Magic Elizabeth (2 page)

But of course there would be no one there at all. There was nothing she could do but wait here on the porch while Mrs. Chipley impatiently yanked at the bell once more.

Something moved inside the house this time. Footsteps were approaching the door. A light suddenly went on inside.

“There, you see!” said Mrs. Chipley triumphantly. She reached down and squeezed Sally’s cold hand.

The big door slowly creaked open. Inside, standing in the harsh orange light from an overhead bulb, stood a very old lady. Her hair, pulled back from her wrinkled face, was gray, and she was dressed entirely in black. Though she was taller than Mrs. Chipley by far, her face seemed very close to Sally, for she stood in a bent-over position, holding one hand pressed against her back. Sally blinked and stared up at her. It seemed to her that the lady was scowling down at them, though it may have been that she was attempting to smile, an exercise which her face seemed unaccustomed to performing.

The lady was perfectly still, except for the rippling of her black dress in the wind. She seemed to
Sally for a moment exactly like a statue. As they stared at each other, the lady raised a hand to her gray hair, to protect it from the wind.

“How do you do,” she said. Her voice sounded every bit as rusty as the voice of the iron gate.

“How d’do,” answered Mrs. Chipley politely.

“Hello,” whispered Sally.

“You must be Mrs. Chipley,” said the lady, “and Sally,” she added, looking down at her.

Sally nodded, gulped, and attempted what turned out to be a weak smile.

The thin, long-nosed face of the strange lady seemed to have settled ages ago into a permanent frown. When her mouth moved briefly in what was perhaps another try at a smile, Sally felt as if it was not the gate but the odd smile that creaked.

“Well, Sally, I’m your Aunt Sarah. You’d both better step in out of the rain. You’ll catch your death out there.”

“No, no, I’ll be on my way back to the bus stop,” said Mrs. Chipley, “now I see Sally’s going to be all right,” she added rather doubtfully. (She didn’t like Aunt Sarah either, thought Sally.) “Yes, I’ve got a train to make tonight, what with my poor daughter sick and all, and oh, here’s Sally’s suitcase — everything she’ll need for a few days: pajamas and her toothbrush, a hairbrush and a nice new pink comb
we got her at the drugstore — couldn’t find the old one, though we looked high and low — ”

“Yes, yes, Mrs. Chipley,” said Aunt Sarah, sounding impatient. “Sally, take your suitcase and step inside, please. There is a draft from the door, and I’m afraid Shadow will catch cold.”

Shadow? wondered Sally. Who was Shadow? But she did not dare to ask.

“Thank you, Mrs. Chipley,” said Aunt Sarah firmly, for Mrs. Chipley stood hesitating on the brink of the porch steps. “Thank you for bringing Sally. She’ll be all right now.”

A small tendril of hope sprouted in the region of Sally’s heart. Maybe Mrs. Chipley wouldn’t leave her after all.

But, “Good-bye then, honey,” said Mrs. Chipley, moving impulsively back toward the door again and enfolding Sally in her comfortable clasp. Sally flung her arms around the plump neck. “Oh, take me with you,” she yearned to cry. “Oh, please.” But again she did not say it. Mrs. Chipley kissed her cheek and then straightened up, brushing at her own eyes as she did so. “There goes old Mrs. Chipley crying. I’m that sentimental,” she said to Aunt Sarah, who did not make any comment at this news. Mrs. Chipley bent to kiss Sally again, and whispered in her ear, “Don’t you worry, honey, everything’ll be all right,
and Mrs. Chipley’ll hurry back as quick as she can.” Then, pressing Sally’s hand, she turned and hurried off down the steps into the rain and darkness.

Aunt Sarah had not mentioned tea at all. “Why didn’t she?” thought Sally angrily. “Poor Mrs. Chipley, at least she’d have liked to be offered some.”

“All right,” said Aunt Sarah sharply. “Hurry in, please.”

Sally stepped hesitantly into the hallway of the strange house. The door swung closed behind her. From somewhere in the darkness, which seemed to fill all the house beyond the orange light, there came a most curious sound, a sort of bad-tempered yowl, which caused Sally to start in surprise and fright. This was followed by a petulant cough.

“There now, you see,” said Aunt Sarah, “poor Shadow’s coughing! This house is simply freezing. Come here, Shadow.”

And out of the darkness, into the pool of light, there stepped a very large, very black cat. The cat narrowed its eyes at Sally, flattened its ears, and hissed.

“Is that Shadow?” asked Sally.

“Yes,” said Aunt Sarah. “That is indeed poor Shadow.”

The cat, golden eyes gleaming up at Sally in an unfriendly way, rubbed up against Aunt Sarah, who
reached down to touch the top of its black head with her long, skinny fingers. With her stooped figure and her gray hair pulled tightly back into a bun, she looked just like a witch. One thin strand, perhaps loosened by the wind Sally had brought in with her, straggled over her hollow cheek.

Sally felt sure that she’d never be staying here if her mother knew what it was really like.

She was suddenly terribly tired.

S
ally moved uncertainly into the hall
and, not knowing what else to do, set down her suitcase.

“Sally!” cried her aunt, so sharply that Sally jumped. “Stay right where you are! I should think at your age you would know better! Step back, please! Step back!” Sally, bewildered and unhappy, did so. “Look,” said her aunt, pointing to a spot on the rug just in front of Sally’s feet.

