Chapter 3

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.”