The Red Book Magazine/Volume 6/Number 4/From Out of the West

The front door swung open and a small dog bounced out upon the topmost step. A series of short barks, a furiously wagging tail, and four capering feet plainly testified to an overmastering joy almost too large for one small body to hold.

Around the dog's neck was a collar, and to the collar was attached a stout cord, the other end of which disappeared through the half-open door-way. From a chamber window across the street Stanley Kent watched the dog and idly speculated as to just what sort of a hand held the end of that cord.

“It's one of the three,” he mused aloud.

“Eh? what?” interposed a peevish voice from the couch behind him. “I do wish, Stanley, you'd quit that absurd habit of yours of breaking out with those irrelevant, idiotic remarks. It's aggravating, mighty aggravating! What's one of three?”

The man at the window laughed with the good nature of one long-practiced in meeting petulant comments.

“It's a mystery, uncle,” he explained, “and it's at the end of a string across the street. At one end of the string is an agitated atom in the shape of a dog; consequently, at the other end I fancy there is one of three things: A ten-year-old girl, a beflounced and befurbelowed young woman, or a maiden of uncertain age but certain avoirdupoise, who—well, by Jove!” the words ended in a low whistle.

“Well,” prompted the old man from the couch.

There was no answer.

“Well,” came the querulous voice again. “Stanley, why don't you tell me?”

Still there was silence.

First one, then the other of the old man's slippered feet slid from the couch to the floor. Slowly, and with infinite pains, the long, lean body came upright and moved in an uncertain, wavering line toward the window.

“Humph!” grunted the old man over his nephew's shoulder. “I thought as much.”

Across the street the small dog still barked and danced. He was down on the walk now, and behind him,with slow, careful movements, a young woman was descending the steps. Her gown was of almost Quakerish simplicity, and her hat was guiltless of waving plume or nodding flower. Her face, pale, and rarely sweet, was upraised, and her eyes seemed to look straight ahead, not down to her hesitating feet. Her left hand, slender and ungloved grasped the dog's leader; her right, tapped the step below with a light cane.

“Blind!” cried Kent. “Who is she? Do you know anything about her? Does she live there?” he asked in quick succession, his pitying eyes still following the girl's movements.

The old man turned and shuffled back to the couch.

“'Know anything about her?' Of course I don't,” he said testily. “As if I didn't have anything to do but to keep track of strange young women!”

“Well, I haven't!” declared the younger man with sudden vehemence, catching up his hat and hurrying from the room.

Across the street the small dog pranced along the sidewalk as though aware of his high mission. Straight forward, with now and then a turn to avoid a passerby, he led the blind girl's steps until he came to the curbstone that marked the edge of the avenue which crossed the side street at right angles. There he hesitated.

Two automobiles were coming down the avenue. Kent gave an involuntary exclamation and hurried forward. The small dog staid motionless until, with a whiz and a series of toots, the swiftly revolving wheels had passed; then he jumped to the roadway and gave a gentle tug at the cord.

“Coast clear, is it, Watchout?” laughed the girl softly, and yielded herself to the dog's lead.

The avenue was not wide at this point, nor was it frequented by many vehicles. The curious little procession trailed safely across the open space—the dog, the girl, and the man—and entered the gateway to a small park set like an oasis in a desert of brick and brownstone. With the assurance of long habit the dog led his charge straight to the third settee and stopped. Kent, too, stopped a discreet distance away.

“Ah, here we are, Old Faithful!” said the girl aloud, slipping her fingers along the back of the settee. “There, now we'll rest and enjoy the scenery; won't we?” she finished gaily.

For a minute she sat there in silence, her chin uptilted, and her face turned toward the light breeze that came from the west. Five yards away the man stood motionless, forgetful of time, himself, and that his first excuse, a fear for her safety, no longer gave him leave to watch so closely and so persistently this unknown young woman in a public park. A great wrath, unreasoning and overmastering, contracted the muscles of his fingers and made tense the lines around his mouth. He closed his eyes and shuddered; he turned his face, his eyes still closed, from side to side. “Good God, the blackness of it!” he murmured huskily. “And she—she has it always!”

A light laugh came from the settee, and Kent's eyes flew open in amazement.

“Watch, look!” cried the girl. “The tree wants to make my acquaintance. He's reached way down here to shake hands!”

It was a maple leaf that had fallen from the tree to the girl's lap. Her slim fingers patted and smoothed the bit of yellow, then held its cool surface to her cheek.

Scarcely realizing what he was doing, Kent started forward and picked up two or three leaves from the walk. The small dog growled, and Kent came to himself.

