Chapter V: A Tragedy

The rest of that day passed uneventfully enough. When he returned from his rounds Lewis seemed quite himself again, and that afternoon he went off to Raleigh cheerfully enough, to hurry the tailor with his wedding clothes.

The wedding was to be on Wednesday, at noon; but Dorothy had planned a rehearsal for Monday, when her Brother Peter would be back, and Lewis’ best man, Doctor Somers, would be here. And Tuesday would be a very busy day, what with receiving and caring for the many out-of-town guests. Saturday was the boy’s last chance to get his new clothes.

Peter McGregor would not return until Sunday afternoon, so it was arranged that I should stay at Fort House another night. I did not look forward to it with any great joy; but I hoped that the Poltergeist would allow me a few hours’ rest, though I could hardly look for a like forbearance from bobwhite.

The evening went off tolerably well. Aunt Mary was quite cheerful, and she had surprisingly little to say about her throat and her “limbs” and the knots in the back of her neck. I dozed comfortably in a big sleepy-hollow chair, half listening to Dorothy’s chatter over some intimate bit of finery. And the nurse, Miss Christie, slept quite frankly on a couch in the corner. She was never at a loss how to spend her time.

At last Dorothy threw her embroidery frame at me. “Go to bed, Uncle George! You haven’t heard one thing I’ve been saying for an hour. You poor thing! You’re all tired out.”

I rubbed my eyes. “Indeed I have; I was very much interested. But, perhaps, I’d better go to bed now. First, though, I must get out Peter’s shotgun and set it beside the back door, where Lewis can get it in the morning. He’s going after those quail, you know, and he made me promise to set out the gun. He won’t be back till midnight.”

“It’s up in Peter’s room. Come along, I’ll show you. But you’ll have to load it and all that, Uncle George. I don’t know a thing about guns.”

Aunt Mary sniffed. “It used to be the pride of the McGregors of Maryland that the ladies of the family were all thorough sportswomen. Many have been the days I spent riding to hounds, when I was your age, Dorothy; on many a morning I turned out early with my gun for duck shooting, or to go out with the dogs after quail. I never asked any help to care for my guns, either. But that’s long, long ago, and here I am, a poor, crippled old woman, tied to a chair, these fourteen years. Ah, well! Young folks aren’t what they were in my day!”

Her lips trembled; her eyes suffused with tears. Fearing another outbreak like the one of the morning I cast about me for some new topic. Just then two powerful lights flashed briefly through the windows and vanished again. I glanced out; Doctor Gaskell’s big car had just swept round the corner toward his garage.

“The doctor’s back,” said I casually. “Wonder if he’s seen Lafe Rutledge.”

“Who?”

I jumped at the sudden, sharp question and wheeled. Miss Christie, whom I had supposed asleep, as usual, had leaped up from her couch and stood facing me, half crouched. For once her eyes were wide open; her round, dimpled face was pale and drawn; her hands, clasped at her breast, trembled.

“Who did you say?”

“Why,” I answered, wondering, “a man called Rutledge. He was asking for Doctor Gaskell this morning, as I came past. The doctor was out, but he left a message. I heard it; nobody within half a mile could have helped hearing it. Said his name was Lafe Rutledge, and he’d give the doctor until sunup to settle--whatever that means.”

“Oh!” exclaimed the nurse, and the vivid horror in her face made her suddenly beautiful. I had never noticed her looks before; she was so sleepily indifferent; but now fear transfigured her.

“Oh, Lafe Rutledge! Are you sure? A great, big old man, with a long beard?”

“And a voice like the bull of Bashan--and enormous boots! Yes, that’s the gentleman.”

Without another word Miss Christie ran to the door, bareheaded as she was, and tore it open.

“Miss Christie! Nurse!” It was Aunt Mary’s voice, sharp, domineering, and angry. “What do you mean by this? Come back here at once! Take me to my room!”

The girl never glanced back. “In a minute,” she answered. “I can’t stop now. I’ll come back directly.” The door slammed after her.

