Chapter VI

The sun was pretty well down over the west when I found Elaine in the great hall. I had slept through the day. She had ordered dinner in the library, and was awaiting me. “How did you know I should be ready at this time?” I asked.

“Oh,” she replied, “The walls of this house have ears. You needed a good sleep after last night. I feel greatly indebted to you. Our boy is doing splendidly.”

What hope for a man who wishes to say something when a woman wills that he must not? Here was the woman, the lady hostess, not the approachable girl of the canoe voyage, and I learned a lesson in restraint, found myself drawn away from any encroachment on the personal; intensely interested in a rare quality of mind, beautifully, absorbingly unfolded. Yes, the evening was one of agony and I retired uncertain of myself, baffled, convinced that no thought of me other than as the brother’s friend and her guest during his absence had ever occurred to her.

Next day we were seated on opposite sides of a luncheon table on the upper veranda. The sun was bright. I was about to pull down the Venetian curtain, when Hugh, a Chinaman at his heels, bounded up the east stairway. After greeting his sister with an embrace and me with a handshake, Hugh said,

“This is Fong Wing, who will hereafter make his home with us. He was legally free yesterday morning, but I gave him time to buy an outfit; Elaine, he is yours, the best lady’s maid in Canada. The warden’s family wished him to stay; though he has nominally been in prison for five years, during most of the time he has served as a maid in the family of the warden. They became much attached to Fong.”

Turning to the Chinaman, Hugh said, “Fong, this is your new mistress, Miss Elaine. Guard her as you would your life, and obey her; and this is my friend, Mr. Montrose.”

What is the age of a Chinaman after he has seen forty or fifty years? The queue was missing; shorn clean, his bullet head sported a million bristles sticking straight out. His round satin cap was in his hand. He bowed to me, looked with lamblike eyes into the face of Elaine, knelt, took her right hand and placing it on his bristly pate, said,

“Missie catch one good China boy; good cook; good hair dresser, make good music,” arose and held a chair that Elaine might resume her seat at the table.

Hugh took Fong along presumably to show him his quarters and shortly after joined us, laughingly saying, “At last, sister, we have one cheerful, talkative guest in this house of silent men. Fong is a talker. I would stake my life on his faithfulness. His parting with the warden’s three young lady daughters was comically pathetic.”

“What was his crime?”

“He was given twenty years for using a hatchet promiscuously on a member of a rival tong and glad to get out. Regards me as his benefactor and feels that for fifteen years I shall own him, body and soul.”

Recital of the attempt of Haig to escape and details of the rescue seemed to sober Hugh who was in high spirits. I hoped he would ask Elaine how she knew that the runaway was at the Blank place, but when she mentioned that we had gone there at her request, Hugh’s eyes only took on a saddened expression as he turned them toward those of his sister.

“Montrose, I shall tell you Haig’s story some day,” Hugh said.

Elaine, who had been turning the leaves of a fashion magazine which Hugh had brought, started up, saying, “I must see what they’re going to wear this winter. Where did you put Fong?”

“In the green room, but you need not leave us. No secrets between Mr. Montrose and me that you may not hear,” Hugh replied.

Her answer was a pat on his hand, and surprise of surprises, a glance at me more frank and friendly than she had vouchsafed during Hugh’s absence.

We were smoking and looking out over the river, calm and beautiful and for a time both were silent, then Hugh said, “I am very glad that you saved Haig, Montrose. Had he gotten to his old home, he would have spoiled my plans. I have a fine place for him as soon as he regains his poise. The boy was innocent of any crime, the greatest piece of injustice and cruelty that I ever came across in the many cases which I have investigated.

“You must know that in the best-managed of villages, vice resorts cannot be kept out. Valleyford is a clean village, but it once harbored one such place, kept by a woman who supported an innocent daughter at a Toronto school through the use of her home by girls who plied a vicious trade, alluring young men of the village, and many older men, I am afraid, for gain.

