On the 29th of June, 1852, Henry Clay died. In that month the two great political parties, in their national conventions, had accepted as a finality all the compromise measures of 1850, and the last hours of the Kentucky statesman were br... Read more of THE STORY OF UNCLE TOM'S CABIN at Martin Luther King.caInformational Site Network Informational

A Child Of The Rain
A Difficult Problem
A Grammatical Ghost
A Memorable Night
A Mysterious Case
A Mystery With A Moral
A Spectral Collie
A Terribly Strange Bed
American Horses
An Astral Onion
An Intangible Clue
As Told By Mr Gryce
From The Loom Of The Dead
His Last Bow
Hunted Down
Introduction To A Mystery With A Moral
Introduction To Melmoth The Wanderer
Melmoth The Wanderer
Missing: Page Thirteen
My Fascinating Friend
No 1 Branch Line: The Signal-man
On Being Found Out
On The Northern Ice
Problem Ix Violet's Own
Satire Of The Sea
Shall He Wed Her?
Story Of An Obstinate Corpse
Story Of The Vanishing Patient
The Adventure Of Black Peter
The Adventure Of Charles Augustus Milverton
The Adventure Of The Abbey Grange
The Adventure Of The Bruce-partington Plans
The Adventure Of The Cardboard Box
The Adventure Of The Dancing Men
The Adventure Of The Devil's Foot
The Adventure Of The Dying Detective
The Adventure Of The Empty House
The Adventure Of The Golden Pince-nez
The Adventure Of The Missing Three-quarter
The Adventure Of The Norwood Builder
The Adventure Of The Priory School
The Adventure Of The Red Circle
The Adventure Of The Six Napoleons
The Adventure Of The Solitary Cyclist
The Adventure Of The Three Students
The Adventure Of Wisteria Lodge
The Affair Of The Tortoise
The Avenger
The Birth-mark
The Black Cross
The Box With The Iron Clamps
The Bronze Hand
The Cambered Foot
The Case Of He Golden Bullet
The Case Of Mr Foggatt
The Case Of The Dixon Torpedo
The Case Of The Pocket Diary Found In The Snow
The Case Of The Pool Of Blood In The Pastor's Study
The Case Of The Registered Letter
The Closed Cabinet
The Coin Of Dionysius
The Disappearance Of Lady Frances Carfax
The Doctor His Wife And The Clock
The Dreaming Lady
The End Of The Road
The Fortune Teller
The Golden Slipper
The Gray Madam
The Great Valdez Sapphire
The Grotto Spectre
The Haunted And The Haunters Or The House And The Brain
The Hermit Of Street
The Hole In The Mahogany Panel
The House By The Loch
The House Of Clocks
The House That Was Not
The Incantation
The Jew's Breastplate
The Knight's Cross Signal Problem
The Last Adventure
The Last Exploit Of Harry The Actor
The Lenton Croft Robberies
The Loss Of Sammy Crockett
The Lost Lady
The Lost Room
The Man In The Green Hat
The Mortals In The House
The Mysterious Card
The Notch On The Ax - A Story A La Mode
The Oblong Box
The Old Stone House
The Piano Next Door
The Pumpkin Coach
The Quinton Jewel Affair
The Reward
The Room Of The Evil Thought
The Second Bullet
The Shape Of Fear
The Spread Rails
The Stanway Cameo Mystery
The Thing On The Hearth
The Torture By Hope
The Tragedy At Brookbend Cottage
The Wrong Sign
The Yellow Flower
Their Dear Little Ghost

Anna Katharine Green

A Difficult Problem
A Memorable Night
A Mysterious Case
An Intangible Clue
As Told By Mr Gryce
Missing: Page Thirteen
Problem Ix Violet's Own
Shall He Wed Her?
The Black Cross
The Bronze Hand
The Case Of He Golden Bullet
The Case Of The Pocket Diary Found In The Snow
The Case Of The Pool Of Blood In The Pastor's Study
The Case Of The Registered Letter
The Doctor His Wife And The Clock
The Dreaming Lady
The Golden Slipper
The Gray Madam
The Grotto Spectre
The Hermit Of Street
The House Of Clocks
The Old Stone House
The Second Bullet

The Grotto Spectre

Miss Strange was not often pensive--at least not at large
functions or when under the public eye. But she certainly forgot
herself at Mrs. Provost's musicale and that, too, without
apparent reason. Had the music been of a high order one might
have understood her abstraction; but it was of a decidedly
mediocre quality, and Violet's ear was much too fine and her
musical sense too cultivated for her to be beguiled by anything
less than the very best.

Nor had she the excuse of a dull companion. Her escort for the
evening was a man of unusual conversational powers; but she
seemed to be almost oblivious of his presence; and when, through
some passing courteous impulse, she did turn her ear his way, it
was with just that tinge of preoccupation which betrays the
divided mind.

Were her thoughts with some secret problem yet unsolved? It would
scarcely seem so from the gay remark with which she had left
home. She was speaking to her brother and her words were: "I am
going out to enjoy myself. I've not a care in the world. The
slate is quite clean." Yet she had never seemed more out of tune
with her surroundings nor shown a mood further removed from
trivial entertainment. What had happened to becloud her gaiety in
the short time which had since elapsed?

We can answer in a sentence.

