"I ought to go back," she faltered; "back a long way into my life, and I"m afraid that won"t be interesting to you."
"You can"t go very far back," he laughed. Then he added seriously, "I am really interested. Please to tell it in your own way."
"Well, to begin with, Dad was a sea captain and he married the very best woman in the world. But she died when I was very young. It was after this that Dad took me on his long voyages with him,--to South America, to India, and Africa. I don"t remember much about it, except as a series of pictures. I know I had the best of times for somehow I can remember better how I felt than what I saw. I used to play on the deck in the sun and listen to the sailors who told me strange stories.
Then when we reached a port Dad used to take me by the hand and lead me through queer, crooked little streets and show me the shops and buy whole armfuls of things for me. I remember it all just as you remember brightly colored pictures of cities--pointed spires in the sunlight, streets full of bright colors, and dozens of odd men and women whose faces come at night and are forgotten in the morning. Dad was big and handsome and very proud of me. He used to like to show me off and take me with him everywhere. Those years were very wonderful and beautiful.
"Then one day he brought me back to sh.o.r.e again, and for a while we lived together in a large white house within sight of the ocean. We used to take long walks and sometimes went to town, but he didn"t seem very happy. One day he brought home with him a strange woman and told me that she was to be housekeeper, and that I must obey her and grow up to be a fine woman. Then he went away. That was fifteen years ago.
Then came the report he was dead; that was ten years ago. After a while I didn"t mind so much, for I used to lie on my back and recall all the places we had been together. When these pictures began to fade a little, I learned another way,--a way taught me by a sailor. I took a round crystal I found in the parlor and I looked into it hard,--oh, very, very hard. Then it happened. First all I saw was a blur of colors, but in a little while these separated and I saw as clearly as at first all the streets and places I had ever visited, and sometimes others too. Oh, it was such a comfort! Was that wrong?"
"No," he answered slowly, "I can"t see anything wrong in that."
"She--the housekeeper--called it wicked--devilish. She took away the crystal. But after a while I found I could see with other things--even with just a gla.s.s of clear water. All you have to do is to hold your eyes very still and stare and stare. Do you understand?"
He nodded.
"I"ve heard of that."
She dropped her voice, evidently struggling with growing excitement, colored with something of fear.
"Don"t you see how close this kept me to Dad? I"ve been living with him almost as though I were really with him. We"ve taken over again the old walks and many news ones. This seemed to go on just the same after we received word that he had died--stricken with a fever in South America somewhere."
She paused, taking a quick breath.
"All that is not so strange," she ran on; "but yesterday--yesterday in the crystal I saw him--here in Boston."
"What!"
"As clearly as I see you. He was walking down a street near the Gardens."
"It might have been someone who resembled him."
"No, it was Dad. He was thinner and looked strange, but I knew him as though it were only yesterday that he had gone away."
"But if he is dead----"
"He isn"t dead," she answered with conviction.
"On the strength of that vision you came here to look for him?"
"Yes."
"When you believe, you believe hard, don"t you?"
"I believe the crystal," she answered soberly.
"Yet you didn"t find your father?"
"No," she admitted.
"You are still sure he is here?"
"I am still sure he is living. I may have made a mistake in the place, but I know he is alive and well somewhere. I shall look again in the crystal to-morrow."
"Yes, to-morrow," answered Wilson, vaguely.
He rose to his feet.
"But there is still the hunger of to-day."
She seemed disappointed in the lightness with which apparently he took her search.
"You don"t believe?"
"I believe you. And I believe that you believe. But I have seen little of such things myself. In the meanwhile it would be good to eat--if only a few crackers. Are you afraid to stay here alone while I explore a bit?"
She shook her head.
He was gone some ten minutes, and when he came back his loose robe bulged suspiciously in many places.
"Madame," he exclaimed, "I beg you to observe me closely. I snap my fingers twice,--so! Then I motion,--so! Behold!"
He deftly extricated from one of the large sleeves a can of soup, and held it triumphantly aloft.
"Once more,--so!"
He produced a package of crackers; next a can of coffee, next some sugar. And she, watching him with face alight, applauded vigorously and with more genuine emotion than usually greets the acts of a prestidigitator.
"But, oh!" she exclaimed, with her hands clasped beneath her chin, "don"t you dare to make them disappear again!"
"Madame," answered Wilson, with a bow, "that shall be your privilege."
He hurried below once more, and this time returned with a chafing-dish, two bowls, and a couple of iron spoons which he had found in the kitchen. In ten minutes the girl had prepared a lunch which to them was the culmination of their happiness. Warmed, clothed, and fed, there seemed nothing left for them.
When they had finished and had made everything tidy in the room, and he had gone to the cellar and replenished the coal-hod, he told her something of his own life. For a little while she listened, but soon the room became blurred to her and she sank farther and farther among the heavy shadows and the old paintings on the wall. The rain beat against the m.u.f.fled windows drowsily. The fire warmed her brow like some hypnotic hand. Then his voice ceased and she drew her feet beneath her and slept in the chair, looking like a soft Persian kitten.
CHAPTER III
_A Stranger Arrives_
It was almost two in the morning when Wilson heard the sound of wheels in the street without, and conceived the fear that they had stopped before the house. He found himself sitting rigidly upright in the room which had grown chill, staring at the dark doorway. The fire had burned low and the girl still slept in the shadows, her cheeks pressed against her hands. He listened with suspended breath. For a moment there was no other sound and so he regained his composure, concluding it had been only an evil dream. Crossing to the next room, he drew a blanket from the little bed and wrapped the sleeping girl about with it so carefully that she did not awake. Then he gently poked up the fire and put on more coal, taking each lump in his fingers so as to make no noise.
Her face, even while she slept, seemed to lose but little of its animation. The long lashes swept her flushed cheeks. The eyes, though closed, still remained expressive. A smile fluttered about her mouth as though her dreams were very pleasant. To Wilson, who neither had a sister nor as a boy or man had been much among women, the sight of this sleeping girl so near to him was particularly impressive. Her utter trust and confidence in his protection stirred within him another side of the man who had stood by the gate clutching his club like a savage. She looked so warm and tender a thing that he felt his heart growing big with a certain feeling of paternity. He knew at that moment how the father must have felt when, with the warm little hand within his own, he had strode down those foreign streets conscious that every right-hearted man would turn to look at the pretty girl; with what joy he had stopped at strange bazaars to watch her eyes brighten as the shopkeepers did their best to please. Those must have been days which the father, if alive, was glad to remember.
A m.u.f.fled beat as upon the steps without again brought him to attention, but again the silence closed in upon it until he doubted whether he had truly heard. But the dark had become alive now, and he seemed to see strange, moving shadows in the corners and hear creakings and rustlings all about him. He turned sharply at a soft tread behind him only to start at the snapping of a coal in the fire from the other side. Finally, in order to ease his mind, he crossed the room and looked beyond the curtains into the darkness of the hall.
There was neither movement nor sound. He ventured out and peered down the staircase into the dark chasm marking the lower hall. He heard distinctly the sound of a key being fitted rather clumsily into the lock, then an inrush of air as the door was thrown open and someone entered, clutching at the wall as though unable to stand.