 CHAPTER 1 A MAKER OF SONGS The pines, darkly purple, towered against the sunset. Behind the hills, the squandered tapestry glowed and flamed, sending far messages of light to the grey east, where lay the sea, pruning itself to sleep. Bare boughs dripped rain upon the sodden earth, where the dead leaves had so long been hidden by the snow. The thousand sounds and scents of spring at last had waked the world. The man who stood near the edge of the cliff, quite alone and carefully filling the ground before him with his cane, had chosen to face the valley and dream of the glory that, perchance, trailed down in living light from some vast loom of gods. His massive head was thrown back as though he listened with a secret sense for music denied to those who see. He took off his hat and strayed gleams came through the deepening shadows to rest, like an ariel upon his silvered hair. Remembered sunsets from beyond the darkness of more than twenty years came back to him with divine beauty and diviner joy. Nemesine, that guardian angel of the soul, brought from her treasure house gifts of laughter and tears. The laughter, sweet and singing, and the bitterness of the tears, eternally lost in the water of forgetfulness. Slowly the light died. The dusk came upon the valley and crept softly to the hills, mist drifted in from the sleeping sea, and the hush of night brooded over the river as it murmured through the plain. A single star uplifted its exquisite lamp against the afterglow near the veiled ivory of the crescent moon. Sighing, the man turned away, perhaps, he thought whimsically. As he went cautiously down the path, searching out every step of the way, there was no sunset at all. The road was clear until he came to a fallen tree, over which he stepped easily, the new softness of the soil had for him its own deep meaning of resurrection. He felt it in the swelling buds of the branches that sometimes swayed before him, and found it in the scent of the cedar as he crushed a bit of it in his hand. Easily, yet carefully, he went around the base of the hill to the street where his house was the first upon the right-hand side. The gate creaked on its hinges, and he went quickly up the walk, passing the gray tangle of last summer's garden where the marigolds had died and the larks were fallen asleep. Within the house two women awaited him, one with anxious eagerness, the other with tenderly watchful love. The older one, who had long been listening, opened the door before he knocked, but it was Barbara who spoke to him first. You're late, Father dear. Am I, Barbara? Tell me, was there a sunset tonight? Yes, a glorious one. I thought so, and that accounts for my being late. I saw a beautiful sunset. I saw it with my soul. Give me your coat, Ambrose. The older woman stood at his side, longing to do him some small service. Thank you, Miriam. You are always kind. The tiny living room was filled with relics of past luxury, fine pictures in tarnished frames, hung on the dingy walls, and worn rugs covered the floor. The furniture was old mahogany, beautifully cared for, but decrepit nevertheless, and the ancient square piano outwardly at least showed every year of its age. Still, the room had atmosphere of the indefinable quality that some people impart to a dwelling place. Entering, one felt refinement, daintiness, and the ability to live above mere externals. Barbara had, very strongly, the house love which belongs to some rare women, and who shall say that inanimate things do not answer to our love of them, and diffuse between our four walls a certain gracious spirit of kindness and welcome. In the dining room where the table was set for supper, there were marked contrasts. A coarse cloth covered the table, but at the head of it were overlaid a remnant of heavy-table damask, the worn places carefully hidden. The china at this place was thin and fine, the silver was solid, and the cup from which Ambrose North drank was satsuma. On the coarse cloth were the heavy cheap dishes and the discouraging knives and forks, which were at the portion of the others. The five damask napkins remaining from the original stock of linen were used only by the blind man. For years the two women had carried on this comforting deceit, and the daily lie they lived so lovingly had become a sort of second nature. They had learned to speak casually of the difficulty in procuring servants and to say how much easier it was to do their own small tasks than to watch continually over fine linen and rare china entrusted to incompetent hams. They talked of tapestries, laces, and jewels which had long ago been sold, and Barbara frequently wore a string of beads which, with the lump in her throat, she called mother's pearls. Discovering that the sound of her crutches on the floor distressed him greatly, Barbara had padded the sharp ends with flannel and was careful to move about as little as possible when he was in the house. She had gone mouse-like to her own particular chair, while Miriam was hanging up his coat and hat and placing his easy chair near the open fire. He sat down and held his slender hands close to the grateful warmth. It isn't cold, he said, and yet I am glad of the fire. Today is the first day of spring. By the almanac? laughed Barbara. No, according to the almanac, I believe. It has been spring for ten days. Nature does not move according to man's laws, but she forces him to observe hers except in almanacs. The firelight made kindly shadows in the room, softening the unloveliness and lending such beauty as it might. It gave Ambrose North's fine, strong face the delicacy and dignity of an old miniature. It transfigured Barbara's yellow hair into a crown of gold and put a new gentleness into Miriam's lined face as she sat in the half-light, one of them in blood, yet singularly alien at a part. What are you doing, Barbara? The sensitive hand strayed to her lap and lifted the sheer bit of linen upon which she was working. Making lingerie by hand. You have a great deal of it, haven't you? Not as much as you think, perhaps. It takes a long time to do it well. It seems to me you are always sewing. Girls are very vain these days, Father. We need a great many pretty things. Your dear mother used to sew a great deal. She, his voice broke. For even after many years his grief was keenly alive. Is supper ready, Aunt Miriam? asked Barbara quickly. Yes. Then come, let's go in. Ambrose North took his place at the head of the table, which, purposely, was nearest the door. Barbara and Miriam sat together at the end. Where were you today, Father? On the summit of the highest hill, almost at the top of the world, I think I heard a robin, but I am not sure. I smelled spring in the maple branches and the cedar, and felt it in the salt mist that blew up from the sea. The winter has been so long. Did you make a song? Yes, too. I'll tell you about them afterward. Always make a song, Barbara, no matter what comes. So the two talked while the other woman watched them furtively. Her face was that of one who has lived much in a short space of time, and her dark burning eyes betrayed tragic depths of feeling. Her black hair, slightly tinged with gray, was brushed straight back from her wrinkled forehead. Her shoulders were stooped, and her hands roughed from hard work. She was the older sister of Ambrose North's dead wife, the woman he had so devotedly loved. Ever since her sister's death, she had lived with them, taking care of little lame Barbara, now grown into beautiful womanhood, except for the crutches. After his blindness, Ambrose North had lost his wife, and then, by slow degrees, his fortune. Mercifully, a long illness had made him forget a great deal. Never mind, Barbara, said Miriam, in a low tone, as they rose from the table. It will make your hands too rough for the sewing. Shant I wipe the dishes for you, auntie? I just as soon. No, go with him. The fire had gone down, but the room was warm, so Barbara turned up the light and began again on her endless stitching. Her father's hand sought hers. More sewing. His voice was tender and appealing. Just a bit, father, please. I'm so anxious to get this done. But why, dear? Because girls are so vain, she answered with a laugh. Is my little girl vain? Awfully. Hasn't she the dearest father in the world and the prettiest—she swallowed hard here—the prettiest house and the loveliest clothes? Who wouldn't be vain? I am so glad, said the old man, contentedly, that I have been able to give you the things you want. I could not bear it if we were poor. You told me you had made two songs today, father. He drew closer to her and laid one hand upon the arm of her chair. Quietly she moved her crutches beyond his reach. One is about the river, he began. In winter a cruel fairy put it to sleep, in an enchanted tower far up in the mountains, and walled up the door with crystal. All the while the river was asleep. It was dreaming of the green fields and the soft, fragrant winds. It tossed and murmured in its sleep, and at last it woke, too soon, for the cruel fairy's spell could not have lasted much longer. When it found the door barred, it was very sad. Then it grew rebellious and hurled itself against the door, trying to escape. But the barrier only seemed more unyielding, so making the best of things, the river began to sing about the green. From its prison house it sang of the green fields and fragrant winds, the blue violets that starred the meadow, the strange singing harps of the marsh grasses, and the wonder of the sea. Good fairy happened to be passing, and she stopped to hear the song. She became so interested that she wanted to see the singer, so she opened the door. The river laughed and ran out, still singing and carrying the door long. It never stopped until it had taken every bit of the broken crystal far out to sea. I made one, too, father. What is it? Mine is about the linen. Once there was a little seed put away into the darkness and covered deep with earth, but there was a soul in the seed, and after the darkness grew warm, it began to climb up and up, until one day it reached the sunshine. After that it was so glad that it tossed out tiny green branches, and finally its soul blossomed into a blue flower. Then a princess passed, and her hair was flaxen, and her eyes were the color of the flower. The flower said, Oh, pretty princess, I want to go with you. The princess answered, You would die, little flower, if you were picked. And she went on. But one day the reaper passed, and the little blue flower and all its bellows were gathered, after a terrible time of darkness and pain, the flower bound itself in a web of shearst linen. There was much cutting and more pain and thousands of pricking stitches Then a beautiful gown was made, all embroidered with the flax in palest blue and green, and it was the wedding gown of the pretty princess, because her hair was flaxen, and her eyes the color of the flowers. What color is your hair, Barbara? He had asked the question many times. The color of ripe corn, daddy. Don't you remember my telling you? He leaned forward to stroke the shining braids. And your eyes? Like the lockspur that grows in the garden. I know, your dear mother's eyes. He touched her face gently as he spoke. Your skin is so smooth. Is it fair? Yes, daddy. I think you must be beautiful. I have asked Miriam so often, but she will not tell me. She only says you look well enough, and something like your mother. Are you beautiful? Oh, daddy, daddy! laughed Barbara in confusion. You mustn't ask such questions! Didn't you say you had made two songs? What is the other one? Miriam sat in the dining room out of sight, but within hearing, having observed that in her presence they laughed less. She spent her evenings alone unless they urged her to join them. She had a newspaper more than a week old, but, as yet, she had not read it. She sat staring into the shadows with the light of her one candle flickering upon her face, nervously moving her work-borne hands. The other saw her minded Barbara gently. This one was about a sunset beside. It was such a sunset, as was never on sea or land, because two who loved each other saw it together. God and all his angels had hung a marvelous tapestry from the high walls of heaven, and it reached almost to the mountaintops, where some of the little clouds sleep. The man said, Shall we always look for the sunsets together? The woman smiled and answered, Yes, always. And the man continued, When one of us goes on the last long journey, Then answered the woman, The other will not be watching alone. For, I think, there in the west is the golden city with the Jasper walls and the jeweled foundations, where the twelve gates are twelve pearls. There was a long silence. And so, said Barbara softly, Ambrose North looked at his gray head from his hands and rose to his feet unsteadily. And so, he said with difficulty, She leans from the sunset toward him, But he can never see her, because he is blind. Oh, Barbara, he cried passionately, Last night I dreamed that you could walk, And I could see. So we can, Daddy, said Barbara very gently. Our souls are neither blind nor lame. Here, I am eyes for you, And you are feet for me. So we belong together. And past the sunset, Past the sunset, repeated the old man dreamily, Soul and body shall be as one. We must wait, for life is made up of waiting, And make what songs we can. I think, Father, that a song should be in poetry, shouldn't it? Some of them are, but more are not. Some are music and some are words, And some, like prayers, are feeling. The real song is in the thrush's heart, Not in the silvery rain of sound, That comes from the green boughs in spring. When you open the door of your heart, And let all the joy rush out, Laughing, then you are making a song. But is there always joy? Yes, though sometimes it is said that covered up with other things, We must find it and divide it, For