The Rest Hollow Mystery — Themes and Context

trength had deserted him. Courage had deserted him. Even self-respect was fast slipping away. Desperation alone remained; desperation lashed almost to fury by the agony in his throbbing leg. He or his companion must have been drunk, hideously drunk, to have met with such a mischance. And yet where could they have purchased a drink? He himself hated liquor, and he had no recollection of having been persuaded into illicit conviviality. As he searched for an opening in the stone wall, he took hasty stock of himself. The fur-collared overcoat would give him a certain social status in the eyes of this householder. His hat, though bearing the mark of riotous adventure, was obviously the hat of a gentleman. His shoes subscribed liberally to this classification and his dark broadcloth suit was conclusive. He felt in his pocket. There was neither watch nor money. But he could mention Raeburn's name. The wealthy New Yorker who was to have been his host undoubtedly stood high in this community.

His search along the wall brought him at last to a broken ledge of rock which might serve as a stepping-stone. He drew in his breath sharply, dreading the pain of the stupendous effort that he was about to make. Then he placed his sound foot on the ledge and dragged himself over the enclosure.

If the place had looked inhospitable from the outside it was even more formidable viewed from within. Only that portion of the acreage which immediately surrounded the house was under cultivation. On either side of this a wide expanse of eucalyptus forest sloped away from the road. They were half-grown saplings and the blue-gray of their foliage blended with subtle harmony into the somber winter landscape.

"Lord! What a lonely spot!" Kenwick muttered as he followed the driveway around to the side of the house. "Good God! Anything could happen in a place like this!"

The shallow stone steps echoed beneath his feet, and the door-bell, tinkling in some remote region, gave back a ghostly, deserted sound. Two more trials with the electric button convinced Kenwick that the place was untenanted. He made a shade of his two hands and peered into the plate-glass window that gave on the front porch.

What he saw was an elegantly appointed dining-room furnished in old mahogany and dull blue hangings. There were carved candlesticks on the sideboard, and in the center of the bare dining-table a cut-glass bowl full of English walnuts. The somber high-backed chairs ranged along the wall seemed to the man outside to be guarding the room like a body of solemn gendarmes. Slowly he turned, descended the shallow steps, and started around to the rear of the house. There must be some servant, he reasoned, some caretaker or gardener who could administer temporary relief and direct him to his destination. The ache in his leg was becoming unbearable. It was impossible for him to go on unaided. However reluctant this exclusive home might be to admit a stranger within its gates, it must conform to the laws of decency and bind up his wounds.

On the side path, bordered with monster oleanders and dusty miller, he stopped. The door of the garage was open. It seemed safe to assume that the chauffeur or caretaker lived in the commodious quarters overhead. Hope glimmered at last through the night of black despair. Almost blind with pain now Kenwick staggered toward that open door. In the dim light of late afternoon he made out a small room filled with garden tools. Beyond, through an inside window, was revealed a handsome black limousine standing motionless in the gathering darkness.

But the building was deserted. It was when he realized this that the dusk suddenly enveloped the man peering desperately in at the threshold. Through a bleak mist he saw the lawn-mower, garden hose, and beetle-black car dance together in hideous nightmare. And then the room full of garden tools rushed toward him. He felt the wheels of that sinister black car grinding into his neck, and he knew no more.

When Kenwick came to himself he was lying on a cavernous divan with a gorgeous Indian blanket over him and a tabouret drawn close to his side. In a far corner of the room a rose-shaded lamp was burning. It gave to the handsome drawing-room a rosy glow that seemed to envelop its every object in subtle mystery. For long minutes the sick man stared about the apartment without trying to move. Slowly the events of the last few hours came back to him. Very cautiously, like a man who has just recovered his sight after prolonged blindness, he felt his way back along the path that he had just traveled. It brought him at last to the door of the garage and the beetle-black limousine grinding over his neck.

