Chapter I: REPENT--I come

ASHES

IT was a large house on the outskirts of the town.

IN the living room a fire blazed. Soft shaded lights--a contrast to the blizzard raging outside.

A SMALL gathering of people for informal afternoon tea.

LYDIA STUART had come in rather late. She sat comfortably on a huge divan near the fire.

A PICTURESQUE magnetic figure, dressed in purple, with beautiful warm furs.

RATHER dreamily she gazed at the fire. And mused to herself on the strangeness of life--

ASHES--

SOMETHING within her long ago had died. And the new Lydia had risen, stronger, better, for the horrible struggles against herself--

AGAINST him.

HER art had been created by the ashes of a dead love.

SHE had conquered.

ON the other side of the fireplace was standing the man she had once loved.

THE man who had once possessed her every waking hour.

SHE had fought. An inward battle--a brave struggle--

IN another town she had begged him not to see her--not to write.

* * * * *

THEN later they had met unexpectedly at a ball--

THERE was music--many flowers--brightness--laughter--

HIS arms had held her close as they danced--

A FLOOD of memories rushed across her mind.

FOR a moment she had stood with laughing lips--

IT had been a moment of triumph.

THEN, out of nothing--with no tie to the absorbing passing moment, the image of her mother rose in her thought.

THE triumph gave way to a new compelling mood. She was choosing between two loves--

WITH cold, calculating eyes he had watched her as she moved across the floor--

A GRACEFUL figure in pink.

* * * * *

NO one saw her as she slipped home--sad--the depths of her soul in burning conflict. The flowers she held fell unnoticed.

THE greatest struggle of her life.

DAWN found her still fighting against the overpowering yearning.

FOR months she struggled.

HER art increased.

A DYING part of Lydia gave power to a new-born personality--strong deep-seeing character grew up from the ashes of her former light self.

* * * * *

THIS afternoon, sitting on the great divan, she reflected and understood.

PERHAPS she had overcome months before.

TILL now she had not known.

AT last--only ashes--where once had been love--

HE stood there--looking at her.

SHE saw him only as a stranger--

SHE did not know him--save his name--

THE new Lydia--the artist--could find nothing in common, no union of thought.

WHAT strange lost element in her had once loved this man--

LYDIA--risen from the ashes--walked out into the snow and cold. She felt her release to a new freedom. She could meet him again--without harm--

ANYWHERE--

AT any time--

HE was a stranger.

NANCY TURNER

NANCY TURNER, Teacher of Dancing.

THIS inscription engraved on a brass plate had become as familiar to me as the grim row of terraces and the solemn-looking door to which it was nailed. How many times had I not passed it, as I walked from my house to my place of business. Passed it on snowy mornings and gray misty evenings, or in the summer time when birds chirruped and sang and the sun smiled down upon the earth. I had read it over and over again, as I was wont to do the names of the streets and squares, especially on my homeward walk. L---- Street--a turn to the right, the inscription on the door, B---- square--and I was already half-way home to my cheerful fireside, to my books and my violin; where Shakespeare, Milton and Beethoven would be ready at my whispered call to help me while away the hours of the evening.

BUT once as I passed this certain row of terraces, something, hitherto unknown, seemed to take possession of me. I began to see the sign in a new light and wondered why I had taken it for granted all these years,--and never once thought that indeed Nancy Turner must be a real person. It was true that I had never seen anyone enter the house, but then I passed it at hours when people would not be likely to be taking dancing lessons. I began to wonder at my being so absent-minded that I could for years read these five words and never have them leave more than a slight impression.

AND suddenly I found myself wondering what sort of person this dancing teacher was. Surely young and talented, perhaps even beautiful. I mused about her half the way home. I even wove some strange and fanciful day dreams about her--when to my sorrow I remembered I was no longer young!

AND therefore Nancy Turner was also middle-aged. For had not the inscription bearing her name been on that door ever since I was a young boy--perhaps long before my time.

FOR days I thought about her and failed in explanations to myself, of my sudden strange fascination for an unknown name.

THE days flew by, and my curiosity to meet and talk with her only increased.

SO one cold and gloomy evening I took courage and knocked at her door.

TO my surprise the gruff voice of a man bade me enter. I found myself in a small room, blue with smoke and poorly furnished. An old man was cooking supper, as he hummed some weird old gypsy tune. He seemed scarcely to notice me and displayed neither surprise nor dissatisfaction at my sudden appearance. I murmured some excuse about being in the wrong house, that I was looking for Nancy Turner in order to learn about some of the newest dance steps.

* * * * *

AND now you know the story of my life, of hers, and of your own, he said with a sigh. Strange that I should have asked your name. And stranger still that you came here as if led by the hand of Fate. But now that we have discovered that we are half brothers I hope you will come often to chat with me, here in this house where we were both born. I will tell you more about our beautiful mother, of her fame when she danced at the opera, of the days long ago when she and my father and I lived here so happily, of the tragedy--but no--let us forget the past. She forgave--therefore our friendship must be without shadow from the start.

