Priscilla Glenn always looked back on the next four weeks of her life as
a transition stage between one incarnation and another. Kenmore, and that
which had gone to the making of her life previous to her meeting with
John Boswell, seemed to have accomplished their purpose and left her
detached and finished, up to a certain point, for the next period of her
existence. In the severing of all the ties of the past, even affection,
gratitude, and memory, for the time being, were held in abeyance. This
was a merciful state, for, had ordinary emotions and sentiments held her,
she would have been unfitted for the difficult task of readjustment which
she gradually achieved, simply because of her dulled mental and spiritual
sensations.
The noise and flash of the big city bewildered and dazzled the girl from
the In-Place and encrusted her with an unreality that spared her many a
pang of loss, and also fear for the future. Boswell's apartment, high
above the street and overlooking the Hudson River and Palisades, became a
veritable sanctuary from which she dreaded to emerge and to which she
clung in a passion of self-preservation. The gray wall of stone across
the sparkling stream grew to be, in her vivid fancy, the barrier between
the past and future. Against it, unseen, faint, but persistent, beat what
once had been--her grim father, her weak, tearful mother, lonely, kindly
Master Farwell, and all the lesser folk of Kenmore. Pressing close and
straining to hold her, these dim, shadowy memories clustered, but she no
longer appeared a part of them, like them, or in any way connected with
them. On the other hand, below the eyrie dwelling in which she was
temporarily sheltered, lay the whirlpool of sound and motion into which,
sooner or later, she must plunge.
With keen appreciation and understanding of this phase of her
development, John Boswell kept conversation and life upon the surface,
and rarely permitted a letting-down of thought. Cautiously, and not too
often, he took his guest on tours of inspection and watched her while she
underwent new ordeals or experienced pain from unknown thrills. He had
never been more interested or amused in his life, and, in his enthusiasm,
exaggerated Priscilla's capabilities. He revelled in her frankness and
her confidence; he learned from her more of Farwell than he could have
learned in any other way, and his faithful heart throbbed in pity, pride,
and affection for the lonely master of the In-Place, who, little heeding
his own progress, had triumphed over his old and lesser self at last.
The home of Boswell was a large and sunny apartment high up in the huge
building. Only one servant, a marvellously silent and efficient Japanese,
ran the economic machinery, awesomely defended Boswell's library when the
master retired to perform his mystic rites, and in all relations was
exemplary. Poor Boswell's rites comprised a devouring appetite for
reading and a rather happy talent for turning off a short story as unique
and human as he was himself.
After Priscilla Glenn arrived, Toky, as the servant was called, was
tested to the uttermost. Never before had Boswell introduced a woman into
the sphere sacred to Man. Toky disapproved, was utterly disgusted; he
lost his implicit faith in his master's wisdom, but he adopted a manner
at once so magnanimous and charming that Boswell set to work and planned
future gifts of appreciation for his servant.
No other woman came to the apartment; Boswell shrank from them, not
bitterly or resentfully, but sensitively. Men took him more or less for
granted when he touched their lives; women overdid the determination, on
their parts, to set him at ease. Long since he had turned his poor,
misshapen back upon the very natural and legitimate desire for the happy
mingling of both sexes, but after Priscilla Glenn became his guest he
recognized the need of women friends in a sharp and painful manner. They
could have helped him so much; could have solved so many problems for him
and the girl; but as it was he had to do the best he could alone.
The hundred dollars, still to be repaid to Farwell, worked wonders in the
week following the arrival of the Beetle and the Butterfly, as Boswell
insisted upon calling himself and Priscilla. Having no power at court,
Boswell cast himself on the mercy of lesser folks and managed, by way of
secret nods and whispers, to gain the coöperation of sympathetic-looking
shop girls in order to array Priscilla in garments that would secure her
and him from impudent stares and offensive leers. The evenings following
these shopping expeditions were devoted to "casting up accounts."
Priscilla was absolutely lacking in worldly wisdom, but she had a sense
of accuracy that drove Boswell to the outer edge of veracity. Never
having bought an article of clothing for herself, Priscilla attacked this
new problem with perfectly blank faith. Prices often surprised and
startled her by their smallness, but the results obtained were gloriously
gratifying.
