At the Sign of the Jack O'Lantern Part 16

"She's afraid somebody is coming on it."

"More twins?" queried Elaine, from the depths of her rocker. "Surely there can't be any more twins?"

"I don't know," answered Dorothy, vaguely troubled. "Someway, I feel as though something terrible were going to happen."

Nothing happened, however, until after luncheon, just as she had begun to breathe peacefully again. Willie saw the procession first and ran back with gleeful shouts to make the announcement. So it was that the entire household, including Harlan, formed a reception committee on the front porch.

Up the hill, drawn by two straining horses, came what appeared at first to be a pyramid of furniture, but later resolved itself into the component parts of a more ponderous bed than the ingenuity of man had yet contrived.

It was made of black walnut, and was at least three times as heavy as any of those in the Jack-o'-Lantern. On the top of the ma.s.s was perched a little old man in a skull cap, a slippered foot in a scarlet sock airily waving at one side. A bright green coil closely clutched in his withered hands was the bed cord appertaining to the bed--a sainted possession from which its owner sternly refused to part.

"By Jove!" shouted d.i.c.k; "it's Uncle Israel and his crib!"

Paying no heed to the a.s.sembled group, Uncle Israel dismounted nimbly enough, and directed the men to take his bed upstairs, which they did, while Harlan and Dorothy stood by helplessly. Here, under his profane and involved direction, the structure was finally set in place, even to the patchwork quilt, fearfully and wonderfully made, which surmounted it all.

Financial settlement was waved aside by Uncle Israel as a matter in which he was not interested, and it was d.i.c.k who counted out two dimes and a nickel to secure peace. A supplementary procession appeared with a small, weather-beaten trunk, a folding bath-cabinet, and a huge case which, from Uncle Israel's perturbation, evidently contained numerous fragile articles of great value.

"Tell Ebeneezer," wheezed the newcomer, "that I have arrived."

"Ebeneezer," replied d.i.c.k, in wicked imitation of the old man's asthmatic speech, "has been dead for some time."

"Then," creaked Uncle Israel, waving a tremulous, bony hand suggestively toward the door, "kindly leave me alone with my grief."

X

Still More

Uncle Israel, whose other name was Skiles, adjusted himself to his grief in short order. The sounds which issued from his room were not those commonly a.s.sociated with mourning. d.i.c.k, fully accustomed to various noises, explained them for the edification of the Carrs, who at present were sorely in need of edification.

"That's the bath cabinet," remarked Mr. Chester, with the air of a connoisseur. "He's setting it up near enough to the door so that if anybody should come in unexpectedly while it's working, the whole thing will be tipped over and the house set on fire. Uncle Israel won't have any lock or bolt on his door for fear he should die in the night. He relies wholly on the bath cabinet and moral suasion. n.o.body knocks on doors here, anyway--just goes in.

"That's his trunk. He keeps it under the window. The bed is set up first, then the bath cabinet, then the trunk, and last, but not least, the medicine chest. He keeps his entire pharmacopoeia on a table at the head of his bed, with a candle and matches, so that if he feels badly in the night, the proper remedy is instantly at hand. He prepares some of his medicines himself, but he isn't bigoted about it. He buys the rest at wholesale, and I'll eat my hat if he hasn't got a full-sized bottle of every patent medicine that's on sale anywhere in the United States."

"How old," asked Harlan, speaking for the first time, "is Uncle Israel?"

"Something over ninety, I believe," returned d.i.c.k. "I've lost my book of vital statistics, so I don't know, exactly."

"How long," inquired Dorothy, with a forced smile, "does Uncle Israel stay?"

"Lord bless you, my dear lady, Uncle Israel stays all Summer. h.e.l.lo--there are some more!"

A private conveyance of uncertain age and purposes drew up before the door. From it dismounted a very slender young man of medium height, whose long auburn hair hung over his coat-collar and at times partially obscured his soulful grey eyes. It resembled the mane of a lion, except in colour.

He carried a small black valise, and a roll of ma.n.u.script tied with a badly soiled ribbon.

