The great author had realized one of the dreams of his ambitious
possession of an ancestral hall in England. It was not so much
American's reverence for ancestors that inspired the longing to
consort with the
ghosts of an ancient line, as artistic appreciation of the mellowness,
dignity, the aristocratic aloofness of walls that have sheltered,
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,
the taste might be. The dumping of the old interiors of Europe
glistening shells of the United States not only roused him almost
protest, but offended his patriotism--which he classified among
ideals. The average American was not an artist, therefore he had
no excuse for
even the affectation of cosmopolitanism. Heaven knew he was national
everything else, from his accent to his lack of repose; let his
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
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
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.
aristocracies of the earth gave to it; and not to understand and
Orth was deliberately to relegate one's self to the ranks. But
the elect are
few, and they frequently subscribe to the circulating libraries;
Continent, they buy the Tauchnitz edition; and had not Mr. Orth
sufficiency of ancestral dollars to enable him to keep rooms in
and the wardrobe of an Englishman of leisure, he might have been
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
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
but he could handle a gun, and all men respected his dignity and
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,
men-of-the-world. A group of young literary men--and one or two
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
his formalities, he sooner or later wrote "appreciations"
of them all, which
nobody living could understand, but which owing to the subtitle
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
visited the best houses in England, slept in state chambers, and
historic parks; but the country was his one passion, and he longed
for his own
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,
with sadness; but he was very grateful for the money, and as soon
fastidious taste would permit he bought him a country-seat.
The place gratified all his ideals and dreams--for he had romanced
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
ancient wood was sharp against the low pale sky. Even the house
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
for a long while he felt like a bridegroom on a succession of
often laid his hand against the rough ivied walls in a lingering
After a time, he returned the hospitalities of his friends, and
given with the exclusiveness of his great distinction, were never
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
verbal triumphs, and forthwith bought an entire set of his books.
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
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
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,
little lad in the green costume of Robin Hood. The boy's expression
imperious and radiant, and he had that perfect beauty which in
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
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
had been brother and sister. She was angelically fair, and, young
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.
mouth was like a little scarlet serpent, her skin almost transparent,
hair fell waving-- not curled with the orthodoxy of childhood--about
bare shoulders. She wore a long white frock, and clasped tightly
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
He forgot even the boy in the intensity of this new and personal
"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,
spirit within that ethereal frame stand the enlightenments of
not that mind--purged, perhaps, in a long probation from the dross
existences--flee in disgust from the commonplace problems of a
Such perfect beings should die while they are still perfect. Still,
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
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
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
his eyes into depths where the fragmentary ghosts of unrecorded
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.
that his children were the Viscount Tancred and the Lady Blanche
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
"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
Lord Teignmouth, who was intensely grateful to him, answered
"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
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
evoked from the throngs of history the high-handed and brilliant,
adventurous career of the third Earl of Teignmouth. He had pondered
deep delights of directing such a mind and character, and had
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.
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
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,
saw the page through a mist. Although his characters had always
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
full-blooded genius. But he had been content to have it so. His
find and leave him cold, but he had known his highest satisfaction
the statuettes, extracting subtle and elevating harmonies, while
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
danced out alive. The old mansion echoed with their laughter,
delightful and original pranks. Mr. Orth knew nothing of children,
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
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
disorders, which were beyond even his imagination,--but through
intervals incident upon the enterprising spirit of the boy and
obedience of the girl to fraternal command. He ignored the second
Teignmouth; he was himself their father, and he admired himself
for the first time; art had chastened him long since. Oddly enough,
had no mother, not even the memory of one.
He wrote the book more slowly than was his wont, and spent delightful
pondering upon the chapter of the morrow. He looked forward to
with a sort of terror, and made up his mind that when the inevitable
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
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
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
illness, and when he clasped her hands, his own shook, his knees
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
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
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
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
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
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.
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.
gratified to come thus publicly into his estate, but soon reminded
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
to gaze upon, a red streak with a church spire against it. His
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
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
full the country's gift of foot-restlessness and mental calm.
however, when the ego is rampant, and to-day, as upon others too
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
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
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
difference, even his rolling vision took note, lay in the warm
whiteness and the deeper spiritual suggestion of the child in
Fortunately for his self-respect, the surrender lasted but a moment.
"You look real sick," she said. "Shall I lead
The voice was soft and sweet, but the intonation, the vernacular,
and not of the highest class. The shock was, if possible, more
the other, but this time Orth rose to the occasion.
