by Myrtle Reed
XIX
Various Departures
"Algernon Paul," called Mrs. Holmes, shrilly, "let the kitty alone!"
Every one else on the premises heard the command, but "Algernon Paul,"perhaps because he was not yet fully accustomed to his new name, continuedforcing Claudius Tiberius to walk about on his fore feet, the rest of himbeing held uncomfortably in the air by the guiding influence.
"Algernon!" The voice was so close this time that the cat was freed by hispersecutor's violent start. Seeing that it was only his mother, AlgernonPaul attempted to recover his treasure again, and was badly scratched bythat selfsame treasure. Whereupon Mrs. Holmes soundly cuffed ClaudiusTiberius "for scratching dear little Ebbie, I mean Algernon Paul," andreceived a bite or two on her own account.
"Come, Ebbie, dear," she continued, "we are going now. We have been drivenaway from dear uncle's. Where is sister?"
"Sister" was discovered in the forbidden Paradise of the chicken-coop, anddragged out, howling. Willie, not desiring to leave "dear uncle's," wasforcibly retrieved by Dick from the roof of the barn.
Mr. Harold Vernon Perkins had silently disappeared in the night, but noone feared foul play. "He'll be waitin' at the train, I reckon," said Mrs.Dodd, "an' most likely composin' a poem on 'Departure' or else breathin'into a tube to see if he's mad."
She had taken her dismissal very calmly after the first shock. "A womanwhat's been married seven times, same as I be," she explained to Dorothy,"gets used to bein' moved around from place to place. My sixth husband hadthe movin' habit terrible. No sooner would we get settled nice an'comfortable in a place, an' I got enough acquainted to borrow sugar an'tea an' molasses from my new neighbours, than Thomas would decide to move,an' more 'n likely, it'd be to some new town where there was a greatopenin' in some new business that he'd never tried his hand at yet.
"My dear, I've been the wife of a undertaker, a livery-stable keeper, apatent medicine man, a grocer, a butcher, a farmer, an' a justice of thepeace, all in one an' the same marriage. Seems 's if there wa'n't nobusiness Thomas couldn't feel to turn his hand to, an' he knowed how theyall ought to be run. If anybody was makin' a failure of anythin', Thomasknowed just why it was failin' an' I must say he ought to know, too, for Inever see no more steady failer than Thomas.
"They say a rollin' stone never gets no moss on it, but it gets wornterrible smooth, an' by the time I 'd moved to eight or ten differenttowns an' got as many as 'leven houses all fixed up, the corners was allbroke off 'n me as well as off 'n the furniture. My third husband left mewell provided with furniture, but when I went to my seventh altar, Ididn't have nothin' left but a soap box an' half a red blanket, on accountof havin' moved around so much.
"I got so's I'd never unpack all the things in any one place, but keep 'emin their dry-goods boxes an' barrels nice an' handy to go on again. Whenthe movin' fit come on Thomas, I was always in such light marchin' orderthat I could go on a day's notice, an' that's the way we usually went. Itold him once it'd be easier an' cheaper to fit up a prairie schooner suchas they used to cross the plains in, an' then when we wanted to move, allwe'd have to do would be to put a dipper of water on the fire an' tell themules to get ap, but it riled him so terrible that I never said nothin'about it again, though all through my sixth marriage, it seemed a dretfullikely notion.
"A woman with much marryin' experience soon learns not to rile a husbandwhen 't ain't necessary. Sometimes I think the poor creeters has enough tocontend with outside without bein' obliged to fight at home, though itdoes beat all, my dear, what a terrible exertion 't is for most men toearn a livin'. None of my husbands was ever obliged to fight at home an' Itake great comfort thinkin' how peaceful they all was when they was livin'with me, an' how peaceful they all be now, though I think it's more 'nlikely that Thomas is a-sufferin' because he can't move no more atpresent."
Her monologue was interrupted by the arrival of the stage, which Harlanhad gladly ordered. Mrs. Holmes and the children climbed into it withoutvouchsafing a word to anybody, but Mrs. Dodd shook hands all around andwould have kissed both Dorothy and Elaine had they not dodged the caress.
