Chapter XV

Alone, all alone, I dined with Estelle, now the hostess, and her husband, and yet in this household I was alone. My rising hour was regular, now that I was in charge. Eight o’clock saw me at the stables or riding about the place overseeing the fall work.

I cultivated the friendship of the dogs, turned them loose to accompany me on many a long ride, even learned to whistle so that they came at my call, all much to the disgust of Fong Wing who never ceased to fear the brutes. I used Hugh’s horse and it pained me to see Estelle astride Elaine’s beautiful mount, but time wears away many sharp edges.

Father Nealon was a regular visitor. He never failed to interest me and all the men liked him. We never ventured far on theology. When I told him of the shadowy rider whom I saw with Hugh, he crossed himself and said, “‘And forthwith Jesus gave them leave and the unclean spirits went out and entered into the swine.’ Who am I but a servant of our Lord and why should I deny his works and his word? It is not given to me to see these things clearly, but my faith! I would have taken oath that I did see a spirit on the occasion of my first visit to this house.”

November came with snow and ice. And one day came a letter from McFarlane, quaint and brief. The usual scold at the law’s circumlocutions, but full of assurances. Family all well; not a word in particular. Heart-beats quickened at sight of a dainty envelope superscribed, I knew, by a delicate white hand which I had held in my own on that last night. What hopes I entertained, what dreams I wove as I turned it over and over before courage came!

Was it a joy or was it a disappointment? Here it is:

“Gordon dear: I am not happy. Hughie has changed so much. We shall soon see the dear old Hall again. You looked so miserable but I would feel disappointed if you did not miss us. Teach Estelle to skate. We are leaving tomorrow for Scotland. Don’t write until I send our address--will it be Craighead Hall? Much love--from all--Elaine.

“P.S. Kindly see that my tree is banked--you know--from the frost, and have Nell sharp-shod if Estelle uses her. My skates are in the boathouse, above the door. E. C.”

I studied the dash preceding the “from all,” wished the last two words had been omitted, but then--

The tree was banked and the mare re-shod. The skates even were retrieved and ground, but as a skater Estelle was a failure, and I waited patiently until December for the promised address. Then I wrote to her at the London address of McFarlane and waited.

Time did not stand still. Surprising how many vexatious happenings can befall in the conduct of a large plantation, even when there exists no lack of funds. When winter came in earnest, we started building the big sawmill at Gold Creek, a mile west of the Hall. Foundations were in shortly after Hugh left. The dam, the race and spillway were his handiwork. Chisholm, one of the “guests” was a millwright, Atkinson, another “guest,” a carpenter contractor before misfortune overtook him. The men were willing workers and the building soon took form.

At Christmas it was under roof. Aye, Christmas--that was a day of memories--memories of my boyhood home just outside the city, mother and father, aunt and uncle, our entire family, but always boys and girls and games and joy. How different this Christmas!

School and college days and each Christmas at home until at twenty only aunt and uncle welcomed me. Both parents had passed on. At twenty-one, aunt had died and at twenty-five I was alone in the world without a relative; home sold, a city dweller, spending Christmas, my day of memories, in the most lonesome place in the world--a man’s club in a great city.

That Christmas night we served a banquet. The capacity of the great baronial hall was taxed, for Estelle had brought in a number of girl friends. It was the idea of Estelle, who sat at the head of the long oak table, hostess in the place where _she_ belonged. The men were in their best clothes; there were no dinner coats. Fong Wing was ornate in a richly embroidered Mandarin jacket and sang a weird song of Hong Kong Hong Kongee to his own accompaniment on a one-stringed Chinese instrument.

There was talent in this family of one-time derelicts, now real men of worth, and I thought as I looked up the table from my place at the east end what a noble work Hugh had undertaken.

Tables are said to groan; this one was too solid for complaint, but it lacked nothing of the load. Great Canadian pike, baked whole, taken through the ice. I had watched the men in small houses on runners with a spear-handle protruding from the top, dangling an artificial minnow on the end of a line about five feet down through a hole in the ice; a pike would strike, down went the barbed spear and the thing was accomplished. Turkeys, venison, bear steak, vegetables from the vaults, apple--even pumpkin-pies and a great assortment of cakes, the especial pride of the cook, were a part of the menu.

A toast to Hugh was the only drink.

The Chinaman saved his glass of wine, arose and in a quavering voice said, “I dlink to lillee Mistless of Claighead Hall,” and every man stood and drained his glass.

I could not have brought her name into this company, but I loved the Chinese boy for the act.

