"If my Mary were living this story would never have been told; but she
has been a blessed spirit now these many years, and has doubtless long
known it, and has judged my conduct righteously. Such is my belief."
Here he made a reverent pause, and then began again:

"In my early youth I left, for some two or three years, the beaten
track--so to speak--of mathematics; or, more properly, mechanics. For I
interested myself in inventing, with more or less success, certain
scientific machines.

"One of the most successful of these various contrivances, and the one,
indeed, in which I was most deeply interested, was a small machine very
much resembling in appearance the tube, with a mouth-piece at one end
and an ear-piece at the other, frequently used by deaf persons, but very
different in its construction and action. In the ordinary instrument the
words spoken into the mouth-piece are carried through the tube to the
ear, and are then heard exactly as they are spoken. When I used my
instrument the person spoke into the mouth-piece exactly as if it were
an ordinary tube, but the result was very different, for the great
feature of my invention was that, no matter what language was spoken by
the person at the mouth-piece, be it Greek, Choctaw, or Chinese, the
words came to the ear in perfect English.

"This translation was accomplished by means of certain delicate
machinery contained in the end of the mouth-piece, which was longer and
larger than that of the ordinary ear-tube, but the outward appearance of
which did not indicate that it held anything extraordinary. It would
take too long to explain this mechanism to you, and you would not be
interested; nor is it necessary to my story.

"When, after countless experiments and disappointments, and days and
nights of hard study and hard work, I finished my little machine, which
I called a translatophone, I was naturally anxious to see how it would
work with some other person than myself at the mouth-piece. In the
course of its construction I had frequently tried the machine by putting
the ear-piece into my ear and speaking into the mouth-piece such scraps
of foreign languages as I was able to command. These experiments were
generally satisfactory, but I could not be satisfied that the machine
was a success until some one else should speak into it in some foreign
tongue of which I knew positively nothing, so that it would be
impossible for me to translate it unconsciously.

"This was not an easy thing, and I had determined I would not explain my
invention to the public until I had assured myself that it worked
perfectly, and until I had had my property in the invention secured to
me by patent right. To go to a foreigner and ask him to speak into my
instrument, using a language he could readily assure himself I did not
speak or understand, would be the same thing as an avowal of what the
translatophone was intended to do. I thought of several plans, but none
suited me. I did not want to pretend to be deaf, and, even if I did so,
I could not explain why I wished to be spoken to in a language I did not
use myself.

"In the midst of my cogitations and uncertainties, I received a note
from Mary Armat which, for a time, drove from my mind all thought of
translatophone and everything concerning it.

"Miss Mary Armat and I had been friends since the days in which we went
to school together. I had always liked her above the other girls of my
acquaintance, and about three years previous to the time of this story I
had almost made up my mind that I was in love with her, and that I would
tell her so. This, however, I had not done. At that time I had become
intensely interested in some of my inventions, and, although my feelings
toward Mary Armat had not in the least changed, I did not visit her as
often as had been my custom, and when I did see her I am afraid I told
her more about mechanical combinations than she cared to hear. But so
engrossed was I that I stupidly failed to notice this, and I did not
perceive that I had been neglecting the most favorable opportunities of
declaring the state of my affections until she informed me, not in a
private interview, but in the midst of her family circle, that she had
made up her mind to become a missionary and go to India to work among
the heathen. I was greatly shocked, but I could say nothing then, and
afterwards had no opportunity to say anything.

"I did not write to Mary, because she was a most independent and
high-spirited girl, and I knew it must be spoken words and not written
ones which would satisfy her that I had had good reasons for postponing
a declaration of love to her until she had left the country.

"So she went to Burma. I frequently heard of her, but we did not
correspond. She had gone into her new work with great zeal. She had
learned the Burmese tongue, and had even translated a little English
book into that language. For some time she had seemed well satisfied;
but I heard through her family that she was getting tired of her Eastern
life. The rainy seasons were disagreeable to her, the dry seasons did
not agree with her; her school duties were becoming very monotonous; and
she had found out that in her heart she did not care for the heathen,
especially for heathen children. Therefore she had resigned her position
and was on her way home. The note I received from her informed me that
she had arrived in New York the day before, and that she would be very
glad if I would come to see her."

"_She_ did a sensible thing, anyway," commented the Master of the House.

The Daughter of the House opened her mouth to say: "I do not like her.
She had no enthusiasm, or real goodness, to give up her work so soon and
for such reasons." But she suddenly reflected that Mary had been the
speaker's wife, and she shut her mouth with a little vicious snap.

"I went to the Armat house that evening, and I found there a very lively
girl awaiting me. Her parents and her two sisters had gone out, and we
had the parlor to ourselves. Life in Burma may not have suited Mary
Armat, but it certainly had improved her, for she was much more charming
than when I had last seen her. Moreover, she was so very friendly, and
without doubt so glad to see me, she was so bright and full of high
spirits, that it might have been supposed she had arranged matters so
that we could have the evening to ourselves, and was eminently pleased
with her success.

"I admired her more and more every time I looked at her, and I
determined that, as soon as the proper time should come, I would make
earnest love to her, and tell her what, perhaps, I should have told her
long ago. But just now I had other matters on my mind.

