Chapter Thirty

“Mr. Buckthorn?”

Jonas was startled out of his reverie.  How long had he been standing, he wondered, rag in one hand and a paintbrush in the other.  Miss Ringworthy stood before him, an impish smile gracing her lips.

“I hope you weren’t thinking about the house.  Your face looked quite sad and disturbed while you were lost in your thoughts.”

“Oh, no,” Jonas started to lie, and then thought better about it.  “Actually, I was thinking about my mother and my father.”  And before Miss Ringworthy could embarrass them both by asking after their health, Jonas quickly added, “They both died ten years ago . . . today.”  He blinked his eyes.  Yes, today was the anniversary of their death.  No wonder he felt so preoccupied.

“Oh, I am terribly sorry,” exclaimed Miss Ringworthy with great warmth and genuine sincerity.  She stepped a little closer to Jonas as if she wanted to put her hand on his arm.  He didn’t move, hoping that she might reach out and touch him.  Instead she asked with some hesitation, “This was before you came to Constance?”
He thought her question curious, under the circumstances.  To go from his acknowledgement that today was the anniversary of his parents’ death to her expressed sympathy and now to an almost casual, conversational question.  And then he remembered:  Miss Ringworthy’s parents had died in an auto accident on their way back from attending Miss Ringworthy’s college graduation ceremony.  He had overheard Mrs. Parrish talk about it at one of the church socials.  Miss Ringworthy had originally planned to seek employment in the city, but upon becoming an orphan with not even siblings to give her comfort, she returned instead to the Town of Constance and made a public vow never to leave it.  Mrs. Parrish had said, and many listening to her story agreed, that Miss Ringworthy blamed herself for her parents’ death and hoped to atone by becoming a school teacher in Constance.  It had been her mother’s wish.

So Jonas relaxed, understanding the underlying meaning of Miss Ringworthy’s question.  He looked at her and smiled.

“Yes, it was before I came here and it is also why I came here.  Perhaps some day we might meet for coffee and I can tell you all about it.”  He knew he was being a bit forward; most women in Constance would have found his suggestion impolite merely because he and Miss Ringworthy barely knew each other.  As he suspected, however, Miss Ringworthy was not offended, no doubt due to her experiences in the city.  Rather, she said she would be delighted to meet with him and then, as if to keep this happy moment with her for a long while, she quickly took her leave, saying that the Makepeace girls were waiting for her in the kitchen.

Jonas laughed to himself as he saw Miss Ringworthy put a little skip in her step as she hurried along the hallway.  So, we have a great deal in common, he thought to himself.  Both orphans.  Both having lived on the outside.  Both now living alone.  Both lonely?  He heard a slight chuckling sound as if someone had eavesdropped on his thoughts and was laughing good-humoredly about his apparent growing infatuation with Miss Ringworthy.  He looked around but saw no one else in his corner of the upstairs hallway.  A line of women and girls were streaming down the staircase and toward the kitchen, but they took no notice of him, perhaps not even realizing he was there.

“You would do well to court Miss Ringworthy,” a voice inside Jonas’s head said.  “You would do well.”  Jonas blushed, murmured an awkward “thank you,” and then dashed off to follow his troops and help them prepare their afternoon tea.

Chapter Twenty-Nine

The town deliberated for many months over what to do.  It was obvious the hippies had no money and few if any possessions.  It would have gone against their sense of charity to force them out.  But they were becoming a nuisance, with their loitering and poor hygiene.  Not all of them were this way, which is another reason why the town tried to stay open-minded.  A few had taken immediately to the town culture, and within days of their arrival, they were actively involved in the gardening and harvesting, learning the intricacies of woodworking, even going to market.  They donated what few books they had brought with them to the town library and would read aloud to whoever cared to stop and listen.  It was a great boon to the children to have “story hour” added to their choice of entertainment.  Eventually these few hippies assimilated to the point of marrying within the town families, and they themselves began to participate in the deliberations about what to do about the others. 

“The choice was made for them,” the sisters had said.  “It was winter and the days were very short.  The sun didn’t rise until well after seven.  It was a Sunday and nobody was out on the darkened streets yet, except for the elder Reverend Goodheart.  He was coming early to the church to start the fires to warm up the large rooms.  But as he stood before the side door, he heard faint gasping and soft thuds, like someone slipping on the icy sheet that covered the ground.  He turned and saw a figure, a female figure, staggering toward him.  It wasn’t until she was right before him, reaching out her arms to him, that he recognize young Shelley Windsprite.  Poor dear Shelley,” they had said, shaking their head. 

