It was a lovely Christmas Eve, and a lovely Christmas. Everyone was so
happy that it seemed like a new family. Even Uncle Archie talked! . . .
The day after Christmas, S. K. made me tell him about the letter. I
never knew he could be so firm, and for the first and last time I felt
the difference in our ages.
“Something is worrying you,” he said, “and if you don’t tell me I shall
go to your aunt and tell her to investigate. And if I know that lady,
she can.”
“S. K.,” I begged, “_please_.”
But he was not softened. “Come on, Nat. No foolishness,” he said, and
almost sternly. “Something worrying you about the bracelet?”
I nodded, and then, somehow, the story came out.
I gave him the letter, the little bit of cloth that had been left on my
window-sill, and the notes that were signed E. J. He felt badly that I
had borne it alone and called himself all sorts of names for taking it
so lightly.
“Dear child,” he said, “why didn’t you show me these things before?”
“You said I was foolish, that there were no such things as ghosts,” I
answered.
“There aren’t. Someone’s playing a joke on you. . . . And it will stop.
I will see that it is stopped, and the person shall be punished.”
I told him his chin stuck out two inches farther when he was fierce, but
he didn’t laugh at my joke.
“And you weren’t imagining when you told me that someone had felt for
your bracelet when you fell from your horse on Riverside Drive?”
I said, “Of course not,” and quite indignantly. Then I began to see that
they had all thought I was hysterical and silly and made up these tales
from the creakings of floors and lost flashlights.
“I haven’t told them anything recently,” I said, “because they laughed.
But the trap did catch someone, S. K. I did not mislay it afterward; I
heard it snap, and that was the night this piece of cloth was torn from
his or her clothes. And sometimes the bracelet comes back. It slides
in----”
“How?” he asked.
I told him.
“Why didn’t you tell them, here?” he questioned.
I said it had annoyed aunt and that she had asked me not to think of it,
since it was clearly impossible and a half-dream of mine, and not to
mention it to Amy.
“And you didn’t believe me either,” I said. “Not that I blame you; it
did sound crazy, but there simply wasn’t anyone to tell.”
“I shall never forgive myself for this,” he said, “never. . . . That I
should fail you----” Then he shook his shoulders, frowned, and went on
with: “There must be some explanation, and we will have it. That
bracelet walking in by itself is clearly impossible, and its leaving the
same way too----”
“But the ghost that Mademoiselle Nitschke heard?” I questioned.
“My dear,” he said, “there were three quarrelling families under one
roof. Don’t you think it natural that one, if he could disturb the
other, would try to do so? Why Will Chase, or the other one, could have
thought of a thousand ways to make rappings and so frighten the Pérys
out of their wits. And if he or the other one--frightened them so that
they would leave the old place, so much to the good. One less family to
disagree with, more room. Can’t you see it? . . . We’ll say that one of
the Chase men went out at twelve and threw a ball against the wall of
the Pérys’ room, then say he crept inside, took a heavy cane on which he
tied a pad, so that the ceiling wouldn’t be marred, stepped up on a
chair, and whanged that. . . . Then--Mr. Péry leaps from his chair in
fright. Mr. Chase goes on pounding as a smile gradually widens on his
face; someone above speaks, the Chase individual can hear the voice
since the doors are open, and, although it was a mansion for that day,
it is not a great house for to-day. The sounds easily carry, and
especially since it is night and a ‘calm September one, in which hardly
a leaf stirred.’ He pounds three times, and up above three quaking
people think a question is answered and that a ghost walks and
thumps. . . . Why, there would be countless ways for him to make noises
that would frighten the Pérys into hysteria, and as for Madam Jumel
clothed in white coming to anyone’s bedside--well, anyone can wear a
long white robe, and faces cannot be seen in the dark.”
“Do you think that that was it?” I asked, a good deal relieved.
“I certainly do, Nat,” he replied. “Usually things of that sort have the
most simple explanations. And this matter must have too. Now to-night
you are going to bring that bracelet down to me.”
I said: “Oh _no!_”
“Or let me take it now,” he went on. “I have a wall safe, you know, and
I imagine it won’t be bothered there.”
I protested for several minutes, but at length I had to give in.
“I’ll bring it down to you later,” I temporized.
“Honestly?” he said.
