The Re-Creation of Brian Kent Part 12

And the bitter, bitter answer came, "I am afraid of another failure."

Auntie Sue's quick mind caught the significance of his words. "ANOTHER failure, Brian? Then you,--then you have written before?"

"Yes," he returned. And not since his decision to remain with her had she seen him so despondent. "To write was the dream and the pa.s.sion of my life. I tried and tried. G.o.d, how I worked and slaved at it! The only result from my efforts was the h.e.l.l from which you dragged me."

Alter a little silence, Auntie Sue said gently: "I don't think I understand, Brian. You have never told me about your trouble, you know."

"It is an old, old story," he returned. "I am only one of thousands. My wretched experience is not at all uncommon."

"I know," she answered. "But don't you think that perhaps you had better tell me? Perhaps, in the mere telling of it to me, now that it is all over, you may find the real reason for--for what happened to you."

Wise Auntie Sue!--wise in that rarest of all wisdom,--the sympathetic understanding of human hearts and souls.

"You know about my earlier life," he began; "how, in my boyhood, after mother's death, I worked at anything I could do to keep myself alive, and how I managed to gain a little schooling. I was always dreaming of writing, even then. I took the business course in a night-school, not because I liked it, but because I thought it would help me to earn a living in a way that would give me more time for what I really wanted to do. And after I finished school, and had finally worked up to a good position in that bank, I did have more time for my writing. But,"--he hesitated--"I--well,--other interests had come into my life,--and--"

Auntie Sue said, softly, "She did not understand, Brian."

"No, she did not understand," he continued, accepting Auntie Sue's interpretation without comment. "And when my writing brought no money, because no publisher would accept my stuff, and the conditions under which I wrote became intolerable because of misunderstanding and opposition and disbelief in my ability and charges of neglect, I--I--stole money from my employers to gain temporary relief until my writing should amount to something. You see, I could not help believing that I would succeed, in time. I suppose all dreamers have more or less confidence in their dreams: they must, you know, or their dreams would never be realized. I always expected to pay back the money I took with the money I would earn by my pen. But I failed to earn anything, you see; and then--then the inevitable happened, and the river brought me to you."

"But, my dear boy!" cried Auntie Sue, "all this that you have told me is no reason why you should fear to write now. Indeed, it is a very good reason why you should not fear."

He looked at her questioningly, and she continued: "You have given every reason in the world why you failed. Your whole life was out of tune.

How could you expect to produce anything worthy from such a jangling discord? You should have been afraid, indeed, to write THEN. But, NOW,--now, Brian, you are ready. You are a long, long way down the river from the place of your failures. The disturbing, distracting things are past,--just as in the quiet reach of the river below Elbow Rock the turmoil of the rapids is past. You say that you know exactly what you want to write, and why you want to write it--and you do know--and because you know,--because you have suffered,--because you have learned,--because you can do this thing for others,--it is yours to do, and so you must do it. What you really mean when you say you are 'afraid to write' is, that you are AFRAID NOT TO," she finished with a little laugh of satisfaction.

And Brian Kent, as he watched her glowing face and felt the sincerity and confidence that vibrated in her voice, was thrilled with a new courage. The fires of his inspiration shone again in his eyes, as he answered, with deep conviction, "Auntie Sue, I believe you are right.

What a woman you are!"

CHAPTER XII.

AUNTIE SUE TAKES A CHANCE.

So Brian wrote his book that winter.

When the days were fair, he worked with his ax on the mountain-side. But his notebook was ever at hand, and many a thought that went down on the pages of his ma.n.u.script was born while he wrought with his hands in the wholesome labor which gave strength to his body and clearness to his brain. In the evenings, he wrote in the little log house by the river, with Auntie Sue sitting in her chair beside the table,--the lamp-light on her silvery hair, and her sewing-basket within reach of her hand,--engaged with some bit of needlework, a book, or perhaps with one of her famous letters to some other pupil, far away. The stormy days gave him many hours with his pen, and so the book grew.

And always as the man endeavored to shape his thoughts for the printed pages that would carry his message to the doubting, disconsolate, and fearful world that he knew so well, he heard in his heart the voices of the river. From the hillside where he worked in the timber he could see the stream winding through the snowy hills like a dark line carelessly drawn with many a crook and curve and break on the sheet of white. From the porch he saw the quiet Bend a belt of s.h.i.+ning ice and snow, save for a narrow line in the centre, which marked the course of the strongest currents; while the waters of the rapids crashed black and dreadful against the Elbow Rock cliff, which stood gaunt and grim amid the surrounding whiteness; and in the deathlike hush of the winter twilight, the roar of the turmoil sounded with persistent menace. And all that the river said to him he put down,--so far as it was given him to do.

