The Professor's Mystery Part 23

"Mudhered it was all the same," she said sullenly, dropping back into a chair nevertheless. "When a docthor with all the learnin' that goes beyond the knowledge av a woman lets his wife die an' an innocent mite av a new-born baby go down to the grave with her, 'tis black murder it is, no less. How could she rest quiet after that, an' half her life callin' to her, an' the mother that wouldn't let her go, an' had the power to see? 'Tis no docthor she wants, but a priest, an' no medicine but a handful av holy wather, like my own sister's cousin Nora that used to sit an' talk with her lad that was dead evenin's by the byre wall, an' Father Tracy came behind an' sprinkled the two av thim, the one he could see an' the one he could not see."

"Who was it that died?" I asked sharply. "Was it Miriam? Did Reid lie to me when he said so, or did Carucci lie when he said that Reid was married to Lady?"

She grew suddenly quiet and cautious, as if she had said too much already, and must weigh her words.

"Reid told ye the truth for once," she muttered. "'Twas Antonio lied."

"Then Miriam was his wife, and Lady--"

"Yes," she answered, "it was Miriam," but she did not meet my eyes. Then she went on hastily, before I could speak again.

"Ye see, sir, 'twas like this: When Miriam died, her mother's heart nearly went with her, an' so because the poor dear loved her more than enough, she did not go quite away. 'Tis so some whiles, when the livin'

holds too close by the dead. She used to talk to her, an' when the villain that let her die got doctors an' looked like judgment, an' said my poor soul was wrong in her head, an' ought to be taken away, an' they moved her out there in the counthry where they had no friends, an' kept her hidden as if there was a shame upon her, sure the lovin' soul of the dead girl followed her mother. They said she was crazy when she made them move her daughter's room, an' keep it up in the new house as it had been in the old, an' would sit an' talk to her there. Sure, 'twas no sign at all, an' a black lie in Reid's black heart to set the husband an' the daughter again' her. Some folks are that way, that can see the fairy folk an' the goblins, an' speak with the wandherin' dead. A good priest Mrs. Tabor should have when the power tires her, an' not a lyin'

schemin' brute av a docthor that wants to put her away. 'Twas not much at first anyhow. But he turned their heads with his talk av asylums an'

horrors to lead them away from his own wickedness."

"Is that the secret, then?" I asked. "Is the trouble no more than their fear that Mrs. Tabor is insane?"

"Secret? What secret? There's no secret they have at all, only a wicked lie." She was growing careful again. "'Tis all that docthor that's never happy but doin' harm. She's no more crazy than meself, an' no one thinks nor fears it, not even him. They only say so, because--" She stopped herself again.

"Sheila," I said, "tell me just one thing. How much truth is there in what your husband says?"

"How do I know what he says?" She was watching me closely, as if to see that I followed her words. "He's dhrunk half the time, poor divil, an'

he says one thing to-day an' one to-morrow. Never ye mind him, sir."

"But there must have been something for him to go on," I persisted.

"Did Reid have some affair abroad before his marriage, or not?"

She hesitated, her apparent hatred of Reid struggling with her loyalty to the family and her recovered caution.

"There was some matther av a woman in Germany," she said at last, reluctantly, "but I never rightly knew about it, nor Antonio either."

Then more rapidly: "An' it's angry I've been, Mr. Crosby, an' 'tis like I've said more meself than I mean." She paused.

"Has that nothing to do with the trouble in the family? Sheila, you know I'm their good friend, and I'm not merely gossiping. You must have seen--" for the life of me I could not go on.

"I'll say no more," she answered obstinately. "It's weary I am for you, an' the poor darlin' that's bewitched ye, but--" her eyes filled, and she shut her mouth with a snap. Say what I would after that, I could not move her. She had said enough already, and she trusted a gentleman like me that it should go no further. That was all.

"Sheila," I said, as I rose to go, "is all you have told me true?"

"Thrue?" she started as if I had struck her. "Yes, it's thrue--an'

sorrow fell them that made it so."

I took up my hat and stick from the table.

"We will have another talk about this some day, Sheila," I said. And I closed the door behind me.

CHAPTER XX

NOR UNDERSTAND ALL I SEE

For the next few days I think I must have been nearer to a nervous breakdown than I am ever likely to be again. All the strain and the anxiety of the whole summer seemed to fall upon me in a ma.s.s; I had not the relief of taking arms against my trouble, nor of any better business than to brood and to remember, sifting misery by the hour in hopeless search after some grain of decision; and the heat and hurry of the city broke my natural sleep, and went to make a nightmare of my days. Maclean was with me a good deal, taking me with him into strange corners of the town, and trying his best to bring me out of myself; but I could not talk to him of what was on my mind, and the irritation of constant pretense to carelessness vitiated much of the relief he tried to give.

Wherever I might be to appearance, the same Spartan Fox was at my breast--Carucci's story and Sheila's attempted contradiction, and the ambiguous trouble that overhung Lady and shut me out from her. I could not fathom it; and I dared not take dangerous action in the dark. Reid had pa.s.sed through some scandal before his marriage; Sheila had admitted so much; and her denial that Miriam and Lady were the same had been involved in such a maze of surmise and superst.i.tion, so evidently and angrily put forward as a defense, that I could not believe what I would of it. It might well be that Mrs. Tabor was oppressed even to insanity by the situation. But what was the situation? If the mother's madness of bereavement were at the root of all, what had the family to conceal? Or why should not the remaining daughter marry whom she chose? Sheila's explanation of the first was absurdly tenuous; and the last she had not attempted to explain. No, there was one shadow over them all: the cause of the mother's grief was the cause of the daughter's terror, and of the irrational behavior of the sane and practical men of the family. I could find no alternative; either Mrs. Tabor was haunted by mediaeval ghosts, or some part of the scandal must be true.

