VIThe Coming of Elaine
There is no state of mental wretchedness akin to that which precedes the writing of a book. Harlan was moody and despairing, chiefly because he could not understand what it all meant. Something hung over him like a black cloud, completely obscuring his usual sunny cheerfulness.
He burned with the desire to achieve, yet from the depths of his soul came only emptiness. Vague, purposeless aspirations, like disembodied spirits, haunted him by night and by day. Before his inner vision came unfamiliar scenes, detached fragments of conversation, the atmosphere, the feeling of an old romance, then, by a swift change, darkness from which there seemed no possible escape.
A woman with golden hair, mounted upon a white horse, gay with scarlet and silver trappings—surely her name was Elaine? And thecompany of gallant knights who followed her as she set forth upon her quest—who were they, and from whence did they hail? The fool of the court, with his bauble and his cracked, meaningless laughter, danced in and out of the picture with impish glee. Behind it all was the sunset, such a sunset as was never seen on land or sea. Ribbons of splendid colour streamed from the horizon to the zenith and set the shields of the knights aglow with shimmering flame. Clashing cymbals sounded from afar, then, clear and high, a bugle call, the winding silvery notes growing fainter and fainter till they were lost in the purple silence of the hills. Elaine turned, smiling—was not her name Elaine? And then——
Darkness fell and the picture was utterly wiped out. Harlan turned away with a sigh.
To take the dead, dry bones of words, the tiny black things that march in set spaces across the page; to set each where it inevitably belongs—truly, it seems simple enough. But from the vast range of our written speech to select those which fittingly clothe the thought is quite another matter, and presupposes the thought. Even then, by necessity, the outcome is uncertain.
Within the mind of the writer, the Book lives and breathes; a child of the brain, yearning for birth. At a white heat, after long waiting, the words come—merely a commentary, an index, a marginal note of that within. Reading afterward the written words, the fine invisible links, the colour and the music, are treacherously supplied by the imagination, which is at once the best friend and the worst enemy. How is one to know that only a small part of it has been written, that the best of it, far past writing, lingers still unborn?
Long afterward, when the original picture has faded as though it had never been, one may read his printed work, and wonder, in abject self-abasement, by what miracle it was ever printed. He has trusted to some unknown psychology which strongly savours of the Black Art to reproduce in the minds of his readers the picture which was in his, and from which these fragmentary, marginal notes were traced. Only the words, the dead, meaningless words, stripped of all the fancy which once made them fair, to make for the thousands the wild, delirious bliss that the writer knew! To write with the tears falling upon the page,and afterward to read, in some particularly poignant and searching review, that “the book fails to convince!” Happy is he whose written pages reproduce but faintly the glow from whence they came. For “whoso with blood and tears would dig Art out of his soul, may lavish his golden prime in pursuit of emptiness, or, striking treasure, find only fairy gold, so that when his eyes are purged of the spell of morning, he sees his hands are full of withered leaves.”
A meadow-lark, rising from a distant field, dropped golden notes into the still, sunlit air, then vanished into the blue spaces beyond. A bough of apple bloom, its starry petals anchored only by invisible cobwebs, softly shook white fragrance into the grass. Then, like a vision straight from the golden city with the walls of pearl, came Elaine, the beautiful, her blue eyes laughing, and her scarlet lips parted in a smile.
Harlan’s heart sang within him. His trembling hands grasped feverishly at the sheaf of copy-paper which had waited for this, week in and week out. The pencil was ready to his hand, and the words fairly wrote themselves:
It came to pass that when the year was at the Spring, the Lady Elaine fared forth upon the Heart’s Quest. She was mounted upon a snowy palfrey, whose trappings of scarlet and silver gleamed brightly in the sun. Her gown was of white satin, wondrously embroidered in fine gold thread, which was no less gold than her hair, falling in unchecked splendour about her.
Blue as sapphires were the eyes of Elaine, and her fair cheek was like that of an apple-blossom. Set like a rose upon pearl was the dewy, fragrant sweetness of her mouth, and her breath was like that of the rose itself. Her hands—but how shall I write of the flower-like hands of Elaine? They—
The door-bell pealed portentously through the house, echoing and re-echoing through the empty rooms. No answer. Presently it rang again, insistently, and Elaine, with her snowy palfrey, whisked suddenly out of sight.
Gone, except for these few lines! Harlan stifled a groan and the bell rang once more.
Heavens! Where was Dorothy? Where was Mrs. Smithers? Was there no one in the house but himself? Apparently not, for thebell rang determinedly, and with military precision.
“March, march, forward march!” grumbled Harlan, as he ran downstairs, the one-two, one-two-three being registered meanwhile on the bell-wire.
It was not a pleasant person who violently wrenched the door open, but in spite of his annoyance, Harlan could not be discourteous to a lady. She was tall, and slender, and pale, with blue eyes and yellow hair, and so very fragile that it seemed as though a passing zephyr might almost blow her away.
“How do you do,” she said, wearily. “I thought you were never coming.”
“I was busy,” said Harlan, in extenuation. “Will you come in?” She was evidently a friend of Dorothy’s, and, as such, demanded proper consideration.
The invitation was needless, however, for even as he spoke, she brushed past him, and went into the parlour. “I’m so tired,” she breathed. “I walked up that long hill.”
“You shouldn’t have done it,” returned Harlan, standing first on one foot and then on the other. “Couldn’t you find the stage?”
“I didn’t look for it. I never had anyambition to go on the stage,” she concluded, with a faint smile. “Where is Uncle Ebeneezer?”
“No friend of Dorothy’s,” thought Harlan, shifting to the other foot. “Uncle Ebeneezer,” he said, clearing his throat, “is at peace.”
“What do you mean?” demanded the girl, sinking into one of the haircloth chairs. “Where is Uncle Ebeneezer?”
“Uncle Ebeneezer is dead,” explained Harlan, somewhat tartly. Then, as he remembered the utter ruin of his work, he added, viciously, “never having known him intimately, I can’t say just where he is.”
She leaned back in her chair, her face as white as death. Harlan thought she had fainted, when she relieved his mind by bursting into tears. He was more familiar with salt water, but, none the less, the situation was awkward.
