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At The Sign of The Jack O'Lantern

<h2>XVII</h2> <h3>The Lady Elaine knows her Heart</h3></div> It was on a dark and stormy midnight, when the thunders boomed and the dread fury of the lightnings scarred the overhanging cliffs, that the Lady Elaine at last came to know her heart. She was in a cave, safe from all but the noise of the storm. A cheery fire blazed at her door, and her bed within was made soft with pine boughs and skins. For weeks they had journeyed here and there, yet there had been no knight in whose face Elaine could find what she sought. As she lay on her couch, she reflected upon the faithful wayfarers who had travelled with her, who had ever been gentle and courtly, saving her from all annoyance and all harm. Yet above them all, there was one who, from the time of their starting, had kept vigilant guard. He was the humblest of them all, but 283 it was he who made her rest in shady places by the wayside when she herself scarce knew that she was weary; had given her cool spring water in a cup cunningly woven of leaves before she had realised her thirst; had brought her berries and strange, luscious fruits before she had thought of hunger; and who had cheered her, many a time, when no one else had guessed that she was sad. Outside, he was guarding her now, all heedless of the rain. She could see him dimly in the shadow, then, all at once, more clearly in the firelight. His head was bowed and his arms folded, yet in the strong lines of his body there was no hint of weariness. Well did the Lady Elaine know that until Dawn spun her web of enchantment upon the mysterious loom of the East, he would march sleeplessly before her door, replenishing the fire, listening now and then for her deep breathing, and, upon the morrow, gaily tell her of his dreams. Dreams they were, indeed, but not the dreams of sleep. Upon these midnight marchings, her sentinel gave his wandering fancy free rein. And because of the dumb pain in his heart, these fancies were all the merrier; 284 more golden with the sun of laughter, more gemmed with the pearl of tears. Proud-hearted, yet strangely homesick, the Lady Elaine was restless this night. “I must go back,” she thought, “to the Castle of Content, where my dear father would fain have his child again. And yet I dread to go back with my errand undone, my quest unrewarded. “What is it,” thought Elaine, in sudden self-searching, “that I seek? What must this man be, to whom I would surrender the keeping of my heart? What do I ask that is so hard to find? “Am I seeking for a god? Nay, surely not, but only for a man. Valorous he must be, indeed, but not in the lists—’tis not a soldier, for I have seen them by the hundred since I left my home in the valley. ’Tis not a model for the tapestry weaver that my heart would have, for I have seen the most beautiful youths of my country since I came forth upon my quest. “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 285 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. “Surely ’tis not so unusual, this thing that I ask—only an honest man with human faults and human virtues, transfigured by a great love. And why is it that in this quest of mine, I have found him not?” “Princess,” said a voice at her doorway, “thou art surely still awake. The storm is lessening and there is naught to fear. I pray thee, try to sleep. And if there is aught I can do for thee, thou knowest thou hast only to speak.” From the warm darkness where she lay, Elaine saw his face with the firelight upon it, and all at once she knew. “There is naught,” she answered, with what he thought was coldness. “I bid thee leave me and take thine own rest.” “As thou wilt,” he responded, submissively, 286 but though the sound was now faint and far away, she still could hear him walking back and forth, keeping his unremitting guard. So it was that at last Love came to the Lady Elaine. She had dreamed of some fair stranger, into whose eyes she should look and instantly know him for her lord, never guessing that her lord had gone with her when she left the Castle of Content. There was none of those leaps of the heart of which one of the maids at the Castle had read from the books while the others worked at the tapestry frames. It was nothing new, but only a light upon something which had always been, and which, because of her own blindness, she had not seen. All through this foolish journey, Love had ridden beside the Lady Elaine, asking nothing but the privilege of serving her; demanding only the right to give, to sacrifice, to shield. And at last she knew. The doubting in her heart was for ever stilled and in its place was a great peace. There was an unspeakable tenderness and a measureless compassion, so wide and so deep that it sheltered all the world. For, strangely 287 enough, the love of the many comes first through the love of the one. The Lady Elaine did not need to ask whether he loved her, for, unerringly, she knew. Mated past all power of change, they two were one henceforward, though seas should roll between. Mated through suffering as well, for, in this new bond, as the Lady Elaine dimly perceived, there was great possibility of hurt. Yet there was no end or no beginning; it simply was, and at last she knew. At length, she slept. When she awoke the morning was fair upon the mountains, but still he paced back and forth before her door. Rising, she bathed her face in the cool water he had brought her, braided her glorious golden hair, changed her soiled habit for a fresh robe of white satin traced with gold, donned her red embroidered slippers, and stepped out into the sunrise, shading