"Remember, my dear," said Mrs. Dodd to Dorothy; "I don't bear you nogrudge, though I never was turned out of no place before. It's all in alifetime, the same as marryin', and if I should ever marry again an' havea home of my own to invite you to, you an' your husband'll be welcome tocome and stay with me as long as I've stayed with you, or longer, if youfelt 'twas pleasant, an' I'd try to make it so."
The kindly speech made Dorothy very much ashamed of herself, though shedid not know exactly why, and Gladys Gwendolen, with a cherubic smile,leaned out of the stage window and waved a chubby hand, saying: "Bye bye!"Mrs. Holmes alone seemed hard and unforgiving, as she sat sternly upright,looking neither to the right nor the left.
"Rather unusual, isn't it?" whispered Elaine, as the ponderous vehicleturned into the yard, "to see so many of one's friends going on the stageat once?"
"Not at all," chuckled Dick. "Everybody goes on the stage when they leavethe Carrs."
"Good bye, Belinda," yelled Uncle Israel, putting his flannel bandagedhead out of one of the round upper windows. He had climbed up on a chairto do it. "I don't reckon I'll ever hear from you again exceptin' whereLazarus heard from the rich man!"
"Don't let that trouble you, Israel," shrieked Mrs. Dodd, piercingly. "Itake it the rich man was diggin' for eight cents in Satan's orchard, an'didn't have no time to look up his friends."
The rejoinder seemed not to affect Uncle Israel, but it sent Dick into aspasm of merriment from which he recovered only when Harlan pounded him onthe back.
"Come on," said Harlan, "it's not time to laugh yet. We've got to packUncle Israel's bed."
Uncle Israel was going on the afternoon train, and in another direction.He sat on his trunk and issued minute instructions, occasionally havingthe whole thing taken apart to be put together in a different kind of aparcel. As an especial favour, Dick was allowed to crate the bath cabinet,though as a rule, no profane hands were permitted to touch this instrumentof health. Uncle Israel himself arranged his bottles, and boxes, andpowders; a hand-satchel containing his medicines for the journey and thenight.
"I reckon," he said, "if I take a double dose of my pain-killer, thisnoon, an' a double dose of my nerve tonic just before I get on the cars, Ic'n get along with these few remedies till I get to Betsey's, where I'llhave to take a full course of treatment to pay for all this travellin'.The pain-killer bottle an' the nerve tonic bottle is both dretful heavy,in spite of bein' only half full."
"How would it do," suggested Harlan, kindly, "to pour the nerve tonic intothe pain-killer, and then you'd have only one bottle to carry. You mixthem inside, anyway."
"You seem real intelligent, nephew," quavered Uncle Israel. "I neverknowed I had no such smart relations. As you say, I mix 'em in my systemanyway, an' it can't do no harm to do it in the bottle first."
No sooner said than done, but, strangely enough, the mixture turned avivid emerald green, and had such a peculiarly vile odour that even UncleIsrael refused to have anything further to do with it.
"I shouldn't wonder but what you'd done me a real service, nephew,"continued Uncle Israel. "Here I've been takin' this, month after month,an' never suspectin' what it was doin' in my insides. I've suspicioned forsome time that the pain-killer wan't doin' me no good, an' I've been goin'to try Doctor Jones's Squaw Remedy, anyhow. I shouldn't wonder if my wholeinsides was green instead of red as they orter be. The next time I go tothe City, I'm goin' to take this here compound to the healin' emporiumwhere I bought it, an' ask 'em what there is in it that paints folk'sinsides. 'Tain't nothin' more 'n green paint."
The patient was so interested in this new development that he demanded apaint-brush and experimented on the porch railing, where it seemed,indeed, to be "green paint." In getting a nearer view, he touched his noseto it and acquired a bright green spot on the tip of that highly usefulorgan. Desiring to test it by every sense, he next
put his ear down to therailing, as though he expected to hear the elements of the compoundrushing together explosively.
"My hearin' is bad," he explained. "I wish you'd listen to this here aminute or two, nephew, an' see if you don't hear sunthin'." But Harlan,with his handkerchief pressed tightly to his nose, politely declined.