There were no signs of Dorothy, so Harlan, in an effort to be consoling, took the visitor’s cold hands in his. “Don’t,” he said, kindly; “cheer up. You are among friends.”
“I have no friends,” she answered, between sobs. “I lost the last when my dearmother died. She made me promise, during her last illness, that if anything happened to her, I would come to Uncle Ebeneezer. She said she had never imposed upon him and that he would gladly take care of me, for her sake. I was ill a long, long time, but as soon as I was able to, I came, and now—and now——”
“Don’t,” said Harlan, again, awkwardly patting her hands, and deeply touched by the girl’s distress. “We are your friends. You can stay here just as well as not. I am married and——”
Upon his back, Harlan felt eyes. He turned quickly, and saw Dorothy standing in the door—quite a new Dorothy, indeed; very tall, and stately, and pale.
Through sheer nervousness, Mr. Carr laughed—an unfortunate, high-pitched laugh with no mirth in it. “Let me present my wife,” he said, sobering suddenly. “Mrs. Carr, Miss——”
Here he coughed, and the guest, rising, filled the pause. “I am Elaine St. Clair,” she explained, offering a white, tremulous hand which Dorothy did not seem to see. “It is very good of your husband to ask me to stay with you.”
“Very,” replied Dorothy, in a tone altogether new to her husband. “He is always doing lovely things for people. And now, Harlan, if you will show Miss St. Clair to her room, I will speak with Mrs. Smithers about luncheon, which should be nearly ready by this time.”
“Thunder,” said Harlan to himself, as Dorothy withdrew. “What in the devil do I know about ’her room’? Have you ever been here before?” he inquired of the guest.
“Never in my life,” answered Miss St. Clair, wiping her eyes.
“Well,” replied Harlan, confusedly, “just go on upstairs, then, and help yourself. There are plenty of rooms, and cribs to burn in every blamed one of ’em,” he added, savagely, remembering the look in Dorothy’s eyes.
“Thank you,” said Miss St. Clair, diffidently; “it is very kind of you to let me choose. Can some one bring my trunk up this afternoon?”
“I’ll attend to it,” replied her host, brusquely.
She trailed noiselessly upstairs, carrying her heavy suit case, and Harlan, not altogether happy at the prospect, went in search ofDorothy. At the kitchen door he paused, hearing voices within.
“They’ve usually et by themselves,” Mrs. Smithers was saying. “Is this a new one, or a friend of yours?”
The sentence was utterly without meaning, either to Harlan or Dorothy, but the answer was given, as quick as a flash. “A friend, Mrs. Smithers—a very dear old friend of Mr. Carr’s.”
“‘Mr. Carr’s,’” repeated Harlan, miserably, tiptoeing away to the library, where he sat down and wiped his forehead. “‘A very dear old friend.’” Disconnectedly, and with pronounced emphasis, Harlan mentioned the place which is said to be paved with good intentions.
The clock struck twelve, and it was just eleven when he had begun onThe Quest of the Lady Elaine. “‘One crowded hour of glorious life is worth’—what idiot said it was worth anything?” groaned Harlan, inwardly. “Anyway, I’ve had the crowded hour. ‘Better fifty years of Europe than a cycle of Cathay’”—the line sang itself into his consciousness. “Europe be everlastingly condemned,” he muttered. “Oh, how my head aches!”
He leaned back in his chair, wondering where “Cathay” might be. It sounded like a nice, quiet place, with no “dear old friends” in it—a peaceful spot where people could write books if they wanted to. “Just why,” he asked himself more than once, “was I inspired to grab the shaky paw of that human sponge? ‘Tears, idle tears, I know not what they mean’—oh, the devil! She must have a volume of Tennyson in her grip, and it’s soaking through!”
Mrs. Smithers came out into the hall, more sepulchral and grim-visaged than ever, and rang the bell for luncheon. To Harlan’s fevered fancy, it sounded like a sexton tolling a bell for a funeral. Miss St. Clair, with the traces of tears practically removed, floated gracefully downstairs, and Harlan, coming out of the library with the furtive step of a wild beast from its lair, met her inopportunely at the foot of the stairs.
She smiled at him in a timid, but friendly fashion, and at the precise moment, Dorothy appeared in the dining-room door.
“Harlan, dear,” she said, in her sweetest tones, “will you give our guest your arm and escort her out to luncheon? I have it all ready!”
Miss St. Clair clutched timidly at Harlan’s rigid coat sleeve, wondering what strange custom of the house would be evident next, and the fog was thick before Mr. Carr’s eyes, when he took his accustomed seat at the head of the table. As a sign of devotion, he tried to step on Dorothy’s foot under the table, after a pleasing habit of their courtship in the New York boarding-house, but he succeeded only in drawing an unconscious “ouch” and a vivid blush from Miss St. Clair, by which he impressed Dorothy more deeply than he could have hoped to do otherwise.
“Have you come far, Miss St. Clair?” asked Dorothy, conventionally.
“From New York,” answered the guest, taking a plate of fried chicken from Harlan’s shaky hand.
“I know,” said Dorothy sweetly. “We come from New York, too.” Then she took a bold, daring plunge. “I have often heard my husband speak of you.”
“Of me, Mrs. Carr? Surely not! It must have been some other Elaine.”
“Perhaps,” smiled Dorothy, shrugging her shoulders. “No doubt I am mistaken, but you may have heard of me?”
“Indeed I haven’t,” Elaine assured her. “I never heard of you in my life before. Why should I?” A sudden and earnest crow under the window behind her startled her so that she dropped her knife. Harlan stooped for it at the same time she did and their heads bumped together smartly.
“Our gentleman chicken,” went on Dorothy, tactfully. “We call him ‘Abdul Hamid.’ You know the masculine nature is instinctively polygamous.”
Harlan cackled mirthlessly, wondering, subconsciously, how Abdul Hamid could have escaped from the coop. After that there was silence, save as Dorothy, in her most hospitable manner, occasionally urged the guest to have more of something. Throughout luncheon, she never once spoke to Harlan, nor took so much as a single glance at his red, unhappy face. Even his ears were scarlet, and the delicious fried chicken which he was eating might have been a section of rag carpet, for all he knew to the contrary.
