mary louise sat in the waiting room of the riverside hospital, idly looking at the magazines, while the nurses took miss grant to her private room. she couldn’t help smiling a little as she thought how vexed the old lady would be at the bill she would get. corinne pearson had carelessly told the hospital to have one of the best rooms in readiness for the patient.
(“but, if she had her own way, miss grant would be in a ward,” thought mary louise.)
however, it was too late now to dispute over details. the head nurse came into the waiting room and spoke to mary louise in a soft voice.
“miss matilda grant is your aunt, i suppose, miss——?” she asked.
“gay,” supplied mary louise. “no, i’m not any relation. just a friend—of her niece.”
“oh, i see.... yes, i know your father, miss gay. he is a remarkable man.”
mary louise smiled.
“i think so too,” she said.
[127]
“as you no doubt expected,” continued the nurse, “an operation is absolutely necessary. the nurses are getting miss grant ready now.”
“has she consented?”
“yes. she had to. it is certain death if the surgeon doesn’t operate immediately. but before she goes under the anesthetic she wants to see you. so please come with me.”
a little surprised at the request, mary louise followed the nurse through the hall of the spotless hospital to the elevator and thence to miss grant’s room. the old lady was lying in a white bed, attired in a plain, high-necked nightgown which the hospital provided. her face was deathly pale, but her black eyes were as bright as ever, and she smiled at mary louise as she entered the room.
with her wrinkled hand she beckoned the girl to a chair beside the bed.
“you’re a good girl, mary louise,” she said, “and i trust you.”
mary louise flushed a trifle at the praise; she didn’t know exactly what to say, so she kept quiet and waited.
“will you do something for me?” asked the old lady.
“yes, of course, miss grant,” replied mary louise. “if i can.”
[128]
“i want you to live at dark cedars while i’m here in the hospital. take jane with you, if you want to, and your dog too—but plan to stay there.”
“i can’t be there every minute, miss grant. tomorrow i’ve promised to go on a picnic.”
“oh, that’s all right! i remember now, you told me. take elsie with you. but go back to dark cedars at night. sleep in my room. and shut the door!”
mary louise looked puzzled; she could not see the reason for such a request.
“but there isn’t anything valuable for anybody to steal now, is there, miss grant?” she inquired. “you put your money and your bonds in the bank today.”
the sick woman gasped for breath and for a moment she could not speak. finally she said, “you heard about last night from hannah? and saw the way things were upset?”
“yes. but if the burglars didn’t take anything, they won’t be likely to return, will they?”
miss grant closed her eyes.
“it wasn’t common burglars,” she said.
mary louise started. did miss grant believe in hannah’s theory about the ghosts?
“you don’t mean——?”
[129]
“i don’t know what i mean,” answered the old lady. “somebody—living or dead—is trying to get hold of something very precious to me.”
“what is it, miss grant?” demanded mary louise eagerly. oh, perhaps now she was getting close to the real mystery at dark cedars! for that petty theft by corinne pearson was only a side issue, she felt sure.
the old lady shook her head.
“i can’t tell—even you, mary louise! nobody!”
“then how can i help you?”
“you can watch elsie and try to find out where she hid my box of gold pieces. you can keep your eye open for trouble at night—and let me know if anything happens.... will you do it, mary louise?”
“i’ll ask mother—at least, if you’ll let me tell her all about what has happened. it won’t get around riverside—mother is used to keeping secrets, you know, for my father is a detective. and if she consents, i’ll go and stay with elsie till you come home.”
tears of gratitude stood in the sick woman’s eyes; the promise evidently meant a great deal to her.
“yes, tell your mother,” she said. “and jane’s mother. but nobody else.”
mary louise stood up.
[130]
“i must go now, miss grant. your nurse has been beckoning to me for the last two minutes. you have to rest.... but i’ll come in to see you on sunday.”
she walked out of the room, closing the door softly behind her and thinking how sad it must be to face an operation all alone, with no one’s loving kiss on your lips, no one’s hopes and prayers to sustain you. but, sorry as mary louise was for miss grant, she could not show her any affection. she couldn’t forget or forgive her cruelty to elsie.
her mother was waiting for her on the porch when she arrived at her house.
“you must be starved, mary louise!” she exclaimed. “i have your lunch all ready for you.”
“thanks heaps, mother—i am hungry. but so much has happened. did jane tell you about miss grant?”
“yes. but i can’t see why you had to go to the hospital with her when she has all those relatives to look after her.”
mary louise shrugged her shoulders.
“they don’t like her, mother—and consequently she doesn’t trust them.”
“do you like her?” inquired mrs. gay.
“no, i don’t. but in a way i feel sorry for her.”
[131]
mary louise followed her mother into the dining room and for the next fifteen minutes gave herself up to the enjoyment of the lovely lunch of dainty sandwiches and refreshing iced tea which her mother had so carefully prepared. it was not until she had finished that she began her story of the robbery at dark cedars and of her own and jane’s part in the partial recovery of the money. she made no mention, however, of the bandit who had tried to hold them up, or of the queer disturbances at night at dark cedars. she concluded with the old lady’s request that they—mary louise and jane—stay with elsie and watch her.
mrs. gay looked a little doubtful.
