“Something is worrying you,” he said, “and if you don’t tell me I shall go to your aunt and tell her to investigate. And if I know that lady, she can.”
“S. K.,” I begged, “please.”
But he was not softened. “Come on, Nat. No foolishness,” he said, and almost sternly. “Something worrying you about the bracelet?”
I nodded, and then, somehow, the story came out.
I gave him the letter, the little bit of cloth that had been left on my window-sill, and the notes that were signed E. J. He felt badly that I had borne it alone and called himself all sorts of names for taking it so lightly.
“Dear child,” he said, “why didn’t you show me these things before?”
“You said I was foolish, that there were no such things as ghosts,” I answered.
“There aren’t. Someone’s playing a joke on you. . . . And it will stop. I will see that it is stopped, and the person shall be punished.”
I told him his chin stuck out two inches farther when he was fierce, but he didn’t laugh at my joke.
“And you weren’t imagining when you told me that someone had felt for your bracelet when you fell from your horse on Riverside Drive?”
I said, “Of course not,” and quite indignantly. Then I began to see that they had all thought I was hysterical and silly and made up these tales from the creakings of floors and lost flashlights.
“I haven’t told them anything recently,” I said, “because they laughed. But the trap did catch someone, S. K. I did not mislay it afterward; I heard it snap, and that was the night this piece of cloth was torn from his or her clothes. And sometimes the bracelet comes back. It slides in----”
“How?” he asked.
I told him.
“Why didn’t you tell them, here?” he questioned.
I said it had annoyed aunt and that she had asked me not to think of it, since it was clearly impossible and a half-dream of mine, and not to mention it to Amy.
“And you didn’t believe me either,” I said. “Not that I blame you; it did sound crazy, but there simply wasn’t anyone to tell.”
“I shall never forgive myself for this,” he said, “never. . . . That I should fail you----” Then he shook his shoulders, frowned, and went on with: “There must be some explanation, and we will have it. That bracelet walking in by itself is clearly impossible, and its leaving the same way too----”
“But the ghost that Mademoiselle Nitschke heard?” I questioned.
“My dear,” he said, “there were three quarrelling families under one roof. Don’t you think it natural that one, if he could disturb the other, would try to do so? Why Will Chase, or the other one, could have thought of a thousand ways to make rappings and so frighten the Pérys out of their wits. And if he or the other one--frightened them so that they would leave the old place, so much to the good. One less family to disagree with, more room. Can’t you see it? . . . We’ll say that one of the Chase men went out at twelve and threw a ball against the wall of the Pérys’ room, then say he crept inside, took a heavy cane on which he tied a pad, so that the ceiling wouldn’t be marred, stepped up on a chair, and whanged that. . . . Then--Mr. Péry leaps from his chair in fright. Mr. Chase goes on pounding as a smile gradually widens on his face; someone above speaks, the Chase individual can hear the voice since the doors are open, and, although it was a mansion for that day, it is not a great house for to-day. The sounds easily carry, and especially since it is night and a ‘calm September one, in which hardly a leaf stirred.’ He pounds three times, and up above three quaking people think a question is answered and that a ghost walks and thumps. . . . Why, there would be countless ways for him to make noises that would frighten the Pérys into hysteria, and as for Madam Jumel clothed in white coming to anyone’s bedside--well, anyone can wear a long white robe, and faces cannot be seen in the dark.”
“Do you think that that was it?” I asked, a good deal relieved.
“I certainly do, Nat,” he replied. “Usually things of that sort have the most simple explanations. And this matter must have too. Now to-night you are going to bring that bracelet down to me.”
I said: “Oh no!”
“Or let me take it now,” he went on. “I have a wall safe, you know, and I imagine it won’t be bothered there.”
I protested for several minutes, but at length I had to give in.
“I’ll bring it down to you later,” I temporized.
“Honestly?” he said.
I said, “Honestly,” and I meant to, since S. K. wanted me to. Then, because he had come in for only a second after the matinée (Amy, Uncle Frank, and I had gone with him and had a beautiful time), he went, and we sat down before the living-room fire and talked.
