 CHAPTER VIII. A FLOWER OF THE DUSK by Myrtle Reid. A fairy godmother. As cool and fresh as the June morning of which she seemed a veritable part, Miss Eloise Wynn, immaculately clad in white linen, opened the little grey gate. It was a week later that she had promised to come, but she had not been idle, and considered herself justified for the delay. Miriam opened the door for her and introduced Barbara. Eloise smiled radiantly as she offered a smooth, well-kept hand. I know I'm late, she said, but I think you'll forgive me for it a little later on. I want to see all the lingerie, every piece you have to sell. Would you mind coming upstairs? asked Barbara. No, indeed. The two went up, Barbara slowly leading the way. Miriam remained downstairs to make sure that the blind man did not come in unexpectedly and overhear things which he would be much happier not to know. What a lot of it! Eloise was saying. And what a wonderful old chest! Trembling with excitement Barbara spread forth her dainty wares. Eloise was watching her narrowly and, with womanly intuition, saw the dire need and the courageous spirit struggling against it. Just a minute, please, said Barbara. I'd better tell you now. My father is blind and he does not know we are poor, nor that I make these things to sell. He thinks that therefore myself and that I am very vain. So if you should come home while you are here, please do not spoil our little deceit. Barbara lifted her luminous blue eyes to Eloise and smiled. It was a brave little smile without a hint of self-pity, and it went straight to the older woman's heart. I'll be careful, said Eloise. I think it's dear of you! Now, said Barbara, stooping to peer into the corners of the deep chest, I think that's all. She began hurriedly to price everything as she passed it to Eloise, giving the highest price each time. When she had finished, she was amazed at Miss Wynn's face. It was so full of resentment. Do you mean to tell me, asked Eloise, in a queer voice, that you were asking that for these? The blue eyes threatened to overflow, but Barbara straightened herself proudly. It is all hand work, she said, with quiet dignity, and the material is the very best. I could not possibly afford to sell it for less. You goose! laughed Eloise. You have misunderstood me. There is not a thing here that is not worth at least a third more than you are asking for it. Give me a pencil and paper and some pins. Barbara obeyed, wondering what this beautiful visitor would do next. Eloise took up every garment and examined it critically. Then she made a new price tag and pinned it over the old one. She advanced even the plainest garments, at least a third. The more elaborate ones were doubled, and some of the embroidered things were even tripled in price. When she came to the shirt-waist patterns, exquisitely embroidered upon sheerst handkerchief linen, she shamelessly multiplied the price by four and pinned the new tag on. Oh! gasped Barbara. Nobody will ever pay that much for things to wear. Somebody is going to, right now, announced Eloise with decision. I'll take this, and this, and this, she went on rapidly choosing, and these, and these, and this. I'll take those four for a friend of mine who is going to be married next week. This solves the eternal problem of wedding presents, and all of these for next Santa Claus time. I can use all the handkerchiefs and every pinned cushion cover and corsage pad you've made. Please don't sell anything else until I've heard from some more of my friends to whom I have already written. And you're not to offer one of these exquisite things to those unappreciative people at the hotel, for I have a letter from a friend who is on the board of directors of the Woman's Exchange, and got a chance for you to sell there. How long have you been doing this? Seven or eight years, murmured Barbara. Her senses were so confused that the room seemed to be whirling and her face was almost as white as the lingerie. And those women at the hotel would really buy these things at such ridiculous prices? Not often, answered Barbara, trying to smile. They would not pay so much. Sometimes we had to sell for very little more than the cost of the material. One woman said we ought not to expect so much for things that were not made with a sewing machine. But of course Aunt Miriam had been to the city, and she knew that handwork was worth more. I wish I'd been there, remarked Eloise. There was a look around her mouth which would have boated no good to anybody if she had. When I see what brute swimming can be, sometimes I am ashamed because I am a woman. And, returned Barbara softly, when I see what good angel's women can be, it makes me proud to be a woman. Where do you get your material? asked Eloise quickly. Barbara named the large department store where Aunt Miriam bought women, lawn, butteased, lace, patterns, and incidentally managed to absorb ideas. I see I am needed in Riverdale by the sea, observed Miss Wynn. I can arrange for you to buy all you want at the lowest wholesale price. Would it save anything? asked Barbara doubtfully. Would it? repeated Eloise smilingly. Just wait and see. After I've written about that, and had some samples sent to you, we'll talk over half a dozen or more complete sets of lingerie for me, and some more shirt wastes. Since there are pen downstairs, I want to write a check for you. When they went into the living-room, Barbara's cheeks were burning with excitement, and her eyes shone like stars. When she took the check, which Eloise wrote with an accustomed air, she could scarcely speak, but managed to stammer out, Thank you. You needn't, said Eloise Cooley, for I'm only buying what I want at a price I consider very reasonable and fair. If you'll get some samples of your work ready, I'll send up for them and hurry them on to my friend, who is to put them into the women's exchange, and please don't sell anything more just now. I've just thought of a friend whose daughter is going to be married soon, and she may want me to select some things for her. You're a fairy godmother! said Barbara. This morning we were poor and discouraged. You came in and waved your hand, and now we are rich. I have heart for anything now. You are always rich while you have courage, and without it Croce himself would be poor. It's not the circumstance, remember, it's the way you meet it. I know, said Barbara, but her eyes filled with tears of gratitude nevertheless. Ambrose North came in from the street and immediately felt the presence of a stranger in the room. Who is here? he asked. This is Miss Wynne, father. She is stopping at the hotel and came up to call. The old man bowed in courtly fashion over the young woman's hand. We are glad to see you, said he gently. I am blind, but I can see with my soul. That is the true sight, returned Eloise. Her big brown eyes were soft with pity. Have many of the guests come, he inquired. I have a friend, laughed Eloise, who says it is wrong to call people guests when they are stopping at a hotel. He insists that inmates is a much better word. He is not far from right, said the old man smiling. Is he there now? No, he comes down Saturday mornings and stays until Monday morning. That is all the vacation he allows himself. You are fortunate to live here, she added kindly. I do not know of a more beautiful place. Nor I. To us, to me especially, it is hallowed by memories. We, you will stay till luncheon, will you not, Miss Wynne? Eloise glanced quickly at Barbara. If you only would, she said. If you really want me, said Eloise, I'd love to. She took off her hat, a white one trimmed with lilacs, and smoothed the waves in her copper-colored hair. Barbara took her crutches and went out, very quietly, to help Aunt Maryam prepare for the guest. When the kitchen door was safely closed, Barbara's joy bubbled into speech. Oh, Aunt Maryam! she cried. She's bought nearly everything I had, and paid almost double price for it. She's already arranged for me to sell at the woman's exchange in the city, and she's going to write to some of her friends about the things I have left. She's going to arrange for me to get all my material at the lowest wholesale price. And she's ordered six complete sets of lingerie for herself. She wants some more shirt-waste, too. Oh, Aunt Maryam, do you think the world is coming to an end? Has she paid you? queried Maryam gravely. Indeed she has. Then it probably is. Maryam was not a woman easily to be affected by joy, but the hard lines of her face softened perceptibly. Show her the quilts, she suggested. Oh, Aunt Maryam, I'd be ashamed to. Today, when she's bought so much, she'll be coming up again before long. She said so, and fathers asked her to luncheon. Just like him, commented Maryam with a sigh. He always suffered from hospitality. I'll have to go to the store. No, you won't, Auntie. She's not that sort. We'll give her the best we have, with a welcome thrown in. If Eloise thought it strange for one end of the table to be set with solid silver, heavy damask, and fine china, while the other end, where she and the two women of the house sat, was painfully different, she gave no sign of it in look or speech. The humble fair might have been the finest banquet so far as she was concerned. She fitted herself to their ways and without apparent effort. There was no awkwardness nor feeling of strangeness. She might have been a lifelong friend of the family, instead of a passing acquaintance who had come to buy lingerie. As she ate, she talked. It was not aimless chatter, but the rare gift of conversation. She drew them all out and made them talk to, even Maryam relaxed and said something more than yes and no. What delicious preserves, said Eloise. May I have some more please? Where do you get them? I make them, answered Maryam, the dull red rising in her cheeks. She had not been entirely disinterested when she climbed up a chair and took down some of her choice's fruit from the highest shelf of the storeroom. Do you, a look from Barbara, stop the unlucky speech? Do you find it difficult, asked Eloise instantly mistress of the situation, I should so love to make some for myself. Maryam will be glad to teach you. Put in Ambrose North. She likes to do it because she can do it so well. The red grew deeper in Maryam's lined face, for every word of praise from him was food to her hungry soul. She would gladly have laid down her life for him, even though she hated herself for feeling as she did. Afterward, while Maryam was cleaning off the table, Eloise went to the piano without being asked, and sang to them for more than an hour. She chose folk songs and tender melodies, little songs made of tears and laughter, and the simple ballads that never grow old. She had a deep, vibrant Contralto voice of splendid range and volume. She sang with rare sympathy, and every word could be clearly understood. Don't stop, pleaded Barbara, when she paused and ran her fingers lightly over the keys. I don't want to impose upon your good nature, she returned, but I love to sing. And we love to have you, said North. I think, Barbara, we must get a new piano. I wouldn't, answered Eloise before Barbara could speak. The ears improve wine and violins and friendship, so why not a piano? Without waiting for his reply, she began to sing with exquisite tenderness. Sometimes between long shadows on the grass, the little truant waves of sunlight pass. Mine eyes grow dim with tenderness the while, thinking I see thee, thinking I see thee smile. And sometimes in the twilight gloom apart, the tall trees whisper, whisper heart to heart. For my fond lips the eager answers fall, thinking I hear thee, thinking I hear thee call. Yes, said Ambrose North, unseddily, as the last chord died away. I know, you can call and call, but nothing ever comes back to you. The tears streamed over his blind face as he rose and went out of the room. What have I done? asked Eloise. Oh, what have I done? Nothing, sighed Barbara. My mother has been dead for twenty-one years, but my father never forgets. She was only a girl when she died, like me. I'm so sorry. Why didn't you tell me before? So I could have chosen jolly, happy things. That wouldn't keep him from grieving. Nothing can. So don't be troubled about it. Eloise turned back to the piano and sang two or three rollicking, laughing melodies that set Barbara's one foot to tapping on the floor, but the old man did not come back. I never meant to stay so long, said Eloise, rising and putting on her hat. It isn't long, returned Barbara, with evidence and serity. I wish she wouldn't go. But I must, dear. If I don't go, I can never come again. I have lots of letters to write and mail will be waiting for me, and I have some studying to do, so I must go. Barbara went to the door with her. Good-bye, very Godmother, she said wistfully. Good-bye, very Godchild, answered Eloise carelessly. Then something in the girl's face impaled her to put a strong arm around Barbara and kiss her very tenderly. The blue eyes filled with tears. Thank you for that, breathed Barbara. More than for anything else. Eloise went away humming to herself, but she stopped as soon as she was out of sight of the house. That little thing, she thought, the dear brave little thing, a face like an angel, and that cross-old woman, and the beautiful old man who sees with his soul, and all that exquisite work, and the prices those brutal women paid her for it, blind and lame, and nothing to be done. Then another thought made her own eyes very bright. But