
isn't going to be too busy, I might take him up to see Court,--that
is, when you get back from your drive. I know he'll appreciate it,
and be tickled almost to death."

"Fine!" cried Blythe. "If you're sure he will not mind, Mr. Webster."

"Why should he mind? He says he's crazy to meet you, and he's able
to see people--"

"But I've always understood that talking was very painful to any
one suffering from pleurisy," protested Alix.

"Doesn't seem to hurt Court very much," declared Charlie. "He
nearly talked an arm off of me and Furman Hatch this morning,--and
it certainly seemed to be a real pleasure for him to cuss. I really
think he'll get well quicker if you drop in for a chat with him,
Mr. Blythe."

"It would be very nice," said Alix warmly, "if you could run in
for a few minutes--"

"Sure I will," cried the young man. "This afternoon, Mr. Webster,--about
half-past two?"

"Any time suits me," said the obliging Mr. Webster. As if struck
by something irresistibly funny, he suddenly put his hand to his
mouth and got very red in the face. After an illy-suppressed snort
or two, he coughed violently, and then stammered: "Excuse me. I was
just thinking about--er--about something funny. I'm always doing
some fool thing like that. This was about Ed Jones's dog,--wouldn't
be the least bit funny to anybody but me, so I won't tell you about
it. Two-thirty it is, then? I'll meet you up at Alix's. It's only
a step."

"Will you tell Mr. Thane that you are bringing Mr. Blythe to see him
this afternoon, Charlie?" said Alix. "You said he was threatening
to disobey the doctor's--"

"You leave it to me, Alix," broke in Charlie reassuringly. "Trust
me to see that he don't escape."

A little before two-thirty, tall Mr. Blythe, one time Captain in
the Field Artillery, and short Mr. Webster wended their way through
the once busy stableyard in the rear of Dowd's Tavern. Charlie gave
his companion a brief history of the Tavern and indicated certain
venerable and venerated objects of interest,--such as the ancient
log watering-trough (hewn in 1832); the rain-barrels, ash-hoppers
and fodder cribs (dating back to Civil War days), the huge kettle
suspended from a thick iron bar the ends of which were supported by
rusty standards, where apple-butter was made at one season of the
year, lye at another, and where lard was rendered at butchering-time.
He took him into the wagon-shed and showed him the rickety
high-wheeled, top-heavy carriage used by the first of the Dowds
back in the forties, now ready to fall to pieces at the slightest
ungentle shake; the once gaudy sleigh with its great curved "runners";
and over in a dark corner two long barrelled rifles with rusty locks
and rotten stocks, that once upon a time cracked the doom of deer
and wolf and fox, of catamount and squirrel and coon, of wild turkeys
and geese and ducks--to say nothing of an occasional horsethief.

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