The Bell in the Fog

Gertrude Atherton

I

The great author had realized one of the dreams of his ambitious youth, the
possession of an ancestral hall in England. It was not so much the good
American's reverence for ancestors that inspired the longing to consort with the
ghosts of an ancient line, as artistic appreciation of the mellowness, the
dignity, the aristocratic aloofness of walls that have sheltered, and furniture
that has embraced, generations and generations of the dead. To mere wealth, only
his astute and incomparably modern brain yielded respect; his ego raised its
goose-flesh at the sight of rooms furnished with a single check, conciliatory as
the taste might be. The dumping of the old interiors of Europe into the
glistening shells of the United States not only roused him almost to passionate
protest, but offended his patriotism--which he classified among his unworked
ideals. The average American was not an artist, therefore he had no excuse for
even the affectation of cosmopolitanism. Heaven knew he was national enough in
everything else, from his accent to his lack of repose; let his surroundings be
in keeping.

Orth had left the United States soon after his first successes, and, his art
being too great to be confounded with locality, he had long since ceased to be
spoken of as an American author. All civilized Europe furnished stages for his
puppets, and, if never picturesque nor impassioned, his originality was as
overwhelming as his style. His subtleties might not always be
understood--indeed, as a rule, they were not--but the musical mystery of his
language and the penetrating charm of his lofty and cultivated mind induced
raptures in the initiated, forever denied to those who failed to appreciate him.

His following was not a large one, but it was very distinguished. The
aristocracies of the earth gave to it; and not to understand and admire Ralph
Orth was deliberately to relegate one's self to the ranks. But the elect are
few, and they frequently subscribe to the circulating libraries; on the
Continent, they buy the Tauchnitz edition; and had not Mr. Orth inherited a
sufficiency of ancestral dollars to enable him to keep rooms in Jermyn Street,
and the wardrobe of an Englishman of leisure, he might have been forced to
consider the tastes of the middle-class at a desk in Hampstead. But, as it
mercifully was, the fashionable and exclusive sets of London knew and sought
him. He was too wary to become a fad, and too sophisticated to grate or bore;
consequently, his popularity continued evenly from year to year, and long since
he had come to be regarded as one of them. He was not keenly addicted to sport,
but he could handle a gun, and all men respected his dignity and breeding. They
cared less for his books than women did, perhaps because patience is not a
characteristic of their sex. I am alluding however, in this instance, to
men-of-the-world. A group of young literary men--and one or two women--put him
on a pedestal and kissed the earth before it. Naturally, they imitated him, and
as this flattered him, and he had a kindly heart deep among the cere-cloths of
his formalities, he sooner or later wrote "appreciations" of them all, which
nobody living could understand, but which owing to the subtitle and signature
answered every purpose.

With all this, however, he was not utterly content. From the 12th of August
until late in the winter--when he did not go to Homburg and the Riviera--he
visited the best houses in England, slept in state chambers, and meditated in
historic parks; but the country was his one passion, and he longed for his own
acres.

He was turning fifty when his great-aunt died and made him her heir: "as a poor
reward for his immortal services to literature," read the will of this
phenomenally appreciative relative. The estate was a large one. There was a rush
for his books; new editions were announced. He smiled with cynicism, not unmixed
with sadness; but he was very grateful for the money, and as soon as his
fastidious taste would permit he bought him a country-seat.

The place gratified all his ideals and dreams--for he had romanced about his
sometime English possession as he had never dreamed of woman. It had once been
the property of the Church, and the ruin of cloister and chapel above the
ancient wood was sharp against the low pale sky. Even the house itself was
Tudor, but wealth from generation to generation had kept it in repair; and the
lawns were as velvety, the hedges as rigid, the trees as aged as any in his own
works. It was not a castle nor a great property, but it was quite perfect; and
for a long while he felt like a bridegroom on a succession of honeymoons. He
often laid his hand against the rough ivied walls in a lingering caress.

After a time, he returned the hospitalities of his friends, and his invitations,
given with the exclusiveness of his great distinction, were never refused.
Americans visiting England eagerly sought for letters to him; and if they were
sometimes benumbed by that cold and formal presence, and awed by the silences of
Chillingsworth--the few who entered there--they thrilled in anticipation of
verbal triumphs, and forthwith bought an entire set of his books. It was
characteristic that they dared not ask him for his autograph.

Although women invariably described him as "brilliant," a few men affirmed that
he was gentle and lovable, and any one of them was well content to spend weeks
at Chillingsworth with no other companion. But, on the whole, he was rather a
lonely man.

It occurred to him how lonely he was one gay June morning when the sunlight was
streaming through his narrow windows, illuminating tapestries and armor, the
family portraits of the young profligate from whom he had made this splendid
purchase, dusting its gold on the black wood of wainscot and floor. He was in
the gallery at the moment, studying one of his two favorite portraits, a gallant
little lad in the green costume of Robin Hood. The boy's expression was
imperious and radiant, and he had that perfect beauty which in any disposition
appealed so powerfully to the author. But as Orth stared to-day at the brilliant
youth, of whose life he knew nothing, he suddenly became aware of a human
stirring at the foundations of his aesthetic pleasure.

