The gate did not open, but he stepped through as if it had.
Stepped through the solid wooden gate.
For a long second Mrs Carmody was aware of a harsh woman’s voice screaming. With a terrible shock, she realized it was her own voice.
The effort to choke that wild cry was so horrible that she fell back against the seat, the blood hammering at her temples. She sagged there, sick, cold as ice, her vision blurred, her throat ash dry, every muscle in her body jumping with tiny, painful surges of nervous convulsion; and, for a long moment, her mind wouldn’t hold thoughts.
“Just a minute!” Kent interrupted the driver. “I thought you told me the old man was alive at this time. How come he walked through the gate?”
His narrator stared at him strangely: “Mr Kent, the only reason that old man hasn’t made us all crazy these past twelve years is that he’s harmless. He walked through gates when he was alive just as he does now. And not only gates. The difference is that we know we buried him. Maybe he’s always been a ghost, and killing him don’t do no good. All we know is, he’s harmless. That’s enough, isn’t it?”
Kent nodded, but there was a world of doubt in his voice as he said:
“I suppose so; anyway, go on.”
The dark blur of fear in the woman’s mind yielded to an awareness of tugging at her arm; and then she realized that the driver was speaking:
“It’s all right, ma’am, he’s just a queer, harmless old man. Nothing to get excited about.”
It was not the driver, but the boy beside her, whose words pulled her together; the boy saying rather scornfully:
“Gee, ma, you sure take on. I seen a trick like that on the stage last year, only it was better than that. It don’t mean a thing.”
The woman began to feel better. Bill was such a solid, practical boy, she thought gratefully. And of course he was right. Some trick, of course, and – what was that stupid little fool of a girl saying. She found herself repeating the question out loud:
“What did you say, Pearl?”
“He sees us, ma – look!” the girl said.
The woman saw that the old man was peering at her over the gate. A thin, long, gentle, wrinkled face it was, bright with gathering interest. He said with an astonishingly crisp voice for one so old:
“You’re back from town rather early, Mrs Carmody. Does that mean an early dinner?”
He paused politely; then: “I have no objection naturally. I am only too happy to fit myself into any routine you desire.”
The deadly thought that came to her was that she was being made ridiculous in some way. Her face grew taut, her eyes narrowed, then she mustered an uncertain smile, and tried to force her mind past his words. The fierce whisper of the driver rescued her from that developing confusion:
“Begging your pardon, ma’am,” the man said hurriedly, “don’t let on you’re new here. He’s got the gift of seeing, and he’s been acting for months as if you were already here, and, if you contradict him, it only puzzles him. Toward the end, he was actually calling Mrs Wainwright by your name. He’s just a queer old man.”
Mrs Carmody sat a very still, her blue eyes brighter, wide with abrupt calculation. The thrill that came was warm along her nerves. Expected!
One of the several things she had feared was this moment of her arrival; but now – expected!
All her careful preparation would go over smoothly. The letter she had forged so painstakingly, in which the dead woman, the old man’s granddaughter, asked her to come to look after her daughter, Phyllis – that prize letter would merely be a confirmation of something which had already been accepted as inevitable. Though how—
The woman shook herself firmly. This was no time to worry about the curious actions of an old man. She had a farm to take over; and the quicker that problem was solved, the better.
She smiled again, her thick face smirking a little with the comfortable glow of her inner triumph.
“Won’t you ride to the house with us, Mr Wainwright? You must be tired after your walk.”
The old fellow nodded alertly. “Don’t mind if I do, madam. I was all the way to Kempster, and I’m a little tired. Saw your sister there, by the way.”
He had come through the gate, this time the one that was standing open for the car, and he was heading for the front door of the machine when Mrs Carmody managed heavily:
“My – sister?”
“Sssshh!” hissed the driver. “Pay no attention. He’s mixed up in his head. He thinks everyone of us has a living image, and he’s always meeting them. He’s been like this for years, perfectly harmless.”
It was easier to nod this time. The episode of the gate was a vague unreality in her mind, becoming dimmer by the minute. She smiled her smile as the old man politely lifted his hat, watched as he climbed into the front seat beside the driver.
The car puffed along the yard road, rounded the house and drew up before the veranda. A girl in a white dress came to the screen door, and stood there very quietly staring at them.
She was a pretty, fragile thing, Mrs Carmody noted with a sharp eye to detail, slim, with yellow hair, about fifteen or sixteen, and – the woman’s mind tightened – not very friendly.
The woman smiled sweetly. “Hello, Phyllis,” she said, “I’m so glad to see you.”
“Hello,” said Phyllis; and the older woman smiled comfortably at the reluctant greeting. Because – it had been a greeting. It was acceptance of a sort.
The woman smiled a thin smile to herself. This simple country girl was going to learn how impossible it was to fight a friendly approach, backed by an iron purpose.
She could see the whole future smoothly fitting in with her wishes. First, to settle down; then to set about throwing Bill and Phyllis together, so that they’d consider marriage a natural and early conclusion to their relationship. And then-It was night; and she had blown out the lamp in the master bedroom before she thought again of the old man, and the astounding things he had said and done.
She lay in the darkness, nestling into the special comfort of the great bed, frowning. Finally, sleepily, she shrugged. Harmless, the driver had said. Well, he’d better stay that way, the old coot.
Mrs Carmody wakened the following morning to the sounds of movement downstairs. She dressed hurriedly with a sense of having been outmaneuvered on her first day; and that empty feeling became conviction when she saw the old man and Phyllis eating breakfast.
There were three other plates set with bowls of cereal; and Mrs Carmody sank down before one of them in a dead silence. She saw that the girl had a notebook open in front of her; and she clutched at the straw of conversation it offered.
“Doing your homework?” she asked in her friendliest voice.
“No!” said the girl, closing the notebook and getting up from the table.
Mrs Carmody sat very still, fighting the surge of dull color that crept up into her cheeks. No use getting excited, she thought. The thing was, somehow – somehow she had to make friends with this quiet girl.
And besides, there was some information she had to have – about food, about the house, about – money.
Abruptly, breakfast was a meaningless, tasteless act. She got up from her half-finished cereal; in the kitchen she found Phyllis washing the dishes.
“Let me wash,” said the woman, “you dry.”
She added: “Pretty hands like yours shouldn’t be in dish water.”
She sent a swift glance at the girl’s face, and spoke for the third time: “I’m rather ashamed of myself for getting up so late. I came here to work, not to rest.”
“Oh, you’ll get used to it,” said the girl; and Mrs Carmody smiled her secret smile. The dangerous silence strike was over. She said: