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FLOWER OF THE DUSK
by
MYRTLE REED
G. P. Putnam's Sons
New York and London
The Knickerbocker Press
1908
Copyright, 1908
by
Myrtle Reed McCullough
The Knickerbocker Press, New York
By MYRTLE REED.
FLOWER OF THE DUSK.
LOVE AFFAIRS OF LITERARY MEN.
A SPINNER IN THE SUN.
LOVE LETTERS OF A MUSICIAN.
LATER LOVE LETTERS OF A MUSICIAN.
THE SPINSTER BOOK.
LAVENDER AND OLD LACE.
THE MASTER'S VIOLIN.
AT THE SIGN OF THE JACK-O'-LANTERN.
THE SHADOW OF VICTORY.
THE BOOK OF CLEVER BEASTS.
PICKABACK SONGS.
Contents
CHAPTER PAGE
I--A MAKER OF SONGS 1
II--MISS MATTIE 15
III--THE TOWER OF COLOGNE 28
IV--THE SEVENTH OF JUNE 42
V--ELOISE 55
VI--A LETTER 68
VII--AN AFTERNOON CALL 83
VIII--A FAIRY GODMOTHER 98
IX--TAKING THE CHANCE 111
X--IN THE GARDEN 126
XI--BARBARA'S "TO-MORROW" 142
XII--MIRIAM 155
XIII--"WOMAN SUFFRAGE" 169
XIV--BARBARA'S BIRTHDAY 181
XV--THE SONG OF THE PINES 194
XVI--BETRAYAL 209
XVII--"NEVER AGAIN" 225
XVIII--THE PASSING OF FIDO 238
XIX--THE DREAMS COME TRUE 253
XX--PARDON 273
XXI--THE PERILS OF THE CITY 286
XXII--AUTUMN LEAVES 299
XXIII--LETTERS TO CONSTANCE 313
XXIV--THE BELLS IN THE TOWER 327
Flower of the Dusk
[Illustration: "Secretly, too, both were ashamed, having come unawares
upon knowledge that was not meant for them."--_Page 82._
_From a painting by Clinton Balmer_]
I
A Maker of Songs
[Sidenote: Sunset]
The pines, darkly purple, towered against the sunset. Behind the hills,
the splendid tapestry glowed and flamed, sending far messages of light
to the grey East, where lay the sea, crooning itself to sleep. Bare
boughs dripped rain upon the sodden earth, where the dead leaves had so
long been hidden by the snow. The thousand sounds and scents of Spring
at last had waked the world.
The man who stood near the edge of the cliff, quite alone, and carefully
feeling the ground before him with his cane, had chosen to face the
valley and dream of the glory that, perchance, trailed down in living
light from some vast loom of God's. His massive head was thrown back, as
though he listened, with a secret sense, for music denied to those who
see.
[Sidenote: Joyful Memories]
He took off his hat and stray gleams came through the deepening shadows
to rest, like an aureole, upon his silvered hair. Remembered sunsets,
from beyond the darkness of more than twenty years, came back to him
with divine beauty and diviner joy. Mnemosyne, that guardian angel of
the soul, brought from her treasure-house gifts of laughter and tears;
the laughter sweet with singing, and the bitterness of the tears
eternally lost in the Water of Forgetfulness.
Slowly, the light died. Dusk came upon the valley and crept softly to
the hills. Mist drifted in from the sleeping sea, and the hush of night
brooded over the river as it murmured through the plain. A single star
uplifted its exquisite lamp against the afterglow, near the veiled ivory
of the crescent moon.
Sighing, the man turned away. "Perhaps," he thought, whimsically, as he
went cautiously down the path, searching out every step of the way,
"there was no sunset at all."
The road was clear until he came to a fallen tree, over which he stepped
easily. The new softness of the soil had, for him, its own deep meaning
of resurrection. He felt it in the swelling buds of the branches that
sometimes swayed before him, and found it in the scent of the cedar as
he crushed a bit of it in his hand.
Easily, yet carefully, he went around the base of the hill to the
street, where his house was the first upon the right-hand side. The gate
creaked on its hinges and he went quickly up the walk, passing the grey
tangle of last Summer's garden, where the marigolds had died and the
larkspur fallen asleep.
Within the house, two women awaited him, one with anxious eagerness, the
other with tenderly watchful love. The older one, who had long been
listening, opened the door before he knocked, but it was Barbara who
spoke to him first.
"You're late, Father, dear."
"Am I, Barbara? Tell me, was there a sunset to-night?"
"Yes, a glorious one."
[Sidenote: Seeing with the Soul]
"I thought so, and that accounts for my being late. I saw a beautiful
sunset--I saw it with my soul."
"Give me your coat, Ambrose." The older woman stood at his side, longing
to do him some small service.
"Thank you, Miriam; you are always kind."
The tiny living-room was filled with relics of past luxury. Fine
pictures, in tarnished frames, hung on the dingy walls, and worn rugs
covered the floor. The furniture was old mahogany, beautifully cared
for, but decrepit, nevertheless, and the ancient square piano,
outwardly, at least, showed every year of its age.
Still, the room had "atmosphere," of the indefinable quality that some
people impart to a dwelling-place. Entering, one felt refinement,
daintiness, and the ability to live above mere externals. Barbara had,
very strongly, the house-love which belongs to some rare women. And who
shall say that inanimate things do not answer to our love of them, and
diffuse, between our four walls, a certain gracious spirit of kindliness
and welcome?