I'm not so sure of that. We'll see. She wrote many letters that afternoon, and all were for Barbara. The last and longest was to Dr. Conrad, begging him to come at the first possible moment, and go with her to see a poor, broken child who might be made well and strong and beautiful. And, the letter went on, perhaps you could give her father back his eyesight. She calls me her fairy godmother, and I rely upon you to keep my proud position for me. Anyway, Alan, dear, please come, won't you? She closed it with a few words, which would have made him start for the Klondike that night, had there been a train. And she asked it of him, posted it, and hopefully awaited results. Taking the Chance Well, I'm here, remarked Dr. Conrad, as he sat on the beach with Eloise. I have left all my patients in the care of an inferior, though reputable, physician, who had such winning ways that he may have annexed my entire practice by the time I get back. If you'll tell me just where these protégés of yours are, I'll go up there right away. I'll ring the bell, and when they open the door, I'll say, I've come for Miss Wynn, and I'm to amputate this morning and remove a couple of cataracts this afternoon. Kindly have the patients get ready at once. Don't joke, Alan, pleaded Eloise. Her brown eyes were misty, and her mood of exalted tenderness made her in love with all the world. If you could see that brave little thing with her beautiful face and her divine unselfishness, hobbling around on crutches and sowing for a living, meanwhile keeping her blind old father from knowing they are poor, you'd feel just as I do. It is very improbable, returned Alan seriously, that anything can be done. If they were well to do, they undoubtedly made every effort and saw everybody worth seeing. But in twenty years, suggested Eloise hopefully, think of all the progress that has been made in twenty years. I know, said Alan doubtfully, all we can do is to see, and if anything can be done for them, why, of course, we'll do it. Then we'll go for a little drive, she said, and on our way back we can stop there and get the things I bought the other day. They have no one to send with them, and it's too much for one person to carry anyway. I suppose she has sold everything she had, mused Alan impersonally. Not quite, answered Eloise fleshing. I left her some samples for the woman's exchange. Very kind, he observed, with the same air of detachment. I can see my finish. My wife will have so much charity work for me to do that there will be no time for anything else. And, in a little while, she will have given away all the money we both have. Then, when we're sitting together in the sun on the front steps of the poor house, we can fittingly lament the end of our usefulness. They won't let us sit together, she retorted. Don't you know that even in the old people's homes they keep the men and women apart, husbands and wives included? For the love of Mike, what for, he asked in surprise, because it makes the place too gay and frivolous. Old ladies of 80 were counted by awkward swains of 90 and more, and there was so much checker playing in the evening, and so many lights burning, and so many requests for new clothes, that the management couldn't stand it. There were heart-burnings and jealousies, too, so they had to adopt a policy of segregation. Hope springs eternal in the human breast," quoted Alan. And love, she said, I've thought sometimes I'd like to play fairy godmother to some of those poor desolate old people who love each other, and give them a pretty wedding. Wouldn't it be dear to see two old people married and settled in a little home of their own? Or more likely with us, he returned. I've been thinking about a nice little house with a guest room or two, but I've changed my mind. My vote is for a very small apartment. You're not the sort to be trusted with a guest room. Eloise laughed and sprang to her feet. On the errand of mercy, she said, We're wasting valuable time. Get a horse and buggy, and I'll see if I can borrow an extra suitcase or two for my purchases. When she came down, Alan was waiting for her in the buggy. A bell-boy in her wake brought three suitcases and piled them under the seat. Half a dozen rocking chairs on the veranda held highly interested observers. The paraphernalia suggested an elopement. Tell those women on the veranda, said Eloise to the boy, that I'm not taking any trunks and will soon be back. What for, queried Alan, as they drove away. Reasons of my own, she answered crisply. Men are as blind as bats. I'm wearing glasses, he returned, with due humility. If you think I'm fit to hear why you left that cryptic message, I'd be pleased to. You're far from fit. Here, turn into this road. Spread like a tawny ribbon upon the green of the hills, the road wound lazily through open sunny spaces and shaded aisles sweet with that cool fragrance found only in the woods. The horse did not hurry, but wandered comfortably from side to side of the road, browsing where he chose. He seemed to know that lovers were driving him. He's a one-armed horse, isn't he? laughed Eloise. I like him lots better than that automobile, don't you? Out here I do, but an automobile has certain advantages. What are they? she demanded. I'd rather feed a horse than buy a tire any day. So would I, unless he tired of his feed. But if you want to get anywhere very quickly, and the thing happens not to break, the machine is better. But it never happens. I believe the average automobile is possessed of an intuition little short of devilish. A horse seems more friendly. If you were thinking of getting me a little electric runabout for my birthday, please, change it to a horse. All right, returned Alan serenely. We can keep him in the living room of our six room apartment and have his dinner sent from the nearest table, de haute. For breakfast he can come out into the cellar manager and eat cereals with us. You're absolutely incorrigible, she sighed. This is the river road. Follow it until I tell you where to turn. Within half an hour the horse came to a full stop of his own accord in front of the gray weather-worn house where Barbara lived. He was cropping at a particularly enticing clump of grass when Eloise alighted. Going to push, queried Alan lazily. No, this is the place. Come on. You bring two of the suitcases and I'll take the other. The blind man was not there at the moment, but came in while Miriam was upstairs packing Ms. Wynn's recent additions to her wardrobe. Dr. Conrad had been observing Barbara keenly as they talked of indifferent things. Outwardly he was calm and professional, but within a warmly human impulse answered her evident need. He was young and had not yet been at his work long enough to determine his ultimate nature. Later on his profession would do to him one of two things. It would transform him into a mere machine, brutalized and calloused, with only one or two emotions aside from selfishness left to thrive in his dwarf soul, or it would humanize him to godlike unselfishness, attune him to a divine sympathy, and mellow his heart in tenderness beyond words. In one instance he would be feared, in the other only loved by those who came to him. As Barbara went across the room to another chair, his eyes followed her with intense interest. Eloise shrank from him a little. She had never seen him like this before, yet she knew, from the expression of his face, that he had found hope, and was glad. Barbara—it was Miriam, calling from upstairs. In just a minute, Auntie, excuse me, please, I'll come right back. She was scarcely out of the room before Eloise leaned over to Alan, her face alight with eager questioning. You think? I don't know, he returned, in a low tone. It depends on the hardness of the muscles and several other local conditions. Of course, it's impossible to tell definitely, without a thorough examination, but I've done it successfully in two adult cases, and have seen it done more than a dozen times. I'd be very willing to try. Oh, Alan! whispered Eloise. I'm so glad. Barbara's padded crutches sounded softly on the stairs as she came down. Eloise went to the window and studied the horse attentively, though he was not of the restless sort that needs to be tied. While she was watching, Ambrose North came around the base of the hill, crossed the road, and opened the gate. He had been to his old solitude at the top of the hill, where, as nowhere else, he found peace. While he was talking with the visitors, Miriam went out, taking the neatly packed suitcases, one at a time, and put them into the buggy. Mr. North, said Dr. Conrad, while these girls are chattering, will you go for a little drive with me? The blind man's fine old face illumined with pleasure. I should like it very much, he said. It is a long time since I have had a drive. It's more like a walk, laughed Alan, as they went out, with this horse. We sold our horses many years ago, the old man explained as he climbed in. Miriam is afraid of horses, and Barbara said she did not care to go. I thought the open air and the slight exercise would be good for her, but she insisted upon my selling them. It is about Barbara that I wish to speak, said Alan. With your consent, I should like to make a thorough examination and see whether an operation would not do away with her crutches entirely. It is of no use. Side North, wearily. We went everywhere and did everything long ago. There is nothing that can be done. But there may be, insisted Alan. We have learned much in my profession in the last twenty years. May I try? You're asking me if you can hurt my baby? Not to hurt her more than is necessary to heal. Understand me. I do not know but what you are right, but I hope and believe that there may be a chance. I have dreams sometimes, said the old man, very slowly, that my baby could walk and I could see. The dream shall come true if it is possible. Let me see your eyes. He stopped the horse on the brow of the hill, where the sun shone clear and strong, stood up and turned the blind face to the light. Then, sitting down once more, he asked innumerable questions. When he finally was silent, Ambrose North turned to him indifferently. Well, the tone was simply polite inquiry. The matter seemed to be one which concerned nobody. Again, I do not know, returned Alan. This is all together out of my line, but if you'll go to the city with me, I'll take you to a friend of mine, who is a great specialist. If anything can be done, he is the man who can do it. Will you come? There was a long pause. If Barbara is willing, he answered simply, ask her. Meanwhile, Eloise was talking to Barbara. First she told of the letters she had written in her behalf, and to which the answers might come any day now. Then she asked if she might order preserves from Aunt Miriam and discussed patterns and material for the lingerie she had previously spoken of. Finding at length that the best way to approach a difficult subject was the straightest one, she took the plunge. Have you always been lame? she asked. She did not look at Barbara but tried to speak carelessly as she gazed out of the window. Yes, came the answer so low that she could scarcely hear it. Wouldn't you like to walk like the rest of us? continued Eloise. Barbara writhed under the torturing question. My mind can walk, she said with difficulty. My soul isn't lame. The tone made Eloise turn quickly and hate herself bitterly for her awkwardness. She saw that an apology would only make a bad matter worse, so she went straight on. Dr. Conrad is very skillful, she continued. In the city, he is one of the few really great surgeons. He told me that he would like to make an examination and see if an operation would not do away with crutches. He thinks there may be a good chance. If there is, will you take it? Thank you, said Barbara almost inaudibly. Her voice had sunk to a whisper, and she was very pale. I do not mean to seem ungrateful, but it is impossible. Impossible? repeated Eloise. Why? Because of Father, explained Barbara. Her color was coming back slowly now. I am all he has. My work supplies his needs, and I dare not take the risk. Is that the only reason? Barbara nodded. You're not afraid. Barbara's blue eyes opened wide with astonishment. Why should I be afraid? she asked. Do you take me for a coward? Eloise knelt beside Barbara's low chair and put her strong arms around the slender, white-clad figure. Listen, dear, she said. Her face was shining as though with some great inner light. My own dear father died when I was a child. My mother died when I was born. I have never had anything but money. I have never had anyone to take care of. No one to make sacrifices for. No one to make me strong because I was needed. If the worst should happen, would you trust your father to me? Could you trust me? Yes, said Barbara slowly. I could. Then I promise you solemnly that your father shall never want for anything while he lives. And now, if there is a chance, will you take it for me? Barbara looked long into the sweet face, glorified by the inner light. Then she leaned forward and put her soft arms around the older woman, hiding her face in the masses of copper-colored hair. For you? A thousand times, yes, she sobbed. Oh, anything for you! Late in the afternoon, when Ambrose North and Barbara were alone again, he came over to her chair and stroked her shining hair with a loving hand. Did they tell you, dear? he asked. Yes, whispered Barbara. I have dreamed so often that my baby could walk, and I could see. He said