At the Sign of the Jack O'Lantern Part 34

"Read it," cried Elaine, her eyes dancing. "Please do!"

So d.i.c.k read as follows:

All happy times must reach an end Sometime, someday, somewhere, A great soul seldom has a friend Anyway or anywhere.

But one devoted to the Ideal Must pa.s.s these things all by, His eyes fixed ever on his Art, Which lives, though he must die.

Amid the tide of cruel greed Which laps upon our sh.o.r.e, No one takes thought of the poet's need Nor how his griefs may pour Upon his poor, devoted head And his sad, troubled heart; But all these things each one must take, Who gives his life to Art.

His crust of bread, his tick of straw His enemies deny, And at the last his patron saint Will even pa.s.s him by; The wide world is his resting place, All o'er it he may roam, And none will take the poet in, Or offer him a home.

The tears of sorrow blind him now, Misunderstood is he, But thus great souls have always been, And always they will be; His eyes fixed ever on the Ideal Will be there till he die, To-night he goes, but leaves a poem To say good bye, good bye!

"Poor Mr. Perkins," commented Dorothy, softly.

"Yes," mimicked Harlan, "poor Mr. Perkins. I don't see but what he'll have to work now, like any plain, ordinary mortal, with no 'gift'."

"What is the Ideal, anyway?" queried Elaine, looking thoughtfully into the embers of the poet's bedstead.

"That's easy," answered d.i.c.k, not without evident feeling. "It's whatever Mr. Perkins happens to be doing, or trying to do. He fixes it for the rest of us."

"I think," suggested Dorothy, after a momentary silence, "that the Ideal consists in minding your own business and gently, but firmly, a.s.sisting others to mind theirs."

All unknowingly, Dorothy had expressed the dominant idea of the dead master of the house. She fancied that the pictured face over the mantel was about to smile at her. Dorothy and Uncle Ebeneezer understood each other now, and she no longer wished to have the portrait moved.

Before they separated for the night, d.i.c.k told them all about the midnight gathering in the orchard, which he had witnessed from afar, and which the others enjoyed beyond his expectations.

"That's what uncle meant," said Elaine, "by 'fixing a surprise for relations.'" "I don't blame him," observed Harlan, "not a blooming bit. I wish the poor old duck could have been here to see it. Why wasn't I in on it?" he demanded of d.i.c.k, somewhat resentfully. "When anything like that was going on, why didn't you take me in?"

"It wasn't for me to interfere with his doings," protested d.i.c.k, "but I do wish you could have seen Uncle Israel."

At the recollection he went off into a spasm of merriment which bid fair to prove fatal. The rest laughed with him, not knowing just what it was about, such was the infectious quality of d.i.c.k's mirth.

"They've all gone," laughed Elaine, happily, taking her bedroom candle from Dorothy's hand, "they've all gone, every single one, and now we're going to have some good times."

d.i.c.k watched her as she went upstairs, the candlelight shining tenderly upon her sweet face, and thus betrayed himself to Dorothy, who had suspected for some time that he loved Elaine.

"Oh Lord!" grumbled d.i.c.k to himself, when he was safely in his own room.

"Everybody knows it now, except her. I'll bet even Sis Smithers and the cat are dead next to me. I might as well tell her to-morrow as any time, the result will be just the same. Better do it and have it over with. The cat'll tell her if n.o.body else does."

But that night, strangely enough, Claudius Tiberius disappeared, to be seen or heard of no more.

XX

The Love of Another Elaine

When d.i.c.k 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, surrept.i.tiously, 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 d.i.c.k, "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 d.i.c.k was fortunately familiar. "And," added d.i.c.k, "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 d.i.c.k 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 d.i.c.k. "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 ma.n.u.script 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 ma.n.u.script, 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."

d.i.c.k 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 h.o.a.rded, represented to d.i.c.k 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, d.i.c.k had no false ideas about labour. At college he had canva.s.sed 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 d.i.c.k'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 d.i.c.k 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, d.i.c.k 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 d.i.c.k, 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, d.i.c.k knew nothing at all.

Dorothy spent much of her time in her own room, thus forcing d.i.c.k 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 d.i.c.k 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 d.i.c.k said, "makes a peach of a blaze."

Meanwhile Harlan was labouring steadfastly at his ma.n.u.script. 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.