Mr. Cobb slowly raised his head. He looked about him in a bewildered way, and then his gaze fixed itself upon Mrs. Barnes.
“What—why—YOU!” he gasped.
“Eh?” stammered Thankful, whose surprise and bewilderment were almost as great as his. “Eh? What?”
“You?” repeated Solomon. “What—what are you doin' here?”
“What am I doin' here? What am I doin'?”
“Yes.” Then, after another stare about the room, he added: “This ain't Kenelm Parker's house? Whose house is it?”
“It's my house, of course. Emily, go and fetch some—some water or somethin'. He's out of his head.”
Emily hurried to the kitchen, Thankful hastened to help the unexpected visitor to his feet. But the visitor declined to be helped.
“Let me alone,” he roared. “Let me be. I—I want to know whose house this is?”
“It's my house, I tell you. You ought to know whose house it is. Land sakes! You and I have had talk enough about it lately. Don't you know where you are? What are you sittin' there on the floor for? Are you hurt?”
Slowly Mr. Cobb rose to his feet.
“Do you mean to tell me,” he demanded, “that this is—is Abner's place? How'd I get here?”
“I don't know. I ain't hardly had time to make sure you are here yet. And I'm sartin YOU ain't sure. That was an awful tumble you got. Seems as if you must have hurt yourself. And you're soppin' wet through! What in the WORLD?”
She moved toward him again, but he waved her away.
“Let me alone!” he ordered. “I was headin' for Kenelm Parker's. How'd I get here?”
“I tell you I don't know. I suppose you lost your way. No wonder, such a night's this. Set down. Let me get you somethin' hot to drink. Come out in the kitchen by the cookstove. Don't—”
“Hush up! Let me think. I never see such a woman to talk. I—I don't see how I done it. I left Chris Badger's and came across the fields and—”
“And you took the wrong path, I guess, likely. Did you WALK from Chris Badger's? Where's your horse and team? You didn't walk from the Centre, did you?”
“'Course I didn't. Think I'm a dum fool? My horse fell down and hurt his knee and I left him in Badger's barn. I cal'lated to go to Kenelm's and put up over night. I—”
He was interrupted by Emily, who entered with a glass in her hand.
“Here's the water, Auntie,” she said. “Is he better now?”
“Better?” snorted Solomon. “What's the matter with you? I ain't sick. What you got in that tumbler? Water! What in time do I want of any more water? Don't I look as if I'd had water enough to last me one spell? I'm—consarn it all, I'm a reg'lar sponge! How far off is Kenelm's from here? How long will it take me to get there?”
Thankful answered, and her answer was decisive.
“I don't know,” she said, “but I do know you ain't goin' to try to get anywhere 'till mornin'. You and I ain't been any too lovin', Solomon Cobb, but I shan't take the responsibility of your dyin' of pneumonia. You'll stay right here, and the first thing I'll do is head off that chill you've got this very minute.”
There was no doubt about the chill. Solomon's face and hands were blue and he was shaking from head to foot. But his determination was unshaken. He strode to the door.
“How do I get to Parker's?” he demanded.
“I tell you you mustn't go to Parker's or anywhere else. You're riskin' your life.”
Mr. Cobb did not answer. He lifted the latch and pulled the door open. A howling gust of wind-driven rain beat in upon him, drenching the carpet and causing the lamp to flicker and smoke. For a moment Solomon gazed out into the storm; then he relinquished his hold and staggered back.
“I—I can't do it!” he groaned. “I've GOT to stay here! I've GOT to!”
Thankful, exerting all her strength, closed the door and locked it. “Indeed you've got to,” she declared. “Now go out into the kitchen and set by the stove while I heat a kettle and make you some ginger tea or somethin'.”
Solomon hesitated.
“He must, Aunt Thankful,” urged Emily; “he really must.”
The visitor turned to stare at her.
“Who are you?” he demanded, ungraciously. Then, as another chill racked him from head to foot, he added: “I don't care. Take me somewheres and give me somethin'—ginger tea or—or kerosene or anything else, so it's hot. I—I'm—sho—oo—ook all to—pi—ic—ces.”
They led him to the kitchen, where Thankful prepared the ginger tea. During its preparation she managed to inform Emily concerning the identity of their unexpected lodger. Solomon, introduced to Miss Howes, merely grunted and admitted that he had “heard tell” of her. His manner might have led a disinterested person to infer that what he had heard was not flattering. He drank his tea, and as he grew warmer inside and out his behavior became more natural, which does not mean that it was either gracious or grateful.
At length he asked what time it was. Thankful told him.
“I think you'd better be gettin' to bed, Solomon,” she suggested. “I'll hunt up one of Mr. Caleb Hammond's nightshirts, and while you're sleepin' your wet clothes can be dryin' here by the cookstove.”
Solomon grunted, but he was, apparently, willing to retire. Then came the question as to where he should sleep. Emily offered a suggestion.
“Why don't you put him in the back room, Auntie,” she said. “The one Miss Timpson used to have. That isn't occupied now and the bed is ready.”
