When Dick and Harlan ventured up to the sanitarium, they were confronted
by the astonishing fact that Uncle Israel was, indeed, ill. Later
developements proved that he was in a measure personally responsible for
his condition, since he had, surreptitiously, in the night, mixed two or
three medicines of his own brewing with the liberal dose of a different
drug which the night nurse gave him, in accordance with her instructions.
Far from being unconscious, however, Uncle Israel was even now raging
violently against further restraint, and demanding to be sent home before
he was "murdered."
"He's being killed with kindness," whispered Dick, "like the man who was
run over by an ambulance."
Harlan arranged for Uncle Israel to stay until he was quite healed of this
last complication, and then wrote out the address of Cousin Betsey Skiles,
with which Dick was fortunately familiar. "And," added Dick, "if he's
troublesome, crate him and send him by freight. We don't want to see him
again."
Less than a week later, Uncle Israel and his bed were safely installed at
Cousin Betsey's, and he was able to write twelve pages of foolscap, fully
expressing his opinion of Harlan and Dick and the sanitarium staff, and
Uncle Ebeneezer, and the rest of the world in general, conveying it by
registered mail to "J. H. Car & Familey." The composition revealed an
astonishing command of English, particularly in the way of vituperation.
Had Uncle Israel known more profanity, he undoubtedly would have
incorporated it in the text.
"It reminds me," said Elaine, who was permitted to read it, "of a little
coloured boy we used to know. A playmate quarrelled with him and began to
call him names, using all the big words he had ever heard, regardless of
their meaning. When his vocabulary was exhausted, our little friend asked,
quietly: 'Is you froo?' 'Yes,' returned the other, 'I's froo.' 'Well
then,' said the master of the situation, calmly, turning on his heel, 'all
those things what you called me, you is.'"
"That's right," laughed Dick. "All those things Uncle Israel has called
us, he is, but it makes him a pretty tough old customer."
A blessed peace had descended upon the house and its occupants. Harlan's
work was swiftly nearing completion, and in another day or two, he would
be 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 at
the manuscript when Harlan was out of the house. Lover-like, she expected
great things from it, and she saw the world of readers, literally, at her
husband's feet. So great was her faith in him that she never for an
instant suspected that there might possibly be difficulty at the
start--that any publisher could be wary of this masterpiece by an
unknown.
The Carrs had planned to remain where they were until the book was
finished, then to take the precious manuscript, and go forth to conquer
the City. Afterward, perhaps, a second honeymoon journey, for both were
sorely in need of rest and recreation.
Elaine was going with them, and Dorothy was to interview the Personage
whose private secretary she had once been, and see if that position or one
fully as desirable could not be found for her friend. Also, Elaine was to
make her home with the Carrs. "I won't let you live in a New York boarding
house," said Dorothy warmly, "as long as we've any kind of a roof over our
heads."
Dick had discovered that, as he expressed it, he must "quit fooling and
get a job." Hitherto, Mr. Chester had preferred care-free idleness to any
kind of toil, and a modest sum, carefully hoarded, represented to Dick
only freedom to do as he pleased until it gave out. Then he began to
consider work again, but as he seldom did the same kind of work twice, he
was not particularly proficient in any one line.
Still, Dick had no false ideas about labour. At college he had canvassed
for subscription books, solicited life and fire insurance, swept walks,
shovelled snow, carried out ashes, and even handled trunks for the express
company, all with the same cheerful equanimity. His small but certain
income sufficed for his tuition and other necessary expenses, but for
board at Uncle Ebeneezer's and a few small luxuries, he was obliged to
work.
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 wildest
moments, and yet I pine for it this minute--even street-sweeping would be
welcome, though that sort of thing isn't going to be much in my line from
now 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 their
kind, 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 with
renewed energy, inspired by the presence of Elaine, who with her book or
embroidery sat in her low rocker under the apple tree and watched him at
his work.
Quite often she read aloud, sometimes a paragraph, now and then an entire
chapter, to which Dick submitted pleasantly. He loved the smooth, soft
cadence of Elaine's low voice, whether she read or spoke, so, in a way, it
did not matter. But, one day, when she had read uninterruptedly for over
an hour, Dick was seized with a violent fit of coughing.
"I say," he began, when the paroxysm had ceased; "you like books, don't
you?"