only in that way it grows. Good night, my dear. He bent to kiss her while Miriam, With her heart full of nameless yearning, Watched them from the far shadows. The sound of his footsteps died away, And the distant door closed. Soon afterward, Miriam took her candle, And went noiselessly upstairs, But she did not say good night to Barbara. Until midnight, the girl sat at her sewing, Taking the finest of stitches in tuck and hem. The lamp burning low made her needle fly swiftly. In her own room was an old chest nearly full of dainty garments, Which she was never to wear. She had wrought miracles of embroidery upon some of them, And others were unadorned, saved by tucks and lace. When the work was finished, she folded it and laid it aside, Then put away her thimble and thread. When the guests come to the hotel, She thought, ah, when they come, And by all the things I've made the past year, And the preserves, and the candied orange peel, The rag rugs, and the quilts. Then, so Barbara fell adreaming, And the light of the dying embers lay lovingly upon her face, Already transfigured by tenderness, Into beauty beyond words. The lamp went out, and little by little the room faded, Into twilight, then into night. It was quite dark when she leaned over And picked up her crutches. Dear, dear father, she breathed, He must never know. End of Chapter 1 Chapter 2 A Flower of the Dusk by Myrtle Reed Miss Maddie Miss Maddie was getting supper, sustained by the comforting thought That her task was utterly beneath her, and had been forced upon her By the mysterious workings of an untoward fate. She was not really Miss, since she had been married and widowed, And a grown son was waiting impatiently in the sitting-room For his evening meal, but her neighbors, nearly all of whom had Known her before her marriage, still called her Miss Maddie. The arbitrary social distinctions made regardless of personality Are often cruelly ironical. Many a man incapable of nature, By lifelong devotion to one woman, becomes a husband, in half an hour, Duly sanctioned by church and state. A woman who remains unmarried, Because, with fine courage, she will have her true mate or none, Is called an old maid. She may have the heart of a wife, And the soul of a mother, but she cannot escape her sinister label. The real old maids are of both sexes, and many are married, But alas seldom to each other. In his introspective moments, Roger Austin sometimes wondered why marriage, maternity, And bereavement, should have left no trace upon his mother. The uttermost depths of life had been hers for the sounding, But Miss Maddie had refused to drop her plummet overboard, And had spent the years in prolonged study of her own particular boat. She came in with the irritating air of a martyr, And clucked sharply with her false teeth when she saw that her son was reading. I don't know what I've done, she remarked, That I should have to live all the time with people who keep their noses in books. Your pa was forever readen, and you're marked with it. I could set here, and set here, and set here, And he took no more notice of me than if I was a piece of furniture. When he died, the brethren and cistern used to come to gondol me, And say how I must miss him. There wasn't nothing to miss, Because the books and his chair was left. I have a good mind to burn them all up. I won't read if you don't want me to, mother, answered Roger, laying his book aside regretfully. I don't know but what I'd rather you would than to want to and not, she retorted, somewhat obscurely. What I'm saying is that it's in the blood, and you can't help it. If I'd known it was your pa's intention to give himself up so exclusive to readen, I'd never have married him. That's all I've got to say. There's no sense in it. Let me see what you're at now. She took the open book that lay face downward upon the table, and read aloud awkwardly. Leave to the diamond its ages to grow, nor expect to accelerate the births of the eternal. Friendship demands a religious treatment. We talk of choosing our friends, but friends are self-elected. Now, she demanded, in a shrill voice, what does that mean? I don't think I could explain it to you, mother. That's just the point. Your pa couldn't ever explain nothing, neither. You're reading and reading and reading, and you never know what you're reading about. Diamonds growing and births being hurried up, and friends being religious and voted for at township elections. Who's running for friend this year on the Republican ticket? She inquired costically. Roger managed to force a laugh. You, half your own peculiar way of putting things, mother, is supper ready? I'm as hungry as a bear. I suppose you are. When it ain't reading, it's eating. Work all day to get a meal that don't last more than fifteen minutes, and then see reading going on till long past bedtime, and oil going up every six months. Would you have? Fresh applesauce, or canned raspberries? It doesn't matter. Then I'll get the applesauce because the canned raspberries can lay over as long as they're kept cool. Miss Maddie shuffled back into the kitchen. During the winter she wore black-knitted slippers, attached to woolen inner soles, which had no heels. She was well past the half-century bark, but her face had few lines in it, and her gray eyes were sharp and penetrating. Her smooth pale brown hair, which did not show the gray in it, was parted precisely in the middle. Every morning she brushed it violently with a stiff brush dipped into cold water, and twisted the ends into a tight knot at the back of her head. In militant moments this knot seemed to rise, and the protruding ends of the wire hairpins to bristle into formidable weapons of offence. She habitually wore her steel-bowed spectacles halfway down her nose. They might have fallen off, had not a kindly provenance placed a large wort where it would do the most good. On Sundays when she put on shoes, corsets, her best black silk, and her gold-bowed spectacles, she took great pains to wear them properly. When she reached home, however, she always took off her fine rain-ment and laid her spectacles aside with a great sigh of relief. Miss Maddie's disposition improved rapidly as soon as the old steel-bowed pair were in their rightful place, resting safely upon the wort. When they sat down to supper she reverted to the original topic. As I was saying, she began, there ain't no sense in the books you and your pa has always set such store by. Where he ever got them, I don't know, but they was always coming. Lots of them was well nigh wore out when he got them, and he wouldn't let me buy nothing that had been used before, even if I knew the folks. I got a silver coffin plate once at an auction over to the ridge for almost nothing, and your pa was as mad as a wet hen. There was a name on it, but it could have been scraped off, and the rest of it was perfectly good. When you need a coffin plate, you need it awful bad. While your pa was rampant around, he said he wouldn't have been surprised to see me coming home with a second-hand coffin in the back of the buggy, whoever heard of a second-hand coffin. I've always thought his mind was unsettled by so much reading. I ain't a saiyan, but what some reading is all right, some folks has just moved over to the ridge, and the postmaster's wife was a-showin' me some papers they get every week. One is the Metropolitan Weekly, and the other, the housewife's companion. I must say, the stories in those papers is certainly beautiful. Once when they come after their mail, they was as mad as anything, because the papers hadn't come. But the postmaster's wife was reading one of the stories and settin' up nights to do it, so she won't to blame for not letting them go until she got through with them. They slipped out of the covers just as easy, and nobody ever knows the difference. She was tellin' me about one of the stories. It's named Lovely Lulu, or the Doctor's Darling. Lovely Lulu is a little orphaned, who has to do most of the housework for a family of eight, and the way they abuse that child is something awful. The young ladies are forever puttin' ruffled white skirts into her wash and makin' her darn the lace on their blue silk mornin' dresses. There's a rich doctor that they're all after, and one day little Lulu happens to open the front door for him, and he gets a good look at her for the first time. As she goes upstairs, Arthur Montmorency, that's his name, holds both hands to his heart, and says, She and she only shall be my bride. The conclusion of this highly fascinating and absorbent romance will be found in the next number of the housewife's companion. Mother, suggested Roger. Why don't you subscribe for the papers yourself? Miss Maddie dropped her knife in fork, and gazed at him in open-mouthed astonishment. Roger, she said kindly, I declare, if sometimes you don't remind me of my people more in your pause. I never thought of that myself, and I don't know how you come to. I'll do it the very first time I go down to the store. The postmaster's wife can get the addresses without tearing off the covers, and after I get him read she can borrow mine, and not be always making the people at the ridge so mad that she's running the risk of losing her job. If you ain't the beat-nest, basking in the unaccustomed warmth of his mother's approval, Roger finished his supper in peace. Afterward, while she was clearing up, he even dared to take up the much criticized book and lose himself once more in his father's beloved Emerson. All his childish memories of his father had been blurred into one by the mists of the intervening years, as though it were yesterday he could see the library upstairs, which was still the same, and the grave, silent, kindly man, who sat dreaming over his books. When the child entered, half afraid, because the room was so quiet, the man had risen and caught him in his arms with such hungry passion that he had almost cried out. Oh, my son! came in the deep, rich voice, vibrant with tenderness, my dear little son. That was all, save a few old photographs and the priceless legacy of the books. The library was not a large one, but it had been chosen by a man of discriminating, yet Catholic, taste. The books had been used and were not, as so often happens, merely ornaments, page after page had been interlined, and there was scarcely a volume which was not rich in marginal notes, sometimes questioning a character, but indicating always understanding and appreciation. As soon as he learned to read, Roger began to spend his leisure hours in the library. When he could not understand a book, he put it aside and took up another. Always there were pictures, and sometimes many of them. For in his later years, Lawrence Austin had contracted the baneful habit of extra illustration. Never maternal, save in the limited physical sense, Miss Maddie had been glad to have the child out of her way. Day by day, the young mind grew and expanded in its own way. Year by year, Roger came to an affectionate knowledge of his father through the medium of the marginal notes. He wondered sometimes that a pencil mark should so long outlive the fine, strong body of the man who made it. It seemed pitiful, in a way, and yet he knew that books and letters are the things that endure in a world of transition and decay. The underlined passages and the marginal comments gave evidence of an extraordinary love of beauty in whatever shape or form, and yet the parlor, which was opened only on Sunday, was hideous with a gaudy carpet, stuffed chairs, family portraits done in crayon, and inflicted upon the house by itinerant vendors of tea and coffee, and there was a basket of wax flowers protected by glass on the marble-topped center-table. The pride of Miss Maddie's heart was a chair, which, with incredible industry, she had made from an empty flower-barrel. She had spoiled a good barrel to make a bad chair, but her thrifty soul rejoiced in her achievement. Roger never went near it, so Miss Maddie herself sat in it on Sunday afternoons, nodding and crooning hymns to herself. How did father stand it, thought Roger, intending no disrespect? He loved his mother, and appreciated her good qualities, but he saw the awful chasm between those two souls which no ceremony of marriage could ever span. In appearance Roger was like his father. He had the same clear dark skin with regular features and kind dark eyes, the same abundant wavy hair, strong square chin, and in congruous beauty-loving mouth. He had, too, the lovable boyishness which never quite leaves some fortunate men. He was studying law in the judge's office, and hoped, by another year, to be ready to take his examinations. After working hard all day, he found refreshment for mind and body in an hour or so at night, spent with the treasures of his father's library. Let us buy our entrance to this guild with a long probation, read Roger. Why should we desecrate noble and beautiful souls by intruding upon them? Why insist upon rash personal relations with your friend? Why go to his house, and know his mother and brother and sisters? Why be visited by him at your own? Are these things material to our covenant? Leave this touching and clawing. Let him be to me. I've spoke twice, complained Miss Maddie, and you don't hear me no more in your polluted. I beg your pardon, mother. I did not hear you come in. What is it? I was just to say that maybe those papers would be too expensive. Maybe I ought not to have them. I'm sure they're not, mother. Anyhow, you get them, and we'll make it up in some other way, if we have to. Dimly in the future, Roger saw long, quiet evenings in which his disturbing influence should be rendered null and void by the charms of Lovely Lulu, or the Doctor's Darling. Barbara North sent her paw over here this morning to ask for some book. Disremember now what it was, but it was after you was gone. Roger's expressive face