In the dining-room, where the table was set for supper, there were
marked contrasts. A coarse cloth covered the table, but at the head of
it was overlaid a remnant of heavy table-damask, the worn places
carefully hidden. The china at this place was thin and fine, the silver
was solid, and the cup from which Ambrose North drank was Satsuma.
On the coarse cloth were the heavy, cheap dishes and the discouraging
knives and forks which were the portion of the others. The five damask
napkins remaining from the original stock of linen were used only by the
blind man.
[Sidenote: A Comforting Deceit]
For years the two women had carried on this comforting deceit, and the
daily lie they lived, so lovingly, had become a sort of second nature.
They had learned to speak, casually, of the difficulty in procuring
servants, and to say how much easier it was to do their own small tasks
than to watch continually over fine linen and rare china intrusted to
incompetent hands. They talked of tapestries, laces, and jewels which
had long ago been sold, and Barbara frequently wore a string of beads
which, with a lump in her throat, she called "Mother's pearls."
Discovering that the sound of her crutches on the floor distressed him
greatly, Barbara had padded the sharp ends with flannel and was careful
to move about as little as possible when he was in the house. She had
gone, mouse-like, to her own particular chair while Miriam was hanging
up his coat and hat and placing his easy chair near the open fire. He
sat down and held his slender hands close to the grateful warmth.
"It isn't cold," he said, "and yet I am glad of the fire. To-day is the
first day of Spring."
"By the almanac?" laughed Barbara.
"No, according to the almanac, I believe, it has been Spring for ten
days. Nature does not move according to man's laws, but she forces him
to observe hers--except in almanacs."
[Sidenote: Kindly Shadows]
The firelight made kindly shadows in the room, softening the
unloveliness and lending such beauty as it might. It gave to Ambrose
North's fine, strong face the delicacy and dignity of an old miniature.
It transfigured Barbara's yellow hair into a crown of gold, and put a
new gentleness into Miriam's lined face as she sat in the half-light,
one of them in blood, yet singularly alien and apart.
"What are you doing, Barbara?" The sensitive hands strayed to her lap
and lifted the sheer bit of linen upon which she was working.
"Making lingerie by hand."
"You have a great deal of it, haven't you?"
"Not as much as you think, perhaps. It takes a long time to do it well."
"It seems to me you are always sewing."
"Girls are very vain these days, Father. We need a great many pretty
things."
"Your dear mother used to sew a great deal. She--" His voice broke, for
even after many years his grief was keenly alive.
"Is supper ready, Aunt Miriam?" asked Barbara, quickly.
"Yes."
"Then come, let's go in."
Ambrose North took his place at the head of the table, which, purposely,
was nearest the door. Barbara and Miriam sat together, at the other end.
"Where were you to-day, Father?"
[Sidenote: At the top of the World]
"On the summit of the highest hill, almost at the top of the world.
I think I heard a robin, but I am not sure. I smelled Spring in the
maple branches and the cedar, and felt it in the salt mist that blew
up from the sea. The Winter has been so long!"
"Did you make a song?"
[Sidenote: Always Make a Song]
"Yes--two. I'll tell you about them afterward. Always make a song,
Barbara, no matter what comes."
So the two talked, while the other woman watched them furtively. Her
face was that of one who has lived much in a short space of time and her
dark, burning eyes betrayed tragic depths of feeling. Her black hair,
slightly tinged with grey, was brushed straight back from her wrinkled
forehead. Her shoulders were stooped and her hands rough from hard work.
She was the older sister of Ambrose North's dead wife--the woman he had
so devotedly loved. Ever since her sister's death, she had lived with
them, taking care of little lame Barbara, now grown into beautiful
womanhood, except for the crutches. After his blindness, Ambrose North
had lost his wife, and then, by slow degrees, his fortune. Mercifully, a
long illness had made him forget a great deal.
"Never mind, Barbara," said Miriam, in a low tone, as they rose from the
table. "It will make your hands too rough for the sewing."
"Shan't I wipe the dishes for you, Aunty? I'd just as soon."
"No--go with him."
The fire had gone down, but the room was warm, so Barbara turned up the
light and began again on her endless stitching. Her father's hands
sought hers.
"More sewing?" His voice was tender and appealing.
"Just a little bit, Father, please. I'm so anxious to get this done."
"But why, dear?"
"Because girls are so vain," she answered, with a laugh.
"Is my little girl vain?"
"Awfully. Hasn't she the dearest father in the world and the
prettiest"--she swallowed hard here--"the prettiest house and the
loveliest clothes? Who wouldn't be vain!"
"I am so glad," said the old man, contentedly, "that I have been able to
give you the things you want. I could not bear it if we were poor."
"You told me you had made two songs to-day, Father."
[Sidenote: Song of the River]
He drew closer to her and laid one hand upon the arm of her chair.
Quietly, she moved her crutches beyond his reach. "One is about the
river," he began.
"In Winter, a cruel fairy put it to sleep in an enchanted tower, far up
in the mountains, and walled up the door with crystal. All the while the
river was asleep, it was dreaming of the green fields and the soft,
fragrant winds.
"It tossed and murmured in its sleep, and at last it woke, too soon, for
the cruel fairy's spell could not have lasted much longer. When it found
the door barred, it was very sad. Then it grew rebellious and hurled
itself against the door, trying to escape, but the barrier only seemed
more unyielding. So, making the best of things, the river began to sing
about the dream.
