Thankful's Inheritance

CHAPTER XI

The next morning the captain was an early caller. Breakfast at the High Cliff House was scarcely over when he knocked at the kitchen door. Imogene opened the door.

“Mr. Kendrick ain't here,” she said, in answer to the caller's question. “He's gone.”

“Gone? So early? Where's he gone; down to his office?”

“I don't know. He's gone, that's all I do know. He didn't stop for any breakfast either.”

“Humph! That's funny. Where's Mrs. Thankful?”

“She's up in Miss Emily's room. Miss Emily didn't come down to breakfast neither. I'll tell Mrs. Barnes you're here.”

When Thankful came she looked grave enough.

“I'm awful glad to see you, Cap'n,” she said. “I've been wantin' to talk to some sane person; the one I've been talkin' to ain't sane, not now. Come into the dinin'-room. Imogene, you needn't finish clearin' away till I tell you to. You stay in the kitchen here.”

When she and Captain Obed were in the dining-room alone, and with both doors closed, Thankful told of the morning's happenings.

“They're bad enough, too,” she declared. “Almost as bad as that silly business last night—or worse, if such a thing's possible. To begin with, Mr. John Kendrick's gone.”

“Yes, Imogene said he'd gone. But what made him go so early?”

“You don't understand, Cap'n. I mean he's gone—gone for good. He isn't goin' to board or room here any more.”

Captain Obed whistled. “Whew!” he exclaimed. “You don't mean it?”

“I wish I didn't, but I do. I didn't see him this mornin', he went too early for that, but he took his suitcase and his trunk is all packed and locked. He left a note for me with a check for his room rent and board in it. The note said that under the circumstances he presumed I would agree 'twas best for him to go somewheres else at once. He thanked me for my kindness, and said some real nice things—but he's gone.”

“Tut! tut! Dear, dear! Where's he gone to? Did he say?”

“No, I've told you all he said. I suppose likely I ought to have expected it, and perhaps, if he is goin' to work for that cousin of his and against me, it's best that he shouldn't stay here; but I'll miss him awful—a good deal more'n I miss the money he's paid me, and the land knows I need that. I can't understand why he acted the way he did last night. It don't seem like him at all.”

“Humph! I should say it didn't. And it ain't like him either. There's a nigger in the woodpile somewheres; I wish I could smoke the critter out. What's Emily say about his goin'?”

“She don't say anything. She won't talk about him at all, and she won't let me mention his name. The poor girl looks as if she'd had a hard night of it, but she looks, too, as if her mind was made up so fur's he was concerned.”

Captain Obed pulled at his beard.

“She didn't give him much of a chance last evenin', seemed to me,” he said. “If she'd only come back when he called after her that time, I cal'late he was goin' to say somethin'; but she didn't come. Wouldn't answer him at all.”

“Did he call after her? I didn't hear him and I don't think she did. When she slammed out of that livin'-room she went right up the back stairs to her bedroom and I chased after her. She was cryin', or next door to it, and I wanted to comfort her. But she wouldn't let me.”

“I see. Probably she didn't hear him call at all. He did, though; and he called her by her first name. Matters between 'em must have gone further'n we thought they had.”

“Yes, I guess that's so. Do you know, Cap'n, I wouldn't wonder if Mr. Daniels knew that and that was why he was so—so nasty to Mr. Kendrick last night. Well, I'm afraid it's all off now. Emily's awful proud and she's got a will of her own.”

“Um, so I should judge. And John's will ain't all mush and molasses either. That's the worst of young folks. I wonder how many good matches have been broke off just by two young idiots lettin' their pride interfere with their common-sense. I wish you and me had a dime for every one that had; you wouldn't have to keep boarders, and I wouldn't have to run sailin' parties with codfish passengers.”

“That's so. But, Cap'n Bangs, DO you think Mr. Kendrick is goin' to try and force me into sellin' out just 'cause his boss says so? It don't seem as if he could. Why, he—he's seemed so grateful for what I've done for him. He said once I couldn't be kinder if I was his own mother. It don't seem as if he could treat me so, just for the money there was in it. But, Oh dear!” as the thought of Mr. Solomon Cobb crossed her mind, “seems as if some folks would do anything for money.”

“John wouldn't. I've known of his turnin' down more'n one case there was money in account of its bein' more fishy than honest. No, if he does work for that—that half Holliday cousin of his on this job, it'll be because he's took the man's money and feels he can't decently say no. But I don't believe he will. No, sir-ee! I tell you there's a darky in this kindlin' pile. I'm goin' right down to see John this minute.”

