Book: Flower of the Dusk

M >> Myrtle Reed >> Flower of the Dusk




"You needn't," said Eloise, coolly, "for I'm only buying what I want at
a price I consider very reasonable and fair. If you'll get some samples
of your work ready, I'll send up for them, and hurry them on to my
friend who is to put them into the Woman's Exchange. And please don't
sell anything more just now. I've just thought of a friend whose
daughter is going to be married soon, and she may want me to select some
things for her."

"You're a fairy godmother," said Barbara. "This morning we were poor and
discouraged. You came in and waved your wand, and now we are rich. I have
heart for anything now."

[Sidenote: Always Rich]

"You are always rich while you have courage, and without it Croesus
himself would be poor. It's not the circumstance, remember--it's the way
you meet it."

"I know," said Barbara, but her eyes filled with tears of gratitude,
nevertheless.

Ambrose North came in from the street, and immediately felt the presence
of a stranger in the room. "Who is here?" he asked.

"This is Miss Wynne, Father. She is stopping at the hotel and came up to
call."

The old man bowed in courtly fashion over the young woman's hand. "We
are glad to see you," he said, gently. "I am blind, but I can see with
my soul."

"That is the true sight," returned Eloise. Her big brown eyes were soft
with pity.

"Have many of the guests come?" he inquired.

"I have a friend," laughed Eloise, "who says it is wrong to call people
'guests' when they are stopping at a hotel. He insists that 'inmates' is
a much better word."

"He is not far from right," said the old man, smiling. "Is he there
now?"

"No, he comes down Saturday mornings and stays until Monday morning.
That is all the vacation he allows himself. You are fortunate to live
here," she added, kindly. "I do not know of a more beautiful place."

[Sidenote: Invited to Luncheon]

"Nor I. To us--to me, especially--it is hallowed by memories. We--you
will stay to luncheon, will you not, Miss Wynne?"

Eloise glanced quickly at Barbara. "If you only would," she said.

"If you really want me," said Eloise, "I'd love to." She took off her
hat--a white one trimmed with lilacs--and smoothed the waves in her
copper-coloured hair. Barbara took her crutches and went out, very
quietly, to help Aunt Miriam prepare for the guest.

When the kitchen door was safely closed, Barbara's joy bubbled into
speech. "Oh, Aunt Miriam," she cried; "she's bought nearly every thing
I had and paid almost double price for it. She's already arranged for
me to sell at the Woman's Exchange in the city, and she is going to
write to some of her friends about the things I have left. She's going
to arrange for me to get all my material at the lowest wholesale price,
and she's ordered six complete sets of lingerie for herself. She wants
some more shirtwaists, too. Oh, Aunt Miriam, do you think the world is
coming to an end?"

"Has she paid you?" queried Miriam, gravely.

"Indeed she has."

"Then it probably is."

Miriam was not a woman easily to be affected by joy, but the hard lines
of her face softened perceptibly. "Show her the quilts," she suggested.

"Oh, Aunt Miriam, I'd be ashamed to, to-day, when she's bought so much.
She'll be coming up again before long--she said so. And father's asked
her to luncheon."

"Just like him," commented Miriam, with a sigh. "He always suffered from
hospitality. I'll have to go to the store."

[Sidenote: The Best We Have]

"No, you won't, Aunty--she's not that sort. We'll give her the best we
have, with a welcome thrown in."

If Eloise thought it strange for one end of the table to be set with
solid silver, heavy damask, and fine china, while the other end, where
she and the two women of the house sat, was painfully different, she
gave no sign of it in look or speech. The humble fare might have been
the finest banquet so far as she was concerned. She fitted herself to
their ways without apparent effort; there was no awkwardness nor feeling
of strangeness. She might have been a life-long friend of the family,
instead of a passing acquaintance who had come to buy lingerie.

[Sidenote: Friendly Conversation]

As she ate, she talked. It was not aimless chatter, but the rare gift of
conversation. She drew them all out and made them talk, too. Even Miriam
relaxed and said something more than "yes" and "no."

"What delicious preserves," said Eloise. "May I have some more, please?
Where do you get them?"

"I make them," answered Miriam, the dull red rising in her cheeks. She
had not been entirely disinterested when she climbed up on a chair and
took down some of her choicest fruit from the highest shelf of the
store-room.

"Do you--" A look from Barbara stopped the unlucky speech. "Do you find
it difficult?" asked Eloise, instantly mistress of the situation. "I
should so love to make some for myself."

