MR. BARTLETT SEES THE MACHINE
But Suzanna did not go to see her friend Drusilla again. For within a
few days after the hurried night visit, Drusilla set off on her journey.
There was but one with her when she left, all aquiver to be gone, her
eyes set in the distance on visions hid from earthly eyes.
Her boy was close beside her, his arms about her, his heart filled with
woe for all the years he had forgotten. And when he kissed her and
begged her forgiveness, she was all love and understanding for him, even
as when a small boy he had sought her forgiveness and her understanding.
The tents were up now in the big Bartlett grounds. Tents with floors and
movable stoves. Children played about the grounds on the rare sunny day
that Drusilla went away.
Mr. Bartlett, returning from his mother's bedside, went hurriedly
through his grounds, and on upstairs to his own room. There, waiting for
him, was Graham. The boy knew at once the truth.
"Father," he cried, and put his arms about the tall figure.
They stood so, the man finding comfort in the contact of his boy. And so
Mrs. Bartlett, returned temporarily from a journey, found them.
She started back at sight of them thus together. They seemed in their
new intimacy to have shut her out, quite out of their lives. "I've been
looking for you, Graham," she began, and then caught her breath sharply
at the look the boy gave her; not a premeditated cold look, only one
that he might bestow upon a stranger.
"Father has just come home," he said; "grandmother--"
But he did not finish. He saw that his mother understood that Drusilla
had gone away. Mr. Bartlett spoke to his wife. "I heard this morning
that you had returned to stay for a day. I'm afraid the tents and the
children will still disfigure our grounds for some time."
His bitterness made her wince. But she answered calmly. "Yes, I returned
while you were absent."
"For a day, as I was told?"
"My plans must change now of necessity--my trip to Italy--"
"Why?" he asked. "Nothing that has happened need interfere with any of
your plans, your mode of living. My mother would not wish that."
She broke forth then, the color surging up into her face. "Why are you
so unjust to me? Did I suggest that you neglect your mother? You could
not expect me to take your place."
"No--" he spoke sadly. "No, I could not expect that. Believe me, please,
when I say that I put blame on no one but myself. Money--that has been
the main thing in life. Money, and more money. There was always need for
all I could make." His eyes swept her lovely gown; the costly cape
across her arm. Thought, much money, much time had gone into building
her perfect completeness. "No. A man cannot expect another, even a wife,
to fulfill his sacred obligations."
Perhaps the thought came to her that a wife need not ask so much, ask so
demandingly that a man must yield his finest dreams, his every hour to
fulfill her wishes. The color deepened and deepened in her cheek.
Perhaps she remembered their first months together when in the grayest
days he saw color, because they belonged one to the other.
They had both forgotten Graham. She looked at the boy now. He stood
regarding her with that strange aloofness in his eyes, that sharp
question. She felt all at once very lonely.
For Graham, she knew, was estranged from her! And now she knew that she
desired most of all his love in all its purity. Her social strivings,
her desire for leadership balanced against Graham's former worshipful,
chivalrous love for her, dwindled to a pitiful insignificance.
And with the value of her child's love, she suddenly realized the older
mother's longings--the one who had just gone on. An old mother--in her
full years mourning for the child she had borne, nursed, and succored.
Grieving, that in his manhood he had gone from her; that he had
seemingly forgotten in his feverish striving after wealth the lessons
she had sought to teach him.
Was the wife to blame for this? But some stern sense of justice derided
her efforts to exculpate herself. She remembered how she had held the
power to influence him in the early days of their marriage; he had
believed so wonderfully in the whiteness of her ideals. He was malleable
material in her fingers.
But above and beyond his love she had put wealth and fine position. He
had given her both, but now before her stood her husband and son
estranged from her.
She moved away at last. With new awakening power of perception, she felt
she was stripped of everything of worth. When she was half-way down the
wide hall she heard a step behind her. She paused, waited, and in a
moment Graham was beside her.
He put his hand in hers. "Mother," he said, quietly.
Her eyes filled with the near tears. She clung to his hand as though he
would protect her against her own bitter thoughts.
"Does your head ache?" he asked. There was solicitude in his voice, but
still that strange, dreadful aloofness, more dreadful because he was not
conscious of it.
"No," she answered. She looked down at him and out of an impulse she
cried: "Do you still love me, Graham?"
"I love you, mother," he answered gravely. But she knew then that there
would be work on her part before once again she stood to him his ideal.
She had dwelt in the core of his heart; perhaps in time she could once
more move near to that sanctified place. The intimate human relation,
husband and wife, parent and child--she knew with pain and yearning that
all else--position, great wealth, worldly power--were vain beside the
joy of those relations in their purest.
* * * * *
Perhaps a week later Suzanna was washing the supper dishes, and Maizie
wiping them. Their mother was upstairs with Peter and the baby, Mr.
Procter in the attic. As Maizie finished the last dish, the door bell
rang.
Suzanna ran to the foot of the stairs.
"Oh, mother, shall I answer?" she cried.
"I wish you would," Mrs. Procter called down. "Peter has a stone bruise
and I'm using liniment."
So Suzanna went to the front door. She opened it to Mr. Bartlett.
"Good evening, Suzanna," he said in a friendly voice. "Is your father at
home?"
"He's upstairs in the attic. Shall I take you to him?" asked Suzanna
very politely.
"Perhaps you'd better consult him first as to that, Suzanna. He may not
wish to be disturbed."
"Well, I will. Won't you sit down in the parlor?"
Mr. Bartlett, half smiling, followed the small figure into the room
designated. He looked about interestedly after Suzanna had gone. A
kerosene lamp set upon a center table sent an apologetic light over the
shabby furniture. Above the mantel with its velvet cover and statuette
of a crying baby, was a picture of Suzanna, a "crayon," Mr. Bartlett
amusingly surmised. The small face looked out with a distorted
artificial smile quite unknown to the face it sought to represent. Yet
Suzanna's aura was visible, Mr. Bartlett thought. That little girl who
so simply and lovingly had called his mother Drusilla because no one in
the world was left to do so! A fragrance straight from his heart made
the ugly crayon suddenly a thing of beauty, showing forth a child's
soul.
Suzanna returned, panting a little. She had run upstairs and down again.
"Father wants you to go right up," she said. "And maybe when I've
finished the dishes I'll come back, too."
So he followed her up the narrow stairs. Suzanna gravely told him that
every other step creaked, except if you put your foot carefully in the
middle. At the attic door she left him.
Mr. Procter looked up as his visitor entered. "I'm glad to see you, Mr.
Bartlett," he said cordially. "It's not very light in here, but we can
see to talk. Sit down."
Mr. Bartlett took the proffered chair. He looked about the dim room and
could see in outline the machine.
"David has told you something of my invention, I remember and its
object," said Mr. Procter.
"Yes, David has told me," Mr. Bartlett replied. "You're attempting a
tremendously big thing, Mr. Procter. David told me about the colors and
your theory of their meaning."
"Yes. Did David tell you, too, that my daughter Suzanna produced on the
plate of the machine purple and gold? In my book I had written down . . .
'Purple: high talent for writing.'"
Mr. Bartlett hesitated a moment before replying.
"But it hasn't been proven that Suzanna can write. You will have to wait
a few years for evidence."
"True, still she is talented. I may dare say that even though I happen
to be her father. She possesses an insatiable curiosity concerning life,
the divine birthright of the artist, the creator."
"Still I'm not convinced that such a machine as David drew for me is
possible," said Mr. Bartlett. "I can understand that if you place a
person in contact with an instrument and proceed to change his
circulation by arousing his emotions that chemical change might be
registered upon a sensitive plate. But how can a mere machine be so
miraculous as to show forth by color or any other method one's
'meaning'? It's too big for my imagination, that's all. There are so
many parts that go to make up a human being, so many points in his favor
for a certain line of work, so many against it."
Still the inventor did not speak. And so Mr. Bartlett continued:
"There's a man's state of health, his sympathies, his hereditary
tendencies; all to be considered."