"I don't feel," continued Uncle Israel, tottering into the house, "asthough a poor, sick man with green insides instead of red orter be turnedout. Judson Centre is a terrible healthy place, or the sanitarium wouldn'thave been built here, an' travellin' on the cars would shake me upconsiderable. I feel as though I was goin' to be took bad, an' as if Iought not to go. If somebody'll set up my bed, I'll just lay down on itan' die now. Ebeneezer would be willin' for me to die in his house, Iknow, for he's often said it'd be a reel pleasure to him to pay my funeralexpenses if I c'd only make up my mind to claim 'em, an'," went on the oldman pitifully, "I feel to claim 'em now. Set up my bed," he wheezed, "an'let me die. I'm bein' took bad."
He was swiftly reasoning himself into abject helplessness when Dick camevaliantly to the rescue. "I'll tell you what, Uncle Israel," he said, "ifyou're going to be sick, and of course you know whether you are or not,we'll just get a carriage and take you over to the sanitarium. I'll payyour board there for a week, myself, and by that time we'll know justwhat's the matter with you."
The patient brightened amazingly at the mention of the sanitarium, and wasmore than willing to go. "I've took all kinds of treatment," he creaked,"but I ain't never been to no sanitarium, an' I misdoubt whether they'veever had anybody with green insides.
"I reckon," he added, proudly, "that that wanderin' pain in my spine'llstump 'em some to know what it is. Even in the big store where they keepall kinds of medicines, there couldn't nobody tell me. I know what disease'tis, but I won't tell nobody. A man knows his own system best an' Ireckon them smart doctors up at the sanitarium 'll be scratchin' theirheads over such a complicated case as I be. Send my bed on to Betsey's butwrite on it that it ain't to be set up till I come. 'Twouldn't be worthwhile settin' it up at the sanitarium for a week, an' I'm minded to try amedical bed, anyways. I ain't never had none. Get the carriage, quick, forI feel an ailment comin' on me powerful hard every minute."
"Suppose," said Harlan, in a swift aside, "that they refuse to take thepatient? What shall we do then?"
"We won't discuss that," answered Dick, in a low tone. "My plan is toleave the patient, drive away swiftly, and, an hour or so later, walk backand settle with the head of the repair shop for a week's mending inadvance."
Harlan laughed gleefully, at which Uncle Israel pricked up his ears. "I'min on the bill," he continued; "we'll go halves on the mending."
"Laughin'" said Uncle Israel, scornfully, "at your poor old uncle whatain't goin' to live much longer. If your insides was all turned green, youwouldn't be laughin'--you'd be thinkin' about your immortal souls."
It was late afternoon when the bed was finally dumped on the side track toawait the arrival of the freight train, being securely covered with acanvas tarpaulin to keep it from the night dew and stray, malicious germs,seeking that which they might devour. Uncle Israel insisted uponoverseeing this job himself, so that he did not reach the sanitarium untilalmost nightfall. Dick and Harlan were driving, and they shamelessly leftthe patient at the door of the Temple of Healing, with his crated bathcabinet, his few personal belongings, and his medicines.
Turning back at the foot of the hill, they saw that the wanderer had beentaken in, though the bath cabinet still remained outside.
"Mean trick to play on a respectable institution," observed Dick, lashingthe horses into a gallop, "but I'll go over in the morning and square itwith 'em."
"I'll go with you," volunteered Harlan. "It's just as well to have two ofus, for we won't be popular. The survivor can take back the farewellmessage to the wife and family of the other."
He meant it for a jest, but even in the gathering darkness, he could seethe dull red mounting to Dick's temples. "I'll be darned," thought Harlan,seeing the whole situation instantly. Then, moved by a brotherly impulse,he said, cheerfully: "Go in and win, old man. Good luck to you!"
"Thanks," muttered Dick, huskily, "but it's no use. She won't look at me.She wants a nice lady-like poet, that's what she wants."
"No, she doesn't," returned Harlan, with deep conviction. "I don't claimto be a specialist, but when a man and a poet are entered for thematrimonial handicap, I'll put my money on the man, every time."
Dick swiftly changed the subject, and began to speculate on probablehappenings at the sanitarium. They left the conveyance in the village,from whence it had been taken, and walked uphill.
