NEDL TRANSFER
HN BGKK (
ANERKT WISDOM
OF FOOLS
BY
MARGARET
DELAND
KDA
41553


KD 47553





رصع





Books by Margaret Deland.
THE OLD GARDEN, AND OTHER VERSES.
Enlarged Edition. 16mo, gilt top, $1.25.
THE OLD GARDEN, AND OTHER VERSES.
Holiday Edition. Illustrated in color by
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THE STORY OF A CHILD. 16mo, $1.00.
MR. TOMMY DOVE, AND OTHER STORIES.
16mo, $1.00.
PHILIP AND HIS WIFE. A Novel. 16mo,
$1.25.
THE WISDOM OF FOOLS. Stories. 16mo,
$1.25.
HOUGHTON, MIFFLIN & Co.
BOSTON AND New YORK.


THE WISDOM OF
FOOLS
BY
MARGARET DELAND

GOUT
Ghe Rwerside Press
BOSTON AND NEW YORK
HOUGHTON, MIFFLIN AND COMPANY
MDCCCXCVII


KD 47553
HARVARD
UNIVERSITY
LIBRARY
COPYRIGHT, 1897,
BY MARGARET DELAND
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED


CONTENTS
PAGE
WHERE IGNORANCE IS BLISS, 'TIS FOLLY
TO BE WISE . . . . . :
3
THE HOUSE OF RIMMON.
COUNTING THE COST . .
THE LAW, OR THE GOSPEL? .
.
.
. 136
191
.
.








WHERE IGNORANCE IS BLISS
'TIS FOLLY TO BE WISE
I
POHE most delightful thing about
2 our engagement is that every-
2 . body is so pleased with it.”
Amy Townsend said this, smiling down
at her lover, who, full length on the grass
beside her, leaned on his elbow, watching
her soft hair blowing across her forehead,
and the color of the sun flickering through
the shadows, hot on her cheek; for she
had closed her fluffy white parasol and
taken off her hat here under an oak-tree
on the grassy bank of the river.
"I should have thought that the fact
that we were pleased ourselves was a trifle
more important,” he suggested. But Miss
Townsend paid no attention to his inter-
ruption.
“You know, generally, when people
get engaged, there are always people who


WHERE IGNORANCE IS BLISS
exclaim : either the man is too good for
the girl (and you are too good for me,
Billy !), or the girl is too good for the
man” —
“She is; there is no question about
that,” the man interrupted.
“Be quiet!” the other commanded.
“But in our case, everybody approves.
You see, in the first place, you are a Par-
son, and I'm a Worker. That's what
they call me, — the old ladies, — 'a
Worker.' And of course that's a most
appropriate combination to start with.”
“Well, the old ladies will discover that
my wife is n't going to run their commit-
tees for them," the parson said emphati-
cally. “Besides, if I'm a Parson, you're
a Person! How do the old ladies bear
it, that I have n't any ancestors, and used
to run errands in a tin-shop? I'm a
Worker, literally enough.”
“You are a goose !” she told him
calmly. “Don't keep interrupting me,
Billy. What do ancestors amount to?
I admit I'm glad that none of mine were
hanged (so far as I know), or that they
did n't run off with other people's money


WHERE IGNORANCE IS BLISS
“ After all these years, Billy, — not to
get a crooked stick in the end.”
“I am not crooked, I will admit,” he
said.
“Thirdly,” she proceeded, "you are
very good-looking, and all the old Tab-
bies say that a handsome minister ought
to be married.”
“The old Tabbies might find some-
thing better to talk about,” he said, his
face hardening. “Oh, Amy, that's the
kind of thing that makes a man cringe !
- I mean a minister. Here is this great,
serious, strenuous matter of living — the
consciousness of God; that's what liv-
ing is in its highest expression. And
to further that consciousness is the di-
vinest human passion. A man tries to
do it, gives his life to it, and immediately
he is food for chattering old women!
They gossip about his affairs, or his
clothes, or his looks, even !” William
West sat up, his face stirred with anger
and pity. “But I suppose I must admit
that the Parsons bring it on themselves
to some extent,” he ended, with a sigh ;
"we don't mingle enough with men; they


'T IS FOLLY TO BE WISE
distrust us, and think we talk twaddle
about overcoming temptations we know
nothing about. So, being shut out from
masculine living, we do haunt tea-tables,
and gabble about vestments. I suppose
there 's no doubt of it. Amy, I believe
that the old hunting, swearing parsons of
three generations ago were of more real
value in the world than the harmless
creatures that we have now !”.
He had a certain stern way of thrust-
ing out his lower lip when he was very
much in earnest, and drawing his strong
brows together; an impatient fire sprang
into his beautiful dark eyes. He turned
and looked at her, claiming her under-
standing
“Yes,” she said ; "yes, it is so. The
belittling of the profession of the minis-
try is a dreadful thing — a shameful
thing. I once heard a man say that · El-
derly unmarried women always had to
have something to fuss over and coddle,
something to lead around by a blue rib-
bon. Sometimes it was a poodle; some-
times it was a clergyman.' And there's
truth in it, Billy."
7


WHERE IGNORANCE IS BLISS
“There is,” he said grimly.
“Well, dear,” she reassured him, smil-
ing, “your distinguished rudeness to the
ladies of your congregation has at least
protected you from the blue ribbon.”
He began to protest, but the talk slipped
back into their own affairs, and some-
how he succeeded in getting her hand,
and by and by they were silent, just for
happiness, and because it was sunset, and
the river was flickering with light, and
there was a faint stir of leaves overhead.
They were to be married in a fortnight,
and they were going to have all their lives
together to say how good life was, so
there was no need to talk now.
As the girl had said, it really was a
very satisfactory match. William West
was a man whom every one honored, and
many loved. For fifteen years he had
been settled in Mercer; first as an assist-
ant to old Mr. Brown, and then as rector
of the church. But he had taken his
place in the community as a man of
strong judgment and high character; per-
haps as a citizen, rather than as a minis-
ter. Men felt that he was a man before


'T IS FOLLY TO BE WISE
he was a clergyman; not knowing that
his calling had given him his highest
manhood. He was singularly devoid of
clerical affectation; consequently the in-
fluence of his own reverence was not viti-
ated by a suspicion of his common sense.
In fact, his sanity in matters religious,
joined to his knowledge of human nature,
made him a man of importance in affairs
municipal and social. That he had lived
to be forty-two, and had not married, was
from no asceticism ; he was a very human
person, and fully intended to have a wife;
only, she must be just what he wanted.
And so far, that “not impossible She"
who was to possess his heart had never
appeared. When she did, he recognized
her immediately, and would have pro-
posed to her the next day, had not a feel-
ing of diffidence as to her sentiments
deterred him for nearly two weeks. At
the end of that time, he told her — ah,
well, never mind what he told her! She,
at least, will never forget the passion of
that claiming.
Amy Townsend had come to spend
the winter in Mercer, with a cousin. Of


'T IS FOLLY TO BE WISE
tive,” Mrs. Paul began, remembering her
scheme, and retreating a little, — for
nothing will put a girl against a man
sooner than to know he is “run after.”
Then she told his story: the boy had
been a waif. (“His mother was respect-
able, I think,” said Mrs. Paul, “but no-
body knows anything about the father.”).
He had had that dreariest sort of child-
hood which knows no other home than
an institution. Then, somehow, “quite
like a story - book,” Mrs. Paul said, a
gentleman took an interest in him, and
began to help him in one way or another.
“ It was that zoological man, Professor
Wilson ; you know who I mean?” Mrs.
Paul explained. “He looked after him.
At first he put him in a tinshop, if you
please, as errand-boy, — fancy! this man
with the 'grand manner.'”.
“Oh, I supposed he was a gentleman,”
Amy Townsend said.
“Amy, you are a snob,” her cousin
answered hotly. “He is."
Mrs. Paul was so annoyed that she
ended the story of Mr. West's career
very briefly. “Professor Wilson offered
II


WHERE IGNORANCE IS BLISS
either to start him in business or put
him through college ; he chose to go to
college."
“That was rather fine,” Miss Town-
send agreed.
“Fine? It just showed what sort of
a man he was !” cried Mrs. Paul. “He
worked his way to some extent ; that is,
he was Professor Wilson's secretary, and
he did a lot of tutoring. Professor Wil-
son left him a good deal of money, but
he gave away nearly half of it at once,
John says. Quite remarkable for a young
man. Well, that's all ; you see what he
is to-day — a gentleman and a scholar :
John says there is no man in Mercer who
has the influence that he has.”
Miss Townsend, in spite of her careful
indifference, was interested. And later,
when Rev. William West met her, he,
too, was "interested ;” and all fell out
as the most experienced romancer could
desire.
Amy had a little money, much charm,
a certain distinction that answered for
beauty, and a very true nature; there
was, perhaps, a certain hard integrity
12


'TIS FOLLY TO BE WISE
about her, but her impulses were gra-
cious. Also, as the old ladies said, she
was a “worker.” She found life too in-
teresting not to meddle with it.
So it had come to pass that these two,
who, as Mrs. Paul said, “were made for
each other,” were going to be married.
· · · · · · ·
“ Just think, in two weeks !” he said,
as they sat there under the oak, the blos-
soming grass knee-deep about them, and
the air sweet with clover. “ Amy, it does
not seem as if I had been alive until
now.”
“I wonder, does it go on getting -
nicer ?” she asked him, a little shyly;
“everything seems to be better, and more
worth while.”
“I understand,” he said.
And they were silent for awhile, be-
cause understanding is enough, when
people are in love. Then the girl's gay-
ety began to sparkle out.
“ Billy, Cousin Kate says if I'm not
careful I 'll get to be a managing Parson-
ess; she says I must devote myself to
you, not to your poor people.”
13


WHERE IGNORANCE IS BLISS
“Mrs. Paul has given a great deal of
good advice in her day," the Rev. Billy
remarked meditatively, “and I really
think very little harm has come from it.”
“ She advised your being called to
Mercer,” Amy retorted. “ Did you know
that ? ”
“Know it ? My dear child! how often
have I dined at the Pauls' ? Just so often
have I heard it.”
“Now, Billy, that's not very nice in
you."
“I but stated a fact; and I have a
high regard for Mrs. Paul. Only, when
I think how many girls she has tried to
make marry me! — but they would none
of them look at me.”
"And in two weeks the opportunity
will be gone,” she jeered.
“ Poor girls ! ” the minister commis-
erated; and was reproved for vanity.
Indeed, just because happiness is so seri-
ous a thing, they became very frivolous,
these two, sitting watching the sunset,
and the river. Amy told him a funny
story about the parish; he responded by
another concerning Tom Reilly, a police-
14


'T IS FOLLY TO BE WISE
man; which reminded Amy to tell him
that poor Tom had had an accident, and
hurt his hand.
“But it was very stupid in him," she
added, with a little of that resentful good-
ness that one sees sometimes in women.
“I'm not at all sorry for him, because
he deserved it. He had been drinking,
and as he went stumbling out of a car,
he crushed his hand in the door.”
Her lover was not to be lured into pro.
fessional comments; he only muttered,
“Mauvais quart d'heure” – which made
her say indignantly : “Now, Billy, really,
that is too much !” and insist that they
should go home immediately. “I cannot
descend to such levels,” she told him ;
and was very stern and forbidding when,
looking to the right and left, and seeing
no man, he begged to be allowed to kiss
her.
But this was all froth. Beneath, in the
man's life, were the great tides of love,
moving, noiseless and unchangeable, from
out the depths of his soul. In the girl's
life it was all shine and perfume and
glitter, like flowers blossoming on a rock;
15


WHERE IGNORANCE IS BLISS
beneath, in her heart, was the solid ground
of reverence and faith.
The two weeks that were to pass be-
fore the day that was to be the Day of
Days were very full.
To get parish work ahead so that
things would run themselves for the
month's absence which had been granted
the clergyman was no small undertaking.
William West was very busy, and a little
preoccupied in his endeavor to put his
best thought, not upon his own happi-
ness, but upon committees, or Sunday-
school matters, or his assistant's spiritual
anxieties concerning his superior's indif-
ference to the color of the lectern book-
marks; so it chanced that he saw less
of Amy than in the earlier part of their
engagement. He had but little time to
think of her, and absolutely no time to
think of himself.
They were to be married on Thursday.
Late Monday afternoon Mr. West, with
great timidity, ventured into Mrs. Paul's
16


'T IS FOLLY TO BE WISE
drawing-room, with the bold purpose of
abstracting his sweetheart for a walk.
The project was, of course, promptly
crushed.
“As though Amy had any time for
that sort of thing!” said Mrs. Paul. “Do
you see those presents ? She has got to
acknowledge every one of them! Amy,
your cousin John and I will entertain
Mr. West. You can write your notes
here, and let him look at you; that's
quite enough for him.”
Amy smiled at him across a barricade
of silver bric-à-brac.
“ Billy thinks silver picture frames and
brushes and things are a dreadful waste
of money,” she said. “Just think how
thankful you ought to be, Billy, that I
am making our manners for you; you
could n't say · Thank you,' with truth.”
“Oh, truth,” said John Paul, lounging
about the room, with his hands in his
pockets — "truth, my dear little cousin,
is governed by the law of benefit; did n't
you know that? If it makes the donors
feel happy, tell them West has longed for
nothing in the world so much as a silver


WHERE IGNORANCE IS BLISS
glove buttoner. Now, if you told them
the truth, fancy the shock! Ask the
Parson.”
"The Parson has no such base and cyni-
cal theory," Miss Townsend responded
promptly; “have you, Billy? You don't
think truth is governed by the law of
benefit ? ”
“I think truth-telling is," he assured
her.
John Paul assumed that look of art-
less and simpering satisfaction which one
sees on the countenance of the unpro-
tected male, who, in the bosom of his
family, finds himself indorsed by a higher
power.
“There, Amy, what did I tell you? I
had an instance of it yesterday. I” –
“Oh, here is a third asparagus fork,”
murmured Amy ; "what shall I say about
it?"
“What's your instance ?” said the
minister.
“Well, we've been looking for an as-
sistant engineer, and there have been
the Lord only knows how many appli-
cants. One fellow impressed me very


'TIS FOLLY TO BE WISE
well; he seemed as straight as a string ;
honest face, thoroughly decent-looking
fellow. He was an Englishman, but his
references for three years were Amer-
ican. So much the better, of course. I
was going to engage him, when, bless
my soul, if he did n't begin to stammer
out something about having no references
from 'Home' (''ome,' he called it), be-
cause he ‘’ad n't been over steady,' but
he 'd signed the pledge, and he was n't
afraid of drink any more.' I did n't hire
him. Now, I call that truth not gov-
erned by the law of benefit.”
“You don't discriminate between be-
ing truthful and telling the truth,” said
William West. “You had n't asked him
if he had ever drank. I don't believe you
lost much, in not engaging him, poor fel-
low."
“Oh, Billy, I think it was rather fine
in him," Amy protested, looking up from
her notes.
“I don't see anything fine," the min-
ister said simply. “In the first place,
there was a lack of reserve, a lack of
privacy, in rushing into confession, which


WHERE IGNORANCE IS BLISS
ce was
betrays the weak nature. There was
also self-consciousness, in dwelling on his
sin. And in the third place” –
“This sounds like a sermon: firstly -
secondly” – Amy murmured, signing
her name to her thanks for the third
asparagus fork.
-"in the third place, if the man has
reformed, there was an essential untruth
in posing as a sinner.”
“Well, I don't quite agree with that,”
began Mrs. Paul.
“He's right; he's right,” John Paul
declared. “I say, West, suppose we
went about confessing some of our col-
lege performances ?” The senior warden
of St. James grinned, but his wife looked
displeased.
“I don't believe you ever did anything
very bad, John; but if you did, I think
you should have confessed to me.”
“I stole some signs, Kate," he told
her; “can you forgive me?"
Amy, listening, smiling, said with that
charming sidewise glance at her lover :
“Cousin Kate is quite right. I should
never forgive a man who did n't tell me
20


'T IS FOLLY TO BE WISE
everything ! Billy, come here and con-
fess. Have you ever done anything
wicked ?”
“We are all miserable sinners,” John
Paul murmured. “I say so publicly every
Sunday” –
“But you don't specify !” the minister
reminded him, with a laugh.
“Yes; but, Billy," Amy Townsend in-
sisted, “does n't it say somewhere that
'confession is good for the soul'?”
“ Perhaps it is,” he said dryly, “but,
generally speaking, it 's mighty bad for
the mind.”
There was an outcry at this from the
two women.
“Of course,” Mrs. Paul said, “simply
gossiping about one's self is n't confes-
sion ; but don't you think, Mr. West, in
the really deep relations of life, between
friend and friend, or husband and wife,
there should be no reserves ?”
“My dear Mrs. Paul,” he answered, with
quick gravity, "there must be reserves
-except with God. The human soul is
solitary. But for confession, that is dif-
ferent; justice and reparation sometimes


WHERE IGNORANCE IS BLISS
age sometimes forbid it. Unless it is
necessary, it is flabby vanity. That's
why I said it was bad for the mind.”
“Well,” said Amy, with some spirit,
“I don't believe in taking respect, or —
or love, on false pretenses. If I had ever
done any dreadful thing, I should want
to confess; good gracious, for the mere
comfort of it I should have to ! It would
be like walking on a volcano to keep a
secret.”
William West went over to the table
where she was writing, and, finding a
place among the clutter of presents to
lean his elbow, sat down and looked at
her with good-humored amusement.
“Where are you going to draw the
line? How far back are you going in
confessing your sins? Please don't tell
me that you slapped your nurse when
you were three. It would be a horrible
shock, and make me very unhappy to dis-
cover such a crime.”
“I shall go all the way back," said
Amy, with decision; “if I had done any.
thing wrong, I mean very wrong, I should
22


'TIS FOLLY TO BE WISE
tell you, — if I had only been a year
old !"
The minister laughed. “A desperate
villain of one year!” he said ; but as he
spoke a puzzled look came into his eyes.
“I think,” Amy Townsend proceeded,
“that honor and fairness demand speak-
ing out. And as for making some one
else unhappy,” her voice dropped a little,
and the color came up into her face,
“where people love each other, they have
a right to unhappiness.”
"Listen to Amy clamoring for unhap-
piness!” John Paul commented. “Don't
worry, my child; you 'll get your share.
There's enough to go round, I've no-
ticed.”
Mrs. Paul laughed, but a note of real-
ity had come into the careless talk that
gave her a sense of being a third party.
"John, you are flippant,” she said ;
“come, let 's leave these two poor things
alone; they '13 dying to get rid of us.
And besides, if Amy is going to confess
her sins since she was one year old, it
will take time."
“That I consider a most uncalled for


WHERE IGNORANCE IS BLISS
reference to my twenty-seven years,”
Amy retorted; "and besides, I've two
more notes to write."
“And I must go home,” William
West said, rising in a preoccupied man-
ner.
“Why — but I thought you were go-
ing to stay to dinner !” Mrs. Paul pro-
tested, with dismay.
“Oh, you must stay to dinner,” Amy
urged.
But her lover was resolute. Nor did
he, as usual, try to lure her out into the
hall that he might make his adieus. He
said good-night, stopped a moment to
discuss with his senior warden some-
thing about the appropriation for repairs
at St. James, and then, with a sober
abstraction deepening in his face, went
home through the delicate June dusk,
which was full of the scent of the roses
that grow behind the garden walls of the
old-fashioned part of Mercer.