that the dream should come true if he could make it so. Did he say anything about your eyes? asked Barbara in astonishment. Yes, he thinks there may be a chance there, too. If you are willing, I am to go to the city with him some time and see a friend of his who is a great specialist. Oh, Daddy! cried Barbara. I'm afraid, for you! He drew a chair up near hers and sat down. The old hand, in which the pulses move so slowly, clasped the younger one, warm with life. Barbara, he said, I have never seen my baby. I know, Daddy. I want to see you, dear. And I want you to. Then will you let me go? Perhaps, but it must be afterward, you know. Why? Because when you see me, I want to be strong and well. I want to be able to walk. You mustn't see the crutches, Daddy. They are ugly things. Nothing could be ugly that belongs to you. I made a little song this afternoon, while you and Miriam were talking, and I was out alone. Tell me! Once there was a man who had a garden. When he was a child, he had played in it. In his youth and early manhood, he had worked in it, and found pleasure in seeing things grow. But he did not really know what a beautiful garden it was until another walked in it with him and found it fair. Together they watched it from springtime to harvest, finding new beauty in it every day. One night at twilight she whispered to him that some day a perfect flower of their very own was to bloom in the garden. They watched and waited and prayed for it together, but before it blossomed the man went blind. In the darkness he could not see the garden, but she was still there, bringing divine consolation with her touch and whispering to him always of the perfect flower, so soon to be their own. When it blossomed the man could not see it. But the one who walked beside him told him that it was as pure and fair as they had prayed it might be. They enjoyed it together for a year, and he saw it through her eyes. Then she went to God's garden, and he was left desolate and alone. He cared for nothing, and for a time even forgot the flower that she had left. Weeds grew among the flowers, nettles and thistles took possession of the walks, and strange vines choked with their tendrils everything that dared to bloom. One day he went out into the intolerable loneliness and desolation and groping blindly. He found among the nettles and thistles and weeds the one perfect white blossom. It was cool and soft to his hot hand. It was exquisitely fragrant, and more than all it was part of her. Gradually it eased his pain. He took out the weeds and thistles as best he could, but there was little he could do, for he had left it too long. The years went by, but the flower did not fade. Seeking he always found it weary. It always refreshed him. Starving, it fed his soul. Blind, it gave him sight. It gave him courage. Hurt, it brought him balm. At last he lived only because of it. For, in some mysterious way, it seemed to need him too. And sometimes it even seemed divinely to restore the lost. Flower of the dusk, he said, leaning to Barbara. What should I have been without you? How could I have borne it all? God suits the burden to the bearer, I think. She answered softly. If you have much to bear, it is because you are strong enough to do it nobly and well. Only the weak are allowed to shirk, and shift their load to the shoulders of the strong. I know. But Barbara, suppose— There is nothing to suppose, Daddy. Whatever happened would be the best that could happen. I'm not afraid. Her voice rang clear and strong. Insensibly he caught some of her own fine courage, and his soul rallied greatly to meet hers. From her height she had summoned him as with a bugle-call, and he had answered. The ways of the everlasting are not our ways, he said. But I will not be afraid. No, I will not let myself be afraid. End of Chapter 9 Chapter 10 A Flower of the Dusk by Myrtle Reed This LibriVox recording is in the public domain. In the garden The subtle, far-reaching fragrance of a summer night came through the open window. A cool wind from the hills had set the maple branches to murmuring, and hushed the incoming tide as it swept up to the waiting shore. Out in the illimitable darkness of the east, gray surges throbbed like the beating of a troubled heart. But the shore knew only the drowsy croon of a sea that has gone to sleep. Golden lilies swung their sensors softly, and the exquisite incense perfumed the dusk. Fairy lamp-bearers starred the night, with glimmering radiance, faintly seeing afar. A cricket chirp just outside the window, and a ghostly white moth circled around the evening lamp. Roger sat by the table, with Keats' letters to his beloved fanny open before him. The letter to Constance so strangely brought back after all the intervening years lay beside the book. The ink was faded, and the paper was yellow, but his father's love for a woman, not his mother, stared the sun full in the face, and was not to be denied. Was this all, or...? His thought refused to go further. Constance North had died by her own hand four days after the letter was written. What might not have happened in four days? In one day Columbus found a world, in another electricity was discovered. In one day, one hour, even some immeasurable force moving according to unseen law, might sway the sun and set all the stars to reeling madly through the unutterable midnight of the universe. And four days? Ah, what had happened in those four days? The question had haunted him since the night he read the letter, when he was reading to Barbara, and had unwittingly come upon it. Constance was dead, and Lauren Austin was dead, but their love lived on. The grave was closed against it, and in neither heaven nor hell could it find an abiding place. Ghostly and forbidding, it had sent Constance to haunt Miriam's troubled sleep. It had filled Ambrose North's soul with cruel doubt and foreboding, and had now come back to Roger and Barbara to ask eternal questions of the one, and stir the heart of the other to new depths of pain. He had not seen Barbara since that night, and she had sent no message. No beacon light in the window across the way said come. The sword that had lain, keen edged and cruel, between Constance and her lover, had, by a single swift stroke, changed everything between her daughter and his son. Not that Barbara herself was less beautiful or less dear. Roger had missed her more than he realized, when her lovely changing face had come between his eyes and the musty pages of his law-books, while the disturbing baskin pup cavorted merrily around the office, unheard and unheeded, Roger had ascribed it to the letter that had forced them apart. The woolen slippers muffled Miss Maddie's step, so that Roger did not hear her enter the room. Preoccupied and absorbed, he was staring vacantly out of the window, when a strong, capable hand swooped down beside him, gathering up the book and the letter. I don't know what it is about your reading, Roger, complained his mother, that makes you blind and deaf and dumb and practically paralyzed. Your pa was the same way. Reckon I'll read a piece myself and see what it is that's so effectant. It ain't a very big book, but it seems to have tremendous power. She sat down and began to read aloud, in a curiously unsympathetic voice which grated abominably upon her unwilling listener. Ask yourself, thy love, whether you are not very cruel, to have so entrammeled me, so destroyed my freedom, will you confess this in the letter you must write immediately, and do all you can to console me in it? Make it rich as a draft of poppies to intoxicate me, write the softest words and kiss them, that I may at least touch my lips where yours have been. For myself I know not how to express my devotion, to so fair a form. I want a brighter word than bright, a fair word than fair. I almost wish we were butterflies and lived but three summer days. Three such days with you I could fill with more delight than fifty common years could ever contain in. Ain't that wonderful, Roger? Wants to get drunk on poppies and kiss the writing and thinks after that he'll be made into a butterfly. Your paw couldn't have been far from being a butterfly when he bought this book. There ain't no sense in it. And this, why, it's your paw's writing, Roger. I ain't seen it for years. Miss Maddie leaned forward in her chair and brought the letter to Constance close to the light. She read it through, calmly, without haste or excitement. Roger's hands gripped the arms of his chair and his face turned ashen. His whole body was tense. Then, as swiftly as it had come, the moment passed. Miss Maddie took off her spectacles and leaned back in her chair, with great weariness evident in every line of her figure. Roger, she said sadly, there's no use in trying to conceal it from you any longer. Your paw was crazy, as crazy as a loon. What with buying books so steady and reading of them so continual, his mind got unhinged. I've always suspected it, and now I know. Your paw gets this book and reads all this stuff that's been written about Fanny. And he don't see no reason why he shouldn't duplicate it and maybe get it printed. I knew he set great store by books, but it comes to me as a shock that he was allowed to write him. Some of the time he sees he's crazy himself. Didn't you see, there where he says, I hope you do not blame me because I went mad. Mad is the refined word for crazy. Then he goes on about eating husks and being starved. That's what I told him when he insisted on having oatmeal cooked for his breakfast every morning. I told him humans couldn't expect to live on horse feed, but lost sex. He never paid no attention to me. I could set and talk by the hour just as I'm talking to you, and he wasn't listening any more than you be. I am listening, mother, he assured her in a forced voice. He could not say with what joyful relief. Maybe, she went on, I'd have been more gentle with your paw if I'd realized just what condition his mind was in. There's a book in the attic full of just such writing as this. I found it once when I was cleaning, but I never paid no more attention to it. I surmised it was something he was copying out of another book that he borrowed from the minister, but I see now the Lord tempers the wind to the shorn lamb. If I had known what it was then, maybe I couldn't have bore it as I can now. Seizing his opportunity, Roger put the book and the letter aside. Miss Maddie slipped out of its wrapper the paper which Roger had brought to her from the post office that same night, and began to read. Roger sat back in his chair with his eyes closed, meditating upon the theory of chance, and wondering if, after all, there was a single controlling purpose behind the extraordinary things that happened. Miss Maddie wiped her spectacles twice, and changed her position three times. Then she got another chair and moved the lamp closer. But last she clucked sharply with her false teeth, always the outward evidence of inner turmoil or displeasure. What's the matter, mother? I can't see with these glasses," she said fretfully. I can see a lot better without them than I can with them. Have you wiped them? Yes, I've wiped them till it's a wonder the polish ain't all wore off the glass. Put them up close to your eyes instead of wearing them so far down on your nose. I've tried that, but the closer they got to my eyes the more I can't see. The further away they are the better it is. When I have them off I can see pretty good. Then why don't you take them off? That sounds just like your paw. Do you suppose after paying $7.90 for these glasses and worn twice as much for my gold-bowed ones, that I ain't going to use them and get the benefit of them? Your paw never had no notion of economy. They're just as good as they ever was, and I reckon I'll wear them out if I live. But, mother, your eyes may have changed. They probably have. Miss Maddie went to the kitchen and brought back a small cracked mirror. She studied the offending orbs by the light very carefully, both with and without her spectacles. No, they ain't, she announced, finally. They're the same size and shape and color that they've always been, and the specs are the same. Your paw bought them for me soon after you commenced reading out of a reader, and they're just as good as they ever was. It must be the oil. I've noticed that it gets poor every time the price goes up. She pushed the paper aside with a sigh. I was reading such a nice story, too. Shant I read it to you, mother? Why, I don't know. Do you want to? Surely, if you want me to. Then you'd better begin a new story, because I'm worn halfway through this one. I'll begin right where you left off, mother. It doesn't make a particle of difference to me. But you won't get the sense of it. I'd like for you to enjoy it while you're reading. Don't worry about my enjoying it, you know, I've always been fond of books. If there's anything I don't understand, I could ask you. All right, begin right here in true gold or pretty crystal's love. This is the place, with a terrible scream, crystal sprang toward the fire escape, carrying our mother and her little sister in her arms. For nearly two hours, Roger read, in a deep mellow voice, of the adventures of poor, persecuted crystal, who was only sixteen, and engaged to a floor walker in one of the great city's finest emporiums of trade. He and his mother both sighed when he came to the end of the installment, but for vastly different reasons. Ain't it lovely, Roger? It's just what you might call