about the Tower and got him interested in it, too--all but the Boy whose
face she was unable to see and whose name she did not know. In the
Tower, she addressed him simply as "Boy." Barbara kept him to herself
for some occult reason. Roger liked the Tower very much, but thought the
construction might possibly be improved. Barbara never allowed him to
make any changes. He could build another Tower for himself, if he chose,
and have it just as he wanted it, but this was her very own.
It all seemed as if it were yesterday. "And," mused Barbara, "it was
almost sixteen years ago, when I was six and Roger 'seven-going-on-eight,'
as he always said." The dear Tower still stoodin her memory, but far off
and veiled, like a mirage seen in the clouds. The Boy who helped her over
the difficult places was a grown man now, tall and straight and strong,
but she could not see his face.
"It's queer," thought Barbara, as she put out the light. "I wonder if
I ever shall."
[Sidenote: An Enchanted Land]
That night she dreamed of the Tower of Cologne, in the old, enchanted
land, where a blue sky bent down to meet a bluer sea. She and the Boy
were in the cupola, making music with the golden bells. Their laughter
chimed in with the sweet sound of the ringing, but still, she could not
see his face.
IV
The Seventh of June
Barbara sat by the old chest which held her completed work, frowning
prettily over a note-book in her lap. She was very methodical, and, in
some inscrutable way, things had become mixed. She kept track of every
yard of lace and linen and every spool of thread, for, it was evident,
she must know the exact cost of the material and the amount of time
spent on a garment before it could be accurately priced.
[Sidenote: Finishing Touches]
Aunt Miriam had carefully pressed the lingerie after it was made and
laid it away in the chest with lavender to keep it from turning yellow.
There remained only the last finishing touches. Aunt Miriam could have
put in the ribbons as well as she could, but Barbara chose to do it
herself.
[Sidenote: Ways and Means]
Three prices were put on each tag in Barbara's private cipher,
understood only by Aunt Miriam. The highest was the one hoped for, the
next the probable one, and the lowest one was to be taken only at the
end of the season.
Already four or five early arrivals were reported at the hotel. By the
end of next week, it would be proper for Aunt Miriam to go down with a
few of the garments packed in a box with tissue paper, and see what she
could do. Barbara had used nearly all of her material and had sent for
more, but, in the meantime, she was using the scraps for handkerchiefs,
pin-cushion covers, and heart-shaped corsage pads, delicately scented
and trimmed with lace and ribbon.
Once, Aunt Miriam had gone to the city for material and patterns, and
had priced hand-made lingerie in the shops. When she came back with an
itemised report, Barbara had clapped her hands in glee, for she saw the
wealth of Croesus looming up ahead. She had soon learned, however,
that she must keep far below the city prices if she would tempt the
horde of Summer visitors who came, yearly, to the hotel. At times, she
thought that Aunt Miriam must have been dreadfully mistaken.
Barbara put down the highest price of every separate article in the
small, neat hand that Aunt Miriam had taught her to write--for she had
never been to school. If she should sell everything, why, there would be
more than a year of comfort for them all, and new clothes for father,
who was beginning to look shabby.
"But they won't," Barbara said to herself, sadly. "I can't expect them
to buy it all when I'm asking so much."
Down in the living-room, Ambrose North was inquiring restlessly for
Barbara. "Yes," he said, somewhat impatiently, "I know she's upstairs,
for you've told me so twice. What I want to know is, why doesn't she
come down?"
"She's busy at something, probably," returned Miriam, with forced
carelessness, "but I think she'll soon be through."
"Barbara is always busy," he answered, with a sigh. "I can't understand
it. Anyone might think she had to work for a living. By the way, Miriam,
do you need more money?"
"We still have some," she replied, in a low voice.
"How much?" he demanded.
"Less than a hundred dollars." She did not dare to say how much less.
"That is not enough. If you will get my check-book, I will write another
check."
[Sidenote: The Old Check-Book]
Miriam's face was grimly set and her eyes burned strangely beneath her
dark brows. She went to the mahogany desk and took an old check-book out
of the drawer.
"Now," he said, as she gave him the pen and ink, "please show me the
line. 'Pay to the order of'----"
She guided his hand with her own, trying to keep her cold fingers from
trembling. "Miriam Leonard," he spelled out, in uneven characters,
"Five--hundred--dollars. Signed--Ambrose--North. There. When you have no
money, I wish you would speak of it. I am fully able to provide for my
family, and I want to do it."
