XV

"Barbara," said her father when they had finished dinner, "I made a

threat this morning, and I'm going to keep it. If you have no especial

objection, will you come into the library?"

Her face was radiant; he had been praising her work for the tenth time.

"It sounds," she said, "as if I was going to be whipped. That wasn't

what you threatened to do, was it?"

"No," said he. "_I'm_ to be punished. I'm going to tell you about a

mistake of judgment I once made. But not as a warning, or a moral

lesson--merely, my dear, that you and I may learn to know each other

better. First, though, I want to talk to you about your model."

"He's rather fascinating, don't you think?"

"He is very clever," said her father, "and when he chooses he can talk

very well. He proved that this morning. To me, personally, he is most

repugnant, but I admit that when he once launched out, I listened as a

school-boy listens to stories of treasure and pirates. He's lived and

observed and suffered. There is no doubt about that. But I shall be

greatly relieved to hear that your bust is finished. I don't like the

idea of such a man being in the same block with you. I hope that you

will not feel inspired to do another head of him."

"He's a splendid model," said Barbara. "Of course this morning he

didn't keep still--and he did talk. But then I wasn't really working;

When I wish he keeps almost as still as the clay I work with."

"Doesn't looking at him ever give you--oh, a disagreeable creepy

feeling?"

"Not any more. I'm so used to him now. No, I feel a genuine friendliness

for him,"

"I thought," said her father, "that to you artists, models were

absolutely impersonal--just planes and angles and--what was it you

used to say?"

Barbara flushed slightly, remembering a former and very disagreeable

conversation. "Your memory is much too good," she said.

Dr. Ferris frowned, "I'm not trying to interfere," he said; "you're old

enough to know what's best for you, but if I could instil in you a

proper distaste for your friend, Mr. Blizzard, I should be delighted.

Beauty and the beast do _not_ go well together."

"_Please"_ said Barbara, "don't bother your head about me. When the bust

is finished, you and I go abroad for to look, for to see, for to learn.

That's agreed. We shall not invite Mr. Blizzard to go with us, and all

will be well. There's my hand on it!"

She laughed rosily, and they shook hands.

"Until recently," said Dr. Ferris, "I have taken, as you know, very

little interest in your career as a sculptor. Haven't you thought that

rather an unnatural attitude?"

"Why, yes," said Barbara, "I have."

She took a box of safety matches from a cigar-table, and kneeling,

lighted the fire in the big chimney-piece.

"I hope you don't mind," she said; "I'm shivery."

She knelt on, watching the little flames grow into big flames, and

spreading her hands to the warmth. Her face, arms, throat, and the front

of her white dress became golden. She looked more like some lovely

vestal of fire-worship than an ambitious American girl, determined to

achieve fame in the battleground of the world.

"Why, yes," she repeated, "it has seemed strange to me. When I've

thought that I wanted to do things, you always took a lot of interest

and trouble, but when I _knew_ that I wanted to do one thing, you gave

me a dreadfully cold shoulder." She smiled whimsically. "I shall do an

allegory in bluish-white marble--The Cold Shoulder."

She retreated a little from the fire, and sat at her father's feet. He

laid his hand on her many-colored hair.

From childhood Barbara had resented parental caresses. On the present

occasion, she felt a sudden tenderness for her father, and leaned a

little against him, in answer to the touch of his hand.

"Did it ever," said he, "strike you as strange that you never took any

interest in _my_ career?"

"I've always been tremendously proud of you," she said. "You know that."

"You liked my results," he said, "the show pieces--newspaper

notoriety--speech-making--the races in special trains against death.

But you don't even know what has chiefly interested me during the last

thirty years; nor the goal which I have felt I must reach before I could

be resigned to parting with this life."

"No," she said gently, "I don't. Tell me. I _want_ to be interested."

"You know, of course, that I experiment with animals."

"Yes. I have seen crates of guinea-pigs and monkeys at the laboratory

door. I'm afraid it always made me a little unhappy. But I suppose it's

the only way to get certain results. And you always give them something,

don't you?"

"Always. They don't suffer more than a man would while healing a deep

clean cut. In other words, they don't suffer at all. And they're not

unhappy, and they don't bear malice. And still I wouldn't do it, if I

could help myself. I think, my dear, that I have been chosen for my sins

to introduce a great benefit to mankind. It seems now only a question of

perfecting the technique. I've already had extraordinary results."

"What's the idea?"

"You know, of course, that a piece of skin from one man can be

successfully grafted on another man. Well, so can a liver, a finger, a

hand, a foot, an arm, a leg. I have two monkeys now: a black and a gray.

The black monkey has the gray hands and forearms, the gray monkey has

the black. I made the exchange eighteen months ago. And they have

developed the same strength and skill with the grafted members that they

had with their own. I have a monkey who had only one eye when he came.

Now he has two--they aren't a good color match, but he sees as well with

one as the other. When these ideas are perfected it will be possible,

perhaps, to make old people young. The secret is absolute cleanliness

and the accuracy in joining of a Chippendale or an Adams. So you see,"

he smiled, "that in a way you and I are chasing the same ambition--how

to express the thing imagined through perfection of technique."

"Are you the only man working along these lines?"

"Heavens, no! Aristotle probably believed in animal grafting. But I

think that, owing to a natural talent for doing close and accurate work

with my hands, I have gone farther than anybody else. What gave you the

impulse to be a sculptor, Barbs?"

