At the Sign of the Jack O'Lantern Part 17

"Is that all?" asked the visitor, in evident surprise.

"All!" repeated Dorothy. "Isn't that enough?"

"Lord love you, my dear, it's plain to be seen that you ain't never been here before. Only them few an' so late in the season, too. Why, there's Cousin Si Martin, an' his wife, an' their eight children, some of the children bein' married an' havin' other children, an' Sister-in-law f.a.n.n.y Wood with her invalid husband, her second husband, that is, an' Rebecca's Uncle James's third wife with her two daughters, an' Rebecca's sister's second husband with his new wife an' their little boy, an' Uncle Jason an'

his stepson, the one that has fits, an' Cousin Sally Simmons an' her daughter, an' the four little Riley children an' their Aunt Lucretia, an'

Step-cousin Betsey Skiles with her two nieces, though I mis...o...b.. their comin' this year. The youngest niece had typhoid fever here last Summer for eight weeks, an' Betsey thinks the location ain't healthy, in spite of it's bein' so near the sanitarium. She was threatenin' to get the health department or somethin' after Ebeneezer an' have the drinkin' water looked into, so's they didn't part on the pleasantest terms, but in the main we've all got along well together.

"If Betsey knowed Ebeneezer was dead, she wouldn't hesitate none about comin', typhoid or no typhoid. Mebbe it was her fault some, for Ebeneezer wa'n't to blame for his drinkin' water no more 'n I'd be. Our minister used to say that there was no discipline for the soul like livin' with folks, year in an' year out hand-runnin', an' Betsey is naturally that kind. Ebeneezer always lived plain, but we're all simple folks, not carin'

much for style, so we never minded it. The air's good up here an' I dunno any better place to spend the Summer. My gracious! You be n't sick, be you?"

"I don't know what to do," murmured Dorothy, her white lips scarcely moving; "I don't know what to do."

"Well, now," responded Mrs. Dodd, "I can see that I've upset you some.

Perhaps you're one of them people that don't like to have other folks around you. I've heard of such, comin' from the city. Why, I knew a woman that lived in the city, an' she said she didn't know the name of the woman next door to her after livin' there over eight months,--an' their windows lookin' right into each other, too."

"I hate people!" cried Dorothy, in a pa.s.sion of anger. "I don't want anybody here but my husband and Mrs. Smithers!"

"Set quiet, my dear, an' make your mind easy. I'm sure Ebeneezer never intended his death to make any difference in my spendin' the Summer here, especially when I'm fresh from another bereavement, but if you're in earnest about closin' your doors on your poor dead aunt's relations, why I'll see what I can do."

"Oh, if you could!" Dorothy almost screamed the words. "If you can keep any more people from coming here, I'll bless you for ever."

"Poor child, I can see that you're considerable upset. Just get me the pen an' ink an' some paper an' envelopes an' I'll set down right now an' write to the connection an' tell 'em that Ebeneezer's dead an' bein' of unsound mind at the last has willed the house to strangers who refuse to open their doors to the blood relations of poor dead Rebecca. That's all I can do an' I can't promise that it'll work. Ebeneezer writ several times to us all that he didn't feel like havin' no more company, but Rebecca's relatives was all of a forgivin' disposition an' never laid it up against him. We all kep' on a-comin' just the same."

"Tell them," cried Dorothy her eyes unusually bright and her cheeks burning, "that we've got smallpox here, or diphtheria, or a lunatic asylum, or anything you like. Tell them there's a big dog in the yard that won't let anybody open the gate. Tell them anything!"

"Just you leave it all to me, my dear," said Mrs. Dodd, soothingly. "On account of the connection bein' so differently const.i.tuted, I'll have to tell 'em all different. Disease would keep away some an' fetch others.

Betsey Skiles, now, she feels to turn her hand to nursin' an' I've knowed her to go miles in the dead of Winter to set up with a stranger that had some disease she wa'n't familiar with. Dogs would bring others an' only scare a few. Just you leave it all to me. There ain't never no use in borrerin' trouble an' givin' up your peace of mind as security, 'cause you don't never get the security back. I've been married enough to know that there's plenty of trouble in life besides what's looked for, an' it'll get in, without your holdin' open the door an' spreadin' a mat out with 'Welcome' on it. Did Ebeneezer leave any property?"

"Only the house and furniture," answered Dorothy, feeling that the whole burden of the world had been suddenly s.h.i.+fted to her young shoulders.

"Rebecca had a big diamond pin," said Mrs. Dodd, after a brief silence, "that she allers said was to be mine when she got through with it.

Ebeneezer give it to her for a weddin' present. You ain't seen it layin'

around, have you?"

"No, I haven't seen it 'laying around,'" retorted Dorothy, conscious that she was juggling with the truth.

"Well," continued Mrs. Dodd, easily, nibbling her pen holder, "when it comes to light, just remember that it's mine. I don't doubt it'll turn up sometime. An' now, my dear, I'll just begin on them letters. Cousin Si Martin's folks are a-packin' an' expectin' to get here next week. I suppose you're willin' to furnish the stamps?"

"Willing!" cried Dorothy, "I should say yes!"

Mrs. Dodd toiled long at her self-imposed task, and, having finished it, went out into the kitchen, where for an hour or more she exchanged mortuary gossip with Mrs. Smithers, every detail of the conversation being keenly relished by both ladies.

At dinner-time, eleven people sat down to partake of the excellent repast furnished by Mrs. Smithers under the stimulus of pleasant talk. Harlan was at the head, with Miss St. Clair on his right and Mrs. Dodd on his left.