At last, one unbearably humid morning, when I was almost on the point of going blindly out to Stamford on the chance of any happening that might let my anxiety escape into action, of any opportunity that might force a climax, Mr. Tabor called me on the telephone.

"h.e.l.lo, Mr. Crosby? Mr. Laurence Crosby?--Well, Crosby, this is Mr.

Tabor talking. Are you free this morning, so that you can give us a few hours of your time? You can help us very much if you will."

"Certainly; I'll be out as soon as I can get a train." The idea of seeing Lady again was a compensation under any circ.u.mstances; but the next words destroyed that hope.

"No, don't do that. What I want of you is right there in New York." He hesitated a moment. "h.e.l.lo--that--that same situation which occurred the other day, when you were alone in the house, and we were in town, has arisen again. You understand me?--We're looking after this neighborhood.

The person in question has been gone an hour, leaving no word; may have gone to New York. Now, will you meet all trains until further notice, and keep your eyes open? Call us up about every half hour. In case of success, use your own judgment--don't excite any one, don't be left behind, and telephone as soon as possible. Am I making this explicit enough?"

"Yes, perfectly. I'm to meet trains, let matters take their own course as far as possible, keep in touch, and let you know."

"That's it exactly. I knew we could count on you."

I was not many minutes in getting to the Grand Central, laying my plan of action on the way. To be sure that no one arrived un.o.bserved in that great labyrinth of tracks and exits was no such easy matter, even though I knew the point of departure. I began by a thorough search of the waiting-rooms. Then, finding, as I had expected, no trace of Mrs. Tabor, I learned the times and positions of all the Stamford trains, and set myself to meet each one as it arrived. I had to make certain of seeing every pa.s.senger, and at the same time to keep out of the expectant throng that crowded close to the restraining ropes on a similar errand; for if Mrs. Tabor should appear I must not seem to be watching for her.

The next hour and a half was divided between studying the clock, running my eyes dizzily over streams of hurrying humanity, racing anxiously from place to place when a late train crowded close upon its successor, and s.n.a.t.c.hing a moment at the telephone in the intervals of nervous waiting.

Even so, I could not be morally sure that she might not slip by me somewhere unnoticed. And when at last I recognized her fragile figure far down the long platform, I was less excited than relieved.

She came on quickly, carrying a little shopping-bag, and stepping with a certain bird-like alertness. It was hard to imagine that this eager, pretty lady, with her spun-gla.s.s hair and her bright eyes, could be either ill or in trouble. I let her pa.s.s me, and followed at a little distance into the waiting-room; then crossed over and met her face to face by the telephone booths on the west side. Her greeting was a fresh surprise.

"Why, Mr. Crosby, this is delightfully fortunate! I was just going to call you up, and here you spring from the earth as if I had rubbed a magic ring. You must have known that I was thinking about you. You're not going away, are you? Or meeting any one?"

If she meant anything in particular, I had reason to feel embarra.s.sed; but the big, childish eyes that smiled into my own seemed wholly innocent of suspicion.

"No," I said. "I've been seeing somebody off, and I'm very gladly at your service for as long as you like." I was praying Heaven to inspire me with mendacity.

"Well, that's the best that could have happened. I came in town to see some friends, and I promised myself to see you at the same time. Excuse me just half a minute, while I telephone them."

She slipped into the booth, leaving me hesitating outside. Evidently here was my chance to call up Mr. Tabor, and report; but she kept glancing out at me through the gla.s.s doors as she talked, quite casually, but still with observant interest; and I dared not shut myself in a booth lest she should either suspect or escape. She was out again before I could make up my mind.

"Now take me to lunch," she said gaily, "and after that, if you haven't grown tired of such a frivolous old creature, you may take me where I am going. I'll set you free by two or three o'clock, at the latest."

I took her to the Waldorf, for no better reason than that it was cool and close at hand; wondering all the way how in the world I was to get word to the family, and keeping up my end rather absently in a conversation, which with a younger woman would have been merrily flirtatious, and wanted only relief from preoccupied anxiety to be very delightful fencing. Mrs. Tabor was in that state of fluffy exhilaration, that heightening and brightening of spirit which in a man would have been hilarity, and which in a woman may equally well mean the excitement of pleasure or the tension of imprisoned pain. She was a little above herself, but there was absolutely nothing to tell me why. And she kept me too busy in finding the next answer to plan what I should do the minute afterward.

"Of course, Mr. Crosby," she began when we were settled at our table, "this is another of my horrible and mysterious disappearances. I've actually come to the great city, in broad daylight, without a chaperon.

Isn't it reckless of me?"

"Desperately," I answered. "And not a soul knows where you are? Won't they be shocked and surprised when they miss you?"

She shook out a little laugh. "Let them; it's their own fault. If I'm to be treated like an European school-girl, I shall at least have the pleasure of acting like one. They need imagination enough to conceive of my being able to take care of myself now and then. I'm not in my second childhood yet--only in my second girlhood."