The White Lady (12 page)

“I bet you anything, now,” one man said, slapping his thigh with his hand, “that her folks has been paper hangers. She comes by it natural—anybody can see that with half an eye.”

Constance came to this room after the men were gone and looked it over again with satisfaction. This was to be the tearoom, and in her mind’s eye she could see that it was a success so far as beauty was concerned. The paint was a bright clean white, and the floor was stained dark walnut. It was not a fine floor, to be sure, but the stain hid some of the defects. Constance, with Norah’s assistance, untied bundles of rugs and dragged them out until she had made a selection, and the lovely room took on a new air of elegance when a number of antique Kazak, Beloochistan, and Daghestan rugs were strewn about over the bad places in the flooring.

They brought little tables of solid mahogany and rosewood, highly polished and of beautiful grain, and put them about the room at pleasant distances. Constance thought with a pang of the tremendous price she was going to have to pay for plate glass to cover their polished tops, but she shut her lips firmly and went on. The great painting of the cows grazing was hung at the lower end of the room, and above the mantel, opposite the wide hall door, hung a canvas of the ocean, its liquid green depths and foamy curling waves so lifelike that one felt about to step out upon the sands. It was a large, fine painting, and one that Constance prized. It had cost much money. It had not occurred to her that she might have sold these beautiful and costly belongings and had more money to live upon. They were a part of herself—the rare old rugs, the fine paintings, the rich mahogany furniture.

In the evening when the men were all gone, Constance and Norah shoved the mahogany buffet in from the hall where it had been put when unloaded. This they placed where its mirror would reflect the palms well and give distance to the room when one entered. After they had brought in a few chairs, Constance went to the sideboard drawers and began to take out fine embroidered linen and lace cloths and spread them upon the little tables. Norah was as eager as her mistress.

“Thur’s just wan thing more ye nade,” said she, standing in the doorway, her arms akimbo, surveying their work. “Yez better sind fer thim pams ye used to hev in th’ porler.”

“Why, they’re here, Norah; they came in the last load. They’re out on the side veranda. You thought I sent them to the florists, I suppose, but I didn’t. Come! Let’s get them. Can you get the crate open?”

They dragged the great palms into the room and set them about where their greenness mingled with that of the pictured ones and made the illusion more perfect. On the whole, they went to bed that night satisfied.

“We’ll soon be ready for guests, Norah,” said Constance, laughing as she bade Norah good night.

When Jimmy came in the morning as usual, he was taken to look at the new room. He stood in the hall door, his little bare, dusty toes keeping reverently back from the rich rug in the doorway, and looked in. Never before had a sight of anything like this appeared to his dazzled vision. He was used to a dingy little kitchen and a still dingier attic bedroom. He had seldom been in other people’s houses, and then not farther than the kitchen or a long, dark hall, when he was sent on errands.

“Gee whiz!” he said at last, after a prolonged gaze. “Ain’t you a clipper? Say, that’s great! My! I wisht the fellers could see them green trees a-growin’ right up in the room. Make pictures ov ’umselves on the wall, too! Say, thet’s great!”

But the tearoom was not the only room in which changes had been going on. Up on the second floor, three lovely rooms had been in preparation: a bedroom, a sitting room, and a dainty dining room. It was the nest that Constance was preparing for her grandmother. Into these rooms were put all Mrs. Wetherill’s fine old furniture, her rugs and pictures and books, arranged as nearly as possible in the way in which they had been arranged in her home in New York.

The bedroom and dining room were the two back rooms, and the sitting room, though on the front, had its windows so sheltered by large trees, that it was impossible to see the front door or the path leading to the gate. The outlook was lovely at this time of year, into greenness everywhere, with a nestling church spire and a few dormer windows of houses in the distance. In winter the cedars would still stand guard over the front door. There would be no need for the old lady to learn the secret of their maintenance from her windows, at least.

