12677	----	Proofreading Team [Illustration: "'What is this anyway? A George Cohan comedy?'"] PERSONALITY PLUS SOME EXPERIENCES OF EMMA McCHESNEY AND HER SON, JOCK By EDNA FERBER AUTHOR OF "DAWN O'HARA," "BUTTERED SIDE DOWN," "ROAST BEEF, MEDIUM," ETC. _WITH FIFTEEN ILLUSTRATIONS BY JAMES MONTGOMERY FLAGG_ NEW YORK FREDERICK A. STOKES COMPANY 1914 CONTENTS CHAPTER I. MAKING GOOD WITH MOTHER II. PERSONALITY PLUS III. DICTATED BUT NOT READ IV. THE MAN WITHIN HIM V. THE SELF-STARTER ILLUSTRATIONS "'What is this anyway? A George Cohan comedy?'" _Frontispiece_ "'You're a jealous blond,' he laughed" "He was the concentrated essence of do-it-now" "'Hi! Hold that pose!' called Von Herman" "With a jolt Jock realized she had forgotten all about him" "'Well, raw-thah!' he drawled" "... became in some miraculous way a little boy again" "Jock McChesney began to carry a yellow walking stick down to work" "'Good Lord, Mother! Of course you don't mean it, but--'" "'Greetings!'" "She laid one hand very lightly on his arm and looked up into the sullen, angry young face" "He made straight for the main desk with its battalion of clerks" "'Let's not waste any time,' he said" "He found his mother on the floor ... surrounded by piles of pajamas, socks, shirts and collars" "'Well, you said you wanted somebody to worry about, didn't you?'" PERSONALITY PLUS I MAKING GOOD WITH MOTHER When men began to build cities vertically instead of horizontally there passed from our highways a picturesque figure, and from our language an expressive figure of speech. That oily-tongued, persuasive, soft-stepping stranger in the rusty Prince Albert and the black string tie who had been wont to haunt our back steps and front offices with his carefully wrapped bundle, retreated in bewildered defeat before the clanging blows of steel on steel that meant the erection of the first twenty-story skyscraper. "As slick," we used to say, "as a lightning-rod agent." Of what use his wares on a building whose tower was robed in clouds and which used the chain lightning for a necklace? The Fourth Avenue antique dealer had another curio to add to his collection of andirons, knockers, snuff boxes and warming pans. But even as this quaint figure vanished there sprang up a new and glittering one to take his place. He stood framed in the great plate-glass window of the very building which had brought about the defeat of his predecessor. A miracle of close shaving his face was, and a marvel of immaculateness his linen. Dapper he was, and dressy, albeit inclined to glittering effects and a certain plethory at the back of the neck. Back of him stood shining shapes that reflected his glory in enamel, and brass, and glass. His language was floral, but choice; his talk was of gearings and bearings and cylinders and magnetos; his method differed from that of him who went before as the method of a skilled aëronaut differs from that of the man who goes over Niagara in a barrel. And as he multiplied and spread over the land we coined a new figure of speech. "Smooth!" we chuckled. "As smooth as an automobile salesman." But even as we listened, fascinated by his fluent verbiage there grew within us a certain resentment. Familiarity with his glittering wares bred a contempt of them, so that he fell to speaking of them as necessities instead of luxuries. He juggled figures, and thought nothing of four of them in a row. We looked at our five-thousand-dollar salary, so strangely shrunken and thin now, and even as we looked we saw that the method of the unctuous, anxious stranger had become antiquated in its turn. Then from his ashes emerged a new being. Neither urger nor spellbinder he. The twentieth century was stamped across his brow, and on his lips was ever the word "Service." Silent, courteous, watchful, alert, he listened, while you talked. His method, in turn, made that of the silk-lined salesman sound like the hoarse hoots of the ballyhoo man at a county fair. Blithely he accepted five hundred thousand dollars and gave in return--a promise. And when we would search our soul for a synonym to express all that was low-voiced, and suave, and judicious, and patient, and sure, we began to say, "As alert as an advertising expert." Jock McChesney, looking as fresh and clear-eyed as only twenty-one and a cold shower can make one look, stood in the doorway of his mother's bedroom. His toilette had halted abruptly at the bathrobe stage. One of those bulky garments swathed his slim figure, while over his left arm hung a gray tweed Norfolk coat. From his right hand dangled a pair of trousers, in pattern a modish black-and-white. Jock regarded the gray garment on his arm with moody eyes. "Well, I'd like to know what's the matter with it!" he demanded, a trifle irritably. Emma McChesney, in the act of surveying her back hair in the mirror, paused, hand glass poised half way, to regard her son. "All right," she answered cheerfully. "I'll tell you. It's too young." "Young!" He held it at arm's length and stared at it. "What d'you mean--young?" Emma McChesney came forward, wrapping the folds of her kimono about her. She took the disputed garment in one hand and held it aloft. "I know that you look like a man on a magazine cover in it. But Norfolk suits spell tennis, and seashore, and elegant leisure. And you're going out this morning, Son, to interview business men. You're going to try to impress the advertising world with the fact that it needs your expert services. You walk into a business office in a Norfolk suit, and everybody from the office boy to the president of the company will ask you what your score is." She tossed it back over his arm. "I'll wear the black and white," said Jock resignedly, and turned toward his own room. At his doorway he paused and raised his voice slightly: "For that matter, they're looking for young men. Everybody's young. Why, the biggest men in the advertising game are just kids." He disappeared within his room, still talking. "Look at McQuirk, advertising manager of the Combs Car Company. He's so young he has to disguise himself in bone-trimmed eye-glasses with a black ribbon to get away with it. Look at Hopper, of the Berg, Shriner Company. Pulls down ninety thousand a year, and if he's thirty-five I'll--" "Well, you asked my advice," interrupted his mother's voice with that muffled effect which is caused by a skirt being slipped over the head, "and I gave it. Wear a white duck sailor suit with blue anchors and carry a red tin pail and a shovel, if you want to look young. Only get into it in a jiffy, Son, because breakfast will be ready in ten minutes. I can tell by the way Annie's crashing the cups. So step lively if you want to pay your lovely mother's subway fare." Ten minutes later the slim young figure, in its English-fitting black and white, sat opposite Emma McChesney at the breakfast table and between excited gulps of coffee outlined a meteoric career in his chosen field. And the more he talked and the rosier his figures of speech became, the more silent and thoughtful fell his mother. She wondered if five o'clock would find a droop to the set of those young shoulders; if the springy young legs in their absurdly scant modish trousers would have lost some of their elasticity; if the buoyant step in the flat-heeled shoes would not drag a little. Thirteen years of business experience had taught her to swallow smilingly the bitter pill of rebuff. But this boy was to experience his first dose to-day. She felt again that sensation of almost physical nausea--that sickness of heart and spirit which had come over her when she had met her first sneer and intolerant shrug. It had been her maiden trip on the road for the T.A. Buck Featherloom Petticoat Company. She was secretary of that company now, and moving spirit in its policy. But the wound of that first insult still ached. A word from her would have placed the boy and saved him from curt refusals. She withheld that word. He must fight his fight alone. "I want to write the kind of ad," Jock was saying excitedly, "that you see 'em staring at in the subways, and street cars and L-trains. I want to sit across the aisle and watch their up-turned faces staring at that oblong, and reading it aloud to each other." "Isn't that an awfully obvious necktie you're wearing, Jock?" inquired his mother irrelevantly. "This? You ought to see some of them. This is a Quaker stock in comparison." He glanced down complacently at the vivid-hued silken scarf that the season's mode demanded. Immediately he was off again. "And the first thing you know, Mrs. McChesney, ma'am, we'll have a motor truck backing up at the door once a month and six strong men carrying my salary to the freight elevator in sacks." Emma McChesney buttered her bit of toast, then looked up to remark quietly: "Hadn't you better qualify for the trial heats, Jock, before you jump into the finals?" "Trial heats!" sneered Jock. "They're poky. I want real money. Now! It isn't enough to be just well-to-do in these days. It needs money. I want to be rich! Not just prosperous, but rich! So rich that I can let the bath soap float around in the water without any pricks of conscience. So successful that they'll say, 'And he's a mere boy, too. Imagine!'" And, "Jock dear," Emma McChesney said, "you've still to learn that plans and ambitions are like soap bubbles. The harder you blow and the more you inflate them, the quicker they burst. Plans and ambitions are things to be kept locked away in your heart, Son, with no one but yourself to take an occasional peep at them." Jock leaned over the table, with his charming smile. "You're a jealous blonde," he laughed. "Because I'm going to be a captain of finance--an advertising wizard; you're afraid I'll grab the glory all away from you." [Illustration: "'You're a jealous blond,' he said"] Mrs. McChesney folded her napkin and rose. She looked unbelievably young, and trim, and radiant, to be the mother of this boasting boy. "I'm not afraid," she drawled, a wicked little glint in her blue eyes. "You see, they'll only regard your feats and say, 'H'm, no wonder. He ought to be able to sell ice to an Eskimo. His mother was Emma McChesney.'" And then, being a modern mother, she donned smart autumn hat and tailored suit coat and stood ready to reach her office by nine-thirty. But because she was as motherly as she was modern she swung open the door between kitchen and dining-room to advise with Annie, the adept. "Lamb chops to-night, eh, Annie? And sweet potatoes. Jock loves 'em. And corn au gratin and some head lettuce." She glanced toward Jock in the hallway, then lowered her voice. "Annie," she teased, "just give us one of your peach cobblers, will you? You see he--he's going to be awfully--tired when he gets home." So they went stepping off to work together, mother and son. A mother of twenty-five years before would have watched her son with tear-dimmed eyes from the vine-wreathed porch of a cottage. There was no watching a son from the tenth floor of an up-town apartment house. Besides, she had her work to do. The subway swallowed both of them. Together they jostled and swung their way down-town in the close packed train. At the Twenty-third Street station Jock left her. "You'll have dinner to-night with a full-fledged professional gent," he bragged, in his youth and exuberance and was off down the aisle and out on the platform. Emma McChesney managed to turn in her nine-inch space of train seat so that she watched the slim, buoyant young figure from the window until the train drew away and he was lost in the stairway jam. Just so Rachel had watched the boy Joseph go to meet the Persian caravans in the desert. "Don't let them buffalo you, Jock," Emma had said, just before he left her. "They'll try it. If they give you a broom and tell you to sweep down the back stairs, take it, and sweep, and don't forget the corners. And if, while you're sweeping, you notice that that kind of broom isn't suited to the stairs go in and suggest a new kind. They'll like it." Brooms and back stairways had no place in Jock McChesney's mind as the mahogany and gold elevator shot him up to the fourteenth floor of the great office building that housed the Berg, Shriner Company. Down the marble hallway he went and into the reception room. A cruel test it was, that reception room, with the cruelty peculiar to the modern in business. With its soft-shaded lamp, its two-toned rug, its Jacobean chairs, its magazine-laden cathedral oak table, its pot of bright flowers making a smart touch of color in the somber richness of the room, it was no place for the shabby, the down-and-out, the cringing, the rusty, or the mendicant. Jock McChesney, from the tips of his twelve-dollar shoes to his radiant face, took the test and stood it triumphantly. He had entered with an air in which was mingled the briskness of assurance with the languor of ease. There were times when Jock McChesney was every inch the son of his mother. There advanced toward Jock a large, plump, dignified personage, a personage courteous, yet reserved, inquiring, yet not offensively curious--a very Machiavelli of reception-room ushers. Even while his lips questioned, his eyes appraised clothes, character, conduct. "Mr. Hupp, please," said Jock, serene in the perfection of his shirt, tie, collar and scarf pin, upon which the appraising eye now rested. "Mr. McChesney." He produced a card. "Appointment?" "No--but he'll see me." But Machiavelli had seen too many overconfident callers. Their very confidence had taught him caution. "If you will please state your--ah--business--" Jock smiled a little patient smile and brushed an imaginary fleck of dust from the sleeve of his very correct coat. "I want to ask him for a job as office boy," he jibed. An answering grin overspread the fat features of the usher. Even an usher likes his little joke. The sense of humor dies hard. "I have a letter from him, asking me to call," said Jock, to clinch it. "This way." The keeper of the door led Jock toward the sacred inner portal and held it open. "Mr. Hupp's is the last door to the right." The door closed behind him. Jock found himself in the big, busy, light-flooded central office. Down either side of the great room ran a row of tiny private offices, each partitioned off, each outfitted with desk, and chairs, and a big, bright window. On his way to the last door at the right Jock glanced into each tiny office, glimpsing busy men bent absorbedly over papers, girls busy with dictation, here and there a door revealing two men, or three, deep in discussion of a problem, heads close together, voices low, faces earnest. It came suddenly to the smartly modish, overconfident boy walking the length of the long room that the last person needed in this marvelously perfected and smooth-running organization was a somewhat awed young man named Jock McChesney. There came to him that strange sensation which comes to every job-hunter; that feeling of having his spiritual legs carry him out of the room, past the door, down the hall and into the street, even as, in reality, they bore him on to the very presence which he dreaded and yet wished to see. Two steps more, and he stood in the last doorway, right. No matinee idol, nervously awaiting his cue in the wings, could have planned his entrance more carefully than Jock had planned this. Ease was the thing; ease, bordering on nonchalance, mixed with a brisk and businesslike assurance. The entrance was lost on the man at the desk. He did not even look up. If Jock had entered on all-fours, doing a double tango to vocal accompaniment, it is doubtful if the man at the desk would have looked up. Pencil between his fingers, head held a trifle to one side in critical contemplation of the work before him, eyes narrowed judicially, lips pursed, he was the concentrated essence of do-it-now. [Illustration: "He was the concentrated essence of do-it-now"] Jock waited a moment, in silence. The man at the desk worked on. His head was semi-bald. Jock knew him to be thirty. Jock fixed his eye on the semi-bald spot and spoke. "My name's McChesney," he began. "I wrote you three days ago; you probably will remember. You replied, asking me to call, and I--" "Minute," exploded the man at the desk, still absorbed. Jock faltered, stopped. The man at the desk did not look up. A moment of silence, except for the sound of the busy pencil traveling across the paper. Jock, glaring at the semi-bald spot, spoke again. "Of course, Mr. Hupp, if you're too busy to see me--" "M-m-m-m," a preoccupied hum, such as a busy man makes when he is trying to give attention to two interests. "--why I suppose there's no sense in staying; but it seems to me that common courtesy--" The busy pencil paused, quivered in the making of a final period, enclosed the dot in a proofreader's circle, and rolled away across the desk, its work done. "Now," said Sam Hupp, and swung around, smiling, to face the affronted Jock. "I had to get that out. They're waiting for it." He pressed a desk button. "What can I do for you? Sit down, sit down." There was a certain abrupt geniality about him. His tortoise-rimmed glasses gave him an oddly owlish look, like a small boy taking liberties with grandfather's spectacles. Jock found himself sitting down, his anger slipping from him. "My name's McChesney," he began. "I'm here because I want to work for this concern." He braced himself to present the convincing, reason-why arguments with which he had prepared himself. Whereupon Sam Hupp, the brisk, proceeded to whisk his breath and arguments away with an unexpected: "All right. What do you want to do?" Jock's mouth fell open. "Do!" he stammered. "Do! Why--anything--" Sam Hupp's quick eye swept over the slim, attractive, radiant, correctly-garbed young figure before him. Unconsciously he rubbed his bald spot with a rueful hand. "Know anything about writing, or advertising?" Jock was at ease immediately. "Quite a lot; yes. I practically rewrote the Gridiron play that we gave last year, and I was assistant advertising manager of the college publications for two years. That gives a fellow a pretty broad knowledge of advertising." "Oh, Lord!" groaned Sam Hupp, and covered his eyes with his hand, as if in pain. Jock stared. The affronted feeling was returning. Sam Hupp recovered himself and smiled a little wistfully. "McChesney, when I came up here twelve years ago I got a job as reception-room usher. A reception-room usher is an office boy in long pants. Sometimes, when I'm optimistic, I think that if I live twelve years longer I'll begin to know something about the rudiments of this game." "Oh, of course," began Jock, apologetically. But Hupp's glance was over his head. Involuntarily Jock turned to follow the direction of his eyes. "Busy?" said a voice from the doorway. "Come in, Dutch! Come in!" boomed Hupp. The man who entered was of the sort that the boldest might well hesitate to address as "Dutch"--a tall, slim, elegant figure, Van-dyked, bronzed. "McChesney, this is Von Herman, head of our art department." Their hands met in a brief clasp. Von Herman's thoughts were evidently elsewhere. "Just wanted to tell you that that cussed model's skipped out. Gone with a show. Just when I had the whole series blocked out in my mind. He was a wonder. No brains, but a marvel for looks and style. These people want real stuff. Don't know how I'm going to give it to them now." Hupp sat up. "Got to!" he snapped. "Campaign's late, as it is. Can't you get an ordinary man model and fake the Greek god beauty?" "Yes--but it'll look faked. If I could lay my hands on a chap who could wear clothes as if they belonged to him--" Hupp rose. "Here's your man," he cried, with a snap of his fingers. "Clothes! Look at him. He invented 'em. Why, you could photograph him and he'd look like a drawing." Von Herman turned, surprised, incredulous, hopeful, his artist eye brightening at the ease and grace and modishness of the smart, well-knit figure before him. "Me!" exploded Jock, his face suffused with a dull, painful red. "Me! Pose! For a clothing ad!" "Well," Hupp reminded him, "you said you'd do anything." Jock McChesney glared belligerently. Hupp returned the stare with a faint gleam of amusement shining behind the absurd glasses. The amused look changed to surprise as he beheld the glare in Jock's eyes fading. For even as he glared there had come a warning to Jock--a warning sent just in time from that wireless station located in his subconscious mind. A vivid face, full of pride, and hope, and encouragement flashed before him. "Jock," it said, "don't let 'em buffalo you. They'll try it. If they give you a broom and tell you to sweep down the back stairs--" Jock was smiling his charming, boyish smile. "Lead me to your north light," he laughed at Von Herman. "Got any Robert W. Chambers's heroines tucked away there?" Hupp's broad hand came down on his shoulder with a thwack. "That's the spirit, McChesney! That's the--" He stopped, abruptly. "Say, are you related to Mrs. Emma McChesney, of the Featherloom Skirt Company?" "Slightly. She's my one and only mother." "She--you mean--her son! Well I'll be darned!" He held out his hand to Jock. "If you're a real son of your mother I wish you'd just call the office boy as you step down the hall with Von Herman and tell him to bring me a hammer and a couple of spikes. I'd better nail down my desk." "I'll promise not to crowd you for a year or two," grinned Jock from the doorway, and was off with the pleased Von Herman. Past the double row of beehives again, into the elevator, out again, up a narrow iron stairway, into a busy, cluttered, skylighted room. Pictures, posters, photographs hung all about. Some of the pictures Jock recognized as old friends that had gazed familiarly at him from subway trains and street cars and theater programmes. Golf clubs, tennis rackets, walking sticks, billiard cues were stacked up in corners. And yet there was a bare and orderly look about the place. Two silent, shirt-sleeved men were busy at drawing boards. Through a doorway beyond Jock could see others similarly engaged in the next room. On a platform in one corner of the room posed a young man in one of those costumes the coat of which is a mongrel mixture of cutaway and sack. You see them worn by clergymen with unsecular ideas in dress, and by the leader of the counterfeiters' gang in the moving pictures. The pose was that met with in the backs of magazines--the head lifted, eyes fixed on an interesting object unseen, one arm crooked to hold a cane, one foot advanced, the other trailing slightly to give a Fifth Avenue four o'clock air. His face was expressionless. On his head was a sadly unironed silk hat. Von Herman glanced at the drawing tacked to the board of one of the men. "That'll do, Flynn," he said to the model. He glanced again at the drawing. "Bring out the hat a little more, Mack. They won't burnish it if you don't,"--to the artist. Then, turning about, "Where's that girl?" From a far corner, sheltered by long green curtains, stepped a graceful almost childishly slim figure in a bronze-green Norfolk suit and close-fitting hat from beneath which curled a fluff of bright golden hair. Von Herman stared at her. "You're not the girl," he said. "You won't do." "You sent for me," retorted the girl. "I'm Miss Michelin--Gelda Michelin. I posed for you six months ago, but I've been out of town with the show since then." Von Herman, frowning, opened a table drawer, pulled out a card index, ran his long fingers through it and extracted a card. He glanced at it, and then, the frown deepening, read it aloud. "'Michelin, Gelda. Telephone Bryant 4759. Brunette. Medium build. Good neck and eyes. Good figure. Good clothes.'" He glanced up. "Well?" "That's me," said Miss Michelin calmly. "I've got the same telephone number and eyes and neck and clothes. Of course my hair is different and I am thinner, but that's business. I'd like to know what chance a fat girl would have in the chorus these days." Von Herman groaned. "I'll pay you for the time you've waited and for your trouble. Can't use you for these pictures." Then as she left he turned a comically despairing face to the two men at the drawing boards. "What are we going to do? We've got to make a start on these pictures and everything has gone wrong. They want something special. Two figures, young man and woman. Said expressly they didn't want a chicken. No romping curls and none of that eyes and lips fool-girl stuff. This chap's ideal for the man." He pointed to Jock. Jock had been staring, fascinated, at the shaded, zigzag marks which the artist--dark-skinned, velvet-eyed, foreign-looking youth--was making on the sheet of paper before him. He had scarcely glanced up during the entire scene. Now he looked briefly and coolly at Jock. "Where did you get him?" he asked, with the precise enunciation of the foreign-born. "Good figure. And he wears his clothes not like a cab driver, as the others do." "Thanks," drawled Jock, flushing a little. Then, boyish curiosity getting the better of him, "Say, tell me, what in the world are you doing to that drawing?" He of the velvety eyes smiled a twisted little smile. His slim brown fingers never stopped in their work of guiding the pen in its zigzag path. "It is work," he sneered, "to delight the soul of an artist. I am now engaged in the pleasing task of putting the bones in a herringbone suit." But Jock did not smile. Here was another man, he thought, who had been given a broom and told to sweep down the stairway. Von Herman was regarding him almost wistfully. "I hate to let you slip," he said. Then, his face brightening, "By Jove! I wonder if Miss Galt would pose for us if we told her what a fix we were in." He picked up the telephone receiver. "Miss Galt, please," he said. Then, aside, "Of course it's nerve to ask a girl who's earning three thousand a year to leave her desk and come up and pose for--Hello! Miss Galt?" Jock, seated on the edge of the models' platform, was beginning to enjoy himself. Even this end of the advertising business had its interesting side, he thought. Ten minutes later he knew it had. Ten minutes later there appeared Miss Galt. Jock left off swinging his legs from the platform and stood up. Miss Galt was that kind of girl. Smooth black hair parted and coiled low as only an exquisitely shaped head can dare to wear its glory-crown. A face whose expression was sweetly serious in spite of its youth. A girl whose clothes were the sort of clothes that girls ought to wear in offices, and don't. "This is mighty good of you, Miss Galt," began Von Herman. "It's the Kool Komfort Klothes Company's summer campaign stuff. We'll only need you for an hour or so--to get the expression and general outline. Poster stuff, really. Then this young man will pose for the summer union suit pictures." "Don't apologize," said Miss Galt. "We had a hard enough time to get that Kool Komfort account. We don't want to start wrong with the pictures. Besides, I think posing's real fun." Jock thought so too, quite suddenly. Just as suddenly Von Herman remembered the conventions and introduced them. "McChesney?" repeated Miss Galt, crisply. "I know a Mrs. McChesney, of the T.A. Buck--" "My mother," proudly. "Your mother! Then why--" She stopped. "Because," said Jock, "I'm the rawest rooky in the Berg, Shriner Company. And when I begin to realize what I don't know about advertising I'll probably want to plunge off the Palisades." Miss Galt smiled up at him, her clear, frank eyes meeting his. "You'll win," she said. "Even if I lose--I win now," said Jock, suddenly audacious. "Hi! Hold that pose!" called Von Herman, happily. [Illustration: "'Hi! Hold that pose!' called Von Herman"] II PERSONALITY PLUS There are seven stages in the evolution of that individual whose appearance is the signal for a listless "Who-do-you-want-to-see?" from the white-bloused, drab-haired, anæmic little girl who sits in the outer office forever reading last month's magazines. The badge of fear brands the novice. Standing hat in hand, nervous, apprehensive, gulpy, with the elevator door clanging behind him, and the sacred inner door closed before him, he offers up a silent and paradoxical "Thank heaven!" at the office girl's languid "Not in," and dives into the friendly shelter of the next elevator going down. When, at that same message, he can smile, as with a certain grim agreeableness he says, "I'll wait," then has he reached the seventh stage, and taken the orders of the regularly ordained. Jock McChesney had learned to judge an unknown prospective by glancing at his hall rug and stenographer, which marks the fifth stage. He had learned to regard office boys with something less than white-hot hate. He had learned to let the other fellow do the talking. He had learned to condense a written report into twenty-five words. And he had learned that there was as much difference between the profession of advertising as he had thought of it and advertising as it really was, as there is between a steam calliope and a cathedral pipe organ. In the big office of the Berg, Shriner Advertising Company they had begun to chuckle a bit over the McChesney solicitor's reports. Those same reports indicated that young McChesney was beginning to find the key to that maddening jumble of complexities known as human nature. Big Sam Hupp, who was the pet caged copy-writing genius of the place, used even to bring an occasional example of Jock's business badinage into the Old Man's office, and the two would grin in secret. As when they ran thus: _Pepsinale Manufacturing Company_: Mr. Bowser is the kind of gentleman who curses his subordinates in front of the whole office force. Very touchy. Crumpled his advertising manager. Our chance to get at him is when he is in one of his rare good humors. Or: _E.V. Kreiss Company_: Kreiss very difficult to reach. Permanent address seems to be Italy, Egypt, and other foreign ports. Occasionally his instructions come from Palm Beach. At which there rose up before the reader a vision of Kreiss himself--baggy-eyed, cultivated English accent, interested in polo, fast growing contemptuous of things American. Or still another: _Hodge Manufacturing Company:_ Mr. Hodge is a very conservative gentleman. Sits still and lets others do the talking. Has gained quite a reputation for business acumen with this one attribute. Spent $500 last year. Holding his breath preparatory to taking another plunge. It was about the time that Jock McChesney had got over the novelty of paying for his own clothes, and had begun to talk business in a slightly patronizing way to his clever and secretly amused mother, Mrs. Emma McChesney, secretary of the T.A. Buck Featherloom Petticoat Company, that Sam Hupp noticed a rather cocky over-assurance in Jock's attitude toward the world in general. Whereupon he sent for him. On Sam Hupp's broad flat desk stood an array of diminutive jars, and bottles, and tiny pots that would have shamed the toilette table of a musical comedy star's dressing-room. There were rose-tinted salves in white bottles. There were white creams in rose-tinted jars. There were tins of ointment and boxes of fragrant soap. Jock McChesney, entering briskly, eyed the array in some surprise. Then he grinned, and glanced wickedly at Sam Hupp's prematurely bald head. "No use, Mr. Hupp. They say if it's once gone it's gone. Get a toupee." "Shut up!" growled Sam Hupp, good-humoredly. "Stay in this game long enough and you'll be a hairless wonder yourself. Ten years ago the girls used to have to tie their hands or wear mittens to keep from running their white fingers through my waving silken locks. Sit down a minute." Jock reached forward and took up a jar of cream. He frowned in thought. Then: "Thought I recognized this stuff. Mother uses it. I've seen it on the bathroom shelf." "You bet she uses it," retorted Sam Hupp. "What's more, millions of other women will be using it in the next few years. This woman," he pointed to the name on the label, "has hit upon the real thing in toilette flub-dub. She's made a little fortune already, and if she don't look out she'll be rich. They've got quite a plant. When she started she used to put the stuff together herself over the kitchen stove. They say it's made of cottage cheese, stirred smooth and tinted pink. Well, anyway they're nationally known now--or will be when they start to advertise right." "I've seen some of their stuff advertised--somewhere," interrupted Jock, "but I don't remember--" "There you are. You see the head of this concern is a little bit frightened at the way she seems slated to become a lady cold cream magnate. They say she's scared pink for fear somebody will steal her recipes. She has a kid nephew who acts as general manager, and they're both on the job all the time. They say the lady herself looks like the spinster in a b'gosh drama. You can get a boy to look up your train schedule." Train! Schedule! Across Jock McChesney's mind there flashed a vision of himself, alert, confident, brisk, taking the luxurious nine o'clock for Philadelphia. Or, maybe, the Limited to Chicago. Dashing down to the station in a taxi, of course. Strolling down the car aisle to take his place among those other thoroughbreds of commerce--men whose chamois gloves and walking sticks, and talk of golf and baseball and motoring spelled elegant leisure, even as their keen eyes and shrewd faces and low-voiced exchange of such terms as "stocks," and "sales" and "propositions" proclaimed them intent on bagging the day's business. Sam Hupp's next words brought him back to reality with a jerk. "I think you have to change at Buffalo. It gets you to Tonawanda in the morning. Rotten train." "Tonawanda!" repeated Jock. "Now listen, kid." Sam Hupp leaned forward, and his eyes behind their great round black-rimmed glasses were intent on Jock. "I'm not going to try to steer you. You think that advertising is a game. It isn't. There are those who think it's a science. But it isn't that either. It's white magic, that's what it is. And you can't learn it from books, any more than you can master trout fishing from reading 'The Complete Angler.'" He swung about and swept the beauty lotions before him in a little heap at the end of his desk. "Here, take this stuff. And get chummy with it. Eat it, if necessary; learn it somehow." Jock stood up, a little dazed. "But, what!--How?--I mean--" Sam Hupp glanced up at him. "Sending you down there isn't my idea. It's the Old Man's. He's got an idea that you--" He paused and put a detaining hand on Jock McChesney's arm. "Look here. You think I know a little something about advertising, don't you?" "You!" laughed Jock. "You're the guy who put the whitening in the Great White Way. Everybody knows you were the--" "M-m-m, thanks," interrupted Sam Hupp, a little dryly. "Let me tell you something, young 'un. I've got what you might call a thirty-horse-power mind. I keep it running on high all the time, with the muffler cut out, and you can hear me coming for miles. But the Old Man,"--he leaned forward impressively,--"the Old Man, boy, has the eighty-power kind, built like a watch--no smoke, no dripping, and you can't even hear the engine purr. But when he throws her open! Well, he can pass everything on the road. Don't forget that." He turned to his desk again and reached for a stack of papers and cuts. "Good luck to you. If you want any further details you can get 'em from Hayes." He plunged into his work. There arose in Jock McChesney's mind that instinct of the man in his hour of triumph--the desire to tell a woman of his greatness. He paused a second outside Sam Hupp's office, turned, and walked quickly down the length of the great central room. He stopped before a little glass door at the end, tapped lightly, and entered. Grace Galt, copy-writer, looked up, frowning a little. Then she smiled. Miss Galt had a complete layout on the desk before her--scrap books, cuts, copy, magazines. There was a little smudge on the end of her nose. Grace Galt was writing about magnetos. She was writing about magnetos in a way to make you want to drop your customer, or your ironing, or your game, and go downtown and buy that particular kind of magneto at once. Which is the secretest part of the wizardry of advertising copy. To look at Grace Galt you would have thought that she should have been writing about the rose-tinted jars in Jock McChesney's hands instead of about such things as ignition, and insulation, and ball bearings, and induction windings. But it was Grace Galt's gift that she could take just such hard, dry, technical facts and weave them into a story that you followed to the end. She could make you see the romance in condensers and transformers. She had the power that caused the reader to lose himself in the charm of magnetic poles, and ball bearings, and high-tension sparks. "Just dropped in to say good-by," said Jock, very casually. "Going to run up-state to see the Athena Company--toilette specialties, you know. It ought to be a big account." "Athena?" Grace Galt regarded him absently, her mind still on her work. Then her eyes cleared. "You mean at Tonawanda? And they're sending you! Well!" She put out a congratulatory hand. Jock gripped it gratefully. "Not so bad, eh?" he boasted. "Bad!" echoed Grace Galt. Her face became serious. "Do you realize that there are men in this office who have been here for five years, six years, or even more, and who have never been given a chance to do anything but stenography, or perhaps some private secretarying?" "I know it," agreed Jock. But there was no humbleness in his tone. He radiated self-satisfaction. He seemed to grow and expand before her eyes. A little shadow of doubt crept across Grace Galt's expression of friendly interest. "Are you scared," she asked; "just the least bit?" Jock flushed a little. "Well," he confessed ruefully, "I don't mind telling you I am--a little." "Good!" "Good?" "Yes. The head of that concern is a woman. That's one reason why they didn't send me, I suppose. I--I'd like to say something, if you don't mind." "Anything you like," said Jock graciously. "Well, then, don't be afraid of being embarrassed and fussed. If you blush and stammer a little, she'll like it. Play up the coy stuff." "The coy stuff!" echoed Jock. "I hadn't thought much about my attitude toward the--er--the lady,"--a little stiffly. "Well, you'd better," answered Miss Galt crisply. She put out her hand in much the same manner as Sam Hupp had used. "Good luck to you. I'll have to ask you to go now. I'm trying to make this magneto sound like something without which no home is complete, and to make people see that there's as much difference between it and every other magneto as there is between the steam shovels that dug out the Panama Canal and the junk that the French left there--" She stopped. Her eyes took on a far-away look. Her lips were parted slightly. "Why, that's not a bad idea--that last. I'll use that. I'll--" [Illustration: "With a jolt Jock realized she had forgotten all about him"] She began to scribble rapidly on the sheet of paper before her. With a jolt Jock McChesney realized that she had forgotten all about him. He walked quietly to the door, opened it, shut it very quietly, then made for the nearest telephone. He knew one woman he could count on to be proud of him. He gave his number, waited a little eager moment, then: "Featherloom Petticoat Company? Mrs. McChesney." And waited again. Then he smiled. "You needn't sound so official," he laughed; "it's only your son. Listen. I"--he took on an elaborate carelessness of tone--"I've got to take a little jump out of town. On business. Oh, a day or so. Rather important though. I'll have time to run up to the flat and throw a few things into a bag. I'll tell you, I really ought to keep a bag packed down here. In case of emergency, you know. What? It's the Athena Toilette Preparations Company. Well, I should say it is! I'll wire you. You bet. Thanks. My what? Oh, toothbrush. No. Good-by." So it was that at three-ten Jock McChesney took himself, his hopes, his dread, and his smart walrus bag aboard a train that halted and snuffed and backed, and bumped and halted with maddening frequency. But it landed him at last in a little town bearing the characteristics of all American little towns. It was surprisingly full of six-cylinder cars, and five and ten-cent stores, and banks with Doric columns, and paved streets. After he had registered at the hotel, and as he was cleaning up a bit, he passed an amused eye over the bare, ugly, fusty little hotel bedroom. But somehow, as he stood in the middle of the room, a graceful, pleasing figure of youth and confidence, the smile faded. Towel in hand he surveyed the barrenness of it. He stared at the impossible wall paper, at the battered furniture, the worn carpet. He sniffed the stuffy smell of--what was that smell, anyhow?--straw, and matting, and dust, and the ghost-odor of hundreds who had occupied the room before him. It came over him with something of a shock that this same sort of room had been his mother's only home in the ten years she had spent on the road as a traveling saleswoman for the T.A. Buck Featherloom Petticoat Company. This was what she had left in the morning. To this she had come back at night. As he stared ahead of him there rose before him a mental picture of her--the brightness of her, the sunniness, the indomitable energy, and pluck, and courage. With a sudden burst of new determination he wadded the towel into a moist ball, flung it at the washstand, seized hat, coat, and gloves, and was off down the hall. So it was with something of his mother's splendid courage in his heart, but with nothing of her canny knowledge in his head, Jock McChesney fared forth to do battle with the merciless god Business. It was ten-thirty of a brilliant morning just two days later that a buoyant young figure swung into an elevator in the great office building that housed the Berg, Shriner Advertising Company. Just one more grain of buoyant swing and the young man's walk might have been termed a swagger. As it was, his walrus bag just saved him. Stepping out of the lift he walked, as from habit, to the little unlettered door which admitted employes to the big, bright, inner office. But he did not use it. Instead he turned suddenly and walked down the hall to the double door which led into the reception room. He threw out his legs stiffly and came down rather flat-footed, the way George Cohan does when he's pleased with himself in the second act. "Hel-lo, Mack!" he called out jovially. Mack, the usher, so called from his Machiavellian qualities, turned to survey the radiant young figure before him. "Good morning, Mr. McChesney," he made answer smoothly. Mack never forgot himself. His keen eye saw the little halo of self-satisfaction that hovered above Jock McChesney's head. "A successful trip, I see." Jock McChesney laughed a little, pleased, conscious laugh. "Well, raw-thah!" he drawled, and opened the door leading into the main office. He had been loath to lose one crumb of the savor of it. [Illustration: "'Well, raw-thah!' he drawled"] Still smiling, he walked to his own desk, with a nod here and there, dropped his bag, took off coat and hat, selected a cigarette, tapped it smartly, lighted it, and was off down the big room to the little cubby-hole at the other end. But Sam Hupp's plump, keen, good-humored face did not greet him as he entered. The little room was deserted. Frowning, Jock sank into the empty desk chair. He cradled his head in his hands, tilted the chair, pursed his mouth over the slender white cylinder and squinted his eyes up toward the lazy blue spirals of smoke--the very picture of content and satisfaction. Hupp was in attending some conference in the Old Man's office, of course. He wished they'd hurry. The business of the week was being boiled-down there. Those conferences were great cauldrons into which the day's business, or the week's, was dumped, to be boiled, simmered, stirred, skimmed, cooled. Jock had never been privileged to attend one of these meetings. Perhaps by this time next week he might have a spoon in the stirring too-- There came the murmur of voices as a door was opened. The voices came nearer. Then quick footsteps. Jock recognized them. He rose, smiling. Sam Hupp, vibrating electric energy, breezed in. "Oh--hello!" he said, surprised. Jock's smile widened to a grin. "You back?" "Hello, Hupp," he said, coolly. It was the first time that he had omitted the prefix. "You just bet I'm back." There flashed across Sam Hupp's face a curious little look. The next instant it was gone. "Well," said Jock, and took a long breath. "Mr. Berg wants to see you." Hupp plunged into his work. "Me? The Old Man wants to see me?" "Yes," snapped Hupp shortly. Then, in a new tone, "Look here, son. If he says--" He stopped, and turned back to his work again. "If he says what?" "Nothing. Better run along." "What's the hurry? I want to tell you about--" "Better tell him." "Oh, all right," said Jock stiffly. If that was the way they treated a fellow who had turned his first real trick, why, very well. He flung out of the little room and made straight for the Old Man's office. Seated at his great flat table desk, Bartholomew Berg did not look up as Jock entered. This was characteristic of the Old Man. Everything about the chief was deliberate, sure, unhurried. He finished the work in hand as though no other person stood there waiting his pleasure. When at last he raised his massive head he turned his penetrating pale blue eyes full on Jock. Jock was conscious of a little tremor running through him. People were apt to experience that feeling when that steady, unblinking gaze was turned upon them. And yet it was just the clear, unwavering look with which Bartholomew Berg, farmer boy, had been wont to gaze out across the fresh-plowed fields to the horizon beyond which lay the city he dreamed about. "Tell me your side of it," said Bartholomew Berg tersely. "All of it?" Jock's confidence was returning. "Till I stop you." "Well," began Jock. And standing there at the side of the Old Man's desk, his legs wide apart, his face aglow, his hands on his hips, he plunged into his tale. "It started off with a bang from the minute I walked into the office of the plant and met Snyder, the advertising manager. We shook hands and sparked--just like that." He snapped thumb and finger. "What do you think! We belong to the same frat! He's '93. Inside of ten minutes he and I were Si-washing around like mad. He introduced me to his aunt. I told her who I was, and all that. But I didn't start off by talking business. We got along from the jump. They both insisted on showing me through the place. I--well,"--he laughed a little ruefully,--"there's something about being shown through a factory that sort of paralyzes my brain. I always feel that I ought to be asking keen, alert, intelligent questions like the ones Kipling always asks, or the Japs when they're taken through the Stock Yards. But I never can think of any. Well, we didn't talk business much. But I could see that they were interested. They seemed to,"--he faltered and blushed a little,--"to like me, you know. I played golf with Snyder that afternoon and he beat me. Won two balls. The next morning I found there's been a couple of other advertising men there. And while I was talking to Snyder--he was telling me about the time he climbed up and muffled the chapel bell--that fellow Flynn, of the Dowd Agency, came in. Snyder excused himself, and talked to him for--oh, half an hour, perhaps. But that was all. He was back again in no time. After that it looked like plain sailing. We got along wonderfully. When I left I said, 'I expect to know you both better--'" "I guess," interrupted the Old Man slowly, "that you'll know them better all right." He reached out with one broad freckled hand and turned back the page of a desk memorandum. "The Athena account was given to the Dowd Advertising Agency yesterday." It took Jock McChesney one minute--one long, sickening minute--to grasp the full meaning of it all. He stared at the massive figure before him, his mouth ludicrously open, his eyes round, his breath for the moment suspended. Then, in a queer husky voice: "D'you mean--the Dowd--but--they couldn't--" "I mean," said Bartholomew Berg, "that you've scored what the dramatic critics call a personal hit; but that doesn't get the box office anything." "But, Mr. Berg, they said--" "Sit down a minute, boy." He waved one great heavy hand toward a near-by chair. His eyes were not fixed on Jock. They gazed out of the window toward the great white tower toward which hundreds of thousands of eyes were turned daily--the tower, four-faced but faithful. "McChesney, do you know why you fell down on that Athena account?" "Because I'm an idiot," blurted Jock. "Because I'm a double-barreled, corn-fed, hand-picked chump and--" "That's one reason," drawled the Old Man grimly. "But it's not the chief one. The real reason why you didn't land that account was because you're too darned charming." "Charming!" Jock stared. "Just that. Personality's one of the biggest factors in business to-day. But there are some men who are so likable that it actually counts against them. The client he's trying to convince is so taken with him that he actually forgets the business he represents. We say of a man like that that he is personality plus. Personality is like electricity, McChesney. It's got to be tamed to be useful." "But I thought," said Jock, miserably, "that the idea was not to talk business all the time." "You've got it," agreed Berg. "But you must think it all the time. Every minute. It's got to be working away in the back of your head. You know it isn't always the biggest noise that gets the biggest result. The great American hen yields a bigger income than the Steel Trust. Look at Miss Galt. When we have a job that needs a woman's eye do we send her? No. Why? Because she's too blame charming. Too much personality. A man just naturally refuses to talk business to a pretty woman unless she's so smart that--" "My mother," interrupted Jock, suddenly, and then stopped, surprised at himself. "Your mother," said Bartholomew Berg slowly, "is one woman in a million. Don't ever forget that. They don't turn out models like Emma McChesney more than once every blue moon." Jock got to his feet slowly. He felt heavy, old. "I suppose," he began, "that this ends my--my advertising career." "Ends it!" The Old Man stood up and put a heavy hand on the boy's shoulder. "It only begins it. Unless you want to lie down and quit. Do you?" "Quit!" cried Jock McChesney. "Quit! Not on your white space!" "Good!" said Bartholomew Berg, and took Jock McChesney's hand in his own great friendly grasp. An instinct as strong as that which had made him blatant in his hour of triumph now caused him to avoid, in his hour of defeat, the women-folk before whom he would fain be a hero. He avoided Grace Galt all that long, dreary afternoon. He thought wildly of staying down-town for the evening, of putting off the meeting with his mother, of avoiding the dreaded explanations, excuses, confessions. But when he let himself into the flat at five-thirty the place was very quiet, except for Annie, humming in a sort of nasal singsong of content in the kitchen. He flicked on the light in the living-room. A new magazine had come. It lay on the table, its bright cover staring up invitingly. He ran through its pages. By force of habit he turned to the back pages. Ads started back at him--clothing ads, paint ads, motor ads, ads of portable houses, and vacuum cleaners--and toilette preparations. He shut the magazine with a vicious slap. He flicked off the light again, for no reason except that he seemed to like the dusk. In his own bedroom it was very quiet. He turned on the light there, too, then turned it off. He sat down at the edge of his bed. How was it in the stories? Oh, yes! The cub always started out on an impossibly difficult business stunt and came back triumphant, to be made a member of the firm at once. A vision of his own roseate hopes and dreams rose up before him. It grew very dark in the little room, then altogether dark. Then an impudent square of yellow from a light turned on in the apartment next door flung itself on the bedroom floor. Jock stared at it moodily. A key turned in the lock. A door opened and shut. A quick step. Then: "Jock!" A light flashed in the living-room. Jock sat up suddenly. He opened his mouth to answer. There issued from his throat a strange and absurd little croak. "Jock! Home?" "Yes," answered Jock, and straightened up. But before he could flick on his own light his mother stood in the doorway, a tall, straight, buoyant figure. "I got your wire and--Why, dear! In the dark! What--" "Must have fallen asleep, I guess," muttered Jock. Somehow he dreaded to turn on the lights. And then, very quietly, Emma McChesney came in. She found him, there in the dark, as surely as a mother bear finds her cubs in a cave. She sat down beside him at the edge of the bed and put her hand on his shoulder, and brought his head down gently to her breast. And at that the room, which had been a man's room with its pipe, its tobacco jar, its tie rack filled with cravats of fascinating shapes and hues, became all at once a boy's room again, and the man sitting there with straight, strong shoulders and his little air of worldliness became in some miraculous way a little boy again. [Illustration: "... became in some miraculous way a little boy again"] III DICTATED BUT NOT READ About the time that Jock McChesney began to carry a yellow walking-stick down to work each morning his mother noticed a growing tendency on his part to patronize her. Now Mrs. Emma McChesney, successful, capable business woman that she was, could afford to regard her young son's attitude with a quiet and deep amusement. In twelve years Emma McChesney had risen from the humble position of stenographer in the office of the T.A. Buck Featherloom Petticoat Company to the secretaryship of the firm. So when her young son, backed by the profound business knowledge gained in his one year with the Berg, Shriner Advertising Company, hinted gently that her methods and training were archaic, ineffectual, and lacking in those twin condiments known to the twentieth century as pep and ginger, she would listen, eyebrows raised, lower lip caught between her teeth--a trick which gives a distorted expression to the features, calculated to hide any lurking tendency to grin. Besides, though Emma McChesney was forty she looked thirty-two (as business women do), and knew it. Her hard-working life had brought her in contact with people, and things, and events, and had kept her young. [Illustration: "Jock McChesney began to carry a yellow walking-stick down to work"] "Thank fortune!" Mrs. McChesney often said, "that I wasn't cursed with a life of ease. These massage-at-ten-fitting-at-eleven-bridge-at-one women always look such hags at thirty-five." But repetition will ruin the rarest of jokes. As the weeks went on and Jock's attitude persisted, the twinkle in Emma McChesney's eye died. The glow of growing resentment began to burn in its place. Now and then there crept into her eyes a little look of doubt and bewilderment. You sometimes see that same little shocked, dazed expression in the eyes of a woman whose husband has just said, "Isn't that hat too young for you?" Then, one evening, Emma McChesney's resentment flared into open revolt. She had announced that she intended to rise half an hour earlier each morning in order that she might walk a brisk mile or so on her way down-town, before taking the subway. "But won't it tire you too much, Mother?" Jock had asked with maddeningly tender solicitude. His mother's color heightened. Her blue eyes glowed dark. "Look here, Jock! Will you kindly stop this lean-on-me-grandma stuff! To hear you talk one would think I was ready for a wheel chair and gray woolen bedroom slippers." "Why, I didn't mean--I only thought that perhaps overexertion in a woman of your--That is, you need your energy for--" "Don't wallow around in it," snapped Emma McChesney. "You'll only sink in deeper in your efforts to crawl out. I merely want to warn you that if you persist in this pose of tender solicitude for your doddering old mother, I'll--I'll present you with a stepfather a year younger than you. Don't laugh. Perhaps you think I couldn't do it." "Good Lord, Mother! Of course you don't mean it, but--" "Mean it! Cleverer women than I have been driven by their children to marrying bell-boys in self-defense. I warn you!" [Illustration: "'Good Lord, Mother! Of course you don't mean it, but--'"] That stopped it--for a while. Jock ceased to bestow upon his mother judicious advice from the vast storehouse of his own experience. He refrained from breaking out with elaborate advertising schemes whereby the T.A. Buck Featherloom Petticoat Company might grind every other skirt concern to dust. He gave only a startled look when his mother mischievously suggested raspberry as the color for her new autumn suit. Then, quite suddenly, Circumstance caught Emma McChesney in the meshes and, before she had fought her way free, wrought trouble and change upon her. Jock McChesney was seated in the window of his mother's office at noon of a brilliant autumn day. A little impatient frown was forming between his eyes. He wanted his luncheon. He had called around expressly to take his mother out to luncheon--always a festive occasion when taken together. But Mrs. McChesney, seated at her desk, was bent absorbedly over a sheet of paper whereon she was adding up two columns of figures at a time--a trick on which she rather prided herself. She was counting aloud, her mind leaping agilely, thus: "Eleven, twenty-nine, forty-three, sixty, sixty-nine--" Her pencil came down on the desk with a thwack. "SIXTY-NINE!" she repeated in capital letters. She turned around to face Jock. "Sixty-nine!" Her voice bristled with indignation. "Now what do you think of that!" "I think you'd better make it an even seventy, whatever it is you're counting up, and come on out to luncheon. I've an appointment at two-fifteen, you know." "Luncheon!"--she waved the paper in the air--"with this outrage on my mind! Nectar would curdle in my system." Jock rose and strolled lazily over to the desk. "What is it?" He glanced idly at the sheet of paper. "Sixty-nine what?" Mrs. McChesney pressed a buzzer at the side of her desk. "Sixty-nine dollars, that's what! Representing two days' expenses in the six weeks' missionary trip that Fat Ed Meyers just made for us. And in Iowa, too." "When you gave that fellow the job," began Jock hotly, "I told you, and Buck told you, that--" Mrs. McChesney interrupted wearily. "Yes, I know. You'll never have a grander chance to say 'I told you so.' I hired him because he was out of a job and we needed a man who knew the Middle-Western trade, and then because--well, poor fellow, he begged so and promised to keep straight. As though I oughtn't to know that a pinochle-and-poker traveling man can never be anything but a pinochle-and-poker traveling man--" The office door opened as there appeared in answer to the buzzer a very alert, very smiling, and very tidy office girl. Emma McChesney had tried office boys, and found them wanting. "Tell Mr. Meyers I want to see him." "Just going out to lunch,"--she turned like a race horse trembling to be off,--"putting on his overcoat in the front office. Shall I--" "Catch him." "Listen here," began Jock uncomfortably; "if you're going to call him perhaps I'd better vanish." "To save Ed Meyers's tender feelings! You don't know him. Fat Ed Meyers could be courtmartialed, tried, convicted, and publicly disgraced, with his epaulets torn off, and his sword broken, and likely as not he'd stoop down, pick up a splinter of steel to use as a toothpick, and Castlewalk down the aisle to the tune with which they were drumming him out of the regiment. Stay right here. Meyers's explanation ought to be at least amusing, if not educating." In the corridor outside could be heard some one blithely humming in the throaty tenor of the fat man. The humming ceased with a last high note as the door opened and there entered Fat Ed Meyers, rosy, cherubic, smiling, his huge frame looming mountainous in the rippling folds of a loose-hung London plaid topcoat. "Greetings!" boomed this cheery vision, raising one hand, palm outward, in mystic salute. He beamed upon the frowning Jock. "How's the infant prodigy!" The fact that Jock's frown deepened to a scowl ruffled him not at all. "And what," went on he, crossing his feet and leaning negligently against Mrs. McChesney's desk, "and what can I do for thee, fair lady?" [Illustration: "'Greetings!'"] "For me?" said Emma McChesney, looking up at him through narrowed eyelids. "I'll tell you what. You can explain to me, in what they call a few well-chosen words, just how you, or any other living creature, could manage to turn in an expense account like that on a six-weeks' missionary trip through the Middle West." "Dear lady,"--in the bland tones that one uses to an unreasonable child,--"you will need no explanation if you will just remember to lay the stress on the word missionary. I went forth through the Middle West to spread the light among the benighted skirt trade. This wasn't a selling trip, dear lady. It was a buying expedition. And I had to buy, didn't I? all the way from Michigan to Indiana." He smiled down at her, calm, self-assured, impudent. A little flush grew in Emma McChesney's cheeks. "I've always said," she began, crisply, "that one could pretty well judge a man's character, temperament, morals, and physical make-up by just glancing at his expense account. The trouble with you is that you haven't learned the art of spending money wisely. It isn't always the man with the largest expense sheet that gets the most business. And it isn't the man who leaves the greatest number of circles on the table top in his hotel room, either." She paused a moment. Ed Meyers's smile had lost some of its heartiness. "Mr. Buck's out of town, as you know. He'll be back next week. He wasn't in favor of--" "Now, Mrs. McChesney," interrupted Ed Meyers nervously, "you know there's always one live one in every firm, just like there's always one star in every family. You're the--" "I'm the one who wants to know how you could spend sixty-nine dollars for two days' incidentals in Iowa. Iowa! Why, look here, Ed Meyers, I made Iowa for ten years when I was on the road. You know that. And you know, and I know, that in order to spend sixty-nine dollars for incidentals in two days in Iowa you have to call out the militia." "Not when you're trying to win the love of every skirt buyer from Sioux City to Des Moines." Emma McChesney rose impatiently. "Oh, that's nonsense! You don't need to do that these days. Those are old-fashioned methods. They're out of date. They--" At that a little sound came from Jock. Emma heard it, glanced at him, turned away again in confusion. "I was foolish enough in the first place to give you this job for old times' sake," she continued hurriedly. Fat Ed Meyers' face drooped dolefully. He cocked his round head on one side fatuously. "For old times' sake," he repeated, with tremulous pathos, and heaved a gusty sigh. "Which goes to show that I need a guardian," finished Emma McChesney cruelly. "The only old times that I can remember are when I was selling Featherlooms, and you were out for the Sans-Silk Skirt Company, both covering the same territory, and both running a year-around race to see which could beat the other at his own game. The only difference was that I always played fair, while you played low-down whenever you had a chance." "Now, my dear Mrs. McChesney--" "That'll be all," said Emma McChesney, as one whose patience is fast slipping away. "Mr. Buck will see you next week." Then, turning to her son as the door closed on the drooping figure of the erstwhile buoyant Meyers, "Where'll we lunch, Jock?" "Mother," Jock broke out hotly, "why in the name of all that's foolish do you persist in using the methods of Methuselah! People don't sell goods any more by sending out fat old ex-traveling men to jolly up the trade." "Jock," repeated Emma McChesney slowly, "where--shall--we--lunch?" It was a grim little meal, eaten almost in silence. Emma McChesney had made it a rule to use luncheon time as a recess. She played mental tag and hop-scotch, so that, returning to her office refreshed in mind and body, she could attack the afternoon's work with new vigor. And never did she talk or think business. To-day she ate her luncheon with a forced appetite, glanced about with a listlessness far removed from her usual alert interest, and followed Jock's attempts at conversation with a polite effort that was more insulting than downright inattention. "Dessert, Mother?" Jock had to say it twice before she heard. "What? Oh, no--I think not." The waiter hesitated, coughed discreetly, lifted his eyebrows insinuatingly. "The French pastry's particularly nice to-day, madam. If you'd care to try something? Eclair, madam--peach tart--mocha tart--caramel--" Emma McChesney smiled. "It does sound tempting." She glanced at Jock. "And we're wearing our gowns so floppy this year that it makes no difference whether one's fat or not." She turned to the waiter. "I never can tell till I see them. Bring your pastry tray, will you?" Jock McChesney's finger and thumb came together with a snap. He leaned across the table toward his mother, eyes glowing, lips parted and eager. "There! you've proved my point." "Point?" "About advertising. No, don't stop me. Don't you see that what applies to pastry applies to petticoats? You didn't think of French pastry until he suggested it to you--advertised it, really. And then you wanted a picture of them. You wanted to know what they looked like before buying. That's all there is to advertising. Telling people about a thing, making 'em want it, and showing 'em how it will look when they have it. Get me?" Emma McChesney was gazing at Jock with a curious, fascinated stare. It was a blank little look, such as we sometimes wear when the mind is working furiously. If the insinuating waiter, presenting the laden tray for her inspection, was startled by the rapt expression which she turned upon the cunningly wrought wares, he was too much a waiter to show it. A pause. "That one," said Mrs. McChesney, pointing to the least ornate. She ate it, down to the last crumb, in a silence that was pregnant with portent. She put down her fork and sat back. "Jock, you win. I--I suppose I have fallen out of step. Perhaps I've been too busy watching my own feet. T.A. will be back next week. Could your office have an advertising plan roughly sketched by that time?" "Could they!" His tone was exultant. "Watch 'em! Hupp's been crazy to make Featherlooms famous." "But look here, son. I want a hand in that copy. I know Featherlooms better than your Sam Hupp will ever--" Jock shook his head. "They won't stand for that, Mother. It never works. The manufacturer always thinks he can write magic stuff because he knows his own product. But he never can. You see, he knows too much. That's it. No perspective." "We'll see," said Emma McChesney curtly. So it was that ten days later the first important conference in the interests of the Featherloom Petticoat Company's advertising campaign was called. But in those ten days of hurried preparation a little silent tragedy had come about. For the first time in her brave, sunny life Emma McChesney had lost faith in herself. And with such malicious humor does Fate work her will that she chose Sam Hupp's new dictagraph as the instrument with which to prick the bubble of Mrs. McChesney's self-confidence. Sam Hupp, one of the copy-writing marvels of the Berg, Shriner firm, had a trick of forgetting to shut off certain necessary currents when he paused in his dictation to throw in conversational asides. The old and experienced stenographers, had learned to look out for that, and to eliminate from their typewritten letters certain irrelevant and sometimes irreverent asides which Sam Hupp evidently had addressed to his pipe, or the office boy, and not intended for the tube of the all-devouring dictagraph. There was a new and nervous little stenographer in the outer office, and she had not been warned of this. "We think very highly of the plan you suggest," Sam Hupp had said into the dictagraph's mouthpiece. "In fact, in one of your valuable copy suggestions you--" Without changing his tone he glanced over his shoulder at his colleague, Hopper, who was listening and approving. "... Let the old girl think the idea is her own. She's virtually the head of that concern, and they've spoiled her. Successful, and used to being kowtowed to. Doesn't know her notions of copy are ten years behind the advertising game--" And went on with his letter again. After which he left the office to play golf. And the little blond numbskull in the outer office dutifully took down what the instrument had to say, word for word, marked it, "Dictated, but not read," signed neat initials, and with a sigh went on with the rest of her sheaf of letters. Emma McChesney read the letter next morning. She read it down to the end, and then again. The two readings were punctuated with a little gasp, such as we give when an icy douche is suddenly turned upon us. And that was all. A week later an intent little group formed a ragged circle about the big table in the private office of Bartholomew Berg, head of the Berg, Shriner Advertising Company. Bartholomew Berg himself, massive, watchful, taciturn, managing to give an impression of power by his very silence, sat at one side of the long table. Just across from him a sleek-haired stenographer bent over her note book, jotting down every word, that the conference might make business history. Hopper, at one end of the room, studied his shoe heel intently. He was unbelievably boyish looking to command the fabulous salary reported to be his. Advertising men, mentioning his name, pulled a figurative forelock as they did so. Near Mrs. McChesney sat Sam Hupp, he of the lightning brain and the sure-fire copy. Emma McChesney, strangely silent, kept her eyes intent on the faces of the others. T.A. Buck, interested, enthusiastic, but somewhat uncertain, glanced now and then at his silent business partner, found no satisfaction in her set face, and glanced away again. Grace Galt, unbelievably young and pretty to have won a place for herself in that conference of business people, smiled in secret at Jock McChesney's evident struggle to conceal his elation at being present at this, his first staff meeting. The conference had lasted one hour now. In that time Featherloom petticoats had been picked to pieces, bit by bit, from hem to waist-band. Nothing had been left untouched. Every angle had come under the keen vision of the advertising experts--the comfort of the garment, its durability, style, cheapness, service. Which to emphasize? "H--m, novelty campaign, in my opinion," said Hopper, breaking one of his long silences. "There's nothing new in petticoats themselves, you know. You've got to give 'em a new angle." "Yep," agreed Hupp. "Start out with a feature skirt. Might illustrate with one of those freak drawings they're crazy about now--slinky figure, you know, hollow-chested, one foot trailing, and all that. They're crazy, but they do attract attention, no doubt of that." Bartholomew Berg turned his head slowly. "What's your opinion, Mrs. McChesney?" he asked. "I--I'm afraid I haven't any," said Emma McChesney listlessly. T.A. Buck stared at her in dismay and amazement. "How about you, Mr. Buck?" "Why--I--er--of course this advertising game's new to me. I'm really leaving it in your hands. I really thought that Mrs. McChesney's idea was to make a point of the fact that these petticoats were not freak petticoats, but skirts for the everyday women. She gave me what I thought was a splendid argument a week ago." He turned to her helplessly. Mrs. McChesney sat silent. Bartholomew Berg leaned forward a little and smiled one of his rare smiles. "Won't you tell us, Mrs. McChesney? We'd all like to hear what you have to say." Mrs. McChesney looked down at her hands. Then she looked up, and addressed what she had to say straight to Bartholomew Berg. "I--simply didn't want to interfere in this business. I know nothing about it, really. Of course, I do know Featherloom petticoats. I know all about them. It seemed to me that just because the newspapers and magazines were full of pictures showing spectacular creatures in impossible attitudes wearing tango tea skirts, we are apt to forget that those types form only a thin upper crust, and that down beneath there are millions and millions of regular, everyday women doing regular everyday things in regular everyday clothes. Women who wash on Monday, and iron on Tuesday, and bake one-egg cakes, and who have to hurry home to get supper when they go down-town in the afternoon. They're the kind who go to market every morning, and take the baby along in the go-cart, and they're not wearing crêpe de chine tango petticoats to do it in, either. They're wearing skirts with a drawstring in the back, and a label in the band, guaranteed to last one year. Those are the people I'd like to reach, and hold." "Hm!" said Hopper, from his corner, cryptically. Bartholomew Berg looked at Emma McChesney admiringly. "Sounds reasonable and logical," he said. Sam Hupp sat up with a jerk. "It does sound reasonable," he said briskly. "But it isn't. Pardon me, won't you, Mrs. McChesney? But you must realize that this is an extravagant age. The very workingmen's wives have caught the spending fever. The time is past when you can attract people to your goods with the promise of durability and wear. They don't expect goods to wear. They'd resent it if they did. They get tired of an article before it's worn out. They're looking for novelties. They'd rather get two months' wear out of a skirt that's slashed a new way, than a year's wear out of one that looks like the sort that mother used to make." Mrs. McChesney, her cheeks very pink, her eyes very bright, subsided into silence. In silence she sat throughout the rest of the conference. In silence she descended in the elevator with T.A. Buck, and in silence she stepped into his waiting car. T.A. Buck eyed her worriedly. "Well?" he said. Then, as Mrs. McChesney shrugged noncommittal shoulders, "Tell me, how do you feel about it?" Emma McChesney turned to face him, breathing rather quickly. "The last time I felt as I do just now was when Jock was a baby. He took sick, and the doctors were puzzled. They thought it might be something wrong with his spine. They had a consultation--five of them--with the poor little chap on the bed, naked. They wouldn't let me in, so I listened in the hallway, pressed against the door with my face to the crack. They prodded him, and poked him, and worked his little legs and arms, and every time he cried I prayed, and wept, and clawed the door with my fingers, and called them beasts and torturers and begged them to let me in, though I wasn't conscious that I was doing those things--at the time. I didn't know what they were doing to him, though they said it was all for his good, and they were only trying to help him. But I only knew that I wanted to rush in, and grab him up in my arms, and run away with him--run, and run, and run." She stopped, lips trembling, eyes suspiciously bright. "And that's the way I felt in there--this afternoon." T.A. Buck reached up and patted her shoulder. "Don't, old girl! It's going to work out splendidly, I'm sure. After all, those chaps do know best." "They may know best, but they don't know Featherlooms," retorted Emma McChesney. "True. But perhaps what Jock said when he walked with us to the elevator was pretty nearly right. You know he said we were criticising their copy the way a plumber would criticise the Parthenon--so busy finding fault with the lack of drains that we failed to see the beauty of the architecture." "T.A.," said Emma McChesney solemnly, "T.A., we're getting old." "Old! You! I! Ha!" "You may 'Ha!' all you like. But do you know what they thought of us in there? They thought we were a couple of fogies, and they humored us, that's what they did. I'll tell you, T.A., when the time comes for me to give Jock up to some little pink-faced girl I'll do it, and smile if it kills me. But to hand my Featherlooms over to a lot of cold-blooded experts who--well--" she paused, biting her lip. "We'll see, Emma; we'll see." They did see. The Featherloom petticoat campaign was launched with a great splash. It sailed serenely into the sea of national business. Then suddenly something seemed to go wrong with its engines. It began to wobble and showed a decided list to port. Jock, who at the beginning was so puffed with pride that his gold fountain pen threatened to burst the confines of his very modishly tight vest, lost two degrees of pompousness a day, and his attitude toward his unreproachful mother was almost humble. A dozen times a week T.A. Buck would stroll casually into Mrs. McChesney's office. "Think it's going to take hold?" he would ask. "Our men say the dealers have laid in, but the public doesn't seem to be tearing itself limb from limb to get to our stuff." Emma McChesney would smile, and shrug noncommittal shoulders. When it became very painfully apparent that it wasn't "taking hold," T.A. Buck, after asking the same question, now worn and frayed with asking, broke out, crossly: "Well, really, I don't mind the shrug, but I do wish you wouldn't smile. After all, you know, this campaign is costing us money--real money, and large chunks of it. It's very evident that we shouldn't have tried to make a national campaign of this thing." Whereupon Mrs. McChesney's smile grew into a laugh. "Forgive me, T.A. I'm not laughing at you. I'm laughing because--well, I can't tell you why. It's a woman's reason, and you wouldn't think it a reason at all. For that matter, I suppose it isn't, but--Anyway, I've got something to tell you. The fault of this campaign has been the copy. It was perfectly good advertising, but it left the public cold. When they read those ads they might have been impressed with the charm of the garment, but it didn't fill their breasts with any wild longing to possess one. It didn't make the women feel unhappy until they had one of those skirts hanging on the third hook in their closet. The only kind of advertising that is advertising is the kind that makes the reader say, 'I'll have one of those.'" T.A. Buck threw out helpless hands. "What are we going to do about it?" "Do? I've already done it." "Done what?" "Written the kind of copy that I think Featherlooms ought to have. I just took my knowledge of Featherlooms, plus what I knew about human nature, sprinkled in a handful of good humor and sincerity, and they're going to feed it to the public. It's the same recipe that I used to use in selling Featherlooms on the road. It used to go by word of mouth. I don't see why it shouldn't go on paper. It isn't classic advertising. It isn't scientific. It isn't even what they call psychological, I suppose. But it's human. And it's going to reach that great, big, solid, safe, spot-cash mass known as the middle class. Of course my copy may be wrong. It may not go, after all, but--" But it did go. It didn't go with a rush, or a bang. It went slowly, surely, hand over hand, but it went, and it kept on going. And watching it climb and take hold there came back to Emma McChesney's eye the old sparkle, to her step the old buoyancy, to her voice the old delightful ring. And now, when T.A. Buck strolled into her office of a morning, with his, "It's taking hold, Mrs. Mack," she would dimple like a girl as she laughed back at him-- "With a grip that won't let go." "It looks very much as though we were going to be millionaires in our old age, you and I?" went on Buck. Emma McChesney opened her eyes wide. "Old!" she mocked, "Old! You! I! Ha!" IV THE MAN WITHIN HIM They used to do it much more picturesquely. They rode in coats of scarlet, in the crisp, clear morning, to the winding of horns and the baying of hounds, to the thud-thud of hoofs, and the crackle of underbrush. Across fresh-plowed fields they went, crashing through forest paths, leaping ditches, taking fences, scrambling up the inclines, pelting down the hillside, helter-skelter, until, panting, wide-eyed, eager, blood-hungry, the hunt closed in at the death. The scarlet coat has sobered down to the somber gray and the snuffy brown of that unromantic garment known as the business suit. The winding horn is become a goblet, and its notes are the tinkle of ice against glass. The baying of hounds has harshened to the squawk of the motor siren. The fresh-plowed field is a blue print, the forest maze a roll of plans and specifications. Each fence is a business barrier. Every ditch is of a competitor's making, dug craftily so that the clumsy-footed may come a cropper. All the romance is out of it, all the color, all the joy. But two things remain the same: The look in the face of the hunter as he closed in on the fox is the look in the face of him who sees the coveted contract lying ready for the finishing stroke of his pen. And his words are those of the hunter of long ago as, eyes a-gleam, teeth bared, muscles still taut with the tenseness of the chase, he waves the paper high in air and cries, "I've made a killing!" For two years Jock McChesney had watched the field as it swept by in its patient, devious, cruel game of Hunt the Contract. But he had never been in at the death. Those two years had taught him how to ride; to take a fence; to leap a ditch. He had had his awkward bumps, and his clumsy falls. He had lost his way more than once. But he had always groped his way back again, stumblingly, through the dusk. Jock McChesney was the youngest man on the Berg, Shriner Advertising Company's big staff of surprisingly young men. So young that the casual glance did not reveal to you the marks that the strain of those two years had left on his boyish face. But the marks were there. Nature etches with the most delicate of points. She knows the cunning secret of light and shadow. You scarcely realize that she has been at work. A faint line about the mouth, a fairy tracing at the corners of the eyes, a mere vague touch just at the nostrils--and the thing is done. Even Emma McChesney's eyes--those mother-eyes which make the lynx seem a mole--had failed to note the subtle change. Then, suddenly, one night, the lines leaped out at her. They were seated at opposite sides of the book-littered library table in the living-room of the cheerful up-town apartment which was the realization of the nightly dream which Mrs. Emma McChesney had had in her ten years on the road for the T.A. Buck Featherloom Petticoat Company. Jock McChesney's side of the big table was completely covered with the mass of copy-paper, rough sketches, photographs and drawings which make up an advertising lay-out. He was bent over the work, absorbed, intent, his forearms resting on the table. Emma McChesney glanced up from her magazine just as Jock bent forward to reach a scrap of paper that had fluttered away. The lamplight fell full on his face. And Emma McChesney saw. The hand that held the magazine fell to her lap. Her lips were parted slightly. She sat very quietly, her eyes never leaving the face that frowned so intently over the littered table. The room had been very quiet before--Jock busy with his work, his mother interested in her magazine. But this silence was different. There was something electric in it. It was a silence that beats on the brain like a noise. Jock McChesney, bent over his work, heard it, felt it, and, oppressed by it, looked up suddenly. He met those two eyes opposite. "Spooks? Or is it my godlike beauty which holds you thus? Or is my face dirty?" Emma McChesney did not smile. She laid her magazine on the table, face down, and leaned forward, her staring eyes still fixed on her son's face. "Look here, young 'un. Are you working too hard?" "Me? Now? This stuff you mean--?" "No; I mean in the last year. Are they piling it up on you?" Jock laughed a laugh that was nothing less than a failure, so little of real mirth did it contain. "Piling it up! Lord, no! I wish they would. That's the trouble. They don't give me a chance." "A chance! Why, that's not true, son. You've said yourself that there are men who have been in the office three times as long as you have, who never have had the opportunities that they've given you." It was as though she had touched a current that thrilled him to action. He pushed back his chair and stood up, one hand thrust into his pocket, the other passing quickly over his head from brow to nape with a quick, nervous gesture that was new to him. "And why!" he flung out. "Why! Not because they like the way I part my hair. They don't do business that way up there. It's because I've made good, and those other dubs haven't. That's why. They've let me sit in at the game. But they won't let me take any tricks. I've been an apprentice hand for two years now. I'm tired of it. I want to be in on a killing. I want to taste blood. I want a chance at some of the money--real money." Emma McChesney sat back in her chair and surveyed the angry figure before her with quiet, steady eyes. "I might have known that only one thing could bring those lines into your face, son." She paused a moment. "So you want money as badly as all that, do you?" Jock's hand came down with a thwack on the papers before him. "Want it! You just bet I want it." "Do I know her?" asked Emma McChesney quietly. Jock stopped short in his excited pacing up and down the room. "Do you know--Why, I didn't say there--What makes you think that--?" "When a youngster like you, whose greatest worry has been whether Harvard'll hold 'em again this year, with Baxter out, begins to howl about not being appreciated in business, and to wear a late fall line of wrinkles where he has been smooth before, I feel justified in saying, 'Do I know her?'" "Well, it isn't any one--at least, it isn't what you mean you think it is when you say you--" "Careful there! You'll trip. Never you mind what I mean I think it is when I say. Count ten, and then just tell me what you think you mean." Jock passed his hand over his head again with that nervous little gesture. Then he sat down, a little wearily. He stared moodily down at the pile of papers before him: His mother faced him quietly across the table. "Grace Galt's getting twice as much as I am," Jock broke out, with savage suddenness. "The first year I didn't mind. A fellow gets accustomed, these days, to see women breaking into all the professions and getting away with men-size salaries. But her pay check doubles mine--more than doubles it." "It's been my experience," observed Emma McChesney, "that when a firm condescends to pay a woman twice as much as a man, that means she's worth six times as much." A painful red crept into Jock's face. "Maybe. Two years ago that would have sounded reasonable to me. Two years ago, when I walked down Broadway at night, a fifty-foot electric sign at Forty-second was just an electric sign to me. Just part of the town's decoration like the chorus girls, and the midnight theater crowds. Now--well, now every blink of every red and yellow globe is crammed full of meaning. I know the power that advertising has; how it influences our manners, and our morals, and our minds, and our health. It regulates the food we eat, and the clothes we wear, and the books we read, and the entertainment we seek. It's colossal, that's what it is! It's--" "Keep on like that for another two years, sonny, and no business banquet will be complete without you. The next thing you know you'll be addressing the Y.M.C.A. advertising classes on The Young Man in Business." Jock laughed a rueful little laugh. "I didn't mean to make a speech. I was just trying to say that I've served my apprenticeship. It hurts a fellow's pride. You can't hold your head up before a girl when you know her salary's twice yours, and you know that she knows it. Why look at Mrs. Hoffman, who's with the Dowd Agency. Of course she's a wonder, even if her face does look like the fifty-eighth variety. She can write copy that lifts a campaign right out of the humdrum class, and makes it luminous. Her husband works in a bank somewhere. He earns about as much as Mrs. Hoffman pays the least of her department subordinates. And he's so subdued that he side-steps when he walks, and they call him the human jelly-fish." Emma McChesney was regarding her son with a little puzzled frown. Suddenly she reached out and tapped the topmost of the scribbled sheets strewn the length of Jock's side of the table. "What's all this?" Jock tipped back his chair and surveyed the clutter before him. "That," said he, "is what is known on the stage as 'the papers.' And it's the real plot of this piece." "M-m-m--I thought so. Just favor me with a scenario, will you?" Half-grinning, half-serious, Jock stuck his thumbs in the armholes of his waistcoat, and began. "Scene: Offices of the Berg, Shriner Advertising Company. Time, the present. Characters: Jock McChesney, handsome, daring, brilliant--" "Suppose you--er--skip the characters, however fascinating, and get to the action." Jock McChesney brought the tipped chair down on all-fours with a thud, and stood up. The grin was gone. He was as serious as he had been in the midst of his tirade of five minutes before. "All right. Here it is. And don't blame me if it sounds like cheap melodrama. This stuff," and he waved a hand toward the paper-laden table, "is an advertising campaign plan for the Griebler Gum Company, of St. Louis. Oh, don't look impressed. The office hasn't handed me any such commission. I just got the idea like a flash, and I've been working it out for the last two weeks. It worked itself out, almost--the way a really scorching idea does, sometimes. This Griebler has been advertising for years. You know the Griebler gum. But it hasn't been the right sort of advertising. Old Griebler, the original gum man, had fogy notions about advertising, and as long as he lived they had to keep it down. He died a few months ago--you must have read of it. Left a regular mint. Ben Griebler, the oldest son, started right in to clean out the cobwebs. Of course the advertising end of it has come in for its share of the soap and water. He wants to make a clean sweep of it. Every advertising firm in the country has been angling for the contract. It's going to be a real one. Two-thirds of the crowd have submitted plans. And that's just where my kick comes in. The Berg, Shriner Company makes it a rule never to submit advance plans." "Excuse me if I seem a trifle rude," interrupted Mrs. McChesney, "but I'd like to know where you think you've been wronged in this." "Right here!" replied Jock, and he slapped his pocket, "and here," he pointed to his head. "Two spots so vital that they make old Achilles's heel seem armor-plated. Ben Griebler is one of the show-me kind. He wants value received for money expended, and while everybody knows that he has a loving eye on the Berg, Shriner crowd, he won't sign a thing until he knows what he's getting. A firm's record, standing, staff, equipment, mean nothing to him." "But, Jock, I still don't see--" Jock gathered up a sheaf of loose papers and brandished them in the air. "This is where I come in. I've got a plan here that will fetch this Griebler person. Oh, I'm not dreaming. I outlined it for Sam Hupp, and he was crazy about it. Sam Hupp had some sort of plan outlined himself. But he said this made his sound as dry as cigars in Denver. And you know yourself that Sam Hupp's copy is so brilliant that he could sell brewery advertising to a temperance magazine." Emma McChesney stood up. She looked a little impatient, and a trifle puzzled. "But why all this talk! I don't get you. Take your plan to Mr. Berg. If it's what you think it is he'll see it quicker than any other human being, and he'll probably fall on your neck and invest you in royal robes and give you a mahogany desk all your own." "Oh, what's the good!" retorted Jock disgustedly. "This Griebler has an appointment at the office to-morrow. He'll be closeted with the Old Man. They'll call in Hupp. But never a plan will they reveal. It's against their code of ethics. Ethics! I'm sick of the word. I suppose you'd say I'm lucky to be associated with a firm like that, and I suppose I am. But I wish in the name of all the gods of Business that they weren't so bloomin' conservative. Ethics! They're all balled up in 'em, like Henry James in his style." Emma McChesney came over from her side of the table and stood very close to her son. She laid one hand very lightly on his arm and looked up into the sullen, angry young face. [Illustration: "She laid one hand very lightly on his arm and looked up into the sullen, angry young face"] "I've seen older men than you are, Jock, and better men, and bigger men, wearing that same look, and for the same reason. Every ambitious man or woman in business wears it at one time or another. Sooner or later, Jock, you'll have your chance at the money end of this game. If you don't care about the thing you call ethics, it'll be sooner. If you do care, it will be later. It rests with you, but it's bound to come, because you've got the stuff in you." "Maybe," replied Jock the cynical. But his face lost some of its sullenness as he looked down at that earnest, vivid countenance up-turned to his. "Maybe. It sounds all right, Mother--in the story books. But I'm not quite solid on it. These days it isn't so much what you've got in you that counts as what you can bring out. I know the young man's slogan used to be 'Work and Wait,' or something pretty like that. But these days they've boiled it down to one word--'Produce'!" "The marvel of it is that there aren't more of 'em," observed Emma McChesney sadly. "More what?" "More lines. Here,"--she touched his forehead,--"and here,"--she touched his eyes. "Lines!" Jock swung to face a mirror. "Good! I'm so infernally young-looking that no one takes me seriously. It's darned hard trying to convince people you're a captain of finance when you look like an errand boy." From the center of the room Mrs. McChesney watched the boy as he surveyed himself in the glass. And as she gazed there came a frightened look into her eyes. It was gone in a minute, and in its place came a curious little gleam, half amused, half pugnacious. "Jock McChesney, if I thought that you meant half of what you've said to-night about honor, and ethics, and all that, I'd--" "Spank me, I suppose," said the young six-footer. "No," and all the humor had fled, "I--Jock, I've never said much to you about your father. But I think you know that he was what he was to the day of his death. You were just about eight when I made up my mind that life with him was impossible. I said then--and you were all I had, son--that I'd rather see you dead than to have you turn out to be a son of your father. Don't make me remember that wish, Jock." Two quick steps and his arms were about her. His face was all contrition. "Why--Mother! I didn't mean--You see this is business, and I'm crazy to make good, and it's such a fight--" "Don't I know it?" demanded Emma McChesney. "I guess your mother hasn't been sitting home embroidering lunchcloths these last fifteen years." She lifted her head from the boy's shoulder. "And now, son, considering me, not as your doting mother, but in my business capacity as secretary of the T.A. Buck Featherloom Petticoat Company, suppose you reveal to me the inner workings of this plan of yours. I'd like to know if you really are the advertising wizard that you think you are." So it was that long after Annie's dinner dishes had ceased to clatter in the kitchen; long after she had put her head in at the door to ask, "Aigs 'r cakes for breakfast?" long after those two busy brains should have rested in sleep, the two sat at either side of the light-flooded table, the face of one glowing as he talked, the face of the other sparkling as she listened. And at midnight: "Why, you infant wonder!" exclaimed Emma McChesney. At nine o'clock next morning when Jock McChesney entered the offices of the Berg, Shriner Advertising Company he carried a flat, compact bundle of papers under his arm encased in protecting covers of pasteboard, and further secured by bands of elastic. This he carried to his desk, deposited in a drawer, and locked the drawer. By eleven o'clock the things which he had predicted the night before had come to pass. A plump little man, with a fussy manner and Western clothes had been ushered into Bartholomew Berg's private office. Instinct told him that this was Griebler. Jock left his desk and strolled up to get the switchboard operator's confirmation of his guess. Half an hour later Sam Hupp hustled by and disappeared into the Old Man's sanctum. Jock fingered the upper left-hand drawer of his desk. The maddening blankness of that closed door! If only he could find some excuse for walking into that room--any old excuse, no matter how wild!