Yea, all her words are sweet and fair,
And so, mayhap, is she;
But words are naught but molded air,
And air and molds are free.
Belike, the youth in charmed hall
Some fardels sore might miss,
Scanning his Beauty's household all,
Or ere he gave the kiss!
--_The Knyghte's Discourse to his Page_.
Now it happened that at Bellevale, the young woman whom we--with the
sweet familiarity of art--have had the joy to know as Elizabeth, moved
about in unconsciousness, mostly blissful, of the annihilation of Eugene
Brassfield. The mails might take to Mrs. Baggs at Hazelhurst vague
letters from Judge Blodgett hinting at clues and traces of Florian,
preparatory to the restoration of the lost brother; but Brassfield, never
anything but a wraith from the mysterious caves of the subconsciousness,
was non-existent for evermore, except through the magic of Le Claire.
But Elizabeth Waldron, just home from college, full of the wise unwisdom
of Smith and twenty-three, and palpitating with the shock which had
broken the cables by which she had so long, long ago moored herself in
the safe and deep waters of the harbor of a literary and intellectual
celibacy, still dreamed of the bubble personality which had vanished,
although at times waves of anxious unrest swept across her bosom.
For one thing, that epistle of hers, made for his reading on the
train--how could she have written it! Elizabeth's cheeks burned when she
remembered it. Then she thought of the weeks of chaste dalliance between
her acceptance of him and his departure, and of the _elan_ with which he
had entered that safe harbor of hers, and swept her from those moorings;
and the letter seemed slight return for the rites of adoration he had
performed before her.
But (and now the cheeks burned once more) why, why had he not written to
her as soon as he reached New York? Was he one with whom it was out of
sight, out of mind? Or was he one of those business men who can not
place anything more delicate than price-quotations on paper? Or--and
here the cheeks paled--was he suddenly ill? She wished, after all, that
she had not written it!
And one day, when a special-delivery letter came and surprised her, she
ran out in the winter sun to the summer-house where she had sat so much
with him, and read it in quiet. Whereupon the unrest increased, because
the letter seemed as unlike Eugene as if he had copied it from some
_Complete Letter Writer_.
Florian had agonized over this letter--had even tried the experiment of
writing one while in the "Chones blane" under the influence of Madame le
Claire; but it was too incoherent for any use--and he had done the best
he could. Professor Blatherwick and Judge Blodgett were working out a
code of behavior for Mr. Amidon when he should return to Bellevale. They
kept him in the Brassfield personality for hours every day; but such a
matter as this letter to Elizabeth, he could not intrust to them. Every
day, though, he looked into the varicolored eyes of Clara and willed to
sleep; and every day the operation grew less and less painful to him.
Vast and complex was the system of notes built up by the professor and
the judge. They told him all about his various properties and holdings
of stock; they listed the clubs and social organizations to which he
belonged, and the offices he held in each. They made a directory of
names mentioned by him in his abnormal state, and compiled facts about
each person. It must have been very much like the copious information
that we think we have about historical characters--elaborate, and the
best thing possible in the absence of the real facts; but only the
reflection of these people in the mind of some one else, after all.
Finally the judge brought the whole to his friend, neatly typewritten,
paragraphs numbered, facts tabulated, and all provided with a splendid
index and system of elaborate cross-references.
[Illustration: Vast and complete was the system of notes built up by the
professor and the judge]
"You see, my boy," said Judge Blodgett, "all any one really needs to know
of his surroundings is actually very little. Otherwise, most people
never could get along at all. Neander couldn't find his way to
market--the greatest philosopher of his time. Now these notes tell you
more--actually more--of your Bellevale life, than some folks ever find
out about themselves--with a little filling in, on the spot, you know,
why, they'll do first rate. For instance, under 'S' we have a man named
Stevens, 'Old Stevens' you playfully call him. I figure him out to be an
elderly man in some position of authority--he seems to sort of govern
things, even you. The professor thinks he's your banker, but his
intellectual domination leads me to the conclusion that he's your lawyer.
There is a Miss Strong, evidently an important person. I venture the
assertion that she's a literary woman, as you speak about asking her to
'look at her notes.' I shouldn't wonder if she's a rival of Miss
Waldron's, eh, Professor?"
"Well," said Amidon impatiently, "who else?"
"Oh, lots of 'em," answered the judge. "Here's 'A' for instance, and
under it a man named Alvord--a close friend of yours----"
"The one this telegram is from," said Amidon. "And I suppose this one in
cipher is from Stevens, the lawyer or banker. It must be important."
"I shouldn't wonder," said Judge Blodgett; "and this Mr. Alvord I take to
be a minister, for you connect him with some topic relating to 'Christian
Martyrs' and 'rituals.' He must be a close friend, for you sometimes
call him 'Jim,' in strict privacy, I presume. Oh, there's a regular
directory of 'em here. I've even discovered that you have a little
friend, a child of say seven or eight years--tell by the tone, you
know--that you call 'Daisy' and 'Daise' and sometimes 'Strawberry.'
These fondnesses for children and clergymen prove to me, Florian, that an
Amidon is good goods on any confounded plane of consciousness you can
throw 'em into--conservative, respectable, and all that, you know."
Amidon looked suspiciously at the notes, unappeased by this flattery.
What justification there was for suspicion we shall be better able to say
when we meet these Bellevale acquaintances of his.
"Is this the guide by which I am to regulate my conduct in Bellevale?"
asked he, after looking it over.
"Well," said the judge, "it may not be quite like remembering all about
things; but anyhow it will help some, won't it?"
"I suppose I'm to carry it with me, and when an acquaintance accosts me
on the street, I'm to look him up in the index and find out who he is,
before I decide whether to shake hands with him or cut him, am I?"