Thankful hesitated. “I don't know's he'd better have that room, Emily,” she said.
“Why not? I'm sure it's a very nice room.”
“Yes, I know it is, but—”
“But what?”
Mr. Cobb had a remark to make.
“Well, come on, come on,” he said, testily. “Put me somewheres and do it quick. Long's I've GOT to sleep in this house I might's well be doin' it. Where is this room you're talkin' about? Let's see it.”
Emily took the lamp and led the way up the back stairs. Solomon followed her and Thankful brought up the rear. She felt a curious hesitancy in putting even her disagreeable relative in that room on this night. Around the gables and upon the roof the storm whined and roared as it had the night when she first explored that upper floor. And she remembered, now, that it had stormed, though not as hard, the night when Miss Timpson received her “warning.” If there were such things as ghosts, and if the little back bedroom WAS haunted, a night like this was the time for spectral visitations. She had half a mind to give Mr. Cobb another room.
But, before she could decide what to do, before the struggle between her common-sense and what she knew were silly forebodings was at an end, the question was decided for her. Solomon had entered the large room and expressed his approval of it.
“This'll do first rate,” he said. “Why didn't you want to put me in here? Suppose you thought 'twas too good for me, eh? Well, it might be for some folks, but not for me. What's that, a closet?”
He was pointing to the closed door of the little room, the one which Miss Timpson had intended using as a study. Thankful had, after her last night of fruitless spook hunting, closed the door and locked it.
“What's this door locked for?” asked Mr. Cobb, who had walked over and was trying the knob.
“Oh, nothing; it's just another empty room, that's all. There's nothin' in it.”
“Humph! Is that so? What do you lock up a room with nothin' in it for?” He turned the key and flung the door open. “Ugh!” he grunted, in evident disappointment. “'Tis empty, ain't it? Well, good night.”
Emily, whose face expressed a decided opinion concerning the visitor, walked out into the hall. Thankful remained.
“Solomon,” she said, in a whisper, “tell me. Have you made up your mind about that mortgage?”
“Um? No, I ain't. Part of what I came over here today for was to find out a little more about this property and about Holliday Kendrick's offer for it. I may have a talk with him afore I decide about renewin' that mortgage. It looks to me as if 'twould be pretty good business to dicker with him. He's got money, and if I can get some of it, so much the better for me.”
“Solomon, you don't mean—”
“I don't know what I mean yet, I tell ye. But I do tell you this: I'm a business man and I know the value of money. I worked hard for what I got; 'twa'n't left me by nobody, like some folks's I hear of. Don't ask me no more questions. I'll see old Kendrick tomorrow, maybe; he's expected down.”
“He is? Mr. Holliday Kendrick? How do you know?”
“I know 'cause I found out, same as I usually find out things. Chris Badger got a telegram through his office from Holliday to John Kendrick sayin' he'd come on the noon train.”
“But why should he come? And on Christmas day?”
“I don't know. Probably he ain't so silly about Christmas as the average run of idiots. He's a business man, too. There! Good night, good night. Leave me alone so's I can say my prayers and turn in. I'm pretty nigh beat out.”
“And you won't tell me about that mortgage?”
“No. I'll tell you when my mind's made up; that ain't yet.”
Thankful turned to go. At the threshold she spoke once more.
“I wonder what you say in those prayers of yours, Solomon,” she observed. “I should imagine the Lord might find 'em interestin'.”
“I'm glad I said it, Emily,” she told her cousin, who was awaiting her in her bedroom. “I presume likely it'll do more harm than good, but it did ME good while I was sayin' it. The mean, stingy old hypocrite! Now let's go downstairs and fill Georgie's stockin'.”
But that ceremony, it appeared, must be deferred. Georgie was still wide-awake. He called to Emily to ask if the man who had come was Santa Claus.
“The little rascal,” chuckled Thankful. “Well,” with a sigh, “he'll never make a worse guess if he lives to be as old as Methuselah's grandmarm. Emily, you sneak down and fetch the stockin' and the presents up here to my room. We'll do the fillin' here and hang up the stockin' in the mornin' afore he gets up.”
While they were filling the stocking and tying the packages containing gifts too bulky to be put in it Miss Howes cross-questioned her cousin. Emily had been most unfavorably impressed with Mr. Cobb during this, her first, meeting with him, and her suspicions concerning Thankful's financial affairs, already aroused by the lady's reticence, were now active. She questioned and, after a time, Thankful told her, first a little and then all the truth.
“I didn't mean to tell you, Emily,” she said, tearfully. “I didn't mean to tell a soul, but I—I just couldn't keep it to myself any longer. If he doesn't renew that mortgage—and goodness knows what he'll do after he talks with Mr. Holliday Kendrick—I—I don't see how I can help losin' everything. It's either that or sell out, and I don't want to sell—Oh, I don't! I know I can make a go of this place of mine if I have another year of it. I KNOW I can.”
Emily was very much excited and fiercely indignant.
“The beast!” she cried, referring to the pious occupant of the back bedroom; “the mean, wicked, miserable old miser! To think of his being a relative of yours, Aunt Thankful, and treating you so! And accepting your hospitality at the very time when he is considering taking your home away from you!”