I said, “Honestly,” and I meant to, since S. K. wanted me to. Then,
because he had come in for only a second after the matinée (Amy, Uncle
Frank, and I had gone with him and had a beautiful time), he went, and
we sat down before the living-room fire and talked.
At six the bell rang and Ito admitted that man to whom I had talked on
the diner. He made a great deal of noise in the hall, and I heard him
tell Ito that the “little lady” had told him to look her up. And then he
asked Ito if I wasn’t “some looker” and added that the apartment was “a
spiffy roost,” and I began to worry, because I knew aunt would not like
him. I didn’t know what to do. I didn’t want to hurt his feelings, and I
didn’t want to annoy her.
Ito showed him in, and he settled before the fire. He talked a great
deal and in a carrying tone, while Amy put her chin higher and higher in
the air, and uncle looked over his glasses. Then aunt came in, talked to
Mr. Bilkins, for such was his name, and told him that she was sorry I
must be excused, but that I was going out, and so--she stood up after
that, and he did too, and then Ito took possession of him and he was
shunted out.
I felt sorry for him, sorry for myself; and for Aunt Penelope, for she
felt that I had disgraced her. I knew that her standards were wrong when
she thought that loud voices and too much slang made a person
“impossible”--that is, that they would be wrong, if the person’s spirit
was splendid and only the trimmings were off--but I did not know about
this man’s spirit. I only knew that I had asked him to my aunt’s house
before I knew much about the world’s ways of doing things, and that it
was not wise or sensible to do. I said I was very sorry, but she
couldn’t get over it, and Ito had to bring her smelling-salts, and a
fan, although the room was not over warm.
“Some toney joint,” she kept muttering between sniffs of her salts,
which was a quotation from Mr. Bilkins. Then she asked me never, never,
never to do such a thing again, and I said I wouldn’t. After which I
went to my room, for the atmosphere was not congenial. I noticed Uncle
Frank as I left the room. He was deep in that book he had given me, and
I envied him, and I wished I could forget myself through bugs, or
anything. Someone--I don’t know who--said, “Collect something, it
doesn’t matter what,” and I think that someone was thinking of the
forgetting possibilities which come through a hobby. For the happiest
person has moments when he needs something to make him forget
unhappiness.
In my room I considered the bracelet affair and decided I COULD NOT risk
S. K.’s being hurt. For, when aunt and the rest are put out with me, I
realize how much I depend on him. I wondered what I would do if he were
hurt, or killed; whom I would turn to if I had done something impossible
and needed cheering.
I studied it a long time, and then I went down to S. K.
“My soul!” he said, “what a long face the bracelet leads us to wear!”
“Oh, S. K.,” I answered, “I don’t want to give it to you!”
Then he said: “What nonsense! . . .” Just at that moment his man told
him that someone wanted to speak with him at the telephone; he excused
himself, and I had a chance to think. It did not seem to me that I
_could_ let him run that risk. I opened the case, looked down at the
bracelet, and considered it. Then I heard S. K. coming back, quickly
moved, snapped the case shut, tied it with the ribbon, and said: “Here.”
My voice was not usual.
“So she thinks I am going to be killed, does she?” asked S. K.
“Don’t,” I begged, and then I stood up, for it was getting late, and I
was still in day things, and Amy and I were to go to see a friend after
dinner. I saw him put it in his wall safe, shook hands, asked him please
not to bother to come up with me, and ran off.
I found Amy using my dressing-table because it has a better light than
hers.
“Mother is frightfully shocked,” she said. “I think that man upset her
fearfully, Natalie. I think it was the _strangest_ thing for you to
do----” Her voice trailed off and she turned to see how her hair looked
at the back.
“I didn’t know at that time,” I began, but she cut me short.
“She wonders how many more people you talked to,” she went on, “and she
_hopes_ that this Mr. Stilkins, or whatever his name was, isn’t a sample
of them all. How did you start it, anyway? . . . I knew that cooks did
that sort of thing, but I never knew how they began it.”
I saw that she was feeling disagreeable, and attributed it to too much
candy, but this reasoning did not diminish my wish to thump her. This
was strong. But--I tried to hold my temper and explain.
“Don’t bother,” she said right in the middle of my words. “I’m not
really interested.” And then she began to hum and, doing this, left the
room. I did hate her. I think that is the meanest feminine trick of all,
that humming after you’ve made the other person mad. If I had my way I’d
make that a criminal offence.