She had seen, among a group of young men in a distant doorway,
one with a face so individual and of an expression so
extraordinary that all interest in the people about her had
stopped as a clock stops when the pendulum is held back. She
could see nothing else, think of nothing else. Not that it was so
very handsome--though no other had ever approached it in its
power over her imagination--but because of its expression of
haunting melancholy,--a melancholy so settled and so evidently
the result of long-continued sorrow that her interest had been
reached and her heartstrings shaken as never before in her whole

She would never be the same Violet again.

Yet moved as she undoubtedly was, she was not conscious of the
least desire to know who the young man was, or even to be made
acquainted with his story. She simply wanted to dream her dream

It was therefore with a sense of unwelcome shock that, in the
course of the reception following the programme, she perceived
this fine young man approaching herself, with his right hand
touching his left shoulder in the peculiar way which committed
her to an interview with or without a formal introduction.

Should she fly the ordeal? Be blind and deaf to whatever was
significant in his action, and go her way before he reached her;
thus keeping her dream intact? Impossible. His eye prevented
that. His glance had caught hers and she felt forced to await his
advance and give him her first spare moment.

It came soon, and when it came she greeted him with a smile. It
was the first she had ever bestowed in welcome of a confidence of
whose tenor she was entirely ignorant.

To her relief he showed his appreciation of the dazzling gift
though he made no effort to return it. Scorning all
preliminaries in his eagerness to discharge himself of a burden
which was fast becoming intolerable, he addressed her at once in
these words:

"You are very good, Miss Strange, to receive me in this
unconventional fashion. I am in that desperate state of mind
which precludes etiquette. Will you listen to my petition? I am
told--you know by whom--"(and he again touched his shoulder)
"that you have resources of intelligence which especially fit you
to meet the extraordinary difficulties of my position. May I beg
you to exercise them in my behalf? No man would be more grateful
if-- But I see that you do not recognize me. I am Roger Upjohn.
That I am admitted to this gathering is owing to the fact that
our hostess knew and loved my mother. In my anxiety to meet you
and proffer my plea, I was willing to brave the cold looks you
have probably noticed on the faces of the people about us. But I
have no right to subject you to criticism. I--"

"Remain." Violet's voice was troubled, her self-possession
disturbed; but there was a command in her tone which he was only
too glad to obey. "I know the name" (who did not!) "and possibly
my duty to myself should make me shun a confidence which may
burden me without relieving you. But you have been sent to me by
one whose behests I feel bound to respect and--"

Mistrusting her voice, she stopped. The suffering which made
itself apparent in the face before her appealed to her heart in a
way to rob her of her judgment. She did not wish this to be seen,
and so fell silent.

He was quick to take advantage of her obvious embarrassment.
"Should I have been sent to you if I had not first secured the
confidence of the sender? You know the scandal attached to my
name, some of it just, some of it very unjust. If you will grant
me an interview to-morrow, I will make an endeavour to refute
certain charges which I have hitherto let go unchallenged. Will
you do me this favour? Will you listen in your own house to what
I have to say?"

Instinct cried out against any such concession on her part,
bidding her beware of one who charmed without excellence and
convinced without reason. But compassion urged compliance and
compassion won the day. Though conscious of weakness,--she,
Violet Strange on whom strong men had come to rely in critical
hours calling for well-balanced judgment,--she did not let this
concern her, or allow herself to indulge in useless regrets even
after the first effect of his presence had passed and she had
succeeded in recalling the facts which had cast a cloud about
his name.

Roger Upjohn was a widower, and the scandal affecting him was
connected with his wife's death.

Though a degenerate in some respects, lacking the domineering
presence, the strong mental qualities, and inflexible character
of his progenitors, the wealthy Massachusetts Upjohns whose
great place on the coast had a history as old as the State
itself, he yet had gifts and attractions of his own which would
have made him a worthy representative of his race, if only he
had not fixed his affections on a woman so cold and heedless
that she would have inspired universal aversion instead of love,
had she not been dowered with the beauty and physical
fascination which sometimes accompany a hard heart and a scheming
brain. It was this beauty which had caught the lad; and one day,
just as the careful father had mapped out a course of study
calculated to make a man of his son, that son drove up to the
gates with this lady whom he introduced as his wife.

The shock, not of her beauty, though that was of the dazzling
quality which catches a man in the throat and makes a slave of
him while the first surprise lasts, but of the overthrow of all
his hopes and plans, nearly prostrated Homer Upjohn. He saw, as
most men did the moment judgment returned, that for all her satin
skin and rosy flush, the wonder of her hair and the smile which
pierced like arrows and warmed like wine, she was more likely to
bring a curse into the house than a blessing.

And so it proved. In less than a year the young husband had lost
all his ambitions and many of his best impulses. No longer
inclined to study, he spent his days in satisfying his wife's
whims and his evenings in carousing with the friends with which
she had provided him. This in Boston whither they had fled from
the old gentleman's displeasure; but after their little son came
the father insisted upon their returning home, which led to great
deceptions, and precipitated a tragedy no one ever understood.
They were natural gamblers--this couple--as all Boston society
knew; and as Homer Upjohn loathed cards, they found life slow in
the great house and grew correspondingly restless till they made
a discovery--or shall I say a rediscovery--of the once famous
grotto hidden in the rocks lining their portion of the coast.
Here they found a retreat where they could hide themselves (often
when they were thought to be abed and asleep) and play together
for money or for a supper in the city or for anything else that
foolish fancy suggested. This was while their little son remained
an infant; later, they were less easily satisfied. Both craved
company, excitement, and gambling on a large scale; so they took
to inviting friends to meet them in this grotto which, through
the agency of one old servant devoted to Roger to the point of
folly, had been fitted up and lighted in a manner not only
comfortable but luxurious. A small but sheltered haven hidden in
the curve of the rocks made an approach by boat feasible at high
tide; and at low the connection could be made by means of a path
over the promontory in which this grotto lay concealed. The
fortune which Roger had inherited from his mother made these
excesses possible, but many thousands, let alone the few he could
call his, soon disappeared under the witchery of an irresponsible
woman, and the half-dozen friends who knew his secret had to
stand by and see his ruin, without daring to utter a word to the
one who alone could stay it. For Homer Upjohn was not a man to be
approached lightly, nor was he one to listen to charges without
ocular proof to support them; and this called for courage, more
courage than was possessed by any one who knew them both.