changed instantly. Why didn't you tell me sooner, mother? He spoke with evident effort. It's too late now for me to go over there. There's no call for you to go over. They can send again. Miss Miriam can come after it any time. They ain't got no business to let a blind old man like Ambrose North run around by himself the way they do. He takes very good care of himself. He knew this place before he was blind, and I don't think there is any danger. Just the same, he ought not to go around alone, and that's what I told him this morning. A blind old man like you says I ain't got no business chasing around alone. First thing you know, you'll fall down and break a leg or arm or something. Roger shrank as if from a physical hurt. Mother! he cried. How can you say such things? Why not? she queried, imperturbably. He knows he's blind, I guess. And he certainly can't think he's young, so what harm does it do to speak of it? Anyway, she added piously. I always say just what I think. Roger got up, put his hands in his pockets, and paced back and forth restlessly. People who always say what they think, mother, he answered, not unkindly, assume that their opinions are of great importance to people who probably do not care for them at all. Unless directly asked, it is better to say only the kind things and keep the rest to ourselves. I was kind, objected, Miss Maddie. I was telling him he ought not to take the risk of hurting himself by running around alone. I don't know what ails you, Roger. Every day you get more and more like your pa. How long had you and father known each other before you were married, asked Roger, steering quickly away from the dangerous rocks that will loom up in the best regulated of conversations? About three months? Why? Oh, I just wanted to know. I used to be a pretty girl, Roger, though you mightn't think it now. Her voice softened, and taking off her spectacles, she gazed far into space, seemingly, to that distant girlhood when radiant youth lent to the grey old world some of its own immortal joy. I don't doubt it, said Roger politely. Your pa and me used to go to church together. He sang in the choir, and I had a white dress, and a bonnet trimmed with lustring ribbon. I can smell the clover now, and hear the bees humming when the windows was open in summer. A bee came in once while the minister was praying, and lighted on Deacon Emery's bald head. Seems a most as if it was yesterday. Your pa had great notions, she went on after a pause, just before we was married. He said he was going to educate me, but he never did. End of Chapter 2 Chapter 3 Of Flower of the Dusk by Myrtle Reed This LibriVox recording is in the public domain. The Tower of Cologne Roger sat in Ambrose North's easy chair, watching Barbara while she sewed. I am sorry, he said, that I wasn't at home when your father came over after the book. Mother was unable to find it. I'm afraid I'm not very orderly. It doesn't matter. Returned Barbara, threading her needle again. I steal too much time for my work as it is. Roger sighed and turned restlessly in his chair. I wish I could come over every day and read to you. But you know how it is. Days I'm in the office with the musty old law books, and in the evenings your father wants you, and my mother wants me. I know. But father usually goes to bed by nine. And I'm sure your mother doesn't sit up much later, for I usually see her light by that time. I always work until eleven or half past, so why shouldn't you come over then? Happy thought, exclaimed Roger. Still you might not always want me. How shall I know? I'll put a candle in the front window, suggested Barbara. And if you can come, all right. If not, I'll understand. Both laughed delightedly at the idea, for they were young enough to find a certain pleasure in clandestine ways and means. Miss Maddie had so far determinedly set her face against her son's association with the young of the other sex, and even Barbara, who had been born lame and had never walked farther than her own garden, came under the ban. Ambrose North, with the keen and unconscious selfishness of age, begrudged others even an hour of Barbara's society. He felt a third person always as an intruder, though he tried his best to appear hospitable when any one came. Miriam might sometimes have read to Barbara, while he was out upon his long, lonely walks. But it had never occurred to either of them, through Lawrence Austin's library as transported back and forth by Roger, one volume at a time, Barbara had come into the worldwide fellowship of those who love books. She was closely housed and constantly at work, but her mind soared free. When the poverty and ugliness of her surroundings oppressed her beauty-loving soul, when her fingers ached and the stitches blurred into mist before her eyes, some little brown book, much-worn, had often given her the key to the house of content. Shall you always have to sew, asked Roger? Is there no way out? No. Not unless some fairy prince comes prancing up on a white charger, laughed Barbara, and takes us all away with him to his palace. Don't pity me, she went on, her lips quivering a little. For every day I'm glad I can do it and keep father from knowing we are poor. Besides, I'm of use in the world, and I wouldn't want to live if I couldn't work. Aunt Miriam works, too. She does all the housework, takes care of me when I can't help myself, does the mending, many things for father, and makes the quilts, preserves, candied orange peel, and the other little things we sell. People are so kind to us. Last summer the women at the hotel bought everything we had and left orders enough to keep me busy until long after Christmas. Don't call people kind because they buy what they want. Don't be so cynical. You wouldn't have them buy things they didn't want, would you? Sometimes they do. Where? Well, at church fairs, for instance. They spend more than they can afford for things they do not want in order to please people whom they do not like and help heathen who are much happier than they are. I'm glad I'm not running a church fair, laughed Barbara. And who told you that heathen are happier than we are? Are you a heathen? I don't know. Most of us are, I suppose, in one way or another. But how nice it would be if we could paint ourselves instead of wearing clothes and go under a tree when it rained and pick coconuts or bananas when we were hungry. It would save so much trouble and expense. Paint is sticky, observed Barbara, and the rain would come around the tree when the wind was blowing from all ways at once, as it sometimes does. And I do not like either coconuts or bananas. I'd rather so. What went wrong today? she asked with a whimsical smile. Everything? Almost, admitted Roger. How did you know? Because you want to be a heathen instead of the foremost lawyer of your time. Your ambition is an unfailing barometer. He laughed lightly. This sort of banter was very pleasing to him after a day with the law books and an hour or more with his mother. He had known Barbara since they were children and their comradeship dated back to the mud-pie days. I don't know but what you're right, he said. Whether I go to Congress, or the Fiji Islands, may depend, eventually, upon Judge Baskham's liver. Don't let it depend upon him, cautioned Barbara. Make your own destiny. It was Napoleon, wasn't it, who prided himself upon making his own circumstances. What would you do or be if you could have your choice? The best lawyer in the state, he answered promptly. I'd never oppose the innocent, nor defend the guilty. And I'd have money enough to be comfortable, and to make those I love comfortable. Would you marry? she asked thoughtfully. Why, I suppose so. It would seem queer, though. Roger, she said abruptly, you were born a year and more before I was, and yet you're fully ten or fifteen years younger. Don't take me back too far, Barbara, for I hate milk. Please don't deprive me of my solid food. What would you do if you could choose? I'd write a book. What kind? Dictionary? No, just a little book. The sort that people who love each other would choose for a gift. Something that would be given to one who was going on a long or difficult journey, the one book a woman would take with her, when she was tired, and went away to rest. A book with laughter and tears in it, and so much fine courage, that it would be given to those who are in deep trouble. I'd soften the hard hearts, rest the weary ones, and give the despairing ones new strength to go on. Just a little book, but so brave, and true, and sweet, and tender, that it would bring the sun to every shady place. Would you, Mary? Of course, if the right man came, otherwise not. I wonder, mused Roger, how a person could know the right one. Foolish child, she answered. That's it, the knowing. When you don't know, it isn't it. My dear Miss North, remarked Roger, the heads of your argument are somewhat involved, but I think I grasp your meaning. When you know it is, then it is. But when you don't know that it is, then it isn't. Is that right? Exactly. Wonderfully intelligent for one so young. Barbara's blue eyes danced merrily, and her red lips parted in the mocking-spile. A long, heavy braid of hair, the color of ripe corn, hung over either shoulder and into her lap. She was almost twenty-two, but she still clung to the childish fashion of dressing her hair, because the heavy braids and the hairpins made her headache. All her gowns were white, either of wool or cotton, and were made to be washed. On Sundays, she sometimes wore blue ribbons on her braids. To Roger, she was very fair. He never thought of her crutches because she had always been lame. She was simply Barbara, and Barbara needed crutches. It had never occurred to him that she might, in any way, be different, for he was not one of those restless souls who are forever making people over to fit their own patterns. Why doesn't your father like to have me come here? asked Roger, irrelevantly. Why doesn't your mother like to have you come? queried Barbara quickly, on the defensive. No, but tell me, please. Father always goes to bed early, but not at eight o'clock. It was a quarter of eight when I came, and by eight he was gone. It isn't you, Roger, she said unwillingly. It's anyone. I'm all he has, and if I talk much to other people, he feels as if I were being taken away from him. That's all. It's natural, I suppose. You mustn't mind him. But I wouldn't hurt him, returned Roger softly. You know that. I know. I wish you could make him understand that I come to see every one of you. It's the hardest work in the world, sighed Barbara, to make people understand things. Somebody said once that all the wars had been caused by one set of people trying to force their opinions upon another set who did not desire to have their minds changed. Very true. I wonder, sometimes, if we have done right with Father. I'm sure you have, said Roger gently. You couldn't do anything wrong if you tried. We haven't meant to, she answered, her sweet face growing grave. Of course it was all begun long before I was old enough to understand. He thinks the city house, which we lost so long ago, that I cannot even remember our having it, and sold for so high a price that it would have been foolish not to sell it. And that we live here because we prefer the country. Just think, Roger, before I was born, this was Father's and Mother's summer home. And now it's all we have. It's a roof and four walls. That's all any house is, without the spirit that makes it a home. He thinks it's beautifully furnished. Of course we have the old mahogany and some of the pictures, but we've had to sell nearly everything. I've used some of Mother's real laces in the sewing and sold practically all the rest. Whatever anyone would buy has been disposed of. Even the broken furniture in the attic has gone to people who had a fancy for antiques. You have made him very happy, Barbara. I know, but is it right? I'm not orthodox, my dear girl. But speaking as a lawyer, if it harms no one and makes a blind old man happy, it can't be wrong. I hope you are right, but sometimes my conscience bothers me. Imagine a saint's conscience being troublesome. Don't laugh at me. You know I'm not a saint. How should I know? Ask Aunt Miriam. She has no illusions about me. Thanks. But I don't know her well enough. We haven't been on good terms since she drove me out of the melon patch. Do you remember? Yes, I remember. We wanted the blossoms, didn't we, to make golden bells in the Tower of Cologne. I believe so. We never got the tower finish, did we? No. I wasn't allowed to play with you for a long time, because you were such a bad boy. Next summer I think we should rebuild it. Let's renew our youth some time by making the Tower of Cologne in your backyard. There are no golden bells. I'll get you some from somewhere. We owe it to ourselves to do it. Barbara's blue eyes were sparkling now, and her sweet lips smiled. When it's done, she asked, we'll move into it and be happy ever afterward like the people in the fairy tales. I said a little while ago that you were fifteen years younger than I am, but upon my word I believe it's nearer twenty. That makes me an enticing infant of three or four, flourishing like the Green Bay tree on a diet of bread and milk with an occasional soft-boiled egg. I should have been in bed by six o'clock, and now it's gracious, Barbara. It's after eleven. What do you mean by keeping the young up so late? As he spoke, he hurriedly found his hat, and, reaching into the pocket of his overcoat, drew out a book. That's the one you wanted, isn't it? Yes, thank you. I didn't give it to you before because I wanted to talk, but we'll read sometimes, when we can. Don't forget to put the light in the window when it's all right for me to come. If I don't, you'll understand. And please don't work so hard. Barbara smiled. I have to earn a living for three healthy