“During the summer holiday season, Haig, who was only seventeen, was celebrating with four older boys from college. They all took several drinks and finally repaired to this house on the suggestion of one of the boys that they go to see some girls. Unfortunately, the daughter had unexpectedly reached home that evening and met three nice appearing girl boarders and received the five boy callers, innocent of the evil calling of her companions, the mother being at the grocer’s. The obvious happened; the daughter was abused, warrants for the five were issued next day at the mother’s instance.

“James Haig, on hearing of the warrant, walked into the sheriff’s office; his brother, nineteen, resisted arrest in Manitoba and was killed; another of the boys after wounding a policeman in Sarnia was shot and died before the other three were placed on trial. The trio was convicted and sentenced to twenty years in the penitentiary though the four girls, and all three boys testified that Jimmie Haig merely met the girls, had been so desperately ill that he lay out on the porch until supported home by his brother. This was his first experience with liquor.”

Hugh paused, added in an aside, “What a terrible curse is liquor. It has filled penitentiaries. I wish it could be abolished,” then resumed:

“The crime is a serious one and is severely punished in Canada, but there were mitigating circumstances and I shall never rest until I have the other two boys under this roof. The stern old Scot who passed sentence on these youths seemed to take a vicious delight in disregarding a recommendation to mercy for James Haig, made by the equally stern jury of farmers. The poor boy was in hell for five years as a punishment for taking a drink. None of the boys was vicious; they were only foolish.

“I saw the mother of these two lost sons die of grief, followed soon after by the proud father whose spirit was broken by the disgrace and when six months ago after nearly three years’ effort, I brought Haig across the river here, a frail, broken young man, parents dead, home and inheritance lost, no spirit, I felt no elation; felt that there was scant justice in the world. This case as no other made me appreciate that truly ‘man’s inhumanity to man makes countless millions mourn.’

“Think of this boy facing his schoolmates; while absolutely innocent of any crime he carries the prison stigma; people not fit to tie his shoe-laces will shun him as a jailbird. ‘Oh justice, how many crimes are committed in thy name!’”

Hugh had arisen and walked the veranda in long strides; pity mingled with passion seemed to almost overpower him. I hastened to suggest that we go and cheer up the boy, adding, “and tonight I wish to discuss with you another subject.”

“Gordon,” Hugh said, and I was pleased at the use of my Christian name, “I have got to tell you the whole story. Strange that we humans should find relief in sharing with others our worries,” and he put his arm over my shoulder as we went into the house.

“Thank you, Hugh,” I replied, feeling my duplicity. I wished to discuss Elaine, not her strange malady. I had decided that I had found the only woman in the world beside whom I would be satisfied to walk through life and whatever her trouble might be, I wanted her. Forgotten her seizure, the fact that I knew so little of her, everything save that I longed to have the privilege of caring for her.

A man whom I had noticed working about the boathouse intercepted us as we were in the upper hall, asking Hugh’s permission for the “guests” to try a night at spearing fish. Hugh readily assented and suggested that possibly I might like to take a hand in the sport, explaining that a flat-bottomed boat would be used; a “jack,” a sort of cradle fixed about four feet high from the boat’s bow, filled with pine knots, furnished the light, the spearmen stood forward and could easily see the fish through six feet of water.

We reached Haig’s room and I marvelled at the man Craighead as he took the boy’s hand, chiding him as gently as though he were his son, though the difference in years as between the two was not great. I was taken into the conversation and gleaned much of interest regarding Hugh’s work.

Later in the men’s dining room, I listened after introduction to at least twenty men ranging in age from possibly twenty-five to sixty, to Hugh’s interesting talk to these “guests.” Inquiry as to work, how the fall plowing, the land clearing, road building, ditch digging and dairying were progressing. I thought what a splendid thing this salving of human souls was, what a wonderful thing, if all ex-convicts on regaining freedom could be taken to a retreat like this and kept until the prison pallor was replaced by sunburn, until the broken will was re-established and at least a measure of self-respect attained.