Thankful smiled ruefully. “As to that, Emily,” she said, “I ain't greatly surprised. Judgin' by what I've seen of Sol Cobb, I should say 'twas a part of his gospel to accept anything he can get for nothin'. But how he can have the face to pray while he's doin' it I don't see. What kind of a God does he think he's prayin' to? I should think he'd be scared to get down on his knees for fear he'd never be let up again. Well, if there IS a ghost in that room I should say this was its chance.”
“A ghost? What are you talking about, Auntie?”
“Eh? Oh, nothin', nothin'. Did I say 'ghost'? I didn't realize what I said, I guess.”
“Then why did you say it?”
“Oh, I don't know. . . . There, there, don't let's get any more foolish than we can help. Let's go to bed. We'll have to turn out awful early in the mornin' to get Georgie's stockin' hung up and his presents ready. Now trot off to bed, Emily.”
“Aunt Thankful, you're hiding something from me. I know you are.”
“Now, Emily, you know I wouldn't—”
“Yes, you would. At least, you have. All this time you have been deceiving me about that mortgage. And now I think there is something else. What did you mean by a ghost in that room?”
“I didn't mean anything. There ain't any ghost in that room—the one Solomon's in.”
“In THAT room? Is there one in another room?”
“Now, Emily—”
“Aunt Thankful, there is something strange in some room; don't deny it. You aren't accustomed to deceiving people, and you can't deceive me now. Tell me the truth.”
“Well, Emily, it's all such perfect foolishness. You don't believe in ghosts, do you?”
“Of course I don't.”
“Neither do I. Whatever it is that snores and groans in that little back room ain't—”
“AUNTIE! What DO you mean?”
Thankful was cornered. Her attempts at evasion were useless and, little by little, Emily drew from her the story of the little back bedroom, of her own experience there the night of their first visit, of what Winnie S. had said concerning the haunting of the “Cap'n Abner place,” and of Miss Timpson's “warning.” She told it in a low tone, so as not to awaken Georgie, and, as she spoke, the wind shrieked and wailed and groaned, the blinds creaked, the water dripped and gurgled in the gutters, and the shadows outside the circle of light from the little hand lamp were black and threatening. Emily, as she listened, felt the cold shivers running up and down her spine. It is one thing to scoff at superstition in the bright sunlight; it is quite another to listen to a tale like this on a night like this in a house a hundred years old. Miss Howes scoffed, it is true, but the scoffing was not convincing.
“Nonsense!” she said, stoutly. “A ghost that snores? Who ever heard of such a thing?”
“Nobody ever did, I guess,” Thankful admitted. “It's all too silly for anything, of course. I KNOW it's silly; but, Emily, there's SOMETHIN' queer about that room. I told you what I heard; somethin' or somebody said, 'Oh, Lord!' as plain as ever I heard it said. And somethin' or somebody snored when Miss Timpson was there. And, of course, when they tell me how old Mr. Eldredge snored in that very room when he was dyin', and how Miss Timpson's sister snored when SHE was sick, it—it—”
“Oh, stop, Auntie! You will have ME believing in—in things, if you keep on. It's nonsense and you and I will prove it so before I go back to Middleboro. Now you must go to bed.”
“Yes, I'm goin'. Well, if there is a ghost in that room it'll have its hands full with Sol Cobb. He's a tough old critter, if ever there was one. Good night, Emily.”
“Good night, Aunt Thankful. Don't worry about the—ha! ha!—ghost, will you?”
“No, I've got enough to worry about this side of the grave. . . . Mercy! what's the matter?”
“Nothing! I—I thought I heard a noise in—in the hall. I didn't though.”
“No, course you didn't. Shall I go to your room with you?”
“No indeed! I—I should be ashamed to have you. Where is Imogene?”
“She's up in her room. She went to bed early. Goodness! Hear that wind. It cries like—like somethin' human.”
“It's dreadful. It is enough to make anyone think. . . . There! If you and I talk any longer we shall both be behaving like children. Good night.”
“Good night, Emily. Is Georgie asleep at last?”
“I think so. I haven't heard a sound from him. Call me early, Auntie.”
Thankful lit her own lamp; Emily took the one already lighted and hastened down the hall. Thankful shut the door and prepared for bed. The din of the storm was terrific. The old house shook as if it were trembling with fright and screaming in the agony of approaching dissolution. It was a long time before Thankful fell asleep, but at last she did.
She was awakened by a hand upon her arm and a voice whispering in her ear.
“Auntie!” whispered Emily. “Auntie, wake up! Oh, DO wake up!”
Thankful was broad awake in a moment. She sat up in bed. The room was in black darkness, and she felt rather than saw Miss Howes standing beside her.
“What is it, Emily?” she cried. “What is the matter?”
“Hush, hush! Don't speak so loud. Get up! Get up and light the lamp.”
Thankful sprang out of bed and hunted for the matchbox. She found it after a time and the lamp was lighted. Emily, wearing a wrapper over her night clothes, was standing by the door, apparently listening. Her face was white and she was trembling.
