The House of Mystery

  Produced by Kevin O'Hare, Beth Trapaga and the Online DistributedProofreading Team.

  ROSALIE LE GRANGE]

  THE HOUSE OF MYSTERY

  AN EPISODE IN THE CAREER OF ROSALIE LE GRANGE, CLAIRVOYANT

  By WILL IRWIN

  Illustrated by Frederick C. Yohn

  1910

  CONTENTS

  I. The Unknown Girl

  II. Mr. Norcross Wastes Time

  III. The Light

  IV. His First Call

  V. The Light Wavers

  VI. Enter Rosalie Le Grange

  VII. Rosalie's First Report

  VIII. The Fish Nibbles

  XI. Rosalie's Second Report

  X. The Streams Converge

  XI. Through the Wall-Paper

  XII. Annette Lies

  XIII. Annette Tells the Truth

  XIV. Mainly from the Papers

  LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS

  Rosalie le Grange

  Annette

  "It wasn't the money; it was the game--"

  He had taken an impression of mental power as startling as a suddenblow in the face

  "Then it's as good as done"

  Norcross's breath came a little faster

  "I was looking straight down on the back parlors"

  "Stay where you are," he commanded

  THE HOUSE OF MYSTERY

  I

  THE UNKNOWN GIRL

  In a Boston and Albany parlor-car, east bound through the Berkshires,sat a young man respectfully, but intently studying a young woman. Nowand then, from the newspapers heaped in mannish confusion about hischair, he selected another sheet. Always, he took advantage of thisopportunity to face the chair across the aisle and to sweep a glanceover a piquant little profile, intent on a sober-looking book. Again,he would gaze out of the window; and he gazed oftenest when a freighttrain hid the beauties of outside nature. The dun sides of freight carsmake out of a window a passable mirror. Twice, in those dim andconfused glimpses, he caught just a flicker of her eye across her book,as though, she, on her part, were studying him.

  It was her back hair which had first entangled Dr. Blake's thoughts; itwas the graceful nape of her neck which had served to hold them fast.When the hair and the neck below dawned on him, he identified her asthat blonde girl whom he had noted at the train gate, waving farewellto some receding friend--and noted with approval. As a traveler on manyseas and much land, he knew the lonely longing to address the woman inthe next seat. He knew also, as all seasoned travelers in America know,that such desire is sometimes gratified, and without any surrender ofdecency, in the frank and easy West--but never east of Chicago. Thisgirl, however, exercised somehow, a special pull upon his attention andhis imagination. And he found himself playing a game by which he hadmitigated many a journey of old. He divided his personality into twoparts--man and physician--and tried, by each separate power, to find asmuch as he could from surface indications about this travel-mate ofhis.

  Mr. Walter Huntington Blake perceived, besides the hair like drippinghoney, deep blue eyes--the blue not of a turquoise but of asapphire--and an oval face a little too narrow in the jaw, so that thechin pointed a delicate Gothic arch. He noted a good forehead, whichinclined him to the belief that she "did" something--some subtleaddition which he could not formulate confirmed that observation. Hesaw that her hands were long and tipped with nails no larger than agrain of maize, that when they rested for a moment on her face, in theshifting attitudes of her reading, they fell as gently as flower-stalksswaying together in a breeze. He saw that her shoulders had a slightslope, which combined with hands and eyes to express a being allfeminine--the kind made for a lodestone to a man who has known the hardspots of the world, like Mr. Walter Huntington Blake.

  "A pippin!" pronounced Mr. Blake, the man.

  Dr. Blake, the physician, on the other hand, caught a certain languorin her movements, a physical tenuity which, in a patient, he would haveconsidered diagnostic. So transparent was her skin that when herprofile dipped forward across a bar of sunshine the light shone throughthe bridge of her nose--a little observation charming to Blake, theman, but a guide to Blake, the physician. She had the look, Dr. Blaketold himself, which old-fashioned country nurses of the herb-doctorschool refer to as "called." He knew that, in about one case out ofthree, that look does in fact amount to a real "call"--the outwardexpression of an obscure disease.

  "Her heart?" queried Blake, the physician. The transparent, porcelainquality of her skin would indicate that. But he found, as he watched,no nervous twitching, no look as of an incipient sack under her eyes;nor did the transparent quality seem waxy. There was, too, a certainpinkness in the porcelain which showed that her blood ran red and pure.

  Then Mr. Blake and Dr. Blake re-fused into one psychology and decidedthat her appearance of delicacy was subtly psychological. It hauntedhim with an irritating effect of familiarity--as of a symptom which heought to recognize. In all ways was it intertwined with the expressionof her mouth. She had never smiled enough; therein lay all the trouble.She presented a very pretty problem to his imagination. Here she was,still so very young that little was written on her face, yet thelittle, something unusual, baffling. The mouth, too tightly set, toodrooping--that expressed it all. To educate such a one in the ways ofinnocent frivolity!