“And now, Miss St. Clair,” said Dorothy, kindly, as they rose from the table, “I am sure you will wish to lie down and rest after your long journey. Which room did you choose?”
“I looked at all of them,” responded Elaine, touched to the heart by this unexpected kindness from strangers, “and finally chose the suite in the south wing. It’s a nice large room, with such a darling little sitting-room attached, and such a dear work basket.”
Harlan nearly burst, for the description was of Dorothy’s own particular sanctum.
“Yes,” said Mrs. Carr, very quietly; “I thought my husband would choose that room for you—dear Harlan is always so thoughtful! I will go up with you and take out a few of my things which have been unfortunately left there.”
Shortly afterward, Mr. Carr also climbed the stairs, his head swimming and his knees knocking together. Nervously, he turned over the few pages of his manuscript, then, hearing Dorothy coming, grabbed it and fled like a thief to the library on the first floor. In his panic he bolted the doors and windows of Uncle Ebeneezer’s former retreat. It was unnecessary, however, for no one came near him.
Throughout the long, sweet Spring afternoon, Miss St. Clair slept the dreamless sleep of utter exhaustion, Harlan worked fruitlesslyatThe Quest of Lady Elaine, and Dorothy busied herself about her household tasks, singing with forced cheerfulness whenever she was within hearing of the library.
“I’ll explain” thought Harlan, wretchedly. But after all what was there to explain, except that he had never seen Miss St. Clair before, never in all his life heard of her, never knew there was such a person, or had never met anybody who knew anything about her? “Besides,” he continued to himself “even then, what excuse have I got for stroking a strange woman’s hand and telling her I’m married?”
As the afternoon wore on, he decided that it would be policy to ignore the whole matter. It was an unfortunate misunderstanding all around, which could not be cleared away by speech, unless Dorothy should ask him about it—which he was very certain she would not do. “She ought to trust me,” he said to himself, resentfully, forgetting the absolute openness of thought and deed upon which a woman’s trust is founded. “I’ll read her the book to-night,” he thought, happily, “and that will please her.”
But it was fated not to. After dinner,which was much the same as luncheon, as far as conversation was concerned, Harlan invited Dorothy to come into the library.
She followed him, obediently enough, and he closed the door.
“Dearest,” he began, with a grin which was meant to be cheerful and was merely ridiculous, “I’ve begun the book—I actually have! I’ve been working on it all day. Just listen!”
Hurriedly possessing himself of the manuscript, he read it in an unnatural voice, down to the flower-like hands.
“I don’t see how you can say that, Harlan,” interrupted Dorothy, coolly critical; “I particularly noticed her hands and they’re not nice at all. They’re red and rough and nearly the size of a policeman’s.”
“Whose hands?” demanded Harlan, in genuine astonishment.
“Why, Elaine’s—Miss St. Clair’s. If you’re going to do a book about her, you might at least try to make it truthful.”
Mrs. Carr went out, closing the door carefully, but firmly. Then, for the first time, the whole wretched situation dawned upon the young and aspiring author.
VIIAn Uninvited Guest
Dorothy sat alone in her room, facing the first heartache of her married life. She repeatedly told herself that she was not jealous; that the primitive, unlovely emotion was far beneath such as she. But if Harlan had only told her, instead of leaving her to find out in this miserable way! It had never entered her head that the clear-eyed, clean-minded boy whom she had married, could have anything even remotely resembling a past, and here it was in her own house! Moreover, it had inspired a book, and she herself had been unable to get him to work at all.
Just why women should be concerned in regard to old loves has never been wholly clear. One might as well fancy a clean slate, freshly and elaborately dedicated to noble composition, being bothered by the addition andsubtraction which was once done upon its surface.
With her own eyes she had seen Miss St. Clair weeping, while Harlan held her hands and explained that he was married. Undoubtedly Miss St. Clair accounted for various metropolitan delays and absences which she had joyously forgiven on the score of Harlan’s “work.” Bitterest of all was the thought that she must endure it—that the long years ahead of her offered no escape, no remedy, except the ignoble, painful one which she would not for a moment consider.
A sudden flash of resentment stiffened her backbone, metaphorically speaking. In spite of Miss St. Clair, Harlan had married her, and it was Miss St. Clair who was weeping over the event, not Harlan. She had seen that the visitor made Harlan unhappy—very well, she would generously throw them together and make him painfully weary of her, for Love’s certain destroyer is Satiety. Deep in Dorothy’s consciousness was the abiding satisfaction that she had never once, as she put it to herself, “chased him.” Never a note, never a telephone call, never a question as to his coming and going appeared now to trouble her. Theancient, primeval relation of the Seeker and the Sought had not for a single moment been altered through her.
Meanwhile, Elaine had settled down peacefully enough. Having been regaled since infancy with tales of Uncle Ebeneezer’s generous hospitality, it seemed only fitting and proper that his relatives should make her welcome, even though Elaine’s mother had been only a second cousin of Mrs. Judson’s. Elaine had been deeply touched by Harlan’s solicitude and Dorothy’s kindness, seeing in it nothing more than the manifestation of a beautiful spirit toward one who was helpless and ill.
A modest wardrobe and a few hundred dollars, saved from the wreck of her mother’s estate, and the household furniture in storage, represented Elaine’s worldly goods. As too often happens in a material world, she had been trained to do nothing but sing a little, play a little, and paint unspeakably. She planned, vaguely, to stay where she was during the Summer, and in the Autumn, when she had quite recovered her former strength, to take her money and learn some method of self-support.
Just now she was resting. A late breakfast, a walk through the country, a light luncheon, and a long nap accounted for Elaine’s day until dinner-time. After dinner, for an hour, she exchanged commonplaces with the Carrs, then retired to her own room with a book from Uncle Ebeneezer’s library. Even Dorothy was forced to admit that she made very little trouble.
The train rumbled into the station—the very same train which had brought the Serpent into Paradise. Dorothy smiled a little at the idea of a snake travelling on a train unless it belonged to a circus, and wiped her eyes. Having mapped out her line of conduct, the rest was simple enough—to abide by it even to the smallest details, and patiently await results.
