Thankful's Inheritance Part 41

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--"

"Hus.h.!.+ 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--"

"HUs.h.!.+ Oh, hus.h.!.+ 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--"

"Hus.h.!.+ 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 p.r.i.c.kling 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 n.o.body 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 Was.h.i.+ngton 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.

CHAPTER XII

Mr. Caleb Hammond rose that Sunday morning with a partially developed attack of indigestion and a thoroughly developed "grouch."

The indigestion was due to an injudicious partaking of light refreshment--sandwiches, ice cream and sarsaparilla "tonic"--at the club the previous evening. Simeon Baker had paid for the refreshment, ordering the supplies sent in from Mr. Chris Badger's store. Simeon had received an unexpected high price for cranberries s.h.i.+pped to New York, and was in consequence "flush" and reckless. He appeared at the club at nine-thirty, after most of its married members had departed for their homes and only a few of the younger set and one or two bachelors, like Mr. Hammond, remained, and announced that he was going to "blow the crowd." The crowd was quite willing to be blown and said so.

Mr. Hammond ate three sandwiches and two plates of ice cream, also he smoked two cigars. He did not really feel the need of the second cream or the second cigar, but, as they were furnished without cost to him, he took them as a matter of principle. Hence the indigestion.

The "grouch" was due partially to the unwonted dissipation and its consequences and partly to the fact that his winter "flannels" had not been returned by Mrs. Melinda Pease, to whom they had been consigned for mending and overhauling.

It was the tenth of November and for a period of twenty-four years, ever since his recovery from a severe attack of rheumatic fever, Caleb had made it a point to lay aside his summer underwear on the morning of November tenth and don a heavy suit. Weather, cold or warm, was not supposed to have any bearing on this change. The ninth might be as frigid as a Greenland twilight and the tenth as balmy as a Florida noon--no matter; on the ninth Mr. Hammond wore light underwear and s.h.i.+vered; on the tenth he wore his "flannels" and perspired. It was another of his principles, and Caleb had a deserved reputation for adhering to principle and being "sot" in his ways.

So, when, on this particular tenth of November, this Sabbath morning, he rose, conscious of the sandwiches and "tonic," and found no suit of flannels ready for him to don, his grouch began to develop. He opened his chamber door a crack and shouted through the crack.

"Mrs. Barnes," he called. "Hi--i, Mrs. Barnes!"

Thankful, still busy in the kitchen, where she had been joined by Imogene, sent the latter to find out what was the matter. Imogene returned, grinning.

"He wants his flannels," she announced. "Wants to know where them winter flannels Mrs. Pease sent home yesterday are. Why, ain't they in his room, he says."

Thankful sniffed. Her experience with Miss Timpson, and the worry caused by the latter's leaving, had had their effect upon her patience.

"Mercy sakes!" she exclaimed. "Is that all? I thought the house was afire. I don't know where his flannels are. Why should I? Where'd Melindy put 'em when she brought 'em here?"