GHOSTS AND INSPIRATIONS
ONE snowy afternoon in December Dorothy, looking like a snowbird in her
gray coat powdered with big white flakes, flitted into Betty’s room and
without giving her sister a chance to say “How do you do?” burst out
with her great news.
“There’s such an excitement at school. Miss Dick just laughs, but Kitty
Carson thinks it was burglars, and we girls all think it was a ghost.”
“Goodness, what a beautiful excitement!” laughed Betty. “Tell me all
about it.”
“Well, you see Shirley Ware heard it first,” explained Dorothy, “and
she was so scared that she tried to scream. And all that came out was
a kind of a choke. It woke me up and then I heard it too--the other
noise, I mean. It was a queer little scratching and knocking on the
wall.”
“Mice, you silly child,” put in Betty wisely.
But Dorothy scorned such a theory. “I guess I know how mice sound,
after all I heard this summer, scurrying and hurrying inside our
cottage walls. Besides, mice don’t groan, Betty Wales. The next thing
we heard was a groan--an awfully sad sound, you know, Betty. It scared
me so that I tried to scream too, and the other two girls woke up.
They said I only made a little squeak,” explained the Smallest Sister
proudly, “and of course if I had really screamed Kitty Carson would
have heard, for all she sleeps so sound.”
“And what did the ghost do then?” asked Betty.
“It just groaned once more louder than ever, and then it stopped, and
everything was just awfully still. So I got into bed with Sarah and
Helen, and I s’pose I went to sleep. But Shirley was so scared that she
couldn’t move, and she stayed awake and saw it.”
“You mean she was so scared that she imagined that she saw it, dearie,”
Betty amended. “There aren’t any ghosts, you know, really and truly,
Dottie.”
“Well, there are burglars,” Dorothy insisted, “and anyway, it wasn’t a
mouse. And what Shirley saw was a tall white ghost with its hands over
its face--so.” Dorothy illustrated graphically. “And in the morning
we told Miss Dick, and she laughed, but Kitty Carson’s window has a
fire-escape, and she sleeps so sound that anybody could go in and out
that way. We know she is just as scared as we are because there’s a man
come this very afternoon to put bars on her window.”
“Well, then you’ll be quite safe to-night,” Betty assured her
comfortably. “Didn’t I ever tell you about our Scotch ghosts?”
“Yes, but please do it again,” begged Dorothy, “because I’ve most
forgotten, and then I can tell the girls. We’re so interested in ghosts
just now.”
So Betty told about the ghost that Madeline and Mr. Dwight had invented
to add the finishing touch to Babbie’s ancestral castle at Oban.
“Ghosts that little girls see are always like that,” she ended, “just
jokes that somebody has played for fun. If Shirley really saw anything
it was some big girl who’d dressed up on purpose to frighten you little
ones.”
“It couldn’t be.” The Smallest Sister’s tone was very positive.
“There’s a chimney next to our wall on Shirley’s side where the noises
were. No girl could crawl up a chimney. Nothing could get there but a
ghost.”
“Or a mouse,” interpolated Betty sceptically.
“Mice don’t groan,” Dorothy reminded her. “If it was a girl--but it
couldn’t be, because how could a girl get in the chimney?--and Miss
Dick ever finds out who it was, why, I shouldn’t care to be in her
shoes, I just guess! Shirley got so scared it made her sick. She’s gone
to the infirmary to-day.”
“When she comes back you’d better put your cot near to hers, so she can
reach out and wake you if she’s ever frightened again,” Betty advised.
“It was selfish of you three to get into one bed and leave her alone.”
“She could have come if she’d wanted to,” the Smallest Sister defended
herself. “We s’posed she wasn’t a bit afraid when she stayed where she
was, instead of her being too afraid to move.”
“Well, next time be more thoughtful,” Betty cautioned, and the
Smallest Sister promised, and prepared to hop-skip back to school.
“Frisky and I walk together this week”--she explained her brief
visit--“so I don’t want to miss a single walk. I can go walking with
you next week. Yes, I do hate two-and-two school walks ’most as much as
ever I did, but it’s different when I can walk with Frisky. I’ll come
again soon and tell you what we’ve discovered about the ghost,” she
called over her shoulder, as she vanished.
