Chapter 2

BOBWHITE

I went back to bed, but not to sleep. The moon had set, and the pitch
dark of the old house intensified all my foolish fancies. Over and over
I went through the round of morbid thought: my nephew’s marriage, the
bleak, friendless future that awaited me; this dismal old barracks,
pervaded by the sinister odor of honeysuckle; the faint, mysterious
creakings and stirrings of its ancient walls. I caught myself listening,
breathless, for a repetition of that awful screech; I vowed that nothing
should induce me to spend another night in the haunted place. I paid
Dorothy and her aunt the meed of a tremendous admiration because they
accepted this Poltergeist so calmly.

Sleep stood far off from me, while the night dragged inexorably on, and
the deep-toned grandfather clock on the landing tolled out hour after
hour. At last I felt the first subtle changes of coming dawn.

From somewhere a fugitive breeze, the merest vagrant breath of air,
stirred in the solemn pines, so that they whispered. The leaves of the
honeysuckle vines at my window moved, and the heavy scent of their
flowers poured in more strongly. The air seemed cleaner, cooler. One
could not say that it was lighter, but the darkness grew more bearable.
And then, little by little, the east faded, turned gray, lavender, pink;
then it began to flush with the first, faint, exquisite tints that
precede sunrise.

I sighed deep and turned over. My weary, strained limbs relaxed. Now
that the night was gone, and daylight began to be a promise almost
fulfilled, ghosts troubled me no longer, nor did sad thoughts have power
to haunt me. “Joy cometh in the morning,” the psalmist said. To me came
peace at least, and I settled to rest.

My lids were heavy with that delicious languor which welcomes sleep
after a long, troubled night; an insistent whistling, right under my
window, roused me.

I sat up, muttering angrily. Some milkman, no doubt, or some furnace
boy, wooing the cook. There it was again; a fine hour for love-making!
Would she never wake up? Confound all cooks and their swains!

Then my delightful drowse fled away, leaving me wide awake, my last hope
of slumber gone. I knew that this was no amorous milkman, whose racket
might be hushed by well-directed abuse.

“Bob_white_! Bob_white_!”

I held an aching head between my hands. That insistent two-toned
whistle, repeated again and again, in maddening iteration, came from no
man, but a bird--the “bobwhite,” the quail of North Carolina, which some
misguided idiots would have protected as a songbird!

But now it was full light, and, I suppose, something after five o’clock.
With a dispirited sigh I arose and began to dress slowly. I had made
more of a sacrifice than I realized when I offered, in my innocence, to
spend the night at Fort House.

I shaved and dressed leisurely, to the accompaniment of bobwhite’s
continual clamor; at last I descended the wide stairs silently, lest I
wake others. I heard no stir from Dorothy’s room; she, no doubt, was
well used to the song of quail. As I may have said, Fort House stood
apart and alone in its grove of pines, and wild quail might well nest in
the tangle of scrub oaks behind it. They sang under her window every
morning, I suppose, so that Dorothy heard them no longer. But I rejoiced
privately that the house I shared with my nephew, Lewis Parker, stood
close to its neighbors and far off from wild birds and, I hoped, wilder
ghosts.

But, as I reached the ground floor and tiptoed past Aunt Mary’s door, I
had proof that bobwhite had disturbed others beside myself. For all her
long stay in this house, Miss McGregor was not yet used to the outcry of
quail, it appeared.

“Miss Christie!” I heard. “Miss Christie! Dear me, has she gone to sleep
again? Miss Christie!”

A sleepy murmur from the inner room.

“Miss Christie! Get dressed, please, and go out. See if you can’t drive
that wretched bird away; I can’t stand it any longer!”

I smiled to myself, for the sweet, resigned voice had turned sharp,
almost irritable. Plainly there were limits even to Aunt Mary’s
patience. And from without the whistle of that miserable quail continued
monotonously: “Bob_white_!” Three seconds, then: “Bob_white_!”