An old lady followed, stepping cautiously, but still finding opportunity to scrutinise the group in the doorway, peering sharply over her gold-bowed spectacles. It was she who paid the driver, and even before the two reached the house, it was evident that they were not on speaking terms.

The young man offered Mr. Chester a thin, tremulous hand which lay on d.i.c.k's broad palm in a nerveless, clammy fas.h.i.+on. "Pray," he said, in a high, squeaky voice, "convey my greetings to dear Uncle Ebeneezer, and inform him that I have arrived."

"I am at present holding no communication with Uncle Ebeneezer," explained d.i.c.k. "The wires are down."

"Where is Ebeneezer?" demanded the old lady.

"Dead," answered Dorothy, wearily; "dead, dead. He's been dead a long time. This is our house--he left it to my husband and me."

"Don't let that disturb you a mite," said the old lady, cheerfully. "I like your looks a whole lot, an' I'd just as soon stay with you as with Ebeneezer. I dunno but I'd ruther."

She must have been well past sixty, but her scanty hair was as yet untouched with grey. She wore it parted in the middle, after an ancient fas.h.i.+on, and twisted at the back into a tight little k.n.o.b, from which the ends of a wire hairpin protruded threateningly. Dorothy reflected, unhappily, that the whole thing was done up almost tight enough to play a tune on.

For the rest, her attire was neat, though careless. One had always the delusion that part or all of it was on the point of coming off.

The young man was wiping his weak eyes upon a voluminous silk handkerchief which had evidently seen long service since its last was.h.i.+ng. "Dear Uncle Ebeneezer," he breathed, running his long, bony fingers through his hair.

"I cannot tell you how heavily this blow falls upon me. Dear Uncle Ebeneezer was a distinguished patron of the arts. Our country needs more men like him, men with fine appreciation, vowed to the service of the Ideal. If you will pardon me, I will now retire to my apartment and remain there a short time in seclusion."

So saying, he ran lightly upstairs, as one who was thoroughly at home.

"Who in--" began Harlan.

"Mr. Harold Vernon Perkins, poet," said d.i.c.k. "He's got his rhyming dictionary and all his odes with him."

"Without knowing," said Dorothy, "I should have thought his name was Harold or Arthur or Paul. He looks it."

"It wa'n't my fault," interjected the old lady, "that he come. I didn't even sense that he was on the same train as me till I hired the carriage at the junction an' he clim' in. He said he might as well come along as we was both goin' to the same place, an' it would save him walkin', an' not cost me no more than 't would anyway."

While she was speaking, she had taken off her outer layer of drapery and her bonnet. "I'll just put these things in my room, my dear," she said to Dorothy, "an' then I'll come back an' talk to you. I like your looks first-rate."

"Who in--," said Harlan, again, as the old lady vanished into one of the lower wings.

"Mrs. Belinda something," answered d.i.c.k. "I don't know who she's married to now. She's had bad luck with her husbands."

Mrs. Carr, deeply troubled, was leaning against the wall in the hall, and d.i.c.k patted her hand soothingly. "Don't you fret," he said, cheerily; "I'm here to see you through."

"That being the case," remarked Harlan, with a certain acidity in his tone, "I'll go back to my work."

The old lady appeared again as Harlan slammed the library door, and suggested that d.i.c.k should go away.

"Polite hint," commented Mr. Chester, not at all disturbed. "See you later." He went out, whistling, with his cap on the back of his head and his hands in his pockets.

"I reckon you're a new relative, be n't you?" asked the lady guest, eyeing Dorothy closely. "I disremember seein' you before."

"I am Mrs. Carr," repeated Dorothy, mechanically. "My husband, Harlan Carr, is Uncle Ebeneezer's nephew, and the house was left to him."

"Do tell!" e.j.a.c.u.l.a.t.ed the other. "I wouldn't have thought it of Ebeneezer.

I'm Belinda Dodd, relict of Benjamin Dodd, deceased. How many are there here, my dear?"

"Miss St. Clair, Mr. Chester, Mrs. Holmes and her three children, Uncle Israel Skiles, and you two, besides Mr. Carr, Mrs. Smithers, and myself."