different, he temporized with a smile. Just think of that poor little thing having her house set afire by a rival suitor, just after she had paid off the mortgage by saving out her weeks' wages. Do you suppose he ever will win her? I shouldn't think it likely. No, you wouldn't, but the ending of those stories is always what you wouldn't expect. It's what makes them so interesting, and as you say, different. Roger did not answer. He merely yawned and tapped impatiently on the table with his fingers. What time is it? she asked, adjusting her spectacles carefully upon the ever-useful and unfailing wart. A little after-nine. Sakes alive! It's time I was a bed. I've got to get up early in the morning and set my bread. Good night. Good night, mother. Don't set up long. Oil is terrible high. All right, mother. Miss Maddie went upstairs and closed her door with a resounding bang. Roger heard her strike a match on a bit of sandpaper attacked on the wall near the match safe and closed the green blinds that served the purpose of the more modern window shades. Soon a deep, regular sound suggestive of comfortable slumber echoed and re-echoed overhead. Then and then only he dared to go out. He sat on the narrow front porch for a few minutes, deeply breathing the cool air and enjoying the beauty of the night. Across the way the little grey house seemed lonely and forlorn. The upper windows were dark, but downstairs Barbara's lamp still shone. Sewing probably. Mused Roger. Poor little thing. As he watched the lamp was put out, then a white shadow moved painfully toward the window, bent and struck a match. Star-like, Barbara's signal light flamed out into the gloom with its eager message. She wants me, he said to himself. The joy was inextricably mingled with pain. She wants me, he thought. And I must not go. Why? asked his heart. And his conscience replied miserably. Because. For ten or fifteen minutes he argued with himself vainly. Every objection that came forward was reasoned down by a trained mind, versed in the intricacies of the law. The deprivations of the father's need not always descend onto the children. At last he went over, wondering whether his father had not more than once, and at the same hour taken the same path. Barbara was out in the garden, dreaming. For the first time in years, when she had work to do, she had laid it aside before eleven o'clock. But, in two hours, she could have made little progress with her embroidery. And she chose to take for herself two hours of life, out of what might prove to be the last night she had to live. When Roger opened the gate, Barbara took her crutches and rose out of her low chair. Don't, he said, I'm coming to you. She had brought out another chair, with great difficulty, in anticipation of his coming. Her own was near the moon-flower that climbed over the tiny veranda, and was now in full bloom. The white, half-open trumpet, delicately fragrant, had more than once reminded him of Barbara herself. What a brood I'd be, thought Roger with a pang, if I had disappointed her. I'm so glad, said Barbara, giving him a cool, soft little hand. I began to be afraid you couldn't come. I couldn't, just at first. But afterward it was all right. How are you? I'm well, thank you. But I'm going to be made better tomorrow. That's why I wanted to see you tonight. It may be for the last time. Her words struck him with chill foreboding. What do you mean? Tomorrow some doctors are coming down from the city, with two nurses and a few other things. They're going to see if I can't do without these. She indicated the crutches, with an inclination of her golden head. Barbara, he gasped. You mustn't. It's impossible. Nothing is impossible any more, she returned serenely. That isn't what I meant. You mustn't be hurt. I'm not going to be hurt much. It's all to be done while I'm asleep. Miss Wynn, a lady from the hotel, brought Dr. Conrad to see me. Afterward he came again by himself. And he says he is very sure that it will come out all right. And when I'm straight and strong and can walk, he's going to try and have father made to see. A fairy godmother came in and waved her hand, went on Barbara lightly, and the poor became rich at once. Now the lame are to walk and the blind to see. Is it not a wonderful world? Barbara! cried Roger. I can't bear it. I don't want you changed. I want you just as you are. Such impediments as are placed in the path of progress. She returned. Her eyes were laughing, but her voice had in it a little note of tenderness. Will you do something for me? Anything. Everything. It's only this, said Barbara gently. If it should turn out the other way, will you keep father from being lonely? Miss Wynn has promised that he shall never want for anything, and at the most it couldn't be long until he was with me again. But in the meantime would you, Roger, would you try to take my place? Nobody in the world could ever take your place. But I'd try. God knows I'd try. Barbara, I couldn't bear it if— Hush! There isn't any if. It's all coming right tomorrow. The full moon had swung slowly up out of the sea, and the misty, silvery light touched Barbara lovingly. Her slender hands crossed in her lap, seemed like those of a little child. Her deep blue eyes were lovelier than ever in the enchanted light. They had the calmness of deep waters at dawn, untroubled by wind or tide. Around her face her golden hair shimmered, and shone like a halo. She had the unearthly beauty of a saint. Afterward, he asked, with a little choke in his voice, I'll be in plaster for a long time, and after that I'll have to learn to walk. And then? Work, she said joyously. Think of having all the rest of your life to work in, with no crutches. And if Daddy can see me, she stopped, but he caught the wistfulness in her voice. The first thing, she continued, I'm going down to the sea. I have a fancy to go alone. Have you never been? I've never been outside this house and garden, but once or twice. Have you forgotten? All the things he might have done came to Roger, remorsefully, and too late. He might have taken Barbara out for a drive almost any time during the last eight years. She could have been lifted into a low carriage easily enough, and she had never even been to the sea. A swift pitying tenderness made his heart ache. Nobody ever thought of it, said Barbara soothingly, as though she had read his thought. And besides, I've been too busy, except Sundays. But sometimes when I've heard the shore singing as the tide came in, and seen the gulls fly past my window, and smelled the salt mist, oh, I've wanted it so. I'd have taken you, if I hadn't been such a brute as to forget. You've brought me more than the sea, Roger. Think of all the books you've carried back and forth so patiently all these years. You've done more for me than anybody in the world in some ways. You've given me the magic carpet of the Arabian Knights. Only it was a book instead of a rug. Through your kindness I've traveled over most of the world. I've met many of the really great people face to face. I've lived in all ages and all countries, and I've learned to know the world as it is now. What more could one person do for another than you have done for me? Barbara, it was Miriam's voice, calling softly from an upper window. You mustn't stay up late. Remember tomorrow. All right, auntie. Her answer carried with it no hint of impatience. I forgot that we weren't in the house, she added to Roger in a low tone. Must I go? Tonight for some reason he could not bear even the thought of leaving her. Not just yet. I've been thinking, she continued in a swift whisper, about my mother and your father. Of course we can't understand. We only know that they cared. And in a way it makes you and me something like brother and sister, doesn't it? Perhaps it does. I hadn't thought of that. All at once the barrier that seemed to have been between them crashed down and was forgotten. Mysteriously Roger was very sure that those four days had held no wrong. No betrayal of another's trust. His father would not have done anything which was not absolutely right. The thought made him straighten himself proudly, and the mother of the girl who leaned toward him with her beautiful soul shining in her deep eyes could have been nothing less than an angel. Tomorrow began Roger. Tomorrow was made for me. God is giving me a day to be made straight in. Tomorrow is mine. But will you come and stay with father? Keep him away from the house, and with you until afterward. I will gladly. Barbara rose and Roger picked up her crutches. You'll never have to do that for me again, she said, as she took them. But there'll be lots of other things. Will you take in the chairs, please? A lump was in his throat, and he could not speak. When he came out after having made a brief but valiant effort to recover his self-control, Barbara was standing at the foot of the steps, leaning on her crutches, with the moon shining full upon her face. Roger went to her. Barbara, he asked hastily. My father loved your mother. For the sake of that, and for tomorrow, will you kiss me tonight? Smiling, Barbara lifted her face and gave him her lips as simply and sweetly as a child. Good night, she said softly. But he could not answer. For, at the touch, the white fire burned in his blood, and the white magic of life's may-time went, singing through his soul. End of chapter 10 Chapter 11 Of Flower of the Dusk by Myrtle Reed This LibriVox recording is in the public domain. BARBRA'S TOMORROW The shimmering white silence of noon lay upon the land, bees hummed in the clover, gorgeous butterflies floated drowsily over the meadows, and far in the blue distance a meadowlark scattered his golden notes like rain upon the fields, the world teamed with life, and yet a cold shadow, as of approaching death, darkened the souls of two who walked together in the dusty road that led from the hills to the sea, the old man leaned heavily upon the arm of the younger, and his footsteps faltered. The young man's face was white, and he saw dimly as through a mist, but he tried to keep his voice even. From the open window of the little grey house came the deadly sweet smell of anesthetics, heavy with prescience and pain. It dominated instantly all the blended summer fragrances, and brought terror to them both. I cannot bear it, said Ambrose North miserably. I cannot bear to have my baby hurt. She isn't being hurt now, answered Roger, with dry lips. She's asleep. It may be the sleep that knows no waking. If you loved Barbara, you would understand. The boy's senses, exquisitely alive and quivering, merged suddenly into one unspeakable hurt. If he loved Barbara, ah, did he not love her. What of last night, when he walked up and down in that self-same road until dawn, alone with the wonder and fear and joy of it, and unutterably dreading the tomorrow that had so swiftly become to-day? I was a fool, muttered Ambrose North. I was a fool to give my consent. It was her choice, the boy reminded him, and when she walks, when she walks it may be in the city not made with hens. If I had said no, we should not be out here now, while she—the tears streamed over his wrinkled cheeks, and his bowed shoulders shook. Don't, pleaded Roger. It's all for the best. It must be all for the best. Neither of them saw Eloise approaching as she came up the road from the hotel. She was in white, as usual, bare-headed, and she carried a white linen parasol. She went to them, calling out brightly, Good morning! Who is it? asked the old man. It must be Miss Wynn, I think. What is it? inquired Eloise, when she joined them. What is the matter? The blind man could not speak, but he pointed toward the house with a shaking hand. It's Barbara, you know, said Roger. They're in there, cutting her. The last words were almost a whisper. But you mustn't worry, cried Eloise. Nothing can go wrong. Why, Alan is there. Insensibly, her confidence in Alan and the clear ring of her voice relieved the unbearable tension. Surely Barbara could not die if Alan were there. It's hard, I know. Eloise went on in her cool, even tones. But there is no doubt about the ending. Alan is one of the few really great surgeons. He has done wonderful things. He has done things that everyone else said were impossible. Barbara will walk and be as straight and strong as any of us. Think what it will mean to her after twenty years of helplessness, how fine it will be to see her without the crutches. I have never minded the crutches, said Roger. I do not want her changed. I cannot see her, sighed Ambrose North. I have never seen my baby. But you're going to, Eloise assured him, for Alan says so, and whatever Alan says is true. At length she managed to lead them farther away, though not out of sight of the house, and all sat down on the grass. She talked continually and cheerfully, but the atmosphere was tense with waiting. Ambrose North bowed his gray head in his hands, and Roger's still pale did not once take his eyes from the door of the little gray house. After what seemed an eternity, someone came out. It was one of Alan's assistants. A nurse followed, and put a black bag into the buggy, which was waiting outside. Roger was on his feet instantly, watching. Sit down, commanded Eloise Cooley. Alan can see us from here, and he will come and tell us. Ambrose North lifted his gray head. Have they finished with her? I don't know. Returned Eloise, be patient, just a little longer. Please do. Outwardly she was calm, but nonetheless a great sob of relief almost choked