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At The Sign of The Jack O'Lantern

<h2>XII</h2> <h3>Her Gift to the World</h3></div> “I regret, my dear madam,” said Lawyer Bradford, twisting uneasily in his chair, “that I can offer you no encouragement whatsoever. The will is clear and explicit in every detail, and there are no grounds for a contest. I am, perhaps, trespassing upon the wishes of my client in giving you this information, but if you are remaining here with the hope of pecuniary profit, you are remaining here unnecessarily.” He rose as though to indicate that the interview was at an end, but Mrs. Holmes was not to be put away in that fashion. Her eyes were blazing and her weak chin trembled with anger. “Do you mean to tell me,” she demanded, “that Ebeneezer voluntarily died without making some sort of provision for me and my helpless little children?” 192 “Your distinguished relation,” answered Mr. Bradford, slowly, “certainly died voluntarily. He announced the date of his death some weeks before it actually occurred, and superintended the making of his own coffin. He wrote out minute directions for his obsequies, had his grave dug, and his shroud made, burned his papers, rearranged his books, made his will—and was found dead in his bed on the morning of the day set for his departure. A methodical person,” muttered the old man, half to himself; “a most methodical and systematic person.” Mrs. Holmes shuddered. She was not ordinarily a superstitious woman, but there was something uncanny in this open partnership with Death. “There was a diamond pin,” she suggested, moodily, “worth, I should think, some fifteen or sixteen hundred dollars. Ebeneezer gave it to dear Rebecca on their wedding day, and she always said it was to be mine. Have you any idea where it is?” Mr. Bradford fidgeted. “If it was intended for you,” he said, finally, “it will be given to you at the proper time, or you will be 193 directed to its location. Mrs. Judson died, did she not, about three weeks after their marriage?” “Yes,” snapped Mrs. Holmes, readily perceiving the line of his thought, “and I saw her twice in those three weeks. Both times she spoke of the pin, which she wore constantly, and said that if anything happened to her, she wanted me to have it, but that old miser hung on to it.” “Madam,” said Mr. Bradford, a faint flush mounting to his temples as he opened the office door, “you are speaking of my Colonel, under whom I served in the war. He was my best friend, and though he is dead, it is still my privilege to protect him. I bid you good afternoon!” She did not perceive until long afterward that she had practically been ejected from the legal presence. Even then, she was so intent upon the point at issue that she was not offended, as at another time she certainly would have been. “He’s lying,” she said to herself, “they’re all lying. There’s money hidden in that house, and I know it, and what’s more, I’m going to have it!” 194 She had searched her own rooms on the night of her arrival, but found nothing, and the attic, so far, had yielded her naught save discouragement and dust. “To think,” she continued, mentally, “that after two of my children were born here and named for them, that we are left in this way! I call it a shame, a disgrace, an outrage!” Her anger swiftly cooled, however, as she went into the house, and her fond sight rested upon her darlings. Willie had a ball and had already broken two of the front windows. The small Rebecca was under the sofa, tempering the pleasure of life for Claudius Tiberius, while young Ebeneezer, having found a knife somewhere, was diligently scratching the melodeon. “Just look,” said Mrs. Holmes, in delighted awe, as Dorothy entered the room. “Don’t make any noise, or you will disturb Ebbie. He is such a sensitive child that the sound of a strange voice will upset him. Did you ever see anything like those figures he is drawing on the melodeon? I believe he’s going to be an artist!” Crushed as she was in spirit by her uncongenial surroundings, Dorothy still had enough 195 temper left to be furiously angry. In these latter days, however, she had gained largely in self-control, and now only bit her lips without answering. But Mrs. Holmes would not have heard her, even if she had replied. A sudden yowl from the distressed Claudius impelled Dorothy to move the sofa and rescue him. “How cruel you are!” commented Mrs. Holmes. “The idea of taking Rebbie’s plaything away from her! Give it back this instant!” Mrs. Carr put the cat out and returned with a defiant expression on her face, which roused Mrs. Holmes to action. “Willie,” she commanded, “go out and get the kitty for your little sister. There, there, Rebbie, darling, don’t cry any more! Brother has gone to get the kitty. Don’t cry!” But “brother” had not gone. “Chase