At the Sign of the Jack O'Lantern

“To-day,” he wrote, “under pressure of my questioning, Sister-in-law Fanny Wood admitted that Rebecca had never invited her to come and see her. Asked Sister-in-law why she was here. Responded that Rebecca would have asked her if she had lived. Perhaps others have surmised the same. Fear of late I may have been unjust to my Rebecca.”

Later on, “my Rebecca” was mentioned but rarely. She became “my dear companion,” “my wife,” or “my partner.” The building of wings and the purchase of additional beds by this time had become a permanent feature, though, as the writer admitted, it was “a roundabout way.”

“The easiest way would be to turn all out. Forgetting my duty to the memory of my dear companion, and sore pressed by many annoyances, did turn out Cousin Betsey Skiles, who forgave me for it without being so requested, and remained.

“Trains to Judson Centre,” he wrote, at one time, “have been most grievously changed. One arrives just after breakfast, the other at three in the morning. Do not understand why this is, and anticipate new trouble from it.”

The entries farther on were full of “trouble,” being minute and intimate portrayals of the emotions of one roused from sleep at three in the morning to admit undesired guests, interlarded with pardonable profanity. “Seems that house might be altered in some way, but do not know. Will consult with Jeremiah.”

After this came the record of an interview with the village carpenter, and rough sketches of proposed alterations. “Putting in new window in middle and making two upper windows round instead of square, with new porch-railing and two new narrow windows downstairs will do it. House fortunately planned by original architect for such alteration. Taking down curtains and keeping lights in windows nights should have some effect, though much doubt whether anything would affect Relations.”

Soon afterward the oppressed one chronicled with great glee how a lone female, arriving on the night train, was found half-dead from fright by the roadside in the morning. “House is fearsome,” wrote Uncle Ebeneezer, with evident relish. “Have been to Jeremiah’s of an evening and, returning, found it wonderful to behold.”

Presently, Dorothy came to an intimate analysis of some of the uninvited ones at present under her roof. The poet was given a full page of scathing comment, illustrated by rude caricatures, which were so suggestive that even Elaine thoroughly enjoyed them.

Pleased with his contribution to literature, Uncle Ebeneezer had written a long and keenly comprehensive essay upon each relation. These bits of vivid portraiture were numbered in this way: “Relation Number 8, Miss Betsey Skiles, Claiming to be Cousin.” At the end of this series was a very beautiful tribute to “My Dearly Beloved Nephew, James Harlan Carr, Who Has Never Come to See Me.”

Frequently, thereafter, came pathetic references to “Dear Nephew James,” “Unknown Recipient of an Old Man’s Gratitude,” “Discerning and Admirable James,” and so on.

One entry ran as follows: “Have been approached this season by each Relation present in regard to disposal of my estate. Will fix surprise for all Relations before leaving to join my wife. Shall leave money to every one, though perhaps not as much as each expects. Jeremiah advises me to leave something to each. Laws are such, I believe, that no one remembered can claim more. Desire to be just, but strongly incline to dear Nephew James.”

On the last page of all was a significant paragraph. “Dreamed of seeing my Rebecca once more, who told me we should be together again April 7th. Shall make all arrangements for leaving on that day, and prepare Surprises spoken of. Shall be very quiet in my grave with no Relations at hand, but should like to hear and see effect of Surprise. Jeremiah will attend.”

The last lines were written on April sixth. “To-morrow I shall join my loved Rebecca and leave all Relations here to fight by themselves. Do not fear Death, but shudder at Relations. Relations keep life from being pleasant. Did not know my Rebecca was possessed of such numbers nor of such kinds, but forgive her all. Shall see her to-morrow.”

Then, on the line below, in a hand that did not falter, was written: “The End.”

Dorothy wiped her eyes on a corner of Elaine’s apron, for Uncle Ebeneezer had been found dead in his bed on the morning of April seventh. “Elaine,” she said, “what would you do?”

