As Mr. Blake had heard, there was "one hull room mighty nigh plum full o'
nothin' but books"; a grievous waste, indeed, when one already "had a
book." It was the front room, opposite the parlour, and every door and
window in it could be securely bolted from the inside. If any one desired
unbroken privacy, it could be had in the library as nowhere else in the
house.
The book-shelves were made of rough pine, unplaned, unpainted, and were
scarcely a seemly setting for the treasure they bore. But in looking at
the books, one perceived that their owner had been one who passed by the
body in his eager search for the soul.
Here were no fine editions, no luxurious, costly volumes in full levant.
Illuminated pages, rubricated headings, and fine illustrations were
conspicuous by their absence. For the most part, the books were simply but
serviceably bound in plain cloth covers. Many a paper-covered book had
been bound by its purchaser in pasteboard, flimsy enough in quality, yet
further strengthened by cloth at the back. Cheap, pirated editions were so
many that Harlan wondered whether his uncle had not been wholly without
conscience in the matter of book-buying.
Shelf after shelf stretched across the long wall, with its company of mute
consolers whose master was no more. The fine flowering of the centuries,
like a single precious drop of imperishable perfume, was hidden in this
rude casket. The minds and hearts of the great, laid pitilessly bare, were
here in this one room, shielded merely by pasteboard and cloth.
Far up in the mountains, amid snow-clad steeps and rock-bound fastnesses,
one finds, perchance, a shell. It is so small a thing that it can be held
in the hollow of the hand; so frail that a slight pressure of the finger
will crush it to atoms, yet, held to the ear, it brings the surge and
sweep of that vast, primeval ocean which, in the inconceivably remote
past, covered the peak. And so, to the eye of the mind, the small brown
book, with its hundred printed pages, brings back the whole story of the
world.
A thin, piping voice, to which its fellows have paid no heed, after a time
becomes silent, and, ceaselessly marching, the years pass on by. Yet that
trembling old hand, quietly laid at last upon the turbulent heart, in the
solitude of a garret has guided a pen, and the manuscript is left. Ragged,
worn, blotted, spotted with candle drippings and endlessly interlined, why
should these few sheets of paper be saved?
Because, as it happens, the only record of the period is there--a record
so significant that fifty years can be reconstructed, as an entire
language was brought to light by a triple inscription upon a single stone.
Thrown like the shell upon Time's ever-receding shore, it is,
nevertheless, the means by which unborn thousands shall commune with him
who wrote in his garret, see his whole life mirrored in his book, know his
philosophy, and take home his truth. For by way of the printed page comes
Immortality.
There was no book in the library which had not been read many times. Some
were falling apart, and others had been carefully sewn together and
awkwardly rebound. Still open, on a rickety table in the corner, was that
ponderous volume with an extremely limited circulation: _The Publishers'
Trade List Annual_. Pencilled crosses here and there indicated books to be
purchased, or at least sent on approval, to "customers known to the
House."
"Some day," said Dorothy, "when it's raining and we can't go out, we'll
take down all these books, arrange them in something like order, and
catalogue them."
"How optimistic you are!" remarked Harlan. "Do you think it could be done
in one day?"
"Oh, well," returned Dorothy; "you know what I mean."
Harlan paced restlessly back and forth, pausing now and then to look out
of the window, where nothing much was to be seen except the orchard, at a
little distance from the house, and Claudius Tiberius, sunning himself
pleasantly upon the porch. Four weeks had been a pleasant vacation, but
two weeks of comparative idleness, added to it, were too much for an
active mind and body to endure. Three or four times he had tried to begin
the book that was to bring fame and fortune, and as many times had failed.
Hitherto Harlan's work had not been obliged to wait for inspiration, and
it was not so easy as it had seemed the day he bade his managing editor
farewell.
"Somebody is coming," announced Dorothy, from the window.
"Nonsense! Nobody ever comes here."
"A precedent is about to be established, then. I feel it in my bones that
we're going to have company."
"Let's see." Harlan went to the window and looked over her shoulder. A
little man in a huge silk hat was toiling up the hill, aided by a cane. He
was bent and old, yet he moved with a certain briskness, and, as Dorothy
had said, he was inevitably coming.
