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diff --git a/.gitattributes b/.gitattributes new file mode 100644 index 0000000..d7b82bc --- /dev/null +++ b/.gitattributes @@ -0,0 +1,4 @@ +*.txt text eol=lf +*.htm text eol=lf +*.html text eol=lf +*.md text eol=lf diff --git a/LICENSE.txt b/LICENSE.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..6312041 --- /dev/null +++ b/LICENSE.txt @@ -0,0 +1,11 @@ +This eBook, including all associated images, markup, improvements, +metadata, and any other content or labor, has been confirmed to be +in the PUBLIC DOMAIN IN THE UNITED STATES. + +Procedures for determining public domain status are described in +the "Copyright How-To" at https://www.gutenberg.org. + +No investigation has been made concerning possible copyrights in +jurisdictions other than the United States. Anyone seeking to utilize +this eBook outside of the United States should confirm copyright +status under the laws that apply to them. diff --git a/README.md b/README.md new file mode 100644 index 0000000..8ccc58f --- /dev/null +++ b/README.md @@ -0,0 +1,2 @@ +Project Gutenberg (https://www.gutenberg.org) public repository for +eBook #60496 (https://www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/60496) diff --git a/old/60496-8.txt b/old/60496-8.txt deleted file mode 100644 index d38b085..0000000 --- a/old/60496-8.txt +++ /dev/null @@ -1,4901 +0,0 @@ -Project Gutenberg's Whom The Gods Destroyed, by Josephine Dodge Daskam Bacon - -This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and most -other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no restrictions -whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms of -the Project Gutenberg License included with this eBook or online at -www.gutenberg.org. If you are not located in the United States, you'll have -to check the laws of the country where you are located before using this ebook. - -Title: Whom The Gods Destroyed - -Author: Josephine Dodge Daskam Bacon - -Release Date: October 15, 2019 [EBook #60496] - -Language: English - -Character set encoding: ISO-8859-1 - -*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK WHOM THE GODS DESTROYED *** - - - - -Produced by Carlos Colon, the Princeton University and the -Online Distributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net -(This book was produced from images made available by the -HathiTrust Digital Library.) - - - - - - - - - - - Transcriber's Notes: - - Italic text is denoted by _underscores_ and bold text by - =equal signs=. - - Small uppercase have been replaced with regular uppercase. - - Blank pages have been eliminated. - - Variations in spelling and hyphenation have been left as in the - original. - - - -BOOKS BY MISS DASKAM - - -WHOM THE GODS DESTROYED. $1.50. - -THE IMP AND THE ANGEL. Illustrated. _Net_, $1.25. - -FABLES FOR THE FAIR. _Net_, $1.00. - -SISTER'S VOCATION AND OTHER GIRLS' STORIES. $1.25. - -SMITH COLLEGE STORIES. $1.50. - - - - - WHOM THE GODS - DESTROYED - - BY - JOSEPHINE DODGE DASKAM - - - [Illustration] - - - NEW YORK - CHARLES SCRIBNER'S SONS - MDCCCCII - - - - - _Copyright, 1902, by Charles Scribner's Sons_ - - Published, October, 1902 - - - TROW DIRECTORY - PRINTING AND BOOKBINDING COMPANY - NEW YORK - - - - - To - - K. W. - - WITH THE FRIENDSHIP OF - MANY YEARS - - J. D. D. - - - - - -CONTENTS - - - _I. Whom the Gods Destroyed_ 1 - - _II. A Wind Flower_ 29 - - _III. When Pippa Passed_ 67 - - _IV. The Backsliding of Harriet Blake_ 101 - - _V. A Bayard of Broadway_ 127 - - _VI. A Little Brother of the Books_ 157 - - _VII. The Maid of the Mill_ 189 - - _VIII. The Twilight Guests_ 219 - - - - -WHOM THE GODS DESTROYED - - -I - -The most high gods have decided that too much power over the hearts of -men shall not be given to other men, for then the givers are forgotten -in the gift and the smoke dies away from the altars. So they kill the -men who play with souls. According to an ancient saying, before they -destroy the victim they make him mad. There are, however, modifications -of the process. Occasionally they make him drunk. - -As I came down the board-walk that leads to the ocean, I saw by his -staggering and swaying gait that the man was not only very drunk -indeed, but that he gloried in the fact. This was shown by his -brandishing arms and tossing head and the defiant air with which he -regarded the cottages, before one of which he paused, leaned forward, -placing one hand dramatically at his ear, and presently executed a -wild dance of what was apparently derision. A timid woman would have -retreated, but I am not timid, except when I am alone in the dark. Also -I have what my brother-in-law calls Bohemian tastes. As nearly as I -have been able to understand that phrase, it signifies a great interest -in people, especially when they are at all odd. And this solitary, -scornful dance of a ragged man before the Averys' cottage was odd in -the extreme. - -So I walked quietly along. When I reached the man I heard him muttering -rapidly to himself, while he rested from the exertion of his late -performance. What did dancing drunken men talk about? I walked -slower. My brother-in-law says that a woman with any respect for the -proprieties, to say nothing of the conventions, would never have done -this. I have observed, however, that his feelings for the proprieties -and the conventions, both of them, have on occasion suffered relapse, -more especially at those times, prior to his marriage to my sister, -when I, although supposed to be walking and riding and rowing and -naphtha-launching with them, was frequently and inexcusably absent. So -I gather that the proprieties and the conventions, like many other -things, are relative. - -As I passed the man he turned and looked crossly at me and spoke -apparently to some one far away behind me, for he spoke with much force. - -"Did you ever hear such damn foolishness?" he demanded. Now there was -nothing to hear but Miss Kitty Avery playing Chopin's Fourth Ballade -in F minor. She played it badly, of course, but nobody who knew Kitty -Avery would have imagined that she would play otherwise than badly, -and I have heard so much bad playing that I didn't notice it very much -anyway. I thought it hardly probable that the man should know how -unfortunate Kitty's method and selection were, so I passed directly by. -Soon I heard his steps, and I knew he was coming after me. While he was -yet some distance behind me he spoke again. - -"I suppose that fool of a woman thinks she can play," he growled as he -lurched against a lamp-post. Then I did the unpardonable deed. I turned -and answered him. - -"How do you know it's a woman?" I asked. - -"Huh! Take me for a fool, don't you?" he said scornfully, scuffling -along unsteadily. "I'm drunk as an owl, but I'm no fool! No. I know -it's a woman from the pawin' 'round she does. Bah! Thinks she's -playin'. Damn nonsense!" He sat down carefully on the sand by the side -of the walk and wagged his head knowingly. I looked cautiously about. -No one was in sight. I bent down and untied my shoe. - -"Perhaps you could play it better?" I suggested sweetly. His jaw -dropped with consternation. - -"Play it better! Oh, Lord! She says can I play it better! -Can-I-play-it-better? Well, I'll tell you one thing. If I couldn't play -it better, d'ye know what I'd do? Do you?" - -"No," said I, and tied my shoe. He didn't talk thickly as they do in -books. On the contrary, he brought out each word with a particularly -clear and final utterance. - -"Well, I'll tell you what I'd do. I'd go off and drown my sorrers in -drink! Yes, I would. Although I'm so drunk that I wouldn't know when I -was getting drunk on principle and when I was just plain drunk. Le' -me tell you somethin': _I'm drunk now!_" He announced the fact with -a gravity so colossal as to render laughter impossible. I untied the -other shoe. - -"Can you really play Chopin?" I said. He shook his fist at the Avery -cottage. - -"What I can't play of Chopin you never heard played! So that's the end -o' that," he said. The folly of the situation suddenly became clear -to me. I hastily tied my shoe and turned to go. He half rose from the -sand, but sank helplessly back. - -"Look here," he said confidentially, "I'm tired, and I need m' rest. I -got to have rest. We all need rest. If you want to hear me play, you -come to the old hulk of a barn that's got the piano in it. They call -it the auditorium--au-di-to-ri-um." He pronounced the syllables as if -to a child of three. "I'll be there. You come before supper. I'll be -rested then. I'd like to shoot that woman--thinks she can play--damn -nonsense--" I went on to the beach. - - -II - -My brother-in-law came down on the afternoon boat, and of course -he occupied our attention. His theories, though often absurd, are -certainly well sustained. For instance, his ideas as to the connection -between genius and insanity. He says--but I don't know why I speak of -it. I defeated him utterly. At length I left the room. I hate a man who -won't give up when he's beaten. I found the Nice Boy on the piazza, and -we sat and talked. Really a charming fellow. And not so very young, -either. He told fascinating tales of a shipwreck he'd experienced, -where they sat on the bow as the boat went down and traded sandwiches. - -"I gave Hunter two hams for a chicken, and it was a mean swindle!" he -said reminiscently. "Speaking of sandwiches, I gave a chap ten cents to -buy one this afternoon. Awfully seedy looking. Shabby clothes, stubbly -beard, dirty hands, not half sober, and what do you think he said?" I -remembered and blushed. - -"I don't know," I murmured. - -"He invited me to a recital--a piano recital! He said he was going to -play at five-thirty in the auditorium, and I might come if I liked, -though it was a private affair! How is that for nerve? He didn't look -up to a hand organ." - -My curiosity grew. And then, I had a great consciousness of not liking -to disappoint even a drunken man. He evidently thought I was coming. -I sketched lightly to the Nice Boy the affair of the morning. He was -not shocked. He was amused. But my brother-in-law says that nothing I -could say could shock the Nice Boy. In fact, he says, that if I mean -nothing serious, I have no business to let the Nice Boy think--but that -is a digression. It is one of my brother-in-law's prerogatives to be as -impertinent as he cares to be. - -"Shall we go over?" said I. "He is very probably an accompanist, -stranded here, with his engagement ended. Perhaps he even plays well. -These things happen in books." The Nice Boy shook his head. - -"We'll go, by all means," he said, "but don't hope. He's not touched a -piano this long time." - -So we gathered some shawls and cushions and went over. The building was -all dusty and smelled of pine. As we stumbled in, the sound of a piano -met us. I own I was a bit excited. For one doubtful second I listened, -ready to adore. Then I laughed nervously. We were not people in a book. -It was Mendelssohn's "Spring Song," played rather slowly and with a -mournful correctness. I could feel the player's fingers thudding down -on the keys--one played it so when it was necessary to use the notes. -The Nice Boy smiled consolingly. - -"Too bad," he whispered. "Shall we go out now?" - -"I should like to view the fragments of the idol!" I whispered back. -"Let's end the illusion by seeing him!" - -So we tip-toed up to the benches, and looked at the platform where the -Steinway stood. Twirling on the stool sat a girl of seventeen or so, -peering out into the gloom at us. It was very startling. Now I felt -that the strain was yet to come. As I sank into one of the chairs a -man rose slowly from a seat under the platform. It was the stranger. -He nodded jauntily at us. - -"Good thing you come," he announced cheerfully. "I don't know how -long I could stand that girl. I guess she's related to the other," -and he shambled up the steps. His unsteady walk, his shaking hand, as -he clumsily pushed the chairs out of the way, told their disagreeable -story. He walked straight up to the girl, and looking beyond her, said -easily, "Excuse me, miss, but I'm goin' to play a little for some -friends o' mine, an' I'll have to ask you to quit for a while." The -girl looked undecidedly from him to us, but we had nothing to say. - -"Come, come," he added impatiently, "you can bang all you want in a few -minutes, with nobody to disturb you. Jus' now I'm goin' to do my own -turn." - -His assurance was so perfect, his intention to command obedience so -evident, that the child got up and went slowly down the stairs, more -curious than angry. The man swept the music from the rack, and lifted -the top of the piano to its full height. Then with an impatient twitch -he spun the music-stool a few inches lower, and pulled it out. The Nice -Boy leaned over to me. - -"The preparations are imposing, anyhow," he whispered. But I did not -laugh. I felt nervous. To be disappointed again would be too cruel! I -watched the soiled, untidy figure collapse onto the stool. Then I shut -my eyes, to hear without prejudice of sight the opening triple-octave -scale of the professional pianist. For with such assurance as he showed -he should at least be able to play the scales. - -The hall seemed so large and dim, I was so alone--I was glad of the -Nice Boy. Suppose it should all be a horrible plot, and the tramp -should rush down with a revolver? Suppose--and then I stopped thinking. -For from far-away somewhere came the softest, sweetest song. A woman -was singing. Nearer and nearer she came, over the hills, in the lovely -early morning; louder and louder she sang--and it was the "Spring -Song"! Now she was with us--young, clear-eyed, happy, bursting into -delicious flights of laughter between the bars. Her eyes, I know, were -grey. She did not run or leap--she came steadily on, with a swift, -strong, swaying, lilting motion. She was all odorous of the morning, -all vocal with the spring. Her voice laughed even while she sang, and -the perfect, smooth succession of the separate sounds was unlike any -effect I have ever heard. Now she passed--she was gone by. Softer, -fainter, ah, she was gone! No, she turned her head, tossed us flowers, -and sang again, turned, and singing, left us. One moment of soft -echo--and then it was still. - -I breathed--for the first time since I heard her, I thought. I opened -my eyes. It was all black before them, they had been closed so long. -I did not dare look at the Nice Boy. There was absolutely nothing for -him to say, but I was afraid he would try to say it. He was staring at -the platform. His mouth was open, his eyes very large. Without turning -his face towards me, he said solemnly, "And I gave him ten cents for a -sandwich! Ten cents for a sandwich!" - -Suddenly I heard sobs--heavy, awkward sobs. I looked behind me. The -girl had dropped forward on to the chair in front and was hysterically -chattering into her handkerchief. - -"_I_ played that! _I_ played that!" she wailed. "Oh, he heard me! he -did, he did!" I felt horribly ashamed for her. How she must feel! A -child can suffer so. - -But the man at the piano gave a little chuckle of satisfaction, -and ran his hands up and down the keys in a delirium of scales and -arpeggios. Then he hit heavily a deep, low note. It was like a great, -bass trumpet. A crashing chord: and then the love-song of Germany and -musicians caught me up to heaven, or wherever people go who love that -tune--perhaps it is to Germany--and I heard a great, magnificent man -singing in a great, magnificent baritone, the song that won Clara -Schumann's heart. - -Schubert sang sweetly, wonderfully. I cry like a baby when one sings -the Serenade even fairly well. And dear Franz Abt has made most loving -melodies. But they were musicians singing, this was a man. "_Du meine -Liebe, du!_"--that was no piano; it was a voice. And yet no human -voice could be at once so limpid and so rich, so thrilling and so -clear. And now it crashed out in chords--heavy, broken harmony. All the -rapture of possession, the very absolute of human joy were there--but -these are words, and that was love and music. - -I don't in the least know how long it lasted. There was no time for me. -The god at the piano repeated it again and again, I think, as it is -never repeated in the singing, and always should be. I know that the -tears rolled over my cheeks and dropped into my lap. I have a vague -remembrance of the Nice Boy's enthusiastically and brokenly begging -me to marry him to-night and go to Venice with him to-morrow, and my -ecstatically consenting to that or anything else. I am sure he held -my hand during that period, for the rings cut in so the next day. -And I think--indeed I am quite certain--but why consider one's self -responsible for such things? At any rate, it has never happened since. - -And when it was over we went up hand in hand, and the Nice Boy said, -"What--what is your--your name?" And I stared at him, expecting to -see his dirty clothes drop off, and his trailing clouds of glory wrap -him 'round before he vanished from our eyes. His heavy eyebrows bent -together. His knees shook the piano-stool. He was labouring under an -intense excitement. But I think he was pleased at our faces. - -"What--what the devil does it matter to you what I'm named?" he said -roughly. - -"Oh, it doesn't matter at all, not at all," I said meekly; "only we -wanted, we wanted----" And then, like that chit of seventeen, I cried, -too. I am such a fool about music. - -"Now you know what I mean when I say I can play," he growled savagely. -He seemed really terribly excited, even angry. "I'll play one thing -more. Then you go home. When I think o' what I might have done, great -God, I can't die till I've shown 'em! Can I? Can I die? You hear me! -You see"--his face was livid. His eyes gleamed like coals. I ought to -have been afraid, but I wasn't. - -"You shall show them!" I gasped. "You shall! Will you play for the -hotel? We can fill this place for you. We can----" - -"Oh, you shut up!" he snarled. "You! I've played to thousands, I have. -You don't know anything about it. It's this devil's drink that's -killin' me. It ruined me in Vienna. It spoiled the whole thing in -Paris. It's goin' to kill me." His voice rose to a shriek. He dropped -from the stool, and from his pocket fell a bottle. The Nice Boy gave a -queer little sob. - -"Oh, it's dreadful, dreadful!" he whispered to himself. He jumped up on -the platform and seized the man's shoulder. - -"Come, come," he said. "We'll help you. Come, be a man! You stay here -with us, and we'll take care of you. Such a gift as yours shall not go -for nothing. Come over to the hotel, and I'll get you a bed." - -The man staggered up. He was much older than I had thought. There were -deep, disagreeable lines in his face. There was a coarseness, too--but, -oh, that "Spring Song"! Now, how can that be? My brother-in-law -says--but this is not his story. The man got onto the seat somehow. - -"You're a decent fellow," he said. "When I've done playing, you -go out. Right straight out. D'ye hear? I'll come see you to-morrow -morning." - -Then he shut his eyes and felt for the keys, and played the Chopin -Berceuse. And it is an actual fact that I wanted to die then. Not -suddenly--but just to be rocked into rest, rocked into rest, and not -wake up any more. It was the purest, sweetest, most inexpressibly -touching thing I ever heard. I felt so young--so trustful, somehow. I -knew that no harm would come. And then it sang itself to sleep, and we -went away and left him, with his head resting on his hands that still -pressed the keys. And we never spoke. I think the girl came out with -us, but I'm not sure. - -At the door the Nice Boy gulped, and said in a queer, shaky voice, "I'm -not nearly good enough to have sat by you--I know that--you seem so -far away--but I want to tell you." And I said that he was much better -than I--that none of us were good--that I thought it would be all right -in the end--that after all it was being managed better than we could -arrange it--that perhaps heaven was more like what we used to think -than what we think now. There is no knowing what we might have said if -my brother-in-law had not come down to see where I was. And then I went -to sleep like a baby. - - -III - -I should like to end the story here. I should like to leave him bowed -over the keys and remember only the most exquisite experience of my -life in connection with him. But there is the rest of the tale, and it -really needs telling. - -I didn't see the end. The Nice Boy and my brother-in-law saw that, and -I only know as much as they will tell me. The Nice Boy went over and -got him the next morning. He said his name was Decker. He said that -he had spent the night in the solemnest watching and praying, and he -had held the bottle in his hands and never touched a drop of it. They -gave him a bath and clothes, and fed him steadily for two days. He -grew fat before our eyes. He looked nicer, more respectable, but more -commonplace. He refused to touch the piano, because it gave him such a -craving for drink. - -He hated to talk about himself. But he let slip occasional remarks -about London and Paris and Vienna and Leipsic that took away one's -breath. He must have known strange people. Once he told me a little -story about Clara Schumann that implied more than acquaintance, and he -quoted Liszt constantly. He was an American beyond a doubt, we thought. -He spoke vaguely of a secret that even Liszt had missed. I guessed -it was connected with that wonderful singing quality that made the -instrument a human voice under his fingers. When I asked him about it -he laughed. - -"You wait," he said confidently. "You just wait. I'll show you people -something to make you open your eyes. I know. You're a good audience, -you and your friend. You make a good air to play in. You just wait." - -And I have waited. But never again shall I hear that lovely girl sing -across the hills. Never again will my heart grow big, and ache and -melt, and slip away to that song, "Du, Meine Leibe, Du." Oh, it was -not of this earth, that music. Perhaps when I die I shall hear the -Berceuse echo--I think it may be so. - -Well, we got them all together. There must have been a thousand. -They came from across the bay and all along the inlet. The piano -was tuned, and the people were seated, and I was just where we were -that night, and Mr. Decker was walking behind the little curtain in -a new dress-suit. He had shaken hands with me just before. His hands -were cold as ice and they trembled in mine. I congratulated him on -the presence of Herr H---- from Leipsic, who had been miraculously -discovered just across the bay; and Mr. J---- of New York, who could -place him musically in the most desirable fashion; and asked him not to -forget me, his first audience, and his most sincere friend and admirer. - -In his eyes I could swear I saw fright. Not nervousness, not stage -fear, but sheer, appalling terror. It could not be, I thought, and my -brother-in-law told me to go down. Then he stepped to the front and -told them all how pleased, how proud and delighted he was to be the -means of introducing to them one whom he confidently trusted would -leave this stage to-night one of the recognised pianists of the world. -He described briefly the man's extraordinary effect upon two of his -friends, who were not, he was good enough to say, likely to be mistaken -in their musical estimates. He hoped that they all appreciated their -good fortune in being the first people in this part of the world to -hear Mr. Decker, and he took great pleasure in introducing him. - -At this point Mr. Decker should have come forward. As he did not, my -brother-in-law stepped back to get him. He found the Nice Boy alone in -the room behind the stage, looking distinctly nervous. He explained -that Mr. Decker had gone out for a moment to get the air--he was -naturally a bit excited, and the room was close. My brother-in-law said -nothing, and they waited a few minutes in strained silence. Finally -they walked about the room looking at each other. - -"Do you think it was quite wise to let him go?" said my -brother-in-law, with compressed lips. The Nice Boy is horribly afraid -of my brother-in-law. - -"I'll--I'll go out and--and get him," he gasped, and dashed out into -the dark, cursing himself for a fool. This was unfortunate, for in five -seconds more Mr. Decker had reeled into the room. He explained in a -very thick voice that he had never been able to play without the drink; -that a little brandy set his fingers free, but that he had taken too -much and must rest. - -When the Nice Boy got back--he had brought two great pails of cold -water and a fresh dress-shirt--it was too late. The man lay in a heap -on the floor, and my brother-in-law stood, white and raging, talking to -the heap. The man was drunkenly, horribly asleep. The Boy said that the -worst five minutes he ever spent were those in which he poured water -over the heap on the floor and shook it, my brother-in-law watching -with an absolutely indescribable expression! - -Then he got out on the platform and said something. Mr. Decker had met -with an accident--would some one get a doctor?--was there perhaps a -doctor in the audience?--they could realise his position--and more of -that sort. - -I knew well enough. When the doctor went in he found the Boy shaking -the drunken brute on the floor, and they told the doctor all about it, -and then went out by the other door. And they got a carriage and took -Decker to the hotel. - -I don't know--it seemed not wholly his fault. And his face showed -that he had suffered. But the men would hear nothing of that. My -brother-in-law says that for a woman who is really as hard as nails I -have more apparent and æsthetic sympathy than any one he ever knew. And -that may be so. - -The people took it very nicely. They cleared the floor, and the younger -ones danced and the older ones talked, and the manager sent over ices -and coffee, and it turned out the affair of the season. And they were -all very grateful to my brother-in-law and his friend, and quite forgot -about the strange artist. - -Whether he ever fully realised what the evening had been we never knew, -because when they went in the next morning to see how he was, they -found him dead. The doctor said that the excitement, the terror, the -sudden cutting off of liquor, with the sudden wild drinking, were too -much for an overstrained heart, and that he had probably died soon -after he was carried to his room. - -It seemed to me a little sad that while they were dancing, the man whom -they had come to see----. But my brother-in-law says that I turn to -the morbid view of things, and that that was the very blessing of the -whole affair--that the crowd should have been so pleased, and that the -horrible situation should have ended so smoothly. Because such a man is -better dead, he says. And of course he is right. Life would be horrible -to him, one can see. - -But I have noticed that the Nice Boy and the girl who heard him play do -not feel so sure that his death was best. For myself, I shall always -feel that the world has lost its musical master. I have heard the -music-makers of two generations, and not one of them has excelled his -exquisite lightness and force of touch, and that wonderful singing -stress--oh! I could cry to think of it! And when we go abroad next I -shall find out the name of the man who played in Leipsic and Paris -and Vienna--for he must have played there once; he said he had played -to thousands--and see if any one there has heard of his secret, his -wonderful singing through the keys. - -For, though my brother-in-law says that the musical temperament in -combination with a Bohemian tendency gives an emotional basis which is -absolutely unsafe and therefore untrustworthy in its reports of actual -facts, I know that the most glorious music of my life gained nothing -from my imagination. For there were three of us who saw the spring come -over the hills that night. Three of us heard the triumph-song of love -incarnate, and thrilled to it. Three of us knew for once a peace that -passed our understanding, and had the comfort of little children in -their mother's arms. - -And though it is not true, as my brother-in-law insinuates, that a man -need only be able to play my soul away in order to be ranked by me -among the angels, I shall continue to insist that somewhere, somehow, -the beautiful sounds he made are accounted to him for just a little -righteousness! - - - - -A WIND FLOWER - - -I - -Willard's landlady smiled sympathetically across the narrow -breakfast-table. "I guess you've got to stay in this mornin', Mr. -Willard," she said. "It's a good deal too raw and cold for you to be -out around, paintin', to-day." - -Willard nodded. "Quite right, Mrs. Storrs," he returned, and he smiled -at his landlady's daughter, who sat opposite. But she did not smile at -him. She continued her silent meal, looking for the most part at her -plate, and replying to direct questions only by monosyllables. - -She must be nineteen or twenty, he decided, but her slender, curveless -figure might have been that of a girl several years younger. Her face -was absolutely without character to the casual glance--pale, slightly -freckled, lighted by grey-green, half-closed eyes, and framed in light -brown hair. Her lips were thin, and her rare smile did not disclose -her teeth. Even her direct look, when he compelled it, was quite -uninterested. - -Her mother chattered with volubility of a woman left much alone, -and glad of an appreciative listener, but the girl had not, of her -own accord, spoken a word during his week's stay. He wondered as he -thought of it why he had not noticed it before, and decided that her -silence was not obtrusive, but only the outcome of her colourless -personality--like the silence of the prim New England house itself. - -He groaned inwardly. "What in time _can_ I do? Nothing to read within -five miles: my last cigar gone yesterday: this beastly weather driving -me to melancholia! If she weren't such a stick--heavens! I never knew a -girl could be so thin!" - -The girl in question rose and began clearing the table. Her mother -bustled out of the room, and left Willard in the old-fashioned -arm-chair by the window, almost interested, as he wondered what the -girl would do or say now. After five minutes of silence he realised -the strange impression, or rather the lack of impression, she made on -him. He was hardly conscious of a woman's presence. The intangible -atmosphere of femininity that wraps around a _tête-à-tête_ with even -the most unattractive woman was wholly lacking. She seemed simply a -more or less intelligent human being. - -Given greatly to analysis, he grew interested. Why was this? She was -not wanting intellectually, he was sure. Such remarks as she had -made in answer to his own were not noticeable for stupidity or even -stolidity of thought. He broke the silence. - -"What do you do with yourself, these days?" he suggested. "I don't see -you about at all. Are you reading, or walking about these fascinating -Maine beaches?" - -She did not even look up at him as she replied. "I don't know as I do -very much of anything. I'm not very fond of reading--at least, not -these books." - -Remembering the "Pilgrim's Progress," "Book of Martyrs," "Mrs. Heman's -Poems," and the "Adventures of Rev. James Hogan, Missionary to the -Heathen of Africa," that adorned the marble-topped table in the -parlour, he shuddered sympathetically. - -"But I walk a good deal," she volunteered. "I've been all over that -ledge you're painting." - -"Isn't it beautiful?" he said. "It reminds me of a poem I read -somewhere about the beauty of Appledore--that's on this coast -somewhere, too, isn't it? You'd appreciate the poem, I'm sure--do you -care for poetry?" - -She piled the dishes on a tray, and carried it through the door before -he had time to take it from her. - -"No," she replied over her shoulder, "no, I don't care for it. It seems -so--so smooth and shiny, somehow." - -"Smooth? shiny?" he smiled as she came back, "I don't see." - -Her high, rather indifferent voice fell in a slight embarrassment, as -she explained: "Oh, I mean the rhymes and the verses--they're so even -and like a clock ticking." - -He took from his pocket a little red book. "Let me read you this," he -said eagerly, "and see if you think it smooth and shiny. You must have -heard and seen what this man tries to tell." - -She stood awkwardly by the table, her scant, shapeless dress -accentuating the straight lines of her slim figure, her hands clasped -loosely before her, her face turned toward the window, which rattled -now and then at the gusts of the rising wind. Willard held the little -book easily between thumb and finger, and read in clear, pleasant -tones, looking at her occasionally with interest: - - "_Fresh from his fastnesses, wholesome and spacious, - The north wind, the mad huntsman, halloos on his white hounds - Over the gray, roaring reaches and ridges, - The forest of Ocean, the chase of the world. - Hark to the peal of the pack in full cry, - As he thongs them before him, swarming voluminous, - Weltering, wide-wallowing, till in a ruining - Chaos of energy, hurled on their quarry, - They crash into foam!_" - -"There! is that smooth and shiny?" he demanded. She had moved nearer, -to catch more certainly his least intonation. - -Her hands twisted nervously, and to his surprise she smiled with -unmistakable pleasure. - -"Oh, no!" she half whispered, eyeing the book in his hand wistfully. -"Oh, no! That makes me feel different. I--I love the wind." - -"What's that?" Mrs. Storrs entered quickly. "Now, Sarah, you just stop -that nonsense! Mr. Willard, has she been tellin' you any foolishness?" - -"Miss Storrs had only told me that she liked the wind," he replied, -hoping that the woman would go, and let him develop at leisure what -promised to be a most interesting situation. She had really very -pretty, even teeth, and when she smiled her lips curved pleasantly. - -But Mrs. Storrs was not to be evaded. She had evidently a grievance to -set forth, and looking reproachfully at her daughter, continued: - -"Ever since Sarah was five or six years old she's had that crazy likin' -for the wind. 'Tain't natural, I say, and when the gales that we hev up -here strike us, the least anybody can do 's to stay in the house and -thank Providence they've got a house to stay in! Why, Mr. Willard, -you'd never think it to look at her, for she's a real quiet girl--too -quiet, seems to me, sometimes, when I'm just put to it for somebody -to be social with--but in thet big gale of eighty-eight she was out -all night in it, and me and her father--that was before Mr. Storrs -died--nearly crazy with fearin' she was lost for good. And when she was -six years old, she got up from her crib and went out on the beach in -her little nightgown, and nothin' else, and it's a miracle she didn't -die of pneumonia, if not of bein' blown to death." - -Mrs. Storrs stopped for breath, and Willard glanced at the girl, -wondering if she would appear disconcerted or angry at such -unlooked-for revelation of her eccentricity; but her face had settled -into its usual impassive lines, and she dusted the chairs serenely, -turning now and then to look fixedly through the window at the swaying -elm whose boughs leaned to the ground under the still rising wind. - -Her mother was evidently relieving the strain of an enforced silence, -and sitting stiffly in her chair, as one not accustomed to the luxury -of idle conversation, she continued: - -"And even now, when she's old enough to know better, you'd think, she -acts possessed. Any wind-storm 'll set her off, but when the spring -gales come, she'll just roam 'round the house, back and forth, staring -out of doors, and me as nervous as a cat all the while. Just because -I won't let her go out she acts like a child. Why, last year I had to -go out and drag her in by main force; I was nearly blown off the cliff -gettin' her home. And she was singin', calm, as if she was in her bed -like any decent person! It's the most unnatural thing I ever heard -of! Now, Sarah Storrs," as the girl was slipping from the room, "you -remember you promised me not to go out this year after supper, if the -wind was high. You mind, now! It's comin' up an awful blow." - -The girl turned abruptly. "I never promised you that, mother," she said -quickly. "I said I wouldn't if I could help it, and if I can't help it, -I can't, and that's all there is to it." The door closed behind her, -and shortly afterwards Willard left Mrs. Storrs in possession of the -room. - -The day affected him strangely. The steady low moan of the wind was by -this time very noticeable. It was not cold, only clear and rather keen, -and the scurrying grey clouds looked chillier than one found the air on -going out. The boom of the surf carried a sinister threat with it, and -the birds drove helplessly with the wind-current, as if escaping some -dreaded thing behind them. - -Indoors, the state of affairs was not much better: Mrs. Storrs looked -injured; her sister, a lady of uncertain years and temper, talked of -sudden deaths, and the probability of premature burial, pointed by the -relation of actual occurrences of that nature; Sarah was not to be -seen. At last he could bear idleness no longer, and opening the dusty -melodeon, tried to drown the dreary minor music of the wind by some -cheerful selection from the hymn-book Mrs. Storrs brought him, having -a vague idea that secular music was out of keeping with the character -of that instrument. After a few moments' aimless fingering the keys he -found himself pedalling a laborious accompaniment to the "Dead March" -from Saul, and closed the wheezy little organ in despair. - -The long day dragged somehow by, and at supper Sarah appeared, if -anything, whiter and more uninteresting than ever, only to retire -immediately when the meal was over. - -"I might's well tell you, Mr. Willard, that you c'n give up all hope of -paintin' any more this week," announced Mrs. Storrs, as the door closed -behind her daughter. "This wind's good for a week, I guess. I'm sorry -to have you go, but I shouldn't feel honest not to tell you." Mentally -vowing to leave the next morning, Willard thanked her, and explained -that the study was far enough advanced to be completed at his studio in -the city, and that he had intended leaving very shortly. - - -II - -A few moments later, as he stood at the window in the parlour, looking -at the waving elm-boughs and lazily wondering how the moon could be so -bright when there were so many clouds, the soft swish of a woman's -skirt sounded close to his ear. As he turned, the frightened "Oh!" -and the little gasp of surprised femininity revealed Sarah, standing -near the table in the centre of the room. Even at that distance and -in the dark he was aware of a difference in her, a subtle element of -personality not present before. - -"Did I frighten you?" he asked, coming nearer. - -"No, not very much. Only I thought nobody would be here. I--I--wanted -some place to breathe in; it seems so tight and close in the house." As -she spoke, a violent blast of wind drove the shutters against the side -of the house and rubbed together the branches of the elm until they -creaked dismally. She pressed her face against the glass and stared out -into the dark. - -"Don't you love it?" she questioned, almost eagerly. - -Willard shook his head dubiously. "Don't know. Looks pretty cool. If it -gets much higher, I shouldn't care to walk far." - -She took her old place by the table again, but soon left it, and -wandered restlessly about the room. As she passed him he was conscious -of a distinct physical impression--a kind of electric presence. She -seemed to gather and hold about her all the faint light of the cold -room, and the sweep of her skirt against his foot seemed to draw him -toward her. Suddenly she stopped her irregular march. - -"Hear it sing!" she whispered. - -The now distinct voice of the wind grew to a long, minor wail, that -rose and fell with rhythmic regularity. As she paused with uplifted -finger near him, Willard felt with amazement a compelling force, -a personality more intense, for the time, than his own. Then, as -the blast, with a shriek that echoed for a moment with startling -distinctness from every side, dashed the elm branches against the house -itself, she turned abruptly and left the room. "Stay here!" she said -shortly, and, resisting the impulse to follow her, he obeyed. In a -few moments she returned with a heavy shawl wrapped over her head and -shoulders. - -"Hold the window open for me," she said, "I'm going out." He attempted -remonstrance, but she waved him impatiently away. "I can't get out of -the door--mother's locked it and taken the key, but you can hold up the -window while I get out. Oh, come yourself, if you like! But nothing can -happen to me." - -Mechanically he held open the window as she slipped out, and, dragging -his overcoat after him, scrambled through himself. She was waiting for -him at the corner of the house, and as he stumbled in the unfamiliar -shadows, held out her hand. - -"Here, take hold of my hand," she commanded. Her cool, slim grasp was -strangely pleasant, as she hurried along with a smooth, gliding motion, -wholly unlike her indifferent gait of the day before. - -Once out of the shelter of the house, the storm struck them with full -force, and Willard realised that he was well-nigh strangled in the -clutches of a genuine Maine gale. - -"What folly!" he gasped, crowding his hat over his eyes and struggling -to gain his wonted consciousness of superiority. "Come back instantly, -Miss Storrs! Your mother----" - -"Come! come!" she interrupted, pulling him along. - -He stared at her in amazement. Her eyes were wide open and almost -black with excitement. Her face gleamed like ivory in the cold light. -Her lips were parted and curved in a happy smile. Her slender body -swayed easily with the wind that nearly bent Willard double. She seemed -unreal--a phantom of the storm, a veritable wind-spirit. Her loosened -hair flew across his face, and its touch completed the strange thrill -that her hand-clasp brought. He followed unresistingly. - -"Aren't--you--afraid--of--the--woods?" he gasped, the gusts tearing the -words from his lips, as he saw that she was making for the thick growth -of trees that bordered the cliff. Her high, light laughter almost -frightened him, so weird and unhuman it came to him on the wind. - -"Why should I be afraid? The woods are so beautiful in a storm! They -bow and nod and throw their branches about--oh, they're best of all, -then!" - -A sweeping blast nearly threw him down, and he instinctively dropped -her hand, since there was no possible feeling of protection for her, -her footing was so sure, her balance so perfect. As he righted himself -and staggered to the shelter of the tree under which she was standing, -he stopped, lost in wonder and admiration. She had impatiently thrown -off the shawl and stood in a gleam of moonlight under the tree. Her -long, straight hair flew out in two fluttering wisps at either side; -her straight, fine brows, her dark, long lashes, her slender, curved -mouth were painted against her pale face in clear relief. Her eyes were -widely open, the pupils dark and gleaming. It seemed to his excited -glance that rays of light streamed from them to him. "Heavens! she's a -beauty! If only I could catch that pose!" he said under his breath. - -"Come!" she called to him again, "we're wasting time! I want to get to -the cliff!" He pressed on to her, but she slipped around the tree and -eluded him, keeping a little in advance as he panted on, fighting with -all the force of a fairly powerful man against the gale that seemed -to offer her no resistance. It occurred to him, as he watched with -a greedy artist's eye the almost unnatural ease and lightness of her -walk, that she caught intuitively the turns of the wind, guiding along -currents and channels unknown to him, for she seemed with it always, -never against it. Once she threw out both her arms in an abandon of -delight, and actually leaned on the gust that tossed him against a -tree, baffled and wearied with his efforts to keep pace with her, and -confusedly wondering if he would wake soon from this improbable dream. - -Speech was impossible. The whistling of the wind alone was deafening, -and his voice was blown in twenty directions when he attempted to call -her. Small twigs lashed his face, slippery boughs glided from his -grasp, and the trees fled by in a thick-grown crowd to his dazed eyes. -To his right, a birch suddenly fell with a snapping crash. He leaped -to one side, only to feel about his face a blinding storm of pattering -acorns from the great oak that with a rending sigh and swish tottered -through the air at his left. - -"Good God!" he cried in terror, as he saw her standing apparently -in its track. A veer in the gale altered the direction of the great -trunk, that sank to the ground across her path. As it fell, with an -indescribable, swaying bound she leaped from the ground, and before -it quite touched the earth she rested lightly upon it. She seemed -absolutely unreal--a dryad of the windy wood. All fear for her left -him. As she stood poised on the still trembling trunk, a quick gust -blew out her skirt to a bubble on one side, and drove it close to her -slender body on the other, while her loose hair streamed like a banner -along the wind. She curved her figure towards him and made a cup of -one hand, laying it beside her opened lips. What she said he did not -hear. He was rapt in delighted wonder at the consummate grace of her -attitude, the perfect poise of her body. She was a figure in a Greek -frieze--a bas-relief--a breathing statue. - -Unable to make him hear, she turned slightly and pointed ahead. He -realised the effect of the Wingless Victory in its unbroken beauty. She -was not a woman, but an incarnate art, a miracle of changing line and -curve, a ceaseless inspiration. - -Suddenly he heard the pound and boom of the surf. In an ecstasy -of impatience she hurried back, seized his hand, and fairly -dragged him on. The crash of the waves and the wind together -took from him all power of connected thought. He clung to her -hand like a child, and when she threw herself down on her -face to breathe, he grasped her dress and panted in her ear: -"We--can't--get--much--farther--unless--you--can--walk--the--Atlantic!" -She smiled happily back at him, and the thickness of her hair, blown -by the wind from the ocean about his face, brought him a strange, -unspeakable content. - -"Shall we ever go back?" he whispered, half to himself. "Or will you -float down the cliff and wake me by your going?" - -Her wide, dark eyes answered him silently. "It is like a dream, -though," her high, sweet voice added. And then he realised that she had -hardly spoken since they left the house. The house? As in a dream he -tried vaguely to connect this Undine of the wood with the girl whose -body she had stolen for this night's pranks. As in a dream he rose -and followed her back, through the howling, sweeping wind. Her cold, -slim hand held his; her light, shrill voice sang little snatches of -songs--hymns, he remembered afterward. As the moonlight fell on her, he -wondered dreamily why he had thought her too thin. And all the while he -fought, half-unconsciously, the resistless gale, that spared him only -when he yielded utterly. - -The house gleamed white and square before them. Silently he raised the -window for her. He had no thought of lifting her in. That she should -slip lightly through was of course. The house was still lighted, and he -heard the creaking of her mother's rocking-chair in the bedroom over -his head. He looked at his watch. "Does her mother rock all night?" he -thought dully, for it was nearly twelve. She read his question from the -perplexed glance he threw at her. - -"She's sitting up to watch the door so that I sha'n't get out," she -whispered quietly, without a smile. "Good-bye." And he stood alone in -the room. - -Until late the next morning he wandered in strange, wearied, yet -fascinating dreams with her. Vague sounds, as of high-pitched -reproaches and quiet sobbing, mingled with his morning dreams, and -when, with aching head and thoroughly bewildered brain, he went to -his late breakfast, Mrs. Storrs served him; only as he left for the -train, possessed by a longing for the great, busy city of his daily -work, did he see her daughter, walking listlessly about the house. Her -freckled face was paler than ever, her half-closed eyes reddened, and -her slight, awkward bow in recognition of his puzzled salute might have -been directed to some one behind him. Only his aching head and wearied -feet assured him that the strangest night of his life had been no dream. - - -III - -That his studio should seem bare and uninteresting as he threw open the -door, and tried to kindle a fire in the dusty stove, did not surprise -him. That the sketches and studies in colour should look tame and flat -to the eye that had been fed for two weeks with Maine surf, angry -clouds, and swaying branches, was perhaps only natural. But as the days -went on and he failed to get in train for work a puzzled wonder slowly -grew in him. Why was it that the picture dragged so? He remembered -perfectly the look of the beach, the feel of the cold, hungry water, -the heavy, grey clouds, the primitive, forbidding austerity that a -while ago he had been so confidently eager to put on the canvas. Why -was it that he sat for hours together helplessly staring at it? His -friends supposed him wrapped in his subject, working under a high -pressure, and considerately left him alone; they would have marvelled -greatly had they seen him glowering moodily at the merest study of the -subject he had described so vividly to them, smoking countless packages -of cigarettes, hardly lifting his hand from his chair-arm. - -Once he threw down a handful of brushes and started out for a tramp. It -occurred to him that the city sights and smells, the endless hum and -roar, the rapid pace of the crowded streets would tone him up and set -his thoughts in a new line; he was tired of the whistling gales and -tossing trunks and booming surf that haunted his nights and confused -his days. A block away from the studio a flower-woman met him with a -tray of daffodils and late crocuses. A sudden puff of wind blew out her -scant, thin skirt; a tree in the centre of the park they were crossing -bent to it, the branches creaked faintly. The fresh, earthy odour of -the flowers moved him strangely. He bought a bunch, turned, and went -back to the studio, to sit for an hour gazing sightlessly ahead of him. - -Suddenly he started up and approached the sketch. - -"It wants wind," he muttered, half unconsciously, and fell to work. An -hour passed, two, three--he still painted rapidly. Just as the light -was fading a thunderous knock at the door ushered in the two men he -knew best. He nodded vaguely, and they crossed the room in silence -and looked at the picture. For a few moments no one spoke. Presently -Willard took a brush from his mouth and faced them. - -"Well?" he said. - -The older man shook his head. "Queer sky!" he answered briefly. - -The younger looked questioningly at Willard. "You'll have to get a gait -on you if you hope to beat Morris with that," he said. "What's up, -Willard? Don't you want that prize?" - -"Of course I do." His voice sounded dull, even to himself. "You aren't -any too sympathetic, you fellows----" he tried to feel injured. - -The older man came nearer. "What's that white thing there? Good Lord, -Will, you're not going to try a figure----" - -Willard brushed rapidly over the shadowy outline. "No--that was just a -sketch. The whole thing's just a sort of----" - -"The whole thing's just a bluff!" interrupted the younger man, -decidedly. "It's not what you told us about at all--and it's not good, -anyway. It looks as if a tornado had struck it! You said it was to be -late afternoon--it's nearer midnight, as far as I can see! What's that -tree lying around for?" - -His tone was abusive, but a genuine concern and surprise was underneath -it. He looked furtively at his older friend behind Willard's back. The -other shook his head expressively. - -Willard bit his lip. "I only wanted to try--it won't necessarily stay -that way," he explained. He wished he cared more for what they said. He -wished they did not bore him so unspeakably. More than all, he wished -they would go. - -The younger one whistled softly. "Pretty late in the day to be making -up your mind, I should say," he remarked. "When's it going to dry in? -Morris has been working like a horse on his for six weeks. He's coming -on, too--splendid colour!" - -Willard lit a cigarette. "Damn Morris!" he said casually. The older man -drew on his glove and turned to go. - -"Oh, certainly!" he replied cheerfully. "By all means! No, we can't -stay--we only dropped in. We just thought we'd see how you were -getting along. If I were you, Will, I'd make up my mind about that -intoxicated tree and set it up straight--good-bye!" - -They went out cheerfully enough, but he knew they were disappointed -and hurt--they had expected so much from that picture. And he wished -he cared more. He looked at it critically. Of course it was bad, but -how could they tell what he had been doing? It was the plan of months -changed utterly in three hours. The result was ridiculous, but he -needed it no longer--he knew what he wanted now, what he had been -fighting against all these days. He would paint it if he could--and -till he could. The insistent artist-passion to express even bunglingly -something of the unendurable beauty of that strange night was on him, -and before the echo of his guests' departure had died away he was -working as he had never worked before, the old picture lying unnoticed -in the corner where he had thrown it. - -He needed no models, he did not use his studies. Was it not printed -on his brain, was it not etched into his heart, that weird vision of -the storm, with the floating fairy creature that hardly touched the -earth? Was there a lovely curve in all her melting postures, which -slipped like water circles into new shapes, that he did not know? That -haunting, elf-like look, that ineffably exquisite _abandon_, had he -not studied it greedily then in the wood, and later, in his restless -dreams? The trees were sentient, the bushes put out clasping fingers to -detain him, the wind shrieked out its angry soul at him; and she, the -white wonder with her floating wisps of stinging hair, had joined with -them to mock at him, the startled witness of that mad revel of all the -elements. He knew all this--he was drunk with it: could he paint it? Or -would people see only a strange-eyed girl dancing in a wood? - -He did not know how many days he had been at work on it; he ate what -the cleaning-woman brought him; his face was bristled with a stubby -growth; the cigarette boxes strewed the floor. Men appeared at the -door, and he urged them peevishly to go away; people brought messages, -and he said he was not in town, and returned the notes unread. In the -morning he smiled and breathed hard and patted the easel; at night he -bit his nails and cursed himself for a colour-blind fool. - -There was a white birch, strained and bent in the wind, that troubled -him still, and as he was giving it the last touches, in the cold, -strong afternoon light, the door burst open. - -"Look here, the thing closes at six! Are you crazy?" they called to -him, exasperatedly. "Aren't you going to send it?" - -"That's all right, that's all right," he muttered vaguely, "shut up, -can't you?" - -They stood over behind him, and there was a stillness in the room. He -laid down his palette carefully and turned to them, a worried look on -his drawn, bristled face. - -"That's meant to be the ocean beyond the cliff there," he said, an -almost childlike fear in his eyes, "did--did you know it?" - -The older man drew in a long breath. - -"Lord, yes! I hear it!" he returned, "do you think we're deaf?" - -The younger one squinted at various distances, muttering to himself. - -"Dryad? Undine? No, she frightens you, but she's sweet! George! He's -painted the wind! He's actually drawn a wind! My, but it's stunning! -My!" - -Willard sank into a chair. He was flushed and his legs shook. He patted -the terrier unsteadily and talked to her. "Well, then! Well, then! So -she was, iss, so she was!" - -The older man snapped his watch. "Five-thirty," he said. "Put something -'round it, and whistle a cab--we'll have to hurry!" - -Willard fingered some dead crocuses on the stand beside him. "Look out, -you fool, it's wet!" he growled. The older man patted his shoulder. - -"All right, boy, all right!" he said soothingly. "It's all done, -now--never mind!" - -They shouldered it out of the door while he pulled the terrier's ears. - -"Where you going?" they called. - -"Turkish bath. Restaurant. Vaudeville," he answered, and they nodded. - -"All alone?" - -"Yes, thanks. Drop in to-morrow!" - -"----And drive like thunder!" he heard them through the open window. - -A week later he was walking up Broadway between them, sniffing the -fresh, sweet air comfortably, the terrier at his heels. At intervals -they read him bits from the enthusiastic comments of the critics. - -"Mr. Willard, whose 'Windflower' distanced all competitors and won -the Minot prize by a unanimous verdict of the judges, has displayed, -aside from his thorough master of technic, a breadth of atmosphere, an -imaginative range rarely if ever equalled by an American. Nothing but -the work itself, so manifestly idealistic in subject and treatment, -could convince us that it is not a study from life, so keen, so -haunting is the impression produced by the remarkable figure of the -Spirit of the Gale, who seems to sink before our eyes on the falling -trunk, literally riding the storm. In direct contrast to this abandon -of the figure is the admirable reticence of the background which is -keyed so low----" - -Willard stopped abruptly before the window of a large art -establishment where a photograph of the picture was already displayed. -"I want one of those," he said, "and I'm going out into the country for -a bit before I sail, I think." - -"Oh, back there?" they asked, comprehensively. - -"Yes, back there!" - - -IV - -As the train rushed along he explained to himself why he was going--why -he had not merely sent the photograph. He wanted to see her, to brush -away the cloud of illusion that the weeks had spun around her. He -wanted to realise definitely the difference between the pale, silent, -unformed New England girl and the fascinating personality of his -picture. Ever since he left her they had grown confused, these two -that his common sense told him were so different, and he was beginning -to dread the unavowed hope that for him, at least, they might be some -day one. The same passionate power that had thrown mystery and beauty -into colour on the canvas wove sweet, wild dreams around what he -contemptuously told himself was little better than a lay figure, but he -yielded to it now as he had then. - -When he told himself that he was going purposely to hear her talk, to -see her flat, unlovely figure, to appreciate her utter lack of charm, -of all vitality, he realised that it was a cruel errand. But when he -felt the sharp thrill that he suffered even in anticipation as his -quick imagination pictured the dream-cloud dropping off from her, -actually before his eyes, he believed the journey more than ever a -necessary one. - -As he walked up the little country street his heart beat fast; the -greening lawns, the fresh, faint odours, the ageless, unnamable appeal -of the spring stirred his blood and thrilled him inexpressibly. He was -yet in the first flush of his success; his whole nature was relaxed -and sensitive to every joy; he let himself drift on the sweet confused -expectancy, the delicious folly, the hope that he was to find his -dream, his inspiration, his spirit of the wind and wood. - -A child passed him with a great bunch of daffodils and stopped to -watch him long after he had passed, wondering at the silver in her hand. - -At the familiar gate a tall, thin woman's figure stopped his heart a -second, and as a fitful gust blew out her apron and tossed her shawl -over her head, he felt his breath come more quickly. - -"Good heavens!" he muttered, "what folly! Am I never to see a woman's -skirt blown without----" - -She put the shawl back as he neared her--it was Mrs. Storrs's sister. -She met his outstretched hand with a blank stare. Suddenly her face -twitched convulsively. - -"O Mr. Willard! O Mr. Willard!" she cried, and burst into tears. - -The wind blew sharper, the elm tree near the window creaked, a dull -pain grew in him. - -"What is it? What's the matter?" he said brusquely. - -"I suppose you ain't heard--you wouldn't be apt to!" she sobbed, and -pushing back the locks the wind drove into her reddened eyes, she broke -into incoherent sentences: he heard her as one in a dream. - -"And she would go--'twas the twenty-fifth--there was dozens o' trees -blown down--'twas just before dark--her mother, she ran out after her -as soon's she knew--she called, but she didn't hear--she saw her on the -edge o' the rocks, an' she almost got up to her an' screamed, an' it -scared her, we think--she turned 'round quick, an' she went right off -the cliff an' her mother saw her go--'twas awful!" - -Willard's eyes went beyond her to the woods; the woman's voice, with -its high, flat intonation, brought the past so vividly before him that -he was unconscious of the actual scene--he lived through the quick, -terrible drama with the intensity of a witness of it. - -"No, they haven't found her yet--the surf's too high. We always had a -feeling she wouldn't live--she wasn't like other girls----" - -Half unconsciously he unwrapped the photograph. - -"I--I brought this," he said dully. The woman blanched and clutched the -gate-post. - -"Oh, take it away! Take it away!" she gasped, a real terror in her -eyes. "O Mr. Willard, how could you--it's awful! I--I wouldn't have her -mother see it for all the world!" Her sobs grew uncontrollable. - -He bent it slowly across and thrust it in his pocket. - -"No, no," he said soothingly, "of course not, of course not. I only -wanted to tell--you all--that it took the prize I told you about -and--and was a good thing for me. I hoped--I hoped----" - -He saw that she was trembling in the sudden cold wind, and held out his -hand. - -"This has been a great shock to me," he said quietly, his eyes still on -the woods. "Please tell Mrs. Storrs how I sympathise--how startled I -was. I am going abroad in a few days. I will send you my address, and -if there is ever anything I can do, you will gratify me more than you -can know by letting me help you in any way. Give her these," and he -thrust out the great bunch of daffodils to her. She took them, still -crying softly, and turned towards the house. - -Later he found himself in the woods near the great oak that lay just -as it had fallen that night. Beneath all the confused tumult of his -thoughts one clear truth rang like a bell, one bitter-sweet certainty -that caught him smiling strangely as he realised it! "She's won! She's -won!" - -There, while the branches swayed above him, and the surf, sinister and -monotonous, pounded below, the vision that had made them both famous -melted into the elusive reality, and he lived again with absolute -abandonment that sweet mad night, he felt again her hair blown about -his face as he lay on the windy cliff with the lady of his dreams. - -For him her fate was not dreadful--she could not have died like other -women. There was an intoxication in her sudden taking away: she was -rapt out of life as she would have wished, he knew. - -Slowly there grew upon him a frightened wonder if she had lived for -this. Her actual life had been so empty, so unreal, so concentrated in -those piercing stolen moments; she had ended it, once the heart of it -had been caught and fixed to give to others faint thrills of all she -had felt so utterly. - -"She died for it!" he felt, with a kind of awe that was far from all -personal vanity--the blameless egoism of the artist. - -He left the little town hardly consciously. On his outward voyage, when -the gale beat the vessel and the wind howled to the thundering waves, -he came to know that though a love more real, a passion less elusive, -might one day hold him, there would rest always in his heart and brain -one ceaseless inspiration, one strange, sweet memory that nothing could -efface. - - - - -WHEN PIPPA PASSED - - -Mr. Delafield, stepping comfortably forth from his club, had dined -especially well, and was in a correspondingly good humour. As the brisk -March wind swept across the corner just in front of him, he meanwhile -settling his glossy hat more firmly on a fine, close-clipped grey head, -a sudden kindly impulse, not entirely usual with him, sent him bending -to his knee to pick up the fugitive slip of white, scribbled foolscap -that fluttered by him, hotly pursued by a slender young man. - -"Thanks. Oh, thanks!" murmured the pursuer, as Delafield, with a -courteous inclination of the head, tendered the captured slip. - -"Not at all." A consciousness of the boy's quick panting, his anxious -tug at the paper, actually an almost audible beating of the heart, drew -the older man to look carefully at him. A white, oval face, drooping -mouth, black, deep-set eyes that fairly burned into his, compelled -attention. - -"Important paper, I suppose?" he inquired lightly. "Wouldn't want to -lose it." - -"No--oh, no!" - -"Get a wigging at the office?" - -"It--it's not--they are my own--it is a poem!" stammered the young man. - -Delafield chuckled involuntarily, and then, as a quick red poured over -the other's cheeks, he made a hasty gesture of apology. - -"No offence--none at all, I assure you, Mr.