"We thought you might like a dog," began Suzanna
"We thought you might like a dog," began Suzanna
"We thought you might like a dog," began Suzanna. "He's a very nice dog and very loving, although if I'm to be honest, I can't say he's a good-looking dog." She felt her courage ebbing at the icy stillness which greeted her statement.
For a long time Mrs. Graham Woods Bartlett remained speechless, and as the dog once had looked at Mrs. Procter, so he looked imploringly at her who might eventually be his new mistress. Little Maizie, moved to a show of bravery for Peter's sake, spoke up:
"We've only got a little house, and you've got a big one, so we thought you wouldn't mind."
"And," concluded Peter, "he really is a fine dog. You can buy a nice collar for him and maybe cut his tail—" Mrs. Graham Woods Bartlett made a little wry face—"and you'd be surprised to see how elegant he'll look."
A laugh rang out from one end of the room. It came from a fine-looking old lady who stood near the window surrounded, it would seem by admiring satellites, and at the little musical sound Mrs. Graham Woods Bartlett's face cleared magically, for the stately old lady was a very important personage to all present, envied usually too, and if this little incident seemed to amuse her then the matter was beautifully altered. So Mrs. Graham Woods Bartlett found her voice. "Go out into the grounds and see the gardener. If he can find a place for the animal, let him keep it."
The children felt themselves dismissed. On the way out Suzanna kept her gaze quite away from the table with its alluring load of dainties. But Maizie paused an infinitesimal fraction of a second and let her eyes stray over the fascinating cakes, the glasses of pink ices, and the Maraschino cherries and nuts and white candies. But it was Peter who neither looked aside nor paused, but as he went by the table he addressed the ceiling.
"My dog's very fond of cakes," he said. "But mother says dogs can do without cakes, especially stray dogs."
One of the pretty girls laughed merrily, and sweeping from a silver plate a handful of cakes she thrust them into Peter's hands. "Thank you," he said simply. And then the children left with the dog gamboling in expectancy behind his small master. He knew well the cakes were for him.
Out in the grounds they met Graham. He had been to the stables to look at his pony, a new gift from his father. He paused astonished at sight of the children.
"Oh, Graham," Suzanna cried at sight of him, "your mother said we should see the gardener about this dog. She thought he'd like to have him."
Graham, though startled, asked no questions.
"I guess it's David mother means," he said. "Wait here and I'll see if he's in the back garden."
After Graham had gone Peter began to conjecture. "If David won't take Jerry," he said, "what'll we do?"
"You'll have to take him out and lose him then," said Maizie calmly.
Peter turned a considering eye upon her. He couldn't understand her. Quite as a matter of course she suggested his taking the dog out on some prairie and turning it loose, to know hunger, and perhaps abuse. And yet, he had seen this same tender-hearted little Maizie crying because a spider had been swept down from the porch. No, in his boyish soul he decided that should he live a thousand years, he never would understand women with their inconsistencies andtheir peculiar viewpoints. Their tendernesses in one direction and their complacent cruelties in others.
"Let's go and sit on the steps of that cottage," said Suzanna, pointing to a small house at the foot of the side garden. Maizie consented, but Peter preferred not to move. He wished to stay with his dog as long as possible. In the cottage might be a lady who would look with the same horror-stricken eyes upon his friend as had Mrs. Graham Woods Bartlett.
So Suzanna and Maizie left him with his dog. They had just ensconced themselves comfortably on the steps of the cottage when a distressing accent struck upon their ears, and simultaneously they turned in the direction of the sound. There on a tiny verandah, almost hidden behind a large fern growth, a little girl sat on a low chair crying softly and pathetically as though her small heart were broken. The children stood for a moment not knowing just what to do. Then Maizie, the same one, thought Peter satirically (he could see all that went on from his place beyond) who had suggested his losing his dog on a prairie, went to the pathetic figure and sitting beside it said in a tremulous low voice, full of sympathy and pity:
"What's the matter, little girl?"
The one thus addressed took her hands down from her face and looked around at her questioner. Her eyes were dark, with black lashes, and she had wonderful, curly hair. When she had finished looking at Maizie, which was a long moment, she put her hand behind her and produced a doll, sadly deficient as to features. Indeed, noseless, entirely, and with one eye gone. But in a very fever of love, she held it to her.
"Are you crying because your doll is broken?" asked Suzanna, now coming a little closer and standing straight and slim before the child.
"No, she's not broken," said the little girl, "but she's got the whooping cough and she keeps my father awake nights coughing."
Suzanna instantly responded. "Oh, that's too bad," she said. "Can't your mother fix her some flaxseed tea?"
Now down once more went the little girl's head upon her knee, and once more she was shaking with sobs. And at this moment young Graham returned and in his wake, David.
"David says," began Graham cheerfully to Suzanna and Maizie, "that he can find room for an extra dog, so you may leave yours. Where's your brother?"
"He is right over there," pointed Maizie.
Then the gardener's glance fell upon the little girl, with her head bent as she still wept.
"She's crying awfully hard," said Suzanna to the gardener. "Do you know whose little girl she is?"
"She's mine," said the man with a big world of tenderness in his voice. "She's my little Daphne."
"We thought she was crying because her doll was broken," said Suzanna. "Then she said it had the whooping cough and kept you awake all night and I asked her why her mother didn't make some flaxseed tea for it."
A swift shadow darkened David's fine face and he shaded his eyes with his hand. Then he went to the little girl and raised her as though she were one of his carefully cherished flowers. Her sobs ceased as she found herself in her father's arms.
"You see," said her father, "she has no mother!"
Now the children knew by his tone and by the extreme sadness in his eyes that the little Daphne's mother had gone away never to return. And they knew it must be the saddest thing in the world to be without a mother; one who wasalways ready to understand even if you had to wait till the baby was hushed, or the bread looked at in the oven. The understanding did come, sure and tender; a mother who sometimes smiled at you in that complete, deep way, as Suzanna's mother had smiled at her the day she wore her leghorn hat with the daisies.
"Can Daphne play with us?" asked Suzanna after awhile. "And can we take her home to see our mother?"
The man's face brightened at this. "Why, that will be fine," he said. "Perhaps you'd like to play here in the grounds for awhile. Then Daphne can go home with you. You're the Procter children, aren't you? I've talked often with your father when I've bought things in the hardware shop. I'm coming sometime to see his machine."
