The next morning, Harlan and Dorothy ate breakfast by themselves. There
was suppressed excitement in the manner of Mrs. Smithers, who by this time
had quite recovered from her fright, and, as they readily saw, not wholly
of an unpleasant kind. From time to time she tittered audibly--a thing
which had never happened before.
"It's just as if a tombstone should giggle," remarked Harlan. His tone was
low, but unfortunately, it carried well.
"Tombstone or not, just as you like," responded Mrs. Smithers, as she came
in with the bacon. "I'd be careful 'ow I spoke disrespectfully of
tombstones if I was in your places, that's wot I would. Tombstones is kind
to some and cussed to others, that's wot they are, and if you don't like
the monument wot's at present in your kitchen, you know wot you can do."
After breakfast, she beckoned Dorothy into the kitchen, and "gave
notice."
"Oh, Mrs. Smithers," cried Dorothy, almost moved to tears, "please don't
leave me in the lurch! What should I do without you, with all these people
on my hands? Don't think of such a thing as leaving me!"
"Miss Carr," said Mrs. Smithers, solemnly, with one long bony finger laid
alongside of her hooked nose, "'t ain't necessary for you to run no Summer
hotel, that's what it ain't. These 'ere all be relations of your uncle's
wife and none of his'n except by marriage. Wot's more, your uncle don't
want 'em 'ere, that's wot 'e don't."
Mrs. Smithers's tone was so confident that for the moment Dorothy was
startled, remembering yesterday's vague allusion to "sheeted spectres of
the dead."
"What do you mean?" she demanded.
"Miss Carr," returned Mrs. Smithers, with due dignity, "ever since I come
'ere, I've been invited to shut my 'ead whenever I opened it about that
there cat or your uncle or anythink, as you well knows. I was never one
wot was fond of 'avin' my 'ead shut up."
"Go on," said Dorothy, her curiosity fully alive, "and tell me what you
mean."
"You gives me your solemn oath, Miss, that you won't tell me to shut my
'ead?" queried Mrs. Smithers.
"Of course," returned Dorothy, trying to be practical, though the
atmosphere was sepulchral enough.
"Well, then, you knows wot I told you about that there cat. 'E was kilt by
your uncle, that's wot 'e was, and your uncle couldn't never abide cats.
'E was that feared of 'em 'e couldn't even bury 'em when they was kilt,
and one of my duties, Miss, as long as I lived with 'im, was buryin' of
cats, and until this one, I never come up with one wot couldn't stay
buried, that's wot I 'aven't.
"'E 'ated 'em like poison, that's wot 'e did. The week afore your uncle
died, he kilt this 'ere cat wot's chasin' the chickens now, and I buried
'im with my own hands, but could 'e stay buried? 'E could not. No sooner
is your uncle dead and gone than this 'ere cat comes back, and it's the
truth, Miss Carr, for where 'e was buried, there ain't no sign of a cat
now. Wot's worse, this 'ere cat looks per-cisely like your uncle, green
eyes, white shirt front, black tie and all. It's enough to give a body the
shivers to see 'im a-settin' on the kitchen floor lappin' up 'is mush and
milk, the which your uncle was so powerful fond of.
"Wot's more," continued Mrs. Smithers, in tones of awe, "I'll a'most bet
my immortal soul that if you'll dig in the cemetery where your uncle was
buried good and proper, you won't find nothin' but the empty coffin and
maybe 'is grave clothes. Your uncle's been livin' with us all along in
that there cat," she added, triumphantly. "It's 'is punishment, for 'e
couldn't never abide 'em, that's wot 'e couldn't."
Mrs. Carr opened her mouth to speak, then, remembering her promise, took
refuge in flight.
"'Er's scared," muttered Mrs. Smithers, "and no wonder. Wot with cats as
can't stay buried, writin' letters and deliverin' 'em in the dead of
night, and a purrin' like mad while blamed fools digs for eight cents,
most folks would be scared, I take it, that's wot they would."
Dorothy was pale when she went into the library where Harlan was at work.
He frowned at the interruption and Dorothy smiled back at him--it seemed
so normal and sane.
"What is it, Dorothy?" he asked, not unkindly.
"Oh--just Mrs. Smithers's nonsense. She's upset me."
"What about, dear?" Harlan put his work aside readily enough now.
"Oh, the same old story about the cat and Uncle Ebeneezer. And I'm
afraid----"
"Afraid of what?"
"I know it's foolish, but I'm afraid she's going to dig in the cemetery to
see if Uncle Ebeneezer is still there. She thinks he's in the cat."