"I wish he were alive and here, " he thought, with a sigh. "What a jolly little
companion he would be! And this fine old mansion would make a far more
complementary setting for him than for me."

He turned away abruptly, only to find himself face to face with the portrait of
a little girl who was quite unlike the boy, yet so perfect in her own way, and
so unmistakably painted by the same hand, that he had long since concluded they
had been brother and sister. She was angelically fair, and, young as she
was--she could not have been more than six years old--her dark-blue eyes had a
beauty of mind which must have been remarkable twenty years later. Her pouting
mouth was like a little scarlet serpent, her skin almost transparent, her pale
hair fell waving-- not curled with the orthodoxy of childhood--about her tender
bare shoulders. She wore a long white frock, and clasped tightly against her
breast a doll far more gorgeously arrayed than herself. Behind her were the
ruins and the woods of Chillingsworth.

Orth had studied this portrait many times, for the sake of an art which he
understood almost as well as his own; but to-day he saw only the lovely child.
He forgot even the boy in the intensity of this new and personal absorption.

"Did she live to grow up, I wonder?" he thought. "She should have made a
remarkable, even a famous woman, with those eyes and that brow, but--could the
spirit within that ethereal frame stand the enlightenments of maturity? Would
not that mind--purged, perhaps, in a long probation from the dross of other
existences--flee in disgust from the commonplace problems of a woman's life?
Such perfect beings should die while they are still perfect. Still, it is
possible that this little girl, whoever she was, was idealized by the artist,
who painted into her his own dream of exquisite childhood."

Again he turned away impatiently. "I believe I am rather fond of children," he
admitted. "I catch myself watching them on the street when they are pretty
enough. Well, who does not like them?" he added, with some defiance.

He went back to his work; he was chiselling a story which was to be the foremost
excuse of a magazine as yet unborn. At the end of half an hour he threw down his
wondrous instrument--which looked not unlike an ordinary pen--and making no
attempt to disobey the desire that possessed him, went back to the gallery. The
dark splendid boy, the angelic little girl were all he saw--even of the several
children in that roll call of the past--and they seemed to look straight down
his eyes into depths where the fragmentary ghosts of unrecorded ancestors gave
faint musical response.

"The dead's kindly recognition of the dead," he thought. "But I wish these
children were alive."

For a week he haunted the gallery, and the children haunted him. Then he became
impatient and angry. "I am mooning like a barren woman," he exclaimed. "I must
take the briefest way of getting those youngsters off my mind."

With the help of his secretary, he ransacked the library, and finally brought to
light the gallery catalogue which had been named in the inventory. He discovered
that his children were the Viscount Tancred and the Lady Blanche Mortlake, son
and daughter of the second Earl of Teignmouth. Little wiser than before, he sat
down at once and wrote to the present earl, asking for some account of the lives
of the children. He awaited the answer with more restlessness than he usually
permitted himself, and took long walks, ostentatiously avoiding the gallery.

"I believe those youngsters have obsessed me," he thought, more than once. "They
certainly are beautiful enough, and the last time I looked at them in that
waning light they were fairly alive. Would that they were, and scampering about
this park."

Lord Teignmouth, who was intensely grateful to him, answered promptly.

"I am afraid," he wrote, "that I don't know much about my ancestors--those who
didn't do something or other; but I have a vague remembrance of having been told
by an aunt of mine, who lives on the family traditions--she isn't married--that
the little chap was drowned in the river, and that the little girl died too--I
mean when she was a little girl--wasted away, or something--I'm such a beastly
idiot about expressing myself, that I wouldn't dare to write to you at all if
you weren't really great. That is actually all I can tell you, and I am afraid
the painter was their only biographer."

The author was gratified that the girl had died young, but grieved for the boy.
Although he had avoided the gallery of late, his practised imagination had
evoked from the throngs of history the high-handed and brilliant, surely
adventurous career of the third Earl of Teignmouth. He had pondered upon the
deep delights of directing such a mind and character, and had caught himself
envying the dust that was older still. When he read of the lad's early death, in
spite of his regret that such promise should have come to naught, he admitted to
a secret thrill of satisfaction that the boy had so soon ceased to belong to any
one. Then he smiled with both sadness and humor.

"What an old fool I am!" he admitted. "I believe I not only wish those children
were alive, but that they were my own."

The frank admission proved fatal. He made straight for the gallery. The boy,
after the interval of separation, seemed more spiritedly alive than ever, the
little girl to suggest, with her faint appealing smile, that she would like to
be taken up and cuddled.

"I must try another way," he thought, desperately, after that long communion. "I
must write them out of me."

He went back to the library and locked up the tour de force which had ceased to
command his classic faculty. At once, he began to write the story of the brief
lives of the children, much to the amazement of that faculty, which was little
accustomed to the simplicities. Nevertheless, before he had written three
chapters, he knew that he was at work upon a masterpiece--and more: he was
experiencing a pleasure so keen that once and again his hand trembled, and he
saw the page through a mist. Although his characters had always been objective
to himself and his more patient readers, none knew better than he--a man of no
delusions--that they were so remote and exclusive as barely to escape being mere
mentalities; they were never the pulsing living creations of the more
full-blooded genius. But he had been content to have it so. His creations might
find and leave him cold, but he had known his highest satisfaction in chiselling
the statuettes, extracting subtle and elevating harmonies, while combining words
as no man of his tongue had combined them before.

