“Sunbeam is there!” shouted Mike, “and nothing is the matter with her!”
Before he could explain further, there was a crash. The impact of Doctor Spellman’s powerful shoulder carried the staple which held the latch from its fastenings and the door swung inward. Through it swarmed the Boy Scouts, the physician and his wife in the lead.
In front of the broad fireplace, where the embers had long died, sat Uncle Elk in his rocking chair, silent, motionless and with head bowed. Seated on his knees, with her curls half hiding her pretty face and resting against his massive chest, was Ruth Spellman, sleeping as sweetly as if on her cot at home.
With a glad cry, the mother rushed forward and flung her arms about the child, sobbing with joy.
“O my darling! Thank heaven you are found!” and she smothered the bewildered one with kisses and caresses.
Suddenly Doctor Spellman raised his hand and an instant hush fell upon all. He had lifted the limp arm of the man and placed his finger on the wrist. The professional eye saw that which escaped the others. He said in a solemn voice:
“Uncle Elk is dead!”
CHAPTER XXV
And the Last
Enough has been said in the preceding pages to show that Elkanah Sisum was a man of excellent birth and superior culture. He possessed moderate wealth, and when admitted to the bar his prospects could not have been brighter, but misfortune seemed to have marked him for its own. It delivered the first crushing blow by taking away the beloved wife of his young manhood, and leaving him an only child,—Ruth, who was as the apple of his eye. At eighteen she married a worthy young man who was admitted as a partner in the law firm and displayed brilliant ability. Unto the couple was born also a single daughter, named for its mother.
Sisum never remarried, but lavished his affection upon his daughter and especially the grandchild Ruth, whom it may be said he loved more than his own life. Thus things stood until the little one was nearly five years old, when she showed alarming signs of sinking into a decline. Her parents decided to take her on a long sea voyage in the summer time. The understanding was that they were to be gone for several months, but they never returned. Their steamer was not heard of again.
It was years before the grandfather gave up hope. The long brooding over his grief and the final yielding to despair,—slow but final,—produced a strange effect upon his mind. Only his most intimate friends saw that his brain was affected; others met and talked with him daily with never a suspicion of the fact. He had come to the gradual but fixed belief that although his dear ones had left him for the land of shadows, yet somewhere and at some time in this life his grandchild would come to him. She might not remain long, but she would reveal herself unmistakably before Uncle Elk himself passed into the Great Beyond. It was the centering of his thoughts and hopes upon this strange fancy that was actual monomania. Scout Master Hall detected it, though none of the Boy Scouts dreamed of anything of the kind. As the delusion fastened itself upon the old man, he formed a distaste for society, which of itself grew until it made him the hermit we found in the Maine woods during this summer. There he spent his hours in reading, and in studying animal and bird life,—trees and woodcraft. He never lost his gentle affection for his fellow men, and at long intervals visited his former acquaintances; but, though he left his latchstring outside and gave welcome to whoever called, he preferred to make his abiding place far from the haunts of men.
What mind can understand its own mysteries? While the current of life was moving smoothly with the old man, Doctor Spellman put up his summer home on the shore of the lake not very distant from the cabin of Uncle Elk. The latter set out to call upon them almost as soon as he learned of their arrival. While too far for the couple to see him, he caught sight of them sitting in front of their structure, the doctor smoking and the wife engaged in crochet work. Their child was playing with a doll indoors, and Uncle Elk saw nothing of her, nor did he learn of her existence until several days later, when occurred the incident that will be told further on.
It was that sight of the man and woman that gave a curious twist to the delusion of the hermit. He was startled by the woman’s striking resemblance to his own daughter who had been lost at sea years before. He formed a sudden and intense dislike of the man who had presumed to marry a person that resembled his child, and it was painful to look upon the wife who bore such a resemblance. No brain, except one already somewhat askew, could have been the victim of so queer a process. Such, however, was the fact and of itself it explains a number of incidents that otherwise could not be explained.
It will be noted that thus far Uncle Elk had not seen the little child who was the image of her mother, and since the parents quickly learned of his strange antipathy and took care to avoid meeting him, it is unlikely that in the ordinary course of events he ever would have come face to face with the little one.
Now nothing is more evident than the absurdity of my trying to describe the mental ordeal through which this man passed on that last and most memorable night of his life. I base what I say upon that which Doctor Spellman told me as the result of his painstaking investigation, during the succeeding months, of the most singular case with which he was ever concerned, and even the brilliant medical man could not be absolutely certain of all his conclusions. However, they sound so reasonable that I now give them.
Throughout the afternoon, Uncle Elk was depressed in spirits, as is sometimes true of a person who is on the eve of some event or experience of decisive importance to himself. He was subject to a peculiar physical chilliness which led him to kindle a fire on his broad hearth, in front of which as the night shadows gathered, he seated himself in his cushioned rocking chair. As time passed he gave himself over to meditation of the long ago with its sorrowful memories.
