death, darkened the souls of two who walked together in the dusty road
that led from the hills to the sea. The old man leaned heavily upon the
arm of the younger, and his footsteps faltered. The young man's face was
white and he saw dimly, as through a mist, but he tried to keep his
voice even.
From the open windows of the little grey house came the deadly sweet
smell of anæsthetics, heavy with prescience and pain. It dominated,
instantly, all the blended Summer fragrances and brought terror to them
both.
"I cannot bear it," said Ambrose North, miserably. "I cannot bear to
have my baby hurt."
"She isn't being hurt now," answered Roger, with dry lips. "She's
asleep."
"It may be the sleep that knows no waking. If you loved Barbara, you
would understand."
The boy's senses, exquisitely alive and quivering, merged suddenly into
one unspeakable hurt. If he loved Barbara! Ah, did he not love her? What
of last night, when he walked up and down in that selfsame road until
dawn, alone with the wonder and fear and joy of it, and unutterably
dreading the to-morrow that had so swiftly become to-day.
"I was a fool," muttered Ambrose North. "I was a fool to give my
consent."
"It was her choice," the boy reminded him, "and when she walks----"
"When she walks, it may be in the City Not Made With Hands. If I had
said 'no,' we should not be out here now, while she--" The tears
streamed over his wrinkled cheeks and his bowed shoulders shook.
[Sidenote: All for the Best]
"Don't," pleaded Roger. "It's all for the best--it must be all for the
best."
Neither of them saw Eloise approaching as she came up the road from the
hotel. She was in white, as usual, bareheaded, and she carried a white
linen parasol. She went to them, calling out brightly, "Good morning!"
"Who is it?" asked the old man.
"It must be Miss Wynne, I think."
"What is it?" inquired Eloise, when she joined them. "What is the
matter?"
The blind man could not speak, but he pointed toward the house with a
shaking hand.
"It's Barbara, you know," said Roger. "They're in there--cutting her."
The last words were almost a whisper.
[Sidenote: Allan is There]
"But you mustn't worry," cried Eloise. "Nothing can go wrong. Why, Allan
is there."
Insensibly her confidence in Allan and the clear ring of her voice
relieved the unbearable tension. Surely, Barbara could not die if Allan
were there.
"It's hard, I know," Eloise went on, in her cool, even tones, "but there
is no doubt about the ending. Allan is one of the few really great
surgeons--he has done wonderful things. He has done things that everyone
else said were impossible. Barbara will walk and be as straight and
strong as any of us. Think what it will mean to her after twenty years
of helplessness. How fine it will be to see her without the crutches."
"I have never minded the crutches," said Roger. "I do not want her
changed."
"I cannot see her," sighed Ambrose North. "I have never seen my baby."
"But you're going to," Eloise assured him, "for Allan says so, and
whatever Allan says is true."
At length, she managed to lead them farther away, though not out of
sight of the house, and they all sat down on the grass. She talked
continually and cheerfully, but the atmosphere was tense with waiting.
Ambrose North bowed his grey head in his hands, and Roger, still pale,
did not once take his eyes from the door of the little grey house.
After what seemed an eternity, someone came out. It was one of Allan's
assistants. A nurse followed, and put a black bag into the buggy which
was waiting outside. Roger was on his feet instantly, watching.
"Sit down," commanded Eloise, coolly. "Allan can see us from here, and
he will come and tell us."
Ambrose North lifted his grey head. "Have they--finished--with her?"
"I don't know," returned Eloise. "Be patient just a little longer,
please do."
[Sidenote: All Right]
Outwardly she was calm, but, none the less, a great sob of relief almost
choked her when Doctor Conrad came across the road to them, swinging his
black bag, and called out, in a voice high with hope, "All right!"
* * * * *
The sky was a wonderful blue, but the colour of the sea was deeper
still. The vast reaches of sand were as white as the blown snow, and
the Tower of Cologne had never been so fair as it was to-day. The sun
shone brightly on the clear glass arches that made the cupola, and the
golden bells swayed back and forth silently.
[Sidenote: The Changed Tower]
Barbara was trying to climb up to the cupola, but her feet were weary
and she paused often to rest. The rooms that opened off from the various
landings of the winding stairway were lovelier than ever. The
furnishings had been changed since she was last there, and each room was
made to represent a different flower.