He went, but, instead of helping the situation, he merely made it worse. He found John seated at his office desk apparently engaged in his old occupation, that of looking out of the window. The young man's face was pale and drawn, but his manner was perfectly calm.

“Hello, Captain,” he observed, as his caller entered. “I trust you've taken the necessary precautions, fumigated and all that sort of thing.”

“Fumigated?”

“Why, yes. Unless I'm greatly mistaken, this office is destined to become the den of the moral leper. As soon as my respected fellow-townsmen, the majority of them, learn that I am to battle with Heman the Great, and in such a cause, I shall be shunned and, so to speak, spat upon. You're taking big chances by coming here.”

The captain grunted. “Umph!” he sniffed. “They don't know it yet; neither do I.”

“Ah yes, but they will shortly. Daniels will take care that they do.”

“John, for thunder sakes—”

“Better escape contagion while you can, Captain. Unclean! Unclean!”

“Aw, belay, John! I don't feel like jokin'. What you've got to tell me now is that it ain't so. You ain't goin' to—to try to—to—”

His friend interrupted. “Captain Bangs,” he said, sharply, “this is a practical world we live in. You and I have had that preached to us; at least I have and you were present during the sermon. I don't know how you feel, of course; but henceforth I propose to be the most practical man you ever saw.”

“Consarn your practicality! Are you goin' to help that—that gold-dust twin—that cussed relation of yours, grab Thankful Barnes' house and land from her?”

“Look here, Bangs; when the—gold-dust twin isn't bad—when the twin offered me the position of his attorney and the blanket retainer along with it, who was it that hesitated concerning my acceptance? You? I don't remember that you did. Neither did—others. But I did accept because—well, because. Now the complications are here, and what then?”

“John—John Kendrick, if you dast to set there and tell me you're cal'latin' to—you can't do it! You can't be goin' to try such a—”

“Oh, yes, I can. I may not succeed, but I can try.”

Captain Obed seldom lost his temper, but he lost it now.

“By the everlastin'!” he roared. “And this is the young feller that I've been holdin' up and backin' up as all that's fair and above board! John Kendrick, do you realize—”

“Easy, Captain, easy. Perhaps I realize what I'm doing better than you do.”

“You don't neither. Emily Howes—”

John's interruption was sharper now.

“That'll do, Bangs,” he said. “Suppose we omit names.”

“No, we won't omit 'em. I tell you you don't realize. You're drivin' that girl right straight to Heman Daniels, that's what you're doin'.”

Kendrick smiled. “I should say there was no driving necessary,” he observed. “Daniels seems to be already the chosen guardian and adviser. I do realize what I'm doing, Captain, and,” deliberately, “I shall do it.”

“John, Emily—”

“Hush! I like you, Captain Obed. I don't wish to quarrel with you. Take my advice and omit that young lady's name.”

Captain Obed made one last appeal.

“John,” he pleaded, desperately, “don't! I know you're sort of—sort of tied up to Holliday Kendrick; I know you feel that you are. But this ain't a question of professional honor and that kind of stuff. It's right and wrong.”

“Is it? I think not. I was quite willing to discuss the rights and wrongs, but I had no—however, that is past. I was informed last night, and in your hearing, that the question was to be purely a matter of legal skill—of law—between Daniels and myself. Very well; I am a lawyer. Good morning, Captain Bangs.”

The captain left the office, still protesting. He was hurt and angry. It was not until later he remembered he had not told Kendrick that Heman Daniels must have spoken without authority when he declared himself the chosen representative of Mrs. Barnes and Emily in all matters between the pair and John. Heman could not have been given such authority because, according to Thankful's story, she and Miss Howes had immediately gone upstairs after leaving the living-room. Daniels could have spoken with them again that evening. But when Captain Obed remembered this it was too late. Thankful had asked Mr. Daniels to take her case, provided the attempt at ousting her from her property ever reached legal proceedings. And Emily Howes left East Wellmouth two days later.

She had not intended to leave for South Middleboro so soon; she had planned to remain another week before going back to her school duties. But there came a letter from the committee asking her to return as soon as possible and she suddenly announced her determination to go at once.

