At the Sign of the Jack O'Lantern

by Myrtle Reed

  VII

  An Uninvited Guest

  Dorothy sat alone in her room, facing the first heartache of her marriedlife. She repeatedly told herself that she was not jealous; that theprimitive, unlovely emotion was far beneath such as she. But if Harlan hadonly told her, instead of leaving her to find out in this miserable way!It had never entered her head that the clear-eyed, clean-minded boy whomshe had married, could have anything even remotely resembling a past, andhere it was in her own house! Moreover, it had inspired a book, and sheherself had been unable to get him to work at all.

  Just why women should be concerned in regard to old loves has never beenwholly clear. One might as well fancy a clean slate, freshly andelaborately dedicated to noble composition, being bothered by the additionand subtraction which was once done upon its surface.

  With her own eyes she had seen Miss St. Clair weeping, while Harlan heldher hands and explained that he was married. Undoubtedly Miss St. Clairaccounted for various metropolitan delays and absences which she hadjoyously forgiven on the score of Harlan's "work." Bitterest of all wasthe thought that she must endure it--that the long years ahead of heroffered no escape, no remedy, except the ignoble, painful one which shewould not for a moment consider.

  A sudden flash of resentment stiffened her backbone, metaphoricallyspeaking. In spite of Miss St. Clair, Harlan had married her, and it wasMiss St. Clair who was weeping over the event, not Harlan. She had seenthat the visitor made Harlan unhappy--very well, she would generouslythrow them together and make him painfully weary of her, for Love'scertain destroyer is Satiety. Deep in Dorothy's consciousness was theabiding satisfaction that she had never once, as she put it to herself,"chased him." Never a note, never a telephone call, never a question as tohis coming and going appeared now to trouble her. The ancient, primevalrelation of the Seeker and the Sought had not for a single moment beenaltered through her.

  Meanwhile, Elaine had settled down peacefully enough. Having been regaledsince infancy with tales of Uncle Ebeneezer's generous hospitality, itseemed only fitting and proper that his relatives should make her welcome,even though Elaine's mother had been only a second cousin of Mrs.Judson's. Elaine had been deeply touched by Harlan's solicitude andDorothy's kindness, seeing in it nothing more than the manifestation of abeautiful spirit toward one who was helpless and ill.

  A modest wardrobe and a few hundred dollars, saved from the wreck of hermother's estate, and the household furniture in storage, representedElaine's worldly goods. As too often happens in a material world, she hadbeen trained to do nothing but sing a little, play a little, and paintunspeakably. She planned, vaguely, to stay where she was during theSummer, and in the Autumn, when she had quite recovered her formerstrength, to take her money and learn some method of self-support.

  Just now she was resting. A late breakfast, a walk through the country, alight luncheon, and a long nap accounted for Elaine's day untildinner-time. After dinner, for an hour, she exchanged commonplaces withthe Carrs, then retired to her own room with a book from Uncle Ebeneezer'slibrary. Even Dorothy was forced to admit that she made very littletrouble.

  The train rumbled into the station--the very same train which had broughtthe Serpent into Paradise. Dorothy smiled a little at the idea of a snaketravelling on a train unless it belonged to a circus, and wiped her eyes.Having mapped out her line of conduct, the rest was simple enough--toabide by it even to the smallest details, and patiently await results.

  When she went downstairs again she was outwardly quite herself, butaltogether unprepared for the surprise that awaited her in the parlour.

  "Hello," cried a masculine voice, cheerily, as she entered the room. "I'venever seen you before, have I?"

  "Not that I know of," replied Dorothy, startled, but not in the leastafraid.

  The young man who rose to greet her was not at all unpleasant to lookupon. He was taller than Harlan, smooth-shaven, had nice brown eyes, and amop of curly brown hair which evidently annoyed him. Moreover, he waslaughing, as much from sheer joy of living as anything else.

  "Which side of the house are you a relative of?" he asked.

  "The inside," returned Dorothy. "I keep house here."

  "You don't say so! What's become of Sally? Uncle shoo her off the lot?"

  "I don't know what you're talking about," answered Dorothy, with afruitless effort to appear matronly and dignified. "If by 'uncle' you meanUncle Ebeneezer, he's dead."

  "You don't tell me! Reaped at last, after all this delay! Then how did youcome here?"

  "By train," responded Dorothy, enjoying the situation to the utmost."Uncle Ebeneezer left the house and furniture to my husband."