That evening the Thorn appeared in Betty’s room, wearing her most
provoking air--a combination of sympathy for Betty, offended dignity
for herself, and a grim pleasure in showing up the shortcomings and
inferiorities of her house mates.
“How did Mr. J. J. Morton make all his money?” she inquired, after
a few moments’ acrid criticism of the Purple Indian play, which had
just been successfully repeated, by request, for the benefit of the
Student’s Aid treasury.
“Why, I don’t know exactly,” Betty answered idly. “Railroads, I think,
and--and stocks and bonds. The same way other rich men have made their
money, I suppose.”
“I guess it’s tainted millions, all right.” The Thorn’s thin lips shut
tight, and her sharp eyes fixed Betty’s belligerently.
Betty only smiled at her good-humoredly. “Did you read Peggy Swift’s
article in the last ‘Argus’ on that subject? She makes you see how
all money is tainted, in a way. But Mr. Morton is as fair and upright
as he can be. He is splendid to the men who work for him, Mr. Thayer
says. And he spends most of his time nowadays in superintending his
charities.”
“When he isn’t spending it squeezing some small competitor to the wall,
or whitewashing a corner,” added the Thorn sententiously.
Betty considered this speech in bewildered silence. Her ideas of
political economy were very hazy. Was it always wrong to get rid of
competition, if you were smart enough to do it? she wondered. What in
the world did a “corner” have to do with tainted money, and why should
Mr. Morton be blamed for any interest he might have in a thing as
innocent and necessary as whitewash?
“I didn’t think you’d have anything to say to that,” the Thorn
proceeded triumphantly, after a minute. “Besides, I’ve got proof of
every word I say. We aren’t going to be happy in this house. It’s
haunted--by the spirits of those he has wronged, I suppose.”
“Matilda Thorn--I mean Jones,” began Betty, letting Jim’s name pop
out before she thought, in her annoyance, “don’t be so ridiculous. I
can’t argue about Mr. Morton’s business methods because I don’t know
enough about them, and neither do you. But President Wallace does, and
he accepted this house very gladly for Harding College. Furthermore,
you accepted a place in it very gladly--yours was the first name on
my list. So I think it is very inconsistent of you, as well as very
ungracious, to criticize Mr. Morton now. But when you talk about this
house being haunted you are simply making yourself ridiculous. Please
explain what you mean by saying such a thing.”
The Thorn listened to Betty’s stern arraignment with growing amazement.
She had “sized up” the new secretary as “one of the pretty, easy-going
kind,” and had vastly enjoyed worrying her with ill-grounded
complaints, which had always been treated with a sweet seriousness that
the Thorn had found very diverting. Now she realized that she had gone
too far, and she rose to retreat, rallying her scattered forces into a
semblance of order.
“I’m sorry I’ve offended you, Miss Wales,” she said humbly. “I didn’t
remember that Mr. Morton was a friend of yours. I haven’t any friends
of his sort--he seems to belong in another world from mine. I didn’t
mean to be rude--or ungrateful--or ridiculous.”
Betty held out her hand impulsively. Being perfectly sincere and simple
herself, she could never have guessed at the strange complexity of
motives that actuated the Thorn. “Then if you didn’t mean it, it’s
all right,” she said. “So please sit down and tell me what you think
Mr. Morton has done that isn’t honest, and I’ll ask him about it--or
I’ll ask President Wallace to explain it to us. And then tell me what
makes you say that Morton Hall is haunted.” Betty’s sense of humor
nearly overcame her dignity at this point, and the last word ended in
a chuckle that she hastily converted into a cough. Ghosts seemed to be
dogging her path to-day.
The Thorn sat down again majestically. “Well,” she began uncertainly,
“I’m not sure that I know anything in particular about Mr. Morton’s
methods. All great fortunes are founded on trickery, in my opinion. A
great many other people seem to think so too, according to all that you
read. And when the girls on the top floor began to hear ghosts walking
and talking and unlocking locked doors, why, I suppose I put two and
two together--that’s all. Some way you always associate ghosts with
wicked men. Of course it might be Miss Bond who was haunted, instead of
Mr. Morton’s money.”