“The poor thing, she was only fifteen at the time, she was practically frozen.  She was—“ and here they blushed and looked away from their audience.  “She was without clothes, not a stitch on, and there was blood all over her legs and backside.  They said her face was scratched and there was blood in her hair.  They said she cried, “Father, father” over and over and then collapsed in the elder Reverend Goodheart’s arms.  They said that he gathered her up and that he said she was so light and little, that he could have been carrying a baby for all he knew.  His heart was quite broken for he knew immediately what had happened. 

“He said nothing to her parents after they let him in and they said nothing in return.  They all just went about cleaning Shelley and getting her warm.  Shelley’s mum and older sister drew a warm bath and put herbs and teas in it to take away the scent of blood and . . . intimacy.  They washed her hair and rinsed it with lavender water to help her relax and hopefully sleep.  They said she only moaned occasionally and she did not open her eyes for a long time.  The elder Reverend suspected the hippies had abused her.  He knew they imbibed alcohol but had hoped they would confine their use to their camps.

“When Shelley finally became conscious, she was hysterical until her mother came to her side.  They fetched the elder Reverend and then Shelley told her story, but not without often breaking into great sobs.  Now, this is what we were told:  There’s a great house high up on a hill in our town.  And it’s been empty for many, many years.  We think that some of the hippies found the house and decided they could stay there, although it was in truly bad condition.  A few of the lads were celebrating their find of the house and they came down to the town.

“It was quite late and Shelley Windsprite was coming home from the library.  You know, it was always unlocked so anyone who couldn’t sleep and needed a book could go there and get one.  Shelley was a great reader and she hadn’t realized how late it was.  Her parents were already asleep, and they knew she was at the library so they weren’t worried. 

The sisters stopped and looked coldly at their audience.  They resumed with, “We didn’t have to worry about anything bad happening in our town until those hippies came.  Well, these lads saw Shelley.  They were quite inebriated so they took it upon themselves to kidnap her and take her away to the old house.  She said she never had a chance to scream.  They said she would only tell her mother and sister what they had done to her and only they ever saw her wounds.  They said . . ..” 

Again the sisters faltered.  Jonas remembered that he took a moment to look around.  They were all seated in a coffee house: the sisters, Jonas and his roommate, and two other girls.  They all were in the same literature class and had taken to meeting at the coffee house to study and socialize.  One of the other girls put a gentle hand on the sister who had last spoke.  The other sister continued the story.

“They said that she would never have children and may always be in some pain because they had hurt her so badly.  They said it was the pain and the nightmares that drove her to kill herself.  She often said they should have just killed her.”

“There was no shame,” the other sister put in suddenly.  “No one blamed Shelley for any of it.  She did have a suitor at the time and he was so gentle and patient.  He was deeply in love with her and would have been happy to live with her without intimacy, he loved her that much.”

The other sister continued, “But she said that was no life.  Still, it was really the pain and the nightmares.  If she hadn’t been so badly hurt, I think she would married Paul.”

“What happened to the lads that hurt her,” asked Jonas’s roommate.

“They and the other hippies were forced to leave town.  We are not a violent people.  We hunt but only for food, not sport.  The men never abuse their wives or their children, and the women are the same.  It is what we believe, that everyone deserves to be treated with respect.  The body is a holy temple and the soul is a gift.

“But the men did force them out.  They brought their rifles with them and stood aside as the women went forward and told the hippies why they must leave.  That is usually how we do things:  the women talk and reason, the men show strength and resolve.  The hippies were not happy to be put out.  They had grown to live living in Constance, but, frankly, the town had grown quite tired of them already.  There was no turning back after what they did to Shelley.  The town held all of them responsible since they had all come together.  Much in the same way that we take responsibility for each other.”

“What about the house,” Jonas asked.

“The town had to go up there and make sure the lads and al their things were gone.  They knew that the hippies were not evil and that those lads had not been control of themselves.  We were told, in fact, that the lads were quite sick the next day because they had drunk so much and when they were told what they had done, they got sicker and cried like little babies, begging the town’s forgiveness.  They kept offering to make restitution, to do something to prove that they hadn’t meant to hurt Shelley.  The town believed them but the harm to Shelley was done and no restitution could ever amend what they did to her.”

“It must take a deep faith in humanity to believe that those boys had not intended to harm Shelley,” said one of the girls.

“They said their faith was shaken, first by Shelley’s story, and then what they found in the house.  Still, regardless of their faith, they would not let the lads or the others stay—“

“What did they find in the house,” interrupted Jonas.

The sisters looked directly at him, both sets of eyes meeting his.  It was a bit daunting.

