Books: Quill\'s Window

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"All's well, as the watchman says at midnight," he remarked, as
he drew his key ring from his hip pocket and selected a key with
unerring precision from the extensive assortment. "I always do
that," he added. "I don't suppose it was necessary tonight, because
Angie Miller has got Hatch where he can't possibly escape. Long
as she knows where he is, she don't do much snooping. She used
to be the same way with me,--and Doc, too, for that matter. Poor
Hatch,--setting down there in the parlour,--listening to her talk
about birds and flowers and trying to help her guess what she's
going to give him for next Christmas. It's hell to be a bachelor,
Court."

He unlocked a trunk in the corner of the room, and after lifting
out two trays produced a half empty whiskey bottle.

"I had a dozen of these to begin with," said he, holding the bottle
up to the light. "Dollar sixty a quart. Quite a nifty little stock,
eh?"

"Is that all you have left?"

Charlie scratched his ear reflectively.

"Well, you see, I've had a good deal of toothache lately," he
announced. "And as soon as Doc Simpson and Hatch found out about
it, they begin to complain about their teeth achin' too. Seemed
to be a sort of epidemic of toothache, Court. Nothing like whiskey
for the toothache, you know."

"But Simpson is a dentist. Why don't you have him treat your teeth?"

"Seems as though he'd sooner have me treat his," said Charlie, with
a slight grimace. Rummaging about in the top tray of the trunk,
he produced a couple of bar glasses, which he carefully rinsed at
the washstand. "Tastes better when you drink it out of a regular
glass," he explained. "Always seems sort of cowardly to me to take
it with water,--almost as if you were trying to drown it so's it
won't be able to bite back when you tackle it. Needn't mind sayin'
'when' The glass holds just so much, and I know enough to stop when
it begins to run over. Well! Here's hoping your toothache will be
better in the morning, Court."

"I don't think I ought to rob you like this, Charlie,--"

"Lord, man, you're not robbing me. If you're robbing anybody, it's
Doc Simpson,--and he's been absolutely free from toothache ever
since I told him this room was dry. Excuse me a second, Court. I
always propose a toast before I take a drink up here. Here's to Miss
Alix Crown, the finest girl in the U. S. A., and the best boss a
man ever had. Course I've never said that in a saloon, but up here
it's different,--and kind of sacred."

"I usually make a wry face when I drink it neat like this," said
Courtney.

"You'll like her just as well as I do when you get to know her, boy.
I've known her since she was a little kid,--long before she was
sent abroad,--and she's the salt of the earth. That's one thing on
which Doc and Hatch and me always agree. We differ on most everything
else, but--well, as I was saying, you wait till you get to know
her."

He tossed off the whiskey in one prodigious gulp, smacked his lips,
and then stood watching his guest drink his.

Tears came into Courtney's eyes as he drained the last drop of the
fiery liquid. A shudder distorted his face.

"Pretty hot stuff, eh?" observed Charlie sympathetically.

Courtney's reply was a nod of the head, speech being denied him.

"Don't try to talk yet," said Charlie, as if admonishing a child
who has choked on a swallow of water. "Anyhow," he went on quaintly,
after a moment, "it makes you forget all about your toothache,
don't it?"

The other cleared his throat raucously. "Now I know why the redskins
call it fire water," said he.

"Have another?"

"Not on your life," exclaimed the New Yorker. "Put it back in the
trunk,--and lock it up!"

"No sooner said than done," said Charlie amicably. "Now I'll
pull up the shades and let in a little of our well-known hoosier
atmosphere,--and some real moonshine. Hello! There go Hatch and
Angie, out for a stroll. Yep! She's got him headed toward Foster's
soda water joint. I'll bet every tooth in his head is achin'."

"How long have you been running the grain elevator, Charlie?"

"Ever since David Windom built it, back in 1897,--twenty-two years.
I took a few months off in '98, expecting to see something of Cuba,
but the darned Spaniards surrendered when they heard I was on the
way, so I never got any farther than Indianapolis. Twenty-two years.
That's almost as long as Alix Crown has lived altogether."

"Have you ever seen the grave at the top of Quill's Window?"

"When I first came here, yes. Nobody ever goes up there now. In
the first place, she don't like it, and in the second place, most
people in these parts are honourable. We wouldn't any more think of
trespassin' up there than we'd think of pickin' somebody's pocket.
Besides which, there's supposed to be rattlesnakes up there among
the rocks. And besides that, the place is haunted."

