The Girl at Bullet Lake E-Book

H. A. Cody

• Herausgeber: Ktoczyta.pl
• Kategorie: Abenteuer, Thriller, Horror
• Sprache: Englisch
• Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2019

Beschreibung

For the main character, his daily work became a real torment. That he told his doctor. He had to drag himself to the office every morning, and always left him tired at the end of the day. He had never experienced anything like it before. His old friend Dr. Bradbury, in whom he was sure, would give him something to build him, and in a short time he would be as good as ever. But this order to leave the forest was something that he did not expect.....

Leseprobe

Contents

CHAPTER I

CHAPTER II

CHAPTER III

CHAPTER IV

CHAPTER V

CHAPTER VI

CHAPTER VII

CHAPTER VIII

CHAPTER IX

CHAPTER X

CHAPTER XI

CHAPTER XII

CHAPTER XIII

CHAPTER XIV

CHAPTER XV

CHAPTER XVI

CHAPTER XVII

CHAPTER XVIII

CHAPTER XIX

CHAPTER XX

CHAPTER XXI

CHAPTER XXII

CHAPTER XXIII

CHAPTER XXIV

CHAPTER XXV

CHAPTER XXVI

CHAPTER XXVII

CHAPTER XXVIII

CHAPTER XXIX

CHAPTER XXX

CHAPTER XXXI

CHAPTER XXXII

CHAPTER XXXIII

CHAPTER I

Ordered Away

“You must get away at once. You need a rest.”

“Is it as bad as that, doctor?”

“It is. I shall give you a tonic to brace you up. But the best remedy is fresh air, in the woods, or somewhere else.”

As Doctor Bradbury turned to his desk, Robert Rutledge sat staring straight before him. He did not feel sick, only played out, worn and fagged. He had lost his appetite. He had little or no ambition, and his work was becoming a burden. He had to drag himself to the office every morning, and always left it at the end of the day weary in mind and body. He had never experienced anything like it before, as his health had been of the best. His old friend Doctor Bradbury, in whom he had much confidence, would give him something to build him up, and in a short time he would be as well as ever. But this order to get away to the woods was something he had not expected. It seemed too simple. Perhaps the doctor did not understand him. He was not sick, just a little run down, and his nerves somewhat unsteady. A tonic would make him all right again. It was sheer nonsense about fresh air and the woods.

Presently his eyes rested upon some bottles neatly arranged along a shelf in an adjoining room. What did they contain? he wondered. Different kinds of medicine, no doubt. The doctor must know the use of each. He also noticed several surgical instruments. And those strange things which looked like tanks. What were they for? The doctor must know a lot about them. Clever fellow. What a vast amount of knowledge he must have stored away in his head. And did he know a great deal about the human body? Most likely.

“Take this three times a day, before meals.” The doctor had risen from his desk and was standing before him. “Stay away for two months, at least, and then report to me when you come back.”

“But where am I to go, doctor?”

“To the woods, the fresh fields, or anywhere else, so long as you live out of doors all day.”

“Do you know any good place?”

“I do. Bullet Lake will suit you fine. And there is a snug house on the shore, known as ‘Bullet House’. It is not a very poetical name, I admit, but that will make no difference. Si Acres will charge you something, but it will be more than worth it. There is excellent fishing there, too.”

“Where is this wonderful paradise, doctor?”

“It’s not far away, only a few miles back from the river at Glengrow. You surely must know the place.”

“I know Glengrow, for my sister lives there. But I never heard her mention Bullet Lake.”

“That’s not surprising. Women, as a rule, do not take much interest in the woods and fishing. But go there. Old Acres is a queer fellow, and it will be worth something to see him. He’s a wealthy old miser who would sell his soul for a dollar. He’s a cranky cuss, too, and his neighbors are greatly afraid of him.”

Robert Rutledge smiled.

“So you wish me to become the tenant of such a man? What rest shall I have with that man prowling around?”

“Oh, he’ll not trouble you, providing you pay in advance. Money will keep him quiet.”

“But the name of the place has an ominous sound, doctor. Bullet Lake and Bullet House! Why are they called that?”

“I do not know for sure. There is a story about a shooting racket there many years ago, so I guess the name must have come from that. I am not interested in such things. But you are, so you may find something of value.”

“So you give me permission to carry on my writing, doctor?”

