by Marion Bryce
“I am going to see my wife now, sir. She’s a good woman, if a little flighty, and will be the last one in the future to beg me to put more confidence in her. Will you tell me where she is, sir?”
Mr. Sylvester informed him; then added, “But look here, Hopgood, answer me one thing before you go. Why is it that with such talents as you possess, you didn’t stay in the police force? You are a regular genius in your way, and ought not to drone away your existence as a janitor.”
“Ah, sir,” replied the other, shaking his head, “a man who is only capable of assuming one disguise, isn’t good for much as a professional detective. Goggles and red whiskers will deceive one rogue, but not fifty. My eyes were my bane, sir, and ultimately cost me my place. While I could cover them up I was all right. It not only made a man of me, leaving me free to talk and freer to think, but disguised me so, my best friends couldn’t recognize me; but after awhile my goggles were too well known for me to be considered of much further use to the department, and I was obliged to send in my resignation. It is too bad, but I have no versatility, sir. I’m either the clumsy, stammering creature you have always known, or else I am the man Cummins you saw here a few minutes ago.”
“In either case an honest fellow,” answered Mr. Sylvester, and allowed the janitor to depart.
One more scene, and this in the house which Paula is henceforth to make a home for herself and its once melancholy owner. They have come back from their wedding-journey, and are standing in their old fashion, he at the foot, and she half way up the stairs. Suddenly she turns and descends to his side.
“No, I will not wait,” said she. “Here, on this spot we both love so well, and in this the first hour of our return, I will unburden my mind of what I have to say. Edward, is there nothing of all the past that still rests upon you like a shadow? Not one little regret you could wish taken away?”
“No,” said he, enfolding her in his arms with a solemn smile. “The great gift which I hold is the fruit of that past, perhaps; I cannot wish it changed.”
“But the sense of obligation never fulfilled, would you not be happier if that were removed?”
“Perhaps,” he said, “but it cannot be now. I shall have to live without being perfectly happy.”
She lifted her face and her smile shone like a star. “Oh God is good,” she cried, “you shall not lack being perfectly happy; and taking a little paper out of her pocket she put it in his hand. “We found that hidden in Jacqueline Japha’s breast, when we went to lay her out for burial.”
It was only a line; but it made Mr. Sylvester’s brow flush and his voice tremble.
“Whatever I own, and I have been told that I am far from penniless, I desire to have given to the dear and disinterested girl that first told me of Margery Hamlin’s vigil.”
“Paula, Paula, Paula, thou art indeed my good gift! May God make me worthy of your love and of this His last and most unexpected mercy!”
And the look which crossed her face, was that sweet and unearthly radiance which speaks of perfect peace.
THE END
Carolyn Wells
Raspberry Jam
Carolyn Wells
[1862–1942]
Raspberry Jam
1920
Table of Contents
CHAPTER I. THE GREAT HANLON
CHAPTER II. A TRIP TO NEWARK
CHAPTER III. THE STUNT
CHAPTER IV. THE EMBURYS
CHAPTER V. THE EXPLANATION
CHAPTER VI. A SLAMMED DOOR
CHAPTER VII. A VISION
CHAPTER VIII. THE EXAMINER
CHAPTER IX. HAMLET
CHAPTER X. A CONFESSION
CHAPTER XI. FIFI
CHAPTER XII. IN HANLON’S OFFICE
CHAPTER XIII. FLEMING STONE
CHAPTER XIV. THE FIVE SENSES
CHAPTER XV. MARIGNY THE MEDIUM
CHAPTER XVI. FIBSY’S BUSY DAY
CHAPTER XVII. HANLON’S AMBITION
CHAPTER XVIII. THE GUILTY ONE
CHAPTER I. THE GREAT HANLON
“You may contradict me as flat as a flounder, Eunice, but that won’t alter the facts. There is something in telepathy—there is something in mind-reading—”
“If you could read my mind, Aunt Abby, you’d drop that subject. For if you keep on, I may say what I think, and—”
“Oh, that won’t bother me in the least. I know what you think, but your thoughts are so chaotic—so ignorant of the whole matter—that they are worthless. Now, listen to this from the paper: ‘Hanlon will walk blindfolded—blindfolded, mind you—through the streets of Newark, and will find an article hidden by a representative of The Free Press.’ Of course, you know, Eunice, the newspaper people are on the square—why, there’d be no sense to the whole thing otherwise! I saw an exhibition once, you were a little girl then; I remember you flew into such a rage because you couldn’t go. Well, where was I? Let me see—oh, yes—‘Hanlon—’ H’m—h’m—why, my goodness! it’s to-morrow! How I do want to go! Do you suppose Sanford would take us?”