When she went downstairs again she was outwardly quite herself, but altogether unprepared for the surprise that awaited her in the parlour.
“Hello,” cried a masculine voice, cheerily, as she entered the room. “I’ve never seen you before, have I?”
“Not that I know of,” replied Dorothy, startled, but not in the least afraid.
The young man who rose to greet her was not at all unpleasant to look upon. He was taller than Harlan, smooth-shaven, had nice brown eyes, and a mop of curly brown hair which evidently annoyed him. Moreover, he was laughing, as much from sheer joy of living as anything else.
“Which side of the house are you a relative of?” he asked.
“The inside,” returned Dorothy. “I keep house here.”
“You don’t say so! What’s become of Sally? Uncle shoo her off the lot?”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” answered Dorothy, with a fruitless effort to appear matronly and dignified. “If by ‘uncle’ you mean Uncle Ebeneezer, he’s dead.”
“You don’t tell me! Reaped at last, after all this delay! Then how did you come here?”
“By train,” responded Dorothy, enjoying the situation to the utmost. “Uncle Ebeneezer left the house and furniture to my husband.”
The young man sank into a chair and wiped the traces of deep emotion from hisruddy face. “Hully Gee!” he said, when he recovered speech. “I suppose that’s French for ‘Dick, chase yourself.’”
“Perhaps not,” suggested Mrs. Carr, strangely loath to have this breezy individual take his departure. “You might tell me who you are; don’t you think so?”
“Not a bad notion at all. I’m the Dick of the firm of ‘Tom, Dick, and Harry,’ you’ve doubtless heard about from your childhood. My other name is Chester, but few know it. I’m merely ‘Dick’ to everybody, yourself included, I trust,” he added with an elaborate bow. “If you will sit down, and make yourself comfortable, I will now unfold to you the sad story of my life.
“I was born of poor but honest parents about twenty-three years ago, according to the last official census. They brought me up until I reached the ripe age of twelve, then got tired of their job and went to heaven. Since then I’ve brought myself up. I’ve just taught a college all it can learn from me, and been put out. Prexy confided to me that I wasn’t going to graduate, so I shook the classic dust from my weary feet and fled hither as to a harbour of refuge. I’ve always spent mySummers with Uncle Ebeneezer, because it was cheap for me and good for him, but I can’t undertake to follow him up this Summer, not knowing exactly where he is, and not caring for a warm climate anyway.”
Inexpressibly shocked, Dorothy looked up to the portrait over the mantel half fearfully, but there was no change in the stern, malicious old face.
“You’re afraid of him, aren’t you?” asked Dick, with a hearty laugh.
“I always have been,” admitted Dorothy. “He scared me the first time we came here—it was at night, and raining.”
“I’ve known him to scare people in broad daylight, and they weren’t always women either. He used to be a pleasant old codger, but he got over it, and after he learned to swear readily, he was a pretty tough party to buck up against. It took nerve to stay here when uncle was in a bad mood, but most people have more nerve than they think they have. You haven’t told me your name yet.”
“Mrs. Carr—Dorothy Carr.”
“Pretty name,” remarked Dick, with evident admiration. “If you don’t mind, I’ll call you ‘Dorothy’ till the train goes back.It will be something for me to remember in the desert waste of my empty years to come.”
A friendly, hospitable impulse seized Mrs. Carr. “Why should you go?” she inquired, smiling. “If you’ve been in the habit of spending your Summers here, you needn’t change on our account. We’d be glad to have you, I’m sure. A dear old friend of my husband’s is already here.”
“Fine or superfine?”
“Superfine,” returned Dorothy, feeling very much as though the clock had been turned back twenty years or more and she was at a children’s party again.
“You can bet your sweet life I’ll stay,” said Dick, “and if I bother you at any time, just say so and I’ll skate out, with no hard feelings on either side. You may need me when the rest of the bunch gets here.”
“The rest of—oh Harlan, come here a minute!”
She had caught him as he was going into the library with his work, thinking that a change of environment might possibly produce an acceptable change in the current of his thoughts.
“Dick,” said Dorothy, when Harlan cameto the door, “this is my husband. Mr. Chester, Mr. Carr.”
For days Harlan had not seen Dorothy with such rosy cheeks, such dancing eyes, nor half as many dimples. Bewildered, and not altogether pleased, he awkwardly extended his hand to Mr. Chester, with a conventional “how do you do?”
Dick wrung the offered hand in a mighty grip which made Harlan wince. “I congratulate you, Mr. Carr,” he said gallantly, “upon possessing the fairest ornament of her sex. Guess this letter is for you, isn’t it? I found it in the post-office while the keeper was out, and just took it. If it doesn’t belong here, I’ll skip back with it.”
“Thanks,” murmured Harlan, rubbing the injured hand with the other. “I—where did you come from?”
“The station,” explained Dick, pleasantly. “I never trace myself back of where I was last seen.”
“He’s going to stay with us, Harlan,” put in Dorothy, wickedly, “so you mustn’t let us keep you away from your work. Come along, Dick, and I’ll show you our cow.”
They went out, followed by a long, lowwhistle of astonishment from Harlan which Dorothy’s acute ears did not miss. Presently Mr. Carr retreated into the library, and locked the door, but he did not work. The book was at a deadlock, half a paragraph beyond “the flower-like hands of Elaine,” of which, indeed, the author had confessed his inability to write.
“Dick,” thought Harlan. “Mr. Chester. A young giant with a grip like an octopus. ‘The fairest ornament of her sex.’ Never, never heard of him before. Some old flame of Dorothy’s, who has discovered her whereabouts and brazenly followed her, even on her honeymoon.”
And he, Harlan, was absolutely prevented from speaking of it by an unhappy chain of circumstances which put him in a false light! For the first time he fully perceived how a single thoughtless action may bind all one’s future existence.
“Just because I stroked the hand of a distressed damsel,” muttered Harlan, “and told her I was married, I’ve got to sit and see a procession of my wife’s old lovers marking time here all Summer!” In his fevered fancy, he already saw the Jack-o’-Lantern surrounded by Mrs. Carr’s former admirers,heard them call her “Dorothy,” and realised that there was not a single thing he could do.