"From its prison-house, it sang of the green fields and fragrant winds,
the blue violets that starred the meadow, the strange, singing harps of
the marsh grasses, and the wonder of the sea. A good fairy happened to
be passing, and she stopped to hear the song. She became so interested
that she wanted to see the singer, so she opened the door. The river
laughed and ran out, still singing, and carrying the door along. It
never stopped until it had taken every bit of the broken crystal far out
to sea."
"I made one, too, Father."
"What is it?"
[Sidenote: Song of the Flax]
"Mine is about the linen. Once there was a little seed put away into the
darkness and covered deep with earth. But there was a soul in the seed,
and after the darkness grew warm it began to climb up and up, until one
day it reached the sunshine. After that, it was so glad that it tossed
out tiny, green branches and finally its soul blossomed into a blue
flower. Then a princess passed, and her hair was flaxen and her eyes
were the colour of the flower.
"The flower said, 'Oh, pretty Princess, I want to go with you.'
"The princess answered, 'You would die, little Flower, if you were
picked,' and she went on.
"But one day the Reaper passed and the little blue flower and all its
fellows were gathered. After a terrible time of darkness and pain, the
flower found itself in a web of sheerest linen. There was much cutting
and more pain, and thousands of pricking stitches, then a beautiful gown
was made, all embroidered with the flax in palest blue and green. And it
was the wedding gown of the pretty princess, because her hair was flaxen
and her eyes the colour of the flower."
[Sidenote: Barbara]
"What colour is your hair, Barbara?" He had asked the question many
times.
"The colour of ripe corn, Daddy. Don't you remember my telling you?"
He leaned forward to stroke the shining braids. "And your eyes?"
"Like the larkspur that grows in the garden."
"I know--your dear mother's eyes." He touched her face gently as he
spoke. "Your skin is so smooth--is it fair?"
"Yes, Daddy."
"I think you must be beautiful; I have asked Miriam so often, but she
will not tell me. She only says you look well enough and something like
your mother. Are you beautiful?"
"Oh, Daddy! Daddy!" laughed Barbara, in confusion. "You mustn't ask such
questions! Didn't you say you had made two songs? What is the other
one?"
Miriam sat in the dining-room, out of sight but within hearing. Having
observed that in her presence they laughed less, she spent her evenings
alone unless they urged her to join them. She had a newspaper more than
a week old, but, as yet, she had not read it. She sat staring into the
shadows, with the light of her one candle flickering upon her face,
nervously moving her work-worn hands.
"The other song," reminded Barbara, gently.
[Sidenote: Song of the Sunset]
"This one was about a sunset," he sighed. "It was such a sunset as was
never on sea or land, because two who loved each other saw it together.
God and all His angels had hung a marvellous tapestry from the high
walls of Heaven, and it reached almost to the mountain-tops, where some
of the little clouds sleep.
"The man said, 'Shall we always look for the sunsets together?'
"The woman smiled and answered, 'Yes, always.'
"'And,' the man continued, 'when one of us goes on the last long
journey?'
"'Then,' answered the woman, 'the other will not be watching alone. For,
I think, there in the West is the Golden City with the jasper walls and
the jewelled foundations, where the twelve gates are twelve pearls.'"
There was a long silence. "And so--" said Barbara, softly.
Ambrose North lifted his grey head from his hands and rose to his feet
unsteadily. "And so," he said, with difficulty, "she leans from the
sunset toward him, but he can never see her, because he is blind. Oh,
Barbara," he cried, passionately, "last night I dreamed that you could
walk and I could see!"
"So we can, Daddy," said Barbara, very gently. "Our souls are neither
blind nor lame. Here, I am eyes for you and you are feet for me, so we
belong together. And--past the sunset----"
"Past the sunset," repeated the old man, dreamily, "soul and body shall
be as one. We must wait--for life is made up of waiting--and make what
songs we can."
"I think, Father, that a song should be in poetry, shouldn't it?"
[Sidenote: The Real Song]
"Some of them are, but more are not. Some are music and some are words,
and some, like prayers, are feeling. The real song is in the thrush's
heart, not in the silvery rain of sound that comes from the green boughs
in Spring. When you open the door of your heart and let all the joy rush
out, laughing--then you are making a song."
"But--is there always joy?"
"Yes, though sometimes it is sadly covered up with other things. We must
find it and divide it, for only in that way it grows. Good-night, my
dear."
He bent to kiss her, while Miriam, with her heart full of nameless
yearning, watched them from the far shadows. The sound of his footsteps
died away and a distant door closed. Soon afterward Miriam took her
candle and went noiselessly upstairs, but she did not say good-night to
Barbara.
[Sidenote: Midnight]
Until midnight, the girl sat at her sewing, taking the finest of
stitches in tuck and hem. The lamp burning low made her needle fly
swiftly. In her own room was an old chest nearly full of dainty garments
which she was never to wear. She had wrought miracles of embroidery upon
some of them, and others were unadorned save by tucks and lace.
When the work was finished, she folded it and laid it aside, then put
away her thimble and thread. "When the guests come to the hotel," she
thought--"ah, when they come, and buy all the things I've made the past
year, and the preserves and the candied orange peel, the rag rugs and
the quilts, then----"
[Sidenote: Dying Embers]
So Barbara fell a-dreaming, and the light of the dying embers lay
lovingly upon her face, already transfigured by tenderness into beauty
beyond words. The lamp went out and little by little the room faded into
twilight, then into night. It was quite dark when she leaned over and
picked up her crutches.
"Dear, dear father," she breathed. "He must never know!"