There was a rose room, all in pink and green, a pond-lily room in green
and white, a violet room in green and lavender, and a gorgeous suite of
rooms which someway seemed like a great bouquet of nasturtiums. But,
strangely, there was no fragrance of cologne in the Tower. The bottles
were all on the mantels, as usual, but Barbara could not open any of
them. Instead, there was a heavy, sweet, sickening smell from which she
could not escape, though she went continually from room to room. It
followed her like some evil thing that threatened to overpower her.
The Boy who had always been beside her, and whose face she could not
see, was still in the Tower, but he was far away, with his back toward
her. He seemed to be suffering and Barbara tried to get to him to
comfort him, but some unforeseen obstacle inevitably loomed up in her
path.
[Sidenote: People in the Tower]
There were many people in the Tower, and most of them were old friends,
but there were some new faces. Her father was there, of course, and all
the brave knights and lovely ladies of whom she had read in her books.
Miss Wynne was there and she had never been in the Tower before, but
Barbara smiled at her and was glad, though she wished they might have
had cologne instead of the sickening smell which grew more deadly every
minute.
A grave, silent young man whose demeanour was oddly at variance with his
red hair was there also. He had just come and it seemed that he was a
doctor. Barbara had heard his name but could not remember it. There were
also two young women in blue and white striped uniforms which were very
neat and becoming. They wore white caps and smiled at Barbara. She had
heard their names, too, but she had forgotten.
None of them seemed to mind the heavy odour which oppressed her so. She
opened the windows in the Tower and the cool air came in from the blue
sea, but it changed nothing.
"Come, Boy," she called across the intervening mist. "Let's go up to the
cupola and ring all the golden bells."
He did not seem to hear, so she called again, and again, but there was
no response. It was the first time he had failed to answer her, and it
made her angry.
"Then," cried Barbara, shrilly, "if you don't want to come, you needn't,
so there. But I'm going. Do you hear? I'm going. I'm going up to ring
those bells if I have to go alone."
Still, the Boy did not answer, and Barbara, her heart warm with
resentment, began to climb the winding stairs. She did not hurry, for
pictures of castles, towers, and beautiful ladies were woven in the
tapestry that lined the walls.
She came, at last, to the highest landing. There was only one short flight
between her and the cupola. The clear glass arches were dazzling in the sun
and the golden bells swayed temptingly. But a blinding, overwhelming fog
drifted in from the sea, and she was afraid to move by so much as a step.
She turned to go back, and fell, down--down--down--into what seemed
eternity.
[Sidenote: The Clouds Lift]
Before long, the cloud began to lift. She could see a vague suggestion
of blue and white through it now. The man with the red hair was talking,
loudly and unconcernedly, to a tall man beside him whose face was
obscured by the mist. The voices beat upon Barbara's ears with physical
pain. She tried to speak, to ask them to stop, but the words would not
come. Then she raised her hand, weakly, and silence came upon the room.
Out of the fog rose Doctor Allan Conrad. He was tired and there was a
strained look about his eyes, but he smiled encouragingly. He leaned
over her and she smiled, very faintly, back at him.
"Brave little girl," he said. "It's all right now. All we ever hoped for
is coming very soon." Then he went out, and she closed her eyes. When
she was again conscious of her surroundings, it was the next day, but
she thought she had been asleep only a few minutes.
At first there was numbness of mind and body. Then, with every
heart-beat and throb by throb, came unbearable agony. A trembling old
hand strayed across her face and her father's voice, deep with love and
longing, whispered: "Barbara, my darling! Does it hurt you now?"
"Just a little, Daddy, but it won't last long. I'll be better very
soon."
One of the blue and white nurses came to her and said, gently, "Is it
very bad, Miss North?"
[Sidenote: Intense Pain]
"Pretty bad," she gasped. Then she tried to smile, but her white lips
quivered piteously. The woman with the kind, calm face came back with a
shining bit of silver in her hand. There was a sharp stab in Barbara's
arm, and then, with incredible quickness, peace.
"What was it?" she asked, wondering.
"Poppies," answered the nurse. "They bring forgetfulness."
"Barbara," said the old man, sadly, "I wish I could help you bear
it----"
"So you can, Daddy."
"But how?"
"Don't be afraid for me--it's coming out all right. And make me a little
song."
"I couldn't--to-day."
