RASPBERRY JAM
By Carolyn Wells
CONTENTS
I. The Great Hanlon
II. A Trip To Newark
III. The Stunt
IV. The Emburys
V. The Explanation
VI. A Slammed Door
VII. A Vision
VIII. The Examiner
IX. Hamlet
X. A Confession
XI. Fifi
XII. In Hanlon’s Office
XIII. Fleming Stone
XIV. The Five Senses
XV. Marigny The Medium
XVI. Fibsy’s Busy Day
XVII. Hanlon’s Ambition
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 mean 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 course, 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?”
“Why, yes, being a normal American citizen, I did run through the
Battle-Ax of Freedom. Why?”
“Did you read about Hanlon--the great Hanlon?”
“Musician, statesman or criminal? I can’t seem to place a really
great Hanlon. By the way, Eunice, if Hendricks blows in, ask him to stay
to dinner, will you? I want to talk to him, but I don’t want to seem
unduly anxious for his company.”
“Very well,” and Eunice smiled; “if I can persuade him, I will.”
“If you can!” exclaimed Miss Abby, her sarcasm entirely unveiled.
“Alvord Hendricks would walk the plank if you invited him to do so!”
“Who wouldn’t?” laughed Embury. “I have the same confidence in
my wife’s powers of persuasion that you seem to have, Aunt Abby; and
though I may impose on her, I do want her to use them upon me deadly
r-rival!”
“You mean rival in your club election,” returned Miss Ames, “but
he is also your rival in another way.”
“Don’t speak so cryptically, Aunt, dear. We all know of his
infatuation for Eunice, but he’s only one of many. Think you he is
more dangerous than, say, friend Elliott?”
“Mason Elliott? Oh, of course, he has been an admirer of Eunice since
they made mud-pies together.”
“That’s two, then,” Embury laughed lightly. “And Jim Craft is
three and Halliwell James is four and Guy Little--”
“Oh, don’t include him, I beg of you!” cried Eunice; “he flats
when he sings!”
“Well, I could round up a round dozen, who would willingly cast
sheeps’ eyes at my wife, but--well, they don’t!”
“They’d better not,” laughed Eunice, and Embury added, “Not if I
see them first!”
“Isn’t it funny,” said Aunt Abby, reminiscently, “that Eunice
did choose you out of that Cambridge bunch.”
“I chose her,” corrected Embury, “and don’t take that wrong!
I mean that I swooped down and carried her off under their very noses!
Didn’t I, Firebrand?”
“The only way you could get me,” agreed Eunice, saucily.
“Oh, I don’t know!” and Embury smiled. “You weren’t so desperately
opposed.”
“No; but she was undecided,” said Aunt Abby; “why, for weeks before
your engagement was announced, Eunice couldn’t make up her mind for
certain. There was Mason Elliott and Al Hendricks, both as determined
as you were.”
“I know it, Aunt. Good Lord, I guess I knew those boys all my life, and
I knew all their love affairs as well as they knew all mine.”
“You had others, then?” and Eunice opened her brown eyes in mock
amazement.
“Rather! How could I know you were the dearest girl in the world if I
had no one to compare you with?”
“Well, then I had a right to have other beaux.”
“Of course you did! I never objected. But now, you’re my wife, and
though all the men in Christendom may admire you, you are not to give
one of them a glance that belongs to me.”
“No, sir; I won’t,” and Eunice’s long lashes dropped on her
cheeks as she assumed an absurdly overdone meekness.
“I was surprised, though,” pursued Aunt Abby, still reminiscent,
“when Eunice married you, Sanford. Mr. Mason is so much more
intellectual and Mr. Hendricks so much better looking.”
“Thank you, lady!” and Embury bowed gravely. “But you see, I have
that--er--indescribable charm--that nobody can resist.”
“You have, you rascal!” and Miss Ames beamed on him. “And I think
this a favorable moment to ask a favor of your Royal Highness.”
“Out with it. I’ll grant it, to the half of my kingdom, but don’t
dip into the other half.”
“Well, it’s a simple little favor, after all. I want to go out to
Newark to-morrow in the big car--”
“Newark, New Jersey?”
“Is there any other?”
“Yep; Ohio.”
“Well, the New Jersey one will do me, this time. Oh, Sanford, do let
me go! A man is going to will another man--blindfolded, you know--to
find a thingumbob that he hid--nobody knows where--and he can’t see
a thing, and he doesn’t know anybody and the guide man is Mr.