II
Miss Mattie
Miss Mattie was getting supper, sustained by the comforting thought that
her task was utterly beneath her and had been forced upon her by the
mysterious workings of an untoward Fate. She was not really "Miss,"
since she had been married and widowed, and a grown son was waiting
impatiently in the sitting-room for his evening meal, but her
neighbours, nearly all of whom had known her before her marriage, still
called her "Miss Mattie."
[Sidenote: "Old Maids"]
The arbitrary social distinctions, made regardless of personality, are
often cruelly ironical. Many a man, incapable by nature of life-long
devotion to one woman, becomes a husband in half an hour, duly
sanctioned by Church and State. A woman who remains unmarried, because,
with fine courage, she will have her true mate or none, is called "an
old maid." She may have the heart of a wife and the soul of a mother,
but she cannot escape her sinister label. The real "old maids" are of
both sexes, and many are married, but alas! seldom to each other.
[Sidenote: A Grievance]
In his introspective moments, Roger Austin sometimes wondered why
marriage, maternity, and bereavement should have left no trace upon his
mother. The uttermost depths of life had been hers for the sounding, but
Miss Mattie had refused to drop her plummet overboard and had spent the
years in prolonged study of her own particular boat.
She came in, with the irritating air of a martyr, and clucked sharply
with her false teeth when she saw that her son was reading.
"I don't know what I've done," she remarked, "that I should have to live
all the time with people who keep their noses in books. Your pa was
forever readin' and you're marked with it. I could set here and set here
and set here, and he took no more notice of me than if I was a piece of
furniture. When he died, the brethren and sistern used to come to
condole with me and say how I must miss him. There wasn't nothin' to
miss, 'cause the books and his chair was left. I've a good mind to burn
'em all up."
"I won't read if you don't want me to, Mother," answered Roger, laying
his book aside regretfully.
"I dunno but what I'd rather you would than to want to and not," she
retorted, somewhat obscurely. "What I'm a-sayin' is that it's in the
blood and you can't help it. If I'd known it was your pa's intention to
give himself up so exclusive to readin', I'd never have married him,
that's all I've got to say. There's no sense in it. Lemme see what
you're at now."
She took the open book, that lay face downward upon the table, and read
aloud, awkwardly:
"Leave to the diamond its ages to grow, nor expect to accelerate the
births of the eternal. Friendship demands a religious treatment. We talk
of choosing our friends, but friends are self-elected."
[Sidenote: Peculiar Way of Putting Things]
"Now," she demanded, in a shrill voice, "what does that mean?"
"I don't think I could explain it to you, Mother."
"That's just the point. Your pa couldn't never explain nothin', neither.
You're readin' and readin' and readin' and you never know what you're
readin' about. Diamonds growin' and births bein' hurried up, and friends
bein' religious and voted for at township elections. Who's runnin' for
friend this year on the Republican ticket?" she inquired, caustically.
Roger managed to force a laugh. "You have your own peculiar way of
putting things, Mother. Is supper ready? I'm as hungry as a bear."
"I suppose you are. When it ain't readin', it's eatin'. Work all day to
get a meal that don't last more'n fifteen minutes, and then see readin'
goin' on till long past bedtime, and oil goin' up every six months.
Which'll you have--fresh apple sauce, or canned raspberries?"
"It doesn't matter."
"Then I'll get the apple sauce, because the canned raspberries can lay
over as long as they're kept cool."
[Sidenote: Miss Mattie's Personal Appearance]
Miss Mattie shuffled back into the kitchen. During the Winter she wore
black knitted slippers attached to woollen inner soles which had no
heels. She was well past the half-century mark, but her face had few
lines in it and her grey eyes were sharp and penetrating. Her smooth,
pale brown hair, which did not show the grey in it, was parted precisely
in the middle. Every morning she brushed it violently with a stiff brush
dipped into cold water, and twisted the ends into a tight knot at the
back of her head. In militant moments, this knot seemed to rise and the
protruding ends of the wire hairpins to bristle into formidable weapons
of offence.
She habitually wore her steel-bowed spectacles half-way down her nose.
They might have fallen off had not a kindly Providence placed a large
wart where it would do the most good. On Sundays, when she put on shoes,
corsets, her best black silk, and her gold-bowed spectacles, she took
great pains to wear them properly. When she reached home, however, she
always took off her fine raiment and laid her spectacles aside with a
great sigh of relief. Miss Mattie's disposition improved rapidly as soon
as the old steel-bowed pair were in their rightful place, resting safely
upon the wart.
[Sidenote: Second-hand Things]
When they sat down to supper, she reverted to the original topic. "As
I was sayin'," she began, "there ain't no sense in the books you and
your pa has always set such store by. Where he ever got 'em, I dunno,
but they was always a comin'. Lots of 'em was well-nigh wore out when
he got 'em, and he wouldn't let me buy nothin' that had been used before,
even if I knew the folks.
"I got a silver coffin plate once at an auction over to the Ridge for
almost nothin' and your pa was as mad as a wet hen. There was a name on
it, but it could have been scraped off, and the rest of it was perfectly
good. When you need a coffin plate you need it awful bad. While your pa
was rampin' around, he said he wouldn't have been surprised to see me
comin' home with a second-hand coffin in the back of the buggy. Who ever
heard of a second-hand coffin? I've always thought his mind was
unsettled by so much readin'.
"I ain't a-sayin' but what some readin' is all right. Some folks has
just moved over to the Ridge and the postmaster's wife was a-showin' me
some papers they get, every week. One is _The Metropolitan Weekly_, and
the other _The Housewife's Companion_. I must say, the stories in those
papers is certainly beautiful.
