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Highacres (Dramatic Reading)

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<h3>THE RAVENS CLEAN THE TOWER</h3> The Ravens, now enjoying a pleasant distinction among the Lincoln students because of Jerry's suffering, the truth of which had become known after a few weeks to nearly everyone in the school, except, of course, the faculty, decided to admit more members to their circle. This necessitated an elaborate ceremony of initiation, and an especially elaborate spread. "Let's us clean the tower room," suggested Gyp one afternoon, with this in mind. "I don't mean sweep or scrub or anything like that—'cause the dust and the cobwebs make it lots more romantic. I mean just shove things further back. We'll need more room." Jerry agreed. So the two pushed George Washington aside and climbed the little stairway. A sharp wind howled around the tower room, making weird, wailing sounds. "Isn't it spooky up here this afternoon?" whispered Gyp. "Let's hurry. Here, I'll hand you these books and you pile them over there in that corner." Gyp tossed the books about as though they were bricks. Jerry handled them more carefully. From her infancy she had been brought up to respect any kind of a book; those at home had seemed almost a part of her dear mother and Little-Dad; these had belonged to Peter Westley. He must have spent a great deal of his time reading, she thought, the volumes were worn about their edges, the pages thumbed. She peeped into one or two. Peter Westley, who had shunned the companionship of his fellow-mortals, had made these his friends. Gyp divined what was passing in Jerry's thoughts. "These books look all dried up and dreary—just like Uncle Peter was," she exclaimed, throwing one over. Jerry opened it at random. "Oh, this isn't! Listen, isn't it beautiful? <div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> "Now morn, her rosy steps in th' eastern clime, Advancing, sow'd the earth with orient pearl—— </div> </div> "It makes me think of a sunrise from Rocky Point. Often Little-Dad takes me up there and we sleep all night rolled in blankets." "I wish I could do things like that," sighed Gyp longingly. "I hate just doing the regular sort of things that everyone else is doing." Jerry regarded her in astonishment; that Gyp might, perhaps, envy her the childhood she had had on Kettle had never occurred to her! "Perhaps sometime you can visit me in Sunnyside." Her eyes shone at the thought. "Don't you love poetry?" She read again: <div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> "If 'chance the radiant sun with farewell sweet Extend his ev'ning beam, the fields revive, The birds their notes renew, and bleating herds Attest their joy, that hill and valley ring—— </div> </div> "It's like that—at sunset—in the Witches' Glade," Jerry said slowly. She closed the book. "I think Peter Westley must have had something nice in him to like this. There used to be an old, old lady who lived in a funny little house in the Notch; I always pretended she was old Mother Hubbard who lived in the cupboard. Jimmy Chubb used to throw apples at her roof to make her run out and chase him. But her garden was the loveliest anywhere around—mother used to beg seeds from her. And she'd talk to her flowers—sometimes when we'd hide behind the hedge next door to her house we'd hear her. And mother said that there must be something lovely in her soul if she cared so much for flowers. Perhaps that's the way it was with your Uncle Peter and his books." Gyp frowned as though she was trying very hard to think this possible. She lifted a huge Bible and dusted it thoughtfully with her handkerchief. "I don't know—I heard Uncle Johnny say once to my father that Uncle Peter was as hard as rocks when it came to driving a bargain and he'd never give a cent to anyone. Mother said that riches that came like that only brought unhappiness and she was sorry we had any of it, though——" Gyp laughed. "Money's funny. It wouldn't matter how much of an allowance father gave Graham or me we'd never have any and I don't know where it goes. And Isobel always has a lot. Maybe she's going to be like Uncle Peter——" There was horror in Gyp's voice. Jerry sat on the table, the huge Bible on her knees. Her eyes stared out through the dusty window-glass. "She wouldn't be like him because she won't have to work hard to get the money the way he did! Mother says——" Jerry had a way of saying "mother says" as though it was precious, indisputable wisdom. "Mother says that sometimes when a person sets his heart on just one thing in this world and thinks about it all the time, he kills everything else in him. Doesn't that seem dreadful? Not to enjoy all the beautiful, jolly things in the world?" Jerry's philosophy was beyond Gyp's practical mind. "What would you do if you had lots and lots of money, Jerry?" This was a stupendous question and one Jerry had often liked to ask of herself. Her answer was prompt. "I'd keep going to school just as long as ever I could. And then I'd go all over the world—to Japan and Singapore and India and to the Nile and Venice and Switzerland and Gibraltar——" her tongue stumbled in its effort to circle the globe. "Oh—everywhere. I'd want to see everything." How many young hearts have dreamed of such adventure! "And