Produced by Darleen Dove, Mary Meehan, and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net. This file was produced from images generously made available by The Internet Archive/American Libraries. THE GIRL AT CENTRAL BY GERALDINE BONNER Author of "The Emigrant Trail," "The Book of Evelyn," etc. ILLUSTRATED BY ARTHUR WILLIAM BROWN NEW YORK AND LONDON D. APPLETON AND COMPANY 1915 Copyright, 1915, by _D. Appleton and Company_ _Copyright, 1914, 1915, by The Curtis Publishing Company_ _Printed in the United States of America_ [Illustration: _'Mark my words, thereâs going to be trouble at Mapleshadeâ"_] CONTENTS Â· LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS Â· I Â· II Â· III Â· IV Â· V Â· VI Â· VII Â· VIII Â· IX Â· X Â· XI Â· XII Â· XIII Â· XIV Â· XV Â· XVI Â· XVII LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS 'Mark my words, thereâs going to be trouble at Mapleshadeâ Sylvia was in her riding dress, looking a picture A day later he was arrested at Firehill and taken to Bloomington jail I came down to the parlor where Babbitts was waiting I Poor Sylvia Hesketh! Even now, after this long time, I canât think of it without a shudder, without a comeback of the horror of those days after the murder. You remember itâthe Hesketh mystery? And mystery it surely was, baffling, as it did, the police and the populace of the whole state. For who could guess why a girl like that, rich, beautiful, without a care or an enemy, should be done to death as she was. Think of itâat five oâclock sitting with her mother taking tea in the library at Mapleshade and that same night found deadâmurderedâby the side of a lonesome country road, a hundred and eighteen miles away. Itâs the story of this that Iâm going to tell here, and as youâll get a good deal of me before Iâm through, Iâd better, right now at the start, introduce myself. Iâm Molly Morganthau, day operator in the telephone exchange at Longwood, New Jersey, twenty-three years old, dark, slim, and as for my looksâwell, put them down as "medium" and let it go at that. My nameâs Morganthau because my father was a Polish Jewâa piece worker on pantsâbut my two front names, Mary McKenna, are after my mother, who was from County Galway, Ireland. I was raised in an East Side tenement, but I went steady to the Grammar school and through the High and Iâm not throwing bouquets at myself when I say I made a good record. Thatâs how I come to be nervy enough to write this storyâbut youâll see for yourself. Only just keep in mind that Iâm more at home in front of a switchboard than at a desk. Iâve supported myself since I was sixteen, my father dying then, and my motherâGod rest her blessed memory!âtwo years later. First I was in a department store and then in the Telephone Company. I havenât a relation in the country and if I had I wouldnât have asked a nickel off them. Iâm that kind, independent andâbut thatâs enough about me. Now for you to rightly get what Iâm going to tell Iâll have to begin with a description of Longwood village and the country round about. Iâve made a sort of diagramâit isnât drawn to scale but it gives the general effect, all rightâand with that and what Iâll describe you can get an idea of the lay of the land, which you have to have to understand things. Longwoodâs in New Jersey, a real picturesque village of a thousand inhabitants. Itâs a little over an hour from New York by the main line and here and there round it are country places, mostly fine ones owned by rich people. There are some farms too, and along the railway and the turnpike are other villages. My exchange is the central office for a good radius of country, taking in Azalea, twenty-five miles above us on the main line, and running its wires out in a big circle to the scattered houses and the crossroad settlements. Itâs on Main Street, opposite the station, and from my chair at the switchboard I can see the platform and the trains as they come down from Cherry Junction or up from New York. Itâs sixty miles from Longwood to the Junction where you get the branch line that goes off to the North, stopping at other stations, mostly for the farm people, and where, when you get to Hazelmere, you can connect with an express for Philadelphia. Also you can keep right on from the Junction and get to Philadelphia that way, which is easier, having no changes and better trains. When I was first transferred from New Yorkâitâs over two years nowâI thought Iâd die of the lonesomeness of it. At night, looking out of my windowâI lived over Galwayâs Elite Millinery Parlors on Lincoln Streetâacross those miles and miles of country with a few lights dotted here and there, I felt like I was cast on a desert island. After a while I got used to it and that first spring when the woods began to get a faint greenish look and Iâd wake up and hear birds twittering in the elms along the streetâhold on! Iâm getting sidetracked. Itâs going to be hard at first to keep myself out, but just be patient, Iâll do it better as I go along. The county turnpike goes through Longwood, and then sweeps away over the open country between the estates and the farms and now and then a villageâHuntley, Latourette, Coronaâstrung out along it like beads on a string. A hundred and fifty miles off it reaches Bloomington, a big town with hotels and factories and a jail. About twenty miles before it gets to Bloomington it crosses the branch line near Cressetâs Farm. Thereâs a little sort of