"Who are you?" he demanded, with asperity. "What
is your name? Where do you
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
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
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
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
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
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
ceiling was supported by the trunk of a tree, black, and probably
windows had still their diamond panes, separated, no doubt, by
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
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
"Of course you've fallen in love with Blanche, sir, "
said one of them.
"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
Chillingsworth--painted about two hundred years ago. Such extraordinary
likenesses do not occur without reason, as a rule, and, as I admired
so deeply that I have written a story about it, you will not think
if I am more than curious to discover the reason for this resemblance.
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
"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
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
went to wreck and ruin because of some fine lady's doings, and
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
"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,
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
Blanche--who had come after her other children were well grown--in
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
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,
suddenly to Mrs. Root. "Why did you call her Blanche?"
"She was so white and dainty, she just looked it."
Orth took the next train for London, and from Lord Teignmouth
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
children had not inspired. He bought the finest doll, piano, French
cooking apparatus, and playhouse in the shop, and signed a check
pounds with a sensation of positive rapture. Then he took the
Lancashire, where the Lady Mildred Mortlake lived in another ancestral
Possibly there are few imaginative writers who have not a leaning,
avowed, to the occult. The creative gift is in very close relationship
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
should send their vibrations to it occasionally; or, at all events,
imagination should incline its ear to the most mysterious and
picturesque of all
beliefs. Orth frankly dallied with the old dogma. He formulated
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
The Lady Mildred received with sweetness and warmth the generous
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
"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
"The closest," interrupted Lady Mildred. "She
Orth stared at her. Again he had a confused sense of disintegration.
Mildred, gratified by the success of her bolt, proceeded less
"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
probably become a monomaniac if I didn't. Blanche Mortlake--that
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,
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
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
"She was alone one summer at Chillingsworth--where she had
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
and since. Some women can be stormed by a fine man in any circumstances;
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
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
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
have gathered immediate inspiration from this wildest region of
fair and peaceful counties of the south had nothing to compare
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
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
Authors are far closer to the truths enfolded in mystery than
because of that very audacity of imagination which irritates their
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,
his serene unlined face with soft kisses. This completed the conquest.
that moment adored her as a child, irrespective of the psychological
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
that the old hall of Chillingsworth had ever embraced. She had
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.
her plainly that he should make the child independent, and educate
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,
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
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,
itself aloof from disturbance. But one day the sun streamed through
windows, and, obeying a sudden impulse, he led Blanche to the
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
appreciatively at his remarks, that were wise in criticism and
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
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
"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,
fixed his eyes upon her, and waited. In a moment she stirred uneasily,
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
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
"Did you know that there was another picture behind?"
"No," replied Orth, turning cold. "How did you
"One day I touched a spring in the frame, and this picture
came forward. Shall I
"Yes!" And crossing curiosity and the involuntary shrinking
phenomena was a sensation of aesthetic disgust that he should
be treated to a
The little girl touched hers, and that other Blanche sprang aside
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
him, and set his features, although his breath was short.
There was the Lady Blanche Mortlake in the splendor of her young
beyond a doubt. Gone were all traces of her spiritual childhood,
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,
hands were tense with eager life, her whole being breathed mutiny.
Orth turned abruptly to Blanche, who had transferred her attention
"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.
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
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
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
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
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
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
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,
and absorbed. The next afternoon, however, entering the hall noiselessly,
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
once, but confessed to feeling tired. Soon after this he noticed
lingered longer in the comfortable depths of her chair, and seldom
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
childhood, he summoned from London a doctor renowned for his success
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.
out-of-doors, don't give her sweets, and don't let her catch anything
if you can
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
his indifference. There was no further change in her, and apprehension
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
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
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,
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
stay--boys are an awful responsibility--girls ain't a circumstance
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
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
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
mean, stand in her light--but, sir, she is dearer than all the
"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
"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
unmarried and out in the world, and three boys just a little inclined
wild. There is another point, sir--I don't exactly know how to
"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
"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
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
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
out and talk dreadful; then, when they're over it, they say they'll
Blanche--they've said it over and over, and they mean it. Every
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
Sunday-school child about her, or even tries to smooth them down
excited. It's just herself. The only thing she ever does is sometimes
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
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
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
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
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
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
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
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
"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
"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
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?"
"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.
will be marrying soon. That will also mean that your mother will
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
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
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
he was almost glad that she went when she did.