The Bell in the Fog | Page 8

The fair and peaceful counties of the
south had nothing to compare in infernal grandeur with these acres of
flaming columns. The chimneys were invisible in the lower darkness of
the night; the fires might have leaped straight from the angry caldron of
the earth.
But Orth was in a subjective world, searching for all he had ever heard
of occultism. He recalled that the sinful dead are doomed, according to
this belief, to linger for vast reaches of time in that borderland which is
close to earth, eventually sent back to work out their final salvation;
that they work it out among the descendants of the people they have
wronged; that suicide is held by the devotees of occultism to be a
cardinal sin, abhorred and execrated.
Authors are far closer to the truths enfolded in mystery than ordinary
people, because of that very audacity of imagination which irritates
their plodding critics. As only those who dare to make mistakes
succeed greatly, only those who shake free the wings of their
imagination brush, once in a way, the secrets of the great pale world. If
such writers go wrong, it is not for the mere brains to tell them so.
Upon Orth's return to Chillingsworth, he called at once upon the child,
and found her happy among his gifts. She put her arms about his neck,
and covered his serene unlined face with soft kisses. This completed
the conquest. Orth from that moment adored her as a child, irrespective
of the psychological problem.
Gradually he managed to monopolize her. From long walks it was but a

step to take her home for luncheon. The hours of her visits lengthened.
He had a room fitted up as a nursery and filled with the wonders of
toyland. He took her to London to see the pantomimes; two days before
Christmas, to buy presents for her relatives; and together they strung
them upon the most wonderful Christmas-tree that the old hall of
Chillingsworth had ever embraced. She had a donkey-cart, and a
trained nurse, disguised as a maid, to wait upon her. Before a month
had passed she was living in state at Chillingsworth and paying daily
visits to her mother. Mrs. Root was deeply flattered, and apparently
well content. Orth told her plainly that he should make the child
independent, and educate her, meanwhile. Mrs. Root intended to spend
six months in England, and Orth was in no hurry to alarm her by
broaching his ultimate design.
He reformed Blanche's accent and vocabulary, and read to her out of
books which would have addled the brains of most little maids of six;
but she seemed to enjoy them, although she seldom made a comment.
He was always ready to play games with her, but she was a gentle little
thing, and, moreover, tired easily. She preferred to sit in the depths of a
big chair, toasting her bare toes at the log-fire in the hall, while her
friend read or talked to her. Although she was thoughtful, and, when
left to herself, given to dreaming, his patient observation could detect
nothing uncanny about her. Moreover, she had a quick sense of humor,
she was easily amused, and could laugh as merrily as any child in the
world. He was resigning all hope of further development on the
shadowy side when one day he took her to the picture-gallery.
It was the first warm day of summer. The gallery was not heated, and
he had not dared to take his frail visitor into its chilly spaces during the
winter and spring. Although he had wished to see the effect of the
picture on the child, he had shrunk from the bare possibility of the very
developments the mental part of him craved; the other was warmed and
satisfied for the first time, and held itself aloof from disturbance. But
one day the sun streamed through the old windows, and, obeying a
sudden impulse, he led Blanche to the gallery.
It was some time before he approached the child of his earlier love.

Again he hesitated. He pointed out many other fine pictures, and
Blanche smiled appreciatively at his remarks, that were wise in
criticism and interesting in matter. He never knew just how much she
understood, but the very fact that there were depths in the child beyond
his probing riveted his chains.
Suddenly he wheeled about and waved his hand to her prototype.
"What do you think of that?" he asked. "You remember, I told you of
the likeness the day I met you."
She looked indifferently at the picture, but he noticed that her color
changed oddly; its pure white tone gave place to an equally delicate
gray.
"I have seen it before," she said. "I came in here one day to