"I can better understand the lure of the States now, Mr. Boswell," she
said one evening as the two sat in the library with the wind howling
down Boswell's exaggerations and the fire illuminating the girl's
face. "Kenmore prices were impossible, but one can go wild here for so
little. Just fancy! That whole beautiful suit for two dollars and
eighty-seven----"
"Eighty-nine!" Boswell severely broke in, shaking his pencil at her as he
sat perched, like a benign gargoyle, by his study table. "I'll not have
Farwell defrauded while he cannot protect his own interests."
"Two eighty-nine," Priscilla agreed, with a laugh so merry and carefree
that the listener dropped his tired eyes. "And how much does that leave
of the hundred, Mr. Boswell? I tremble when I think of the silk gown so
soft and pretty, the slippers and stockings to match, and the storm coat,
umbrella, heavy shoes, and--and--other things."
Boswell referred to his notes and long lines of figures.
"All told, and in round numbers, there are forty-seven dollars and three
cents left."
"It's marvellous! wonderful!" Priscilla exclaimed. "You are sure, Mr.
Boswell?"
"Do you doubt me?"
"Sometimes I do, you are so kind, so generous, and under ordinary
circumstances it would seem impossible to buy things so cheap. You must
select your shops carefully."
"One has to on a moderate allowance."
Then quite suddenly Priscilla Glenn spoke quickly and breathlessly:
"Mr. Boswell, I--I must begin my training. Have you made any
arrangements? And, when I go, will they pay me from the start?"
Boswell grew grave as he thought of the knowledge that would come
concerning dollars and cents later on.
"I have started operations," he replied; "in a short time you will be
able to begin your studies, and I hear they will pay you the princely sum
of ten dollars a month from the day you are accepted. Canadians are
greatly in demand."
"Ten dollars!" gasped Priscilla, "Ten dollars a month! when I think what
this hundred has done, and the twelve months in each year, it--it dazzles
me!"
Boswell gave an uncomfortable laugh. In the light of nearby
disillusionment his practical joke looked mean and ghastly.
Then, with another abrupt change of thought, Priscilla brought Boswell
again at bay.
"Before I go into training," she said, "I must go and see Master
Farwell's friend--his old friend, you know. I feel very guilty and
ungrateful, but it has all been so strange and bewildering, I have seemed
dead and done for and then born again, I could not help myself; but I can
now. Please tell me all about her, Mr. Boswell, and how I can find her."
Boswell dropped the pencil upon the mahogany desk and looked blankly at
Priscilla.
"Let us sit by the fire," he said presently, "I am cold and--tired. Turn
down the lights."
They took their positions near the hearth: the dwarf in his low, deep
leather chair with its wide "wings" that hid him so mercifully; Priscilla
in the small rocker that from the first had seemed to meet every curve
and line of her long, young body with restful welcome.
"And now," Priscilla urged, "please tell me. I feel, to-night, like
myself once more. I am adjusted to the new life, I hope, ready to do my
part."
When John Boswell cast aside his whimsical phase he was a very simple and
direct man. He, too, was becoming adjusted to Priscilla's presence in his
home and her rightful demands upon him.
"Yes, I will tell you," he said slowly, wearily.
"Perhaps you are too tired to-night, Mr. Boswell? To-morrow will do."
"No. I never sleep when the wind howls; it gets into my imagination. I'd
rather talk. The thing I have to tell you--is what I shall tell Farwell
if I ever see him again. It's rather a bungling thing I've done. I'll
receive my reward, doubtlessly, but I would do the same, were I placed in
the same position, over and over again.