--Mr. Poet! I was only taken -by surprise. One doesn't often assist a poet in catching his works!" He -laughed again, a contented after-dinner laugh. - -Then, as the young man fell behind him quietly, the incident being -over, an idle desire for company prompted him to delay his own pace. - -"Do you write much? Get it printed? Good publisher?" he inquired -genially. Few persons could resist Lester Delafield's smile: his very -butler warmed to it, and the woman who retained her reserve under it he -had never met. - -Again the young man blushed. "Published? No, sir; I never dared to -see--I don't know if it's worth being printed," he said. - -"But you think it's pretty good, eh? I'll bet you do. I used to. Let me -see it. I'll tell you if it's worth anything." - -They had turned into a quieter cross-street; the wind had passed them -by. Standing under a street-light, benevolently amused at his impulse, -Delafield tucked his stick under his arm, uncreased the paper, and -noted the title of the poem aloud: _To the Moon in a Stormy Night._ -His eyebrows lifted; he glanced quizzically at the young man, but met -such an earnest, searching look, so restrained, yet so quivering, so -terrified, yet so brave, that his heart softened and he read on in -silence. - -A minute passed, two, three, and four. The man read silently, the boy -waited breathless in suspense. The noisy, crowding city seemed to sweep -by them, leaving them stranded on this little point of time. - -Mr. Delafield raised his eyes and regarded the boy thoughtfully. - -"You say you wrote this?" he demanded. - -"Yes, sir." - -"When did you write it?" - -"Last night." - -"Have you any more like it?" - -"I don't know if it's like it. I've got quite a good deal more. What do -you----" He could get no further. Drops of perspiration started from -his forehead. His mouth was drawn flat with anxiety. - -"This poetry," said Delafield, with a carefully impersonal calm, "is -very good. It is remarkably good. It is stunning, in fact. '_And moored -at last in some pale bay of dawn_'--why did you stop there? Isn't that -rather abrupt?" - -"That was when it ended. Do you really think----" - -"I don't think anything about it. I know. You have a future before you, -my young friend. I should like to see--Good Lord, what is it?" - -For the boy had twined his arms around the lamp-post and was slowly -sinking to the pavement. His face was ghastly white. Delafield grasped -his arm, and as their eyes met, the older man drew a quick breath and -scowled. - -"It's not because--you're not--when did you have your lunch?" he -demanded shortly. - -The boy smiled weakly. - -"And your breakfast?" - -"Oh, I had _that_--quite a little--really I did!" he half whispered. - -Delafield got him on his feet and around the corner to a restaurant. -As they entered, the smell of the food weakened him again, and he -staggered against his friend, begging his pardon helplessly. - -"Soup--and hurry it up, it's immaterial what kind," the host commanded. - -As the boy gulped it down he made out a further order, and while the -hot meat, vegetables, and bread vanished and the strong, brown coffee -lowered in the cup, he lighted a long cigar and talked with a quiet -insistence. Later, when his guest blinked drowsily behind a cloud of -cigarette smoke, he asked questions, marvelling at the simple replies. - -The boy's name was Henry West; it was twenty-two years since he had -made his appearance in a family already large enough to regard his -advent with a stoical endurance. His people all worked in the mills -in Lowell; he, too, till the noise and jar gave him racking headaches. -He made his first verses in the mill. He had come to New York to learn -to be a clerk in a corner drug-store kept by a distant cousin, but he -couldn't seem to learn the business. The names of the things were hard -to remember. His cousin said he was absent-minded. - -And he had to read everything that was in sight: if a thing was -printed he seemed to have to read it. He read books from the library -and the night-school when his cousin thought he was polishing the -soda-fountain. Of all the things he hated--and they were many--the -soda-fountain was the worst. He wanted to study a great deal, but only -the studies he liked. Not algebra and geometry, nor chemistry that -made his head ache, but history and poetry and French. He thought he -would like to know Italian, too. The family supposed he was still in -the drug-store, but he had quarrelled with his cousin and left it a -month ago. He stayed mostly in the library and helped the janitor with -sweeping and airing the rooms. The janitor paid him a little to ease -his own hours of night-watching, and often asked him to supper. He read -nearly all day and wrote at night. It was better than the mills or the -drug-store. He supposed he was lazy--his family always said he was. - -"Come to this address to-morrow afternoon and bring the rest of your -poetry with you," said Delafield, "I have an engagement at nine. May I -keep this one till you come?"--he shook the foolscap significantly. The -boy hesitated, almost imperceptibly, then nodded. As Delafield left the -little table he did not rise with him, but sat with his eyes fixed on -the smoke-rings. - -"They do not teach courtesy in the night-schools, evidently," mused -the older man, peering for a cab; "but one can't have everything. My -manners have been on occasion commended--but I can't write poetry like -that." - -He tasted in advance the pleasure of reading the poem to Anne: how her -brown eyes would dilate and glow, how eagerly her long, slender fingers -would clasp and unclasp. People called her cold, they told him; for -his part he never could see why. True, she was not kittenish, like the -other nieces; she didn't try to flirt with her old uncle, as Ellen's -girls did; but what an enthusiasm for fine things, what a quick, keen -mind the child had! Child--Anne was twenty-five by now. Was it true -that she might never marry? Ellen said--but then Ellen was always -a little jealous of poor Anne's money. The girl couldn't help her -legacies. Still, at twenty-five--perhaps it was true that she expected -too much, thought too seriously, reasoned morbidly that they were after -her money. - -Seated opposite her in his favourite oak chair, looking with a sudden -impersonal appraisal at the slender figure in clinging black lace, the -cool pallor of the face under the smooth dark hair, the rope of pearls -that hung from her firm, girlish shoulders, it dawned on him that there -was something wanting in this not quite sufficiently charming piece of -womanhood. She was too black-and-white, too unswerving, too unflushed -by life. Humanity, with its countless moulding and colouring touches, -seemed to slip away from either side of her, like the waves from some -proud young prow, and fall behind. - -"Yet she's not unsympathetic--I swear she's not!" he thought, as her -eyes glowed to the poem and her lips parted delightedly. - -"'_And moored at last in some pale bay_'--Uncle Les, isn't that -beautiful! Not that it's really so fine as the first part, but it's -easier to remember. And he was hungry? Oh, oh! And you discovered him, -didn't you?" - -He nodded complacently. - -"I'll bring you around the rest of the things to-morrow. I knew you'd -enjoy this, Anne. You love--really love--this sort of thing, don't you?" - -She nodded eagerly. - -"But nothing else? Nobody--you don't think that perhaps you're -letting--after all, my dear, life is something more than the beautiful -things you surround yourself with--pictures and music and poetry, and -all that. It really is. There is so much----" - -"There is one's religion," she said quietly and not uncordially. But -she had retreated intangibly from him. She sat there, remote as her -cold pearls, as far from the rough, sweet uses of the world as the -priceless china in her cabinets. - -"Oh, yes, of course, there is religion," he answered listlessly. - -Two days later they sat, all three, in her library, while West read -them his poems. The two looked at each other in amazement. Where had -this untrained factory boy got it all? What wonderful voices had sung -to him above the whirring of the wheels; what delicate visions had -risen through the smoky pall of his sordid days? He wrote only of -Nature: the brown brook water in spring; the pale, hurrying leaves of -November; a bird glimpsed through pink apple-blossoms; the full river -encircling a bending elm. In the vivid swiftness of effect, the simple -subtlety of treatment, there was a recalling of the Japanese witchery -of suggestion; the faint tinge of sadness in every poem left in the -mind precisely the sweet regret that the beauty of the world must -always leave. At the "Clearing Shower," perhaps the most compelling of -all his work, quick drops started to the girl's eyes, so intense was -the vision of the moist, green-breathing earth, the torn fleece of the -clouds, the broken chirping of frightened birds, the softened, yellow -light that reassures and saddens at once. His art was not Wordsworth's -nor Shelley's; it was as if Keats had turned from human passion and -consecrated the beauty of his verse to the beauty of Nature--but -simply, sadly, and through a veil of Heine's tears. - -Delafield nodded mutely to his niece, then walked over to the boy. - -"There will be plenty of people to tell you later," he said, holding -out his hand, "but let me be the first. You are a genius, Mr. West, and -your country will be proud of your work some day. There is no American -to-day writing such poetry." - -West took his hand awkwardly, not rising from his chair. He fingered -his manuscript nervously. - -"I--I wouldn't want to be laughed at," he demurred. "Other folks -mightn't be so kind as you. If anybody laughed--I--it would just about -kill me!" he concluded, passionately. They smiled sympathetically at -each other. - -"But no one would laugh, I assure you, Mr. West," Anne murmured, -stooping to pick up a scattered sheet. - -He hardly noticed her. His eyes were fixed constantly on Delafield: the -girl had made no impression upon him whatever. Nor did the elegance of -the furnishings, the evidences of great wealth everywhere arouse in him -the least apparent curiosity. Having no knowledge of the many grades -of material prosperity between his own meagre surroundings and Anne -Delafield's luxury, he accepted the one as he had endured the other, -his mind quite removed from either, his eyes looking beyond. - -Anne had supposed that her uncle would carry the poems to one of the -leading magazines, but he pooh-poohed the idea. - -"I think not. We're not going to have the boy mixed up with the hacks -that turn out two or three inches of rhymes to fill up a page in a -magazine," he declared. "We'll have D---- drop in some night and -West shall read 'em to him. Then we'll bring out a book. Here and in -England--they'll like him there, or I'm much mistaken." - -In a month it seemed that they had always known him. Intimacy was -so impossible with his inturned, elusive nature, that to have him -sitting through hours of silence by the birch fire, abstracted, dreamy, -inattentive, except to some chance word that stirred his fancy, was -to know him well, to all intents. His nerves, dulled to all great -torments like poverty, hunger, obscurity, quivered like violin strings -under little unaccustomed jarrings. If interrupted in the reading of -his verses he would lose his control beyond belief; a chance cough, -the falling of an ember, put him out of tune for hours. He possessed -little sense of humour, and the lightest satire turned him sulky. A -child might have teased him to madness; it was evident to them that -his utterly lonely life had preserved him from constant torture at the -hands of associates. - -Until the book was complete he refused to have the great publisher -brought to hear it read. Sometimes for days they would not see him, -then on some rainy evening he would appear, lonely and hungry, eager -for the praise and warmth of Anne's library, an exquisite poem in his -pocket. Served to repletion by the secretly scornful butler, he would -smoke a while, then draw out the sheet of foolscap, and read in his -nervous yet musical voice the latest page of the book that was to bring -him fame. - -On one such night--it was when he brought them "Dawn on the River," -the only poem of which Anne had a copy, and the one which a well-known -firm afterward printed under his photograph and sold by thousands at -Easter-tide--he broke through the mist--it was too impalpable to be -called a wall of reserve--that held his personality apart from them, -and talked wonderfully for an hour. They seemed to see the clear soul -of some gentle, strayed fawn; his thoughts were like summer clouds -mirrored in a placid brook. All the crowding, sweating humanity of his -stunted boyhood had flowed through his youth like an ugly drain laid -through a fresh mountain stream. He seemed to have lived all his years -with young David on the hillside, and wealth and poverty, crowds and -loneliness, love and death were as far from his life as if the vast -procession of them all that swept by him daily through the great city -had never been. - -As he talked, Delafield found his eyes drawn from the boy's face to -Anne's. Never before had he seen just that faint, steady rose in her -cheeks, that sweet glow in her eyes. As she leaned forward, her very -pearls seemed to catch a red tinge from the fire: it occurred to him -for the first time that she looked like Ellen's girls--there was a -suggestion of Kitty in the curve of her cheek. - -Was it possible that Anne--no, it could not be. To think of the men -that had tried to come into her life and failed--such men! And this -boy, this elf, to whom no woman was so real or so dear as a tree in the -glen! - -For two weeks after that night he did not come. Anne never mentioned -his name, and Delafield, doubtful of what that might portend, tried to -believe that she had forgotten him. Toward the end of the second week -she spoke of the completion of his book, and suggested that her uncle -should invite Mr. D----: "Urge Henry to consent to it," she added, "he -will do anything for you, Uncle Les." - -"More than for you?" he asked. - -"For me?" She flushed a little. "I doubt if he distinguishes me from my -portrait over the mantel!" - -"And you wish that he would," Delafield wanted to reply, trying to -remember if she had ever called him "Henry" before. - -On a warm April evening, when the windows were open to catch the -setting sun and the odour of the blossoming window-boxes, he came at -last. As he stepped into the room, head erect, eyes wide and bright, -they became aware immediately of a change in him. His glance was more -conscious, more alert, his hand-grasp more assured. - -"You are in time to dine with us," Anne said, with her grave smile, "we -are all alone. Will you stay?" - -"Thanks, I can't stay, I'm going somewhere else," he answered quickly. - -"And the new poem?" Delafield inquired, "did you get it done? That was -to be the last, wasn't it?" - -"Oh! I haven't been writing lately," he explained, blushing a little. -"I've been too busy--that is, I've been too--I've been thinking of -something else." He stood before them in the full light of the late -day; every expression in his sensitive, mobile face showed clear. - -"A perfectly wonderful thing has happened," he burst out, "you couldn't -understand. Nobody can understand but me, and--and----" - -"Who is she?" said Delafield bluntly. - -"How did you know?" cried the boy, "have you seen--did she tell----" - -"Of course not. When did it happen?" - -Delafield kept his face persistently from Anne's. For the world he -could not have looked at her. - -"It was last week." West was smiling eagerly at him, ignoring the -woman's presence. - -"I went into the grocer's to do an errand for Mr. Swazey, and she was -behind the little grating--you pay her. She is the cashier. I didn't -take my change, and she had to call me back, and we dropped it all -over the floor. She helped me pick it up. Oh, if you could see her, Mr. -Delafield!" - -"Is she handsome?" - -"She is a perfectly beautiful woman," said the boy. - -"Dear, dear!" murmured the older man. - -"We are engaged, but her mother objects to me. In fact--in fact, her -mother doesn't know that she is engaged. She has been engaged before. -But she never really loved the man. Her mother doesn't care for -poetry----" - -At that word, Delafield, with a distinct effort, connected this -babbling druggist's clerk with his poet of "The Clearing Shower." There -could be no doubt that they were the same person. As in a dream he -listened to the boy. - -"And that's what I dropped in to see about. I told her mother all you -said about me being sure to be well-off some day, and about the book -being published soon, and her brother, that's Pippa's uncle----" - -"What name did you say?" - -"Pippa. That's her name. Philippa it is really; she was named after -the daughter of a lady her mother nursed when she was sick, and so she -named her after this lady's daughter. But she couldn't say it plain, -you see, so she always called herself Pippa for short, and so they all -call her that still. I suppose you never heard it before--I never did." - -"It is a strange name--for a cashier," said Mr. Delafield. - -"Yes, indeed. Well, her Uncle Joseph is a stenographer in a newspaper -office, and he knows a good deal about this sort of thing, and he says -not to publish with the D----s. He says they're a poky firm and don't -advertise enough. If I gave the book to the L----s they'd push it -along, he says. He says they'd make anything sell. The D----s wouldn't -put up posters on bill-boards, now, would they?" - -"I suppose not," said Delafield. He felt unaccountably tired. He had -not realised till now how much his mind had been filled with Henry West -and his poetry, how much he had anticipated introducing his rare young -protegé. - -"And of course I want to do the best for myself----" - -"Of course, beyond a doubt." - -How could a person change so in two weeks? What had turned that -sensitive dreamer into this bustling young lover? - -"You see, sir, I've got a good many things to consider," he smiled -happily. - -"Certainly, West, I appreciate that. At the same time I doubt if you -will do better with anybody than you can with Mr. D----. It may be the -L----s wouldn't want your book. It is not what is known as a popular -book, you know. Poetry appeals to a limited public, and----" - -"Oh, well, it's all right. Only I thought you might want to know what -Uncle Joseph said, that's all. I must go now," and he turned. - -"Miss Delafield is still here," said her uncle, coldly. - -"Oh, good-night," West murmured, and left the room. - -"Is it really he?" Delafield hazarded, hardly glancing at her. She met -his look calmly. - -"At any rate the book is ready, which is the principal thing, I -suppose," she said. - -He found himself illogically wishing she had resented it more. "It was -a mistake," he thought, "she has no feeling for him." - -Through the weeks that followed they avoided mentioning his name, and -each, trusting that the other would forget, thought of him in puzzled -silence. - -When he came to them next, toward the end of May, it seemed for a -moment, as he flung himself into a chair and stared moodily at the -empty fireplace, that his old self had returned. Thin and shabby, with -dark rings under his eyes, he looked like the boy Delafield had warmed -and fed that cold March night. But his words undeceived them. - -"I shall shoot myself if this doesn't stop," he said bitterly. Anne -started. - -"Here, here, West, none of that," the older man corrected, sharply. -"That's no thing to say--what is the matter?" - -"It's Pippa," he returned, simply. "She won't marry me. I'll kill -myself if she don't. I can't eat, I can't sleep, I can't think. It -cuts into me night and day. You don't know how it kills me--you don't -know!" - -He writhed like a child in physical pain. His face was distorted: he -made no more effort to conceal his misery than his delight of weeks -ago. Delafield showed a little of his disgust. - -"Come, come, West," he said, "control yourself. This is no killing -matter. Better men than you have been thrown over before this. If she -won't have you, take it like a man, and get to work. It's time your -book was under way." - -West stared dully at him. - -"Book? book?" he repeated. "Oh, damn the book! I'd throw it away this -minute to feel her arms around me! When I think of how we used to sit -in Uncle Joseph's hammock--Oh, I can't endure it, I can't!" - -He leaned his head on his arms and rocked to and fro in abject misery. - -"She laughs at me--just laughs at me!" he moaned. "I'm ashamed to go -near them." - -"Keep away, then," said Delafield shortly. - -"I can't!" he fairly sobbed. - -Anne spoke softly from a dim corner: - -"Does she know about the book?" - -"She doesn't care anything about it. She says I better be getting a job -somewhere. I--I would, if she'd marry me. I'd go to the drug-store!" - -"Oh, no!" she breathed. - -"If only she'd be engaged again," he muttered, half to himself, "I'd -finish the book, and then, perhaps----" He began to rock again. "But -she won't, she won't!" he wailed. - -"If you will tell me where she lives," said Anne quietly, and as if the -conversation were to the last degree conventional, "I will go to see -her and talk the matter over. Perhaps she doesn't understand----" - -"My dear Anne! Are you mad?" - -As Delafield spoke, West interrupted: - -"I'd rather Mr. Delafield would go," he said quickly, "if--if he would. -Maybe she'd listen to you." - -"I will do nothing of the sort," Delafield returned angrily. "As if -anything I could say could compare with Miss Delafield's words! You -are an ungrateful little beast, West. A woman, like Pippa herself, is -the best person to understand the matter." - -"All right," the boy assented wearily, "only she isn't like Pippa, not -a bit. Pippa's different." - -Anne coloured deeply, and Delafield cursed the day he met the boy. His -niece he did not pretend to understand. - -The next afternoon, as he chafed in the stuffy dining-room-parlour -of the flat that was Pippa's home, listening to the quarrelling of a -half dozen children on the dreary little roof-garden below him as to -who should swing in Uncle Joseph's hammock, he understood her less and -less. What did she expect to gain from this visit? Was she satisfying -her idea of duty or her curiosity? How much did she care, anyhow? - -A steady murmur of voices came from a room behind the one he occupied. -The afternoon wore on. He began to grow sleepy. - -At last the door was flung open. Anne, looking pale and tired, entered -the room, followed by a large, handsome girl with a heavy rope of -auburn hair twisted low over her forehead. She had a frank, vulgar -smile, and shallow, red-brown eyes. In her plump, large-limbed beauty -she was like a well-kept cat. The day was damp and hot, and her mussed -white shirt-waist clung to her broad curve of shoulder and breast. -In her eyes, as she smiled at him, was the quiet ease of a conscious -beauty. Beside her Anne seemed unimportant. - -"I'm sorry about the book, Mr. Delafield," she said, with a slow smile. -"But I guess you don't know Henry very well if you think any reasonable -girl would think of marrying him for a minute. The gentleman I've been -keeping company with some time had a little misunderstanding with me, -and 'twas more or less to spite him, I guess, that I got engaged to -Henry. It never seemed to me it mattered much either way." - -"You have broken his heart," said Delafield stiffly. - -She looked vaguely at her short, fat fingers: her hands were like a -baby's in shape. - -"Oh, I don't know," she said. "He's an awful unreasonable fellow, -Henry is. He gets into such tantrums--I don't dare tell him about -Mr. Winch--that's the gentleman I was speaking of. We're going to be -married in the fall. He's in a livery-stable: I guess you probably -noticed it as you came along Sixth Avenue--Judd and Winch. He's only -junior partner, but he knows as much about running a real swell funeral -as any of the uptown men--Mr. Judd says so. Henry's afraid of a horse, -you know. It don't seem quite natural for a man not to know about -horses, does it, now?" - -"If you had only waited till his book came out," said Delafield -tentatively. As he looked at her he was conscious of a ridiculous -satisfaction that such a fine woman should know her own mind so -perfectly. She was a very complete creature, in her way. He realised -that in this strangely assorted quartette he and she were involuntarily -on one side of an intangible line, his niece and their unintelligible -protegé on the other. - -"Wait? But I did wait. I waited over a week," she explained, "and -then I couldn't stand it any longer. He'd drive me to drink. For one -thing, Henry's changed so. When we first knew him he was really as -entertaining a gentleman as I ever saw--and I've had a great deal of -attention. Why, we'd sit around and laugh till we nearly died, he'd say -such ridiculous things. He was so different. Ma used to say if he was -much funnier she'd think he'd ought to have a keeper! The way he'd go -on----!" - -Anne had turned her back and was looking steadily at the room they had -left. Pippa and Delafield might have been alone. - -"But when we got engaged, he seemed to change, somehow. I don't know if -you've noticed it----" - -Delafield nodded. - -"Well, that's what I mean. I didn't care any more about him, then. I -guess I sort of woke up," she laughed into his eyes. "He tires me to -death with how he'll shoot himself," she added; "they always say that, -you know, but they never do." - -Anne moved toward the door and Delafield followed her. - -"I must say that I appreciate your position, Miss--Miss--" he stopped, -inquiringly. - -"Cooley--Miss Philippa Cooley," she supplied. "Of course you do. Ma -said she hoped I'd have too much sense to stand up with a little radish -of a man like that, even if he could support me!" - -"But I think it was rather hard on all of us that you should have -engaged yourself to him at all. You must have known how it would end." -He tried to speak reprovingly. - -She threw him a rich glance. - -"Oh, you can't help it sometimes," she murmured. "He teased so -hard--you don't want to be disagreeable. As I was telling Miss -Delafield----" - -"We must go," said Anne, briefly. - -As they drove home, an inexplicable desire to provoke her, to rouse -some warm feeling in her, mastered him. - -"Your Aunt Ellen would enjoy this deep interest in the love affairs of -an ex-druggist's clerk and a grocer's cashier," he said lightly. - -"Would she?" Anne returned quietly, and was ashamed of his freakish -impulse. - -When they told him that evening that they had been able to accomplish -nothing he only stared at them gloomily. - -"I knew it--I knew it," he muttered. "I did a poem last night--it's the -last I shall ever do. You can put it in the book. It's the best I've -done yet." - -Delafield hardly noticed his words as he seized the poem. What if -from this sordid little tragedy had sprung the very flower of the -poet's genius? He read eagerly. In a moment his face fell. He stared -doubtfully at the boy. - -"Well," said West irritably, "can't you read it? Give it here--I'll -read it to you." - -"You needn't, I can read it well enough." - -"What do you think of it?" - -"I think it's rot," Delafield returned curtly. He was bitterly -disappointed. - -"Rot?" the boy's eyes narrowed. "What d'you mean?" - -"I mean that this doggerel is utterly unworthy of you, West, and that -you certainly cannot include it in your book. It is the cheapest -sentimentalism--good heavens, can't you see it? Have you no critical -faculty whatever?" - -"Oh, Uncle Lester, _don't_!" Anne implored. "Let me see it," and she -put out her hand. The young man struck it away and seized the paper. - -"I won't trouble you with my 'rot' any more, Mr. Delafield," he said, -with a boyish grandiloquence, "we'll see what other people have to say -about it." - -"Here, West, don't go away angry!" the older man urged, "I shouldn't -have been so harsh. You've done such fine work that I couldn't bear----" - -"Oh, hush your noise!" West interrupted, brutally, "neither can I bear! -You've driven me to death between you all--you'll never see me again!" -and he flung out of the room. - -Delafield set his teeth. "This is too much," he said slowly. "The -vulgar little cad! No, I won't go after him, Anne; let him fume it out -himself. I'll try to ask D---- over next week, just the same." - -But when Mr. D---- came over, full of pleasant anticipation, it was -only to hear of the shocking death of the boy, whose photograph, taken -from a cheap gilt locket of Pippa's, he afterward used over the popular -gift-card, "Dawn on the River." - -"Couldn't even shoot himself like a gentleman," said Delafield roughly. -"Jumping seven stories--pah!" - -"But the poems--the poems?" urged the publisher, "surely they----" - -Anne took from the table an oblong tin biscuit-box and softly lifted -the cover. - -"Here are the poems," she said, pointing to a mass of fine, grey -paper-ashes. - -"He sent them to you?" - -Mr. D----'s eyes lighted comprehensively; he glanced at the girl's -white face and inscrutable dark-ringed eyes with a restrained sympathy. - -"He sent them to my uncle," she replied quietly. - - - - -THE BACKSLIDING OF HARRIET BLAKE - - -The Rev. Mr. Freeland looked down the long, narrow poorhouse table, and -then glanced inquiringly at the matron. - -"What has become of Harriet Blake, Mrs. Markham?" he asked. "I thought -she sat at this table--I hope she's not ill?" - -"Harriet's backslid," announced the Widow Sheldon laconically. She -was a Baptist, of the variety sometimes known as hard-shelled, and -made nothing of interrupting the discourse of any representative of a -denomination unpleasing to her. - -"Backslid?" repeated the reverend guest, dropping his napkin. - -"She don't believe in----" - -"Harriet," interrupted the matron, somewhat crossly, and with an -unconcealed frown for the Widow Sheldon, "Harriet is taking her dinner -alone. She--she is not quite well, I think. I will speak to you about -her later," she added as the pastor's eyes grew round at her. The widow -Sheldon sniffed loudly. - -"A person who has ter have her vittles carried up ter the bed-chamber -on account o' losing any little faith she might 'a had," she began, but -old Uncle Peterson broke in with his gentle drawl: - -"Oh, come on, Mis' Sheldon, don't go and spile a good biled dinner with -words o' bitterness," he urged. "Harriet's a good woman, as is known to -all, and if she's travellin' through dark ways just now----" - -The pastor looked puzzled, but he saw that the subject was better left -alone: previous visits to the poorhouse had led him to dread the Widow -Sheldon's tongue. He nodded approvingly at Uncle Peterson. - -"Quite right, quite right," he said quickly. "That's the spirit for us -all to have. Shall I ask the blessing, Mrs. Markham?" And the meal went -on. - -But there was something in the air that hot Sunday noon; something that -lent variety to the usual monotony of the querulous meal-times. There -was less comment on the food than was usual, and the Widow Sheldon's -resentful silence was more impressive than her ordinary vindictive -volubility. It appeared that something had actually happened. - -Once in her private sitting-room the matron began, low-voiced, with an -occasional glance at the closed door, as if to make certain that no -curious inmate lurked behind it: - -"If Harriet Blake doesn't grow more sensible very soon I shall -certainly go crazy; I invited you, Mr. Freeland, to dinner to-day -because Harriet used to like your prayers in the afternoon, and it may -help her to talk to you--but I don't know. She's a very obstinate old -lady. The whole house talks about nothing else, and she's just morbid -enough to like it. They gossip about her and fight about her till the -air is blue with it. It was bad enough at election time, but religion -is worse than politics." - -The pastor made as if he would interrupt, but she overbore him. - -"If you can't stop her she must go home to her niece, though she can't -really afford to keep her and oughtn't to be asked----" - -"Do I understand that Harriet is in doubt--has lost her Christian -faith?" - -"Oh, well--no; but in a way I suppose she has. She says that she--she -can't see--in fact, she doesn't believe any more in the Holy Ghost!" - -"Doesn't _believe_ in h--in it?" Mr. Freeland was absolutely unprepared -for precisely this form of agnosticism, and showed it. - -"She says she doesn't see any sense in it," responded Mrs. Markham, -briefly. - -"Oh--ah, yes!" The pastor looked vaguely over her head. There was a -pause, and then he gathered himself together. - -"But this--this is all wrong!" he said forcibly. - -"So we tell her," replied the matron. - -"It is sinful--it is extremely dangerous!" he repeated, still more -forcibly. - -"That's what the Widow Sheldon says," replied the matron. "She lectures -her about it every meal, and Harriet can't stand it. She says she -can't help what she believes, and I can't blame her for that." - -"How long----" - -"She's been so for two weeks now, and she gets worse and worse. I had -the Methodist minister--Harriet used to attend that church--up to talk -to her about it, to see if she'd feel better, and he talked for four -hours. Harriet sat as still as a stone, he said, and never moved or -paid the least attention to him. Finally he asked her why she didn't -answer, and she said he hadn't asked her opinion that she could see. So -he asked her what it was, and she said that the Lord Almighty created -the earth and that his Son, the Redeemer, saved it, and she didn't see -anything more for the Holy Ghost to do. And everything that he told -her she said one or the other could do perfectly well alone! And the -angrier Mr. Dent got, the calmer Harriet was, I suppose, for he left in -a rage, almost--I suppose it was trying, even for a minister--and when -I went up to Harriet she seemed very calm. She told me triumphantly -that the last thing she did was to show him that big Bible of hers -with the picture in the front, where she's crossed out the figure of -the dove with ink, and to tell him that she was no Papist, to worship -graven images of birds!" - -Mr. Freeland shook his head gravely. "Dear, dear, dear!" he said. - -"And then I got Dr. Henshawe from St. Mary's, in the city, you know, -who's out here this summer, to come in. He's a very fine man, and very -interesting. He stayed a while with Harriet, and told her not to mind, -but to go on, and pray, and do the best she could, and she couldn't -be blamed. He told me afterwards that he was far from considering -her religious condition a safe one, but that she would soon be ill, -and was growing morbid, and he tried to soothe her. She fell into a -dreadful passion, and called him a lukewarm Jesuit, and told him that -she was going to hell just because she couldn't believe in the Holy -Ghost! He was very polite and quiet, and picked a rose when he went--he -complimented the house--but Harriet wouldn't eat any dinner nor tea, -she was so angry. Of course it excites the others--they haven't much -to think about, you know--and I'm really growing nervous. Old William -Peterson, that gentle old man, preached a revivalist sermon day before -yesterday, and got them all stirred up, so that Mrs. Sheldon groaned -and cried all night, and kept Sarah Waters awake. And when Sarah stays -awake all night, there's no living with her--none!" - -Mr. Freeland looked frankly puzzled. He was not a particularly able -man, and very far from originality of any sort. His doctrinal position, -though always considered very solid, was somewhat stereotyped, and he -had never happened to run against this peculiar form of apostasy. But -he was a kindly man, and very honestly convinced of the responsibility -of his position; moreover, he remembered Harriet pleasantly; he had -thought her a very nice old lady. So he took his little Bible out of -his pocket, and hoped that a desire to succeed where Mr. Dent and Dr. -Henshawe had failed would not be accounted to him for unrighteousness. - -Mrs. Markham led the way across the hall and up the stairs. Before a -door she paused to say, "As long as Harriet is upset in this way she -has the room alone, because Mary Smith scolds her all night for being -so sinful, and it makes them both cross. Mary is in the hall-room, -and talks in her sleep so that nobody can rest very well. It doesn't -disturb Harriet at all, she's such a sound sleeper, and I wish she -could go back! You don't know how this disturbs us! Remember that we -have prayer-meeting at half-past four," and she left him alone before -the door. - -Mr. Freeland knocked loudly and entered. Before him in the clean, bare -room, with its rag-carpets, mats, and pine furnishings, sat a little -old woman, her hands folded in her lap, her head erect, her eyes fixed -uncompromisingly on the door. He started as he saw her face; it was so -changed from the time, two weeks or more ago, when he had delivered -that admirable prayer for charity and loving kindness on the occasion -when the Widow Sheldon had thrown the butter-plate at old Mis' Landers. -Thin and sunken, with dark serried hollows under her still bright -eyes--she had aged ten years in those weeks. - -"My sister, my poor, suffering, misled sister," began the pastor; but -Harriet's eyes flashed ominously. - -"If you come to talk to me about that Holy Ghost, I ain't got nothin' -to say," she declared, "an' if you think I'm goin' to say another word -myself, you're mistaken. I'm a pore sinful woman, but I ain't goin' -to be pestered t' death! I'm doin' the best I can 'bout it, an' I've -prayed 'bout it, an' Mr. Dent an' a Papist, they both talked 'bout -it till I nearly died. I don't see any more sense in it than I did -before--not a morsel. So if that's what brought you, you might just as -well start back this minute!" - -Her reverend guest stared at her dumfounded. Was this the little woman -who had pressed his hand at the prayer-meeting and thanked him so -piously, so meekly, for such "beautiful prayin'?" - -"You are greatly changed since I saw you last, Miss Blake," he said -gravely. "Your spirit was gentler, your mind was more religiously -inclined. I found you----" - -"You didn't find me pestered t' death," said Harriet briefly, somewhat -mollified by his "Miss Blake." - -"I was led to believe that you were suffering, that you were in -trouble," hazarded the pastor. - -Never in his somewhat self-sufficient life had he felt such difficulty -in giving spiritual advice. Even to his thick-skinned personality it -was deeply evident that this sharp-tongued little woman was in great -trouble. Ordinarily, a certain facility for quotation and application -made him a confident speaker, but to-day he felt impeded, held back -by the self-control and patience of his listener. For he saw that she -was patient; that she could say much more if she chose; that she was, -beneath all her sharpness, alarmed and worried. - -His somewhat perplexed air, his evident memory of her earlier estate, -his startled recognition of her changed appearance had the effect that -nothing else could have had. Her hands twisted nervously in her lap, -her mouth twitched, she dropped her eyes, and opened her lips once or -twice without speaking. Suddenly, with a little gasp, she began: - -"If you think I don't care, you're mistaken. I'm just about sick. I -been a Christian and a good believer all my life, and now I ain't. -Maybe I don't care about that? They just pester me t' death, and Mis' -Markham, she can't stop 'em. They'll send me back to Sarah's, that's my -niece, and they can't keep me there. They ain't good to me there, and -I get fever 'n ague every day o' my life there. But I can't help it--I -can't help it! I got ter go!" - -Some good angel held Mr. Freeland silent, and after a moment she went -on. - -"I'm sixty-two years old, and I never was anything but a churchgoer an' -a believer. Two weeks ago to-day I set in this chair an' looked out the -winder, an' I see the birds pickin' in the front yard." - -He followed her eyes and watched for a moment the poor house pigeons -preening and posing in the noon sun. They whitened the summer grass, -and their clucking and cooing formed the undertone of the old woman's -confession. - -"I see 'em there, and I got thinkin' about the dove in my Bible an' the -Holy Ghost. And it just come into my mind like a shot--what's the good -of it? What'd it ever done for me? What's the sense of a bird, anyhow? -An' I worked over it, and I worried over it, an' I got to talkin' with -Mis' Sheldon about it while we was workin' together, and she just made -me hate it more. She said I'd go to hell--me, a believer for sixty-two -years! An' I've cried till I can't cry any more, an' I've prayed till -I'm tired of prayin', and nothin' happens to me exceptin' I hate it -more. An' if they send me back to Sarah's I'll die, that's the truth. -But I'll have t' go--I'll have t' go!" - -She rocked back and forth, dry-eyed, but in an agony of grief. The -pastor remembered the time when he had wrestled with certain damnation -in the form of terrible religious doubt, and experienced again that -peculiar helplessness, that isolation, that terror of hope gone from -him that had dignified even his commonplace life. His vocabulary -forsook him, his periods and phrases receded from his mind like the -tide from the beach, and left it bare of suggestion. He looked at her -for a moment, and as she bent her tired old head over her arm and -sobbed the dry, creaking sob of the ageing spirit that looks forward to -no long and gayer future, he felt that the time was short and kindness -not too lenient for the sinner. - -"I will send my wife over," he said, suddenly. "Would--would you want -to see her?" - -Harriet had stiffened again and got herself in hand. "I don't want that -any one should put 'emselves out for me," she said dryly. "I guess I'll -get along. I'd just as lief see Mis' Freeland if it ain't any trouble -to any one. But I don't know as anybody c'n do anything. I ain't very -pleasant comp'ny. An' I dunno as the room's cleared up enough. I ain't -swept it sence day before yesterday." - -Her guest had risen and moved toward the door. He felt curiously cold -and dull. Was this the help he had come to give? His tongue was tied; -his lips refused to utter even one text. - -"Good-afternoon, Miss Blake," he said. - -"Good-afternoon," said Harriet, and he went out. - -She shut the door behind him, and stood for a moment looking at the -pigeons. Emotion had shaken her too often of late, and she was too -tired to bear more confusion of feeling. She only knew that she was -very tired, and that she should like to get away from the scene of so -many struggles. Suddenly she took her gingham sunbonnet from the wall, -and left the room. She went softly down the hall, and slipping through -the screen door near the lower end crept down the back stairs and -through the deserted kitchen. - -A Sunday stillness reigned there, and no one was near to see her. -She got a piece of bread from the large pantry, and noticed with -disgust that the shelves were dusty and the bread-tin full of pieces -and crusts. To keep this neat was her work, but she had been excused -for the last three days, since she was far too weak to manage it. -Out through the last blind-door, and she was in the field behind the -barn. She walked feverishly to the little wood close by and sank down -exhausted under a large chestnut-tree. - -"I'm tired--I'm dead tired out!" she whispered to herself. "I'll just -stay here a minute 'fore I go on." - -Had Mr. Freeland seen her then he would have been more startled than -before, for two red spots burned in her sunken cheeks and her eyes -glittered unnaturally. She had not eaten since breakfast, for the -boiled dinner had sickened her, and though she was weak for want of -food she had not strength to munch the great piece of rye bread. Her -head swam a little and strange tunes seemed to sound all about her. -Her mother's voice, almost in her ear, sang her to sleep with the Old -Hundred Doxology, and for a moment she listened entranced, but as the -phantom voice reached the last line she opened her eyes. - -"No, no!" she screamed. "No, no! I won't sing to a bird! I won't! I'll -go to Sarah's first!" - -A stillness that frightened her followed. Something pattered beside -her, and she looked apprehensively at the sky through a rift in the -branches. - -"Don't say it's rain!" she whispered, nervously. "I'm fearful scairt o' -thunder-storms!" - -The sky was rapidly clouding over, and a growl of thunder answered her. -She started up, but fell helplessly back. - -"O Lord, I can't move! I can't move a step! I'm too heavy!" she cried -in terror. The storm came on fast; the branches shook under a sudden -wind, and the birds grew still. She was too weak to realise fully her -situation, but what consciousness she owned was swallowed up in terror. -A sudden flash, and she shrank together with a moan. - -"I'm out o' my head--I'm not really here--I'm in the house--I wouldn't -be here f'r anything!" she whispered. A heavy clap, and she screamed -with fear. The time when she left the house was far away and misty in -her mind. She could not remember coming. The drops struck her in quick -succession and the muttering grew more frequent, the flashes brighter. -Sick with fright, she cowered under the tree. Her childhood unfolded -before her, her girlhood; her poor pinched life assumed a glory and -fulness it had never had. So warm, so sheltered, so contented it seemed -to her. - -A great harsh clap shook the little wood and a vivid glare wrapped her -about. With a wail she fell back against the tree-trunk. Her mind was -clear again, she recalled everything. She had been led out here to die. -She was summoned forth to meet the judgment of God. Heretic, infidel, -blasphemer that she was, she was to go before Him that day! - -Her clothes were soaked with rain, she shivered with cold, she was too -weak to take a step, but she staggered to her knees and folded her -hands. The tree swayed above her, the wood was dark as night, the rain -to her weak nerves was deafening; the powers of darkness raged about -her. She tried to pray for forgiveness, for peace at the last, but in -her mind, all too clear, was the remembrance of her life for two weeks -past. She set her teeth to keep them from chattering so, and shivering -at each clap and gasping at each flash, she prayed: - -"O Lord, if you are sendin' this storm to punish me, I can't help it. -I've believed in you all my life, and I'm sixty-two and I'm going to -die in a thunder-storm. If it'll save me to believe in the Holy Ghost, -then I'll have to be damned eternally as the Widder Sheldon says you'll -do, for I can't, I can't, I can't! I' been a believer all my life, and -I' only been this way two weeks, and if that counts against all the -rest, I'll just haf' to go to hell, that's all. Feelin' as I do, you -can't expect me to change for a thunder-storm, Lord, scairt as I be. It -don't make no difference that I'm scairt, I feel just the same. I' been -a sinful woman, an' I pray to be forgiven, but I can't change, Lord, I -can't, an' you wouldn't respect me if I was ter. Amen." - -A glare that seemed to brighten the wood for minutes and a terrific -burst of thunder answered her. With a little gasp she fell backward and -lay unconscious. The storm raged about her, but she knew nothing of it. -A little withered old woman, she lay in a heap in the lap of all the -elements, and they beat upon her like a leaf. - -If it were hours or minutes she did not know, but she opened her eyes -with pain upon a quiet world. The storm had passed, the leaves were -dripping, the sun was just beginning to brighten the blue, the birds -were twittering again. She got up heavily, but with a certain fitful -strength. She turned around and dragged herself further into the wood. -Then, in dread of the thicker foliage, she struck off uncertainly to -the right. To her the vengeance of God was only delayed; there was only -a momentary escape, but it was precious. She was confused, terrified, -beaten. She had no notion in what direction the house lay. She felt her -legs tottering and reached painfully down to pick up a large, gnarled, -broken bough. The effort all but stretched her beside it. But she -leaned on it, and turned her shaking head from one side to another. All -was thick, wet, glistening, confusing. Only the twitter of the birds -and the drip, drip of the wet leaves broke the deadly stillness. A -nameless horror caught her. She felt alone in the world. - -"O Lord, O dear Lord, show me the way home!" she prayed. "Let me die at -home, Lord; don't let me die out here--a poor old woman like me! Sixty -two, Lord, an' a believer all my life! Send me home!" - -There was a little rustling noise in the tree near the tiny clearing -just before her; a low, soft heavenly sound. - -"I know I'm goin' to die, Lord, only let me die at home! Don't do it -here! I'm scairt, an' I'm weak, an' I'm too old to die in the woods! -Jus' send me home, Lord; show me where the house is!" - -The great sun suddenly sent a long, bright ray down across the open -space, and as she looked at it, there hovered, full in the brightness, -a gleaming silver dove. With wings outspread, motionless, too bright -to look at with steady eyes, it hovered there. It never fluttered -its wings; it made no sound; in a ray from heaven it held its quiet -position serenely and glistened from every tiniest feather. - -The old woman's knees tottered beneath her. She held with both hands to -the gnarled staff, and shuddered as she gazed. - -"The Holy Ghost! The Holy Ghost!" she panted. The bird's eyes met -hers, and she could not take her own away. To her blurred, smarting -vision it seemed that an aureole of glory outlined its head. She had no -thoughts; only a confused sensation of immediate and inescapable doom. -Death, death here, with this grave and moveless vision was her part. -She closed her eyes and waited. A second, and she opened them, to see -the vision changed; the bird had turned around, and was slowly guiding -down the little clearing before her. Just above her head it flew, with -steady pace, and with it went all the brightness of the sun. - -Her lips moved. She took a step forward, and the bird advanced. "Glory -be to God!" she whispered, "It'll show me the way!" - -She never took her aching eyes for one second from the wonderful white -thing. She scorned to watch the ground. With a magnificent faith she -walked, her head lifted, her heart too full to know if she stumbled. In -the clear places, always where there were no branches, the white guide -flew and Harriet walked after with her staff. A few moments took them -out of the wood, but she never looked for the house. In the full glare -of day, against the blue, the bird looked only snowier, and to her -dazzled, burning eyes the aureole grew only brighter and bigger. She -could not see its wings move; it hovered steadily and floated serenely -upon the clear air, and the old woman saw it, and it only. - -She did not see the anxious crowd on the porch, she did not hear their -exclamations, she did not know that her lips were moving, that her -voice, low, husky, but distinguishable, repeated over and over, almost -mechanically: "Forgive me, Lord! forgive me, Lord! O Lord, forgive me!" - -She only followed, followed with all her heart and soul and strength, -up the little hill, up the path, up to the porch, a strange, shaking -pilgrim, leaning heavily on her staff, guided by the white pigeon. - -On the steps they received her, and as she sank on the lowest, they -caught her, falling. Her almost sightless eyes were yet uplifted, and -while to their view the dove dropped down among its mates, a patch -among the white, to her it was mingled with the summer blue, and -vanished in the sky whence it came. - -Her body was utterly exhausted, but her spirit could not yet lose -its consciousness. On the wave of her exaltation she rose higher and -higher. She looked at them with a look they had never seen in any human -being. - -"I'm saved! I'm saved!" she cried. - -They watched her, silent, terrified, awed beyond words at this -redemption they could only feel but could not understand. But as they -stared, her eyes glazed, her head fell back against the matron's arm. - -"Pray! pray!" she whispered. The pastor looked at her and steadied -himself. Wonder and a sense of strength flowed in on him suddenly. But -there was scant time for prayer. Though the light in her face had not -yet died away, her breath was scarcely moving. He came near her and -repeated gently the hymn she had in the time of her trouble disowned, -but which she had always loved: - - "_Praise God from whom all blessings flow, - Praise Him all creatures here below, - Praise Him above ye heavenly host_----" - -Her eyes opened and looked wide into the blue; what she saw there they -did not know, but she smiled faintly. - - "_Praise Father, Son, and Holy Ghost!