Harlan had taken his work upstairs, that the ceaseless clatter of the
typewriter might not add to the confusion which normally prevailed in the
Jack-o'-Lantern. Thus it happened that Dorothy was able to begin her
long-cherished project of dusting, rearranging, and cataloguing the
books.
There is a fine spiritual essence which exhales from the covers of a book.
Shall one touch a copy of Shakespeare with other than reverent hands, or
take up his Boswell without a smile? Through the worn covers and broken
binding the master-spirit still speaks, no less than through the centuries
which lie between. The man who had the wishing carpet, upon which he sat
and wished and was thence immediately transported to the ends of the
earth, was not possessed of a finer magic than one who takes his Boswell
in his hands and then, for a golden quarter of an hour, lives in a bygone
London with Doctor Johnson.
When the book-lover enters his library, no matter what storm and tumult
may be in his heart, he has come to the inmost chamber of Peace. The
indescribable, musty odour which breathes from the printed page is
fragrant incense to him who loves his books. In unseemly caskets his
treasures may be hidden, yet, when the cover is reverently lifted, the
jewels shine with no fading light. The old, immortal beauty is still
there, for any one who seeks it in the right way.
Dorothy had two willing assistants in Dick and Elaine. One morning,
immediately after breakfast, the three went to the library and locked the
door. Outside, the twins rioted unheeded and the perennially joyous Willie
capered unceasingly. Mr. Perkins, gloomy and morose, wrote reams of poetry
in his own room, distressed beyond measure by the rumble of the
typewriter, but too much cast down to demand that it be stopped.
Mrs. Dodd and Mrs. Holmes, closely united through misfortune, were
well-nigh inseparable now, while Mrs. Smithers, still sepulchral, sang
continually in a loud, cracked voice, never by any chance happening upon
the right note. As Dorothy said, when there are only eight tones in the
octave, it would seem that sometime, somewhere, a warbler must coincide
for a brief interval with the tune, but as Dick further commented,
industry and patience can do wonders when rightly exercised.
Uncle Israel's midnight excursion to the orchard had given him a fresh
attack of a familiar and distressing ailment to which he always alluded as
"the brown kittys." Fortunately, however, the cure for asthma and
bronchitis was contained in the same quart bottle, and needed only to be
heated in order to work upon both diseases simultaneously.
Elaine rolled up the sleeves of her white shirt-waist, and turned in her
collar, thereby producing an effect which Dick privately considered
distractingly pretty. Dorothy was enveloped from head to foot in a
voluminous blue gingham apron, and a dust cap, airily poised upon her
smooth brown hair, completed a most becoming costume. Dick, having duly
obtained permission, took off his coat and put on his hat, after which the
library force was ready for action.
"First," said Dorothy, "we'll take down all the books." It sounded simple,
but it took a good share of the day to do it, and the clouds of dust
disturbed by the process produced sneezes which put Uncle Israel's feeble
efforts to shame. When dusting the shelves, after they were empty, Elaine
came upon a panel in the wall which slid back.
"Here's a secret drawer!" she cried, in wild delight. "How perfectly
lovely! Do you suppose there's anything in it?"
Dorothy instantly thought of money and diamonds, but the concealed
treasure proved to be merely a book. It was a respectable volume, however,
at least as far as size was concerned, for Elaine and Dorothy together
could scarcely lift it.
It was a leather-bound ledger, of the most ponderous kind, and was
fastened with a lock and key. The key, of course, was missing, but Dick
soon pried open the fastening.
All but the last few pages in the book were covered with fine writing, in
ink which was brown and faded, but still legible. It was Uncle Ebeneezer's
penmanship throughout, except for a few entries at the beginning, in a
fine, flowing feminine hand, which Dorothy instantly knew was Aunt
Rebecca's.
"On the night of our wedding," the book began, "we begin this record of
our lives, for until to-day we have not truly lived." This was signed by
both. Then, in the woman's hand, was written a description of her
wedding-gown, which was a simple white muslin, made by herself. Her
ornaments were set down briefly--only a wreath of roses in her hair, a
string of coral beads, and the diamond brooch which was at that moment in
Dorothy's jewel-box.
For three weeks there were alternate entries, then suddenly, without date,
were two words so badly written as to be scarcely readable: "She died."
For days thereafter was only this: "I cannot write." These simple words
were the key to a world of pain, for the pages were blistered with a man's
hot tears.
Then came this: "She would want me to go on writing it, so I will, though
I have no heart for it."
From thence onward the book proceeded without interruption, a minute and
faithful record of the man's inner life. Long extracts copied from books
filled page after page of this strange diary, interspersed with records of
business transactions, of letters received and answered, of wages paid,
and of the visits of Jeremiah Bradford.
