Chapter 8

"I'm not going to be hurt--much. It's all to be done while I'm asleep. Miss Wynne, a lady from the hotel, brought Doctor Conrad to see me. Afterward, he came again by himself, and he says he is very sure that it will come out all right. And when I'm straight and strong and can walk, he's going to try to have father made to see. A fairy godmother came in and waved her wand," went on Barbara, lightly, "and the poor became rich at once. Now the lame are to walk and the blind to see. Is it not a wonderful world?"

"Barbara!" cried Roger; "I can't bear it. I don't want you changed--I want you just as you are."

"Such impediments as are placed in the path of progress!" she returned. Her eyes were laughing, but her voice had in it a little note of tenderness. "Will you do something for me?"

"Anything--everything."

"It's only this," said Barbara, gently. "If it should turn out the other way, will you keep father from being lonely? Miss Wynne has promised that he shall never want for anything, and, at the most, it couldn't be long until he was with me again, but, in the meantime, would you, Roger? Would you try to take my place?"

"Nobody in the world could ever take your place, but I'd try--God knows I'd try. Barbara, I couldn't bear it, if----"

"Hush. There isn't any 'if.' It's all coming right to-morrow."

[Sidenote: Beauty of a Saint]

The full moon had swung slowly up out of the sea, and the misty, silvery light touched Barbara lovingly. Her slender hands, crossed in her lap, seemed like those of a little child. Her deep blue eyes were lovelier than ever in the enchanted light--they had the calmness of deep waters at dawn, untroubled by wind or tide. Around her face her golden hair shimmered and shone like a halo. She had the unearthly beauty of a saint.

"Afterward?" he asked, with a little choke in his voice.

"I'll be in plaster for a long time, and, after that, I'll have to learn to walk."

"And then?"

"Work," she said, joyously. "Think of having all the rest of your life to work in, with no crutches! And if Daddy can see me--" she stopped, but he caught the wistfulness in her tone. "The first thing," she continued, "I'm going down to the sea. I have a fancy to go alone."

"Have you never been?"

"I've never been outside this house and garden but once or twice. Have you forgotten?"

All the things he might have done came to Roger, remorsefully, and too late. He might have taken Barbara out for a drive almost any time during the last eight years. She could have been lifted into a low carriage easily enough and she had never even been to the sea. A swift, pitying tenderness made his heart ache.

"Nobody ever thought of it," said Barbara, soothingly, as though she had read his thought, "and, besides, I've been too busy, except Sundays. But sometimes, when I've heard the shore singing as the tide came in, and seen the gulls fly past my window, and smelled the salt mist--oh, I've wanted it so."

"I'd have taken you, if I hadn't been such a brute as to forget."

[Sidenote: More than the Sea]

"You've brought me more than the sea, Roger. Think of all the books you've carried back and forth so patiently all these years. You've done more for me than anybody in the world, in some ways. You've given me the magic carpet of the _Arabian Nights_, only it was a book, instead of a rug. Through your kindness, I've travelled over most of the world, I've met many of the really great people face to face, I've lived in all ages and all countries, and I've learned to know the world as it is now. What more could one person do for another than you have done for me?"

"Barbara?" It was Miriam's voice, calling softly from an upper window. "You mustn't stay up late. Remember to-morrow."

"All right, Aunty." Her answer carried with it no hint of impatience. "I forgot that we weren't in the house," she added, to Roger, in a low tone.

"Must I go?" To-night, for some reason, he could not bear even the thought of leaving her.

"Not just yet. I've been thinking," she continued, in a swift whisper, "about my mother and--your father. Of course we can't understand--we only know that they cared. And, in a way, it makes you and me something like brother and sister, doesn't it?"

"Perhaps it does. I hadn't thought of that."

[Sidenote: The Barrier Broken]

All at once, the barrier that seemed to have been between them crashed down and was forgotten. Mysteriously, Roger was very sure that those four days had held no wrong--no betrayal of another's trust. His father would not have done anything which was not absolutely right. The thought made him straighten himself proudly. And the mother of the girl who leaned toward him, with her beautiful soul shining in her deep eyes, could have been nothing less than an angel.