"Yes," said Suzanna, "but how did you know we were the Procter children? We didn't tell you our name. Did Graham?"
"No," said the man, "but you're the living image of your father. You look at a person just like he does, out of your big dark eyes."
Suzanna flushed. There was nothing in all the world she so loved to hear as that she looked like her father.
Little Daphne had ceased crying and her father carried her up the narrow winding stairs to their own quarters. Shortly he returned again. The little girl now wore a pretty lace-trimmed bonnet mother-made, one knew at once, and a little white cape. She was a very charming and quaint figure.
"I think, daddy," she said, "I'd like to go home right away and see the little girl's mother."
He turned his head away again for a moment, but he managed at last to meet his little daughter's eyes with a smile.
"Run along, sweet," he said.
"Can she stay to supper with us?" asked Suzanna.
"If your mother would like to have her," said the man. "And I'll come up later for her."
"All right," replied Suzanna.
Now came the hard moment for Peter, in the parting from his dog. He came reluctantly forward.
Graham, seeing Peter's distress when the animal had been delivered into David's care, said: "You can come up here often, Peter, and see the dog. I know it's awful hard giving him up."
Peter's heart was touched. Here at last was one who understood! Here at last was one whowould not condemn a dog merely because he had an unnaturally big appetite; because he got around under people's feet and had no manners.
"You're a very nice boy," said Suzanna when they were parting, "and we wish you would come to see us."
Graham's face lit. "Oh, I will come. Do you live in that little cottage with the crooked chimney?"
"Yes," said Suzanna. "Come soon, won't you?"
Graham promised he would do so.
As the Procter children went down the road, Graham watched them, but his gaze presently concentrated itself on Suzanna, who was leading the small Daphne.
"I like Suzanna," thought Graham. "I like to see her flush up like a rose when she speaks." Which was a poetical observation for a boy of twelve.
Mrs. Procter was in the dining-room arranging the shelves of her small sideboard when she heard sounds betokening the children's return.
They entered the dining-room, Suzanna leading a small stranger by the hand, Maizie and Peter behind.
"Mother," began Suzanna at once, "David, the gardener, took the dog and we brought this little girl home to see you."
Mrs. Procter looked questioningly at Daphne, who stood close to Suzanna's protecting arm.
"Stay with Maizie a moment, Daphne," said Suzanna, "while I tell my mother something." Daphne smiled and did as she was told, and Suzanna went close to Mrs. Procter. In a low tone she said: "Daphne's mother went far away awhile ago, and I'm telling this to you in a low voice because Daphne cried when we asked her where her mother was. I brought her home so she could remember how beautiful a mother is."
In an instant the tears sprang to Mrs. Procter's eyes. She went quickly to Daphne, and lifted the little girl.
"Sit down in a rocking chair with her," said Suzanna, "and hold her close up to you. And then when she's cuddled down, look at her like you do at our babies."
Mrs. Procter obeyed. Daphne nestled close. "Her father knows my father, Mrs. Procter," said Suzanna.
Mrs. Procter looked up quickly at this new mode of address. Suzanna explained.
"Daphne," she said, going close and looking down at the contented little face, "I'm giving you a share in my mother while you're here today. I give over the part I own in her to you, and I shall call her Mrs. Procter whenever you visit us."
"But you can't give away even your part in your very own mother," protested Maizie.
"But I have done so, haven't I?"
"Does just saying so make a thing true?" Maizie asked.
"If you say so and live up to it," Suzanna returned.
"Well, anyway," said Maizie, "mother's not cuddling Daphne because she wants to; only because she's sorry for her."
"What do you mean?" asked Mrs. Procter. "I like little Daphne, too, and I'm glad she's come to visit us."
"But you know, mother," said Maizie, "you only find time to cuddle your own babies. And you stop just as soon as they can walk around."
"Mrs. Procter cuddles all children in her heart," said Suzanna loyally. "She'd wear her arms out if she cuddled all of us all the time."
Maizie didn't answer that. But when little Daphne finally left Mrs. Procter's sheltering clasp and went away to play with the children, Maizie still hovered about her mother.
"Mother," she said at last, "did you like to hold Daphne close up to you?"
Now mothers are very wonderful beings, and with no further word from Maizie, Mrs. Procter understood the child's unspoken wish. In a moment Maizie was held close to her mother's breast, and was looking up into her mother's tender eyes. And the mother was thinking. Was mother love selfish then in its inclusion? Weren't there little ones outside hungering for cuddling? How children went to the heart of things! She thought suddenly and perhaps irrelevantly of her husband's invention upon which he poured his heart's best treasures. And yet not once had heever mentioned the money which might be his did success attend it. Only the good to others. His seemed a wide vision. She sighed. It was hard to find strength enough, time enough to go outside one's home doing good. "Well, at least," she thought with a sudden uplift, "I'll adopt little Daphne into our home circle."
When Mr. Procter arrived home for supper he found, playing happily about, the little addition to his family. Suzanna took her father off to one corner to explain all about Daphne.
"And so I've given my share in mother to Daphne whenever she visits us," concluded Suzanna.
Mr. Procter smiled and touched Suzanna's dark hair. Later he arranged a chair so Daphne might be comfortable at the supper table. A book and a cushion brought that state of comfort about, and the child was very happy. She was, for the time being, a member of an interesting family, everyone trying his best to entertain her. Even Peter forgot the loss of his dog and said some funny things which made Daphne laugh.
After supper David called for his little daughter. Daphne cried out joyfully as he entered.
"Oh, I've had such a good time, Daddy David," she exclaimed.
He lifted her to his shoulder, then gazed about the little family circle. His eyes lingered on Mrs. Procter.
"You've been good to Daphne, I know," he said simply. "And so good night."
"While you're here, David," said Mr. Procter, "I'll show you my invention."
"Fine!" David said; he swung the little girl from his shoulder. "I'd like to see that machine."
So they all went upstairs to the attic. The machine stood brooding in its peace.
Mr. Procter lit a lamp. Its glow fell softly upon the little group.
"Old John Massey came into the shop today," said Mr. Procter. "He promised to come in and see the machine tomorrow."
"Does he know its object?" asked David.
"No, there's been no chance to tell him."
"Why is he interested, then?" asked David. "Has his commercial instinct been aroused?"
"Oh, I think not," said the inventor, "I've not spoken to him about that part of it, only told him a great chance was his if he became interested in the machine."