"Above all things I wanted Mary to talk into my translatophone, and to
speak in Burmese. I knew nothing whatever of that language, and if she
should speak it, and the words should come to my ears in pure English,
then no further experiment would be necessary, no doubts could possibly
exist. But until I had made this test I did not want her to know what
the instrument was intended to do; it was barely possible she might play
a trick on me and speak in English. But if the thing succeeded I would
tell her everything. We two should be the sole owners of the secret of
my great invention--an invention which would not only benefit the
English-speaking world, but which might be adapted to the language of
any nation, and which would make us rich beyond all ordinary
probabilities.

"As soon as I had the opportunity I began to speak of the work I had
been engaged upon during Mary's absence; and when I approached the
subject I thought I saw on her face an expression which seemed to say,
'Oh, dear! are you going to begin on that tiresome business again?' But
I was not to be turned from my purpose. Such an opportunity as this was
too valuable, too important, to be slighted or set aside for anything
else. In a few minutes I might discover whether this invention of mine
was a success or a failure. I took my translatophone from my pocket, and
laid it on the table beside us.

"'What's that?' she exclaimed. 'You don't mean to tell me you have
become hard of hearing?'

"'Oh, no,' said I; 'my hearing is just as good as it ever was.'

"'But that is a thing deaf people use,' she said.

"'Well, yes,' I answered; 'it could be used by deaf people, I suppose,
although I have never tried it in that way. It is my latest and, I
think, my most important invention. It would take too long to explain
its mechanism just now--'

"'Indeed it would,' she interrupted quickly.

"'But what I want to do,' I continued, 'is to make a little trial of it
with you.'

"'If you mean you want me to speak into that thing,' she said, 'I do not
want to do it. I should hate to think you are deaf and needed anything
of the sort. Please put it away; I do not even like the looks of it.'

"But I persisted; I told her that I greatly desired that she should
speak a few sentences in Burmese into my instrument. I had a certain
reason for this which I would explain afterwards.

"'But you do not understand Burmese,' she said in surprise.

"'Not a word of it,' I answered. 'I do not know how it sounds when it is
spoken, nor how it looks when it is written. But there are certain tones
and chords, and all that sort of thing, in the foreign languages which
are very interesting, no matter whether you understand the language or
not.'

"'Oh, it is a sort of musical thing, then,' she said.

"'I will not say it is exactly that,' I replied. 'But if you will simply
speak to me in Burmese for a minute or two, that is all I ask of you,
and afterwards we can talk about its construction and object.'

"'Oh, I do not want to talk any more about it,' said she; 'but if it
will satisfy you, I will say a few words to you in Burmese. Do you speak
into this hole?' she said as she took up the instrument.

"I arranged the ear-piece very carefully, and covered my other ear with
my hand. Immediately she began to speak to me, and every word came to me
in clear and beautiful English! But I knew, as well as I knew that I
lived, that the words she spoke were Burmese, or belonged to some other
language which she knew I did not understand. The proof of this was in
the words themselves.

"'I think you are perfectly horrid,' she said, 'and I am glad to have
an opportunity to tell you so, even though you do not understand me. I
cannot imagine how anybody can be so stupid as to want to talk about
horrible ear-trumpets the first time he meets a girl whom he has not
seen for years, and who used to like him so much, and who likes him
still in spite of his cruel stupidity. I wonder why you thought I wanted
to see you the minute I got home? I am awfully disappointed in you, for
I did think you would talk to me in a very different way the first time
you saw me. And now I am going to tell you something--and I would rather
cut my tongue out than say it in English, but it gives me a wicked
delight to say it in Burmese: I love you, John Howard. I have loved you
for a long time; and that is the reason I went to Burma; and now that I
have come back I am obliged to say that I love you still. If you could
invent some sort of a tube that would make you see better with your eyes
and understand better with your mind, it would be a great deal more
suitable than this horrid, snake-like thing for your ear. I do not
suppose you will ever hear me speak this way in English, but I tell you
again, John Howard, that I love you, and it makes me sick to think what
a goose you are.'

"'Now, then,' she said, putting down the tube, 'was there anything
peculiar in the tones and chords of that bit of foreign language?'

"Fortunately the only light in the room was behind me, and therefore
I had reason to hope that she did not observe the expression of my
countenance. Moreover, as soon as she had finished speaking she had
turned her face away from me, and was now leaning back in her chair,
her mouth tightly shut and her wide-open eyes directed on the opposite
wall. She looked like a woman who had taken a peculiar revenge, and
who, in the taking of it, had aroused her soul in its utmost recesses.

"For some moments I did not answer her question. In fact, I could not
speak at all. My thoughts were in a mad whirl. Not only had I discovered
that my invention, the hope of my life, was an absolute success, but I
was most powerfully impressed by the conviction that now I could never
tell Mary what my invention was intended to do, for then she would know
what it had done.

"'Yes,' I answered, speaking slowly; 'there was a sort of accord, a kind
of--'

"I was interrupted in what would have been a very labored sentence by
the ringing of the door-bell. Mary instantly rose. It was plain she was
laboring under suppressed excitement, for there was no other reason why
she should have jumped up in that way. She looked as if she were anxious
to see some one, no matter who it was. I, too, felt relieved by the
interruption. In my state of wildly conflicting emotions any third
person would be a relief.