her when Dr. Conrad came across the road to them, swinging his black bag, and called out in a voice high with hope. All right. The sky was a wonderful blue, but the color of the sea was deeper still. The vast reaches of sand were as white as the blown snow, and the tower of Cologne had never been so fair as it was today. The sun shone brightly on the clear glass arches that made the Coppola, and the golden bells swayed back and forth silently. Barbara was trying to climb up to the Coppola, but her feet were weary, and she paused often to rest. The rooms that opened off from the various landings of the winding stairway were lovelier than ever. The furnishings had been changed since she was last there, and each room was made to represent a different flower. There was a rose room, all pink and green, a pond loolly room in green and white, a violet room in green and lavender, and a gorgeous suite of rooms which some way seemed like a great bouquet of Nestorchums. But strangely there was no fragrance of Cologne in the tower. The bottles were all on mantles, as usual, but Barbara could not open any of them. Instead there was a heavy, sweet, sickening smell from which she could not escape, though she went continually from room to room. It followed her like some evil thing that threatened to overpower her. The boy who had always been beside her and whose face she could not see was still in the tower, but he was far away with his back toward her. He seemed to be suffering, and Barbara tried to get to him, to comfort him, but some unseen obstacle inevitably loomed up in her path. There were many people in the tower, and most of them were old friends, but there were some new faces. Her father was there, of course, and all the brave knights and lovely ladies of whom she had read in her books. Miss Wynne was there, and she had never been in the tower before, but Barbara smiled at her and was glad, though she wished they might have had cologne instead of the sickening smell which grew more deadly every minute. A grave silent young man whose demeanor was oddly at variance with his red hair was there also. He had just come, and it seemed that he was a doctor. Barbara had heard his name but could not remember it. There were also two young women in blue and white striped uniforms, which were very neat and becoming. They wore white caps and smiled at Barbara. She had heard their names, too, but she had forgotten. None of them seemed to mind the heavy odor which oppressed her so. She opened the windows in the tower, and the cool air came in from the blue sea, but it changed nothing. Come, boy! she called across the intervening mist. Let's go up to the copula and ring all the golden bells. He did not seem to hear, so she called again and again. But there was no response. It was the first time he had failed to answer her, and it made her angry. Then, cried Barbara shrilly, if you don't want to come you'd needn't. So there. But I'm going. Do you hear? I'm going. I'm going up to ring those bells if I have to go alone. Still the boy did not answer, and Barbara, her heart warm with resentment, began to climb the winding stairs. She did not hurry, for pictures of castles, towers, and beautiful ladies were woven in the tapestry that lined the walls. She came at last to the highest landing. There was only one short flight between her and the copula. The clear glass arches were dazzling in the sun, and the golden bells swayed temptingly. But a blinding, overwhelming fog drifted in from the sea, and she was afraid to move by so much as a step. She turned to go back and fell down, down, down, into what seemed eternity. Before long the cloud began to lift. She could see a vague suggestion of blue and white through it now. The man with the red hair was talking loudly and unconcernedly to a tall man beside him whose face was obscured by the mist. The voices beat upon Barbara's ears with physical pain. She tried to speak, to ask them to stop, but the words would not come. Then she raised her hand weakly, and silence came upon the room. Out of the fog rose Dr. Alan Conrad. He was tired, and there was a strained look about his eyes. But he smiled encouragingly. He leaned over her and she smiled very faintly back at him. Brave little girl, he said, it's all right now. All we ever hoped for is coming very soon. Then he went out and she closed her eyes. When she was again conscious of her surroundings, it was the next day, but she thought she had been asleep only a few minutes. At first there was numbness of mind and body, then with every heartbeat and throb by throb came unbearable agony. A trembling old hand strayed across her face and her father's voice deep with love and longing whispered, Barbara, my darling, does it hurt you now? Just a little, Daddy. But it won't last long. I'll be better very soon. One of the blue and white nurses came to her and said gently, Is it very bad, Miss North? Pretty bad, she gasped. Then she tried to smile, but her white lips quivered piteously. The woman with the kind, calm face came back with a shining bit of silver in her hand. There was a sharp stab in Barbara's arm and then with incredible quickness, peace. What was it? She asked, wondering. Poppies answered the nurse. They bring forgetfulness. Barbara said the old man sadly. I wish I could help you bear it. So you can, Daddy. But how? Don't be afraid for me. It's coming out all right, and make me a little song. I couldn't today. There is always a song, she reminded him. Think how many times you have said to me, Always make a song, Barbara, no matter what comes. The old man stirred uneasily in his chair. What about, dear? About the sea. The sea is so vast that it reaches around the world, he began hesitatingly. It sings upon the shore of every land. From the regions of perpetual ice and snow, to the far tropic islands, where the sun forever shines, as it lies under the palms all blue and silver, crooning so softly that you can scarcely hear it. You would not think it was the same sea that yesterday was raging upon an ice-bound shore. If you listen to its ever-changing music, you can hear almost anything you please, for the sea goes everywhere. Ask, and the sea shall sing to you, of the frozen north where half the air is darkness, and the impassable wastes of waters sweeps across the bowl. Ask, and you shall hear of the distant islands, where there has never been snow, and the tide may even bring you a bow of olive, or a leaf of palm. Ask, and the sea will give you red and white coral, queer shells mystically filled with its own weird music, and treasures of fairy-like lacework and bloom. It will sing to you of cool green caves where the waves creep sleepily up to the rocks and drift out drowsily with the ebb of the tide. It will sing of gray waves changing to foam in the path of the wind, bring you the cry of the white gulls that speed ahead of the storm. It will sing to you of mermen and mermaids chanting their own melodies to the accompaniment of harps with golden strings. Listen, and you shall hear the songs of many lands merged into one by the sea that unites them all. It bears upon its breast the great white ships that carry messages from one land to another. Silks and spices and pearls are taken from place to place along the vast highways of the sea. And if sometimes, in a blinding to molt of terror and despair, the men and ships go down, the sea remorsefully brings back the broken spars and, at last, gives up the dead. Yet it is always beautiful whether you see it gray or blue, whether it is mad with rage or moaning with pain or only crooning a lullaby as the world goes to sleep. And all the wonderful music there is one dominant chord for the song of the sea as the world is love, for the song of the sea as of the world is love. Long ago, Barbara, so long ago that it is written in only the very oldest books, love was born in the foam of the sea and came to dwell upon the shore. And so the sea, singing forever of love, creeps around the world upon an ending quest. When the tide sweeps in with the cold gray waves, foam crusted or in shining sapphire surges that breaks into pearls, it is only the sea searching eagerly for the lost. So the loneliness and the beauty and the longing and the pain belong to love as to the sea. Oh, Daddy, breathed Barbara, I want it so. What, dear, the sea? Yes, the music and the color and the vastness of it I can hardly wait until I can go. There was a long silence. Why didn't you tell me? asked the old man. There would have been some way if I had only known. I don't know, Daddy. I think I've been waiting for this way, for it's the best way after all. When I can walk and you can see, we'll go down together, shall we? Yes, dear, surely. You must help me be patient, Daddy. It will be so hard for me to lie here doing nothing. I wish I could read to you. You can talk to me. That's better. Roger will come over some day and read to me when he has time. He was with me yesterday while. I know, she answered softly. I asked him. I thought it would make it easier for you. My baby, you thought of your old father even then. I'm always thinking of you, Daddy, because you and I are all each other has got. That sounds queer, but you know what I mean. The calm, strong young woman in blue and white came back into the room. She mustn't talk, she said to the blind man. Tomorrow, perhaps. Come away now. Don't take him away from me, pleaded Barbara. We'll be very good and not say a single word, won't we? Not a word, he answered, if it isn't best. The afternoon wore away to sunset. The shadows grew long and Barbara lay quietly, with her little hand in his. Long lines of light came over the hills and brought into the room some subtle suggestion of color. Gradually the pain came back so keenly that it was not to be born, and the kind woman with the bit of silver in her hand leaned over the bed once more. Quickly the poppies brought their divine gift of peace again, and so Barbara slept. Then Ambrose North gently loosened the still fingers that were interlaced with his, bent over, and so gently, as to not waken her, took her boy's lover's kiss from her lips. Miriam Miriam moved about the house silently, as always. She had assumed the extra burden of Barbara's helplessness, as she assumed everything, without comment and with outward calm. Only her dark eyes that burned and glittered so strangely gave hint of the restlessness within. She served Ambrose North with steadfast and unfailing devotion. She waited upon Barbara mechanically, but readily. An observer could not have detected any real difference in her bearing toward the two, yet the service of one was a joy, the other a duty. After the first week the nurse who had remained with Barbara had gone back to the city, in this short time Miriam had learned much from her. She knew how to change a sheet without disturbing the patient very much. She could give Barbara both food and drink as she lay flat upon her back, and ease her aching body a little in spite of the plaster cast. Ambrose North restlessly haunted the house, and refused to leave Barbara aside, unless she was asleep. Often she feigned slumber to give him opportunity to go outdoors for the exercise he was accustomed to taking. And so the life of the household moved along in its usual channels. As she lay helpless, with her pretty color gone, and the great braids of golden hair hanging down on either side, Barbara looked more like her dead mother than ever. Suffering had brought maturity to her face, and sometimes even Miriam was startled by the resemblance. One day Barbara had asked thoughtfully, Auntie, do I look like my mother? And Miriam had answered harshly, You're the living image of her, if you want to know. Miriam repeatedly told herself that Constance had wronged her, that Ambrose North had belonged to her until the younger girl came from school with her pretty laughing ways. He had never had eyes for Miriam after he had once seen Constance, and in an incredibly short time they had been married. Miriam had been forced to stand by and see it. She had made dainty garments for Constance's trousseau, and had even been obliged to serve as maid of honor at the wedding. She had seen day by day the man's love increase and the girl's fancy wane, and after his blindness came upon him Constance would often have been cruelly thoughtless, had not Miriam sternly held her to her own ideal of wifely duty. Now when she had taken a mother's place to Barbara and worked for the blind man, as his wife would never have dreamed of doing, she saw the faithless one worshiped almost as a household god. The power to disillusion North lay in her hands, of that she was very sure. What if she should come to him some day with the letter Constance had left for another man, and which she had never delivered? What if she should open it at his bidding and read him the burning sentences Constance had written to another during her last hour on earth, knowing beyond doubt that Constance was faithless? Would he at last turn to the woman he had deserted for the sake of a pretty face? The question wracked Miriam by night and by day. And as always the dead Constance, mute, accusing, bitterly reproachful, haunted her dreams. Her fear of it became an obsession. As Barbara grew daily more to resemble her mother, Miriam's position became increasingly difficult and complex. Sometimes she waited outside the door until she could summon courage to go in to Barbara, who lay helpless in the very room where her mother had died. Miriam