"Well, you see," Mr. Procter answered at last, "the elements you
enumerate are but results of evolution, of environment, of education,
and do not alter the purpose for which the man was born. And that
purpose, even though given no chance to work itself out, is so vital a
part of the man that it remains an undying flame going on into
eternity."
Mr. Bartlett did not answer.
"Will you let me make a color test of you, Mr. Bartlett?" the inventor
asked at length.
"Yes, though I am very skeptical."
He seated himself before the machine. Mr. Procter let the helmet down
till it was just above the subject's head. "You see no part of the
instrument touches you," he said. "There's no opportunity to say that
chemical changes in the circulation are the cause of the color
produced. Now please watch the glass plate." Mr. Bartlett did as
directed. For some moments the plate remained clear, then rays of color
played upon it.
"Green, a rare, soft green," said Mr. Procter. He went on slowly but
without hesitation. "The color of poetry. That color belongs in one who
lies on the grass and gazes at the sky--and dreams; dreams to waken
men's souls with the beauty of his music--a poet, a maker of songs, to
uplift, to keep man's eyes from the ground."
The light faded, the little clicking sound ceased, and yet Mr. Bartlett
did not speak. If in his mind there dwelt the memory of an overstuffed
drawer with reams of paper covered with verses, he said nothing. His
face gave no evidence to the inventor of his thoughts.
At last he roused himself, shrugged his shoulders. "My dear man," he
said, "did you ever hear of a poet at heart making a fortune as I have
done?"
"It could be done," returned Mr. Procter sadly, "even by a poet."
Mr. Bartlett rose. "I did not aver," continued Mr. Procter, "that you
could only be a poet. I said that your real meaning was to give to the
world the rare visions which grew in your heart."
Mr. Bartlett gazed with some astonishment at the machine.
"The day when Suzanna was born, as I stood looking down at her, the
thought came winging to me that she had come charged with a purpose
which she alone could fulfill. And so was planted the first seed in my
mind for the making of my machine."
Mr. Bartlett spoke again after a silence given to some pondering.
"Still, Procter, have you thought how impractical the machine must prove
to be? The world is after all as it is. Suppose a man, a poor young man,
has a rare gift. He must eat to live; he may have to support others. How
is he going to develop that gift?"
The inventor's face was suddenly filled with a fine light. He laid his
hand on Mr. Bartlett's arm. "There, sir, as I told John Massey, is where
the capitalist seeking to invest his money in the highest way finds his
great chance. He helps that young man to live in comfort while he is
developing his talent."
"Well," said Mr. Bartlett, "it's all very interesting, and if you will
let me, I'll do all I can to help you. We can talk of that at some other
time." He paused, and then said: "I hear John Massey has bought out the
hardware store here. I can't understand his object, but you may lose
your position. Have you thought of what you could do in that event?"
"No, I haven't."
"I came primarily to see your machine," Mr. Bartlett continued, "but I
had another object too. You know I have had tents put up in my yard for
those who were made homeless by the fire. And now I find it necessary to
go away in order to attend to some large interests. Can I make you my
steward over these people--at a salary, while I am away?
"There will be enough for you to do," continued Mr. Bartlett. "My wife
is away; my boy Graham will soon be in the city with his tutor. I shall
be back here before the severe weather sets in and see that these people
in some way are comfortably housed and provided for; but in the meantime
I want you."
"I'll be glad to do all I can," said Mr. Procter at last; then
fervently, "and thank you."
Someone knocked softly, and Suzanna entered. "This special letter came
for you, daddy," she said. "Mother said I might bring it up to you."
Mr. Procter took the letter, looked curiously at it before tearing it
open. He glanced through its contents, held it a second while he looked
away then he went through it again. It ran:
Dear Procter:
You've known for some time that Job Doane is
running the hardware shop in my interest. I bought
the place for a future purpose, never mind that
purpose, it isn't of interest to you or anyone in
Anchorville. I am confined to my room with an
attack of rheumatism, so I can't see you to talk
over a scheme which I have in mind. I will say
that I have concluded all arrangements to rebuild
homes for the men and their families who were
burned out some time ago, and I want you to act as
my agent. No sentiment in building these
up-to-date houses, let me assure you. Only perhaps
I've given some thought to Suzanna's little wrist
chain. Come to me within a day or two and we'll
talk over salary, and other things of interest to
you.
Yours,
John Massey.
Suzanna plunged into the ensuing quiet. "Is there any answer, daddy?"
she asked.
Mr. Procter looked at his small daughter through a mist, then at Mr.
Bartlett still standing regarding him somewhat curiously. "No, no
answer," he said at last, "but I want to see your mother--right away."
BOOK III
CHAPTER XXII
HAPPY DAYS
Summer once again, with the flowers abloom and all the richness of the
season scattered lavishly about. The Procter house seemed more colorful
too, perhaps because it had acquired within some late months a new coat
of paint.
Once inside if you were familiar enough to go upstairs, you could not
find the steps which had been wont to creak. And peeping into the parlor
you could see that some pretty new furniture had taken the place of the
shaky old lounge and chairs; one good marine picture hung between the
windows and a new rug lay upon the hardwood floor.
Two years had gone since the fire, two years bringing some changes.
Suzanna had shot up. She was a tall, slim girl now, though with the same
dark, questioning eyes. She stood one Saturday morning in the kitchen
making a cake, yes, actually stirring the mixture all by herself in the
brown earthen vessel.
Her mother, hovering near, was offering comment and a few directions.
Between times she attended to the "baby," a baby no longer since he was
nearly four years old. Maizie, coming in from the yard with Peter behind
her, stopped short at sight of Suzanna's work.
"When can I make a cake, mother?" she asked. Her small face was as
plump, as childlike as ever. The same sweetness of expression was hers,
the same admiration in her eyes for her "big" sister.
"When you're as old as Suzanna, I guess, Maizie," Mrs. Procter answered.
"What did Mrs. Reynolds say?"
Peter answered before Maizie could speak, thereby gaining a reproving
look from her. "She's coming over to see you, mother. She says she wants
to ask you something, anyway." Peter went to the door, gave a sharp
whistle, a sharper direction and returned. "Jerry's out there. Graham
Bartlett's opened up his house, and David's brought my dog back."
Still Peter's dog, you see. "Oh, I want to see Jerry, may he come in,
mother?" Suzanna asked.
Mrs. Procter nodded. She was now engaged in giving the four-year-old his
ten o'clock luncheon of bread and milk. "But don't let him get into
anything, Peter," she admonished.
Peter promised, with a sigh in his heart for the tenacious prejudices
of woman. Jerry at a word entered the kitchen door. He came in slowly,
paused and regarded Mrs. Procter searchingly. He was a handsome animal
now. His coat was well brushed, his hair long and glossy.
"Well," said Mrs. Procter, "you've been taught good manners, Jerry."
He wagged his tail vigorously; then further to show himself off, he sat
down and held out a beguiling paw to Mrs. Procter. Maizie cried out in
delight.
"Oh, can't we keep him now, mother? Isn't he cunning?"
Peter turned quickly upon his sister. "Would that be fair?" he sternly
asked. His voice deepened suddenly. "You wouldn't, any one of you, even
look at him when he was poor and dirty and _afraid_. And now after David
has loved him and washed him and taught him how to behave, you want to
keep him. Come along, Jerry."
Having thus delivered himself, Peter, with dignity, stalked from out the
kitchen. He left an eloquent silence behind him. "Should we have kept
the dog when he was dirty and lonely, mother?" asked Maizie,
interestedly.
"Why, I don't think so, Maizie," Mrs. Procter answered slowly. "Really,
you remember I'd had so much trouble that summer with stray dogs of
Peter's that my patience was at an end."
Maizie was forming another question when she was interrupted by a hearty
knock at the door.
"Come in," Suzanna cried. She was testing the oven as her mother had
taught her and she turned a very important, if badly flushed, face to
the visitor.