Next to Miss St. Clair was the poet, whose deep sorrow did not interfere with his appet.i.te. The twins were next to him, then Mrs. Holmes, then Willie, then Dorothy, at the foot of the table. On her right was d.i.c.k, the s.p.a.ce between d.i.c.k and Mrs. Dodd being occupied by Uncle Israel.

To a careless observer, it might have seemed that Uncle Israel had more than his share of the table, but such in reality was not the case. His plate was flanked by a goodly array of medicine bottles, and cups and bowls of predigested and patent food. Uncle Israel, as d.i.c.k concisely expressed it, was "pie for the cranks."

"My third husband," remarked Mrs. Dodd, pleasantly, well aware that she was touching her neighbour's sorest spot, "was terribly afflicted with stomach trouble."

"The only stomach trouble I've ever had," commented Mr. Chester, airily spearing another biscuit with his fork, "was in getting enough to put into it."

"Have a care, young man," wheezed Uncle Israel, warningly. "There ain't nothin' so bad for the system as hot bread."

"It would be bad for my system," resumed d.i.c.k, "not to be able to get it."

"My third husband," continued Mrs. Dodd, disregarding the interruption, "wouldn't have no bread in the house at all. He et these little straw mattresses, same as you've got, so constant that he finally died from the tic doleroo. Will you please pa.s.s me them biscuits, Mis' Carr?"

Mrs. Dodd was obliged to rise and reach past Uncle Israel, who declined to be contaminated by pa.s.sing the plate, before she attained her desired biscuit.

"Next time, Aunt Belinda," said d.i.c.k, "I'll throw you one. Suffering Moses, what new dope is that?"

A powerful and peculiarly penetrating odour filled the room. Presently it became evident that Uncle Israel had uncorked a fresh bottle of medicine.

Miss St. Clair coughed and hastily excused herself.

"It's time for me to take my pain-killer," murmured Uncle Israel, pouring out a tablespoonful of a thick, brown mixture. "This here cured a Congressman in less 'n half a bottle of a gnawin' pain in his vitals. I ain't never took none of it yet, but I aim to now."

The vapour of it had already made the twins cry and brought tears to Mrs.

Dodd's eyes, but Uncle Israel took it clear and smacked his lips over it enjoyably. "It seems to be a searchin' medicine," he commented, after an interval of silence. "I don't mis...o...b.. that it'll locate that pain that was movin' up and down my back all night last night."

Uncle Israel's wizened old face, with its fringe of white whisker, beamed with the joy of a scientist who has made a new and important discovery. He had a long, hooked nose, and was painfully near-sighted, but refused to wear gla.s.ses. Just now he sniffed inquiringly at the open bottle of medicine. "Yes," he said, nodding his bald head sagely, "I don't mis...o...b.. this here can locate it."

"I don't, either," said Harlan, grimly, putting his handkerchief to his nose. "Will you excuse me, Dorothy?"

"Certainly."

Mrs. Holmes took the weeping twins away from the table, and Willie, his mentor gone, began to eat happily with his fingers. The poet rose and drew a roll of ma.n.u.script from his coat pocket.

"This afternoon," he said, clearing his throat, "I employed my spare moments in composing an ode to the memory of our sainted relative, under whose hospitable roof we are all now so pleasantly gathered. I will read it to you."

Mrs. Dodd hastily left the table, muttering indistinctly, and d.i.c.k followed her. Willie slipped from his chair, crawled under the table, and by stealthily sticking a pin into Uncle Israel's ankle, produced a violent disturbance, during which the pain-killer was badly spilled. When the air finally cleared, there was no one in the room but the poet, who sadly rolled up his ma.n.u.script.

"I will read it at breakfast," he thought. "I will give them all the pleasure of hearing it. Art is for the many, not for the few. I must use it to elevate humanity to the Ideal."

He went back to his own room to add some final reverent touches to the masterpiece, and to meditate upon the delicate blonde beauty of Miss St.

Clair.

From Mrs. Dodd, meanwhile, d.i.c.k had gathered the pleasing purport of her voluminous correspondence, and insisted on posting all the letters that very night, though morning would have done just as well. When he had gone downhill on his errand of mercy, whistling cheerily as was his wont, Mrs.

Dodd went into her own room and locked the door, immediately beginning a careful search of the entire apartment.

She scrutinised the walls closely, and rapped softly here and there, listening intently for a hollow sound. Standing on a chair, she felt all along the mouldings and window-casings, taking unto herself much dust in the process. She spent half an hour in the stuffy closet, investigating the shelves and recesses, then she got down on her rheumatic old knees and crept laboriously over the carpet, systematically taking it breadth by breadth, and paying special attention to that section of it which was under the bed.

"When you've found where anythin' ain't," she said to herself, "you've gone a long way toward findin' where 't is. It's just like Ebeneezer to have hid it."

She took down the pictures, which were mainly family portraits, life-size, presented to the master of the house by devoted relatives, and rapidly unframed them. In one of them she found a sealed envelope, which she eagerly tore open. Inside was a personal communication which, though brief, was very much to the point.

"Dear Cousin Belinda," it read, "I hope you're taking pleasure in your hunt. I have kept my word to you and in this very room, somewhere, is a sum of money which represents my estimate of your worth, as nearly as sordid coin can hope to do. It is all in cash, for greater convenience in handling. I trust you will not spend it all in one store, and that you will, out of your abundance, be generous to the poor. It might be well to use a part of it in making a visit to New York. When you find this, I shall be out in the cemetery all by myself, and very comfortable.

"Yours, Ebeneezer Judson."