"To-morrow"--began Roger.

[Sidenote: "To-morrow is Mine"]

"To-morrow was made for me. God is giving me a day to be made straight in. To-morrow is mine, but--will you come and stay with father? Keep him away from the house and with you, until--afterward?"

"I will, gladly."

Barbara rose and Roger picked up her crutches. "You'll never have to do that for me again," she said, as she took them, "but there'll be lots of other things. Will you take in the chairs, please?"

A lump was in his throat and he could not speak. When he came out, after having made a brief but valiant effort to recover his self-control, Barbara was standing at the foot of the steps, leaning on her crutches, with the moon shining full upon her face.

Roger went to her. "Barbara," he said, huskily, "my father loved your mother. For the sake of that, and for to-morrow, will you kiss me to-night?"

Smiling, Barbara lifted her face and gave him her lips as simply and sweetly as a child. "Good-night," she said, softly, but he could not answer, for, at the touch, the white fire burned in his blood and the white magic of life's Maytime went, singing, through his soul.

XI

Barbara's "To-morrow"

The shimmering white silence of noon lay upon the land. Bees hummed in the clover, gorgeous butterflies floated drowsily over the meadows, and far in the blue distance a meadow-lark scattered his golden notes like rain upon the fields.

[Sidenote: A Cold Shadow]

The world teemed with life, and yet a cold shadow, as of approaching death, darkened the souls of two who walked together in the dusty road that led from the hills to the sea. The old man leaned heavily upon the arm of the younger, and his footsteps faltered. The young man's face was white and he saw dimly, as through a mist, but he tried to keep his voice even.

From the open windows of the little grey house came the deadly sweet smell of anæsthetics, heavy with prescience and pain. It dominated, instantly, all the blended Summer fragrances and brought terror to them both.

"I cannot bear it," said Ambrose North, miserably. "I cannot bear to have my baby hurt."

"She isn't being hurt now," answered Roger, with dry lips. "She's asleep."

"It may be the sleep that knows no waking. If you loved Barbara, you would understand."

The boy's senses, exquisitely alive and quivering, merged suddenly into one unspeakable hurt. If he loved Barbara! Ah, did he not love her? What of last night, when he walked up and down in that selfsame road until dawn, alone with the wonder and fear and joy of it, and unutterably dreading the to-morrow that had so swiftly become to-day.

"I was a fool," muttered Ambrose North. "I was a fool to give my consent."

"It was her choice," the boy reminded him, "and when she walks----"

"When she walks, it may be in the City Not Made With Hands. If I had said 'no,' we should not be out here now, while she--" The tears streamed over his wrinkled cheeks and his bowed shoulders shook.

[Sidenote: All for the Best]

"Don't," pleaded Roger. "It's all for the best--it must be all for the best."

Neither of them saw Eloise approaching as she came up the road from the hotel. She was in white, as usual, bareheaded, and she carried a white linen parasol. She went to them, calling out brightly, "Good morning!"

"Who is it?" asked the old man.

"It must be Miss Wynne, I think."

"What is it?" inquired Eloise, when she joined them. "What is the matter?"

The blind man could not speak, but he pointed toward the house with a shaking hand.

"It's Barbara, you know," said Roger. "They're in there--cutting her." The last words were almost a whisper.

[Sidenote: Allan is There]

"But you mustn't worry," cried Eloise. "Nothing can go wrong. Why, Allan is there."

Insensibly her confidence in Allan and the clear ring of her voice relieved the unbearable tension. Surely, Barbara could not die if Allan were there.

"It's hard, I know," Eloise went on, in her cool, even tones, "but there is no doubt about the ending. Allan is one of the few really great surgeons--he has done wonderful things. He has done things that everyone else said were impossible. Barbara will walk and be as straight and strong as any of us. Think what it will mean to her after twenty years of helplessness. How fine it will be to see her without the crutches."

"I have never minded the crutches," said Roger. "I do not want her changed."