--just to get a chance at it-- His telephone rang. He picked up the receiver, his eye on the closed door, his thoughts inside that room. "Mr. Berg wants to see you right away," came the voice of the switchboard operator. Something seemed to give way inside--something in the region of his brain--no, his heart--no, his lungs-- "Well, can you beat that!" said Jock McChesney aloud, in a kind of trance of joy. "Can--you--beat--that!" Then he buttoned the lower button of his coat, shrugged his shoulders with an extra wriggle at the collar (the modern hero's method of girding up his loins), and walked calmly into Bartholomew Berg's very private office. In the second that elapsed between the opening and the closing of the door Jock's glance swept the three men--Bartholomew Berg, quiet, inscrutable, seated at his great table-desk; Griebler, lost in the depths of a great leather chair, smoking fussily and twitching with a hundred little restless, irritating gestures; Sam Hupp, standing at the opposite side of the room, hands in pockets, attitude argumentative. "This is Mr. McChesney," said Bartholomew Berg. "Mr. Griebler, McChesney." Jock came forward, smiling that charming smile of his. "Mr. Griebler," he said, extending his hand, "this is a great pleasure." "Hm!" growled Ben Griebler, "I didn't know they picked 'em so young." His voice was a piping falsetto that somehow seemed to match his restless little eyes. Jock thrust his hands hurriedly into his pockets. He felt his face getting scarlet. "They're--ah--using 'em young this year," said Bartholomew Berg. His voice sounded bigger, and smoother, and pleasanter than ever in contrast with that other's shrill tone. "I prefer 'em young, myself. You'll never catch McChesney using 'in the last analysis' to drive home an argument. He has a new idea about every nineteen minutes, and every other one's a good one, and every nineteenth or so's an inspiration." The Old Man laughed one of his low, chuckling laughs. "Hm--that so?" piped Ben Griebler. "Up in my neck of the woods we aren't so long on inspiration. We're just working men, and we wear working clothes--" "Oh, now," protested Berg, his eyes twinkling, "McChesney's necktie and socks and handkerchief may form one lovely, blissful color scheme, but that doesn't signify that his advertising schemes are not just as carefully and artistically blended." Ben Griebler looked shrewdly up at Jock through narrowed lids. "Maybe. I'll talk to you in a minute, young man--that is--" he turned quickly upon Berg--"if that isn't against your crazy principles, too?" "Why, not at all," Bartholomew Berg assured him. "Not at all. You do me an injustice." Griebler moved up closer to the broad table. The two fell into a low-voiced talk. Jock looked rather helplessly around at Sam Hupp. That alert gentleman was signaling him frantically with head and wagging finger. Jock crossed the big room to Hupp's side. The two moved off to a window at the far end. "Give heed to your Unkie," said Sam Hupp, talking very rapidly, very softly, and out of one corner of his mouth. "This Griebler's looking for an advertising manager. He's as pig-headed as a--a--well, as a pig, I suppose. But it's a corking chance, youngster, and the Old Man's just recommended you--strong. Now--" "Me--!" exploded Jock. "Shut up!" hissed Hupp. "Two or three years with that firm would be the making of you--if you made good, of course. And you could. They want to move their factory here from St. Louis within the next few years. Now listen. When he talks to you, you play up the keen, alert stuff with a dash of sophistication, see? If you can keep your mouth shut and throw a kind of a canny, I-get-you, look into your eyes, all the better. He's gabby enough for two. Try a line of talk that is filled with the fire and enthusiasm of youth, combined with the good judgment and experience of middle age, and you've--" "Say, look here," stammered Jock. "Even if I was Warfield enough to do all that, d'you honestly think--me an advertising manager!--with a salary that Griebler--" "You nervy little shrimp, go in and win. He'll pay five thousand if he pays a cent. But he wants value for money expended. Now I've tipped you off. You make your killing--" "Oh, McChesney!" called Bartholomew Berg, glancing round. "Yes, sir!" said Jock, and stood before him in the same moment. "Mr. Griebler is looking for a competent, enthusiastic, hard-working man as advertising manager. I've spoken to him of you. I know what you can do. Mr. Griebler might trust my judgment in this, but--" "I'll trust my own judgment," snapped Ben Griebler. "It's good enough for me." "Very well," returned Bartholomew Berg suavely. "And if you decide to place your advertising future in the hands of the Berg, Shriner Company--" "Now look here," interrupted Ben Griebler again. "I'll tie up with you people when you've shaken something out of your cuffs. I'm not the kind that buys a pig in a poke. We're going to spend money--real money--in this campaign of ours. But I'm not such a come-on as to hand you half a million or so and get a promise in return. I want your plans, and I want 'em in full." A little exclamation broke from Sam Hupp. He checked it, but not before Berg's curiously penetrating pale blue eyes had glanced up at him, and away again. "I've told you, Mr. Griebler," went on Bartholomew Berg's patient voice, "just why the thing you insist on is impossible. This firm does not submit advance copy. Every business commission that comes to us is given all the skill, and thought, and enthusiasm, and careful planning that this office is capable of. You know our record. This is a business of ideas. And ideas are too precious, too perishable, to spread in the market place for all to see." Ben Griebler stood up. His cigar waggled furiously between his lips as he talked. "I know something else that don't stand spreading in the market place, Berg. And that's money. It's too darned perishable, too." He pointed a stubby finger at Jock. "Does this fool rule of yours apply to this young fellow, too?" Bartholomew Berg seemed to grow more patient, more self-contained as the other man's self-control slipped rapidly away. "It goes for every man and woman in this office, Mr. Griebler. This young chap, McChesney here, might spend weeks and months building up a comprehensive advertising plan for you. He'd spend those weeks studying your business from every possible angle. Perhaps it would be a plan that would require a year of waiting before the actual advertising began to appear. And then you might lose faith in the plan. A waiting game is a hard game to play. Some other man's idea, that promised quicker action, might appeal to you. And when it appeared we'd very likely find our own original idea incorporated in--" "Say, look here!" squeaked Ben Griebler, his face dully red. "D'you mean to imply that I'd steal your plan! D'you mean to sit there and tell me to my face--" "Mr. Griebler, I mean that that thing happens constantly in this business. We're almost powerless to stop it. Nothing spreads quicker than a new idea. Compared to it a woman's secret is a sealed book." Ben Griebler removed the cigar from his lips. He was stuttering with anger. With a mingling of despair and boldness Jock saw the advantage of that stuttering moment and seized on it. He stepped close to the broad table-desk, resting both hands on it and leaning forward slightly in his eagerness. "Mr. Berg--I have a plan. Mr. Hupp can tell you. It came to me when I first heard that the Grieblers were going to broaden out. It's a real idea. I'm sure of that. I've worked it out in detail. Mr. Hupp himself said it--Why, I've got the actual copy. And it's new. Absolutely. It never--" "Trot it out!" shouted Ben Griebler. "I'd like to see one idea anyway, around this shop." "McChesney," said Bartholomew Berg, not raising his voice. His eyes rested on Jock with the steady, penetrating gaze that was peculiar to him. More foolhardy men than Jock McChesney had faltered and paused, abashed, under those eyes. "McChesney, your enthusiasm for your work is causing you to forget one thing that must never be forgotten in this office." Jock stepped back. His lower lip was caught between his teeth. At the same moment Ben Griebler snatched up his hat from the table, clapped it on his head at an absurd angle and, bristling like a fighting cock, confronted the three men. "I've got a couple of rules myself," he cried, "and don't you forget it. When you get a little spare time, you look up St. Louis and find out what state it's in. The slogan of that state is my slogan, you bet. If you think I'm going to make you a present of the money that it took my old man fifty years to pile up, then you don't know that Griebler is a German name. Good day, gents." He stalked to the door. There he turned dramatically and leveled a forefinger at Jock. "They've got you roped and tied. But I think you're a comer. If you change your mind, kid, come and see me." The door slammed behind him. "Whew!" whistled Sam Hupp, passing a handkerchief over his bald spot. Bartholomew Berg reached out with one great capable hand and swept toward him a pile of papers. "Oh, well, you can't blame him. Advertising has been a scream for so long. Griebler doesn't know the difference between advertising, publicity, and bunk. He'll learn. But it'll be an awfully expensive course. Now, Hupp, let's go over this Kalamazoo account. That'll be all, McChesney." Jock turned without a word. He walked quickly through the outer office, into the great main room. There he stopped at the switchboard. "Er--Miss Grimes," he said, smiling charmingly. "Where's this Mr. Griebler, of St. Louis, stopping; do you know?" "Say, where would he stop?" retorted the wise Miss Grimes. "Look at him! The Waldorf, of course." "Thanks," said Jock, still smiling. And went back to his desk. At five Jock left the office. Under his arm he carried the flat pasteboard package secured by elastic bands. At five-fifteen he walked swiftly down the famous corridor of the great red stone hotel. The colorful glittering crowd that surged all about him he seemed not to see. He made straight for the main desk with its battalion of clerks. [Illustration: "He made straight for the main desk with its battalion of clerks"] "Mr. Griebler in? Mr. Ben Griebler, St. Louis?" The question set in motion the hotel's elaborate system of investigation. At last: "Not in." "Do you know when he will be in?" That futile question. "Can't say. He left no word. Do you want to leave your name?" "N-no. Would he--does he stop at this desk when he comes in?" He was an unusually urbane hotel clerk. "Why, usually they leave their keys and get their mail from the floor clerk. But Mr. Griebler seems to prefer the main desk." "I'll--wait," said Jock. And seated in one of the great thronelike chairs, he waited. He sat there, slim and boyish, while the laughing, chattering crowd swept all about him. If you sit long enough in that foyer you will learn all there is to learn about life. An amazing sight it is--that crowd. Baraboo helps swell it, and Spokane, and Berlin, and Budapest, and Pekin, and Paris, and Waco, Texas. So varied it is, so cosmopolitan, that if you sit there patiently enough, and watch sharply enough you will even see a chance New Yorker. From door to desk Jock's eyes swept. The afternoon-tea crowd, in paradise feathers, and furs, and frock coats swam back and forth. He saw it give way to the dinner throng, satin-shod, bejeweled, hurrying through its oysters, swallowing unbelievable numbers of cloudy-amber drinks, and golden-brown drinks, and maroon drinks, then gathering up its furs and rushing theaterwards. He was still sitting there when that crowd, its eight o'clock freshness somewhat sullied, its sparkle a trifle dimmed, swept back for more oysters, more cloudy-amber and golden-brown drinks. At half-hour intervals, then at hourly intervals, the figure in the great chair stirred, rose, and walked to the desk. "Has Mr. Griebler come in?" The supper throng, its laugh a little ribald, its talk a shade high-pitched, drifted towards the street, or was wafted up in elevators. The throng thinned to an occasional group. Then these became rarer and rarer. The revolving door admitted one man, or two, perhaps, who lingered not at all in the unaccustomed quiet of the great glittering lobby. The figure of the watcher took on a pathetic droop. The eyelids grew leaden. To open them meant an almost superhuman effort. The stare of the new night clerks grew more and more hostile and suspicious. A grayish pallor had settled down on the boy's face. And those lines of the night before stood out for all to see. In the stillness of the place the big revolving door turned once more, complainingly. For the thousandth time Jock's eyes lifted heavily. Then they flew wide open. The drooping figure straightened electrically. Half a dozen quick steps and Jock stood in the pathway of Ben Griebler who, rather ruffled and untidy, had blown in on the wings of the morning. He stared a moment. "Well, what--" "I've been waiting for you here since five o'clock last evening. It will soon be five o'clock again. Will you let me show you those plans now?" Ben Griebler had surveyed Jock with the stony calm of the out-of-town visitor who is prepared to show surprise at nothing in New York. "There's nothing like getting an early start," said Ben Griebler. "Come on up to my room." Key in hand, he made for the elevator. For an almost imperceptible moment Jock paused. Then, with a little rush, he followed the short, thick-set figure. "I knew you had it in you, McChesney. I said you looked like a comer, didn't I?" Jock said nothing. He was silent while Griebler unlocked his door, turned on the light, fumbled at the windows and shades, picked up the telephone receiver. "What'll you have?" "Nothing." Jock had cleared the center table and was opening his flat bundle of papers. He drew up two chairs. "Let's not waste any time," he said. "I've had a twelve-hour wait for this." He seemed to control the situation. Obediently Ben Griebler hung up the receiver, came over, and took the chair very close to Jock. [Illustration: "'Let's not waste any time,' he said"] "There's nothing artistic about gum," began Jock McChesney; and his manner was that of a man who is sure of himself. "It's a shirt-sleeve product, and it ought to be handled from a shirt-sleeve standpoint. Every gum concern in the country has spent thousands on a 'better-than-candy' campaign before it realized that gum is a candy and drug store article, and that no man is going to push a five-cent package of gum at the sacrifice of the sale of an eighty-cent box of candy. But the health note is there, if only you strike it right. Now, here's my idea--" At six o'clock Ben Griebler, his little shrewd eyes sparkling, his voice more squeakily falsetto than ever, surveyed the youngster before him with a certain awe. "This--this thing will actually sell our stuff in Europe! No gum concern has ever been able to make the stuff go outside of this country. Why, inside of three years every 'Arry and 'Arriet in England'll be chewing it on bank holidays. I don't know about Germany, but--" He pushed back his chair and got up. "Well, I'm solid on that. And what I say goes. Now I'll tell you what I'll do, kid. I'll take you down to St. Louis with me, at a figure that'll make your--" Jock looked up. "Or if you don't want the Berg, Shriner crowd to get wise, I'll fix it this way. I'll go over there this morning and tell 'em I've changed my mind, see? The campaign's theirs, see? Then I refuse to consider any of their suggestions until I see your plan. And when I see it I fall for it like a ton of bricks. Old Berg'll never know. He's so darned high-principled--" Jock McChesney stood up. The little drawn pinched look which had made his face so queerly old was gone. His eyes were bright. His face was flushed. "There! You've said it. I didn't realize how raw this deal was until you put it into words for me. I want to thank you. You're right. Bartholomew Berg is so darned high-principled that two muckers like you and me, groveling around in the dirt, can't even see the tips of the heights to which his ideals have soared. Don't stop me. I know I'm talking like a book. But I feel like something that has just been kicked out into the sunshine after having been in jail." "You're tired," said Ben Griebler. "It's been a strain. Something always snaps after a long tension." Jock's flat palm came down among the papers with a crack. "You bet something snaps! It has just snapped inside me." He began quietly to gather up the papers in an orderly little way. "What's that for?" inquired Griebler, coming forward. "You don't mean--" "I mean that I'm going to go home and square this thing with a lady you've never met. You and she wouldn't get on if you did. You don't talk the same language. Then I'm going to have a cold bath, and a hot breakfast. And then, Griebler, I'm going to take this stuff to Bartholomew Berg and tell him the whole nasty business. He'll see the humor of it. But I don't know whether he'll fire me, or make me vice-president of the company. Now, if you want to come over and talk to him, fair and square, why come." "Ten to one he fires you," remarked Griebler, as Jock reached the door. "There's only one person I know who's game enough to take you up on that. And it's going to take more nerve to face her at six-thirty than it will to tackle a whole battalion of Bartholomew Bergs at nine." "Well, I guess I can get in a three-hour sleep before--er--" "Before what?" said Jock McChesney from the door. Ben Griebler laughed a little shamefaced laugh. "Before I see you at ten, sonny." V THE SELF-STARTER There is nothing in the sound of the shrill little bell to warn us of the import of its message. More's the pity. It may be that bore whose telephone conversation begins: "Well, what do you know to-day?" It may be your lawyer to say you've inherited a million. Hence the arrogance of the instrument. It knows its voice will never wilfully go unanswered so long as the element of chance lies concealed within it. Mrs. Emma McChesney heard the call of her telephone across the hall. Seated in the office of her business partner, T.A. Buck, she was fathoms deep in discussion of the T.A. Buck Featherloom Petticoat Company's new spring line. The buzzer's insistent voice brought her to her feet, even while she frowned at the interruption. "That'll be Baumgartner 'phoning about those silk swatches. Back in a minute," said Emma McChesney and hurried across the hall just in time to break the second call. The perfunctory "Hello! Yes" was followed by a swift change of countenance, a surprised little cry, then,--in quite another tone--"Oh, it's you, Jock! I wasn't expecting ... No, not too busy to talk to you, you young chump! Go on." A moment of silence, while Mrs. McChesney's face smiled and glowed like a girl's as she listened to the voice of her son. Then suddenly glow and smile faded. She grew tense. Her head, that had been leaning so carelessly on the hand that held the receiver, came up with a jerk. "Jock McChesney!" she gasped, "you--why, you don't mean!--" Now, Emma McChesney was not a woman given to jerky conversations, interspersed with exclamation points. Her poise and balance had become a proverb in the business world. Yet her lips were trembling now. Her eyes were very round and bright. Her face had flushed, then grown white. Her voice shook a little. "Yes, of course I am. Only, I'm so surprised. Yes, I'll be home early. Five-thirty at the latest." She hung up the receiver with a little fumbling gesture. Her hand dropped to her lap, then came up to her throat a moment, dropped again. She sat staring straight ahead with eyes that saw one thousand miles away. From his office across the hall T.A. Buck strolled in casually. "Did Baumgartner say he'd--?" He stopped as Mrs. McChesney looked up at him. A quick step forward--"What's the matter, Emma?" "Jock--Jock--" "Jock! What's happened to the boy?" Then, as she still stared at him, her face pitiful, his hand patted her shoulder. "Dear girl, tell me." He bent over her, all solicitude. "Don't!" said Emma McChesney faintly, and shook off his hand. "Your stenographer can see--What will the office think? Please--" "Oh, darn the stenographer! What's this bad news of Jock?" Emma McChesney sat up. She smiled a little nervously and passed her handkerchief across her lips. "I didn't say it was bad, did I? That is, not exactly bad, I suppose." T.A. Buck ran a frenzied hand over his head. "My dear child," with careful politeness, "will you please try to be sane? I find you sitting at your desk, staring into space, your face white as a ghost's, your whole appearance that of a person who has received a death-blow. And then you say, 'Not exactly bad'!" "It's this," explained Emma McChesney in a hollow tone: "The Berg, Shriner Advertising Company has appointed Jock manager of their new Western branch. They're opening offices in Chicago in March." Her lower lip quivered. She caught it sharply between her teeth. For one surprised moment T.A. Buck stared in silence. Then a roar broke from him. "Not exactly bad!" he boomed between laughs. "Not exactly b--Not ex_act_ly, eh?" Then he was off again. Mrs. McChesney surveyed him in hurt and dignified silence. Then--"Well, really, T.A., don't mind me. What you find so exquisitely funny--" "That's the funniest part of it! That you, of all people, shouldn't see the joke. Not exactly bad!" He wiped his eyes. "Why, do you mean to tell me that because your young cub of a son, by a heaven-sent stroke of good fortune, has landed a job that men twice his age would give their eyeteeth to get, I find you sitting at the telephone looking as if he had run off with Annie the cook, or had had a leg cut off!" "I suppose it is funny. Only, the joke's on me. That's why I can't see it. It means that I'm losing him." "That's the first selfish word I've ever heard you utter." "Oh, don't think I'm not happy at his success. Happy! Haven't I hoped for it, and worked for it, and prayed for it! Haven't I saved for it, and skimped for it! How do you think I could have stood those years on the road if I hadn't kept up courage with the thought that it was all for him? Don't I know how narrowly Jock escaped being the wrong kind! I'm his mother, but I'm not quite blind. I know he had the making of a first-class cad. I've seen him start off in the wrong direction a hundred times." "If he has turned out a success, it's because you've steered him right. I've watched you make him over. And now, when his big chance has come, you--" "I don't expect you to understand," interrupted Emma McChesney a little wearily. "I know it sounds crazy and unreasonable. There's only one sort of human being who could understand what I mean. That's a woman with a son." She laughed a little shamefacedly. "I'm talking like the chorus of a minor-wail sob song, but it's the truth." "If you feel like that, Emma, tell him to stay. The boy wouldn't go if he thought it would make you unhappy." "Not go!" cried Emma McChesney sharply. "I'd like to see him dare to refuse it!" "Well then, what in--" began Buck, bewildered. "Don't try to understand it, T.A. It's no use. Don't try to poke your finger into the whirligig they call 'Woman's Sphere.' Its mechanism is too complicated. It's the same quirk that makes women pray for daughters and men for sons. It's the same kink that makes women read the marriage and death notices first in a newspaper. It's the same queer strain that causes a mother to lavish the most love on the weakest, wilfullest child. Perhaps I wouldn't have loved Jock so much if there hadn't been that streak of yellow in him, and if I hadn't had to work so hard to dilute it until now it's only a faint cream color. There ought to be a special prayer for women who are bringing up their sons alone." Buck stirred a little uneasily. "I've never heard you talk like this before." "You probably never will again." She swung round to her desk. T.A. Buck, strolling toward the door, still wore the puzzled look. "I don't know what makes you take this so seriously. Of course, the boy will be a long way off. But then, you've been separated from him before. What's the difference now?" "T.A.," said Emma McChesney solemnly, "Jock will be drawing a man-size salary now. Something tells me I'll be a grandmother in another two years. Girls aren't letting men like Jock run around loose. He'll be gobbled up. Just you wait." "Oh, I don't know," drawled Buck mischievously. "You've just said he's a headstrong young cub. He strikes me as the kind who'd raise the dickens if his three-minute egg happened to be five seconds overtime." Emma McChesney swung around in her chair. "Look here, T.A. As business partners we've quarreled about everything from silk samples to traveling men, and as friends we've wrangled on every subject from weather to war. I've allowed you to criticise my soul theories, and my new spring hat. But understand that I'm the only living person who has the right to villify my son, Jock McChesney." The telephone buzzed a punctuation to this period. "Baumgartner?" inquired Buck humbly. She listened a moment, then, over her shoulder, "Baumgartner,"--grimly, her hand covering the mouthpiece--"and if he thinks that he can work off a lot of last year's silk swatches on--Hello! Yes, Mrs. McChesney talking. Look here, Mr. Baumgartner--" And for the time being Emma McChesney, mother, was relegated to the background, while Emma McChesney, secretary of the T.A. Buck Featherloom Petticoat Company, held the stage. Having said that she would be home at five-thirty. Mrs. McChesney was home at five-thirty, being that kind of a person. Jock came in at six, breathless, bright-eyed, eager, and late, being that kind of a person. He found his mother on the floor before the chiffonier in his bedroom, surrounded by piles of pajamas, socks, shirts and collars. [Illustration: "He found his mother on the floor ... surrounded by piles of pajamas, socks, shirts and collars"] He swooped down upon her from the doorway. "What do you think of your blue-eyed boy! Poor, eh?" Emma McChesney looked up absently. "Jock, these medium-weights of yours didn't wear at all, and you paid five dollars for them." "Medium-weights! What in--" "You've enough silk socks to last you the rest of your natural life. Handkerchiefs, too. But you'll need pajamas." Jock stooped, gathered up an armful of miscellaneous undergarments and tossed them into an open drawer. Then he shut the drawer with a bang, reached over, grasped his mother firmly under the arms and brought her to her feet with a swing. "We will now consider the question of summer underwear ended. Would it bore you too much to touch lightly on the subject of your son's future?" Emma McChesney, tall, straight, handsome, looked up at her son, taller, straighter, handsomer. Then she took him by the coat lapels and hugged him. "You were so bursting with your own glory that I couldn't resist teasing you. Besides, I had to do something to keep my mind off--off--" "Why, Blonde dear, you're not--!" "No, I'm not," gulped Emma McChesney. "Don't flatter yourself, young 'un. Tell me just how it happened. From the beginning." She perched at the side of the bed. Jock, hands in pockets, hair a little rumpled, paced excitedly up and down before her as he talked. "There wasn't any beginning. That's the stunning part of it. I just landed right into the middle of it with both feet. I knew they had been planning to start a big Western branch. But we all thought they'd pick some big man for it. There are plenty of medium-class dubs to be had. The kind that answers the ad: 'Manager wanted, young man, preferably married, able to furnish A-1 reference.' They're as thick as advertising men in Detroit on Monday morning. But we knew that this Western branch was going to be given an equal chance with the New York office. Those big Western advertisers like to give their money to Western firms if they can. So we figured that they'd pick a real top-notcher--even Hopper, or Hupp, maybe--and start out with a bang. So when the Old Man called me into his office this morning I was as unconscious as a babe. Well, you know Berg. He's as unexpected as a summer shower and twice as full of electricity. "'Morning, McChesney!' he said. 'That a New York necktie you're wearing?' "'Strictly,' says I. "'Ever try any Chicago ties?' "'Not from choice. That time my suit case went astray--' "'M-m-m-m, yes.' He drummed his fingers on the table top a couple of times. Then--McChesney, what have you learned about advertising in the last two and a half years?' "I was wise enough as to Bartholomew Berg to know that he didn't mean any cut-and-dried knowledge. He didn't mean rules of the game. He meant tricks. "'Well,' I said, 'I've learned to watch a man's eyes when I'm talking business to him. If the pupils of his eyes dilate he's listening to you, and thinking about what you're saying. When they contract it means that he's only faking interest, even though he's looking straight at you and wearing a rapt expression. His thoughts are miles away.' "'That so?' said Berg, and sort of grinned. 'What else?' "'I've learned that one negative argument is worth six positive ones; that it never pays to knock your competitor; that it's wise to fight shy of that joker known as "editorial coöperation."' "'That so?' said Berg. 'Anything else?' "I made up my mind I could play the game as long as he could. "'I've learned not to lose my temper when I'm in the middle of a white-hot, impassioned business appeal and the office boy bounces in to say to the boss: "Mrs. Jones is waiting. She says you were going to help her pick out wall paper this morning;" and Jones says, "Tell her I'll be there in five minutes."' "'Sure you've learned that?' said Berg. "'Sure,' says I. 'And I've learned to let the other fellow think your argument's his own. He likes it. I've learned that the surest kind of copy is the slow, insidious kind, like the Featherloom Petticoat Company's campaign. That was an ideal campaign because it didn't urge and insist that the public buy Featherlooms. It just eased the idea to them. It started by sketching a history of the petticoat, beginning with Eve's fig leaf and working up. Before they knew it they were interested.' "'That so? That campaign was your mother's idea, McChesney.' You know, Mother, he thinks you're a wonder." "So I am," agreed Emma McChesney calmly. "Go on." "Well, I went on. I told him that I'd learned to stand so that the light wouldn't shine in my client's eyes when I was talking to him. I lost a big order once because the glare from the window irritated the man I was talking to. I told Berg all the tricks I'd learned, and some I hadn't thought of till that minute. Berg put in a word now and then. I thought he was sort of guying me, as he sometimes does--not unkindly, you know, but in that quiet way he has. Finally I stopped for breath, or something, and he said: "'Now let me talk a minute, McChesney. Anybody can teach you the essentials of the advertising business, if you've any advertising instinct in you. But it's what you pick up on the side, by your own efforts and out of your own experience, that lifts you out of the scrub class. Now I don't think you're an ideal advertising man by any means, McChesney. You're shy on training and experience, and you've just begun to acquire that golden quality known as balance. I could name a hundred men that are better all-around advertising men than you will ever be. Those men have advertising ability that glows steadily and evenly, like a well-banked fire. But you've got the kind of ability that flares up, dies down, flares up. But every flare is a real blaze that lights things red while it lasts, and sends a new glow through the veins of business. You've got personality, and youth, and enthusiasm, and a precious spark of the real thing known as advertising genius. There's no describing it. You know what I mean. Also, you know enough about actual advertising not to run an ad for a five-thousand-dollar motor car in the "Police Gazette." All of which leads up to this question: How would you like to buy your neckties in Chicago, McChesney?' "'Chicago!' I blurted. "'We've taken a suite of offices in the new Lakeview Building on Michigan Avenue. Would you like your office done in mahogany or oak?'" Jock came to a full stop before his mother. His cheeks were scarlet. Hers were pale. He was breathing quickly. She was very quiet. His eyes glowed. So did hers, but the glow was dimmed by a mist. "Mahogany's richer, but make it oak, son. It doesn't show finger-marks so." Then, quite suddenly, she stood up, shaking a little, and buried her face in the boy's shoulder. "Why--why, Mother! Don't! Don't, Blonde. We'll see each other every few weeks. I'll be coming to New York to see the sights, like the rest of the rubes, and I suppose the noise and lights will confuse me so that I'll be glad to get back to the sylvan quiet of Chicago. And then you'll run out there, eh? We'll have regular bats, Mrs. Mack. Dinner and the theater and supper! Yes?" "Yes," said Emma McChesney, in muffled tones that totally lacked enthusiasm. "Chicago's really only a suburb of New York, anyway, these days, and--" Emma McChesney's head came up sharply. "Look here, son. If you're going to live in Chicago I advise you to cut that suburb talk, and sort of forget New York. Chicago's quite a village, for an inland settlement, even if it has only two or three million people, and a lake as big as all outdoors. That kind of talk won't elect you to the University Club, son." So they talked, all through supper and during the evening. Rather, Jock talked and his mother listened, interrupting with only an occasional remark when the bubble of the boy's elation seemed to grow too great. Quite suddenly Jock was silent. After the almost incessant rush of conversation quiet settled down strangely on the two seated there in the living-room with its soft-shaded lamps. Jock picked up a magazine, twirled its pages, put it down, strolled into his own room, and back again. "Mother," he said suddenly, standing before her, "there was a time when you were afraid I wasn't going to pan out, wasn't there?" "Not exactly afraid, dear, just a little doubtful, perhaps." Jock smiled a tolerant, forgiving smile. "You see, Mother, you didn't understand, that's all. A woman doesn't. I was all right. A man would have realized that. I don't mean, dear, that you haven't always been wonderful, because you have. But it takes a man to understand a man. When you thought I was going bad on your hands I was just developing, that's all. Remember that time in Chicago, Mother?" "Yes," answered Emma McChesney, "I remember." "Now a man would have understood that that was only kid foolishness. If a fellow's got the stuff in him it'll show up, sooner or later. If I hadn't had it in me I wouldn't be going to Chicago as manager of the Berg, Shriner Western office, would I?" "No, dear." Jock looked at her. In an instant he was all contrition and tenderness. "You're tired. I've talked you to death, haven't I? Lordy, it's midnight! And I want to get down early to-morrow. Conference with Mr. Berg, and Hupp." He tried not to sound too important. Emma McChesney took his head between her two hands and kissed him once on the lips, then, standing a-tiptoe, kissed his eyelids with infinite gentleness as you kiss a baby's eyes. Then she brought his cheek up against hers. And so they stood for a moment, silently. Ten minutes later there came the sound of blithe whistling from Jock's room. Jock always whistled when he went to bed and when he rose. Even these years of living in a New York apartment had not broken him of the habit. It was a cheerful, disconnected whistling, sometimes high and clear, sometimes under the breath, sometimes interspersed with song, and sometimes ceasing altogether at critical moments, say, during shaving, or while bringing the four-in-hand up tight and snug under the collar. It was one of those comfortable little noises that indicate a masculine presence; one of those pleasant, reassuring, man-in-the-house noises that every woman loves. Emma McChesney, putting herself to bed in her room across the hall, found herself listening, brush poised, lips parted, as though to the exquisite strains of celestial music. There came the thump of a shoe on the floor. An interval of quiet. Then another thump. Without having been conscious of it, Emma McChesney had grown to love the noises that accompanied Jock's retiring and rising. His dressing was always signalized by bangings and thumpings. His splashings in the tub were tremendous. His morning plunge could be heard all over the six-room apartment. Mrs. McChesney used to call gayly through the door: "Mercy, Jock! You sound like a school of whales coming up for air." "You'll think I'm a school of sharks when it comes to breakfast," Jock would call back. "Tell Annie to make enough toast, Mum. She's the tightest thing with the toast I ever did--" The rest would be lost in a final surging splash. The noises in the room across the hall had subsided now. She listened more intently. No, a drawer banged. Another. Then: "Hasn't my gray suit come back from the tailor's?" "It was to be sponged, too, you know. He said he'd bring it Wednesday. This is Tuesday." "Oh!" Another bang. Then: '"Night, Mother!" "Good night, dear." Creaking sounds, then a long, comfortable sigh of complete relaxation. Emma McChesney went on with her brushing. She brushed her hair with the usual number of swift even strokes, from the top of the shining head to the waist. She braided her hair into two plaits, Gretchen fashion. Millions of scanty-locked women would have given all they possessed to look as Emma McChesney looked standing there in kimono and gown. She nicked out the light. Then she, too, relaxed upon her pillow with a little sigh. Quiet fell on the little apartment. The street noises came up to her, now roaring, now growing faint. Emma McChesney lay there sleepless. She lay flat, hands clasped across her breast, her braids spread out on the pillow. In the darkness of the room the years rolled before her in panorama: her girlhood, her marriage, her unhappiness, Jock, the divorce, the struggle for work, those ten years on the road. Those ten years on the road! How she had hated them--and loved them. The stuffy trains, the jarring sleepers, the bare little hotel bedrooms, the bad food, the irregular hours, the loneliness, the hard work, the disappointments, the temptations. Yes but the fascination of it, the dear friends she had made, the great human lesson of it all! And all for Jock. That Jock might have good schools, good clothes, good books, good surroundings, happy times. Why, Jock had been the reason for it all! She had swallowed insult because of Jock. She had borne the drudgery because of Jock. She had resisted temptation, smiled under hardship, worked, fought, saved, succeeded, all because of Jock. And now this pivot about which her whole life had revolved was to be pulled up, wrenched away. Over Emma McChesney, lying there in the dark, there swept one of those unreasoning night-fears. The fear of living. The fear of life. A straining of the eyeballs in the dark. The pounding of heart-beats. She sat up in bed. Her hands went to her face. Her cheeks were burning and her eyes smarted. She felt that she must see Jock. At once. Just to be near him. To touch him. To take him in her arms, with his head in the hollow of her breast, as she used to when he was a baby. Why, he had been a baby only yesterday. And now he was a man. Big enough to stand alone, to live alone, to do without her. Emma McChesney flung aside the covers and sprang out of bed. She thrust her feet in slippers, groped for the kimono at the foot of the bed and tiptoed to the door. She listened. No sound from the other room. She stole across the hall, stopped, listened, gained the door. It was open an inch or more. Just to be near him, to know that he lay there, sleeping! She pushed the door very, very gently. Then she stood in the doorway a moment, scarcely breathing, her head thrust forward, her whole body tense with listening. She could not hear him breathe! She caught her breath again in that unreasoning fear and took a quick step forward. "Stop or I'll shoot!" said a voice. Simultaneously the light flashed on. Emma McChesney found herself blinking at a determined young man who was steadily pointing a short, chubby, businesslike looking steel affair in her direction. Then the hand that held the steel dropped. "What is this, anyway?" demanded Jock rather crossly. "A George Cohan comedy?" Emma McChesney leaned against the foot of the bed rather weakly. "What did you think--" "What would you think if you heard some one come sneaking along the hall, stopping, listening, sneaking to your door, and then opening it, and listening again, and sneaking in? What would you think it was? How did I know you were going around making social calls at two o'clock in the morning!" Suddenly Emma McChesney began to laugh. She leaned over the footboard and laughed hysterically, her head in her arms. Jock stared a moment in offended disapproval. Then the humor of it caught him, and he buried his head in his pillow to stifle unseemly shrieks. His legs kicked spasmodically beneath the bedclothes. As suddenly as she had begun to laugh Mrs. McChesney became very sober. "Stop it, Jock! Tell me, why weren't you sleeping?" "I don't know," replied Jock, as suddenly solemn. "I--sort of--began to think, and I couldn't sleep." "What were you thinking of?" Jock looked down at the bedclothes and traced a pattern with one forefinger on the sheet. Then he looked up. "Thinking of you." "Oh!" said Emma McChesney, like a bashful schoolgirl. "Of--me!" Jock sat up very straight and clasped his hands about his knees. "I got to thinking of what I had said about having made good all alone. That's rot. It isn't so. I was striped with yellow like a stick of lemon candy. If I've got this far, it's all because of you. I've been thinking all along that I was the original electric self-starter, when you've really had to get out and crank me every few miles." Into Emma McChesney's face there came a wonderful look. It was the sort of look with which a newly-made angel might receive her crown and harp. It was the look with which a war-hero sees the medal pinned on his breast. It was the look of one who has come into her Reward. Therefore: "What nonsense!" said Emma McChesney. "If you hadn't had it in you, it wouldn't have come out." "It wasn't in me, in the first place," contested Jock stubbornly. "You planted it." From her stand at the foot of the bed she looked at him, her eyes glowing brighter and brighter with that wonderful look. "Now see here,"--severely--"I want you to go to sleep. I don't intend to stand here and dispute about your ethical innards at this hour. I'm going to kiss you again." "Oh, well, if you must," grinned Jock resignedly, and folded her in a bear-hug. To Emma McChesney it seemed that the next three weeks leaped by, not by days, but in one great bound. And the day came when a little, chattering, animated group clustered about the slim young chap who was fumbling with his tickets, glancing at his watch, signaling a porter for his bags, talking, laughing, trying to hide the pangs of departure under a cloak of gayety and badinage that deceived no one. Least of all did it deceive the two women who stood there. The eyes of the older woman never left his face. The eyes of the younger one seldom were raised to his, but she saw his every expression. Once Emma McChesney's eyes shifted a little so as to include both the girl and the boy in her gaze. Grace Galt in her blue serge and smart blue hat was worth a separate glance. Sam Hupp was there, T.A. Buck, Hopper, who was to be with him in Chicago for the first few weeks, three or four of the younger men in the office, frankly envious and heartily congratulatory. They followed him to his train, all laughter and animation. "If this train doesn't go in two minutes," said Jock, "I'll get scared and chuck the whole business. Funny, but I'm not so keen on going as I was three weeks ago." His eyes rested on the girl in the blue serge and the smart hat. Emma McChesney saw that. She saw that his eyes still rested there as he stood on the observation platform when the train pulled out. The sight did not pain her as she thought it would. There was success in every line of him as he stood there, hat in hand. There was assurance in every breath of him. His clothes, his skin, his clear eyes, his slim body, all were as they should be. He had made a place in the world. He was to be a builder of ideas. She thought of him, and of the girl in blue serge, and of their children-to-be. Her breast swelled exultingly. Her head came up. This was her handiwork. She looked at it, and found that it was good. "Let's strike for the afternoon and call it a holiday," suggested Buck. Emma McChesney turned. The train was gone. "T.A., you'll never grow up." "Never want to. Come on, let's play hooky, Emma." "Can't. I've a dozen letters to get out, and Miss Loeb wants to show me that new knicker-bocker design of hers." They drove back to the office almost in silence. Emma McChesney made straight for her desk and began dictating letters with an energy that bordered on fury. At five o'clock she was still working. At five-thirty T.A. Buck came in to find her still surrounded by papers, samples, models. "What is this?" he demanded wrathfully, "an all-night session?" Emma McChesney looked up from her desk. Her face was flushed, her eyes bright, but there was about her an indefinable air of weariness. "T.A., I'm afraid to go home. I'll rattle around in that empty flat like a hickory nut in a barrel." "We'll have dinner down-town and go to the theater." "No use. I'll have to go home sometime." "Now, Emma," remonstrated Buck, "you'll soon get used to it. Think of all the years you got along without him. You were happy, weren't you?" "Happy because I had somebody to work for, somebody to plan for, somebody to worry about. When I think of what that flat will be without him--Why, just to wake up and know that you can say good morning to some one who cares! That's worth living for, isn't it?" "Emma," said T.A. evenly, "do you realize that you are virtually hounding me into asking you to marry me?" "T.A.!" gasped Emma McChesney. "Well, you said you wanted somebody to worry about, didn't you?" [Illustration: "'Well, you said you wanted somebody to worry about, didn't you?'"] A little whimsical smile lay lightly on his lips. "Timothy Buck, I'm over forty years old." "Emma, in another minute I'm going to grow sentimental, and nothing can stop me." She looked down at her hands. There fell a little silence. Buck stirred, leaned forward. She looked up from the little watch that ticked away at her wrist. "The minute's up, T.A.," said Emma McChesney. THE END 
11660	----	ETHEL MORTON'S ENTERPRISE By MABELL S.C. SMITH CONTENTS I HOW IT STARTED II A SNOW MAN AND SEED CATALOGUES III DOROTHY TELLS HER SECRET IV GARDENING ON PAPER V A DEFECT IN THE TITLE VI WILD FLOWERS FOR HELEN'S GARDEN VII COLOR SCHEMES VIII CAVE LIFE IX "NOTHING BUT LEAVES" X THE U.S.C. AND THE COMMUNITY XI THE FLOWER FESTIVAL XII ENOUGH TO GIVE AWAY XIII IN BUSINESS XIV UNCLE DAN'S RESEARCHES XV FUR AND FOSSILS XVI FAIRYLAND XVII THE MISSING HEIRESS CHAPTER I HOW IT STARTED Ethel Morton, called from the color of her eyes Ethel "Blue" to distinguish her from her cousin, also Ethel Morton, whose brown eyes gave her the nickname of Ethel "Brown," was looking out of the window at the big, damp flakes of snow that whirled down as if in a hurry to cover the dull January earth with a gay white carpet. "The giants are surely having a pillow fight this afternoon," she laughed. "In honor of your birthday," returned her cousin. "The snowflakes are really as large as feathers," added Dorothy Smith, another cousin, who had come over to spend the afternoon. All three cousins had birthdays in January. The Mortons always celebrated the birthdays of every member of the family, but since there were three in the same month they usually had one large party and noticed the other days with less ceremony. This year Mrs. Emerson, Ethel Brown's grandmother, had invited the whole United Service Club, to which the girls belonged, to go to New York on a day's expedition. They had ascended the Woolworth Tower, gone through the Natural History Museum, seen the historic Jumel Mansion, lunched at a large hotel and gone to the Hippodrome. Everybody called it a perfectly splendid party, and Ethel Blue and Dorothy were quite willing to consider it as a part of their own birthday observances. Next year it would be Dorothy's turn. This year her party had consisted merely in taking her cousins on an automobile ride. A similar ride had been planned for Ethel Blue's birthday, but the giants had plans of their own and the young people had had to give way to them. Dorothy had come over to spend the afternoon and dine with her cousins, however. She lived just around the corner, so her mother was willing to let her go in spite of the gathering drifts, because Roger, Ethel Brown's older brother, would be able to take her home such a short distance, even if he had to shovel a path all the way. The snow was so beautiful that they had not wanted to do anything all the afternoon but gaze at it. Dicky, Ethel Brown's little brother, who was the "honorary member" of the U.S.C., had come in wanting to be amused, and they had opened the window for an inch and brought in a few of the huge flakes which grew into ferns and starry crystals under the magnifying glass that Mrs. Morton always kept on the desk. "Wouldn't it be fun if our eyeth could thee thingth like that!" exclaimed Dicky, and the girls agreed with him that it would add many marvels to our already marvellous world. "As long as our eyes can't see the wee things I'm glad Aunt Marion taught us to use this glass when we were little," said Ethel Blue who had been brought up with her cousins ever since she was a baby. "Mother says that when she and Uncle Roger and Uncle Richard," said Dorothy, referring to Ethel Brown's and Ethel Blue's fathers, her uncles--"were all young at home together Grandfather Morton used to make them examine some new thing every day and tell him about it. Sometimes it would be the materials a piece of clothing was made of, or the paper of a magazine or a flower--anything that came along." [Illustration: "It looked just as if it were a house with a lot of rooms"] "When I grow up," said Ethel Blue, "I'm going to have a large microscope like the one they have in the biology class in the high school. Helen took me to the class with her one day and the teacher let me look through it. It was perfectly wonderful. There was a slice of the stem of a small plant there and it looked just as if it were a house with a lot of rooms. Each room was a cell, Helen said." "A very suitable name," commented Ethel Brown. "What are you people talking about?" asked Helen, who came in at that instant. "I was telling the girls about that time when I looked through the high school microscope," answered Ethel Blue. [Illustration: Single Cell] [Illustration: Double Cell] "You saw among other things, some cells in the very lowest form of life. A single cell is all there is to the lowest animal or vegetable." [Illustration: Multiple Cells] "What do you mean by a single cell?" "Just a tiny mass of jelly-like stuff that is called protoplasm. The cells grow larger and divide until there are a lot of them. That's the way plants and animals grow." "If each is as small as those I saw under the microscope there must be billions in me!" and Ethel Blue stretched her arms to their widest extent and threw her head upwards as far as her neck would allow. "I guess there are, young woman," and Helen went off to hang her snowy coat where it would dry before she put it in the closet. "There'th a thnow flake that lookth like a plant!" cried Dicky who had slipped open the window wide enough to capture an especially large feather. "It really does!" exclaimed Ethel Blue, who was nearest to her little cousin and caught a glimpse of the picture through the glass before the snow melted. "Did it have 'root, stem and leaves'?" asked Dorothy. "That's what I always was taught made a plant--root, stem and leaves. Would Helen call a cell that you couldn't see a plant?" "Yes," came a faint answer from the hall. "If it's living and isn't an animal it's a vegetable--though way down in the lower forms it's next to impossible to tell one from the other. There isn't any rule that doesn't have an exception." "I should think the biggest difference would be that animals eat plants and plants eat--what do plants eat?" ended Dorothy lamely. "That is the biggest difference," assented Helen. "Plants are fed by water and mineral substances that come from the soil directly, while animals get the mineral stuff by way of the plants." "Father told us once about some plants that caught insects. They eat animals." "And there are animals that eat both vegetables and animals, you and I, for instance. So you can't draw any sharp lines." "When a plant gets out of the cell stage and has a 'root, stem and leaves' then you know it's a plant if you don't before," insisted Dorothy, determined to make her knowledge useful. "Did any of you notice the bean I've been sprouting in my room?" asked Helen. "I'll get it, I'll get it!" shouted Dicky. "Trust Dicky not to let anything escape his notice!" laughed his big sister. Dicky returned in a minute or two carrying very carefully a shallow earthenware dish from which some thick yellow-green tips were sprouting. "I soaked some peas and beans last week," explained Helen, "and when they were tender I planted them. You see they're poking up their heads now." [Illustration: Bean Plant] "They don't look like real leaves," commented Ethel Blue. "This first pair is really the two halves of the bean. They hold the food for the little plant. They're so fat and pudgy that they never do look like real leaves. In other plants where there isn't so much food they become quite like their later brothers." "Isn't it queer that whatever makes the plant grow knows enough to send the leaves up and the roots down," said Dorothy thoughtfully. "That's the way the life principle works," agreed Helen. "This other little plant is a pea and I want you to see if you notice any difference between it and the bean." She pulled up the wee growth very delicately and they all bent over it as it lay in her hand. "It hathn't got fat leaveth," cried Dicky. [Illustration: The Pea Plant] "Good for Dicky," exclaimed Helen. "He has beaten you girls. You see the food in the pea is packed so tight that the pea gets discouraged about trying to send up those first leaves and gives it up as a bad job. They stay underground and do their feeding from there." "A sort of cold storage arrangement," smiled Ethel Brown. "After these peas are a little taller you'd find if you pulled them up that the supply of food had all been used up. There will be nothing down there but a husk." "What happens when this bean plant uses up all its food?" "There's nothing left but a sort of skin that drops off. You can see how it works with the bean because that is done above the ground." "Won't it hurt those plants to pull them up this way?" "It will set them back, but I planted a good many so as to be able to pull them up at different ages and see how they looked." "You pulled that out so gently I don't believe it will be hurt much." "Probably it will take a day or two for it to catch up with its neighbors. It will have to settle its roots again, you see." "What are you doing this planting for?" asked Dorothy. "For the class at school. We get all the different kinds of seeds we can--the ones that are large enough to examine easily with only a magnifying glass like this one. Some we cut open and examine carefully inside to see how the new leaves are to be fed, and then we plant others and watch them grow." "I'd like to know why you never told me about that before?" demanded Ethel Brown. "I'm going to get all the grains and fruits I can right off and plant them. Is all that stuff in a horse chestnut leaf-food?" "The horse chestnut is a hungry one, isn't it?" "I made some bulbs blossom by putting them in a tall glass in a dark place and bringing them into the light when they had started to sprout," said Ethel Blue, "but I think this is more fun. I'm going to plant some, too." "Grandmother Emerson always has beautiful bulbs. She has plenty in her garden that she allows to stay there all winter, and they come up and are scrumptious very early in the Spring. Then she takes some of them into the house and keeps them in the dark, and they blossom all through the cold weather." "Mother likes bulbs, too," said Dorothy, "crocuses and hyacinths and Chinese lilies--but I never cared much about them. Somehow the bulb itself looks too fat. I don't care much for fat things or people." "Don't think of it as fat; it's the food supply." "Well, I think they're greedy things, and I'm not going ever to bother with them. I'll leave them to Mother, but I am really going to plant a garden this summer. I think it will be loads of fun." "We haven't much room for a garden here," said Helen, "but we always have some vegetables and a few flowers." "Why don't we have a fine one this summer, Helen?" demanded Ethel Brown. "You're learning a lot about the way plants grow, I should think you'd like to grow them." "I believe I should if you girls would help me. There never has been any member of the family who was interested, and I wasn't wild about it myself, and I just never got started." "The truth is," confessed Ethel Brown, "if we don't have a good garden Dorothy here will have something that will put ours entirely in the shade." The girls all laughed. They never had known Dorothy until the previous summer. When she came to live in Rosemont in September they had learned that she was extremely energetic and that she never abandoned any plan that she attempted. The Ethels knew, therefore, that if Dorothy was going to have a garden the next summer they'd better have a garden, too, or else they would see little of her. "If we both have gardens Dorothy will condescend to come and see ours once in a while and we can exchange ideas and experiences," continued Ethel Brown. "I'd love to have a garden," said Ethel Blue. "Do you suppose Roger would be willing to dig it up for us?" "Dig up what?" asked Roger, stamping into the house in time to hear his name. The girls told him of their new plan. "I'll help all of you if you'll plant one flower that I like; plant enough of it so that I can pick a lot any time I want to. The trouble with the little garden we've had is that there weren't enough flowers for more than the centrepiece in the dining-room. Whenever I wanted any I always had to go and give a squint at the dining room table and then do some calculation as to whether there could be a stalk or two left after Helen had cut enough for the next day." "And there generally weren't any!" sympathized Helen. "What flower is it you're so crazy over?" asked Ethel Blue. "Sweetpeas, my child. Never in all my life have I had enough sweetpeas." "I've had more than enough," groaned Ethel Brown. "One summer I stayed a fortnight with Grandmother Emerson and I picked the sweetpeas for her every morning. She was very particular about having them picked because they blossom better if they're picked down every day." "It must have taken you an awfully long time; she always has rows and rows of them," said Helen. "I worked a whole hour in the sun every single day! If we have acres of sweetpeas we'll all have to help Roger pick." "I'm willing to," said Ethel Blue. "I'm like Roger, I think they're darling; just like butterflies or something with wings." "We'll have to cast our professional eyes into the garden and decide on the best place for the sweetpeas," said Roger. "They have to be planted early, you know. If we plant them just anywhere they'll be sure to be in the way of something that grows shorter so it will be hidden." "Or grows taller and is a color that fights with them." "It would be hard to find a color that wasn't matched by one sweetpea or another. They seem to be of every combination under the sun." "It's queer, some of the combinations would be perfectly hideous in a dress but they look all right in Nature's dress." "We'll send for some seedsmen's catalogues and order a lot." "I suppose you don't care what else goes into the garden?" asked Helen. "Ladies, I'll do all the digging you want, and plant any old thing you ask me to, if you'll just let me have my sweetpeas," repeated Roger. "A bargain," cried all the girls. "I'll write for some seed catalogues this afternoon," said Helen. "It's so appropriate, when it's snowing like this!" "'Take time by the fetlock,' as one of the girls says in 'Little Women,'" laughed Roger. "If you'll cast your orbs out of the window you'll see that it has almost stopped. Come on out and make a snow man." Every one jumped at the idea, even Helen who laid aside her writing until the evening, and there was a great putting on of heavy coats and overshoes and mittens. CHAPTER II A SNOW MAN AND SEED CATALOGUES The snow was of just the right dampness to make snowballs, and a snow man, after all, is just a succession of snowballs, properly placed. Roger started the one to go at the base by rolling up a ball beside the house and then letting it roll down the bank toward the gate. "See it gather moss!" he cried. "It's just the opposite of a rolling stone, isn't it?" When it stopped it was of goodly size and it was standing in the middle of the little front lawn. "It couldn't have chosen a better location," commended Helen. "We need a statue in the front yard," said Ethel Brown. "This will give a truly artistic air to the whole place," agreed Ethel Blue. "What's the next move?" asked Dorothy, who had not had much experience in this kind of manufacture. "We start over here by the fence and roll another one, smaller than this, to serve as the body," explained Roger. "Come on here and help me; this snow is so heavy it needs an extra pusher already." Dorothy lent her muscles to the task of pushing on the snow man's "torso," as Ethel Blue, who knew something about drawing figures, called it. The Ethels, meanwhile, were making the arms out of small snowballs placed one against the next and slapped hard to make them stick. Helen was rolling a ball for the head and Dicky had disappeared behind the house to hunt for a cane. "Heigho!" Roger called after him. "I saw an old clay pipe stuck behind a beam in the woodshed the other day. See if it's still there and bring it along." Dicky nodded and raised a mittened paw to indicate that he understood his instructions. It required the united efforts of Helen and Roger to set the gentleman's head on his shoulders, and Helen ran in to the cellar to get some bits of coal to make his eyes and mouth. "He hasn't any expression. Let me try to model a nose for the poor lamb!" begged Ethel Blue. "Stick on this arm, Roger, while I sculpture these marble features." By dint of patting and punching and adding a long and narrow lump of snow, one side of the head looked enough different from the other to warrant calling it the face. To make the difference more marked Dorothy broke some straws from the covering of one of the rosebushes and created hair with them. "Now nobody could mistake this being his speaking countenance," decided Helen, sticking two pieces of coal where eyes should be and adding a third for the mouth. Dicky had found the pipe and she thrust it above his lips. "Merely two-lips, not ruby lips," commented Roger. "This is an original fellow; he's 'not like other girls.'" "This cane is going to hold up his right arm; I don't feel so certain about the left," remarked Ethel Brown anxiously. "Let it fall at his side. That's some natural, anyway. He's walking, you see, swinging one arm and with the other on the top of his cane." "He'll take cold if he doesn't have something on his head. I'm nervous about him," and Dorothy bent a worried look at their creation. "Hullo," cried a voice from beyond the gate. "He's bully. Just make him a cap out of this bandanna and he'll look like a Venetian gondolier." James Hancock and his sister, Margaret, the Glen Point members of the United Service Club, came through the gate, congratulated Ethel Blue on her birthday, and paid elaborate compliments to the sculptors of the Gondolier. "That red hanky on his massive brow gives the touch of color he needed," said Margaret. "We don't maintain that his features are 'faultily faultless,'" quoted Roger, "but we do insist that they're 'icily regular.'" "Thanks to the size of the nose Ethel Blue stuck on they're not 'splendidly null.'" "No, there's no 'nullness' about that nose," agreed James. "That's 'some' nose!" When they were all in the house and preparing for dinner Ethel Blue unwrapped the gift that Margaret had brought for her birthday. It was a shallow bowl of dull green pottery in which was growing a grove of thick, shiny leaves. The plants were three or four inches tall and seemed to be in the pink of condition. "This is for the top of your Christmas desk," Margaret explained. "It's perfectly beautiful," exclaimed not only Ethel Blue but all the other girls, while Roger peered over their shoulders to see what it was. "I planted it myself," said Margaret with considerable pride. "Each one is a little grapefruit tree." "Grapefruit? What we have for breakfast? It grows like this?" "Mother has some in a larger bowl and it is really lovely as a centrepiece on the dining room table." "Watch me save grapefruit seeds!" and Ethel Brown ran out of the room to leave an immediate request in the kitchen that no grapefruit seeds should be thrown away when the fruit was being prepared for the table. "When Mr. Morton and I were in Florida last winter," said Mrs. Morton, "they told us that it was not a great number of years ago that grapefruit was planted only because it was a handsome shrub on the lawn. The fruit never was eaten, but was thrown away after it fell from the tree." "Now nobody can get enough of it," smiled Helen. "Mother has a receipt for grapefruit marmalade that is better than the English orange marmalade that is made of both sweet and sour oranges," said Dorothy. "Sometimes the sour oranges are hard to find in the market, but grapefruit seems to have both flavors in itself." "Is it much work?" asked Margaret. "It isn't much work at any one time but it takes several days to get it done." "Why?" "First you have to cut up the fruit, peel and all, into tiny slivers. That's a rather long undertaking and it's hard unless you have a very, very sharp knife." "I've discovered that in preparing them for breakfast." "The fruit are of such different sizes that you have to weigh the result of your paring. To every pound of cut-up fruit add a pint of water and let it stand over night. In the morning pour off that water and fill the kettle again and let it boil until the toughest bit of skin is soft, and then let it stand over night more." "It seems to do an awful lot of resting," remarked Roger. "A sort of 'weary Willie,'" commented James. "When you're ready to go at it again, you weigh it once more and add four times as many pounds of sugar as you have fruit." "You must have to make it in a wash-boiler!" "Not quite as bad as that, but you'll be surprised to find how much three or four grapefruit will make. You boil this together until it is as thick as you like to have your marmalade." "I can recommend Aunt Louise's marmalade," said Ethel Brown. "It's the very best I ever tasted. She taught me to make these grapefruit chips," and she handed about a bonbon dish laden with delicate strips of sugared peel. "Let's have this receipt, too," begged Margaret, as Roger went to answer the telephone. "You can squeeze out the juice and pulp and add a quart of water to a cup of juice, sweeten it and make grapefruit-ade instead of lemonade for a variety. Then take the skins and cut out all the white inside part as well as you can, leaving just the rind." "The next step must be to snip the rind into these long, narrow shavings." "It is, and you put them in cold water and let them come to a boil and boil twenty minutes. Then drain off all the water and add cold water and do it again." "What's the idea of two boilings?" asked James. "I suppose it must be to take all the bitterness out of the skin at the same time that it is getting soft." "Does this have to stand over night?" "Yes, this sits and meditates all night. Then you put it on to boil again in a syrup made of one cup of water and four cups of sugar, and boil it until the bits are all saturated with the sweetness. If you want to eat them right off you roll them now in powdered sugar or confectioner's sugar, but if you aren't in a hurry you put them into a jar and keep the air out and roll them just before you want to serve them." "They certainly are bully good," remarked James, taking several more pieces. "That call was from Tom Watkins," announced Roger, returning from the telephone, and referring to a member of the United Service Club who, with his sister, Della, lived in New York. "O dear, they can't come!" prophesied Ethel Blue. "He says he has just been telephoning to the railroad and they say that all the New Jersey trains are delayed and so Mrs. Watkins thought he'd better not try to bring Della out. She sends her love to you, Ethel Blue, and her best wishes for your birthday and says she's got a present for you that is different from any plant you ever saw in a conservatory." "That's what Margaret's is," laughed Ethel. "Isn't it queer you two girls should give me growing things when we were talking about gardens this afternoon and deciding to have one this summer." "One!" repeated Dorothy. "Don't forget mine. There'll be two." "If Aunt Louise should find a lot and start to build there'd be another," suggested Ethel Brown. "O, let's go into the gardening business," cried Roger. "I've already offered to be the laboring man at the beck and call of these young women all for the small reward of having all the sweetpeas I want to pick." "What we're afraid of is that he won't want to pick them," laughed Ethel Brown. "We're thinking of binding him to do a certain amount of picking every day." "Anyway, the Morton-Smith families are going to have gardens and Helen is going to write for seed catalogues this very night before she seeks her downy couch--she has vowed she will." "Mother has always had a successful garden, she'll be able to give you advice," offered Margaret. "We'll ask it from every one we know, I rather imagine," and Dorothy beamed at the prospect of doing something that had been one of her great desires all her life. The little thicket of grapefruit trees served as the centrepiece of Ethel Blue's dinner table, and every one admired all over again its glossy leaves and sturdy stems. "When spring comes we'll set them out in the garden and see what happens," promised Ethel Blue. "We have grapefruit salad to-night. You must have sent a wireless over to the kitchen," Ethel Brown declared to Margaret. It was a delicious salad, the cubes of the grapefruit being mixed with cubes of apple and of celery, garnished with cherries and served on crisp yellow-green lettuce leaves with French dressing. Ethel Blue always liked to see her Aunt Marion make French dressing at the table, for her white hands moved swiftly and skilfully among the ingredients. Mary brought her a bowl that had been chilled on ice. Into it she poured four tablespoonfuls of olive oil, added a scant half teaspoonful of salt with a dash of red pepper which she stirred until the salt was dissolved. To that combination she added one tablespoonful either of lemon juice or vinegar a drop at a time and stirring constantly so that the oil might take up its sharper neighbor. Dorothy particularly approved her Aunt Marion's manner of putting her salads together. To-night, for instance, she did not have the plates brought in from the kitchen with the salad already upon them. "That always reminds me of a church fair," she declared. She was willing to give herself the trouble of preparing the salad for her family and guests with her own hands. From a bowl of lettuce she selected the choicest leaves for the plate before her; upon these she placed the fruit and celery mixture, dotted the top with a cherry and poured the dressing over all. It was fascinating to watch her, and Margaret wished that her mother served salad that way. The Club was indeed incomplete without the Watkinses, but the members nevertheless were sufficiently amused by several of the "Does"--things to do--that one or another suggested. First they did shadow drawings. The dining table proved to be the most convenient spot for that. They all sat around under the strong electric light. Each had a block of rather heavy paper with a rough surface, and each was given a camel's hair brush, a bottle of ink, some water and a small saucer. From a vase of flowers and leaves and ferns which Mrs. Morton contributed to the game each selected what he wanted to draw. Then, holding his leaf so that the light threw a sharp shadow upon his pad, he quickly painted the shadow with the ink, thinning it with water upon the saucer so that the finished painting showed several shades of gray. "The beauty of this stunt is that a fellow who can't draw at all can turn out almost as good a masterpiece as Ethel Blue here, who has the makings of a real artist," and James gazed at his production with every evidence of satisfaction. As it happened none of them except Ethel Blue could draw at all well, so that the next game had especial difficulties. "All there is to it is to draw something and let us guess what it is," said Ethel Blue. "You haven't given all the rules," corrected Roger. "Ethel Blue makes two dots on a piece of paper--or a short line and a curve--anything she feels like making. Then we copy them and draw something that will include those two marks and she sits up and 'ha-has' and guesses what it is." "I promise not to laugh," said Ethel Blue. "Don't make any such rash promise," urged Helen. "You might do yourself an injury trying not to when you see mine." It was fortunate for Ethel Blue that she was released from the promise, for her guesses went wide of the mark. Ethel Brown made something that she guessed to be a hen, Roger called it a book, Dicky maintained firmly that it was a portrait of himself. The rest gave it up, and they all needed a long argument by the artist to believe that she had meant to draw a pair of candlesticks. "Somebody think of a game where Ethel Brown can do herself justice," cried James, but no one seemed to have any inspiration, so they all went to the fire, where they cracked nuts and told stories. "If you'll write those orders for the seed catalogues I'll post them to-night," James suggested to Helen. "Oh, will you? Margaret and I will write them together." "What's the rush?" demanded Roger. "This is only January." "I know just how the girls feel," sympathized James. "When I make up my mind to do a thing I want to begin right off, and the first step of this new scheme is to get the catalogues hereinbefore mentioned." "We can plan out our back yards any time, I should think," said Dorothy. "Father says that somebody--was it Bacon, Margaret?--says that a man's nature runs always either to herbs or to weeds. Let's start ours running to herbs in the first month of the year and perhaps by the time the herbs appear we'll catch up with them." CHAPTER III DOROTHY TELLS HER SECRET "How queer it is that when you're interested in something you keep seeing and hearing things connected with it!" exclaimed Ethel Blue about a week after her birthday, when Della Watkins came out from town to bring her her belated birthday gift. The present proved to be a slender hillock covered with a silky green growth exquisite in texture and color. "What is it? What is it?" cried Ethel Blue. "We mentioned plants and gardens on my birthday and that very evening Margaret brought me this grapefruit jungle and now you've brought me this. Do tell me exactly what it is." "A cone, child. That's all. A Norway spruce cone. When it is dry its scales are open. I filled them with grass seed and put the cone in a small tumbler so that the lower end might be damp all the time. The dampness makes the scales close and starts the seed to sprouting. This has been growing a few days and the cone is almost hidden." "It's one of the prettiest plants--would you call it a plant or a greenhouse?--I ever saw. Does it have to be a Norway spruce cone?" "O, no. Only they have very regular scales that hold the seed well. I brought you out two more of them and some grass seed and canary seed so you could try it for yourself." "You're a perfect duck," and Ethel gave her friend a hug. "Now let me show you what one of the girls at school gave Ethel Brown." She indicated a strange-looking brown object hanging before the window. "What in the world is it? It looks--yes, it looks like a sweet potato." "That's what it is--a sweet potato with one end cut off and a cage of tape to hold it. You see it's sprouting already, and they say that the vines hang down from it and it looks like a little green hanging basket." "What's the object of cutting off the end?" "Anna--that's Ethel Brown's friend--said that she scooped hers out just a little bit and put a few drops of water inside so that the sun shouldn't dry it too much." "I should think it would grow better in a dark place. Don't you know how Irish potatoes send out those white shoots when they're in the cellar?" "She said she started hers in the cellar and then brought them into the light." "Just like bulbs." "Exactly. Aunt Louise is having great luck with her bulbs now. She had them in the cellar and now she is bringing them out a pot at a time, so she has something new coming forward every few days." "Dorothy doesn't care much for bulbs, but I think it's pretty good fun. You can make them blossom just about when you please by keeping them in the dark or bringing them into the light. I'm going to ask Aunt Louise to give me some of hers when they're finished flowering. She says you can plant them out of doors and next year they'll bloom in the garden." "Mother has some this winter, too. I'll ask her for them after she's through forcing them." "I like them in the garden, too--tulips and hyacinths and daffodils and narcissus and, jonquils. They come so early and give you a feeling that spring really has arrived." "You look as if spring had really arrived in the house here. If there wasn't a little bit of that snow man left in front I shouldn't know it had snowed last week. How in the world did you get all these shrubs to blossom now? They don't seem to realize that it's only January." "That's another thing that's happened since my birthday. Margaret told us about bringing branches of the spring shrubs into the house and making them come out in water, so we've been trying it. She sent over those yellow bells, the Forsythia, and Roger brought in the pussy willows from the brook on the way to Mr. Emerson's." "This thorny red affair is the Japan quince, but I don't recognize these others." "That's because you're a city girl! You'll laugh when I tell you what they are." "They don't look like flowering shrubs to me." "They aren't. They're flowering trees; fruit trees!" "O-o! That really is a peach blossom, then!" "The deep pink is peach, and the delicate pink is apple and the white is plum." "They're perfectly dear. Tell me how you coaxed them out. Surely you didn't just keep them in water in this room?" "We put them in the sunniest window we had, not too near the glass, because it wouldn't do for them to run any chance of getting chilled. They stayed there as long as the sun did, and then we moved them to another warm spot and we were very careful about them at night." "How often do you change the water?" "Every two or three days; and once in a while we spray them to keep the upper part fresh--and there you are. It's _fun_ to watch them come out. Don't want to take some switches back to town with you?" Della did. "They make me think of a scheme that my Aunt Rose is putting into operation. She went round the world year before last," she said, "and she saw in Japan lots of plants growing in earthenware vases hanging against the wall or in a long bamboo cut so that small water bottles might be slipped in. She has some of the very prettiest wall decorations now--a queer looking greeny-brown pottery vase has two or three sprigs of English ivy. Another with orange tints has nasturtiums and another tradescantia." "Are they growing in water?" "The ivy and the tradescantia are, but the nasturtiums and a perfectly darling morning glory have earth. She's growing bulbs in them, too, only she doesn't use plain water or earth, just bulb fibre." "What's that?" "Why, bulbs are such fat creatures that they don't need the outside food they would get from earth; all they want is plenty of water. This fibre stuff holds enough water to keep them damp all the time, and it isn't messy in the house like dirt." "What are you girls talking about?" asked Dorothy, who came in with Ethel Brown at this moment. Both of them were interested in the addition that Della had made to their knowledge of flowers and gardening. "Every day I feel myself drawn into more and more gardening," exclaimed Dorothy. "I've set up a notebook already." "In January!" laughed Della. "January seems to be the time to do your thinking and planning; that's what the people who know tell me." "It seems to be the time for some action," retorted Della, waving her hand at the blossoming branches about the room. "Aren't they wonderful? I always knew you could bring them out quickly in the house after the buds were started out of doors, but these fellows didn't seem to be started at all--and look at them!" "Mother says they've done so well because we've been careful to keep them evenly warm," said Ethel Brown. "Dorothy's got the finest piece of news to tell you. If she doesn't tell you pretty soon I shall come out with it myself!" "O, let her tell her own secret!" remonstrated Blue. "What is it?" You know that sloping piece of ground about a quarter of a mile beyond the Clarks' on the road to Mr. Emerson's?" "You don't mean the field with the brook where Roger got the pussy willows?" "This side of it. There's a lovely view across the meadows on the other side of the road, and the land runs back to some rocks and big trees." "Certainly I know it," assented Ethel Blue. "There's a hillock on it that's the place I've chosen for a house when I grow up and build one." "Well, you can't have it because I've got there first!" "What do you mean? Has Aunt Louise--?" "She has." "How grand! How _grand_! You'll be farther away from us than you are now but it's a dear duck of a spot--" "And it's right on the way to Grandfather Emerson's," added Ethel Brown. "Mother signed the papers this morning and she's going to begin to build as soon as the weather will allow." "With peach trees in blossom now that ought not to be far off," laughed Della, waving her hand again at the blossoms that pleased her so much. "How large a house is she going to build?" asked Ethel Blue. "Not very big. Large enough for her and me and a guest or two and of course Elisabeth and Miss Merriam," referring to a Belgian baby who had been brought to the United Service Club from war-stricken Belgium, and to her caretaker, a charming young woman from the School of Mothercraft. "Will it be made of concrete?" "Yes, and Mother says we may all help a lot in making the plans and in deciding on the decoration and everything." "Isn't she the darling! It will be the next best thing to building a house yourself!" "There will be a garage behind the house." "A garage! Is Aunt Louise going to set up a car?" "Just a small one that she can drive herself. Back of the garage there's plenty of space for a garden and she says she'll turn that over to me. I can do anything I want with it as long as I'll be sure to have enough vegetables for the table and lots of flowers for the house." "O, my; O, my; what fun we'll have," ejaculated Della, who knew that Dorothy could have no pleasure that she would not share equally with the rest of the Club. "I came over now to see if you people didn't want to walk over there and see it." "This minute?" "This minute." "Of course we do--if Della doesn't have to take the train back yet?" "Not for a long time. I'd take a later one anyway; I couldn't wait until the Saturday Club meeting to see it." "How did you know I'd suggest a walk there for the Saturday Club meeting?" "Could you help it?" retorted Della, laughing. They timed themselves so that they might know just how far away from them Dorothy was going to be and they found that it was just about half way to Grandfather Emerson's. As somebody from the Mortons' went there every day, and as the distance was, in reality, not long, they were reassured as to the Smiths being quite out in the country as the change had seemed to them at first. "You won't be able to live in the house this summer, will you?" asked Ethel Blue. "Not until late in the summer or perhaps even later than that. Mother says she isn't in a hurry because she wants the work to be done well." "Then you won't plant the garden this year?" "Indeed I shall. I'm going to plant the new garden and the garden where we are now." "Roger will strike on doing all the digging." "He'll have to have a helper on the new garden, but I'll plant his sweetpeas for him just the same. At the new place I'm going to have a large garden." "Up here on the hill?" The girls were climbing up the ascent that rose sharply from the road. "The house will perch on top of this little hill. Back of it, you see, on top of the ridge, it's quite flat and the garden will be there. I was talking about it with Mr. Emerson this morning--" "Oho, you've called Grandfather into consultation already!" "He's going to be our nearest neighbor on that side. He said that a ridge like this was one of the best places for planting because it has several exposures to the sun and you can find a spot to suit the fancy of about every plant there is." "Your garden will be cut off from the house by the garage. Shall you have another nearer the road?" "Next summer there will have to be planting of trees and shrubs and vines around the house but this year I shall attend to the one up here in the field." "Brrrr! It looks bleak enough now," shivered Ethel Blue. "Let's go up in those woods and see what's there." "Has Aunt Louise bought them?" "No, but she wants to. They don't belong to the same man who owned this piece of land. They belong to the Clarks. She's going to see about it right off, because it looks so attractive and rocky and woodsy." "You'd have the brook, too." "I hope she'll be able to get it. Of course just this piece is awfully pretty, and this is the only place for a house, but the meadow with the brook and the rocks and the woods at the back would be too lovely for words. Why, you'd feel as if you had an estate." The girls laughed at Dorothy's enthusiasm over the small number of acres that were included even in the combined lots of land, but they agreed with her that the additional land offered a variety that was worth working hard to obtain. They made their way up the slope and among the jumble of rocks that looked as if giants had been tossing them about in sport. Small trees grew from between them as they lay heaped in disorder and taller growths stretched skyward from an occasional open space. The brook began in a spring that bubbled clear and cold, from under a slab of rock. Round about it all was covered with moss, still green, though frozen stiff by the snowstorm's chilly blasts. Shrivelled ferns bending over its mouth promised summer beauties. "What a lovely spot!" cried Ethel Blue. "This is where fairies and wood nymphs live when that drift melts. Don't you know this must be a great gathering place for birds? Can't you see them now dipping their beaks into the water and cocking their heads up at the sky afterwards!" and she quoted:-- "Dip, birds, dip Where the ferns lean over, And their crinkled edges drip, Haunt and hover." "Here's the best place yet!" called Dorothy, who had pushed on and was now out of sight. "Where are you?" "Here. See if you can find me," came a muffled answer. "Where do you suppose she went to?" asked Ethel Brown, as they all three straightened themselves, yet saw no sign of Dorothy. "I hope she hasn't fallen down a precipice and been killed!" said Ethel Blue, whose imagination sometimes ran away with her. "More likely she has twisted her ankle," practical Ethel Brown. "She wouldn't sound as gay as that if anything had happened to her," Della reminded them. The cries that kept reaching them were unquestionably cheerful but where they came from was a problem that they did not seem able to solve. It was only when Dorothy poked out her head from behind a rock almost in front of them that they saw the entrance of what looked like a real cave. "It's the best imitation of a cave I ever did see!" the explorer exclaimed. "These rocks have tumbled into just the right position to make the very best house! Come in." Her guests were eager to accept her invitation. There was space enough for all of them and two or three more might easily be accommodated within, while a bit of smooth grass outside the entrance almost added another room, "if you aren't particular about a roof," as Ethel Brown said. "Do you suppose Roger has never found this!" wondered Dorothy. "See, there's room enough for a fireplace with a chimney. You could cook here. You could sleep here. You could _live_ here!" The others laughed at her enthusiasm, but they themselves were just as enthusiastic. The possibilities of spending whole days here in the shade and cool of the trees and rocks and of imagining that they were in the highlands of Scotland left them almost gasping. "Don't you remember when Fitz-James first sees Ellen in the 'Lady of the Lake'?" asked Ethel Blue. "He was separated from his men and found himself in a rocky glen overlooking a lake. The rocks were bigger than these but we can pretend they were just the same," and she recited a few lines from a poem whose story they all knew and loved. "But not a setting beam could glow Within the dark ravines below, Where twined the path in shadow hid, Round many a rocky pyramid." "I remember; he looked at the view a long time and then he blew his horn again to see if he could make any of his men hear him, and Ellen came gliding around a point of land in a skiff. She thought it was her father calling her." "And the stranger went home to their lodge and fell in love with her--O, it's awfully romantic. I must read it again," and Dorothy gazed at the rocks around her as if she were really in Scotland. "Has anybody a knife?" asked Della's clear voice, bringing them all sharply back to America and Rosemont. "My aunt--the one who has the hanging flowerpots I was telling you about--isn't a bit well and I thought I'd make