by Myrtle Reed
X
Still More
Uncle Israel, whose other name was Skiles, adjusted himself to his griefin short order. The sounds which issued from his room were not thosecommonly associated with mourning. Dick, fully accustomed to variousnoises, explained them for the edification of the Carrs, who at presentwere sorely in need of edification.
"That's the bath cabinet," remarked Mr. Chester, with the air of aconnoisseur. "He's setting it up near enough to the door so that ifanybody should come in unexpectedly while it's working, the whole thingwill be tipped over and the house set on fire. Uncle Israel won't have anylock or bolt on his door for fear he should die in the night. He relieswholly on the bath cabinet and moral suasion. Nobody knocks on doors here,anyway--just goes in.
"That's his trunk. He keeps it under the window. The bed is set up first,then the bath cabinet, then the trunk, and last, but not least, themedicine chest. He keeps his entire pharmacopoeia on a table at the headof his bed, with a candle and matches, so that if he feels badly in thenight, the proper remedy is instantly at hand. He prepares some of hismedicines himself, but he isn't bigoted about it. He buys the rest atwholesale, and I'll eat my hat if he hasn't got a full-sized bottle ofevery patent medicine that's on sale anywhere in the United States."
"How old," asked Harlan, speaking for the first time, "is Uncle Israel?"
"Something over ninety, I believe," returned Dick. "I've lost my book ofvital statistics, so I don't know, exactly."
"How long," inquired Dorothy, with a forced smile, "does Uncle Israelstay?"
"Lord bless you, my dear lady, Uncle Israel stays all Summer. Hello--thereare some more!"
A private conveyance of uncertain age and purposes drew up before thedoor. From it dismounted a very slender young man of medium height, whoselong auburn hair hung over his coat-collar and at times partially obscuredhis soulful grey eyes. It resembled the mane of a lion, except in colour.He carried a small black valise, and a roll of manuscript tied with abadly soiled ribbon.
An old lady followed, stepping cautiously, but still finding opportunityto scrutinise the group in the doorway, peering sharply over hergold-bowed spectacles. It was she who paid the driver, and even before thetwo reached the house, it was evident that they were not on speakingterms.
The young man offered Mr. Chester a thin, tremulous hand which lay onDick's broad palm in a nerveless, clammy fashion. "Pray," he said, in ahigh, squeaky voice, "convey my greetings to dear Uncle Ebeneezer, andinform him that I have arrived."
"I am at present holding no communication with Uncle Ebeneezer," explainedDick. "The wires are down."
"Where is Ebeneezer?" demanded the old lady.
"Dead," answered Dorothy, wearily; "dead, dead. He's been dead a longtime. This is our house--he left it to my husband and me."
"Don't let that disturb you a mite," said the old lady, cheerfully. "Ilike your looks a whole lot, an' I'd just as soon stay with you as withEbeneezer. I dunno but I'd ruther."
She must have been well past sixty, but her scanty hair was as yetuntouched with grey. She wore it parted in the middle, after an ancientfashion, and twisted at the back into a tight little knob, from which theends of a wire hairpin protruded threateningly. Dorothy reflected,unhappily, that the whole thing was done up almost tight enough to play atune on.
For the rest, her attire was neat, though careless. One had always thedelusion that part or all of it was on the point of coming off.
The young man was wiping his weak eyes upon a voluminous silk handkerchiefwhich had evidently seen long service since its last washing. "Dear UncleEbeneezer," he breathed, running his long, bony fingers through his hair."I cannot tell you how heavily this blow falls upon me. Dear UncleEbeneezer was a distinguished patron of the arts. Our country needs moremen like him, men with fine appreciation, vowed to the service of theIdeal. If you will pardon me, I will now retire to my apartment and remainthere a short time in seclusion."
So saying, he ran lightly upstairs, as one who was thoroughly at home.
"Who in--" began Harlan.
"Mr. Harold Vernon Perkins, poet," said Dick. "He's got his rhymingdictionary and all his odes with him."
"Without knowing," said Dorothy, "I should have thought his name wasHarold or Arthur or Paul. He looks it."
"It wa'n't my fault," interjected the old lady, "that he come. I didn'teven sense that he was on the same train as me till I hired the carriageat the junction an' he clim' in. He said he might as well come along as wewas both goin' to the same place, an' it would save him walkin', an' notcost me no more than 't would anyway."
While she was speaking, she had taken off her outer layer of drapery andher bonnet. "I'll just put these things in my room, my dear," she said toDorothy, "an' then I'll come back an' talk to you. I like your looksfirst-rate."
