answered with crashing surges that leaped high upon the shore. Suddenly,
from the utter darkness, a javelin of lightning flashed through the
pines, but they only trembled and leaned closer still.
"One by one, with the softness of falling snow, the leaves dropped upon
the brown carpet beneath, but there was no more fragrance, since the sap
had ceased to move through the secret channels and breathe balm into the
forest. Snow lay heavily upon the lower boughs and they broke, instead
of bending. When Spring danced through the world again, piping her
plaintive music upon the farthest hills, the pines were almost bare.
[Sidenote: As One]
"All through the sweet Summer the needles kept dropping. Every
frolicsome breeze of June carried some of them a little farther down the
road; every full moon shone more clearly through the barrier of the
pines. And at last, when the chill winds of Autumn chanted a requiem
through the forest, it was seen that the pines had long been dead, but
they so leaned together and their branches were so interlaced, that,
even in death, they stood as one.
"They had passed their lives together, they had borne the same burdens,
faced the same storms, and rejoiced in the same warmth of Summer sun.
One was not left, stricken, long after the other was dead; their last
grief was borne together and was lessened because it was shared. I stand
there sometimes now, where the two dead trees are leaning close
together, and as the wind sighs through the bare boughs, it chants no
dirge to me, but only a hymn of farewell.
[Sidenote: Together with Love]
"There is nothing in all the world, Barbara, that means so much as that
one word, 'together,' and when you add 'love' to it, you have heaven,
for God himself can give no more joy than to bring together two who
love, never to part again."
"Thank you," said Barbara, gently, after a pause.
"I thank you too," said Roger.
Ambrose North rose and offered his hand to Roger. "Good-night," he said.
"I am glad you came. Your father was my friend." Then he bent to kiss
Barbara. "Good-night, my dear."
"Friend," repeated Roger to himself, as the old man went out. "Yes,
friend who never betrayed you or yours." The boy thrilled with
passionate pride at the thought. Before the memory of his father his
young soul stood at salute.
Barbara's eyes followed her father fondly as he went out and down the
hall to his own room. When his door closed, Roger came to the other
chair, sat down, and took her hand.
"It's not really necessary," explained Barbara, with a faint pink upon
her cheeks. "I shall probably recover, even if my hand isn't held all
the time."
"But I want to," returned Roger, and she did not take her hand away. Her
cheeks took on a deeper colour and she smiled, but there was something
in her deep eyes that Roger had never seen there before.
"I've missed you so," he went on.
"And I have missed you." She did not dare to say how much.
"How long must you lie here?"
"Not much longer, I hope. Somebody is coming down next week to take off
the plaster; then, after I've stayed in bed a little longer, they'll see
whether I can walk or not."
[Sidenote: The Crutches]
She sighed wistfully and a strange expression settled on her face as she
looked at the crutches which still leaned against the foot of her bed.
"Why do you have those there?" asked Roger, quickly.
"To remind me always that I mustn't hope too much. It's just a chance,
you know."
"If you don't need them again, may I have them?"
"Why?" she asked, startled.
"Because they are yours--they've seemed a part of you ever since I've
known you. I couldn't bear to have thrown away anything that was part of
you, even if you've outgrown it."
"Certainly," answered Barbara, in a high, uncertain voice. "You're very
welcome and I hope you can have them."
"Barbara!" Roger knelt beside the bed, still keeping her hand in his.
"What did I say that was wrong?"
"Nothing," she answered, with difficulty. "But, after bearing all this,
it seems hard to think that you don't want me to be--to be separated
from my crutches. Because they have belonged to me always--you think
they always must."
"Barbara! When you've always understood me, must I begin explaining to
you now? I've never had anything that belonged to you, and I thought you
wouldn't mind, if it was something you didn't need any more--I wouldn't
care what it was--if----"
"I see," she interrupted. A blinding flash of insight had, indeed, made
many things wonderfully clear. "Here--wouldn't you rather have this?"
[Sidenote: A Knot of Blue Ribbon]
She slipped a knot of pale blue ribbon from the end of one of her long,
golden braids, and gave it to him.
"Yes," he said. Then he added, anxiously, "are you sure you don't need
it? If you do----"
"If I do," she answered, smiling, "I'll either get another, or tie my
braid with a string."