“Yes, in moderation. You have been doing double work here, so that is why I want you to get away. You grind in the office all day, and write at night. That’s caused the trouble. No man can stand such a strain for any length of time. But, there, I must attend to my other patients. Do as I say, and good luck. If you are not a new man when you come back, I will not charge you a cent for my services.”

Robert Rutledge walked slowly away from the office in deep thought. He knew that the doctor was right, so decided to follow his advice. The idea of living in a little house in the woods by the side of a beautiful lake was alluring. In his mind he pictured the scene, the birds, and the shimmering water. Perhaps there was a verandah to the house. If so, how pleasant it would be to lie in a hammock, read, write, and dream to his heart’s content. There would be nothing to disturb him, no dull office grind, and no clamor of the busy insistent world. He would attend to a few matters of importance and then get away as soon as possible. In fact, he felt better already, and hungry. He suddenly remembered that he had eaten nothing since morning, and now it was almost two hours past noon. The White Lily Cafe was near, a familiar resort of his. It would be quiet there at this time of the day, and there he could think over his plans for the future.

Reaching the cafe, he sat down at a small table near a window overlooking a large square, beautiful now with flowers. He had often sat here watching the people strolling to and fro or sitting upon the benches along the walks. Now, however, his mind was upon other things, and he did not even glance out of the window. All he could see was a little house nestling by the side of a woodland lake. And Nell and the children would be only a few miles away, so he could visit them whenever he became too lonely. And they might come to see him. How pleasant it would be to watch John and Betty playing among the trees and along the shore. He would make little boats for them, and ramble with them and Nell through the woods.

So lost did he become in this bright fancy-scene that he hardly noticed when the waitress arrived with the frugal order he had given her. A new vision had come to his mind. It was another Nell, and other children he saw. They were only a dream wife and dream children, but the thought of them quickened his heart and brought a slight tinge to his overpale face.

Presently he became aware of someone sitting in front of him, just three tables away. Had she been there when he came in? he wondered. Why had he not noticed her before? Forgotten was the woodland cabin and the little lake as he watched her. Her left arm rested upon the table, and her slender, well-shaped fingers pressed lightly her cheek as she gazed dreamily out of the window on her right. Swiftly and with admiring eyes he noted her strong beautiful face, the graceful poise of her head crowned with a wealth of jet-black hair, and the quiet neatness of her dress. Involuntarily he gave a sigh of relief. In outward appearance she measured up to his ideal standard of perfect womanhood. That she was not more than nineteen or twenty years of age he felt certain. He longed to see her full face, but she did not look once in his direction until the waitress arrived to serve her. She then lowered her hand and looked straight at him for one fleeting second. If she knew that he had been observing her she showed no sign as she began eating. Robert knew that it was rude and ungentlemanly to stare at her. But he could not help it, so fascinated was he by her charming beauty. Every movement she made was full of grace and dignity. Who was she, anyway? Was she engaged? He looked at her hands, but saw no ring. Her fingers were devoid of any adornment save that which had been bestowed upon her by nature in her happiest mood. She was free! The thought brought a glad throb to his heart. He must learn something about her, her name, and where she lived. But how? He could not very well follow her. Perhaps the waitress might be able to tell him.

He was aroused by the sound of voices on his right. Two women had come in, and were seated at a table a short distance away. Their presence and their words irritated him. They were like discordant notes in a beautiful symphony. He recognized them at once. One was Mrs. Sylvester Casham, wife of a local promoter, a man well-known for his connection with a number of shady business transactions. He had made considerable money, and his wife was very prominent in the leading social set of Pretensia. She rode high on her husband’s money, and professed a great interest in art and literature, although she knew little about either, and could not speak a dozen words of the English language correctly. She was exceedingly plain, haughty and overbearing to those she considered her inferiors. She talked much about her illustrious ancestors, although it was an open secret that the only noted member of her family had been her grandfather, who had ruined many people when he cleared out of the country, taking with him money that had been entrusted to him for investment. But that was years ago, in another city, so Mrs. Casham was unaware that the affair was known in Pretensia.

