Kitabı oku: «At the Sign of the Jack O'Lantern», sayfa 12
“Father,” said Elaine, made bold by the silent pressure of the hand that secretly clasped hers, “’tis no jest. If thou art pained, indeed I am sorry, but if thou choosest to banish me, then this night will I go gladly with him I have chosen to be my lord. The true heart which Heaven has sent for me beats beneath his motley, and with him I must go. Dear father,” cried Elaine, piteously, “do not send us away!”
The stern eyes of the Lord of the Castle of Content were fixed upon the fool, and in the gathering darkness they gleamed like live coals. “And thou,” he said, scornfully; “what hast thou to say?”
“Only this,” answered the fool; “that the Princess has spoken truly. We are mated by a higher law than that of thy land or mine, and ’tis this law that we must obey. If thou sayest the word, we will set forth to my country this very night, though we are both weary with much journeying.”
“Thy land,” said the Lord of the Castle, with measureless contempt, “and what land hast thou? Even the six feet of ground thou needest for a grave must be given thee at the last, unless, perchance, thou hast a handful of stolen earth hidden somewhere among thy other jewels!”
“Your lordship,” cried the fool, with a clear ring in his voice, “thou shall not speak so to the man who is to wed thy daughter. I had not thought to tell even her till after the priests had made us one, but for our own protection, I am stung into speech.
“Know then, that I am no fool, but a Prince of the House of Bernard. My acres and my vineyards cover five times the space of this little realm of thine. Chests of gold and jewels I have, storehouses overflowing with grain and fine fabrics, three castles and a royal retinue. Of a truth, thou art blind since thou canst see naught but the raiment. May not a Prince wear motley if he chooses, thus to find a maid who will love him for himself alone?”
“Prince Bernard,” muttered the Lord of Content, “the son of my old friend, whom I have long dreamed in secret shouldst wed my dear daughter Elaine! Your Highness, I beg you to forgive me, and to take my hand.”
But Prince Bernard did not hear, 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 could not see, but my heart knew!”
So ended the Quest of the Lady Elaine.
With a sigh, Harlan wrote the last words and pushed the paper from him, staring blankly at the wall and seeing nothing. His labour was at an end, all save the final copying, and the painstaking daily revision which would take weeks longer. The exaltation he had expected to be conscious of was utterly absent; instead of it, he had a sense of loss, of change.
His surroundings seemed hopelessly sordid and ugly, now that the glow was gone. All unknowingly, when Harlan pencilled: “The End,” in fanciful letters at the bottom of the last page, he had had practically his last joy of his book. The torturing process of revision was to take all the life out of it. Sentences born of surging emotion would seem vapid and foolish when subjected to the cold, critical eye of his reason, yet he knew, dimly, that he must not change it too much.
“I’ll let it get cool,” he thought, “before I do anything more to it.”
Yet, now, it was difficult to stop working. The rented typewriter, with its enticing bank of keys, was close at hand. A thousand sheets of paper and a box of carbon waited in the drawer of Uncle Ebeneezer’s desk. His worn Thesaurus of English Words and Phrases was at his elbow. And they were poor. Then Harlan laughed, for they were no longer poor, and he had wholly forgotten it.
There was a step upon the porch outside, then Dorothy came into the hall. She paused outside the library door for a moment, ostensibly to tie her shoe, but in reality to listen. A wave of remorseful tenderness overwhelmed Harlan and he unlocked the door. “Come in,” he said, smiling. “You needn’t be afraid to come in any more. The book is all done.”
“O Harlan, is it truly done?” There was no gladness in her voice, only relief. Doubt was in every intonation of her sentence; incredulity in every line of her body.
With this pitiless new insight of his, Harlan saw how she had felt for these last weeks and became very tenderly anxious not to hurt her; to shield his transformed self from her quick understanding.
“Really,” he answered. “Have I been a beast, Dorothy?”
The question was so like the boy she used to know that her heart leaped wildly, then became portentously still.
“Rather,” she admitted, grudgingly, from the shelter of his arms.