"I cannot see her," sighed Ambrose North. "I have never seen my baby."

"But you're going to," Eloise assured him, "for Allan says so, and whatever Allan says is true."

At length, she managed to lead them farther away, though not out of sight of the house, and they all sat down on the grass. She talked continually and cheerfully, but the atmosphere was tense with waiting. Ambrose North bowed his grey head in his hands, and Roger, still pale, did not once take his eyes from the door of the little grey house.

After what seemed an eternity, someone came out. It was one of Allan's assistants. A nurse followed, and put a black bag into the buggy which was waiting outside. Roger was on his feet instantly, watching.

"Sit down," commanded Eloise, coolly. "Allan can see us from here, and he will come and tell us."

Ambrose North lifted his grey head. "Have they--finished--with her?"

"I don't know," returned Eloise. "Be patient just a little longer, please do."

[Sidenote: All Right]

Outwardly she was calm, but, none the less, a great sob of relief almost choked her when Doctor Conrad came across the road to them, swinging his black bag, and called out, in a voice high with hope, "All right!"

* * * * *

The sky was a wonderful blue, but the colour of the sea was deeper still. The vast reaches of sand were as white as the blown snow, and the Tower of Cologne had never been so fair as it was to-day. The sun shone brightly on the clear glass arches that made the cupola, and the golden bells swayed back and forth silently.

[Sidenote: The Changed Tower]

Barbara was trying to climb up to the cupola, but her feet were weary and she paused often to rest. The rooms that opened off from the various landings of the winding stairway were lovelier than ever. The furnishings had been changed since she was last there, and each room was made to represent a different flower.

There was a rose room, all in pink and green, a pond-lily room in green and white, a violet room in green and lavender, and a gorgeous suite of rooms which someway seemed like a great bouquet of nasturtiums. But, strangely, there was no fragrance of cologne in the Tower. The bottles were all on the mantels, as usual, but Barbara could not open any of them. Instead, there was a heavy, sweet, sickening smell from which she could not escape, though she went continually from room to room. It followed her like some evil thing that threatened to overpower her.

The Boy who had always been beside her, and whose face she could not see, was still in the Tower, but he was far away, with his back toward her. He seemed to be suffering and Barbara tried to get to him to comfort him, but some unforeseen obstacle inevitably loomed up in her path.

[Sidenote: People in the Tower]

There were many people in the Tower, and most of them were old friends, but there were some new faces. Her father was there, of course, and all the brave knights and lovely ladies of whom she had read in her books. Miss Wynne was there and she had never been in the Tower before, but Barbara smiled at her and was glad, though she wished they might have had cologne instead of the sickening smell which grew more deadly every minute.

A grave, silent young man whose demeanour was oddly at variance with his red hair was there also. He had just come and it seemed that he was a doctor. Barbara had heard his name but could not remember it. There were also two young women in blue and white striped uniforms which were very neat and becoming. They wore white caps and smiled at Barbara. She had heard their names, too, but she had forgotten.

None of them seemed to mind the heavy odour which oppressed her so. She opened the windows in the Tower and the cool air came in from the blue sea, but it changed nothing.

"Come, Boy," she called across the intervening mist. "Let's go up to the cupola and ring all the golden bells."

He did not seem to hear, so she called again, and again, but there was no response. It was the first time he had failed to answer her, and it made her angry.

"Then," cried Barbara, shrilly, "if you don't want to come, you needn't, so there. But I'm going. Do you hear? I'm going. I'm going up to ring those bells if I have to go alone."

Still, the Boy did not answer, and Barbara, her heart warm with resentment, began to climb the winding stairs. She did not hurry, for pictures of castles, towers, and beautiful ladies were woven in the tapestry that lined the walls.

She came, at last, to the highest landing. There was only one short flight between her and the cupola. The clear glass arches were dazzling in the sun and the golden bells swayed temptingly. But a blinding, overwhelming fog drifted in from the sea, and she was afraid to move by so much as a step. She turned to go back, and fell, down--down--down--into what seemed eternity.