"Once, when they come after their mail, they was as mad as anything
because the papers hadn't come, but the postmaster's wife was readin'
one of the stories and settin' up nights to do it, so she wa'n't to
blame for not lettin' 'em go until she got through with 'em. They slip
out of the covers just as easy, and nobody ever knows the difference.
[Sidenote: The Doctor's Darling]
"She was tellin' me about one of the stories. It's named _Lovely Lulu,
or the Doctor's Darling_. Lovely Lulu is a little orphant who has to do
most of the housework for a family of eight, and the way they abuse that
child is something awful. The young ladies are forever puttin' ruffled
white skirts into her wash, and makin' her darn the lace on their blue
silk mornin' dresses.
"There's a rich doctor that they're all after and one day little Lulu
happens to open the front-door for him, and he gets a good look at her
for the first time. As she goes upstairs, Arthur Montmorency--that's his
name--holds both hands to his heart and says, 'She and she only shall be
my bride.' The conclusion of this highly fascinatin' and absorbin'
romance will be found in the next number of _The Housewife's
Companion_."
"Mother," suggested Roger, "why don't you subscribe for the papers
yourself?"
Miss Mattie dropped her knife and fork and gazed at him in open-mouthed
astonishment. "Roger," she said, kindly, "I declare if sometimes you
don't remind me of my people more'n your pa's. I never thought of that
myself and I dunno how you come to. I'll do it the very first time I go
down to the store. The postmaster's wife can get the addresses without
tearin' off the covers, and after I get 'em read she can borrow mine,
and not be always makin' the people at the Ridge so mad that she's
runnin' the risk of losin' her job. If you ain't the beatenest!"
Basking in the unaccustomed warmth of his mother's approval, Roger
finished his supper in peace. Afterward, while she was clearing up, he
even dared to take up the much-criticised book and lose himself once
more in his father's beloved Emerson.
* * * * *
[Sidenote: Childish Memories]
All his childish memories of his father had been blurred into one by the
mists of the intervening years. As though it were yesterday, he could
see the library upstairs, which was still the same, and the grave,
silent, kindly man who sat dreaming over his books. When the child
entered, half afraid because the room was so quiet, the man had risen
and caught him in his arms with such hungry passion that he had almost
cried out.
"Oh, my son," came in the deep, rich voice, vibrant with tenderness; "my
dear little son!"
[Sidenote: The Priceless Legacy]
That was all, save a few old photographs and the priceless legacy of the
books. The library was not a large one, but it had been chosen by a man
of discriminating, yet catholic, taste. The books had been used and were
not, as so often happens, merely ornaments. Page after page had been
interlined and there was scarcely a volume which was not rich in
marginal notes, sometimes questioning in character, but indicating
always understanding and appreciation.
As soon as he learned to read, Roger began to spend his leisure hours in
this library. When he could not understand a book, he put it aside and
took up another. Always there were pictures and sometimes many of them,
for in his later years Laurence Austin had contracted the baneful habit
of extra-illustration. Never maternal, save in the limited physical
sense, Miss Mattie had been glad to have the child out of her way.
Day by day, the young mind grew and expanded in its own way. Year by
year, Roger came to an affectionate knowledge of his father, through
the medium of the marginal notes. He wondered, sometimes, that a pencil
mark should so long outlive the fine, strong body of the man who made
it. It seemed pitiful, in a way, and yet he knew that books and letters
are the things that endure, in a world of transition and decay.
The underlined passages and the marginal comments gave evidence of an
extraordinary love of beauty, in whatever shape or form. And yet--the
parlour, which was opened only on Sunday--was hideous with a gaudy
carpet, stuffed chairs, family portraits done in crayon and inflicted
upon the house by itinerant vendors of tea and coffee, and there was a
basket of wax flowers, protected by glass, on the marble-topped
"centre-table."
The pride of Miss Mattie's heart was a chair, which, with incredible
industry, she had made from an empty flour barrel. She had spoiled a
good barrel to make a bad chair, but her thrifty soul rejoiced in her
achievement. Roger never went near it, so Miss Mattie herself sat in it
on Sunday afternoons, nodding, and crooning hymns to herself.
[Sidenote: An Awful Chasm]
"How did father stand it?" thought Roger, intending no disrespect. He
loved his mother and appreciated her good qualities, but he saw the
awful chasm between those two souls, which no ceremony of marriage could
ever span.
[Sidenote: Roger Austin]
In appearance, Roger was like his father. He had the same clear, dark
skin, with regular features and kind, dark eyes, the same abundant, wavy
hair, strong, square chin, and incongruous, beauty-loving mouth. He had,
too, the lovable boyishness, which never quite leaves some fortunate
men. He was studying law in the judge's office, and hoped by another
year to be ready to take his examinations. After working hard all day,
he found refreshment for mind and body in an hour or so at night spent
with the treasures of his father's library.
"Let us buy our entrance to this guild with a long probation," read
Roger. "Why should we desecrate noble and beautiful souls by intruding
upon them? Why insist upon rash personal relations with your friend? Why
go to his house, and know his mother and brother and sisters? Why be
visited by him at your own? Are these things material to our covenant?
Leave this touching and clawing. Let him be to me----"
"I've spoke twice," complained Miss Mattie, "and you don't hear me no
more'n your pa did."
"I beg your pardon, Mother. I did not hear you come in. What is it?"