Mrs. Augustus Rockbridge was a different type of a woman. She was of commanding appearance, and agreeable to those who did her bidding. She was strong-minded and could not tolerate any inferior position. She had to be the leader in any club to which she belonged, as well as the social circle of the city. Her husband was editor and chief owner of the Daily Echo, the one newspaper in Pretensia. It was well known that he was ruled by his wife, and many even suggested that she wrote some of the editorials and directed the policy of the paper. She was kind and condescending to her friends, but merciless to her enemies, as a number had learned to their bitter cost. Mrs. Sylvester Casham was her bosom friend, for in her she found a woman she could dominate and bend easily to her imperious will.

It was quite easy for Robert Rutledge to hear nearly every word these two women uttered. They did not lower their voices, and paid no heed to those around them. He knew that something out of the ordinary was disturbing Mrs. Rockbridge, and he was not long in finding out. It was the question of the new rector for St. Alban’s, of which church she was a prominent member. Robert was well aware what a burning issue it was to the entire congregation. The rectors of St. Alban’s in the past had all been men of marked ability, fluent speakers, and of high social standing. This standard had to be maintained, so a thorough search had been made far and wide for a suitable man. A number of men had come and preached their best sermons, but the one who had made the most favorable impression was a young man from a country parish, the Reverend Andrew Nairn. By his noble appearance, his well-trained voice, and excellent sermons he had won the hearts of all except Mrs. Rockbridge. The reason for her dislike was quite apparent. She had a nephew in the ministry, so she desired that he should be chosen. His chance had been good until the appearance of Mr. Nairn. Mrs. Rockbridge at once realised that her hope of having her nephew chosen was doomed. This was hard for her to endure, as it was her great ambition to see a member of her family rector of such an important church as St. Alban’s.

“I cannot understand all this excitement over Mr. Nairn,” she indignantly declared. “To my mind his sermons were quite ordinary, and his voice was not at all pleasant.”

“I agree with you,” Mrs. Casham replied. “Your nephew is a far better speaker, and a true gentleman, besides. We know nothing about Mr. Nairn. His parents may be very commonplace, lacking in culture, and uncouth in speech and manner. Suppose such people should visit their son if he became our rector, how could we call upon them? We should be greatly embarrassed and mortified.”

“But Mr. Nairn is almost like the Angel Gabriel to the people of St. Alban’s, remember. They were so much impressed with him that I am afraid they will not change their opinion.”

“But what about his wife, my dear? We know nothing about her. And we should know a great deal before Mr. Nairn becomes our rector.”

“Has this Angel Gabriel a wife?” This was a new idea to Mrs. Rockbridge, and she seized upon it greedily.

“I believe he has. But she may be of little account, and what a calamity that would be to our church.”

“It would be terrible, my dear. We must certainly find out something about her. If we are to have an Angel Gabriel as rector, we want his wife to be an angel, too.”

“But how can we find out? Who knows anything about her here?”

Mrs. Rockbridge sat for a while in deep silence, and her food remained untouched before her.

“I am going to find out myself,” she at length declared.

“You!”

“Yes. I am going to Glengrow. I have been planning to spend a few weeks at the new summer hotel there, anyway. Augustus wanted me to go with him on a trip abroad, but I prefer a quiet place near home. I shall take my new car which I am learning to drive.”

“Won’t you be nervous about driving alone? You should take your chauffeur with you, for a while, at least.”

“I am never nervous. I have discharged my chauffeur, and intend to do my own driving after this. Women are just as capable as men, and in many ways more so.”

Robert Rutledge had heard enough. As he thought of Nell and what she was like, his heart became hot with anger. The idea of such a heartless woman as Mrs. Rockbridge spying upon his sister was hard to endure. He glanced at the girl before him, and he was certain that he saw a faint semblance of amusement upon her face. How beautiful she was. And what a difference there was between her and those two schemers nearby! She reminded him somewhat of Nell. “Angel Gabriel’s Wife!” The words kept ringing through his mind. Then his anger subsided, and he felt like laughing outright. How his sister would enjoy the joke. But should he tell her? Would it not be better for him to wait and see what would happen? If Nell knew, she would be on her guard, and that would spoil the fun he saw ahead. Yes, Nell must be just her own natural self for Mrs. Augustus Rockbridge’s spying eyes.