"Who in--," said Harlan, again, as the old lady vanished into one of thelower wings.
"Mrs. Belinda something," answered Dick. "I don't know who she's marriedto now. She's had bad luck with her husbands."
Mrs. Carr, deeply troubled, was leaning against the wall in the hall, andDick patted her hand soothingly. "Don't you fret," he said, cheerily; "I'mhere to see you through."
"That being the case," remarked Harlan, with a certain acidity in histone, "I'll go back to my work."
The old lady appeared again as Harlan slammed the library door, andsuggested that Dick should go away.
"Polite hint," commented Mr. Chester, not at all disturbed. "See youlater." He went out, whistling, with his cap on the back of his head andhis hands in his pockets.
"I reckon you're a new relative, be n't you?" asked the lady guest, eyeingDorothy closely. "I disremember seein' you before."
"I am Mrs. Carr," repeated Dorothy, mechanically. "My husband, HarlanCarr, is Uncle Ebeneezer's nephew, and the house was left to him."
"Do tell!" ejaculated the other. "I wouldn't have thought it of Ebeneezer.I'm Belinda Dodd, relict of Benjamin Dodd, deceased. How many are therehere, my dear?"
"Miss St. Clair, Mr. Chester, Mrs. Holmes and her three children, UncleIsrael Skiles, and you two, besides Mr. Carr, Mrs. Smithers, and myself."
"Is that all?" asked the visitor, in evident surprise.
"All!" repeated Dorothy. "Isn't that enough?"
"Lord love you, my dear, it's plain to be seen that you ain't never beenhere before. Only them few an' so late in the season, too. Why, there'sCousin Si Martin, an' his wife, an' their eight children, some of thechildren bein' married an' havin' other children, an' Sister-in-law FannyWood with her invalid husband, her second husband, that is, an' Rebecca'sUncle James's third wife with her two daughters, an' Rebecca's sister'ssecond husband with his new wife an' their little boy, an' Uncle Jason an'his stepson, the one that has fits, an' Cousin Sally Simmons an' herdaughter, an' the four little Riley children an' their Aunt Lucretia, an'Step-cousin Betsey Skiles with her two nieces, though I misdoubt theircomin' this year. The youngest niece had typhoid fever here last Summerfor eight weeks, an' Betsey thinks the location ain't healthy, in spite ofit's bein' so near the sanitarium. She was threatenin' to get the healthdepartment or somethin' after Ebeneezer an' have the drinkin' water lookedinto, so's they didn't part on the pleasantest terms, but in the mainwe've all got along well together.
"If Betsey knowed Ebeneezer was dead, she wouldn't hesitate none aboutcomin', typhoid or no typhoid. Mebbe it was her fault some, for Ebeneezerwa'n't to blame for his drinkin' water no more 'n I'd be. Our ministerused to say that there was no discipline for the soul like livin' withfolks, year in an' year out hand-runnin', an' Betsey is naturally thatkind. Ebeneezer always lived plain, but we're all simple folks, not carin'much for style, so we never minded it. The air's good up here an' I dunnoany better place to spend the Summer. My gracious! You be n't sick, beyou?"
"I don't know what to do," murmured Dorothy, her white lips scarcelymoving; "I don't know what to do."
"Well, now," responded Mrs. Dodd, "I can see that I've upset you some.Perha
ps you're one of them people that don't like to have other folksaround you. I've heard of such, comin' from the city. Why, I knew a womanthat lived in the city, an' she said she didn't know the name of the womannext door to her after livin' there over eight months,--an' their windowslookin' right into each other, too."
"I hate people!" cried Dorothy, in a passion of anger. "I don't wantanybody here but my husband and Mrs. Smithers!"
"Set quiet, my dear, an' make your mind easy. I'm sure Ebeneezer neverintended his death to make any difference in my spendin' the Summer here,especially when I'm fresh from another bereavement, but if you're inearnest about closin' your doors on your poor dead aunt's relations, whyI'll see what I can do."
"Oh, if you could!" Dorothy almost screamed the words. "If you can keepany more people from coming here, I'll bless you for ever."
"Poor child, I can see that you're considerable upset. Just get me the penan' ink an' some paper an' envelopes an' I'll set down right now an' writeto the connection an' tell 'em that Ebeneezer's dead an' bein' of unsoundmind at the last has willed the house to strangers who refuse to opentheir doors to the blood relations of poor dead Rebecca. That's all I cando an' I can't promise that it'll work. Ebeneezer writ several times to usall that he didn't feel like havin' no more company, but Rebecca'srelatives was all of a forgivin' disposition an' never laid it up againsthim. We all kep' on a-comin' just the same."