[Sidenote: The Clouds Lift]

Before long, the cloud began to lift. She could see a vague suggestion of blue and white through it now. The man with the red hair was talking, loudly and unconcernedly, to a tall man beside him whose face was obscured by the mist. The voices beat upon Barbara's ears with physical pain. She tried to speak, to ask them to stop, but the words would not come. Then she raised her hand, weakly, and silence came upon the room.

Out of the fog rose Doctor Allan Conrad. He was tired and there was a strained look about his eyes, but he smiled encouragingly. He leaned over her and she smiled, very faintly, back at him.

"Brave little girl," he said. "It's all right now. All we ever hoped for is coming very soon." Then he went out, and she closed her eyes. When she was again conscious of her surroundings, it was the next day, but she thought she had been asleep only a few minutes.

At first there was numbness of mind and body. Then, with every heart-beat and throb by throb, came unbearable agony. A trembling old hand strayed across her face and her father's voice, deep with love and longing, whispered: "Barbara, my darling! Does it hurt you now?"

"Just a little, Daddy, but it won't last long. I'll be better very soon."

One of the blue and white nurses came to her and said, gently, "Is it very bad, Miss North?"

[Sidenote: Intense Pain]

"Pretty bad," she gasped. Then she tried to smile, but her white lips quivered piteously. The woman with the kind, calm face came back with a shining bit of silver in her hand. There was a sharp stab in Barbara's arm, and then, with incredible quickness, peace.

"What was it?" she asked, wondering.

"Poppies," answered the nurse. "They bring forgetfulness."

"Barbara," said the old man, sadly, "I wish I could help you bear it----"

"So you can, Daddy."

"But how?"

"Don't be afraid for me--it's coming out all right. And make me a little song."

"I couldn't--to-day."

"There is always a song," she reminded him. "Think how many times you have said to me, 'Always make a song, Barbara, no matter what comes.'"

The old man stirred uneasily in his chair. "What about, dear?"

"About the sea."

[Sidenote: Song of the Sea]

"The sea is so vast that it reaches around the world," he began, hesitatingly. "It sings upon the shore of every land, from the regions of perpetual ice and snow to the far tropic islands, where the sun forever shines. As it lies under the palms, all blue and silver, crooning so softly that you can scarcely hear it, you would not think it was the same sea that yesterday was raging upon an ice-bound shore.

"If you listen to its ever-changing music you can hear almost anything you please, for the sea goes everywhere. Ask, and the sea shall sing to you of the frozen north where half the year is darkness and the impassable waste of waters sweeps across the pole. Ask, and you shall hear of the distant islands, where there has never been snow, and the tide may even bring to you a bough of olive or a leaf of palm.

[Sidenote: Song of the Sea]

"Ask, and the sea will give you red and white coral, queer shells, mystically filled with its own weird music, and treasures of fairy-like lace-work and bloom. It will sing to you of cool, green caves where the waves creep sleepily up to the rocks and drift out drowsily with the ebb of the tide.

"It will sing of grey waves changing to foam in the path of the wind, and bring you the cry of the white gulls that speed ahead of the storm. It will sing to you of mermen and mermaids, chanting their own melodies to the accompaniment of harps with golden strings. Listen, and you shall hear the songs of many lands, merged into one by the sea that unites them all.

"It bears upon its breast the great white ships that carry messages from one land to another. Silks and spices and pearls are taken from place to place along the vast highways of the sea. And if, sometimes, in a blinding tumult of terror and despair, the men and ships go down, the sea, remorsefully, brings back the broken spars, and, at last, gives up the dead.

[Sidenote: The Dominant Chord]

"Yet it is always beautiful, whether you see it grey or blue; whether it is mad with rage or moaning with pain, or only crooning a lullaby as the world goes to sleep. And in all the wonderful music there is one dominant chord, for the song of the sea, as of the world, is Love.