  The young man sank into a chair and wiped the traces of deep emotion fromhis ruddy face. "Hully Gee!" he said, when he recovered speech. "I supposethat's French for 'Dick, chase yourself.'"

  "Perhaps not," suggested Mrs. Carr, strangely loath to have this breezyindividual take his departure. "You might tell me who you are; don't youthink so?"

  "Not a bad notion at all. I'm the Dick of the firm of 'Tom, Dick, andHarry,' you've doubtless heard about from your childhood. My other name isChester, but few know it. I'm merely 'Dick' to everybody, yourselfincluded, I trust," he added with an elaborate bow. "If you will sit down,and make yourself comfortable, I will now unfold to you the sad story ofmy life.

  "I was born of poor but honest parents about twenty-three years ago,according to the last official census. They brought me up until I reachedthe ripe age of twelve, then got tired of their job and went to heaven.Since then I've brought myself up. I've just taught a college all it canlearn from me, and been put out. Prexy confided to me that I wasn't goingto graduate, so I shook the classic dust from my weary feet and fledhither as to a harbour of refuge. I've always spent my Summers with UncleEbeneezer, because it was cheap for me and good for him, but I can'tundertake to follow him up this Summer, not knowing exactly where he is,and not caring for a warm climate anyway."

  Inexpressibly shocked, Dorothy looked up to the portrait over the mantelhalf fearfully, but there was no change in the stern, malicious old face.

  "You're afraid of him, aren't you?" asked Dick, with a hearty laugh.

  "I always have been," admitted Dorothy. "He scared me the first time wecame here--it was at night, and raining."

  "I've known him to scare people in broad daylight, and they weren't alwayswomen either. He used to be a pleasant old codger, but he got over it, andafter he learned to swear readily, he was a pretty tough party to buck upagainst. It took nerve to stay here when uncle was in a bad mood, but mostpeople have more nerve than they think they have. You haven't told me yourname yet."

  "Mrs. Carr--Dorothy Carr."

  "Pretty name," remarked Dick, with evident admiration. "If you don't mind,I'll call you 'Dorothy' till the train goes back. It will be something forme to remember in the desert waste of my empty years to come."

  A friendly, hospitable impulse seized Mrs. Carr. "Why should you go?" sheinquired, smiling. "If you've been in the habit of spending your Summershere, you needn't change on our account. We'd be glad to have you, I'msure. A dear old friend of my husband's is already here."

  "Fine or superfine?"

  "Superfine," returned Dorothy, feeling very much as though the clock hadbeen turned back twenty years or more and she was at a children's partyagain.

  "You can bet your sweet life I'll stay," said Dick, "and if I bother youat any time, just say so and I'll skate out, with no hard feelings oneither side. You may need me when the rest of the bunch gets here."

  "The rest of--oh Harlan, come here a minute!"

  She had caught him as he was going into the library with his work,thinking that a change of environment might possibly produce an acceptablechange in the current of his thoughts.

  "Dick," said Dorothy, when Harlan came to the door, "this is my husband.Mr. Chester, Mr. Carr."

  For days Harlan had not seen Dorothy with such rosy cheeks, such dancingeyes, nor half as many dimples. Bewilder
ed, and not altogether pleased, heawkwardly extended his hand to Mr. Chester, with a conventional "how doyou do?"

  Dick wrung the offered hand in a mighty grip which made Harlan wince. "Icongratulate you, Mr. Carr," he said gallantly, "upon possessing thefairest ornament of her sex. Guess this letter is for you, isn't it? Ifound it in the post-office while the keeper was out, and just took it. Ifit doesn't belong here, I'll skip back with it."

  "Thanks," murmured Harlan, rubbing the injured hand with the other."I--where did you come from?"

  "The station," explained Dick, pleasantly. "I never trace myself back ofwhere I was last seen."

  "He's going to stay with us, Harlan," put in Dorothy, wickedly, "so youmustn't let us keep you away from your work. Come along, Dick, and I'llshow you our cow."

  They went out, followed by a long, low whistle of astonishment from Harlanwhich Dorothy's acute ears did not miss. Presently Mr. Carr retreated intothe library, and locked the door, but he did not work. The book was at adeadlock, half a paragraph beyond "the flower-like hands of Elaine," ofwhich, indeed, the author had confessed his inability to write.