Lights gleamed from every window of the Jack-o'-Lantern, but the eccentricface of the house had, for the first time, a friendly aspect. Warmth andcheer were in the blinking eyes and the grinning mouth, though, as Dicksaid, it seemed impossible that "no pumpkin seeds were left inside."
Those who do not believe in personal influence should go into a housewhich uninvited and undesired guests have regretfully left. Every alienelement had gone from the house on the hill, yet the very walls were stillvocal with discord. One expected, every moment, to hear Uncle Israel'swheeze, the shrill, spiteful comment of Mrs. Holmes, or a howl from one ofthe twins.
"What shall we do," asked Harlan, "to celebrate the day of emancipation?"
"I know," answered Dorothy, with a little laugh. "We'll burn a bed."
"Whose bed?" queried Dick.
"Mr. Perkins's bed," responded Elaine, readily. The tone of her voice senta warm glow to Dick's heart, and he went to work at the heavy walnutstructure with more gladness than exercise of that particular kind hadever given him before.
Harlan rummaged through the cellar and found a bottle of Uncle Ebeneezer'sold port, which, for some occult reason, had hitherto escaped. Mrs.Smithers, moved to joyful song, did herself proud in the matter of friedchicken and flaky biscuit. Dorothy had taken all the leaves out of thetable, so that now it was cosily set for four, and placed a battered oldbrass candlestick, with a tallow candle in it, in the centre.
"Seems like living, doesn't it?" asked Harlan. Until now, he had not knownhow surely though secretly distressed he had been by Aunt Rebecca'spersistent kin. Claudius Tiberius apparently felt the prevailingcheerfulness, and purred vigorously, in Elaine's lap.
Afterward, they made a fire in the parlour, even though the night was sowarm that they were obliged to have all the windows open, and, inspired bythe portrait of Uncle Ebeneezer, discussed the peculiarities of hisself-invited guests.
The sacrificial flame arising from the poet's bed directed theconversation to Mr. Perkins and his gift of song. Dick, though feelingmore deeply upon the subject than any of the rest, was wise enough not tosay too much.
"I found something under his mattress," remarked Dick, when theconversation flagged, "while I was taking his blooming crib apart to chopit up. I guess it must be a poem."
He drew a sorely flattened roll from his pocket, and slipped off thecrumpled blue ribbon. It was, indeed, a poem, entitled "Farewell."
"I thought he might have been polite enough to say good bye," saidDorothy. "Perhaps it was easier to write it."
"Read it," cried Elaine, her eyes dancing. "Please do!"
So Dick read as follows:
All happy times must reach an end Sometime, someday, somewhere, A great soul seldom has a friend Anyway or anywhere. But one devoted to the Ideal Must pass these things all by, His eyes fixed ever on his Art, Which lives, though he must die.
Amid the tide of cruel greed Which laps upon our shore, No one takes thought of the poet's need Nor how his griefs may pour Upon his poor, devoted head And his sad, troubled heart; But all these things each one must take, Who gives hi
s life to Art.
His crust of bread, his tick of straw His enemies deny, And at the last his patron saint Will even pass him by; The wide world is his resting place, All o'er it he may roam, And none will take the poet in, Or offer him a home.
The tears of sorrow blind him now, Misunderstood is he, But thus great souls have always been, And always they will be; His eyes fixed ever on the Ideal Will be there till he die, To-night he goes, but leaves a poem To say good bye, good bye!
"Poor Mr. Perkins," commented Dorothy, softly.
"Yes," mimicked Harlan, "poor Mr. Perkins. I don't see but what he'll haveto work now, like any plain, ordinary mortal, with no 'gift'."
"What is the Ideal, anyway?" queried Elaine, looking thoughtfully into theembers of the poet's bedstead.
"That's easy," answered Dick, not without evident feeling. "It's whateverMr. Perkins happens to be doing, or trying to do. He fixes it for the restof us."
"I think," suggested Dorothy, after a momentary silence, "that the Idealconsists in minding your own business and gently, but firmly, assistingothers to mind theirs."
