by Myrtle Reed
VI
The Coming of Elaine
There is no state of mental wretchedness akin to that which precedes thewriting of a book. Harlan was moody and despairing, chiefly because hecould not understand what it all meant. Something hung over him like ablack cloud, completely obscuring his usual sunny cheerfulness.
He burned with the desire to achieve, yet from the depths of his soul cameonly emptiness. Vague, purposeless aspirations, like disembodied spirits,haunted him by night and by day. Before his inner vision came unfamiliarscenes, detached fragments of conversation, the atmosphere, the feeling ofan old romance, then, by a swift change, darkness from which there seemedno possible escape.
A woman with golden hair, mounted upon a white horse, gay with scarlet andsilver trappings--surely her name was Elaine? And the company of gallantknights 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 andhis cracked, meaningless laughter, danced in and out of the picture withimpish glee. Behind it all was the sunset, such a sunset as was never seenon land or sea. Ribbons of splendid colour streamed from the horizon tothe 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 lostin the purple silence of the hills. Elaine turned, smiling--was not hername Elaine? And then----
Darkness fell and the picture was utterly wiped out. Harlan turned awaywith a sigh.
To take the dead, dry bones of words, the tiny black things that march inset spaces across the page; to set each where it inevitablybelongs--truly, it seems simple enough. But from the vast range of ourwritten speech to select those which fittingly clothe the thought is quiteanother matter, and presupposes the thought. Even then, by necessity, theoutcome is uncertain.
Within the mind of the writer, the Book lives and breathes; a child of thebrain, yearning for birth. At a white heat, after long waiting, the wordscome--merely a commentary, an index, a marginal note of that within.Reading afterward the written words, the fine invisible links, the colourand the music, are treacherously supplied by the imagination, which is atonce the best friend and the worst enemy. How is one to know that only asmall 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 neverbeen, one may read his printed work, and wonder, in abject self-abasement,by what miracle it was ever printed. He has trusted to some unknownpsychology which strongly savours of the Black Art to reproduce in theminds of his readers the picture which was in his, and from which thesefragmentary, marginal notes were traced. Only the words, the dead,meaningless words, stripped of all the fancy which once made them fair, tomake for the thousands the wild, delirious bliss that the writer knew! Towrite with the tears falling upon the page, and afterward to read, in someparticularly poignant and searching review, that "the book fails toconvince!" Happy is he whose written pages reproduce but faintly the glowfrom whence they came. For "whoso with blood and tears would dig Art outof his soul, may lavish his golden prime in pursuit of emptiness, or,striking treasure, find only fairy gold, so that when his eyes are purgedof 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 thestill, sunlit air, then vanished into the blue spaces beyond. A bough ofapple bloom, its starry petals anchored only by invisible cobwebs, softlyshook white fragrance into the grass. Then, like a vision straight fromthe golden city with the walls of pearl, came Elaine, the beautiful, herblue eyes laughing, and her scarlet lips parted in a smile.
Harlan's heart sang within him. His trembling hands grasped feverishly atthe 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 Elainefared forth upon the Heart's Quest. She was mounted upon a snowy palfrey,whose trappings of scarlet and silver gleamed brightly in the sun. Hergown was of white satin, wondrously embroidered in fine gold thread, whichwas no less gold than her hair, falling in unchecked splendour abouther._
_Blue as sapphires were the eyes of Elaine, and her fair cheek was likethat 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 roseitself. Her hands--but how shall I write of the flower-like hands ofElaine? They--_
The door-bell pealed portentously through the house, echoing andre-echoing through the empty rooms. No answer. Presently it rang again,insistently, and Elaine, with her snowy palfrey, whisked suddenly out ofsight.
Gone, except for these few lines! Harlan stifled a groan and the bell rangonce more.
Heavens! Where was Dorothy? Where was Mrs. Smithers? Was there no one inthe house but himself? Apparently not, for the bell rang determinedly, andwith military precision.
"March, march, forward march!" grumbled Harlan, as he ran downstairs, theone-two, one-two-three being registered meanwhile on the bell-wire.
