Flower of the Dusk
Myrtle Reed
FLOWER OF THE DUSK
by
MYRTLE REED
G. P. Putnam's SonsNew York and LondonThe Knickerbocker Press1908Copyright, 1908byMyrtle Reed McCulloughThe Knickerbocker Press, New York
By MYRTLE REED.
FLOWER OF THE DUSK. LOVE AFFAIRS OF LITERARY MEN. A SPINNER IN THE SUN. LOVE LETTERS OF A MUSICIAN. LATER LOVE LETTERS OF A MUSICIAN. THE SPINSTER BOOK. LAVENDER AND OLD LACE. THE MASTER'S VIOLIN. AT THE SIGN OF THE JACK-O'-LANTERN. THE SHADOW OF VICTORY. THE BOOK OF CLEVER BEASTS. PICKABACK SONGS.
Contents
CHAPTER PAGE
I--A MAKER OF SONGS 1
II--MISS MATTIE 15
III--THE TOWER OF COLOGNE 28
IV--THE SEVENTH OF JUNE 42
V--ELOISE 55
VI--A LETTER 68
VII--AN AFTERNOON CALL 83
VIII--A FAIRY GODMOTHER 98
IX--TAKING THE CHANCE 111
X--IN THE GARDEN 126
XI--BARBARA'S "TO-MORROW" 142
XII--MIRIAM 155
XIII--"WOMAN SUFFRAGE" 169
XIV--BARBARA'S BIRTHDAY 181
XV--THE SONG OF THE PINES 194
XVI--BETRAYAL 209
XVII--"NEVER AGAIN" 225
XVIII--THE PASSING OF FIDO 238
XIX--THE DREAMS COME TRUE 253
XX--PARDON 273
XXI--THE PERILS OF THE CITY 286
XXII--AUTUMN LEAVES 299
XXIII--LETTERS TO CONSTANCE 313
XXIV--THE BELLS IN THE TOWER 327
Flower of the Dusk
"Secretly, too, both were ashamed, having come unawares upon knowledge that was not meant for them."--_Page 82._ _From a painting by Clinton Balmer_]
I
A Maker of Songs
[Sidenote: Sunset]
The pines, darkly purple, towered against the sunset. Behind the hills,the splendid tapestry glowed and flamed, sending far messages of lightto the grey East, where lay the sea, crooning itself to sleep. Bareboughs dripped rain upon the sodden earth, where the dead leaves had solong been hidden by the snow. The thousand sounds and scents of Springat last had waked the world.
The man who stood near the edge of the cliff, quite alone, and carefullyfeeling the ground before him with his cane, had chosen to face thevalley and dream of the glory that, perchance, trailed down in livinglight from some vast loom of God's. His massive head was thrown back, asthough he listened, with a secret sense, for music denied to those whosee.
[Sidenote: Joyful Memories]
He took off his hat and stray gleams came through the deepening shadowsto rest, like an aureole, upon his silvered hair. Remembered sunsets,from beyond the darkness of more than twenty years, came back to himwith divine beauty and diviner joy. Mnemosyne, that guardian angel ofthe soul, brought from her treasure-house gifts of laughter and tears;the laughter sweet with singing, and the bitterness of the tearseternally lost in the Water of Forgetfulness.
Slowly, the light died. Dusk came upon the valley and crept softly tothe hills. Mist drifted in from the sleeping sea, and the hush of nightbrooded over the river as it murmured through the plain. A single staruplifted its exquisite lamp against the afterglow, near the veiled ivoryof the crescent moon.
Sighing, the man turned away. "Perhaps," he thought, whimsically, as hewent cautiously down the path, searching out every step of the way,"there was no sunset at all."
The road was clear until he came to a fallen tree, over which he steppedeasily. The new softness of the soil had, for him, its own deep meaningof resurrection. He felt it in the swelling buds of the branches thatsometimes swayed before him, and found it in the scent of the cedar ashe crushed a bit of it in his hand.
Easily, yet carefully, he went around the base of the hill to thestreet, where his house was the first upon the right-hand side. The gatecreaked on its hinges and he went quickly up the walk, passing the greytangle of last Summer's garden, where the marigolds had died and thelarkspur fallen asleep.