All unknowingly, Dorothy had expressed the dominant idea of the deadmaster of the house. She fancied that the pictured face over the mantelwas about to smile at her. Dorothy and Uncle Ebeneezer understood eachother now, and she no longer wished to have the portrait moved.
Before they separated for the night, Dick told them all about the midnightgathering in the orchard, which he had witnessed from afar, and which theothers enjoyed beyond his expectations.
"That's what uncle meant," said Elaine, "by 'fixing a surprise forrelations.'" "I don't blame him," observed Harlan, "not a blooming bit. Iwish the poor old duck could have been here to see it. Why wasn't I in onit?" he demanded of Dick, somewhat resentfully. "When anything like thatwas going on, why didn't you take me in?"
"It wasn't for me to interfere with his doings," protested Dick, "but I dowish you could have seen Uncle Israel."
At the recollection he went off into a spasm of merriment which bid fairto prove fatal. The rest laughed with him, not knowing just what it wasabout, such was the infectious quality of Dick's mirth.
"They've all gone," laughed Elaine, happily, taking her bedroom candlefrom Dorothy's hand, "they've all gone, every single one, and now we'regoing to have some good times."
Dick watched her as she went upstairs, the candlelight shining tenderlyupon her sweet face, and thus betrayed himself to Dorothy, who hadsuspected for some time that he loved Elaine.
"Oh Lord!" grumbled Dick to himself, when he was safely in his own room."Everybody knows it now, except her. I'll bet even Sis Smithers and thecat are dead next to me. I might as well tell her to-morrow as any time,the result will be just the same. Better do it and have it over with. Thecat'll tell her if nobody else does."
But that night, strangely enough, Claudius Tiberius disappeared, to beseen or heard of no more.
XX
The Love of Another Elaine
When Dick and Harlan ventured up to the sanitarium, they were confrontedby the astonishing fact that Uncle Israel was, indeed, ill. Laterdevelopements proved that he was in a measure personally responsible forhis condition, since he had, surreptitiously, in the night, mixed two orthree medicines of his own brewing with the liberal dose of a differentdrug which the night nurse gave him, in accordance with her instructions.
Far from being unconscious, however, Uncle Israel was even now ragingviolently against further restraint, and demanding to be sent home beforehe was "murdered."
"He's being killed with kindness," whispered Dick, "like the man who wasrun over by an ambulance."
Harlan arranged for Uncle Israel to stay until he was quite healed of thislast complication, and then wrote out the address of Cousin Betsey Skiles,with which Dick was fortunately familiar. "And," added Dick, "if he'stroublesome, crate him and send him by freight. We don't want to see himagain."
Less than a week later, Uncle Israel and his bed were safely installed atCousin Betsey's, and he was able to write twelve pages of foolscap, fullyexpressing his opinion of Harlan and Dick and the sanitarium staff, andUncle Ebeneezer, and the rest of the world in general, conveying it byregistered mail to "J. H. Car & Familey." The composition revealed anastonishing command of English, particularly in the way of vituperation.Had Uncle Israel known more profanity, he undoubtedly would haveincorporated it in the text.
"It reminds me," said Elaine, who was permitted to read it, "of a littlecoloured boy we used to know. A playmate quarrelled with him and began tocall him names, using all the big words he had ever heard, regardless oftheir meaning. When his vocabulary was exhausted, our little friend asked,quietly: 'Is you froo?' 'Yes,' returned the other, 'I's froo.' 'Wellthen,' said the master of the situation, calmly, turning on his heel, 'allthose things what you called me, you is.'"
"That's right," laughed Dick. "All those things Uncle Israel has calledus, he is, but it makes him a pretty tough old customer."
A blessed peace had descended upon the house and its occupants. Harlan'swork was swiftly nearing completion, and in another day or two, he wouldbe ready to read the neatly typed pages to the members of his household.Dorothy could scarcely wait to hear it, and stole many a secret glance atthe manuscript when Harlan was out of the house. Lover-like, she expectedgreat things from it, and she saw the world of readers, literally, at herhusband's feet. So great was her faith in him that she never for aninstant suspected that there might possibly be difficulty at thestart--that any publisher could be wary of this masterpiece by anunknown.
