friend of Emerson,” “the correspondent of Hawthorne,” or (later still) “the Dr. Anson” mentioned in their letters. The change had taken place as slowly and imperceptibly as a natural process. She could not say that any ruthless hand had stripped the leaves from the tree: it was simply that, among the evergreen glories of his group, her grandfather’s had proved deciduous.
She had still to ask herself why. If the decay had been a natural process, was it not the very pledge of renewal? It was easier to find such arguments than to be convinced by them. Again and again she tried to drug her solicitude with analogies; but at last she saw that such expedients were but the expression of a growing incredulity. The best way of proving her faith in her grandfather was not to be afraid of his critics. She had no notion where these shadowy antagonists lurked; for she had never heard of the great man’s doctrine being directly combated. Oblique assaults there must have been, however, Parthian shots at the giant that none dared face; and she thirsted to close with such assailants. The difficulty was to find them. She began by rereading the Works; thence she passed to the writers of the same school, those whose rhetoric bloomed perennial in First Readers from which her grandfather’s prose had long since faded. Amid that clamor of far-off enthusiasms she detected no controversial note. The little knot of Olympians held their views in common with an early-Christian promiscuity. They were continually proclaiming their admiration for each other, the public joining as chorus in this guileless antiphon of praise; and she discovered no traitor in their midst.
What then had happened? Was it simply that the main current of thought had set another way? Then why did the others survive? Why were they still marked down as tributaries to the philosophic stream? This question carried her still farther afield, and she pressed on with the passion of a champion whose reluctance to know the worst might be construed into a doubt of his cause. At length—slowly but inevitably—an explanation shaped itself. Death had overtaken the doctrines about which her grandfather had draped his cloudy rhetoric. They had disintegrated and been reabsorbed, adding their little pile to the dust drifted about the mute lips of the Sphinx. The great man’s contemporaries had survived not by reason of what they taught, but of what they were; and he, who had been the mere mask through which they mouthed their lesson, the instrument on which their tune was played, lay buried deep among the obsolete tools of thought.
The discovery came to Paulina suddenly. She looked up one evening from her reading and it stood before her like a ghost. It had entered her life with stealthy steps, creeping close before she was aware of it. She sat in the library, among the carefully-tended books and portraits; and it seemed to her that she had been walled alive into a tomb hung with the effigies of dead ideas. She felt a desperate longing to escape into the outer air, where people toiled and loved, and living sympathies went hand in hand. It was the sense of wasted labor that oppressed her; of two lives consumed in that ruthless process that uses generations of effort to build a single cell. There was a dreary parallel between her grandfather’s fruitless toil and her own unprofitable sacrifice. Each in turn had kept vigil by a corpse.
III
The bell rang—she remembered it afterward—with a loud thrilling note. It was what they used to call the “visitor’s ring”; not the tentative tinkle of a neighbor dropping in to borrow a saucepan or discuss parochial incidents, but a decisive summons from the outer world.
Miss Anson put down her knitting and listened. She sat upstairs now, making her rheumatism an excuse for avoiding the rooms below. Her interests had insensibly adjusted themselves to the perspective of her neighbors’ lives, and she wondered—as the bell re-echoed—if it could mean that Mrs. Heminway’s baby had come. Conjecture had time to ripen into certainty, and she was limping toward the closet where her cloak and bonnet hung, when her little maid fluttered in with the announcement: “A gentleman to see the house.”
“The House?”
“Yes, m’m. I don’t know what he means,” faltered the messenger, whose memory did not embrace the period when such announcements were a daily part of the domestic routine.
Miss Anson glanced at the proffered card. The name it bore—_Mr. George Corby_—was unknown to her, but the blood rose to her languid cheek. “Hand me my Mechlin cap, Katy,” she said, trembling a little, as she laid aside her walking stick. She put her cap on before the mirror, with rapid unsteady touches. “Did you draw up the library blinds?” she breathlessly asked.
She had gradually built up a wall of commonplace between herself and her illusions, but at the first summons of the past filial passion swept away the frail barriers of expediency.
She walked downstairs so hurriedly that her stick clicked like a girlish heel; but in the hall she paused, wondering nervously if Katy had put a match to the fire. The autumn air was cold and she had the reproachful vision of a visitor with elderly ailments shivering by her inhospitable hearth. She thought instinctively of the stranger as a survivor of the days when such a visit was a part of the young enthusiast’s itinerary.
The fire was unlit and the room forbiddingly cold; but the figure which, as Miss Anson entered, turned from a lingering scrutiny of the bookshelves, was that of a fresh-eyed sanguine youth clearly independent of any artificial caloric. She stood still a moment, feeling herself the victim of some anterior impression that made this robust presence an insubstantial thing; but the young man advanced with an air of genial assurance which rendered him at once more real and more reminiscent.
“Why this, you know,” he exclaimed, “is simply immense!”
The words, which did not immediately present themselves as slang to Miss Anson’s unaccustomed ear, echoed with an odd familiarity through the academic silence.
“The room, you know, I mean,” he explained with a comprehensive gesture. “These jolly portraits, and the books—that’s the old gentleman himself over the mantelpiece, I suppose?—and the elms outside, and—and the whole business. I do like a congruous background—don’t you?”
His hostess was silent. No one but Hewlett Winsloe had ever spoken of her grandfather as “the old gentleman.”
“It’s a hundred times better than I could have hoped,” her visitor continued, with a cheerful disregard of her silence. “The seclusion, the remoteness, the philosophic atmosphere—there’s so little of that kind of flavor left! I should have simply hated to find that he lived over a grocery, you know.—I had the deuce of a time finding out where he did live,” he began again, after another glance of parenthetical enjoyment. “But finally I got on the trail through some old book on Brook Farm. I was bound I’d get the environment right before I did my article.”
Miss Anson, by this time, had recovered sufficient self-possession to seat herself and assign a chair to her visitor.
“Do I understand,” she asked slowly, following his rapid eye about the room, “that you intend to write an article about my grandfather?”
“That’s what I’m here for,” Mr. Corby genially responded; “that is, if you’re willing to help me; for I can’t get on without your help,” he added with a confident smile.
There was another pause, during which Miss Anson noticed a fleck of dust on the faded leather of the writing-table and a fresh spot of discoloration in the right-hand upper corner of Raphael Morghen’s “Parnassus.”
“Then you believe in him?” she said, looking up. She could not tell what had prompted her; the words rushed out irresistibly.
“Believe in him?” Corby cried, springing to his feet. “Believe in Orestes Anson? Why, I believe he’s simply the greatest—the most stupendous—the most phenomenal figure we’ve got!”
The
