She noticed a furtive, frightened look on her grandmother’s face all the time she was eating her dinner. The familiar pictures were gone from the dining room walls, and the sideboard was bare of the handsome silver that usually stood there. The curtains had been taken down, and only inside blinds kept out the world. Constance resolved to urge her grandmother to remain in her own room for meals and to keep that apartment nearly like its natural self for her as long as possible. She saw that it was hard on her grandmother, and she wished with all her soul that there might be some other way.
It was not to be expected that a girl of Constance’s standing could slip out of the world in a moment, unobserved. So soon as her notes had reached their destinations, there began a flood of regrets. Some came in the mail, protesting against this sudden decision before the season was entirely over. Others were made in person, and the street in front of the fine old brownstone mansion was hardly ever without a car standing there. There was much mourning among her intimate friends at her departure from their midst, and the genuine interest manifested roused in Constance a doubt as to whether she had been altogether right in supposing more of her friends would have deserted her or relegated her to the place in their affections belonging to cast-off articles that had been prized in their time but were out of date. It was quite possible that a few of them would have retained the same feeling for her, although she knew that, with their standards, that feeling must of necessity be mingled somewhat with pity, and from pity she recoiled as from a serpent. It is only the meek spirit that has been through chastening that can receive pity graciously.
She felt it a fortunate thing that just at this time Morris Thayer should have accompanied his mother and sister to Palm Beach for a few games of spring golf in the balmy atmosphere of the South. It is quite possible that if he had not been made to understand that Constance intended remaining in Chicago for at least a fortnight longer, he would not have taken himself so far away from New York. But, interrupted in his courtship, he was doing his best to pass the time until her return, feeling sure that he would have even better chances when he came back. He had begun to feel that he had shown his deep interest in Constance altogether too soon, and it would be as well for her to see less of him and to feel that she was not so sure of him. She would then, he argued, be wondering where he was and be glad to see him when he came.
Constance felt slightly piqued when she discovered that he had gone so far away, though much relieved that she would not have him to face and answer. All the more she set herself to get away quickly out of his reach. He should find her irrevocably gone when he returned. To this end she hired extra helpers and pushed her preparations with a vigor that her friends considered wholly unnecessary. One of those friends was also a friend of Sarah Thayer and happened to mention in writing to her the intended departure of the Wetherills on an extended trip.
It came to the ears of Morris Thayer in a short space of time, and much annoyed that a slight illness and a determined stubbornness on the part of his mother made an immediate return to New York an impossibility, he set himself down and framed an expensive telegram suggesting that as he heard she was contemplating a trip of some sort, Palm Beach was the very place, and they were all eager for her coming.
Her response to this was a polite note thanking him for his interest and stating that it was quite possible that they might travel south before they had finished their wanderings but that for the present they were going west to the home of a relative. This note was adapted to keep Morris Thayer in a more or less restless state of expectation and to prolong his stay in the land of flowers, which was exactly what the writer had intended.
His telegram had come to her at a moment when her heart had been experiencing a sudden wrench over the giving up of certain things in her life, which, though comparatively small, were hard to relinquish. There came to her a temptation to take the attentions he was offering for what they seemed to be worth and accept the life of ease he would give her. The attention of the telegram and the evident desire for her company had touched her. It was hard to give up old companions, old ways, old delights, and start out into the world again as if she had just been born into it. Therefore she hastened to be gone, that she should have no further temptation to remain where she was.
In these days a vigorous correspondence with Jimmy was kept up. He was instructed to write at once to the trust company who owned the haunted property and to say that he would take the house. He was by no means to mention Constance’s name in the matter, and he was to promise to pay a year’s rent in advance at the beginning of next month. She told Jimmy that hereafter he was to be her agent and that she intended rewarding him for his services in the matter when she came, which would be shortly before the time when the money would need to be paid. She would then give him the money and instruct him how to forward it to the trust company.
Jimmy, vastly important in his new office, went about with frowning brows and would not be distracted by any of the other “fellers.” He intimated that he was growing up and had important business when asked about his inky fingers, and he frequently took walks in the neighborhood of the haunted house and looked toward its cedar-surrounded verandas with almost the satisfaction of an owner.
In due time, Jimmy was instructed to select a painter and ask him to go through the old house and make an estimate for painting and papering. Meantime, Constance was hard at work with the help of her faithful servants.
The day after her return from Chicago, Norah had presented herself to Constance, her eyes red with weeping.
“He’s dead,” she sobbed. “Me darlint is dead. No ma’am, Oi didn’t sind ye no word, ma’am, ’cause I knew ye was busy, an’ Oi wouldn’t throuble yez. But Oi want ye to know what a comfort he took wid the floo’ers an’ th’ ooranges. He called yez ‘the purty leddy.’ An’ now, Miss Constance, he’s gone, an’ Oi’ve no call to stay home. Oi come to say as how, ef ye’d hev me fer a maid, Oi’d come wid yez meself. Oi don’t know nothin’ yit but the cookin’, but Oi’ll learn, Miss Connie, Oi will fer sure joost to stay by yez.”
