Chapter 2

"I got a silver coffin plate once at an auction over to the Ridge for almost nothin' and your pa was as mad as a wet hen. There was a name on it, but it could have been scraped off, and the rest of it was perfectly good. When you need a coffin plate you need it awful bad. While your pa was rampin' around, he said he wouldn't have been surprised to see me comin' home with a second-hand coffin in the back of the buggy. Who ever heard of a second-hand coffin? I've always thought his mind was unsettled by so much readin'.

"I ain't a-sayin' but what some readin' is all right. Some folks has just moved over to the Ridge and the postmaster's wife was a-showin' me some papers they get, every week. One is _The Metropolitan Weekly_, and the other _The Housewife's Companion_. I must say, the stories in those papers is certainly beautiful.

"Once, when they come after their mail, they was as mad as anything because the papers hadn't come, but the postmaster's wife was readin' one of the stories and settin' up nights to do it, so she wa'n't to blame for not lettin' 'em go until she got through with 'em. They slip out of the covers just as easy, and nobody ever knows the difference.

[Sidenote: The Doctor's Darling]

"She was tellin' me about one of the stories. It's named _Lovely Lulu, or the Doctor's Darling_. Lovely Lulu is a little orphant who has to do most of the housework for a family of eight, and the way they abuse that child is something awful. The young ladies are forever puttin' ruffled white skirts into her wash, and makin' her darn the lace on their blue silk mornin' dresses.

"There's a rich doctor that they're all after and one day little Lulu happens to open the front-door for him, and he gets a good look at her for the first time. As she goes upstairs, Arthur Montmorency--that's his name--holds both hands to his heart and says, 'She and she only shall be my bride.' The conclusion of this highly fascinatin' and absorbin' romance will be found in the next number of _The Housewife's Companion_."

"Mother," suggested Roger, "why don't you subscribe for the papers yourself?"

Miss Mattie dropped her knife and fork and gazed at him in open-mouthed astonishment. "Roger," she said, kindly, "I declare if sometimes you don't remind me of my people more'n your pa's. I never thought of that myself and I dunno how you come to. I'll do it the very first time I go down to the store. The postmaster's wife can get the addresses without tearin' off the covers, and after I get 'em read she can borrow mine, and not be always makin' the people at the Ridge so mad that she's runnin' the risk of losin' her job. If you ain't the beatenest!"

Basking in the unaccustomed warmth of his mother's approval, Roger finished his supper in peace. Afterward, while she was clearing up, he even dared to take up the much-criticised book and lose himself once more in his father's beloved Emerson.

* * * * *

[Sidenote: Childish Memories]

All his childish memories of his father had been blurred into one by the mists of the intervening years. As though it were yesterday, he could see the library upstairs, which was still the same, and the grave, silent, kindly man who sat dreaming over his books. When the child entered, half afraid because the room was so quiet, the man had risen and caught him in his arms with such hungry passion that he had almost cried out.

"Oh, my son," came in the deep, rich voice, vibrant with tenderness; "my dear little son!"

[Sidenote: The Priceless Legacy]

That was all, save a few old photographs and the priceless legacy of the books. The library was not a large one, but it had been chosen by a man of discriminating, yet catholic, taste. The books had been used and were not, as so often happens, merely ornaments. Page after page had been interlined and there was scarcely a volume which was not rich in marginal notes, sometimes questioning in character, but indicating always understanding and appreciation.

As soon as he learned to read, Roger began to spend his leisure hours in this library. When he could not understand a book, he put it aside and took up another. Always there were pictures and sometimes many of them, for in his later years Laurence Austin had contracted the baneful habit of extra-illustration. Never maternal, save in the limited physical sense, Miss Mattie had been glad to have the child out of her way.

Day by day, the young mind grew and expanded in its own way. Year by year, Roger came to an affectionate knowledge of his father, through the medium of the marginal notes. He wondered, sometimes, that a pencil mark should so long outlive the fine, strong body of the man who made it. It seemed pitiful, in a way, and yet he knew that books and letters are the things that endure, in a world of transition and decay.