"Who in thunder--" began Harlan.
"Our first company," interrupted Dorothy, with her hand over his mouth.
"The very first person who has called on us since we were married!"
"Except Claudius Tiberius," amended Harlan. "Isn't a cat anybody?"
"Claudius is. I beg his imperial pardon for forgetting him."
The rusty bell-wire creaked, then a timid ring came from the rear depths
of the house. "You let him in," said Dorothy, "and I'll go and fix my
hair."
"Am I right," queried the old gentleman, when Harlan opened the door, "in
presuming that I am so fortunate as to address Mr. James Harlan Carr?"
"My name is Carr," answered Harlan, politely. "Will you come in?"
"Thank you," answered the visitor, in high staccato, oblivious of the fact
that Claudius Tiberius had scooted in between his feet; "it will be my
pleasure to claim your hospitality for a few brief moments.
"I had hoped," he went on, as Harlan ushered him into the parlour, "to be
able to make your acquaintance before this, but my multitudinous
duties----"
He fumbled in his pocket and produced a card, cut somewhat irregularly
from a sheet of white cardboard, and bearing in tremulous autographic
script: "Jeremiah Bradford, Counsellor at Law."
"Oh," said Harlan, "it was you who wrote me the letter. I should have
hunted you up when I first came, shouldn't I?"
"Not at all," returned Mr. Bradford. "It is I who have been remiss. It is
etiquette that the old residents should call first upon the newcomers.
Many and varied duties in connection with the practice of my profession
have hitherto--" His eyes sought the portrait over the mantel. "A most
excellent likeness of your worthy uncle," he continued, irrelevantly, "a
gentleman with whom, as I understand, you never had the pleasure and
privilege of becoming acquainted."
"I never met Uncle Ebeneezer," rejoined Harlan, "but mother told me a
great deal about him and we had one or two pictures--daguerreotypes, I
believe they were."
"Undoubtedly, my dear sir. This portrait was painted from his very last
daguerreotype by an artist of renown. It is a wonderful likeness. He was
my Colonel--I served under him in the war. It was my desire to possess a
portrait of him in uniform, but he would never consent, and would not
allow anyone save myself to address him as Colonel. An eccentric, but very
estimable gentleman."
"I cannot understand," said Harlan, "why he should have left the house to
me. I had never even seen him."
"Perhaps," smiled Mr. Bradford, enigmatically, "that was his reason, or
rather, perhaps I should say, if you had known your uncle more intimately
and had visited him here, or, if he had had the privilege of knowing
you--quite often, as you know, a personal acquaintance proves
disappointing, though, of course, in this case----"
The old gentleman was floundering helplessly when Harlan rescued him. "I
want you to meet my wife, Mr. Bradford. If you will excuse me, I will call
her."
Left to himself, the visitor slipped back and forth uneasily upon his
haircloth chair, and took occasion to observe Claudius Tiberius, who sat
near by and regarded the guest unblinkingly. Hearing approaching
footsteps, he took out his worn silk handkerchief, unfolded it, and wiped
the cold perspiration from his legal brow. In his heart of hearts, he
wished he had not come, but Dorothy's kindly greeting at once relieved him
of all embarrassment.
"We have been wondering," she said, brightly, "who would be the first to
call upon us, and you have come at exactly the right time. New residents
are always given two weeks, are they not, in which to get settled?"
"Quite so, my dear madam, quite so, and I trust that you are by this time
fully accustomed to your changed environment. Judson Centre, while
possessing few metropolitan advantages, has distinct and peculiar
recommendations of an individual character which endear the locality to
those residing therein."
"I think I shall like it here," said Dorothy. "At least I shall try to."
"A very commendable spirit," rejoined the old gentleman, warmly, "and
rather remarkable in one so young."