her a little fernery that she could look at as she lies in bed." "But the ferns are all dried up." "'Greenery' is a better name. Here's a scrap of partridge berry with a red berry still clinging to it, and here's a bit of moss as green as it was in summer, and here--yes, it's alive, it really is!" and she held up in triumph a tiny fern that had been so sheltered under the edge of a boulder that it had kept fresh and happy. There was nothing more to reward their search, for they all hunted with Della, but she was not discouraged. "I only want a handful of growing things," she explained. "I put these in a finger bowl, and sprinkle a few seeds of grass or canary seed on the moss and dash some water on it from the tips of my fingers. Another finger bowl upside down makes the cover. The sick person can see what is going on inside right through the glass without having to raise her head." "How often do you water it?" "Only once or twice a week, because the moisture collects on the upper glass of the little greenhouse and falls down again on the plants and keeps them, wet." "We'll keep our eyes open every time we come here," promised Dorothy. "There's no reason why you couldn't add a little root of this or that any time you want to." [Illustration: Partridge Berry] "I know Aunty will be delighted with it," cried Della, much pleased. "She likes all plants, but especially things that are a little bit different. That's why she spends so much time selecting her wall vases--so that they shall be unlike other people's." "Fitz-James's woods," as they already called the bit of forest that Dorothy hoped to have possession of, extended back from the road and spread until it joined Grandfather Emerson's woods on one side and what was called by the Rosemonters "the West Woods" on the other. The girls walked home by a path that took them into Rosemont not far from the station where Della was to take the train. "Until you notice what there really is in the woods in winter you think there isn't anything worth looking at," said Ethel Blue, walking along with her eyes in the tree crowns. "The shapes of the different trees are as distinct now as they are in summer," declared Ethel Brown. "You'd know that one was an oak, and the one next to it a beech, wouldn't you?" "I don't know whether I would or not," confessed Dorothy honestly, "but I can almost always tell a tree by its bark." "I can tell a chestnut by its bark nowadays," asserted Ethel Blue, "because it hasn't any!" "What on earth do you mean?" inquired city-bred Della. "Something or other has killed all the chestnuts in this part of the world in the last two or three years. Don't you see all these dead trees standing with bare trunks?" "Poor old things! Is it going to last?" "It spread up the Hudson and east and west in New York and Massachusetts, and south into Pennsylvania." "Roger was telling Grandfather a few days ago that a farmer was telling him that he thought the trouble--the pest or the blight or whatever it was--had been stopped." "I remember now seeing a lot of dead trees somewhere when one of Father's parishioners took us motoring in the autumn. I didn't know the chestnut crop was threatened." "Chestnuts weren't any more expensive this year. They must have imported them from far-off states." There were still pools of water in the wood path, left by the melting snow, and the grass that they touched seemed a trifle greener than that beside the narrow road. Once in a while a bit of vivid green betrayed a plant that had found shelter under an overhanging stone. The leaves were for the most part dry enough again to rustle under their feet. Evergreens stood out sharply dark against the leafless trees. "What are the trees that still have a few leaves left clinging to them?" asked Della. "Oaks. Do you know why the leaves stay on?" "Is it a story?" "Yes, a pleasant story. Once the Great Evil Spirit threatened to destroy the whole world. The trees heard the threat and the oak tree begged him not to do anything so wicked. He insisted but at last he agreed not to do it until the last leaf had fallen in the autumn. All the trees meant to hold On to their leaves so as to ward off the awful disaster, but one after the other they let them go--all except the oak. The oak never yet has let fall every one of its leaves and so the Evil Spirit never has had a chance to put his threat into execution." "That's a lesson in success, isn't it? Stick to whatever it is you want to do and you're sure to succeed." "Watch me make my garden succeed," cried Dorothy. "If 'sticking' will make it a success I'm a stick!" CHAPTER IV GARDENING ON PAPER When Saturday came and the United Service Club tramped over Dorothy's new domain, including the domain that she hoped to have but was not yet sure of, every member agreed that the prospect was one that gave satisfaction to the Club as well as the possibility of pleasure and comfort to Mrs. Smith and Dorothy. The knoll they hailed as the exact spot where a house should go; the ridge behind it as precisely suited to the needs of a garden. As to the region of the meadow and the brook and the rocks and the trees they all hoped most earnestly that Mrs. Smith would be able to buy it, for they foresaw that it would provide much amusement for all of them during the coming summer and many to follow. Strangely enough Roger had never found the cave, and he looked on it with yearning. "Why in the world didn't I know of that three or four years ago!" he exclaimed. "I should have lived out here all summer!" "That's what we'd like to do," replied the Ethels earnestly. "We'll let you come whenever you want to." Roger gave a sniff, but the girls knew from his longing gaze that he was quite as eager as they to fit it up for a day camp even if he was nearly eighteen and going to college next autumn. When the exploring tour was over they gathered in their usual meeting place--Dorothy's attic--and discussed the gardens which had taken so firm a hold on the girls' imaginations. "There'll be a small garden in our back yard as usual," said Roger in a tone that admitted of no dispute. "And a small one in Dorothy's present back yard and a LARGE one on Miss Smith's farm," added Tom, who had confirmed with his own eyes the glowing tales that Della had brought home to him. "I suppose we may all have a chance at all of these institutions?" demanded James. "Your mother may have something to say about your attentions to your own garden," suggested Helen pointedly. "I won't slight it, but I've really got to have a finger in this pie if all of you are going to work at it!" "Well, you shall. Calm yourself," and Roger patted him with a soothing hand. "You may do all the digging I promised the girls I'd do." A howl of laughter at James's expense made the attic ring. James appeared quite undisturbed. "I'm ready to do my share," he insisted placidly. "Why don't we make plans of the gardens now?" "Methodical old James always has a good idea," commended Tom. "Is there any brown paper around these precincts, Dorothy?" "Must it be brown?" "Any color, but big sheets." "I see. There is plenty," and she spread it on the table where James had done so much pasting when they were making boxes in which to pack their presents for the war orphans. "Now, then, Roger, the first thing for us to do is to see--" "With our mind's eye, Horatio?" "--how these gardens are going to look. Take your pencil in hand and draw us a sketch of your backyard as it is now, old man." "That's easy," commented Roger. "Here are the kitchen steps; and here is the drying green, and back of that is the vegetable garden and around it flower beds and more over here next the fence." "It's rather messy looking as it is," commented Ethel Brown. "We never have changed it from the way the previous tenant laid it out." "The drying green isn't half large enough for the washing for our big family," added Helen appraisingly. "Mary is always lamenting that she can hang out only a few lines-ful at a time." "Why don't you give her this space behind the green and limit your flower beds to the fence line?" asked Tom, looking over Roger's shoulder as he drew in the present arrangement with some attention to the comparative sizes. "That would mean cutting out some of the present beds." "It would, but you'll have a share in Dorothy's new garden in case Mrs. Morton needs more flowers for the house; and the arrangement I suggest makes the yard look much more shipshape." "If we sod down these beds here what will Roger do for his sweetpeas? They ought to have the sun on both sides; the fence line wouldn't be the best place for them." "Sweetpeas ought to be planted on chicken wire supported by stakes and running from east to west," said Margaret wisely, "but under the circumstances, I don't see why you couldn't fence in the vegetable garden with sweetpeas. That would give you two east and west lines of them and two north and south." "And there would be space for all the blossoms that Roger would want to pick on a summer's day," laughed Della. "I've always wanted to have a garden of all pink flowers," announced Dorothy. "My room in the new house is going to be pink and I'd like to keep pink powers in it all the time." "I've always wanted to do that, too. Let's try one here," urged Ethel Brown, nodding earnestly at Ethel Blue. "I don't see why we couldn't have a pink bed and a blue bed and a yellow bed," returned Ethel Blue whose inner eye saw the plants already well grown and blossoming. "A wild flower bed is what I'd like," contributed Helen. "We mustn't forget to leave a space for Dicky," suggested Roger. "I want the garden I had latht year," insisted a decisive voice that preceded the tramp of determined feet over the attic stairs. "Where was it, son? I've forgotten." "In a corner of your vegetable garden. Don't you remember my raditheth were ripe before yourth were? Mother gave me a prithe for the firtht vegetableth out of the garden." "So she did. You beat me to it. Well, you may have the same corner again." "We ought to have some tall plants, hollyhocks or something like that, to cover the back fence," said Ethel Brown. "What do you say if we divide the border along the fence into four parts and have a wild garden and pink and yellow and blue beds? Then we can transplant any plants we have now that ought to go in some other color bed, and we can have the tall plants at the back of the right colors to match the bed in front of them?" "There can be pink hollyhocks at the back of the pink bed and we already have pinks and bleeding heart and a pink peony. We've got a good start at a pink bed already," beamed Ethel Brown. "We can put golden glow or that tall yellow snapdragon at the back of the yellow bed and tall larkspurs behind the blue flowers." "The Miss Clarks have a pretty border of dwarf ageratum--that bunchy, fuzzy blue flower. Let's have that for the border of our blue bed." "I remember it; it's as pretty as pretty. They have a dwarf marigold that we could use for the yellow border." "Or dwarf yellow nasturtiums." "Or yellow pansies." "We had a yellow stock last summer that was pretty and blossomed forever; nothing seemed to stop it but the 'chill blasts of winter.'" "Even the short stocks are too tall for a really flat border that would match the others. We must have some 'ten week stocks' in the yellow border, though." "Whatever we plant for the summer yellow border we must have the yellow spring bulbs right behind it--jonquils and daffodils and yellow tulips and crocuses." "They're all together now. All we'll have to do will be to select the spot for our yellow bed." "That's settled then. Mark it on this plan." Roger held it out to Ethel Brown, who found the right place and indicated the probable length of the yellow bed upon it. "We'll have the wild garden on one side of the yellow bed and the blue on the other and the pink next the blue," decreed Ethel Blue. "We haven't decided on the pink border," Dorothy reminded them. "There's a dwarf pink candytuft that couldn't be beaten for the purpose," said James decisively. "Mother and I planted some last year to see what it was like and it proved to be exactly what you want here." "I know what I'd like to have for the wild border--either wild ginger or hepatica," announced Helen after some thought. "I don't know either of them," confessed Tom. "You will after you've tramped the Rosemont woods with the U.S.C. all this spring," promised Ethel Brown. "They have leaves that aren't unlike in shape--" "The ginger is heart-shaped," interposed Ethel Blue, "and the hepatica is supposed to be liver-shaped." "You have to know some physiology to recognize them," said James gravely. "There's where a doctor's son has the advantage," and he patted his chest. "Their leaves seem much too juicy to be evergreen, but the hepatica does stay green all winter." [Illustration: Wild Ginger] "The ginger would make the better edging," Helen decided, "because the leaves lie closer to the ground." "What are the blossoms?" "The ginger has such a wee flower hiding under the leaves that it doesn't count, but the hepatica has a beautiful little blue or purple flower at the top of a hairy scape." "A hairy what?" laughed Roger. "A scape is a stem that grows up right from the or root-stock and carries only a flower--not any leaves," defined Helen. "That's a new one on me. I always thought a stem was a stem, whatever it carried," said Roger. [Illustration: Hepatica] "And a scape was a 'grace' or a 'goat' according to its activities," concluded Tom. "The hepatica would make a border that you wouldn't have to renew all the time," contributed Dorothy, who had been thinking so deeply that she had not heard a word of this interchange, and looked up, wondering why every one was laughing. "Dorothy keeps her eye on the ball," complimented James. "Have we decided on the background flowers for the wild bed?" "Joe-Pye-Weed is tall enough," offered James. "It's way up over my head." "It wouldn't cover the fence much; the blossom is handsome but the foliage is scanty." "There's a feathery meadow-rue that is tall. The leaves are delicate." "I know it; it has a fine white blossom and it grows in damp places. That will be just right. Aren't you going to have trouble with these wild plants that like different kinds of ground?" "Perhaps we are," Helen admitted. "Our garden is 'middling' dry, but we can keep the wet lovers moist by watering them more generously than the rest." "How about the watering systems of all these gardens, anyway? You have town water here and at Dorothy's, but how about the new place?" "The town water runs out as far as Mr. Emerson's, luckily for us, and Mother says she'll have the connection made as soon as the frost is out of the ground so the builders may have all they want for their work and I can have all I need for the garden there." "If you get that next field with the brook and you want to plant anything there you'll have to dig some ditches for drainage." "I think I'll keep up on the ridge that's drained by nature." "That's settled, then. We can't do much planning about the new garden until we go out in a body and make our decisions on the spot," said Margaret. "We'll have to put in vegetables and flowers where they'd rather grow." "That's what we're trying to do here, only it's on a small scale," Roger reminded her. "Our whole garden is about a twentieth of the new one." "I shouldn't wonder if we had to have some expert help with that," guessed James, who had gardened enough at Glen Point not to be ashamed to confess ignorance now and then. "Mr. Emerson has promised to talk it all over with me," said Dorothy. "Let's see what there is at Dorothy's present abode, then," said Roger gayly, and he took another sheet of brown paper and began to place on it the position of the house and the existing borders. "Do I understand, madam, that you're going to have a pink border here?" "I am," replied his cousin firmly, "both here and at the new place." "Life will take on a rosy hue for these young people if they can make it," commented Della. "Pink flowers, a pink room--is there anything else pink?" "The name. Mother and I have decided on 'Sweetbrier Lodge.' Don't you think it's pretty?" "Dandy," approved Roger concisely, as he continued to draw. "Do you want to change any of the beds that were here last summer?" he asked. "Mother said she liked their positions very well. This long, narrow one in front of the house is to be the pink one. I've got pink tulip bulbs in the ground now and there are some pink flowering shrubs--weigelia and flowering almond--already there against the lattice of the veranda. I'm going to work out a list of plants that will keep a pink bed blossoming all summer and we can use it in three places," and she nodded dreamily to her cousins. "We'll do that, but I think it would be fun if each one of us tried out a new plant of some kind. Then we can find out which are most suitable for our needs next year. We can report on them to the Club when they come into bloom. It will save a lot of trouble if we tell what we've found out about what some plant likes in the way of soil and position and water and whether it is best to cut it back or to let it bloom all it wants to, and so on." "That's a good idea. I hope Secretary Ethel Blue is taking notes of all these suggestions," remarked Helen, who was the president of the Club. Ethel Blue said she was, and Roger complimented her faithfulness in terms of extravagant absurdity. "Your present lot of land has the best looking fencing in Rosemont, to my way of thinking," approved Tom. "What is it? I hardly remember myself," said Dorothy thoughtfully. "Why, across the front there's a privet hedge, clipped low enough for your pink garden to be seen over it; and separating you from the Clarks' is a row of tall, thick hydrangea bushes that are beauties as long as there are any leaves on them; and at the back there is osage orange to shut out that old dump; and on the other side is a row of small blue spruces." "That's quite a showing of hedges all in one yard." exclaimed Ethel Blue admiringly. "And I never noticed them at all!" "At the new place Mother wants to try a barberry hedge. It doesn't grow regularly, but each bush is handsome in itself because the branches droop gracefully, and the leaves are a good green and the clusters of red berries are striking." "The leaves turn red in the autumn and the whole effect is stunning," contributed Della. "I saw one once in New England. They aren't usual about here, and I should think it would be a beauty." "You can let it grow as tall as you like," said James. "Your house is going to be above it on the knoll and look right over it, so you don't need a low hedge or even a clipped one." "At the side and anywhere else where she thinks there ought to be a real fence she's going to put honey locust." They all laughed. "That spiny affair _will_ be discouraging to visitors!" Helen exclaimed. "Why don't you try hedges of gooseberries and currants and raspberries and blackberries around your garden?" "That would be killing two birds with one stone, wouldn't it!" "You'll have a real problem in landscape gardening over there," said Margaret. "The architect of the house will help on that. That is, he and Mother will decide exactly where the house is to be placed and how the driveway is to run." "There ought to be some shrubs climbing up the knoll," advised Ethel Brown. "They'll look well below the house and they'll keep the bank from washing. I noticed this afternoon that the rains had been rather hard on it." "There are a lot of lovely shrubs you can put in just as soon as you're sure the workmen won't tramp them all down," cried Ethel Blue eagerly. "That's one thing I do know about because I went with Aunt Marion last year when she ordered some new bushes for our front yard." "Recite your lesson, kid," commanded Roger briefly. "There is the weigelia that Dorothy has in front of this house; and forsythia--we forced its yellow blossoms last week, you know; and the flowering almond--that has whitey-pinky-buttony blossoms." They laughed at Ethel's description, but they listened attentively while she described the spiky white blossoms of deutzia and the winding white bands of the spiraea--bridal wreath. "I can see that bank with those white shrubs all in blossom, leaning toward the road and beckoning you in," Ethel ended enthusiastically. "I seem to see them myself," remarked Tom, "and Dorothy can be sure that they won't beckon in vain." "You'll all be as welcome as daylight," cried Dorothy. "I hate to say anything that sounds like putting a damper on this outburst of imagination that Ethel Blue has just treated us to, but I'd like to inquire of Miss Smith whether she has any gardening tools," said Roger, bringing them all to the ground with a bump. "Miss Smith hasn't one," returned Dorothy, laughing. "You forget that we only moved in here last September and there hasn't been need for any that we couldn't borrow of you." [Illustration: Gardening Tools] "You're perfectly welcome to them," answered Roger, "but if we're all going to do the gardening act there'll be a scarcity if we don't add to the number." "What do we need?" "A rake and a hoe and a claw and a trowel and a spade and a heavy line with some pegs to do marking with." "We've found that it's a comfort to your back to have another claw mounted on the end of a handle as long as a hoe," contributed Margaret. "Two claws," Dorothy amended her list, isn't many." "And a lot of dibbles." "Dibbles!" "Short flat sticks whittled to a point. You use them when you're changing little plants from the to the hot bed or the hot bed to the garden." "Mother and I ought to have one set of tools here and one set at Sweetbrier Lodge," decided Dorothy. "We keep ours in the shed. I'm going to whitewash the corner where they belong and make it look as fine as a fiddle before the time comes to use them." "We have a shed here where we can keep them but at Sweetbrier there isn't anything," and Dorothy's mouth dropped anxiously. "We can build you a tool house," Tom was offering when James interrupted him. "If we can get a piano box there's your toolhouse all made," he suggested. "Cover it with tar paper so the rain won't come in, and hang the front on hinges with a hasp and staple and padlock, and what better would you want?" "Nothing," answered Ethel Brown, seriously. Ethel Blue noted it down in her book and Roger promised to visit the local piano man and see what he could find. "We haven't finished deciding how we shall plant Dorothy's yard behind this house," Margaret reminded them. "We shan't attempt a vegetable garden here," Dorothy said. "We'll start one at the other place so that the soil will be in good condition next year. We'll have a man to do the heavy work of the two places, he can bring over every morning whatever vegetables are ready for the day's use." "You want more flowers in this yard, then?" "You'll laugh at what I want!" "Don't you forget what you promithed me," piped up Dicky. "That's what I was going to tell them now. I've promised Dicky to plant a lot of sunflowers for his hens. He says Roger never has had space to plant enough for him." "True enough. Give him a big bed of them so he can have all the seeds he wants." "I'd like to have a wide strip across the back of the whole place, right in front of the osage orange hedge. They'll cover the lower part that's rather scraggly--then everywhere else I want nasturtiums, climbing and dwarf and every color under the sun." "That's a good choice for your yard because it's awfully stony and nasturtiums don't mind a little thing like that." "Then I want gourds over the trellis at the back door." "Gourds!" "I saw them so much in the South that I want to try them. There's one shape that makes a splendid dipper when it's dried and you cut a hole in it; and there's another kind just the size of a hen's egg that I want for nest eggs for Dickey's hens; and there's the loofa full of fibre that you can use for a bath sponge; and there's a pear-shaped one striped green and yellow that Mother likes for a darning ball; and there's a sweet smelling one that is as fragrant as possible in your handkerchief case. There are some as big as buckets and some like base ball bats, but I don't care for those." "What a collection," applauded Ethel Brown. "Beside that my idea of Japanese morning glories and a hop vine for our kitchen regions has no value at all," smiled Helen. "I'm going to have hops wherever the vines can find a place to climb at Sweetbrier," Dorothy determined. "I love a hop vine, and it grows on forever." "James and I seem to be in the same condition. If we don't start home we'll go on talking forever," Margaret complained humorously. "There's to be hot chocolate for us down stairs at half past four," said Dorothy, jumping up and looking at a clock that was ticking industriously on a shelf. "Let's go down and get it, and we'll ask Mother to sing the funny old song of 'The Four Seasons' for us." "Why is it funny?" asked Ethel Blue. "It's a very old English song with queer spelling." "Something like mine?" demanded Della. Ethel Blue kissed her. "Never mind; Shakspere spelled his name in several different ways," she said encouragingly, "Anyway, we can't tell how this is spelled when Aunt Louise sings it." As they sat about the fire in the twilight drinking their chocolate and eating sandwiches made of nuts ground fine, mixed with mayonnaise and put on a crisp lettuce leaf between slices of whole wheat bread, Mrs. Smith sang the old English song to them. "Springe is ycomen in, Dappled lark singe; Snow melteth, Runnell pelteth, Smelleth winde of newe buddinge. "Summer is ycomen in, Loude singe cucku; Groweth seede, Bloweth meade, And springeth the weede newe. "Autumne is ycomen in, Ceres filleth horne; Reaper swinketh, Farmer drinketh, Creaketh waine with newe corn. "Winter is ycomen in, With stormy sadde cheere; In the paddocke, Whistle ruddock, Brighte sparke in the dead yeare." "That's a good stanza to end with," said Ethel Blue, as she bade her aunt "Good-bye." "We've been talking about gardens and plants and flowers all the afternoon, and it would have seemed queer to put on a heavy coat to go home in if you hadn't said 'Winter is ycomen in.'" CHAPTER V A DEFECT IN THE TITLE In spite of their having made such an early start in talking about gardens the members of the United Service Club did not weary of the idea or cease to plan for what they were going to do. The only drawback that they found in gardening as a Club activity was that the gardens were for themselves and their families and they did not see exactly how there was any "service" in them. "I'll trust you youngsters to do some good work for somebody in connection with them," asserted Grandfather Emerson one day when Roger had been talking over with him his pet plan for remodelling the old Emerson farmhouse into a place suitable for the summer shelter of poor women and children from the city who needed country air and relief from hunger and anxiety. "We aren't rushing anything now," Roger had explained, "because we boys are all going to graduate this June and we have our examinations to think about. They must come first with us. But later on we'll be ready for work of some sort and we haven't anything on the carpet except our gardens." "There are many good works to be done with the help of a garden," replied Mr. Emerson. "Ask your grandmother to tell you how she has sent flowers into New York for the poor for many, many summers. There are people right here in Rosemont who haven't enough ground to raise any vegetables and they are glad to have fresh corn and Brussels sprouts sent to them. If you really do undertake this farmhouse scheme there'll have to be a large vegetable garden planted near the house to supply it, and you can add a few flower beds. The old place will look better flower-dressed than empty, and perhaps some of the women and children will like to work in the garden." Roger went home comforted, for he was very loyal to the Club and its work and he did not want to become so involved with other matters that he could not give himself to the purpose for which the Club was organized--helping others. As he passed the Miss Clarks he stopped to give their furnace its nightly shaking, for he was the accredited furnace man for them and his Aunt Louise as well as for his mother. He added the money that he earned to the treasury of the Club so that there might always be enough there to do a kind act whenever there should be a chance. As he labored with the shaker and the noise of his struggles was sent upward through the registers a voice called to him down the cellar stairs. "Ro-ger; Roger!" "Yes, ma'am," replied Roger, wishing the old ladies would let him alone until he had finished his work. "Come up here, please, when you've done." "Very well," he agreed, and went on with his racket. When he went upstairs he found that the cause of his summons was the arrival of a young man who was apparently about the age of Edward Watkins, the doctor brother of Tom and Della. "My nephew is a law student," said Miss Clark as she introduced the two young people, "and I want him to know all of our neighbors." "My name is Stanley Clark," said the newcomer, shaking hands cordially. "I'm going to be here for a long time so I hope I'll see you often." Roger liked him at once and thought his manner particularly pleasant in view of the fact that he was several years older. Roger was so accustomed to the companionship of Edward Watkins, who frequently joined the Club in their festivities and who often came to Rosemont to call on Miss Merriam, that the difference did not seem to him a cause of embarrassment. He was unusually easy for a boy of his age because he had always been accustomed to take his sailor father's place at home in the entertainment of his mother's guests. Young Clark, on his side, found his new acquaintance a boy worth talking to, and they got on well. He was studying at a law school in the city, it seemed, and commuted every day. "It's a long ride," he agreed when Roger suggested it, "but when I get home I have the good country air to breathe and I'd rather have that than town amusements just now when I'm working hard." Roger spoke of Edward Watkins and Stanley was interested in the possibility of meeting him. Evidently his aunts had told him all about the Belgian baby and Miss Merriam, for he said Elisabeth would be the nearest approach to a soldier from a Belgian battlefield that he had seen. Roger left with the feeling that his new acquaintance would be a desirable addition to the neighborhood group and he was so pleased that he stopped in at his Aunt Louise's not only to shake the furnace but to tell her about Stanley Clark. [Illustration: The Hot Bed] During the next month they all came to know him well and they liked his cheerfulness and his interest in what they were doing and planning. On Saturdays he helped Roger build a hot bed in the sunniest spot against the side of the kitchen ell. They found that the frost had not stiffened the ground after they managed to dig down a foot, so that the excavation was not as hard as they had expected. They dug a hole the size of two window sashes and four feet deep, lining the sides with some old bricks that they found in the cellar. At first they filled the entire bed with fresh stable manure and straw. After it had stayed under the glass two days it was quite hot and they beat it down a foot and put on six inches of soil made one-half of compost and one-half of leaf mould that they found in a sheltered corner of the West Woods. "Grandfather didn't believe we could manage to get good soil at this season even if we did succeed in digging the hole, but when I make up my mind to do a thing I like to succeed," said Roger triumphantly when they had fitted the sashes on to planks that sloped at the sides so that rain would run off the glass, and called the girls out to admire their result. "What are we going to put in here first?" asked Ethel Brown, who liked to get at the practical side of matters at once. "I'd like to have some violets," said Ethel Blue. "Could I have a corner for them? I've had some plants promised me from the Glen Point greenhouse man. Margaret is going to bring them over as soon as I'm ready for them." "I want to see if I can beat Dicky with early vegetables," declared Roger. "I'm going to start early parsley and cabbage and lettuce, cauliflower and egg plants, radishes and peas and corn in shallow boxes--flats Grandfather says they're called--in my room and the kitchen where it's warm and sunny, and when they've sprouted three leaves I'll set them out here and plant some more in the flats." "Won't transplanting them twice set them back?" "If you take up enough earth around them they ought not to know that they've taken a journey." "I've done a lot of transplanting of wild plants from the woods," said Stanley, "and I found that if I was careful to do that they didn't even wilt." "Why can't we start some of the flower seeds here and have early blossoms?" "You can. I don't see why we can't keep it going all the time and have a constant supply of flowers and vegetables earlier than we should if we trusted to Mother Nature to do the work unaided." "Then in the autumn we can stow away here some of the plants we want to save, geraniums and begonias, and plants that are pretty indoors, and take them into the house when the indoor ones become shabby." "Evidently right in the heart of summer is the only time this article won't be in use," decided Stanley, laughing at their eagerness. "Have you got anything to cover it with when the spring sunshine grows too hot?" "There is an old hemp rug and some straw matting in the attic--won't they do?" "Perfectly. Lay them over the glass so that the delicate little plants won't get burned. You can raise the sashes, too." "If we don't forget to close them before the sun sets and the night chill comes on, I suppose," smiled Ethel Blue. "Mr. Emerson says that seeds under glass do better if they're covered with newspaper until they start." It was about the middle of March when Mrs. Smith went in to call on her neighbors, the Miss Clarks, one evening. They were at home and after a talk on the ever-absorbing theme of the war Mrs. Smith said, "I really came in here on business. I hope you've decided to sell me the meadow lot next to my knoll. If you've made up your minds hadn't I better tell my lawyer to make out the papers at once?" "Sister and I made up our minds some time ago, dear Mrs. Smith, and we wrote to Brother William about it before he came to stay with us, and he was willing, and Stanley, here, who is the only other heir of the estate that we know about, has no objection." "That gives me the greatest pleasure. I'll tell my lawyer, then, to have the title looked up right away and make out the deed--though I feel as if I should apologize for looking up the title of land that has been in your family as long as Mr. Emerson's has been in his." "You needn't feel at all apologetic," broke in Stanley. "It's never safe to buy property without having a clear title, and we aren't sure that we are in a position to give you a clear title." "That's why we haven't spoken to you about it before," said the elder Miss Clark; "we were waiting to try to make it all straight before we said anything about it one way or the other." "Not give me a clear title!" cried Mrs. Smith. "Do you mean that I won't be able to buy it? Why, I don't know what Dorothy will do if we can't get that bit with the brook; she has set her heart on it." "We want you to have it not only for Dorothy's sake but for our own. It isn't a good building lot--it's too damp--and we're lucky to have an offer for it." "Can you tell me just what the trouble is? It seems as if it ought to be straight since all of you heirs agree to the sale." "The difficulty is," said Stanley, "that we aren't sure that we are all the heirs. We thought we were, but Uncle William made some inquiries on his way here, and he learned enough to disquiet him." "Our father, John Clark, had a sister Judith," explained the younger Miss Clark. "They lived here on the Clark estate which had belonged to the family for many generations. Then Judith married a man named Leonard--Peter Leonard--and went to Nebraska at a time when Nebraska was harder to reach than California is now. That was long before the Civil War and during those frontier days Aunt Judith and Uncle Peter evidently were tossed about to the limit of their endurance. Her letters came less and less often and they always told of some new grief--the death of a child or the loss of some piece of property. Finally the letters ceased altogether. I don't understand why her family didn't hold her more closely, but they lost sight of her entirely." "Probably it was more her fault than theirs," replied Mrs. Smith softly, recalling that there had been a time when her own pride had forbade her letting her people know that she was in dire distress. "It doesn't make much difference to-day whose fault it was," declared Stanley Clark cheerfully; "the part of the story that interests us is that the family thought that all Great-aunt Judith's children were dead. Here is where Uncle William got his surprise. When he was coming on from Arkansas he stopped over for a day at the town where Aunt Judith had posted her last letter to Grandfather, about sixty years ago. There he learned from the records that she was dead and all her children were dead--_except one_." "Except one!" repeated Mrs. Smith. "Born after she ceased writing home?" "Exactly. Now this daughter--Emily was her name--left the town after her parents died and there is no way of finding out where she went. One or two of the old people remember that the Leonard girl left, but nothing more." "She may be living now." "Certainly she may; and she may have married and had a dozen children. You see, until we can find out something about this Emily we can't give a clear title to the land." Mrs. Smith nodded her understanding. "It's lucky we've never been willing to sell any of the old estate," said Mr. William Clark, who had entered and been listening to the story. "If we had we should, quite ignorantly, have given a defective title." "Isn't it possible, after making as long and thorough a search as you can, to take the case into court and have the judge declare the title you give to be valid, under the circumstances?" "That is done; but you can see that such a decision would be granted only after long research on our part. It would delay your purchase considerably." "However, it seems to me the thing to do," decided Mrs. Smith, and she and Stanley at once entered upon a discussion of the ways and means by which the hunt for Emily Leonard and her heirs was to be accomplished. It included the employment of detectives for the spring months, and then, if they had not met with success, a journey by Stanley during the weeks of his summer vacation. Dorothy and Ethel were bitterly disappointed at the result of Mrs. Smith's attempt to purchase the coveted bit of land. "I suppose it wouldn't have any value for any one else on earth," cried Dorothy, "but I want it." "I don't think I ever saw a spot that suited me so well for a summer play place," agreed Ethel Blue, and Helen and Roger and all the rest of the Club members were of the same opinion. "The Clarks will be putting the price up if they should find out that we wanted it so much," warned Roger. "I don't believe they would," smiled Mrs. Smith. "They said they thought themselves lucky to have a customer for it, because it isn't good for building ground." "We'll hope that Stanley will unearth the history of his great-aunt," said Roger seriously. "And find that she died a spinster," smiled his Aunt Louise. "The fewer heirs there are to deal the simpler it will be." CHAPTER VI WILD FLOWERS FOR HELEN'S GARDEN Roger had a fair crop of lettuce in one of his flats by the middle of March and transplanted the tiny, vivid green leaves to the hotbed without doing them any harm. The celery and tomato seeds that he had planted during the first week of the month were showing their heads bravely and the cabbage and cauliflower seedlings had gone to keep the lettuce company in the hotbed. On every warm day he opened the sashes and let the air circulate among the young plants. "Wordsworth says 'It is my faith that every flower Enjoys the air it breathes,' and I suppose that's true of vegetables, too," laughed Roger. The girls, meanwhile, had been planting the seeds of Canterbury bells and foxgloves in flats. They did not put in many of them because they learned that they would not blossom until the second year. The flats they made from boxes that had held tomato cans. Roger sawed through the sides and they used the cover for the bottom of the second flat. The dahlias they provided with pots, joking at the exclusiveness of this gorgeous flower which likes to have a separate house for each of its seeds. These were to be transferred to the garden about the middle of May together with the roots of last year's dahlias which they were going to sprout in a box of sand for about a month before allowing them to renew their acquaintance with the flower bed. By the middle of April they had planted a variety of seeds and were watching the growth or awaiting the germination of gay cosmos, shy four o'clocks, brilliant marigolds, varied petunias and stocks, smoke-blue ageratums, old-fashioned pinks and sweet williams. Each was planted according to the instructions of the seed catalogues, and the young horticulturists also read and followed the advice of the pamphlets on "Annual Flowering Plants" and "The Home Vegetable Garden" sent out by the Department of Agriculture at Washington to any one who asks for them. [Illustration: A Flat] They were prudent about planting directly in the garden seeds which did not require forcing in the house, for they did not want them to be nipped, but they put them in the ground just as early as any of the seedsmen recommended, though they always saved a part of their supply so that they might have enough for a second sowing if a frost should come. Certain flowers which they wished to have blossom for a long time they sowed at intervals. Candytuft, for instance, they sowed first in April and they planned to make a second sowing in May and a third late in July so that they might see the pretty white border blossoms late in the autumn. Mignonette was a plant of which Mr. Emerson was as fond as Roger was of sweetpeas and the girls decided to give him a surprise by having such a succession of blooms that they might invite him to a picking bee as late as the end of October. Nasturtiums also, they planted with a liberal hand in nooks and crannies where the soil was so poor that they feared other plants would turn up their noses, and pansies, whose demure little faces were favorites with Mrs. Morton, they experimented with in various parts of the gardens and in the hotbed. The gardens at the Mortons' and Smiths' were long established so that there was not any special inducement to change the arrangement of the beds, except as the young people had planned way back in January for the enlargement of the drying green. The new garden, however, offered every opportunity. Each bed was laid out with especial reference to the crop that was to be put into it and the land was naturally so varied that there was the kind of soil and the right exposure for plants that required much moisture and for those that preferred a sandy soil, for the sun lovers and the shade lovers. The newly aroused interest in plants extended to the care of the house plants which heretofore had been the sole concern of Mrs. Emerson and Mrs. Morton. Now the girls begged the privilege of trimming off the dead leaves from the ivies and geraniums and of washing away with oil of lemon and a stiff brush the scale that sometimes came on the palms. They even learned to kill the little soft white creature called aphis by putting under the plant a pan of hot coals with tobacco thrown on them. "It certainly has a sufficiently horrid smell," exclaimed Ethel Brown. "I don't wonder the beasties curl up and die; I'd like to myself." "They say aphis doesn't come on a plant with healthy sap," Ethel Blue contributed to this talk, "so the thing to do is to make these plants so healthy that the animals drop off starved." "This new development is going to be a great comfort to me if it keeps on," Mrs. Emerson confessed to her daughter humorously. "I shall encourage the girls to use my plants for instruction whenever they want to." "You may laugh at their sudden affection," returned Mrs. Morton seriously, "but I've noticed that everything the U.S.C. sets its heart on doing gets done, and I've no doubt whatever that they'll have what Roger calls 'some' garden this next summer." "Roger has had long consultations with his grandfather about fertilizers and if he's interested in the beginnings of a garden and not merely in the results I think we can rely on him." "They have all been absorbed in the subject for three months and now 'Lo, the winter is past, the rain is over and gone; The flowers appear on the earth; the time of the singing of birds is come.'" Roger maintained that his Aunt Louise's house ought to be begun at the time that he planted his sweetpeas. "If I can get into the ground enough to plant, surely the cellar diggers ought to be able to do the same," he insisted. March was not over when he succeeded in preparing a trench a foot deep all around the spot which was to be his vegetable garden except for a space about three feet wide which he left for an entrance. In the bottom he placed three inches of manure and over that two inches of good soil. In this he planted the seeds half an inch apart in two rows and covered them with soil to the depth of three inches, stamping it down hard. As the vines grew to the top of the trench he kept them warm with the rest of the earth that he had taken out, until the opening was entirely filled. The builder was not of Roger's mind about the cellar digging, but he really did begin operations in April. Every day the Mortons and Smiths, singly or in squads, visited the site of Sweetbrier Lodge, as Mrs. Smith and Dorothy had decided to call the house. Dorothy had started a notebook in which to keep account of the progress of the new estate, but after the first entry--"Broke ground to-day"--matters seemed to advance so slowly that she had to fill in with memoranda concerning the growth of the garden. Even before the house was started its position and that of the garage had been staked so that the garden might not encroach on them. Then the garden had been laid out with a great deal of care by the united efforts of the Club and Mr. Emerson and his farm superintendent. Often the Ethels and Dorothy extended their walk to the next field and to the woods and rocks at the back. The Clarks had learned nothing more about their Cousin Emily, although they had a man searching records and talking with the older people of a number of towns in Nebraska. He reported that he was of the opinion that either the child had died when young or that she had moved to a considerable distance from the town of her birth or that she had been adopted and had taken the name of her foster parents. At any rate consultation of records of marriages and deaths in several counties had revealed to him no Emily Leonard. The Clarks were quite as depressed by this outcome of the search as was Mrs. Smith, but they had instructed the detective to continue his investigation. Meanwhile they begged Dorothy and her cousins to enjoy the meadow and woods as much as they liked. The warm moist days of April tempted the girls to frequent searches for wild flowers. They found the lot a very gold mine of delight. There was so much variety of soil and of sunshine and of shadow that plants of many different tastes flourished where in the meadow across the road only a few kinds seemed to live. It was with a hearty shout they hailed the first violets. "Here they are, here they are!" cried Ethel Blue. "Aunt Marion said she was sure she saw some near the brook. She quoted some poetry about it-- "'Blue ran the flash across; Violets were born!'" "That's pretty; what's the rest of it?" asked Ethel Brown, on her knees taking up some of the plants with her trowel and placing them in her basket so carefully that there was plenty of earth surrounding each one to serve as a nest when it should be put into Helen's wild flower bed. "It's about something good happening when everything seems very bad," explained Ethel Blue. "Browning wrote it." "Such a starved bank of moss Till, that May morn, Blue ran the flash across: Violets were born! "Sky--what a scowl of cloud Till, near and far, Ray on ray split the shroud: Splendid, a star! "World--how it walled about Life with disgrace Till God's own smile came out: That was thy face!" "It's always so, isn't it!" approved Dorothy. "And the more we think about the silver lining to every cloud the more likely it is to show itself." "What's this delicate white stuff? And these tiny bluey eyes?" asked Ethel Blue, who was again stooping over to examine the plants that enjoyed the moist positions near the stream. "The eyes are houstonia--Quaker ladies. We must have a clump of them. Saxifrage, Helen said the other was. She called my attention the other day to some they had at school to analyze. It has the same sort of stem that the hepatica has." [Illustration: Yellow Adder's Tongue] "I remember--a scape--only this isn't so downy." "They're pretty, aren't they? We must be sure to get a good sized patch; you can't see them well enough when there is only a plant or two." "Helen wants a regular village of every kind that she transplants. She says she'd rather have a good many of a few kinds than a single plant of ever so many kinds." "It will be prettier. What do you suppose this yellow bell-shaped flower is?" "It ought to be a lily, hanging its head like that." "It is a lily," corroborated Ethel Brown, "but it's called 'dog-tooth violet' though it isn't a violet at all." "What a queer mistake. Hasn't it any other name?" "Adder's-tongue. That's more suitable, isn't it?" "Yes, except that I hate to have a lovely flower called by a snake's name!" "Not all snakes are venomous; and, anyway, we ought to remember that every animal has some means of protecting himself and the snakes do it through their poison fangs." "Or through their squeezing powers, like that big constrictor we saw at the Zoo." "I suppose it is fair for them to have a defence," admitted Ethel Blue, "but I don't like them, just the same, and I wish this graceful flower had some other name." "It has." "O, _that_! 'Dog-tooth' is just about as ugly as 'adder's tongue'! The botanists were in bad humor when they christened the poor little thing!" "Do you remember what Bryant says about 'The Yellow Violet'?" asked Ethel Brown, who was always committing verses to memory. "Tell us," begged Ethel Blue, who was expending special care on digging up this contribution to the garden as if to make amends for the unkindness of the scientific world, and Ethel Brown repeated the poem beginning "When beechen buds begin to swell, And woods the blue-bird's warble know, The yellow violet's modest bell Peeps from last year's leaves below." Dorothy went into ecstasies over the discovery of two roots of white violets, but there seemed to be no others, though they all sought diligently for the fragrant blossoms among the leaves. A cry from Ethel Blue brought the others to a drier part of the field at a distance from the brook. There in a patch of soil that was almost sandy was a great patch of violets of palest hue, with deep orange eyes. They were larger than any of the other violets and their leaves were entirely different. "What funny leaves," cried Dorothy. "They look as if some one had crumpled up a real violet leaf and cut it from the edge to the stem into a fine fringe." "Turn it upside down and press it against the ground. Don't you think it looks like a bird's claw?" "So it does! This must be a 'bird-foot violet,'" "It is, and there's more meaning in the name than in the one the yellow bell suffers from. Do you suppose there are any violets up in the woods?" "They seem to fit in everywhere; I shouldn't be a bit surprised if there were some there." Sure enough, there were, smaller and darker in color than the flowers down by the brook and hiding more shyly under their shorter-stemmed leaves. "Helen is going to have some trouble to make her garden fit the tastes of all these different flowers," said Ethel Brown thoughtfully. "I don't see how she's going to do it." "Naturally it's sort of half way ground," replied Ethel Blue. "She can enrich the part that is to hold the ones that like rich food and put sand where these bird foot fellows are to go, and plant the wet-lovers at the end where the hydrant is so that there'll be a temptation to give them a sprinkle every time the hose is screwed on." [Illustration: Blue Flag] "The ground is always damp around the hydrant; I guess she'll manage to please her new tenants." "If only Mother can buy this piece of land," said Dorothy, "I'm going to plant forget-me-nots and cow lilies and arum lilies right in the stream. There are flags and pickerel weed and cardinals here already. It will make a beautiful flower bed all the length of the field." "I hope and hope every day that it will come out right," sighed Ethel Blue. "Of course the Miss Clarks are lovely about it, but you can't do things as if it were really yours." Almost at the same instant both the Ethels gave a cry as each discovered a plant she had been looking for. "Mine is wild ginger, I'm almost sure," exclaimed Ethel Brown. "Come and see, Dorothy." "Has it a thick, leathery leaf that lies down almost flat?" asked Dorothy, running to see for herself. "Yes, and a blossom you hardly notice. It's hidden under the leaves and it's only yellowish-green. You have to look hard for it." "That must be wild ginger," Dorothy decided. "What's yours, Ethel Blue?" "I know mine is hepatica. See the 'hairy scape' Helen talked about? And see what a lovely, lovely color the blossom is? Violet with a hint of pink?" "That would be the best of all for a border. The leaves stay green all winter and the blossoms come early in the spring and encourage you to think that after a while all the flowers are going to awaken." "It's a shame to take all this out of Dorothy's lot." "It may never be mine," sighed Dorothy. "Still, perhaps we ought not to take too many roots; the Miss Clarks may not want all the flowers taken out of their woods." "We'll take some from here and some from Grandfather's woods," decided Ethel Brown. "There are a few in the West Woods, too." So they dug up but a comparatively small number of the hepaticas, nor did they take many of the columbines nodding from a cleft in the piled-up rocks. "I know that when we have our wild garden fully planted I'm not going to want to pick flowers just for the sake of picking them the way I used to," confessed Ethel Blue. "Now I know something about them they seem so alive to me, sort of like people--I'm sure they won't like to be taken travelling and forced to make a new home for themselves." "I know how you feel," responded Dorothy slowly. "I feel as if those columbines were birds that had perched on those rocks just for a minute and were going to fly away, and I didn't want to disturb them before they flitted." They all stood gazing at the delicate, tossing blossoms whose spurred tubes swung in every gentlest breeze. "It has a bird's name, too," added Dorothy as if there had been no silence; "_aquilegia_--the eagle flower." "Why eagle? The eagle is a strenuous old fowl," commented Ethel Brown. "The name doesn't seem appropriate." "It's because of the spurs--they suggest an eagle's talons." "That's too far-fetched to suit me," confessed Ethel Brown. "It is called 'columbine' because the spurs look a little like doves around a drinking fountain, and the Latin word for dove is '_columba_," said Dorothy. "It's queer the way they name flowers after animals--" said Ethel Blue. "Or parts of animals," laughed her cousin. "Saxifrage isn't; Helen told me the name meant 'rock-breaker,' because some kinds grow in the clefts of rocks the way the columbines do." "I wish we could find a trillium," said Ethel Blue. "The _tri_ in that name means that everything about it is in threes." "What is a trillium?" asked Ethel Brown. "Roger brought in a handful the other day. 'Wake-robin' he called it." "O, I remember them. There was a bare stalk with three leaves and the flower was under the leaves." "There were three petals to the corolla and three sepals to the calyx. He had purple ones and white ones." "Here's a white one this very minute," said Dorothy, pouncing upon a plant eight or ten inches in height whose leaves looked eager and strong. "See," she said as they all leaned over to examine it; "the blossom has two sets of leaves. The outer set is usually green or some color not so gay as to attract insects or birds that might destroy the flower when it is in bud. These outer leaves are called, all together, the calyx, and each one of them is called a sepal." "The green thing on the back of a rose is the calyx and each of its leaflets is called a sepal," said Ethel Brown by way of fixing the definition firmly in her mind. "The pretty part of the flower is the corolla which means 'little crown,' and each of its parts is called a petal." "How did you learn all that?" demanded Ethel Brown admiringly. "Your grandmother told me the other day." "You've got a good memory. Helen has told me a lot of botanical terms, but I forget them," "I try hard to remember everything I hear any one say about flowers or vegetables or planting now. You never can tell when it may be useful," and Dorothy nodded wisely. "Shall we take up this wake-robin?" asked Ethel Blue. "Let's not," pleaded Ethel Brown. "We shall find others somewhere and there's only one here." [Illustration: Wind Flower] They left it standing, but when they came upon a growth of wind-flowers there were so many of them that they did not hesitate to dig them freely. "I wonder why they're called 'wind-flowers'?" queried Ethel Brown, whose curiosity on the subject of names had been aroused. "I know that answer," replied Ethel Blue unexpectedly. "That is, nobody knows the answer exactly; I know that much." The other girls laughed. "What is the answer as far as anybody knows it?" demanded Dorothy. "The scientific name is 'anemone.' It comes from the Greek word meaning 'wind.'" "That seems to be a perfectly good answer. Probably it was given because they dance around so prettily in the wind," guessed Dorothy. "Helen's botany says that it was christened that either because it grew in windy places or because it blossomed at the windy season." "Dorothy's explanation suits me best," Ethel Brown decided. "I shall stick to that." "I think it's prettiest myself," agreed Dorothy. "She's so much in earnest she doesn't realize that she's deciding against famous botanists," giggled Ethel Brown. "It _is_ prettier--a lot prettier," insisted Ethel Blue. "I'm glad I've a cousin who can beat scientists!" "What a glorious lot of finds!" cried Ethel Brown. "Just think of our getting all these in one afternoon!" "I don't believe we could except in a place like this where any plant can have his taste suited with meadow or brookside or woods or rocks." "And sunshine or shadow." They were in a gay mood as they gathered up their baskets and trowels and gently laid pieces of newspaper over the uprooted plants. "It isn't hot to-day but we won't run any risk of their getting a headache from the sun," declared Dorothy. "These woodsy ones that aren't accustomed to bright sunshine may be sensitive to it," assented Ethel Blue. "We must remember to tell Helen in just what sort of spot we found each one so she can make its corner in the garden bed as nearly like it as possible." "I'm going to march in and quote Shakespeare to her," laughed Ethel Brown. "I'm going to say 'I know a bank where the wild thyme blows, Where oxlip and the nodding violet grows,' and then I'll describe the 'bank' so she can copy it." "If she doesn't she may have to repeat Bryant's 'Death of the Flowers':-- 'The windflower and the violet, they perished long ago.'" CHAPTER VII COLOR SCHEMES "Look out, Della; don't pick that! _Don't_ pick that, it's poison ivy!" cried Ethel Brown as all the Club members were walking on the road towards Grandfather Emerson's. A vine with handsome glossy leaves reached an inviting cluster toward passers-by. "Poison ivy!" repeated Della, springing back. "How do you know it is? I thought it was woodbine--Virginia creeper." "Virginia creeper has as many fingers as your hand; this ivy has only three leaflets. See, I-V-Y," and Ethel Blue took a small stick and tapped a leaflet for each letter. "I must tell Grandfather this is here," said Helen. "He tries to keep this road clear of it even if he finds it growing on land not his own. It's too dangerous to be so close to the sidewalk." "It's a shame it behaves so badly when it's so handsome." "It's not handsome if 'handsome is as handsome does' is true. But this is stunning when the leaves turn scarlet." "It's a mighty good plan to admire it from a distance," decided Tom, who had been looking at it carefully. "Della and I being 'city fellers,' we're ignorant about it. I'll remember not to touch the three-leaved I-V-Y, from now on." The Club was intent on finishing their flower garden plans that afternoon. They had gathered together all the seedsmen's catalogues that had been sent them and they had also accumulated a pile of garden magazines. They knew, however, that Mr. Emerson had some that they did not have, and they also wanted his help, so they had telephoned over to find out whether he was to be at home and whether he would help them with the laying out of their color beds. "Nothing I should like better," he had answered cordially so now they were on the way to put him to the test. "We already have some of our color plants in our gardens left over from last year," Helen explained, "and some of the others that we knew we'd want we've started in the hotbed, and we've sowed a few more in the open beds, but we want to make out a full list." "Just what is your idea," asked Mr. Emerson, while Grandmother Emerson saw that the dining table around which they were sitting had on it a plentiful supply of whole wheat bread sandwiches, the filling being dates and nuts chopped together. Helen explained their wish to have beds all of one color. "We girls are so crazy over pink that we're going to try a pink bed at both of Dorothy's gardens as well as in ours," she laughed. "You'd like a list of plants that will keep on blooming all summer so that you can always run out and get a bunch of pink blossoms, I suppose." "That's exactly what we want," and they took their pencils to note down any suggestions that Mr. Emerson made. "We've decided on pink candytuft for the border and single pink hollyhocks for the background with foxgloves right in front of them to cover up the stems at the bottom where they haven't many leaves and a medium height phlox in front of that for the same reason." "You should have pink morning glories and there's a rambler rose, a pink one, that you ought to have in the southeast corner on your back fence," suggested Mr. Emerson. "Stretch a strand or two of wire above the top and let the vine run along it. It blooms in June." "Pink rambler," they all wrote. "What's its name?" "Dorothy--" "Smith?" "Perkins." James went through a pantomime that registered severe disappointment. "Suppose we begin at the beginning," suggested Mr. Emerson. "I believe we can make out a list that will keep your pink bed gay from May till frost." "That's what we want." "You had some pink tulips last spring." "We planted them in the autumn so that they'd come out early this spring. By good luck they're just where we've decided to have a pink bed." "There's your first flower, then. They're near the front of the bed, I hope. The low plants ought to be in front, of course, so they won't be hidden." "They're in front. So are the hyacinths." "Are you sure they're all pink?" "It's a great piece of good fortune--Mother selected only pink bulbs and a few yellow ones to put back into the ground and gave the other colors to Grandmother." "That helps you at the very start-off. There are two kinds of pinks that ought to be set near the front rank because they don't grow very tall--the moss pink and the old-fashioned 'grass pink.' They are charming little fellows and keep up a tremendous blossoming all summer long." "'Grass pink,'" repeated Ethel, Brown, "isn't that the same as 'spice pink'?" "That's what your grandmother calls it. She says she has seen people going by on the road sniff to see what that delicious fragrance was. I suppose these small ones must be the original pinks that the seedsmen have burbanked into the big double ones." "'Burbanked'?" "That's a new verb made out of the name of Luther Burbank, the man who has raised such marvelous flowers in California and has turned the cactus into a food for cattle instead of a prickly nuisance." "I've heard of him," said Margaret. "'Burbanked' means 'changed into something superior,' I suppose." "Something like that. Did you tell me you had a peony?" There's a good, tall tree peony that we've had moved to the new bed." "At the back?" "Yes, indeed; it's high enough to look over almost everything else we are likely to have. It blossoms early." "To be a companion to the tulips and hyacinths." "Have you started any peony seeds?" "The Reine Hortense. Grandmother advised that. They're well up now." "I'd plant a few seeds in your bed, too. If you can get a good stand of perennials--flowers that come up year after year of their own accord--it saves a lot of trouble." "Those pinks are perennials, aren't they? They come up year after year in Grandmother's garden." "Yes, they are, and so is the columbine. You ought to put that in." "But it isn't pink. We got some in the woods the other day. It is red," objected Dorothy. "The columbine has been 'burbanked.' There's a pink one among the cultivated kinds. They're larger than the wild ones and very lovely." "Mother has some. Hers are called the 'Rose Queen,'" said Margaret. "There are yellow and blue ones, too." "Your grandmother can give you some pink Canterbury bells that will blossom this year. They're biennials, you know." "Does that mean they blossom every two years?" "Not exactly. It means that the ones you planted in your flats will only make wood and leaves this year and won't put out any flowers until next year. That's all these pink ones of your grandmother's did last season; this summer they're ready to go into your bed and be useful." "Our seedlings are blue, anyway," Ethel Blue reminded the others. "They must be set in the blue bed." "How about sweet williams?" asked Mr. Emerson. "Don't I remember some in your yard?" "Mother planted some last year," answered Roger, "but they didn't blossom." "They will this year. They're perennials, but it takes them one season to make up their minds to set to work. There's an annual that you might sow now that will be blossoming in a few weeks. It won't last over, though." "Annuals die down at the end of the first season. I'm getting these terms straightened in my so-called mind," laughed Dorothy. "You said you had a bleeding heart--" "A fine old perennial," exclaimed Ethel Brown, airing her new information. "--and pink candy-tuft for the border and foxgloves for the back; are those old plants or seedlings?" "Both." "Then you're ready for anything! How about snapdragons?" "I thought snapdragons were just common weeds," commented James. "They've been improved, too, and now they are large and very handsome and of various heights. If you have room enough you can have a lovely bed of tall ones at the back, with the half dwarf kind before it and the dwarf in front of all. It gives a sloping mass of bloom that is lovely, and if you nip off the top blossoms when the buds appear you can make them branch sidewise and become thick." "We certainly haven't space for that bank arrangement in our garden," decided Roger, "but it will be worth trying in Dorothy's new garden," and he put down a "D" beside the note he had made. "The snapdragon sows itself so you're likely to have it return of its own accord another year, so you must be sure to place it just where you'd like to have it always," warned Mr. Emerson. "The petunia sows itself, too," Margaret contributed to the general stock of knowledge. "You can get pretty, pale, pink petunias now, and they blossom at a great rate all summer." "I know a plant we ought to try," offered James. "It's the plant they make Persian Insect Powder out of." "The Persian daisy," guessed Mr. Emerson. "It would be fun to try that." "Wouldn't it be easier to buy the insect powder?" asked practical Ethel Brown. "Very much," laughed her grandfather, "but this is good fun because it doesn't always blossom 'true,' and you never know whether you'll get a pink or a deep rose color. Now, let me see," continued Mr. Emerson thoughtfully, "you've arranged for your hollyhocks and your phlox--those will be blooming by the latter part of July, and I suppose you've put in several sowings of sweetpeas?" They all laughed, for Roger's demand for sweetpeas had resulted in a huge amount of seeds being sown in all three of the gardens. "Where are we now?" continued Mr. Emerson. "Now there ought to be something that will come into its glory about the first of August," answered Helen. "What do you say to poppies?" "Are there pink poppies?" "O, beauties! Big bears, and little bears, and middle-sized bears; single and double, and every one of them a joy to look upon!" "Put down poppies two or three times," laughed Helen in answer to her grandfather's enthusiasm. "And while we're on the letter 'P' in the seed catalogue," added Mr. Emerson, "order a few packages of single portulaca. There are delicate shades of pink now, and it's a useful little plant to grow at the feet of tall ones that have no low-growing foliage and leave the ground bare." "It would make a good border for us at some time." "You might try it at Dorothy's large garden. There'll be space there to have many different kinds of borders." "We'll have to keep our eyes open for a pink lady's slipper over in the damp part of the Clarks' field," said Roger. "O, I speak for it for my wild garden," cried Helen. "You ought to find one about the end of July, and as that is a long way off you can put off the decision as to where to place it when you transplant it," observed their grandfather dryly. "Mother finds verbenas and 'ten week stocks' useful for cutting," said Margaret. "They're easy to grow and they last a long time and there are always blossoms on them for the house." "Pink?" asked Ethel Blue, her pencil poised until she was assured. "A pretty shade of pink, both of them, and they're low growing, so you can put them forward in the beds after you take out the bulbs that blossomed early." "How are we going to know just when to plant all these things so they'll come out when we want them to?" asked Della, whose city life had limited her gardening experience to a few summers at Chautauqua where they went so late in the season that their flower beds had been planted for them and were already blooming when they arrived. "Study your catalogues, my child," James instructed her. "But they don't always tell," objected Della, who had been looking over several. "That's because the seedsmen sell to people all over the country--people living in all sorts of climates and with all sorts of soils. The best way is to ask the seedsman where you buy your seeds to indicate on the package or in a letter what the sowing time should be for our part of the world." "Then we'll bother Grandfather all we can," threatened Ethel Brown seriously. "He's given us this list in the order of their blossoming--" "More or less," interposed Mr. Emerson. "Some of them over-lap, of course. It's roughly accurate, though." "You can't stick them in a week apart and have them blossom a week apart?" asked Della. "Not exactly. It takes some of them longer to germinate and make ready to bloom than it does others. But of course it's true in a general way that the first to be planted are the first to bloom." "We haven't put in the late ones yet," Ethel Blue reminded Mr. Emerson. "Asters, to begin with. I don't see how there'll be enough room in your small bed to make much of a show with asters. I should put some in, of course, in May, but there's a big opportunity at the new garden to have a splendid exhibition of them. Some asters now are almost as large and as handsome as chrysanthemums--astermums, they call them--and the pink ones are especially lovely." "Put a big 'D' against 'asters,'" advised Roger. "That will mean that there must be a large number put into Dorothy's new garden." "The aster will begin to blossom in August and will continue until light frost and the chrysanthemums will begin a trifle later and will last a little longer unless there is a killing frost." "Can we get blossoms on chrysanthemums the first, year?" asked Margaret, who had not found that true in her experience in her mother's garden. "There are some new kinds that will blossom the first year, the seedsmen promise. I'd like to have you try some of them." "Mother has two or three pink ones--well established plants--that she's going to let us move to the pink bed," said Helen. "The chrysanthemums will end your procession," said Mr. Emerson, "but you mustn't forget to put in some mallow. They are easy to grow and blossom liberally toward the end of the season." "Can we make candy marshmallows out of it?" "You can, but it would be like the Persian insect powder--it would be easier to buy it. But it has a handsome pink flower and you must surely have it on your list." "I remember when Mother used to have the greatest trouble getting cosmos to blossom," said Margaret. "The frost almost always caught it. Now there is a kind that comes before the frost." "Cosmos is a delight at the end of the season," remarked Mr. Emerson. "Almost all the autumn plants are stocky and sturdy, but cosmos is as graceful as a summer plant and as delicate as a spring blossom. You can wind up your floral year with asters and mallow and chrysanthemums and cosmos all blooming at once." "Now for the blue beds," said Tom, excusing himself for looking at his watch on the plea that he and Della had to go back to New York by a comparatively early train. "If you're in a hurry I'll just give you a few suggestions," said Mr. Emerson. "Really blue flowers are not numerous, I suppose you have noticed." "We've decided on ageratum for the border and larkspur and monkshood for the back," said Ethel Brown. "There are blue crocuses and hyacinths and 'baby's breath' for your earliest blossoms, and blue columbines as well as pink and yellow ones! and blue morning glories for your 'climber,' and blue bachelors' buttons and Canterbury bells, and mourning bride, and pretty blue lobelia for low growing plants and blue lupine for a taller growth. If you are willing to depart from real blue into violet you can have heliotrope and violets and asters and pansies and primroses and iris." "The wild flag is fairly blue," insisted Roger, who was familiar with the plants that edged the brook on his grandfather's farm. "It is until you compare it with another moisture lover--forget-me-not." "If Dorothy buys the Clarks' field she can start a colony of flags and forget-me-nots in the stream," suggested James. "Can you remember cineraria? There's a blue variety of that, and one of salpiglossis, which is an exquisite flower in spite of its name." "One of the sweetpea packages is marked 'blue,'" said Roger, "I wonder if it will be a real blue?" "Some of them are pretty near it. Now this isn't a bad list for a rather difficult color," Mr. Emerson went on, looking over Ethel Blue's paper, "but you can easily see that there isn't the variety of the pink list and that the true blues are scarce." "We're going to try it, anyway," returned Helen. "Perhaps we shall run across some others. Now I wrote down for the yellows, yellow crocuses first of all and yellow tulips." "There are many yellow spring flowers and late summer brings goldenrod, so it seems as if the extremes liked the color," said Margaret observantly. "The intermediate season does, too," returned Mr. Emerson. "Daffodils and jonquils are yellow and early enough to suit the most impatient," remarked James. "Who wrote this," asked Mr. Emerson, from whom Ethel Brown inherited her love of poetry: "I wandered lonely as a cloud That floats on high on vales and hills, When all at once I saw a crowd A host of golden daffodils; Beside the lake, beneath the trees, Fluttering and dancing in the breeze." "Wordsworth," cried Ethel Brown. "Wordsworth," exclaimed Tom Watkins in the same breath. "That must mean that daffies grow wild in England," remarked Dorothy. "They do, and we can have something of the same effect here if we plant them through a lawn. The bulbs must be put in like other bulbs, in the autumn. Crocuses may be treated in the same way. Then in the spring they come gleaming through the sod and fill everybody with Wordsworth's delight." "Here's another competition between Helen's wild garden and the color bed; which shall take the buttercups and cowslips?" "Let the wild bed have them," urged Grandfather. "There will be plenty of others for the yellow bed." "We want yellow honeysuckle climbing on the high wire," declared Roger. "Assisted by yellow jessamine?" asked Margaret. "And canary bird vine," contributed Ethel Blue. "And golden glow to cover the fence," added Ethel Brown. "The California poppy is a gorgeous blossom for an edge," said Ethel Blue, "and there are other kinds of poppies that are yellow." "Don't forget the yellow columbines," Dorothy reminded them, "and the yellow snapdragons." "There's a yellow cockscomb as well as a red." "And a yellow verbena." "Being a doctor's son I happen to remember that calendula, which takes the pain out of a cut finger most amazingly, has a yellow flower." "Don't forget stocks and marigolds." "And black-eyed-Susans--rudbeckia--grow very large when they're cultivated." "That ought to go in the wild garden," said Helen. "We'll let you have it," responded Roger generously, "We can put the African daisy in the yellow bed instead." "Calliopsis or coreopsis is one of the yellow plants that the Department of Agriculture Bulletin mentions," said Dorothy. "It tells you just how to plant it and we put in the seeds early on that account." "Gaillardia always reminds me of it a bit--the lemon color," said Ethel Brown. "Only that's stiffer. If you want really, truly prim things try zinnias--old maids." [Illustration: Rudbeckia--Black-eyed Susan] "Zinnias come in a great variety of colors now," reported Mr. Emerson. "A big bowl of zinnias is a handsome sight." "We needn't put any sunflowers into the yellow bed," Dorothy reminded them, "because almost my whole back yard is going to be full of them." "And you needn't plant any special yellow nasturtiums because Mother loves them and she has planted enough to give us flowers for the house, and flowers and leaves for salads and sandwiches, and seeds for pickle to use with mutton instead of capers." "There's one flower you must be sure to have plenty of even if you don't make these colored beds complete," urged Mr. Emerson; "that's the 'chalk-lover,' gypsophila." "What is it?" "The delicate, white blossom that your grandmother always puts among cut flowers. It is feathery and softens and harmonizes the hues of all the rest. 'So warm with light his blended colors flow,' in a bouquet when there's gypsophila in it." "But what a name!" ejaculated Roger. CHAPTER VIII CAVE LIFE The dogwood was in blossom when the girls first established themselves in the cave in the Fitz-James woods. Mrs. Morton and Mrs. Smith thought it was rather too cool, but the girls invited them to come and have afternoon cocoa with them and proved to their satisfaction that the rocks were so sheltered by their position and by the trees that towered above them that it would take a sturdy wind to make them really uncomfortable. Their first duty had been to clean out the cave. "We can pretend that no one ever has lived here since the days when everybody lived in caves," said Ethel Blue, who was always pretending something unusual. "We must be the first people to discover it." "I dare say we are," replied Dorothy. "Uhuh," murmured Ethel Brown, a sound which meant a negative reply. "Here's an old tin can, so we aren't the very first." "It may have been brought here by a wolf," suggested Ethel Blue. "Perhaps it was a werwolf," suggested Dorothy. "What's that?" "A man turned by magic into a wolf but keeping his human feelings. The more I think of it the more I'm sure that it was a werwolf that brought the can here, because, having human feelings, he would know about cans and what they had in them, and being a wolf he would carry it to his lair or den or whatever they call it, to devour it." "Really, Dorothy, you make me uncomfortable!" exclaimed Ethel Blue. "That may be one down there in the field now," continued Dorothy, enjoying her make-believe. The Ethels turned and gazed, each with an armful of trash that she had brought out of the cave. There was, in truth, a figure down in the field beside the brook, and he was leaning over and thrusting a stick into the ground and examining it closely when he drew it out. "That can't be a werwolf," remonstrated Ethel Brown. "That's a man." "Perhaps in the twentieth century wolves turn into men instead of men turning into wolves," suggested Dorothy. "This may be a wolf with a man's shape but keeping the feelings of a wolf, instead of the other way around." "Don't, Dorothy!" remonstrated Ethel Blue again. "He does look like a horrid sort of man, doesn't he?" They all looked at him and wondered what he could be doing in the Miss Clarks' field, but he did not come any nearer to them so they did not have a chance to find out whether he really was as horrid looking as Ethel Blue imagined. It was not a short task to make the cave as clean as the girls wanted it to be. The owner of the tin can had been an untidy person or else his occupation of Fitz-James's rocks had been so long ago that Nature had accumulated a great deal of rubbish. Whichever explanation was correct, there were many armfuls to be removed and then the interior of the cave had to be subjected to a thorough sweeping before the girls' ideas of tidiness were satisfied. They had to carry all the rubbish away to some distance, for it would not do to leave it near the cave to be an eyesore during the happy days that they meant to spend there. It was all done and Roger, who happened along, had made a bonfire for them and consumed all the undesirable stuff, before the two mothers appeared for the promised cocoa and the visit of inspection. The girls at once set about the task of converting them to a belief in the sheltered position of the cave and then they turned their attention to the preparation of the feast. They had brought an alcohol stove that consisted of a small tripod which held a tin of solid alcohol and supported a saucepan. When packing up time came the tripod and the can fitted into the saucepan and the handles folded about it compactly. "We did think at first of having an old stove top that Roger saw thrown away at Grandfather's," Ethel Brown explained. "We could build two brick sides to hold it up and have the stone for a back and leave the front open and run a piece of stove pipe up through that crack in the rocks." Mrs. Morton and Mrs. Smith, who were sitting on a convenient bit of rock just outside the cave, peered in as the description progressed. "Then we could burn wood underneath and regulate the draft by making a sort of blower with some piece of old sheet iron." The mothers made no comment as Ethel Brown seemed not to have finished her account. "Then we thought that perhaps you'd let us have that old oil stove up in the attic. We could set it on this flat rock on this side of the cave." "We thought there might be some danger about that because it isn't very, _very_ large in here, so we finally decided on this alcohol stove. It's safe and it doesn't take up any room and this solid alcohol doesn't slop around and set your dress afire or your table cloth, and we can really cook a good many things on it and the rest we can cook in our own little kitchen and bring over here. If we cover them well they'll still be warm when they get here." "That's a wise decision," assented Mrs. Morton, nodding toward her sister-in-law. "I should be afraid that the stove top arrangement might be like the oil stove--the fuel might fall about and set fire to your frocks." "And it would take up much more space in the cave," suggested Mrs. Smith. "Here's a contribution to your equipment," and she brought out a box of paper plates and cups, and another of paper napkins. "These are fine!" cried Ethel Blue. "They'll save washing." "Here's our idea for furnishing. Do you want to hear it?" asked Dorothy. "Of course we do." "Do you see that flat oblong space there at the back? We're going to fit a box in there. We'll turn it on its side, put hinges and a padlock on the cover to make it into a door, and fix up shelves." "I see," nodded her mother and aunt. "That will be your store cupboard." "And our sideboard and our linen closet, all in one. We're going to make it when we go home this afternoon because we know now what the measurements are and we've got just the right box down in the cellar." "Where do you get the water?" "Roger is cleaning out the spring now and making the basin under it a little larger, so we shall always have fresh spring water." "That's good. I was going to warn you always to boil any water from the brook." "We'll remember." The water for the cocoa was now bubbling in the saucepan. Ethel Blue took four spoonfuls of prepared cocoa, wet it with one spoonful of water and rubbed it smooth. Then she stirred it into a pint of the boiling water and when this had boiled up once she added a pint of milk. When the mixture boiled she took it off at once and served it in the paper cups that her aunt had brought. To go with it Ethel Brown had prepared almond biscuit. They were made by first blanching two ounces of almonds by pouring boiling water on them and then slipping off their brown overcoats. After they had been ground twice over in the meat chopper they were mixed with four tablespoonfuls of flour and one tablespoonful of sugar and moistened with a tablespoonful of milk. When they were thoroughly mixed and rolled thin they were cut into small rounds and baked in a quick oven for ten or fifteen minutes. "These are delicious, my dear," Mrs. Smith said, smiling at her nieces, and the Ethels were greatly pleased at their Aunt Louise's praise. They sat about on the rocks and enjoyed their meal heartily. The birds were busy over their heads, the leaves were beginning to come thickly in the tree crowns and the chipmunks scampered busily about, seeming to be not at all frightened by the coming of these new visitors to their haunts. Dorothy tried to coax one to eat out of her hand. He was curious to try the food that she held out to him and his courage brought him almost within reach of her fingers before it failed and sent him scampering back to his hole, the stripes on his back looking like ribbons as he leaped to safety. Within a month the cave was in excellent working order. The box proved to be a success just as the girls had planned it. They kept there such stores as they did not care to carry back and forth--sugar, salt and pepper, cocoa, crackers--and a supply of eggs, cream-cheese and cookies and milk always fresh. Sometimes when the family thermos bottle was not in use they brought the milk in that and at other times they brought it in an ordinary bottle and let it stand in the hollow below the spring. Glass fruit jars with screw tops preserved all that was entrusted to them free from injury by any marauding animals who might be tempted by the smell to break open the cupboard. These jars the girls placed on the top shelf; on the next they ranged their paper "linen"--which they used for napkins and then as fuel to start the bonfire in which they destroyed all the rubbish left over from their meal. This fire was always small, was made in one spot which Roger had prepared by encircling it with stones, and was invariably put out with a saucepanful of water from the brook. "It never pays to leave a fire without a good dousing," he always insisted. "The rascally thing may be playing 'possum and blaze out later when there is no one here to attend to it." A piece of board which could be moved about at will was used as a table when the weather was such as to make eating inside of the cave desirable. One end was placed on top of the cupboard and the other on a narrow ledge of stone that projected as if made for the purpose. One or two large stones and a box or two served as seats, but there was not room inside for all the members of the Club. When there was a general meeting some had to sit outside. They added to their cooking utensils a few flat saucepans in which water would boil quickly and they made many experiments in cooking vegetables. Beans they gave up trying to cook after several experiments, because they took so long--from one to three hours--for both the dried and the fresh kinds, that the girls felt that they could not afford so much alcohol. They eliminated turnips, too, after they had prodded a frequent fork into some obstinate roots for about three quarters of an hour. Beets were nearly as discouraging, but not quite, when they were young and tender, and the same was true of cabbage. "It's only the infants that we can use in this affair," declared Dorothy after she had replenished the saucepan from another in which she had been heating water for the purpose, over a second alcohol stove that her mother had lent them. Spinach, onions and parsnips were done in half an hour and potatoes in twenty-five minutes. They finally gave up trying to cook vegetables whole over this stove, for they concluded that not only was it necessary to have extremely young vegetables but the size of the cooking utensils must of necessity be too small to have the proceedings a success. They learned one way, however, of getting ahead of the tiny saucepan and the small stove. That was by cutting the corn from the cob and by peeling the potatoes and slicing them very thin before they dropped them into boiling water. Then they were manageable. "Miss Dawson, the domestic science teacher, says that the water you cook any starchy foods in must always be boiling like mad," Ethel Blue explained to her aunt one day when she came out to see how matters were going. "If it isn't the starch is mushy. That's why you mustn't be impatient to put on rice and potatoes and cereals until the water is just bouncing." "Almost all vegetables have some starch," explained Mrs. Morton. "Water _really_ boiling is your greatest friend. When you girls are old enough to drink tea you must remember that boiling water for tea is something more than putting on water in a saucepan or taking it out of a kettle on the stove." "Isn't boiling water boiling water?" asked Roger, who was listening. "There's boiling water _and_ boiling water," smiled his mother. "Water for tea should be freshly drawn so that there are bubbles of air in it and it should be put over the fire at once. When you are waiting for it to boil you should scald your teapot so that its coldness may not chill the hot water when you come to the actual making of the tea." "Do I seem to remember a rule about using one teaspoonful of tea for each person and one for the pot?" asked Tom. "That is the rule for the cheaper grades of tea, but the better grades are so strong that half a teaspoonful for each drinker is enough." "Then it's just as cheap to get tea at a dollar a pound as the fifty cent quality." "Exactly; and the taste is far better. Well, you have your teapot warm and your tea in it waiting, and the minute the water boils vigorously you pour it on the tea." "What would happen if you let it boil a while?" "If you should taste water freshly boiled and water that has been boiling for ten minutes you'd notice a decided difference. One has a lively taste and the other is flat. These qualities are given to the pot of tea of course." "That's all news to me," declared James. "I'm glad to know it." "I used to think 'tea and toast' was the easiest thing in the world to prepare until Dorothy taught me how to make toast when she was fixing invalid dishes for Grandfather after he was hurt in the fire at Chautauqua," said Ethel Brown. "She opened my eyes," and she nodded affectionately at her cousin. "There's one thing we must learn to make or we won't be true campers," insisted Tom. "What is it? I'm game to make it or eat it," responded Roger instantly. "Spider cakes." "Spiders! Ugh!" ejaculated Della daintily. "Hush; a spider is a frying pan," Ethel Brown instructed her. "Tell us how you do them, Tom," she begged. "You use the kind of flour that is called 'prepared flour.' It rises without any fuss." The Ethels laughed at this description, but they recognized the value in camp of a flour that doesn't make any fuss. "Mix a pint of the flour with half a pint of milk. Let your spider get hot and then grease it with butter or cotton seed oil." "Why not lard." "Lard will do the deed, of course, but butter or a vegetable fat always seems to me cleaner," pronounced Tom wisely. "Won't you listen to Thomas!" cried Roger. "How do you happen to know so much?" he inquired amazedly. "I went camping for a whole month once and I watched the cook a lot and since then I've gathered ideas about the use of fat in cooking. As little frying as possible for me, thank you, and no lard in mine!" They smiled at his earnestness, but they all felt the same way, for the girls were learning to approve of delicacy in cooking the more they cooked. "Go ahead with your spider