Thankful's Inheritance

CHAPTER XVI

Emily obeyed orders as far as turning up the wick was concerned, and she did her best to talk. It was hard work; both she and her cousin found themselves breaking off a sentence in the middle to listen and draw closer together as the wild gusts whistled about the windows and the water poured from the sashes and gurgled upon the sills. Occasionally Thankful went to the door to look down the dark hall in the direction of Mr. Cobb's room, or to unlock Georgie's door and peer in to make sure that the boy was safe and sleeping.

From the third of these excursions Mrs. Barnes returned with a bit of reassuring news.

“I went almost there this time,” she whispered. “My conscience has been tormenting me to think of—of Solomon's bein' alone in there with—with THAT, and I almost made up my mind to sing out and ask if he was all right. But I didn't have to, thank goodness. His light's still lit and I heard him movin' around, so he ain't been scared clean to death, at any rate. For the rest of it I don't care so much; a good hard scarin' may do him good. He needs one. If ever a stingy old reprobate needed to have a warnin' from the hereafter that man does.”

“Did you hear anything—anything else?” whispered Emily, fearfully.

“No, I didn't, and I didn't wait for fear I MIGHT hear it. Did I lock the door when I came in? Emily, I guess you think I'm the silliest old coward that ever was. I am—and I know it. Tomorrow we'll both be brave enough, and we'll both KNOW there ain't any spirits here, or anywhere else this side of the grave; but tonight—well, tonight's different. . . . Ouch! what was that? There, there! don't mind my jumpin'. I feel as if I'd been stuffed with springs, like a sofa. Did you ever know a night as long as this? Won't mornin' EVER come?”

At five o'clock, while it was still pitch dark, Thankful announced her intention of going downstairs. “Might as well be in the kitchen as up here,” she said, “and I can keep busy till Imogene comes down. And, besides, we'd better be puttin' Georgie's stockin' and his presents in the livin'-room. The poor little shaver's got to have his Christmas, even though his Santa Claus did turn out to be a walkin' rag-bag.”

Emily started. “Why, it is Christmas, isn't it!” she exclaimed. “Between returned brothers and,” with a little shiver, “ghosts, I forgot entirely.”

She kissed her cousin's cheek.

“A merry Christmas, Aunt Thankful,” she said.

Thankful returned the kiss. “Same to you, dearie, and many of 'em,” she replied. “Well, here's another Christmas day come to me. A year ago I didn't think I'd be here. I wonder where I'll be next Christmas. Will I have a home of my own or will what I've thought was my home belong to Sol Cobb or Holliday Kendrick?”

“Hush, Auntie, hush! Your home won't be taken from you. It would be too mean, too dreadful! God won't permit such a thing.”

“I sartin' hope he won't, but it seems sometimes as if he permitted some mighty mean things, 'cordin' to our way of lookin' at 'em. That light's still burnin',” she added, peering out into the hall. “Well, I suppose I ought to pity Solomon, but I don't when I think how he's treated me. If the ghost—or whatever 'tis in there—weeded out the rest of his whiskers for him I don't know's I'd care. 'Twould serve him right, I guess.”

They rehung Georgie's stocking—bulging and knobby it was now—and arranged his more bulky presents beneath it on the floor. Then Thankful went into the kitchen and Emily accompanied her. The morning broke, pale and gray. The wind had subsided and it no longer rained. With the returning daylight Emily's courage began to revive.

“I can't understand,” she said, “how you and I could have been so childish last night. We should have insisted on calling to Mr. Cobb and then we should have found out what it was that frightened him and us. I mean to go over every inch of those two rooms before dinner time.”

Thankful nodded. “I'll do it with you,” she said. “But I've been over 'em so many times that I'm pretty skeptical. The time to go over 'em is in the night when that—that snorin' is goin' on. A ghost that snores ought, by rights, to be one that's asleep, and a sound-asleep ghost ought to be easy to locate. Oh, yes! I can make fun NOW. I told you I was as brave as a lion—in the daytime.”