“What IS it?” whispered Thankful.
“Hush! I don't know what it is. Listen!”
Thankful listened. All she heard were the noises of the storm.
“I don't hear anything,” she said.
“No—no, you can't hear it from here. Come out into the hall.”
Cautiously and on tiptoe she led the way to the hall and toward the head of the front stairs. There she seized her cousin's arm and whispered in her ear.
“Listen—!” she breathed.
Thankful listened.
“Why—why,” she whispered, “there's somebody down in the livin'-room! Who is it?”
“I don't know. There are more than one, for I heard them talking. Who CAN it be?”
Thankful listened again.
“Where's Georgie?” she whispered, after a moment.
“In his room, I suppose. . . . What? You don't think—”
Thankful had tiptoed back to her own room and was returning with the lamp. Together they entered Georgie's bed chamber. But bed and room were empty. Georgie was not there.
Georgie had gone to bed that Christmas Eve with a well-defined plan in his small head. He knew what he intended doing and how he meant to do it. The execution of this plan depended, first of all, upon his not falling asleep, and, as he was much too excited to be in the least sleepy, he found no great difficulty in carrying out this part of his scheme.
He had heard the conversation accompanying Mr. Cobb's unexpected entrance and had waited anxiously to ask concerning the visitor's identity. When assured by his sister that Santa had not arrived ahead of time he settled down again to wait, as patiently as he could, for the “grown-ups” to retire.
So he waited and waited. The clock struck ten and then eleven. Georgie rose, tiptoed to his door and listened. There were no sounds except those of the storm. Then, still on tiptoe, the boy crept along the hall to the front stairs, down these stairs and into the living-room. The fire in the “airtight” stove showed red behind the isinglass panes, and the room was warm and comfortable.
Georgie did not hesitate; his plan was complete to the minutest details. By the light from the stove he found his way to the sofa which stood against the wall on the side of the room opposite the windows. There was a heavy fringe on the sofa which hung almost to the floor. The youngster lay flat upon the floor and crept under the fringe and beneath the sofa. There he lay still. Aunt Thankful and Captain Obed and Imogene had said there was a Santa Claus; the boy in South Middleboro had said there was none; Georgie meant to settle the question for himself this very night. This was his plan: to hide in that living-room and wait until Santa came—if he came at all.
It was lonely and dark and stuffy under the sofa and the beat of the rain and the howling gale outside were scary sounds for a youngster no older than he. But Georgie was plucky and determined beyond his years. He was tempted to give up and scamper upstairs again, but he fought down the temptation. If no Santa Claus came then he should know the Leary boy was right. If he did come then—well then, his only care must be not to be caught watching.
Twelve o'clock struck; Georgie's eyes were closing. He blinked owl-like under the fringe at the red glow behind the isinglass. His head, pillowed upon his outstretched arms, felt heavy and drowsy. He must keep awake, he MUST. So, in order to achieve this result, he began to count the ticks of the big clock in the corner. One—two—three—and so on up to twenty-two. He lost count then; his eyes closed, opened, and closed again. His thoughts drifted away from the clock, drifted to—to . . .
His eyes opened again. There was a sound in the room, a strange, new sound. No, it was not in the room, it was in the dining-room. He heard it again. Someone in that dining-room was moving cautiously. The door between the rooms was open and he could hear the sound of careful footsteps.
Georgie was frightened, very much frightened. He was seized with a panic desire to scream and rush up-stairs. He did not scream, but he thrust one bare foot from beneath the sofa. Then he hastily drew it in again, for the person in the dining-room, whoever he or she might be, was coming toward the door.
A moment later there was a scratching sound and the living-room was dimly illumined by the flare of a match. The small and trembling watcher beneath the sofa shut his eyes in fright. When he opened them the lamp upon the center table was lighted and Santa Claus himself was standing by the table peering anxiously about.
It was Santa—Georgie made up his mind to that immediately. There was the pack, the pack which the pictured Santa Claus always carried, to prove it, although in this instance the pack was but a small and rather dirty bundle. There were other points of difference between the real Santa and the pictures; for instance, instead of being clothed entirely in furs, this one's apparel seemed to be, for the most part, rags, and soaked and dripping rags at that. But he did wear a fur cap, a mangy one which looked like a drowned cat, and his beard, though ragged like his garments, was all that might be desired. Yes, it was Santa Claus who had come, just as they said he would, although—and Georgie's doubts were so far justified—he had NOT come down the living-room chimney.
Santa was cold, it seemed, for his first move was to go to the stove and stand by it, shivering and warming his hands. During this operation he kept looking fearfully about him and, apparently, listening. Then, to Georgie's chagrin and disappointment, he took up the lamp and tiptoed into the dining-room again. However, he had not gone for good, for his pack was still upon the floor where he had dropped it. And a few minutes later he reappeared, his pockets bulging and in his free hand the remains of half a ham, which Georgie himself had seen Aunt Thankful put away in the pantry.