"There is always a song," she reminded him. "Think how many times you
have said to me, 'Always make a song, Barbara, no matter what comes.'"
The old man stirred uneasily in his chair. "What about, dear?"
"About the sea."
[Sidenote: Song of the Sea]
"The sea is so vast that it reaches around the world," he began,
hesitatingly. "It sings upon the shore of every land, from the regions
of perpetual ice and snow to the far tropic islands, where the sun
forever shines. As it lies under the palms, all blue and silver,
crooning so softly that you can scarcely hear it, you would not think it
was the same sea that yesterday was raging upon an ice-bound shore.
"If you listen to its ever-changing music you can hear almost anything
you please, for the sea goes everywhere. Ask, and the sea shall sing to
you of the frozen north where half the year is darkness and the
impassable waste of waters sweeps across the pole. Ask, and you shall
hear of the distant islands, where there has never been snow, and the
tide may even bring to you a bough of olive or a leaf of palm.
[Sidenote: Song of the Sea]
"Ask, and the sea will give you red and white coral, queer shells,
mystically filled with its own weird music, and treasures of fairy-like
lace-work and bloom. It will sing to you of cool, green caves where the
waves creep sleepily up to the rocks and drift out drowsily with the ebb
of the tide.
"It will sing of grey waves changing to foam in the path of the wind,
and bring you the cry of the white gulls that speed ahead of the storm.
It will sing to you of mermen and mermaids, chanting their own melodies
to the accompaniment of harps with golden strings. Listen, and you shall
hear the songs of many lands, merged into one by the sea that unites
them all.
"It bears upon its breast the great white ships that carry messages from
one land to another. Silks and spices and pearls are taken from place to
place along the vast highways of the sea. And if, sometimes, in a
blinding tumult of terror and despair, the men and ships go down, the
sea, remorsefully, brings back the broken spars, and, at last, gives up
the dead.
[Sidenote: The Dominant Chord]
"Yet it is always beautiful, whether you see it grey or blue; whether it
is mad with rage or moaning with pain, or only crooning a lullaby as
the world goes to sleep. And in all the wonderful music there is one
dominant chord, for the song of the sea, as of the world, is Love.
"Long ago, Barbara--so long ago that it is written in only the very
oldest books, Love was born in the foam of the sea and came to dwell
upon the shore. And so the sea, singing forever of Love, creeps around
the world upon an unending quest. When the tide sweeps in with the cold
grey waves, foam-crested, or in shining sapphire surges that break into
pearls, it is only the sea searching eagerly for the lost. So the
loneliness and the beauty, the longing and the pain, belong to Love as
to the sea."
"Oh, Daddy," breathed Barbara, "I want it so."
"What, dear? The sea?"
"Yes. The music and the colour and the vastness of it. I can hardly wait
until I can go."
There was a long silence. "Why didn't you tell me?" asked the old man.
"There would have been some way, if I had only known."
"I don't know, Daddy. I think I've been waiting for this way, for it's
the best way, after all. When I can walk and you can see, we'll go down
together, shall we?"
"Yes, dear, surely."
"You must help me be patient, Daddy. It will be so hard for me to lie
here, doing nothing."
"I wish I could read to you."
"You can talk to me, and that's better. Roger will come over some day
and read to me, when he has time."
"He was with me yesterday, while----"
"I know," she answered, softly. "I asked him. I thought it would make it
easier for you."
[Sidenote: Father and Daughter]
"My baby! You thought of your old father even then?"
"I'm always thinking of you, Daddy, because you and I are all each other
has got. That sounds queer, but you know what I mean."
The calm, strong young woman in blue and white came back into the room.
"She mustn't talk," she said, to the blind man. "To-morrow, perhaps.
Come away now."
"Don't take him away from me," pleaded Barbara. "We'll be very good and
not say a single word, won't we?"
"Not a word," he answered, "if it isn't best."
[Sidenote: Peaceful Sleep]
The afternoon wore away to sunset, the shadows grew long, and Barbara
lay quietly, with her little hand in his. Long lines of light came over
the hills and brought into the room some subtle suggestion of colour.
Gradually, the pain came back, so keenly that it was not to be borne,
and the kind woman with the bit of silver in her hand leaned over the
bed once more. Quickly, the poppies brought their divine gift of peace
again. And so, Barbara slept.
Then Ambrose North gently loosened the still fingers that were
interlaced with his, bent over, and, so gently as not to waken her, took
her boy-lover's kiss from her lips.