“Unless, of course,” he added, mentally, “it gets too bad, and I have an excuse to order ’em out. And then, probably, Dorothy will tell Elaine to take her dolls and go home, and the poor thing’s got nowhere to go—nowhere in the wide world.
“How would Dorothy like to be a lonely orphan, with no husband, no friends, and no job? She wouldn’t like it much, but women never have any sympathy for each other, nor for their husbands, either. I’d give twenty dollars this minute not to have stroked Elaine’s hand, and fifty not to have had Dorothy see it, but there’s no use in crying over spilt milk nor in regretting hands that have already been stroked.”
In search of diversion, he opened his letter, which was in answer to the one he had written some little time ago, inquiring minutely, of an acquaintance who was supposed to be successful, just what the prospects were for a beginner in the literary craft.
“Dear Carr,” the letter read. “Sorry not to have answered before, but I’ve been away and things got mixed up. Wouldn’t adviseanybody but an enemy to take up writing as a steady job, but if you feel the call, go in and win. You can make all the way from eight dollars a year, which was what I made when I first struck out, up to five thousand, which was what I averaged last year. I’ve always envied you fellows who could turn in your stuff and get paid for it the following Tuesday. In my line, you work like the devil this year for what you’re going to get next, and live on the year after.
“However, if you’re bitten with it, there’s no cure. You’ll see magazine articles in stones and books in running brooks all the rest of your life. When you get your book done, I’ll trot you around to my publisher, who enjoys the proud distinction of being an honest one, and if he likes your stuff, he’ll take it, and if he doesn’t, he’ll turn you down so pleasantly that you’ll feel as though he’d made you a present of something. If you think you’ve got genius, forget it, and remember that nothing takes the place of hard work. And, besides, it’s a pretty blamed poor book that can’t get itself printed these days.
“Yours as usual,“C. J.”
“Yours as usual,
“C. J.”
The communication was probably intended as encouragement, but the effect was depressing, and at the end of an hour, Harlan had written only two lines more in his book, neither of which pleased him.
Meanwhile, Dick was renewing his old acquaintance with Mrs. Smithers, much to that lady’s pleasure, though she characteristically endeavoured to conceal it. She belonged to a pious sect which held all mirth to be ungodly.
“Sally,” Dick was saying, “I’ve dreamed of your biscuits night and day since I ate the last one. Are we going to have ’em for lunch?”
“No biscuits in this house to-day,” grumbled the deity of the kitchen, in an attempt to be properly stern, “and as I’ve told you more than once, my name ain’t ‘Sally.’ It’s Mis’ Smithers, that’s wot it is, and I’ll thank you to call me by it.”
“Between those who love,” continued Dick, with a sidelong glance at Dorothy, who stood near by, appalled at his daring, “the best is none too good for common use. If my heart breaks the bonds of conventional restraint, and I call you by the name underwhich you always appear to me in my longing dreams, why should you not be gracious, and forgive me? Be kind to me, Sally, be just a little kind, and throw together a pan of those biscuits in your own inimitable style!”
“Run along with you, you limb of Satan,” cried Mrs. Smithers, brandishing a floury spoon.
“Come along, Dorothy,” said Dick, laying a huge but friendly paw upon Mrs. Carr’s shoulder; “we’re chased out.” He put his head back into the kitchen, however, to file a parting petition for biscuits, which was unnecessary, for Mrs. Smithers had already found her rolling-pin and had begun to sift her flour.
Outside, he duly admired Maud, who was chewing the cud of reflection under a tree, created a panic in the chicken yard by lifting Abdul Hamid ignominiously by the legs, to see how heavy he was, and chased Claudius Tiberius under the barn.
“If that cat turns up missing some day,” he said, “don’t blame me. He looks so much like Uncle Ebeneezer that I can’t stand for him.”
“There’s something queer about Claudius, anyway,” ventured Dorothy. “Mrs.Smithers says that uncle killed him the week before he died, and——”
“Before who died?”
“Claudius—no, before uncle died, and she buried him, and he’s come to life again.”
“Uncle, or Claudius?”
“Claudius, you goose,” laughed Dorothy.
“If I knew just how nearly related we were,” remarked Dick, irrelevantly enough, “I believe I’d kiss you. You look so pretty with all your dimples hung out and your hair blowing in the wind.”
Dorothy glanced up, startled, and inclined to be angry, but it was impossible to take offence at such a mischievous youth as Dick was at that moment. “We’re not related,” she said, coolly, “except by marriage.”
“Well, that’s near enough,” returned Dick, who was never disposed to be unduly critical. “Your husband is only related to you by marriage. Don’t be such a prude. Come to the waiting arms of your uncle, or cousin, or brother-in-law, or whatever it is that I happen to be.”
“Go and kiss your friend Sally in the kitchen,” laughed Dorothy. “You have my permission.”Dick made a wry face. “I don’t hanker to do it,” he said, “but if you want me to, I will. I suppose she isn’t pleased with her place and you want to make it more homelike for her.”
“What relation were you to Uncle Ebeneezer?” queried Dorothy, curiously.
“Uncle and I,” sighed Dick, “were connected by the closest ties of blood and marriage. Nobody could be more related than we were. I was the only child of Aunt Rebecca’s sister’s husband’s sister’s husband’s sister. Say, on the dead, if I ever bother you will you tell me so and invite me to skip?”
“Of course I will.”
“Shake hands on it, then; that’s a good fellow. And say, did you say there was another skirt stopping here?”
“A—a what?”
“Petticoat,” explained Dick, patiently; “mulier, as the ancient dagoes had it. They’ve been getting mulier ever since, too. How old is she?”
“Oh,” answered Dorothy. “She’s not more than twenty or twenty-one.” Then, endeavouring to be just to Elaine, she added: “And a very pretty girl, too.”
“Lead me to her,” exclaimed Dick ecstatically. “Already she is mine!”
“You’ll see her at luncheon. There’s the bell, now.”