it yourself,” he remarked, coolly. “I’m going out to the barn.” “Dear Willie’s individuality is developing every day,” Mrs. Holmes went on, smoothly. “There, there, Rebbie, don’t cry any more. Go and tell Mrs. Smithers to give you a big piece of bread with lots of butter and jam on 196 it. Tell her mamma said so. Run along, that’s a nice little girl.” Rude squares, triangles, and circles appeared as by magic on the shining surface of the melodeon, the young artist being not at all disturbed by the confusion about him. “I am blessed in my children,” Mrs. Holmes went on, happily. “I often wonder what I have done that I should have so perfect a boy as Willie for my very own. Everybody admires him so that I dwell in constant fear of kidnappers.” “I wouldn’t worry,” said Dorothy, with ill-concealed sarcasm. “Anybody who took him would bring him back inside of two hours.” “I try to think so,” returned the mother, with a deep sigh. “Willie’s indomitable will is my deepest comfort. He gets it from my side of the family. None of the children take after their father at all. Ebbie was a little like his father’s folks at first, but I soon got it out of him and made him altogether like my people. I do not think anybody could keep Willie away from me except by superior physical force. He absolutely adores 197 his mother, as my other children do. You never saw such beautiful sentiment as they have. The other day, now, when I went away and left Rebbie alone in my apartment, she took down my best hat and put it on. The poor little thing wanted to be near her mother. Is it not touching?” “It is indeed,” Dorothy assented, dryly. “My children have never been punished,” continued Mrs. Holmes, now auspiciously launched upon her favourite theme. “It has never been necessary. I rule them entirely through love, and they are so accustomed to my methods that they bitterly resent any interference by outsiders. Why, just before we came here, Ebbie, young as he is, put out the left eye of a woman who tried to take his dog away from him. He did it with his little fist and with apparently no effort at all. Is it not wonderful to see such strength and power of direction in one so young? The woman was in the hospital when we came away, and I trust by this time, she has learned not to interfere with Ebbie. No one is allowed to interfere with my children.” “Apparently not,” remarked Mrs. Carr, somewhat cynically. 198 “It is beautiful to be a mother—the most beautiful thing on earth! Just think how much I have done for the world!” Her sallow face glowed with the conscious virtue bestowed by one of the animal functions upon those who have performed it. “In what way?” queried Mrs. Carr, wholly missing the point. “Why, in raising Willie and Ebbie and Rebbie! No public service can for a moment be compared with that! All other things sink into insignificance beside the glorious gift of maternity. Look at Willie—a form that a sculptor might dream of for a lifetime and never hope to imitate—a head that already has inspired great artists! The gentleman who took Willie’s last tintype said that he had never seen such perfect lines, and insisted on taking several for fear something should happen to Willie. He wanted to keep some of them for himself—it was pathetic, the way he pleaded, but I made him sell me all of them. Willie is mine and I have the first right to his tintypes. And a lady once painted Willie at his play in black and white and sent it to one of the popular weeklies. I have no doubt they gave her a fortune for it, but it never 199 occurred to her to give us anything more than one copy of the paper.” “Which paper was it?” “One of the so-called comic weeklies. You know they publish superb artistic things. I think they are doing a wonderful work in educating the masses to a true appreciation of art. One of the wonderful parts of it was that Willie knew all about it and was not in the least conceited. Any other child would have been set up at being a model for a great artist, but Willie was not affected at all. He has so much character!” At this point the small Rebecca entered, dragging her doll by one arm, and munching a thick slice of bread, thinly coated with molasses. “I distinctly said jam,” remarked Mrs. Holmes. “Servants are so heedless. I do not know that molasses is good for Rebbie. What would you think, Mrs. Carr?” “I don’t think it will hurt her if she doesn’t get too much of it.” “There’s no danger of her getting too much of it. Mrs. Smithers is too stingy for that. Why, only yesterday, Willie told me that she refused to let him dip his dry bread 200 in the cream, and gave him a cup of plain milk instead. Willie knows when his system needs cream and I want him to have all the nourishment he can get. The idea that she should think she knew more about it than Willie! She was properly