"I'm baking a chocolate cake, Mrs. Reynolds," she announced.
"Fine, Suzanna," cried Mrs. Reynolds heartily. She advanced to the
middle of the kitchen. Two beautiful children both with large dark eyes
and dark curls, exquisitely clean, followed her.
Mrs. Reynolds was a little plumper, and with a softness in her eyes
which seemed of recent growth. She lifted the smaller child, the girl,
upon a kitchen chair, watched the boy in his pilgrimage after the
darting cat, and began:
"I'm glad to help with the christening robe for the Massey grandson,
Mrs. Procter," she said; "and I think 'tis a fine idea--sort of
community dress made by those who liked Miss Massey."
"I thought you'd like the idea, Mrs. Reynolds," said Mrs. Procter.
"Here, take this chair."
Mrs. Reynolds sat down. "The fine boy you have there," she said,
indicating the "baby," "he's a bit like Suzanna."
"We all think he's very much like his eldest sister," said Mrs. Procter.
She raised the small boy and held him close for a moment. When she put
him down, he wandered off toward the popular cat.
"I wanted to ask you, Mrs. Procter," said Mrs. Reynolds, "what material
you think will make up best for a Sunday dress for Margaret here." She
paused, smiled, and flashing a mischievous glance at Suzanna, finished,
"It'll have to have lace, says Margaret, and I suppose she'll want the
goods cut away from underneath."
Suzanna, perched near the oven door watching the precious cake, turned
to look at Mrs. Reynolds. A flame lit within her eyes; she had never
forgotten the anguish engendered by her mother's refusal to cut away the
goods from under the pink dress; then the expression softened. Was it
not on that occasion, too, she had learned the dearness of that same
mother?
"There, now," said Mrs. Reynolds, "I shouldn't have teased you,
Suzanna." Her eyes grew tender. "I'd never have thought seriously of
adopting my little children here, dear lamb, if you hadn't first adopted
yourself out to me."
Suzanna's face grew luminous. "Oh, do you mean that, Mrs. Reynolds?" she
cried.
"I do just that, every word, Dear Heart. Why, the night I put you to bed
and you called me 'mother' I shall never forget, never. And then the
truths you spoke to Reynolds!"
"He's happy now, isn't he?" asked Mrs. Procter.
Mrs. Reynolds paused impressively before answering: "Do you know," she
said at length, "he forgets often to remember that the children are not
his very own. The little Margaret there creeps into his lap nights,
calls him daddy, and melts the heart of him. And the boy with his
quaintness, follows him about the house on Saturdays, and Reynolds says
often enough: 'He'll be a great man, this chap, Peggy. He says some of
the things I thought when I was his age.' He's taken to calling me Peggy
since the children came to make a distinction, the little girl bearing
my name, you see."
Mrs. Procter nodded. Margaret stirred uneasily on her chair. "Mother,"
she asked, "I want to hold the Pussy, too. I'll keep my apron clean."
"And that you shall, my Sweet," said Mrs. Reynolds, her face flushing at
the title as though it would never grow old to her; "come then, go to
the cat, my pretty lass."
Suzanna removed her cake from the oven. It was a beautiful object, and
Suzanna regarded it with pride. She took off her apron, looked around
the kitchen and then turning to her mother, put her request.
"Mother," she said, "I'd like to go to the big house and see the Eagle
Man and Miss Massey."
"Saturday morning?" asked Mrs. Procter, dubiously. "Well, I suppose that
it won't really matter."
"I'm going to see Daphne," Maizie announced.
"Remember to be at home by noon," said Mrs. Procter. "Father may be here
for luncheon."
"I'll remember, mother," said Suzanna. She kissed her mother, said
good-bye to Mrs. Reynolds and started happily away. She reached the
house at the top of the hill in a short time. The same uniformed man as
of old gave her immediate admittance.
"Mr. Massey is in the library," he said, evincing no surprise at
Suzanna's unconventional appearance.
In the doorway of the library Suzanna hesitated a moment, for the sound
of voices came to her. Then she went forward, and there, standing near
the white marble mantelpiece was the Eagle Man, near him Suzanna's
father.
"Daddy," Suzanna cried, and ran to him.
Mr. Procter turned. His face, slightly older than when he was an
employee of Job Doane of the hardware shop, was still that of the
idealist, the lover of men. Yet there was a something added. Perhaps his
well-fitting clothes gave him the new air of efficiency, of directness.
"I didn't know you'd be here with the Eagle Man, daddy," Suzanna cried.
Her father smiled at her. The Eagle Man spoke. "Your father is my
right-hand man, remember, little girl," he answered. He brought out the
sentence clearly with no strain of embarrassment.
"Right-hand man," Suzanna repeated thoughtfully. "I don't quite know
what that means."
"Well, it means that your father looks after my interests in a very
capable way," old John Massey returned. "Don't you remember how the new
homes went up under his direction for my employees?"
"Yes, I remember," said Suzanna, "those beautiful new, brick houses, and
the clean yards for the babies to play in."
"And now your father is in my mill as my superintendent, looking after
the men." He paused. "How would you describe your way with them, Mr.
Procter?"
"Looking after them humanly, perhaps," put in Mr. Procter simply.
"All right, we'll let it go just that way. In any event if you're making
them happier by shifting them about a bit, trying to fit them by natural
adaptability to their jobs and so increasing efficiency, I am satisfied
with any way you put it."
Mr. Procter stood a little ill at ease. It was so very rare for old John
Massey to so graciously express himself, almost unheard of.
"You see," said the Eagle Man, softly, "I'm using Suzanna as a mask; I'm
telling her what I couldn't say to your face, Richard Procter." He
stretched out his hand and Richard Procter let his own fall into it. The
two men stood thus bound in a spirit of perfect friendship.
Suzanna went on upstairs. She found "Miss Massey" in a large room with
pink curtains at the windows, pink rugs on the floor and even pink
chairs and sofas. Like a sea shell, Suzanna thought. The baby lay in a
beautiful rose-tinted crib drawn near the window, and above the crib the
new mother bent.
She turned when Suzanna knocked softly.
"Oh, Suzanna," she cried at once, a glad note in her voice. She ran
across the room and enfolded the little visitor close within her arms.
"And you've come back with a baby," Suzanna cried, after a time.
"Yes, come and see him. He's named after my father."
Suzanna went to the cradle and looked down. "He's a nice fat baby," she
admitted. She really didn't think that he was pretty, but that she did
not say.
"And don't you love Saturday nights when it rains and you're safe
indoors with Robert and the baby?" asked Suzanna, interestedly.
"Oh, dear girl, I do, I do. What a picture you painted, and how I've
tried to make it true."
"And have you a cross man with buttons to jump at your bidding?" Suzanna
pursued.
"No, dear; we have a little home with a garden, where in the summer all
the old-fashioned flowers bloom. I do most of my own work, and care
altogether for my baby. And I'm happier than ever before in my life. And
my father is no longer angry with me. He wrote asking me to pay him a
visit after he knew he had a grandson named for him."
She bent above her baby for a moment, then turned her shining face to
Suzanna. "And now, tell me about yourself, Suzanna, and your loved
ones."
Suzanna paused to think. "Well, you know father doesn't weigh out nails
any more; he's the Eagle Man's right-hand man." She remembered the
phrase and brought it out roundly. "And father helped build all those
nice new homes for the people who work in the Massey Steel Mills.
"My father's a great man," finished Suzanna, simply as always when
stating this incontrovertible fact. "And his Machine's nearly ready now
for the world to know about it."
"Oh, oh, Suzanna! And then?"
"And then many, many people are going to be happy ever after because my
father thought of that machine and worked on it for years and years."
After a moment Suzanna continued: "And my dear, dear Drusilla set off on
a far journey and didn't come back. And Graham cried, and went away for
a long time, and Bartlett Villa was closed. But they've come back now
and it's open again. And David and Daphne are quite well, thank you. And
Mrs. Reynolds has two little children of her own."