"Miriam will be glad to teach you," put in Ambrose North. "She likes to
do it because she can do it so well."

The red grew deeper in Miriam's lined face, for every word of praise
from him was food to her hungry soul. She would gladly have laid down
her life for him, even though she hated herself for feeling as she did.

[Sidenote: An Hour of Song]

Afterward, while Miriam was clearing off the table, Eloise went to the
piano without being asked, and sang to them for more than an hour. She
chose folk-songs and tender melodies--little songs made of tears and
laughter, and the simple ballads that never grow old. She had a deep,
vibrant contralto voice of splendid range and volume; she sang with rare
sympathy, and every word could be clearly understood.

"Don't stop," pleaded Barbara, when she paused and ran her fingers
lightly over the keys.

"I don't want to impose upon your good-nature," she returned, "but I love
to sing."

"And we love to have you," said North. "I think, Barbara, we must get a
new piano."

"I wouldn't," answered Eloise, before Barbara could speak. "The years
improve wine and violins and friendship, so why not a piano?" Without
waiting for his reply, she began to sing, with exquisite tenderness:

"Sometimes between long shadows on the grass
The little truant waves of sunlight pass;
Mine eyes grow dim with tenderness the while,
Thinking I see thee, thinking I see thee smile.

"And sometimes in the twilight gloom apart
The tall trees whisper, whisper heart to heart;
From my fond lips the eager answers fall,
Thinking I hear thee, thinking I hear thee call."

"Yes," said Ambrose North, unsteadily, as the last chord died away, "I
know. You can call and call, but nothing ever comes back to you." The
tears streamed over his blind face as he rose and went out of the room.

"What have I done?" asked Eloise. "Oh, what have I done?"

"Nothing," sighed Barbara. "My mother has been dead for twenty-one
years, but my father never forgets. She was only a girl when she
died--like me."

"I'm so sorry. Why didn't you tell me before, so I could have chosen
jolly, happy things?"

"That wouldn't keep him from grieving--nothing can, so don't be troubled
about it."

Eloise turned back to the piano and sang two or three rollicking,
laughing melodies that set Barbara's one foot to tapping on the floor,
but the old man did not come back.

"I never meant to stay so long," said Eloise, rising and putting on her
hat.

"It isn't long," returned Barbara, with evident sincerity. "I wish you
wouldn't go."

"But I must, my dear. If I don't go, I can never come again. I have lots
of letters to write, and mail will be waiting for me, and I have some
studying to do, so I must go."

[Sidenote: Adieus]

Barbara went to the door with her. "Good-bye, Fairy Godmother," she
said, wistfully.

"Good-bye, Fairy Godchild," answered Eloise, carelessly. Then something
in the girl's face impelled her to put a strong arm around Barbara, and
kiss her, very tenderly. The blue eyes filled with tears.

"Thank you for that," breathed Barbara, "more than for anything else."

* * * * *

Eloise went away humming to herself, but she stopped as soon as she was
out of sight of the house. "The little thing," she thought; "the dear,
brave little thing! A face like an angel, and that cross old woman, and
that beautiful old man who sees with his soul. And all that exquisite
work and the prices those brutal women paid her for it. Blind and lame,
and nothing to be done."

Then another thought made her brown eyes very bright. "But I'm not so
sure of that--we'll see."

[Sidenote: A Request]

She wrote many letters that afternoon, and all were for Barbara. The
last and longest was to Doctor Conrad, begging him to come at the first
possible moment and go with her to see a poor broken child who might be
made well and strong and beautiful.

"And," the letter went on, "perhaps you could give her father back his
eyesight. She calls me her Fairy Godmother, and I rely upon you to keep
my proud position for me. Any way, Allan, dear, please come, won't you?"

[Sidenote: Awaiting Results]

She closed it with a few words which would have made him start for the
Klondike that night, had there been a train, and she asked it of him;
posted it, and hopefully awaited results.




IX

Taking the Chance


[Sidenote: Dr. Conrad Comes]

"Well, I'm here," remarked Doctor Conrad, as he sat on the beach with
Eloise. "I have left all my patients in the care of an inferior, though
reputable physician, who has such winning ways that he may have annexed
my entire practice by the time I get back.

"If you'll tell me just where these protegees of yours are, I'll go up
there right away. I'll ring the bell, and when they open the door I'll
say: 'I've come from Miss Wynne, and I'm to amputate this morning and
remove a couple of cataracts this afternoon. Kindly have the patients
get ready at once.'"