But the children were not statuettes. He had loved and brooded over them long
ere he had thought to tuck them into his pen, and on its first stroke they
danced out alive. The old mansion echoed with their laughter, with their
delightful and original pranks. Mr. Orth knew nothing of children, therefore all
the pranks he invented were as original as his faculty. The little girl clung to
his hand or knee as they both followed the adventurous course of their common
idol, the boy. When Orth realized how alive they were, he opened each room of
his home to them in turn, that evermore he might have sacred and poignant
memories with all parts of the stately mansion where he must dwell alone to the
end. He selected their bedrooms, and hovered over them--not through infantile
disorders, which were beyond even his imagination,--but through those painful
intervals incident upon the enterprising spirit of the boy and the devoted
obedience of the girl to fraternal command. He ignored the second Lord
Teignmouth; he was himself their father, and he admired himself extravagantly
for the first time; art had chastened him long since. Oddly enough, the children
had no mother, not even the memory of one.

He wrote the book more slowly than was his wont, and spent delightful hours
pondering upon the chapter of the morrow. He looked forward to the conclusion
with a sort of terror, and made up his mind that when the inevitable last word
was written he should start at once for Homburg. Incalculable times a day he
went to the gallery, for he no longer had any desire to write the children out
of his mind, and his eyes hungered for them. They were his now. It was with an
effort that he sometimes humorously reminded himself that another man had
fathered them, and that their little skeletons were under the choir of the
chapel. Not even for peace of mind would he have descended into the vaults of
the lords of Chillingsworth and looked upon the marble effigies of his children.
Nevertheless, when in a superhumorous mood, he dwelt upon his high satisfaction
in having been enabled by his great-aunt to purchase all that was left of them.

For two months he lived in his fool's paradise, and then he knew that the book
must end. He nerved himself to nurse the little girl through her wasting
illness, and when he clasped her hands, his own shook, his knees trembled.
Desolation settled upon the house, and he wished he had left one corner of it to
which he could retreat unhaunted by the child's presence. He took long tramps,
avoiding the river with a sensation next to panic. It was two days before he got
back to his table, and then he had made up his mind to let the boy live. To kill
him off, too, was more than his augmented stock of human nature could endure.
After all, the lad's death had been purely accidental, wanton. It was just that
he should live--with one of the author's inimitable suggestions of future
greatness; but, at the end, the parting was almost as bitter as the other. Orth
knew then how men feel when their sons go forth to encounter the world and ask
no more of the old companionship.

The author's boxes were packed. He sent the manuscript to his publisher an hour
after it was finished--he could not have given it a final reading to have saved
it from failure--directed his secretary to examine the proof under a microscope,
and left the next morning for Homburg. There, in inmost circles, he forgot his
children. He visited in several of the great houses of the Continent until
November; then returned to London to find his book the literary topic of the
day. His secretary handed him the reviews; and for once in a way he read the
finalities of the nameless. He found himself hailed as a genius, and compared in
astonished phrases to the prodigiously clever talent which the world for twenty
years had isolated under the name of Ralph Orth. This pleased him, for every
writer is human enough to wish to be hailed as a genius, and immediately. Many
are, and many wait; it depends upon the fashion of the moment, and the needs and
bias of those who write of writers. Orth had waited twenty years; but his past
was bedecked with the headstones of geniuses long since forgotten. He was
gratified to come thus publicly into his estate, but soon reminded himself that
all the adulation of which a belated world was capable could not give him one
thrill of the pleasure which the companionship of that book had given him, while
creating. It was the keenest pleasure in his memory, and when a man is fifty and
has written many books, that is saying a great deal.

He allowed what society was in town to lavish honors upon him for something over
a month, then cancelled all his engagements and went down to Chillingsworth.

His estate was in Hertfordshire, that county of gentle hills and tangled lanes,
of ancient oaks and wide wild heaths, of historic houses, and dark woods, and
green fields innumerable--a Wordsworthian shire, steeped in the deepest peace of
England. As Orth drove towards his own gates he had the typical English sunset
to gaze upon, a red streak with a church spire against it. His woods were
silent. In the fields, the cows stood as if conscious of their part. The ivy on
his old gray towers had been young with his children.

He spent a haunted night, but the next day stranger happenings began.


II

He rose early, and went for one of his long walks. England seems to cry out to
be walked upon, and Orth, like others of the transplanted, experienced to the
full the country's gift of foot-restlessness and mental calm. Calm flees,
however, when the ego is rampant, and to-day, as upon others too recent, Orth's
soul was as restless as his feet. He had walked for two hours when he entered
the wood of his neighbor's estate, a domain seldom honored by him, as it, too,
had been bought by an American--a flighty hunting widow, who displeased the
fastidious taste of the author. He heard children's voices, and turned with the
quick prompting of retreat.

As he did so, he came face to face, on the narrow path, with a little girl. For
the moment he was possessed by the most hideous sensation which can visit a
man's being--abject terror. He believed that body and soul were disintegrating.
The child before him was his child, the original of a portrait in which the
artist, dead two centuries ago, had missed exact fidelity, after all. The
difference, even his rolling vision took note, lay in the warm pure living
whiteness and the deeper spiritual suggestion of the child in his path.
Fortunately for his self-respect, the surrender lasted but a moment. The little
girl spoke.