“The things they used to hurt Shelley.  A broken broom handle, a small knife, a rope.  All these things were covered with Shelley’s blood.”  Everyone at the table, except the sisters, bowed their heads and tried to keep their imaginations still.  The sisters had stopped talking, obviously exhausted from their awful story.  All of them sat in silence for several moments before Jonas’ roommate discreetly elbowed him.  Getting his attention, his roommate ever so slightly jerked his head toward the door.  Jonas understood immediately:  the men must leave.  The sisters and the two other girls were still staring at their cups of coffee and tea, but they were waiting.  He felt it then.  They wanted Jonas and his roommate to leave so they could talk amongst themselves. 

They stood up.  Jonas cleared his throat and said, very softly, “We are so sorry for what happened in your idyllic community.  We hope it never experiences such a tragedy again.” 

The sisters looked up him and smiled at him gently.  They simply nodded in accepting his sentiments, but their eyes told him that it was not the last tragedy to befall their town.

 

Chapter Twenty-Eight

Within days after his parents’ untimely death, Jonas made up his mind to find his mother’s ancestor’s house.  At first, he just wanted to find it, see what condition it was in, and what community lived around it.  It took him about a year to find it.  Fortunately, his mother had given him all her ancestral papers, which he kept secure in a lockbox at his father’s bank.  He scoured the papers for clues as to the whereabouts of the Kindfellows’ house.  Much of the geography described was unrecognizable until he realized the house was actually in a neighboring state, one which had experienced so much growth in its population that none of the old roads and landmarks described in the papers existed anymore. 

The only remaining piece of viable information was the name of the community, the Town of Constance.  He had in fact heard rumors of this town, its seclusion, its Amish ways although it was not Amish.  He had met two residents of Constance when he was in college.  They were sisters and were friendly and naïve.  They took everything that was said to them at face value, and he had wondered whether they could survive on the “outside,” in the “world of others,” as they called it.  He had left college before them so he didn’t know if they had stayed on the outside or went home, but he remembered being quite fascinated when they talked about their town.

It often sounded too good to be true:  a well-knit community that had a sustainable manner of living, hard-working folk, well-read with a free library and its own schools.  There was an apparent core that kept the community constant, but outsiders were welcomed, especially if they married into the community.  They did not tolerate drug or alcohol use.  The sisters said that when an influx of new residents in the late 1960s came to Constance, they were initially welcomed.  The townsfolk invited them to church, provided them shelter and food since there no available houses for them to live in.  But, unfortunately, the new residents were mostly young people looking for a communal lifestyle much different from what the Town of Constance offered.

Many of them were not interested in working and instead preferred to subsist on the generosity of the town.  Tensions began to build.  For shelter, the interlopers had set up tents in the town central park or built flimsy lean-tos.  They loitered most of the day, and strange smells came from the tents.  One odor in particular they did not recognize, but the “hippies” (as the outsiders referred to themselves) were languid and seemingly harmless when that odor was prevalent.  But the other odors the town folk knew well:  it was human waste and it was disgusting. 

 

Chapter Twenty-Seven

Every holiday that Jonas was home from college, he went with his mother to give comfort to the sick and dying and continued to help mend windows and fix doors of some of the shanties that the poor existed in.  His skills at carpentry were never what he wanted them to be, but he could secure a door frame as good as anyone, and the poor did not ask for elaborate designs.  After college, he spent long hours going through the shanties with his tool box.  He would often cross paths with his mother, who gave him such a look of love that he couldn’t imagine any better reward than her pride in him.  His father often grumbled that Jonas should be doing something more useful like his brothers were.  As soon as they had finished college, they took positions at their father’s bank, and settled into a life of routine and consumption.

That life was not for Jonas, and his mother ran interference for him, keeping his father from making good on his threat to turn Jonas out of the house if he did not at least stop going to the shanties.  And so Jonas’s life went on, relatively content, until the fire.  He was fixing the roof on the old MacGregor’s house when one of his brothers came shouting down the lane.  He remembered it was a Sunday in the summer that had promised to be very hot.  He had left the house before breakfast so he could work while the air was still cool.  His parents had still been asleep.

Jonas knew something truly awful had to have happened.  He practically flew down from the roof and stood before his brother, holding him by the arms while the young man tried to catch his breath. 

“Jonas,” his brother gasped.  “Oh, God, Jonas, they’re dead!  They’re dead!”

“Who?” Jonas demanded, knowing full well who it had to be but not wanting to believe it.

“Mother.  Father.”  Then his brother began to sob and it was several minutes before he could recover to tell Jonas the rest of his horrible message.  Jonas learned that a fire had broke out in the kitchen, possibly sparks from the wood stove.  Their cook insisted that she had stepped outside the house for only a moment, just long enough to gather some eggs to make Sunday omelets.  She heard a loud boom and when she turned around the house was engulfed in flames.  Jonas’ brother said the cooks and the other servants who were able to flee the house were so hysterical with grief, that no one suspected them of purposely setting the fire. 