"Thank you." Miriam's voice was almost inaudible as she took the check.
"The date," he said; "I forgot to date it. What day of the month is it?"
She moistened her parched lips, but did not speak. This was what she had
been dreading.
"The date, Miriam," he called. "Will you please tell me what day of the
month it is?"
"The seventh," she answered, with difficulty.
"The seventh? The seventh of June?"
"Yes."
There was a long pause. "Twenty-one years," he said, in a shrill
whisper. "Twenty-one years ago to-day."
[Sidenote: A Dreadful Anniversary]
Miriam sat down quietly on the other side of the room. Her eyes were
glittering and she was moving her hands nervously. This dreadful
anniversary had, for her, its own particular significance. Upstairs,
Barbara, light-hearted and hopeful, was singing to herself while she
pinned on the last of the price tags and built her air-castle. The song
came down lightly, yet discordantly. It was as though a waltz should be
played at an open grave.
"Miriam," cried Ambrose North, passionately, "why did she kill herself?
In God's name, tell me why!"
"I do not know," murmured Miriam. He had asked her more than fifty
times, and she always gave the same answer.
"But you must know--someone must know! A woman does not die by her own
hand without having a reason! She was well and strong, loved, taken care
of and petted, she had all that the world could give her, and hosts of
friends. I was blind and Barbara was lame, but she loved us none the
less. If I only knew why!" he cried, miserably; "Oh, if I only knew
why!"
Miriam, unable to bear more, went out of the room. She pressed her cold
hands to her throbbing temples. "I shall go mad," she muttered. "How
long, O Lord, how long!"
[Sidenote: Constance North]
Twenty-one years ago to-day, Constance North had, intentionally, taken
an overdose of laudanum. She had left a note to her husband begging him
to forgive her, and thanking him for all his kindness to her during the
three years they had lived together. She had also written a note to
Miriam, asking her to look after the blind man and to be a mother to
Barbara. Enclosed were two other letters, sealed with wax. One was
addressed "To My Daughter, Barbara. To be opened on her twenty-second
birthday." Miriam had both the letters safely put away. It was not time
for Barbara to have hers and she had never delivered the other to the
person to whom it was addressed--so often does the arrogant power of the
living deny the holiest wishes of the dead.
The whole scene came vividly back to Miriam--the late afternoon sun
streaming in glory from the far hills into Constance North's dainty
sitting-room, upstairs; the golden-haired woman, in the full splendour
of her youth and beauty, lying upon the couch asleep, with a smile of
heavenly peace upon her lips; the blind man's hands straying over her as
she lay there, with his tears falling upon her face, and blue-eyed
Barbara, cooing and laughing in her own little bed in the next room.
[Sidenote: Years of Torture]
Miriam had found the notes on the dressing-table, and had lied. She had
said there were but two when, in reality, there were four. Two had been
read and destroyed; the other two, with unbroken seals, were waiting to
be read. She was keeping the one for Barbara; the other had tortured her
through all of the twenty years.
The time had passed when she could have delivered it, for the man to
whom it was addressed was dead. But he had survived Constance by nearly
five years, and, at any time during those five years, Miriam might have
given it to him, unseen and safely. She justified herself by dwelling
upon her care of Barbara and the blind man, and the fact that she would
give Barbara her letter upon the appointed day. Sternly she said to
herself: "I will fulfil one trust. I will keep faith with Constance in
this one way, bitterly though she has wronged me."
[Sidenote: Haunting Dreams]
Yet the fulfilment of one trust seemed not to be enough, for her sleep
was haunted by the pleading eyes of Constance, asking mutely for some
boon. Until the man died, Constance had come often, with her hands
outstretched, craving that which was so little and yet so much. After
his death, Constance still continued to come, but less often and
reproachfully; she seemed to ask for nothing now.
Miriam had grown old, but Constance, though sad, was always young. One
of Death's surpassing gifts is eternal youth to those whom he claims too
soon. In her old husband's grieving heart, Constance had assumed
immortal beauty as well as immortal youth. She was now no older than
Barbara, who still sang heedlessly upstairs.
