For the first time in her life, Mrs. Carr fully comprehended the
sensations of a wild animal caught in a trap. In her present painful
predicament, she was absolutely helpless, and she realised it. It was
Harlan's house, as he had said, but so powerful and penetrating was the
personality of the dead man that she felt as though it was still largely
the property of Uncle Ebeneezer.
The portrait in the parlour gave her no light upon the subject, though she
studied it earnestly. The face was that of an old man, soured and
embittered by what Life had brought him, who seemed now to have a
peculiarly malignant aspect. Dorothy fancied, in certain morbid moments,
that Uncle Ebeneezer, from some safe place, was keenly relishing the whole
situation.
Upon her soul, too, lay heavily that ancient Law of the House, which
demands unfailing courtesy to the stranger within our gates. Just why the
eating of our bread and salt by some undesired guest should exert any
particular charm of immunity, has long been an open question, but the Law
remains.
She felt, dimly, that the end was not yet--that still other strangers were
coming to the Jack-o'-Lantern for indefinite periods. She saw, now, why
wing after wing had been added to the house, but could not understand the
odd arrangement of the front windows. Through some inner sense of loyalty
to Uncle Ebeneezer, she forebore to question either Mrs. Smithers or
Dick--two people who could probably have given her some light on the
subject. She had gathered, however, from hints dropped here and there, as
well as from the overpowering evidence of recent events, that a horde of
relatives swarmed each Summer at the queer house on the hilltop and
remained until late Autumn.
Harlan said nothing, and nowadays Dorothy saw very little of him. Most of
the time he was at work in the library, or else taking long, solitary
rambles through the surrounding country. At meals he was moody and
taciturn, his book obliterating all else from his mind.
He doubtless knew, subconsciously, that his house was disturbed by alien
elements, but he dwelt too securely in the upper regions to be troubled by
the obvious fact. Once in the library, with every door securely bolted, he
could afford to laugh at the tumult outside, if, indeed, he should ever
become aware of its existence. The children might make the very air vocal
with their howls, Elaine might have hysterics, Mrs. Smithers render hymns
in a cracked, squeaky voice, and Dick whistle eternally, but Harlan was in
a strange new country, with a beautiful lady, a company of gallant
knights, and a jester.
The rest was all unreal. He seemed to see people through a veil, to hear
what they said without fully comprehending it, and to walk through his
daily life blindly, without any sort of emotion. Worst of all, Dorothy
herself seemed detached and dream-like. He saw that her face was white and
her eyes sad, but it affected him not at all. He had yet to learn that in
this, as in everything else, a price must inevitably be paid, and that the
sudden change of all his loved realities to hazy visions was the terrible
penalty of his craft.
Yet there was compensation, which is also inevitable. To him, the book was
vital, reaching down into the very heart of the world. Fancy took his
work, and, to the eyes of its creator, made it passing fair. At times he
would sit for an hour or more, nibbling at the end of his pencil, only
negatively conscious, like one who stares fixedly at a blank wall.
Presently, Elaine and her company would come back again, and he would go
on with them, writing down only what he saw and felt.
Chapter after chapter was written and tossed feverishly aside. The words
beat in his pulses like music, each one with its own particular
significance. In return for his personal effacement came moments of
supremest joy, when his whole world was aflame with light, and colour, and
sound, and his physical body fairly shook with ecstasy.
Little did he know that the Cup was in his hands, and that he was draining
it to the very dregs of bitterness. For this temporary intoxication, he
must pay in every hour of his life to come. Henceforward he was set apart
from his fellows, painfully isolated, eternally alone. He should have
friends, but only for the hour. The stranger in the street should be the
same to him as one he had known for many years, and he should be equally
ready, at any moment, to cast either aside. With a quick, merciless
insight, like the knife of a surgeon used without an anaesthetic, he should
explore the inmost recesses of every personality with which he came in
contact, involuntarily, and find himself interested only as some new trait
or capacity was revealed. Calm and emotionless, urged by some hidden
power, he should try each individual to see of what he was made; observing
the man under all possible circumstances, and at times enmeshing new
circumstances about him. He should sacrifice himself continually if by so
doing he could find the deep roots of the other man's selfishness, and,
conversely, be utterly selfish if necessary to discover the other's power
of self-sacrifice.