I slammed things a little after she left, which is my way of showing
temper, and then I forgot it all, for Uncle Frank asked if he might come
in. He wanted to read aloud a few pages about how the aigrette makes her
nest and takes care of her young.
After he finished he said: “And every time a woman wears them she leaves
a mother bird dead and little ones starving. Ho
hum--don’t--think--it’s--worth it.”
I said I didn’t either. I never had, and I have wondered how women
could, but I think perhaps it is because they don’t imagine. A great
many troubles are made that way, simply because someone fails to realize
how the other person (or aigrette) will feel from something that they
themselves say (or wear).
Amy was bad tempered all evening. She called me her “country cousin” in
public, which wasn’t polite, and told how I had got tangled up in the
silver at first. She brought it in nicely, and people laughed, but I did
not think it was kind. Then she sulked all the way going home, and only
spoke when we were a block from the door.
“Some people like admiration and _work_ for it,” she said. “I, myself,
don’t.” And then I realized that it was not too much candy, but
jealousy, and that even the calling of this man who did not attract me
had impressed Amy.
“I don’t care for it,” I answered shortly.
“Oh no!” she agreed, and too loudly. “I _realize_ you don’t!”
I gave up and resorted to silence. No one can do anything with Amy when
she feels that way. And we parted with cool good-nights.
The next morning something happened that was funny. Another person came
to ask for me. Amy heard Ito admit him and told Ito to let him wait in
the hall.
“So many _strange_ people coming, Ito,” she said loudly (I heard this
afterward); “I think it would be wisest to let him wait in the hall.”
Then I was called and I faced--Willy Jepson.
“Hello, Nat,” he said loudly. “I’m going to Columbia, starting this
term. Wouldn’t let your uncle tell you. How are you?”
I said I was well.
“You’re looking it,” he asserted, and I could see that he was impressed
with my clothes. Then we went into the library, and I could see that Amy
liked Willy’s looks, but evidently he did not like hers.
“Have you met before?” I asked, for Amy was smiling so widely that I
thought they had.
“No,” answered Willy, “your cousin told the Jap to let me wait in the
hall--and so I heard her voice, but we have not met.” Willy was insulted
by that. He told me so afterward.
“Nat,” he said, “all the instincts of a Southern gentleman were outraged
in me by that order. I, the son of Colonel Jepson of Queensburg,
Virginia, am not _used_ to waiting in halls!” Willy has quite a little
dignity when he wants to use it, and, like all Southern men, puts out
his chest a tiny bit when he speaks of the fact that he _is_ a
Southerner. To be just, Amy did not understand how frightful he thought
it was, but in our town anyone but a nigger is asked in, and warmly
welcomed. Even Mr. Bilkins would have stopped for supper with anyone of
our first families. We are built that way and the North is not, that is
all.
Amy smiled at Willy and asked him to come over and sit with her beside
the fire. He complied rather stiffly.
“I’ve heard of you,” she said. “Natalie has told me so many things about
how you two played around together----” And that seemed funny, because
she never would listen when I started, but I didn’t correct her. Willy
said: “Indeed, Miss James?” But you could tell it was just something to
say.
Then the bell rang, and Ito appeared, to give me a message.
Mr. Kempwood, it seemed, asked if I would come down immediately? The
matter was urgent. I excused myself and, wondering, hurried to S. K.’s
rooms. I thought it was strange that he hadn’t gone to business, strange
that he had sent for me instead of coming up.
He himself admitted me, and his face was worried. He did not smile.
“Nat,” he said, “I have bad news. The bracelet is gone. Come in. This is
the way that things were found this morning----”
I followed him and looked. The door of the wall safe was open, and
papers were strewn across the floor. Near a window was the box of
yellowed satin, which had always held my bracelet. This was wide open,
the lid torn from the back, and empty.
I could hardly speak, but I clutched S. K.’s arm and whispered: “You
were not hurt?”
“No, my dear, but----” he answered. I could see that the bracelet loss
bothered him.
“Sit down,” I said, “I want to talk.” He did, and I settled too. “S.
K.,” I began, “I want to tell you something. I know where that bracelet
is----”
He leaned forward, and I told him.