“Do?” repeated Elaine. “I’d strike one blow for poor old Uncle Ebeneezer! I’d order every single one of them out of the house to-morrow!”

“To-night!” cried Dorothy, fired with high resolve. “I’ll do it this very night! Poor old Uncle Ebeneezer! Our sufferings have been nothing, compared to his.”

“Are you going to tell Mr. Carr?” asked Elaine, wonderingly.

“Tell him nothing,” rejoined Dorothy, with spirit. “He’s got some old fogy notions about your house being a sacred spot where everybody in creation can impose on you if they want to, just because it is your house. I suppose he got it by being related to poor old uncle.”

“Do I have to go, too?” queried Elaine, rubbing her soft cheek against Dorothy’s.

“Not much,” answered Mrs. Carr, with a sisterly embrace. “You’ll stay, and Dick ’ll stay, and that old tombstone in the kitchen will stay, and so will Claudius Tiberius, but the rest – MOVE!”

Consequently, Elaine looked forward to the dinner-hour with mixed anticipations. Mr. Perkins, Uncle Israel, Mrs. Dodd, and Mrs. Holmes each found a note under their plates when they sat down. Uncle Israel’s face relaxed into an expression of childlike joy when he found the envelope addressed to him. “Valentine, I reckon,” he said, “or mebbe it’s sunthin’ from Santa Claus.”

“Queer acting for Santa Claus,” snorted Mrs. Holmes, who had swiftly torn open her note. “Here we are, all ordered away from what’s been our home for years, by some upstart relations who never saw poor, dear uncle. Are you going to keep boarders?” she asked, insolently, turning to Dorothy.

“No longer,” returned that young woman, imperturbably. “I have done it just as long as I intend to.”

Harlan was gazing curiously at Dorothy, but she avoided his eyes, and continued to eat as though nothing had happened. Dick, guessing rightly, choked, and had to be excused. Elaine’s cheeks were flushed and her eyes sparkled, the flush deepening when Mrs. Dodd inquired where her valentine was. Mr. Perkins was openly dejected, and Mrs. Dodd, receiving no answer to her question, compressed her thin lips into a forced silence.

But Uncle Israel was moved to protesting speech. “’T is queer doin’s for Santa Claus,” he mumbled, pouring out a double dose of his nerve tonic. “’T ain’t such a thing as he’d do, even if he was drunk. Turnin’ a poor old man outdoor, what ain’t got no place to go exceptin’ to Betsey’s, an’ nobody can’t live with Betsey. She’s all the time mad at herself on account of bein’ obliged to live with such a woman as she be. Summers I’ve allers stayed here an’ never made no trouble. I’ve cooked my own food an’ brought most of it, an’ provided all my own medicines, an’ even took my bed with me, goin’ an’ comin’. Ebeneezer’s beds is all terrible drafty – I took two colds to once sleepin’ in one of ’em – an’ at my time of life ’t ain’t proper to change beds. Sleepin’ in a drafty bed would undo all the good of bein’ near the sanitarium. Most likely I’ll have a fever or sunthin’ now an’ die.”

“Shut up, Israel,” said Mrs. Dodd, abruptly. “You ain’t goin’ to die. It wouldn’t surprise me none if you had to be shot on the Day of Judgment before you could be resurrected. Folks past ninety-five that’s pickled in patent medicine from the inside out, ain’t goin’ to die of no fever.”

“Ninety-six, Belinda,” said the old man, proudly. “I’ll be ninety-six next week, an’ I’m as young as I ever was.”

“Then,” rejoined Mrs. Dodd, tartly, “what you want to look out for is measles an’ chicken-pox, to say nothin’ of croup.”

“Come, Gladys Gwendolen and Algernon Paul,” interrupted Mrs. Holmes, in a high key; “we must go and pack now, to go away from dear uncle’s. Dear uncle is dead, you know, and can’t help his dear ones being ordered out of his house by upstarts.”