And now letters from her grandmother, though not saying so in so many words, showed Constance that she was feeling homesick and that it was fully time to go after her. Constance had been in Rushville two weeks and two days, and there was much yet to be done, but she felt that Norah might be able to do it with some help; so, securing Jimmy’s mother to stay nights in the house and to help Norah, Constance went after her grandmother. She felt that the hardest part of her task was now before her—to get rid of the maid and to induce her grandmother to be happy for the summer in Rushville.

One fear she had, and that was that Norah would in some way hear about the ghost who was supposed to haunt the house and her Irish superstition would take alarm. Constance decided that she must say something to her before she left lest Norah should be frightened and desert her post. But when she broached the subject, the girl only laughed.

“Bless me sowl, Miss Connie! Did yez think I was feerd o’ ghosts? The painter man, the rid-haired wan, he towld me all about the lady wot wahks; but Oi sez, sez Oi, ‘Oi’ll not be a-carin’ fer any speerits. Oi’ve two good han’s an’ two feets, an’ Oi’ll resk meself wid any trailin’ gentle leddy thet only wahks. Whot horm cud she do?’ Na, Miss Connie, yez no need to be feerd fer me.”

Jimmy was established as regular right-hand man for Norah until Constance should return.

“I’m going to pay you a dollar a week, Jimmy, while I’m away, and you will do all you can to make things easy for Norah, won’t you? Then, when I come back, we’ll have a talk together and make some permanent arrangements. You are my partner, you know, and I must pay you something for the use of your name in renting the house.”

Jimmy smiled at her confidently. He thought there never was anybody in the world like his new friend. He swelled with pride daily as he walked through the streets, for was not he an established friend of the house that was haunted, and did he not walk in and out familiarly where even yet the village boys would not have dared tread except in broad daylight? It was not that Jimmy did not believe the stories about the ghost, but that he felt that this new and lovely spirit that had come to inherit the place would drive out the other. At least he had lost the dread of the house he had once felt, and so he enjoyed the prestige of courage among his comrades, who often watched from afar to see whether he really did go into the house as he said.

John Endicott had found much for his hands and brain to do the morning after his return. He had no idle moments to mope over mistakes he had made or sorrows that had come into his life. There were letters to be answered; there was a promised article, already overdue, which he must write; there were sermons to be written; and there were many calls to be made. It seemed as if everybody in the parish had been ill since he went away, and he must visit and comfort them all, and each one watched the street with jealous eye lest he should go to the other one first. It required untiring energy and a heart full of love to do all that fell to his lot.

Whenever he sat down for a moment, however, the annoyance he felt over the little incident that occurred near the old house troubled him.

It had not taken him long, of course, to discover that someone had really taken the old house. Mrs. Bartlett was informed of it early, and duly reported it to him with Bartlett notes thereon. She expressed her hearty disapproval, in advance, of anyone who was fool enough to rent that house. If they were ignorant of its history, then they showed shiftlessness in not inquiring. They couldn’t be a respectable family, or they never would take up with a place that had once been a tavern and had so bad a reputation. Besides, there was something wrong about that house. Not ghosts, of course—she didn’t believe in them—but something went on at that house in the dead of night, she felt sure; and the evil ones who carried on covered their tracks by these stories of ghosts. These people would leave, as all others had done, just as soon as they found out—that is, if they were worth anything. She finished with an air that said it was extremely doubtful whether they were.

It was the morning when Constance left that he met his friend Jimmy returning from escorting her to the station. Jimmy was feeling a trifle sad over her departure, for she had said it might be two or three weeks before she would be able to return, though she hoped to come back sooner. He brightened up when he saw the minister. Mr. Endicott always had a pleasant word for boys, and never forgot names.

“Well Jimmy,” said the minister, “I missed you last Sunday.”

Jimmy grinned.

“What was the matter that you were not at church?”

“Been busy,” said Jimmy mysteriously, in a tone that invited further inquiry.

“Busy? Gone into business, have you?”

Jimmy grinned wider and looked important.

“Had to stick around, case Miss Constance would want something. She’s a friend o’ mine; been movin’ into the big house here.” He jerked his thumb over toward the cedars.

“Oh!” said the minister, showing unusual interest. “A friend of
yours
? Well, can’t you bring her to church?”