“But Miss Jones,” broke in Betty in amazement, “you don’t really
believe in ghosts, do you? My little sister has just been here with a
story of how some of Miss Dick’s girls were frightened last night by
mysterious noises. It’s bad enough for children as big as she is to
think they’ve seen ghosts, but for Harding girls----”
The Thorn shrugged her shoulders dubiously. “That’s what I said myself
when I first heard about it, but yesterday in evening study-hour I
was up there, and we certainly heard the queerest whisperings and
mutterings coming from the tower room. We were sure Miss Bond was in
there alone, so we knocked to see if she was sick or wanted anything.
She didn’t answer, and we finally tried the door and it was locked, as
usual. So we banged and banged, and we were just going to call Mrs.
Post when Miss Bond finally came--and she was all alone and hadn’t been
studying elocution or reading her Lit. out loud. She said she hadn’t
heard anything either, except the racket we made, but I noticed she
didn’t act much as if she meant it. She’s so secretive she’d keep even
a ghost to herself, probably,” ended the Thorn vindictively.
Betty advanced the mice-in-the-walls theory, only to have it scoffed
aside, with a variation of the Smallest Sister’s argument: “Mice do not
whisper and mutter; they scramble and squeak.” She suggested that the
sounds came from another study; that had been carefully investigated.
She hastily dismissed the suspicion that the Mystery had misled them
about being alone. In the first place she felt sure that the Mystery
was honest; in the second place the Thorn, as if reading her thoughts,
explained how they had hunted through the closet and even looked under
the bed.
“Well, you will have to keep your ghosts, then,” Betty laughed finally.
“Only don’t throw the blame on poor Mr. Morton or on Miss Bond, who
didn’t hear anything. Why, maybe it’s you they’re haunting. The people
who hear things are the ones to worry about being responsible, I should
say.”
The Thorn refused to turn the matter into a pleasantry. “They’ve all
heard the noises,” she explained, “the girls who room on the third
floor. They asked me to come up last night and see what I thought.”
“And then speak to me?” asked Betty, annoyed that the Thorn should have
been honored with an official mission.
“Well--if I thought best,” the Thorn admitted.
“All right,” said Betty cheerfully. “You can tell them what I’ve
said--particularly what I think about the silliness of believing in
ghosts. If they are troubled by any more noises, they can let me or
Mrs. Post know, and we’ll look into it.”
“People do get the queerest ideas into their heads,” she sighed, when
the Thorn had departed. “To-day it’s ghosts, ghosts everywhere, and
to-morrow it will be something else.”
To-morrow’s trouble, as it proved when to-morrow came, was
inspirations. Babbie had one--quite unrelated of course to the fact
that she and Mr. Thayer could not agree about the prettiest furnishings
for a library--to the effect that her mother was lonely and needed the
society of her only child. And Madeline had one, which took the form of
a plot for a drama that was certain to make Broadway “sit up and take
notice.”
“But, Madeline,” Betty begged, “you can write that later. It’s getting
very close to Christmas. You’ve got to take charge of the Tally-ho’s
gift-shop department again. The Morton Hall girls will help, but
they’re no good at planning. And neither am I.”
“Make the things we planned last year,” suggested Madeline promptly.
“You know that won’t do, Madeline,” Betty told her sternly. “All our
best customers have bought dozens of extra-special candle-shades and
Cupid cards and stenciled blotters. We can have some of those, for
freshmen or girls who didn’t get around to buy last year. But it will
all seem stale and left over and silly if we don’t have some grand new
specialties. Please, Madeline!”
Madeline frowned darkly and shook her head. “Ever since that tea-shop
was started, I have sacrificed my Literary Career to its needs. Now
I revolt. I’m going to write my play while I’m in the mood. If I
should finish before Christmas, why, then I’ll help with the gift-shop
business, not otherwise.”