Their parents were found still in their bedroom but collapsed at the far window, the one at the back of the house.  Their bedroom was over the kitchen and it was surmised that while they might have tried to exit through their door, the heat was too hot and they were probably afraid of going directly into the fire.  The window was latched and it was assumed that one of them, likely the senior Buckthorn, had in his panic locked the window.  Given their proximity to the origin of the fire, they most likely died from smoke inhalation.   That was what the sons all wanted to believe, for the only alternative, being burned alive, was too horrible to imagine. 

 

Chapter Twenty-Six

The day passed without event, for which Mr. Buckthorn was very grateful.  He attributed the lack of disruption to the adult supervision of the younger girls and his own, hopefully discreet, watchfulness.  He busied himself with whitewashing the baseboards while keeping his ears tuned to the secretive giggles of young girls.  The house itself was silent, and Mr. Buckthorn sensed no discomfort within it.

He took every chance he had to observe Miss Ringworthy, taking great care to hide his interest.  He wasn’t sure why he was growing so fascinated with her.  Perhaps it was because she had been on the outside and elected to come back to the community and stay.  He himself had grown up on the outside.  His father had been a banker and his mother an active member of their local charity guild.  He could recall many Christmases when he and his brothers spent long hours wrapping presents, not for themselves, but for the poor children in the city.  With their mother, they would take the presents around to poor families on Christmas Eve.  They never stayed to watch the children open the gifts.  It was enough to see their faces light up at the brightly colored wrapping paper. Jonas’ father tolerated his wife’s charitable works only because it added to her stature in their community, and it kept their sons out of trouble.

Mr. Buckthorn had had great respect for his mother’s charitable work and enjoyed helping her, unlike his brothers who tended to complain if they said anything at all.  His mother and he, in fact, became very close, and she told him stories about her distant family that he knew she never told his brothers.  She in fact the last of kin to Mrs. Kindfellow, the original inhabitant of the house.  One of Mrs. Kindfellows’ uncles was Mr. Buckthorn’s great-great-grandfather on his mother’s side.  The story of the Kindfellow tragedy had been passed down to his mother who then passed it on to him.  She spared him no detail. 

As a child, he often asked her why she did not claim the house and she would put him off saying it was too far away or she didn’t need two houses.  But just before he went off to college, she told him the truth.  Her husband forbade her to ever have anything to do with the house.  Its history was known to him as well, and he considered it a scandal that was best left buried with the Kindfellows. 

Mr. Buckthorn did not much like his father, although he had inherited his father’s affinity for the proper management of money.  Unfortunately, all his father appeared to care about was money.  It often seemed more important to him than his own family.  When his sons complained that he didn’t attend their school events like other fathers, he’d argue that he was working hard for their future and they should be grateful.  But they weren’t worried about their future; they wanted their father.

Jonas eventually became so distant from his father, primarily through lack of contact, that he often thought of himself as having only one parent, his mother.  Not only did he respect her highly, but he also adored her and thought her the most beautiful woman in the world.  He heard from his great-aunts that she greatly resembled Mrs. Kindfellow in her coloring and demeanor.

 

Chapter Twenty-Five

The next morning Mr. Buckthorn arrived at the house within an hour after the sun rose.  He bustled about, setting a fire in every fireplace in the large house, and in the kitchen’s wood stove.  He put on water for tea and arranged some small cakes he had brought with him.  He knew that the women and their daughters would be chilled by the time they arrived, and he wanted them to be greeted with warmth, literally and figuratively.  He couldn’t get rid of his nagging fear that, after yesterday’s little event, no one would come back.

It was a ridiculous fear, fortunately.  When he saw the first truck appear and then turn into the small lot that he had marked off for their vehicles, he scolded himself for being so doubtful.  These townspeople took pride in their constancy and their word.  If they said they will do something, especially something for someone, then they will do it.  Only injury or death could stop them. 

Mrs. Heartswell had driven the first truck and about eight young girls, heavily bundled in wool capes, scarves, mittens, and caps, were crowded into the bed.  He almost laughed watching them trying to get out of the bed, wrapped up like mummies as they were.  Mrs. Heartswell and Miss Ringworthy had to help them.  As they trudged the still snowy path to the house, two more trucks came over the crest of the hill, and Mr. Buckthorn wanted to let out a shout of joy.  Rather than risk the women and girls hearing him, he instead said softly, “They are back!  These women will help you live again!”