At six the bell rang and Ito admitted that man to whom I had talked on the diner. He made a great deal of noise in the hall, and I heard him tell Ito that the “little lady” had told him to look her up. And then he asked Ito if I wasn’t “some looker” and added that the apartment was “a spiffy roost,” and I began to worry, because I knew aunt would not like him. I didn’t know what to do. I didn’t want to hurt his feelings, and I didn’t want to annoy her.
Ito showed him in, and he settled before the fire. He talked a great deal and in a carrying tone, while Amy put her chin higher and higher in the air, and uncle looked over his glasses. Then aunt came in, talked to Mr. Bilkins, for such was his name, and told him that she was sorry I must be excused, but that I was going out, and so--she stood up after that, and he did too, and then Ito took possession of him and he was shunted out.
I felt sorry for him, sorry for myself; and for Aunt Penelope, for she felt that I had disgraced her. I knew that her standards were wrong when she thought that loud voices and too much slang made a person “impossible”--that is, that they would be wrong, if the person’s spirit was splendid and only the trimmings were off--but I did not know about this man’s spirit. I only knew that I had asked him to my aunt’s house before I knew much about the world’s ways of doing things, and that it was not wise or sensible to do. I said I was very sorry, but she couldn’t get over it, and Ito had to bring her smelling-salts, and a fan, although the room was not over warm.
“Some toney joint,” she kept muttering between sniffs of her salts, which was a quotation from Mr. Bilkins. Then she asked me never, never, never to do such a thing again, and I said I wouldn’t. After which I went to my room, for the atmosphere was not congenial. I noticed Uncle Frank as I left the room. He was deep in that book he had given me, and I envied him, and I wished I could forget myself through bugs, or anything. Someone--I don’t know who--said, “Collect something, it doesn’t matter what,” and I think that someone was thinking of the forgetting possibilities which come through a hobby. For the happiest person has moments when he needs something to make him forget unhappiness.
In my room I considered the bracelet affair and decided I COULD NOT risk S. K.’s being hurt. For, when aunt and the rest are put out with me, I realize how much I depend on him. I wondered what I would do if he were hurt, or killed; whom I would turn to if I had done something impossible and needed cheering.
I studied it a long time, and then I went down to S. K.
“My soul!” he said, “what a long face the bracelet leads us to wear!”
“Oh, S. K.,” I answered, “I don’t want to give it to you!”
Then he said: “What nonsense! . . .” Just at that moment his man told him that someone wanted to speak with him at the telephone; he excused himself, and I had a chance to think. It did not seem to me that I could let him run that risk. I opened the case, looked down at the bracelet, and considered it. Then I heard S. K. coming back, quickly moved, snapped the case shut, tied it with the ribbon, and said: “Here.” My voice was not usual.
“So she thinks I am going to be killed, does she?” asked S. K.
“Don’t,” I begged, and then I stood up, for it was getting late, and I was still in day things, and Amy and I were to go to see a friend after dinner. I saw him put it in his wall safe, shook hands, asked him please not to bother to come up with me, and ran off.
I found Amy using my dressing-table because it has a better light than hers.
“Mother is frightfully shocked,” she said. “I think that man upset her fearfully, Natalie. I think it was the strangest thing for you to do----” Her voice trailed off and she turned to see how her hair looked at the back.
“I didn’t know at that time,” I began, but she cut me short.
“She wonders how many more people you talked to,” she went on, “and she hopes that this Mr. Stilkins, or whatever his name was, isn’t a sample of them all. How did you start it, anyway? . . . I knew that cooks did that sort of thing, but I never knew how they began it.”
I saw that she was feeling disagreeable, and attributed it to too much candy, but this reasoning did not diminish my wish to thump her. This was strong. But--I tried to hold my temper and explain.
“Don’t bother,” she said right in the middle of my words. “I’m not really interested.” And then she began to hum and, doing this, left the room. I did hate her. I think that is the meanest feminine trick of all, that humming after you’ve made the other person mad. If I had my way I’d make that a criminal offence.