"Haunted? I understood it was the old Windom house that is haunted."

"Well, spooks travel about a bit, being restless sort of things.
Thirty or forty years back, people swore that old Quill and the
other people who croaked up there used to come back during the dark
of the moon and hold high revels, as the novel writers would say.
Strange to say, they suddenly stopped coming back when the sheriff
snook up there one night with a couple of deputies and arrested a
gang of male and female mortals and confiscated a couple of kegs
of beer at the same time. Shortly after old David Windom confessed
that he killed Alix's father and buried him on the rock, people
begin to talk about seeing things again. Funny that Eddie Crown's
ghost neglected to come back till after he'd been dead eighteen years
or so. Ghosts ain't usually so considerate. Nobody ever claims to
have seen him floating around the old Windom front yard before Mr.
Windom confessed. But, by gosh, the story hadn't been printed in
the newspapers for more than two days before George Heffner saw
Eddie in the front yard, plain as day, and ran derned near a mile
and a half past his own house before he could stop, as he told some
one that met him when he stopped for breath. Course, that story
sort of petered out when George's wife went down and cowhided a
widow who lived just a mile and a half south of their place, and
that night George kept on running so hard the other way that he's
never been heard of since. Since then there hasn't been much talk
about ghosts,--'specially among the married men."

"And the rattlesnakes?" said Courtney, grinning.

"Along about 1875 David Windom killed a couple of rattlers up
there. It's only natural that their ghosts should come back, same
as anybody else's. Far as I can make out, nobody has ever actually
seen one, but the Lord only knows how many people claim to have
heard 'em."

He went on in this whimsical fashion for half an hour or more, and
finally came back to Alix Crown again.

"She did an awful lot of good during the war,--contributed to
everything, drove an ambulance in New York, took up nursing, and
all that, and if the war hadn't been ended by you fellers when it
was, she'd have been over in France, sure as you're a foot high."

"Strange she hasn't married, young and rich and beautiful as she
is," mused Courtney.

"Plenty of fellers been after her all right. She don't seem to
be able to see 'em though. Now that the war's over maybe she'll
settle down and pay some attention to sufferin' humanity. There's
one thing sure. If she's got a beau he don't belong around these
parts. Nobody around here's got a look-in."

"Does she live all alone in that house up there? I mean, has she
no--er--chaperon?"

"Nancy Strong is keeping house for her,--her husband used to run
the blacksmith shop here and did all of David Windom's work for
him. He's been dead a good many years. Nancy is one of the finest
women you ever saw. Her father was an Episcopal minister up in
the city up to the time he died. Nancy had to earn her own living,
so she got a job as school teacher down here. Let's see, that was
over thirty years ago. Been here ever since. Tom Strong wasn't good
enough for her. Too religious. He was the feller that led the mob
that wiped out Tony Zimmerman's saloon soon after I came here. I'll
never forget that night. I happened to be in the saloon,--just out
of curiosity, because it was new and everybody was dropping in to
see the bar and fixtures he'd got from Chicago,--but I got out of
a back window in plenty of time. But as I was saying, Nancy Strong
keeps house for Alix. She's got a cook and a second girl besides,
and a chauffeur."

"An ideal arrangement," said Courtney, looking at his wrist-watch.

"I wonder if you ever came across Nancy Strong's son over in France.
He was in the Medical Corps in our Army. He's a doctor. Went to
Rush Medical College in Chicago and afterwards to some place in
the East,--John Hopkins or some such name as that. Feller about
your age, I should say. David Strong. Mr. Windom sent him through
college. They say he's paying the money back to Alix Crown as fast
as he makes it. Alix hates him worse'n poison, according to Jim
Bagley, her foreman. Of course, she don't let on to David's mother
on account of her being housekeeper and all. Seems that Alix is as
sore as can be because he insists on paying the money to her, when
she claims her grandpa gave it to him and it's none of her business.
Davy says he promised to pay Mr. Windom back as soon as he was able,
and can't see any reason why the old man's death should cancel the
obligation. Jim was telling me some time ago about the letter Alix
showed him from Davy. She was so mad she actually cried. He said
in so many words he didn't choose to be beholden to her, and that
he was in the habit of paying his debts, and she needn't be so high
and mighty about refusin' to accept the money. He said he didn't
accept anything from Mr. Windom as charity,--claiming it was a
loan,--and he'd be damned if he'd accept charity from her. I don't
believe he swore like that, but then Jim can't say good morning to
you without getting in a cuss word or two. Alix is as stubborn as
all get out. Jim says that every time she gets a cheque from Davy
she cashes it and hands the money over to Mrs. Strong for a present,
never letting on to Nancy that it came from Davy. Did I say that
Davy is practisin' in Philadelphia? He was back here for a week to
see his mother after he got out of the Army, but when Alix heard
he was coming she beat it up to Chicago. I thought maybe you might
have run across him over in France."