The underlined passages and the marginal comments gave evidence of an extraordinary love of beauty, in whatever shape or form. And yet--the parlour, which was opened only on Sunday--was hideous with a gaudy carpet, stuffed chairs, family portraits done in crayon and inflicted upon the house by itinerant vendors of tea and coffee, and there was a basket of wax flowers, protected by glass, on the marble-topped "centre-table."

The pride of Miss Mattie's heart was a chair, which, with incredible industry, she had made from an empty flour barrel. She had spoiled a good barrel to make a bad chair, but her thrifty soul rejoiced in her achievement. Roger never went near it, so Miss Mattie herself sat in it on Sunday afternoons, nodding, and crooning hymns to herself.

[Sidenote: An Awful Chasm]

"How did father stand it?" thought Roger, intending no disrespect. He loved his mother and appreciated her good qualities, but he saw the awful chasm between those two souls, which no ceremony of marriage could ever span.

[Sidenote: Roger Austin]

In appearance, Roger was like his father. He had the same clear, dark skin, with regular features and kind, dark eyes, the same abundant, wavy hair, strong, square chin, and incongruous, beauty-loving mouth. He had, too, the lovable boyishness, which never quite leaves some fortunate men. He was studying law in the judge's office, and hoped by another year to be ready to take his examinations. After working hard all day, he found refreshment for mind and body in an hour or so at night spent with the treasures of his father's library.

"Let us buy our entrance to this guild with a long probation," read Roger. "Why should we desecrate noble and beautiful souls by intruding upon them? Why insist upon rash personal relations with your friend? Why go to his house, and know his mother and brother and sisters? Why be visited by him at your own? Are these things material to our covenant? Leave this touching and clawing. Let him be to me----"

"I've spoke twice," complained Miss Mattie, "and you don't hear me no more'n your pa did."

"I beg your pardon, Mother. I did not hear you come in. What is it?"

"I was just a-sayin' that maybe those papers would be too expensive. Maybe I ought not to have 'em."

"I'm sure they're not, Mother. Anyhow, you get them, and we'll make it up in some other way if we have to." Dimly, in the future, Roger saw long, quiet evenings in which his disturbing influence should be rendered null and void by the charms of _Lovely Lulu, or the Doctor's Darling_.

[Sidenote: A Morning Call]

"Barbara North sent her pa over here this morning to ask for some book. I disremember now what it was, but it was after you was gone."

Roger's expressive face changed instantly. "Why didn't you tell me sooner, Mother?" He spoke with evident effort. "It's too late now for me to go over there."

"There's no call for you to go over. They can send again. Miss Miriam can come after it any time. They ain't got no business to let a blind old man like Ambrose North run around by himself the way they do."

"He takes very good care of himself. He knew this place before he was blind, and I don't think there is any danger."

"Just the same, he ought not to go around alone, and that's what I told him this morning. 'A blind old man like you,' says I, 'ain't got no business chasin' around alone. First thing you know, you'll fall down and break a leg or arm or something.'"

Roger shrank as if from a physical hurt. "Mother!" he cried. "How can you say such things!"

"Why not?" she queried, imperturbably. "He knows he's blind, I guess, and he certainly can't think he's young, so what harm does it do to speak of it? Anyway," she added, piously, "I always say just what I think."

Roger got up, put his hands in his pockets, and paced back and forth restlessly. "People who always say what they think, Mother," he answered, not unkindly, "assume that their opinions are of great importance to people who probably do not care for them at all. Unless directly asked, it is better to say only the kind things and keep the rest to ourselves."

"I was kind," objected Miss Mattie. "I was tellin' him he ought not to take the risk of hurtin' himself by runnin' around alone. I don't know what ails you, Roger. Every day you get more and more like your pa."

[Sidenote: Dangerous Rocks]

"How long had you and father known each other before you were married?" asked Roger, steering quickly away from the dangerous rocks that will loom up in the best-regulated of conversations.

"'Bout three months. Why?"

"Oh, I just wanted to know."