Was it right that the long table should have been set aside that they should dance? I permitted it.

Two well-handled violins were produced and for the first time the polished floor of Craighead Hall, liberally sprinkled with powder, felt the rhythm of feet, dainty and substantial, gliding to music over its smooth expanse.

I wonder what Hugh would have thought had he dropped in that night. But was not a renewal of acquaintance with social usages a necessary part of the plan of the institution? I stayed in the hall until the table was back in place and every lady guest departed in charge of the hostess.

That morning, before retiring, I re-read for the hundredth time my one letter of letters and as on many previous occasions, convinced myself that the returning family must be on the ocean.

But March came with its winds, which swept clean the veranda of the snow that persisted in drifting into corners. True, I had a few letters from McFarlane; “Only a little while and all would be settled” the refrain of each.

“Alix was with the child and Elaine at Sorrento, Italy; both of the latter were a little ‘puling’ but nothing to cause alarm;” Hugh, I learned, was “dour” and not fit company for “man or beast,” and with the work at the mill and the clearing of the ash swamp and contiguous woods, time slipped away until near the end of May when I learned from the Scot that while Alix and her consort were established at Blankleigh Manor, holding possession, the case was still in doubt, put over until a new court sitting.

The interesting, the important news was that Elaine and Hugh were starting for home in a week.

“Right at this moment she is on the ocean, coming home” and I could do nothing that day but sit and think.

Ten days. I had lost pounds in weight, wandered over the entire place with my friends, the wise but wicked-looking bloodhounds, talked to the old wrinkle-faced Julius Caesar, told him things I knew he would not repeat, thoughts that burned my heart and seared my brain.

Those ten days extended over a greater period than did the seven months during which I had kept watch and ward over her possessions.

Without warning they came--in the night--I sat alone in the library, brooding, had made a pretense of reading, but could not hold interest or follow line--when about ten o’clock the door opened and Hugh stepped through, stopping short just inside.

“Well, Gordon, you are alive,” his greeting.

I sprang forward, impulsively threw my arms around him in a hug that seemed to embarrass, saying only, “Hugh!”

He did not return the embrace. I stepped back, looking at the changes which a few months had wrought and said, “But you are not alone?”

A little of the old Hugh flashed out as he sadly smiled, “I brought her back as I promised, Gordon, but a little worse for wear--both of us. She is upstairs with the women.”

I had reached that condition of mind where nothing mattered. I must see her. I rushed past Hugh, who stood looking over the room, up the stairs and in the upper hall saw her coming toward me.

Stricken dumb, I caught both her hands in mine and stood looking into those glorious eyes, but how big and sad they were! She had grown thin and pale.

“Why, Gordon, have you been ill? You look like death.”

I whispered her name and she shyly withdrew her hands as Estelle and a girl came up to us. Then she said, “Gordon, this is Fong’s successor, Jean,” and Jean, a highly colored Scotch lassie of seventeen or eighteen, made a curtsey saying to Elaine, “Your bath is ready, please.”

And Estelle, the nurse again, put her arm around Elaine’s waist and said, “Mr. Montrose, you will please excuse her, she has had a hard day and needs rest.”

Could I do other than say: “Certainly, certainly,” especially as she, Elaine, added, “Look after Hugh, Gordon. I wish to have a long talk with you in the morning.”

When I returned to the library, Hugh was standing in the middle of the room, hands clasped behind his back and I distinctly heard him talking. I could no longer doubt that the man was in a dangerous state. Physically he was far under average and his display of mental breakdown could be deduced from changed attitude, his aloofness and habit of talking to himself.

“Are you talking to yourself?” I ventured the question smilingly.

Hugh looked fixedly at me for so long a moment that I thought his reply would be unpleasant. Then he said, “Gordon, you have been here sufficiently long to appreciate that this house holds guests whom you cannot see.”

Purposely I evaded understanding of his meaning. “I thought that from the first day of my visit Hugh. Men appeared from nowhere even that first night.”

“You understand my meaning,” Hugh coldly replied.

“You know that my father made this house his home, divided his attentions between my sister and myself. I am never alone. I can hear through my brain what he says, just as he hears and answers me,” and he walked over to the panel in the wall; it slid back and as he stepped into the dark stairway he added. “Can you join me at seven thirty? I wish to go up to the mill and see what progress we have made in clearing.”

Nothing for me to do on this eventful night of _her_ return but prepare for a new day of hard riding. I surmised that Hugh’s nerves would keep him moving. I was past the point where my friend’s peculiarities interested me as a speculation. They had become a source of fear.