"Not exactly that way," said the judge; "that wouldn't be practicable,
you know; but it's ten to one you'll find his name there. I tell you,
that compilation----"
"Te tifision into gategories," broke in the professor, "according to te
brinciples of lotchik was te chutche's itea. A vonderfully inchenious
blan. It vill enaple you----"
"Has it any plan of reference," interrupted Amidon, "by which I shall be
enabled to find out about a man when I don't know who he is?"
"N--no."
"Or, in such a case, to give me knowledge of my past relations with him,
or whether I like him or hate him?"
"Of course," said the judge, "we only try to do the possible. The law
requires no man to do more."
"Does this thing," said Amidon, shaking it in evident disgust, "tell
where I live in Bellevale, whether in lodgings or at a hotel, or in my
own house? Could I take it and find my home?"
"Damn it, Florian!" said the judge, "I'm not here to be jumped on, am I?
No one can remember everything all the time. We'll get those things and
put them into a supplement, you know."
"Not for me," said Florian. "I've made up my mind definitely about this.
I'll not depend on it. If I go back to Bellevale, I must have at hand at
all times the means of connecting things as I find them with the life of
this Brassfield. I must take with me the bridge which spans the chasm
between Brassfield and Amidon--I mean our friend Clara. Without her, I
shall never go back. I haven't the nerve. I should soon find myself in
a tangle of mistakes from which I could never extricate myself--I've
thought it all out. The Cretan Labyrinth would be like going home from
school, in comparison."
"Pshaw!" said the judge, looking lovingly at Blodgett's _Notes on the
Compiled Statements of Brassfield_, "you could feel your way along very
well--with these."
"Would you go into the trial of a case," said Florian, "no matter how
simple, in which not only your own future, but the happiness of others,
might be involved, without even a speaking acquaintance with any of the
parties, or one of the witnesses? I tell you, Judge, we must have Madame
le Claire."
The judge rolled up the notes and snapped a rubber band about the roll.
He said no more until evening.
"Then," said he, as if he had only just made up his mind to concede the
point, "let's see if it can be arranged at once. Come over to the
Blatherwicks' with me."
"I think," said Amidon slowly, "that I'll see her alone."
"Alone, yes--yes!" said the judge, changing an interjection into an
assent. "By all means; by all means. Only don't you think there may be
things down there needing attention, Florian--money matters--and--and
other things, you know, my boy--and that we ought to be moving in the
matter? I would respectfully urge," he concluded, using his orator's
chest-tones to drown Amidon's protest against his joking, "that no time
be lost in deciding on our course."
The judge had noted the increasing dependence of his client on the fair
hypnotist, and the growing interest that she seemed to feel in him, and
therefore showed some coolness toward the proposal to take her to
Bellevale. The eyes inured to the perusal of dusty commentaries and
reports were still sharp enough to see the mutual tenderness exchanged in
the unwavering, eye-to-eye encounters whereby Amidon was converted into
Brassfield, and to note the softness of the feline strokings by which
Florian's catalepsy was induced or dispelled. He rather favored dropping
the Blatherwick acquaintance: but he could not answer Amidon's arguments
as to their need for its continuance.
So it was that, about the time when Elizabeth Waldron sat in the
summer-house at Bellevale, with tears of disappointment in her pretty
eyes, holding poor Florian's best-he-could-do but ineffective letter all
crumpled up in her hand, the tigrine Le Claire rested her elbows upon a
window-ledge in the attitude of gazing into the street (it was all
attitude, for she saw nothing), and was disturbed by Aaron, who brought
in Mr. Florian Amidon's penciled card. She gave a few pokes to her hair,
of course, turned once or twice about before her mirror, and went into
the parlor.
"The judge and your father," said Amidon, "have got up a wonderful guide
from notes of this man Brassfield's talk."
"Yes," said she with a smile; "they are wonderful."
"And perfectly useless," he continued, "so far as my steering by them in
Bellevale is concerned."
"As useless," she admitted, "as can be."
"You knew that?" he inquired. "Then why did you let them go on with it?"
"That's good," said she. "I like that! I was nicely situated to mention
it, wasn't I?"
"The fact is, Clara," said he, "as you can see, that I've got to have you
at Bellevale. I shall not go down there without you. I can't do it.
I've thought it all out----"
"So have I," said she. "I knew that you'd have to have me--for a little
while; knew it all the time. I was just thinking about it as you came
up."
"Then can you--will you go?"
"Can I stay, Florian?" she inquired steadily. "Can I leave you like a
just-cured blind and deaf man, and my work for you only begun? I must
go! We were just talking about our going to Bellevale, as you came in,
papa. Mr. Amidon will need us for a while when he first gets there."
"Surely, surely," said the professor. "Te most inderesting phaces of dis
case vill arise in Bellevale. I grave te brifiletche of geeping you
unter my opsairfation until--until to last dog is hunk! Let us despatch
Chutche Blotchett to spy out te landt. In a day or two he can tiscofer
vere dis man Brassfield lifes, vere te fair Fraulein Elizabeth resides,
and chenerally get on to te logal skitivation. He vill meet up with us
at te train, and see that ve don't put our foots in it. Ve vill dus be
safed te mortification of hafing Alderman Brassfield, chairman of te
street committee, asking te boliceman te vay to his lotchings; or te
fiance of Miss Valdering bassing her on te street vit a coldt, coldt
stare of unrecognition or embracing her young laty friendt py mistake.
Goot! Let te chutche dake his tebarture fortwith. Clara and I vill be
charmed and habby, my friendt, to aggompany you. Supliminally
gonsidered, it vill be great stuff!"