No! Society had not yet awakened to the advantages of such humanitarianism. It remained for an individual fortunately provided with the means as well as the will to furnish a haven for these social outcasts who otherwise with poisoned minds and shrunken souls would slink back to the old haunts, re-enact their crime, or failing in vicious courage, live as best they could, the prey of every minion of the guardians of society; fortunate if permitted to remain at large, slinking through the world carrying always on face or in walk, the mark of Cain.

We had watched the boat’s lights as the men went joyously out into the quiet river. I found that they talked and jested; the older “guests” seemingly endeavoring to draw out the later recruits in conversation.

I preferred to try my luck at the sport later on.

Elaine, with a peculiar look at her brother, absent-minded, it appeared, had excused herself while Hugh and I were smoking over our coffee, before walking down to the landing. A slight chill was in the air.

Ten o’clock found us in the library. Lying back on the pillows of a couch in the shadowy room, with hands clasped back of his head, Hugh said reminiscently.

“McFarlane was a splendid fellow, seemed old to me at the time, though not more than thirty; on the train, the ship, he looked after our comfort; kept both Alix and myself much interested through his own curiosity and peculiar remarks on what he observed.

“When greatly interested or excited, he lapsed into Scotch so broad that the words were almost unintelligible to me. Craighead affairs were not discussed, though I remember endeavoring to learn something about my forebears.

“When we reached Glasgow, it was night. We were bundled into a four-wheeled carriage, McFarlane giving the driver directions, and I caught the name Hill Head, a name which I had heard father and John Hallowed mention occasionally. It rained slightly, and the air seemed hollow. I can even now distinctly hear the hoofbeats of the horses as we crossed the wooden bridge over the little Kelvin River separating the city from Hill Head borough, also McFarlane’s voice saying, ‘We are a’most there the noo.’

“My nerves were tense as we drove through a gateway with stone pillars in a high brick wall hiding from our view a great square three-story building until we were right upon it. The house was dark, except for a glimmer through diamond-shaped panes of glass, on each side a massive door opening onto a stone-paved terrace.

“We alighted and waited until McFarlane spoke to our coachman, then walked across the stone flagging to the door which a dour-faced man was holding open.

“As we children entered, a sad-eyed, middle-aged woman in nurse’s attire looked at us sharply and said, ‘Puir bairnies, puir bairnies, and the mither buried this day week.’

“Alix screamed.

“‘What do you mean?’ McFarlane exclaimed, ‘Dead? Mrs. Craighead dead?’

“And the woman said, ‘Dead, aye, dead puir thing, gang awa’ hame to her mon when the wee ane came.’

“I lost consciousness; with the exhaustion of hurried travel, seasickness, the terrible shock of hearing that my sainted mother was no more; what could be expected?

“When I recovered my senses after a night’s rest, the first thing that greeted me was Alix, swollen-eyed, holding close to her face a wee baby in a knitted white something.”

Hugh paused, a look indescribable came into his eyes raised to mine and he said, “Gordon, this was Elaine, thus named in compliance with mother’s expressed wish. Elaine, the finest, bravest little comforter that God ever gave to a brother. I resented at that time the ‘will of God’ as the nurse put it in saying that mother gave her life that this little thing might live, but from the day that her little fingers grasped mine, to this hour, I have had no love for any creature on earth approaching my love for my little sister.

“McFarlane took entire charge of the little family of three. We had plenty of money on which to live nicely and travel; always McFarlane, Alix, baby, and nurse and myself.

“We stayed in the great gloomy house for months, then went to southern France. I was out of school for a year, sickly. Finally we took a small residence in Edinburgh where I attended school.

“During all the years until I was twenty-one and had my A. B. degree, McFarlane evaded my every question as to my family history. He had had himself appointed our legal guardian and had mapped out my career. I was to be a lawyer, as we call it.

“I had now reached man’s estate, a citizen of the City of Edinburgh, studious, a dreamer rather than a doer, my mind always painting pictures of the old place, reverting frequently to John Blank and I had always determined that I should come back when Elaine grew up.