"I was not with the American Army,--and besides there were several
million men in France, Charlie," said Courtney, arising and stretching
himself. "Well, good night. Thanks for the uplift. I'll skip along
now and write a letter or two."

"Snappy dreams," said Charlie Webster.

Just as Courtney was closing a long letter to his mother, the
automobile drew up in front of the Tavern and Alix Crown's guests
got out. There were "good-nights" and "sleep-tights" and then the
car went purring down the dimly lighted road. He had no trouble in
distinguishing Alix's clear, young voice, and thereupon added the
following words of comfort to his faraway mother: "You will love
her voice, mater dear. It's like music. So put away your prejudice
and wish me luck. I've made a good start. The fact that she refused
to look at me on the porch tonight is the best sign in the world.
Just because she deliberately failed to notice me is no sign that
she didn't expect me to notice her. It is an ancient and time-honoured
trick of your adorable sex."

III

The next morning his walk took him up the lane past the charming,
red-brick house of Alix the Third. His leg was troubling him. He
walked with quite a pronounced limp, and there were times when his
face winced with pain.

"It's that confounded poison you gave me last night," he announced
to Charlie Webster as they stood chatting in front of the warehouse
office.

"First time I ever heard of booze going to the knee," was Charlie's
laconic rejoinder. "It's generally aimed at the head."

He made good use of the corner of his eye as he strolled leisurely
past the Windom house, set well back at the top of a small
tree-surrounded knoll and looking down upon the grassy slope that
formed the most beautiful "front yard" in the whole county, according
to the proud and boastful denizens of Windomville. Along the bottom
of the lawn ran a neatly trimmed privet hedge. There were lilac
bushes in the lower corners of the extensive grounds, and the wide
gravel walk up to the house was lined with flowers. Rose bushes
guarded the base of the terrace that ran the full length of the
house and curved off to the back of it.

A red and yellow beach umbrella, tilted against the hot morning
sun, lent a gay note of colour to the terrace to the left of the
steps. Some one,--a woman,--sat beneath the big sunshade, reading
a newspaper. A Belgian police dog posed at the top of the steps,
as rigid as if shaped of stone, regarding the passer-by who limped.
Halfway between the house and the road stood two fine old oaks,
one at either side of the lawn. Their cool, alluring shadows were
like clouds upon an emerald sea. Down near the hedge a whirling
garden spray cast its benevolent waters over the grateful turf, and,
reaching out in playful gusts, blew its mist into the face of the
man outside. Back of the house and farther up the timbered slope
rose a towering windmill and below it the red water tank, partially
screened by the tree-tops. The rhythmic beat of a hydraulic pump
came to the stroller's ears.

Courtney's saunterings had taken him past this charming place
before,--half a dozen times perhaps,--but never had it seemed so
alluring. Outwardly there was no change that he could detect, and
yet there was a subtle difference in its every aspect. The spray,
the shadows, the lazy windmill, the flowers,--he had seen them
all before, just as they were this morning. They had not changed.
But now, by some strange wizardry, the tranquil setting had been
transformed into a vibrant, exquisite fairyland, throbbing with
life, charged with an appeal to every one of the senses. It was as
if some hand had shaken it out of a sound sleep.

But, for that matter, the whole village of Windomville had undergone
a change. It was no longer the dull, sleepy place of yesterday.
Over night it had blossomed. Courtney Thane alone was aware of this
amazing transformation. It was he who felt the thrill that charged
the air, who breathed in the sense-quickening spice, who heard
the pipes of Pan. All these signs of enchantment were denied the
matter-of-fact, unimaginative inhabitants of Windomville. And you
would ask the cause of this amazing transformation?