station thereâjust an open shedâcalled Cressetâs Crossing, built for the Cresset Farm people, who own a good deal of land in that vicinity. Not far from Cressetâs Crossing, about a half mile apart, the Riven Rock Road from the Junction and the Firehill Road from Jack Reddyâs estate run into the turnpike. This is the place, I guess, where Iâd better tell about Jack Reddy, who was such an important figure in the Hesketh mystery and whoâI get red now when I write itâwas such an important figure to me. A good ways backâabout the time of the Revolutionâthe Reddy family owned most of the country round here. Bit by bit they sold it off till in old Mr. Reddyâs timeâJackâs fatherâall they had left was the Firehill property and Hochalaga Lake, a big body of water, back in the hills beyond Huntley. Firehill is an old-fashioned, stone house, built by Mr. Reddyâs grandfather. It got its name from a grove of maples on the top of a mound that in the autumn used to turn red and orange and look like the hillock was in a blaze. The name, they say, came from the Indian days and so did Hochalaga, though what that stands for I donât know. The Reddys had had lots of offers for the lake but never would sell it. They had a sort of little shack there and before Jackâs time, when there were no automobiles, used to make horseback excursions to Hochalaga and stay for a few days. After the old people died and Jack came into the property everybody thought heâd sell the lakeâseveral parties were after it for a summer resortâbut he refused them all, had the shack built over into an up-to-date bungalow, and through the summer would have guests down from town, spending week-ends out there. Now Iâm telling everything truthful, for thatâs what I set out to do, and if you think Iâm a fool youâre welcome to and no back talk from meâbut I was crazy about Jack Reddy. Not that he ever gave me cause; heâs not that kind and neither am I. And let me say right here that thereâs not a soul ever knew it, he least of all. I guess no one would have been more surprised than the owner of Firehill if heâd known that the Longwood telephone girl most had heart failure every time he passed the window of the Exchange. I will say, to excuse myself, that thereâs few girls who wouldnât have put their hats straight and walked their prettiest when they saw him coming. Geeâhe was a good looker! Like those advertisements for collars and shirts you see in the back of the magazinesâyou know the ones. But it wasnât that that got me. It was his ways, always polite, never fresh. If heâd meet me in the street heâd raise his hat as if I was the Queen of Sheba. And there wasnât any hanging round my switchboard and asking me to make dates for dinner in town. He was always jolly, butâa girl in a telephone exchange gets to know a lotâhe was always a gentleman. He lived at Firehillâforty miles from Longwoodâwith two old servants, David Gilsey and his wife, whoâd been with his mother and just doted on him. But everybody liked him. There wasnât but one criticism I ever heard passed on him and that was that he had a violent temper. Casey, his chauffeur, told a story in the village of how one day, when they were passing a farm, they saw an Italian laborer prod a horse with a pitchfork. Before he knew, Mr. Reddy was out of the car and over the fence and mashing the life out of that dago. It took Casey and the farmer to pull him off and they thought the dagoâd be killed before they could. There was talk in Longwood that he hadnât much moneyâmuch, the way the Reddys had always had itâand was going to study law for a living. But he must have had some, for he kept up the house, and had two motors, one just a common roadster and the other a long gray racing car that heâd let out on the turnpike till he was twice arrested and once ran over a dog. My, how well I got to know that car! When I first came I only saw it at long intervals. Thenâjust as if luck was on my sideâI began to see it oftener and oftener, slowing down as it came along Main Street, swinging round the corner, jouncing across the tracks, and dropping out of sight behind the houses at the head of Maple Lane. "Whatâs bringing Jack Reddy in this long way so often?" people would say at first. Then, after a while, when theyâd see the gray car, theyâd look sly at each other and wink. Thereâs one good thing about having a crush on a party thatâs never thought any more about you than if you were the peg he hangs his hat onâit doesnât hurt so bad when he falls in love with his own kind of girl. And that brings meâas if I was in the gray car speeding down Maple Laneâto Mapleshade and the Fowlers and Sylvia Hesketh. II About a mile from Longwood, standing among ancient, beautiful trees, is Mapleshade, Dr. Dan Fowlerâs place. It was once a farmhouse, over a century old, but two and a half years ago when Dr. Fowler bought it he fixed it all up, raised the roof, built on a servantsâ wing and a piazza with columns and turned the farm buildings into a garage. Artists and such people say itâs the prettiest place in this part of the State, and it certainly is a picture, especially in summer, with the lawns mown close as velvet and the flower-beds like bits of carpet laid out to air. The Doctor bought a big bit of land with itâI donât know how many hundred acresâso the house, though itâs not far from the village, is kind of secluded and shut away. You get to it by Maple Lane, a little winding road that