Unknowingly, he had ceased to be a man and had become a ferret. It was no
light payment exacted in return for the pleasure of writing about Elaine.
He had the ability to live in any place or century he pleased, but he had
paid for it by putting his present reality upon precisely the same
footing. Detachment was his continually. Henceforth he was a spectator
merely, without any particular concern in what passed before his eyes.
Some people he should know at a glance, others in a week, a month, or a
year. Across the emptiness between them, some one should clasp his hand,
yet share no more his inner life than one who lies beside a dreamer and
thinks thus to know where the other wanders on the strange trails of
sleep.
In the dregs of the Cup lay the potential power to cast off his present
life as a mollusk leaves his shell, and as completely forget it. For Love,
and Death, and Pain are only symbols to him who is enslaved by the pen.
Moreover, he suffers always the pangs of an unsatisfied hunger, the
exquisite torture of an unappeased and unappeasable thirst, for something
which, like a will-o'-the-wisp, hovers ever above and beyond him, past the
power of words to interpret or express.
It is often reproachfully said that one "makes copy" of himself and his
friends--that nothing is too intimately sacred to be seized upon and
dissected in print. Not so long ago, it was said that a certain man was
"botanising on his mother's grave," a pardonable confusion, perhaps, of
facts and realities. The bitter truth is that the writer lives his
books--and not much else. From title to colophon, he escapes no pang,
misses no joy. The life of the book is his from beginning to end. At the
close of it, he has lived what his dream people have lived and borne the
sorrows of half a dozen entire lifetimes, mercilessly concentrated into
the few short months of writing.
One by one, his former pleasures vanish. Even the divine consolation of
books is partly if not wholly gone. Behind the printed page, he sees ever
the machinery of composition, the preparation for climax, the repetition
in its proper place, the introduction and interweaving of major and minor,
of theme and contrast. For the fine, glowing fancy of the other man has
not appeared in his book, and to the eye of the fellow-craftsman only the
mechanism is there. Mask-like, the author stands behind his Punch-and-Judy
box, twitching the strings that move his marionettes, heedless of the fact
that in his audience there must be a few who know him surely for what he
is.
If only the transfiguring might of the Vision could be put into print,
there would be little in the world save books. Happily heedless of the
mockery of it all, Harlan laboured on, destined fully to sense his entire
payment much later, suffer vicariously for a few hours on account of it,
then to forget.
Dorothy, meanwhile, was learning a hard lesson. Harlan's changeless
preoccupation hurt her cruelly, but, woman-like, she considered it a
manifestation of genius and endeavoured to be proud accordingly. It had
not occurred to her that there could ever be anything in Harlan's thought
into which she was not privileged to go. She had thought of marriage as a
sort of miraculous welding of two individualities into one, and was
perceiving that it changed nothing very much; that souls went on their way
unaltered. She saw, too, that there was no one in the wide world who could
share her every mood and tense, that ultimately each one of us lives and
dies alone, within the sanctuary of his own inner self, cheered only by
some passing mood of friend or stranger, which chances to chime with his.
It was Dick who, blindly enough, helped her over many a hard place, and
quickened her sense of humour into something upon which she might securely
lean. He was too young and too much occupied with the obvious to look
further, but he felt that Dorothy was troubled, and that it was his duty,
as a man and a gentleman, to cheer her up.
Privately, he considered Harlan an amiable kind of a fool, who shut
himself up needlessly in a musty library when he might be outdoors, or
talking with a charming woman, or both. When he discovered that Harlan had
hitherto earned his living by writing and hoped to continue doing it, he
looked upon his host with profound pity. Books, to Dick, were among the
things which kept life from being wholly pleasant and agreeable. He had
gone through college because otherwise he would have been separated from
his friends, and because a small legacy from a distant relative, who had
considerately died at an opportune moment, enabled him to pay for his
tuition and his despised books.