  When the porter's "last call for luncheon" brought that flutter ofsatisfaction by which a bored parlor-car welcomes even such a trivialdiversion as food, Dr. Blake waited a fair interval for her toiletpreparations, and followed toward the dining-car. He smiled a little athimself as he realized that he was craftily scheming to find a seat, ifnot opposite her, at least within seeing distance. On a long and lonelyday-journey, he told himself, travelers are like invalids--the smallestincident rolls up into a mountain of adventure. Here he was, playingfor sight of an interesting girl, as another traveler timed thetrain-speed by the mile-posts, or counted the telegraph poles along theway.

  So he came out suddenly into the Pullman car ahead--and almost stumbledover the nucleus of his meditations. She was half-kneeling beside aseat, clasping in her arms the figure of a little, old woman. Hehesitated, stock still. The blonde girl shifted her position as thoughto take better hold of her burden, and glanced backward with a look ofappeal. The doctor came forward on that; and his sight caught the faceof the old woman. Her eyes were closed, her head had dropped to oneside and lay supine upon the girl's shoulder. It appeared to be a plaincase of faint.

  ANNETTE]

  "I am a physician," he said simply, "Get the porter, will you?" Withoutan instant's question or hesitation, the girl permitted him to relieveher, and turned to the front of the car. Other women and one fussy,noisy man were coming up now. Dr. Blake waved them aside. "We need airmost of all--open that window, will you?" The girl was back with theporter. "Is the compartment occupied? Then open it. We must put her onher back." The porter fumbled for his keys. Dr. Blake gathered up thelittle old woman in his arms, and spoke over his shoulder to the blondegirl:

  "You will come with us?" She nodded. Somehow, he felt that he wouldhave picked her from the whole car to assist in this emergency. She waslike one of those born trained nurses who ask no questions, need nospecial directions, and are as reliable as one's instruments.

  The old woman was stirring by the time he laid her out on the sofa ofthe compartment. He wet a towel in the pitcher at the washstand, wrungit out, pressed it on her forehead. It needed no more than that tobring her round.

  "Only a faint," said Dr. Blake; "the day's hot and she's not accustomedto train travel, I suppose. Is she--does she belong to your party?"

  The girl spoke for the first time in his hearing. Even before he seizedthe meaning of her speech, he noted with a thr
ill the manner of it.Such a physique as this should go with the high, silvery tone of aflute; so one always imagines it. This girl spoke in the voice of aviolin--soft, deep, deliciously resonant. In his mind flashed a picturefor which he was a long time accounting--last winter's ballet of theNew York Hippodrome. Afterward, he found the key to that train ofthought. It, had been a ballet of light, shimmering colors, untilsuddenly a troop of birds in royal purple had slashed their way downthe center of the stage. They brought the same glorified thrill ofcontrast as this soft but strong contralto voice proceeding from thatdelicate blondness.

  "Oh, no!" she said, "I never saw her before. She was swaying as I camedown the aisle, and I caught her. She's--she's awake." The old womanhad stirred again.

  "Get my bag from seat 12, parlor-car," said Dr. Blake to the porter."Tell them outside that it is a simple fainting-spell and we shall needno assistance." Now his charity patient had recovered voice; she wasmoaning and whimpering. The girl, obeying again Dr. Blake's unspokenthought, took a quick step toward the door. He understood withoutfurther word from her.

  "All right," he said; "she may want to discuss symptoms. You're on theway to the dining-car aren't you? I'll be along in five minutes, andI'll let you know how she is. Tell them outside that it is nothingserious and have the porter stand by--please." That last word ofpoliteness came out on an afterthought--he had been addressing her inthe capacity of a trained nurse. He recognized this with confusion, andhe apologized by a smile which illuminated his rather heavy, dark face.She answered with the ghost of a smile--it moved her eyes rather thanher mouth--and the door closed.

  After five minutes of perfunctory examination and courteous attentionto symptoms, he tore himself away from his patient upon the pretextthat she needed quiet. He wasted three more golden minutes in assuringhis fellow passengers that it was nothing. He escaped to the diningcar, to find that the delay had favored him. Her honey-colored backhair gleamed from one of the narrow tables to left of the aisle. Theunconsidered man opposite her had just laid a bill on the waiter'scheck, and dipped his hands in the fingerbowl. Dr. Blake invented ashort colloquy with the conductor and slipped up just as the waiterreturned with the change. He bent over the girl.