runs between trees caught together with wild grape and Virginia creeper. In summer theyâre like green walls all draped over with the vines and in winter they turn into a rustling gray hedge, woven so close itâs hard to see through. About ten minutesâ walk from the gate of Mapleshade thereâs a pine that was struck by lightning and stands up black and bare. When the house was finished the Doctor, who was a bachelor, married Mrs. Hesketh, a widow lady accounted rich, and he and she came there as bride and groom with her daughter, Sylvia Hesketh. I hadnât come yet, but from what Iâve heard, there was gossip about them from the start. What I can say from my own experience is that Iâd hardly got my grip unpacked when I began to hear of the folks at Mapleshade. They lived in great style with a housekeeper, a butler and a French maid for the ladies. In the garage were three automobiles, Mrs. Fowlerâs limousine, the Doctorâs car and a dandy little roadster that belonged to Miss Sylvia. Neither she nor the Doctor bothered much with the chauffeur. They left him to take Mrs. Fowler round and drove themselves, the joke going that if Miss Sylvia ever went broke she could qualify for a chauffeurâs job. After a while the story came out that it wasnât Mrs. Fowler who was so rich but Miss Hesketh. The late Mr. Hesketh had only left his wife a small fortune, willing the restâmillions, it was saidâto his daughter. She was a minorânineteenâand the trustees of the estate allowed her a lot of money for her maintenance, thirty thousand a year they had it in Longwood. In spite of the grand way they lived there wasnât much company at Mapleshade. Anne Hennessey, the housekeeper, told me Mrs. Fowler was so dead in love with her husband she didnât want the bother of entertaining people. And the Doctor liked a quiet life. Heâd been a celebrated surgeon in New York but had retired only for consultations and special cases now and again. He was very good to the people round about, and would come in and help when our little Dr. Pease, or Dr. Graham, at the Junction, were up against something serious. Iâll never forget when Mick Donahue, the station agentâs boy, got run over by Freight No. 22. But Iâm sidetracked again. Anyhow, the Doctor amputated the leg and little Mickâs stumping round on a wooden pin almost as good as ever. But even so they werenât liked much. They held their heads very high, Mrs. Fowler driving through the village like it was Fifth Avenue, sending the chauffeur into the shops and not at all affable to the tradespeople. The Doctor wouldnât trouble to give you so much as a nod, just stride along looking straight ahead. When the story got about that heâd lost most of the money heâd made doctoring I didnât bear any resentment, seeing it was worry that made him that way. But Miss Sylvia was made on a different measure. My, but she was a winner! Even after I knew what brought Jack Reddy in from Firehill so often I couldnât be set against her. Jealous I might be of a girl like myself, but not of one who was the queen bee of the hive. She was a beauty from the ground upâa blonde with hair like corn silk that she wore in a loose, fluffy knot with little curly ends hanging on her neck. Her face was pure pink and white, the only dark thing in it her big brown eyes, that were as clear and soft as a babyâs. And she was a great dresser, always the latest novelty, and looking prettier in each one. Mrs. Galwayâd say to me, with her nose caught up, scornful, "To my mind itâs not refined to advertise your wealth on your back." But I didnât worry, knowing Mrs. Galwayâd have advertised hers if sheâd had the wealth or a decent shaped back to advertise it on, which she hadnât, being round-shouldered. There was none of the haughty ways of her parents about Miss Sylvia. When sheâd come into the exchange to send a call (a thing that puzzled me first but I soon caught on) sheâd always stop and have a pleasant word with me. On bright afternoons Iâd see her pass on horseback, straight as an arrow, with a manâs hat on her golden hair. Sheâd always have a smile for everyone, touching her hat brim real sporty with the end of her whip. Even when she was in her motor, speeding down Main Street, sheâd give you a hail as jolly as if she was your college chum. Sometimes sheâd be alone but generally there was a man along. There were a lot of them hanging round her, which was natural, seeing she had everything to draw them like a candle drawing moths. Theyâd come and go from town and now and then stay over Sunday at the Longwood Innâitâs a swell little place done up in the Colonial styleâand youâd see them riding and walking with her, very devoted. At first everybody thought her parents were agreeable to all the attention she was getting. It wasnât till the Mapleshade servants began to talk too much that we heard the Fowlers, especially the Doctor, didnât like it. I hadnât known her long before I began to notice something that interested me. A telephone girl sees so many people and hears such a lot of confidential things on the wire, that she gets to know more than most about what I suppose youâd call human nature. Itâs a study thatâs always attracted me and in Miss Sylviaâs case there was a double attractionâI was curious about her for myself and I was curious about her because of Jack Reddy. What I noticed was that she was so different with men to what she was with womenâaffable to both, but it was another kind of