cake," urged Margaret, who was writing down the receipt as Tom gave it. "When your buttered spider is ready you pour in half the mixture you have ready. Spread it smooth over the whole pan, put on a cover that you've heated, and let the cake cook four minutes. Turn it over and let the other side cook for four minutes. You ought to have seen our camp cook turn over his cakes; he tossed them into the air and he gave the pan such a twist with his wrist that the cake came down all turned over and ready to let the good work go on." "What did he do with the other half of his batter?" asked Ethel Brown, determined to know exactly what happened at every stage of proceedings. "When he had taken out the first cake and given it to us he put in the remainder and cooked it while we were attacking the first installment." "Was it good?" "You bet!" "I don't know whether we can do it with this tiny fire, but let's try--what do you say?" murmured Ethel Brown to Ethel Blue. "We ought to have trophies of our bow and spear," Roger suggested when he was helping with the furnishing arrangements. "There aren't any," replied Ethel Brown briefly, "but Dicky has a glass bowl full of tadpoles; we can have those." So the tadpoles came to live in the cave, carried out into the light whenever some one came and remembered to do it, and as some one came almost every day, and as all the U.S.C. members were considerate of the needs and feelings of animals as well as of people, the tiny creatures did not suffer from their change of habitation. Dicky had taken the frogs' eggs from the edge of a pool on his grandfather's farm. They looked like black dots at first. Then they wriggled out of the jelly and took their place in the world as tadpoles. It was an unfailing delight to all the young people, to look at them through a magnifying glass. They had apparently a round head with side gills through which they breathed, and a long tail. After a time tiny legs appeared under what might pass as the chin. Then the body grew longer and another pair of legs made their appearance. Finally the tail was absorbed and the tadpole's transformation into a frog was complete. All this did not take place for many months, however, but through the summer the Club watched the little wrigglers carefully and thought that they could see a difference from week to week. CHAPTER IX "NOTHING BUT LEAVES" When the leaves were well out on the trees Helen held an Observation Class one afternoon, in front of the cave. "How many members of this handsome and intelligent Club know what leaves are for?" she inquired. "As representing in a high degree both the qualities you mention, Madam President," returned Tom, with a bow, "I take upon myself the duty of replying that perhaps you and Roger do because you've studied botany, and maybe Margaret and James do because they've had a garden, and it's possible that the Ethels and Dorothy do inasmuch as they've had the great benefit of your acquaintance, but that Della and I don't know the very first thing about leaves except that spinach and lettuce are good to eat." "Take a good, full breath after that long sentence," advised James. "Go ahead, Helen. I don't know much about leaves except to recognize them when I see them." "Do you know what they're for?" demanded Helen, once again. "I can guess," answered Margaret. "Doesn't the plant breathe and eat through them?" "It does exactly that. It takes up food from water and from the soil by its roots and it gets food and water from the air by its leaves." "Sort of a slender diet," remarked Roger, who was blessed with a hearty appetite. "The leaves give it a lot of food. I was reading in a book on botany the other day that the elm tree in Cambridge, Massachusetts, under which Washington reviewed his army during the Revolution was calculated to have about seven million leaves and that they gave it a surface of about five acres. That's quite a surface to eat with!" "Some mouth!" commented Roger. "If each one of you will pick a leaf you'll have in your hand an illustration of what I say," suggested Helen. [Illustration: Lily of the Valley Leaf] They all provided themselves with leaves, picking them from the plants and shrubs and trees around them, except Ethel Blue, who already had a lily of the valley leaf with some flowers pinned to her blouse. "When a leaf has everything that belongs to it it has a little stalk of its own that is called a _petiole_; and at the foot of the petiole it has two tiny leaflets called _stipules_, and it has what we usually speak of as 'the leaf' which is really the _blade_." They all noted these parts either on their own leaves or their neighbors', for some of their specimens came from plants that had transformed their parts. "What is the blade of your leaf made of?" Helen asked Ethel Brown. "Green stuff with a sort of framework inside," answered Ethel, scrutinizing the specimen in her hand. "What are the characteristics of the framework?" "It has big bones and little ones," cried Della. "Good for Delila! The big bones are called ribs and the fine ones are called veins. Now, will you please all hold up your leaves so we can all see each other's. What is the difference in the veining between Ethel Brown's oak leaf and Ethel Blue's lily of the valley leaf?" [Illustration: Ethel Brown's Oak Leaf] After an instant's inspection Ethel Blue said, "The ribs and veins on my leaf all run the same way, and in the oak leaf they run every which way." "Right," approved Helen again. "The lily of the valley leaf is parallel-veined and the oak leaf is net-veined. Can each one of you decide what your own leaf is?" "I have a blade of grass; it's parallel veined," Roger determined. All the others had net veined specimens, but they remembered that iris and flag and corn and bear-grass--yucca--all were parallel. "Yours are nearly all netted because there are more net-veined leaves than the other kind," Helen told them. "Now, there are two kinds of parallel veining and two kinds of net veining," she went on. "All the parallel veins that you've spoken of are like Ethel Blue's lily of the valley leaf--the ribs run from the stem to the tip--but there's another kind of parallel veining that you see in the pickerel weed that's growing down there in the brook; in that the veins run parallel from a strong midrib to the edge of the leaf." James made a rush down to the brook and came back with a leaf of the pickerel weed and they handed it about and compared it with the lily of the valley leaf. "Look at Ethel Brown's oak leaf," Helen continued. "Do you see it has a big midrib and the other veins run out from it 'every which way' as Ethel Blue said, making a net? Doesn't it remind you of a feather?" They all agreed that it did, and they passed around Margaret's hat which had a quill stuck in the band, and compared it with the oak leaf. "That kind of veining is called pinnate veining from a Latin word that means 'feather,'" explained Helen. "The other kind of net veining is that of the maple leaf." Tom and Dorothy both had maple leaves and they held them up for general observation. "How is it different from the oak veining?" quizzed Helen. "The maple is a little like the palm of your hand with the fingers running out," offered Ethel Brown. "That's it exactly. There are several big ribs starting at the same place instead of one midrib. Then the netting connects all these spreading ribs. That is called _palmate_ veining because it's like the palm of your hand." "Or the web foot of a duck," suggested Dorothy. [Illustration: Tom and Dorothy both had Maple Leaves] "I should think all the leaves that have a feather-shaped framework would be long and all the palm-shaped ones would be fat," guessed Della. "They are, and they have been given names descriptive of their shape. The narrowest kind, with the same width all the way, is called '_linear_.'" "Because it's a line--more or less," cried James. "The next wider, has a point and is called '_lance-shaped_.' The '_oblong_' is like the linear, the same size up and down, but it's much wider than the linear. The '_elliptical_' is what the oblong would be if its ends were prettily tapered off. The apple tree has a leaf whose ellipse is so wide that it is called '_oval_.' Can you guess what '_ovate_' is?" "'Egg-shaped'?" inquired Tom. "That's it; larger at one end than the other, while a leaf that is almost round, is called '_rotund_.'" "Named after Della," observed Della's brother in a subdued voice that nevertheless caught his sister's ear and caused an oak twig to fly in his direction. "There's a lance-shaped leaf that is sharp at the base instead of the point; that's named '_ob-lanceolate_'; and there's one called '_spatulate_' that looks like the spatula that druggists mix things with." [Illustration: Linear Lance-shaped Oblong Elliptical Ovate] "That ought to be rounded at the point and narrow at the base," said the doctor's son. "It is. The lower leaves of the common field daisy are examples. How do you think the botanists have named the shape that is like an egg upside down?" "'_Ob-ovate_', if it's like the other _ob_," guessed Dorothy. "The leaflets that make up the horse-chestnut leaf are '_wedge-shaped_' at the base," Helen reminded them. "Then there are some leaves that have nothing remarkable about their tips but have bases that draw your attention. One is '_heart-shaped_'--like the linden leaf or the morning-glory. Another is '_kidney-shaped_'. That one is wider than it is long." [Illustration: Shield-shaped Oblancolate Spatulate Rotund Crenate Edge] [Illustration: Heart-shaped Kidney-shaped] "The hepatica is kidney-shaped," remarked James. "The '_ear-shaped_' base isn't very common in this part of the world, but there's a magnolia of that form. The '_arrow-shaped_' base you can find in the arrow-weed in the brook. The shape like the old-time weapon, the '_halberd_' is seen in the common sorrel." "That nice, acid-tasting leaf?" "Yes, that's the one. What does the nasturtium leaf remind you of?" "Dicky always says that when the Jack-in-the-Pulpit stops preaching he jumps on the back of a frog and takes a nasturtium leaf for a shield and hops forth to look for adventures," said Roger, to whom Dicky confided many of his ideas when they were working together in the garden. [Illustration: Arrow-shaped Ear-shaped Halberd-shaped] "Dicky is just right," laughed Helen. "That is a '_shield-shaped_' leaf." "Do the tips of the leaves have names?" "Yes. They are all descriptive--'_pointed_,' '_acute_,' '_obtuse_,' '_truncate_,' '_notched_,' and so on," answered Helen. "Did you notice a minute ago that I spoke of the 'leaflet' of a horse-chestnut leaf? What's the difference between a 'leaflet' and a 'leaf'?" "To judge by what you said, a leaflet must be a part of a leaf. One of the five fingers of the horse-chestnut leaf is a leaflet," Della reasoned out in answer. [Illustration: Obtuse Truncated Notched] "Can you think of any other leaves that have leaflets?" "A locust?" "A rose?" [Illustration: Pinnate Pinnate, tendrils Locust Leaf Sweet Pea Leaf] "A sweetpea?" The latter answer-question came from Roger and produced a laugh. "All those are right. The leaves that are made up of leaflets are called '_compound_' leaves, and the ones that aren't compound are '_simple_.'" "Most leaves are simple," decided Ethel Brown. "There are more simple than compound," agreed Helen. "As you recall them do you see any resemblance between the shape of the horse-chestnut leaf and the shape of the rose leaf and anything else we've been talking about this afternoon?" "Helen is just naturally headed for the teaching profession!" exclaimed James in an undertone. Helen flushed. "I do seem to be asking about a million questions, don't I?" she responded good naturedly. "The rose leaf is feather-shaped and the horse-chestnut is palm-shaped," Ethel Blue thought aloud, frowning delicately as she spoke. "They're like those different kinds of veining." "That's it exactly," commended her cousin. "Those leaves are '_pinnately compound_' and '_palmately compound_' according as their leaflets are arranged like a feather or like the palm of your hand. When you begin to notice the edges of leaves you see that there is about every degree of cutting between the margin that is quite smooth and the margin that is so deeply cut that it is almost a compound leaf. It is never a real compound leaf, though, unless the leaflets are truly separate and all belong on one common stalk." "My lily of the valley leaf has a perfectly smooth edge," said Ethel Blue. "That is called '_entire_.' This elm leaf of mine has a '_serrate_' edge with the teeth pointing forward like the teeth of a saw. When they point outward like the spines of a holly leaf they are '_dentate_-'toothed. The border of a nasturtium leaf is '_crenate_' or scalloped. Most honeysuckles have a '_wavy_' margin. When there are sharp, deep notches such as there are on the upper leaves of the field daisy, the edge is called '_cut_.'" "This oak leaf is 'cut,' then." "When the cuts are as deep as those the leaf is '_cleft_.' When they go about half way to the midrib, as in the hepatica, it is '_lobed_' and when they almost reach the midrib as they do in the poppy it is '_parted_.'" [Illustration: Dentate Wavy] "Which makes me think our ways must part if James and I are to get home in time for dinner," said Margaret. "There's our werwolf down in the field again," exclaimed Dorothy, peering through the bushes toward the meadow where a man was stooping and standing, examining what he took up from the ground. "Let's go through the field and see what he's doing," exclaimed Roger. "He's been here so many times he must have some purpose." But when they passed him he was merely looking at a flower through a small magnifying glass. He said "Good-afternoon" to them, and they saw as they looked back, that he kept on with his bending and rising and examination. "He's like us, students of botany," laughed Ethel Blue. "We ought to have asked him to Helen's class this afternoon." "I don't like his looks," Dorothy decided. "He makes me uncomfortable. I wish he wouldn't come here." Roger turned back to take another look and shook his head thoughtfully. "Me neither," he remarked concisely, and then added as if to take the thoughts of the girls off the subject, "Here's a wild strawberry plant for your indoor strawberry bed, Ethel Brown," and launched into the recitation of an anonymous poem he had recently found. "The moon is up, the moon is up! The larks begin to fly, And, like a drowsy buttercup, Dark Phoebus skims the sky, The elephant with cheerful voice, Sings blithely on the spray; The bats and beetles all rejoice, Then let me, too, be gay." CHAPTER X THE U.S.C. AND THE COMMUNITY Roger's interest in gardening had extended far beyond fertilizers and sweetpeas. It was not long after the discussion in which the Mortons' garden had been planned on paper that he happened to mention to the master of the high school, Mr. Wheeler, what the Club was intending to do. Mr. Wheeler had learned to value the enthusiasm and persistency of the U.S.C. members and it did not take him long to decide that he wanted their assistance in putting through a piece of work that would be both pleasant and profitable for the whole community. "It seems queer that here in Rosemont where we are on the very edge of the country there should be any people who do not have gardens," he said to Roger. "There are, though," responded Roger. "I was walking down by the station the other day where those shanties are that the mill hands live in and I noticed that not one of them had space for more than a plant or two and they seemed to be so discouraged at the prospect that even the plant or two wasn't there." "Yet all the children that live in those houses go to our public schools. Now my idea is that we should have a community garden, planted and taken care of by the school children." "Bully!" exclaimed Roger enthusiastically. "Where are you going to get your land?" "That's the question. It ought to be somewhere near the graded school, and there isn't any ploughed land about there. The only vacant land there is is that cheerful spot that used to be the dump." "Isn't that horrible! One corner of it is right behind the house where my aunt Louise lives. Fortunately there's a thick hedge that shuts it off." "Still it's there, and I imagine she'd be glad enough to have it made into a pleasant sight instead of an eyesore." "You mean that the dump might be made into the garden?" "If we can get people like Mrs. Smith who are personally affected by it, and others who have the benefit of the community at heart to contribute toward clearing off the ground and having it fertilized I believe that would be the right place." "You can count on Aunt Louise, I know. She'd be glad to help. Anybody would. Why it would turn that terrible looking spot into almost a park!" "The children would prepare the gardens once the soil was put into something like fair condition, but the first work on that lot is too heavy even for the larger boys." "They could pick up the rubbish on top." "Yes, they could do that, and the town carts could carry it away and burn it. The town would give us the street sweepings all spring and summer and some of the people who have stables would contribute fertilizer. Once that was turned under with the spade and topped off by some commercial fertilizer with a dash of lime to sweeten matters, the children could do the rest." "What is your idea about having the children taught? Will the regular teachers do it?" "All the children have some nature study, and simple gardening can be run into that, our superintendent tells me. Then I know something about gardening and I'll gladly give some time to the outdoor work." "I'd like to help, too," said Roger unassumingly, "if you think I know enough." "If you're going to have a share in planting and working three gardens I don't see why you can't keep sufficiently ahead of the children to be able to show them what to do. We'd be glad to have your help," and Mr. Wheeler shook hands cordially with his new assistant. Roger was not the only member of his family interested in the new plan. His Grandfather was public-spirited and at a meeting of citizens called for the purpose of proposing the new community venture he offered money, fertilizer, seeds, and the services of a man for two days to help in the first clearing up. Others followed his example, one citizen giving a liberal sum of money toward the establishment of an incinerator which should replace in part the duties of the dump, and another heading a subscription list for the purchase of a fence which should keep out stray animals and boys whose interests might be awakened at the time the vegetables ripened rather than during the days of preparation and backache. Mrs. Smith answered her nephew's expectations by adding to the fund. The town contributed the lot, and supported the new work generously in more than one way. When it came to the carrying out of details Mr. Wheeler made further demands upon the Club. He asked the boys to give some of their Saturday time to spreading the news of the proposed garden among the people who might contribute and also the people who might want to have their children benefit by taking the new "course of study." Although James and Tom did not live in Rosemont they were glad to help and for several Saturdays the Club tramps were utilized as a means of spreading the good news through the outskirts of the town. The girls were placed among the workers when the day came to register the names of the children who wanted to undertake the plots. There were so many of them that there was plenty to do for both the Ethels and for Dorothy and Helen, who assisted Mr. Wheeler. The registration was based on the catalogue plan. For each child there was a card, and on it the girls wrote his name and address, his grade in school and a number corresponding to the number of one of the plots into which the big field was divided. It did not take him long to understand that on the day when the garden was to open he was to hunt up his plot and that after that he and his partner were to be responsible for everything that happened to it. Two boys or two girls were assigned to each plot but more children applied than there were plots to distribute. The Ethels were disturbed about this at first for it seemed a shame that any one who wanted to make a garden should not have the opportunity. Helen reminded them, however, that there might be some who would find their interest grow faint when the days grew hot and long and the weeds seemed to wax tall at a faster rate than did the desirable plants. "When some of these youngsters fall by the wayside we can supply their places from the waiting list," she said. "There won't be so many fall by the wayside if there is a waiting list," prophesied her Aunt Louise who had come over to the edge of the ground to see how popular the new scheme proved to be. "It's human nature to want to stick if you think that some one else is waiting to take your place." The beds were sixteen feet long and five feet wide and a path ran all around. This permitted every part of the bed to be reached by hand, and did away with the necessity of stepping on it. It was decreed that all the plots were to be edged with flowers, but the workers might decide for themselves what they should be. The planters of the first ten per cent. of the beds that showed seedlings were rewarded by being allowed the privilege of planting the vines and tall blossoming plants that were to cover the inside of the fence. Most of the plots were given over to vegetables, even those cared for by small children, for the addition of a few extras to the family table was more to be desired than the bringing home of a bunch of flowers, but even the most provident children had the pleasure of picking the white candytuft or blue ageratum, or red and yellow dwarf nasturtiums that formed the borders. Once a week each plot received a visit from some one qualified to instruct the young farmer and the condition of the plot was indicated on his card. Here, too, and on the duplicate card which was filed in the schoolhouse, the child's attendance record was kept, and also the amount of seed he used and the extent of the crop he harvested. In this way the cost of each of the little patches was figured quite closely. As it turned out, some of the children who were not blessed with many brothers and sisters, sold a good many dimes' worth of vegetables in the course of the summer. "This surely is a happy sight!" exclaimed Mr. Emerson to his wife as he passed one day and stopped to watch the children at work, some, just arrived, getting their tools from the toolhouse in one corner of the lot, others already hard at work, some hoeing, some on their knees weeding, all as contented as they were busy. "Come in, come in," urged Mr. Wheeler, who noticed them looking over the fence. "Come in and see how your grandson's pupils are progressing." The Emersons were eager to accept the invitation. "Here is the plan we've used in laying out the beds," explained Mr. Wheeler, showing them a copy of a Bulletin issued by the Department of Agriculture. "Roger and I studied over it a long time and we came to the conclusion that we couldn't better this. This one is all vegetables, you see, and that has been chosen by most of the youngsters. Some of the girls, though, wanted more flowers, so they have followed this one." [Illustration: Plan of a vegetable Plan of a combined school garden vegetable and flower school garden] "This vegetable arrangement is the one I've followed at home," said Roger, "only mine is larger. Dicky's garden is just this size." "Would there be any objection to my offering a small prize?" asked Mr. Emerson. "None at all." "Then I'd like to give some packages of seeds--as many as you think would be suitable--to the partners who make the most progress in the first month." "And I'd like to give a bundle of flower seeds to the border that is in the most flourishing condition by the first of August," added Mrs. Emerson. "And the United Service Club would like to give some seeds for the earliest crop of vegetables harvested from any plot," promised Roger, taking upon himself the responsibility of the offer which he was sure the other members would confirm. Mr. Wheeler thanked them all and assured them that notice of the prizes would be given at once so that the competition might add to the present enthusiasm. "Though it would be hard to do that," he concluded, smiling with satisfaction. "No fair planting corn in the kitchen and transplanting it the way I'm doing at home," decreed Roger, enlarging his stipulations concerning the Club offer. "I understand; the crop must be raised here from start to finish," replied Mr. Wheeler. The interest of the children in the garden and of their parents and the promoters in general in the improvement that they had made in the old town dump was so great that the Ethels were inspired with an idea that would accomplish even more desirable changes. The suggestion was given at one of the Saturday meetings of the Club. "You know how horrid the grounds around the railroad station are," Ethel Blue reminded them. "There's some grass," objected Roger. "A tiny patch, and right across the road there are ugly weeds. I think that if we put it up to the people of Rosemont right now they'd be willing to do something about making the town prettier by planting in a lot of conspicuous places." "Where besides the railroad station?" inquired Helen. "Can you ask? Think of the Town Hall! There isn't a shrub within a half mile." "And the steps of the high school," added Ethel Brown. "You go over them every day for ten months, so you're so accustomed to them that you don't see that they're as ugly as ugly. They ought to have bushes planted at each side to bank them from sight." "I dare say you're right," confessed Helen, while Roger nodded assent and murmured something about Japan ivy. "Some sort of vine at all the corners would be splendid," insisted Ethel Brown. "Ethel Blue and Dorothy and I planted Virginia Creeper and Japan ivy and clematis wherever we could against the graded school building; didn't we tell you? The principal said we might; he took the responsibility and we provided the plants and did the planting." "He said he wished we could have some rhododendrons and mountain laurel for the north side of the building, and some evergreen azalea bushes, but he didn't know where we'd get them, because he had asked the committee for them once and they had said that they were spending all their money on the inside of the children's heads and that the outside of the building would have to look after itself." "That's just the spirit the city fathers have been showing about the park. They've actually got that started, though," said Roger gratefully. "They're doing hardly any work on it; I went by there yesterday," reported Dorothy. "It's all laid out, and I suppose they've planted grass seed for there are places that look as if they might be lawns in the dim future." "Too bad they couldn't afford to sod them," remarked James, wisely. "If they'd set out clumps of shrubs at the corners and perhaps put a carpet of pansies under them it would help," declared Ethel Blue, who had consulted with the Glen Point nurseryman one afternoon when the Club went there to see Margaret and James. "Why don't we make a roar about it?" demanded Roger. "Ethel Blue had the right idea when she said that now was the time to take advantage of the citizens' interest. If we could in some way call their attention to the high school and the Town Hall and the railroad station and the park." "And tell them that the planting at the graded school as far as it goes, was done by three little girls," suggested Tom, grinning at the disgusted faces with which the Ethels and Dorothy heard themselves called "little girls"; "that ought to put them to shame." "Isn't the easiest way to call their attention to it to have a piece in the paper?" asked Ethel Brown. "You've hit the right idea," approved James. "If your editor is like the Glen Point editor he'll be glad of a new crusade to undertake." "Particularly if it's backed by your grandfather," added Della shrewdly. The result of this conference of the Club was that they laid the whole matter before Mr. Emerson and found that it was no trouble at all to enlist his interest. "If you're interested right off why won't other people be?" asked Ethel Brown when it was clear that her grandfather would lend his weight to anything they undertook. "I believe they will be, and I think you have the right idea about making a beginning. Go to Mr. Montgomery, the editor of the Rosemont _Star_, and say that I sent you to lay before him the needs of this community in the way of added beauty. Tell him to 'play it up' so that the Board of Trade will get the notion through their heads that people will be attracted to live here if they see lovely grounds about them. He'll think of other appeals. Go to see him." The U.S.C. never let grass grow under its feet. The Ethels and Dorothy, Roger and Helen went to the office of the _Star_ that very afternoon. "You seem to be a delegation," said the editor, receiving them with a smile. "We represent our families, who are citizens of Rosemont," answered Roger, "and who want your help, and we also represent the United Service Club which is ready to help you help them." "I know you!" responded Mr. Montgomery genially. "Your club is well named. You've already done several useful things for Rosemont people and institutions. What is it now?" Roger told him to the last detail, even quoting Tom's remark about the "three little girls," and adding some suggestions about town prizes for front door yards which the Ethels had poured into his ears as they came up the stairs. While he was talking the editor made some notes on a pad lying on his desk. The Ethels were afraid that that meant that he was not paying much attention, and they glanced at each other with growing disappointment. When Roger stopped, however, Mr. Montgomery nodded gravely. "I shall be very glad indeed to lend the weight of the _Star_ toward the carrying out of your proposition," he remarked, seeming not to notice the bounce of delight that the younger girls could not resist. "What would you think of a series of editorials, each striking a different note?" and he read from his pad;--Survey of Rosemont; Effect of Appearance of Railroad Station, Town Hall, etc., on Strangers; Value of Beauty as a Reinforcement to Good Roads and Good Schools. "That is, as an extra attraction for drawing new residents," he explained. "We have good roads and good schools, but I can conceive of people who might say that they would have to be a lot better than they are before they'd live in a town where the citizens had no more idea of the fitness of things than to have a dump heap almost in the heart of the town and to let the Town Hall look like a jail." The listening party nodded their agreement with the force of this argument. "'What Three Little Girls Have Done,'" read Mr. Montgomery. "I'll invite any one who is interested to take a look at the graded schoolhouse and see how much better it looks as a result of what has been accomplished there. I know, because I live right opposite it, and I'm much obliged to you young ladies." He bowed so affably in the direction of the Ethels and Dorothy, and "young ladies" sounded so pleasantly in their ears that they were disposed to forgive him for the "little girls" of his title. "I have several other topics here," he went on, "some appealing to our citizens' love of beauty and some to their notions of commercial values. If we keep this thing up every day for a week and meanwhile work up sentiment, I shouldn't wonder if we had some one calling a public meeting at the end of the week. If no one else does I'll do it myself," he added amusedly. "What can we do?" asked Ethel Brown, who always went straight to the practical side. "Stir up sentiment. You stirred your grandfather; stir all your neighbors; talk to all your schoolmates and get them to talk at home about the things you tell them. I'll send a reporter to write up a little 'story' about the U.S.C. with a twist on the end that the grown-ups ought not to leave a matter like this for youngsters to handle, no matter how well they would do it." "But we'd like to handle it," stammered Ethel Blue. "You'll have a chance; you needn't be afraid of that. The willing horse may always pull to the full extent of his strength. But the citizens of Rosemont ought not to let a public matter like this be financed by a few kids," and Mr. Montgomery tossed his notebook on his desk with a force that hinted that he had had previous encounters with an obstinate element in his chosen abiding place. The scheme that he had outlined was followed out to the letter, with additions made as they occurred to the ingenious minds of the editor or of his clever young reporters who took an immense delight in running under the guise of news items, bits of reminder, gentle gibes at slowness, bland comments on ignorance of the commercial value of beauty, mild jokes at letting children do men's work. It was all so good-natured that no one took offence, and at the same time no one who read the _Star_ had the opportunity to forget that seed had been sown. It germinated even more promptly than Mr. Montgomery had prophesied. He knew that Mr. Emerson stood ready to call a mass meeting at any moment that he should tell him that the time was ripe, but both he and Mr. Emerson thought that the call might be more effective if it came from a person who really had been converted by the articles in the paper. This person came to the front but five days after the appearance of the first editorial in the surprising person of the alderman who had been foremost in opposing the laying out of the park. "You may think me a weathercock," he said rather sheepishly to Mr. Montgomery, "but when I make up my mind that a thing is desirable I put my whole strength into putting it through. When I finally gave my vote for the park I was really converted to the park project and I tell you I've been just frothing because the other aldermen have been so slow about putting it in order. I haven't been able to get them to appropriate half enough for it." Mr. Montgomery smothered a smile, and listened, unruffled, to his caller's proposal. "My idea now," he went on, "is to call a mass meeting in the Town Hall some day next week, the sooner the better. I'll be the chairman or Mr. Emerson or you, I don't care who it is. We'll put before the people all the points you've taken up in your articles. We'll get people who understand the different topics to talk about them--some fellow on the commercial side and some one else on the beauty side and so on; and we'll have the Glen Point nurseryman--" "We ought to have one over here," interposed Mr. Montgomery." "We will if this goes through. There's a new occupation opened here at once by this scheme! We'll have him give us a rough estimate of how much it would cost to make the most prominent spots in Rosemont look decent instead of like a deserted ranch," exclaimed the alderman, becoming increasingly enthusiastic. "I don't know that I'd call Rosemont that," objected the editor. "People don't like to have their towns abused too much; but if you can work up sentiment to have those public places fixed up and then you can get to work on some sort of plan for prizes for the prettiest front yards and the best grown vines over doors and-so on, and raise some competitive feeling I believe we'll have no more trouble than we did about the school gardens. It just takes some one to start the ball rolling, and you're the person to do it," and tactful Mr. Montgomery laid an approving hand on the shoulder of the pleased alderman. If it had all been cut and dried it could not have worked out better. The meeting was packed with citizens who proved to be so full of enthusiasm that they did not stand in need of conversion. They moved, seconded and passed resolution after resolution urging the aldermen to vote funds for improvements and they mentioned spots in need of improvement and means of improving them that U.S.C. never would have had the courage to suggest. "We certainly are indebted to you young people for a big move toward benefiting Rosemont," said Mr. Montgomery to the Club as he passed the settee where they were all seated together. "It's going to be one of the beauty spots of New Jersey before this summer is over!" "And the Ethels are the authors of the ideal" murmured Tom Watkins, applauding silently, as the girls blushed. CHAPTER XI THE FLOWER FESTIVAL The Idea of having a town flower-costume party was the Ethels', too. It came to them when contributions were beginning to flag, just as they discovered that the grounds around the fire engine house were a disgrace to a self-respecting community, as their emphatic friend, the alderman, described them. "People are always willing to pay for fun," Ethel Brown said, "and this ought to appeal to them because the money that is made by the party will go back to them by being spent for the town." Mrs. Morton and Mrs. Emerson and Mrs. Smith thought the plan was possible, and they offered to enlist the interest of the various clubs and societies to which they belonged. The schools were closed now so that there was no opportunity of advertising the entertainment through the school children, but all the clergymen co-operated heartily in every way in their power and Mr. Montgomery gave the plan plenty of free advertising, not only in the advertising columns but through the means of reading notices which his reporters prepared with as much interest and skill as they had shown in working up public opinion on the general improvement scheme. "It must be in the school house hall so everybody will go," declared Helen. "Why not use the hall and the grounds, too?" inquired Ethel Blue. "If it's a fine evening there are various things that would be prettier to have out of doors than indoors." "The refreshments, for instance," explained Ethel Brown. "Every one would rather eat his ice cream and cake at a table on the lawn in front of the schoolhouse than inside where it may be stuffy if it happens to be a warm night." "Lanterns on the trees and candles on each table would make light enough," decided Ethel Blue. "There could be a Punch and Judy show in a tent at the side of the schoolhouse," suggested Dorothy. "What is there flowery about a Punch and Judy show?" asked Roger scornfully. "Nothing at all," returned Dorothy meekly, "but for some reason or other people always like a Punch and Judy show." "Where are we going to get a tent?" "A tent would be awfully warm," Ethel Brown decided. "Why couldn't we have it in the corner where there is a fence on two sides? We could lace boughs back and forth between the palings and make the fence higher, and on the other two sides borrow or buy some wide chicken wire from the hardware store and make that eye-proof with branches." "And string an electric light wire over them. I begin to get enthusiastic," cried Roger. "We could amuse, say, a hundred people at a time at ten cents apiece, in the side-show corner and keep them away from the other more crowded regions." "Exactly," agreed Dorothy; "and if you can think of any other side show that the people will like better than Punch and Judy, why, put it in instead." "We might have finger shadows--rabbits' and dogs' heads and so on; George Foster does them splendidly, and then have some one recite and some one else do a monologue in costume." "Aren't we going to have that sort of thing inside?" "I suppose so, but if your idea is to give more space inside, considering that all Rosemont is expected to come to this festivity, we might as well have a performance in two rings, so to speak." "Especially as some of the people might be a little shy about coming inside," suggested Dorothy. "Why not forget Punch and Judy and have the same performance exactly in both places?" demanded Roger, quite excited with his idea. "The Club gives a flower dance, for instance, in the hall; then they go into the yard and give it there in the ten cent enclosure while number two of the program is on the platform inside. When number two is done inside it is put on outside, and so right through the whole performance." "That's not bad except that the outside people are paying ten cents to see the show and the inside people aren't paying anything." "Well, then, why not have the tables where you sell things--if you are going to have any?"-- "We are," Helen responded to the question in her brother's voice. "--have your tables on the lawn, and have everybody pay to see the performance--ten cents to go inside or ten cents to see the same thing in the enclosure?" "That's the best yet," decided Ethel Brown. "That will go through well if only it is pleasant weather." "I feel in my bones it will be," and Ethel Blue laughed hopefully. The appointed day was fair and not too warm. The whole U.S.C. which went on duty at the school house early in the day, pronounced the behavior of the weather to be exactly what it ought to be. The boys gave their attention to the arrangement of the screen of boughs in the corner of the school lot, and the girls, with Mrs. Emerson, Mrs. Morton and Mrs. Smith, decorated the hall. Flowers were to be sold everywhere, both indoors and out, so there were various tables about the room and they all had contributed vases of different sorts to hold the blossoms. "I must say, I don't think these look pretty a bit," confessed Dorothy, gazing with her head on one side at a large bowl of flowers of all colors that she had placed in the middle of one of the tables. Her mother looked at it and smiled. "Don't try to show off your whole stock at once," she advised. "Have a few arranged in the way that shows them to the best advantage and let Ethel Blue draw a poster stating that there are plenty more behind the scenes. Have your supply at the back or under the table in large jars and bowls and replenish your vases as soon as you sell their contents." The Ethels and Dorothy thought this was a sensible way of doing things and said so, and Ethel Blue at once set about the preparation of three posters drawn on brown wrapping paper and showing a girl holding a flower and saying "We have plenty more like this. Ask for them." They proved to be very pretty and were put up in the hall and the outside enclosure and on the lawn. "There are certain kinds of flowers that should always be kept low," explained Mrs. Smith as they all sorted over the cut flowers that had been contributed. "Flowers that grow directly from the ground like crocuses or jonquils or daffodils or narcissus--the spring bulbs--should be set into flat bowls through netting that will hold them upright. There are bowls sold for this purpose." "Don't they call them 'pansy bowls'?" "I have heard them called that. Some of them have a pierced china top; others have a silver netting. You can make a top for a bowl of any size by cutting chicken wire to suit your needs." "I should think a low-growing plant like ageratum would be pretty in a vase of that sort." "It would, and pansies, of course, and anemones--windflowers--held upright by very fine netting and nodding in every current of air as if they were still in the woods." "I think I'll make a covering for a glass bowl we have at home," declared Ethel Brown, who was diligently snipping ends of stems as she listened. "A glass bowl doesn't seem to me suitable," answered her aunt. "Can you guess why?" Ethel Brown shook her head with a murmured "No." It was Della who offered an explanation. "The stems aren't pretty enough to look at," she suggested. "When you use a glass bowl or vase the stems you see through it ought to be graceful." "I think so," responded Mrs. Smith. "That's why we always take pleasure in a tall slender glass vase holding a single rose with a long stem still bearing a few leaves. We get the effect that it gives us out of doors." "That's what we like to see," agreed Mrs. Morton. "Narcissus springing from a low bowl is an application of the same idea. So are these few sprays of clematis waving from a vase made to hang on the wall. They aren't crowded; they fall easily; they look happy." "And in a room you would select a vase that would harmonize with the coloring," added Margaret, who was mixing sweetpeas in loose bunches with feathery gypsophila. "When we were in Japan Dorothy and I learned something about the Japanese notions of flower arrangement," continued Mrs. Smith. "They usually use one very beautiful dominating blossom. If others are added they are not competing for first place but they act as helpers to add to the beauty of the main attraction." "We've learned some of the Japanese ways," said Mrs. Emerson. "I remember when people always made a bouquet perfectly round and of as many kinds of flowers as they could put into it." "People don't make 'bouquets' now; they gather a 'bunch of flowers,' or they give you a single bloom," smiled her daughter. "But isn't it true that we get as much pleasure out of a single superb chrysanthemum or rose as we do out of a great mass of them?" "There are times when I like masses," admitted Mrs. Emerson. "I like flowers of many kinds if the colors are harmoniously arranged, and I like a mantelpiece banked with the kind of flowers that give you pleasure when you see them in masses in the garden or the greenhouse." "If the vases they are in don't show," warned Mrs. Smith. Mrs. Emerson agreed to that. "The choice of vases is almost as important as the choice of flowers," she added. "If the stems are beautiful they ought to show and you must have a transparent vase, as you said about the rose. If the stems are not especially worthy of admiration the better choice is an opaque vase of china or pottery." "Or silver or copper?" questioned Margaret. "Metals and blossoms never seem to me to go well together," confessed Mrs. Emerson. "I have seen a copper cup with a bunch of violets loosely arranged so that they hung over the edge and the copper glinted through the blossoms and leaves and the effect was lovely; but flowers to be put into metal must be chosen with that in mind and arranged with especial care." "Metal _jardinières_ don't seem suitable to me, either," confessed Mrs. Emerson. "There are so many beautiful potteries now that it is possible to something harmonious for every flowerpot." "You don't object to a silver centrepiece on the dining table, do you?" "That's the only place where it doesn't seem out of place," smiled Mrs. Emerson. "There are so many other pieces of silver on the table that it is merely one of the articles of table equipment and therefore is not conspicuous. Not a standing vase, mind you!" she continued. "I don't know anything more irritating than to have to dodge about the centrepiece to see your opposite neighbor. It's a terrible bar to conversation." They all had experienced the same discomfort, and they all laughed at the remembrance. "A low bowl arranged flat is the rule for centrepieces," repeated Mrs. Emerson seriously. "Mother always says that gay flowers are the city person's greatest help in brightening up a dark room," said Della as she laid aside all the calliopsis from the flowers she was sorting. "I'm going to take a bunch of this home to her to-night." "I always have yellow or white or pink flowers in the dark corner of our sitting room," said Mrs. Smith. "The blue ones or the deep red ones or the ferns may have the sunny spots." "Father insists on yellow blossoms of some kind in the library," added Mrs. Emerson. "He says they are as good as another electric light to brighten the shadowy side where the bookcases are." "I remember seeing a gay array of window boxes at Stratford-on-Avon, once upon a time," contributed Mrs. Morton. "It was a sunshiny day when I saw them, but they were well calculated to enliven the very grayest weather that England can produce. I was told that the house belonged to Marie Corelli, the novelist." "What plants did she have?" asked Dorothy. "Blue lobelia and scarlet geraniums and some frisky little yellow bloom; I couldn't see exactly what it was." "Red and yellow and blue," repeated Ethel Brown. "Was it pretty?" "Very. Plenty of each color and all the boxes alike all over the front of the house." "We shouldn't need such vividness under our brilliant American skies," commented Mrs. Smith. "Plenty of green with flowers of one color makes a window box in the best of taste, to my way of thinking." "And that color one that is becoming to the house, so to speak," smiled Helen. "I saw a yellow house the other day that had yellow flowers in the window boxes. They were almost extinguished by their background." "I saw a white one in Glen Point with white daisies, and the effect was the same," added Margaret. "The poor little flowers were lost. There are ivies and some small evergreen shrubs that the greenhouse-men raise especially for winter window boxes now. I've been talking a lot with the nurseryman at Glen Point and he showed me some the other day that he warranted to keep fresh-looking all through the cold weather unless there were blizzards." "We must remember those at Sweetbrier Lodge," Mrs. Smith said to Dorothy. "Why don't you give a talk on arranging flowers as part of the program this evening?" Margaret asked Mrs. Smith. "Do, Aunt Louise. You really ought to," urged Helen, and the Ethels added their voices. "Give a short talk and illustrate it by the examples the girls have been arranging," Mrs. Morton added, and when Mrs. Emerson said that she thought the little lecture would have real value as well as interest Mrs. Smith yielded. "Say what you and Grandmother have been telling us and you won't need to add another thing," cried Helen. "I think it will be the very best number on the program." "I don't believe it will compete with the side show in the yard," laughed Mrs. Smith, "but I'm quite willing to do it if you think it will give any one pleasure." "But you'll be part of the side show in the yard," and they explained the latest plan of running the program. When the flowers had all been arranged to their satisfaction the girls went into the yard where they found the tables and chairs placed for the serving of the refreshments. The furniture had been supplied by the local confectioner who was to furnish the ice cream and give the management a percentage of what was received. The cake was all supplied by the ladies of the town and the money obtained from its sale was clear profit. The girls covered the bleakness of the plain tables by placing a centrepiece of radiating ferns flat on the wood. On that stood a small vase, each one having flowers of but one color, and each one having a different color. Under the trees among the refreshment tables, but not in their way, were the sales tables. On one, cut flowers were to be sold; on another, potted plants, and a special corner was devoted to wild plants from the woods. A seedsman had given them a liberal supply of seeds to sell on commission, agreeing to take back all that were not sold and to contribute one per cent. more than he usually gave to his sales people, "for the good of the cause." Every one in the whole town who raised vegetables had contributed to the Housewives' Table, and as the names of the donors were attached the table had all the attraction of an exhibit at a county fair and was surrounded all the time by so many men that the women who bought the vegetables for home use had to be asked to come back later to get them, so that the discussion of their merits among their growers might continue with the specimens before them. "That's a hint for another year," murmured Ethel Blue to Ethel Brown. "We can have a make-believe county fair and charge admission, and give medals--" "Of pasteboard." "Exactly. I'm glad we thought to have a table of the school garden products; all the parents will be enormously interested. It will bring them here, and they won't be likely to go away without: spending nickel or a dime on ice cream." A great part of the attractiveness of the grounds was due to the contribution of a dealer in garden furniture. In return for being allowed to put up advertisements of his stock in suitable places where they would not be too conspicuous, he furnished several artistic settees, an arbor or two and a small pergola, which the Glen Point greenhouseman decorated in return for a like use of his advertising matter. Still another table, under the care of Mrs. Montgomery, the wife of the editor, showed books on flowers and gardens and landscape gardening and took subscriptions for several of the garden and home magazines. Last of all a fancy table was covered with dolls and paper dolls dressed like the participants in the floral procession that was soon to form and pass around the lawn; lamp shades in the form of huge flowers; hats, flower-trimmed; and half a hundred other small articles including many for ten, fifteen and twenty-five cents to attract the children. At five o'clock the Flower Festival was opened and afternoon tea was served to the early comers. All the members of the United Service Club and the other boys and girls of the town who helped them wore flower costumes. It was while the Ethels were serving Mrs. Smith and the Miss Clarks that the latter called their attention to a man who sat at a table not far away. "That man is your rival," they announced, smiling, to Mrs. Smith. "My rival! How is that?" inquired Mrs. Smith. "He wants to buy the field." They all exclaimed and looked again at the man who sat quietly eating his ice cream as if he had no such dreadful intentions. The Ethels, however, recognized him as he pushed back a lock of hair that fell over his forehead. "Why, that's our werwolf!" they exclaimed after taking a good look at him, and they explained how they had seen him several times in the field, always digging a stick into the ground and examining what it brought up. "He says he's a botanist, and he finds so much to interest him in the field that he wants to buy it so that he may feel free to work there," said Miss Clark the younger. "That's funny," commented Ethel Blue. "He almost never looks at any flowers or plants. He just pokes his stick in and that's all." "He offered us a considerable sum for the property but we told him that you had an option on it, Mrs. Smith, and we explained that we couldn't give title anyway." "Did his interest seem to fail?" "He asked us a great many questions and we told him all about our aunt and the missing cousin. I thought you might be interested to know that some one else besides yourself sees some good in the land." "It's so queer," said the other Miss Clark. "That land has never had an offer made for it and here we have two within a few weeks of each other." "And we can't take advantage of either of them!" The Ethels noticed later on that the man was joined by a girl about their own age. They looked at her carefully so that they would recognize her again if they saw her, and they also noticed that the werwolf, as he talked to her, so often pushed back from his forehead the lock of hair that fell over it that it had become a habit. The full effect of the flower costumes was seen after the lanterns were lighted, when some of the young married women attended to the tables while their youngers marched around the lawn that all might see the costumes and be attracted to the entertainment in the hall and behind the screen in the open. Roger led the procession, impersonating "Spring." "That's a new one to me," ejaculated the editor of the _Star_ in surprise. "I always thought 'Spring' was of the feminine gender." "Not this year," returned Roger merrily as he passed by. He was dressed like a tree trunk in a long brown cambric robe that fitted him closely and gave him at the foot only the absolute space that he needed for walking. He carried real apple twigs almost entirely stripped of their leaves and laden with blossoms made of white and pink paper. The effect was of a generously flowering apple tree and every one recognized it. Behind Roger came several of the spring blossoms--the Ethels first, representing the yellow crocus and the violet. Ethel Brown wore a white dress covered with yellow gauze sewn with yellow crocuses. A ring of crocuses hung from its edge and a crocus turned upside down made a fascinating cap. All the flowers were made of tissue paper. Ethel Blue's dress was fashioned in the same way, her violet gauze being covered with violets and her cap a tiny lace affair with a violet border. In her case she was able to use many real violets and to carry a basket of the fresh flowers. The contents was made up of small bunches of buttonhole size and she stepped from the procession at almost every table to sell a bunch to some gentleman sitting there. A scout kept the basket always full. Sturdy James made a fine appearance in the spring division in the costume of a red and yellow tulip. He wore long green stockings and a striped tulip on each leg constituted his breeches. Another, with the points of the petals turning upwards, made his jacket, and yet another, a small one, upside down, served as a cap. James had been rather averse to appearing in this costume because Margaret had told him he looked bulbous and he had taken it seriously, but he was so applauded that he came to the conclusion that it was worth while to be a bulb if you could be a good one. Helen led the group of summer flowers. As "Summer" she wore bunches of all the flowers in the garden, arranged harmoniously as in one of the old-fashioned bouquets her grandmother had spoken of in the morning. It had been a problem to keep all these blossoms fresh for it would not be possible for her to wear artificial flowers. The Ethels had found a solution, however, when they brought home one day from the drug store several dozen tiny glass bottles. Around the neck of each they fastened a bit of wire and bent it into a hook which fitted into an eye sewed on to the old but pretty white frock which Helen was sacrificing to the good cause. After she had put on the dress each one of these bottles was fitted with its flowers which had been picked some time before and revived in warm water and salt so that they would not wilt. "These bottles make me think of a story our French teacher told us once," Helen laughed as she stood carefully to be made into a bouquet. "There was a real Cyrano de Bergerac who lived in the 17th century. He told a tale supposed to be about his own adventures in which he said that once he fastened about himself a number of phials filled with dew. The heat of the sun attracted them as it does the clouds and raised him high in the air. When he found that he was not going to alight on the moon as he had thought, he broke some of the phials and descended to earth again." "What a ridiculous story," laughed Ethel Blue, kneeling at Helen's feet with a heap of flowers beside her on the floor. "The rest of it is quite as foolish. When he landed on the earth again he found that the sun was still shining, although according to his calculation it ought to be midnight; and he also did not recognize the place he dropped upon in spite of the fact that he had apparently gone straight up and fallen straight down. Strange people surrounded him and he had difficulty in making himself understood. After a time he was taken before an official from whom he learned that on account of the rotation of the earth under him while he was in the air, although he had risen when but two leagues from Paris he had descended in Canada." The younger girls laughed delightedly at this absurd tale, as they worked at their task. Bits of trailing vine fell from glass to glass so that none of the holders showed, but a delicate tinkling sounded from them like the water of a brook. "This gown of yours is certainly successful," decided Margaret, surveying the result of the Ethels' work, "but I dare say it isn't comfortable, so you'd better have another one that you can slip into behind the scenes after you've made the rounds in this." Helen took the advice and after the procession had passed by, she put on a pretty flowered muslin with pink ribbons. Dorothy walked immediately behind Helen. She was dressed like a garden lily, her petals wired so that they turned out and up at the tips. She wore yellow stockings and slippers as a reminder of the anthers or pollen boxes on the ends of the stamens of the lilies. Dicky's costume created as much sensation as Roger's. He was a Jack-in-the-Pulpit. A suit of green striped in two shades fitted him tightly, and over his head he carried his pulpit, a wire frame covered with the same material of which his clothes were made. The shape was exact and he looked so grave as he peered forth from his shelter that his appearance was saluted with hearty hand clapping. Several of the young people of the town followed in the Summer division. One of them was a fleur-de-lis, wearing a skirt of green leaf blades and a bodice representing the purple petals of the blossom. George Foster was monkshood, a cambric robe--a "domino"--serving to give the blue color note, and a very correct imitation of the flower's helmet answering the purpose of a head-dress. Gregory Patton was Grass, and achieved one of the successful costumes of the line with a robe that rippled to the ground, green cambric its base, completely covered with grass blades. "That boy ought to have a companion dressed like a haycock," laughed Mr. Emerson as Gregory passed him. Margaret led the Autumn division, her dress copied from a chestnut tree and burr. Her kirtle was of the long, slender leaves overlapping each other. The bodice was in the tones of dull yellow found in the velvety inside of the opened burr and of the deep brown of the chestnut itself. This, too, was approved by the onlookers. Behind her walked Della, a combination of purple asters and golden rod, the rosettes of the former seeming a rich and solid material from which the heads of goldenrod hung in a delicate fringe. A "long-haired Chrysanthemum" was among the autumn flowers, his tissue paper petals slightly wired to make them stand out, and a stalk of Joe-Pye-Weed strode along with his dull pink corymb proudly elevated above the throng. All alone as a representative of Winter was Tom Watkins, decorated superbly as a Christmas Tree. Boughs of Norway spruce were bound upon his arms and legs and covered his body. Shining balls hung from the twigs, tinsel glistened as he passed under the lantern light, and strings of popcorn reached from his head to his feet. There was no question of his popularity among the children. Every small boy who saw him asked if he had a present for him. The flower procession served to draw the people into the hall and the screened corner. They cheerfully yielded up a dime apiece at the entrance to each place, and when the "show" was over they were re-replaced by another relay of new arrivals, so that the program was gone through twice in the hall and twice in the open in the course of the evening. A march of all the flowers opened the program. This was not difficult, for all the boys and girls were accustomed to such drills at school, but the effect in costumes under the electric light was very striking. Roger, still dressed as an apple tree, recited Bryant's "Planting of the Apple Tree." Dicky delivered a brief sermon from his pulpit. George Foster ordered the lights out and went behind a screen on which he made shadow finger animals to the delight of every child present. Mrs. Smith gave her little talk on the arrangement of flowers, illustrating it by the examples around the room which were later carried out to the open when she repeated her "turn" in the enclosure. The cartoonist of the _Star_ gave a chalk talk on "Famous Men of the Day," reciting an amusing biography of each and sketching his portrait, framed in a rose, a daisy, mountain laurel, a larkspur or whatever occurred to the artist as he talked. There was music, for Mr. Schuler, who formerly had taught music in the Rosemont schools and who was now with his wife at Rose House, where the United Service Club was taking care of several poor women and children, had drilled some of his former pupils in flower choruses. One of these, by children of Dicky's age, was especially liked. Every one was pleased and the financial result was so satisfactory that Rosemont soon began to blossom like the flower from which it was named. "Team work certainly does pay," commented Roger enthusiastically when the Club met again to talk over the great day. And every one of them agreed that it did. CHAPTER XII ENOUGH TO GIVE AWAY At the very beginning of his holidays Stanley Clark had gone to Nebraska to replace the detective who had been vainly trying to find some trace of his father's cousin, Emily Leonard. The young man was eager to have the matter straightened out, both because it was impossible to sell any of the family land unless it were, and because he wanted to please Mrs. Smith and Dorothy, and because his orderly mind was disturbed at there being a legal tangle in his family. Perhaps he put into his search more clearness of vision than the detective, or perhaps he came to it at a time when he could take advantage of what his predecessor had done;--whatever the reason, he did find a clue and it seemed a strange coincidence that it was only a few days after the Miss Clarks had received the second offer for their field that a letter came to them from their nephew, saying that he had not only discovered the town to which Emily's daughter had gone and the name of the family into which she had been adopted, but had learned the fact that the family had later on removed to the neighborhood of Pittsburg. "At least, this brings the search somewhat nearer home," Stanley wrote, "but it also complicates it, for 'the neighborhood of Pittsburg' is very vague, and it covers a large amount of country. However, I am going to start to-night for Pittsburg to see what I can do there. I've grown so accustomed to playing hide-and-seek with Cousin Emily and I'm so pleased with my success so far that I'm hopeful that I may pick up the trail in western Pennsylvania." The Clarks and the Smiths all shared Stanley's hopefulness, for it did indeed seem wonderful that he should have found the missing evidence after so many weeks of failure by the professional detective, and, if he had traced one step, why not the next? The success of the gardens planted by the U.S.C. had been remarkable. The plants had grown as if they wanted to please, and when blossoming time came, they bloomed with all their might. "Do you remember the talk you and I had about Rose House just before the Fresh Air women and children came out?" asked Ethel Blue of her cousin. Ethel Brown nodded, and Ethel Blue explained the conversation to Dorothy. "We thought Roger's scheme was pretty hard for us youngsters to carry out and we felt a little uncertain about it, but we made up our minds that people are almost always successful when they _want_ like everything to do something and _make up their minds_ that they are going to put it through and _learn how_ to put it through." "We've proved it again with the gardens," responded Ethel Brown. "We wanted to have pretty gardens and we made up our minds that we could if we tried and then we learned all we could about them from people and books." "Just see what Roger knows now about fertilizers!" exclaimed Dorothy in a tone of admiration. "Fertilizers aren't a bit interesting until you think of them as plant food and realize that plants like different kinds of food and try to find out what they are. Roger has studied it out and we've all had the benefit of his knowledge." "Which reminds me that if we want any flowers at all next week we'd better put on some nitrate of soda this afternoon or this dry weather will ruin them." "Queer how that goes right to the blossoms and doesn't seem to make the whole plant grow." "I did a deadly deed to one of my calceolarias," confessed Ethel Blue. "I forgot you mustn't use it after the buds form and I sprinkled away all over the plant just as I had been doing." "Did you kill the buds?" "It discouraged them. I ought to have put some crystals on the ground a little way off and let them take it in in the air." "It doesn't seem as though it were strong enough to do either good or harm, does it? One tablespoonful in two gallons of water!" "Grandfather says he wouldn't ask for plants to blossom better than ours are doing." Ethel Brown repeated the compliment with just pride. "It's partly because we've loved to work with them and loved them," insisted Ethel Blue. "Everything you love answers back. If you hate your work it's just like hating people; if you don't like a girl she doesn't like you and you feel uncomfortable outside and inside; if you don't like your work it doesn't go well." "What do you know about hating?" demanded Dorothy, giving Ethel Blue a hug. Ethel flushed. "I know a lot about it," she insisted. "Some days I just despise arithmetic and on those days I never can do anything right; but when I try to see some sense in it I get along better." They all laughed, for Ethel Blue's struggles with mathematics were calculated to arouse sympathy even in a hardened breast. "It's all true," agreed Helen, who had been listening quietly to what the younger girls were saying, "and I believe we ought to show people more than we do that we like them. I don't see why we're so scared to let a person know that we think she's done something well, or to sympathize with her when she's having a hard time." "O," exclaimed Dorothy shrinkingly, "it's so embarrassing to tell a person you're sorry." "You don't have to tell her in words," insisted Helen. "You can make her realize that you understand what she is going through and that you'd like to help her." "How can you do it without talking?" asked Ethel Brown, the practical. "When I was younger," answered Helen thoughtfully, "I used to be rather afraid of a person who was in trouble. I thought she might think I was intruding if I spoke of it. But Mother told me one day that a person who was suffering didn't want to be treated as if she were in disgrace and not to be spoken to, and I've always tried to remember it. Now, when I know about it or guess it I make a point of being just as nice as I know how to her. Sometimes we don't talk about the trouble at all; sometimes it comes out naturally after a while. But even if the subject isn't mentioned she knows that there is at least one person who is interested in her and her affairs." "I begin to see why you're so popular at school," remarked Margaret, who had known for a long time other reasons for Helen's popularity. Helen threw a leaf at her friend and asked the Ethels to make some lemonade. They had brought the juice in a bottle and chilled water in a thermos bottle, so that the preparation was not hard. There were cold cheese straws to eat with it. The Ethels had made them in their small kitchen at home by rubbing two tablespoonfuls of butter into four tablespoonfuls of flour, adding two tablespoonfuls of grated cheese, seasoning with a pinch of cayenne, another of salt and another of mace, rolling out to a thickness of a quarter of an inch, cutting into strips about four inches long and half an inch wide and baking in a hot oven. "'Which I wish to remark and my language is plain,'" Helen quoted, "that in spite of Dicky's picking all the blossoms we have so many flowers now that we ought to do--give them away. "Ethel Blue and I have been taking some regularly every week to the old ladies at the Home," returned Ethel Brown. "I was wondering if there were enough to send some to the hospital at Glen Point," suggested Margaret. "The Glen Point people are pretty good about sending flowers, but the hospital is an old story with them and sometimes they don't remember when they might." "I should think we might send some there and some to the Orphanage," said Dorothy, from whose large garden the greater part of the supply would have to come. "Have the orphans any gardens to work in?" "They have beds like your school garden here in Rosemont, but they have to give the vegetables to the house and I suppose it isn't much fun to raise vegetables and then have them taken away from you." "They eat them themselves." "But they don't know Willy's tomato from Johnny's. If Willy and Johnny were allowed to sell their crops they'd be willing to pay out of the profit for the seed they use and they'd take a lot of interest in it. The housekeeper would buy all they'd raise, and they'd feel that their gardens were self-supporting. Now they feel that the seed is given to them out of charity, and that it's a stingy sort of charity after all because they are forced to pay for the seed by giving up their vegetables whether they want to or not." "Do they enjoy working the gardens?" "I should say not! James and I said the other day that they were the most forlorn looking gardeners we ever laid our eyes on." "Don't they grow any flowers at all?" "Just a few in a border around the edge of their vegetable gardens and some in front of the main building where they'll be seen from the street." The girls looked at each other and wrinkled their noses. "Let's send some there every week and have the children understand that young people raised them and thought it was fun to do it." "And can't you ask to have the flowers put in the dining-room and the room where the children are in the evening and not in the reception room where only guests will see them?" "I will," promised Margaret. "James and I have a scheme to try to have the children work their gardens on the same plan that the children do here," she went on. "We're going to get Father to put it before the Board of Management, if we can." "I do hope he will. The kiddies here are so wild over their gardens that it's proof to any one that it's a good plan." "Oo-hoo," came Roger's call across the field. "Oo-hoo. Come up," went back the answer. "What are you girls talking about?" inquired the young man, arranging himself comfortably with his back against a rock and accepting a paper tumbler of lemonade and some cheese straws. Helen explained their plan for disposing of the extra flowers from their gardens. "It's Service Club work; we ought to have started it earlier," she ended. "The Ethels did begin it some time ago; I caught them at it," he accused, shaking his finger at his sister and cousin. "I told the girls we had been taking flowers to the Old Ladies' Home," confessed Ethel Brown. "O, you have! I didn't know that! I did find out that you were supplying the Atwoods down by the bridge with sweetpeas." "There have been such oodles," protested Ethel Blue. "Of course. It was the right thing to do." "How did you know about it, anyway? Weren't you taking flowers there yourself?" "No, ma'am." "What were you doing?" "I know; I saw him digging there one day." "O, keep still, Dorothy," Roger remonstrated. "You might as well tell us about it." "It isn't anything. I did look in one day to ask if they'd like some sweetpeas, but I found the Ethels were ahead of me. The old lady has a fine snowball bush and a beauty syringa in front of the house. When I spoke about them she said she had always wanted to have a bed of white flowers around the two bushes, so I offered to make one for her. That's all." "Good for Roger!" cried Margaret. "Tell us what you put into it. We've had pink and blue and yellow beds this year; we can add white next year." "Just common things," replied Roger. "It was rather late so I planted seeds that would hurry up; sweet alyssum for a border, of course, and white verbenas and balsam, and petunias, and candytuft and, phlox and stocks and portulaca and poppies. Do you remember, I asked you, Dorothy, if you minded my taking up that aster that showed a white bud? That went to Mrs. Atwood. The seeds are all coming up pretty well now and the old lady is as pleased as Punch." "I should think she might be! Can the old gentleman cultivate them or is his rheumatism too bad?" "I put in an hour there every once in a while," Roger admitted reluctantly. "It's nothing to be ashamed of!" laughed Helen encouragingly. "What I want to know is how we are to send our flowers in to New York to the Flower and Fruit Guild. Della said she'd look it up and let us know." "She did. I saw Tom yesterday and he gave me these slips and asked me to tell you girls about them and I forgot it." Roger bobbed his head by way of asking forgiveness, which was granted by a similar gesture. "It seems that the National Plant, Flower and Fruit Guild will distribute anything you send to it at 70 Fifth Avenue; or you can select some institution you're interested in and send your stuff directly to it, and if you use one of these Guild pasters the express companies will carry the parcel free." "Good for the express companies!" exclaimed Ethel Brown. "Here's one of the pasters," and Roger handed one of them to Margaret while the others crowded about to read it. APPROVED LABEL NATIONAL PLANT, FLOWER AND FRUIT GUILD, 70 Fifth Avenue, New York City. Express Companies Adams American Great Northern National United States Wells Fargo Western WILL DELIVER FREE Within a distance of one hundred (100) miles from stations on their lines to any charitable institution or organization within the delivery limits of adjacent cities. If an exchange of baskets is made they will be returned without charge. Conditions This property is carried at owner's risk of loss or damage. No box or basket shall exceed twenty (20) pounds in weight. All jellies to be carefully packed and boxed. All potted plants to be set in boxes. For _Chapel of Comforter_, _10 Horatio Street_, _New York City_. From _United Service Club_, _Rosemont, New Jersey_. KINDLY DELIVER PROMPTLY. "Where it says 'For,'" explained Roger, "you fill in, say, 'Chapel of the Comforter, 10 Horatio Street' or 'St. Agnes' Day Nursery, 7 Charles Street,' and you write 'United Service Club, Rosemont, N.J.,' after 'From.'" "It says 'Approved Label' at the top," Ethel Brown observed questioningly. "That's so people won't send flowers to their friends and claim free carriage from the express companies on the ground that it's for charity," Roger went on. "Then you fill out this postcard and put it into every bundle you send. Sender Will Please Fill Out One of These Cards as far as "Received by" and Enclose in Every Shipment. National Plant, Flower and Fruit Guild. National Office: 70 Fifth Avenue, N.Y.C. Sender Town Sends to-day (Date) Plants Flowers (Bunches) Fruit or Vegetables Quarts or Bushels Jelly, Preserved Fruit or Grape Juice (estimated @ 1/2 pint as a glass) Glasses. Nature Material To (Institution) Rec'd by Address Condition Date "That tells the people at the Day Nursery, for instance, just what you packed and assures them that the parcel hasn't been tampered with; they acknowledge the receipt at the foot of the card,--here, do you see?--and send it to the 'New York City Branch, National Plant, Flower and Fruit Guild, 70 Fifth Ave., New York City.' That enables the Guild to see that the express company is reporting correctly the number of bundles it has carried." "They've worked out the best way after long experience, Tom says, and they find this is excellent. They recommend it to far-off towns that send to them for help about starting a guild." "Let's send our flowers to Mr. Watkins's chapel," suggested Ethel Blue. "Della told me the people hardly ever see a flower, it's so far to any of the parks where there are any." "Our women at Rose House were pathetic over the flowers when they first came," said Helen. "Don't you remember the Bulgarian? She was a country girl and she cried when she first went into the garden." "I'm glad we planted a flower garden there as well as a vegetable garden." "It has been as much comfort to the women as ours have been to us." "I think they would like to send in some flowers from their garden beds to the chapel," suggested Ethel Blue. "I was talking with Mrs. Paterno the other day and she said they all felt that they wanted all their friends to have a little piece of their splendid summer. This will be a way for them to help." "Mr. Watkins's assistant would see that the bunches were given to their friends if they marked them for special people," said Ethel Brown. "Let's get it started as soon as we can," said Helen. "You're secretary, Ethel Blue; write to-day to the Guild for some pasters and postcards and tell them we are going to send to Mr. Watkins's chapel; and Ethel Brown, you seem to get on pretty well with Bulgarian and Italian and a few of the other tongues that they speak at Rose House--suppose you try to make the women understand what we are going to do. Tell them we'll let them know on what day we're going to send the parcel in, so that they can cut their flowers the night before and freshen them in salt and water before they travel." "Funny salt should be a freshener," murmured Dorothy, as the Ethels murmured their understanding of the duties their president assigned to them. CHAPTER XIII IN BUSINESS It was quite clear to the Clarks that the "botanist" had not given up his hope of buying the field, in spite of the owners' insistence that not only was its title defective but that the option had been promised to Mrs. Smith. He roamed up and down the road almost every day, going into the field, as the girls could see from their elevation in Fitz-James's woods, and stopping at the Clarks' on his return if he saw any of the family on the veranda, to inquire what news had come from their nephew. "I generally admire persistency," remarked Mr. Clark one day to Mrs. Smith and Dorothy, and the Ethels, "but in this case it irritates me. When you tell a man that you can't sell to him and that you wouldn't if you could it seems as if he might take the hint and go away." "I don't like him," and Mrs. Smith gave a shrug of distaste. "He doesn't look you squarely in the face." "I hate that trick he has of brushing his hair out of his eyes. It makes me nervous," confessed the younger Miss Clark. "I can't see why a botanist doesn't occasionally look at a plant," observed Dorothy. "We've watched him day after day and we've almost never seen him do a thing except push his stick into the ground and examine it afterwards." "Do you remember that girl who was with him at the Flower Festival?" inquired Ethel Brown. "I saw her with him again this afternoon at the field. When he pushed his cane down something seemed to stick to it when it came up and he wiped it off with his hand and gave it to her." "Could you see what it was like?" "It looked like dirt to me." "What did she do with it?" "She took it and began to turn it around in her hand, rubbing it with her fingers the way Dorothy does when she's making her clay things." Mr. Clark brought down his foot with a thump upon the porch. "I'll bet you five million dollars I know what he's up to!" he exclaimed. "What?" "What?" "What?" rang out from every person on the porch. "I'll go right over there this minute and find out for myself." "Find out what?" "Do tell us." "What do you think it is?" Mr. Clark paused on the steps as he was about to set off. "Clay," he answered briefly. "There are capital clays in different parts of New Jersey. Don't you remember there are potteries that make beautiful things at Trenton? I shouldn't wonder a bit if that field has pretty good clay and this man wants to buy it and start a pottery there." "Next to my house!" exclaimed Mrs. Smith disgustedly. "Don't be afraid; if we're ever able to sell the field you're the person who will get it," promised the old gentleman's sisters in chorus. "We don't want a pottery on the street any more than you do," they added, and expressed a wish that their brother might be able to convince the persistent would-be purchaser of the utter hopelessness of his wishes. "What do you hear from Stanley?" Mrs. Smith asked. "He's still quite at sea in Pittsburg--if one may use such an expression about a place as far from the ocean as that!" laughed Miss Clark. "He thinks he'll go fast if ever he gets a start, but he hasn't found any trace of the people yet. He's going to search the records not only in Allegheny County but in Washington and Westmoreland and Fayette Counties and the others around Pittsburg, if it's necessary. He surely is persistent." "Isn't it lucky he is? And don't you hope he'll find some clue before his holidays end? That detective didn't seem to make any progress at all!" Mr. Clark came back more than ever convinced that he had guessed the cause of the "botanist's" perseverance. "Unless my eyes and fingers deceive me greatly this is clay and pretty smooth clay," he reported to the waiting group, and Dorothy, who knew something about clay because she had been taught to model, said she thought so, too. "We know his reason for wanting the land, then," declared Mr. Clark; "now if we could learn why he can't seem to take it in that he's not going to get it, no matter what happens, we might be able to make him take his afternoon walks in some other direction." "Who is he? And where is he staying?" inquired Mrs. Smith. "He calls himself Hapgood and he's staying at the Motor Inn." "Is the little girl his daughter?" "I'll ask him if he ever comes here again," and Mr. Clark looked as if he almost wished he would appear, so that he might gratify his curiosity. The Motor Inn was a house of no great size on the main road to Jersey City. A young woman, named Foster, lived in it with her mother and brother. The latter, George, was a high school friend of Helen and Roger. Miss Foster taught dancing in the winter and, being an enterprising young woman, had persuaded her mother to open the old house for a tea room for the motorists who sped by in great numbers on every fair day, and who had no opportunity to get a cup of tea and a sandwich any nearer than Glen Point in one direction and Athens Creek in the other. "Here are we sitting down and doing nothing to attract the money out of their pockets and they are hunting for a place to spend it!" she had exclaimed. The house was arranged like the Emerson farmhouse, with a wide hall dividing it, two rooms on each side. Miss Foster began by putting out a rustic sign which her brother made for her. MOTOR INN TEA and SANDWICHES LUNCHEON DINNER it read. The entrance was attractive with well-kept grass and pretty flowers. Miss Foster took a survey of it from the road and thought she would like to go inside herself if she happened to be passing. They decided to keep the room just in front of the kitchen for the family, but the room across the hall they fitted with small tables of which they had enough around the house. The back room they reserved for a rest room for the ladies, and provided it with a couch and a dressing table always kept fully, equipped with brushes, pins and hairpins. "If we build up a real business we can set tables here in the hall," Miss Foster suggested. "Why not on the veranda at the side?" her mother asked. "That's better still. We might put a few out there to indicate that people can have their tea there if they want to, and then let them take their choice in fair weather." The Inn had been a success from the very first day when a car stopped and delivered a load of people who ate their simple but well-cooked luncheon hungrily and liked it so well that they ordered dinner for the following Sunday and promised to send other parties. "What I like best about your food, if you'll allow me to say so," the host of the machine-load said to Miss Foster, "is that your sandwiches are delicate and at the same time there are more than two bites to them. They are full-grown sandwiches, man's size." "My brother calls them 'lady sandwiches' though," laughed Miss Foster. "He says any sandwich with the crust cut off is unworthy a man's attention." "Tell him for me that he's mistaken. No crust on mine, but a whole slice of bread to make up for the loss," and he paid his bill enthusiastically and packed away into his thermos box a goodly pile of the much-to-be-enjoyed sandwiches. People for every meal of the day began to appear at the Motor Inn, for it was surprising how many parties made a before-breakfast start to avoid the heat of the day on a long trip, and turned up at the Inn about eight or nine o'clock demanding coffee and an omelette. Then one or two Rosemont people came to ask if friends of theirs might be accommodated with rooms and board for a week or two, and in this way the old house by the road grew rapidly to be more like the inn its sign called it than the tea room it was intended to be. Servants were added, another veranda was built on, and it looked as if Miss Foster would not teach dancing when winter came again but would have to devote herself to the management of the village hotel which the town had always needed. It was while the members of the U.S.C. were eating ices and cakes there late one afternoon when they had walked to the station with the departing Watkinses that the Ethels had one of the ideas that so often struck them at almost the same moment. It came as they watched a motor party go off, supplying themselves with a box of small cakes for the children after trying to buy from Miss Foster the jar of wild iris that stood in state on the table in the hall. It was not fresh enough to travel they had decided when their hostess had offered to give it to them and they all had examined the purple heads that showed themselves to be past their prime when they were brought out into the light from the semi-darkness of the hall. "Couldn't we--?" murmured Ethel Blue with uplifted eye-brows, glancing at Ethel Brown. "Let's ask her if we may?" replied Ethel Brown, and without any more discussion than this they laid before Miss Foster the plan that had popped into their minds ready made. Ethel Brown was the spokeswoman. "Would you mind if we had a flower counter here in your hall?" she asked. "We need to make some money for our women at Rose House." "A flower counter? Upon my word, children, you take my breath away!" responded Miss Foster. "We'd try not to give you any trouble," said Ethel Blue. "One of us would stay here every day to look after it and we'd pay rent for the use of the space." "Upon my word!" exclaimed Miss Foster again. "You must let me think a minute." She was a rapid thinker and her decision was quickly made. "We'll try it for a week," she said. "Perhaps we'll find that there isn't enough demand for the flowers to make it worth while, though people often want to buy any flowers they see here, as those people you saw did." "If you'll tell us just what space we can have we'll try not to bother you," promised Ethel Blue again, and Miss Foster smiled at her eagerness. "We want it to be a regular business, so will you please tell us how much rent we ought to pay?" asked Ethel Brown. Miss Foster smiled again, but she was trying to carry on a regular business herself and she knew how she would feel if people did not take her seriously. "We'll call it five per cent of what you sell," she said. "I don't think I could make it less," and she smiled again. "That's five cents on every dollar's worth," calculated Ethel Brown seriously. "That isn't enough unless you expect us to sell a great many dollars' worth." "We'll call it that for this trial week, anyway," decided Miss Foster. "If the test goes well we can make another arrangement. If you have a pretty table it will be an attraction to my hall and perhaps I shall want to pay you for coming," she added good naturedly. She pointed out to them the exact spot on which they might place their flowers and agreed to let them arrange the flowers daily for her rooms and tables and to pay them for it. "I have no flowers for cutting this summer," she said, "and I've been bothered getting some every day. It has taken George's time when he should have been doing other things." "We'll do it for the rent," offered Ethel Blue. "No, I've been buying flowers outside and using my own time in arranging them. It's only fair that I should pay you as I would have paid some one long ago if I could have found the right person. I stick to the percentage arrangement for the rent." On the way home the girls realized with some discomfiture that without consulting Mrs. Morton and Mrs. Smith they had made an arrangement that would keep them away from home a good deal and put them in a rather exposed position. "What do you suppose Mother and Aunt Louise will say?" asked Ethel Brown doubtfully. "I think they'll let us do it. They know we need the money for Rose House just awfully, and they like Miss Foster and her mother--I've heard Aunt Marion say they were so brave about undertaking the Inn." Her voice quavered off into uncertainty, for she realized as she spoke that what a young woman of Miss Foster's age did in connection with her mother was a different matter from a business venture entered into alone by girls of fourteen. The fact that the business venture was to be carried on under the eye of Mrs. Foster and her daughter, ladies whom Mrs. Morton knew well and respected and admired, was the turning point in her decision to allow the girls to conduct the affair which had entered their minds so suddenly. She and Mrs. Smith went to the Inn and assisted in the arrangement of the first assortment of flowers and plants, saw to it that there was a space on the back porch where they could be handled without the water or vases being in the way of the workers in the Inn, suggested that an additional sign reading PLANTS and CUT FLOWERS be hung below the sign outside and that a card FOR THE BENEFIT OF ROSE HOUSE be placed over the table inside, and then went away and left the girls to manage affairs themselves. It was while Ethel Blue was drawing the poster to hang over the table that the "botanist" walked into the hall and strolled over to investigate the addition to the furnishings. He asked a question or two in a voice they did not like. They noticed that the young girl with him called him "Uncle Dan" and that he called her "Mary." The girls had arranged their flowers according to Mrs. Smith's and Mrs. Emerson's ideas, not crowding them but showing each to its best advantage and