"I'm so glad," said Robert's wife. "You're a very happy little girl,
then, aren't you, dear?"
"Oh, very happy," said Suzanna. "I love so many people, you see. And I
have a sister, Maizie, who was once smiled upon by a very great Man."
Her listener was puzzled, but she asked no questions. It didn't seem to
her the right moment to ask an explanation. Some day she would. But
Suzanna told the story of Maizie's rare selection, dwelling upon it with
a degree of wondrous awe, for she believed the story now. It stood so
clear to her, so real, that it had a fine influence upon her inner life.
Often when swift anger surged through her, anger directed against the
little sister, she brought to bear a strong control, as she remembered
Maizie's great awakening.
She returned to her surroundings in a moment. "I must be going, Miss
Massey. I wish you'd come to see us. We've got a lovely new rug in the
front room and mother has two new dresses for herself. She is awfully
pretty in them."
"I certainly shall come to visit you," Miss Massey promised, kissing the
little girl.
Suzanna ran downstairs. She did not stop at the library, fearing she
would reach home late for luncheon.
But she was just in time to set the table. Her father had not yet
arrived. Mother, of course, was there and with an eager face full of
news, delightful news, Suzanna guessed.
"Suzanna, dear, what do you think? Mrs. Graham Woods Bartlett was here
during your absence."
"To visit us, mother? Oh, tell me all about it," Suzanna cried.
"She wants to take you and Maizie and Peter to the seashore for a whole
month. There, Suzanna! What do you think of that?"
Suzanna stood absolutely still. Then exclaimed: "To the seashore,
mother! Why--I don't think I can stand the joy of it. Oh, mother, I'm
too happy!"
CHAPTER XXIII
TO THE SEASHORE
Mrs. Graham Woods Bartlett sat in her own perfectly appointed room one
morning in late June. She sat quietly, hands folded. She could hear
Graham, her son, downstairs beneath her window talking to David and
Daphne. She caught disconnected words. They floated to her broken like
meaningless flakes of snow.
She had just returned from her call on Mrs. Procter, that impulsive call
made on the wings of an impulsive, quixotic thought. There still
remained sharp in her memory the picture of the little home; the busy
mother, washing out small woolen garments. She had gone unconsciously
prepared to patronize and had returned completely shorn of her feeling
of superiority. In truth, a little envy for that sweet-faced mother was
in her heart.
From the time when her husband's mother died, she had not been happy.
Pursuits that hitherto had satisfied her altogether lost their power.
New values were slowly born in her. Still possessing a degree of
sensibility not killed by her false life, she had been by the attitude
of her husband and her son, able to see herself clearly. Both had been
dependent upon her in a measure for their happiness, and she had failed
them. Their reaction had hurt her bitterly.
She had tried in the past two years to make amends, but some hurts heal
slowly. Perhaps it was hard for her husband and son to realize that she
was trying to make amends. In any event, each went his separate way, a
household divided. Early in the morning had come the thought of the
seashore and she had wasted no time in seeking the little home. And now
its atmosphere filled her mind.
She heard Daphne's young voice, and a sudden rare pity filled her for
the motherless child, her gardener's daughter. She would ask Daphne,
too.
She went to seek David, and as she came upon him spading a flower bed,
the two children with him, a station carriage stopped before the big
iron gates and her husband alighted. He had been away on one of his long
trips and was now returning home, unheralded, unexpected.
He came quickly down the path and stopped short at sight of his wife. "I
did not think to find you here," he said.
She did not answer at once. He looked closer at her. "You look a bit
fagged," he said, uncertainly. Perhaps he felt a softer appeal about her
which took him back to their young days together.
"I am a little tired," she said.
"I thought you intended to spend the summer in the East," he went on.
"Strangely, Bartlett Villa held more fascination for me than any other
place. I returned here a week ago," she hesitated before continuing. "I
obeyed a whim this morning and invited the Procter children to accompany
Graham and me to the seashore to spend a month."
He looked at her incredulously. "I--I don't understand," he said.
She returned his gaze, then suddenly she turned from him and hastened
back to the house. Many emotions bit at her, among them anger with her
husband for his difficulty in believing she had done something which
would mean, some trouble to her; which in the days just behind she would
have designated as impossible, or "boring."
After a moment he followed her and overtook her as she reached the small
side room where Suzanna had once sat telling of the poor people who had
been burned out of their homes. She knew he was near her, but she gave
no heed. Instead she flung herself down in a near chair and buried her
face in her hands.
He stood, looking down at her in silence. At last he let his hand fall
gently on her shoulder.
"Ina," he said, softly.
She looked up at him.
"Dear," he went on, "have you and I just been playing at life?"
"Oh, it seems so," she cried. "I know I am unhappy, groping." She stood
up and put out her hands to him. He took them, drew her close to him.
"Ina," he said, "let me go with you and the children to the seashore.
Let's try to know one another better."
A radiance came upon her, filling her eyes. She did not speak, only she
held very fast to his hand, as though in the clasp she found an anchor.
There came the glorious summer day marked for the journey to the
seashore. Suzanna, Maizie, and Peter waited for the Bartlett carriage
which was to convey them to the depot. At last they heard it coming. At
last it stood before the gate, and Daphne put her small head out of the
carriage window. Then Graham opened the door and sprang to the ground.
He said a word to David who was driving, and ran up the path.
Maizie began to dance, Peter to whistle. But Suzanna stood quite still,
the glow of anticipation falling from her face.
"Are you quite ready, Suzanna?" asked Mrs. Procter.
At the words Suzanna's control broke. With a little cry she ran into her
mother's arms. "Oh, mother, mother," she sobbed, "I can't go away, so
far away and leave you--a whole month!"
Mrs. Procter held the small figure close. Her own eyes were wet, but she
spoke calmly:
"Why, little girl, mother will be here waiting for your return, and
longing to hear all about your good time. Come, dry your eyes and think
how happy you're going to be."
"But I know you'll be lonesome, mother, and so shall I be for you."
"But when you grow lonesome," Mrs. Procter whispered, "just think how
lovely it will be to return home; and remember that father's machine
will be given its great test before you come back. Mr. Bartlett and Mr.
Massey have made all arrangements."
Suzanna's face brightened; the clouds dispelled themselves, so she was
able to greet Graham with much of her old smile.
"All ready?" he cried as he ran up the steps. "Father and mother and a
maid are following in another carriage. Nancy is with us."
He was quite plainly excited by some thought deeper than the mere fact
of going to the seashore. Suzanna's companionship was promised for long
days to come; he knew her eye for beauty hidden from others; her quaint
speech. And then, too, a new relationship had come to pass between
himself and his mother. Between them an understanding that made him
glow.
It seemed but a moment before they were all together in the train.
Suzanna settled herself to look out of the window at the passing
landscape, so exhilaratingly new to her. Maizie sat beside her, Peter
across the aisle with Graham. Little Daphne was cuddled close to Mrs.
Bartlett. Mr. Bartlett was in the dining-car.
Maizie whispered to her sister: "We've come to the future now, haven't
we, Suzanna?"
"Why, you can't ever come to the future," returned Suzanna.
Maizie puzzled a moment. "But don't you remember, mother said we might
travel on a train some time in the future? So now we're doing it, why
haven't we come to the future?"
"Because you never can come to the future," Suzanna repeated. She leaned
forward and spoke to Mrs. Bartlett. "When you're living a day it's the
present, isn't it, Mrs. Bartlett?"
Mrs. Bartlett looked long at the two children. "Maizie thinks the future
an occasion, I think," she said, and then, because lucid explanation was
beyond her, she continued: "You know we have a big cottage at the
seashore, and the cottage is close to the water."
Maizie it was who at last broke the thrilling silence: "Where there's an
ocean? And where you can go wading and swimming?" she cried.
"And will there be sand?" asked Suzanna, hanging upon the answer
breathlessly.