  "I have to report," said he, "that the patient is doing nicely; doctorand nurse are both discharged!"

  She returned a grave smile and answered conventionally, "I am veryglad."

  At that precise moment, the man across the table, as though recognizingfriendship or familiarity between these two, pocketed his change androse. Feeling that he was doing the thing awkwardly, that he would givea year for a light word to cover up his boldness, Dr. Blake took theseat. He looked slowly up as he settled himself, and he could feel theheat of a blush on his temples. He perceived--and for a moment it didnot reassure him--that she on her part neither blushed nor bristled.Her skin kept its transparent whiteness, and her eyes looked into hiswith intent gravity. Indeed, he felt through her whole attitude theperfect frankness of good breeding--a frankness which discouragedfamiliarity while accepting with human simplicity an accidental contactof the highway. She was the better gentleman of the two. His renewedconfusion set him to talking fast.

  "If it weren't that you failed to come in with any superfluous advice,I should say that you had been a nurse--you seem to have the instinct.You take hold, somehow, and make no fuss."

  "Why should I?" she asked, "with a doctor at hand? I was thinking allthe time how you lean on a doctor. I should never have known what todo. How is she? What was the matter?"

  "She's resting. It isn't every elderly lady who can get a compartmentfrom the Pullman Company for the price of a seat. She was put on atAlbany by one set of grandchildren and she's to be taken off atBoston by another set. And she's old and her heart's a littlesluggish--self-sacrifice goes downward not upward, through thegenerations, I observe--though I'm a young physician at that!"

  Her next words, simply spoken as they were, threw him again intoconfusion.

  "I don't know your name, I think--mine is Annette Markham."

  Dr. Blake drew out a card.

  "Dr. W.H. Blake, sometime contract surgeon to the Philippine Army ofOccupation," he supplemented, "now looking for a practice in theseUnited States!"

  "The Philippines--oh, you've been in the East? When we were in theOrient, I used to hear of them ever so dimly--I didn't think we'd allbe talking of them so soon--"

  "Oh, you've been in the Orient--do you know the China Coast--and Nikkoand--"

  "No, only India."

  "I've never been there--and I've heard it's the kernel of the East," hesaid with his lips. But his mind was puzzling something out and findinga solution. The accent of that deep, resonant voice was neither Easternnor Western, Yankee nor Southern--nor yet quite British. It was rathercosmopolitan--he had dimly placed her as a Californienne. Perhaps thisfragment explained it. She must be a daughter of the English officialclass, reared in America. The theory would explain her complexion andher simple, natural balance between frankness and reserve. He formedthat conclusion, but, "How do you like America after India?" was all hesaid.

  "How do you like it after the Philippines?" she responded.

  "That is a Yankee trick--answering one question with another," he said,still following his line of conjecture; "it was invented by theoriginal Yankee philosopher, a person named Socrates. I like it aftereverything--I'm an American. I'm one of those rare birds in the EasternUnited States, a native of New York City."

  "Well, then,"--her manner had, for the first time, the brightness whichgoes with youth, plus the romantic adventure--"I like it not only afteranything but before anything--I'm an American, too."

  A sense of irritation rose in him. He had let conjecture grow toconclusion in the most reckless fashion. And why should he care so muchthat he had risked offending a mere passing acquaintance of the road?

  "Somehow, I had taken it for granted--your reference to India Isuppose--that you were English."

  "Oh, no! Though an English governess made me fond of the English. I'manother of the rare birds. I was hardly out of New York in my lifeuntil five years ago, when my aunt took me for a stay of two years inthe Orient--in India at least. I've been very happy to be back."

  The current of talk drifted then from the coast of confidences to theopen sea of general conversation. He pulled himself up once or twice bythe reflection that he was talking too much about himself. Once--and heremembered it with blushes afterward--he went so far as to say, "Ididn't really need to be a doctor, any more than I needed to go to thePhilippines--the family income takes care of that. But a man should dosomething." Nevertheless, she seemed disposed to encourage him in thiscourse, seemed most to encourage him when he told his stories about thePhilippine Army of Occupation.