Mr. Chester was duly presented to Miss St. Clair, and from then on, appeared to be on his good behaviour. Elaine’s delicate, fragile beauty appealed strongly to the susceptible Dick, and from the very beginning, he was afraid of her—a dangerous symptom, if he had only known it.
Harlan, making the best of a bad bargain, devoted himself to his guests impartially, and, upon the whole, the luncheon went off very well, though the atmosphere was not wholly festive.
Afterward, when they sat down in the parlour, there was an awkward pause which no one seemed inclined to relieve. At length Dorothy, mindful of her duty as hostess, asked Miss St. Clair if she would not play something.
Willingly enough, Elaine went to the melodeon, which had not been opened since the Carrs came to live at the Jack-o’-Lantern, and lifted the lid. Immediately, however, she went off into hysterics, which were so violent thatHarlan and Dorothy were obliged to assist her to her room.
Dick strongly desired to carry Elaine upstairs, but was forbidden by the hampering conventionalities. So he lounged over to the melodeon, somewhat surprised to find that “It” was still there.
“It” was a brown, wavy, false front of human hair, securely anchored to the keys underneath by a complicated system of loops of linen thread. Pinned to the top was a faded slip of paper on which Uncle Ebeneezer had written, long ago: “Mrs. Judson always kept her best false front in the melodeon. I do not desire to have it disturbed.—E. J.”
“His Nibs never could bear music,” thought Dick, as he closed the instrument, little guessing that a vein of sentiment in Uncle Ebeneezer’s hard nature had impelled him to keep the prosaic melodeon forever sacred to the slender, girlish fingers that had last brought music from its yellowed keys.
From upstairs still came the sound of crying, which was not altogether to be wondered at, considering Miss St. Clair’s weak, nervous condition. Harlan came down, scowling, andtook back the brandy flask, moving none too hastily.
“They don’t like Elaine,” murmured Dick to himself, vaguely troubled. “I wonder why—oh, I wonder why!”
VIIIMore
Blue as sapphires were the eyes of Elaine, and her fair cheek was like that of an apple blossom. Set like a rose upon pearl was the dewy, fragrant sweetness of her mouth, and her breath was that of the rose itself. Her hands—but how shall I write of the flower-like hands of Elaine? They seemed all too frail to hold the reins of her palfrey, much less to guide him along the rocky road that lay before her.
Safely sheltered in a sunny valley was the Castle of Content, wherein Elaine’s father reigned as Lord. Upon the hills close at hand were the orchards, which were now in bloom. A faint, unearthly sweetness came with every passing breeze, and was wafted through the open windows of the Castle, where, upon the upper floor, Elaine was wont to sit with her maids at the tapestry frames.
But, of late, a strange restlessness was upon her, and the wander-lust surged through her veins.
“My father,” she said, “I am fain to leave the Castle of Content, and set out upon the Heart’s Quest. Among the gallant knights of thy retinue, there is none whom I would wed, and it is seemly that I should set out to find my lord and master, for behold, father, as thou knowest, twenty years and more have passed over my head, and my beauty hath begun to fade.”
The Lord of the Castle of Content smiled in amusement, that Elaine, the beautiful, should fancy her charms were on the wane. But he was ever eager to gratify the slightest wish of this only child of his, and so he gave his ready consent.
“Indeed, Elaine,” he answered, “and if thou choosest, thou shalt go, but these despised knights shall attend thee, and also our new fool, who hath come from afar to make merry in our court. His motley is of an unfamiliar pattern, his quips and jests savour not so much of antiquity, and his songs are pleasing. He shall lighten the rigours of thy journey and cheer thee when thou art sad.”
“But, father, I do not choose to have the fool.”
“Say no more, Elaine, for if thou goest, thou shall have the fool. It is most fitting that in thy retinue there shouldst be more than one to wear the cap and bells, and it is in my mind to consider this quest of thine somewhat more than mildly foolish. Unnumbered brave and faithful knights are at thy feet and yet thou canst not choose, but must needs fare onward in search of a stranger to be thy lord and master.”
Elaine raised her hand. “As thou wilt, father,” she said, submissively. “Thou canst not understand the way of a maid. Bid thy fool to prepare himself quickly for a long journey, since we start at sunset.”
“But why at sunset, daughter? The way is long. Mayst not thy mission wait until sunrise?”
“Nay, father, for it is my desire to sleep to-night upon the ground. The tapestried walls of my chamber stifle me and I would fain lie in the fresh air with only the green leaves for my canopy and the stars for my taper lights.”
“As thou wilt, Elaine, but my heart is sad at the prospect of losing thee. Thou art my onlychild, the image of thy dead mother, and my old eyes shall be misty for the sight of thee long before my gallant knights bring thee back again.”
“So shall I gain some hours, father,” she answered. “Perhaps my sunset journeying shall bring my return a day nearer. Cross me not in this wish, father, for it is my fancy to go.”
So it was that the cavalcade was made ready and Elaine and her company left the Castle of Content at sunset. Two couriers rode at the head, to see that the way was clear, and with a silver bugle to warn travellers to stand aside until the Lady Elaine and her attendants had passed.
Upon a donkey, caparisoned in a most amusing manner, rode Le Jongleur, the new fool of whom the Lord of the Castle of Content had spoken. His motley, as has been said, was of an unfamiliar pattern, but was none the less striking, being made wholly of scarlet and gold. The Lady Elaine could not have guessed that it was assumed as a tribute to the trappings of her palfrey, for Le Jongleur’s heart was most humble and loyal, though leaping now with the joy of serving the fair Lady Elaine.
The Lord of Content stood at the portal of the Castle to bid the retinue Godspeed, and as the cymbals crashed out a sounding farewell, he impatiently wiped away the mist, which already had clouded his vision. Long he waited, straining his eyes toward the distant cliffs, where, one by one, the company rode upward. The valley was in shadow, but the long light lay upon the hills, changing the crags to a wonder of purple and gold. To him, too, came the breath of apple bloom, but it brough no joy to his troubled heart.
What dangers lay in wait for Elaine as she fared forth upon her wild quest? What monsters haunted the primeval forests through which her path must lie? And where was the knight who should claim her innocent and maidenly heart? At this thought, the Lord of Content shuddered, then was quickly ashamed.
