Flower of the Dusk

by Myrtle Reed

  III

  The Tower of Cologne

  Roger sat in Ambrose North's easy chair, watching Barbara while shesewed. "I am sorry," he said, "that I wasn't at home when your fathercame over after the book. Mother was unable to find it. I'm afraid I'mnot very orderly."

  "It doesn't matter," returned Barbara, threading her needle again. "Isteal too much time from my work as it is."

  Roger sighed and turned restlessly in his chair. "I wish I could comeover every day and read to you, but you know how it is. Days, I'm in theoffice with the musty old law books, and in the evenings, your fatherwants you and my mother wants me."

  "I know, but father usually goes to bed by nine, and I'm sure yourmother doesn't sit up much later, for I usually see her light by thattime. I always work until eleven or half past, so why shouldn't you comeover then?"

  [Sidenote: A Happy Thought]

  "Happy thought!" exclaimed Roger. "Still, you might not always want me.How shall I know?"

  "I'll put a candle in the front window," suggested Barbara, "and if youcan come, all right. If not, I'll understand."

  Both laughed delightedly at the idea, for they were young enough to finda certain pleasure in clandestine ways and means. Miss Mattie had so fardeterminedly set her face against her son's association with the youngof the other sex, and even Barbara, who had been born lame and had neverwalked farther than her own garden, came under the ban.

  Ambrose North, with the keen and unconscious selfishness of age,begrudged others even an hour of Barbara's society. He felt a thirdperson always as an intruder, though he tried his best to appearhospitable when anyone came. Miriam might sometimes have read toBarbara, while he was out upon his long, lonely walks, but it had neveroccurred to either of them.

  [Sidenote: World-wide Fellowship]

  Through Laurence Austin's library, as transported back and forth byRoger, one volume at a time, Barbara had come into the world-widefellowship of those who love books. She was closely housed andconstantly at work, but her mind soared free. When the poverty andugliness of her surroundings oppressed her beauty-loving soul; when herfingers ached and the stitches blurred into mist before her eyes, somelittle brown book, much worn, had often given her the key to the Houseof Content.

  "Shall you always have to sew?" asked Roger. "Is there no way out?"

  [Sidenote: Glad of Work]

  "Not unless some fairy prince comes prancing up on a white charger,"laughed Barbara, "and takes us all away with him to his palace. Don'tpity me," she went on, her lips quivering a little, "for every day I'mglad I can do it and keep father from knowing we are poor.

  "Besides, I'm of use in the world, and I wouldn't want to live if Icouldn't work. Aunt Miriam works, too. She does all the housework, takescare of me when I can't help myself, does the mending, many things forfather, and makes the quilts, preserves, candied orange peel, and theother little things we sell. People are so kind to us. Last Summer thewomen at the hotel bought everything we had and left orders enough tokeep me busy until long after Christmas."

  "Don't call people kind because they buy what they want."

  "Don't be so cynical. You wouldn't have them buy things they didn'twant, would you?"

  "Sometimes they do."

  "Where?"

  "Well, at church fairs, for instance. They spend more than they canafford for things they do not want, in order to please people whom theydo not like and help heathen who are much happier than they are."

  "I'm glad I'm not running a church fair," laughed Barbara. "And who toldyou that heathen are happier than we are? Are you a heathen?"

  "I don't know. Most of us are, I suppose, in one way or another. But hownice it would be if we could paint ourselves instead of wearing clothes,and go under a tree when it rained, and pick cocoanuts or bananas whenwe were hungry. It would save so much trouble and expense."

  "Paint is sticky," observed Barbara, "and the rain would come around thetree when the wind was blowing from all ways at once, as it doessometimes, and I do not like either cocoanuts or bananas. I'd rathersew. What went wrong to-day?" she asked, with a whimsical smile."Everything?"

  "Almost," admitted Roger. "How did you know?"

  [Sidenote: Unfailing Barometer]

  "Because you want to be a heathen instead of the foremost lawyer of yourtime. Your ambition is an unfailing barometer."

  He laughed lightly. This sort of banter was very pleasing to him after aday with the law books and an hour or more with his mother. He had knownBarbara since they were children and their comradeship dated back tothe mud-pie days.

  "I don't know but what you're right," he said. "Whether I go to Congressor the Fiji Islands may depend, eventually, upon Judge Bascom's liver."

  "Don't let it depend upon him," cautioned Barbara. "Make your owndestiny. It was Napoleon, wasn't it, who prided himself upon making hisown circumstances? What would you do--or be--if you could have yourchoice?"

  [Sidenote: Aspirations]

  "The best lawyer in the State," he answered, promptly. "I'd never opposethe innocent nor defend the guilty. And I'd have money enough to becomfortable and to make those I love comfortable."

  "Would you marry?" she asked, thoughtfully.

  "Why--I suppose so. It would seem queer, though."

  "Roger," she said, abruptly, "you were born a year and more before Iwas, and yet you're fully ten or fifteen years younger."

  "Don't take me back too far, Barbara, for I hate milk. Please don'tdeprive me of my solid food. What would you do, if you could choose?"