Outwardly, they were back upon the old terms again, but, for the first
time since the mud-pie days, Barbara was self-conscious. Her heart beat
strangely, heavy with the prescience of new knowledge. When Roger rose
from his chair with a bit of blue ribbon protruding from his coat
pocket, she laughed hysterically.
But Roger did not laugh. He bent over her, with all his boyish soul in
his eyes. She crimsoned as she turned away from him.
[Sidenote: Please?]
"Please?" he asked, very tenderly. "You did once."
"No," she cried, shrilly.
Roger straightened himself instantly. "Then I won't," he said, softly.
"I won't do anything you don't want me to--ever."
XVI
Betrayal
The long weeks dragged by and, at last, the end of Barbara's
imprisonment drew near. The red-haired young man who had previously
assisted Doctor Conrad came down with one of the nurses and removed the
heavy plaster cast. The nurse taught Miriam how to massage Barbara with
oils and exercise the muscles that had never been used.
"Doctor Conrad told me," said the red-haired young man, "to take your
father back with me to-morrow, if you were ready to have him go. The
sooner the better, he thought."
[Sidenote: Love and Terror]
Barbara turned away, with love and terror clutching coldly at her heart.
"Perhaps," she said, finally. "I'll talk with father to-night."
Her own forgotten agony surged back into her remembrance, magnified an
hundred fold. Fear she had never had for herself strongly asserted
itself now, for him. "If it should come out wrong," she thought, "I
could never forgive myself--never in the wide world."
When the doctor and nurse had gone to the hotel and Miriam was busy
getting supper, Ambrose North came quietly into Barbara's room.
"How are you, dear?" he asked, anxiously.
"I'm all right, Daddy, except that I feel very queer. It's all
different, some way. Like the old woman in _Mother Goose_, I wonder if
this can be I."
There was a long pause. "Are they going back to-morrow," he asked, "the
doctor and nurse who came down to-day?"
"Yes," answered Barbara, in a voice that was little more than a whisper.
The old man took her hand in his and leaned over her. "Dear," he
pleaded, "may I go, too?"
Barbara was startled. "Have they said anything to you?"
[Sidenote: Long Waiting]
"No, I was just thinking that I could go with them as well as with
Doctor Conrad. It is so long to wait," he sighed.
"I cannot bear to have you hurt," answered Barbara, with a choking sob.
"I know," he said, "but I bore it for you. Have you forgotten?"
There was no response in words, but she breathed hard, every shrill
respiration fraught with dread.
"Flower of the Dusk," he pleaded, "may I go?"
"Yes," she sobbed. "I have no right to say no."
"Dear, don't cry." The old man's voice was as tender as though she had
been the merest child. "The dream is coming true at last--that you can
walk and I can see. Think what it will mean to us both. And oh, Barbara,
think what it will be to me to see the words your dear mother wrote to
you--to know, from her own hand, that she died loving me."
[Sidenote: Systematic Lying]
Barbara suddenly turned cold. The hand that seemingly had clutched her
heart was tearing unmercifully at the tender fibre now. He would read
her mother's letter and know that his beloved Constance was in love with
another; that she took her own life because she could bear it no more.
He would know that they were poor, that the house was shabby, that the
pearls and laces and tapestries had all been sold. He would know,
inevitably, that Barbara's needle had earned their living for many
years; he would see, in the dining-room, the pitiful subterfuge of the
bit of damask, one knife and fork of solid silver, one fine plate and
cup. Above all, he would know that Barbara herself had systematically
lied to him ever since she could talk at all. And he had a horror of a
lie.
"Don't," she cried, weakly. "Don't go."
"You promised Barbara," he said, gently. Then he added, proudly: "The
Norths never go back on their spoken or written word. It is in the blood
to be true and you have promised. I shall go to-morrow."
Barbara cringed and shrank from him. "Don't, dear," he said. "Your hands
are cold. Let me warm them in mine. I fear that to-day has been too much
for you."
"I think it has," she answered. The words were almost a whisper.
[Sidenote: If the Dream Comes True]
"Then, don't try to talk, Barbara. I will talk to you. I know how you
feel about my going, but it is not necessary, for I do not fear in the
least for myself. I am sure that the dream is coming true, but, if it
should not--why, we can bear it together, dear, as we have borne
everything. The ways of the Everlasting are not our ways, but my faith
is very strong.