"I was never a pig, though," he explained to Dorothy, in a confidential
moment. "There was one chump in our class who wanted to know all there was
in the book, and made himself sick trying to cram it in. All of a sudden,
he graduated. He left college feet first, three on a side, with the class
walking slow behind him. I never was like that. I was sort of an epicure
when it came to knowledge, tasting delicately here and there, and never
greedy. Why, as far back as when I was studying algebra, I nobly refused
to learn the binomial theorem. I just read it through once, hastily, like
taking one sniff at a violet, and then let it alone. The other fellows
fairly gorged themselves with it, but I didn't--I had too much sense."
When Mr. Chester had been there a week, he gave Dorothy two worn and
crumpled two-dollar bills.
"What's this?" she asked, curiously. "Where did you find it?"
"'Find it' is good," laughed Dick. "I earned it, my dear lady, in hard and
uncongenial toil. It's my week's board."
"You're not going to pay any board here. You're a guest."
"Not on your life. You don't suppose I'm going to sponge my keep off
anybody, do you? I paid Uncle Ebeneezer board right straight along and
there's no reason why I shouldn't pay you. You can put that away in your
sock, or wherever it is that women keep money, or else I take the next
train. If you don't want to lose me, you have to accept four plunks every
Monday. I've got lots of four plunks," he added, with a winning smile.
"Very well," said Dorothy, quite certain that she could not spare Dick.
"If it will make you feel any better about staying, I'll take it."
He had quickly made friends with Elaine, and the three made a more
harmonious group than might have been expected under the circumstances.
With returning strength and health, Miss St. Clair began to take more of
an interest in her surroundings. She gathered the white clover blossoms in
which Dorothy tied up her pats of sweet butter, picked berries in the
garden, skimmed the milk, helped churn, and fed the chickens.
Dick took entire charge of the cow, thus relieving Mrs. Smithers of an
uncongenial task and winning her heartfelt gratitude. She repaid him with
unnumbered biscuits of his favourite kind and with many a savoury "snack"
between meals. He also helped Dorothy in many other ways. It was Dick who
collected the eggs every morning and took them to the sanitarium, along
with such other produce as might be ready for the market. He secured
astonishing prices for the things he sold, and set it down to man's
superior business ability when questioned by his hostess. Dorothy never
guessed that most of the money came out of his own pocket, and was charged
up, in the ragged memorandum book which he carried, to "Elaine's board."
Miss St. Clair had never thought of offering compensation, and no one
suggested it to her, but Dick privately determined to make good the
deficiency, sure that a woman married to "a writing chump" would soon be
in need of ready money if not actually starving at the time. That people
should pay for what Harlan wrote seemed well-nigh incredible. Besides,
though Dick had never read that "love is an insane desire on the part of a
man to pay a woman's board bill for life," he took a definite satisfaction
out of this secret expenditure, which he did not stop to analyse.
He brought back full price for everything he took to the "repair-shop," as
he had irreverently christened the sanitarium, though he seldom sold much.
On the other side of the hill he had a small but select graveyard where he
buried such unsalable articles as he could not eat. His appetite was
capricious, and Dorothy had frequently observed that when he came back
from the long walk to the sanitarium, he ate nothing at all.
He established a furniture factory under a spreading apple tree at a
respectable distance from the house, and began to remodel the black-walnut
relics which were evidence of his kinsman's poor taste. He took many a bed
apart, scraped off the disfiguring varnish, sandpapered and oiled the
wood, and put it together in new and beautiful forms. He made several
tables, a cabinet, a bench, half a dozen chairs, a set of hanging shelves,
and even aspired to a desk, which, owing to the limitations of the
material, was not wholly successful.
Dorothy and Elaine sat in rocking-chairs under the tree and encouraged him
while he worked. One of them embroidered a simple design upon a burlap
curtain while the other read aloud, and together they planned a shapely
remodelling of the Jack-o'-Lantern. Fortunately, the woodwork was plain,
and the ceilings not too high.
