Raspberry Jam

Miss Ames gave a startled jump. Her face blanched and she trembled as she clutched Fibsy’s arm.

“That’s what Sanford used to call me!” she whispered. “Can it really be his spirit talking to me through the medium!”

“Don’t worry,” the voice went on, “don’t grieve for me—it’s all right—let it go that I took my own life—”

“But did you, Sanford—did you?” Miss Ames implored.

“It would be better you should never know.”

“I must know. I’ve got to know! Tell me, Sanford. It wasn’t Eunice?

“No—it wasn’t Eunice.”

“Was it—oh, San—was it—I?”

“Yes, Aunt Abby—it was. But you were entirely irresponsible—you were asleep—hypnotized, perhaps—perhaps merely asleep.”

“Where did I get the stuff?”

“I think somebody hypnotized you and gave it to you—”

“When? Where?”

“I don’t know—it is vague—uncertain—But you put it in my ear—remember, Aunt Abby, I don’t blame you at all. And you must not tell this. You must let it go as suicide. That is the only way to save yourself—”

“But they suspect Eunice—”

“They’ll never convict her—nor would they convict you. Tell them you got into communication with my spirit and I said it was suicide.”

“Ask him about the raspberry jam,” put in Fibsy, in a stage whisper.

“What!” the medium came out of his trance suddenly and glared at the boy.

“I told you I could do nothing if the child stayed here,” Marigny cried, evidently in a towering passion. “Put him out. Who is he? What is he talking about?”

“Nothing of importance. Keep still, McGuire. Can you get Mr. Embury’s spirit back, sir?”

“No, the communion is too greatly disturbed. Boy, what do you mean by raspberry jam?”

“Oh, nothin’,” and Fibsy wriggled bashfully. “You tell him, Miss Ames.”

It needed little encouragement to launch Aunt Abby on the story of her “vision” and she told it in full detail.

Marigny seemed interested, though a little impatient, and tried to hurry the recital.

“It was, without doubt, Embury’s spirit,” he said, as Aunt Abby finished; “but your imagination has exaggerated and elaborated the facts. For instance, I think the jam and the gasoline are added by your fancy, in order to fill out the full tale of your five senses.”

“That’s what I thought,” and Fibsy nodded his head. “Raspberry jam! Oh, gee!” he exploded in a burst of silly laughter.

Marigny looked at him with a new interest. The amber-colored glasses, turned toward the boy seemed to frighten him, and he began to whimper.

“I didn’t mean any harm,” he said, “but raspberry jam was so funny for a ghost to have on him!”

“It would have been,” assented Marigny, “but that, I feel sure, existed only in Miss Ames’ fancy. Her mind, upset by the vision, had strange hallucinations, and the jam was one—you know we often have grotesque dreams.”

“So we do,” agreed Fibsy; “why once I drempt that—”

“Excuse me, young sir, but I’ve no time to listen to your dreams. The séance is at an end, madam. Your companion probably cut it off prematurely—but perhaps not. Perhaps the communication was about over, anyway. Are you satisfied, Miss Ames?”

“Yes, Mr. Marigny. I know the appearance of Mr. Embury was a genuine visitation, for he called me by a peculiar name which no one else ever used, and which you could not possibly know about.”

“That is indeed a positive test. I am glad you received what you wished for. The fee is ten dollars, madam.”

Aunt Abby paid it willingly enough, and with Fibsy, took her departure.

On reaching home they found Alvord Hendricks there. Mason Elliott had tarried and Fleming Stone, too, was still there. Eunice was awaiting Aunt Abby’s return to have dinner served.

“I thought you’d never come, Auntie,” said Eunice, greeting her warmly. Eunice was in a most pleasant mood, and seemed to have become entirely reconciled to the presence of Stone.

“You will dine here, too, Terence,” she said kindly to the boy, who replied, “Yes, ma’am,” very respectfully.

“Well, Eunice,” Aunt Abby announced, after they were seated at the table, “I’m the criminal, after all.”

“You seem pretty cheerful about it,” said Hendricks, looking at her in astonishment.

“Well, I wasn’t responsible. I did it under compulsory hypnotism.”

“You owned up to it before, Aunt Abby,” said Eunice, humoring her; “you said—”

“I know, Eunice, but that time it was to shield you. Now, I know for certain that I did do it, and how it came about.”

“Dear Aunt Abby,” and Elliott spoke very gently, “don’t you talk about it any more. Your vagaries are tolerated by us, who love you, but Mr. Stone is bored by them—”

“Not at all,” said Fleming Stone; “on the contrary, I’m deeply interested. Tell me all about it, Miss Ames. Where have you been?”

Thus encouraged, Aunt Abby told all.

She described the séance truthfully, Fibsy’s bright eyes—not lack-luster now—darting glances at her and at Stone as the tale proceeded.

“He was the real thing—wasn’t he, McGuire?” Miss Ames appealed to him, at last.

“You bet! Why, if the side wire of his beard hadn’t fetched loose and if his walnut juice complexion hadn’t stopped a mite short of his collar, I’d a took him for a sure-fire Oriental!”

“Don’t be so impertinent, Terence,” reproved Stone; “Miss Ames knows better than you do.”

“It doesn’t matter that he was made up that way,” Aunt Abby said, serenely; “they often do that. But he was genuine, I know, because—why, Eunice, what did Sanford use to call me—for fun—Aunt what?”

“Aunt Westminter Abbey,” said Eunice, smiling at the recollection.