He replaced the lamp on the table and from his pockets extracted the end of a loaf of bread, several doughnuts and a half-dozen molasses cookies. Then he seated himself in a chair by the stove and proceeded to eat, hungrily, voraciously, first the ham and bread and then the doughnuts and cookies. And as he ate he looked and listened, occasionally starting as if in alarm.
At last, when he had eaten everything but the ham bone, he rose to his feet and turned his attention to the pack upon the floor. This was what Georgie had been waiting for, and as Santa fumbled with the pack, his back to the sofa, the boy parted the fringe and peered at him with eager expectation.
The pack, according to every story Georgie had been told, should have been bulging with presents; but if the latter were there they were under more old clothes, even worse than those the Christmas saint was wearing. Santa Claus hurriedly pawed over the upper layer and then took out a little package wrapped in tissue paper. Untying the string, he exposed a small pasteboard box and from this box he lifted some cotton and then—a ring.
It was a magnificent ring, so Georgie thought. It had a big green stone in the center and the rest was gold, or what looked like gold. Santa seemed to think well of it, too, for he held it to the lamplight and moved it back and forth, watching the shine of the green stone. Then he put the ring down, tore a corner from the piece of tissue paper, rummaged the stump of a pencil out of his rags, and, humping himself over the table, seemed to be writing.
It took him a long time and was plainly hard work, for he groaned occasionally and kept putting the point of the pencil into his mouth. Georgie's curiosity grew stronger each second. Unconscious of what he was doing, he parted the fringe still more and thrust out his head for a better view. The top of his head struck the edge of the sofa with a dull thump.
Santa Claus jumped as if someone had stuck a pin into him and turned. That portion of his face not covered by the scraggly beard was as white as mud and dirt would permit.
“Who—who be YOU?” he demanded in a frightened whisper.
Georgie was white and frightened also, but he manfully crept out from beneath the sofa.
“Who be you?” repeated Santa.
“I—I'm Georgie,” stammered the boy.
“Georgie! Georgie who?”
“Georgie Hobbs. The—the boy that lives here.”
“Lives—lives HERE?”
“Yes.” It seemed strange that the person reputed to know all the children in the world did not recognize him at sight.
Apparently he did not, however, for after an instant of silent and shaky inspection he said:
“You mean to say you live here—in this house? Who do you live with?”
“Mrs. Barnes, her that owns the house.”
Santa gasped audibly. “You—you live with HER?” he demanded. “Good Lord! She—she ain't married again, is she?”
“Married! No—no, sir, she ain't married.”
“Then—then—See here, boy; what's your name—your whole name?”
“George Ellis Hobbs. I'm Mr. Hobbs's boy, up to South Middleboro, you know. I'm down here stayin' with Aunt Thankful. She—”
“Sshh! sshh! Don't talk so loud. So you're Mr. Hobbs's boy, eh? What—eh? Oh, yes, yes. You're ma was—was Sarah Cahoon, wa'n't she?”
“Yes, sir. I—I hope you won't be cross because I hid under the sofa. They said you were coming, but I wasn't sure, and I—I thought I'd hide and see if you did. Please—” the tears rushed to Georgie's eyes at the dreadful thought—“please don't be cross and go away without leaving me anything. I'll never do so again; honest, I won't.”
Santa seemed to have heard only the first part of this plea for forgiveness. He put a hand to his forehead.
“They said I was comin'!” he repeated. “They said—WHO said so?”
“Why, everybody. Aunt Thankful and Emily and Imogene and Cap'n Bangs and Mr. Parker and—all of 'em. They knew you was comin' tonight, but I—”
“They knew it! Boy, are you crazy?”
Georgie shook his head.
“No, sir.” Then, as Santa Claus sat staring blankly with open mouth and fingers plucking nervously at what seemed to be the only button on his coat, he added, “Please, sir, did you bring the air-gun?”
“Hey?”
“Did you bring the air-gun I wanted? They said you probably wouldn't, but I do want it like everything. I won't shoot the hens, honest I won't.”
Santa Claus picked at the button.
“Say, boy,” he asked, slowly. “Who am I?”
Georgie was surprised.
“Why, Santa Claus,” he replied. “You are Santa Claus, ain't you?”
“Eh? San . . . Oh, yes, yes! I'm Santa Claus, that's who I be.” He seemed relieved, but still anxious. After fidgeting a moment he added, “Well, I cal'late I'll have to be goin' now.”
Georgie turned pale.
“But—but where are the presents?” he wailed. “I—I thought you wasn't goin' to be cross with me. I'm awfully sorry I stayed up to watch for you. I won't ever do it again. PLEASE don't go away and not leave me any presents. Please, Mr. Santa Claus!”
Santa started. “Sshh!” he commanded in an agonized whisper. “Hush up! Somebody'll hear. . . . Eh? What's that?”
The front stairs creaked ominously. Georgie did not answer; he made a headlong dive for his hiding-place beneath the sofa. Santa seemed to be even more alarmed than the youngster. He glanced wildly about the room and, as another creak came from the stairs, darted into the dining-room.