XII
Miriam
Miriam moved about the house, silently, as always. She had assumed the
extra burden of Barbara's helplessness as she assumed everything--without
comment, and with outward calm.
[Sidenote: Joy and Duty]
Only her dark eyes, that burned and glittered so strangely, gave hint of
the restlessness within. She served Ambrose North with steadfast and
unfailing devotion; she waited upon Barbara mechanically, but readily.
An observer could not have detected any real difference in her bearing
toward the two, yet the service of one was a joy, the other a duty.
After the first week the nurse who had remained with Barbara had gone
back to the city. In this short time, Miriam had learned much from her.
She knew how to change a sheet without disturbing the patient very much;
she could give Barbara both food and drink as she lay flat upon her
back, and ease her aching body a little in spite of the plaster cast.
Ambrose North restlessly haunted the house and refused to leave
Barbara's bedside unless she was asleep. Often she feigned slumber to
give him opportunity to go outdoors for the exercise he was accustomed
to taking. And so the life of the household moved along in its usual
channels.
[Sidenote: A Living Image]
As she lay helpless, with her pretty colour gone and the great braids of
golden hair hanging down on either side, Barbara looked more like her
dead mother than ever. Suffering had brought maturity to her face and
sometimes even Miriam was startled by the resemblance. One day Barbara
had asked, thoughtfully, "Aunty, do I look like my mother?" And Miriam
had answered, harshly, "You're the living image of her, if you want to
know."
Miriam repeatedly told herself that Constance had wronged her--that
Ambrose North had belonged to her until the younger girl came from
school with her pretty, laughing ways. He had never had eyes for Miriam
after he had once seen Constance, and, in an incredibly short time, they
had been married.
Miriam had been forced to stand by and see it; she had made dainty
garments for Constance's trousseau, and had even been obliged to serve
as maid of honour at the wedding. She had seen, day by day, the man's
love increase and the girl's fancy wane, and, after his blindness came
upon him, Constance would often have been cruelly thoughtless had not
Miriam sternly held her to her own ideal of wifely duty.
Now, when she had taken a mother's place to Barbara, and worked for the
blind man as his wife would never have dreamed of doing, she saw the
faithless one worshipped almost as a household god. The power to
disillusionise North lay in her hands--of that she was very sure. What
if she should come to him some day with the letter Constance had left
for another man and which she had never delivered? What if she should
open it, at his bidding, and read him the burning sentences Constance
had written to another during her last hour on earth? Knowing, beyond
doubt, that Constance was faithless, would he at last turn to the woman
he had deserted for the sake of a pretty face? The question racked
Miriam by night and by day.
[Sidenote: Miriam's Jealousy]
And, as always, the dead Constance, mute, accusing, bitterly
reproachful, haunted her dreams. Her fear of it became an obsession. As
Barbara grew daily more to resemble her mother, Miriam's position became
increasingly difficult and complex.
Sometimes she waited outside the door until she could summon courage to
go in to Barbara, who lay, helpless, in the very room where her mother
had died. Miriam never entered without seeing upon the dressing table
those two envelopes, one addressed to Ambrose North and one to herself.
Her own envelope was bulky, since it contained two letters beside the
short note which might have been read to anybody. These two, with seals
unbroken, were safely put away in Miriam's room.
One was addressed to Laurence Austin. Miriam continually told herself
that it was impossible for her to deliver it--that the person to whom it
was addressed was dead. She tried persistently to forget the five years
that had intervened between Constance's death and his. For five years,
he had lived almost directly across the street and Miriam saw him daily.
Yet she had not given him the letter, though the vision of Constance,
dumbly pleading for some boon, had distressed her almost every night
until Laurence Austin died.
After that, there had been peace--but only for a little while. Constance
still came, though intermittently, and reproached Miriam for betraying
her trust.
[Sidenote: The One Betrayal]
As Barbara's twenty-second birthday approached, Miriam sometimes
wondered whether Constance would not cease to haunt her after the other
letter was delivered. She had been faithful in all things but
one--surely she might be forgiven the one betrayal. The envelope was
addressed, in a clear, unfaltering hand: "To My Daughter Barbara. To be
opened upon her twenty-second birthday." In her brief note to Miriam,
Constance had asked her to destroy it unopened if Barbara should not
live until the appointed day.