"The door opened, and Miss Sarah Castle walked in. 'Oh, Mary,' she
exclaimed, 'I am so glad to find you at home! As it isn't late and the
moon is so bright, I thought I would run over to see you for a few
minutes. Oh, Mr. Howard!'

"Sarah Castle was a young woman for whom I had no fancy. Active in mind
and body, and apparently constructed of thoroughly well-seasoned
material, she was quick to notice, eager to know, and ready at all times
to display an interest in the affairs of her friends, with which, in
most cases, said friends would willingly have dispensed. As she took a
seat she exclaimed:

"'You don't mean to say, Mary, that you went deaf in Burma?'

"Unfortunately I had forgotten to put my translatophone into my pocket,
and it was lying in full view on the table. Mary gave a scornful glance
toward the innocent tube.

"'Oh, that?' she said. 'That is not mine. It belongs to Mr. Howard.'

"The words 'Mr. Howard' grated upon my nerves. Up to this moment, except
through the translatophone, she had not addressed me by my name in any
form; and every tentative lover knows that when his lady addresses him
as though he had no name it means that she does not wish to use his
formal title and that the time has not arrived for her to call him by
his Christian name.

"'You deaf?' cried Sarah, turning to me. 'I have never heard anything of
that. When did it come on? It must have been very recent.'

"'Oh, he isn't deaf,' said Mary, impatiently. 'It is only one of his
inventions. But tell me something of your brothers. I have not heard a
word about them yet.'

"But the knowledge-loving Sarah was not to be bluffed off in this way.

"'Oh, they are all right,' said she. 'They are both in college now. But
Mr. Howard deaf! I am truly amazed. Do you have to talk to him through
this, Mary?'

"Mary Armat was not an ill-natured girl, but, as I said before, she was
a high-spirited one, and was at the time in a state of justifiable
irritation.

"'Oh, bother that thing!' she answered. 'I told you it is only one of
his inventions, and I wish he would put it in his pocket.'

"'Not just yet,' said Sarah. 'I am really anxious to know about it. Why
do you use it, Mr. Howard, if you are not deaf?'

"My face must have displayed my extreme embarrassment at this
unanswerable question, for Mary came to my relief.

"'Oh, it is a kind of musical instrument,' she said. 'But don't let us
talk any more about it. This is the second time I have seen you, but we
have not really had a good chance to say anything to each other.'

"I took advantage of this very strong hint, and rose.

"'Musical!' exclaimed the irrepressible Sarah. 'Oh, Mr. Howard, please
play on it just the least little bit!'

"Mary allowed herself an expression of extreme disgust. 'Please not
while I am present,' she said; 'I could not abide it.'

"I now advanced to take my leave.

"'Do not go just now,' said Sarah; 'I merely ran over for a minute to
ask Mary about the Wilmer reception; but as you are going, Mr. Howard,
you might as well see me home. It is later now.'

"I retired to a book-table at the other end of the parlor, and it was a
good deal later when the two young ladies had finished talking about
the Wilmer reception.

"'I do not understand it at all,' said Miss Castle, when we were on the
sidewalk. 'You are not deaf, Mr. Howard, and yet you use an ear-trumpet.
What does it mean?'

"Of course I did not know what to say, but I had to say something, and,
moreover, that something must not be wholly inconsistent with my
explanation to Mary.

"'Oh, it is a thing,' I answered, 'that is intended to be used in
connection with foreign languages.' Then I made a bold stroke: 'It shows
the difference in their resonant rhythms.'

"'Well, I am sure I do not understand that,' said Miss Castle. 'But what
is the good of it? Does it make them any pleasanter to listen to?'

"I admitted that it did.

"'Whether you understand them or not?' she asked.

"If this young woman had at this moment fallen down a coal-hole I cannot
truthfully say that I should have regretted it.

"'I cannot explain that, Miss Castle,' I said, 'for it would take a long
time, and here we are at your door.'

"'Come in and let me try it,' said Sarah.

"'Thank you very much,' I replied, 'but I really cannot. I have an
engagement at my club. In fact, I was just going to take leave of Miss
Armat when you came in.'

"She looked at me scrutinizingly. 'You used to call her Mary Armat
when you spoke of her,' said she, 'but I suppose her having been a
missionary makes a difference in that way. I do not believe much in club
engagements, but of course we have to recognize them. And if you cannot
come in now I wish you would call on me soon. If your invention has
anything to do with foreign languages I truly want to try it. I am
studying German now, and if it will put any resonant rhythm into that
language it will be very interesting.'

"I made a hasty and indefinite promise, and gladly saw the front door
shut behind Miss Sarah Castle.

"That night I did not sleep; in fact, I did not go to bed. The words
Mary Armat had spoken to me in Burmese should have completely engrossed
my every thought, but they did not. For one moment my mind was filled
with rapture by the knowledge that I was loved by this lovely girl; and
in the next I was overwhelmed by anxiety as to what should be done to
make it impossible for her to know that I knew she had spoken those
words. But whether my thoughts made me happy or distressed me, there
seemed to be but one way out of my troubles; I must be content with
Mary's love, that is, if I should be so fortunate as to secure it. There
might be doubts about this; women are fickle creatures, and Mary had
been very much provoked with me when I parted from her."