He had sat thus for some time when he was roused by the twitching of the latchstring. He turned his head to welcome his caller, when he was so startled that at first he could not believe what his eyes told him. A little girl, of the age and appearance of the one who had gone down in the depths of the fathomless sea, stood before him.
“Good evening,” called the child in her gentle voice; “how do you do?”
“Who are you? What’s your name?” faltered the astounded old man.
“I am Ruth,” she replied, coming toward him with the trusting confidence of childhood.
This was the name of the loved one who had left him in the long ago. The resemblance was perfect, as it seemed to him. It was she!
He rose to his feet, reached out, clasped her hand and touched his lips to the chubby cheek.
“God be praised! You are my own Ruth come back to me after all these years!”
That poor brain, racked by so many torturing fancies, accepted it all as truth.
“I am so tired,” said the wearied little one, “I want to rest myself.”
He tenderly lifted her in his arms and carried her behind the curtains, through which the firelight shone, laid her on the couch with her head resting on the pillow, and drew the coverlet over her form. At the end of the few moments thus occupied he saw that she had sunk into the soft dreamless sleep of health and exhaustion.
He came back to the sitting room. The outer door stood ajar, as it had been left by the infantile visitor. As he closed it he did an unprecedented thing,—he drew in the latchstring. He wanted no intruders during these sacred hours. Then he seated himself as before and gave himself up to musings and to wrestling with the problem which was really beyond his solution.
There must have been moments when he glimpsed the truth. That which he had lifted in his arms was flesh and blood and therefore could not be the Ruth who had stepped into the great unknown many years before. Yet she looked the same, and bore her name. Could it not be that heaven had permitted this almost incomprehensible thing?
He sat in front of the fire, which was allowed to smoulder all through the night. It is probable that he rose more than once, drew the curtains aside and looked upon the little one
as revealed in the expiring firelight.
“Whatever the explanation, it means that my Ruth and I will soon be together. If it is not she who has come to me, I shall soon go to her.”
Unlocking a small drawer of the table, he drew out a large, unsealed envelope, unfolded the paper inside, glanced at the writing, returned it to the enclosure and laid it on the stand where it could not fail to be seen by any visitor, and then resumed his seat.
“By this time,” said Doctor Spellman, “the brain which had been clouded probably became normal. He knew that my Ruth could not be his Ruth. He must have seen that she was the child of the man whom he intensely disliked because I had presumed to marry a woman who resembled the daughter whom he had lost.”
When daylight returned, Uncle Elk after a time aroused himself. He did not renew the blaze on the hearth, but once more drew the curtain aside. Ruth Spellman still slept. As gently as he had laid her down, he raised and carried her back to his chair where he resumed his seat, with the curly unconscious head resting upon his breast, and after a time, he closed his own eyes, never to open them again.
In the presence of death all was hushed. The Boy Scouts bowed their uncovered heads, and as they stood in the crowded room gazed in awe upon the gray head and inanimate form in the chair. Even the overjoyed mother who had clasped her loved child and lifted her from the lifeless arms suppressed her glad croonings, while the bewildered Ruth gazed upon the strange scene with hardly a glimmering of what it all meant.
For the moment, Doctor Spellman was the professional expert. In a low voice he addressed the Scout Master and the young friends who looked into his face and listened.
“Uncle Elk passed away several hours ago,—his death from heart failure was so painless that it was like falling asleep, as was the case with our child. This looks as if he had left a message for us.”
As he spoke, the doctor picked up the large unsealed envelope and held it up so as to show the address,—“To be opened by whosoever finds it after my death.”
Drawing out and unfolding the sheet, the physician read aloud:
“It is my wish to be buried on the plot between my cabin and the brook. Over my grave a plain marble stone is to erected with the inscription, ‘Elkanah Sisum. Born January 23, 1828; died ——’ Add nothing to the date of my death. Inclosed are enough funds to pay the expense. Whatever remains, which is all the money I possess, I desire to be presented to the Sailors’ Snug Harbor, New York.”
Having finished the reading, the physician added:
“The coroner must be notified and the proper legal steps taken. We should get word to Boothbay Harbor as soon as possible.”
“I will attend to that,” said George Burton, “and start at once.”
The wishes of Uncle Elk were carried out in spirit and letter. The clergyman who came from Boothbay Harbor preached a touching sermon, and a score of men who had known the old man for years came out to the cabin to pay their last respects. The evidence of Doctor Spellman was all the coroner required, and there was no hitch in the solemn exercises.
Mike Murphy, when he could command his emotions, sang “Lead, kindly Light,” with such exquisite pathos that there was not a dry eye among the listeners. The grave had been dug by the Boy Scouts, who stood with bared heads as the coffin was slowly lowered into its final resting place. A few days later all departed for their homes, carrying memories of their outing in the woods of Southern Maine, which will remain with them through life.
The Edward S. Ellis Megapack Page 329