people, she said, and everybody is trying, by moral swasion, to prevent me from doing it. Do you want us all piled up in the front yard in a nice little heap of bones before the Tower of Cologne is rebuilt? Roger took both her hands and attempted to speak, but his face suddenly crimsoned, and he floundered out into the darkness like an awkward schoolboy, instead of a self-possessed young man of almost twenty-four. It had occurred to him that it might be very nice to kiss Barbara. But Barbara, magically taken back to childhood, did not notice his confusion. The Tower of Cologne had been a fancy of hers ever since she could remember, though it had been temporarily eclipsed by the hard work which circumstances had thrust upon her. As she grew from childhood to womanhood, it had changed very little. The dream, always, was practically the same. The Tower itself was made of Cologne bottles, neatly piled together, and the brightly tinted labels gave it a bizarre but beautiful effect. It was square in shape, and very high, with a splendid couple of clear glass arches. The labels probably would not show, up so high. It stood in an enchanted land with the sea behind it. Nobody had ever thought of taking Barbara down to the sea, though it was so near. The sea was always blue, of course, like the sky, or the larkspur. She was never quite sure of the color. The air all around the Tower smelled sweet, just like Cologne. There was a flight of steps, also made of Cologne bottles. But they did not break when you walked on them, and the door was always ajar. Inside was a great winding staircase, which led to the cupola. You could climb and climb and climb, and when you were tired, you could stop to rest in any of the rooms that were on the different floors. Strangely enough, in the Tower of Cologne, Barbara was never lame. She always left her crutches leaning up against the steps outside. She could walk and run like anyone else and never even think of crutches. There were many charming people in the Tower, and none of them ever said pityingly, It's too bad you're lame. All the dear people of the books lived in the Tower of Cologne, besides many more, whom Barbara did not know. Maggie Tulliver, Little Nell, Dora, Agnes, Mr. Pickwick, King Arthur, the Lady of Shalott, and unnumbered others dwelt happily there. They all knew Barbara, and were always glad to see her. Wonderful tapestries were hung along the stairs, there were beautiful pictures in every room, and whatever you wanted to eat was instantly placed before you. Each room smelled of a different kind of Cologne, and no two rooms were furnished alike. Her friends in the Tower were of all ages, and of many different stations in life, but there was one whose face she had never seen. He was always just as old as Barbara, and was closer to her than the rest. When she lost herself in the queer winding passages, the boy, whose face she was unable to picture, was always at her side to show her the way out. They both wanted to get up into the cupola, and ring all the golden bells at once. But there seemed to be some law against it, for when they were almost there, something always happened. Either the Tower itself vanished beyond recall, or Aunt Merriam called her, or an imperative voice summoned at the boy downstairs, and Barbara would not think of going to the cupola without him. When she and Roger had begun to make mud pies together, she had told him about the Tower, and got him interested in it too. All but the boy whose face she was unable to see, and whose name she did not know. In the Tower she addressed him simply as Boy. Barbara kept him to herself, for some occult reason. Roger liked the Tower very much, but thought the construction might possibly be improved. Barbara never allowed him to make any changes. He could build another Tower for himself if he chose, and have it just as he wanted it, but this was her very own. It all seemed as if it were yesterday, and, mused Barbara, it was almost sixteen years ago, when I was six and Roger's seven going on eight, as he always said. The dear Tower still stood in her memory, but far off unveiled, like a mirage seen in the clouds. The boy who helped her over the difficult places was a grown man now, tall and straight and strong, but she could not see his face. It's queer, thought Barbara, as she put out the light. I wonder if I ever shall. That night she dreamed of the Tower of Cologne, and the old Enchanted Land, where a blue sky bent down to meet a bluer sea. She and the boy were in the cupola, making music with the golden bells, their laughter chimed in with the sweet sound of the ringing, but still she could not see his face. Chapter 4 A Flower of the Dusk by Myrtle Read Barbara sat by the old chest, which held her completed work, frowning prettily over a notebook in her lap. She was very methodical, and in some inscrutable way, things had become mixed. She kept track of every yard of lace and linen and every spool of thread, for it was evident she must know the exact cost of the material, and the amount of time spent on a garment before it could be accurately priced. Aunt Miriam had carefully pressed the lingerie after it was made and laid it away in the chest with lavender to keep it from turning yellow. There remained only the last finishing touches. Aunt Miriam could have put in the ribbons as well as she could, but Barbara chose to do it herself. Three prices were put on each tag in Barbara's private cipher, understood only by Aunt Miriam. The highest was the one hoped for, the next the probable one, and the lowest one was to be taken only at the end of the season. Already four or five early arrivals were reported at the hotel. By the end of next week it would be proper for Aunt Miriam to go down with a few of the garments packed in a box with tissue paper and see what she could do. Barbara had used nearly all of her material and had sent for more, but in the meantime she was using the scraps for handkerchiefs, pin cushion covers, and heart-shaped corsage pads, delicately scented and trimmed with lace and ribbon. Once Aunt Miriam had gone to the city for material and patterns, and had priced handmade lingerie in the shops. When she came back with an itemized report, Barbara clapped her hands in glee, for she saw the wealth of Croesus looming up ahead. She had soon learned, however, that she must keep far below the city prices if she would tempt the horde of summer visitors who came yearly to the hotel. At times she thought Aunt Miriam must have been dreadfully mistaken. Barbara put down the highest price of every separate article in the small, neat hand that Aunt Miriam had taught her to write, for she had never been to school. If she should sell everything, why, there would be more than a year of comfort for them all, and new clothes for Father, who is beginning to look shabby. But they won't, Barbara said to herself sadly. I can't expect them to buy it all when I'm asking so much. Down in the living-room, Aunt Brose North was inquiring restlessly for Barbara. Yes, he said somewhat impatiently. I know upstairs, for you've told me so twice. What I want to know is, why doesn't she come down? She's busy at something probably, returned Miriam, with forced carefulness. But I think she'll soon be through. Barbara is always busy, he answered with a sigh. I can't understand it. Anyone might think she had to work for a living. By the way, Miriam, do you need more money? We still have some, she replied in a low voice. How much? he demanded. Less than a hundred dollars. She did not dare say how much less. That is not enough. If you will get my checkbook, I will write another check. Miriam's face was grimly set, and her eyes burned strangely beneath her dark brows. She went to the mahogany desk, and took an old checkbook out of the drawer. Now, he said, as she gave him the pen and ink, please show me the line, pay to the order of. She guided his hand, with her own, trying to keep her cold fingers from trembling. Miriam Leonard, he spelled out, in uneven characters, five hundred dollars, signed Ambrose North. There, when you have no money, I wish you would speak of it. I am fully able to provide for my family, and I want to do it. Thank you, Miriam's voice was almost inaudible as she took the check. The date, he said. I forgot to date it. What day of the month is it? She moistened her parched lips, but did not speak. This was what she had been dreading. The date, Miriam, he called, will you please tell me what day of the month it is? The seventh, she answered, with difficulty. The seventh? The seventh of June? Yes. There was a long pause. Twenty-one years, he said in a shrill whisper. Twenty-one years ago today. Miriam sat down quietly on the other side of the room. Her eyes were glittering, and she was moving her hands nervously. This dreadful anniversary had, for her, its own particular significance. Upstairs, Barbara, light-hearted and hopeful, was singing to herself while she pinned on the last of the price tags and built her air castle. The song came down lightly, yet discordantly. It was as though a waltz should be played at an open grave. Miriam cried Ambrose North passionately. Why did she kill herself? And God's name tell me why. I do not know, murmured Miriam. He had asked her more than fifty times, and she always gave the same answer. But you must know, someone must know, a woman does not die by her own hand without having a reason. She was well and strong, loved, taken care of, and petted. She had all that the world could give her, and hosts of friends. I was blind, and Barbara was lame. But she loved us, nonetheless. If only I knew why! he cried miserably. Oh, if only I knew why! Miriam, unable to bear more, went out of the room. She pressed her cold hands to her throbbing temples. I shall go mad, she muttered. How long, oh Lord, how long! Twenty-one years ago today Constance North had, intentionally, taken an overdose of lobbenum. She had left a note to her husband, begging him to forgive her, and thanking him for all his kindness to her during the three years they had lived together. She had also written a note to Miriam, asking her to look after the blind man, and to be a mother to Barbara. Enclosed were two other letters, sealed with wax. One was addressed to my daughter Barbara, to be opened on her twenty-second birthday. Miriam had both the letters safely put away. It was not time for Barbara to have hers, and she had never delivered the other to the person to whom it was addressed. So often does the arrogant power of the living deny the holiest wishes of the dead. The whole scene came vividly back to Miriam, the late afternoon sun streaming in glory from the far hills into Constance North's dainty sitting-room. Upstairs the golden-haired woman, in full splendor of her youth and beauty, lying upon the couch asleep, with a smile of heavenly peace upon her lips. The blind man's hands, straying over her as she lay there, with his tears falling upon her face, and blue-eyed Barbara, cooing and laughing, in her own little bed in the next room. Miriam had found the notes on the dressing table, and had lied. She had said there were but two, when, in reality, there were four. Two had been read and destroyed, the other two, with unbroken seals, were waiting to be read. She was keeping the one for Barbara, the other had tortured her through all of the twenty years. The time had passed when she could have delivered it, for the man to whom it was addressed was dead. But he had survived Constance by nearly five years, and at any time during those five years Miriam might have given it to him, unseen and safely. She justified herself by dwelling upon her care of Barbara and the blind man, and the fact that she would give Barbara her letter upon the appointed day. Sternly, she said to herself, I will fulfill one trust. I will keep faith with Constance in this one way, bitterly though she has wronged me. Yet the fulfillment of one trust seemed not to be enough, for her sleep was haunted by the pleading eyes of Constance, asking mutely for some boon. Until the man died, Constance had come often, with her hands outstretched, craving that which was so little. And yet so much. After his death Constance still continued to come, but less often, and reproachfully. She seemed to ask for nothing now. Miriam had grown old, but Constance though sad was always young. One of death's surpassing gifts is eternal youth to those whom he claims too soon. In her old husband's grieving heart Constance had assumed immortal beauty as well as immortal youth. She was now no older than Barbara, who still sang heedlessly upstairs. Every night of the twenty-one years, Miriam had closed her eyes in dread. When she dreamed it was always of Constance, Constance laughing or singing, Constance bringing the light that never was on sea or land, to the fine grave-face of Ambrose North, Constance hugging little lame Barbara to her breast with passionate, infinitely pitying love. And above all, Constance in her grave clothes, dumb, reproachful, her sad eyes fixed on Miriam in pleading that was almost prayer. Miriam! O Miriam! the blind band in the next room was calling her. Fearfully she went back. Sit down, said Ambrose North. Sit down near me, where I can touch your hand. How cold your fingers are! I want to thank you for all you have done for us, for my little girl and for me. You have been so faithful, so watchful, so obedient to her every wish. Miriam shrank from him, for the kindly words stung like a lash on flesh already quivering. We have always been such good friends, he said reminiscently. Do you remember how much we were together all that year until Constance came home from school? I have not forgotten, said Miriam in a choking whisper. A surge of passionate hate swept over her even now, against the dead woman whose pretty face had swerved Ambrose North from his old allegiance. And I shall