It was not a pleasant person who violently wrenched the door open, but inspite of his annoyance, Harlan could not be discourteous to a lady. Shewas tall, and slender, and pale, with blue eyes and yellow hair, and sovery fragile that it seemed as though a passing zephyr might almost blowher 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 wasevidently a friend of Dorothy's, and, as such, demanded properconsideration.
The invitation was needless, however, for even as he spoke, she brushedpast him, and went into the parlour. "I'm so tired," she breathed. "Iwalked up that long hill."
"You shouldn't have done it," returned Harlan, standing first on one footand then on the other. "Couldn't you find the stage?"
"I didn't look for it. I never had any ambition to go on the stage," sheconcluded, 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 hairclothchairs. "Where is Uncle Ebeneezer?"
"Uncle Ebeneezer is dead," explained Harlan, somewhat tartly. Then, as heremembered the utter ruin of his work, he added, viciously, "never havingknown him intimately, I can't say just where he is."
She leaned back in her chair, her face as white as death. Harlan thoughtshe had fainted, when she relieved his mind by bursting into tears. He wasmore familiar with salt water, but, none the less, the situation wasawkward.
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 mydear mother died. She made me promise, during her last illness, that ifanything happened to her, I would come to Uncle Ebeneezer. She said shehad never imposed upon him and that he would gladly take care of me, forher sake. I was ill a long, long time, but as soon as I was able to, Icame, and now--and now----"
"Don't," said Harlan, again, awkwardly patting her hands, and deeplytouched by the girl's distress. "We are your friends. You can stay herejust as well as not. I am married and----"
Upon his back, Harlan felt eyes. He turned quickly, and saw Dorothystanding in the door--quite a new Dorothy, indeed; very tall, and stately,and pale.
Through sheer nervousness, Mr. Carr laughed--an unfortunate, high-pitchedlaugh with no mirth in it. "Let me present my wife," he said, soberingsuddenly. "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 didnot seem to see. "It is very good of your husband to ask me to stay withyou."
&n
bsp; "Very," replied Dorothy, in a tone altogether new to her husband. "He isalways doing lovely things for people. And now, Harlan, if you will showMiss St. Clair to her room, I will speak with Mrs. Smithers aboutluncheon, which should be nearly ready by this time."
"Thunder," said Harlan to himself, as Dorothy withdrew. "What in the devildo I know about 'her room'? Have you ever been here before?" he inquiredof the guest.
"Never in my life," answered Miss St. Clair, wiping her eyes.
"Well," replied Harlan, confusedly, "just go on upstairs, then, and helpyourself. There are plenty of rooms, and cribs to burn in every blamed oneof 'em," he added, savagely, remembering the look in Dorothy's eyes.
"Thank you," said Miss St. Clair, diffidently; "it is very kind of you tolet 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, andHarlan, not altogether happy at the prospect, went in search of Dorothy.At the kitchen door he paused, hearing voices within.
"They've usually et by themselves," Mrs. Smithers was saying. "Is this anew one, or a friend of yours?"
The sentence was utterly without meaning, either to Harlan or Dorothy, butthe answer was given, as quick as a flash. "A friend, Mrs. Smithers--avery 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 placewhich is said to be paved with good intentions.
The clock struck twelve, and it was just eleven when he had begun on _TheQuest of the Lady Elaine_. "'One crowded hour of glorious life isworth'--what idiot said it was worth anything?" groaned Harlan, inwardly."Anyway, I've had the crowded hour. 'Better fifty years of Europe than acycle of Cathay'"--the line sang itself into his consciousness. "Europe beeverlastingly condemned," he muttered. "Oh, how my head aches!"
He leaned back in his chair, wondering where "Cathay" might be. It soundedlike a nice, quiet place, with no "dear old friends" in it--a peacefulspot where people could write books if they wanted to. "Just why," heasked himself more than once, "was I inspired to grab the shaky paw ofthat human sponge? 'Tears, idle tears, I know not what they mean'--oh, thedevil! She must have a volume of Tennyson in her grip, and it's soakingthrough!"
Mrs. Smithers came out into the hall, more sepulchral and grim-visagedthan ever, and rang the bell for luncheon. To Harlan's fevered fancy, itsounded like a sexton tolling a bell for a funeral. Miss St. Clair, withthe traces of tears practically removed, floated gracefully downstairs,and Harlan, coming out of the library with the furtive step of a wildbeast 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 precisemoment, Dorothy appeared in the dining-room door.