At seven thirty I had breakfasted and was out on the veranda ready for Hugh. He was astride his horse which was showing evidence of too much stabling. As I went down to where another mount was quietly cropping grass, Hugh jerking his horse almost to her haunches petulantly blurted out, “Why didn’t you have this beast exercised while I was away? She is overfed.”

“Rode her every day,” I replied quietly.

“Then you must have walked her,” and he gave the beast a smart blow with his riding crop and was off up the river road at such a pace that I could join him only after he had reached the mill and dismounted.

We lunched at Smith’s cabin, rode the limits of the plantation, down as far as the ash swamp, considerable of which had been cut over. Only a few words of approval of my stewardship during a long busy eight months were spoken, though every change was noted and explained.

We halted at the edge of the soft ground in the swamp. Hugh turned, saying, “You are all in, old man. Go on home. I shall see what the spring freshet has done to the creek.”

“Better come with me, you are not perfectly fresh yourself,” I argued, but he turned and rode back over our tracks, seeking, as I sensed the higher ground penetrating the swamp.

This was the most exhausting day’s work I had ever known. It was dark when I handed over my tired horse to the stableman. The hounds clamored for freedom as I neared the kennels. I opened the gate. They fawned on me as once they did on Hugh.

The day had been oppressively hot and evening brought no relief. A storm was brewing.

A cold spring-water bath and dinner clothes had a tonic effect and I went buoyantly downstairs, anticipating.

Elaine and Estelle were there and the first greeting was “Where is Hughie?”

I explained.

“Then we shall not wait dinner,” Elaine said. “Hughie spent most of his days and nights riding about the country in England. I suppose he will do the same here,” adding, “I am very much alarmed over his restlessness.”

She was but the shadow of the girl who had kissed me goodbye in November. Spirituelle, but bewitchingly beautiful. Thinness of face accentuated the largeness of her eyes. They represented more than the windows--the soul itself seemed to come out through them.

I committed the error of asking Estelle if her husband would not join us. Her well-bred reply was, “No, Miss Craighead needs all my attention tonight,” and I then appreciated that the European trip had indeed worked sad havoc with the health of this frail girl.

As thunder muttered in the distance, the sister expressed great concern about Hugh. She looked through the windows at the flashes of heat lightning, sighed and said, “He likes storms, though. They soothe him, he says, but I am fearful that he may be struck by lightning.”

“Only electricity burning up super-heated air,” I replied as though I knew all about nature’s forces.

When rain came down briskly, Estelle asked me to see if my windows were closed. Of course they were in this house of mysterious serving men, but “I would see.”

She followed me upstairs, stopped me in the hall and said almost in a whisper.

“Do not do anything to excite her tonight. She has been hysterical all day. I gave you the pleasure of her company at dinner just to help her regain composure. Fred has gone for the doctor.”

“Good lord, Estelle, is it as bad as that?”

“Yes,” she replied, “almost nervous prostration, only her spirit keeps her up. Gracious! even you, Mr. Montrose, look all used up and you have had only one day of that moonstruck brother of hers. What would you have been after eight months of it?” and she flew back downstairs.

I looked into my room, an unnecessary precaution, hastened downstairs, but Elaine and the nurse were coming up.

Flashes followed by thunder and the downpour of rain beating on the upper veranda were disquieting. Elaine resting on a divan in the upper hall from the exertion of climbing the stairs, chided me jokingly on my failure to keep our morning appointment. I was sorely tempted as Estelle had left us alone a moment together.

The orchard door opened suddenly bringing in a sheet of rain and the white-haired overseer slammed shut the door and stood with water running from his clothing onto the rug.

There was a wild look in his eyes as he directed them first to me, then to Elaine, then back to me where they rested for a second, before he said, “Mr. Montrose, I wish to see you a minute.”

Elaine jumped up, crying, “Hugh! Has anything happened to Hugh?”

“Not a thing, Miss, I want to talk privately with Mr. Montrose.”

Estelle who just then returned, said to Elaine, “It must be something about storm damage; they don’t wish to worry you.” They left us.

“For God’s sake, man,” I ejaculated, looking at the wild eyes of Stanton who said, “Hugh’s horse has come in, mud to the mane and I don’t know what to make of it.”

“When?” I inanely exclaimed.

“Just now, and the dogs are out. We cannot have them trace him.”

My heart sank. The brutes always returned to their quarters for dinner. I turned cold, but appreciated the necessity for action.

“A minute,” I said. “I know where to find him. Get a couple of men and I will join you at the corner of the barn.”