“I am as foolish,” he muttered, “as he in motley, who rides at the side of Elaine. Surely my daughter, the child of a soldier, can make no unworthy choice.”
The cavalcade had reached the summit of the cliff, now, and at the brink, turned back. The cymbals and the bugles pealed forthanother sounding farewell to the Lord of the Castle of Content, whom Elaine well knew was waiting in the shadow of the portal till her company should be entirely lost to sight.
The last light shone upon the wonderful mass of gold which rippled to her waist, unbound, from beneath her close-fitting scarlet cap, and gave her an unearthly beauty. Le Jongleur held aloft his bauble, making it to nod in merry fashion, but the Lord of Content did not see, his eyes being fixed upon Elaine. She waved her hand to him, but he could not answer, for his shoulders were shaking with grief, nor, indeed, across the merciless distance that lay between, could he guess at Elaine’s whispered prayer: “Dear Heavenly Father, keep thou my earthly father safe and happy, till his child comes back again.”
Over the edge of the cliff and out upon a wide plain they fared. Ribbons of glorious colour streamed from the horizon to the zenith, and touched to flame the cymbals and the bugles and the trappings of the horses and the shields of the knights. Piercingly sweet, across the fields of blowing clover, came the even song of a feathered chorister, and—what on earth was that noise?
Harlan went to the window impatiently, like one wakened from a dream by a blind impulse of action.
The village stage, piled high with trunks, was at his door, and from the cavernous depths of the vehicle, shrieks of juvenile terror echoed and re-echoed unceasingly. Mr. Blake, driving, merely waited in supreme unconcern.
“What in the hereafter,” muttered Harlan, savagely. “More old lovers of Dorothy’s, I suppose, or else the—Good Lord, it’s twins!”
A child of four or five fell out of the stage, followed by another, who lit unerringly on top of the prostrate one. In the meteoric moment of the fall, Harlan had seen that the two must have discovered America at about the same time, for they were exactly alike, making due allowance for the slight difference made by masculine and feminine attire.
An enormous doll, which to Harlan’s troubled sight first appeared to be an infant in arms, was violently ejected from the stage and added to the human pile which was wriggling and weeping upon the gravelled walk. A cub of seven next leaped out,whistling shrilly, then came a querulous, wailing, feminine voice from the interior.
“Willie,” it whined, “how can you act so? Help your little brother and sister up and get Rebbie’s doll.”
To this the lad paid no attention whatever, and the mother herself assorted the weeping pyramid on the walk. Harlan ran downstairs, feeling that the hour had come to defend his hearthstone from outsiders. Dick and Dorothy were already at the door.
“Foundlings’ Home,” explained Dick, briefly, with a wink at Harlan. “They’re late this year.”
Dorothy was speechless with amazement and despair. Before Harlan had begun to think connectedly, one of the twins had darted into the house and bumped its head on the library door, thereupon making the Jack-o’-Lantern hideous with much lamentation.
The mother, apparently tired out, came in as though she had left something of great value there and had come to get it, pausing only to direct Harlan to pay the stage driver, and have her trunks taken into the rooms opening off the dining-room on the south side.
Willie took a mouth-organ out of his pocketand rendered a hitherto unknown air upon it with inimitable vigour. In the midst of the confusion, Claudius Tiberius had the misfortune to appear, and, immediately perceiving his mistake, whisked under the sofa, from whence the other twin determinedly haled him, using the handle which Nature had evidently intended for that purpose.
“Will you kindly tell me,” demanded Mrs. Carr, when she could make herself heard, “what is the meaning of all this?”
“I do not understand you,” said the mother of the twins, coldly. “Were you addressing me?”
“I was,” returned Mrs. Carr, to Dick’s manifest delight. “I desire to know why you have come to my house, uninvited, and made all this disturbance.”
“The idea!” exclaimed the woman, trembling with anger. “Will you please send for Mr. Judson?”
“Mr. Judson,” said Dorothy, icily, “has been dead for some time. This house is the property of my husband.”
“Indeed! And who may your husband be?” The tone of the question did not indicate even faint interest in the subject under discussion.
Dorothy turned, but Harlan had long since beat an ignominious retreat, closely followed by Dick, whose idea, as audibly expressed, was that the women be allowed to “fight it out by themselves.”
“I can readily understand,” went on Dorothy, with a supreme effort at self-control, “that you have made a mistake for which you are not in any sense to blame. You are tired from your journey, and you are quite welcome to stay until to-morrow.”
“To-morrow!” shrilled the woman. “I guess you don’t know who I am! I am Mrs. Holmes, Rebecca Judson’s own cousin, and I have spent the Summer here ever since Rebecca was married! I guess if Ebeneezer knew you were practically ordering his wife’s own cousin out of his house, he’d rise from his grave to haunt you!”
Dorothy fancied that Uncle Ebeneezer’s portrait moved slightly. Aunt Rebecca still surveyed the room from the easel, gentle, sweet-faced, and saintly. There was no resemblance whatever between Aunt Rebecca and the sallow, hollow-cheeked, wide-eyed termagant, with a markedly receding chin, who stood before Mrs. Carr and defied her.
“This is my husband’s house,” suggested Dorothy, pertinently.
“Then let your husband do the talking,” rejoined Mrs. Holmes, sarcastically. “If he was sure it was his, I guess he wouldn’t have run away. I’ve always had my own rooms here, and I intend to go and come as I please, as I always have done. You can’t make me believe that Ebeneezer gave my apartments to your husband, nor him either, and I wouldn’t advise any of you to try it.”
Sounds of fearful panic came from the chicken yard, and Dorothy rushed out, swiftly laying avenging hands on the disturber of the peace. One of the twins was chasing Abdul Hamid around the coop with a lath, as he explained between sobs, “to make him lay.” Mrs. Holmes bore down upon Dorothy before any permanent good had been done.
“How dare you!” she cried. “How dare you lay hands on my child! Come, Ebbie, come to mamma. Bless his little heart, he shall chase the chickens if he wants to, so there, there. Don’t cry, Ebbie. Mamma will get you another lath and you shall play with the chickens all the afternoon. There, there!”
