ANOTHER LITTLE EPISODE.
“Even if they should be, we have lived long enough to know that
‘Humpty-Dumpty’ is all right. He has as many lives as a cat.”
“Beatrice!”
By the time they reached the outer kitchen, whence the terrible sounds
proceeded, Robert had been collared by Mr. Dolloway and was being
shaken violently to and fro, while Roland was pitifully caressing the
cat which their guest had brought, and which cowered in its rescuer’s
embrace, hiding its head beneath the friendly arm and shivering as if
in an ague.
“Mr. Dolloway! What are you doing? Can you and my darling never meet
but you must come to an open battle? It is perfectly scandalous!”
cried Bonny, indignantly, and taking upon herself the reproof of the
troublesome neighbor.
“Yes, miss! That is what I say! It is a burning shame and a scandalous
outrage! I’ll teach him, the little whelp! They’s a society of
Prevention folks up here, and I’ll hand _his_ name in afore I’m many
days older, or _my_ name ain’t spelt John Dolloway!”
“Will--you--lemme--’lone? I’ll--I’ll--”
Hereupon Mrs. Beckwith laid her hand upon the old man’s arm, and he
instantly released his hold of the unhappy “Humpty-Dumpty.”
“Robert, what did you do?”
“I--I jest--I--He said--Oh! oh!”
“Silence, my son. Wait till you can collect yourself, then answer me.”
For the space of a few seconds the little boy’s sobs and moans
continued, then he looked up as brightly as if trouble were a thing
unknown. “He said they was room to swing a cat, an’ I was a measurin’
to see how much that was; that’s all.”
“How did you attempt the measurement?”
“Why--why--I held her by the tail an’ swung her roun’; that’s all.”
“All! Why didn’t you stop when she yelled and you saw it hurt her?”
demanded Roland, severely.
“Why--’cause.”
“Because what?”
“I--I liked ter hear it. It did sound so funny. I thought I should
laugh myself sick--she was so mad!”
“Robert, go to your room. You know which it is.” Mrs. Beckwith’s voice
was stern, and her small reprobate immediately prepared to obey it, but
unfortunately cast one glance Beatrice-ward, and changed his mind.
“She said it was a ‘retreat’ when folks was in a scrape. I--I bet I’m
in one now; so I--I’d rather go to the peace-room, Motherkin,” said the
child, sweetly. “If you are willing, Mother dear.”
Mrs. Beckwith could not restrain a fleeting smile, and Roland laughed
outright; but the mother’s “no” had always been “no,” with no sign of
wavering about it, and she did not begin their new life with any lax
discipline, much as she would have so preferred. “No, Robert. You have
been cruel, and I cannot excuse you. Remain upstairs until I come to
you. Now, Mr. Dolloway, please accept my sincerest apologies for this
unkindness. I do not seek to lessen my little boy’s fault, but if you
will trust us and leave the poor cat here, I am sure I can promise you
that no such maltreatment will ever be given it again.”
“Well, ma’am, I must say you have spoke like a lady. An’ I hain’t no
wish to be behind-hand in my neighborliness. But--though I hain’t
no right to mention it, so bein’ ’s you’re his mother--if that there
shaver ain’t born ter be hung I’m mistook.”
“I trust you are mistaken. But come into the dining-room, again,
please. I should like to have you tell me anything you happen to think
of about our new home. I am so great a stranger to the locality that I
am as eager as a child to hear its history. Will you not?”
“Thank you, ma’am. I guess not. I just stepped across to say if they
was anything any of us could do for you we was to be notified. Them was
Mr. Brook’s own words. An’ him an’ her both hopes you will rest well
an’ find things comfortable. I left a basket of late-keepin’ apples in
the pantry, an’ I make my good evenin’s to you, ma’am.”
The door had scarcely closed behind him before Bonny began to laugh.
“You really must let me have it out, Motherkin, or I shall be sure to
do it before Bob. That will make him think lightly of his sin. But now
you can foresee how delightfully the monotony of our existence will be
varied by the ‘little episodes’ between that ancient worthy and our
small sinner.”
“Beatrice, it is really too miserable an occurrence to jest over.”
“But just _sub rosa_ this way. And I warn you, you are deluded into the
impression that you know your own mind and that you can manage your own
house. But it will be left for Mr. Dolloway to convince you that you
do not. He takes a lively interest in all his master’s schemes, and in
us--his latest--particularly. He will be the thorn to this rose, the
rod of correction to our careless lives. Fortunately in this case not
like master is the man. Well, I’ll clear away the tea-things now;” and
Beatrice departed kitchenward to put on a big apron.
Isabelle proffered her assistance, but it was laughingly declined as
“not available.” “No, dear, not to-night. You’re company, and I am in
an angelic mood. You’d better enjoy it while it lasts; so run out and
take another walk with the ‘head of the family,’ whom I see strutting
about over his garden patch as if he were king of the whole earth. My
big brother _is_ a poet; but he is also a born farmer. He loves the
smell of the soil, and I know it was the making of him to come up here.