“I’m sorry. If you say so, I’ll burn it. Nothing is coming between you and me.” The words sounded hollow and meaningless, as he knew they were.
She put her hand over his mouth. “You won’t do any such thing,” she said. Dorothy had learned the bitterness of the woman’s part, to stand by, utterly lonely, and dream, and wait, while men achieve.
“Can I read it now?” she asked, timidly.
“You couldn’t make it out, Dorothy. When it’s all done, and every word is just as I want it, I’ll read it to you. That will be better, won’t it?”
“Can Dick come, too?” She asked the question thoughtlessly, then flushed as Harlan took her face between his hands.
“Dorothy, did you know Dick before we were married?”
“Why, Harlan! I never saw him in all my life till the day he came here. Did you think I had?”
Harlan only grunted, but she understood, and, in return, asked her question. “Did you write the book about Elaine?” she began, half ashamed.
“Dear little idiot,” said Harlan, softly. “I’d begun the book before she came or before I knew she was coming. I never saw her till she came to live with us. You’re foolish, dearest, don’t you think you are?”
He was swiftly perceiving the necessity of creating a new harmony to take the place of that old one, now so strangely lost.
“There are two of us,” returned Dorothy, with conviction, wiping her eyes.
“I wish you’d ask me things,” said Harlan, a little later. “I’m no mind reader. And, besides, the seventh son of a seventh son, born with a caul, and having three trances regularly every day after meals, never could hope to understand a woman unless she was willing to help him out a little, occasionally.”
Which, after all, was more or less true.
XVIII
Uncle Ebeneezer’s Diary
Harlan had taken his work upstairs, that the ceaseless clatter of the typewriter might not add to the confusion which normally prevailed in the Jack-o’-Lantern. Thus it happened that Dorothy was able to begin her long-cherished project of dusting, rearranging, and cataloguing the books.
There is a fine spiritual essence which exhales from the covers of a book. Shall one touch a copy of Shakespeare with other than reverent hands, or take up his Boswell without a smile? Through the worn covers and broken binding the master-spirit still speaks, no less than through the centuries which lie between. The man who had the wishing carpet, upon which he sat and wished and was thence immediately transported to the ends of the earth, was not possessed of a finer magic than one who takes his Boswell in his hands and then, for a golden quarter of an hour, lives in a bygone London with Doctor Johnson.
When the book-lover enters his library, no matter what storm and tumult may be in his heart, he has come to the inmost chamber of Peace. The indescribable, musty odour which breathes from the printed page is fragrant incense to him who loves his books. In unseemly caskets his treasures may be hidden, yet, when the cover is reverently lifted, the jewels shine with no fading light. The old, immortal beauty is still there, for any one who seeks it in the right way.
Dorothy had two willing assistants in Dick and Elaine. One morning, immediately after breakfast, the three went to the library and locked the door. Outside, the twins rioted unheeded and the perennially joyous Willie capered unceasingly. Mr. Perkins, gloomy and morose, wrote reams of poetry in his own room, distressed beyond measure by the rumble of the typewriter, but too much cast down to demand that it be stopped.
Mrs. Dodd and Mrs. Holmes, closely united through misfortune, were well-nigh inseparable now, while Mrs. Smithers, still sepulchral, sang continually in a loud, cracked voice, never by any chance happening upon the right note. As Dorothy said, when there are only eight tones in the octave, it would seem that sometime, somewhere, a warbler must coincide for a brief interval with the tune, but as Dick further commented, industry and patience can do wonders when rightly exercised.
Uncle Israel’s midnight excursion to the orchard had given him a fresh attack of a familiar and distressing ailment to which he always alluded as “the brown kittys.” Fortunately, however, the cure for asthma and bronchitis was contained in the same quart bottle, and needed only to be heated in order to work upon both diseases simultaneously.
Elaine rolled up the sleeves of her white shirt-waist, and turned in her collar, thereby producing an effect which Dick privately considered distractingly pretty. Dorothy was enveloped from head to foot in a voluminous blue gingham apron, and a dust cap, airily poised upon her smooth brown hair, completed a most becoming costume. Dick, having duly obtained permission, took off his coat and put on his hat, after which the library force was ready for action.