affability. Iâve seen considerably many girls trying to throw their harpoons into men and doing it too, but they were in the booby class beside Miss Sylvia. She was what the novelists call a coquette, but she was that dainty and sly about it that I donât believe any of the victims knew it. It wasnât what she said, either; more the way she looked and the soft, sweet manner she had, as if she thought more of the chap she was talking to than anybody else in the world. Sheâd be that way to one in my exchange and the next day Iâd see her just the same with another in the drugstore. It made me uneasy. Even if the man you love doesnât love you, you donât want to see him fooled. But I said nothingâIâm the close sortâand it wasnât till I came to be friends with Anne Hennessey that I heard the inside facts about the family at Mapleshade. Anne Hennessey was a Canadian and a fine girl. She was a lady and had a ladyâs jobâseventy-five a month and her own bathroomâand being the real thing she didnât put on any airs, but when she liked me made right up to me and we soon were pals. After work hours Iâd sometimes go up to her at Mapleshade or sheâd come down to me over the Elite. I remember it was in my room one spring eveningâme lying on the bed and Anne sitting by the open windowâthat she began to talk about the Fowlers. She was not one to carry tales, but I could see she had something on her mind and for the first time she loosened up. I was picking over a box of chocolates and I didnât give her a hint how keen I was to hear, acting like the candies had the best part of my attention. She began by saying the Doctor and Miss Sylvia didnât get on well. "Thatâs just like a novel," I answered, "the heroineâs stepfatherâs always her natural enemy." "Heâs not that in this case," said Anneâshe speaks English fine, like the teachers in the Highâ"Iâm sure he means well by her, but they canât get on at all, theyâre always quarreling." "Thereâs many a gilded home hides a tragedy. What do they fight about?" "Things she does he disapproves of. Sheâs very spoiled and self-willed. No oneâs ever controlled her and she resents it from him." "Whatâs he disapprove of?" Anne didnât answer right off, looking thoughtful out of the window. Then she said slow as if she was considering her words: "Iâm going to tell you, Molly, because I know youâre no gossip and can be trusted, and the truth is, Iâm worried. I donât like the situation up at Mapleshade." I swung my feet on to the floor and sat up on the edge of the bed, nibbling at a chocolate almond. "Hereâs where I get dumb," I said, sort of casual to encourage her. "Sylvia Heskethâs a girl that needs a strong hand over her and thereâs no one has it. Her fatherâs dead, her motherâpoor Mrs. Fowlerâs only a grown-up baby ready to say black is white if her husband wants her toâand Dr. Fowlerâs trying to do it and heâs going about it all wrong. You see," she said, turning to me very serious, "itâs not only that sheâs head-strong and extravagant but sheâs an incorrigible flirt." "Is there a place in the back of the book where you can find out what incorrigible means?" I said. Anne smiled, but not as if she felt like it. "Uncontrollable, irrepressible. Her motherâMrs. Fowlerâs ready to tell me anything and everythingâsays sheâs always been like that. And, of course, with her looks and her fortune the men are around her like flies round honey." "Why does the Doctor mind that?" "I suppose he wouldnât mind if they just came to Mapleshade or Longwood. Butâthatâs what the quarrelingâs aboutâheâs found out that she meets them in town, goes to lunch and the matinÃ©e with them." "Excuse me, but Iâve left my etiquette book on the piano. Whatâs wrong about going to the matinÃ©e or to lunch?" "Nothingâs really wrong. Mind you, Molly, I know Sylvia through and through and thereâs no harm in herâitâs just the bringing-up and the spoiling and the admiration. But, of course, in her position, a girl doesnât go about that way without a chaperone. The Doctorâs perfectly right to object." I was looking down, pretending to hunt over the box. "Who does she go with?" I said. "Oh, there are several. A man named Carisbrookââ" Iâd seen him often, a swell guy in white spats and a high hatâ"and a young lawyer called Dunham and Ben Robinson, a Canadian like me. People see her with them and tell the doctor and thereâs a row." I looked into the box as careful as if I was searching for a diamond. "Ainât Mr. Reddy one of the happy family?" I asked. "Ah, hereâs the last almond!" "Oh, of course, young Reddy. I think it would be a good thing if she married him. Everybody says heâs a fine fellow, and I tell you now, Molly, with Sylvia so willful and the doctor so domineering and Mrs. Fowler being pulled to pieces between them, things at Mapleshade canât go on long the way they are." That was in May. At the end of June the Fowlers went to Bar Harbor with all their outfit for the summer. After that Jack Reddy didnât come into Longwood much. I heard that he was spending a good deal of his time at the bungalow at Hochalaga Lake, and I did see him a few times meeting his company at the trainâhe had some week-end parties out thereâand bringing them back in the gray car. At the end of September the Fowlers came home. It was great weather, clear and crisp, with the feel of frost in the air. Most everybody was out of doors and I saw Sylvia often, sometimes on horseback, sometimes driving her motor. She was