CHAPTER II

More Than He Expected

With his stout blackthorn stick beating the ground Silas Acres strode along the road. It was a bright warm morning with only a faint breath of wind astir. Birds darted here and there, and butterflies zig-zagged in front of him. The air was richly laden with the scent from fields of clover and nearby gardens. There was much to charm the senses along this country road which skirted the shore of the noble river in the Parish of Glengrow. But Silas Acres seemed oblivious to such attractions as he pressed steadily forward. He was a large towering man, unbent by the fourscore years that had passed over his head. His clothes were rough, his boots coarse and heavy, and his slouch hat worn and faded. His face was bearded, and beneath his craggy brow challenging eyes looked out over the crest of a strong prominent nose. He resembled a patriarch who had suddenly stepped out of the past, and was not at all pleased with his surroundings. He walked with a haughty dignity with his eyes straight before him, unheeding the curious glances that were cast upon him from houses and fields along the way. He knew that he was being watched, and that his appearance upon the road this morning would be discussed by his neighbors for several days. This thought gave him considerable satisfaction, and caused him to thump the ground harder than ever. He liked to arouse people’s curiosity. He had been doing it for years, and he wished to do so as long as he lived.

Peter Pendle saw him, and stayed his hand in the act of raising the brush to the window-frame he was painting. An expression of concern came into his faded gray eyes as he laid down his brush and stepped to the kitchen door.

“Come quick, Sarah,” he called. “Si Acres is on the road this mornin’. What d’ye s’pose he’s after?”

“Trouble, no doubt,” his wife replied, as she left her washing and came to the door. “He never leaves home for anything else.”

“I guess yer right, Sarah. But who’s to be the victim this time, I wonder. We were the last ones when our cows broke into his meadow. Hello! he’s turnin’ into the rectory. Now, what in time is he after there!”

“Religion, maybe. He was at church last night, remember. Perhaps he has repented and is going to the parson for advice.”

“H’m, when Si Acres repents then there’ll be hope for the devil. It’s trouble the old cuss is after an’ not religion. I’ve a good mind to go over an’ help the Nairns in case Si becomes too fractious. An’, besides, I’m curious to know what he’s after.”

The bang that Mr. Acres gave with his stick upon the front door of the rectory did not sound like that of a humble and repentant man. It was the blow of one impatient to be admitted, and who would brook no delay. He had not long to wait, for the door was soon opened by Hettie Rushton, the maid, who shrank back when she beheld the towering form standing before her.

“Is your master in?” the visitor demanded.

“Yes, sir, but he’s at breakfast and can’t be disturbed.”

“Breakfast! Breakfast! You mean dinner, girl.”

“Indeed I don’t,” Hettie retorted, stamping her foot. Her fear had vanished and she was ready for fight. “We have meals here at genteel hours, let me tell you that.”

Mr. Acres glared at the girl, and was about to speak again when the dining room door opened and Mrs. Nairn appeared. If surprised at Hettie’s flushed and angry face, and the presence of the visitor, she showed no outward sign as she stepped forward and held out her hand.

“Come right in, Mr. Acres,” she invited. “We are at breakfast, so you are just in time for a cup of coffee with us.”

Astonished and somewhat subdued by this gracious greeting, Mr. Acres followed Mrs. Nairn into the room. Hettie, still bristling with fight, made a face at him, and then returned to the kitchen. She was very curious, however, to know what he wanted, so she kept her ears keenly alert as she hovered near the partly-opened door leading into the dining room.

The sight that met Mr. Acres’ eyes caused him to hesitate a little, while a peculiar sensation came into his rebellious heart. He paused just inside the door and stared around the room. To him it was an unusual scene of peace and cosiness, a striking contrast to the stern and bare dining room of his own house. Through the open window on his right the fresh flower-scented air was drifting softly into the room. Above, a canary was enjoying its morning bath, and rejoicing in the sun which fell full upon its cage. The visitor noted all this at a glance. Then his eyes rested upon the breakfast table with its snowy linen, and thought of his own table with its cheap red covering. He saw especially the two little ones seated there looking at him with big wondering eyes. A feeling of resentment came into his heart. This was a new world to him, and he felt like an intruder into a holy place. He was out of harmony with his surroundings. Why should these people have such peace and comfort while he himself was restless and unhappy? And they could have breakfast long after their neighbors had begun their day’s work. What a life of ease they must lead.

This feeling of resentment was not lessened when Mr. Nairn rose from the table, came forward and held out his hand.

“This is the second unusual pleasure you have given me in a short time, Mr. Acres,” he accosted. “The other was last night when you were at church.”