"We talked long to-night upon the immortality of the soul," one entry ran.
"Jeremiah does not believe it, but I must--or die."
Dick soon lost interest in the book, and finding solitary toil at the
shelves uncongenial, went out, whistling. Elaine and Dorothy read on
together, scarcely noting his absence.
The book had begun in the Spring. Early in June was chronicled the arrival
of "a woman calling herself Cousin Elmira, blood relation of my Rebecca.
Was not aware my Rebecca had a blood relation named Elmira, but there is
much in the world that I do not know."
According to the diary, Cousin Elmira had remained six weeks and had
greatly distressed her unwilling host. "Women are peculiar," Uncle
Ebeneezer had written, "all being possessed of the devil, except my
sainted Rebecca, who was an angel if there ever was one.
"Cousin Elmira is a curious woman. To-day she desired to know what had
become of my Rebecca's wedding garments, her linen sheets and
table-cloths. Answered that I did not know, and immediately put a lock
upon the chest containing them. Have always been truthful up to now, but
Rebecca would not desire to have any blood relation handling her sheets.
Of this I am sure.
"Aug. 9. To-day came Cousin Silas Martin and his wife to spend their
honeymoon. Much grieved to hear of Rebecca's death. Said she had invited
them to spend their honeymoon with her when they married. Did not know of
this, but our happiness was of such short duration that my Rebecca did not
have time to tell me of all her wishes. Company is very hard to bear, but
I would do much for my Rebecca.
"Aug. 10. This world can never be perfect under any circumstances, and
trials are the common lot of humanity. We must all endeavour to bear up
under affliction. Sarah Smithers is a good woman, most faithful, and does
not talk a great deal, considering her sex. Not intending any reflection
upon my Rebecca, whose sweet voice I could never hear too often.
* * * * *
"Aug. 20. Came Uncle Israel Skiles with a bad cough. Thinks the air of
Judson Centre must be considered healthy as they are to build a sanitarium
here. Did not know of the sanitarium.
* * * * *
"Aug. 22. Came Cousin Betsey Skiles to look after Uncle Israel. Uncle
Israel not desiring to be looked after has produced some disturbance in my
house.
* * * * *
"Aug. 23. Cousin Betsey Skiles and Cousin Jane Wood, the latter arriving
unexpectedly this morning, have fought, and Cousin Jane has gone away
again. Had never met Cousin Jane Wood.
"Aug. 24. Was set upon by Cousin Silas Martin, demanding to know whether
his wife was to be insulted by Cousin Betsey Skiles. Answered that I did
not know.
"Aug. 25. Was obliged to settle a dispute between Sarah Smithers and
Cousin Betsey Skiles. Decided in favour of S. S., thereby angering B. S.
Uncle Israel accidentally spilled his tonic on Cousin Betsey's clean
apron. Much disturbance in my house.
* * * * *
"Aug. 28. Cousin Silas Martin and wife went away, telling me they could no
longer live with Cousin Betsey Skiles. B. S. is unpleasant, but has her
virtues.
* * * * *
"Sept. 5. Uncle Israel thinks air of Judson Centre is now too chilly for
his cough. Does not like his bed, considering it drafty. Says Sarah
Smithers does not give him nourishing food.
* * * * *
"Sept. 8. Uncle Israel has gone.
* * * * *
"Sept. 10. Cousin Betsey Skiles has gone to continue looking after Uncle
Israel. Sarah Smithers and myself now alone in peace.
* * * * *
All that Winter, the writing was of books, interspersed with occasional
business details. In the Spring, the influx of blood relations began again
and continued until Fall. The diary revealed the gradual transformation of
a sunny disposition into a dark one, of a man with gregarious instincts
into a wild beast asking only for solitude. Additions to the house were
chronicled from time to time, with now and then a pathetic comment upon
the futility of the additions.
Once there was this item: "Would go away for ever were it not that this
was my Rebecca's home. Where we had hoped to be so happy, there is now a
great emptiness and unnumbered Relations. How shall I endure Relations?
Still they are all of her blood, though the most gentle blood does seem to
take strange turns."
Again: "Do not think my Rebecca would desire to have all her kin visit her
at once. Still, would do anything for my Rebecca. Have ordered five more
beds."
As the years went by, the bitterness became more and more apparent. Long
before the end, the record was frankly profane, and saddest of all was the
evidence that under the stress of annoyance the great love for "my
Rebecca" was slowly, but surely, becoming tainted. From simple profanity,
Uncle Ebeneezer descended into blasphemous comment, modified at times by
remorseful tenderness toward the dead.
"To-day," he wrote, "under pressure of my questioning, Sister-in-law Fanny
Wood admitted that Rebecca had never invited her to come and see her.