Everyone was delighted with the cheery glow of the fireplaces and the good strong tea and sweet cakes.  Mr. Buckthorn did not push them to work.  He had brought out all the cleaning implements, but stored them discreetly against the wall, so as each team felt ready, they could simply pick up their implements and set to work.  He was very pleased when Mrs. Heartswell and Miss Ringworthy told him of a decision the ladies had come to the night before.

“Mr. Buckthorn, we hope you will not find us presumptuous,” began Mrs. Heartswell, “but in light of Hannah’s and Jemima’s misadventure yesterday, we’ve all agreed to re-organize our teams so that one adult woman is put in charge of two or three of the younger girls.”

“You see, Mr. Buckthorn,” added Miss Ringworthy, “while these girls are very hard workers, they do, as you said yesterday, have great imaginations and the history of this house undoubtedly plays on their young minds.”

Mr. Buckthorn practically beamed at Mrs. Heartswell and Miss Ringworthy.

“Ladies, I will happily defer to your wisdom on these matters.  Although I was charmed by Hannah and Jemima’s gift for storytelling, that they had frightened themselves into fainting truly alarmed me.  I have confidence that your re-organization of your teams will help us avoid any more such events.”  He bowed to them and Mrs. Heartswell took her leave to inform the other good women that Mr. Buckthorn was amenable to their decision.  Miss Ringworthy stayed behind, as if she wished to continue talking with Mr. Buckthorn, but she said nothing, only gazed up at him with a slight but enigmatic smile on her face.

Before their silence became too awkward, Mr. Buckthorn cleared his throat and politely asked Miss Ringworthy how she found her community after having spent four years away in college.

“Oh, I was so happy to come home,” she said somewhat breathlessly.  “I enjoyed college, meeting new people, going to museums and libraries, but this is where I belong.  What about you, Mr. Buckthorn?  Is . . . is this where you belong?”  She was looking directly into his eyes.  It was such a bold stare, and a bold question from someone he barely knew, that he was at first taken aback.  He managed to keep his composure, though he had to clear his throat again before he could speak.

“Well, Miss Ringworthy, I haven’t really thought about whether I belong here,” he stammered slightly and felt his face become quite warm.  Miss Ringworthy blushed in return.

“Please forgive me, Mr. Buckthorn.  It was quite forward of me to ask such a question.”  She forced a slight laugh.  “I guess I did develop some inappropriate behavior from my time outside.  You would be shocked at how familiar even total strangers are with each other.  I am sorry.”  She cast her eyes to the floor and turned slightly, as if to walk away.  Now Mr. Buckthorn felt himself to be the rude one.  He had been on the outside, too.  He knew how the openness of relationships could be attractive to an impressionable and lonely soul.  He lightly touched Miss Ringworthy’s arm.

“No, please, forgive me,” he said. “Your question was quite appropriate, definitely in the context of what we were discussing.  Perhaps . . ..”  Mr. Buckthorn trailed off as he saw that they were practically alone in the kitchen, most everyone else having broken into their teams and gone off to work.

“Perhaps we can talk some later.  I would like to continue our conversation.”  He smiled at her, and Miss Ringworthy smiled back, obviously relieved that she hadn’t made an entire fool of herself.  Without saying a word, she hurried to catch up with her team. Mr. Buckthorn watched after her and was gratified when she looked back over her shoulder at him as she went up the staircase.  He wondered whether she had a suitor.

Chapter Twenty-Four

Hannah and Jemima looked up at Mr. Buckthorn.  He was slowly winning them over.  He was a handsome man, tall with silky black hair that one would want to reach out and caress.  His eyes were dark blue and his skin had a tawny undertone.  He was in his early thirties, his figure lean and athletic, and his face was slightly chiseled with high cheekbones.  They had never taken such a long look at him before.  They felt their mother’s hands squeeze their arms.

“Thank you, Mr. Buckthorn,” said Jemima.  “We look forward to helping you in the summer.”

“Yes, thank you, Mr. Buckthorn,” said Hannah.  “Perhaps we can make a quilt for one of the rooms and bring it with us when we can return.”

Mr. Buckthorn’s face lit up and he gave them a toothy smile.  He had perfect teeth, they both noticed.
“How generous of you.  That is an excellent idea, dear Hannah and Jemima.”  He took a step back and addressed everyone in general.  “What do you all say to calling it a day?  We don’t want to exhaust ourselves, do we?”

Murmurs of “oh, indeed,” and “can’t get much done when you’re tired,” and “make mistakes when you overdo” greeted his query.  The sun had set and he didn’t want any of them to be at the house at night, even if they weren’t alone.  But he also thought it would make Hannah and Jemima feel less alone in their eviction from the house.  Everyone leaving together and in agreement about working short days should blunt their disappointment and their humiliation.  Mr. Buckthorn had been a child once, too, and knew full well what the girls were feeling.  He could only hope that they would one day forgive him.