“Mebbe!” said Jimmy, with a confident wink. “She’s an awful nice singer. She plays on the pianner, too.”

“Indeed!” said John Endicott. “Well Jimmy, if she’s a friend of yours, perhaps you can persuade her to come.”

John Endicott was puzzled. He could not make the beautiful sight of the girl he had seen, full of refinement, grace, and loveliness, accord with Jimmy’s statement that she was his friend. She did not look to him like one who would be a boon companion of the Wattses.

“She’s just gone away fer a while,” volunteered the boy. “I took her down to the station. She’s gone after her grandmother.”

“Ah!” said the minister interestedly.

“You’ll hafta come ta the tearoom when it’s ready,” volunteered Jimmy, with an air of proprietorship. “Thur’s goin’ to be eyes cream. Don’t you like eyes cream?”

“Ice cream? Why of course, Jimmy,” said the minister, smiling with kindred boyishness, “but what’s this about a tearoom? Are these new people really going to keep a tearoom?”

“Sure thing! She told me this mornin’, an’ she said I might tell folks ef I was a mind to. It’s a-goin’ to be peachy. Thur’s pams all round the room.”

By this, John Endicott expected to find it thoroughly furnished with palm leaf fans.

“You jest wait till you see her,” boasted Jimmy. “She’s a peach! Good-bye. I’m goin’ in here now to help Norah. Don’t you forget the eyes cream when the tearoom opens.”

“All right,” said the minister. “I’ll remember. And don’t you forget church next Sunday.”

“I’ll come, an’ I’ll bring
her
soon’s she gits home, ef I can, an’ I guess I can.”

Jimmy waved his hand and disappeared behind the cedars. The minister walked on, pondering what kind of family could have moved into the old house.

C
onstance found that getting rid of the maid was rendered easy for her by the maid herself. She showed strong signs of homesickness, and when she received a letter saying that her mother was ill, she came to Constance, declaring that she would have to give up her position and go.

Mrs. Wetherill looked as if the foundations of the earth were being shaken when this announcement was made to her, and Constance was not a little troubled lest all the changes that were coming would be very hard upon her grandmother’s health. But she saw no other way, and she thought she knew her grandmother well enough to be sure that the changes would be less hard upon her than the knowledge of the true state of their circumstances.

“Never mind, Grandmother,” said Constance cheerily. “I’ll be your maid. Don’t you think I could, for a little while, at least? I think you might teach me how, and I’m sure it will be much less trouble when we’re traveling to have just us and not always be having to look out for the maid.”

It was a new way of looking at things. Mrs. Wetherill had been used to having all tasks performed for her. She could not remember a time when a maid had not made the way smooth before her gentle feet, carried her bundles, arranged her chair, and laid out the clothes she was to wear. She was as helpless as a baby as far as looking after herself was concerned, and it took much argument from Constance to overcome her dismay, but she finally agreed to try it.

The next morning, accordingly, the maid departed, and Constance and her grandmother, a day or two later, started in another direction. Constance had suggested that perhaps Norah would train into a good maid, and she decided to write and find out whether the girl would meet them somewhere on their journey. So the old lady went quite contentedly with Constance, finding, after all, that the young girl was as quick in anticipating her needs as the departed maid had been.

They started on their journeyings once more, for it was no part of Constance’s plan to bring her grandmother to Rushville at once, or to let her see the place until all things were in order. From one hotel to another they went, staying a day here and a day there, never going a great journey from Rushville, and yet visiting many pretty places, often driving about and drinking in the beauties of spring.

The old lady enjoyed it all in a way, but Constance could see that she was growing weary and restless for a quiet room and her own things about her. This was the time that Constance had been waiting for, and gently, little by little, she suggested the idea of taking permanent quarters for the summer in some quiet little country village.

About this time a letter reached her from Norah, reporting progress in the house, and she told her grandmother that Norah had consented to meet them and to do the best she could at anything they wished of her. The old lady brightened perceptibly at this prospect and readily agreed that it would be good to settle down and have some of their own things sent for. She expressed a desire for her favorite rocking chair and books and to have the New York papers reach her regularly each morning.