He was a hard man was Homer Upjohn, but with a heart of gold for
those he loved. This, even his wary daughter-in-law was wise
enough to detect, and for a long while after the birth of her
child she besieged him with her coaxing ways and bewitching
graces. But he never changed his first opinion of her, and once
she became fully convinced of the folly of her efforts, she gave
up all attempt to please him and showed an open indifference.
This in time gradually extended till it embraced not only her
child but her husband as well. Yes, it had come to that. His love
no longer contented her. Her vanity had grown by what it daily
fed on, and now called for the admiration of the fast men who
sometimes came up from Boston to play with them in their unholy
retreat. To win this, she dressed like some demon queen or witch,
though it drove her husband into deeper play and threatened an
exposure which would mean disaster not only to herself but to the
whole family.

In all this, as any one could see, Roger had been her slave and
the willing victim of all her caprices. What was it, then, which
so completely changed him that a separation began to be talked of
and even its terms discussed? One rumour had it that the father
had discovered the secret of the grotto and exacted this as a
penalty from the son who had dishonoured him. Another, that Roger
himself was the one to take the initiative in this matter: That,
on returning unexpectedly from New York one evening and finding
her missing from the house, he had traced her to the grotto where
he came upon her playing a desperate game with the one man he had
the greatest reason to distrust.

But whatever the explanation of this sudden change in their
relations, there is but little doubt that a legal separation
between this ill-assorted couple was pending, when one bleak
autumn morning she was discovered dead in her bed under
circumstances peculiarly open to comment.

The physicians who made out the certificate ascribed her death to
heart-disease, symptoms of which had lately much alarmed the
family doctor; but that a personal struggle of some kind had
preceded the fatal attack was evident from the bruises which
blackened her wrists. Had there been the like upon her throat it
might have gone hard with the young husband who was known to be
contemplating her dismissal from the house. But the
discoloration of her wrists was all, and as bruised wrists do
not kill and there was besides no evidence forthcoming of the
two having spent one moment together for at least ten hours
preceding the tragedy but rather full and satisfactory testimony
to the contrary, the matter lapsed and all criminal proceedings
were avoided.

But not the scandal which always follows the unexplained. As time
passed and the peculiar look which betrays the haunted soul
gradually became visible in the young widower's eyes, doubts
arose and reports circulated which cast strange reflections upon
the tragic end of his mistaken marriage. Stories of the
disreputable use to which the old grotto had been put were
mingled with vague hints of conjugal violence never properly
investigated. The result was his general avoidance not only by
the social set dominated by his high-minded father, but by his
own less reputable coterie, which, however lax in its moral code,
had very little use for a coward.

Such was the gossip which had reached Violet's ears in connection
with this new client, prejudicing her altogether against him till
she caught that beam of deep and concentrated suffering in his
eye and recognized an innocence which ensured her sympathy and
led her to grant him the interview for which he so earnestly

He came prompt to the hour, and when she saw him again with the
marks of a sleepless night upon him and all the signs of
suffering intensified in his unusual countenance, she felt her
heart sink within her in a way she failed to understand. A dread
of what she was about to hear robbed her of all semblance of self-
possession, and she stood like one in a dream as he uttered his
first greetings and then paused to gather up his own moral
strength before he began his story. When he did speak it was to

"I find myself obliged to break a vow I have made to myself. You
cannot understand my need unless I show you my heart. My trouble
is not the one with which men have credited me. It has another
source and is infinitely harder to bear. Personal dishonour I
have deserved in a greater or less degree, but the trial which
has come to me now involves a person more dear to me than myself,
and is totally without alleviation unless you--" He paused,
choked, then recommenced abruptly: "My wife"--Violet held her
breath--"was supposed to have died from heart-disease or--or some
strange species of suicide. There were reasons for this
conclusion--reasons which I accepted without serious question
till some five weeks ago when I made a discovery which led me to

The broken sentence hung suspended. Violet, notwithstanding his
hurried gesture, could not restrain herself from stealing a look
at his face. It was set in horror and, though partially turned
aside, made an appeal to her compassion to fill the void made by
his silence, without further suggestion from him.

She did this by saying tentatively and with as little show of
emotion as possible:

"You feared that the event called for vengeance and that
vengeance would mean increased suffering to yourself as well as
to another?"

"Yes; great suffering. But I may be under a most lamentable
mistake. I am not sure of my conclusions. If my doubts have no
real foundation--if they are simply the offspring of my own
diseased imagination, what an insult to one I revere! What a
horror of ingratitude and misunderstanding--"

"Relate the facts," came in startled tones from Violet. "They may
enlighten us."