“What’s a upstart, ma?” inquired Willie.

“People who turn their dead uncle’s relations out of his house in order to take boarders,” returned Mrs. Holmes, clearly.

“Mis’ Carr,” said Mrs. Dodd, sliding up into Dick’s vacant place, “have I understood that you want me to go away to-morrow?”

“Everybody is going away to-morrow,” returned Dorothy, coldly.

“After all I’ve done for you?” persisted Mrs. Dodd.

“What have you done for me?” parried Dorothy, with a pleading look at Elaine.

“Kep’ the others away,” returned Mrs. Dodd, significantly.

“Uncle Ebeneezer does not want any of you here,” said Dorothy, after a painful silence. The impression made by the diary was so vividly present with her that she felt as though she were delivering an actual message.

Much to her surprise, Mrs. Dodd paled and left the room hastily. Uncle Israel tottered after her, leaving his predigested food untouched on his plate and his imitation coffee steaming malodorously in his cup. Mr. Perkins bowed his head upon his hands for a moment; then, with a sigh, lightly dropped out of the open window. The name of Uncle Ebeneezer seemed to be one to conjure with.

“Dorothy,” said Harlan, “might an obedient husband modestly inquire what you have done?”

“Elaine and I found Uncle Ebeneezer’s diary to-day,” explained Dorothy, “and the poor old soul was nagged all his life by relatives. So, in gratitude for what he’s done for us, I’ve turned ’em out. I know he’d like to have me do it.”

Harlan left his place and came to Dorothy, where, bending over her chair, he kissed her tenderly. “Good girl,” he said, patting her shoulder. “Why in thunder didn’t you do it months ago?”

“Isn’t that just like a man?” asked Dorothy, gazing after his retreating figure.

“I don’t know,” answered Elaine, with a pretty blush, “but I guess it is.”

XIX

Various Departures

“Algernon Paul,” called Mrs. Holmes, shrilly, “let the kitty alone!”

Every one else on the premises heard the command, but “Algernon Paul,” perhaps because he was not yet fully accustomed to his new name, continued forcing Claudius Tiberius to walk about on his fore feet, the rest of him being held uncomfortably in the air by the guiding influence.

“Algernon!” The voice was so close this time that the cat was freed by his persecutor’s violent start. Seeing that it was only his mother, Algernon Paul attempted to recover his treasure again, and was badly scratched by that selfsame treasure. Whereupon Mrs. Holmes soundly cuffed Claudius Tiberius “for scratching dear little Ebbie, I mean Algernon Paul,” and received a bite or two on her own account.

“Come, Ebbie, dear,” she continued, “we are going now. We have been driven away from dear uncle’s. Where is sister?”

“Sister” was discovered in the forbidden Paradise of the chicken-coop, and dragged out, howling. Willie, not desiring to leave “dear uncle’s,” was forcibly retrieved by Dick from the roof of the barn.

Mr. Harold Vernon Perkins had silently disappeared in the night, but no one feared foul play. “He’ll be waitin’ at the train, I reckon,” said Mrs. Dodd, “an’ most likely composin’ a poem on ‘Departure’ or else breathin’ into a tube to see if he’s mad.”

She had taken her dismissal very calmly after the first shock. “A woman what’s been married seven times, same as I be,” she explained to Dorothy, “gets used to bein’ moved around from place to place. My sixth husband had the movin’ habit terrible. No sooner would we get settled nice an’ comfortable in a place, an’ I got enough acquainted to borrow sugar an’ tea an’ molasses from my new neighbours, than Thomas would decide to move, an’ more ’n likely, it’d be to some new town where there was a great openin’ in some new business that he’d never tried his hand at yet.

