Quincy High School - Goldenrod Yearbook (Quincy, MA)

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6 THE GOLDEN-ROD THE TREMBLING HOUR It was after sunset that a car ran up to the gate of the old Dexter place, and stopped. A young man sprang quickly out of the whirring car. He carried a suit case and wore a light travelling coat. “Well, good night, Dick,” he cried cheerfully. “Ever so many thanks for the lift from Waterbury. It’s been a great run. hasn’t it?” “Not bad,” came the answer in less exuberant tones. “So long, old man.” The car sped away swiftly, almost noiselessly, after the manner of giant automobiles who can afford to be mild- mannered when they like, and the young man opened the gate of the house and went in. Inside with the fresh, aromatic odors about him and the pleasant murmur of wind-stirred trees in his ear, he paused a moment. How many times he had come there, just at dusk, greeted by this atmosphere of homelike, fragrant com- fort—as a little child coming home from school to spend the holidays with Aunt Kate, as a boy, as a man. What a funny indulgent smile the old house had, anyway; he remembered how it seemed to beam upon him in welcome, as he entered the gate. He walked up the gravel path slowly, obsessed with the notion that for the first time the house did not seem to smile and for the first time in his life he found the wind in the maples melancholy in- stead of soothing. He went up to the steps and knocked on the brass, knocked with something akin to a shiver. The door opened and an elderly woman in black waist and apron, with a stern wrinkled face and neatly banded iron- gray hair, confronted him with the some- what grim greeting to which he had be- come accustomed through twenty-five years. “How are you, Lisbeth?” he asked gayly, entering the hall and placing his suit-case on a settee. Jove, it’s good to be home again with the prospect of some more of your famous pancakes.” As Lisbeth vouchsafed no reply, the young man continued, “Aunt Kate isn’t here to see me?” “No, Mr. Harvy.” Something peculiar in the old woman’s tone caused Harvy to turn. “Lisbeth,” he gasped, “she’s not ill?” “No, not ill, Mr. Harvy.” “Then what has happened, Lisbeth?” “They took her away this afternoon, Mr. Harvy,” replied Lisbeth in her dry tones. “Lisbeth! Dead!” Harvy Dexter’s handsome face was stone-white in the dim lamplight and there was a look of unfeigned horror in his eyes. But Lisbeth was unmoved. She only asked, “You’re surprised, Mr. Harvy?” “Surprised! Good lord, yes! And yet when I entered the house I had a feeling that—that something was wrong.’ 'I dare say you did,” said Lisbeth in untranslatable tones. “What happened to her, Lisbeth?” “She was murdered!” “Murdered! Impossible! You must be mad.” “Not at all. She was stabbed in the back and when I found her, she was lying in a pool of blood with her face all twisted with fear and signs of a struggle.” “But there was no struggle,” cried Harvy. “How do you know?” asked Lisbeth. “Why I -I had a feeling there wasn’t.” “I see. Perhaps you would like some supper,” continued Lisbeth in a hard tone. Supper in the pleasant, homely din- ing-room was familiar and yet strange. The room with its prim curtains and