We three stared at each other. “Well!” cried Dorothy. “What do you suppose waked her up?”

Aunt Mary bridled. “Ungrateful minx! What does she mean by it, leaving me this way? I’m tired, and I want her to rub my limbs at once!”

“She’ll be right back, I’m sure,” said Dorothy. “Something upset her; she must be afraid of this man Rutledge for some reason. The poor girl looked scared to death.”

“She should consider me,” insisted Miss McGregor inexorably. “I have enough to bear, without my nurse rushing off and cutting up like this. This settles it! She shall go, as soon as I can find some one to take her place! I never liked her; I might have known that any one whom that wretch Gaskell recommended would be untrustworthy.”

“Oh,” said I, wondering, “Doctor Gaskell sent her here?”

Dorothy nodded. “Miss O’Brien had to leave, and we got this nurse through Doctor Gaskell. She comes from the western part of the State, up in the mountains somewhere, near the Tennessee border.”

The front door opened, and Miss Christie reappeared, rather out of breath, but sleepily calm as ever.

“You have upset me seriously,” declared Aunt Mary severely. “My limbs tingle, and the knots are coming in my neck. Take me to my room at once. What do you mean by dashing off this way?”

Her voice was harsh, almost abusive. I sighed a little, to think how intimacy was shattering my faith in Aunt Mary’s saintliness. It was a myth, I began to suspect. Behind the old lady’s angelic front lurked a temper quite the reverse of angelic.

“I’m sorry, Miss McGregor,” answered the nurse meekly. “I had to go; it was a matter of life and death, almost.”

Aunt Mary sniffed. “Life and death, indeed! How about my life and death? But that’s of no importance, I suppose; I’m only a poor, helpless old woman that everybody’ll be glad to get rid of.” Then yielding, I suppose, to the curiosity which touched us all, she asked: “What did you run off for, anyway?”

“I can’t tell you.” The girl’s sleepy face set determinedly.

“Mf!” exclaimed Aunt Mary. “I don’t like mysteries. I’ll give you until morning; then you can explain--or leave!”

“Very well, Miss McGregor. Shall I take you to your room now?”

She pushed the wheeled chair out, and Dorothy, still wide-eyed, beckoned to me. “Come along, Uncle George. Let’s get the shotgun. What do you suppose ailed Miss Christie?”

I shrugged. “She’s from the mountains. They still have feuds out there, you know, along the North Carolina border. Perhaps this fellow Rutledge comes from her home, and she’s afraid he’ll do some mischief down here. Maybe she’ll explain herself in the morning, unless Aunt Mary is too cranky.”

Dorothy shivered a little. “I don’t like mysteries, either,” she confessed. “And there’s trouble coming, Uncle George; I can feel it. Oh, dear! I wish we were out of Fort House for good! Everything’s going wrong. That horrid ghost, or whatever it is, scared me about sick; and then Lewis had to go and quarrel with Doctor Gaskell, and now Miss Christie begins to act so queer, and--and everything. Oh, dear! I wish all these things could have happened to some other body. Here’s Peter’s gun, Uncle George, in this closet.”

I took it out, a plain, well-used, double-barreled shotgun. Then I broke it to make sure it was unloaded.

“There’s a box of shells on the shelf, I think. Come on, let’s leave it out and go to bed. I’m tired, too.”

She led the way down the back stairs. After making sure that both barrels were unloaded I set the gun against the angle of the wall on the back porch, just inside the screen door.

“There! I told Lewis I’d put it there. I’ll just leave the cartridges beside it, with the cleaning rod and rags, so he can put the gun in shape when he’s through with it. I hope he gets those miserable quail; they kept me awake, too.”

“Poor Uncle George! He’s having a hard time, taking care of the McGregor family, isn’t he?” she stood on tiptoe to kiss the end of my nose, then she ran in. “I’m going to bed, too,” she called back.