[Sidenote: If the Dream Comes True]
"If the dream comes true, as I hope and believe it will, you and I will
go away, dear, and see the world. We shall go to Europe and Egypt and
Japan and India, and to the Southern islands, to Greece and
Constantinople--I have planned it all. Aunt Miriam can stay here, or we
will take her with us, just as you choose. When you can walk, Barbara,
and I can see, I shall draw a large check, and we will start at the
first possible moment. The greatest blessing of money, I think, is the
opportunity it gives for travel. I have been glad, too, so many times,
that we are able to afford all these doctors and nurses. Think of the
poor people who must suffer always because they cannot command services
which are necessarily high-priced."
Barbara's senses reeled and the cold, steel fingers clutched more
closely at the aching fibre of her heart. Until this moment, she had not
thought of the financial aspects of her situation--it had not occurred
to her that Doctor Conrad and the blue and white nurses and even the
red-haired young man would expect to be paid. And when her father went
to the hospital--"I shall have to sew night and day all the rest of my
life," she thought, "and, even then, die in debt."
[Sidenote: The Lie]
But over and above and beyond it all stood the Lie, that had lived in
her house for twenty years and more and was now to be cast out,
if--Barbara's heart stood still in horror because, for the merest
fraction of an instant, she had dared to hope that her father might
never see again.
"I could not have gone alone," the old man was saying, "and even if
I could, I should never have left you, but now, I think, the time is
coming. I have dreamed all my life of the strange countries beyond the
sea, and longed to go. Your dear mother and I were going, in a little
while, but--" His lips quivered and he stopped abruptly.
[Sidenote: Three Things]
"What would you see, Daddy, if you had your choice? Tell me the three
things in the world that you most want to see." With supreme effort,
Barbara put self aside and endeavoured to lead him back to happier
things.
"Three things?" he repeated. "Let me think. If God should give me back
my sight for the space of half an hour before I died, I should choose to
see, first, your dear mother's letter in which she says that she died
loving me; next, your mother herself as she was just before she died,
and then, dear, my Flower of the Dusk--my baby whom I never have seen.
Perhaps," he added, thoughtfully, "perhaps I should rather see you than
Constance, for, in a very little while, I should meet her past the
sunset, where she has waited so long for me. But the letter would come
first, Barbara--can you understand?"
"Yes," she breathed, "I understand."
The hope in her heart died. She could not ask for the letter. He took it
from his pocket as though it were a jewel of great price. "Put my finger
on the words that say, 'I love him still.'"
Blinded with tears and choked by sobs, Barbara pointed out the line.
That, at least, was true. The old man raised it to his lips as a monk
might raise his crucifix when kneeling in penitential prayer.
"I keep it always near me," he said, softly. "I shall keep it until
I can see."
* * * * *
Long after he had gone to bed, Barbara lay trembling. The problem that
had risen up before her without warning seemed to have no possible
solution. If he recovered his sight, she could not keep him from knowing
their poverty. One swift glance would show him all--and destroy his
faith in her. That was unavoidable. But--need he know that the dead had
deceived him too?
The innate sex-loyalty, which is strong in all women who are really
fine, asserted itself in full power now. It was not only the desire to
save her father pain that made Barbara resolve, at any cost, to keep the
betraying letter from him. It was also the secret loyalty, not of a
child to an unknown mother, but of woman to woman--of sex to sex.
[Sidenote: To-Day and To-Morrow]
The house was very still. Outside, a belated cricket kept up his cheery
fiddling as he fared to his hidden home. Sometimes a leaf fell and
rustled down the road ahead of a vagrant wind. The clock ticked
monotonously. Second by second and minute by minute, To-Morrow advanced
upon Barbara; that To-Morrow which must be made surely right by the
deeds of To-Day.
"If I could go," murmured Barbara. She was free of the plaster and she
could move about in bed easily. Ironically enough, her crutches leaned
against the farther wall, in sight but as completely out of reach as
though they were in the next room.
Barbara sat up in bed and, cautiously, placed her two tiny bare feet on
the floor. With great effort, she stood up, sustained by a boundless
hope. She discovered that she could stand, even though she ached
miserably, but when she attempted to move, she fell back upon the bed.
She could not walk a step.
