At the Sign of the Jack O'Lantern

“I see,” murmured Elaine, duly impressed, “but are there not more favourable conditions?”

“I have thought there might be,” returned the poet, after a significant silence, “indeed, I have prayed there might be. In some little nook among the pines, where the brook for ever sings and the petals of the apple blossoms glide away to fairyland upon its shining surface, while butterflies float lazily here and there, if reverent hands might put the flowering of my genius into a modest little book – I should be tempted, yes, sorely tempted.”

“Dear Mr. Perkins,” cried Elaine, ecstatically clapping her hands, “how perfectly glorious that would be! To think how much sweetness and beauty would go into the book, if that were done!”

“Additionally,” corrected Mr. Perkins, with a slight flush.

“Yes, of course I mean additionally. One could smell the apple blossoms through the printed page. Oh, Mr. Perkins, if I only had the means, how gladly would I devote my all to this wonderful, uplifting work!”

The poet glanced around furtively, then drew closer to Elaine. “I may tell you,” he murmured, “in strict confidence, something which my lips have never breathed before, with the assurance that it will be as though unsaid, may I not?”

“Indeed you may!”

“Then,” whispered Mr. Perkins, “I am living in that hope. My dear Uncle Ebeneezer, though now departed, was a distinguished patron of the arts. Many a time have I read him my work, assured of his deep, though unexpressed sympathy, and, lulled by the rhythm of our spoken speech, he has passed without a jar from my dreamland to his own. I know he would never speak of it to any one – dear Uncle Ebeneezer was too finely grained for that – but still I feel assured that somewhere within the walls of that sorely afflicted house, a sum of – of money – has been placed, in the hope that I might find it and carry out this beautiful work.”

“Have you hunted?” demanded Elaine, her eyes wide with wonder.

“No – not hunted. I beg you, do not use so coarse a word. It jars upon my poet’s soul with almost physical pain.”

“I beg your pardon,” returned Elaine, “but – ”

“Sometimes,” interrupted the poet, in a low tone, “when I have felt especially near to Uncle Ebeneezer’s spirit, I have barely glanced in secret places where I have felt he might expect me to look for it, but, so far, I have been wholly unsuccessful, though I know that I plainly read his thought.”

“Some word – some clue – did he give you none?”

“None whatever, except that once or twice he said that he would see that I was suitably provided for. He intimated that he intended me to have a sum apportioned to my deserts.”

“Which would be a generous one; but now – Oh, Mr. Perkins, how can I help you?”

“You have never suspected, have you,” asked Mr. Perkins, colouring to his temples, “that the room you now occupy might once have been my own? Have no poet’s dreams, lingering in the untenanted spaces, claimed your beauteous spirit in sleep?”

“Oh, Mr. Perkins, have I your room? I will so gladly give it up – I – ”

The poet raised his hand. “No. The place where you have walked is holy ground. Not for the world would I dispossess you, but – ”

A meaning look did the rest. “I see,” said Elaine, quickly guessing his thought, “you want to hunt in my room. Oh, Mr. Perkins, I have thoughtlessly pained you again. Can you ever forgive me?”

“My thoughts,” breathed Mr. Perkins, “are perhaps too finely phrased for modern speech. I would not trespass upon the place you have made your own, but – ”

There was a brief silence, then Elaine understood. “I see,” she said, submissively, “I will hunt myself. I mean, I will glance about in the hope that the spirit of Uncle Ebeneezer may make plain to me what you seek. And – ”

“And,” interjected the poet, quite practical for the moment, “whatever you find is mine, for it was once my room. It is only on account of Uncle Ebeneezer’s fine nature and his constant devotion to the Ideal that he did not give it to me direct. He knew it would pain me if he did so. You will remember?”

“I will remember. You need not fear to trust me.”

“Then let us shake hands upon our compact.” For a moment, Elaine’s warm, rosy hand rested in the clammy, nerveless palm of Harold Vernon Perkins. “Last night,” he sighed, “I could not sleep. I was distressed by noises which appeared to emanate from the apartment of Mr. Skiles. Did you hear nothing?”

“Nothing,” returned Elaine; “I sleep very soundly.”

“The privilege of unpoetic souls,” commented Mr. Perkins. “But, as usual, my restlessness was not without definite and beautiful result. In the still watches of the night, I achieved a – poem.”

“Read it,” cried Elaine, rapturously. “Oh, if I might hear it!”

Thus encouraged, Mr. Perkins drew a roll from his breast pocket. A fresh blue ribbon held it in cylindrical form, and the drooping ends waved in careless, artistic fashion.