It was easy to talk now, and they drifted into a discussion of many things. Thankful retold the story of her struggle to keep the High Cliff House afloat, told it all, her hopes, her fears and her discouragements. They spoke of Captain Bangs, of his advice and help and friendship. Emily brought the captain into the conversation and kept him there. Thankful said little concerning him, and of the one surprising, intimate interview between Captain Obed and herself she said not a word. She it was who first mentioned John Kendrick's name. Emily was at first disinclined to speak of the young lawyer, but, little by little, as her cousin hinted and questioned, she said more and more. Thankful learned what she wished to learn, and it was what she had suspected. She learned something else, too, something which concerned another citizen of East Wellmouth.

“I knew it!” she cried. “I didn't believe 'twas so, and I as much as told Cap'n Obed 'twasn't this very day—no, yesterday, I mean. When a body don't go to bed at all the days kind of run into one another.”

“What did you know?” asked Emily. “What were you and Captain Obed talking of that concerned me?”

“Nothin', nothin', dear. It didn't concern you one bit, and 'twasn't important. . . . Hi hum!” rising and looking out of the window. “It's gettin' brighter fast now. Looks as if we might have a pleasant Christmas, after all. Wonder how poor Jedediah'll feel when he wakes up. I hope he slept warm anyhow. I piled on comforters and quilts enough to smother him.”

Her attempt at changing the subject was successful. Emily's next question concerned Jedediah.

“What are you goin' to do with him, Auntie?” she asked. “He must stay here, mustn't he?”

“Course he must. I'll never trust him out of my sight again. He ain't competent to take care of himself and so I'll have to take care of him. Well,” with a sigh, “it'll only be natural, that's all. I've been used to takin' care of somebody all my days. I wonder how 'twould seem to have somebody take care of me for a change? Not that there's liable to be anybody doin' it,” she added hastily.

“Jedediah might be useful to work about the place here,” said Emily. “You will always need a hired man, you know.”

“Yes, but I don't need two, and I couldn't discharge Kenelm on Imogene's account. What that girl ever got engaged to that old image for is more'n I can make out or ever shall.”

Emily smiled. “I shouldn't worry about Imogene,” she said. “I think she knows perfectly well what she is about.”

“Maybe so, but if she does, then her kind of knowledge is different from mine. If I was goin' to marry anybody in that family 'twould be Hannah; she's the most man of the two.”

Imogene herself came down a few minutes later. She was much surprised to find her mistress and Miss Howes dressed and in the kitchen. Also she was very curious.

“Who's that man,” she asked; “the one in the next room to mine, up attic? Is he a new boarder? He must have come awful late. I heard you and him talkin' in the middle of the night. Who is he?”

When told the story of Jedediah's return she was greatly excited.

“Why, it's just like somethin' in a story!” she cried. “Long-lost folks are always comin' back in stories. And comin' Christmas Eve makes it all the better. Lordy—There, I ain't said that for weeks and weeks! Excuse me, Mrs. Thankful. I WON'T say it again. But—but what are we goin' to do with him? Is he goin' to stay here for good?”

Thankful answered that she supposed he was, he had no other place to stay.

“Is he rich? He ought to be. Folks in stories always come home rich after they've run off.”

“Well, this one didn't. He missed connections, somehow. Rich! No,” drily, “he ain't rich.”

“Well, what will he do? Will we have to take care of him—free, I mean? Excuse me for buttin' in, ma'am, but it does seem as if we had enough on our hands without takin' another free boarder.”

Thankful went into the dining-room. Emily, when the question was repeated to her, suggested that, possibly, Jedediah might work about the place, take care of the live-stock and of the garden, when there was one.

Imogene reflected. “Hum!” she mused. “We don't need two hired hands, that's a sure thing. You mean he'll take Kenelm's job?”

“That isn't settled, so you mustn't speak of it. I know my cousin will be very sorry to let Kenelm go, largely on your account, Imogene.”

“On my account?”

“Why, yes. You and he are engaged to be married and of course you like to have him here.”