"I see what is coming," here interrupted the Next Neighbor, "and I don't
approve of it at all!"

"It would be hard," continued the Old Professor, after pausing for
further remarks, "to turn my back upon the golden future which my
invention would give to Mary and me; but I must win her, golden future
or not. I sat before my study fire, and planned out my future actions.
As soon as I could see Mary alone I would tell her my love, and I would
explain to her why I had not spoken when I first saw her. But in order
to do this I should have to be very careful. I would say nothing but the
truth, but I would be very guarded in telling that truth. She must not
imagine that anything she had said had made me speak. She must not
imagine that I thought she expected me to speak.

"I would begin by asking her pardon for worrying her with my invention
when I knew she disliked problematic mechanics. Then I would tell her,
in as few words as possible, that I had expected this little instrument
to give me fame and fortune, and therefore I wanted her to know all
about it; and then, before she could ask me why I wanted her to know
this, I would tell her it was because I wished to lay that fame and
fortune at her feet. After that, in the best way my ardent feelings
should dictate, I would offer myself to her without fortune, without
fame, just the plain John Howard who loved her with all his heart. If
she accepted me, I would tell her that the invention had not worked as I
had intended it should, and therefore I should put it behind me
forever."

"Oh, dear!" cried the Next Neighbor. "I knew it was coming!"

"Maybe it didn't," said the Master of the House.

"Having come to a decision," the Old Professor went on, with more
animation, "upon this most important matter, my mind grew easier and I
became happier. What was anything a black tube could do for me--what,
indeed, was anything in the world--compared to the love of that dear
girl? And so I sat and gazed into the fire, and dreamed waking dreams
of blessedness.

"After a time, however, it came to me that I must make up my mind what I
was going to do about the translatophone. I might as well take it apart
and throw it into the fire at once, and then there would be an end to
that danger to the future of which I had been dreaming. Yes; there would
be an end to that. But there would also be an end to the great boon I
was about to bestow upon the world, a boon the value of which I had not
half understood. It truly was a wonderful thing--a most wonderful thing.
An American or an Englishman, or any one speaking English, could take
with him a translatophone and travel around the world, understanding the
language of every nation, of every people--the polished tongues of
civilization, the speech of the scholars of the Orient, and even the
jabber of the wild savages of Africa. To be sure, he could not expect to
answer those who spoke to him, but what of that? He would not wish to
speak; he would merely desire to hear. All he would have to do would be
to pretend that he was deaf and dumb, and my simple translatophone might
put him into communication with the minds of every grade and variety of
humanity.

"Then a new thought flashed into my mind. Why only humanity? If I should
attach a wide mouth-piece to my instrument, why should I not gather in
the songs and cries of the birds? Why should I not hear in plain English
what they say to each other? Why should not all creation speak to me so
that I could understand? Why should I not know what the dog says when he
barks--what words the hen addresses to her chicks when she clucks to
them to follow? Why should I not know the secrets of what is now to us a
tongue-tied world of nature?

[Illustration: And dreamed waking dreams of blessedness.]

"Then I had another idea, that made me jump from my chair and walk the
floor. I might know what the monkeys say when they chatter to each
other! What discovery in all natural history could be so great as this?
The thought that these little creatures, so nearly allied to man, might
disclose to me their dispositions, their hopes, their ambitions, their
hates, their reflections upon mankind, had such a sudden and powerful
influence on me that I felt like seizing my translatophone and rushing
off to the Zoölogical Gardens. It was now daybreak. I might obtain
admission!

"But I speedily dismissed this idea. If I should ever hear in English
what the monkeys might say to me, I must give up Mary. I should be the
slave of my discovery. It would be impossible then to destroy the
translatophone. I sat down again before the fire. 'Shall I put an end to
it now?' I said to myself. Nothing would be easier than to take its
delicate movements and smash them on the hearth. Now a prudent thought
came to me: suppose Mary should not accept me? Then, with this great
invention lost,--for I never should have the heart to make another,--I
should have nothing left in the world. No; I would be cautious, lest in
every way my future life should be overcast with disappointment. The sun
had risen, and I felt I must go out; I must have air. Before I opened
the front door, however, I said to myself, 'Remember it is all settled.
It is Mary you must have--that is, if you can get her.'

"Of all things in this world, the mind of man is the most independent,
the most headstrong. It will work at your bidding as long as it pleases,
and then it will strike out at its own pace and go where it chooses.
During a walk of a couple of miles I thought nearly all the time of what
the monkeys might say to me if I should attach a wide mouth-piece to my
translatophone and place it against the bars of their cage. Over and
over again I stopped these thoughts and said to myself: 'But all this is
nothing to me. I must consider Mary and nothing else.' Then in a very
few minutes I was wondering if the monkeys would ask me questions--if
they have as strong a desire to know about us as we have to know about
them. From such questions how much I might learn in regard to the mental
distance between us and them! But again I put all this away from me and
began to plan anew what I should say to Mary. And then again it was not
very long before I found myself thinking how intensely interesting it
would be to know what the tree-toads say, and what the frogs talk about
when they sit calling to each other all night. It might be a little
difficult to get near enough to tree-toads and frogs, but I believed I
could manage it.