“i don’t know, dear,” she said. “something might happen. still, if mrs. patterson is willing to let jane go, i suppose i will say yes.”
fifteen minutes later mary louise whistled for her chum and put the proposition up to her.
jane shivered.
“i’m not going to stay in that spooky old place!” she protested. “not after what happened there last night.”
“‘who’s afraid of the big, bad wolf?’” teased mary louise. “jane, i thought you had more sense!”
[132]
“there’s something uncanny about dark cedars, mary lou, and you know it! not just that the house is old, and the boards creak, and there aren’t any electric lights. there’s something evil there.”
“of course there is. but that’s the very reason it thrills me. i don’t agree with miss grant and just want to go there because i believe elsie is guilty of stealing that gold and that maybe we can find out where she has hidden it. somebody else took it, i’m sure—and that somebody keeps coming back to dark cedars to get something else. something valuable, ‘precious to me,’ miss grant called it. and we’ve got to catch them!”
“you didn’t tell your mother that?”
“no. i told her about only what has actually been stolen so far. no need to alarm her. and will you do the same with your mother?”
jane rose reluctantly.
“i suppose so. if you’ve made up your mind to go through with it, you’ll do it. i know you well enough for that. and i don’t want you over there at dark cedars alone—or only with elsie. even hannah and william are moving out, you remember.... yes, i’ll go. if mother will let me.”
“you’re a peach, jane!” cried her chum joyfully.
[133]
it was several hours, however, before the girls actually started to dark cedars. arrangements for the picnic the following day had to be completed; their suitcases had to be packed, and their boy-friends called on the telephone. it was after five o’clock when they were finally ready.
from the porch of mary louise’s house they saw max miller drive up in his car.
“i’m taking you over,” he announced, for mary louise had told him that she and jane were visiting elsie grant for a few days.
“that’s nice, max,” replied mary louise. “we weren’t so keen about carrying these suitcases in all this heat.”
“it is terribly hot, isn’t it?” remarked mrs. gay. “i’m afraid there will be a thunderstorm before the day is over.”
jane made a face. dark cedars was gloomy enough without a storm to make it seem worse.
“come on, silky!” called mary louise. “we’re taking you this time.”
“i’ll say we are!” exclaimed her chum emphatically.
elsie grant was delighted to see them. she came running from behind the hedge attired in her pink linen dress and her white shoes. mary louise was thankful that max did not see her in the old purple calico. his sense of humor might have got the better of him and brought forth a wisecrack or two.
[134]
as soon as they were out of the car she introduced them to each other.
“you didn’t know we were coming for a visit, did you, elsie?” she inquired. “well, i’ll tell you how it happened: your aunt mattie is in the hospital for an operation, and she wanted jane and me to stay with you while she was away.”
the girl wrinkled her brows.
“it doesn’t sound like aunt mattie,” she said, “to be so thoughtful of me. she must have some other motive besides pity for my loneliness.”
“she has!” cried jane. “you can be sure——”
mary louise put her finger to her lips.
“we’ll tell you all about it later,” she whispered while max was getting the suitcases from the rumble seat. “it’s quite a story.”
“is hannah still here?” inquired jane. “or do we cook our own supper?”
“yes, she’s here,” answered elsie. “she expects to come every day to work in the house, and william will take care of the garden and the chickens and milk the cow just the same. but they’re going away every night after supper.”
max, overhearing the last remark, looked disapproving.
[135]
“you don’t mean to tell me you three girls will be here alone every night?” he demanded. “you’re at least half a mile from the nearest house.”
“oh, don’t worry, max, we’ll be all right,” returned mary louise lightly. “there’s a family of colored people who live in a shack down in the valley behind the house. we can call on them if it is necessary.”
“speaking of them,” remarked elsie, “reminds me that william says half a dozen chickens must have been stolen last night. at least, they’re missing, and of course he blames abraham lincoln jones. but i don’t believe it. mr. jones is a deacon in the riverside colored church, and his wife is the kindest woman. i often stop in to see her, and she gives me gingerbread.”
mary louise and jane exchanged significant looks. perhaps this colored family was the explanation of the mysterious disturbances about dark cedars.
mary louise suggested this to elsie after max had driven away with a promise to call for the girls at nine o’clock the following morning.
“i don’t think so,” said elsie. “but of course it’s possible.”
[136]
“let’s walk over to see this family after supper,” put in jane. “we might learn a lot.”
“all right,” agreed elsie, “if a storm doesn’t come up to stop us.... now, come on upstairs and unpack. what room are you going to sleep in—hannah’s or aunt mattie’s—or up in the attic with me?”
“we have to sleep in your aunt mattie’s bedroom,” replied mary louise. “i promised we would.”
elsie looked disappointed.