He gave one quick shudder, buried his face for one moment in his
hands, then lifted it and spoke up quickly and with unexpected

"I came here to do so and do so I will. But where begin? Miss
Strange, you cannot be ignorant of the circumstances, open and
avowed, which attended my wife's death. But there were other and
secret events in its connection which happily have been kept from
the world, but which I must now disclose to you at any cost to my
pride and so-called honour. This is the first one: On the morning
preceding the day of Mrs. Upjohn's death, an interview took place
between us at which my father was present. You do not know my
father, Miss Strange. A strong man and a stern one, with a hold
upon old traditions which nothing can shake. If he has a weakness
it is for my little boy Roger in whose promising traits he sees
the one hope which has survived the shipwreck of all for which
our name has stood. Knowing this, and realizing what the child's
presence in the house meant to his old age, I felt my heart turn
sick with apprehension, when in the midst of the discussion as to
the terms on which my wife would consent to a permanent
separation, the little fellow came dancing into the room, his
curls atoss and his whole face beaming with life and joy.

"She had not mentioned the child, but I knew her well enough to
be sure that at the first show of preference on his part for
either his grandfather or myself, she would raise a claim to him
which she would never relinquish. I dared not speak, but I met
his eager looks with my most forbidding frown and hoped by this
show of severity to hold him back. But his little heart was full
and, ignoring her outstretched arms, he bounded towards mine with
his most affectionate cry. She saw and uttered her ultimatum. The
child should go with her or she would not consent to a
separation. It was useless for us to talk; she had said her last
word. The blow struck me hard, or so I thought, till I looked at
my father. Never had I beheld such a change as that one moment
had made in him. He stood as before; he faced us with the same
silent reprobation; but his heart had run from him like water.

"It was a sight to call up all my resources. To allow her to
remain now, with my feelings towards her all changed and my
father's eyes fully opened to her stony nature, was impossible.
Nor could I appeal to law. An open scandal was my father's
greatest dread and divorce proceedings his horror. The child
would have to go unless I could find a way to influence her
through her own nature. I knew of but one--do not look at me,
Miss Strange. It was dishonouring to us both, and I'm horrified
now when I think of it. But to me at that time it was natural
enough as a last resort. There was but one debt which my wife
ever paid, but one promise she ever kept. It was that made at the
gaming-table. I offered, as soon as my father, realizing the
hopelessness of the situation, had gone tottering from the room,
to gamble with her for the child.

"And she accepted."

The shame and humiliation expressed in this final whisper; the
sudden darkness--for a storm was coming up--shook Violet to the
soul. With strained gaze fixed on the man before her, now little
more than a shadow in the prevailing gloom, she waited for him to
resume, and waited in vain. The minutes passed, the darkness
became intolerable, and instinctively her hand crept towards the
electric button beneath which she was sitting. But she failed to
press it. A tale so dark called for an atmosphere of its own
kind. She would cast no light upon it. Yet she shivered as the
silence continued, and started in uncontrollable dismay when at
length her strange visitor rose, and still, without speaking,
walked away from her to the other end of the room. Only so could
he go on with the shameful tale; and presently she heard his
voice once more in these words:

"Our house is large and its rooms many; but for such work as we
two contemplated there was but one spot where we could command
absolute seclusion. You may have heard of it, a famous natural
grotto hidden in our own portion of the coast and so fitted up as
to form a retreat for our miserable selves when escape from my
father's eye seemed desirable. It was not easy of access, and no
one, so far as we knew, had ever followed us there.

"But to ensure ourselves against any possible interruption, we
waited till the whole house was abed before we left it for the
grotto. We went by boat and oh! the dip of those oars! I hear
them yet. And the witchery of her face in the moonlight; and the
mockery of her low fitful laugh! As I caught the sinister note in
its silvery rise and fall, I knew what was before me if I failed
to retain my composure. And I strove to hold it and to meet her
calmness with stoicism and the taunt of her expression with a
mask of immobility. But the effort was hopeless, and when the
time came for dealing out the cards, my eyes were burning in
their sockets and my hands shivering like leaves in a rising

"We played one game--and my wife lost. We played another--and my
wife won. We played the third--and the fate I had foreseen from
the first became mine. The luck was with her, and I had lost my

A gasp--a pause, during which the thunder spoke and the lightning
flashed,--then a hurried catching of his breath and the tale went

"A burst of laughter, rising gaily above the boom of the sea,
announced her victory--her laugh and the taunting words: 'You
play badly, Roger. The child is mine. Never fear that I shall
fail to teach him to revere his father.' Had I a word to throw
back? No. When I realized anything but my dishonoured manhood, I
found myself in the grotto's mouth staring helplessly out upon
the sea. The boat which had floated us in at high tide lay
stranded but a few feet away, but I did not reach for it. Escape
was quicker over the rocks, and I made for the rocks.

"That it was a cowardly act to leave her there to find her way
back alone at midnight by the same rough road I was taking, did
not strike my mind for an instant. I was in flight from my own
past; in flight from myself and the haunting dread of madness.
When I awoke to reality again it was to find the small door, by
which we had left the house, standing slightly ajar. I was
troubled by this, for I was sure of having closed it. But the
impression was brief, and entering, I went stumbling up to my
room, leaving the way open behind me more from sheer inability to
exercise my will than from any thought of her.

