Book: Raspberry Jam

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"Now," she exclaimed; "no one can ever doubt the fact of
telepathy after this! How else could that young man have done
what he has done. Answer me that!"

"It's all a fake," asserted Hendricks, "but I'm ready to
acknowledge I don't know how it's done. It's the best game I
ever saw put up, and I'd like to know how he does it."

"Seems to me," put in Eunice, a little dryly, "one oughtn't to
insist that it is a fake unless one has some notion, at least,
of how it could be done. If the man could see--could even peep
--there might be a chance for trickery. But with those thick
cotton pads on his eyes and then covered with that big, thick,
folded silk handkerchief--it's really a muffle-there's no chance
for his faking."

"And if he could see--if his eyes were wide open--how would he
know where to go?" demanded Aunt Abby. "That blindfolding is
only so he can't see Mr. Mortimer's face, if he turns round, and
judge from its expression. And also, I daresay, to help him
concentrate his mind, and not be diverted or distracted by the
crowd and all."

"All the same, I don't believe in it," and Hendricks shook his
head obstinately. "There is no such thing as telepathy, and this
'willing' business has all been exposed years ago."

"I remember," and Aunt Abby nodded; "you mean that Bishop man and
all that. But this affair it quite different. You don't believe
Mr. Mortimer was a party to deceit, do you?"

"No, I don't. Mortimer is a judge and a most honest man,
besides. He wouldn't stoop to trickery in a thing of this sort.
But he has been himself deceived."

"Then how was it done?" cried Eunice, triumphantly; "for no one
else knew where the knife was hidden, except that newspaper man
who hid it, and he was sincere, of course, or there'd be no sense
in the whole thing."

"I know that. Yes, the newspaper people were hoodwinked, too."

"Then what happened?" Eunice persisted. "There's no possible
explanation but telepathy. Is there, now?"

"I don't know of any," Hendricks was forced to admit. "After the
excitement blows over a little, I'll try to speak with Mortimer
again. I'd like to know his opinion."

They sat in the car, looking at the hilarious crowds of people,
most of whom seemed imbued with a wild desire to get to the hero
of the hour and demand his secret.

"There's a man who looks like Tom Meredith," said Eunice,
suddenly. "By the way, Alvord, where do the Merediths stand in
the matter of the club election?"

"Which of them?"

"Either--or both. I suppose they're on your side--they never
seemed to like Sanford much."

"My dear Eunice, don't be so narrow-minded. Club men don't vote
one way or another because of a personal like or dislike--they
consider the good of the club--the welfare of the organization."

"Well, then, which side do they favor as being for the good of
the club?"

"Ask Sanford."

"Oh--if you don't want to tell me."

Eunice looked provokingly pretty and her piquant face showed a
petulant expression as she turned it to Hendricks.

"Smile on me again and I'll tell you anything you want to know:
if I know it myself."

A dazzling smile answered this speech, and Hendricks' gaze
softened as he watched her.

"But you'll have to ask me something else, for, alas, the
brothers Meredith haven't made a confidant of me."

"Story-teller" and Eunice's dark eyes assumed the look of a
roguish little girl. "You can't fool me, Alvord; now tell me,
and I'll invite you in to tea when we get home."

"I'm going in, anyway."

"Not unless you tell me what I ask. Why won't you? Is it a
secret? Pooh! I'd just as lief ask Mr. Tom Meredith myself, if
I could see him. Never mind, don't tell me, if you don't want
to. You're not my only confidential friend; there are others."

"Who are they, Euny? I flattered myself I was your only really,
truly intimate friend--not even excepting your husband!"

"Oh, what a naughty speech! If you weren't Sanford's very good
friend, I'd never speak to you again!"

"I don't see how you two men can be friends," put in Aunt Abby,
"when you're both after that same presidency."

"That's the answer!" Eunice laughed. "Alvord is San's greatest
friend, because it's going to be an easy thing for Sanford to win
the election from him! If there were a more popular candidate in
Alvord's place, or a less popular one in Sanford's place, it
wouldn't be such a walkover!"

"You--you--" Hendricks looked at Eunice in speechless admiration.
The dancing eyes were impudent, the red lips curved scornfully,
and she made a daring little moue at him as she readjusted her
black lace veil so that a heavy bit of its pattern covered her
mouth.

"What do you do that for? Move that darned flower, so I can see
you talk!"

She laughed then, and wrinkled her straight little nose until the
veil billowed mischievously.

"I wish you'd take that thing off," Hendricks said, irritatedly;
"it annoys me."