"Yes, there's a wide yellow beach running into the ocean where you can
dig and build castles all day," said Mrs. Bartlett.
"Oh, my cup is full and runneth over," said Suzanna solemnly.
The train swept on through small towns and the children's delight and
amazement increased. And when at noon the climax came, and they all went
forward into the dining-car, they were one and all silent. No words
great enough were in their vocabulary to express this moment.
Said Mr. Bartlett when they were all seated: "Now, children, you may
order just exactly what you'd like. You first, Suzanna."
"Well," she said, without hesitation, "I should like some golden brown
toast that isn't burned, with lots of butter on it, and a cup of cocoa
with a marshmallow floating on top, and at the very last, a dish of
striped ice cream with a cherry right in the middle."
Mr. Bartlett wrote the order rapidly on a card. Each of the children
spoke out his deepest, perhaps his long-cherished desire. Some of the
dishes were secretly and mercifully modified by Mrs. Bartlett, who sat
in enjoyment of the scene.
"It's like a dream, Mrs. Bartlett," said Suzanna when, dinner finished,
they were all back once more in the parlor car. "You don't think we'll
wake up, do you?"
"No, I think not; you'll simply get wider and wider awake."
But, as the hours crept on and as she watched the flying landscape, the
reaction to all her excitement came and a haze fell over everything, and
she slept, to awaken some time later, full of contrition.
She spoke anxiously to Mrs. Bartlett: "Oh, I appreciated it all, Mrs.
Bartlett, but my eyes just closed down of themselves," she said.
Mrs. Bartlett smiled. "It's a long journey," she said, "but we'll soon
see the end of it."
At nine o'clock the train stopped for the first time since dark had
fallen. "Here we are," cried Mr. Bartlett. And in a few moments they
were all standing on the platform of a little railroad station waiting
while carriages were being secured to take them for the night to a hotel
nestling on the top of a tall hill.
CHAPTER XXIV
THE SEASHORE
Morning came--a rather misty morning that promised better as the day
advanced. Suzanna, sleeping with Maizie in a small room on the second
floor of the hotel, woke, gazed about her unfamiliar surroundings,
sprang out of bed, and in her bare feet ran to the window. There before
her was a magnificent group of mountains, wooded with majestic trees
whose tops seemed to touch the sky. Beneath the mountains, just at their
feet, a river ran, the sun dancing on its breast. Suzanna held her
breath in sheer awe; she could not move even to call Maizie. She felt as
though something great out there in the mountains called to her spirit
and though she wished to answer she could not do so.
The tapestry spread below the mountains of water and green slopes and
velvet meadows sun-kissed too, called to her; the artist in her was
keenly, deeply responsive to the call, still she could not answer, only
stand and gaze and gaze, and drink in the beauty that stretched before
her.
Then old Nancy came with hurrying words, waking Maizie. "We can stay in
this town but two hours before our train is due," she said. "So you must
dress at once, Suzanna."
So Suzanna dressed in silence, answering none of Maizie's chatter, as
though she had been in a far, unexplored country and had returned
steeped in the mysteries of that distant land.
Her silence still lay upon her when after breakfast they all set out for
a walk around the historic old town. There were babies, happy, dirty
babies, playing about doorsteps of one-storied plaster houses, or
toddling about the cobble-stoned roads.
The streets were narrow and steep, the roads wide with moss edged in
between the wide cracks. Suzanna kept her eyes down; she would not look
up at the mountains, and finally Mr. Bartlett, noticing her silence,
asked: "Do you like it here, Suzanna?"
"Yes," she said. "But I can't look at the mountains. They take my breath
away and make me stand still inside. Maybe some day I'll be able to look
straight at them, but not now, and some day when I'm a woman I'm going
to come back here and make a poem and set it to a wonderful painting."
He smiled at the way she put it.
"And I," said Maizie, "am going to come back and take care of some of
those poor little babies that play alone out on the cobble-stones."
"We'll see," said Mr. Bartlett. "Time alone can tell what you two little
girls will do."
Returning to the hotel they found vehicles awaiting them. And shortly
they were again on a train, speeding away.
Three hours, and they were at their destination. A short ride in an
electric car, a shorter walk down a tree-lined street, and they were at
the "cottage."
"A cottage," cried Suzanna, "why it's a big house!"
"Everything is called a cottage down here," said Mrs. Bartlett.
Mr. Bartlett used the brass knocker and its echo reverberated down the
street. An elderly Scotch woman, Bessie, who had been long with Mrs.
Bartlett's family, met them in the hall, her pleasant face alight with
smiles. She said now:
"Everything is ready, and the trunks, I suppose, will be here within a
short time."
"What's that sound?" Suzanna asked.
"That's the ocean booming," said Mrs. Bartlett. "Now let's go upstairs
and prepare ourselves for luncheon. Nancy will show you children your
different rooms."
So upstairs they went, Nancy in the lead. She threw open the door of the
bedrooms. Suzanna and Maizie were given one from whose windows the ocean
could be seen. Peter had a room all to himself, a small one with a cot
which was much to his liking. "It's like camping out," he made himself
believe. Graham occupied one next door. Little Daphne was with Mrs.
Bartlett.
"There's two closets," cried Maizie, as she went on a tour of
investigation. "One for your clothes and one for mine. Sometimes,
Suzanna," she said, "I can hardly believe it all yet."
"That's the way I feel," said Suzanna. Nancy appeared at the door
bearing snowy towels which she gave to the children. "Here, children,"
she said, "the bath room is at the end of the hall, and you must hurry."
So Suzanna and Maizie hurried and they were the first downstairs. The
house was much more simply furnished, of course, than the big one in
Anchorville, but as the children went about they found many interesting
things. In one long, narrow room, the length of the first floor, was a
fireplace taking up one entire end, and built of irregular stones,
giving a charming effect. There were big easy chairs and sofas; tables
heaped with magazines and books. On the walls were color pictures
suspended by long, dim-worn chains--ocean scenes, a ship at sea, and
over the piano, fifty years old as they discovered later, hung several
faded miniatures of ladies of a long past age. Most interesting of all
to Suzanna was an album she found in an old cabinet, an album that as
you looked through it at ladies with voluminous skirts, at men with wing
collars, and little girls with white pantalettes, a hidden music box
tinkled forth dainty airs from a long-forgotten operetta.
In another room on the opposite side, which was entered by mounting
three steps, was a large table covered with green felt and with nets
stretched across it, and little balls and paddles in corner pockets, and
Mr. Bartlett, entering at the moment, the children learned that many
happy games were played on this big table.
Later, out of this room, the children stepped upon a wide porch, and
here there burst upon them a view of the ocean.
"You see," said Mr. Bartlett, "that those of us who go into the water
may dress in bathing suits here, then put on long cloaks and run down to
the beach. Then when we return, we step under a shower arrangement over
there near that little house. . . ."
"Please, Mr. Bartlett," begged Suzanna, "don't tell us any more now. I
don't think I can stand any more joy for today."
"Well, then," Mr. Bartlett smiled, "let's start away for our luncheon.
We simply live in this house and take our meals at the hotel."
And at this moment the rest of the family appearing, they all started
away. A short walk brought them to the hotel where all was life and
light and excitement. Children played on the wide piazzas, young girls
walked about chatting merrily, and mothers and fathers sat in easy
chairs reading or pleasantly regarding the children.
In the dining-room a large table had been previously ordered reserved
for the Bartlett family.
"We'll have," said Mr. Bartlett, when they were all seated, speaking to
the interested waiter, "just exactly what you think we'd like, John."
John, who knew Mr. Bartlett well, smiled in fatherly fashion and
disappeared. He returned shortly bearing a tray filled with just those
things that children most love. There was cream soup, and salted
crackers, big pitchers of milk, little hot biscuits, fresh honey, and
broiled ham--pink and very delicious as was soon discovered. Then there
was sweet fruit pudding with whipped cream and, of course, ice cream.