"Someone's ringing the bell. Run down, Peter," said Mrs. Procter.
Peter went down and returned at once with a note.
"A man with brass buttons brought it," he said. "It's for father."
Mr. Procter tore open the letter.
"Well, that's decent of John Massey to let me know," he said. "He's ill and will be unable to come here tomorrow."
"Yes, very decent for old John Massey," said David. "Well, I must be off. And we'll come again soon, if we may."
"Mother dear," asked Suzanna one day, "if the Eagle Man's sick, don't you think I ought to go and see him?"
Mrs. Procter hesitated. She looked into the earnest dark eyes raised to hers. "Well, dear, perhaps it would be kind," she said.
"I ought to take him some flowers," Suzanna pursued.
The time was early morning, and Mr. Procter had not yet departed for the hardware store.
"I can't think where you'll get flowers, Suzanna," he said.
"Oh, there's a little shaded spot in a field I know and there's some daisies there. I'll gather them on the way to the Eagle Man."
So that afternoon after school Suzanna admonished Maizie to be quick with her buttons because she and the baby were to pay a call on the Eagle Man.
"I have to gather the daisies for him, too," said Suzanna.
"I don't like the Eagle Man very well," said Maizie; "I'm afraid of him; and I don't see why you should take flowers to him. He has plenty in the big glass house in his yard."
Suzanna stopped short. "You don't like him after he gave you that lovely ride in the summer, Maizie Procter, and after he's interested in our father's Machine? I'm 'shamed of you. You ought to like everybody Miss Massey says, and flowers in his glass house aren't like flowers that are a present from somebody else."
Maizie did not answer this, but the look on her face indicated some defiance of Suzanna's attempted direction of her thoughts. When they were ready, they called good-bye to their mother and started away. Suzanna pushed the cart containing the baby, while Maizie walked sedately beside her.
From the field Suzanna knew, she secured a small bunch of late daisies and then the journey was continued. At length the children reached the Massey grounds. Suzanna pushed open the big iron gate and trundled the cart into the gravel path. The ground immediately began to be slightly hilly.
"You'd better help me, Maizie," said Suzanna.
"How?" asked Maizie helplessly.
"Put your hands on my back and push," said Suzanna.
So the little procession formed itself. And in this wise it reached the top of the hill. The house itself lay a few yards in front of them. The children paused to rest, and then Suzanna, looking around, beheld a small vine-covered arbor, and within, just visible through the enshrouding ivy, a man and a woman, Miss Massey and a stranger.
"How do you do, Suzanna?" Miss Massey said when she found herself discovered. "Did you want to see me?"
"I'm very glad to see you," responded Suzanna politely, "but I didn't come expressly on purpose to look at you. I came to see the Eagle Man."
"The Eagle Man?" asked Miss Massey, puzzled.
"He walks with a cane," put in Maizie, "and he coughs kind of hoarse each time he speaks."
"He's your father," said Suzanna. "He sits down on a velvet chair, and he shouts, and he gets red in the face, and he bangs his fist on the chair when a little man doesn't hurry up, though I thought he went very fast. He did all that the day the Sunday School pupils came to your party."
"Oh, yes," said Miss Massey, a smile lighting her face at the vivid description, "I did not knowthat you had met my father, but I'm afraid you can't see him today, dear. He's not well."
"Yes, I know; that's why I came to see him and to bring him these flowers."
Miss Massey was a little puzzled. How did Suzanna know John Massey was ill?
"Suppose you bring the baby in here," suggested the man who was sitting next to Miss Massey, and who up to this time had been silent. "And after awhile Miss Massey can find out if her father is able to see you."
"All right," said Suzanna with alacrity. She started to lift the baby from his carriage when the man sprang up and took the child from her. The baby smiled and won his way at once to the stranger's heart.
"He's sweet, isn't he?" began Suzanna, as she entered the arbor, Maizie with her. Miss Massey drew Maizie within the circle of her own arm.
"He is that," said the man earnestly, "although I don't know very much about babies. Does he cry much?"
"Well, he's very sinful when he's hungry. He's getting better now because he's growing older, but he used to shriek till his face got red. Once in awhile now he wants what he wants right away. I was trying once to learn a piece ofpoetry, and he suddenly shrieked and I had to stop everything and warm his milk. I'm only hoping he'll live to grow up, because if he should die now I'm afraid God wouldn't want him in Heaven."
"Are there ladies in Heaven that take care of babies?" asked Maizie interestedly, a new train of thoughts started.
"You know there are, Maizie," said Suzanna, allowing no one else a chance to answer. "There are lots of little babies that go away, and do you s'pose they'd be called if they were going to be left hungry and cold? God has it all arranged. First, he calls a baby and then pretty soon he calls a mother and she takes care of the baby."
"Any mother?" Maizie asked.
"Yes, any mother; they're all good."
"But why doesn't he leave them on earth with their own mothers?"
"Because sometimes he takes a liking to somebody down here," Suzanna said gravely. "But anyway, you needn't ask me such questions, because here's Miss Massey who knows everything," Suzanna finished magnanimously.
"She does that," said the man gravely who was holding the baby.
"Are you related to Miss Massey?" askedSuzanna. Now Miss Massey's rather faded cheeks grew pink.
"Is it a long time before the baby needs his bottle again, Suzanna?" she asked.
"Oh, not for hours," said Suzanna. "You see, now he eats crackers and bread and butter and an egg sometimes, and we gave him some before we started." She returned relentlessly to the question again, appealing to the man. "Are you related to Miss Massey?"
"No," the stranger said after a time, "we're just friends."
Miss Massey put in hastily: "Shall we go into the house, children, and I'll show you some interesting things?"
The man rose quickly, the baby still in his arms. In this manner they all entered the big house and went into the beautiful room that Suzanna remembered so well.
"Do you live here?" asked Suzanna of the man. He shook his head.
"You mean in this little town?" he asked. "I once did years ago, but I moved away to the city. I'm paying a short visit to my sister now."
"Oh," said Suzanna. "My father has a sister called Aunt Martha. She comes sometimes when we have a new baby."
"Why," said Maizie suddenly, as they were all seated, the baby contentedly sitting on the man's knee, her voice shrill with new discovery. "Heisrelated to Miss Massey; he looks at her that way."