Within the house, two women awaited him, one with anxious eagerness, theother with tenderly watchful love. The older one, who had long beenlistening, opened the door before he knocked, but it was Barbara whospoke to him first.
"You're late, Father, dear."
"Am I, Barbara? Tell me, was there a sunset to-night?"
"Yes, a glorious one."
[Sidenote: Seeing with the Soul]
"I thought so, and that accounts for my being late. I saw a beautifulsunset--I saw it with my soul."
"Give me your coat, Ambrose." The older woman stood at his side, longingto do him some small service.
"Thank you, Miriam; you are always kind."
The tiny living-room was filled with relics of past luxury. Finepictures, in tarnished frames, hung on the dingy walls, and worn rugscovered the floor. The furniture was old mahogany, beautifully caredfor, but decrepit, nevertheless, and the ancient square piano,outwardly, at least, showed every year of its age.
Still, the room had "atmosphere," of the indefinable quality that somepeople impart to a dwelling-place. Entering, one felt refinement,daintiness, and the ability to live above mere externals. Barbara had,very strongly, the house-love which belongs to some rare women. And whoshall say that inanimate things do not answer to our love of them, anddiffuse, between our four walls, a certain gracious spirit of kindlinessand welcome?
In the dining-room, where the table was set for supper, there weremarked contrasts. A coarse cloth covered the table, but at the head ofit was overlaid a remnant of heavy table-damask, the worn placescarefully hidden. The china at this place was thin and fine, the silverwas solid, and the cup from which Ambrose North drank was Satsuma.
On the coarse cloth were the heavy, cheap dishes and the discouragingknives and forks which were the portion of the others. The five damasknapkins remaining from the original stock of linen were used only by theblind man.
[Sidenote: A Comforting Deceit]
For years the two women had carried on this comforting deceit, and thedaily lie they lived, so lovingly, had become a sort of second nature.They had learned to speak, casually, of the difficulty in procuringservants, and to say how much easier it was to do their own small tasksthan to watch continually over fine linen and rare china intrusted toincompetent hands. They talked of tapestries, laces, and jewels whichhad long ago been sold, and Barbara frequently wore a string of beadswhich, with a lump in her throat, she called "Mother's pearls."
Discovering that the sound of her crutches on the floor distressed himgreatly, Barbara had padded the sharp ends with flannel and was carefulto move about as little as possible when he was in the house. She hadgone, mouse-like, to her own particular chair while Miriam was hangingup his coat and hat and placing his easy chair near the open fire. Hesat down and held his slender hands close to the grateful warmth.
"It isn't cold," he said, "and yet I am glad of the fire. To-day is thefirst day of Spring."
"By the almanac?" laughed Barbara.
"No, according to the almanac, I believe, it has been Spring for tendays. Nature does not move according to man's laws, but she forces himto observe hers--except in almanacs."
[Sidenote: Kindly Shadows]
The firelight made kindly shadows in the room, softening theunloveliness and lending such beauty as it might. It
gave to AmbroseNorth's fine, strong face the delicacy and dignity of an old miniature.It transfigured Barbara's yellow hair into a crown of gold, and put anew gentleness into Miriam's lined face as she sat in the half-light,one of them in blood, yet singularly alien and apart.
"What are you doing, Barbara?" The sensitive hands strayed to her lapand lifted the sheer bit of linen upon which she was working.
"Making lingerie by hand."
"You have a great deal of it, haven't you?"
"Not as much as you think, perhaps. It takes a long time to do it well."
"It seems to me you are always sewing."
"Girls are very vain these days, Father. We need a great many prettythings."
"Your dear mother used to sew a great deal. She--" His voice broke, foreven after many years his grief was keenly alive.
"Is supper ready, Aunt Miriam?" asked Barbara, quickly.
"Yes."
"Then come, let's go in."
Ambrose North took his place at the head of the table, which, purposely,was nearest the door. Barbara and Miriam sat together, at the other end.
"Where were you to-day, Father?"