not forget, he answered kindly. I am on the westward slope, Miriam, and have been for a long time. But a few more years or months or days, as God wills, and I shall join her again, past the sunset, where she waits for me. I have made things right for you and Barbara. Roger Austin has my will, dividing everything I have between you. I should like your share to go to Barbara eventually, if you can see your way clear to do it. Don't! cried Miriam sharply. The strain was insupportable. I do not wish to pay a new sister, answered the old man, with gentle dignity. But sometimes it is necessary that these things be said. I shall not speak of it again. Will you give me back the check, please, and show me where to date it? I shall date it to-morrow. I cannot bear to write down this day. When Barbara came down her father was sitting at the old square piano, quite alone, improvising music that was both beautiful and sad. He seldom touched the instrument, but, when he did, wayfarers in the street paused to listen. Are you making a song, father? she asked softly, when the last deep chord died away. No, he sighed. I cannot make songs today. There was always a song, Daddy, she reminded him. You told me so yourself. Yes, I know, but not today. Do you know what today is, my dear? The Seventh, the Seventh of June. Twenty-one years ago today, he said with an effort, your dear mother took her own life. The last words were almost inaudible. Barbara went to him and put her arms around his neck. Daddy! she whispered, with infinite sympathy. Daddy! he patted her arm gently, unable to speak. She said no more, but the voice and the touch brought healing to his pain. Bone of her bone and flesh of her flesh, the daughter of the dead Constance was thrilled unspeakably with the tenderness that the other had never given him. Sit down, my dear, said Ambrose North, slowly releasing her. I want to talk to you, of her. Did I hear Aunt Miriam go out? Just a few minutes ago. You are almost twenty-two, are you not, Barbara? Yes, Daddy. Then you are a grown woman. Your dear mother was twenty-two, when he choked on the words. When she died, whispered Barbara, her eyes luminous with tears. Yes, when she died. I have never known why, Barbara, unless it was because I was blind and you were lame, but all these years there has been a torturing doubt in my heart. Before you were born, and after my blindness, I fancied a change came over her. She was still tender and loving, but it was not quite in the same way. Sometimes I felt that she had ceased to love me. Do you think my blindness could— Never, Father, never! Barbara's voice rang out strong and clear. That would only have made her love you more. Thank you, my dear. Some way it comforts me to have you say it, but after you came I felt the change even more keenly. You have read in the books doubtless, many times, that a child unites those who bring it into the world, but I have seen, quite as often, that it divides them by a gulf that is never bridged again. Daddy! cried Barbara in pain. Didn't you want me? Want you! he repeated, in a tone that made the words a caress. I wanted you always, and every day I want you more. I am only trying to say that her love seemed to lessen, instead of growing, as time went on. If I could know that she died loving me, I would not ask why. If I could know that she died loving me, if I were sure she loved me still. She did, Daddy! I know she did. If I might only be so sure, but the ways of the everlasting are not our ways, and life is made up of waiting. Insensibly relieved by speech his pain gradually merged into quiet acceptance, if not resignation. Shall you marry some day, Barbara? he asked at last. If the right man comes, otherwise not. Much is written of it in the books, and I know you read a great deal, but some things in the books are not true, and many things that are true are not written. They say that a man of fifty should not marry a girl of twenty, and expect to be happy. Miriam was fifteen years older than Constance, and at first I thought of her. But when your mother came from school, with her blue eyes and golden hair, and her pretty laughing ways, there was but one face in all the world for me. We were so happy, Barbara. The first year seemed less than a month. It passed so quickly. The books will tell you that the first joy dies. Perhaps it does, but I do not know. Because our marriage lasted only three years. It may be that, after many years, the heart does not beat faster at the sound of the beloved step, that the touch of the loving hand brings no answering clasp. But the divinest gift of marriage is this, the daily, unconscious, growing of two souls into one. Aspirations and ambitions merge, each with the other, and love grows fast to love. Unselfishness answers to unselfishness. Tenderness responds to tenderness. And the highest joy of each is the well-being of the other. The words of church and state are only the seal of a predestined compact. Day by day and year by year the bond becomes closer and dearer, until it lasts the two are one, and even death is no division. A grave has lain between us for more than twenty years, but I am still her husband. There has been no change. And if she died loving me, she is still mine. If she died loving me, if she died loving me. His voice broke at the end, and he went out, murmuring the words to himself. Barbara watched him from the window, as he opened the gate. Her face was wet with tears. Flaming banners of sunset streamed from the hills beyond him. But his soul could see no golden city tonight. He went up the road that led to another hillside, where, in the long dreamy shadows, the dwellers in God's acre lay at peace. Barbara guessed where he was going, and her heart ached for him, kneeling in prayer and vigil beside a sunken grave, to ask of earth a question to which the answer was lost in heaven, or in hell. End of Chapter 4 Chapter 5 of Flower of the Dusk by Myrtle Reed This LibriVox recording is in the public domain. A Louise The hotel was a long, low, rambling structure, with creaky floors and old-fashioned furniture, but the wide verandas commanded a glorious view of the sea. No canned vegetables were served at the table, and there was no orchestra. Naturally it was crowded from June to October, with people who earnestly desired quiet and were willing to go far to get it. The inevitable row of rocking chairs swayed back and forth on the seaward side. Most of them were empty, save perhaps, for the ghosts of long dead gossips who had sat and rocked and talked and rocked from one meal to the next. The paint on the veranda was worn in long series of parallel lines, slightly curved, but nobody cared. No phonograph broke upon the evening stillness with an ear-splitting din. No unholy piccolo sounded above the other tortured instruments. No violin wailed pitifully at its inhuman treatment, and the piano was locked. At seasonable hours the key might be had at the office, by those who could prove themselves worthy of the trust, but otherwise quiet reigned. Miss Eloise Winn came downstairs with a book under her arm. She was fresh as the morning itself and as full of exuberant vitality. She was tall and straight and strong. Her copper-coloured hair shone as though it had been burnished, and her tan cheeks had a tint of rose. When she entered the dining-room with a cheery, good morning, that included everybody. She produced precisely the effect of a cool breeze from the sea. She was thirty and cheerfully admitted it on occasion. If I don't look it, she said smiling, people will be surprised, and if I do there would be no use in denying it. Anyhow, I'm old enough to go about alone. It was her want to settle herself for summer or winter in any place she chose, with no chaperone in sight. For a week she had been at Riverdale by the sea, and liked it on account of the lack of entertainment. People who lived there called it simply Riverdale, but the manager of the hotel, perhaps to atone for the missing orchestra and canned vegetables added by the sea to the name in his modest advertisements. Miss Wynn, fortunately, had enough money to enable her to live the much-talked-of simple life, which is wildly impossible to the poor. It was not necessary for her to concern herself with the sordid and material. She could occupy herself with the finer things of the soul. Just now, however, she was deeply interested in the material foundation of the finest thing in the world—a home. She had taken the bizarre paper-slip, which protected the even more striking cover of a recent popular novel, and adjusted it to a bulky volume of very different character. In her Chateaulayne bag she had a pencil and a notebook, for Miss Eloise was sorely afflicted with the Note Book Habit, and had a passion for reducing everything to lists. She had lists of things she wanted and lists of things she didn't want, which circumstances, or well-meaning Santa Clauses, had forced upon her. Little books of addresses and telephone numbers, jewels and other personal belongings, and, finally, a catalogue of her library alphabetically arranged by author and title. Immediately after breakfast she went off with a long, swinging stride which filled her small audience with envy and admiration. Disjointed remarks such as skirt a little too short, but good tailor, and terrible amount of energy, and wonder where she's going, followed her. These comments were audible, she had been listening, but she had the gift of keeping solitude in a crowd. Far along the beach she went atlas her blood singing with the joy of life, a June morning, the sea, youth, and the consciousness of being loved. For what more could one ask? The diamond on the third finger of her left hand sparkled wonderfully in the sunlight. It was the only ring she wore. Presently she found a warm, soft place behind a sand dune. She reared upon the dune a dark green parasol with a white border and padded sand around the curved handle until it was, as she thought, firmly placed. Then she settled her skirts comfortably, and opened her book for the first time. It looks bad, she mused. Wonder what a carbohydrate is. And proteins. Where do you buy them? Albuminoids? I've been from Maine to Florida, and have never seen any. They must be germs. However, she continued to herself, I have a trained mind, and keeping everlastingly at it brings success. It would be strange if three hours of hard study every day on the book the man in the store said was the best ever, didn't produce some sort of definite result. But, oh, how Alan would laugh at me! The book fell on the sand, unheeded. The brown eyes looked out past the blue surges to some far castle in Spain. Her thoughts refused to phrase themselves in words, but her pulses leaped with the old immortal joy. The sun had risen high in the shining east before she returned to her book. This isn't work, she sighed to herself, away with the dreams. Before long she got out her notebook. A fresh fish, she wrote, does not smell fishy, and its eyes are bright and its gills red. A tender chicken or turkey has a springy breastbone. If you push it down with your finger, it springs back. A leg of lamb has to have the tough outer parchment-like skin taken off with a sharp knife. Some of the oil of the wool is in it, and makes it taste putty and bad. A lobster should always be bought when he is alive and green and boiled at home. Then you know he is fresh. Save everything for soup. I will go out into the kitchen, used Eloise, and I will have the air of knowing all about everything. I will say, Marianne, I have ordered a lobster for you to boil. We will have a salad for lunch, and I trust you have saved everything that was left last night for tonight's soup. Marianne will be afraid of me, and Alan will be so proud. I thought I told you, continued Eloise to herself, to save all the crumbs. Dr. Conrad does not like to have everything salt, and he prefers to make the salad dressing himself. Do not cook any cereal the mornings we have oranges or grapefruit. The starch and acid are likely to make a disturbance inside. Four people are coming to dinner this evening. I have ordered some pink roses, and we will use the pink candle shades. Or wait, I had forgotten that my hair is red. Use the green candle shades, and I will change the roses to white. A frolicsome little wind, which had long been ruffling the waves of Eloise's copper-colored hair, took the notebook out of her lap, and laid it open on the sand some little distance away. Then, after making merry with the green parasol, it lifted it bodily by its roots out of the sand dune, and went gaily down the beach with it. Eloise started in pursuit, but the wind and the parasol out-distanced her easily. Rounding the corner of another dune, she saw the parasol, with all sails set, gentily embarked toward Europe. Turning away, disconsolate, she collided with a big blonde giant, who took her into his arms, saying, Never mind, I'll get you another. When the first raptures had somewhat subsided, Eloise led him back to the place where the parasol had started from. When and where from, and how did you come? She asked hurriedly, picking up her books. This morning from yonder, palatial hotel on foot, he answered, I thought you'd be out here somewhere. I didn't ask for you. I wanted to hunt you up myself. But I might have been upstairs, she said reproachfully. On a morning like this, not unless you've changed in the last ten days, and you haven't, except to grow lovelier. But why did you come? she asked. Nobody told you that you could. Sweet, said Alan, softly possessing himself of her hand. Did you think I could stay away from you two whole weeks? Ten days is the limit. A badly strained limit at that. The colour surged into her face. She was radiant, as though with some inner light. The atmosphere around her was fairly electric, with life and youth and joy. Dr. Alan Conrad was very good