Mrs. Carr graciously acknowledged the compliment, and the guest flushed
with pleasure. To perception less fine, there would have been food for
unseemly mirth in his attire. Never in all her life before had Dorothy
seen rough cow-hide boots, and grey striped trousers worn with a rusty and
moth-eaten dress-coat in the middle of the afternoon. An immaculate
expanse of shirt-front and a general air of extreme cleanliness went far
toward redeeming the unfamiliar costume. The silk hat, with a bell-shaped
crown and wide, rolling brim, belonged to a much earlier period, and had
been brushed to look like new. Even Harlan noted that the ravelled edges
of his linen had been carefully trimmed and the worn binding of the hat
brim inked wherever necessary.
His wrinkled old face was kindly, though somewhat sad. His weak blue eyes
were sheltered by an enormous pair of spectacles, which he took off and
wiped continually. He was smooth-shaven and his scanty hair was as white
as the driven snow. Now, as he sat in Uncle Ebeneezer's parlour, he seemed
utterly friendless and forlorn--a complete failure of that pitiful type
which never for a moment guesses that it has failed.
"It will be my delight," the old man was saying, his hollow cheeks faintly
flushed, "to see that the elite of Judson Centre pay proper respect to you
at an early date. If I were not most unfortunately a single gentleman, my
wife would do herself the honour of calling upon you immediately and of
tendering you some sort of hospitality approximately commensurate with
your worth. As it is----"
"As it is," said Harlan, taking up the wandering thread of the discourse,
"that particular pleasure must be on our side. We both hope that you will
come often, and informally."
"It would be a solace to me," rejoined the old gentleman, tremulously, "to
find the niece and nephew of my departed friend both congenial and
companionable. He was my Colonel--I served under him in the war--and until
the last, he allowed me to address him as Colonel--a privilege accorded to
no one else. He very seldom left his own estate, but at his request I
often spent an evening or a Sunday afternoon in his society, and after his
untimely death, I feel the loss of his companionship very keenly. He was
my Colonel--I----"
"I should imagine so," said Harlan, kindly, "though, as I have told you, I
never knew him at all."
"A much-misunderstood gentleman," continued Mr. Bradford, carefully wiping
his spectacles. "My grief is too recent, at present, to enable me to
discourse freely of his many virtues, but at some future time I shall hope
to make you acquainted with your benefactor. He was my Colonel, and in
serving under him in the war, I had an unusual opportunity to know him as
he really was. May I ask, without intruding upon your private affairs,
whether or not it is your intention to reside here permanently?"
"We have not made up our minds," responded Harlan. "We shall stay here
this Summer, anyway, as I have some work to do which can be done only in a
quiet place."
"Quiet!" muttered the old gentleman, "quiet place! If I might venture to
suggest, I should think you would find any other season more agreeable for
prolonged mental effort. In Summer there are distractions----"
"Yes," put in Dorothy, "in Summer, one wants to be outdoors, and I am
going to keep chickens and a cow, but my husband hopes to have his book
finished by September."
"His book!" repeated Mr. Bradford, in genuine astonishment. "Am I actually
addressing an author?"
He beamed upon Harlan in a way which that modest youth found positively
disconcerting.
"A would-be author only," laughed Harlan, the colour mounting to his
temples. "I've done newspaper work heretofore, and now I'm going to try
something else."
"My dear sir," said Mr. Bradford, rising, "I must really beg the privilege
of clasping your hand. It is a great honour for Judson Centre to have an
author residing in its midst!"
Taking pity upon Harlan, Dorothy hastened to change the subject. "We hope
it may be," she observed, lightly, "and I wonder, Mr. Bradford, if you
could not give me some good advice?"
"I shall be delighted, my dear madam. Any knowledge I may possess is
trebly at your service, for the sake of the distinguished author whose
wife you have the honour to be, for the sake of your departed relative,
who was my friend, my Colonel, and last, but not least, for your own
sake."
"It is only about a maid," said Dorothy.
"A ---- my dear madam, I beg your pardon?"
"A maid," repeated Dorothy; "a servant."
"Oh! A hired girl, or more accurately, in the parlance of Judson Centre,
the help. Do I understand that it is your desire to become an employer of
help?"
"It is," answered Dorothy, somewhat awed by the solemnity of his tone, "if
help is to be found. I thought you might know where I could get some
one."
