At the Sign of the Jack O'Lantern

by Myrtle Reed

  XIII

  A Sensitive Soul

  Uncle Israel was securely locked in for the night, and was correspondinglyrestless. He felt like a caged animal, and sleep, though earnestly wooed,failed to come to his relief. A powerful draught of his usual sleepingpotion had been like so much water, as far as effect was concerned.

  At length he got up, his lifelong habit of cautious movement assertingitself even here, and with tremulous, withered hands, lighted his candle.Then he put on his piebald dressing-gown and his carpet slippers, and saton the declivity of his bed, blinking at the light, as wide awake as anyowl.

  Presently it came to him that he had not as yet made a thorough search ofhis own apartment, so he began at the foundation, so to speak, and crawledpainfully over the carpet, paying special attention to the edges. Next, hefingered the baseboards carefully, rapping here and there, as though heexpected some significant sound to penetrate his deafness. Rising, he wentover the wall systematically, and at length, with the aid of a chair,reached up to the picture-moulding. He had gone nearly around the room,without any definite idea of what he was searching for, when hisquestioning fingers touched a small, metallic object.

  A smile of childlike pleasure transfigured Uncle Israel's wizened oldface. Trembling, he slipped down from the chair, falling over the bathcabinet in his descent, and tried the key in the lock. It fitted, and theold man fairly chuckled.

  "Wait till I tell Belinda," he muttered, delightedly. Then a crafty secondthought suggested that it might be wiser to keep "Belinda" in the dark,lest she might in some way gain possession of the duplicate key.

  "Lor'," he thought, "but how I pity them husbands of her'n. Bet theirgraves felt good when they got into 'em, the hull seven graves. What withsneerin' at medicines and things a person eats, it must have been awful,not to mention stealin' of keys and a-lockin' 'em in nights. S'pose thehouse had got afire, where'd I be now?" Grasping his treasure closely,Uncle Israel blew out his candle and tottered to bed, thereafter sleepingthe sleep of the just.

  Mrs. Dodd detected subdued animation in his demeanour when he appeared atbreakfast the following morning, and wondered what had occurred.

  "You look 's if sunthin' pleasant had happened, Israel," she began in asprightly manner.

  "Sunthin' pleasant has happened," he returned, applying himself to hisimitation coffee with renewed vigour. "I disremember when I've felt sogood about anythin' before."

  "Something pleasant happens every day," put in Elaine. The country air hadmade roses bloom on her pale cheeks. Her blue eyes had new light in them,and her golden hair fairly shone. She was far more beautiful than the sad,frail young woman who had come to the Jack-o'-Lantern not so many weeksbefore.

  "How optimistic you are!" sighed Mr. Perkins, who was eating Mrs.Smithers's crisp, hot rolls with a very unpoetic appetite. "To me, theworld grows worse every day. It is only a few noble souls devoted to theIdeal and holding their heads steadfastly above the mire of commercialismthat keep our so-called civilisation from becoming an absolute hotbed ofgreed--yes, a hotbed of greed," he repeated, the words soundingunexpectedly well.

  "Your aura seems to have a purple tinge this morning," commented Dorothy,slyly.

  "What's a aura, ma?" demanded Willie, with an unusual thirst forknowledge.

  "Something that goes with a soft person, Willie, dear," responded Mrs.Holmes, quite audibly. "You know there are some people who have nobackbone at all, like the jelly-fish we saw at the seashore the yearbefore dear papa died."

  "I've knowed folks," continued Mrs. Dodd, taking up the wandering threadof the discourse, "what was so soft when they was little that their mashad to carry 'em around in a pail for fear they'd slop over and spile thecarpet."

  "And when they grew up, too," Dick ventured.

  "Some people," said Harlan, in a polite attempt to change theconversation, "never grow up at all. Their minds remain at a fixed point.We all know them."

  "Yes," sighed Mrs. Dodd, looking straight at the poet, "we all knowthem."

  At this juncture the sensitive Mr. Perkins rose and begged to be excused.It was the small Ebeneezer who observed that he took a buttered roll withhim, and gratuitously gave the information to the rest of the company.