“First,” said Dorothy, “we’ll take down all the books.” It sounded simple, but it took a good share of the day to do it, and the clouds of dust disturbed by the process produced sneezes which put Uncle Israel’s feeble efforts to shame. When dusting the shelves, after they were empty, Elaine came upon a panel in the wall which slid back.
“Here’s a secret drawer!” she cried, in wild delight. “How perfectly lovely! Do you suppose there’s anything in it?”
Dorothy instantly thought of money and diamonds, but the concealed treasure proved to be merely a book. It was a respectable volume, however, at least as far as size was concerned, for Elaine and Dorothy together could scarcely lift it.
It was a leather-bound ledger, of the most ponderous kind, and was fastened with a lock and key. The key, of course, was missing, but Dick soon pried open the fastening.
All but the last few pages in the book were covered with fine writing, in ink which was brown and faded, but still legible. It was Uncle Ebeneezer’s penmanship throughout, except for a few entries at the beginning, in a fine, flowing feminine hand, which Dorothy instantly knew was Aunt Rebecca’s.
“On the night of our wedding,” the book began, “we begin this record of our lives, for until to-day we have not truly lived.” This was signed by both. Then, in the woman’s hand, was written a description of her wedding-gown, which was a simple white muslin, made by herself. Her ornaments were set down briefly – only a wreath of roses in her hair, a string of coral beads, and the diamond brooch which was at that moment in Dorothy’s jewel-box.
For three weeks there were alternate entries, then suddenly, without date, were two words so badly written as to be scarcely readable: “She died.” For days thereafter was only this: “I cannot write.” These simple words were the key to a world of pain, for the pages were blistered with a man’s hot tears.
Then came this: “She would want me to go on writing it, so I will, though I have no heart for it.”
From thence onward the book proceeded without interruption, a minute and faithful record of the man’s inner life. Long extracts copied from books filled page after page of this strange diary, interspersed with records of business transactions, of letters received and answered, of wages paid, and of the visits of Jeremiah Bradford.
“We talked long to-night upon the immortality of the soul,” one entry ran. “Jeremiah does not believe it, but I must – or die.”
Dick soon lost interest in the book, and finding solitary toil at the shelves uncongenial, went out, whistling. Elaine and Dorothy read on together, scarcely noting his absence.
The book had begun in the Spring. Early in June was chronicled the arrival of “a woman calling herself Cousin Elmira, blood relation of my Rebecca. Was not aware my Rebecca had a blood relation named Elmira, but there is much in the world that I do not know.”
According to the diary, Cousin Elmira had remained six weeks and had greatly distressed her unwilling host. “Women are peculiar,” Uncle Ebeneezer had written, “all being possessed of the devil, except my sainted Rebecca, who was an angel if there ever was one.
“Cousin Elmira is a curious woman. To-day she desired to know what had become of my Rebecca’s wedding garments, her linen sheets and table-cloths. Answered that I did not know, and immediately put a lock upon the chest containing them. Have always been truthful up to now, but Rebecca would not desire to have any blood relation handling her sheets. Of this I am sure.
“Aug. 9. To-day came Cousin Silas Martin and his wife to spend their honeymoon. Much grieved to hear of Rebecca’s death. Said she had invited them to spend their honeymoon with her when they married. Did not know of this, but our happiness was of such short duration that my Rebecca did not have time to tell me of all her wishes. Company is very hard to bear, but I would do much for my Rebecca.
“Aug. 10. This world can never be perfect under any circumstances, and trials are the common lot of humanity. We must all endeavour to bear up under affliction. Sarah Smithers is a good woman, most faithful, and does not talk a great deal, considering her sex. Not intending any reflection upon my Rebecca, whose sweet voice I could never hear too often.
“Aug. 20. Came Uncle Israel Skiles with a bad cough. Thinks the air of Judson Centre must be considered healthy as they are to build a sanitarium here. Did not know of the sanitarium.
