The Bell in the Fog | Page 5

was
gratified to come thus publicly into his estate, but soon reminded
himself that all the adulation of which a belated world was capable
could not give him one thrill of the pleasure which the companionship
of that book had given him, while creating. It was the keenest pleasure
in his memory, and when a man is fifty and has written many books,
that is saying a great deal.
He allowed what society was in town to lavish honors upon him for
something over a month, then cancelled all his engagements and went
down to Chillingsworth.

His estate was in Hertfordshire, that county of gentle hills and tangled
lanes, of ancient oaks and wide wild heaths, of historic houses, and
dark woods, and green fields innumerable--a Wordsworthian shire,
steeped in the deepest peace of England. As Orth drove towards his
own gates he had the typical English sunset to gaze upon, a red streak
with a church spire against it. His woods were silent. In the fields, the
cows stood as if conscious of their part. The ivy on his old gray towers
had been young with his children.
He spent a haunted night, but the next day stranger happenings began.
II
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