selecting for each a vase that suited its form and coloring. Their supplies were kept out of sight in order not to mar the effect. The tables of the tea rooms were decorated with pink on this opening day, both because they thought that some of the guests might see some connection between pink and the purpose of the sale, helping _Rose House_--and for the practical reason that they had more pink blossoms than any other color, thanks to their love of that gay hue. It was noon before any people outside of the resident guests of the Inn stopped at the house. Then a party of people evidently from a distance, for they were covered with dust, ordered luncheon. While the women were arranging their hair in the dressing room the men came over to the flower table and asked countless questions. "Here, Gerald," one called to another, "these young women have just begun this business to-day and they haven't had a customer yet. I'm going to be the first; you can be the second." "Nothing of the sort; I'll be the first myself," and "Gerald" tossed half a dollar on to the table with an order for "Sweetpeas, all pink, please." Ethel Blue, flushed with excitement over this first sale, set about filling a box with the fresh butterfly blossoms, while Ethel Brown attended to the man who had begun the conversation. He wanted "A bunch of bachelor's buttons for a young lady with blue eyes." An older man who came to see what the younger ones were doing bought buttonholes for all the men and directed that a handful of flowers of different kinds be placed beside each plate on the large table on the shady porch where they were to have their meal. When the women appeared they were equally interested, and inquired all about Rose House. One of them directed that enough ferns for the renewal of a centerpiece should be ready for her to take away when they left and the other bought one of the hanging baskets which Roger had arranged as a sample of what they could supply if called upon. "Roger will be tickled to pieces that his idea caught on at once," Ethel Brown murmured to Ethel Blue as they sorted and packed their orders, not very deftly, but swiftly enough for the posies to add to the enjoyment of the people at the table and for the parcels to be ready for them when the motor came to the door. "We'll tell all our friends about you," the guests promised as they left. These were the only patrons until afternoon brought in several parties for tea. Almost every one of them was sufficiently drawn by the "Rose House" placard to make inquiries, and several of them bought flowers and potted plants. The same was true of the dinner arrivals. When the girls examined their receipts for the day they found they had taken in over seven dollars, had booked several orders and already had learned a good deal about what people liked and what they could carry conveniently in their machines. "We shan't need to have so many cut flowers here," they decided after the day's experience. "It's better to leave them on the plants and then if we run short to telephone to the house and have Dicky bring over an extra supply." "These potted plants are all right here, though. We can leave them on the back porch at night, Miss Foster says, and bring them in to the table in the morning." "We must get Roger to fill some more hanging baskets and ox muzzles and make some ivy balls; those are going to take." The plan worked out extremely well, its only drawback being that the girls had to give more time to the table at the Inn than they liked. They were "spelled" however, by other members of the Club, and finally, as a result of a trip when they all went away for a few days, they engaged a schoolmate of the Ethels who had helped them occasionally, to give her whole time to the work at the Inn. Financially the scheme worked out very well. When it came time to pay the rent for the first week the Ethels decided that they were accepting charity if they only paid Miss Foster five per cent. of their gross earnings, so they doubled it. "I am buying the cut flowers at the same price that the girls are selling them to other customers, and I am glad to pay for their arrangement for it releases me to attend to matters that need me more," she had explained. "Even if it should be a few cents on the wrong side of my account, I am glad to contribute something to Rose House. And the motoring season is comparatively short, too." Every once in a while they received an idea from some one who asked for something they did not have. One housekeeper wanted fresh herbs and the Ethels telephoned directions for the picking of the herb bed that Roger had planted for their own kitchen use. "We need the herbs ourselves, Miss Ethel," came back a protest from Mary. "I don't want to refuse to fill any order I get, Mary," Ethel Brown insisted. "Next year we'll plant a huge bed, enough for a dozen kitchens." This unexpected order resulted in the making of another poster giving the information that fresh kitchen herbs might be had on order and would be delivered by parcel post to any address. Several of their customers demanded ferns for their houses indoors or for their porches or wild gardens. This order was not welcome for it meant that some one had to go to the woods to get them as none had been planted in the gardens as yet. Still, in accordance with their decision never to refuse to fill an order unless it was absolutely impossible, the girls went themselves or sent one of the boys on a search for what they needed. One steady customer was an invalid who lived in Athens Creek and who could drive only a few miles once or twice a week. She happened in to the Inn one day and ever after she made the house her goal. Her especial delight was meadow flowers, and she placed a standing order to have an armful of meadow blossoms ready for her every Thursday. This necessitated a visit to the meadows opposite Grandfather Emerson's house every Wednesday afternoon so that the flowers should have recovered from their first shock by the next morning. "This takes me back to the days when I used to follow the flowers through the whole summer," the invalid cried delightedly. "Ah, Joe-Pye-Weed has arrived," she exclaimed joyfully over the handsome blossom. When the Ethels and Dorothy received their first order for the decoration of a house for an afternoon reception they were somewhat overcome. "Can we do it?" they asked each other. They concluded they could. One went to the house two days beforehand to examine the rooms and to see what vases and bowls they should have at their disposal. Then they looked over the gardens very carefully to see what blossoms would be cut on the appointed day, and then they made a plan with pencil and paper. Mr. Emerson lent his car on the morning of the appointed day and Roger went with them to unload the flowers and plants. They had kept the flowers of different colors together, a matter easy to do when cutting from their beds of special hues, and this arrangement made easy the work of decorating different rooms in different colors. The porch was made cool with ferns and hanging vines; the hall, which seemed dark to eyes blinded by the glare outside, was brightened with yellow posies; the dining room had delicate blue lobelia mingled with gypsophila springing from low, almost unseen dishes all over the table where the tea and coffee were poured, and hanging in festoons from the smaller table on which stood the bowl of grape juice lemonade, made very sour and very sweet and enlivened with charged water. The girls profited by this combination, for the various amounts used in it were being "tried out" during the morning and with every new trial refreshing glasses were handed about for criticism by the workers. In the drawing room where the hostess stood to receive, superb pink poppies reared their heads from tall vases, pink snapdragons bobbed on the mantel piece and a bank of pink candytuft lay on the top of the piano. A lovely vine waved from a wall vase of exquisite design and vines trailed around the wide door as naturally as if they grew there instead of springing from bottles of water concealed behind tall jars of pink hollyhocks. "It is perfectly charming, my dears, and I can't tell you how obliged I am," said their hostess as she pressed a bill into Ethel Brown's hand. "I know that every woman who will be here will want you the next time she entertains, and I shall tell everybody you did it." She was as good as her word and the attempt resulted in several other orders. The girls tried to make each house different from any that they had decorated before, and they thought that they owed the success that brought them many compliments to the fact that they planned it all out beforehand and left nothing to be done in a haphazard way. Meanwhile Rose House benefited greatly by the welcome weekly additions from the flower sale to its slender funds. "I'm not sure it isn't roses ye are yerselves, yer that sweet to look at!" exclaimed Moya, the cook at Rose House, one day when the girls were there. And they admitted themselves that if happiness made them sweet to look at it must be true. CHAPTER XIV UNCLE DAN'S RESEARCHES "Uncle Dan," whose last name was Hapgood, did not cease his calls upon the Clarks. Sometimes he brought with him his niece, whose name, they learned, was Mary Smith. "Another Smith!" ejaculated Dorothy who had lived long enough in the world to find out the apparent truth of the legend, that originally all the inhabitants of the earth were named Smith and so continued until some of them misbehaved and were given other names by way of punishment. No one liked Mr. Hapgood better as time went on. "I believe he is a twentieth century werwolf, as Dorothy said," Ethel Brown insisted. "He's a wolf turned into a man but keeping the feelings of a wolf." The girls found little to commend in the manners of his niece and nothing to attract. By degrees the "botanist's" repeated questioning put him in command of all the information the Clarks had themselves about the clue that Stanley was hunting down. He seemed especially interested when he learned that the search had been transferred to the vicinity of Pittsburg. "My sister, Mary's mother, lived near Pittsburg," he told them when he heard it; "I know that part of the country pretty well." For several days he was not seen either by the Clarks or by the girls who went to the Motor Inn to attend to the flowers, and Mrs. Foster told the Ethels that Mary had been left in her care while her uncle went away on a business trip. At the end of a week he appeared again at the Clarks', bringing the young girl with him. He received the usual courteous but unenthusiastic reception with which they always met this man who had forced himself upon them so many times. Now his eyes were sparkling and more nervously than ever he kept pushing back the lock of hair that hung over his forehead. "Well, I've been away," he began. The Clarks said that they had heard so. "I been to western Pennsylvania." His hearers expressed a lukewarm interest. "I went to hunt up the records of Fayette County concerning the grandparents of Mary here." "I hope you were successful," remarked the elder Miss Clark politely. "Yes, ma'am, I was," shouted Hapgood in reply, thumping his hand on the arm of his chair with a vigor that startled his hosts. "Yes, sir, I was, sir; perfectly successful; _en_-tirely successful." Mr. Clark murmured something about the gratification the success must be to Mr. Hapgood and awaited the next outburst. It came without delay. "Do you want to know what I found out?" "Certainly, if you care to tell us." "Well, I found out that Mary here is the granddaughter of your cousin, Emily Leonard, you been huntin' for." "Mary!" exclaimed the elder Miss Clark startled, her slender hands fluttering agitatedly as the man's heavy voice forced itself upon her ears and the meaning of what he said entered her mind. "This child!" ejaculated the younger sister, Miss Eliza, doubtfully, adjusting her glasses and leaning over to take a closer look at the proposed addition to the family. "Hm!" This comment came from Mr. Clark. A dull flush crept over Hapgood's face. "You don't seem very cordial," he remarked. "O," the elder Miss Clark, Miss Maria, began apologetically, but she was interrupted by her brother. "You have the proofs, I suppose." Hapgood could not restrain a glare of dislike, but he drew a bundle of papers from his pocket. "I knew you'd ask for 'em." "Naturally," answered the calm voice of Mr. Clark. "So I copied these from the records and swore to 'em before a notary." "You copied them yourself?" "Yes, sir, with my own hand," and the man held up that member as if to call it as a witness to his truth. "I should have preferred to have had the copying done by a typist accredited by the county clerk," said Mr. Clark coolly. Hapgood flushed angrily. "If you don't believe me--" he began, but Mr. Clark held up a warning finger. "It's always wise to follow the custom in such cases," he observed. Hapgood, finding himself in the wrong, leaned over Mr. Clark's shoulder and pointed eagerly to the notary's signature. "Henry Holden--that's the notary--that's him," he repeated several times insistently. Mr. Clark nodded and read the papers slowly aloud so that his sisters might hear their contents. They recited the marriage at Uniontown, the county seat of Fayette County, Pennsylvania, on the fifteenth day of December, 1860, of Emily Leonard to Edward Smith. "There you are," insisted Hapgood loudly. "That's her; that's the grandmother of Mary here." "You're sure of that?" "Here's the record of the birth of Jabez, son of Edward and Emily (Leonard) Smith two years later, and the record of his marriage to my sister and the record of the birth of Mary. After I got the marriage of this Emily straightened out the rest was easy. We had it right in the family." The two sisters gazed at each other aghast. The man was so assertive and coarse, and the child was so far from gentle that it seemed impossible that she could be of their own blood. Still, they remembered that surroundings have greater influence than inheritance, so they held their peace, though Miss Maria stretched out her hand to Mary. Mary stared at it but made no move to take it. "Your records look as if they might be correct," said Mr. Clark, an admission greeted by Hapgood with a pleased smile and a complacent rub of the hands; "but," went on the old gentleman, "I see nothing here that would prove that this Emily Leonard was our cousin." "But your nephew, Stanley, wrote you that he had found that your Emily had removed to the neighborhood of Pittsburg." "That's true," acknowledged the elder man, bending his head, "but Emily Leonard isn't an unusual name." "O, she's the one all right," insisted Hapgood bluffly. "Further, your record doesn't state the names of this Emily Leonard's parents." Hapgood tossed back the unruly lock of hair. "I ought to have gone back one step farther," he conceded. "I might have known you'd ask that." "Naturally." "I'll send to the county clerk and get that straightened out." "It might be well," advised Mr. Clark mildly. "One other point prevents my acceptance of these documents as proof that your niece belongs to our family. Neither the investigator whom we had working on the case nor my nephew have ever told us the date of birth of our Emily Leonard. We can, of course, obtain that, if it is not already in my nephew's possession, but without it we can't be sure that our cousin was of marriageable age on December fifteenth, 1860." It was Mr. Clark's turn to rub his hands together complacently as Hapgood looked more and more discomfited. "In fact, my dear sir," Mr. Clark continued, "you have proved nothing except that some Emily Leonard married a man named Smith on the date named." He tapped the papers gently with a thin forefinger and returned them to their owner, who began to bluster. "I might have known you'd put up a kick," he exclaimed. "I live, when I'm at home, in Arkansas," replied Mr. Clark softly, "and Arkansas is so near Missouri that I have come to belong to the brotherhood who 'have to be shown.'" Hapgood greeted this sally with the beginning of a snarl, but evidently thought it the part of discretion to remain friendly with the people he wanted to persuade. "I seem to have done this business badly," he said, "but I'll send back for the rest of the evidence and you'll have to admit that Mary's the girl you need to complete your family tree." "Come here, dear," Miss Clark called to Mary in her quiet voice. "Are your father and mother alive?" "Father is," she thought the child answered, but her reply was interrupted by Hapgood's loud voice, saying, "She's an orphan, poor kid. Pretty tough just to have an old bachelor uncle to look after yer, ain't it?" The younger Miss Clark stepped to the window to pull down the shade while the couple were still within the yard and she saw the man give the girl a shake and the child rub her arm as if the touch had been too rough for comfort. "Poor little creature! I can't say I feel any affection for her, but she must have a hard time with that man!" The interview left Mr. Clark in a disturbed state in spite of the calmness he had assumed in talking with Hapgood. He walked restlessly up and down the room and at last announced that he was going to the telegraph office. "I might as well wire Stanley to send us right off the date of Emily Leonard's birth, and, just as soon as he finds it, the name of the man she married." "If she did marry," interposed Miss Maria. "Some of our family don't marry," and she humorously indicated the occupants of the room by a wave of her knitting needles. At that instant the doorbell rang, and the maid brought in a telegram. "It's from Stanley," murmured Mr. Clark. "What a strange co-incidence," exclaimed the elder Miss Clark. "What does he say, Brother?" eagerly inquired the younger Miss Clark. "'Emily married a man named Smith,'" Mr. Clark read slowly. "Is that all he says?" "Every word." "Dear boy! I suppose he thought we'd like to know as soon as he found out!" and Miss Eliza's thoughts flashed away to the nephew she loved, forgetting the seriousness of the message he had sent. "The information seems to have come at an appropriate time," commented Mr. Clark grimly. "It must be true, then," sighed Miss Maria; "that Mary belongs to us." "We don't know at all if Hapgood's Emily is our Emily, even if they did both marry Smiths," insisted Mr. Clark stoutly, his obstinacy reviving. "I shall send a wire to Stanley at once asking for the dates of Emily's birth and marriage. He must have them both by this time; why on earth doesn't he send full information and not such a measly telegram as this!" and the old gentleman put on his hat and took his cane and stamped off in a rage to the Western Union office. The sisters left behind gazed at each other forlornly. "She certainly is an unprepossessing child," murmured Miss Maria, "but don't you think, under the circumstances, that we ought to ask her to pay us a visit?" Miss Clark the elder contemplated her knitting for a noticeable interval before she answered. "I don't see any 'ought' about it," she replied at last, "but I think it would be kind to do so." Meanwhile Mr. Clark, stepping into the telegraph office, met Mr. Hapgood coming out. That worthy looked somewhat startled at the encounter, but pulled himself together and said cheerfully "Just been sending off a wire about our matter." When the operator read Mr. Clark's telegram a few minutes later he said to himself wonderingly, "Emily Leonard sure is the popular lady!" Mr. Clark was not at all pleased with his sister's proposal that they invite Mary Smith to make them a visit. "It will look to Hapgood as if we thought his story true," he objected, when they suggested the plan the next morning. "I don't believe it is true, even if our Emily did marry a Smith, according to Stanley." "I don't believe it is, either," answered Miss Maria dreamily. "A great many people marry Smiths." "They have to; how are they to do anything else?" inquired the old gentleman testily. "There is such a lot of them you can't escape them. We're talking about your name, ladies," he continued as Dorothy and her mother came in, and then he related the story of Hapgood's visit and the possibility that Mary might prove to belong to them. "Do you think he honestly believes that she's the missing heir?" Mrs. Smith asked. The ladies looked uncertain but there was no doubt in their brother's mind. "Not for a moment of time do I think he does," he shouted. "But what would be his object? Why should he try to thrust the child into a perfectly strange family?" The elder Miss Clark ventured a guess. "He may want to provide for her future if she's really an orphan, as he says." "I don't believe she is an orphan. Before her precious uncle drowned her reply with one of his roars I distinctly heard her say that her father was alive," retorted the exasperated Mr. Clark. "The child would be truly fortunate to have all of you dear people to look after her," Mrs. Smith smiled, "but if her welfare isn't his reason, what is?" "I believe it has something to do with that piece of land," conjectured Mr. Clark. "He never said a word about it to-night. That's a bad sign. He wants that land and he's made up his mind to have it and this has something to do with it." "How could it have?" inquired Mrs. Smith. "This is all I can think of. Before we can sell that land or any of our land we must have the consent of all the living heirs or else the title isn't good, as you very well know. Now Emily Leonard and her descendants are the only heirs missing. This man says that the child, Mary, is Emily Leonard's grandchild and that Emily and her son, the child's father, are dead. That would mean that if we wanted to sell that land we'd be obliged to have the signatures of my sisters and my nephew, Stanley, and myself, and also of the guardian of this child. Of course Hapgood will say he's the child's guardian. Do you suppose, Mrs. Smith, that he's going to sign any deed that gives you that land? Not much! He'll say it's for the child's best interests that the land be not sold now, because it contains valuable clay or whatever it is he thinks he has found there. Then he'll offer to buy the land himself and he'll be willing enough to sign the deed then." "But _we_ might not be," interposed Miss Maria. "I should say not," returned her brother emphatically, "but he'd probably make a lot of trouble for us and be constantly appealing to us on the ground that we ought to sell the land for the child's good--or he might even say for Stanley's good or our good, the brazen, persistent animal." "Brother," remonstrated Miss Maria. "You forget that you may be speaking of the uncle of our little cousin." "Little cousin nothing!" retorted Mr. Clark fiercely. "It's all very nice for the Mortons to find that that charming girl who takes care of the Belgian baby is a relative. This is a very different proposition! However, I suppose you girls--" meaning by this term the two ladies of more than seventy--"won't be happy unless you have the youngster here, so you might as well send for her, but you'd better have the length of her visit distinctly understood." "We might say a week," suggested Miss Eliza hesitatingly. "Say a week, and say it emphatically," approved her brother, and trotted off to his study, leaving the ladies to compose, with Mrs. Smith's help, a note that would not be so cordial that Brother would forbid its being sent, but that would nevertheless give a hint of their kindly feeling to the forlorn child, so roughly cared for by her strange uncle. Mary Smith went to them, and made a visit that could not be called a success in any way. She was painfully conscious of the difference between her clothes and the Ethels' and Dorothy's and Della's, though why theirs seemed more desirable she could not tell, since her own were far more elaborate. The other girls wore middy blouses constantly, even the older girls, Helen and Margaret, while her dresses were of silk or some other delicate material and adorned with many ruffles and much lace. She was conscious, too, of a difference between her manners and theirs, and she could not understand why, in her heart, she liked theirs better, since they were so gentle as to seem to have no spirit at all, according to her views. She was always uncomfortable when she was with them and her efforts to be at ease caused her shyness to go to the other extreme and made her manners rough and impertinent. Mrs. Smith found her crying one day when she came upon her suddenly in the hammock on the Clarks' veranda. "Can I help?" she asked softly, leaning over the small figure whose every movement indicated protest. "No, you can't," came back the fierce retort. "You're one of 'em. You don't know." "Don't know what?" "How I feel. Nobody likes me. Miss Clark just told me to go out of her room." "Why were you in her room?" "Why, shouldn't I go into her room? When I woke up this morning I made up my mind I'd do my best to be nice all day long. They're so old I don't know what to talk to 'em about, but I made up my mind I'd stick around 'em even if I didn't know what to say. Right after breakfast they always go upstairs--I think it's to be rid of me--and they don't come down for an hour, and then they bring down their knitting and their embroidery and they sit around all day long except when that Belgian baby that lives at your house comes in--then they get up and try to play with her." Mrs. Smith smiled, remembering the efforts of the two old ladies to play with "Ayleesabet." Mary noticed the smile. "They do look fools, don't they?" she cried eagerly. "I think they look very dear and sweet when they are playing with Ayleesabet. I was not smiling _at_ them but because I sympathized with their enjoyment of the baby." "Well, I made up my mind they needn't think they had to stay upstairs because I wasn't nice; I'd go upstairs and be nice. So I went upstairs to Miss Maria's room and walked in." "Walked right in? Without knocking?" "I walked right in. She was sitting in front of that low table she has with the looking glass and all the bottles and boxes on it. Her hair was down her back--what there was of it--and she was doing up her switch." Mrs. Smith was so aghast at this intrusion and at the injured tone in which it was told that she had no farther inclination to smile. "I said, 'I thought I'd come up and sit with you a while,' and she said, 'Leave the room at once, Mary,' just like that. She was as mad as she could be." "Do you blame her?" "Why should she be mad, when I went up there to be nice to her? She's an old cat!" "Dear child, come and sit on this settee with me and let's talk it over." Mrs. Smith put her arm over the shaking shoulders of the angry girl and drew her toward her. After an instant's stiffening against it Mary admitted to herself that it was pleasant; she didn't wonder Dorothy was sweet if her mother did this often. "Now we're comfortable," said Mrs. Smith. "Tell me, dear, aren't there some thoughts in your mind that you don't like to tell to any one? thoughts that seem to belong just to you yourself? Perhaps they're about God; perhaps they're about people you love, perhaps they're about your own feelings--but they seem too private and sacred for you to tell any one. They're your own, ownest thoughts." Mary nodded. "Do you remember your mother?" Mary nodded again. "Sometimes when you recall how she took you in her arms and cuddled you when you were hurt, and how you loved her and she loved you I know you think thoughts that you couldn't express to any one else." Mary gave a sniff that hinted of tears. "Everybody has an inner life that is like a church. You know you wouldn't think of running into a church and making a noise and disturbing the worshippers. It's just so with people's minds; you can't rush in and talk about certain things to any one--the things that he considers too sacred to talk about." "How are you going to tell?" Mrs. Smith drew a long breath. How was she to make this poor, untutored child understand. "You have to tell by your feelings," she answered slowly. "Some people are more reserved than others. I believe you are reserved." "Me?" asked Mary wonderingly. "It wouldn't surprise me if there were a great many things that you might have talked about with your mother, if she had lived, but that you find it hard to talk about with your uncle." Mary nodded. "He's fierce," she commented briefly. "If he should begin to talk to you about some of the tender memories that you have of your mother, for instance, it might be hard for you to answer him. You'd be apt to think that he was coming into your own private church." "I see that," the girl answered; "but," returning to the beginning of the conversation, "I didn't want to talk secrets with Miss Maria; I just wanted to be nice." "Just in the same way that people have thoughts of their very own that you mustn't intrude on, so there are reserves in their habits that you mustn't intrude on. Every one has a right to freedom from intrusion. I insist on it for myself; my daughter never enters my bedroom without knocking. I pay her the same respect; I always tap at her door and wait for her answer before I enter." "Would you be mad if she went into your room without knocking?" "I should be sorry that she was so inconsiderate of my feelings. She might, perhaps, interrupt me at my toilet. I should not like that." "Is that what I did to Miss Maria?" "Yes, dear, it was. You don't know Miss Maria well, and yet you opened the door of her private room and went in without being invited." "I'm sorry," she said briefly. "I'm sure you are, now you understand why it wasn't kind." "I wish she knew I meant to be nice." "Would you like to have me tell her? I think she'll understand there are some things you haven't learned for you haven't a mother to teach you." "Uncle Dan says maybe I'll have to live with the old ladies all the time, so they might as well know I wasn't trying to be mean," she whispered resignedly. "I'll tell Miss Maria, then, and perhaps you and she will be better friends from now on because she'll know you want to please her. And now, I came over to tell you that the U.S.C. is going into New York to-day to see something of the Botanical Garden and the Arboretum. I'm going with them and they'd be glad to have you go, too." "They won't be very glad, but I'd like to go," responded the girl, her face lighted with the nearest approach to affection Mrs. Smith ever had seen upon it. CHAPTER XV FUR AND FOSSILS When the Club gathered at the station to go into town Mary was arrayed in a light blue satin dress as unsuitable for her age as it was for the time of day and the way of traveling. The other girls were dressed in blue or tan linen suits, neat and plain. Secretly Mary thought their frocks were not to be named in the same breath with hers, but once when she had said something about the simplicity of her dress to Ethel Blue, Ethel had replied that Helen had learned from her dressmaking teacher that dresses should be suited to the wearer's age and occupation, and that she thought her linen blouses and skirts were entirely suitable for a girl of fourteen who was a gardener when she wasn't in school. This afternoon Dorothy had offered her a pongee dust coat when she stopped at the Smiths' on her way to the cars. "Aren't you afraid you'll get that pretty silk all cindery?" she asked. Mary realized that Dorothy thought her not appropriately dressed for traveling, but she tossed her head and said, "O, I like to wear something good looking when I go into New York." One of the purposes of the expedition was to see at the Museum of Natural History some of the fossil leaves and plants about which the Mortons had heard from Lieutenant and Captain Morton who had found several of them themselves in the course of their travels. At the Museum they gathered around the stones and examined them with the greatest interest. There were some shells, apparently as perfect as when they were turned into stone, and others represented only by the moulds they had left when they crumbled away. There were ferns, the delicate fronds showing the veining that strengthened the leaflets when they danced in the breeze of some prehistoric morning. "It's wonderful!" exclaimed the Ethels, and Mary asked, "What happened to it?" "I thought some one would ask that," replied Mrs. Smith, "so I brought these verses by Mary Branch to read to you while we stood around one of these ancient rocks." THE PETRIFIED FERN "In a valley, centuries ago Grew a little fern-leaf, green and slender, Veining delicate and fibers tender; Waving when the wind crept down so low. Rushes tall and moss and grass grew round it, Playful sunbeams darted in and found it, Drops of dew stole in by night and crowned it, But no foot of man e'er trod that way; Earth was young and keeping holiday. "Monster fishes swam the silent main; Stately forests waved their giant branches, Mountains hurled their snowy avalanches Mammoth creatures stalked across the plain; Nature revelled in grand mysteries, But the little fern was not of these, Did not number with the hills and trees; Only grew and waved its wild sweet way, No one came to note it day by day. "Earth, one time, put on a frolic mood, Heaved the rocks and changed the mighty motion Of the deep, strong currents of the ocean; Moved the plain and shook the haughty wood Crushed the little fern in soft, moist clay,-- Covered it and hid it safe away. O, the long, long centuries since that day! O, the changes! O, life's bitter cost, Since that useless little fern was lost! "Useless? Lost? There came a thoughtful man Searching Nature's secrets, far and deep; From a fissure in a rocky steep He withdrew a stone, o'er which there ran Fairy pencilings, a quaint design, Veinings, leafage, fibers clear and fine, And the fern's life lay in every line! So, I think, God hides some souls away, Sweetly to surprise us, the last day." From the Museum the party went to the Bronx where they first took a long walk through the Zoo. How Mary wished that she did not have on a pale blue silk dress and high heeled shoes as she dragged her tired feet over the gravel paths and stood watching Gunda, the elephant, "weaving" back and forth on his chain, and the tigers and leopards keeping up their restless pacing up and down their cages, and the monkeys, chattering hideously and snatching through the bars at any shining object worn by their visitors! It was only because she stepped back nimbly that she did not lose a locket that attracted the attention of an ugly imitation of a human being. The herds of large animals pleased them all. "How kind it is of the keepers to give these creatures companions and the same sort of place to live in that they are accustomed to," commented Ethel Brown. "Did you know that this is one of the largest herds of buffalo in the United States?" asked Tom, who, with Della, had joined them at the Museum. "Father says that when he was young there used to be plenty of buffalo on the western plains. The horse-car drivers used to wear coats of buffalo skin and every new England farmer had a buffalo robe. It was the cheapest fur in use. Then the railroads went over the plains and there was such a destruction of the big beasts that they were practically exterminated. They are carefully preserved now." "The prairie dogs always amuse me," said Mrs. Smith. "Look at that fellow! Every other one is eating his dinner as fast as he can but this one is digging with his front paws and kicking the earth away with his hind paws with amazing industry." "He must be a convict at hard labor," guessed Roger. "Or the Mayor of the Prairie Dog Town setting an example to his constituents," laughed James. The polar bear was suffering from the heat and nothing but the tip of his nose and his eyes were to be seen above the water of his tank where he floated luxuriously in company with two cakes of ice. The wolves and the foxes had dens among rocks and the wild goats stood daintily on pinnacles to see what was going on at a distance. No one cared much for the reptiles, but the high flying cage for birds kept them beside it for a long time. Across the road they entered the grounds of the Arboretum and passed along a narrow path beside a noisy brook under heavy trees, until they came to a grove of tall hemlocks. With upturned heads they admired these giants of the forest and then passed on to view other trees from many climes and countries. "Here's the Lumholtz pine that father wrote me about from Mexico," cried Ethel Blue, whose father, Captain Morton, had been with General Funston at Vera Cruz. "See, the needles hang down like a spray, just as he said. You know the wood has a peculiar resonance and the Mexicans make musical instruments of it." "It's a graceful pine," approved Ethel Brown. "What a lot of pines there are." "We are so accustomed about here to white pines that the other kinds seem strange, but in the South there are several kinds," contributed Dorothy. "The needles of the long leaf pine are a foot long and much coarser than these white pine needles. Don't you remember, I made some baskets out of them?" The Ethels did remember. "Their green is yellower. The tree is full of resin and it makes the finest kind of kindling." "Is that what the negroes call 'light wood'?" asked Della. "Yes, that's light wood. In the fields that haven't been cultivated for a long time there spring up what they call in the South 'old field pines' or 'loblolly pines.' They have coarse yellow green needles, too, but they aren't as long as the others. There are three needles in the bunch." "Don't all the pines have three needles in the bunch?" asked Margaret. "Look at this white pine," she said, pulling down a bunch off a tree they were passing. "It has five; and the 'Table Mountain pine' has only two." "Observant little Dorothy!" exclaimed Roger. "O, I know more than that," laughed Dorothy. "Look hard at this white pine needle; do you see, it has three sides, two of them white and one green? The loblolly needle has only two sides, though the under is so curved that it looks like two; and the 'Table Mountain' has two sides." "What's the use of remembering all that?" demanded Mary sullenly. Dorothy, who had been dimpling amusedly as she delivered her lecture, flushed deeply. "I don't know," she admitted. "We like to hear about it because we've been gardening all summer and anything about trees or plants interests us," explained Tom politely, though the way in which Mary spoke seemed like an attack on Dorothy. "I've always found that everything I ever learned was useful at some time or other," James maintained decidedly. "You never can tell when this information that Dorothy has given us may be just what we need for some purpose or other." "It served Dorothy's purpose just now when she interested us for a few minutes telling about the different kinds," insisted Ethel Blue, but Mary walked on before them with a toss of her head that meant "It doesn't interest me." Dorothy looked at her mother, uncertain whether to take it as a joke or to feel hurt. Mrs. Smith smiled and shook her head almost imperceptibly and Dorothy understood that it was kindest to say nothing more. They chatted on as they walked through the Botanical Gardens and exclaimed over the wonders of the hothouses and examined the collections of the Museum, but the edge had gone from the afternoon and they were not sorry to find themselves on the train for Rosemont. Mary sat with Mrs. Smith. "I really was interested in what Dorothy told about the pines," she whispered as the train rumbled on; "I was mad because I didn't know anything that would interest them, too." "I dare say you know a great many things that would interest them," replied Mrs. Smith. "Some day you must tell me about the most interesting thing you ever saw in all your life and we'll see if it won't interest them." "That was in a coal mine," replied Mary promptly. "It was the footstep of a man thousands and thousands of years old. It made you wonder what men looked like and how they lived so long ago." "You must tell us all about it, some time. It will make a good addition to what we learned to-day about the fossils." When the Mortons reached home they found Mr. Emerson waiting for them at their house. "I've a proposal to make to these children, with your permission, Marion," he said to his daughter. "Say on, sir," urged Roger. "Mr. Clark is getting very nervous about this man Hapgood. The man is beginning to act as if he, as the guardian of the child, had a real claim on the Clark estate, and he becomes more and more irritating every day. They haven't heard from Stanley for several days. He hasn't answered either a letter or a telegram that his uncle sent him and the old ladies are working themselves into a great state of anxiety over him. I tell them that he has been moving about all the time and that probably neither the letter nor the wire reached him, but Clark vows that Hapgood has intercepted them and his sisters are sure the boy is ill or has been murdered." "Poor creatures," smiled Mrs. Morton sympathetically. "Is there anything you can do about it?" "I told Clark a few minutes ago that I'd go out to western Pennsylvania and hunt up the boy and help him run down whatever clues he has. Clark was delighted at the offer--said he didn't like to go himself and leave his sisters with this man roaming around the place half the time." "It was kind of you. I've no doubt Stanley is working it all out well, but, boy-like, he doesn't realize that the people at home want to have him report to them every day." "My proposal is, Marion, that you lend me these children, Helen and the Ethels and Roger, for a few days' trip." "Wow, wow!" rose a shout of joy. "Or, better still, that you come, too, and bring Dicky." Mrs. Morton was not a sailor's wife for nothing. "I'll do it," she said promptly. "When do you want us to start?" "Can you be ready for an early morning train from New York?" "We can!" was the instant reply of every person in the room. CHAPTER XVI FAIRYLAND All day long the train pulled its length across across the state of Pennsylvania, climbing mountains and bridging streams and piercing tunnels. All day long Mr. Emerson's party was on the alert, dashing from one side to the other of the car to see some beautiful vista or to look down on a brook brawling a hundred feet below the trestle that supported them or waving their hands to groups of children staring open-mouthed at the passing train. "Pennsylvania is a beautiful state," decided Ethel Brown as they penetrated the splendid hills of the Allegheny range. "Nature made it one of the most lovely states of the Union," returned her grandfather. "Man has played havoc with it in spots. Some of the villages among the coal mines are hideous from the waste that has been thrown out for years upon a pile never taken away, always increasing. No grass grows on it, no children play on it, the hens won't scratch on it. The houses of the miners turn one face to this ugliness and it is only because they turn toward the mountains on another side that the people are preserved from the death of the spirit that comes to those who look forever on the unlovely." "Is there any early history about here?" asked Helen, whose interest was unfailing in the story of her country. "The French and Indian Wars were fought in part through this land," answered Mr. Emerson. "You remember the chief struggle for the continent lay between the English and the French. There were many reasons why the Indians sided with the French in Canada, and the result of the friendship was that; the natives were supplied with arms by the Europeans and the struggle was prolonged for about seventy-five years." "Wasn't the attack on Deerfield during the French and Indian War?" asked Ethel Blue. "Yes, and there were many other such attacks." "The French insisted that all the country west of the Alleghenies belonged to them and they disputed the English possession at every point. When Washington was only twenty-one years old he was sent to beg the French not to interfere with the English, but he had a hard journey with no fortunate results. It was on this journey that he picked out a good position for a fort and started to build it. It was where Pittsburg now stands." "That was a good position for a fort, where the Allegheny and Monongahela Rivers join to make the Ohio," commended Roger. "It was such a good position that the French drove off the English workmen and finished the work themselves. They called it Fort Duquesne and it became one of a string of sixty French forts extending from Quebec to New Orleans." "Some builders!" commended Roger. "Fort Duquesne was so valuable that the English sent one of their generals, Braddock, to capture it. Washington went with him on his staff, to show him the way." "It must have been a long trip from the coast through all this hilly country." "It was. They had to build roads and they were many weeks on the way." "It was a different matter from the twentieth century transportation of soldiers by train and motor trucks and stages," reminded Mrs. Morton. "When the British were very near Fort Duquesne," continued Mr. Emerson, "the French sent out a small band, mainly Indians, to meet them. The English general didn't understand Indian fighting and kept his men massed in the road where they were shot down in great numbers and he lost his own life. There's a town named after him, on the site of the battle." "Here it is," and Helen pointed it out on the map in the railway folder. "It's about ten miles from Pittsburg." "Washington took command after the death of Braddock, and this was his first real military experience. However, his heart was in the taking of Fort Duquesne and when General Forbes was sent out to make another attempt at capturing it Washington commanded one of the regiments of Virginia troops." "Isn't there any poetry about it?" demanded Ethel Brown, who knew her grandfather's habit of collecting historical ballads. "Certainly there is. There are some verses on 'Fort Duquesne' by Florus Plimpton written for the hundredth anniversary of the capture." "Did they have a great old fight to take the fort?" asked Roger. "No fight at all. Here's what Plimpton says:-- "So said: and each to sleep addressed his wearied limbs and mind, And all was hushed i' the forest, save the sobbing of the wind, And the tramp, tramp, tramp of the sentinel, who started oft in fright At the shadows wrought 'mid the giant trees by the fitful camp-fire light. "Good Lord! what sudden glare is that that reddens all the sky, As though hell's legions rode the air and tossed their torches high! Up, men! the alarm drum beats to arms! and the solid ground seems riven By the shock of warring thunderbolts in the lurid depth of heaven! "O, there was clattering of steel and mustering in array, And shouts and wild huzzas of men, impatient of delay, As came the scouts swift-footed in--'They fly! the foe! they fly! They've fired the powder magazine and blown it to the sky.' "All the English had to do was to walk in, put out the fire, repair the fort and re-name it." "What did they call it?" "After the great statesman--Fort Pitt." "That's where 'Pittsburg' got its name, then! I never thought about its being in honor of Pitt!" exclaimed Helen. "It is 'Pitt's City,'" rejoined her grandfather. "And this street," he added somewhat later when they were speeding in a motor bus to a hotel near the park, "this street is Forbes Street, named after the British general. Somewhere there is a Bouquet Street, to commemorate another hero of the war." "I saw 'Duquesne Way' marked on the map," announced Ethel Blue. On the following morning they awakened to find themselves opposite a large and beautiful park with a mass of handsome buildings rising impressively at the entrance. "It is Schenley Park and the buildings house the Carnegie Institute. We'll go over them by and bye." "It's a library," guessed Dicky, who was not too young to have the steelmaker's name associated with libraries in his youthful mind. "It is a library and a fine one. There's also a Music Hall and an art museum and a natural history museum. You'll see more fossil ferns there, and the skeleton of a diplodocus--" "A dip-what?" demanded Roger. "Diplodocus, with the accent on the _plod_; one of the hugest animals that ever walked the earth. They found the bones of this monster almost complete in Colorado and wired them together so you can get an idea of what really 'big game' was like in the early geological days." "How long is he?" "If all the ten members of the U.S.C. were to take hold of hands and stretch along his length there would be space for four or five more to join the string." "Where's my hat?" demanded Roger. "I want to go over and make that fellow's acquaintance instanter." "When you go, notice the wall paintings," said his mother. "They show the manufacture and uses of steel and they are considered among the finest things of their kind in America. Alexander, the artist, did them. You've seen some of his work at the Metropolitan Museum in New York." "Pittsburg has the good sense to have a city organist," Mr. Emerson continued. "Every Sunday afternoon he plays on the great organ in the auditorium and the audience drifts in from the park and drifts out to walk farther, and in all several thousand people hear some good music in the course of the afternoon." "There seem to be some separate buildings behind the Institute." "The Technical Schools, and beyond them is the Margaret Morrison School where girls may learn crafts and domestic science and so on." "It's too bad it isn't a clear day," sighed Ethel Blue, as she rose from the table. "This is a bright day, Miss," volunteered the waiter who handed her her unnecessary sunshade. "You call this clear?" Mrs. Morton asked him. "Yes, madam, this is a bright day for Pittsburg." When they set forth they shook their heads over the townsman's idea of a clear day, for the sky was overcast and clouds of dense black smoke rolled together from the two sides of the city and met over their heads. "It's from the steel mills," Mr. Emerson explained as he advised Ethel Brown to wipe off a smudge of soot that had settled on her cheek and warned his daughter that if she wanted to preserve the whiteness of her gloves she had better replace them by colored ones until she returned to a cleaner place. They were to take the afternoon train up the Monongahela River to the town from which Stanley Clark had sent his wire telling his uncle that "Emily Leonard married a man named Smith," but there were several hours to devote to sightseeing before train time, and the party went over Schenley Park with thoroughness, investigated several of the "inclines" which carried passengers from the river level to the top of the heights above, motored among the handsome residences and ended, on the way to the station, with a flying visit to the old blockhouse which is all that is left of Port Pitt. "So this is really a blockhouse," Helen said slowly as she looked at the little two story building with its heavy beams. "There are the musket holes," Ethel Brown pointed out. "This is really where soldiers fought before the Revolution!" "It really is," her mother assured her. "It is in the care of one of the historical societies now; that's why it is in such good condition." Roger had secured the tickets and had telephoned to the hotel at Brownsville for rooms so they took their places in the train with no misgivings as to possible discomfort at night. Their excitement was beginning to rise, however, for two reasons. In the first place they had been quite as disturbed as Dorothy and her mother over the difficulties attending the purchase of the field and the Fitz-James Woods, and the later developments in connection with the man, Hapgood. Now that they were approaching the place where they knew Stanley Clark was working out the clue they began to feel the thrill that comes over explorers on the eve of discovery. The other reason for excitement lay in the fact that Mr. Emerson had promised them some wonderful sights before they reached their destination. He had not told them what they were, although he had mentioned something about fairyland that had started an abundant flow of questions from Dicky. Naturally they were all alert to find out what novelty their eyes were to see. "I saw one novelty this afternoon," said Roger. "When I stepped into that little stationery shop to get a newspaper I noticed in the rear a queer tin thing with what looked like cotton wool sticking against its back wall. I asked the woman who sold the papers what it was." "Trust Roger for not letting anything pass him," smiled Ethel Brown. "That's why I'm such a cyclopedia of accurate information, ma'am," Roger retorted. "She said it was a stove." "With cotton wool for fuel?" laughed Ethel Blue. "It seems they use natural gas here for heating as well as cooking, and the woolly stuff was asbestos. The gas is turned on at the foot of the back wall and the asbestos becomes heated and gives off warmth but doesn't burn." "I stayed in Pittsburg once in a boarding house where the rooms were heated with natural gas," said Mr. Emerson. "It made a sufficient heat, but you had to be careful not to turn the burner low just before all the methodical Pittsburgers cooked dinner, for if you made it too low the flame might go out when the pressure was light." "Did the opposite happen at night?" "It did. In the short time I was there the newspapers noted several cases of fires caused by people leaving their stoves turned up high at night and the flames bursting into the room and setting fire to some inflammable thing near at hand when the pressure grew strong after the good Pittsburgers went to bed." "It certainly is useful," commended Mrs. Morton. "A turn of the key and that's all." "No coal to be shovelled--think of it!" exclaimed Roger, who took care of several furnaces in winter. "No ashes to be sifted and carried away! The thought causes me to burst into song," and he chanted ridicuously:-- "Given a tight tin stove, asbestos fluff, A match of wood, an iron key, and, puff, Thou, Natural Gas, wilt warm the Arctic wastes, And Arctic wastes are Paradise enough." As the train drew out of the city the young people's expectations of fairyland were not fulfilled. "I don't see anything but dirt and horridness, Grandfather," complained Ethel Brown. Mr. Emerson looked out of the window thoughtfully for a moment. "True," he answered, "it's not yet dark enough for the magic to work." "No wonder everything is sooty and grimy with those chimneys all around us throwing out tons and tons of soft coal smoke to settle over everything. Don't they ever stop?" "They're at it twenty-four hours a day," returned her grandfather. "But night will take all the ugliness into its arms and hide it; the sordidness and griminess will disappear and fairyland will come forth for a playground. The ugly smoke will turn into a thing of beauty. The queer point of it all is," he continued, shaking his head sadly, "fairyland is there all the time and always beautiful, only you can't see it." Dicky's eyes opened wide and he gazed out of the window intent on peering into this mysterious invisible playground. "Lots of things are like that," agreed Roger. "Don't you remember how those snowflakes we looked at under the magnifying glass on Ethel Blue's birthday burst into magnificent crystals? You wouldn't think a handful of earth--just plain dirt--was pretty, would you? But it is. Look at it through a microscope and see what happens." "But, Grandfather, if the beauty is there right now why can't we see it?" insisted Ethel Brown. Mr. Emerson stared out of the window for a moment. "That was a pretty necklace of beads you strung for Ayleesabet." "We all thought they were beauty beads." "And that was a lovely string of pearls that Mrs. Schermerhorn wore at the reception for which you girls decorated her house." There could be no disagreement from that opinion. "Since Ayleesabet is provided with such beauties we shan't have to fret about getting her anything else when she goes to her coming-out party, shall we?" "What are you saying, Grandfather!" exclaimed Helen. "Of course Ayleesabet's little string of beads can't be compared with a pearl necklace!" "There you are!" retorted Mr. Emerson; "Helen has explained it. This fairyland we are going to see can't be compared with the glory of the sun any more than Ayleesabet's beads can be compared with Mrs. Schermerhorn's pearls. We don't even see the fairyland when the sun is shining but when the sun has set the other beauties become clear." "O-o-o!" shouted Dicky, whose nose had been glued to the window in an effort to prove his grandfather's statement; "look at that funny umbrella!" Everybody jumped to one window or another, and they saw in the gathering darkness a sudden blast of flame and white hot particles shooting into the air and spreading out like an umbrella of vast size. "Look at it!" exclaimed the two Ethels, in a breath; "isn't that beautiful! What makes it?" "The grimy steel mills of the daytime make the fairyland of night," announced Mr. Emerson. Across the river they noticed suddenly that the smoke pouring from a chimney had turned blood red with tongues of vivid flame shooting through it like pulsing veins. There was no longer any black smoke. It had changed to heavy masses of living fire of shifting shades. Great ingots of steel sent the observers a white hot greeting or glowed more coolly as the train shot by them. Huge piles of smoking slag that had gleamed dully behind the mills now were veined with vivid red, looking like miniature volcanoes streaked with lava. It was sometimes too beautiful for words to describe it suitably, and sometimes too terrible for an exclamation to do it justice. It created an excitement that was wearying, and when the train pulled into Brownsville it was a tired party that found its way to the hotel. As the children went off to bed Mr. Emerson called out "To-morrow all will be grime and dirt again; fairyland has gone." "Never mind, Grandfather," cried Ethel Brown, "we won't forget that it is there just the same if only we could see it." "And we'll think a little about the splendiferousness of the sun, too," called Helen from the elevator. "I never thought much about it before." CHAPTER XVII THE MISSING HEIRESS Mr. Emerson's investigations proved that Stanley Clark had left Brownsville several days previously and had gone to Millsboro, farther up the Monongahela. He had left that as his forwarding address, the hotel clerk said. This information necessitated a new move at once, so the next morning, bright and early, Mr. Emerson led his party to the river where they boarded a little steamer scarcely larger than a motor boat. They were soon puffing away at a fair rate of speed against the sluggish current. The factories and huge steel plants had disappeared and the banks looked green and country-like as mile after mile slipped by. Suddenly Roger, who was sitting by the steersman's wheel, exclaimed, "Why, look! there's a waterfall in front of us." So, indeed, there was, a wide fall stretching from shore to shore, but Roger, eyeing it suspiciously, added in an aggrieved tone, "But it's a dam. Must be a dam. Look how straight it is." "How on earth," called Ethel Blue, "are we going to get over it?" "Jump up it the way Grandpa told me the salmon fishes do," volunteered Dicky. Everybody laughed, but Mr. Emerson declared that was just about what they were going to do. The boat headed in for one end of the dam and her passengers soon found themselves floating in a granite room, with huge wooden doors closed behind them. The water began to boil around them, and as it poured into the lock from unseen channels the boat rose slowly. In a little while the Ethels cried that they could see over the tops of the walls, and in a few minutes more another pair of big gates opened in front of them and they glided into another chamber and out into the river again, this time above the "falls." "I feel as if I had been through the Panama Canal," declared Ethel Blue. "That's just the way its huge locks work," said Mrs. Morton. "The next time your Uncle Roger has a furlough I hope it will be long enough for us to go down there and see it." "I wonder," asked Roger, "if there are many more dams like this on the Monongahela." "There's one about every ten miles," volunteered the steersman. "Until the government put them in only small boats could go up the river. Now good sized ones can go all the way to Wheeling, West Virginia. If you want to, you can go by boat all the way from Wheeling to the Gulf of Mexico." "The Gulf of Mexico," echoed the two Ethels. Then they added, also together, "So you can!" and Ethel Brown said, "The Indians used to go from the upper end of Lake Chautauqua to the Gulf in their canoes? When they got to Fort Duquesne it was easy paddling." "What is that high wharf with a building on it overhanging the river?" asked Helen. "That's a coal tipple," said her grandfather. "Do you see on shore some low-lying houses and sheds? They are the various machinery plants and offices of the coal mine and that double row of small houses a quarter of a mile farther up is where the employés live." As the boat continued up the river it passed many such tipples. They were now in the soft coal country, the steersman said, and in due time they arrived at Millsboro, a little town about ten miles above Brownsville. Here Mr. Emerson made immediate inquiries about Stanley Clark, and found that he had gone on, leaving "Uniontown, Fayette County," as his forwarding address. "That's the county seat where Hapgood says he copied his records," said Mr. Emerson. "I hope we shall catch young Clark there and get that matter straightened out." As there was no train to Uniontown until the afternoon, Mr. Emerson engaged a motor car to take them to a large mine whose tipple they had passed on the way up. The Superintendent was a friend of the driver of the car and he willingly agreed to show them through. Before entering the mine he pointed out to them samples of coal which he had collected. Some had fern leaves plainly visible upon their surfaces and others showed leaves of trees and shrubs. "Fairy pencilings, a quaint design, Veinings, leafage, fibers clear and fine," quoted Ethel Blue softly, as she looked at them. Mrs. Morton stopped before a huge block of coal weighing several tons and said to her son, "Here's a lump for your furnace, Roger." "Phew," said Roger. "Think of a furnace large enough to fit that lump! Do you get many of them?" he asked of the Superintendent. "We keep that," said the Superintendent, "because it's the largest single lump of coal ever brought out of this mine. Of course, we could get them if we tried to, but it's easier to handle it in smaller pieces." "What'th in that little houthe over there?" asked Dicky. "Theems to me I thee something whithing round." "That's the fan that blows fresh air into the mine so that the miners can breathe, and drives out the poisonous and dangerous gases." "What would happen if the fan stopped running?" asked Ethel Brown. "Many things might happen," said the Superintendent gravely. "Men might suffocate for lack of air, or an explosion might follow from the collection of the dreaded 'fire damp' ignited by some miner's lamp." "Fire damp?" repeated Mrs. Morton. "That is really natural gas, isn't it?" "Yes, they're both 'marsh gas' caused by the decay of the huge ferns and plants of the carboniferous age. Some of them hardened into coal and others rotted when they were buried, and the gas was caught in huge pockets. It is gas from these great pockets that people use for heating and cooking all about here and even up into Canada." Ethel Brown had been listening and the words "some of them hardened into coal" caught her ear. She went close to her grandfather's side. "Tell me," she said, "exactly what is coal and how did it get here?" "What _I_ want to know," retorted Mr. Emerson, "is what brand of curiosity you have in your cranium, and how did it get there? Answer me that." Ethel Brown laughed. "Let's have a lecture," she urged, "and," handing her grandfather a small lump of coal, "here's your text." Mr. Emerson turned the bit of coal over and over. "When I look at this little piece of black stone," he said, "I seem to see dense forests filled with luxuriant foliage and shrubbery and mammoth trees under which move sluggish streams draining the swampy ground. The air is damp and heavy and warm." "What about the animals?" "There are few animals. Most of them are water creatures, though there are a few that can live on land and in the water, too, and in the latter part of the coal-making period enormous reptiles crawled over the wet floor of the forest. Life is easy in all this leafy splendor and so is death, but no eye of man is there to look upon it, no birds brighten the dense green of the trees, and the ferns and shrubs have no flowers as we know them. The air is heavy with carbon." "Where was the coal?" "The coal wasn't made yet. You know how the soil of the West Woods at home is deep with decayed leaves? Just imagine what soil would be if it were made by the decay of these huge trees and ferns! It became yards and yards deep and silt and water pressed it down and crushed from it almost all the elements except the carbon, and it was transformed into a mineral, and that mineral is coal." "Coal? Our coal?" "Our coal. See the point of a fern leaf on this bit?" and he held out the piece of coal he had been holding. "That fern grew millions of years ago." "Isn't it delicate and pretty!" exclaimed Ethel Blue, as it reached her in passing from hand to hand, "and also not as clean as it once was!" she added ruefully, looking at her fingers. By way of preparation for their descent into the mine each member of the party was given a cap on which was fastened a small open wick oil lamp. They did not light them, however, until they had all been carried a hundred feet down into the earth in a huge elevator. Here they needed the illumination of the tiny lamps whose flicker made dancing shadows on the walls. Following the Superintendent their first visit was to the stable. "What is a stable doing down here?" wondered Ethel Brown. "Mules pull the small cars into which the miners toss the coal as they cut it out. These fellows probably will never see the light of day again," and their leader stroked the nose of the animal nearest him which seemed startled at his touch. "He's almost blind, you see," the Superintendent explained. "His eyes have adjusted themselves to the darkness and even these feeble lights dazzle him." The girls felt the tears very near their eyelids as they thought of the fate of these poor beasts, doomed never to see the sun again or to feel the grass under their feet. "I once knew a mule who was so fond of music that he used to poke his head into the window near which his master's daughter was playing on the piano," said the Superintendent, who noticed their agitation and wanted to amuse them. "We might get up band concerts for these fellows." "Poor old things, I believe they would like it!" exclaimed Helen. "This is a regular underground village," commented Mrs. Morton, as they walked for a long distance through narrow passages until they found themselves at the heading of a drift where the men were working. "Is there any gas here?" asked the Superintendent, and when the miners said "Yes," he lifted his hand light, which was encased in wire gauze, and thrust it upwards toward the roof and gave a grunt as it flickered near the top. There it was, the dreaded fire-damp, in a layer above their heads. One touch of an open flame and there would be a terrible explosion, yet the miners were working undisturbed just beneath it with unprotected lamps on their caps. The visitors felt suddenly like recruits under fire--they were far from enjoying the situation but they did not want to seem alarmed. No one made any protest, but neither did any one protest when the Superintendent led the way to a section of the mine where there was no gas that they might see a sight which he assured them was without doubt wonderful. They were glad that they had been assured that there was no fire-damp here, for their leader lifted his lamp close to the roof. Ethel Blue made the beginning of an exclamation as she saw his arm rising, but she smothered her cry for her good sense told her that this experienced man would not endanger the lives of himself or his guests. The coal had been taken out very cleanly, and above them they saw not coal but shale. "What is shale?" inquired Helen. "Hardened clay," replied the Superintendent. "There were no men until long after the carboniferous period when coal was formed, but just in this spot it must have happened that the soil that had gathered above the deposits of coal was very light for some reason or other. Above the coal there was only a thin layer of soft clay. One day a hunter tramped this way and left his autograph behind." He held his lamp steadily upward, and there in the roof were the unmistakable prints of the soles of a man's feet, walking. "It surely does look mightily as if your explanation was correct," exclaimed Mr. Emerson, as he gazed at the three prints, in line and spaced as a walker's would be. Their guide said that there had been six, but the other three had fallen after being exposed to the air. "I wish it hadn't been such a muddy day," sighed Ethel Blue. "The mud squeezed around so that his toe marks were filled right up." "It certainly was a muddy day," agreed Roger, "but I'm glad it was. If he had been walking on rocks we never should have known that he had passed this way a million or so years ago." They were all so filled with interest that they were almost unwilling to go on in the afternoon, although Mr. Emerson promised them other sights around Uniontown, quite different from any they had seen yet. It was late in the afternoon when they ferried across the river in a boat running on a chain, and took the train for the seat of Fayette County. As the daylight waned they found themselves travelling through a country lighted by a glare that seemed to spread through the atmosphere and to be reflected back from the clouds and sky. "What is it?" Dicky almost whimpered, as he snuggled closer to his mother. "Ask Grandfather," returned Mrs. Morton. "It's the glare from the coke ovens," answered Mr. Emerson. "Do you see those long rows of bee-hives? Those are ovens in which soft coal is being burned so that a certain ingredient called bitumen may be driven off from it. What is left after that is done is a substance that looks somewhat like a dry, sponge if that were gray and hard. It burns with a very hot flame and is invaluable in the smelting of iron and the making of steel." "That's why they make so much here," guessed Ethel Brown, who had been counting the ovens and was well up in the hundreds with plenty more in sight. "Here is where they make most of the iron and steel in the United States and they have to have coke for it." "And you notice how conveniently the coal beds lie to the iron mines? Nature followed an efficiency program, didn't she?" laughed Roger. "They turn out about twenty million tons of coke a year just around here," Helen read from her guidebook, "and it is one of the two greatest coke burning regions of the world!" "Where's the other?" "In the neighborhood of Durham, England." "It is a wonderful sight!" exclaimed Ethel Blue. "I never knew fire could be so wonderful and so different!" Mr. Emerson's search for Stanley Clark seemed to be a stern chase and consequently a long one. Here again the hotel clerk told him that Mr. Clark had gone on, this time to Washington, the seat of Washington County. He was fairly sure that he was still there because he had received a letter from him just the day before asking that something he had left behind should be sent him to that point, which was done. As soon as the Record Office was open in the morning Mr. Emerson and Roger went there. "We might as well check up on Hapgood's investigations," said Mr. Emerson. "They may be all right, and he may be honestly mistaken in thinking that his Emily is the Clarks' Emily; or he may have faked some of his records. It won't take us long to find out. Mr. Clark let me take his copy of Hapgood's papers." It was not a long matter to prove that Hapgood's copy of the records was correct. Emily Leonard had married Edward Smith; their son, Jabez, had married a Hapgood and Mary was their child. Where Hapgood's copy had been deficient was in his failing to record that this Emily Leonard was the daughter of George and Sabina Leonard, whereas the Clarks' Emily was the daughter of Peter and Judith Leonard. "There's Hapgood's whole story knocked silly," remarked Mr. Emerson complacently. "But it leaves us just where we were about the person the Clarks' Emily married." "Stanley wouldn't have telegraphed that she married a Smith if he hadn't been sure. He sent that wire from Millsboro, you know. He must have found something in that vicinity." "I'm going to try to get him on the telephone to-night, and then we can join him in Washington tomorrow if he'll condescend to stay in one spot for a few hours and not keep us chasing over the country after him." "That's Jabez Smith over there now," the clerk, who had been interested in their search, informed them. "Jabez Smith!" repeated Roger, his jaw dropped. "Jabez Smith!" repeated Mr. Emerson. "Why, he's dead!" "Jabez Smith? The Hapgood woman's husband? Father of Mary Smith? He isn't dead. He's alive and drunk almost every day." He indicated a man leaning against the wall of the corridor and Mr. Emerson and Roger approached him. "Don't you know the Miss Clarks said they thought that Mary said her father was alive but her uncle interrupted her loudly and said she was 'an orphan, poor kid'?" Roger reminded his grandfather. "She's half an orphan; her mother really is dead, the clerk says." Jabez Smith acknowledged his identity and received news of his brother-in-law and his daughter with no signs of pleasure. "What scheming is Hapgood up to now?" he muttered crossly. "Do you remember what your grandfather and grandmother Leonards' names were," asked Mr. Emerson. The man looked at him dully, as if he wondered what trick there might be in the inquiry, but evidently he came to the conclusion that his new acquaintance was testing his memory, so he pulled himself together and after some mental searching answered, "George Leonard; Sabina Leonard." His hearers were satisfied, and left him still supporting the Court House wall with his person instead of his taxes. Stanley, the long pursued, was caught on the wire, and hailed their coming with delight. He said that he thought he had all the information he needed and that he had been planning to go home the next day, so they were just in time. "That's delightful; he can go with us," exclaimed Ethel Brown, and Helen and Roger looked especially pleased. The few hours that passed before they met in Washington were filled with guesses as to whether Stanley had built up the family tree of his cousin Emily so firmly that it could not be shaken. "We proved this morning that Hapgood's story was a mixture of truth and lies," Mr. Emerson said, "but we haven't anything to replace it. Our evidence is all negative." "Stanley seems sure," Roger reminded him. When Stanley met them at the station in Washington he seemed both sure and happy. He shook hands with them all. "It is perfectly great to have you people here," he said to Helen. "Have you caught Emily?" she replied, dimpling with excitement. "I have Emily traced backwards and forwards. Let's go into the writing room of the hotel and you shall see right off how she stands." They gathered around the large table and listened to the account of the young lawyer's adventures. He had had a lead that took him to Millsboro soon after he reached western Pennsylvania, but he missed the trail there and spent some time in hunting in surrounding towns before he came on the record in the Uniontown courthouse. "I certainly thought I had caught her then," he confessed. "I thought so until I compared the ages of the two Emilies. I found that our Emily would have been only ten years old at the time the Uniontown Emily married Edward Smith." "Mr. Clark wired you to find out just that point." "Did he? I never received the despatch. Hadn't I told him the date of our Emily's birth? "He has a crow to pick with you over that." "Too bad. Well, I moseyed around some more, and the trail led me back to Millsboro again, where I ought to have found the solution in the first place if I had been more persevering. I came across an old woman in Millsboro who had been Emily Leonard's bridesmaid when she married Julian Smith. That sent me off to the county seat and there I found it all set down in black and white;--Emily Leonard, adopted daughter of Asa Wentworth and daughter of Peter and Judith (Clark) Leonard. There was everything I wanted." "You knew she had been adopted by a Wentworth?" "I found that out before I left Nebraska." "What was the date of the marriage?" "1868. She was eighteen. Two years later her only child, a son, Leonard, was born, and she died--" "Her son Leonard! Leonard Smith!" exclaimed Mrs. Morton suddenly. "Do you suppose--" she hesitated, looking at her father. He raised his eyebrows doubtfully, then turning to Stanley he inquired: "You didn't find out what became of this Leonard Smith, did you?" "I didn't find any record of his marriage, but I met several men who used to know him. They said he became quite a distinguished musician, and that he married a Philadelphia woman." "Did they know her name?" asked Mrs. Morton, leaning forward eagerly. "One of them said he thought it was Martin. Smith never came back here to live after he set forth to make his fortune, so they were a little hazy about his marriage and they didn't know whether he was still alive." "The name wasn't Morton, was it?" The girls looked curiously at their mother, for she was crimson with excitement. Stanley could take them no farther, however. "Father," Mrs. Morton said to Mr. Emerson, as the young people chattered over Stanley's discoveries, "I think I'd better send a telegram to Louise and ask her what her husband's parents' names were. Wouldn't it be too strange if he should be the son of the lost Emily?" Mr. Emerson hurried to the telegraph office and sent an immediate wire to "Mrs. Leonard Smith, Rosemont, N.J. Wire names of your husband's parents," it read. The answer came back before morning;--"Julian and Emily Leonard Smith." "Now why in the wide world didn't she remember that when we've done nothing but talk about Emily Leonard for weeks!" cried Mrs. Smith's sister-in-law impatiently. "I dare say she never gave them a thought; Leonard Smith's mother died when he was born, Stanley says. How about the father, Stanley?" "Julian Smith? He died years ago. I saw his death record this morning." "Then I don't see but you've traced the missing heir right to your own next door neighbor, Stanley." "It looks to me as if that was just what had happened," laughed the young lawyer. "Isn't that jolly! It's Dorothy whose guardian's signature is lacking to make the deed of the field valid when we sell it to her mother!" "It's Dorothy who is a part owner of Fitz-James's woods already!" cried the Ethels. Another telegram went to Rosemont at once. This one was addressed to "Miss Dorothy Smith." It said, "Stanley welcomes you into family. Congratulations from all on your good fortune," and it was signed "The Travellers." THE END 
22844	----	MISS PHILLY FIRKIN, THE CHINA-WOMAN. By Mary Russell Mitford In Belford Regis, as in many of those provincial capitals of the south of England, whose growth and importance have kept pace with the increased affluence and population of the neighbourhood, the principal shops will be found clustered in the close, inconvenient streets of the antique portion of the good town; whilst the more showy and commodious modern buildings are quite unable to compete in point of custom with the old crowded localities, which seem even to derive an advantage from the appearance of business and bustle occasioned by the sharp turnings, the steep declivities, the narrow causeways, the jutting-out windows, and the various obstructions incident to the picturesque but irregular street-architecture of our ancestors. Accordingly, Oriel Street, in Belford,--a narrow lane, cribbed and confined on the one side by an old monastic establishment, now turned into alms-houses, called the Oriel, which divided the street from that branch of the river called the Holy Brook, and on the other bounded by the market-place, whilst one end abutted on the yard of a great inn, and turned so sharply up a steep acclivity that accidents happened there every day, and the other _terminus_ wound with an equally awkward curvature round the churchyard of St Stephen's,--this most strait and incommodious avenue of shops was the wealthiest quarter of the Borough. It was a provincial combination of Regent Street and Cheapside. The houses let for double their value; and, as a necessary consequence, goods sold there at pretty nearly the same rate; horse-people and foot-people jostled upon the pavement; coaches and phaetons ran against each other in the road. Nobody dreamt of visiting Belford without wanting something or other in Oriel Street; and although noise, and crowd, and bustle, be very far from usual attributes of the good town, yet in driving through this favoured region on a fine day, between the hours of three and five, we stood a fair chance of encountering as many difficulties and obstructions from carriages, and as much din and disorder on the causeway as we shall often have the pleasure of meeting with out of London. One of the most popular and frequented shops in the street, and out of all manner of comparison the prettiest to look at, was the well-furnished glass and china warehouse of Philadelphia Firkin, spinster. Few things are indeed more agreeable to the eye than the mixture of glittering cut glass, with rich and delicate china, so beautiful in shape, colour, and material, which adorn a nicely-assorted showroom of that description. The manufactures of Sèvres, of Dresden, of Derby, and of Worcester, are really works of art, and very beautiful ones too; and even the less choice specimens have about them a clearness, a glossiness, and a nicety, exceedingly pleasant to look upon; so that a china-shop is in some sense a shop of temptation: and that it is also a shop of necessity, every housekeeper who knows to her cost the infinite number of plates, dishes, cups, and glasses, which contrive to get broken in the course of the year, (chiefly by that grand demolisher of crockery ware called Nobody,) will not fail to bear testimony. Miss Philadelphia's was therefore a well accustomed shop, and she herself was in appearance most fit to be its inhabitant, being a trim, prim little woman, neither old nor young, whose dress hung about her in stiff regular folds, very like the drapery of a china shepherdess on a mantel-piece, and whose pink and white complexion, skin, eyebrows, eyes, and hair, all tinted as it seemed with one dash of ruddy colour, had the same professional hue. Change her spruce cap for a wide-brimmed hat, and the damask napkin which she flourished in wiping her wares, for a china crook, and the figure in question might have passed for a miniature of the mistress. In one respect they differed The china shepherdess was a silent personage. Miss Philadelphia was not; on the contrary, she was reckoned to make, after her own mincing fashion, as good a use of her tongue as any woman, gentle or simple, in the whole town of Belford. She was assisted in her avocations by a little shopwoman, not much taller than a china mandarin, remarkable for the height of her comb, and the length of her earrings, whom she addressed sometimes as Miss Wolfe, sometimes as Marianne, and sometimes as Polly, thus multiplying the young lady's individuality by three; and a little shopman in apron and sleeves, whom, with equal ingenuity, she called by the several appellations of Jack, Jonathan, and Mr. Lamb--mister!--but who was really such a cock-o'-my-thumb as might have been served up in a tureen, or baked in a pie-dish, without in the slightest degree abridging his personal dimensions. I have known him quite hidden behind a china jar, and as completely buried, whilst standing on tip-toe, in a crate, as the dessert-service which he was engaged in unpacking. Whether this pair of originals was transferred from a show at a fair to Miss Philips warehouse, or whether she had picked them up accidentally, first one and then the other, guided by a fine sense of congruity, as she might match a wineglass or a tea-cup, must be left to conjecture. Certain they answered her purpose, as well as if they had been the size of Gog and Magog; were attentive to the customers, faithful to their employer, and crept about amongst the china as softly as two mice. The world went well with Miss Philly Firkin in the shop and out. She won favour in the sight of her betters by a certain prim, demure, simpering civility, and a power of multiplying herself as well as her little officials, like Yates or Matthews in a monopolologue, and attending to half-a-dozen persons at once; whilst she was no less popular amongst her equals in virtue of her excellent gift in gossiping. Nobody better loved a gentle tale of scandal, to sweeten a quiet cup of tea. Nobody evinced a finer talent for picking up whatever news happened to be stirring, or greater liberality in its diffusion. She was the intelligencer of the place--a walking chronicle. In a word, Miss Philly Firkin was certainly a prosperous, and, as times go, a tolerably happy woman. To be sure, her closest intimates, those very dear friends, who as our confidence gives them the opportunity, are so obliging as to watch our weaknesses and report our foibles,--certain of these bosom companions had been heard to hint, that Miss Philly, who had refused two or three good matches in her bloom, repented her of this cruelty, and would probably be found less obdurate now that suitors had ceased to offer. This, if true, was one hidden grievance, a flitting shadow upon a sunny destiny; whilst another might be found in a circumstance of which she was so far from making a secret, that it was one of her most frequent topics of discourse. The calamity in question took the not un-frequent form of a next-door neighbour. On her right dwelt an eminent tinman with his pretty daughter, two of the most respectable, kindest, and best-conducted persons in the town; but on her left was an open bricked archway, just wide enough to admit a cart, surmounted by a dim and dingy representation of some horned animal, with "The Old Red Cow" written in white capitals above, and "James Tyler, licensed to sell beer, ale, wine, and all sorts of spirituous liquors," below; and down the aforesaid passage, divided only by a paling from the spacious premises where her earthenware and coarser kinds of crockery were deposited, were the public-house, stables, cowhouses, and pigsties of Mr. James Tyler, who added to his calling of publican, the several capacities of milkman, cattle dealer, and pig merchant, so that the place was one constant scene of dirt and noise and bustle without and within;--this Old Red Cow, in spite of its unpromising locality, being one of the best frequented houses in Belford, the constant resort of drovers, drivers, and cattle dealers, with a market dinner on Wednesdays and Saturdays, and a club called the Jolly Tailors, every Monday night. Master James Tyler--popularly called Jem--was the very man to secure and increase this sort of custom. Of vast stature and extraordinary physical power, combined with a degree of animal spirits not often found in combination with such large proportions, he was at once a fit ruler over his four-footed subjects in the yard, a miscellaneous and most disorderly collection of cows, horses, pigs, and oxen, to say nothing of his own five boys, (for Jem was a widower,) each of whom, in striving to remedy, was apt to enhance the confusion, and an admirable lord of misrule at the drovers' dinners and tradesmen's suppers over which he presided. There was a mixture of command and good-humour, of decision and fun, in the gruff, bluff, weather-beaten countenance, surmounted with its rough shock of coal-black hair, and in the voice loud as a stentor, with which he now guided a drove of oxen, and now roared a catch, that his listeners in either case found irresistible. Jem Tyler was the very spirit of vulgar jollity, and could, as he boasted, run, leap, box, wrestle, drink, sing, and shoot (he had been a keeper in his youth, and still retained the love of sportsmanship which those who imbibe it early seldom lose) with any man in the county. He was discreet, too, for a man of his occupation; knew precisely how drunk a journeyman tailor ought to get, and when to stop a fight between a Somersetshire cattle-dealer and an Irish pig-driver. No inquest had ever sat upon any of his customers. Small wonder, that with such a landlord the Old Red Cow should be a hostelry of unmatched resort and unblemished reputation. The chief exception to Jem Tyler's almost universal popularity was beyond all manner of doubt his fair neighbour Miss Philadelphia Firkin. She, together with her trusty adherents, Miss Wolfe and Mr. Lamb, held Jem, his alehouse, and his customers, whether tailor, drover, or dealer, his yard and its contents, horse or donkey, ox or cow, pig or dog, in unmeasured and undisguised abhorrence: she threatened to indict the place as a nuisance, to appeal to the mayor; and upon "some good-natured friend" telling her that mine host had snapped his fingers at her as a chattering old maid, she did actually go so far as to speak to her landlord, who was also Jem's, upon the iniquity of his doings. This worthy happening, however, to be a great brewer, knew better than to dismiss a tenant whose consumption of double X was so satisfactory. So that Miss Firkin took nothing by her motion beyond a few of those smoothening and pacificatory speeches, which, when administered to a person in a passion, have, as I have often observed, a remarkable tendency to exasperate the disease. At last, however, came a real and substantial grievance, an actionable trespass; and although Miss Philly was a considerable loser by the mischance, and a lawsuit is always rather a questionable remedy for pecuniary damage, yet such was the keenness of her hatred towards poor Jem, that I am quite convinced that in her inmost heart (although being an excellent person in her way, it is doubtful whether she told herself the whole truth in the matter) she rejoiced at a loss which would enable her to take such signal vengeance over her next-door enemy. An obstreperous cow, walking backward instead of forward, as that placid animal when provoked has the habit of doing, came in contact with a weak part of the paling which divided Miss Firkin's back premises from Master Tyler's yard, and not only upset Mr. Lamb into a crate of crockery which he was in the act of unpacking, to the inexpressible discomfiture of both parties, but Miss Wolfe, who, upon hearing the mixture of crash and squall, ran to the rescue, found herself knocked down by a donkey who had entered at the breach, and was saluted as she rose by a peal of laughter from young Sam Tyler, Jem's eldest hope, a thorough Pickle, who, accompanied by two or three other chaps as unlucky as himself, sat quietly on a gate surveying and enjoying the mischief. "I'll bring an action against the villain!" ejaculated Miss Philly, as soon as the enemy was driven from her quarters, and her china and her dependants set upon their feet:--"I'll take the law of him!" And in this spirited resolution did mistress, shopman, and shopwoman, find comfort for the losses, the scratches, and the bruises of the day. This affray commenced on a Thursday evening towards the latter end of March; and it so happened that we had occasion to send to Miss Philly early the next morning for a cart-load of garden-pots for the use of my geraniums. Our messenger was, as it chanced, a certain lad by name Dick Barnett, who has lived with us off and on ever since he was the height of the table, and who originally a saucy, lively, merry boy, arch, quick-witted, and amusing, has been indulged in giving vent to all manner of impertinences until he has become a sort of privileged person, and takes, with high or low, a freedom of speech that might become a lady's page or a king's jester. Every now and then we feel that this licence, which in a child of ten years old we found so diverting, has become inconvenient in a youth of seventeen, and favour him and ourselves with a lecture accordingly. But such is the force of inveterate habit that our remonstrances upon this subject are usually so much gravity wasted upon him and upon ourselves. He, in the course of a day or two, comes forth with some fresh prank more amusing than before, and we (I grieve to confess such a weakness) resume our laughter. To do justice, however, to this modern Robin Goodfellow, there was most commonly a fund of goodnature at the bottom of his wildest tricks or his most egregious romances,--for in the matter of a jest he was apt to draw pretty largely from an inventive faculty of remarkable fertility; he was constant in his attachments, whether to man or beast, loyal to his employers, and although idle and uncertain enough in other work, admirable in all that related to the stable or the kennel--the best driver, best rider, best trainer of a greyhound, and best finder of a hare, in all Berkshire. He was, as usual, accompanied on this errand by one of his four-footed favourites, a delicate snow-white greyhound called Mayfly, of whom Miss Philly flatteringly observed, that "she was as beautiful as china;" and upon the civil lady of the shop proceeding to inquire after the health of his master and mistress, and the general news of Aberleigh, master Ben, who well knew her proficiency in gossiping, and had the dislike of a man and a rival to any female practitioner in that art, checked at once this condescending overture to conversation by answering with more than his usual consequence: "The chief news that I know, Miss Firkin, is, that our geraniums are all pining away for want of fresh earth, and that I am sent in furious haste after a load of your best garden-pots. There's no time to be lost, I can tell you, if you mean to save their precious lives. Miss Ada is upon her last legs, and master Diomede in a galloping consumption--two of our prime geraniums, ma'am!" quoth Dick, with a condescending nod to Miss Wolfe, as that Lilliputian lady looked up at him with a stare of unspeakable mystification; "queerish names, a'nt they? Well, there are the patterns of the sizes, and there's the order; so if your little gentleman will but look the pots out, I have left the cart in Jem Tyler's yard, (I've a message to Jem from master,) and we can pack 'em over the paling. I suppose you've a ladder for the little man's use, in loading carts and waggons, if not Jem or I can take them from him. There is not a better-natured fellow in England than Jem Tyler, and he'll be sure to do me a good turn any day, if it's only for the love of our Mayfly here. He bred her, poor thing, and is well nigh as fond of her as if she was a child of his own; and so's Sam. Nay, what's the matter with you all?" pursued Dick, as at the name of Jem Tyler Miss Wolfe turned up her hands and eyes, Mr. Lamb let fall the pattern pots, and Miss Philly flung the order upon the counter--"What the deuce is come to the people?" And then out burst the story of the last night's adventure, of Mr. Lamb's scratched face, which indeed was visible enough, of Miss Wolfe's bruises, of the broken china, the cow, the donkey, and the action at law. "Whew!" whistled Dick in an aside whistle; "going to law is she? We must pacify her if we can," thought he, "for a lawsuit's no joke, as poor Jem would find. Jem must come and speechify. It's hard if between us we can't manage a woman." "Sad affair, indeed, Miss Firkin," said Dick, aloud, in a soft, sympathising tone, and with a most condoling countenance; "it's unknown what obstropolous creatures cows and donkies are, and what mischief they do amongst gim-cracks. A brute of a donkey got into our garden last summer, and ate up half-a-dozen rose-trees and fuchsias, besides trampling over the flower-beds. One of the roses was a present from France, worth five guineas. I hope Mr. Lamb and Miss Wolfe are not much hurt. Very sad affair! strange too that it should happen through Jem Tylers cattle--poor Jem, who had such a respect for you!" "Respect for me!" echoed Miss Philly, "when he called me a chattering old maid,--Mrs. Loveit heard him. Respect for me!" "Aye," continued Dick, "it was but last Monday was a fortnight that Kit Mahony, the tall pig-dealer, was boasting of the beauty of the Tipperary lasses, and crying down our English ladies, whereupon, although the tap was full of Irish chaps, Jem took the matter up, and swore that he could show Kit two as fine women in this very street--you, ma'am, being one, and Miss Parsons the other--two as fine women as ever he saw in Tipperary. Nay, he offered to lay any wager, from a pot of double X to half a score of his own pigs, that Kit should confess it himself. Now, if that's not having a respect I don't know what is," added Dick, with much gravity; "and I put it to your good sense, whether it is not more likely that Mrs. Loveit, who is as deaf as a post, should be mistaken, than that he should offer to lay such a wager respecting a lady of whom he had spoken so disparagingly." "This will do," thought Dick to himself as he observed the softening of Miss Philly's features and noted her very remarkable and unnatural silence--"this will do;" and reiterating his request that the order might be got ready, he walked out of the shop. "You'll find that I have settled the matter," observed the young gentleman to Jem Tyler, after telling him the story, "and you have nothing to do but to follow up my hints. Did not I manage her famously? 'Twas well I recollected your challenge to Mahony, about that pretty creature, Harriet Parsons. It had a capital effect, I promise you. Now go and make yourself decent; put on your Sunday coat, wash your face and hands, and don't, spare for fine speeches. Be off with you." "I shall laugh in her face," replied Jem. "Not you," quoth his sage adviser: "just think of the length of a lawyer's bill, and you'll be in no danger of laughing. Besides, she's really a niceish sort of a body enough, a tidyish little soul in her way, and you're a gay widower--so who knows?" And home went Dick, chuckling all the way, partly at his own good management, partly at the new idea which his quick fancy had started. About a fortnight after, I had occasion to drive into Belford, attended as usual by master Richard. The bells of St. Stephen's were ringing merrily as we passed down Oriel Street, and happening to look up at the well-known sign of the Old Red Cow, we saw that celebrated work of art surmounted by a bow of white ribbons--a bridal favour. Looking onward to Miss Philly's door, what should we perceive but Mr. Lamb standing on the step with a similar cockade, half as big as himself, stuck in his hat; whilst Miss Wolfe stood simpering behind the counter, dispensing to her old enemy Sam, and four other grinning boys in their best apparel, five huge slices of bridecake. The fact was clear. Jem Tyler and Miss Philly were married. 