Thankful at first tried to dissuade her, but soon gave up the attempt. It was quite evident that Emily meant to go and equally certain, in her cousin's mind, that the reason for the sudden departure was the scene with John Kendrick. Emily refused to discuss the latter's conduct or to permit the mention of his name. She seemed reluctant even to speak of the Holliday Kendrick matter, although all of East Wellmouth was now talking of little else. When Mrs. Barnes, driven to desperation, begged her to say what should be done, she shook her head.

“I wish I could tell you, Auntie,” she said, “but I can't. Perhaps you don't need to do anything yet. Mr. Daniels says the idea that that man can force you into selling is ridiculous.”

“I know he does. But I'm a woman, Emily, and what I don't know about law would fill a bigger library than there is in this town by a consider'ble sight. It's always the woman, particularly a widow woman, that gets the worst of it in this kind of thing. I'd feel better if I knew somebody was lookin' out for me. Oh dear, if only Mr. John Kendrick hadn't—”

“Auntie, please.”

“Yes, I know. But it don't seem as if he could act so to me. It don't seem—”

“Hush! It is quite evident he can. Don't say any more.”

“Well, I won't. But what shall I do? Shall I put it all in Mr. Daniels' hands? He says he'll be glad to help; in fact about everybody thinks he is helpin', I guess. Hannah Parker told me—”

“Don't, Auntie, don't. Put it in Mr. Daniels' hands, if you think best. I suppose it is all you can do. Yes, let Mr. Daniels handle it for you.”

“All right. I'll tell him you and I have agreed—”

“No. Tell him nothing of the sort. Don't bring my name into the matter.”

“But, Emily, you don't think I ought to sell—”

“No! No! Of course I don't think so. If I were you I should fight to the last ditch. I would never give in—never! Oh, Auntie, I feel wicked and mean to leave you now, with all this new trouble; but I must—I must. I can't stay here—I—”

“There, there, Emily, dear! I understand, I guess. I know how hard it is for you. And I thought so much of him, too. I thought he was such a fine young—”

“Aunt Thankful, are you daring to hint that I—I—care in the least for that—him? How dare you insinuate such a thing to me? I—I despise him!”

“Yes, yes,” hastily. “Course you do, course you do. Well, we won't worry about that, any of it. Mr. Daniels says there's nothin' to worry about anyhow, and I'll tell him he can do what he thinks ought to be done when it's necessary. Now let's finish up that packin' of yours, dearie.”

Thankful did not trust herself to accompany her cousin to Wellmouth Centre. She was finding it hard enough to face the coming separation with outward cheerfulness, and the long ride to the railway station she found to be too great a strain. So she made the lameness of George Washington's off fore leg an excuse for keeping that personage in the stable, and it was in Winnie S.'s depot-wagon that Emily journeyed to the Centre.

They said good-by at the front gate. Emily, too, was trying to appear cheerful, and the parting was hurried.

“Good-by, Auntie,” she said. “Take care of yourself. Write often and I will answer, I promise you. I know you'll be lonely after I've gone, but I have a plan—a secret. If I can carry it through you won't be SO lonely, I'm pretty sure. And don't worry, will you? The mortgage is all right and as for the other thing—well, that will be all right, too. You won't worry, will you?”

“No, no; I'll be too busy to worry. And you'll come down for the Christmas vacation? You will, won't you?”

“I'll try . . . I mean I will if I can arrange it. Good-by, dear.”

The depot-wagon rattled out of the yard. Winnie S. pulled up at the gate to shout a bit of news.

“Say, Mrs. Barnes,” he yelled, “we got one of your boarders over to our place now. John Kendrick's come there to live. Lots of folks are down on him 'count of his heavin' you over and takin' up along with Mr. Holliday; but Dad says he don't care about that so long's he pays his board reg'lar. Git dap, Old Hundred!”

A last wave of Thankful's hand, the answering wave of a handkerchief from the rear seat of the depot-wagon, and the parting was over. Thankful went into the house. Lonely! She had never been more lonely in her life, except when the news of her husband's death was brought to her. The pang of loneliness which followed her brother Jedediah's departure for the Klondike was as nothing to this. She had promised not to worry, and she must keep that promise, but there was certainly plenty to cause worry. The mortgage which Emily had so comfortably declared “all right” was far from that. Solomon Cobb had not been near her since their interview. He had not yet said that he would renew the mortgage when it fell due. Mrs. Barnes began to fear that he did not intend to renew it.

Heman Daniels, when he came in for supper, seemed disturbed to find that Miss Howes had gone. Somehow or other he had gained the impression that she was to leave the next morning.