Then I went on into the living room, selected a book and settled myself
to wait for breakfast. It might have been an hour before I heard voices
at the rear of the house; they came closer, sounded from the dining
room, just behind me. I listened frankly, welcoming any signs of human
companionship after my long vigil; for nothing is so lonely as a
deserted sitting room in the early morning, when all but yourself are
still in their rooms.

“Yassum, Miss Dor’thy, thassall, ma’am. Them two gold-banded chiny cups
done gone bust, an’ th’ sweet potato pie all et up.”

“Oh, dear!” That was Dorothy’s voice. “I don’t mind the pie so much, but
I do wish the ghost wouldn’t break my best dishes, Rosina.”

The Poltergeist retained an appetite for material dainties, it seemed!
For some reason that touch rendered it less formidable to my fancy;
besides, it was now bright sunlight, and who fears ghosts in the
daytime? I felt very courageous.

But the cook was speaking again, in a rich, throaty drawl. “Yassum, Miss
Dor’thy. Them ghosteses ain’t got no apershashun, is they? But, ma’am, I
done got my satisfy of ghosteses, Miss Dor’thy. I’se standed ’em too
long. Cain’t leave you-all ontwel th’ weddin’, a-course; but when
you-all gits safe married, Fort House is th’ place I’se a-gwine t’ be
anywheres else in No’th Ca’lina but! Yassum, Miss Dor’thy! You heahs
me!”

Dorothy sighed. “We’ll all be leaving then, I hope, Rosina. It is a
spooky old place, I know, but Aunt Mary likes it here.”

Rosina departed kitchenward, muttering something unintelligible which I
fancied was less than complimentary to Miss McGregor; and Dorothy pushed
aside the portière and saw me.

“Why, good morning, Uncle George! You’re up early.”

I rose rather stiffly, for this night had done my rheumatism no good,
and bowed.

“Good morning, Dorothy! Did you sleep well?”

“Not very.” However she looked fresh as a rose, and her blue eyes shone.
Her thick black hair was coiled simply about a shapely head; she wore
some sort of filmy silk robe of a pale blue color, and ravishingly
pretty she looked in it, too.

“The Poltergeist upset my night,” she went on. “I got up early to see
what damage he’d done this time. You’ll excuse me for coming out so
informally?” She looked down at her negligee with a bright blush. “I’m
going to skip right back upstairs and dress now--honest I am.”

“You look very sweet, my dear.” I am old enough to say such things quite
impersonally. “But tell me first about the ghost.”

She blushed again. “Why--why, Uncle George, it seems so silly!”

“Silly!” I repeated. “There was nothing silly about that scream in the
night; it brought the goose flesh out all over me.”

“Well,” she admitted. “But you see I’ve heard it so often, and it’s
never done any harm.”

“Often? You never mentioned it before.”

Her color heightened further at my tone of reproach. She came closer and
perched on the arm of my chair, smoothing my old bald head gently.

“No, I never spoke of it. Even Lewis doesn’t know--except he’s heard
Peter joking about it sometimes. Maybe I’ll tell him after we’re
married; but I couldn’t bear to have him laugh at me. It’s bad enough to
have your brother always making fun, without your--your fiancé, too. But
the ghost--well, it’s come a dozen times or more. The first time
was--let me see! It was about a year ago. I know it was after mother
died, and Aunt Mary came here to live, because I remember how indignant
she was. Just pooh-poohed and said it was all my imagination. But
afterward she heard it, too; and then she began to read and study about
spirits, until now she’s a confirmed spiritualist--uses the ouija board
and everything. But she never wants the Poltergeist talked about outside
the family.

