Flower of the Dusk. Reed Myrtle

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СКАЧАТЬ sometimes, if we have done right with father."

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

      "We haven't meant to," she answered, her sweet face growing grave. "Of course it was all begun long before I was old enough to understand. He thinks the city house, which we lost so long ago that I cannot even remember our having it, was sold for so high a price that it would have been foolish not to sell it, and that we live here because we prefer the country. Just think, Roger, before I was born, this was father's and mother'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 spirit that makes it home."

      "He thinks it's beautifully furnished. Of course we have the old mahogany and some of the pictures, but we've had to sell nearly everything. I've used some of mother's real laces in the sewing and sold practically all the rest. Whatever anyone would buy has been disposed of. Even the broken furniture in the attic has gone to people who had a fancy 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 harms no one and makes a blind old man happy, it can't be wrong."

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

      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 terms since she drove me out of the melon patch—do you remember?"

      "Yes, I remember. We wanted the blossoms, didn't we, to make golden bells 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 were such a bad boy."

      "Next Summer, I think we should rebuild it. Let's renew our youth sometime 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. "When it's done?" she asked.

      Like Fairy Tales

      "We'll move into it and be happy ever afterward, like the people in the fairy 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 the green bay tree on a diet of bread and milk with an occasional soft-boiled egg. I should have been in bed by six o'clock, and now it's—gracious, Barbara, it's after eleven. What do you mean by keeping the young up so late?"

      As he spoke, he hurriedly found his hat, and, reaching into the pocket of 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'll read, sometimes, when we can. Don't forget to put the light in the window when it's all right for me to come. If I don't, you'll understand. And please don't work so hard."

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

      Roger took both her hands and attempted to speak, but his face suddenly crimsoned, and he floundered out into the darkness like an awkward school-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.

      Back to Childhood

      But Barbara, magically taken back to childhood, did not notice his confusion. The Tower of Cologne had been a fancy of hers ever since she could remember, though it had been temporarily eclipsed by the hard work which circumstances had thrust upon her. As she grew from childhood to womanhood, it had changed very little—the dream, always, was practically the same.

      A Day Dream

      The Tower itself was made of cologne bottles neatly piled together, and the brightly-tinted labels gave it a bizarre but beautiful effect. It was square in shape and very high, with a splendid cupola of clear glass arches—the labels probably would not show, up so high. It stood in an enchanted land with the sea behind it—nobody had ever thought of taking Barbara down to the sea, though it was so near. The sea was always blue, of course, like the sky, or the larkspur—she was never quite sure of the colour.

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

      Strangely enough, in the Tower of Cologne, Barbara was never lame. She always left her crutches leaning up against the steps outside. She could walk and run like anyone else and never even think of crutches. There were 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, 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 СКАЧАТЬ