What, indeed, had he been intending to do? Present a strange young woman with a bouquet of leaves? To Kent, it seemed at that moment as if the foliage of the entire park were far too small an offering to lay at her feet; and yet—

The small dog growled again, and the girl turned her head and listened. There was a hunted look in her wide-open eyes that made Kent anathematize himself for his thoughtlessness. Very softly he backed away, then turned and hurried from the park.

At the gateway he ran sharply into a boy.

“Well, well, my little man, I beg pardon I'm sure,” apologized Kent.

“Don't mention it, sir,” piped a high-pitched, cheerful voice. “'Twas kinder s'prisin', though!”

The boy hurried on and Kent looked after him.

A well shaped, well-poised head, a pair of square-cut shoulders, and an air of alert independence made the little fellow wonderfully attractive. The boy stopped at the third settee and threw his arms around the blind girl's neck.

“Well, by Jove!” ejaculated Kent, turning, and crossing the street.

Stanley Kent had always been “good” to his Uncle Richard, according to the verdict of numerous relatives who acknowledged the patience of the one and the querulousness of the other; but during the next week Stanley's goodness developed and increased to near a state of perfection, if to be “good”? were to make visits that were lengthy and frequent.

Even though Stanley's eyes were directed across the street, what mattered it? His ears were attentive to long tales of rheumatism. And even though Stanley's thoughts were all of a girl, a boy, and a small dog, again what mattered it? His tongue was trained to make proper replies at intervals when replies were expected.

Stanley Kent was an artist, and by the end of the week he had decided to paint the girl, the boy, and the small dog. That he was a stranger to all three added only to his scheme. At the end of two weeks he knew that the girl's name was “Dorothy Holbrook,” the boy's name, “Robert Holbrook,” and the dog's name, “Watchout.” He also knew that all three boarded with the widow Carleton who had an extra room to rent on the second floor. The third week saw him well established in Mrs. Carleton's “second floor front,” and the end of the fourth week saw the girl, the boy, and the small dog sketched in with a bit of crayon. Not on the same canvas, however; the boy and the dog had one to themselves: the girl graced another, alone.

The sittings were in Mrs. Carleton's back parlor. Perhaps the good woman's heart warmed to Kent's earnest pleadings, or perhaps her pocket-book clamored for the extra five-dollar bill Kent promised to hand over each Saturday night: at all events, her cherished back parlor was cheerfully given up to the artist whenever he wished. Mrs. Carleton herself flitted in and out of the room as often as her conscientious desire to chaperon the young people enabled her to snatch a few minutes from her breadmaking and dish washing.

And there they sat—the artist and his model; and the model was oftenest the girl. The boy loved his play, and the dog loved his nap on the rug; but the girl—and what a model she made!

At times Kent quite held his breath, so intangible and unreal seemed the loveliness that he was trying to imprison within the four edges of his canvas. At other times the dream-maiden fled, and in her place sat a girl, none the less beautiful, none the less charming, but real and bewitchingly human. It was at such times that Kent and his model talked.

“You're not tired?” he asked one day, after a long silence.

“Not a bit.”

“What a concentrated little piece of patience you are! You make a fine model.”

She laughed happily.

“Do I? I'm so glad!”

The man caught the new light on her face and warmed to his task.

“You do, surely; and I thought you would. I wanted to paint you the very first minute I saw you!”

“What! when you first came here?”

“Oh, before that,” he retorted airily.

“Before that?” There was a queer something in her voice which Kent could not understand.

“Surely,” he rejoined; “I saw you in the park. You went there with Watchout.”

She stirred uneasily.

“Yes, I—I go there often,” she murmured; then quickly, “Isn't the park beautiful? I love the big trees and the shady walks. And isn't the tiny little pond pretty? Have you seen the view from the tower? You can see away out into the country.”

The brush in Kent's fingers moved more and more slowly, then stopped altogether. Kent's hand dropped limp to his knee, and his eyes stared straight ahead.

“'Away out into the country,'” he echoed, half under his breath.

“Yes. Have you seen it?”

Kent pulled himself together with a start.

“No, but I'd like to,” he said softly. “Perhaps you'll take me; will you?” He had hesitated. To him the words seemed a cruel mockery; but the quick joy that flamed into the girl's face told him that he had made no mistake.

He was sure now of what before he had only guessed. To Dorothy, the one unpardonable sin was a word or act which made concession to the fact that she was not like other girls; and the one sure road to her heart led through natural, everyday ways that ignored her loss of sight.