"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 thereafter
read a great deal by way of reward. As for Dick, he burned the midnight
candle over many a book which he found inexpressibly dull, and skilfully
led the conversation to it the next day. Soon, even Harlan was impressed
by his wide knowledge of literature, though no one noted that about books
not in Uncle Ebeneezer's library, Dick knew nothing at all.
Dorothy spent much of her time in her own room, thus forcing Dick and
Elaine to depend upon each other for society. Quite often she was lonely,
and longed for their cheery chatter, but sternly reminded herself that she
was being sacrificed in a good cause. She built many an air castle for
them as well as for herself, furnishing both, impartially, with Elaine's
old mahogany and the simple furniture Dick was making out of Uncle
Ebeneezer's relics.
By this time the Jack-o'-Lantern was nearly stripped of everything which
might prove useful, and they were burning the rest of it in the fireplace
at night. "Varnished hardwood," as Dick said, "makes a peach of a blaze."
Meanwhile Harlan was labouring steadfastly at his manuscript. The glowing
fancy from which the book had sprung was quite gone. Still, as he cut,
rearranged, changed, interlined, reconstructed and polished, he was not
wholly unsatisfied with his work. "It may not be very good," he said to
himself, "but it's the best I can do--now. The next will be better, I'm
sure." He knew, even then, that there would be a "next one," for the
eternal thirst which knows no quenching had seized upon his inmost soul.
Hereafter, by an inexplicably swift reversion, he should see all life as
literature, and literature as life. Friends and acquaintances should all
be, in his inmost consciousness, ephemeral. And Dorothy--dearly as he
loved her, was separated from him as by a veil.
Still, as he worked, he came gradually to a better adjustment, and was
very tenderly anxious that Dorothy should see no change in him. He had not
yet reached the point, however, where he would give it all up for the sake
of finding things real again, if only for an hour.
Day after day, his work went on. Sometimes he would spend an hour
searching for a single word, rightly to express his meaning. Page after
page was re-copied upon the typewriter, for, with the nice conscience of a
good workman, Harlan desired a perfect manuscript, at least in mechanical
details.
Finally, he came to the last page and printed "The End" in capitals with
deep satisfaction. "When it's sandpapered," he said to himself, "and the
dust blown off, I suppose it will be done."
The "sandpapering" took a week longer. At the end of that time, Harlan
concluded that any manuscript was done when the writer had read it
carefully a dozen times without making a single change in it. On a
Saturday night, just as the hall clock was booming eleven, he pushed it
aside, 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 two
hundred and fifty pages of typed manuscript. It should be good for
something--even at space rates."
After dinner, Sunday, he told them that the book was ready, and they all
went 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 the
words came with caressing music to his ears. At times his voice wavered
and his hands trembled, but he kept on, until it grew so dark that he
could no longer see.
They went into the house silently, and Dick touched a match to the fire
already laid in the fireplace, while Dorothy lighted the candles and the
reading lamp. The afterglow faded and the moon rose, yet still they rode
with Elaine and her company, through mountain passes and over blossoming
fields, past many dangers and strange happenings, and ever away from the
Castle of Content.
Harlan's deep, vibrant voice, now stern, now tender, gave new meaning to
his work. His secret belief in it gave it a beauty which no one else would
ever see. Dorothy, listening so intently that it was almost pain, never
took 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, but
the candlelight touched Elaine's golden hair lovingly, and the glow from
the fire seemed to rest caressingly upon her face. All along, he saw a
clear resemblance between his Elaine and the lady of the book, also, more
keenly, a closer likeness between himself and the fool who rode at her
side.
When Harlan came to the song which the fool had written, and which he had
so shamelessly revised and read aloud at the table, Dick seriously
considered a private and permanent departure, like the nocturnal vanishing
of Mr. Perkins, without even a poem for farewell.
Elaine, lost in the story, was heedless of her surroundings. It was only
at the last chapter that she became conscious of self at all. Then,
suddenly, in her turn, she perceived a parallel, and quivered painfully
with a new emotion.