He reached out and touched the spindle-legged table at his side. On it were his collar, tie, and a long-stemmed glass partly full of whisky. Very slowly he drained the remaining contents. Then he sat upright and gently touched his injured leg. It felt hard and tight. Whoever had done the bandaging had made up in force what he had lacked in skill, but the numbness of a too tight wrapping was an intense relief after his hour of agony. He limped across the long room to the entrance-hall and stood at length in the doorway of the mahogany-furnished dining-room guarded by the row of gendarme chairs.

This last evidence was conclusive. In some way he had gained admittance to the house with the barred gate. Evidently there had been some one close at hand when he fainted; some one who had authority to carry him through those impregnable doors. The thought gave him an uncanny feeling. But where was this gum-shod combination of mystery and mercy? In the curious way that the senses convey such intelligence he felt that the house was empty.

"Well, if I've got to stay here alone all night," he said to himself, "I'm going to see what this place looks like."

And so, using two light willow chairs as crutches, he started upon a slow tour of exploration. Through the swinging doors he passed into a butler's pantry and then into the kitchen. It was a large cheerful room with laundry in the rear. But although there were no soiled dishes about, it had an undefinable air of untidiness and neglect. A crumpled dish-towel was under the table. The sink was grimy and the stove spotted with grease. Even to Kenwick's inexpert eyes the room appeared somehow dirty and repellant.

He set the wine-glass that he had brought from the front room on the table and tried the back door. It was locked on the outside. Every door and window that he had tested so far was similarly barred. With a vague feeling of misgiving he returned to the drawing-room. It was very late. The alabaster clock on the mantel was ticking its way toward midnight. He felt ravenously hungry but shrank from touching any of the food upon the pantry shelves. He decided that until his host arrived he would sit in the den, a companionable little room, whose deep leather chairs invited him. The porte-cochère was on this side of the house and the home-comers, whoever they were, would doubtless enter there. No fire burned on the hearth but the house was comfortably and evenly warm. It was apparent that the caretaker was an expert furnace-man.

Kenwick was about to sink into one of the big chairs opposite the huge antlers of a deer when suddenly an object caught his eye. He struggled over to the telephone and took down the receiver. For five minutes he stood there holding it to his ear listening for the familiar hum that assures telephonic health. But the thing was dead. As he hung it up, it struck Kenwick all at once that it might be disconnected. The idea brought him a sense of unaccountable resentment. "My Lord!" he muttered. "I might as well be in a jail!"

He sank into one of the Morris-chairs and gazed out into the blackness of night. He could, he reflected, smash a window and make his escape that way. But why escape from comfort into bleakness? Jail or no jail he was lucky to have found such a haven. By morning somebody would have arrived and he could be taken to old man Raeburn's. He was probably worrying about him at this very moment. "I didn't break into this place though," Kenwick reassured himself. "Somebody in authority brought me in, so there's nothing criminal about staying on. And since there had to be an invader, better myself than some unscrupulous beggar who might make off with the family plate."

The reading-lamp upon the table was equipped with a dimmer. He drew the chain half its length, pulled the Indian blanket over him, and, in spite of the dull ache in his leg, was soon wrapped in the dreamless slumber of utter exhaustion.

When he awoke it was broad daylight and the dimly burning bulb of the reading-lamp shone with a futile bleary light. He extinguished it and drew up the window-shades. Sleep had refreshed him and he felt healthily hungry. The pain in his leg returned with almost overwhelming force when he attempted to walk, but a sharp-edged appetite impelled him to seek the pantry. He found the dining-room wrapped in the same somber stillness that it had worn the night before, the bowl of walnuts showing dully in the center of the table. From the kitchen table where he had set it the night before the empty wine-glass stared back at him. But there was something reassuring in its presence. It seemed to give mute evidence of the reality of this adventure.

From the butler's pantry Kenwick brought a can of coffee and half a loaf of bread. "Whatever my bill in this caravansary amounts to," he told himself as he measured out the coffee, "it's going to include breakfast. I've decided to sign up on the American plan."