prettier than ever for the change and seemed like she couldnât stay in the house. Iâd see her riding toward home in the red light of the sunset, and as I walked back from work her car often would flash past me, speeding through the early dark toward Maple Lane. Anne said theyâd had a fairly peaceful summer and she hoped they were going to get on better. There had only been one rowâthat was about a man who was up at Bar Harbor and had met Sylvia and paid her a good deal of attention. The Doctor had been very angry as he disapproved of the manâCokesbury was his name. "Cokesbury!" I cut in surprisedâwe were in Anneâs room that eveningâ"why, he belongs round here." Anne had heard that and wanted to know what I knew about him, which Iâll write down in this place as it seems to fit in and has to be told somewhere. When I first came to Longwood, Mr. and Mrs. Cokesbury were living on their estate, Cokesbury Lodge, about twenty-five miles from us, near Azalea. They had been in France for a year previous to that, then come back and taken up their residence in Mr. Cokesburyâs country seat, and it was shortly after that Mrs. Cokesbury died there, leaving three children. For a while the widower stayed on with nurses and governesses to look after the poor motherless kids. Then, the eldest boy taking sick and nearly dying, he decided to send them to his wifeâs parents, who had wanted them since Mrs. Cokesburyâs death. So the establishment at the Lodge was broken up and Mr. Cokesbury went to live in town. There were rumors that the house was to be sold, but in the spring Sands, the Pullman conductor, told me that Mr. Cokesbury had been down several times, staying over Sunday and had said he had given up the idea of selling the place. He told Sands he couldnât get his price for it and what was the sense of selling at a loss, especially when he could come out there and get a breath of country air when he was scorched up with the city heat? Iâd passed the house one day in August when I was on an auto ride with some friends. It was a big, rambling place with a lot of dismal-looking pines around it, about five miles from Azalea and with no near neighbors. Mr. Cokesbury only kept one carâheâd had several when his wife was thereâand used to drive himself down from the Lodge to the station, leave his car in the Azalea garage, and drive himself back the next time he came. He had no servants or caretaker, which he didnât need, as, after Mrs. Cokesburyâs death, all the valuable things had been taken out of the house and sent to town for storage. It gave me a jar to hear that Sylvia Heskethâwho, in my mind, was as good as engaged to Jack Reddyâwould have anything to do with him. Iâd never seen him, but Iâd heard a lot that wasnât to his credit. He hadnât been good to his wifeâeverybody said she was a real ladyâbut was the gay, wild kind, and not young, either. Anne said he was forty if he was a day. When I asked her what Sylvia could see in an old gink like that, she just shrugged up her shoulders and said, who could tellâSylvia was made that way. She was like some woman whose name I canât remember who sat on a rock and sang to the sailors till they got crazy and jumped into the water. My head was full of these things one glorious afternoon toward the end of October whenâit being my holidayâI started out for a walk through the woods. The woods cover the hills behind the village and theyâre grand, miles and miles of them. But wait! There was a little thing that happened, by the way, thatâs worth telling, for it gave me a premonitionâis that the word? Or, maybe, Iâd better say connected up with what was in my mind. I was walking slow down Main Street when opposite the postoffice I saw all the loafers and most of the tradespeople lined up in a ring staring at a bunch of those dago acrobats that go about the State all summer doing stunts on a bit of carpet. Iâd seen them oftenâchaps in dirty pink tights walking on their hands and rolling round in knotsâand I wouldnât have stopped but I got a glimpse of little Mick Donahue stumping round the outside trying to squeeze in and trying not to cry because he couldnât. So I stopped and hoisted him up for a good view, telling the men in front to break a way for the kid to see. There was a dago scraping on a fiddle and while the acrobats were performing on their carpet, a big bear with a little, brown, shriveled-up man holding it by a chain, was dancing. And when I got my first look at that bear, in spite of all my worry I burst out laughing, for, dancing away there solemn and slow, it was the dead image of Dr. Fowler. Youâd have laughed yourself if youâd seen itâthat is, if youâd known the Doctor. There was something so like him in its expressionâsort of gloomy and thoughtfulâand its little eyes set up high in its head and looking angry at the crowd as if it despised them. When its master jerked the chain and shouted something in a foreign lingo it hitched up its lip like it was trying to smile, and that sideways grin, as if it didnât feel at all pleasant, was just the way the Doctorâd smile when he came into the Exchange and gave me a number. It fascinated me and I stood staring with little Mick sitting on my arm, just loving it all, his dirty little fist clasped round a penny. Then the music stopped and one of the acrobats came round with a hat and little Mick gave a great sigh as if he was coming out of a dream. "If you hadnât come, Molly, Iâd have missed