Had Andrew Nairn known his visitor better he would have said nothing about his attendance at church. He realised his mistake, however, as soon as he had uttered the words. Mr. Acres straightened quickly up, his right hand gripped hard upon his stick, and into his narrowed eyes came a fighting gleam. He was very calm, and when he spoke his voice was cold and cynical.

“Yes, I was at church last night, Mr. Nairn, fool that I was. And that is why I am here. You spoke about the heathen, and the importance of sending missionaries to save their souls. But what about the heathen at home? And they are right here in this parish, too. People call me a heathen, and perhaps they are right. But no one would give money to convert me. I am scorned by all, and looked upon as a heathen because I seldom go to church. I went last night for the first time in years, and people stared at me, grinned and nudged one another. Oh, I saw what they did. And I put a fifty-cent piece upon the plate when it was passed around. I made a mistake in giving that money, so want it back. A heathen should not give, but receive.”

Mr. and Mrs. Nairn could hardly believe that they had heard aright. The former’s face flushed with anger, and he was about to make an impetuous reply when a warning glance from his wife checked him. With an effort he controlled himself and looked his visitor full in the eyes.

“Do you mean what you say, sir? Or are you only joking?”

“Joking! Do I look like a man who makes jokes? Oh, no. I am in dead earnest and want my money back. I am a heathen to your way of thinking, and wish to remain so.”

“Very well, then, here is your money,” the clergyman replied, handing him a fifty-cent piece he had brought from his pocket. “It is not the same one you gave last night, but I suppose that does not matter.”

“Not at all, not at all,” Mr. Acres growled as he took the coin. “One piece is as good as another.”

A feeling of deep disgust for this man swept upon Andrew Nairn. Should he allow him to leave the house unrebuked? Was it not his duty as a minister to call him sharply to account?

As he thus reasoned with himself, little Betty stepped forward and stood before the visitor. There was a shyness in her manner, and the eyes which looked up at the face of the man towering above her contained an expression of wonder and awe.

“Are you a heathen?” she simply asked. “I never saw one before.”

Mr. Acres looked quickly down at the child, and his brow knitted in perplexity. He did not know what to reply to this dainty maid. He could talk and argue with a man, but what could he say to this child? He had not talked to children for years, as they had always fled from him in fear. But he had to say something now, for Betty was expectantly waiting for him to speak.

“Do you think I am a heathen?” he at length asked.

“I hope you are, for I always wanted to see one, oh, so much.”

A queer gurgle sounded in Mr. Acres’ throat as he struggled with a peculiar sensation that had come upon him.

“Yes, I suppose I am a heathen,” he confessed with a somewhat unsteady voice. “Are you satisfied now, my child?”

“Oh, I am so glad,” Betty eagerly cried, “for I can give you this,” and she held up a bright twenty-five cent piece. “This is for the heathen. I was going to put it in my Mission box, but I want you to take it now.”

“I can’t take it, child. Put it in your box. I must go.”

“No, no, you must take it,” Betty urged. “Please do.”

A deep silence now ensued. As Mr. and Mrs. Nairn anxiously watched, they saw their visitor undergoing a hard struggle. They were wise enough not to interfere in this little drama. Which would win they could not tell. It was a battle of gentle, trustful simplicity against an overbearing, cantankerous nature. Presently, however, Mr. Acres moved his right hand, his fingers opened as if compelled by some unseen power, and taking the coin he dropped it into a pocket of his coat. The tension was relieved, and Mr. and Mrs. Nairn breathed more freely. Betty had won, and she clapped her hands with delight.

“My money will make you a good man,” she cried. “I will give you some more when you come again.”

For a few seconds Mr. Acres stared at the child, and then stepped back. He was about to leave the room when Mrs. Nairn stopped him.

“Let me make you a cup of coffee,” she urged.

“I don’t want any,” was the curt reply. Mr. Acres was recovering himself, and the old defiant expression had returned to his eyes. “I must get home.”

He tried to meet the clear friendly eyes of the woman standing before him. She was very attractive in face and form, and her manner was so charming that he felt uncomfortable. If she had been cold and haughty, or had spoken disdainful words it would have been a great relief. But her friendliness unnerved him and made him feel contemptible. He determined to leave the room and never enter the place again. His visit was altogether different from what he had anticipated. He had expected an excited scene when he demanded the money. That would have given him much satisfaction, and he would have gloated over it for days. But this–.