"Don't joke, Allan," pleaded Eloise. Her brown eyes were misty and her
mood of exalted tenderness made her in love with all the world. "If you
could see that brave little thing, with her beautiful face and her
divine unselfishness, hobbling around on crutches and sewing for a
living, meanwhile keeping her blind old father from knowing they are
poor, you'd feel just as I do."

[Sidenote: Discussing the Case]

"It is very improbable," returned Allan, seriously, "that anything can
be done. If they were well-to-do, they undoubtedly made every effort and
saw everybody worth seeing."

"But in twenty years," suggested Eloise, hopefully. "Think of all the
progress that has been made in twenty years."

"I know," said Allan, doubtfully. "All we can do is to see. And if
anything can be done for them, why, of course we'll do it."

"Then we'll go for a little drive," she said, "and on our way back, we
can stop there and get the things I bought the other day. They have no
one to send with them, and it's too much for one person to carry,
anyway."

"I suppose she has sold everything she had," mused Allan impersonally.

"Not quite," answered Eloise, flushing. "I left her some samples for the
Woman's Exchange."

"Very kind," he observed, with the same air of detachment. "I can see my
finish. My wife will have so much charity work for me to do that there
will be no time for anything else, and, in a little while, she will have
given away all the money we both have. Then when we're sitting together
in the sun on the front steps of the poorhouse, we can fittingly lament
the end of our usefulness."

[Sidenote: Policy of Segregation]

"They won't let us sit together," she retorted. "Don't you know that
even in the old people's homes they keep the men and women
apart--husbands and wives included?"

"For the love of Mike, what for?" he asked, in surprise.

"Because it makes the place too gay and frivolous. Old ladies of eighty
were courted by awkward swains of ninety and more, and there was so much
checker-playing in the evening and so many lights burning, and so many
requests for new clothes, that the management couldn't stand it. There
were heart-burnings and jealousies, too, so they had to adopt a policy
of segregation."

"'Hope springs eternal in the human breast,'" quoted Allan.

"And love," she said. "I've thought sometimes I'd like to play fairy
godmother to some of those poor, desolate old people who love each
other, and give them a pretty wedding. Wouldn't it be dear to see two
old people married and settled in a little home of their own?"

"Or, more likely, with us," he returned. "I've been thinking about a
nice little house with a guest room or two, but I've changed my mind. My
vote is for a very small apartment. You're not the sort to be trusted
with a guest room."

[Sidenote: Starting Off]

Eloise laughed and sprang to her feet. "On to the errand of mercy," she
said. "We're wasting valuable time. Get a horse and buggy and I'll see
if I can borrow an extra suit-case or two for my purchases."

When she came down, Allan was waiting for her in the buggy. A bell-boy,
in her wake, brought three suit-cases and piled them under the seat.
Half a dozen rocking-chairs, on the veranda, held highly interested
observers. The paraphernalia suggested an elopement.

"Tell those women on the veranda," said Eloise, to the boy, "that I'm
not taking any trunks and will soon be back."

"What for?" queried Allan, as they drove away.

"Reasons of my own," she answered, crisply. "Men are as blind as bats."

"I'm wearing glasses," he returned, with due humility. "If you think I'm
fit to hear why you left that cryptic message, I'd be pleased to."

"You're far from fit. Here, turn into this road."

Spread like a tawny ribbon upon the green of the hills, the road wound
lazily through open sunny spaces and shaded aisles sweet with that cool
fragrance found only in the woods. The horse did not hurry, but wandered
comfortably from side to side of the road, browsing where he chose. He
seemed to know that lovers were driving him.

[Sidenote: Horses versus Autos]

"He's a one-armed horse, isn't he?" laughed Eloise. "I like him lots
better than an automobile, don't you?"

"Out here, I do. But an automobile has certain advantages."

"What are they?" she demanded. "I'd rather feed a horse than to buy a
tire, any day."

"So would I--unless he tired of his feed. But if you want to get
anywhere very quickly and the thing happens not to break, the machine is
better."

"But it never happens. I believe the average automobile is possessed of
an intuition little short of devilish. A horse seems more friendly. If
you were thinking of getting me a little electric runabout for my
birthday, please change it to a horse."

"All right," returned Allan, serenely. "We can keep him in the
living-room of our six-room apartment and have his dinner sent in from
the nearest _table d'oat_. For breakfast, he can come out into the
_salle a manger_ and eat cereals with us."