He’d have grown into a disappointed, narrow-minded tape-seller if he’d
stayed in town always. Now--well, I hardly dare tell you all I foresee
in my Roland’s future!”
“Oh, Bonny! hasn’t all this hard work you have been doing taken
the enthusiasm out of you yet? It seems lovely up here, and oh, so
peaceful! But isn’t it just a bit too quiet and humdrum?”
“Trot along, miss! To-morrow when I hand over the housekeeping to you
the humdrumness will disappear!”
“Why--what do you mean, Beatrice?”
“Coming events cast no shadows before in this case. When I have
finished my dishes, Mother will be down again with her youngest in a
beatific state of mind, looking as sweet and innocent as if he had
been the sinned against instead of the sinner; then I’ll call you and
Roland in, and we’ll talk over everything and arrange a fair division
of labor.”
“Why, Bonny! One would think you had all the responsibility of this
undertaking, to hear you talk! Isn’t my mother to have a word of
influence, miss?”
“She is to have all the words she wants, but none of the work that I
can help. Well, I don’t mean that exactly; but wait, and I’ll tell you
what I do mean. Now, trot!”
Thus dismissed, Isabelle joined her brother in the garden. To her, at
present, it seemed but a patch of muddy ground, though to the natural
gardener who was to labor in it, it already presented a picture of
thrift and greenness. “Think of it, Isabelle Beckwith! A week ago we
had not a fraction of an acre over which to rule, now we have ten whole
ones! I’m like Motherkin, as rich as Crœsus!”
“I’m afraid we shall get so sick of it. And we have cut loose now
from so much that it would be hard to get back into even the old,
modest places we held in the city. One never steps down for a moment
but somebody else steps up into one’s place. As soon as I told the
principal of our school that I would have to resign mine, she appointed
somebody else at once. I could not get back the position if I would.”
“You must not look backward, Belle. We have done what seems the best
for all, what certainly will be the best for our mother’s health, and
that should cover all regrets. Besides, I am sure we shall succeed,--in
making a living, at least. That is all we could have hoped to do if we
had stayed in town.”
“I don’t know. Nobody can guess how I hated to give up my art class!
The Professor said I would certainly make a name for myself if I kept
on.”
“Why, Belle! I did not dream you felt so blue about this change!
And I should like to know what is to hinder your ‘making a name’ for
yourself here as well as there? Don’t all the artists, the landscape
ones anyway, go into the country to study? And as for portraits, where
can you find more original models than along these country lanes? If
you have enough rudimentary knowledge, and talent, to make your teacher
express himself like that, you ought to be ashamed of yourself if you
can’t conquer the rest!”
“H’m-m. Since when did you become philosopher?”
“No matter. You have always laughed at my ‘poetical talent;’ Bonny has
not. But I tell you that if there is any real poetry in me, so real
that it must find expression, it will find it here just as certainly
as if I were to spend my days in study and all my evenings scribbling
verses.”
“Then you disparage education?”
“I begin to think there are different sorts of education. One kind I
am going to attempt is learning the land. I will have to begin at the
A B C of it, just as I did in reading printed stuff. But the earth is
printed, too, and by a Hand that does nothing in vain. Most boys run
away from the country because there is no money in it. I am going to
hunt for something which will beat money.”
“Youth! my brother! Just youth. After a while I suppose you will find,
as old Dolloway says, that ‘money beats sentiment.’”
“Yes--and malaria beats both! I’ve been warned against too much
night-dew, if I want to keep my health.”
“Why, isn’t this a healthful place?” cried Isabelle, in quick alarm.
“If it isn’t we should never have brought Mother here!”
“It is. Mr. Brook is eighty years old, and he has lived here almost all
his life. But he spoke to me about our being careful, particularly at
first. He said, and truly, that our health is our capital; and that if
we use reasonable precaution we shall never suffer.”
“Well, I know now that you have grown wise! I cannot remember when I
ever heard you mention health as a thing to be guarded,--our health, I
mean. You have been solicitous enough about Mother’s, except--”
“Except in what? Don’t throw cold water on me now, after warming my
vanity like that!”
“Except when you gave up your situations so readily, because your
‘boss’ ‘sassed’ you!”
“I think it’s time to go in, Isabelle.”
“So do I. I couldn’t have supported any more wise remarks! They sound
so--so un-Roland like.”
“Hark! There’s Bonny calling. Mother and the ‘Hopeful’ have probably
come down to the ‘peace-room.’ And, do you know I think that’s a mighty
pretty fancy of hers? Let’s try to please her and remember it.”
“All right. I’ll try; but I’m not a bit perfect!”
Roland forbore the retort that rose to his lip. Just at present he
was still in the first glow of his incipient manhood, when the idea
of being the “head of the family” had a charm of pride and importance
about it that made trifles of heavy burdens. Isabelle wondered how long
his ease-loving temperament would endure the strain of actual labor
and hardship which would inevitably be laid upon it; but still, like
Beatrice, she saw a change in Roland, and she could but believe that
he had “come unto his own” in coming to dwell in the wide, beautiful
country.