punished for it, however. I myself saw Willie throw a stick of stove wood at her and hit her foolish head with it. I think Willie is going to be a soldier, a commander of an army. He has so much executive ability and never misses what he aims at. “Rebbie, don’t chew on that side, darling; remember your loose tooth is there. Mamma doesn’t want it to come out.” “Why?” asked Dorothy, with a gleam of interest. “Because I can’t bear to have her little baby teeth come out and make her grow up! I want to keep her just as she is. I have all my children’s teeth, and some day I am going to have them set into a beautiful bracelet. Look at that! How generous and unselfish of Rebbie! She is trying to share her bread with her doll. I believe Rebbie is going to be a philanthropist, or a college-settlement worker. See, she is trying to give the doll 201 the molasses—the very best part of it. Did you ever see such a beautiful spirit in one so young?” Before Mrs. Carr could answer, young Ebeneezer had finished his wood carving and had grabbed his protesting twin by the hair. “There, there, Rebbie,” soothed the mother, “don’t cry. Brother was only loving little sister. Be careful, Ebbie. You can take hold of sister’s hair, but not too hard. They love each other so,” she went on. “Ebbie is really sentimental about Rebbie. He loves to touch and stroke her glorious blonde hair. Did you ever see such hair as Rebbie’s?” It came into Mrs. Carr’s mind that “Rebbie’s” hair looked more like a plate of cold-slaw than anything else, but she was too wise to put the thought into words. Willie slid down the railing and landed in the hall with a loud whoop of glee. “How beautiful to hear the sounds of childish mirth,” said Mrs. Holmes. “How——” From upstairs came a cry of “Help! Help!” Muffled though the voice was, it plainly issued from Uncle Israel’s room, and under the impression that the bath cabinet had finally set the house on fire, Mrs. Carr ran 202 hastily upstairs, followed closely by Mrs. Holmes, who was flanked at the rear by the grinning Willie and the interested twins. From a confused heap of bedding, Uncle Israel’s scarlet ankles waved frantically. “Help! Help!” he cried again, his voice being almost wholly deadened by the pillows, which had fallen on him after the collapse. Dorothy helped the trembling old man to his feet. He took a copious draught from the pain-killer, then sat down on his trunk, much perturbed. Investigation proved that the bed cord had been cut in a dozen places by some one working underneath, and that the entire structure had instantly caved in when Uncle Israel had crept up to the summit of his bed and lain down to take his afternoon nap. When questioned, Willie proudly admitted that he had done it. “Go down and ask Mrs. Smithers for the clothes-line,” commanded Dorothy, sternly. “I won’t,” said Willie, smartly, putting his hands in his pockets. “You had better go yourself, Mrs. Carr,” suggested Mrs. Holmes. “Willie is tired. He has played hard all day and needs rest. 203 He must not on any account over-exert himself, and, besides, I never allow any one else to send my children on errands. They obey me and me alone.” “Go yourself,” said Willie, having gathered encouragement from the maternal source. “I’ll go,” wheezed Uncle Israel. “I can’t sleep in no other bed. Ebeneezer’s beds is all terrible drafty, and I took two colds at once sleepin’ in one of ’em when I knowed better ’n to try it.” He tottered out of the room, the very picture of wretchedness. “Was it not clever of Willie?” whispered Mrs. Holmes, admiringly, to Dorothy. “So much ingenuity—such a fine sense of humor!” “If he were my child,” snapped Dorothy, at last losing her admirable control of a tempestuous temper, “he’d be soundly thrashed at least three times a week!” “I do not doubt it,” replied Mrs. Holmes, contemptuously. “These married old maids, who have no children of their own, are always wholly out of sympathy with a child’s nature.” “When I was young,” retorted Mrs. Carr, “children were not allowed to rule the entire household. There was a current superstition 204 to the effect that older people had some rights.” “And yet,” Mrs. Holmes continued, meditatively, “as the editor of The Ladies’ Own so pertinently asks, what is a house for if not to bring up a child in? The purpose of architecture is defeated, where there are no children.” Uncle Israel, accompanied by Dick, hobbled into the room with the clothes-line. Mrs. Holmes discreetly retired, followed by her offspring, and, late in the afternoon, when Dorothy and Dick were well-nigh fagged out, the structure was in place again. Tremulously the exhausted owner lay down upon it, and asked that his supper be sent to his room. By skilful man&oelig;uvring with Mrs. Smithers, Dick compelled the proud-spirited Willie to take up Uncle