He knew, now, that the girl in the yellow house was Mary-Clare. Her name slipped into sound frequently, but that was all.
“Who is ringing the bell?”
Aunt Polly rolled her knitting carefully and set her glasses aslant on the top of her head. Northrup soon learned that the angle and position of Aunt Polly’s spectacles were significant.
“No human hands are ringing the bell,” she remarked quietly. “I hold one notion, Peter another. I say the bell is ha’nted; calling, calling folks, making them remember!”
“Now, Polly!” Peter knocked the ashes from his pipe on to Ginger’s back. “Don’t get to criss-crossing and apple-sassing about that bell.” He turned to Northrup and winked.
“Women is curious,” he admitted. “When things are flat and lacking flavour they put in a pinch of this or that to spice them up. Fact is––there’s a change of wind and it ain’t sot yet. While it’s shifting around it hits, once so often, a chink in the belfry that’s got to be mended some day. That’s the sum and tee-total of Polly’s ha’nted tower.”
Then, as if the question escaped without his sanction and quite to his consternation, Northrup spoke again:
“Who lives in the yellow house by the crossroads?”
This was not honest. Northrup knew who. What he wanted to say, but had not dared, was: “Tell me about her.”
“I reckon you mean Mary-Clare.” Aunt Polly shook a finger at Ginger. “That dog,” she added, “jest naturally hates the bell ringing. Animals sense more than men!”