“Man,” Stanton said, “It’s raining pitchforks.”

“That’s all right,” I replied more bravely than my condition of mind warranted and fetched a raincoat from my room and was out in the night without being intercepted, as I feared.

Nobody met me at the appointed place. The wind was high so I stepped into the shelter afforded by an angle of the barn. Just then there slunk by me in the darkness a procession of shadowy forms. The dogs were returning to their kennel.

I was all impatience when four men with five horses came from the yard. I had difficulty in mounting; finally succeeded through one of the men’s putting his horse alongside mine to keep him from running sidewise.

I led the party through the rain down to the point to which I surmised Hugh was making when we parted. We spread out and urged our reluctant beasts in the teeth of the storm into the soft swamp. There was no trail. Stanton and I came together where there was a narrow peninsula of reasonably firm ground. He called through the deafening roar of the wind in the trees and the beating of the torrents of rain.

“If we had the dogs now we could trace him.” I made no reply.

We carefully picked our way further into the swamp, both appreciating that at any moment our horses might disappear in the almost fathomless black quagmire.

A wild halloo in front stopped us in our tracks. One of our men, afoot, came staggering out of the dark.

“I’ve found him. He’s dead; all torn to pieces. The dogs, damn them, they did it.”

We threw ourselves from the horses and followed the man to where in the darkness we heard running water. In a minute we crossed a narrow ridge, water on both sides and I recognized Hugh’s boyhood retreat which I had more than once visited.

Hugh was lying on his back just inside the shelter. In the glare of a match I saw his white face. The head was turned toward his shoulder as though in an effort to close a gash in the right side of his neck from which blood still flowed. I could see only this: his eyes were closed. The man who found him was bending close and holding the small lights.

“He is alive or the blood would not spurt like this,” he exclaimed. “What shall we do?”

“Get your horse; take mine, and ride like hell to the woods road. The doctor is on his way to the Hall. If you don’t meet him, go to the house. If he has not arrived, ride toward the village and bring him here.”

“Better stop up the wound with something or the doctor will not be needed,” he said as he hurried out into the pelting storm.

Light was furnished from a burning splinter. Making a pad of a folded handkerchief, I tore a strip of linen from my shirt and bound the neck as tightly as I dared. All in a daze, breath coming with difficulty, I worked as quickly and effectually as I could.

To wait was agony. I straightened one of his legs which was flexed and then noticed that the cloth of his trousers was caked with mud and my hands after the service were incrimsoned. Other wounds--I searched for them, binding up such as were bleeding.

The dogs had worked sad havoc with their master. Occupation brought relief from the terrible tension.

Hugh’s riding crop was picked up by one of the two searchers who had just come in. It showed evidences of a dog’s anger. I visualized the scene; wondered which had first sought shelter here, Hugh or the hounds. Probably the hounds. Hugh would, in his latterly acquired dislike for the animals, attempt to drive them out, probably struck with his riding whip and they attacked. My surmise was not far from being correct.

Stanton busied himself in the making of a stretcher of two poles from the framework of the little habitation, testing their soundness carefully. Stirrup leathers were brought and fastened between the poles to form a cradle. Four coats were then similarly used. Then we waited in silence, watching the still form in lightning flash and the flickering torchlight, while the wind and rain augmented by the noise of the rushing waters of the swollen creek and the crashing thunder created a fearful pandemonium; lightning frequently illuminating the horror of the situation, drops of water pelted from the frail roof, little streamlets ran down the side walls. My rubber coat protected Hugh in a measure, but the leafy flooring beneath him was sadly wet.

The wait was terrible; finally I gave the order, “Let us carry him home.”

I held his head in position while the men gently laid him in his stretcher. He moaned once as we four traversed the narrow trail.

Little did the boy dream as he brought his beloved books to this spot and cleared a path, that in the full day of manhood it would serve as a guide for the bearers of his body on a night when men’s forms six feet distant were undiscernible except when nature’s fearful forces furnished a light.

Hugh’s face was covered; bended branches from his beloved beech tree held up the coat, giving him air to breathe.

Once as we neared the main road after nearly a mile of laborious searching out of our way through the forest and newly cleared land, Hugh spoke. The voice was unnatural, husky and weak.

I was on his right side, near his head and thought he spoke his sister’s name, but what I heard distinctly was “Hell hounds” and words that trailed off into nothingness. Consecutive thought would not come to me. The phrase “This will kill Elaine” had since my first excitement driven everything else from my mind.