“What does it do? Why, little, mean tricks. It gets into the cupboards
and steals things and breaks dishes; and it bangs the furniture about,
and sometimes it screams like it did last night. Peter sat up to watch
several times, but he never saw anything, though one night it pulled the
chair out from under him. Peter claims he just went to sleep and fell
over, but I know better. It was the Poltergeist! Aunt Mary claims you
never can see them--they’re invisible. She says they never do any real
harm, only these little tricks, like breaking dishes and all that. But
it is kind of unsettling, Uncle George. I’ll be glad when Lewis and I
are married, and we can leave this old house for good. Only think, Uncle
George, three days more!”

Then she jumped up with a cry. “My goodness, Lewis is coming over to
breakfast, and here it is seven o’clock and after, and me not even
dressed! I must run. Bother the Poltergeist! Aunt Mary’ll tell you all
about it, if you can once get her started. She loves to talk about
ghosts. I’ve often wondered how she refrained from telling Lewis. And
say”--she darted back to my side and whispered--“say, Uncle George, be
awful nice to her this morning; jolly her up a little, will you? She
will be in a terrible temper, I’m afraid.”

She dropped a swift kiss upon my bald spot and ran out.

I settled back to wait for breakfast, rather impatiently, I must admit,
for the night had tired me, and I craved hot coffee. But in twenty
minutes Dorothy was back, demure and immaculate in a little
blue-and-white gingham.

“Come along,” she urged. “Let’s go in and get started. We won’t wait for
Lewis; he’ll be along directly. I want everything fixed and ready before
Aunt Mary comes out.”

So she led the way into the dining room, and I followed gratefully. I
sat down, and Dorothy began to hurry Rosina.

“Quick, Rosina,” she directed. “Bring in the coffeepot and those
muffins. And get a fresh pat of butter; this looks mussy. I hear aunty.”

The fat, motherly black cook gave one apprehensive glance at the
doorway, smoothed her crisp apron and fled. I wondered briefly that her
household should be in such patent fear of that sweet, heroic old lady,
Miss Mary McGregor.

Then I, too, heard the creak of her wheel chair, and presently Aunt Mary
appeared in the door, riding in the invalid’s chair in which she spent
all her waking hours. Miss Christie propelled it, looking fresh and
wholesome enough, in her clean white uniform, but yawning still. She was
a sleepy sort of girl, a very sleepy sort!

Aunt Mary greeted us with her sad, patient smile, a smile to bring tears
to your eyes, it was so obviously a struggle against despair. My heart
went out to her for her pathetic bravery, poor, frail old lady! Her
high-bred face beneath the crown of snow-white hair was pale and worn;
she sighed deeply.

“Good morning, all,” she quavered, her eyes bright with unshed tears;
then she bit her lip and smiled again determinedly.

“Good morning, aunty. Why, you’re looking quite bright, aren’t you?
Wheel her right up here, Miss Christie; everything’s all ready. Here,
aunty, here’s your orange juice, all iced. Drink it right down, there’s
a dear. Rosina! A nice, hot cup of coffee for Aunty Mary--quick! I got
up early, Aunt Mary, on purpose to make muffins for you: don’t they look
nice and appetizing? I’ll butter one and just pop it into your mouth,
shall I? I’m sure you’re hungry this morning; you look so rested. You
must have had a very good night.”

Breathlessly, with a sort of desperate gayety, Dorothy talked against
time. Her aunt listened impatiently, still wearing that pathetic smile;
with parted lips she evidently waited only an opportunity to interrupt.
And now she found it.