“Did she—did Miss Howes leave no message for me?” he inquired, with a carelessness which, to Thankful, seemed more assumed than real.

“No,” answered the latter, “no, unless you call it a message about takin' the responsibility of Holliday Kendrick and his schemes off my hands. That is,” remembering Emily's desire not to have her name mentioned in the matter, “she didn't leave that. But I guess you can take charge of that mess, if you want to.”

Mr. Daniels smiled a superior smile. “I intended doing so,” he said, “as a matter of friendship, Mrs. Barnes. You may rest easy. I have taken pains to let the town-folks know that your interests are mine and I think our—er—late—er—friend is learning what our best citizens think of his attitude.”

There was truth in this statement. John Kendrick had foreseen the effect upon his popularity which his espousal of his wealthy relative's cause might have and his prophecy concerning “moral leprosy” was in process of fulfillment. Opinion in the village was divided, of course. There were some who, like Darius Holt, announced that they did not blame the young yellow. E. Holliday had money and influence and, as a business man, his attorney would be a fool not to stick by the cash-box. But there were others, and these leading citizens and hitherto good friends, who openly expressed disgust both with the rich man and his lawyer. Several of these citizens called upon Thankful to tell her of their sympathy and of their wish to help her in any way.

“Not that you're liable to need help,” said one caller. “This property's yours and even John D. himself couldn't get it from you unless you were willin'. But it's a dirty trick just the same and young Kendrick, that all hands thought was so straight and honest, takin' part in it is the dirtiest thing in it. Well, he's hurt himself more'n he has anybody else.”

Captain Obed Bangs was a gloomy man that fall. He had always liked John and the liking had grown to an ardent admiration and affection. He made several attempts to speak with the young man on the subject, but the latter would not discuss it. He was always glad to see the captain and quite willing to talk of anything but Mrs. Barnes' property and of Emily Howes. These topics were taboo and Captain Obed soon ceased to mention them. Also he no longer made daily calls at the ex-barber-shop and, in spite of himself, could not help showing, when he did call, the resentment he felt. John noticed this and there was a growing coldness between the two.

“But,” declared the captain, stoutly, when he and Thankful were together, “I still say 'tain't so. I give in that it looks as if 'twas, but I tell you there's a nigger in the woodpile somewheres. Some day he'll be dug out and then there's a heap of tattle-tales and character naggers in this town that'll find they've took the wrong channel. They'll be good and seasick, that's what they'll be.”

Mr. E. Holliday Kendrick, if he knew that his own popularity had suffered a shock, did not appear to care. He went on with his plans for enlarging his estate and, when he left East Wellmouth for New York, which he did early in October, told those who asked him that he had left the purchase of the “boarding-house nuisance” in the hands of his attorney. “I shall have that property,” he announced, emphatically. “I may not get it for some time, but I shall get it. I make it a point to get what I go after.”

Emily, in her letters, those written soon after her arrival in South Middleboro, said nothing concerning her plan, the “secret” which was to cheer Mrs. Barnes' loneliness. Thankful could not help wondering what the secret might be, but in her own letters she asked no questions. And, one day in mid-October, that secret was divulged.

Thankful, busy in the kitchen with Imogene, preparing dinner, heard the sound of wheels and horse's hoofs in the yard. Going to the door, she was surprised to see Captain Obed Bangs climbing from a buggy. The buggy was her own and the horse to which it was attached was her own George Washington. Upon the seat of the buggy was a small boy. Thankful merely glanced at the boy; her interest just then centered upon the fact that the captain was, or apparently had been, using her horse and buggy without her knowledge or consent. She certainly had no objection to his so using it, but it was most unlike him to do so.

“Good mornin', ma'am,” he hailed, cheerfully. His eyes were twinkling and he appeared to be in high good humor.

“Why, good mornin', Cap'n,” said Thankful. “I—you—you're goin' somewhere, I should judge.”

The captain shook his head. “No,” he replied, “I've been. Had an errand up to the Centre. I knew somethin' was comin' on the mornin' train so I drove up to fetch it. Thought you wouldn't mind my usin' your horse and buggy. Imogene knew I was usin' it.”

Thankful was surprised. “She did?” she repeated. “That's funny. She didn't say a word to me.”

“No, I told her not to. You see, the—the somethin' I was expectin' was for you, so I thought we'd make it a little surprise. Emily—Miss Howes, she sent it.”

“Emily—sent somethin' to me?”

“Yup.”

