by Myrtle Reed
XVI
Good Fortune
The next morning, Harlan and Dorothy ate breakfast by themselves. Therewas suppressed excitement in the manner of Mrs. Smithers, who by this timehad quite recovered from her fright, and, as they readily saw, not whollyof an unpleasant kind. From time to time she tittered audibly--a thingwhich had never happened before.
"It's just as if a tombstone should giggle," remarked Harlan. His tone waslow, but unfortunately, it carried well.
"Tombstone or not, just as you like," responded Mrs. Smithers, as she camein with the bacon. "I'd be careful 'ow I spoke disrespectfully oftombstones if I was in your places, that's wot I would. Tombstones is kindto some and cussed to others, that's wot they are, and if you don't likethe monument wot's at present in your kitchen, you know wot you can do."
After breakfast, she beckoned Dorothy into the kitchen, and "gavenotice."
"Oh, Mrs. Smithers," cried Dorothy, almost moved to tears, "please don'tleave me in the lurch! What should I do without you, with all these peopleon my hands? Don't think of such a thing as leaving me!"
"Miss Carr," said Mrs. Smithers, solemnly, with one long bony finger laidalongside of her hooked nose, "'t ain't necessary for you to run no Summerhotel, that's what it ain't. These 'ere all be relations of your uncle'swife and none of his'n except by marriage. Wot's more, your uncle don'twant 'em 'ere, that's wot 'e don't."
Mrs. Smithers's tone was so confident that for the moment Dorothy wasstartled, remembering yesterday's vague allusion to "sheeted spectres ofthe dead."
"What do you mean?" she demanded.
"Miss Carr," returned Mrs. Smithers, with due dignity, "ever since I come'ere, I've been invited to shut my 'ead whenever I opened it about thatthere cat or your uncle or anythink, as you well knows. I was never onewot was fond of 'avin' my 'ead shut up."
"Go on," said Dorothy, her curiosity fully alive, "and tell me what youmean."
"You gives me your solemn oath, Miss, that you won't tell me to shut my'ead?" queried Mrs. Smithers.
"Of course," returned Dorothy, trying to be practical, though theatmosphere was sepulchral enough.
"Well, then, you knows wot I told you about that there cat. 'E was kilt byyour uncle, that's wot 'e was, and your uncle couldn't never abide cats.'E was that feared of 'em 'e couldn't even bury 'em when they was kilt,and one of my duties, Miss, as long as I lived with 'im, was buryin' ofcats, and until this one, I never come up with one wot couldn't stayburied, that's wot I 'aven't.
"'E 'ated 'em like poison, that's wot 'e did. The week afore your uncledied, he kilt this 'ere cat wot's chasin' the chickens now, and I buried'im with my own hands, but could 'e stay buried? 'E could not. No sooneris your uncle dead and gone than this 'ere cat comes back, and it's thetruth, Miss Carr, for where 'e was buried, there ain't no sign of a catnow. Wot's worse, this 'ere cat looks per-cisely like your uncle, greeneyes, white shirt front, black tie and all. It's enough to give a body theshivers to see 'im a-settin' on the kitchen floor lappin' up 'is mush andmilk, the which your uncle was so powerful fond of.
"Wot's more," continued Mrs. Smithers, in tones of awe, "I'll a'most betmy immortal soul that if you'll dig in the cemetery where your uncle wasburied good and proper, you won't find nothin' but the empty coffin andmaybe 'is grave clothes. Your uncle's been livin' with us all along inthat there cat," she added, triumphantly. "It's 'is punishment, for 'ecouldn't never abide 'em, that's wot 'e couldn't."
Mrs. Carr opened her mouth to speak, then, remembering her promise, tookrefuge in flight.
"'Er's scared," muttered Mrs. Smithers, "and no wonder. Wot with cats ascan't stay buried, writin' letters and deliverin' 'em in the dead ofnight, and a purrin' like mad while blamed fools digs for eight cents,most folks would be scared, I take it, that's wot they would."
Dorothy was pale when she went into the library where Harlan was at work.He frowned at the interruption and Dorothy smiled back at him--it seemedso normal and sane.
"What is it, Dorothy?" he asked, not unkindly.
"Oh--just Mrs. Smithers's nonsense. She's upset me."
"What about, dear?" Harlan put his work aside readily enough now.
"Oh, the same old story about the cat and Uncle Ebeneezer. And I'mafraid----"
"Afraid of what?"