“A good night!” She sighed deeply, tragically. “My dear! As though my
nights were ever restful. I’m used to wakeful nights, and you know I’m
not one to complain of the afflictions the Lord has seen fit to visit
upon me. I try to bear them patiently and to keep sweet. But last night
was terrible! It was so sweet of you, my dear, to come to my door in the
night. Dorothy is always so thoughtful of her poor old aunt, Mr. Uhlman.
I hadn’t heard a sound; I was just beginning to doze off, and I thought
to myself, ‘I do believe I’m going to rest an hour or two,’ when Dorothy
knocked at the door. It was very kindly; Dorothy is inclined to be timid
about the manifestations, Mr. Uhlman--the Poltergeist, you know. She
hasn’t studied spiritism as deeply as I have, of course. She naturally
thinks I am timid, too; and so, being the most unselfish of children,
she comes to me at once. Bless her! I hope you had no trouble getting
about, Mr. Uhlman; those stairs creak so, I’m always afraid some one may
stumble. I heard you going back to your room. I’d been feeling so
rested, but, after you two had gone, I had such a terrible palpitation,
and my neck knotted very badly. You know, Mr. Uhlman, I have so much
trouble with the back of my neck. I can’t think what brought it on. I
was resting so nicely before you two came in, but afterward I had such a
hard time!”

She paused to heave a vast sigh and absorb an equally vast bite of
buttered muffin. “But I mustn’t complain. I’m only thankful that the
Lord sends me strength to bear my troubles patiently. I did get settled
a trifle about daybreak, and then the birds began. Those quail, you
know, bobwhites! I suppose it’s my condition and perfectly absurd, so,
of course, I never complain about it; but those birds set my nerves on
edge so I can feel it all down my spine and into my limbs. You’ve no
idea. I bore it as long as I could, but finally I was simply compelled
to call Miss Christie.” She paused to cough. “I’m rather hoarse, I’m
afraid. Miss Christie sleeps so soundly, the poor dear!” Here she gave
her nurse an affectionate smile. “I’m a dreadful trouble to you, am I
not? Eventually I managed to wake her, and she threw a stick out of the
window to drive the birds away. By that time my back was paining me so I
couldn’t possibly rest.”

Aunt Mary stopped, beamed upon us with that plaintive, angelic look and
devoted herself to her muffins and coffee. Having succeeded so admirably
in putting us all three in the wrong, apportioning justly to each his
share in her discomforts of the night, all in the sweetest, most kindly
fashion in the world, she appeared to feel rather better. We others
looked at our plates. I, for one, felt my ears burn, and my appetite
seemed to have left me. I began to realize that it is not always easy to
live with the most sweetly patient of invalids. And yet Dorothy’s
attitude seemed rather callous. Poor Aunt Mary! She had a great deal to
bear, after all! I reproached myself for having added, however
unwittingly, to her discomforts.

Upon the little hush came the sound of the doorbell, and Dorothy flew to
answer it, her face brightening beautifully. Presently she returned,
clinging to the arm of my nephew, Doctor C. Lewis Parker. Tall and spare
he towered above her, and his black eyes looked down adoringly into her
blue ones.

“Good morning, Aunt Mary!” He bowed over her frail hand with a stately
courtesy that was not unbecoming. “Hello, Uncle George. Good morning,
Miss Christie. Sorry to be late, honey. I had to make a call. Did you
save me some coffee? Oh, good morning, Rosina! You didn’t forget me, did
you?”

The fat cook beamed at him, rolling admiring eyes. Servants are always
fond of my nephew. “Nossuh, Mist’ Lewis--doctah, Ah means. Ah done
fetched yuh a special cup, made strong, suh.”

The doctor sat down and unfolded his napkin. “Well, honey, what were you
talking about?”

Dorothy smiled demurely, with a sly glance at me. “Why, about ghosts,
Lewis--about our ancestral spook.”

Lewis stared and stroked his little black mustache. His face was square,
and his high cheek bones gave it a solemn look, almost Indian. “About
ghosts? Nonsense! There’s no such thing as a ghost!” If my nephew had a
fault, it was that he was a shade too serious, a bit too literal-minded.
He was not overendowed with humor.

His pronouncement provoked a frank laugh from Dorothy. I think she
thoroughly enjoyed his solemnity. But Miss McGregor bridled.