"I used to be a pretty girl, Roger, though you mightn't think it now." Her voice was softened, and, taking off her spectacles, she gazed far into space; seemingly to that distant girlhood when radiant youth lent to the grey old world some of its own immortal joy.

"I don't doubt it," said Roger, politely.

"Your pa and me used to go to church together. He sang in the choir and I had a white dress and a bonnet trimmed with lutestring ribbon. I can smell the clover now and hear the bees hummin' when the windows was open in Summer. A bee come in once while the minister was prayin' and lighted on Deacon Emory's bald head. Seems a'most as if 't was yesterday.

[Sidenote: Great Notions]

"Your pa had great notions," she went on, after a pause. "Just before we was married, he said he was goin' to educate me, but he never did."

III

The Tower of Cologne

Roger sat in Ambrose North's easy chair, watching Barbara while she sewed. "I am sorry," he said, "that I wasn't at home when your father came over after the book. Mother was unable to find it. I'm afraid I'm not very orderly."

"It doesn't matter," returned Barbara, threading her needle again. "I steal too much time from my work as it is."

Roger sighed and turned restlessly in his chair. "I wish I could come over every day and read to you, but you know how it is. Days, I'm in the office with the musty old law books, and in the evenings, your father wants you and my mother wants me."

"I know, but father usually goes to bed by nine, and I'm sure your mother doesn't sit up much later, for I usually see her light by that time. I always work until eleven or half past, so why shouldn't you come over then?"

[Sidenote: A Happy Thought]

"Happy thought!" exclaimed Roger. "Still, you might not always want me. How shall I know?"

"I'll put a candle in the front window," suggested Barbara, "and if you can come, all right. If not, I'll understand."

Both laughed delightedly at the idea, for they were young enough to find a certain pleasure in clandestine ways and means. Miss Mattie had so far determinedly set her face against her son's association with the young of the other sex, and even Barbara, who had been born lame and had never walked farther than her own garden, came under the ban.

Ambrose North, with the keen and unconscious selfishness of age, begrudged others even an hour of Barbara's society. He felt a third person always as an intruder, though he tried his best to appear hospitable when anyone came. Miriam might sometimes have read to Barbara, while he was out upon his long, lonely walks, but it had never occurred to either of them.

[Sidenote: World-wide Fellowship]

Through Laurence Austin's library, as transported back and forth by Roger, one volume at a time, Barbara had come into the world-wide fellowship of those who love books. She was closely housed and constantly at work, but her mind soared free. When the poverty and ugliness of her surroundings oppressed her beauty-loving soul; when her fingers ached and the stitches blurred into mist before her eyes, some little brown book, much worn, had often given her the key to the House of Content.

"Shall you always have to sew?" asked Roger. "Is there no way out?"

[Sidenote: Glad of Work]

"Not unless some fairy prince comes prancing up on a white charger," laughed Barbara, "and takes us all away with him to his palace. Don't pity me," she went on, her lips quivering a little, "for every day I'm glad I can do it and keep father from knowing we are poor.

"Besides, I'm of use in the world, and I wouldn't want to live if I couldn't work. Aunt Miriam works, too. She does all the housework, takes care of me when I can't help myself, does the mending, many things for father, and makes the quilts, preserves, candied orange peel, and the other little things we sell. People are so kind to us. Last Summer the women at the hotel bought everything we had and left orders enough to keep me busy until long after Christmas."

"Don't call people kind because they buy what they want."

"Don't be so cynical. You wouldn't have them buy things they didn't want, would you?"

"Sometimes they do."

"Where?"

"Well, at church fairs, for instance. They spend more than they can afford for things they do not want, in order to please people whom they do not like and help heathen who are much happier than they are."

"I'm glad I'm not running a church fair," laughed Barbara. "And who told you that heathen are happier than we are? Are you a heathen?"

"I don't know. Most of us are, I suppose, in one way or another. But how nice it would be if we could paint ourselves instead of wearing clothes, and go under a tree when it rained, and pick cocoanuts or bananas when we were hungry. It would save so much trouble and expense."

