look. Perhaps she was spoiled and flattered, until her
poor little soul was stifled, which is likely. At all events,
she was the coquette of her day— she seemed to care for
nothing but breaking hearts; and she did not stop when
she married, either. She hated her husband, and became
reckless. She had no children. So far, the tale is not an
uncommon one; but the worst, and what makes the
ugliest stain in our annals, is to come.
“She was alone one summer at Chillingsworth—
where she had taken temporary refuge from her husband
— and she amused herself—some say, fell in love— with
a young man of the yeomanry, a tenant of the next estate.
His name was Root. He, so it comes down to us, was a
magnificent specimen of his kind, and in those days the
yeomanry gave us our great soldiers. His beauty of face
was quite as remarkable as his physique; he led all the
rural youth in sport, and was a bit above his class in
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117
every way. He had a wife in no way remarkable, and two
little boys, but was always more with his friends than his
family. Where he and Blanche Mortlake met I don’t
know— in the woods, probably, although it has been said
that he had the run of the house. But, at all events, he was
wild about her, and she pretended to be about him.
Perhaps she was, for women have stooped before and
since. Some women can be stormed by a fine man in any
circumstances; but, although I am a woman of the world,
and not easy to shock, there are some things I tolerate so
hardly that it is all I can do to bring myself to believe in
them; and stooping is one. Well, they were the scandal of
the county for months, and then, either because she had
tired of her new toy, or his grammar grated after the first
glamour, or because she feared her husband, who was
returning from the Continent, she broke off with him
and returned to town. He followed her, and forced his
way into her house. It is said she melted, but made him
swear never to attempt to see her again. He returned to
his home, and killed himself. A few months later she
took her own life. That is all I know.”
“It is quite enough for me,” said Orth.
The next night, as his train travelled over the great
wastes of Lancashire, a thousand chimneys were spouting forth columns of fire. Where the sky was not red it was black. The place looked like hell. Another time
Orth’s imagination would have gathered immediate inspiration from this wildest region of England. The fair and peaceful counties of the south had nothing to
compare in infernal grandeur with these acres of flaming
columns. The chimneys were invisible in the lower
darkness of the night; the fires might have leaped straight
from the angry caldron of the earth.
But Orth was in a subjective world, searching for all he
had ever heard of occultism. He recalled that the sinful
dead are doomed, according to this belief, to linger for
vast reaches of time in that borderland which is close
to earth, eventually sent back to work out their final sal-
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Gertrude Atherton
vation; that they work it out among the descendants of
the people they have wronged; that suicide is held by the
devotees of occultism to be a cardinal sin, abhorred and
execrated.
Authors are far closer to the truths enfolded in mystery
than ordinary people, because of that very audacity of
imagination which irritates their plodding critics. As
only those who dare to make mistakes succeed greatly,
only those who shake free the wings of their imagination
brush, once in a way, the secrets of the great pale world.
If such writers go wrong, it is not for the mere brains to
tell them so.
Upon Orth’s return to Chillingsworth, he called at
once upon the child, and found her happy among his
gifts. She put her arms about his neck, and covered his
serene unlined face with soft kisses. This completed the
conquest. Orth from that moment adored her as a child,
irrespective of the psychological problem.
Gradually he managed to monopolize her. From long
walks it was but a step to take her home for luncheon.
The hours of her visits lengthened. He had a room fitted
up as a nursery and filled with the wonders of toyland.
He took her to London to see the pantomimes; two days
before Christmas, to buy presents for her relatives; and
together they strung them upon the most wonderful
Christmas tree that the old hall of Chillingsworth had
ever embraced. She had a donkey-cart, and a trained
nurse, disguised as a maid, to wait upon her. Before a
month had passed she was living in state at Chillingsworth and paying daily visits to her mother. Mrs.
Root was deeply flattered, and apparently well content.
Orth told her plainly that he should make the child
independent, and educate her, meanwhile. Mrs. Root
intended to spend six months in England, and Orth was
in no hurry to alarm her by broaching his ultimate
design.