  "Dick," thought Harlan. "Mr. Chester. A young giant with a grip like anoctopus. 'The fairest ornament of her sex.' Never, never heard of himbefore. Some old flame of Dorothy's, who has discovered her whereaboutsand brazenly followed her, even on her honeymoon."

  And he, Harlan, was absolutely prevented from speaking of it by an unhappychain of circumstances which put him in a false light! For the first timehe fully perceived how a single thoughtless action may bind all one'sfuture existence.

  "Just because I stroked the hand of a distressed damsel," muttered Harlan,"and told her I was married, I've got to sit and see a procession of mywife's old lovers marking time here all Summer!" In his fevered fancy, healready saw the Jack-o'-Lantern surrounded by Mrs. Carr's former admirers,heard them call her "Dorothy," and realised that there was not a singlething he could do.

  "Unless, of course," he added, mentally, "it gets too bad, and I have anexcuse to order 'em out. And then, probably, Dorothy will tell Elaine totake her dolls and go home, and the poor thing's got nowhere togo--nowhere in the wide world.

  "How would Dorothy like to be a lonely orphan, with no husband, nofriends, and no job? She wouldn't like it much, but women never have anysympathy for each other, nor for their husbands, either. I'd give twentydollars this minute not to have stroked Elaine's hand, and fifty not tohave had Dorothy see it, but there's no use in crying over spilt milk norin regretting hands that have already been stroked."

  In search of diversion, he opened his letter, which was in answer to theone he had written some little time ago, inquiring minutely, of anacquaintance who was supposed to be successful, just what the prospectswere for a beginner in the literary craft.

  "Dear Carr," the letter read. "Sorry not to have answered before, but I'vebeen away and things got mixed up. Wouldn't advise anybody but an enemy totake up writing as a steady job, but if you feel the call, go in and win.You can make all the way from eight dollars a year, which was what I madewhen I first struck out, up to five thousand, which was what I averagedlast year. I've always envied you fellows who could turn in your stuff andget paid for it the following Tuesday. In my line, you work like the devilthis year for what you're going to get next, and live on the year after.

  "However, if you're bitten with it, there's no cure. You'll see magazinearticles in stones and books in running brooks all the rest of your life.When you get your book done, I'll trot you around to my publisher, whoenjoys the proud distinction of being an honest one, and if he likes yourstuff, he'll take it, and if he doesn't, he'll turn you down so pleasantlythat you'll feel as though he'd made you a present of something. If youthink you've got genius, forget it, and remember that nothing takes theplace of hard work. And, besides, it's a pretty blamed poor book thatcan't get itself printed these days.

  "Yours as usual, "C. J."

  The communication was probably intended as encouragement, but the effectwas depressing, and at the end of an hour, Harlan had written only twolines more in his book, neither of which pleased him.

  Meanwhile, Dick was renewing his old acquaintance with Mrs. Smithers, muchto that lady's pleasure, though she characteristically endeavoured toconceal it. She belonged to a pious sect which held all mirth to beungodly.

  "Sally," Dick was saying, "I've dreamed of your biscuits night and daysince I ate the last one. Are we going to have 'em for lunch?"

  "No biscuits in this house to-day," grumbled the deity of the kitchen, inan attempt to be properly stern, "and as I've told you more than once, myname ain't 'Sally.' It's Mis' Smithers, that's wot it is, and I'll thankyou to call me by it."

  "Between those who love," continued Dick, with a sidelong glance atDorothy, who stood near by, appalled at his daring, "the best is none toogood for common use. If my heart breaks the bonds of conventionalrestraint, and I call you by the name under which you always appear to mein my longing dreams, why should you not be gracious, and forgive me? Bekind to me, Sally, be just a little kind, and throw together a pan ofthose biscuits in your own inimitable style!"

  "Run along with you, you limb of Satan," cried Mrs. Smithers, brandishinga floury spoon.

  "Come along, Dorothy," said Dick, laying a huge but friendly paw upon Mrs.Carr's shoulder; "we're chased out." He put his head back into thekitchen, however, to file a parting petition for biscuits, which wasunnecessary, for Mrs. Smithers had already found her rolling-pin and hadbegun to sift her flour.

  Outside, he duly admired Maud, who was chewing the cud of reflection undera tree, created a panic in the chicken yard by lifting Abdul Hamidignominiously by the legs, to see how heavy he was, and chased ClaudiusTiberius under the barn.