Harlan appeared at this juncture, and ina few quiet, well-chosen words told Mrs. Holmes that the chicken coop was his property, and that neither now nor at any other time should any one enter it without his express permission.
“Upon my word,” remarked Mrs. Holmes, still soothing the unhappy twin. “How high and mighty we are when we’re living off our poor dead uncle’s bounty! Telling his wife’s own cousin what she’s to do, and what she isn’t! Upon my word!”
So saying, Mrs. Holmes retired to the house, her pace hastened by howls from the other twin, who was in trouble with her older brother somewhere in her “apartment.”
Dorothy looked at Harlan, undecided whether to laugh or to cry. “Poor little woman,” he said, softly; “don’t you fret. We’ll have them out of the house no later than to-morrow.”
“All of them?” asked Dorothy, eagerly, as Miss St. Clair strolled into the front yard.
Harlan’s brow clouded and he shifted uneasily from one foot to the other. “I don’t know,” he said, slowly, “whether I’ve got nerve enough to order a woman out of my house or not. Let’s wait and see what happens.”
A sob choked Dorothy, and she ran swiftly into the house, fortunately meeting no one on her way to her room. Dick ventured out of the barn and came up to Harlan, who was plainly perplexed.
“Very, very mild arrival,” commented Mr. Chester, desiring to put his host at his ease. “I’ve never known ’em to come so peacefully as they have to-day. Usually there’s more or less disturbance.”
“Disturbance,” repeated Harlan. “Haven’t we had a disturbance to-day?”
“We have not,” answered Dick, placidly. “Wait till young Ebeneezer and Rebecca get more accustomed to their surroundings, and then you’ll have a Fourth of July every day, with Christmas, Thanksgiving, and St. Patrick’s Day thrown in. Willie is the worst little terror that ever went unlicked, and the twins come next.”
“Perhaps you don’t understand children,” remarked Harlan, with a patronising air, and more from a desire to disagree with Dick than from anything else. “I’ve always liked them.”
“If you have,” commented Dick, with a knowing chuckle, “you’re in a fair way to get cured of it.”
“Tell me about these people,” said Harlan, ignoring the speech, and dominated once more by healthy human curiosity. “Who are they and where do they come from?”
“They’re dwellers from the infernal regions,” explained Dick, with an air of truthfulness, “and they came from there because the old Nick turned ’em out. They were upsetting things and giving the place a bad name. Mrs. Holmes says she’s Aunt Rebecca’s cousin, but nobody knows whether she is or not. She’s come here every Summer since Aunt Rebecca died, and poor old uncle couldn’t help himself. He hinted more than once that he’d enjoy her absence if she could be moved to make herself scarce, but it had no more effect than a snowflake would in the place she came from. The most he could do was to build a wing on the house with a separate kitchen and dining-room in it, and take his own meals in the library, with the door bolted.
“Willie is a Winter product and Judson Centre isn’t a pleasant place in the cold months, but the twins were born here, five years ago this Summer. They came in the night, but didn’t make any more trouble then than they have every day since.”
“What would you do?” asked Harlan, after a thoughtful silence, “if you were in my place?”
“I’d be tickled to death because a kind Providence had married me to Dorothy instead of to Mrs. Holmes. Poor old Holmes is in his well-earned grave.”
With great dignity, Harlan walked into the house, but Dick, occupied with his own thoughts, did not guess that his host was offended.
After the first excitement was over, comparative peace settled down upon the Jack-o’-Lantern. Mrs. Holmes decided the question of where she should eat, by setting four more places at the table when Mrs. Smithers’s back was turned. Dorothy did not appear at luncheon, and Mrs. Smithers performed her duties with such pronounced ungraciousness that Elaine felt as though something was about to explode.
A long sleep, born of nervous exhaustion, came at last to Dorothy’s relief. When she awoke, it was night and the darkness dazed her at first. She sat up and rubbed her eyes, wondering whether she had been dead, or merely ill.
There was not a sound in the Jack-o’-Lantern, and the events of the day seemed like some hideous nightmare which waking had put to rout. She bathed her face in cool water, then went to look out of the window.
A lantern moved back and forth under the trees in the orchard, and a tall, dark figure, armed with a spade, accompanied it. “It’s Harlan,” thought Dorothy. “I’ll go down and see what he’s burying.”
But it was only Mrs. Smithers, who appeared much startled when she saw her mistress at her side.
“What are you doing?” demanded Dorothy, seeing that Mrs. Smithers had dug a hole at least a foot and a half each way.
“Just a-satisfyin’ myself,” explained the handmaiden, with a note of triumph in her voice, “about that there cat. ’Ere’s where I buried ’im, and ’ere’s where there ain’t no signs of ’is dead body. ’E’s come back to ’aunt us, that’s wot ’e ’as, and your uncle’ll be the next.”
“Don’t be so foolish,” snapped Dorothy. “You’ve forgotten the place, that’s all, and I don’t wish to hear any more of this nonsense.”
“’Oo was it?” asked Mrs. Smithers, “ascome out of a warm bed at midnight to see as if folks wot was diggin’ for cats found anythink? ’T warn’t me, Miss, that’s wot it warn’t, and I take it that them as follers is as nonsensical as them wot digs. Anyhow, Miss, ’ere’s where ’e was buried, and ’ere’s where ’e ain’t now. You can think wot you likes, that’s wot you can.”
Claudius Tiberius suddenly materialised out of the surrounding darkness, and after sniffing at the edge of the hole, jumped in to investigate.
“You see that, Miss?” quavered Mrs. Smithers. “’E knows where ’e’s been, and ’e knows where ’e ain’t now.”
“Mrs. Smithers,” said Dorothy, sternly, “will you kindly fill up that hole and come into the house and go to bed? I don’t want to be kept awake all night.”
“You don’t need to be kept awake, Miss,” said Mrs. Smithers, slowly filling up the hole. “The worst is ’ere already and wot’s comin’ is comin’ anyway, and besides,” she added, as an afterthought, “there ain’t a blessed one of ’em come ’ere at night since your uncle fixed over the house.”