But as I labored up the front stairs--slowly enough, for my joints were very stiff--she came out of Miss McGregor’s room to call after me.

“Uncle George! Auntie’s nervous about that gun. Come in and tell her where you left it.”

I turned back. “On the back porch, Miss McGregor, inside the screen door.”

“Is it loaded?” querulously she asked.

“No, ma’am. I set the box of shells beside it, ready.”

“Like as not we’ll all be murdered in our beds, but I’d run that chance even to get rid of those quail. Good night!”

“Good night!” I resumed my interrupted climb.

If the Poltergeist paid us a visit that night I did not know it. I could scarcely keep my eyes open long enough to undress. I was tired out, and the bed felt grateful enough. I slept sound and dreamlessly, which is rather unusual for me, until about half past three. Then I half woke, to hear the matutinal song--screech, rather--of those pestiferous quail. I grinned sleepily, wondering if Aunt Mary had been awakened, too; wondering how soon Lewis would be along, and whether he would bag them.

Then I dropped off again, to dream that Lewis was stalking a covey of sitting quail in my bedroom. They perched on the footboard; I struggled hopelessly, as one does in dreams, to cry out, to warn him that I was in his line of fire. I could not make a sound. Presently he raised his gun, and I saw that it was a cannon, a field piece, with a muzzle as big around as my head. He pulled the trigger--the thing went off with a most horrible racket and blew the whole house apart. I seemed to be sailing straight up into the air, with Lafe Rutledge beside me, his great white beard fluttering. “There’ll be no wedding now,” I told him. Then Aunt Mary McGregor came along, wearing roller skates, and explained that she could get around better that way than in the wheel chair, and so she had given the latter to Dorothy. And Rosina appeared, eyes rolling as if on swivels, and said: “Come a-runnin’! Lafe’s eloped with Miss Dor’thy!”

Just then I woke up, laughing aloud at the absurdity of it all. It was broad daylight; my watch said five o’clock. The quail still whistled persistently. I got up and went to the window, wondering if Lewis had come yet; this would be a fine time to flush those birds. I was almost tempted, in spite of my rheumatic joints, to slip down myself.

The early sun struck through the tall pines and showed a moving figure among them. Lewis was prompt evidently. He stepped out from the little grove into the scrub-oak tangle behind it, gun at the ready. Then he seemed to stumble.

The shotgun came halfway to his shoulder, as if for a snapshot, steadied, its barrel pointing straight ahead--and flamed! The heavy roar of black powder reached my ears on the heels of the flash.

“Good boy!” I cried aloud. “Get him?”

Lewis took one step forward, then staggered back, dropping his gun; both hands went to his face. It was too far to see what had happened; too far even to shout a query from the open window. I turned away, my heart throbbing, to hunt for my clothes.

Then a stentorian shout brought me back, gasping, gripped by a premonition of evil. Surely the boy could not have shot himself! The muzzle of the gun had pointed well away from him.

“Hey, there!” roared the same minatory voice, now closer. “What you-all up to? Lay off o’ that there shootin’ in th’ corporation!”

A huge figure threaded its way through the pines, following the path that led from one street to the other, a favorite short cut for pedestrians. It was our constable, Rufe Wakefield, a tremendous man, whose apparent ferocity cloaked a rather timorous heart, so folk whispered.

He repeated his challenge, and now he was through the grove and beside Lewis.

“What you up to?” he demanded, and his leonine roar seemed louder than the recent shot.

Then he leaped back, both hands thrown up; presently he came forward again and picked up my nephew’s fallen gun. They talked together; Wakefield was accusing, Lewis apparently protesting; both were much agitated. At last they turned and came slowly back toward the house.

I could bear it no longer. I leaned far out of the window. “Say!” I shouted, at the pitch of my lungs. “Hello, down there! What’s wrong?”

Wakefield looked up. “Murder’s wrong!” he called excitedly. “This feller’s done shot Doc Gaskell. Killed ’im daid!”