The trouble at Pinelands A detective story
secret known would destroy all the sympathy, all the admiration which
she’d worked for so patiently these fourteen years and more. And Gaskell
laughed!
“Well, anger and excitement kept her up, I suppose, and enabled her to
forget her paralysis for the moment. She shot him; raced back to the
house, cleaned the gun, and put it where she found it; ran to her room
and popped back into bed, with her heart racing horribly, I suppose. And
there her paralysis came back. Two minutes later she couldn’t have stood
on her feet any more than a real, organic paralytic.
“The thing preyed on her, of course, tormented her conscience. You
noticed the change; you all spoke of it, how she grew more irritable,
more selfish and exacting, every day. And Lewis’ arrest made it worse,
of course. She had a hard time, poor, crazy old woman! But, after she
had killed one man to preserve her pitiful secret, one could hardly
expect her to betray it, just to save the life of another. She hoped, no
doubt, that Lewis would be acquitted; but most of all she hoped that she
wouldn’t be suspected. I knew she was uneasy about me; she was afraid I
might guess, and you remember what a scene she made when I tried to
examine her. She feared I’d discover, as Gaskell had, that she could
walk after all. The whole thing preyed on her and made her more restless
of nights; it brought on new attacks of somnambulism, and the
Poltergeist grew more active. Her fears of me worked on her unconscious
mind until last night she tried to kill me with a knife.”
“Ah-h-h!” gasped Anne Christie. For neither of the girls knew of that
carving knife which had transfixed Somers’ empty bed. “Ah, my dear!”
The physician took her hand. “I wasn’t there, Anne,” said he gently. “I
was up, watching the stairs; I hoped the Poltergeist might make its
appearance last night. That’s why I was so rude at supper and told
everybody I didn’t believe in it. I hoped that, if Aunt Mary thought me
a skeptic, the Poltergeist might come up to convince me. But I hardly
looked for a carving knife!
“It worked, though,” he went on. “The ghost walked, but she got away
from me. I didn’t know about the back stairs, and she must have slipped
down that way, while I ran up the front ones. I nearly had her at that;
she dropped your rings, Dorothy, just as she was sliding through the
door.
“Well, I had proved to myself, then, that Aunt Mary was the ghost, but I
hadn’t caught her. And I knew that, unless I did, it was quite useless
to ask for a confession. So I went on with this other plan. You know how
the quail annoyed her all along; it was that started this whole dreadful
affair. And lately they worried her even more; she thought they were
accusing her, as she said just now. So I borrowed this gun and left it
on the porch, right where the other had been, and spoke about it at
supper, to make sure she knew. Then this morning I hid right outside her
window and imitated the whistle of a quail. It was the same situation,
you see, and I hoped it might arouse the same reaction.
“It did. You were there, too, Uncle George. I whistled and whistled; at
last we heard the old lady call. Anne didn’t answer; she was too sleepy,
I suppose. But I told her last night to pretend to be asleep anyway,
whatever happened. At last, satisfied that she was safe, Aunt Mary got
up and went after the gun, just as I’d hoped she would. She didn’t come
outdoors, as I’d expected; she was too upset, too irrational to realize,
I suppose, that some one would surely hear if she fired from her window.
All she knew was that a quail was just outside, and she must silence it
somehow. When she shot, Uncle George and I ran in; you know the rest.”
Dorothy relaxed with a tired sigh. “Oh, dear!” she whispered. “I’m so
tired, so kind of stunned and numb! I don’t know what to think. I ought
to be sorry, but all I can feel is a sense of relief. Lewis free, no
more Poltergeist, and no more Aunt Mary to complain all the time. Oh,
dear me, it’s horrid, it’s unnatural!”
Poor child! She had been through so much. This last tragedy had stunned
her; she had no emotions left.
CHAPTER XXXIV
MATING TIME
We had my nephew home with us that very day. Somers and I went to the
State solicitor, Toby Vanbrugh, with our tale, and he marked Lewis
Parker’s indictment, “_nolle pros_,” with a very bad grace. It was hard
upon him, after all, to see his big case collapse like a pricked bubble.
He had built high hopes upon the prosecution of the case of the people
against C. Lewis Parker; he had seen himself well advertised by its
prosecution, elected, perhaps, State senator upon the strength of it,
with who knows what further political advancement beyond,
governor--United States senator! He had a healthy opinion of his
abilities, had the Honorable Toby Vanbrugh. And now all that was gone;
in the face of Miss McGregor’s ante-mortem statement, vouched for by
five witnesses, he could do no less than drop the case, and he knew it.
On the whole, the newspapers were as kind as we could have expected. One
or two of them played the case up, for it was a unique news story; but
that will pass soon enough, I trust, and poor, demented Aunt Mary will
be left to rest quietly beneath her modest headstone, where the
bobwhites, that whistle in the quiet cemetery through long spring
mornings, can disturb her no more.
It was two days after the tragic dénouement of our mystery, and Dorothy
and Lewis, reunited, sat hand in hand in the big living room of Fort
House. The slanting sun cast long yellow beams through its western
windows and played lovingly on the girl’s black hair, so that red,
coppery lights glinted in it.
To them entered Peter McGregor and I. “Well, Dot,” said her brother
cheerfully, “I suppose you’ll be leaving us now?”
Dorothy nodded. “We’ll be in our own little house to-morrow. Rosina’s
over there now, scrubbing and cleaning, until your life isn’t safe for
it. And she’s promised to have breakfast waiting for us there in the
morning.”