Constance smiled. She wondered whether this was another link that seemed to be arranged for her new life. Some thought of this very thing had come to her, for Norah was the only one of the old servants who seemed in the least suited to life in Rushville. And yet it had only been a passing thought.
She told Norah she would see, that they were going to the home of a relative for a few weeks and she would think about it while there, and perhaps send for her. She gladdened the heart of the sorrowful girl by whispering just as she left, “I have a scheme, Norah, and I may want you to help me carry it out. I think I shall send for you pretty soon; as soon as I get grandmother quietly settled somewhere for a few days. Will you help me, Norah, if I need you? Promise me.”
Most willingly the girl promised, and looked after the departing train with a lighter heart and a more hopeful countenance.
Then Constance set to work to make her grandmother have a good time. She pointed out places of interest on the way and talked in her most winning manner, until the old lady fell into a delightful nap. She suggested lunch and had it brought in just at the right minute; and in short, the day moved so delightfully that the old lady did not feel weary nor look back longingly to her home.
Constance had arranged to stop about five o’clock that evening at a hotel in the mountains that in summertime was usually filled with guests, but at this season of the year was almost empty. She had thought the quiet would be restful for her grandmother and would be not too severe a change from the monotonous days in her own luxurious rooms in the city. And so it proved. Mrs. Wetherill sat for a little while on the lovely veranda with Constance and the maid, and looked out over the mountain where soft greens were beginning to show. She watched the sun slip away across the valleys and dip behind another mountain, and declared she would like to stay there awhile and was glad she had come. Chill though the evening mountain air was, she was well wrapped, and it see
med to do her great good.
They stayed there a day, and Constance tried to get better acquainted with her grandmother and find out if possible how best to save her from the trouble that might come to her with any possible knowledge of their losses. She sat a long time one day and told of everything that had occurred during her brief visit to her Aunt Susan, even speaking of the evening worship and the regular prayer meeting. The old lady’s face was soft and sweet. She made not much comment as she heard the details of this other woman’s life, so different from hers, but Constance could see that she was interested in it all; and when she had finished about the prayer meeting and the last little talk with her aunt the night before she left, her grandmother spoke.
“Susan always was a good woman. She had a sad life, but it does not seem to have hurt her.”
And so Constance dared to suggest that her grandmother should visit there, and, contrary to her fears, Mrs. Wetherill appeared much pleased with the idea. Everything seemed working out in the way she had hoped, and the next day they took up their journey again, this time with Aunt Susan’s little white house in view. Constance had prepared the way for this by a letter and a telegram to her aunt, which had been cordially responded to, for Aunt Susan had begged them to come to her many times before.
Constance found awaiting her a number of letters, some of which pleased her and some of which she frowned upon. It would seem that her world was not going to drop her so suddenly after all. There were even a few invitations begging her to join certain parties who were starting off hither and thither. It was not so easy to get out of the world as she had thought. But after two or three days spent at Aunt Susan’s, Constance was able to slip away on the pretext of visiting for a short time a friend whom she had promised not to pass by, leaving her grandmother happily ensconced on the other side of Aunt Susan’s red felt table cover, the glass lamp casting its impartial light alike upon the plain knitting of Aunt Susan and the fine embroidery of Grandmother Wetherill.
The friend she was going to see was Jimmy, and her destination was Rushville. Moreover, she had written to Norah and expected her to arrive in Rushville an hour after her own train reached there.
Chapter 8
Constance felt as if she were going to a picnic on the sly as the train drew near Rushville. Many times had she gone over the details of what she would do when she reached there once more, and now everything was planned as carefully as could be. She watched the names of the stations on her timetable and thought the train dragged slowly along. What if Norah should fail to get off at the right place or Jimmy should go off to a game of marbles and forget her? How should she ever get things into shape by night without these two, especially if the rest of the inhabitants of that peculiar town proved to be as unambitious as the ones she had found in the grocery?
But Jimmy was not playing marbles. No, indeed! He had been at the station for an hour when the train finally drew in. He had scowled at the old clock, which did not go, upon the waiting room wall a dozen times and had asked the station agent and his assistant three times whether they were sure the western train was on time and then had marched importantly up and down the platform again.
They went into the station, Jimmy and Constance, and sat down to have a brief interview. Jimmy showed her the letter he had prepared according to her instructions to accompany the money, which she had brought with her. Then they called at the post office and astonished the postmaster by sending so large a money order, for of course he knew nothing about the house being taken in Jimmy’s name. This business finished, Constance went with Jimmy to see the house. He exhibited it to her with the air of a caretaker and took pride in showing her the new greenness that had come upon everything about the grounds.
He had, through much maneuvering, brought the painter there to meet her, and the man stood in the front hall, squinting up at the ceiling, occasionally measuring a window frame, and figuring on an old envelope. He turned and gave Constance a comprehensive stare, but when he saw that she could talk business, he felt that she was all right and let her understand that he did not always charge such low prices, but, “seeing it’s you,” he would be reasonable.