'T IS FOLLY TO BE WISE
III
The Rev. William West went into his
study and shut the door. He was a
man who was always accessible to his
people, yet his lips tightened with im-
patience when he found a parishioner
awaiting him, and saw a pile of notes
on his writing-table. But it was only
for an instant; he listened to the anxi-
eties of his caller with that concentra-
tion of sympathy which can put self
aside; and when the man went away
it was with the other man's heartfelt
grip of the hand, his heartfelt “I thank
you for coming to me; God bless you,
my friend, and give you wisdom.”
The letters were not so easy; but
he went through them faithfully, an-
swering them or filing them away: ap-
peals for help, or money, or work; two
invitations; two letters from ladies of
his congregation about their souls; the
unmarried and interesting clergyman
knows this sort of letter too well! He
was aware of a sense of haste in getting
through with these things; a sense of
25


WHERE IGNORANCE IS BLISS
haste even in disposing of another caller,
a boy, who came to say he had doubts
about the existence of God, and who felt
immensely important in consequence. “I
tell you, Mr. West,” this youth declared,
nodding his head, “of course I don't
mean to be hard on the church ; of
course I see the value of such a belief
in keeping the masses straight, but, for
thinking men !” To treat this sort of
thing seriously and patiently is one of
the trials of a thinking man who hap-
pens to be a minister. Then the Tenor
came to give his side of the quarrel with
the Bass, and the organist to say that
quartette and chorus were all fools.
One does not prove the existence of
God, or pacify wounded artistic feelings
easily; it was nearly midnight before
the clergyman had his library to him-
self.
With a sigh of relief he shut the door,
and walked once or twice about the
room, as though trying to shake off
other people's affairs; then he bit off
the end of a cigar, struck a match, and
sat down. He put his hands deep into
26


'T IS FOLLY TO BE WISE
his pockets, and stretched his feet
straight out in front of him.
“It must be five years since I've
thought of it,” he said to himself.
He held his lighted cigar between
his fingers, his chin sunk on his breast,
his mouth set in that hard line which
refuses to extenuate or evade; his eyes
narrowed with thought. Five years :
Yes, the memory had so faded and
lessened that by and by it had ceased,
and now it was as though, as he walked
along the level path of daily life, a ser-
pént suddenly lifted its evil head from
the dust, and struck at him, hissing.
“I was eighteen,” he said to himself ;
“no, nineteen. And now I'm forty-
two! Twenty-nine, thirty-nine — it's
twenty-three years ago.”
There is a hideous consciousness
which comes to most of us men and wo-
men at one time or another in our lives,
of our inability to get away from the
past. From out of the “roaring loom
of Time” comes the fabric of our lives;
white, run, perhaps, with a warp of
silver in our latter years; set, even, by


'T IS FOLLY TO BE WISE
did not belong to it, nor it to him. And
yet he wanted to tell her!
William West got up with an im-
patient gesture. How absurd this sort
of mental posturing and agonizing was !
What folly, to think of burdening Amy
with the miserable facts. Told now,
twenty-three years afterwards, their re-
lation to his present life could not be
seen in true proportion. It would be an
amazement and a shame to her to think
that her lover, her husband, had done
thus and so. Yet, it would not be her
husband who was the sinner; it was that
poor, foolish, wicked boy of so many
years ago; that boy upon whom he
looked back with the amazement and
disgust of an outside observer. What a
curious untruth, then, in confessing it.
He gave a sigh of relief as he reached
this conclusion; it was as if he had
stumbled for a moment, but had got his
balance again.
But, in spite of himself, his mind crept
back to the brink of that black abyss of
memory : those were dreadful days, those
days of repentance twenty years ago. The
29


WHERE IGNORANCE IS BLISS
remembrance of his sin would surge over
him at the most unexpected moments —
in the midst of work or study; when he
was talking; when he was praying; when,
perhaps, he was helping some other hu-
man creature stagger along under a bur-
den of remorse. The deeper he went into
the new life he had begun to lead — the
clearer the heavenly vision grew before
his eyes — the blacker the sin seemed.
For years, the memory of it used to come
over him with a sudden sinking and sick-
ening of the soul. He remembered how
inescapable the torment of his regret had
been. There would be periods of forget-
fulness, when he was plunged into work,
and life, because it was service, seemed
good and sweet; then, at some word, or
the look of the sky, or the smell of a flower
– the evil spirit of recollection would
leap upon him and tear him. Yet the
periods of forgetfulness had lengthened
and lengthened. The pain and shame
had faded and faded. The thing that
gave him this sick feeling, as he sat here
in his study at midnight, was not the fact
that he had sinned; it was the memory
30


'T IS FOLLY TO BE WISE
of how he had suffered for his sin. The
sin itself, now, was too remote, too sepa-
rate from himself for any more repent-
ance; it had ceased to be real. But the
suffering !- he could not bear to think
of that.
“How mad this is !” he said to him-
self, with a curious terror lest the old
anguish should come back : the horror a
man might feel who sees the surgeon's
knife under which he has once agonized.
For very fear of memory, William West
drove his thoughts back to the question
of his duty to Amy; that was plain rea-
soning, and had nothing to do with this
nightmare.
He lighted another match, but held it
absently, until it scorched his fingers,
then flung it down with an angry excla-
‘mation. It seemed as though the pain
burned through all this fog of the past,
and showed him the facts which he must
judge, and the folly of his uncertainty.
For, after all, what was this matter he
was trying to decide? Was it not merely
the question of what was best for Amy,
not what was most comfortable for him-
31


WHERE IGNORANCE IS BLISS
self ? It was that abstraction called
Honor, as applied to Amy's happiness.
What was for her happiness, or, as he
had put it first, what was his duty to her?
To let her know his past, or to keep a
secret from her, and allow her to sup-
pose that she knew his life as she did her
own ?
Admit that it was his impulse to tell
her; what did that impulse really mean?
Primarily, that it would be a great relief
to him; the idea of having any reserves
was most repugnant to him. For the
moment the instinct was again strong to
tell her. But, frowning, he went on with
his argument: A relief to him; but what
to her? A pain and a shame; a memory
that might outlast another twenty-three
years, perhaps. But she might want to
know it? Well, that was no reason. If
she wanted poison, should he give it to
her? And this was poison. Did he not
know that? Good God!
But she had a right to know it? Here
he was perfectly clear ; certainly not. It
in no wise bore upon his relation to her.
Furthermore, the question of prudence


'T IS FOLLY TO BE WISE
was not involved; there was no chance
that some day, somehow, it might come
to her ears. She could never hear it,
except from him. If this were not the
case, of course he would tell her.
But was he deceiving her ? Was he,
as she put it, “taking her love on false
pretenses"? William West got up and
walked the length of his library; then he
stopped by the open window, and looked
out on the silent street; a policeman on
his beat glanced up and saw him, and
touched his helmet with two fingers.
“Good-evening, sir ; don't know but
what I'd better say good-morning!”
“What! Is it as late as all that,
Reilly?” the minister said; and added a
friendly inquiry about the man's hand,
which seemed to be hurt. Amy's stern
sense of the retributive justice of the ac-
cident came into his mind, and he smiled
involuntarily. The policeman looked
sheepish, as the clergyman meant he
should, and turned the conversation by
remarking that he would “be lookin'
after the rectory special when Mr. West
was away on his weddin' tower.”
33


WHERE IGNORANCE IS BLISS
“Thank you, Reilly!” the other an-
swered heartily.
The policeman's steps went echoing
off into the night; a street lamp flickered,
and a puff of soft wind wandered into
the window.
Deceiving her : taking her love under
false pretenses.
Was he anything but the man Amy
supposed him to be? Very humbly, very
truly, he said to himself that, by the
grace of God, he was an honest, pure,
God-fearing man. That sin of twenty-
three years ago was not his sin. He,
William West, forty-two years old, whose
honorable record in the community was
spread through all these years of service,
was not that base, mean, wicked boy.
The sin was not his. It was a sin of
youth; a sin almost of childhood. It
meant nothing to him now.
"It is nothing now," he insisted, pas-
sionately. Accustomed to weigh other
people's actions and motives, he knew
that he was discriminating with almost
judicial impartiality when he thus looked
himself in the face. “A repentant man
34


”T IS FOLLY TO BE WISE
has no more to do with his sin, for which
he has repented and made reparation,
than a well man has to do with the dis-
ease of which he has been cured." He
remembered that he had used this illus-
tration once to some one else; he must
apply it now to himself. No; he was not
deceiving Amy. He was only sparing
her - sparing her, to be sure, from a
pain she might wish to bear, but that had
nothing to do with the question. If she
knew, she would suffer ; not from a fact,
but from an illusion; for he would be
confessing a sin which was not his sin.
Honor? The word seemed artificial as
he thus put the situation before him.
No; it would be cowardly to tell her,
and it would be untrue. There was
nothing for him to do but face the fact
that, to spare her, he must bear, for the
rest of his life, the wretched burden of
realizing that he had a secret from her.
Sanely, truly, this good man believed
that his impulse to tell the woman he
loved was selfish and cowardly; it was
an impulse to make her share a burden
which he deserved to bear alone. Fur-
35


WHERE IGNORANCE IS BLISS
thermore, it was the effect, not of reason,
not of religion, not of love; it was the
effect, first, of the selfish desire to seek
relief by sharing a cruel knowledge; sec-
ondly, of a traditional sentimentality, the
weak and driveling outcome of that sense
of justice which is expressed in the will-
ingness to bear consequences.
Well, the boy who had sinned had
borne the consequences; he had suf-
fered.
For the man to suffer now, twenty-
three years after, was unreasonable, but
inevitable.
For a woman, who had no part or lot
in that young past, to suffer now, twenty-
three years afterwards, was foolish and
useless.
If the man permitted it, he was a cow-
ard and a fool.
This, at least, was what William West
told himself.


'TIS FOLLY TO BE WISE
IV
The conclusion to which the Rev. Mr.
West came was that, if his love for Amy
was deep enough and unselfish enough,
he would hold his tongue. He believed
that confession, apart from reparation,
was the refuge of the weak mind.
Having thus decided to bear alone the
burden of his secret, he went, early in
the morning, and told the woman he
loved.
Of course, there is no explanation of
this vacillation and indifference to his
own judgment, except the mere state-
ment that he was in love.
“ Amy is trying on her dress,” Mrs.
Paul said, when he was ushered into the
library, “so, if you want to see her, you
can go home at once. But perhaps you
may condescend to talk to me a little
while ?”
“I must see Amy, please,” he said.
He had a way of putting people aside so
gently and peremptorily that Mrs. Paul,
who was not a yielding person, never
dreamed of protesting.
37


WHERE IGNORANCE IS BLISS
“ I'll tell her. But she really can't
come down for ten minutes. Do you
mind waiting ?”
“Very much,” he said smiling. “Tell
her to come down just as she is, and let
me see her frock.”
“ Indeed, she shan't do anything of
the sort,” said Mrs. Paul, with indigna-
tion ; but relented to the extent of let-
ting him have the library to himself, and
going upstairs to send the girl to him.
Amy came floating in with a snowy
gleam and rustle, and stood before him,
bidding him not to dare to touch her;
though, indeed, being a mere man, he
was far too uncomfortably awed to think
of taking this glorious white creature into
his poor human arms.
“You are magnificent, but you are not
Amy,” he said ; “ do get on some com-
mon clothes. I'm afraid of you."
“That is as it should be, sir !" she told
him. “I shall dress like this every day if
it keeps you obedient. If I had had on
my wedding-dress last night, you would
not have dared not to stay to dinner
when I — wanted you."


'T IS FOLLY TO BE WISE
Her look, through the mist of tulle,
of soft reproach and challenge, was too
much for fear, and he boldly kissed her;
which made her protest, and fly from
further risk of crushing the bravery of
her wedding-day. When she came back
again, in a blue cotton gown, trig and
pretty, with a bunch of pansies in her
belt, there was, fortunately, nothing to
be hurt by being crushed.
There was a moment of tender and pas-
sionate silence. His errand faded from
William West's mind ; the reality of life
was here! his past was no more to him
than the eggshell is to the eagle. So
when, later, leaning forward in his chair,
holding her hand in his, looking into her
pure eyes, he began to speak, it was al-
most casually. Before the great fact of
human love, the question of telling her
or not telling her of that old dead and
buried sin was suddenly unimportant, —
they loved each other !
“Dear,” he said, “I've come to tell
you something. What you said last night
about having no reserves put it into my
head. I had forgotten it."
39


WHERE IGNORANCE IS BLISS
It was characteristic of the man that
there was no preamble; his words were
simple, and he was perfectly matter-of-
fact and unanxious; so much so that Amy
laughed.
“Were you a year-old criminal ? Well,
know."
There was something in the assurance
of her gayety that jarred a little, and he
said seriously:-
" It is a wrongdoing of my youth,
Amy. I'm not sure that it is not selfish
to tell you about it ; but I can't bear the
feeling of holding anything back from
you.”
An answering gravity came into the
girl's face, but she smiled.
“Tell me anything; I am not afraid
to hear !"
Her innocent pride gave him a mo-
ment of sharp discomfort. Curiously
enough, what he had to tell her had
not connected itself, in his mind, with
personal embarrassment; it had been
too remote from himself. He found
so


'T IS FOLLY TO BE WISE
This made him glow. After all, who
would not confess anything, to be met
by such confident love as this?
“This happened long ago, Amy;
when I was nineteen. I forged a check
for five hundred dollars.”
“Forged !” Her lips fell apart; she
sat staring at him.
He was holding her hand, lifting it
to his lips sometimes, and looking at it
as it lay in his. He went on, quietly :-
“It was when I was at college ; I
needed money; and — poor, desperate,
wicked, silly young man — I forged Pro-
fessor Wilson's name. I don't know
what I supposed would become of me
when it was found out. And I don't
know what would have become of me,
but Henry Wilson died before the month
was out, and so, by some strange chance,
it never was discovered. If it had been
- well, you and I would not have been
here to-day. Human justice would have
interposed before Divine mercy” – He
looked up with a solemn elation which
seemed to put self out of his mind. “I
might have gone lower and lower! Who
Wicked monewhen i
43


WHERE IGNORANCE IS BLISS
can say? It was an easy thing to do,
for I was his secretary, and he trusted
me. That, of course, was the most hor-
rible part of what I did, the part that
now seems to me incomprehensible —
the broken trust! Well, of course, I
made reparation, as I called it, out of the
money he left me. I gave away many
times the amount I stole; but it was
only because I was scared at the risk I
had run, and the thought of it harassed
me. It was a sort of expedient morality,
you know; a sort of bargain with my
conscience for peace of mind. Then,
about a year afterwards, I met X-
I heard him preach, and life changed.
How extraordinary it seems to look back
upon it now! Then I repented. Before,
I had only reformed. That was when I
entered the divinity school. But just
think, Amy, just think of the difference!
How life might have gone — yet here I
am to-day, your lover, your husband.
Oh, the mercy of God !”
He was deeply moved. He got up
and walked the length of the room.
Amy sat silently looking down at her


'T IS FOLLY TO BE WISE
hands in her lap. When he came back,
his eyes were full of peace.
“That is all, dearest; now we will
forget it. You know my life as you do
your own.”
“Forget it?” she repeated, with a
sudden, sobbing laugh, that tore at the
man's heart.
“Amy! dearest! have I shocked you
so ? Remember, it was twenty-three
years ago ; I was only a boy. Let me
tell you how it was : I was madly in love
with a woman; at least, it was not love,
but I thought it was; she fascinated me,
and” —
“Oh, go on — go on!” she inter-
rupted, hoarsely; "as if I cared about
that !”
He tried to take her hand, but she
made a pretense of arranging the flowers
in her belt; her head was turned a little
from him. He leaned forward, with a
grave authority to command her atten-
tion, took the pansies from her, and held
them in his hand.
“I was possessed to marry her. Of
course, she would not look at me —
45


WHERE IGNORANCE IS BLISS
a penniless, charity student. But I
strained every nerve to win her. It was
the old story. She took my flowers, or
theatre tickets, or anything I could give
her. Curious, the mercenariness of the
woman did not revolt me! But I was
mad about her. I thought, at last, that
if I had money I could give her some
jewels she wanted, and perhaps she
would accept me. That was how it
came about. She took the diamonds,
and eloped with a married man two days
afterwards."
As he told the story, the grossness of
it all came over him, — the offense to the
exquisite delicacy of the girl beside him.
“But I ought not to have told you
this,” he stammered.
“What?” she said dully. “ About
the woman? Oh, as if that mattered !”
She turned from him sharply, putting the
back of her hand against her lips as
though to hide their quiver.
Then she burst out : “Oh, why did
you tell me? Why? why? Oh, I wish
you had not told me!” She shook from
head to foot. “But it will make no dif-
46


'T IS FOLLY TO BE WISE
ference! I will not let it make any differ-
ence. I am going to marry you. Only
- I never knew you !”
Those most terrible words, those words
with which Love destroys itself, came
like a blow between the eyes. He grew
very pale. “Not make any differ-
ence'?” he repeated, blankly, “why,
what difference could it make?”
She stopped crying, suddenly, and
stood, panting, steadying herself by her
hands upon his breast, and staring at
him. There was something almost ter-
rifying in this sudden pause and in her
burning look.
“It's the one thing,” she said, “ don't
you see? that lasts. It is n't like — other
things.”
"But it was not I,” he said, mechan-
ically. “Not I, the man you — you
thought you knew. It was a boy, twenty-
three years ago. Amy, Amy! Twenty-
three years ago !”
She did not listen ; she kept repeating
to herself : “ It shall make no difference.
I will not let it make any difference.”
Alas, it was not for her to say! The
47


WHERE IGNORANCE IS BLISS
difference was made; the jewel crushed
under foot is no more a jewel; the rose
thrown into the fire is no more a rose.
The stained human soul is no more the
innocent human soul.
“But you must listen to me, Amy,"
he said. “No, I will not speak until you
are calm. Sit down. Look at me. Now,
listen to what I have to say." He spoke
slowly and gently, as one does to a ter-
rified, unreasonable child.
“Dear, I had forgotten it. So little is
it a part of my life that I had forgotten
it. When I remembered it last night, it
was with a sense of astonishment, a sense
of pity for the mad boy who did it. I
had no personal shame, — it seemed to
belong to some one else, whom I watched
with sorrow and indignation. I do not
believe that to-day, more than twenty
years afterwards, I have any business to
think of it.”
“Then why did you tell me?” she said
wearily. “Oh, don't talk about it any
more. I am going to forget it. Good-
by. I am going upstairs. I have a head-
ache. Good-by.”
48


WHERE IGNORANCE IS BLISS
puzzle out of Mrs. Paul's face, and all
the time he was half deafened by a clam-
oring suspicion : “ Have I been a fool?
She will never forget it! It will always
be between us. I've been a cowardly
fool.”
“Well, that's all settled,” said Mrs.
Paul, with an air of relief ; “now tell me,
what day shall I have Amy's things sent
to the rectory? And shall I take the
silver from the bank the day before you
arrive? Is it safe to leave it at your
house? I hate the responsibility of other
people's silver !”
“Oh, certainly, yes,” he answered,
suddenly absent; and, with a curt good-
by, left her.
Somehow or other, he hardly knew
how, he got through the day. There
was a service in the afternoon, and there
were other people's affairs and sorrows
to remember; fortunately, there always
is duty for us poor human creatures as a
refuge from our thoughts! Duties to be
done saved William West from desper-
ately going back to Amy to explain. For
he was guilty of the impulse of “expla-


'T IS FOLLY TO BE WISE
nation,” the babble with which the weak
mind is forever annotating its remarks or
its opinions.
Well, the day passed. In spite of a
craving to see Amy that was almost ago-
nizing, he held on to his common-sense,
and left her to herself. In the evening,
his lawyer came in, bringing some papers
in regard to certain property which it was
the minister's intention to make over to
his wife, and the looking these over, and
the business talk, was a relief to him.
He began to feel that he had taken
Amy's perturbation much too seriously;
it would be all right; she would see
things clearly when the first dismay had
passed. He thought, tenderly, that he
must not let her feel any regret for hav-
ing for a moment shown him her pain at
what he had told her. Her pain was
only part of her exquisite goodness, that
goodness which held her, remote and
lovely, like some pure and luminous star,
so far above the sordid meannesses and
wickednesses of common life that she
could not understand them; perhaps
even she could not pity them. Only


WHERE IGNORANCE IS BLISS
the sinlessness which was in all points
tempted like as we are can at once un-
derstand and pity ; his thought, chas-
tened and passionate, fled back to his
Master for comfort, — yet there was no
reproach of Amy in his mind.
It must have been after ten, as he and
Mr. Woodhouse sat before the broad
writing-table, with the litter of papers
and memoranda before them, that John
Paul suddenly burst into the room.
The senior warden's strong, kind face
was flushed; he was plainly profoundly
disturbed and upset.
“West” — he said explosively, and
stopped, seeing that they were not alone.
“My dear fellow,” he began again, stam-
mering with agitation, “ can I see you a
moment? A matter of business, Wood-
house, if you don't mind. Can we go
into another room, West ?"
But the lawyer protested that he was
just about to go home. “I have married
a wife; you 'll see how it is yourself, Billy,
pretty soon! Lois allows me twenty
minutes leeway of the hour I name to
get home, and if I'm not back then, she


'T IS FOLLY TO BE WISE
threatens to send a policeman after me.
Good-night. Good-night, John.” And
he went whistling off into the night.
The minister had not spoken.
“Look here,” John Paul said, as the
front door banged, “what under the sun
is this business ? Good Lord, West,
Amy's sent you a letter — Kate told me
to break it to you, but I— confound it,
man-go and read it. The girl's crazy.
Go and read it. What are we going to
do ?”
Without a word William West took
the letter and read it, standing facing
Mr. Paul. (“It looked,” John Paul told
his wife afterwards, “as though he died,
then and there.")
“ You were right to tell me — only
please — please don't make me marry
you. I cannot. I could never forget.
If it were anything else — anything else
- it would be different; but theft - oh,
how cruel I am to say that ! but I cannot
marry you. There's no use talking about
forgiveness. I don't want you to forgive
me. I want you to hate me ; then you
53


WHERE IGNORANCE IS BLISS
will suffer less. Hate me. I'm not worth
anything else. I'm going home to-mor-
row. It can be said I am ill, and the
wedding is put off. I am ill; it won't be
a lie. Please don't ask to see me. I can-
not see you. Forgive me.
A.”
William West sat down, folding the
letter between his fingers.
“There's nothing to be said." He
spoke very quietly. Then he opened the
letter again, and looked down at it.
“West, for God's sake," John Paul
entreated him; “listen, man! don't take
it like that. The girl is out of her mind.
Here, pull yourself together! It's a
passing whim; you will bring her to her
senses as soon as you see her.”
“She will not see me," he said. As
he spoke his eye caught the headlines of
the deed of gift, and he read them ab-
sently:-
“This Jndentare made this — day of
- Anno Domini 184, Witnesseth : that
William West, the grantor, for divers good
and valuable considerations to him moving,
54


