"Well, Perkins didn't write it, you know," Dick went on, hastily. "I did
it 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 clear
eyes. "I beg your pardon," he continued.
"Did you think," she asked, "that it was nice to make fun of a lady in
that way?"
"I didn't think," returned Dick, truthfully. "I never thought for a minute
that it was making fun of you, but only of that--that pup, Perkins," he
concluded, viciously.
"Under the circumstances," said Elaine, ignoring the epithet, "the silence
of Mr. Perkins has been very noble. I shall tell him so."
"Do," answered Dick, with difficulty. "He's ambling up to the
lunch-counter now." Mr. Chester went out by way of the window, swallowing
hard.
"I have just been told," said Miss St. Clair to the poet, "that
the--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, compared
with deep sorrow of a penetrating kind, and a sleepless night, but Elaine
did 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 for
a few moments."
"I'm sorry. Did--did you write anything?"
"I began an epic," answered the poet, touched, for the moment, by this
unexpected 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 found
nothing."
A flood of painful emotion overwhelmed the poet, and he buried his face in
his hands. In a flash, Elaine was violently angry, though she could not
have told why. She marched out of the dining-room and slammed the door.
"Delicate, sensitive soul," she said to herself, scornfully. "Wants people
to hunt for money he thinks may be hidden in his room, and yet is so far
above sordidness that he can't hear it spoken of!"
Seeing Mr. Chester pacing back and forth moodily at some distance from the
house, Elaine rushed out to him. "Dick," she cried, "he _is_ a lobster!"
Dick's clouded face brightened. "Is he?" he asked, eagerly, knowing
instinctively whom she meant. "Elaine, you're a brick!" They shook hands
in token of absolute agreement upon one subject at least, and the girl's
right hand hurt her for some little time afterward.
Left to himself, Mr. Perkins mused upon the dread prospect before him. For
years he had calculated upon a generous proportion of his Uncle
Ebeneezer's estate, and had even borrowed money upon the strength of his
expectations. These debts now loomed up inconveniently.
The vulgar, commercial people from whom Mr. Perkins had borrowed filthy
coin were quite capable of speaking of the matter, and in an unpleasant
manner at that. The fine soul of Mr. Perkins shrank from the ordeal. He
had that particular disdain of commercialism which is inseparable from the
incapable and unsuccessful, and yet, if the light of his genius were to
illuminate a desolate world, Mr. Perkins must have money.
He might even have to degrade himself by coarse toil--and hitherto, he had
been too proud to work. The thought was terrible. Pegasus hitched to the
plough was nothing compared with the prospect of Mr. Perkins being obliged
to earn three or four dollars a week in some humble, common capacity.
Then a bright idea came to his rescue. "Mr. Carr," he thought, "the
gentleman 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 the
opportunity of going down to posterity as the humble Maecenas of a new
Horace."
Borne to the library in the rush of this attractive idea, Mr. Perkins
opened the door, which Harlan had forgotten to lock, and without in any
way announcing himself, broke in on Harlan's chapter.
"What do you mean?" demanded the irate author. "What business have you
butting 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, the
disconsolate poet obeyed. He fled to his own room as a storm-tossed ship
to 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, radiant
picture 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 two
chapters were yet to be written, and he knew, vaguely, what Elaine was
about 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 still
had the curious appearance of unreality. It was as though a sheet of glass
were between him and the life of the rest of the world. He could see
through 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 resolve
itself into prismatic colours, of which he should see one at a time, now
and then more, and often a clear, pitiless view of the world should give
him no colour at all.
Presently Lawyer Bradford came up the hill, dressed for a formal call. In
a flash it brought back to Harlan the day the old man had first come to
the Jack-o'-Lantern, when Dorothy was a happy girl with a care-free boy
for a husband. How much had happened since, and how old and grey the world
had grown!
"I desire to see the distinguished author, Mr. Carr," the thin, piping
voice was saying at the door, "upon a matter of immediate and personal
importance. And Mrs. Carr also, if she is at leisure. Privacy is
absolutely essential."
"Come into the library," said Harlan, from the doorway. Another
interruption made no difference now. Dorothy soon followed, much mystified
by the way in which Mrs. Smithers had summoned her.
Remembering the inopportune intrusion of Mr. Perkins, Harlan locked the
door. "Now, Mr. Bradford," he said, easily, "what is it?"
"I should have told you before," began the old lawyer, "had not the bonds
of silence been laid upon me by one whom we all revere and who is now past
carrying out his own desires. The house is yours, as my letters of an
earlier date apprised you, and the will is to be probated at the Fall term
of court.
"Your uncle," went on Mr. Bradford, unwillingly, "was a great sufferer
from--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 was
required of me later than yesterday.
"There is, however, a farm of two thousand acres, all improved, which is
still to come to you, and a sum of money amounting to something over ten
thousand dollars, in the bank to your credit. The multitudinous duties in
connection with the practice of my profession have prevented me from
making myself familiar with the exact amount.
"And," he went on, looking at Dorothy, "there is a very beautiful diamond
pin, the gift of my lamented friend to his lovely young wife upon the day
of the solemnisation of their nuptials, which was to be given to the wife
of Mr. Judson's nephew when he should marry. It is sewn in a mattress in
the room at the end of the north wing."
The earth whirled beneath Dorothy's feet. At first, she had not fully
comprehended what Mr. Bradford was saying, but now she realised that they
had passed from pinching poverty to affluence--at least it seemed so to
her. Harlan was not so readily confused, but none the less, he, too, was
dazed. 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 their
earliest convenience. I will not trespass upon their valuable time at
present."
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 my
name," he continued, "to protect our lamented friend and benefactor from
additional disturbance. If--if the relations had known, his life would
have been even less peaceful than it was. A further farm, valued at twelve
thousand dollars, and also held in my name, is my friend's last gift to
me, as I discovered by opening a personal letter which was to be kept
sealed 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. I
am too much affected to speak of it--I feel his loss too keenly. He was my
Colonel--I served under him in the war."
A mist filled the old man's eyes and he fumbled for the door-knob. Harlan
found 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, their
attitudes plainly indicating that they had been listening at the door, but
something 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 stood
for a moment at the threshold, his streaming eyes fixed upon the portrait
over the mantel. The simple dignity of his grief forbade a word from any
one. At length he straightened himself, brought his trembling hand to his
forehead in a feeble military salute, and, wiping his eyes, tottered off
downhill.