"I was just a-sayin' that maybe those papers would be too expensive.
Maybe I ought not to have 'em."
"I'm sure they're not, Mother. Anyhow, you get them, and we'll make it
up in some other way if we have to." Dimly, in the future, Roger saw
long, quiet evenings in which his disturbing influence should be
rendered null and void by the charms of _Lovely Lulu, or the Doctor's
Darling_.
[Sidenote: A Morning Call]
"Barbara North sent her pa over here this morning to ask for some book.
I disremember now what it was, but it was after you was gone."
Roger's expressive face changed instantly. "Why didn't you tell me
sooner, Mother?" He spoke with evident effort. "It's too late now for me
to go over there."
"There's no call for you to go over. They can send again. Miss Miriam
can come after it any time. They ain't got no business to let a blind
old man like Ambrose North run around by himself the way they do."
"He takes very good care of himself. He knew this place before he was
blind, and I don't think there is any danger."
"Just the same, he ought not to go around alone, and that's what I told
him this morning. 'A blind old man like you,' says I, 'ain't got no
business chasin' around alone. First thing you know, you'll fall down
and break a leg or arm or something.'"
Roger shrank as if from a physical hurt. "Mother!" he cried. "How can
you say such things!"
"Why not?" she queried, imperturbably. "He knows he's blind, I guess,
and he certainly can't think he's young, so what harm does it do to
speak of it? Anyway," she added, piously, "I always say just what I
think."
Roger got up, put his hands in his pockets, and paced back and forth
restlessly. "People who always say what they think, Mother," he
answered, not unkindly, "assume that their opinions are of great
importance to people who probably do not care for them at all. Unless
directly asked, it is better to say only the kind things and keep the
rest to ourselves."
"I was kind," objected Miss Mattie. "I was tellin' him he ought not to
take the risk of hurtin' himself by runnin' around alone. I don't know
what ails you, Roger. Every day you get more and more like your pa."
[Sidenote: Dangerous Rocks]
"How long had you and father known each other before you were married?"
asked Roger, steering quickly away from the dangerous rocks that will
loom up in the best-regulated of conversations.
"'Bout three months. Why?"
"Oh, I just wanted to know."
"I used to be a pretty girl, Roger, though you mightn't think it now."
Her voice was softened, and, taking off her spectacles, she gazed far
into space; seemingly to that distant girlhood when radiant youth lent
to the grey old world some of its own immortal joy.
"I don't doubt it," said Roger, politely.
"Your pa and me used to go to church together. He sang in the choir and
I had a white dress and a bonnet trimmed with lutestring ribbon. I can
smell the clover now and hear the bees hummin' when the windows was open
in Summer. A bee come in once while the minister was prayin' and lighted
on Deacon Emory's bald head. Seems a'most as if 't was yesterday.
[Sidenote: Great Notions]
"Your pa had great notions," she went on, after a pause. "Just before we
was married, he said he was goin' to educate me, but he never did."
III
The Tower of Cologne
Roger sat in Ambrose North's easy chair, watching Barbara while she
sewed. "I am sorry," he said, "that I wasn't at home when your father
came over after the book. Mother was unable to find it. I'm afraid I'm
not very orderly."
"It doesn't matter," returned Barbara, threading her needle again. "I
steal too much time from my work as it is."
Roger sighed and turned restlessly in his chair. "I wish I could come
over every day and read to you, but you know how it is. Days, I'm in the
office with the musty old law books, and in the evenings, your father
wants you and my mother wants me."
"I know, but father usually goes to bed by nine, and I'm sure your
mother doesn't sit up much later, for I usually see her light by that
time. I always work until eleven or half past, so why shouldn't you come
over then?"
[Sidenote: A Happy Thought]
"Happy thought!" exclaimed Roger. "Still, you might not always want me.
How shall I know?"
"I'll put a candle in the front window," suggested Barbara, "and if you
can come, all right. If not, I'll understand."
Both laughed delightedly at the idea, for they were young enough to find
a certain pleasure in clandestine ways and means. Miss Mattie had so far
determinedly set her face against her son's association with the young
of the other sex, and even Barbara, who had been born lame and had never
walked farther than her own garden, came under the ban.
Ambrose North, with the keen and unconscious selfishness of age,
begrudged others even an hour of Barbara's society. He felt a third
person always as an intruder, though he tried his best to appear
hospitable when anyone came. Miriam might sometimes have read to
Barbara, while he was out upon his long, lonely walks, but it had never
occurred to either of them.
[Sidenote: World-wide Fellowship]
Through Laurence Austin's library, as transported back and forth by
Roger, one volume at a time, Barbara had come into the world-wide
fellowship of those who love books. She was closely housed and
constantly at work, but her mind soared free. When the poverty and
ugliness of her surroundings oppressed her beauty-loving soul; when her
fingers ached and the stitches blurred into mist before her eyes, some
little brown book, much worn, had often given her the key to the House
of Content.
"Shall you always have to sew?" asked Roger. "Is there no way out?"
[Sidenote: Glad of Work]
"Not unless some fairy prince comes prancing up on a white charger,"
laughed Barbara, "and takes us all away with him to his palace. Don't
pity me," she went on, her lips quivering a little, "for every day I'm
glad I can do it and keep father from knowing we are poor.
"Besides, I'm of use in the world, and I wouldn't want to live if I
couldn't work. Aunt Miriam works, too. She does all the housework, takes
care of me when I can't help myself, does the mending, many things for
father, and makes the quilts, preserves, candied orange peel, and the
other little things we sell. People are so kind to us. Last Summer the
women at the hotel bought everything we had and left orders enough to
keep me busy until long after Christmas."