“Well, you dreamers! Here have Motherkin and the bad ones been sitting
for full five minutes, waiting for you to come in. We are to hold a
conclave of forces and decide upon the tactics of this camp! Hi!
there! brother Bob! Does that sound warlike enough for you? I motion
Mother takes the Chair! All in favor-- Aye!”
“My daughter, I decline all posts purely honorary! You may be Chairman
of the occasion; for whether we will or no, you will be bound to have
the most to say!”
“Now, Motherkin! But Roland knows, as well as I, what we have thought.
Let him tell our plans, and if they agree with yours, all right; if
not, we’ll hear whatever amendments the house has to offer.”
“What you talkin’ ’bout?” asked Robert, sleepily.
“Exactly. Roland, begin, please.”
“Where?”
“On the money question, of course.”
“Well, the first expense we shall have to meet is for garden tools
and some sort of a wagon. Mr. Brook has an old horse for which he has
little use, and he will be glad to have us use it for a while, and pay
him nothing but its keep.”
“My son, we must try to stand upon our own feet. We are not to depend
upon Mr. Brook as if _we_ had no independence at all. There is a small
sum of money, you know,--a few hundred dollars. We are to use all of
it that is necessary in making this experiment a success. Go on, dear.”
“As much as is necessary, Motherkin, but no more. This is no especial
benevolence on our patron’s part. He is as good and generous as he can
be, but he is also wise. He wants us to keep our self-respect and his,
at the same time. Well, this way of getting the use of a horse is quite
common among country people. I have inquired and satisfied myself that
it is so. He hasn’t a cow to work for its keep, so that we shall have
to buy. But--”
“Oh, Roland, you are so slow! Listen to me, Motherkin! I, Beatrice
Beckwith, who never earned a penny in her life--but once, a
flower-girling!--am going to be one of the bread-winners! True, true,
true!”
“Why, Bonny! what do you mean? And how happy you seem!”
“Well, I should think I am happy! Wasn’t I the very bottom and
beginning of this whole country business? Didn’t I go a talking to my
dear old gentleman, and didn’t he fall in with the country notion, hot
foot? Then it rests on me to make the thing a ‘go;’ and I mean to do
it.”
“It rests upon us all equally, Beatrice.”
“Well, I have a situation. I am a private secretary, if you please!--I
mean, if you will please! That was why I was so anxious to shorten up
the music practice and take the other lessons at the Y. W. C. A. rooms
during the last three months. Mr. Brook divulged the scheme to me in
one of his letters, which you didn’t ask to see and I didn’t offer
to show you. And we have kept it a secret from you on purpose to be
a delightful surprise to you now. I am to have a dollar a day for my
services. Think of that! I, the harum-scarum, am going to settle down
into a regular money-grubber.”
“Why does he need a private secretary?” demanded Isabelle, rather
anxiously.
“To help him put his collection of bugs and things into shape. You must
know that our Mr. Chidly Brook is a known naturalist,--the one whose
papers we have liked so much, over the signature of ‘Windsor.’”
“Is it possible?”
“True. He is the most modest of men, though, and he never speaks of his
work as anything but insignificant. However, he has been appealed to,
on behalf of some museum in Boston, to allow them to buy his collection
when he has done with it. Of course, he isn’t going to do that; he will
give it to them, instead; but he is going to put it into first-class
order first, as if it weren’t now! and I am to make catalogues, take
down notes, do anything and everything which will aid him. Now--don’t
all speak at once!”
The mother opened her lips to express her praise, but her first words
were drowned in a series of knockings as sudden as imperative.
“Rat-a-tat-tat! Tum-tum-tum!”
“For goodness’ sake! Who can be coming to visit us! At this hour, too!”
But when Roland reached the door and opened it, there was not a person
to be seen. The moonlight fell in a broad sheet across the threshold
and illuminated the sloping lawn before it.
“Rat-a-tat-tat!”
The sounds came from that side of the house. There was no doubting
that, and Bonny joined her brother in the search.
But though they tried both front and rear doors, even the little side
porch which led to the eastern rooms, there was no intruder visible,
and they returned to the place they had left, only to hear the strange
summons repeated almost continually for a full half-hour; after which,
too disturbed to discuss their plans any further that night, the elder
brother lifted the sleeping Robert from his corner of the hearth-rug,
and followed the rest upstairs.
All night, at varying intervals, the uncanny rappings were repeated,
till even the sensible mother began to feel that there was something
supernatural about them, and to speculate if this were the reason that
the former residents had found the house unsuitable and vacated it in
such disgust.
But Roland sighed for a gun; and at midnight, arming himself with a
fishing-rod and a broom, he determined to descend to the “peace-room”
and stand guard till morning.
There, presently, the weary lad went sound asleep; to awake startled
by the apparition of a white-clad figure before him, and to hear the
sibilant whisper, “How--do--you--like--to--live--in--a--haunted--house?”