It was wonderful to see how quickly her slim, swift-moving fingers would comprehend the size and shape of something new to them, and how hungrily her ears would drink in any stray bit of information regarding it, provided, always, that she had to ask no questions herself; and it was pitiful, later, to hear her eager story of the “lovely red rose,” the “dear little white kitten with the black star on his forehead,” or of Mrs. Carleton's “new black dress which was so becoming.”

Weeks passed and the picture of the girl approached completion. It was then that a curious restlessness seized Kent's model which baffled his every effort to fathom. Not until he found her one day standing before the picture, her hands outstretched, and her fingers dabbing at the paint to see if it were dry, did he think he had found a possible solution. He acted on his idea at once.

“Pretty close to being done, isn't it, Miss Holbrook?”

“It looks like it.”

Kent started. Even now he was not quite used to her way of putting things.

“I hope you'll like it all right,” he resumed with an effort. “I'm mighty proud of the way I've caught the light on your face; and that costume with its long lines and flowing draperies has proved so becoming that I know you'll feel paid for your trouble in getting into it every day or two.”

“Of course I shall!” she laughed.

“Your chin is at just the right tilt,” he went on lightly, “and your nose; oh, I've given you a fine nose, Miss Holbrook.”

The girl grew suddenly white and took one step toward him.

“And my eyes, Mr. Kent? Where am I looking?”

The man caught his breath sharply.

“Your eyes?” he faltered, his own eyes dropping to a penciled line at the bottom of the canvas, a line which told the name of the picture and which would later appear on its frame. The line contained four words and read: “The Blind Girl, Nydia.”

“Yes, am I looking up or down?” Her voice shook and was almost inaudible, so seldom was it used for questions like this.

There was no answer. Kent could not speak.

“You—you don't tell me,” she began again; then, with a sharp cry, she sprang to his side and caught his arm in her two hands. “Oh, you haven't made me blind!”

Beneath her touch the strength of the man fled. For an instant he covered her trembling hands with a warm palm; his lips parted and murmured broken, incoherent words; then a cry that was almost a sob shook his whole frame and forced the girl herself to turn comforter.

It was different after that. The girl talked at times of her two years' blindness, and even yielded to Trent's earnest entreaties and allowed her eyes to be examined by a famous oculist. The great man's verdict, that a certain course of treatment together with an operation might possibly restore the sight, was received by Kent with triumphant joy.

“There, now, I fancy things are coming out all right,” he finished, after a lengthy telling of what the doctor had said.

Miss Holbrook shook her head.

“Thank you; but all that is quite impossible.”

“Impossible!”

“Yes, it's too expensive.” There was a look on the girl's face Kent had never seen there before.

“Confound the expense!” he began, then stopped shamefacedly. “I beg your pardon, I'm sure,” he apologized in quick contrition. “But, in such a case, expense surely doesn't count!'

“But it has to with me,” she laughed. “I really haven't the money.” She paused, then went on with heightened color. “Since you are so good, I will tell you how it is. I have only an annuity. It is not large, but with careful managing Robert and I do very nicely. I even lay by a little some months, for the proverbial rainy day; but, as for anything beyond that, surely you see how impossible it is!”

“But isn't there somebody, something, some relative?”

“Not a soul.”

“Some uncle, or cousin, or great-grandfather with a superflous [sic] amount of money that he doesn't know how to spend?” persisted Kent.

The girl shook her head, but the small boy, who was near, laughed aloud.

“Oh, Dot,” he chuckled, “Mr. Kent means Uncle Jed—I know he means Uncle Jed out in Denver.”

“Hush, Bobby, hush!” she remonstrated.

“Of course I mean Uncle Jed,” declared Kent, stoutly. “We'll write to Uncle Jed.”

“No, no!” cried the girl in quick alarm. “It would be useless, quite useless. I forbid you to do such a thing!”

For some days the battle raged. To all suggestions the girl turned an ear made deaf by pride and sensitiveness. There was nothing, no one, she insisted. Once Kent swore he would take the whole expense on himself. Only once did he suggest it, however. The look on the girl's face kept him, thereafter, silent on at least one way out of the difficulty.

It was in the height of the controversy that “Uncle Jed” made a hurried trip East, and called on his neice [sic]. Kent, unaware of the man's presence, did not see him: but he heard of it afterwards, and it was the visit that gave him his idea. Calling Robert into his room, he carefully closed the door.

“My boy,” he began warily, “you and I have got a job on our hands.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Your sister can be helped, and she must be, that's all.”

“Yes, sir,” said the boy again.

“Now, listen,” resumed Kent; “your Uncle Jed has been here. He has had a splendid chance to find out all about your sister's eyes. Well, it has occurred to me that by this time he must be very anxious to do something. Rather than to take any chances on the matter, however, I have written his letter myself. Understand?”