"I think," said Elaine, "that the big living room with the casement
windows will be perfectly beautiful. You couldn't have anything lovelier
than this dull walnut with the yellow walls."
Whatever Mrs. Carr's thoughts might be, this simple sentence was usually
sufficient to turn the current into more pleasant channels. She had
planned to have needless partitions taken out, and make the whole lower
floor into one room, with only a dining-room, kitchen, and pantry back of
it. She would take up the unsightly carpets, over which impossible plants
wandered persistently, and have them woven into rag rugs, with green and
brown and yellow borders. The floor was to be stained brown and the pine
woodwork a soft, old green. Yellow walls and white net curtains, with the
beautiful furniture Dick was making, completed a very charming picture in
the eyes of a woman who loved her home.
Outspeeding it in her fancy was the finer, truer living which she believed
lay beyond. Some day she and Harlan, alone once more, with the cobwebs of
estrangement swept away, should begin a new and happier honeymoon in the
transformed house. When the book was done--ah, when the book was done! But
he was not reading any part of it to her now and would not let her begin
copying it on the typewriter.
"I'll do it myself, when I'm ready," he said, coldly. "I can use a
typewriter just as well as you can."
Dorothy sighed, unconsciously, for the woman's part is always to wait
patiently while men achieve, and she who has learned to wait patiently,
and be happy meanwhile, has learned the finest art of all--the art of
life.
"Now," said Dick, "that's a peach of a table, if I do say it as
shouldn't."
They readily agreed with him, for it was low and massive, built on simple,
dignified lines, and beautifully finished. The headboards of three
ponderous walnut beds and the supporting columns of a hideous sideboard
had gone into its composition, thus illustrating, as Dorothy said, that
ugliness may be changed to beauty by one who knows how and is willing to
work for it.
The noon train whistled shrilly in the distance, and Dorothy started out
of her chair. "She's afraid," laughed Dick, instantly comprehending.
"She's afraid somebody is coming on it."
"More twins?" queried Elaine, from the depths of her rocker. "Surely there
can't be any more twins?"
"I don't know," answered Dorothy, vaguely troubled. "Someway, I feel as
though something terrible were going to happen."
Nothing happened, however, until after luncheon, just as she had begun to
breathe peacefully again. Willie saw the procession first and ran back
with gleeful shouts to make the announcement. So it was that the entire
household, including Harlan, formed a reception committee on the front
porch.
Up the hill, drawn by two straining horses, came what appeared at first to
be a pyramid of furniture, but later resolved itself into the component
parts of a more ponderous bed than the ingenuity of man had yet contrived.
It was made of black walnut, and was at least three times as heavy as any
of those in the Jack-o'-Lantern. On the top of the mass was perched a
little old man in a skull cap, a slippered foot in a scarlet sock airily
waving at one side. A bright green coil closely clutched in his withered
hands was the bed cord appertaining to the bed--a sainted possession from
which its owner sternly refused to part.
"By Jove!" shouted Dick; "it's Uncle Israel and his crib!"
Paying no heed to the assembled group, Uncle Israel dismounted nimbly
enough, and directed the men to take his bed upstairs, which they did,
while Harlan and Dorothy stood by helplessly. Here, under his profane and
involved direction, the structure was finally set in place, even to the
patchwork quilt, fearfully and wonderfully made, which surmounted it all.
Financial settlement was waved aside by Uncle Israel as a matter in which
he was not interested, and it was Dick who counted out two dimes and a
nickel to secure peace. A supplementary procession appeared with a small,
weather-beaten trunk, a folding bath-cabinet, and a huge case which, from
Uncle Israel's perturbation, evidently contained numerous fragile articles
of great value.
"Tell Ebeneezer," wheezed the newcomer, "that I have arrived."
"Ebeneezer," replied Dick, in wicked imitation of the old man's asthmatic
speech, "has been dead for some time."
"Then," creaked Uncle Israel, waving a tremulous, bony hand suggestively
toward the door, "kindly leave me alone with my grief."
X