"Miss Strange" (he had come out of the shadows and was standing
now directly before her), "I must ask you to trust implicitly in
what I tell you of my further experiences that fatal night. It
was not necessary for me to pass my little son's door in order to
reach the room I was making for; but anguish took me there and
held me glued to the panels for what seemed a long, long time.
When I finally crept away it was to go to the room I had chosen
in the top of the house, where I had my hour of hell and faced my
desolated future. Did I hear anything meantime in the halls
below? No. Did I even listen for the sound of her return? No. I
was callous to everything, dead to everything but my own misery.
I did not even heed the approach of morning, till suddenly, with
a shrillness no ear could ignore, there rose, tearing through the
silence of the house, that great scream from my wife's room which
announced the discovery of her body lying stark and cold in her

"They said I showed little feeling." He had moved off again and
spoke from somewhere in the shadows. "Do you wonder at this after
such a manifest stroke by a benevolent Providence? My wife being
dead, Roger was saved to us! It was the one song of my still
undisciplined soul, and I had to assume coldness lest they should
see the greatness of my joy. A wicked and guilty rejoicing you
will say, and you are right. But I had no memory then of the part
I had played in this fatality. I had forgotten my reckless flight
from the grotto, which left her with no aid but that of her own
triumphant spirit to help her over those treacherous rocks. The
necessity for keeping secret this part of our disgraceful story
led me to exert myself to keep it out of my own mind. It has only
come back to me in all its force since a new horror, a new
suspicion, has driven me to review carefully every incident of
that awful night.

"I was never a man of much logic, and when they came to me on
that morning of which I have just spoken and took me in where she
lay and pointed to her beautiful cold body stretched out in
seeming peace under the satin coverlet, and then to the pile of
dainty clothes lying neatly folded on a chair with just one fairy
slipper on top, I shuddered at her fate but asked no questions,
not even when one of the women of the house mentioned the
circumstance of the single slipper and said that a search should
be made for its mate. Nor was I as much impressed as one would
naturally expect by the whisper dropped in my ear that something
was the matter with her wrists. It is true that I lifted the lace
they had carefully spread over them and examined the
discoloration which extended like a ring about each pearly arm;
but having no memories of any violence offered her (I had not so

much as laid hand upon her in the grotto), these marks failed to
rouse my interest. But--and now I must leap a year in my story--
there came a time when both of these facts recurred to my mind
with startling distinctness and clamoured for explanation.

"I had risen above the shock which such a death following such
events would naturally occasion even in one of my blunted
sensibilities, and was striving to live a new life under the
encouragement of my now fully reconciled father, when accident
forced me to re-enter the grotto where I had never stepped foot
since that night. A favourite dog in chase of some innocent prey
had escaped the leash and run into its dim recesses and would not
come out at my call. As I needed him immediately for the hunt, I
followed him over the promontory and, swallowing my repugnance,
slid into the grotto to get him. Better a plunge to my death from
the height of the rocks towering above it. For there in a remote
corner, lighted up by a reflection from the sea, I beheld my
setter crouched above an object which in another moment I
recognized as my dead wife's missing slipper. Here! Not in the
waters of the sea or in the interstices of the rocks outside, but
here! Proof that she had never walked back to the house where she
was found lying quietly in her bed; proof positive; for I knew
the path too well and the more than usual
tenderness of her feet.

"How then, did she get there; and by whose agency? Was she living
when she went, or was she already dead? A year had passed since
that delicate shoe had borne her from the boat into these dim
recesses; but it might have been only a day, so vividly did I
live over in this moment of awful enlightenment all the events of
the hour in which we sat there playing for the possession of our
child. Again I saw her gleaming eyes, her rosy, working mouth,
her slim, white hand, loaded with diamonds, clutching the cards.
Again I heard the lap of the sea on the pebbles outside and smelt
the odour of the wine she had poured out for us both. The bottle
which had held it; the glass from which she had drunk lay now in
pieces on the rocky floor. The whole scene was mine again and as
I followed the event to its despairing close, I seemed to see my
own wild figure springing away from her to the grotto's mouth and
so over the rocks. But here fancy faltered, caught by a quick
recollection to which I had never given a thought till now. As I
made my way along those rocks, a sound had struck my ear from
where some stunted bushes made a shadow in the moonlight. The
wind might have caused it or some small night creature hustling
away at my approach; and to some such cause I must at the time
have attributed it. But now, with brain fired by suspicion, it
seemed more like the quick intake of a human breath. Some one had
been lying there in wait, listening at the one loophole in the
rocks where it was possible to hear what was said and done in the
heart of the grotto. But who? who? and for what purpose this
listening; and to what end did it lead?

"Though I no longer loved even the memory of my wife, I felt my
hair lift, as I asked myself these questions. There seemed to be
but one logical answer to the last, and it was this: A struggle
followed by death. The shoe fallen from her foot, the clothes
found folded in her room (my wife was never orderly), and the
dimly blackened wrists which were snow-white when she dealt the
cards--all seemed to point to such a conclusion. She may have
died from heart-failure, but a struggle had preceded her death,
during which some man's strong fingers had been locked about her
wrists. And again the question rose, Whose?

"If any place was ever hated by mortal man that grotto was hated
by me. I loathed its walls, its floor, its every visible and
invisible corner. To linger there--to look--almost tore my soul
from my body; yet I did linger and did look and this is what I
found by way of reward.