For a minute or more nothing happened. Then the door leading to the front hall, the door which had been standing ajar, opened cautiously and Mrs. Barnes' head protruded beyond its edge. She looked about the room; then she entered. Emily Howes followed. Both ladies wore wrappers now, and Thankful's hand clutched an umbrella, the only weapon available, which she had snatched from the hall rack as she passed it. She advanced to the center table.
“Who's here?” she demanded firmly. “Who lit this lamp? Georgie! Georgie Hobbs, we know you're here somewhere, for we heard you. Show yourself this instant.”
Silence—then Emily seized her cousin's arm and pointed. A small bare foot protruded from beneath the sofa fringe. Thankful marched to the sofa and, stooping, grasped the ankle above the foot.
“Georgie Hobbs,” she ordered, “come out from under this sofa.”
Georgie came, partly of his own volition, partly because of the persuasive tug at his ankle.
“Now, then,” ordered Thankful; “what are you doin' down here? Answer me.”
Georgie did not answer. He marked a circle on the floor with his toe.
“What are you doin' down here?” repeated Mrs. Barnes. “Did you light that lamp?”
“No'm,” replied Georgie.
“Of course he didn't, Auntie,” whispered Emily. “There was someone here with him. I heard them talking.”
“Who did light it?”
Georgie marked another circle. “Santa Claus,” he muttered faintly.
Thankful stared, first at the boy and then at her cousin.
“Mercy on us!” she exclaimed. “The child's gone crazy. Christmas has struck to his head!”
But Emily's fears were not concerning her small brother's sanity. “Hush, Auntie,” she whispered. “Hush! He was talking to someone. We both heard another voice. WHO did you say it was, Georgie?”
“Santa Claus. Oh, Emmie, please don't be mad. I—I wanted to see him so—and—and when he came I—I—”
“There, there, Georgie; don't cry, dear. We're not cross. You were talking to someone you thought was Santa. Where is he?”
“He WAS Santa Claus. He SAID he was. He went away when you came—into the dinin'-room.”
“The dining-room? . . . Auntie, WHAT are you doing? Don't!”
But Thankful had seized the lamp and was already at the threshold of the dining-room. Holding the light aloft she peered into that apartment.
“If there's anybody here,” she ordered, “they'd better come out because. . . . Here! I see you under that table. I—”
She stopped, gasped, and staggered back. Emily, running to her side, was just in time to prevent the lamp falling to the floor.
“Oh, Auntie,” cried the young lady. “Auntie, what IS it?”
Thankful did not answer. Her face was white and she moved her hands helplessly. And there in the doorway of the dining-room appeared Santa Claus; and if ever Santa Claus looked scared and apprehensive he did at that moment.
Emily stared at him. Mrs. Barnes uttered a groan. Santa Claus smiled feebly.
“Hello, Thankful,” he said. “I—I cal'late you're surprised to see me, ain't you?”
Thankful's lips moved.
“Are—are you livin' or—or dead?” she gasped.
“Me—Oh, I'm alive, but that's about all. Hey? It's Emily, ain't it? Why—why, Emily, don't you know me?”
Miss Howes put the lamp down upon the table. Then she leaned heavily upon a chair back.
“Cousin Jedediah!” she exclaimed. “It can't be—it—Auntie—”
But Thankful interrupted. She turned to Georgie.
“Is—is THIS your Santa Claus?” she faltered.
“Yes'm,” answered Georgie.
“Jedediah Cahoon!” cried Thankful. “Jedediah Cahoon!”
For Georgie's “Santa Claus” was her brother, the brother who had run away from her home so long ago to seek his fortune in the Klondike; whose letter, written in San Francisco and posted in Omaha, had reached her the month before; whom the police of several cities were looking for at her behest.
“Auntie!” cried Emily again.
Thankful shook her head. “Help me to a chair, Emily,” she begged weakly. “This—this is—my soul and body! Jedediah come alive again!”
The returned gold-hunter swallowed several times.
“Thankful,” he faltered, “I know you must feel pretty hard agin me, but—but, you see—”
“Hush! hush! Don't speak to me for a minute. Let me get my bearin's, for mercy sakes, if I can. . . . Jedediah—HERE!”
“Yes—yes, I'm here. I am, honest. I—”
“Sshh! You're here now, but—but where have you been all this time? For a man that is, I presume likely, loaded down with money—I presume you must be loaded down with it; you remember you'd said you'd never come back until you was—for that kind of a man I must say you look pretty down at the heel.”
“Thankful—”
“Have you worn out your clothes luggin' the money around?”
“Auntie, don't. Look at him. Think!”
“Hush, Emily! I am lookin' at him and I'm thinkin', too. I'm thinkin' of how much I put up with afore he run off and left me, and how I've worried and laid awake nights thinkin' he was dead. Where have you been all this time? Why haven't you written?”
“I did write.”