"I know it's foolish, but I'm afraid she's going to dig in the cemetery tosee if Uncle Ebeneezer is still there. She thinks he's in the cat."
For the moment, Harlan thought Dorothy had suddenly lost her reason, thenhe laughed heartily.
"Don't worry," he said, "she won't do anything of the kind, and, besides,what if she did? It's a free country, isn't it?"
"And--there's another thing, Harlan." For days she had dreaded to speak ofit, but now it could be put off no longer.
"It's--it's money," she went on, unwillingly. "I'm afraid I haven'tmanaged very well, or else it's cost so much for everything, butwe're--we're almost broke, Harlan," she concluded, bravely, trying tosmile.
Harlan put his hands in his pockets and began to walk back and forth. "IfI can only finish the book," he said, at length, "I think we'll be allright, but I can't leave it now. There's only two more chapters to write,and then----"
"And then," cried Dorothy, her beautiful belief in him transfiguring herface, "then we'll be rich, won't we?"
"I am already rich," returned Harlan, "when you have such faith in me asthat."
For a moment the shimmering veil of estrangement which so long had hungbetween them, seemed to part, and reveal soul to soul. As swiftly the moodchanged and Dorothy felt it first, like a chill mist in the air. Neitherdreamed that with the writing of the first paragraph in the book, thespell had claimed one of them for ever--that cobweb after cobweb, ofgossamer fineness, should make a fabric never to be broken; that on oneside of it should stand a man who had exchanged his dreams for realitiesand his realities for dreams, and on the other, a woman, blindly hurt,eternally straining to see beyond the veil.
"What can we do?" asked Harlan, unwontedly practical for the nonce.
"I don't know," said Dorothy. "There are the diamonds, you know, that wefound. I don't care for any diamonds, except the one you gave me. If wecould sell those----"
"Dorothy, don't. I don't believe they're ours, and if they were, theyshouldn't be sold. You should keep them."
"My engagement ring, then," suggested Dorothy, her lips trembling. "That'sours."
"Don't be foolish," said Harlan, a little roughly. "I'll finish this andthen we'll see what's to be done."
Feeling her dismissal, Dorothy went out, and, all unknowingly, straightinto the sunshine.
Elaine was coming downstairs, fresh and sweet as the morning itself. "Am Itoo late to have any breakfast, Mrs. Carr?" she asked, gaily. "I know Idon't deserve any."
"Of course you shall have breakfast. I'll see to it."
Elaine took her place at the table and Dorothy, reluctant to put furtherstrain on the frail bond that anchored Mrs. Smithers to her service,brought in the breakfast herself.
"You're so good to me," said the girl, gratefully, as Dorothy poured out acup of steaming coffee. "To think how beautiful you've been to me, when Inever saw either one of you in my whole life, till I came here ill andbroken-hearted! See what you've made of me--see how well and strong Iam!"
Swiftly, Dorothy bent and kissed Elaine, a strange, shadowy cloud for everlifted from her heart. She had not known how heavy it was nor how chargedwith foreboding, until it was gone.
"I want to do something for you," Elaine went on, laughing to hide themist in her eyes, "and I've just thought what I can do. My mother had somebeautiful old mahogany furniture, just loads of it, and some wonderfullaces, and I'm going to divide with you."
"No, you're not," returned Dorothy, warmly. She felt that Elaine hadalready given her enough.
"It isn't meant for payment, Mrs. Carr," the girl went on, her big blueeyes fixed upon Dorothy, "but you're to take it from me just as I've takenthis lovely Summer from you. You took in a stra
nger, weak and helpless andhalf-crazed with grief, and you've made her into a happy woman again."
Before Dorothy could answer, Dick lounged in, frankly sleepy. "Second callin the dining car?" he asked, taking Mrs. Dodd's place, across the tablefrom Elaine.
"Third call," returned Dorothy, brightly, "and, if you don't mind, I'llleave you two to wait on yourselves." She went upstairs, her heart light,not so much from reality as from prescience. "How true it is," shethought, "that if you only wait and do the best you can, things all workout straight again. I've had to learn it, but I know it now."
"Bully bunch, the Carrs," remarked Dick, pushing his cup to Elaine.
"They're lovely," she answered, with conviction.
The sun streamed brightly into the dining-room of the Jack-o'-Lantern andchanged its hideousness into cheer. Seeing Elaine across from him,gracefully pouring his coffee, affected Dick strangely. Since the daybefore, he had seen clearly something which he must do.