He was a paperhanger as well as a painter, and the business of renovating the old house went forward briskly. The paper, bought in New York, had been sent on some days before, and Jimmy had proudly received it and deposited it by installments in one of the closets that would lock. Somehow, the ghostly lady had ceased to frighten Jimmy since he had a sort of partnership in the house. It is true he usually made his visits there in broad daylight and was careful never to go upstairs, but he did not dread the first glance about in the still, empty rooms as he used to before his lady’s coming.
Constance opened her bundles of paper and exhibited them to Jimmy and the painter. The painter looked at them critically but finally expressed grim approval. The patterns, he said, were not altogether what he would have chosen, not all of them, but they would do very well, and some might look better than he thought when they were put on. But Jimmy opened his eyes wide and whistled, and expressed unalloyed approval. He looked about on the scarred walls almost reverently to think they were to be so decked out, and swelled his chest proudly as he walked back to the station, the arrangements with the painter having been completed.
They went back to meet Norah, who arrived according to her promise, her arms laden with bundles and her face shining with expectation above the cheap black clothes she wore.
Jimmy took several of her packages and went ahead, and they all went to the house. The painter soon after departed, promising to return and begin work in the morning.
Jimmy put down the bundles on the veranda and, giving an extra brush to the already well-dusted bench, seated his ladies and retired to a little distance until further orders. He felt instinctively that they would wish to consult alone.
“Norah,” Constance began, “I am going to take you into my confidence and tell you something that I have not told another person in the world. Nobody knows anything about it except our old lawyer.”
Norah’s face beamed with expectation, and she sat back, prepared for an elopement at least, and at once saw herself chief assistant. It was therefore somewhat of a disappointment to her sentimental nature to find that the story ran in more prosaic lines. She listened with dismay to the few brief sentences that told of the change in the Wetherill wealth, and then her quick Irish sympathy came to the front.
“Och, an’ you a sendin’ me brither the grapes an’ the flo’ers an’ thim good things, an’ spendin’ the money you should have ben savin’ fer yersilf, Miss Constance! Oi’ll niver forgit it, niver! Oi’ll work for ye all the days of me loife widout a cint’s worth of wages, an’ coont it a plizure, that Oi will!”
Norah spoke with fervor, while the tears rolled down her cheeks, and Constance knew that she was a staunch friend.
“I believe it,” she said, laying her hand kindly on the rough one, “and that is why I sent for you. I’m going into business, Norah, and I want you for a partner. But you’re not to work without wages, not a bit of it. I’m not sure but they will have to be small for a while till I get started, but you shall have all I can give you, and if I succeed—and I believe I shall—I’ll make sure that they are good wages. And now, listen, for there is a great deal to be done this afternoon, and we must not waste time. Nobody else knows anything about this, remember, and I don’t intend they shall, so you must not tell a soul about it in your letters. Don’t say anything about our change of fortune or what we are doing. I do not want one of my old friends to suspect it or even to know where I am. You and I must even keep Grandmother from finding out, if possible. I’m not sure whether we can, but we’ll try. And now, Norah, I’ve rented this house, and I’m going to keep a tearoom. Will you do the cooking?”
“Shure!” said Norah, delighted to find her part so easy.
The faithful servant was one of the sort of whom it is said,
Theirs is not to reason why,
Theirs not to make reply,
Theirs but to do and die.
And so, when Constance added, “That’s right! I knew you would stand by me, Norah. Now come and I’ll show you the house,” she arose with shining eyes and followed, asking no questions. They would come later, perhaps, but for the present she knew only this, that she was with her young mistress in all she cared to do.
When they were through with the survey and Constance stood talking with Jimmy about arranging to have some of the furniture from the carload that had arrived brought up to the house that afternoon, Norah retired to the seclusion of the kitchen, which was her rightful sphere, and wept into her handkerchief. For while she was with her mistress in all she might choose to do, her heart ached at the thought of the beautiful girl brought low amid surroundings that ill befitted her, for the smeared walls and cracked plaster of the old house seemed unredeemable. However, she rallied and wiped her eyes in time to answer her mistress’s call.
“Of course we can sleep here tonight, can’t we, Norah?”
“Shure!” said Norah, hastily mopping up and taking a quick survey of her premises. “Oi’ve brought the cleanin’ rags an’ things yez wrote me aboot. That range looks as though it was a sulky thing, but Oi’ll deal wid it. Jimmy, me bye, thur’s a store here, ain’t thur? Well, hustle yourself, an’ git me some wood an’ coal! That’s a dear! Oi’ll dance at yer weddin’, Oi will. An’ mind ye hurry! Oi’ll nade hut water an’ a bucket; git a bucket, bye, an’ a brum, don’t forgit.”
Jimmy nodded from far down the walk to the gate, going on fleet feet to do her bidding, but his soul was marveling over two women who were not afraid to sleep in that haunted empty house on that first night. He must not permit it, of course, as he was their rightful protector, but how was he to help it? That was the question.
The White Lady Page 7