to look at. He had tawny hair and kind brown eyes, a straight nose, and a good firm chin. He wore eyeglasses, and his face might have seemed severe had it not been discredited by his mouth. He was smooth-shaven, and knew enough to wear brown clothes instead of grey. Eloise looked at him approvingly. Every detail of his attire satisfied her fastidious sense. If he had worn a diamond ring, or a conspicuous tie, he might not have occupied his present proud position. His unfailing good taste was a great comfort to her. How long can you stay? she inquired. Nice question, he laughed. To ask an eager lover, who had just come, sounds a good deal like, Here's your hat, what's your hurry? Before I knew you, I used to go to see a girl sometimes who always said, at ten o'clock, I'm so glad you came, when can you come again? The first time she did it I told her I couldn't come again until I had gone away this time. And afterward, I kept going away earlier and earlier, and finally it was so much earlier that I went before I had come. If I can't make a girl forget the clock, I have no call to waste my valuable time on her, have I? Assuming a frown with difficulty, Miss Wynne consulted her watch. Why, it's only half past eleven, she exclaimed. I thought it was much later. You, darling, said the man irrelevantly, what are you reading? Before she could stop him, he had picked up the book and nearly choked in a burst of unseemly merriment. Upon my word, he said when he could speak, a cookbook, a classmate of mine used to indulge himself in floral catalogues when he wanted to rest his mind with light literature. But I never heard of a cookbook as among the books for summer reading that the booksellers advertise. Why not? retorted Eloise quickly. No real reason. Lots of worse things are printed and sold by thousands, but some way I can't seem to reconcile you and your glorious voice with a cookbook. Alan Conrad, said Miss Wynne, with affected sturdiness, if you hadn't studied medicine, would you be practicing it now? No, admitted Alan, not with the laws as they are in this state. If I had no voice and had never studied music, would I be singing at concerts? Not twice. If a girl had never seen a typewriter and didn't know the first thing about shorthand, would she apply for a position as a stenographer? They do, said Alan gloomily. Don't dissemble, please. My point is simply this. If every other occupation in the world demands some previous preparation, why shouldn't a girl know something about housekeeping and homemaking before she undertakes it? But my dear, you're not going to cook. I am if I want to, announced Eloise with authority. And anyhow, I'm going to know. Do you think I'm going to let some peripatetic, untrained immigrant manage my house for me? I guess not. But cooking isn't theory, he ventured, picking up the notebook. It's practice. What good is all this going to do you when you have no stove? Don't you remember the famous painter who told inquiring visitors that he mixed his paints with brains? I am now cooking with my mind. After my mind learns to cook, my hands will find it simple enough. And sometime, when you come in at midnight and have no dinner, and the immigrant has long since gone to sleep, you may be glad to be presented with panned oysters. Piping hot, instead of a can of salmon and a can opener. Bless your hearts, said Alan Fonley. It's dear of you, and I hope it'll work. I'm starving this minute. Kiss me. Longing is divine compared with satiety, she reminded him, as she yielded. How could you get away? Was nobody ill? Nobody would have the heart to be ill on a Saturday in June, when a doctor's best girl was only fifty miles away. Monday I'll go back and put some cholera, or typhoid germs in the water supply, and get nice and busy. Who's up yonder, indicating the hotel? Nobody we know, but very few of the guests have come so far. In all our varied speech, commented Alan, I know of nothing so exquisitely ironical as alluding to the people who stop at a hotel as guests. In Mexico they call them passengers, which is more in keeping with the facts. Fancy the feelings of a real guest upon receiving a bill of the usual proportions. I should consider it a violation of hospitality, if a man at my house had to pay three prices for his dinner and a tip besides. You always had queer notions, remarked Eloise, with a side-long glance, which set his heart to pounding. We'll call them inmates if you like it better, as yet there are only eight inmates besides ourselves, though more are coming next week. Two old couples, one widow, one divorcee, and two spinsters with life-works. No galloping cherubs. School isn't out yet. I see. It would be the real thing unless there were little ones to gallop through the corridors at six in the morning and weep at the dinner table. What are the life-works? One is writing a book, I understand, on the equality of the sexes. The other? Oh, Alan, it's too funny. Spring it, he demanded. She's trying to have cornet playing introduced into the public schools. She says that tuberculosis and pneumonia are caused by insufficient lung development, and that cornet playing will develop the lungs of the rising generation, fancy going by a school during the cornet hour. I don't know why they shouldn't put cornet playing into the schools, he observed, after a moment of profound thought. Everything else is there now. Why, shouldn't they teach crime and even make a fine art of it? If you let her know you're a doctor, cautioned Eloise, she'll corner you and I shall never see you again. She says that she hopes, incidentally, to enlist the sympathies of the medical profession. She's beginning at the wrong end. Cornet manufacturers and the people who keep sanitariums and private asylums are the co-workers she wants. I couldn't live through the coming winter, were it not for pneumonia. It means coal and repairs for the automobile, and furs for my wife when I get one. Come, said Eloise, springing to her feet, let's go up and get ready for luncheon. Have you told me all? asked Alan. Or is there some gay young troubadour who serenades you in the evening and whose existence you conceal from me for reasons of your own? Narya troubadour, she replied, I haven't seen another soul except a pathetic little woman who came up to the hotel yesterday afternoon to sell the most exquisite things you ever saw. Think of offering handmade lingerie, or sheer embroidered lawn and patiste and linen to that crowd. The old ladies weren't interested, the spinsters sniffed, the widow wept, and only the divorcee took any notice of it. The prices were so ridiculous that I wouldn't let her unpack the box. I'd be ashamed to pay her the price, she asked. It's made by a little lame girl up the main road. I'm to go up there some time next week. Fairy Godmother, asked Alan, good-naturedly. He had known Eloise for many years. Perhaps, she answered, somewhat shame-faced. What's the use of having money if you don't spend it? They went into the hotel together, utterly oblivious of the eight pairs of curious eyes that were fastened upon them in a frank, open stare. The rocking-chairs scraped on the veranda as they instinctively drew closer together. A strong human interest, imperatively demanding immediate discussion, had come to Riverdale by the sea. Miss Winn's promised visit. Nevertheless, she told Barbara, wouldn't any of them even look at it, auntie? One of them would have looked at it and rumpled it so that I'd have to iron it again, but she wouldn't have bought anything. This young lady said she was busy just then, and she wanted to come and look over all the things at her leisure. She won't pay much, though, even if she buys anything. She said the price was ridiculous. Perhaps she meant it was too low, suggested Barbara. Possibly—answered Miriam—her tone indicated that it was equally possible for canary birds to play the piano or for ducks to sing. How does she look? queried Barbara. Well enough, enthusiasm was not one of Miriam's attractions. What did she have on? White linen, I think. Then she knows good material. Was her gown tailor-made? Might have been, why? Because if her white linen gowns are tailored, she has money, and is used to spending it for clothes. I'm sure she meant the price was too low. Did she say when she was coming? Next week, she didn't say what day. Then, sighed Barbara, all we can do is wait. We'll wait until she comes, or has had time to. In the meantime, I'm going to show my quilts to those old ladies and take down a jar or two of preserves. I wish she'd write to the people who left orders last year and ask if they want preserves or jam or jelly or pickles or quilts, or anything. It would be nice to get some orders in before we buy the fruit. Barbara put down her book, asked for the pen and ink, and went cheerfully to work, with the aid of Aunt Miriam's small memorandum book which contained a list of addresses. What color is her hair, auntie? She asked as she blotted and turned her first neat page. A good deal the color of that old copper tea kettle that a woman paid six dollars for once, do you remember? I've always thought she was crazy, for she wouldn't even let me clean it. And her eyes? Brown and big, with long lashes. She looks well enough, and her voice is pleasant. And I must say she has nice ways. She didn't make me feel like a peddler, as so many of them do. Perhaps she'll come, admitted Miriam grudgingly. Oh, I hope so. I'd love to see her and her pretty clothes, even if she didn't buy anything. Barbara threw back a golden braid impatiently, wishing it were copper-colored and had smooth, shiny waves in it, instead of fluffing out like an undeserved halo. While Barbara was writing, her father came in and sat down near her. More sewing, dear, he asked wistfully. No, daddy, not this time. I'm just writing letters. I didn't know you ever got any letters, do you? Oh yes, sometimes. The people at the hotel come up to call once in a while, you know? And after they go away, Aunt Miriam and I occasionally exchange letters with them. It's nice to get letters. The old man's face changed. Are you lonely, dear? Lonely, repeated Barbara, laughing. Why, I don't even know what the word means. I have you and my books and my sewing and these letters to write, and I can sit in the window and nod to people who go by. How could I be lonely, daddy? I want you to be happy, dear. So I am, returned the girl, trying hard to make her voice even. With you and everything a girl could want, why shouldn't I be happy? Miriam went out, closing the door quietly, and the blind man drew his chair very near to Barbara. I dream, he said, and I keep on dreaming that you can walk and I can see. What do you suppose it means? I never dreamed it before. We all have dreams, daddy. I've had the same one very often ever since I was a little child. It's about a tower made of cologne bottles, with a couple of lovely glass arches built on the white sand by the blue sea. Inside is a winding stairway hung with tapestries, leading to the cupola where the golden bells are. There are lovely rooms on every floor, and you can stop wherever you please. It sounds like a song, he mused. Perhaps it is. Can't you make one of it? No, we each have to make our own. I made one this morning. Tell me, please. It is about love. When God made the world, He put love in, and none of it had ever been lost. It is simply transferred from one person to another. Sometimes it takes a different form and becomes a deed, which at first may not look as if it were made of love, but in reality is. Love blossoms and flowers, sings in moving waters, fills the forest with birds, and makes all the wonderful music of spring. It puts the color upon the robin's breast, scents the orchard with far-reaching drifts of bloom, and scatters the pink and white petals over the grass beneath. Through love the flower changes to fruit, and the birds sing lullabies at twilight instead of mating songs. It is at the root of everything good in all the world, and where things are wrong, it is only because sometime, somewhere, there has not been enough love. The balance has been uneven, and some have had too much while others were starving for it, as the lack of food stunts the body, so the denial of love warps the soul. But God has made it so that love given must unfailingly come back and hundredfold. The more we give, the richer we are, and heaven is only a place where the things that have gone wrong here will at last come right. Is it not so, Barbara? Surely, Daddy. Then, he continued anxiously, all my loving must come back to me sometime, somewhere, I think it will be right, for God himself is love. The blind man's sensitive fingers lovingly sought Barbara's face, his touch was a caress. I am sure you are like your dear mother, he said softly, if I could know that she died loving me, and if I could see her face again, just for an instant, why, all the years of loving, with no answer, would be fully repaid. She loved you, Daddy, I know she did. I know too, but not always. Sometimes the old tormenting doubt comes back to me. It shouldn't, mother would never have meant you to doubt her. Barbara, cried the old man with sudden passion, if you ever love a man, never let him doubt you, always let him be sure. There is so much in a man's world that a woman knows nothing of. When he comes home at night, tired beyond words, and sick to death of the world, and its ways, make him sure. When he thinks himself defeated, make him sure. When you see him tempted to swerve even the least from the straight path, make him sure. When the last parting comes, if he is leaving you, give him the certainty to take with him into his narrow house, and to make his last step sweet. And if you are the one to go first, and leave him, old and desolate and stricken, oh, Barbara, make him sure then. Make him very sure. The girl's hand closed tightly upon his. He