[Sidenote: At the top of the World]
"On the summit of the highest hill, almost at the top of the world.I think I heard a robin, but I am not sure. I smelled Spring in themaple branches and the cedar, and felt it in the salt mist that blewup from the sea. The Winter has been so long!"
"Did you make a song?"
[Sidenote: Always Make a Song]
"Yes--two. I'll tell you about them afterward. Always make a song,Barbara, no matter what comes."
So the two talked, while the other woman watched them furtively. Herface was that of one who has lived much in a short space of time and herdark, burning eyes betrayed tragic depths of feeling. Her black hair,slightly tinged with grey, was brushed straight back from her wrinkledforehead. Her shoulders were stooped and her hands rough from hard work.
She was the older sister of Ambrose North's dead wife--the woman he hadso devotedly loved. Ever since her sister's death, she had lived withthem, taking care of little lame Barbara, now grown into beautifulwomanhood, except for the crutches. After his blindness, Ambrose Northhad lost his wife, and then, by slow degrees, his fortune. Mercifully, along illness had made him forget a great deal.
"Never mind, Barbara," said Miriam, in a low tone, as they rose from thetable. "It will make your hands too rough for the sewing."
"Shan't I wipe the dishes for you, Aunty? I'd just as soon."
"No--go with him."
The fire had gone down, but the room was warm, so Barbara turned up thelight and began again on her endless stitching. Her father's handssought hers.
"More sewing?" His voice was tender and appealing.
"Just a little bit, Father, please. I'm so anxious to get this done."
"But why, dear?"
"Because girls are so vain," she answered, with a laugh.
"Is my little girl vain?"
"Awfully. Hasn't she the dearest father in the world and theprettiest"--she swallowed hard here--"the prettiest house and theloveliest clothes? Who wouldn't be vain!"
"I am so glad," said the old man, contentedly, "that I have been able togive you the things you want. I could not bear it if we were poor."
"You told me you had made two songs to-day, Father."
[Sidenote: Song of the River]
He drew closer to her and laid one hand upon the arm of her chair.Quietly, she moved her crutches beyond his reach. "One is about theriver," he began.
"In Winter, a cruel fairy put it to sleep in an enchanted tower, far upin the mountains, and walled up the door with crystal. All the while theriver was asleep, it was dreaming of the green fields and the soft,fragrant winds.
"It tossed and murmured in its sleep, and at last it woke, too soon, forthe cruel fairy's spell could not have lasted much longer. When it foundthe door barred, it was very sad. Then it grew rebellious and hurleditself against the door, trying to escape, but the barrier only seemedmore unyielding. So, making the best of things, the river began to singabout the dream.
"From its prison-house, it sang of the green fields and fragrant winds,the blue violets that starred the meadow, the strange, singing harps ofthe marsh grasses, and the wonder of the sea. A good fairy happened tobe passing, and she stopped to hear the song. She became so interestedthat she wanted to see the singer, so she opened the door. The riverlaughed and ran out, still singing, and carrying the door along. Itnever stopped until it had taken every bit of the broken crystal far outto sea."
"I made one, too, Father."
"What is it?"
[Sidenote: Song of the Flax]
"Mine is about the linen. Once there was a little seed put away into thedarkness and covered deep with earth. But there was a soul in the seed,and after the darkness grew warm it began to climb up and up, until oneday it reached the sunshine. After that, it was so glad that it tossedout tiny, green branches and finally its soul blossomed into a blueflower. Then a princess passed, and her hair was flaxen and her eyeswere the colour of the flower.
"The flower said, 'Oh, pretty Princess, I want to go with you.'
"The princess answered, 'You would die, little Flower, if you werepicked,' and she went on.
"But one day the Reaper passed and the little blue flower and all itsfellows were gathered. After a terrible time of darkness and pain, theflower found itself in a web of sheerest linen. There was much cuttingand more pain, and thousands of pricking stitches, then a beautiful gownwas made, all embroidered with the flax in palest blue and green. And itwas the wedding gown of the pretty princess, because her hair was flaxenand her eyes the colour of the flower."