Before he left the breakfast table Courtney had consented to give a
talk before the Literary Society on the coming Friday night. Mrs.
Maude Baggs Pollock had been at him for a week to tell of his
experiences at the front. She promised a full attendance.

"I've never made a speech in my life," he said, "and I know I'd be
scared stiff, Mrs. Pollock."

"Pooh! Don't you talk to me about being scared! Anybody who did
the things you did over in France--"

"Ah, but you forget I was armed to the teeth," he reminded her,
with a grin.

"Well," put in Charlie Webster, "we'll promise to leave our pistols
at home. The only danger you'll be in, Court, will come from a lot
of hysterical women trying to kiss you, but I think I can fix it
to have the best lookin' ones up in front so that--"

"I wish you wouldn't always try to be funny, Charlie Webster,"
snapped Mrs. Pollock. "Mr. Thane and I were discussing a serious
matter. If you can postpone--"

"I defy anybody to prove that there's anything funny about being
kissed by practically half the grown-up population of Windomville
with the other half lookin' on and cussin' under their breath."

"Don't pay any attention to him, Mr. Thane," said the poetess
of Windomville. "Alix Crown said last night she was coming to the
meeting this week, and I'd so like to surprise her. Now please say
you will do it."

"I really wouldn't know what to talk about," pleaded the young man.
"You see, as a rule, we fellows who were over there don't feel
half as well qualified to talk about the war as those who stayed
at home and read about it in the papers."

"Nonsense! All you will have to do is just to tell some of your
own personal experiences. Nobody's going to think you are bragging
about them. We'll understand."

"Next Friday night, you say? Well, I'll try, Mrs. Pollock, if
you'll promise to chloroform Charlie Webster," said he, and Charlie
promptly declared he would do the chloroforming himself.

CHAPTER VII

COURTNEY APPEARS IN PUBLIC

The meetings of the Literary Society were held once a month in the
Windomville schoolhouse, a two story brick building situated some
distance back from the main street at the upper edge of the town.
There were four classrooms and three teachers, including the principal,
Miss Angie Miller, who taught the upper grade. Graduates from her
"room" were given diplomas admitting them to the first year of High
School in the city hard-by in case they desired to take advantage
of the privilege. As a rule, however, the parents of such children
were satisfied to call it an honour rather than a privilege, with
the result that but few of them ever saw the inside of the High
School. They were looked upon as being quite sufficiently educated
for all that Windomville could possibly expect or exact of them.
When the old schoolhouse was destroyed by fire in the winter of
1916, Alix Crown contributed fifteen thousand dollars toward the
construction of this new and more or less modern structure, with
the provision that the town board should appropriate the balance
needed to complete the building. On completion the schoolhouse
was found to have cost exactly $14,989.75, and so, at the next
township election, the board was unanimously returned to office by
an appreciative constituency, and Miss Crown graciously notified
by the assessor that she had been credited with ten dollars and
twenty-five cents against her next year's road tax.

The Literary Society always met in Miss Miller's "room," not
because it was more imposing or commodious than any of the others
but on account of its somewhat rarified intellectual atmosphere.
Miss Angie's literary attainments, while confined to absorption
rather than to production, were well known. She was supposed to
have read all of the major poets. At any rate she was able to quote
them. Besides, she had made a study of Dickens and Thackeray and
Trollope, being qualified to discuss the astonishing shortcomings
of those amiable mid-Victorians in a most dependable manner. She
made extensive use of the word "erudite," and confused a great many
people by employing "vicarious" and "didactic" and "raison d'etre"
in the course of ordinary conversation. For example, in complaining
to Mr. Hodges, the school trustee, about the lack of heat in
mid-January, she completely subdued him be remarking that there
wasn't "the least raison d'etre for such a condition." In view of
these and other intellectual associations, Miss Miller's "room"
was obviously the place for the Literary Society to meet.

Mr. George Ade, Mr. Booth Tarkington, Mr. James Whitcomb Riley,
Mr. Meredith Nicholson and other noted Indiana authors had been
invited to "read from their works" before the Society, and while
none of them had been able to accept, each and every one had written
a polite note of regret to the secretary, who not only read them
aloud to the Society but preserved them in her own private scrap
book and spoke feelingly of her remarkable "collection."

