The House of the Whispering Pines by Anna Katherine Green Read Free Book Online Page A

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into her hand. She had not expected it and I fear that the action was
observed, for when I took my leave of Miss Cumberland shortly after, I
was struck by her expression. I had never seen such a look on her face
before, nor can I conceive of one presenting a more extraordinary
contrast to the few and commonplace words with which she bade me good
evening. I could not forget that look. I continued to see those pinched
features and burning eyes all the way home where I went to get my
grip-sack, and I saw them all the way to the station, though my thoughts
were with her sister and the joys I had planned for myself. Man's
egotism, Dr. Perry. I neither knew Adelaide nor did I know the girl whose
love I had so over-estimated. She failed me, Dr. Perry. I was met at the
station not by herself, but by a letter—a few hurried lines given me by
an unknown man—in which she stated that I had asked too much of her,
that she could not so wrong her sister who had brought her up and done
everything for her since her mother died. I have not that letter now, or
I would show it to you. In my raging disappointment I tore it up on the
place where I received it, and threw the pieces away. I had staked my
whole future on one desperate throw and I had lost. If I had had a
pistol—" I stopped, warned by an uneasy movement on the part of the man
I addressed, that I had better not dilate too much upon my feelings.
Indeed, I had forgotten to whom I was talking. I realised nothing,
thought of nothing but the misery I was describing. His action recalled
me to the infinitely deeper misery of my present situation, and conscious
of the conclusions which might be drawn from such impulsive utterances, I
pulled myself together and proceeded to finish my story with greater
directness.
    "I did not leave the station till the ten-thirty train had gone. I had
hopes, still, of seeing her, or possibly I dreaded the long ride back to
my apartments. It was from sheer preoccupation of mind that I drove this
way instead of straight out by Marshall Avenue. I had no intention of
stopping here; the club-house was formally closed yesterday, as you may
know, and I did not even have the keys with me. But, as I reached the
bend in the road where you get your first sight of the buildings, I saw a
thin streak of smoke rising from one of its chimneys, and anxious as to
its meaning, I drove in—"
    "Wait, Mr. Ranelagh, I am sorry to interrupt you, but by which gate did
you enter?"
    "By the lower one."
    "Was it snowing at this time?"
    "Not yet. It was just before the clouds rushed upon the moon. I could see
everything quite plainly."
    My companion nodded and I went breathlessly on. Any question of his
staggered me. I was so ignorant of the facts at his command, of the facts
at any one's command outside my own experience and observation, that the
simplest admission I made might lead directly to some clew of whose very
existence I was unaware. I was not even able to conjecture by what chance
or at whose suggestion the police had raided the place and discovered
the tragedy which had given point to that raid. No one had told me, and I
had met with no encouragement to ask. I felt myself sliding amid
pitfalls. My own act might precipitate the very doom I sought to avert.
Yet I must preserve my self-possession and answer all questions as
truthfully as possible lest I stumble into a web from which no skill of
my own or of another could extricate me.
    "Fastening my horse to one of the pine trees in the thickest clump I
saw—he is there now, I suppose—I crept up to the house, and tried the
door. It was on the latch and I stole in. There was no light on the lower
floor, and after listening for any signs of life, I began to feel my way
about the house, searching for the intruder. As I did not wish to attract
attention to myself, I took off my shoes. I went through the lower rooms,
and then I came upstairs. It was some time before I reached the—the room
where a fire had been lit; but