"Tell them," cried Dorothy her eyes unusually bright and her cheeksburning, "that we've got smallpox here, or diphtheria, or a lunaticasylum, or anything you like. Tell them there's a big dog in the yard thatwon't let anybody open the gate. Tell them anything!"
"Just you leave it all to me, my dear," said Mrs. Dodd, soothingly. "Onaccount of the connection bein' so differently constituted, I'll have totell 'em all different. Disease would keep away some an' fetch others.Betsey Skiles, now, she feels to turn her hand to nursin' an' I've knowedher to go miles in the dead of Winter to set up with a stranger that hadsome disease she wa'n't familiar with. Dogs would bring others an' onlyscare a few. Just you leave it all to me. There ain't never no use inborrerin' trouble an' givin' up your peace of mind as security, 'cause youdon't never get the security back. I've been married enough to know thatthere's plenty of trouble in life besides what's looked for, an' it'll getin, without your holdin' open the door an' spreadin' a mat out with'Welcome' on it. Did Ebeneezer leave any property?"
"Only the house and furniture," answered Dorothy, feeling that the wholeburden of the world had been suddenly shifted to her young shoulders.
"Rebecca had a big diamond pin," said Mrs. Dodd, after a brief silence,"that she allers said was to be mine when she got through with it.Ebeneezer give it to her for a weddin' present. You ain't seen it layin'around, have you?"
"No, I haven't seen it 'laying around,'" retorted Dorothy, conscious thatshe was juggling with the truth.
"Well," continued Mrs. Dodd, easily, nibbling her pen holder, "when itcomes to light, just remember that it's mine. I don't doubt it'll turn upsometime. An' now, my dear, I'll just begin on them letters. Cousin SiMartin's folks are a-packin' an' expectin' to get here next week. Isuppose you're willin' to furnish the stamps?"
"Willing!" cried Dorothy, "I should say yes!"
Mrs. Dodd toiled long at her self-imposed task, and, having finished it,went out into the kitchen, where for an hour or more she exchangedmortuary gossip with Mrs. Smithers, every detail of the conversation beingkeenly relished by both ladies.
At dinner-time, eleven people sat down to partake of the excellent repastfurnished by Mrs. Smithers under the stimulus of pleasant talk. Harlan wasat the head, with Miss St. Clair on his right and Mrs. Dodd on his left.Next to Miss St. Clair was the poet, whose deep sorrow did not interferewith his appetite. The twins were next to him, then Mrs. Holmes, thenWillie, then Dorothy, at the foot of the table. On her right was Dick, thespace between Dick and Mrs. Dodd being occupied by Uncle Israel.
To a careless observer, it might have seemed that Uncle Israel had morethan his share of the table, but such in reality was not the case. Hisplate was flanked by a goodly array of medicine bottles, and cups andbowls of predigested and patent food. Uncle Israel, as Dick conciselyexpressed it, was "pie for the cranks."
"My third husband," remarked Mrs. Dodd, pleasantly, well aware that shewas touching her neighbour's sorest spot, "was terribly afflicted withstomach trouble."
"The only stomach trouble I've ever had," commented Mr. Chester, airilyspearing another biscuit with his fork, "was in getting enough to put intoit."
"Have a care, young man," wheezed Uncle Israel, warningly. "There ain'tnothin' so bad for the system as hot bread."
"It would be bad for my system," resumed Dick, "not to be able to getit."
"My third husband," continued Mrs. Dodd, disregarding the interruption,"wouldn't have no bread in the house at all. He et these little strawmattresses, same as you've got, so constant that he finally died from thetic doleroo. Will you please pass me them biscuits, Mis' Carr?"
Mrs. Dodd was obliged to rise and reach past Uncle Israel, who declined tobe contaminated by passing the plate, before she attained her desiredbiscuit.
"Next time, Aunt Belinda," said Dick, "I'll throw you one. SufferingMoses, what new dope is that?"
A powerful and peculiarly penetrating odour filled the room. Presently itbecame evident that Uncle Israel had uncorked a fresh bottle of medicine.Miss St. Clair coughed and hastily excused herself.
"It's time for me to take my pain-killer," murmured Uncle Israel, pouringout a tablespoonful of a thick, brown mixture. "This here cured aCongressman in less 'n half a bottle of a gnawin' pain in his vitals. Iain't never took none of it yet, but I aim to now."