"Harlan, dear," she said, in her sweetest tones, "will you give our guestyour arm and escort her out to luncheon? I have it all ready!"
Miss St. Clair clutched timidly at Harlan's rigid coat sleeve, wonderingwhat strange custom of the house would be evident next, and the fog wasthick before Mr. Carr's eyes, when he took his accustomed seat at the headof the table. As a sign of devotion, he tried to step on Dorothy's footunder the table, after a pleasing habit of their courtship in the New Yorkboarding-house, but he succeeded only in drawing an unconscious "ouch" anda vivid blush from Miss St. Clair, by which he impressed Dorothy moredeeply 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 fromHarlan's shaky hand.
"I know," said Dorothy sweetly. "We come from New York, too." Then shetook 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 ammistaken, but you may have heard of me?"
"Indeed I haven't," Elaine assured her. "I never heard of you in my lifebefore. Why should I?" A sudden and earnest crow under the window behindher startled her so that she dropped her knife. Harlan stooped for it atthe same time she did and their heads bumped together smartly.
"Our gentleman chicken," went on Dorothy, tactfully. "We call him 'AbdulHamid.' You know the masculine nature is instinctively polygamous."
Harlan cackled mirthlessly, wondering, subconsciously, how Abdul Hamidcould have escaped from the coop. After that there was silence, save asDorothy, in her most hospitable manner, occasionally urged the guest tohave more of something. Throughout luncheon, she never once spoke toHarlan, nor took so much as a single glance at his red, unhappy face. Evenhis ears were scarlet, and the delicious fried chicken which he was eatingmight 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 thetable, "I am sure you will wish to lie down and rest after your longjourney. Which room did you choose?"
"I looked at all of them," responded Elaine, touched to the heart by thisunexpected kindness from strangers, "and finally chose the suite in thesouth wing. It's a nice large room, with such a darling littlesitting-room attached, and such a dear work basket."
Harlan nearly burst, for the description was of Dorothy's own particularsanctum.
"Yes," said Mrs. Carr, very quietly; "I thought my husband would choosethat room for you--dear Harlan is always so thoughtful! I will go up withyou and take out a few of my things which have been unfortunately leftthere."
Shortly afterward, Mr. Carr also climbed the stairs, his head swimming andhis knees knocking together. Nervously, he turned over the few pages ofhis manuscript, then, hearing Dorothy coming, grabbed it and fled like athief to the library on the first floor. In his panic he bolted the doorsand 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 thedreamless sleep of utter exhaustion, Harlan worked fruitlessly at _TheQuest of Lady Elaine_, and Dorothy busied herself about her householdtasks, singing with forced cheerfulness whenever she was within hearing ofthe library.
"I'll explain" thought Harlan, wretchedly. But after all what was there toexplain, except that he had never seen Miss St. Clair before, never in allhis life heard of her, never knew there was such a person, or had nevermet anybody who knew anything about her? "Besides," he continued tohimself "even then, what excuse have I got for stroking a strange woman'shand and telling her I'm married?"
As the afternoon wore on, he decided that it would be policy to ignore thewhole matter. It was an unfortunate misunderstanding all around, whichcould not be cleared away by speech, unless Dorothy should ask him aboutit--which he was very certain she would not do. "She ought to trust me,"he said to himself, resentfully, forgetting the absolute openness ofthought and deed upon which a woman's trust is founded. "I'll read her thebook to-night," he thought, happily, "and that will please her."
But it was fated not to. After dinner, which was much the same asluncheon, as far as conversation was concerned, Harlan invited Dorothy tocome 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 wasmerely ridiculous, "I've begun the book--I actually have! I've beenworking on it all day. Just listen!"
Hurriedly possessing himself of the manuscript, he read it in an unnaturalvoice, down to the flower-like hands.
"I don't see how you can say that, Harlan," interrupted Dorothy, coollycritical; "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 abo
ut her,you might at least try to make it truthful."
Mrs. Carr went out, closing the door carefully, but firmly. Then, for thefirst time, the whole wretched situation dawned upon the young andaspiring author.