_" - -"Oh, yes! Oh, yes!" the matron guessed that she murmured; and with the -cooing and clucking of pigeons sounding through the summer air, she -died. - -A white, arrow-swift creature whirred through the stillness, up, up, -and out in a great proud curve; their eyes were too dim to know if it -turned again to the earth. - - - - -A BAYARD OF BROADWAY - - -The younger man--he was only a boy--grinned impishly at the elder, -bringing out the two dimples in his flushed, girlish cheeks. - -"That's all right enough, Dill," he drawled; he always drawled when he -had been drinking. When he was sober the familiar Huntington staccato -was very marked in him. - -"That's all right, Dilly, my boy, and a grand truth, as old Jim used to -tell us at chapel, but maybe little Robert doesn't see your game? Oh, -yes, he sees it, fast enough. Sis hands it out to you, and you recite -it to Robbie, and Robbie reforms, and you get Sis! How's that for a -young fellow who flunks his math? Not bad, eh?" - -Dillon flushed and set his teeth, mastering an almost irresistible -longing to slap those red cheeks in vicious alternation. To think that -this chattering young idiot stood between him and his heart's desire! - -Bob drawled on: "Anyhow, Dill, I think it's right queer, you know. -Why don't she marry you? She can't love you very much, if it depends -on me. You're a man o' the world, you know, man o' world"--he grew -absent-minded and stared at the wall. Dillon snapped his fingers -nervously, and the speaker began again with a start: - -"That's what I say--a man o' world. Tell her it's all bosh worryin' -over me, tell her that, Dill, tell her I say so. No use her tryin' -to be my mother. Now is there, Dill, as a man, is there? If she got -married and had some children of her own----" - -"Bob," the older man burst out, "for heaven's sake, shut up, will you, -and listen to me! I'm going to tell you the truth. You've got the whole -thing in your hands--God knows why, but you have--and I'm going to lay -it before you once for all. Then do as you please: make us all happy, -or go to the devil your own way--and I'll go mine," he added, lower and -quicker. - -Bob sat up, blinked rapidly, and smoothed his hair down tight over his -ears--sure sign that he was nearly himself. - -"Go ahead," he said shortly, "I'll come in." - -Dillon bit his lip a moment; he would rather have taken a whipping than -say what he had to say. The clock ticked loud in the pause, and Bob, -every moment clearer-eyed, heavy sleep a thing of the past, stared at -him disconcertingly. - -"What I'm going to say to you," Dillon began, "isn't very often said by -one man to another, I imagine. Few men are placed in just my position. -I've known you all so well, I've seen so much of you all my life----" -he paused. - -"I needn't say how much I thought of your mother. When your father -was--when he broke down so often at the last, of course I saw a great -deal of her, and she trusted me a lot--she had to, once she began. When -she died, and you weren't there, because you----" - -"Don't! please don't, Dill!" the boy's lips contracted; his slim body -twisted with a helpless remorse. - -"Well, then, when she died she asked me to look out for you, because -she knew how I loved her and--and Helena. She knew you had it in you, -and she didn't blame you--they never do, I suppose, mothers--but she -asked me if I'd try to look out for you. She knew I wasn't perfect -myself. That's--that's why she thought I wouldn't do for Helena. Helena -was always so wonderful, so high above----" - -Again he stopped, and the boy's voice broke in: - -"Helena's made of snow and ice-water," he said moodily, "she's too good -for this earth. She doesn't know----" - -"She knows what her brother should be, and she knows what her husband -must be," Dillon interrupted sternly. "No sister could have been more -of an angel to you, Bob. - -"Now I'll go on. It's going to be necessary just here for me to tell -you that I love your sister. You don't know anything about that, of -course. You don't for a second of your life realise what it is to love -a woman as I've loved her for--for five years, we'll say. I put it five -because, though I loved her long before, things happened in between, -and I don't count it till five years ago. Heaven knows I'm not worth -her shoe-laces. Once or twice--before the five years--I've realised -that a little too much, and then--the things happened. But since then -I've honestly tried to keep to the mark your mother set me. She said -to me once, 'If you would only keep as good as you are at your best, -Lawrence, you'd be good enough for Helena,' and--perhaps because that -wasn't so very good, after all--I've really been keeping there, after a -fashion." - -Bob stared at him in unaffected amazement. This clubman, this elegant, -this social arbiter was standing before him with tears in his level -grey eyes. It dawned upon his reckless young soul that the soul of -another man was slowly and painfully stripping itself before him. - -"We'll let that part of it go," Dillon went on hurriedly, "you couldn't -see. I--I think I could make her happy, Bob. I know her better than she -thinks. She almost said she'd have me, and then you went on that spree. -You nearly broke her heart--I needn't go over it. Only she made a vow, -then--it was when she went into that convent-place in Holy Week, and -she's never been the same since--and it was about you." - -"About me? What d'you mean?" - -"She told me she never could marry till she was certain whether you -were just obstinate and wild, or--or like your father; and that in that -case----" - -"What, in that case?" Bob muttered through his teeth. - -"She was going to devote her life to taking care of you." - -There was a silence. - -"There's no use in going over all the arguments now, Bob--you know what -the doctor said. Three months without a drop, and then he'd warrant -you. Every day that goes by makes it harder for you. And here's your -Uncle Owen promising that the first month you go without a spree he'll -send you for a three months' cruise on the yacht with Stebbins--you -know what a chance that is." - -Bob looked fairly up for the first time. - -"Stebbins! Would Stebbins go? I don't believe you!" he cried eagerly. - -"He told me he would," said Dillon. - -"Why on earth should he?" - -"He's a friend of mine," the other answered simply. - -Bob twisted his lips together a moment, while the muscles around his -mouth worked. Suddenly he gave way and broke into sobbing speech. - -"You're a good fellow, Dill--I'm not worth it--truly, I'm not! I've -been a beast--and the college and all that--you all despise me--but so -do I!" - -He gripped the chair, turning his handsome, tear-stained face up to his -friend's. How the straight, thin nose, the black-lashed blue eyes, the -white forehead reflected Helena! Dillon could have kissed him for the -likeness. - -"Will you, Bob? Will you? We'll all stand by you!" - -"I will, Dillon, I will, so help me--Bob!" he smiled through wet -lashes. "You hang on, and I will! But look out for that rector--he's -running a close second, and Aunt Sarah's backing him for all she's -worth!" He was smiling wisely now; the strain was lifted, and he was -almost himself again. Dillon scowled. - -"He takes her slumming, you know, and, say, you ought to hear him give -it to Aunt Sarah about knowing the condition the poor devils are in -before you deal out the tracts, you know. He wants the good ladies and -gentlemen to come and see--that way, you know." - -"He's right enough there," Dillon said constrainedly, "and I suppose -he's better for her than I'd be--no, by George, he's not! Bob, I tell -you, I know her better than he does--I tell you I've waited five -years--Oh, Lord, I can't talk any more about it!" - -They went out arm in arm, the boy warm and friendly, proud of his -confidence and full of high resolve, Dillon impassive outwardly, but -conscious of great stakes. To say, in four short weeks, to those wide, -blue eyes, a little scornful, perhaps, but with so sweet, so pure a -scorn! "_The strain is over: he is safe; can you not trust me now?_" -His heart leaped and grew large at the thought. - -It was so like Helena, this service, half-sacred in her mother's trust, -half-shy in maidenly delaying. "She is afraid of me!" he thought -exultingly--indeed, she admitted as much. - -"You and your set--one knows you, and yet one doesn't," she said to -him. "You seem so still, so satisfied, so sure about life--there seems -to be so much you don't tell! Do you see what I mean? It frightens me. -There is so much we don't think the same about, Lawrence--so much of -you I don't know! I wanted, when I married, to come into a--a peace. -I wanted it to be--don't laugh--like my Confirmation: do you think it -would, if I married you? Do you, Lawrence?" - -He turned his head away. A vision of her, those ten short years ago, -in white procession down the aisle of Easter lilies, rapt and aloof, -flashed before him. For one sweet second he saw her in fancy, again in -white, but trembling now, and near him---- - -"Oh, dearest child," he begged, "I don't know about the peace--how can -I? The things are so different! But we could be happy--I know we could! -Is peace all you want, sweetheart, all?" - -Caught by his eyes, her own wavered and dropped; a flood of red rose to -her hair. - -"Don't, Lawrence, you frighten me! When you look like that--Oh, wait a -month, only this month, Lawrence, till Bob has gone and we're sure!" - -"You want that more than anything else, don't you? You'd give up -anything----" - -Her eyes grew soft, then stern, and looked clearly into his. - -"Anything in the world," she said instantly, "so that mamma could see -he was--safe. I am all Bob has. Oh, if he can only----" - -"He shall," Dillon assured her stoutly, "he shall, this time!" - -And indeed it seemed that he would. He seemed awakened to the strongest -effort they had known him to make. His uncle's offer, grimly set for -one month from its date, or never, took on for him a superstitious -colour of finality. He was convinced that it was his last chance. - -"If I'm downed this time, Dill, it's all up," he would say, wearily, -as they paced the endless city blocks together, arm in arm, under the -night. "If I can keep up till the yacht--how long is it, a week?--then, -something tells me I'm all right. I swear it's so. I never felt that -before. But if I don't"--he paused ominously. "There's always one way -out," he added. - -"You will break Helena's heart, then." - -"Heart? I don't think she has one. If she had, you'd have had her long -ago. Oh, no, I sha'n't. She'll go into that beastly retreat for a -while, and then she'll marry that crazy rector-man and go about saving -souls. You'll see." - -The week was nearly up. The yacht was ready in the harbour. The boy, -though, showed the strain, and Dillon, fearful of too much dogging him, -and warned by his furtive eyes and narrowed lips, called in Stebbins to -the rescue. - -"I can't have him hate me, Steb," he explained. "We're both of us worn -pretty thin. If you could give up to-day and to-night----" - -They shook hands. - -"It's every minute, practically, you know, Steb," he added doubtfully, -"it's a good deal." - -"Oh, get on!" the other broke in, with a good-natured shoulder clap. - -As he swung the glass door of the club behind him, Dillon ran down a -messenger-boy, bulging with yellow envelopes. The boy glanced at him -questioningly. - -"Mist' Wardwell, Adams, Stebbins, 'r Waite?" he inquired, holding out -four telegrams as he slipped in. - -Dillon shook his head, and walked down the steps. - -One more night and she would be all to win, no promise between, no -scruple that a lover might not smother. Shame on him if he could not -woo more persuasively than a mystical evangelist! In the evening he -would see her; the precious little note lay warm over his heart. - -He dined alone, he could not have said where, and an idle impulse for -the lights and bustle of the great thoroughfare sent him strolling -down Broadway. It was too early for the crowd, and he found himself -guessing vaguely as to the characteristics of the couples that met and -passed him. That tall, slender lad, for instance, with such a hint of -Bob--poor, troublesome Bob!--in his loose, telltale swagger, what had -led him to the dark-eyed creature that tapped her high heels beside -him? As she came under the light, one saw better; her flashing smile, -her careless carriage of the head, her broad sweep of shoulder, had a -certain charm--great heavens, it was Bob steadying himself on her arm! -A moment, and the familiar drawl reached his ear: - -"An' so you always want to choose mos' prom'nent place, every time, an' -you're safe's a church. No chance to meet y'r dear frien's----" - -Dillon strode to his side, raising his hat to the surprised woman. - -"I beg your pardon, Bob, but had you forgotten your engagement this -evening?" he said smoothly. Bob stopped, glared a moment uncertainly, -but the scrupulous courtesy of Dillon's bearing had its intended effect. - -"What--what engagement?" he inquired suspiciously. "Friend o' mine," he -added to his companion. - -"Haven't you met Stebbins? He--he was expecting you." Lawrence felt -his heart sink. Where was Stebbins? Oh, fool, to have lost hold at the -eleventh hour! - -"Stebbins? Stebbins?" Bob murmured to himself. "Ah, yes; the beastly -boat got afire, and he had to go down; I'm going too, after a -while--too early yet--take a little walk, first, with Miss--Miss----" -He paused, and stared thoughtfully at the woman. "I don't seem to just -recall your name," he said pleasantly. "Would you mind telling me, so -that I can introduce you? Bad form, his poking in, though, terribly bad -form." - -Dillon noted with anger that Bob was at his most argumentative, -obstinate stage; at this point, if he felt the necessity, he could -speak most correctly and clearly, by giving some thought to the matter, -and it was almost impossible to alter his determinations. - -"My name is Williams," said the woman. Dillon bowed. - -"What have you had, Bob?" he inquired, moving along with them. - -"Oh, only a cocktail--here and there--Miss--Miss Willis likes 'em as -well as anything. About time we had another?" he suggested, eyeing -Lawrence combatively. - -The older man stopped dead. A weary despair of the whole business -seized him. It was all up, then. Even if he went about with the boy, -which Bob would hardly allow, his condition next morning would be all -too apparent. And then Uncle Owen would wash his hands of it all. Aunt -Sarah would never consent to any institutional cure. Helena would never -marry while Bob needed her--thank God, she had never suspected the -woman! - -As if in answer to his thoughts, Bob complained loudly: - -"I say it's a blamed shame, the first time I go out with a girl to -enjoy the evening, to have you pokin' in, Dill! Always stuck with the -fellows before; and now I get a girl, like anybody else, and here you -come! Why don't you get out? Two's company." - -Dillon caught his arm. - -"Bob," he said beseechingly, "you don't know what you're doing. Surely -you know what this means! Don't you remember that the Eider-duck sails -to-morrow at nine? Don't you realise that by this night's folly you're -losing your last chance? Your last chance, Bob! Think how you called -it that yourself! If this lady realised all this meant to you, she'd -excuse you, I'm sure. Don't be a fool, Bob! Let me put you in a cab -and go right to Stebbins--old Steb'll put you up, and nobody will ever -know! You can sleep it off--it's only eight o'clock." - -To his unexpected delight Bob yawned sleepily. His eyes were dull, his -mouth drooped. - -"Sleep it off," he murmured. "I wish I was in bed this minute. Lord, -I'm tired. And I know why, too. I told her bromo-seltzer would settle -me. Always puts me to sleep--no good at all. Fool to drink it. Told her -so...." - -Dillon's spirits rose. - -"That's so," he assented, "it always acts that way with you, doesn't -it? Especially with cocktails. Now, you be a wise man, Bob," he urged, -"and get into this cab----" - -"And where do I come in?" said the woman sharply. "I call this a little -queer, if you don't mind my saying so." - -Bob roused himself for a moment. - -"Just so," he declared heavily, "just so. Where does Miss Willard come -in? You must think I'm a terrible cad, Dill, to ask a lady out for the -evening, and leave her like that! Not a bit of it! You go on! Sorry, -but can't leave the lady." - -Lawrence moved toward his pocket involuntarily. The woman struck his -arm lightly. - -"That'll do," she said sullenly. "I don't want your money. You think -I'm a kind of a bundle, do you? Pick me up and drop me. Well, that's -where you make a mistake. Why don't you let your friend alone?" - -"Helen--she'll know. You say nobody will," Bob broke in suddenly. "She -won't lie, if you will. She'll tell Uncle Owen. What's the use?" - -"I won't tell her," Lawrence returned quickly, "and nobody else knows." - -"Well, then," Bob faced him cunningly, walking backwards through the -comparatively empty cross-street they had turned down, "I think maybe -I'll do it. I want to go with Stebbins, all right. But"--his obstinacy -rose again, suddenly--"I swear I won't go back on a lady! Nobody offer -a lady money in my presence! 'Twon't do, Dill! Get out!" - -"Bob," Lawrence urged, despairingly, "if I take Miss Williams wherever -she wants to go, and she will accept my escort"--he half turned to her, -but his doubt was not evident, if he had it--"will you go to Stebbins?" - -Bob stopped short, nearly falling backwards. - -"Great head!" he cried. "Never thought old Dilly had it in him! -I'll--I'll consider the prop--the prop--the plan." He yawned widely. "I -certainly am sleepy," he observed, sinking on a convenient step. - -Dillon shook him and dragged him up. - -"Come," he said, shortly, "will you?" - -Bob pointed a theatrical finger at them. - -"Do you, Dilly, being of sound mind, body, or estate, give me your -solemn word of honour as a gentleman to escort Miss Willins wherever -she wants to go? Do you?" - -"And drop me when your back's turned," interposed the woman, -laconically, but not angrily. Her interest was awakened, perhaps her -sense of humour, too, and she awaited developments philosophically. - -"Never a bit," Bob returned. "You don't know old Dill. If he says it, -he'll do it, if there were what-do-you-call-'ems in the way." - -"I give you my word of honour," said Lawrence, steadily. - -"And you'll never tell Helen? Because if you do, she tells Uncle Owen, -and it's all up with Robbie." - -"I will never tell her." - -"On your word of honour?" - -"On my word of honour." - -"Then call your cab and tuck me in my little bed. My eyes will crack if -I prop 'em up any longer." - -"Miss--Miss--I can't recall your name, but you don't object?..." - -"Oh, no, I don't object in the least," said Miss Williams satirically, -with a wondering glance at the tall, immaculate gentleman at her side, -his face stern in the electric-light, his evening clothes in marked -contrast to Bob's negligée. "In fact, I rather----" - -Dillon whistled a cab and gave the driver whispered directions. A bill -fluttered as he passed it up. The man nodded, respectful. - -"And now I am at your service," said Dillon, standing tall and straight -before her. "Where did you wish to go?" - -Not for one moment did it occur to him to evade his duty, and not for -one moment did she intend that he should. Where they went, through all -that nightmare evening, he could never afterward tell. From dance-hall -to concert-hall they wandered, sat awhile, and departed. Nor were they -silent on the way. What they spoke of he could not have told for his -life, but they talked, fairly steadily at first, less and less as the -night wore on, and the woman grew dreamily content with the lights, -the warmth, and the liquor. Dillon was imperturbably polite, gravely -attentive to her wishes, curiously conscious of one life with her and -another distinct existence at Helena's home. Now he was waiting, -waiting, waiting in front of the close-shaded windows to see if she had -left the house or if she still sat in surprised idleness expecting him. -Now he was at Stebbins's house watching Bob as he lay asleep there. - -He remembered afterward thinking that the woman must have been a -Southerner, for, as she drank, her tongue turned to those softer tones, -slurred vowels and quaint idioms. - -"It seems like you're having a good time, after all," she said once. He -bowed gravely. - -By eleven they were well down-town, he was not quite certain where. -They stayed but little time in any one place. It seemed as if they had -been on this endless journey for years. Now and then he saw a man he -knew. In one place he wakened, with a shock of remembrance, to the fact -that he had been there before: there, and at the place opposite, too. -How little it had changed! It was before the five years.... - -They were at a corner table, he with his back to the room, the woman -facing it. On a platform opposite a young fellow sat before a piano, -striking desultory chords. Presently he began to sing, in a sweet, -piercing tenor: - - "_Oh, promise me that some day you and I_----" - -There was a moved silence through the room; his voice had a quality -that reached for the heart: - - "_Those first sweet violets of early spring_----" - -Dillon glanced at the woman; her large, dark eyes were brimmed with -tears. A great pity surged over him: he would have given anything he -owned to be able to offer her her life to live again. Tenderly, as -over a dusty, broken bird, he laid his hand over her clasped ones on -the table. They sat in awed silence; the song swelled on. He did not -hear the door open behind him, nor turn as a new party of four entered -quietly. Directly behind his chair a man's voice spoke softly. - -"This is a fair sample. Not very bad, you think? But every man in this -room is a confirmed opium-eater, and the women----" - -The two at the table hardly heard. - -"Oh, the women!" said a woman's voice in a rough whisper. "I cannot -bear to think----" - -"Oh, it isn't the women, Aunty! You sha'n't say that--they are -heart-breaking. It's the men, the men I bl----" - -Swiftly, hopelessly, as the steel turns to the magnet, Dillon turned -and faced Helena Huntington. - -As her eyes met his all the rose colour in her soft cheeks seemed to -sweep into his and burn dully there, leaving her whiter than bone. -For one fiery second her eyes rested on the table, the half-emptied -glasses, the clasped hands of the pair, the tear-stained cheeks of -the handsome girl. For one breath two groups of stone confronted each -other. Then, with no sign of recognition, she swept from her seat, her -hand on the rector's arm, her aunt and an older man behind them. Her -aunt looked at Dillon as if he were the chair he sat in. - -The door swung behind them. - - "_No life so perfect as a life with thee, - Oh, promise me; oh, promise me!_" - -the tenor shrilled. Lawrence burst into jangling laughter. - -"The evening is over," he said, still red and shaking. "Allow me to -escort you home." - -He never remembered the time between this speech and the moment when -she asked him to step in for a while, and he laughed in her face. Then -there was another time, and he was at his rooms at the club. But that -was early morning. He was lame and his shoes hurt his feet--he must -have walked a great deal. - -At eight o'clock Stebbins dashed into the room. - -"Well, of all the fellows! What's the matter with you?" - -He was fresh and rosy; a faint, wholesome aroma of cigars and -eau-de-cologne swept in with him. - -"Why the deuce aren't you down to see us off? They're all there. Got my -telegram yesterday? Fire didn't amount to much, but the fools hadn't -half the stuff I ordered. I was down there all the afternoon seeing to -it. I sent Bob right around to you. You must have walked him well. -Stevens said he came in at eight and tumbled straight to bed. He's -fresh as paint this morning. Asked him where he'd been, and I swear -he didn't know. Says you told him to go to bed, and he went. Drove -home, he says. Actually doesn't remember a living thing but that, -since dinner. When you said he'd be that way sometimes I didn't really -believe you, but I do now. Where were you?" - -Dillon faced him. - -"For God's sake, Lawrence, what is it? Are you sick? She said you -wouldn't be there----" - -"She? Who?" - -"The old one--the aunt. Bob was wondering about it, and she says -directly, 'No, he won't be here this morning,' so I slipped off. Bob -said if you were tired, never mind. - -"I say, Lawrence, that's an awfully attractive boy. You can't help -liking him. He called me aside, and, 'Look here,' says he, 'Uncle Owen -says there's to be no wine packed for you. Now I can't have that, -Stebbins, it won't do. It's awfully bully of you to come, and you must -have everything you want.' I told him that would be all right and what -a fine vacation it was going to be for me----" - -Lawrence turned the water into the tub and began to pull at his shoes. -Never had he felt so grateful for Stebbins's constant chatter. - -"I don't believe I'll come down," he heard himself say. "I have a -beastly headache. I didn't get much sleep----" - -"Well, for heaven's sake get some, if it makes you look like that! -Where'd you go, anyway, after you put Bob to bed?" - -Lawrence pulled off his coat. - -"Parson's down there, you know. He and uncle seem to be hand in glove. -He's pretty well fixed with most of the family, I shouldn't wonder." - -"How much time have you got?" said Lawrence's voice. - -"George, not much! Cab's waiting outside. I won't mention how you look, -then--just tell 'em good-bye." - -"That's all. Just tell 'em good-bye." - -Lawrence was in the bath-room as Stebbins hurried out. He sat down on -the porcelain rim of the tub, his face drawn and grey above his white -shirt. - -"It seems to be pretty well settled up," he said quietly. "I hope his -mother's pleased!" - - - - -A LITTLE BROTHER OF THE BOOKS - - -The new librarian entered upon her duties bright and early Monday -morning. She closed with a quick snap the little wicket-gate that -separated the books from the outer vestibule, briskly arranged her -paste-tube, her dated stamp, and her box of slips, and summoned her -young assistant sharply. The assistant was reading _Molly Bawn_ and -eating caramels, and she shut book and bag quickly, wiping her mouth as -she hurried to her superior. - -"Now, Miss Mather, I expect to get fifty books properly labelled and -shelved before noon," said the new librarian, "and there must be no -time wasted. If anyone wants me, I shall be in Section K," and she -turned to go. - -Section K was only a few feet from the registering-table, but it -pleased the new librarian to assume the existence of long corridors -of volumes, with dumb-waiters and gongs and bustling, basket-laden -attendants. So much majesty did she throw into her sentence, indeed, -that the young assistant, who had always, under the old régime, -privately referred to Section K as "those old religious books," and -advised the few persons interested in them to "go right in behind and -see if the book you refer to is there," was staggered for a moment, and -involuntarily glanced behind her, to see if there had been a recent -addition to the building. - -The new librarian strode down between the cases, glancing quickly from -side to side to detect mislaid or hastily shoved-in volumes. Suddenly -she stopped. - -"What are you doing in here, little boy?" she said abruptly. - -In the angle of the case marked "Books of Travel, Adventure, etc.," -seated upon a pile of encyclopædias, with his head leaning against -_Twenty Thousand Leagues Under the Sea_, was a small boy. He was -dark of eyes and hair, palely sallow, ten or eleven years old, to -appearance. By his side leaned a crutch, and a clumsy wooden boot, -built up several inches from the sole, explained the need of this. A -heavy, much-worn book was spread across his little knees. - -He looked up vaguely, hardly seeming to see the librarian. - -"What are you doing here? How did you get in?" she repeated. - -"I'm reading," he replied, not offering to rise, "I just came in." - -"But this isn't the place to read. You must go in the reading-room," -she admonished him. - -"I always read here. I'd rather," he said, pleasantly enough, dropping -his eyes to his book, as if the matter were closed. - -Now the new librarian thoroughly disapproved of the ancient custom that -penned the books away from all handling, and fully intended to throw -them open to the public in a few months' time, when she should have -them properly systematised; but she resented this anticipation of what -she intended for a much-appreciated future privilege. - -"But why should you read in here, when none of the other children can?" -she demanded. - -The boy raised his eyes again. - -"Mr. Littlejohn lets me--I always do," he repeated. - -The new librarian pressed her lips together with an air of highly -creditable restraint. - -"Mr. Littlejohn allowed a great many irregularities which have been -stopped," she announced, "and as there is no reason why you should do -what the other children cannot, you will have to go. So hurry up, for -I'm very busy this morning." - -She did not speak unkindly, but there was an unmistakable decision in -her tone, and the boy got up awkwardly, tucked his crutch under his -arm, and laying the big book down with care, went out in silence, his -heavy boot echoing unevenly on the hardwood floor. The librarian went -on to Section K. - -Presently the young assistant, who had been accustomed to keep her -crocheted lace-work on the Philosophical shelf, directly behind the -_Critique of Pure Reason_, recollected that it would in all human -probability be discovered, on the removal of that epoch-making -treatise, and came hastily down to get it. Having concealed it safely -in her pocket, she paused. - -"That was Jimmy Reese you sent out--did you know it?" she asked. - -"No, what of it?" - -"Why, nothing, only he's always read in here ever since I came. Mr. -Littlejohn was very fond of him. He helped pick out some of the books. -He----" - -"Picked out the books--that child? Great heavens!" - -"Well, he's read a good deal, Jimmy has," the assistant contended. -"It's all he does. He can't play like the other children, he's so lame. -He seems real old, anyhow. And he's always been here. He helps giving -out the books, and helps the children pick out. He was very convenient -when Mr. Littlejohn didn't like to be waked up." - -"Great heavens!" the librarian cried again. - -"I think you'll find he'll be missed, you being so new," the assistant -persevered. - -"I think I can manage to carry on the library, Miss Mather," replied -her superior coldly, "without any assistance from the children of the -town. Will you begin on that Fiction, please?" - -She walked on again, but paused to put away the brown book, which lay -where the intruder had left it, a mute witness to the untidiness of the -laity. Opening it briskly, she glanced at the title: - - The - AGE OF FABLE - - or - - BEAUTIES OF MYTHOLOGY - - by - - THOMAS BULFINCH - -Below was a verse of poetry in very fine print; she read it -mechanically. - - _O, ye delicious fables! where the wave - And woods were peopled, and the air, with things - So lovely! why, ah! why has science grave - Scattered afar your sweet imaginings?_ - - BARRY CORNWALL. - -It flashed into her mind that an absolutely shameless subscriber had -retained Miss Proctor's collected poems for three weeks now, and she -made a hasty note of the fact on a small pad that hung from her belt. -Then she set the _Age of Fable_ in its place and went on about her -work, the incident dismissed. - -The next afternoon as she was sorting out from the department labelled, -"Poetry, Miscellaneous Matter, etc.," such books as Mr. Littlejohn had -found himself unable or unwilling to classify further, shaking down -much dust on the further side of the shelves in the process, she was -startled by a faint sneeze. Her assistant was compiling a list of fines -at the desk, and this sneeze came from her very elbow, it seemed, so -she hastily dismounted from her little ladder and peered around the -rack. There sat the little boy of yesterday, the same brown book spread -across his knees. She looked severe. - -"Is this Jimmy Reese?" she inquired stiffly. - -"Yes'm," he answered, with a polite smile. He had an air of absolute -unconsciousness of any offence. - -"Well, don't you remember what I told you yesterday, Jimmy? This is not -the reading-room. Why don't you go there?" - -"I like it better here." - -The librarian sighed despairingly. - -"Perhaps you don't know who I am," she explained, not crossly, but with -that air of detachment and finality that many people assume in talking -with children. "I am Miss Watkins, the new librarian, and when I give -an order here it must be obeyed. When I tell any one to do anything, -I expect them to do it, because--because they must," she concluded -lamely, a little disconcerted by the placid stare of the brown eyes. -"You see, if all the little boys came in here, there would be no room -for us to work." - -"But they don't--nobody comes but me," he reminded her. - -"Suppose," she demanded, "that someone should call for that book you -are reading. I shouldn't know where to look for it." - -"Nobody ever wants it but me," he assured her again. - -"I have no time to argue," she said irritably, "you must do as I tell -you. Put the book up and run away." - -Without another word he laid the book on the broad base-shelf, picked -up his crutch, and went out. As she watched his retreating figure, a -little uneasy feeling troubled her usual calm. He seemed so small, so -harmless a person. - -A little later it occurred to her to see how he had entered the -library, and stepping through the two smaller rooms at the back, choked -and dusty with neglected piles of old magazines, she noticed a door -ajar. Picking her way through the chaos, she pulled the knob, and saw -that it gave on a tiny back porch. On the steps sat the janitor, as -incompetent, from the librarian's point of view, as his late employer. - -"I thought you were sweeping off the walks, Thomas," she suggested, -coughing as the wreaths from his pipe reached her. - -"Well, yes, Miss Watkins, so I was. I just stopped a minute to rest, -you see," he explained, eyeing her distrustfully. Since her advent life -had changed greatly for the janitor. - -"I see Thomas, does that little lame boy come in this way?" - -"Jimmy? Yes, ma'am. 'Most always he does. In fact, that's why I keep -the door unlocked." - -"Well, after this I prefer that you should keep it locked. There is no -reason why he should have a private entrance to the library that I can -see; and anyway it's not safe. Some one might----" - -"Oh, Lord, Miss Watkins, don't you worry. Nobody ever came in here yet, -and I've been here eight years. Jimmy's all right. He's careful and -still's a mouse, and he won't do a mite of harm. He comes in regular -after school's out, and it's just like a home to him, you may say. He's -all right." - -Miss Watkins frowned. - -"I have no doubt that he is a very estimable little boy," she said; -"but you will please see that no one enters the library by this door. I -see no reason for favouritism. You understand me, I hope." - -And she returned to her work. The assistant, weary of her unprecedented -labour, had laid aside the list of fines, and was openly crocheting. No -sound of broom or lawn-mower proclaimed Thomas worthy of his hire, and -Miss Watkins, vexed beyond the necessity of the case, labelled Fiction -angrily, wondering why such a town as this needed a library, anyway. - -Two little old ladies, plump and deprecatory, entered in a swish of -fresh, cambric morning-dresses. One of them fumbled in her black-silk -bag for a book, and leaning on the little gate, coughed lightly to -attract the assistant's attention. - -"Yes, indeed, Miss Mather, a lovely day. Sister and I enjoyed this very -much. I don't know about what we'll take, exactly; it's so hard to -tell. I always look and look, and the more I look the more anxious I -get. It always seems as if everything was going to be too long, or else -we've read it. You see we read a good deal. I wonder--do you know where -the little boy is?" - -Miss Mather smiled triumphantly. "You'll have to ask Miss Watkins," she -said. - -"The new librarian, my dear? Oh, I hardly like to disturb her. They say -she's very strict. My cousin told me she charged her nine cents for a -book that was out too long. You ask her, my dear!" - -"Miss Watkins," said the assistant meekly, "there is a lady here would -like to see Jimmy. Do you know where he is?" - -"I do not," the librarian returned briefly. "Anything I can do----" - -"Oh, no, not at all!" cried the flushed old lady, "not for the world! -Don't disturb yourself, please--Miss--Miss--I'll just wait till he -gets in. He picked this out for me. You see, he knows pretty well -what we want. I always like something with a little travel in it, and -sister won't hear of a book unless it ends well. And it spoils it so -to look ahead. So the little fellow looks at the end, and sees if it's -all right for sister, and then he assures me as to the travel--I like -European travel best--and then we know it's all right. I'll just wait -for him." - -"I have no reason to suppose that he will be here," Miss Watkins said -crossly. - -"Oh, yes, he'll be here," the old lady returned comfortably. "He'll be -here soon. We can wait." - -The librarian pressed her lips together and retired into her work. -The minutes passed. Presently the outer door opened softly, and the -irregular tap of a crutch was heard. Jimmy's head peered around -the partition into the ante-room. The old ladies uttered a chirp -of delight, and slipped out into the hall for a brief, whispered -consultation, returning with a modest request for "_Griffith Gaunt_, by -Charles Reade." The elder of the two shut it carefully into her bag, -remarking sociably, "I wanted to read the _Cloister and the Hearth_, by -the same author, I'd heard there was so much travel in it, but he said -sister never could bear the ending." - -Going into the reading-room later, on some errand, the librarian was -surprised to find the magazines neatly laid out in piles, the chairs -straightened, the shades pulled level, and a fresh bunch of lilacs in -the jar under the window. She guessed who had done it, but Jimmy was -not to be seen. Once, during the next afternoon, she thought she saw a -small, grey jacket disappearing into the waste-room, but much to her -own surprise, forbore to make certain of it. During the next few days, -when her time was entirely taken up with the catalogue in the front -of the library, and the assistant transacted all business among the -shelves, she was perfectly convinced that somewhere between sections A -and K a little boy with a brown book was concealed, but found herself -too busy to rout him out. - -Even when a red-faced, liveried coachman presented her with a note, -directed in a sprawling, childish hand to "Mr. Jimmy Reese, Esq.," -she only coughed and said severely, "There is no such official in the -library." - -"It's just the little boy, ma'am, that's meant," the man explained -deferentially. "Master Clarence is back for the summer--Mrs. Clarence -Vanderhoof, ma'am--and he always sends a note to the little fellow. -There was some book he mentioned to him last year as likely that he -would enjoy, and Master Clarence wants it, if it's in. I was to give -him the note." - -"I will send a list of our juveniles to Mrs. Vanderhoof," said the -librarian, in her most business-like manner, "and I will give you, for -Master Clarence, the new Henty book. He will probably like that." - -"I beg pardon, ma'am," persisted the coachman, "but Master Clarence -says that there was a book that the little boy particularly recommended -to him, and I was to be very special about it. He goes a good deal by -the little fellow's judgment. I'll call in again when he's here, after -my other errands." - -Miss Watkins sighed, and gave way. "Will you see, Miss Mather, if Jimmy -Reese is in the library?" she inquired, and Miss Mather, smiling, -obeyed her. - -He was never formally enfranchised, but he took up his place in the -department of Travel and Adventure, and held it unchallenged. All the -long, spring afternoons he sat there, throned on the books, leaning -against them, banked safely in from the tumult of the world outside, a -quiet little shadow among the shadowy throngs that filled the covers. - -Whatever he might read, for he turned to other books as one travels, -for the joy of coming home again, the old brown book lay open on his -knees, and he patted the pages with one hand, absently, as his eyes -travelled over the print. Sooner or later he came back to the yellowed -leaves--perhaps to the story of Dryope. - -"_Now there was nothing left of Dryope but her face. Her tears still -flowed and fell on her leaves, and while she could, she spoke. 'I am -not guilty. I deserve not this fate. I have injured no one. If I speak -falsely, may my foliage perish with drought and my trunk be cut down -and burned. Take this infant and give it to a nurse. Let it often be -brought and nursed under my branches, and play in my shade; and when -he is old enough to talk, let him be taught to call me mother, and to -say with sadness, "My mother lies hid under this bark." But bid him be -careful of river-banks, and beware how he plucks flowers, remembering -that every bush he sees may be a goddess in disguise. Farewell, dear -husband and sister and father. If you retain any love for me, let not -the axe wound me nor the flocks bite and tear my branches. Since I -cannot stoop to you, climb up hither and kiss me; and while my lips -continue to feel, lift up my child, that I may kiss him. I can speak -no more, for already the bark advances up my neck, and will soon shoot -over me. You need not close my eyes; the bark will soon close them -without your aid.' Then the lips ceased to move, and life was extinct; -but the branches retained, for some time longer, the vital heat._" - -In fancy he walked by that fatal stream. He saw the plant dripping -blood--the flower that was the poor nymph Lotis. The terrible, -beautiful revenge, the swift doom of those wonderful Greeks, that -delights even while it horrifies, he felt to the fullest measure. He -had no more need to read them than a priest his breviary, for he knew -them all, but he followed the type in very delight of recognition. - -Through the window came the strong scent of the purple lilacs, that -grew all over the little New England town. Faint cries of children -playing drifted in with the breeze. The organ in the church nearby -crooned and droned a continual fugue. Someone was always practising -there. The deep, bass notes jarred the air, even the little building -trembled to them at times. And since it had been at this season of -the year, when he had first found the book, the lovely broken myths, -elusive sometimes, and as dim to his understanding as the marble -fragments that still bewilder the enchanted artist, he always connected -with that throbbing, mournful melody, that haunting lilac odour. -Sometimes the organ swelled triumphantly and cried out in a mighty -chorus of tone: at those times Ulysses shot down the false suitors, -or Perseus, hovering over the shrieking sea-beast, rescued the white -Andromeda. Sometimes a minor plaintive strain troubled him vaguely, and -then he listened to poor Venus, bending in tears above the slain Adonis. - -"_'Yet theirs shall be but a partial triumph; memorials of my grief -shall endure, and the spectacle of your death, my Adonis, and of my -lamentation, shall be annually renewed. Your blood shall be turned into -a flower; that consolation none shall envy me.' Thus speaking, she -sprinkled nectar on the blood; and as they mingled, bubbles rose as in -a pool, on which rain-drops fall, and in an hour's time there sprang -up a flower of bloody hue, like that of the pomegranate. But it is -short-lived._" - -The peculiar odour of much leather on pine shelves was confused, too, -with the darling book. He had never read it elsewhere; he had not money -enough for a library-ticket. Old Mr. Littlejohn, quickly recognising -the invaluable services that this little acolyte might be counted upon -to render, had readily granted him the freedom of the shelves, and -smoked his pipe in peace for hours together, thereafter, in the back -room, sure of his monitor in front. - -Miss Watkins needed no such assistance, but she found herself, to -her amazement, not wholly ungrateful for the many steps saved her -by Jimmy's tactful service to the children. At first she would have -none of it, and groups of shy boys and girls waited awkwardly and in -vain before the little gate, hoping for a glimpse of their kindly -counsellor. She thrust lists of juveniles into their unwilling hands, -led them cautiously into an inspection of Nature Lessons for Little -Learners, displayed tempting rows of bound _St. Nicholas_--but to no -purpose. - -"Where's Jimmy?" they demanded stubbornly. - -"What on earth do they want of him?" she asked of her assistant one -day. "That stupid Meadows child--is she going to ask his opinion of the -Dotty Dimple Books?" - -"Not at all," Miss Mather replied tranquilly. "But he always gets -her a Mary J. Holmes novel, and I stamp it and let it go. You always -argue with her about it, and ask her if she wouldn't prefer something -else--which she never would." - -Little by little he grew to wait on the children as a matter of course. -He was even allowed to keep the novels desired by the Meadows child in -the juvenile shelf, where he insisted they belonged. - -"Only the girls in Number Seven want 'em," he explained, when his -superior complained of his audacity in removing them from adult fiction. - -And so the little girl who had reached that period of little girlhood -when every well-regulated young person is compelled by some inward -power to ask the librarian, tremblingly, if she has a book in the -libr'y called _St. Elmo_, was spared all embarrassment, for Jimmy -handed it out to her almost before she asked. - -Not that he lacked the discrimination to exercise a proper authority -on occasion. Miss Watkins remembered long a surprising scene which -she witnessed from the top of a ladder in the Biography and Letters -Section. A shambling, unwholesome boy had asked Miss Mather in a husky -voice for the works of Edgar A. Poe, and as she blew off the dust -from the top and extended two fat volumes toward him, a rapid tapping -heralded the youngest official. - -"Don't you give 'em to him, don't you!" he cried, warningly. As she -paused instinctively he shook his finger with a quaint, old-fashioned -gesture at the boy. - -"You ought to be ashamed, Sam Wheeler," he said reprovingly. "You -shan't take those books a step. Not a step. If you think you're going -to scare Susy to death you're mistaken. If you want to read 'em, come -here and do it. But you aren't a-going to read 'em to her nights, -again. So you go right off, now!" - -Without a word Sam turned and left the library, and Miss Watkins from -her ladder remonstrated feebly. - -"Why, Jimmy, if that boy has a ticket you haven't any right----" - -"Do you know what he does with those books, Miss Watkins?" replied the -dauntless squire of dames. "He reads 'em after supper to his little -sister Susy. That one where the house all falls down and the one where -the lady's teeth come out and she carries 'em in her hand! And she -don't dare take her feet off the rungs, she sits so still. And she -don't go to sleep hardly ever. Do you s'pose I'd let him take 'em?" - -The librarian threshed the matter over, and finally thought to stagger -him by the suggestion that it would be difficult for him to ascertain -the precise intention of everyone drawing out books. "How do you know," -she asked, "that other people may not be frightening each other with -various stories?" - -"There aren't many fellows as mean as Sam Wheeler," he replied -promptly, "and then I was sure that he was going to. I happened to -know." - -She turned again to her work and he went back to his corner, the brown -book under his arm. - -The syringa was out now, and the mournful, sweet odour blew in from -the bushes around the church. In the still June air he could hear the -bees buzzing there. He turned the beloved pages idly. Should it be poor -Psyche, so sweet and foolish, or Danaë, the lovely mother, hushing -her baby in the sea-tossed chest? He found the place of Proverbial -Expressions at the back of the book, and read them with a never-failing -interest. Around them he wove long stories to please himself. - -"_Their faces were not all alike, nor yet unlike, but such as those of -sisters ought to be._" - -This one always pleased him--he could not have said why. - -"_Here lies Phäton, the driver of his father's chariot, which if he -failed to manage, yet he fell in a great undertaking._" - -The simple grandeur of this one was like the trumpet tone of the organ. -He thrilled to it delightedly. - -The third he murmured to himself, entranced by the very sound of the -words: - -"_He falls, unhappy, by a wound intended for another; looks up to the -skies, and dying remembers sweet Argos._" - -Ah, why would Thomas never consent to the witchery of these words: - -"----_and dying remembers sweet Argos._" - -He sighed delightedly and dreamed into the dusk. Almost he thought he -had known that man, almost he remembered sweet Argos.... - -In the middle of June the Vanderhoof's coachman brought bad news: -Master Clarence was quite ill. No one knew what it was exactly, but if -there was any exceptionally fine book that Jimmy could suggest, he'd be -glad to be read to from it. - -For the first time the little librarian parted from his darling. - -"If you'll be especially careful of it, William, and I've put in slips -of paper at the best ones. And as soon as he gets better, I'd be glad -if he'd send it back--if he's through with it." - -The days seemed long without it. The heat was intense, and when Miss -Mather stayed at home a day or two, and all the summer people came in -for books, he had a great deal to do. Miss Watkins was very glad of his -help, now. - -One hot Saturday afternoon he did not return to the library, but began -a resolute journey to the Vanderhoof's big house on the hill. It was -almost two miles, and he went slowly; now and then he stopped to rest -on the stone horse-blocks. It took him an hour to get there, and at the -door he had to stop to wipe his forehead and get his breath. - -"I came to ask how Clarence was," he said to the maid. - -"He's better, thank you, but it's dreadful sick he's been. 'Twas -scarlet fever, dear," she answered, with a pitying glance at the -crutch. "Not that you need be worried, for the half of the house is -shut off, and we've not been near it," she added. - -"I'm glad he's better, and--and is he through with the book?" he asked -eagerly. - -"The book? What book is it, my dear? Sure the nurse does be reading a -hundred books to him." - -"A brown book: Stories of Gods and Heroes. I--I'd like it, if he's -through with it. I stay at the libr'y, and I sent it to him--" he sank -on the step, exhausted. - -The kind-hearted girl dragged him into the hall. "Come out with me, -dear, and get a glass of cold milk," she said. "You've walked too far." - -Seated on a chair in the kitchen, his eyes closed, he heard, as in a -dream, his friend's voice raised in dispute with some distant person. - -"And I say he shall have it, then. Walking all this way! And him lame, -too! Tell Emma to put it on the tray, and leave it in the hall. The -child's well enough now, anyway. I'll go get it myself--I'm not afraid. -The whole of us had the fever, and no such smelling sheets pinned up, -and no fuss at all, at all. I'm as good as a paid nurse, any day, if -you come to that. A book'll hurt no one." - -Later he found himself perched beside the coachman, who was going -to meet a train, the beloved book tight in his arms. He fingered it -lovingly; he smelled the leaves like a little dog. For the first time -in his life he took it to his home, and clasped it in his arms as he -lay in bed. - -For days he did not appear, and it was Thomas, the janitor, who went -finally to look him up, troubled by the children's reports of his -illness. He returned grave-faced. - -"It's the fever, Miss Watkins, and they say there's little chance for -him, the poor little feller! He was worn out with the heat. They don't -know how he got it. He's out of his mind. To think of Jimmy like that!" - -The librarian's heart sank, and her assistant put her head on her arms -and cried. Thomas sat sadly on his little porch, his unlighted pipe in -his mouth. The library seemed strangely empty. - -The little Meadows girl brought them the news the next morning. - -"Jimmy's dead," she said abruptly. "He got it from a book up at the -Vanderhoof's. His aunt feels awful bad. It was a libr'y book. They say -he held it all the time." - -The librarian put away the book in her hand, envying the younger woman -her facile tears. She was not imaginative, but she realised dimly for a -moment that this little boy had known more of books, had got more from -them, than she, with all her catalogues. - -They sat together, she, Miss Mather, and Thomas, a strange trio, at the -simple funeral service in the church nearby. So far as daily living -went, they were as near to him as the aunt who cared for him. - -Coming back to the library, they lingered awhile in the reading-room, -trying to realise that it was all over, and that that little, quick -tapping would never be heard again among the books. At last Thomas -spoke: - -"It don't seem right," he said thickly, "it don't seem right nor fair. -Here he was, doting on that book so, tugging it round, just living on -it, you might say, and it turned on him and killed him. Gave it up, and -a sacrifice it was, too--I know--and as a reward, it killed him. Went -back to get it, brought it home, took it to bed--and it killed him. -It's like those things he'd tell me out of it--they all died; seemingly -without any reason, the gods would go back on 'em, and they'd die. He's -often read it out to me." - -"It will be lovely to have that Children's-room memorial," said Miss -Mather, softly, "with all the books and pictures and the little chairs. -It was beautiful in Mrs. Vanderhoof, I think. It wasn't her fault. I -wish--I wish we'd had a little chair in there for Jimmy." - -The librarian got up abruptly and moved around among the magazines, a -mist before her eyes. Only now did she realise how she had grown to -love him. - - - - -THE MAID OF THE MILL - - -I - -"The only objection I have to ghost stories," said young Sanford, "is -from a literary point of view. They're so badly done, you know." - -"In what way?" said the clerk of the hotel, settling back in his office -chair, and smiling at young Sanford and the circle of men who had come -down for their keys from the billiard-room. - -"Well, in this way. I'm not considering the little harmless stories -where the heroes are only frightened, or even those where their heads -are grey in the morning. I'm thinking of those where they never live -to tell the awful tale, you know; the ones in which they tell their -friends to come if they call, and then they never call; the ones in -which, although they scream and scream, nobody hears them. - -"And yet the old trembling man who points them to the haunted room -knows perfectly well that five men have entered that room on five -nineteenths of October, and never come out alive. Yet he only warns -them, or at most only beseeches them not to go in. He has no police -force--not that police could seriously harm the ghosts, but somehow -they never appear to the police; he does not arrange with the victim's -friend to burst in the door at twelve-thirty, anyhow, whether they are -summoned or not; he doesn't--but then, what do any of them do that they -might be expected to? And all this forced condition of things so that -the ghost may have all the evening to work quietly in. Do you mean to -tell me that if I were frightened to the extent of grey hair in the -morning, I couldn't scream loud enough to be heard any distance?" - -This speech drew nods of approval from several of the men. "I've -thought of that, too," said the clerk. In a dark corner behind the -stove sat a man, hunched over his knees, silent, and apparently unknown -to any of the others. At this point he looked up, cleared his throat, -and said in a strange, husky voice: - -"Do you really suppose that that is anything else than nonsense?" Young -Sanford flushed. "Sir"--he began. The other continued in his rough, -thick voice: - -"Do you suppose they don't try to scream? Do you suppose they don't -_think_ they're screaming?" - -A little silence of discomfort fell on the circle. There was something -disagreeably suggestive in the question. Suddenly the man spoke again. - -"I had a friend," he said, "in fact, I had two friends. One was -young--about your age," nodding to Sanford. "The other was older. He -was not so clever nor so attractive nor so brilliant nor so jolly as -the younger, but he had a characteristic--perhaps his only one--for he -was a very ordinary man. He had an iron will. His determination was -as unbreakable as anything human could be. And he was devoted to his -friend, who, somehow, loved him. I don't know why, because he had so -many other admirers--but he stuck to his friend--Joan. They called the -two Darby and Joan. Their real names were not unlike those, and it was -rather funny. Darby used to talk as you were talking, sir," he nodded -again to Sanford, "and he was sure, cock sure, that what he said was -right. He would tell what things were possible and what were not, and -prove what he said very nicely. Joan wasn't clever, but he knew that it -does no good to call a thing impossible. He knew, in fact, that nothing -is more possible than the most impossible things." - -The man coughed and cleared his throat and waited a moment as if to see -whether he were intruding. No one spoke, so he went on. - -"One day Darby rushed into Joan's study and told him of a haunted mill -he'd discovered. It was one of the old mills where the farmers used to -bring their sacks before the big concerns in the West swallowed all the -little trades. It was dusty and cobwebbed and broken down and unused -and haunted. And there was a farmhouse directly across the road and a -house on either side of it not a hundred feet away. - -"'Was it always haunted?' asked Joan. 