Oh, it isn’t the knitting that matters: I don’t care about that. But it’s the—the cruelty. The—” she paused searching for the word, wringing her hands again. Finally it came: “The persecution,” said Felicia Denisty.
“Nonsense,” said Gladstone heavily. “You are making too much of an absurdly trivial thing. Now, Felicia, do be sensible. Take one of your capsules and go to sleep. The image simply couldn’t have pulled your knitting loose—if that’s what you mean.”
“The image,” said Felicia slowly, “couldn’t have killed William, either. But William is dead.”
“Don’t be morbid, Felicia,” said Gladstone. He paused with his hand on the door-knob. “Miss Dare, will you help me a moment, please?”
It was, of course, an absurdly transparent excuse. Felicia said nothing and Susan followed Gladstone into the hall. He closed the door.
“Did my wife unravel the knitting herself, Miss Dare?” he said directly.
“I don’t know.”
His hard blue eyes, so strangely like his mother’s, were plumbing her own eyes, seeking for any thought that lay behind them.
“She seems to have been talking to you a great deal,” he said, slowly.
“No,” said Susan quietly, “not a great deal.”
He waited for her to say more. But Susan waited, too.
“I hope,” he said at length, “that you realize to what her talk is due.”
Susan smoothed back her hair.
“Yes,” she said truthfully. “I believe I do.”
He stared at her again, then suddenly turned away.
“That’s good,” he said. “Good-night, Miss Dare.”
He went down the stairs at once. In a moment, Susan heard the heavy outside door close. He had not, then, joined his mother and Marlowe, whose voices, steadily and blandly talking, were coming from the drawing room. The room where the Easter image brooded and waited. She returned to Felicia.
“I took two capsules,” said Felicia wearily. “You needn’t stay, Miss Dare. I’ll be asleep in no time.”
Two capsules. Susan resolved to talk to the doctor the next day, did what she could for Felicia, and left. This time she met Marlowe, his arms full of yellow wool.
“Oh, hello there, Miss Dare,” he said. “I was just looking for you. What shall we do with this? Mother is frightfully upset about it. Glad is the apple of her eye, you know. It’s never been exactly a happy marriage—you’ve probably guessed it. Poor mother. And now Felicia’s got this queer notion about the Easter image.”
“How did she get the notion?” said Susan. “I mean—has it been long?”
“M-m—a few months. Seems to have got worse since these unlucky things have been happening. Just accidents, of course. But it is a bit queer. Isn’t it?”
“Very,” said Susan. “Tell me, is she interested in the French lessons?”
“With Dorothy, you mean? Oh, I don’t know. She goes regularly, nine o’clock every morning. Mother sees to that. But I don’t know that she likes it much. Funny thing, psychology, isn’t it? I suppose you see a lot of queer things in your profession, don’t you?”
“Well,” said Susan guardedly, “yes and no. Good-night. Oh, I don’t think it would be a good thing to give the yarn to her just now. Anyway, she’s asleep.”
He turned toward the stairway, his arms still full of yellow yarn.
In her room, Susan locked the door as she had done carefully every night in the silent haunted house. Haunted by a wooden image.
And then, vehemently, she rejected the thought. It was no wooden image that menaced that house and those within it. It was something far stronger.
And yet she was shaken in spite of herself by the incident of the knitting. After all, had Felicia herself unraveled it? The family were all at the table and no one left it even momentarily. And the pretty housemaid who was, since William’s death, acting as waitress, had been busily occupied and also, naturally, the cook.
But Susan was dealing only with intangibles. There was still no
“Nonsense,” said Gladstone heavily. “You are making too much of an absurdly trivial thing. Now, Felicia, do be sensible. Take one of your capsules and go to sleep. The image simply couldn’t have pulled your knitting loose—if that’s what you mean.”
“The image,” said Felicia slowly, “couldn’t have killed William, either. But William is dead.”
“Don’t be morbid, Felicia,” said Gladstone. He paused with his hand on the door-knob. “Miss Dare, will you help me a moment, please?”
It was, of course, an absurdly transparent excuse. Felicia said nothing and Susan followed Gladstone into the hall. He closed the door.
“Did my wife unravel the knitting herself, Miss Dare?” he said directly.
“I don’t know.”
His hard blue eyes, so strangely like his mother’s, were plumbing her own eyes, seeking for any thought that lay behind them.
“She seems to have been talking to you a great deal,” he said, slowly.
“No,” said Susan quietly, “not a great deal.”
He waited for her to say more. But Susan waited, too.
“I hope,” he said at length, “that you realize to what her talk is due.”
Susan smoothed back her hair.
“Yes,” she said truthfully. “I believe I do.”
He stared at her again, then suddenly turned away.
“That’s good,” he said. “Good-night, Miss Dare.”
He went down the stairs at once. In a moment, Susan heard the heavy outside door close. He had not, then, joined his mother and Marlowe, whose voices, steadily and blandly talking, were coming from the drawing room. The room where the Easter image brooded and waited. She returned to Felicia.
“I took two capsules,” said Felicia wearily. “You needn’t stay, Miss Dare. I’ll be asleep in no time.”
Two capsules. Susan resolved to talk to the doctor the next day, did what she could for Felicia, and left. This time she met Marlowe, his arms full of yellow wool.
“Oh, hello there, Miss Dare,” he said. “I was just looking for you. What shall we do with this? Mother is frightfully upset about it. Glad is the apple of her eye, you know. It’s never been exactly a happy marriage—you’ve probably guessed it. Poor mother. And now Felicia’s got this queer notion about the Easter image.”
“How did she get the notion?” said Susan. “I mean—has it been long?”
“M-m—a few months. Seems to have got worse since these unlucky things have been happening. Just accidents, of course. But it is a bit queer. Isn’t it?”
“Very,” said Susan. “Tell me, is she interested in the French lessons?”
“With Dorothy, you mean? Oh, I don’t know. She goes regularly, nine o’clock every morning. Mother sees to that. But I don’t know that she likes it much. Funny thing, psychology, isn’t it? I suppose you see a lot of queer things in your profession, don’t you?”
“Well,” said Susan guardedly, “yes and no. Good-night. Oh, I don’t think it would be a good thing to give the yarn to her just now. Anyway, she’s asleep.”
He turned toward the stairway, his arms still full of yellow yarn.
In her room, Susan locked the door as she had done carefully every night in the silent haunted house. Haunted by a wooden image.
And then, vehemently, she rejected the thought. It was no wooden image that menaced that house and those within it. It was something far stronger.
And yet she was shaken in spite of herself by the incident of the knitting. After all, had Felicia herself unraveled it? The family were all at the table and no one left it even momentarily. And the pretty housemaid who was, since William’s death, acting as waitress, had been busily occupied and also, naturally, the cook.
But Susan was dealing only with intangibles. There was still no
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