A Singular Metamorphosis

by May Evelyn Skiles

"Through the death of Banks, though I would have effected my escape sooner or later, I feel sure. Banks died, and his nephew fell heir to all that the former had so carefully hoarded. That same nephew had not cultivated the society of his uncle while living, strange though you may think it. Afterwards I took a position in a drug store; the study of pharmacy doubtless produced in me a desire to use the medicines I had been analyzing."

Mr. Bayne here strolled past the two who were thus earnestly engaged in converse, and, noticing that they were too much engrossed to observe his proximity, ejaculated, in an undertone, "Well, I declare! Dot is beginning young, if her secret had aught to do with this affair. She certainly gave me the impression that her secret was a most important one, but who would have dreamed that she meant this—and she but a baby?" Here sheer astonishment ended the monologue, for ere he had taken many steps another couple appeared, walking toward him. "Now, which did Dot mean?" he began again; then he checked himself, and turned to see if he had erred; but, no, there were the two behind him, just where he had left them, or rather, passed them, as much interested as ever, each with the other. In front he beheld this new couple possessing an equal appreciation of the advantages of communication with a desirable companion. That each did think the other a desirable companion was not to be doubted for a moment. Dot, in the meantime, had not consciously betrayed her secret or broken her word; still, older people may guess at childhood's secrets without trying to elicit confidences, and this child was habituated to the feeling that her father must share her thoughts. Now, the very fact that there was something to conceal, perhaps for the first time in her little life, only tended to give her an air of importance which was in itself a betrayal. Poor Dot had followed her father around until in pity he questioned his diminutive daughter. A few words were all that were necessary to give him an inkling of what had passed.

"How did oo know, Papa?" This was equivalent to saying that his surmises were correct, but he comforted the innocent informant by telling her that her promise had not been broken, so that she ran off, relieved that Papa should know, and at the same time congratulating herself upon her ability to act as confidante. With an omniscient father, what was she to do?

Mr. Bayne would have passed on with only a cheerful salutation, had not Adelina seen his wistful look, and kindly proposed that she and Ralph should retrace their steps and join him in his homeward walk. Was there ever one who enjoyed human companionship more than he, or, for that matter, the companionship of animals either? He seemed to love all things and wanted to be with them, but it was only his friends who could really appreciate the man. There was a look in his eyes which appealed to one; and why? Not because they asked for pity, but rather that they gave it, even when you knew that he was suffering himself. His wife had died when Pet was two years old, and Mr. Bayne had hidden his grief nobly; yet the tell-tale eyes seemed at times to hold depths of sorrow patiently borne, for would he not see her again, that one who had been to him all love and tenderness? Had not the light in her dying eyes bidden him "Wait?" What is the look which comes to our loved ones' dying eyes? Is it a look of surprise as they are about to enter into a new life? Surely that look comes but once in a life, and that when the earthly life is drawing to its close, to be renewed in the glory of an endless one. How strange it is, that we, who have watched and been at the bedside of those loved ones, can follow no further, can never penetrate that mystery or lift the curtain till we, too, are called to take the same pathway. We turn to find the impress of a smile stamped on the face, giving to it peace, and seeming to tell of contentment and well-earned repose.

Often Mr. Bayne walked about the Tracy grounds, and he was doing so now, with the palpable hope that he might meet one, at least, of the household. He never thought of intruding, and it did not occur to him that his conversation could be welcomed save by those who were especially interested in him, and who had honored him by their friendship and leniency, as he chose to express it. He had no cause for this overweening modesty. Few in rural districts could be more beloved than he, not that there is not as much individual capacity for loving, but aggregately there cannot be as much love, owing to the restricted populace. Individually, he was certainly the object of much love and veneration. Wherever he went he appeared to carry peace, without apparent effort. He may have begun by cultivating with persistency the means of giving comfort, but later one felt that whatsoever he gave of comfort was given spontaneously. He loved all; what did it matter if they did not love in return? His mission was to alleviate suffering when possible; if not, then to impart such truths as would enable the sufferer to bear the anguish, mental or physical, as the case might be; not, as before stated, to question whether the love he bestowed so freely was in any measure returned. That was no concern of his. In his own immediate family he was in a measure dependent upon the attention of each member. He had always lived with it. Though it is true that that affection may have been taken naturally, yet he was always grateful for it; the fullest reciprocation followed. When the crucial test came he was willing to surrender all without a murmur. Would the curious onlookers pronounce him heartless in consequence? There had never been, and it is safe to add there never would be, a crowd curious alone as to his welfare, provided he had ever mingled with the crowd. Respect attended him wherever he went, whether it was in the homeliest of cottages or at the most elaborate of functions. The latter he did not have the opportunity or the desire to attend, except at long intervals. Mr. Bayne was not solicitous regarding the extent of the intervals; the longer the space, the better.

"Were you going to run off without even asking how I was?" queried Adelina, reproachfully.

"That question was answered the moment I beheld you," responded the rector, with admirable policy.

"What a flatterer you are. Of all people in the world, you are the last who should use deceit."

"Is not what I intimate most true, Mr. Bamford?" asked Mr. Bayne, turning to him for confirmation of his asseveration.