  "I'd write a book."

  "What kind? Dictionary?"

  "No, just a little book. The sort that people who love each other wouldchoose for a gift. Something that would be given to one who was goingon a long or difficult journey. The one book a woman would take with herwhen she was tired and went away to rest. A book with laughter and tearsin it and so much fine courage that it would be given to those who arein deep trouble. I'd soften the hard hearts, rest the weary ones, andgive the despairing ones new strength to go on. Just a little book, butso brave and true and sweet and tender that it would bring the sun toevery shady place."

  "Would you marry?"

  [Sidenote: The Right Man]

  "Of course, if the right man came. Otherwise not."

  "I wonder," mused Roger, "how a person could know the right one?"

  "Foolish child," she answered, "that's it--the knowing. When you don'tknow, it isn't it."

  "My dear Miss North," remarked Roger, "the heads of your argument aresomewhat involved, but I think I grasp your meaning. When you know itis, then it is, but when you don't know that it is, then it isn't. Isthat right?"

  "Exactly. Wonderfully intelligent for one so young."

  Barbara's blue eyes danced merrily and her red lips parted in a mockingsmile. A long heavy braid of hair, "the colour of ripe corn," hung overeither shoulder and into her lap. She was almost twenty-two, but shestill clung to the childish fashion of dressing her hair, because theheavy braids and the hairpins made her head ache. All her gowns werewhite, either of wool or cotton, and were made to be washed. On Sundays,she sometimes wore blue ribbons on her braids.

  [Sidenote: Simply Barbara]

  To Roger, she was very fair. He never thought of her crutches becauseshe had always been lame. She was simply Barbara, and Barbara neededcrutches. It had never occurred to him that she might in any way bedifferent, for he was not one of those restless souls who are forevermaking people over to fit their own patterns.

  "Why doesn't your father like to have me come here?" asked Roger,irrelevantly.

  "Why doesn't your mother like to have you come?" queried Barbara,quickly on the defensive.

  "No, but tell me. Please!"

  "Father always goes to bed early."

  "But not at eight o'clock. It was a quarter of eight when I came, and byeight he was gone."

  "It isn't you, Roger," she said, unwillingly; "it's anyone. I'm all hehas, and if I talk much to other people he feels as if I
were beingtaken away from him--that's all. It's natural, I suppose. You mustn'tmind him."

  "But I wouldn't hurt him," returned Roger, softly; "you know that."

  "I know."

  "I wish you could make him understand that I come to see every one ofyou."

  [Sidenote: Hard Work]

  "It's the hardest work in the world," sighed Barbara, "to make peopleunderstand things."

  "Somebody said once that all the wars had been caused by one set ofpeople trying to force their opinions upon another set, who did notdesire to have their minds changed."

  "Very true. I wonder, sometimes, if we have done right with father."

  "I'm sure you have," said Roger, gently. "You couldn't do anything wrongif you tried."

  "We haven't meant to," she answered, her sweet face growing grave. "Ofcourse it was all begun long before I was old enough to understand. Hethinks the city house, which we lost so long ago that I cannot evenremember our having it, was sold for so high a price that it would havebeen foolish not to sell it, and that we live here because we prefer thecountry. Just think, Roger, before I was born, this was father's andmother's Summer home, and now it's all we have."

  "It's a roof and four walls--that's all any house is, without the spiritthat makes it home."

  "He thinks it's beautifully furnished. Of course we have the oldmahogany and some of the pictures, but we've had to sell nearlyeverything. I've used some of mother's real laces in the sewing and soldpractically all the rest. Whatever anyone would buy has been disposedof. Even the broken furniture in the attic has gone to people who had afancy for 'antiques.'"

  "You have made him very happy, Barbara."

  "I know, but is it right?"

  "I'm not orthodox, my dear girl, but, speaking as a lawyer, if it harmsno one and makes a blind old man happy, it can't be wrong."

  "I hope you're right, but sometimes my conscience bothers me."

  [Sidenote: A Saint's Conscience]

  "Imagine a saint's conscience being troublesome."

  "Don't laugh at me--you know I'm not a saint."

  "How should I know?"

  "Ask Aunt Miriam. She has no illusions about me."

  "Thanks, but I don't know her well enough. We haven't been on good termssince she drove me out of the melon patch--do you remember?"

  "Yes, I remember. We wanted the blossoms, didn't we, to make goldenbells in the Tower of Cologne?"

  "I believe so. We never got the Tower finished, did we?"

  "No. I wasn't allowed to play with you for a long time, because you weresuch a bad boy."

  "Next Summer, I think we should rebuild it. Let's renew our youthsometime by making the Tower of Cologne in your back yard."

  "There are no golden bells."

  "I'll get some from somewhere. We owe it to ourselves to do it."

  Barbara's blue eyes were sparkling now, and her sweet lips smiled. "Whenit's done?" she asked.

  [Sidenote: Like Fairy Tales]

  "We'll move into it and be happy ever afterward, like the people in thefairy tales."