WHERE IGNORANCE IS BLISS
She's a member of my family. I shall
see her (she would n't see me before I
started here), and straighten this busi-
ness out. Kate is nearly dead with it.
My wife looked like a ghost when she
came and told me — and the wedding day
after to-morrow! No; I'm going to
straighten this thing out. What I want
you to do is to tell me, man to man, what
started it ?”
“ Amy is perfectly justified,” William
West said dully. “I told her this morn-
ing that I had committed a forgery."
“A—?” John Paul sat down, his
mouth open, his plump hands on his
knees, his eyes starting from his head.
“You are out of your mind !”.
William West laughed shortly.
“I think, perhaps, I was when I told
her. Yes; I was a fool. It was twenty-
three years ago; I had just about forgot-
ten it. When I remembered, I told her.
It was too much for her. She is right
to stop now. If she can throw me over,
thank Heaven she has done so !”
The bitterness of it burst out in that
last sentence. Then, quietly, he told
56


'TIS FOLLY TO BE WISE
Amy's cousin the story of that long-
buried youth. When it was done, John
Paul said huskily: —
“West, I don't know what to think
of your telling her; but I know what
to think of you. And I know what to
think of Amy."
William West said nothing; he took
the little note out of his pocket and
turned it over and over.
(“He seemed to go to pieces before
my eyes,” John Paul told his wife. “I
tell you, Kate, I saw him lose his moral
grip! Poor West — poor fellow !”)
Mr. Paul sat helplessly looking at his
clergyman, until he had a sense of in-
decency in watching the suffering of
this silent human creature. Then he
said vaguely:-
"I suppose you want me to clear out ?
But just tell me; what do you want me
to do ?”
“Nothing.”
“But don't you mean to make any
effort to bring her to her senses ?" burst
out the other.
“There's nothing to be done,” the


WHERE IGNORANCE IS BLISS
lover said. “It's over — don't you
see?”
“It's not over," insisted Amy's cousin ;
“I shall see her; this thing can't go
on. I'll send for you ; you are well
rid of her; it will be all right, I” —
Storming and protesting and contradict-
ing himself, he went out of the rectory,
scarcely noticing that his host saw him
to the door, and let him out, in absolute
silence.
Then William West went back and
locked himself into his library.
VI
The senior warden of St. James was
wrong when he said that his minister lost
his moral grip. There was, no doubt, a
time of upheaval and shock, a staggering
under a calamity which seemed to have
no moral excuse, to be only a senseless
shattering of a human life.
But he got his balance again. He
made no effort to see Amy. This was
partly to spare her, and partly from a
sense of the futility of argument; the


'T IS FOLLY TO BE WISE
thing was done ; if she married him ten
times over, it would not be the same.
As she said, she had never known him ;
and perhaps he had never known her.
But, for that matter, who of us knows
the other ? The question is, is it worth
while to try to attain, or to bestow, such
knowledge? Gossip, of course, had run
riot when it was known that he had been
jilted; but gossip, after it reaches a
certain point of insult and falsehood,
becomes a source of amusement to its
victims. West, with his delicate sense
of humor, found other people's opinions
of his sufferings not without interest. It
being nobody's business but his own,
only three people besides Miss Town-
send and himself knew the facts — the
Pauls and his own lawyer; so no light
was thrown upon the subject to Mercer,
which seethed and bubbled, and made it-
self wildly ludicrous. The minister went
away after that first fury of parish ex-
citement was over, and came back in
four months, quite brown, with a good
appetite, and several very interesting
pieces of tapestry which he had picked


'T IS FOLLY TO BE WISE
the rights lay with the strikers; a fact
which these gentlemen believed to be
unusual. It was nearly midnight when
they left the rectory and went along the
empty, echoing street together.
“ It strikes me,” said Mr. Paul, “that
you had n't much to say for yourself to-
night, Woodhouse. You 're the canniest
fellow about giving an opinion ! Did n't
you want to commit yourself?”.
“I have n't any opinion yet," said the
other man slowly; "and, somehow, I got
to thinking - I say, John, after all, what
do you make of West's telling Miss
Townsend that matter ?”
“I think she did n't know which side
her bread was buttered,” John Paul said
gruffly.
“Oh, that's another question,” the
lawyer said. “I think almost any woman
is too good for almost any man. I won-
der they don't all think better of it at the
last moment, and throw us over !”
“How long have you been married,
Gifford ?” the older man inquired cyni-
cally. “I'll tell you what Kate says:
Kate says if Amy could throw him over,
6


WHERE IGNORANCE IS BLISS
she ought to have had the chance to. So
she thinks West ought to have told
her.”
“That's like saying, if there is a
chance of breaking your neck by taking
some preposterous leap, take it,” the
lawyer commented. “But as I look back
at it now, and see how it has aged Billy,
and — well, hardened him a little, I think
- it seems such an unnecessary calam-
ity; such a blunder! And yet ” —
“Kate has views about heredity, and
all that sort of thing,” Mr. Paul explained.
“She says a woman has a right to say
her children shan't have a — shady char-
acter for a father. That was too much
for me; I don't generally contradict my
Boss; it is n't peaceful. But that was
too much for me! Billy West shady!
I gave my wife a piece of my mind. I
tell you, Woodhouse, women are hard.”
“Well, but there's something in that,”
the lawyer protested. “A woman has
not only a right, but a duty, to think
of her children, and a possible moral
taint” –


'T IS FOLLY TO BE WISE
“Moral grandmother!" John Paul broke
in; “West is one man in a hundred. I
think he's well rid of Amy: I told him
so at the time. Why, look here; a man
who has not repented of his sin has no
inclination to confess it. And, having
repented and made reparation, confession
becomes a mere matter of expediency.
Why, good heavens, Gifford ! is there to
be no escape from sin ? What's all this
talk about forgiveness mean, if we've got
to rake up the past and agonize over it
as long as we live? Is n't there any
statute of limitation in things spiritual ?
I don't believe any large mind dwells on
its sins, any more than on its virtues !
And yet,” he ended, suddenly cooling,
“I swear it is a difficult question, the
telling or not telling the girl you are go-
ing to marry.”
“If you bring it down to expediency,
it's simple enough,” Gifford Woodhouse
said ; “it was obviously inexpedient.
Even if she had married him, and simply
remembered, would either of them have
been any better off ? Would any end
63


WHERE IGNORANCE IS BLISS
have been subserved by putting such
painful knowledge on her conscience as
well as his own ? It was not as though
there was a lady with nine small chil-
dren and one at the breast' somewhere
round the corner in the Past, who might
turn up some day. That sort of sin
affects the relation of the man and wo-
man, and it may be simple prudence to
confess. Though I think there is a ques-
tion, even there. But in this case expe-
diency, you might even call it unselfish-
ness, would make him hold his tongue.
The only thing is, perhaps there is some-
thing higher than expediency?”
They had reached Mr. Paul's door ; he
pitched his cigar into the street and pulled
out his keys, shaking them on the end of
their chain.
“ You mean, abstractly, is it right or
wrong, under circumstances like these,
where no third person is to be cleared or
benefited, to tell ? Does honor demand
confession ?”
“Yes," said the vestryman; "was it a
duty to speak, or a duty to be silent ?”
64


'T IS FOLLY TO BE WISE
There was a moment's silence.
“Was West a fool or a saint ?” insisted
the younger man.
"I'll be hanged if I know," said the
senior warden.


THE HOUSE OF RIMMON
sun. The ground was spongy beneath
the foot, and there were small springs
bubbling up under every winter-bleached
tuft of last year's grass. The air, full of
the scent of earth and growing things,
was warm and sweet, yet with an edge
of cold — the sword of frost in a velvet
scabbard.
Life — life: and in the upper chamber
of the parsonage the master lay dead.
One of the children had put a bunch of
apple blossoms on the table at the head
of the bed. They were not appropriate
— the soft, rosy flowers beside the hard
face there on the pillow; the face with
its thatch of gray hair over the narrow,
domelike brow, seamed and cut with
wrinkles ; the anxious, melancholy lips
set in such icy and eternal indifference -
the face of the religious egotist, stamped
with inexorable sincerity, stern and cold
and mean. Not a father's face. But his
daughter had put her handful of snowy
flowers on the pine table, their little
gnarled black stems thrust tightly down
into a tumbler of water. And then she
went tiptoeing out of the silent room.


THE HOUSE OF RIMMON
dred dollars a year. A dollar! And that
uncle in Mercer, whom she had never
seen, who had quarreled with her mother
because she married her father, and who
was so rich and powerful (according to a
newspaper paragraph she had once read)
- this uncle, who had had no connection
with them in all these years — what was
the use of wasting a dollar in telegraph.
ing him? She meant to say so; and yet,
when she went downstairs, after Elder
Barnes had gone, and found her little
mother standing at the window, looking
blankly out at the garden, there was some-
thing in the mild, faded face that kept
the girl silent. She came up and put her
strong young arm about her, and kissed
her softly.
“Mother, won't you lie down?”
“No, dear; I am not tired. Mr. Barnes
has been very kind in telling me what
must be done. I do hope everything will
be as — he would wish.”
They did not speak for a little while,
and then Esther said, in a low voice,
“Mother, I don't want to worry you, and
— and perhaps it's very soon to speak of


THE HOUSE OF RIMMON
it, but have you thought at all of what is
going to become of us?”.
Her mother put up her hand with a
sort of shiver. “No, no, not yet. We
must n't talk of that yet. Oh, Esther, he
is dead! Poor Silas — poor Silas !” She
caught her breath like a child, and looked
up at her tall daughter in a frightened
way.
Esther nodded and cried a little; then
she wiped her eyes, and said, hesitating :
“You're going to get a crêpe veil, are n't
you, mother, and a black dress? And I
think I ought to have a black dress.”
“We have n't any money for new
clothes, Essie,” Mrs. Eaton answered
tremulously.
“But I think we ought to wear black,”
Esther protested. “It is n't proper not
to."
The other sighed with anxiety. “I
don't see how we can. He would not
wish us to waste the money."
They were very intimate, these two;
for each had found the other a shelter
from the fierce integrity which had ruled
the family life. And now instinctively
70


THE HOUSE OF RIMMON
they nestled together, panting and chirp-
ing like two frightened birds, and saying
to each other, “He would wish this, or
that.”
But he was dead, and the face of life
was suddenly changed to them both.
The withdrawal of the dominant right-
eous will of husband and father made an
abrupt silence in their lives — a silence
which was as overwhelming in its way as
grief. To the mother it was as though
having been borne helplessly along on
some powerful arm, she had been sud-
denly set down on her own feet, and bid-
den to lead and carry others. Esther's
frightened question, “What is going to
become of us?” echoed in her ears like a
crash of bewildering sound. She had no
answer; all she knew was that she must
take care of the children ; work for them;
fight for them — poor little weak crea-
ture!— if necessary. She was thirty-
five, this mother, but she looked much
older. Once she must have been pretty;
one knew that by the startled softness
of her hazel eyes and the delicately cut
pale lips; but her forehead, rounded like
71


THE HOUSE OF RIMMON
a child's, was worn and full of lines,
and her whole expression so timid and
anxious and deprecating that one only
thought of what her life must have been
to cut so deep a stamp on such gentle
and vague material. It had been, since
her marriage, a very uneventful life, its
keenest excitement the making both ends
meet on her husband's salary. Before
that there had, indeed, been the keen
and exciting experience of marrying in
opposition to her father's command, and
being practically disowned by her peo-
ple. She was Lydia Blair, a girl of good
family, gentle and dutiful, as girls were
expected to be thirty years ago — one of
those pleasant girls who let their elders
and betters think for them, and are loved
as one loves comfortable and inanimate
things. And then, suddenly, had ap-
peared this harsh, fiery, narrow New
England minister, of another denomina-
tion, of another temperament — for that
matter, of another class; and she had
developed a will of her own and married
him. Why? Everybody who knew her
asked, "Why?” Perhaps afterwards she


THE HOUSE OF RIMMON
herself asked why-afterwards, when he
became so intent upon saving his own
soul that he had no time to win his chil-
dren's love or to make love to his wife.
By the time he came to die, very likely
he had forgotten he ever had made love
to her. He called her “Mrs. Eaton,"
and he was as used to her as he was to
his battered old desk or his worn Bible.
But when he came to die, he lay in his
bed and watched her as he had not done
these fifteen years; and once he said,
when she brought him his medicine,
“You've been a good wife, Mrs.
Eaton ;” and once, “ You're very kind,
Lily.” But this was at the end, and the
doctor said his mind was wandering.
And then the end had come, in the
spring night, towards dawn; and now he
was lying still, as indifferent to the soft
weather, the shower of apple blossoms,
the two children whispering about the
house, the wife staring, dry-eyed, out into
the sunshine — as indifferent as he al-
ways had been.
Well, well; he was a good man, they
said ; and now he had gone to find the
73


THE HOUSE OF RIMMON
Ah, well, what a pretty girl she was !”
He sat down, shook his head when the
man offered him some soup, and opened
his napkin thoughtfully. “Well, he's
dead. He was a most objectionable per-
son” —
Mrs. Blair looked at the butler's back
as he stood at the sideboard, and raised
her eyebrows; but her husband went on,
a wrinkle like a cut deepening on his
forehead:-
“My father forbade it — did I never
tell you about it? — but Lydia, who had
always been a nonentity, suddenly ac-
quired a will, and married him. My fa-
ther never forgave her. She evidently
did n't care for any affection that did n't
include him, and cut herself off from all
of us. Of course I'm sorry for her now;
but I don't feel that I have anything to
reproach myself with.” He tapped the
table with impatient fingers, and told the
butler that he did n't want his claret
boiled. “Have n't you any sense, Sam-
uel ? You're a perfect fool about wine;
here, throw that out of the window, and
get me a fresh bottle!”
75


THE HOUSE OF RIMMON
Mrs. Blair was a beautiful young wo-
man, who, two years before, had married
this irascible, successful, dogmatic man,
and (so Mercer said) could wind him
round any one of her pretty jeweled fin-
gers whenever she wanted to. He cer-
tainly was very much in love — and so
was she, though her particular world
never believed it, alleging that she was
not indifferent to the loaves and fishes.
But the fact was Mrs. Blair took the
loaves and fishes with a childlike delight
which meant appreciation, certainly, but
not avarice. She enjoyed her wealth,
and her life, and herself, immensely and
openly; and that was her charm to her
husband, a man immersed in large affairs,
sagacious, powerful, and without imagina-
tion. He was a cultivated man, because
his forbears had been educated people,
of sober, comfortable wealth ; hence he
had gone to college, like other young
men of his class, and had traveled, and
had acquired an intellectual, or rather a
commercial knowledge of Art. But, un-
til he married, every instinct was for
power, and the making of money. After


THE HOUSE OF RIMMON
began to talk about his sister's affairs,
Mrs. Blair was instantly interested.
“Of course her husband's death will
make a difference in her income?" she
said, as they went upstairs to the library.
“A country minister's salary does n't
amount to much anyhow; but ” —
“Well, she made her bed,” he inter-
rupted sharply; "she ought to be willing
to lie in it !”
“Oh, yes, of course; but now the man
is dead, it 's different. I know you want
to do something for her, you are so gen-
erous.”
He pulled her pretty ear at that, and
told her she was a flattering little hum-
bug. “What do you want, diplomat ?
You 'll bankrupt me yet. Am I to build
a palace for Lily? Look here, I wrote
that West Virginia college president to-
day and told him I'd give him the money
he wanted. It's all your doing, but I
get the name of a great educator.”
“Oh, Robert, how good you are! I
think that ought to silence the people
that say you 'grind the face of the poor.'
I saw that in the paper to-day. Beasts !
78


THE HOUSE OF RIMMON
and you are so generous ! I tell you what
I want : I want you to have them come
here, your sister and the children” –
“You angel!” he said. “No; that's
dangerous. We might n't like the brats.
The boy's name is Silas. I don't think I
could stand a cub named Silas. But the
girl would n't be so bad. As for Lily (we
used to call her Lily when she was a girl),
she is one of those gentle, colorless wo-
men, all virtue and no opinions, whom
anybody could live with. Rather a fool,
you know. But we'll have them come
and make us a visit, if it won't bore you.
If we like it, we can prolong it. Any-
how, I'll see that poor Lil has a decent
income. You know, my father did n't
leave her a cent. The old gentleman
said he would n't have that hell - fire
Presbyterian use any of his money for
his damned heathen !! But I'll look
after her now."
Thus it was that a home was prepared
for Silas Eaton's widow; the offer of it
came the day after the funeral, when she
sat down to face the future. She had
79


THE HOUSE OF RIMMON
face with her hands, and trembled with
excitement and relief. “Oh,” she said,
“the children won't be poor! Robert
will take care of us.”
III
When Mrs. Eaton went to Mercer, the
change in her life was absolute and bewil-
dering. Robert Blair's enormous wealth
was, at first, simply not to be realized.
The subdued and refined magnificence of
the house conveyed nothing to his sis-
ter's mind, because she had no standard
of value. The pictures and tapestries
implied not money, but only beauty and
joy, for she had never dreamed of buying
anything but food and clothes; so how
could she guess that all the money of all
her sixteen years on a minister's salary
would not have purchased, say, the small
misty square of canvas that held in one
corner a wonderful and noble and peasant
name?
The first night in the great wainscoted
dining-room, with a man bringing un-
known dishes to her elbow, with candles


THE HOUSE OF RIMMON
shining on elaborate and useless pieces
of silver, with the glow of firelight flick-
ering out from under a superb chimney-
piece of Mexican marble, and dancing
about the stately and dignified room —
the beauty and the graciousness and the
wonder of it was an overwhelming expe-
rience, though she had not the dimmest
idea of the fortune it represented — a
fortune notorious and envied the land
over. That she had had no share in it
until now did not wound her in the least;
she was grateful for the warmth and the
comfort and the kindness, now they had
come; she never harked back to the pain-
ful years of silence and forgetfulness.
Her brother and his wife watched her,
amused and interested; her dazzled ad-
miration of everything was half touching,
half droll. But what a confession it was !
Eleanor Blair realized this, and she said
to herself, warmly, that she would make
up to Robert's sister for the past. She
was in her element in arranging her
sister-in-law's future; she made a dozen
plans for her in the first week; but her
husband laughed and shook his head.
2


THE HOUSE OF RIMMON
“Wait,” he said ; “time enough when
we see how we get along."
But they got along very well. The
children, after the first shy awkward-
ness had worn off, were really attractive.
Silas, an eager brown-eyed boy of eleven,
lovable in spite of his name, made artless
and pretty love to his pretty aunt, who
found him a delightful plaything. “The
serious Esther," as her uncle called her,
was a friendly little creature, when one
came to know her; her common-sense
commended her to Mr. Blair, and her
dressmaking and her education were an
immediate interest to her aunt.
So it came about that the visit was
prolonged, and the project of a little es-
tablishment of her own for Mrs. Eaton
gradually given up; at all events, for the
present. It was very satisfactory as it
was. The house was so big, they were
not in the way; and Mrs. Eaton's mourn-
ing kept her in the background in regard
to society — which "was just as well,”
Mrs. Blair admitted, smiling to herself -
but it made no difference in her useful-
ness. She was really quite useful in one


THE HOUSE OF RIMMON
way or another; she could write an in-
telligent note to a tradesman, or reply
(by formula) to a begging letter; so, by
and by, she was practically her sister-in-
law's secretary, and certainly the Blairs
had never had either a maid or a butler
who could begin to arrange flowers for
a dinner party as Mrs. Eaton did. She
was silent, and rather vague, but always
gentle, and ready and eager to fetch and
carry for anybody. She so rarely ex-
pressed any opinion of her own, that
when she did the two strong and good-
natured people who made her life so easy
for her could hardly take it seriously.
She did, to be sure, decline to change her
son's objectionable name, on the ground
that it was his name, and so could not be
changed; "and,” Mrs. Blair complained
once, “she won't let me send Esther
to dancing-school. I asked her if she
thought dancing was wrong, and she said,
“Oh, no; but Mr. Eaton did. Is n't it
funny ?”
Robert Blair laughed, and said he
would straighten that out. But, some-
how, it was not straightened out. Esther
84


THE HOUSE OF RIMMON
teased, and Mrs. Blair was just a little
impatient and sarcastic. But Esther did
not go to dancing-school.
“I'm sorry to displease you, Eleanor,”
Mrs. Eaton said, shrinking as she spoke,
like a frightened animal which expects a
blow, “but — I can't allow it. Mr. Eaton
would not have wished it.”
Yet, negative as she seemed, the little
quiet woman was keenly alive to the ad-
vantages of this full, rich life for the chil-
dren, and, indeed, for herself. Mere rest
was such a luxury to her, for she had
lived and worked as only a country min-
ister's wife must. So, to feel no anxiety,
to have delicate food, to know the touch
of fine linen, — in fact, to be comfortable,
meant more to her than even her brother,
enjoying his generosity towards her, could
possibly imagine.
So life began for his sister and her
children in Robert Blair's beautiful great
house in the new part of Mercer, — the
new part which is not offended by the
sight of those great black chimneys roar-
ing with sapphire and saffron flames, or
belching monstrous coils of black smoke,
85