never entered without seeing upon the dressing table those two envelopes, one addressed to Ambrose North and one to herself. Her own envelope was bulky, since it contained two letters beside the short one which might have been read to anybody. These two, with seals unbroken, were safely put away in Miriam's room. One was addressed to Lawrence Austin. Miriam continually told herself that it was impossible for her to deliver it, that the person to whom it was addressed was dead. She tried persistently to forget the five years that had intervened between Constance's death and his. For five years he had lived almost directly across the street and Miriam saw him daily. Yet she had not given him the letter, though the vision of Constance, dumbly pleading for some boon, had distressed her almost every night until Lawrence Austin died. After that there had been peace, but only for a little while. Constance still came, though intermittently, and reproached Miriam for betraying her trust. As Barbara's twenty-second birthday approached, Miriam sometimes wondered whether Constance would not cease to haunt her after the other letter was delivered. She had been faithful in all things but one. Surely she might be forgiven the one betrayal. The envelope was addressed in a clear, unfaltering hand. To my daughter Barbara, to be opened upon her twenty second birthday. In her brief note to Miriam, Constance had asked her to destroy it, unopened, if Barbara should not live until the appointed day. She had said nothing, however, about the other letter, had not even alluded to its existence. Yet there she was, apparently written upon a single sheet of paper and enclosed in an envelope firmly sealed with wax. The monogram made of the interlaced initials, C. N., still lingered upon the seal. For twenty years and more the letter had waited, unread, and the hands that once would eagerly have torn it open were long since made one, with all the hiding, all absolving, dust. That supper Ambrose North still had his fine linen and his satsuma cup. Miriam sat at the other end, where the coarse cloth and the heavy dishes were. She used the fine china for Barbara, also washing it carefully six times every day. The blind man ate little, for he was lonely without the consciousness that Barbara sat, smiling, across the table from him. Is she asleep? He asked of Miriam. Yes. She hasn't had her supper yet, has she? No. When she wakes will you let me take it up to her? Yes, if you want to. Miriam, tell me, does Barbara look like her mother? His voice was full of love and longing. There may be a slight resemblance, Miriam admitted, but how much? A curious, tigerish impulse possessed Miriam. He had asked her this same question many times, and she had always alluded to him with a vague generalization. How much does she resemble her mother? He insisted. You told me once that they were something alike. But that was a long time ago, answered Miriam. She was breathing hard and her eyes glittered. Barbara has changed lately. Do not hide the truth for fear of hurting me, he pleaded. Once for all I ask you, does Barbara resemble her mother? For a moment Miriam paused, then all her hatred of the dead woman rose up within her. No, she said coldly. Her hair and eyes are nearly the same color, but they are not in the least alike. Why? What difference does it make? None, sighed the blind man. But I am glad to have the truth at last, and I thank you. Sometimes I have fancied, when Barbara spoke, that it was constant stalking to me. It would have been a great satisfaction to me to have had my baby the living image of her mother, since I am to see again. But it is all right as it is. Since he was to see, Miriam had not counted upon that possibility, and she clenched her hands in swift remorse. If he should discover that she had lied to him, he would never forgive her, and she would lose what little regard he had for her. He had a puritan insistence upon the literal truth. How beautiful Constance was, he sighed. An inarticulate murmur escaped from Miriam, which he took for full assent. Did you ever see anyone half so beautiful, Miriam? Her throat was parched, but Miriam forced herself to whisper, No. This much was truth. How sweet she was. And what pretty ways she had, he went on. Do you remember how lovely she was in her wedding gown? Again, Miriam forced herself to answer, Yes. Do you remember how people said we were mismated that a man of fifty could never hope to keep the love of a girl of twenty, who knew nothing of the world? I remember, muttered Miriam. And it was false, wasn't it? He asked, hungering for assurance. Constance loved me. Do you remember how dearly she loved me? A thousand words struggled for utterance, but Miriam could not speak just then. She longed, as never before, to tear open the envelope addressed to Lawrence Austin and read to North the words his beloved Constance had written to another man before she took her own life. She longed to tell him how, for months previous, she had followed Constance when she left the house, and discovered that she had a tristing place down on the shore. He wanted the truth, did he? Very well. He should have it. The truth without mercy. Constance, she began huskily, Constance loved. I know, interrupted Ambrose North. I know how dearly she loved me up to the very last. Even Barbara, baby that she was, felt it. She remembers it still. Barbara's bell tinkled upstairs while he said the last words. She wants us, he said, his face illumined with love. If you will prepare her supper, Miriam, I will take it up. The room swayed before Miriam's eyes and her senses were confused. She had drawn her dagger to strike and it had been forced back into its sheath by some unseen hand. But I will, she repeated to herself again and again as her trembling hands prepared Barbara's tray. He shall know the truth, and from me. Barbara, said the old man as he entered the room, your daddy has brought up your supper. I'm glad, she responded brightly. I'm very hungry. We have been talking downstairs of your mother, he went on, as he set down the tray. Miriam has been telling me how beautiful she was, what winning ways she had, and how dearly she loved us. She says you do not look at all like her, Barbara. And we both have been thinking that you did. Barbara was startled. Only a few days ago Aunt Miriam had assured her that she was the living image of her mother. She was perplexed and disappointed. Then she reflected that when she had asked the question, she had been very ill and Aunt Miriam was trying to answer in a way that pleased her. She generously forgave the deceit for the sake of the kindly motive behind it. Dear Aunt Miriam, said Barbara softly, how good she has been to us, daddy. Yes, he replied, I do not know what we should have done without her. I want to do something for her, dear. Shall we buy her a diamond ring or some pearls? We'll see, daddy, when I can walk and you can see, we shall do many things together that we cannot do now. The old man bent down very near her. Flower of the dusk, he whispered. When may I go? Go where, daddy? To the city, you know, with Dr. Conrad. I want to begin to see. Barbara patted his hand. When I am strong enough to spare you, she said, I will let you go. When you see me, I want to be well and able to go to meet you without crutches. Will you wait until then? I want to see my baby. I do not care about the crutches, now that you are to get well. I want to see you, dear, so very, very much. Someday, daddy, she promised him, wait until I'm almost well, won't you? Just as you say, dear, but it seems so long. I couldn't spare you now, daddy. I want you with me every day. Though not long, unused to prayer, Miriam prayed that night, very earnestly, that Ambrose North might not recover his sight, that he might never see the daughter who lived and spoke in the likeness of her dead mother. It was long past midnight when she fell asleep. The house had been quiet for several hours. As she slept, she dreamed. The door opened quietly, yet with a certain authority and constants in her grave-clothes came into her room, the white gown trailed behind her as she walked, and the two golden braids, so like Barbra's, hung down over either shoulder and far below her waist. She fixed her deep, sad eyes upon Miriam, reproachfully, as always, but her red lips were curled in a mocking smile. Do your worst, she seemed to say. You cannot harm me now. The vision sat down in a low chair and rocked back and forth slowly as though meditating. Occasionally she looked at Miriam doubtfully, but the mocking smile was still there. At last Constance rose, having come, apparently, to some definite plan. She went to the dresser, opened the lower drawer, and reached under the pile of neatly folded clothing. Cold as ice, Miriam sprang to her feet. She was wide awake now, but the room was empty, the door was open halfway, and she could not remember whether she had left it so when she went to bed. She had always kept her bedroom door closed and locked, but since Barbra's illness had left it at least ajar, that she might be able to hear a call in the night. Shaken like an aspen in a storm, Miriam lighted her candle and stared into the shadows. Nothing was there. The clock ticked steadily, almost maddeningly. It was just four o'clock. She too opened the lower drawer of the dresser and thrust her hand under the clothing. The letters were still there, she drew them out, her hands trembling, and read the superscriptions with difficulty, for the words danced, and made themselves almost illegible. Constance was coming back for the letters then. That was out of Miriam's power to prevent, but she would keep the knowledge of their contents, at least of one. She thrust aside contemptuously the letter to Barbra. She cared nothing for that. Taking the one address to Mr. Lawrence Austin, kindness of Miss Leonard, she went back to bed, taking her candle to the small table that stood at the head of the bed. With forced calmness, she broke the seal which the dead fingers had made so long ago, opened it shamelessly, and read it. You have loved me since the beginning of time the letter began. We'll understand and forgive me for what I do today. I do it because I am not strong enough to go on, and do my duty by those who need me. If there should be meeting past the grave, some day you and I shall come together again with no barrier between us. I take with me the knowledge of your love, which has sheltered and strengthened and sustained me since the day we first met, and which must make even a grave warm and sweet. And remember this, dead though I am. I love you still. You and my little lame baby, who needs me so, and whom I must leave because I am not strong enough, to stay. Through life and in death eternally, yours, Constance. In the letter was enclosed a long silk and tress of golden hair. It curled around Miriam's fingers as though it were alive, and she thrust it from her. It was cold and smooth and sinuous like a snake. She folded up the letter, put it back in the envelope, with the lock of hair, then returned it to its old hiding place with barbers. So, Constance, she said to herself, you came for the letters. Come and take them when you like. I do not fear you now. All of her suspicions were crystallized into certainty by this one page of proof. Constance might not have violated the letter of her marriage vow, very probably had not even dreamed of it, but in spirit she had been false. Come, Constance, said Miriam aloud. Come and take your letters. When the hour comes I shall tell him, and you cannot keep me from it. She was curiously at peace now, and no longer afraid. Her dark eyes blazed with triumph as she lay there in the candlelight. The tension within her had snapped when suspicion gave way to absolute knowledge. Thwarted and denied and pushed aside all her life by Constance and her memory, at last she had come to her own. End of chapter 12 Woman Suffrage There was a shuffling step on the stairway accompanied by spasmodic shrieks and an occasional ouch. Roger looked up from his book in surprise as Miss Maddie made her painful way into the room. My mother, what's the matter? Miss Maddie sat down in the chair she had made out of a flower barrel and screamed as she did so. What is it? he depended. Are you ill? Roger, she replied. My back is either busted or the hinge in it is rusty from overwork. I stooped over to open the lower drawer in my bureau, and when I come to rise up I couldn't. I've been over half an hour coming downstairs. I called you twice, but you didn't hear me, and I knowed you was reading, so I thought I might better save my voice to yell with. I'm sorry, he said. What can I do for you? About the first thing to do, I take it, is to put down that book. Now, if you'll put on your hat, you can go and get that new fangled doctor from the city. The postmaster's wife told me yesterday that he'd sent Barbara one of them souverine postal cards, and said on it he'd be down last night. As you go, you might stop and tell the norths that he's coming, for they don't go after their mail much and most likely it's still there in the box. Tell Barbara that the card has a picture of a terrible high building on it and the street is full of carriages, both horsed and unhorsed. If he can make the lame walk and the blind see, I reckon he could fix my back. I'll set here. Shanta gets someone to stay with you while I'm gone, mother. I don't like to leave you here alone. Miss Miriam would- Miss Miriam