Every night of the twenty-one years, Miriam had closed her eyes in
dread. When she dreamed it was always of Constance--Constance laughing
or singing, Constance bringing "the light that never was on sea or land"
to the fine, grave face of Ambrose North; Constance hugging little lame
Barbara to her breast with passionate, infinitely pitying love. And,
above all, Constance in her grave-clothes, dumb, reproachful, her sad
eyes fixed on Miriam in pleading that was almost prayer.
"Miriam! Oh, Miriam!" The blind man in the next room was calling her.
Fearfully, she went back.
"Sit down," said Ambrose North. "Sit down near me, where I can touch
your hand. How cold your fingers are! I want to thank you for all you
have done for us--for my little girl and for me. You have been so
faithful, so watchful, so obedient to her every wish."
Miriam shrank from him, for the kindly words stung like a lash on flesh
already quivering.
[Sidenote: Miriam and Ambrose]
"We have always been such good friends," he said, reminiscently. "Do you
remember how much we were together all that year, until Constance came
home from school?"
"I have not forgotten," said Miriam, in a choking whisper. A surge of
passionate hate swept over her even now, against the dead woman whose
pretty face had swerved Ambrose North from his old allegiance.
"And I shall not forget," he answered, kindly. "I am on the westward
slope, Miriam, and have been, for a long time. But a few more years--or
months--or days--as God wills, and I shall join her again, past the
sunset, where she waits for me.
"I have made things right for you and Barbara. Roger Austin has my
will, dividing everything I have between you. I should like your share
to go to Barbara, eventually, if you can see your way clear to do it."
"Don't!" cried Miriam, sharply. The strain was insupportable.
"I do not wish to pain you, Sister," answered the old man, with gentle
dignity, "but sometimes it is necessary that these things be said. I
shall not speak of it again. Will you give me back the check, please,
and show me where to date it? I shall date it to-morrow--I cannot bear
to write down this day."
* * * * *
When Barbara came down, her father was sitting at the old square piano,
quite alone, improvising music that was both beautiful and sad. He
seldom touched the instrument, but, when he did, wayfarers in the street
paused to listen.
"Are you making a song, Father?" she asked, softly, when the last deep
chord died away.
[Sidenote: Too Sad for Songs]
"No," he sighed; "I cannot make songs to-day."
"There is always a song, Daddy," she reminded him. "You told me so
yourself."
"Yes, I know, but not to-day. Do you know what to-day is, my dear?"
"The seventh--the seventh of June."
"Twenty-one years ago to-day," he said, with an effort, "your dear
mother took her own life." The last words were almost inaudible.
Barbara went to him and put her soft arms around his neck. "Daddy!" she
whispered, with infinite sympathy, "Daddy!"
He patted her arm gently, unable to speak. She said no more, but the
voice and the touch brought healing to his pain. Bone of her bone and
flesh of her flesh, the daughter of the dead Constance was thrilled
unspeakably with a tenderness that the other had never given him.
"Sit down, my dear," said Ambrose North, slowly releasing her. "I want
to talk to you--of her. Did I hear Aunt Miriam go out?"
"Yes, just a few minutes ago."
"You are almost twenty-two, are you not, Barbara?"
"Yes, Daddy."
"Then you are a woman grown. Your dear mother was twenty-two, when--" He
choked on the words.
"When she died," whispered Barbara, her eyes luminous with tears.
[Sidenote: A Torturing Doubt]
[Sidenote: A Change]
"Yes, when she--died. I have never known why, Barbara, unless it was
because I was blind and you were lame. But all these years there has
been a torturing doubt in my heart. Before you were born, and after my
blindness, I fancied that a change came over her. She was still tender
and loving, but it was not quite in the same way. Sometimes I felt that
she had ceased to love me. Do you think my blindness could--?"
"Never, Father, never." Barbara's voice rang out strong and clear. "That
would only have made her love you more."
"Thank you, my dear. Someway it comforts me to have you say it. But,
after you came, I felt the change even more keenly. You have read in the
books, doubtless, many times, that a child unites those who bring it
into the world, but I have seen, quite as often, that it divides them by
a gulf that is never bridged again."
"Daddy!" cried Barbara, in pain. "Didn't you want me?"
"Want you?" he repeated, in a tone that made the words a caress. "I
wanted you always, and every day I want you more. I am only trying to
say that her love seemed to lessen, instead of growing, as time went on.