Imogene burst out laughing. “Don't you worry about that, Miss Emily,” she said. “I shan't, and I don't think Kenelm will, either.”

Breakfast was ready at last and they were just sitting down to the table—it had been decided not to call Jedediah or Mr. Cobb—when Georgie appeared. The boy had crept downstairs, his small head filled with forebodings; but the sight of the knobby stocking and the heap of presents sent his fears flying and he burst into the room with a shriek of joy. One by one the packages were unwrapped and, with each unwrapping, the youngster's excitement rose.

“Gee!” he cried, as he sat in the middle of the heap of toys and brown paper and looked about him. “Gee! They're all here; everything I wanted—but that air-gun. I don't care, though. Maybe I'll get that next Christmas. Or maybe Cap'n Bangs'll give it to me, anyhow. He gives me most anything, if I tease for it.”

Thankful shook her head. “You see, Georgie,” she said, “it pays to be a good boy. If Santa had caught you hidin' under that sofa and watchin' for him last night you might not have got any of these nice things.”

Georgie did not answer immediately. When he did it was in a rather doubtful tone.

“There ain't any soot on 'em, anyhow,” he observed. “And they ain't wet, either.”

Imogene clapped her hand to her mouth and hurried from the room. “You can't fool that kid much,” she whispered to Emily afterward. “He's the smartest kid ever I saw. I'll keep out of his way for a while; I don't want to have to answer his questions.”

There were other presents besides those given to Georgie; presents for Emily from Thankful, and for Thankful from Emily, and for Imogene from both. There was nothing costly, of course, but no one cared for that.

As they were beginning breakfast Jedediah appeared. His garments, which had been drying by the kitchen stove all night and which Imogene had deposited in a heap at his bedroom door, were wrinkled, but his face shone from the vigorous application of soap and water and, as his sister said afterward, “You could see his complexion without diggin' for it, and that was somethin'.”

His manner was subdued and he was very, very polite and anxious to please, but his appetite was in good order. Introduced to Imogene he expressed himself as pleased to meet her. Georgie he greeted with some hesitation; evidently the memory of his midnight encounter with the boy embarrassed him. But Georgie, when he learned that the shabby person whom he was told to call “Uncle Jed” was, although only an imitation Santa Claus, a genuine gold-hunter and traveler who had seen real Esquimaux and polar bears, warmed to his new relative immediately.

When the meal was over Jedediah made what was, for him, an amazing suggestion.

“Now,” he said, “I cal'late I'd better be gettin' to work, hadn't I? What'll I do first, Thankful?”

Mrs. Barnes stared at him. “Work?” she repeated. “What do you mean?”

“I mean I want to be doin' somethin'—somethin' to help, you know. I don't cal'late to stay around here and loaf. No, SIR!”

Thankful drew a long breath. “All right, Jed,” she said. “You can go out in the barn and feed the horse if you want to. Kenelm—Mr. Parker—generally does it, but he probably won't be here for quite a spell yet. Go ahead. Imogene'll show you what to do. . . . But, say, hold on,” she added, with emphasis. “Don't you go off the premises, and if you see anybody comin', keep out of sight. I don't want anybody to see a brother of mine in THOSE clothes. Soon's ever I can I'll go up to the village and buy you somethin' to wear, if it's only an 'ilskin jacket and a pair of overalls. They'll cover up the rags, anyhow. As you are now, you look like one of Georgie's picture-puzzles partly put together.”

When the eager applicant for employment had gone, under Imogene's guidance, Emily spoke her mind.

“Auntie,” she said, “are you going to make him work—now; after what he's been through, and on Christmas day, too?”

Thankful was still staring after her brother.

“Sshh! sshh!” she commanded. “Don't speak to me for a minute; you may wake me up. Jedediah Cahoon ASKIN' to go to work! All the miracles in Scriptur' are nothin' to this.”

“But, Auntie, he did ask. And do you think he is strong enough?”

“Hush, Emily, hush! You don't know Jedediah. Strong enough! I'm the one that needs strength, if I'm goin' to have shocks like this one sprung on me.”

