attach a wide mouth-piece to my instrument, why should I not gather in
the songs and cries of the birds? Why should I not hear in plain English
what they say to each other? Why should not all creation speak to me so
that I could understand? Why should I not know what the dog says when he
barks--what words the hen addresses to her chicks when she clucks to
them to follow? Why should I not know the secrets of what is now to us a
tongue-tied world of nature?
[Illustration: And dreamed waking dreams of blessedness.]
"Then I had another idea, that made me jump from my chair and walk the
floor. I might know what the monkeys say when they chatter to each
other! What discovery in all natural history could be so great as this?
The thought that these little creatures, so nearly allied to man, might
disclose to me their dispositions, their hopes, their ambitions, their
hates, their reflections upon mankind, had such a sudden and powerful
influence on me that I felt like seizing my translatophone and rushing
off to the Zooelogical Gardens. It was now daybreak. I might obtain
admission!
"But I speedily dismissed this idea. If I should ever hear in English
what the monkeys might say to me, I must give up Mary. I should be the
slave of my discovery. It would be impossible then to destroy the
translatophone. I sat down again before the fire. 'Shall I put an end to
it now?' I said to myself. Nothing would be easier than to take its
delicate movements and smash them on the hearth. Now a prudent thought
came to me: suppose Mary should not accept me? Then, with this great
invention lost,--for I never should have the heart to make another,--I
should have nothing left in the world. No; I would be cautious, lest in
every way my future life should be overcast with disappointment. The sun
had risen, and I felt I must go out; I must have air. Before I opened
the front door, however, I said to myself, 'Remember it is all settled.
It is Mary you must have--that is, if you can get her.'
"Of all things in this world, the mind of man is the most independent,
the most headstrong. It will work at your bidding as long as it pleases,
and then it will strike out at its own pace and go where it chooses.
During a walk of a couple of miles I thought nearly all the time of what
the monkeys might say to me if I should attach a wide mouth-piece to my
translatophone and place it against the bars of their cage. Over and
over again I stopped these thoughts and said to myself: 'But all this is
nothing to me. I must consider Mary and nothing else.' Then in a very
few minutes I was wondering if the monkeys would ask me questions--if
they have as strong a desire to know about us as we have to know about
them. From such questions how much I might learn in regard to the mental
distance between us and them! But again I put all this away from me and
began to plan anew what I should say to Mary. And then again it was not
very long before I found myself thinking how intensely interesting it
would be to know what the tree-toads say, and what the frogs talk about
when they sit calling to each other all night. It might be a little
difficult to get near enough to tree-toads and frogs, but I believed I
could manage it.
"However, when I returned home I was thinking of Mary.
"It was early in the afternoon, and I was trying to decide what would
be the best time to visit the Armat house. The monkeys had not ceased to
worry me dreadfully, and I had begun to think that when bees buzz around
their hives they must certainly say something interesting to each other.
Then a note was brought to me from Mary. I tore it open and read:
"'I want you to come to see me this afternoon. If you possibly can,
come about four o'clock, and bring that speaking-tube with you. Miss
Castle has been here nearly all the morning, and some things she has
said to me have worried me very much. Please come, and do not forget
the ear-trumpet.'
"This she signed merely with her initials.
"Mary's note drove to the winds monkeys, bees, and the rest of the
world. What had that wretched mischief-maker, that Castle girl, been
saying to her? I did not believe that the mind of Mary Armat was
capable of originating an unfounded suspicion of me; but the mind of
Sarah Castle was capable of originating anything. She had doubtless
suspected that there must be some extraordinary reason for my desire
to have people talk to me through a tube in a language I did not
understand. She had been too impatient to wait until she could try her
German upon me, and she had gone to Mary and had filled her mind with
horrible conjectures. One thing was certain: no matter what else
happened, I must not take that translatophone to Mary. After what
Sarah had said to her there could be no doubt that she would make me
speak to her in a foreign language through the tube. It would be easy
enough: she could give me a French book and tell me to read a few
pages. No matter how badly I should pronounce the words, they would
reach her ears in pure English!