“What about you, Mr. Buckthorn,” asked Miss Ringworthy, Hannah and Jemima’s schoolteacher.  “Will you not come with us?”  Mr. Buckthorn had never spoken with Miss Ringworthy before.  He took the opportunity to gaze at her directly.  She was quite attractive.  Her hair was a summery strawberry blonde and her skin almost translucent.  He guessed that she freckled easily, though why that thought came into his mind, he did not know.  He had heard that she was in her early twenties and that she was one of the very few who had ventured outside to attend college and then come back, with no expressed wish to leave the community again.

She was quite a bit shorter than him and it made his neck ache to gaze upon her too long.  She moved to speak again when he realized that he had been staring at her.  He recovered himself.

“No, thank you for asking, Miss Ringworthy,” he managed to stammer out.  “I like to go through all the rooms and make sure the house is secure before I leave.”

“Will you like me to wait, so you won’t be alone?” She appeared innocent of any other motive than concern for his well-being and he was touched that she would care.

“No, please, feel free to go along with the others.  It is my habit and I don’t have the imagination that Hannah and Jemima have.”  They both laughed slightly.  “I am comfortable to be alone here.”

“Very well,” she said.  “I expect we’ll all be back up here tomorrow after church.  All except Hannah and Jemima.”  They both laughed again.

They took their leave of each other.   Mr. Buckthorn watched Miss Ringworthy trot down the snowy path to catch up with her friends and when they all had disappeared into the black night, he stepped into the house and shut the door.  With a heavy sigh, he began the climb to the attic.  He imagined that all the rooms were open, half-cleaned or less, given the Heartswell girls’ interruption.  While he walked through the house, picking up rags and buckets, he spoke out loud as if to himself.  But he was talking to the house.

“Those two little girls didn’t mean any harm.  They are too young to understand how their play might seem disrespectful—“

“They understood well enough,” the house interrupted.  “They knew their mother would not be happy with their behavior.  They disrespected her.”

“Yes, I understand that,” Mr. Buckthorn responded, as he went through the bedrooms.  “But, really, if you frighten anyone else . . ..”  He paused and sat down at the top of the staircase.  Looking down toward the front door, he signed and rubbed the back of his neck.  “If you frighten anyone else, you might destroy any chance I have of restoring you.”  The house was quiet and after a few moments, Mr. Buckthorn worried that he had offended it.  He didn’t speak, however.  He kept still with his head bowed.

“Very well.  You did send them away.  That was good.”

Mr. Buckthorn let out a long sigh of relief.  “Thank you,” he said with sincere gratitude.  “In time, I hope you will be able to overlook the innocent offenses of children.  They truly mean no harm.”

“You must promise that you will not tolerate such behavior as those young girls displayed tonight.”  The house’s voice was like a vibration through Mr. Buckthorn’s head.  It made him slightly queasy.

“Of course, I promise.  I’ll stop it whenever I’m made aware of it.”  He slipped in the last statement to give himself some cover.  After all, he won’t be able to supervise all his troops, his helpers, all at the same time.  “In return, promise me that you will not harm anyone, not even frighten them into injury.”  He was testing the house now.  Could the house give as much as it demanded, he wondered.

Again, there was a few minutes of silence which felt like hours to Mr. Buckthorn, and then finally:

“Very well.  I do . . . I do so much want to live again.”  Mr. Buckthorn felt a sudden wave of sadness wash over him, a sadness that seemed very old and very deep.  He hugged his knees to his chest and looked up at the ceiling.  Softly he said, “You will live again.”

Chapter Twenty-Three

Silence on fell on everyone as Mr. Buckthorn shifted back in his chair.  He looked down on his hands and rubbed them together.  Perhaps for the first time in his life, he wanted to pray.  He would have prayed, if he had been alone.  He took a deep breath and then stood up, hoping that his height would give him an air of authority.

“Well, I imagine I would have fainted, too,” he said, smiling at Hannah and Jemima.  He didn’t like what he was going to try to do.  He knew it wasn’t fair to the girls and their mother, but he had no choice if he were to continue the renovation of the house.  Jemima had finally calmed down, and she and her sister looked up at Mr. Buckthorn with relief and admiration.

“I’m a hard one to frighten, in fact, but your story made the hairs on the back of my neck stand up.  I swear, I got goose bumps!”  He let out a small chuckle and the crowd of girls and women before him at first look confused.  Then slowly their faces relaxed and some of them began to smile.