The vapour of it had already made the twins cry and brought tears to Mrs.Dodd's eyes, but Uncle Israel took it clear and smacked his lips over itenjoyably. "It seems to be a searchin' medicine," he commented, after aninterval of silence. "I don't misdoubt that it'll locate that pain thatwas movin' up and down my back all night last night."
Uncle Israel's wizened old face, with its fringe of white whisker, beamedwith the joy of a scientist who has made a new and important discovery. Hehad a long, hooked nose, and was painfully near-sighted, but refused towear glasses. Just now he sniffed inquiringly at the open bottle ofmedicine. "Yes," he said, nodding his bald head sagely, "I don't misdoubtthis here can locate it."
"I don't, either," said Harlan, grimly, putting his handkerchief to hisnose. "Will you excuse me, Dorothy?"
"Certainly."
Mrs. Holmes took the weeping twins away from the table, and Willie, hismentor gone, began to eat happily with his fingers. The poet rose and drewa roll of manuscript from his coat pocket.
"This afternoon," he said, clearing his throat, "I employed my sparemoments in composing an ode to the memory of our sainted relative, underwhose hospitable roof we are all now so pleasantly gathered. I will readit to you."
Mrs. Dodd hastily left the table, muttering indistinctly, and Dickfollowed her. Willie slipped from his chair, crawled under the table, andby stealthily sticking a pin into Uncle Israel's ankle, produced a violentdisturbance, during which the pain-killer was badly spilled. When the airfinally cleared, there was no one in the room but the poet, who sadlyrolled up his manuscript.
"I will read it at breakfast," he thought. "I will give them all thepleasure of hearing it. Art is for the many, not for the few. I must useit to elevate humanity to the Ideal."
He went back to his own room to add some final reverent touches to themasterpiece, and to meditate upon the delicate blonde beauty of Miss St.Clair.
From Mrs. Dodd, meanwhile, Dick had gathered the pleasing purport of hervoluminous correspondence, and insisted on posting all the letters thatvery night, though morning would have done just as well. When he had gonedownhill on his errand of mercy, whistling cheerily as was his wont, Mrs.Dodd went into her own room and locked the door, immediately beginning acareful search of the entire apartment.
She scrutinised the walls closely, and rapped softly here and there,listening intently for a hollow sound. Standing on a chair, she felt allalong the mouldings and window-casings, taking unto herself much dust inthe process. She spent half an hour in the stuffy closet, investigatingthe shelves and recesses, then she got down on her rheumatic old knees andcrept laboriously over the carpet, systematically taking it breadth bybreadth, and paying special attention to that section of it which wasunder the bed.
"When you've found where anythin' ain't," she said to herself, "you'vegone a long way toward findin' where 't is. It's just like Ebeneezer tohave hid it."
She took down the pictures, which were mainly family portraits, life-size,presented to the master of the house by devoted relatives, and rapidlyunframed them. In one of them she found a sealed envelope, which sheeagerly tore open. Inside was a personal communication which, thoughbrief, was very much to the point.
"Dear Cousin Belinda," it read, "I hope you're taking pleasure in yourhunt. I have kept my word to you and in this very room, somewhere, is asum of money which represents my estimate of your worth, as nearly assordid coin can hope to do. It is all in cash, for greater convenience inhandling. I trust you will not spend it all in one store, and that youwill, out of your abundance, be generous to the poor. It might be well touse a part of it in making a visit to New York. When you find this, Ishall be out in the cemetery all by myself, and very comfortable.
"Yours, Ebeneezer Judson."
"I knowed it," she said to herself, excitedly. "Ebeneezer was a hard man,but he always kep' his word. Dear me! What makes me so trembly!"
She removed all the bedclothes and pounded the pillows and mattress invain, then turned her attention to the furniture. It was almost oneo'clock when Mrs. Dodd finally retired, worn in body and jaded in spirit,but still far from discouraged.
"Ebeneezer must have mistook the room," she said to herself, "but howcould he unless his mind was failin'? I've had this now, goin' on tenyear."
In the night she dreamed of finding money in the bureau, and got up to seeif by chance she had not received mysterious guidance from an unknownsource. There was money in the bureau, sure enough, but it was only twoworn copper cents wrapped in many thicknesses of old newspaper, and shewent unsuspiciously back to bed.
"He's mistook the room," she breathed, drowsily, as she sank into troubledslumber, "an' to-morrer I'll have it changed. It's just as well I'vescared them others off, if so be I have."