"However, when I returned home I was thinking of Mary.

"It was early in the afternoon, and I was trying to decide what would
be the best time to visit the Armat house. The monkeys had not ceased to
worry me dreadfully, and I had begun to think that when bees buzz around
their hives they must certainly say something interesting to each other.
Then a note was brought to me from Mary. I tore it open and read:

  "'I want you to come to see me this afternoon. If you possibly can,
  come about four o'clock, and bring that speaking-tube with you. Miss
  Castle has been here nearly all the morning, and some things she has
  said to me have worried me very much. Please come, and do not forget
  the ear-trumpet.'

"This she signed merely with her initials.

"Mary's note drove to the winds monkeys, bees, and the rest of the
world. What had that wretched mischief-maker, that Castle girl, been
saying to her? I did not believe that the mind of Mary Armat was
capable of originating an unfounded suspicion of me; but the mind of
Sarah Castle was capable of originating anything. She had doubtless
suspected that there must be some extraordinary reason for my desire
to have people talk to me through a tube in a language I did not
understand. She had been too impatient to wait until she could try her
German upon me, and she had gone to Mary and had filled her mind with
horrible conjectures. One thing was certain: no matter what else
happened, I must not take that translatophone to Mary. After what
Sarah had said to her there could be no doubt that she would make me
speak to her in a foreign language through the tube. It would be easy
enough: she could give me a French book and tell me to read a few
pages. No matter how badly I should pronounce the words, they would
reach her ears in pure English!

"And then!

"I took my translatophone from the cabinet in which I kept it. The
easiest way to destroy it was to throw it at once into the fire; but
that would fill the house with the smell of burning rubber. No; it was
only necessary to destroy the internal movements. I unscrewed the long
mouth-piece, and gently withdrew from it the little membrane-covered
cylinder, not six inches in length, which formed the soul of my
invention. I took it in my hand and gazed upon it. Through its thin,
flexible, and almost transparent outer envelope I could see, as I held
it to the light, its framework, fine as the thread-like bones of a fish,
its elastic chords, its quivering diaphragms, and all the delicate
organs of its inner life. It seemed as if I could feel the palpitations
of its heart as I breathed upon it. For how many days and months had I
been working on this subtle invention--working, and thinking, and
dreaming! Here it lay, perfect, finished, ready to tell me more than any
man ever has known--a thing almost of life, and ready to be brought to
life by the voice of man or beast or bird, or perhaps of any living
thing. Could I have the heart to destroy it? Could I have the heart to
turn my back upon the gate of the world of wonders which was just
opening to me?

"'Yes,' said I to myself; 'I have the heart to do anything that will
prevent my losing the love of Mary Armat.'

"Then an evil thought came to me, and tempted me: 'If you choose you can
hear the monkeys talk and have Mary too. Everything you want is in your
own hands. Don't put that little machine back into the tube. Lock it up
safely out of sight, and then go to Mary with your instrument, and you
can talk into it and she can listen, and she may talk and you may
listen. Yes, you may have your Mary--and she need never know that you
understand what the monkeys may say to you, or what she has said to
you.'

"I am proud that I entertained this evil thought for but a very short
time. I turned upon it and stormed at it. 'No!' I exclaimed. 'I shall
never win Mary by cheating her! Whether I get her or not, I will be
worthy of her.'

"Then there came another thought, apparently innocent and certainly
persuasive. 'Do not destroy the translatophone. Then, if things do not
turn out well between you and Mary, you will still have the monkeys.'

"'No,' I said to myself; 'I must have Mary. I will have nothing to fall
back upon. I will allow nothing to exist that might draw me back.'

"There was another thing I might do: I might take my translatophone to
her, and explain everything. But would there be any possibility, even if
she did not fly from me in shame and never see me again, that I could
make her believe in a love which had been so spurred on, even aroused,
as she might well imagine mine had been? No; that would never do. Apart
from anything else, it would be impossible for me to be so cruel as to
let Mary know I had understood the Burmese words she had spoken to me.

"I looked at the clock; it was half-past three. Whatever was to be done
must be done now. I cast one more look of longing affection upon the
quivering, throbbing little creature, which to me was as much alive as
if it had been a tired bird panting in my hand; and then I gently laid
it on the hearth. I lifted my left foot and let it hang for an instant
over the hopes, the fears, the anxieties, the happy day-dreams those
early years of my life had given me, and then, with relentless cruelty,
not only to that quivering object but to myself, I brought down my foot
with all my strength!

"There was a slight struggle for an instant, during which there came to
me quick, muffled sounds, which to my agitated brain sounded like the
moans of despair from that vast world of animal intelligence which does
not speak to man. From my own heart there came a groan. All was over!
From the mysterious inner courts of the animal kingdom no revelations
would ever come to me! The thick curtain between the intelligence of man
and the intelligence of beast and bird which I had raised for a brief
moment had now been dropped forever! I should never make another
translatophone.

"I cast no glance upon the hearth, but put on my hat and coat and went to
Mary. As I walked there rose behind me a cloud of misty disappointment,
while before me there was nothing but dark uncertainty. What would Mary
have to say to me? And how should I explain what would seem to her to be
a cowardly evasion of her plainly expressed request?