A group of men met us just after the main road was reached. They were all excited and crowded around us urging their services, but our burden was light. Not until afterwards did I think of what eight months had done to my friend--it required little effort to carry the light form.

I gave my place to the silent Williams when we reached the east veranda stairway whither I directed the awed carriers after dismissing the other men, thinking to get Hugh to his room without carrying him through the house and apprising his sister of the disaster before the doctor came.

I tiptoed up the stairs, entered Hugh’s room and spread the French windows wide, then pulled a divan out into the open where the stretcher was rested. Four of us were coatless and drenched to the skin.

Up to this moment I had not felt the full force of the tragedy. My feelings were beyond anything my pen can describe. We stood in our sodden garments looking at each other. What should be the next move?

Williams disappeared into the hallway. The raincoat was stripped off, the beech branches thrown on the floor. I examined the bandage on Hugh’s neck and found it saturated.

Estelle, followed by Williams, came in hurriedly. Strange how trivial things impress; in place of the usual nurse’s white, Estelle had on a loose wrapper and her feet were bare.

She looked at Hugh, caught a breath, then said to the bearers, “You may go; Mr. Montrose and Stanton stay.”

The two men disappeared through the windows into the rain.

“Now get these clothes off,” to us. A quick movement to Hugh’s dresser and she was forcing brandy into his mouth. He coughed and I could see a trickle of red down his breast which I had bared.

“Cut off what you cannot unfasten,” the nurse ordered and presently we had him between the sheets of linen and she was uncovering the neck wound while ordering Stanton to get bandages from her room.

The doctor came in through the window, piloted by a man who had waited in the storm to intercept him, and the messenger. Our man had found him under the open shed for vehicles at the little white church where he had taken shelter. The faithful fellow had ridden to the stables where he learned of the doctor’s non-appearance, then out the road through the woods intending to go on until the doctor was found.

There was nothing I could do but stand by and watch the physician and nurse work over the still form. I went over and stood looking at the play of electricity on the tall poplars.

Just as Estelle said, “There, that is the last stitch,” there was a deafening crash simultaneous with a blinding flash of lightning. A bolt seemed to stab the earth with a viciousness indescribable and the smell of sulphur filled the room. I was thrown back and off my balance.

“Gad!” the doctor exclaimed, “we are struck. Go out, Montrose, and look about. This tinderbox must not burn tonight,” and he looked significantly at Hugh’s still form.

Estelle who had been on her knees by the bedside sprang to her feet with, “Doctor! Doctor! Your other patient; she’ll be wild; come on,” and hastened from the room before my shocked senses operated to move me from where I stood.

“Is he dead?” was my breathless query as the medic quietly removed from the bed to the dresser a number of shining implements.

“Morphine,” was the laconic reply, “and the sister must sleep this night--but get out, man, you can’t get any wetter.”

Outside as I circled the house from the east stairway, the storm seemed to have augmented in force while the darkness was so intense that I stepped right into the arms of another watcher coming through the orchard.

“Struck a tree just back of the house,” he yelled through the roar of the storm. “Buildings all right,” and I re-entered the house through the orchard door and quietly went to my room.

There I found Estelle’s husband.

“Orders,” he said. “You are to take a hot bath, then drink this,” indicating a long glass of slightly ambered liquid. “Then go to bed. Doc Parsons says Mr. Hugh will sleep until morning.”

“How about Miss Elaine?” I queried.

“Asleep. She knows nothing about the accident.”

Was it fatigue? The day and night had certainly wearied me, but my nerves were so tense that no bodily condition would have robbed me of wakefulness. I slept within a minute after drinking the generous potion prepared by Estelle--or was it the doctor--he was a great believer in the efficacy of the poppy in emergencies.

The sun shining through parted curtains was drawing an elongated triangle on the polished floor of my room when I opened my eyes. It was late and I cursed myself while hastily dressing as thoughts of Elaine and Hugh and all the terrors of yesternight rushed upon me.

My first action was to rush to Hugh’s room. Estelle, sitting near the bed, placed her finger on lips as I cautiously opened the door and intruded my head.

Then she silently, by motion of those lips, said, “Sleeping; Elaine also,” and I withdrew to search for the doctor. He also was sleeping.

All nature appeared to voice its thanks to the God of the universe for the cleansing of the atmosphere. There was a delightful odor of fresh earth mingled with the perfume of blossoms filling the air. The overseer and a couple of men were busy with pick and shovel removing the last traces of what was yesterday a splendid apple tree. A few small branches many yards away attested the violence of the shock which had worked the destruction.