'No,' said Darby, 'only once -a year.' On Christmas eve every year for nineteen years there had -appeared, late at night, a little light in one of the windows; and that -side of the house had an odd look, somehow it seemed to look fresher -and newer, and at one o'clock or so a horrible piercing shriek would -ring out from the mill, and then a kind of crashing fall, and then all -was still, and the light would disappear. - -"'Had nobody investigated?' Oh, yes. The first year it was noticed -was when houses were built up around it. It used to stand away from -everything else, and the miller and his family lived there. Then, long -after they were dead, people moved out there and heard the noises -and saw the light. They thought of tramps and escaped criminals and -everything one suggests till it had occurred too repeatedly for that, -and then a young farmer went over one Christmas eve, not telling any -one, and they found him roaming about the mill, a hopeless wreck the -next day; he had gone quite mad. - -"And the next year a man came up from the city, and his friends were in -the next room to help him if he called, and he didn't call, and they -were afraid to startle him by knocking, so they got a ladder and peeped -into the window at ten minutes to one, and he lay peacefully on the -bed with his eyes closed and his hands stretched loosely out, and they -thought it was a great joke that he should sleep through it, so they -went home, and in the morning they found him in horrible convulsions, -and he never recovered. - -"And there were two young divinity students that went once together, -and they had a crowd along with instructions to break in the door at -one exactly. And at the stroke of one the crowd beat in the great -door and burst into an empty room! They had gone up a flight too far, -somehow, and as they stood staring at each other, from the room beneath -them came a dreadful shriek and a crash, and when they rushed down they -found the boys in a dead faint. They brought them to and got them home, -and they muttered nonsense about a dog and a sash and would say no -more. And they escaped with severe nervous prostration. But later they -lost what little nerve they had and couldn't sleep at night, and joined -the Catholic Church, because they said that there were things they -found it difficult to reconcile.... - -"'And what was the story of it all?' asked Joan. Oh, the story was -disagreeable enough. The miller's daughter wanted to marry a poor young -man, but her father would not let her. And she refused to accept his -rich nephew. So he locked her in her room till she should consent. And -she stayed there a week. And one night the nephew came home late and -saw a tiny light in her window, and presently he saw some one place -a ladder and go softly up, and the miller's daughter leaned out and -helped him in. So he told her father, who came into her room the next -night with a bloodhound, and bound her to the bed and hushed her cries -with her sash, and lit the little light. And when her lover had climbed -the ladder--the dog was there. And that was Christmas eve. - -"'Do the people suffer this without complaint--these deaths and -convulsions and apostasies?' asked Joan. Well, no. But if they -destroyed the mill a liquor saloon would go up immediately. The -proprietor was simply waiting. And they didn't want that. So they -kept it quiet. And nobody need go there. Nobody had been alarmed -or hurt except the meddlers. And in villages the people have less -scientific curiosity. But Darby was going immediately. It was December -twenty-third now. Joan must come, too; it would be most exciting. Joan -argued against it, but he too was curious, so they agreed to go. And -the next day they went." - - -II - -By this time the circle was absolutely silent, concentrated to ears -and eyes. They stared and leaned towards the shadowy corner behind the -stove where the dimly defined figure crouched. The clerk got up and -turned down the gas, which flared in his face, and the room was almost -wholly dark. The man spoke in a dull, mechanical way, as one speaks who -clears his mind, once for all. At intervals he waited fully ten seconds -to rest his voice, strangely impressive, with its strained, choked -tones. - -"The next day they went," he repeated. "Darby was not only clever--he -was extremely sensitive. Ridicule was unbearable to him. And though he -was a literary fellow, and artistic and all that, he was practical, -too, for all he was so brilliant and winning. It actually troubled -him that people should believe anything but what he called 'the -strictly logical,' and he thought Joan's ideas far too flexible and -credulous. It was really for Joan's sake, he said in joke, whom he -rather suspected of spiritualistic leanings, that he intended to make -the excursion into the country. And he would tell nobody. He would -make no inquiries. He would conduct the search along somewhat unusual -lines, he declared. One of them should sleep in the room. At one -o'clock precisely the other should quietly mount a ladder fixed just -where the mythical ladder had been and enter the room in that way, thus -preventing any mischievous practical jokes from without, and insuring -help to the man within, should he need it. - -"And Joan agreed to this. He was interested himself, and he'd have been -as eager and scornful as Darby if it hadn't occurred to him--for he was -a terribly literal fellow--that four tragedies, sad as these had been, -and all unexplained, couldn't be accounted for by chance nor made less -sad even by a good logician like Darby. So he suggested one or two -friends to fall back upon in case of foul play of any kind. And Darby -looked at him and laughed a little sneering laugh and called him----" -The man choked and bent lower. He seemed to be unable to speak for some -seconds. Then he hurried on, speaking from this point very rapidly and -using a kind of clumsy gesture that brought the scenes he spoke of -strangely clear to the men around him. - -"He called him a coward. So Joan agreed to go. And on the afternoon -of the day before Christmas they took a long ladder and a lantern and -some sandwiches and two revolvers and drove in a butcher's cart to the -little village. And Joan was as eager as Darby that no one should know. -You see, Darby called him a coward. - -"They slipped into the old, dingy mill at dusk, and went over it with -the greatest thoroughness. Everything was open and empty. Only the -corner bedroom and one of the living rooms were furnished at all. The -dust lay thick in the mill proper, but the living rooms were singularly -free from it. Darby noticed this and remarked it to Joan. 'It doesn't -smell half so musty, either,' he said. 'I'm glad of that. I hate old, -musty smells.' - -"Then a queer, crawly feeling came over Joan, and he said: 'Darby, -let's go home. Life's short enough, heaven knows. If anything----' And -then Darby told him once for all that if he wanted to go home he might, -and otherwise he might shut up. - -"'Do you want it dusty and smelly?' said he. - -"'Yes,' said Joan, 'I do. I don't see why it isn't, either. It's just -as old and just as deserted as the other part.' - -"'You might get a little dust from the other side and scatter it -about,' said Darby, and before Joan could reply he had scooped a -handful of dry, brown dust from the bagroom of the mill and laid it -about on the bureau and chairs of the bedroom. 'Now come out for our -last patrol,' he said. They went out and studied the mill carefully. As -they came around to the house side, keeping carefully in the shadow, -Joan looked surprised and pointed to the door by which they had -entered. - -"'That door's shut,' he said. - -"'Well?' asked Darby. - -"'We left it ajar.' - -"'Oh, the wind!' said Darby, and went up to the door softly, listening -for any escaping joker. He rattled the knob and pushed it inward, but -the door did not yield. 'Why, you couldn't have left it ajar,' he said, -'it's locked!' - -"Joan stared at the house, wondering if it was possible that the -window-panes really shone so brightly. And the cobwebs about the -blinds, where were they? He could have sworn that the porch was full of -dead leaves and sticks when they went in--it was as clean as his hand -now. - -"'We'll go in by the window, the broken one, at the back,' he said -quietly. They went around the house and hunted for the broken window, -but did not find it. The window was not only whole but locked. Then -Joan set his teeth. - -"'The broken window must have been at the mill side,' he said, 'we'll -go there.' So they went around and clambered in by a paneless window -and went to the bedroom. The room was dim, but they could distinguish -objects fairly well. Darby looked queerly at Joan. - -"'So you cleared away the dust,' he asked. - -"'What dust?' asked Joan. Then he followed Darby's eyes, and where the -little piles of brown dust had lain were only clean, bare boards. - -"Outside, the teams of the home-coming farmers rolled by. A dog barked, -and now a child called. But they seemed far away--in another country. -Where the two young fellows stood, there was a strange lonely belt of -silence. - -"'Perhaps I brushed the chair as we went out,' said Darby slowly. But -he looked at Joan queerly. - -"They took their supper, and then Joan announced his intention of -staying in the room while Darby patrolled the house, and climbed the -ladder at one. At first Darby demurred. He had planned to stay. But -Joan was inflexible. It was utterly useless to argue with him, so Darby -agreed. If Joan wanted help he was to call. At eleven and twelve Darby -was to climb the ladder and look in, and at one he was to come in, -whatever the situation. At the slightest intimation of danger of any -kind Joan was to fire his revolver and Darby was to call for help and -rush up the ladder. For all that the people were so quiet round about, -they were probably uneasy--they knew that things might happen on the -night before Christmas. - -"Joan sat for some time after Darby had left him, staring about the -room. It was simply furnished with a large bed, a table, and two deal -chairs. Thrown over the bed was a moth-eaten blanket, checked white -and red. Joan swept it off from the bed and shook it, closing his eyes -instinctively to avoid the dust. But no dust came. He shook it again. -It was as fresh and clean as his handkerchief. He threw it back on the -bed and looked out at Darby walking quietly around in the shadow. - -"He was glad Darby was out there. He got to thinking of ghosts and -strange preparations for their coming. The boards of the window -creaked, and he gasped and stared, only to see Darby's face at the -window. 'Anything happened?' he signalled. Joan shook his head. It -must be eleven o'clock. How was it possible? The time had seemed so -short. He stared at a big star till his eyes swam. He felt dull and -drowsy. He had sat up late the night before, and he needed sleep. - -"A thought came to him, and it seemed somehow very original and -striking. He tapped on the pane to Darby. - -"'I'll lie down and take a little nap,' he whispered, opening the -window softly. 'You can call me at twelve.' Darby nodded. - -"'How do you feel, old fellow? All right?' he asked." - -The man choked again and was silent for a time. The strain was growing. -The men waited for something to happen as one awaits the falling of the -red, snapping embers. - -"Joan lay down in that bed," said the stranger hoarsely, and from this -point he hurried on almost too quickly for clearness, "on that hideous -checked blanket, and fell asleep. He fell asleep thinking of Darby's -words and how thoughtful they were: 'How do you feel, old fellow? All -right?' - -"He had bad dreams. He dreamed a woman stood at the foot of the bed and -stared at him and motioned him to go. And she was an unnatural woman. -She kept changing colour, from red to yellow, from yellow to cream -colour, from cream colour to white, from white to--ah! she was a dead -woman! - -"She motioned him to go, but he refused. She came to the side of the -bed and took off her long red sash and bound him down. Then he was -willing to go indeed, and strained his muscles in useless efforts -to break away, but she laughed at him and then breathed in his face -till her damp, icy breath chilled his very soul--and he woke, covered -with the sweat of terror--to see her standing at the foot of the bed, -looking, looking into his staring eyes! - - -III - -"So it was true. There were such things. But at least his limbs were -free, and to his joy he discovered that he was not afraid. No; he -had a dull feeling of coming disaster, but no fear. She was a young -woman, with big shadowy eyes and a strange mouth. She had on a long, -loose white nightgown, open at the throat, and she carried a little -lamp. 'Go!' he saw in her eyes as plainly as if she said it. He looked -about the room--he could have sworn it was changed. It had the air of -a woman's room, that she is living in and keeps her things in. He had -no right there--none. He should have gone. But he was proud because -he wasn't afraid, and he answered her with his eyes that he would not -go. A tired, puzzled look came into her face, a kind of frown, and she -leaned over the footboard and begged him with those big dark eyes, -begged him hard to go. He had his chance--oh, yes, the fool had his -chance! - -"But he was so proud that he could master her, master a returned -soul--for lovely as she was, he knew she wasn't human--that he only set -his teeth and started up to come nearer her. But she raised her hand -and he fell back, feeling queer and drowsy. Then she came to the edge -of the bed and sat down and took from behind her a soft red silk sash -and drew it across his face. A sweet, languid feeling stole over him; -the bed seemed like a cloud of down, her sash smelled like spice and -sandalwood in a warm wind. He felt he was being drugged and weakened, -and he tried to stumble up, but the soft silk smothered him, and he -became almost unconscious. - -"He only wanted one thing--to feel her fingers touch his face and to -hold her long brown hair. And while she drew the sash across his mouth -he stretched out his hands on either side to catch it and reach her -fingers. There was nothing ghostly about her--she was only a lovely -dream-woman. Maybe he was asleep.... - -"And then she pulled the sash away, and he caught her eye and awoke -with a start--her look was full of triumph. She didn't beg him any -longer. This was no helpless, gentle spirit of a woman; this was a -weird elemental creature; she hadn't any soul or any pity; something -made her act out all this dreadful tragedy, without any regard for -human life or reason. He knew somehow that she couldn't help his -weakness; that though in some fiendish way she had bound him hand -and foot, she did it not of herself, but in obedience to some awful -law that she couldn't help any more than he. And then he began to be -afraid. Slowly great waves of horror rose and grew and broke over -him. He tried to move his feet and hands, but he could not so much as -will the muscles to contract. He strained till the drops stood on his -forehead, but still his arms lay stretched motionless across the bed. - -"Just then he met her eyes again, and his heart sank, they were so -mocking and bitter. 'Fool! fool!' they said. They were so malignant, -and yet so impersonal--he could have sworn that she was afraid too. -What was to happen? Would she kill him? His tongue was helpless. He -worked his lips weakly, but they made no words. And she turned down her -mouth scornfully and played with the sash. Why did she wait? For she -was waiting for a time to come--her eyes told that. What was that time? -A great joy that Darby was safe outdoors came to him, and he remembered -that Darby would come at twelve! He would break the spell. And just -then she left the bed and bent down over the little lamp, and when she -took it up it was lighted. She moved across to the window and set it -in the sill. Then she glided to the door and locked it. Joan heard the -bolt slip. - -"Steps sounded on the ladder outside. Into Joan's half-dulled thought -came a kind of comfort. Darby was coming. Some one knocked on the pane -and the window was raised from the outside. - -"'Joan! Joan!' whispered Darby, 'are you all right? Why did you light -the lamp? Where are you?' And then Joan, the fool, forgot that if he -had not answered, Darby would surely have come in. It seemed to him -that if he did not speak now, he was lost. He strained his throat to -say four words--only four: 'All right. Come in.' Just that. The first -two to reassure Darby, the second to bring him. He made a mighty -effort. 'All--all right!' he shouted, 'c--c--,' and then her eyes were -on him and he faded into unconsciousness. He saw in them a terror and -surprise. He understood that she wondered at his speaking. There was a -stinging pain in his throat, and he heard Darby whisper angrily, - -"'Keep still, can't you? Don't howl so! It's quarter to one. I looked -in at twelve, and didn't want to wake you. You'd better get up -now--who's that down there?' and with a sickening despair he heard -Darby hurry down the ladder. - -"The leaves rustled a little and then all was still. He didn't struggle -any longer. It was clear to him now. He was to play the lover in this -ill-fated tragedy, whose actors offered themselves, fools that they -were, unasked, each time. And what happened to the lover? Why, he was -killed. Well, rather that he should die than Darby. It seemed to him so -reasonable, now. No one had asked him to suffer. He had had his chance -to go and refused it. No one could help him now. Not even she. They -must play it out, puppets of an inexorable drama. - -"And then the girl dashed to the bed, and sank beside it as if to pray. -And he felt her hair on his face, as he had hoped, but it brought no -joy to him. For something was coming up from the floor below. Something -that sent a thrill before it, that advanced, slowly, slowly, surely. -The girl shuddered and grasped the bed and tried to pull herself up, -but she sank helplessly back. And slowly the bolt of the door pushed -back. No one pushed it, but it slipped back. Then slowly, inch by inch, -the door opened. Joan grew stiff and cold, and would not have looked -but that his eyes were fixed. Wider, wider, till it stood flat against -the wall. - -"Then up the stairs came steps. And with them others, quick and -pattering. What was that? Who walked so quickly, with padding, thudding -feet? He longed for them to come in--he dreaded their coming. The door -was ready for them. The room was swept and clean. - -"Up, up, they came, the heavy steps and the scratching, pattering feet. -Nearer, nearer--they came in. The man, large, dark, heavy-jawed; the -stone-grey, snarling hound, licking its frothing jaws, straining at its -chain. The girl writhed against the bed in terror--she opened her lips, -but with a stride the man was upon her, his heavy hand was over her -mouth. He dragged her up, shaking and sinking, he snatched the sash and -bound her mouth, he held her at arm's length and stared once in her -eyes. Scorn and rage and murder were in his. - -"Joan forgot his own danger in terrified pity. He struggled a moment, -but it was useless. His dreadful bonds still held. The man came to the -bed, dragging the hound, and Joan shut his eyes, not to see the dark -evil face. He would die in the dark, alone, unaided. Oh! to call once! -To hear a human voice! But there was no sound but the panting of the -great, eager dog. - -"The man seemed not to see him. He seized the girl, and turning her -toward the light that burned at the pane, he bound her to the bed-post -with the silken sash. She writhed and bent and tried to grasp his feet; -she pleaded with her eyes till their agony cut Joan like a knife, but -the man tied her straight and fast. Then he walked to the pane and -crouched down by it and held the dog's muzzle, and became like a stone -image. - -"And suddenly it flashed across Joan's mind, with a passion of fear to -which all that had gone before was as nothing, that Darby was coming up -that ladder to that light! Darby, whom he had thought so safe, was to -come unknowing, unwarned, to that straining, panting beast. He turned -faint for a moment. And then with all the power of his soul he tried -to scream. He felt his throat strain and bend and all but burst with -the tremendous effort. He tried again, and the pain blinded him. At -his feet there the girl strained and twisted, great tears rolling down -her cheeks. And yet there was a ghastly silence. The stifled panting -of that hound echoed in a deadly quiet. It was horrible, pitiful! The -girl's white gown was torn and mussed; her soft naked shoulder quivered -when she strained against the cruel sash. He could see that her arm was -red where it was tied. - -"She trembled and bent and bit her lip till the blood stained her chin. -He cursed and prayed and shrieked till the sound, had it come, would -have deafened him--but it was all a ghastly mockery! It was as still as -a quiet summer afternoon--and the dog and the man waited at the window. - -"There was a sound of scraping. Someone was coming up the -ladder--someone who whistled softly under his breath, and came nearer -every moment. Up, up--the ladder rattled against the window-frame. -The man at the window slipped his hand slowly, slowly from the dog's -muzzle. The dog stiffened and drew back his black, dripping jaws from -his yellow teeth. The man's fingers sunk in the beast's wrinkled neck -and he held him back, while he threw one look of hate and triumph at -the tortured woman behind him. - -"The man bound to the bed couldn't bear it any longer. As a hand -grasped the window-sill from outside, he summoned all his iron will, -and with a rasping, rending effort that brought a sickly, warm taste to -his mouth, he gave a hoarse cry. - -"Then the woman leaned over till the sash sunk into her soft flesh, and -shrieked with a high, shrill note that cut the air like a knife. But -even as she shrieked, a form rose over the sill, there was a rush from -inside, and their voices were drowned in a cry of terror, a scream so -broken and despairing that Joan could not recognise the voice. And then -there was a horrid crashing fall, and the light went out, and something -snapped in the brain of the man chained to the bed, and he dropped for -miles into a deep, black gulf." - - * * * * * - -There was a dead silence in the room. No one dared to speak. The -stranger's voice had quavered and broken, and in a hoarse whisper he -said, rising and stumbling to the door while they made way for him -silently: - -"And when he knew his friends again, Darby had been buried a long time. -Joan did not know whether a broken neck is so much worse than anything -else in the world. He hadn't any curiosity about the mill--he didn't -care to hear the details of how they burned it to the ground. Perhaps -after a while he will be too tired to contradict ignorant people. But -he thinks--he has said, that when a man has not slept five hours in a -week, nor spoken for days together without agony, much may be forgiven -him in the line of intolerance of other people's ignorance--a blessed -ignorance gentlemen, a blessed ignorance." - -The door closed behind him and the men drew a long breath. No one -turned out the gas and it burned till morning, for they took their -keys in silence and went upstairs, for the most part arm in arm, -haunted by the hoarse, rough voice of the stranger, whom they never saw -again. - -And indeed they did not care to see him. "For what could one say?" -as young Sanford demanded, the next day. "It either happened, or it -didn't. If it didn't, he can say no more; if it did, then he is right, -and we are in blessed ignorance." And no one of the circle but nodded -and looked for a moment at the chair behind the stove. - - - - -THE TWILIGHT GUESTS - - -When they left him, in the warm, late afternoon, lying listless on his -couch in the porch, they thought he would stay alone there till they -came again. His little granddaughter, indeed, felt so sad at deserting -him that she ran back and kissed him twice. "To leave Grandpapa alone!" -she said. But he was not alone; there came to him strange guests and -sweet. And this was the manner of their coming. - -As he watched the shadow creeping up the steps, he thought how often he -had marked the time by it in the far away days. He remembered how he -had tried to keep in the broad sunbeam that lay along the walk, when -he used to run home to supper tired and hungry, shouting to his mother -that his school was over and out and that he had come--"So hungry, -mother dear!" And as he thought of her, slow tears crept from under his -old eyelids, and he raised his hand feebly to wipe them away. When he -saw clearly again, he started slightly, for up the path, walking in the -sunbeam, came a boy. He smiled sweetly, cheerily at the old man, and -sat down confidingly, close to the couch. "It is so warm in the sun!" -he said. - -The old man turned uneasily and looked at him. "Are you Arthur's son?" -he asked doubtfully. "My eyes are so dim--I cannot always tell you -apart, at first. Are you Arthur's son?" - -"No," said the child. - -"Are you----" but then the boy looked full in his face and the old man -could not take his eyes from that searching smile. And as he looked, -there grew around his heart the sweet faint breath of lilac trees, -though it was early autumn and not at all the spring. And deep in the -child's eyes was so strange a soul--yet so familiar! As he looked yet -deeper the lilac scent grew stronger and he dared not turn away his -eyes, lest he should lose it. So he listened to the child, who spoke -brightly yet gravely, with his head resting against the old man's knee. - -"See!" he said, "the lilacs are all out! I took a bunch to school, and -the teacher wore them in her dress. Oh, but I grow tired of the school -in the mornings, when the birds sing under the window! The brook is all -full with the flood water, do you know?" - -"Yes," said the old man dreamily, "yes, I know." - -"There are pickerel there--I saw one, anyway!" said the boy. "The old -one--he lives under the stone all alone. If I could get him, I'd be -proud enough! But I never can--I can only catch him on a Friday night -when the moon is full, and then I'm not allowed out! The man that weeds -the garden told me that. Do you remember?" - -"Yes, I remember," said the old man. - -"But if I don't fish, I don't care so much," said the boy happily. "For -I get so wet and dirty, and Rachel doesn't like me then. I can't look -on her book. She is so dear! She never spots the ink on her apron, like -the other girls. And she never eats fish, either. She thinks it hurts -them too much to kill them. I don't think so--do you? But girls are -different." - -"Where are you going to-night?" said the old man, quietly, yet his -voice trembled. - -"I'm going to sing to Rachel's grandfather. He's blind, you know." - -"Yes," said the old man, "and old. His hair is white. He walks with a -cane. But he loves the singing." - -"Then to-morrow I must go to church," said the boy. "The minister talks -and prays and I get so sleepy. But mother keeps a peppermint for me, -just before the second hymn. Then I have it for the long prayer. And -I can sing the hymns. Rachel never looks at me, she sits so still in -church. And she won't play on Sunday. I can have my whip and two of the -largest marbles. Do you think that is wrong?" - -"No," said the old man, "I don't think that is wrong." - -"And we have gingerbread on the porch in the afternoon," said the boy, -"and Rachel comes. Mother says children must not be vexed at the Lord's -Day." - -"Yes," said the old man, "mother is so good to us--so good----" and -when he saw clearly again, the child was gone. Only the shadow lay upon -the upper step of the porch, and the sunbeam was shrunken to a narrow -path of light. - -He stretched out his trembling hands and called sorrowfully to the boy. -"Come back! O come back! I had forgotten so much! And the lilacs----" -but he was alone. And his hair was almost white. He covered his face -with his hands and shivered. For the shadow was creeping up the porch. - -And then over his chilled heart there came the breath of roses--summer -roses. The air struck warm and soft upon his cheeks. And when he -dropped his hands there stood in the sun-ray a straight tall youth. His -eyes were shining with strength; his smile was happiness itself. In his -firm brown hands he held roses--summer roses. The old man forgot to be -afraid and raised himself on the cushions. - -"Give them to me--give them!" he cried. The young man laughed low and -laid the red flowers softly up against the withered cheeks. Then he sat -down and took the cold, dry hands in his. - -"What do they make you remember?" he said. - -The old man sighed for pure joy. "Ah, how sweet--how heavenly sweet! -Did they come from the garden behind her father's house?" - -"Yes," said the youth, "from the old bush near the wall. It was -moonlight, and we picked them together. I reached the highest ones, -because Rachel is not tall. She wore----" - -"She wore the white gown with the big shade hat," said the old man -eagerly. "And I made a wreath for her shoulders. I called her--what did -I call her? The queen--the queen"-- - -"The queen of roses," said the youth. - -"Ah, yes, the queen of roses!" said the old man. "Her mouth was like -the pink, young buds. We went up and down the long paths, and I wanted -her to take my arm." - -"But she would not," laughed the young man. "She said that old folks -might lean, but she could run as well as any man!" - -"So she ran through the garden, and I after!" cried the old man, -crushing the roses till they filled the porch with sweetness. "She hid -behind the old elm and let me call and call. And I had to find her in -the moonshadows. You know she grew afraid and cried out when I caught -her? And yet she knew I would. But women are so. Her mother knew I was -with her, so she let us stay till it was late. Rachel's mother was kind -to me, you know?" - -"Yes," said the young man. "But she knew that Rachel----" - -"Ah!" said the old man quickly, "it seems they all knew! All but Rachel -and me! Now that is so strange. For we should have known it first. But -Rachel laughed so when I tried to tell her, she said--what was it she -said?" - -"That you were too young to know how you would think of it later," said -the youth. - -"And I said, 'I'm old enough to know I love you, Rachel, now and for -ever!'" said the old man softly, clasping his hands together so that -the roses dropped to the ground. "And then she did not laugh at all, -but only held her head down so I could not see her eyes, and would not -speak." - -"It was so still," said the youth. "There was no breeze, and -everything in the garden listened, listened, for what she would say." - -"But nothing in the garden could hear," said the old man eagerly, -"because she only whispered!" - -"Was it then that her mother called?" asked the youth. - -"Yes," said the old man, and he smiled. "But we did not come, for -Rachel was afraid to go. She thought her mother would not like to have -her leave the old home. And she feared to tell her that she wanted to -go. So we sat like silly children in the dark. You see, I was afraid, -too. Her father and mother were old, and old people cannot know how we -feel when love first comes to us--and yet they loved, once!" - -"Yes, they loved once," said the youth, "but they forget. They think -of lands and money and the most prudent course--they cannot feel their -heart's blood rushing through their veins, surging in their ears, 'She -loves me!' They cannot feel that one hour with her is dearer than years -with the others of the world!" - -"And then we went in!" said the old man softly. "Then we went in! And -her mother stood waiting for us. Rachel would not look up and I had to -lead her by the hand. She feared that we could not make it plain, that -her mother would scold us----" - -The youth laughed aloud. "But did she?" he said. - -And the old man laughed too. - -"No. She came to me and kissed me and then she held Rachel and cried. -But not that she was sorry. Older people feel strange when the younger -ones start away, you see." - -The young man picked up the roses and laid them again by the side of -the couch. "Sleep," he said softly, "and dream of her!" And the old -man's eyelids drooped and the hands that held the roses relaxed in -quiet sleep. - -When he awoke the sun had almost set. The path of rays had faded and -the creeping shadow had covered the highest step and lay along the -porch. He felt feebly for the roses, but they were gone. And the sweet -warm scent of them was only in his dim memory. But there sat in the -shadow a man. - -Threads of grey were in his hair and lines around his firm mouth. But -in his eyes shone yet a sweet strength, and he held his head high as he -spoke. - -"Do you know where I have been?" he said. - -The old man shook his head. - -"Think!" said the other. - -Then while he looked into the stranger's eyes, there stole across his -heart the wind that blows through the orchard when the fruit is ripe. -He drew in great breaths of it, in doubt, and at last he said in a -whisper so low that he hardly heard himself, "You have been to his -grave--his little grave!" - -"Yes," said the man, "I have. His mother goes there alone--not even I -go with her. She goes alone." - -"No," said the old man solemnly, "no. God goes with her. I thought that -she would have died--why did she live?" - -"Because," said the other, "because you would have been alone. And you -could not have kept yourself a man, if she had gone, too." - -"Ah, yes!" said the old man softly, "that is it. She is an angel! When -he was born I was almost afraid. I said, 'My son! I have a son! If I -should die to-night, he would live and I should live in him!' And when -she brought him herself into the orchard--I see her now--I see her now!" - -He could not lift his head from the pillow, he was so tired and weak, -but with his eyes he begged the other to come nearer. The man came -close to the couch and looked down tenderly at the old man. "She wore -the white trailing gown," he said. - -"Yes," whispered the old man, "and the great wide hat. And she held him -up under the brim and said that if it should rain, she and he could -keep dry together, but I must stay in the rain!" - -"Do you remember," said the other, "how when he could just say words, -you played with him under the apple tree?" - -"Can I ever forget?" said the old man. "But now the angels teach him a -better language, so that he had but one to learn!" - -"Do you remember how she left him with her mother and went away with -you?" said the other. - -The old man smiled a little. "Ah, yes! Well enough!" he said. "We -thought we would be young again, and leave him to his grandmother and -his sisters. He had enough care! It was not lack of that----" - -"And when you had gone only a few miles she grew anxious----" - -"Yes, yes!" said the old man. "She said, 'Suppose he is sick? Suppose -he falls into the brook? He walks about so brave and strong--and he is -our only son!' So we came back." - -"You were good to her," said the other. "You did always just as she -wished." - -"I loved her," said the old man simply. - -The stranger's eyes grew moist and his voice shook as he said, "When he -grew sick----" - -"Ah, when he grew sick!" cried the old man bitterly. "Almost I lost -my trust in the Giver of my child, and dared not give him back! How I -begged! How I prayed!--you know!" - -"Yes," whispered the stranger, "I know." - -"Then she left me for the first time," said the old man slowly. "For -the first time. She went alone and prayed. Oh Rachel, my dear, dear -wife, I could not go with you to God! I think even we go best alone! I -said 'It cannot be! He cannot let it come! I have done all my life as -best I knew how, and is this my reward?' And I heard her crying, and I -wished I had never lived." - -"But not for long?" said the other. - -The old man smiled through his tears. - -"No, no, not for long!" he said. "When Rachel saw that I was weak she -grew strong. It is strange, but women are the strongest then. And she -showed me the folly and wickedness of throwing away my faith because -the Most Faithful had taken away my child. And she brought me my little -daughters and set them on my knees and put her arms around my neck. So -I grew comforted. And there have come other sons--Arthur and John. But -he--ah, Rachel! Little we thought when we laid him on the grass under -the tree and measured him with goldenrod, that he would so soon lie -there for all our lives!" - -"And he lies there now," said the stranger. - -"Yes," said the old man softly, "he lies there now. Under the apple -tree where he lay and laughed that day, he lies there now. For Rachel -wanted it so. 'I carried him out there the first time,' she said, 'and -he always loved it there. I used to walk there before he came, and -plan for him, how he should grow so great and famous and good; and now -I want him to be there, while he is asleep. And I think that all the -fields are God's--the orchard as well as the graveyard.' So we laid him -there, and she goes there often, and I." - -"You miss her?" said the stranger. - -"Miss her?" said the old man, staring at the visitor, "miss her? Why, -she is here! She is my wife!----" but he was alone, on the couch, with -the faint breath of ripening apples dying on the air. - -And as he turned wearily, the shadow crept softly and covered the porch -and the couch where he lay. The sun dropped behind the hills and the -air struck cold on his uncovered shoulders. He was too tired to cry, -too old and weak to question or find fault, but he dimly felt that -to be left alone was hard. His memory grew suddenly untrustworthy; -had they come or not? It was all so plain to him now. He was not with -Rachel, he was neither in the church nor in the garden nor in the -orchard. He was an old man, strangely weak and confused, left alone. - -"Ah, Rachel," he murmured, "only come again, while I go! Come to take -me--not that it will be long to wait before I see you, dear! We have -been so happy, you and I! But it was so cold----" - -And then while he shivered helplessly and half afraid, there came the -scent of spring lilac-bushes, and by his bed stood the bright-eyed -child. - -"Come! come and sit by me!" cried the old man. But the boy only smiled. -"Take my hands--they are so cold!" he begged. Still the boy smiled. And -as the old man looked, the child's eyes filled him with half hope, half -fear. "Are you--are you----" he tried to speak, but no sound came from -his lips. - -"If I come and touch you," said the boy, "it will be the end. Shall I -come?" The old man's face lighted softly. - -"Yes," he said in his heart, for he could not speak aloud, "yes, come -now!" The boy laughed and stepped to the couch and lay down beside him, -putting his cheek close to the white hair. - -Into the heart of the old man rushed a quick, new life. "Ah, Rachel, -Rachel," he said strong and clear, "sit on the step and eat your cake -with me? Here is the flag-root I promised you--it's quite clean. I took -off all the mud! And here is the red marble"--but the child kissed him -and he went to sleep, holding to his heart his happy youth. - -And when they found him in the evening, they were not too grieved, for -on his face was a great content. - - - - - -End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of Whom The Gods Destroyed, by -Josephine Dodge Daskam Bacon - -*** END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK WHOM THE GODS DESTROYED *** - -***** This file should be named 60496-8.txt or 60496-8.zip ***** -This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: - http://www.gutenberg.org/6/0/4/9/60496/ - -Produced by Carlos Colon, the Princeton University and the -Online Distributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net -(This book was produced from images made available by the -HathiTrust Digital Library.) - -Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions will -be renamed. - -Creating the works from print editions not protected by U.S. copyright -law means that no one owns a United States copyright in these works, -so the Foundation (and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United -States without permission and without paying copyright -royalties. 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You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms of -the Project Gutenberg License included with this eBook or online at -www.gutenberg.org. If you are not located in the United States, you'll have -to check the laws of the country where you are located before using this ebook. - -Title: Whom The Gods Destroyed - -Author: Josephine Dodge Daskam Bacon - -Release Date: October 15, 2019 [EBook #60496] - -Language: English - -Character set encoding: ISO-8859-1 - -*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK WHOM THE GODS DESTROYED *** - - - - -Produced by Carlos Colon, the Princeton University and the -Online Distributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net -(This book was produced from images made available by the -HathiTrust Digital Library.) - - - - - - -</pre> - - -<div class="chapter"> -<p class="box">Transcriber's Notes:<br /> -<br /> - - -Blank pages have been eliminated.<br /> -<br /> -Variations in spelling and hyphenation have been left as in the -original.<br /> -<br /> -A few typographical errors have been corrected.<br /> -<br /> -The cover page was created by the transcriber and can be considered public domain.</p></div> -<hr class="chap" /> - - -<div class="chapter"> -<p class="p6 large">BOOKS BY MISS DASKAM</p> - - -<p class="p2">WHOM THE GODS DESTROYED. -$1.50.</p> - -<p>THE IMP AND THE ANGEL. Illustrated. -<i>Net</i>, $1.25.</p> - -<p>FABLES FOR THE FAIR. <i>Net</i>, $1.00.</p> - -<p>SISTER'S VOCATION AND OTHER -GIRLS' STORIES. $1.25.</p> - -<p>SMITH COLLEGE STORIES. $1.50.</p></div><hr class="chap" /> - - - -<div class="chapter"> -<h1>WHOM THE GODS DESTROYED</h1> - -<p class="center">BY</p> -<p class="center">JOSEPHINE DODGE DASKAM</p> - -<div class="figcenter2em" id="illo1"><img src="images/illo1.jpg" width="100" -height="83" alt="" title="" /> -</div> - - -<p class="center p4">NEW YORK<br /> -CHARLES SCRIBNER'S SONS<br /> -MDCCCCII</p> -</div><hr class="chap" /> - - - -<div class="chapter"> -<p class="p6 center"><i>Copyright, 1902, by Charles Scribner's Sons</i></p> - -<p class="p4 center">Published, October, 1902</p> - -<p class="p4 center">TROW DIRECTORY<br /> -PRINTING AND BOOKBINDING COMPANY<br /> -NEW YORK</p></div><hr class="chap" /> - - - -<div class="chapter"> -<p class="p6 center">To</p> -<p class="center">K. W.</p> - -<p class="center">WITH THE FRIENDSHIP OF</p> -<p class="center">MANY YEARS</p> -<p class="center">J. D. D.</p></div><hr class="chap" /> - - - -<div class="chapter"> -<h2>CONTENTS</h2> - - - -<table border="0" cellpadding="5" cellspacing="5" summary="indice"> - -<tr> -<td class="tdr"><i>I.</i></td> -<td class="tdl"><a href="#WHOM_THE_GODS_DESTROYED"><i>Whom the Gods Destroyed</i></a></td> -<td class="tdrb">1</td> -</tr> - -<tr> -<td class="tdr"><i>II.</i></td> -<td class="tdl"><a href="#A_WIND_FLOWER"><i>A Wind Flower</i></a></td> -<td class="tdrb">29</td> -</tr> - -<tr> -<td class="tdr"><i>III.</i></td> -<td class="tdl"><a href="#WHEN_PIPPA_PASSED"><i>When Pippa Passed</i></a></td> -<td class="tdrb">67</td> -</tr> - -<tr> -<td class="tdr"><i>IV.</i></td> -<td class="tdl"><a href="#THE_BACKSLIDING_OF"><i>The Backsliding of Harriet Blake</i></a></td> -<td class="tdrb">101</td> -</tr> - -<tr> -<td class="tdr"><i>V.</i></td> -<td class="tdl"><a href="#A_BAYARD_OF_BROADWAY"><i>A Bayard of Broadway</i></a></td> -<td class="tdrb">127</td> -</tr> - -<tr> -<td class="tdr"><i>VI.</i></td> -<td class="tdl"><a href="#A_LITTLE_BROTHER_OF_THE"><i>A Little Brother of the Books</i></a></td> -<td class="tdrb">157</td> -</tr> - -<tr> -<td class="tdr"><i>VII.</i></td> -<td class="tdl"><a href="#THE_MAID_OF_THE_MILL"><i>The Maid of the Mill</i></a></td> -<td class="tdrb">189</td> -</tr> - -<tr> -<td class="tdr"><i>VIII.</i></td> -<td class="tdl"><a href="#THE_TWILIGHT_GUESTS"><i>The Twilight Guests</i></a></td> -<td class="tdrb">219</td> -</tr> -</table></div> - -<hr class="chap" /> - -<div class="chapter"> -<p class="p6"><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_1" id="Page_1">[1]</a></span></p> - - - - -<h2 id="WHOM_THE_GODS_DESTROYED">WHOM THE GODS DESTROYED</h2></div> - - -<h3>I</h3> - -<p>The most high gods have decided that too -much power over the hearts of men shall not be -given to other men, for then the givers are forgotten -in the gift and the smoke dies away from -the altars. So they kill the men who play with -souls. According to an ancient saying, before they -destroy the victim they make him mad. There are, -however, modifications of the process. Occasionally -they make him drunk.</p> - -<p>As I came down the board-walk that leads to -the ocean, I saw by his staggering and swaying -gait that the man was not only very drunk indeed, -but that he gloried in the fact. This was shown -by his brandishing arms and tossing head and -the defiant air with which he regarded the cottages, -before one of which he paused, leaned forward, -placing one hand dramatically at his ear, -and presently executed a wild dance of what was -apparently derision. A timid woman would have<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_4" id="Page_4">[4]</a></span> -retreated, but I am not timid, except when I am -alone in the dark. Also I have what my brother-in-law -calls Bohemian tastes. As nearly as I have -been able to understand that phrase, it signifies -a great interest in people, especially when they -are at all odd. And this solitary, scornful dance -of a ragged man before the Averys' cottage was -odd in the extreme.</p> - -<p>So I walked quietly along. When I reached the -man I heard him muttering rapidly to himself, -while he rested from the exertion of his late performance. -What did dancing drunken men talk -about? I walked slower. My brother-in-law says -that a woman with any respect for the proprieties, -to say nothing of the conventions, would never -have done this. I have observed, however, that his -feelings for the proprieties and the conventions, -both of them, have on occasion suffered relapse, -more especially at those times, prior to his marriage -to my sister, when I, although supposed to -be walking and riding and rowing and naphtha-launching -with them, was frequently and inexcusably -absent. So I gather that the proprieties<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_5" id="Page_5">[5]</a></span> -and the conventions, like many other things, are -relative.</p> - -<p>As I passed the man he turned and looked -crossly at me and spoke apparently to some one far -away behind me, for he spoke with much force.</p> - -<p>"Did you ever hear such damn foolishness?" he -demanded. Now there was nothing to hear but -Miss Kitty Avery playing Chopin's Fourth Ballade -in F minor. She played it badly, of course, -but nobody who knew Kitty Avery would have -imagined that she would play otherwise than -badly, and I have heard so much bad playing that -I didn't notice it very much anyway. I thought -it hardly probable that the man should know how -unfortunate Kitty's method and selection were, so -I passed directly by. Soon I heard his steps, and -I knew he was coming after me. While he was -yet some distance behind me he spoke again.</p> - -<p>"I suppose that fool of a woman thinks she can -play," he growled as he lurched against a lamp-post. -Then I did the unpardonable deed. I turned -and answered him.</p> - -<p>"How do you know it's a woman?" I asked.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_6" id="Page_6">[6]</a></span></p> - -<p>"Huh! Take me for a fool, don't you?" he said -scornfully, scuffling along unsteadily. "I'm drunk -as an owl, but I'm no fool! No. I know it's a -woman from the pawin' 'round she does. Bah! -Thinks she's playin'. Damn nonsense!" He sat -down carefully on the sand by the side of the walk -and wagged his head knowingly. I looked cautiously -about. No one was in sight. I bent down -and untied my shoe.</p> - -<p>"Perhaps you could play it better?" I suggested -sweetly. His jaw dropped with consternation.</p> - -<p>"Play it better! Oh, Lord! She says can I play -it better! Can-I-play-it-better? Well, I'll tell you -one thing. If I couldn't play it better, d'ye know -what I'd do? Do you?"</p> - -<p>"No," said I, and tied my shoe. He didn't talk -thickly as they do in books. On the contrary, he -brought out each word with a particularly clear -and final utterance.</p> - -<p>"Well, I'll tell you what I'd do. I'd go off and -drown my sorrers in drink! Yes, I would. Although -I'm so drunk that I wouldn't know when I was<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_7" id="Page_7">[7]</a></span> -getting drunk on principle and when I was just -plain drunk. Le' me tell you somethin': <i>I'm drunk -now!</i>" He announced the fact with a gravity so -colossal as to render laughter impossible. I untied -the other shoe.</p> - -<p>"Can you really play Chopin?" I said. He -shook his fist at the Avery cottage.</p> - -<p>"What I can't play of Chopin you never heard -played! So that's the end o' that," he said. The -folly of the situation suddenly became clear to me. -I hastily tied my shoe and turned to go. He half -rose from the sand, but sank helplessly back.</p> - -<p>"Look here," he said confidentially, "I'm tired, -and I need m' rest. I got to have rest. We all need -rest. If you want to hear me play, you come to -the old hulk of a barn that's got the piano in it. -They call it the auditorium—au-di-to-ri-um." He -pronounced the syllables as if to a child of three. -"I'll be there. You come before supper. I'll be rested -then. I'd like to shoot that woman—thinks she -can play—damn nonsense—" I went on to the -beach.</p> - -<p class="p2"><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_8" id="Page_8">[8]</a></span></p> - - -<h3>II</h3> - -<p>My brother-in-law came down on the afternoon -boat, and of course he occupied our attention. His -theories, though often absurd, are certainly well -sustained. For instance, his ideas as to the connection -between genius and insanity. He says—but -I don't know why I speak of it. I defeated -him utterly. At length I left the room. I hate a -man who won't give up when he's beaten. I found -the Nice Boy on the piazza, and we sat and talked. -Really a charming fellow. And not so very young, -either. He told fascinating tales of a shipwreck -he'd experienced, where they sat on the bow as the -boat went down and traded sandwiches.</p> - -<p>"I gave Hunter two hams for a chicken, and -it was a mean swindle!" he said reminiscently. -"Speaking of sandwiches, I gave a chap ten cents -to buy one this afternoon. Awfully seedy looking. -Shabby clothes, stubbly beard, dirty hands, -not half sober, and what do you think he said?" -I remembered and blushed.</p> - -<p>"I don't know," I murmured.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_9" id="Page_9">[9]</a></span> -"He invited me to a recital—a piano recital! -He said he was going to play at five-thirty in the -auditorium, and I might come if I liked, though -it was a private affair! How is that for nerve? He -didn't look up to a hand organ."</p> - -<p>My curiosity grew. And then, I had a great -consciousness of not liking to disappoint even a -drunken man. He evidently thought I was coming. -I sketched lightly to the Nice Boy the affair -of the morning. He was not shocked. He was -amused. But my brother-in-law says that nothing -I could say could shock the Nice Boy. In fact, he -says, that if I mean nothing serious, I have no -business to let the Nice Boy think—but that is a -digression. It is one of my brother-in-law's prerogatives -to be as impertinent as he cares to be.</p> - -<p>"Shall we go over?" said I. "He is very probably -an accompanist, stranded here, with his engagement -ended. Perhaps he even plays well. -These things happen in books." The Nice Boy -shook his head.</p> - -<p>"We'll go, by all means," he said, "but don't -hope. He's not touched a piano this long time."</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_10" id="Page_10">[10]</a></span></p> - -<p>So we gathered some shawls and cushions and -went over. The building was all dusty and smelled -of pine. As we stumbled in, the sound of a piano -met us. I own I was a bit excited. For one doubtful -second I listened, ready to adore. Then I -laughed nervously. We were not people in a book. -It was Mendelssohn's "Spring Song," played -rather slowly and with a mournful correctness. I -could feel the player's fingers thudding down on -the keys—one played it so when it was necessary -to use the notes. The Nice Boy smiled consolingly.</p> - -<p>"Too bad," he whispered. "Shall we go out -now?"</p> - -<p>"I should like to view the fragments of the -idol!" I whispered back. "Let's end the illusion -by seeing him!"</p> - -<p>So we tip-toed up to the benches, and looked -at the platform where the Steinway stood. -Twirling on the stool sat a girl of seventeen -or so, peering out into the gloom at us. It was -very startling. Now I felt that the strain was yet -to come. As I sank into one of the chairs a man<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_11" id="Page_11">[11]</a></span> -rose slowly from a seat under the platform. It -was the stranger. He nodded jauntily at us.</p> - -<p>"Good thing you come," he announced cheerfully. -"I don't know how long I could stand that -girl. I guess she's related to the other," and he -shambled up the steps. His unsteady walk, his shaking -hand, as he clumsily pushed the chairs out of -the way, told their disagreeable story. He walked -straight up to the girl, and looking beyond her, -said easily, "Excuse me, miss, but I'm goin' to play -a little for some friends o' mine, an' I'll have to ask -you to quit for a while." The girl looked undecidedly -from him to us, but we had nothing to -say.</p> - -<p>"Come, come," he added impatiently, "you can -bang all you want in a few minutes, with nobody -to disturb you. Jus' now I'm goin' to do my own -turn."</p> - -<p>His assurance was so perfect, his intention to -command obedience so evident, that the child got -up and went slowly down the stairs, more curious -than angry. The man swept the music from the -rack, and lifted the top of the piano to its full<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_12" id="Page_12">[12]</a></span> -height. Then with an impatient twitch he spun the -music-stool a few inches lower, and pulled it out. -The Nice Boy leaned over to me.