Chapter III

What an unfortunate family skeleton I had unwittingly intruded upon. Evidently this was a repetition. What possible ailment could in the flash of an eye transform an animated girl of twenty to an ashen-faced woman of forty? Why should the blood withdraw from hand and arm, presenting the chill of the dead, and yet fail to interfere with the sense of speech, of locomotion, yes, even of direction?

I was puzzled, embarrassed.

Hugh closed the panel and walked in silence back to the table, helplessness, sadness, the depths of pity written on his downcast face.

I spoke first, “Mr. Craighead, we are both distressed. I have no desire to intrude. Doubtless you are needed. Please do not permit any mistaken sense of duty as a host to keep you from the side of your sister who sorely needs assistance. May I be shown to my room?”

Craighead reached out his hand to meet mine; ensued a clasp which in the extremely tense situation meant more than months of association; he at least had made a friend.

Disregarding my protest, my host preceded me upstairs and ushering me into a spacious room, said, “Shall see you in the morning. We have no hours here, the sun will awaken you. Good night.” He turned, closed the door, and was gone.

Night clothes, neatly folded, spread on the snow-white bed coverlet, every convenience of refined bachelorhood in the great city whence I had come, was here in this remote part of demi-civilization. I had brought no baggage from the village.

Alone, not a sound in the big place. I speculated on the strangeness of things, wished for day that I might get my bearings, mental and otherwise.

In time I slept, nor did I dream in that unconscious period in which the battery of what is termed life receives its regular charge from nature’s dynamo, without which charge the house of the soul would become uninhabitable. In the twilight of sleep, when the subconscious was dominant, I failed to realize in this house of mystery anything more than a strange, eerie sense of the unusual, not the unreal.

I slept late, and had just finished dressing when the serving man of the evening entered with breakfast on a tray.

Was I spied upon? I had bathed and dressed quietly, had not given any signal, yet there was a silent man with breakfast. A mysterious house, certainly, a peculiar host and hostess. I thought while dressing of the embarrassment of meeting Hugh and inquiring about his sister.

The servant, in silence, after a grave “good morning,” threw open the double French windows letting in the sunlight of a warm September morning, and retired.

It was about ten o’clock when I walked out onto a broad upper veranda and made my first daylight survey of the surroundings.

A broad river, almost a lake, I thought at least two miles wide. Away up to my right as I faced it. The bay narrowed or was partially closed by islands and to my left it stretched away to where vision was cut off by trees. Across was evidently an island, as I could see water pretty well back through the stumps of dead trees running from both its east and west points. Immediately in front of the house, two rows of solemn Lombardy poplars lined on east and west a broad graveled walk, running down to a pretentious boathouse and pier. Back of the poplars were two trellised rows of wild grape and wisteria vines. Hedges of clipped cedar lined a driveway to the beach at the right, and spruce and cedar thickets seemed to extend away up the shore line. An apple orchard to my left stretched over a rise in the ground out of my range of vision around the east end of the house.

A perfect Canadian September day. A melodious voice floated up to me, “Come down and help me pick apples.”

“Coming,” and I was down a stairway at the east end of the veranda wondering what other young lady the place housed, for surely the voice was feminine and as surely young. Thought of meeting my young hostess after last night never entered my head. She was as something a thousand miles removed from the commonplace of apple-picking.

It was my hostess--radiant, smiling through eyes of ebullient youth from a perch at least ten feet from the ground in the crotch of an immense apple tree. Thank God, my vision of the gray-faced woman of last night was dispelled. She became dissociated from Hugh’s sister. Had the afflicted sister even existed?

“Good morning, Mr. Montrose,” was Elaine’s greeting. “You got up just in time to help me. This is my own tree, you see. Every apple on it is a graftling, and I always pick them myself before the men begin.”

I felt at home at once. I picked apples, packed apples in baskets, apples, the names of which I had never before heard, all growing on one immense tree, “all through the labor of love of her father,” I was told.

Her father died before she was born. Hugh had gone to the county seat to appear in court. My luggage at the hotel had been sent for. I was to be Hughie’s guest here “until I tired of the place--and the society,” the last with just a little of that arch look which lets down bars ever so slightly and denies while it invites an adequate response. All so cheerfully and with such an air of certainty of herself, imparted from above and accepted by me as natural and conclusive.

I marveled at the man, Montrose, staid bachelor, lawyer, man of affairs on a serious mission, hypnotized, actually carried away by the charm of a young girl; or was it the unusual in the situation that made me forget everything but the moment and give myself up wholly to enjoyment of an unusual girl’s vivacity and sweetness.

A ripple of silvery laughter as an apple dropped several feet onto my uncovered head.

“Help me down; I could not resist the temptation. It was the last on the tree,” came the laughing voice.

“Eve was more considerate. She did not risk killing him,” I called back.

“Yes,” she replied, “but you know men were scarce then,” as two small high boots slid down along the bole of the tree followed by knickerbockered limbs, a white blouse and light blue flannel coat. Then with “coming!” she swung out onto a lower limb and dropped gracefully into my extended arms.