13034	----	MARY MINDS HER BUSINESS BY GEORGE WESTON Author of "Oh, Mary, Be Careful," "The Apple-Tree Girl," and "You Never Saw Such a Girl." 1920 To Karl Edwin Harriman One of the Noblest of them All G.W. MARY MINDS HER BUSINESS So that you may understand my heroine, I am going to write a preface and tell you about her forebears. In the latter part of the seventeenth century, there was a young blacksmith in our part of the country named Josiah Spencer. He had a quick eye, a quick hand and a quicker temper. Because of his quick eye he married a girl named Mary McMillan. Because of his quick hand, he was never in need of employment. And because of his quick temper, he left the place of his birth one day and travelled west until he came to a ford which crossed the Quinebaug River. There, before the week was over, he had bought from Oeneko, the Indian chief, five hundred acres on each side of the river--land in those days being the cheapest known commodity. Hewing his own timber and making his own hardware, he soon built a shop of his own, and the ford being on the main road between Hartford and the Providence Plantations, it wasn't long before he had plenty of business. Above the ford was a waterfall. Josiah put in a wheel, a grist mill and a saw mill. By that time Mary, his wife, had presented him with one of the two greatest gifts that a woman can ever bestow, and presently a sign was painted over the shop: JOSIAH SPENCER & SON In course of time young Josiah made his first horse-shoe and old Josiah made his last. On a visit to New Amsterdam, the young man had already fallen in love with a girl named Matilda Sturtevant. They were married in 1746 and had one of those round old-fashioned families when twelve children seemed to be the minimum and anything less created comment. Two of the boys were later killed in the Revolution, another became Supreme Court justice, but the likeliest one succeeded to the business of Josiah Spencer & Son, which was then making a specialty of building wagons--and building them so well that the shop had to be increased in size again and again until it began to have the appearance of quite a respectable looking factory. The third Spencer to own the business married a Yankee--Patience Babcock--but Patience's only son married a French-Canadian girl--for even then the Canadians were drifting down into our part of the country. So by that time, as you can see--and this is an important part of my preface--the Spencer stock was a thrifty mixture of Yankee, Irish, Scotch, Dutch and French blood--although you would never have guessed it if you had simply seen the name of one Josiah Spencer following another as the owner of the Quinebaug Wagon Works. In the same year that the fourth Josiah Spencer succeeded to the business, a bridge was built to take the place of the ford and the waterfall was fortified by a dam. By that time a regular little town had formed around the factory. The town was called New Bethel. It was at this stage of their history that the Spencers grew proud, making a hobby of their family tree and even possibly breathing a sigh over vanished coats-of-arms. The fifth of the line, for instance, married a Miss Copleigh of Boston. He built a big house on Bradford Hill and brought her home in a tally-ho. The number of her trunks and the size of her crinolines are spoken of to this day in our part of the country--also her manner of closing her eyes when she talked, and holding her little finger at an angle when drinking her tea. She had only one child--fortunately a son. This son was the grandfather of our heroine. So you see we are getting warm at last. The grandfather of our heroine was probably the greatest Spencer of them all. Under his ownership the factory was rebuilt of brick and stone. He developed the town both socially and industrially until New Bethel bade fair to become one of the leading cities in the state. He developed the water power by building a great dam above the factory and forming a lake nearly ten miles long. He also developed an artillery wheel which has probably rolled along every important road in the civilized world. Indeed he was so engaged in these enterprises that he didn't marry until he was well past forty-five. Then one spring, going to Charlestown to buy his season's supply of pine, he came back with a bride from one of the oldest, one of the most famous families in all America. There were three children to this marriage--one son and two daughters. I will tell you about the daughters in my first chapter--two delightful old maids who later had a baby between them--but first I must tell you about the seventh and last Josiah. In his youth he was wild. This may have been partly due to that irreducible minimum of Original Sin which (they say) is in all of us--and partly due to his cousin Stanley. Now I don't mean to say for a moment that Stanley Woodward was a natural born villain. I don't think people are born that way at all. At first the idea probably struck him as a sort of a joke. "If anything happens to young Josiah," I can imagine him thinking to himself with a grin, "I may own this place myself some day.... Who knows?" And from that day forward, he unconsciously borrowed from the spiders--if you can imagine a smiling spider--and began to spin. Did young Josiah want to leave the office early? Stanley smilingly did his work for him. Was young Josiah late the next morning? Stanley smilingly hid his absence. Did young Josiah yearn for life and adventure? Stanley spun a few more webs and they met that night in Brigg's livery stable. It didn't take much of this--unexpectedly little in fact--the last of the Spencers resembling one of those giant firecrackers of bygone days--the bigger the cracker, the shorter the fuse. Some say he married an actress, which was one of the things which were generally whispered when I was a boy. A Russian they said she was--which never failed to bring another gasp. Others say she was a beautiful bare-back rider in a circus and wore tights--which was another of the things which used to be whispered when I was a boy, and not even then unless the children had first been sent from the room and only bosom friends were present. Whatever she was, young Josiah disappeared with her, and no one saw him again until his mother died in the mansion on the hill. Some say she died of a broken heart, but I never believed in that, for if sorrow could break the human heart I doubt if many of us would be alive to smile at next year's joys. However that may be, I do believe that young Josiah thought that he was partly responsible for his mother's death. He turned up at the funeral with a boy seven years old; and bit by bit we learned that he was separated from his wife and that the court had given him custody of their only child. As you have probably noticed, there are few who can walk so straight as those who have once been saved from the crooked path. There are few so intolerant of fire as those poor, charred brands who have once been snatched from the burning. After his mother's funeral young Spencer settled down to a life of atonement and toil, till first his father and then even his cousin Stanley were convinced of the change which had taken place in the one-time black sheep of the family. By that time the patents on the artillery wheel had expired and a competition had set in which was cutting down the profits to zero. Young Josiah began experimenting on a new design which finally resulted in a patent upon a combination ball and roller bearing. This was such an improvement upon everything which had gone before, that gradually Spencer & Son withdrew from the manufacture of wagons and wheels and re-designed their whole factory to make bearings. This wasn't done in a month or two, nor even in a year or two. Indeed the returned prodigal grew middle aged in the process. He also saw the possibilities of harnessing the water power above the factory to make electric current. This current was sold so cheaply that more and more factories were drawn to New Bethel until the fame of the city's products were known wherever the language of commerce was spoken. At the height of his son's success, old Josiah died, joining those silent members of the firm who had gone before. I often like to imagine the whole seven of them, ghostly but inquisitive, following the subsequent strange proceedings with noiseless steps and eyes that missed nothing; and in particular keeping watch upon the last living Josiah Spencer--a heavy, powerfully built man with a look of melancholy in his eyes and a way of sighing to himself as though asking a question, and then answering it with a muffled "Yes... Yes..." This may have been partly due to the past and partly due to the future, for the son whom he had brought home with him began to worry him--a handsome young rascal who simply didn't have the truth in him at times, and who was buying presents for girls almost before he was out of short trousers. His name was Paul--"Paul Vionel Olgavitch Spencer," he sometimes proudly recited it, and whenever we heard of that we thought of his mother. The older Paul grew, the handsomer he grew. And the handsomer he grew, the wilder he became and the less the truth was in him. At times he would go all right for a while, although he was always too fond of the river for his aunts' peace of mind. At a bend below the dam he had found a sheltered basin, covered with grass and edged with trees. And there he liked to lie, staring up into the sky and dreaming those dreams of youth and adventure which are the heritage of us all. Or else he would sit and watch the river, although he couldn't do it long, for its swift movement seemed to fascinate him and excite him, and to arouse in him the desire to follow it--to follow it wherever it went. These were his quieter moods. Ordinarily there was something gipsy-like, something Neck-or-Nothing about him. A craving for excitement seemed to burn under him like a fire. The full progression of correction marched upon him and failed to make impression: arguments, orders, warnings, threats, threshings and the stoppage of funds: none of these seemed to improve him in the least. Josiah's two sisters did their best, but they could do nothing, either. "I wouldn't whip him again, Josiah," said Miss Cordelia one night, timidly laying her hand upon her brother's arm. "He'll be all right when he's a little older.... You know, dear ... you were rather wild, yourself ... when you were young.... Patty and I were only saying this morning that if he takes after you, there's really nothing to worry about--" "He's God's own punishment," said Josiah, looking up wildly. "I know--things I can't tell you. You remember what I say: that boy will disgrace us all...." He did. One morning he suddenly and simply vanished with the factory pay-roll and one of the office stenographers. In the next twelve months Josiah seemed to age at least twelve years--his cousin Stanley watching him closely the while--and then one day came the news that Paul Spencer had shot and killed a man, while attempting to hold him up, somewhere in British Columbia. If you could have seen Josiah Spencer that day you might have thought that the bullet had grazed his own poor heart. "It's God's punishment," he said over and over. "For seven generations there has been a Spencer & Son--a trust that was left to me by my father that I should pass it on to my son. And what have I done...!" Whereupon he made a gesture that wasn't far from despair--and in that gesture, such as only those can make who know in their hearts that they have shot the albatross, this preface brings itself to a close and at last my story begins. CHAPTER I "Patty," said Miss Cordelia one morning, "have you noticed Josiah lately?" "Yes," nodded Miss Patricia, her eyes a little brighter than they should have been. "Do you know," continued the other, her voice dropping to a whisper, "I'm afraid--if he keeps on--the way he is--" "Oh, no, Cordelia! You know as well as I do--there has never been anything like that in our family." Nevertheless the two sisters looked at each other with awe-stricken eyes, and then their arms went around each other and they eased their hearts in the immemorial manner. "You know, he worries because we are the last of the Spencers," said Cordelia, "and the family dies with us. Even if you or I had children, I don't think he would take it so hard--" A wistful look passed over their faces, such as you might expect to see on those who had repented too late and stood looking through St. Peter's gate at scenes in which they knew they could never take a part. "But I am forty-eight," sighed Cordelia. "And I--I am fifty--" The two sisters had been writing when this conversation started. They were busy on a new generation of the Spencer-Spicer genealogy, and if you have ever engaged on a task like that, you will know the correspondence it requires. But now for a time their pens were forgotten and they sat looking at each other over the gatelegged table which served as desk. They were still both remarkably good-looking, though marked with that delicacy of material and workmanship--reminiscent of old china--which seems to indicate the perfect type of spinster-hood. Here and there in their hair gleamed touches of silver, and their cheeks might have reminded you of tinted apples which had lightly been kissed with the frost. And so they sat looking at each other, intently, almost breathlessly, each suddenly moved by the same question and each wishing that the other would speak. For the second time it was Cordelia who broke the silence. "Patty--!" "Yes, dear?" breathed Patty, and left her lips slightly parted. "I wonder if Josiah--is too old--to marry again! Of course," she hurriedly added, "he is fifty-two--but it seems to me that one of the Spicers--I think it was Captain Abner Spicer--had children until he was sixty--although by a younger wife, of course." They looked it up and in so doing they came across an Ezra Babcock, father-in-law of the Third Josiah Spencer, who had had a son proudly born to him in his sixty-fourth year. They gazed at each other then, those two maiden sisters, like two conspirators in their precious innocence. "If we could find Josiah a young wife--" said the elder at last. "Oh, Cordelia!" breathed Patty, "if, indeed, we only could!" Which was really how it started. As I think you will realize, it would be a story in itself to describe the progress of that gentle intrigue--the consultations, the gradual eliminations, the search, the abandonment of the search--(which came immediately after learning of two elderly gentlemen with young wives--but no children!)--the almost immediate resumption of the quest because of Josiah's failing health--and finally then the reward of patience, the pious nudge one Sunday morning in church, the whispered "Look, Cordelia, that strange girl with the Pearsons--no, the one with the red cheeks--yes, that one!"--the exchange of significant glances, the introduction, the invitation and last, but least, the verification of the fruitfulness of the vine. The girl's name was Martha Berger and her home was in California. She had come east to attend the wedding of her brother and was now staying with the Pearsons a few weeks before returning west. Her age was twenty-six. She had no parents, very little money, and taught French, English and Science in the high school back home. "Have you any brothers or sisters!" asked Miss Cordelia, with a side glance toward Miss Patty. "Only five brothers and five sisters," laughed Martha. For a moment it might be said that Miss Cordelia purred. "Any of them married?" she continued. "All but me." "My dear! ... You don't mean to say that they have made you an aunt already?" Martha paused with that inward look which generally accompanies mental arithmetic. "Only about seventeen times," she finally laughed again. When their guest had gone, the two sisters fairly danced around each other. "Oh, Patty!" exulted Miss Cordelia, "I'm sure she's a fruitful vine!" CHAPTER II There is something inexorable in the purpose of a maiden lady--perhaps because she has no minor domestic troubles to distract her; and when you have two maiden ladies working on the same problem, and both of them possessed of wealth and unusual intelligence--! They started by taking Martha to North East Harbor for the balance of the summer, and then to keep her from going west in the fall, they engaged her to teach them French that winter at quite a fabulous salary. They also took her to Boston and bought her some of the prettiest dresses imaginable; and the longer they knew her, the more they liked her; and the more they liked her, the more they tried to enlist her sympathies in behalf of poor Josiah--and the more they tried to throw their brother into Martha's private company. "Look here," he said one day, when his two sisters were pushing him too hard. "What's all this excitement about Martha? Who is she, anyway?" "Why, don't you know!" Cordelia sweetly asked him, and drawing a full breath she added: "Martha--is--your--future--wife--" If you had been there, you would have been pardoned for thinking that the last of the Spencers had suddenly discovered that he was sitting upon a remonstrative bee. The two sisters smiled at him--rather nervously, it is true, but still they kept their hands upon their brother's shoulders, as though they were two nurses soothing a patient and saying: "There, now ... The-e-e-ere ... Just be quiet and you'll feel better in a little while." "Yes, dear," whispered Cordelia, her mouth ever so close to his ear. "Your future wife--and the mother of your future children--" "Nonsense, nonsense--" muttered Josiah, breaking away quite flustered. "I'm--I'm too old--" Almost speaking in concert they told him about Captain Abner Spencer who had children until he was sixty, and Ezra Babcock, father-in-law of the third Josiah Spencer, who had a son proudly born to him in his sixty-fourth year. "And she's such a lovely girl," said Cordelia earnestly. "Patty and I are quite in love with her ourselves--" "And think what it would mean to your peace of mind to have another son--" "And what it would mean to Spencer & Son--!" Josiah groaned at that. As a matter of fact he hadn't a chance to escape. His two sisters had never allowed themselves to be courted, but they must have had their private ideas of how such affairs should be conducted, for they took Josiah in hand and put him through his paces with a speed which can only be described as breathless. Flowers, candy, books, jewellery, a ring, the ring--the two maiden sisters lived a winter of such romance that they nearly bloomed into youth again themselves; and whenever Josiah had the least misgiving about a man of fifty-two marrying a girl of twenty-six, they whispered to him: "Think what it will mean to Spencer & Son--" And whenever Martha showed the least misgivings they whispered to her: "That's only his way, my dear; you mustn't mind that." And once Cordelia added (while Patty nodded her head): "Of course, there has to be a man at a wedding, but I want you to feel that you would be marrying us, as much as you would be marrying Josiah. You would be his wife, of course, but you would be our little sister, too; and Patty and I would make you just as happy as we could--" Later they were glad they had told her this. It was a quiet wedding and for a time nothing happened; although if you could have seen the two maiden sisters at church on a Sunday morning, you would have noticed that after the benediction they seemed to be praying very earnestly indeed--even as Sarah prayed in the temple so many years ago. There was this curious difference, however: Sarah had prayed for herself, but these two innocent spinsters were praying for another. Then one morning, never to be forgotten, Martha thought to herself at the breakfast table, "I'll tell them as soon as breakfast is over." But she didn't. She thought, "I'll take them into the garden and tell them there--" But though she took them into the garden, somehow she couldn't tell them there. "As soon as we get back into the house," she said, "I'll tell them." Even then the words didn't come, and Martha sat looking out of the window so quietly and yet with such a look of mingled fear and pride and exaltation on her face, that Cordelia suddenly seemed to divine it. "Oh, Martha," she cried. "Do you--do you--do you really think--" Miss Patty looked up, too--stricken breathless all in a moment--and quicker than I can tell it, the three of them had their arms around each other, and tears and smiles and kisses were blended--quite in the immemorial manner. CHAPTER III "We must start sewing," said Miss Cordelia. So they started sewing, Martha and the two maiden sisters, every stitch a hope, every seam the dream of a young life's journey. "We must think beautiful thoughts," spoke up Miss Patty another day. So while they sewed, sometimes one and sometimes another read poetry, and sometimes they read the Psalms, especially the Twenty-third, and sometimes Martha played the Melody in F, or the Shower of Stars or the Cinquieme Nocturne. "We must think brave thoughts, too," said Miss Cordelia. So after that, whenever one of them came to a stirring editorial in a newspaper, or a rousing passage in a book, it was put on one side to be read at their daily sewing bee; and when these failed they read Barbara Fritchie, or Patrick Henry, or Horatio at the Bridge. "Do you notice how much better Josiah is looking!" whispered Miss Cordelia to her sister one evening. "A different man entirely," proudly nodded Miss Patty. "I heard him speaking yesterday about an addition to the factory--" "I suppose it's because he's living in the future now--" "Instead of in the past. But I do wish he wouldn't be quite so sure that it's going to be a boy. I'm afraid sometimes--that perhaps he won't like it--if it's a girl--" They had grown beautiful as they spoke, but now they looked at each other in silence, the same fear in both their glances. "Oh, Cordelia," suddenly spoke Miss Patty. "Suppose it is a girl--!" "Hush, dear. Remember, we must have brave thoughts. And even if the first one is a girl, there'll be plenty of time for a boy--" "I hadn't thought of that," said Miss Patty. They smiled at each other in concert, and a faint touch of colour arose to Miss Cordelia's slightly withered cheeks. "Do you know," she said, hesitating, smiling--yes, and thrilling a little, too--"we've had so much to do with bringing it about, that somehow I feel as though it's going to be _my_ baby--" "Why, Cordelia!" whispered Miss Patty, who had been nodding throughout this confession. "That's exactly how I feel about it, too!" It wasn't long after that before they began to look up names. "If Josiah wasn't such a family name," said Miss Cordelia, "I'd like to call him Basil. That means kingly or royal." Then of course they turned to Cordelia. Cordelia meant warm-hearted. Patricia meant royal. Martha meant the ruler of the house. They were pleased at these revelations. The week before the great event was expected, Martha had a notion one day. She wished to visit the factory. Josiah interpreted this as the happiest of auguries. "After seven generations," was his cryptic remark, "you simply can't keep them away. It's bred in the bone...." He drove Martha down to the works himself, and took her through the various shops, some of which were of such a length that when you stood at one end, the other seemed to vanish into distance. Everything went well until they reached the shipping room where a travelling crane was rolling on its tracks overhead, carrying a load of boxes. This crane was hurrying back empty for another load, its chain and tackle swinging low, when Martha started across the room to look at one of the boys who had caught his thumb between a hammer and a nail and was trying to bind it with his handkerchief. The next moment the swinging tackle of the crane struck poor Martha in the back, caught in her dress and dragged her for a few horrible yards along the floor. That night the house on the hill had two unexpected visitors, the Angel of Death following quickly in the footsteps of the Angel of Life. "You poor motherless little thing," breathed Cordelia, cuddling the baby in her arms. "Look, Josiah," she said, trying to rouse her brother. "Look ...it's smiling at you--" But Josiah looked up with haggard eyes that saw nothing, and could only repeat the sentence which he had been whispering to himself, "It's God's own punishment--God's own punishment--there are things--I can't tell you--" The doctor came to him at last and, after he was quieter, the two sisters went away, carrying their precious burden with them. "Wasn't there a girl's name which means bitterness?" asked Miss Cordelia, suddenly stopping. "Yes," said Miss Patty. "That's what 'Mary' means." The two sisters looked at each other earnestly--looked at each other and nodded. "We'll call her 'Mary' then," said Miss Cordelia. And that is how my heroine got her name. CHAPTER IV I wish I had time to tell you in the fulness of detail how those two spinsters brought up Mary, but there is so much else to put before you that I dare not dally here. Still, I am going to find time to say that all the love and affection which Miss Cordelia and Miss Patty had ever woven into their fancies were now showered down upon Mary--falling softly and sweetly like petals from two full-blown roses when stirred by a breeze from the south. When she was a baby, Mary's nose had an upward tilt. One morning after Miss Cordelia had bathed her (which would have reminded you of a function at the court of the Grand Monarque, with its Towel Holder, Soap Holder, Temperature Taker and all and sundry) she suddenly sent the two maids and the nurse away and, casting dignity to the winds, she lifted Mary in a transport of love which wouldn't be denied any longer, and pretended to bite the end of the poor babe's nose off. "Oh, I know it's candy," she said, mumbling away and hugging the blessed child. "It's even got powdered sugar on it--" "That's talcum powder," said Miss Patty, watching with a jealous eye. "Powdered sugar, yes," persisted Miss Cordelia, mumbling on. "I know. And I know why her nose turns up at the end, too. That naughty Miss Patty washed it with yellow soap one night when I wasn't looking--" "I never, never did!" protested Miss Patty, all indignation in a moment. "Washed it with yellow soap, yes," still persisted Miss Cordelia, "and made it shine like a star. And that night, when Mary lay in her bed, the moon looked through the window and saw that little star twinkling there, and the moon said 'Little star! Little star! What are you doing there in Mary's bed? You come up here in the sky and twinkle where you belong!' And all night long, Mary's little nose tried to get up to the moon, and that's why it turns up at the end--" And then in one grand finale of cannibalistic transport, Miss Cordelia concluded, "Oh, I could eat her up!" But it was Miss Patty's turn then, because although Cordelia bathed the child, it was the younger sister's part to dress her. So Miss Patty put her arms out with an authority which wouldn't take "No" for an answer, and if you had been in the next room, you would then have heard-- "Oh, where have you been My pretty young thing--?" Which is a rather active affair, especially where the singer shows how she danced her a dance for the Dauphin of France. By that time you won't be surprised when I tell you that Miss Patty's cheeks had a downright glow on them--and I think her heart had something of the same glow, too, because, seating herself at last to dress our crowing heroine, she beamed over to her sister and said (though somewhat out of breath) "Isn't it nice!" This, of course, was all strictly private. In public, Mary was brought up with maidenly deportment. You would never dream, for instance, that she was ever tickled with a turkey feather (which Miss Cordelia kept for the purpose) or that she had ever been atomized all over with Lily of the Valley (which Miss Patty never did again because Ma'm Maynard, the old French nurse, smelled it and told the maids). But always deep down in the child was an indefinable quality which puzzled her two aunts. As Mary grew older, this quality became clearer. "I know what it is," said Miss Cordelia one night. "She has a mind of her own. Everything she sees or hears: she tries to reason it out." I can't tell you why, but Miss Patty looked uneasy. "Only this morning," continued Miss Cordelia, "I heard Ma'm Maynard telling her that there wasn't a prettier syringa bush anywhere than the one under her bedroom window. Mary turned to her with those eyes of hers--you know the way she does--'Ma'm Maynard,' she said, 'have you seen all the other s'inga bushes in the world?' And only yesterday I said to her, 'Mary, you shouldn't try to whistle. It isn't nice.' She gave me that look--you know--and said, 'Then let us learn to whistle, Aunt T'delia, and help to make it nice.'" "Imagine you and I saying things like that when we were girls," said Miss Patty, still looking troubled. "Yes, yes, I know. And yet... I sometimes think that if you and I had been brought up a little differently...." They were both quiet then for a time, each consulting her memories of hopes long past. "Just the same," said Miss Patty at last, "there are worse things in the world than being old-fashioned." In which I think you would have agreed with her, if you could have seen Mary that same evening. At the time of which I am now writing she was six years old--a rather quiet, solemn child--though she had a smile upon occasions, which was well worth going to see. For some time back she had heard her aunts speaking of "Poor Josiah!" She had always stood in awe of her father who seemed taller and gaunter than ever. Mary seldom saw him, but she knew that every night after dinner he went to his den and often stayed there (she had heard her aunts say) until long after midnight. "If he only had some cheerful company," she once heard Aunt Cordelia remark. "But that's the very thing he seems to shun since poor Martha died," sighed Miss Patty, and dropping her voice, never dreaming for a moment that Mary was listening, she added with another sigh, "If there had only been a boy, too!" All these things Mary turned over in her mind, as few but children can, especially when they have dreamy eyes and often go a long time without saying anything. And on the same night when Aunt Patty had come to the conclusion that there are worse things in the world than being old-fashioned, Mary waited until she knew that dinner was over and then, escaping Ma'm Maynard, she stole downstairs, her heart skipping a beat now and then at the adventure before her. She passed through the hall and the library like a determined little ghost and then, gently turning the knob, she opened the study door. Her father was sitting at his desk. At the sound of the opening door he turned and stared at the apparition which confronted him. Mary had closed the door and stood with her back to it, screwing up her courage for the last stage of her journey. And in truth it must have taken courage, for there was something in old Josiah's forbidding brow and solitary mien which would have chilled the purpose of any child. It may have been this which suddenly brought the tears to Mary's eyes, or it may have been that her womanly little breast guessed the loneliness in her father's heart. Whatever it was, she unsteadily crossed the room, her sight blurred but her plan as steadfast as ever, and a moment later she was climbing on Josiah's knee, her arms tight around his neck, sobbing as though it would shake her little frame to pieces. What passed between those two, partly in speech but chiefly in silence with their wet cheeks pressed together, I need not tell you; but when Ma'm Maynard came searching for her charge and stood quite open-mouthed in the doorway, Josiah waved her away, his finger on his lip, and later he carried Mary upstairs himself--and went back to his study without a word, though blowing his nose in a key which wasn't without significance. And nearly every night after that, when dinner was over, Mary made a visit to old Josiah's study downstairs; and one Saturday morning when he was leaving for the factory, he heard the front door open and shut behind him and there stood Mary, her little straw bonnet held under her chin with an elastic. In the most matter of fact way she slipped her fingers into his hand. He hesitated, but woman-like she pulled him on. The next minute they were walking down the drive together. As they passed the end of the house, he remembered the words which he had once used to his sisters, "After seven generations you simply can't keep them away. It's bred in the bone." A thrill ran over him as he looked at the little figure by his side. "If she had only been a boy!" he breathed. At the end of the drive he stopped. "You must go back now, dear." "No," said Mary and tried to pull him on. For as long as it might take you to count five, Josiah stood there irresolute, Mary's fingers pulling him one way and the memory of poor Martha's fate pulling him the other. "And yet," he thought, "she's bound to see it sometime. Perhaps better now--before she understands--than later--" He lifted her and sat her on his arm. "Now, listen, little woman," he said as they gravely regarded each other. "This is important. If I take you this morning, will you promise to be a good girl, and sit in the office, and not go wandering off by yourself? Will you promise me that?" This, too, may have been heredity, going back as far as Eve: Still gravely regarding him she nodded her head in silence and promised him with a kiss. He set her down, her hand automatically slipping into his palm again, and together they walked to the factory. The road made a sharp descent to the interval by the side of the river, almost affording a bird's-eye view of the buildings below--lines of workshops of an incredible length, their ventilators like the helmets of an army of giants. A freight train was disappearing into one of the warehouses. Long lines of trucks stood on the sidings outside. Wisps of steam arose in every direction, curious, palpitating. From up the river the roar of the falls could just be heard while from the open windows of the factory came that humming note of industry which, more than anything else, is like the sound which is sometimes made by a hive of bees, immediately before a swarm. It was a scene which always gave Josiah a well-nigh oppressive feeling of pride and punishment--pride that all this was his, that he was one of those Spencers who had risen so high above the common run of man--punishment that he had betrayed the trust which had been handed down to him, that he had broken the long line of fathers and sons which had sent the Spencer reputation, with steadily increasing fame, to the corners of the earth. As he walked down the hall that Saturday morning, his sombre eyes missing no detail, he felt Mary's fingers tighten around his hand and, glancing down at her, he saw that her attention, too, was engrossed by the scene below, her eyes large and bright as children's are when they listen to a fairy tale. Arrived at the office, he placed her in a chair by the side of his desk, and you can guess whether she missed anything of what went on. Clerks, business callers, heads of departments came and went. All had a smile for Mary who gravely smiled in return and straightway became her dignified little self again. "When is Mr. Woodward expected back?" Josiah asked a clerk. "On the ten-thirty, from Boston." This was Stanley Woodward, Josiah's cousin--Cousin Stanley of the spider's web whom you have already met. He was now the general manager of the factory, and had always thought that fate was on his side since the night he had heard of Martha's death and that the child she left behind her was a girl. Josiah glanced at his watch. "Time to make the rounds," he said and, lifting Mary on his arm, he left the office and started through the plant. And, oh, how Mary loved it--the forests of belts, whirring and twisting like live things, the orderly lines of machine tools, each doing its work with more than human ingenuity and precision, the enormous presses reminding her of elephants stamping out pieces of metal, the grinders which sang to her, the drilling machines which whirred to her, the polishing machines which danced for her, the power hammers which bowed to her. Yes, and better than all was the smile that each man gave her, smiles that came from the heart, for all the quiet respect that accompanied them. "It's his daughter," they whispered as soon as Josiah was out of hearing. Here and there one would stop smiling and say, "I remember the day he brought her mother through--" At the end of one of the workshops, Mr. Spencer looked at his watch again. "We'd better get back to the office," he said. "Tired, dear?" In a rapture of denial, she kicked her little toes against his side. "Bred in the bone..." he mused. "Eh, if she had only been a boy...!" But that was past all sighing for, and in the distance he saw Cousin Stanley, just back from Boston, evidently coming to find him. Mary, too, was watching the approaching figure. She had sometimes seen him at the house and had formed against him one of those instinctive dislikes which few but children know. As Stanley drew near she turned her head and buried her face against her father's shoulder. "Good news?" asked Josiah. "Good news, of course," said Stanley, speaking as an irresistible force might speak, if it were endowed with a tongue. "When Spencer & Son start out for a thing, they get it." You could tell that what he meant was "When Stanley Woodward starts out for a thing, he gets it." His elbows suddenly grew restless. "It will take a lot of money," he added. "Of course we shall have to increase the factory here--" Still Mary kept her face hidden against her father's shoulder. "Got the little lady with you, I see." "Yes; I'm afraid I've tired her out." A murmur arose from his shoulder. "What?" said Josiah. "Not tired? Then turn around and shake hands with Uncle Stanley." Slowly, reluctantly, Mary lifted her head and began to reach out her hand. Then just before their fingers would have touched, she quickly clasped her hands around her father's neck and again she buried her face upon his shoulder. "She doesn't seem to take to you," said Josiah. "So it seems," said the other dryly. Reaching around he touched Mary's cheek with the back of his finger. "Not mad at your uncle, are you, little girl?" he asked. "Don't!" said Josiah, speaking with quick concern. "You're only making her tremble...." The two stared at each other, slightly frowning. Stanley was the first to catch himself. "I'll see you at the office later," he said, and with a bow at the little figure on Josiah's arm he added with a touch of irony, "Perhaps I had better wait until you're alone!" He turned and made his way back to the office, his elbows grown restless again. "A good thing it isn't a boy," he thought, "or he might not like me when he grows up, either. But a girl... Oh, well, as it happens, girls don't count.... And a good thing, too, they don't," he thoughtfully added. "A good thing, too, they don't...." CHAPTER V Mary grew, and grew, and grew. She never outgrew her aversion to Uncle Stanley, though. One day, when she was in Josiah's office, a young man entered and was warmly greeted by her father. He carried a walking stick, sported a white edging on his waistcoat and had just the least suspicion of perfumery on him--a faint scent that reminded Mary of raspberry jam. "He smells nice," she thought, missing nothing of this. "You've never seen my daughter, have you?" asked Josiah. "A little queen," said the young man with a brilliant smile. "I hope I'll see her often." "That's Uncle Stanley's son Burdon," said Josiah when he had left. "He's just through college; he's going to start in the office here." Mary liked to hear that, and always after that she looked for Burdon and watched him with an interest that had something of fascination in it. Before she was ten, she and Josiah had become old chums. She knew the factory by the river almost as well as she knew the house on the hill. Not only that but she could have told you most of the processes through which the bearings passed before they were ready for the shipping room. To show you how her mind worked, one night she asked her father, "What makes a machine squeak?" "Needs oil," said Josiah, "generally speaking." The next Saturday morning she not only kept her eyes open, but her ears as well. Presently her patience was rewarded. "Squee-e-eak! Squee-e-eak!" complained a lathe which they were passing. Mary stopped her father and looked her very old-fashionedest at the lathe hand. "Needs oil," said she, "gen'ly speaking." It was one of the proud moments in Josiah's life, and yet when back of him he heard a whisper, "Chip of the old block," he couldn't repress the well nigh passionate yearning, "Oh, Lord, if she had only been a boy!" That year an addition was being made to the factory and Mary liked to watch the builders. She often noticed a boy and a dog sitting under the trees and watching, too. Once they smiled at each other, the boy blushing like a sunset. After that they sometimes spoke while Josiah was talking to the foreman. His name, she learned, was Archey Forbes, his father was the foreman, and when he grew up he was going to be a builder, too. But no matter how often they saw each other, Archey always blushed to the eyes whenever Mary smiled at him. Occasionally a man would be hurt at the factory. Whenever this happened, Aunt Patty paid a weekly call to the injured man until he was well--an old Spencer custom that had never died out. Mary generally accompanied her aunts on these visits--which was a part of the family training--and in this way she saw the inside of many a home. "I wouldn't mind being a poor man," she said one Saturday morning, breaking a long silence, "but I wouldn't be a poor woman for anything." "Why not?" asked Miss Cordelia. She couldn't tell them why but for the last half hour she had been comparing the lives of the men in the factory with the lives of their wives at home. "A man can work in the factory," she tried to tell them, "and everything is made nice for him. But his wife at home-now--nobody cares--nobody cares what happens to her--" "I never saw such a child," said Miss Cordelia, watching her start with her father down the hill a few minutes later. "And the worst of it is, I think we are partly to blame for it." "Cordelia!" said Miss Patty. "How?" "I mean in keeping her surrounded so completely with old people. When everything is said and done, dear, it isn't natural." "But we would miss her so much if we sent her to school--" "Oh, I wasn't thinking of sending her to school--" Miss Patty was quiet for a time. "If we could find some one of her own age," she said at last, "whom she could play with, and talk with--some one who would lead her thoughts into more natural channels--" This question of companionship for Mary puzzled the two Miss Spencers for nearly a year, and then it was settled, as so many things are, in an unexpected manner. In looking up the genealogy of the Spicer family, Miss Patty discovered that a distant relative in Charleston had just died, leaving a daughter behind him--an orphan--who was a year older than Mary. Correspondence finally led Miss Patty to make the journey, and when she returned she brought with her a dark-eyed girl who might have been the very spirit of youthful romance. "My dear," said Miss Patty, "this is your cousin Helen. She is going to make us a long visit, and I hope you will love each other very much." The two cousins studied each other. Then in her shy way Mary held out her hand. "Oh, I love you already!" said Helen impulsively, and hugged her instead. That evening they exchanged confidences and when Miss Cordelia heard about this, she questioned Mary and enjoyed herself immensely. "And then what did she ask you?" finally inquired Miss Cordelia, making an effort to keep her face straight. "She asked me if I had a beau, and I told her 'No.'" "And then what did she say?" "She asked me if there was anything the matter with the boys around here, and I told her I didn't know." "And then?" "And then she said, 'I'll bet you I'll soon find out.' But just then Aunt Patty came in and we had to stop." Later Miss Patty came downstairs looking thoughtful and spoke to her sister in troubled secret. "I've just been in Helen's room," she said, "and what do you think she has on her dresser?" "I give it up," replied Miss Cordelia in a very rich, voice. "Three photographs of young men!" The two sisters gazed at each other, quite overcome, and if you had been there you would have seen that if they had held fans in their hands, they would have fanned themselves with vigour. "Didn't you hear anything of this--in Charleston?" asked Miss Cordelia at last. "Not a word, my dear. I heard she was very popular; that was all." "'Popular'...!" "The one thing, perhaps, that we have never been." Miss Cordelia shook her head and made a helpless gesture. "Well," she said at last, "I must confess we were looking for an antidote ... but I never thought we'd be quite so successful...." CHAPTER VI A few weeks after her arrival, Helen and Mary were walking to the post-office. Helen had a number of letters to mail, her correspondents being active and her answers prompt. They hadn't gone far when a young man appeared in the distance, approaching them. Mary gave him a look to see who it was, and after saying to Helen, "This is Bob McAllister--one of our neighbours. He's home from school," she continued the conversation and failed to give Sir Robert another thought. Not so Helen, however. One hand went to the back of her hair with a graceful gesture, and next she touched her nose with a powdered handkerchief. A moment before, she had been looking straight ahead with a rather thoughtful expression, but now she half turned to Mary, smiling and nodding. In some manner her carriage, even her walk, underwent a change. But when I try to tell you what I mean I feel as tongue-tied as a boy who is searching for a word which doesn't exist. As nearly as I can express it, she seemed to "wiggle" a little, although that isn't the word. She seemed to hang out a sign "Oh, look--look at me!"--and that doesn't quite describe it, either. Just as Master McAllister reached them, raising his hat and bowing to Mary and her friend--Helen's eyes and Helen's smile unconsciously lingered on him for a second or two until, apparently recollecting that she was looking at another, she lowered her glance and peeped at him through her eyelashes instead. Mary meanwhile was calmly continuing her conversation, never even suspecting the comedy which was going on by her side, but when Helen shot a glance over her shoulder and whispered with satisfaction "He turned to look!" even Mary began to have some slight idea of what was going on. "Helen," she demurred, "you should never turn around to look at a young man." "Why not?" laughed Helen, her arm going around her cousin's waist. And speaking in the voice of one who has just achieved a triumph, she added, "They're all such fo-oo-ools!" Mary thought that over. Helen's correspondents continued active, and as each letter arrived she read parts of it to her cousin. She was a mimic, and two of the letters she read in character one afternoon when Mary was changing her dress for dinner. "Oh, Helen, you shouldn't," said Mary, laughing in spite of herself and feeling ashamed of it the same moment. "I think it's awful to make fun of people who write you like that." "Pooh!" laughed Helen. "They're all such fo-oo-ools!" "You don't think that of all men, do you!" "Why not?" laughed Helen again, and tucking the letters into her waist she started humming. Unobserved Ma'm Maynard had entered to straighten the room and, through the mirror, Mary saw her grimly nodding her head. "Why, Ma'm Maynard," said Mary, "you don't think that all men are fools, too, do you?" "Eet is not halways safe to say what one believes," said Ma'm, pursing her lips with mystery. "Eef mademoiselles, your aunts, should get to hear--" "Oh, I won't tell." "Then, yes, ma cherie, I think at times all men are fools ... and I think it is also good at times to make a fool of man. For why? Because it is revenge. "Ah, ma cherie, I who have been three times wed--I tell you I often think the old-world view is right. Man is the natural enemy of a woman. "He is not to be trus'. "I have heard it discuss' by great minds--things I cannot tell you yet--but you will learn them as you live. And halways the same conclusion arrives: Man is the natural enemy of a woman, and the one best way to keep him from making a fool of you, is to turn 'round queeck and make it a fool of him!" "Oh, Ma'm Maynard, no!" protested Mary, who had turned from the mirror and was staring with wide eyes. "I can't believe it--never!" "What is it, ma cherie, which you cannot believe?" "That man is woman's natural enemy." "But I tell you, yes, yes.... It has halways been so and it halways will. Everything that lives has its own natural enemy--and a woman's natural enemy--it is man! "Think just for a moment, ma cherie," she continued. "Why are parents so careful? Mon Dieu, you would think it at times that a tiger is out in the streets at night--such precautions are made if the girl she is out after dark. And yes, but the parents are right. There is truly a tiger who roams in the black, but his name--eet is Man! "Think just for a moment, ma cherie. Why are chaperons require'--even in the highest, most culture' society? Why is marriage require'? Is it not because all the world knows well that a man cannot be left to his own promise, but has to be bound by the law as a lion is held in a cage?" "No," said Mary, shaking her head, "I'm sure it isn't that way. You're simply turning things around and making everything seem horrid." "You think so, ma cherie? Eh, bien. Three husbands I've had. I am not without experience." "But you might as well say that woman is man's natural enemy--" "And some say that," said Ma'm nodding darkly. "Left to himself, they say, man might aspire to be as the gods; but halways at his helbow is a woman like a figure of fate--and she--she keeps him down where he belongs--" "I hate all that," said Mary quietly. "Every once in a while I read something like it in a book or a magazine, and whenever I do, I put the book down and open the window and breathe the fresh air. Of course I know some married people aren't happy. But it isn't always because they are married. Single people are unhappy, too. Aunt Patty has indigestion sometimes, and I suppose a lot of people do. But you wouldn't call food a natural enemy; would you? And some children are just as bad as they can be. But you wouldn't call children natural enemies, would you--or try to get along without them?" But Ma'm Maynard would only shrug her shoulders. "Eh, bien," she said. "When you have live' as long as me--" Through the open window a clock could be heard. "Six o'clock!" squealed Helen, "and I'm not changed yet." As she hurried to the door she said, "I heard Aunt Patty say that Uncle Stanley was coming to dinner again tonight. I hope he brings his handsome son again--don't you?" CHAPTER VII Uncle Stanley of late had been a frequent visitor on the hill, occasionally bringing his son Burdon with him, but generally coming alone. After dinner he and Josiah would sit in the den till well past midnight, going over papers and figures, and drafting out instructions for Judge Cutler, the firm's lawyer. Mary was never able to overcome her aversion to Uncle Stanley. "I wish he'd stay away," she ruefully remarked to her father one night. "Three evenings this week I haven't been able to come in the den." "Never mind, dear," said Josiah, looking at her with love in his sombre eyes. "What we're doing: it's all for you." "All for me? How?" He explained to her that whereas Josiah Spencer & Son had always been a firm, it was now being changed to a corporation. "As long as there was a son," he said, "the partnership arrangement was all right. But the way things are now--Well, when I'm gone, Mary, you'll own the stock of the company, and draw your dividends, and have no responsibilities to bother you." "But who'll run the factory?" "I suppose Stanley will, as long as he lives. You'll be the owner, of course, but I don't think you'll ever find anybody to beat Uncle Stanley as a general manager." "And when Uncle Stanley dies--what then?" "I think you'll find his son Burdon the next best man." Mary felt her heart grow heavy. It may have been presentiment, or it may have been the thought of her father's possible death. "Don't let's talk any more about dying," she said. "But tell me: Is that why you are making so many additions to the factory--because we are changing to a corporation?" Josiah hesitated, struggling to speak to his daughter as though she were a young man instead of a young woman. But heredity, training and world-old custom restrained him. What would a girl know about mergers, combinations, fundamental patents, the differences between common and preferred stock, and all that? "It would only confuse her," he thought, looking at her with love in his eyes. "She would nod her pretty head to be polite, but I might as well be talking Greek to her." "No, dear," he said, at last. "I'll tell you why we are making those additions. I have bought options on some of the biggest bearing factories in the country--so you won't have so much competition when I'm gone. And instead of running those other factories, I'm going to move their machinery down here. When the changes are once made, it's more economical to run one big factory than half a dozen little ones. And of course it will make it better for New Bethel." "But it must make it bad for the towns where the factories are now," said Mary after a thoughtful pause. "I know how it would hurt New Bethel if we closed up." Josiah nodded his head. "I didn't like it myself at first." "It was Uncle Stanley's idea, then?" "Yes; he's engineering it." Again Mary felt her heart grow heavy. "It must be costing an awful lot of money," she said. "It is," said Josiah, leaning over and making a gesture. "Of course we'll get it back, and more, too--but for quite a few years now it's been taking a lot of money--a dreadful lot of money. Still, I think the end's in sight--" He was sitting at his desk with a shaded lamp in front of him, and as he leaned over and gestured with his hands, Mary's eyes caught the shadow on the wall. She seemed to see a spider--a spider that was spinning and weaving his web--and for the third time that night her heart grew heavy within her. CHAPTER VIII The next day was Saturday and Mary drove her father down to the factory. A small army of men was at work at the new improvements, and when they reached the brow of the hill which overlooked the scene below, Josiah felt that thrill of pride which always ran over him when beholding this monument to his family's genius. "The greatest of its kind in the world," he said. With her free hand, Mary patted his arm. "That's us!" she said, as proud as he. "I'll leave you at the office door, and then I'm going to drive around and see how the building's going on--" There was plenty for Mary to see. A gang of structural workers was putting up the steel frame-work for one of the new buildings. Nearby the brick-layers were busy with mortar and trowels. Carpenters were swarming over a roof, their hammers beating staccato. As they worked in the sunshine, they joked and laughed and chatted with each other, and Mary couldn't help reverting to some of her old thoughts. "How nice to be a man!" she half sighed to herself. "Back home, their wives are working in the kitchens--the same thing every day and nothing to show for it. But the men come out and do all sorts of interesting things, and when they are through they can say 'I helped build that factory' or 'I helped build that ship' or whatever it is that they have been doing. It doesn't seem fair, somehow, but I suppose it's the way it always has been, and always will be--" Near her a trench was being dug for water pipes. At one place the men had uncovered a large rock, and she was still wondering how they were going to get it out of the way, when a young man came briskly forward and gave one glance at the problem. "We'll rig up a derrick for this little beauty," he said. "Come on, boys; let's get some timbers." They were back again in no time, and before Mary knew what they were doing, they had raised a wooden tripod over the rock. The apex of this was bound together with a chain from which a pulley was hung. Other chains were slung under the rock. Then from a nearby hoisting engine, a cable was passed through the pulley and fastened to the chains below. "All right, boys?" "All right!" The young man raised his hand. "Let her go!" he shouted. "Tweet-tweet!" sounded a whistle. The engine throbbed. The cable tightened. The little beauty began to stir uneasily in its hammock of chains. Then slowly and steadily the rock arose, and nearly as quickly as I can write the words, it was lying on the side of the trench and the derrick was being dismantled. As the young man hurried away he passed Mary's car. "Why, it's Archey!" she thought. Whether or not it was due to telepathy, the young man looked up and his colour deepened under his tan. "It is Archey; isn't it?" asked Mary, leaning forward and smiling. "Yes'm," he said, awkwardly enough, and grammar deserting him in his confusion he added: "It's me all right, Miss Spencer." "I've been watching you get that rock out," she began, looking at him with frank admiration, and then they talked for a few minutes. I need not tell you what they said--it would only sound trivial--but as they talked a bond of sympathy, of mutual interest, seemed gradually to wind itself around them. They smiled, nodded, looking approvingly at each other; and each felt that feeling of warmth and satisfaction which comes to the heart when instinct whispers, "Make no mistake. You've found a friend." "But what are you doing here?" she finally asked. "Working," he grinned. "I graduated last year--construction engineer--and this is my second job. This winter I was down in old Mexico on bridge work--" "You must tell me about it some time," she said, as one of the workmen came to take him away; and driving off in her car she couldn't help thinking with a smile of amusement, "'Woman's natural enemy'--how silly it sounds in the open air ...!" CHAPTER IX Meanwhile the matter of Mary's education was receiving the attention of her aunts. "Patty," said Miss Cordelia one day, "do you know that child of ours is seventeen?" The years had dealt kindly with the Misses Spencer and as they looked at each other, with thoughtful benignity, their faces were like two studies in silver and pink. "Although I say it myself," continued Miss Cordelia, "I doubt if we could have improved her studies. Indeed she is unusually advanced in French, English and music. But I do think she ought to go to a good finishing school now for a year or two--Miss Parsons', of course--where she would not only be welcomed because of her family, but where she would form suitable friendships and learn those lessons of modern deportment which we ourselves, I fear, would never be able to teach her." But if you had been there when the subject of Miss Parsons' School for Young Ladies was broached to Mary, I think it would have reminded you of that famous recipe for rabbit pie which so wisely begins "First catch your rabbit." Mary listened to all that was said and then, quietly but unmistakably, she put her foot down on Miss Parsons' fashionable institution of learning. I doubt if she herself could have given you all her reasons. For one thing, the older she grew, the more democratic, the more American she was becoming. Deep in her heart she thought the old original Spencers had done more for the world than any leaders of fashion who ever lived; and when she read or thought of those who had made America, her mind never went to smart society and its doings, but to those great, simple souls who had braved the wilderness in search of liberty and adventure--who had toiled, and fought, and given their lives, unknown, unsung, but never in Mary's mind to be forgotten. And whenever she thought of travel, she found she would rather see the Rockies than the Alps, rather go to New Orleans than Old Orleans, rather visit the Grand Canyon than the Nile, and would infinitely rather cross the American continent and see three thousand miles of her own country, than cross the Atlantic and see three thousand miles of water that belonged to every one in general and no one in particular. "But, my dear," said Miss Cordelia, altogether taken aback, "you ought to go somewhere, you know. Let me tell you about Miss Parsons' school--" "It's no use, Aunty. I don't want to go to Miss Parsons' school--" "Where do you want to go then?" Like most inspirations, it came like a flash. "If I'm going anywhere, I want to go to college--" To college! A Spencer girl--or a Spicer--going to college! Miss Cordelia gasped. If Mary had been noticing, she might not have pursued her inspiration further, but her mind was running along a breathless panorama of Niagara Falls, Great Lakes, Chicago, the farms of the Middle West, Yellowstone Park, geysers, the Old Man of the Mountain, Aztec ruins, redwood forests, orange groves and at the end of the vista--like a statue at the end of a garden walk--she imagined a great democratic institution of learning where one might conceivably be prepared to solve some of those problems which life seems to take such deep delight in presenting to us, with the grim command, "Not one step farther shall you go until you have answered this!" "To college?" gasped Miss Cordelia. "Yes," said Mary, still intent upon her panorama, "there's a good one in California. I'll look it up." The more Mary thought of it, the fonder she grew of her idea--which is, I think, a human trait and true of nearly every one. It was in vain that her aunts argued with her, pointing out the social advantages which she would enjoy from attending Miss Parsons' School. Mary's objection was fundamental. She simply didn't care for those advantages. Indeed, she didn't regard them as advantages at all. Helen did, though. In her heart Helen had always longed to tread the stage of society--to her mind, a fairyland of wit and gallantry, masquerades and music, to say nothing of handsome young polo players and titled admirers from foreign shores--"big fools," all of them, as you can guess, when dazzled by the smiles of Youth and Beauty. "Mary can go to California if she likes," said Helen at last, "but give me Miss Parsons' School." And Mary did go to California, although I doubt if she would have gained her point if her father hadn't taken her part. For four years she attended the university by the Golden Gate, and every time she made the journey between the two oceans, sometimes accompanied by Miss Cordelia and sometimes by Miss Patty, she seemed to be a little more serene of glance, a little more tranquil of brow, as though one by one she were solving some of those problems which I have mentioned above. Meanwhile Helen was in her glory at Miss Parsons'; and though the two aunts didn't confess it, they liked to sit and listen to her chatter of the girls whose friendship she was making, and to whose houses she was invited for the holidays. When she was home, she sang snatches from the operas, danced with imaginary partners, rehearsed parts of private theatricals and dreamed of conquests. She had also learned the knack of dressing her hair which, when done in the grand manner, isn't far from being a talent. Pulled down on one side, with a pin or two adjusted, she was a dashing young duchess who rode to hounds and made the old duke's eyes pop out. Or she could dip it over her ears, change a few pins again and--lo!--she was St. Cecilia seated at the organ, and butter wouldn't melt in her mouth. "She is quite pretty and very clever," said Miss Cordelia one day. "I think she will marry well." "Do you think she's as pretty as Mary?" asked Miss Patty. "My dear!" said Miss Cordelia with a look that said 'What a question you are asking!' "--is pretty in a way, of course," she said, "but there is something about our Mary--" "I know," nodded Miss Patty. "Something you can't express--" "The dear child," mused Miss Cordelia, looking out toward the west. "I wonder what she is doing this very moment!" At that very moment, as it happened, Mary was in her room on the other side of the continent studying the manufacture of raisin fudge. Theretofore she had made it too soft, or too sugary, but this time she was determined to have it right. Long ago she had made all the friends that her room would hold, and most of them were there. Some were listening to a girl in spectacles who was talking socialism, while a more frivolous group, perched on the bed, was arguing the question whether the perfect lover had a moustache or a clean-shaven lip. "Money is cruel; it ought to be abolished," said the earnest girl in the spectacles. "Money is a millstone which the rich use to grind the poor. You girls know it as well as I do." Mary stirred away at the fudge. "It's a good thing she doesn't know that I'm rich," she smiled to herself. "I wonder when I shall start grinding the poor!" "And yet the world simply couldn't get along without the wage-earners," continued the young orator. "So all they have to do is strike--and strike--and keep on striking--and they can have everything they want--" "So could the doctors," mused Mary to herself, stirring away at the fudge. "Imagine the doctors striking.... And so could the farmers. Imagine the farmers striking for eight hours a day, and no work Sundays and holidays, and every Saturday afternoon off...." Dimly, vaguely, a troubled picture took shape in her mind. She stirred the fudge more reflectively than ever. "I wonder if civil wars are started that way," she thought, "one class setting out to show its power over another and gradually coming to blows. Suppose--yes, suppose the women were to go on strike for eight hours a day, and as much money as the men, and Saturday afternoons and Sundays off, and all the rest of it.... The world certainly couldn't get along without women. As Becky says, they would only have to strike--and strike--and keep on striking--and they could get everything they wanted--" Although she didn't suspect it, she was so close to her destiny at that moment that she could have reached out her hand and touched it. But all unconsciously she continued to stir the fudge. "I've always thought that women have a poor time of it compared with men," she nodded to herself. "Still, perhaps it's the way of the world, like ... like children have the measles ... and old folks have to wear glasses." She put the pan on the sill to cool and stood there for a time, looking out at the campus, dreamy-eyed, half occupied with her own thoughts and half listening to the conversation behind her. "There oughtn't to be any such thing as private property--" "Why, Vera, if he kissed you in the dark, you couldn't tell whether he was a man or a girl--" "--Everything should belong to the state--" "--No, listen. Kiss me both ways, and then tell me which you think is the nicest--" A squeal of laughter arose from the bed and, turning, Mary saw that one of the girls was holding the back of a toothbrush against her upper lip. "Now," she mumbled, "this is with the moustache ... Kiss me hard ..." "The greatest book in the world," continued the girl with the spectacles, "is Marx's book on Capital--" Mary turned to the window again, more dreamy-eyed than ever. "The greatest book in the world," she thought, "is the book of life.... Oh, if I could only write a few pages in it ... myself ...!" CHAPTER X Mary "came out" the winter after her graduation. If she had been left to herself she would have dispensed with the ceremony quite as cheerfully as she had dispensed with Miss Parsons' School for Young Ladies. But in the first place her aunts were adamant, and in the second place they were assisted by Helen. Helen hadn't been going to finishing school for nothing. She knew the value of a proper social introduction. Indeed it was her secret ambition to outshine her cousin--an ambition which was at once divined by her two aunts. Whereupon they groomed Mary to such good purpose that I doubt if Society ever looked upon a lovelier debutante. She was dressed in chiffon, wore the Spencer pearls, and carried herself with such unconscious charm that more than one who danced with her that night felt a rapping on the door of his heart and heard the voice of love exclaiming "Let me in!" There was one young man in particular who showed her such attention that the matrons either smiled or frowned at each other. Even Miss Cordelia and Miss Patty were pleased, although of course they didn't show it for a moment. He was a handsome, lazy-looking young rascal when he first appeared on the scene, lounging against the doorway, drawling a little as he talked to his friends--evidently a lion, bored in advance with the whole proceeding and meaning to slip away as soon as he could. But when his eye fell on Mary, he stared at her unobserved for nearly a minute and his ennui disappeared into thin air. "What's the matter, Wally?" asked one of his friends. "James," he solemnly replied, "I'm afraid it's something serious. I only hope it's catching." The next minute he was being introduced to Mary and was studying her card. "Some of these I can't dance," she warned him. "Will you mark them with a tick, please--those you can't dance?" Unsuspectingly she marked them. "Good!" said he, writing his name against each tick. "We'll sit those out. The next waltz, though, we will dance that." "But that's engaged--'Chester A. Bradford,'" she read. "Poor Brad--didn't I tell you?" asked Wally. "He fell downstairs a moment ago and broke his leg." That was the beginning of it. The first dance they sat out Wally said to himself, "I shall kiss her, if it's the last thing I ever do." But he didn't. The next dance they sat out he said to himself, "I shall kiss her if I never do another thing as long as I live--" But he didn't. The last dance they sat out he said to himself, "I shall kiss her if I hang for it." He didn't kiss her, even then, but felt himself tremble a little as he looked in her eyes. Then it was that the truth began to dawn upon him. "I'm a gone coon," he told himself, and dabbed his forehead with his handkerchief ... "You've got him, all right," said Helen later, going to Mary's room ostensibly to undress, but really to exchange those confidences without which no party is complete. "Got who?" asked Mary. And she a Bachelor of Arts! "Oh, aren't you innocent! Wally Cabot, of course. Did he kiss you?" "No, he did not!" "Of course, if you don't want to tell--!" "There's nothing to tell." "There isn't? ... Oh, well, don't worry.... There soon will be." Helen was right. From that time forward Mary's own shadow was hardly less attentive than Master Wally Cabot. His high-powered roadster was generally doing one of three things. It was either going to Mary's, or coming from Mary's, or taking a needed rest under Mary's porte cochère. One day Mary suddenly said to her father, "Who was Paul?" Fortunately for Josiah the light was on his back. "Last night at the dance," she continued, "I heard a woman saying that I didn't look the least bit like Paul, and I wondered who he was." "Perhaps some one in her own family," said Josiah at last. "Must have been," Mary carelessly nodded. They went on chatting and presently Josiah was himself again. "What are you going to do about Walter Cabot?" he asked, looking at her with love in his sombre eyes. Mary made a helpless gesture. "Has he asked you yet?" "Yes," she said in a muffled voice, "--often." "Why don't you take him?" Again Mary made her helpless gesture and, for a long moment she too was on the point of opening her heart. But again heredity, training and age-old tradition stood between them, finger on lip. "I sometimes have such a feeling that I want to do something in the world," she nearly told him. "And if I married Wally, it would spoil it all. I sometimes have such dreams--such wonderful dreams of doing something--of being somebody--and I know that if I married Wally I should never be able to dream like that again--" As you can see, that isn't the sort of a thing which a girl can very well say to her father--or to any one else for that matter, except in fear and hesitation. "The way I am now," she nearly told him, "there are ever so many things in life that I can do--ever so many doors that I can open. But if I marry Wally, every door is locked but one. I can be his wife; that's all." Obviously again, you couldn't expect a girl to speak like that, especially a girl with dreamy eyes and shy. Nevertheless those were the thoughts which often came to her at night, after she had said her prayers and popped into bed and lay there in the dark turning things over in her mind. One night, for instance, after Wally had left earlier than usual, she lay with her head snuggled on the pillow, full of vague dreams and visions--vague dreams of greatness born of the sunsets and stars and flowers--vague visions of proving herself worthy of the heritage of life. "I don't think it's a bit fair," she thought. "As soon as a woman marries--well, somehow, she's through. But it doesn't seem to make any difference to the man. He can go right on doing the big things--the great things--" She stopped, arrested by the sound of a mandolin under her window. The next moment the strains of Wally's tenor entered the room, mingled with the moonlight and the scent of the syringa bush. A murmuring, deep-toned trio accompanied him. "Soft o'er the fountain Ling'ring falls the southern moon--" The beauty of it brought a thrill to the roots of Mary's hair--brought quick tears to her eyes--and she was wondering if Wally was right, after all--if love (as he often told her) was indeed the one great thing of life and nothing else mattered, when her door opened and Helen came twittering in. "A serenade!" she whispered excitedly. "Im-a-gine!" She tip-toed to the window and, kneeling on the floor, watched the singers through the curtain--knowing well it wasn't for her, but drinking deep of the moment. Slowly, sweetly, the chorus grew fainter--fainter-- "Nita--Juanita Ask thy soul if we should part--" "What do you think of that!" said Helen, leaning over and giving her cousin a squeeze and a kiss. "He had the two Garde boys and Will Thompson with him. I thought he was leaving earlier than usual tonight; didn't you? But a serenade! I wonder if the others heard it, too!" Miss Patty and Miss Cordelia had both heard it, and Helen had hardly gone when they came pattering in--each as proud as Punch of Mary for having caused such miracles to perform--and gleeful, too, that they had lived in the land long enough to hear a real, live serenade. And after they had kissed her and gone, Ma'm Maynard came in with a pretty little speech in French. So that altogether Mary held quite a reception in bed. As one result, her feeling toward Wally melted into something like tenderness, and if it hadn't been for the tragic event next morning, the things which I have to tell you might never have taken place. "I wonder if your father heard it," said Miss Patty at the breakfast table next morning. "I wonder!" laughed Mary. "I think I'll run in and see." According to his custom Josiah breakfasted early and had gone to his den to look over his mail. Mary passed gaily through the library, but it wasn't long before she was back at the dining room door, looking as though she had seen a ghost. "Come--come and look," she choked. "Something--something terrible--" Josiah sat, half collapsed, in his chair. Before him, on the desk, lay his mail. Some he had read. Some he would never, never read. "He must have had a stroke," said Miss Cordelia, her arms around Mary; and looking at her brother she whispered, "I think something upset him." When they had sent for the doctor and had taken Mary away, they returned to look over the letters which Josiah had opened as his last mortal act. "I don't see anything in these that could have bothered him," said Miss Cordelia, fearfully looking. "What's this?" asked Miss Patty, picking up an empty envelope from the floor. It was post-marked "Rio de Janeiro" and the date showed that it had taken three weeks to make the journey. "I have some recollection of that writing," said Miss Cordelia. "So have I," said Miss Patty in a low voice, "but where's the letter?" Again it was she who made the discovery. "That must be it," she said. "His ash tray is cleaned out every morning." It was a large, brass tray and in it was the char of a paper that had been burned. This ash still lay in its folds and across its surface, black on black, could be seen a few lines which resembled the close of a letter. "Can you read it?" she asked. Miss Cordelia bent over, and as a new angle of light struck the tray, the words became as legible as though they had just been written. "I thought I knew the writing," whispered Miss Cordelia, and lowering her voice until her sister had to hang breathless upon the movement of her lips, she added "Oh, Patty ... We all thought he was dead ... No wonder it killed poor Josiah ..." Their arms went around each other. Their glances met. "I know," whispered Miss Patty, her lips suddenly gone dry, "....It was from Paul...!" CHAPTER XI For the first few months after her father's death, Mary's dreams seemed to fade into mist. Between her and Josiah a bond of love had existed, stronger than either had suspected--and now that he was gone the world seemed unaccountably empty--and unaccountably cruel. As her father had gone, so must Aunt Cordelia and Aunt Patty some day surely go ... Yes, and even Mary herself must just as surely follow. The immemorial doubt assailed her--that doubt which begins in helplessness and ends in despair. "What's the use?" she asked herself. "We plan and work so hard--like children making things in the sand--and then Death comes along with a big wave and flattens everything out ... like that ..." But gradually her sense of balance began to return. One day she stood on the brink of the hill looking at the great factory below, and a calmer, surer feeling slowly swept over her. "That's it," she thought. "The real things of life go on, no matter who dies, just as though nothing had happened. Take the first Josiah Spencer and look down there what he left behind him. Why, you might even say that he was alive today! And see what Washington left behind him--and Fulton, who invented the steamboat--and Morse who invented the telegraph. So it's silly to say 'What's the use?' Suppose Columbus had said it--or any of the others who have done great things in the world--" It slowly came to her then, her doubts still lingering, how many are called, how few are chosen. "That's the trouble," she said. "We can't all be Washingtons. We can't all do great things. And yet--an awful lot of people had to live so that Washington could be born when he was.... "His parents: that was two. And his grand-parents: he must have had four. And his great grand-parents: eight of them.... "Why, it's like the problem of the horse-shoe nails," she continued in growing excitement. "In twenty-eight generations there must have been millions and millions of people who lived--just so George Washington could be born one day at Mt. Vernon--and grow up to make America free! Yes, and every one of them was just as necessary as Washington himself, because if it hadn't been for every single one of them--we would never have had him!" For a moment she seemed to be in touch with the infinite plan. Down the hill she saw a woman in a black dress, crossing the street. "Mrs. Ridge going out for the day," thought Mary, recognizing the figure below. "Yes, and who knows? She may be a link in a chain which is leading straight down to some one who will be greater than Washington--greater than Shakespeare--greater than any man who ever lived...!" And her old dreams, her old visions beginning to return, she added with a sigh, "Oh, dear! I wish I could do something big and noble--so if all those millions who are back of me are watching, they'll feel proud of what I'm doing and nudge each other as if they were saying, 'You see? She's come at last. That's us!'" As you will realize, this last thought of Mary's suggested more than it told--as I believe great thoughts often do--but at least I think you'll be able to grasp the idea which she herself was groping after. At the same time you mustn't suppose that she was constantly going around dreaming, and trying to find expression for those vague strivings and yearnings which come to us all at different times in our lives, especially in the golden days of youth when the flood of ambition is rising high within us--or again in later years when we feel the tide will soon begin to turn, and we must make haste or it will be too late. No, Mary had plenty of practical matters, too, to engage her attention and keep her feet on the earth. For one thing there was Wally Cabot--he who had so lately serenaded Mary in the moonlight. But I'll tell you about him later. Then the settlement of her father's estate kept coming up for action. Judge Cutler and Mary's two aunts were the trustees--an arrangement which didn't please Uncle Stanley any too well, although he was careful not to show it. And the more Mary saw of the silvery haired judge with his hawk's eyes and gentle smile, the more she liked him. One of the first things they discovered was that Mary's heritage consisted of the factory by the river--but little else. Practically all the bonds and investments that Josiah had ever owned had been sold for the greater glory of Spencer & Son--to buy in other firms and patents--to increase the factory by the river. As her father had once confided to Mary this had taken money--"a dreadful lot of money"--she remembered the wince with which he had spoken--and a safe deposit box which was nearly empty bore evidence to the truth of what he had said. "High and low," mused the judge when the inventory was at last completed, "it's always the same. The millionaire and the mill-hand--somehow they always manage to leave less than every one expected--" "Why is that?" asked Mary. "Is it because the heirs expect too much?" "No, child. I think it's the result of pride. As a rule, man is a proud animal and he doesn't like to tell anything which doesn't redound to his credit. If a man buys bonds, for instance, he is very apt to mention it to his family. But if for any reason he has to sell those bonds, he will nearly always do it quietly and say nothing about it, hoping to buy them back again later, or something better yet-- "I've seen so many estates," he continued, "shrink into next to nothing--so many widows who thought they were well off, suddenly waking up and finding themselves at the mercy of the world--the little they have often being taken away from them by the first glib sharper who comes long--that I sometimes think every man should give his family a show-down once a year. It would surely save a lot of worries and heartaches later on-- "Still," he smiled, looking down at the inventory, with its noble line of figures at the bottom of the column, "I don't think you'll have much trouble in keeping the wolf from the door." Mary turned the pages in a helpless sort of way. "You'll have to explain some of this," she said at last. But before giving it back to him she looked out of the window for a time--one of her slow, thoughtful glances--and added, "I wonder why girls aren't brought up to know something about business--the way boys are." "Perhaps it's because they have no head for business." She thought that over. "Can you speak French?" she suddenly asked. "No." "...I can. I can speak it, and read it, and write it, and think it.... Now don't you think that if a girl can do that--if she can learn thousands and thousands of new words, how to pronounce them, and spell them, and parse them, and inflect them--how to supply hundreds of rules of grammar--and if she can learn to do this so well that she can chat away in French without giving it a thought--don't you think she might be able to learn something about the language and rules of business, too, if they were only taught to her? Then perhaps there wouldn't be so many helpless widows in the world, as you said just now, at the mercy of the first glib sharper who comes along." This time it was the judge's turn to think it over. "You're an exceptional girl, Mary," he said at last. "No, really I'm not," she earnestly told him. "Any girl can learn anything that a boy can learn--if she is only given a chance. Where boys and girls go to school together--at the grammar schools and high schools--the girls are just as quick as the boys, and their average marks are quite as high. It was true at college, too. The girls could learn anything that the men could learn--and do it just as well." As one result of this, Judge Cutler began giving Mary lessons in business, using the inventory as a text and explaining each item in the settlement of the estate. He also taught her some of the simpler maxims, beginning with that grand old caution, "Never sign a paper for a stranger--" It wasn't long after this that Uncle Stanley called at the house on the hill. He talked for a time about some of the improvements which were being made at the factory and then arose as if to go. "Oh, I nearly forgot," he said, turning back and smiling at his oversight. "We need a new director to take your father's place. When I'm away Burdon looks after things, so I suppose he may as well take the responsibility. It's a thankless position, but some one has to fill it." "Yes," murmured Mary, "I suppose they do." "They do," said Uncle Stanley. "So I'll call a stockholders' meeting right away. Meanwhile if you will sign this proxy--" But just as quietly Mary murmured, "I'd like to think it over." They looked at each other then--those two--with that careful, yet careless-appearing glance which two duellists might employ when some common instinct warns them that sooner or later they will cross their swords. Uncle Stanley was the first to lower his eye. "The law requires three directors," he said in his more usual grumpy voice, "or I wouldn't have bothered you. I'll leave it and you can sign it and send it down this afternoon." But Mary did neither. Instead she went to see Judge Cutler and when the stockholders' meeting was finally called, she attended it in person--holding practically all the stock--and Judge Cutler was elected to fill the vacancy. Uncle Stanley just managed to control himself. It took an effort, but he did it. "We've got to elect a president next," he said, trying to make a joke of it, but unable to keep the tremor of testiness out of his voice. "Of course I've been here all my life--if that counts for anything--and I am now serving in the more or less humble capacity of vice-president--but if the judge would like to throw up his law business and try the manufacturing end instead--" "No," smiled the judge, lighting a bombshell--though Uncle Stanley little guessed it--"I think the position calls for some one younger than I am. Besides, my name is Cutler, whereas for eight generations this concern has been headed by a Spencer. "You know, Mr. Woodward, lawyers are sticklers for precedent, and it seems to me that as long as there is a Spencer left in the family, that good old name should stand at the head. "For the office of president I therefore cast my vote in favour of the last of the Spencers--Miss Mary--" That was the bombshell, and oh, but didn't it rock Uncle Stanley back on his heels! "Of course, if you want to make a joke of the company," he said at last, sticking out his lower lip till it made a little shelf, although it wasn't a very steady little shelf because it trembled as though from emotion. "'President, Mary Spencer'--you know as well as I do what people will think when they see that on the letterhead--" "Unfortunately, yes," said the judge, flashing him one of his hawk's glances but still speaking in his gentle voice. "Still, we can easily get around that difficulty. We can have the letter-heads lithographed 'President, M. Spencer.' Then if our correspondents have imaginations, they will think that the M stands for Matthew or Mark or Michael or Malachi. One thing sure," he smiled at the new president, "they'll never think of Mary." As in the case of the factory, Uncle Stanley had also been vice-president of the First National Bank. A few days after the proceedings above recorded, the stockholders of the bank met to choose a new president. There was only one vote and when it was counted, Stanley Woodward was found to be elected. "I wonder what he'll be doing next," said Mary uneasily when she heard the news. "My dear girl," gently protested the judge, "you mustn't be so suspicious. It will poison your whole life and lead you nowhere." Mary thought that over. "You know the old saying, don't you?" he continued. "'Suspicion is the seed of discord.'" "Yes," nodded Mary, trying to smile, though she still looked troubled. "I know the old saying--but--the trouble is--I know Uncle Stanley, too, and that's what bothers me..." CHAPTER XII At this point I had meant to tell you more of Wally Cabot--most perfect, most charming of lovers--but first I find that I must describe a passage which took place one morning between Mary and Uncle Stanley's son Burdon. Perhaps you remember Burdon, the tall, dark young man who "smelled nice" and wore a white edging on the V of his waistcoat. As far back as Mary could remember him, he had appealed to her imagination. His Norfolk jackets, his gold cigarette case and match box, his air of distinction, his wealth of black hair which grew to a point on his forehead, even the walking stick which he sometimes carried; to Mary's mind these had always been properties in a human drama--a drama breathless with possibilities, written by Destiny and entitled Burdon Woodward. It is hard to express some things, and this is one of them. But among your own acquaintances there are probably one or two figures which stand out above the others as though they had been selected by Fate to play strenuous parts--whether Columbine, clown or star. Something is always happening to them. Wherever they appear, they seem to hold the centre of the stage, and when they disappear a dullness falls and life seems flat for a time. You think of them more often than you realize, perhaps with a smile, perhaps with a frown, and generally you dismiss them from your mind with some such thought as this--"He'll get in trouble yet," or "I wouldn't be surprised if he makes a great man some day"--or "Something will happen to that girl yet, if she isn't careful!" That, in short, was the sort of a character that Burdon Woodward had always been to Mary. For as long as she could remember him, she had associated him with romance and drama. To her he had been Raffles, the amateur cracksman. He had also been Steerforth in David Copperfield--and time after time she had drowned him in the wreck. In stories of buccaneers he was the captain--sometimes Captain Morgan, sometimes Captain Kidd--or else he was Black Jack with Dora in his power and trembling in the balance whether to become a hero or a villain. As Mary grew older these associations not only lingered; they strengthened. Not long before her father died she read in the paper of a young desperado, handsome and well-dressed, who held up a New York jeweller at the point of a gun and relieved him of five thousand dollars' worth of diamond rings. The story was made remarkable by a detail. An old woman was sitting at the corner, grinding a hand-organ, and as the robber ran past her, he dropped one of the rings into her cup. "Oh, dad," Mary had said, looking up and speaking on impulse, "did I hear you say last night that Burdon Woodward was in New York?" "No, dear. Boston." "Mm," thought Mary. "He'd say he was going to Boston for a blind." And for many a week after that she slyly watched his fingers, to see if she could catch him red-handed so to speak, wearing one of those rings! Yet even while she glanced she had the grace to smile at her fancies. "All the same," she told herself, "it sounded an awful lot like him." The encounter which I am now going to tell you about took place one morning after Mary had been elected to the presidency of the company. She had just finished breakfast when Burdon telephoned. "Your father had some private papers in his desk down here," he said. "I was wondering if you'd like to come down and look them over." "Thank you," she said. "I will." Josiah's private room in the factory office building had been an impressive one, high-ceiled and flanked with a fire-place which was, however, never lighted. Ancestral paintings and leather chairs had added their notes of distinction. The office of any executive will generally reflect not only his own personality, but the character of the enterprise of which he stands at the head. Looking in Josiah's room, I think you would have been impressed, either consciously or not, that Spencer & Son had dignity, wealth and a history behind it. And regarding then the dark colouring of the appointments, devoid of either beauty or warmth, and feeling yourself impressed by a certain chilliness of atmosphere, I can very well imagine you saying to yourself "Not very cheerful!" But you wouldn't have thought this on the morning when Mary entered it in response to Burdon's suggestion. A fire was glowing on the andirons. New rugs gave colour and life to the floor. The mantel had been swept clear of annual reports and technical books, and graced with a friendly clock and a still more friendly pair of vases filled with flowers. The monumental swivel chair had disappeared, and in its place was one of wicker, upholstered in cretonne. On the desk was another vase of flowers, a writing set of charming design and a triple photograph frame, containing pictures of Miss Cordelia, Miss Patty and old Josiah himself. Mary was still marvelling when she caught sight of Burdon Woodward in the doorway. "Who--who did this?" she asked. He bowed low--as d'Artagnan might have bowed to the queen of France--but came up smiling. "Your humble, obedient servant," said he. "Can I come in?" It had been some time since Mary had seen him so closely, and as he approached she noticed the faultlessness of his dress, the lily of the valley in his buttonhole, and that slightly ironic but smiling manner which is generally attributed to men of the world, especially to those who have travelled far on adventurous and forbidden paths. In another age he might have worn lace cuffs and a sword, and have just returned from a gambling house where he had lost or won a fortune with equal nonchalance. "He still smells nice," thought Mary to herself, "and I think he's handsomer than ever--if it wasn't for that dark look around his eyes--and even that becomes him." She motioned to a chair and seated herself at the desk. "I thought you'd like to have a place down here to call your own," he said in his lazy voice. "I didn't make much of a hit with the governor, but then you know I seldom do--" "Where did you get the pictures?" "From the photographers'. Of course it required influence, but I am full of that--being connected, as you may know, with Spencer & Son. When I told him why I wanted them, he seemed to be as anxious as I was to find the old plates." "And the fire and the rugs and everything--you don't know how I appreciate it all. I had no idea--" "I like surprises, myself," he said. "I suppose that's why I like to surprise others. The keys of the desk are in the top drawer, and I have set aside the brightest boy in the office to answer your buzzer. If you want anybody or anything--to write a letter--to see the governor--or even to see your humble servant--all you have to do is to press this button." A wave of gratitude swept over her. "He's nice," she thought, as Burdon continued his agreeable drawl. "But Helen says he's wicked. I wonder if he is.... Imagine him thinking of the pictures: I'm sure that doesn't sound wicked, and... Oh, dear!....Yes, he did it again, then!... He--he's making eyes at me as much as he dares!..." She turned and opened a drawer of the desk. "I think I'll take the papers home and sort them there," she said. "You're sure there's nothing more I can do?" he asked, rising. "Nothing more; thank you." "That window behind you is open at the top. You may feel a draft; I'll shut it." In his voice she caught the note which a woman never misses, and her mind went back to her room at college where the girls used to gather in the evenings and hold classes which were strictly outside the regular course. "It's simply pathetic," one of the girls had once remarked, "but nearly every man you meet makes love the same way. Talk about sausage for breakfast every morning in the year. It's worse than that! "First you catch it in their eye and in their voice: 'Are you sure you're comfortable?' 