She laughed gayly. "The statues in the Metropolitan that have lost their

arms and heads and legs. I felt very sorry for them. I was very young

and foolish, and I invented a game to play. I'd select a statue that

needed an arm, say, and then I'd hunt among the other statues for an arm

that would fit, or for a head or whatever else was missing. Through

playing that game I got the idea of making whole statues from the

beginning and not bothering with fragments."

"And to think," said Dr. Ferris, "that we have failed to understand

each other. Why, Barbs, your ambition is a direct lineal descendant of

mine. It was a maimed marble that showed you your life's work. It was a

maimed child that showed me mine. It seems that at heart we are

both menders."

"I began on dolls," said Barbara.

"And I began on guinea-pigs."

A footman entered with whiskey and soda on a tray. Barbara rose.

"Shall I pour you a drink?"

"A very little one, please."

She poured him his drink, and once more seated herself at his feet.

"After I graduated from the P. & S.," said Dr. Ferris, "I did ambulance

work for two years, accidents, births, fires. I was ambitious to learn,

and worked myself sick. One morning, after I'd been all night bringing a

most reluctant young Polack into the world, I was called to the house of

a world-famous man in East Thirty-fourth Street. The house was full of

servants mad with grief and fright. The man and his wife had gone out of

town, and their son, a beautiful boy about ten years old, had got

himself run over by a truck. His governess, I gathered, a German fool,

had been in some way directly responsible. But that is the small end of

the matter. The boy's legs were horribly crushed and mangled. It seemed

to me that if his life was to be saved, they must come off at once. The

family's physician was the famous old Doctor Watson Bell. I sent for

him. He didn't come at once, and when I had waited as long as I dared,

I took upon my own shoulders the very heavy responsibility of operating.

I put the child under ether, and with the help of one assistant took his

legs off just below the hip-joints. Then Dr. Bell came. He was a very

old friend of my father's, and he had always been very good to me. First

he looked to see that what had been done had been well done. Then he

examined the legs that I had taken off. Then he sent the nurse out of

the room. Then he turned and looked at me, and his face was gray and

cold as a stone. He said: 'You fool! You imbecile!' And he showed me,

clear as a flash of lightning, that the legs never should have been

amputated. Then he said, more gently: 'For your father's sake I will

save your face, young man. I shall set my approval to this catastrophe.

For your father's sake, and for your mother's. I have always looked on

you as an adopted son. Are you drunk?' I told him that I had been up all

night, and had had no sleep since five o'clock the morning before. He

shrugged his shoulders, and said: 'In your right mind, you couldn't have

done it,' and I knew that I couldn't. 'Horrible!' he said, 'horrible!

This poor baby to be a wreck of a thing all his life, because a healthy

and hearty young man cannot get along on a little sleep. But, thank God,

the child will never know that the operation wasn't necessary,'

"By common accord, we turned to look at the little boy. His eyes were

open. He had come out of the ether with miraculous suddenness. And we

saw by the expression of his face that he had heard--and that he had

understood."

Barbara took her father's hand in both hers and pressed it hard. "Poor

old dad," she said.

"Of course," Dr. Ferris went on, "the child told his parents. But Dr.

Bell lied up and down to save my face. He said that what the child

thought he had heard was part of an ether dream. And I lied. And nobody

believed the little boy. I had told him, before Dr. Bell could stop

me--I was hysterical and crazy--that if there was ever anything under

heaven that I could do for him, I would do it--no matter what it was.

And the boy told his parents that I had said that, but it was only taken

by them as evidence that I felt terribly sorry for what I had had to do,

and that I had a tender heart."

"Poor old dad!" said Barbara. "And what became of the little boy?"

"He grew vicious," said Dr. Ferris. "I don't blame him. Quarrelled

fearfully with his father, dropped into all sorts of evil ways and

companionship--all my fault, every bit of it--and finally disappeared

completely out of the station to which he had been born. I had reason

until the other day to believe that he was dead. Then I saw him."

There was quite a long silence. The fire burned brightly. Dr. Ferris,

greatly agitated by tragic memories, closed his eyes very tightly, as if

to shut them out.

"And of course," said Barbara at last, "the small boy is my Mr.

Blizzard. Well, what can we do for him?"

"_You_ owe him nothing," said her father sharply.

"Oh, yes," said Barbara gently, "oh, yes. Your obligations are mine. I

shall tell him. It's like owing a frightful sum of money. We can't be

happy till we've paid up, can we? You and I?"

"It seems," said Dr. Ferris, "that I have made two terrible mistakes.

And the second is having told you about the first. My God, but this life

is hard to bear!"

"But--why--what have I said? If there is _anything_ we can do for him,

we ought to do it."

"Are you going to say that to him?"

"Of course," she said.

"Suppose," said her father, "that in all this world he wanted only one

thing--you?"

This suggestion was most unexpected to Barbara and odious. And she said

coldly: "I hope he is not quite such a fool."

"But if he is?"

"My dear father," said Barbara, "I have been told that somewhere along

the Milky Way there is a bridge between stars. Let's cross that when we

come to it."

A footman entered carrying a large pasteboard box on which, in gilt

letters, was the name of a Third Avenue florist. But the jonquils in the

box were very fresh and lovely. They were, however, unaccompanied by

a card.

[Illustration: "Some unknown person," said Barbara, "has formed the

habit of sending me flowers"]

"Some unknown person," said Barbara, "has formed the habit of sending

me flowers." She smiled. "I shall ask my friend, Mr. Harry West," she

said, "to find out who it is."

And then, suddenly, she turned away, so that her father should not see

that she was blushing. The thought, not in the least disagreeable, had

occurred to her for the first time, that perhaps Mr. Harry West himself

was anonymously going down into his pocket for her sweet sake.