THE HOUSE OF RIMMON
“So the puddlers shall starve to make
a Mercer holiday,” he said good-na-
turedly.
“If they choose to strike, they must
take the consequences,” she replied, with
some spirit. “Besides, they are the most
ungrateful creatures ! Well, I'm sure I
don't know what we're coming to !”
“Something may be coming to us,”
her visitor said, with a whimsical look,
but he sighed, and got up to take his
leave. His charming parishioner sighed
too, prettily, and said with much feel-
ing, -
“Of course, Mr. West, if there are
any cases that need help, you 'll let me
know.”
“But, Nellie,” said Mrs. Eaton, who
had been sitting silent, as usual, and quite
overlooked by the other two, “is there
any use in helping the people who are
in trouble because they are out of work,
and yet not letting them go to work?”
Mrs. Blair laughed, in spite of herself,
the protest was so unexpected, and so
absurd, coming from this meek source.
“My dear,” she said, “you don't under-


THE HOUSE OF RIMMON
stand; they can go to work if they want
to.”
“Well,” Mrs. Eaton said anxiously, “I
should think, either they are wrong, and
so you should n't help them, or they are
right, and they ought to get what they
want.”
Her sister stared at her, and then
laughed again, greatly amused; but Wil-
liam West put on his glasses and gave
her a keen look.
“Mrs. Eaton, don't you want to help
us on the Organized Relief Associa-
tion?”
“Yes, sir,” said Lydia Eaton, “if
there's anything I can do."
“I don't want to steal your services
away from any other parson,” he said
pleasantly. “I suppose you belong to
Mr. Hudson's flock? You are a Pres-
byterian, of course ?”.
"No, sir, I am not,” she said, the color
rising in her face.
“Oh, then you do belong to me?” he
said smiling.
“I'm not an Episcopalian,” she an-
swered, with a frightened look.
88


THE HOUSE OF RIMMON
“Then what on earth are you?” Mrs.
Blair asked her, laughing
“I'm not — anything,” she said, her
voice trembling; “but, Eleanor, please
don't speak of it. The children must not
know it. Mr. Eaton would want them
to be members of his church. So we
must always go there.”
There was an instant's awkward pause.
Mrs. Blair looked very disapproving.
“Why, Lydia,” she said, “do you
mean you don't believe things ? Why, I
never had a doubt in my life!” she ex-
claimed, turning to the minister, who
was silent.
Mrs. Eaton caught her breath, and
looked at him too, her mild eyes full of
pain. “Nobody ever asked me before. I
am sorry, but I can't help it. The Bible
says people go to hell ; but God is good,
so I don't believe the Bible. But Mr.
Eaton would wish me to go to church.”
The perfectly simple logic, so primitive
as to stop at “ the Bible says,” was irre-
sistibly funny; yet, to William West, in-
finitely touching. But he put the discus-
sion aside quietly.
89


THE HOUSE OF RIMMON
“So you will come on our committee?”
he said. “We shall be glad to have
you."
But when he went away he laughed a
little to himself. “The iron heel of Ed-
wards, I suppose. But how direct ! Two
and two make four. She is incapable of
understanding that they sometimes make
five.”
But Mrs. Blair did not dismiss it so
lightly. She was annoyed at the protest
about the strikers, and that impelled her
to straighten out Mrs. Eaton's religious
beliefs. There was some irritation in her
voice as she began, but she was in earnest,
and stopped in the middle of “proofs”
to tell Samuel to say she was “not at
home.”
“But, Eleanor, you are,” Mrs. Eaton
protested in a frightened way.
“My dear, that is a form of speech.”
“But it makes Samuel tell a lie," she
said nervously.
“Oh, Lily, don't be silly,” Mrs. Blair
said impatiently, and then jumped from
hell to the strikers, — though, as it hap-
pened, the distance between them was
90


THE HOUSE OF RIMMON
not so great after all. “Really, now,
Lydia, I don't think you ought to speak
as you did before Mr. West about the
men. In the first place, business is n't
philanthropy, and Robert can't give in to
them. And in the second place, they are
behaving outrageously! I should think
you would have more loyalty to Robert
than to seem to uphold them."
“I only meant ” – Mrs. Eaton began
breathlessly.
“Oh, my dear, you don't know what
you mean,” Mrs. Blair interrupted, laugh-
ing and good-natured again. “But just
remember, will you, how kind Robert is?
It seems to me he is always doing things
for this ungrateful place. Look at the
fountain in the square; that's the last
thing."
“But would n't the men rather have
had running water in the tenements ?”
Mrs. Eaton said; "there are only hy-
drants down in the back yards.”
However, as that first year in Mercer
slipped by, there were very few such jars.
The strike ended early in the fall, and
there was nothing to call out any objec-
91


THE HOUSE OF RIMMON
tionable opinion from Mrs. Eaton on that
line.
“As for Lydia,” Robert Blair said
once, “you say 'go,' and she goeth. She
has absolutely no will of her own.”
This was, apparently, quite true. At
all events, she had a genius for obedi-
ence, and a terror of responsibility. In
the organized relief-work which Mrs.
Blair's clergyman had proposed, obedience
necessitated responsibility sometimes, and
no one knew how the silent little creature
suffered when she had to decide anything.
But she did decide, usually with remark-
able but very simple common-sense.
“And always on the supposition that
two and two make four,” Mr. West said
to himself. He found her literalness a
little aggravating just at first, but it was
very diverting. He used to put on his
glasses and watch her anxious face when
(for such his requests or suggestions
seemed to her); and he would ask her
questions to draw out her astounding
simplicity and directness of thought, and
find her as refreshing as a child. She


THE HOUSE OF RIMMON
used to sit up before him, saying, “Yes,
sir,” and “No, sir,” and looking, with her
startled eyes, like a little gray rabbit —
for at the end of a year she took off her
black dress, and wore instead soft grays
that were very pretty and becoming. Her
absolute literalness gave him much en-
tertainment; but she never knew it. If
she had guessed it, she would have been
humbly glad to have been ridiculous, if it
had amused him.
And so the first year and a half went
by.
IV
It was the next winter that she asked
her first question.
“Mr. West,” she said, after making
notes of this or that case that needed
looking after (for she was practically vis-
itor for St. James now), — “Mr. West, I
would like to ask you something."
“Do, my dear Mrs. Eaton,” he an-
swered heartily.
“I would like to ask you,” she said,
her eyes fixed on his, to lose no shade
of meaning in his reply, "do you think it
93


THE HOUSE OF RIMMON
would be right for one person to live on
money that another person had stolen ?”.
“If they knew it was stolen, of course
not !” he said, smiling. “Has a pick-
pocket offered to go halves with you ?”.
“No, sir,” she answered, so gravely
that her listener's eyes twinkled. She
made no explanation, but went away with
a troubled look. The next time she saw
him she had another question :-
“But suppose the person who lived on
the money the other person stole needed
it very much. Suppose they had n't any-
thing else in the world. Suppose their
children had n't anything else. Would it
be their business to ask where it came
from, Mr. West ?”.
“ If it was their business to spend it,
it would be," he told her. “Oh, my
dear lady, the question of complicity is
a pretty big one!” He sighed, thinking
how little she realized that she was guess-
ing at the riddle of the painful earth.
Again she went away, her face falling
into lines of care. But William West
never thought of the matter again. In-
deed, he had no time to think of his quiet
94


THE HOUSE OF RIMMON
almoner ; those were alarming days in
Mercer. The echoes of that storm which
shook not only the town, but the very
State and nation, are still rolling and
muttering in the dark places of the land.
Another strike had begun in October.
As for the deep and far-reaching causes,
the economic and industrial necessities,
the vast plans of organizations and trusts,
they have no place in this statement of
the way in which one ignorant woman
regarded their effects - a woman living
quietly in her brother's house, doing her
work, expending her little charities, try-
ing to relieve the dreadful misery of those
wintry days, with about as much success
as a child who plays beside some ter-
rific torrent and tries to dam it with his
tiny bank of twigs and pebbles. Robert
Blair's sister had no economic or eth-
ical theories; she had only an anguished
heart at the suffering in that dreary mill
town, a dreadful bewilderment at its con-
trast with the untouched luxury of her
brother's house. That she should find a
child in one of the tenements dying at
its mother's barren breast, while her own
95


THE HOUSE OF RIMMON
children fared sumptuously every day;
that a miserable man should curse her
because her brother was robbing him of
work, and warmth, and decency, even,
while she must bless that same brother
for what he was giving her, was a dread-
ful puzzle. As she understood the situ-
ation, this misery existed because her
brother would no longer give even four-
teen cents an hour to human beings who
had to stand half naked in the scorch
of intense furnaces, reeking with sweat,
taking a breathless moment to plunge
waist deep into tanks of cold water; to
men who worked where the crash of
exploding slag or the accidental tipping
of a ladle might mean death; to gaunt
and stunted creatures, hollow-eyed, with
bleared and sodden faces, whose inces-
sant toil to keep alive had crushed out
the look of manhood, and left them silent,
hopeless, brutish, with only one certainty
in their stupefied souls: “men don't
grow old in the mills.” ... That these
things should be, while she was clothed
in soft raiment bought by wealth which
these desperate beings had helped to
96


THE HOUSE OF RIMMON
create — meant to this ignorant woman
that there was something wrong some-
where. It was not for her to say what or
where. She had no ambition to reform
the world. She did not protest against
the “unearned increment,” nor did she
have views as to “buying labor in the
cheapest market.” She did not know
anything about such phrases. The only
thing that concerned her was whether
she, living on her brother's money, had
any part or lot in the suffering about
her ? She grew nervous and haggard
and more distrait and literal than ever.
She wished she dared lay her troubles
before the wise, gentle, strong man who,
to her, was all that was good and great.
But it did not seem to her right to criti-
cise her brother to his clergyman. She
never realized how amusing her simplicity
might be, laid up against the enormous
complexity of the industrial question; to
her it was only: “If Robert is rich, and
does n't give his workmen enough to live
on, are not the children and I steal-
ing from the men in living on Robert's
money?”


THE HOUSE OF RIMMON
This little question, applied to the rela-
surd; but she asked it all the same, this
soft, negative, biddable creature. She
had gone to take some food to a hungry
household, and she went away burning
with shame because she was not hungry!
It had been a cold, bright November
day; she went past one of the silent fur-
naces along the black cinder path to the
river-bank, where the flat cones of slag
were dumped; some of them were still
slightly warm.
It was quiet enough here to think :
After all, Robert's money did so much
good; there was the great fountain in
the square, and the hospital, and the free
night school. And think of what he was
was n't her business to ask why he cut
the men's wages down!
There was a flare of sunset flushing
the calm blue of the upper heavens, and
in the river, running black and silent
before her, a red glow smouldered and
brightened. Behind her, and all along
the opposite bank, the furnaces were still.


THE HOUSE OF RIMMON
Oh, the misery of that black stillness!
If only she could see again the mon-
strous sheets of flame, orange, and azure,
bursting with a roar of sparks from under
the dampers of the great chimneys. It
would mean work and warmth and food
to so many! By some unsuggested flash
of memory the parsonage garden came
swiftly to her mind. It must be lying
chill in the wintry sunset; she could see
the little house behind it, with its bare,
clean poverty; she wished she were back
in it again with the two children! The
beauty and the luxury of her brother's
house seemed suffocating and intolera-
ble; and yet would it feed the strikers if
she should starve ? — the vision of her
own destitution without her brother's
money was appalling. She sat down on
a piece of slag, a little faint at the
thought. Just then, from down below
her, on the great heap of refuse, she
heard voices.
“Come farther up; they ’re hotter
higher up," a woman said shrilly.
Then a miserable little group came
clambering over the great cones of cool-
99


THE HOUSE OF RIMMON
ing slag, and a child cried out joyously,
“This here one's hot, mammy!”
The woman, catching sight of Robert
Blair's sister, though not recognizing her,
said harshly:-
“You bet hangman Blair has a fire in
his house to-day. Well, thank God, he
ain't made no cut in slag, yet; we can
get a bit of warmth here. I wish he may
freeze in his bed!”
Lydia Eaton answered, stammering and
incoherent, something about the cold
weather; and then, she was so over-
strained and nervous, she burst out cry-
ing. “Oh, won't you please let me give
you this ?” she said, and put some money
into the woman's hand.
She went away, stumbling, because her
eyes were blurred with tears, and saying
to herself,
“What shall I do?”
She almost ran into Mr. West on Baker
Street, and stopped abruptly, putting her
hands on his arm, and, in her agitation,
shaking it violently, her whole face con-
vulsed and terrified.
“Tell me — you know; you are good :
100


THE HOUSE OF RIMMON
whose fault is it? Robert's — for all —
this?”
He understood instantly, and was very
gentle with her.
“My dear Mrs. Eaton, that is a very
big question. It is n't any one man's
fault. It seems strange, but the weather
in India may be the reason we are all
so wretched in Mercer. Your brother
may be forced to make this cut by great
laws, which, perhaps, you cannot under-
stand.”
“But we go on being warm,” she said,
“and it is cold. Oh, those little chil-
dren had to get warm on the slag! Oh,
sir, I don't believe the Saviour would
have been warm while the children were
cold !”
She looked at him passionately, ab-
ruptly applying the precepts of the
Founder of his religion.
“Ah, well, you know," William West
said kindly, “this whole matter is so
enormously complicated ” — And then
he stammered a little, for, after all, how
could he explain to this poor little fright-
ened, ignorant soul that we have learned
IOI


THE HOUSE OF RIMMON
how injurious to the race would be the
literal application of the logic of the Ser-
mon on the Mount? Nowadays the dis-
ciple is wiser than his master, and the
servant more prudent than his Lord; we
know that to feed the five thousand with
loaves and fishes, without receiving some
equivalent, would be to pauperize them.
But of course Mrs. Eaton could not be
made to understand that. The clergy-
man quieted her, somehow; perhaps just
by his gentle pitifulness; or else her rev-
erence for him silenced her. She did
not ask him any more questions; and
there was no one else to ask, except her
brother, and just now it would have been
hard to find the chance to ask Robert
Blair anything.
The strike had slowly involved all the
mills owned by a syndicate of which he
was chairman. He had to go to South
Bend, where the great smelting furnaces
are; he was mobbed there, though with
no worse results than the unpleasantness
of eggs and cabbage stalks; still, the
wickedness of those dreadful creatures
was something too awful, Mrs. Blair said,
102


THE HOUSE OF RIMMON
crying with anger and fright over the
newspaper account. At still another mill
town a ghastly box reached him, labeled :
“Starved by the Blair syndicate.” Rob-
ert Blair paled and sickened at its con-
tents, but he swore under his breath :
“Let them starve their brats, if they
want to; it is n't my business. There's
work for them if they want it ; but the
curs would rather loaf. This country
can go to the devil before I 'll give in to
them!”
He did not get back to Mercer until
December. “I would n't let the fools
keep me from you on Christmas,” he told
his wife savagely, and caught her in his
arms with a sort of rage. “Were you very
lonely? You've been nervous — I can
see it in your face. You are paler !”
He ground his teeth ; that those brutes
should have made her paler!
“Of course I was lonely,” she said,
smiling, though her eyes were bright
with tears, “and I've been frightened
almost to death about you, too. Oh,
that mob!”
“You little goose; did n't I tell you
made her that the Paleri,
103


THE HOUSE OF RIMMON
“There are parsons, I suppose," she
said, “but the mayor is coming. Do get
rid of them as soon as you can, so that
I may have a little of you.”
She looked so pretty as she sat at the
head of her table, beseeching him, that
he declared he would kick the delegation
out if they stayed over ten minutes; then
he tossed a small white velvet box across
the roses in the big silver bowl in the
middle of the table, and watched her flash
of joy as she opened it.
“It seems to me I have some more
boxes, somewhere,” he said good-hu-
moredly. “There, Essie! if your aunt
Eleanor had packed me off to get into
my dress-suit, I would n't have found this
one in my pocket. Lydia, you sober old
lady, can you wear that ? As for you,
Silas, you don't want any gewgaws, do
you? We fellows think more of a bit of
paper with three figures on it, hey?”
“There! there's the bell. It's your
horrid delegation,” Mrs. Blair cried.
“Just let them wait till you finish din-
ner. And do get rid of them quickly.
Mr. Hudson, Lydia's minister, will be
105


THE HOUSE OF RIMMON
there ; tell him to wait a minute when
the others have gone. I want to speak
to him.”
"I thought little Hudson had more
sense,” Robert Blair grumbled, rising and
going into the library to meet a dozen
of his fellow-citizens, some of them men
with grave and startled faces, who from
pity for the three thousand fools who
were turning Mercer upside down, and
from good-humored interest in the affairs
of their powerful townsman, were begin-
ning to feel the sting of personal alarm
about their own concerns.
These men were saying to each other
what the newspapers had been saying
for two months, that Robert Blair, for
vanity or obstinacy or greed, was bring-
ing alarming disaster not merely upon a
few thousand desperate and hungry and
unreasonable puddlers, but upon the re-
spectable well-to-do business population
of his city.
“And he's got to stop it !” the mayor
said angrily.
“It would be a good job if somebody
would blow him up with dynamite," said
106


THE HOUSE OF RIMMON
the Baptist deacon, who was the wealth-
iest merchant in town. “He'll swamp
us all, if we don't look out."
As for the clergyman, he looked very
miserable, for he had the expenses of his
church and his own salary in mind, and
between offending Mr. Blair and not pro-
testing against the continuance of the
strike, the poor little man was between
the devil and the deep sea.
“Gentlemen,” said Robert Blair, calm
and hard (“as nails,” the Baptist deacon
said), “I appreciate the honor of your
call, and I hope I have listened with
proper courtesy and patience to what you
had to say ; but allow me to call your at-
tention to certain facts which seem to
contradict your assertions that you sus-
pect that I am not acting for the public
good in this matter of the strike. Mr.
Mayor, if my wealth had been gained by
the subversion of law and order, as you
suggest, I am sure you could not have
accepted any of it for your campaign -
ah — expenses. For you, Mr. Davis, a
church member, a deacon, if I mistake
not, I need only remind you of your will-
107


THE HOUSE OF RIMMON
ingness to borrow, I will not say how
many thousands, as the basis of your
most successful business (though I would
not be thought to underrate your own
prudence and economy in paying your
women clerks a little less than they can
live on). And as for my worthy friend
here, the Rev. Mr. Hudson, if my money
were, as he has so delicately implied,
blood-money,' I cannot think he would
have accepted the contribution I had the
privilege of making towards the altera-
tions of his church. Gentlemen, you
have felt it your duty to remonstrate
with me upon my way of making money;
so long as you are content to spend that
money, I cannot believe that your re-
monstrances are based upon anything
else than the inconvenience to yourselves
of certain exigencies which I deeply re-
gret, but which result from methods
which commend themselves to me, and
which, I observe, you apply in your own
concerns : you all pay as little as you can
for what you want ; I pay as little as I
can for labor. For your particular re-
quest that I submit to the demands of
108


THE HOUSE OF RIMMON
man said to himself, stung by the impu-
dent injustice of it all.
Mr. Blair went into the drawing-room,
breathing hard with the restraint he had
put upon himself, for his coldly insolent
words had been no outlet to his anger.
"Don't talk about it,” he said violently.
“I won't hear another word on the sub-
ject. Nell, I thought that little Hudson
was not entirely a jackass, though he is
a parson ; he had the impertinence to
say that “Brother West'agreed with
him. I don't believe it! But if it's
true, why, then, West is a meddling idiot,
like all the rest of these damned self-
seeking philanthropists."
“ Robert, dear! the children,” mur-
mured Mrs. Blair nervously.
His face was dully red, and his blue,
fierce eyes cut like knives; one felt an
unspoken epithet applied to the children,
who watched him furtively, with fright-
ened glances, and moved about awk-
wardly, speaking to each other in under-
tones. A moment before, everything
had been full of charm and graciousness;
their pretty aunt sat, indolent and grace-
110


THE HOUSE OF RIMMON
ful, on a yellow sofa, leaning back against
some ivory-satin cushions, with a great
yellow-shaded lamp shining down on her
delicate dark beauty; the flicker of the
fire behind the sparkling brass dogs went
leaping softly about the room, glowing on
the walls, which were covered above the
white wainscoting with yellow damask,
on which the candle-light from the high
sconces fell with a yellow shine; every-
thing was golden and bright and rich,
and the warm still air was delicate with
the scent of violets. Then into it burst
this violent and angry presence.
There is no embarrassment quite like
the embarrassment of listening to a per-
son for whom one has a regard making a
fool of himself. Nobody spoke. Robert
Blair tramped up and down, kicked a lit-
tle gilded stool half across the room,
caught his foot in a rug, stumbled, and
then swore. Mrs. Blair's fox-terrier, Pat,
shrunk under a table and looked at him,
trembling.
“Silas," said Mrs. Eaton, “you and
Esther must go upstairs.”
“The trouble is,” said her brother to
III