“As you might expect, if you knew about such things,” he began, clearing his throat, and all unconscious of the rapid approach of Mr. Chester, “it is upon sleep. It is done in the sonnet form, a very beautiful measure which I have made my own. I will read it now.

“SONNET ON SLEEP“O Sleep, that fillst the human breast with peace,When night’s dim curtains swing from out the West,In what way, in what manner, could we restWere thy beneficent offices to cease?O Sleep, thou art indeed the snowy fleeceUpon Day’s lamb. A welcome guestThat comest alike to palace and to nestAnd givest the cares of life a glad release.O Sleep, I beg thee, rest upon my eyes,For I am weary, worn, and sad, – indeed,Of thy great mercies have I piteous needSo come and lead me off to Paradise.”

His voice broke at the end, not so much from the intrinsic beauty of the lines as from perceiving Mr. Chester close at hand, grinning like the fabled pussy-cat of Cheshire, except that he did not fade away, leaving only the grin.

Elaine felt the alien presence and looked around. Woman-like, she quickly grasped the situation.

“I have been having a rare treat, Mr. Chester,” she said, in her smoothest tones. “Mr. Perkins has very kindly been reading to me his beautiful Sonnet on Sleep, composed during a period of wakefulness last night. Did you hear it? Is it not a most unusual sonnet?”

“It is, indeed,” answered Dick, dryly. “I never before had the privilege of hearing one that contained only twelve lines. Dante and Petrarch and Shakespeare and all those other ducks put fourteen lines in every blamed sonnet, for good measure.”

Hurt to the quick, the sensitive poet walked away.

“How can you speak so!” cried Elaine, angrily. “Is not Mr. Perkins privileged to create a form?”

“To create a form, yes,” returned Dick, easily, “but not to monkey with an old one. There’s a difference.”

Elaine would have followed the injured one had not Dick interfered. He caught her hand quickly, a new and unaccountable lump in his throat suddenly choking his utterance. “I say, Elaine,” he said, huskily, “you’re not thinking of hooking up with that red-furred lobster, are you?”

“I do not know,” responded Elaine, with icy dignity, “what your uncouth language may mean, but I tolerate no interference whatever with my personal affairs.” In a moment she was gone, and Dick watched the slender, pink-clad figure returning to the house with ill-concealed emotion.

All Summer, so far, he and Elaine had been good friends. They had laughed and joked and worked together in a care-free, happy-go-lucky fashion. The arrival of Mr. Perkins and his sudden admiration of Elaine had crystallised the situation. Dick knew now what caused the violent antics of his heart – a peaceful and well-behaved organ which had never before been so disturbed by a woman.

“I’ve got it,” said Dick, to himself, deeply shamed. “Moonlight, poetry, mit-holding, and all the rest of it. Never having had it before, it’s going hard with me. Why in the devil wasn’t I taught to write doggerel when I was in college? A fellow don’t stand any show nowadays unless he’s a pocket edition of Byron.”

He went on through the orchard at a run, instinctively healing a troubled mind by wearying the body. At the outer edge of it, he paused.

Suspended by a singularly strong bit of twine, a small, grinning skull hung from the lower branch of an apple tree, far out on the limb. “Cat’s skull,” thought Dick. “Wonder who hung it up there?”

He lingered, idly, for a moment or two, then observed that a small patch of grass directly underneath it was of that season’s growth. His curiosity fully awake, he determined to dig a bit, though he had dug fruitlessly in many places since he came to the Jack-o’-Lantern.

“Uncle couldn’t do anything conventional,” he said to himself, “and I’m pretty sure he wouldn’t want any of his relations to have his money. Here goes, just for luck!”

He went back to the barn for the spade, which already had fresh earth on it – the evidence of an early morning excavation privately made by Mrs. Smithers in a spot where she had dreamed gold was hidden. He went off to the orchard with it, whistling, his progress being furtively watched with great interest by the sour-faced handmaiden in the kitchen.

Back in the orchard again, he worked feverishly, possessed by a pleasant thrill of excitement, somewhat similar to that conceivably enlivening the humdrum existence of Captain Kidd. Dick was far from surprised when his spade struck something hard, and, his hands trembling with eagerness, he lifted out a tin box of the kind commonly used for private papers.

It was locked, but a twist of his muscular hands sufficed to break it open. Then he saw that it was a spring lock, and that, with grim, characteristic humour, Uncle Ebeneezer had placed the key inside the box. There were papers there – and money, the coins and bills being loosely scattered about, and the papers firmly sealed in an envelope addressed “To Whom it May Concern.”