it," he said, looking into my face in that sweet wistful way sickly kids have, "and itâs the last time theyâll be round this year." I kissed him and put him down and told the men as I squeezed out to keep him in the front or theyâd hear from me. Then I walked off toward the woods thinking. It was a funny idea Iâd got into my head. Iâd once read in a paper that when people looked like animals they resembled the animals in their dispositionsâand I was wondering was Dr. Fowler like a bear, grouchy and when you crossed him savage. Maybe it was because Iâd been so worried, but it gave me a kind of chill. My thoughts went back to Mapleshade and I got one of those queer glimpses (like a curtain was lifted for a second and you could see things in the future) of trouble thereâsomething darkâI donât know how to explain it, but it was as if I got a new line on the Doctor, as if the bear had made me see through the surface clear into him. I tried to shake it off for I wanted to enjoy my afternoon in the woods. They are beautiful at that season, the trees full of colored leaves, and all quiet except for the rustlings of little animals round the roots. Thereâs a road that winds along under the branches, and trails, soft under foot with fallen leaves and moss, that you can follow for miles. I was coming down one of these, making no more noise than the squirrels, when just before it crossed the road I saw something and stopped. There, sitting side by side on a log, were Sylvia Hesketh and a man. Close to them, run off to the side, was a motor and near it tied to a tree a horse with a ladyâs saddle. Sylvia was in her riding dress, looking a picture, her eyes on the ground and slapping softly with her whip on the side of her boot. The man was leaning toward her, talking low and earnest and staring hard into her face. [Illustration: _Sylvia was in her riding dress, looking a picture_] To my knowledge Iâd never seen him before, and it gave me a startâme saying, surprised to myself, "Hullo! hereâs another one?" He was a big, powerful chap, with a square, healthy looking face and wide shoulders on him like a prize fighter. He was dressed in a loose coat and knickerbockers and as he talked he had his hands spread out, one on each knee, great brown hands with hair on them. I was close enough to see that, but he was speaking so low and I was so scared that theyâd see me and think I was spying, that I didnât hear what he was saying. The only one that saw me was the horse. It looked up sudden with its ears pricked, staring surprised with its soft gentle eyes. I stole away like a robber, not making a speck of noise. All the joy Iâd been taking in the walk under the colored leaves was gone. I felt kind of shriveled up insideâthe way you feel when someone you love is sick. I couldnât bear to think that Jack Reddy was giving his heart to a girl whoâd meet another man out in the woods and listen to him so coy and yet so interested. As far as I can remember, that was a little over a month from the fatal day. All the rest of October and through the first part of November things went along quiet and peaceful. And then, suddenly, everything came togetherâquick like a blow. III For two days it had been raining, heavy straight rain. From my window at Galwayâs I could see the fields round the village full of pools and zigzags of water as if theyâd been covered with a shiny gray veil that was suddenly pulled off and had caught in the stubble and been torn to rags. Saturday morning the weather broke. But the sky was still overcast and the air had that sort of warm, muggy breathlessness that comes after rain. That was November the twentieth. It was eleven oâclock and I was sitting at the switchboard looking out at the streets, all puddles and ruts, when I got a call from the Dalzellsââa place near the Junctionâfor Mapleshade. Now you neednât get preachy and tell me itâs against the rules to listenâsuspension and maybe discharge. I know that better than most. Didnât the roof over my head and the food in my mouth depend on me doing my work according to orders? But the fact is that at this time I was keyed up so high Iâd got past being cautious. When a call came for Mapleshade I _listened_, listened hard, with all my ears. What did I expect to hear? I donât know exactly. It might have been Jack Reddy and it might have been Sylviaâoh, never mind what it wasâjust say I was curious and let it go at that. So I lifted up the cam and took in the conversation. It was a womanâs voiceâMrs. Dalzellâs, I knew it wellâand Dr. Fowlerâs. Hers was trembly and excited: "Oh, Dr. Fowler, is that you? Itâs Mrs. Dalzell, yes, near the Junction. My husbandâs very sick. Weâve had Dr. Graham and he says itâs appendicitis and there ought to be an operationânow, as soon as possible. _Do_ you hear me?" Then Dr. Fowler, very calm and polite: "Perfectly, madam." "Oh, Iâm so gladâIâve been so _terribly_ worried. Itâs so unexpected. Mr. Dalzellâs never had so much as a _cramp_ before and nowââ" "Just wait a minute, Mrs. Dalzell," came the Doctor. "Let me understand. Graham recommends an operation, you say?" "Yes, Dr. Fowler, as soon as possible; something awful may happen if itâs not done. And Dr. Graham suggested you if youâd be so kind. I know itâs a favor but I _must_ have the best for my husband. _Wonât_ you come? Please, to oblige me." Dr. Fowler asked some questions which I neednât put down and said heâd come and if necessary operate. Then