Emily said no more, but she noticed that her cousin was wearing the two-dollar ring, the wanderer's “farewell” gift, so she judged that brother Jed would not be worked beyond the bounds of moderation.

Left alone in the dining-room—Georgie had returned to the living-room and his presents—the two women looked at each other. Neither had eaten a breakfast worth mentioning and the same thought was in the mind of each.

“Auntie,” whispered Emily, voicing that thought, “don't you think we ought to go up and—and see if he is—all right.”

Thankful nodded. “Yes,” she said, “I suppose we had. He's alive, I know that much, for I had Imogene knock on his door just now and he answered. But I guess maybe we'd better—”

She did not finish the sentence for at that moment the subject of the conversation entered the room. It was Solomon Cobb who entered, but, except for his clothes, he was a changed man. His truculent arrogance was gone, he came in slowly and almost as if he were walking in his sleep. His collar was unbuttoned, his hair had not been combed, and the face between the thin bunches of whiskers was white and drawn. He did not speak to either Emily or Thankful, but, dragging one foot after the other, crossed the room and sat down in a chair by the window.

Thankful spoke to him.

“Are you sick, Solomon?” she asked.

Mr. Cobb shook his head.

“Eh?” he grunted. “No, no, I ain't sick. I guess I ain't; I don't know.”

“Breakfast is all ready, Mr. Cobb,” suggested Emily.

Solomon turned a weary eye in her direction. He looked old, very old.

“Breakfast!” he repeated feebly. “Don't talk about breakfast to me! I'll never eat again in this world.”

Thankful pitied him; she could not help it.

“Oh, yes, you will,” she said, heartily. “Just try one of those clam fritters of Imogene's and you'll eat a whole lot. If you don't you'll be the first one.”

He shook his head. “Thankful,” he said, slowly, “I—I want to talk to you. I've got to talk to you—alone.”

“Alone! Why, Emily's just the same as one of the family. There's no secrets between us, Solomon.”

“I don't care. I wan't to talk to you. It's you I've got to talk to.”

Thankful would have protested once more, but Emily put a hand on her arm.

“I'll go into the living-room with Georgie, Auntie,” she whispered. “Yes, I shall.”

She went and closed the door behind her. Thankful sat down in a chair, wondering what was coming next. Solomon did not look at her, but, after a moment, he spoke.

“Thankful Cahoon,” he said, calling her by her maiden name. “I—I've been a bad man. I'm goin' to hell.”

Thankful jumped. “Mercy on us!” she cried. “What kind of talk—”

“I'm goin' to hell,” repeated Solomon. “When a man does the way I've done that's where he goes. I'm goin there and I'm goin' pretty soon. I've had my notice.”

Thankful stood up. She was convinced that her visitor had been driven crazy by his experience in the back bedroom.

“Now, now, now,” she faltered. “Don't talk so wicked, Solomon Cobb. You've been a church man for years, and a professor of religion. You told me so, yourself. How can you set there and say—”

Mr. Cobb waved his hand.

“Don't make no difference,” he moaned. “Or, if it does, it only makes it worse. I know where I'm goin', but—but I'll go with a clean manifest, anyhow. I'll tell you the whole thing. I promised the dead I would and I will. Thankful Cahoon, I've been a bad man to you. I swore my solemn oath as a Christian to one that was my best friend, and I broke it.

“Years ago I swore by all that was good and great I'd look out for you and see that you was comf'table and happy long's you lived. And instead of that, when I come here last night—LED here, I know now that I was—my mind was about made up to take your home away from you, if I could. Yes, sir, I was cal'latin' to foreclose on you and sell this place to Kendrick. I thought I was mighty smart and was doin' a good stroke of business. No mortal man could have made me think diff'rent; BUT AN IMMORTAL ONE DID!”

He groaned and wiped his forehead. Thankful did not speak; her surprise and curiosity were too great for speech.