On his trip back to the pantry he discovered upon the ledge inside the window half a dozen fresh eggs. They gave him a little shock of surprise. For he was certain that they had not been there before. The window was small and narrow, much too tiny to admit a human body. But whoever was detailed to take care of this place was apparently on the job. Kenwick resolved to be on the alert for the egg-hunter. In twenty minutes he had cooked himself an ample breakfast and carried it into the dining-room on an impressive silver tray. Memories of long-ago camping trips with his elder brother in the Adirondacks recurred to him as he ate. Everett was a master camper but had always hated to cook. In order to even things he had been willing to do much more than his share of the rougher work. Now as Kenwick drank his coffee and ate the perfectly browned toast and fluffy eggs, he blessed those camping trips and the education which they had given him.

And then his memory wandered from the wholesome sanity of those days to the first dreadful months of the war. From the chaos of that era, one night leaped out at him. It was the night that he had parted with Everett at the old Kenwick house, the house that had been the Kenwicks' for sixty years. Perhaps the stark simplicity of that scene, shorn of objective emotion by the presence of Everett's wife, was the very thing that enabled him now to extricate it from the tangle of days that preceded and followed it. Everett had laid his hand for just an instant upon the shoulder of the new uniform. "I'm all you've got to see you off, boy," he had said. "But if mother and dad could see you now they'd be proud and happy." And then had followed a sentence or two of promise, of affection, of admonition, murmured in a hasty undertone intended to escape the ears of the statuesque creature who was his brother's wife. Kenwick had wondered afterward whether they had escaped her, whether, anything vital ever escaped Isabel Kenwick. And yet his farewell to her had been a flawless scene. She was always the central figure in some flawless scene. His brother's whole life seemed to him to be enacted upon a perfectly appointed stage. There had been just the proper proportion of regret and pride in Isabel's voice as she bade him good-by; just the right waving to him from the steps and calling after him that whenever he returned his old room would be waiting with everything just as he left it.

And then he had come back and not found his room the same at all. Everything about the house seemed changed. His room was a guestroom now, and he had been relegated to a place on the third floor with dormer-windows. He hated dormer-windows. When his mother had been head of the home the third floor had been used only for the servants, but under Isabel's régime it had been converted into extra guestrooms, and there seemed to be a never-ending succession of guests.

So it had been no hardship to acquiesce in Everett's suggestion that he come out to California and recuperate from the war strain in Old Man Raeburn's hospitable Mont-Mer home. It was a splendid idea for Everett well knew that the West was more like home to him now than New York. Mont-Mer itself was unfamiliar, but only a few hours up coast there was San Francisco. And in San Francisco was----He felt in his pocket. But the slender flat object around which his fingers had closed during moments of desolation and peril in the trenches was not there. The realization that it had been pitched into the underbrush along with his money and watch stabbed him with a new pain. Her picture out there in that cañon where any casual explorer might chance upon it! Why, it was desecration!

He pushed aside the tray and went over to the long mirror in the door of the hall closet. In all his twenty-five years he had never given his physical appearance such intensive consideration. Vanity had never been one of his failings. And his fastidious taste in dress was more instinctive than consciously cultivated. Now the keen dark eyes traveled slowly from the brown hair brushed back from his forehead to the thin lips and firm square chin. His eyes were the wide-apart eyes of the student but it was the nose that gave his face distinction. Thin, sensitive, perfectly molded, it betrayed an eager, intense nature never quite at peace with itself. The hands with which he tried now to comb his disordered hair into decorum were the long-fingered, hollow-palmed hands of those who are blessed and cursed with the creative, introspective temperament. They were hands impatient of detail, eager to grasp at the garment of great achievement, resentful of the slower process of accomplishment. He had drawn himself to his full six feet. Army training had given him an extra inch, and of this one physical asset he was proud.

"Decent appearing," he mused, checking off the credit side of his ledger in businesslike tones. "Fairly prosperous, sane, and law-abiding. I wonder if I'll be able to convince my host of any of those things."