"Will John always know what we like?" asked Suzanna as the meal
progressed.
"Well, we'll change about," said Mrs. Bartlett, who looked as though she
were enjoying every moment. "Sometimes when we know particularly what
we'd like, we'll give our order, other times when we want to be
surprised we'll let John serve us what he thinks we'd enjoy. Don't you
think that way will be nice?"
"Oh, that will be very interesting," said Suzanna; then added, "Does the
water make that sound all the time?"
"Yes, it's always restless."
"Well, it seems as though it were asking for something," said Suzanna,
"a kind of sad asking."
"Now," said Mr. Bartlett, leaning across and speaking softly to her,
"suppose, Suzanna, you think for a moment that it's a happy sound and
see how almost at once it becomes a happy sound."
Suzanna listened intently. Then her face brightened. "Why, it is a happy
murmuring," she cried. "Just as though it had to sing and sing all day
long."
"Exactly," said Mr. Bartlett.
"Well, then," said Suzanna, quickly drawing the deduction, "it's really
just in me to make it say happy things or sad things."
"Exactly," said Mr. Bartlett again, and then they all rose and went back
to the cottage.
Since the trunks which contained the beach outfits did not arrive till
late that afternoon, the children did not go down to the sands till the
next morning. Then with joyous hearts and eager feet, they set off,
Suzanna, Maizie, Peter, Graham, and Daphne; Mr. and Mrs. Bartlett
following more slowly.
A bath house reserved for their use stood, door wide open. They entered,
discarded their coats and immediately appeared again clad in their
pretty bathing suits for the water.
But when they reached the sands, already alive with gay children who
were building houses or running gaily about, and with happy shrieks
wading into the water, the Procter children stood awed, unable to speak,
so many emotions beat within them.
Maizie was the first to recover her power of speech. "There's a girl
down there with a shovel and pail like mine," she said.
And that broke the spell. Peter and Graham walked bravely out into the
water, finally reaching their necks as they went farther and farther
into the ocean. But the little girls contented themselves by simply
wetting their feet and with every wave dashing up to them, leaping back
with glad little cries. As the morning advanced, they returned to the
older group and sat on the sand.
On the sixth day of their stay all the children were trying bravely to
swim, clinging it must be confessed rather desperately to Mr. Bartlett
and the beach man, secured to help them; but when he procured for them
large water wings, they soon struck out for themselves. Peter really
learned to swim before either of his sisters, and one morning he went
out as far as the end of a quarter-mile pier.
They all grew rosy and strong, out in the fine air nearly every moment
as they were. Some afternoons they went fishing, and, with a strange
reversal of type, Suzanna was the patient one, Maizie the impatient.
Suzanna would sit in the boat next to Mr. Bartlett, holding her line,
and breathlessly wait for hours if need be, statue-like, till she felt
the thrilling nibble. Maizie would grow tired immediately, and to
Peter's disgust, she would wriggle her feet or move restlessly about,
quite spoiling for him the day's outing. Maizie at last begged to be let
off from the fishing expeditions.
"I'd rather just lie in the sand and paddle in the water, or watch the
big white ships," she said.
"You're to do exactly as you please," said Mr. Bartlett, and so they
did, each and every one.
Many hours they all spent on one of the large piers running out a great
distance into the ocean, where always there were gaiety and music, and
here one afternoon Suzanna, Peter, Graham, and Mr. Bartlett, all seated
at the end of the pier saw a huge shark darting about the water. The few
daring swimmers in his vicinity quickly moved away.
"A real shark," cried Suzanna. "When I go to bed tonight I'll just think
I dreamed it."
Said Mr. Bartlett: "Suppose, Suzanna, I buy you a book filled with blank
pages, and having a little padlock with a small key, for your very own,
so that every night you may write the happenings of the day and the
impressions made upon you."
"Oh, I'd like to do that," cried Suzanna, her eyes shining, "and then
surely I won't forget any single little thing to tell daddy and mother."
"I'll write for the book," Mr. Bartlett promised, "when we return to the
cottage."
After a time they left the pier and walked down the street, running
along with the sands. The street was lined with little stores of all
kinds; one where fresh fish were sold, another where French fried
potatoes and vinegar were offered to a hungry multitude; a place in
which handmade laces were made and sold. A florist booth kept by a
dark-faced Greek was neighbor to a shop built with turrets like a
castle. Here a happy-faced Italian women exhibited trays of uncut
stones, semi-precious ones, explained Mr. Bartlett, and strings of
beads, coral, pearl, flat turquoise, topaz, and amethysts. There were
bits of old porcelain, crystal cups, and oriental embroideries, and
little carved gods on ebony pedestals. The place reminded Suzanna of
Drusilla's historic old pawn shop and she stood entranced.
Soon they were at the place of Graham and Peter's delight, a shooting
gallery, where if one were very skillful he might, with a massive
looking gun, hit a small moving black ball and hear a bell ring. Mr.
Bartlett hit the ball today three times out of four, Graham once out of
five, but Peter, manfully lifting the large gun and scanning its barrel,
left a scar on the target four inches to the left of the little swinging
ball. This occurred after eight trials.
"Well, there's another day, Peter," said Mr. Bartlett, as they moved
away.
"And Mr. Bartlett practiced a long time, you must remember, Peter,"
said Suzanna, seeing the little fellow's downcast expression.
"Do you think before we go back to the city," asked the small boy, "that
I'll be able to make the bell ring so I can tell daddy?"
"Oh, yes," said Mr. Bartlett, encouragingly. "We'll come over here and
practice every day."
They found the others in the cottage in the big room, resting awhile
before preparing for dinner.
"Oh, Suzanna," began Maizie at once, "we're going to have a beach party
on the sands tonight. And Mrs. Bartlett says we'll have a fire built so
we can toast marshmallows."
Suzanna did not say anything. Then quickly she crossed the room and
stood before Mr. and Mrs. Bartlett. "I wish," she said solemnly, "that
all the children in the world had such dear friends as we have."
CHAPTER XXV
LAST DAYS
They held many a beach party during that wonderful month. And always
they ended the evening by drawing close together and singing happy
little songs. Till, when a little coolness crept into the air, they
would leave the ocean and go happily homeward, to sleep deep and
dreamlessly till another morning awakened them to the thought of fresh
delights.
On one morning after a beach party, the children, coming downstairs to
join their elders for breakfast at the hotel, found standing on the road
in front of the cottage, a little brown donkey attached to a basket
cart.
"Could it be, could it possibly be for them?" each child's heart asked.
And Mr. Bartlett answered the unspoken question by: "It's for you all.
Peter is to drive first because he assured me the other day he knew all
about horses; then Graham. And in a few days Suzanna, and Maizie, and
even little Daphne, can take their turns."
He went to the small donkey and stroked its nose, and the little fellow
whinnied with pleasure. The children crowded about the cart. Couldn't
they have a drive now? their eager eyes asked. But Mr. Bartlett thought
breakfast the logical beginning of the day, so reluctantly they left
their new possession.
When breakfast was finished, Mr. Bartlett said: "I'll go for the first
ride or two with you just to see how this little fellow acts, though
I've been assured that he's as gentle as any lamb ever born."
And whoever it was that had given Mr. Bartlett this assurance had not
exaggerated the amiable qualities of the donkey. "Little Brownie," as
the children had unanimously and immediately named him, was of equable
and even nature. True, as the days went by it was discovered that he was
somewhat lazy, also self-willed. If he wanted to stop he would not move
again until he wished to, in face of all pleading, urging, or
inducements. He refused even to be led, and stood very pleasantly
viewing the surrounding landscape till with a sudden jerk he would
resume his usual trot. The children finally accepted Brownie's one
vagary, and when they were driving home among other vehicles, and
Brownie suddenly stopped and raised his right ear, a sign which meant,
"I shall not move till I wish to," they only laughed, and others about
them knowing the ways of little donkeys, laughed good-naturedly too, and
drove around the little cart.