The man, after a long pause in which he gathered understanding, answered very solemnly. "Well," he said, "if loving a person makes you a relative, then I am very closely related to Miss Massey. But if lack of money keeps one from being related, then I'm only a stranger to her."
Neither Suzanna nor Maizie could understand that statement. But Miss Massey blushed till her face was like a lovely flower.
Yet when Suzanna appeared to be about to take up a new line of questioning, Miss Massey spoke quickly:
"I think you'd like some lemonade, wouldn't you, Suzanna, you and your sister? I'll go and order some for you."
She went out of the room. The man waited for a moment, then handing the baby to Suzanna, followed Miss Massey.
"Would you like to live here, Suzanna?" asked Maizie.
"No, I don't like people around with brass buttons on their coats," said Suzanna. "Andthen there'd be so much cleaning we'd never get through."
At the moment came an unmistakable sound.
"The Eagle Man!" cried Suzanna with absolute conviction. "I thought he was sick."
And indeed it was just exactly the Eagle Man. Straight he came to the library. He paused in the doorway at sight of the children. All the high color had faded from his face; he looked alarmingly ill.
"Oh," cried Suzanna, immediately upon sight of him. "We came to see you and to bring you these daisies."
He accepted them with a little grimace. "Thank you, little girl," he said. "Put that heavy baby down. He can crawl around."
Suzanna carefully lowered the baby to the floor. He sat with blinking eyes, so many treasures for his small hands lay within touch.
The Eagle Man spoke. "Who have you been talking with?" he asked as he looked about suspiciously.
"Oh," cried Suzanna, "there's nobody hidden away. Miss Massey and her relation went out to see about some lemonade."
"Her relation!" stormed the Eagle Man.
"Yes, the one who loves Miss Massey."
The Eagle Man recovered all his lost color. Watching his terrible expression, both children thought it a blessing that at this critical moment Miss Massey and her relation returned. But, oh, it was not the same Miss Massey, but one who had found the world. Her face was glowing like a girl's and her eyes sparkled and shone; and when she faced her father there was manifest in her aspect a certain courage that in his eyes at least sat strangely upon her.
"Father," she cried, "you should be in bed."
"What's the meaning of all this?" he shouted, ignoring her soft concern.
The new relation came forward. "My dear sir," he began, "I shall have to ask you to refrain from attempting to intimidate the lady who is to be my wife."
"Your wife?" exclaimed the Eagle Man turning upon the speaker. "She's my daughter."
"Granted," said the man calmly, "and she's also my promised wife."
"I shall never give my consent," said the Eagle Man, but his voice had fallen.
"Then, father," said delicate, timid little Miss Massey, "I shall marry Robert without your consent."
There was a long heavy silence. The babyhaving found a gold-plated lizard on the hearth was contemplating it with wondering eyes.
"Very well," said the Eagle Man at last, trying to speak calmly. "You'll go your own way. Not a cent of mine do you ever get."
"I'm glad to hear that," said the man, "for not a cent of yours shall my wife need."
Into the breach Suzanna strode.
"Oh, but you will need money," she cried as she stood anchoring the baby by means of an extended arm. "When you're married and you have a big family you'll have to pay the rent, and you'll have to dress all the little children, and there'll be insurance week, and something you haven't thought of all the time, and just when you get on your feet, there'll be the doctor at your door and his bill pretty soon."
"Exactly," said the Eagle Man, as though by Suzanna's words many of his contentions had been proved.
"But we shall be together," said little Miss Massey, as though that beloved truth answered everything. The man had thrown his arms about her and had drawn her quite close, and she looked up into his face with eyes that still shone. Oh, how long she had loved him! And how long had it been since she settled to the realization thatthough he loved her, he was proud and would not speak. This spoken love she had craved with all her heart; and it had been withheld because he had no money and her father had too much.
"Will you tell me your real objection to me?" asked the man with frank directness appealing to the Eagle Man. "For that you have had objections to me I've sensed always."
The Eagle Man turned and looked the younger man over, carefully, critically, before answering. Indeed, he was so long about speaking that the children, at least, thought he never meant to speak again.
But at last: "My daughter," he began, "is now thirty-six. She has had thirty-six years of luxury, of merely raising her finger and receiving highly trained service. She is not a young girl who might, being more adaptable and buoyed up by romance, settle down to a new order of life; she is too used to the luxuries I have been able to give her, servants, carriages, horses, travel, fine clothes—" he enumerated them all with distinctness, giving each item a lengthy second before going on to his conclusion. "It will work real hardship on her to be compelled to give up all these things to do her own work and to make over her own dresses."
"You're mistaken, father," Miss Massey denied, "all that giving up, if giving up you can call it, will be my joy if I can be with Robert." Her voice, deep with emotion, died into a silence which reigned for moments. No one seemed to wish to break it, not even the baby. And yet, though the meaning of all the spoken words had not been clear to Suzanna, her eager, sensitive little mind seized on pictures which seemed somehow to fit in; yet pictures in their simplicity so far removed from her surroundings of luxury that they would seem but vagrant fancies.
Had she attempted to translate them, she would have failed, yet as they grew momentarily more vivid and meaningful, interpretive words, as vivid as the pictures themselves, rushed to her lips. She turned to the Eagle Man.
"Oh, on Saturday night when supper is over and the shades are pulled down and the lamp is lit in the parlor, and Robert is reading a big book with pictures in it, and the children, except the two eldest, are all asleep upstairs and it's raining outside, and you can hear the pitapat, pitapat of the drops on the window pane, then Miss Massey will be happy. Before supper Miss Massey'll have felt awful tired and she'll hurry up things and she'll make her eldest little girlhurry too, but after the dishes are cleared away, and she's sitting close to Robert, she'll be so glad she's in out of the rain with her children all in safe too, that she'll not care a bit about raising her finger for a little man to come and ask her what she wants. She'll not want to go about in a carriage, or travel in a big train!"
No one spoke. Only the scene painted so simply grew in the hearts of at least two there, so that Robert drew his promised wife a little closer to him and she glanced up in his face with eyes full of color.
Suzanna went on. She had forgotten her audience. She was just telling out the pictures that had been built into her life; supper tables with many young faces about; little babies who had stayed just awhile; hasty words and loving making up; the star-dust of the realevery-daylife.