As I stood near them, one of the men said, “Ah, here is what attracted the lightning,” and he reached down and endeavored to pull up a pipe protruding from the cavity where the tree had stood.

“Seems to go deep,” he grunted while exerting all his strength.

“That must be a vent to one of the vaults--it is hollow,” the foreman remarked, and while I stood by--I felt a little dazed yet--they filled in and sodded the spot that nothing should mar the velvety smoothness of a portion of the estate to which a practical gardener and our Chinaman were devoted. I saw that a small opening atop the vent pipe was left, but the spot was scarcely noticeable.

“Better,” a word common on the lips of doctor and nurse, though too often meaningless, as I knew, nevertheless it braced me on each occasion when I made inquiry as to the condition of the patients.

Work must go on. Forty men must not become idle for lack of guidance and I was relieved when the foreman asked me to ride to the mill and to the logging operations. I took up my duties of the days when I managed the place just as naturally as though they had not been interrupted through Hugh’s return.

The third day Hugh had a “slight fever,” and “Elaine was with him” relayed, was all I could learn. Thank heaven, I did not witness the meeting between brother and sister--it would have been too much.

Trouble multiplied. McFarlane, knowing Hugh’s condition, by letter poured out to me his despair of winning for him his English estate. The court could not disregard the operation of natural law and the registering of birth in connection with the record of John Blankleigh’s incarceration following the shooting of Craighead negated the claim that Hugh was Blankleigh’s son.

“The estate would go to the other claimant, Hogarth, who had submitted irrefutable proof of being the next of kin,” was Mac’s wail, but my worry was over the other question, legitimacy, and the present effect on my sick friend.

Should the doctor be taken into our confidence? I determined to lay the whole matter before Parsons--or should I go to the priest?

The doctor was calling to me, “Come up. I wish to have a word with you.”

Hugh was losing his fight, did not seem to care to win, Parsons said.

Then I bared the whole story. Elaine’s strange malady; the change in Hugh, commencing on the night when he overheard us discussing the family history; the spectral horseman to whom Hugh talked and the change in the behavior of the bloodhounds.

“They evidently could see what only a few of us can,” I concluded lamely at least to the practical doctor’s thinking, for from a quiet, anxious listener, he suddenly blazed forth, “Idiot! A parcel of damned idiots. Why didn’t you tell me all this before? Why man, I have doubted my own sanity; questioned my ability as a physician; tried my damnedest to get to the root of things; and here I have been working to cure the body when the mind is deranged.

“I am not one of those fool doctors who believe that the machine is everything. The operator is of vastly more importance. Why in--well, now I understand his delirium; why he sees things and talks to thin air. Spiritualism, rank nonsense; imagines his father is with him--” and abruptly Parsons left me, walked to the west end of the veranda with head bowed and hands clasped behind his back.

Returning, he stopped and quietly said, “Do you know, Montrose, our think-works, the useful ones, are in the front; the sleep-works in the back of our heads. I saw you looking at the ceiling just now, so conclude you have no suggestions.”

“Wrong, doctor,” I replied, accustomed to Parsons’ brusqueness; “why not get a surgeon from Toronto or Montreal; they have a broader practise than you; may know some kind of a cure for your patient’s hallucinations.”

“All crazy here, from the Chinaman up. Come back about eleven,” and he went back to Hugh’s room.

From eleven to twelve o’clock, I walked the upper veranda impatiently, cursing that habit of all the medical men of my acquaintance--they never once had kept an appointment or considered the other fellow’s feelings. Then Parsons stuck his head out of the opened window.

“No time now, Montrose, am in consultation with a specialist; talk to you later.” My suggestion had evidently been forestalled.

When, after an invitation from Parsons to join the medical men at dinner, I walked into the library where a table was prepared near the open windows, I was presented to Doctor Milne of Toronto, a man about forty, shrewd-looking, with keen, colorless eyes and I noted particularly, the longest, most slender fingers I had ever seen on a human hand.

Parsons noted my hesitancy in taking the proffered hand of Dr. Milne and broke the ice in his characteristic way with, “Lucky, young man, if you never have to feel those fingers in anything more sensitive than your palm” and the specialist smilingly commented: “Very convenient, Mr. Montrose, yes, very convenient in delicate explorations,” holding up his hands; “permit an unusually small incision, unusually small,” and his satisfied air proclaimed to me evident pleasure in his art.

