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 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 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 it seems 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. If you do the housework I must do
the writing; or _vice 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 are _en rapport_ it 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 may forget 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 same neutral 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.
[Illustration: “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’t done 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!”