"When I entered the Armat parlor I found Mary alone. This encouraged me
a little. I had feared that the yearningly inquisitive Sarah might also
be there. In that case how might I hope to preserve one atom of my
secret?

"Mary came forward with a smile, and held out her hand; I was so
astonished I could not speak.

"'Now don't be cross,' said she. 'As I told you in my note, Sarah Castle
was here this morning, and she greatly troubled my mind about you. She
told me I was actually snappish with you when she was here last night.
She had never heard me speak to any one in such an ill-natured way. She
knew very well that I do not care for inventions and machines, but she
did not consider this any reason for my treating you in such a manner.
She said I ought to have known that your whole soul is wrapped up in the
queer things you invent, and that I should have made some allowance for
you, even if I did not care about such things myself. Now when she told
me this I knew that every word was true, and I was utterly ashamed of
myself; and as soon as she left I sent you that note because I wanted
you to let me beg your pardon--which you may consider has been done. And
now please let me see your speaking-tube. I want you to explain it to
me; I want to know how it is made, and what is its object. For I know
very well that even if your inventions are not successful they always
have very good objects. Please forgive me, and let us sit on the sofa
and have a nice talk together such as we should have had last night.'

"My soul shouted with joy within me, and I said to myself: 'We shall
have the nice talk we should have had last night, but it shall be the
talk you wanted then, and not the one you ask for now.'

"'Now, then,' said she, when we had seated ourselves, 'let us go to work
to make experiments with your tube. I am so glad you do not feel about
it as I thought you would.'

"'I did not bring it,' I said.

"'Oh, what a pity!' interrupted Mary.

"'No,' said I; 'it is not a pity. It did not work as I expected it
would, and there is no use in talking any more about it. I placed great
hopes in it, and I had a particular reason for wanting to tell you all
about it.' Then I began and bravely told her all about it, that is, all
that justice and kindness would permit me to tell. In the conversation
which ensued, which was a very happy exchange of sentiment, it was
wonderful how that translatophone was put into the background.

"A great deal of what Mary said in answer to my passionate avowals
she had already said to me in Burmese. But the fact that those
straightforward, honest words, fresh from a true woman's heart, and
spoken only for the satisfaction of her own frank and impetuous nature,
had come to me before in plain English she did not imagine, nor did I
ever allow her to imagine. This secret of her soul I always regarded as
something that came to me in involuntary confidence, and I always
respected that confidence."

"Were you never sorry?" asked the Daughter of the House, when the Old
Professor ceased.

"No," he said thoughtfully; "I have never been sorry for what I did. I
had a very happy life with my Mary--a life far happier than any
wonder-exciting invention could have given me."

"Was it fair to the world to destroy an instrument that might have been
of great advantage to science?" ventured John Gayther, hesitatingly.

"It is not easy," said the Old Professor, "to decide between what we owe
to the world and science, and what we owe to ourselves. You see, I
decided in favor of myself. Possibly another man would have decided in
favor of the invention."

"Not if he were desperately in love," said the Master of the House.

"All those fine-spun feelings were unnecessary," said the Next Neighbor.
"If you had not confused your mind with them you would have seen clearly
enough that the first idea which came into your head was the proper one
to act upon. It would have been no terrible deception if you had taken
the instrument to Mary without the little machine and talked English
with her. Later you could have told her you had the invention and you
could use it. By that time she would have forgotten that she ever had
made that Burmese speech, and would have been glad of the fame and
fortune the machine would surely have brought."

The Old Professor looked pained. "I do not deny that some such
after-thoughts troubled my mind occasionally for some years. But who can
say anything of the 'might have been'? The instrument might have failed,
after all; or the information gained have proved not worth the hearing;
or--"

Here there was an unlooked-for interruption. The red thrush suddenly
burst into song from the midst of the lilac-bushes, and the whole
company listened spellbound with delight while the little creature
filled the air with melody and sweetness.

When the song ceased, the Professor remarked: "My translatophone would
have been worse than useless here. If I could have heard those words I
should have lost that delicious melody. Doubtless the words were
commonplace enough, but the melody was divine. And it was easy to
interpret the spirit of it. It was a song of joy for all that is
pleasant, and bright, and happy in this world."




                      THIS STORY IS TOLD BY

                        THE NEXT NEIGHBOR

                          AND IS CALLED

                         THE VICE-CONSORT




X

THE VICE-CONSORT


The red thrush seemed now to be part of the pleasantness of the garden.
Whether he was drawn to the lilac-bushes by the sweet memory of his
former home, or whether he was keeping a tryst with his mate of the
nesting season and was calling her to come to him, or whether his coming
was pure caprice, of course John Gayther could not know. But every day
he came; and when the sky was clear he sang his merry song; and even
when the clouds were overshadowing he could not help uttering little
trills of melody. After a time he would fly away; but he left a note of
gladness in John's heart that stayed there all day.

The bird did not seem in the least disturbed by the talk on the terrace.
If the sound of the voices reached him at all it must have been as a low
murmur, and perhaps he liked it. The family now timed their visits to
the summer-house, when they were able to go there, by the red thrush;
and he seldom disappointed them. It so happened, however, one morning
when they were all there, that the lilacs gave forth no sound. They
waited for the accustomed music, and a hush fell upon them. They were
silent for some time, and then the Old Professor spoke:

"I see John Gayther below the terrace. Can't we have a story, if we
cannot have a song?"

