Mrs. Spash's old eyes so narrowed before an oncoming flood of reminiscence that they seemed to retreat to the back of her head, where they diminished to blue sparks. For a moment the room was silent. Then "Let me show you something! You'd oughter know it, seein' it's your house. There's some, though, I wouldn't show it to."

She pattered with her surprising quickness to the back wall. She pressed a spot in the paneling and a small square of the wood moved slowly back.

"You see, Miss Murray's bed ran along that wall, just as Cherry's did in the other room. Mornings and evenings they used to open this panel and talk to each other."

Lindsay's eyes filmed even as Mrs. Spash's had. Mentally he saw the two faces bending toward the opening....

"But you was asking about Miss Murray's death-- As I say, things didn't go well with her. I didn't understand how it all happened. Folks stopped buying her books, I guess. Anyway, when she died, there was nothing left. And there was debts. The house and everything in it was sold--at auction. It was awful to see Miss Murray's things all out on the lawn.

And a great crowd of gawks--riff-raff from everywhere--looking at 'em and making fun of 'em-- She had beautiful things, but they went for nothing a-tall. They jess about paid her debts."

Lindsay groaned. "But her death--"

"Oh yes, as I was sayin'. You see, Miss Murray worn't ever the same after Mr. Lewis died. You know about that?"

Lindsay nodded. "He was drowned."

Mrs. Spash nodded confirmatively. "Yes, in Spy Pond--over South Quinanog way. He was swimming all alone. He was taken with cramps way out in the middle of the Pond. Finally somebody saw him struggling and they put out in a boat, but they were too late. Miss Murray was in the garden when they brought him back on a shutter. I was with her. I can see the way her face looked now. She didn't say anything. Not a word! She turned to stone. And it didn't seem to me that she ever came back to flesh again.

They was to be married in October. He was a splendid man. He came from New York."

"Yes. Curiously enough I spent a few days in what used to be his rooms,"

Lindsay informed her.

"That so?" But it was quite apparent that nothing outside the radius of Quinanog interested Mrs. Spash deeply. She made no further comment.

"Was she very much in love with Lewis?" Lindsay ventured.

"In love! I wish you could see their eyes when they looked at each other. They'd met late. Miss Murray had always had lots of attention.

But she never seemed to care for anybody--though she'd flirt a little--until she met Mr. Lewis. It was love at first sight with them."

She proceeded.

"Well, Miss Murray died five years after Mr. Lewis. She died--well, I don't know exactly what it was. But she had _attacks_. She was a terrible sufferer. And she was worried--money matters worried her. You see, little Cherry's mother died when she was born and her father soon after. Miss Murray'd always had Cherry and felt responsible for her. I know, because she told me. 'It ain't myself, Eunice Spash,' she said to me more'n once. 'It's little Cherry.' Anyway, she was alone when her last attack came. She'd sent for a cousin--I forget the name--to be with her, and she was up in Boston getting a nurse, and I was in the other side of the house. I never heard a sound. We found her dead in the middle of the floor--there." Her crooked forefinger indicated the spot.

"Seemed she'd got up and tried to get to the door to call. But she dropped and died halfway. She was all contorted. Her face looked--Not so much suffering of the body as-- Well, you could see it in her face that it come to her that she was going, and Cherry was left with nothing."

"What became of that cousin?" Lindsay inquired. "I have asked everybody in the neighborhood, but n.o.body seems to know."

"And I don't know. She went to Boston, taking Cherry with her. For a time we heard from Cherry now and then--she'd write letters to the children. Then we lost sight of her. I don't know whether Miss Murray's cousin's living or dead; Cherry either."

Lindsay felt that he could have a.s.sured her that Cherry was alive; but his conclusion rested on premises too gauzy for him to hazard the statement.

Mrs. Spash sighed. She arose, led the way into the hall. "This was Mr.

Monroe's room; and Mr. Gale's room was back of his. He liked the room that overlooked the garden. Mr. Monroe--"

"That's the big man, the sculptor," Lindsay hazarded.

"How'd you know?" Mrs. Spash pounced on him again.

"Oh, I've talked with a lot of people in the neighborhood," Lindsay returned evasively.

"That Mr. Monroe," Mrs. Spash glided on easily, "was a case and a half.

Nothing but talk and laugh every moment he was in the house. I used to admire to have him come."

"Where is he?" Lindsay asked easily. He hoped Mrs. Spash did not guess how, mentally, he hung upon her answer.