"And then!
"I took my translatophone from the cabinet in which I kept it. The
easiest way to destroy it was to throw it at once into the fire; but
that would fill the house with the smell of burning rubber. No; it was
only necessary to destroy the internal movements. I unscrewed the long
mouth-piece, and gently withdrew from it the little membrane-covered
cylinder, not six inches in length, which formed the soul of my
invention. I took it in my hand and gazed upon it. Through its thin,
flexible, and almost transparent outer envelope I could see, as I held
it to the light, its framework, fine as the thread-like bones of a fish,
its elastic chords, its quivering diaphragms, and all the delicate
organs of its inner life. It seemed as if I could feel the palpitations
of its heart as I breathed upon it. For how many days and months had I
been working on this subtle invention--working, and thinking, and
dreaming! Here it lay, perfect, finished, ready to tell me more than any
man ever has known--a thing almost of life, and ready to be brought to
life by the voice of man or beast or bird, or perhaps of any living
thing. Could I have the heart to destroy it? Could I have the heart to
turn my back upon the gate of the world of wonders which was just
opening to me?
"'Yes,' said I to myself; 'I have the heart to do anything that will
prevent my losing the love of Mary Armat.'
"Then an evil thought came to me, and tempted me: 'If you choose you can
hear the monkeys talk and have Mary too. Everything you want is in your
own hands. Don't put that little machine back into the tube. Lock it up
safely out of sight, and then go to Mary with your instrument, and you
can talk into it and she can listen, and she may talk and you may
listen. Yes, you may have your Mary--and she need never know that you
understand what the monkeys may say to you, or what she has said to
you.'
"I am proud that I entertained this evil thought for but a very short
time. I turned upon it and stormed at it. 'No!' I exclaimed. 'I shall
never win Mary by cheating her! Whether I get her or not, I will be
worthy of her.'
"Then there came another thought, apparently innocent and certainly
persuasive. 'Do not destroy the translatophone. Then, if things do not
turn out well between you and Mary, you will still have the monkeys.'
"'No,' I said to myself; 'I must have Mary. I will have nothing to fall
back upon. I will allow nothing to exist that might draw me back.'
"There was another thing I might do: I might take my translatophone to
her, and explain everything. But would there be any possibility, even if
she did not fly from me in shame and never see me again, that I could
make her believe in a love which had been so spurred on, even aroused,
as she might well imagine mine had been? No; that would never do. Apart
from anything else, it would be impossible for me to be so cruel as to
let Mary know I had understood the Burmese words she had spoken to me.
"I looked at the clock; it was half-past three. Whatever was to be done
must be done now. I cast one more look of longing affection upon the
quivering, throbbing little creature, which to me was as much alive as
if it had been a tired bird panting in my hand; and then I gently laid
it on the hearth. I lifted my left foot and let it hang for an instant
over the hopes, the fears, the anxieties, the happy day-dreams those
early years of my life had given me, and then, with relentless cruelty,
not only to that quivering object but to myself, I brought down my foot
with all my strength!
"There was a slight struggle for an instant, during which there came to
me quick, muffled sounds, which to my agitated brain sounded like the
moans of despair from that vast world of animal intelligence which does
not speak to man. From my own heart there came a groan. All was over!
From the mysterious inner courts of the animal kingdom no revelations
would ever come to me! The thick curtain between the intelligence of man
and the intelligence of beast and bird which I had raised for a brief
moment had now been dropped forever! I should never make another
translatophone.
"I cast no glance upon the hearth, but put on my hat and coat and went to
Mary. As I walked there rose behind me a cloud of misty disappointment,
while before me there was nothing but dark uncertainty. What would Mary
have to say to me? And how should I explain what would seem to her to be
a cowardly evasion of her plainly expressed request?
"When I entered the Armat parlor I found Mary alone. This encouraged me
a little. I had feared that the yearningly inquisitive Sarah might also
be there. In that case how might I hope to preserve one atom of my
secret?
"Mary came forward with a smile, and held out her hand; I was so
astonished I could not speak.