"You know," she continued, "that Maizie and I crept downstairs one Saturday night because I wanted to tell daddy something, and mother was sitting right close to him, and we heard her say: 'When the children are safe in bed, and just you and I are here—then I see things clearer—' And he just looked at her and said, 'Sweetheart!' and his voice was nicer than even when he says good-night to Maizie and me."
Miss Massey turned her gaze upon Suzanna. "Little girl, little girl," she said, "come here—"
So Suzanna went and stood close to Miss Massey, whilst Maizie went after the marauding baby.
The Eagle Man cleared his throat. "That child of yours is going to sleep," he said speaking to Suzanna.
"Oh, no," said Suzanna, not meaning to contradict, but just to set him straight, "he's wide-awake. But I guess it must be time for us to go. I know you think so too, Mr. Eagle Man."
She left Miss Massey's tender clasp, went to the baby, raised him, held him under her arm skilfully, the while his legs stuck out straight behind her. She spoke to Miss Massey:
"If the Eagle Man's mad at you and he stays mad all night," she said, "you can come to our house and sleep in my bed with Maizie. Mother can fix the dining-room table for me."
Miss Massey released herself from Robert's clasp and went to Suzanna. She stooped and kissed her tenderly. "Thank you, dear little girl," she said. "I'll remember that invitation."
The Eagle Man pulled a cord hanging from the ceiling. Immediately it seemed, one of the men with brass buttons appeared.
"Carry that child to its perambulator," shouted the Eagle Man. Not a flicker disturbed the serenity of the man addressed, no matter what were his inner feelings. He put out two arms straight and stiff like rods, and Suzanna placed the baby upon them. Saying quickly their adieus, Suzanna and Maizie walked behind the uniformed man, for whom Suzanna at least felt a stirring of pity.
"And so," concluded Suzanna early one afternoon as she stood on a soap box in her own yard, "the noble knight set forth on his prancing steed, having finished his deeds of blood. And all about him lay those he had slain."
The children having listened entranced to the story, now stirred; Maizie was the first to speak. "I think the knight was horrid," she said.
"I like him," said soft little Daphne who was now a constant, happy visitor at the Procter home.
"I think a brave knight is bully," said Graham Bartlett, as constant a visitor as Daphne.
"I would slay mine by the hundred," cried Peter boastfully.
Graham looked off into the distance. "I shall fare forth some day," he said, "and lead my armies to victory proudly, yet disdainfully. I shall have no love in my heart, only sternness."
"Drusilla can tell some wonderful tales of knights," said Suzanna. "Does she tell you stories when you go to visit her, Graham?"
Graham colored hotly. "I haven't been to see her lately," he answered; then, "I'll tell you, let's go today."
Suzanna bounded away to ask permission of her mother. She returned in a moment. "Mother says we may go after Peter changes his blouse. Hurry up, Peter. Don't keep us waiting."
Peter moved reluctantly houseward, and Suzanna ended: "Isn't it fine that today was teachers' meeting so we could have a holiday?"
Graham looked wistfully at her. He had a tutor, and lessons alone he felt could not be so interesting as when learned with a number of other boys and girls.
"Let's go," said Suzanna, "we can walk slowly so Peter can catch up with us. You mustn't get tired, will you, Daphne?" Daphne was very sure she would not, and Peter reappearing at the moment, they all started away. They went out into a sunny day left over from the Indian summer. Still there was crispness in the air which exhilarated them, moving Peter to sundry manifestations which Maizie coldly designated as "showing off." He stood on his head, turned somersaults, cast his voice up to the heavens, immediately spoiled the crispness of his cleanblouse. He was the fine, free savage, and his sisters finally gave up trying to tame him.
"It's Thanksgiving weather, isn't it?" said Suzanna. "Come on, let's all skip."
So they all fell into Peter's spirit, and thus it was that skipping and singing they reached Drusilla's little home. It was very quiet in that spot, the garden desolate, the flowers gone. The children instinctively hushed their songs and went slowly up the front steps.
Graham rang the bell.
The kindly-faced maid answered the ring. "Oh, come in, children," she cried. "Mrs. Bartlett certainly needs cheering today."
The children, thus cordially invited, trooped in. "Is Drusilla sad today?" asked Suzanna.
"Well, she's thinking of the past," said the maid. "All day she's been talking of her early home across the ocean, talking of the familiar places of her childhood. She insisted even upon my preparing brouse for her luncheon."
"Brouse?" The children were interested. They wanted to know what brouse was. The maid smiled.
"Why brouse is just bread broken up into a bowl with hot water poured over it and lots of butter and salt and pepper added. One day whenMrs. Bartlett was a little girl, her mother took her to the home of an old nurse, and there she had brouse to eat, and afterwards for one joyful hour she was allowed to wear the clogs belonging to the nurse's little granddaughter."
"I know what clogs are," said Graham. "They're wooden shoes that make a lot of noise and have brass nails in them." He had looked into the sitting room and was interested in an object there. "What's that?" he asked. "Can't my grandmother walk?"
The maid's eyes followed his finger. "That's a wheel chair," she said. "Your grandmother is not so strong as she was in the summer, so I take her out in the chair when the day is bright. Well, children, go upstairs quietly. Suzanna knows the way to Mrs. Bartlett's room."
So the children on tiptoes mounted the thickly carpeted stairs. At the top Suzanna waited for the others, then went down the hall, paused and knocked softly on the panel to the right, and at the soft invitation to enter, pushed open wide the door.
Drusilla sat within, her chair drawn close to the window. Her hands were lying listlessly in her lap. She looked wilted, a flower fading to its end. She turned to the children and smiled,a very small wistful smile, but it lit her pale delicate face and made Daphne advance confidentially to the middle of the room.
"We came to see you," she said in her winsome way.
"I'm very glad," said Drusilla. "Won't you all come close to me?"
The children obeyed. Drusilla looked inquiringly at Graham, and then said, "Well, my boy, you've grown somewhat."
"Yes, two inches in six months." He wanted to say something to lift the sadness from her face, and at last he blurted out: "I think you're a bully grandmother, and I'm coming often to see you."
"Ah, then I'll tell you fine tales of your father when he was a lad of your age," she answered, well pleased. She put out her white hand and laid it on his head.
And at the touch there grew in Graham's young soul a wish to defend this dear old lady, this grandmother. He wanted to fight for her, to do something great for her. He had visions of himself, a man, wearing her colors. All his deepest chivalry was aroused. He looked longingly into her face, and with loving sagacity she read his desire.