leaned over to Patrick's cheek, and stroked the heavy braids of silken hair. Then he felt the strand of beads around her neck. You have on your mother's pearls, he said. His fine old face illumined, as he touched the tawdry trinket. Barbara swallowed the hard lump in her throat. Yes, Daddy, they had lived for years upon that single strand of large, perfectly matched pearls, which Ambrose North had clasped around his young wife's neck upon their wedding day. Would you like more pearls, dear, a bracelet or a ring? No, these are all I want. I want to give you a diamond ring some day, Barbara. Your mother's was buried with her. It was her engagement ring. Perhaps somebody will give me an engagement ring, she suggested. I shouldn't wonder. I don't want to be selfish, dear. You are all I have, but if you love a man, I wouldn't try to keep you away from him. Prince Charming hasn't come yet, Daddy, so cheer up. I'll tell you when he does. Thus she turned the talk into a happier vein. They were laughing together like two children when Miriam came in to say that supper was ready. Afterward he sat at the piano, improvising low, sweet chords that echoed back, plaintively, from the dingy walls. The music was full of questioning, of pleading, of longing so deep that it was almost prayer. Barbara finished her letters by the light of the lamp, while Miriam sat in the dining room alone, asking herself the old torturing questions, facing her temptation, and bearing the old, terrible hunger of the heart that hurt her like physical pain. A little before nine o'clock the blind man came to kiss Barbara good night. Then he went upstairs. Miriam came in and talked a few minutes of quilts, pickles, and lingerie. Then she too went up to begin her usual restless night. Left alone, Barbara discovered that she did not care to read. It was too late to begin work upon the new stock of linen, lawn, and batiste, which had come the day before, and she lacked the impulse in the face of such discouraging prospects as Aunt Miriam had encountered at the hotel. Barbara steadily refused to admit, even to herself, that she was discouraged, but she found no pleasure in the thought of her work. She unfastened the front door, lighted a candle, and set it upon the sill of the front window. Within twenty minutes Roger had come, entering the house so quietly that Barbara did not hear his step and was frightened when she saw him. Don't scream, he said, as he closed the door leading into the hall. I'm not a burglar, only a struggling young law student with no prospects and even less hope. I infer, said Barbara, that the basquam liver is out of repair. Correct. It seems absurd, doesn't it, to be affected by another man's liver while you are supremely unconscious of your own? There are more things than other people's digestions than our philosophy can account for, she replied, with wicked perversion of classic praise. What was the primary cause of the explosion? It was all his own fault, explained Roger. I like dogs almost as well as I do people, but it doesn't follow that dogs should mix up constantly with people as they usually are allowed to. I was never in favor of Judge Bascombe's bullpup keeping regular office hours with us, but he has ever since the day he waddled in behind the judge with a small chain as the connecting link. I got so accustomed to his howling in the corner of the office where he was chained up that I couldn't do my work properly when he was asleep. So all went well until the judge decided to remove the chain and give the pup more room to develop himself in. I tried to dissuade him, but it was no use. I told him he would run away and he said, with great dignity, that he did not desire for a pet anything which had to be tied up in order to be retained. He observed that the restraining influence worked against the pet hood so strongly as practically to obscure it. New word, laughed Barbara. I don't know why it isn't a good word, returned Roger in defense, if manhood and womanhood and brotherhood and all the other hoods are good English. I see no reason why pet hood shouldn't be used in the same sense. The English language needs a lot of words added to it before it can be called complete. One wouldn't think so, judging by the size of the dictionary. However, we'll let it pass. Go on with the story. Things have been lively for a week or more. The pup has romped around a good deal and has playfully bitten a client or two, but the judge has been highly edified until today. Fido got an important legal document which the judge had just drafted and literally chewed it to a pulp. Then he swallowed it, apparently with great relish. I was told to make another and my not knowing about it and taking the liberty of asking a few necessary questions produced the fireworks. It wasn't Fido's fault, but mine. How is Fido, queried Barbara, with affected anxiety? He was well at last accounts, but the document was long enough and complicated enough to make him very ill. I hope he'll die of it tomorrow. Perhaps he's going to study law, too, remarked Barbara, and believes, with McCulley, that a page digested is better than a book hardly read. I think that will doom his north. I'll read to you now. If you don't mind, I would feign improve myself instead of listening to such childish chatter. Perhaps if you read to me enough, I'll improve so that even you will enjoy talking to me. She returned with a mischievous smile. What did you bring over? A new book, that is, one that we've never seen before. There is a large box of fathers' books behind some trunks in the attic and I never found them until Sunday when I was rummaging around up there. I haven't read them. I thought I'd make a list of them first and you could choose those you'd like to have me read to you. I brought this little one because I was sure you'd like it after reading Endymion and The Eve of St. Agnes. What is it? Keith's letters to Fanny Braun. The Little Brown Book was old and its corners were doggiered, but the yellowed pages with their record of deathless passion were still warmly human and alive. Roger had a deep pleasant voice and he read well. Quite apart from the beauty of the letters, it gave Barbara pleasure to sit in the firelight and watch his face. He read steadily, pausing now and then for comment, until he was halfway through the volume, then as he turned a page, a folded paper fell out. He picked it up curiously. Why, Barbara, he said in astonishment, it's my father's writing. What is it, notes? No, he seems to have been trying to write a letter like those in the book. It is all in pencil, with changes and erasures here and there. Listen, you are right, as you always are, and we must never see each other again. We must live near each other for the rest of our lives with that consciousness between us. We must pass each other on the street and not speak, unless others are with us. Then we must bow pleasantly for the sake of appearances. I hope you do not blame me because I went mad. I ask your pardon, and yet I cannot say I am sorry. That one hour of confession is worth a lifetime of waiting, it is worth all the husks that we are to have henceforward while we starve for more. Through all the years to come we shall be separated by less than a mile, yet the world lies between us and divides us as a glittering sword. You will not be unfaithful to your pledge, nor I do mine. Nothing has changed there. It is only that two people chose to live in the starlight and bound themselves to it eternally, then had one blind glimpse of God's great sun. But Constance, the stars are the same as always, and we must try to forget that we have seen the sun. The little lights of the temple must be the more faithfully tinted if the great light goes out. When the white splendor fades, we must be content with the misty gold of night and not mind the shadows, nor the great desolate spaces where not even starlight comes. Your star and mine met for an instant, then were sundered as widely as the poles. But the light of each must be kept steadfast and clear because of the other. I do not know that I shall have the courage to send this letter. Everything was said when I told you that I love you, for that one word holds it all, and there is nothing more. As you can take your heart in the hollow of your hand and hold it, it is so small a thing. So the one word love holds everything that can be said, or given, or hunkered for, or prayed for, and denied. And if sometimes in the starlight we dream of the sun, we must remember that both sun and stars are gods. Past the unutterable leagues that divide us now, one day we shall meet again, urged may have, of earthly longing for earthly love. But heaven for me would be the hour I held you close again. I should ask nothing more than to tell you once more, face to face, and heart to heart, the words I write now, I love you. I love you. I love you. Roger put down the book and stared fixedly at the fire. Barbara's face was very pale, and the light had gone from her eyes. Roger, she said in a strange tone, Constance was my mother's name. Do you think he was startled for his thought had not gone so far as her intuition? I do not know, he said. They knew each other, Barbara went on swiftly, for the two families always lived here in these same two houses where you and I were born, it was only a step across the road and they, she choked Bekasab. Something new and terrible seemed to have sprung up suddenly between her and Roger. The blood beat hard in his ears, and his own words sounded dull and far away. It is dated June 3rd, he said. My mother died on the 7th, said Barbara slowly, by her own hand. They sat in silence for a long time, then speaking of indifferent things, they tried to get back upon the old friendly footing again, but failed miserably. There was a consciousness as of guilt on either side. Roger tried not to think of it. Later when he was alone, he would go over it all and try to question it out, try to discover if it were true. Barbara did not need to do this for, with a woman's quick insight, she knew. Secretly too, both were ashamed, having come unawares upon knowledge that was not meant for them. Presently Roger went home and was glad to be alone in the free outer air, but long after he was gone Barbara sat in the dark, her heart aching with the burden of her father's doubt and her dead mother's secret. End of Chapter 6 Chapter 7 A Flower of the Dusk by Myrtle Reed This LibriVox recording is in the public domain. An afternoon call The rap at the North's front door was of the sort which would impel the dead to rise and answer it. Before the echo of the imperative summons had died away, Miriam had opened it and admitted Miss Maddie. I was sewn over to my house, announced the visitor, settling herself comfortably, and I surmised as how you might be sewn over here, so I thought we might as well set together for a spell, I believe in being neighborly. Barbara smiled a welcome and Miriam brought in a quilt which she was binding by hand. As she worked, she studied Miss Maddie furtively and with an air of detachment. I come over on the trail Roger has wore in the grass, continued Miss Maddie, biting off her thread with a snap. He's organised himself into sort of a travelling library, I take it, what with transport and books at all hours back and forth. After I go to bed Roger lets himself out and sneaks over here, carrying Reedon matter both ways. But for land's sake, she chuckled, I ain't caring what he does after I get sleepy. I was never one to stay up after nine o'clock for the sake of entertainment. If there's sickness or anything like that, of course it's a different matter. Roger's paw was always a great one for Reedon and we've both inherited it from him. Roger sits with his books and I sit with my paper and we both read, never saying a word to each other till almost nine o'clock, or what you might call a literary family. I'm just reading a perfectly beautiful story called Margaret Miriam or The Maiden's Mad Marriage. Margaret must have been worth looking at, for she had golden hair and eyes like sapphires and ruby lips and pearly teeth. I was reading the description of her to Roger and he said she seemed to be what people would call a jewel of a girl. Margaret Miriam's mother died when she was an infant in arms, just like your ma, Barbara, and left her to her paw. Her paw didn't marry again, though several was setting their caps for him on account of him being young and handsome and having a lot of money. I suppose being a widower had something to do with it, too. It does be at all how women will run after a widower. I suppose they want a man who's already been trained, but speaking for myself, I've always felt as if I'd rather have something fresh and do my own training. Women's notions differ so about husbands. Just think what it would be to marry a man, thinking he was all trained and to find out that it'd been done wrong. You'd have to begin all over again and it'd be harder than starting in with absolute ignorance. The man would get restless, too. When he thought he was graduated and was about ready to begin on a postgraduate course, he'd find himself in the kindergarten, studying with beads and singing about little raindrops. Getting an idea into a man's head is like furnishing a room. If you can once get a piece of furniture where you want it, it can stay there until it's worn out or busted, except for occasional dusting and repairing. You can add from time to time as you have to, but if you attempt to refurnish a room that's all furnished and do it all at once, you're bound to make more disturbance than house cleaning. It has to be done slow and careful, unless you have a lichen for rouse. And if you're one of those kind of women that's forever changing their minds about furniture and their husband's ideas, you're bound to have a terrible restless marriage. Roger's paw was fresh when I took