“Housekeepers, Mary?”
“Yes'm. We've had three this summer. They was as lonely and jumpy women as ever I saw. The first, she could n't sleep for hearin' footsteps above her head, and the second, she felt somebody pass her in the hallway, and the third, she would n't say what the matter was, but she was the most frightened of all. You promise to be a young lady with more grit. I'm glad of it, for I do think a delicate lady like Mrs. Brane had ought to have some peace and quiet in her house. Now, miss, I'll do anything to help you till you can find some one to take those women's places. I can cook pretty good, and I can do the laundry, too, and not neglect my Robbie, neither.”
I dismissed the thought of the three housekeepers.
“Oh, Mary, thank you! You are just splendid! Mrs. Brane says she is going to get a man and wife.”
“Now, that's good. That's what we need—a man,” said Mary. She was emphatically an old-fashioned woman, that is, a woman completely capable of any sort of heroism, but who never feels safe unless there is a man in the house. “Those black men, I think, are worse'n ghosts about a place. Not that they come in often, but one of the housekeepers was askin' that George be allowed to sleep inside. I was against it myself. Now, you depend upon me, miss.”
I was almost absurdly grateful, partly because her pluck steadied my nerves, which the morning's occurrences had flurried a little, and partly because I was glad that she did not share Robbie's peculiar prejudice. I went back to the house thoroughly braced, and watched the three old women depart without a pang.
Nevertheless, that description of the other housekeepers did linger uncomfortably in my memory.