“Aug. 22. Came Cousin Betsey Skiles to look after Uncle Israel. Uncle Israel not desiring to be looked after has produced some disturbance in my house.
“Aug. 23. Cousin Betsey Skiles and Cousin Jane Wood, the latter arriving unexpectedly this morning, have fought, and Cousin Jane has gone away again. Had never met Cousin Jane Wood.
“Aug. 24. Was set upon by Cousin Silas Martin, demanding to know whether his wife was to be insulted by Cousin Betsey Skiles. Answered that I did not know.
“Aug. 25. Was obliged to settle a dispute between Sarah Smithers and Cousin Betsey Skiles. Decided in favour of S. S., thereby angering B. S. Uncle Israel accidentally spilled his tonic on Cousin Betsey’s clean apron. Much disturbance in my house.
“Aug. 28. Cousin Silas Martin and wife went away, telling me they could no longer live with Cousin Betsey Skiles. B. S. is unpleasant, but has her virtues.
“Sept. 5. Uncle Israel thinks air of Judson Centre is now too chilly for his cough. Does not like his bed, considering it drafty. Says Sarah Smithers does not give him nourishing food.
“Sept. 8. Uncle Israel has gone.
“Sept. 10. Cousin Betsey Skiles has gone to continue looking after Uncle Israel. Sarah Smithers and myself now alone in peace.
All that Winter, the writing was of books, interspersed with occasional business details. In the Spring, the influx of blood relations began again and continued until Fall. The diary revealed the gradual transformation of a sunny disposition into a dark one, of a man with gregarious instincts into a wild beast asking only for solitude. Additions to the house were chronicled from time to time, with now and then a pathetic comment upon the futility of the additions.
Once there was this item: “Would go away for ever were it not that this was my Rebecca’s home. Where we had hoped to be so happy, there is now a great emptiness and unnumbered Relations. How shall I endure Relations? Still they are all of her blood, though the most gentle blood does seem to take strange turns.”
Again: “Do not think my Rebecca would desire to have all her kin visit her at once. Still, would do anything for my Rebecca. Have ordered five more beds.”
As the years went by, the bitterness became more and more apparent. Long before the end, the record was frankly profane, and saddest of all was the evidence that under the stress of annoyance the great love for “my Rebecca” was slowly, but surely, becoming tainted. From simple profanity, Uncle Ebeneezer descended into blasphemous comment, modified at times by remorseful tenderness toward the dead.
“To-day,” he wrote, “under pressure of my questioning, Sister-in-law Fanny Wood admitted that Rebecca had never invited her to come and see her. Asked Sister-in-law why she was here. Responded that Rebecca would have asked her if she had lived. Perhaps others have surmised the same. Fear of late I may have been unjust to my Rebecca.”
Later on, “my Rebecca” was mentioned but rarely. She became “my dear companion,” “my wife,” or “my partner.” The building of wings and the purchase of additional beds by this time had become a permanent feature, though, as the writer admitted, it was “a roundabout way.”
“The easiest way would be to turn all out. Forgetting my duty to the memory of my dear companion, and sore pressed by many annoyances, did turn out Cousin Betsey Skiles, who forgave me for it without being so requested, and remained.
“Trains to Judson Centre,” he wrote, at one time, “have been most grievously changed. One arrives just after breakfast, the other at three in the morning. Do not understand why this is, and anticipate new trouble from it.”
The entries farther on were full of “trouble,” being minute and intimate portrayals of the emotions of one roused from sleep at three in the morning to admit undesired guests, interlarded with pardonable profanity. “Seems that house might be altered in some way, but do not know. Will consult with Jeremiah.”
After this came the record of an interview with the village carpenter, and rough sketches of proposed alterations. “Putting in new window in middle and making two upper windows round instead of square, with new porch-railing and two new narrow windows downstairs will do it. House fortunately planned by original architect for such alteration. Taking down curtains and keeping lights in windows nights should have some effect, though much doubt whether anything would affect Relations.”