“What shall I do?” sighed Betty. “The gift-shop pays splendidly. We
can’t let it go, because if we do we shall make less money than we did
last year, and then Mrs. Hildreth and Mrs. Bob would be disappointed.
Besides, I’ve been promising some of my girls a regular harvest from
it.”
“Mary Brooks invented a pretty candle-shade last year,” Madeline
reminded her. “Tell her that she’s the Perfect Patron, and must dress
the part. Command her to come to the rescue of the gift-shop.”
“I shall ask her to come and talk to you,” Betty murmured under her
breath.
But even Mary’s lively arguments left Madeline unmoved.
“If it was an order that you’d had for a play,” Mary told her calmly,
“I wouldn’t say a word. But you’re only wasting your time on a forlorn
hope, just when you might be doing something really useful. I shall
cross my thumbs at you and your old play.”
“You may cross your thumbs all you want to,” Madeline defied her
smilingly. “Before the winter is over you’ll be sitting in a box at my
Broadway opening--that is, if I’m magnanimous enough to ask you, after
all the beautiful encouragement you’re giving me.”
“But, Madeline”--Mary was nothing if not persistent--“what makes you
think you can write a play, when all your stories have come back,
except a few of those college ones? A play is any amount harder to
write than a short story.”
Madeline smiled back at her confidently. “Maybe I agree with you,
little Mary. But in the first place every Tom, Dick and Harry is
writing good short stories nowadays, and nobody is writing extra good
plays. In the second place, I have discovered the secret of writing
natural but amusing dialogue.”
“And I suppose you know all there is to be known about stage-craft,”
added Mary, in her most sarcastic tones.
“I’ve seen every good thing in New York ever since I could talk,”
Madeline announced calmly. “Besides, I am going down to New York later
to look up the stage business. But first I’m going to get the play all
written. I’m afraid the original touch would tumble out if I carried it
to New York in my head. And then,” she added mysteriously, “I couldn’t
use my secret method about dialogue so well in New York.”
“Madeline Ayres,” Mary told her solemnly, “you are the most provoking
person I know. You have mooned around here all the fall, doing footless
little stunts for anybody that asked you. Now, when Betty and the
Tally-ho need you, you are under the spell of the most untimely
inspiration that I’ve ever heard of your having.”
“I guess the Vagabonds would like to hear you call the Pageant I wrote
for them footless,” declared Madeline in injured tones, “and if any
college play ever took better than the Purple Indians----”
“Of course your stunts are all perfectly lovely,” Mary hastened to
assure her. “You’re the most provoking but also pretty nearly the most
interesting of all the B. C. A.’s. Isn’t she, Betty? I’ll cross my
thumbs for your play instead of against it, Madeline.”
“Thanks,” said Madeline briefly. “I’m writing it for Agatha Dwight.”
Betty and Mary exchanged glances of utter amazement. Agatha Dwight
was the idol of Harding and of two continents besides. The leading
playwrights of England and America wrote for her, and the greatest of
them felt highly honored when her capricious taste singled out a piece
of his for production.
“And the moral of that is,” said Mary at last, “aim at a star, because
it’s no disgrace if you miss her. Pun not noticed until it was too late
to withdraw the epigram. Come on, Betty, and fix up the workroom. It’s
lucky that George Garrison Hinsdale is writing another of his horribly
learned papers this month, so I can be down here as much as I like.
This one is on the aberrations of Genius. I shall suggest untimely
inspirations as an important subhead, and invite Madeline up to discuss
it with him. Meanwhile our only hope is that she’ll get sick of her
play and come to our rescue, and do you know, Betty Wales, I shall be
most desperately disappointed if she does.”
Betty laughed. “I suppose she oughtn’t to waste her time on fussy
little things like gift-shop specialties if she can really do big
things like plays for Agatha Dwight. But she is so splendid at
everything.”
“And the moral of that is,” said Mary, “be splendid at everything and
you’ll be wanted, no matter how provoking you are at times. I should
like to have been a genius myself, only George Garrison Hinsdale says
he prefers near-geniuses as wives. Now, Betty Wales, what do you say to
a ploshkin candle-shade for this year’s extra-special feature?”