He lifted his head and looked around the room. Why, he did not know, except that he wished to evade those eyes which were gazing so steadily upon him. As he did so, he gave a sudden start, and an expression of surprise overspread his face. Swiftly he strode across the room until he stood before a picture upon the wall of a full-rigged clipper ship. Eagerly he drank in the details, entranced by her marvellous beauty.

“Ah, Dana alone could describe her,” he muttered. “‘Sharp upon the wind, cutting through the head seas like a knife, with her raking masts and her sharp bows running up like the head of a greyhound.’ Yes, yes, Dana knew, all right.”

He turned impetuously to the curious and interested watchers near the table.

“Where did that picture come from?”

“It was my grandfather’s,” Mrs. Nairn explained. “It was his ship.”

“What! Captain John Rutledge? Was he your grandfather?”

“He was, and that ship, the Ida Rutledge, was named after my grandmother.”

Mr. Acres swung around, stepped forward, and with piercing eyes, studied keenly the fair face upturned to his. His lips moved as if he wished to speak, to ask a question. But no word came. Instead, he cast another glance at the picture, strode across the room, passed out into the hallway, and left the house, closing the front door after him with a bang.

Hurrying to the window, Mr. and Mrs. Nairn watched him as he walked rapidly to the main road. Along this he moved for a short distance when he suddenly stopped. He fumbled in his pocket, and bringing forth something, he threw it upon the ground and stamped it furiously into the dust at his feet.

“Oh, it must be Betty’s money he has thrown away!” Mrs. Nairn exclaimed. “He seems to be very angry. What a strange man.”

“He is a savage heathen, all right,” the clergyman replied. “He acts like one, anyway.”

“Did he throw my money away?” Betty anxiously asked as she came close to the window and looked out.

“He did, dear,” her mother replied. “But, never mind, we shall get it when he has gone.”

“No, we shall leave it there,” Mr. Nairn firmly declared. “He has tainted it with his touch. I wouldn’t lay hand upon it, for it is an unholy thing now.”

Mrs. Nairn looked quizzically at her husband.

“You should refuse much of the money that is given to the church, then, Andrew. It, too, is tainted.”

“Nell! I am surprised to hear you say that.”

“But it is true, nevertheless, and you ought to know it. Didn’t Sam Crofter boast how he patched up a spavined horse and sold it as thoroughly sound? And didn’t Ben Skipson tell how he always put big apples on the top of the barrel and poor little ones at the bottom? I have heard, too, about the tricks of others, and they are all givers to the church.”

The distressed look that came into Andrew Nairn’s eyes caused his wife to smile. She caught him affectionately by the arm.

“There, there, dear, don’t worry about what I have said. We can’t help what people do. I only wanted to remind you that Mr. Acres is not the only heathen in this parish. And to tell you the truth, I like him.”

“Like him! Like that man! You surely are not in earnest.”

“Yes, I am very much in earnest. I like him because he is real. He did not want to give that money and he had the courage to come and say so. Most of the people who give money to the church would like to get it back. But they are too cowardly.”

“Nell! Nell! I am astonished at you. What has come over you?”

“I suppose you are astonished, and annoyed, too, Andrew,” and Mrs. Nairn gave a deep sigh. “But what I have said is true. Most of the people here are hypocrites. They don’t want to give, and only do it for appearance. They are afraid of what their neighbors might say. But Mr. Acres has the courage of his convictions, and that is what I like about him. I wonder, though, why he took such an interest in that picture. Did you notice how he looked at me when I told him that the ship was named after my grandmother?”

Andrew Nairn laughed, and placed his arm lovingly about his wife.

“He considered you a curiosity, no doubt, my dear. It is something, remember, to be the granddaughter of such a man as John Rutledge, the once famous captain and shipbuilder. Not likely he ever saw such a notable person as you before.”

“You may be right, Andrew, although I have the feeling that there is some other reason for his strange behaviour.”

“Perhaps he saw something of the rebel in you, Nell. You know what I mean.”

“I do, and I am not ashamed of my rebel spirit, if you persist in calling it that. I do get impatient at times with the smug, conventional, and self-satisfied way of living, and long to break away and be natural. I am tired of the swaddling-bands of society. I was never cut out for a clergyman’s wife, anyway.”