She had said nothing, however, about the other letter--had not even
alluded to its existence. Yet there it was, apparently written upon a
single sheet of paper and enclosed in an envelope firmly sealed with
wax. The monogram, made of the interlaced initials "C.N.," still
lingered upon the seal. For twenty years and more the letter had waited,
unread, and the hands that once would eagerly have torn it open were
long since made one with the all-hiding, all-absolving dust.
* * * * *
[Sidenote: At Supper]
At supper, Ambrose North still had his fine linen and his Satsuma cup.
Miriam sat at the other end, where the coarse cloth and the heavy dishes
were. She used the fine china for Barbara, also, washing it carefully
six times every day.
The blind man ate little, for he was lonely without the consciousness
that Barbara sat, smiling, across the table from him.
"Is she asleep?" he asked, of Miriam.
"Yes."
"She hasn't had her supper yet, has she?"
"No."
"When she wakes, will you let me take it up to her?"
"Yes, if you want to."
"Miriam, tell me--does Barbara look like her mother?" His voice was full
of love and longing.
"There may be a slight resemblance," Miriam admitted.
"But how much?"
[Sidenote: The Same Old Question]
A curious, tigerish impulse possessed Miriam. He had asked her this same
question many times and she had always eluded him with a vague
generalisation.
"How much does she resemble her mother?" he insisted. "You told me once
that they were 'something alike.'"
"That was a long time ago," answered Miriam. She was breathing hard and
her eyes glittered. "Barbara has changed lately."
"Don't hide the truth for fear of hurting me," he pleaded. "Once for all
I ask you--does Barbara resemble her mother?"
For a moment Miriam paused, then all her hatred of the dead woman rose
up within her. "No," she said, coldly. "Their hair and eyes are nearly
the same colour, but they are not in the least alike. Why? What
difference does it make?"
"None," sighed the blind man. "But I am glad to have the truth at last,
and I thank you. Sometimes I have fancied, when Barbara spoke, that it
was Constance talking to me. It would have been a great satisfaction to
me to have had my baby the living image of her mother, since I am to see
again, but it is all right as it is."
Since he was to see! Miriam had not counted upon that possibility, and
she clenched her hands in swift remorse. If he should discover that she
had lied to him, he would never forgive her, and she would lose what
little regard he had for her. He had a Puritan insistence upon the
literal truth.
"How beautiful Constance was," he sighed. An inarticulate murmur escaped
from Miriam, which he took for full assent.
"Did you ever see anyone half so beautiful, Miriam?"
Her throat was parched, but Miriam forced herself to whisper, "No." This
much was truth.
[Sidenote: A Beautiful Bride]
"How sweet she was and what pretty ways she had," he went on. "Do you
remember how lovely she was in her wedding gown?"
Again Miriam forced herself to answer, "Yes."
"Do you remember how people said we were mismated--that a man of fifty
could never hope to keep the love of a girl of twenty, who knew nothing
of the world?"
"I remember," muttered Miriam.
"And it was false, wasn't it?" he asked, hungering for assurance.
"Constance loved me--do you remember how dearly she loved me?"
[Sidenote: Beloved Constance]
A thousand words struggled for utterance, but Miriam could not speak
just then. She longed, as never before, to tear open the envelope
addressed to Laurence Austin and read to North the words his beloved
Constance had written to another man before she took her own life. She
longed to tell him how, for months previous, she had followed Constance
when she left the house, and discovered that she had a trysting-place
down on the shore. He wanted the truth, did he? Very well, he should
have it--the truth without mercy.
"Constance," she began, huskily, "Constance loved----"
"I know," interrupted Ambrose North. "I know how dearly she loved me up
to the very last. Even Barbara, baby that she was, felt it. She
remembers it still."
Barbara's bell tinkled upstairs while he said the last words. "She wants
us," he said, his face illumined with love. "If you will prepare her
supper, Miriam, I will take it up."
The room swayed before Miriam's eyes and her senses were confused. She
had drawn her dagger to strike and it had been forced back into its
sheath by some unseen hand. "But I will," she repeated to herself again
and again as her trembling hands prepared Barbara's tray. "He shall
know the truth--and from me."
* * * * *
"Barbara," said the old man, as he entered the room, "your Daddy has
brought up your supper."
"I'm glad," she responded, brightly. "I'm very hungry."