CHAPTER XI.MISS JOANNA.
“OH! did I frighten you? Don’t—for mercy’s sake! don’t hit me! Why—it’s I—Bonny!”
“Well! I should think you might be better employed! Why didn’t you stay in your own room?”
“Couldn’t sleep. Why didn’t you?”
“Same reason. Besides, if the household is in danger I am the one to defend it. Go to bed.”
“I am the one to help you. Aren’t you glad we didn’t try to sleep over here alone, as we wanted to? I wonder if Mr. Brook knows anything about this! He would not allow us, do you remember? He said we would be more comfortable at their home, even after we had gotten the beds set up.”
“I do not think he knew. I am sure if he did he would have warned us. Hark! There it goes again! It is—it certainly is just by that west door. It sounds as if it came from the earth.”
“It sounds as if it came from everywhere.
‘Black spirits and whiteRed spirits and gray’—
‘Black spirits and whiteRed spirits and gray’—
‘Black spirits and white
Red spirits and gray’—
Oh! How my flesh creeps! Isn’t it a perfectly delightfully thrilling sensation?
I have had dreams, but not of this,That I should share the wondrous blissOf meeting ghostses in the air,And have them set on end my hair—
I have had dreams, but not of this,That I should share the wondrous blissOf meeting ghostses in the air,And have them set on end my hair—
I have had dreams, but not of this,
That I should share the wondrous bliss
Of meeting ghostses in the air,
And have them set on end my hair—
That last line is rather faulty. It’s lost a foot or a leg— Oh, my! Hark!”
“Bonny!”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“Who is down there with you?”
“Nobody. I’m down here with Roland. The honor of this exploit is his.”
“Come up to bed, both of you. You’ll take cold.”
“Oh! we’re all gooseflesh now, both of us. But Roland is dressed, and so am I; that is—partly.”
“We can do nothing about this matter to-night. I will see Mr. Brook to-morrow and get an explanation. Else we will make a business of investigation for ourselves. Come, both of you, at once.”
“Motherkin’s voice sounds kind of chattery, too, doesn’t it? But we had better mind her promptly. Good-night.”
“What’s the use of going to bed, Mother? Cannot I sit up?” pleaded Roland, as he reached the upper landing of the stairs.
“You will be asleep in five minutes, if you make up your mind to it. The noises have continued now for some hours, and nobody is the worse for them. Good-night.”
It was a rather serious party which gathered about the breakfast-table, for even to nineteenth-century folk the idea of living in a “haunted house” had its drawbacks. But as nothing had been known of the night’s disturbance by little Robert, nothing was now mentioned in his presence, and the talk took up again the interrupted “division of labor.”
“Roland is to be the farmer, of course. He is to raise as much as he can in his little greenhouse, or cold frame it will be this spring. Oh! I forgot, I didn’t mean to tell his part for him. Fire ahead yourself, Roland!”
“For a young lady who has been promoted to a private secretaryship, you are not over-choice in your language, Beatrice.”
“Excuse me, Motherkin, I’ll try. But itseems so long to wait before you know all we have thought out.”
“Yes,” said Roland, “our friends think I can sell a good deal of green stuff. Mr. Brook has lent me lots of books on ‘gardening for profit,’ and his gardener has told me more. He, the gardener, has offered to teach me by overseeing my work, and I shall be very grateful to him.”
“He’s a cranky old soul, Mother. I wonder Roland has the patience to endure his ‘you musts’ and ‘you must nots;’ I couldn’t.”
“No, I should expect little endurance from you—in the patience line, my daughter. That’s your rock of stumbling.”
“Never you mind, Mother. I’m going to blast it out of the way with the dynamite of hard work. See if I don’t! Proceed, Roland.”
“Miss Joanna says that in such a busy household even the youngest is sure to want to do something; so what do you think she has planned for you, Bob?”
“I dunno. I—I ain’t sufferin’ ter do no work. I—I’d rather fish an’ go swimmin’.”
“Yes; but this is a co-operative establishment. Every member must contribute something to the general support. Your share is to be—eggs!”
“Eggs! I ain’t no hen. I can’t lay no eggs, can I?”
“You can study grammar and take care of poultry at the same time. Miss Brook has a famous stock of poultry. It is one of her amusements; but she is going to start you off with a few ordinary fowls, and see how you manage them. Then, if you are industrious, after you have paid for the first ones, she will let you have a better lot. I am to repair the old poultry-house, down at the foot of the barnyard, and you are to do the rest. I suppose, at first, mother would be as willing to buy her eggs and chickens of you as of anybody else. What do you say?”
“I say—I say—I dunno. I—well, I guess I’ll let her.”