The room was crowded to hear the "celebrated air-man" relate his
experiences at the front. The exercises were delayed for nearly an
hour while Mr. Hatch, the photographer, prepared and foozled three
attempts to get a flashlight picture of the gathering. Everybody
was coughing violently when A. Lincoln Pollock arose to introduce
the speaker of the evening. In conclusion he said:

"Mr. Thane was not only wounded in the service of humanity but
he was also gassed. I wish to state here and now that it was not
laughing gas the Germans administered. Far from it, my friends. Mr.
Thane will tell you that it was no laughing matter. He has come
to God's own country to recuperate and to regain his once robust
health. After looking the world over, he chose the health-giving
climate of his native state,--ahem! I should say, his father's
native state,--and here he is not only thriving but enjoying himself.
I take it upon myself to announce that he left all of his medals
at his home in New York. They are too precious to be carried
promiscuously about the country. It is my pleasure, ladies and
gentlemen, to introduce to you one of the real heroes of the Great
War, Mr. Courtney Thane, of New York City, who will now speak to
you."

Alix Crown sat at the back of the room. There were no chairs, of
course. Each person present occupied a scholar's seat and desk.
Courtney had seen her come in. She was so late that he began to
fear she was not coming at all. The little thrill of exultation
that came with her arrival was shortly succeeded by an even greater
fear that she would depart as soon as the meeting was over, without
stopping to meet him at the "reception" which was to follow.

In his most agreeable drawl and with the barest reference to his
own exploits, he described, quite simply, a number of incidents
that had come under his personal observation while with the American
Ambulance and afterwards in the British Flying Corps. Most of his
talk was devoted to the feats of others and to the description of
scenes and events somewhat remote from the actual fighting zone.
He confessed that he knew practically nothing of the work of the
American Expeditionary Force, except by hearsay, as he did not
come in contact with the American armies, except an occasional unit
brigaded with British troops in the Cambrai section of the great
line. His listeners, no doubt, knew a great deal more about the
activities and achievements of the Americans than he, so he was
quite sure there was nothing he could say that would interest or
enlighten them. In concluding he very briefly touched upon his own
mishap.

"We were returning from a bombing flight over the German positions
when somebody put a bullet into our petrol and down we came in
flames. There was a gas attack going on at the time. We managed to
land in a cloud of it, and--somehow we got back to our own lines,
a little the worse for wear and all that sort of thing, you know.
It wasn't as bad as you'd think,--except for the gas, which isn't
what you would call palatable,--and I came out not much worse off
than a chap who has been through a hard football scrimmage. Knee
and ankle bunged up a little,--and a dusty uniform,--that's about
all. I hope you will excuse me from talking any longer. My silly
throat goes back on me, you see. My mother probably would tell
you, 'too many cigarettes.' Perhaps she is right. Thank you for
listening to all this rot, ladies and gentlemen. You are very kind
to have given me this undeserved honour."

Not once during his remarks did he allow his gaze to rest upon Alix
Crown. It was his means of informing her that she had not made the
slightest impression upon him.

As he resumed his seat beside Mr. Pollock, and while the generous
hand-clapping was still going on, Pastor Mavity arose and benignly
waited for the applause to cease. Mr. Mavity invariably claimed
the ecclesiastical privilege of speech. No meeting was complete,
no topic exhausted, until he had exercised that right. It did not
matter whether he had anything pertinent to say, the fact still
remained that he felt called upon to say something:

"I should like to ask Mr. Thane if he thinks the Germans are
preparing for another war. We have heard rumours to that effect.
Many of our keenest observers have declared that it is only a
matter of a few years before the Germans will be in a position to
make war again, and that they will make it with even greater ferocity
than before. We all know of the conflict now raging in Russia,
and the amazing rebellion of De Annunzio in Fiume, and the--er--as
I was saying, the possibility of the Kaiser seizing his bloody
throne and calling upon his minions to--ah--er--renew the gigantic
struggle. The history of the world records no such stupendous sacrifice
of life on the cruel altars of greed and avarice and--er--ambition.
We may turn back to the vast campaigns of Hannibal and Hamilcar
and Julius Caesar and find no--er--no war comparable to the one we
have so gloriously concluded. Our own Civil War, with all its,--but
I must not keep you standing, Mr. Thane. Do you, from your experience
and observation, regard another war as inevitable?"

"I do," was Courtney's succinct reply.

There was a distinctly audible flutter throughout the room. Here,
at last, was something definite to support the general contention
that "we aren't through with the Germans yet." A lady up in front
leaned across the aisle and whispered piercingly to her husband:

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