"He went to Italy--to Florence--after Miss Murray died." Mrs. Spash stopped. "He was in love with Miss Murray. Had been for years. She wouldn't have him though. He was an awful nice man. Sometimes I thought she would have him. But after Mr. Lewis came-- Queer, worn't it? I don't know whether Mr. Monroe's alive or dead."

Again Lindsay felt that he could have a.s.sured her that he was alive, but again gauzy premises inhibited exact conclusions.

"The last I heard of him he was in Rome. 'Tain't likely he's alive now.

_Land_, no! He'd be well over seventy--close onto seventy-five. Mr. Gale was in love with her too. He was younger. I don't think he ever told Miss Murray, I never _did_ know if she knew. You couldn't fool me though. Well, I started out to show you this house. I must be gitting on. You've seen the slave quarters and the whipping-post upstairs?"

"Yes. _Everybody_ could tell me about the whipping-post and the slave quarters. But the things I wanted to know--"

"Well, it's natural enough that folks shouldn't know much about her.

Miss Murray was a lady that didn't talk about her own affairs and she kept sort of to herself, as you might say. She wasn't the kind that ran in on folks. She wrote by fits and starts. Sometimes she'd stay up late at night. She _allus_ wrote new-moon time. She said the light of the crescent moon inspired her. How they used to make fun of her about that!

But she'd write with all of them about, laughing and talking and playing the piano or singing--and dancing even. The house was so lively those days--they was all great trainers. And yet she could fall asleep right in the midst of all that confusion. Well--so you see she wasn't given to making calls. And then there was always so much to do and so many folks around at home. Have you been upstairs in the barn?"

"No--not yet. The stairs were all broken away. I had just finished mending them when I had the pleasure of making your acquaintance."

They both smiled reminiscently.

"Let's go up there now--there must be a lot of things--" She ended her sentence a little vaguely as the old sometimes do. But the movement with which she arose from her chair and trotted toward the stairs was full of an antic.i.p.ation almost youthful.

"The garden used to be so pretty," she sighed as they started on the well-worn trail to the barn. "Miss Murray worn't what you might call practical, but she could make flowers grow. She never cooked, nor sewed, nor anything sensible, but she'd work in that garden till-- There was certain combinations of flowers that she used to like; hollyhocks, especially the garnet ones so dark they was almost black, surrounded by them blue Canterbury bells; and then phlox in all colors, white and pink and magenta and lavender and purple. I think there was some things put out here," she interrupted herself vaguely, "that n.o.body wanted at the auction. There wasn't even a bid on them."

She trotted up the stairs like a pony that has suddenly become aged.

Lindsay followed, two steps at a time. The upper story of the barn was the confused ma.s.s of objects that the lumber room of any large household inevitably collects. Broken chairs; tables, bureaux; rejected pieces of china; kitchen furnishings; a rusty stove, old boxes; bandboxes; broken trunks; torn bags.

"There! That's the table Miss Murray used to do her writing at. She said there never had been a table built big enough for her. I expect that's why n.o.body bought it at the auction. 'Twas too big for mortal use, you might say. The same reason I expect is why the dining-room table didn't sell either."

"Where did she write?" Lindsay asked, measuring the table with his eye.

"All summer in the south living-room. But when it come winter, she'd often take her things and set right in front of the fire in the living-room. Then she'd write at that long table you're writing on."

"This table goes back to the south living-room tomorrow," Lindsay decided almost inaudibly. "Can you tell me the exact spot?"

"I guess I _can_. Lord knows I've got down on my hands and knees and dusted the legs often enough. Miss Murray said, though it was soft wood, it was the oldest piece in the house. She bought it at some old tavern where they was having a sale. She said it dated back--long before Revolutionary times--to Colonial days."

"Could you tell me, I wonder, about the rest of Miss Murray's furniture?" Lindsay came suddenly from out a deep revery. "Do you remember who bought it? I would like to buy back all that I can get. I'd like to make the old place look, as much as possible, as it used to look."

Mrs. Spash flashed him a quick intent look. Then she meditated. "I think I could probably tell you where most every piece went. The Drakes got the Field bed and the ivory-keyhole bureau and the ivory-keyhole desk; and Miss Garnet got the elephant and Mis' Manson got the gazelles--"

"Elephant! Gazelles!" Lindsay interrupted.

"The gazelles," Mrs. Spash smiled indulgently. "Well, it does sound queer, but Miss Murray used to call those little thin-legged candle tables that folks use, _gazelles_. The elephant was a great high chest of drawers. Mis' Manson got the maple gazelles--" She proceeded in what promised to be an indefinite category.

"Do you think I could buy any of those things back?" Lindsay asked after listening patiently to the end.