“Elaine was a bright youngster, ‘muckle tae bricht,’ old nurse would say. Though frail in appearance, she had wonderful vitality, was a good student, her mind as she came into her teens running to the queer things in literature and history. She studied especially the old Bible, the edition with the apocrypha, the fourteen books of the Septuagint and the Vulgate, added to the Hebrew scriptures, the net result being avoidance of churches and preaching, a most awful thing to McFarlane and to the local dominie, who assured Alix, the little mother of the household, that the ‘girlie was headed straicht for Hell.’

“Alix was a splendid woman, with many friends, but McFarlane’s business interviews with her were so frequent that all suitors were discouraged. The course of our lives ran smoothly and we were very happy together.

“One day, McFarlane on returning from a two-hour business engagement with Alix, as he explained it, asked me to accompany him to Glasgow that I might sign some papers connected with my father’s estate.

“Arrived at the gloomy city, dreading a visit to the ugly house of my forefathers, I was surprised and pleased when we alighted at a clean, bright-looking hotel where we shared a room, repairing next morning to the city hall, where I signed, McFarlane signed, a clerk witnessed, another official signed and put a great blue seal with ribbons on a number of papers.

“To another room, where a more important, if possible, personage than the blue seal handler, critically examined every paper presented; I remember feeling an anxiety equalling that of examination day when my coveted A. B. was in the balance and was greatly relieved when the judge finally affixed his signature to one of the documents, shoved all of them over to a clerk at a desk on a lower level and told McFarlane, ‘You have been a good steward, sir,’ and looking keenly at me, added, ‘and this is the young man, and no blood of his, who has circumvented the iron will of old Alexander Craighead; the old man will turn in his grave tonight.’

“I almost ran from the building, urging McFarlane for an explanation of the judge’s remarks.

“‘Naething, naething at a’; the auld judge is garrulous,’ was all I could elicit.

“It never occurred to me to read what I was signing, but when in our hotel room, McFarlane spread before me what he explained was a power of attorney, giving him authority to handle my affairs until I should revoke it; I read the document carefully and knowing nothing of business, balked at signing. Finally I signed, after McFarlane produced a document of similar import bearing Alix’s signature and I returned to Edinburgh alone, the master of a property about which I knew nothing, nor did I care, as life went along as before.

“I took my post-graduate course, graduated at law, spent six months traveling in Europe and yet I had no idea as to the extent of my inheritance. You may think, friend Montrose, that for a man holding a Master’s degree I was a dullard; the fact is, Alix mothered me, managed, I thought, all business matters, though it was really McFarlane’s steady head that did everything needful.

“I was twenty-four; my time was almost wholly devoted to study. We always called our friend ‘Mr. McFarlane,’ though once I overheard Alix use his Christian name, saying,

“‘No, James, time enough when we must tell him.’

“I sensed an understanding between my elder sister and McFarlane, even surmised that they might marry, thought the secret they were keeping from me was an engagement, as they were much together when McFarlane was not away in Glasgow.

“Alix did not wish me to return to Canada, but while in Europe, I planned a visit to Craighead Hall before taking a place in a law office secured through our faithful friend’s influence.

“Faithful old John Hallowed’s letters and accounts had all through the years kept us in touch with the old place.

“Strange that Elaine, who had never seen this old mansion should have developed a greater interest in it than either Alix or I retained. She knew how many acres had been cleared, all about the enlargement of the orchard and the wonderful success of the fruit grafting. We talked over every item in Hallowed’s reports, otherwise I fear my interest might have flagged.

“John Blank had become almost a myth. One day I was crossing from Calais to Dover, homeward bound after seeing the world; sitting in one of the uncomfortable chairs on deck I found myself looking at the profile of an old lady--the young ones failed to interest me even then.

“Something in the half face before me carried me back to a deft blue room and the block house down the back channel and the woman who dressed me, whom John Blank called Margie. Ridiculous, I thought. This plainly but handsomely gowned lady could not be the roughly dressed woman of the long ago. I walked past her and inspection only tended to confirm my first thought.