“Well,” he sighed, “it’ll be lonely here, but I suppose you’re not sorry
to leave Fort House.”
The girl shivered. “No; we were happy here once, but everything seems so
changed. I miss----” She stopped, biting her lips, and I knew she
thought of poor old Aunt Mary, in some way lovable for all her
selfishness, whom we had laid to rest in the churchyard that afternoon.
Peter sighed again. “Poor Aunt Mary! She did terrible things; she made
us all suffer; but, after all, she wasn’t to blame.”
So we all felt; she had been irresponsible. Doctor Somers’ kindly
judgment, delivered over her dead body in that east bedroom, had had its
effect. We remembered the old lady kindly enough, as the puppet of her
own mad impulses, more to be pitied than blamed.
“Well,” said I more briskly, “you two are fixed. You’re safely married,
even if you didn’t have a big wedding, and all ready to settle down in
your own home. And Somers, I suppose, will be going North again
presently. But what will Anne Christie do?”
Dorothy gave me a pitying, superior glance. “Oh, you men!” she said.
“Listen!”
We listened obediently, and we heard faint voices drifting in through
the open southern windows, which faced the front porch.
“I’ll be going back to the hospital now, I suppose.” That was Doctor
Somers’ brusque voice; it sounded rather less than pleased.
A faint-heard sigh. “Must you go?” Miss Christie’s low tones were
wistfully tremulous. I must strain to hear.
“Must I? Why, not for another fortnight. Why?”
“Because--because I----”
“Anne! Do you want me to stay?”
“Oh, the idiot!” exclaimed Dorothy. “Does she?”
“Hush, Dot!” And we all listened frankly.
“I--I don’t want you to go,” whispered Anne Christie.
“Anne, dear!” There was a tiny rustle, as if he had moved closer. “I’m
thirty-eight years old, a battered, skinny, homely brute----”
“You are not!”
“A grotesque-looking creature, almost middle-aged, and just starting my
chosen work. I’ve frittered away years and years, just studying, working
on a small salary when I might have been earning big money for my wife.”
“For your w-wife?”
“Yes, when I get one. And here I am, with my best years gone, little
better than a failure.”
“You’re not! You’re just wonderful, the most wonderful man I ever saw or
dreamed of!”
“Better than Doctor Gaskell, even?”
“Of course! And,” very wistfully, “I h-hope you’ll be very happy with
your w-wife, whoever she is!”
“Humph!” A characteristic snort, expressing disgust of this evasion,
this edging about a topic. “Anne Christie, will you marry me?”
“I’m only a poor mountain girl, and my father’s in prison for making
moonshine liquor!”
“Stepfather!” stubbornly replied Somers.
“Well, but I’m not--not g-good enough.”
“Anne!” A chair slammed back. “Anne--dear, I love you. Are you going to
marry me, or not?”
For all answer there came a little, murmurous, cooing sound and a
rustling, as if a girl in crisp gingham had settled more comfortably
into the crook of some one’s arm.
A long silence followed, while we within doors smiled tenderly at
nothing. Then: “Oh, Floyd, honey, let me go. I’m s-sure that man saw us;
he’s looking back and laughing!”
I sighed, as a lonely old man will. “Two more accounted for,” said I.
“That leaves only you and me, Peter.”
“Not me!” the boy replied promptly. “I’m going to be married in
December.”
“Why, Peter McGregor. And you never told me!” Dorothy looked shocked.
“We-ell, Dot, you see, I didn’t know it myself until I was in New York
that last time. And I got back to find old Lewis in jail, and everybody
so upset--I thought I’d better keep it to myself for a while, until
things brightened up a bit.”
“Who--who is she?” demanded Dorothy.
I did not listen. I am a very selfish old man. All these bright young
folk whom I loved, all the friends I had on earth, I thought gloomily,
had paired off, and I was left alone. I tried to smile.
“Congratulations, Peter! That’s just fine. It’s the mating season. Well,
it’s time I settled down, too. I’ll go now and write a letter.”
“Stop, unk!” Lewis caught my arm. “What makes you look so queer? What
letter do you mean?”
“Why, to Stamford, to the Home for the Aged there. It’s a nice homey
place and very exclusive. I--I have f-friends there, too. I’m going to
buy a membership.”
“You are not!” declared Dorothy and my nephew at once. “Why, your room’s
waiting for you at our new bungalow; we’ve moved your things over there,
and everything.”
“You are not!” cried Peter. “Why, unk, I was counting on you to bach in
with me here at Fort House until I bring Edith down at Christmas time to
take care of us both!”
“You are not!” That was Floyd Somers, in from the porch, his
extraordinarily long, lean arm wrapped about Anne’s shoulders. “You’re
coming to live with Anne and me, of course! I’ve decided to resign from
the hospital and buy out Gaskell’s practice. A little general medicine
will do me good, and there’s plenty of medicolegal work in North
Carolina, once I get to be known here. I like this country. We’re going
to buy Gaskell’s house, Anne and I; and of course you’ll live with us
there!”
My eyes filled with tears. After all, I was not friendless nor
forgotten. “God b-bless you, children!” I said. “I’ll stay with you all,
turn and turn about.”
* * * * *
My story is done. I am living with Lewis and Dorothy; but, when Anne and
Floyd come back from their honeymoon next month, I shall go there for a
while, and in January I move to Fort House, to stay with Peter and his
Edith. I hope she may prove to be as true and as sweet as my other two
nieces--by marriage and courtesy!