they talked about the best way for him to get there, the Doctor wanting to know if the main line to the Junction wouldnât be the quickest. But Mrs. Dalzell said sheâd been consulting the time tables and thereâd be no train from Longwood to the Junction before two and if he wouldnât mind and would come in his auto by the Firehill Road heâd get there several hours sooner. He agreed to that and it wasnât fifteen minutes after heâd hung up that I saw him swing past my window in his car, driving himself. Later on in the afternoon I got another call from the Dalzellsâ for Mapleshade and heard the Doctor tell Mrs. Fowler that the operation had been a serious one and that he would stay there for the night and probably all the next day. Before that second call, about two hours after the first one, there came another message for Mapleshade that before a week was out was in most every paper in the country and that lifted me right into the middle of the Hesketh mystery. It was near one oâclock, an hour when workâs slack round Longwood, everybody being either at their dinner or getting ready for it. The call was from a public pay station and was in a manâs voiceâa voice I didnât know, but that, because of my curiosity, I listened to as sharp as if it was my loverâs asking me to marry him. The man wanted to see Miss Sylvia and, after a short wait, I heard her answer, very gay and cordial and evidently knowing him at once without any questions. If sheâd said one word to show who he was things afterward would have been very different, but there wasnât a single phrase that you could identify him byâall anyone could have caught was that they seemed to know each other very well. He began by telling her it was a long time since heâd seen her and wanting to know if sheâd come to town on Monday and take lunch with him at Sherryâs and afterward go to a concert. "Monday," she said very slow and soft, "the day after to-morrow? No, I canât make any engagement for Monday." "Why not?" he asked. She didnât answer right off and when she did, though her voice was so sweet, there was something sly and secret about it. "Iâve something else to do." "Canât you postpone it?" She laughed at that, a little soft laugh that came bubbling through her words: "No, Iâm afraid not." "Must be something very interesting." "Umâmaybe so." "Youâre very mysteriousâcanât I be told what it is?" "Why should you be told?" That riled him, I could hear it in his voice. "As a friend, or if I donât come under that head, as a fellow whoâs got the frosty mit and wants to know why." "I donât think thatâs any reason. I have no engagement with you and I have withâsomeone else." "Just tell me one thingâis it a man or a woman?" She began to laugh again, and if Iâd been the man at the other end of the wire that laugh would have made me wild. "Which do you think?" she asked. "I donât think, I _know_," and _I_ knew that he was mad. "Well, if you know," she said as sweet as pie, "I neednât tell you any more. Iâll say good-bye." "No," he shouted, "donât hang upâwait. What do you want to torment me for?" Then he got sort of coaxing, "It isnât kind to treat a fellow this way. Canât you tell me who it is?" "No, thatâs a secret. You canât know a thing till I choose to tell you and I donât choose now." "If I come over Sunday afternoon will you see me?" "What time?" "Any time you sayâIâm your humble slave, as you know." "Iâm going out about seven." "Where?" "Thatâs another secret." I think a child listening to that conversation would have seen he was getting madder every minute and yet he was so afraid sheâd cut him off that he had to keep it under and talk pleasant. "Look here," he said, "Iâve something I want to say to you awfully. If I run over in my car and get there round six-thirty, can you see me for a few minutes?" She didnât answer at once. Then she said slow as if she was undecided: "Not at the house." "I didnât mean at the house. Say in Maple Lane, by the gate. I wonât keep you more than five or ten minutes." "Six-thirtyâs rather late." "Well, any time you say." "Canât you be there exactly at six-fifteen?" "If thatâs a condition." "It is. If youâre late you wonât find me. Iâll be gone"âshe began to laugh againâ"taking my secret with me." "Iâll be there on the dot." "Very well, then, you can comeâat the gate just as the clock marks one quarter after six. And, maybe, if youâre good, Iâll tell you the secret. Good-bye until thenâtry not to be too curious. Itâs a bad habit and Iâve seen signs of it in you lately. Good-bye." Before he could say another word sheâd disconnected. I leaned back in my chair thinking it over. What was she up to? What was the secret? And who was the man? "Run over in his car"âthat looked like someone from one of the big estates. How many of them _had_ she buzzing round her? And then, for all I was so downhearted, I couldnât help smiling to think of those two supposing they were talking so secluded and an East Side tenement girl taking it all in. Little did I guess then that me breaking the rules that way, instead of destroying me was going toââBut that doesnât come in here. And now I come to Sunday the twenty-first, a date Iâll never forget. It seemed to me afterward that Nature knew of the tragedy and prepared for it. The weather was duller and grayer than it had been on Saturday, not a breath of air stirring and the sky all mottled over with clouds, dark and heavy looking. A full moon was due and as I