Peculiar, the reasoning of most doctors. I put my questions regarding Hugh directly to Milne. He shifted the responsibility of reply to Parsons, who with apparent amusement watched the blood mantling my face. I was in no mental state to calmly listen to a play on words, however erudite, or weigh foolish professional ethics.

Then Parsons said, “Montrose, don’t you know better than to question a consultant? It isn’t done. Hugh’s wounds are not necessarily fatal--infection, a little fever, nothing alarming, but the doubly accursed dogs bit into his voice. That’s layman’s talk, Montrose, the throat lesion is deep and the man may never again speak above a whisper; but that’s all he seems to need, a whisper in this house where even the living men are silent. The dead don’t need a trumpet.”

Parsons leaned far back and laughed harshly, a most bitter, understandable laugh of commingled sorrow for patient and disgust for himself, his skill which could not restore.

Anger seemed to fill his eyes as he tipped forward as though to emphasize his statement. “That’s not the worst of it. He’s crazy. When not confidentially whispering to some imaginary person, I know he is thinking talk. Usually insanity has little effect on the health, but this thing spiritism is different, he is wasting away.”

Doctor Milne interposed, “Loss of appetite; affects the pneumogastric nerve, checks digestion.”

“We are agreed that an operation may at least partially restore Hugh’s voice,” Parsons said, “but nothing will save him if he will not eat.”

Then the consulting doctor disregarded me wholly and addressing Parsons said, “Perhaps, doctor, you have not had occasion to study that peculiar aberration called spiritism. I regret to say that the malady is becoming quite common, especially among the more serious thinkers. Quite a smattering are scientific men. We have found it convenient to attach to our hospital staff a specialist in psycho-physics; may I suggest Mr. Craighead’s removal to Toronto? He may possibly have both voice and reason benefited.”

“Can’t be moved, in my judgment,” from Parsons.

“Useless to discuss this further then,” said Milne. “Our Dr. Antoine takes his own time in bringing about cures--has clinics or classes. The method is peculiar. I have listened with interest on many occasions. He seems to adopt homeopathic methods, cures like with like, for he certainly teaches spiritism, is an avowed spiritualist.

“I have heard him say that a thousand years hence when people become weaned from what he terms a silly emotional philosophy preached from our pulpits and learn that God is within each of them and was never seen in a burning bush or perched on far-away Mount Sinai, all will know that the dead live and are as real as those in the flesh.

“He holds that lack of knowledge of spiritism in those endowed with a peculiar brain or subconscious attunement affording ability to communicate with spirits, causes many so-called mediums to sicken and die. The fault lies in the ignorance of the living who know nothing of natural laws; such laws are not taught our children because such teachings would controvert common understanding of so-called ‘Bible truths.’

“He believes that ignorant submission of will-power among beginners through curiosity, amazement, interest in the unusual or for gain, yes, submission of the will of the living to the will of the spirit with whom the medium is in touch will cause the being within the living to become silent, the actual spirit to be dispossessed, driven out, the other to take possession but the house cannot accommodate the new tenant. It decays.

“The life term of most mediums seldom exceeds seven years of active work, I have noticed. A strange world, this,” and turning to me, “Mr. ah--Montrose, I presume all of this is Greek to your practical mind.”

“Not quite, doctor,” I replied, “and I think well of your suggestion; we must bring Dr. Antoine here, no matter what the cost.”

“Impossible. He is peculiar, money seems to mean nothing to him; he treats many without charge, makes no distinction between those who pay and the charity patients; seems to be a part of his peculiar philosophy--or shall we call it religion?”

“A pretty blamed dangerous philosophy, I should say,” from Parsons, “but any old religion that makes man feel a responsibility for his fellow man’s weal has my approval. I’ve watched many pass away but have yet to see any spooks hovering about and unless the lad upstairs gets help which I can’t give him--and right soon--he is a goner.”

Before we left the library it was agreed that Hugh should be taken to Dr. Milne’s hospital as promptly as possible.

The following morning Parsons, leaning over my bed, awoke me with, “No wonder your wits are dull; you sleep as though it were a business; now, boy, up and get both brother and sister into the care of this mind carpenter of Milne’s--can’t do either of them any great harm.”

Two days later, after seeing Elaine, Hugh, Estelle, the maid and Dr. Parsons aboard a private car at Brenton, as I leisurely paddled my canoe through the twilight toward the Craighead Pier light, I thought of the vagaries of fate which had brought me to this place, a stranger, interested only in finding a client. Instead I had found a vocation, taken on a great responsibility--and lost myself to a woman beyond my reach.

I had resigned my junior partnership in my law firm and now, with Hugh’s changed attitude toward me, I must give up this work.