[Sidenote: Vanishing Hopes]
Faint with fear and pain, she got back into bed. She knew, now, all that
the red-haired young man had refused to tell her. He was too kind to say
that she was not to walk, after all. He was leaving it for Doctor
Conrad--or Eloise.
Objects in the room danced before her mockingly. Her crutches were
veiled by a mist--those friendly crutches which had served her so well
and were now out of her reach. But Barbara had no time for self-pity.
The dominant need of the hour was pressing heavily upon her.
With icy, shaking fingers, Barbara rang her bell. Presently Miriam came
in, attired in a flannel dressing-gown which was hopelessly unbecoming.
Barbara was moved to hysterical laughter, but she bit her lips.
"Aunt Miriam," she said, trying to keep her voice even, "father has a
letter of mine in his coat pocket which I should like to read again
to-night. Will you bring me his coat, please?"
Miriam turned away without a word. Her face was inscrutable.
"Don't wake him," called Barbara, in a shrill whisper. "If he is not
asleep, wait until he is. I would not have him wakened, but I must have
the coat to-night."
From his closed door came the sound of deep, regular breathing. Miriam
turned the knob noiselessly, opened the door, and slipped in. When her
eyes became accustomed to the darkness, she found the coat easily. It
had not taken long. Even Barbara might well be surprised at her
quickness.
Perhaps the letter was not in his coat--it might be somewhere else. At
any rate, it would do no harm to make sure before going in to Barbara.
Miriam went into her own room and calmly lighted a candle.
[Sidenote: The Letter Recovered]
Yes, the letter was there--two sheets: one in ink, in Constance's hand,
the other, in pencil, written by Barbara. Why should Barbara write to
one who was blind?
With her curiosity now thoroughly aroused, Miriam hastily read both
letters, then put them back. Her lips were curled in a sneer when she
took the coat into Barbara's room and gave it to her without speaking.
The girl thrust an eager hand into the inner pocket and, with almost a
sob of relief, took out her mother's letter and her own version of it.
"Thank you, Aunty," breathed Barbara. "I am sorry--to--to--disturb you,
but there was no--other way."
[Sidenote: The Letter Destroyed]
Miriam went out, as quietly as she had come, carrying the coat and
leaving Barbara's door ajar. When she was certain that she was alone,
Barbara tore the letter into shreds. So much, at least, was sure. Her
father should never see them, whatever he might think of her.
Miriam was standing outside the blind man's door. She fancied she heard
him stir. It did not matter--there was plenty of time before morning to
return the coat. She took it back into her own room and sat down to
think.
Her mirror reflected her face and the unbecoming dressing-gown. The
candlelight, however, was kind. It touched gently upon the grey in her
hair, hid the dark hollows under her eyes, and softened the lines in her
face. It lent a touch of grace to her work-worn hands, moving nervously
in her lap.
After twenty-one years, this was what Constance had to say to
Barbara--that she loved another man, that Ambrose North was not to know
it, and that she did not quite trust Miriam. Also that Miriam had loved
Ambrose North and had never quite forgiven Constance for taking him
away from her.
Out of the shadow of the grave, Miriam's secret stared her in the face.
She had not dreamed, until she read the letter, that Constance knew.
Barbara knew now, too. Miriam was glad that Barbara had the letter, for
she knew that, in all probability, she would destroy it.
[Sidenote: A Crumbling Structure]
The elaborate structure of deceit which they had so carefully reared
around the blind man was crumbling, even now. If he recovered his sight,
it must inevitably fall. He would know, in an instant of revelation,
that Miriam was old and ugly and not beautiful, as she had foolishly led
him to believe, years ago, when he asked how much time had changed her.
She looked pitifully at her hands, rough and knotted and red through
untiring slavery for him and his.
She and Barbara would be sacrificed--no, for he would forgive Barbara
anything. She was the only one who would lose through his restored
vision, unless Constance might, in some way, be revealed to him as she
was.
_"I do not quite trust Miriam. She loved your father and I took him away
from her."_ The cruel sentences moved crazily before her as in letters
of fire.
The letter was gone. Ambrose North would never see the evidence of
Constance's distrust of her, nor come, without warning, upon Miriam's
pitiful secret which, with a woman's pride, she would hide from him at
all costs. None the less, Constance had stabbed her again. A ghostly
hand clutching a dagger had suddenly come up from the grave, and the
thrust of the cold, keen steel had been very sure.