"Paint is sticky," observed Barbara, "and the rain would come around the tree when the wind was blowing from all ways at once, as it does sometimes, and I do not like either cocoanuts or bananas. I'd rather sew. What went wrong to-day?" she asked, with a whimsical smile. "Everything?"

"Almost," admitted Roger. "How did you know?"

[Sidenote: Unfailing Barometer]

"Because you want to be a heathen instead of the foremost lawyer of your time. Your ambition is an unfailing barometer."

He laughed lightly. This sort of banter was very pleasing to him after a day with the law books and an hour or more with his mother. He had known Barbara since they were children and their comradeship dated back to the mud-pie days.

"I don't know but what you're right," he said. "Whether I go to Congress or the Fiji Islands may depend, eventually, upon Judge Bascom's liver."

"Don't let it depend upon him," cautioned Barbara. "Make your own destiny. It was Napoleon, wasn't it, who prided himself upon making his own circumstances? What would you do--or be--if you could have your choice?"

[Sidenote: Aspirations]

"The best lawyer in the State," he answered, promptly. "I'd never oppose the innocent nor defend the guilty. And I'd have money enough to be comfortable and to make those I love comfortable."

"Would you marry?" she asked, thoughtfully.

"Why--I suppose so. It would seem queer, though."

"Roger," she said, abruptly, "you were born a year and more before I was, and yet you're fully ten or fifteen years younger."

"Don't take me back too far, Barbara, for I hate milk. Please don't deprive me of my solid food. What would you do, if you could choose?"

"I'd write a book."

"What kind? Dictionary?"

"No, just a little book. The sort that people who love each other would choose for a gift. Something that would be given to one who was going on a long or difficult journey. The one book a woman would take with her when she was tired and went away to rest. A book with laughter and tears in it and so much fine courage that it would be given to those who are in deep trouble. I'd soften the hard hearts, rest the weary ones, and give the despairing ones new strength to go on. Just a little book, but so brave and true and sweet and tender that it would bring the sun to every shady place."

"Would you marry?"

[Sidenote: The Right Man]

"Of course, if the right man came. Otherwise not."

"I wonder," mused Roger, "how a person could know the right one?"

"Foolish child," she answered, "that's it--the knowing. When you don't know, it isn't it."

"My dear Miss North," remarked Roger, "the heads of your argument are somewhat involved, but I think I grasp your meaning. When you know it is, then it is, but when you don't know that it is, then it isn't. Is that right?"

"Exactly. Wonderfully intelligent for one so young."

Barbara's blue eyes danced merrily and her red lips parted in a mocking smile. A long heavy braid of hair, "the colour of ripe corn," hung over either shoulder and into her lap. She was almost twenty-two, but she still clung to the childish fashion of dressing her hair, because the heavy braids and the hairpins made her head ache. All her gowns were white, either of wool or cotton, and were made to be washed. On Sundays, she sometimes wore blue ribbons on her braids.

[Sidenote: Simply Barbara]

To Roger, she was very fair. He never thought of her crutches because she had always been lame. She was simply Barbara, and Barbara needed crutches. It had never occurred to him that she might in any way be different, for he was not one of those restless souls who are forever making people over to fit their own patterns.

"Why doesn't your father like to have me come here?" asked Roger, irrelevantly.

"Why doesn't your mother like to have you come?" queried Barbara, quickly on the defensive.

"No, but tell me. Please!"

"Father always goes to bed early."

"But not at eight o'clock. It was a quarter of eight when I came, and by eight he was gone."

"It isn't you, Roger," she said, unwillingly; "it's anyone. I'm all he has, and if I talk much to other people he feels as if I were being taken away from him--that's all. It's natural, I suppose. You mustn't mind him."

"But I wouldn't hurt him," returned Roger, softly; "you know that."

"I know."

"I wish you could make him understand that I come to see every one of you."

[Sidenote: Hard Work]

"It's the hardest work in the world," sighed Barbara, "to make people understand things."

"Somebody said once that all the wars had been caused by one set of people trying to force their opinions upon another set, who did not desire to have their minds changed."

"Very true. I wonder, sometimes, if we have done right with father."