THE PAWN-SHOP KEEPER

I am an old man and life has long since lost the glamor it once held for me. The thrills of youth are no more, novelty is a forgotten word, and things that once would have made my heart leap now leave me cold. Old age indeed is in itself a punishment for the follies of youth and sad is it to await alone the coming of death without some loved face near. For one by one the friends of bygone days have dropped by the roadside and I have been left alone to follow my weary way. Happy they who die while still young and do not know the solitude of a lonely old man.

Day after day, as I sit behind my counter, or warm my old hands by the cheerful blaze of the fire, do customers come to me to buy something or perhaps to sell some loved relic in order that they may live.

ALL of them faces strange and new. They look at me as if to say Why this one dried leaf of another year left on this tree? Aye, and why am I left--Why among these young, green leaves am I the only withered one? Why were no companions left to cheer me?

But these are questions I can not answer, for I know not the ways
of God.

As I sit here musing over the past, faces I have known come back to me and I love to wonder what fate held in store for them, as advancing, the filmy mists of their futures were slowly lifted until the last veil was drawn back and the story of their lives was told.

The snow is falling and covering in white the grim rows of houses opposite my little shop, the streets are deserted save by a few hurrying pedestrians and some merry school children going down to the frozen river for an hour's skating before dusk--

AND I am here before the fire, dreaming and waiting, for yesterday brought me an experience very different from my usual monotonous life.

Was it all some phantom? It must be.

The Miriam that I have longed for all these years was not here yesterday, did not sit in this very chair. It must have been a vision, the mere fancy of an old man's mind. For how many times in sleep has not the same dream come to me as a whispered message from another world, from her grave even--and on awakening I always seemed to know that her journey through life was at an end.

But no, it was not a phantom, for here is the necklace. Then it was not a dream. Fate has really sent her to me so we can cheer each other in these, the last hours of our earthly lives.

But will she come back today as she promised? Or will she depart again, this time for good, so that I shall see her no more until I have crossed the River of Death.

O Miriam, come to me, I need you more now than ever before. Come,
I am waiting with outstretched arms.

Yes, she is coming. I see the yet distant form of the one I love. She is approaching, coming ever nearer. Miriam, what happiness we shall yet have together, in the dusk of our lives, what pleasant hours here by the fire--

* * * * *

Death, kindly death, come now to me. She passed by my shop and turned the corner and went toward the station. Her heart then is still cold as stone.

It was the money I paid her for the necklace that bought her
ticket to another town----

SOMETHING PROVINCIAL

THE little house in Pemborough Square had been vacant for many years.

NO lights through the closed shutters--

NO smoke from the chimneys--

EVENING--

AN old woman was sitting on the doorstep muttering to herself in some strange tongue--

HER vague eyes saw neither the square nor its straight rows of trees--

ONLY something far away--a memory perhaps

SOME tragedy lay hidden in her heart.

MANY years ago this small house had been occupied by a family with several children--children that played games in the great garden behind.

A YOUNG woman had been much with the little troop of children.

THEY had all loved her who played with them as if a child herself and in happy hours had sung French songs to them.

SHE had gone away, they had heard to the Island of Madeira. --and the children soon forgot their sweet friend.

ON the steps of this now abandoned house sat the muttering old woman.

THE sound of quick steps aroused her--she peered through the gathering gloom--

A YOUNG man was coming nearer

THE woman rose slowly to her feet and waited rigidly

IT is you--you! she whispered hoarsely--

HER words went like shots at the slight figure, now perceptible

HE stopped abruptly and shuddered like one accused of crime.

I DO not know you, he managed to say. He had a flat thin voice.

YOU once lived in this house, the woman said menacingly.

HE shuddered again and stepped back

THE young man began to wonder. Could she be the sweet French woman that the village children had loved-- that he, the eldest of the little group had in his boyish awakening been romantic over--

THE gypsy sensed his admission of her charge.

SHE went on--Do you know who you are?

DO you know where you got your black hair?

HE lifted his hand unsteadily in the direction of his head.

THE old creature nodded and fixed him with her fierce eyes.

I AM not your mother

NEITHER was the woman you called by that name.

THE young man gasped.

HIS body grew tense.

HE remembered his adored mother whose grave he visited every Sunday morning.

HE made an effort to think that this was only a gypsy--an impostor--

THE woman was speaking--

NEITHER your father nor mother ever knew that you were not their child.

THEIR little boy is dead

YOU filled his place.

HER voice sank almost to a breath.

I PLACED you in his cradle.

AN intolerable silence.

I LOVED your father

YOU never knew that he was a Portuguese nobleman.

DID you ever hear of Madeira, she asked sharply

IT was there that one by one all the passions of love--hatred--revenge had torn my heart. He married and came to England--I followed--repulsed, ignored.

MY only weapon against him--was to contrive--the death--of his little son.

BUT to kill a child--

SHE caught a shuddering breath.

I COULD not--