“I do not, unless he loses his mind first. Aunt Abby, you’re crazy! What is the thing, anyway? Some common street show?”
“If you’d listen, Eunice, and pay a little attention, you might know what I’m talking about. But as soon as I say telepathy you begin to laugh and make fun of it all!”
“I haven’t heard anything yet to make fun of. What’s it all about?”
But as she spoke, Eunice Embury was moving about the room, the big living-room of their Park Avenue apartment, and in a preoccupied way was patting her household gods on their shoulders. A readjustment of the pink carnations in a tall glass vase, a turning round of a long-stemmed rose in a silver holder, a punch here and there to the pillows of the davenport and at last dropping down on her desk chair as a hovering butterfly settles on a chosen flower.
A moment more and she was engrossed in some letters, and Aunt Abby sighed resignedly, quite hopeless now of interesting her niece in her project.
“All the same, I’m going,” she remarked, nodding her head at the back of the graceful figure sitting at the desk. “Newark isn’t so far away; I could go alone—or maybe take Maggie—she’d love it—‘Start from the Oberon Theatre—at 2 P.M.—’ ‘H’m, I could have an early lunch and—‘hidden in any part of the city—only mentally directed—not a word spoken—’ Just think of that, Eunice! It doesn’t seem credible that—oh, my goodness! tomorrow is Red Cross day! Well, I can’t help it; such a chance as this doesn’t happen twice. I wish I could coax Sanford—”
“You can’t,” murmured Eunice, without looking up from her writing.
“Then I’ll go alone!” Aunt Abby spoke with spirit, and her bright black eyes snapped with determination as she nodded her white head. “You can’t monopolize the willpower of the whole family, Eunice Embury!”
“I don’t want to! But I can have a voice in the matters of my own house and family yes, and guests! I can’t spare Maggie to-morrow. You well know Sanford won’t go on any such wild goose chase with you, and I’m sure I won’t. You can’t go alone—and anyway, the whole thing is bosh and nonsense. Let me hear no more of it!”
Eunice picked up her pen, but she cast a sidelong glance at her aunt to see if she accepted the situation.
She did not. Miss Abby Ames was a lady of decision, and she had one hobby, for the pursuit of which she would attempt to overcome any obstacle.
“You needn’t hear any more of it, Eunice,” she said, curtly. “I am not a child to be allowed out or kept at home! I shall go to Newark to-morrow to see this performance, and I shall go alone, and—”
“You’ll do nothing of the sort! You’d look nice starting off alone on a railroad trip! Why, I don’t believe you’ve ever been to Newark in your life! Nobody has! It isn’t done!”
Eunice was half whimsical, half angry, but her stormy eyes presaged combat and her rising color indicated decided annoyance.
“Done!” cried her aunt. “Conventions m
ean nothing to me! Abby Ames makes social laws—she does not obey those made by others!”
“You can’t do that in New York, Aunt Abby. In your old Boston, perhaps you had a certain dictatorship, but it won’t do here. Moreover, I have rights as your hostess, and I forbid you to go skylarking about by yourself.”
“You amuse me, Eunice!”
“I had no intention of being funny, I assure you.”
“While not distinctly humorous, the idea of your forbidding me is, well—oh, my gracious, Eunice, listen to this: ‘The man chosen for Hanlon’s “guide” is the Hon. James L. Mortimer—’—h’m—‘High Street—’ Why, Eunice, I’ve heard of Mortimer—he’s—”
“I don’t care who he is, Aunt Abby, and I wish you’d drop the subject.”