THE HOUSE OF RIMMON
his wife, “these men don't know what
they are talking about; they don't know
anything about the market ; they don't
know anything about the necessities of
trade; all they know is their dividends;
if they were cut, there'd be a howl! But
they presume to dictate to us; to tell us
the money is blood-money; all the same,
they are ready enough to spend it on
their own carcasses !”
Mrs. Eaton had closed the door on her
children, and came and stood by a little
silver-cluttered table, under the big yel-
low lamp. “I think Robert is quite right,"
she said.
The approval of this mild creature was
like an edge laid against the tense thread
of Robert Blair's anger. He burst into
a laugh.
“ Bless your heart, Lydia, I did n't
know you were in the room. Well, my
dear, I'm glad you approve of me.”
“I don't, brother."
“Oh, you don't? Where are the chicks?
Sent them out of the room because I
used bad words? Well, I ought n't to
swear in the drawing-room, that 's a fact.
II2


THE HOUSE OF RIMMON
Place aux Dames ! But after all, I only
dropped the 'place.'”
“Oh!” his wife said; and then, “you
are very naughty ;” and pouted, and
pulled him down on his knees beside
her.
“I thought it was very natural to be
angry at the rug,” Mrs. Eaton said
breathlessly; “I've often felt like speak-
ing that way myself”—
“Do, Lydia, do !” Mr. Blair inter-
rupted, with a laugh.
" — but Mr. Eaton would never have
allowed the children to hear, and”-
“Come, now! Have n't I apologized ?
Don't rub it in. I'll give you something
extra to put in the plate on Sunday, be-
cause I did pitch into your man Hudson
like the devil! I told him so long as he
spent 'blood-money' for his darned im-
provements, he could n't reproach me for
earning it."
“Oh,” Lydia Eaton said, her hands
squeezed together, “oh, no! He is
quite different from— me. It is you who
are spending the — blood-money on the
improvements. If he were spending it
113


THE HOUSE OF RIMMON
on himself, like — like me, it would be
different.”
Her brother looked up at her from his
footstool at his wife's feet, first amused,
and then bored.
“My dear Lily, I'm sure I don't know
what you are talking about. I'm sorry if
I stepped on your toes about your par-
son. He means well. Only he is a par-
son, so I suppose he can't help being
rather ladylike in business matters. Do
drop the subject; I am sick of the whole
thing. How is your conservatory, Nell?
Are those violets the result of your agri-
cultural efforts ?”
“I think, Robert,” his sister said in
her low voice, that shivered and broke,
“I must just say one thing more : I must
give you back this beautiful thing you
gave me at dinner. And I must go away
with the children.”
“What under the sun!” he began,
frowning; then he got up and stood on
the hearth-rug, his back to the fire.
“Lydia, I hope you are not going to be
a fool? What are you talking about ? Sit
down, — sit down! You 're as white as
114


THE HOUSE OF RIMMON
a ghost. Lily, I 'm afraid you 're a great
goose. What 's the matter ?” He could
not help softening as he looked at her.
She stood there by the little tottering
table, loaded with its dozens of foolish
bits of silver, so tense and quivering that
even his impatient eyes could not fail to
see her agitation.
“Robert, you have been so kind to us;
you are so good to us, — oh, I don't know
how I can do it !” she broke into an an-
guished sob, — “but I must. Mr. Eaton
would never have let the children be sup-
ported on money that was not — that was
not good.”
There was silence; the clock in the
hall chimed ten. Then Eleanor Blair,
sitting up, pale and angry, said, -
“Well, upon my word ! ”
Her husband looked at his sister with
sudden kindness in his eyes. “Lily, you
don't understand. When I said what I
did to Mr. Hudson, — of course, that has
put it into your head, — I did n't really
mean it. In the first place, I'm an hon-
est man (I 'll just mention that in pass-
ing), and it is not your business nor his
115


THE HOUSE OF RIMMON
to judge my business methods. It is n't
a pretty thing to look a gift-horse in the
mouth, Lil.”
" It is n't what you said to Mr. Hud-
son,” she answered. “I've been think-
ing about it for nearly a year. Robert,
you pay them so little, and I - I have all
this."
She looked about the beautiful room
with a sort of fright : it seemed to her
that the warm and stately walls hid hu-
man misery lying close outside, — hun-
ger and hatred, cold and sickness, and
the terror of to-morrow. The impudent
luxury of this enormous wealth struck
her like a blow on the mouth.
“They,” she said, with a sob, “are
hungry."
Her brother, divided between irritation
and amusement, was touched in spite of
himself.
“My dear Lily,” he said, "you can't
understand this thing. To put it vul-
garly, you've bitten off more than you
can chew. Look here, the men can go to
work to-morrow if they want to; but they
don't want to. I offer them work, and
116


THE HOUSE OF RIMMON
Serably.
it.
If
ould be
they can take it or leave it Well, they
leave it. It's their affair, not mine."
But she shook her head miserably.
“I don't understand it. If you were
poor, too, it would be different.”
“Well, really !” said Mrs. Blair.
But Robert Blair was wonderfully pa-
tient.
“There's another thing you must re-
member, Lily; these people are far better
off on what I am willing to pay them
than they were in Europe, where most of
them came from."
“But, Robert,” she said passionately,
“because they could be worse off does n't
seem to be any reason why they should n't
be better off. And - it is n't kind.”
“Kind?” Her brother looked at her
blankly, and then, with a shout of laugh-
ter, “ Lydia, you are as good as a play!
No, my dear; I don't run my mills for
kindness."
“But,” she said, almost in a whisper,
“whatsoever ye would that men should
do unto you” -
Mrs. Blair made a gesture of disgust.
“ – oh, brother, I did n't mean to find
117


THE HOUSE OF RIMMON
fault with you. Only with myself. I-
I have n't any right to spend money that
I-don't know about.”
“Well, anything more?” Robert Blair
said, a little tired of her foolishness.
“My dear, like the parson, you mean
well ; but you are a great goose !”
As for his wife, she did not even an-
swer Mrs. Eaton's tremulous “good-
night.”
v
The husband and wife looked at each
other ; then Robert Blair flung his head
back with a laugh.
“She is perfectly delicious ! ”
“She is perfectly ungrateful, and I be-
lieve she means it."
“Oh, nonsense! Lil has n't mind enough
to mean anything; and I'll tell you an-
other thing: in spite of her quiet ways,
she really has a good deal of worldly wis-
dom. She knows what it is to those two
children to have me interested in them.
Don't worry your little head” –
“Oh, I don't worry," she answered.
“ If she is going to presume to criticise
118


THE HOUSE OF RIMMON
you, I don't want her under my roof ; the
sooner she leaves the better!”
“Spitfire !” he told her, kissing her
pretty hand, and forgetting all about his
sister's absurdity, and the strike, and the
men and women shivering in the tene-
ments down in the miserable mill town.
But he remembered it all the next
morning at the breakfast-table, for Lydia
Eaton's white face was too striking to
escape comment. Mrs. Blair was not
present, preferring to be, at what she
called the “brutal hour of eight,” in her
own room, with a tray and her maid and
a novel.
“What's the matter ?” Mr. Blair said
kindly. “ Are you ill, Lily ? ”.
“It's what I told you last night, Rob-
ert,” she said nervously.
The solemn Samuel, all ears, but look-
ing perfectly deaf, brought a dish to his
master's elbow. Robert Blair closed his
lips with a snap. Then he said, —
“Please make no reference to that
folly before Eleanor.”
But of course it was only a respite.
The folly had to be repeated to Eleanor
119


THE HOUSE OF RIMMON
- discussed, argued, denounced, until
the whole atmosphere of the house was
charged with excitement.
Through it all Lydia Eaton came and
went, and did her packing.
“Well,” her sister-in-law said con-
temptuously, “perhaps you 'll tell me
how you mean to feed Esther and Silas ?
You have a right to starve yourself, but
I have some feeling for the children!”
“I am going to work,” the other an-
swered, trembling.
“Lydia,” Mrs. Blair said passionately,
“next to your ingratitude to your bro-
ther, I must say your selfishness in ruin-
ing your own children is the most dread-
ful thing I ever heard of !”
But Mrs. Eaton's preparations went
on. Not that there was so much to do;
but she had to find rooms, and then she
had to find work. It was the latter exi-
gency which fanned Robert Blair's con-
temptuous annoyance, which refused to
take the matter seriously, into sudden
flames of rage, for his sister saw fit to
apply at a shop for the position of sales-
woman. Of course it came to his ears,
120


THE HOUSE OF RIMMON
paved streets, and the uncomfortable jolt
and sway of the softly padded carriage
added to her indignation at her sister-in-
law.
William West did not live in the new
part of Mercer, with its somewhat gor-
geous houses; nor yet in the old part,
which was charming and dignified, and
inclined to despise everything not itself ;
but in the middle section, near the rows
of rotten and tumbling tenements, and
within a stone's throw of bleak and hid-
eous brick blocks, known as “Company
boarding-houses.” He had come here to
live shortly after a certain crash in his
own life; a personal blow, which left him
harder, and more silent, and more ear-
nest. He had been jilted, people said,
and wondered why, for a while, and then
forgot it, as he, absorbed in his work,
seemed also to forget it.
Mrs. Blair, her fox-terrier under one
arm, stepped out of the carriage, frown-
ing to find herself in this squalid street ;
but once inside the big, plain, comfortable
house where William West lived all by
himself, her face relaxed and took a cer-
122


THE HOUSE OF RIMMON
strikers properly. I'm sure I don't
know what idea she has ! But she won't
accept his money. Did you ever hear of
such a thing ?”
William West's face sobered instantly.
“I have not seen Mrs. Eaton for a fort-
night,” he said ; “I had no idea ” — He
got up, frowning, the lines about his lips
perplexed and anxious.
"I'm sure,” the pretty woman went
on, growing angrier as she spoke, “I
don't care what she does, — I've lost all
patience with her, — but to throw the
children's future away! And it's so
embarrassing for Robert.” Then she
told him fully the whole situation. “She
keeps saying,” Mrs. Blair ended, “that
* Mr. Eaton' would n't have allowed the
children to be supported on money that
was n't good. Did you ever hear such
impertinence?”
“Ah, well,” he protested good-na-
turedly, “I'm sure Mrs. Eaton does not
mean to be impertinent; and I'm sure
she does appreciate her brother's kind-
ness. Only, she is trying to work out a
great problem on an individual basis,
124


THE HOUSE OF RIMMON
“Won't she take any money from
your husband ?”
“Not a cent, if you please! Not a
penny. She keeps saying that if she
can't feel that the source of the money
is all right, she can't spend it.” Mrs.
Blair cuffed her dog prettily with her
muff, and kissed his little sleek head.
“Her principle would turn the world
upside down," the clergyman said.
“That's just what I say !” cried Mrs.
Blair.
“If we all said we would have nothing
to do with the blood of the just person,'
what would become of the railroads and
the coal-mines and the oil trusts? What
would become of our dividends from in-
dustrial stocks if we insisted on knowing
that the workmen were honestly paid ?
How could we eat meat, if we looked
into the slaughter-house ?”
Mrs. Blair looked puzzled.
“And she is going to work for her
living ?” He was profoundly moved.
“ Good heavens, out of the mouths of
babes! What a primitive expression of
126