“'Twas your Uncle Abner Barnes,” went on Solomon, “that was the makin' of me. I sailed fust mate for him fourteen year. And he always treated me fine, raised my wages right along, and the like of that. 'Twas him that put me in the way of investin' my money in them sugar stocks and the rest. He made me rich, or headed me that way. And when he lost all he had except this place here and was dyin' aboard the old schooner, he calls me to him and he says:

“'Sol,' he says, 'Sol, I've done consider'ble for you, and you've said you was grateful. Well, I'm goin' to ask a favor of you. I ain't got a cent of my own left, and my niece by marriage, Thankful Cahoon that was, that I love same as if she was my own child, may, sometime or other, be pretty hard put to it to get along. I want you to look after her. If ever the time comes that she needs money or help I want you to do for her what I'd do if I was here. If you don't,' he says, risin' on one elbow in the bunk, 'I'll come back and ha'nt you. Promise on your solemn oath.' And I promised. And you know how I've kept that promise. And last night he come back. Yes, sir, he come back!”

Still Thankful said nothing. He groaned again and went on:

“Last night,” he said, “up in that bedroom, I woke up and, as sure as I'm settin' here this minute, I heard Cap'n Abner Barnes snorin' just as he snored afore his death aboard the schooner, T. I. Smalley, in the stateroom next to mine. I knew it in a minute, but I got up and went all round my room and the empty one alongside. There was nothin' there, of course. Nothin' but the snorin'. And I got down on my knees and swore to set things right this very day. Give me a pen and ink and some paper.”

“Eh? What?”

“Give me a pen and some ink and paper. Don't sit there starin'! Hurry up! Can't you see I want to get this thing off my chest afore I die! And—and I—I wouldn't be surprised if I died any minute. Hurry UP!”

Thankful went into the living-room in search of the writing materials. Emily, who was sitting on the floor with Georgie and the presents, turned to ask a question.

“What is it, Auntie?” she whispered, eagerly. “Is it anything important?”

Her cousin made an excited gesture.

“I—I don't know,” she whispered in reply. “Either he's been driven looney by what happened last night, or else—or else somethin's goin' to happen that I don't dast to believe. Emily, you stand right here by the door. I may want you.”

“Where's that pen and things?” queried Solomon from the next room. “Ain't you ever comin'?”

When the writing materials were brought and placed upon the dining-room table he drew his chair to that table and scrawled a few lines.

“Somebody ought to witness this,” he cried, nervously. “Some disinterested person ought to witness this. Then 'twill hold in law. Where's that—that Howes girl? Oh, here you be! Here! you sign that as a witness.”

Emily, who had entered at the mention of her name, took the paper from his trembling fingers. She read what was written upon it.

“Why—why, Auntie!” she cried, excitedly. “Aunt Thankful, have you seen this? He—”

“Stop your talk!” shouted Solomon. “Can't you women do nothin' BUT talk? Sign your name alongside of mine as a witness.”

Emily took the pen and signed as directed. Mr. Cobb snatched the paper from her, glanced at it and then handed it to Thankful.

“There!” he cried. “That's done, anyhow. I've done so much. Now—now don't say a word to me for a spell. I—I'm all in; that's what I am, all in.”

Thankful did not say a word; she couldn't have said it at that moment. Upon the paper which she held in her hand was written a cancellation of the fifteen-hundred-dollar mortgage and a receipt in full for the loan itself, signed by Solomon Cobb.

Dimly and uncomprehendingly she heard Emily trying to thank their visitor. But thanks he would not listen to.

“No, no, no!” he shouted. “Go away and let me alone. I'm a wicked, condemned critter. Nobody's ever cared a durn for me, nobody but one, and I broke my word to him. Friendless I've lived since Abner went and friendless I'll die. Serve me right. I ain't got a livin' soul of my own blood in the world.”

But Thankful was in a measure herself again.

“Don't talk so, Solomon,” she cried. “You have got somebody of your own blood. I'm a relation of yours, even if 'tis a far-off relation. I—I don't know how to thank you for this. I—”

He interrupted again.