Dick counted the coins and smoothed out the bills, more puzzled than he had ever been in his life. He was tempted to open the envelope, but refrained, not at all sure that he was among those whom it concerned. For the space of half an hour he stood there, frowning, then he laughed.

“I’ll just put it back,” he said to himself. “It’s not for me to monkey with Uncle Ebeneezer’s purposes.”

He buried the box in its old place, and even cut a bit of sod from a distant part of the orchard to hide the traces of his work. When all was smooth again, he went back to the barn, swinging the spade carelessly but no longer whistling.

“The old devil,” he muttered, with keen appreciation. “The wise old devil!”

XIV

Mrs. Dodd’s Fifth Fate

Morning lay fair upon the land, and yet the Lady Elaine was weary. Like a drooping lily she swayed in her saddle, sick at heart and cast down. Earnestly her company of gallant knights strove to cheer her, but in vain. Even the merry quips of the fool in motley, who still rode at her side, brought no smile to her beautiful face.

Presently, he became silent, his heart deeply troubled because of her. An hour passed so, and no word was spoken, then, timidly enough, he ventured another jest.

The Lady Elaine turned. “Say no more, fool,” she commanded, “but get out thy writing tablet and compose me a poem. I would fain hear something sad and tender in place of this endless folly.”

Le Jongleur bowed. “And the subject, Princess?”

Elaine laughed bitterly. “Myself,” she cried. “Why not? Myself, Elaine, and this foolish quest of mine!”

Then, for a space, there was silence upon the road, since the fool, with his writing tablet, had dropped back to the rear of the company, and the gallant knights, perceiving the mood of their mistress, spoke not.

At noon, when the white sun trembled at the zenith, Le Jongleur urged his donkey forward, and presented to Elaine a glorious rose which he had found blooming at the wayside.

“The poem is finished, your highness,” he breathed, doffing his cap, “but ’tis all unworthy, so I bring thee this rose also, that something in my offering may of a certainty be sweet.”

He would have put the scroll into her hand, but she swerved her palfrey aside. “Read it,” she said, impatiently; “I have no mind to try my wits with thy poor scrawls.”

So, with his voice trembling, and overwhelmed with self-consciousness, the fool read as follows:

The vineyards, purple with their bloom,Elaine, hast thou forgotten?The maidens in thy lonely room,Thy tapestry on silent loom —But hush! Where is Elaine?Elaine, hast thou forgotten?Thy castle in the valley lies,Elaine, hast thou forgotten?Where swift the homing swallow fliesAnd in the sunset daylight dies —But hush! Where is Elaine?Elaine, hast thou forgotten?Night comes at last on dreamy wings,Elaine, hast thou forgotten?’Mid gleaming clouds the pale moon swings,Thy taper light a faint star brings,But hush! Where is Elaine?Elaine, hast thou forgotten?

Harlan had never written any poetry before, but it had always seemed easy. Now, as he read the verses over again, he was tremendously satisfied with his achievement. Unconsciously, he had modelled it upon an exquisite little bit by some one else, which had once been reprinted beneath a “story” of his own when he was on the paper. He read it aloud, to see how it sounded, and was more pleased than ever with the swing of the verse and the music of the words. “It’s pretty close to art,” he said to himself, “if it isn’t the real thing.”

Just then the luncheon bell rang, and he went out to the midday “gab-fest,” as he inwardly characterised it. The meal proceeded to dessert without any unusual disturbance, then the diminutive Ebeneezer threw the remnants of his cup of milk into his mother’s face, and was carried off, howling, to be spanked. Like many other mothers, Mrs. Holmes resented her children’s conduct when it incommoded her, but not otherwise, and though milk baths are said to be fine for the complexion, she was not altogether pleased with the manner of application.

Amid the vocal pyrotechnics from the Holmes apartments, Harlan escaped into the library, but his poem was gone. He searched for it vainly, then sat down to write it over before he should forget it. This done, he went on with Elaine and her adventures, and presently forgot all about the lost page.

“Don’t that do your heart good?” inquired Mrs. Dodd, of Dorothy, inclining her head toward Mrs. Holmes’s door.

“Be it ever so humble,” sang Dick, strolling out of the room, “there’s no place like Holmes’s.”

Mrs. Carr admitted that her ears were not yet so calloused but that the sound gave her distinct pleasure.

“If that there little limb of Satan had have throwed his milk in anybody else’s face,” went on Mrs. Dodd, “all she’d have said would have been: ‘Ebbie, don’t spill your nice milk. That’s naughty.’”