"'Now don't be cross,' said she. 'As I told you in my note, Sarah Castle
was here this morning, and she greatly troubled my mind about you. She
told me I was actually snappish with you when she was here last night.
She had never heard me speak to any one in such an ill-natured way. She
knew very well that I do not care for inventions and machines, but she
did not consider this any reason for my treating you in such a manner.
She said I ought to have known that your whole soul is wrapped up in the
queer things you invent, and that I should have made some allowance for
you, even if I did not care about such things myself. Now when she told
me this I knew that every word was true, and I was utterly ashamed of
myself; and as soon as she left I sent you that note because I wanted
you to let me beg your pardon--which you may consider has been done. And
now please let me see your speaking-tube. I want you to explain it to
me; I want to know how it is made, and what is its object. For I know
very well that even if your inventions are not successful they always
have very good objects. Please forgive me, and let us sit on the sofa
and have a nice talk together such as we should have had last night.'
"My soul shouted with joy within me, and I said to myself: 'We shall
have the nice talk we should have had last night, but it shall be the
talk you wanted then, and not the one you ask for now.'
"'Now, then,' said she, when we had seated ourselves, 'let us go to work
to make experiments with your tube. I am so glad you do not feel about
it as I thought you would.'
"'I did not bring it,' I said.
"'Oh, what a pity!' interrupted Mary.
"'No,' said I; 'it is not a pity. It did not work as I expected it
would, and there is no use in talking any more about it. I placed great
hopes in it, and I had a particular reason for wanting to tell you all
about it.' Then I began and bravely told her all about it, that is, all
that justice and kindness would permit me to tell. In the conversation
which ensued, which was a very happy exchange of sentiment, it was
wonderful how that translatophone was put into the background.
"A great deal of what Mary said in answer to my passionate avowals
she had already said to me in Burmese. But the fact that those
straightforward, honest words, fresh from a true woman's heart, and
spoken only for the satisfaction of her own frank and impetuous nature,
had come to me before in plain English she did not imagine, nor did I
ever allow her to imagine. This secret of her soul I always regarded as
something that came to me in involuntary confidence, and I always
respected that confidence."
"Were you never sorry?" asked the Daughter of the House, when the Old
Professor ceased.
"No," he said thoughtfully; "I have never been sorry for what I did. I
had a very happy life with my Mary--a life far happier than any
wonder-exciting invention could have given me."
"Was it fair to the world to destroy an instrument that might have been
of great advantage to science?" ventured John Gayther, hesitatingly.
"It is not easy," said the Old Professor, "to decide between what we owe
to the world and science, and what we owe to ourselves. You see, I
decided in favor of myself. Possibly another man would have decided in
favor of the invention."
"Not if he were desperately in love," said the Master of the House.
"All those fine-spun feelings were unnecessary," said the Next Neighbor.
"If you had not confused your mind with them you would have seen clearly
enough that the first idea which came into your head was the proper one
to act upon. It would have been no terrible deception if you had taken
the instrument to Mary without the little machine and talked English
with her. Later you could have told her you had the invention and you
could use it. By that time she would have forgotten that she ever had
made that Burmese speech, and would have been glad of the fame and
fortune the machine would surely have brought."
The Old Professor looked pained. "I do not deny that some such
after-thoughts troubled my mind occasionally for some years. But who can
say anything of the 'might have been'? The instrument might have failed,
after all; or the information gained have proved not worth the hearing;
or--"
Here there was an unlooked-for interruption. The red thrush suddenly
burst into song from the midst of the lilac-bushes, and the whole
company listened spellbound with delight while the little creature
filled the air with melody and sweetness.
When the song ceased, the Professor remarked: "My translatophone would
have been worse than useless here. If I could have heard those words I
should have lost that delicious melody. Doubtless the words were
commonplace enough, but the melody was divine. And it was easy to
interpret the spirit of it. It was a song of joy for all that is
pleasant, and bright, and happy in this world."
THIS STORY IS TOLD BY
THE NEXT NEIGHBOR
AND IS CALLED
THE VICE-CONSORT
X
THE VICE-CONSORT
The red thrush seemed now to be part of the pleasantness of the garden.