"You look real sick," she said. "Shall I lead you home?"

The voice was soft and sweet, but the intonation, the vernacular, were American,
and not of the highest class. The shock was, if possible, more agonizing than
the other, but this time Orth rose to the occasion.

"Who are you?" he demanded, with asperity. "What is your name? Where do you
live?"

The child smiled, an angelic smile, although she was evidently amused. "I never
had so many questions asked me all at once," she said. "But I don't mind, and
I'm glad you're not sick. I'm Mrs. Jennie Root's little girl--my father's dead.
My name is Blanche--you are sick! No?--and I live in Rome, New York State. We've
come over here to visit pa's relations."

Orth took the child's hand in his. It was very warm and soft.

"Take me to your mother," he said, firmly; "now, at once. You can return and
play afterwards. And as I wouldn't have you disappointed for the world, I'll
send to town to-day for a beautiful doll."

The little girl, whose face had fallen, flashed her delight, but walked with
great dignity beside him. He groaned in his depths as he saw they were pointing
for the widow's house, but made up his mind that he would know the history of
the child and of all her ancestors, if he had to sit down at table with his
obnoxious neighbor. To his surprise, however, the child did not lead him into
the park, but towards one of the old stone houses of the tenantry.

"Pa's great-great-great-grandfather lived there," she remarked, with all the
American's pride of ancestry. Orth did not smile, however. Only the warm clasp
of the hand in his, the soft thrilling voice of his still mysterious companion,
prevented him from feeling as if moving through the mazes of one of his own
famous ghost stories.

The child ushered him into the dining-room, where an old man was seated at the
table reading his Bible. The room was at least eight hundred years old. The
ceiling was supported by the trunk of a tree, black, and probably petrified. The
windows had still their diamond panes, separated, no doubt, by the original
lead. Beyond was a large kitchen in which were several women. The old man, who
looked patriarchal enough to have laid the foundations of his dwelling, glanced
up and regarded the visitor without hospitality. His expression softened as his
eyes moved to the child.

"Who 'ave ye brought?" he asked. He removed his spectacles. "Ah!" He rose, and
offered the author a chair. At the same moment, the women entered the room.

"Of course you've fallen in love with Blanche, sir, " said one of them.
"Everybody does."

"Yes, that is it. Quite so." Confusion still prevailing among his faculties, he
clung to the naked truth. "This little girl has interested and startled me
because she bears a precise resemblance to one of the portraits in
Chillingsworth--painted about two hundred years ago. Such extraordinary
likenesses do not occur without reason, as a rule, and, as I admired my portrait
so deeply that I have written a story about it, you will not think it unnatural
if I am more than curious to discover the reason for this resemblance. The
little girl tells me that her ancestors lived in this very house, and as my
little girl lived next door, so to speak, there undoubtedly is a natural reason
for the resemblance."

His host closed the Bible, put his spectacles in his pocket, and hobbled out of
the house.

"He'll never talk of family secrets," said an elderly woman, who introduced
herself as the old man's daughter, and had placed bread and milk before the
guest. "There are secrets in every family, and we have ours, but he'll never
tell those old tales. All I can tell you is that an ancestor of little Blanche
went to wreck and ruin because of some fine lady's doings, and killed himself.
The story is that his boys turned out bad. One of them saw his crime, and never
got over the shock; he was foolish like, after. The mother was a poor scared
sort of creature, and hadn't much influence over the other boy. There seemed to
be blight on all the man's descendants, until one of them went to America. Since
then, they haven't prospered, exactly, but they've done better, and they don't
drink so heavy."

"They haven't done so well," remarked a worn patient-looking woman. Orth typed
her as belonging to the small middle-class of an interior town of the eastern
United States.

"You are not the child's mother?"

"Yes, sir. Everybody is surprised; you needn't apologize. She doesn't look like
any of us, although her brothers and sisters are good enough for anybody to be
proud of. But we all think she strayed in by mistake, for she looks like any
lady's child, and, of course, we're only middle-class."

Orth gasped. It was the first time he had ever heard a native American use the
term middle-class with a personal application. For the moment, he forgot the
child. His analytical mind raked in the new specimen. He questioned, and learned
that the woman's husband had kept a hat store in Rome, New York; that her boys
were clerks, her girls in stores, or type-writing. They kept her and little
Blanche--who had come after her other children were well grown--in comfort; and
they were all very happy together. The boys broke out, occasionally; but, on the
whole, were the best in the world, and her girls were worthy of far better than
they had. All were robust, except Blanche. "She coming so late, when I was no
longer young, makes her delicate, " she remarked, with a slight blush, the
signal of her chaste Americanism; "but I guess she'll get along all right. She
couldn't have better care if she was a queen's child."

Orth, who had gratefully consumed the bread and milk, rose. "Is that really all
you can tell me?" he asked.

"That's all," replied the daughter of the house. "And you couldn't pry open
father's mouth."

Orth shook hands cordially with all of them, for he could be charming when he
chose. He offered to escort the little girl back to her playmates in the wood,
and she took prompt possession of his hand. As he was leaving, he turned
suddenly to Mrs. Root. "Why did you call her Blanche?" he asked.