</p> - -<p>"The preparations are imposing, anyhow," he -whispered. But I did not laugh. I felt nervous. -To be disappointed again would be too cruel! I -watched the soiled, untidy figure collapse onto -the stool. Then I shut my eyes, to hear without -prejudice of sight the opening triple-octave scale -of the professional pianist. For with such assurance -as he showed he should at least be able to -play the scales.</p> - -<p>The hall seemed so large and dim, I was so -alone—I was glad of the Nice Boy. Suppose it -should all be a horrible plot, and the tramp should -rush down with a revolver? Suppose—and then I -stopped thinking. For from far-away somewhere -came the softest, sweetest song. A woman was singing. -Nearer and nearer she came, over the hills, -in the lovely early morning; louder and louder she -sang—and it was the "Spring Song"! Now she -was with us—young, clear-eyed, happy, bursting -into delicious flights of laughter between the bars.<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_13" id="Page_13">[13]</a></span> -Her eyes, I know, were grey. She did not run or -leap—she came steadily on, with a swift, strong, -swaying, lilting motion. She was all odorous of the -morning, all vocal with the spring. Her voice -laughed even while she sang, and the perfect, -smooth succession of the separate sounds was unlike -any effect I have ever heard. Now she passed—she -was gone by. Softer, fainter, ah, she was -gone! No, she turned her head, tossed us flowers, -and sang again, turned, and singing, left us. -One moment of soft echo—and then it was still.</p> - -<p>I breathed—for the first time since I heard her, -I thought. I opened my eyes. It was all black before -them, they had been closed so long. I did not -dare look at the Nice Boy. There was absolutely -nothing for him to say, but I was afraid he would -try to say it. He was staring at the platform. His -mouth was open, his eyes very large. Without -turning his face towards me, he said solemnly, -"And I gave him ten cents for a sandwich! Ten -cents for a sandwich!"</p> - -<p>Suddenly I heard sobs—heavy, awkward sobs. -I looked behind me. The girl had dropped for<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_14" id="Page_14">[14]</a></span>ward -on to the chair in front and was hysterically -chattering into her handkerchief.</p> - -<p>"<i>I</i> played that! <i>I</i> played that!" she wailed. "Oh, -he heard me! he did, he did!" I felt horribly -ashamed for her. How she must feel! A child can -suffer so.</p> - -<p>But the man at the piano gave a little chuckle -of satisfaction, and ran his hands up and down -the keys in a delirium of scales and arpeggios. -Then he hit heavily a deep, low note. It was like -a great, bass trumpet. A crashing chord: and -then the love-song of Germany and musicians -caught me up to heaven, or wherever people go -who love that tune—perhaps it is to Germany—and -I heard a great, magnificent man singing in a -great, magnificent baritone, the song that won -Clara Schumann's heart.</p> - -<p>Schubert sang sweetly, wonderfully. I cry like -a baby when one sings the Serenade even fairly -well. And dear Franz Abt has made most loving -melodies. But they were musicians singing, this -was a man. "<i>Du meine Liebe, du!</i>"—that was no -piano; it was a voice. And yet no human voice<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_15" id="Page_15">[15]</a></span> -could be at once so limpid and so rich, so thrilling -and so clear. And now it crashed out in chords—heavy, -broken harmony. All the rapture of possession, -the very absolute of human joy were there—but -these are words, and that was love and music.</p> - -<p>I don't in the least know how long it lasted. -There was no time for me. The god at the piano -repeated it again and again, I think, as it is never -repeated in the singing, and always should be. I -know that the tears rolled over my cheeks and -dropped into my lap. I have a vague remembrance -of the Nice Boy's enthusiastically and brokenly -begging me to marry him to-night and go to Venice -with him to-morrow, and my ecstatically consenting -to that or anything else. I am sure he held -my hand during that period, for the rings cut in -so the next day. And I think—indeed I am quite -certain—but why consider one's self responsible for -such things? At any rate, it has never happened -since.</p> - -<p>And when it was over we went up hand in hand, -and the Nice Boy said, "What—what is your—your -name?" And I stared at him, expecting to<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_16" id="Page_16">[16]</a></span> -see his dirty clothes drop off, and his trailing -clouds of glory wrap him 'round before he vanished -from our eyes. His heavy eyebrows bent together. -His knees shook the piano-stool. He was -labouring under an intense excitement. But I think -he was pleased at our faces.</p> - -<p>"What—what the devil does it matter to you -what I'm named?" he said roughly.</p> - -<p>"Oh, it doesn't matter at all, not at all," I said -meekly; "only we wanted, we wanted——" And -then, like that chit of seventeen, I cried, too. I am -such a fool about music.</p> - -<p>"Now you know what I mean when I say I can -play," he growled savagely. He seemed really terribly -excited, even angry. "I'll play one thing -more. Then you go home. When I think o' what -I might have done, great God, I can't die till I've -shown 'em! Can I? Can I die? You hear me! You -see"—his face was livid. His eyes gleamed like -coals. I ought to have been afraid, but I wasn't.</p> - -<p>"You shall show them!" I gasped. "You shall! -Will you play for the hotel? We can fill this place -for you. We can——"</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_17" id="Page_17">[17]</a></span></p> - -<p>"Oh, you shut up!" he snarled. "You! I've -played to thousands, I have. You don't know anything -about it. It's this devil's drink that's killin' -me. It ruined me in Vienna. It spoiled the whole -thing in Paris. It's goin' to kill me." His voice -rose to a shriek. He dropped from the stool, and -from his pocket fell a bottle. The Nice Boy gave -a queer little sob.</p> - -<p>"Oh, it's dreadful, dreadful!" he whispered to -himself. He jumped up on the platform and seized -the man's shoulder.</p> - -<p>"Come, come," he said. "We'll help you. Come, -be a man! You stay here with us, and we'll take -care of you. Such a gift as yours shall not go for -nothing. Come over to the hotel, and I'll get you -a bed."</p> - -<p>The man staggered up. He was much older -than I had thought. There were deep, disagreeable -lines in his face. There was a coarseness, too—but, -oh, that "Spring Song"! Now, how can -that be? My brother-in-law says—but this is not -his story. The man got onto the seat somehow.</p> - -<p>"You're a decent fellow," he said. "When I've<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_18" id="Page_18">[18]</a></span> -done playing, you go out. Right straight out. -D'ye hear? I'll come see you to-morrow morning."</p> - -<p>Then he shut his eyes and felt for the keys, -and played the Chopin Berceuse. And it is an -actual fact that I wanted to die then. Not suddenly—but -just to be rocked into rest, rocked into -rest, and not wake up any more. It was the purest, -sweetest, most inexpressibly touching thing I ever -heard. I felt so young—so trustful, somehow. I -knew that no harm would come. And then it sang -itself to sleep, and we went away and left him, -with his head resting on his hands that still pressed -the keys. And we never spoke. I think the girl -came out with us, but I'm not sure.</p> - -<p>At the door the Nice Boy gulped, and said in a -queer, shaky voice, "I'm not nearly good enough to -have sat by you—I know that—you seem so far -away—but I want to tell you." And I said that he -was much better than I—that none of us were good—that -I thought it would be all right in the end—that -after all it was being managed better -than we could arrange it—that perhaps heaven<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_19" id="Page_19">[19]</a></span> -was more like what we used to think than what -we think now. There is no knowing what we might -have said if my brother-in-law had not come down -to see where I was. And then I went to sleep like -a baby.</p> - - -<h3>III</h3> - -<p>I should like to end the story here. I should -like to leave him bowed over the keys and remember -only the most exquisite experience of my life -in connection with him. But there is the rest of -the tale, and it really needs telling.</p> - -<p>I didn't see the end. The Nice Boy and my -brother-in-law saw that, and I only know as much -as they will tell me. The Nice Boy went over and -got him the next morning. He said his name was -Decker. He said that he had spent the night in -the solemnest watching and praying, and he had -held the bottle in his hands and never touched a -drop of it. They gave him a bath and clothes, and -fed him steadily for two days. He grew fat before -our eyes. He looked nicer, more respectable, but<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_20" id="Page_20">[20]</a></span> -more commonplace. He refused to touch the -piano, because it gave him such a craving for -drink.</p> - -<p>He hated to talk about himself. But he let slip -occasional remarks about London and Paris and -Vienna and Leipsic that took away one's breath. -He must have known strange people. Once he told -me a little story about Clara Schumann that implied -more than acquaintance, and he quoted Liszt -constantly. He was an American beyond a doubt, -we thought. He spoke vaguely of a secret that -even Liszt had missed. I guessed it was connected -with that wonderful singing quality that made -the instrument a human voice under his fingers. -When I asked him about it he laughed.</p> - -<p>"You wait," he said confidently. "You just -wait. I'll show you people something to make you -open your eyes. I know. You're a good audience, -you and your friend. You make a good air to -play in. You just wait."</p> - -<p>And I have waited. But never again shall I hear -that lovely girl sing across the hills. Never again -will my heart grow big, and ache and melt, and<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_21" id="Page_21">[21]</a></span> -slip away to that song, "Du, Meine Leibe, Du." -Oh, it was not of this earth, that music. Perhaps -when I die I shall hear the Berceuse echo—I think -it may be so.</p> - -<p>Well, we got them all together. There must have -been a thousand. They came from across the bay -and all along the inlet. The piano was tuned, and -the people were seated, and I was just where we -were that night, and Mr. Decker was walking behind -the little curtain in a new dress-suit. He had -shaken hands with me just before. His hands were -cold as ice and they trembled in mine. I congratulated -him on the presence of Herr H—— from -Leipsic, who had been miraculously discovered just -across the bay; and Mr. J—— of New York, who -could place him musically in the most desirable -fashion; and asked him not to forget me, his -first audience, and his most sincere friend and -admirer.</p> - -<p>In his eyes I could swear I saw fright. Not nervousness, -not stage fear, but sheer, appalling terror. -It could not be, I thought, and my brother-in-law -told me to go down. Then he stepped to<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_22" id="Page_22">[22]</a></span> -the front and told them all how pleased, how -proud and delighted he was to be the means of -introducing to them one whom he confidently -trusted would leave this stage to-night one of the -recognised pianists of the world. He described -briefly the man's extraordinary effect upon two of -his friends, who were not, he was good enough to -say, likely to be mistaken in their musical estimates. -He hoped that they all appreciated their -good fortune in being the first people in this part -of the world to hear Mr. Decker, and he took great -pleasure in introducing him.</p> - -<p>At this point Mr. Decker should have come forward. -As he did not, my brother-in-law stepped -back to get him. He found the Nice Boy alone in -the room behind the stage, looking distinctly nervous. -He explained that Mr. Decker had gone out -for a moment to get the air—he was naturally a -bit excited, and the room was close. My brother-in-law -said nothing, and they waited a few minutes -in strained silence. Finally they walked about -the room looking at each other.</p> - -<p>"Do you think it was quite wise to let him go?"<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_23" id="Page_23">[23]</a></span> -said my brother-in-law, with compressed lips. The -Nice Boy is horribly afraid of my brother-in-law.</p> - -<p>"I'll—I'll go out and—and get him," he -gasped, and dashed out into the dark, cursing -himself for a fool. This was unfortunate, for in -five seconds more Mr. Decker had reeled into the -room. He explained in a very thick voice that he -had never been able to play without the drink; -that a little brandy set his fingers free, but that -he had taken too much and must rest.</p> - -<p>When the Nice Boy got back—he had brought -two great pails of cold water and a fresh dress-shirt—it -was too late. The man lay in a heap on -the floor, and my brother-in-law stood, white and -raging, talking to the heap. The man was drunkenly, -horribly asleep. The Boy said that the worst -five minutes he ever spent were those in which he -poured water over the heap on the floor and shook -it, my brother-in-law watching with an absolutely -indescribable expression!</p> - -<p>Then he got out on the platform and said something. -Mr. Decker had met with an accident—would -some one get a doctor?—was there perhaps<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_24" id="Page_24">[24]</a></span> -a doctor in the audience?—they could realise his -position—and more of that sort.</p> - -<p>I knew well enough. When the doctor went in -he found the Boy shaking the drunken brute on -the floor, and they told the doctor all about it, -and then went out by the other door. And they -got a carriage and took Decker to the hotel.</p> - -<p>I don't know—it seemed not wholly his fault. -And his face showed that he had suffered. But -the men would hear nothing of that. My brother-in-law -says that for a woman who is really as -hard as nails I have more apparent and æsthetic -sympathy than any one he ever knew. And that -may be so.</p> - -<p>The people took it very nicely. They cleared -the floor, and the younger ones danced and the -older ones talked, and the manager sent over ices -and coffee, and it turned out the affair of the -season. And they were all very grateful to my -brother-in-law and his friend, and quite forgot -about the strange artist.</p> - -<p>Whether he ever fully realised what the evening -had been we never knew, because when they<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_25" id="Page_25">[25]</a></span> -went in the next morning to see how he was, they -found him dead. The doctor said that the excitement, -the terror, the sudden cutting off of -liquor, with the sudden wild drinking, were too -much for an overstrained heart, and that he had -probably died soon after he was carried to his -room.</p> - -<p>It seemed to me a little sad that while they were -dancing, the man whom they had come to see——. But -my brother-in-law says that I turn to the -morbid view of things, and that that was the very -blessing of the whole affair—that the crowd -should have been so pleased, and that the horrible -situation should have ended so smoothly. Because -such a man is better dead, he says. And of -course he is right. Life would be horrible to him, -one can see.</p> - -<p>But I have noticed that the Nice Boy and the -girl who heard him play do not feel so sure that -his death was best. For myself, I shall always feel -that the world has lost its musical master. I have -heard the music-makers of two generations, and -not one of them has excelled his exquisite light<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_26" id="Page_26">[26]</a></span>ness -and force of touch, and that wonderful singing -stress—oh! I could cry to think of it! And -when we go abroad next I shall find out the name -of the man who played in Leipsic and Paris and -Vienna—for he must have played there once; he -said he had played to thousands—and see if any -one there has heard of his secret, his wonderful -singing through the keys.</p> - -<p>For, though my brother-in-law says that the -musical temperament in combination with a Bohemian -tendency gives an emotional basis which -is absolutely unsafe and therefore untrustworthy -in its reports of actual facts, I know that the most -glorious music of my life gained nothing from my -imagination. For there were three of us who saw -the spring come over the hills that night. Three -of us heard the triumph-song of love incarnate, -and thrilled to it. Three of us knew for once a -peace that passed our understanding, and had -the comfort of little children in their mother's -arms.</p> - -<p>And though it is not true, as my brother-in-law -insinuates, that a man need only be able to play<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_27" id="Page_27">[27]</a></span> -my soul away in order to be ranked by me among -the angels, I shall continue to insist that somewhere, -somehow, the beautiful sounds he made are -accounted to him for just a little righteousness!</p> - -<hr class="chap" /> - -<div class="chapter"> -<p class="p6"><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_29" id="Page_29">[29]</a></span></p> - - - - -<h2 id="A_WIND_FLOWER">A WIND FLOWER</h2></div> - - -<h3>I</h3> - -<p>Willard's landlady smiled sympathetically -across the narrow breakfast-table. "I guess you've -got to stay in this mornin', Mr. Willard," she said. -"It's a good deal too raw and cold for you to be -out around, paintin', to-day."</p> - -<p>Willard nodded. "Quite right, Mrs. Storrs," he -returned, and he smiled at his landlady's daughter, -who sat opposite. But she did not smile at him. -She continued her silent meal, looking for the most -part at her plate, and replying to direct questions -only by monosyllables.</p> - -<p>She must be nineteen or twenty, he decided, but -her slender, curveless figure might have been that -of a girl several years younger. Her face was -absolutely without character to the casual glance—pale, -slightly freckled, lighted by grey-green, -half-closed eyes, and framed in light brown hair. -Her lips were thin, and her rare smile did not dis<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_32" id="Page_32">[32]</a></span>close -her teeth. Even her direct look, when he compelled -it, was quite uninterested.</p> - -<p>Her mother chattered with volubility of a woman -left much alone, and glad of an appreciative listener, -but the girl had not, of her own accord, -spoken a word during his week's stay. He wondered -as he thought of it why he had not noticed -it before, and decided that her silence was not obtrusive, -but only the outcome of her colourless -personality—like the silence of the prim New England -house itself.</p> - -<p>He groaned inwardly. "What in time <i>can</i> I do? -Nothing to read within five miles: my last cigar -gone yesterday: this beastly weather driving me to -melancholia! If she weren't such a stick—heavens! -I never knew a girl could be so thin!"</p> - -<p>The girl in question rose and began clearing -the table. Her mother bustled out of the room, and -left Willard in the old-fashioned arm-chair by the -window, almost interested, as he wondered what the -girl would do or say now. After five minutes of -silence he realised the strange impression, or rather -the lack of impression, she made on him. He was<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_33" id="Page_33">[33]</a></span> -hardly conscious of a woman's presence. The intangible -atmosphere of femininity that wraps -around a <i>tête-à-tête</i> with even the most unattractive -woman was wholly lacking. She seemed simply -a more or less intelligent human being.</p> - -<p>Given greatly to analysis, he grew interested. -Why was this? She was not wanting intellectually, -he was sure. Such remarks as she had made in -answer to his own were not noticeable for stupidity -or even stolidity of thought. He broke the -silence.</p> - -<p>"What do you do with yourself, these days?" -he suggested. "I don't see you about at all. Are -you reading, or walking about these fascinating -Maine beaches?"</p> - -<p>She did not even look up at him as she replied. -"I don't know as I do very much of anything. -I'm not very fond of reading—at least, not these -books."</p> - -<p>Remembering the "Pilgrim's Progress," "Book -of Martyrs," "Mrs. Heman's Poems," and the -"Adventures of Rev. James Hogan, Missionary -to the Heathen of Africa," that adorned the<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_34" id="Page_34">[34]</a></span> -marble-topped table in the parlour, he shuddered -sympathetically.</p> - -<p>"But I walk a good deal," she volunteered. "I've -been all over that ledge you're painting."</p> - -<p>"Isn't it beautiful?" he said. "It reminds me of -a poem I read somewhere about the beauty of -Appledore—that's on this coast somewhere, too, -isn't it? You'd appreciate the poem, I'm sure—do -you care for poetry?"</p> - -<p>She piled the dishes on a tray, and carried it -through the door before he had time to take it -from her.</p> - -<p>"No," she replied over her shoulder, "no, I don't -care for it. It seems so—so smooth and shiny, -somehow."</p> - -<p>"Smooth? shiny?" he smiled as she came back, -"I don't see."</p> - -<p>Her high, rather indifferent voice fell in a slight -embarrassment, as she explained: "Oh, I mean the -rhymes and the verses—they're so even and like a -clock ticking."</p> - -<p>He took from his pocket a little red book. "Let -me read you this," he said eagerly, "and see if<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_35" id="Page_35">[35]</a></span> -you think it smooth and shiny. You must have -heard and seen what this man tries to tell."</p> - -<p>She stood awkwardly by the table, her scant, -shapeless dress accentuating the straight lines of -her slim figure, her hands clasped loosely before -her, her face turned toward the window, which -rattled now and then at the gusts of the rising -wind. Willard held the little book easily between -thumb and finger, and read in clear, pleasant tones, -looking at her occasionally with interest:</p> - -<div class="poetry-container"> -<div class="poetry"><div class="stanza"> -<div class="line">"<i>Fresh from his fastnesses, wholesome and spacious,</i></div> -<div class="line"><i>The north wind, the mad huntsman, halloos on his white hounds</i></div> -<div class="line"><i>Over the gray, roaring reaches and ridges,</i></div> -<div class="line"><i>The forest of Ocean, the chase of the world.</i></div> -<div class="line"><i>Hark to the peal of the pack in full cry,</i></div> -<div class="line"><i>As he thongs them before him, swarming voluminous,</i></div> -<div class="line"><i>Weltering, wide-wallowing, till in a ruining</i></div> -<div class="line"><i>Chaos of energy, hurled on their quarry,</i></div> -<div class="line"><i>They crash into foam!</i>"</div> -</div></div></div> - -<p>"There! is that smooth and shiny?" he demanded. -She had moved nearer, to catch more certainly -his least intonation.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_36" id="Page_36">[36]</a></span></p> - -<p>Her hands twisted nervously, and to his surprise -she smiled with unmistakable pleasure.</p> - -<p>"Oh, no!" she half whispered, eyeing the book in -his hand wistfully. "Oh, no! That makes me feel -different. I—I love the wind."</p> - -<p>"What's that?" Mrs. Storrs entered quickly. -"Now, Sarah, you just stop that nonsense! Mr. -Willard, has she been tellin' you any foolishness?"</p> - -<p>"Miss Storrs had only told me that she liked -the wind," he replied, hoping that the woman -would go, and let him develop at leisure what -promised to be a most interesting situation. She -had really very pretty, even teeth, and when she -smiled her lips curved pleasantly.</p> - -<p>But Mrs. Storrs was not to be evaded. She had -evidently a grievance to set forth, and looking -reproachfully at her daughter, continued:</p> - -<p>"Ever since Sarah was five or six years old she's -had that crazy likin' for the wind. 'Tain't natural, -I say, and when the gales that we hev up here strike -us, the least anybody can do 's to stay in the house -and thank Providence they've got a house to stay<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_37" id="Page_37">[37]</a></span> -in! Why, Mr. Willard, you'd never think it to -look at her, for she's a real quiet girl—too quiet, -seems to me, sometimes, when I'm just put to it -for somebody to be social with—but in thet big -gale of eighty-eight she was out all night in it, -and me and her father—that was before Mr. -Storrs died—nearly crazy with fearin' she was lost -for good. And when she was six years old, she -got up from her crib and went out on the beach -in her little nightgown, and nothin' else, and it's -a miracle she didn't die of pneumonia, if not of -bein' blown to death."</p> - -<p>Mrs. Storrs stopped for breath, and Willard -glanced at the girl, wondering if she would appear -disconcerted or angry at such unlooked-for -revelation of her eccentricity; but her face had -settled into its usual impassive lines, and she dusted -the chairs serenely, turning now and then to look -fixedly through the window at the swaying elm -whose boughs leaned to the ground under the still -rising wind.</p> - -<p>Her mother was evidently relieving the strain -of an enforced silence, and sitting stiffly in her<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_38" id="Page_38">[38]</a></span> -chair, as one not accustomed to the luxury of idle -conversation, she continued:</p> - -<p>"And even now, when she's old enough to know -better, you'd think, she acts possessed. Any wind-storm -'ll set her off, but when the spring gales -come, she'll just roam 'round the house, back and -forth, staring out of doors, and me as nervous -as a cat all the while. Just because I won't let -her go out she acts like a child. Why, last year -I had to go out and drag her in by main force; -I was nearly blown off the cliff gettin' her -home. And she was singin', calm, as if she -was in her bed like any decent person! It's the -most unnatural thing I ever heard of! Now, -Sarah Storrs," as the girl was slipping from the -room, "you remember you promised me not to go -out this year after supper, if the wind was -high. You mind, now! It's comin' up an awful -blow."</p> - -<p>The girl turned abruptly. "I never promised -you that, mother," she said quickly. "I said I -wouldn't if I could help it, and if I can't help it, -I can't, and that's all there is to it." The door<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_39" id="Page_39">[39]</a></span> -closed behind her, and shortly afterwards Willard -left Mrs. Storrs in possession of the room.</p> - -<p>The day affected him strangely. The steady -low moan of the wind was by this time very noticeable. -It was not cold, only clear and rather keen, -and the scurrying grey clouds looked chillier than -one found the air on going out. The boom of the -surf carried a sinister threat with it, and the birds -drove helplessly with the wind-current, as if escaping -some dreaded thing behind them.</p> - -<p>Indoors, the state of affairs was not much better: -Mrs. Storrs looked injured; her sister, a lady of -uncertain years and temper, talked of sudden -deaths, and the probability of premature burial, -pointed by the relation of actual occurrences of -that nature; Sarah was not to be seen. At last he -could bear idleness no longer, and opening the -dusty melodeon, tried to drown the dreary minor -music of the wind by some cheerful selection from -the hymn-book Mrs. Storrs brought him, having -a vague idea that secular music was out of keeping -with the character of that instrument. After -a few moments' aimless fingering the keys he found<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_40" id="Page_40">[40]</a></span> -himself pedalling a laborious accompaniment to -the "Dead March" from Saul, and closed the -wheezy little organ in despair.</p> - -<p>The long day dragged somehow by, and at -supper Sarah appeared, if anything, whiter and -more uninteresting than ever, only to retire immediately -when the meal was over.</p> - -<p>"I might's well tell you, Mr. Willard, that you -c'n give up all hope of paintin' any more this -week," announced Mrs. Storrs, as the door closed -behind her daughter. "This wind's good for a -week, I guess. I'm sorry to have you go, but I -shouldn't feel honest not to tell you." Mentally -vowing to leave the next morning, Willard thanked -her, and explained that the study was far enough -advanced to be completed at his studio in the city, -and that he had intended leaving very shortly.</p> - - -<h3>II</h3> - -<p>A few moments later, as he stood at the window -in the parlour, looking at the waving elm-boughs -and lazily wondering how the moon could be so -bright when there were so many clouds, the soft<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_41" id="Page_41">[41]</a></span> -swish of a woman's skirt sounded close to his ear. -As he turned, the frightened "Oh!" and the little -gasp of surprised femininity revealed Sarah, standing -near the table in the centre of the room. Even -at that distance and in the dark he was aware of -a difference in her, a subtle element of personality -not present before.</p> - -<p>"Did I frighten you?" he asked, coming nearer.</p> - -<p>"No, not very much. Only I thought nobody -would be here. I—I—wanted some place to breathe -in; it seems so tight and close in the house." As -she spoke, a violent blast of wind drove the shutters -against the side of the house and rubbed together -the branches of the elm until they creaked -dismally. She pressed her face against the glass -and stared out into the dark.</p> - -<p>"Don't you love it?" she questioned, almost -eagerly.</p> - -<p>Willard shook his head dubiously. "Don't know. -Looks pretty cool. If it gets much higher, I -shouldn't care to walk far."</p> - -<p>She took her old place by the table again, but -soon left it, and wandered restlessly about the<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_42" id="Page_42">[42]</a></span> -room. As she passed him he was conscious of a -distinct physical impression—a kind of electric -presence. She seemed to gather and hold about her -all the faint light of the cold room, and the sweep -of her skirt against his foot seemed to draw him -toward her. Suddenly she stopped her irregular -march.</p> - -<p>"Hear it sing!" she whispered.</p> - -<p>The now distinct voice of the wind grew to a -long, minor wail, that rose and fell with rhythmic -regularity. As she paused with uplifted finger near -him, Willard felt with amazement a compelling -force, a personality more intense, for the time, than -his own. Then, as the blast, with a shriek that -echoed for a moment with startling distinctness -from every side, dashed the elm branches against -the house itself, she turned abruptly and left the -room. "Stay here!" she said shortly, and, resisting -the impulse to follow her, he obeyed. In a few moments -she returned with a heavy shawl wrapped -over her head and shoulders.</p> - -<p>"Hold the window open for me," she said, "I'm -going out." He attempted remonstrance, but she<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_43" id="Page_43">[43]</a></span> -waved him impatiently away. "I can't get out of -the door—mother's locked it and taken the key, -but you can hold up the window while I get out. -Oh, come yourself, if you like! But nothing can -happen to me."</p> - -<p>Mechanically he held open the window as she -slipped out, and, dragging his overcoat after him, -scrambled through himself. She was waiting for -him at the corner of the house, and as he stumbled -in the unfamiliar shadows, held out her hand.</p> - -<p>"Here, take hold of my hand," she commanded. -Her cool, slim grasp was strangely pleasant, as -she hurried along with a smooth, gliding motion, -wholly unlike her indifferent gait of the day before.</p> - -<p>Once out of the shelter of the house, the storm -struck them with full force, and Willard realised -that he was well-nigh strangled in the clutches of -a genuine Maine gale.</p> - -<p>"What folly!" he gasped, crowding his hat -over his eyes and struggling to gain his wonted -consciousness of superiority. "Come back instantly, -Miss Storrs! Your mother——"</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_44" id="Page_44">[44]</a></span></p> - -<p>"Come! come!" she interrupted, pulling him -along.</p> - -<p>He stared at her in amazement. Her eyes were -wide open and almost black with excitement. Her -face gleamed like ivory in the cold light. Her lips -were parted and curved in a happy smile. Her -slender body swayed easily with the wind that -nearly bent Willard double. She seemed unreal—a -phantom of the storm, a veritable wind-spirit. -Her loosened hair flew across his face, and its touch -completed the strange thrill that her hand-clasp -brought. He followed unresistingly.</p> - -<p>"Aren't—you—afraid—of—the—woods?" he -gasped, the gusts tearing the words from his lips, -as he saw that she was making for the thick growth -of trees that bordered the cliff. Her high, light -laughter almost frightened him, so weird and unhuman -it came to him on the wind.</p> - -<p>"Why should I be afraid? The woods are so -beautiful in a storm! They bow and nod and throw -their branches about—oh, they're best of all, -then!"</p> - -<p>A sweeping blast nearly threw him down, and<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_45" id="Page_45">[45]</a></span> -he instinctively dropped her hand, since there was -no possible feeling of protection for her, her footing -was so sure, her balance so perfect. As he -righted himself and staggered to the shelter of -the tree under which she was standing, he stopped, -lost in wonder and admiration. She had impatiently -thrown off the shawl and stood in a gleam -of moonlight under the tree. Her long, straight -hair flew out in two fluttering wisps at either side; -her straight, fine brows, her dark, long lashes, her -slender, curved mouth were painted against her -pale face in clear relief. Her eyes were widely -open, the pupils dark and gleaming. It seemed to -his excited glance that rays of light streamed from -them to him. "Heavens! she's a beauty! If only -I could catch that pose!" he said under his -breath.</p> - -<p>"Come!" she called to him again, "we're wasting -time! I want to get to the cliff!" He pressed -on to her, but she slipped around the tree and -eluded him, keeping a little in advance as he -panted on, fighting with all the force of a fairly -powerful man against the gale that seemed to<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_46" id="Page_46">[46]</a></span> -offer her no resistance. It occurred to him, as he -watched with a greedy artist's eye the almost unnatural -ease and lightness of her walk, that she -caught intuitively the turns of the wind, guiding -along currents and channels unknown to him, for -she seemed with it always, never against it. Once -she threw out both her arms in an abandon of -delight, and actually leaned on the gust that -tossed him against a tree, baffled and wearied with -his efforts to keep pace with her, and confusedly -wondering if he would wake soon from this improbable -dream.</p> - -<p>Speech was impossible. The whistling of the -wind alone was deafening, and his voice was blown -in twenty directions when he attempted to call her. -Small twigs lashed his face, slippery boughs glided -from his grasp, and the trees fled by in a thick-grown -crowd to his dazed eyes. To his right, a -birch suddenly fell with a snapping crash. He -leaped to one side, only to feel about his face a -blinding storm of pattering acorns from the great -oak that with a rending sigh and swish tottered -through the air at his left.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_47" id="Page_47">[47]</a></span></p> - -<p>"Good God!" he cried in terror, as he saw her -standing apparently in its track. A veer in the -gale altered the direction of the great trunk, that -sank to the ground across her path. As it fell, -with an indescribable, swaying bound she leaped -from the ground, and before it quite touched the -earth she rested lightly upon it. She seemed absolutely -unreal—a dryad of the windy wood. All -fear for her left him. As she stood poised on the -still trembling trunk, a quick gust blew out her -skirt to a bubble on one side, and drove it close to -her slender body on the other, while her loose hair -streamed like a banner along the wind. She curved -her figure towards him and made a cup of one -hand, laying it beside her opened lips. What she -said he did not hear. He was rapt in delighted -wonder at the consummate grace of her attitude, -the perfect poise of her body. She was a figure -in a Greek frieze—a bas-relief—a breathing -statue.</p> - -<p>Unable to make him hear, she turned slightly -and pointed ahead. He realised the effect of the -Wingless Victory in its unbroken beauty. She was<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_48" id="Page_48">[48]</a></span> -not a woman, but an incarnate art, a miracle of -changing line and curve, a ceaseless inspiration.</p> - -<p>Suddenly he heard the pound and boom of the -surf. In an ecstasy of impatience she hurried back, -seized his hand, and fairly dragged him on. The -crash of the waves and the wind together took -from him all power of connected thought. He -clung to her hand like a child, and when she threw -herself down on her face to breathe, he grasped -her dress and panted in her ear: "We—can't—get—much—farther—unless—you—can—walk—the—Atlantic!" -She smiled happily back at -him, and the thickness of her hair, blown by the -wind from the ocean about his face, brought him -a strange, unspeakable content.</p> - -<p>"Shall we ever go back?" he whispered, half to -himself. "Or will you float down the cliff and wake -me by your going?"</p> - -<p>Her wide, dark eyes answered him silently. "It -is like a dream, though," her high, sweet voice -added. And then he realised that she had hardly -spoken since they left the house. The house? As<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_49" id="Page_49">[49]</a></span> -in a dream he tried vaguely to connect this Undine -of the wood with the girl whose body she had -stolen for this night's pranks. As in a dream he -rose and followed her back, through the howling, -sweeping wind. Her cold, slim hand held his; her -light, shrill voice sang little snatches of songs—hymns, -he remembered afterward. As the moonlight -fell on her, he wondered dreamily why he -had thought her too thin. And all the while he -fought, half-unconsciously, the resistless gale, that -spared him only when he yielded utterly.</p> - -<p>The house gleamed white and square before -them. Silently he raised the window for her. He -had no thought of lifting her in. That she should -slip lightly through was of course. The house was -still lighted, and he heard the creaking of her -mother's rocking-chair in the bedroom over his -head. He looked at his watch. "Does her mother -rock all night?" he thought dully, for it was -nearly twelve. She read his question from the perplexed -glance he threw at her.</p> - -<p>"She's sitting up to watch the door so that I -sha'n't get out," she whispered quietly, without<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_50" id="Page_50">[50]</a></span> -a smile. "Good-bye." And he stood alone in the -room.</p> - -<p>Until late the next morning he wandered in -strange, wearied, yet fascinating dreams with her. -Vague sounds, as of high-pitched reproaches and -quiet sobbing, mingled with his morning dreams, -and when, with aching head and thoroughly bewildered -brain, he went to his late breakfast, Mrs. -Storrs served him; only as he left for the -train, possessed by a longing for the great, busy -city of his daily work, did he see her daughter, -walking listlessly about the house. Her freckled -face was paler than ever, her half-closed eyes reddened, -and her slight, awkward bow in recognition -of his puzzled salute might have been directed to -some one behind him. Only his aching head and -wearied feet assured him that the strangest night -of his life had been no dream.</p> - - -<h3>III</h3> - -<p>That his studio should seem bare and uninteresting -as he threw open the door, and tried to -kindle a fire in the dusty stove, did not surprise<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_51" id="Page_51">[51]</a></span> -him. That the sketches and studies in colour should -look tame and flat to the eye that had been fed -for two weeks with Maine surf, angry clouds, and -swaying branches, was perhaps only natural. But -as the days went on and he failed to get in train -for work a puzzled wonder slowly grew in him. -Why was it that the picture dragged so? He remembered -perfectly the look of the beach, the feel -of the cold, hungry water, the heavy, grey clouds, -the primitive, forbidding austerity that a while -ago he had been so confidently eager to put on the -canvas. Why was it that he sat for hours together -helplessly staring at it? His friends supposed him -wrapped in his subject, working under a high -pressure, and considerately left him alone; they -would have marvelled greatly had they seen him -glowering moodily at the merest study of the subject -he had described so vividly to them, smoking -countless packages of cigarettes, hardly lifting his -hand from his chair-arm.</p> - -<p>Once he threw down a handful of brushes and -started out for a tramp. It occurred to him that -the city sights and smells, the endless hum and<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_52" id="Page_52">[52]</a></span> -roar, the rapid pace of the crowded streets would -tone him up and set his thoughts in a new line; -he was tired of the whistling gales and tossing -trunks and booming surf that haunted his nights -and confused his days. A block away from the -studio a flower-woman met him with a tray of -daffodils and late crocuses. A sudden puff of wind -blew out her scant, thin skirt; a tree in the centre -of the park they were crossing bent to it, the -branches creaked faintly. The fresh, earthy odour -of the flowers moved him strangely. He bought a -bunch, turned, and went back to the studio, -to sit for an hour gazing sightlessly ahead of -him.</p> - -<p>Suddenly he started up and approached the -sketch.</p> - -<p>"It wants wind," he muttered, half unconsciously, -and fell to work. An hour passed, two, -three—he still painted rapidly. Just as the light -was fading a thunderous knock at the door ushered -in the two men he knew best. He nodded vaguely, -and they crossed the room in silence and looked -at the picture. For a few moments no one spoke.<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_53" id="Page_53">[53]</a></span> -Presently Willard took a brush from his mouth -and faced them.</p> - -<p>"Well?" he said.</p> - -<p>The older man shook his head. "Queer sky!" -he answered briefly.</p> - -<p>The younger looked questioningly at Willard. -"You'll have to get a gait on you if you hope to -beat Morris with that," he said. "What's up, -Willard? Don't you want that prize?"</p> - -<p>"Of course I do." His voice sounded dull, even -to himself. "You aren't any too sympathetic, you -fellows——" he tried to feel injured.</p> - -<p>The older man came nearer. "What's that white -thing there? Good Lord, Will, you're not going to -try a figure——"</p> - -<p>Willard brushed rapidly over the shadowy outline. -"No—that was just a sketch. The whole -thing's just a sort of——"</p> - -<p>"The whole thing's just a bluff!" interrupted -the younger man, decidedly. "It's not what you -told us about at all—and it's not good, anyway. -It looks as if a tornado had struck it! You said it -was to be late afternoon—it's nearer midnight, as<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_54" id="Page_54">[54]</a></span> -far as I can see! What's that tree lying around -for?"</p> - -<p>His tone was abusive, but a genuine concern and -surprise was underneath it. He looked furtively at -his older friend behind Willard's back. The other -shook his head expressively.</p> - -<p>Willard bit his lip. "I only wanted to try—it -won't necessarily stay that way," he explained. -He wished he cared more for what they said. He -wished they did not bore him so unspeakably. -More than all, he wished they would go.</p> - -<p>The younger one whistled softly. "Pretty late -in the day to be making up your mind, I should -say," he remarked. "When's it going to dry -in? Morris has been working like a horse on his -for six weeks. He's coming on, too—splendid -colour!"</p> - -<p>Willard lit a cigarette. "Damn Morris!" he said -casually. The older man drew on his glove and -turned to go.</p> - -<p>"Oh, certainly!" he replied cheerfully. "By all -means! No, we can't stay—we only dropped in. -We just thought we'd see how you were getting<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_55" id="Page_55">[55]</a></span> -along. If I were you, Will, I'd make up my mind -about that intoxicated tree and set it up straight—good-bye!"</p> - -<p>They went out cheerfully enough, but he knew -they were disappointed and hurt—they had expected -so much from that picture. And he wished -he cared more. He looked at it critically. Of course -it was bad, but how could they tell what he had -been doing? It was the plan of months changed -utterly in three hours. The result was ridiculous, -but he needed it no longer—he knew what he -wanted now, what he had been fighting against all -these days. He would paint it if he could—and -till he could. The insistent artist-passion to express -even bunglingly something of the unendurable -beauty of that strange night was on him, -and before the echo of his guests' departure had -died away he was working as he had never worked -before, the old picture lying unnoticed in the corner -where he had thrown it.</p> - -<p>He needed no models, he did not use his studies. -Was it not printed on his brain, was it not etched -into his heart, that weird vision of the storm, with<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_56" id="Page_56">[56]</a></span> -the floating fairy creature that hardly touched the -earth? Was there a lovely curve in all her melting -postures, which slipped like water circles into new -shapes, that he did not know? That haunting, -elf-like look, that ineffably exquisite <i>abandon</i>, had -he not studied it greedily then in the wood, and -later, in his restless dreams? The trees were sentient, -the bushes put out clasping fingers to detain -him, the wind shrieked out its angry soul at him; -and she, the white wonder with her floating wisps -of stinging hair, had joined with them to mock at -him, the startled witness of that mad revel of all -the elements. He knew all this—he was drunk with -it: could he paint it? Or would people see only a -strange-eyed girl dancing in a wood?</p> - -<p>He did not know how many days he had been -at work on it; he ate what the cleaning-woman -brought him; his face was bristled with a stubby -growth; the cigarette boxes strewed the floor. Men -appeared at the door, and he urged them peevishly -to go away; people brought messages, and he said -he was not in town, and returned the notes unread. -In the morning he smiled and breathed hard and<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_57" id="Page_57">[57]</a></span> -patted the easel; at night he bit his nails and -cursed himself for a colour-blind fool.</p> - -<p>There was a white birch, strained and bent in -the wind, that troubled him still, and as he was -giving it the last touches, in the cold, strong afternoon -light, the door burst open.</p> - -<p>"Look here, the thing closes at six! Are you -crazy?" they called to him, exasperatedly. "Aren't -you going to send it?"</p> - -<p>"That's all right, that's all right," he muttered -vaguely, "shut up, can't you?"</p> - -<p>They stood over behind him, and there was a -stillness in the room. He laid down his palette -carefully and turned to them, a worried look on -his drawn, bristled face.</p> - -<p>"That's meant to be the ocean beyond the cliff -there," he said, an almost childlike fear in his eyes, -"did—did you know it?"</p> - -<p>The older man drew in a long breath.</p> - -<p>"Lord, yes! I hear it!" he returned, "do you -think we're deaf?"</p> - -<p>The younger one squinted at various distances, -muttering to himself.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_58" id="Page_58">[58]</a></span></p> - -<p>"Dryad? Undine? No, she frightens you, but -she's sweet! George! He's painted the wind! He's -actually drawn a wind! My, but it's stunning! -My!"</p> - -<p>Willard sank into a chair. He was flushed and -his legs shook. He patted the terrier unsteadily -and talked to her. "Well, then! Well, then! So -she was, iss, so she was!"</p> - -<p>The older man snapped his watch. "Five-thirty," -he said. "Put something 'round it, and -whistle a cab—we'll have to hurry!"</p> - -<p>Willard fingered some dead crocuses on the -stand beside him. "Look out, you fool, it's wet!" -he growled. The older man patted his shoulder.</p> - -<p>"All right, boy, all right!" he said soothingly. -"It's all done, now—never mind!"</p> - -<p>They shouldered it out of the door while he -pulled the terrier's ears.</p> - -<p>"Where you going?" they called.</p> - -<p>"Turkish bath. Restaurant. Vaudeville," he answered, -and they nodded.</p> - -<p>"All alone?"</p> - -<p>"Yes, thanks. Drop in to-morrow!"</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_59" id="Page_59">[59]</a></span></p> - -<p>"——And drive like thunder!" he heard them -through the open window.</p> - -<p>A week later he was walking up Broadway between -them, sniffing the fresh, sweet air comfortably, -the terrier at his heels. At intervals they -read him bits from the enthusiastic comments of -the critics.</p> - -<p>"Mr. Willard, whose 'Windflower' distanced all -competitors and won the Minot prize by a unanimous -verdict of the judges, has displayed, aside -from his thorough master of technic, a breadth -of atmosphere, an imaginative range rarely if ever -equalled by an American. Nothing but the work -itself, so manifestly idealistic in subject and treatment, -could convince us that it is not a study from -life, so keen, so haunting is the impression produced -by the remarkable figure of the Spirit of -the Gale, who seems to sink before our eyes on the -falling trunk, literally riding the storm. In direct -contrast to this abandon of the figure is the admirable -reticence of the background which is keyed -so low——"</p> - -<p>Willard stopped abruptly before the window of<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_60" id="Page_60">[60]</a></span> -a large art establishment where a photograph of -the picture was already displayed. "I want one -of those," he said, "and I'm going out into the -country for a bit before I sail, I think."</p> - -<p>"Oh, back there?" they asked, comprehensively.</p> - -<p>"Yes, back there!"</p> - - -<h3>IV</h3> - -<p>As the train rushed along he explained to himself -why he was going—why he had not merely -sent the photograph. He wanted to see her, to -brush away the cloud of illusion that the weeks -had spun around her. He wanted to realise definitely -the difference between the pale, silent, unformed -New England girl and the fascinating -personality of his picture. Ever since he left her -they had grown confused, these two that his common -sense told him were so different, and he was -beginning to dread the unavowed hope that for -him, at least, they might be some day one. The -same passionate power that had thrown mystery -and beauty into colour on the canvas wove sweet,<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_61" id="Page_61">[61]</a></span> -wild dreams around what he contemptuously told -himself was little better than a lay figure, but he -yielded to it now as he had then.</p> - -<p>When he told himself that he was going purposely -to hear her talk, to see her flat, unlovely -figure, to appreciate her utter lack of charm, of -all vitality, he realised that it was a cruel errand. -But when he felt the sharp thrill that he suffered -even in anticipation as his quick imagination pictured -the dream-cloud dropping off from her, actually -before his eyes, he believed the journey more -than ever a necessary one.</p> - -<p>As he walked up the little country street his -heart beat fast; the greening lawns, the fresh, -faint odours, the ageless, unnamable appeal of the -spring stirred his blood and thrilled him inexpressibly. -He was yet in the first flush of his success; -his whole nature was relaxed and sensitive to every -joy; he let himself drift on the sweet confused -expectancy, the delicious folly, the hope that he -was to find his dream, his inspiration, his spirit of -the wind and wood.</p> - -<p>A child passed him with a great bunch of daf<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_62" id="Page_62">[62]</a></span>fodils -and stopped to watch him long after he had -passed, wondering at the silver in her hand.</p> - -<p>At the familiar gate a tall, thin woman's figure -stopped his heart a second, and as a fitful gust -blew out her apron and tossed her shawl over her -head, he felt his breath come more quickly.</p> - -<p>"Good heavens!" he muttered, "what folly! Am -I never to see a woman's skirt blown without——"</p> - -<p>She put the shawl back as he neared her—it -was Mrs. Storrs's sister. She met his outstretched -hand with a blank stare. Suddenly her face -twitched convulsively.</p> - -<p>"O Mr. Willard! O Mr. Willard!" she cried, -and burst into tears.</p> - -<p>The wind blew sharper, the elm tree near the -window creaked, a dull pain grew in him.</p> - -<p>"What is it? What's the matter?" he said -brusquely.</p> - -<p>"I suppose you ain't heard—you wouldn't be -apt to!" she sobbed, and pushing back the locks -the wind drove into her reddened eyes, she broke -into incoherent sentences: he heard her as one in -a dream.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_63" id="Page_63">[63]</a></span></p> - -<p>"And she would go—'twas the twenty-fifth—there -was dozens o' trees blown down—'twas just -before dark—her mother, she ran out after her -as soon's she knew—she called, but she didn't hear—she -saw her on the edge o' the rocks, an' she -almost got up to her an' screamed, an' it scared -her, we think—she turned 'round quick, an' she -went right off the cliff an' her mother saw her go—'twas -awful!"</p> - -<p>Willard's eyes went beyond her to the woods; -the woman's voice, with its high, flat intonation, -brought the past so vividly before him that he -was unconscious of the actual scene—he lived -through the quick, terrible drama with the intensity -of a witness of it.</p> - -<p>"No, they haven't found her yet—the surf's too -high. We always had a feeling she wouldn't live—she -wasn't like other girls——"</p> - -<p>Half unconsciously he unwrapped the photograph.</p> - -<p>"I—I brought this," he said dully. The woman -blanched and clutched the gate-post.</p> - -<p>"Oh, take it away! Take it away!" she gasped,<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_64" id="Page_64">[64]</a></span> -a real terror in her eyes. "O Mr. Willard, how -could you—it's awful! I—I wouldn't have her -mother see it for all the world!" Her sobs grew -uncontrollable.</p> - -<p>He bent it slowly across and thrust it in his -pocket.</p> - -<p>"No, no," he said soothingly, "of course not, -of course not. I only wanted to tell—you all—that -it took the prize I told you about and—and -was a good thing for me. I hoped—I hoped——"</p> - -<p>He saw that she was trembling in the sudden -cold wind, and held out his hand.</p> - -<p>"This has been a great shock to me," he said -quietly, his eyes still on the woods. "Please tell Mrs. -Storrs how I sympathise—how startled I was. I -am going abroad in a few days. I will send you my -address, and if there is ever anything I can do, you -will gratify me more than you can know by letting -me help you in any way. Give her these," and he -thrust out the great bunch of daffodils to her. -She took them, still crying softly, and turned -towards the house.</p> - -<p>Later he found himself in the woods near the<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_65" id="Page_65">[65]</a></span> -great oak that lay just as it had fallen that night. -Beneath all the confused tumult of his thoughts -one clear truth rang like a bell, one bitter-sweet -certainty that caught him smiling strangely as he -realised it! "She's won! She's won!"</p> - -<p>There, while the branches swayed above him, -and the surf, sinister and monotonous, pounded -below, the vision that had made them both famous -melted into the elusive reality, and he lived again -with absolute abandonment that sweet mad night, -he felt again her hair blown about his face as he -lay on the windy cliff with the lady of his dreams.</p> - -<p>For him her fate was not dreadful—she could -not have died like other women. There was an intoxication -in her sudden taking away: she was -rapt out of life as she would have wished, he knew.</p> - -<p>Slowly there grew upon him a frightened wonder -if she had lived for this. Her actual life had -been so empty, so unreal, so concentrated in those -piercing stolen moments; she had ended it, once -the heart of it had been caught and fixed to give -to others faint thrills of all she had felt so utterly.</p> - -<p>"She died for it!" he felt, with a kind of awe<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_66" id="Page_66">[66]</a></span> -that was far from all personal vanity—the blameless -egoism of the artist.</p> - -<p>He left the little town hardly consciously. On -his outward voyage, when the gale beat the -vessel and the wind howled to the thundering -waves, he came to know that though a love more -real, a passion less elusive, might one day hold -him, there would rest always in his heart and brain -one ceaseless inspiration, one strange, sweet memory -that nothing could efface.