“My dear, I’ve been the wife of a undertaker, a livery-stable keeper, a patent medicine man, a grocer, a butcher, a farmer, an’ a justice of the peace, all in one an’ the same marriage. Seems ’s if there wa’n’t no business Thomas couldn’t feel to turn his hand to, an’ he knowed how they all ought to be run. If anybody was makin’ a failure of anythin’, Thomas knowed just why it was failin’ an’ I must say he ought to know, too, for I never see no more steady failer than Thomas.

“They say a rollin’ stone never gets no moss on it, but it gets worn terrible smooth, an’ by the time I ’d moved to eight or ten different towns an’ got as many as ’leven houses all fixed up, the corners was all broke off ’n me as well as off ’n the furniture. My third husband left me well provided with furniture, but when I went to my seventh altar, I didn’t have nothin’ left but a soap box an’ half a red blanket, on account of havin’ moved around so much.

“I got so’s I’d never unpack all the things in any one place, but keep ’em in their dry-goods boxes an’ barrels nice an’ handy to go on again. When the movin’ fit come on Thomas, I was always in such light marchin’ order that I could go on a day’s notice, an’ that’s the way we usually went. I told him once it’d be easier an’ cheaper to fit up a prairie schooner such as they used to cross the plains in, an’ then when we wanted to move, all we’d have to do would be to put a dipper of water on the fire an’ tell the mules to get ap, but it riled him so terrible that I never said nothin’ about it again, though all through my sixth marriage, it seemed a dretful likely notion.

“A woman with much marryin’ experience soon learns not to rile a husband when ’t ain’t necessary. Sometimes I think the poor creeters has enough to contend with outside without bein’ obliged to fight at home, though it does beat all, my dear, what a terrible exertion ’t is for most men to earn a livin’. None of my husbands was ever obliged to fight at home an’ I take great comfort thinkin’ how peaceful they all was when they was livin’ with me, an’ how peaceful they all be now, though I think it’s more ’n likely that Thomas is a-sufferin’ because he can’t move no more at present.”

Her monologue was interrupted by the arrival of the stage, which Harlan had gladly ordered. Mrs. Holmes and the children climbed into it without vouchsafing a word to anybody, but Mrs. Dodd shook hands all around and would have kissed both Dorothy and Elaine had they not dodged the caress.

“Remember, my dear,” said Mrs. Dodd to Dorothy; “I don’t bear you no grudge, though I never was turned out of no place before. It’s all in a lifetime, the same as marryin’, and if I should ever marry again an’ have a home of my own to invite you to, you an’ your husband’ll be welcome to come and stay with me as long as I’ve stayed with you, or longer, if you felt ’twas pleasant, an’ I’d try to make it so.”

The kindly speech made Dorothy very much ashamed of herself, though she did not know exactly why, and Gladys Gwendolen, with a cherubic smile, leaned out of the stage window and waved a chubby hand, saying: “Bye bye!” Mrs. Holmes alone seemed hard and unforgiving, as she sat sternly upright, looking neither to the right nor the left.

“Rather unusual, isn’t it?” whispered Elaine, as the ponderous vehicle turned into the yard, “to see so many of one’s friends going on the stage at once?”

“Not at all,” chuckled Dick. “Everybody goes on the stage when they leave the Carrs.”

“Good bye, Belinda,” yelled Uncle Israel, putting his flannel bandaged head out of one of the round upper windows. He had climbed up on a chair to do it. “I don’t reckon I’ll ever hear from you again exceptin’ where Lazarus heard from the rich man!”

“Don’t let that trouble you, Israel,” shrieked Mrs. Dodd, piercingly. “I take it the rich man was diggin’ for eight cents in Satan’s orchard, an’ didn’t have no time to look up his friends.”

The rejoinder seemed not to affect Uncle Israel, but it sent Dick into a spasm of merriment from which he recovered only when Harlan pounded him on the back.

“Come on,” said Harlan, “it’s not time to laugh yet. We’ve got to pack Uncle Israel’s bed.”