"And pray, sir, who are you, that I should shield you from
annoyance? My veil is a necessary part of my costume."

"Necessary nothing! Take it off, I tell you!"

"Merry Christmas!" and Eunice gave him such a scornful shrug of
her furred shoulders that Hendricks laughed out, in sheer
enjoyment of her audacity.

"Tell me about the Merediths, and I'll take off the offending
veil," she urged, looking at him very coaxingly.

"All right; off with it."

Slowly, and with careful deliberation, Eunice unpinned her veil,
took it off and folded it in a small, compact parcel. This she
put in her handbag, and then, with an adorable smile, said:
"Now!"

"You beautiful idiot," and Hendricks devoured her with his eyes.
"All I can tell you about the Merediths is, that I don't know
anything about their stand on the election."

"What do you guess, assume, surmise, imagine or predict?" she
teased, still fascinating him with her magnetic charm.

"Well, I think this: they're a little too old-timey to take up
all my projects. But, on the other hand, they're far from
willing to subscribe to your husband's views. They do not
approve of the Sunday-school atmosphere he wants to bring about,
nor do they shut their eyes to the fact that the younger element
must be considered."

"Younger element! Do you call Sanford old?"

"No; he's only twenty-eight this minute. But there are a lot of
new members even younger than that strange as it may seem! These
boys want gayety--yea, even unto the scorned movies and the
hilarious prize-fights--and as they are scions of the wealthy and
aristocratic families of our little old town, I think we should
consider them. And, since you insist on knowing, it is my firm
belief, conviction and--I'm willing to add--my hope that the
great and influential Meredith brothers agree with me! So there
now, Madam Sanford Embury!"

"Thank you, Alvord; you're clear, at least. Do you think I could
persuade them to come over to Sanford's side?"

"I think you could persuade the statue of Jupiter Ammon to climb
down from his pedestal and take you to Coney Island, if you
looked at him like that! But I also think that friend husband
will not consent to your electioneering for him. It isn't done,
my dear Eunice."

"As if I cared what is 'done' and what isn't, if I want to help
Sanford."

"Go ahead, then, fair lady; but remember that Sanford Embury
stands for the conservative element in our club, and anything you
might try to do by virtue of your blandishments or fascinations
would be frowned upon and would react against your cause instead
of for it. If I might suggest, my supporters, the younger set,
the--well--the gayer set, would more readily respond to such a
plan. Why don't you electioneer for me?"

Eunice disdained to reply, and Aunt Abby broke into the
discussion by exclaiming: "Oh, Alvord, here comes Mr. Mortimer,
and he has Mr. Hanlon with him!"

Sure enough the two heroes of the day were walking toward the
Hendricks car, which, still standing near the scene of Hanlon's
triumph, awaited a good chance for a getaway.

"I wonder if you ladies wouldn't like to meet this marvel," began
Mr. Mortimer, genially, and Aunt Abby's delight was convincing,
indeed.

Eunice, too, greeted Mr. Hanlon cordially, and Hendricks held out
a welcoming hand.

"Tell us how you did it," he said, smiling into the intelligent
face of the mysterious "mind-reader."

"You saw," he returned, simply, with a slight gesture of
out-turned palms, as if to disavow any secrets.

"Yes, I saw," said Hendricks, "but with me, seeing is not
believing."

"Don't listen, Hanlon," Mr. Mortimer said, smiling a little
resentfully. "That sort of talk would go before the test, but
not now. What do you mean, Hendricks, by not believing? Do you
suspect me of complicity?"

"I do not, Mortimer. I believe you have been taken in with the
rest, by a very clever trick." He looked sharply at Hanlon, who
returned his gaze serenely. "I believe this young man is
unusually apt as a trickster, and I believe he hoodwinked the
whole community. The fact that I cannot comprehend, or even
guess how he did it, in no way disturbs my conviction that he did
do it by trickery. I will change this opinion, however, if Mr.
Hanlon will look me in the eye and assure me, on his honor, that
he found the penknife by no other means or with no other
influence to guide him than Mr. Mortimer's will-power."

"I am not on trial," he said. "I am not called upon to prove or
disprove anything. I promised to perform a feat and I have done
so. It was not nominated in the bond that I should defend my
honor by asseverations."

"Begging the question," laughed Hendricks, but Mr. Mortimer said:
"Not at all. Hanlon is right. If he has any secret means of
guidance, it is up to us to discover it. But I hold that he
cannot have, or it would have been discovered by some of the
eager observers. We had thousands looking on to-day. There must
have been some one clever enough to suspect the deceit, if deceit
there were."