For the moment, Harlan thought Dorothy had suddenly lost her reason, then
he laughed heartily.
"Don't worry," he said, "she won't do anything of the kind, and, besides,
what if she did? It's a free country, isn't it?"
"And--there's another thing, Harlan." For days she had dreaded to speak of
it, but now it could be put off no longer.
"It's--it's money," she went on, unwillingly. "I'm afraid I haven't
managed very well, or else it's cost so much for everything, but
we're--we're almost broke, Harlan," she concluded, bravely, trying to
smile.
Harlan put his hands in his pockets and began to walk back and forth. "If
I can only finish the book," he said, at length, "I think we'll be all
right, but I can't leave it now. There's only two more chapters to write,
and then----"
"And then," cried Dorothy, her beautiful belief in him transfiguring her
face, "then we'll be rich, won't we?"
"I am already rich," returned Harlan, "when you have such faith in me as
that."
For a moment the shimmering veil of estrangement which so long had hung
between them, seemed to part, and reveal soul to soul. As swiftly the mood
changed and Dorothy felt it first, like a chill mist in the air. Neither
dreamed that with the writing of the first paragraph in the book, the
spell had claimed one of them for ever--that cobweb after cobweb, of
gossamer fineness, should make a fabric never to be broken; that on one
side of it should stand a man who had exchanged his dreams for realities
and his realities for dreams, and on the other, a woman, blindly hurt,
eternally straining to see beyond the veil.
"What can we do?" asked Harlan, unwontedly practical for the nonce.
"I don't know," said Dorothy. "There are the diamonds, you know, that we
found. I don't care for any diamonds, except the one you gave me. If we
could sell those----"
"Dorothy, don't. I don't believe they're ours, and if they were, they
shouldn't be sold. You should keep them."
"My engagement ring, then," suggested Dorothy, her lips trembling. "That's
ours."
"Don't be foolish," said Harlan, a little roughly. "I'll finish this and
then we'll see what's to be done."
Feeling her dismissal, Dorothy went out, and, all unknowingly, straight
into the sunshine.
Elaine was coming downstairs, fresh and sweet as the morning itself. "Am I
too late to have any breakfast, Mrs. Carr?" she asked, gaily. "I know I
don't deserve any."
"Of course you shall have breakfast. I'll see to it."
Elaine took her place at the table and Dorothy, reluctant to put further
strain on the frail bond that anchored Mrs. Smithers to her service,
brought in the breakfast herself.
"You're so good to me," said the girl, gratefully, as Dorothy poured out a
cup of steaming coffee. "To think how beautiful you've been to me, when I
never saw either one of you in my whole life, till I came here ill and
broken-hearted! See what you've made of me--see how well and strong I
am!"
Swiftly, Dorothy bent and kissed Elaine, a strange, shadowy cloud for ever
lifted from her heart. She had not known how heavy it was nor how charged
with foreboding, until it was gone.
"I want to do something for you," Elaine went on, laughing to hide the
mist in her eyes, "and I've just thought what I can do. My mother had some
beautiful old mahogany furniture, just loads of it, and some wonderful
laces, and I'm going to divide with you."
"No, you're not," returned Dorothy, warmly. She felt that Elaine had
already given her enough.
"It isn't meant for payment, Mrs. Carr," the girl went on, her big blue
eyes fixed upon Dorothy, "but you're to take it from me just as I've taken
this lovely Summer from you. You took in a stranger, weak and helpless and
half-crazed with grief, and you've made her into a happy woman again."
Before Dorothy could answer, Dick lounged in, frankly sleepy. "Second call
in the dining car?" he asked, taking Mrs. Dodd's place, across the table
from Elaine.
"Third call," returned Dorothy, brightly, "and, if you don't mind, I'll
leave you two to wait on yourselves." She went upstairs, her heart light,
not so much from reality as from prescience. "How true it is," she
thought, "that if you only wait and do the best you can, things all work
out straight again. I've had to learn it, but I know it now."
"Bully bunch, the Carrs," remarked Dick, pushing his cup to Elaine.
"They're lovely," she answered, with conviction.
The sun streamed brightly into the dining-room of the Jack-o'-Lantern and
changed its hideousness into cheer. Seeing Elaine across from him,
gracefully pouring his coffee, affected Dick strangely. Since the day
before, he had seen clearly something which he must do.
"I say, Elaine," he began, awkwardly. "That beast of a poem I read the
other day----"