“You wrote when you was without a cent and wanted to get money from me. You didn't write before. Let me be, Emily; you don't know what I've gone through on account of him and now he comes sneakin' into my house in the middle of the night, without a word that he was comin', sneakin' in like a thief and frightenin' us half to death and—”
Jedediah interrupted. “Sneakin' in!” he repeated, with a desperate move of his hands. “I had to sneak in. I was scairt to come in when you was up and awake. I knew you'd be down on me like a thousand of brick. I—I—Oh, you don't know what I've been through, Thankful, or you'd pity me, 'stead of pitchin' into me like this. I've been a reg'lar tramp—that's what I've been, a tramp. Freezin' and starvin' and workin' in bar-rooms! Why, I beat my way on a freight train all the way here from New Bedford, and I've been hidin' out back of the house waitin' for you to go to bed, so's I'd dare come in.”
“So's you'd dare come in! What did you want to come in for if I wa'n't here?”
“I wanted to leave a note for you, that's why. I wanted to leave a note and—and that.”
He pointed to the ring and the bit of tissue paper on the table. Thankful took up the paper first and read aloud what was written upon it.
“For Thankful, with a larst merry Christmas from brother Jed. I am going away and if you want me I will be at New Bedford for two weeks, care the bark Finback.”
“'I am goin' away',” repeated Thankful. “Goin' away? Are you goin' away AGAIN?”
“I—I was cal'latin' to. I'm goin' cook on a whaler.”
“Cook! You a cook! And,” she took up the ring and stared at it, “for the land sakes, what's this?”
“It's a present I bought for you. Took my last two dollar bill, it did. I wanted you to have somethin' to remember me by.”
Thankful held the gaudy ring at arm's length and stared at it helplessly. There was a curious expression on her face, half-way between laughing and crying.
“You bought this—this thing for me,” she repeated. “And did you think I'd wear it.”
“I hoped you would. Oh, Thankful, if you only knew what I've been through. Why, I was next door to starvin' when I got in here tonight. If I hadn't eat somethin' I found in the buttry I would have starved, I guess. And I'm soaked, soppin' through and—”
“There, there. Hush! hush! Jedediah, you're gold-diggin' ain't changed you much, I guess. You're just as helpless as ever you was. Well, you're here and I'm grateful for so much. Now you come with me out into the kitchen and we'll see what can be done about gettin' you dry. Emily, if you'll just put that child to bed.”
But Georgie had something to say. He had listened to this long dialogue with astonishment and growing dismay. Now the dismay and conviction of a great disappointment overcame him.
“I don't want to go to bed,” he wailed. “Ain't he Santa Claus? He SAID he was Santa Claus. Where are my presents? Where's my air-gun? I want my presents. Oh—Oh—Oh!”
He went out crying. Emily ran to him.
“Hush, hush, Georgie, dear,” she begged. “Come upstairs with sister—come. If you don't you may be here when the real Santa comes and you will frighten him away. Come with me; that's a good boy. Auntie, I will be down by and by.”
She led the disappointed and still sobbing boy from the room. Thankful turned to her brother.
“Now you march out into that kitchen,” she commanded. “I'll get you warm first and then I'll see about a bed for you. You'll have to sleep up on the third floor tonight. After that I'll see about a better room to put you in.”
Jedediah stared at her.
“What—what,” he faltered. “Do you mean—Thankful, do you mean you're goin' to let me stay here for—for good?”
“Yes, of course I do. You don't think I'll let you get out of my sight again, do you? That is, unless you're real set on goin' gold-huntin'. I'm sure you shan't go cook on any whaler; I've got too much regard for sailors' digestions to let you do that.”
“Thankful, I—I'll work my hands off for you. I'll—”
“All right, all right. Now trot along and warm those hands or you won't have any left to work off; they'll be SHOOK off with the shivers. Come, Jed, I forgive you; after all, you're my brother, though you did run away and leave me.”
“Then—then you're glad I came back?”
“Glad!” Thankful shook her head with a tearful smile. “Glad!” she repeated. “I've been workin' heavens and earth to get you back ever since I got that pitiful letter of yours. You poor thing! You MUST have had a hard time of it. Well, you can tell me all about it by and by. Now you march into that kitchen.”
Another hour had passed before Mrs. Barnes reentered the living-room. There, to her astonishment, she found Emily awaiting her.
“Why, for goodness sakes!” cried Thankful. “What are you doin' here? I thought you'd gone to bed long ago.”
Emily's reply was given in an odd tone. She did not look at her cousin when she spoke.
“No, no,” she said, quickly. “I—I haven't gone to bed.”
“I see you haven't, but why?”
“I didn't want to. I—I'm not sleepy.”
“Not sleepy! At two o'clock in the mornin'? Well,” with a sigh, “I suppose 'tain't to be wondered at. What's happened this night is enough to keep anybody awake. I can't believe it even yet. To think of his comin' back after I've given him up for dead twice over. It's like a story-book.”
“Where is he?”
“Up in bed, in one of the attic rooms. If he hasn't got his death of cold it'll be a wonder. And SUCH yarns as he's been spinnin' to me. I—Emily, what's the matter with you? What makes you act so queer?”
Emily did not answer. Mrs. Barnes walked across the room and, stooping, peered into her face.
“You're white as a sheet!” she cried, in alarm. “And you're tremblin' all over. What in the world IS the matter?”