“You will find it harder, Nell, should I become Rector of St. Alban’s.”

“I know it. But I shall do the best I can for your sake. We are not there yet, remember. In the meantime I want to learn more about Mr. Acres, and why he was so greatly interested in my grandfather’s ship.”

CHAPTER III

At Glengrow

Reclining in a comfortable chair upon the rectory verandah, Robert Rutledge was enjoying an after-supper smoke. It was a pleasant change for him to be away from the city in such a quiet place as this. His bitterness towards life somewhat subsided as he looked at his sister Nell close by, and Andrew seated upon the steps watching the children. Betty was perched upon the lowest step, clasping the beautiful doll Uncle Bob had brought her. John was playing with his gift, a wonderful toy tractor that when wound up would climb over almost everything. His excited shouts caused much amusement to the interested watchers.

“I feel well already,” Robert declared. “The fresh air, and the joy of these children are better than any tonic. This is a glorious place, and I am so glad I came. How happy you two must be here.”

“I am,” Mrs. Nairn replied. “It is certainly wonderful, and with that noble river almost at our door, I am not surprised that the new hotel is attracting many people. The rooms are all taken, so I understand.”

“One room would be vacant, though, but for me,” Robert quietly replied. “Ah, I see you wonder what I mean, Nell. But as I was coming from the city this afternoon I saved a woman from a serious accident, death, no doubt.”

“In what way, Bob?”

“Oh, it was another case of an inexperienced woman driver. I was following her up a steep hill, and when near the top she tried to change gears. She evidently became confused, for the car began to back towards the steep bank on the right. I was close behind, and seeing the danger, managed to catch the left wheel of her car with my fender. It was quite a bump, but my car held, and as soon as I could get out I blocked both of my back wheels with stones. By that time the woman was standing upon the road, and she at once began to denounce me for hitting her car. I was never so surprised in my life. I tried to explain what I had done, and showed her the steep bank. But nothing would appease her. She declared that she would have been all right, and if I had not interferred she would have backed to the foot of the hill without any trouble. That made me mad.

“Madam,” I said, “if I had not stopped your car when I did it would be down over that bank, and you would now be sprouting wings in the celestial realm and tuning your sweet voice for the angelic choir!”

Mr. and Mrs. Nairn smiled at these words.

“You couldn’t help being poetical, could you, Bob?” his sister queried.

“Well, there wasn’t anything to inspire the muse in that woman. My, she was furious, and called me a fool. She told me it was not safe for a woman to drive alone on the roads, and I agreed with her. She even demanded that I should pay her damage. Think of that! Perhaps I should have let her go over the bank. With Mrs. Augustus Rockbridge among the angels I could breathe more freely.”

“What, not Mrs. Rockbridge, wife of the editor of the Daily Echo!” Mr. Nairn exclaimed.

“The very woman, Andy. And I suppose there will be a big write-up in the paper about that affair, and the dangers women run from careless drivers.”

“Did Mrs. Rockbridge know you?” his sister asked.

“Oh, yes. She called me ‘Fool,’ so you see she knew me, all right.”

Mrs. Nairn, who had been watching the children, looked quickly around, for she detected the note of bitterness in her brother’s voice.

“Don’t say that, Bob. You are not a fool, but a very clever man. Just think of the wonderful things you write.”

“Wonderful! Thank you, Nell, for your compliment. You are the only one who ever encourages me.”

“Not at all, Bob. Others think the same as I do. I am sure the editor of the Daily Echo is always glad to have your poems and stories. He wrote a lovely editorial about them last month.”

“Oh, talk is cheap, but when it comes to payment, that is a different thing altogether. I never received a cent from him for anything I wrote, and when I wanted a few copies of the papers containing my stuff I had to pay for them at the usual rate.”

“And they didn’t send you any complimentary copies?” Mr. Nairn asked in surprise.

“Not one. They never seemed to think about it.”

“But you should have protested, Bob,” Mrs. Nairn declared. “You should have demanded payment.”