He decided suddenly to explore the upper part of the house. It would cost terrific physical effort, but a fury of restlessness possessed him. On the broad landing the stairway divided and took opposite ways. He turned to the left and a few minutes later found himself standing in the open doorway of what appeared to be an upstairs sitting-room. It was obviously a man's apartment. The smell of stale cigar smoke was in the air and on the table a pipe and ash-tray. It was the sight of the latter that brought Kenwick's fine eyes together in a deep-furrowed frown. From the cold ashes he drew out a half-smoked cigar. For a long moment he stood turning it in his hand. It couldn't have been in that tray for more than a few hours.

In the room beyond, separated from the sitting-room by portières, was a massive walnut bed, chiffonier, and shaving-stand. A blue-tiled bathroom completed the suite. The windows of all three were closed and locked. He went back to the hall, past another bedroom with door ajar, and descended the stairs to the landing. Here he paused to rest, gazing speculatively at the closed portals in the opposite wing.

"The modern American home," he decided. "He has one part of the house and she has the other."

His face twitched with the pain of his pilgrimage. It was going to be a crucial experience getting downstairs. While he stood there almost despairing of the feat of covering the distance back to the den, there came to his ears a sound that turned him cold. He forgot his pain and clung to the supporting post motionless as a statue.

The sound came again. He knew this time that it was not the hallucination of overstrung nerves. Dragging himself up by the banister, he knocked on the first door of the right wing. There was no response. He knocked again, then boldly turned the knob. The door was locked. But through the deathly stillness there came, after a moment's pause, the sound that he had heard before. It was the sound of a woman's stifled sobbing.

Kenwick stood outside the closed door, a curious numbness stealing over him. Was it possible, he asked himself, that there had been some one in this house during the last twelve hours? Was it possible that this person was a woman? A solitary woman? It was unmistakably a woman's voice, and there was no sound of comforting or upbraiding or other evidence of companionship. As he knocked again at the door he wondered which one of them was the more startled by the presence of the other.

The sobbing had abruptly ceased. There was dead silence. Had he been of a superstitious temperament he might have suspected that his knock had somehow released from bondage an unhappy ghost who, wailing over a dead tragedy, had vanished leaving this spectral house as desolate as he had found it.

But Kenwick had no patience whatever with the occult. For him life was too all-absorbing and vivid an enterprise to tolerate the pastel existence of ghosts. Through the stillness his voice cut its way like a torchlight cleaving a path through a blind alley.

As he hurled this question through the panel, he reflected that, being a woman, she would probably reply, "Nothing." But there was no response. Kenwick persisted. "Can I do anything for you?" And then a voice that was little more than a whisper came to him.

Conscious that the name would mean nothing to her, he gave it with a touch of irritation. She must know that he couldn't explain his invasion of her house through that inscrutably closed door. He had never thought of the place as belonging to a woman. Nothing that he had seen in it so far bespoke a woman's presence. The embarrassment that he had felt during the first hours of his imprisonment ebbed back and for the moment robbed him of further speech.

"Please go away." The voice from the other side of the door was entreating. It was a cultured, beautifully modulated voice struggling against heavy odds for composure. Kenwick had the feeling that it was a voice that lent itself easily to disguise.

"I can't go away until I have told you about myself," he said firmly. "I must tell you how I happen to be here, an uninvited guest in your house." He gave her the story briefly and was horribly conscious that it lacked conviction. In his own ears it sounded like the still-born narrative of a debauchee. Having stumbled to the end he waited for her comment. It came after a long pause.

"I'm sorry you're hurt. I hope you'll feel better to-morrow." To-morrow! Did she expect him to prolong his visit indefinitely? The casual courtesy of her tone was more disconcerting than indignation or resentment or any other form of reply could have been. But he resolved savagely not to leave that door until he had obtained some sort of information.

"When I met with the accident I was driving out to the Raeburn house; Charles Raeburn. Do you know where he lives?"

"Well, tell me about this place, then, please. Whose is it?"

"You don't know? And yet you live here?" Kenwick felt as though his brain were turning over in his head.