If I could know that she died loving me, I would not ask why. If I could
know that she died loving me--if I were sure she loved me still--"
"She did, Daddy--I know she did."
"If I might only be so sure! But the ways of the Everlasting are not our
ways, and life is made up of waiting."
Insensibly relieved by speech, his pain gradually merged into quiet
acceptance, if not resignation. "Shall you marry some day, Barbara?" he
asked, at last.
"If the right man comes--otherwise not."
"Much is written of it in the books, and I know you read a great deal,
but some things in the books are not true, and many things that are true
are not written. They say that a man of fifty should not marry a girl of
twenty and expect to be happy. Miriam was fifteen years older than
Constance and at first I thought of her, but when your mother came from
school, with her blue eyes and golden hair and her pretty, laughing
ways, there was but one face in all the world for me.
"We were so happy, Barbara! The first year seemed less than a month, it
passed so quickly. The books will tell you that the first joy dies.
Perhaps it does, but I do not know, because our marriage lasted only
three years. It may be that, after many years, the heart does not beat
faster at the sound of the beloved's step; that the touch of the loving
hand brings no answering clasp.
[Sidenote: Gift of Marriage]
"But the divinest gift of marriage is this--the daily, unconscious
growing of two souls into one. Aspirations and ambitions merge, each
with the other, and love grows fast to love. Unselfishness answers to
unselfishness, tenderness responds to tenderness, and the highest joy of
each is the well-being of the other. The words of Church and State are
only the seal of a predestined compact. Day by day and year by year the
bond becomes closer and dearer, until at last the two are one, and even
death is no division.
[Sidenote: If----]
"A grave has lain between us for more than twenty years, but I am still
her husband--there has been no change. And, if she died loving me, she
is still mine. If she died loving me--if--she--died--loving me----"
His voice broke at the end, and he went out, murmuring the words to
himself. Barbara watched him from the window as he opened the gate. Her
face was wet with tears.
Flaming banners of sunset streamed from the hills beyond him, but his
soul could see no Golden City to-night. He went up the road that led to
another hillside, where, in the long, dreamy shadows, the dwellers in
God's acre lay at peace. Barbara guessed where he was going and her
heart ached for him--kneeling in prayer and vigil beside a sunken grave,
to ask of earth a question to which the answer was lost, in heaven--or
in hell.
V
Eloise
[Sidenote: A Summer Hotel]
The hotel was a long, low, rambling structure, with creaky floors and
old-fashioned furniture. But the wide verandas commanded a glorious view
of the sea, no canned vegetables were served at the table, and there was
no orchestra. Naturally, it was crowded from June to October with people
who earnestly desired quiet and were willing to go far to get it.
The inevitable row of rocking-chairs swayed back and forth on the
seaward side. Most of them were empty, save, perhaps, for the ghosts of
long-dead gossips who had sat and rocked and talked and rocked from one
meal to the next. The paint on the veranda was worn in a long series of
parallel lines, slightly curved, but nobody cared.
No phonograph broke upon the evening stillness with an ear-splitting
din, no unholy piccolo sounded above the other tortured instruments, no
violin wailed pitifully at its inhuman treatment, and the piano was
locked.
At seasonable hours the key might be had at the office by those who
could prove themselves worthy of the trust, but otherwise quiet reigned.
[Sidenote: Eloise Wynne]
Miss Eloise Wynne came downstairs, with a book under her arm. She was
fresh as the morning itself and as full of exuberant vitality. She was
tall and straight and strong; her copper-coloured hair shone as though
it had been burnished, and her tanned cheeks had a tint of rose. When
she entered the dining-room, with a cheery "good-morning" that included
everybody, she produced precisely the effect of a cool breeze from the
sea.
She was thirty, and cheerfully admitted it on occasion. "If I don't look
it," she said, smiling, "people will be surprised, and if I do, there
would be no use in denying it. Anyhow, I'm old enough to go about
alone." It was her wont to settle herself for Summer or Winter in any
place she chose, with no chaperon in sight.
For a week she had been at Riverdale-by-the-Sea, and liked it on account
of the lack of entertainment. People who lived there called it simply
"Riverdale," but the manager of the hotel, perhaps to atone for the
missing orchestra and canned vegetables, added "by-the-Sea" to the name
in his modest advertisements.