Soon afterward the oppressed one chronicled with great glee how a lone female, arriving on the night train, was found half-dead from fright by the roadside in the morning. “House is fearsome,” wrote Uncle Ebeneezer, with evident relish. “Have been to Jeremiah’s of an evening and, returning, found it wonderful to behold.”
Presently, Dorothy came to an intimate analysis of some of the uninvited ones at present under her roof. The poet was given a full page of scathing comment, illustrated by rude caricatures, which were so suggestive that even Elaine thoroughly enjoyed them.
Pleased with his contribution to literature, Uncle Ebeneezer had written a long and keenly comprehensive essay upon each relation. These bits of vivid portraiture were numbered in this way: “Relation Number 8, Miss Betsey Skiles, Claiming to be Cousin.” At the end of this series was a very beautiful tribute to “My Dearly Beloved Nephew, James Harlan Carr, Who Has Never Come to See Me.”
Frequently, thereafter, came pathetic references to “Dear Nephew James,” “Unknown Recipient of an Old Man’s Gratitude,” “Discerning and Admirable James,” and so on.
One entry ran as follows: “Have been approached this season by each Relation present in regard to disposal of my estate. Will fix surprise for all Relations before leaving to join my wife. Shall leave money to every one, though perhaps not as much as each expects. Jeremiah advises me to leave something to each. Laws are such, I believe, that no one remembered can claim more. Desire to be just, but strongly incline to dear Nephew James.”
On the last page of all was a significant paragraph. “Dreamed of seeing my Rebecca once more, who told me we should be together again April 7th. Shall make all arrangements for leaving on that day, and prepare Surprises spoken of. Shall be very quiet in my grave with no Relations at hand, but should like to hear and see effect of Surprise. Jeremiah will attend.”
The last lines were written on April sixth. “To-morrow I shall join my loved Rebecca and leave all Relations here to fight by themselves. Do not fear Death, but shudder at Relations. Relations keep life from being pleasant. Did not know my Rebecca was possessed of such numbers nor of such kinds, but forgive her all. Shall see her to-morrow.”
Then, on the line below, in a hand that did not falter, was written: “The End.”
Dorothy wiped her eyes on a corner of Elaine’s apron, for Uncle Ebeneezer had been found dead in his bed on the morning of April seventh. “Elaine,” she said, “what would you do?”
“Do?” repeated Elaine. “I’d strike one blow for poor old Uncle Ebeneezer! I’d order every single one of them out of the house to-morrow!”
“To-night!” cried Dorothy, fired with high resolve. “I’ll do it this very night! Poor old Uncle Ebeneezer! Our sufferings have been nothing, compared to his.”
“Are you going to tell Mr. Carr?” asked Elaine, wonderingly.
“Tell him nothing,” rejoined Dorothy, with spirit. “He’s got some old fogy notions about your house being a sacred spot where everybody in creation can impose on you if they want to, just because it is your house. I suppose he got it by being related to poor old uncle.”
“Do I have to go, too?” queried Elaine, rubbing her soft cheek against Dorothy’s.
“Not much,” answered Mrs. Carr, with a sisterly embrace. “You’ll stay, and Dick ’ll stay, and that old tombstone in the kitchen will stay, and so will Claudius Tiberius, but the rest – MOVE!”
Consequently, Elaine looked forward to the dinner-hour with mixed anticipations. Mr. Perkins, Uncle Israel, Mrs. Dodd, and Mrs. Holmes each found a note under their plates when they sat down. Uncle Israel’s face relaxed into an expression of childlike joy when he found the envelope addressed to him. “Valentine, I reckon,” he said, “or mebbe it’s sunthin’ from Santa Claus.”
“Queer acting for Santa Claus,” snorted Mrs. Holmes, who had swiftly torn open her note. “Here we are, all ordered away from what’s been our home for years, by some upstart relations who never saw poor, dear uncle. Are you going to keep boarders?” she asked, insolently, turning to Dorothy.
“No longer,” returned that young woman, imperturbably. “I have done it just as long as I intend to.”