  "I said a little while ago that you were fifteen years younger than I am,but, upon my word, I believe it's nearer twenty."

  "That makes me an enticing infant of three or four, flourishing like thegreen bay tree on a diet of bread and milk with an occasionalsoft-boiled egg. I should have been in bed by six o'clock, and nowit's--gracious, Barbara, it's after eleven. What do you mean by keepingthe young up so late?"

  As he spoke, he hurriedly found his hat, and, reaching into the pocketof his overcoat, drew out a book. "That's the one you wanted, isn't it?"

  "Yes, thank you."

  "I didn't give it to you before because I wanted to talk, but we'llread, sometimes, when we can. Don't forget to put the light in thewindow when it's all right for me to come. If I don't, you'llunderstand. And please don't work so hard."

  Barbara smiled. "I have to earn a living for three healthy people," shesaid, "and everybody is trying, by moral suasion, to prevent me fromdoing it. Do you want us all piled up in the front yard in a nice littleheap of bones before the Tower of Cologne is rebuilt?"

  Roger took both her hands and attempted to speak, but his face suddenlycrimsoned, and he floundered out into the darkness like an awkwardschool-boy instead of a self-possessed young man of almost twenty-four.It had occurred to him that it might be very nice to kiss Barbara.

  [Sidenote: Back to Childhood]

  But Barbara, magically taken back to childhood, did not notice hisconfusion. The Tower of Cologne had been a fancy of hers ever since shecould remember, though it had been temporarily eclipsed by the hard workwhich circumstances had thrust upon her. As she grew from childhood towomanhood, it had changed very little--the dream, always, waspractically the same.

  [Sidenote: A Day Dream]

  The Tower itself was made of cologne bottles neatly piled together, andthe brightly-tinted labels gave it a bizarre but beautiful effect. Itwas square in shape and very high, with a splendid cupola of clearglass arches--the labels probably would not show, up so high. It stoodin an enchanted land with the sea behind it--nobody had ever thought oftaking Barbara down to the sea, though it was so near. The sea wasalways blue, of course, like the sky, or the larkspur--she was neverquite sure of the colour.

  The air all around the Tower smelled sweet, just like cologne. There wasa flight of steps, also made of cologne bottles, but they did not breakwhen you walked on them, and the door was always ajar. Inside was agreat, winding staircase which led to the cupola. You could climb andclimb and climb, and when you were tired, you could stop to rest in anyof the rooms that were on the different floors.

  Strangely enough, in the Tower of Cologne, Barbara was never lame. Shealways left her crutches leaning up against the steps outside. She couldwalk and run like anyone else and never even think of crutches. Therewere many charming people in the Tower and none of them ever said,pityingly, "It's too bad you're lame."

  All the dear people of the books lived in the Tower of Cologne, besidesmany more, whom Barbara did not know. Maggie Tulliver, Little Nell,Dora, Agnes, Mr. Pickwick, King Arthur, the Lady of Shalott, andunnumbered others dwelt happily there. They all knew Barbara and werealways glad to see her.

  Wonderful tapestries were hung along the stairs, there were beautifulpictures in every room, and whatever you wanted to eat was instantlyplaced before you. Each room smelled of a different kind of cologne andno two rooms were furnished alike. Her friends in the Tower were of allages and of many different stations in life, but there was one whoseface she had never seen. He was always just as old as Barbara, and wascloser to her than the rest.

  [Sidenote: The Boy]

  When she lost herself in the queer winding passages, the Boy, whose faceshe was unable to picture, was always at her side to show her the wayout. They both wanted to get up into the cupola and ring all the goldenbells at once, but there seemed to be some law against it, for when theywere almost there, something always happened. Either the Tower itselfvanished beyond recall, or Aunt Miriam called her, or an imperativevoice summoned the Boy downstairs--and Barbara would not think of goingto the cupola without him.

  When she and Roger had begun to make mud pies together, she had told himabout the Tower and got him interested in it, too--all but the Boy whoseface she was unable to see and whose name she did not know. In theTower, she addressed him simply as "Boy." Barbara kept him to herselffor some occult reason. Roger liked the Tower very much, but thought theconstruction might possibly be improved. Barbara never allowed him tomake any changes. He could build another Tower for himself, if he chose,and have it just as he wanted it, but this was her very own.

  It all seemed as if it were yesterday. "And," mused Barbara, "it wasalmost sixteen years ago, when I was six and Roger 'seven-going-on-eight,'as he always said." The dear Tower still stoodin her memory, but far offand veiled, like a mirage seen in the clouds. The Boy who helped her overthe difficult places was a grown man now, tall and straight and strong,but she could
not see his face.

  "It's queer," thought Barbara, as she put out the light. "I wonder ifI ever shall."

  [Sidenote: An Enchanted Land]

  That night she dreamed of the Tower of Cologne, in the old, enchantedland, where a blue sky bent down to meet a bluer sea. She and the Boywere in the cupola, making music with the golden bells. Their laughterchimed in with the sweet sound of the ringing, but still, she could notsee his face.