He reformed Blanche’s accent and vocabulary, and
read to her out of books which would have addled the
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119
brains of most little maids of six; but she seemed to enjoy
them, although she seldom made a comment. He was
always ready to play games with her, but she was a gentle
little thing, and, moreover, tired easily. She preferred to
sit in the depths of a big chair, toasting her bare toes at
the log-fire in the hall, while her friend read or talked to
her. Although she was thoughtful, and, when left to
herself, given to dreaming, his patient observation could
detect nothing uncanny about her. Moreover, she had a
quick sense of humor, she was easily amused, and could
laugh as merrily as any child in the world. He was
resigning all hope of further development on the shadowy side when one-day he took her to the picture-gallery.
It was the first warm day of summer. The gallery was
not heated, and he had not dared to take his frail visitor
into its chilly spaces during the winter and spring.
Although he had wished to see the effect of the picture on
the child, he had shrunk from the bare possibility of the
very developments the mental part of him craved; the
other was warmed and satisfied for the first time, and
held itself aloof from disturbance. But one day the sun
streamed through the old windows, and, obeying a
sudden impulse, he led Blanche to the gallery.
It was some time before he approached the child of his
earlier love. Again he hesitated. He pointed out many
other fine pictures, and Blanche smiled appreciatively at
his remarks, that were wise in criticism and interesting
in matter. He never knew just how much she understood,
but the very fact that there were depths in the child
beyond his probing riveted his chains.
Suddenly he
wheeled about and waved his hand to her
prototype. “What do you think of that?” he asked. “You
remember, I told you of the likeness the day I met you.”
She looked indifferently at the picture, but he noticed
that her color changed oddly; its pure white tone gave
place to an equally delicate gray.
“I have seen it before,” she said. “I came in here one
day to look at it. And I have been quite often since. You
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Gertrude Atherton
never forbade me,” she added, looking at him appealingly, but dropping her eyes quickly. “And I like the little girl— and the boy— very much.”
“Do you? Why?”
“I don’t know” — a formula in which she had taken
refuge before. Still her candid eyes were lowered; but she
was quite calm. Orth, instead of questioning, merely
fixed his eyes upon her, and waited. In a moment she
stirred uneasily, but she did not laugh nervously, as
another child would have done. He had never seen her
self-possession ruffled, and he had begun to doubt he
ever should. She was full of human warmth and affection. She seemed made for love, and every creature who came within her ken adored her, from the author himself
down to the litter of puppies presented to her by the
stable-boy a few weeks since; but her serenity would
hardly be enhanced by death.
She raised her eyes finally, but not to his. She looked at
the portrait.
“Did you know that there was another picture behind?” she asked.
“No,” replied Orth, turning cold. “How did you know
it?”
“One day I touched a spring in the frame, and this
picture came forward. Shall I show you?”
“Yes!” And crossing curiosity and the involuntary
shrinking from impending phenomena was a sensation
of aesthetic disgust that he should be treated to a secret
spring.
The little girl touched hers, and that other Blanche
sprang aside so quickly that she might have been impelled by a sharp blow from behind. Orth narrowed his eyes and stared at what she revealed. He felt that his own
Blanche was watching him, and set his features, although
his breath was short.
There was the Lady Blanche Mortlake in the splendor
of her young womanhood, beyond a doubt. Gone were
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121
all traces of her spiritual childhood, except, perhaps, in
the shadows of the mouth; but more than fulfilled were
the promises of her mind. Assuredly, the woman had
been as brilliant and gifted as she had been restless and
passionate. She wore her very pearls with arrogance, her
very hands were tense with eager life, her whole being
breathed mutiny.
Orth turned abruptly to Blanche, who had transferred
her attention to the picture.
“What a tragedy is there!” he exclaimed, with a fierce
attempt at lightness. “Think of a woman having all that
pent up within her two centuries ago! And at the mercy
of a stupid family, no doubt, and a still stupider husband. No wonder— Today, a woman like that might not be a model for all the virtues, but she certainly would use
her gifts and become famous, the while living her life too
fully to have any place in it for yeomen and such, or even
for the trivial business of breaking hearts.” He put his
finger under Blanche’s chin, and raised her face, but he
could not compel her gaze. “You are the exact image of
that little girl,” he said, “except that you are even purer
and finer. She had no chance, none whatever. You live in
the woman’s age. Your opportunities will be infinite. I
shall see to it that they are. What you wish to be you shall
be. There will be no pent-up energies here to burst out
into disaster for yourself and others. You shall be trained
to self-control— that is, if you ever develop self-will,
dear child— every faculty shall be educated, every
school of life you desire knowledge through shall be
opened to you. You shall become that finest flower of
civilization, a woman who knows how to use her independence.”