</p> - -<hr class="chap" /> - -<div class="chapter"> -<p class="p6"><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_67" id="Page_67">[67]</a></span></p> - - - - -<h2 id="WHEN_PIPPA_PASSED">WHEN PIPPA PASSED</h2></div> - - -<p>Mr. Delafield, stepping comfortably forth -from his club, had dined especially well, and was -in a correspondingly good humour. As the brisk -March wind swept across the corner just in front -of him, he meanwhile settling his glossy hat more -firmly on a fine, close-clipped grey head, a sudden -kindly impulse, not entirely usual with him, -sent him bending to his knee to pick up the fugitive -slip of white, scribbled foolscap that fluttered -by him, hotly pursued by a slender young man.</p> - -<p>"Thanks. Oh, thanks!" murmured the pursuer, -as Delafield, with a courteous inclination of the -head, tendered the captured slip.</p> - -<p>"Not at all." A consciousness of the boy's quick -panting, his anxious tug at the paper, actually -an almost audible beating of the heart, drew the -older man to look carefully at him. A white, oval -face, drooping mouth, black, deep-set eyes that -fairly burned into his, compelled attention.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_70" id="Page_70">[70]</a></span></p> - -<p>"Important paper, I suppose?" he inquired -lightly. "Wouldn't want to lose it."</p> - -<p>"No—oh, no!"</p> - -<p>"Get a wigging at the office?"</p> - -<p>"It—it's not—they are my own—it is a poem!" -stammered the young man.</p> - -<p>Delafield chuckled involuntarily, and then, as a -quick red poured over the other's cheeks, he made -a hasty gesture of apology.</p> - -<p>"No offence—none at all, I assure you, Mr.—Mr. -Poet! I was only taken by surprise. One -doesn't often assist a poet in catching his works!" -He laughed again, a contented after-dinner -laugh.</p> - -<p>Then, as the young man fell behind him quietly, -the incident being over, an idle desire for company -prompted him to delay his own pace.</p> - -<p>"Do you write much? Get it printed? Good -publisher?" he inquired genially. Few persons -could resist Lester Delafield's smile: his very butler -warmed to it, and the woman who retained her -reserve under it he had never met.</p> - -<p>Again the young man blushed. "Published? No,<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_71" id="Page_71">[71]</a></span> -sir; I never dared to see—I don't know if it's -worth being printed," he said.</p> - -<p>"But you think it's pretty good, eh? I'll bet -you do. I used to. Let me see it. I'll tell you if -it's worth anything."</p> - -<p>They had turned into a quieter cross-street; the -wind had passed them by. Standing under a street-light, -benevolently amused at his impulse, Delafield -tucked his stick under his arm, uncreased the -paper, and noted the title of the poem aloud: <i>To -the Moon in a Stormy Night.</i> His eyebrows lifted; -he glanced quizzically at the young man, but met -such an earnest, searching look, so restrained, yet -so quivering, so terrified, yet so brave, that his -heart softened and he read on in silence.</p> - -<p>A minute passed, two, three, and four. The man -read silently, the boy waited breathless in suspense. -The noisy, crowding city seemed to sweep by them, -leaving them stranded on this little point of time.</p> - -<p>Mr. Delafield raised his eyes and regarded the -boy thoughtfully.</p> - -<p>"You say you wrote this?" he demanded.</p> - -<p>"Yes, sir."</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_72" id="Page_72">[72]</a></span></p> - -<p>"When did you write it?"</p> - -<p>"Last night."</p> - -<p>"Have you any more like it?"</p> - -<p>"I don't know if it's like it. I've got quite a -good deal more. What do you——" He could get -no further. Drops of perspiration started from -his forehead. His mouth was drawn flat with -anxiety.</p> - -<p>"This poetry," said Delafield, with a carefully -impersonal calm, "is very good. It is remarkably -good. It is stunning, in fact. '<i>And moored at last -in some pale bay of dawn</i>'—why did you stop -there? Isn't that rather abrupt?"</p> - -<p>"That was when it ended. Do you really -think——"</p> - -<p>"I don't think anything about it. I know. You -have a future before you, my young friend. I -should like to see—Good Lord, what is it?"</p> - -<p>For the boy had twined his arms around the -lamp-post and was slowly sinking to the pavement. -His face was ghastly white. Delafield -grasped his arm, and as their eyes met, the older -man drew a quick breath and scowled.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_73" id="Page_73">[73]</a></span></p> - -<p>"It's not because—you're not—when did you -have your lunch?" he demanded shortly.</p> - -<p>The boy smiled weakly.</p> - -<p>"And your breakfast?"</p> - -<p>"Oh, I had <i>that</i>—quite a little—really I did!" -he half whispered.</p> - -<p>Delafield got him on his feet and around the -corner to a restaurant. As they entered, the smell -of the food weakened him again, and he staggered -against his friend, begging his pardon helplessly.</p> - -<p>"Soup—and hurry it up, it's immaterial what -kind," the host commanded.</p> - -<p>As the boy gulped it down he made out a further -order, and while the hot meat, vegetables, and -bread vanished and the strong, brown coffee lowered -in the cup, he lighted a long cigar and talked -with a quiet insistence. Later, when his guest -blinked drowsily behind a cloud of cigarette -smoke, he asked questions, marvelling at the simple -replies.</p> - -<p>The boy's name was Henry West; it was twenty-two -years since he had made his appearance in a -family already large enough to regard his advent<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_74" id="Page_74">[74]</a></span> -with a stoical endurance. His people all worked in -the mills in Lowell; he, too, till the noise and jar -gave him racking headaches. He made his first -verses in the mill. He had come to New York to -learn to be a clerk in a corner drug-store kept by -a distant cousin, but he couldn't seem to learn the -business. The names of the things were hard to -remember. His cousin said he was absent-minded.</p> - -<p>And he had to read everything that was in sight: -if a thing was printed he seemed to have to read -it. He read books from the library and the night-school -when his cousin thought he was polishing -the soda-fountain. Of all the things he hated—and -they were many—the soda-fountain was the -worst. He wanted to study a great deal, but only -the studies he liked. Not algebra and geometry, -nor chemistry that made his head ache, but history -and poetry and French. He thought he -would like to know Italian, too. The family supposed -he was still in the drug-store, but he had -quarrelled with his cousin and left it a month ago. -He stayed mostly in the library and helped the -janitor with sweeping and airing the rooms. The<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_75" id="Page_75">[75]</a></span> -janitor paid him a little to ease his own hours of -night-watching, and often asked him to supper. -He read nearly all day and wrote at night. It was -better than the mills or the drug-store. He supposed -he was lazy—his family always said he -was.</p> - -<p>"Come to this address to-morrow afternoon and -bring the rest of your poetry with you," said -Delafield, "I have an engagement at nine. May I -keep this one till you come?"—he shook the foolscap -significantly. The boy hesitated, almost imperceptibly, -then nodded. As Delafield left the -little table he did not rise with him, but sat with -his eyes fixed on the smoke-rings.</p> - -<p>"They do not teach courtesy in the night-schools, -evidently," mused the older man, peering -for a cab; "but one can't have everything. My -manners have been on occasion commended—but I -can't write poetry like that."</p> - -<p>He tasted in advance the pleasure of reading -the poem to Anne: how her brown eyes would -dilate and glow, how eagerly her long, slender fingers -would clasp and unclasp. People called her<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_76" id="Page_76">[76]</a></span> -cold, they told him; for his part he never could -see why. True, she was not kittenish, like the other -nieces; she didn't try to flirt with her old uncle, as -Ellen's girls did; but what an enthusiasm for fine -things, what a quick, keen mind the child had! -Child—Anne was twenty-five by now. Was it true -that she might never marry? Ellen said—but then -Ellen was always a little jealous of poor Anne's -money. The girl couldn't help her legacies. Still, -at twenty-five—perhaps it was true that she expected -too much, thought too seriously, reasoned -morbidly that they were after her money.</p> - -<p>Seated opposite her in his favourite oak chair, -looking with a sudden impersonal appraisal at the -slender figure in clinging black lace, the cool pallor -of the face under the smooth dark hair, the -rope of pearls that hung from her firm, girlish -shoulders, it dawned on him that there was something -wanting in this not quite sufficiently charming -piece of womanhood. She was too black-and-white, -too unswerving, too unflushed by life. -Humanity, with its countless moulding and colouring -touches, seemed to slip away from either side<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_77" id="Page_77">[77]</a></span> -of her, like the waves from some proud young -prow, and fall behind.</p> - -<p>"Yet she's not unsympathetic—I swear she's -not!" he thought, as her eyes glowed to the poem -and her lips parted delightedly.</p> - -<p>"'<i>And moored at last in some pale bay</i>'—Uncle -Les, isn't that beautiful! Not that it's really so -fine as the first part, but it's easier to remember. -And he was hungry? Oh, oh! And you discovered -him, didn't you?"</p> - -<p>He nodded complacently.</p> - -<p>"I'll bring you around the rest of the things -to-morrow. I knew you'd enjoy this, Anne. You -love—really love—this sort of thing, don't you?"</p> - -<p>She nodded eagerly.</p> - -<p>"But nothing else? Nobody—you don't think -that perhaps you're letting—after all, my dear, -life is something more than the beautiful things -you surround yourself with—pictures and music -and poetry, and all that. It really is. There is so -much——"</p> - -<p>"There is one's religion," she said quietly and -not uncordially. But she had retreated intangibly<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_78" id="Page_78">[78]</a></span> -from him. She sat there, remote as her cold pearls, -as far from the rough, sweet uses of the world as -the priceless china in her cabinets.</p> - -<p>"Oh, yes, of course, there is religion," he answered -listlessly.</p> - -<p>Two days later they sat, all three, in her library, -while West read them his poems. The two looked -at each other in amazement. Where had this untrained -factory boy got it all? What wonderful -voices had sung to him above the whirring of the -wheels; what delicate visions had risen through -the smoky pall of his sordid days? He wrote only -of Nature: the brown brook water in spring; -the pale, hurrying leaves of November; a bird -glimpsed through pink apple-blossoms; the full -river encircling a bending elm. In the vivid swiftness -of effect, the simple subtlety of treatment, -there was a recalling of the Japanese witchery of -suggestion; the faint tinge of sadness in every -poem left in the mind precisely the sweet regret -that the beauty of the world must always leave. -At the "Clearing Shower," perhaps the most compelling -of all his work, quick drops started to the<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_79" id="Page_79">[79]</a></span> -girl's eyes, so intense was the vision of the moist, -green-breathing earth, the torn fleece of the -clouds, the broken chirping of frightened birds, -the softened, yellow light that reassures and saddens -at once. His art was not Wordsworth's nor -Shelley's; it was as if Keats had turned from human -passion and consecrated the beauty of his -verse to the beauty of Nature—but simply, sadly, -and through a veil of Heine's tears.</p> - -<p>Delafield nodded mutely to his niece, then -walked over to the boy.</p> - -<p>"There will be plenty of people to tell you -later," he said, holding out his hand, "but let me -be the first. You are a genius, Mr. West, and your -country will be proud of your work some day. -There is no American to-day writing such poetry."</p> - -<p>West took his hand awkwardly, not rising from -his chair. He fingered his manuscript nervously.</p> - -<p>"I—I wouldn't want to be laughed at," he demurred. -"Other folks mightn't be so kind as you. -If anybody laughed—I—it would just about kill -me!" he concluded, passionately. They smiled sympathetically -at each other.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_80" id="Page_80">[80]</a></span></p> - -<p>"But no one would laugh, I assure you, Mr. -West," Anne murmured, stooping to pick up a -scattered sheet.</p> - -<p>He hardly noticed her. His eyes were fixed constantly -on Delafield: the girl had made no impression -upon him whatever. Nor did the elegance of -the furnishings, the evidences of great wealth -everywhere arouse in him the least apparent curiosity. -Having no knowledge of the many grades -of material prosperity between his own meagre -surroundings and Anne Delafield's luxury, he accepted -the one as he had endured the other, his -mind quite removed from either, his eyes looking -beyond.</p> - -<p>Anne had supposed that her uncle would carry -the poems to one of the leading magazines, but he -pooh-poohed the idea.</p> - -<p>"I think not. We're not going to have the boy -mixed up with the hacks that turn out two or -three inches of rhymes to fill up a page in a magazine," -he declared. "We'll have D—— drop in -some night and West shall read 'em to him. Then -we'll bring out a book. Here and in England—they'll<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_81" id="Page_81">[81]</a></span> -like him there, or I'm much mistaken."</p> - -<p>In a month it seemed that they had always -known him. Intimacy was so impossible with his inturned, -elusive nature, that to have him sitting -through hours of silence by the birch fire, abstracted, -dreamy, inattentive, except to some -chance word that stirred his fancy, was to know -him well, to all intents. His nerves, dulled to all -great torments like poverty, hunger, obscurity, -quivered like violin strings under little unaccustomed -jarrings. If interrupted in the reading of -his verses he would lose his control beyond belief; -a chance cough, the falling of an ember, put him -out of tune for hours. He possessed little sense of -humour, and the lightest satire turned him sulky. -A child might have teased him to madness; it was -evident to them that his utterly lonely life had -preserved him from constant torture at the hands -of associates.</p> - -<p>Until the book was complete he refused to have -the great publisher brought to hear it read. Sometimes -for days they would not see him, then on<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_82" id="Page_82">[82]</a></span> -some rainy evening he would appear, lonely and -hungry, eager for the praise and warmth of -Anne's library, an exquisite poem in his pocket. -Served to repletion by the secretly scornful butler, -he would smoke a while, then draw out the sheet -of foolscap, and read in his nervous yet musical -voice the latest page of the book that was to bring -him fame.</p> - -<p>On one such night—it was when he brought -them "Dawn on the River," the only poem of -which Anne had a copy, and the one which a well-known -firm afterward printed under his photograph -and sold by thousands at Easter-tide—he -broke through the mist—it was too impalpable to -be called a wall of reserve—that held his personality -apart from them, and talked wonderfully for -an hour. They seemed to see the clear soul of some -gentle, strayed fawn; his thoughts were like summer -clouds mirrored in a placid brook. All the -crowding, sweating humanity of his stunted boyhood -had flowed through his youth like an ugly -drain laid through a fresh mountain stream. He -seemed to have lived all his years with young<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_83" id="Page_83">[83]</a></span> -David on the hillside, and wealth and poverty, -crowds and loneliness, love and death were as far -from his life as if the vast procession of them all -that swept by him daily through the great city -had never been.</p> - -<p>As he talked, Delafield found his eyes drawn -from the boy's face to Anne's. Never before had -he seen just that faint, steady rose in her cheeks, -that sweet glow in her eyes. As she leaned forward, -her very pearls seemed to catch a red tinge from -the fire: it occurred to him for the first time that -she looked like Ellen's girls—there was a suggestion -of Kitty in the curve of her cheek.</p> - -<p>Was it possible that Anne—no, it could not be. -To think of the men that had tried to come into -her life and failed—such men! And this boy, this -elf, to whom no woman was so real or so dear as -a tree in the glen!</p> - -<p>For two weeks after that night he did not come. -Anne never mentioned his name, and Delafield, -doubtful of what that might portend, tried to believe -that she had forgotten him. Toward the end -of the second week she spoke of the completion of<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_84" id="Page_84">[84]</a></span> -his book, and suggested that her uncle should invite -Mr. D——: "Urge Henry to consent to it," -she added, "he will do anything for you, Uncle -Les."</p> - -<p>"More than for you?" he asked.</p> - -<p>"For me?" She flushed a little. "I doubt if he -distinguishes me from my portrait over the mantel!"</p> - -<p>"And you wish that he would," Delafield wanted -to reply, trying to remember if she had ever called -him "Henry" before.</p> - -<p>On a warm April evening, when the windows -were open to catch the setting sun and the odour -of the blossoming window-boxes, he came at last. -As he stepped into the room, head erect, eyes wide -and bright, they became aware immediately of a -change in him. His glance was more conscious, -more alert, his hand-grasp more assured.</p> - -<p>"You are in time to dine with us," Anne said, -with her grave smile, "we are all alone. Will you -stay?"</p> - -<p>"Thanks, I can't stay, I'm going somewhere -else," he answered quickly.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_85" id="Page_85">[85]</a></span></p> - -<p>"And the new poem?" Delafield inquired, "did -you get it done? That was to be the last, wasn't -it?"</p> - -<p>"Oh! I haven't been writing lately," he explained, -blushing a little. "I've been too busy—that -is, I've been too—I've been thinking of something -else." He stood before them in the full light -of the late day; every expression in his sensitive, -mobile face showed clear.</p> - -<p>"A perfectly wonderful thing has happened," -he burst out, "you couldn't understand. Nobody -can understand but me, and—and——"</p> - -<p>"Who is she?" said Delafield bluntly.</p> - -<p>"How did you know?" cried the boy, "have you -seen—did she tell——"</p> - -<p>"Of course not. When did it happen?"</p> - -<p>Delafield kept his face persistently from Anne's. -For the world he could not have looked at her.</p> - -<p>"It was last week." West was smiling eagerly -at him, ignoring the woman's presence.</p> - -<p>"I went into the grocer's to do an errand for -Mr. Swazey, and she was behind the little grating—you -pay her. She is the cashier. I didn't take<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_86" id="Page_86">[86]</a></span> -my change, and she had to call me back, and we -dropped it all over the floor. She helped me pick -it up. Oh, if you could see her, Mr. Delafield!"</p> - -<p>"Is she handsome?"</p> - -<p>"She is a perfectly beautiful woman," said the -boy.</p> - -<p>"Dear, dear!" murmured the older man.</p> - -<p>"We are engaged, but her mother objects to -me. In fact—in fact, her mother doesn't know that -she is engaged. She has been engaged before. But -she never really loved the man. Her mother doesn't -care for poetry——"</p> - -<p>At that word, Delafield, with a distinct effort, -connected this babbling druggist's clerk with his -poet of "The Clearing Shower." There could be -no doubt that they were the same person. As in -a dream he listened to the boy.</p> - -<p>"And that's what I dropped in to see about. I -told her mother all you said about me being sure -to be well-off some day, and about the book being -published soon, and her brother, that's Pippa's -uncle——"</p> - -<p>"What name did you say?"</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_87" id="Page_87">[87]</a></span></p> - -<p>"Pippa. That's her name. Philippa it is really; -she was named after the daughter of a lady her -mother nursed when she was sick, and so she named -her after this lady's daughter. But she couldn't -say it plain, you see, so she always called herself -Pippa for short, and so they all call her that still. -I suppose you never heard it before—I never did."</p> - -<p>"It is a strange name—for a cashier," said Mr. -Delafield.</p> - -<p>"Yes, indeed. Well, her Uncle Joseph is a stenographer -in a newspaper office, and he knows a -good deal about this sort of thing, and he says -not to publish with the D——s. He says they're -a poky firm and don't advertise enough. If I gave -the book to the L——s they'd push it along, he -says. He says they'd make anything sell. The -D——s wouldn't put up posters on bill-boards, -now, would they?"</p> - -<p>"I suppose not," said Delafield. He felt unaccountably -tired. He had not realised till now how -much his mind had been filled with Henry West -and his poetry, how much he had anticipated introducing -his rare young protegé.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_88" id="Page_88">[88]</a></span></p> - -<p>"And of course I want to do the best for myself——"</p> - -<p>"Of course, beyond a doubt."</p> - -<p>How could a person change so in two weeks? -What had turned that sensitive dreamer into this -bustling young lover?</p> - -<p>"You see, sir, I've got a good many things to -consider," he smiled happily.</p> - -<p>"Certainly, West, I appreciate that. At the -same time I doubt if you will do better with anybody -than you can with Mr. D——. It may be the -L——s wouldn't want your book. It is not what -is known as a popular book, you know. Poetry -appeals to a limited public, and——"</p> - -<p>"Oh, well, it's all right. Only I thought you -might want to know what Uncle Joseph said, -that's all. I must go now," and he turned.</p> - -<p>"Miss Delafield is still here," said her uncle, -coldly.</p> - -<p>"Oh, good-night," West murmured, and left the -room.</p> - -<p>"Is it really he?" Delafield hazarded, hardly -glancing at her. She met his look calmly.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_89" id="Page_89">[89]</a></span></p> - -<p>"At any rate the book is ready, which is the -principal thing, I suppose," she said.</p> - -<p>He found himself illogically wishing she had -resented it more. "It was a mistake," he thought, -"she has no feeling for him."</p> - -<p>Through the weeks that followed they avoided -mentioning his name, and each, trusting that the -other would forget, thought of him in puzzled -silence.</p> - -<p>When he came to them next, toward the end of -May, it seemed for a moment, as he flung himself -into a chair and stared moodily at the empty fireplace, -that his old self had returned. Thin and -shabby, with dark rings under his eyes, he looked -like the boy Delafield had warmed and fed that -cold March night. But his words undeceived them.</p> - -<p>"I shall shoot myself if this doesn't stop," he -said bitterly. Anne started.</p> - -<p>"Here, here, West, none of that," the older man -corrected, sharply. "That's no thing to say—what -is the matter?"</p> - -<p>"It's Pippa," he returned, simply. "She won't -marry me. I'll kill myself if she don't. I can't eat,<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_90" id="Page_90">[90]</a></span> -I can't sleep, I can't think. It cuts into me night -and day. You don't know how it kills me—you -don't know!"</p> - -<p>He writhed like a child in physical pain. His -face was distorted: he made no more effort to conceal -his misery than his delight of weeks ago. -Delafield showed a little of his disgust.</p> - -<p>"Come, come, West," he said, "control yourself. -This is no killing matter. Better men than you -have been thrown over before this. If she won't -have you, take it like a man, and get to work. -It's time your book was under way."</p> - -<p>West stared dully at him.</p> - -<p>"Book? book?" he repeated. "Oh, damn the -book! I'd throw it away this minute to feel her -arms around me! When I think of how we used -to sit in Uncle Joseph's hammock—Oh, I can't -endure it, I can't!"</p> - -<p>He leaned his head on his arms and rocked to -and fro in abject misery.</p> - -<p>"She laughs at me—just laughs at me!" he -moaned. "I'm ashamed to go near them."</p> - -<p>"Keep away, then," said Delafield shortly.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_91" id="Page_91">[91]</a></span></p> - -<p>"I can't!" he fairly sobbed.</p> - -<p>Anne spoke softly from a dim corner:</p> - -<p>"Does she know about the book?"</p> - -<p>"She doesn't care anything about it. She says -I better be getting a job somewhere. I—I would, -if she'd marry me. I'd go to the drug-store!"</p> - -<p>"Oh, no!" she breathed.</p> - -<p>"If only she'd be engaged again," he muttered, -half to himself, "I'd finish the book, and then, -perhaps——" He began to rock again. "But she -won't, she won't!" he wailed.</p> - -<p>"If you will tell me where she lives," said Anne -quietly, and as if the conversation were to the last -degree conventional, "I will go to see her and -talk the matter over. Perhaps she doesn't understand——"</p> - -<p>"My dear Anne! Are you mad?"</p> - -<p>As Delafield spoke, West interrupted:</p> - -<p>"I'd rather Mr. Delafield would go," he said -quickly, "if—if he would. Maybe she'd listen to -you."</p> - -<p>"I will do nothing of the sort," Delafield returned -angrily. "As if anything I could say<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_92" id="Page_92">[92]</a></span> -could compare with Miss Delafield's words! You -are an ungrateful little beast, West. A woman, -like Pippa herself, is the best person to understand -the matter."</p> - -<p>"All right," the boy assented wearily, "only -she isn't like Pippa, not a bit. Pippa's different."</p> - -<p>Anne coloured deeply, and Delafield cursed the -day he met the boy. His niece he did not pretend to -understand.</p> - -<p>The next afternoon, as he chafed in the stuffy -dining-room-parlour of the flat that was Pippa's -home, listening to the quarrelling of a half dozen -children on the dreary little roof-garden below -him as to who should swing in Uncle Joseph's hammock, -he understood her less and less. What did -she expect to gain from this visit? Was she satisfying -her idea of duty or her curiosity? How much -did she care, anyhow?</p> - -<p>A steady murmur of voices came from a room -behind the one he occupied. The afternoon wore -on. He began to grow sleepy.</p> - -<p>At last the door was flung open. Anne, looking -pale and tired, entered the room, followed by a<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_93" id="Page_93">[93]</a></span> -large, handsome girl with a heavy rope of auburn -hair twisted low over her forehead. She had a -frank, vulgar smile, and shallow, red-brown eyes. -In her plump, large-limbed beauty she was like a -well-kept cat. The day was damp and hot, and -her mussed white shirt-waist clung to her broad -curve of shoulder and breast. In her eyes, as she -smiled at him, was the quiet ease of a conscious -beauty. Beside her Anne seemed unimportant.</p> - -<p>"I'm sorry about the book, Mr. Delafield," she -said, with a slow smile. "But I guess you don't -know Henry very well if you think any reasonable -girl would think of marrying him for a minute. -The gentleman I've been keeping company with -some time had a little misunderstanding with me, -and 'twas more or less to spite him, I guess, that -I got engaged to Henry. It never seemed to me -it mattered much either way."</p> - -<p>"You have broken his heart," said Delafield -stiffly.</p> - -<p>She looked vaguely at her short, fat fingers: -her hands were like a baby's in shape.</p> - -<p>"Oh, I don't know," she said. "He's an awful<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_94" id="Page_94">[94]</a></span> -unreasonable fellow, Henry is. He gets into such -tantrums—I don't dare tell him about Mr. Winch—that's -the gentleman I was speaking of. We're -going to be married in the fall. He's in a livery-stable: -I guess you probably noticed it as you came -along Sixth Avenue—Judd and Winch. He's only -junior partner, but he knows as much about running -a real swell funeral as any of the uptown -men—Mr. Judd says so. Henry's afraid of a horse, -you know. It don't seem quite natural for a man -not to know about horses, does it, now?"</p> - -<p>"If you had only waited till his book came out," -said Delafield tentatively. As he looked at her he -was conscious of a ridiculous satisfaction that such -a fine woman should know her own mind so perfectly. -She was a very complete creature, in her -way. He realised that in this strangely assorted -quartette he and she were involuntarily on one -side of an intangible line, his niece and their unintelligible -protegé on the other.</p> - -<p>"Wait? But I did wait. I waited over a week," -she explained, "and then I couldn't stand it any -longer. He'd drive me to drink. For one thing,<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_95" id="Page_95">[95]</a></span> -Henry's changed so. When we first knew him he -was really as entertaining a gentleman as I ever -saw—and I've had a great deal of attention. Why, -we'd sit around and laugh till we nearly died, he'd -say such ridiculous things. He was so different. -Ma used to say if he was much funnier she'd think -he'd ought to have a keeper! The way he'd go -on——!"</p> - -<p>Anne had turned her back and was looking -steadily at the room they had left. Pippa and -Delafield might have been alone.</p> - -<p>"But when we got engaged, he seemed to -change, somehow. I don't know if you've noticed -it——"</p> - -<p>Delafield nodded.</p> - -<p>"Well, that's what I mean. I didn't care any -more about him, then. I guess I sort of woke up," -she laughed into his eyes. "He tires me to death -with how he'll shoot himself," she added; "they -always say that, you know, but they never -do."</p> - -<p>Anne moved toward the door and Delafield followed -her.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_96" id="Page_96">[96]</a></span></p> - -<p>"I must say that I appreciate your position, -Miss—Miss—" he stopped, inquiringly.</p> - -<p>"Cooley—Miss Philippa Cooley," she supplied. -"Of course you do. Ma said she hoped I'd have -too much sense to stand up with a little radish -of a man like that, even if he could support -me!"</p> - -<p>"But I think it was rather hard on all of us -that you should have engaged yourself to him at -all. You must have known how it would end." He -tried to speak reprovingly.</p> - -<p>She threw him a rich glance.</p> - -<p>"Oh, you can't help it sometimes," she murmured. -"He teased so hard—you don't want to -be disagreeable. As I was telling Miss Delafield——"</p> - -<p>"We must go," said Anne, briefly.</p> - -<p>As they drove home, an inexplicable desire to -provoke her, to rouse some warm feeling in her, -mastered him.</p> - -<p>"Your Aunt Ellen would enjoy this deep interest -in the love affairs of an ex-druggist's clerk and a -grocer's cashier," he said lightly.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_97" id="Page_97">[97]</a></span></p> - -<p>"Would she?" Anne returned quietly, and was -ashamed of his freakish impulse.</p> - -<p>When they told him that evening that they had -been able to accomplish nothing he only stared at -them gloomily.</p> - -<p>"I knew it—I knew it," he muttered. "I did a -poem last night—it's the last I shall ever do. You -can put it in the book. It's the best I've done yet."</p> - -<p>Delafield hardly noticed his words as he seized -the poem. What if from this sordid little tragedy -had sprung the very flower of the poet's genius? -He read eagerly. In a moment his face fell. He -stared doubtfully at the boy.</p> - -<p>"Well," said West irritably, "can't you read -it? Give it here—I'll read it to you."</p> - -<p>"You needn't, I can read it well enough."</p> - -<p>"What do you think of it?"</p> - -<p>"I think it's rot," Delafield returned curtly. He -was bitterly disappointed.</p> - -<p>"Rot?" the boy's eyes narrowed. "What d'you -mean?"</p> - -<p>"I mean that this doggerel is utterly unworthy -of you, West, and that you certainly cannot in<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_98" id="Page_98">[98]</a></span>clude -it in your book. It is the cheapest sentimentalism—good -heavens, can't you see it? Have you -no critical faculty whatever?"</p> - -<p>"Oh, Uncle Lester, <i>don't</i>!" Anne implored. -"Let me see it," and she put out her hand. The -young man struck it away and seized the paper.</p> - -<p>"I won't trouble you with my 'rot' any more, -Mr. Delafield," he said, with a boyish grandiloquence, -"we'll see what other people have to say -about it."</p> - -<p>"Here, West, don't go away angry!" the -older man urged, "I shouldn't have been so -harsh. You've done such fine work that I couldn't -bear——"</p> - -<p>"Oh, hush your noise!" West interrupted, brutally, -"neither can I bear! You've driven me to -death between you all—you'll never see me -again!" and he flung out of the room.</p> - -<p>Delafield set his teeth. "This is too much," he -said slowly. "The vulgar little cad! No, I won't -go after him, Anne; let him fume it out himself. -I'll try to ask D—— over next week, just the -same."</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_99" id="Page_99">[99]</a></span></p> - -<p>But when Mr. D—— came over, full of pleasant -anticipation, it was only to hear of the shocking -death of the boy, whose photograph, taken -from a cheap gilt locket of Pippa's, he afterward -used over the popular gift-card, "Dawn on the -River."</p> - -<p>"Couldn't even shoot himself like a gentleman," -said Delafield roughly. "Jumping seven stories—pah!"</p> - -<p>"But the poems—the poems?" urged the publisher, -"surely they——"</p> - -<p>Anne took from the table an oblong tin biscuit-box -and softly lifted the cover.</p> - -<p>"Here are the poems," she said, pointing to a -mass of fine, grey paper-ashes.</p> - -<p>"He sent them to you?"</p> - -<p>Mr. D——'s eyes lighted comprehensively; he -glanced at the girl's white face and inscrutable -dark-ringed eyes with a restrained sympathy.</p> - -<p>"He sent them to my uncle," she replied quietly.</p> - -<hr class="chap" /> - -<div class="chapter"> -<p class="p6"><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_101" id="Page_101">[101]</a></span></p> - - - - -<h2 id="THE_BACKSLIDING_OF">THE BACKSLIDING OF HARRIET BLAKE</h2></div> - - -<p>The Rev. Mr. Freeland looked down the long, -narrow poorhouse table, and then glanced inquiringly -at the matron.</p> - -<p>"What has become of Harriet Blake, Mrs. -Markham?" he asked. "I thought she sat at this -table—I hope she's not ill?"</p> - -<p>"Harriet's backslid," announced the Widow -Sheldon laconically. She was a Baptist, of the -variety sometimes known as hard-shelled, and made -nothing of interrupting the discourse of any representative -of a denomination unpleasing to her.</p> - -<p>"Backslid?" repeated the reverend guest, dropping -his napkin.</p> - -<p>"She don't believe in——"</p> - -<p>"Harriet," interrupted the matron, somewhat -crossly, and with an unconcealed frown for the -Widow Sheldon, "Harriet is taking her dinner -alone. She—she is not quite well, I think. I will<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_104" id="Page_104">[104]</a></span> -speak to you about her later," she added as the -pastor's eyes grew round at her. The widow -Sheldon sniffed loudly.</p> - -<p>"A person who has ter have her vittles carried -up ter the bed-chamber on account o' losing any -little faith she might 'a had," she began, but old -Uncle Peterson broke in with his gentle drawl:</p> - -<p>"Oh, come on, Mis' Sheldon, don't go and spile -a good biled dinner with words o' bitterness," he -urged. "Harriet's a good woman, as is known to -all, and if she's travellin' through dark ways just -now——"</p> - -<p>The pastor looked puzzled, but he saw that the -subject was better left alone: previous visits to -the poorhouse had led him to dread the Widow -Sheldon's tongue. He nodded approvingly at -Uncle Peterson.</p> - -<p>"Quite right, quite right," he said quickly. -"That's the spirit for us all to have. Shall I ask -the blessing, Mrs. Markham?" And the meal -went on.</p> - -<p>But there was something in the air that hot -Sunday noon; something that lent variety to the<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_105" id="Page_105">[105]</a></span> -usual monotony of the querulous meal-times. There -was less comment on the food than was usual, and -the Widow Sheldon's resentful silence was more -impressive than her ordinary vindictive volubility. -It appeared that something had actually happened.</p> - -<p>Once in her private sitting-room the matron -began, low-voiced, with an occasional glance at the -closed door, as if to make certain that no curious -inmate lurked behind it:</p> - -<p>"If Harriet Blake doesn't grow more sensible -very soon I shall certainly go crazy; I invited you, -Mr. Freeland, to dinner to-day because Harriet -used to like your prayers in the afternoon, and -it may help her to talk to you—but I don't know. -She's a very obstinate old lady. The whole house -talks about nothing else, and she's just morbid -enough to like it. They gossip about her and fight -about her till the air is blue with it. It was bad -enough at election time, but religion is worse than -politics."</p> - -<p>The pastor made as if he would interrupt, but -she overbore him.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_106" id="Page_106">[106]</a></span> -"If you can't stop her she must go home to -her niece, though she can't really afford to keep -her and oughtn't to be asked——"</p> - -<p>"Do I understand that Harriet is in doubt—has -lost her Christian faith?"</p> - -<p>"Oh, well—no; but in a way I suppose she -has. She says that she—she can't see—in fact, -she doesn't believe any more in the Holy -Ghost!"</p> - -<p>"Doesn't <i>believe</i> in h—in it?" Mr. Freeland -was absolutely unprepared for precisely this form -of agnosticism, and showed it.</p> - -<p>"She says she doesn't see any sense in it," responded -Mrs. Markham, briefly.</p> - -<p>"Oh—ah, yes!" The pastor looked vaguely over -her head. There was a pause, and then he gathered -himself together.</p> - -<p>"But this—this is all wrong!" he said forcibly.</p> - -<p>"So we tell her," replied the matron.</p> - -<p>"It is sinful—it is extremely dangerous!" he -repeated, still more forcibly.</p> - -<p>"That's what the Widow Sheldon says," replied -the matron. "She lectures her about it every meal,<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_107" id="Page_107">[107]</a></span> -and Harriet can't stand it. She says she can't help -what she believes, and I can't blame her for -that."</p> - -<p>"How long——"</p> - -<p>"She's been so for two weeks now, and she gets -worse and worse. I had the Methodist minister—Harriet -used to attend that church—up to talk -to her about it, to see if she'd feel better, and he -talked for four hours. Harriet sat as still as a -stone, he said, and never moved or paid the least -attention to him. Finally he asked her why she -didn't answer, and she said he hadn't asked her -opinion that she could see. So he asked her what it -was, and she said that the Lord Almighty created -the earth and that his Son, the Redeemer, saved -it, and she didn't see anything more for the Holy -Ghost to do. And everything that he told her she -said one or the other could do perfectly well alone! -And the angrier Mr. Dent got, the calmer Harriet -was, I suppose, for he left in a rage, almost—I -suppose it was trying, even for a minister—and -when I went up to Harriet she seemed very calm. -She told me triumphantly that the last thing she<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_108" id="Page_108">[108]</a></span> -did was to show him that big Bible of hers with -the picture in the front, where she's crossed out -the figure of the dove with ink, and to tell him -that she was no Papist, to worship graven images -of birds!"</p> - -<p>Mr. Freeland shook his head gravely. "Dear, -dear, dear!" he said.</p> - -<p>"And then I got Dr. Henshawe from St. Mary's, -in the city, you know, who's out here this summer, -to come in. He's a very fine man, and very interesting. -He stayed a while with Harriet, and told -her not to mind, but to go on, and pray, and do -the best she could, and she couldn't be blamed. -He told me afterwards that he was far from considering -her religious condition a safe one, but -that she would soon be ill, and was growing morbid, -and he tried to soothe her. She fell into a -dreadful passion, and called him a lukewarm -Jesuit, and told him that she was going to hell -just because she couldn't believe in the Holy -Ghost! He was very polite and quiet, and picked -a rose when he went—he complimented the house—but -Harriet wouldn't eat any dinner nor tea,<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_109" id="Page_109">[109]</a></span> -she was so angry. Of course it excites the others—they -haven't much to think about, you know—and -I'm really growing nervous. Old William -Peterson, that gentle old man, preached a revivalist -sermon day before yesterday, and got -them all stirred up, so that Mrs. Sheldon groaned -and cried all night, and kept Sarah Waters awake. -And when Sarah stays awake all night, there's -no living with her—none!"</p> - -<p>Mr. Freeland looked frankly puzzled. He was -not a particularly able man, and very far from -originality of any sort. His doctrinal position, -though always considered very solid, was somewhat -stereotyped, and he had never happened to -run against this peculiar form of apostasy. But he -was a kindly man, and very honestly convinced of -the responsibility of his position; moreover, he remembered -Harriet pleasantly; he had thought her -a very nice old lady. So he took his little Bible out -of his pocket, and hoped that a desire to succeed -where Mr. Dent and Dr. Henshawe had failed -would not be accounted to him for unrighteousness.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_110" id="Page_110">[110]</a></span> -Mrs. Markham led the way across the hall and -up the stairs. Before a door she paused to say, -"As long as Harriet is upset in this way she has -the room alone, because Mary Smith scolds her all -night for being so sinful, and it makes them both -cross. Mary is in the hall-room, and talks in her -sleep so that nobody can rest very well. It doesn't -disturb Harriet at all, she's such a sound sleeper, -and I wish she could go back! You don't know -how this disturbs us! Remember that we have -prayer-meeting at half-past four," and she left -him alone before the door.</p> - -<p>Mr. Freeland knocked loudly and entered. Before -him in the clean, bare room, with its rag-carpets, -mats, and pine furnishings, sat a little -old woman, her hands folded in her lap, her head -erect, her eyes fixed uncompromisingly on the -door. He started as he saw her face; it was so -changed from the time, two weeks or more ago, -when he had delivered that admirable prayer for -charity and loving kindness on the occasion when -the Widow Sheldon had thrown the butter-plate -at old Mis' Landers. Thin and sunken, with dark<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_111" id="Page_111">[111]</a></span> -serried hollows under her still bright eyes—she -had aged ten years in those weeks.</p> - -<p>"My sister, my poor, suffering, misled sister," -began the pastor; but Harriet's eyes flashed -ominously.</p> - -<p>"If you come to talk to me about that Holy -Ghost, I ain't got nothin' to say," she declared, -"an' if you think I'm goin' to say another word -myself, you're mistaken. I'm a pore sinful woman, -but I ain't goin' to be pestered t' death! I'm doin' -the best I can 'bout it, an' I've prayed 'bout it, -an' Mr. Dent an' a Papist, they both talked 'bout -it till I nearly died. I don't see any more sense -in it than I did before—not a morsel. So if that's -what brought you, you might just as well start -back this minute!"</p> - -<p>Her reverend guest stared at her dumfounded. -Was this the little woman who had pressed his -hand at the prayer-meeting and thanked him so -piously, so meekly, for such "beautiful prayin'?"</p> - -<p>"You are greatly changed since I saw you last, -Miss Blake," he said gravely. "Your spirit was<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_112" id="Page_112">[112]</a></span> -gentler, your mind was more religiously inclined. -I found you——"</p> - -<p>"You didn't find me pestered t' death," said -Harriet briefly, somewhat mollified by his "Miss -Blake."</p> - -<p>"I was led to believe that you were suffering, -that you were in trouble," hazarded the -pastor.</p> - -<p>Never in his somewhat self-sufficient life had he -felt such difficulty in giving spiritual advice. Even -to his thick-skinned personality it was deeply evident -that this sharp-tongued little woman was in -great trouble. Ordinarily, a certain facility for -quotation and application made him a confident -speaker, but to-day he felt impeded, held back -by the self-control and patience of his listener. -For he saw that she was patient; that she -could say much more if she chose; that she -was, beneath all her sharpness, alarmed and worried.</p> - -<p>His somewhat perplexed air, his evident memory -of her earlier estate, his startled recognition -of her changed appearance had the effect that<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_113" id="Page_113">[113]</a></span> -nothing else could have had. Her hands twisted -nervously in her lap, her mouth twitched, she -dropped her eyes, and opened her lips once or -twice without speaking. Suddenly, with a little -gasp, she began:</p> - -<p>"If you think I don't care, you're mistaken. -I'm just about sick. I been a Christian and a -good believer all my life, and now I ain't. Maybe -I don't care about that? They just pester me -t' death, and Mis' Markham, she can't stop 'em. -They'll send me back to Sarah's, that's my niece, -and they can't keep me there. They ain't good to -me there, and I get fever 'n ague every day o' -my life there. But I can't help it—I can't help -it! I got ter go!"</p> - -<p>Some good angel held Mr. Freeland silent, and -after a moment she went on.</p> - -<p>"I'm sixty-two years old, and I never was anything -but a churchgoer an' a believer. Two weeks -ago to-day I set in this chair an' looked out the -winder, an' I see the birds pickin' in the front -yard."</p> - -<p>He followed her eyes and watched for a mo<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_114" id="Page_114">[114]</a></span>ment -the poor house pigeons preening and posing -in the noon sun. They whitened the summer grass, -and their clucking and cooing formed the undertone -of the old woman's confession.</p> - -<p>"I see 'em there, and I got thinkin' about the -dove in my Bible an' the Holy Ghost. And it just -come into my mind like a shot—what's the good -of it? What'd it ever done for me? What's the -sense of a bird, anyhow? An' I worked over it, -and I worried over it, an' I got to talkin' with Mis' -Sheldon about it while we was workin' together, and -she just made me hate it more. She said I'd go to -hell—me, a believer for sixty-two years! An' I've -cried till I can't cry any more, an' I've prayed -till I'm tired of prayin', and nothin' happens to -me exceptin' I hate it more. An' if they send me -back to Sarah's I'll die, that's the truth. But I'll -have t' go—I'll have t' go!"</p> - -<p>She rocked back and forth, dry-eyed, but in an -agony of grief. The pastor remembered the time -when he had wrestled with certain damnation in -the form of terrible religious doubt, and experienced -again that peculiar helplessness, that isola<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_115" id="Page_115">[115]</a></span>tion, -that terror of hope gone from him that had -dignified even his commonplace life. His vocabulary -forsook him, his periods and phrases receded -from his mind like the tide from the beach, and -left it bare of suggestion. He looked at her for a -moment, and as she bent her tired old head over -her arm and sobbed the dry, creaking sob of -the ageing spirit that looks forward to no long -and gayer future, he felt that the time was short -and kindness not too lenient for the sinner.</p> - -<p>"I will send my wife over," he said, suddenly. -"Would—would you want to see her?"</p> - -<p>Harriet had stiffened again and got herself in -hand. "I don't want that any one should put 'emselves -out for me," she said dryly. "I guess I'll -get along. I'd just as lief see Mis' Freeland if it -ain't any trouble to any one. But I don't know -as anybody c'n do anything. I ain't very pleasant -comp'ny. An' I dunno as the room's cleared up -enough. I ain't swept it sence day before yesterday."</p> - -<p>Her guest had risen and moved toward the door. -He felt curiously cold and dull. Was this the<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_116" id="Page_116">[116]</a></span> -help he had come to give? His tongue was -tied; his lips refused to utter even one text.</p> - -<p>"Good-afternoon, Miss Blake," he said.</p> - -<p>"Good-afternoon," said Harriet, and he went -out.</p> - -<p>She shut the door behind him, and stood for a -moment looking at the pigeons. Emotion had -shaken her too often of late, and she was too tired -to bear more confusion of feeling. She only knew -that she was very tired, and that she should like -to get away from the scene of so many struggles. -Suddenly she took her gingham sunbonnet from -the wall, and left the room. She went softly down -the hall, and slipping through the screen door near -the lower end crept down the back stairs and -through the deserted kitchen.</p> - -<p>A Sunday stillness reigned there, and no one -was near to see her. She got a piece of bread from -the large pantry, and noticed with disgust that -the shelves were dusty and the bread-tin full of -pieces and crusts. To keep this neat was her work, -but she had been excused for the last three days, -since she was far too weak to manage it. Out<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_117" id="Page_117">[117]</a></span> -through the last blind-door, and she was in the field -behind the barn. She walked feverishly to the little -wood close by and sank down exhausted under a -large chestnut-tree.</p> - -<p>"I'm tired—I'm dead tired out!" she whispered -to herself. "I'll just stay here a minute 'fore I -go on."</p> - -<p>Had Mr. Freeland seen her then he would have -been more startled than before, for two red -spots burned in her sunken cheeks and her eyes -glittered unnaturally. She had not eaten since -breakfast, for the boiled dinner had sickened her, -and though she was weak for want of food she -had not strength to munch the great piece of rye -bread. Her head swam a little and strange tunes -seemed to sound all about her. Her mother's voice, -almost in her ear, sang her to sleep with the Old -Hundred Doxology, and for a moment she listened -entranced, but as the phantom voice reached the -last line she opened her eyes.</p> - -<p>"No, no!" she screamed. "No, no! I won't sing -to a bird! I won't! I'll go to Sarah's first!"</p> - -<p>A stillness that frightened her followed. Some<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_118" id="Page_118">[118]</a></span>thing -pattered beside her, and she looked apprehensively -at the sky through a rift in the branches.</p> - -<p>"Don't say it's rain!" she whispered, nervously. -"I'm fearful scairt o' thunder-storms!"</p> - -<p>The sky was rapidly clouding over, and a growl -of thunder answered her. She started up, but fell -helplessly back.</p> - -<p>"O Lord, I can't move! I can't move a step! -I'm too heavy!" she cried in terror. The storm -came on fast; the branches shook under a sudden -wind, and the birds grew still. She was too -weak to realise fully her situation, but what consciousness -she owned was swallowed up in terror. A -sudden flash, and she shrank together with a moan.</p> - -<p>"I'm out o' my head—I'm not really here—I'm -in the house—I wouldn't be here f'r anything!" -she whispered. A heavy clap, and she screamed -with fear. The time when she left the house was -far away and misty in her mind. She could not -remember coming. The drops struck her in quick -succession and the muttering grew more frequent, -the flashes brighter. Sick with fright, she cowered -under the tree. Her childhood unfolded before her,<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_119" id="Page_119">[119]</a></span> -her girlhood; her poor pinched life assumed a -glory and fulness it had never had. So warm, so -sheltered, so contented it seemed to her.</p> - -<p>A great harsh clap shook the little wood and a -vivid glare wrapped her about. With a wail she -fell back against the tree-trunk. Her mind was -clear again, she recalled everything. She had been -led out here to die. She was summoned forth to -meet the judgment of God. Heretic, infidel, blasphemer -that she was, she was to go before Him -that day!</p> - -<p>Her clothes were soaked with rain, she shivered -with cold, she was too weak to take a step, but -she staggered to her knees and folded her hands. -The tree swayed above her, the wood was dark -as night, the rain to her weak nerves was deafening; -the powers of darkness raged about her. She -tried to pray for forgiveness, for peace at the last, -but in her mind, all too clear, was the remembrance -of her life for two weeks past. She set her teeth to -keep them from chattering so, and shivering at -each clap and gasping at each flash, she prayed:</p> - -<p>"O Lord, if you are sendin' this storm to pun<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_120" id="Page_120">[120]</a></span>ish -me, I can't help it. I've believed in you all my -life, and I'm sixty-two and I'm going to die in -a thunder-storm. If it'll save me to believe in the -Holy Ghost, then I'll have to be damned eternally -as the Widder Sheldon says you'll do, for I can't, -I can't, I can't! I' been a believer all my life, and -I' only been this way two weeks, and if that counts -against all the rest, I'll just haf' to go to hell, -that's all. Feelin' as I do, you can't expect me to -change for a thunder-storm, Lord, scairt as I be. -It don't make no difference that I'm scairt, I feel -just the same. I' been a sinful woman, an' I pray -to be forgiven, but I can't change, Lord, I can't, -an' you wouldn't respect me if I was ter. Amen."</p> - -<p>A glare that seemed to brighten the wood for -minutes and a terrific burst of thunder answered -her. With a little gasp she fell backward and lay -unconscious. The storm raged about her, but she -knew nothing of it. A little withered old woman, -she lay in a heap in the lap of all the elements, -and they beat upon her like a leaf.</p> - -<p>If it were hours or minutes she did not know, -but she opened her eyes with pain upon a quiet<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_121" id="Page_121">[121]</a></span> -world. The storm had passed, the leaves were -dripping, the sun was just beginning to brighten -the blue, the birds were twittering again. She got -up heavily, but with a certain fitful strength. She -turned around and dragged herself further into -the wood. Then, in dread of the thicker foliage, -she struck off uncertainly to the right. To her -the vengeance of God was only delayed; there was -only a momentary escape, but it was precious. -She was confused, terrified, beaten. She had no -notion in what direction the house lay. She felt -her legs tottering and reached painfully down to -pick up a large, gnarled, broken bough. The -effort all but stretched her beside it. But she leaned -on it, and turned her shaking head from one side -to another. All was thick, wet, glistening, confusing. -Only the twitter of the birds and the drip, -drip of the wet leaves broke the deadly stillness. -A nameless horror caught her. She felt alone in -the world.</p> - -<p>"O Lord, O dear Lord, show me the way home!" -she prayed. "Let me die at home, Lord; don't let -me die out here—a poor old woman like me! <span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_122" id="Page_122">[122]</a></span>Sixty two, -Lord, an' a believer all my life! Send me -home!"</p> - -<p>There was a little rustling noise in the tree near -the tiny clearing just before her; a low, soft -heavenly sound.</p> - -<p>"I know I'm goin' to die, Lord, only let me die -at home! Don't do it here! I'm scairt, an' I'm -weak, an' I'm too old to die in the woods! Jus' -send me home, Lord; show me where the house is!"</p> - -<p>The great sun suddenly sent a long, bright ray -down across the open space, and as she looked at it, -there hovered, full in the brightness, a gleaming -silver dove. With wings outspread, motionless, too -bright to look at with steady eyes, it hovered there. -It never fluttered its wings; it made no sound; in -a ray from heaven it held its quiet position -serenely and glistened from every tiniest feather.</p> - -<p>The old woman's knees tottered beneath her. -She held with both hands to the gnarled staff, and -shuddered as she gazed.</p> - -<p>"The Holy Ghost! The Holy Ghost!" she -panted. The bird's eyes met hers, and she could -not take her own away. To her blurred, smarting<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_123" id="Page_123">[123]</a></span> -vision it seemed that an aureole of glory outlined -its head. She had no thoughts; only a confused -sensation of immediate and inescapable doom. -Death, death here, with this grave and moveless -vision was her part. She closed her eyes and -waited. A second, and she opened them, to see the -vision changed; the bird had turned around, and -was slowly guiding down the little clearing before -her. Just above her head it flew, with steady pace, -and with it went all the brightness of the sun.