"She was so white and dainty, she just looked it."

Orth took the next train for London, and from Lord Teignmouth obtained the
address of the aunt who lived on the family traditions, and a cordial note of
introduction to her. He then spent an hour anticipating, in a toy shop, the
whims and pleasures of a child--an incident of paternity which his book-
children had not inspired. He bought the finest doll, piano, French dishes,
cooking apparatus, and playhouse in the shop, and signed a check for thirty
pounds with a sensation of positive rapture. Then he took the train for
Lancashire, where the Lady Mildred Mortlake lived in another ancestral home.

Possibly there are few imaginative writers who have not a leaning, secret or
avowed, to the occult. The creative gift is in very close relationship with the
Great Force behind the universe; for aught we know, may be an atom thereof. It
is not strange, therefore, that the lesser and closer of the unseen forces
should send their vibrations to it occasionally; or, at all events, that the
imagination should incline its ear to the most mysterious and picturesque of all
beliefs. Orth frankly dallied with the old dogma. He formulated no personal
faith of any sort, but his creative faculty, that ego within an ego, had made
more than one excursion into the invisible and brought back literary treasure.

The Lady Mildred received with sweetness and warmth the generous contributor to
the family sieve, and listened with fluttering interest to all he had not told
the world--she had read the book--and to the strange, Americanized sequel.

"I am all at sea," concluded Orth. "What had my little girl to do with the
tragedy? What relation was she to the lady who drove the young man to
destruction--?"

"The closest," interrupted Lady Mildred. "She was herself!"

Orth stared at her. Again he had a confused sense of disintegration. Lady
Mildred, gratified by the success of her bolt, proceeded less dramatically:

"Wally was up here just after I read your book, and I discovered he had given
you the wrong history of the picture. Not that he knew it. It is a story we have
left untold as often as possible, and I tell it to you only because you would
probably become a monomaniac if I didn't. Blanche Mortlake--that Blanche-- there
had been several of her name, but there has not been one since--did not die in
childhood, but lived to be twenty-four. She was an angelic child, but little
angels sometimes grow up into very naughty girls. I believe she was delicate as
a child, which probably gave her that spiritual look. Perhaps she was spoiled
and flattered, until her poor little soul was stifled, which is likely. At all
events, she was the coquette of her day--she seemed to care for nothing but
breaking hearts; and she did not stop when she married, either. She hated her
husband, and became reckless. She had no children. So far, the tale is not an
uncommon one; but the worst, and what makes the ugliest stain in our annals, is
to come.

"She was alone one summer at Chillingsworth--where she had taken temporary
refuge from her husband--and she amused herself--some say, fell in love--with a
young man of the yeomanry, a tenant of the next estate. His name was Root. He,
so it comes down to us, was a magnificent specimen of his kind, and in those
days the yeomanry gave us our great soldiers. His beauty of face was quite as
remarkable as his physique; he led all the rural youth in sport, and was a bit
above his class in every way. He had a wife in no way remarkable, and two little
boys, but was always more with his friends than his family. Where he and Blanche
Mortlake met I don't know--in the woods, probably, although it has been said
that he had the run of the house. But, at all events, he was wild about her, and
she pretended to be about him. Perhaps she was, for women have stooped before
and since. Some women can be stormed by a fine man in any circumstances; but,
although I am a woman of the world, and not easy to shock, there are some things
I tolerate so hardly that it is all I can do to bring myself to believe in them;
and stooping is one. Well, they were the scandal of the county for months, and
then, either because she had tired of her new toy, or his grammar grated after
the first glamour, or because she feared her husband, who was returning from the
Continent, she broke off with him and returned to town. He followed her, and
forced his way into her house. It is said she melted, but made him swear never
to attempt to see her again. He returned to his home, and killed himself. A few
months later she took her own life. That is all I know."

"It is quite enough for me," said Orth.

The next night, as his train travelled over the great wastes of Lancashire, a
thousand chimneys were spouting forth columns of fire. Where the sky was not red
it was black. The place looked like hell. Another time Orth's imagination would
have gathered immediate inspiration from this wildest region of England. The
fair and peaceful counties of the south had nothing to compare in infernal
grandeur with these acres of flaming columns. The chimneys were invisible in the
lower darkness of the night; the fires might have leaped straight from the angry
caldron of the earth.

But Orth was in a subjective world, searching for all he had ever heard of
occultism. He recalled that the sinful dead are doomed, according to this
belief, to linger for vast reaches of time in that borderland which is close to
earth, eventually sent back to work out their final salvation; that they work it
out among the descendants of the people they have wronged; that suicide is held
by the devotees of occultism to be a cardinal sin, abhorred and execrated.

Authors are far closer to the truths enfolded in mystery than ordinary people,
because of that very audacity of imagination which irritates their plodding
critics. As only those who dare to make mistakes succeed greatly, only those who
shake free the wings of their imagination brush, once in a way, the secrets of
the great pale world. If such writers go wrong, it is not for the mere brains to
tell them so.

Upon Orth's return to Chillingsworth, he called at once upon the child, and
found her happy among his gifts. She put her arms about his neck, and covered
his serene unlined face with soft kisses. This completed the conquest. Orth from
that moment adored her as a child, irrespective of the psychological problem.