The Carrs had planned to remain where they were until the book wasfinished, then to take the precious manuscript, and go forth to conquerthe City. Afterward, perhaps, a second honeymoon journey, for both weresorely in need of rest and recreation.
Elaine was going with them, and Dorothy was to interview the Personagewhose private secretary she had once been, and see if that position or onefully as desirable could not be found for her friend. Also, Elaine was tomake her home with the Carrs. "I won't let you live in a New York boardinghouse," said Dorothy warmly, "as long as we've any kind of a roof over ourheads."
Dick had discovered that, as he expressed it, he must "quit fooling andget a job." Hitherto, Mr. Chester had preferred care-free idleness to anykind of toil, and a modest sum, carefully hoarded, represented to Dickonly freedom to do as he pleased until it gave out. Then he began toconsider work again, but as he seldom did the same kind of work twice, hewas not particularly proficient in any one line.
Still, Dick had no false ideas about labour. At college he had canvassedfor subscription books, solicited life and fire insurance, swept walks,shovelled snow, carried out ashes, and even handled trunks for the expresscompany, all with the same cheerful equanimity. His small but certainincome sufficed for his tuition and other necessary expenses, but forboard at Uncle Ebeneezer's and a few small luxuries, he was obliged towork.
Just now, unwonted ambition fired his soul. "It's funny," he mused,"what's come over me. I never hankered to work, even in my wildestmoments, and yet I pine for it this minute--even street-sweeping would bewelcome, though that sort of thing isn't going to be much in my line fromnow on. With the start uncle's given me, I can surely get along all right,and, anyhow, I've got two hands, two feet, and one head, all good of theirkind, so there's no call to worry."
Worrying had never been among Dick's accomplishments, but he was restless,and eager for something to do. He plunged into furniture-making withrenewed energy, inspired by the presence of Elaine, who with her book orembroidery sat in her low rocker under the apple tree and watched him athis work.
Quite often she read aloud, sometimes a paragraph, now and then an entirechapter, to which Dick submitted pleasantly. He loved the smooth, softcadenc
e of Elaine's low voice, whether she read or spoke, so, in a way, itdid not matter. But, one day, when she had read uninterruptedly for overan hour, Dick was seized with a violent fit of coughing.
"I say," he began, when the paroxysm had ceased; "you like books, don'tyou?"
"Indeed I do--don't you?"
"Er--yes, of course, but say--aren't you tired of reading?"
"Not at all. You needn't worry about me. When I'm tired, I'll stop."
She was pleased with his kindly thought for her comfort, and thereafterread a great deal by way of reward. As for Dick, he burned the midnightcandle over many a book which he found inexpressibly dull, and skilfullyled the conversation to it the next day. Soon, even Harlan was impressedby his wide knowledge of literature, though no one noted that about booksnot in Uncle Ebeneezer's library, Dick knew nothing at all.
Dorothy spent much of her time in her own room, thus forcing Dick andElaine to depend upon each other for society. Quite often she was lonely,and longed for their cheery chatter, but sternly reminded herself that shewas being sacrificed in a good cause. She built many an air castle forthem as well as for herself, furnishing both, impartially, with Elaine'sold mahogany and the simple furniture Dick was making out of UncleEbeneezer's relics.
By this time the Jack-o'-Lantern was nearly stripped of everything whichmight prove useful, and they were burning the rest of it in the fireplaceat night. "Varnished hardwood," as Dick said, "makes a peach of a blaze."
Meanwhile Harlan was labouring steadfastly at his manuscript. The glowingfancy from which the book had sprung was quite gone. Still, as he cut,rearranged, changed, interlined, reconstructed and polished, he was notwholly unsatisfied with his work. "It may not be very good," he said tohimself, "but it's the best I can do--now. The next will be better, I'msure." He knew, even then, that there would be a "next one," for theeternal thirst which knows no quenching had seized upon his inmost soul.
Hereafter, by an inexplicably swift reversion, he should see all life asliterature, and literature as life. Friends and acquaintances should allbe, in his inmost consciousness, ephemeral. And Dorothy--dearly as heloved her, was separated from him as by a veil.