The boy's eyes had been growing big and round. Now a far-away twinkle looked out from their blue depths.

“This letter,“ continued Kent, “inclosed in this envelope, which, as you see, bears your sister's name, will be sent to a friend of mine in Denver. He will mail it from there. When this letter comes to your sister, therefore, just tell her she's got a letter from Denver, and then read the letter!”

The small boy danced around the room.

“I'll do it! I'll do it!” he cried; “and say, you are a brick!”

Kent's long-slumbering conscience suddenly asserted itself.

“Now, have a care,” cautioned the man. “Be sure you tell the truth, Robert. You are not to say the letter is from your uncle, you understand. It is from Denver; that is all.” Then he finished impressively, “A lie, Robert, is a very bad thing, a very bad thing.”

“Yes, sir,” said Robert, demurely, and danced sideways out of the room. Ever afterwards Kent wondered if Robert did give his left eyelid a flippant little wink as he went through the chamber door.

Some days later Miss Holbrook had wonderful news to tell.

“Only think, Mr. Kent,” she began excitedly, “we have heard from our uncle out west. He enclosed a check, oh, such a big check, and asked me as a special favor to have a good oculist look at my eyes and see if something could not be done about them. He said he'd been thinking about it ever since he went home. Wasn't it lovely of him?”

“Very lovely,” agreed Kent, frowning at Robert who was giggling in the corner.

The giggle and a sudden thought brought the girl to her feet.

“Mr. Kent, you—you didn't ask him to do it?”

“I? Of course not! I never saw him at all,” declared the man, hotly. Again he wondered if he caught the flippant wink of a left eyelid from the direction of the small grinning boy.

The treatment began at once, the blind girl going to the doctor's private hospital. The day before she went, however, she asked Robert to write a letter for her to Denver. In sheer desperation the boy made a flimsy excuse and fled to his colleague for aid. Kent responded at once and walked into the back parlor where Miss Holbrook sat waiting.

“Suppose I write the letter,” he suggested. “It's almost school time, you know.”

“Thank you; if—if you will. I shouldn't let you do it,” she added quickly “only as I go to-morow, it must be written to-night.

With a grave face and steady hand Kent thanked the generous uncle for his generous gift, and told him of the doctor's hopes of ultimate success. He enclosed the missive in its envelopes, sealed it, directed it, and carried it up stairs, there to lay it away with a haste whose every movement spelled guilt.

The weeks that followed were anxious ones. The operation itself was successfully performed. Then came long days of a silent, darkened room. After a time Kent and Robert were admitted for fifteen-minute visits which were gradually increased to those of an hour. Sometimes there'd be a letter from Denver to read, a letter which necessitated a speedy return of thanks for the bank check that never failed to come. Sometimes a rare rose or a fragrant pink found its way into Dorothy's fingers. Always there was something; and to Dorothy these visits came to be the happiest hours of the day.

It was almost time for the final bandage to be taken from Dorothy's eyes when Kent was called out of the city for four days. On his return, Robert, white-faced and woeful-eyed, met him him at the house door.

“Why, Robert!”

“Oh! Oh, something awful has happened, Mr. Kent!”

The man clutched the boy's arm.

“Awful! What is it? quick!” he gasped.

“Oh—I—I can't,” wailed Robert.

Kent paled, and tightened his grasp on the boy's arm.

“Your sister, she—”

“Yes, it—it's about h—her,“ chattered the boy, vainly trying to free his arm from the vise-like grip.

“Robert, you must tell me quick! You're killing me!” cried Kent hoarsely.

“It—it's Uncle Jed. He's come East. He's down there to the doctor's. I couldn't keep him!” blurted Robert in one long breath of misery.

For a moment Kent stared, open-mouthed, at the whimpering boy; then he released his hold and fell weakly back against the door casing. The next minute his laugh, long, and unrestrained, echoed through the hall.

“And ain't it—bad?” demanded the boy in amazement.

Kent sobered instantly.

“It is bad, maybe, Bobby, there's no telling; still, it might be worse. Anyhow,” he added, after a long pause, “she can't undo what's done, if she wants to, eh?”

Kent was not present to welcome Dorothy home. He waited until all suspense was over, the last bandage off, and her restored sight a fact; then he wrote her a note and sent it down stairs by Robert.

The note was unsigned but it brought to its writer an answer in a wonderfully short time; an answer that was received from Robert's hand, not from Robert's lips. Kent tore open the envelope in feverish haste. In the middle of a sheet of paper were these words:

“Will 'Our Uncle from the West' please come down?”