Whether he was drawn to the lilac-bushes by the sweet memory of his
former home, or whether he was keeping a tryst with his mate of the
nesting season and was calling her to come to him, or whether his coming
was pure caprice, of course John Gayther could not know. But every day
he came; and when the sky was clear he sang his merry song; and even
when the clouds were overshadowing he could not help uttering little
trills of melody. After a time he would fly away; but he left a note of
gladness in John's heart that stayed there all day.
The bird did not seem in the least disturbed by the talk on the terrace.
If the sound of the voices reached him at all it must have been as a low
murmur, and perhaps he liked it. The family now timed their visits to
the summer-house, when they were able to go there, by the red thrush;
and he seldom disappointed them. It so happened, however, one morning
when they were all there, that the lilacs gave forth no sound. They
waited for the accustomed music, and a hush fell upon them. They were
silent for some time, and then the Old Professor spoke:
"I see John Gayther below the terrace. Can't we have a story, if we
cannot have a song?"
John was called up at once, and the Next Neighbor accosted him gayly:
"If you had known that I am going to tell a story you would have walked
faster."
John answered her with a pleasant smile. He liked the Next Neighbor. He
liked the kind of mind she had, for it was thoroughly imbued with an
anxious desire to do her duty in this world in the manner in which that
duty showed itself to her. He liked her because she was fond of the
Daughter of the House. He liked her because she considered her husband
to be the handsomest, best, and cleverest man in the world. Perhaps John
would have liked this trait best of all if he had not clearly seen that
she held in reserve an opinion that this husband would move on a still
higher plane if he would place more value on her opinions and
statements.
"This is the first time you have favored us," he said courteously.
"Well," she said, "I knew the time would come when I would be called
upon, and I could tell many a story about things that have happened to
me. I am not exactly the heroine of this tale, but I am intimately
concerned in its happenings, and shall tell it in my own way.
"Before I was married I used to feel that all we have to do in this
world is to grow up like grass or clover-blossoms, and to perform our
parts by being just as green or as sweet-smelling as our natures allow.
But I do not think that way now. Along comes a cow, and our careers are
ended. Of course we cannot get out of the way of our fate any more than
grass can get out of the way of a cow; but it often happens that we can
accommodate ourselves to our misfortunes. We can be content to being
nibbled close; we can spring up again from the roots; or we can
patiently wait until we blossom again the next summer.
"It was about a year after I was married that I began to think about
such things. We were spending a fortnight at the country house of one of
my old friends, Mrs. Cheston; and although Bernard, my husband, was away
most of the time, fishing with Mr. Cheston, we were enjoying ourselves
very much. There was a village not far away where there were some very
nice people, so that we had a good deal of pleasant social life, and it
was not long before I became quite well acquainted with some of the
village families.
"One day Mrs. Cheston gave me a luncheon, to which she invited a good
many of the village ladies; and, after they were all gone, we two sat on
the piazza and talked about them. Two or three of our guests I had not
met before, and in the course of our talk Emily mentioned the name of
Margaret Temple.
"'Temple?' said I. 'Which one was that? I do not recall her.'
"'You were talking to her some time,' she replied. 'I think she was
telling you about the mountains.'
"'Oh, yes,' said I; 'she was pointing out those passes through which
people go into the next county. She sat at the other end of the table,
didn't she? She was dressed in black.'
"'Oh, no,' said Emily, 'she was not dressed in black. She never wears
black. I think she wore a brown dress with some sort of light trimming.'
"'Oh, well,' said I, 'I did not notice her dress, and when I do not
notice people's clothes I nearly always think they dress in black. Is
she nice?'
"'She is very nice indeed,' said Emily; 'everybody thinks that.'
"'I wish I had seen more of her,' said I.
"Emily did not answer this remark, but a smile came on her face which
presently grew into a little laugh. I looked at her in surprise.
"'What is there funny about Miss Temple?' I asked.
"'Really there is nothing funny about her,' she replied, 'but I often
laugh to myself when I think of her.'
