Suzanna Stirs the Fire Part 39

Mr. Bartlett took the proffered chair. He looked about the dim room and could see in outline the machine.

"David has told you something of my invention, I remember and its object," said Mr. Procter.

"Yes, David has told me," Mr. Bartlett replied. "You're attempting a tremendously big thing, Mr. Procter. David told me about the colors and your theory of their meaning."

"Yes. Did David tell you, too, that my daughter Suzanna produced on the plate of the machine purple and gold? In my book I had written down . . .

'Purple: high talent for writing.'"

Mr. Bartlett hesitated a moment before replying.

"But it hasn't been proven that Suzanna can write. You will have to wait a few years for evidence."

"True, still she is talented. I may dare say that even though I happen to be her father. She possesses an insatiable curiosity concerning life, the divine birthright of the artist, the creator."

"Still I'm not convinced that such a machine as David drew for me is possible," said Mr. Bartlett. "I can understand that if you place a person in contact with an instrument and proceed to change his circulation by arousing his emotions that chemical change might be registered upon a sensitive plate. But how can a mere machine be so miraculous as to show forth by color or any other method one's 'meaning'? It's too big for my imagination, that's all. There are so many parts that go to make up a human being, so many points in his favor for a certain line of work, so many against it."

Still the inventor did not speak. And so Mr. Bartlett continued: "There's a man's state of health, his sympathies, his hereditary tendencies; all to be considered."

"Well, you see," Mr. Procter answered at last, "the elements you enumerate are but results of evolution, of environment, of education, and do not alter the purpose for which the man was born. And that purpose, even though given no chance to work itself out, is so vital a part of the man that it remains an undying flame going on into eternity."

Mr. Bartlett did not answer.

"Will you let me make a color test of you, Mr. Bartlett?" the inventor asked at length.

"Yes, though I am very skeptical."

He seated himself before the machine. Mr. Procter let the helmet down till it was just above the subject's head. "You see no part of the instrument touches you," he said. "There's no opportunity to say that chemical changes in the circulation are the cause of the color produced. Now please watch the gla.s.s plate." Mr. Bartlett did as directed. For some moments the plate remained clear, then rays of color played upon it.

"Green, a rare, soft green," said Mr. Procter. He went on slowly but without hesitation. "The color of poetry. That color belongs in one who lies on the gra.s.s and gazes at the sky--and dreams; dreams to waken men's souls with the beauty of his music--a poet, a maker of songs, to uplift, to keep man's eyes from the ground."

The light faded, the little clicking sound ceased, and yet Mr. Bartlett did not speak. If in his mind there dwelt the memory of an overstuffed drawer with reams of paper covered with verses, he said nothing. His face gave no evidence to the inventor of his thoughts.

At last he roused himself, shrugged his shoulders. "My dear man," he said, "did you ever hear of a poet at heart making a fortune as I have done?"

"It could be done," returned Mr. Procter sadly, "even by a poet."

Mr. Bartlett rose. "I did not aver," continued Mr. Procter, "that you could only be a poet. I said that your real meaning was to give to the world the rare visions which grew in your heart."

Mr. Bartlett gazed with some astonishment at the machine.

"The day when Suzanna was born, as I stood looking down at her, the thought came winging to me that she had come charged with a purpose which she alone could fulfill. And so was planted the first seed in my mind for the making of my machine."

Mr. Bartlett spoke again after a silence given to some pondering.

"Still, Procter, have you thought how impractical the machine must prove to be? The world is after all as it is. Suppose a man, a poor young man, has a rare gift. He must eat to live; he may have to support others. How is he going to develop that gift?"

The inventor's face was suddenly filled with a fine light. He laid his hand on Mr. Bartlett's arm. "There, sir, as I told John Ma.s.sey, is where the capitalist seeking to invest his money in the highest way finds his great chance. He helps that young man to live in comfort while he is developing his talent."

"Well," said Mr. Bartlett, "it's all very interesting, and if you will let me, I'll do all I can to help you. We can talk of that at some other time." He paused, and then said: "I hear John Ma.s.sey has bought out the hardware store here. I can't understand his object, but you may lose your position. Have you thought of what you could do in that event?"

"No, I haven't."

"I came primarily to see your machine," Mr. Bartlett continued, "but I had another object too. You know I have had tents put up in my yard for those who were made homeless by the fire. And now I find it necessary to go away in order to attend to some large interests. Can I make you my steward over these people--at a salary, while I am away?

"There will be enough for you to do," continued Mr. Bartlett. "My wife is away; my boy Graham will soon be in the city with his tutor. I shall be back here before the severe weather sets in and see that these people in some way are comfortably housed and provided for; but in the meantime I want you."

"I'll be glad to do all I can," said Mr. Procter at last; then fervently, "and thank you."

Someone knocked softly, and Suzanna entered. "This special letter came for you, daddy," she said. "Mother said I might bring it up to you."

Mr. Procter took the letter, looked curiously at it before tearing it open. He glanced through its contents, held it a second while he looked away then he went through it again. It ran:

Dear Procter:

You've known for some time that Job Doane is running the hardware shop in my interest. I bought the place for a future purpose, never mind that purpose, it isn't of interest to you or anyone in Anchorville. I am confined to my room with an attack of rheumatism, so I can't see you to talk over a scheme which I have in mind. I will say that I have concluded all arrangements to rebuild homes for the men and their families who were burned out some time ago, and I want you to act as my agent. No sentiment in building these up-to-date houses, let me a.s.sure you. Only perhaps I've given some thought to Suzanna's little wrist chain. Come to me within a day or two and we'll talk over salary, and other things of interest to you.

Yours, John Ma.s.sey.

Suzanna plunged into the ensuing quiet. "Is there any answer, daddy?"

she asked.

Mr. Procter looked at his small daughter through a mist, then at Mr.

Bartlett still standing regarding him somewhat curiously. "No, no answer," he said at last, "but I want to see your mother--right away."

BOOK III

CHAPTER XXII

HAPPY DAYS

Summer once again, with the flowers abloom and all the richness of the season scattered lavishly about. The Procter house seemed more colorful too, perhaps because it had acquired within some late months a new coat of paint.

Once inside if you were familiar enough to go upstairs, you could not find the steps which had been wont to creak. And peeping into the parlor you could see that some pretty new furniture had taken the place of the shaky old lounge and chairs; one good marine picture hung between the windows and a new rug lay upon the hardwood floor.

Two years had gone since the fire, two years bringing some changes.

Suzanna had shot up. She was a tall, slim girl now, though with the same dark, questioning eyes. She stood one Sat.u.r.day morning in the kitchen making a cake, yes, actually stirring the mixture all by herself in the brown earthen vessel.

Her mother, hovering near, was offering comment and a few directions.

Between times she attended to the "baby," a baby no longer since he was nearly four years old. Maizie, coming in from the yard with Peter behind her, stopped short at sight of Suzanna's work.

"When can I make a cake, mother?" she asked. Her small face was as plump, as childlike as ever. The same sweetness of expression was hers, the same admiration in her eyes for her "big" sister.