THE HOUSE OF RIMMON
social responsibility! But surely, Mrs.
Blair, we must respect her honesty ? As
for her judgment, that's another matter.”
Eleanor Blair's blank astonishment left
her speechless for a moment; then she
flung up her head haughtily.
“Mr. West, do you mean to say” –
she began.
“My dear Mrs. Blair,” he said quietly,
“I mean to say that little Mrs. Eaton, in
her simple way, puts her finger right on
the centre of this whole miserable ques-
tion, in which, directly or indirectly, we
are all involved : she has recognized our
complicity. Of course she is going to
work the wrong way — at least, I suppose
she is. God knows ! But what courage,
— what directness !”
“Do I understand,” Eleanor Blair said,
rising, “that you approve of my sister-in-
law's extraordinary conduct?”
“I approve of her," he said, smiling.
“ If you ask me whether I think she is
doing right, I should say "Yes,' because
she is acting upon her conscience. Is
she doing wisely? No; because civiliza-
tion is compromise. We have either got
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THE HOUSE OF RIMMON
to bow in the House of Rimmon, or go
and live in the woods like Thoreau and
eat dried peas. I'll tell her so, if you
want me to. But as for attempting to
influence her, I cannot do that. The
place whereon we stand is holy ground.”
Mrs. Blair picked up her dog and set
her teeth; then she looked slightly be-
yond the clergyman, with half-shut eyes,
and said, —
“Will you be good enough to have my
carriage called ?"
VI
“I never would have been brave
enough,” Mrs. Eaton said meekly to
Mr. West, when the dreadful step was
actually taken, “I never could have done
it, but I knew Mr. Eaton would have
wished it ; and, besides, I felt I was tak-
ing the food of those poor people.”
“Well, no,” he began, “that is really
not reasonable" — But he stopped;
this timid creature could not reason -
she could only feel. “Fools,” he said to
himself, as he left her, “rush in where
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THE HOUSE OF RIMMON
the political economist fears to tread.
She is a fool, poor little soul, but” —
The winter had passed heavily away.
Mrs. Eaton had succeeded in getting a
place in Mr. Davis's shop — “where,” the
proprietor used to say, “having Robert
Blair's sister for a saleslady is money in
my pocket! She's better than a 'fire-
and-water bargain sale.'” So she stood
behind a counter and sold ribbon, and
was stared at and whispered about. But
she had very keen anxieties about food
and clothes, and the children's discon-
tent lay like a weight upon the mother's
heart — which ached, too, with the pain
of the second wrench from the affection
and kindness of her family. Fortunately
her peculiar logic did not lead her to
reject the Baptist deacon's money, which
was certainly much more doubtful than
her brother's. By some mental process
of her own, the fact that she worked for
it seemed to make its acceptance moral.
She had no leisure now to work for Mr.
West; but the remembrance of his pa-
tience and gentleness always made a little
pause of peace in her heavy thoughts.
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THE HOUSE OF RIMMON
It was a hard, bleak life for this silent
little creature; and the rector of St.
James, himself a silent soul, watched her
live it, and pondered many things.
The strike had broken in February.
The men went back to their work — de-
feat, like some bitter wind, blowing the
flames of resentment into fiercer heat,
which “next time” would mean destroy-
ing victory.
“Will it be like Samson pulling down
the temple upon himself ?” William
· West wondered, depressed and hopeless.
It was night — a summer night ; sweet
and still over in the old-fashioned part of
Mercer, where the fragrance of roses
overflowed the high brick walls of the
gardens. Here in the mill district it was
not sweet, and all night long the mills
roared and crashed, and the flames burst-
ing out of vast chimneys flared and faded,
and flared again.
William West was alone in his library.
His sermon for the next morning had
been finished early in the week; he had
looked it over the last thing, and now the
manuscript was slipped into its black vel-
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THE HOUSE OF RIMMON
vet cover. He sat, his head on his hand,
tapping with strong, restless fingers the
arm of his chair. The old question, al-
ways more or less present in the mind of
this man, was clamoring for an answer :
How far are we responsible ? Through
how many hands must dishonest money,
cruel money, mean money, pass to be
cleansed ? Is it clean when it comes to
me—this dividend or that? Shall a man,
or a railroad, or a trust deal iniquitously
with one of these little ones, and I profit
by it? Shall I trace my dollar to its
source, and find it wet with tears and
blood, and reject it? Or shall I decline to
trace it, and buy my bread in innocence ?
Even the chief priests refused the thirty
pieces of silver! Am I an accomplice ?
For that matter, is the Christian Church
an accomplice? What does it say to the
philanthropy of thieves ? Priests used to
take toll from the plunder of robbers,
and say mass for their souls in return.
hold out my hand,” he said to himself.
Well — well! The Reverend William
West, in his way, was doubtless as great
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THE HOUSE OF RIMMON
a fool in asking unprofitable questions
as was Lydia Eaton. That the existing
order would be turned upside down by
the introduction of the sense of personal
responsibility there can be no doubt.
Such an introduction would be the ap-
plication to the complex egotism of the
nineteenth century of the doctrines of a
Galilean peasant, who was a communist
and the Saviour of the world. It would
be the setting forth in individual lives of
the spirit of Jesus Christ, the most revo-
lutionary element that could possibly be
introduced into society. We are none of
us ready for that.
At least William West was not ready;
he had no intention of making himself
ridiculous, no matter if he did ask him-
self unanswerable questions ; he was not
ready to throw away present opportuni-
ties and destroy his influence. Yet, as
for Mrs. Eaton -
“ Talk about martyrs !” he said to
himself, as he sat there at midnight
thinking of her, of her hard life, of her
splendid foolishness.
“Well, there is one thing I could do
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THE HOUSE OF RIMMON
me, and you know what that will be for
a lonely man. If you will consent, I shall
be always,
Faithfully yours,
WILLIAM WEST.
As he folded the sheet of paper and
thrust it into the envelope there was a
whimsical look in his eyes.
“A love-letter !” he said to himself;
but his face was very gentle and tender.
However, the answer to the letter was
all that the most ardent lover could de-
sire.
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COUNTING THE COST
I
PANNIE GRAHAM, the young
woman with whom this story
concerns itself, lived in a West-
ern manufacturing town. Her home was,
both inside and outside, like hundreds
and thousands of other American homes,
a cheap frame house, in a cheap, respect-
able suburb; a house without any other
beauty or refinement than cleanliness
and a certain amount of rather coarse
comfort. Her father was a workingman,
as his father had been before him. He
was a gasfitter, and went to his work
every morning with a greasy leather bun-
dle under his arm, and a cheerful heart
in his breast. First, because he had
plenty of work and, having no imagina-
tion, never worried about the future.
But mostly because of a comfortable fact
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COUNTING THE COST
to which, when not occupied with the
practical details of his trade, he devoted
his thoughts; the fact being that there
was a certain tidy bit of money in the
bank for his Annie, — money which he
had hoarded up, little by little, saved out
of car-fares, and tobacco, and clothes ;
money which meant privation and cour-
age, and slow, persistent, heavy toil. It
amounted to a little over fifteen hun-
dred dollars, and he hoped it would
be twenty-five hundred before he died.
What Annie would do with it when he
was gone was the only direction in which
Johnny Graham's fancy worked. Would
she rent a better house, maybe, than this
little one they had lived in since she was
twelve; or would she get herself fine
clothes or a piano or books ? He thought
that she would probably get books. Annie
was so fond of reading! He was very
proud of this fondness for reading, and
used to tell his fellow-workmen about it,
and say he had seen her turn over so
many pages, in fifteen minutes by his
watch. He timed her, he said, and my!
but she was the fast reader! He had no
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COUNTING THE COST
done. And when she grew into a big
girl and went to the grammar school, he
still knew all about her hats and clothes;
and he still tried to save her pretty
hands, and sifted the ashes, and waited
on her, and was proud of her just as he
always had been. There was more than
one hard-working woman neighbor who
would have been willing to “make a good
stepmother” to Annie, and who felt, in
all honesty, that the gasfitter was spoil-
ing his girl, and that she just only hoped
nothing bad would come of it.
“ Them girls that's taken such care of,
— well, the dear only knows what hap-
pens to them !” the neighbors said, with
mysterious pursings of the lips. But so
far nothing out of the way had happened
to Annie. Nothing “bad” had come of
the simple, faithful loving that the child
had had.
Annie was eighteen. She was a fresh-
looking girl, with an intelligent face,
though a little serious for her years. Her
placid gray eyes had a rather absent look
sometimes, and there was a line on her
white forehead that told of thought.
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COUNTING THE COST
Johnny Graham knew what that line
meant. He knew with what intensity
Annie had applied herself to her studies
when she was in school, and how, after
she had graduated, and had gotten a place
as a “saleslady,” as Johnny expressed it,
she still worked and toiled over her books
whenever she could find time.
“But she's mostly figurin',” he told
his friends proudly.
That Annie, at eighteen, had taught
herself geometry, and had yearnings for
the higher calculus, was a matter of
burning pride to the gasfitter, though he
had no idea what it was all about.
“I suppose now, Annie, you know all
there is in the arithmetics on them sub-
jects ?” he said to her one night as he
sat in his shirt-sleeves smoking his pipe
by the kitchen stove, and looking at his
daughter, who, with her pencil pressed
against her lips, was frowning over a
sheet of calculations. Annie gave a lit-
tle start and looked up smiling.
“Why, father, dear, I don't know any-
thing — comparatively."
“ But, Annie, now what's the good of
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COUNTING THE COST
she did not know enough to find the
snow-shovel painful, nor even the rolling-
pin, another gift from Dave, which, cov-
ered with plush, hung from one corner
of the mantelpiece. She merely thought
of these things as “mother's ” and as
“presents," and valued them accordingly.
But she would never have dreamed of oc-
cupying this fine room unless there was
company; and, indeed, the kitchen was
far more homelike.
She sat now nestling down against her
father's shoulder, listening to his story
of the day's work: the fine house on the
hill where he had gone to mend a fix-
ture; the nice young lady he had seen;
and the toilet-table all covered with silver
things.
“Why, Annie, now I tell you, there was
brushes and combs made out of silver ;
and there was five little sorts of silver
boxes, different sizes and shapes, hearts
and rounds mostly. Did n't seem to have
nothing in 'em. I had to move 'em to
get at the bracket. What do you sup-
pose folks has such things for ? Now a
brush made out o'silver is no sense;
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COUNTING THE COST
it's heavy. Annie, now, would you like
things like that ?”
“Indeed, I would n't,” she said. “Think
of the trouble they'd be to keep clean.”
“Well, the help does that in them
houses, I suppose,” he ruminated. “An-
nie, now, suppose you had a lot of money,
would you buy them things ?”.
"Indeed, I would n't !” Annie said
again, laughing. “No, I know what I'd
do. I heard a girl talking about it.
There's a college for girls somewhere
in the East, just like there is for young
men. I would go to that college and
study. My! would n't I study!”
nie, now, supliv them things, Annie said
That was the beginning of what some
people called the tragedy of Annie Gra-
ham's life, and some the success — it all
depends on how you look at it.
Her chance remark about a girl's col-
lege lingered in her father's thoughts;
Johnny Graham had not known that
there were such things as women's col-
leges. There were primary schools and
high schools and “pay” schools, where
he supposed the swells sent their chil-
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COUNTING THE COST
dren, but his knowledge never went far-
ther than this.
“A college for girls !” Well, why
not? He believed girls was smarter
than boys any day in the year; anyway
his Annie was. He thought about it con-
stantly, when, to save something for that
inheritance in the bank, he walked to
and from his work; and he thought of it
while he worked. He spoke of it, when
he had the chance, in a tentative way to
two or three persons for whom he was
doing jobs of gasfitting. Did they ever
hear anything of them girls' colleges ?
What was they like? Did they cost
money? Once, in the big morning-room
of an old-fashioned house, he spoke to
an old lady who sat by the fire while he
screwed a lava tip on the burner over
the mantelpiece. She was an old woman
and rich, and so she ought to know about
such things, Johnny Graham reasoned ;
so, with the respectful guilelessness of
the American workman, he cleared his
throat and said, he wondered, now, if she
was knowing anything about girls' col-
leges ?
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COUNTING THE COST
Upon which the old lady nodded her
head and said : “ Yes, yes; of course ;
this is what I've always said ; this is
what we are coming to !”
And Johnny Graham rolled up his
tools in his greasy leather apron, and
went home, pondering deeply. He was
not in the least angry at the old lady; he
was simply incapable of understanding
her. But that night he thought it over,
and pointed out to himself that, after all,
if Annie's mind was set that way, there
was no use in her waiting to spend her
money till he was dead and gone.
“I'll probably be livin' twenty years
yet,” he thought, after some calculation,
“and Annie maybe would be too old for
a girls' college then. She'd better go
now; and anyway it might be a good
investment of the money ; she might
set up as a teacher, maybe, after she got
learned. They do say Councilman Welch's
daughter got four hundred dollars for
teachin' in the Primary School; and
that's twenty per cent. interest on two
thousand dollars; I believe it's a good
thing!”
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COUNTING THE COST
It was then that Annie came in, look-
ing, it chanced, a little pale, and, perhaps,
a little wistful. Annie was not discon-
tented; she had no aspirations; only the
child was vaguely aware of an emptiness
in her life. And she had stopped at the
Public Library as she came home from
her work, and had read an article in a
magazine concerning a College for Women
in another State.
“That's what I'd do if I were rich," she
thought, as she walked home. “I'd go
there and study."
So she was a little absent, even when
she kissed her father, and heard him
tell all about the big house where the
rich old woman lived all by herself, be-
cause she had quarreled with her only
daughter.
“Seems strange, now, to quarrel with
your children,” said Johnny, buttering
his bread on the tablecloth, and then,
tilting his chair back, eating it with great
contentment.
After supper he told Annie what he
had planned for her. Her amazement at
her father's wealth was almost as keen a
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COUNTING THE COST
and thought. She felt them all with a
passionate sort of joy.
It is curious to observe that by the
pure and virgin mind these things, which
may be so worthless in their lifeless for-
mality, are seen in their real and funda-
mental nobility, and are accepted with
the instinct of religion. At first Annie
was so normally unconscious of her ante-
cedents that it did not occur to her to
proclaim that all these things were new.
And then, by and by, having eaten of
this tree of the knowledge of good and
evil, there came to her a certain deep
spiritual experience ; she recognized that
the root of conventionality, the beginning
of the sense of fitness, lay in character;
therefore she knew no shame that her
father ate with his knife, or sat in his
shirt-sleeves, or did many unlovely things.
She did not like them ; but she knew no
shame, only love. But it was then that,
very simply, she took occasion to say that
her father, who was a mechanic, had sent
her here to college, so that she might be
fitted to support herself by teaching.
She said this because she recognized an-
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COUNTING THE COST
other point of view, and, recognizing it,
felt a certain lack of straightforwardness
in keeping silent; and also because she
was proud of Johnny Graham. Then
she forgot it. It was too unimportant to
think of.
She assimilated all these new ideas,
and felt them and lived them, as though
she had been to the manner born. Her
very face reflected them. She was al-
most a beautiful young woman. Her
deep eyes looked out from under her
straight, pure brows with a certain high
directness of glance and tranquil self-
poise which gave a sense of breeding
which was inescapable. The fact that
she had said that she was poor was only
in its way another proof of her superior-
ity — so some of the college-girls said,
who went into schoolgirl ecstasies about
her.
“You know it's vulgar to be rich," a
young man told her one evening, as they
talked together in the June dusk. It
was Annie's fifth year, and for the first
time she was going home in the long
vacation. A scholarship, and four sum-
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COUNTING THE COST
mers of teaching some little children in
a country house on the outskirts of the
village, had meant that for the last two
years Johnny Graham's bank account
had been recuperating, a very, very little ;
at all events, there had been no drain
upon it.
And now Annie was going home. She
had won the highest honors of her class,
and had even been offered a position on
the college staff, and her happiness was
as frank as a child's.
“In so many weeks I'll see father.
In so many days !” — she kept saying
to herself. And now it had come to
Saturday evening, and she was to start
home on Monday. She was walking
back from her little pupils' house, where
she had said good-by until September.
She was not alone.
A certain Dick Temple, a cousin of
her pupils' mother, had a way of running
down from town to spend Sundays with
the Pauls, to play, he said, with the chil-
dren, and get in some rowing on the river,
and to exercise his cousin John's polo
ponies, and — to see Annie Graham.
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COUNTING THE COST
But this last was not so stated in the
bond.
He had a way of appearing in time to
walk across the campus with her, after
little Kate's music lesson Saturday after-
noon, and once or twice he had beguiled
her into his boat, and they had gone
floating down the river in the twilight,
talking of everything in heaven and earth.
Being young, religion had been their first
theme; and then, by and by, love ; – in
the abstract, of course. A month ago,
they both had feared themselves incapa-
ble of experiencing this beautiful emo-
tion — Annie, because she was going to
devote herself to study and her father ;
Dick, because he had outlived such
things, and was very bitter and cynical
and mysterious in his allusions to life,
which, he said, “he knew.” Sometimes
they talked of their future; and it was
then that Annie had told him, smiling,
that she had no such luxurious prospects
as those which he had been outlining for
himself, -- travel, and study, and the phi-
lanthropic opportunities of great wealth.
They were walking slowly along under
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COUNTING THE COST
the great elms toward her door ; it had
rained earlier in the day, and the worn
bricks of the narrow pavement held here
and there shallow pools of water; the sun
struck across the wet grass in a low flood
of gold; and there was the scent of young
leaves and roses in the air.
“We are poor people,” Annie had
said, with an amused look ; “I'm going
to teach school and wear spectacles, and
be very stern and learned.”
“Ah, well,” returned the young man,
“it's the thing to be poor nowadays;
it's awfully vulgar to be rich! It's
queer, now, when you think of it, Miss
Graham, how many people in our class
have lost their money, is n't it ? ”
“We've never had it to lose,” Annie
said ; “the family fortunes are to rise
on school-teaching."
Dick glanced at her with quick admira-
tion in his handsome young eyes. He
was twenty-four, but he blundered over
his words like a schoolboy.
“Miss Graham,” he said, “you won't
mind if I say I think it's awfully fine in
you, don't you know, to teach, and all
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COUNTING THE COST
that sort of thing? Of course, girls do
things now. I mean nice girls, don't
you know. Why, cousin Kate gave
music lessons before she married ; and
she was a Townsend. Still, it's people
like that, don't you know, that can afford
to do things like that !”
“I don't suppose any one can afford
to be dependent,” Annie said simply,
“and my father is really poor, Mr. Tem-
ple.”
Her beautiful direct look as she said
this made the young fellow's heart sud-
denly leap. He wanted to burst out and
tell her how much he admired her;
admired ? no, loved her! That was the
word. Yes, he, who had thought he had
outlived all that sort of thing. All in a
moment he felt that he wanted to tell her
this; but she seemed so remote that he
dared not speak.
“I suppose I ought to get my governor
to go and call on hers," he reflected ;
“these decayed gentlefolks are death on
propriety. But maybe she would n't look
at me, anyway,” he added to himself, in
a miserable afterthought; for she began
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COUNTING THE COST
to speak in such an interested way of
some mathematical work she had to do
that night, that he felt there was no
room for him in her thoughts. He left
her at the college door and went back,
ardent and despairing, to confide in his
cousin Kate, who, it must be admitted,
had rather a startled expression when he
told her he was “all bowled over by Miss
Graham.”
“But, Dick, what would your father
say if it got serious ? Cousin Henry has
such ideas, you know. She's a charm-
ing girl, but we don't know anything
about her people.”
“We know they are poor," Dick said
boldly; “but that does n't matter in the
least. Surely you are not so narrow,
Cousin Kate, as to think it matters ?”
“No, that does n't matter, of course,”
cousin Kate said doubtfully.
As for Annie, she went, smiling a little,
and blushing a little, upstairs to her room.
But she did no work in higher mathe-
matics that night.
Instead, she finished her packing, and
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COUNTING THE COST
wrote her last semi-weekly letter of the
term to her father. To be sure, he would
get it just a day or two before she came
herself ; but she would not have had
Johnny Graham miss that Saturday letter
for a good deal. She knew he would carry
it about in his pocket, and read it over and
over, and put it on the wooden chair be-
side his bed at night. Perhaps it was a
little more affectionate, this last letter,
than usual; she told him about the
weather, and that she would start on
Monday, and would telegraph him when
to expect her. And something of the
progress of her two pupils; and how she
had made an experiment in the labora-
tory, and had burned her fingers; and —
and that she had met an interesting man,
a cousin of Mrs. Paul's. He had taken
her out rowing once or twice, she said.
And, oh! she was so happy that she
was coming home! She could hardly
believe that it was true, she was so glad.
And then she said she was always his
little girl who loved him — “Annie.”
Then when it was written, she put her
head down on her arms, folded upon her
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COUNTING THE COST
writing-table; there were tears in her eyes
when she lifted it again.
“When he said “our class,' ought I
to have spoken ?” she asked herself.
“ No, he must know; I told Mrs. Paul.
No, no, I could n't!” And all her love
and all her pride for her father rebelled
against the slight to him which such a
confession would have been ; it would
have seemed to imply that he was less
gentle in soul than Richard Temple him-
self, or any one else.
Mr. Temple saw her at church the
next day and walked home with her ;
although she kept all the while on Mrs.
Paul's right, while Dick had to walk on
the outside and could only look across at
her, which did not please him in the least.
She did not talk to him very much, but
she seemed to have a good deal to say to
his cousin, which perplexed her adorer,
for though he had a proper regard for the
stout and estimable Mrs. Paul, he could
not see why Miss Graham should talk to
her with such apparent interest, when an
intelligent young man was really eager
for a look or a word. He heard her
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COUNTING THE COST
sort of way, something about — about
her home, or her father and mother, or
something. I can't really remember, but
I know I gained the impression that she
was” —
“Poor?” Dick burst in. “Of course
she's poor. She has never made any
secret of that. Why should she ? Only
a cad would do that.”
“I don't mean poor,” Mrs. Paul said,
frowning. “I wish you would have some
manners, Dick, and not interrupt. I
merely mean that a young man has no
right to pay attention to a girl in another
class unless he means to follow it up. I
despise a trifler, Dick.”
“You don't despise him any more
than I do,” Dick returned loftily. “But
there is n't any question of class here.
We don't have any higher class than
hers; and as for 'following it up,' as you
say — if a fellow thought there was any
chance for him with that woman he'd
follow it up quick enough, and ask her to
marry him! Yes, and he ought to do it
as formally as though she were a prin-
cess. She is a princess! He ought to go
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COUNTING THE COST
and ask her father if he might ask her.
Her poverty, which seems to trouble you
so much, Cousin Kate, has no bearing on
the situation."
Poor Dick was smarting with Annie's
apparent coldness and his cousin's snob-
bishness — so he called it; but there was
really no excuse for bursting out at Mrs.
Paul in this way; and it was no wonder
that she said good-night with some as-
perity, and went upstairs and told her
husband that Dick was a perfect goose,
besides being rather a cub.
“ He's twenty-four and old enough to
know better,” she said. “Oh, dear, I do
wish his father was here!”
“You'd better wish her father was
here; then you 'd know the pit whence
she was digged,” John Paul said. “Of
course, if he ever sold cotton by the yard,
Dick's future happiness would be im-
periled.”
“Now, John, don't be horrid,” said his
wife impatiently; "you know perfectly
well what I mean. I'm not a snob, as
I told Dick, but there is such a thing as
class.”
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reproached her as they went home in the
street cars. “You ought to be havin' a
silk dress, lookin' the way you do. Why,
I took you for a lady, Annie. You ought
to have fine clothes, my pretty ; we 'll
take some money out of the bank and
get you a regular silk dress,” he told her,
scolding her and loving her, and bursting
with pride, and taking up their inter-
course just where it had paused, five
years ago. She was a pretty girl and a
great learner, Johnny thought; but she
was just his Annie.
It was late when they got home. He
had left the kitchen fire clear and ready
for the steak Annie would broil, and the
gas was flaring wide from new burners,
and Johnny had bought a long plush scarf
for the top of the mantelpiece over the
kitchen range. When Annie was fairly
in the house, and the door was shut, it
seemed as though the happiness of heaven
had come into the little kitchen. Johnny
laughed, and drew the back of his hand
across his nose, and sniffed and blinked,
and the tears ran freely down his little
cheeks. He walked round and round
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COUNTING THE COST
would give the matter too much impor-
tance to treat it as particular or probable.
So, in a casual way, he referred to cousin
Kate's letter, and enjoined his son not to
be a fool. Dick's instantly aggressive
attitude and skill in "answering back"
were most surprising to Mr. Temple.
A man is always surprised at his son's
ability in this direction; it is as though
his own hand or foot suddenly acquired
individuality. Furthermore, Richard was
very sentimental, and had much to say
of his father's un-American point of view
and of his own readiness to marry a
“woman he loved ” (if she'd have him) if
she were a washerwoman.
“As for Miss Graham,” said Dick,
“I've no right even to speak of her; but
she's a lady, and an angel” —
“Oh, Lord !” groaned Mr. Temple.
“I wonder if I ever was as young as
you, Dickon ?”
But he was really disturbed, and wrote
to a friend who owned the great South
Bend Rolling and Smelting Furnaces,
and might be expected to know who and
what the Grahams were.
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Meantime, Dick Temple, twice as much
in earnest for his father's not unreasona-
ble expostulation, packed his things and
started for the West. It was a hot July
afternoon when he arrived in South Bend ;
he was fretted by the heat and his own
impatience and the stupidity of the land-
lord of the hotel in being unable to tell
him where Mr. Graham lived.
“There's no family by that name on
the hill, sir,” he said. “Graham — Gra-
ham — there's some Grahams here in
the directory; what 's the gentleman's
business, sir?”
“I don't know," Dick said, fuming.
“What sort of a place is this, anyhow,
that you don't know where people live?
It's small enough for you to know every-
body” —
“We've twenty thousand inhabitants,
young man,” said the landlord with much
offense. “The only Graham I know is
Johnny; he's a gasfitter, and does odd
jobs here once in a while” –
"Have your clerk copy all those Gra-
ham addresses,” said Dick coldly. “I'll
go round till I find the person I wish.
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COUNTING THE COST
Unfortunately I don't know the gentle-
man's first name. Have you got any
kind of conveyance in this place? Just
have a hack called, will you ?”
He spoke with the insolence of tone
peculiar to well-bred young men, and he
walked to the open door and stood wait-
ing for the carriage and frowning out at
the passers-by. There was a red glare
from the furnaces on the other side of
the river, shifting and fading on the coils
of black smoke which lay motionless in
the still, hot air. The street was the
narrow unlovely street of the small man-
ufacturing town of the West.
"It's a beastly place," Dick said to
himself with an irritation which had its
root in some formless apprehension; and
he got into the lumbering, rattling hack
and slammed the door with vicious em-
phasis. “What on earth does her father
live here for, anyhow?” he said to him-
self.
The carriage drew up first at a small
market, where piles of faded vegetables,
flanked by glass cases of meats, jutted
out upon the pavement; a man in a dirty
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COUNTING THE COST
white butcher's frock leaned against the
door-post, and two jets of gas flared and
flickered from long iron stand-pipes.
The driver leaned down from his box
and called out in friendly tones to know
if this was the place.
“Idiot !” said Dick under his breath.
“Of course not. Try the next address.”
This was a .forlorn, untidy - looking
house on a side street. Lodgers' heads
were thrust out of the windows as Dick
climbed the steps and inquired whether
Miss Annie Graham lived there? He
was conscious of a distinct relief when he
went back again to the carriage. They
went to two other houses, but there was
no Miss Annie Graham.
"I guess," said the hackman, “we 'll
have to cross over to the other side of
the river. There's a Graham over there,
at Jack's Corners. Jack's Corners is a
fine suburb, sir.”
Dick's heart rose.
“All right; go on," he said. “Can't
you hurry those beasts of yours up ?”
And so it was that, about seven o'clock,
the cabman drew up before a small, de-
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COUNTING THE COST
tached frame house on the Mill Road.
It was so hot that the kitchen windows
were wide open, and one could see the
table drawn up between them, and a lit-
tle man in his shirt-sleeves eating his
supper. Opposite him, by the other win-
dow, was a girl with a fan in her hand,
and between them were two other per-
sons, for Johnny was entertaining that
night. Dave Duggan, uncomfortable, he
knew not why (although it certainly was
not the weather, for he had, with great
good sense, removed his coat), sat on
Annie's left; and next to him, beside
Johnny, was an enormously fat woman,
in a sort of loose white sack. This was
Mrs. Pugsley, who was one of those
neighboring ladies of thwarted step-
mother potentialities. “But you never
know what 'll happen,” Mrs. Pugsley of-
ten remarked, and dropped in this hot
July night in a friendly way to see if
Annie was making her father comfort-
able. It was Mrs. Pugsley's opinion that
all this learning was n't no good. “Bet-
ter know how to dish a meal's victuals,"
said Mrs. Pugsley, “than be readin' story
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COUNTING THE COST
papers all the time. That's what them
high-school girls does mostly.”
The room was faintly lighted by a
kerosene lamp on the mantelpiece; but
the real radiance was in Johnny's face,
as he looked across a bunch of roses in
the middle of the narrow table at his
Annie.
“Annie walked out two miles to get
them flowers," he said.
"Must 'a' wanted something to do,”
said Mrs. Pugsley.
“I'd 'a' got 'em for you, Annie,” Dave
said bashfully, “if I'd a-known you
wanted 'em.” And it was just then that
the carriage drew up at the door.
Dick, hot and disappointed and dis-
gusted at the coachman's stupidity in
bringing him into this obviously me-
chanic's suburb, leaned out to say,
“Drive on!” And then he saw her.
There was a flutter in the tenement at
seeing a hack draw up. Johnny Graham
rose, seeing in a burst of fancy an im-
portant and hasty job, and a carriage
sent to convey him to a wilderness of
leaks or broken tips. Mrs. Pugsley con-
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COUNTING THE COST
ceived the hack to be a summons from a
lady friend who had expected to need her
services on a felicitous occasion, and was
instantly agitated, and got up panting,
and saying: -
“Goodness! they've sent !”
But Annie knew.
One wonders if she flinched, there in
the twilight. She rose at once and
went to the front door, her hand out-
stretched in pleased welcome.
“Why, Mr. Temple! This is very
pleasant,” she said. “Father, dear, this
is Mr. Temple.”
Dick's face was white. He took Johnny
Graham's hand and bowed, with some
murmured reference to pleasure.
“This is my friend, Mr. Duggan, Mr.
Temple,” Annie went on placidly, "and
Duggan, M.
S: Pugsley ve went on
Dick bowed twice. He saw dimly, in
the dusky kitchen interior, two other fig-
ures, one of which, assisted by the other,
was struggling into a coat.
“Why, now set down, sir," Johnny
said joyously; "take a seat and set down.
Annie, now, can't you make room there
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COUNTING THE COST
by Dave? We was just setting out to
eat our tea, sir; it's so hot, we was late,
- but it's the style to be late, I hear!
I guess we ain't eat up everything, have
we, Annie ? I guess there's something
left for your gentleman friend.”
“You 're very kind,” Dick protested
feebly; but he sat down, too bewildered
to find any excuse.
Annie put a plate before him, and told
him he must have some iced tea.
" It's the only thing that makes life
possible in this weather,” she said ; “but
I can't make father believe it ; he takes
his boiling.”
"Well, sir,” said Johnny, "you had
quite a jaunt to get out here, had n't you?
But I don't mind the walk myself, back
and forth from my work, for it's fresher
out here."
"I did n't know your address," Dick
said, not looking at Annie ; "I've been
driving round” –
“When I saw that carriage drive up,"
Mrs. Pugsley said, still panting, “I
thought a lady friend of mine had sent
for me; it give me such a start !”
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COUNTING THE COST
He stopped so abruptly that Mrs.
Pugsley's hoarse whisper to Dave Dug-
gan was audible to all, –
“Say, is he Annie's feller ?”
“Hush !” said Dave Duggan.
Dick drank his tumbler of iced tea
with violent haste, and even Johnny
looked disconcerted. Annie said some-
thing about the roses.
“The thing I miss most in South
Bend are the gardens," she said. “You
know we are all working people on this
side of the river, and there are no old
houses, so there are no beautiful big
gardens. I had to walk far out into the
country for those.”
“Won't you have anything more?”
Johnny inquired hospitably. “ Take
another helping of something? You
won't? Oh, now, take a taste of this !
No? Well, let's go into the parlor,
Annie."
If Annie held back, no one saw it.
They went into the best room, where
Johnny set all the gas burners flaring,
that the full glories of the decorations
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COUNTING THE COST
might strike the visitor, who, indeed, saw
nothing but Annie's set face.
“Miss Graham,” he said, "you are
coming East again in September, are n't
you ?”
“I think not; I think I must never
leave father again. He is not very
strong, and I want to be with him.”
“Oh, yes, quite so," Dick answered,
“ but” —
“But what, Mr. Temple ?”
“Oh, nothing; I only thought - I
thought you were to teach in the college,
and” –
He did not know how to end his sen-
tence; he caught Dave Duggan's eyes
glowering at him, and Johnny's rather
obsequious smile. Johnny had the true
American veneration for wealth, and he
felt that this gentleman who kept a hack
waiting for an hour was a rich man.
“I shall never leave my father,” Annie
said, in a low voice.
Now Richard Temple was not a mean
or unworthy man; he was a well-born,
well-bred, well-educated young American
gentleman; but he had been placed sud-
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COUNTING THE COST
denly at a cruel disadvantage; his pres-
ence of mind deserted him — he was
bewildered and confounded. His plans
and hopes were all adrift. He could not
meet Annie Graham's eyes again ; he
said good-night, at first effusively, and
then haughtily; and sneaked out to his
carriage, anxious only to escape from an
intolerable situation.
"Hope you 'll come again and talk over
old times with Annie, sir,” Johnny said,
shaking Dick's hand all the time that
he was speaking ; "you 'll call again,
sir ?"
“Oh, certainly, yes, of course,” Dick
answered wretchedly.
But Annie knew better.
Dave Duggan had watched Annie's
visitor with burning eyes. He followed
the conversation with painful intentness,
and a sense of speed which made him
breathless. He wished to join in it, -
and kept moistening his lips and clearing
his throat, but he never found the cour-
age to speak. His shyness probably
prevented him from being rude; for his
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COUNTING THE COST
I'll come, too. Please — go !” she
ended. Johnny looked at her in sur-
prise, sensitive to every change in her
voice.
“Why, now — Annie?” he faltered.
“I'll be through with the dishes in a
few minutes, father, dear,” she said; and
so Johnny led the way to the front door
and placed a chair on the hard, black
earth at the foot of the steps for Mrs.
Pugsley, and told Dave to take off his
coat again.
“It's that hot,” Johnny said, “there's
no good wearin' coats.”
: “Now that dude's gone, I suppose
there's no harm being comfortable,”
Dave agreed angrily.
They sat there in the dusk, Johnny
and Mrs. Pugsley talking the visit over.
They could hear Annie moving about in
the kitchen, washing the dishes. After
a while Dave Duggan got up and with
painstaking and elaborate efforts not to
attract attention went, with creaking,
clumsy steps, into the kitchen. Annie
stood by the sink, with her back to him.
He heard her draw in her breath in a
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COUNTING THE COST
broken sob; and then he saw — he saw
that tears were running down her face.
“ Annie!” he said ; "oh, now, Annie,
don't, don't mind, Annie, dear !" He
put out his hands beseechingly, his face
red and wincing with feeling. Annie
turned her shoulder toward him, and set
her teeth. She drew her wrist across
her eyes.
“It's that dude's hurt your feelin's,
Annie — darn him! but never you mind,
he ain't worth ” —
“Oh, please go away, Dave,” Annie
said; “you don't know what you are
talking about ! Please go back to fa-
ther.”
“Annie,” he burst out, “look here: he
ain't worth it. I say, Annie, will you
take up with me?”
“I really don't know what you are
talking about. Mr. Temple — if you
are referring to him — has not hurt my
feelings in the least. I- I had some-
thing on my mind, and" —
“Oh, Annie," poor Dave said, “what
I'm wanting to know” — He stood
there in his shirt-sleeves beside the sink,
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COUNTING THE COST
his voice trembling, one big red hand
opening and shutting the hot-water
spigot. “I'm just wanting to know if
you 'll marry me, Annie. Say, now, will
you ? "
She shrank from him, a sort of horror
in her face.
“ You ?”
“You ain't mad ?” he entreated.
“It is quite impossible,” she answered
hoarsely; "quite, quite! Never speak
to me of such a thing” – Her face was
stinging, her voice was broken, as a wo-
man's might be to whom some insulting
thing had been said. “You will go, if
you please,” she ended, her head high,
and with a certain gesture that con-
founded him.
“But look a-here,” he insisted, follow-
ing her as she moved away from him ;
“ Annie, look a-here; that fellow ain't
a-goin' to marry anybody but a rich lady;
his kind ain't goin' to marry you."
“Well, I shan't marry my kind, then!
You can just understand that,” she cried,
with a sudden almost coarse fury.
“There's no use for you to think of such
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COUNTING THE COST
dust; she may turn her back on South
Bend, and the tenement house, and the
painted snow-shovel, and her father's
shirt-sleeves, and her father's tender
heart, and go out into the world to live
her own strong, refined, intellectual life,
perhaps as a teacher in her old college;
marrying, after a while, some one who
has never seen her father, and coming
into the soul-destroying possession of
that skeleton in the American closet —
the vulgarity of the preceding genera-
tion. Or—
She may, because of sheer misery in
the struggle between the new and the
old, and for the dreadful suffocating com-
fort of it, fall back into the pit whence
she was digged and try to forget the up-
per air.
What is the child's duty ? To live her
own life, or to live some one else's life?
Is she to accept success or failure, fulfill-
ment or renunciation ?
People differ as to what constitutes
success; some go so far as to say that
the highest fulfillment lies in renuncia-
tion; and certainly there was once a life
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COUNTING THE COST
that might have been called a failure be-
cause it ended upon a cross on Calvary.
I suppose it all depends on how you
look at it.
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THE LAW, OR THE GOSPEL
was a sweet-hearted, wholesome-minded,
impulsive, dear child ; the kind of girl
who loved a party just as much, and
planned her pretty dresses just as anx-
iously, and adored her father and mother
just as unreasonably, as though she had
never heard of a committee, and was in-
different to the Cause of Humanity. All
Mercer knew her, and believed in her ;
and so when, one gray November after-
noon, she was seen to go quietly up the
steps of a certain house on Baker Street
- a house which decent folk affected to
ignore when they passed it by at midday,
but at which they glanced curiously after
nightfall — when Sara Wharton went
into this house, those who chanced to see
her said only, “Well! what won't that
girl do next?”
The woman who answered her ring
opened the door scarcely more than a
crack, and peered out at her sourly.
“ I want to see Nellie Sherman," said
Miss Wharton.
“There's no person by that name
here,” the woman answered.
“Let me in, please," Sara Wharton
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THE LAW, OR THE GOSPEL
tion made her add, “ There ain't nobody
there."
The halls and stairs were nearly dark ;
one or two frowzy heads peered over the
banisters, and drew back quickly ; there
was a loud guffaw of laughter from behind
a closed door, and all the air was heavy
with the reek of stale tobacco.
“Her room's the third floor back,” the
woman called up after the visitor, who
went swiftly over the stairs, intent upon
her errand, yet with a faint shudder, a
sort of physical shrinking, that made her
gather her cloak close about her, lest it
might touch the wall or banisters.
"I'm glad I told Thomas to wait,” she
said to herself, thinking of the brougham
at the door, with the respectable, long-
suffering Thomas on the box. At the
third floor back she knocked, and waited
for a reply; then she knocked again.
“What is it ?” a muffled voice asked ;
“is that you, Mamie? Go 'way! I'm
busy.”
“ It is I; Miss Wharton; a friend of
your aunt's. Let me in, Nellie.” There
was a breathless pause, and then a quick
194