"I suddenly became very much interested in Miss Temple. 'Tell me why you
do that,' I said. 'I always like to know why people laugh at other
people.'
"Emily now became very sober. 'You must not think,' she said, 'that
there is anything ridiculous about Margaret Temple. There is not a finer
woman to be found anywhere, and I do not believe there is anybody who
laughs at her except myself. You know I am very apt to see the funny
side of things.'
"'And so am I!' I exclaimed. 'Do tell me about Miss Temple. It is so
seldom there is anything amusing about a really nice person.'
"Emily was silent for a moment, and then she said: 'Well, I do not know
that there is any real harm in telling you what makes me laugh. A good
many people know all about it; but I would not, for the world, have
Margaret Temple find out that I told you.'
"I assured her with great earnestness that if she would tell me, I would
never breathe it to any living soul.
"'Very well,' said Emily; 'I will trust you. As I said, it really isn't
funny, but it is just this. It is a positive fact that five married
ladies (I am certain of this number, and it may be more) have gone to
Margaret Temple, during the past few years, and each one has asked her
to become her husband's second wife in case she should die.'
"I did not laugh; I exclaimed in amazement: 'Why did they all ask her? I
did not notice anything particularly attractive about her.'
"'I think that is the point,' said Emily. 'I do not think a woman is
likely to want her husband to take an attractive woman for his second
wife. If she had the chance to choose her successor, she would like her
husband to have a really nice person, good in every way, but not one
with whom he would be likely to fall violently in love. Don't you see
the point of that?'
"I replied that it was easy enough to see the point, but that there was
another one. 'You must remember,' said I, 'that husbands are generally
very particular; if one has had a young and handsome wife he would not
be likely to be satisfied with anything less.'
"Emily shook her head. 'I am older than you, Rosa, and have had more
opportunities of noticing widowers. There are a great many things for
them to think about when they marry a second time: their children, their
positions, and all that. I believe that if a man and his wife discussed
it, which they would not be likely to do, they would be very apt to be
of the same mind in regard to the sort of person who ought to come in as
number two. For my part, I do not wonder at all that so many women have
cast their eyes on Margaret Temple as a person they would like to have
take their places when they are gone. For one thing, you know they would
not be jealous of her; this is very important. Then, they would be as
certain as anything can be certain in this world that their children, if
they had any, as well as their husbands, would be in most excellent
hands. Often, when I have been thinking about her, I have called
Margaret Temple the Vice-consort; but I have never told any one this.
Please remember.'
"So far I had not seen a thing to laugh at, but I was deeply interested.
'How came all this to be known?' I asked. 'Has Miss Temple gone about
telling people?'
"'Oh, no, indeed; she is not that sort of person. A good many of the
village ladies know it, and I think they always have heard it from those
prudent ladies who were providing for their husbands' futures. People
talk about it, of course, but they are very careful that nothing they
say shall reach Margaret Temple's ears.'
"'Tell me about some of the people,' I said, 'who want to secure Miss
Temple as a successor. Do they all feel as though they are likely to
die?'
"'Not all of them,' answered Emily. 'There is Mrs. Hendrickson, who was
obliged to go to Arizona on account of her father's property. He was
very rich, and died not long ago. Her husband has to stay at home to
attend to his business, and she could not take her little baby; and
although she is just as healthy as anybody, she knew all the dangers of
railroad travelling, and all sorts of things in that far-away place;
and, before she packed her trunk, she went to Margaret Temple and asked
her to promise that if she died out there, she, Margaret, would marry
Mr. Hendrickson. This I know for certain, for Mrs. Hendrickson told me
herself.'
"'Did Miss Temple promise?'
"'That I did not hear,' replied Emily. 'Mrs. Hendrickson was in a great
hurry, and perhaps she did not intend to tell me, anyway. But I do not
believe Margaret absolutely refused; at least, it would not have been
prudent for her to do so. The Hendricksons are rich, and he is a fine
man. There would be nothing in the way of such a match.'
"'Except the return of the wife,' I remarked.