Emily tried to smile, but it was a poor attempt.
“Nothing, nothing, Auntie,” she said. “That is, I—I'm sure it can't be anything to be afraid of.”
“But you are afraid, just the same. What is it? Tell me this minute.”
For the first time Emily looked her cousin in the face.
“Auntie,” she whispered, “I am—I have been frightened. Something I heard upstairs frightened me.”
“Somethin' you heard upstairs? Where? Has Georgie—”
“No, Georgie is asleep in his room. I locked the door. It wasn't Georgie; it was something else.”
“Somethin'—Emily Howes, do you want to scare me to DEATH? What IS it?”
“I don't know what it is. I heard it first when I came out of Georgie's room a few minutes ago. Then I went down the hall to his door and listened. Aunt Thankful, he—he is in there talking—talking to someone.”
“He? Talkin'? Who?”
“Mr. Cobb. It was dreadful. He was talking to—to—I don't know WHAT he was talking to, but it was awful to hear.”
“Talkin'? Solomon Cobb was talkin'? In his sleep, do you mean?”
“No, he wasn't asleep. He was talking to someone, or some THING, in that room. And that wasn't all. I heard—I heard—Oh, I DID hear it! I know I did! And yet it couldn't be! It couldn't!”
“Emily Howes, if you keep on I'll—WHAT did you hear?”
“I don't know. . . . Aunt Thankful, where are you going?”
Thankful did not answer. She was on her way to the front hall and the stairs. Emily rushed after her and would have detained her if she could, but Thankful would not be detained. Up the stairs they went together and along the narrow dark hall. At the end of the hall was the door of the back bedroom, or the larger room adjoining it. The door was closed, but from beneath it shone lamplight in sharp, yellow streaks. And from behind it came faintly the sound of a deep groan, the groan of a soul in agony.
“He's sick,” whispered Thankful. “The man's sick. I'm goin' to him.”
“He isn't sick. It—it's something else. I tell you I heard—”
Thankful did not wait to learn what her cousin had heard. She tiptoed down the hall and Emily followed. The two women crouched beside the closed door of Mr. Cobb's room. And within that room they heard Solomon's voice, now rising almost to a shriek, now sinking to a groan, as its owner raved on and on, talking, pleading, praying.
“Oh, don't—don't, Abner!” cried Mr. Cobb. “Don't, no more! PLEASE don't! I know what you mean. I know it all. I'm sorry. I know I ain't done right. But I'll MAKE it right; I swear to the Almighty I will! I know I've broke my word to you and acted wicked and mean, but I give you my solemn word I'll make everything right. Only just quit and go away, that's all I ask. Just quit that—Oh, there you GO again! QUIT! PLEASE quit!”
It was dreadful to hear, but this was not the most dreadful. Between the agonized sentences and whenever the wind lulled, the listeners at the door heard another sound, a long-drawn gasp and groan, a series of gasps and groans, as of something fighting for breath, the unmistakable sound of snoring.
Emily grasped her cousin's arm. “Come, come away!” she whispered. “I—I believe I'm going to faint.”
Mrs. Barnes did not wait to be urged. She put her arm about the young lady's waist and together they tiptoed back to Thankful's bedroom. There, Mrs. Barnes's first move was to light the lamp, the second to close and lock the door. Then the pair sat down, one upon the bed and the other on a chair, and gazed into each other's pale faces.
Emily was the first to speak.
“I—I don't believe it!” she declared, shakily. “I KNOW it isn't real!”
“So—so do I.”
“But—but we heard it. We both heard it.”
“Well—well, I give in I—I heard somethin', somethin' that. . . . My soul! Am I goin' CRAZY to finish off this night with?”
“I don't know. If you are, then I must be going with you. What can it be, Auntie?”
“I don't know.”
“There is no other door to that room, is there?”
“No.”
“Then what CAN it be?”
“I don't know. Imogene's in her own room; I looked in and saw her when I took Jedediah up attic. And Georgie's in his with the door locked. And you and I are here. There can't be a livin' soul in that room with Solomon, not a livin' soul.”
“But we heard—we both heard—”
“I know; I know. And I heard somethin' there before. And so did Miss Timpson. Emily, did—did you hear him call—call it 'Abner'?”
“Yes,” with a shudder. “I heard. Who could help hearing!”
“And Cap'n Abner was my uncle; and he used to live here. . . . There!” with sudden determination. “That's enough of this. We'll both be stark, ravin' distracted if we keep on this way. My soul! Hear that wind! I said once that all the big things in my life had happened durin' a storm and so they have. Jedediah went away in a storm and he's come back in a storm. And now if UNCLE ABNER'S comin' back. . . . There I go again! Emily, do you feel like goin' to bed?”
“To BED! After THAT? Auntie, how can you!”
“All right, then we'll set up till mornin'. Turn that lamp as high as you can and we'll set by it and wait for daylight. By that time we may have some of our sense back again and not behave like two feeble-minded fools. Turn that wick up—WAY up, Emily Howes! And talk—talk just as hard as you can—about somethin' or somebody that's ALIVE.”