John was called up at once, and the Next Neighbor accosted him gayly:
"If you had known that I am going to tell a story you would have walked
faster."

John answered her with a pleasant smile. He liked the Next Neighbor. He
liked the kind of mind she had, for it was thoroughly imbued with an
anxious desire to do her duty in this world in the manner in which that
duty showed itself to her. He liked her because she was fond of the
Daughter of the House. He liked her because she considered her husband
to be the handsomest, best, and cleverest man in the world. Perhaps John
would have liked this trait best of all if he had not clearly seen that
she held in reserve an opinion that this husband would move on a still
higher plane if he would place more value on her opinions and
statements.

"This is the first time you have favored us," he said courteously.

"Well," she said, "I knew the time would come when I would be called
upon, and I could tell many a story about things that have happened to
me. I am not exactly the heroine of this tale, but I am intimately
concerned in its happenings, and shall tell it in my own way.

"Before I was married I used to feel that all we have to do in this
world is to grow up like grass or clover-blossoms, and to perform our
parts by being just as green or as sweet-smelling as our natures allow.
But I do not think that way now. Along comes a cow, and our careers are
ended. Of course we cannot get out of the way of our fate any more than
grass can get out of the way of a cow; but it often happens that we can
accommodate ourselves to our misfortunes. We can be content to being
nibbled close; we can spring up again from the roots; or we can
patiently wait until we blossom again the next summer.

"It was about a year after I was married that I began to think about
such things. We were spending a fortnight at the country house of one of
my old friends, Mrs. Cheston; and although Bernard, my husband, was away
most of the time, fishing with Mr. Cheston, we were enjoying ourselves
very much. There was a village not far away where there were some very
nice people, so that we had a good deal of pleasant social life, and it
was not long before I became quite well acquainted with some of the
village families.

"One day Mrs. Cheston gave me a luncheon, to which she invited a good
many of the village ladies; and, after they were all gone, we two sat on
the piazza and talked about them. Two or three of our guests I had not
met before, and in the course of our talk Emily mentioned the name of
Margaret Temple.

"'Temple?' said I. 'Which one was that? I do not recall her.'

"'You were talking to her some time,' she replied. 'I think she was
telling you about the mountains.'

"'Oh, yes,' said I; 'she was pointing out those passes through which
people go into the next county. She sat at the other end of the table,
didn't she? She was dressed in black.'

"'Oh, no,' said Emily, 'she was not dressed in black. She never wears
black. I think she wore a brown dress with some sort of light trimming.'

"'Oh, well,' said I, 'I did not notice her dress, and when I do not
notice people's clothes I nearly always think they dress in black. Is
she nice?'

"'She is very nice indeed,' said Emily; 'everybody thinks that.'

"'I wish I had seen more of her,' said I.

"Emily did not answer this remark, but a smile came on her face which
presently grew into a little laugh. I looked at her in surprise.

"'What is there funny about Miss Temple?' I asked.

"'Really there is nothing funny about her,' she replied, 'but I often
laugh to myself when I think of her.'

"I suddenly became very much interested in Miss Temple. 'Tell me why you
do that,' I said. 'I always like to know why people laugh at other
people.'

"Emily now became very sober. 'You must not think,' she said, 'that
there is anything ridiculous about Margaret Temple. There is not a finer
woman to be found anywhere, and I do not believe there is anybody who
laughs at her except myself. You know I am very apt to see the funny
side of things.'

"'And so am I!' I exclaimed. 'Do tell me about Miss Temple. It is so
seldom there is anything amusing about a really nice person.'

"Emily was silent for a moment, and then she said: 'Well, I do not know
that there is any real harm in telling you what makes me laugh. A good
many people know all about it; but I would not, for the world, have
Margaret Temple find out that I told you.'

"I assured her with great earnestness that if she would tell me, I would
never breathe it to any living soul.

"'Very well,' said Emily; 'I will trust you. As I said, it really isn't
funny, but it is just this. It is a positive fact that five married
ladies (I am certain of this number, and it may be more) have gone to
Margaret Temple, during the past few years, and each one has asked her
to become her husband's second wife in case she should die.'

"I did not laugh; I exclaimed in amazement: 'Why did they all ask her? I
did not notice anything particularly attractive about her.'

"'I think that is the point,' said Emily. 'I do not think a woman is
likely to want her husband to take an attractive woman for his second
wife. If she had the chance to choose her successor, she would like her
husband to have a really nice person, good in every way, but not one
with whom he would be likely to fall violently in love. Don't you see
the point of that?'

"I replied that it was easy enough to see the point, but that there was
another one. 'You must remember,' said I, 'that husbands are generally
very particular; if one has had a young and handsome wife he would not
be likely to be satisfied with anything less.'

"Emily shook her head. 'I am older than you, Rosa, and have had more
opportunities of noticing widowers. There are a great many things for
them to think about when they marry a second time: their children, their
positions, and all that. I believe that if a man and his wife discussed
it, which they would not be likely to do, they would be very apt to be
of the same mind in regard to the sort of person who ought to come in as
number two. For my part, I do not wonder at all that so many women have
cast their eyes on Margaret Temple as a person they would like to have
take their places when they are gone. For one thing, you know they would
not be jealous of her; this is very important. Then, they would be as
certain as anything can be certain in this world that their children, if
they had any, as well as their husbands, would be in most excellent
hands. Often, when I have been thinking about her, I have called
Margaret Temple the Vice-consort; but I have never told any one this.
Please remember.'