[Sidenote: Scheming Miriam]
For twenty years and more, she had been tempted to read to the blind man
the letter Constance had written to Laurence Austin just before she
died. For that length of time, her desire to blacken Constance, in the
hope that the grief-stricken heart might once more turn to her, had
warred with her love and her woman's fear of hurting the one she loved.
To-night, even in the face of the letter to Barbara, she knew that she
should never have courage to read it to him, nor even to give it to him
with her own hands.
In case he recovered his sight, she might leave it where he would find
it. She was glad, now, that the envelope was torn, for he would not be
apt to open a letter addressed to another, even though Constance had
penned the superscription and the man to whom it was addressed was dead.
His fine sense of honour would, undoubtedly, lead him to burn it. But,
if the letter were in a plain envelope, sealed, and she should leave it
on his dresser, he would be very sure to open it, if he saw it lying
there, and then----
Miriam smiled. Constance would be paid at last for her theft of another
woman's suitor, for her faithlessness and her cowardly desertion. There
was a heavy score against Constance, who had so belied the meaning of
her name, and the twenty years had added compound interest. North might
not--probably would not--turn again to Miriam after all these years; she
saw that plainly to-night for the first time, but he would, at any rate,
see that he had given up the gold for the dross.
Miriam got her work-box and began to mend the coat lining. She had not
known that it was torn. She wondered how he would feel when he
discovered that the precious letter was lost. Would he blame Barbara--or
her?
It would be too bad to have him lose the comfort those two sheets of
paper had given him. Miriam had seen him as he sat alone for hours in
his own room, with the door ajar, caressing the written pages as though
they were alive and answered him with love for love. She knew it was
Constance's letter to Barbara, but she had lacked curiosity as to its
contents until to-night.
[Sidenote: The Plot]
The letter to Laurence Austin was written on paper of the same size.
There was still some of it, in Constance's desk, in the living-room
downstairs. Suppose she should replace one letter with the other, and,
if he ever read it, let him have it all out with Barbara, who was
trying to save him from knowledge that he should have had long ago.
The coat slipped to the floor as Miriam considered the plan. Perhaps one
of them would ask her what it was. In that case she would say,
carelessly: "Oh, a letter Constance left for Laurence Austin. I did not
think it best to deliver it, as it could do no good and might do a great
deal of harm." She would have the courage for that, surely, but, if she
failed at the critical moment, she could say, simply: "I do not know."
She crept downstairs and returned with a sheet of Constance's
note-paper. Neither she nor Barbara had ever been obliged to use it, and
it was far back in a corner of a deep drawer, together with North's
check-book, which had been useless for so many years.
As she had expected, it exactly matched the other sheet. She folded the
two together, with the letter to Laurence Austin inside. North would not
be disappointed, now, when he reached into his pocket and found no fond
letter from his dead but still beloved Constance. Barbara could not
change this, by rewriting into anything save a cry of passionate love.
[Sidenote: Subtle Revenge]
Miriam's whole being glowed with satisfaction. She thrilled with the
pleasure of this subtle revenge upon Constance, who was fully repaid,
now, for writing as she had.
_"I do not quite trust Miriam. She loved your father and I took him away
from her."_
She repeated the words in a whisper, and smiled to think of the deeply
loving, passionate page to another man that had filled the place. Let
the Fates do their worst now, for when he should read it----
[Sidenote: The Irony of Fate]
Some way, Miriam was very sure that his sight was to be restored to him.
She perceived, now, the irony of his caressing the letter Constance had
written to Barbara. How much more ironical it would be to see him, with
that unearthly light upon his face, moving his hand across the page
Constance had written to Laurence Austin just before she died. Miriam
well knew that the other letters had come first and that Constance's
last word had been to the man she loved.
The hours passed on, slowly. The mist that hung over the sea was faintly
touched with dawn before Miriam arose, and, taking the coat, went back
to Ambrose North's room. She paused outside the door, but all was still.
She entered, quietly, and laid the coat on a chair. She started back to
the door, but, before she touched the knob, the blind man stirred in his
sleep.
"Constance," he said, drowsily, "is that you? Have you come back,
Beloved? It has seemed so long."
[Sidenote: Surging Hatred]
Miriam set her lips grimly against the surging hatred for the dead that
welled up within her. She went out hastily, and noiselessly closed the
door.
XVII
"Never Again"