"You're absolutely incorrigible," she sighed. "This is the river road.
Follow it until I tell you where to turn."

Within half an hour, the horse came to a full stop of his own accord in
front of the grey, weather-worn house where Barbara lived. He was
cropping at a particularly enticing clump of grass when Eloise
alighted.

"Going to push?" queried Allan, lazily.

"No, this is the place. Come on. You bring two of the suit-cases and
I'll take the other."

[Sidenote: Observations]

The blind man was not there at the moment, but came in while Miriam was
upstairs packing Miss Wynne's recent additions to her wardrobe. Doctor
Conrad had been observing Barbara keenly as they talked of indifferent
things. Outwardly, he was calm and professional, but within, a warmly
human impulse answered her evident need.

He was young and had not yet been at his work long enough to determine
his ultimate nature. Later on, his profession would do to him one of two
things. It would transform him into a mere machine, brutalised and
calloused, with only one or two emotions aside from selfishness left to
thrive in his dwarfed soul, or it would humanise him to godlike
unselfishness, attune him to a divine sympathy, and mellow his heart in
tenderness beyond words. In one instance he would be feared; in the
other, only loved, by those who came to him.

As Barbara went across the room to another chair, his eyes followed her
with intense interest. Eloise shrank from him a little--she had never
seen him like this before. Yet she knew, from the expression of his
face, that he had found hope, and was glad.

"Barbara?" It was Miriam, calling from upstairs.

"In just a minute, Aunty. Excuse me, please--I'll come right back."

She was scarcely out of the room before Eloise leaned over to Allan, her
face alight with eager questioning. "You think--?"

[Sidenote: Willing to Try]

"I don't know," he returned, in a low tone. "It depends on the hardness
of the muscles and several other local conditions. Of course it's
impossible to tell definitely without a thorough examination, but I've
done it successfully in two adult cases, and have seen it done more than
a dozen times. I'd be very willing to try."

"Oh, Allan," whispered Eloise. "I'm so glad."

Barbara's padded crutches sounded softly on the stairs as she came down.
Eloise went to the window and studied the horse attentively, though he
was not of the restless sort that needs to be tied.

While she was watching, Ambrose North came around the base of the hill,
crossed the road, and opened the gate. He had been to his old solitude
at the top of the hill, where, as nowhere else, he found peace. While he
was talking with the visitors, Miriam went out, taking the neatly-packed
suit-cases, one at a time, and put them into the buggy.

"Mr. North," said Doctor Conrad, "while these girls are chattering,
will you go for a little drive with me?"

The blind man's fine old face illumined with pleasure. "I should like it
very much," he said. "It is a long time since I had have a drive."

"It's more like a walk," laughed Allan, as they went out, "with this
horse."

"We sold our horses many years ago," the old man explained, as he
climbed in. "Miriam is afraid of horses and Barbara said she did not
care to go. I thought the open air and the slight exercise would be good
for her, but she insisted upon my selling them."

[Sidenote: About Barbara]

"It is about Barbara that I wished to speak," said Allan. "With your
consent, I should like to make a thorough examination and see whether an
operation would not do away with her crutches entirely."

"It is no use," sighed North, wearily. "We went everywhere and did
everything, long ago. There is nothing that can be done."

"But there may be," insisted Allan. "We have learned much, in my
profession, in the last twenty years. May I try?"

"You're asking me if you can hurt my baby?"

"Not to hurt her more than is necessary to heal. Understand me, I do not
know but what you are right, but I hope, and believe, that there may be
a chance."

"I have dreamed sometimes," said the old man, very slowly, "that my baby
could walk and I could see."

[Sidenote: If Possible]

"The dream shall come true, if it is possible. Let me see your eyes." He
stopped the horse on the brow of the hill, where the sun shone clear and
strong, stood up, and turned the blind face to the light. Then, sitting
down once more, he asked innumerable questions. When he finally was
silent, Ambrose North turned to him, indifferently.

"Well?" The tone was simply polite inquiry. The matter seemed to be one
which concerned nobody.

"Again I do not know," returned Allan. "This is altogether out of my
line, but, if you'll go to the city with me, I'll take you to a friend
of mine who is a great specialist. If anything can be done, he is the
man who can do it. Will you come?"

There was a long pause. "If Barbara is willing," he answered simply.
"Ask her."