“My interest was such that it attracted her attention and fearing that my actions would justly lay me under a charge of rudeness, at least, I stepped up to her, bowed and said, ‘Madam, pardon me, are you not Mrs. Blank from Canada?’

“She paled, appeared annoyed, rather seemed startled, then after hesitating while we looked at each other, eye to eye, said, ‘No, young man, I am not Mrs. Blank of Canada,’ arose and disappeared in the boat’s interior.

“I stammered an apology wholly lost on her.

“Going directly to London I was surprised but delighted to meet McFarlane at the hotel. He said Alix had informed him of the probable date of my arrival there and as we were talking in the lounge even before I had been assigned a room, two men whom I would have sworn were Scotland Yard operatives appeared and he excused himself saying they were friends with whom he wished to discuss some private matters.

“At dinner that night I mentioned the episode on the boat. When the name Mrs. Blank was mentioned, McFarlane started, almost leaving his chair and had me repeat the exact language used by the lady and myself. I inquired as to his interest. He had calmed, said it merely related to my oft repeated story of my adventure in the home of the deformed man and changed the subject, informing me that he had to meet an old friend and was already a little late.

“I finished dinner alone, thinking that the canny Scot was not very cordial, considering our extended separation.

“Next day, McFarlane pleaded a bit of urgent business; we were to have returned together to Edinburgh. He had to stay in London. I could not wait, must see my sisters, so I traveled alone. What joy in that reunion! Alix was even more beautiful than when I had left home. Elaine was a tall, ethereal, big-eyed child.

“I took my place at a high desk and for three years devoted myself assiduously to running errands, copying bills, then briefs, doing the grinding, gruelling inside work considered a necessary stepping-stone to the lower round of the ladder which all solicitors must climb, and my ambition did not stop there. I wished to become an advocate, a barrister. I worked hard, devoted much time previously spent with my sisters to study after work hours.

“One day Alix told me that Elaine was fourteen. I awoke to the realization that here was a young lady, almost; I thought her beautiful, as I do now; apparently she was delicate; she never tired of study, was an omnivorous reader and a good listener, especially when matters pertaining to Craighead Hall were discussed.

“In this year came the turning point in her life and mine.”

Hugh sighed, looked dreamily at the long shadows thrown on a bookcase by the leading running perpendicularly with the flame of the one lamp, which, with one other, served to remove the library from total darkness, hesitated, then said,

“It seems a sacrilege to open up even to your friendly, yes, I venture to say more than friendly--sympathetic--ears, even the first chapter in our book of secrets.

“Elaine is more to me than is existence. Her infirmity, for I cannot now regard it as other than a terrible affliction, though once, God forgive me, I looked upon her peculiar ability to penetrate the impenetrable, to draw aside the veil separating the here from the hereafter and receive messages from the dead--I looked upon this unheard of ability as a gift--a sacred thing, sacred,” and Hugh’s voice trailed off into a low sibilance.

The light over the fireplace sputtered and went out. Everything was in shadow, a mist seemed to gather about Hugh’s reclining form--or was it the change wrought through lessening of the light? I, Gordon Montrose, saw, or thought I saw, a man of fifty or more years of age bending over Hugh. I missed his features, they were indistinct.

In my excitement I started to my feet, calling, “Hugh! Hugh!” and then only we two men, I standing all a-tremble, Hugh calm, but sitting up, were in the room.

“Let us retire, Gordon,” Hugh said. “I cannot go on tonight.”

Excitedly I asked, “Did you see the man bending over you?”

“No, I seldom see him,” Hugh replied, smiling wanly.

“Then,” I answered, “am I taking on the spirit of this haunted old place? Perhaps I am only like many good Scots, seeing my weird,” and I think I laughed lowly, half-heartedly, the sound an apology, for Hugh was silent and his manner embarrassed, while it kept me from further comment or inquiry.

Hugh gave no sign, but took the one remaining lamp from its setting, preceded me upstairs, opened my bedroom door, and said, “Good night--and good morning,” and still carrying the lamp, my room being lighted, walked down the corridor out of sight.