Still, as he worked, he came gradually to a better adjustment, and wasvery tenderly anxious that Dorothy should see no change in him. He had notyet reached the point, however, where he would give it all up for the sakeof finding things real again, if only for an hour.
Day after day, his work went on. Sometimes he would spend an hoursearching for a single word, rightly to express his meaning. Page afterpage was re-copied upon the typewriter, for, with the nice conscience of agood workman, Harlan desired a perfect manuscript, at least in mechanicaldetails.
Finally, he came to the last page and printed "The End" in capitals withdeep satisfaction. "When it's sandpapered," he said to himself, "and thedust blown off, I suppose it will be done."
The "sandpapering" took a week longer. At the end of that time, Harlanconcluded that any manuscript was done when the writer had read itcarefully a dozen times without making a single change in it. On aSaturday night, just as the hall clock was booming eleven, he pushed itaside, and sat staring blankly at the wall for a long time.
"I don't know what I've got," he thought, "but I've certainly got twohundred and fifty pages of typed manuscript. It should be good forsomething--even at space rates."
After dinner, Sunday, he told them that the book was ready, and they allwent out into the orchard. Dick was resigned, Elaine pleasantly excited,Dorothy eager and aflame with triumphant pride, Harlan self-conscious,and, in a way, ashamed.
As he read, however, he forgot everything else. The mere sound of thewords came with caressing music to his ears. At times his voice waveredand his hands trembled, but he kept on, until it grew so dark that hecould no longer see.
They went into the house silently, and Dick touched a match to the firealready laid in the fireplace, while Dorothy lighted the candles and thereading lamp. The afterglow faded and the moon rose, yet still they rodewith Elaine and her company, through mountain passes and over blossomingfields, past many dangers and strange happenings, and ever away from theCastle of Content.
Harlan's deep, vibrant voice, now stern, now tender, gave new meaning tohis work. His secret belief in it gave it a beauty which no one else wouldever see. Dorothy, listening so intently that it was almost pain, nevertook her eyes from his face. In that hour, if Harlan could have known it,her woman's soul was kneeling before his, naked and unashamed.
Dick privately considered the whole thing more or less of a nuisance, butthe candlelight touched Elaine's golden hair lovingly, and the glow fromthe fire seemed to rest caressingly upon her face. All along, he saw aclear resemblance between his Elaine and the lady of the book, also, morekeenly, a closer likeness between himself and the fool who rode at herside.
When Harlan came to the song which the fool had written, and which he hadso shamelessly revised and read aloud at the table, Dick seriouslyconsidered a private and permanent departure, like the nocturnal vanishingof Mr. Perkins, without even a poem for farewell.
Elaine, lost in the story, was heedless of her surroundings. It was onlyat the last chapter that she became conscious of self at all. Then,suddenly, in her turn, she perceived a parallel, and quivered painfullywith a new emotion.
_"Some one, perchance," mused the Lady Elaine, "whose beauty my eyes aloneshould perceive, whose valour only I should guess before there was need totest it. Some one great of heart and clean of mind, in whose eyes thereshould never be that which makes a woman ashamed. Some one fine-fibred andstrong-souled, not above tenderness when a maid was tired. One who shouldmake a shield of his love, to keep her not only from the great hurts butfrom the little ones as well, and yet with whom she might fare onward,shoulder to shoulder, as God meant mates should fare."_
Like the other Elaine, she saw who had served her secretly, asking for norecognition; who had always kept watch over her so unobtrusively andquietly that she never guessed it till now. Like many another woman,Elaine had dreamed of her Prince as a paragon of beauty and perfection,with unconscious vanity deeming such an one her true mate. Now herstory-book lover had gone for ever, and in his place was Dick;sunny-hearted, mischievous, whistling, clear-eyed Dick, who had laughedand joked with her all Summer, and now--must never know.
In a fierce agony of shame, she wondered if he had already guessed hersecret--if she had betrayed it to him before she was conscious of itherself; if that was why he had been so kind. Harlan was reading the lastpage, and Elaine shaded her face with her hand, determined, at all costs,to avoid Dick, and to go away to-morrow, somewhere, anywhere.