"Behind a projecting ledge of stone from which a tattered rug
still hung, I came upon two nails driven a few feet apart into a
fissure of the rock. I had driven those nails myself long before
for a certain gymnastic attachment much in vogue at the time, and
on looking closer, I discovered hanging from them the rope-ends
by which I was wont to pull myself about. So far there was
nothing to rouse any but innocent reminiscences. But when I heard
the dog's low moan and saw him leap at the curled-up ends, and
nose them with an eager look my way, I remembered the dark marks
circling the wrists about which I had so often clasped my
mother's bracelets, and the world went black before me.

"When consciousness returned--when I could once more move and see
and think, I noted another fact. Cards were strewn about the
floor, face up and in a fixed order as if laid in a mocking mood
to be looked upon by reluctant eyes; and near the ominous half-
circle they made, a cushion from the lounge, stained horribly
with what I then thought to be blood, but which I afterwards
found to be wine. Vengeance spoke in those ropes and in the
carefully spread-out cards, and murder in the smothering pillow.
The vengeance of one who had watched her corroding influence eat
the life out of my honour and whose love for our little Roger was
such that any deed which ensured his continued presence in the
home appeared not only warrantable but obligatory. Alas! I knew
of but one person in the whole world who could cherish feeling to
this extent or possess sufficient will power to carry her
lifeless body back to the house and lay it in her bed and give no
sign of the abominable act from that day on to this.

"Miss Strange, there are men who have a peculiar conception of
duty. My father--"

"You need not go on." How gently, how tenderly our Violet spoke.
"I understand your trouble--"

Did she? She paused to ask herself if this were so, and he, deaf
perhaps to her words, caught up his broken sentence and went on:

"My father was in the hall the day I came staggering in from my
visit to the grotto. No words passed, but our eyes met and from
that hour I have seen death in his countenance and he has seen it
in mine, like two opponents, each struck to the heart, who stand
facing each other with simulated smiles till they fall. My father
will drop first. He is old--very old since that day five weeks
ago; and to see him die and not be sure--to see the grave close
over a possible innocence, and I left here in ignorance of the
blissful fact till my own eyes close forever, is more than I can
hold up under; more than any son could. Cannot you help me then
to a positive knowledge? Think! think! A woman's mind is
strangely penetrating, and yours, I am told, has an intuitive
faculty more to be relied upon than the reasoning of men. It must
suggest some means of confirming my doubts or of definitely
ending them."

Then Violet stirred and looked about at him and finally found

"Tell me something about your father's ways. What are his habits?
Does he sleep well or is he wakeful at night?"

"He has poor nights. I do not know how poor because I am not
often with him. His valet, who has always been in our family,
shares his room and acts as his constant nurse. He can watch over
him better than I can; he has no distracting trouble on his

"And little Roger? Does your father see much of little Roger?
Does he fondle him and seem happy in his presence?"

"Yes; yes. I have often wondered at it, but he does. They are
great chums. It is a pleasure to see them together."

"And the child clings to him--shows no fear--sits on his lap or
on the bed and plays as children do play with his beard or with
his watch-chain?"

"Yes. Only once have I seen my little chap shrink, and that was
when my father gave him a look of unusual intensity,--looking for
his mother in him perhaps."

"Mr. Upjohn, forgive me the question; it seems necessary. Does
your father--or rather did your father before he fell ill--ever
walk in the direction of the grotto or haunt in any way the rocks
which surround it?"

"I cannot say. The sea is there; he naturally loves the sea. But
I have never seen him standing on the promontory."

"Which way do his windows look?"

"Towards the sea."

"Therefore towards the promontory?"


"Can he see it from his bed?"

"No. Perhaps that is the cause of a peculiar habit he has."

"What habit?"

"Every night before he retires (he is not yet confined to his
bed) he stands for a few minutes in his front window looking out.
He says it's his good-night to the ocean. When he no longer
does this, we shall know that his end is very near."

The face of Violet began to clear. Rising, she turned on the
electric light, and then, reseating herself, remarked with an
aspect of quiet cheer:

"I have two ideas; but they necessitate my presence at your
place. You will not mind a visit? My brother will accompany me."

Roger Upjohn did not need to speak, hardly to make a gesture; his
expression was so eloquent.

She thanked him as if he had answered in words, adding with an
air of gentle reserve: "Providence assists us in this matter. I
am invited to Beverly next week to attend a wedding. I was
intending to stay two days, but I will make it three and spend
the extra one with you."

"What are your requirements, Miss Strange? I presume you have

Violet turned from the imposing portrait of Mr. Upjohn which she
had been gravely contemplating, and met the troubled eye of her
young host with an enigmatical flash of her own. But she made no
answer in words. Instead, she lifted her right hand and ran one
slender finger thoughtfully up the casing of the door near which
they stood till it struck a nick in the old mahogany almost on a
level with her head.

"Is your son Roger old enough to reach so far?" she asked with
another short look at him as she let her finger rest where it had
struck the roughened wood. "I thought
he was a little fellow."

"He is. That cut was made by--by my wife; a sample of her
capricious willfulness. She wished to leave a record of herself
in the substance of our house as well as in our lives. That nick
marks her height. She laughed when she made it. 'Till the walls
cave in or burn,' is what she said. And I thought her laugh and
smile captivating."

Cutting short his own laugh which was much too sardonic for a
lady's ears, he made a move as if to lead the way into another
portion of the room. But Violet failed to notice this, and
lingering in quiet contemplation of this suggestive little nick,--
the only blemish in a room of ancient colonial magnificence,--
she thoughtfully remarked:

"Then she was a small woman?" adding with seeming irrelevance--
"like myself."