"Thank you, Mr. Mortimer," Hanlon spoke quietly. "I made no
mystery of my performance; I had no confederate, no
paraphernalia. All there was to see could be seen by all. You
willed me; I followed your will. That is all."

The simple manner and pleasant demeanor of the young man greatly
attracted Eunice, who smiled at him kindly.

"I came here very sceptical," she admitted; "and even now I can't
feel entirely convinced--"

"Well, I can!" declared Aunt Abby. "I am willing to own it, too.
These people who really believe in your sincerity, Mr. Hanlon,
and refuse to confess it, make me mad! I wish you'd give an
exhibition in New York."

"I'm sorry to disappoint you, madam, but this is my last
performance."

"Good gracious why?" Aunt Abby looked curiously at him.

"I have good reasons," Hanlon smiled. "You may learn them
later, if you care to."

"I do. How can I learn them?"

"Read the Newark Free Press next Monday."

"Oh!" and Eunice had an inspiration--a premonition of the truth.
"May I speak to you alone a minute, Mr. Hanlon?"

She got out of the car and walked a few steps with the young man,
who politely accompanied her.

They paused a short distance away, and held a brief but animated
conversation. Eunice laughed gleefully, and it was plain to be
seen her charming smiles played havoc with Hanlon's reserved
demeanor. Soon he was willingly agreeing to something she was
proposing and finally they shook hands on it.

They returned to the car; he assisted Eunice in, and then he told
Mr. Mortimer they had stayed as long as was permissible and were
being eagerly called back to the committee in charge of the day's
programme.

"That's so," said Mortimer. "I begged off for a few minutes.
Good-by, all." He raised his hat and hurried away after Hanlon.

"Well," said Hendricks as they started homeward, "what did you
persuade him to do, Eunice? Give a parlor exhibition for you?"

"The boy guessed nearly right the very first time!" cried Eunice,
gleefully; "it was all a fake, and he's coming to our house
Sunday afternoon to tell how he did it. It's all coming out in
the paper on Monday."

"My good land!" and Aunt Abby sank back in her seat, utterly
disgusted.




CHAPTER IV

THE EMBURYS


"And that's my last word on the subject."

Embury lighted one cigarette from the stub of another, and
deposited the stub in the ash-tray at his elbow. It was Sunday
afternoon, and the peculiar relaxedness of that day of rest and
gladness had somewhat worn on the nerves of both Sanford and
Eunice.

Aunt Abby was napping, and it was too early yet to look for their
expected visitor, Hanlon.

Eunice had been once again endeavoring to persuade her husband to
give her an allowance--a stated sum, however small, that she
might depend upon regularly. The Emburys fulfilled every
requirement of the condition known as "happily married" save for
this one item. They were congenial, affectionate, good-natured,
and quite ready to make allowances for each other's
idiosyncrasies or whims.

With this one exception. Eunice found it intolerable to be
cramped and pinched for small amounts of ready cash, when her
husband was a rich man. Nor was Embury mean, or even economical
of nature. He was more than willing that his wife should have
all the extravagant luxuries she desired. He was entirely ready
to pay any and all bills that she might contract. Never had he
chided her for buying expensive or unnecessary finery--even more,
he had always admired her taste and shown pleasure at her
purchases. He was proud of her beauty and willing it should be
adorned. He was proud of her grace and charm and willing that
the household appointments should provide an appropriate setting
for her hospitality. They were both fond of entertaining and
never was there a word of protest from him as to the amounts
charged by florists and caterers.

And yet, by reason of some crank, crotchet or perverse notion,
Embury was unwilling to give his wife what is known as "pin
money."

"Buy your pins at the best jewelers'," he would laugh, "and send
the bills to me; buy your hats and gowns from the Frenchiest
shops--you can get credit anywhere on my name--Good Lord! Tiger,
what more can a woman want?"

Nor would he agree to her oft-repeated explanations that there
were a thousand and one occasions when some money was an absolute
necessity. Or, if persuaded, he gave her a small amount and
expected it to last indefinitely.

It is difficult to know just what was the reason for this
attitude. Sanford Embury was not a miser. He was not penurious
or stingy. He subscribed liberally to charities, many of them
unknown to the public, or even to his wife, but some trick of
nature, some twist in his brain, made this peculiarity of his
persistent and ineradicable.

Now, Eunice Embury was possessed of a quick, sometimes
ungovernable temper. It was because of this that her husband
called her Tiger. And also, as he declared, because her
beautiful, lithe grace was suggestive of "the fearful symmetry"
of the forest tribe.