"Long ago, Barbara--so long ago that it is written in only the very oldest books, Love was born in the foam of the sea and came to dwell upon the shore. And so the sea, singing forever of Love, creeps around the world upon an unending quest. When the tide sweeps in with the cold grey waves, foam-crested, or in shining sapphire surges that break into pearls, it is only the sea searching eagerly for the lost. So the loneliness and the beauty, the longing and the pain, belong to Love as to the sea."

"Oh, Daddy," breathed Barbara, "I want it so."

"What, dear? The sea?"

"Yes. The music and the colour and the vastness of it. I can hardly wait until I can go."

There was a long silence. "Why didn't you tell me?" asked the old man. "There would have been some way, if I had only known."

"I don't know, Daddy. I think I've been waiting for this way, for it's the best way, after all. When I can walk and you can see, we'll go down together, shall we?"

"Yes, dear, surely."

"You must help me be patient, Daddy. It will be so hard for me to lie here, doing nothing."

"I wish I could read to you."

"You can talk to me, and that's better. Roger will come over some day and read to me, when he has time."

"He was with me yesterday, while----"

"I know," she answered, softly. "I asked him. I thought it would make it easier for you."

[Sidenote: Father and Daughter]

"My baby! You thought of your old father even then?"

"I'm always thinking of you, Daddy, because you and I are all each other has got. That sounds queer, but you know what I mean."

The calm, strong young woman in blue and white came back into the room. "She mustn't talk," she said, to the blind man. "To-morrow, perhaps. Come away now."

"Don't take him away from me," pleaded Barbara. "We'll be very good and not say a single word, won't we?"

"Not a word," he answered, "if it isn't best."

[Sidenote: Peaceful Sleep]

The afternoon wore away to sunset, the shadows grew long, and Barbara lay quietly, with her little hand in his. Long lines of light came over the hills and brought into the room some subtle suggestion of colour. Gradually, the pain came back, so keenly that it was not to be borne, and the kind woman with the bit of silver in her hand leaned over the bed once more. Quickly, the poppies brought their divine gift of peace again. And so, Barbara slept.

Then Ambrose North gently loosened the still fingers that were interlaced with his, bent over, and, so gently as not to waken her, took her boy-lover's kiss from her lips.

XII

Miriam

Miriam moved about the house, silently, as always. She had assumed the extra burden of Barbara's helplessness as she assumed everything--without comment, and with outward calm.

[Sidenote: Joy and Duty]

Only her dark eyes, that burned and glittered so strangely, gave hint of the restlessness within. She served Ambrose North with steadfast and unfailing devotion; she waited upon Barbara mechanically, but readily. An observer could not have detected any real difference in her bearing toward the two, yet the service of one was a joy, the other a duty.

After the first week the nurse who had remained with Barbara had gone back to the city. In this short time, Miriam had learned much from her. She knew how to change a sheet without disturbing the patient very much; she could give Barbara both food and drink as she lay flat upon her back, and ease her aching body a little in spite of the plaster cast.

Ambrose North restlessly haunted the house and refused to leave Barbara's bedside unless she was asleep. Often she feigned slumber to give him opportunity to go outdoors for the exercise he was accustomed to taking. And so the life of the household moved along in its usual channels.

[Sidenote: A Living Image]

As she lay helpless, with her pretty colour gone and the great braids of golden hair hanging down on either side, Barbara looked more like her dead mother than ever. Suffering had brought maturity to her face and sometimes even Miriam was startled by the resemblance. One day Barbara had asked, thoughtfully, "Aunty, do I look like my mother?" And Miriam had answered, harshly, "You're the living image of her, if you want to know."

Miriam repeatedly told herself that Constance had wronged her--that Ambrose North had belonged to her until the younger girl came from school with her pretty, laughing ways. He had never had eyes for Miriam after he had once seen Constance, and, in an incredibly short time, they had been married.

Miriam had been forced to stand by and see it; she had made dainty garments for Constance's trousseau, and had even been obliged to serve as maid of honour at the wedding. She had seen, day by day, the man's love increase and the girl's fancy wane, and, after his blindness came upon him, Constance would often have been cruelly thoughtless had not Miriam sternly held her to her own ideal of wifely duty.