went to the Exchange I thought of the sweethearts that had dates to walk out in the moonlight and how disappointed theyâd be. Things werenât cheerful at the Exchange either. I found Minnie Trail, the night operator, as white as a ghost, saying she felt as if one of her sick headaches was coming on and if it did would I stay on over time? I knew those headachesâthey ran along sometimes till eight or nine. I told her to go right home to bed and Iâd hold the fort till she was able to relieve me. We often did turns like that, one for the other. Itâs one of the advantages of being in a small country officeâno one picks on you for acting human. About ten I had a call from Anne Hennessey. "Have you got anything on for this evening, Molly?" "I have not. This is Longwood, not gay Paree." "Then Iâll come round to Galways, about seven and weâll go to the Gilt Edge for supper. I want to talk to you." The Gilt Edge Lunch was where I took my meals, a nice clean little joint close to the office. But I didnât know when Iâd get my supper that night, so I called back: "Thatâs all right, sister, but come to the Exchange. Minnieâs headâs on the blink and Iâll stay on here late. Anything up?" "Yes. I donât want to talk about it over the wire. Thereâs been another row hereâyesterday morning. Itâs horrible; I canât stand it. Iâll tell you more this evening. So long." I put my elbows on the table and sat forward thinking. If youâd asked me a year ago what I wanted most in the world Iâd have said money. But Iâd learnt considerable since then. "Money donât do it," I said to myself. "Look at the Fowlers with their jewels and their millions scrapping till even the housekeeper on a fancy salary with a private bath canât stand it." And there came up in my mind the memory of the East Side tenement where I was raised. I thought of my poor father, most killed with work, and my mother eking things out, doing housecleaning and never a hard word to each other or to me. The night settled down early, black, dark and very still. At seven Anne Hennessey came in and sat down by the radiator, which was making queer noises with the heat coming up. Supper timeâs like dinnerâfew callsâso I turned round in my chair, ready for a good talk, and asked about the trouble at Mapleshade. "Oh, it was another quarrel yesterday morning at breakfast and with Harper, the butler, hearing every word. He said it was the worst theyâd ever had. Heâs a self-respecting, high-class servant and was shocked." "Sylvia and the Doctor again?" "Yes, and poor Mrs. Fowler crying behind the coffee pot." "The same old subject?" "Oh, of course. Itâs young Reddy this time. Sylviaâs been out a good deal this autumn in her car; several times sheâs been gone nearly the whole day. When the Doctor questioned her sheâd either be evasive or sulky. On Friday someone told him theyâd seen her far up on the turnpike with Jack Reddy in his racer." I fired up, I couldnât help it. "Why should he be mad about that? Isnât Mr. Reddy good enough for her?" "_I_ think he is. I told you before I thought the best thing she could do would be to marry him. Butââ" she looked round to see that no one was coming inââ"donât say a word of what Iâm going to tell you. I have no right to repeat what I hear as an employee but Iâm worried and donât know whatâs the best thing to do. Mrs. Fowler has as good as told me that her husbandâs lost all his money and itâs Sylviaâs thatâs running Mapleshade. And what _I_ think is that the Doctor doesnât want her to marry _anyone_. It isnât her he minds losing; itâs thirty thousand a year." "But when she comes of age she can do what she wants and if he makes it so disagreeable she wonât want to live there." "Thatâs two years off yet. He may recoup himself in that time." "Oh, I see. But he canât do any good by fighting with her." "Molly, youâre a wise little woman. _Of course_ he canât, but he doesnât know it. He treats that hot-headed, high-spirited girl like a child of five. Mark my words, thereâs going to be trouble at Mapleshade." I thought of the telephone message Iâd overheard the day before and it came to me suddenly what "the secret" might be. Could Sylvia have been planning to run away? I didnât say anythingâitâs natural to me and you get trained along those lines in the telephone businessâand I sat turning it over in my mind as Anne went on. "Iâd leave to-morrow only Iâm so sorry for Mrs. Fowler. Sheâs as helpless as a baby and seems to cling to me. The other day she told me about her first marriageâhow her husband didnât care for her but was crazy about Sylviaâthatâs why he left her almost all his money." I wasnât listening much, still thinking about "the secret." If she _was_ running away was she going alone or with Jack Reddy? My eyes were fixed on the window and I saw, without noticing particular, the down train from the city draw into the station, and then Jim Donahue run along the platform swinging a lantern. As if I was in a dream I could hear Anne: "I call it an unjust willâonly two hundred thousand dollars to his wife and five millions to his daughter. But if Sylvia dies first, all the money goes back to Mrs. Fowler." The train pulled out, snorting like a big animal. Jim disappeared, then presently I saw him open the depot door and come slouching across the street. I knew he was headed for the Exchange, thinking Minnie Trail
{'title': 'The Girl at Central by Geraldine Bonner', 'source': 'Project Gutenberg', 'lang': 'en'}