Raspberry Jam

“As nearly as I can judge, he died about daybreak. But it is impossible to say positively as to that. Especially as I cannot find the immediate cause of death. You heard nothing during the night, Miss Ames?”

“I did and I didn’t,” was the strange reply.

“Just what does that mean?” and Doctor Harper looked at her curiously.

“Well,” and Aunt Abby spoke very solemnly, “Sanford appeared to me in a vision, just as he died—”

“Oh, Aunt Abby,” Eunice groaned, “don’t begin that sort of talk! Miss Ames is a sort of a spiritualist, doctor, and she has hallucinations.”

“Not hallucinations—visions,” corrected the old, lady. “And it is not an unheard of phenomenon to have a dying person appear to a friend at the moment of death. It was the passing of Sanford, and I did see him!”

Eunice rose and left the table. Her shattered nerves couldn’t stand this, to her mind, foolishness at the moment.

She went from the dining-room into the livingroom, and stood, gazing out of the window, but seeing nothing.

Dr. Harper pushed back his chair from the table.

“Just a word more about that, Miss Ames,” he said. “I’m rather interested in those matters myself. You thought you saw Mr. Embury?”

“I did see him. It was a vague, shadowy form, but I recognized him. He came into my room from Eunice’s room. He paused at my bedside and leaned over me, as if for a farewell. He said nothing—and in a moment he disappeared. But I know it was Sanford’s spirit taking flight.”

“This is interesting, but I can’t discuss it further now. I have heard of such cases, but never so directly. But my duty now is to Mrs. Embury. I fear she will have a nervous breakdown. May I ask you, Miss Ames, not to talk about you—your vision to her? I think it disturbs her.”

“Don’t you tell me, doctor, what to talk to Eunice about, and what not to! I brought up that girl from a baby, and I know her clear through! If it upsets her nerves to hear about my experience last night, of course, I shall not talk about it to her, but trust me, please, to know what is best to do about that!”

“Peppery women—both of them!” was Dr. Harper’s mental comment; but he only nodded his head pleasantly and went to Eunice.

“If you’ve no objections, I’ll call Marsden here at once,” he said, already taking up the telephone.

Eunice listlessly acquiesced, and then the doctor returned to Embury’s bedroom.

He looked carefully about. All the details of the room, the position of clothing, the opened book, face down, on the night table, the half-emptied water-glass, the penciled memorandum on the chiffonier—all seemed to bear witness to the well, strong man, who expected to rise and go about his day as usual.

“Not a chance of suicide,” mused the doctor, hunting about the room and scrutinizing its handsome appointments. He stepped into Embury’s bathroom, and could find nothing that gave him the least hint of anything unusual in the man’s life. A chart near the white, enameled scale showed that Embury had recorded his weight the night before in his regular, methodical way. The written figures were clear and firm, as always. Positively the man had no premonition of his swiftly approaching end.

What could have caused it? What could have snapped short the life thread of this strong, sound specimen of human vitality? Dr. Harper could find no possible answer, and he was glad to hear Ferdinand’s voice as he announced the arrival of Dr. Marsden. The two men held earnest consultation.

The newcomer was quite as much mystified as his colleague, and they marveled together.

“Autopsy, of course,” said Marsden, finally; “the widow must be brought to consent. Why does she object so strongly?”

“I don’t know of any reason except the usual dislike the members of the family feel toward it. I’ve no doubt she will agree, when you advise it.”

Eunice Embury did agree, but it was only after the strenuous insistence of Dr. Marsden.

She flew into a rage at first, and the doctor, who was unacquainted with her, wondered at her fiery exhibition of temper.

And, but for the arrival of Mason Elliott on the scene, she might have resisted longer.

Elliott had telephoned, wishing to consult Embury on some matter, and Ferdinand’s incoherent and emotional words had brought out the facts, so of course Elliott had come right over to the house.

“What is it, Eunice?” he asked, as he entered, seeing her fiercely quarreling with the doctors. “Let me help you—advise you. Poor child, you ought to be in bed.”

His kindly, assertive voice calmed her, and turning her sad eyes to him, she moaned, plaintively, “Don’t let them do it—they mustn’t do it.”

“Do what?” Elliott turned to the doctors, and soon was listening to the whole strange story.

“Certainly an autopsy!” he declared; “why, it’s the only thing to do. Hush, Eunice, make no further objection. It’s absolutely necessary. Give your consent at once.”

Almost as if hypnotized, Eunice Embury gave her consent, and the two doctors went away together.

“Tell me all about it,” said Elliott; “all you know—” And then he saw how weak and unnerved Eunice was, and he quickly added, “No, not now. Go and lie down for a time—where’s Miss Ames?”

“Here,” and Aunt Abby reappeared from her room. “Yes, go and lie down, Eunice; Maggie has made up our rooms, and your bed is in order. Go, dear child.”

“I don’t want to,” and Eunice’s eyes looked unusually large and bright. “I’m not the sort of woman who can cure everything by ‘lying down’! I’d rather talk. Mason, what happened to Sanford?”

“I don’t know, Eunice. It’s the strangest thing I ever heard of. If you want to talk, really, tell me what occurred last night. Did you two have a quarrel?”

“Yes, we did—” Eunice looked defiant rather than penitent. “But that couldn’t have done it! I mean, we didn’t quarrel so violently that San burst a blood-vessel—or that sort of thing!”

“Of course not; in that case the doctors would know. That’s the queerest thing to me. A man dies, and two first-class physicians can’t say what killed him!”

“But what difference does it make, Mason? I’m sure I don’t care what he died of—I mean I don’t want him all cut up to satisfy the curiosity of those inquisitive doctors!”

“It isn’t that, Eunice; they have to know the cause, to make out a death certificate.”

“Why do they have to make it out? We all know he’s dead.”

“The law requires it. The Bureau of Vital Statistics must be notified and must be told the cause of death. Try to realize that these matters are important—you cannot put your own personal preferences above them. Leave it to me, Eunice; I’ll take charge and look after all the details. Poor old San—I can’t realize it! He was so big and strong and healthy. And so full of life and vitality. And, by Jove, Eunice, think of the election!”

Though a warm friend of Embury, it was characteristic of Elliott that his thoughts should fly to the consequences of the tragic death outside the family circle. He was silent as he realized that the removal of the other candidate left Alvord Hendricks the winner in the race for president of the club.

That is, if the election should be held. It was highly probable that it would be postponed—the club people ought to be notified at once—Hendricks ought to be told.

“I say, Eunice, there’s lots of things to do. I think I ought to telephone the club, and several people. Do you mind?”

“No; of course not. Do whatever is right, Mason. I’m so glad to have you here, it takes a load of responsibility off of me. You’re a tower of strength.”

“Then do what you can to help me, Eunice. Try, won’t you, to be quiet and calm. Don’t get so wrought up over these things that are unpleasant but unavoidable. I don’t underrate your grief or your peculiarly hard position. The nervous shock is enough to make you ill—but try to control yourself—that’s a goody girl.”

“I will, Mason. Honest I will.”

Soon after noon Hendricks arrived. He had returned from Boston on an early morning train, and hearing of the tragedy, came at once to the Embury home.

At sight of his grave, sympathetic face, Eunice burst into tears, the first she had been able to shed, and they were a real relief to her overburdened heart.

“Oh, Alvord,” she cried, hysterically, “now you can be president!”