"Farwell Maxwell, known to you as Anton Farwell, has been part, the
biggest part, of my life since we were young boys. We were about as
pitiful a contrast as can be imagined, and for that reason met each
other's needs more completely. We had only one thing in common--money. He
was a straight, handsome fellow, while I was--what you see before you--a
crooked, distorted creature, but one in whose heart and soul dwelt all
the cravings and aspirations of youth and intelligence. I was alone in
the world. My father died before my birth, and I cost my mother--her
life. Farwell had, until he was twenty, an adoring though foolish mother,
who laid undue emphasis upon his rights and privileges. She, and an older
brother, died when he was twenty-one--died before the trouble came, but
not before they had done all they could to train him for it. At
twenty-one he was a selfish, hot-headed fellow with a fortune at his
command, a confused sense of right and wrong, an ungoverned, artistic
nature swayed by impulse, and, yes, honest affection and generous
flashes. And I? Well, I found I could buy with my money what otherwise I
must have gone without, but the shadow never counted for the substance
with me. The fawning favour, which held its sneer in check, filled me
with disgust, and I would have been a bitter, lonely fellow but--for
Farwell.
"I never could quite understand him; I do not to-day, but he, from the
beginning, did not seem to recognize or admit my limitations. Through
preparatory school and college we went side by side. He called me by the
frank and brutal names that boys and men only use to equals. I wonder if
you can understand when I say that to hear him address me as an infernal
coward, when I shrank from certain things, was about the highest
compliment I knew?"
"Yes," murmured Priscilla, "I can understand that." She could not see
Boswell; the low, impassioned words came from out the shadows like
thoughts. "Yes, I can quite understand how you felt."
"I am glad that you can, for then you will see--why I have done--what I
could for Farwell--when he needed me. Back in those old days he was not
content to shame me into playing my part; by that power of his, that
worked both good and evil, he compelled others, in accepting him, to
accept me on equal terms. There was a seat for me at the tables to which
he was invited; he discovered my poor talent for telling a story, and
somehow hypnotized others into considering me a wit! A wit!"
A silence fell between the two by the fire. Priscilla's throat was hard
and dry, her heart aching with pity.
"And then," Boswell continued drearily, "the crash came when he was only
twenty-five! I suppose he was savagely primitive. That was why externals
did not count so much with him. He could not brook opposition, especially
if injustice marked it; he was never able to estimate or eliminate. He
was like a child when an obstacle presented itself. If he could not get
around it, he attacked it with blind passion.
"It was part of his nature to espouse the cause of the weak and needy;
that was what held him, unconsciously, to me; it was what attracted him
to Joan Moss."
The name fell upon Priscilla's mind like a shock. The story was nearing
the crisis.
"She was outwardly beautiful; inwardly she was as deformed--as I! But in
neither case was he ever able to get the right slant. He loved us both in
his splendid, uncritical way. His love brought me to his feet in abject
devotion: it lured the woman to accomplish his destruction. Something,
some one, menaced her! He tried to sweep the evil aside, but----"
"Yes, yes, please go on!" Priscilla was breathless.
"Well, he couldn't sweep it aside; so he committed--murder."
"Oh! Mr. Boswell!"
The shuddering cry drew Boswell to the present. He remembered that his
listener knew Farwell only as a friend and gentle comrade. Her shock was
natural.
"You--you never guessed? Why do you think he, that brilliant fellow,
stayed hidden like a dead thing all these years?"--there was a quiver in
Boswell's voice--"hidden so deep that--not even I dared to go to him for
fear I would be followed and he again trapped! Oh! 'twas an ugly thing he
did; but he was driven to insanity--even his judges believed that--at the
last; but his victim was too big a man to go unavenged, so they hunted
Farwell down, caught him in a trap, and tried to finish him, but he got
away and they thought him--dead."
"Yes, yes," moaned Priscilla, "yes, I know. And the woman--did her heart
break?"
At this Boswell leaned forward, and, in the fire's glow, Priscilla saw
his face grow cruel and hard.
"Her heart break? No, she went promptly to the devil, once she was sure
she had lost Farwell and his money. Down to the last hope she made him
believe in her. How she acted! But when he was reported dead, well!"--and
Boswell gave a harsh laugh--"her heart did not break!"
A sound brought Boswell back to the dim room.
"You are--crying?" he said slowly; "crying for him?"
"For him, yes, and for you!"
"For me?"--a wonderful tenderness stole into the man's voice--"for me? I
do not think any one before--ever cried for me. Thank you. You understand
what all this meant to me? What a--woman you will be--if----"
Priscilla raised her tear-stained face and her lips quivered as she
recalled that Farwell had said almost exactly the same words to her back
there in the In-Place. She understood because she had been lonely and
known the suffering of the lonely. She must never forget, never fail
those who needed her! But Boswell was talking on again with a new note of
feeling in his voice.