“I won’t drop it—it’s too interesting! Oh, my! I wish we could go out there in the big car—then we could follow him round—”
“Hush! Go out to Newark in the car! Trail round the streets and alleys after a fool mountebank! With a horde of gamins and low, horrid men crowding about—”
They won’t be allowed to crowd about!”
“And yelling—”
“I admit the yelling—”
“Aunt Abby, you’re impossible!” Eunice rose, and scowled irately at her aunt. Her temper, always quick, was at times ungovernable, and was oftenest roused at the suggestion of any topic or proceeding that jarred on her taste. Exclusive to the point of absurdity, fastidious in all her ways, Mrs, Embury was, so far as possible, in the world but not of it.
Both she and her husband rejoiced in the smallness of their friendly circle, and shrank from any unnecessary association with hoi polloi.
And Aunt Abby Ames, their not entirely welcome guest, was of a different nature, and possessed of another scale of standards. Secure in her New England aristocracy, calmly conscious of her innate refinement, she permitted herself any lapses from conventional laws that recommended themselves to her inclination.
And it cannot be denied that the investigation of her pet subject, the satisfaction of her curiosity concerning occult matters and her diligent inquiries into the mysteries of the supernatural did lead her into places and scenes not at all in harmony with Eunice’s ideas of propriety.
“Not another word of that rubbish, Auntie; the subject is taboo,” and Eunice waved her hand with the air of one who dismisses a matter completely.
“Don’t you think you can come any of your high and mighty airs on me!” retorted the elder lady. “It doesn’t seem so very many years ago that I spanked you and shut you in the closet for impudence. The fact that you are now Mrs. Sanford Embury instead of little Eunice Ames hasn’t changed my attitude toward you!”
“Oh, Auntie, you are too ridiculous!” and Eunice laughed outright. “But the tables are turned, and I am not only Mrs, Sanford Embury but your hostess, and, as such, entitled to your polite regard for my wishes.”
“Tomfoolery talk, my dear; I’ll give you all the polite regard you are entitled to, but I shall carry out my own wishes, even though they run contrary to yours. And to-morrow I prance out to Newark, N.J., your orders to the contrary notwithstanding!”
The aristocratic old head went up and the aristocratic old nose sniffed disdainfully, for though Eunice Embury was strong-willed, her aunt was equally so, and in a clash of opinions Miss Ames not infrequently won out.
Eunice didn’t sulk, that was not her nature; she turned back to her writing desk with an offended air, but with a smile as of one who tolerates the vagaries of an inferior. This, she knew, would irritate her aunt more than further words could do.
And yet, Eunice Embury was neither mean nor spiteful of disposition. She had a furious temper, but she tried hard to control it, and when it did break loose, the spasm was but of short duration and she was sorry for it afterward. Her husband declared he had tamed her, and that since her marriage, about two years ago, his wise, calm influence had curbed her tendency to fly into a rage and had made her far more equable and placid of disposition.
His methods had been drastic—somewhat like those of Petruchio toward Katherine. When his wife grew angry, Sanford Embury grew more so and by harder words and more scathing sarcasms he—as he expressed it—took the wind out of her sails and rendered her helplessly vanquished.
And yet they were a congenial pair. Their tastes were similar; they liked the same people, the same books, the same plays. Eunice approved of Sanford’s correct ways and perfect intuitions and he admired her beauty and dainty grace.
Neither of them loved Aunt Abby—the sister of Eunice’s father—but her annual visit was customary and unavoidable.
The city apartment of the Sanfords had no guestroom, and therefore the visitor must needs occupy Eunice’s charming boudoir and dressing-room as a bedroom. This inconvenienced the Emburys, but they put up with it perforce.
Nor would they have so disliked to entertain the old lady had it not been for her predilection for occult matters. Her visit to their home coincided with her course of Clairvoyant Sittings and her class of Psychic Development.
These took place at houses in undesirable, sometimes unsavory localities and only Aunt Abby’s immovable determination made it possible for her to attend.
A large text-book, “The Voice of the Future,” was her inseparable companion, and one of her chief, though, as yet, unfulfilled, desires was to have a Reading given at the Embury home by the Swami Ramananda.