_"Some one, perchance," mused the Lady Elaine, "whose beauty my eyes alone
should perceive, whose valour only I should guess before there was need to
test it. Some one great of heart and clean of mind, in whose eyes there
should never be that which makes a woman ashamed. Some one fine-fibred and
strong-souled, not above tenderness when a maid was tired. One who should
make a shield of his love, to keep her not only from the great hurts but
from 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 no
recognition; who had always kept watch over her so unobtrusively and
quietly 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 her
story-book lover had gone for ever, and in his place was Dick;
sunny-hearted, mischievous, whistling, clear-eyed Dick, who had laughed
and joked with her all Summer, and now--must never know.
In a fierce agony of shame, she wondered if he had already guessed her
secret--if she had betrayed it to him before she was conscious of it
herself; if that was why he had been so kind. Harlan was reading the last
page, 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 outstretched
hand, for Elaine was in his arms for the first time, her sweet lips close
on his. "My Prince, Oh, my Prince," she murmured, when at length he set
her 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 staggered
to her feet, knowing that she must say some conventional words of
congratulation to Harlan, then go to her own room.
Blindly, she put out her hand, trying to speak; then, for a single
illuminating instant, her eyes looked into Dick's.
With a little cry, Elaine fled from the room, overwhelmed with shame. In a
twinkling, she was out of the house, and flying toward the orchard as fast
as her light feet would carry her, her heart beating wildly in her
breast.
By the sure instinct of a lover, Dick knew that his hour had come. He
dropped out of the window and overtook her just as she reached her little
rocking-chair, which, damp with the Autumn dew, was still under the apple
tree.
"Elaine!" cried Dick, crushing her into his arms, all the joy of youth and
love in his voice. "Elaine! My Elaine!"
"The audience," remarked Harlan, in an unnatural tone, "appears to have
gone. Only my faithful wife stands by me."
"Oh, Harlan," answered Dorothy, with a swift rush of feeling, "you'll
never know till your dying day how proud and happy I am. It's the very
beautifullest book that anybody ever wrote, and I'm so glad! Mrs.
Shakespeare could never have been half as pleased as I am! I----," but the
rest was lost, for Dorothy was in his arms, crying her heart out for sheer
joy.
"There, there," said Harlan, patting her shoulders awkwardly, and rubbing
his rough cheek against her tear-wet face; "it wasn't meant to make
anybody cry."
"Why can't I cry if I want to?" demanded Dorothy, resentfully, between
sobs. Harlan's voice was far from even and his own eyes were misty as he
answered: "Because you are my own darling girl and I love you, that's
why."
They sat hand in hand for a long time, looking into the embers of the
dying fire, in the depths of that wedded silence which has no need of
words. The portraits of Uncle Ebeneezer and Aunt Rebecca seemed fully in
accord, and, though mute, eloquent with understanding.
"He'd be so proud," whispered Dorothy, looking up at the stern face over
the mantel, "if he knew what you had done here in his house. He loved
books, and now, because of his kindness, you can always write them. You'll
never have to go back on the paper again."
Harlan smiled reminiscently, for the hurrying, ceaseless grind of the
newspaper office was, indeed, a thing of the past. The dim, quiet room was
his, not the battle-ground of the street. Still, as he knew, the smell of
printer's ink in his nostrils would be like the sound of a bugle to an old
cavalry horse, and even now, he would not quite trust himself to walk down
Newspaper Row.
"I love Uncle Ebeneezer and Aunt Rebecca," went on Dorothy, happily. "I
love everybody. I've love enough to-night to spare some for the whole
world."
"Dear little saint," said Harlan, softly, "I believe you have."
The clock struck ten and the fire died down. A candle flickered in its
socket, then went out. The chill Autumn mist was rising, and through it
the new moon gleamed faintly, like veiled pearl.
"I wonder," said Harlan, "where the rest of the audience is? If everybody
who reads the book is going to disappear suddenly and mysteriously, I
won't be the popular author that I pine to be."
"Hush," responded Dorothy; "I think they are coming now. I'll go and let
them in."
Only a single candle was burning in the hall, and when Dorothy opened the
door, it went out suddenly, but in that brief instant, she had seen their
glorified faces and understood it all. The library door was open, and the
dimly lighted room seemed like a haven of refuge to Elaine, radiantly
self-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. She
only laughed--a happy, tender, musical little laugh. Then she impulsively
kissed them both, pushed Elaine gently into the library, and went back
into the parlour to tell Harlan.