Gradually he managed to monopolize her. From long walks it was but a step to
take her home for luncheon. The hours of her visits lengthened. He had a room
fitted up as a nursery and filled with the wonders of toyland. He took her to
London to see the pantomimes; two days before Christmas, to buy presents for her
relatives; and together they strung them upon the most wonderful Christmas-tree
that the old hall of Chillingsworth had ever embraced. She had a donkey-cart,
and a trained nurse, disguised as a maid, to wait upon her. Before a month had
passed she was living in state at Chillingsworth and paying daily visits to her
mother. Mrs. Root was deeply flattered, and apparently well content. Orth told
her plainly that he should make the child independent, and educate her,
meanwhile. Mrs. Root intended to spend six months in England, and Orth was in no
hurry to alarm her by broaching his ultimate design.

He reformed Blanche's accent and vocabulary, and read to her out of books which
would have addled the brains of most little maids of six; but she seemed to
enjoy them, although she seldom made a comment. He was always ready to play
games with her, but she was a gentle little thing, and, moreover, tired easily.
She preferred to sit in the depths of a big chair, toasting her bare toes at the
log-fire in the hall, while her friend read or talked to her. Although she was
thoughtful, and, when left to herself, given to dreaming, his patient
observation could detect nothing uncanny about her. Moreover, she had a quick
sense of humor, she was easily amused, and could laugh as merrily as any child
in the world. He was resigning all hope of further development on the shadowy
side when one day he took her to the picture-gallery.

It was the first warm day of summer. The gallery was not heated, and he had not
dared to take his frail visitor into its chilly spaces during the winter and
spring. Although he had wished to see the effect of the picture on the child, he
had shrunk from the bare possibility of the very developments the mental part of
him craved; the other was warmed and satisfied for the first time, and held
itself aloof from disturbance. But one day the sun streamed through the old
windows, and, obeying a sudden impulse, he led Blanche to the gallery.

It was some time before he approached the child of his earlier love. Again he
hesitated. He pointed out many other fine pictures, and Blanche smiled
appreciatively at his remarks, that were wise in criticism and interesting in
matter. He never knew just how much she understood, but the very fact that there
were depths in the child beyond his probing riveted his chains.

Suddenly he wheeled about and waved his hand to her prototype. "What do you
think of that?" he asked. "You remember, I told you of the likeness the day I
met you."

She looked indifferently at the picture, but he noticed that her color changed
oddly; its pure white tone gave place to an equally delicate gray.

"I have seen it before," she said. "I came in here one day to look at it. And I
have been quite often since. You never forbade me," she added, looking at him
appealingly, but dropping her eyes quickly. "And I like the little girl--and the
boy--very much.

"Do you? Why?"

"I don't know"--a formula in which she had taken refuge before. Still her candid
eyes were lowered; but she was quite calm. Orth, instead of questioning, merely
fixed his eyes upon her, and waited. In a moment she stirred uneasily, but she
did not laugh nervously, as another child would have done. He had never seen her
self-possession ruffled, and he had begun to doubt he ever should. She was full
of human warmth and affection. She seemed made for love, and every creature who
came within her ken adored her, from the author himself down to the litter of
puppies presented to her by the stable-boy a few weeks since; but her serenity
would hardly be enhanced by death.

She raised her eyes finally, but not to his. She looked at the portrait.

"Did you know that there was another picture behind?" she asked.

"No," replied Orth, turning cold. "How did you know it?"

"One day I touched a spring in the frame, and this picture came forward. Shall I
show you?"

"Yes!" And crossing curiosity and the involuntary shrinking from impending
phenomena was a sensation of aesthetic disgust that he should be treated to a
secret spring.

The little girl touched hers, and that other Blanche sprang aside so quickly
that she might have been impelled by a sharp blow from behind. Orth narrowed his
eyes and stared at what she revealed. He felt that his own Blanche was watching
him, and set his features, although his breath was short.

There was the Lady Blanche Mortlake in the splendor of her young womanhood,
beyond a doubt. Gone were all traces of her spiritual childhood, except,
perhaps, in the shadows of the mouth; but more than fulfilled were the promises
of her mind. Assuredly, the woman had been as brilliant and gifted as she had
been restless and passionate. She wore her very pearls with arrogance, her very
hands were tense with eager life, her whole being breathed mutiny.

Orth turned abruptly to Blanche, who had transferred her attention to the
picture.

"What a tragedy is there!" he exclaimed, with a fierce attempt at lightness.
"Think of a woman having all that pent up within her two centuries ago! And at
the mercy of a stupid family, no doubt, and a still stupider husband. No
wonder--To-day, a woman like that might not be a model for all the virtues, but
she certainly would use her gifts and become famous, the while living her life
too fully to have any place in it for yeomen and such, or even for the trivial
business of breaking hearts." He put his finger under Blanche's chin, and raised
her face, but he could not compel her gaze. "You are the exact image of that
little girl," he said, "except that you are even purer and finer. She had no
chance, none whatever. You live in the woman's age. Your opportunities will be
infinite. I shall see to it that they are. What you wish to be you shall be.
There will be no pent-up energies here to burst out into disaster for yourself
and others. You shall be trained to self-control--that is, if you ever develop
self-will, dear child--every faculty shall be educated, every school of life you
desire knowledge through shall be opened to you. You shall become that finest
flower of civilization, a woman who knows how to use her independence."

