THE MYSTERIOUS TENANT.
THE opening of the post-office was a great success. Amy, who
was the first to go into office as postmistress, had a busy time for
the three days of her term. Every member of the H. T. C. wrote the
other four one letter a day with praiseworthy regularity, so there
were twenty letters daily for the postmistress of Blissylvania to
handle, not to mention packages and papers, and the invisible city of
Blissylvania did more mail business than many of Uncle Sam's offices in
far-off country places. There was a slight falling off in mail on the
second day of Trix's term, which followed Amy's, for Jack found so much
and such regular correspondence exhausting to mind and body, and was
first to complain that he had nothing to say. It was even found, when
the ladies compared notes on the fifth day after the office opened,
that he had basely written one letter, and copied it three times--Miss
Isabel requiring a different style of composition--but they had agreed
to feign ignorance of this action, charitably excusing it on the ground
of boys' well-known deficiencies.
There was difficulty about Margery's address. She insisted that
the whole title and address must be used, but Jack declared it was
expecting too much of any one to write on the small space of the back
of their letters, which for economy's sake were so folded as to serve
instead of envelopes: "Lady Griselda, At the Castle of the Lonely Lake,
Blissylvania, New York," which was what Margery desired.
They compromised, following Miss Isabel's suggestion, on "Lady Griselda
of the Castle, Blissylvania, New York," because, as Miss Isabel pointed
out, there could be no mistake, there being but one Lady Griselda and
one castle.
Taken altogether, the post-office could hardly have succeeded better,
and if there were any danger of its losing charm, it was saved by a
new interest arising, which gave a novel topic for conversation and
supplied Jack with the needed subject for correspondence.
It was a little after eight o'clock on the sixth morning after the
post-office opened, and Margery was practising. She was as faithful
in this as in everything else, and to the inexpressible wonder of her
playmates no strategy or coaxing could get her to leave the piano
before her time was up. This seemed to Trix, who seized any excuse to
shorten the hated task, little short of insanity, and a new proof of
the queerness that they all recognized in dreamy, sensitive Margery.
They did not understand that Margery was an unconscious philosopher,
and since the thought of an unfulfilled duty would spoil her pleasure,
preferred to secure a thorough good time by clearing away any possible
hindrances to one.
Trix came into the room, and finding Margery at the piano, sighed.
"I suppose there's no use talking to you until you're done," she said,
throwing herself in a big chair. "And I've the most interesting thing
to tell you."
Margery shook her head.
"How long must you practise; till half after?"
Margery nodded, the nod coming in well on an accented note. Up and
down went the nimble fingers, playing an exercise, with the metronome
ticking on the piano.
Trix fidgeted and wriggled down in the chair, and pulled herself up,
watching the clock the while.
"Margery, it's _such_ an interesting thing," she said plaintively at
last.
"In ten minutes," sang Margery to the accompaniment of the scale. "Play
with Tommy Traddles while you wait."
"Oh, Margery, _won't_ you stop?" cried Trix, after three minutes had
passed. No answer but _arpeggios_. "Margaret Gresham, you're chewing
gum," cried Trix, resorting to strategy.
"I am not," said Margery, coming down in flat contradiction and a false
chord at one and the same time. "I'm chewing the side of my tongue."
"Why don't you have a cud?" asked Trix, delighted at having trapped
Margery into speech. But she was not to be caught again.
Shaking her head she began playing her new piece, which, true to her
principles, she had left till the last. Finally the tiresome clock
struck once. Trix sprang up.
"You shall not finish that page," she cried, catching Margery around
the waist and pulling her off the stool. "You said half-past, and it is
half-past; so stop."
"But I _must_ finish that page, Trix," she protested. "Unfinished tunes
I can't stand."
"Well, you'll have to," declared Trix. "Listen to me. The Dismals is
rented!"
"The Dismals" was the children's name for a very large, untenanted
place called the Evergreens.
"Why, the Dismals is never rented!" cried Margery. "It hasn't had any
one in it since we were born."
"Yes; but it has now," replied Trix. "There is a man there, and he
lives all alone. Our waitress, Katie, told me about it last night. I
thought I'd never go to sleep for thinking about him. Katie knows a
girl that saw him go through the hedge and disappear under the Dismals'
pine-trees. There is something queer about him; Katie says so. They
don't know whether he's crazy or whether he's wicked, or perhaps he's
both. Katie says we may all be murdered in our beds. She says she
thinks he's a robber who has come from somewhere, and is to make the
Dismals his den. But Katie says some think he's a murderer hiding
there, and again some think he's got the evil eye."
"What's that?" asked Margery, shuddering; "another eye, or what?"
"No, you goose," cried Trix; "it's an eye that looks just like others,
only it's kind of set and stony, and when people look at it they're
never lucky any more."
But this had not the effect Trix anticipated.
"I don't believe that," said Margery; "that sounds like a ghost story,
or something of that kind. Besides, if there were an evil eye it
couldn't hurt us, for we wear our medals, and if we met him we'd just
hold on to them and say Hail Marys till he went by."
Trix was staggered.