“I have been too easy, I guess. But I got after Mr. Rockbridge yesterday, and we had a heart-to-heart talk. I told him I was leaving for the woods, and suggested that I should write several articles for his paper, and demanded so much for each. He thought I had taken leave of my senses, and told me so in words that I would not like to repeat here. He said there is nothing thrilling enough in this province to make good copy, and advised me to go abroad. I at once bet him the price I had asked for my articles that I could find an abundance of material close at home thrilling enough to satisfy him. He was so sure of his ground that he accepted at once. So here I am ready to begin, and I want you two to help me.”

“Where are you going to get your thrilling material?” Mr. Nairn asked.

“Right here in this parish, of course. I see you are amused, but you will be greatly surprised later.”

“There’s nothing of special interest here, Bob, for your purpose. You should go somewhere else, to the north or the west, for instance.”

“That is where so many people make a mistake, Andy. Home things are so commonplace that there seems to be little really worth while. Now, what have you in Glengrow that is known and yet unknown?”

“What do you mean?”

“Isn’t there some place, house or incident that people have talked about for years, and yet know very little about it? Think of the old cellar holes. What stories they might tell if they could only speak, of homes once there, tragedy and happiness. Then, there must be old buildings standing in desolate places. What tales they might reveal. I did hear of one in this parish, called ‘Bullet House.’ There must be some reason for such a strange name. Do you know anything about it?”

He looked first at the clergyman and then at his sister, as if expecting them to give him some valuable information. But they knew nothing.

“That is generally the way,” he declared. “And yet that old building is standing there by the lake of a similar name. Who built it? And why is it called ‘Bullet House?’ I hope to find out. I have been told that it is owned by an old man, Si Acres. He may be able to tell me something. Do you know him?”

“We know him and don’t know him,” Mrs. Nairn replied. “Isn’t that so, Andrew?”

“We know him as a brute of a man. He put a fifty-cent piece into the offertory plate last night, and came this morning to get it back. Did you ever hear of such a thing?”

“But why did he do that, Andy? What lies back of such an action?”

“Meanness, and a hatred to the Church.”

“Are you sure? I should like to know more about that man. The history of his life may prove of considerable value. What do the neighbors think of him?”

“They are afraid of him, and leave him alone so far as they can.”

“Do you know anything about his past life?”

“I cannot say for sure. Peter Pendle told me once that Mr. Acres built ships, or went to sea. I have forgotten which.”

“You never told me that, Andrew,” his wife remarked. “That may explain his strange interest in the picture of grandfather’s vessel.”

“Ah, this is getting quite interesting,” Robert replied. “We have now connected him with ship-building days, so that is something. What did he say about grandfather’s ship, Nell?”

“Not much. When he first saw it, he was surprised, walked across the room and stood staring at it. He then asked me about it, and when I told him, he turned quickly around and looked at me with such a queer expression in his eyes. It seemed as if he wanted to say something, for his lips moved. But he hurried away without a word.”

“You have overlooked what he said about Dana,” Mr. Nairn reminded.

“What was that?” Robert quickly asked.

“I do not remember his exact words, but as he stood looking at the vessel he said that Dana alone could describe her, and seemed to be quoting something about the ship cutting through the water like a knife, and her sharp bows running up like the head of a greyhound. I do not know what he meant by Dana.”

“Why, he must be the man who wrote Two Years Before the Mast, the best book in the English language about the sea and the life of sailors. So you don’t know it?”

“No, I never heard of it.”

“I suppose not. You like something with an ecclesiastical tone. But what you have told me is another incident which must not be overlooked. I wonder–.”

He ceased abruptly and looked out over the fields. He listened as his sister told about the money Betty had given to Mr. Acres, and how he had stamped it into the dust. He remained silent for a while when she had finished. He then re-filled his pipe, lighted it, and gave a deep sigh of contentment.

“This is all very interesting, Nell. But where does Bullet House come in? Why did he get that place back there in the woods?”

“For lumbering purposes, I have been told,” Mr. Nairn explained. “It was well wooded when he bought it, and it is said that he made a fortune out of the logs, although he has done nothing there during the last few years.”

“Who owned the place before he bought it?”

“I never heard.”

“Was it ever called by any other name?”

“I do not know.”

“My, my! And you have been living here for a year and were never curious about that man!”

“I have had more important things to think about, Bob.”

“No doubt you have, Andy. With Nell and these fine youngsters, as well as your parish duties you have had your mind and hands full. But I am free for several weeks, and with no family care, so I am going to see what I can find out about Bullet Lake and your strange neighbor, Si Acres.”