Roger winced. Something in the suggestion hurt him, and in the
nod he gave there was an air of coldness which under ordinary
circumstances would have deterred her from pursuing this subject
further. But the circumstances were not ordinary, and she allowed
herself to say:

"Was she so very different from me,--in figure, I mean?"

"No. Why do you ask? Shall we not join your brother on the

"Not till I have answered the question you put me a moment ago.
You wished to know my requirements. One of the most important you
have already fulfilled. You have given your servants a half-
holiday and by so doing ensured to us full liberty of action.
What else I need in the attempt I propose to make, you will find
listed in this memorandum." And taking a slip of paper from her
bag, she offered it to him with a hand, the trembling of which he
would have noted had he been freer in mind.

As he read, she watched him, her fingers nervously clutching her

"Can you supply what I ask?" she faltered, as he failed to raise
his eyes or make any move or even to utter the groan she saw
surging up to his lips. "Will you?" she impetuously urged, as his
fingers closed spasmodically on the paper, in evidence that he
understood at last the trend of her daring purpose.

The answer came slowly, but it came. "I will. But what--"

Her hand rose in a pleading gesture.

"Do not ask me, but take Arthur and myself into the garden and
show us the flowers. Afterwards, I should like a glimpse of the

He bowed and they joined Arthur who had already begun to stroll
through the grounds.

Violet was seldom at a loss for talk even at the most critical
moments. But she was strangely tongue-tied on this occasion, as
was Roger himself. Save for a few observations casually thrown
out by Arthur, the three passed in a disquieting silence through
pergola after pergola, and around beds gorgeous with every
variety of fall flowers, till they turned a sharp corner and came
in full view of the sea.

"Ah!" fell in an admiring murmur from Violet's lips as her eyes
swept the horizon. Then as they settled on a mass of rock jutting
out from the shore in a great curve, she leaned towards her host
and softly whispered:

"The promontory?"

He nodded, and Violet ventured no farther, but stood for a little
while gazing at the tumbled rocks. Then, with a quick look back
at the house, she asked him to point out his father's window.

He did so, and as she noted how openly it faced the sea, her
expression relaxed and her manner lost some of its constraint. As
they turned to re-enter the house, she noticed an old man picking
flowers from a vine clambering over one end of the piazza.

"Who is that?" she asked.

"Our oldest servant, and my father's own man," was Roger's reply.
"He is picking my father's favourite flowers, a few late

"How fortunate! Speak to him, Mr. Upjohn. Ask him how your father
is this evening."

"Accompany me and I will; and do not be afraid to enter into
conversation with him. He is the mildest of creatures and devoted
to his patient. He likes nothing better than to talk about him."

Violet, with a meaning look at her brother, ran up the steps at
Roger's side. As she did so, the old man turned and Violet was
astonished at the wistfulness with which he viewed her.

"What a dear old creature!" she murmured. "See how he stares this
way. You would think he knew me."

"He is glad to see a woman about the place. He has felt our
isolation--Good evening, Abram. Let this young lady have a spray
of your sweetest honeysuckle. And, Abram, before you go, how is
Father to-night? Still sitting up?"

"Yes, sir. He is very regular in his ways. Nine is his hour; not
a minute before and not a minute later. I don't have to look at
the clock when he says: 'There, Abram, I've sat up long enough.'"

"When my father retires before his time or goes to bed without a
final look at the sea, he will be a very sick man, Abram."

"That he will, Mr. Roger; that he will. But he's very feeble to-
night, very feeble. I noticed that he gave the boy fewer kisses
than usual. Perhaps he was put out because the child was brought
in a half-hour earlier than the stated time. He don't like
changes; you know that, Mr. Roger; he don't like changes. I
hardly dared to tell him that the servants were all going out in
a bunch to-night."

"I'm sorry," muttered Roger. "But he'll forget it by to-morrow. I
couldn't bear to keep a single one from the concert. They'll be
back in good season and meantime we have you. Abram is worth half
a dozen of them, Miss Strange. We shall miss nothing."

"Thank you, Mr. Roger, thank you," faltered the old man. "I try
to do my duty." And with another wistful glance at Violet, who
looked very sweet and youthful in the half-light, he pottered

The silence which followed his departure was as painful to her as
to Roger Upjohn. When she broke it it was with this decisive

"That man must not speak of me to your father. He must not even
mention that you have a guest to-night. Run after him and tell
him so. It is necessary that your father's mind should not be
taken up with present happenings. Run."

Roger made haste to obey her. When he came back she was on the
point of joining her brother but stopped to utter a final

"I shall leave the library, or wherever we may be sitting, just
as the clock strikes half-past eight. Arthur will do the same, as
by that time he will feel like smoking on the terrace. Do not
follow either him or myself, but take your stand here on the
piazza where you can get a full view of the right-hand wing
without attracting any attention to yourself. When you hear the
big clock in the hall strike nine, look up quickly at your
father's window. What you see may determine--oh, Arthur! still
admiring the prospect? I do not wonder. But I find it chilly.
Let us go in."

Roger Upjohn, sitting by himself in the library, was watching
the hands of the mantel clock slowly approaching the hour of

Never had silence seemed more oppressive nor his sense of
loneliness greater. Yet the boom of the ocean was distinct to the
ear, and human presence no farther away than the terrace where
Arthur Strange could be seen smoking out his cigar in solitude.
The silence and the loneliness were in Roger's own soul; and, in
face of the expected revelation which would make or unmake his
future, the desolation they wrought was measureless.