_But Prince Bernard did not hear_, read Harlan, _nor see the outstretchedhand, for Elaine was in his arms for the first time, her sweet lips closeon his. "My Prince, Oh, my Prince," she murmured, when at length he sether free; "my eyes did not see but my heart knew!"_
_So ended the Quest of the Lady Elaine._
The last page of the manuscript fluttered, face downward, upon the table,and Dorothy wiped her eyes. Elaine's mouth was parched, but she staggeredto her feet, knowing that she must say some conventional words ofcongratulation to Harlan, then go to her own room.
Blindly, she put out her hand, trying to speak; then, for a singleilluminating instant, her eyes looked into Dick's.
With a little cry, Elaine fled from the room, overwhelmed with shame. In atwinkling, she was out of the house, and flying toward the orchard as fastas her light feet would carry her, her heart beating wildly in herbreast.
By the sure instinct of a lover, Dick knew that his hour had come. Hedropped out of the window and overtook her just as she reached her littlerocking-chair, which, damp with the Autumn dew, was still under the appletree.
"Elaine!" cried Dick, crushing her into his arms, all the joy of youth andlove in his voice. "Elaine! My Elaine!"
"The audience," remarked Harlan, in an unnatural tone, "appears to havegone. Only my faithful wife stands by me."
"Oh, Harlan," answered Dorothy, with a swift rush of feeling, "you'llnever know till your dying day how proud and happy I am. It's the verybeautifullest book that anybody ever wrote, and I'm so glad! Mrs.Shakespeare could never have been half as pleased as I am! I----," but therest was lost, for Dorothy was in his arms, crying her heart out for sheerjoy.
"There, there," said Harlan, patting her shoulders awkwardly, and rubbinghis rough cheek against her tear-wet face; "it wasn't meant to makeanybody cry."
"Why can't I cry if I want to?" demanded Dorothy, resentfully, betweensobs. Harlan's voice was far from even and his own eyes were misty as heanswered: "Because you are my own darling girl and I love you, that'swhy."
They sat hand in hand for a long time, looking into the embers of thedying fire, in the depths of that wedded silence which has no need ofwords. The portraits of Uncle Ebeneezer and Aunt Rebecca seemed fully inaccord, and, though mute, eloquent with understanding.
"He'd be so proud," whispered Dorothy, looking up at the stern face overthe mantel, "if he knew what you had done here in his house. He lovedbooks, and now, because of his kindness, you can always write them. You'llnever have to go back on the paper again."
Harlan smiled reminiscently, for the hurrying, ceaseless grind of thenewspaper office was, indeed, a thing of the past. The dim, quiet room washis, not the battle-ground of the street. Still, as he knew, the smell ofprinter's ink in his nostrils would be like the sound of a bugle to an oldcavalry horse, and even now, he would not quite trust himself to walk downNewspaper Row.
"I love Uncle Ebeneezer and Aunt Rebecca," went on Dorothy, happily. "Ilove everybody. I've love enough to-night to spare some for the wholeworld."
"Dear little saint," said Harlan, softly, "I believe you have."
The clock struck ten and the fire died down. A candle flickered in itssocket, then went out. The chill Autumn mist was rising, and through itthe new moon gleamed faintly, like veiled pearl.
"I wonder," said Harlan, "where the rest of the audience is? If everybodywho reads the book is going to disappear suddenly and mysteriously, Iwon't be the popular author that I pine to be."
"Hush," responded Dorothy; "I think they are coming now. I'll go and letthem in."
Only a single candle was burning in the hall, and when Dorothy opened thedoor, it went out suddenly, but in that brief instant, she had seen theirglorified faces and understood it all. The library door was open, and thedimly lighted room seemed like a haven of refuge to Elaine, radiantlyself-conscious, and blushing with sweet shame.
"Hello," said Dick, awkwardly, with a tremendous effort to appear natural,"we've just been out to get a breath of fresh air."
It had taken them two hours, but Dorothy was too wise to say anything. Sheonly laughed--a happy, tender, musical little laugh. Then she impulsivelykissed them both, pushed Elaine gently into the library, and went backinto the parlour to tell Harlan.
THE END