“For the land sakes! Well,” after a moment, “did it come? Where is it?”

“Oh, yes, it came. It's right there in the buggy. Don't you see it?”

Thankful looked at the buggy. The only thing in it, so far as she could see, was the little boy on the seat. The little boy grinned.

“Hello, Aunt Thankful,” he said. “I've come to stay with you, I have.”

Thankful started, stared, and then made a rush for the buggy.

“Georgie Hobbs!” she cried. “You blessed little scamp! Come here to me this minute. Well, well, well!”

Georgie came and was received with a bear hug and a shower of kisses.

“Well, well!” repeated Thankful. “And to think I didn't know you! I'm ashamed of myself. And you're the surprise, I suppose. You ARE one, sure and sartin. How did you get here?”

“I came on the cars,” declared Georgie, proudly. “Ma and Emmie put me on 'em and told me to sit right still until I got to Wellmouth Centre and then get off. And I did, too; didn't I, Mr.—I mean Captain Bangs.”

“You bet you did!” agreed the delighted captain. “That's some relation you've got there, Mrs. Barnes. He's little but Oh my! He and I have had a good talk on the way down. We got along fust-rate; hey, commodore? The commodore's agreed to ship second-mate along with me next v'yage I make, if I ever make one.”

Thankful held her “relation”—he was Emily's half-brother and her own favorite next to Emily herself in that family—at arm's length. “You blessed little—little mite!” she exclaimed. “So you come 'way down here all alone just to see your old auntie. Did you ever in your life! And I suppose you're the 'secret' Emily said she had, the one that was to keep me from bein' lonesome.”

Georgie nodded. “Yes,” he said. “Emmie, she's wrote you all about me. I've got the letter pinned inside of me here,” patting his small chest. “And I'm goin' to stay ever so long, I am. I want to see the pig and the hens and the—and the orphan, and everything.”

“So you shall,” declared Thankful. “I'm glad enough to see you to turn the house inside out if you wanted to look at it. And you knew all about this, I suppose?” turning to Captain Obed.

The captain laughed aloud.

“Sartin I did,” he said. “Miss Howes and I have been writin' each other like a couple of courtin' young folks. I knew the commodore was goin' to set sail today and I was on hand up to the depot to man the yards. Forgive me for hookin' your horse and buggy, will you, Mrs. Thankful?”

Forgiveness was granted. Thankful would have forgiven almost anything just then. The “commodore” announced that he was hungry and he was hurried into the house. The cares of travel had not taken away his appetite. He was introduced to Imogene, at whom he stared fixedly for a minute or more and then asked if she was the “orphan.” When told that she was he asked if her mamma and papa were truly dead. Imogene said she guessed they were. Then Georgie asked why, and, after then, what made them that way, adding the information that he had a kitty that went dead one time and wasn't any good any more.

The coming of the “commodore” brought a new touch of life to the High Cliff House, which had settled down for its winter nap. Thankful, of course, read Emily's letter at the first opportunity. Emily wrote that she felt sure Georgie would be company for her cousin and that she had conceived the idea of the boy's visit before leaving East Wellmouth, but had said nothing because she was not sure mother would consent. But that consent had been granted and Georgie might stay until Christmas, perhaps even after that if he was not too great a care.

He was something of a care, there was no doubt of that. Imogene, whom he liked and who liked him, declared that “that young one had more jump in him than a sand flea.” The very afternoon of his arrival he frightened the hens into shrieking hysterics, poked the fat and somnolent Patrick Henry, the pig, with a sharp stick to see if he was alive and not “gone dead” like the kitten, and barked his shins and nose by falling out of the wheelbarrow in the barn. Kenelm, who still retained his position at the High Cliff House and was meek and lowly under the double domination of his fiancee and his sister, was inclined to grumble. “A feller can't set down to rest a minute,” declared Kenelm, “without that young one's jumpin' out at him from behind somethin' or 'nother and hollerin', 'Boo!' Seems to like to scare me into a fit. Picks on me wuss than Hannah, he does.”

But even Kenelm confessed to a liking for the “pesky little nuisance.” Captain Obed idolized him and took him on excursions along the beach or to his own fish-houses, where Georgie sat on a heap of nets and came home smelling strongly of cod, but filled to the brim with sea yarns. And Thankful found in the boy the one comfort and solace for her increasing troubles and cares. Altogether the commodore was in a fair way to become a thoroughly spoiled officer.