To cut his suspense short, he rose at length and hurried out to
the spot designated by Miss Strange as the best point from which
to keep watch upon his father's window. It was at the end of the
piazza where the honeysuckle hung, and the odour of the blossoms,
so pleasing to his father, well-nigh overpowered him not only by
its sweetness but by the many memories it called up. Visions of
that father as he looked at all stages of their relationship
passed in a bewildering maze before him. He saw him as he
appeared to his childish eyes in those early days of confidence
when the loss of the mother cast them in mutual dependence upon
each other. Then a sterner picture of the relentless parent who
sees but one straight course to success in this world and the
next. Then the teacher and the matured adviser; and then--oh,
bitter change! the man whose hopes he had crossed--whose life he
had undone, and all for her who now came stealing upon the scene
with her slim, white, jewelled hand forever lifted up between
them. And she! Had he ever seen her more clearly? Once more the
dainty figure stepped from fairy-land, beauteous with every
grace that can allure and finally destroy a man. And as he saw,
he trembled and wished that these moments of awful waiting might
pass and the test be over which would lay bare his father's heart
and justify his fears or dispel them forever.

But the crisis, if crisis it was, was one of his own making and
not to be hastened or evaded. With one quick glance at his
father's window, he turned in his impatience towards the sea
whose restless and continuous moaning had at length struck his
ear. What was in its call to-night that he should thus sway
towards it as though drawn by some dread magnetic force? He had
been born to the dashing of its waves and knew its every mood and
all the passion of its song from frolicsome ripple to melancholy
dirge. But there was something odd and inexplicable in its effect
upon his spirit as he faced it at this hour. Grim and implacable--
a sound rather than a sight--it seemed to hold within its
invisible distances the image of his future fate. What this image
was and why he should seek for it in this impenetrable void, he
did not know. He felt himself held and was struggling with this
influence as with an unknown enemy when there rang out, from the
hall within, the preparatory chimes for which his ear was
waiting, and then the nine slow strokes which signalized the
moment when he was to look for his father's presence at the

Had he wished, he could not have forborne that look. Had his eyes
been closing in death, or so he felt, the trembling lids would
have burst apart at this call and the revelations it promised.

And what did he see? What did that window hold for him?

Nothing that he might not have seen there any night at this hour.
His father's figure drawn up behind the panes in wistful
contemplation of the night. No visible change in his attitude,
nothing forced or unusual in his manner. Even the hand, lifted to
pull down the shade, moves with its familiar hesitation. In a
moment more that shade will be down and-- But no! the lifted hand
falls back; the easy attitude becomes strained, fixed. He is
staring now--not merely gazing out upon the wastes of sky and
sea; and Roger, following the direction of his glance, stares
also in breathless emotion at what those distances, but now so
impenetrable, are giving to the eye.

A spectre floating in the air above the promontory! The spectre
of a woman--of his wife, clad, as she had been clad that fatal
night! Outlined in supernatural light, it faces them with lifted
arms showing the ends of rope dangling from either wrist. A sight
awful to any eye, but to the man of guilty heart--

Ah! it comes--the cry for which the agonized son had been
listening! An old man's shriek, hoarse with the remorse of
sleepless nights and days of unimaginable regret and foreboding!
It cuts the night. It cuts its way into his heart. He feels his
senses failing him, yet he must glance once more at the window
and see with his last conscious look-- But what is this! a change
has taken place in the picture and he beholds, not the distorted
form of his father sinking back in shame and terror before this
visible image of his secret sin, but that of another weak, old
man falling to the floor behind his back! Abram! the attentive,
seemingly harmless, guardian of the household! Abram! who had
never spoken a word or given a look in any way suggestive of his
having played any other part in the hideous drama of their lives
than that of the humble and sympathetic servant!

The shock was too great, the relief too absolute for credence.
He, the listener at the grotto? He, the avenger of the family's
honour? He, the insurer of little Roger's continuance with the
family at a cost the one who loved him best would rather have
died himself than pay? Yes! there is no misdoubting this old
servitor's attitude of abject appeal, or the meaning of Homer
Upjohn's joyfully uplifted countenance and outspreading arms. The
servant begs for mercy from man, and the master is giving thanks
to Heaven. Why giving thanks? Has he been the prey of cankering
doubts also? Has the father dreaded to discover that in the son
which the son has dreaded to discover in the father?

It might easily be; and as Roger recognizes this truth and the
full tragedy of their mutual lives, he drops to his knees amid
the honeysuckles.

"Violet, you are a wonder. But how did you dare?"

This from Arthur as the two rode to the train in the early

The answer came a bit waveringly.

"I do not know. I am astonished yet, at my own daring. Look at my
hands. They have not ceased trembling since the moment you threw
the light upon me on the rocks. The figure of old Mr. Upjohn in
the window looked so august."

Arthur, with a short glance at the little hands she held out,
shrugged his shoulders imperceptibly. It struck him that the
tremulousness she complained of was due more to some parting word
from their young host, than from prolonged awe at her own daring.
But he made no remark to this effect, only observed:

"Abram has confessed his guilt, I hear."

"Yes, and will die of it. The master will bury the man, and not
the man the master."

"And Roger? Not the little fellow, but the father?"

"We will not talk of him," said she, her eyes seeking the sea
where the sun in its rising was battling with a troop of
lowering clouds and slowly gaining the victory.

Next: The Dreaming Lady

Previous: An Intangible Clue

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