Flower of the Dusk. Reed Myrtle
people of the books lived in the Tower of Cologne, besides many more, whom Barbara did not know. Maggie Tulliver, Little Nell, Dora, Agnes, Mr. Pickwick, King Arthur, the Lady of Shalott, and unnumbered others dwelt happily there. They all knew Barbara and were always glad to see her.
Wonderful tapestries were hung along the stairs, there were beautiful pictures in every room, and whatever you wanted to eat was instantly placed before you. Each room smelled of a different kind of cologne and no two rooms were furnished alike. Her friends in the Tower were of all ages and of many different stations in life, but there was one whose face she had never seen. He was always just as old as Barbara, and was closer to her than the rest.
The Boy
When she lost herself in the queer winding passages, the Boy, whose face she was unable to picture, was always at her side to show her the way out. They both wanted to get up into the cupola and ring all the golden bells at once, but there seemed to be some law against it, for when they were almost there, something always happened. Either the Tower itself vanished beyond recall, or Aunt Miriam called her, or an imperative voice summoned the Boy downstairs—and Barbara would not think of going to the cupola without him.
When she and Roger had begun to make mud pies together, she had told him about the Tower and got him interested in it, too—all but the Boy whose face she was unable to see and whose name she did not know. In the Tower, she addressed him simply as "Boy." Barbara kept him to herself for some occult reason. Roger liked the Tower very much, but thought the construction might possibly be improved. Barbara never allowed him to make 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 was almost sixteen years ago, when I was six and Roger 'seven-going-on-eight,' as he always said." The dear Tower still stood in her memory, but far off and veiled, like a mirage seen in the clouds. The Boy who helped her over the 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 if I ever shall."
An Enchanted Land
That night she dreamed of the Tower of Cologne, in the old, enchanted land, where a blue sky bent down to meet a bluer sea. She and the Boy were in the cupola, making music with the golden bells. Their laughter chimed in with the sweet sound of the ringing, but still, she could not see his face.
IV
The Seventh of June
Barbara sat by the old chest which held her completed work, frowning prettily over a note-book in her lap. She was very methodical, and, in some inscrutable way, things had become mixed. She kept track of every yard of lace and linen and every spool of thread, for, it was evident, she must know the exact cost of the material and the amount of time spent on a garment before it could be accurately priced.
Finishing Touches
Aunt Miriam had carefully pressed the lingerie after it was made and laid it away in the chest with lavender to keep it from turning yellow. There remained only the last finishing touches. Aunt Miriam could have put in the ribbons as well as she could, but Barbara chose to do it herself.
Ways and Means
Three prices were put on each tag in Barbara's private cipher, understood only by Aunt Miriam. The highest was the one hoped for, the next the probable one, and the lowest one was to be taken only at the end of the season.
Already four or five early arrivals were reported at the hotel. By the end of next week, it would be proper for Aunt Miriam to go down with a few of the garments packed in a box with tissue paper, and see what she could do. Barbara had used nearly all of her material and had sent for more, but, in the meantime, she was using the scraps for handkerchiefs, pin-cushion covers, and heart-shaped corsage pads, delicately scented and trimmed with lace and ribbon.
Once, Aunt Miriam had gone to the city for material and patterns, and had priced hand-made lingerie in the shops. When she came back with an itemised report, Barbara had clapped her hands in glee, for she saw the wealth of Crœsus looming up ahead. She had soon learned, however, that she must keep far below the city prices if she would tempt the horde of Summer visitors who came, yearly, to the hotel. At times, she thought that Aunt Miriam must have been dreadfully mistaken.
Barbara put down the highest price of every separate article in the small, neat hand that Aunt Miriam had taught her to write—for she had never been to school. If she should sell everything, why, there would be more than a year of comfort for them all, and new clothes for father, who was beginning to look shabby.
"But they won't," Barbara said to herself, sadly. "I can't expect them to buy it all when I'm asking so much."
Down in the living-room, Ambrose North was inquiring restlessly for Barbara. "Yes," he said, somewhat impatiently, "I know she's upstairs, for you've told me so twice. What I want to know is, why doesn't she come down?"
"She's busy at something, probably," returned Miriam, with forced carelessness, "but I think she'll soon be through."
"Barbara is always busy," he answered, with a sigh. "I can't understand it. Anyone might think she had to work for a living. By the way, Miriam, do you need more money?"
"We still have some," she replied, in a low voice.
"How much?" he demanded.
"Less than a hundred dollars." She did not dare to say how much less.
"That is not enough. If you will get my check-book, I will write another check."
The Old Check-Book
Miriam's face was grimly set and her eyes burned strangely beneath her dark brows. She went to the mahogany desk and took an old check-book out of the drawer.
"Now," he said, as she gave him the pen and ink, "please show me the line. 'Pay to the order of'——"
She guided his hand with her own, trying to keep her cold fingers from trembling. "Miriam Leonard," he spelled out, in uneven characters, "Five—hundred—dollars. Signed—Ambrose—North. There. When you have no money, I wish you would speak of it. I am fully able to provide for my family, and I want to do it."
"Thank you." Miriam's voice was almost inaudible as she took the check.
"The date," he said; "I forgot to date it. What day of the month is it?"
She moistened her parched lips, but did not speak. This was what she had been dreading.
"The date, Miriam," he called. "Will you please tell me what day of the month it is?"
"The seventh," she answered, with difficulty.
"The seventh? The seventh of June?"
"Yes."
There was a long pause. "Twenty-one years," he said, in a shrill whisper. "Twenty-one years ago to-day."
A Dreadful Anniversary
Miriam sat down quietly on the other side of the room. Her eyes were glittering and she was moving her hands nervously. This dreadful anniversary had, for her, its own particular significance. Upstairs, Barbara, light-hearted and hopeful, was singing to herself while she pinned on the last of the price tags and built her air-castle. The song came down lightly, yet discordantly. It was as though a waltz should be played at an open grave.
"Miriam," cried Ambrose North, passionately, "why did she kill herself? In God's name, tell me why!"
"I do not know," murmured Miriam.