Though he could not have seen the other two, who remained in shadow, he seemed to know they were there.
"Madge!" he called a little uncertainly. And then in a louder voice, "Madge!"
"Yes, Daddy?"
"Forgive me, my dear. I don't want to interfere, but—"
Madge stepped out into the moonlight. Her young companion followed. Henry Maynard stopped as though he had run into a wall.
"Evening, sir," said Yancey Beale.
"Is that you, Yancey? It really
is
you?"
"It's me, sir, your obedient servant aforesaid. Is that so very surprising?"
"Not surprising, no." Henry Maynard stared at him. "Don't you know you're always welcome here, Yancey? Don't you know that, my boy?"
"Glad I'm not in the way, sir. I'm right sorry to have disturbed you, though."
"You didn't disturb me. You puzzled me badly."
"Sir?"
"I was up in my study. The air-conditioner was off, and the window was open with a screen in it, or I couldn't have heard you at all. You said something to Madge; you spoke very loudly. I don't recall the exact words . . ."
"Yes, sir?"
"They were to the effect that it might be disastrous if I discovered you here." Henry Maynard drew in his breath. "Yancey, I've known your father for forty years. Don't you know you're always welcome in my house? Good God, boy! That I of all people should be angry if . . ."
"But I didn't—!"
"Didn't what?"
Madge seemed about to speak; Yancey shushed her. "Must have been wool-gathering," he replied. "Just can't remember sayin' it, that's all." Yancey slid his arm across Madge's shoulders. "Little lady's a bit upset tonight, sir; must've upset me too."
"Madge has fancies. I'm well aware of it."
"Please!" Madge burst out. Henry Maynard paid no attention.
"The past is too much with us, as it always is in Charleston or anywhere nearby. A touch and then the deluge; old superstitions sweep
us away. Yes, Madge has fancies
..."
"Like her ghost-guns at Fort Sumter?"
"Not that; she knows it's only thunder; much more. What happened to the first Maynard in 1698, when something or somebody followed him through the swamp at the other side of the island? What happened to his descendant of 1867, when Commodore Luke Maynard, formerly Confederate States navy, had his skull crushed down there on the beach, with no weapon to be found, and wet sand for ten yards in every direction unmarked by any footprint except his own? What evidence was faked or omitted from that account, to invoke the seeming supernatural and stun minds too credulous? Nonsense; worse than nonsense! So if Madge has been thinking about the thing that follows and leaves no trace . . ."
"Please!" the girl cried again. She shook Yancey's hand off her shoulder. "You're always shutting me up, Daddy. You tell me to run away and play like a good girl; that's what they all tell me. But I will say this if I never say anything else!
I'm
not thinking about the thing that follows and leaves no trace.
You
are."
"I am, Madge?"
"Don't deny it; I know you too well! You've been thinking and thinking and thinking."
Henry Maynard drew himself up.
"In a sense, my dear, you are quite right. Must I repeat it? These old superstitions have no force or value for a logical brain. I would give anything, anything in ray poor power, if I could write Q.E.D. and destroy them forever."
For several seconds nobody spoke, while a light breeze from the harbor ruffled treetops in the park. Then their host addressed Yancey Beale.
"I had hoped," he said almost plaintively, "things would be so different at the Hall. And they will be; I promise they will be! Life has been very dull for Madge; I know that, and I propose to remedy it. As we grow older, my boy, we find seclusion holds fewer and fewer charms. Once upon a time I was acquainted with many persons in Charleston. If I have lost touch with most of them, younger people like Mrs. Huret and Dr. Sheldon should provide welcome company. We must invite them to dinner more often. And already I have taken steps towards ending seclusion with a small house-party."
From his inside breast pocket he took out a small leather-bound diary, and from his side pocket a pencil flashlight, directing the beam on the diary as he opened it. There was nothing written there; the master of Maynard Hall sought a date.
"Sunday, May 2nd,"
he read' aloud. "That's today, 1965, and it's almost gone now. The first guests arrive by air tomorrow. Apart from yourself, Yancey, they are people we knew at a town called Goliath, not far from Hartford in Connecticut."
"I know, sir; Madge was telling me!"
"Permit
me
to tell you." Henry Maynard lifted one shoulder. "Young Ripton Hillboro, whom I believe you met, has got leave of absence from his law-firm in Hartford. The other guest arriving tomorrow is a charming girl named Bruce, Camilla Bruce, whom you also met. I might add that at Goliath there are two institutions of learning, Colt University and Lydia Stone College for women."
"Apropos what, Mr. Maynard?" demanded Yancey. "It's no problem rememberin' Camilla, no problem at all. She seemed quite a gal, in her quiet way; anybody could see she had possibilities. But why bring up Colt and Lydia Stone? Is she connected with the women's college?"
"Not officially, no. Camilla is a tutor; she coaches slower-witted girls in mathematics. I'm not sure what you mean by 'possibilities,' but I hardly like to conjecture."
"Forget it, sir! Only me and my big mouth!"
"Madge will be glad to see Camilla, I feel sure. The blight of my own presence here—"
"Daddy," Madge exclaimed, "what on earth
is
all this?"
"The blight of my own presence, I say, can be removed for a day or two. On Wednesday I must go to Richmond on business; my late brother's affairs were not left in quite the good shape he thought they were. Meanwhile
..."
"Look, sir! Isn't there a Mr. Randall or Crandall, a newspaper reporter or something?"