With November came the rains again, and, compared with them, those of early September seemed but showers. Day after day and night after night the wind blew and the water splashed against the windows and poured from the overflowing gutters. Patrick Henry, the pig, found his quarters in the new pen, in the hollow behind the barn, the center of the flood zone, and being discovered one morning marooned on a swampy islet in the middle of a muddy lake, was transferred to the old sty, that built by the late Mr. Laban Eldredge, beneath the woodshed and adjoining the potato cellar. Thankful's orderly, neat soul rebelled against having a pig under the house, but, as she expressed it, “'twas either that or havin' the critter two foot under water.”

Captain Obed, like every citizen of East Wellmouth, was disgusted with the weather. “I was cal'latin' to put in my spare time down to the shanty buildin' a new dory,” he said, “but I guess now I'll build an ark instead. If this downpour keeps on I'll need one bad as Noah ever did.”

Heman Daniels, Miss Timpson and Caleb Hammond were now the only boarders and roomers Mrs. Barnes had left to provide for. There was little or no profit in providing for them, for the rates paid by the two last named were not high, and their demands were at times almost unreasonable. Miss Timpson had a new idea now, that of giving up the room she had occupied since coming to the Barnes boarding-house and moving her belongings into the suite at the rear of the second floor, that comprising the large room and the little back bedroom adjoining, the latter the scene of Thankful's spooky adventure on the first night of her arrival in East Wellmouth. These rooms ordinarily rented for much more than Miss Timpson had paid for her former apartment, but she had no thought of paying more for them. “Of course I shouldn't expect to get 'em for the same if 'twas summer,” she explained to Thankful, “but just now, with 'em standin' empty, I might as well move there as not. I know you'll be glad to have me, won't you, Mrs. Barnes, you and me being such good friends by this time.”

And Thankful, although conscious of an injustice somewhere, did not like to refuse her “good friend.” So she consented and Miss Timpson moved into the back rooms. But she no sooner had her trunks carried there than she was struck by another brilliant idea. Thankful, hearing unusual sounds from above that Saturday morning, ascended the back stairs to find the school mistress tugging at the bureau, which she was apparently trying to drag from the small room into the larger.

“It came to me all of a sudden,” panted Miss Timpson, who was out of breath but enthusiastic. “That little room's awful small and stuffy to sleep in, and I do hate to sleep in a stuffy room. But when I was standing there sniffing and looking it came to me.”

“What came to you?” demanded the puzzled Thankful. “What are you talkin' about—the bureau?”

“No, no! The idea! The bureau couldn't come to me by itself, could it? No, the idea came to me. That little room isn't good for much as a bedroom, but it will make the loveliest study. I can put my table and my books in there and move the bed and things in here. Then I'll have a beautiful, nice big bedroom and the cutest little study. And I've always wanted a study. Now if you and Imogene help me with the bureau and bed it'll be all fixed.”

So Imogene, assisted by Kenelm, who was drafted in Thankful's place, spent a good part of the afternoon shifting furniture and arranging the bedroom and the “study.” Miss Timpson superintended, and as she was seldom satisfied until each separate item of the suite's equipment had been changed about at least twice, in order to get the “effect,” all three were nervous and tired when the shifting was over. Miss Timpson should have been happy over the attainment of the study, but instead she appeared gloomy and downcast.

“I declare,” she said, as she and Thankful sat together in the living-room that evening, “I don't know's I've done right, after all. I don't know's I wish I had stayed right where I was.”

“Mercy on us! Why?” demanded Thankful, a trifle impatiently.

“Oh, I don't know. Maybe 'cause I'm kind of tired and nervous tonight. I feel as if—as if something was going to happen to me. I wonder if I could have another cup of tea before I went to bed; it might settle my nerves, you know.”

Considering that the lady had drunk three cups of tea at supper Mrs. Barnes could not help feeling doubtful concerning the soothing effect of a fourth. But she prepared it and brought it into the living-room. Miss Timpson sipped the tea and groaned.

“Do you ever have presentiments, Mrs. Barnes?” she asked.

“Have what?”

“Presentiments? Warnings, you know? I've had several in my life and they have always come to something. I feel as if I was going to have one now. Heavens! Hear that wind and rain! Don't they sound like somebody calling—calling?”

“No, they don't. They sound cold and wet, that's all. Dear me, I never saw such a spell of weather. I thought this mornin' 'twas goin' to clear, but now it's come on again, hard as ever.”