THE LAW, OR THE GOSPEL
step, and a bolt was snapped back. A
slight, startled-looking girl stood in the
doorway. Sara entered with a certain
fine, regal step that she had, that gave at
once a sense of the uselessness of op-
posing her.
“ Shut the door,” she commanded
cheerfully, “and let me see you. Come,
we will sit down and have a little talk.
Oh, open that window first; there is
some dreadful perfumery in the room.
Ah, that 's nice; fresh air is the nicest
sort of perfumery ; don't you think so ?”
The girl stared at her without an an-
swer. She was a delicate-looking creature,
rather pretty, except that just now her
face was stained with tears, and there
was a sullen look about her little pale
lips. But she had fair hair in a sort of
aureole around her low forehead, and
shading her really beautiful eyes; and
she wore a crimson silk waist, — spotted,
to be sure, and ripped on the shoulder,
but bringing out the fairness of her
skin, and the blue veins on her delicate
temples.
“I'm sure I have n't the pleasure of
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THE LAW, OR THE GOSPEL
your acquaintance,” she said airily; but
she was trembling.
“I know your aunt, Mrs. Sherman,"
her visitor said ; then there was a mo-
ment's silence. Sara Wharton looked
about the untidy room, — with its banjo
hung with ribbons, its looking-glass
rimmed with cards and tintypes stuck
edgewise within the frame; its litter of
cigarette ends, and its half-empty, un-
corked bottle of beer on the marble-
topped centre-table.
“Your aunt told me about you, my
child,” she said, with a deep, kind look
full into the girl's face.
The color rushed into Nellie's pale
cheeks; but she only said, with vast in-
difference, “ Is that so? Well, she's very
kind, I'm sure.”
“I don't know that she has always
been very kind,” Sara Wharton an-
swered thoughtfully. “Now shut that
window behind you; I don't want you
to sit in a draft; and the fresh air has
driven out the perfumery. Why do you
use perfumery, Nellie? Nice girls don't.”
The girl looked at her blankly.
· 196


THE LAW, OR THE GOSPEL
“ Yes; your aunt told me about you.
She told me how she had taken care of
you ever since your mother died; and
how she had sent you to school, and
bought pretty dresses for you, and done
the housework herself so that you
should n't spoil your hands; and how she
took in washing so that you might go
to dancing-school. She loved you very
much, Nellie; but I am not sure that she
was kind. Perhaps if you had had to
work you would n't have come to this
dreadful house, and brought shame and
disgrace to Mrs. Sherman. You ’ve bro-
ken her heart, Nellie.”
The girl's face paled and flushed; and
then quivered suddenly into a storm of
tears.
“I don't like it here. But I can't help
it. I lost my place in the shop. I was
late, and they discharged me. And I
was afraid to go home and tell my aunt,
she jaws at me so. That was four weeks
ago. It was the third place I'd lost. So
I- came here. I don't like it. I was
just crying when you came in!” She
squeezed her handkerchief into a damp
197


THE LAW, OR THE GOSPEL
ball and pressed it against her eyes, sob-
bing. “The woman is so cross. And —
and I owe her for board.”
Sara was silent.
“But there ain't anything I can do;
I'd die rather than go back to my aunt's.
She'd never forgive me. I don't blame
her. But I don't like it here."
“Perhaps your aunt will forgive you?”
Sara said gently. Nellie rocked back
and forth, sobbing.
“I'm too wicked,” she recited ; her
eyes roved over Sara's dark dress, and
inspected her pretty little bonnet, and
dwelt on the glitter of an amethyst pin
at her throat. “Oh, dear, I wish I
had n't; I wish I was dead," she said
helplessly.
Sara Wharton's face lit with a quick
tenderness. She put her arm over the
child's bent shoulders, and drew the wet
cheek down against her breast. “My
dear, if you are sorry, if you know that it
is wicked and dreadful, then the worst is
over. Don't wish to die — wish to live,
so that you may be good. I know you
can be good !” she ended, with a burst of
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THE LAW, OR THE GOSPEL
courage in her voice, that struck some
answering chord in the poor, half-devel-
oped little soul at her side. Nellie looked
ир.
“Oh, I will be good — if I can just get
out of here! I'm just about sick, any-
way; I've got such a pain under my left
shoulder; and I'm just tired of it - and
Mrs. Smith is so cross. But I can't go
home. My aunt 'll jaw at me. Oh, I
can't ever go home!” She whimpered
a little, and looked at her pretty finger
nails critically.
“I'm sure your aunt will forgive
you!” Sara said, impetuous and tender.
“Let's go and ask her to, now."
“Mrs. Smith won't let me go, I guess,”
Nellie sighed; “I owe her two weeks
board.”
“I will pay her."
“I'll come to-morrow," the child de-
murred.
“Nellie, dear, I want you to come
now! Oh, Nellie, won't you begin this
minute to be good ?”
"I'm not so very bad,” Nellie pro-
tested, “and I can't come now, truly. I
199