Uncle Israel was going on the afternoon train, and in another direction. He sat on his trunk and issued minute instructions, occasionally having the whole thing taken apart to be put together in a different kind of a parcel. As an especial favour, Dick was allowed to crate the bath cabinet, though as a rule, no profane hands were permitted to touch this instrument of health. Uncle Israel himself arranged his bottles, and boxes, and powders; a hand-satchel containing his medicines for the journey and the night.

“I reckon,” he said, “if I take a double dose of my pain-killer, this noon, an’ a double dose of my nerve tonic just before I get on the cars, I c’n get along with these few remedies till I get to Betsey’s, where I’ll have to take a full course of treatment to pay for all this travellin’. The pain-killer bottle an’ the nerve tonic bottle is both dretful heavy, in spite of bein’ only half full.”

“How would it do,” suggested Harlan, kindly, “to pour the nerve tonic into the pain-killer, and then you’d have only one bottle to carry. You mix them inside, anyway.”

“You seem real intelligent, nephew,” quavered Uncle Israel. “I never knowed I had no such smart relations. As you say, I mix ’em in my system anyway, an’ it can’t do no harm to do it in the bottle first.”

No sooner said than done, but, strangely enough, the mixture turned a vivid emerald green, and had such a peculiarly vile odour that even Uncle Israel refused to have anything further to do with it.

“I shouldn’t wonder but what you’d done me a real service, nephew,” continued Uncle Israel. “Here I’ve been takin’ this, month after month, an’ never suspectin’ what it was doin’ in my insides. I’ve suspicioned for some time that the pain-killer wan’t doin’ me no good, an’ I’ve been goin’ to try Doctor Jones’s Squaw Remedy, anyhow. I shouldn’t wonder if my whole insides was green instead of red as they orter be. The next time I go to the City, I’m goin’ to take this here compound to the healin’ emporium where I bought it, an’ ask ’em what there is in it that paints folk’s insides. ’Tain’t nothin’ more ’n green paint.”

The patient was so interested in this new development that he demanded a paint-brush and experimented on the porch railing, where it seemed, indeed, to be “green paint.” In getting a nearer view, he touched his nose to it and acquired a bright green spot on the tip of that highly useful organ. Desiring to test it by every sense, he next put his ear down to the railing, as though he expected to hear the elements of the compound rushing together explosively.

“My hearin’ is bad,” he explained. “I wish you’d listen to this here a minute or two, nephew, an’ see if you don’t hear sunthin’.” But Harlan, with his handkerchief pressed tightly to his nose, politely declined.

“I don’t feel,” continued Uncle Israel, tottering into the house, “as though a poor, sick man with green insides instead of red orter be turned out. Judson Centre is a terrible healthy place, or the sanitarium wouldn’t have been built here, an’ travellin’ on the cars would shake me up considerable. I feel as though I was goin’ to be took bad, an’ as if I ought not to go. If somebody’ll set up my bed, I’ll just lay down on it an’ die now. Ebeneezer would be willin’ for me to die in his house, I know, for he’s often said it’d be a reel pleasure to him to pay my funeral expenses if I c’d only make up my mind to claim ’em, an’,” went on the old man pitifully, “I feel to claim ’em now. Set up my bed,” he wheezed, “an’ let me die. I’m bein’ took bad.”

He was swiftly reasoning himself into abject helplessness when Dick came valiantly to the rescue. “I’ll tell you what, Uncle Israel,” he said, “if you’re going to be sick, and of course you know whether you are or not, we’ll just get a carriage and take you over to the sanitarium. I’ll pay your board there for a week, myself, and by that time we’ll know just what’s the matter with you.”

The patient brightened amazingly at the mention of the sanitarium, and was more than willing to go. “I’ve took all kinds of treatment,” he creaked, “but I ain’t never been to no sanitarium, an’ I misdoubt whether they’ve ever had anybody with green insides.