  Elaine flushed painfully, and presently excused herself, following thecrestfallen Mr. Perkins to the orchard, where, entirely unsuspected by theothers, they had a trysting-place. At intervals, they met, safely screenedby the friendly trees, and communed upon the old, idyllic subject ofpoetry, especially as represented by the unpublished works of HaroldVernon Perkins.

  "I cannot tell you, Mr. Perkins," Elaine began, "how deeply I appreciateyour fine, uncommercial attitude. As you say, the world is sordid, and itneeds men like you."

  The soulful one ran his long, bony fingers through his mane of auburnhair, and assented with a pleased grunt. "There are few, Miss St. Clair,"he said, "who have your fine discernment. It is almost ideal."

  "Yet it seems too bad," she went on, "that the world-wide appreciation ofyour artistic devotion should not take some tangible form. Dollars may bevulgar and sordid, as you say, but still, in our primitive era, they areour only expression of value. I have even heard it said," she went on,rapidly, "that the amount of wealth honestly acquired by any individualwas, after all, only the measure of his usefulness to his race."

  "Miss St. Clair!" exclaimed the poet, deeply shocked; "do I understandthat you are actually advising me to sell a poem?"

  "Far from it, Mr. Perkins," Elaine reassured him. "I was only thinkingthat by having your work printed in a volume, or perhaps in the pages of amagazine, you could reach a wider audience, and thus accomplish your idealof uplifting the multitude."

  "I am pained," breathed the poet; "inexpressibly pained."

  "Then I am sorry," answered Elaine. "I was only trying to help."

  "To think," continued Mr. Perkins, bitterly, "of the soiled fingers of alabouring man, a printer, actually touching these fancies that even Ihesitate to pen! Once I saw the fair white page of a book that had beenthrough that painful experience. You never would have known it, my dearMiss St. Clair--it was actually filthy!"

  "I see," murmured Elaine, duly impressed, "but are there not morefavourable conditions?"

  "I have thought there might be," returned the poet, after a significantsilence, "indeed, I have prayed there might be. In some little nook amongthe pines, where the brook for ever sings and the petals of the appleblossoms glide away to fairyland upon its shining surface, whilebutterflies float lazily here and there, if reverent hands might put theflowering of my genius into a modest little book--I should be tempted,yes, sorely tempted."

  "Dear Mr. Perkins," cried Elaine, ecstatically clapping her hands, "howperfectly glorious that would be! To think how much sweetness and beautywould 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 blossomsthrough the printed page. Oh, Mr. Perkins, if I only had the means, howgladly would I devote my all to this wonderful, uplifting work!"

  The poet glanced around furtively, then drew closer to Elaine. "I may tellyou," he murmured, "in strict confidence, something which my lips havenever breathed before, with the assurance that it will be as thoughunsaid, may I not?"

  "Indeed you may!"

  "Then," whispered Mr. Perkins, "I am living in that hope. My dear UncleEbeneezer, though now departed, was a distinguished patron of the arts.Many a time have I read him my work, assured of his deep, thoughunexpressed sympathy, and, lulled by the rhythm of our spoken speech, hehas passed without a jar from my dreamland to his own. I know he wouldnever speak of it to any one--dear Uncle Ebeneezer was too finely grainedfor that--but still I feel assured that somewhere within the walls of thatsorely afflicted house, a sum of--of money--has been placed, in the hopethat 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 mypoet's soul with almost physical pain."

  "I beg your pardon," returned Elaine, "but----"

  "Sometimes," interrupted the poet, in a low tone, "when I have feltespecially near to Uncle Ebeneezer's spirit, I have barely glanced insecret places where I have felt he might expect me to look for it, but, sofar, I have been wholly unsuccessful, though I know that I plainly readhis thought."

  "Some word--some clue--did he give you none?"

  "None whatever, except that once or twice he said that he would see that Iwas suitably provided for. He intimated that he intended me to have a sumapportioned to my deserts."

  "Which would be a generous one; but now--Oh, Mr. Perkins, how can I helpyou?"

  "You have never suspected, have you," asked Mr. Perkins, colouring to histemples, "that the room you now occupy might once have been my own? Haveno poet's dreams, lingering in the untenanted spaces, claimed yourbeauteous 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 holyground. Not for the world would I dispossess you, but----"

  A meaning look did the rest. "I see," said Elaine, quickly guessing histhought, "you want to hunt in my room. Oh, Mr. Perkins, I havethoughtlessly pained you again. Can you ever forgive me?"