* * * * *

[Sidenote: The Plunge]

Meanwhile, Eloise was talking to Barbara. First, she told her of the
letters she had written in her behalf and to which the answers might
come any day now. Then she asked if she might order preserves from Aunt
Miriam, and discussed patterns and material for the lingerie she had
previously spoken of. Finding, at length, that the best way to approach
a difficult subject was the straightest one, she took the plunge.

"Have you always been lame?" she asked. She did not look at Barbara, but
tried to speak carelessly, as she gazed out of the window.

"Yes," came the answer, so low that she could scarcely hear it.

"Wouldn't you like to walk like the rest of us?" continued Eloise.

Barbara writhed under the torturing question. "My mind can walk," she
said, with difficulty; "my soul isn't lame."

The tone made Eloise turn quickly--and hate herself bitterly for her
awkwardness. She saw that an apology would only make a bad matter worse,
so she went straight on.

"Doctor Conrad is very skilful," she continued. "In the city, he is one
of the few really great surgeons. He told me that he would like to make
an examination and see if an operation would not do away with the
crutches. He thinks there may be a good chance. If there is, will you
take it?"

"Thank you," said Barbara, almost inaudibly. Her voice had sunk to a
whisper and she was very pale. "I do not mean to seem ungrateful, but it
is impossible."

"Impossible!" repeated Eloise. "Why?"

"Because of father," explained Barbara. Her colour was coming back
slowly now. "I am all he has, my work supplies his needs, and I dare
not take the risk."

"Is that the only reason?"

Barbara nodded.

"You're not afraid?"

Barbara's blue eyes opened wide with astonishment. "Why should I be
afraid?" she asked. "Do you take me for a coward?"

Eloise knelt beside Barbara's low chair and put her strong arms around
the slender, white-clad figure. "Listen, dear," she said. Her face was
shining as though with some great inner light.

"My own dear father died when I was a child. My mother died when I was
born. I have never had anything but money. I have never had anyone to
take care of, no one to make sacrifices for, no one to make me strong
because I was needed. If the worst should happen, would you trust your
father to me? Could you trust me?"

"Yes," said Barbara slowly; "I could."

[Sidenote: A Compact]

"Then I promise you solemnly that your father shall never want for
anything while he lives. And now, if there is a chance, will you take
it--for me?"

Barbara looked long into the sweet face, glorified by the inner light.
Then she leaned forward and put her soft arms around the older woman,
hiding her face in the masses of copper-coloured hair.

"For you? A thousand times, yes," she sobbed. "Oh, anything for you!"

* * * * *

Late in the afternoon, when Ambrose North and Barbara were alone again,
he came over to her chair and stroked her shining hair with a loving
hand.

"Did they tell you, dear?" he asked.

"Yes," whispered Barbara.

"I have dreamed so often that my baby could walk and I could see. He
said that the dream should come true if he could make it so."

"Did he say anything about your eyes?" asked Barbara, in astonishment.

[Sidenote: Hopeful]

"Yes. He thinks there may be a chance there, too. If you are willing,
I am to go to the city with him sometime and see a friend of his who is
a great specialist."

"Oh, Daddy," cried Barbara. "I'm afraid--for you."

He drew a chair up near hers and sat down. The old hand, in which the
pulses moved so slowly, clasped the younger one, warm with life.

"Barbara," he said; "I have never seen my baby."

"I know, Daddy."

"I want to see you, dear."

"And I want you to."

"Then, will you let me go?"

"Perhaps, but it must be--afterward, you know."

"Why?"

"Because, when you see me, I want to be strong and well. I want to be
able to walk. You mustn't see the crutches, Daddy--they are ugly
things."

"Nothing could be ugly that belongs to you. I made a little song this
afternoon, while you and Miriam were talking and I was out alone."

"Tell me."

[Sidenote: In a Beautiful Garden]

"Once there was a man who had a garden. When he was a child he had
played in it, in his youth and early manhood he had worked in it and
found pleasure in seeing things grow, but he did not really know what a
beautiful garden it was until another walked in it with him and found it
fair.

"Together they watched it from Springtime to harvest, finding new beauty
in it every day. One night at twilight she whispered to him that some
day a perfect flower of their very own was to bloom in the garden. They
watched and waited and prayed for it together, but, before it blossomed,
the man went blind.

"In the darkness, he could not see the garden, but she was still there,
bringing divine consolation with her touch, and whispering to him always
of the perfect flower so soon to be their own.

"When it blossomed, the man could not see it, but the one who walked
beside him told him that it was as pure and fair as they had prayed it
might be. They enjoyed it together for a year, and he saw it through her
eyes.

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