Just for the fraction of a moment I held her, for so brief an instant that she could not possibly have noted an intent and yet, frankly, there was intent. That was a moment of ecstasy, just to feel her lithe body resting against mine, to sense the innocence, the trust. Surely I was not in love! Did not life hold to sterner things?

Was it the exertion, did the feminine sense catch the thrill of the moment of which I thought only God and I had knowledge? What was it that suffused her cheek and caused her to lower her eyes from mine which had sought them?

“Thank you,” was the commonplace that brought back my truant senses. “Shall we walk down to the river? There are twelve baskets full,” she added.

“And it is quite appropriate that we seek the two small fishes,” I remarked as we walked shoreward between the poplars.

“That was a wonderful allegory, the loaves and fishes,” Elaine replied.

“Allegory?” I queried. “I read it as a happening.”

Laughingly she said, “You must have an orthodox soul, and I am just in the mood to shock it with a sensible interpretation of that miracle.” “You wouldn’t shock me at all; it would be interesting, even if a bit sacrilegious,” I replied and with a side glance at me she said: “Well, then, I’ll take the risk.”

“The fishes, you know, were to the new sect a symbol, representing the all, beginning and end, life and death. The five loaves represent the five senses. The Master’s sermon was the mental food of the multitude, and the twelve baskets full of bread that remained were the teachings that they carried home in their hearts, so that they might have enough food for all their lives; twelve baskets full, because in the circle of the Zodiac there are twelve signs or houses.”

As I listened to this modern interpretation of one of the mysteries of my religion, trepidation seized me. Were we not discussing biblical matters last night when the awful change took place in this young lady? I looked anxious; perhaps I showed my anxiety too plainly, for as she ceased speaking and just as we reached a bench on the pier, she looked into my eyes and exclaimed, “Oh, I am afraid I have shocked you. You mustn’t take it to heart, Mr. Montrose. You see we live a very solitary life here, my brother and I. Visitors are rare, and Hugh is often away. So I turn to books for companionship, and more frequently than not find myself disagreeing with the writers. It’s good mental exercise, but rather doubtful as social training. All the same, I love it--the woods and the river and the solitude. I wouldn’t leave it even to return to Scotland, or to--”

She broke off suddenly, jumped up from the pier bench and started on a run toward the house, calling back to me, “Hugh is home, something must have happened.”

I followed her up the walk, catching a glimpse of her as she disappeared through the front door.

I walked leisurely out to the big apple tree and found a man whom I had not previously seen carrying away the apple baskets. Volunteering help, I took a couple of baskets and followed the man through a door in the cliff side, close to the east wall of the house. We passed several open doors on our right. They were the openings to vaults for different kinds of fruit and vegetables.

Halting at the fifth opening, which had a huge door swung wide, I entered and put my baskets alongside of the workman’s. The room, apparently fifteen feet wide, was long. Many boxes bound with iron straps were neatly arranged on one side of the room and in the far end where the shadows were not penetrated by the light of the single lamp, I could dimly see the outline of another door, closed.

“Where does that door lead to?” I asked.

“I do not know, sir,” the man replied, “I have never seen it open. Mr. Craighead carries the keys.”

“Hello, Montrose, has sister pressed the lawyer into service?” came a greeting from Hugh who was standing in the doorway. We shook hands; he asked the man if Miss Craighead’s apples were all in, receiving an affirmative reply, closed and locked the door, suggesting that we smoke on the veranda while the day was still warm.

Craighead explained that he had received a message at the village, enabling him to return so early, but gave no further information. He seemed worried, evidently feeling that he owed some kind of an explanation as to Elaine’s ailment.

As we rested comfortably, our eyes not meeting, both gazing out over the bay, I could see beads of sweat on his face and hands. I reached over, laying my hand on his, saying, “Can I do anything for you? I would like to be a good friend; there is something worrying you.”

“Yes,” he replied, “I am at my wit’s end. You saw my sister’s serious condition last night; a recurrence, yes, fear for her life or worse, her sanity, keeps me always most anxious. God only knows how it will end if we do not have help.”

“You have taken me into your confidence a little way,” I urged. “Tell me what the doctors say; how did it set up in the first place; what is the disease?”

Craighead looked at me, then said, “My friend, you would not understand should I name the trouble. Our history is a peculiar one, some time I shall tell it to you. Elaine’s trouble dates away back to childhood; perhaps back of that,” and Craighead paused.

I did not understand fully, but a shudder passed over me as I thought of epilepsy, congenital tendency toward insanity, a terrible heritage for this lovable girl. My horror must have shown on my face, for Hugh hastened to say, “Not that, not insanity. I shall tell you the story from the beginning. The day is before us. Elaine has gone out with the hounds, we shall not be interrupted.

“It is not a pleasant story, that of the Craigheads. You wished to know John Blank’s history. They are closely knitted. In telling one, you will hear the other.”

“Please begin at the beginning. I am interested in every detail.”