"I'm sure you have," said Roger, gently. "You couldn't do anything wrong if you tried."

"We haven't meant to," she answered, her sweet face growing grave. "Of course it was all begun long before I was old enough to understand. He thinks the city house, which we lost so long ago that I cannot even remember our having it, was sold for so high a price that it would have been foolish not to sell it, and that we live here because we prefer the country. Just think, Roger, before I was born, this was father's and mother's Summer home, and now it's all we have."

"It's a roof and four walls--that's all any house is, without the spirit that makes it home."

"He thinks it's beautifully furnished. Of course we have the old mahogany and some of the pictures, but we've had to sell nearly everything. I've used some of mother's real laces in the sewing and sold practically all the rest. Whatever anyone would buy has been disposed of. Even the broken furniture in the attic has gone to people who had a fancy for 'antiques.'"

"You have made him very happy, Barbara."

"I know, but is it right?"

"I'm not orthodox, my dear girl, but, speaking as a lawyer, if it harms no one and makes a blind old man happy, it can't be wrong."

"I hope you're right, but sometimes my conscience bothers me."

[Sidenote: A Saint's Conscience]

"Imagine a saint's conscience being troublesome."

"Don't laugh at me--you know I'm not a saint."

"How should I know?"

"Ask Aunt Miriam. She has no illusions about me."

"Thanks, but I don't know her well enough. We haven't been on good terms since she drove me out of the melon patch--do you remember?"

"Yes, I remember. We wanted the blossoms, didn't we, to make golden bells in the Tower of Cologne?"

"I believe so. We never got the Tower finished, did we?"

"No. I wasn't allowed to play with you for a long time, because you were such a bad boy."

"Next Summer, I think we should rebuild it. Let's renew our youth sometime by making the Tower of Cologne in your back yard."

"There are no golden bells."

"I'll get some from somewhere. We owe it to ourselves to do it."

Barbara's blue eyes were sparkling now, and her sweet lips smiled. "When it's done?" she asked.

[Sidenote: Like Fairy Tales]

"We'll move into it and be happy ever afterward, like the people in the fairy tales."

"I said a little while ago that you were fifteen years younger than I am, but, upon my word, I believe it's nearer twenty."

"That makes me an enticing infant of three or four, flourishing like the green bay tree on a diet of bread and milk with an occasional soft-boiled egg. I should have been in bed by six o'clock, and now it's--gracious, Barbara, it's after eleven. What do you mean by keeping the young up so late?"

As he spoke, he hurriedly found his hat, and, reaching into the pocket of his overcoat, drew out a book. "That's the one you wanted, isn't it?"

"Yes, thank you."

"I didn't give it to you before because I wanted to talk, but we'll read, sometimes, when we can. Don't forget to put the light in the window when it's all right for me to come. If I don't, you'll understand. And please don't work so hard."

Barbara smiled. "I have to earn a living for three healthy people," she said, "and everybody is trying, by moral suasion, to prevent me from doing it. Do you want us all piled up in the front yard in a nice little heap of bones before the Tower of Cologne is rebuilt?"

Roger took both her hands and attempted to speak, but his face suddenly crimsoned, and he floundered out into the darkness like an awkward school-boy instead of a self-possessed young man of almost twenty-four. It had occurred to him that it might be very nice to kiss Barbara.

[Sidenote: Back to Childhood]

But Barbara, magically taken back to childhood, did not notice his confusion. The Tower of Cologne had been a fancy of hers ever since she could remember, though it had been temporarily eclipsed by the hard work which circumstances had thrust upon her. As she grew from childhood to womanhood, it had changed very little--the dream, always, was practically the same.

[Sidenote: A Day Dream]

The Tower itself was made of cologne bottles neatly piled together, and the brightly-tinted labels gave it a bizarre but beautiful effect. It was square in shape and very high, with a splendid cupola of clear glass arches--the labels probably would not show, up so high. It stood in an enchanted land with the sea behind it--nobody had ever thought of taking Barbara down to the sea, though it was so near. The sea was always blue, of course, like the sky, or the larkspur--she was never quite sure of the colour.