Miss Wynne, fortunately, had enough money to enable her to live the
much-talked-of "simple life," which is wildly impossible to the poor.
As it was not necessary for her to concern herself with the sordid and
material, she could occupy herself with the finer things of the soul.
Just now, however, she was deeply interested in the material foundation
of the finest thing in the world--a home.
[Sidenote: A Passion for Lists]
She had taken the bizarre paper slip which protected the even more
striking cover of a recent popular novel, and adjusted it to a bulky
volume of very different character. In her chatelaine bag she had a
pencil and a note-book, for Miss Eloise was sorely afflicted with the
note-book habit, and had a passion for reducing everything to lists. She
had lists of things she wanted and lists of things she didn't want,
which circumstances or well-meaning Santa Clauses had forced upon her;
little books of addresses and telephone numbers, jewels and other
personal belongings, and, finally, a catalogue of her library
alphabetically arranged by author and title.
Immediately after breakfast, she went off with a long, swinging stride
which filled her small audience with envy and admiration. Disjointed
remarks, such as "skirt a little too short, but good tailor," and
"terrible amount of energy," and "wonder where she's going," followed
her. These comments were audible, had she been listening, but she had
the gift of keeping solitude in a crowd.
Far along the beach she went, hatless, her blood singing with the joy of
life. A June morning, the sea, youth, and the consciousness of being
loved--for what more could one ask? The diamond on the third finger of
her left hand sparkled wonderfully in the sunlight. It was the only ring
she wore.
[Sidenote: The Cook Book]
Presently, she found a warm, soft place behind a sand dune. She reared
upon the dune a dark green parasol with a white border, and patted sand
around the curved handle until it was, as she thought, firmly placed.
Then she settled her skirts comfortably and opened her book, for the
first time.
"It looks bad," she mused. "Wonder what a carbohydrate is. And
proteids--where do you buy 'em? Albuminoids--I've been from Maine to
Florida and have never seen any. They must be germs.
"However," she continued, to herself, "I have a trained mind, and
'keeping everlastingly at it brings success.' It would be strange if
three hours of hard study every day, on the book the man in the store
said was the best ever, didn't produce some sort of definite result.
But, oh, how Allan would laugh at me!"
The book fell on the sand, unheeded. The brown eyes looked out past the
blue surges to some far Castle in Spain. Her thoughts refused to phrase
themselves in words, but her pulses leaped with the old, immortal joy.
The sun had risen high in the shining East before she returned to her
book.
"This isn't work," she sighed to herself; "away with the dreams."
Before long, she got out her note-book. "A fresh fish," she wrote, "does
not smell fishy and its eyes are bright and its gills red. A tender
chicken or turkey has a springy breast bone. If you push it down with
your finger, it springs back. A leg of lamb has to have the tough, outer
parchment-like skin taken off with a sharp knife. Some of the oil of the
wool is in it and makes it taste muttony and bad. A lobster should
always be bought when he is alive and green and boiled at home. Then you
know he is fresh. Save everything for soup."
[Sidenote: The Air of Knowing]
"I will go out into the kitchen," mused Eloise, "and I will have the air
of knowing all about everything. I will say: 'Mary Ann, I have ordered a
lobster for you to boil. We will have a salad for lunch. And I trust you
have saved everything that was left last night for to-night's soup.'
Mary Ann will be afraid of me, and Allan will be _so_ proud."
"'I thought I told you,' continued Eloise, to herself, 'to save all the
crumbs. Doctor Conrad does not like to have everything salt and he
prefers to make the salad dressing himself. Do not cook any cereal the
mornings we have oranges or grape-fruit--the starch and acid are likely
to make a disturbance inside. Four people are coming to dinner this
evening. I have ordered some pink roses and we will use the pink
candle-shades. Or, wait--I had forgotten that my hair is red. Use the
green candle-shades and I will change the roses to white.'"
[Sidenote: A Frolicsome Wind]
A frolicsome little wind, which had long been ruffling the waves of
Eloise's copper-coloured hair, took the note-book out of her lap and
laid it open on the sand some little distance away. Then, after making
merry with the green parasol, it lifted it bodily by its roots out of
the sand dune and went gaily down the beach with it.