"I say, Elaine," he began, awkwardly. "That beast of a poem I read theother day----"
Her face paled, ever so slightly. "Yes?"
"Well, Perkins didn't write it, you know," Dick went on, hastily. "I didit myself. Or, rather I found it, blowing around, outside, just as I said,and I fixed it."
At length he became restless under the calm scrutiny of Elaine's cleareyes. "I beg your pardon," he continued.
"Did you think," she asked, "that it was nice to make fun of a lady inthat way?"
"I didn't think," returned Dick, truthfully. "I never thought for a minutethat it was making fun of you, but only of that--that pup, Perkins," heconcluded, viciously.
"Under the circumstances," said Elaine, ignoring the epithet, "the silenceof Mr. Perkins has been very noble. I shall tell him so."
"Do," answered Dick, with difficulty. "He's ambling up to thelunch-counter now." Mr. Chester went out by way of the window, swallowinghard.
"I have just been told," said Miss St. Clair to the poet, "thatthe--er--poem was not written by you, and I apologise for what I said."
Mr. Perkins bowed in acknowledgment. "It is a small matter," he said,wearily, running his fingers through his hair. It was, indeed, comparedwith deep sorrow of a penetrating kind, and a sleepless night, but Elainedid not relish the comment.
"Were--were you restless in the night?" she asked, conventionally.
"I was. I did not sleep at all until after four o'clock, and then only fora few moments."
"I'm sorry. Did--did you write anything?"
"I began an epic," answered the poet, touched, for the moment, by thisunexpected sympathy. "An epic in blank verse, on 'Disappointment.'"
"I'm sure it's beautiful," continued Elaine, coldly. "And that reminds me.I have hunted through my room, in every possible place, and foundnothing."
A flood of painful emotion overwhelmed the poet, and he buried his face inhis hands. In a flash, Elaine was violently angry, though she could nothave told why. She marched out of the dining-room and slammed the door."Delicate, sensitive soul," she said to herself, scornfully. "Wants peopleto hunt for money he thinks may be hidden in his room, and yet is so farabove sordidness that he can't hear it spoken of!"
Seeing Mr. Chester pacing back and forth moodily at some distance from thehouse, Elaine rushed out to him. "Dick," she cried, "he _is_ a lobster!"
Dick's clouded face brightened. "Is he?" he asked, eagerly, knowinginstinctively whom she meant. "Elaine, you're a brick!" They shook handsin token of absolute agreement upon one subject at least, and the girl'sright hand hurt her for some little time afterward.
Left to himself, Mr. Perkins mused upon the dread prospect before him. Foryears he had calculated upon a generous proportion of his UncleEbeneezer's estate, and had even borrowed money upon the strength of hisexpectations. These debts now loomed up inconveniently.
The vulgar, commercial people from whom Mr. Perkins had borrowed filthycoin were quite capable of speaking of the matter, and in an unpleasantmanner at that. The fine soul of Mr. Perkins shrank from the ordeal. Hehad that particular disdain of commercialism which is inseparable from theincapable and unsuccessful, and yet, if the light of his genius were toilluminate a desolate world, Mr. Perkins must have money.
He might even have to degrade himself by coarse toil--and hitherto, he hadbeen too proud to work. The thought was terrible. Pegasus hitched to theplough was nothing compared with the prospect of Mr. Perkins being obligedto earn three or four dollars a week in some humble, common capacity.
Then a bright idea came to his rescue. "Mr. Carr," he thought, "thegentleman who is now entertaining me--he is doing my own kind of work,though of course it is less fine in quality. Perhaps he would like theopportunity of going down to posterity as the humble Maecenas of a newHorace."
Borne to the library in the rush of this attractive idea, Mr. Perkinsopened the door, which Harlan had forgotten to lock, and without in anyway announcing himself, broke in on Harlan's chapter.
"What do you mean?" demanded the irate author. "What business have youbutting in here like this? Get out!"
"I--" stammered Mr. Perkins.
"Get out!" thundered Harlan. It sounded strangely like the last phrase of"dear Uncle Ebeneezer's last communication," and, trembling, thedisconsolate poet obeyed. He fled to his own room as a storm-tossed shipto its last harbour, and renewed the composition of his epic on"Disappointment," for which, by this time, he had additional material.
Harlan went back to his work, but the mood was gone. The living, radiantpicture had wholly vanished, and in its place was a heap of dead, dry,meaningless words. "Did I write it?" asked Harlan, of himself, "and if so,why?"