“See here, ‘Humpty-Dump’! It just begins to dawn upon me that you are a spoiled child. Mr. Dolloway has remarked so several times, and I have indignantly denied it. I hope you will be a little gentleman to Miss Brook, no matter whether your business ideas differ from hers or not. She is coming here very soon, and I don’t want her to think my Bob is anything less perfect than I have painted him.”
“H’m-m. Don’t that Mr. Dolloway man live to her house?”
“Yes; certainly. Why?”
“Then they ain’t no use. He’s told her the hull cat an’ checker-board story ’fore this time. I guess I won’t need to bother an’ behave no diff’runt from every day. She wouldn’t believe me if I did. She’d be a ’spectin’ I’d do somethin’ naughty all the time. She wouldn’t have no conf’dunce in a feller after that man has talked to her.”
“Pooh! Is that all the courage you have? If I were you I’d show her that the old gentleman was mistaken. I’d take her chickens an’ say, ‘Thank you.’ I’d set every mother biddy on a pile of fresh eggs, and I’d have little downy chickens running all around. I’d teach the hens to respect me and come to me every time I called them; and I’d make my Motherkin think she had the smartest little boy in Orange County, which is where you live now, my dear!”
“Is it? Would you, Bon?”
“I would!”
“Wull—wull—I guess you’re ’most always square. An’ I will. I’ll let Miss Brook be good ter me if she wants ter.”
“Magnanimous soul! Now, Isabelle. I—I dread to glance your way.”
“Why? I thought that Roland was going to tell us the rest of the planning. You are a great monopolist, Bonny.”
“I am silent; I say no more.”
“Well, Roland? What is my share?”
“You are to be housekeeper. To stay with mother and take the home-work from her hands.”
There was a moment of really anxious waiting. “Bonny has always been the house-worker,” said the elder girl, at length. “Why should she not continue and let me go as secretary to Mr. Brook? I took a course of typewriting before she did, if you’ll remember. I don’t like housework, and I shall make a botch of it. I shall worry mother more than help her.”
“I wish I could do both!” cried Beatrice, with her impulsive generosity. “And I can, some of it. You hate dish-washing the worst of any part. Well, leave the dishes till I get home at night and I will do them then. So you can get more time for your painting.”
Mrs. Beckwith said nothing. She waited to let the two settle the matter between themselves if they could; but she was quite ready with the decisive word should it need to be spoken.
“No; we must be more fair than that. Ifyou do the housework I must do the writing; orvice versa. I do not see what difference it makes, why he should mind the change; and you keep mother in better spirits than I do.”
Bonny opened her lips, blushed, and said nothing. Yet Roland came to her aid very promptly. He loved both of his sisters better than many lads would have been willing to confess, but Bonny was his other self. Though they were always bandying jests with each other, they had never had a really angry word. Isabelle, while being far more ladylike and quiet, was also much more selfish; and Roland had suffered from this fault of hers more than once. He was not sorry, therefore, to be able to defend his favorite and discipline Belle at the same time. “I’ll tell you what difference it makes. Mr. Brook loves Bonny best. Yes, he has told me that he really loves her. They have a community of tastes. You know she was always fond of studying natural history when she had a chance, and when people areen rapportit makes everything else easy. With you it would be a real task for him to dictate and direct. It would be just as hard for you. But with Bonny it will seem almost like play,—to him, at least. I only hope he won’t keep my sister too long at her work. He mayforget that she is not as enthusiastic as himself.”
“But—” began Isabelle.
“But—Mr. Brook has made his own choice. We owe him for much kindness. There is nothing more to be said about it,” said Mrs. Beckwith, rising. “Here comes a lady walking. Is it your ‘Miss Joanna,’ children?”
“Yes, oh! yes! Look at her, before she spies us watching. Isn’t she a sweet old lady? Isn’t she the lady of your chrysanthemum dream?”
Over the lawn where the grass was just springing into greenness came the tall, graceful figure, which despite its seventy-odd years was still as straight as Isabelle’s, who, looking curiously, remembered her brother’s words of the evening before, “If you want models, where can you find them better than here?”
Ah! indeed, Miss Joanna would be a model fit to inspire a genius! Her face was like the tint of a late blush rose, frost-faded. Her eyes were dark, her mouth firm and sweet, and her snowy hair, parted on either side her temples, framed them in silver. On her head she wore a big gray hat, tied primly under her chin, and over the soft gray morning-gown a shawl of the sameneutral tint, which clothed—not hung upon—her shoulders. But it was the expression of her countenance that captivated them all, even the matter-of-fact Robert.
“Wull, be you the egg woman?”
Mindful of past advice, the youngster slipped down from his place, set the door wide, and advancing held out his crumby hand. “Wull, be you the egg woman? I’m very glad to see you. Come right in. We’ve just done eatin’ breakfas’. This is Motherkin, an’ these is the rest of us.”