Her imitation of the fond mother’s tone and manner was so wickedly exact that Dorothy laughed heartily. The others had fled to a more quiet spot, except Willie and Rebecca, who were fighting for a place at the keyhole of their mother’s door. Finally, Willie gained possession of the keyhole, and the ingenious Rebecca, lying flat on her small stomach, peered under the door, and obtained a pleasing view of what was going on inside.

“Listen at that!” cried Mrs. Dodd, her countenance fairly beaming with innocent pleasure. “I’m gettin’ most as much good out of it as I would from goin’ to the circus. Reckon it’s a slipper, for it sounds just like little Jimmie Young’s weepin’ did the night I come home from my fifth honeymoon.

“That’s the only time,” she went on, reminiscently, “as I was ever a step-ma to children what wasn’t growed up. You’d think a woman as had been married four times afore would have knowed better ’n to get her fool head into a noose like that, but there seems to be only one way for folks to learn things, an’ that’s by their own experience. If we could only use other folks’ experience, this here world would be heaven in about three generations, but we’re so constituted that we never believe fire ’ll burn till we poke our own fingers into it to see. Other folks’ scars don’t go no ways at all toward convincin’ us.

“You read lots of novels about the sorrers of step-children, but I ain’t never come up with no epic as yet portrayin’ the sufferin’s of a step-ma. If I had a talent like your husband’s got, I’ll be blest if I wouldn’t do it. What I went through with them children aged me ten years in less ’n three.

“It was like this,” she prattled on. “I’d never seen a one of ’em, they livin’ far away from their pa, as was necessary if their pa was to get any peace an’ happiness out ’n life, an’ that lyin’ creeter I married told me there was only three. My dear, there was eight, an’ sixteen ordinary young ones couldn’t have been no worse.

“Our courtin’ was done mainly in the cemetery. I’d just laid my fourth away in his proper place an’ had the letterin’ all cut nice on his side of the monumint, an’ I was doin’ the plantin’ on the grave when I met my fate – my fifth fate, I’m speakin’ of now. I allers aimed to do right by my husbands when they was dead no less ’n when they was livin’, an’ I allers planted each one’s favourite flower on his last restin’-place, an’ planted it thick, so ’s when the last trump sounded an’ they all riz up, there wouldn’t be no one of ’em that could accuse me of bein’ partial.

“Some of the flowers was funny for a graveyard. One of ’em loved sunflowers, an’ when blossomin’-time come, you could see a spot of light in my lot clear from the gate when you went in, an’ on sunny days even from quite a piece outside.

“Geraniums was on the next grave, red an’ pink together, as William loved to see ’em, an’ most fittin’ an’ appropriate. He was a queer-lookin’ man, William was, all bald except for a little fringe of red hair around his head, an’ his bald spot gettin’ as pink as anythin’ when he got mad. I never could abide red an’ pink together, so I did my best not to rile him; but la sakes, my dear, red-haired folks is that touchy that you never can tell what’s goin’ to rile ’em an’ what ain’t. Some innercent little remark is as likely to set ’em off as anythin’ else. All the time it’s like carryin’ a light into a fireworks place. Drop it once an’ the air ’ll be full of sky-rockets, roman candles, pinwheels, an’ set pieces till you’re that dazed you don’t know where you’re livin’. Don’t never take no red-haired one, my dear, if you’re anyways set on peace. I never took but one, but that was enough to set me dead against the breed.

“Well, as I was a-sayin’, James begun to woo me in the cemetery. Whenever you see a man in a cemetery, my dear, you can take it for granted that he’s a new-made widower. After the first week or two, he ain’t got no time to go to no grave, he’s so busy lookin’ out for the next one. When I see James a-waterin’ an’ a-weedin’ on the next lot to mine, therefore, I knowed his sorrer was new, even though the band of crape on his hat was rusty an’ old.

“Bein’ fellow-mourners, in a way, we struck up kind of a melancholy friendship, an’ finally got to borrerin’ water from each other’s sprinklin’ cans an’ exchangin’ flower seeds an’ slips, an’ even hull plants. That old deceiver told me it was his first wife that was a-lyin’ there, an’ showed me her name on the monumint. She was buried in her own folks’ lot, an’ I never knowed till it was too late that his own lot was plum full of wives, an’ this here was a annex, so to speak. I dunno how I come to be so took in, but anyways, when James’s grief had subsided somewhat, we decided to travel on the remainin’ stretch through this vale of tears together.

“He told me he had a beautiful home in Taylorville, but was a-livin’ where he was so ’s to be near the cemetery an’ where he could look after dear Annie’s grave. The sentiment made me think all the more of him, so ’s I didn’t hesitate, an’ was even willin’ to be married with one of my old rings, to save the expense of a new one. James allers was thrifty, an’ the way he put it, it sounded quite reasonable, so ’s that’s how it comes, my dear, that in spite of havin’ had seven husbands, I’ve only got six weddin’-rings.