'Are you sure you're warm enough?' 'Are you sure you don't feel a draft?' That's Chapter One. "Then they try to touch you--absent-mindedly putting their arms along the back of your chair, or taking your elbow to keep you from falling when you have to cross a doorsill or a curb-stone or some dangerous place like that. That's always Chapter Two. "And then they try to get you into a nice, secluded place, and kiss you. Honestly, the sameness of it is enough to drive a girl wild. Sometimes I say to myself, 'The next time a man looks at me that way and asks me if I feel a draft, I'm going to say, 'Oh, please let's dispense with Chapter Two and pass directly to the nice, secluded place. It will be such a change from the usual routine!'" Mary laughed to herself at the recollection. "If Vera's right," she thought, "he'll try to touch me next--perhaps the next time I come." It happened sooner than that. After she had tied up the papers and carried them to the car, and had made a tour of the new buildings--Archey Forbes blushing like a sunset the moment he saw her--she returned to her motor which was waiting outside the office building. Burdon must have been waiting for her. He suddenly appeared and opened the door of the car. "Allow me," he said. When she stepped up, she felt the support of his hand beneath her elbow. She slipped into her place at the wheel and looked ahead as dreamy-eyed as ever. "Chapter Two..." she thought to herself as the car began to roll away, and taking a hasty mental review of Wally Cabot, and Burdon Woodward and Archey Forbes, she couldn't help adding, "If a girl's thoughts started to run that way, oh, wouldn't they keep her busy!" It relieved her feelings to make the car roar up the incline that led from the river, but when she turned into the driveway at the house on the hill, she made a motion of comic despair. Wally Cabot's car was parked by the side of the house. Inside she heard the phonograph playing a waltz. CHAPTER XIII Wally stayed for lunch, looking sheepish at first for having been caught dancing with Helen. But he soon recovered and became his charming self. Miss Cordelia and Miss Patty always made him particularly welcome, listening with approval to his chatter of Boston society, and feeling themselves refreshed as at some Hebian spring at hearing the broad a's and the brilliant names he uttered. "If I were you, Helen," said Mary when lunch was over, "I think I'd go on teaching Wally that dance." Which may have shown that it rankled a little, even if she were unconscious that it did. "I have some papers that I want to look over and I don't feel very trippy this afternoon." She went to Josiah's old study, but had hardly untied the papers when she heard the knock of penitence on the door. "Come in!" she smiled. The door opened and in came Master Wally, looking ready to weep. "Wally! Don't!" she laughed. "You'll give yourself the blues!" "Not when I hear you laugh like that. I know I'm forgiven." He drew a chair to the fire and sat down with an air of luxury. "I can almost imagine that we're an old married couple, sitting in here like this--can't you?" "No; I can't. And you've got to be quiet and let me work, or I shall send you back to Helen." "She asked me to dance with her--of course, you know that--or I never would have done it--" "Oh, fie, for shame," said Mary absently, "blaming the woman. You know you liked to do it." "Mary--!" "Hush!" He watched her for a time and, in truth, she was worth it. He looked at the colour of her cheeks, her dreamy eyes like pools of mystery, the crease in her chin (which he always wanted to kiss), the rise and fall of the pendant on her breast. He looked until he could look no longer and then he arose and leaned over the desk. "Mary--!" he breathed, taking her hand. "Now, please don't start that, Wally. We'll shake hands if you want to... There! How are you? Now go back to your chair and be good." "'Be good!'" he savagely echoed. "Why, you want to be good; don't you?" she asked in surprise. "I want you to love me. Mary; tell me you love me just a little bit; won't you?" "I like you a whole lot--but when it comes to love--the way you mean--" "It's the only thing in life that's worth a hang," he eagerly interrupted her. "The trouble is: you won't try it. You won't allow yourself to let go. I was like that once--thought it was nothing. But after I met you--! Oh, girl, it's all roses and lilies--the only thing in the world, and don't you forget it! Come on in and give it a try!" "It's not the only thing in the world," said Mary, shaking her head. "That's the reason I don't want to come in: When a man marries, he goes right on with his life as though nothing had happened. That shows it's not the only thing with him. But when a woman marries--well, she simply surrenders her future and her independence. It may be right that she should, too, for all I know--but I'm going to try the other way first. I'm going right on with my life, the same as a man does--and see what I get by it." "How long are you going to try it, do you think?" "Until I've found out whether love _is_ the only thing in a woman's life. If I find that I can't do anything else--if I find that a girl can only be as bright as a man until she reaches the marrying age, and then she just naturally stands still while he just naturally goes forward--why, then, I'll put an advertisement in the paper 'Husband Wanted. Mary Spencer. Please apply.'" "They'll apply over my dead body." "You're a dear, good boy to say it. No, please, Wally, don't or I shall go upstairs. Now sit by the fire again--that's better--and smoke if you want to, and let me finish these papers." They were for the greater part the odds and ends which accumulate in every desk. There were receipted bills, old insurance policies, letters that had once seemed worth prizing, catalogues of things that had never been bought, prospectuses, newspaper clippings, copies of old contracts. And yet they had an interest, too--an interest partly historical, partly personal. This merry letter, for instance, which Mary read and smiled over--who was the "Jack" who had written it? "Dead, perhaps, like dad," thought Mary. Yes, dead perhaps, and all his fun and drollery suddenly fallen into silence and buried with him. "Isn't life queer!" she thought. "Now why did he save this clipping?" She read the clipping and enjoyed it. Wally, watching from his chair, saw the smile which passed over her face. "She'll warm up some day," he confidently told himself, with that bluntness of thought which comes to us all at times. "See how she flared up because I danced with Helen. Maybe if I made her jealous..." At the desk Mary picked up another paper--an old cable. She read it, re-read it, and quietly folded it again; but for all her calmness the colour slowly mounted to her cheeks, as the recollection of odd words and phrases arose to her mind. "Wally," she said in her quietest voice, "I'm going to ask you a question, but first you must promise to answer me truly." "Cross my heart and hope to die!" "Are you ready?" "Quite ready." "Then did you ever hear of any one in our family named Paul?" "Y-yes--" "Who was he?" It was some time before he told the story, but trust a girl to make a man speak when she wishes it! He softened the recital in every possible way, but trust a girl again to read between the lines when she wants to! "And didn't he ever come back?" she asked. "No; you see he couldn't very well. There was an accident out West--somebody killed--anyhow, he was blamed for it. Queer, isn't it?" he broke off, trying to relieve the subject. "The Kaiser can start a war and kill millions. That's glory. But if some poor devil loses his head--" Mary wasn't through yet. "You say he's dead!" she asked. "Oh, yes, years ago. He must have been dead--oh, let me see--about fifteen or twenty years, I guess." "Poor dad!" thought Mary that night. "What he must have gone through! I'll bet he didn't think that love was the only thing in life. And--that other one," she hesitated, "who was 'wild after the girls,' Wally says, and finally ran off with one--I'll bet he didn't think so, either--before he got through--to say nothing of the poor thing who went with him. But dead fifteen or twenty years--that's the queerest part." She found the cable again. It was dated Rio Janeiro-- "Gods sake cable two hundred dollars wife children sick desperate next week too late." It was signed "Paul" and--the point to which Mary's attention was constantly returning--it wasn't fifteen or twenty years ago that this appeal had been received by her father. The date of the cable was scarcely three years old. CHAPTER XIV For days Mary could think of little else, but as week followed week, her thoughts merged into memories--memories that were stored away and stirred in their hiding places less and less often. "Dad knew best," she finally told herself. "He bore it in silence all those years, so it wouldn't worry me, and I'm not going to start now. Perhaps--he's dead, too. Anyhow," she sternly repeated, "I'm not going to worry. I've seen enough of worry to start doing that." Besides, she had too much else on her mind--"to start doing that." As the war in Europe had progressed--America drawing nearer the crimson whirlpool with every passing month--a Red Cross chapter was organized at New Bethel. Mary took active part in the work, and whenever visitors came to speak at the meetings, they seldom went away without being entertained at the house on the hill. "I love to think of it," she told Aunt Patty one day. "The greatest organization of mercy ever known--and practically all women's work! Doesn't that mean a lot to you, Aunt Patty? If women can do such wonderful things for the Red Cross, why can't they do wonderful things in other ways?" Her own question set her thinking, and something seemed to tell her that now or never she must watch her chance to make old dreams come true. Surely never before in the history of the world had woman come to the front with such a splendid arrival. "We'll get things yet, Aunt Delia," she whispered in confidence, "so that folks will be just as proud of a girl baby as a boy baby." Whereupon she wagged her finger as though to say, "You mark my words!" and went rolling away to hear a distinguished lecturer who had just returned from Europe with a message to the women in America of what their sisters were doing across the seas. The address was given at the Red Cross rooms, and as Mary listened she sewed upon a flannel swaddling robe that was later to go to Siberia lest a new-born babe might perish. At first she listened conscientiously enough to the speaker--"What our European sisters have done in agriculture--" "I do believe at times that it's the women more than the men who make a country great," she thought as she heard of the women ploughing, planting, reaping. To Mary's mind each stoical figure glowed with the light of heroism, and she nodded her head as she worked. "Just as I've always said," she mused; "there's nothing a man can do that a woman can't do." From her chair by the window she chanced to look out at an old circus poster across the street. "Now that's funny, too," she thought, her needle suspended; "I never thought of that before--but even in such things as lion taming and trapeze performing--where you would think a woman would really be at a disadvantage--she isn't at all. She's just as good as a man!" The voice of the speaker broke in upon her thoughts. "I am now going to tell you," she said, "what the women of Europe are doing in the factories--" And oh, how Mary listened, then! It was a long talk--I cannot begin to give it here--but she drank in every word, and hungered and thirsted for more. "There is not an operation in factory, foundry or laboratory," began the speaker, "where women are not employed--" As in a dream Mary seemed to see the factory of Spencer & Son. The long lines of men had vanished, and in their places were women, clear-eyed, dexterous and happy at escaping from the unpaid drudgery of housework. "It may come to that, too," she thought, "if we go into war." "In aeroplane construction," the speaker continued, "where an undetected flaw in her work might mean an aviator's life, woman is doing the carpentry work, building the frame work, making the propellers. They are welding metals, drilling, boring, grinding, milling, even working on the engines and magnetos--" A quiver ran up and down Mary's back and her eyes felt wet. "Just what I've always said," she thought. "Ah, the poor women--" "They are making telescopes, periscopes, binoculars, cameras--cutting and grinding the lenses--work so fine that the deviation of a hair's breadth would cause rejection--some of the lenses as small as a split pea. They make the metal parts that hold those lenses, assemble them, adjust them, test them. These are the eyes of the army and navy--surely no small part for the woman to supply." Mary's thoughts turned to some of the homes she had seen--the surroundings--the expression of the housewife. "All her life and no help for it," she thought. And again, "Ah, the poor women...." "To tell you the things she is making would be to give you a list of everything used in modern warfare. They are making ships, tanks, cannon, rifles, cartridges. They are operating the most wonderful trip hammers that were ever conceived by the mind of man, and under the same roof they are doing hand work so delicate that the least extra pressure of a file would spoil a week's labour. More! There isn't a process in which she has been employed where woman has failed to show that she is man's equal in speed and skill. In many operations she has shown that she is man's superior--doing this by the simple method of turning out more work in a day than the man whose place she took--" Mary invited the speaker to go home with her, and if you had gone past the house on the hill that night, you would have seen lights burning downstairs until after one o 'clock. How did they train the women? How did they find time to do their washing and ironing? What about the children? And the babies? And the home? As the visitor explained, stopping now and then to tell her young hostess where to write for government reports giving facts and figures on the subject which they were discussing, Mary's eyes grew dreamier and dreamier as one fancy after another passed through her mind. And when the clock struck one and she couldn't for shame keep her guest up any longer, she went to her room at last and undressed in a sort of a reverie, her glance inward turned, her head slightly on one side, and with such a look of thoughtful exaltation that I wish I could paint it for you, because I know I can never put it into words. Still, if you can picture Betsey Ross, it was thus perhaps that Betsey looked when first she saw the flag. Or Joan of Arc might once have gazed that way in Orleans' woods. CHAPTER XV It was in December that Mary's great idea began to assume form. She wrote to the American Ambassadors in Great Britain and France for any documents which they could send her relating to the subject so close to her heart. In due time two formidable packages arrived at the house on the hill. Mary carried them into the den and opened them with fingers that trembled with eagerness. Yes, it was all true.... All true.... Here it was in black and white, with photographs and statistics set down by impartial observers and printed by government. Generally a state report is dry reading, but to Mary at least these were more exciting than any romances--more beautiful than any poem she had ever read. At last woman had been given a chance to show what she could do. And how she had shown them! Without one single straining effort, without the least thought of doing anything spectacular, she had gently and calmly taken up men's tools and had done men's work--not indifferently well--not in any makeshift manner--but "in all cases, even the most technical, her work has equalled that previously done exclusively by man. In a number of instances, owing to her natural dexterity and colour sense, her work, indeed, has been superior." How Mary studied those papers! Never even at college had she applied herself more closely. She memorized, compared, read, thought, held arguments with herself. And finally, when she was able to pass any examination that might be set before her, she went down to the office one day and sent for Mr. MacPherson, the master mechanic. He came--grey haired, grim faced, a man who seemed to keep his mouth buttoned-and Mary asked him to shut the door behind him. Whereat Mac buttoned his mouth more tightly than before, and looked grimmer, too, if that were possible. "You don't look a day older," Mary told him with a smile. "I remember you from the days when my father used to carry me around--" "He was a grand man, Miss Mary; it's a pity he's gone," said Mac and promptly buttoned his mouth again. "I want to talk to you about something," she said, "but first I want you to promise to keep it a secret." He blinked his eyes at that, and as much as a grim faced man can look troubled, he looked troubled. "There are vera few secrets that can be kept around this place," was his strange reply. "Might I ask, Miss Mary, of what nature is the subject?" And seeing that she hesitated he added, first looking cautiously over his shoulder, "Is it anything, for instance, to do wi' Mr. Woodward? Or, say, the conduct of the business?" "No, no," said Mary, "it--it's about women--" Mac stared at her, but when she added "--about women working in the factory," he drew a breath of relief. "Aye," he said, "I think I can promise to keep quiet about that." "Isn't it true," she began, "that most of the machinery we use doesn't require a great deal of skill to run it?" "We've a lot of automatics," acknowledged Mac. "Your grandfather's idea, Miss Mary. A grand man. He was one of the first to make the machine think instead of the operator." "How long does it take to break in an ordinary man?" "A few weeks is generally enough. It depends on the man and the tool." Mary told him then what she had in her mind, and Mac didn't think much of it until she showed him the photographs. Even then he was "michty cautious" until he happened to turn to the picture of a munition factory in Glasgow where row after row of overalled women were doing the lathe work. "Think of that now," said he; "in Glasga'!" As he looked, the frost left his eye. "A grand lot of lasses," he said and cleared his throat. "If they can do it, we can do it, too--don't you think so?" "Why not?" he asked. "For let me tell you this, Miss Mary. Those old countries are all grand countries--to somebody's way of thinking. But America is the grandest of them all, or they wouldn't keep coming here as fast as ships can bring them! What they can do, yes, we can do--and add something for good measure, if need be!" "Well, that's it," said Mary, eagerly. "If we go into the war, we shall have to do the same as they are doing in Europe--let women do the factory work. And if it comes to that, I want Spencer & Son to be ready--to be the first to do it--to show the others the way!" Mac nodded. "A bit of your grandfather, that," he thought with approval. "So what I want you to do," she concluded, "is to make me up a list of machines that women can be taught to handle the easiest, and let me have it as soon as you can." "I'll do that," he grimly nodded. "There's far too many vacant now." "And remember, please, you are not to say anything. Because, you know, people would only laugh at the idea of a woman being able to do a man's work." "I'm mute," he nodded again, and started for the door, his mouth buttoned very tightly indeed. But even while his hand was stretched out to reach the knob, he paused and then returned to the desk. "Miss Mary," he said, "I'm an old man, and you're a young girl. I know nothing, mind you, but sometimes there are funny things going on in the world. And a man's not a fool. What I'm going to tell you now, I want you to remember it, but forget who told it to you. Trust nobody. Be careful. I can say no more." "He means Uncle Stanley," thought Mary, uneasily, and a shadow fell upon the day. She was still troubled when another disturbing incident arose. "I'll leave these papers in the desk here," she thought, taking her keys from her handbag. She unlocked the top drawer and was about to place the papers on top of those which already lay there, when suddenly she paused and her eyes opened wide. On the top letter in her drawer--a grey tinted sheet--was a scattered mound of cigarette ash. "Somebody's been here--snooping," she thought. "Somebody with a key to the desk. He must have had a cigarette in his hand when he shut the drawer, and the ashes jarred off without being noticed--" Irresistibly her thoughts turned to Burdon Woodward, with his gold cigarette case and match box. "It was he who gave me the keys," she thought. She sighed. A sense of walking among pitfalls took possession of her. As you have probably often noticed, suspicion feeds upon suspicion, and as Mary walked through the outer office she felt that more than one pair of eyes were avoiding her. The old cashier kept his head buried in his ledger and nearly all the men were busy with their papers and books. "Perhaps it's because I'm a woman," she thought. Ma'm Maynard's words arose with a new significance, "I tell you, Miss Mary, it has halways been so, and it halways will. Everything that lives has its own natural enemy--and a woman's natural enemy: eet is man!" But Mary could still smile at that. "Take Mr. MacPherson," she thought; "how is he my natural enemy? Or Judge Cutler? Or Archey Forbes? Or Wally Cabot?" She felt more normal then, but when these reflections had died away, she still occasionally felt her thoughts reverting to Mac's warning, the cigarette ash, the averted glances in the office. The nest morning, though, she thought she had found the answer to the latter puzzle. She had hardly finished breakfast when Judge Cutler was announced, his hawk's eyes frowning and never a trace of his smile. "Did you get your copy of the annual report?" he asked. "Not yet," said Mary, somehow guessing what he meant. "Why?" "I got mine in the mail this morning." He drew it from his pocket and his frown grew deeper. "Let's go in the den," he said; "we've got to talk this out." It was the annual report of Spencer & Son's business and briefly stated, it showed an alarming loss for the preceding twelve months. "Ah-ha!" thought Mary, "that's the reason they didn't look up yesterday. They had seen this, and they felt ashamed." "As nearly as I can make it out," said the judge, "there's too many improvements going on, and not enough business. We must do something to stop these big expenses, and find a way to get more bearings sold--" He checked himself then and looked at Mary, much as Mac had looked the previous day, just before issuing his warning. "Perhaps he's thinking of Uncle Stanley, too," thought Mary. "Another bad feature is this," continued the judge, "the bank is getting too strong a hold on the company. We must stop that before it gets any worse." "Why?" asked Mary, looking very innocent. "Because it isn't good business." "But Uncle Stanley is president of the bank. You don't think he'd do anything to hurt Spencer & Son; do you?" The judge tapped his foot on the floor for a time, and then made a noise like a groan--as though he had teeth in his mind and one of them was being pulled. "Many a time," he said, "I have tried to talk you out of your suspicions. But--if it was any other man than Stanley Woodward, I would say today that he was doing his best to--to--" "To 'do' me?" suggested Mary, more innocent than ever. "Yes, my dear--to do you! And another year's work like this wouldn't be far from having that result." Curiously enough it was Mary's great idea that comforted her. Instead of feeling worried or apprehensive, she felt eager for action, her eyes shining at the thoughts which came to her. "All right," she said, "we'll have a meeting in a day or two. I'll wait till I get my copy of the report." Wally came that afternoon, and Mary danced with him--that is to say she danced with him until a freckle-faced apprentice came up from the factory with an envelope addressed in MacPherson's crabbed hand. Mary took one peep inside and danced no more. "If the women can pick it up as quick as the men," she read, "I have counted 1653 places in this factory where they could be working in a few weeks time--that is, if the places were vacant. List enclosed. Respectfully. James O. MacPherson." It was a long list beginning "346 automatics, 407 grinders--" Mary studied it carefully, and then after telephoning to the factory, she called up Judge Cutler. "I wish you would come down to the office in about half an hour," she said, ".... Directors' meeting. All right. Thank you." "What was it dad used to call me sometimes--his 'Little Hustler'?" she thought. "If he could see, I'll bet that's what he would call me now." As she passed through the hall she looked in the drawing room to tell Helen where she was going. Helen was sitting on a chaise lounge and Wally was bending over her, as though trying to get something out of her eye with the corner of a handkerchief. "I don't see anything," Mary heard him saying. "There must be something. It hurts dreadfully," said Helen. Looking again, he lightly dabbed at the eye. "Oh!" breathed Helen. "Don't, Wally!" She took hold of his hand as though to stop him. Mary passed on without saying anything, her nose rather high in the air. Half way down the hill she laughed at nothing in particular. "Yes," she told herself. "Helen--in her own way--I guess that she's a little Hustler ... too ...!" CHAPTER XVI The meeting was held in Mary's office--the first conference of directors she had ever attended. By common consent, Uncle Stanley was chosen chairman of the board. Judge Cutler was appointed secretary. Mary sat in her chair at the desk, her face nearly hidden by the flowers in the vase. It didn't take the meeting long to get down to business. "From last year's report," began the judge, "it is evident that we must have a change of policy." "In what way?" demanded Uncle Stanley. Whereupon they joined issue--the man of business and the man of law. If Mary had been paying attention she would have seen that the judge was slowly but surely getting the worst of it. To stop improvements now would be inviting ruin--They had their hands on the top rung of the ladder now; why let go and fall to the bottom--? What would everybody think if those new buildings stayed empty--? Uncle Stanley piled fact on fact, argument on argument. Faint heart never won great fortune--As soon as the war was over, and it wouldn't be long now--Before long he began to dominate the conference, the judge growing more and more silent, looking more and more indecisive. Through it all Mary sat back in her chair at the desk and said nothing, her face nearly hidden by the roses, but woman-like, she never forgot for a moment the things she had come there to do. "What do you think, Mary?" asked the judge at last. "Do you think we had better try it a little longer and see how it works out?" "No," said Mary quietly, "I move that we stop everything else but making bearings." In vain Uncle Stanley arose to his feet, and argued, and reasoned, and sat down again, and brought his fist down on his knee, and turned a rich, brown colour. After a particularly eloquent period he caught a sight of Mary's face among the roses--calm, cool and altogether unmoved--and he stopped almost on the word. "That's having a woman, in business," he bitterly told himself. "Might as well talk to the wind. Never mind ... It may take a little longer--but in the end...." Judge Cutler made a minute in the director's book that all work on improvements was to stop at once. "And now," he said, "the next thing is to speed up the manufacture of bearings." "Easily said," Uncle Stanley shortly laughed. "There must be some way of doing it," persisted the judge, taking the argument on himself again. "Why did our earnings fall down so low last year?" "Because I can manufacture bearings, but I can't manufacture men," reported Uncle Stanley. "We are over three hundred men short, and it's getting worse every day. Let me tell you what munition factories are paying for good mechanics--" Mary still sat in her wicker chair, back of the flowers, and looked around at the paintings on the walls--of the Josiah Spencers who had lived and laboured in the past. "They all look quiet, as though they never talked much," she thought. "It seems so silly to talk, anyhow, when you know what you are going to do." But still the argument across the desk continued, and again Uncle Stanley began to gain his point. "So you see," he finally concluded, "it's just as I said a few minutes ago. I can manufacture bearings, but I can't manufacture men!" From behind the roses then a patient voice spoke. "You don't have to manufacture men. We don't need them." Uncle Stanley gave the judge a look that seemed to say, "Listen to the woman of it! Lord help us men when we have to deal with women!" And aloud in quite a humouring tone he said, "We don't need men? Then who's to do the work?" Mary moved the vase so she could have a good look at him. "Women," she replied. "They can do the work. Yes, women," said she. Again they looked at each other, those two, with the careful glance with which you might expect two duellists to regard each other--two duellists who had a premonition that one day they would surely cross their swords. And again Uncle Stanley was the first to look away. "Women!" he thought. "A fine muddle there'll he!" In fancy he saw the company's organization breaking down, its output decreasing, its product rejected for imperfections. Of course he knew that women were employed in textile mills and match-box factories and gum-and-glue places like that where they couldn't afford to employ men, and had no need for accuracy. But women at Spencer & Sons! Whose boast had always been its accuracy! Where every inch was divided into a thousand parts! "She's hanging herself with her own rope," he concluded. "I'll say no more." Mary turned to the judge. "You might make a minute of that," she said. Half turning, she chanced to catch a glimpse of Uncle Stanley's satisfaction. "And you might say this," she quietly added, "that Miss Spencer was placed in charge of the women's department, with full authority to settle all questions that might arise." "That's all?" asked Uncle Stanley. "I think that's all this afternoon," she said. He turned to the judge as one man to another, and made a sweeping gesture toward the portraits on the walls, now half buried in the shadows of approaching evening. "I wonder what they would think of women working here?" he said in a significant tone. Mary thought that over. "I wonder what they would think of this?" she suddenly asked. She switched on the electric light and as though by magic a soft white radiance flooded the room. "Would they want to go back to candles?" she asked. CHAPTER XVII Later, the thing which Mary always thought of first was the ease with which the change was accomplished. First of all she called in Archey Forbes and told him her plan. "I'm going to make you chief of staff," she said; "that is--if you'd care for the place." He coloured with pleasure--not quite as gorgeously as he once did--but quite enough to be noticeable. "Anything I can do for you, Miss Mary?" he said. "Then first we must find a place to train the women workers. One of those empty buildings would be best, I think. I'll give you a list of machines to be set in place." The "school" was ready the following Monday morning. For "teachers" Mary had selected a number of elderly men whom she had picked for their quiet voices and obvious good nature. They were all expert machinists and had families. On Saturday the following advertisement had appeared in the local paper: A CALL FOR WOMEN Women wanted in machine-shop to do men's work at men's wages for the duration of the war. No experience necessary. Easier than washing, ironing, scrubbing or sewing. $21 a week and up. Apply Monday morning, 8 o'clock. JOSIAH SPENCER & SON, INC. As you have guessed, Mary composed that advertisement. It hadn't passed without criticism. "I don't think it's necessary to pay them as much as the men," Mac had suggested. "To say the least it's vera generous and vera unusual." "Why shouldn't they get as much as the men if they are going to do men's work?" asked Mary. "Besides, I'm doing it for the men's sake, even more than for the women's." Mac stared at that and buttoned his mouth very tightly. "They have been all through that in Europe," she explained. "Don't you see? If a woman can do a man's work, and do it for less money, it brings down men's wages. Because who would hire a man at $21 a week after the war if they could get a woman to do the same work for $15?" "You're richt," said Mac after a thoughtful pause. "I must pass that along. I know from myself that the men will grumble when they think the women are going to make as much money as themselves. But when they richtly understand it's for their own sake, too, they'll hush their noise." Mary was one of the first at the factory on Monday. "Won't I look silly, if nobody comes!" she had thought every time she woke in the night. But she needn't have worried. There was an argument in that advertisement, "Easier than washing, ironing, scrubbing or sewing," that appealed to many a feminine imagination, and when the fancy, thus awakened, played around the promising phrase "$21 a week--and up," hope presently turned to desire--and desire to resolution. "We'll have to set up more machines," said Mary to Archey when she saw the size of her first class. And looking them over with a proudly beating heart she called out, "Good morning, everybody! Will you please follow me?" From this point on, particularly, I like to imagine the eight Josiah Spencers who had gone before following the proceedings with ghostly steps and eyes that missed not a move--invisible themselves, but hearing all and saying nothing. And how they must have stared at each other as they followed that procession over the factory grounds, the last of the Spencers followed by a silent, winding train of women, like a new type of Moses leading her sisters into the promised land! As Mary had never doubted for a moment, the women of New Bethel proved themselves capable of doing anything that the women of Europe had done; and it wasn't long before lines of feminine figures in Turkish overalls were bending over the repetition tools in the Spencer shops--starting, stopping, reversing gears, oiling bearings--and doing it all with that deftness and assurance which is the mark of the finished workman. Indeed, if you had been near-sighted, and watching from a distance, you might have been pardoned for thinking that they were men--but if you looked closer you would have seen that each woman had a stool to sit on, when her work permitted, and if you had been there at half past ten and again at half past three, you would have seen a hand-cart going up and down the aisles, serving tea, coffee, cake and sandwiches. Again at noon you would have seen that the women had a rest room of their own where they could eat their lunch in comfort--a rest room with couches, and easy chairs, and palms and flowers, and a piano, and a talking machine, and a floor that you could dance on, if you felt like dancing immediately before or after lunch. And how the eight Josiahs would have stared at that happy, swaying throng in its Turkish overalls--especially on Friday noon just after the pay envelopes had been handed around! Meanwhile the school was adding new courses of study. The cleverest operators were brought back to learn how to run more complicated machines. Turret lathe hands, oscillating grinders, inspectors were graduated. In short, by the end of March, Mary was able to report to another special meeting of the board of directors that where Spencer & Son had been 371 men short on the first of the year, every empty place was now taken and a waiting list was not only willing but eager to start upon work which was easier than washing, ironing, scrubbing or sewing, and was guaranteed to pay $21 a week--and up! This declaration might be said to mark an epoch in the Spencer factory. Its exact date was March 31st, 1917. On April 2nd of the same year, another declaration was made, never to be forgotten by mankind. Upon that date, as you will recall, the Sixty-fifth Congress of the United States of America declared war upon the Imperial German Government. CHAPTER XVIII Wally was the first to go. On a wonderful moonlight night in May he called to bid Mary good-bye. He had received a commission in the aviation department and was already in uniform--as charming and romantic a figure as the eyes of love could ever wish to see. But Mary couldn't see him that way--not even when she tried--making a bold little experiment with herself and feeling rather sorry, if anything, that her heart beat no quicker and not a thrill ran over her, when her hand rested for a moment on Wally's shoulder. "I wonder if I'm different from other girls," she thought. "Or is it because I have other things to think about? Perhaps if I had nothing else on my mind, I'd dream of love as much as anybody, until it amounted to--what do they call it?--a fixed idea?--that thing which comes to people when they keep turning the same thing over and over in their minds, till they can't get it out of their thoughts?" But you mustn't think that Mary didn't care that Wally was going--perhaps never to return. She knew that she liked him--she knew she would miss him. And when, just before he left, he sang The Spanish Cavalier in that stirring tenor which always made her scalp tingle and her breast feel full, she turned her face to the moonlit scene outside and lived one of those minutes which are so filled with beauty and the stirring of the spirit that pleasure becomes poignant and brings a feeling which isn't far from pain. "I'm off to the war--to the war I must go, To fight for my country and you, dear; But if I should fall, in vain I would call The blessing of my country and you, dear--" All their eyes were wet then, even Wally's--moved by the sadness of his own song. Aunt Patty, Aunt Cordelia and Helen wiped their tears away unashamed, but Mary tried to hide hers. And when the time came for his departure, Aunt Cordelia kissed him and breathed in his ear a prayer, and Aunt Patty kissed him and prayed for him, and Helen kissed him, too, her arms tight around his neck. But when it came to Mary's turn, she looked troubled and gazed down at her hand which he was holding in both of his. "Come on out for a minute," he whispered, gently leading her. They went out under the moon. "Aren't you going to kiss me, too?" he asked. Mary thought it over. "If I kissed you, I would love you," she said, and tried to hide her tears no more. He soothed her then in the immemorial manner, and soon she was tranquil again. "Good-bye, Wally," she said. "Good-bye, dear. You'll promise to be here when I come back?" "I shall be here." "And you won't let anybody run away with you until I've had another chance?" "Don't worry." She watched the light of his car diminish until it vanished over the crest of the hill. A gathering sense of loneliness began to assail her, but with it was a feeling of freedom and purpose--the feeling that she was being left alone, clear of distraction, to fight her own fight and achieve her own destiny. Archey Forbes was the next to go. His going marked a curious incident. He had applied for a commission in the engineers, and his record and training being good, it wasn't long before he received the beckoning summons of Mars. Upon the morning of the day when he was to leave New Bethel, he went to the factory to say good-bye. The one he wished to see the most, however, was the first one he missed. "Miss Mary's around the factory somewhere," said a stenographer. Another spoke up, a dark girl with a touch of passion in her smile. "I think Mr. Burdon is looking for her, too." Archey missed neither the smile nor the tone--and liked neither of them. "He'll get in trouble yet," he thought, "going out with those girls," and his frown grew as he thought of Burdon's daily contact with Mary. "I'll see if I can find her," he told himself after he had waited a few minutes; and stepping out into the full beauty of the June morning, he crossed the lawn toward the factory buildings. On one of the trees a robin sang and watched him with its head atilt. A bee hummed past him and settled on a trellis of roses. In the distance murmured the falls, with their soothing, drowsy note. "These are the days, when I was a boy, that I used to dream of running away and seeing the world and having great adventures," thought Archey, his frown forgotten. He didn't consciously put it into words, but deep from his mind arose a feeling of the coming true of great dreams--of running away from the humdrum of life, of seeing the world, of taking a part in the greatest adventure ever staged by man. "What a day!" he breathed, lifting his face to the sun. "Oh, Lord, what a day!" It was indeed a day--one of those days which seem to have wine in the air--one of those days when old ambitions revive and new ones flower into splendour. Mary, for instance, on her way to the machine shop, was busy with thoughts of a nursery where mothers could bring their children who were too young to go to school. "Plenty of sun," she thought, "and rompers for them all, and sand piles, and toys, and certified milk, and trained nurses--" And while she dreamed she hummed to herself in approval, and wasn't aware that the air she hummed was the Spanish Cavalier--and wasn't aware that Burdon Woodward was near until she suddenly awoke from her dream and found they were face to face. He turned and walked with her. The wine of the day might have been working in Burdon, too, for he hadn't walked far with Mary before he was reminding her more strongly than ever, of Steerforth in David Copperfield--Baffles in the Amateur Cracksman. Indeed, that morning, listening to his drawl and looking up at the dark handsome face with its touch of recklessness, the association of Mary's ideas widened. M'sieur Beaucaire, just from the gaming table--Don Juan on the Nevski Prospekt--Buckingham on his way to the Tuileries--they all might have been talking to her, warming her thoughts not so much by what they said as by what they might say, appealing to her like a romance which must, however, be read to the end if you wish to know the full story. They were going through an empty corridor when it happened. Burdon, drawling away as agreeably as ever, gently closed his fingers around Mary's hand. "I might have known," she thought in a little panic. "It's my own fault." But when she tried to pull her hand away, her panic grew. "No, no," said Burdon, laughing low, his eyes more reckless than ever, "you might tell--if I stopped now. But you'll never tell a soul on earth--if I kiss you." Even while Mary was struggling, her head held down, she couldn't help thinking, "So that's the way he does it," and felt, I think, as feels the fly who has walked into the parlour. The next moment she heard a sharp voice, "Here--stop that!" and running steps approaching. "I think it was Archey," she thought, as she made her escape, her knees shaking, her breath coming fast. She knew it was, ten minutes later, when Archey found her in the office--knew it from the way he looked at her and the hesitation of his speech--but it wasn't until they were shaking hands in parting that she saw the cut on his knuckles. "You've hurt yourself," she said. "Wait; I have some adhesive plaster." Even then she didn't guess. "How did you do it?" she asked. "Oh, I don't know--" Mary's glance suddenly deepened into tenderness, and when Archey left a few minutes later, he walked as one who trod the clouds, his head among the stars. An hour passed, and Mary looked in Uncle Stanley's office. Burdon's desk was closed as though for the day. "Where's Burdon?" she asked. "He wasn't feeling very well," said Uncle Stanley after a long look at his son's desk, "--a sort of headache. I told him he had better go home." And every morning for the rest of the week, when she saw Uncle Stanley, she gave him such an innocent look and said, "How's Burdon's head this morning? Any better?" Uncle Stanley began to have the irritable feelings of an old mouse in the hands of a young kitten. "That's the worst of having women around,"--he scowled to himself--"they are worse than--worse than--worse than--" Searching for a simile, he thought of a flash of lightning, a steel hoop lying on its side, a hornet's nest--but none of these quite suited him. He made a helpless gesture. "Hang 'em, you never know what they're up to next!" said he. CHAPTER XIX For that matter, there were times in the next two years when Mary herself hardly knew what she was up to next, for if ever a girl suddenly found herself in deep waters, it was the last of the Spencers. Strangely enough--although I think it is true of many of life's undertakings--it wasn't the big things which bothered her the most. She soon demonstrated--if it needed any demonstration--that what the women of France and Britain had done, the women of New Bethel could do. At each call of the draft, more and more men from Spencer & Son obeyed the beckoning finger of Mars, and more and more women presently took their places in the workshops. That was simply a matter of enlarging the training school, of expanding the courses of instruction. No; it wasn't the big things which ultimately took the bloom from Mary's cheeks and the smile from her eyes. It was the small things that worried her--things so trifling in themselves that it would sound foolish to mention them--the daily nagging details, the gathering load of responsibility upon her shoulders, the indifference which she had to dispel, the inertia that had to be overcome, the ruffled feelings to be soothed, the squabbles to be settled, the hidden hostilities which she had to contend against in her own office--and yet pretend she never noticed them. Indeed, if it hadn't been for the recompensing features, Mary's enthusiasm would probably have become chilled by experience, and dreams have come to nothing. But now and then she seemed to sense in the factory a gathering impetus of efficient organization, the human gears working smoothly for a time, the whole machine functioning with that beauty of precision which is the dream of every executive. That always helped Mary whenever it happened. And the second thing which kept her going was to see the evidences of prosperity and contentment which the women on the payroll began to show--their new clothes and shoes--the hopeful confidence of their smiles--the frequency with which the furniture dealers' wagons were seen in the streets around the factory, the sounds of pianos and phonographs in the evening and, better than all, the fact that on pay day at Spencer & Sons, the New Bethel Savings Bank stayed open till half past nine at night--and didn't stay open for nothing! "If things could only keep going like this when the war ends, too," breathed Mary one day. "...I'm sure there must be some way ... some way...." For the second time in her life (as you will presently see) she was like a blind-folded player with arms outstretched, groping for her destiny and missing it by a hair. "Still," she thought, "when the men come back, I suppose most of the women will have to go. Of course, the men must have their places back, but you'd think there was some way ... some way...." In fancy she saw the women going back to the kitchens, back to the old toil from which they had escaped. "It's silly, of course," she thoughtfully added, "and wicked, too, to say that men and women are natural enemies. But--the way some of the men act--you'd almost think they believed it...." She thought of Uncle Stanley and has son. At his own request, Burdon had been transferred to the New York office and Mary seldom saw him, but something told her that he would never forgive her for the morning when he had to go home--"with a sort of a headache." "And Uncle Stanley, too," she thought, her lip quivering as a wave of loneliness swept over her and left her with a feeling of emptiness. "If I were a man, he wouldn't dare to act as he does. But because I'm a girl, I can almost see him hoping that something will happen to me--" If that, indeed, was Uncle Stanley's hope, he didn't have to wait much longer. The armistice was signed, you will remember, in the first week of November, 1918. Two months later Mary showed Judge Cutler the financial statement for the preceding year. "Another year like this," said the judge, "and, barring strikes and accidents, Spencer & Son will be on its feet again, stronger than ever! My dear girl," he said, rising and holding out his hand, "I must congratulate you!" Mary arose, too, her hand outstretched, but something in her manner caught the judge's attention. "What's the matter, Mary?" he asked. "Don't you feel well?" "Men--women," she said, unsteadily smiling and giving him her hand, "they ought to be--now--natural partners--not--not--" With a sigh she lurched forward and fell--a tired little creature--into his arms. CHAPTER XX Mary had a bad time of it the next few weeks. More than once her face seemed turned toward the Valley of the Shadow. But gradually health and strength returned, although it wasn't until April that she was anything like herself again. She liked to sit--sometimes for hours at a time--reading, thinking, dreaming--and when she was strong enough to go outside she would walk among the flowers, and look at the birds and the budding trees, and draw deep breaths as she watched the glory of the sunset appearing and disappearing in the western sky. Helen occasionally walked and sat with her--but not often. Helen's time was being more and more taken up by the younger set at the Country Club. She came home late, humming snatches of the latest dances and talking of the conquests she had made, telling Mary of the men who would dance with no one else, of the compliments they had paid her, of the things they had told her, of the competition to bring her home. One night, it appears, they had an old-fashioned country party at the club, and Helen was in high glee at the number of letters she had received in the game of post office. "You mean to say they all kissed you?" asked Mary. "You bet they did! Good and hard! That's what they were there for!" Mary thought that over. "It doesn't sound nice to me, somehow," she said at last. "It sounds--oh, I don't know--common." "That's what the girls thought who didn't get called," laughed Helen. She arranged her hair in front of the mirror, pulling it down over her forehead till it looked like a golden turban. "Oh, who do you think was there tonight?" she suddenly interrupted herself. Mary shook her head. "Burdon Woodward--as handsome as ever. Yes, handsomer, I think, if he could be. He asked after you. I told him you were nearly better." "Then he must be down at the factory every day," thought Mary. But the thought moved her only a little. Whether or not it was due to her illness, she seemed to have undergone a reaction in regard to the factory. Everything was going on well, Judge Cutler sometimes told her. As the men returned from service, the women were giving up their places. "Whatever you do," he always concluded, "don't begin worrying about things down there. If you do, you'll never get well." "I'm not worrying," she told him, and once she added, "It seems ever so long ago, somehow--that time we had down there." As the spring advanced, her thoughts took her further than ever from their old paths. Instead of thinking of something else (as she used to do), when Helen was telling of her love affairs, Mary began to listen to them--and even to sit up till Helen returned from the club. One night, as Helen was chatting of a young an from Boston who had teased her by following her around until every one was calling him "Helen's little lamb," Mary gradually became aware of an elusive scent in the room. "Cigarettes," she thought, "and--and raspberry jam--!" She waited until her cousin paused for breath and then, "Did Burdon Woodward ride home with you tonight?" she asked. "With Doris and me," nodded Helen, smiling at herself in the mirror. "He told us he went over with some of the boys, but he wanted to go home civilized." Nothing more was said, but a few mornings later, as Helen sat at breakfast reading her mail, Mary was sure she recognized Burdon's dashing handwriting. A vague sense of uneasiness passed over her, but this was soon forgotten when she went to the den to look at her own mail. On the top of the pile was a letter addressed to her father. "Rio de Janeiro," breathed Mary, reading the post-mark. "Why, that's where the cable came from!" She opened the letter.... It was signed "Paul." "Dear Sir (it began) "This isn't begging. I am through with that. When you paid no attention to my cable, I said, 'Never again!' You might like to know that I buried my wife and two youngest that time. It hurt then, but I can see now that they were lucky. "I have one daughter left--twelve years old. She's just at the age when she ought to be looked after. This is her picture. She's a pretty girl, and a good girl, but fond of fun and good times. "I've done my best, but I'm down and out--tired--through. I guess it's up to you what sort of a granddaughter you want. There's a school near here where she could go and be brought up right. It won't cost much. You can send the money direct--if you want the right sort of a granddaughter. "If you want the other kind, all you have to do is to forget it. The crowd I go with aren't good for her. "Anyway I enclose the card and rates and references of the school. You see they give the consuls' names. "If you decide yes, you want your granddaughter to have a chance, write a letter to the name and address below. That's me. Then write the school, sending check for one year and say it is for the daughter of the name and address below. That is the name I am known by here. "I'm sorry for everything, but of course it's too late now. The truest thing in the world is this: As you make your bed, so you've got to lie in it. I made mine wrong, but you couldn't help it. I wouldn't bother you now except for Rosa's sake. "Your prodigal son who is eating husks now, "PAUL." Mary looked at the photograph--a pretty child with her hair over her shoulders and a smile in her eyes. "You poor little thing," she breathed, "and to think you're my niece--and I'm your aunt ... Aunt Mary," she thoughtfully repeated, and for the first time she realized that youth is not eternal and that years go swiftly by. "Life's the strangest thing," she thought. "It's only a sort of an accident that I'm not in her place, and she's not in mine.... Perhaps I sha'n't have any children of my own--ever--" she dreamed, "and if I don't--it will be nice to think that I did something--for this one--" For a moment the chill of caution went over her. "Suppose it isn't really Paul," she thought. "Suppose--it's some sharper. Perhaps that's why dad never wrote him--" But an instinct, deeper than anything which the mind can express, told her that the letter rang true and had no false metal in it. "Or suppose," she thought, "if he knows dad is dead--suppose he turns up and makes trouble for everybody--" Wally's story returned to her memory. "There was an accident out West--somebody killed. Anyhow he was blamed for it--so he could never come back or they'd get him--" "That agrees with his living under this Russian name," nodded Mary. "Anyhow, I'm sure there's nothing to fear in doing a good action--for a child like this--" She propped the picture on her desk and after a great deal of dipping her pen in the ink, she finally began-- "Dear Sir: "I have opened your letter to my father, Josiah Spencer. He has been dead three years. I am his daughter. "It doesn't seem right that such a nice girl as Rosa shouldn't have every chance to grow up good and happy. So I am writing the school you mentioned, and sending them the money as you suggest. "She will probably need some clothes, as they always look at a girl's clothes so when she goes to school. I therefore enclose something for that. "Trusting that everything will turn out well, I am "Yours sincerely, "MARY SPENCER. "P.S. I would like Rosa to write and tell me how she gets on at school." She wrote the school next and when that was done she sat back in her chair and looked out of the window at the birds and the flowers and the bees that flew among the flowers. "What a queer thing it is--love, or whatever they call it," she thought. "The things it has done to people--right in this house! I guess it's like fire--a good servant but a bad master--" She thought of what it had done to Josiah--and to Josiah's son. She thought of what it had done to Ma'm Maynard, what it was doing to Helen, how it had left Aunt Cordelia and Aunt Patty untouched. "It's like some sort of a fever," she told herself. "You never know whether you're going to catch it or not--or when you're going to catch, it--or what it's going to do to you--" She walked to the window and rather unsteadily her hand arose to her breast. "I wonder if I shall ever catch it...." she thought. "I wonder what it will do to me...!" CHAPTER XXI Archey Forbes came back in the beginning of May and the first call he made was to the house on the hill. He had brought with him a collection of souvenirs--a trench-made ring, shrapnel fragments of curious shapes, the inevitable helmet and a sword handle with a piece of wire attached. "It was part of our work once," he said, "to find booby traps and make them harmless. This was in a barn, looking as though some one had tried to hide his sword in the hay. It looked funny to me, so I went at it easy and found the wire connected to a fuse. There was enough explosive to blow up the barn and everybody around there, but it wouldn't blow up a hill of bears when we got through with it." He coloured a little through his bronze. "I thought you might like these things," he awkwardly continued. "Like them? I'd love them!" said Mary, her eyes sparkling. "I brought them for you." They were both silent for a time, looking at the souvenirs, but presently their glances met and they smiled at each other. "Of course you're going back to the factory," she said; and when he hesitated she continued, "I shall rely on you to let me know how things are going on." Again he coloured a little beneath his bronze and Mary found herself watching it with an indefinable feeling of satisfaction. And after he was gone and she was carrying the souvenirs to the den, she also found herself singing a few broken bars from the Blue Danube. "Is that you singing!" shouted Helen from the library. "Trying to." Helen came hurrying as though to see a miracle, for Mary couldn't sing. "Oh--oh!" she said, her eyes falling on the helmet. "Who sent it? Wally Cabot?" "No; Archey Forbes brought it." "Oh-ho!" said Helen again. "Now I see-ee-ee!" But if she did, she saw more than Mary. "Perhaps she thinks I'm in love with him," she thought, and though the reflection brought a pleasant sense of disturbance with it, it wasn't long before she was shaking her head. "I don't know what it is," she decided at last, "but I'm sure I'm not in love with him." As nearly as I can express it, Mary was in love with love, and could no more help it than she could help the crease in her chin or the dreaminess of her eyes. If Archey had had the field to himself, her heart might soon have turned to him as unconsciously and innocently as a flower turns its petals to the sun. But the day after Archey returned, Wally Cabot came back and he, too, laid his souvenirs at Mary's feet. It was the same Wally as ever. He had also brought a piece of old lace for Aunt Cordelia, a jet necklace for Aunt Patty, a prison-camp brooch for Helen. All afternoon he held them with tales of his adventures in the air, rolling up his sleeve to show them a scar on his arm, and bending his head down so they could see where a German ace had nicked a bit of his hair out. More than once Mary felt her breath come faster, and when Aunt Cordelia invited him to stay to dinner and he chanced to look at her, she gave a barely perceptible signal "Yes," and smiled to herself at the warmth of his acceptance. "I'll telephone mother," he said, briskly rising. "Where's the phone, Mary? I forget the way." She arose to show him. "Let's waltz out," he laughed. "Play something, Helen. Something lively and happy...." It was a long time before Mary went to sleep that night. The moon was nearly full and shone in her windows, a stream of its rays falling on her bed and bringing to her those immortal waves of fancy which begin where the scent of flowers stop, and end where immortal and melancholy music begins. Unbidden tears came to her eyes, though she couldn't have told you why, and again a sense of the fleeting of time disturbed her. "Aunt Mary ..." In a few years she would be old, and her hair would be white like Aunt Patty's.... And in a few years more.... But even as Wally Cabot kept her from thinking too much of Archey Forbes, so now Archey unconsciously revenged himself and kept her thoughts from centring too closely around Wally Cabot. Archey called the next afternoon and Mary sat on the veranda steps with him, while Helen made hay with Wally on a tête-à-tête above. The few women who were left in the factory were having things made unpleasant for them: that was what Archey had come to tell her. Their canteen had been stopped; the day nursery discontinued; the nurses discharged. "Of course they are not needed there any longer, so far as that is concerned," concluded Archey, "but they certainly helped us out of a hole when we did need them, and it doesn't seem right now to treat them rough." At hearing this, a guilty feeling passed over Mary and left her cheeks warm. "They'll think I've deserted them," she thought. "Well, haven't you?" something inside her asked. Some of her old dreams returned to her mind, as though to mock her. She was going to be a new Moses once, leading her sisters out of the house of bondage. Woman was to have things different. Old drudgeries were to be lifted from her shoulders. The night was over. The dawn was at hand. "Well, what can I do?" she thought uneasily. "You can stop them from being treated roughly," something inside her answered. "I can certainly do that," she nodded to herself. "I'll telephone Uncle Stanley right away." But Uncle Stanley was out, and Mary was going riding with Wally that afternoon. So she wrote a hurried note and left it at the factory as they passed by. "Dear Uncle Stanley," it read, "Please see that every courtesy and attention is shown, the women who are still working. We may need them again some day. "Sincerely, "MARY." "Now!" she said to Wally, and they started on their ride. And, oh, but that was a ride! The afternoon was perfect, the sun warm but not hot, the air crystal clear. It had showered the night before and the world, in its spring dress, looked as though it had been washed and spruced for their approval. "All roses and lilies!" laughed Wally. "That's how I like life!" They went along hillsides and looked down into the beautiful valleys; they wound around by the sides of rivers and through deep woods; they went like the wind; they loafed; they explored country lanes and lost their way, stopped at a farm-house and found it again, shouted with delight when a squirrel tried to race them along the top of a fence, gasped together when they nearly ran over a turkey, chatted, laughed, sang (though this was a solo, for Mary couldn't sing, though she tried now and then under her breath), and with every mile they rode they seemed to pass invisible milestones along the road which leads from friendship to love. It came to a crisis two weeks later, on an afternoon in June. Mary was in the garden picking a bouquet for the table, and Wally went to help her. She gave him a smile that made his heart do a trick, and when he bent over to help her break a piece of mignonette, his hand touched hers.... "Mary...." he whispered. "Yes?" "Do you love me a little bit now?" "I wonder...." said she, and they both bent over to pick another piece of mignonette. Away down deep in Mary, a voice whispered, "Somebody's watching." She looked toward the house and caught sight of Helen who was sitting sideways on the veranda rail and missing never a move. Wally followed Mary's glance. "She'll be down here in a minute," he frowned to himself. At the bottom of the lawn, overlooking the valley, was a summer house of rustic cedar, nearly covered with honeysuckle. "Let's take a stroll down there, shall we?" he asked. The tremor of his voice told Mary more than his words. "He wants to love me," she thought, and burying her face in her bouquet she said in a muffled little voice, "...I don't care." They went down to the summer house, talking, trying to appear indifferent, but both of them knowing that a truly tremendous moment in their drama of life was close at hand. They seated themselves opposite each other on the bench and Mary's dreamy eyes went out over the valley. "Mary...." he began. She looked at him for a moment and then her glance went out over the valley again. "Don't you think we've waited long enough?" he gently asked. But Mary's eyes were still upon the valley below. "In a way, I'm glad you've waited," he said. "Judge Cutler told me some of the wonderful things you did here during the war. But you don't want to be bothering with a factory as long as you live. It's grubby, narrow work, and there's so much else in life, so much that's beautiful and--and wonderful--" For a fleeting moment a picture arose before Mary's eyes: a tired woman bending over a wash-tub with a crying child tugging at her skirt. "So much that's beautiful--and wonderful"--the words were still echoing around her, and almost without thinking she said a peculiar thing. "Suppose we were poor," said she. "But we aren't poor," smiled Wally. "That's one reason why I want to take you away from this. What's the use of having things if you can't enjoy them?" She thought that over. "There is so much that I have always wanted to see," he continued, "but I've had sense enough to wait until I found the right girl--so we could go and see it together. Switzerland--and the Nile--and Japan--and the Riviera, with 'its skies for ever blue.' Any place we liked, we could stay till we were tired of it. And a house in New York--and an island in the St. Lawrence--or down near Palm Beach. There's nothing we couldn't do--nothing we couldn't have--" "But don't you think--" hesitated Mary and then stopped, timid of breaking the spell which was stealing over her. "Don't I think what, dear?" "Oh, I don't know--but you see so many married people, who seem to have lost interest in each other--nice people, too. You see them at North East Harbor--Boston--everywhere--and somehow they are bored at each other's company. Wouldn't it be awful if--if we were to be married--and then got like that, too?" "We never, never could! Oh, we couldn't! You know as well as I do that we couldn't!" "They must have felt that way once," she mused, her thoughts still upon the indifferent ones, "but I suppose if people were awfully careful to guard against it, they wouldn't get that way--" She felt Wally's arm along the back of the bench. "Don't be afraid of love, Mary," he whispered. "Don't you know by now that it's the one great thing in life?" "I wonder...." breathed Mary. "Oh, but it is. You shouldn't wonder. It's the sweetest story ever told--the greatest adventure ever lived--" But still old dreams echoed in her memory, though growing fainter with every breath she drew. "It's all right for the man," she murmured. "If he gets tired of hearing the story, he's got other thoughts to occupy his mind. He's got his work--his career. But what's the woman going to do?" Instinct told him how to answer her. "I love you," he whispered. She looked at him. Somewhere over them a robin began to sing as though its breast would burst. The scent of the honeysuckle grew intoxicating. "Your heart is beating faster," he whispered again. "'Tck-tck-tck' it's saying. 'There's going to be a wedding next month'--'Tck-tck-tck' it's saying. 'Lieutenant Cabot is now about to kiss his future bride--" Mary's head bent low and just as Wally was lifting it, his hand gently cupped beneath her chin, he caught sight of Helen running toward them. "Oh, Mary!" she called. With an involuntary movement, Mary freed herself from Wally's hand. "Four women to see you--from the factory, I think," Helen breathlessly announced, and pretending not to notice Wally's scowl she added, "I wouldn't have bothered you ... only one of them's crying...." CHAPTER XXII The four women were standing in the driveway by the side of the house, and if you had been there as Mary approached, they might have reminded you of four lost sheep catching sight of their shepherd. "Come and sit down," said Mary, "and tell me what's the matter." "We've been discharged," said one with a red face. "Of course I know that we shouldn't have come to bother you about it, Miss Spencer, but it was you who hired us, and I told him, said I, 'Miss Spencer's going to hear about this. She won't stand for any dirty work.'" Mary had seated herself on the veranda steps and, obeying her gesture, the four women sat on the step below her, two on one side and two on the other. "Who discharged you?" she asked. "Mr. Woodward." "Which Mr. Woodward?" "The young one--Burdon." "What did he discharge you for?" "That's it. That's the very thing I asked him." "Perhaps they need your places for some of the men who are coming back." "No, ma'm. We wouldn't mind if that was it, but there's nobody expected back this week." "Then why is it?" There was a moment's hesitation, and then the one who had been crying said, "It's because we're women." A shadow of unconscious indignation swept over Mary's face and, seeing it, the four began speaking at once. "Things have never been the same, Miss Spencer, since you were sick--" "First they shut down the nursery--" "Then the rest room--said it was a bad example for the men--" "A bad example for the men, mind you--us!" "And then the canteen was closed--" "And behind our backs, they called us 'Molls.'" "Not that I care, but 'Molls,' mind you--" "Then they began hanging signs in our locker room--" "'A woman's place is in the home' and things like that--" "And then they began putting us next to strange men--" "And, oh, their language, Miss Spencer--" "Don't tell her--" As the chorus continued, Mary began to feel hot and uncomfortable. "I had no right to leave them in the lurch like that," she thought, and her cheeks stung as she recalled her old plans, her old visions. "And now they've got to go back to their kitchens for the rest of their lives--and told they are not wanted anywhere else--because they are women--" The more she thought about it, the warmer she grew; and the higher her indignation arose, the more remote were her thoughts of Wally--Wally with his greatest adventure that was ever lived--Wally with his sweetest story ever told. She looked at the hands of the two women below her and saw three wedding rings. "The roses and lilies didn't last long with them," thought Mary grimly. "Oh, I'm sure it's all wrong, somehow.... I'm sure there's some way that things could be made happier for women...." She interrupted the quartette, in her voice a note which Wally had never heard before and which made him exchange a glance with Helen. "Now first of all," she said, "just how badly do you four women need your pay envelopes every week?" They told her, especially the one who had been crying, and who now started crying again. "Wait here a minute, please," said Mary, that note in her voice more marked than before. She arose and went in the house, and Wally guessed that she had gone to telephone the factory. For a while they couldn't hear her, except when she said "I want to speak to Mr. Burdon Woodward--yes--Mr. Burdon Woodward--" They could faintly hear her talking then, but toward the end her voice came full and clear. "I want you to set them to work again! They are coming right back! Yes, the four of them! I shall be at the office in the morning. That's all. Good-bye." She came out, then, like a young Aurora riding the storm. "You're to go right back to your work," she said, and in a gentler voice, "Wally, can I speak to you, please?" He followed her into the house and when he came out alone ten minutes later, he drew a deep sigh and sat down again by Helen, a picture of utter dejection. "Never mind, Wally," she said, and patted his arm. "I can't make her out at times," he sighed. "No, and nobody else," she whispered. "What do you think, Helen?" he asked. "Don't you think that love is the greatest thing in life?" "Why, of course it is," she whispered, and patted his arm again. CHAPTER XXIII In spite of her brave words the day before, when Mary left the house for the office in the morning, a feeling of uncertainty and regret weighed upon her, and made her pensive. More than once she cast a backward look at the things she was leaving behind--love, the joys of youth, the pleasure places of the world to see, romance, heart's ease, and "skies for ever blue." At the memory of Wally's phrase she grew more thoughtful than before. "But would they be for ever blue?" she asked herself. "I guess every woman in the world expects them to be, when she marries. Yes, and they ought to be, too, an awful lot more than they are. Oh, I'm sure there's something wrong somewhere.... I'm, sure here's something wrong...." She thought of the four women standing in the driveway by the side of the house, looking lost and bewildered, and the old sigh of pity arose in her heart. "The poor women," she thought. "They didn't look as though the sweetest story ever told had lasted long with them--" She had reached the crest of the hill and the factory came to her view. A breeze was rising from the river and as she looked down at the scene below, as her forbears had looked so many times before her, she felt as a sailor from the north might feel when after drifting around in drowsy tropic seas, he comes at last to his own home port and feels the clean wind whip his face and blow away his languor. The old familiar office seemed to be waiting for her, the pictures regarding her as though they were saying "Where have you been, young lady? We began to think you had gone." Through the window sounded the old symphony, the roar of the falls above the hum of the shops, the choruses and variations of well-nigh countless tools, each having its own particular note or song. Mary's eyes shone bright. Gone, she found, were her feeling of uncertainty, her sighs of regret. Here at last was something real, something definite, something noble and great in the work of the world. "And all mine," she thought with an almost passionate feeling of possession. "All mine--mine--mine--" Archey was the first to come in, and it only needed a glance to see that Archey was unhappy. "I'm afraid the men in the automatic room are shaping for trouble," he said, as soon as their greetings were over. "What's the matter with them?" "It's about those four women--the four who came back." Mary's eyes opened wide. "There has been quite a lot of feeling," he continued, "and when the four women turned up this morning again and started work, the men went out and held a meeting in the locker room. In fact I wouldn't be surprised if the automatic hands went on strike." "You mean to say they will go on strike before they will work with their own wives and sisters?" "That's the funny part of it. As far as I can find out, the trouble wasn't started by our own men--but by strangers--men from New York and Boston--professional agitators, they look like to me--plenty of money and plenty of talk and clever workmen, too. I don't know just how far they've gone, but--" The office boy appeared in the doorway and he, too, looked worried. "There's a committee to see you, Miss Spencer," he said, "a bunch from the lathe shops." "Have they seen Mr. Woodward?" "No'm. He referred them to you." "All right, Joe. Send them in, please." The committee filed in and Archey noted that they were still wearing their street clothes. "Looks bad," he told himself. There were three men, two of them strangers to Mary, but the third she recognized as one of the teachers in her old "school"--a thoughtful looking man well past middle age, with a long grey moustache and reflective eyes. "Mr. Edsol, isn't it?" she asked. "Yes'm," he solemnly replied. "That's me." She looked at the other two. The first had the alert glance and actions which generally mark the orator, the second was a dark, heavy man who never once stopped frowning. "Miss Spencer," immediately began the spokesman--he who looked like the orator--"we have been appointed a committee by the automatic shop to tell you that we do not believe in the dilution of labour by women. Unless the four women who are working in our department are laid off at once, the men in our shop will quit." "Just a moment, please," said Mary, ringing. "Joe, will you please tell Mr. Woodward, Sr., that I would like to see him?" "He's just gone out," said Joe. "Mr. Burdon, then." "Mr. Burdon sent word he wouldn't be down today. He's gone to New York." Mary thought that over. "Joe," she said. "There are four women working in the automatic shop. I wish you'd go and bring them here." And turning to the committee she said, "I think there must be some way of settling this to everybody's satisfaction, if we all get together and try." It wasn't long before the four women came in, and again it struck Mary how nervous and bewildered three of them looked. The fourth, however, held her back straight and seemed to walk more than upright. "Now," smiled Mary to the spokesman of the committee, "won't you tell me, please, what fault you find with these four women?" "As I understand it," he replied, "we are not here to argue the point. Same time, I don't see the harm of telling you what we think about it. First place, it isn't natural for a woman to be working in a factory." "Why not?" "Well, for one thing, if you don't mind me speaking out, because she has babies." "But the war has proved a baby is lucky to have its mother working in a modern factory," replied Mary. "The work is easier than housework, the surroundings are better, the matter is given more attention. As a result, the death rate of factory babies has been lower than the death rate of home babies. Don't you think that's a good thing? Wouldn't you like to see it go on?" "Who says factory work is easier than housework?" "The women who have tried both. These four, for instance." "Well, another thing," he said, "a woman can't be looking after her children when she's working in a factory." "That's true. But she can't be looking after them, either, when she's washing, or cooking, or doing things like that. They lie and cry--or crawl around and fall downstairs--or sit on the doorstep--or play in the street. "Now, here, during the war," she continued, "we had a day nursery. You never saw such happy children in your life. Why, almost the only time they cried was when they had to go home at night!" Mary's eyes brightened at the memory of it. "Didn't your son's wife have a baby in the nursery, Mr. Edsol?" "Two," he solemnly nodded. "For another thing," said the chairman, "a woman is naturally weaker than a man. You couldn't imagine a woman standing up under overtime, for instance." "Oh, you shouldn't say that," said Mary earnestly, "because everybody knows that in the human family, woman is the only one who has always worked overtime." Here the third member of the committee muttered a gruff aside. "No use talking to a woman," said he. "You be quiet, I'm doing this," said the chairman. "Another thing that everybody knows," he continued to Mary, "a woman hasn't the natural knack for mechanics that a man has." "During the war," Mary told him, "she mastered nearly two thousand different kinds of skilled work--work involving the utmost precision. And the women who did this weren't specially selected, either. They came from every walk of life--domestic servants, cooks, laundresses, girls who had never left home before, wives of small business men, daughters of dock labourers, titled ladies--all kinds, all conditions." She told him, then, some of the things women had made--read him reports--showed him pictures. "In fact," she concluded, "we don't have to go outside this factory to prove that a woman has the same knack for mechanics that a man has. During the war we had as many women working here as men, and every one will tell you that they did as well as the men." "Well, let's look at it another way," said the chairman, and he nodded to his colleagues as though he knew there could be no answer to this one. "There are only so many jobs to go around. What are the men going to do if the women take their jobs?" "That's it!" nodded the other two. All three looked at Mary. "I used to wonder that myself," she said, "but one day I saw that I was asking the wrong question. There is just so much work that has to be done in the world every day, so we can all be fed and clothed, and have those things which we need to make us happy. Now everybody in this room knows that 'many hands make light work.' So, don't you see? The more who work, the easier it will be for everybody." But the spokesman only smiled at this--that smile which always meant to Mary, "No use talking to a woman"--and aloud he said, "Well, as I told you before, we weren't sent to argue. We only came to tell you what the automatic hands were going to do if these four women weren't laid off." "I understand," said Mary; and turning to the four she asked, "How do you feel about it?" "I suppose we'll have to go," said Mrs. Ridge, her face red but her back straighter then ever. "I guess it was our misfortune, Miss Spencer, that we were born women. It seems to me we always get the worst end of it, though I'm sure I don't know why. I did think once, when the war was on, that things were going to be different for us women after this. But it seems not.... You've been good to us, and we don't want to get you mixed up in any strike, Miss Spencer.... I guess we'd better go...." Judge Cutler's expression returned to Mary's mind: "Another year like this and, barring strikes and accidents, Spencer & Son will be on its feet again--" Barring strikes! Mary was under no misapprehension as to what a strike might mean.... "I want to get this exactly right," she said, turning to the chairman again. "The only reason you wish these women discharged is because they are women, is that it?" "Yes; I guess that's it, when you come right down to it." "Do you think it's fair?" "I'm sorry, Miss Spencer, but it's not a bit of use arguing any longer. If these four women stay, the men in our department quit: that's all." Mary looked up at the pictures of her forbears who seemed to be listening attentively for her answer. "Please tell the men that I shall be sorry--very sorry--to see them go," she said at last, "but these four women are certainly going to stay." CHAPTER XXIV From one of the windows of Mary's office, she could see the factory gate. "If they do go on strike," she thought, "I shall see them walk out." She didn't have to watch long. First in groups of twos and threes, and then thick and fast, the men appeared, their lunch boxes under their arms, all making for the gate. Some were arguing, some were joking, others looked serious. It struck Mary that perhaps these latter were wondering what they would tell their wives. "I don't envy them the explanation," she half smiled to herself. But her smile was short-lived. In the hallway she heard a step and, turning, she saw Uncle Stanley looking at her. "What's the matter with those men who are going out?" he asked. "As if he didn't know!" she thought, but aloud she answered, "They're going on strike." "What are they striking for?" "Because I wouldn't discharge those four women." He gave her a look that seemed to say, "You see what you've done--think you could run things. A nice hornet's nest you've stirred up!" At first he turned away as though to go back to his office, but he seemed to think better of it. "You might as well shut down the whole plant," he said. "We can't do anything without the automatics. You know that as well as I do." He waited for a time, but she made no answer. "Shall I tell the rest of the men?" he asked. "Tell them what, Uncle Stanley?" "That we're going to shut down till further notice?" Mary shook her head. "It would be a pity to do that," she said, "because--don't you see?