At the Sign of the Jack O'Lantern Part 27

XVI

Good Fortune

The next morning, Harlan and Dorothy ate breakfast by themselves. There was suppressed excitement in the manner of Mrs. Smithers, who by this time had quite recovered from her fright, and, as they readily saw, not wholly of an unpleasant kind. From time to time she t.i.ttered audibly--a thing which had never happened before.

"It's just as if a tombstone should giggle," remarked Harlan. His tone was low, but unfortunately, it carried well.

"Tombstone or not, just as you like," responded Mrs. Smithers, as she came in with the bacon. "I'd be careful 'ow I spoke disrespectfully of tombstones if I was in your places, that's wot I would. Tombstones is kind to some and cussed to others, that's wot they are, and if you don't like the monument wot's at present in your kitchen, you know wot you can do."

After breakfast, she beckoned Dorothy into the kitchen, and "gave notice."

"Oh, Mrs. Smithers," cried Dorothy, almost moved to tears, "please don't leave me in the lurch! What should I do without you, with all these people on my hands? Don't think of such a thing as leaving me!"

"Miss Carr," said Mrs. Smithers, solemnly, with one long bony finger laid alongside of her hooked nose, "'t ain't necessary for you to run no Summer hotel, that's what it ain't. These 'ere all be relations of your uncle's wife and none of his'n except by marriage. Wot's more, your uncle don't want 'em 'ere, that's wot 'e don't."

Mrs. Smithers's tone was so confident that for the moment Dorothy was startled, remembering yesterday's vague allusion to "sheeted spectres of the dead."

"What do you mean?" she demanded.

"Miss Carr," returned Mrs. Smithers, with due dignity, "ever since I come 'ere, I've been invited to shut my 'ead whenever I opened it about that there cat or your uncle or anythink, as you well knows. I was never one wot was fond of 'avin' my 'ead shut up."

"Go on," said Dorothy, her curiosity fully alive, "and tell me what you mean."

"You gives me your solemn oath, Miss, that you won't tell me to shut my 'ead?" queried Mrs. Smithers.

"Of course," returned Dorothy, trying to be practical, though the atmosphere was sepulchral enough.

"Well, then, you knows wot I told you about that there cat. 'E was kilt by your uncle, that's wot 'e was, and your uncle couldn't never abide cats.

'E was that feared of 'em 'e couldn't even bury 'em when they was kilt, and one of my duties, Miss, as long as I lived with 'im, was buryin' of cats, and until this one, I never come up with one wot couldn't stay buried, that's wot I 'aven't.

"'E 'ated 'em like poison, that's wot 'e did. The week afore your uncle died, he kilt this 'ere cat wot's chasin' the chickens now, and I buried 'im with my own hands, but could 'e stay buried? 'E could not. No sooner is your uncle dead and gone than this 'ere cat comes back, and it's the truth, Miss Carr, for where 'e was buried, there ain't no sign of a cat now. Wot's worse, this 'ere cat looks per-cisely like your uncle, green eyes, white s.h.i.+rt front, black tie and all. It's enough to give a body the s.h.i.+vers to see 'im a-settin' on the kitchen floor lappin' up 'is mush and milk, the which your uncle was so powerful fond of.

"Wot's more," continued Mrs. Smithers, in tones of awe, "I'll a'most bet my immortal soul that if you'll dig in the cemetery where your uncle was buried good and proper, you won't find nothin' but the empty coffin and maybe 'is grave clothes. Your uncle's been livin' with us all along in that there cat," she added, triumphantly. "It's 'is punishment, for 'e couldn't never abide 'em, that's wot 'e couldn't."

Mrs. Carr opened her mouth to speak, then, remembering her promise, took refuge in flight.

"'Er's scared," muttered Mrs. Smithers, "and no wonder. Wot with cats as can't stay buried, writin' letters and deliverin' 'em in the dead of night, and a purrin' like mad while blamed fools digs for eight cents, most folks would be scared, I take it, that's wot they would."

Dorothy was pale when she went into the library where Harlan was at work.

He frowned at the interruption and Dorothy smiled back at him--it seemed so normal and sane.

"What is it, Dorothy?" he asked, not unkindly.

"Oh--just Mrs. Smithers's nonsense. She's upset me."

"What about, dear?" Harlan put his work aside readily enough now.

"Oh, the same old story about the cat and Uncle Ebeneezer. And I'm afraid----"

"Afraid of what?"

"I know it's foolish, but I'm afraid she's going to dig in the cemetery to see if Uncle Ebeneezer is still there. She thinks he's in the cat."

For the moment, Harlan thought Dorothy had suddenly lost her reason, then he laughed heartily.

"Don't worry," he said, "she won't do anything of the kind, and, besides, what if she did? It's a free country, isn't it?"

"And--there's another thing, Harlan." For days she had dreaded to speak of it, but now it could be put off no longer.

"It's--it's money," she went on, unwillingly. "I'm afraid I haven't managed very well, or else it's cost so much for everything, but we're--we're almost broke, Harlan," she concluded, bravely, trying to smile.

Harlan put his hands in his pockets and began to walk back and forth. "If I can only finish the book," he said, at length, "I think we'll be all right, but I can't leave it now. There's only two more chapters to write, and then----"

"And then," cried Dorothy, her beautiful belief in him transfiguring her face, "then we'll be rich, won't we?"

"I am already rich," returned Harlan, "when you have such faith in me as that."

For a moment the s.h.i.+mmering veil of estrangement which so long had hung between them, seemed to part, and reveal soul to soul. As swiftly the mood changed and Dorothy felt it first, like a chill mist in the air. Neither dreamed that with the writing of the first paragraph in the book, the spell had claimed one of them for ever--that cobweb after cobweb, of gossamer fineness, should make a fabric never to be broken; that on one side of it should stand a man who had exchanged his dreams for realities and his realities for dreams, and on the other, a woman, blindly hurt, eternally straining to see beyond the veil.

"What can we do?" asked Harlan, unwontedly practical for the nonce.

"I don't know," said Dorothy. "There are the diamonds, you know, that we found. I don't care for any diamonds, except the one you gave me. If we could sell those----"

"Dorothy, don't. I don't believe they're ours, and if they were, they shouldn't be sold. You should keep them."

"My engagement ring, then," suggested Dorothy, her lips trembling. "That's ours."

"Don't be foolish," said Harlan, a little roughly. "I'll finish this and then we'll see what's to be done."

Feeling her dismissal, Dorothy went out, and, all unknowingly, straight into the suns.h.i.+ne.

Elaine was coming downstairs, fresh and sweet as the morning itself. "Am I too late to have any breakfast, Mrs. Carr?" she asked, gaily. "I know I don't deserve any."

"Of course you shall have breakfast. I'll see to it."

Elaine took her place at the table and Dorothy, reluctant to put further strain on the frail bond that anch.o.r.ed Mrs. Smithers to her service, brought in the breakfast herself.

"You're so good to me," said the girl, gratefully, as Dorothy poured out a cup of steaming coffee. "To think how beautiful you've been to me, when I never saw either one of you in my whole life, till I came here ill and broken-hearted! See what you've made of me--see how well and strong I am!"

Swiftly, Dorothy bent and kissed Elaine, a strange, shadowy cloud for ever lifted from her heart. She had not known how heavy it was nor how charged with foreboding, until it was gone.

"I want to do something for you," Elaine went on, laughing to hide the mist in her eyes, "and I've just thought what I can do. My mother had some beautiful old mahogany furniture, just loads of it, and some wonderful laces, and I'm going to divide with you."

"No, you're not," returned Dorothy, warmly. She felt that Elaine had already given her enough.