“Indeed! Young man----” Then she broke off quite suddenly and resumed
her normal sweetness of temper. One might have fancied that she did not
care to discuss spirits with Lewis. “My niece is jesting,” she went on,
with a pale, patient smile. “I’m afraid I wearied her. It is too easy to
bore the young and healthy, when one is an old, worthless invalid. I’m
sorry, my dear. I know I must be a great trial, but I’m thankful that I
can drop into the background gracefully. I bear my trials as best I can.
You all know I never complain. I realize that I can’t expect much
attention from happy, care-free young folks, and I don’t look for it. I
know an invalid is always a burden, so I try not to make things too hard
for poor Dorothy; she’s so self-sacrificing! Ah, if I were only able,
how I would love to turn in and help get ready for the wedding! But all
I can do is sit back and wish you well, children, and say nothing when
my few wants are forgotten. I know I can’t expect attention with a
wedding only three days off, and I don’t expect it. I just love the
happy stir and bustle of preparation; I seem to grow young again,
because I share Dorothy’s pleasure so keenly. Perhaps it’s that which
has made me so restless of late. I’ve suffered much more than usual this
week; no doubt it has been the excitement. But I wouldn’t have it
changed for worlds; I enjoy it so! What are a few more sleepless nights,
a few more pains, to me? I have had so many--so many!” She sighed
deeply, with that sweet, suffering smile of one too ethereal for this
rough world. “You must bear with me, children. A few days, and you’ll be
gone, happy in each other, leaving me to my solitude and suffering. Ah,
it’s better so! I shall be happy, knowing that I am no longer a damper
on your joys.”

Aunt Mary wiped away a tear and looked more seraphic than ever. Dorothy
and Lewis, unreasonably enough, appeared rather downcast.

The girl looked whimsically at Lewis; I fancy she squeezed his hand
under the table. Then she dropped her napkin and, under cover of
retrieving it, whispered swiftly to me:

“Don’t mind aunty--in bad temper!”

So she seemed to be. I was rather taken aback by the revelation. I
wondered how often Miss McGregor was in this mood, and my sympathy for
her niece increased momently. If the old lady had been humanly irritable
it wouldn’t have been so bad; but this pious, sweet-toned flood of
indirect complaint was hard to bear. One felt hopelessly in the wrong;
one felt that Aunt Mary was forbearing and magnanimous in spite of her
pains; and one rebelled thereat.

“I’m sorry you’re having a bad time,” said Lewis apologetically. “Is
there anything I could do, Aunt Mary?”

She sighed. “I think I could stand everything else if it weren’t for the
quail. Doctor Parker”--she never could be induced to call my nephew
“Lewis”--“Doctor Parker, those birds drive me almost mad! You know, I
sleep very poorly; about dawn I used to be able to settle down for a
little nap. But it’s just then that the quail begin: ‘Bob_white_!
bob_white_!’--until I could just scream with the knots in my neck. I
don’t know what’s going to become of me; I can’t stand it much longer.
You know I’m not one to complain; I try to bear my burdens patiently,
but I’ve reached the end of my strength. Dorothy and Peter don’t realize
how I’ve been tried, because I never talk about it; Peter just laughs,
when he could have taken his gun and driven them away. But, if those
quail keep whistling under my window much longer, I shall go mad!”

She finished in a rush of words, as her face contorted queerly, and her
eyes reddened and filled with tears.

“Oh, aunty!” cried Dorothy remorsefully.

My nephew rose and came round the table to pat the old lady’s hand
comfortingly. “Never mind, Aunt Mary; I’ll see to it for you. Peter
won’t be back till to-morrow night, but I’m sure he wouldn’t mind my
borrowing his shotgun. I’ll get up at daybreak in the morning and come
over here and shoot those quail for you. There can’t be more than three
or four, I don’t think; they’ve nested into the scrub oaks out back,
most likely. I’ll see to it, Aunt Mary, don’t you fret any more!”

Miss McGregor seemed a little comforted. “I’m a troublesome old woman,”
she sighed, “but you don’t realize what I suffer!” Then she rewarded
Lewis with her sweet, patient smile, albeit a bit weak and watery.