“You are Robert! No need to tell me that!” responded the visitor, smiling, and not refusing the proffered handshake, though she looked regretfully at her soiled glove the second afterward. “I have heard of you, and the pleasure of acquaintance is mutual. Good-morning, Mrs. Beckwith—Isabelle—Roland, and my girl. I hope you have rested well.”
“Good-morning. Will you sit down here, or come into the other room? My Beatrice has scarcely told us which is ‘best-room’ as yet. They all seem so fine and comfortable to us.”
“I’m glad of that. I was afraid you might find them small; but it does indeed look very bright and cheery. Anywhere; here, if you like.We are so very glad to have you for neighbors, I could not defer any longer to come and bid you welcome. Does the house please you?”
“It pleases me perfectly. But, since you ask if we rested well, I must tell you our strange experience;” and she very briefly narrated the unaccountable knockings.
Miss Brook listened curiously, with the utmost astonishment depicted on her countenance. The current of her thoughts was not particularly flattering to Mrs. Beckwith’s common-sense, had it been known, but of course it was not; nor did anybody observe the interest with which Robert received his first intimation of what had occurred.
“Well, I have never heard anything like it, and, of a certainty, it must have some rational explanation. What that may be we will find as soon as possible.”
“Now, Miss Brook, do let us believe it’s haunted!” cried Bonny, coaxingly. “It’s so delightful and uncommon in America. I feel just like a heroine this morning.”
“You look like one, my dear, with those shining eyes and pink cheeks. You may be tired, but you are physically better than when you came a week ago. But ghosts! Oh, no! we have no ghosts in New Windsor.”
“Still they’re so inspiring!” said Bonny, with a comical glance at Roland.
“Yes, dear Miss Joanna, will you believe that my matter-of-fact sister came down into the dining-room in the middle of the night, listened to the ‘rappings,’ and immediately burst into rhyme? Shall I repeat, Beatrice?”
“At the peril of your life! Beg pardon, Miss Brook. I will not talk any more, at present.”
“I like to hear you, my child, I like to hear you. It does old ears good to listen to youthful chatter. I’m sure it’s better than hearing much that is said which may be more sensible.”
Everybody smiled, Bonny most demurely; and the mother understood at once what was the bond of sympathy between these two bright maidens,—one at the end of life, the other at its beginning. “I think, my dear, that you have been charmingly answered. But, Miss Brook, what do you imagine to be the cause of our disturbance? Have you any theory?”
“No, none. I am not a theoretical person. I leave all that to my brother. However, I’ll send a man over to help Roland look about. Master Robert, I suppose that your brother has mentioned to you my plan for your helping the others of this self-helpful family, has he not?”
“What, ma’am?” asked the little boy, quite at a loss to understand.
“Oh, I forget! I am not used to talking with small people. Has Roland told you about the hens?”
“Yes,’m. When can I have ’em?”
“Just as soon as the poultry-house is repaired, and the pickets on the fence. It will not do for them to run about anywhere they please, for that would be to ruin this fine garden that is to be.”
“But there are few seeds in it yet, Miss Brook. Will it make any difference so?”
“Yes, my farmer. If the hens are not trained as they should be in the beginning, they will certainly go astray; in which they are exactly like little boys—and gray-haired girls,” said Miss Joanna, smiling down upon the small lad, who had remained close beside her from the moment of her arrival, but who seemed neither to disturb her nor to wish to do so; which, to his family, was inexplicable.
“Let’s go see how much will have to be ’paired. Will you?”
“With pleasure, if your mother is willing.”
“Oh, she don’t care, do you, Motherkin? ’ness we break our necks.”
“I do not intend to break mine. I haven’tdone with it yet,” returned Miss Brook gayly, and left the house with her crisp, clean step, that somehow made Beatrice think of everything pure and sweet.
“Isn’t she lovely, Mother? Here, let me get your bonnet and you go with them. It will be safer, on Bob’s account, and you are to begin this very morning to take the doctor’s prescription, ‘Live out of doors all that you can.’ Here is a hat, dear,—no matter if it is mine; and I declare you are almost as pretty as—Miss Joanna.”
“You sauce-box! You deserve that I should not kiss you! But I will. How delightful the air is! How good it is to be here!” Mrs. Beckwith’s careworn face lighted with glad thanksgiving, and with a wave of her hand to her daughters on the wide porch she stepped briskly down the path her guest had followed.
But she had not gone more than a dozen yards when her feet were arrested by Robert’s shrill cry; a cry of such distress and fear that her heart stood still in dread. Then, mindless of physician’s orders, she bounded forward frantically. “The river—I’m sure he’s drowned!”