“Well,” with dismal resignation, “we'll all go when our time comes, I suppose. We're here today and gone tomorrow. I don't suppose there's any use setting and worrying. Be prepared, that's the main thing. Have you bought a cemetery lot, Mrs. Barnes? You ought to; everybody had. We can't tell when we're liable to need a grave.”

“Goodness gracious sakes! Don't talk about cemetery lots and graves. You give me the blue creeps. Go to bed and rest up. You're tired, and no wonder; you've moved no less'n three times since mornin', and they say one movin's as bad as a fire. Here! Give me that tea-cup. There's nothin' left in it but grounds, and you don't want to drink THEM.”

Miss Timpson relinquished the cup, took her lamp and climbed the stairs. Her good night was as mournful as a funeral march. Thankful, left alone, tried to read for a time, but the wailing wind and squeaking shutters made her nervous and depressed, so, after putting the key under the mat of the side door for Heman Daniels, who was out attending a meeting of the Masonic Lodge, she, too, retired.

It was not raining when she awoke, but the morning was gray and cloudy. She came downstairs early, so early—for it was Sunday morning, when all East Wellmouth lies abed—that she expected to find no one, not even Imogene, astir. But, to her great surprise, Miss Timpson was seated by the living-room stove.

“Land sakes!” exclaimed Thankful. “Are you up? What's the matter?”

Miss Timpson, who had started violently when Mrs. Barnes entered, turned toward the latter a face as white, so Thankful described it afterward, “as unbleached muslin.” This was not a bad simile, for Miss Timpson's complexion was, owing to her excessive tea-drinking, a decided yellow. Just now it was a very pale yellow.

“Who is it?” she gasped. “Oh, it's you, Mrs. Barnes. It IS you, isn't it?”

“Me? Of course it's me. Have I changed so much in the night that you don't know me? What is it, Miss Timpson? Are you sick? Can I get you anything?”

“No, no. I ain't sick—in body, anyway. And nobody can get me anything this side of the grave. Mrs. Barnes, I'm going.”

“You're GOIN'? What? You don't mean you're dyin'?”

Considering her lodger's remarks of the previous evening, those relating to “going when the time came,” it is no wonder Thankful was alarmed. But Miss Timpson shook her head.

“No,” she said, “I don't mean that, not yet, though that'll come next; I feel it coming already. No, Mrs. Barnes, I don't mean that. I mean I'm going away. I can't live here any longer.”

Thankful collapsed upon a chair.

“Goin'!” she repeated. “You're goin' to leave here? Why—why you've just fixed up to stay!”

Miss Timpson groaned. “I know,” she wailed; “I thought I had, but I—I've changed my mind. I'm going to leave—now.”

By way of proof she pointed to her traveling-bag, which was beside her on the floor. Mrs. Barnes had not noticed the bag before, but now she saw that it was, apparently, packed.

“My trunks ain't ready yet,” went on the schoolmistress. “I tried to pack 'em, but—but I couldn't. I couldn't bear to do it alone. Maybe you or Imogene will help me by and by. Oh, my soul! What was that?”

“What? I didn't hear anything.”

“Didn't you? Well, perhaps I didn't, either. It's just my nerves, I guess! Mrs. Barnes, could you help me pack those trunks pretty soon? I'm going away. I must go. If I stay in this house any longer I shall DIE.”

She was trembling and wringing her hands. Thankful tried to comfort her and did succeed in quieting her somewhat, but, in spite of her questionings and pleadings Miss Timpson refused to reveal the cause of her agitation or of her sudden determination to leave the High Cliff House.

“It ain't anything you've done or haven't done, Mrs. Barnes,” she said. “I like it here and I like the board and I like you. But I must go. I'm going to my cousin's down in the village first and after that I don't know where I'll go. Please don't ask me any more.”

She ate a few mouthfuls of the breakfast which Thankful hastily prepared for her and then she departed for her cousin's. Thankful begged her to stay until Kenelm came, when he might harness the horse and drive her to her destination, but she would not wait. She would not even remain to pack her trunks.

“I'll come back and pack 'em,” she said. “Or perhaps you and Imogene will pack 'em for me. Oh, Mrs. Barnes, you've been so kind. I hate to leave you this way, I do, honest.”

“But WHY are you leavin'?” asked Thankful once more. For the first time Miss Timpson seemed to hesitate. She looked about, as if to make sure that the two were alone; then she leaned forward and whispered in her companion's ear.