interrupted his mother. Ain't fit company for a horse or cow, let alone a souverine woman. She just sets in stairs and never says nothing. I have to do all the talking, and I'm in no condition to talk. You run along and let me set here in peace. It don't hurt so much when I set still. Roger obediently started on his errand, but met Dr. Conrad halfway. The two had never been formally introduced, but Roger knew him, and the doctor remembered Roger as the nice boy, who was with Ambrose North and Eloise when he went over to tell them that Barbara was all right. Why, yes, said Allen. If it's an emergency case, I'll come there first. After I see what's the matter, I'll go over to norths and then come back. I seem to be getting quite a practice in Riverdale. When they went in, Roger introduced Dr. Conrad to the patient. You'll excuse my not getting up, said Miss Maddie, for it's about the getting up that I wanted to see you. Roger, you run away. It ain't proper for boys to be standing around listening when woman's suffrage is being discussed by the only people having any right to talk of it, women and doctors. Roger colored to his temples as he took his hat and hurried out. With an effort, Dr. Conrad kept his face straight, but his eyes were laughing. Now what's wrong? asked Allen briefly as Roger closed the door. It's my back, explained the patient. It's busted. It's busted all of a sudden. Was it when you were stooping over, perhaps to pick up something? Miss Maddie stared at him in astonishment. Are you a mind reader, or did Roger tell you? Neither, smiled Allen. Did a sharp pain come in the lumbar region when you attempted to straighten up? It wasn't the lumbar room. I ain't been in the attic for weeks, though I expect it needs straightening. It was in my bedroom. I was stooping over to open a bureau drawer, and when I rezz up, I found my back was busted. I see, said Allen. He was already writing a prescription. If your son will go down and get this filled, you will have no more trouble. Take two every four hours. Miss Maddie took the bit of paper anxiously. No surgical operation, she asked. No, laughed Allen. No mortar piled up on me and left to set. No striped nurses. No plaster cast, Allen assured her, and no striped nurses. I reckon it ain't none of my business, remarked Miss Maddie, but why didn't you do something like this for Barbara instead of cutting her up? I'm worse off than she ever was because she could walk right spry with crutches, and crutches wouldn't have helped me none when I was rezzing up from the bureau drawer. Barbara's case is different. She had a congenital dislocation of the femur. Miss Maddie's jaw dropped, but she quickly recovered herself. And what have I got? Lumbago. My disease is shorter, she commented after a moment of reflection, but I'll bet it feels worse. I'll ask your son to come in if I see him, said Dr. Conrad, reaching for his hat. And if you don't get well immediately, let me know. Goodbye. Roger was nowhere in sight, but he was watching the two houses, and as soon as he saw Dr. Conrad go into Norths, he went back to his mother. Barbara's disease has three words in it, Roger, she explained, and mine has only one, but it's more painful. You're to go immediately with this piece of paper and get it full of the medicine he's written on it. I've been looking at it, but I don't get no sense out of it. He said to take two every four hours. Two what? Pills, probably, or capsules. Pills? Now, Roger, you know that no pills small enough to swallow could cure a big pain like this in my back. The postmaster's wife had the room at his last winter, and she took over five quarts of old Dr. Jamison's pain killer, and it never did her a might of good. What do you think a paper that size full of pills can do for a person that ain't able to stand up without screeching? Well, we'll try it anyway, mother. Just sit still until I come back with the medicine. He went out and returned presently, with a red box containing forty or fifty capsules. Miss Maddie took it from him and studied it carefully. This box ain't more than a tenth as big as the pain, she observed critically. Roger brought a glass of water and took out two of the capsules. Take these, he said, and at half past two, take two more. Let's give Dr. Conner at a fair trial. It's probably a more powerful medicine than it seems to be. Miss Maddie had some difficulty at first, as she insisted on taking both capsules at once. But when she was persuaded to swallow one after the other, all went well. I suppose, she remarked, that these long, narrow pills have to be took end ways. If a person went to swallow them crossways, they'd choked to death. I was careful how I took them. But other people might not be. And I think, myself, that round pills are safer. I went to the office, said Roger, and told the judge I wouldn't be down today. I have some work I can do at home, and I'd rather not leave you. It just come to my mind now, used Miss Maddie, ignoring his thoughtfulness, about the minister's sermon Sunday. He said everything that came to us might teach us something if we only looked for it. I've been thinking, as I said here, what a heap I've learned about my back this morning. I never sensed, until now, that it was used in walking. I reckon that my back was just kind of a finish to me, and was to keep the dust out of my vital organs more than anything else. This morning, I see that the back is entirely used in walking. What gets me is that Barbara North had to have stitches when her back was all right. Nothing was out of kilter, but her legs, and only one of them, at that. Here's your paper, mother. Roger pulled the Metropolitan weekly out of his pocket. Lay it down on the table, please. It oughtn't to have come until tomorrow. I ain't got time for it now. Why, mother? Don't you want to read? The knot on the back of Miss Maddie's head seemed to rise, and her protruding wire hairpins bristled. I should think you'd know, she said indignantly. When you've been taken time from the law to read your pause books to Barbara North, no sick person had got the strength to read. Even if my disease is only in one word, when hers is in three, I reckon I'm going to take proper care of myself. But you're sitting up, and she can't explained Roger kindly. Sitting up or not sitting up, I ain't got nothing to do with it. If my back was set in mortar, as it ought to have been, I wouldn't be setting up either. I can't get up without screaming, and as long as I've known Barbara, she's never been that bad. That new fangled doctor hasn't come out of Norths yet either. How much do you reckon he charges for a visit? Two or three dollars, I suppose. Miss Maddie clucked sharply with her false teeth. According to that, she calculated, if he was here about 20 cents worth, but I'm willing to give him a quarter. That's a nickel extra. By the time he was writing out the recipe for them long, narrow pills that would choke anybody but a horse if they happened to go down crossways. There he comes now. If he don't come here of his own accord, you go out and get him, Roger. I want he should finish his visit. But it was not necessary for Roger to go. Of his own accord, Dr Conrad came across the street and opened the creaky white gate. When he came in, he brought with him the atmosphere of vitality and good cheer. He had, too, that gentle sympathy, which is the inestimable gift of the physician, and which requires no words to make itself felt. His quick eye noted the box of capsules upon the table as he sat down and took Miss Maddie's rough work-worn hand in his. How is it, he asked? Better? Maybe, she answered grudgingly. No more in a mite, though. That's all we can expect so soon. By tomorrow morning, though, you should be all right. His manner unconsciously indicated that it would be the one joy of a hitherto desolate existence if Miss Maddie should be perfectly well again in the morning. How's my fellow sufferer, she inquired, somewhat mollified. Barbara, she's doing very well. She's a brave little thing. Which is the sickest, her or me? As regards actual pain, replied Dr Conrad tactfully, you are probably suffering more than she is at the present moment. I noted, cried Miss Maddie triumphantly. You hear that, Roger? But Roger had slipped out, remembering that woman suffrage was not a proper subject for discussion in his hearing. I reckon he's gone over to North's, grumbled Miss Maddie. When my eye ain't on him, he scoots off. His paw was the same way. He was forever chasing over there, and Rogers inherited it from him. Whenever I've wanted either of them, they've always been took with wanderin' fits. You sent him out before, Alan reminded her. So I did, but I ain't sent him out now, and he's gone just the same. That's the trouble. After you once get an idea into a man's head, it stays put. You can't never get it out again. And ideas that other people puts in is just the same. Women change their minds more easily, don't they? asked Alan. He was enjoying himself very much. Of course, there's nothing said about a woman unless she's got a busted back. She ain't caring to move around much then. The Postmaster's Wife was telling me about one of the women at the hotel, the one that's written the book. Do you know her? I've probably seen her. The Postmaster's Wife's Bunyan was a hurting, her awful one day when this woman came in after stamps, and she told her to go and help herself and put the money in the drawer. So she did. And while she was doin' it, she told the Postmaster's Wife that she didn't have no bunion and no pain. That it was all a mistake. You wouldn't think so, says the Postmaster's Wife, if it was your foot that had the mistake on it. She was awful mad at first, but after she got calmed down, the book woman told her what she meant. There ain't no pain nor disease in the world, she says. It's all imagination. Well, says the Postmaster's Wife, when the swollen is so bad, how am I to undeceive myself? The book woman says, just deny it and affirm the existence of good. You just sit down and say to yourself, I can't have no bunion because there ain't no such thing. And it can't hurt me because there is no such thing as pain. My foot is perfectly well and strong. I will get right up and walk. As soon as the woman was gone out with her stamps, the Postmaster's Wife tried it and liked to have fainted dead away. She said she might have been able to convince her mind that there wasn't no bunion on her foot, but she couldn't convince her foot. She said there wasn't no such thing as pain and the bunion made it its first business, to do a little denying on its own account. You have to be awful careful not to offend the bunion. This morning, while Roger was gone after them long narrow pills that has to be swallowed end ways unless you want to choke to death, I reckoned I'd try it on my back. So I says, right out loud, my back don't hurt me. It is all imagination. I can't have no pain because there ain't no such thing. Then I stood up right quick and Lord, Miss Maddie shook her head sadly at the recollection. Do you know, she went on thoughtfully, I wish that woman at the hotel had lumbago. Dr. Conrad's nice brown eyes twinkled and his mouth twitched ever so slightly. I'm afraid I do too, he said. If she did and wanted some of them long, narrow pills, would you give them to her? Probably, but I'd be strongly tempted not to. When he took his leave, Miss Maddie, from force of habit, rose from her chair. Ouch, she said as she slowly straightened up. Why I do believe it's better. It don't hurt nothing like so much as it did. Your surprise isn't very flattering, Mrs. Austin, but I'll forgive you. The next time I come up, I'll take another look at you. Goodbye. Miss Maddie made her way slowly over to the table where the box of capsules lay and returned with some effort to her chair. She studied both the box and its contents faithfully, once with her spectacles and once without. You'd never think, she mused, that a pill of that size and shape could have any effect on a big pain that's nowhere near your stomach. He must be a dreadful, clever young man, for it sure is a search in medicine. End of Chapter 13 Chapter 14 Of Flower of the Dusk by Myrtle Reed This LibriVox recording is in the public domain. Barbara's Birthday Fairy Godmother, said Barbara, I should like a drink. Fairy Godchild, answered Eloise, you shall have one. What do you want? Rose dew? Lailaic honey? Or a golden lily full of clear, cool water? I'll take the water, please, laughed Barbara, but I want more than a lily full. Eloise brought a glass of water and managed to give it to Barbara without spilling more than a third of it upon her. What a pretty neck and what glorious shoulders you have, she commented, as she wiped up the water with her handkerchief. How lovely you'd look in an evening gown! Don't try to divert me, said Barbara, with affected sternness. I'm wet and I'm likely to take cold and die. I'm not afraid if you're dying after you've lived through what you have. Alan says you're the bravest little thing he's ever seen. The deep color dyed Barbara's pale face. I'm not brave, she whispered. I was horribly afraid, but I thought that, even if I were, I could keep people from knowing it. If that isn't real courage, Eloise assured her, it's so good and imitation that it would take an expert to tell the difference. I'm afraid now, continued Barbara. Her color was almost gone and she did not look at Eloise. I'm afraid that, after all, I can never walk. She indicated