Mortimer--don’t you remember, his mother used to live in Cambridge?
she was an Emmins--well, anyway, it’s the most marvelous exhibition of
thought transference, or mind-reading, that has ever been shown--and I
must go. Do let me?--please, Sanford!”
“My Lord, Aunt Abby, you’ve got me all mixed up! I remember the
Mortimer boy, but what’s he doing blindfolded?”
“No; it’s the Hanlon man who’s blindfolded, and I can go with
Ferdinand--and--”
“Go with Ferdinand! Is it a servants’ ball--or what?”
“No, no; oh, if you’d only listen, Sanford!”
“Well, I will, in a minute, Aunt Abby. But wait till I tell Eunice
something. You see, dear, if Hendricks does show up, I can pump him
judiciously and find out where the Meredith brothers stand. Then--”
“All right, San, I’ll see that he stays. Now do settle Aunt Abby
on this crazy scheme of hers. She doesn’t want to go to Newark at
all--”
“I do, I do!” cried the old lady.
“Between you and me, Eunice, I believe she does want to go,” and
Embury chuckled. “Where’s the paper, Aunt? Let me see what it’s
all about.”
“‘A Fair Test,’“ he read aloud. “‘Positive evidence for or
against the theory of thought transference. The mysterious Hanlon to
perform a seeming miracle. Sponsored by the Editor of the Newark Free
Press, assisted by the prominent citizen, James L. Mortimer, done
in broad daylight in the sight of crowds of people, tomorrow’s
performance will be a revelation to doubters or a triumph indeed for
those who believe in telepathy.’ H’m--h’m--but what’s he going
to do?”
“Read on, read on, Sanford,” cried Aunt Abby, excitedly.
“‘Starting from the Oberon Theatre at two o’clock, Hanlon will
undertake to find a penknife, previously hidden in a distant part of the
city, its whereabouts known only to the Editor of the Free Press and to
Mr. Mortimer. Hanlon is to be blindfolded by a committee of citizens and
is to be followed, not preceded by Mr. Mortimer, who is to will
Hanlon in the right direction, and to “guide” him merely by mental
will-power. There is to be no word spoken between these two men, no
personal contact, and no possibility of a confederate or trickery of any
sort.
“‘Mr. Mortimer is not a psychic; indeed, he is not a student of the
occult or even a believer in telepathy, but he has promised to obey the
conditions laid down for him. These are merely and only that he is to
follow Hanlon, keeping a few steps behind him, and mentally will
the blindfolded man to go in the right direction to find the hidden
knife.’”
“Isn’t it wonderful, Sanford,” breathed Miss Abby, her eyes
shining with the delight of the mystery.
“Poppycock!” and Embury smiled at her as a gullible child. “You
don’t mean to say, aunt, that you believe there is no trickery about
this!”
“But how can there be? You know, Sanford, it’s easy enough to say
‘poppycock’ and ‘fiddle-dee-dee!’ and ‘gammon’ and ‘spinach!’ But just
tell me how it’s done--how it can be done by trickery? Suggest a means
however complicated or difficult--”
“Oh, of course, I can’t. I’m no charlatan or prestidigitateur! But you
know as well as I do, that the thing is a trick--”
“I don’t! And anyway, that isn’t the point. I want to go to see it. I’m
not asking your opinion of the performance, I’m asking you to let me
go. May I?”
“No, indeed! Why, Aunt Abby, it will be a terrible crowd--a horde of
ragamuffins and ruffians. You’d be torn to pieces--”
“But I want to, Sanford,” and the old lady was on the verge of tears.
“I want to see Hanlon--”
“Hanlon! Who wants to see Hanlon?”
The expected Hendricks came into the room, and shaking hands as he
talked, he repeated his question: “Who wants to see Hanlon? Because I
do, and I’ll take any one here who is interested.”
“Oh, you angel man!” exclaimed Aunt Abby, her face beaming. “I
want to go! Will you really take me, Alvord?”
“Sure I will! Anybody else? You want to see it, Eunice?”
“Why, I didn’t, but as Sanford just read it, it sounded interesting.
How would we go?”
“I’ll run you out in my touring car. It won’t take more’n the
afternoon, and it’ll be a jolly picnic. Go along, San?”
“No, not on your life! When did you go foolish, Alvord?”
“Oh, I always had a notion toward that sort of thing. I want to see
how he does it. Don’t think I fall for the telepathy gag, but I want
to see where the little joker is,--and then, too, I’m glad to please
the ladies.”
“I’ll go,” said Eunice; “that is, if you’ll stay and dine
now--and we can talk it over and plan the trip.”
“With all the pleasure in life,” returned Hendricks.