It is an unvarying law that the days roll on and bring to an end even
periods of thrilling delight; and so there came the last evening to be
spent in the cottage at the seashore. The night was early in August, but
it had elected to borrow from its cooler sister September a rather chill
wind which, to the children's delight, necessitated the building of a
fire in the grate in the long room.
"And we'll pop corn," said Mr. Bartlett when they were all gathered
together watching the roaring flames, the only light in the room.
And Nancy, who could on a moment's notice, produce anything asked of
her, brought the popper and a big bag of dried corn.
After a time, when several bowls of corn were popped and buttered,
salted and eaten, Nancy put on the hearth a dish of fine, rosy apples.
These the children peeled and then cast the skins into the grate. A
hardy fragrance came from them, but hardly pungent enough to overpower
the salt-water odor that swept in from the ocean.
The flames lit all the faces, young and old. They fell on Mrs. Bartlett,
touching her lovely hair to molten gold, touching her thoughtful face
till it seemed a smile beyond itself rested upon it. She was
thinking--"Tomorrow we start back, and in my hands lie the happiness of
many. In my hands lies the keeping of the ideals of two--" She closed
her eyes and asked for clear vision, for strength to keep true to life's
highest values.
Graham, at her knee, looked up at her. Feeling that his eyes were upon
her, she opened hers and gazed at him. She did not speak, nor did he,
but she felt his heart's nearness.
And then his gaze wandered to Suzanna, Suzanna gazing into the flames,
her dark eyes like glowing jewels, her soft lips parted. And into Mrs.
Bartlett's heart crept a little fear and a little yearning and a little
great knowledge--that composite emotion all mothers are born to know.
CHAPTER XXVI
SUZANNA AND HER FATHER
At home again after the glorious month spent at the seashore! Habits,
dear customs, taken up once more. The splendor of the trip had not faded
for the Procter children. But home was home after all, with father and
mother and sisters and brothers all sharing the common life; with short
wanderings away and joyous returns; with small resentments, quick
flashes, and happy reconciliations.
"It was lovely at the seashore," said Suzanna to her mother one Saturday
afternoon, "but I'm awfully glad to be at home again. Were you lonely
without us?"
"Very," said Mrs. Procter, "but then I knew you were all having such
interesting experiences."
"Is father coming home early, mother?" Maizie asked, looking up from her
work. She was sewing buttons on Peter's blouse with the strongest linen
thread obtainable in Anchorville.
Mrs. Procter's face shadowed. She looked at Suzanna and Maizie as though
pondering the wisdom of giving them some piece of news. Evidently she
decided against doing so, for she answered:
"I can't tell, Maizie, he may be kept at the mills. Mr. Massey is
growing more dependent on father every day," she ended, with a little
burst of pride.
Father did not come home in the afternoon. The children lost hope after
a time, and followed their separate whims.
But at six he arrived. Suzanna had noticed at once upon her return, that
he was quieter, less exuberant than he had been since entering old John
Massey's employ. Some light seemed to have gone from his face. Suzanna
wanted always to comfort him, and he, though saying nothing, was quite
conscious of his little daughter's yearning over him.
During supper his absorption continued, and immediately afterward he
went into the parlor, selected a big book from a shelf, and drawing a
chair near the lamp began to read. Mother put the "baby" and Peter to
bed. Suzanna and Maizie, after the dishes were finished, followed
father, and drawing their chairs close, looked over some pictures
together.
"Saturday night"--how Suzanna loved it! It seemed the hush time of the
week, the hush before waking to the next beautiful day, Sunday, when all
the family were together--father in his nice dark suit, mother in her
soft wisteria gown, all the children in pretty clothes; church, with its
resonant organ, and the minister's deep voice reading from the old book.
Then, weather propitious, the walk with father and mother in the
afternoon down the country road, and at night the lamps again lit--all
the homely significances of the place where love and peace and courage
dwelt.
Mrs. Procter returned from putting the children to bed. "I think I'll go
upstairs for a little while," said Mr. Procter looking up at her.
"Oh, do, Richard," she urged.
Suzanna went close to him, her hand sought his. "Could--could you invite
us for a little while, daddy," she asked, beseechingly.
"Why, yes, if you wish," he answered. "You and mother and Maizie."
It was rather a heavy consent, but they all accompanied him up to the
attic. He lit the shaded lamp standing on the corner table, regulated it
till it gave out a subdued glow, and then walked and stood before his
machine.
He stood a long time looking at it. Once he put out his hand and
touched it softly, as a mother might a sleeping child.
Suzanna and Maizie, awed and troubled, they knew not why, watched their
father. Only their mother, with a little tender smile that held in it a
great deal of wistfulness, went close to him.
"Richard," she said softly.
He turned from the machine. His face was strangely colorless, strangely
drained of all light. She did not speak, but the loyalty and faith
deepened in her eyes. Perhaps he gained some comfort from their steady
gaze, his tenseness seemed to relax, his arms fell to his sides.
Suzanna unable to stand the strain longer, flew to him and put her small
arms tight about him. "Oh, are you sick, daddy?" she cried, tears in her
voice.
He hesitated, looked down at her, and said simply, very quietly:
"Suzanna, you might as well know the truth now as later. My machine is a
failure--I am a failure!"
Her heart leaped sickeningly, her arms fell from about him. In all her
life she had never lived through so intense an emotion. Her father, the
Great Man, proclaimed himself a failure in tones which struck through
her.
The mother's voice rang out clear. "Richard, you cannot say that." She
looked about the attic made sacred by its high use, "Here while you
worked we all, your children and I, have learned great lessons. You're
looking at your machine, an insensate thing, and losing sight of what
during its building, you put into the lives of those near to you, living
stuff, Richard."
And then Maizie cried out, "Oh, daddy, it's just like being on a
mountain top when we're in the attic with you. We'll never, never have
to stop coming, will we?"
And Suzanna, still deeply troubled, cried: "Daddy, how could the machine
be a failure when it was born because you loved all men, and wanted to
make them happy? And the very thought of it up here made me happy. Why,
in school on Monday I'd look down all the shapes of the week, and think
of Saturday afternoon and wish it would come quick." Her voice broke and
the sobs came uncontrollable, shaking the slender body. In a moment she
was clasped tight in her father's arms.
After she had regained some composure she looked up at him. "It hurts
me, daddy, so that I can't breathe when you forget that you're a Great
Man."
A silence fell, and into it plunged a voice. "Good evening," it said.
There in the doorway stood the Eagle Man. He laughed at their bewildered
expressions. "I rang and rang," he explained, "and when no one answered,
I looked up at the attic window and thought you must all be upstairs."
"And was the door unlocked," cried Mrs. Procter. "I thought I attended
to the doors and windows right after supper."
"The door was unlocked," said the Eagle Man, "and so I took the liberty
of coming right in."
"I'm glad you did," said Mr. Procter.
"Well, I need your help, Richard," said old John Massey in an
affectionate tone.
"It's ready for you, Mr. Massey," the inventor answered warmly.
Suzanna gazing at her old friend, suddenly cried out: "Oh, your eyes
have changed, Eagle Man, they're all nice and shiny."
He smiled with great fondness at her. "My dear," he said, "how can a man
fail to indulge in nice shining eyes after contact with a family of rare
visionaries?"
Suzanna did not understand that. She knew only that the Eagle Man had
greatly changed, that he seemed kinder, more understanding, and all at
once she knew why. He had had of late the ineffable privilege of being
close to her father. Of course, by such proximity he must grow kind and
understanding.
"Richard," said the capitalist, "there's trouble threatened in the
foreign section of the mills."
"Trouble?" Richard Procter's head went up.
"Yes, the men are dissatisfied, surly. It's the one department where
your touch hasn't been felt. I want you to go there on Monday and begin
your work."
"I'll be ready," said Richard Procter. Strength and purpose seemed to
flow back to him.