She had tried honestly to control her quick anger, but it would
now and then assert itself in spite of her, and Embury delighted
to liken her to Katherine, and declared that he must tame her as
Petruchio tamed his shrew.

This annoyed Eunice far more than she let him know, for she was
well aware that if he thought it teased her, he would more
frequently try Petruchio's methods.

So, when she flew into a rage, and he countered with a fiercer
anger, she knew he was assuming it purposely, and she usually
quieted down, as the better part of valor.

On this particular occasion Eunice had taken advantage of a
quiet, pleasant tete-a-tete to bring up the subject.

Embury had heard her pleading, not unkindly, but with a bored
air, and had finally remarked, as she paused in her arguments, "I
refuse, Eunice, to give you a stated allowance. If you haven't
sufficient confidence in your husband's generosity to trust him
to give you all you want or need, and even more than that, then
you are ungrateful for what I have given you. And that's my last
word on the subject."

The rank injustice of this was like iron entering her soul. She
knew his speech was illogical, unfair and even absurd, but she
knew no words of hers could make him see it so.

And in utter exasperation at her own impotence, she flung her
self-control to the winds, and let go of her temper.

"Well, it isn't my last word on the subject!" she cried. "I have
something further to say!"

"That is your woman's privilege," and Embury smiled irritatingly
at her.

"Not only my privilege, but my duty! I owe it to my
self-respect, to my social position, to my standing as your
wife--the wife of a prominent man of affairs--to have at my
command a sum of ready money when I need it. You know perfectly
well, I do not want it for anything wrong--or for anything that I
want to keep secret from you. You know I have never had a secret
from you nor do I wish to have! I simply want to do as other
women do--even the poorest, the meanest man, will give his wife
an allowance, a little something that is absolutely her own.
Why, most of the women of my set have a checking account at the
bank--they all have a personal allowance!"

"So?" Embury took up another cigarette. "You may remember,
Eunice, I have spoken my last word on the subject."

"And you may remember that I have not! But I will--and right
now. And it is simply that since you refuse me the pleasure and
convenience of some money for everyday use, I shall get some from
another source."

Embury's eyes narrowed, and he surveyed his wife with a calm
scrutiny. Then he smiled.

"Stenography and typewriting?" he said; "or shall you take in
plain sewing? Cut out the threats, Eunice; they won't get you
anywhere!"

"They'll get me where I want to arrive! Don't say I didn't warn
you--I repeat, I shall get money for my personal use, and you
will have no right to criticize my methods, since you refuse me a
paltry sum by way of allowance."

Eunice was standing, her two hands tightly grasping a chair-back
as she looked angrily at Embury, who still seated lazily, blew
smoke rings toward her. She was magnificent in her anger, her
cheeks burned crimson, her dark eyes had an ominous gleam in them
and her curved lips straightened into a determined line of
scarlet. Her muscles were strained and tense, her breath came
quickly, yet she had full control of herself and her pose was
that of a crouching, waiting tiger rather than a furious ode.

Embury was full of admiration at the beautiful picture she made,
but pursuant of his inexorable plan, he rose to "tame" her.

"'Tiger, tiger, burning bright,'" he quoted, "you must take back
that speech--it is neither pretty nor tactful--"

"I have no wish to be tactful! Why should I? I am not trying to
coax or cajole you! You refuse my request--you have repeatedly
refused me--now, I am at the end of my patience, and I shall take
matters into my own hands!"

"Lovely hands!" he murmured, taking them in his own. "You have
unusually pretty hands, Eunice; it would be a pity to use them to
earn money."

"Yet that is my intention. I shall get money by the work of
these hands. It will be in a way that you will not approve, but
you have forfeited your right to approve or disapprove."

"That I have not! I am your husband--you have promised to obey
me--"

"A mere form of words--it meant nothing!"

"Our marriage ceremony meant nothing?"

"If it did, remember that you endowed me with all your worldly
goods--"

"And I give them to you, too! Do you know that nine-tenths of my
yearly expenditures are for your pleasure and benefit! I enjoy
our home, too, but it would not be the elaborate, luxurious
establishment that it is, but that it suits your taste to have it
so! And then, you whine and fret for what you yourself call a
paltry matter! Ingrate!"