“Yes,” he wailed, “you're my relation. I know it. Think that makes it any better? Look how I've treated you. No, no; I'm goin' to die and go—”

“You're goin' to have breakfast, that's what you're goin' to have. And it shan't be warmed up fried clams either. Emily, you stay with him. I'm goin' to the kitchen.”

She fled to the kitchen, where, between fits of crying and laughing, which would have alarmed Imogene had she been there, she tried to prepare a breakfast which might tempt the repentant money-lender. Emily joined her after a short interval.

“He won't listen to anything,” said the young lady. “He has been frightened almost to death, that's certain. He is praying now. I came away and left him praying. Oh, Auntie, isn't it wonderful! Isn't it splendid!”

Thankful sighed. “It's so wonderful I can scarcely believe it,” she said. “To think of his givin' up money—givin' it away of his own accord! I said last night that Jedediah's comin' home was a miracle. This one beats that all to pieces. I don't know what to do about takin' that thousand from him,” she added. “I declare I don't. 'Course I shan't take it in the long run; I'll pay it back soon as ever I can. But should I pretend to take it now? That's what troubles me.”

“Of course you should. He is rich and he doesn't need it. What have you done with that receipt? Put it away somewhere and in a safe place. He is frightened; that—that something, whatever it was, last night—frightened him so that he will give away anything now. But, by and by, when his fright is over he may change his mind. Lock up that paper, Aunt Thankful. If you don't, I will.”

“But what was it that frightened him, Emily? I declare I'm gettin' afraid to stay in this house myself. What was it he heard—and we heard?”

“I don't know, but I mean to find out. I'm a sensible person this morning, not an idiot, and I intend to lay that ghost.”

When they went back into the dining-room they were surprised at what they saw. Solomon was still sitting by the window, but Georgie was sitting in a chair beside him, exhibiting the pictures in one of his Christmas books and apparently on the best of terms with his new acquaintance.

“I'm showin' him my 'Swiss Family Robinson,'” said the boy. “Here's where they built a house in a tree, Mr. Cobb. Emmie told me about their doin' it.”

Solomon groaned.

“You better take this child away from me,” he said. “He came to me of his own accord, but he hadn't ought to stay. A man like me ain't fit to have children around him.”

Thankful had an inspiration.

“It's a sign,” she cried, clapping her hands. “It's a sign sent to you, Solomon. It means you're forgiven. That's what it means. Now you eat your breakfast.”

He was eating, or trying to eat, when someone knocked at the door. Winnie S. Holt was standing on the step.

“Merry Christmas, Mrs. Barnes,” he hailed. “Ain't drowned out after the gale, be you? Judas priest! Our place is afloat. Dad says he cal'lates we'll have to build a raft to get to the henhouse on. Here; here's somethin' Mr. Kendrick sent to you. Wanted me to give it to you, yourself, and nobody else.”

The something was a long envelope with “Mrs. Barnes, Personal,” written upon it. Thankful read the inscription.

“From Mr. Kendrick?” she repeated. “Which Mr. Kendrick?”

“Mr. John, the young one. Mr. Holliday's comin', though. He telephoned from Bayport this mornin'. Came down on the cars far's there last night, but he didn't dast to come no further 'count of bein' afraid to drive from the Centre in the storm. He's hired an automobile and is comin' right over, he says. The message was for John Kendrick, but Dad took it. What's in the envelope, Mrs. Barnes?”

Thankful slowly tore the end from the envelope. Emily stood at her elbow.

“What can it be, Auntie?” she asked, fearfully.

“I don't know. I'm afraid to look. Oh, dear! It's somethin' bad, I know. Somethin' to do with that Holliday Kendrick; it must be or he wouldn't have come to East Wellmouth today. I—I—well, I must look, of course. Oh, Emily, and we thought this was goin' to be a merry Christmas, after all.”

The enclosure was a long, legal-looking document. Thankful unfolded it, read a few lines and then stopped reading.

“Why—why—” she stammered.

“What is it, Auntie?” pleaded Emily.

“It—I can't make out. I MUST be crazy, or—or somebody is. It looks like—Read it, Emily; read it out loud.”