And that which Brian Kent wrote was good. He knew it--in his deepest, truest self he knew. And Auntie Sue knew it; for, of course, he read to her from his ma.n.u.script as the book grew under his hand. Even Judy caught much of his story's meaning, and marvelled at herself because she, too, could understand.

So the spring came, and the first writing of the book was nearly finished.

And now the question arose: What would they do about the final preparation of the ma.n.u.script for the printers? Brian explained that he should have a typewritten copy of his script, which he would work over, correct, and revise, and from which perfected copy the final ma.n.u.script would be typewritten. But neither Auntie Sue nor Brian would consider his finis.h.i.+ng the book anywhere but in the little log house by the river; even if there had been no other reason why Brian should not go to the city, if it could be avoided.

"There is only one thing to do,"--said Auntie Sue, at last, when the matter had been discussed several times,--"we must send for Betty Jo.

She has been studying stenography in a business college in Cincinnati, and, in her latest letter to me, she wrote that she would finish in April. I'll just write her to come right here, and bring her typewriter along. She will need a vacation, and she can have it and do your work at the same time. Besides, I need to see Betty Jo. She hasn't been to visit me since before Judy came."

Brian thought that Auntie Sue seemed a little nervous and excited as she spoke, but he attributed it to her combined interest in the book and in the proposed typist. The man could not know the real cause of his gentle old companion's agitation, nor with what anxiety she had considered the matter for many days before she announced her plan. The fact was that Auntie Sue was taking a big chance, and she realized it fully. But she could find no other way to secure the services of a competent stenographer for Brian, and, as Brian must have a competent stenographer in order to finish his book properly, she had decided to accept the risk.

"That sounds all right, Auntie Sue," returned Brian. "But who, pray tell, is Betty Jo?"

"Betty Jo is,"--Auntie Sue paused and laughed with a suggestion of embarra.s.sed confusion,--"Betty Jo is--just Betty Jo, Brian," she finished.

Brian laughed now. "Fine, Auntie Sue! That describes her exactly,--tells me her life's history and gives me a detailed account of her family,--ancestors and all."

"It describes her with more accuracy than you think," retorted Auntie Sue, smiling in return at his teasing manner.

"I reckon as how she's got more of er name than that, ain't she?" said Judy, who was a silent, but intensely interested, listener. "I've allus took notice that folks with funny names'll stand a right smart of watchin'."

Brian and Auntie Sue laughed together at this, but the old lady said, with a show of spirit: "Judy! You know nothing about it! You never even saw Betty Jo! You shouldn't say such things, child."

"Might as well say 'em as ter think 'em, I reckon," Judy returned, her beady-black eyes stealthily watching Brian.

"What is your Betty Jo's real name, Auntie Sue?" asked Brian, curiously.

Again Auntie Sue seemed to hesitate; then--"Her name is Miss Betty Jo Williams," and as she spoke the old teacher looked straight at Brian.

"A perfectly good name," Brian returned; "but I never heard of her before."

Judy's black eyes, with their stealthy, oblique look, were now watchfully fixed on Auntie Sue.

"She is the orphan-niece of one of my old pupils," Auntie Sue continued.

"I have known her since she was a baby. When she finished her education in the seminary, and had travelled abroad for a few months, she decided all at once that she wanted a course in a business college, which was just what any one knowing her would expect her to do."

"Sounds steady and reliable," commented Brian. "But will she come?"

"Yes, indeed, she will, and be tickled to death over the job," returned Auntie Sue. "I'll write her at once."

While Auntie Sue was preparing to write her letter, Judy muttered, in a tone which only Brian heard: "Just the same, 'tain't no name for a common gal ter have; hit sure ain't. There's somethin' dad burned queer 'bout hit somewhere."

"Nonsense! Judy," said Brian in a low voice; "don't worry Auntie Sue."

"I ain't aimin' ter worry her none," returned the mountain girl; "but I'll bet you-all a pretty that this here gal'll worry both of youuns 'fore you are through with her;--me, too, I reckon."

For some reason, Auntie Sue's letter to Betty Jo seemed to be rather long. In fact, she spent the entire evening at it; which led Judy to remark that "hit sure looked like Auntie Sue was aimin' ter write a book herself."

A neighbor who went to Thompsonville the following day with a load of hogs for s.h.i.+pment, posted the letter. And, in due time, another neighbor brought the answer. Betty Jo would come.

It was the day following the evening when Brian wrote the last page of his book that another letter came to Auntie Sue,--a letter which, for the second time, very nearly wrecked Brian Kent's world.

CHAPTER XIII.

JUDY TO THE RESCUE.