</p> - -<p>Her lips moved. She took a step forward, and -the bird advanced. "Glory be to God!" she whispered, -"It'll show me the way!"</p> - -<p>She never took her aching eyes for one second -from the wonderful white thing. She scorned to -watch the ground. With a magnificent faith she -walked, her head lifted, her heart too full -to know if she stumbled. In the clear places, always -where there were no branches, the white guide -flew and Harriet walked after with her staff. A -few moments took them out of the wood, but she -never looked for the house. In the full glare of -day, against the blue, the bird looked only snowier,<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_124" id="Page_124">[124]</a></span> -and to her dazzled, burning eyes the aureole grew -only brighter and bigger. She could not see its -wings move; it hovered steadily and floated serenely -upon the clear air, and the old woman saw -it, and it only.</p> - -<p>She did not see the anxious crowd on the porch, -she did not hear their exclamations, she did not -know that her lips were moving, that her voice, -low, husky, but distinguishable, repeated over and -over, almost mechanically: "Forgive me, Lord! -forgive me, Lord! O Lord, forgive me!"</p> - -<p>She only followed, followed with all her heart -and soul and strength, up the little hill, up the -path, up to the porch, a strange, shaking pilgrim, -leaning heavily on her staff, guided by the white -pigeon.</p> - -<p>On the steps they received her, and as she sank -on the lowest, they caught her, falling. Her almost -sightless eyes were yet uplifted, and while to their -view the dove dropped down among its mates, -a patch among the white, to her it was mingled -with the summer blue, and vanished in the sky -whence it came.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_125" id="Page_125">[125]</a></span> -Her body was utterly exhausted, but her spirit -could not yet lose its consciousness. On the wave of -her exaltation she rose higher and higher. She -looked at them with a look they had never seen -in any human being.</p> - -<p>"I'm saved! I'm saved!" she cried.</p> - -<p>They watched her, silent, terrified, awed beyond -words at this redemption they could only feel but -could not understand. But as they stared, her eyes -glazed, her head fell back against the matron's -arm.</p> - -<p>"Pray! pray!" she whispered. The pastor looked -at her and steadied himself. Wonder and a sense -of strength flowed in on him suddenly. But there -was scant time for prayer. Though the light in her -face had not yet died away, her breath was scarcely -moving. He came near her and repeated gently -the hymn she had in the time of her trouble disowned, -but which she had always loved:</p> - -<div class="poetry-container"> -<div class="poetry"><div class="stanza"> -<div class="line">"<i>Praise God from whom all blessings flow,</i></div> -<div class="line"><i>Praise Him all creatures here below,</i></div> -<div class="line"><i>Praise Him above ye heavenly host</i>——"</div> -</div></div></div> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_126" id="Page_126">[126]</a></span> -Her eyes opened and looked wide into the blue; -what she saw there they did not know, but she -smiled faintly.</p> - -<div class="poetry-container"> -<div class="poetry"><div class="stanza"> -<div class="line">"<i>Praise Father, Son, and Holy Ghost!</i>"</div> -</div></div></div> - -<p>"Oh, yes! Oh, yes!" the matron guessed that -she murmured; and with the cooing and clucking -of pigeons sounding through the summer air, she -died.</p> - -<p>A white, arrow-swift creature whirred through -the stillness, up, up, and out in a great proud -curve; their eyes were too dim to know if it turned -again to the earth.</p> - -<hr class="chap" /> - -<div class="chapter"> -<p class="p6"><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_127" id="Page_127">[127]</a></span></p> - - - - -<h2 id="A_BAYARD_OF_BROADWAY">A BAYARD OF BROADWAY</h2></div> - - -<p>The younger man—he was only a boy—grinned -impishly at the elder, bringing out the -two dimples in his flushed, girlish cheeks.</p> - -<p>"That's all right enough, Dill," he drawled; he -always drawled when he had been drinking. When -he was sober the familiar Huntington staccato -was very marked in him.</p> - -<p>"That's all right, Dilly, my boy, and a grand -truth, as old Jim used to tell us at chapel, but -maybe little Robert doesn't see your game? Oh, -yes, he sees it, fast enough. Sis hands it out to -you, and you recite it to Robbie, and Robbie reforms, -and you get Sis! How's that for a young -fellow who flunks his math? Not bad, eh?"</p> - -<p>Dillon flushed and set his teeth, mastering an -almost irresistible longing to slap those red cheeks -in vicious alternation. To think that this chattering -young idiot stood between him and his heart's -desire!</p> - -<p>Bob drawled on: "Anyhow, Dill, I think it's<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_130" id="Page_130">[130]</a></span> -right queer, you know. Why don't she marry you? -She can't love you very much, if it depends on -me. You're a man o' the world, you know, man o' -world"—he grew absent-minded and stared at the -wall. Dillon snapped his fingers nervously, and the -speaker began again with a start:</p> - -<p>"That's what I say—a man o' world. Tell her -it's all bosh worryin' over me, tell her that, Dill, -tell her I say so. No use her tryin' to be my mother. -Now is there, Dill, as a man, is there? If she got -married and had some children of her own——"</p> - -<p>"Bob," the older man burst out, "for heaven's -sake, shut up, will you, and listen to me! I'm -going to tell you the truth. You've got the whole -thing in your hands—God knows why, but you -have—and I'm going to lay it before you once -for all. Then do as you please: make us all happy, -or go to the devil your own way—and I'll go -mine," he added, lower and quicker.</p> - -<p>Bob sat up, blinked rapidly, and smoothed his -hair down tight over his ears—sure sign that he -was nearly himself.</p> - -<p>"Go ahead," he said shortly, "I'll come in."</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_131" id="Page_131">[131]</a></span> -Dillon bit his lip a moment; he would rather -have taken a whipping than say what he had to -say. The clock ticked loud in the pause, and Bob, -every moment clearer-eyed, heavy sleep a thing of -the past, stared at him disconcertingly.</p> - -<p>"What I'm going to say to you," Dillon began, -"isn't very often said by one man to another, I -imagine. Few men are placed in just my position. -I've known you all so well, I've seen so much of -you all my life——" he paused.</p> - -<p>"I needn't say how much I thought of your -mother. When your father was—when he broke -down so often at the last, of course I saw a great -deal of her, and she trusted me a lot—she had to, -once she began. When she died, and you weren't -there, because you——"</p> - -<p>"Don't! please don't, Dill!" the boy's lips contracted; -his slim body twisted with a helpless remorse.</p> - -<p>"Well, then, when she died she asked me to look -out for you, because she knew how I loved her and—and -Helena. She knew you had it in you, and -she didn't blame you—they never do, I suppose,<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_132" id="Page_132">[132]</a></span> -mothers—but she asked me if I'd try to look out -for you. She knew I wasn't perfect myself. That's—that's -why she thought I wouldn't do for -Helena. Helena was always so wonderful, so high -above——"</p> - -<p>Again he stopped, and the boy's voice broke in:</p> - -<p>"Helena's made of snow and ice-water," he said -moodily, "she's too good for this earth. She doesn't -know——"</p> - -<p>"She knows what her brother should be, and she -knows what her husband must be," Dillon interrupted -sternly. "No sister could have been more -of an angel to you, Bob.</p> - -<p>"Now I'll go on. It's going to be necessary just -here for me to tell you that I love your sister. -You don't know anything about that, of course. -You don't for a second of your life realise what -it is to love a woman as I've loved her for—for -five years, we'll say. I put it five because, though -I loved her long before, things happened in between, -and I don't count it till five years ago. -Heaven knows I'm not worth her shoe-laces. Once -or twice—before the five years—I've realised that<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_133" id="Page_133">[133]</a></span> -a little too much, and then—the things happened. -But since then I've honestly tried to keep to the -mark your mother set me. She said to me once, -'If you would only keep as good as you are at -your best, Lawrence, you'd be good enough for -Helena,' and—perhaps because that wasn't so very -good, after all—I've really been keeping there, -after a fashion."</p> - -<p>Bob stared at him in unaffected amazement. -This clubman, this elegant, this social arbiter -was standing before him with tears in his level -grey eyes. It dawned upon his reckless young soul -that the soul of another man was slowly and painfully -stripping itself before him.</p> - -<p>"We'll let that part of it go," Dillon went on -hurriedly, "you couldn't see. I—I think I could -make her happy, Bob. I know her better than she -thinks. She almost said she'd have me, and then -you went on that spree. You nearly broke her -heart—I needn't go over it. Only she made a vow, -then—it was when she went into that convent-place -in Holy Week, and she's never been the -same since—and it was about you."</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_134" id="Page_134">[134]</a></span> -"About me? What d'you mean?"</p> - -<p>"She told me she never could marry till she was -certain whether you were just obstinate and wild, -or—or like your father; and that in that case——"</p> - -<p>"What, in that case?" Bob muttered through -his teeth.</p> - -<p>"She was going to devote her life to taking care -of you."</p> - -<p>There was a silence.</p> - -<p>"There's no use in going over all the arguments -now, Bob—you know what the doctor said. -Three months without a drop, and then he'd warrant -you. Every day that goes by makes it harder -for you. And here's your Uncle Owen promising -that the first month you go without a spree he'll -send you for a three months' cruise on the yacht -with Stebbins—you know what a chance that -is."</p> - -<p>Bob looked fairly up for the first time.</p> - -<p>"Stebbins! Would Stebbins go? I don't believe -you!" he cried eagerly.</p> - -<p>"He told me he would," said Dillon.</p> - -<p>"Why on earth should he?"</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_135" id="Page_135">[135]</a></span> -"He's a friend of mine," the other answered simply.</p> - -<p>Bob twisted his lips together a moment, while -the muscles around his mouth worked. Suddenly -he gave way and broke into sobbing speech.</p> - -<p>"You're a good fellow, Dill—I'm not worth it—truly, -I'm not! I've been a beast—and the college -and all that—you all despise me—but so do I!"</p> - -<p>He gripped the chair, turning his handsome, -tear-stained face up to his friend's. How the -straight, thin nose, the black-lashed blue eyes, the -white forehead reflected Helena! Dillon could have -kissed him for the likeness.</p> - -<p>"Will you, Bob? Will you? We'll all stand by -you!"</p> - -<p>"I will, Dillon, I will, so help me—Bob!" he -smiled through wet lashes. "You hang on, and I -will! But look out for that rector—he's running -a close second, and Aunt Sarah's backing him for -all she's worth!" He was smiling wisely now; the -strain was lifted, and he was almost himself again. -Dillon scowled.</p> - -<p>"He takes her slumming, you know, and, say,<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_136" id="Page_136">[136]</a></span> -you ought to hear him give it to Aunt Sarah -about knowing the condition the poor devils are -in before you deal out the tracts, you know. He -wants the good ladies and gentlemen to come and -see—that way, you know."</p> - -<p>"He's right enough there," Dillon said constrainedly, -"and I suppose he's better for her than -I'd be—no, by George, he's not! Bob, I tell you, -I know her better than he does—I tell you I've -waited five years—Oh, Lord, I can't talk any more -about it!"</p> - -<p>They went out arm in arm, the boy warm and -friendly, proud of his confidence and full of high -resolve, Dillon impassive outwardly, but conscious -of great stakes. To say, in four short weeks, to -those wide, blue eyes, a little scornful, perhaps, -but with so sweet, so pure a scorn! "<i>The strain is -over: he is safe; can you not trust me now?</i>" His -heart leaped and grew large at the thought.</p> - -<p>It was so like Helena, this service, half-sacred -in her mother's trust, half-shy in maidenly delaying. -"She is afraid of me!" he thought exultingly—indeed, -she admitted as much.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_137" id="Page_137">[137]</a></span> -"You and your set—one knows you, and yet -one doesn't," she said to him. "You seem so still, -so satisfied, so sure about life—there seems to be -so much you don't tell! Do you see what I mean? -It frightens me. There is so much we don't think -the same about, Lawrence—so much of you I don't -know! I wanted, when I married, to come into a—a -peace. I wanted it to be—don't laugh—like my -Confirmation: do you think it would, if I married -you? Do you, Lawrence?"</p> - -<p>He turned his head away. A vision of her, those -ten short years ago, in white procession down the -aisle of Easter lilies, rapt and aloof, flashed before -him. For one sweet second he saw her in fancy, -again in white, but trembling now, and near -him——</p> - -<p>"Oh, dearest child," he begged, "I don't know -about the peace—how can I? The things are so -different! But we could be happy—I know we -could! Is peace all you want, sweetheart, all?"</p> - -<p>Caught by his eyes, her own wavered and -dropped; a flood of red rose to her hair.</p> - -<p>"Don't, Lawrence, you frighten me! When you<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_138" id="Page_138">[138]</a></span> -look like that—Oh, wait a month, only this month, -Lawrence, till Bob has gone and we're sure!"</p> - -<p>"You want that more than anything else, don't -you? You'd give up anything——"</p> - -<p>Her eyes grew soft, then stern, and looked -clearly into his.</p> - -<p>"Anything in the world," she said instantly, -"so that mamma could see he was—safe. I am all -Bob has. Oh, if he can only——"</p> - -<p>"He shall," Dillon assured her stoutly, "he -shall, this time!"</p> - -<p>And indeed it seemed that he would. He -seemed awakened to the strongest effort they had -known him to make. His uncle's offer, grimly set -for one month from its date, or never, took on for -him a superstitious colour of finality. He was convinced -that it was his last chance.</p> - -<p>"If I'm downed this time, Dill, it's all up," he -would say, wearily, as they paced the endless city -blocks together, arm in arm, under the night. "If -I can keep up till the yacht—how long is it, a -week?—then, something tells me I'm all right. I -swear it's so. I never felt that before. But if I<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_139" id="Page_139">[139]</a></span> -don't"—he paused ominously. "There's always -one way out," he added.</p> - -<p>"You will break Helena's heart, then."</p> - -<p>"Heart? I don't think she has one. If she had, -you'd have had her long ago. Oh, no, I sha'n't. -She'll go into that beastly retreat for a while, and -then she'll marry that crazy rector-man and go -about saving souls. You'll see."</p> - -<p>The week was nearly up. The yacht was ready -in the harbour. The boy, though, showed the -strain, and Dillon, fearful of too much dogging -him, and warned by his furtive eyes and narrowed -lips, called in Stebbins to the rescue.</p> - -<p>"I can't have him hate me, Steb," he explained. -"We're both of us worn pretty thin. If you could -give up to-day and to-night——"</p> - -<p>They shook hands.</p> - -<p>"It's every minute, practically, you know, -Steb," he added doubtfully, "it's a good deal."</p> - -<p>"Oh, get on!" the other broke in, with a good-natured -shoulder clap.</p> - -<p>As he swung the glass door of the club behind -him, Dillon ran down a messenger-boy, bulging<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_140" id="Page_140">[140]</a></span> -with yellow envelopes. The boy glanced at him -questioningly.</p> - -<p>"Mist' Wardwell, Adams, Stebbins, 'r Waite?" -he inquired, holding out four telegrams as he -slipped in.</p> - -<p>Dillon shook his head, and walked down the -steps.</p> - -<p>One more night and she would be all to win, no -promise between, no scruple that a lover might not -smother. Shame on him if he could not woo more -persuasively than a mystical evangelist! In the -evening he would see her; the precious little note -lay warm over his heart.</p> - -<p>He dined alone, he could not have said where, -and an idle impulse for the lights and bustle of -the great thoroughfare sent him strolling down -Broadway. It was too early for the crowd, and he -found himself guessing vaguely as to the characteristics -of the couples that met and passed him. -That tall, slender lad, for instance, with such a -hint of Bob—poor, troublesome Bob!—in his -loose, telltale swagger, what had led him to the -dark-eyed creature that tapped her high heels be<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_141" id="Page_141">[141]</a></span>side -him? As she came under the light, one saw -better; her flashing smile, her careless carriage of -the head, her broad sweep of shoulder, had a certain -charm—great heavens, it was Bob steadying -himself on her arm! A moment, and the familiar -drawl reached his ear:</p> - -<p>"An' so you always want to choose mos' prom'nent -place, every time, an' you're safe's a church. -No chance to meet y'r dear frien's——"</p> - -<p>Dillon strode to his side, raising his hat to the -surprised woman.</p> - -<p>"I beg your pardon, Bob, but had you forgotten -your engagement this evening?" he said -smoothly. Bob stopped, glared a moment uncertainly, -but the scrupulous courtesy of Dillon's -bearing had its intended effect.</p> - -<p>"What—what engagement?" he inquired suspiciously. -"Friend o' mine," he added to his companion.</p> - -<p>"Haven't you met Stebbins? He—he was expecting -you." Lawrence felt his heart sink. Where -was Stebbins? Oh, fool, to have lost hold at the -eleventh hour!</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_142" id="Page_142">[142]</a></span> -"Stebbins? Stebbins?" Bob murmured to himself. -"Ah, yes; the beastly boat got afire, and he -had to go down; I'm going too, after a while—too -early yet—take a little walk, first, with Miss—Miss——" -He paused, and stared thoughtfully at -the woman. "I don't seem to just recall your -name," he said pleasantly. "Would you mind telling -me, so that I can introduce you? Bad form, -his poking in, though, terribly bad form."</p> - -<p>Dillon noted with anger that Bob was at his -most argumentative, obstinate stage; at this point, -if he felt the necessity, he could speak most correctly -and clearly, by giving some thought to the -matter, and it was almost impossible to alter his -determinations.</p> - -<p>"My name is Williams," said the woman. Dillon -bowed.</p> - -<p>"What have you had, Bob?" he inquired, moving -along with them.</p> - -<p>"Oh, only a cocktail—here and there—Miss—Miss -Willis likes 'em as well as anything. About -time we had another?" he suggested, eyeing Lawrence -combatively.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_143" id="Page_143">[143]</a></span> -The older man stopped dead. A weary despair -of the whole business seized him. It was all up, -then. Even if he went about with the boy, which -Bob would hardly allow, his condition next morning -would be all too apparent. And then Uncle -Owen would wash his hands of it all. Aunt Sarah -would never consent to any institutional cure. -Helena would never marry while Bob needed -her—thank God, she had never suspected the -woman!</p> - -<p>As if in answer to his thoughts, Bob complained -loudly:</p> - -<p>"I say it's a blamed shame, the first time I go -out with a girl to enjoy the evening, to have you -pokin' in, Dill! Always stuck with the fellows before; -and now I get a girl, like anybody else, and -here you come! Why don't you get out? Two's -company."</p> - -<p>Dillon caught his arm.</p> - -<p>"Bob," he said beseechingly, "you don't know -what you're doing. Surely you know what this -means! Don't you remember that the Eider-duck -sails to-morrow at nine? Don't you realise that by<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_144" id="Page_144">[144]</a></span> -this night's folly you're losing your last chance? -Your last chance, Bob! Think how you called it -that yourself! If this lady realised all this meant -to you, she'd excuse you, I'm sure. Don't be a fool, -Bob! Let me put you in a cab and go right to -Stebbins—old Steb'll put you up, and nobody will -ever know! You can sleep it off—it's only eight -o'clock."</p> - -<p>To his unexpected delight Bob yawned sleepily. -His eyes were dull, his mouth drooped.</p> - -<p>"Sleep it off," he murmured. "I wish I was in -bed this minute. Lord, I'm tired. And I know why, -too. I told her bromo-seltzer would settle me. Always -puts me to sleep—no good at all. Fool to -drink it. Told her so...."</p> - -<p>Dillon's spirits rose.</p> - -<p>"That's so," he assented, "it always acts that -way with you, doesn't it? Especially with cocktails. -Now, you be a wise man, Bob," he urged, -"and get into this cab——"</p> - -<p>"And where do I come in?" said the woman -sharply. "I call this a little queer, if you don't -mind my saying so."</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_145" id="Page_145">[145]</a></span> -Bob roused himself for a moment.</p> - -<p>"Just so," he declared heavily, "just so. -Where does Miss Willard come in? You must think -I'm a terrible cad, Dill, to ask a lady out for -the evening, and leave her like that! Not a bit -of it! You go on! Sorry, but can't leave the -lady."</p> - -<p>Lawrence moved toward his pocket involuntarily. -The woman struck his arm lightly.</p> - -<p>"That'll do," she said sullenly. "I don't want -your money. You think I'm a kind of a bundle, do -you? Pick me up and drop me. Well, that's where -you make a mistake. Why don't you let your -friend alone?"</p> - -<p>"Helen—she'll know. You say nobody will," -Bob broke in suddenly. "She won't lie, if you will. -She'll tell Uncle Owen. What's the use?"</p> - -<p>"I won't tell her," Lawrence returned quickly, -"and nobody else knows."</p> - -<p>"Well, then," Bob faced him cunningly, walking -backwards through the comparatively empty -cross-street they had turned down, "I think maybe -I'll do it. I want to go with Stebbins, all right.<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_146" id="Page_146">[146]</a></span> -But"—his obstinacy rose again, suddenly—"I -swear I won't go back on a lady! Nobody offer a -lady money in my presence! 'Twon't do, Dill! Get -out!"</p> - -<p>"Bob," Lawrence urged, despairingly, "if I -take Miss Williams wherever she wants to go, and -she will accept my escort"—he half turned to her, -but his doubt was not evident, if he had it—"will -you go to Stebbins?"</p> - -<p>Bob stopped short, nearly falling backwards.</p> - -<p>"Great head!" he cried. "Never thought old -Dilly had it in him! I'll—I'll consider the prop—the -prop—the plan." He yawned widely. "I certainly -am sleepy," he observed, sinking on a convenient -step.</p> - -<p>Dillon shook him and dragged him up.</p> - -<p>"Come," he said, shortly, "will you?"</p> - -<p>Bob pointed a theatrical finger at them.</p> - -<p>"Do you, Dilly, being of sound mind, body, or -estate, give me your solemn word of honour as a -gentleman to escort Miss Willins wherever she -wants to go? Do you?"</p> - -<p>"And drop me when your back's turned," inter<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_147" id="Page_147">[147]</a></span>posed -the woman, laconically, but not angrily. -Her interest was awakened, perhaps her sense of -humour, too, and she awaited developments philosophically.</p> - -<p>"Never a bit," Bob returned. "You don't know -old Dill. If he says it, he'll do it, if there were -what-do-you-call-'ems in the way."</p> - -<p>"I give you my word of honour," said Lawrence, -steadily.</p> - -<p>"And you'll never tell Helen? Because if you -do, she tells Uncle Owen, and it's all up with -Robbie."</p> - -<p>"I will never tell her."</p> - -<p>"On your word of honour?"</p> - -<p>"On my word of honour."</p> - -<p>"Then call your cab and tuck me in my little -bed. My eyes will crack if I prop 'em up any -longer."</p> - -<p>"Miss—Miss—I can't recall your name, but you -don't object?..."</p> - -<p>"Oh, no, I don't object in the least," said Miss -Williams satirically, with a wondering glance at -the tall, immaculate gentleman at her side, his face<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_148" id="Page_148">[148]</a></span> -stern in the electric-light, his evening clothes in -marked contrast to Bob's negligée. "In fact, I -rather——"</p> - -<p>Dillon whistled a cab and gave the driver whispered -directions. A bill fluttered as he passed it -up. The man nodded, respectful.</p> - -<p>"And now I am at your service," said Dillon, -standing tall and straight before her. "Where did -you wish to go?"</p> - -<p>Not for one moment did it occur to him to evade -his duty, and not for one moment did she intend -that he should. Where they went, through all that -nightmare evening, he could never afterward tell. -From dance-hall to concert-hall they wandered, -sat awhile, and departed. Nor were they silent on -the way. What they spoke of he could not have -told for his life, but they talked, fairly steadily -at first, less and less as the night wore on, and the -woman grew dreamily content with the lights, the -warmth, and the liquor. Dillon was imperturbably -polite, gravely attentive to her wishes, curiously -conscious of one life with her and another distinct -existence at Helena's home. Now he was waiting,<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_149" id="Page_149">[149]</a></span> -waiting, waiting in front of the close-shaded windows -to see if she had left the house or if she still -sat in surprised idleness expecting him. Now he -was at Stebbins's house watching Bob as he lay -asleep there.</p> - -<p>He remembered afterward thinking that the -woman must have been a Southerner, for, as she -drank, her tongue turned to those softer tones, -slurred vowels and quaint idioms.</p> - -<p>"It seems like you're having a good time, after -all," she said once. He bowed gravely.</p> - -<p>By eleven they were well down-town, he was not -quite certain where. They stayed but little time in -any one place. It seemed as if they had been on -this endless journey for years. Now and then he -saw a man he knew. In one place he wakened, -with a shock of remembrance, to the fact that he -had been there before: there, and at the place opposite, -too. How little it had changed! It was before -the five years....</p> - -<p>They were at a corner table, he with his back -to the room, the woman facing it. On a platform -opposite a young fellow sat before a piano, strik<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_150" id="Page_150">[150]</a></span>ing -desultory chords. Presently he began to sing, -in a sweet, piercing tenor:</p> - -<div class="poetry-container"> -<div class="poetry"><div class="stanza"> -<div class="line">"<i>Oh, promise me that some day you and I</i>——"</div> -</div></div></div> - -<p>There was a moved silence through the room; -his voice had a quality that reached for the -heart:</p> - -<div class="poetry-container"> -<div class="poetry"><div class="stanza"> -<div class="line">"<i>Those first sweet violets of early spring</i>——"</div> -</div></div></div> - -<p>Dillon glanced at the woman; her large, dark -eyes were brimmed with tears. A great pity surged -over him: he would have given anything he owned -to be able to offer her her life to live again. Tenderly, -as over a dusty, broken bird, he laid his -hand over her clasped ones on the table. They sat -in awed silence; the song swelled on. He did not -hear the door open behind him, nor turn as a new -party of four entered quietly. Directly behind his -chair a man's voice spoke softly.</p> - -<p>"This is a fair sample. Not very bad, you think? -But every man in this room is a confirmed opium-eater, -and the women——"</p> - -<p>The two at the table hardly heard.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_151" id="Page_151">[151]</a></span> -"Oh, the women!" said a woman's voice in a -rough whisper. "I cannot bear to think——"</p> - -<p>"Oh, it isn't the women, Aunty! You sha'n't -say that—they are heart-breaking. It's the men, -the men I bl——"</p> - -<p>Swiftly, hopelessly, as the steel turns to the -magnet, Dillon turned and faced Helena Huntington.</p> - -<p>As her eyes met his all the rose colour in her -soft cheeks seemed to sweep into his and burn -dully there, leaving her whiter than bone. For one -fiery second her eyes rested on the table, the half-emptied -glasses, the clasped hands of the pair, the -tear-stained cheeks of the handsome girl. For one -breath two groups of stone confronted each other. -Then, with no sign of recognition, she swept from -her seat, her hand on the rector's arm, her aunt -and an older man behind them. Her aunt looked -at Dillon as if he were the chair he sat in.</p> - -<p>The door swung behind them.</p> - -<div class="poetry-container"> -<div class="poetry"><div class="stanza"> -<div class="line">"<i>No life so perfect as a life with thee,</i></div> -<div class="line"><i>Oh, promise me; oh, promise me!</i>"</div> -</div></div></div> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_152" id="Page_152">[152]</a></span> -the tenor shrilled. Lawrence burst into jangling -laughter.</p> - -<p>"The evening is over," he said, still red and -shaking. "Allow me to escort you home."</p> - -<p>He never remembered the time between this -speech and the moment when she asked him to step -in for a while, and he laughed in her face. Then -there was another time, and he was at his rooms -at the club. But that was early morning. He was -lame and his shoes hurt his feet—he must have -walked a great deal.</p> - -<p>At eight o'clock Stebbins dashed into the -room.</p> - -<p>"Well, of all the fellows! What's the matter -with you?"</p> - -<p>He was fresh and rosy; a faint, wholesome -aroma of cigars and eau-de-cologne swept in with -him.</p> - -<p>"Why the deuce aren't you down to see us off? -They're all there. Got my telegram yesterday? -Fire didn't amount to much, but the fools hadn't -half the stuff I ordered. I was down there all the -afternoon seeing to it. I sent Bob right around<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_153" id="Page_153">[153]</a></span> -to you. You must have walked him well. Stevens -said he came in at eight and tumbled straight to -bed. He's fresh as paint this morning. Asked him -where he'd been, and I swear he didn't know. Says -you told him to go to bed, and he went. Drove -home, he says. Actually doesn't remember a living -thing but that, since dinner. When you said he'd -be that way sometimes I didn't really believe you, -but I do now. Where were you?"</p> - -<p>Dillon faced him.</p> - -<p>"For God's sake, Lawrence, what is it? Are you -sick? She said you wouldn't be there——"</p> - -<p>"She? Who?"</p> - -<p>"The old one—the aunt. Bob was wondering -about it, and she says directly, 'No, he won't be -here this morning,' so I slipped off. Bob said if -you were tired, never mind.</p> - -<p>"I say, Lawrence, that's an awfully attractive -boy. You can't help liking him. He called me -aside, and, 'Look here,' says he, 'Uncle Owen says -there's to be no wine packed for you. Now I can't -have that, Stebbins, it won't do. It's awfully bully -of you to come, and you must have everything<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_154" id="Page_154">[154]</a></span> -you want.' I told him that would be all right and -what a fine vacation it was going to be for -me——"</p> - -<p>Lawrence turned the water into the tub and -began to pull at his shoes. Never had he felt so -grateful for Stebbins's constant chatter.</p> - -<p>"I don't believe I'll come down," he heard himself -say. "I have a beastly headache. I didn't get -much sleep——"</p> - -<p>"Well, for heaven's sake get some, if it makes -you look like that! Where'd you go, anyway, after -you put Bob to bed?"</p> - -<p>Lawrence pulled off his coat.</p> - -<p>"Parson's down there, you know. He and uncle -seem to be hand in glove. He's pretty well fixed -with most of the family, I shouldn't wonder."</p> - -<p>"How much time have you got?" said Lawrence's -voice.</p> - -<p>"George, not much! Cab's waiting outside. I -won't mention how you look, then—just tell 'em -good-bye."</p> - -<p>"That's all. Just tell 'em good-bye."</p> - -<p>Lawrence was in the bath-room as Stebbins<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_155" id="Page_155">[155]</a></span> -hurried out. He sat down on the porcelain rim of -the tub, his face drawn and grey above his white -shirt.</p> - -<p>"It seems to be pretty well settled up," he said -quietly. "I hope his mother's pleased!"</p> - -<hr class="chap" /> - -<div class="chapter"> -<p class="p6"><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_157" id="Page_157">[157]</a></span></p> - - - - -<h2 id="A_LITTLE_BROTHER_OF_THE">A LITTLE BROTHER OF THE BOOKS</h2></div> - - -<p>The new librarian entered upon her duties -bright and early Monday morning. She closed -with a quick snap the little wicket-gate that separated -the books from the outer vestibule, briskly -arranged her paste-tube, her dated stamp, and her -box of slips, and summoned her young assistant -sharply. The assistant was reading <i>Molly Bawn</i> -and eating caramels, and she shut book and bag -quickly, wiping her mouth as she hurried to her -superior.</p> - -<p>"Now, Miss Mather, I expect to get fifty books -properly labelled and shelved before noon," said -the new librarian, "and there must be no time -wasted. If anyone wants me, I shall be in Section -K," and she turned to go.</p> - -<p>Section K was only a few feet from the registering-table, -but it pleased the new librarian to -assume the existence of long corridors of volumes,<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_160" id="Page_160">[160]</a></span> -with dumb-waiters and gongs and bustling, basket-laden -attendants. So much majesty did she throw -into her sentence, indeed, that the young assistant, -who had always, under the old régime, privately -referred to Section K as "those old religious -books," and advised the few persons interested in -them to "go right in behind and see if the book -you refer to is there," was staggered for a moment, -and involuntarily glanced behind her, to see -if there had been a recent addition to the building.</p> - -<p>The new librarian strode down between the -cases, glancing quickly from side to side to detect -mislaid or hastily shoved-in volumes. Suddenly -she stopped.</p> - -<p>"What are you doing in here, little boy?" she -said abruptly.</p> - -<p>In the angle of the case marked "Books of -Travel, Adventure, etc.," seated upon a pile of -encyclopædias, with his head leaning against -<i>Twenty Thousand Leagues Under the Sea</i>, was a -small boy. He was dark of eyes and hair, palely -sallow, ten or eleven years old, to appearance. By -his side leaned a crutch, and a clumsy wooden<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_161" id="Page_161">[161]</a></span> -boot, built up several inches from the sole, explained -the need of this. A heavy, much-worn -book was spread across his little knees.</p> - -<p>He looked up vaguely, hardly seeming to see -the librarian.</p> - -<p>"What are you doing here? How did you get -in?" she repeated.</p> - -<p>"I'm reading," he replied, not offering to rise, -"I just came in."</p> - -<p>"But this isn't the place to read. You must go -in the reading-room," she admonished him.</p> - -<p>"I always read here. I'd rather," he said, pleasantly -enough, dropping his eyes to his book, as -if the matter were closed.</p> - -<p>Now the new librarian thoroughly disapproved -of the ancient custom that penned the books away -from all handling, and fully intended to throw -them open to the public in a few months' time, -when she should have them properly systematised; -but she resented this anticipation of what she intended -for a much-appreciated future privilege.</p> - -<p>"But why should you read in here, when none -of the other children can?" she demanded.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_162" id="Page_162">[162]</a></span> -The boy raised his eyes again.</p> - -<p>"Mr. Littlejohn lets me—I always do," he repeated.</p> - -<p>The new librarian pressed her lips together -with an air of highly creditable restraint.</p> - -<p>"Mr. Littlejohn allowed a great many irregularities -which have been stopped," she announced, -"and as there is no reason why you should do -what the other children cannot, you will have to -go. So hurry up, for I'm very busy this morning."</p> - -<p>She did not speak unkindly, but there was an -unmistakable decision in her tone, and the boy got -up awkwardly, tucked his crutch under his arm, -and laying the big book down with care, went out -in silence, his heavy boot echoing unevenly on the -hardwood floor. The librarian went on to Section -K.</p> - -<p>Presently the young assistant, who had been accustomed -to keep her crocheted lace-work on the -Philosophical shelf, directly behind the <i>Critique of -Pure Reason</i>, recollected that it would in all human -probability be discovered, on the removal of -that epoch-making treatise, and came hastily down<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_163" id="Page_163">[163]</a></span> -to get it. Having concealed it safely in her pocket, -she paused.</p> - -<p>"That was Jimmy Reese you sent out—did you -know it?" she asked.</p> - -<p>"No, what of it?"</p> - -<p>"Why, nothing, only he's always read in here -ever since I came. Mr. Littlejohn was very fond -of him. He helped pick out some of the books. -He——"</p> - -<p>"Picked out the books—that child? Great -heavens!"</p> - -<p>"Well, he's read a good deal, Jimmy has," the -assistant contended. "It's all he does. He can't play -like the other children, he's so lame. He seems real -old, anyhow. And he's always been here. He helps -giving out the books, and helps the children pick -out. He was very convenient when Mr. Littlejohn -didn't like to be waked up."</p> - -<p>"Great heavens!" the librarian cried again.</p> - -<p>"I think you'll find he'll be missed, you being -so new," the assistant persevered.</p> - -<p>"I think I can manage to carry on the library, -Miss Mather," replied her superior coldly, "with<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_164" id="Page_164">[164]</a></span>out -any assistance from the children of the town. -Will you begin on that Fiction, please?"</p> - -<p>She walked on again, but paused to put away -the brown book, which lay where the intruder had -left it, a mute witness to the untidiness of the laity. -Opening it briskly, she glanced at the title:</p> - - -<p class="p2 center break-before"> -The<br /> -AGE OF FABLE</p> -<p class="center">or</p> - -<p class="center smcap">Beauties of Mythology</p> - -<p class="center">by</p> - -<p class="center smcap">Thomas Bulfinch</p> - -<p class="p2">Below was a verse of poetry in very fine print; -she read it mechanically.</p> - -<div class="poetry-container"> -<div class="poetry"><div class="stanza"> -<div class="line"><i>O, ye delicious fables! where the wave</i></div> -<div class="line i1"><i>And woods were peopled, and the air, with things</i></div> -<div class="line"><i>So lovely! why, ah! why has science grave</i></div> -<div class="line i1"><i>Scattered afar your sweet imaginings?</i></div> -<div class="line i12"><span class="smcap">Barry Cornwall.</span></div> -</div></div></div> - -<p>It flashed into her mind that an absolutely -shameless subscriber had retained Miss Proctor's -collected poems for three weeks now, and she made -a hasty note of the fact on a small pad that hung -from her belt. Then she set the <i>Age of Fable</i><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_165" id="Page_165">[165]</a></span> -in its place and went on about her work, the incident -dismissed.</p> - -<p>The next afternoon as she was sorting out from -the department labelled, "Poetry, Miscellaneous -Matter, etc.," such books as Mr. Littlejohn had -found himself unable or unwilling to classify further, -shaking down much dust on the further side -of the shelves in the process, she was startled by a -faint sneeze. Her assistant was compiling a list of -fines at the desk, and this sneeze came from her -very elbow, it seemed, so she hastily dismounted -from her little ladder and peered around the rack. -There sat the little boy of yesterday, the same -brown book spread across his knees. She looked -severe.</p> - -<p>"Is this Jimmy Reese?" she inquired stiffly.</p> - -<p>"Yes'm," he answered, with a polite smile. He -had an air of absolute unconsciousness of any -offence.</p> - -<p>"Well, don't you remember what I told you -yesterday, Jimmy? This is not the reading-room. -Why don't you go there?"</p> - -<p>"I like it better here."</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_166" id="Page_166">[166]</a></span></p> - -<p>The librarian sighed despairingly.</p> - -<p>"Perhaps you don't know who I am," she explained, -not crossly, but with that air of detachment -and finality that many people assume in -talking with children. "I am Miss Watkins, the -new librarian, and when I give an order here it -must be obeyed. When I tell any one to do anything, -I expect them to do it, because—because -they must," she concluded lamely, a little disconcerted -by the placid stare of the brown eyes. "You -see, if all the little boys came in here, there would -be no room for us to work."</p> - -<p>"But they don't—nobody comes but me," he reminded -her.</p> - -<p>"Suppose," she demanded, "that someone should -call for that book you are reading. I shouldn't -know where to look for it."</p> - -<p>"Nobody ever wants it but me," he assured her -again.</p> - -<p>"I have no time to argue," she said irritably, -"you must do as I tell you. Put the book up and -run away."</p> - -<p>Without another word he laid the book on the<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_167" id="Page_167">[167]</a></span> -broad base-shelf, picked up his crutch, and went -out. As she watched his retreating figure, a little -uneasy feeling troubled her usual calm. He seemed -so small, so harmless a person.</p> - -<p>A little later it occurred to her to see how he had -entered the library, and stepping through the two -smaller rooms at the back, choked and dusty with -neglected piles of old magazines, she noticed a -door ajar. Picking her way through the chaos, -she pulled the knob, and saw that it gave on a -tiny back porch. On the steps sat the janitor, as -incompetent, from the librarian's point of view, -as his late employer.</p> - -<p>"I thought you were sweeping off the walks, -Thomas," she suggested, coughing as the wreaths -from his pipe reached her.</p> - -<p>"Well, yes, Miss Watkins, so I was. I just -stopped a minute to rest, you see," he explained, -eyeing her distrustfully. Since her advent life had -changed greatly for the janitor.</p> - -<p>"I see Thomas, does that little lame boy come -in this way?"</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_168" id="Page_168">[168]</a></span></p> - -<p>"Jimmy? Yes, ma'am. 'Most always he does. In -fact, that's why I keep the door unlocked."</p> - -<p>"Well, after this I prefer that you should keep -it locked. There is no reason why he should have -a private entrance to the library that I can see; -and anyway it's not safe. Some one might——"</p> - -<p>"Oh, Lord, Miss Watkins, don't you worry. -Nobody ever came in here yet, and I've been here -eight years. Jimmy's all right. He's careful and -still's a mouse, and he won't do a mite of harm. -He comes in regular after school's out, and it's -just like a home to him, you may say. He's all -right."</p> - -<p>Miss Watkins frowned.</p> - -<p>"I have no doubt that he is a very estimable -little boy," she said; "but you will please see that -no one enters the library by this door. I see no -reason for favouritism. You understand me, I -hope."</p> - -<p>And she returned to her work. The assistant, -weary of her unprecedented labour, had laid aside -the list of fines, and was openly crocheting. No -sound of broom or lawn-mower proclaimed Thomas<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_169" id="Page_169">[169]</a></span> -worthy of his hire, and Miss Watkins, vexed beyond -the necessity of the case, labelled Fiction -angrily, wondering why such a town as this needed -a library, anyway.</p> - -<p>Two little old ladies, plump and deprecatory, -entered in a swish of fresh, cambric morning-dresses. -One of them fumbled in her black-silk -bag for a book, and leaning on the little gate, -coughed lightly to attract the assistant's attention.</p> - -<p>"Yes, indeed, Miss Mather, a lovely day. Sister -and I enjoyed this very much. I don't know about -what we'll take, exactly; it's so hard to tell. I always -look and look, and the more I look the more -anxious I get. It always seems as if everything -was going to be too long, or else we've read it. -You see we read a good deal. I wonder—do you -know where the little boy is?"</p> - -<p>Miss Mather smiled triumphantly. "You'll have -to ask Miss Watkins," she said.</p> - -<p>"The new librarian, my dear? Oh, I hardly like -to disturb her. They say she's very strict. My -cousin told me she charged her nine cents for a<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_170" id="Page_170">[170]</a></span> -book that was out too long. You ask her, my -dear!"</p> - -<p>"Miss Watkins," said the assistant meekly, -"there is a lady here would like to see Jimmy. Do -you know where he is?"</p> - -<p>"I do not," the librarian returned briefly. "Anything -I can do——"</p> - -<p>"Oh, no, not at all!" cried the flushed old lady, -"not for the world! Don't disturb yourself, please—Miss—Miss—I'll -just wait till he gets in. He -picked this out for me. You see, he knows pretty -well what we want. I always like something with -a little travel in it, and sister won't hear of a -book unless it ends well. And it spoils it so to look -ahead. So the little fellow looks at the end, and -sees if it's all right for sister, and then he assures -me as to the travel—I like European travel best—and -then we know it's all right. I'll just wait -for him."</p> - -<p>"I have no reason to suppose that he will be -here," Miss Watkins said crossly.</p> - -<p>"Oh, yes, he'll be here," the old lady returned -comfortably. "He'll be here soon. We can wait."</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_171" id="Page_171">[171]</a></span></p> - -<p>The librarian pressed her lips together and retired -into her work. The minutes passed. Presently -the outer door opened softly, and the irregular tap -of a crutch was heard. Jimmy's head peered -around the partition into the ante-room. The old -ladies uttered a chirp of delight, and slipped out -into the hall for a brief, whispered consultation, -returning with a modest request for "<i>Griffith -Gaunt</i>, by Charles Reade." The elder of the two -shut it carefully into her bag, remarking sociably, -"I wanted to read the <i>Cloister and the Hearth</i>, by -the same author, I'd heard there was so much -travel in it, but he said sister never could bear -the ending."</p> - -<p>Going into the reading-room later, on some -errand, the librarian was surprised to find the -magazines neatly laid out in piles, the chairs -straightened, the shades pulled level, and a fresh -bunch of lilacs in the jar under the window. She -guessed who had done it, but Jimmy was not to -be seen. Once, during the next afternoon, she -thought she saw a small, grey jacket disappearing -into the waste-room, but much to her own<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_172" id="Page_172">[172]</a></span> -surprise, forbore to make certain of it. During the -next few days, when her time was entirely taken -up with the catalogue in the front of the library, -and the assistant transacted all business among the -shelves, she was perfectly convinced that somewhere -between sections A and K a little boy with -a brown book was concealed, but found herself -too busy to rout him out.</p> - -<p>Even when a red-faced, liveried coachman presented -her with a note, directed in a sprawling, -childish hand to "Mr. Jimmy Reese, Esq.," she -only coughed and said severely, "There is no such -official in the library."</p> - -<p>"It's just the little boy, ma'am, that's meant," -the man explained deferentially. "Master Clarence -is back for the summer—Mrs. Clarence Vanderhoof, -ma'am—and he always sends a note to the -little fellow. There was some book he mentioned -to him last year as likely that he would enjoy, and -Master Clarence wants it, if it's in. I was to give -him the note."</p> - -<p>"I will send a list of our juveniles to Mrs. -Vanderhoof," said the librarian, in her most busi<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_173" id="Page_173">[173]</a></span>ness-like -manner, "and I will give you, for Master -Clarence, the new Henty book. He will probably -like that."</p> - -<p>"I beg pardon, ma'am," persisted the coachman, -"but Master Clarence says that there was a book -that the little boy particularly recommended to -him, and I was to be very special about it. He -goes a good deal by the little fellow's judgment. -I'll call in again when he's here, after my other -errands."</p> - -<p>Miss Watkins sighed, and gave way. "Will you -see, Miss Mather, if Jimmy Reese is in the library?" -she inquired, and Miss Mather, smiling, -obeyed her.</p> - -<p>He was never formally enfranchised, but he -took up his place in the department of Travel -and Adventure, and held it unchallenged. All the -long, spring afternoons he sat there, throned on -the books, leaning against them, banked safely in -from the tumult of the world outside, a quiet little -shadow among the shadowy throngs that filled the -covers.</p> - -<p>Whatever he might read, for he turned to other<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_174" id="Page_174">[174]</a></span> -books as one travels, for the joy of coming home -again, the old brown book lay open on his knees, -and he patted the pages with one hand, absently, -as his eyes travelled over the print. Sooner or -later he came back to the yellowed leaves—perhaps -to the story of Dryope.</p> - -<p class="i2 p2">"<i>Now there was nothing left of Dryope but her -face. Her tears still flowed and fell on her leaves, -and while she could, she spoke. 'I am not guilty. -I deserve not this fate. I have injured no one. -If I speak falsely, may my foliage perish with -drought and my trunk be cut down and burned. -Take this infant and give it to a nurse. Let it -often be brought and nursed under my branches, -and play in my shade; and when he is old enough -to talk, let him be taught to call me mother, and -to say with sadness, "My mother lies hid under this -bark." But bid him be careful of river-banks, and -beware how he plucks flowers, remembering that -every bush he sees may be a goddess in disguise. -Farewell, dear husband and sister and father. If -you retain any love for me, let not the axe wound -me nor the flocks bite and tear my branches. Since<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_175" id="Page_175">[175]</a></span> -I cannot stoop to you, climb up hither and kiss -me; and while my lips continue to feel, lift up my -child, that I may kiss him. I can speak no more, -for already the bark advances up my neck, and -will soon shoot over me. You need not close my -eyes; the bark will soon close them without your -aid.' Then the lips ceased to move, and life was -extinct; but the branches retained, for some time -longer, the vital heat.</i>"</p> - -<p class="p2">In fancy he walked by that fatal stream. He -saw the plant dripping blood—the flower that was -the poor nymph Lotis. The terrible, beautiful revenge, -the swift doom of those wonderful Greeks, -that delights even while it horrifies, he felt to the -fullest measure. He had no more need to read them -than a priest his breviary, for he knew them all, -but he followed the type in very delight of recognition.</p> - -<p>Through the window came the strong scent of -the purple lilacs, that grew all over the little New -England town. Faint cries of children playing -drifted in with the breeze. The organ in the church -nearby crooned and droned a continual fugue.<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_176" id="Page_176">[176]</a></span> -Someone was always practising there. The deep, -bass notes jarred the air, even the little building -trembled to them at times. And since it had been -at this season of the year, when he had first found -the book, the lovely broken myths, elusive sometimes, -and as dim to his understanding as the marble -fragments that still bewilder the enchanted -artist, he always connected with that throbbing, -mournful melody, that haunting lilac -odour. Sometimes the organ swelled triumphantly -and cried out in a mighty chorus of tone: at those -times Ulysses shot down the false suitors, or Perseus, -hovering over the shrieking sea-beast, rescued -the white Andromeda. Sometimes a minor plaintive -strain troubled him vaguely, and then he listened -to poor Venus, bending in tears above the slain -Adonis.</p> - -<p class="p2 i2">"<i>'Yet theirs shall be but a partial triumph; -memorials of my grief shall endure, and the spectacle -of your death, my Adonis, and of my lamentation, -shall be annually renewed. Your blood shall -be turned into a flower; that consolation none shall -envy me.' Thus speaking, she sprinkled nectar on<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_177" id="Page_177">[177]</a></span> -the blood; and as they mingled, bubbles rose as in -a pool, on which rain-drops fall, and in an hour's -time there sprang up a flower of bloody hue, like -that of the pomegranate. But it is short-lived.</i>"</p> - -<p class="p2">The peculiar odour of much leather on pine -shelves was confused, too, with the darling book. -He had never read it elsewhere; he had not money -enough for a library-ticket. Old Mr. Littlejohn, -quickly recognising the invaluable services that -this little acolyte might be counted upon to render, -had readily granted him the freedom of the -shelves, and smoked his pipe in peace for hours -together, thereafter, in the back room, sure of his -monitor in front.</p> - -<p>Miss Watkins needed no such assistance, but she -found herself, to her amazement, not wholly ungrateful -for the many steps saved her by Jimmy's -tactful service to the children. At first she would -have none of it, and groups of shy boys and girls -waited awkwardly and in vain before the little -gate, hoping for a glimpse of their kindly counsellor. -She thrust lists of juveniles into their -unwilling hands, led them cautiously into an in<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_178" id="Page_178">[178]</a></span>spection -of Nature Lessons for Little Learners, -displayed tempting rows of bound <i>St. Nicholas</i>—but -to no purpose.</p> - -<p>"Where's Jimmy?" they demanded stubbornly.</p> - -<p>"What on earth do they want of him?" she -asked of her assistant one day. "That stupid -Meadows child—is she going to ask his opinion -of the Dotty Dimple Books?"</p> - -<p>"Not at all," Miss Mather replied tranquilly. -"But he always gets her a Mary J. Holmes novel, -and I stamp it and let it go. You always argue -with her about it, and ask her if she wouldn't prefer -something else—which she never would."</p> - -<p>Little by little he grew to wait on the children -as a matter of course. He was even allowed to -keep the novels desired by the Meadows child -in the juvenile shelf, where he insisted they belonged.</p> - -<p>"Only the girls in Number Seven want 'em," -he explained, when his superior complained of -his audacity in removing them from adult fiction.</p> - -<p>And so the little girl who had reached that<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_179" id="Page_179">[179]</a></span> -period of little girlhood when every well-regulated -young person is compelled by some inward power -to ask the librarian, tremblingly, if she has a book -in the libr'y called <i>St. Elmo</i>, was spared all embarrassment, -for Jimmy handed it out to her almost -before she asked.</p> - -<p>Not that he lacked the discrimination to exercise -a proper authority on occasion. Miss Watkins -remembered long a surprising scene which she witnessed -from the top of a ladder in the Biography -and Letters Section. A shambling, unwholesome -boy had asked Miss Mather in a husky voice for -the works of Edgar A. Poe, and as she blew off -the dust from the top and extended two fat volumes -toward him, a rapid tapping heralded the -youngest official.</p> - -<p>"Don't you give 'em to him, don't you!" he -cried, warningly. As she paused instinctively he -shook his finger with a quaint, old-fashioned gesture -at the boy.</p> - -<p>"You ought to be ashamed, Sam Wheeler," he -said reprovingly. "You shan't take those books a -step. Not a step. If you think you're going to<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_180" id="Page_180">[180]</a></span> -scare Susy to death you're mistaken. If you want -to read 'em, come here and do it. But you aren't -a-going to read 'em to her nights, again. So you -go right off, now!"</p> - -<p>Without a word Sam turned and left the library, -and Miss Watkins from her ladder remonstrated -feebly.