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 the company 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 the bell 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 any ambition 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
dear mother 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 of Dorothy.
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 on _The
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 fruitlessly at _The
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.