"Don't call people kind because they buy what they want."
"Don't be so cynical. You wouldn't have them buy things they didn't
want, would you?"
"Sometimes they do."
"Where?"
"Well, at church fairs, for instance. They spend more than they can
afford for things they do not want, in order to please people whom they
do not like and help heathen who are much happier than they are."
"I'm glad I'm not running a church fair," laughed Barbara. "And who told
you that heathen are happier than we are? Are you a heathen?"
"I don't know. Most of us are, I suppose, in one way or another. But how
nice it would be if we could paint ourselves instead of wearing clothes,
and go under a tree when it rained, and pick cocoanuts or bananas when
we were hungry. It would save so much trouble and expense."
"Paint is sticky," observed Barbara, "and the rain would come around the
tree when the wind was blowing from all ways at once, as it does
sometimes, and I do not like either cocoanuts or bananas. I'd rather
sew. What went wrong to-day?" she asked, with a whimsical smile.
"Everything?"
"Almost," admitted Roger. "How did you know?"
[Sidenote: Unfailing Barometer]
"Because you want to be a heathen instead of the foremost lawyer of your
time. Your ambition is an unfailing barometer."
He laughed lightly. This sort of banter was very pleasing to him after a
day with the law books and an hour or more with his mother. He had known
Barbara since they were children and their comradeship dated back to
the mud-pie days.
"I don't know but what you're right," he said. "Whether I go to Congress
or the Fiji Islands may depend, eventually, upon Judge Bascom's liver."
"Don't let it depend upon him," cautioned Barbara. "Make your own
destiny. It was Napoleon, wasn't it, who prided himself upon making his
own circumstances? What would you do--or be--if you could have your
choice?"
[Sidenote: Aspirations]
"The best lawyer in the State," he answered, promptly. "I'd never oppose
the innocent nor defend the guilty. And I'd have money enough to be
comfortable and to make those I love comfortable."
"Would you marry?" she asked, thoughtfully.
"Why--I suppose so. It would seem queer, though."
"Roger," she said, abruptly, "you were born a year and more before I
was, and yet you're fully ten or fifteen years younger."
"Don't take me back too far, Barbara, for I hate milk. Please don't
deprive me of my solid food. What would you do, if you could choose?"
"I'd write a book."
"What kind? Dictionary?"
"No, just a little book. The sort that people who love each other would
choose for a gift. Something that would be given to one who was going
on a long or difficult journey. The one book a woman would take with her
when she was tired and went away to rest. A book with laughter and tears
in it and so much fine courage that it would be given to those who are
in deep trouble. I'd soften the hard hearts, rest the weary ones, and
give the despairing ones new strength to go on. Just a little book, but
so brave and true and sweet and tender that it would bring the sun to
every shady place."
"Would you marry?"
[Sidenote: The Right Man]
"Of course, if the right man came. Otherwise not."
"I wonder," mused Roger, "how a person could know the right one?"
"Foolish child," she answered, "that's it--the knowing. When you don't
know, it isn't it."
"My dear Miss North," remarked Roger, "the heads of your argument are
somewhat involved, but I think I grasp your meaning. When you know it
is, then it is, but when you don't know that it is, then it isn't. Is
that right?"
"Exactly. Wonderfully intelligent for one so young."
Barbara's blue eyes danced merrily and her red lips parted in a mocking
smile. A long heavy braid of hair, "the colour of ripe corn," hung over
either shoulder and into her lap. She was almost twenty-two, but she
still clung to the childish fashion of dressing her hair, because the
heavy braids and the hairpins made her head ache. All her gowns were
white, either of wool or cotton, and were made to be washed. On Sundays,
she sometimes wore blue ribbons on her braids.
[Sidenote: Simply Barbara]
To Roger, she was very fair. He never thought of her crutches because
she had always been lame. She was simply Barbara, and Barbara needed
crutches. It had never occurred to him that she might in any way be
different, for he was not one of those restless souls who are forever
making people over to fit their own patterns.
"Why doesn't your father like to have me come here?" asked Roger,
irrelevantly.
"Why doesn't your mother like to have you come?" queried Barbara,
quickly on the defensive.
"No, but tell me. Please!"
"Father always goes to bed early."
"But not at eight o'clock. It was a quarter of eight when I came, and by
eight he was gone."
"It isn't you, Roger," she said, unwillingly; "it's anyone. I'm all he
has, and if I talk much to other people he feels as if I were being
taken away from him--that's all. It's natural, I suppose. You mustn't
mind him."
"But I wouldn't hurt him," returned Roger, softly; "you know that."
"I know."
"I wish you could make him understand that I come to see every one of
you."
[Sidenote: Hard Work]
"It's the hardest work in the world," sighed Barbara, "to make people
understand things."
"Somebody said once that all the wars had been caused by one set of
people trying to force their opinions upon another set, who did not
desire to have their minds changed."
"Very true. I wonder, sometimes, if we have done right with father."
"I'm sure you have," said Roger, gently. "You couldn't do anything wrong
if you tried."
"We haven't meant to," she answered, her sweet face growing grave. "Of
course it was all begun long before I was old enough to understand. He
thinks the city house, which we lost so long ago that I cannot even
remember our having it, was sold for so high a price that it would have
been foolish not to sell it, and that we live here because we prefer the
country. Just think, Roger, before I was born, this was father's and
mother's Summer home, and now it's all we have."