Asked Sister-in-law why she was here. Responded that Rebecca would have
asked her if she had lived. Perhaps others have surmised the same. Fear of
late I may have been unjust to my Rebecca."
Later on, "my Rebecca" was mentioned but rarely. She became "my dear
companion," "my wife," or "my partner." The building of wings and the
purchase of additional beds by this time had become a permanent feature,
though, as the writer admitted, it was "a roundabout way."
"The easiest way would be to turn all out. Forgetting my duty to the
memory of my dear companion, and sore pressed by many annoyances, did turn
out Cousin Betsey Skiles, who forgave me for it without being so
requested, and remained.
"Trains to Judson Centre," he wrote, at one time, "have been most
grievously changed. One arrives just after breakfast, the other at three
in the morning. Do not understand why this is, and anticipate new trouble
from it."
The entries farther on were full of "trouble," being minute and intimate
portrayals of the emotions of one roused from sleep at three in the
morning to admit undesired guests, interlarded with pardonable profanity.
"Seems that house might be altered in some way, but do not know. Will
consult with Jeremiah."
After this came the record of an interview with the village carpenter, and
rough sketches of proposed alterations. "Putting in new window in middle
and making two upper windows round instead of square, with new
porch-railing and two new narrow windows downstairs will do it. House
fortunately planned by original architect for such alteration. Taking down
curtains and keeping lights in windows nights should have some effect,
though much doubt whether anything would affect Relations."
Soon afterward the oppressed one chronicled with great glee how a lone
female, arriving on the night train, was found half-dead from fright by
the roadside in the morning. "House _is_ fearsome," wrote Uncle Ebeneezer,
with evident relish. "Have been to Jeremiah's of an evening and,
returning, found it wonderful to behold."
Presently, Dorothy came to an intimate analysis of some of the uninvited
ones at present under her roof. The poet was given a full page of scathing
comment, illustrated by rude caricatures, which were so suggestive that
even Elaine thoroughly enjoyed them.
Pleased with his contribution to literature, Uncle Ebeneezer had written a
long and keenly comprehensive essay upon each relation. These bits of
vivid portraiture were numbered in this way: "Relation Number 8, Miss
Betsey Skiles, Claiming to be Cousin." At the end of this series was a
very beautiful tribute to "My Dearly Beloved Nephew, James Harlan Carr,
Who Has Never Come to See Me."
Frequently, thereafter, came pathetic references to "Dear Nephew James,"
"Unknown Recipient of an Old Man's Gratitude," "Discerning and Admirable
James," and so on.
One entry ran as follows: "Have been approached this season by each
Relation present in regard to disposal of my estate. Will fix surprise for
all Relations before leaving to join my wife. Shall leave money to every
one, though perhaps not as much as each expects. Jeremiah advises me to
leave something to each. Laws are such, I believe, that no one remembered
can claim more. Desire to be just, but strongly incline to dear Nephew
James."
On the last page of all was a significant paragraph. "Dreamed of seeing my
Rebecca once more, who told me we should be together again April 7th.
Shall make all arrangements for leaving on that day, and prepare Surprises
spoken of. Shall be very quiet in my grave with no Relations at hand, but
should like to hear and see effect of Surprise. Jeremiah will attend."
The last lines were written on April sixth. "To-morrow I shall join my
loved Rebecca and leave all Relations here to fight by themselves. Do not
fear Death, but shudder at Relations. Relations keep life from being
pleasant. Did not know my Rebecca was possessed of such numbers nor of
such kinds, but forgive her all. Shall see her to-morrow."
Then, on the line below, in a hand that did not falter, was written: "The
End."
Dorothy wiped her eyes on a corner of Elaine's apron, for Uncle Ebeneezer
had been found dead in his bed on the morning of April seventh. "Elaine,"
she said, "what would you do?"
"Do?" repeated Elaine. "I'd strike one blow for poor old Uncle Ebeneezer!
I'd order every single one of them out of the house to-morrow!"
"To-night!" cried Dorothy, fired with high resolve. "I'll do it this very
night! Poor old Uncle Ebeneezer! Our sufferings have been nothing,
compared to his."
"Are you going to tell Mr. Carr?" asked Elaine, wonderingly.
"Tell him nothing," rejoined Dorothy, with spirit. "He's got some old fogy
notions about your house being a sacred spot where everybody in creation
can impose on you if they want to, just because it is your house. I
suppose he got it by being related to poor old uncle."
"Do I have to go, too?" queried Elaine, rubbing her soft cheek against
Dorothy's.
"Not much," answered Mrs. Carr, with a sisterly embrace. "You'll stay, and
Dick 'll stay, and that old tombstone in the kitchen will stay, and so
will Claudius Tiberius, but the rest--MOVE!"