Israel’s tray and wait for it. “I’ll tell my mother,” whimpered the sorrowful one. “I hope you will,” replied Dick, significantly; but for some reason of his own, Willie neglected to mention it. At dinner-time, Mr. Perkins drew a rolled manuscript, tied with a black ribbon, from his 205 breast pocket, and, without preliminary, proceeded to read as follows: TO THE MEMORY OF EBENEEZER JUDSON <table summary='poetry' style='margin:0 auto'><tr><td> A face we loved has vanished, A voice we adored is now still, There is no longer any music In the tinkling rill. His hat is empty of his head, His snuff-box has no sneezer, His cane is idle in the hall For gone is Ebeneezer. Within the house we miss him, Let fall the sorrowing tear, Yet shall we gather as was our wont Year after sunny year. He took such joy in all his friends That he would have it so; He left his house to relatives But none of us need go. In fact, we’re all related, Sister, friend, and brother; And in this hour of our grief We must console each other. He would not like to have us sad, Our smiles were once his pleasure And though we cannot smile at him, His memory is our treasure. </td></tr></table> <div>206</div> When he had finished, there was a solemn silence, which was at last relieved by Mrs. Dodd. “Poetry broke out in my first husband’s family,” she said, “but with sulphur an’ molasses an’ quinine an’ plenty of wet-sheet packs it was finally cured.” “You do not understand,” said the poet, indulgently. “Your aura is not harmonious with mine.” “Your—what?” demanded Mrs. Dodd, pricking up her ears. “My aura,” explained Mr. Perkins, flushing faintly. “Each individuality gives out a spiritual vapour, like a cloud, which surrounds one. These are all in different colours, and the colours change with the thoughts we think. Black and purple are the gloomy, morose colours; deep blue and the paler shades show a sombre outlook on life; green is more cheerful, though still serious; yellow and orange show ambition and envy, and red and white are emblematic of all the virtues—red of the noble, martial qualities of man and white of the angelic disposition of woman,” he concluded, with a meaning glance at Elaine, who had been much interested all along. 207 “What perfectly lovely ideas,” she said, in a tone which made Dick’s blood boil. “Are they original with you, Mr. Perkins?” The poet cleared his throat. “I cannot say that they are wholly original with me,” he admitted, reluctantly, “though of course I have modified and amplified them to accord with my own individuality. They are doing wonderful things now in the psychological laboratories. They have a system of tubes so finely constructed that by breathing into one of them a person’s mental state is actually expressed. An angry person, breathing into one of these finely organised tubes, makes a decided change in the colour of the vapour.” “Humph!” snorted Mrs. Dodd, pushing back her chair briskly. “I’ve been married seven times, an’ I never had to breathe into no tube to let any of my husbands know when I was mad!” The poet crimsoned, but otherwise ignored the comment. “If you will come into the parlour just as twilight is falling,” he said to the others, “I will gladly recite my ode on Spring.” Subdued thanks came from the company, though Harlan excused himself on the score 208 of his work, and Mrs. Holmes was obliged to put the twins to bed. When twilight fell, no one was at the rendezvous but Elaine and the poet. “It is just as well,” he said, in a low tone. “There are several under dear Uncle Ebeneezer’s roof who are afflicted with an inharmonious aura. With yours only am I in full accord. It is a great pleasure to an artist to feel such beautiful sympathy with his work. Shall I say it now?” “If you will,” murmured Elaine, deeply honoured by acquaintance with a real poet. Mr. Perkins drew his chair close to hers, leaned over with an air of loving confidence, and began: <table summary='poetry' style='margin:0 auto'><tr><td> Spring, oh Spring, dear, gentle Spring, My poet’s garland do I bring To lay upon thy shining hair Where rests a wreath of flowers so fair. There is a music in the brook Which answers to thy tender look And in thy eyes there is a spell Of soft enchantment too sweet to tell. My heart to thine shall ever turn For thou hast made my soul to burn With rapture far beyond—— </td></tr></table> Elaine screamed, and in a twinkling was on her chair with her skirts gathered about her. 209 It was only Claudius Tiberius, dressed in Rebecca’s doll’s clothes, scooting madly toward the front door, but it served effectually to break up the entertainment. <hr class='major' /> <div style='margin: auto; text-align: center; padding-top: 2em; padding-bottom: 1em'> 210 <div style="break-after:column;"></div>

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