"Mr. Robert Crandall, Yancey, was formerly owner and editor of the Goliath
Sentinel,
one of the few smalltown (or city) papers solvent enough not to have been swallowed up by any of the big combines which own everybody and everything in newsprint. Though he's rather younger than myself, he retired this spring after finally selling out to the Shaw-Marketer chain. It's been on his conscience, I think. We don't agree about many matters, and he's a bad chess-player because he won't concentrate; but I find his company entertaining. Cheer up, Madge; don't look so sulky! With such a trio of guests to while away the dull hours. . ."
"Camilla Bruce, Bob Crandall, and good old Ripton Hillboro! All of 'em Yankees, eh?" chortled Yancey Beale, now beginning to burlesque himself. "Man! We goin' have a ball, ain't we?"
Madge rounded on him.
"Yancey, for heaven's sake! A Yankee is someone from New England; you want to make it anybody living north of Virginia or Maryland. Camilla's a Philadelphian, Rip was born in New Jersey, and I think Mr. Crandall originally came from the Middle West"
"I stand rebuked, honey, and offer my apologies to any damnyankee
not
born in New England. Is that everybody, sir?"
"It's everybody who will be staying at the Hall. I neglected to tell you, Madge, that nearly a fortnight from now, Friday the 14th,"—having found that date in the little diary, a stately Mr. Maynard put away both diary and flashlight,—"we shall entertain two more. From one of them I need advice badly. Madge, do you by any chance remember Alan Grantham? Two years ago, if memory serves, he called on us several times in Goliath when he was the guest of Chancellor Livingston at Colt. Do you remember Alan Grantham?"
"Yes, I remember him. So does—" Madge stopped.
"For the past year he has been at King's College, Pearis, at some not-very-onerous academic job. Pearis, South Carolina, is in the Piedmont some two hundred miles from here."
"I know!"
"He has fallen completely under the spell of Charleston, as some people do. Towards the middle of next week a friend of his will fly from New York to Pearis. On Friday the 14th Mr. Grantham is driving this friend down from Pearis so that he can show his visitor the sights of what was once Charles Town. I invited them to stay with us, of course; but they made polite excuses; I think they prefer the freedom of a hotel. You won't mind seeing Alan Grantham again, will you?"
"No, I won't mind a bit. Alan's nice, and
he
can be entertaining when he tries. But there's somebody else who'll want to see him a good deal more than I ever would or could."
Yancey touched her cheek. "No foolin', pet? Who'll want to see the fellow as much as all that?"
"Camilla will. Oo-er!" breathed Madge, cradling her arms and then extending them. "Camilla's supposed to be the brainy one and she really is, but—oo-er! She's got it so badly for Alan you'd be embarrassed if I told you. And of course, Daddy, Valerie Huret's been making eyes at you; Valerie doesn't like being a widow . . ."
"Now really, Madge!"
". . . but she'd have to do a strip-tease in your study before you noticed. I was talking about Camilla, though. Oo-er! If I ever lost my head over a man, do you think
I'd
be willing to shout it from the housetop and let everybody know?" She stamped her foot. "I'd be too proud to demean myself, so there!"
"Your naivet6, Madge, is refreshing in a jaded age. However! Since you are scarcely an authority on anybody's affairs of the heart . . ."
"Daddy, why do you
want
advice from Alan Grantham? He's concerned with literature and history; he's on the arts side, which you've always distrusted. Why do you want advice from
Alan?"
"I don't want advice from him; I include him as
a
matter of courtesy. The man whose counsel I must have is the friend who will accompany him to Charleston.'*
"Oh? And who's that?"
"A distinguished travelling Englishman, Dr. Gideon Fell. You must remember, my dear. He lectured at Goliath in February; you met him at tea afterwards."
"Madge, there are your ghost-guns again," Yancey Beale interposed, as the sky seemed to tremble with distant noise. "Hear 'em, honey?"
"Ghost-guns?" Madge's voice poured with scorn. "Currents and cross-currents, you mean! All of us bumping together in the water, not for a moment knowing where we're being carried!"
"Madge . . ."
"Yes, I remember Dr. Fell. He lectured on
Murderers I Have Met.
And there'd just been the most awful murder in Westchester County, outside New York, some actress shot with a crossbow or whatnot, and Dr. Fell was the one who . . . Daddy, what
is
all this? Do you think there's going to be a murder here? Or do you just want him to explain how Commodore Maynard died on the beach a hundred years ago? Sometimes I feel it's not worth . . ."
A kind of convulsion crossed the older man's face. "Madge, stop! For God's sake, stop!"
The cry boomed and rang under the magnolias. Then, instantly, Henry Maynard had himself under control.
"Who said anything about murder, my dear? The advice I need concerns you."
"Me?
How can it concern me?"
A tortured figure looked down at her.
"Everything I do," he s
aid, "is for you and your happin
ess. You may not appreciate that, you may not even understand it, but by this time you must have some cause to believe it." His voice sharpened. "Let's have no more of the other talk: do I make myself clear?"
"Yes," Madge whispered after a pause.
"Yancey!"
"Sir?"
"I had almost forgotten the weather hereabouts. Tonight has seemed too warm for the beginning of May. But a change is coming; it will be chilly before long; Madge and I had better go in. Have
you
any questions, my boy?"
"Plenty of questions, sir. What follows people and crushes their skulls without any trace to show how?"
"Good night, Yancey! We shall see you tomorrow."
"Something funny goin' on here, I said!" muttered Yancey Beale.