THE LAW, OR THE GOSPEL
have n't any sack. 1-sold it.” The
tears welled up in her soft eyes at the
remembrance of her poverty.
“You don't need a sack. You 'll
come in my carriage, and I 'll wrap a rug
around you."
“My!” said Nellie, “is your carriage
here? One of the club girls told me
it had satin cushions. Is that so, Miss
Wharton ?”
Sara bit her lip. “Never mind about
the cushions. Oh, Nellie, dear, don't
think of things like that! Only just try
with all your might to be good. Will
you, Nellie?"
“Why, certainly,” said Nellie.
Sara Wharton drove home with a very
serious look on her face. She had in-
duced Nellie to leave that dreadful house;
indeed, the girl had yielded with that
fatally facile willingness to do what she
was told which should have forbade any
of the joy that may be felt over the one
sinner that repenteth. But in the glow
of "saving” the poor child, it was not
easy for Sara Wharton to realize that
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THE LAW, OR THE GOSPEL
ing to a departing caller, noticed it and
said, with some anxiety:-
“My dear, there is nothing the matter,
I hope ?”
“No, mother darling," the girl reas-
sured her, with a glance at the tall fellow
who stood with his hat and stick in his
hand, waiting for Mrs. Wharton's bow.
“Sara, my dear, this is Dr. Morse.
My daughter, Dr. Morse.”
“I ventured to come and tell a sad
story to your mother, Miss Wharton,”
said the young man, “a dispensary story.
I've just come on duty at the dispensary;
but Mrs. Wharton's kindness was so pro-
verbial, that when I stumbled on a hard
case, I came at once to tell her about it.”
“ I've no doubt she was delighted to
hear of it,” Sara said ; “mother would
really be dreadfully unhappy if every-
body was prosperous; her occupation
would be gone."
“Why, Sara! Sara ! you must n't say
such things,” Mrs. Wharton reproved
her, looking at her daughter over her
gold spectacles, with the horrified pro-
test of a simple and literal mind.
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THE LAW, OR THE GOSPEL
The other two laughed, feeling sud-
denly very well acquainted.
“So long as she lives in Mercer, Mrs.
Wharton's happiness is assured,” the
doctor said; and went away, saying to
himself, “What a girl! I don't wonder
people rave about her ; she's stunning!
But I'm afraid she's a professional phi-
lanthropist.”
“ So that 's the new doctor?" Sara
said, pulling off her gloves; "he has a
nice face, rather. Did you like him, dar-
ling?"
“Yes,” her mother answered doubt-
fully, “only, Sara, my dear, he seems
rather a stern young man. I wanted to
give him a check for this poor woman he
came to tell me about; but he said that
I must let her clean windows, or some-
thing, to earn it. And you know, my
dear child, that would interfere with
James's work. I'd much rather give
the check than arrange for work.”
Sara kissed her, and cuddled her, for
Mrs. Wharton was a little, roly-poly, com-
fortable sort of woman, and told her she
was behind the times.
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THE LAW, OR THE GOSPEL
thermore, she loved the girl. That is to
say, she called it love; and perhaps it
was, in its way; at least it was that
greater love that is content to give and
not receive. Sara gave her very self
- her power, her charm, her sweet and
generous enthusiasms — fully and freely
into the little, mean hands that were
held out to take all they could get. “Be-
cause,” she said to herself, again, “the
only way to reach her is to love her.
Love is the greatest thing in the world !
I've no doubt I would have been just as
bad as Nellie if I had n't had so much
love." This thought made the girl rise,
and go and push her mother's sewing
aside, and kiss her, with a little half
laughing break in her voice, and her eyes
suddenly wet with tears.
“What is it? What is it ? ” Mrs.
Wharton said breathlessly, adjusting her
spectacles, which the impetuous embrace
had disturbed ; “is anything the matter,
Sara ?”
“No,” her daughter answered, with a
laugh, winking away the tears, “I was
just thinking how lucky I was to have
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THE LAW, OR THE GOSPEL
deserving poor of your own household.
Charity begins at home, let me tell you!
Who is to have this petticoat ? — while
your own poor child is in want of a satin
gown!”
“Well,” Mrs. Wharton said, with some
confusion, “the fact is, Nellie looks so
sickly I am afraid she is not warmly
enough clad” –
Sara shrieked with laughter. “Con-
sistency, thy name is Mother,” she cried ;
and began to pour out her plans for Nel-
lie, which Mrs. Wharton amended several
times, objecting to Sara's assertion that
Nellie should repay the money expended
for her tuition at the commercial col-
lege.
“The poor thing will have so little
money, anyhow,” she entreated. But
mone Yield to her the up in othe
“We'll make it up in other ways, -
petticoats, and things, but she must feel
it a loan,” she said.
However, Miss Wharton's theories
were far too fine for the material with
which she worked. When the three
terms at the commercial college were
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THE LAW, OR THE GOSPEL
and courageous belief which was part of
her own character; and then she fell
back on what she had called “the great-
est thing in the world :” “Goodness is
there, and I've got to love it out !”
She took Nellie's latent goodness for
granted, especially in her effort to over-
come the child's enveloping selfishness.
She was constantly trying to make her
realize the happiness of sacrifice.
“Nellie,” she said once, “now that
you ’ve got your place as bookkeeper,
and are earning some money, of course
you want to pay me; but I think, even
before that, you must want to pay for
your board at your aunt's. She has
been so good to you, you know; and
I'm sure you'll be glad to help her along
a little?”
“Oh, certainly!” Nellie replied, with
a blank look.
“How much do you think you can
pay?” Sara suggested cheerfully.
“Well, just now,” Nellie demurred, “I
really have to have a new dress; per-
haps, later, I can give her a little some-
thing.”
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THE LAW, OR THE GOSPEL
girl even began to see that there were
certain views which were thought admir-
able, and once in a while she tried them
on, as it were, and regarded herself in the
mirror of Miss Wharton's warm and joy-
ous approbation.
“I was so sorry not to see you at the
club last night, Nellie,” Sara said to her
one day, dropping in to buy a pair of
gloves at the shop where Nellie kept the
books.
“My aunt was n't well,” said Nellie,
“and I stayed at home to take care of
her.” Such a light came into Sara Whar-
ton's sweet face, such tenderness and tri-
umph and quick hope, that Nellie looked
at her curiously.
“That was right, Nellie, dear," she
said; “I'm so glad you did it. I'm so
glad," she repeated, and went away, her
eyes misty and her heart lifted up. She
could not help going in to see Mrs. Sher-
man, making the excuse of bringing her
some fruit because she was ill, but really
to share her exultation.
“Sick ?” said Mrs. Sherman, “why,
no, ma'am, I'm not sick, no more than I
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THE LAW, OR THE GOSPEL
always am with worry about that there
Nellie. She did n't come home from the
club last night until after eleven, and I
was scared to death for fear she'd gone
off with them Caligan girls — they 're fast
girls, that's what they are; and she's
struck up a great friendship with 'em.
My, she'll worry me into my grave,
Nellie will. But she said you'd kept her
late to help you putting away the club
books, — and of course that was all
right.”
III
“You owe something to your family,
my child,” Mrs. Wharton said one day;
"you make us all very anxious and wor-
ried by overworking so; it 's your duty
to take a little rest.”
“Mother, darling,” Sara began to pro-
test, “I really can't go away now; the
Girls' Club and” –
“You need n't begin the list, my dear,”
her mother interrupted — “I know them
all. Dear, dear! Sara, when I was a
girl, young women owed some duties to
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their parents, as well as to all the shiftless,
worthless, improper people in the world.”
“I trust I'm not a Borrioboola-Gha
person,” murmured Sara.
" Don't be foolish, my child,” Mrs.
Wharton said, “and use long words when
your poor old mother don't know what
they mean” –
“You darling!” said Sara, and hugged
her so tightly that Mrs. Wharton remon-
strated.
“It would be a great deal more to the
point if, instead of kissing me, you would
be an obedient child. You worry me al-
most to death, working so hard. I want
you to come to Florida. I asked Dr.
Morse if he did n't think you were doing
too much, and he said you took a great
deal of unnecessary trouble; so you see
he agrees with me."
“Mother, dear, how you adore doctors !
Dr. Morse does n't know what he's talk-
ing about. But you might tell me what
else he said ?”
“Oh, some nonsense about — about
your being of so much value to Mercer,”
Mrs. Wharton admitted, with evident
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fear that one statement might lessen the
effect of the other.
But whether it was Dr. Morse's under-
standing of the value of her work, or
whether it was her mother's entreaties,
Sara at last agreed to go away for a little
while, though it was hard work to get
things in running order for a three months'
absence of their head. Nellie was her
greatest anxiety ; three months without
oversight and guidance — who could tell
what might happen! So Sara made
many plans; the girl was to be guarded
on this side and on that : she was to have
steady work, and she was to have fre-
quent amusement; pleasure and profit
were all arranged. And before she went,
Sara had a little talk with her. She had
sent for the girl, who came up into her
bedroom, where, just before dinner, Miss
Wharton was sitting in the firelight.
The pretty room was full of dusky shad-
ows; its faint scent of roses, its deep,
soft chairs, the shimmer of silver on the
toilet-table, all its delicate luxury, was
evident enough to Nellie. The sullen
upper lip swelled out as she looked en-
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THE LAW, OR THE GOSPEL
ing of a nice chair. What do you think
of that?"
“A chair !”repeated Nellie in astonish-
ment. “Why, I would n't buy a chair
for myself !”
Sara sighed. “But you would like the
fun of buying one for somebody else,
would n't you?”
“Well, I ain't got any money,” the
girl said uneasily; and then Miss Whar-
ton unfolded her plan, which was that
she should give Nellie five dollars, and
Nellie would add what she could, and a
present should be purchased.
“Add something, if it's only a dol-
lar," Sara said pleadingly; "a good,
comfortable chair can be bought for six
dollars.”
“A' right; I don't mind,” Nellie
agreed, in a wearied way. She did not
understand all this talk; she saw no
reason in Miss Sara's giving Mrs. Sher-
man a chair, and saying it was Nellie's
gift ; still, she did n't mind.
“You 'll like to do that, won't you,
Nellie ?” Sara said anxiously.
“Oh, certainly,” said Nellie, and then
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THE LAW, OR THE GOSPEL
so she assumed the gait and the manner
which she conceived to belong to an
owner. The inside-man was just light-
ing a lamp under a big rose - colored
shade, and Nellie threw up her head with
a haughty look, and drew down the cor-
ners of her mouth, sweeping past him
toward the door. James, however, smiled
with great politeness.
“Oh, g'd evening, Miss Sherman,” he
said. “My! it does seem to get dark
early these days, does n't it?”
Nellie's lofty coldness melted instantly.
She simpered and said, “ Is that so ?”
“It's quite late for a young lady to be
out alone,” James remarked with grave
solicitude.
“Oh, that's a' right," Nellie protested.
She was smiling, and holding her head
coquettishly, and looking up at him with
great archness. She dropped her hand-
kerchief as she reached the front door
and James picked it up, and handed it to
her with an elaborate bow. He caught
her fingers in his own as he did so, and
they both giggled, and Nellie said, “Now,
you stop that !”
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THE LAW, OR THE GOSPEL
They lowered their voices with an ap-
prehensive look towards the staircase;
James opened the door and stepped out
on the porch with her. “Well, you
ought n't to be severe, Miss Sherman ;
it's such a little hand, a gentleman can't
help it ; Miss Sara's is twice as big."
“Is that so?” said Nellie ; and then
they both looked up at the sky, and
James observed that the weather was
threatening, and it certainly was too dark
for a young lady, a beautiful young lady,
to be out alone.
“Oh, that 's a' right,” Nellie reassured
him politely.
James in an absent-minded way put
his arm round her, and said he thought
ladies ought always to have gentlemen
escorts.
“Is that so ?” Nellie answered, sim-
pering; and, with the same apparent
absence of mind, sidling closer to him,
which induced his easy caresses; “well,
I must be going along,” she announced,
giggling.
“Well, good-by, Miss Sherman,” said
the chivalrous James, and gave her a
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hearty kiss, which made Nellie slap at
him with one hand, and say, “Now you
stop that ! ” and go off, still giggling,
into the darkness.
Sara Wharton, upstairs by her fire, had
dropped her face in her hands, and was
saying to herself, “I must trust her
more, and believe in her more! Oh, I
am sure she tries — poor little Nellie.”
And certainly poor Nellie was not con-
scious of any lack of trying, so far as the
episode with James was concerned. To
her, as well as to him, it was very harm-
less, that kiss in the porch. And really
to call such a thing “sin” is to lift it to
a level where it does not belong.
But probably Sara Wharton was con-
stitutionally unable to understand that.
The people who try to make silk purses
out of inadequate materials rarely can
understand it.
IV
The Whartons did not get back until
April, and the improvement in Sara's
color, and the clear, glad look in her
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THE LAW, OR THE GOSPEL
eyes, showed how much she had needed
the change. She was all ready for her
brave, happy work for other people.
Her very first visit was to Nellie's aunt.
When she climbed up to the top tene-
ment, stopping to open a window on a
landing half way up, so that the sweet
spring air might turn out the odors of
the hall-sink, and of the dirt in the cor-
ners and on the stairs, she came into
Mrs. Sherman's room a little breathless,
but with a soft rose-color on her cheek.
“Well !” she called out cheerfully,
"here I am again, Mrs. Sherman ; how
are you; and how is Nellie?” and then
she discovered Nellie sitting close to the
stove, on which was a tin boiler full of
steaming soapy linen, which Mrs. Sher-
man, bare armed and draggled, pushed
down once in a while with a broom-
handle.
“There!” said Mrs. Sherman, “well!
my sakes, Miss Wharton, it do do me
good to see you. Look at that there
girl !”
Nellie sunk her head on her breast and
began to cry. Sara was instantly seri-
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THE LAW, OR THE GOSPEL
ous. “Is anything wrong?" she said
gravely.
“Wrong!” cried Mrs. Sherman
shrilly. “Well, I guess! I told her I'd
keep her till you come home, though
she's a shame to any decent woman.
My! what I've put up with for that
there child !” She put her apron over
her head, sobbing and vociferating : “I
told her I'd tell you. I ain't let her out
of that door since. I'll keep her straight
now, as long as I live" —
Nellie, her face drawn and pale, sat
plucking at the fringe of the shawl about
her shoulders, her sullen lips compressed,
her eyes cast resolutely down.
“Nellie ?” Sara said. There was no
answer.
“What has happened, Nellie ?”
Silence.
“Tell me; I won't be hard on you,
Nellie. Have you — gone wrong again?”
Nellie crossed her feet and made no
reply.
In despair Sara turned again to Mrs.
Sherman, who, with tears, declaring first
that Nellie should leave her house that
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THE LAW, OR THE GOSPEL
said Dr. Morse ; “incipient phthisis, I
believe. Just let me look it up; yes, that
was it ; anæmia, also ; I gave her a tonic.”
“Phthisis?” Sara repeated, her color
paling. “Oh, Dr. Morse, does n't that
mean— consumption ?”.
“Not yet,” he answered, with all the
cheerfulness of scientific indifference.
“It will doubtless develop into consump-
tion.”
“But that means she will die ?” Sara
said, her dark eyes full of fear. “Oh, is
it as bad as that ?” Her lip trembled.
The young man looked at her with at-
tention.
“I am sorry I told you so abruptly ; I
did not realize that the young woman
was anything to you, personally; and I
assure you the case is not hopeless.”
“Is there any hope ? Oh, Dr. Morse,
it is so awful to think of her dying now !
What must be done? How uneven
things are! There was I, a strong, well
woman, down in Florida, and this poor
girl” –
“There is perhaps some difference in
the value of the two lives,” the doctor
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objected, smiling. Sara brushed this
aside as unworthy of an answer.
“ What can we do?”
“Well, I suppose if she could go away
into the country, and live a quiet, regular
life, with plenty of milk to drink, and
plenty of fresh air and proper exercise,
she would at least be greatly benefited.
Possibly cured. There are no marked
lesions, I think, in the lung."
Sara listened with frowning intent-
ness; then she drew a long breath of
relief. “I am so thankful that it is not
hopeless. But I think that — that in
prescribing for her, I mean planning for
her, you ought to know — all there is to
know, about her.”
“Yes, that is advisable,” the doctor
agreed easily. The charming color of her
cheek, the bunch of violets on her shoul-
der, her beautiful, troubled brown eyes,
were not lost upon this young man. “I
thought her a vain little thing," he went
on, “and rather brutal to the good woman
who was taking care of her. But illness
makes us all selfish.”
“I am afraid she is vain, poor child,”
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Sara said, “and selfish, too, rather. But
the worst of it is, she has — she has not
been good, Dr. Morse.”
“ Ah !” said the young man.
“I did hope she had reformed, but
while I was away — it happened again.”
“I see. I see.”
“Of course, in sending her away that
has to be considered. She must be
among people who will do her good.”
“And to whom she will not do harm.”
Sara looked a little startled. “Of
course; but I had not thought of that.”
“It seems to me that is very impor-
tant," he said, smiling. “Speaking of
sending people away, I wish I might tell
you of another case which needs the
country; or are your hands too full to
consider any one else ?”
“Alas, it is my purse which is not
full,” she said ruefully ; “but is it very
bad?”
“It is a poor soul, a hard-working,
honest little creature, who has an old
mother and an imbecile brother to sup-
port; and she's nearly at an end of her
strength. She needs to be braced up."
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THE LAW, OR THE GOSPEL
“I wish I could send her away too,”
Sara said pitifully; "but I've begged
and begged for my cases until, positively,
I have n't the face to ask for any more
money. My friends fly when they see
me approaching, for fear I'm going to
say 'give, give!'” She laughed a little,
and the doctor looked at her with critical
amusement.
“But of the two, you'd give the
you'd give Nellie Sherman the chance
for health ?”
“Why, it's only “bracing up' that
your poor woman needs," Sara said, with
a surprised look, “and you say Nellie will
die if she does n't go away?”
“ Perhaps that would be the best thing
that could happen.”
“Dr. Morse! Would you have me let
Nellie Sherman die, that three people
should be made comfortable?”
“I would, indeed,” he said, with a
whimsical smile.
She looked at him in silent dismay,
and he thought she shrank a little.
“My dear Miss Wharton," he said
quickly, “just look at the situation :
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THE LAW, OR THE GOSPEL
your poor Nellie is a moral leper; she is
a contagion ; she's had her opportunity
to get well (I speak spiritually) ; she has
had a year and a half of the most patient
and earnest effort expended upon her;
but she has n't profited by it, and the
probability is she is incurable. On the
other hand, here is a woman who is a
centre and source of moral health. Each
needs physical restoration : one for her
life, the other for her usefulness, — and,
later, no doubt, her life, too. To which
shall the chance be given ?”.
“To the one who might die !” Sara
said impetuously.
She got up to go, a sparkle of indig-
nation in her eyes; the young man rose,
too, and stood leaning back against his
office table, his hands in his pockets, and
a good-natured smile on his lean, strong
face. “I don't see,” his visitor went on,
“how you dare to say any soul is incur-
ably bad” –
“I only said the probability was that
your Nellie was incurable; and, after all,
if you have only a certain amount of
medicine, will you give it to the mori-
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THE LAW, OR THE GOSPEL
bund or the person who is just coming
down with an illness ?”
“I don't think the illustration is good,”
Sara answered loftily ; "we are speaking
of souls. And we have no right to say
we know the limit ” — her voice fell a
little — “ of God's power."
Dr. Morse looked as though he were
about to speak, but apparently thought
better of it.
“I'm very sorry for your poor woman,"
Sara said, “and I'll try to see if I can't
arrange a little rest for her; but first of
all, life must be saved.”
Then she went away, her lip between
her white teeth, and her breath quick.
“Horrible man!” she said to herself,
“the idea of reasoning about a thing like
that — a human life! Dreadful person !
I hope I shall never see him again.”
Dr. Morse, in his office, thrust his hands
down into his pockets, and stretched his
feet out, and reflected. “I suppose she
thinks I'm a brute. I might have known
better than to talk to a sentimental girl
as though she were a rational being.
She 'll keep that creature alive long
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THE LAW, OR THE GOSPEL
could go and walk the street on fine af-
ternoons with the Caligan girls, three
abreast, arm in arm, strutting and jos-
tling each other, and looking into the
shop windows; laughing loudly, or glan-
cing haughtily at the passers-by, or gig-
gling at “gentlemen friends.” It was all
so harmless and so pleasant ! Of course,
Mrs. Smith's on Baker Street, that was
different; but just to meet lady and gen-
tlemen friends, and talk and “carry on "
— what was wrong in that ? She did, to
be sure, feel nervous about her health ;
but if it were necessary to go into the
country, why could n't she have gone
to a hotel, where she could have had
some fun ? It seemed a cruel life to
Nellie ! She came to feel toward Sara
Wharton, instead of the uncomfortable
resentment which in such natures takes
the place of gratitude, a venomous hatred.
Sara seemed to this poor, mean soul, a
powerful enemy, one who interfered with
every joy, and, not content with that,
who “talked ;” and Nellie hated talk.
Like most of her class, except when in
a rage, she had little to say beyond ex-
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THE LAW, OR THE GOSPEL
clamations, and Miss Wharton's impetu-
ous flow of words, her entreaties, and
rebukes, and suggestions, had only bewil-
dered and irritated the girl; for Sara,
like most of her class, had never taken
Nellie's mental deficiencies into account ;
she treated her always like a rational be-
ing. Like a “Soul," Sara herself would
have said.
So, up on the farm, as her fright about
her health subsided, poor Nellie raged
against her benefactor and her cruel fate.
She fell into fits of weeping, or, what was
worse to the quiet husband and wife in
whose charge she was, into long silences,
broken only by fitful flashes of black
temper. Yet in spite of this, her bod-
ily health increased. Very likely there
would have been open rebellion, and a
break for liberty by midsummer, if an
unexpected interest had not come into
her life. Two students, with their tutor,
came to camp out near the farm; and
after passing them once or twice in the
road, and giggling with them over the
posting of a letter in the office, poor Nel-
lie grew better tempered. She frizzed her
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THE LAW, OR THE GOSPEL
wild with delight. She could hardly re-
member to say good-by to the kind peo-
ple who had looked after her for the
last few months; she almost forgot the
boys; she was tremulous with joy.
“Oh, I'm so glad to go back — oh, I
hate, hate, hate the country!” she kept
saying; while the husband and wife
looked at each other wonderingly.
So, strengthened and invigorated, pant-
ing for excitement, unchecked by any
moral perceptions, by gratitude, by love,
even by fear (now that she was well
again), — she came back to Mercer.
VI
One night in December, Sara Whar-
ton, coming home from a dinner, was told
that Dr. Morse was waiting for her in
the library. She went in at once, pulling
off her long gloves, and with her white
cloak falling back from her pretty shoul-
ders. She had not seen the doctor since
that talk about Nellie, and she had for-
gotten her indignation with him. She
had heard too much of his goodness
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THE LAW, OR THE GOSPEL
not mince words, — Jack has gone off
with her. I have come to-night from his
mother's bedside. Mrs. Hayes has just
heard what he has done — her innocent
boy."
Sara rose, shrinking and wincing as
though he had struck her.
“I thought it possible,” he went on,
“that you might know where she was
living, and perhaps I could get on her
track. She met Jack up in the country;
he was there with a tutor; of course, she
had no difficulty in finding him when he
came back to town. He went off with
her on Sunday, we think — at least, one
of the Clay boys saw him with her Sun-
day night, and he has n't been at home
since.”
"I don't know where she is,” Sara
said brokenly.
“I went to see Mrs. Sherman before I
came here, and do you know what she
said to me? She sat, poor woman, with
the tears streaming down her cheeks :
Oh,' she said, “if I could only know she
was dead! If she was just safe in her
grave !'»
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THE LAW, OR THE GOSPEL
Sara shivered.
“I thought to myself, ‘She would be,
you poor soul, if some of us wise people
had not interfered.' I reproach myself,”
he went on savagely, “that I did not try
to dissuade you when you told me you
meant to keep the girl alive. We ought
to stamp such vermin out — or let it die
out, at least. Instead, you philanthro-
pists and we doctors do all we can to
keep them alive, — that they may propa-
gate their kind ! Fortunately, nature
generally prevents that, — but Nellie's
mother was a fallen woman, you may re-
member? Poor Jack — poor Mrs. Hayes !
Miss Wharton, our hands are not inno-
cent of that boy's blood.”
Sara was very white; she still trem-
bled, but she lifted her head and looked
full at him. “Dr. Morse, are you God,
to kill ? "
“Or you, to make alive ?” he inter-
rupted. “I did not ask you to kill — I
asked you not to interfere — to allow
God to work in his own way. I asked
you to use that judgment which, in ordi-
nary affairs, is so excellent — to consider
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THE LAW, OR THE GOSPEL
probabilities; you do as much as that in
refusing to leave a lighted candle in a pow-
der magazine. What would you think of
me, if I turned a smallpox patient loose
in a crowd ? Nellie is far more danger-
ous than smallpox. Don't you see —
surely you must see! that it would have
been better for the community if she had
died last summer ?”
“Better for the community," Sara said
passionately; “ but what about Nellie ?
Would it have been better for Nellie?”
“It could hardly be worse, could it ? ”
he answered dryly ; “but if it were worse,
better one lost soul than two or three.”
“God does n't lose souls so easily,” she
cried; but he pressed the logic of her
hope home.
“ Then why not have trusted Him, and
let her die ? Death is n't the worst thing
in the world! And may I remind you"
— they had both risen ; and from a cruel
sort of justice on his part, and a horrified
dismay on hers, anger was arising in their
eyes — “may I remind you of a poor
woman of whom I spoke that day you
came to see me about Nellie ? She is in
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THE LAW, OR THE GOSPEL
the hospital, broken down absolutely ;
her brother is in the almshouse, and her
mother living on charity. But Nellie
Sherman, a thief, a liar, a prostitute, a
moral imbecile, is in good health!”
“You have no right to say such
things,” Sara said, in a low voice. “I
had to give that poor creature a chance
to save her soul; and to do that I had to
save her body” —
“And ruin Jack — body and soul” –
“That was not my business,” she Aung
back at him.
“It was your business!” he said. “It
was your business to weigh probabilities.
Oh!” he ended, impetuously, “the trou-
ble with us is, nowadays, that we make
too much of life, and too little of living:
It is living that is important, not existing!
I tell you, Miss Wharton, there is only a
limited amount of power in the world ;
only a limited amount of opportunity, or
of money, for that matter; and we are
bound to put power and opportunity and
money where they will do the most good!
Did you put them where they would do
the most good ?”
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THE LAW, OR THE GOSPEL
Sara flinched, then rallied all her faith.
“Dr. Morse, I did the duty which came
to my hands; I had no choice.”
“No choice?” he repeated. “There
is always choice! that 's where respon-
sibility comes in. The good woman and
the bad woman may not come and stand
hand in hand before you, each asking aid.
But the good woman, abstractly, is al-
ways dying (or — being tempted to turn
into a bad woman, for that matter !), so
there is always choice. We've got to
consider moral economics ; we ’ve no
business to gratify our selfish sentimen-
talism at the expense of society !” He
was so much in earnest that he did not
see how tensely she was holding herself,
or what a look of terror had come into
her young face.
“The Gospel of Love is all I can
plead,” she said, in the voice of one in-
sisting to herself; “ but it is the salvation
of the world !”
All the stern anxiety of his face melted
into an exaltation as intense as her own.
“ Law is the salvation of the world !
And law means that the good of the
247


THE LAW, OR THE GOSPEL
whole, not the comfort of the individual,
shall be considered; it means a love so
sane as to permit the mercy of death.”
Sara put her hands over her face to
hide a burst of tears. Her accuser ground
his teeth in helpless discomfort.
“I'm right,” he said doggedly, “but
I'm a brute; I wish you would forgive
me.”
She turned from him, unable to speak.
He wanted to follow her, to comfort her ;
to say, as one does to a child or a woman,
“Never mind,” — but he dared not.
“I'm sorry I've wounded you,” he
said again miserably; “I hope you will
forgive me?”
“Forgive you ?” she turned and faced
him, the tears on her face ; “I have n't
anything to forgive. Do you suppose I
care how you talk to me ? — if I am right?
oh, if I am right ! ”
248






THE WISDOM
OF FOOLS
BY
MARGARET
DEL AND