him, but unbeknownst to me, he'd done his own furnishing and the pieces was dreadful set and hard to move some of them I slid out gently and others took some maneuvering, but steady work tells on anything. He was thinking as I wanted him to about most things though when he died and that's saying a good deal, for he didn't die until after we'd been married seven years and three months and eighteen days. If he wasn't really thinking right he was pretending to and that's enough to satisfy any reasonable woman. Margaret Merriam's paw died when she was at the tender age of ten and he left all his money to a distant relation and trust for Margaret, the relative being supposed to spend the income on her. If Margaret died before she was of age the relative was to keep it and if she should marry before she was of age the relative was to keep it too, but live into eighteen and marry in afterwards it was all to be Margaret's and the relative wasn't to have as much as a two cent stamp with the mucilage licked off. This relative was a sweet-faced lady with a large mole on her right cheek. Margaret used to call her moly when she was mad at her, which was right frequent. Her name was Magdalene Mather and she'd been married three times. She was dreadful careless with her husbands and had mislaid them all. Not being able to find them again she just reckoned on there being dead and was thinking of marrying some more. Seems to me it's a mistake for anybody to marry more than once. In one of Roger's books it says something about a second marriage being the triumph of hope over experience. Magdalene Mather was dreadful hopeful and kept thinking that maybe she could get somebody who would stay with her without being chained up. Meanwhile it was to her interest to keep little Margaret as young as possible. Margaret thought she was ten when she went to live with Magdalene, but she soon learned it was a mistake and she got to be only seven in less than half an hour. Magdalene put shorter dresses on her and kept her in white and gave her shoes without any heels. And these little short socks that show a foot or so of bare leg and which is indecent if fashionable. Margaret's birthdays kept getting farther and farther apart and as soon as the neighbors began to notice that Margaret wasn't again like everybody else why Magdalene would just pack up and go to a new place. She didn't go to school but had private teachers because it was in the will that she was to be educated like a real lady. Any teacher who thought Margaret was too far advanced for her age got fired the minute it was spoke of and pretty soon Margaret got onto it herself. She used to tell teachers she'd like to say that she was very backward in her studies and tell those she didn't like that Auntie Magdalene would be dreadful pleased to hear that she was improving in her reading and arithmetic and grammar. Meanwhile nature was working in Margaret's interest and she was growing taller and taller every day. The short socks had to be took off because people laughed so and Magdalene had to let her braid her hair instead of having it cut Dutch and tied with a ribbon. When she was 18 she thought she was 13 and she was wearing dresses that come to her shoot-ups and her hair and one braid down her back. Dreadful young hats and no jewels though her paw had left her a small trunk full of rubies and diamonds and pearls. Magdalene was wearing the jewels herself. They were moving around pretty rapid about this time and going from city to city in order to find a better teachers for the dear child as Magdalene used to call her. One day soon after they'd gone to a new city Margaret was going downtown to take her music lesson. She went alone because Magdalene was laid up with a headache and wanted the house quiet. When the conductor come along for the fair Margaret was looking out of the window and absent-minded like she'd give him a penny instead of a nickel. The conductor give it back to her and asked her if she was so young she could go for half fair. And Margaret says right sharp when she give him the nickel it's not so long since I was traveling on half fair. The conductor says I'd hate to have been hanging up by the thumbs since you was says he. Of course this made Margaret good and mad and she says to the conductor how old do you think I am? The conductor says I ain't paid to think during union hours but imagine that you ain't old enough to lie about your age. Just then an old woman with a green parrot in a big cage fell off the car while she was getting off backwards as usual and Margaret didn't have no more chance to fight with the conductor. She saw however that he was terrible good looking like the dummy in the Taylor's window. It says in the story that Ronald McDonald that was his name was as handsome as a young Greek god and though lowly in station he would have adorned a title had it been his. Margaret got to do in some thinking about herself and wondering why it was she didn't seem to age none. And whenever she happened to get on to Ronald McDonald's car she noticed that he was awful polite and chivalrous to women. He waited patiently when any two of them was deciding who was to pay the fare and find in their purses and saying you must let me pay next time and he would tickle a crying baby under the chin and make it bill and cool like a bird. Did you ever see a baby bill? I never did neither. But that's what it said in the paper. I suppose it has some reference to the expense of their common and their keep through the whooping cough stage and the measles and so on. There don't neither of you know nothing about it because you ain't married but when Roger come his paw was obliged to mortgage the house and the mortgage didn't get took off until Roger was out of dresses and go into school and beginning to write with ink. Let me see. What was I talking about? Oh yes, Ronald McDonald's fine manners. When a woman give him five pennies instead of a nickel he was always just as polite to her as he was to anybody and would help her off the car and carry her bundles to the corner for her and everything like that. Of course Margaret couldn't help noticing this and liken him for it though she was still mad at him for what he said about her age. One morning Margaret give him a quarter so he'd have to make change and while he was doing it she says to him how nice it must be to write all day without paying for it. I'm under age says Ronald McDonald with a smile that showed all his beautiful teeth and his ruby lips under his black waxed mustache. Get out says Margaret surprised. I am though says Ronald confidentially. I'm just 19. How old are you? 13 says Margaret softly. Don't renege says Ronald. I think we're pretty near of an age. When Margaret got home she looked up renege in the dictionary. But it wasn't there. She was too smart to ask Magdalene but she kept on thinking. One day while she was going down in the car two men came in and sat by her. There was chance acquaintances it seemed haven't just met at the hotel. Your face is terrible familiar to me one of the men said I've seen you before or your picture or something somewhere. Upon my soul I believe your picture is hung up in my last wife's boutoir. Good God says the other man turning his pale as death. Did you marry Magdalene Mather too? I did says the first man. Then brother says the second man let us get off at the next corner and go and drown our mutual sorrow in a drink. After they got off Margaret went out to Ronald and she says to him there goes two of my aunt's husbands. She's had three and there's two of them right there. Well says Ronald if auntie ain't got a death certificate and two or three divorces put away somewhere she stands right in line to get canned for a few years for bigamy. You don't look like you had an aunt that was a Trigamist. Says he. Margaret didn't understand much of this but she still kept thinking. One day while Magdalene was at an afternoon reception wearing all of Margaret's jewels Margaret looked all through her private belongings to see if she could find any divorces and she come on a family Bible with the date of her birth in it and her father's will. Soon she understands the whole game and by doing a small sum in subtraction she sees that she's going on 19 now. She's afraid to leave the proofs in the house overnight so she wraps him up in a newspaper and flies with him to her only friend Ronald McDonald and asks him to keep him for her until she comes after him. He says he will guard them with his life. When Margaret goes back after them having decided to face her aunt and demand her inheritance Ronald has already read him but of course he won't let on that he has. He convinces her that she ought to get married before she faces her aunt so that a husband's strong arm will be at hand to defend her through the terrible ordeal. Margaret thinks she sees a way out for she has been studying up on law in the meantime and she remembers how Ronald had told her he is underage and she knows the marriage won't be legal but will serve to deceive her aunt. So she flies with him and they are married and then when they confront Magdalene with the will and the family bible and their marriage certificate and tell her she is a trigamist they will make trouble for her if she don't do right by him. Magdalene sobs out oh heaven I am lost and falls in a dead faint from which she don't come out for six weeks. In the meantime Margaret has thanked Ronald McDonald for his great kindness and says he can go now as the marriage ain't legal he be an underage and not having his parents consent. Ronald gives a long loud laugh and then he digs up his family bible and shows Margaret how he is almost 25 and old enough to be married and that women have no patent online about their ages and that he is not going away. Margaret swoones and when she comes to she finds that Ronald has resigned his job as a street car conductor and has bought some fine clothes on her credit and is prepared to live happy ever afterward. He bids eternal farewell to work in a long impassioned speech that's so full of fine language that it would do credit to a minister. And there Margaret is in a trap of her own Megan with a husband to take care of her money instead of an aunt. Next week I'll know more about how it turns out but that's as far as I've got now ain't it a perfectly beautiful story? Miriam muttered some sort of answer but Barbara smiled it is very interesting she said it kindly I've never read anything like it it's a lot better than the books you and Roger waste your time over return the guest much gratified but I can't lend you the papers because there's five waiting after the postmaster's wife and goodness knows how many of them has promised others I don't mind running over once in a while though and telling you about him while I sew it keeps him fresh in my memory she added happily and Roger is so busy with his law books he don't have time to listen to him except at supper he reads the law every evening now and he didn't used to guess he ain't wasting so much time as he was been down to the hotel yet she asked inclining her head toward Miriam once answered Miriam reluctantly there ain't many come yet the postmaster's wife tells me there's a young lady at the hotel named Miss Eloise Winn and every day but Saturday she gets a letter from the city addressed in a man's writing and every afternoon when the boy brings the hotel mail down to go out on the night train there's a big white square envelope in a woman's writing addressed to Dr. Alan Conrad some place in the city the envelope smells sweet but the writing is dreadful big and splashy looking know anything about her? Miss Maddie gays sharply at Miriam over her spectacles no returned Miriam decisively thought maybe you would anyhow you don't need to be so sharp about it because there's no harm in asking a civil question my mother always taught me that a civil question called for a civil answer I should think from the letters and all that he was her steady company shouldn't you? it's possible assented Barbara seeing that Miriam did not intend to reply there's some talk at the sewing circle of getting you one of them hand sewing machines continued Miss Maddie says you could sew more and better Barbara flushed painfully thank you she answered but I couldn't use it I much prefer to do all my work by hand all right assented Miss Maddie good humoredly it ain't our idea to force a sewing machine on to anybody that don't want it we can use some of the money and get in a doormat for the front door of the church and if I was you I wouldn't let my paw run around so much by himself if he wants to borrow a dog to go with him Roger would be willing to lend him Judge Baskham's Fido if the judge wasn't willing Roger would try to persuade him Lenton Fido would make it law easier for Roger and be a great help to your paw I must go now and get supper goodbye I've enjoyed my visit ever so much come over sometime Miriam you ain't very sociable goodbye the two women watched Miss Maddie scutting blithely over the trail which as she said Roger had worn in the grass Miriam looked after her gloomily but Barbara was laughing don't look so cross Auntie chided Barbara no one ever came here who was so easy to entertain hmm grunted Miriam and went out but even Barbara sighed in relief when she was left alone she understood some of Roger's difficulties of which he never spoke and realized that the much maligned Baskham liver could not be held responsible for all his discontent she wondered what Roger's father had been like and did not wonder that he was unhappy if his nature was in any way akin to his sons but her mother how could she have failed to appreciate the beautiful old father whom Barbara loved with all the passion and strength of her young heart he mustn't know said Barbara to herself for the hundredth time father must never know End of Chapter 7