"Katie didn't say so, and Katie's a Catholic," she remarked.
"Yes; but Katie doesn't understand," said Margery. "You ought to teach
her not to be superstitious, Trix."
This was taking the conversation into the realms of morals, and Trix
wished it to be only thrilling.
"Well, what if he's crazy or wicked?" she demanded.
"That's different," replied Margery promptly. "We'll be late for
school; wait till I get my hat and catechism, and we'll talk about it
going along."
She came back in a moment, and the two little girls went out into the
June sunshine on their way to the convent, where they were to have a
catechism instruction, though it was Saturday.
"I think myself it's much more likely he's crazy, or a robber, or
something awful," Trix resumed. "You see, no one who was all right
could live alone in such a dreadful place as the Dismals."
"You don't suppose he's some exiled prince come over from Europe and
hiding there?" suggested Margery.
"They don't have exiled princes now," declared Trix.
"Oh, yes they do; the last of the rightful princes of France died not
very long ago; papa said so."
"Well, if he's dead he can't be at the Dismals," said Trix. "I tell
you, Margery, this man is some dangerous character, and I shall be
afraid of my life to go to bed."
"I'm not afraid now talking about it, because I think maybe he's
unfortunate, and not wicked, but when night comes I shall be afraid to
go to bed, too," Margery agreed.
The Evergreens, or "the Dismals," lay out of their way to school,
but attracted to it by their very fear, the children turned aside in
order to pass it, and then raced by it as fast as their feet could
carry them, casting fearful glances over their shoulders as they ran.
That afternoon among the mail in the Blissylvania post-office was the
following circular, in duplicate copies, addressed to Lady Alma Cara,
and Mrs. Peace Plenty, and Sir Harry Hotspur. It ran:
"Dear Madam (or Sir): Having heard that a dangerous or mysterious
character has come to live alone in the Evergreens, which we call the
Dismals, we feel it our duty to warn you that you may fear to be robbed
or murdered by this strange person, and that you should be on your
guard. Yours respectfully (signed), Lady Griselda of the Castle of the
Lonely Lake. Lady Catharine Seyton, Postmistress of Blissylvania."
The circular had the desired effect. Mrs. Peace Plenty was
panic-stricken; Sir Harry Hotspur vowed to wear his sword henceforth
when he went abroad, and warned all wicked men that they'd better look
out, for he would use it, and Lady Alma Cara promised to take Hero with
her whenever she could if she went out. Hero was her big St. Bernard,
and objected to much exercise in summer.
Lady Alma Cara did not seem disturbed by the awful rumors as to the
strange tenant, but she was far too wise to tell the children that she
thought there was no danger, knowing well that this was an opportunity
for them to make much of, and that there was a certain pleasure
in their fear. By Sunday the reports of the mysterious tenant had
multiplied, not lessening in horror. Margery held her medals tight as
she passed along the streets, though her terror was moderated when
Winnie, the cook, reported that he had been in the back of the church
at the first Mass, but had slipped out before any one could get a good
look at him. Jack and Trix pointed out to Margery with much pains, that
this showed that he was even worse than they supposed, because he came
to church only to pretend to be decent, but could not stay to face
honest people.
Sunday night the sensation reached a tremendous pitch. The children had
taken tea with Trix, and had been entertained by Katie with the latest
news of the stranger. He did not live alone, after all; it seemed that
he had an old woman for housekeeper, and though it was not certain who
had seen her to report her appearance, it was quite certain that she
had a hump, and never went out in the grounds of the Dismals without a
broomstick, which proved, so Katie thought, that she was a witch. As
to the man himself, he walked with his head down, and Katie had heard
that he cast no shadow, and the children wondered what kind of folks
it was cast no shadow. The children did not know, but they did not
like to ask, feeling sure they must be the most awful people possible,
especially since they had never seen such, and shuddered at the
thought. Katie, a fresh-faced, pleasant little girl with no notion of
doing them harm, but with an amiable desire to be agreeable, responded
to their cries for more, with tales of banshees and witches till their
blood froze in their veins, and they left for home in an agony of fear
and went to bed in dumb suffering. Had they spoken their fears their
misery would have been short, but none of them mentioned the matter,
and so no relief could come.
Each made a characteristic preparation for the dangers of the night.
Jack took his toy pistol and sword to bed, hoping in case of alarm the
invader would mistake them for real ones. Trix laid the ice-pick and
fire-tongs on her pillow, and hung a bucket of water, to which she had
tied a string, over her bedroom-door. Amy put her rosary, crucifix, and
prayer-book under her pillow, and made sure that she had on her medals
and scapular, and then got an extra pillow and blanket to muffle her
ears, which, as the night was warm, had its drawbacks. Poor, nervous
little Margery sprinkled all her bed with holy water, collected every
pious object which she possessed, and took Tommy Traddles to bed with
her, that in case of danger she might protect him. To all the others
sleep came soon in spite of fear, but Margery lay cold and wakeful
until the twitter and stirring of the birds outside her window, and the
first rays of dawn brought the hope and comfort of another day.