  When Helen came down the crooked staircase from the bedroom into the kitchen, she did not perceive at once that she was alone. Though not so dark as the rest of the house—for there were no shutters at the kitchen windows—this room was far from bright. Two small windows afforded the only means of admitting the light, and each of these had several boards nailed across the outside. “Aunt Elsie, where are you?” she called, trying to keep her voice calm. There was no answer. “Aunt Elsie!” she cried, in a louder tone, as she rushed over to the door. To her horror she found it locked. Darting to the nearest window, she peered outside. But as there was no view of the front from the kitchen, she did not see her. In a panic she started to scream. “Mrs. Fishberry! Aunt Elsie! Where are you?” Wildly she looked about the dimly-lighted room, as if in some corner she expected to see the ghost of the tower, working its evil upon them, because they had dared to return to this old house. But she saw nothing, and overcome with terror, she sank to the floor in a bitter abandon of weeping. The room grew darker; the silence became ominous. Any moment she expected that weird apparition with its skinny hands to enter through the closed windows, and torture her. Now and again she heard queer moans and creaks, but whether they were caused by the wind in the trees outside, or mice in the ancient boards, she did not know. She must have fallen asleep, crouched in that position on the floor, for when she regained consciousness it was entirely dark in the kitchen. Hardly realizing where she was, she stumbled to her feet and went right to the drawer in the cupboard where the candles were kept. She lighted one, and shivered anew at the weird, gloomy shadows it cast upon the walls. If the house seemed forbidding before, it was actually ghostly now. Strange shapes seemed to rise out of the darkness, to leer at her in her loneliness. She groped her way to the stove and sat down upon the hard kitchen chair beside it to think. It was the thought of Linda Carlton that kept her from losing her reason. Linda, who had flown over the Atlantic Ocean alone in the darkness, Linda who had assured Helen that her fears were groundless. She must live through this experience, she told herself, live to be a credit to the girl who had saved her life! Live to stand up for Linda Carlton when she should be accused by false witnesses! With a grim determination to control herself at any cost, she walked back to the cupboard for a saucer and a spoon, and forced herself to eat the oatmeal which had all the while been cooking on the oil stove. The food revived her, and the water tasted good. Somehow she felt better. Remembering that her bedroom was lighter than the kitchen, because she could open the shutters, Helen took a candle and ascended the stairs. But here a new terror took possession of her. She recalled the fact that she could see the ghost in the tower from the window! Trembling at the very thought, she placed her candle on the old-fashioned wash stand and sat down on the big wooden bed to try to get command of herself. What would Linda Carlton do in a case like this, she steadfastly asked herself? “Forget it, of course,” she replied aloud in a natural tone, and the sound of her own voice, without even a tremble, gave her courage. “I won’t even open that shutter,” she decided, “and then I shan’t have to see it!” With this resolve, she set herself to the task of opening the other window and of making her preparations for bed. How familiar it all was! She remembered even the contents of the bureau drawers: an old doll which she had kept since her childhood, some other toys, and a few clothes. Very few indeed, for she must have been exceedingly poor. As she wandered about the old-fashioned room, so different from the bedrooms of Linda’s friends, her eyes lighted upon the book case. Filled with strange volumes of adventure, which must have belonged to her grandfather. And then, on a bedside table, she came upon her own little Bible. As she opened this worn black book, a picture fell out. An old-fashioned picture of an old woman—a kindly person, with a sweet smile. Helen’s heart beat fast; she seized the picture with trembling fingers. Memories flooded back to her in wild confusion, but at the center of them all was this dear woman—her old nurse—Mrs. Smalley! “Oh, darling Nana!” she cried, ecstatically kissing the photograph, and calling the woman by the old familiar name. “Nana, you have brought back my memory to me!” But a start of dismay followed closely upon her joy. Where was Nana now? “Why, she’s out looking for me, of course!” she answered herself. “And she is so poor that she probably had to walk all the way to the city, and never even saw a newspaper until she got there! Oh, my poor dear Nana! She can’t walk fast! Those wretched feet of hers! And her deafness, and her failing eyesight!” The thought of the beloved nurse’s plight took Helen’s worries away from herself entirely. She forgot how lonely, how fearful, how forsaken she was. If only she could get out of this house, and hunt the dear soul! Do something for Nana, who would gladly lay down her life for her child! But escape was impossible now; she must wait until to-morrow when Mrs. Fishberry had promised that her uncle would return. “My uncle?” thought Helen, trying vainly to remember such a man. Surely he had not lived here, for she could recall her life perfectly with Mrs. Smalley. They had lived alone after the death of her old grandfather, whom she could still vaguely recall. They had slept together in this bed, and cooked on that little oil stove, and tended a garden on the side of the house. Oh, there had been precious little money—she remembered how her nurse had sometimes sold books and pieces of furniture, and how she had often sent her to the post office to see whether there was a letter. Probably it was there she was walking on the day of that accident. But what letter could she have expected? From whom? From her uncle, of course! Who once in a while sent Mrs. Smalley a five-dollar bill. But Helen could not remember what he was like. Perhaps he had visited them when she was a very small child, but she did not know what he looked like. And from what Mrs. Smalley had said, he was not a good man, or a kind one. But who was Mrs. Fishberry? Try as she might, she could not recall ever having seen her before. And why did her uncle want her now, after neglecting her all these years? Oh, if she had only known all this when she was with Linda Carlton, she need not have gone away with that woman! And now she would be free to hunt for Mrs. Smalley! Linda would have been glad to help, would have flown all over the country, if need be, in her autogiro, to find her. Helen sighed, but she did not despair. With the return of her memory a great weight was lifted from her heart. That ghost would not come into her room, she assured herself, with the shutters tightly closed, and the morning would bring freedom. Freedom to find Mrs. Smalley, to share with her that wonderful prize of five hundred dollars which Linda had so generously insisted that she take. So she read her Bible for a while, as her nurse had trained her to do every evening before she went to bed, and at last, tired out by her exciting day in the skies, she fell fast asleep. When she awoke, without even once experiencing any bad dream, she was in high spirits. How good it was to see the sunshine pouring in through the one open window and to hear the birds singing in the trees. Surely to-day her uncle would come for her. She dressed and cooked herself some oatmeal and made tea for her breakfast. A search in the cupboard rewarded her with the discovery of some dried beans and a few home-made cookies. Made for her, of course, by dear Mrs. Smalley—in the hope that her child would return! How unhappy the good woman must have been when day after day brought only disappointment! All day long Helen watched at her bed-room window for some signs of arrival; all day long she listened for the sound of a motor car. But hour after hour passed quietly, until the sun began to sink in the sky, and she at last gave up hope of being rescued. With the horror of approaching night a new fear took possession of her. Suppose they never came at all! Suppose Mrs. Fishberry meant to abandon her entirely in this gruesome house, until she starved to death, or lost her mind? How long could she hope to keep alive on those dried beans? And the limited supply of water! How dreadful it must be to die of thirst—far more horrible she believed, than of hunger. But she must not give up so easily. There were knives in that kitchen cupboard; if she worked patiently enough she could cut the woodwork. By cutting the wood and breaking the glass she need not be a prisoner long. But she would not begin that night, she hastily decided. Such an act of destruction might enrage that ghost in the tower, if it were the spirit of her grandfather, as she had always believed it to be. No, she would wait for daylight. How sorry she was that she had wasted this whole day! It was more difficult for her to go to sleep that night than upon the previous one, for she was not tired. But she resolutely read her Bible and kept her thoughts upon Linda and Nana until her eyelids began to droop. Then, with a contented sigh, she fell back on her pillow asleep. |
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