The Hall, with its silent “guests”--master, mistress, nurse, all gone, so depressed me that I welcomed work.

What a blessing is work, even hard manual labor, a necessity on the farm. But for the urgency of necessary work on my part I should have become a fit subject for Dr. Antoine’s ministration.

The rivermen, the boom-stringers had moved down the river, giving place later to gangs of drivers who swept millions of logs before a great sweep stretching from shore to shore, when wind and current were right. The boom was formed of long logs chained end to end with a staunch raft on either extremity, drawn forward through the turning of a capstan which slowly drew the sweep toward anchors carried out by boats. The turning of the capstan by four to six men reminded me of John Blank’s treadmill in Tasmania, but invariably these men sang as they worked.

A short note from Dr. Parsons, who had returned to Valleyford, took me hot-foot to the village, where I learned that he was again back in Toronto--a great disappointment.

In confidence from the secretary, Hunt: “Hugh has deeded to Elaine the entire Canadian estate accompanying the gift with an immense endowment in funds.”

My last hope was shattered. Surely I felt impoverished, mentally and otherwise--what except devotion had I to offer?

Parsons surprised me one hot day in July. He said he wanted a good day’s fishing, well knowing that a drive of logs had just passed and that catching fish was out of the question.

I learned that both patients were “on the mend” as the doctor put it. “Hugh’s operation was successful but it had not had time to show results. He was still morose.”

“Pretty lucky for Craighead, picking you out of a law office before you got into some penitentiary. Saved him time and money;” and “clodhopping, farming, rather than law was evidently my forte; he had heard that I had just lost a case before the Governor-General” were some of his good-natured jibes before I could elicit any details of the case obsessing my mind.

Just before sundown as we were returning to the Hall after a fruitless four hours of fishing, Parsons reached into his pocket saying, “Here is a note from the young lady which I forgot to deliver.”

When I snatched the envelope from his hands with an oath, the doctor laughed and said, “Good! I’m glad to see you have some spirit left. Thought this madhouse had got you.”

“Dear faithful Gordon: The doctor has told you all about Hugh, all about me. We are promised return leave about September first. Faithfully, Elaine.”

It was not much, but it raised my spirits.

To insure the doctor’s staying that night, I had Stanton hide his horse and the poor vicarious liar told Parsons with a solemn face that it had strayed from the pasture.

I learned that though Hugh’s voice was not fully restored by the operation, there was prospect of its becoming stronger. The young lady, living in the quiet sanitarium of Dr. Antoine, was in cheerful spirit and “getting back her roses.”

“What of Hugh’s mental poise?” I queried.

Parsons pondered a long minute. “Antoine is a peculiar fellow; he didn’t pooh-pooh Hugh’s dementia at all. Even with the staff of operating surgeons present he told Hugh he knew there were many living spirits of the dead all about us, in our homes, that the hospital was crowded with them. ‘Helping,’ he said.

“Now, Montrose, just imagine spooks helping Milne when he uses those long fingers in an operation that means life or death according to his skill in avoiding a membrane by the vigintillienth of an inch, yet the fellow had an explanation, explained just as though it were true that ‘through electrobiologic batteries charged from the persons present’--whether alive or dead I don’t know,” Parsons interpolated, “‘the spirit within the surgeon was given an ascendancy making the physical for a time merely the agent of the subconscious man.’

“Briefly,” Parsons added, “the operation was not performed by Milne alone; he was aided by the dead surgeons present,” and he laughed, then resumed in a more serious vein, “The strange thing about it, Montrose, is that Milne is different when operating with Antoine present. I have watched him when Antoine looked into the patient’s eyes before the operation as he did into Hugh’s, heard him say to the psychoanalyst, ‘Well!’ and the answer, ‘He has or has not the will to live,’ and in each case the operation was successful or the reverse according to Antoine’s reply.

“One day I asked Antoine why spirits make a rendezvous of the hospital. He replied seriously, ‘Every worthwhile disembodied spirit has his work and you doctors keep busy an army of them caring for souls released through your bad guessing and reckless cutting.’

“I quit him then, but both Elaine and Hugh like him. Hugh has quit whispering to himself.”

That night before retiring, I read and re-read _her_ brief note.

Reveries merged into dreams of mingled ecstacy and despondency. Chemical activity fading, came rapture. The subjective in command, the soul spoke. Then struggling came the conscious, the spoiler, and the vision despair.

Parsons said to me next morning, “Boy! You look as though you had been drawn through a knot-hole.”