"Don't you dare call me ingrate! I owe you no gratitude! Do you
give me this home as a charity? As a gift, even! It is my
right! And it is also my right to have a bank account of my own!
It is my right to uphold my head among other women who laugh at
me, who ridicule me, because, with all your wealth, I have no
purse of my own! I will not stand it! I rebel! And you may
rest assured things are going to be different hereafter. I will
get money--"

"You shall not!" Embury grasped the wrists of the hands he still
held, and his face was fiercely frowning. "You are my wife, and
whatever you may or may not owe to me, you owe it to our
position, to our standing in the community to do nothing beneath
your dignity or mine!"

"You care nothing for my dignity, for my appearance before other
women, so why should I consider your dignity? You force me to
it, and it is therefore your fault if I--"

"What is it you propose to do? How are you going to get this
absurd paltry sum you are making such a fuss about?"

"That I decline to tell you--"

"Don't you dare to do needlework or anything that would make me
look foolish. I forbid it!"

"And I scorn your forbidding! Make you look foolish, indeed!
When you make me look foolish every day of my life, because I
can't do as other women do--can't have what other wives have--"

"Now, now, Tiger, don't make such a row over nothing--let's talk
it over seriously--"

"There's nothing to talk over. I've asked you time and again for
an allowance of money--real money, not charge accounts--and you
always refuse--"

"And always shall, if you are so ugly about it! Why must you fly
into a rage over it? Your temper is--"

"My temper is roused by your cruelty--"

"Cruelty!"

"Yes; it's as much cruelty as if you struck me! You deny me my
heart's dearest wish for no reason whatever--"

"It's enough that I don't approve of an allowance--"

"It ought to be enough that I do!"

"No, no, my lady! I love you, I adore you, but I am not the sort
of man to lie down and let you walk over me! I give you
everything you want and if I reserve the privilege of paying for
it myself, it does not seem to me a crime!"

"Oh, do hush up, Sanford! You drive me frantic! You prate the
same foolishness. over and over! I don't want to hear any more
about it. You said you had spoken the last word on the subject,
now stop it! I, too, have said my final say. I shall do as I
please, and I shall not consider myself accountable to you for my
actions."

"Confound it! Do what you please, then! I wash my hands of your
nonsense! But be careful how you carry the name I have given
you!"

"If you keep on, I may decide not to carry it at all--"

Eunice was interrupted by the entrance of Ferdinand, announcing
the arrival of Mason Elliott.

Trained in the school of convention, both the Emburys became at
once the courteous, cordial host and hostess.

"Hello, Elliott," sang out Sanford, "glad to see your bright and
happy face. Come right along and chum in."

Eunice offered her hand with a welcoming smile.

"Just the boy I was looking for," she said, we've the jolliest
game on for the afternoon. Haven't we, San?"

"Fool trick, if you ask me! Howsumever, everything goes.
Interested in thought-transference bunk, Elliott?"

"I know what you're getting at." Mason Elliott nodded his head
understandingly. "Hendricks put me wise. So, I says to myself,
s'posin' I hop along and listen in. Yes, I am interested,
sufficiently so not to mind your jeers about bunk and that."

"Oh, do you believe in it, Mason?" said Eunice, animatedly; "for
this is a faked affair--or, rather, the explanation of one. It's
the Hanlon boy, you know--"

"Yes; I know. But what's the racket with you two turtle-doves?
I come in, and find Eunice wearing the pet expression of a
tragedy queen and Sanford, here, doing the irate husband. Going
into the movies?"

"Yes, that's it," and Eunice smiled bravely, although her lips
still quivered from her recent turbulent quarrel, and a light,
jaunty air was forced to conceal her lingering nervousness.

"Irate husband is good!" laughed Embury, "considering we are yet
honeymooners."

"Good dissemblers, both of you," and Elliott settled himself in
an easy chair, "but you don't fool your old friend. Talk about
thought-transference--it doesn't take much of that commodity to
read that you two were interrupted by my entrance in the middle
of a real, honest-to-goodness, cats'-and-dogs' quarrel."

"All right, have it your own way," and Embury laughed shortly;
"but it wasn't the middle of it, it was about over."

"All but the making up! Shall I fade away for fifteen minutes?"

"No," protested Eunice. "It was only one of the little tiffs
that happen in the best families! Now, listen, Mason--"

"My dear lady, I live but on the chance of being permitted to
listen to you--only in the hope that I may listen early and
often--"

"Oh, hush! What a silly you are!"

"Silly, is it? Remember I was your childhood playmate. Would
you have kept me on your string all these years if I were silly?
And here's another of my childhood friends! How do you do, most
gracious lady?"

With courtly deference Elliott rose to greet Aunt Abby, who came
into the living-room from Eunice's bedroom.

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