Eunice, by dint of stern disapproval, and Sanford, by his good-natured chaffing and ridicule had so far prevented this calamity, but both feared that Aunt Abby might yet outwit them and have her coveted séance after all.
Outside of this phase of her character, Miss Ames was not an undesirable guest. She had a good sense of humor, a kind and generous heart and was both perceptive and responsive in matters of household interest.
Owing to the early death of Eunice’s mother, Aunt Abby had brought up the child, and had done her duty by her as she saw it.
It was after Eunice had married that Miss Ames became interested in mystics and with a few of her friends in Boston had formed a circle for the pursuance of the cult.
Her life had otherwise been empty, indeed, for the girl had given her occupation a-plenty, and that removed, Miss Abby felt a vague want of interest.
Eunice Ames had not been easy to manage. Nor was Miss Abby Ames the best one to be her manager.
The girl was headstrong and wilful, yet possessed of such winsome, persuasive wiles that she twisted her aunt round her finger.
Then, too, her quick temper served as a rod and many times Miss Ames indulged the girl against her better judgment lest an unpleasant explosion of wrath should occur and shake her nervous system to its foundation. So Eunice grew up, an uncurbed, untamed, self-willed and self-reliant girl, making up her quarrels as fast as she picked them and winning friends everywhere in spite of her sharp tongue.
And so, on this occasion, neither of the combatants held rancor more than a few minutes. Eunice went on writing letters and Miss Abby went on reading her paper, until at five o’clock, Ferdinand the butler brought in the tea-things.
“Goody!” cried Eunice, jumping up. “I do want some tea, don’t you, Aunty?”
“Yes,” and Miss Ames crossed the room to sit beside her. “And I’ve an idea, Eunice; I’ll take Ferdinand with me to-morrow!”
The butler, who was also Embury’s valet and a general household steward, looked up quickly. He had been in Miss Ames’ employ for many years before Eunice’s marriage, and now, in the Embury’s city home was the indispensable major-domo of the establishment.
“Yes,” went on Aunt Abby, “that will make it all quite circumspect and correct. Ferdinand, tomorrow you accompany me to Newark, New Jersey.”
“I think not,” said Eunice quietly, and dismissing Ferdinand with a nod, she began serenely to make the tea.
“Don’t be silly, Aunt Abby,” she said; “you can’t go that way. It would be all right to go with Ferdinand, of co
urse, but what could you do when you, reached Newark? Race about on foot, following up this clown, or whoever is performing?”
“We could take a taxicab—”
“You might get one and you might not. Now, you will wait till San comes home, and see if he’ll let you have the big car.”
“Will you go then, Eunice?”
“No; of course not. I don’t go to such fool shows! There’s the door! Sanford’s coming.”
A step was heard in the hall, a cheery voice spoke to Ferdinand as he took his master’s coat and hat and then a big man entered the living-room.
“Hello, girls,” he said, gaily; “how’s things?”
He kissed Eunice, shook Aunt Abby’s hand and dropped into an easy chair.
“Things are whizzing,” he said, as he took the cup Eunice poured for him. “I’ve just come from the Club, and our outlook is rosy-posy. Old Hendricks is going to get, badly left.”
“It’s all safe for you, then, is it?” and Eunice smiled radiantly at her husband.
“Right as rain! The prize-fights did it! They upset old Hendrick’s apple-cart and spilled his beans. Lots of them object to the fights because of the expense—fighters are a high-priced bunch—but I’m down on them because I think it bad form—”
“I should say so!” put in Eunice, emphatically.
“Bad form for an Athletic Club of gentlemen to have brutal exhibitions for their entertainment.”
“And what about the Motion-Picture Theatre?”
“The same there! Frightful expense,—and also rotten taste! No, the Metropolitan Athletic Club can’t stoop to such entertainments. If it were a worth-while little playhouse, now, and if they had a high class of performances, that would be another story. Hey, Aunt Abby? What do you think?”
“I don’t know, Sanford, you know I’m ignorant on such matters. But I want to ask you something. Have you read the paper to-day?”