"My dear," she said, "I wish you would do something for me."
"Oh, grandmother, what would you like me to do?" he cried.
"The day is so beautiful," she answered. "I've had my windows open and I know. Would you be my knight and wheel me out?"
"Grandmother, will you let me do that?" His voice rose. "I'll wheel you down the wide road out into the country." He straightened his shoulders, pride filled his heart. His grandmother trusted her frail body to his care!
"Well and good, my boy," she answered. And then to Suzanna: "Will you tell Letty to get my cape and bonnet. My grandson would take me riding."
Letty, answering Suzanna's call, came at once. She found a very cheerful mistress and an excited little group of children. She hesitated a moment when Graham told her he meant to take his grandmother out for a ride. But noting the earnestness of the boy's manner she made no spoken objections, but she went to the clothes press and took down Drusilla's "dolman" and small close fitting bonnet.
"Be very careful of your grandmother," said the maid, as she dressed Mrs. Bartlett andthen offered her arm to steady the slight figure down the stairs.
"I shall be very careful," promised Graham. Never once in his young life had any real service been asked of him. He was experiencing for the first time a sense of responsibility and he grew beneath it.
Downstairs Letty guided the rubber-tired wheel chair out into the hall, down the front steps. She returned for Drusilla and seating her in the chair, tucked a soft velvet rug about her.
Graham took his place at the long handled bar. Gently he pushed the chair and the small cavalcade was on its way.
At first each child was quiet. Graham, ever mindful of the charge which was his, was very serious and his thoughts turned to his mother.
He wished she had taken this grandmother right into her own home to be watched over, loved and cared for tenderly. He wondered if his father, his ever busy father, would have liked that. Oh, why was it considered better for a grandmother, one who had fancies, to live alone in a small house, with every comfort it is true, but with no one of her very own close beside her!
He looked over at Suzanna. She was walking close to Drusilla, and talking earnestly as was herway. Suzanna never went out into the world but some object started a train of thought of keen interest. He could hear snatches of her talk. It was about the trees, stripped bare now, and their mood sad probably because of their denudement. Suzanna gazed with concern at their stark limbs stretching out, no longer able to shelter people or to sing softly when the wind blew through their leaves.
Drusilla contributed her share, too. She thought the trees knew that people did not need shelter from the hot sun when the snow was about to fly. And the snow could lie in such beautiful, straight lines on long, unleaved limbs.
And so they passed on from subject to subject, while Graham listened. And then little Daphne grew tired and began to lag. Graham seeing the child and about to make some suggestion for her comfort, was distracted by Peter's call. The boy had found a rabbit hole and wished he had Jerry with him to reach the rabbit, for which cruel wish both Suzanna and Maizie scolded him roundly. And he gazed at them with the same old perplexed gaze. Were these not the same sisters who looked complacently on while a homeless, helpless dog was turned out casually into an inhuman world?
Well, again he gave up the puzzle of their contrary attitudes. Perhaps understanding would come in the big-grown-up years.
But when they returned from examining the rabbit hole, they found little Daphne had curled herself up at Drusilla's feet. Drusilla had moved a little and the child hopping up on the foot-rest had put her small arms on Drusilla's knee, dropped her head and gone to sleep. Suzanna carefully covered her with part of the velvet rug.
So they started away again and came at last to a little lonely church set back from the road. It was a quaint little edifice, made of irregular purplish stone. The moss had crept up on one side softly, protectingly. You thought at once it had been built by loving hands and that loving souls had worshiped in it. And you knew that under its assumed and momentary air of expectancy it was sad in having outlived its usefulness. Its door was swung open hospitably and the children stopped to look in. Graham wheeled his grandmother close to the door so she too could gaze within.
There were pews, empty, with worn cushions. A large stained glass window with one Figure, noble despite the artist's limitations, had caught lights and sent them down in long sapphire andamethyst fingers. A man moved about the altar, changing from place to place a vase of white roses.
"Is that the minister?" whispered Maizie.
Suzanna nodded. "Yes. He's going to offer up prayer, I think."
The minister turned and smiled at the children. He seemed some way to fit into the soft atmosphere of the place, seeming to belong there. Suzanna could not fancy him moving in any merely practical environment.
And while the children lingered, and Drusilla looked in through the open church door, a man and a woman came down the road. The woman walked slowly and the man had his arm about her in a guarding kind of way.
When they neared the church they stopped. Suzanna, turning, recognized them and with a joyful cry she ran to meet them.
"Oh, Miss Massey," she cried, "and Robert. Are you out for a walk, too?"
The man looked down at her. "Yes, little girl. We are going into that old church. Did you see the minister?"
"Yes, he's inside," said Suzanna. She looked at Miss Massey. "You've been crying," she said.
Miss Massey tried to speak calmly, but therewas a little quiver in her voice. "Because it's all so different from what I dreamed."
"Come, dear," said Robert then, "come with me."
She seemed to take courage from his manliness and the truth of his love shining forth from his eyes, and so she put her hand into his and walked up the path with him.
At the door of the church they paused again. Suzanna who had followed quickly, said, "This is Drusilla, my very best friend."
Miss Massey looked into the sweet old face. Perhaps she thought of her own mother, for the tears came quickly again. "I'm glad to know you," she said simply. And then asked, "Won't you come in and see me married?"
And Drusilla answered: "Indeed, I should like to very much, my dear."
So Robert helped her gently from the wheel chair. He lifted small Daphne upon the vacated seat and tucked her in carefully. And then they all entered the church.
The minister came down from the altar. He had lit two candles and they sent their wavering light out upon the small audience. The Man above the altar looked down with infinite tenderness upon the pale little bride.
The minister spoke: "Robert, take your bride upon your arm!"
Thus adjured, Robert proffered his arm and Miss Massey put her small hand upon it. Then slowly they walked behind the minister to the altar. Suzanna, Maizie, and Peter followed.
Graham offered his support to his grandmother. He had pledged his fealty to her and he felt grateful that she leaned upon him as slowly she mounted the four steps which led to the altar.
There they grouped themselves about the bridal pair. Graham stood close to his grandmother, Suzanna near to Miss Massey, Peter and Maizie at Robert's right hand.
The minister began: "Dearly beloved, we are gathered here together—" and on through the beautiful old ceremony.