“You have wonderful imaginations.  You both could be writers,” he exclaimed, trying to keep his voice jovial and not condescending.  Now Hannah and Jemima looked surprised, and Jemima opened her mouth to protest.  Mr. Buckthorn knew they would attempt to argue that what they saw and heard was real.  Mr. Buckthorn himself knew it was real, but he couldn’t have anyone else believe it.  The girls were young and quite impressionable.  With any luck, he might convince them that they had merely frightened themselves.  At the least, he wanted to convince Mrs. Heartswell.
She was still clutching her daughters, but began to relax perceptibility when Mr. Buckthorn suggested that the girls could be writers.  She quickly smiled at him and spoke with motherly pride.

“Yes, my girls are great storytellers, although this is the first time they’ve told such a scary story.”

“But, Mother,” protested Hannah.  “We did see something.”

“It most definitely was a woman and she was cut in two,” added Jemima.  A bit of tittering rippled among the ladies at the far end of the hall.  They smiled at Mrs. Heartswell with eyes that said that they too had daughters with such great imaginations that they can convince themselves of things that do not exist.

“Dear children,” Mrs. Heartswell said warmly.  “The sun is moving rapidly toward dusk.  There were already shadows in the room when we came to rescue you.  Surely, that’s all you saw.  Just shadows and your vivid imaginations played upon those shadows and your young minds.”

“No doubt, you feel a bit ashamed of having played in the bed frame, too.”  Mr. Buckthorn joined in, his confidence buoyed by Mrs. Heartswell’s gentle admonitions to her daughters.  “And, no doubt, you’ve heard the stories about this house, about what happened in it so many years ago.  Those stories, the shadows, the shame . . . all these conditions must have affected your imagination.  The sounds you heard were likely from someone cleaning in one of the rooms near you.  And you saw what you expected to see, because you were already afraid.”  He glanced up at Mrs. Heartswell, worried that he was stepping over his bounds, but she nodded to him, letting him know that she agreed with his version of events.

“Mr. Buckthorn,” she said firmly.  “I think it might be best if my girls did not come back to clean the house –“

“But, Mother,” her daughters protested in unison.

“Perhaps when the days are longer and there’s less risk of shadows playing upon their impressionable minds.”  She rose up from her chair, bringing her daughters up along with her.  The girls were thoroughly humiliated.  Their friends would make fun of them now.  But they knew they could not argue with their mother.  Once Mrs. Heartswell put her foot down, there was no getting around her.  Looking into each other’s eyes, they silently agreed to maintain their story, no matter what the adults said.

“Yes, you are undoubtedly correct, Mrs. Heartswell.  But I do hope,” Mr. Buckthorn leaned toward the girls, “I sincerely hope that you will be willing and able to assist this summer.  There’s much work to be done here.  You won’t miss out on helping, if you both are still interested.”

Chapter Twenty-Two

Hannah and Jemima began to stir.  They had merely fainted and upon realizing where they were, they began crying for their mother as if they were babies and not fifteen.  Mrs. Heartswell pushed through the crowd to her daughters.  They grabbed onto her waist and arms and commenced crying about a “frightful sight,” something “so shocking” they could barely describe it.  Mrs. Heartswell hugged them close to her and walked them out of the bedroom and down the staircase. The other women opened a path for them to pass through and then followed them, eager to know what had happened.

Mr. Buckthorn lingered behind for a few moments, hoping the house would communicate with him.  But all was silent and no foreign thoughts intruded on his mind.  He sighed and went down to the kitchen, where the women would naturally congregate.  He had refurbished the old wood stove so that they could at least make coffee or tea.  A long table and a few chairs had been donated for the renovation, and Mr. Buckthorn found the Heartswells and their friends cloistered around the table with Mrs. Homestead brewing tea.  Hannah and Jemima were calm now that they were with their mother and away from the bedroom.  Mr. Buckthorn took a seat across from them.

“You have had an awful fright for both of you to have fainted,” he said.  “Was it something you saw or heard?”  He kept his voice soft and sympathetic, although he was in fact very anxious.  He was not so naïve to think that there would be no mishaps, but he was dismayed that something had happened so soon.  Hannah and Jemima looked at him shyly, with their heads bowed.  Normally they would pull their long dark hair forward, to obscure their faces, but today their hair was held back by purple and blue hankerchiefs so they could not hide their blushes or their teary eyes.

Hannah spoke first.  “We hadn’t been in the room terribly long,” she said so softly that Mr. Buckthorn had to lean forward to hear her.  “Not even long enough to wipe down the windows or sweep the floor,” added Jemima. 

“Were you talking with each other,” asked Mr. Buckthorn.  “Were you saying anything about the house to each other?”  The girls looked at each other, then at their mother, and finally at Mr. Buckthorn.  They seemed confused but had no choice but to answer honestly.  They did not know how to lie.