"If I might be permitted to suggest," replied Mr. Bradford, after due
deliberation, "I should unhesitatingly recommend Mrs. Sarah Smithers, who
did for your uncle during the entire period of his residence here and
whose privilege it was to close his eyes in his last sleep. She is at
present without prospect of a situation, and I believe would be very ready
to accept a new position, especially so desirable a position as this, in
your service."
"Thank you. Could you--could you send her to me?"
"I shall do so, most assuredly, providing she is willing to come, and
should she chance not to be agreeably disposed toward so pleasing a
project, it will be my happiness to endeavour to persuade her." Drawing
out a memorandum book and a pencil, the old gentleman made an entry upon a
fresh page. "The multitudinous duties in connection with the practice of
my profession," he began--"there, my dear madam, it is already attended
to, since it is placed quite out of my power to forget."
"I am greatly obliged," said Dorothy.
"And now," continued the visitor, "I must go. I fear I have already
outstayed the limitation of a formal visit, such as the first should be,
and it is not my desire to intrude upon an author's time. Moreover, my own
duties, slight and unimportant as they are in comparison, must ultimately
press upon my attention."
"Come again," said Harlan, kindly, following him to the door.
"It will be my great pleasure," rejoined the guest, "not only on your own
account, but because your personality reminds me of that of my departed
friend. You favour him considerably, more particularly in the eyes, if I
may be permitted to allude to details. I think I told you, did I not, that
he was my Colonel and I was privileged to serve under him in the war?
My--oh, I walked, did I not? I remember that it was my intention to come
in a carriage, as being more suitable to a formal visit, but Mr. Blake had
other engagements for his vehicle. Dear sir and madam, I bid you good
afternoon."
So saying, he went downhill, briskly enough, yet stumbling where the way
was rough. They watched him until the bobbing, bell-shaped crown of the
ancient head-gear was completely out of sight.
"What a dear old man!" said Dorothy. "He's lonely and we must have him
come up often."
"Do you think," asked Harlan, "that I look like Uncle Ebeneezer?"
"Indeed you don't!" cried Dorothy, "and that reminds me. I want to take
that picture down."
"To burn it?" inquired Harlan, slyly.
"No, I wouldn't burn it," answered Dorothy, somewhat spitefully, "but
there's no law against putting it in the attic, is there?"
"Not that I know of. Can we reach it from a chair?"
Together they mounted one of the haircloth monuments, slipping, as Dorothy
said, until it was like walking on ice.
"Now then," said Harlan, gaily, "come on down, Uncle! You're about to be
moved into the attic!"
The picture lunged forward, almost before they had touched it, the heavy
gilt frame bruising Dorothy's cheek badly. In catching it, Harlan turned
it completely around, then gave a low whistle of astonishment.
Pasted securely to the back was a fearsome skull and cross-bones, made on
wrapping paper with a brush and India ink. Below it, in great capitals,
was the warning inscription: "LET MY PICTURE ALONE!"
"What shall we do with it?" asked Harlan, endeavouring to laugh, though,
as he afterward admitted, he "felt creepy." "Shall I take it up to the
attic?"
"No," answered Dorothy, in a small, unnatural voice, "leave it where it
is."
While Harlan was putting it back, Dorothy, trembling from head to foot,
crept around to the back of the easel which bore Aunt Rebecca's portrait.
She was not at all surprised to find, on the back of it, a notice to this
effect: "ANYONE DARING TO MOVE MRS. JUDSON'S PICTURE WILL BE HAUNTED FOR
LIFE BY US BOTH."
"I don't doubt it," said Dorothy, somewhat viciously, when Harlan had
joined her. "What kind of a woman do you suppose she could have been, to
marry him? I'll bet she's glad she's dead!"
Dorothy was still wiping blood from her face and might not have been
wholly unprejudiced. Aunt Rebecca was a gentle, sweet-faced woman, if her
portrait told the truth, possessed of all the virtues save self-assertion
and dominated by habitual, unselfish kindness to others. She could not
have been discourteous even to Claudius Tiberius, who at this moment was
seated in state upon the sofa and purring industriously.