He came at length to this question: "Who giveth this woman to this man?" and paused simply in custom. And old John Massey was far distant, nursing his anger and yet sad, too, because he would not in his temper attend the marriage of his daughter, though most lovingly and pleadingly had that daughter begged his presence. And the girl's mother was lying out on a hillside—where she had lain for many a long year.
And the waiting bride had tears in her heart,till, suddenly, Drusilla, with a beautiful light in her eyes, stepped forward. She put her white-veined old hand softly on the bride's arm, and she said in a low clear voice:
"I do—I give this woman to this man."
And the mother spirit in her spoke so richly that the bride all at once felt happy and a little awed, too, as though her own mother had for the moment raised herself and spoken.
And the minister went on with the ceremony till came the end: "And I pronounce that they are Man and Wife."
And Robert folded his wife in his arms and kissed her while each face, young and old, pictured the deep solemnity of the moment.
Robert's wife at last turned to Drusilla. She put her arms about the bravely upstanding figure in its old-fashioned dolman. "Oh, thank you, thank you," she murmured. "I shall never forget what you've done for me today."
The color flowed like a wave up over Drusilla's face. With a quick little breath, she leaned forward and kissed the new wife. She experienced a sudden glow. It was as though Life for the moment, forgetful that she was old and laid aside, had called her forward to fill a need no other was near to fill.
They all left the church after Robert had signed his name in a big book, and his wife had written hers with a proud little flourish. Robert helped Drusilla into the wheel chair, after lifting Daphne from her place on the upholstered cushion. This time the little girl awoke. She was about to cry when Robert raised her in his arms and carried her down the road, hushing her against him, while Graham again ordered himself his grandmother's squire.
And so they went down the road together, all somewhat quiet, even Peter's exuberant spirits moderated, till they reached Drusilla's home. The maid, Letty, awaiting her mistress' return, ran down the steps, an anxious frown between her eyes.
"Come," said Drusilla. "You must all be my guests." She whispered some words in Letty's ear. The girl smiled and half shyly glanced at Robert and his bride.
Robert still carrying little Daphne, who had refused to be put down, said at once: "We should like that very much. I was so hoping you would ask us."
So they entered the little house. They went into the parlor with its portrait above the mantel and the lilies of the valley beneath it. Grahamremembered with a little warm feeling that his father had once left the order at a city florist's for a daily spray of those lovely bells.
Letty, carrying the dolman and small bonnet, disappeared but in a miraculously short time returned to announce that tea was ready in the dining-room.
Drusilla flushed and happy led the way. Robert and his wife followed, and the children came last. The hostess, from her place at the head of the table, designated each one's chair, and when all were seated she bowed her head and offered up a little prayer.
And then Letty brought in hot muffins and marmalade, sweet butter and fragrant tea. And amidst much laughter and merry words the feast began:
And at the end Drusilla rose, and asking silence, said:
"Robert, today in the name of the bride's mother, I gave her into your keeping. I can see a promise in your eyes that she will never, never regret going to you. Love her always."
And Robert, standing, in a deep voice answered: "Drusilla," borrowing quite unconsciously Suzanna's way of name, "Drusilla, I have taken upon myself this day the great responsibilityof a woman's happiness—" he paused and bent a look of ineffable tenderness upon his wife—"and please God I shall keep that responsibility while life lasts."
And they all pushed back their chairs, the children with a little scraping noise. And Robert looking at his watch thought it was time to leave, since the train would not wait for laggards.
Then all in a moment it seemed he was going down the path again, his wife upon his arm. And Graham, who had disappeared kitchenward, returned and flung a handful of rice after them. At which the bride turned and laughed and waved her hand.
"It was a real wedding, wasn't it, Drusilla?" said Suzanna, "even to the rice."
"A real wedding, my little girl," said Drusilla.
Graham spoke: "Grandmother, aren't you glad I wheeled you out today?"
She answered at once. "So very glad, Graham. And I feel happier tonight than for many a long day."
"And may I do so again soon?" he asked. "And next summer I'll take you out every day."
A little smile touched her lips. "Next summer—next summer—? Ah, laddie, come often this winter, if you can."
And then the children started away. And at the last moment Drusilla drew Suzanna to her. "Little girl," she said lovingly, "I'm so glad you came once to visit me—that summer day."
"Oh, so am I, Drusilla," Suzanna cried. She looked wistfully into her friend's face. "Some day I want to do something wonderful for you."
Drusilla, bending low, kissed the upturned face with its big seeking eyes. But she did not speak. For why make definite by clumsy words the miracles a little child brings to pass. No, thought Drusilla in her wisdom, Suzanna should go her way beautifully unconscious of her good works.
A few Saturdays after the marriage in the little wayside church, Richard Procter reached home in a state of great excitement.
The family was in the dining-room. Mrs. Procter was polishing the drinking glasses. Though it was long past noon, Suzanna had just commenced to clear away the luncheon dishes. Maizie was shaking napkins, while Peter was in a corner pretending to play ball with the baby, very much to the baby's amusement.
Mr. Procter told his news triumphantly.
"At last," he cried. "Jane, John Massey is absolutely coming to see the machine this afternoon."
The color flashed up into Mrs. Procter's face.
"Oh, Richard," she cried; "perhaps—" but she did not finish her conjecture.
"He won't take The Machine away, will he, father?" Suzanna asked anxiously.
"No, not that particular one, little girl. There'll have to be others built. That is just the model."
At two o'clock Mr. Procter was in the attic working at the machine. At three, so interested had he grown, that he had really forgotten the expected visit of old John Massey. So it was a real surprise when Mrs. Procter ushered him in.
"Well, I'm here at last," said Mr. Massey. He looked over to where the cabinet stood. "Your machine is rather mysterious looking."
"Does it seem so? Here, lay your hat and coat on this table, Mr. Massey. Now I'll explain the purpose of the machine."
"Yes, that's what I'm most interested in, what it's for; what you expect to do with it."
Richard Procter turned an eager face to the capitalist.
"I'll start at the beginning," he said. "Have you ever stopped to think what would mean the greatest happiness to humanity?"
Mr. Massey coughed and moved uneasily. "Can't say I have. Food and drink sufficient for all, so I've heard your orator across the street announce."
Mr. Procter smiled. "That, yes, might bring content, but I'm speaking of spiritual happiness. Well, this is my idea of what would bring about a revolution in the sum total of world content.Each man at the work he was born to do.