“I reckon,” he added, proudly, “that that wanderin’ pain in my spine’ll stump ’em some to know what it is. Even in the big store where they keep all kinds of medicines, there couldn’t nobody tell me. I know what disease ’tis, but I won’t tell nobody. A man knows his own system best an’ I reckon them smart doctors up at the sanitarium ’ll be scratchin’ their heads over such a complicated case as I be. Send my bed on to Betsey’s but write on it that it ain’t to be set up till I come. ’Twouldn’t be worth while settin’ it up at the sanitarium for a week, an’ I’m minded to try a medical bed, anyways. I ain’t never had none. Get the carriage, quick, for I feel an ailment comin’ on me powerful hard every minute.”

“Suppose,” said Harlan, in a swift aside, “that they refuse to take the patient? What shall we do then?”

“We won’t discuss that,” answered Dick, in a low tone. “My plan is to leave the patient, drive away swiftly, and, an hour or so later, walk back and settle with the head of the repair shop for a week’s mending in advance.”

Harlan laughed gleefully, at which Uncle Israel pricked up his ears. “I’m in on the bill,” he continued; “we’ll go halves on the mending.”

“Laughin’” said Uncle Israel, scornfully, “at your poor old uncle what ain’t goin’ to live much longer. If your insides was all turned green, you wouldn’t be laughin’ – you’d be thinkin’ about your immortal souls.”

It was late afternoon when the bed was finally dumped on the side track to await the arrival of the freight train, being securely covered with a canvas tarpaulin to keep it from the night dew and stray, malicious germs, seeking that which they might devour. Uncle Israel insisted upon overseeing this job himself, so that he did not reach the sanitarium until almost nightfall. Dick and Harlan were driving, and they shamelessly left the patient at the door of the Temple of Healing, with his crated bath cabinet, his few personal belongings, and his medicines.

Turning back at the foot of the hill, they saw that the wanderer had been taken in, though the bath cabinet still remained outside.

“Mean trick to play on a respectable institution,” observed Dick, lashing the horses into a gallop, “but I’ll go over in the morning and square it with ’em.”

“I’ll go with you,” volunteered Harlan. “It’s just as well to have two of us, for we won’t be popular. The survivor can take back the farewell message to the wife and family of the other.”

He meant it for a jest, but even in the gathering darkness, he could see the dull red mounting to Dick’s temples. “I’ll be darned,” thought Harlan, seeing the whole situation instantly. Then, moved by a brotherly impulse, he said, cheerfully: “Go in and win, old man. Good luck to you!”

“Thanks,” muttered Dick, huskily, “but it’s no use. She won’t look at me. She wants a nice lady-like poet, that’s what she wants.”

“No, she doesn’t,” returned Harlan, with deep conviction. “I don’t claim to be a specialist, but when a man and a poet are entered for the matrimonial handicap, I’ll put my money on the man, every time.”

Dick swiftly changed the subject, and began to speculate on probable happenings at the sanitarium. They left the conveyance in the village, from whence it had been taken, and walked uphill.

Lights gleamed from every window of the Jack-o’-Lantern, but the eccentric face of the house had, for the first time, a friendly aspect. Warmth and cheer were in the blinking eyes and the grinning mouth, though, as Dick said, it seemed impossible that “no pumpkin seeds were left inside.”

Those who do not believe in personal influence should go into a house which uninvited and undesired guests have regretfully left. Every alien element had gone from the house on the hill, yet the very walls were still vocal with discord. One expected, every moment, to hear Uncle Israel’s wheeze, the shrill, spiteful comment of Mrs. Holmes, or a howl from one of the twins.

“What shall we do,” asked Harlan, “to celebrate the day of emancipation?”

“I know,” answered Dorothy, with a little laugh. “We’ll burn a bed.”

“Whose bed?” queried Dick.

“Mr. Perkins’s bed,” responded Elaine, readily. The tone of her voice sent a warm glow to Dick’s heart, and he went to work at the heavy walnut structure with more gladness than exercise of that particular kind had ever given him before.