  "If that cat turns up missing some day," he said, "don't blame me. Helooks so much like Uncle Ebeneezer that I can't stand for him."

  "There's something queer about Claudius, anyway," ventured Dorothy. "Mrs.Smithers says that uncle killed him the week before he died, and----"

  "Before who died?"

  "Claudius--no, before uncle died, and she buried him, and he's come tolife again."

  "Uncle, or Claudius?"

  "Claudius, you goose," laughed Dorothy.

  "If I knew just how nearly related we were," remarked Dick, irrelevantlyenough, "I believe I'd kiss you. You look so pretty with all your dimpleshung out and your hair blowing in the wind."

  Dorothy glanced up, startled, and inclined to be angry, but it wasimpossible to take offence at such a mischievous youth as Dick was at thatmoment. "We're not related," she said, coolly, "except by marriage."

  "Well, that's near enough," returned Dick, who was never disposed to beunduly critical. "Your husband is only related to you by marriage. Don'tbe such a prude. Come to the waiting arms of your uncle, or cousin, orbrother-in-law, or whatever it is that I happen to be."

  "Go and kiss your friend Sally in the kitchen," laughed Dorothy. "You havemy permission." Dick made a wry face. "I don't hanker to do it," he said,"but if you want me to, I will. I suppose she isn't pleased with her placeand you want to make it more homelike for her."

  "What relation were you to Uncle Ebeneezer?" queried Dorothy, curiously.

  "Uncle and I," sighed Dick, "were connected by the closest ties of bloodand marriage. Nobody could be more related than we were. I was the onlychild of Aunt Rebecca's sister's husband's sister's husband's sister. Say,on the dead, if I ever bother you will you tell me so and invite me toskip?"

  "Of course I will."

  "Shake hands on it, then; that's a good fellow. And say, did you say therewas another skirt stopping here?"

  "A--a what?"

  "Petticoat," explained Dick, patiently; "mulier, as the ancient dagoes hadit. They've been getting mulier ever since, too. How old is she?"

  "Oh," answered Dorothy. "She's not more than twenty or twenty-one." Then,endeavou
ring to be just to Elaine, she added: "And a very pretty girl,too."

  "Lead me to her," exclaimed Dick ecstatically. "Already she is mine!"

  "You'll see her at luncheon. There's the bell, now."

  Mr. Chester was duly presented to Miss St. Clair, and from then on,appeared to be on his good behaviour. Elaine's delicate, fragile beautyappealed strongly to the susceptible Dick, and from the very beginning, hewas afraid of her--a dangerous symptom, if he had only known it.

  Harlan, making the best of a bad bargain, devoted himself to his guestsimpartially, and, upon the whole, the luncheon went off very well, thoughthe atmosphere was not wholly festive.

  Afterward, when they sat down in the parlour, there was an awkward pausewhich no one seemed inclined to relieve. At length Dorothy, mindful of herduty as hostess, asked Miss St. Clair if she would not play something.

  Willingly enough, Elaine went to the melodeon, which had not been openedsince the Carrs came to live at the Jack-o'-Lantern, and lifted the lid.Immediately, however, she went off into hysterics, which were so violentthat Harlan and Dorothy were obliged to assist her to her room.

  Dick strongly desired to carry Elaine upstairs, but was forbidden by thehampering conventionalities. So he lounged over to the melodeon, somewhatsurprised to find that "It" was still there.

  "It" was a brown, wavy, false front of human hair, securely anchored tothe keys underneath by a complicated system of loops of linen thread.Pinned to the top was a faded slip of paper on which Uncle Ebeneezer hadwritten, long ago: "Mrs. Judson always kept her best false front in themelodeon. I do not desire to have it disturbed.--E. J."

  "His Nibs never could bear music," thought Dick, as he closed theinstrument, little guessing that a vein of sentiment in Uncle Ebeneezer'shard nature had impelled him to keep the prosaic melodeon forever sacredto the slender, girlish fingers that had last brought music from itsyellowed keys.

  From upstairs still came the sound of crying, which was not altogether tobe wondered at, considering Miss St. Clair's weak, nervous condition.Harlan came down, scowling, and took back the brandy flask, moving nonetoo hastily.

  "They don't like Elaine," murmured Dick to himself, vaguely troubled. "Iwonder why--oh, I wonder why!"