</p> - -<p>"Why, Jimmy, if that boy has a ticket you -haven't any right——"</p> - -<p>"Do you know what he does with those books, -Miss Watkins?" replied the dauntless squire of -dames. "He reads 'em after supper to his little sister -Susy. That one where the house all falls down -and the one where the lady's teeth come out and -she carries 'em in her hand! And she don't dare -take her feet off the rungs, she sits so still. And -she don't go to sleep hardly ever. Do you s'pose -I'd let him take 'em?"</p> - -<p>The librarian threshed the matter over, and -finally thought to stagger him by the suggestion -that it would be difficult for him to ascertain the -precise intention of everyone drawing out books. -"How do you know," she asked, "that other peo<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_181" id="Page_181">[181]</a></span>ple -may not be frightening each other with various -stories?"</p> - -<p>"There aren't many fellows as mean as Sam -Wheeler," he replied promptly, "and then I was -sure that he was going to. I happened to -know."</p> - -<p>She turned again to her work and he went back -to his corner, the brown book under his arm.</p> - -<p>The syringa was out now, and the mournful, -sweet odour blew in from the bushes around the -church. In the still June air he could hear the bees -buzzing there. He turned the beloved pages idly. -Should it be poor Psyche, so sweet and foolish, or -Danaë, the lovely mother, hushing her baby in the -sea-tossed chest? He found the place of Proverbial -Expressions at the back of the book, and read -them with a never-failing interest. Around them he -wove long stories to please himself.</p> - -<p class="p2 i2">"<i>Their faces were not all alike, nor yet unlike, -but such as those of sisters ought to be.</i>"</p> - -<p class="p2">This one always pleased him—he could not -have said why.</p> - -<p class="i2 p2">"<i>Here lies Phäton, the driver of his father's<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_182" id="Page_182">[182]</a></span> -chariot, which if he failed to manage, yet he fell -in a great undertaking.</i>"</p> - -<p class="p2">The simple grandeur of this one was like the -trumpet tone of the organ. He thrilled to it delightedly.</p> - -<p>The third he murmured to himself, entranced -by the very sound of the words:</p> - -<p class="p2 i2">"<i>He falls, unhappy, by a wound intended for -another; looks up to the skies, and dying remembers -sweet Argos.</i>"</p> - -<p class="p2">Ah, why would Thomas never consent to the -witchery of these words:</p> - -<p class="i2 p2">"——<i>and dying remembers sweet Argos.</i>"</p> - -<p class="p2">He sighed delightedly and dreamed into the -dusk. Almost he thought he had known that man, -almost he remembered sweet Argos....</p> - -<p>In the middle of June the Vanderhoof's coachman -brought bad news: Master Clarence was quite -ill. No one knew what it was exactly, but if there -was any exceptionally fine book that Jimmy could -suggest, he'd be glad to be read to from it.</p> - -<p>For the first time the little librarian parted from -his darling.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_183" id="Page_183">[183]</a></span> -"If you'll be especially careful of it, William, -and I've put in slips of paper at the best ones. -And as soon as he gets better, I'd be glad if he'd -send it back—if he's through with it."</p> - -<p>The days seemed long without it. The heat was -intense, and when Miss Mather stayed at home a -day or two, and all the summer people came in -for books, he had a great deal to do. Miss Watkins -was very glad of his help, now.</p> - -<p>One hot Saturday afternoon he did not return -to the library, but began a resolute journey to the -Vanderhoof's big house on the hill. It was almost -two miles, and he went slowly; now and then he -stopped to rest on the stone horse-blocks. It took -him an hour to get there, and at the door he had -to stop to wipe his forehead and get his breath.</p> - -<p>"I came to ask how Clarence was," he said to -the maid.</p> - -<p>"He's better, thank you, but it's dreadful sick -he's been. 'Twas scarlet fever, dear," she answered, -with a pitying glance at the crutch. "Not that -you need be worried, for the half of the house is -shut off, and we've not been near it," she added.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_184" id="Page_184">[184]</a></span></p> - -<p>"I'm glad he's better, and—and is he through -with the book?" he asked eagerly.</p> - -<p>"The book? What book is it, my dear? Sure the -nurse does be reading a hundred books to him."</p> - -<p>"A brown book: Stories of Gods and Heroes. -I—I'd like it, if he's through with it. I stay at -the libr'y, and I sent it to him—" he sank on the -step, exhausted.</p> - -<p>The kind-hearted girl dragged him into the -hall. "Come out with me, dear, and get a glass -of cold milk," she said. "You've walked too far."</p> - -<p>Seated on a chair in the kitchen, his eyes closed, -he heard, as in a dream, his friend's voice raised -in dispute with some distant person.</p> - -<p>"And I say he shall have it, then. Walking all -this way! And him lame, too! Tell Emma to put -it on the tray, and leave it in the hall. The child's -well enough now, anyway. I'll go get it myself—I'm -not afraid. The whole of us had the fever, -and no such smelling sheets pinned up, and no -fuss at all, at all. I'm as good as a paid nurse, any -day, if you come to that. A book'll hurt no -one."</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_185" id="Page_185">[185]</a></span></p> - -<p>Later he found himself perched beside the coachman, -who was going to meet a train, the beloved -book tight in his arms. He fingered it lovingly; -he smelled the leaves like a little dog. For the first -time in his life he took it to his home, and clasped -it in his arms as he lay in bed.</p> - -<p>For days he did not appear, and it was Thomas, -the janitor, who went finally to look him up, -troubled by the children's reports of his illness. -He returned grave-faced.</p> - -<p>"It's the fever, Miss Watkins, and they say -there's little chance for him, the poor little feller! -He was worn out with the heat. They don't know -how he got it. He's out of his mind. To think of -Jimmy like that!"</p> - -<p>The librarian's heart sank, and her assistant put -her head on her arms and cried. Thomas sat sadly -on his little porch, his unlighted pipe in his mouth. -The library seemed strangely empty.</p> - -<p>The little Meadows girl brought them the news -the next morning.</p> - -<p>"Jimmy's dead," she said abruptly. "He got it -from a book up at the Vanderhoof's. His aunt<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_186" id="Page_186">[186]</a></span> -feels awful bad. It was a libr'y book. They say he -held it all the time."</p> - -<p>The librarian put away the book in her hand, -envying the younger woman her facile tears. She -was not imaginative, but she realised dimly for a -moment that this little boy had known more of -books, had got more from them, than she, with all -her catalogues.</p> - -<p>They sat together, she, Miss Mather, and -Thomas, a strange trio, at the simple funeral service -in the church nearby. So far as daily living -went, they were as near to him as the aunt who -cared for him.</p> - -<p>Coming back to the library, they lingered -awhile in the reading-room, trying to realise that -it was all over, and that that little, quick tapping -would never be heard again among the books. At -last Thomas spoke:</p> - -<p>"It don't seem right," he said thickly, "it don't -seem right nor fair. Here he was, doting on that -book so, tugging it round, just living on it, you -might say, and it turned on him and killed him. -Gave it up, and a sacrifice it was, too—I know—<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_187" id="Page_187">[187]</a></span>and -as a reward, it killed him. Went back to get -it, brought it home, took it to bed—and it killed -him. It's like those things he'd tell me out of it—they -all died; seemingly without any reason, the -gods would go back on 'em, and they'd die. He's -often read it out to me."</p> - -<p>"It will be lovely to have that Children's-room -memorial," said Miss Mather, softly, "with all the -books and pictures and the little chairs. It was -beautiful in Mrs. Vanderhoof, I think. It wasn't -her fault. I wish—I wish we'd had a little chair -in there for Jimmy."</p> - -<p>The librarian got up abruptly and moved -around among the magazines, a mist before her -eyes. Only now did she realise how she had grown -to love him.</p> - -<hr class="chap" /> - -<div class="chapter"> -<p class="p6"><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_189" id="Page_189">[189]</a></span></p> - - - - -<h2 id="THE_MAID_OF_THE_MILL">THE MAID OF THE MILL</h2></div> - - -<h3>I</h3> - -<p>"The only objection I have to ghost stories," -said young Sanford, "is from a literary point of -view. They're so badly done, you know."</p> - -<p>"In what way?" said the clerk of the hotel, settling -back in his office chair, and smiling at young -Sanford and the circle of men who had come down -for their keys from the billiard-room.</p> - -<p>"Well, in this way. I'm not considering the little -harmless stories where the heroes are only -frightened, or even those where their heads are -grey in the morning. I'm thinking of those where -they never live to tell the awful tale, you know; -the ones in which they tell their friends to come -if they call, and then they never call; the ones in -which, although they scream and scream, nobody -hears them.</p> - -<p>"And yet the old trembling man who points them -to the haunted room knows perfectly well that five -men have entered that room on five nineteenths of<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_192" id="Page_192">[192]</a></span> -October, and never come out alive. Yet he -only warns them, or at most only beseeches -them not to go in. He has no police force—not -that police could seriously harm the ghosts, but -somehow they never appear to the police; he does -not arrange with the victim's friend to burst in -the door at twelve-thirty, anyhow, whether they -are summoned or not; he doesn't—but then, what -do any of them do that they might be expected to? -And all this forced condition of things so that the -ghost may have all the evening to work quietly in. -Do you mean to tell me that if I were frightened to -the extent of grey hair in the morning, I couldn't -scream loud enough to be heard any distance?"</p> - -<p>This speech drew nods of approval from several -of the men. "I've thought of that, too," said the -clerk. In a dark corner behind the stove sat a man, -hunched over his knees, silent, and apparently unknown -to any of the others. At this point he looked -up, cleared his throat, and said in a strange, husky -voice:</p> - -<p>"Do you really suppose that that is anything -else than nonsense?" Young Sanford flushed.<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_193" id="Page_193">[193]</a></span> -"Sir"—he began. The other continued in his -rough, thick voice:</p> - -<p>"Do you suppose they don't try to scream? Do -you suppose they don't <i>think</i> they're screaming?"</p> - -<p>A little silence of discomfort fell on the circle. -There was something disagreeably suggestive in -the question. Suddenly the man spoke again.</p> - -<p>"I had a friend," he said, "in fact, I had two -friends. One was young—about your age," nodding -to Sanford. "The other was older. He was not -so clever nor so attractive nor so brilliant nor so -jolly as the younger, but he had a characteristic—perhaps -his only one—for he was a very ordinary -man. He had an iron will. His determination was -as unbreakable as anything human could be. And -he was devoted to his friend, who, somehow, loved -him. I don't know why, because he had so many -other admirers—but he stuck to his friend—Joan. -They called the two Darby and Joan. Their real -names were not unlike those, and it was rather -funny. Darby used to talk as you were talking, -sir," he nodded again to Sanford, "and he was -sure, cock sure, that what he said was right. He<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_194" id="Page_194">[194]</a></span> -would tell what things were possible and what -were not, and prove what he said very nicely. Joan -wasn't clever, but he knew that it does no good -to call a thing impossible. He knew, in fact, that -nothing is more possible than the most impossible -things."</p> - -<p>The man coughed and cleared his throat and -waited a moment as if to see whether he were intruding. -No one spoke, so he went on.</p> - -<p>"One day Darby rushed into Joan's study and -told him of a haunted mill he'd discovered. It was -one of the old mills where the farmers used to -bring their sacks before the big concerns in the -West swallowed all the little trades. It was dusty -and cobwebbed and broken down and unused and -haunted. And there was a farmhouse directly -across the road and a house on either side of it -not a hundred feet away.</p> - -<p>"'Was it always haunted?' asked Joan. 'No,' -said Darby, 'only once a year.' On Christmas eve -every year for nineteen years there had appeared, -late at night, a little light in one of the windows; -and that side of the house had an odd look, some<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_195" id="Page_195">[195]</a></span>how -it seemed to look fresher and newer, and at -one o'clock or so a horrible piercing shriek would -ring out from the mill, and then a kind of crashing -fall, and then all was still, and the light would -disappear.</p> - -<p>"'Had nobody investigated?' Oh, yes. The -first year it was noticed was when houses were -built up around it. It used to stand away from -everything else, and the miller and his family lived -there. Then, long after they were dead, people -moved out there and heard the noises and saw the -light. They thought of tramps and escaped criminals -and everything one suggests till it had occurred -too repeatedly for that, and then a young -farmer went over one Christmas eve, not telling -any one, and they found him roaming about the -mill, a hopeless wreck the next day; he had gone -quite mad.</p> - -<p>"And the next year a man came up from -the city, and his friends were in the next room to -help him if he called, and he didn't call, and they -were afraid to startle him by knocking, so they -got a ladder and peeped into the window at ten<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_196" id="Page_196">[196]</a></span> -minutes to one, and he lay peacefully on the bed -with his eyes closed and his hands stretched loosely -out, and they thought it was a great joke that he -should sleep through it, so they went home, and -in the morning they found him in horrible convulsions, -and he never recovered.</p> - -<p>"And there were two young divinity students -that went once together, and they had a crowd -along with instructions to break in the door at one -exactly. And at the stroke of one the crowd beat in -the great door and burst into an empty room! -They had gone up a flight too far, somehow, and -as they stood staring at each other, from the room -beneath them came a dreadful shriek and a crash, -and when they rushed down they found the boys -in a dead faint. They brought them to and got -them home, and they muttered nonsense about a -dog and a sash and would say no more. And they -escaped with severe nervous prostration. But later -they lost what little nerve they had and couldn't -sleep at night, and joined the Catholic Church, because -they said that there were things they found -it difficult to reconcile....</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_197" id="Page_197">[197]</a></span></p> - -<p>"'And what was the story of it all?' asked Joan. -Oh, the story was disagreeable enough. The miller's -daughter wanted to marry a poor young man, -but her father would not let her. And she refused -to accept his rich nephew. So he locked her in her -room till she should consent. And she stayed there a -week. And one night the nephew came home late -and saw a tiny light in her window, and presently -he saw some one place a ladder and go softly up, -and the miller's daughter leaned out and helped -him in. So he told her father, who came into her -room the next night with a bloodhound, and bound -her to the bed and hushed her cries with her sash, -and lit the little light. And when her lover had -climbed the ladder—the dog was there. And that -was Christmas eve.</p> - -<p>"'Do the people suffer this without complaint—these -deaths and convulsions and apostasies?' -asked Joan. Well, no. But if they destroyed the -mill a liquor saloon would go up immediately. The -proprietor was simply waiting. And they didn't -want that. So they kept it quiet. And nobody need -go there. Nobody had been alarmed or hurt except<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_198" id="Page_198">[198]</a></span> -the meddlers. And in villages the people have less -scientific curiosity. But Darby was going immediately. -It was December twenty-third now. Joan -must come, too; it would be most exciting. Joan -argued against it, but he too was curious, so they -agreed to go. And the next day they went."</p> - - -<h3>II</h3> - -<p>By this time the circle was absolutely silent, -concentrated to ears and eyes. They stared and -leaned towards the shadowy corner behind the stove -where the dimly defined figure crouched. The clerk -got up and turned down the gas, which flared in -his face, and the room was almost wholly dark. -The man spoke in a dull, mechanical way, as one -speaks who clears his mind, once for all. At intervals -he waited fully ten seconds to rest his voice, -strangely impressive, with its strained, choked -tones.</p> - -<p>"The next day they went," he repeated. "Darby -was not only clever—he was extremely sensitive. -Ridicule was unbearable to him. And though he -was a literary fellow, and artistic and all that, he<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_199" id="Page_199">[199]</a></span> -was practical, too, for all he was so brilliant and -winning. It actually troubled him that people -should believe anything but what he called 'the -strictly logical,' and he thought Joan's ideas far -too flexible and credulous. It was really for Joan's -sake, he said in joke, whom he rather suspected of -spiritualistic leanings, that he intended to make the -excursion into the country. And he would tell nobody. -He would make no inquiries. He would conduct -the search along somewhat unusual lines, he -declared. One of them should sleep in the room. -At one o'clock precisely the other should quietly -mount a ladder fixed just where the mythical -ladder had been and enter the room in that way, -thus preventing any mischievous practical jokes -from without, and insuring help to the man within, -should he need it.</p> - -<p>"And Joan agreed to this. He was interested -himself, and he'd have been as eager and scornful -as Darby if it hadn't occurred to him—for he was -a terribly literal fellow—that four tragedies, sad -as these had been, and all unexplained, couldn't -be accounted for by chance nor made less sad even<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_200" id="Page_200">[200]</a></span> -by a good logician like Darby. So he suggested -one or two friends to fall back upon in case of -foul play of any kind. And Darby looked at him -and laughed a little sneering laugh and called -him——" The man choked and bent lower. He -seemed to be unable to speak for some seconds. -Then he hurried on, speaking from this point very -rapidly and using a kind of clumsy gesture that -brought the scenes he spoke of strangely clear to -the men around him.</p> - -<p>"He called him a coward. So Joan agreed to -go. And on the afternoon of the day before Christmas -they took a long ladder and a lantern and -some sandwiches and two revolvers and drove in -a butcher's cart to the little village. And Joan was -as eager as Darby that no one should know. You -see, Darby called him a coward.</p> - -<p>"They slipped into the old, dingy mill at dusk, -and went over it with the greatest thoroughness. -Everything was open and empty. Only the corner -bedroom and one of the living rooms were furnished -at all. The dust lay thick in the mill -proper, but the living rooms were singularly free<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_201" id="Page_201">[201]</a></span> -from it. Darby noticed this and remarked it to -Joan. 'It doesn't smell half so musty, either,' -he said. 'I'm glad of that. I hate old, musty -smells.'</p> - -<p>"Then a queer, crawly feeling came over Joan, -and he said: 'Darby, let's go home. Life's short -enough, heaven knows. If anything——' And -then Darby told him once for all that if he wanted -to go home he might, and otherwise he might -shut up.</p> - -<p>"'Do you want it dusty and smelly?' said he.</p> - -<p>"'Yes,' said Joan, 'I do. I don't see why it isn't, -either. It's just as old and just as deserted as the -other part.'</p> - -<p>"'You might get a little dust from the other -side and scatter it about,' said Darby, and -before Joan could reply he had scooped a handful -of dry, brown dust from the bagroom of the mill -and laid it about on the bureau and chairs of the -bedroom. 'Now come out for our last patrol,' he -said. They went out and studied the mill carefully. -As they came around to the house side, keeping -carefully in the shadow, Joan looked surprised<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_202" id="Page_202">[202]</a></span> -and pointed to the door by which they had entered.</p> - -<p>"'That door's shut,' he said.</p> - -<p>"'Well?' asked Darby.</p> - -<p>"'We left it ajar.'</p> - -<p>"'Oh, the wind!' said Darby, and went up to -the door softly, listening for any escaping joker. -He rattled the knob and pushed it inward, but the -door did not yield. 'Why, you couldn't have left it -ajar,' he said, 'it's locked!'</p> - -<p>"Joan stared at the house, wondering if it was -possible that the window-panes really shone so -brightly. And the cobwebs about the blinds, where -were they? He could have sworn that the porch -was full of dead leaves and sticks when they went -in—it was as clean as his hand now.</p> - -<p>"'We'll go in by the window, the broken one, at -the back,' he said quietly. They went around the -house and hunted for the broken window, but did -not find it. The window was not only whole but -locked. Then Joan set his teeth.</p> - -<p>"'The broken window must have been at the mill -side,' he said, 'we'll go there.' So they went around<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_203" id="Page_203">[203]</a></span> -and clambered in by a paneless window and went to -the bedroom. The room was dim, but they could -distinguish objects fairly well. Darby looked -queerly at Joan.</p> - -<p>"'So you cleared away the dust,' he asked.</p> - -<p>"'What dust?' asked Joan. Then he followed -Darby's eyes, and where the little piles of brown -dust had lain were only clean, bare boards.</p> - -<p>"Outside, the teams of the home-coming farmers -rolled by. A dog barked, and now a child called. -But they seemed far away—in another country. -Where the two young fellows stood, there was a -strange lonely belt of silence.</p> - -<p>"'Perhaps I brushed the chair as we went out,' -said Darby slowly. But he looked at Joan queerly.</p> - -<p>"They took their supper, and then Joan announced -his intention of staying in the room while -Darby patrolled the house, and climbed the ladder -at one. At first Darby demurred. He had planned -to stay. But Joan was inflexible. It was utterly -useless to argue with him, so Darby agreed. If -Joan wanted help he was to call. At eleven and -twelve Darby was to climb the ladder and look in,<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_204" id="Page_204">[204]</a></span> -and at one he was to come in, whatever the situation. -At the slightest intimation of danger of any -kind Joan was to fire his revolver and Darby was -to call for help and rush up the ladder. For all -that the people were so quiet round about, they -were probably uneasy—they knew that things -might happen on the night before Christmas.</p> - -<p>"Joan sat for some time after Darby had left -him, staring about the room. It was simply furnished -with a large bed, a table, and two deal -chairs. Thrown over the bed was a moth-eaten -blanket, checked white and red. Joan swept it off -from the bed and shook it, closing his eyes instinctively -to avoid the dust. But no dust came. -He shook it again. It was as fresh and clean as -his handkerchief. He threw it back on the bed and -looked out at Darby walking quietly around in the -shadow.</p> - -<p>"He was glad Darby was out there. He got to -thinking of ghosts and strange preparations for -their coming. The boards of the window creaked, -and he gasped and stared, only to see Darby's -face at the window. 'Anything happened?' he<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_205" id="Page_205">[205]</a></span> -signalled. Joan shook his head. It must be -eleven o'clock. How was it possible? The time -had seemed so short. He stared at a big star till -his eyes swam. He felt dull and drowsy. He had -sat up late the night before, and he needed sleep.</p> - -<p>"A thought came to him, and it seemed somehow -very original and striking. He tapped on the -pane to Darby.</p> - -<p>"'I'll lie down and take a little nap,' he whispered, -opening the window softly. 'You can call -me at twelve.' Darby nodded.</p> - -<p>"'How do you feel, old fellow? All right?' he -asked."</p> - -<p>The man choked again and was silent for a time. -The strain was growing. The men waited for something -to happen as one awaits the falling of the -red, snapping embers.</p> - -<p>"Joan lay down in that bed," said the stranger -hoarsely, and from this point he hurried on almost -too quickly for clearness, "on that hideous checked -blanket, and fell asleep. He fell asleep thinking -of Darby's words and how thoughtful they were: -'How do you feel, old fellow? All right?'</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_206" id="Page_206">[206]</a></span></p> - -<p>"He had bad dreams. He dreamed a woman -stood at the foot of the bed and stared at him -and motioned him to go. And she was an unnatural -woman. She kept changing colour, from red to yellow, -from yellow to cream colour, from cream -colour to white, from white to—ah! she was a dead -woman!</p> - -<p>"She motioned him to go, but he refused. She -came to the side of the bed and took off her long -red sash and bound him down. Then he was willing -to go indeed, and strained his muscles in useless -efforts to break away, but she laughed at him -and then breathed in his face till her damp, icy -breath chilled his very soul—and he woke, covered -with the sweat of terror—to see her standing at the -foot of the bed, looking, looking into his staring -eyes!</p> - - -<h3>III</h3> - -<p>"So it was true. There were such things. But -at least his limbs were free, and to his joy he discovered -that he was not afraid. No; he had a dull -feeling of coming disaster, but no fear. She was<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_207" id="Page_207">[207]</a></span> -a young woman, with big shadowy eyes and a -strange mouth. She had on a long, loose white -nightgown, open at the throat, and she carried -a little lamp. 'Go!' he saw in her eyes as plainly -as if she said it. He looked about the room—he -could have sworn it was changed. It had the air -of a woman's room, that she is living in and keeps -her things in. He had no right there—none. He -should have gone. But he was proud because he -wasn't afraid, and he answered her with his eyes -that he would not go. A tired, puzzled look came -into her face, a kind of frown, and she leaned -over the footboard and begged him with those big -dark eyes, begged him hard to go. He had his -chance—oh, yes, the fool had his chance!</p> - -<p>"But he was so proud that he could master her, -master a returned soul—for lovely as she was, he -knew she wasn't human—that he only set his teeth -and started up to come nearer her. But she raised -her hand and he fell back, feeling queer and -drowsy. Then she came to the edge of the bed and -sat down and took from behind her a soft red silk -sash and drew it across his face. A sweet, languid<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_208" id="Page_208">[208]</a></span> -feeling stole over him; the bed seemed like a cloud -of down, her sash smelled like spice and sandalwood -in a warm wind. He felt he was being drugged and -weakened, and he tried to stumble up, but the soft -silk smothered him, and he became almost unconscious.</p> - -<p>"He only wanted one thing—to feel her fingers -touch his face and to hold her long brown hair. And -while she drew the sash across his mouth he -stretched out his hands on either side to catch it and -reach her fingers. There was nothing ghostly about -her—she was only a lovely dream-woman. Maybe -he was asleep....</p> - -<p>"And then she pulled the sash away, and he -caught her eye and awoke with a start—her look -was full of triumph. She didn't beg him any longer. -This was no helpless, gentle spirit of a woman; -this was a weird elemental creature; she hadn't any -soul or any pity; something made her act out all -this dreadful tragedy, without any regard for human -life or reason. He knew somehow that she -couldn't help his weakness; that though in some -fiendish way she had bound him hand and foot,<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_209" id="Page_209">[209]</a></span> -she did it not of herself, but in obedience to some -awful law that she couldn't help any more than -he. And then he began to be afraid. Slowly great -waves of horror rose and grew and broke over him. -He tried to move his feet and hands, but he could -not so much as will the muscles to contract. He -strained till the drops stood on his forehead, but -still his arms lay stretched motionless across the -bed.</p> - -<p>"Just then he met her eyes again, and his heart -sank, they were so mocking and bitter. 'Fool! -fool!' they said. They were so malignant, and yet -so impersonal—he could have sworn that she was -afraid too. What was to happen? Would she kill -him? His tongue was helpless. He worked his lips -weakly, but they made no words. And she turned -down her mouth scornfully and played with the -sash. Why did she wait? For she was waiting for -a time to come—her eyes told that. What was that -time? A great joy that Darby was safe outdoors -came to him, and he remembered that Darby would -come at twelve! He would break the spell. And just -then she left the bed and bent down over the little<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_210" id="Page_210">[210]</a></span> -lamp, and when she took it up it was lighted. She -moved across to the window and set it in the sill. -Then she glided to the door and locked it. Joan -heard the bolt slip.</p> - -<p>"Steps sounded on the ladder outside. Into -Joan's half-dulled thought came a kind of comfort. -Darby was coming. Some one knocked on the -pane and the window was raised from the outside.</p> - -<p>"'Joan! Joan!' whispered Darby, 'are you all -right? Why did you light the lamp? Where are -you?' And then Joan, the fool, forgot that if he -had not answered, Darby would surely have come -in. It seemed to him that if he did not speak now, -he was lost. He strained his throat to say four -words—only four: 'All right. Come in.' Just that. -The first two to reassure Darby, the second to bring -him. He made a mighty effort. 'All—all right!' -he shouted, 'c—c—,' and then her eyes were on -him and he faded into unconsciousness. He saw in -them a terror and surprise. He understood that -she wondered at his speaking. There was a stinging -pain in his throat, and he heard Darby whisper -angrily,</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_211" id="Page_211">[211]</a></span></p> - -<p>"'Keep still, can't you? Don't howl so! It's -quarter to one. I looked in at twelve, and didn't -want to wake you. You'd better get up now—who's -that down there?' and with a sickening despair -he heard Darby hurry down the ladder.</p> - -<p>"The leaves rustled a little and then all was -still. He didn't struggle any longer. It was clear to -him now. He was to play the lover in this ill-fated -tragedy, whose actors offered themselves, fools that -they were, unasked, each time. And what happened -to the lover? Why, he was killed. Well, rather that -he should die than Darby. It seemed to him so -reasonable, now. No one had asked him to suffer. -He had had his chance to go and refused it. No -one could help him now. Not even she. They must -play it out, puppets of an inexorable drama.</p> - -<p>"And then the girl dashed to the bed, and sank -beside it as if to pray. And he felt her hair on his -face, as he had hoped, but it brought no joy to -him. For something was coming up from the floor -below. Something that sent a thrill before it, that -advanced, slowly, slowly, surely. The girl shuddered -and grasped the bed and tried to pull her<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_212" id="Page_212">[212]</a></span>self -up, but she sank helplessly back. And slowly -the bolt of the door pushed back. No one pushed it, -but it slipped back. Then slowly, inch by inch, -the door opened. Joan grew stiff and cold, and -would not have looked but that his eyes were -fixed. Wider, wider, till it stood flat against the -wall.</p> - -<p>"Then up the stairs came steps. And with them -others, quick and pattering. What was that? Who -walked so quickly, with padding, thudding feet? -He longed for them to come in—he dreaded their -coming. The door was ready for them. The room -was swept and clean.</p> - -<p>"Up, up, they came, the heavy steps and the -scratching, pattering feet. Nearer, nearer—they -came in. The man, large, dark, heavy-jawed; the -stone-grey, snarling hound, licking its frothing -jaws, straining at its chain. The girl writhed -against the bed in terror—she opened her lips, -but with a stride the man was upon her, -his heavy hand was over her mouth. He dragged -her up, shaking and sinking, he snatched the sash -and bound her mouth, he held her at arm's length<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_213" id="Page_213">[213]</a></span> -and stared once in her eyes. Scorn and rage and -murder were in his.</p> - -<p>"Joan forgot his own danger in terrified pity. -He struggled a moment, but it was useless. His -dreadful bonds still held. The man came to the bed, -dragging the hound, and Joan shut his eyes, not -to see the dark evil face. He would die in the dark, -alone, unaided. Oh! to call once! To hear a human -voice! But there was no sound but the panting -of the great, eager dog.</p> - -<p>"The man seemed not to see him. He seized the -girl, and turning her toward the light that burned -at the pane, he bound her to the bed-post with the -silken sash. She writhed and bent and tried to -grasp his feet; she pleaded with her eyes till their -agony cut Joan like a knife, but the man tied her -straight and fast. Then he walked to the pane -and crouched down by it and held the dog's muzzle, -and became like a stone image.</p> - -<p>"And suddenly it flashed across Joan's mind, -with a passion of fear to which all that had gone -before was as nothing, that Darby was coming up -that ladder to that light! Darby, whom he had<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_214" id="Page_214">[214]</a></span> -thought so safe, was to come unknowing, unwarned, -to that straining, panting beast. He -turned faint for a moment. And then with all the -power of his soul he tried to scream. He felt his -throat strain and bend and all but burst with the -tremendous effort. He tried again, and the pain -blinded him. At his feet there the girl strained and -twisted, great tears rolling down her cheeks. And -yet there was a ghastly silence. The stifled panting -of that hound echoed in a deadly quiet. It -was horrible, pitiful! The girl's white gown was -torn and mussed; her soft naked shoulder quivered -when she strained against the cruel sash. -He could see that her arm was red where it was -tied.</p> - -<p>"She trembled and bent and bit her lip till the -blood stained her chin. He cursed and prayed and -shrieked till the sound, had it come, would have -deafened him—but it was all a ghastly mockery! -It was as still as a quiet summer afternoon—and -the dog and the man waited at the window.</p> - -<p>"There was a sound of scraping. Someone was -coming up the ladder—someone who whistled<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_215" id="Page_215">[215]</a></span> -softly under his breath, and came nearer every -moment. Up, up—the ladder rattled against the -window-frame. The man at the window slipped his -hand slowly, slowly from the dog's muzzle. The -dog stiffened and drew back his black, dripping -jaws from his yellow teeth. The man's fingers sunk -in the beast's wrinkled neck and he held him back, -while he threw one look of hate and triumph at -the tortured woman behind him.</p> - -<p>"The man bound to the bed couldn't bear it any -longer. As a hand grasped the window-sill from -outside, he summoned all his iron will, and with a -rasping, rending effort that brought a sickly, -warm taste to his mouth, he gave a hoarse cry.</p> - -<p>"Then the woman leaned over till the sash sunk -into her soft flesh, and shrieked with a high, shrill -note that cut the air like a knife. But even as she -shrieked, a form rose over the sill, there was a -rush from inside, and their voices were drowned -in a cry of terror, a scream so broken and despairing -that Joan could not recognise the voice. And -then there was a horrid crashing fall, and the light -went out, and something snapped in the brain of<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_216" id="Page_216">[216]</a></span> -the man chained to the bed, and he dropped for -miles into a deep, black gulf."</p> - -<hr class="tb" /> - -<p>There was a dead silence in the room. No one -dared to speak. The stranger's voice had quavered -and broken, and in a hoarse whisper he said, rising -and stumbling to the door while they made -way for him silently:</p> - -<p>"And when he knew his friends again, Darby -had been buried a long time. Joan did not know -whether a broken neck is so much worse than anything -else in the world. He hadn't any curiosity -about the mill—he didn't care to hear the details -of how they burned it to the ground. Perhaps -after a while he will be too tired to contradict ignorant -people. But he thinks—he has said, that -when a man has not slept five hours in a week, nor -spoken for days together without agony, much -may be forgiven him in the line of intolerance -of other people's ignorance—a blessed ignorance -gentlemen, a blessed ignorance."</p> - -<p>The door closed behind him and the men drew -a long breath. No one turned out the gas and it<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_217" id="Page_217">[217]</a></span> -burned till morning, for they took their keys in -silence and went upstairs, for the most part arm -in arm, haunted by the hoarse, rough voice of the -stranger, whom they never saw again.</p> - -<p>And indeed they did not care to see him. "For -what could one say?" as young Sanford demanded, -the next day. "It either happened, or it didn't. If -it didn't, he can say no more; if it did, then he -is right, and we are in blessed ignorance." And -no one of the circle but nodded and looked for a -moment at the chair behind the stove.</p> - -<hr class="chap" /> - -<div class="chapter"> -<p class="p6"><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_219" id="Page_219">[219]</a></span></p> - - - - -<h2 id="THE_TWILIGHT_GUESTS">THE TWILIGHT GUESTS</h2></div> - - -<p>When they left him, in the warm, late afternoon, -lying listless on his couch in the porch, they -thought he would stay alone there till they -came again. His little granddaughter, indeed, felt -so sad at deserting him that she ran back and -kissed him twice. "To leave Grandpapa alone!" -she said. But he was not alone; there came to him -strange guests and sweet. And this was the manner -of their coming.</p> - -<p>As he watched the shadow creeping up the steps, -he thought how often he had marked the time by -it in the far away days. He remembered how he -had tried to keep in the broad sunbeam that lay -along the walk, when he used to run home to supper -tired and hungry, shouting to his mother that -his school was over and out and that he had come—"So -hungry, mother dear!" And as he thought -of her, slow tears crept from under his old eyelids, -and he raised his hand feebly to wipe them<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_222" id="Page_222">[222]</a></span> -away. When he saw clearly again, he started -slightly, for up the path, walking in the sunbeam, -came a boy. He smiled sweetly, cheerily at the old -man, and sat down confidingly, close to the couch. -"It is so warm in the sun!" he said.</p> - -<p>The old man turned uneasily and looked at him. -"Are you Arthur's son?" he asked doubtfully. -"My eyes are so dim—I cannot always tell you -apart, at first. Are you Arthur's son?"</p> - -<p>"No," said the child.</p> - -<p>"Are you——" but then the boy looked full in -his face and the old man could not take his eyes -from that searching smile. And as he looked, there -grew around his heart the sweet faint breath of -lilac trees, though it was early autumn and not at -all the spring. And deep in the child's eyes was -so strange a soul—yet so familiar! As he looked -yet deeper the lilac scent grew stronger and he -dared not turn away his eyes, lest he should lose -it. So he listened to the child, who spoke brightly -yet gravely, with his head resting against the old -man's knee.</p> - -<p>"See!" he said, "the lilacs are all out! I took<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_223" id="Page_223">[223]</a></span> -a bunch to school, and the teacher wore them in -her dress. Oh, but I grow tired of the school in -the mornings, when the birds sing under the window! -The brook is all full with the flood water, -do you know?"</p> - -<p>"Yes," said the old man dreamily, "yes, I -know."</p> - -<p>"There are pickerel there—I saw one, anyway!" -said the boy. "The old one—he lives under the -stone all alone. If I could get him, I'd be proud -enough! But I never can—I can only catch him -on a Friday night when the moon is full, and then -I'm not allowed out! The man that weeds the garden -told me that. Do you remember?"</p> - -<p>"Yes, I remember," said the old man.</p> - -<p>"But if I don't fish, I don't care so much," said -the boy happily. "For I get so wet and dirty, and -Rachel doesn't like me then. I can't look on her -book. She is so dear! She never spots the ink on -her apron, like the other girls. And she never eats -fish, either. She thinks it hurts them too much to -kill them. I don't think so—do you? But girls are -different."</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_224" id="Page_224">[224]</a></span></p> - -<p>"Where are you going to-night?" said the old -man, quietly, yet his voice trembled.</p> - -<p>"I'm going to sing to Rachel's grandfather. -He's blind, you know."</p> - -<p>"Yes," said the old man, "and old. His hair is -white. He walks with a cane. But he loves the singing."</p> - -<p>"Then to-morrow I must go to church," said -the boy. "The minister talks and prays and I get -so sleepy. But mother keeps a peppermint for me, -just before the second hymn. Then I have it for -the long prayer. And I can sing the hymns. -Rachel never looks at me, she sits so still in church. -And she won't play on Sunday. I can have my -whip and two of the largest marbles. Do you think -that is wrong?"</p> - -<p>"No," said the old man, "I don't think that is -wrong."</p> - -<p>"And we have gingerbread on the porch in the -afternoon," said the boy, "and Rachel comes. -Mother says children must not be vexed at the -Lord's Day."</p> - -<p>"Yes," said the old man, "mother is so good to<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_225" id="Page_225">[225]</a></span> -us—so good——" and when he saw clearly again, -the child was gone. Only the shadow lay upon the -upper step of the porch, and the sunbeam was -shrunken to a narrow path of light.</p> - -<p>He stretched out his trembling hands and called -sorrowfully to the boy. "Come back! O come back! -I had forgotten so much! And the lilacs——" but -he was alone. And his hair was almost white. He -covered his face with his hands and shivered. For -the shadow was creeping up the porch.</p> - -<p>And then over his chilled heart there came the -breath of roses—summer roses. The air struck -warm and soft upon his cheeks. And when he -dropped his hands there stood in the sun-ray a -straight tall youth. His eyes were shining with -strength; his smile was happiness itself. In his firm -brown hands he held roses—summer roses. The -old man forgot to be afraid and raised himself -on the cushions.</p> - -<p>"Give them to me—give them!" he cried. The -young man laughed low and laid the red flowers -softly up against the withered cheeks. Then he sat -down and took the cold, dry hands in his.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_226" id="Page_226">[226]</a></span></p> - -<p>"What do they make you remember?" he said.</p> - -<p>The old man sighed for pure joy. "Ah, how -sweet—how heavenly sweet! Did they come from -the garden behind her father's house?"</p> - -<p>"Yes," said the youth, "from the old bush near -the wall. It was moonlight, and we picked them -together. I reached the highest ones, because -Rachel is not tall. She wore——"</p> - -<p>"She wore the white gown with the big shade -hat," said the old man eagerly. "And I made a -wreath for her shoulders. I called her—what did -I call her? The queen—the queen"—</p> - -<p>"The queen of roses," said the youth.</p> - -<p>"Ah, yes, the queen of roses!" said the old man. -"Her mouth was like the pink, young buds. We -went up and down the long paths, and I wanted -her to take my arm."</p> - -<p>"But she would not," laughed the young man. -"She said that old folks might lean, but she could -run as well as any man!"</p> - -<p>"So she ran through the garden, and I after!" -cried the old man, crushing the roses till they -filled the porch with sweetness. "She hid behind<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_227" id="Page_227">[227]</a></span> -the old elm and let me call and call. And I had to -find her in the moonshadows. You know she grew -afraid and cried out when I caught her? And yet -she knew I would. But women are so. Her mother -knew I was with her, so she let us stay till it was -late. Rachel's mother was kind to me, you -know?"</p> - -<p>"Yes," said the young man. "But she knew that -Rachel——"</p> - -<p>"Ah!" said the old man quickly, "it seems they -all knew! All but Rachel and me! Now that is so -strange. For we should have known it first. But -Rachel laughed so when I tried to tell her, she -said—what was it she said?"</p> - -<p>"That you were too young to know how you -would think of it later," said the youth.</p> - -<p>"And I said, 'I'm old enough to know I love -you, Rachel, now and for ever!'" said the old man -softly, clasping his hands together so that the -roses dropped to the ground. "And then she did -not laugh at all, but only held her head down so -I could not see her eyes, and would not speak."</p> - -<p>"It was so still," said the youth. "There was<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_228" id="Page_228">[228]</a></span> -no breeze, and everything in the garden listened, -listened, for what she would say."</p> - -<p>"But nothing in the garden could hear," said -the old man eagerly, "because she only whispered!"</p> - -<p>"Was it then that her mother called?" asked the -youth.</p> - -<p>"Yes," said the old man, and he smiled. "But -we did not come, for Rachel was afraid to go. -She thought her mother would not like to have -her leave the old home. And she feared to tell her -that she wanted to go. So we sat like silly children -in the dark. You see, I was afraid, too. Her -father and mother were old, and old people cannot -know how we feel when love first comes to us—and -yet they loved, once!"</p> - -<p>"Yes, they loved once," said the youth, "but -they forget. They think of lands and money and -the most prudent course—they cannot feel their -heart's blood rushing through their veins, surging -in their ears, 'She loves me!' They cannot feel that -one hour with her is dearer than years with the -others of the world!"</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_229" id="Page_229">[229]</a></span></p> - -<p>"And then we went in!" said the old man softly. -"Then we went in! And her mother stood waiting -for us. Rachel would not look up and I had to -lead her by the hand. She feared that we could -not make it plain, that her mother would scold -us——"</p> - -<p>The youth laughed aloud. "But did she?" he -said.</p> - -<p>And the old man laughed too.</p> - -<p>"No. She came to me and kissed me and then -she held Rachel and cried. But not that she was -sorry. Older people feel strange when the younger -ones start away, you see."</p> - -<p>The young man picked up the roses and laid -them again by the side of the couch. "Sleep," he -said softly, "and dream of her!" And the old man's -eyelids drooped and the hands that held the roses -relaxed in quiet sleep.</p> - -<p>When he awoke the sun had almost set. The -path of rays had faded and the creeping shadow -had covered the highest step and lay along the -porch. He felt feebly for the roses, but they were -gone. And the sweet warm scent of them was only<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_230" id="Page_230">[230]</a></span> -in his dim memory. But there sat in the shadow a -man.</p> - -<p>Threads of grey were in his hair and lines -around his firm mouth. But in his eyes shone yet -a sweet strength, and he held his head high as he -spoke.</p> - -<p>"Do you know where I have been?" he said.</p> - -<p>The old man shook his head.</p> - -<p>"Think!" said the other.</p> - -<p>Then while he looked into the stranger's eyes, -there stole across his heart the wind that blows -through the orchard when the fruit is ripe. He -drew in great breaths of it, in doubt, and at last -he said in a whisper so low that he hardly heard -himself, "You have been to his grave—his little -grave!"</p> - -<p>"Yes," said the man, "I have. His mother goes -there alone—not even I go with her. She goes -alone."</p> - -<p>"No," said the old man solemnly, "no. God -goes with her. I thought that she would have died—why -did she live?"</p> - -<p>"Because," said the other, "because you would<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_231" id="Page_231">[231]</a></span> -have been alone. And you could not have kept -yourself a man, if she had gone, too."</p> - -<p>"Ah, yes!" said the old man softly, "that is it. -She is an angel! When he was born I was almost -afraid. I said, 'My son! I have a son! If I should -die to-night, he would live and I should live in -him!' And when she brought him herself into the -orchard—I see her now—I see her now!"</p> - -<p>He could not lift his head from the pillow, he -was so tired and weak, but with his eyes he begged -the other to come nearer. The man came close to -the couch and looked down tenderly at the old -man. "She wore the white trailing gown," he said.</p> - -<p>"Yes," whispered the old man, "and the great -wide hat. And she held him up under the brim -and said that if it should rain, she and he could -keep dry together, but I must stay in the rain!"</p> - -<p>"Do you remember," said the other, "how when -he could just say words, you played with him under -the apple tree?"</p> - -<p>"Can I ever forget?" said the old man. "But -now the angels teach him a better language, so -that he had but one to learn!"</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_232" id="Page_232">[232]</a></span></p> - -<p>"Do you remember how she left him with her -mother and went away with you?" said the other.</p> - -<p>The old man smiled a little. "Ah, yes! Well -enough!" he said. "We thought we would be young -again, and leave him to his grandmother and his -sisters. He had enough care! It was not lack of -that——"</p> - -<p>"And when you had gone only a few miles she -grew anxious——"</p> - -<p>"Yes, yes!" said the old man. "She said, 'Suppose -he is sick? Suppose he falls into the brook? -He walks about so brave and strong—and he is -our only son!' So we came back."</p> - -<p>"You were good to her," said the other. "You -did always just as she wished."</p> - -<p>"I loved her," said the old man simply.</p> - -<p>The stranger's eyes grew moist and his voice -shook as he said, "When he grew sick——"</p> - -<p>"Ah, when he grew sick!" cried the old man -bitterly. "Almost I lost my trust in the Giver of -my child, and dared not give him back! How I -begged! How I prayed!—you know!"</p> - -<p>"Yes," whispered the stranger, "I know."</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_233" id="Page_233">[233]</a></span></p> - -<p>"Then she left me for the first time," said the -old man slowly. "For the first time. She went alone -and prayed. Oh Rachel, my dear, dear wife, I -could not go with you to God! I think even we -go best alone! I said 'It cannot be! He cannot let -it come! I have done all my life as best I knew -how, and is this my reward?' And I heard her -crying, and I wished I had never lived."</p> - -<p>"But not for long?" said the other.</p> - -<p>The old man smiled through his tears.</p> - -<p>"No, no, not for long!" he said. "When Rachel -saw that I was weak she grew strong. It is strange, -but women are the strongest then. And she showed -me the folly and wickedness of throwing away my -faith because the Most Faithful had taken away -my child. And she brought me my little daughters -and set them on my knees and put her arms around -my neck. So I grew comforted. And there have -come other sons—Arthur and John. But he—ah, -Rachel! Little we thought when we laid him on -the grass under the tree and measured him with -goldenrod, that he would so soon lie there for all -our lives!"</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_234" id="Page_234">[234]</a></span></p> - -<p>"And he lies there now," said the stranger.</p> - -<p>"Yes," said the old man softly, "he lies there -now. Under the apple tree where he lay and -laughed that day, he lies there now. For Rachel -wanted it so. 'I carried him out there the first -time,' she said, 'and he always loved it there. I -used to walk there before he came, and plan for -him, how he should grow so great and famous and -good; and now I want him to be there, while he -is asleep. And I think that all the fields are God's—the -orchard as well as the graveyard.' So we -laid him there, and she goes there often, and I."</p> - -<p>"You miss her?" said the stranger.</p> - -<p>"Miss her?" said the old man, staring at -the visitor, "miss her? Why, she is here! She is -my wife!—--" but he was alone, on the couch, -with the faint breath of ripening apples dying -on the air.</p> - -<p>And as he turned wearily, the shadow crept -softly and covered the porch and the couch where -he lay. The sun dropped behind the hills and the -air struck cold on his uncovered shoulders. He was -too tired to cry, too old and weak to question or<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_235" id="Page_235">[235]</a></span> -find fault, but he dimly felt that to be left alone -was hard. His memory grew suddenly untrustworthy; -had they come or not? It was all so plain -to him now. He was not with Rachel, he was -neither in the church nor in the garden nor in the -orchard. He was an old man, strangely weak and -confused, left alone.</p> - -<p>"Ah, Rachel," he murmured, "only come again, -while I go! Come to take me—not that it will be -long to wait before I see you, dear! We have been -so happy, you and I! But it was so cold——"</p> - -<p>And then while he shivered helplessly and half -afraid, there came the scent of spring lilac-bushes, -and by his bed stood the bright-eyed child.</p> - -<p>"Come! come and sit by me!" cried the old man. -But the boy only smiled. "Take my hands—they -are so cold!" he begged. Still the boy smiled. And -as the old man looked, the child's eyes filled him -with half hope, half fear. "Are you—are you——" -he tried to speak, but no sound came from his lips.</p> - -<p>"If I come and touch you," said the boy, "it -will be the end. Shall I come?" The old man's face -lighted softly.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_236" id="Page_236">[236]</a></span></p> - -<p>"Yes," he said in his heart, for he could not -speak aloud, "yes, come now!" The boy laughed -and stepped to the couch and lay down beside him, -putting his cheek close to the white hair.</p> - -<p>Into the heart of the old man rushed a quick, -new life. "Ah, Rachel, Rachel," he said strong and -clear, "sit on the step and eat your cake with me? -Here is the flag-root I promised you—it's quite -clean. I took off all the mud! And here is the red -marble"—but the child kissed him and he went to -sleep, holding to his heart his happy youth.</p> - -<p>And when they found him in the evening, they -were not too grieved, for on his face was a great -content.</p> - - - - - - - - -<pre> - - - - - -End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of Whom The Gods Destroyed, by -Josephine Dodge Daskam Bacon - -*** END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK WHOM THE GODS DESTROYED *** - -***** This file should be named 60496-h.htm or 60496-h.zip ***** -This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: - http://www.gutenberg.org/6/0/4/9/60496/ - -Produced by Carlos Colon, the Princeton University and the -Online Distributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net -(This book was produced from images made available by the -HathiTrust Digital Library.) - -Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions will -be renamed. - -Creating the works from print editions not protected by U.S. copyright -law means that no one owns a United States copyright in these works, -so the Foundation (and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United -States without permission and without paying copyright -royalties. 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