[Sidenote: Barbara]
"What colour is your hair, Barbara?" He had asked the question manytimes.
"The colour of ripe corn, Daddy. Don't you remember my telling you?"
He leaned forward to stroke the shining braids. "And your eyes?"
"Like the larkspur that grows in the garden."
"I know--your dear mother's eyes." He touched her face gently as hespoke. "Your skin is so smooth--is it fair?"
"Yes, Daddy."
"I think you must be beautiful; I have asked Miriam so often, but shewill not tell me. She only says you look well enough and something likeyour mother. Are you beautiful?"
"Oh, Daddy! Daddy!" laughed Barbara, in confusion. "You mustn't ask suchquestions! Didn't you say you had made two songs? What is the otherone?"
Miriam sat in the dining-room, out of sight but within hearing. Havingobserved that in her presence they laughed less, she spent her eveningsalone unless they urged her to join them. She had a newspaper more thana week old, but, as yet, she had not read it. She sat staring into theshadows, with the light of her one candle flickering upon her face,nervously moving her work-worn hands.
"The other song," reminded Barbara, gently.
[Sidenote: Song of the Sunset]
"This one was about a sunset," he sighed. "It was such a sunset as wasnever on sea or land, because two who loved each other saw it together.God and all His angels had hung a marvellous tapestry from the highwalls of Heaven, and it reached almost to the mountain-tops, where someof the little clouds sleep.
"The man said, 'Shall we always look for the sunsets together?'
"The woman smiled and answered, 'Yes, always.'
"'And,' the man continued, 'when one of us goes on the last longjourney?'
"'Then,' answered the woman, 'the other will not be watching alone. For,I think, there in the West is the Golden City with the jasper walls andthe jewelled foundations, where the twelve gates are twelve pearls.'"
There was a long silence. "And so--" said Barbara, softly.
Ambrose North lifted his grey head from his hands and rose to his feetunsteadily. "And so," he said, with difficulty, "she leans from thesunset toward him, but he can never see her, because he is blind. Oh,Barbara," he cried, passionately, "last night I dreamed that you couldw
alk and I could see!"
"So we can, Daddy," said Barbara, very gently. "Our souls are neitherblind nor lame. Here, I am eyes for you and you are feet for me, so webelong together. And--past the sunset----"
"Past the sunset," repeated the old man, dreamily, "soul and body shallbe as one. We must wait--for life is made up of waiting--and make whatsongs we can."
"I think, Father, that a song should be in poetry, shouldn't it?"
[Sidenote: The Real Song]
"Some of them are, but more are not. Some are music and some are words,and some, like prayers, are feeling. The real song is in the thrush'sheart, not in the silvery rain of sound that comes from the green boughsin Spring. When you open the door of your heart and let all the joy rushout, laughing--then you are making a song."
"But--is there always joy?"
"Yes, though sometimes it is sadly covered up with other things. We mustfind it and divide it, for only in that way it grows. Good-night, mydear."
He bent to kiss her, while Miriam, with her heart full of namelessyearning, watched them from the far shadows. The sound of his footstepsdied away and a distant door closed. Soon afterward Miriam took hercandle and went noiselessly upstairs, but she did not say good-night toBarbara.
[Sidenote: Midnight]
Until midnight, the girl sat at her sewing, taking the finest ofstitches in tuck and hem. The lamp burning low made her needle flyswiftly. In her own room was an old chest nearly full of dainty garmentswhich she was never to wear. She had wrought miracles of embroidery uponsome of them, and others were unadorned save by tucks and lace.
When the work was finished, she folded it and laid it aside, then putaway her thimble and thread. "When the guests come to the hotel," shethought--"ah, when they come, and buy all the things I've made the pastyear, and the preserves and the candied orange peel, the rag rugs andthe quilts, then----"
[Sidenote: Dying Embers]
So Barbara fell a-dreaming, and the light of the dying embers laylovingly upon her face, already transfigured by tenderness into beautybeyond words. The lamp went out and little by little the room faded intotwilight, then into night. It was quite dark when she leaned over andpicked up her crutches.
"Dear, dear father," she breathed. "He must never know!"