her eyes with her hand until they grew accustomed to the dawn. “Good morrow, Princess,” he said. “We——” Of a sudden, he stopped and fled like a wild thing into the forest, for by her eyes, he saw what was in her heart, and his hot words, 288 struggling for utterance, choked him. “At last,” he breathed, with his clenched hands on his breast; “at last—but no, ’tis another dream of mine that I dare not believe.” His senses reeled, for love comes not to a man as to a woman, but rather with the sound of trumpets and the glare of white light. The cloistered peace that fills her soul rests seldom upon him, and instead he is stirred with high ambition and spurred on to glorious achievement. For to her, love is the end of life; to him it is the means. The knights thought it but another caprice when the Lady Elaine gave orders to return to the Castle of Content, at once, and by the shortest way—all save one of them. With his heart rioting madly through his breast, he knew, but he did not dare to look at Elaine. He was as one long blinded, who suddenly sees the sun. So it was that though he still served her, he rode no longer by her side, and Elaine, hurt at first, at length understood, and smiled because of her understanding. All the way back, the Lady Elaine sang little songs to herself, and, the while she rode upon her palfrey, touched her zither into gentle harmonies. 289 After many days, they came within sight of the Castle of Content. As before, it was sunset, and the long light lay upon the hills, while the valley was in shadow. Purple were the vineyards, heavy with their clustered treasure, over which the tiny weavers had made their lace, and purple, too, were the many-spired cliffs, behind which the sunset shone. A courier, riding swiftly in advance, had apprised the Lord of the Castle of Content of the return of the Lady Elaine, and the maids from the tapestry room, and the keeper of the wine-cellar, and the stable-boys, and the candle-makers, and the light-bearers all rushed out, heedless of their manners, for, one and all, they loved the Lady Elaine, and were eager to behold their beautiful mistress again. But the Lord of the Castle of Content, speaking somewhat sternly, ordered them one and all back to their places, and, shamefacedly, they obeyed. “I would not be selfish,” he muttered to himself, “but surely, Elaine is mine, and the first gleam of her beauty belongs of right to these misty old eyes of mine, that have long strained across the dark for the 290 first hint of her coming. Of a truth her quest has been long.” So it came to pass that when the company reached the road that led down into the valley, the Lord of the Castle of Content was on the portico alone, though he could not have known that behind every shuttered window of the Castle, a humble servitor of Elaine’s was waiting anxiously for her coming. As before, Elaine rode at the head, waving her hand to her father, while the cymbals and the bugles crashed out a welcome. She could not see, but she guessed that he was there, and in return he waved a tremulous hand at her, though well he knew that in the fast gathering twilight, the child of his heart could not see the one who awaited her. One by one, as they came in single file down the precipice, the old man counted them, much astonished to see that there was no new member of the company—that as many were coming back as had gone away. For the moment his heart was glad, then he reproached himself bitterly for his selfishness, and was truthfully most tender toward Elaine, because she had failed upon her quest. The light gleamed capriciously upon the 291 bauble of the fool, which he still carried, though now it hung downward from his saddle, foolishly enough. “A most merry fool,” said the Lord of Content to himself. “I was wise to insist upon his accompanying this wayward child of mine.” Wayward she might be, yet her father’s eyes were dim when she came down into the valley, where there was no light save the evening star, a taper light at an upper window of the Castle, and her illumined face. “How hast thou fared upon thy quest, Elaine?” he asked in trembling tones, when at last she released herself from his eager embrace. He dreaded to hear her make known her disappointment, yet his sorrow was all for her, and not in the least for himself. “I have found him, father,” she said, the gladness in her voice betraying itself as surely as the music in a stream when Spring sets it free again, “and, forsooth, he rode with me all the time.” “Which knight hast thou chosen, Elaine?” he asked, a little sadly. “No knight at all, dear father. I have found my knight in stranger guise than in armour and shield. He bears no lance, save 292 for those who would injure me.” And then, she beckoned to the fool. “He is here, my father,” she went on, her great love making her all unconscious of the shame she should feel. “Elaine!” thundered her father, while the fool hung his head, “hast thou taken leave of thy senses? Of a truth, this is a sorry jest thou hast chosen to greet me with on thy return.” “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 293 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, 294 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 295 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.” 296 “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. 297 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. 298 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. <hr class='major' /> <div style='margin: auto; text-align: center; padding-top: 2em; padding-bottom: 1em'> 299 <div style="break-after:column;"></div>

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