She raised her eyes slowly, and gave him a look which stirred the roots of
sensation--a long look of unspeakable melancholy. Her chest rose once; then she
set her lips tightly, and dropped her eyes.

"What do you mean?" he cried, roughly, for his soul was chattering. "Is--it--do
you--?" He dared not go too far, and concluded lamely, "You mean you fear that
your mother will not give you to me when she goes--you have divined that I wish
to adopt you? Answer me, will you?"

But she only lowered her head and turned away, and he, fearing to frighten or
repel her, apologized for his abruptness, restored the outer picture to its
place, and led her from the gallery.

He sent her at once to the nursery, and when she came down to luncheon and took
her place at his right hand, she was as natural and childlike as ever. For some
days he restrained his curiosity, but one evening, as they were sitting before
the fire in the hall listening to the storm, and just after he had told her the
story of the erl-king, he took her on his knee and asked her gently if she would
not tell him what had been in her thoughts when he had drawn her brilliant
future. Again her face turned gray, and she dropped her eyes.

"I cannot," she said. "I--perhaps--I don't know."

"Was it what I suggested?"

She shook her head, then looked at him with a shrinking appeal which forced him
to drop the subject.

He went the next day alone to the gallery, and looked long at the portrait of
the woman. She stirred no response in him. Nor could he feet that the woman of
Blanche's future would stir the man in him. The paternal was all he had to give,
but that was hers forever.

He went out into the park and found Blanche digging in her garden, very dirty
and absorbed. The next afternoon, however, entering the hall noiselessly, he saw
her sitting in her big chair, gazing out into nothing visible, her whole face
settled in melancholy. He asked her if she were ill, and she recalled herself at
once, but confessed to feeling tired. Soon after this he noticed that she
lingered longer in the comfortable depths of her chair, and seldom went out,
except with himself. She insisted that she was quite well, but after he had
surprised her again looking as sad as if she had renounced every joy of
childhood, he summoned from London a doctor renowned for his success with
children.

The scientist questioned and examined her. When she had left the room he
shrugged his shoulders.

"She might have been born with ten years of life in her, or she might grow up
into a buxom woman," he said. "I confess I cannot tell. She appears to be sound
enough, but I have no X-rays in my eyes, and for all I know she may be on the
verge of decay. She certainly has the look of those who die young. I have never
seen so spiritual a child. But I can put my finger on nothing. Keep her
out-of-doors, don't give her sweets, and don't let her catch anything if you can
help it."

Orth and the child spent the long warm days of summer under the trees of the
park, or driving in the quiet lanes. Guests were unbidden, and his pen was idle.
All that was human in him had gone out to Blanche. He loved her, and she was a
perpetual delight to him. The rest of the world received the large measure of
his indifference. There was no further change in her, and apprehension slept and
let him sleep. He had persuaded Mrs. Root to remain in England for a year. He
sent her theatre tickets every week, and placed a horse and phaeton at her
disposal. She was enjoying herself and seeing less and less of Blanche. He took
the child to Bournemouth for a fortnight, and again to Scotland, both of which
outings benefited as much as they pleased her. She had begun to tyrannize over
him amiably, and she carried herself quite royally. But she was always sweet and
truthful, and these qualities, combined with that something in the depths of her
mind which defied his explorations, held him captive. She was devoted to him,
and cared for no other companion, although she was demonstrative to her mother
when they met.

It was in the tenth month of this idyl of the lonely man and the lonely child
that Mrs. Root flurriedly entered the library of Chillingsworth, where Orth
happened to be alone.

"Oh, sir," she exclaimed, "I must go home. My daughter Grace writes me--she
should have done it before--that the boys are not behaving as well as they
should--she didn't tell me, as I was having such a good time she just hated to
worry me--Heaven knows I've had enough worry--but now I must go--I just couldn't
stay--boys are an awful responsibility--girls ain't a circumstance to them,
although mine are a handful sometimes."

Orth had written about too many women to interrupt the flow. He let her talk
until she paused to recuperate her forces. Then he said quietly:

"I am sorry this has come so suddenly, for it forces me to broach a subject at
once which I would rather have postponed until the idea had taken possession of
you by degrees

"I know what it is you want to say, sir, " she broke in, "and I've reproached
myself that I haven't warned you before, but I didn't like to be the one to
speak first. You want Blanche--of course, I couldn't help seeing that; but I
can't let her go, sir, indeed, I can't.

"Yes," he said, firmly, "I want to adopt Blanche, and I hardly think you can
refuse, for you must know how greatly it will be to her advantage. She is a
wonderful child; you have never been blind to that; she should have every
opportunity, not only of money, but of association. If I adopt her legally, I
shall, of course, make her my heir, and--there is no reason why she should not
grow up as great a lady as any in England."

The poor woman turned white, and burst into tears. "I've sat up nights and
nights, struggling," she said, when she could speak. "That, and missing her. I
couldn't stand in her light, and I let her stay. I know I oughtn't to, now--I
mean, stand in her light--but, sir, she is dearer than all the others put
together."