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THE GOLDEN-ROD 5 show our school spirit by displaying such appreciation for this grant to the exercise of our personal liberties that Mr. Collins and the School Committee shall see what an excellent move they have made, instead of thinking they are dealing with un- gratefuls. Next year, probably, if the privilege is abused, it will be revoked, thus making the underclasses suffer for our shortcomings. Even if preceding classes were not considerate of their successors, let us show that we, at least, have the proper fore- sight and school spirit for ours. ROUTINE OF A SCHOOL DAY 7 A. M.—When Big Ben goes off, what a sleepy feeling you have. “It grows on you daily.” 7:30 A. M.—When you get the ham and eggs, “Your nose knows.” 8:15 A. M.—With no history done, “Ask Dad, he knows.” 2nd Period—And hard at Math., you have that common feeling—“As solid as our granite hills.” 3rd Period.—Another couple zeros. “There’s a reason.” 4th Period.—And some more of that German—“It’s great for the kiddies.” 11:15 A. M.—With grub on the third floor, “It’s 99 44-100 pure.” And the big line waiting for that macaroni—“It’s all in shreds.” 5th Period,—A test in English with a school pen. “It hasn’t scratched yet.” 6th Period.—A study period with all the boning and so forth. “It’s a great life if you don’t weaken.” —M.L.Abele, ’21. A CERTAIN INQUISITIVE SENIOR WONDERS: What makes Bennett so tall? Why F. Wilson can’t keep still? If Jenness talks in his sleep? What makes W. Couch so busy? What makes E. Hart so short? How Jackson recovered so quickly November 12? What makes E. Shyne so happy? What or who affects G. Jenkins that way? Why Young looks so sad? What makes Carter so quiet? Why J. Russell so often mismates his socks? Why Lundin is interested in French? If J. Lane is aspiring to be a poet? Why W. Middleton blushes in “Math”? What interests our girls in Room 32? Why our Literary Editor looks so sad before the publication of The Golden-Rod? Why Kennedy parts his hair in the middle? If Crowell likes to have his name mispronounced? What Freshmen think they don’t know? Where our school spirit has gone and if we’ll ever recover it? English, as written by a Freshman: “O king,” cried the messenger, “your flag flies from the market-place tower and you will soon be there.”—Ex.

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THE GOLDEN-ROD 7 polished mahogany, the table with its beautiful old silver and china, the gaunt, black and white figure of Lisbeth stalking back and forth, these things were as familiar as his own face in the glass. The empty chair opposite him spoke of Aunt Kate and he had the fantastically gruesome fancy that he could still see her there in one of her rustling, gray silk dresses. His teeth chattered and he asked Lis- beth to bring the wine decanter. She did so without a word and he drank two glasses, hastily, chokingly, while the old serving woman stood by with an ex- pressionless face. “Is there no clew to the case?” he asked. “None except that she was murdered at midnight. The rain destroyed the footprints.” “Murdered at midnight?” “The doctors say so. She was stiff and the blood dry, and—” “I don’t want any details.” Harvy pushed his chair away from the table. As he entered the sitting-room he had the perfectly unreasonable impression that someone was following him. He turned angrily, but Lisbeth was cleaning the table in the same methodical manner as usual. He seated himself, reflecting the while that the house was now his, and he would be rich. He felt the desire for another glass of wine, and accordingly, he rose to get the decanter which was in the dining room. On his way he passed a large mirror which reflected a part of the hall. He glanced in it a moment and was startled to see a glimpse of a figure clad in gray silk vanish out of view. He laughed uneasily and then entered the dining-room. In the dark he could hear someone moving about stealthily. “That you, Lisbeth?” he asked. “Did you want me, Mr. Harvy!” Lisbeth's voice sounded from the sitting room. There was a third person in the house! Blindly Harvy siezed the decanter and rushed into the sitting-room. “I’m going to bed now, Mr. Harvy,” said Lisbeth, “will you need an extra lamp?” “No, I’m all right,” Harvy muttered. “Good night, then,” and Lisbeth mounted the stairs slowly. Again he fancied that he heard the rustle of silk, but he muttered to himself, “Lisbeth and I are alone in the house.” Then soft footsteps sounded. With a choked curse he seized the decanter and drank gulp after gulp of the wine. The glass fell to the floor, splintered, but he was past noticing that. He drank madly, insatiably, and paused only for breath. Yet the wine did not go to his head as he prayed it would. He remained cold, rigid, tense with this hideous presence of a Third. His whole body was wet with sweat, even his hair was damp. Setting down the decanter almost empty, he turned, but instantly recoiled from that almost invisible presence which seemed to be in his aunt’s rocking chair. His eyes fixed themselves upon her knitting needles, still left where she had last used them. He almost expected to see the things move in the grip of delicate old fingers adorned with rings, but he realized that the apparition must be na illusion of his over-wrought brain. As he looked at the ball of blue yarn he saw a curious discoloration on one side. He leaned forward, and then staggered back, weak and shaking. It was blood. Suddenly he heard footsteps coming down the hall and proceeding toward the dining-room but he dared not look through the open sitting-room to see who it was.