Sally looked, but it was very difficult to see anything in the dim hallway. “Dirt!” said her aunt impatiently. “On my rug! We’re going to have to make some rules, and the first one is” — she spoke very sharply and distinctly — “
Wipe your feet on the mat before coming in!
”

“I’m sorry,” whispered Sally, but her aunt brushed past her, opened the door of a small narrow closet near the front door, and brought out a broom. She began to sweep the rug angrily, as if she wanted to sweep Sally out too. Sally half expected her to leap onto the broom, with the black cat behind, and soar away into the night. “And I wish she would,” thought Sally. Her eyes misted with tears as she wiped her feet on the mat near the door.

Her aunt was muttering as she swept, as if she were talking to herself. “Have to keep this house clean!” she said, brushing furiously at one spot on the rug. “Girl came in and cleaned it. Took her wages and never came back.” She bent, one hand pressed to her back, and peered at the spot. Then she sighed, straightened as if she found it difficult to do so, and went on sweeping harder than ever. “How I’m going to manage everything myself, I don’t know! Can’t get anyone who wants to work nowadays!” Swish, swish whispered the broom, more slowly now. It seemed to be growing tired.

“She doesn’t want me here,” thought Sally in despair. “Now she has me and the house to take care of, and she doesn’t like it.”

She stood on the mat, feeling awkward and very lonely, while her aunt continued to sweep the rug.
She felt a lump beginning in her throat, and her feet were wet and uncomfortable. She sneezed.

At last her aunt looked up from her sweeping. “Well,” she said, “don’t just stand there! Come in, come in, if your feet are clean. Here, hold them up and I’ll see.” Sally leaned against the door frame, and slowly raised one foot and then the other, while Aunt Sarah bent to peer at them. Her aunt snorted, straightened up, and put the broom back in the closet. Sally stood listening to the steady drip of rain from the porch roof, which made her conscious of the deep quiet of the dimly lit house. She shivered.

Aunt Sarah turned back to her. “Why you didn’t wear rubbers, I don’t know!” she grumbled.

“It wasn’t raining when we left,” whispered Sally. But her aunt did not seem to hear her.

“You have slippers in there?” She indicated the suitcase. Sally nodded.

“Take them out.” Sally opened the suitcase with nervous fingers, found her fuzzy pink slippers, removed her shoes, and put the slippers on. It did feel better.

“Leave the shoes on the mat,” ordered her aunt. “You’ll be getting a cold next, and then what will I do with you?”

When Sally had placed the shoes side by side on the mat, her aunt said, “All right, you may come with me.”

She followed Aunt Sarah through the musty-smelling hall to a larger closet at the back of the hall. It was filled with what looked to Sally like a number of long, dusty black coats. Her aunt reached into the closet, brought out a hanger and, without a word, handed it to Sally. Then, seeing that Sally still wore her coat, she snatched the hanger back and said impatiently, “No more dawdling now, Sally. Take your coat off.” Sally removed her coat and her hat, and stood awkwardly holding them, wondering whether her aunt would give her the hanger or would place the coat on it herself.

Aunt Sarah touched the coat with her long fingers, and then hastily drew them back. “Wet!” she pronounced, as if Sally was responsible for something very bad. “Well, give it to me.” She sighed heavily. “It’ll have to go over the sink.” Sally handed the coat to her. Holding it with two fingers, as if trying to touch it as little as possible, Aunt Sarah placed it on the hanger. “You carry the hat,” she said, giving that rain-soaked object a disdainful look.

Sally followed her, holding the hat as if she were comforting it. She felt very sorry for that small, unwanted blue hat, which had already dripped some rain on Aunt Sarah’s rug.

They made their way down a long shadowy passageway leading from the front hall toward the
back of the house. Sally was just beginning to feel a tiny bit better as the slippers warmed her feet when from somewhere ahead of them there came a high-pitched whistle. Sally stumbled in alarm, and her hand reached out toward the wall to support herself. Her fingers leaped back when they encountered something soft. She turned her head with an effort, for her neck ached with tension. She was looking into the gleaming glass eyes of a stuffed owl, sitting on a little shelf attached to the wall. The whistling rose higher. Sally felt quite faint with terror.

“Tea kettle,” snapped her aunt, who had not stopped.

It took a moment for Sally to collect herself, and then she hurried on after her aunt, not wanting to be left behind in this dark hall with the staring owl.

Aunt Sarah pushed open a door at the end of the hall. The whistling grew louder. Sally followed her into the kitchen.

Tall cupboards of dark wood, with knots that stared down like eyes, loomed over them. And there was an enormous stone fireplace, quite empty, and so huge that Sally could easily have walked into it. She had never before seen a fireplace of this size, and she wondered how it would look with a fire burning in it. This was a very strange sort of house indeed. Hearing a faint ticking sound, she looked
up and saw upon the mantel of the fireplace, along with a number of blue-and-white pitchers and plates, a little clock shaped like a church. Its pendulum was a small gold bell in the steeple, which moved quickly back and forth. It was a friendly-looking clock with a matter-of-fact sort of voice,
and you almost could not look at it without smiling. Aunt Sarah hurried to the stove and moved the kettle, and Sally, looking at the clock, began to feel just the tiniest bit better. There were appetizing odors and comforting bubbling sounds coming from the stove. It was warmer here in the kitchen.

Aunt Sarah hung Sally’s coat on a hook above the sink, and Sally stood beside the long wooden table in the center of the room, listening to the steady drip, drip of water from the coat. She timidly placed her hat upon the table, and her aunt’s long fingers reached out and snatched it up. The hat appeared upon a hook beside the coat.

Sally stood without speaking in the strange kitchen, while her aunt quickly removed pans from the stove and filled dishes and glasses. If she had not been so frightened, Sally would have offered to help, as she did at home with her mother. But she had no idea how she ought to behave with this strange lady, and so she said nothing at all.