Like the mocking fantasy of a dream as seen in the instant of waking,Elaine and her company had gone, as if to return no more. Only twochapters were yet to be written, and he knew, vaguely, what Elaine wasabout to do when he left her, but his pen had lost the trick of writing.
Deeply troubled, Harlan went to the window, where the outer world stillhad the curious appearance of unreality. It was as though a sheet of glasswere between him and the life of the rest of the world. He could seethrough it clearly, but the barrier was there, and must always be there.Upon the edge of this glass, the light of life should break and resolveitself into prismatic colours, of which he should see one at a time, nowand then more, and often a clear, pitiless view of the world should givehim no colour at all.
Presently Lawyer Bradford came up the hill, dressed for a formal call. Ina flash it brought back to Harlan the day the old man had first come tothe Jack-o'-Lantern, when Dorothy was a happy girl with a care-free boyfor a husband. How much had happened since, and how old and grey the worldhad grown!
"I desire to see the distinguished author, Mr. Carr," the thin, pipingvoice was saying at the door, "upon a matter of immediate and personalimportance. And Mrs. Carr also, if she is at leisure. Privacy isabsolutely essential."
"Come into the library," said Harlan, from the doorway. Anotherinterruption made no difference now. Dorothy soon followed, much mystifiedby the way in which Mrs. Smithers had summoned her.
Remembering the inopportune intrusion of Mr. Perkins, Harlan locked thedoor. "Now, Mr. Bradford," he said, easily, "what is it?"
"I should have told you before," began the old lawyer, "had not the bondsof silence been laid upon me by one whom we all revere and who is now pastcarrying out his own desires. The house is yours, as my letters of anearlier date apprised you, and the will is to be probated at the Fall termof court.
"Your uncle," went on Mr. Bradford, unwillingly, "was a great suffererfrom--from relations," he added, lowering his voice to a shrill whisper,"and he has chosen to revenge himself for his sufferings in his own way.Of this I am not at liberty to speak, though no definite silence wasrequired of me later than yesterday.
"There is, however, a farm of two thousand acres, all improved, which isstill to come to you, and a sum of money amounting to something over tenthousand dollars, in the bank to your credit. The multitudinous duties inc
onnection with the practice of my profession have prevented me frommaking myself familiar with the exact amount.
"And," he went on, looking at Dorothy, "there is a very beautiful diamondpin, the gift of my lamented friend to his lovely young wife upon the dayof the solemnisation of their nuptials, which was to be given to the wifeof Mr. Judson's nephew when he should marry. It is sewn in a mattress inthe room at the end of the north wing."
The earth whirled beneath Dorothy's feet. At first, she had not fullycomprehended what Mr. Bradford was saying, but now she realised that theyhad passed from pinching poverty to affluence--at least it seemed so toher. Harlan was not so readily confused, but none the less, he, too, wasdazed. Neither of them could speak.
"I should be grateful," the old man was saying, "if you would ask Mr.Richard Chester and Mrs. Sarah Smithers to come to my office at theirearliest convenience. I will not trespass upon their valuable time atpresent."
There was a long silence, during which Mr. Bradford cleared his throat,and wiped his glasses several times. "The farm has always been held in myname," he continued, "to protect our lamented friend and benefactor fromadditional disturbance. If--if the relations had known, his life wouldhave been even less peaceful than it was. A further farm, valued at twelvethousand dollars, and also held in my name, is my friend's last gift tome, as I discovered by opening a personal letter which was to be keptsealed until this morning. I did not open it until late in the morning,not wishing to show unseemly eagerness to pry into my friend's affairs. Iam too much affected to speak of it--I feel his loss too keenly. He was myColonel--I served under him in the war."
A mist filled the old man's eyes and he fumbled for the door-knob. Harlanfound it for him, turned the key, and opened the door. Mrs. Dodd, Mrs.Holmes, Mrs. Smithers, and the suffering poet were all in the hall, theirattitudes plainly indicating that they had been listening at the door, butsomething in Mr. Bradford's face made them huddle back into the corner,ashamed.
Feeling his way with his cane, he went to the parlour door, where he stoodfor a moment at the threshold, his streaming eyes fixed upon the portraitover the mantel. The simple dignity of his grief forbade a word from anyone. At length he straightened himself, brought his trembling hand to hisforehead in a feeble military salute, and, wiping his eyes, tottered offdownhill.