"So far I had not seen a thing to laugh at, but I was deeply interested.
'How came all this to be known?' I asked. 'Has Miss Temple gone about
telling people?'

"'Oh, no, indeed; she is not that sort of person. A good many of the
village ladies know it, and I think they always have heard it from those
prudent ladies who were providing for their husbands' futures. People
talk about it, of course, but they are very careful that nothing they
say shall reach Margaret Temple's ears.'

"'Tell me about some of the people,' I said, 'who want to secure Miss
Temple as a successor. Do they all feel as though they are likely to
die?'

"'Not all of them,' answered Emily. 'There is Mrs. Hendrickson, who was
obliged to go to Arizona on account of her father's property. He was
very rich, and died not long ago. Her husband has to stay at home to
attend to his business, and she could not take her little baby; and
although she is just as healthy as anybody, she knew all the dangers of
railroad travelling, and all sorts of things in that far-away place;
and, before she packed her trunk, she went to Margaret Temple and asked
her to promise that if she died out there, she, Margaret, would marry
Mr. Hendrickson. This I know for certain, for Mrs. Hendrickson told me
herself.'

"'Did Miss Temple promise?'

"'That I did not hear,' replied Emily. 'Mrs. Hendrickson was in a great
hurry, and perhaps she did not intend to tell me, anyway. But I do not
believe Margaret absolutely refused; at least, it would not have been
prudent for her to do so. The Hendricksons are rich, and he is a fine
man. There would be nothing in the way of such a match.'

"'Except the return of the wife,' I remarked.

"Emily smiled. 'And then there was poor Mrs. Windham,' she continued.
'Everybody knew she asked Margaret. She left a son about eight years old
who is very delicate. The poor woman has not been dead long enough for
anything to come of that, but I do not believe anything ever will. There
are people who say that Mr. Windham drinks; but I have seen no signs of
it. Then there is another one--and no matter what you may hear people
say about these things, you must never mention that I told you this.
Mrs. Barnes, the rector's wife, has spoken to Margaret on the subject.
She looks very well, so far as I can judge; but there is consumption in
her family. She is almost bigoted in regard to the duties of a rector's
wife. She tries just as hard as she can to fill the position properly
herself, and she knows Mr. Barnes would never be satisfied with any one
who did not agree with him as she does about the responsibilities of a
rector's wife.'

"'Does Margaret Temple agree with him?' I asked.

"'I do not know, for I never talked with her on the subject,' replied
Emily, 'but she is very apt to think what is right. Besides, it is
believed that Mrs. Barnes has not only spoken to Margaret, but to
the rector himself; and if he had not thought the plan a good one,
Mrs. Barnes would have dropped it; and, from things I have heard her
say, I know she has not dropped it.'

"Emily looked as though she were about to rise, and I quickly exclaimed:
'But that is only three. Who are the others?'

"'One of them,' said she, 'is Mrs. Clinton. There is nothing the matter
with her physically, but she is very rich, and is prudent and careful
about everything that belongs to her, while her husband is not a
business man at all and never has anything to do with money matters of
importance. There are three children, and she has reason to feel anxious
about them should they and their property be left in the charge of
Mr. Clinton, or to the tender mercies of some woman who would marry him
for the sake of his wealth. You can see for yourself that it is no
wonder she casts her eyes upon Margaret. I believe Mrs. Clinton could
die happy if she could see her husband and Margaret Temple promise
themselves to each other at her bedside.'

"'That seems to me to be horrid,' said I; 'but of course it would be
extremely sensible. And the other one?'

"'Oh, that matter does not amount to much,' said Emily. 'Old
Mrs. Gloucester lives at the other end of the village, and she does not
visit much, so you have not seen her. Her husband is old enough, dear
knows, but not quite so old as she is. She is very much afraid that she
will die and leave him with nobody to take care of him, for they have no
children. They are very well off, and I dare say she thinks it would be
a good thing for Margaret as well as for the old gentleman.'

"'That is shameful,' said I; 'it would be the same thing as engaging a
trained nurse.'

"Emily laughed. 'I never heard how Margaret received this remarkable
proposition,' she said, 'but I hope she was angry.'

"'But, at any rate, it could never come to anything,' said I.

"'Of course not,' answered Mrs. Cheston.

"It is not surprising that after this conversation I took a great
interest in Margaret Temple; and when she called the next morning I had
a long and undisturbed talk with her, Mrs. Cheston being out. I am very
fond of analyzing human character, and I often do it while I am riding
in the street-cars; and it was not long before I had made up my mind as
to what sort of woman Margaret Temple was. I set her down as what may be
called a balanced person. In fact, I thought at the time she was a
little too well balanced; if some of her characteristics had been a
little more pronounced I think she would have been more interesting. But
I liked her very much, and I remember I was almost as well pleased when
she was talking to me as when she was listening, and I am sure there
are very few persons, men or women, of whom I can say this."