Harlan was gazing curiously at Dorothy, but she avoided his eyes, and continued to eat as though nothing had happened. Dick, guessing rightly, choked, and had to be excused. Elaine’s cheeks were flushed and her eyes sparkled, the flush deepening when Mrs. Dodd inquired where her valentine was. Mr. Perkins was openly dejected, and Mrs. Dodd, receiving no answer to her question, compressed her thin lips into a forced silence.
But Uncle Israel was moved to protesting speech. “’T is queer doin’s for Santa Claus,” he mumbled, pouring out a double dose of his nerve tonic. “’T ain’t such a thing as he’d do, even if he was drunk. Turnin’ a poor old man outdoor, what ain’t got no place to go exceptin’ to Betsey’s, an’ nobody can’t live with Betsey. She’s all the time mad at herself on account of bein’ obliged to live with such a woman as she be. Summers I’ve allers stayed here an’ never made no trouble. I’ve cooked my own food an’ brought most of it, an’ provided all my own medicines, an’ even took my bed with me, goin’ an’ comin’. Ebeneezer’s beds is all terrible drafty – I took two colds to once sleepin’ in one of ’em – an’ at my time of life ’t ain’t proper to change beds. Sleepin’ in a drafty bed would undo all the good of bein’ near the sanitarium. Most likely I’ll have a fever or sunthin’ now an’ die.”
“Shut up, Israel,” said Mrs. Dodd, abruptly. “You ain’t goin’ to die. It wouldn’t surprise me none if you had to be shot on the Day of Judgment before you could be resurrected. Folks past ninety-five that’s pickled in patent medicine from the inside out, ain’t goin’ to die of no fever.”
“Ninety-six, Belinda,” said the old man, proudly. “I’ll be ninety-six next week, an’ I’m as young as I ever was.”
“Then,” rejoined Mrs. Dodd, tartly, “what you want to look out for is measles an’ chicken-pox, to say nothin’ of croup.”
“Come, Gladys Gwendolen and Algernon Paul,” interrupted Mrs. Holmes, in a high key; “we must go and pack now, to go away from dear uncle’s. Dear uncle is dead, you know, and can’t help his dear ones being ordered out of his house by upstarts.”
“What’s a upstart, ma?” inquired Willie.
“People who turn their dead uncle’s relations out of his house in order to take boarders,” returned Mrs. Holmes, clearly.
“Mis’ Carr,” said Mrs. Dodd, sliding up into Dick’s vacant place, “have I understood that you want me to go away to-morrow?”
“Everybody is going away to-morrow,” returned Dorothy, coldly.
“After all I’ve done for you?” persisted Mrs. Dodd.
“What have you done for me?” parried Dorothy, with a pleading look at Elaine.
“Kep’ the others away,” returned Mrs. Dodd, significantly.
“Uncle Ebeneezer does not want any of you here,” said Dorothy, after a painful silence. The impression made by the diary was so vividly present with her that she felt as though she were delivering an actual message.
Much to her surprise, Mrs. Dodd paled and left the room hastily. Uncle Israel tottered after her, leaving his predigested food untouched on his plate and his imitation coffee steaming malodorously in his cup. Mr. Perkins bowed his head upon his hands for a moment; then, with a sigh, lightly dropped out of the open window. The name of Uncle Ebeneezer seemed to be one to conjure with.
“Dorothy,” said Harlan, “might an obedient husband modestly inquire what you have done?”
“Elaine and I found Uncle Ebeneezer’s diary to-day,” explained Dorothy, “and the poor old soul was nagged all his life by relatives. So, in gratitude for what he’s done for us, I’ve turned ’em out. I know he’d like to have me do it.”
Harlan left his place and came to Dorothy, where, bending over her chair, he kissed her tenderly. “Good girl,” he said, patting her shoulder. “Why in thunder didn’t you do it months ago?”
“Isn’t that just like a man?” asked Dorothy, gazing after his retreating figure.
“I don’t know,” answered Elaine, with a pretty blush, “but I guess it is.”