Consequently, Elaine looked forward to the dinner-hour with mixed
anticipations. Mr. Perkins, Uncle Israel, Mrs. Dodd, and Mrs. Holmes each
found a note under their plates when they sat down. Uncle Israel's face
relaxed into an expression of childlike joy when he found the envelope
addressed to him. "Valentine, I reckon," he said, "or mebbe it's sunthin'
from Santa Claus."
"Queer acting for Santa Claus," snorted Mrs. Holmes, who had swiftly torn
open her note. "Here we are, all ordered away from what's been our home
for years, by some upstart relations who never saw poor, dear uncle. Are
you going to keep boarders?" she asked, insolently, turning to Dorothy.
"No longer," returned that young woman, imperturbably. "I have done it
just as long as I intend to."
Harlan was gazing curiously at Dorothy, but she avoided his eyes, and
continued to eat as though nothing had happened. Dick, guessing rightly,
choked, and had to be excused. Elaine's cheeks were flushed and her eyes
sparkled, the flush deepening when Mrs. Dodd inquired where _her_
valentine was. Mr. Perkins was openly dejected, and Mrs. Dodd, receiving
no answer to her question, compressed her thin lips into a forced
silence.
But Uncle Israel was moved to protesting speech. "'T is queer doin's for
Santa Claus," he mumbled, pouring out a double dose of his nerve tonic.
"'T ain't such a thing as he'd do, even if he was drunk. Turnin' a poor
old man outdoor, what ain't got no place to go exceptin' to Betsey's, an'
nobody can't live with Betsey. She's all the time mad at herself on
account of bein' obliged to live with such a woman as she be. Summers I've
allers stayed here an' never made no trouble. I've cooked my own food an'
brought most of it, an' provided all my own medicines, an' even took my
bed with me, goin' an' comin'. Ebeneezer's beds is all terrible drafty--I
took two colds to once sleepin' in one of 'em--an' at my time of life 't
ain't proper to change beds. Sleepin' in a drafty bed would undo all the
good of bein' near the sanitarium. Most likely I'll have a fever or
sunthin' now an' die."
"Shut up, Israel," said Mrs. Dodd, abruptly. "You ain't goin' to die. It
wouldn't surprise me none if you had to be shot on the Day of Judgment
before you could be resurrected. Folks past ninety-five that's pickled in
patent medicine from the inside out, ain't goin' to die of no fever."
"Ninety-six, Belinda," said the old man, proudly. "I'll be ninety-six next
week, an' I'm as young as I ever was."
"Then," rejoined Mrs. Dodd, tartly, "what you want to look out for is
measles an' chicken-pox, to say nothin' of croup."
"Come, Gladys Gwendolen and Algernon Paul," interrupted Mrs. Holmes, in a
high key; "we must go and pack now, to go away from dear uncle's. Dear
uncle is dead, you know, and can't help his dear ones being ordered out of
his house by upstarts."
"What's a upstart, ma?" inquired Willie.
"People who turn their dead uncle's relations out of his house in order to
take boarders," returned Mrs. Holmes, clearly.
"Mis' Carr," said Mrs. Dodd, sliding up into Dick's vacant place, "have I
understood that you want me to go away to-morrow?"
"Everybody is going away to-morrow," returned Dorothy, coldly.
"After all I've done for you?" persisted Mrs. Dodd.
"What have you done for me?" parried Dorothy, with a pleading look at
Elaine.
"Kep' the others away," returned Mrs. Dodd, significantly.
"Uncle Ebeneezer does not want any of you here," said Dorothy, after a
painful silence. The impression made by the diary was so vividly present
with her that she felt as though she were delivering an actual message.
Much to her surprise, Mrs. Dodd paled and left the room hastily. Uncle
Israel tottered after her, leaving his predigested food untouched on his
plate and his imitation coffee steaming malodorously in his cup. Mr.
Perkins bowed his head upon his hands for a moment; then, with a sigh,
lightly dropped out of the open window. The name of Uncle Ebeneezer seemed
to be one to conjure with.
"Dorothy," said Harlan, "might an obedient husband modestly inquire what
you have done?"
"Elaine and I found Uncle Ebeneezer's diary to-day," explained Dorothy,
"and the poor old soul was nagged all his life by relatives. So, in
gratitude for what he's done for us, I've turned 'em out. I know he'd like
to have me do it."
Harlan left his place and came to Dorothy, where, bending over her chair,
he kissed her tenderly. "Good girl," he said, patting her shoulder. "Why
in thunder didn't you do it months ago?"
"Isn't that just like a man?" asked Dorothy, gazing after his retreating
figure.
"I don't know," answered Elaine, with a pretty blush, "but I guess it
is."