"It's a roof and four walls--that's all any house is, without the spirit
that makes it home."
"He thinks it's beautifully furnished. Of course we have the old
mahogany and some of the pictures, but we've had to sell nearly
everything. I've used some of mother's real laces in the sewing and sold
practically all the rest. Whatever anyone would buy has been disposed
of. Even the broken furniture in the attic has gone to people who had a
fancy for 'antiques.'"
"You have made him very happy, Barbara."
"I know, but is it right?"
"I'm not orthodox, my dear girl, but, speaking as a lawyer, if it harms
no one and makes a blind old man happy, it can't be wrong."
"I hope you're right, but sometimes my conscience bothers me."
[Sidenote: A Saint's Conscience]
"Imagine a saint's conscience being troublesome."
"Don't laugh at me--you know I'm not a saint."
"How should I know?"
"Ask Aunt Miriam. She has no illusions about me."
"Thanks, but I don't know her well enough. We haven't been on good terms
since she drove me out of the melon patch--do you remember?"
"Yes, I remember. We wanted the blossoms, didn't we, to make golden
bells in the Tower of Cologne?"
"I believe so. We never got the Tower finished, did we?"
"No. I wasn't allowed to play with you for a long time, because you were
such a bad boy."
"Next Summer, I think we should rebuild it. Let's renew our youth
sometime by making the Tower of Cologne in your back yard."
"There are no golden bells."
"I'll get some from somewhere. We owe it to ourselves to do it."
Barbara's blue eyes were sparkling now, and her sweet lips smiled. "When
it's done?" she asked.
[Sidenote: Like Fairy Tales]
"We'll move into it and be happy ever afterward, like the people in the
fairy tales."
"I said a little while ago that you were fifteen years younger than I am,
but, upon my word, I believe it's nearer twenty."
"That makes me an enticing infant of three or four, flourishing like the
green bay tree on a diet of bread and milk with an occasional
soft-boiled egg. I should have been in bed by six o'clock, and now
it's--gracious, Barbara, it's after eleven. What do you mean by keeping
the young up so late?"
As he spoke, he hurriedly found his hat, and, reaching into the pocket
of his overcoat, drew out a book. "That's the one you wanted, isn't it?"
"Yes, thank you."
"I didn't give it to you before because I wanted to talk, but we'll
read, sometimes, when we can. Don't forget to put the light in the
window when it's all right for me to come. If I don't, you'll
understand. And please don't work so hard."
Barbara smiled. "I have to earn a living for three healthy people," she
said, "and everybody is trying, by moral suasion, to prevent me from
doing it. Do you want us all piled up in the front yard in a nice little
heap of bones before the Tower of Cologne is rebuilt?"
Roger took both her hands and attempted to speak, but his face suddenly
crimsoned, and he floundered out into the darkness like an awkward
school-boy instead of a self-possessed young man of almost twenty-four.
It had occurred to him that it might be very nice to kiss Barbara.
[Sidenote: Back to Childhood]
But Barbara, magically taken back to childhood, did not notice his
confusion. The Tower of Cologne had been a fancy of hers ever since she
could remember, though it had been temporarily eclipsed by the hard work
which circumstances had thrust upon her. As she grew from childhood to
womanhood, it had changed very little--the dream, always, was
practically the same.
[Sidenote: A Day Dream]
The Tower itself was made of cologne bottles neatly piled together, and
the brightly-tinted labels gave it a bizarre but beautiful effect. It
was square in shape and very high, with a splendid cupola of clear
glass arches--the labels probably would not show, up so high. It stood
in an enchanted land with the sea behind it--nobody had ever thought of
taking Barbara down to the sea, though it was so near. The sea was
always blue, of course, like the sky, or the larkspur--she was never
quite sure of the colour.
The air all around the Tower smelled sweet, just like cologne. There was
a flight of steps, also made of cologne bottles, but they did not break
when you walked on them, and the door was always ajar. Inside was a
great, winding staircase which led to the cupola. You could climb and
climb and climb, and when you were tired, you could stop to rest in any
of the rooms that were on the different floors.
Strangely enough, in the Tower of Cologne, Barbara was never lame. She
always left her crutches leaning up against the steps outside. She could
walk and run like anyone else and never even think of crutches. There
were many charming people in the Tower and none of them ever said,
pityingly, "It's too bad you're lame."
All the dear people of the books lived in the Tower of Cologne, besides
many more, whom Barbara did not know. Maggie Tulliver, Little Nell,
Dora, Agnes, Mr. Pickwick, King Arthur, the Lady of Shalott, and
unnumbered others dwelt happily there. They all knew Barbara and were
always glad to see her.
Wonderful tapestries were hung along the stairs, there were beautiful
pictures in every room, and whatever you wanted to eat was instantly
placed before you. Each room smelled of a different kind of cologne and
no two rooms were furnished alike. Her friends in the Tower were of all
ages and of many different stations in life, but there was one whose
face she had never seen. He was always just as old as Barbara, and was
closer to her than the rest.
[Sidenote: The Boy]
When she lost herself in the queer winding passages, the Boy, whose face
she was unable to picture, was always at her side to show her the way
out. They both wanted to get up into the cupola and ring all the golden
bells at once, but there seemed to be some law against it, for when they
were almost there, something always happened. Either the Tower itself
vanished beyond recall, or Aunt Miriam called her, or an imperative
voice summoned the Boy downstairs--and Barbara would not think of going
to the cupola without him.