She raised her eyes slowly, and gave him a look which
stirred the roots of sensation— a long look of unspeakable melancholy. Her chest rose once; then she set her lips tightly, and dropped her eyes.
“What do you mean?” he cried, roughly, for his soul
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Gertrude Atherton
was chattering. “Is— it— do you— ?” He dared not go
too far, and concluded lamely, “You mean you fear that
your mother will not give you to me when she goes— you
have divined that I wish to adopt you? Answer me, will
you?”
But she only lowered her head and turned away, and
he, fearing to frighten or repel her, apologized for his
abruptness, restored the outer picture to its place, and
led her from the gallery.
He sent her at once to the nursery, and when she came
down to luncheon and took her place at his right hand,
she was as natural and childlike as ever. For some days he
restrained his curiosity, but one evening, as they were
sitting before the fire in the hall listening to the storm,
and just after he had told her the story of the erl-king, he
took her on his knee and asked her gently if she would
not tell him what had been in her thoughts when he had
drawn her brilliant future. Again her face turned gray,
and she dropped her eyes.
“ I cannot,” she said. “I— perhaps— I don’t know.”
“Was it what I suggested?”
She shook her head, then looked at him with a
shrinking appeal which forced him to drop the subject.
He went the next day alone to the gallery, and looked
long at the portrait of the woman. She stirred no
response in him. Nor could he feel that the woman of
Blanche’s future would stir the man in him. The paternal
was all he had to give, but that was hers forever.
He went out into the park and found Blanche digging
in her garden, very dirty and absorbed. The next afternoon, however, entering the hall noiselessly, he saw her sitting in her big chair, gazing out into nothing visible,
her whole face settled in melancholy. He asked her if she
were ill, and she recalled herself at once, but confessed to
feeling tired. Soon after this he noticed that she lingered
longer in the comfortable depths of her chair, and
seldom went out, except with himself. She insisted that
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123
she was quite well, but after he had surprised her again
looking as sad as if she had renounced every joy of
childhood, he summoned from London a doctor renowned for his success with children.
The scientist questioned and examined her. When she
had left the room he shrugged his shoulders.
“She might have been bom 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 ver
ge of decay. She certainly has the look
of those who die young. I have never seen so spiritual a
child. But I can put my finger on nothing. Keep her
out-of-doors, don’t give her sweets, and don’t let her
catch anything if you can help it.”
Orth and the child spent the long warm days of
summer under the trees of the park, or driving in the
quiet lanes. Guests were unbidden, and his pen was idle.
All that was human in him had gone out to Blanche. He
loved her, and she was a perpetual delight to him. The
rest of the world received the large measure of his
indifference. There was no further change in her, and
apprehension slept and let him sleep. He had persuaded
Mrs. Root to remain in England for a year. He sent her
theatre tickets every week, and placed a horse and
phaeton at her disposal. She was enjoying herself and
seeing less and less of Blanche. He took the child to
Bournemouth for a fortnight, and again to Scotland,
both of which outings benefited as much as they pleased
her. She had begun to tyrannize over him amiably, and
she carried herself quite royally. But she was always
sweet and truthful, and these qualities, combined with
that something in the depths of her mind which defied
his explorations, held him captive. She was devoted to
him, and cared for no other companion, although she
was demonstrative to her mother when they met.
It was in the tenth month of this idyl of the lonely man
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and the lonely child that Mrs. Root Hurriedly entered the
library of Chillingsworth, where Orth happened to be
alone.
“Oh, sir,” she exclaimed, “I must go home. My
daughter Grace writes me— she should have done it
before— that the boys are not behaving as well as they
should— she didn’t tell me, as I was having such a good
time she just hated to worry me— heaven knows I’ve had
enough worry— but now I must go— I just couldn’t
stay— boys are an awful responsibility— girls ain’t a
circumstance to them, although mine are a handful
sometimes.”
Orth had written about too many women to interrupt
the flow. He let her talk until she paused to recuperate
her forces. Then he said quietly:
“I am sorry this has come so suddenly, for it forces me
Visions of Fear - Foundations of Fear III (1992) Page 15