"And having once reached that conclusion, I set about formulating plans for the building of my machine. An instrument so delicate that it could register a man's leading talent."
Mr. Massey moved away a little. He stared doubtfully at the inventor before the clearing thought came. Before him stood a madman, a wild visionary.
He looked over at his hat and coat. To stay was a mere waste of time, he realized that now. Still, there was Suzanna who had made a place for herself in his gruff old heart. The machine, he knew, could have no commercial value. Yet he remembered a few of Suzanna's values which were not based on the possession of money.
Well, for Suzanna's sake he would listen, go away and forget. So he seated himself, and waited condescendingly for the inventor to continue. He himself said nothing, for silence, he had learned, was golden.
Mr. Procter went on. "My first step in the work was to evolve what might be termed a system of color interpretation."
"I don't understand at all," said old John Massey sharply.
The inventor hesitated. Visionary, he might truly be called, but, too, he was sensitive and hehad felt the capitalist's withdrawal as soon as the purpose of the machine was explained to him. But the end was a big one. He must not hesitate, so he went on.
"May I put it broadly without arousing your derision, that color sight was bestowed upon me. Just as my little girl Suzanna visualizes each day as a shape, so I've always seen people in color; that out of that sight I built my own science of color."
"Romanceof color, you mean," returned John Massey harshly, "for so far as I can gain, there is no science about it. I deal in facts, Mr. Procter, not in air castles. Does the machine do anything, but stand there a silent monument to your dreams?"
Mr. Procter hesitated but a moment, then, "Come, Mr. Massey," he said, "take your place. Let us see what the machine says of you. Remember, please, it will register only your truest meaning, the purpose for which you were born; the part of you which never dies, which is never really submerged, regardless of a turning to false gods."
A little uneasy despite himself, Mr. Massey seated himself before the machine.
The inventor touched levers, opened and shut doors, lowered the helmet, adjusted the lens.
As the clicking sound commenced Mr. Massey stirred. "Keep very quiet," said the inventor, "and watch the glass plate."
Mr. Massey obeyed. Now a satiric smile touched his lips. He was almost enjoying this child's play.
But soon the smile faded, for in a moment there grew upon the glass plate standing between the two tubes a pillar of color, vivid yellow, tipped with primrose.
"What—what does that mean?" asked old John Massey.
The inventor lifted the helmet, and shut off his power before speaking. "According to my belief, my understanding of color significance, the reason for your being in this world, with, of course, interesting variations brought about by environment and education, is identical with that of Reynolds."
Mr. Massey started forward angrily, but he thought better of whatever he had in his heart to say. "Go on," he commanded gruffly.
"As a young man you had dreams of being a practical humanitarian," said Mr. Procter softly, "and undoubtedly with your opportunity you might have been a valuable figure in the world. You were endowed with vision. You saw the wrongs man labors under; as a youth you smartedbecause of those wrongs. And you saw the super-being man might become given equal chances."
"Like Reynolds—" repeated Mr. Massey after a time, on impulse—one immediately regretted.
"Like Reynolds, our great rough, fine-hearted Reynolds," said Mr. Procter, "the one whom you've had threatened with arrest because he harangued too freely on the street corner." He paused to finish impressively: "I see now that the man who throws away his spiritual birthright for a mess of pottage hates the one who keeps his in the face of all—poverty—misunderstanding—ridicule."
A silence dark as a cavern ensued. Mr. Massey at last got to his feet. He stood a long moment looking at the machine, then he glanced at the inventor, but when someone knocked softly at the door he started, revealing how far away from his immediate surroundings his thoughts had flown.
Suzanna entered. "Here's David, daddy," she said. "He wants to talk with you."
David entered. "I had some time," he said, "and I wanted to see the machine again."
"Glad to see you," said the inventor heartily. "Mr. Massey, this is my friend, David Ridgewood, Graham Woods Bartlett's gardener."
"How do you do, Mr. Massey," said David. "I've seen you before, of course. Heard of you often."
John Massey did not answer at once, since he was somewhat at a loss. He had not been in the habit of meeting socially his friends' gardeners. At last he blurted forth.
"How d' do. I've had a look at Procter's invention."
"Ah, yes, I supposed so," said David. Then: "Isn't the thought back of that machine wonderful?" Which ridiculous question quickened again all the Eagle Man's combativeness. He spoke with a fine candor.
"The thought may be wonderful, young man. I'll not pass on that. But plainly I can't see where the commercial value of the machine comes in."
David and Suzanna fell back from the cloud which gathered on the inventor's face.
"The commercial value!" he cried. "Have I spent my life working merely that the capitalist may make more money? I tell you, sir, that I have worked only for the betterment of the race. And to you, John Massey, I am giving the great opportunity."
"Well, out with it. Where's the great opportunity?" asked Mr. Massey testily. "To mymind you haven't an article with a wide enough appeal."
"Wide enough appeal!" cried the inventor. "My dear sir, it has an appeal world-wide, and you are to make it of such appeal." He paused to continue impressively: "John Massey, I offer you the opportunity of endowing an institution which shall be built to use my machine. To that institution young men of impecunious parents may come to discover their leading talent."
"If there is a leading talent, will it take your machine to discover it?" asked John Massey.
"In most cases, yes. How many young men fail to discover until too late what life work they are best fitted for, unless they possess a talent so strong that it amounts to genius. How many of necessity are sent out into the world at an unformed age to slavery in order that they and their dependents may live. What chance or time have they, grinding away at any work which brings a dollar, to know for what work they are most suited. They know only when it is too late that they are bound by chains, crucifying themselves daily at tasks they hate, and for which they have no natural adaptation."
He paused, only to continue with fire: "Or, if they have ambitions, know what they would bestlike to do, how helpless they are. No money, no opportunity."
"I'll warrant, Mr. Massey," put in David, "that there are many men employed in your steel mills who by natural inclination are totally unfitted for their jobs. Now, wouldn't scientific investigation in their early manhood have helped to find for them the right place and so added to their happiness?"
"Well, I'm not interested in that part of the question; their happiness has nothing to do with me," returned John Massey. "I pay 'em their wages and that's enough. And I don't believe that every man is born with a special talent. They all look alike to me mostly."
"Every man is born with the capacity to do something in a way impossible to another," said the inventor with conviction. "There are no two persons alike in the world."