The Bell in the Fog and Other Stories

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 to the full the country’s gift of foot-restlessness and mental calm.  Calm flees, however, when the ego is rampant, and to-day, as upon others too recent, Orth’s 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 the 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 disintegrating.  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 all.  The difference, even his rolling vision took note, lay in the warm pure living whiteness and the deeper spiritual suggestion of the child in his path.  Fortunately for his self-respect, the surrender lasted but a moment.  The little girl spoke.

“You look real sick,” she said.  “Shall I lead you home?”

The voice was soft and sweet, but the intonation, the vernacular, were American, and not of the highest class.  The shock was, if possible, more agonizing than the other, but this time Orth rose to the occasion.

“Who are you?” he demanded, with asperity.  “What is your name?  Where do you live?”

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 father’s dead.  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 world, I’ll 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 were pointing 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 with his 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 companion, 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 old.  The ceiling was supported by the trunk of a tree, black, and probably petrified.  The windows had still their diamond panes, separated, no doubt, by the original 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 dwelling, glanced 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 the room.

“Of course you’ve fallen in love with Blanche, sir,” said one of them.  “Everybody does.”

“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 in Chillingsworth—­painted about two hundred years ago.  Such extraordinary likenesses do not occur without reason, as a rule, and, as I admired my portrait so deeply that I have written a story about it, you will not think it unnatural if I am more than curious to discover the reason for this resemblance.  The 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 the house.

“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 before the 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 little Blanche went to wreck and ruin because of some fine lady’s doings, and killed himself.  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 a 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 United States.

“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, and learned 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 and little Blanche—­who had come after her other children were well grown—­in comfort; and 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 father’s mouth.”

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, he turned suddenly to Mrs. Root.  “Why did you call her Blanche?” he asked.

“She was so white and dainty, she just looked it.”

Orth took the next train for London, and from Lord Teignmouth obtained the 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 his book-children had not inspired.  He bought the finest doll, piano, French dishes, cooking apparatus, and playhouse in the shop, and signed a check for thirty pounds with a sensation of positive rapture.  Then he took the train for Lancashire, where the Lady Mildred Mortlake lived in another ancestral home.

Possibly there are few imaginative writers who have not a leaning, secret or avowed, to the occult.  The creative gift is in very close relationship with the 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 forces should send their vibrations to it occasionally; or, at all events, that the imagination should incline its ear to the most mysterious and picturesque of all beliefs.  Orth frankly dallied with the old dogma.  He formulated no personal 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 treasure.

The Lady Mildred received with sweetness and warmth the generous contributor to 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 sequel.

“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 man to destruction—?”

“The closest,” interrupted Lady Mildred.  “She was herself!”

Orth stared at her.  Again he had a confused sense of disintegration.  Lady Mildred, gratified by the success of her bolt, proceeded less dramatically: 

“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 you would probably become a monomaniac if I didn’t.  Blanche Mortlake—­that Blanche—­there 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, but little 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 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 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 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 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 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 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 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—­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 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 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 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 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.  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 and the lonely child that Mrs. Root flurriedly 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 to broach a subject at once which I would rather have postponed until the idea had taken possession of 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 have every 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 to, now—­I mean, stand in her light—­but, sir, she is dearer than all the others put together.”

“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 choose.”

“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 girls unmarried and out in the world, and three boys just a little inclined to be wild.  There is another point, sir—­I don’t exactly know how to say it.”

“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 snob.

“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 wants—­or used 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 them 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 they break out and talk dreadful; then, when they’re over it, they say they’ll live for Blanche—­they’ve said it over and over, and they mean it.  Every sacrifice 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 of the Sunday-school child about her, or even tries to smooth them down when they’re excited.  It’s just herself.  The only thing she ever does is sometimes to draw 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 about her.  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 know!  It’s 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 that.”

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 on her 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 such a 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 living—­I’m 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 eagerness.

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 quite.”

“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 very young.

“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 parting from 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?”

“Yes.”

“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.  Moreover, they will be marrying soon.  That will also mean that your mother will have many 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 embrace.  “Can’t 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 her dolls.  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 little scrawl, he was almost glad that she went when she did.