I slammed things a little after she left, which is my way of showing temper, and then I forgot it all, for Uncle Frank asked if he might come in. He wanted to read aloud a few pages about how the aigrette makes her nest and takes care of her young.
After he finished he said: “And every time a woman wears them she leaves a mother bird dead and little ones starving. Ho hum--don’t--think--it’s--worth it.”
I said I didn’t either. I never had, and I have wondered how women could, but I think perhaps it is because they don’t imagine. A great many troubles are made that way, simply because someone fails to realize how the other person (or aigrette) will feel from something that they themselves say (or wear).
Amy was bad tempered all evening. She called me her “country cousin” in public, which wasn’t polite, and told how I had got tangled up in the silver at first. She brought it in nicely, and people laughed, but I did not think it was kind. Then she sulked all the way going home, and only spoke when we were a block from the door.
“Some people like admiration and work for it,” she said. “I, myself, don’t.” And then I realized that it was not too much candy, but jealousy, and that even the calling of this man who did not attract me had impressed Amy.
“I don’t care for it,” I answered shortly.
“Oh no!” she agreed, and too loudly. “I realize you don’t!”
I gave up and resorted to silence. No one can do anything with Amy when she feels that way. And we parted with cool good-nights.
The next morning something happened that was funny. Another person came to ask for me. Amy heard Ito admit him and told Ito to let him wait in the hall.
“So many strange people coming, Ito,” she said loudly (I heard this afterward); “I think it would be wisest to let him wait in the hall.”
Then I was called and I faced--Willy Jepson.
“Hello, Nat,” he said loudly. “I’m going to Columbia, starting this term. Wouldn’t let your uncle tell you. How are you?”
I said I was well.
“You’re looking it,” he asserted, and I could see that he was impressed with my clothes. Then we went into the library, and I could see that Amy liked Willy’s looks, but evidently he did not like hers.
“Have you met before?” I asked, for Amy was smiling so widely that I thought they had.
“No,” answered Willy, “your cousin told the Jap to let me wait in the hall--and so I heard her voice, but we have not met.” Willy was insulted by that. He told me so afterward.
“Nat,” he said, “all the instincts of a Southern gentleman were outraged in me by that order. I, the son of Colonel Jepson of Queensburg, Virginia, am not used to waiting in halls!” Willy has quite a little dignity when he wants to use it, and, like all Southern men, puts out his chest a tiny bit when he speaks of the fact that he is a Southerner. To be just, Amy did not understand how frightful he thought it was, but in our town anyone but a nigger is asked in, and warmly welcomed. Even Mr. Bilkins would have stopped for supper with anyone of our first families. We are built that way and the North is not, that is all.
Amy smiled at Willy and asked him to come over and sit with her beside the fire. He complied rather stiffly.
“I’ve heard of you,” she said. “Natalie has told me so many things about how you two played around together----” And that seemed funny, because she never would listen when I started, but I didn’t correct her. Willy said: “Indeed, Miss James?” But you could tell it was just something to say.
Then the bell rang, and Ito appeared, to give me a message.
Mr. Kempwood, it seemed, asked if I would come down immediately? The matter was urgent. I excused myself and, wondering, hurried to S. K.’s rooms. I thought it was strange that he hadn’t gone to business, strange that he had sent for me instead of coming up.
He himself admitted me, and his face was worried. He did not smile.
“Nat,” he said, “I have bad news. The bracelet is gone. Come in. This is the way that things were found this morning----”
I followed him and looked. The door of the wall safe was open, and papers were strewn across the floor. Near a window was the box of yellowed satin, which had always held my bracelet. This was wide open, the lid torn from the back, and empty.
I could hardly speak, but I clutched S. K.’s arm and whispered: “You were not hurt?”
“No, my dear, but----” he answered. I could see that the bracelet loss bothered him.
“Sit down,” I said, “I want to talk.” He did, and I settled too. “S. K.,” I began, “I want to tell you something. I know where that bracelet is----”
He leaned forward, and I told him.