yet," Jerry went on, "if I had all the gold in the world right in my hand I don't believe I could make myself go so far away from Sweetheart and Little-Dad and the dogs and—and Sunnyside!" "Oh," Gyp quickly settled such an obstacle. "If you had all the gold in the world you could take 'em with you." At that moment they were startled by a loud thud in the hall beneath them. The Bible crashed to the floor. Each girl instinctively clapped her hand to her mouth to smother a cry. Then they laughed. "What ever do you suppose it was? Hark—I hear footsteps." Gyp spoke in sepulchral tones. "They're going away," whispered Jerry, relieved. "Goodness, how it frightened me!" Jerry leaned over to lift the poor Bible. From its pages had dropped a long envelope. It lay, white and smooth, the address side upward, on the dusty floor. "Look, Gyp—a letter! It must have been in this Bible." Gyp took the envelope gingerly. "It's addressed to father! It's never been opened. It looks as though it had just been written! Jerry—that's Uncle Peter's handwriting!" Jerry stared at the envelope—except that the letter had been pressed very flat, it did indeed look as though it had just been written. "Isn't it creepy?" Gyp shivered. "Do you believe in ghosts? Could Uncle Peter Westley have come here and written that—just—maybe, last night?" It was a horrible thought—Jerry tried not to entertain it. But the wailing wind made it seem possible! "What'll we do with it?" Gyp had laid it on the table. "Let's put it back in the Bible"—that seemed a safe place—"and take it home. Maybe there is an important message in it that someone ought to see! But I wish we'd never come here this afternoon." "And see how dark it is—it's getting late. Let's let these other things go." Jerry's voice, betraying her eagerness to quit the tower room, made Gyp feel creepier than ever. Each took a corner of the ghostly envelope and slipped it between the pages of the Bible. "There—it's safe enough now. We can take turns carrying it." The girls hurriedly donned their outer wraps. Then, without one backward glance, they tiptoed down the narrow stair. But, to their amazement, the panel at the foot of the stair would not budge. Vainly they shoved, and pressed their shoulders against the solid oak. Breathless, Gyp sat down on the Bible. "What'll we do?" "We'll have to shout and bring someone—'cause we can't open the other door." "Then Old Crow will know our secret," wailed Gyp. "But we don't want to stay here all night!" Gyp gave one swift, backward glance up the secret stairway to the haunted tower room. "No—no! Well, let's shout together." They shouted and shouted, with all the strength of their young lungs. But Old Crow, who really was Mr. Albert Crowe, for many years janitor of Lincoln School, had gone, ten minutes earlier, in his Sunday best, to attend the annual banquet of the Janitors' Association and his assistant had made his last rounds of the School, so that the shouts of the girls echoed and re-echoed vainly through the deserted halls of Highacres. Jerry leaned, exhausted, against the wall. "I don't believe it's a bit of use—not a soul can hear us." "What'll we do?" asked Gyp again—Gyp, who was usually so resourceful. "If we only hadn't found that old letter we never'd have thought of ghosts and we wouldn't have minded a bit being shut in the tower room." Jerry commenced to laugh nervously. "Gyp, maybe you don't know you're sitting on the Bible!" Gyp sprang up. "I don't think it's anything to laugh about! Not me, I mean, but—but having to stay all night—up there!" Jerry started back up the stairway. "Come on," she encouraged. "I'm not afraid. If there are ghosts I want to see one." Gyp followed with the Bible. The tower room was shadowy in the fast-falling twilight. The girls tried to open each of the small windows; though they rattled busily enough they would not budge. Gyp sat down resignedly on the window-seat. "We'll just sit here until we're rescued. Only—no one will guess where we are." "I think it's a grand adventure," declared Jerry valiantly. "If we only hadn't begun to think about ghosts! You never can see them, anyway—you just feel them. Is that the wind? Sit close to me, Jerry." Jerry sat very close to her chum and they gripped hands; it was easier, that way, to endure the dreadful silence. "I'm hungry," whispered Gyp, after awhile. Then, a moment later, "Did you hear something, Jerry—like a long, long sigh?" Jerry nodded and Gyp drew closer to her, shivering. "Of course," she murmured in a voice lowered to the etiquette of a haunted room. "You're not frightened because you didn't know Uncle Peter. If I was afraid of him when he was alive what——" "Sh-h-h!" commanded Jerry. Uncle Peter's ghost might be hovering very close to them and might hear! Gyp's words did not sound exactly respectful. Jerry tried to talk of everyday things but it was of no use—what mattered the color of Sue Knox's new sweater when the very air tingled with spirits? "Oh-h!" Gyp clutched Jerry in a spasm of fright. "Something grabbed my elbow——" her voice was scarcely audible. "Jerry—true as I live—cross my heart! Long—bony—fingers—just like Uncle Peter's used to feel—Oh-h!" <hr style="width: 65%;" /> <h2>CHAPTER XIX</h2> <div style="break-after:column;"></div>

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