“Mrs. Barnes,” she whispered, “I—I didn't mean to tell you. I didn't mean to tell anybody. 'Twas too personal, too sacred a thing to tell. But I don't know's I shan't tell you after all; seem's as if I must tell somebody. Mrs. Barnes, I shan't live much longer. I've had a warning.”

Thankful stared at her.

“Rebecca Timpson!” she exclaimed. “Have you gone crazy? What are you talkin' about? A warnin'!”

“Yes, a warning. I was warned last night. You—you knew I was a twin, didn't you?”

“A which?”

“A twin. Probably you didn't know it, but I used to have a twin sister, Medora, that died when she was only nineteen. She and I looked alike, and were alike, in most everything. We thought the world of each other, used to be together daytimes and sleep together nights. And she used to—er—well, she was different from me in one way—she couldn't help it, poor thing—she used to snore something dreadful. I used to scold her for it, poor soul. Many's the time I've reproached myself since, but—”

“For mercy sakes, what's your sister's snorin' got to do with—”

“Hush! Mrs. Barnes,” with intense solemnity. “As sure as you and I live and breathe this minute, my sister Medora came to me last night.”

“CAME to you! Why—you mean you dreamed about her, don't you? There's nothin' strange in that. When you took that fourth cup of tea I said to myself—”

“HUSH! Oh, hush! DON'T talk so. I didn't dream. Mrs. Barnes, I woke up at two o'clock this morning and—and I heard Medora snoring as plain as I ever heard anything.”

Thankful was strongly tempted to laugh, but the expression on Miss Timpson's face was so deadly serious that she refrained.

“Goodness!” she exclaimed. “Is that all? That's nothin'. A night like last night, with the rain and the blinds and the wind—”

“Hush! It wasn't the wind. Don't you suppose I know? I thought it was the wind or my imagination at first. But I laid there and listened and I kept hearing it. Finally I got up and lit my lamp; and still I heard it. It was snoring and it didn't come from the room I was in. It came from the little back room I'd made into a study.”

Thankful's smile faded. She was conscious of a curious prickling at the roots of her black hair. The back bedroom! The room in which Laban Eldredge died! The room in which she herself had heard—

“I went into that room,” continued Miss Timpson. “I don't know how I ever did it, but I did. I looked everywhere, but there was nobody there, not a sign of anybody. And still that dreadful snoring kept on and on. And then I realized—” with a shudder, “I realized what I hadn't noticed before; that room was exactly the size and shape of the one Medora and I used to sleep in. Mrs. Barnes, it was Medora's spirit that had come to me. Do you wonder I can't stay here any longer?”

Thankful fought with her feelings. She put a hand on the back of her neck and rubbed vigorously. “Nonsense!” she declared, bravely. “You imagined it. Nonsense! Whoever heard of a snorin' ghost?”

But Miss Timpson only shook her head. “Good-by, Thankful,” she said. “I shan't tell anybody; as I said, I didn't mean to tell you. If—if you hear that anything's happened to me—happened sudden, you know—you'll understand. You can tell Imogene and Mr. Daniels and Mr. Hammond that I—that I've gone visiting to my cousin Sarah's. That'll be true, anyway. Good-by. You MAY see me again in this life, but I doubt it.”

She hurried away along the path. Thankful reentered the house and stood in the middle of the kitchen floor, thinking. Then she walked steadily to the foot of the back stairs, ascended them, and walked straight to the apartments so recently occupied by the schoolmistress. Miss Timpson's trunks were there and the greater part of her belongings. Mrs. Barnes did not stop to look at these. She crossed the larger room and entered the little back bedroom.

The clouds were breaking and the light of the November sun shone in. The little room was almost cheerful. There were no sounds except those from without, the neigh of George Washington from his stall, the cackle of the hens, the hungry grunts of Patrick Henry, the pig, in his sty beside the kitchen.

Thankful looked and listened. Then she made a careful examination of the room, but found nothing mysterious or out of the ordinary. And yet there was a mystery there. She had long since decided that her own experience in that room had been imagination, but now that conviction was shaken. Miss Timpson must have heard something; she HAD heard something which frightened her into leaving the boarding-house she professed to like so well. Ghost or no ghost, Miss Timpson had gone; and one more source of income upon which Mrs. Barnes had depended went with her. Slowly, and with the feeling that not only this world but the next was conspiring to bring about the failure of her enterprise and the ruin of her plans and her hopes, Thankful descended the stairs to the kitchen and set about preparing breakfast.