“you’ll be so far away from me!” she exclaimed.
“why don’t you sleep on the second floor too?” inquired jane.
“there isn’t any room that’s furnished as a bedroom, except hannah’s, and i think she still has her things in that. besides, aunt mattie wouldn’t like it.”
“oh, well, we’ll leave our door open,” promised jane.
“no, we can’t do that either,” asserted mary louise. “miss grant told me to close it.”
“good gracious!” exclaimed her chum. “what next?”
“supper’s ready!” called hannah from the kitchen.
[137]
“so that’s next,” laughed mary louise. “well, we’ll unpack after supper. i’m not very hungry—i had lunch so late—but i guess i can eat.”
hannah came into the dining room and sat down in a chair beside the window while the girls ate their supper, so that she might hear the news of her mistress. mary louise told everything—the capture of the bills, the part harry grant played in the affair, and corinne pearson’s guilt in the actual stealing. she went on to describe miss grant’s collapse and removal to the riverside hospital, concluding with her request that the two girls stay with elsie while she was away.
“so she still thinks i stole her gold pieces!” cried the orphan miserably.
“i’m afraid she does, elsie,” admitted mary louise. “but there’s something else she’s worrying about. what could miss grant possibly own, hannah, that she’s afraid of losing?”
“i don’t know for sure,” replied the servant. “but i’ll tell you what i think—if you won’t laugh at me.”
“of course we won’t, hannah,” promised jane.
[138]
“well, there was something years ago that old mr. grant got hold of—something valuable—that i made out didn’t belong to him. i don’t know what it was—never did know—but i’d hear mrs. grant—that was miss mattie’s mother, you understand—tryin’ to get him to give it back. ‘it can’t do us no good,’ she’d say—or words like them. and he’d always tell her that he meant to keep it for a while; if they lost everything else, this possession would keep ’em out of the poorhouse for a spell. mrs. grant kept askin’ him whereabouts it was hidden, and he just laughed at her. i believe she died without ever findin’ out....
“well, whatever it was, mr. grant must have give it to miss mattie when he died, and she kept it hid somewheres in this house. no ordinary place, or i’d have found it in house-cleanin’. you can’t houseclean for forty years, twicet a year, without knowin’ ’bout everything in a house.... but i never seen nuthin’ valuable outside that safe of her’n.
“so what i think is,” continued hannah, keeping her eyes fixed on mary louise, “that mrs. grant can’t rest in her grave till that thing is give back to whoever it belongs to. i believe her spirit visits this house at night, lookin’ for it, and turnin’ things upside down to find it. that’s why nuthin’ ain’t never stolen. so anybody that lives here ain’t goin’ have no peace at nights till she finds it.”
[139]
hannah stopped talking, and, as jane had promised, nobody laughed. as a matter of fact, nobody felt like laughing. the woman’s belief in her explanation was too sincere to be derided. the girls sat perfectly still, forgetting even to eat, thinking solemnly of what she had told them.
“we’ll have to find out what the thing is,” announced mary louise finally, “if we expect to make any headway. i wish i could go see miss mattie at the hospital tomorrow.”
“well, you can’t,” said jane firmly. “you’re going to that picnic. we can ask the gypsies when we have our fortunes told.”
“gypsies!” exclaimed hannah scornfully. “gypsies ain’t no good! they used to camp around here till they drove miss mattie wild and she got the police after ’em. don’t have nuthin’ to do with gypsies!”
“we’re just going to have our fortunes told,” explained jane. “we don’t expect to invite them to our houses.”
“well, don’t!” was the servant’s warning as she left the room.
when the girls had finished their supper they went upstairs to miss grant’s bedroom and unpacked their suitcases. but they were too tired to walk down the hill to call upon abraham lincoln jones. if he wanted to steal chickens tonight, he was welcome to, as far as they were concerned.
[140]
hannah and william left about eight o’clock, locking the kitchen door behind them, and the girls stayed out on the front porch until ten, talking and singing to jane’s ukulele. the threatening storm had not arrived when they finally went to bed.
it was so still, so hot outdoors that not even a branch moved in the darkness. the very silence was oppressive; jane was sure that she wouldn’t be able to go to sleep when she got into miss mattie’s wooden bed with its ugly carving on the headboard. but, in spite of the heat, both girls dropped off in less than five minutes.
they were awakened sometime after two by a loud clap of thunder. branches of the trees close to the house were lashing against the windows, and the rain was pouring in. mary louise jumped up to shut the window. as she crawled back into bed she heard footsteps in the hall. light footsteps, scarcely perceptible above the rain. but someone—something—was stealthily approaching their door!
[141]
her instinct was to reach for the electric-light button when she remembered that miss grant used only oil lamps. trembling, she groped in the darkness for her flashlight, on the chair beside her. but before she found it the handle rattled on the door, and it opened—slowly and quietly.
there, dimly perceptible in the blackness of the hall, stood a figure—all in white!