the crutches at the foot of her bed by a barely perceptible nod. I have Aunt Miriam keep them there, so that I won't forget. Nonsense, cried Eloise. Alan says that you have every possible chance, so don't be foolish. You're going to walk, you must walk. Why, you mustn't even think of anything else. It would seem strange, sighed Barbara, after almost twenty-two years. Why, what day of the month is today? The sixteenth? Then it is twenty-two. This is my birthday. I'm twenty-two years old today. Very Godchild! Why didn't you tell me? Because I'd forgotten it myself. You're too young to begin to forget your birthdays. I'm past thirty, but I still keep Tab on mine. If you're thirty, I must be at least forty, for I'm really much older than you are, and Rogers an infant in arms could bear to me. Wise lady, how did you grow so old and so short a time? By working and reading and thinking, and suffering, I suppose. When you're well, dear, I'm going to try to give you some of the girlhood you've never had. You're entitled to pretty gowns and parties and bows, and all the other things that belong to the teens and twenties. You're coming to town with me, I hope. That's why I'm staying. Barbers' blue eyes filled and threatened to overflow. Oh, fairy godmother, how lovely it would be, but I can't go. I must stay here, and so and try to make up for lost time. Besides, father would miss me so. Eloise only smiled, for she had plans of her own for father. We won't argue, she said lightly. We'll wait and see. It's a great mistake to try to live tomorrow, or even yesterday, today. When Eloise went back to the hotel, her generous heart full of plans for her protégé, Miriam did not hear her go out, and so it happened that Barbara was alone for some time. Ambrose North had gone for one of his long walks over the hills and along the shore, expecting to return before Eloise left Barbara. For some vague reason, which he himself could not have put into words, he did not like to leave her alone with Miriam. When Miriam came upstairs, she paused at the door to listen. Hearing no voices, she peeped within. Barbara lay quietly, looking out of the window, and dreaming of the day when she could walk freely and joyously, as did the people who passed and repast. Miriam went stealthily to her own room and took out the letter to Barbara. She had no curiosity as to its contents. If she had, it would be an easy matter to open it, and put it into another envelope without the address, and explain that it had been merely enclosed with instructions as to its delivery. Taking it, she went into the room where Barbara lay. The same room where the dead Constance had lain so long before. Barbara, she said without emotion, when your mother died she left this letter for you in my care. She put it into the girl's eager, outstretched hand, and left the room, closing the door after her. With trembling fingers Barbara broke the seal and took out the closely written sheet. All four pages were covered. The ink had faded and the paper was yellow, but the words were still warm with love and life. Barbara, my darling, my little lame baby, the letter began. If you live to receive this letter your mother will have been dead for many years and perhaps forgotten. I have chosen your 22nd birthday for this because I am 22 now and when you are the same age you will perhaps be better fitted to understand than at any other time. I trust you have not married because if you have my warning may come too late. Never marry a man whom you do not know absolutely that you love and when this knowledge comes to you if there are no barriers in the way do not let anything on God's earth keep you apart. I have made the mistake which many girls make. I came from school young, inexperienced, unbalanced, and eager for admiration. Your father, a brilliant man of more than twice my age easily appealed to my fancy. He was handsome, courteous, distinguished, wealthy, a fine character, an unassailable position. I did not know then that a woman could love love rather than the man who gave it to her. There is not a word to be said of him that is not wholly good. He has failed at no point nor in the smallest degree. On the contrary, it is I who have disappointed him even though I love him dearly and always have. I have never loved him more than today when I leave you both forever. My feeling for him is unchanged. It is only that at last I have come face to face with the one man of all the world, the one God made for me, back in the beginning. I have known it for a long, long time, but I did not know that he also loved me until a few days ago. Since then, my world has been chaos, illumined by this unutterable light. I have been a true wife, and when I can be true no longer, it is time to take the one way out. I cannot live here and run the risk of seeing him constantly, yet trust myself not to speak. I cannot bear to know that the little space lying between us is, in reality, the whole world. He is bound too. He has a wife and a son, only a little older than you are. If I stay, I shall be false to your father, to you, to him, and even to myself, because in my relation to each of you, I shall be living a lie. Tell your dear father, if he still lives, that he has been very good to me, that I appreciate all his kindness, gentleness, patience, and the beautiful love he has given me. Tell him sorry, I have failed him, that I have not been a better wife, but God knows I have done the best I could. Tell him I have loved him, that I love him still, and have never loved him more than I do today. But oh, my baby, do not tell him, that the full-orbed son has risen before one who knew only twilight before. And if you can, love your mother a little, as she lies asleep in her faraway grave. Your father, if he has not forgotten me, will have dealt gently with my memory. Of that, I am sure. But I do not quite trust Miriam, and I do not know what she may have said. She loved your father, and I took him away from her. She has never forgiven me for that, and she never will. If I have done wrong, it has been in thought only, and not indeed. I do not believe we can control thought or feeling, though action and speech can be kept within bounds. Forgive me, Barbara, darling. And love me if you can. Your mother. The last words danced through the blurring mist, and Barbara sobbed aloud as she put the letter down. Blind though he was, her father had felt the lack, the change, the pity of it all overwhelmed her. Her thought flew swiftly to Roger, but no, he must not know. This letter was written to the living, and not to the dead. Aunt Miriam would ask no questions. She was sure of that. But the message to her father lay heavily upon her soul. How could she make him believe in the love he so hungered for even now? As the hours passed, Barbara became calm. When Miriam came in to see if she wanted anything, she asked for pencil and paper, and for a book to be propped up on a pillow in front of her, so that she might write. Miriam obeyed silently, taking an occasional swift, keen look at Barbara, but the calm and passive face, and the deep eyes were inscrutable. As soon as she was alone again she began to write, with difficulty from her mother's letter, altering it as little as possible, and yet changing the meaning of it all. She could trust herself to read from her own sheet, but not from the other. It took a long time, but at last she was satisfied. It was almost dusk when Ambrose North returned, and Barbara asked for a candle to be placed on the small table at the head of her bed. She also sent away the book and pencil, and the paper she had not used. Miriam's curiosity was faintly aroused, but as she told herself, she could wait. She had already waited long. Daddy, said Barbara, softly, when they were alone. Do you know what day it is? No, he answered. Why? It's my birthday. I'm twenty-two today. Are you? Your dear mother was twenty-two when she— I wish you were like your mother, Barbara. Mother left a letter with Aunt Miriam, said Barbara gently. She gave it to me today. The old man sprang to his feet. A letter, he cried, reaching out a trembling hand. For me? Barbara laughed a little sadly. No, Daddy, for me. But there is something for you in it. Sit down and I'll read it to you. Read it all, he cried. Read every word. Barbara, my darling, my little lame baby, read the girl, her voice shaking. If you live to read this letter, your mother will have been dead for many years and possibly forgotten. No, breathed Ambrose North, never forgot. I have chosen your twenty-second birthday for this because I am twenty-two now, and when you are the same age, it will be as if we were sisters, rather than mother and daughter. Dear Constance, whispered the old man. When I came from school I met your father. He was a brilliant man, handsome, courteous, distinguished, a fine character, an unassailable position. Barbara glanced up quickly. The dull red had crept into his wrinkled cheeks, but his lips were parted in a smile. There is not a word to be said of him that is not wholly good. He has failed at no point, nor in the smallest degree. I have disappointed him, I fear, even though I love him dearly and always have. I have never loved him more than I do today when I leave you both forever. Tell your dear father, if he still lives, that he has been very good to me, that I appreciate all his kindness, gentleness, patience, and the beautiful love he has given me. Tell him I am sorry I have failed him. Oh, dear God! he cried. She fail? That I have not been a better wife, Barbara went on brokenly. Tell him I have loved him, that I love him still, and have never loved him more than I do today. Forgive me, both of you, and love me if you can. Your mother. In the tense silence Barbara folded up both sheets and put them back into the envelope. Still she did not dare to look at her father. When, at last, she turned to him, sorely perplexed and afraid, he was still sitting at her bedside. He had not moved a muscle, but he had changed. If molten light had suddenly been poured over him from above, while the rest of the room lay in shadow, he could not have changed more. The sorrowful years had slipped from him, and as though by magic youth had come back. His shoulders were still stooped. His face and hands wrinkled, and his hair was still as white as the blown snow, but his soul was young as never before. Barbara, he breathed in ecstasy. She died loving me. The slender white hand stole out to his, half fearfully. Yes, Daddy, I've always told you so. Don't you know? Her senses whirled, but she kept her voice even. She died loving me, he whispered. The clock ticked steadily, a door closed below, and a little bird outside chirped softly. There was no other sound save the wild beating of Barbara's heart, which she alone heard. Still transfigured, he sat beside the bed, holding her hand in his. Far away voices sounded faintly in his ears. For, like a garment, the years had fallen from him, and taken with him the questioning and the fear. Into his doubting heart Constance had come once more, radiant with new beauty, thrilling his soul to new worship and new belief. She died loving me, he said, as though he could scarcely believe his own words. Barbara, I know it is much to ask, for it must be very precious to you, but would you let me hold the letter? Would you let me feel the words I cannot see? Choking back a sob, Barbara took both sheets out of the envelope and gave them to him. Show me, he whispered. Show me the line where she wrote. Tell him I love him still, and have never loved him more than I do today. When Barbara put his finger upon the words, he bent and kissed them. What does it say here? He pointed to the paragraph beginning. I have made the mistake which many girls make. It says, answered Barbara, there is not a word to be said of him that is not holy good. He bent and kissed that too. And here, his finger pointed to the line, I did not know that a woman could love love rather than the man who gave it to her. That is where it says again, tell him I have loved him, that I love him still, and have never loved him more than I do today. Dear blessed Constance, he said, crushing the lie to his lips. Dear wife, true wife, true as to fall the world. Barbara could bear no more. Let me have the letter again, daddy. No, dear no, after all these years of waiting, let me keep it for a little while, just for a little while, Barbara. Please, his voice broke at the end. For a little while, then, daddy, she said slowly, only a little while. He went out with the precious letter in his hand. Miriam was in the hall, but he was unconscious of the fact. She shrank back against the wall as he passed her, and his fine old face illumined as from some light within. In his own room he sat down after closing the door, and spread the two sheets on the table before him. He moved his hands caressingly over the lines Constance had written in ink and Barbara in pencil. She died loving me, he said to himself. And I was wrong. She did not change when I was blind and Barbara was lame. All these years I have been doubting her, while her own assurance was in the house. She thought she failed me. The dear saint thought she failed. It must take me all eternity to atone to her for that. But she died loving me. His thought lingered fondly upon the words. Then the tears streamed suddenly over his blind face. Oh, Constance! Constance! He cried aloud, forgetting that the dead cannot hear. You never failed me. Forgive me if you can.