“I put each one on when its own proper anniversary comes around an’ wear it till the next one, when I change again, though for one of the rings it makes only one day, because the fourth and seventh times I was married so near together. That sounds queer, my dear, but if you think it over, you’ll see what I mean. It’s fortunate, too, in a way, ’cause I found out by accident years afterward that my fourth weddin’-ring come out of a pawn-shop, an’ I never took much joy out of wearin’ it. Bein’ just alike, I wore another one mostly, even when Samuel was alive, but he never noticed. Besides, I reckon ’t wouldn’t make no difference, for a man that’ll go to a pawn-shop for a weddin’-ring ain’t one to make a row about his wife’s changin’ it. When I spoke sharp to him about it, he snickered, an’ said it was appropriate enough, though to this day I’ve never figured out precisely just what the old serpent meant by it.

“Well, as I was sayin’, my dear, the minister married us in good an’ proper form, an’ I must say that, though I’ve had all kinds of ceremonies, I take to the ’Piscopal one the most, in spite of havin’ been brought up Methodis’, an’ hereafter I’ll be married by it if the occasion should arise – an’ we drove over to Taylorville.

“The roads was dretful, but bein’ experienced in marriage, I could see that it wasn’t that that was makin’ James drop the whip, an’ pull back on the lines when he wanted the horses to go faster, an’ not hear things I was a-sayin’ to him. Finally, I says, very distinct: ‘James, dear, how many children did you say you had?’

“‘Eight,’ says he, clearin’ his throat proud and haughty like.

“‘You’re lyin’,’ says I, ‘an’ you know you’re lyin’. You allers told me you had three.’

“‘I was speakin’ of those by my first wife,’ says he. ‘My other wives all left one apiece. Ain’t I never told you about ’em? I thought I had,’ he went on, speakin’ quick, ‘but if I haven’t, it ’s because your beauty has made me forget all the pain an’ sorrer of the past.’

“With that he clicked to the horses so sudden that I was near threw out of the rig, but it wasn’t half so bad as the other jolt he’d just give me. For a long time I didn’t say nothin’, an’ there’s nothin’ that makes a man so uneasy as a woman that don’t say nothin’, my dear, so you just write that down in your little book, an’ remember it. It’ll come in handy long before you’re through with your first marriage an’ have begun on your second. Havin’ been through four, I was well skilled in keepin’ my mouth shut, an’ I never said a word till we drove into the yard of the most disconsolate-lookin’ premises I ever seen since I was took to the poorhouse on a visit.

“‘James,’ says I, cool but firm, ‘is this your magnificent residence?’

“‘It is,’ says he, very soft, ‘an’ it is here that I welcome my bride. Have you ever seen anythin’ like this view?’

“‘No,’ says I, ‘I never have’; an’ it was gospel truth I was speakin’, too, for never before had I been to a place where the pigsty was in front.

“‘It is a wonderful view,’ says I, sarcastic like, ‘but before I linger to admire it more, I would love to look upon the scenery inside the house.’

“When we went in, I thought I was either dreamin’ or had got to Bedlam. The seven youngest children was raisin’ particular Cain, an’ the oldest, a pretty little girl of thirteen, was doin’ her best to quiet ’em. There was six others besides what had been accounted for, but I soon found that they belonged to a neighbour, an’ was just visitin’ to relieve the monotony.

“The woman James had left takin’ care of ’em had been gone two weeks an’ more, with a month’s wages still comin’ to her, which James never felt called on to pay, on account of her havin’ left without notice. James was dretful thrifty. The youngest one was puttin’ the cat into the water-pitcher, an’ as soon as I found out what his name was, I called him sharp by it an’ told him to quit. He put his tongue out at me as sassy as you please, an’ says: ‘I won’t.’

“Well, my dear, I didn’t wait to hear no more, but I opened my satchel an’ took out one of my slippers an’ give that child a lickin’ that he’ll remember when he’s a grandparent. ‘Hereafter,’ says I, ‘when I tell you to do anythin’, you’ll do it. I’ll speak kind the first time an’ firm the second, and the third time the whole thing will be illustrated so plain that nobody can’t misunderstand it. Your pa has took me into a confidence game,’ says I, speakin’ to all the children, ‘but I was never one to draw back from what I’d put my hand to, an’ I aim to do right by you if you do right by me. You mind,’ says I, ‘an’ you won’t have no trouble; an’ the same thing,’ says I to James, ‘applies to you.’