"Then live here in England--at least, for some years longer. I will gladly
relieve your children of your support, and you can see Blanche as often as you
choose."

"I can't do that, sir. After all, she is only one, and there are six others. I
can't desert them. They all need me, if only to keep them together--three girls
unmarried and out in the world, and three boys just a little inclined to be
wild. There is another point, sir--I don't exactly know how to say it."

"Well?" asked Orth, kindly. This American woman thought him the ideal gentleman,
although the mistress of the estate on which she visited called him a boor and a
snob.

"It is--well--you must know--you can imagine--that her brothers and sisters just
worship Blanche. They save their dimes to buy her everything she wants--or used
to want. Heaven knows what will satisfy her now, although I can't see that she's
one bit spoiled. But she's just like a religion to them; they're not much on
church. I'll tell you, sir, what I couldn't say to any one else, not even to
these relations who've been so kind to me--but there's wildness, just a streak,
in all my children, and I believe, I know, it's Blanche that keeps them
straight. My girls get bitter, sometimes; work all the week and little fun, not
caring for common men and no chance to marry gentlemen; and sometimes they break
out and talk dreadful; then, when they're over it, they say they'll live for
Blanche--they've said it over and over, and they mean it. Every sacrifice
they've made for her--and they've made many--has done them good. It isn't that
Blanche ever says a word of the preachy sort, or has anything of the
Sunday-school child about her, or even tries to smooth them down when they're
excited. It's just herself. The only thing she ever does is sometimes to draw
herself up and look scornful, and that nearly kills them. Little as she is,
they're crazy about having her respect. I've grown superstitious about her.
Until she came I used to get frightened, terribly, sometimes, and I believe she
came for that. So--you see! I know Blanche is too fine for us and ought to have
the best; but, then, they are to be considered, too. They have their rights, and
they've got much more good than bad in them. I don't know! I don't know! It's
kept me awake many nights."

Orth rose abruptly. "Perhaps you will take some further time to think it over,"
he said. "You can stay a few weeks longer--the matter cannot be so pressing as
that."

The woman rose. "I've thought this," she said; "let Blanche decide. I believe
she knows more than any of us. I believe that whichever way she decided would be
right. I won't say anything to her, so you won't think I'm working on her
feelings; and I can trust you. But she'll know."

"Why do you think that?" asked Orth, sharply. "There is nothing uncanny about
the child. She is not yet seven years old. Why should you place such a
responsibility upon her?"

"Do you think she's like other children?"

"I know nothing of other children."

"I do, sir. I've raised six. And I've seen hundreds of others. I never was one
to be a fool about my own, but Blanche isn't like any other child living--I'm
certain of it."

"What do you think?"

And the woman answered, according to her lights: "I think she's an angel, and
came to us because we needed her."

"And I think she is Blanche Mortlake working out the last of her salvation,"
thought the author; but he made no reply, and was alone in a moment.

It was several days before he spoke to Blanche, and then, one morning, when she
was sitting on her mat on the lawn with the light full upon her, he told her
abruptly that her mother must return home.

To his surprise, but unutterable delight, she burst into tears and flung herself
into his arms.

"You need not leave me," he said, when he could find his own voice. "You can
stay here always and be my little girl. It all rests with you."

"I can't stay," she sobbed. "I can't!"

"And that is what made you so sad once or twice?" he asked, with a double
eagerness.

She made no reply.

"Oh!" he said, passionately, "give me your confidence, Blanche. You are the only
breathing thing that I love."

"If I could I would," she said. "But I don't know--not quite."

"How much do you know?"

But she sobbed again and would not answer. He dared not risk too much. After
all, the physical barrier between the past and the present was very young.

"Well, well, then, we will talk about the other matter. I will not pretend to
disguise the fact that your mother is distressed at the idea of parting from
you, and thinks it would be as sad for your brothers and sisters, whom she says
you influence for their good. Do you think that you do?"

"Yes."

"How do you know this?"

"Do you know why you know everything?"

"No, my dear, and I have great respect for your instincts. But your sisters and
brothers are now old enough to take care of themselves. They must be of poor
stuff if they cannot live properly without the aid of a child. Moreover, they
will be marrying soon. That will also mean that your mother will have many
little grandchildren to console her for your loss. I will be the one bereft, if
you leave me. I am the only one who really needs you. I don't say I will go to
the bad, as you may have very foolishly persuaded yourself your family will do
without you, but I trust to your instincts to make you realize how unhappy, how
inconsolable I shall be. I shall be the loneliest man on earth!"

She rubbed her face deeper into his flannels, and tightened her embrace. "Can't
you come, too?" she asked.

"No; you must live with me wholly or not at all. Your people are not my people,
their ways are not my ways. We should not get along. And if you lived with me
over there you might as well stay here, for your influence over them would be
quite as removed. Moreover, if they are of the right stuff, the memory of you
will be quite as potent for good as your actual presence."

"Not unless I died."

Again something within him trembled. "Do you believe you are going to die
young?" he blurted out.

But she would not answer.

He entered the nursery abruptly the next day and found her packing her dolls.
When she saw him, she sat down and began to weep hopelessly. He knew then that
his fate was sealed. And when, a year later, he received her last little scrawl,
he was almost glad that she went when she did.