"While I thought him dead I sank back into my shell, sank lower than I
had ever been before. I wanted to die; wanted it so truly that I planned
it; grew interested in arranging my affairs. Preparing to die became my
excitement, and when everything was ready, Farwell spoke to me--from his
grave! That letter from your In-Place worked a miracle upon me. While he
lived there would always be something for me to do. He had made a place
in the world for me; I could keep his place ready for him. It was a small
return, but it meant life--for me.
"There were years when Farwell felt he was coming back. I heard from him
spring and autumn, and there were hope and promise each time. When people
forgot, he would return, and he wanted to go to--to Joan Moss himself
with his story. So long as he knew that she was alive and faithful it was
enough, and, besides, he realized that had she or I gone to him just then
it might have been fatal. He believed that if she knew where he was she
would hasten to him!
"Well, just at first I thought that he might come at any time and might
rescue--Joan Moss. I was even willing for him to have her if it could add
any happiness to him. Then there was the money--his money. I kept his
belief in that, too. Everything of his went at the time of the trial, but
mine was his, so that was a small matter. I suppose all the sentiment and
passion that most men spread over their entire lives were, in me,
concentrated on Farwell. When I thought of him caged and alone, in the
wilds, I found lying to him about the only thing I could do. So I kept
his belief in Joan Moss and his fortune. Then something happened to him.
I never knew what it was, but it seemed to take all the hope and courage
from him. He wanted me to see that Joan Moss was well taken care of, and
in case of his death she must have all that he died possessed of. Just at
that time Joan Moss came to me, a wreck! She lived only six months, but
for his sake I saw that she had all that he would have had for her. She
thought that he gave it to her, too, or at least she thought his money
gave it, since it was in his will that she should have it. His name was
on her lips when the end came. I will tell him that some day. It will
help him to forgive me. After that I wrote and wrote to him, making
frantic efforts to secure to him, until he were free, what existed no
longer on earth! That is all."
The fire had died down and become ashy; the wind no longer howled; the
night had fallen into peace at last.
Priscilla got up stiffly, for she was cold and nerve-worn. She walked
unsteadily to Boswell, her tear-stained face twitching with emotion, her
hands outstretched. In her eyes was the look that only once or twice
in his life had Boswell ever seen directed toward him by any human
being--the look that claimed the hidden and best in him, forgetting the
deformities that limited him.
"I think you are the best man on earth, the noblest friend. Oh! what can
we do for Master Farwell?"
Quite simply Boswell took the hands in his. Her eyes made him brave and
strong, and her "we" throbbed in his thoughts like a warm and tender
caress.
"You must leave that to me," he said gently, giving his kindly smile. "I
cannot share this burden with you. So long have I borne it that it has
become sacred to me. It means only making the story a little longer, a
little stronger. Some day he will have to know--some day; but not now!
not now!"
Just then a distant church bell struck the midnight hour. Solemnly,
insistently, the twelve strokes rose and fell.
"The wind has passed," whispered Boswell.
"Yes, and the fire is dead. You are very, very tired, I am sure,"
Priscilla murmured.
Something new and maternal had entered into her thought and voice. While
life lasted she was always to see in the crippled man a brave and patient
soul who played with sternest problems because he had no other toys with
which to while away his dreary years; no other offerings for them he
loved.
"Yes. The play is over for--to-night. The Property Man can take his rest
until--to-morrow. Turn on the lights, Priscilla Glenn. You and I must
find our way out of the darkness."
"Let me help you, Mr. Boswell."
"Help me? That sounds very kind. I will make believe that I am ninety!
Yes, you may help me. Thank you! And now good night. You need not write
of--Joan Moss to Farwell. I am grateful because you understand and
appreciate my--my attempt. I can bring the tale to a close in great
style. I was a bit discouraged, but it seems clear and convincing now.
That is often the way in my trade of story-maker. We come against a blank
wall, only to find there a gateway that opens to our touch."