  "My thoughts," breathed Mr. Perkins, "are perhaps too finely phrased formodern 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 hopethat the spirit of Uncle Ebeneezer may make plain to me what you seek.And----"

  "And," interjected the poet, quite practical for the moment, "whatever youfind is mine, for it was once my room. It is only on account of UncleEbeneezer's fine nature and his constant devotion to the Ideal that he didnot give it to me direct. He knew it would pain me if he did so. You willremember?"

  "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 noiseswhich appeared to emanate from the apartment of Mr. Skiles. Did you hearnothing?"

  "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 thestill 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 freshblue ribbon held it in cylindrical form, and the drooping ends waved incareless, artistic fashion.

  "As you might expect, if you knew about such things," he began, clearinghis throat, and all unconscious of the rapid approach of Mr. Chester, "itis upon sleep. It is done in the sonnet form, a very beautiful measurewhich 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 rest Were thy beneficent offices to cease? O Sleep, thou art indeed the snowy fleece Upon Day's lamb. A welcome guest That comest alike to palace and to nest And 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 need So come and lead me off to Paradise."

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

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

  "I have been having a rare treat, Mr. Chester," she said, in her smoothesttones. "Mr. Perkins has very kindly been reading to me his beautiful_Sonnet on Sleep_, composed during a period of wakefulness last night. Didyou hear it? Is it not a most unusual sonnet?"

  "It is, indeed," answered Dick, dryly. "I never before had the privilegeof hearing one that contained only twelve lines. Dante and Petrarch andShakespeare and all those other ducks put fourteen lines in every blamedsonnet, for good measure."

  Hurt to the quick, the sensitive poet walked away.

  "How can you speak so!" cried Elaine, angrily. "Is not Mr. Perkinsprivileged to create a form?"

  "To create a form, yes," returned Dick, easily, "but not to monkey with anold one. There's a difference."

  Elaine would have followed the injured one had not Dick interfered. Hecaught her hand quickly, a new and unaccountable lump in his throatsuddenly choking his utterance. "I say, Elaine," he said, huskily, "you'renot thinking of hooking up with that red-furred lobster, are you?"

  "I do not know," responded Elaine, with icy dignity, "what your uncouthlanguage may mean, but I tolerate no interference whatever with mypersonal 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 laughedand joked and worked together in a care-free, happy-go-lucky fashion. Thearrival of Mr. Perkins and his sudden admiration of Elaine hadcrystallised the situation. Dick knew now what caused the violent anticsof his heart--a peaceful and well-behaved organ which had never beforebeen 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'sgoing hard with me. Why in the devil wasn't I taught to write doggerelwhen I was in college? A fellow don't stand any show nowadays unless he'sa pocket edition of Byron."

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

  Suspended by a singularly strong bit of twine, a small, grinning skullhung from the lower branch of an apple tree, far out on the limb. "Cat'sskull," thought Dick. "Wonder who hung it up there?"

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

  "Uncle couldn't do anything conventional," he said to himself, "and I'mpretty sure he wouldn't want any of his relations to have his money. Heregoes, just for luck!"

  He went back to the barn for the spade, which already had fresh earth onit--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 tothe orchard with it, whistling, his progress being furtively watched withgreat interest by the sour-faced handmaiden in the kitchen.

  Back in the orchard again, he worked feverishly, possessed by a pleasantthrill of excitement, somewhat similar to that conceivably enlivening thehumdrum existence of Captain Kidd. Dick was far from surprised when hisspade struck something hard, and, his hands trembling with eagerness, helifted 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 itopen. 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 looselyscattered about, and the papers firmly sealed in an envelope addressed "ToWhom it May Concern."

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

  "I'll just put it back," he said to himself. "It's not for me to monkeywith Uncle Ebeneezer's purposes."

  He buried the box in its old place, and even cut a bit of sod from adistant part of the orchard to hide the traces of his work. When all wassmooth again, he went back to the barn, swinging the spade carelessly butno longer whistling.

  "The old devil," he muttered, with keen appreciation. "The wise olddevil!"