“Well,” started Hannah, “we were commenting how it was the parents’ bedroom and the bed frame was still there.” 

“I guess we felt a bit embarrassed,” remarked Jemima, her blush growing deeper.  She bit her lip and again looked at her sister before turning back to Mr. Buckthorn.  “You know, the idea of being in the same room as that where a man and a woman have lain together.”

“We might have giggled a bit, but we didn’t mean any disrespect,” said Hannah.  Her mother smiled and kissed the tops of Hannah’s and Jemima’s heads. 

“My girls are still so innocent,” she said.

“But what frightened you so,” asked Mr. Buckthorn nervously.  He believed that Joseph had also meant no disrespect, but the house was not forgiving.  “What frightened you?”

Hannah and Jemima again looked at each and then clasped each other’s hands. 

“We . . . we . . .,” started Hannah, her voice faltering.

“We laid ourselves down on the floor, within the bed frame,” Jemima said.  “We were just playing a bit, imagining what it would be like–,” she broke off abruptly.  Mrs. Heartswell pulled back from the girls just slightly, yet enough to demonstrate her displeasure.  Hannah began to sob, and Jemima struggled to keep her composure.  She wiped her face on her apron and continued with her story.

“We were just playing a bit and then . . . and then we heard this awful sound, like when Poppa is cutting up deer.  And then there was a thud.  We raised up a little bit and saw it . . . there on the floor in front of the bed!”  Jemima was crying loudly now and some of the other girls began to whimper.

“What did you see, Jemima?”  Mr. Buckthorn was careful to keep his voice soft and low, but he was afraid of what Jemima would say next. 

“It was a woman,” said Hannah, her voice a hushed monotone.  “She was cut in two.  Blood was everywhere.  And her eyes . . . she was looking right at us.”  Hannah gazed up at Mr. Buckthorn, her face paler than the white of her smock.  “She was looking right at us. I don’t know which one of us screamed.  I just remember hearing it and then I guess we fainted.”

Chapter Twenty-One

Work on the house’s renovation commenced with the first thaw.  Mr. Buckthorn engaged nearly the whole community.  Anyone skilled in woodwork or sewing was enlisted.  First the house had to be cleaned from top to bottom.  Nearly all who responded were women or young girls.  They came on a Saturday, a typical cleaning day, with their buckets and mops and rags.  The air was still quite cool, and there was still snow on the ground.  Every one wore mufflers and wool overcoats.  Mr. Buckthorn addressed the twenty-odd townsfolk as a colonel addresses his troops.  He knew that many of them were quite anxious and more than a bit afraid.  They wanted the work, but they feared the house.  Most harbored the suspicion that somehow it had killed their friend Joseph and his mother Eleanor.  They worried over what might happen to them and how they could protect themselves.  Mr. Buckthorn did not allay their fears.  He was stern but honest. 

“I know many of you are afraid of this house, and right you should be,” he said ominously, and the troops quavered in response.  “But you can be safe if you simply respect the house.  In its day, this house was a model of practicality and beauty.  It was filled with joy and love.  And then tragedy struck and ever since, it has been dishonored.”  He stopped and looked over his troops, some of them still wide-eyed and terrified at what they might see in the house.  He continued, but more softly, “Respect this house as you would your own.  Clean it with care.  Think of how your efforts will restore this house to its original grandeur.  Think of how much you would want to live in this house, enjoy its many rooms, its large kitchen, its beautiful library.  Think good thoughts about the house and you all will be fine.”

A murmur rippled through the troops.  They understood, although most were still a bit afraid.  The unknown is always to be feared, many of them thought, but they would do as Mr. Buckthorn said.  At the least, it was daytime, and there were more than twenty of them.  Surely, nothing evil would happen under these circumstances.  At Mr. Buckthorn’s command, they broke up in teams, one for each floor of the house, and commenced to work.  Two hours went by without incident.  Mr. Buckthorn gained confidence that the house was satisfied with this first contingent.  He began to entertain the idea of stepping away from the house for a bit, only as far as the orchard, to take a little break. 

But before he could act on his fancy, a blood-curdling scream came from the second floor, where the bedrooms were.  Mr. Buckthorn dropped his wool cape and ran up the staircase.  Women and young girls streamed from all over the house, heading toward the screams.  They met at Mr. and Mrs. Kindfellow’s bedroom and found two young girls, the twins Hannah and Jemima Heartswell, collapsed on the floor, within the bedframe.  Mr. Buckthorn felt such despair.  What had they done?  He knelt down to check each girl’s pulse.  Why did this happen?  He strained to hear over the cacophony of cries and alarms uttered by the crowd behind him.  What did you do, he thought accusingly.