The Eagle Man turned as though to go, but he paused at the door to look
again at Suzanna.
"And so your father's been telling you that he has failed, that his
machine refused to work in the final test we gave it at the mills."
"My father hasn't failed," Suzanna said proudly.
"No, he hasn't failed," the Eagle Man agreed. "He hasn't failed. He's
the most brilliant success I know. He built into a piece of machinery
his ideals, and when the machine was finished he saw in his experiments
with it on those in his home ultimate triumph. But when it was taken to
my mills the machine failed to register color in personalities whose
chief talent by years of wrong work had been nearly strangled."
Mr. Procter spoke: "It shouldn't have failed even there. It did
register, if you remember your color and Mr. Bartlett's, and both of you
had pulled far away from your purpose."
"Yes, for some reason, it did register us," agreed the Eagle Man. He
paused, and then his voice rang out. "Let me tell you all something that
the inventor of that machine did, some miracle he brought to pass I
should have thought impossible. He awakened old ideals in a hard old
breast, he made hard old eyes see in men, not automatons born only to
add to his wealth, but human beings to be rendered happy in their work."
"Was yours the hard old breast, Eagle Man?" Suzanna asked.
"Yes, Suzanna. A result like that is worth while, eh, Richard?"
Mr. Procter did not answer, could not, because he feared at the moment
that he could not speak intelligently.
The Eagle Man turned to the wife, adoringly silent as she listened.
"Three men Richard Procter brought to me on his first day in my mills.
He said: 'These men have ambitions, they are greatly talented. You must
give them their chance.'"
"And what did you say?" asked Mrs. Procter softly.
"Oh, I snarled as usual, but that was really the work I wanted him to
do. I wanted him to do in the circumscribed field of my mills that which
he had built his machine to do. And so I snapped out: 'All right, put
the burden on me! I'll give them their chance just because you say so.'
And where men were dissatisfied he got at them and discovered the
trouble, and down there they all trust him, and his influence will be
like a river flowing on, ever widening. So there's the late history of
the man who stands and calls himself a failure."
So he finished, said not another word, looked once at the inventor, and
then went away.
* * * * *
Suzanna, trying in vain that night to sleep, tossed about restlessly.
Maizie, a sound sleeper, did not stir despite her sister's wakefulness.
Suzanna was thinking of her father, of the Eagle Man, of The Machine.
Suddenly she lay quite still. She was remembering the day when The
Machine had registered her color, a soft purple, gold tipped. How
stirred her father had been when the wavering color spread itself upon
the glass plate. It had repeated its marvel for Maizie and Peter. Why
then when The Machine was removed and conveyed to the big steel mills,
did it stand brooding, sulky, refusing to make any record of any
personality. She sat up straight in bed, her eyes yearning forward into
the dark. And all at once the answer came to her. Only in the attic,
where, piece by piece, in prayer, hope, and jubilation it had been
assembled; where love and belief had formed the atmosphere could The
Machine be its own highly sensitive self, reacting and responding.
With that big thought flowing through her, she slipped from the bed. The
night was warm, soft little breezes coming through the open window. She
went to the closet, found her slippers, put them on, and with a backward
glance at the unconscious Maizie, left the room.
The hall lay quiet, the tiny night lamp flickering in its place on the
small table set near her mother's room--that mother, ready at the first
sound to spring to any need of her children.
Downstairs Suzanna went swiftly, and there in the dining-room, as she
had thought, she found her father. He was sitting at the long table,
above which hung the new lamp with its pink shade and long brass chain.
His head was bent over a big book, and Suzanna knew that he was
studying. She paused half-way to him. In her white night gown, her hair
flowing over her shoulders, she looked like a small visitor from another
higher plane. At last her father, impelled, turned and saw her. At once
he opened wide his arms, and she went into them.
She lay, her cheek pressed against his, for a long time. All the
thoughts that had raced through her upstairs in the sleepless hours
returned to her, but she had to struggle to find language in which to
tell them.
"Daddy," she began, "maybe The Machine can't work except where it was
born."
"Tell me all that's in your heart, little girl," he said.
"Well, we've all thought of The Machine, and loved it and believed in it
ever since I was the tiniest girl, and you've talked to us of what it
was to mean."
"All true, my child, all true."
"And The Machine stood there and listened, daddy." She released herself
from his clasp and stood very straight. Her dark eyes seeing pictures,
were brilliantly wide. Her breath came quickly from between her parted
lips: "And so it grew and grew, and soon out of its soul it sent colors.
And it loved the man who made it, and it loved his little children, and
made them all want to be good and do something for others.
"And then one day, they took it away from its home and into a big mill,
and men crowded around it and looked at it, but they didn't love it, and
they didn't believe in it. And it felt shy and hurt and the color stayed
in its soul and wouldn't come forth.
"And the man who had made it felt sad and he cried, and he took his
machine home. And then one day, years and years after when the man's
little girl, Suzanna, was a woman and she was out in the world trying to
do good, as her father had taught her, trying to make other people
happy, the colors crept out from The Machine again, all gold and purple
and rose and green, this time for everybody."
She finished, and with a great cry her father folded her to him. The
tears came streaming to his eyes, and quite frankly now he wept. She
felt the hot tears upon her face, they burned her, but she knew she had
helped him and she was satisfied.
They sat on in a wonderful silence. A distant clock struck one. They
heard the sound of quickly descending feet, and turning, Suzanna saw her
mother standing in the doorway.
"I heard voices," said Mrs. Procter.
"Come here," her husband said. She saw his face transfigured, and she
went to him and fell on her knees beside him.
"Courage--belief?" she questioned.
"Yes, they have returned," he said.
Suzanna spoke again: "Daddy," she said, in her eager voice, "I forgot to
tell you of a nice happening. You know when we were at the seashore with
Mr. Bartlett, John, the waiter at the hotel, said something one day
about a son of his who wanted to write beautiful music, and Mr. Bartlett
said right before me: 'John, let me help that boy of yours. This little
girl's father has shown me the beauty of doing good for others.'"
The inventor did not speak. He sat, his arms about his wife and child,
and in his eyes the radiance of new inspiration, new purpose.
At last his wife spoke. "Richard, could success as you planned it, have
meant more, and wouldn't it have brushed some of the butterfly dust
away?"
He took the thought, pondered it, and his wife went on. "There's the
joy of striving, of waking fresh every day to hope. Can attainment,
after all, give any greater joy?"
"Perhaps not," he murmured.
"So, dear," she went on, "think of what has been done, not of what you
wished for. Think what you've done for our children. You took them with
you into your land of dreams, letting them share with you as far as you
might, that thrill which comes to the creator."
"And, daddy," finished Suzanna, "if The Machine had gone away to stay,
we couldn't have any more beautiful Saturday afternoons in the attic
with you."
They remained then all very still. Peter cried out a little in his
sleep. His mother, alert at once, listened, then relaxed when the cry
did not come again, and then Suzanna asked, "Are you still very, very
sad, daddy?"
And he answered, "The sadness has gone, Suzanna. Come another Saturday,
I shall take up the work again--and some day--"
"Some day all the world will say my father is a great man," ended
Suzanna, an unfaltering faith written upon her face.
And so her love, like an essence, flowed out and healed his spirit.
* * * * *
Transcriber's Notes:
Page 11, 'rythmic' changed to "rhythmic" (rhythmic noises)
Page 120, "base ball" changed to "baseball". (to mend a baseball)
Page 125, "Reyonlds'" changed to "Reynolds'". (Reynolds' gate.)
Page 249, hyphen added to "every-day" to match rest of text.(the real
every-day life)
Page 290, "white clad" changed to "white-clad" to match usage. (The
white-clad nurse)
Page 347, "cobble stones" changed to "cobble-stones" to fit rest of
text. (out on the cobble-stones)
Page 363, "wistaria" changed to "wisteria" (wistera gown)
End of Project Gutenberg's Suzanna Stirs the Fire, by Emily Calvin Blake