  "Oh, tell me another!" she would cry. And once she said, "If there werea piano here, I venture you'd sing Mandelay." "That would I," heanswered with a half sigh. And at last, when he was running down, shesaid, "Oh, please don't stop! It makes me crazy for the Orient!" "Andme!" he confessed. Before luncheon was over, he had dragged out the twoor three best stories in his wanderer's pack, and especially that one,which he saved for late firesides and the high moments of anecdotalexchange, about the charge at Caloocon. She drank down these tales ofhike and jungle and firing-line like a seminary girl listening to herfirst grownup caller. For his part, youth and the need of male youth tospread its bright feathers before the female of its species, drove himon to more tales. He contrived his luncheon so that they finished andpaid simultaneously--and in the middle of his story about SergeantJones, the dynamite and the pack mule. So, when they returned to theparlor-car, nothing was more simple, natural and necessary than that heshould drop into the vacant chair beside her, and continue where heleft off. He felt, when he had finished, the polite necessity ofleading the talk back to her; besides, he had not finished his Study ofthe Unknown Girl. He returned, then, to the last thread which she hadleft hanging.

  "So you too are glad to be at home!" he said. "I'
m so glad that I don'twant to lose sight either of a skyscraper or of apple trees for yearsand years. I can't remember when I've ever wanted to stay in one placebefore."

  She laughed--the first full laugh he had heard from her. It was low anddeep and bubbling, like water flowing from a long-necked bottle.

  "Just a moment ago, we were confessing that we were crazy for theOrient."

  "I'm glad to be caught in an inconsistency!" he answered. "I've beenafraid, though, that this desire to roost in one place was a sign ofincipient old age."

  She looked at him directly, and for a moment her fearless glance playedover him, as in alarm.

  "Oh, I shouldn't be afraid of _that_," she said. "I don't know yourage, of course, but if it will reassure you any, I'd put it attwenty-eight. And that, according to Peter Ibbertson, is quite thenicest age." Her face, with its unyouthful capacity for suddenseriousness, grew grave. Her deep blue eyes gazed past him out of thewindow.

  "I'm only twenty-four, but I know what it is to think that middle ageis near--to dread it--especially when I half suspect I haven't spentthe interest on my youth." She stopped.

  Dr. Blake held his very breath. His instincts warned him that shefaltered at one of those instincts when confidence lies close to thelips. But she did not give it. Instead, she caught herself up with aperfunctory, "I suppose everyone feels that way at times."

  Although he wanted that confidence, he was clever enough not to reachfor it at this point. Instead, he took a wide detour, and returnedslowly, backing and filling to the point. But every time that heapproached a closer intimacy, she veered away with an adroitness whichwas consummate art or consummate innocence. His first impressiongrew--that she "did" something. She had mentioned "Peter Ibbertson." Hespoke, then, of books. She had read much, especially fiction; but shetreated books as one who does not write. He talked art. Though shespoke with originality and understanding in response to his second-handstudio chatter, he could see that she neither painted nor associatedmuch with those who did. Besides, her hands had none of thecraftswoman's muscle. Of music--beyond ragtime--she knew as little ashe. He invaded business--her ignorance was abysmal. The stage--shecould count on her fingers the late plays which she had seen.

  When the trail had grown almost cold, there happened a little incidentwhich put him on the scent again. He had thought suddenly of hispatient in the compartment and made a visit, only to find her asleep.Upon his return he said:

  "You behaved like a soldier and a nurse toward her--a girl with such adistinct _flair_ for the game must have had longings to take upnursing--or perhaps you never read 'Sister Dora'?"

  "I did read 'Sister Dora,'" she answered, "and I was crazy about it."

  "Most girls are--hence the high death rate in hospitals," heinterrupted.

  "But I gave that up--and a lot of other desires which all girlshave--for something else. I had to." Her sapphirine eyes searched theBerkshire hills again, "Something bigger and nobler--something whichmeant the entire sacrifice of self."

  And here the brakeman called "Next station is Berkeley Center." Dr.Blake came to the sudden realization that they had reached hisdestination. She started, too.

  "Why, I get off here!" she exclaimed.

  "And so do I!" He almost laughed it out.

  "That's a coincidence."

  Dr. Blake refrained from calling her attention to the general flutterof the parlor-car and the industry of two porters. This being thehigh-tide time of the summer migration, and Berkeley Center being thepopular resort on that line, nearly everyone was getting off. Howeveras he delivered himself over to the porter, he nodded:

  "The climax of a series!"

  As they waited, bags in hand, "I am on my way to substitute for a monthat the Hill Sanatorium," he said. "The assistant physician is going ona vacation--I suppose the ambulance will be waiting."

  "And I am going to the Mountain House--it's a little place and more thehouse of friends than an inn. If your work permits--"

  He interrupted with a boyish laugh.

  "Oh, it will!" But he said good-bye at the vestibule with a vague ideathat she might have trouble explaining him to any very particularfriends. He saw her mount an old-fashioned carry-all, saw her turn towave a farewell. The carry-all disappeared. He started toward the Hillambulance, but he was still thinking, "Now what is the thing which agirl like _that_ would consider more self-sacrificing than nursing?"