--there wouldn't be anything then for the four women to do." At this new evidence of woman's utter inability to deal with large affairs, Uncle Stanley snorted. "We've got to do something," said he. "All right, Uncle," said Mary, pressing the button on the side of her desk, "I'll do the best I can." For in the last few minutes a plan had entered her mind--a plan which has probably already presented itself to you. "When the war was on," she thought, "nearly all the work in that room was done by women. I wonder if I couldn't get them back there now--just to show the men what we can do--" In answer to her ring, Joe knocked and entered, respectful admiration in his eye. You may remember Joe, "the brightest boy in the office." In the three years that Mary had known him, he had grown and was now in the transient stage between office boy and clerk--wore garters around his shirt sleeves to keep his cuffs up, feathered his hair in the front, and wore a large black enamel ring with the initial "J" worked out in "diamonds." "Joe," she said, "I want you to bring me the employment cards of all the women who worked here during the war. And send Miss Haskins in, please; I want to write a circular letter." She hurried him away with a nod and a quick smile. "Gee, I wish there was a lion or something out here," he thought as he hurried through the hall to the outer office, and after he had taken Mary the cards and sent Miss Haskins in, he proudly remarked to the other clerks, "Maybe they thought she'd faint away and call for the doctor when they went on strike, but, say, she hasn't turned a hair. I'll bet she's up to something, too." It wasn't a long letter that Mary sent to the list of names which she gave Miss Haskins, but it had that quiet pull and power which messages have when they come from the heart. "Oh, I know a lot will come," said Mrs. Ridge when Mary showed her a copy of it. "They would come anyhow, Miss Spencer. Most of them never made money like they made it here. They've been away long enough now to miss it and--Ha-ha-a!--Excuse me." She suddenly checked herself and looked very red and solemn. "What are you laughing at?" asked Mary. "I was thinking of my next door neighbour, Mrs. Strauss. She's never through saying that the year she was here was the happiest year of her life; and how she'd like to come back again. She'll be one of the first to come--I know she will. And her husband is one of the strikers--that's the funny part of it!" Mary smiled herself at that, and she smiled again the next morning when she saw the women coming through the gate. "Report in your old locker room," her letter had read, "and bring your working clothes." By nine o'clock more than half the automatic machines were busy, and women were still arriving. "The canteen's going again," ran the report up and down the aisles. At half past ten the old gong sounded in the lathe room, and the old tea wagon began its old-time trundling. In addition to refreshments each woman received a rose-bud--"From Miss Spencer. With thanks and best wishes." "Do you know if the piano's here yet?" asked a brisk looking matron in sky blue overalls. "Yep," nodded the tea girl. "When I came through, they were taking the cover off it, and fixing up the rest room." "Isn't it good to be back again!" said the brisk young matron to her neighbour. "Believe me or not, I haven't seen a dancing floor since I quit work here." Mrs. Ridge had been appointed forewoman. Just before noon she reported to Mary. "There'll be a lot more tomorrow," she said. "When these get home, they'll do nothing but talk about it; and I keep hearing of women who are fixing things up at home so they can come in the morning. So don't you worry, Miss Spencer, this strike isn't going to hurt you none, but--Ha-ha-ha!--Excuse me," she said, suddenly checking her mirth again and looking very red and solemn. "I like to hear you laugh," said Mary, "but what's it about this time!" "Mrs. Strauss is here. I told you she would be. She left her husband home to do the housework and today is washday--that's the funny part of it!" Whatever Mrs. Ridge's ability as a critic of humour might be, at least she was a good prophet. Nearly all the machines were busy the next morning, and new arrivals kept dropping in throughout the day. Mary began to breathe easy, but not for long. "I don't want to be a gloom," reported Archey, "but the lathe hands are trying to get the grinders to walk out. They say the men must stick together, or they'll all lose their jobs." She looked thoughtful at that. "I think we had better get the nursery ready," she said. "Let's go and find the painters." It was a pleasant place--that nursery--with its windows overlooking the river and the lawn. In less than half an hour the painters had spread their sheets and the teamster had gone for a load of white sand. The cots and mattresses were put in the sun to air. The toys had been stored in the nurse's room. These were now brought out and inspected. "I think I'll have the other end of the room finished off as a kindergarten," said Mary. "Then we'll be able to take care of any children up to school age, and their mothers won't have to worry a bit." She showed him where she wished the partition built, and as he ran his rule across the distance, she noticed a scar across the knuckles of his right hand. "That's where I dressed it, that time," she thought. "Isn't life queer! He was in France for more than a year, but the only scar that I can see is the one he got--that morning--" Something of this may have shown in her eyes for when Archey straightened and looked at her, he blushed ("He'll never get over that!" thought Mary)--and hurried off to find the carpenters. These preparations were completed only just in time. On Thursday she went to New York to select her kindergarten equipment. On Friday a truck arrived at the factory, filled with diminutive chairs, tables, blackboards, charts, modelling clay, building blocks, and more miscellaneous items than I can tell you. And on Saturday morning the grinders sent a committee to the office that they could no longer labour on bearings which had passed through the hands of women workers. Mary tried to argue with them. "When women start to take men's jobs away--" began one of the committee. "But they didn't," she said. "The men quit." "When women start to take men's jobs away from them," he repeated, "it's time for the men to assert themselves." "We know that you mean well, Miss Spencer," said another, "but you are starting something here that's bad. You're starting something that will take men's work away from them--something that will make more workers than there are jobs." "It was the war that started it," she pleaded, "not I. Now let me ask you something. There is so much work that has to be done in the world every day; isn't there?" "Yes, I guess that's right." "Well, don't you see? The more people there are to do that work, the easier it will be for everybody." But no, they couldn't see that. So Mary had to ring for Joe to bring in the old employment cards again, and that night and all day Sunday, Mrs. Ridge's company spread the news that four hundred more women were wanted at Spencer & Son's--"and you ought to see the place they've got for looking after children," was invariably added to the mothers of tots, "free milk, free nurses, free doctoring, free toys, rompers, little chairs and tables, animals, sand piles, swings, little pails and shovels--you never saw anything like it in your life--!" If the tots in question heard this, and were old enough to understand, their eyes stood out like little painted saucers, and mutely then or loudly they pleaded Mary's cause. CHAPTER XXV It sometimes seems to me that the old saying, "History repeats itself," is one of the truest ever written. At least history repeated itself in the case of the grinders. Before the week was over, the places left vacant by the men had been filled by women, and the nursery and kindergarten had proved to be unqualified successes. Many of the details I will reserve till later, including the growth of the canteen, the vanishing mirror, an improvement in overalls, to say nothing of daffodils and daisies and Mrs. Kelly's drum. And though some of these things may sound peculiar at first, you will soon see that they were all repetitions of history. They followed closely after things that had already been done by other women in other places, and were only adopted by Mary first because they added human touches to a rather serious business, and second because they had proved their worth elsewhere. Before going into these affairs, however, I must tell you about the reporters. The day the grinders went on strike, a local correspondent sent a story to his New York paper. It wasn't a long story, but the editor saw possibilities in it. He gave it a heading, "Good-bye, Man, Says She. Woman Owner of Big Machine Shop Replaces Men With Women." He also sent a special writer and an artist to New Bethel to get a story for the Sunday edition. Other editors saw the value of that "Good-bye, Man" idea and they also sent reporters to the scene. They came; they saw; they interviewed; and almost before Mary knew what was happening, New Bethel and Spencer & Son were on their way to fame. Some of the stories were written from a serious point of view, others in a lighter vein, but all of them seemed to reflect the opinion that a rather tremendous question was threatening--a question that was bound to come up for settlement sooner or later, but which hadn't been expected so soon. "Is Woman Really Man's Equal?" That was the gist of the problem. Was her equality theoretical--or real? Now that she had the ballot and could no longer be legislated against, could she hold her own industrially on equal terms with man? Or, putting it as briefly as possible, "Could she make good?" Some of these articles worried Mary at first, and some made her smile, and after reading others she wanted to run away and hide. Judge Cutler made a collection of them, and whenever he came to a good one, he showed it to Mary. "I wish they would leave us alone," she said one day. "I don't," said the judge seriously. "I'm glad they have turned the spotlight on." "Why?" "Because with so much publicity, there's very little chance of rough work. Of course the men here at home wouldn't do anything against their own women folks, but quite a few outsiders are coming in, and if they could work in the dark, they might start a whisper, 'Anything to win!'" Mary thought that over, and somehow the sun didn't shine so brightly for the next few minutes. Ma'm Maynard's old saying arose to her mind: "I tell you, Miss Mary, it has halways been so and it halways will: Everything that lives has its own natural enemy--and a woman's natural enemy: eet is man!" "No, sir, I don't believe it!" Mary told herself. "And I never shall believe it, either!" The next afternoon Judge Cutler brought her an editorial entitled, "We Shall See." "The women of New Bethel (it read) are trying an experiment which, carried to its logical conclusion, may change industrial history. "Perhaps industrial history needs a change. It has many dark pages where none but man has written. "If woman is the equal of man, industrially speaking, she is bound to find her natural level. If she is not the equal of man, the New Bethel experiment will help to mark her limitations. "Whatever the outcome, the question needs an answer and those who claim that she is unfitted for this new field should be the most willing to let her prove it. "By granting them the suffrage, we have given our women equal rights. Unless for demonstrated incapacity, upon what grounds shall we now deny them equal opportunities? "The New Bethel experiment should be worked out without hard feeling or rancour on either side. "Can a woman do a man's work? "Let us watch and we shall see." Mary read it twice. "I like that," she said. "I wish everybody in town could see that." "Just what I thought," said the judge. "What do you say if we have it printed in big type, and pasted on the bill-boards?" They had it done. The day after the bills were posted, Archey went around to see how they were being received. "It was a good idea," he told Mary the next morning, but she noticed that he looked troubled and absent-minded, as though his thoughts weren't in his words. "What's the matter, Archey?" she quietly asked. "Oh, I don't know," he said, and with the least possible touch of irritation he added, "Sometimes I think it's because I don't like him. Everything that counts against him sticks--and I may have been mistaken anyway--" "It's something about Burdon," thought Mary, and in the same quiet voice as before she said, "What is it, Archey?" "Well," he said, hesitating, "I went out after dinner last night--to see if they were reading the bill-boards. I thought I'd walk down Jay Street--that's where the strikers have their headquarters. I was walking along when all at once I thought I saw Burdon's old car turning a corner ahead of me. "It stopped in front of Repetti's pool-room. Two men came out and got in. "A little while later I was speaking to one of our men and he said some rough actors were drifting in town and he didn't like the way they were talking. I asked him where these men were making their headquarters and he said, 'Repetti's Pool Room.'" Mary thought that over. "Mind you, I wouldn't swear it was Burdon's old car," said Archey, more troubled than before. "I can only tell you I'm sure of it--and I might be mistaken at that. And even if it was Burdon, he'd only say that he had gone there to try to keep the strike from spreading--yes, and he might be right at that," he added, desperately trying to be fair, "but--well, he worries me--that's all." He was worrying Mary, too, although for a different reason. With increasing frequency, Helen was coming home from the Country Club unconsciously scented with that combination of cigarette smoke and raspberry jam. Burdon had a new car, a swift, piratical craft which had been built to his order, and sometimes when he called at the house on the hill for Helen, Mary amused herself by thinking that he only needed a little flag-pole and a Jolly Roger--a skirted coat and a feathered hat--and he would be the typical younger son of romance, scouring the main in search of Spanish gold. Occasionally when he rolled to the door, Wally's car was already there, for Wally--after an absence--was again coming around, pale and in need of sympathy, singing his tenor songs to Helen's accompaniment and with greater power of pathos than ever, especially when he sang the sad ones at Mary's head-- "There in the churchyard, crying, a grave I se-ee-ee Nina, that sweet dove flying was thee-ee-ee, was thee--" "Ah, I have sighed for rest--" "--And if she willeth to destroy me I can die.... I can die...." After Wally had moved them all to a feeling of imminent tears, he would hover around Helen with a vague ambition of making her cousin jealous--a proceeding which didn't bother Mary at all. But she did worry about the growing intimacy between Helen and Burdon and, one evening when Helen was driving her up to the house from the factory, Mary tried to talk to her. "If I were you, Helen," she said, "I don't think I'd go around with Burdon Woodward quite so much--or come to the office to see him quite so often." Helen blew the horn, once, twice and again. "No, really, dear, I wouldn't," continued Mary. "Of course you know he's a terrible flirt. Why he can't even leave the girls at the office alone." Quite unconsciously Helen adopted the immemorial formula. "Burdon Woodward has always acted to me like a perfect gentleman," said she. "Of course he has, dear. If he hadn't, I know you wouldn't have gone out with him last night, for instance. But he has such a reckless, headstrong way with him. Suppose last night, instead of coming home, he had turned the car toward Boston or New York, what would you have done then?" "Don't worry. I could have stopped him." "Stopped him? How could you, if he were driving very fast?" "Oh, it's easy enough to stop a car," said Helen. "One of the girls at school showed me." Leaning over, she ran her free hand under the instrument board. "Feel these wires back of the switch," she said. "All you have to do is to reach under quick and pull one loose--just a little tug like this--and you can stop the wildest man, and the wildest car on earth.... See?" In the excitement of her demonstration she tugged the wire too hard. It came loose in her hand and the engine stopped as though by magic. "It's a good thing we are up to the house," she laughed. "You needn't look worried. Robert can fix it in a minute." It wasn't that, though, which troubled Mary. "Think of her knowing such a thing!" she was saying to herself. "How her mind must run at times!" But of course she couldn't voice a thought like that. "All the same, Helen," she said aloud, "I wouldn't go out with him so much, if I were you. People will begin to notice it, and you know the way they talk." Helen tossed her head, but in her heart she knew that her cousin was right--a knowledge which only made her the more defiant. Yes ...people were beginning to notice it.... The Saturday afternoon before, when Burdon was taking her to the club in his gallant new car, they had stopped at the station to let a train pass. A girl on the sidewalk had smiled at Burdon and stared at Helen with equal intensity and equal significance. "Who was that?" asked Helen, when the train had passed. "Oh, one of the girls at the office. She's in my department--sort of a bookkeeper." Noticing Helen's silence he added more carelessly than before, "You know how some girls act if you are any way pleasant to them." It was one of those trifling incidents which occasionally seem to have the deepest effect upon life. That very afternoon, when Mary had tried to warn her cousin, Helen had gone to the factory apparently to bring Mary home, but in reality to see Burdon. She had been in his private office, perched on the edge of his desk and swinging her foot, when the same girl came in--the girl who had smiled and stared near the station. "All right, Fanny," said Burdon without looking around. "Leave the checks. I'll attend to them." It seemed to Helen that the girl went out slowly, a sudden spot of colour on each of her cheeks. "You call her Fanny!" Helen asked, when, the door shut again. "Yes," he said, busy with the checks. "They do more for you, when you are decent with them." "You think so?" He caught the meaning in her voice and sighed a little as he sprawled his signature on the next check. "I often wish I was a sour, old crab," he said, half to Helen and half to himself. "I'd get through life a whole lot better than I do." Mary had come to the door then, ready to start for home. When Helen passed through the outer office she saw the girl again, her cheek on her palm, her head bent over her desk, dipping her pen in the red ink and then pushing the point through her blotter pad. None of this was lost on Helen, nor the girl's frown, nor the row of crimson blotches that stretched across the blotter. "She'll go in now to get those checks," thought Helen, as the car started up the hill, and it was just then that Mary started to warn her about going out so much with Burdon. Once in the night Helen awoke and lay for a long time looking at the silhouette of the windows. "...I wonder what they said to each other...." she thought. The next morning Mary was going through her mail at the office when she came to an envelope with a newspaper clipping in it. This had been cut from the society notes of the New Bethel _Herald_. "Burdon Woodward has a specially designed new car which is attracting much attention." The clipping had been pasted upon a sheet of paper, and underneath it, the following two questions were typewritten: "How can a man buy $8,000 cars on a $10,000 salary? "Why don't you audit his books and see who paid for that car?" Mary's cheeks stung with the brutality of it. "What a horrible thing to do!" she thought. "If any one paid attention to things like this--why, no one would be safe!" She was on the point of tearing it to shreds when another thought struck her. "Perhaps I ought to show it to him," she uneasily thought. "If a thing like this is being whispered around, I think he ought to get to the bottom of it, and stop it.... I know I don't like him for some things," she continued, more undecided than ever, "but that's all the more reason why I should be fair to him--in things like this, for instance." She compromised by tucking the letter in her pocket, and when Judge Cutler dropped in that afternoon, she first made him promise secrecy, and then she showed it to him. "I feel like you," he said at last. "An anonymous attack like this is usually beneath contempt. And I feel all the more like ignoring it because it raises a question which I have been asking myself lately: How _can_ a man on a ten thousand dollar salary afford to buy an eight thousand dollar car?" Mary couldn't follow that line of reasoning at all. "Why do you feel like ignoring it, if it's such a natural question?" she asked. "Because it's a question that might have occurred to anybody." That puzzled Mary, too. "Perhaps Burdon has money beside his salary," she suggested. "He hasn't. I know he hasn't. He's in debt right now." They thought it over in silence. "I think if I were you, I'd tear it up," he said at last. She promptly tore it into shreds. "Now we'll forget that," he said. "I must confess, however, that it has raised another question to my mind. How long is it since your bookkeeping system was overhauled here?" She couldn't remember. "Just what I thought. It must need expert attention. Modern conditions call for modern methods, even in bookkeeping. I think I'll get a good firm of accountants to go over our present system, and make such changes as will keep you in closer touch with everything that is going on." Mary hardly knew what to think. "You're sure it has nothing to do with this?" she asked, indicating the fragments in the waste-basket. "Not the least connection! Besides," he argued, "you and I know very well--don't we?--that with all his faults, Burdon would never do anything like that--" "Of course he wouldn't!" "Very well. I think we ought to forget that part of it, and never refer to it again--or it might be said that we were fearing for him." This masculine logic took Mary's breath away, but though she thought it over many a time that day, she couldn't find the flaw in it. "Men are queer," she finally concluded. "But then I suppose they think women are queer, too. To me," she thought, "it almost seems insulting to Burdon to call accountants in now; but according to the judge it would be insulting to Burdon not to call them in--" She was still puzzling over it when Archey, that stormy petrel of bad news, came in and very soon took her mind from anonymous letters. "The finishers are getting ready to quit," he announced. "They had a vote this noon. It was close, but the strikers won." They both knew what a blow this would be. With each successive wave of the strike movement, it grew harder to fill the men's places with women. "If this keeps on, I don't know what we shall do," she thought. "By the time we have filled these empty places, we shall have as many women working here as we had during the war." Outwardly, however, she gave no signs of misgivings, but calmly set in motion the machinery which had filled the gaps before. "If you're going to put that advertisement in again," said Archey, "I think I'd add 'Nursery, Restaurant, Rest-room, Music'" She included the words in her copy, and after a moment's reflection she added "Laundry." "But we have no laundry," objected Archey, half laughing. "Are you forgetting a little detail like that?" "No, I'm not," said Mary, her eyes dancing. "You must do the same with the laundry as I did with the kindergarten. Go to Boston this afternoon.... Take a laundryman with you if you like.... And bring the things back in the morning by motor truck. We have steam and hot water and plenty of buildings, and I'm sure it won't take long to get the machines set up when you once get them here--" At such moments there was something great in Mary. To conceive a plan and put it through to an irresistible conclusion: there was nothing in which she took a deeper delight. That night, at home, she told them of her new plan. "Just think," she said, "if a woman lives seventy years, and the washing is done once a week, you might say she spent one-seventh of her life--or ten whole years--at the meanest hardest work that was ever invented--" "They don't do the washing when they're children," said Helen. "No, but they hate it just as much. I used to see them on wash days when Aunt Patty took me around, and I always felt sorry for the children." Wally came in later and listened sadly to the news of the day. "You're only using yourself up," he said, "for a lot of people who don't care a snap of the finger for you. It seems to me," he added, "that you'd be doing better to make one man happy who loves you, than try to please a thousand women who never, never will." She thought that over, for this was an angle which hadn't occurred to her before. "No," she said, "I'm not doing it to gain anything for myself, but to lift the poor women up--to give them something to hope for, something to live for, something to make them happier than they are now. Yes, and from everybody's point of view, I think I'm doing something good. Because when the woman is miserable, she can generally make her man miserable. But when the woman is happy, she can nearly always make the man happy, too." "I wish you'd make me happy," sighed poor Wally. "Here comes Helen," said Mary with just the least trace of wickedness in her voice. "She'll do her best, I'm sure." Helen was dressed for the evening, her arms and shoulders gleaming, her coiffure like a golden turban. "Mary hardly ever dresses any more," she said as she came down the stairs, "so I feel I have to do double duty." On the bottom landing she stopped and with extravagant motions of her body sang the opening lines of the Bedouin's Love Song, Wally joining in at last with his plaintive, passionate tenor. "If you ever lose your money, Wally," she said, coming down the remaining stairs, "we'll take up comic opera." Curtseying low she simpered, "My lord!" and gave him her hand to kiss. "She knows how to handle men," thought Mary watching, "just as the women at the factory know how to handle metal. I wonder if it comes natural to her, or if she studies it by herself, or if she learned any of it at Miss Parsons'." She was interrupted by a message from Hutchins, the butler. The spread of the strike had been flashed out by the news association early in the afternoon, and the eight-ten train had brought a company of reporters. "There are half a dozen of them," said Hutchins, noble in voice and deportment. "Knowing your kindness to them before, I took the liberty of showing them into the library. Do you care to see them, or shall I tell them you are out?" Mary saw them and they greeted her like old friends. It didn't take long to confirm the news of the strike's extension. "How many men are out now?" one of them asked. "About fifteen hundred." "What are you going to do when you have used up all your local women?" asked another. "What would you do?" she asked. "I don't know," he replied. "I guess I'd advertise for women in other cities-cities where they did this sort of thing during the war." "Bridgeport, for instance," suggested another. "Pittsburgh--there were a lot of women doing machine work there--" "St. Louis," said a fourth. "Some of the shops in St. Louis were half full of women--" With the help they gave her, Mary made up a list. "Even if you could fill the places locally," said the first, "I think I'd get a few women from as many places as possible. It spreads the idea--makes a bigger story--rounds out the whole scheme." After they had gone Mary sat thoughtful for a few minutes and then returned to the drawing room. When she entered, Helen and Wally were seated on the music bench, and it seemed to Mary that they suddenly drew apart--or if I may express a distinction, that Wally suddenly drew apart while Helen played a chord upon the piano. "Poor Wally," thought Mary a little later. "I wish he wouldn't look like that when he sings.... Perhaps he feels like I felt this spring.... I wonder if Ma'm was right.... I wonder if people do fall in love with love...." Her reflections took a strange turn, half serious, half humorous. "It's like a trap, almost, when you think of it that way," she thought. "When a man falls in love, he can climb out again and go on with his work, and live his life, and do wonderful things if he has a chance. But when a woman falls in the trap, she can never climb out and live her own life again. I wonder if the world wouldn't be better off if the women had been allowed to go right on and develop themselves, and do big things like the men do.... "I'm sure they couldn't do worse.... "Look at the war--the awfullest thing that ever happened: that's a sample of what men do, when they try to do everything themselves.... But they'll have to let the women out of their traps, if they want them to help.... "I wonder if they ever will let them out.... "I wonder if they ought to come out.... "I wonder...." To look at Mary as she sat there, tranquil of brow and dreamy-eyed, you would never have guessed that thoughts like these were passing through her mind, and later when Helen took Wally into the next room to show him something, and returned with a smile that was close to ownership, you would never have guessed that Mary's heart went heavy for a moment. "Helen," she said, when their visitor had gone, "do you really love Wally--or are you just amusing yourself?" "I only wish that Burdon had half his money." "Helen!" "Oh, it's easy for you to say 'Helen'! You don't know what it is to be poor.... Well, good-night, beloved-- "Good-night, good-night My love, my own--" she sang. "I've a busy day ahead of me tomorrow." Mary had a busy day, too. Nearly two hundred women responded to her new advertisement in the morning, and as many more at noon. Fortunately some of these were familiar with the work, and the most skilful were added to the corps of teachers. In addition to this, new nurses were telephoned for to take care of the rapidly growing nursery, temporary tables were improvised in the canteen, another battery of ranges was ordered from the gas company, and preparations were made for Archey's arrival with the laundry equipment. Yes, it was a busy day and a busy week for Mary; but somehow she felt a glory in every minute of it--even, I think, as Molly Pitcher gloried in her self-appointed task so many years ago. And when at the close of each day, she locked her desk, she grew into the habit of glancing up and nodding at the portraits on the walls--a glance and a nod that seemed to say, "That's us!" For myself, I like to think of that long line of Josiah Spencers, holding ghostly consultations at night; and if the spirits of the dead can ever return to the scenes of life which they loved the best, they must have spent many an hour together over the things they saw and heard. Steadily and surely the places left vacant by the men were filled with women, naturally deft of hand and quick of eye; but the more apparent it became that the third phase of the strike was being lost by the men, the more worried Archey looked--the oftener he peeped into the future and frowned at what he saw there. "The next thing we know," he said to Mary one day, "every man on the place will walk out, and what are we going to do then?" She told him of the reporter's suggestion. "A good idea, too," he said. "If I were you, I'd start advertising in those other cities right away, and get as many applications on file as you can. Don't just ask for women workers. Mention the kind you want: machine tool hands, fixers, tool makers, temperers, finishers, inspectors, packers--I'll make you up a list. And if you don't mind I'll enlarge the canteen, and change the loft above it into a big dining room, and have everything ready this time--" A few days later Spencer & Son's advertisement appeared for the first time outside of New Bethel, and soon a steady stream of applications began to come in. Although Mary didn't know it, her appeal had a stirring note like the peal of a silver trumpet. It gripped attention and warmed imagination all the way from its first line "A CALL TO WOMEN" to its signature, "Josiah Spencer & Son, Inc. Mary Spencer, President." "That's the best yet," said Archey, looking at the pile of applications on the third day. "I sha'n't worry about the future half as much now." "I don't worry at all any more," said Mary, serene in her faith. "Or at least I don't worry about this," she added to herself. She was thinking of Helen again. The night before Helen had come in late, and Mary soon knew that she had been with Burdon. Helen was quiet--for her--and rather pale as well. "Did you have a quarrel?" Mary had hopefully asked. "Quarrel with Burdon Woodward?" asked Helen, and in a low voice she answered herself, "I couldn't if I tried." "... Do you love him, Helen?" To which after a pause, Helen had answered, much as she had spoken before, "I only wish he had half of Wally's money...." And would say no more. "I have warned her so often," said Mary. "What more can I say?" She uneasily wondered whether she ought to speak to her aunts, but soon shook her head at that. "It would only bother them," she told herself, "and what good could it do?" Next day at the factory she seemed to feel a shadow around her and a weight upon her mind. "What is it?" she thought more than once, pulling herself up short. The answer was never far away. "Oh, yes--Helen and Burdon Woodward. Well, I'm glad she's going out with Wally today. She's safe enough with him." It had been arranged that Wally should drive Helen to Hartford to do some shopping, and they were expected back about nine o'clock in the evening. But nine o'clock, ten o'clock, eleven o'clock and midnight came--and still no sign of Wally's car. "They must have had an accident," thought Mary, and at first she pictured this as a slight affair which simply called for a few hours' delay at a local garage--perhaps the engine had overheated, or the battery had failed. But when one o'clock struck, and still no word from the absent pair, Mary's fancies grew more tragic. By two o'clock she imagined the car overturned at the bottom of some embankment, and both of them badly hurt. At three o'clock she began to have such dire forebodings that she went and woke up Aunt Cordelia, and was on the point of telephoning Wally's mother when the welcome rumbling of a car was heard under the porte cochère. It was Wally and Helen, and though Helen looked pale she had that air of ownership over her apologetic escort which every woman understands. Mary already divined the end of the story. "We were coming along all right," said Wally, "and would have been home before ten. But when we were about nine miles from nowhere and going over a bad road, I had a puncture. "Of course that delayed me a little--to change the wheels--but when I tried to start the car again, she wouldn't go. "I fussed and fixed for a couple of hours, it seems to me, and then I thought I'd better go to the nearest telephone and have a garage send a car out for us. But Helen, poor girl, was tired and of course I couldn't leave her there alone. So I tackled the engine again and just when I was giving up hope, a car came along. "They couldn't take us in--they were filled--but they promised to wake up a garage man in the next town and send him to the rescue. It was half past two when he turned up, but it didn't take him long to find the trouble, and here we are at last." He drew a full breath and turned to Helen. "Of course I wouldn't have cared a snap," he said, "if it hadn't been for poor Helen here." "Oh, I don't mind--now," she said. "I knew it!" thought Mary. "They're engaged..." And though she tried to smile at them both, for some reason which I can never hope to explain, it took an effort. Wally and Helen were still looking at each other. "Tired, dear?" he asked. Helen nodded and glanced at Mary with a look that said, "Did you hear him call me 'Dear'?" "I think if I were you, I'd go to bed," continued Wally, all gentle solicitude. She took an impulsive step toward him. He kissed her. "We're engaged," he said to Mary. What Mary said in answer, she couldn't remember herself when she tried to recall it later, for a strange thought had leaped into her mind, driving out everything else. "I almost hate to ask," she thought. "It would be too dreadful to know." But curiosity has always been one of mankind's fateful gifts, and at the breakfast table next morning, Mary had Wally to herself. "Oh, Wally," she said. "What did the garage man find was the trouble with your car?" "The simplest thing imaginable," he said. "One of the wires leading to the switch on the instrument board had worked loose--that awful road, you know." "I knew it," Mary quietly told herself, and in her mind she again saw Helen demonstrating how to quell the wildest car on earth. Mary ought to have stopped there, but a wicked imp seemed to have taken possession of her. "Did Helen cry, when she saw how late it was getting?" "She did at first," he said, looking very solemn, "but when I told her--" His confessions were interrupted by Hutchins, who whispered to Mary that she was wanted on the telephone. "It's Mr. Forbes," he said. Archey's voice was ringing with excitement when he greeted Mary over the wire. "Can you come down to the office early this morning?" he asked. "What's the matter?" "I just found out that the rest of the men had a meeting last night--and they voted to strike. There won't be a man on the place this morning ... and I think there may be trouble...." CHAPTER XXVI Afterwards, when Mary looked back at the leading incidents of the big strike it wasn't the epic note which interested her the most, although the contest had for her its moments of exaltation. Nor did her thoughts revert the oftenest to those strange things which might have engrossed the chance observer--work and happiness walking hand in hand, for instance, to the accompaniment of Mrs. Kelly's drum--or woman showing that she can acquire the same dexterity on a drilling machine as on a sewing machine, the same skill at a tempering oven as at a cook stove, the same competence and neatness in a factory as in a house. Indeed, when all is said and done, the sound of the work which women were presently doing at New Bethel was only an echo of the tasks which women had done during four years of war, and being a repetition of history, it didn't surprise Mary when she stopped to think it over. But looking back at the whole experience later, these were the two reflections which interested her the most. "They have always called woman a riddle," she thought. "I wonder if that is because she could never be natural. If woman has been a riddle in the past, I wonder if this is the answer now...." That was her first reflection. Her second was this, and in it she unconsciously worded one of the great lessons of life. "The things I worried about seldom happened. It was something which nobody ever dreamed of--that nearly ended everything." And when she thought of that, her breath would come a little quicker and soon she would shake her head, and try to put her mind on something else; although if you had been there I think you would have seen a suspicious moisture in her eye, and if she were in her room at home, she would go to a photograph on the wall-the picture of a gravely smiling girl on a convent portico--signed "With all my love, Rosa." Still, as you can see, I am running ahead of my story, and so that you may better understand Mary's two reflections and the events which led to them, I will now return to the morning when she received Archey's message that every man in the factory had gone on strike as a protest against the employment of women. As soon as she reached the office she sent a facsimile letter to the skilled women workers who had applied from out of town. "If we only get a third of them," she thought, "we'll pull through somehow." But Mary was reckoning without her book. For one thing, she was unaware of the publicity which her experiment was receiving, and for another thing perhaps it didn't occur to her that the same yearnings, the same longings, the same stirrings which moved her own heart and mind so often--the same vague feeling of imprisonment, the same vague groping for a way out--might also be moving the hearts and minds of countless other women, and especially those who had for the first time in their lives achieved economic independence by means of their labour in the war. Whatever the reason, so many skilled women journeyed to New Bethel that week, coming with the glow of crusaders, eager to write their names on this momentous page of woman's history, that Mary's worry turned into a source of embarrassment. However, by straining every effort, accommodations were found for the visitors and the work of re-organization was at once begun. The next six weeks were the busiest, I had almost said the most feverish, in Mary's life. The day after the big strike was declared, not a single bearing was made at Spencer & Son's great plant. For a factory is like a road of many bridges, and when half of these bridges are suddenly swept away, traffic is out of the question. So the first problem was to bridge the gaps. From the new arrivals, fixers, case-hardeners and temperers were set to work--women who had learned their trades during the war. Also a call was issued for local workers and the "school" was opened, larger than ever. For the first few weeks it might be said that half the factory was a school of intensive instruction; and then, one day which Mary will never forget, a few lonely looking bearings made laborious progress through the plant--only a few, but each one embodying a secret which I will tell you about later. The missing bridges weren't completed yet, you understand--not by any manner of means--but at least the foundations had been laid, and every day the roadway became a little wider and a little firmer--and the progress of the bearings became a little thicker and a little quicker. And, oh, the enthusiasm of the women--their shining eyes, their breathless attention--as they felt the roadway growing solid beneath their feet and knew it was all their work! "If we keep on at this rate," said Archey, looking at the reports in Mary's office one morning, "it won't be long before we're doing something big." There was just the least touch of astonishment in his voice--masculine, unconscious--which raised an equally unconscious touch of exultation in Mary's answer. "Perhaps sooner than you think," she said. For no one knew better than she that the new organization was rapidly finding itself now that the roadway of production had been rebuilt. Every day weak spots had been mended, curves straightened out, narrow places made wider. "Let's speed up today," she finally said, "and see what we can do." At the end of that day the reports showed that all the departments had made an improvement until the bearings reached the final assembling room and there the traffic had become congested. For the rest of the week the assembly room was kept under scrutiny, new methods were tried, more women were set to work. "Let's speed up again today," said Mary one morning, "and see if we can make it this time--" And finally came the day when they _did_ make it! For four consecutive days their output equalled the best ever done by the factory, and then just as every woman was beginning to thrill with that jubilation which only comes of a hard task well done, a weak spot developed in the hardening department. Oh, how everybody frowned and clicked their tongues! You might have thought that all the cakes in the world had suddenly burned in the ovens--that every clothes line in America had broken on a muddy washday! "Never mind," said Mary. "We're nearly there. One more good try, and over the top we'll go...." One more good try, and they _did_ go over the top. For two days, three days, four days, five days, a whole week, they equalled the best man-made records. For one week, two weeks, three weeks, the famous Spencer bearings rolled out of the final inspection room and into their wooden cases as fast as man had ever rolled them. And when Mary saw that at last the first part of her vision had come true, she did a feminine thing, that is to say a human thing. She simultaneously said, "I told you so," and sprung her secret by sending the following message to the newspapers: "The three thousand women at this factory are daily turning out the same number of bearings that three thousand men once turned out. "The new bearings are identical with the old ones in every detail but one, namely: they are one thousandth of an inch more accurate than Spencer bearings were ever made before. "Our customers appreciate this improvement and know what it means. "Our unfriendly critics, I think, will also appreciate it and know what it means." Upon consideration, Mary had that last paragraph taken out. "I'll leave that to their imaginations," she said, and after she had signed each letter, she did another feminine thing. She had a gentle little cry all by herself, and then through her tears she smiled at her silent forbears who seemed to be watching her more attentively than ever from their frames of tarnished gilt upon the walls. "It hasn't been all roses and lilies," she told them, "but--that's us!" CHAPTER XXVII Meanwhile, as you will guess, it hadn't been "all roses and lilies" either, for the men who had gone on strike. "Didn't you say you expected trouble?" Mary asked Archey one morning just after the big strike was declared. "Yes," he told her. "They were talking that way. But they are so sure now that we'll have to give in, that they are quite good natured about it." Mary said nothing, but her back grew stiff, something like Mrs. Ridge's; and when she saw Uncle Stanley in the outer office a few minutes later and he smiled without looking at her--smiled and shook his head to himself as though he were thinking of something droll--Mary went back to her room in a hurry, and stayed there until she felt tranquil again. "What are the men saying now?" she asked Archey the following week. "They are still taking it as a sort of a joke," he told her, "but here and there you catch a few who are looking thoughtful--especially those who have wives or daughters working here." That pleased her. The next time the subject was mentioned, Archey brought it up himself. "There was quite a fight on Jay Street yesterday," he said. As Mary knew, Jay Street was the headquarters of the strikers, and suddenly she became all attention. "Those out-of-town agitators are beginning to feel anxious, I guess. Two of them went around yesterday whispering that the women at the factory needed a few good scares, so they'd stay home where they belonged. They tackled Jimmy Kelly, not knowing his wife works here. 'What do you mean: good scares?' he asked. 'Rough stuff,' they told him, on the quiet. 'What do you mean, rough stuff?' he asked them. They whispered something--nobody knows what it was--but they say Jimmy fell on them both like a ton of bricks on two bad eggs. 'Try a little rough stuff, yourself,' he said, 'and maybe you'll stay home where you belong.'" Mary's eyes shone. It may be that blood called to blood, for if you remember one of those Josiah Spencers on the walls had married a Mary McMillan. "It's things like that," she said, "that sometimes make me wish I was a man," and straightway went and interviewed Mrs. James Kelly, and gave her a message of thanks to be conveyed to her double-fisted husband. The next week Mary didn't have to ask Archey what the men were doing, because one of the Sunday papers had made a special story of the subject. Some of the men were getting work elsewhere, she read. Others were on holidays, or visiting friends out of town. Some were grumpy, some were merry, one had been caught red-handed--or at least blue-aproned--cooking his own dinner. All who could be reached had been asked how they thought the strike would end, and the reply which I am quoting is typical of many. "They may bungle through with a few bearings for a while," said Mr. Reisinger, "but they won't last long. It stands to reason that a woman can't do man's work and get away with it." Mary was walking through the factory the next day when she heard two women discussing that article. "I told Sam Reisinger what I thought about him last night," said the younger. "He was over to our house for supper. "'So it stands to reason, does it?' I said to him, 'that a woman can't do a man's work and get away with it? Well, I like your nerve! What do you understand by a man's work?' I said to him. "'Do you think she ought to have all the meanest, hardest work in the world, and get paid nothing for it, working from the time she gets up in the morning till she goes to bed at night? Is that your idea of woman's work?' I said to him. 'But any nice, easy job that only has to be worked at four hours in the morning, and four hours in the afternoon, and has a pay envelope attached to it: I suppose you think that's a man's work!' I said to him. "'Listen to me, Sam Reisinger, there's no such thing as man's work, and there's no such thing as woman's work,' I said to him. 'Work's work, and it makes no difference who does it, as long as it gets done! "'Take dressmaking,' I said to him. 'I suppose you call that woman's work. Then how about Worth, and those other big men dressmakers? "'Maybe you think cooking is woman's work. Then how about the chefs at the big hotels?' I said to him. "'Maybe you think washing is woman's work. Then how about the steam laundries where nearly all the shirt ironers are men?' I said to him. "'Maybe you think that working in somebody else's house is woman's work. Then how about that butler up at Miss Spencer's?' I said to him. "'And maybe we can bungle through with a few bearings for a while, can we?' I said to him, very polite. 'Well, let me tell you one thing, Sam Reisinger, if that's the way you think of women, you can bungle over to the movies with yourself tomorrow night. I'm not going with you!'" For a long time after that when things went wrong, Mary only had to recall some of the remarks which had been made to a certain Mr. Sam Reisinger on a certain Sunday afternoon, and she always felt better for it. "What are the men saying now?" she asked Archey at the end of their first good week. "They're not saying much, but I think they're up to something. They've called a special meeting for tonight." The next morning was Sunday. Mary was hardly downstairs when Archey called. "I've found out about their meeting last night," he said. "They have appointed a committee to try to have a boycott declared on our bearings." It didn't take Mary long to see that this might be a mortal thrust unless it were parried. "But how can they?" she asked. "They are going to try labour headquarters first. 'Unfair to labour'--that's what they are going to claim it is--to allow women to do what they're doing here. They're going to try to have a boycott declared, so that no union man will handle Spencer bearings, the teamsters won't truck them, the railways won't ship them, the metal workers and mechanics won't install them, and no union man will use a tool or a machine that has a Spencer bearing in it. That's their program. That's what they are going to try to do." From over the distance came the memory of Ma'm Maynard's words: "I tell you, Miss Mary, it has halways been so and it halways will: Everything that lives has its own natural enemy--and a woman's natural enemy--eet is man!" "No, sir!" said Mary to herself, as resolutely as ever, "I don't believe it. They're trying to gain their point--that's all--the same as I'm trying to gain mine.... But aren't they fighting hard when they do a thing like that...!" It came to her then with a sharp sense of relief that no organization--no union--could well afford to boycott products simply because they were made by women. "Because then," she thought, "women could boycott things that were made by unions, and I'm sure the unions wouldn't want that." She mentioned this to Archey and it was decided that Judge Cutler should follow the strikers' committee to Washington and present the women's side of the case. Archey went, but the atmosphere of worry which he had brought with him stayed behind. Mary seemed to breathe it all day and to feel its oppression every time she awoke in the night. "What a thing it would be," she thought, "if they did declare a boycott! All the work we've done would go for nothing--all our hopes and plans--everything wiped right out--and every woman pushed right back in her trap--and a man sitting on the lid--with a boycott in his hand...!" The next day after a bad night, she was listlessly turning over the pages of a production report, when Mrs. Kelly came in glowing with enthusiasm, holding in her hand a book from the rest room library. "Miss Spencer," she said, "it's in this book that over on the other side the women in the factories had orchestras. I wonder if we couldn't have an orchestra now!" Mary's listlessness vanished. "I've talked it over with a lot of the women," continued Mrs. Kelly, "and they think it's great. I've come to quite a few that play different instruments. I only wish I knew my notes, so I could play something, too." Mary thought that over. It didn't seem right to her that the originator of the idea couldn't take part in it. "Couldn't you play the drum?" she suddenly asked. "Why, so I could!" beamed Mrs. Kelly in rare delight. "Do you mind then if I start a subscription for the instruments?" "No; I'll do that, if you'll promise to play the drum." "It's a promise," agreed Mrs. Kelly, and when she reached the hall outside and saw the size of Mary's subscription she joyfully smote an imaginary sheepskin, "Boom.... Boom.... Boom-boom-boom...!" That is the week that Wally was married--with a ceremony that Helen had determined should be the social event of the year. She was busy with her plans for weeks, making frequent trips to New York and Boston in the building up of her trousseau, arranging the details of the breakfast, making preparations for the decorations at the church and at the house on the hill, preparing and revising her list of those to be invited, ordering the cake and the boxes, attending to the engraving, choosing the music, keeping in touch with the bridesmaids and their dresses. "Why, she's as busy as I am," thought Mary one day, in growing surprise at Helen's knowledge and ability; and dimly she began to see that in herself and Helen were embodied two opposite ideas of feminine activity. "Of course she believes her way is the best," continued Mary thoughtfully, "just the same as I believe mine is. But I can't help thinking that it's best to be doing something useful, something that really makes a difference in the world--so that at the end of every week we can say to ourselves, 'Well, I did this' or 'I did that'--'I haven't lived this week for nothing....'" Mary started dreaming then, and the next day when she accompanied Helen up the aisle of St. Thomas's as maid of honour, her eyes went dreamier still. And yet if you had been there I think you might have seen the least trace of a shadow in their depths--just the least suspicion of a wavering, unguessed doubt. But when Wally, with his wife at his side, started his car an hour later and rolled smoothly on his wedding tour in search of the great adventure, in search of the sweetest story--Mary changed her dress and hurried back to the factory where she made a tour of her own. And as she walked through the workshops with their long lines of contented women, passing up one aisle and down another--nearly every face turning for a moment and flashing her a smile--the shadows vanished from her eyes and her doubts went with them. "This is the best," she told herself, "I'm sure I did right, choosing this instead of Wally. It's best for me, and best for these three thousand women--" Her imagination caught fire. She saw her three thousand pioneers growing into three hundred thousand, into three million. A moment of greatness fell upon her and in fancy she thus addressed her unsuspecting workers: "You are doing something useful--something that you can be proud of. Your daily labour isn't wasted. There isn't a country in the world that won't profit by it. "Because of these bearings which you are making, automobiles and trucks will carry their loads more easily, tractors will plough better, engines will run longer, water will be pumped more quickly, electric light will be sold for less money. "You are helping transportation--agriculture--commerce. And if that isn't better, nobler work than washing, ironing, getting your own meals, washing your own dishes, and doing the same old round of profitless chores day after day, and year after year, from the hour you are old enough to work, till the hour you are old enough to die--well, then, I'm wrong and Helen's right; and I ought to have married Wally--and not one of you women ought to be here today!" A whisper arose in her mind. "....Somebody's got to do the housework...." "Yes, but it needn't take up a woman's whole life," she shortly told herself, "any more than it does a man's. I'm sure there must be some way...some way...." She stopped, a sudden flush striking along her cheek as she caught the first glimpse of her golden vision--that vision which may some day change the history of the human race. "Oh, if I only could!" she breathed to herself. "If I only could!" She slowly returned to the office. Judge Cutler was waiting to see her, just back from his visit to Washington. "Well?" she asked eagerly, shutting the door. "Are they going to boycott us?" "I don't think so," he answered. "I told them how it started. As far as I can find out, the strike here is a local affair. The men I saw disclaimed any knowledge or responsibility for it. "Of course, I pointed out that women had the vote now, and that boycotts were catching.... But I don't think you need worry. "They're splendid men--all of them. I'm sure you'd like them, Mary. They are all interested in what you are doing, but I think they are marking time a little--waiting to see how things turn out before they commit themselves one way or the other." Mary thrilled at that. "More than ever now it depends on me," she thought, and another surge of greatness seemed to lift her like a flood. The judge's voice recalled her. "On my way back," he was saying, "I stopped in New York and engaged a firm of accountants to come and look over the books. They are busy now, but I told them there was no hurry--that we only wanted their suggestions--" "I had forgotten about that," said Mary. "So had I. What do you suppose reminded me of it?" She shook her head. "One of the first men I saw in Washington was Burdon Woodward." "I think it just happened that way," said Mary uneasily. "He told me he was going away for a few days, but I'm sure he only did it to get out of going to Helen's wedding." "Well, anyhow, no harm done. It was the sight of him down there that reminded me: that's all.... How has everything been running here? Smoothly, I hope?" Smoothly, yes. That was the week when Mary sent her letters to the papers, announcing that the women at Spencer & Son's had not only equalled past outputs, but were working within a closer degree of accuracy. And all that month, and the next month, and the next, the work at Spencer & Son's kept rolling out as smoothly as though it were moving on its own bearings--not only the mechanical, but the welfare work as well. The dining room was re-modelled, as you will presently see. The band progressed, as you will presently hear. The women were proud and happy in the work they were doing, and Mary was proud because they were proud, happy because they were happy, and all the time she was nursing another secret, no one dreaming what was in her mind. Along in the third month, Wally and Helen came back from their wedding tour. Mary looked once, and she saw there was something wrong with Wally. A shadow of depression hung over him--a shadow which he tried to hide with bursts of cheerfulness. But his old air of eagerness was gone--that air with which he had once looked at the future as a child might stare with delighted eyes at a conjurer drawing rabbits and roses out of old hats and empty vases. In a word, he looked disenchanted, as though he had seen how the illusion was produced, how the trick was done, and was simultaneously abating his applause for the performer and his interest in the show. "He's found her out," thought Mary, and with that terrible frankness which sometimes comes unbidden to our minds she added with a sigh, "I was always afraid he would." Wally had taken a house near the country club--one of those brick mansions surrounded by trees and lawns which are somehow reminiscent of titled society and fox hunters in buckskin and scarlet. There Helen was soon working her way to the leadership of the younger set. She seldom called at the house on the hill. "I'm generally dated up for the evening, and you're never there in the daytime. So I have to drop in and see you here," she said one afternoon, giving Mary a surprise visit at the office. "Do you, know you're getting to be fashionable?" she continued. "Who? Me?" "Yes. You. Nearly everywhere we went, they began quizzing us as soon as they found Miss Spencer was a cousin of mine." Mary noted Helen's self-promotion to the head of the cousinship, but she kept her usual tranquil expression. "It's because she's Mrs. Cabot now," she thought. "Perhaps she wouldn't have called at all if these people hadn't mentioned me!" But when Helen arose to go, Mary revised her opinion of the reason for her cousin's call. "Well, I must be going," said Helen, rising. "I'll drop in and see Burdon for a few minutes on my way out." "That's it," thought Mary, and her reflections again taking upon themselves that terrible frankness which can seldom be put in words, she added to herself, "Poor Wally.... I was always afraid of it...." She was still looking out of the window in troubled meditation when the arrival of the afternoon mail turned her thoughts into another track. As Helen had said, the New Bethel experiment had become fashionable. Taking it as their text, the women's clubs throughout the country were giving much of their time to a discussion of the changed industrial relations due to the war. Increasingly often, visitors appeared at the factory, asking if they could see for themselves--well-known, even famous figures among them. But on the afternoon when Helen Cabot made her first call, Mary received a letter which took her breath away, so distinguished, so illustrious were the names of those who were asking if they could pay a visit on the following day. Mary sent a telegram and then, her cheeks coloured with pride, she made a tour through the factory to make sure that everything would be in order, whispering the news here and there, and knowing that every woman would hear it as unmistakably as though it had been pealed from the heavens in tones of thunder. The visitors arrived at ten o'clock the next morning. There were four in the party--two men and two women. Mary recognized three of them at the first glance and felt a glow of pride warm her as they seated themselves in her office. "Not even you," she thought with a glance at the attentive figures on the walls, "not even you ever had visitors like these." And in some subtle manner which I simply cannot describe to you, she felt that the portrayed figures were proud of the visitors, too--and prouder yet of the dreamy-eyed girl who had brought it about, flesh of their flesh, blood of their blood, who was looking so queenly and chatting so quietly to the elect of the earth. The fourth caller was introduced as Professor Marsh, and Mary soon perceived that he was a hostile critic. "I shall have to be careful of him," she thought, "or I shall be giving him some good, hard bouncers before I know it--and that would never do today." So putting the temptation behind her she presently said, "We'll start at the nursery, if you like--any time you're ready." You have already seen something of that nursery, its long row of windows facing the south, its awnings, toys, sand-piles and white-robed nurses. Since then Mary had had time to elaborate the original theme with a kitchen for preparing their majesties' food, linen closets and a rest-room for the nurses. The chief glory of the nursery, however, was its noble line of play-rooms, each in charge of two nurses. "Let's look in here," said Mary, opening a door. They came upon an interesting scene. In this room were twelve children, about two years old. The nurses were feeding them. Each nurse sat on the inside of a kidney shaped table, large enough to accommodate six children, but low enough to avoid the necessity for high chairs with the consequent dangling between earth and heaven. In front of each child was a plate set in a recess in the table--this to guard against overturning in the excitement of the moment--and in each plate was a generous portion of chicken broth poured over broken bread. It was evidently good. Approval shone on each pink face. A brisk play of spoons and the smacking of lips seemed to be the order of the day. "Each play room has its own wash room--" said Mary. She opened another door belonging to this particular suite and disclosed a bathroom with special fixtures for babies. Large bowls, with hot and cold water, were set in porcelain tables. "What's the use of having so many bath-bowls in this table," asked Professor Marsh, "when you only have two nurses to do the bathing?" "Every woman with a baby has half an hour off in the morning, and another half hour in the afternoon," he was told. "In the morning, she bathes her baby. In the afternoon she loves it." In the next play-room which they visited, the babies were of the bottle age, and were proving this to the satisfaction of every one concerned. In the next, refreshments were over; and some of the youngsters slept while others were starting large engineering projects upon the sand pile. "I never saw such nurseries," said the most distinguished visitor. He looked at the artistic miniature furniture, the decorations, the low padded seat which ran around the walls--at once a seat and a cupboard for toys. He looked at the sunlight, the screened verandah, the awning, the flowers, the birds hopping over the lawn, the river gleaming through the trees. "Miss Spencer," he said, "I congratulate you. If they could understand me, I would congratulate these happy youngsters, too." "But don't you think it's altogether wrong," said Professor Marsh, "to deprive a child of the advantages of home life?" "I read and hear that so often," said Mary, "that I have adopted my own method of replying to it." She led her visitors into a small room with a low ceiling. It was furnished with a cookstove, a table, a small side-board, an old conch and a few chairs. The floor was splintery and only partly covered by frayed rugs and worn oil cloth. The paper on the walls was a dark mottled green. The ceiling was discoloured by smoke. "This is the kitchen of an average wage-earner," said Mary. "Some are better. Some are worse. I bought the furniture out of a room, just as it stood, and had the whole place copied in detail." Three of the visitors looked at each other. "Imagine a tired woman," continued Mary, "standing over that stove--perhaps expecting another baby before long. She has been washing all morning and now she is cooking. The room is damp with steam, the ceiling dotted with flies. Then imagine a child crawling around the floor, its mother too busy to attend to it, and you'll get an idea of where some of these children in the nursery would be--if they weren't here. Mind," she earnestly continued, "I'm not saying that home life for poor children doesn't have its advantages, but we mustn't forget that it has its disadvantages, too." She led them next to the kindergarten. A recess was on and the children were out in the play-ground--some swinging, some sliding down the chutes, others playing in a merry-go-round which was pushed around by hand. "Every other hour they have for play," said Mary. "In the alternate hours the teachers read to them, talk to them, teach them their letters, teach them to sing and give them the regular kindergarten course. If they weren't here," she said, half turning to Professor Marsh, "most of them would probably be playing on the street." The next place they visited was the dining room--which occupied the upper floor of one of the great buildings which Mary's father had planned. But to look at it, you would never have suspected the original purpose for which the place had been intended. It was a dining room that any hotel would be glad to call its own, with its forest-colour decorations, its growing palms and ferns on every side. "The compartments around the walls are for the families," explained Mary. "It is, of course, optional with those who work here whether they use the dining room or not. We supply all food at cost. This was this morning's breakfast." The bill of fare is too long to quote in full, but the visitors noted that it included a choice of fruit, choice of cereal, choice of tea, coffee, milk or cocoa--and for the main dish, either fish, ham and eggs, oyster stew or small steak. "What you have seen so far," said Mary, "is a side issue. Many of our workers are young women not yet married, others have some one at home to look after the children. In fact the woman with a baby or little children is in the minority, but I thought it only right to provide for them--for a number of reasons--" "Including sympathy?" smiled one of the ladies. Mary gave her a grateful glance. "We will now have an inspection of our real work here," she said, "--the same being the manufacture of bearings." The first room they entered was the ground floor of one of the buildings which housed the automatic department. At the nearer machines were long lines of women stamping out the metal discs which held the balls and rollers in their places. "When these machines were operated by men," said Mary, "it required considerable strength to throw the levers. But by a very simple improvement we changed the machines so that the lightest touch on the handle is sufficient to do the work. We also put backs on the stools--and elbow rests--and racks for the feet--" They followed her glances to each of these changes but their attention soon turned to the business-like speed and precision with which each woman did her work. "Women, of course, are naturally quick," said Mary as though reading their thoughts. "You know what they can do on a typewriter, for instance--or on a sewing machine. As you can see, it is much simpler to operate one of these automatic machines than it is to typewrite a legal document--or make a dress." Together they looked up the long aisle at the double line of workers in their creams and browns, their fingers deftly placing the blanks in position and removing the finished discs. Somewhere, unseen, a phonograph started playing a lively tune. "Where do they get their flowers?" asked one of the guests, noticing that each woman was wearing a rose or a carnation. "They find them in their locker rooms every morning," said Mary. "They usually sing when the phonograph plays," she added, "but perhaps they feel nervous--at having company--" This was confirmed when they left the room, for as they stood in the hallway first a hum was heard behind them here and there, and soon a mellow toned chorus arose. "They certainly seem happy," said one of the visitors. "They are," said Mary. "And, indeed, why shouldn't they be? Their work is light and interesting; they are paid well; and more than anything else, I think, they all know they are making something useful--something tangible--something they can look upon with satisfaction and pride." They ascended a stairway and suddenly the scene changed. Below, the work had been cast as though in a light staccato key, but here the music for the machinery had a more powerful note. "These are the oscillating grinders," said Mary, raising her voice above the skirling symphony. "It isn't everybody who can run them." She wondered whether her visitors caught the unconscious air of pride which many of the women wore in this department. At one end of the room a steady stream of rough castings came flowing in, while at the other end an equally steady volume of finished cones went flowing out. Mary had always liked to watch the oscillators and as she stood there, her guests temporarily forgotten, her eyes filled with the almost human movements of the whirling machines, her ears with the triumphant music of the abrasive wheels biting into the metal, that same unconscious air of pride fell upon her, too, and although she didn't know it, her glance deepened and her head went up--quite in the old Spencer manner. "Is their work fairly accurate?" asked one of the visitors, breaking the spell. "Let's go and see," said Mary, leading the way. The cones left the grinders upon an endless conveyor which carried them to an inspection room. Here at long tables were lines of attentive women, each with a set of gauges in front of her. The visitors stopped behind one of these inspectors just as she picked up a cone to put it through its course of tests. First she slipped it into a gauge to see if it was too large. A pointer on a dial before her swung to "O.K." Almost without stopping the motion of her hand, she inserted it into another gauge to see if it was too small. Again the pointer swung to "O.K." The third test was to verify the angle of the cone, and for the third time the pointer said "O.K." The next moment the cone had been dropped into a box and another was going through the same course. "How many have been rejected today?" asked one of the visitors. "Two," said the inspector. These two unfortunates lay on a rack in front of her. Interrupting her work she picked up one of them. At the second operation the pointer turned to a red segment of the dial and a bell rang. "I don't hear many bells ringing," commented the visitor, quizzically looking around the room. Mary smiled with quiet pleasure. "Next," she said, "I'm going to take you to a department where women never worked before." She led the way to one of the tempering buildings--a building equipped with long lines of ovens--each as large as a baker's oven--where metal cones were heated instead of rolls. "Here, too, as you will see," said Mary, "we have tried to reduce the element of human error as far as possible. In each oven is an electric thermometer and when the bearings have reached the proper degree of heat, an incandescent bulb is automatically lighted in front of the oven.... See?" They made their way to the oven where a white light had appeared. A woman-worker had already opened the door and was pulling a lever. As though by magic, a bunch of castings, wired together, came travelling out of their heat bath and were immediately lowered into a large tank which held the tempering liquid. "What would have happened if the oven hadn't been opened when the white light appeared?" asked another of the visitors. "In five minutes a red lamp would have been automatically lighted," said Mary "--a signal for the forewoman to come and take charge of the oven." "And suppose the red lamp had been disregarded?" "In five minutes more an alarm bell would have started. You would have heard it over half the factory--and it would have kept ringing until the superintendent herself had come and stopped it with a key which only she is allowed to carry." "Is that the bell now?" he asked, as a mellow chime came from one of the distant buildings. "No," smiled Mary, listening, "that's the lunch bell. In another ten minutes I shall have a surprise for you." At the end of that time, they made their way to the dining room, which was already filled with eager women. In one corner was a private room, glass-partitioned. As Mary followed her guests toward it, the full, subdued strains of the Crusader March suddenly sounded in harmonious greeting from the other end of the room. "Ah!" said the most distinguished visitor, turning to look. "Men at last!" Mary let him look and then she beamed with pleasure at his glance of appreciation. "Our own orchestra--one hundred pieces," she said. "This is their first public appearance." Oh, but it was a red-letter day for Mary! Whether it was the way she felt, or because the sound became softened and mellowed in travelling the length of the dining room, it seemed to her that she had never heard music so sweet, had never listened to sounds that filled her heart so full or lifted her thoughts so high. The climax came at the end of the dessert. A shy girl entered, a small leather box in her hand. "I have a souvenir for your visitor, Miss Spencer," she said, and turning to him she added, "We made it with our own hands, thinking you might like to use it as a paper weight--as a reminder of what women can do." The box was lined with blue velvet and contained a small model of the Spencer bearing, made of gold, perfect to the last ball and the last roller. The visitor examined it with admiration--every eye in the dining room (which could be brought to bear) watching him through the glass partition. "If I ever received a more interesting souvenir," he said, "I fail to recall it. Thank you, and please thank the others for me. Tell them how very much I appreciate it, and tell them, too, if you will, that here in this factory today I have had my outlook on life widened to an extent which I had thought impossible. For that, too, I thank you." Of course they couldn't hear him in the main room, but they could see when he had finished speaking. They clapped their hands; the band played; and when he arose and bowed, they clapped and played louder than before. And a few minutes later when the party left the dining room to the strains of El Capitan, it seemed to Mary that after the closing chord she heard two vigorous beats of the drum--soul expression of Mrs. Kelly, signifying "That's us!" The visitors departed at last, and Mary returned to her office to find other callers awaiting her. The first was Helen, togged to the nines. "Somehow she heard they were here," thought Mary, "and she came down thinking to meet them. She thought surely I would bring them in here again." But her next reflection made her frown a little. "--Partly that, I guess," she thought, "and partly to see Burdon, as usual." A knock on the door interrupted her, and Joe entered, bearing two cards. "These gentlemen have been waiting since noon," he announced, "but they said they didn't mind waiting when I told them who was with you." The cards bore the name of a firm of public accountants. "Oh, yes," said Mary. "Show them in, please, Joe. And ask Mr. Burdon if I can see him for a few minutes." If you had been there, you might have noticed a change pass over Helen. A moment before Burdon's name was mentioned she was sitting relaxed and rather dispirited, as you sometimes see a yacht becalmed, riding the water without life or interest. But as soon as it appeared that Burdon was about to enter, a breeze suddenly seemed to fill Helen's sails. Her beauty, passive before, became active. Her bunting fluttered. Her flags began to fly. The door opened, but Helen's smiling glance was disappointed. The two auditors entered. One was grey, the other was young; but each had the same pale, incurious air of detachment. They reminded Mary of two astronomy professors of her college days, two men who had just such an air of detachment, who always seemed to be out of their element in the daylight, always waiting for the night to come to resume the study of their beloved stars. "I have sent for our treasurer, Mr. Woodward," said Mary. "Won't you be seated for a few minutes?" They sat down in the same impersonal way and glanced around the room with eyes that seemed to see nothing. By the side of the mantel was a framed piece of history, an itemized bill of the first generation of the firm, dated June 28, 1706, and quaint with its old spelling, its triple column of pounds, shillings and pence. "May I look at that?" asked one of the accountants, rising. The other followed him. Their heads bent over the document.... It occurred to Mary that they were verifying the addition. Again the door opened and this time it was Burdon, his dashing personality immediately dominating the room. Mary introduced the accountants to him. "With our new methods," she said, "we probably need a new system of bookkeeping. I also want to compare our old costs with present costs--" Burdon stared at her, but Mary--half-ashamed of what she was doing--kept her glance upon the two accountants. "Mr. Burdon will give you all the old records, all the old books you want," she said, "and will help you in every possible way--" And still Burdon stared at her--his whole life concentrated for a moment in his glance. And still Mary looked at the two accountants who completed the triangle by looking at Burdon, as they naturally would, waiting for him to turn and speak to them. As Mary watched them, she became conscious of a change in their manner, a tenseness of interest, such as the two astronomers aforesaid might display at the sight of some disturbance in the heavens. "What do they see?" she thought, and looked at Burdon. But Burdon at the same moment had turned to the accountants, his manner as large, his air as dashing as ever. "Anything you want, gentlemen," he said, "you have only to ask for it." When Mary reached home that evening, you can imagine how Aunt Patty and Aunt Cordelia listened to her recital, their white heads nodding at the periods, their cheeks pink with pride. Now and then they exchanged glances. "Our baby!" these glances seemed to say, and then turned back to Mary with such love and admiration that finally the object of this pantomime could stand it no longer, but had to kiss them both till their cheeks turned pinker than ever and they gasped for breath. That night, when Mary went to her room and stood at the window, looking out at the world below and the sky above, she threw out her arms and, turning her face to the moonlight, she felt that world-old wish to express the inexpressible, to put immortal yearnings into mortal words. Life--thankfulness for life--a joy so deep that it wasn't far from pain--hoping--longing-yearning ... for what? Mary herself could not have told you--perhaps to be one with the starlight and the scent of flowers--to have the freedom of infinity--to express the inexpressible-- For a long time she stood at the window, the moon looking down upon her and bathing her face in its radiance.... Insensibly then the earth recalled her and her thoughts began to return to the events of the day. "Oh, yes," she suddenly said to herself, "I knew there was something.... I wonder why the accountants stared at Burdon so...." CHAPTER XXVIII Far away, that same moon was watching another scene--a ship on the Southern sea throbbing its way to New York. It was a steamer just out of Rio, its drawing rooms and upper decks filled with tourists doubly happy because they were going home. On the steerage deck below, in the apron of a kitchen worker, a man was standing with his elbows on the rail--an uncertain figure in the moonlight. Once when he turned to look at the deck above, a lamp shone upon him. If you had been there you would have seen that while a beard covered much of his face, his cheeks were wasted and his eyes looked as though he needed rest. He turned his glance out over the sea again, looking now to the north star and now to the roadway of ripples that led to the moon. "I wonder if Rosa's asleep," he thought. "Eleven o'clock. She ought to be. It's a good school. She's lucky. So was I, that the old gentleman didn't get my letter...." On the deck above, a violin and harp were accompanying a piano. "That's where I ought to be--up there," he thought, "not peeling potatoes and scouring pans down here. All I have to do is to go up and announce myself...." He smiled--a grim affair. "Yes, all I have to do is to go up and announce myself.... They'd take care of me, all right!" He lifted his hand and thoughtfully rubbed his beard. "As long as I stick to Russian, I'm safe. Nicholas Rapieff--nobody has suspected me now for fifteen years. Paul Spencer's dead--dead long ago. But, somehow or other, I have taken it into my head that I would like to see the place where he was born...." His glance were on the ripples that led to the moon. "I wonder if the orchard is still back of the house," he thought, "and the winesap tree I fell out of. I wonder if old Hutch is dead yet. I remember he carried me in the house, and the very next week I knocked the clock down on him.... I wonder if that swimming hole is still there where the river turns below the dam. That was the best of all.... I remember how I liked to lie there--an innocent kid--and dream what I was going to do when I was a man.... Lord in Heaven, what wouldn't I give to dream those dreams again...." On the upper deck the dance had come to an end. "Time to turn in," thought Paul. He crossed to the steerage door and a moment later the moon was shining on an empty deck. CHAPTER XXIX As time went on, it became increasingly clear to Mary that Wally wasn't happy--that the "one great thing in life" for him was turning out badly. Never had a Jason sailed forth with greater determination to find the Golden Fleece of Happiness, but with every passing week he seemed to be further than ever from the winning of his prize. Mary turned it over in her mind for a long time before she found a clue to the answer. "I believe it's because Helen has nothing useful to occupy her mind," she thought one day; and more quickly than words can describe the fancy, she seemed to see the wives at each end of the social scale--each group engaged from morning till night on a never-ending round of unproductive activities, walkers of treadmills, drudges of want and wealth. "They are in just the same fix--the very rich and the very poor," she thought, "grinding away all day and getting nowhere--never satisfied--never happy--because way down in their hearts they know they're not doing anything useful--not doing anything that counts--" Her mind returned to Helen's case. "I'm sure that's it," she nodded. "Helen hasn't found happiness, so she goes out looking for it, and never thinks of trying the only thing that would help her. Yes, and I believe that's why so many rich people have divorces. When you come to think of it, you hardly ever heard of divorces during the war--because for the first time in their lives a lot of people were doing something useful--" Hesitating then she asked herself if she ought not to speak to Helen. "I didn't get any thanks the last time I tried it," she ruefully remarked. "But perhaps if I used an awful lot of tact--" She had her chance that afternoon when Helen dropped in at the office on her way back from the city. "Shopping--all day--tired to death," she said, sinking into the chair by the side of the desk. "How are you getting on?" Mary felt like replying, "Very well, thank you.... But how are you getting on, Helen?.... you and Wally?" Somehow, though, it sounded dreadful, even to hint that everything wasn't as it should be between Wally and his wife. "Besides," thought Mary, "she'd only say, 'Oh, all right,' and yawn and change the subject--and what could I do then?" She answered herself, "Nothing," and thoughtfully added, "It will take a lot of tact." Indeed there are some topics which require so much tact in their presentation that the article becomes lost in its wrappings, and its presence isn't even suspected by the recipient. "How's Wally?" asked Mary. "Oh, he's all right." "When I saw him the other day, I thought he was looking a bit under." "Oh, I don't know--" As Mary had guessed, Helen patted her hand over her mouth to hide a yawn. "How's Aunt Patty and Aunt Cordelia?" she asked. Mary sighed to herself. "What can I do?" she thought. "If I say, 'Helen, you know you're not happy. Folks never are unless they are doing something useful,' she would only think I was trying to preach to her. But if I don't say anything--and things go wrong--" One of the accountants entered--the elder one--with a sheaf of papers in his hand. On seeing the visitor, he drew back. "Don't let me interrupt you," whispered Helen to Mary. "I'll run in and see Burdon for a few minutes--" Absent-mindedly Mary began to look at the papers which the accountant placed before her--her thoughts elsewhere--but gradually her interest centred upon the matter in hand. "What?" she exclaimed. "A shortage as big as that last year? Never!" The accountant looked at her with the same quizzical air as an astronomer might assume in looking at a child who had just said, "What? The sun ninety million miles away from the earth? Never!" "Either that," he said, "or a good many bearings were made in the factory last year--and lost in the river--" "Oh, there's some mistake," said Mary earnestly. "Perhaps the factory didn't make as many bearings as you think." Again he gave her his astronomical smile, as though she were saying now, "Perhaps the moon isn't as round as you think it is; it doesn't always look round to me." "I thought it best to show you this, confidentially," he said, gathering the papers together, "because we have lately become conscious of a feeling of opposition--in trying to trace the source of this discrepancy. It seems to us," he suggested, speaking always in his impersonal manner, "that this is a point which needs clearing up--for the benefit of every one concerned." "Yes," said Mary after a pause "Of course you must do that. It isn't right to raise suspicions and then not clear them up.... Besides," she added, "I know that you'll find it's just a mistake somewhere--" After he had gone, Helen looked in, Burdon standing behind her, holding his cane horizontally, one hand near the handle, the other near the ferrule. In the half gloom of the hall he looked more dashing--more reckless--than Mary had ever visioned him. His cane might have been a sword ... his hat three-cornered with a sable feather in it.... "I just looked in to say good-bye," said Helen. "I'm going to take Burdon home." "I need somebody to mind me," said Burdon, flashing Mary one of his violent smiles; and turning to go he said to Helen over his shoulder, "Come, child. We're late." "He calls her 'child'..." thought Mary. That night Wally was a visitor at the house on the hill--and when Mary saw how subdued he was--how chastened he looked--her heart went out to him. "It seems so good to be here, calling again like this," he said. "Does it remind you of old times, the same as it does me?" But Mary wouldn't follow him there. As they talked it occurred to her more than once that while Wally appeared to be listening to her, his thoughts were elsewhere--his ears attuned for other sounds. "What are you listening for!" she asked him once. He answered her with a puzzle. "For the Lorelei's song," he said, and going to the piano he sang it, his clear, plaintive tenor still retaining its power to make her nose smart and the dumb chills to run up and down her back. She was sitting near the piano and when he was through, he turned around on the bench. "Have you ever been the least bit sorry," he asked, "that you turned me down--for a business career?" "I didn't turn you down," she said. "We couldn't agree on certain things: that's all." "On what, for instance?" "That love is the one great thing in life, for instance. You always said it was--especially to a girl. And I always said there were other things in a woman's life, too--that love shouldn't monopolize her any more than it does a man." "You were wrong, Mary, and you know you were wrong." "I was right, Wally, and you know I was right. Because, don't you see?--if love is the only thing in life, and love fails, a person's whole life is in ruins--and that isn't fair--" "It's true, though," he answered, more to himself than to her. Again he unconsciously assumed a listening attitude, as one who is trying to catch a sound from afar. "Wally!" said Mary. "What on earth are you listening for?" Again it pleased him to answer her with a riddle. "Italian opera," he said; and turning back to the keyboard he began-- "Woman is fickle False altogether Moves like a feather Borne on the breezes--" "Did you ever sing when you were flying?" she asked, trying to shake him out of his mood. The question proved a happy one. For nearly two hours they chatted and smiled and hummed old airs together--that is to say, Wally hummed them and Mary tried, for, as you know, she couldn't sing but could only follow the melody with a sort of a deep note far down in her throat, always pretending that she wasn't doing it and shyly laughing when Wally nodded in encouragement and tried to get her to sing up louder. "Eleven o'clock!" he exclaimed at last. "That's the first time in three months--" Whatever it was, he didn't finish it, but when he bade her good-bye he said in a low voice, "Young lady, do you know that you played the very Old Ned with my life when you turned me down?" But Mary wouldn't follow him there, either. "Good-bye, Wally," she said, and just before he went down to his car, she saw him standing on the step, his face turned toward the drive as though still listening for that distant sound--that sound which never came. The riddle was solved the next morning. Helen appeared at the office soon after nine and the moment she saw Mary she said, "Has Wally 'phoned you this morning?" "No," said Mary. Her cousin looked relieved. "I want you to fib for me," she said. "You know the way the men stick together.... Well, the women have to do it, too.... At dinner yesterday," she continued, "Wally happened to ask me where I was going that evening, and I told him I was coming over to see you. And really, dear, I meant it at the time. Instead, a little crowd of us happened to get together and we went to the club. "Well, that was all right. But it was nearly twelve when I got home, and he looked so miserable that I hated to tell him that I had been off enjoying myself, so I pretended I had been over to see you." Mary blinked at the inference, but was too breathless, too alarmed to speak. "He asked me if I got to your house early," resumed Helen, "and I said, 'Oh, about eight.' And then he said, 'What time did you leave Mary's?' and I said, 'Oh, about half-past eleven.' "Of course, I thought everything was all right, but I could tell from something he said this morning that he didn't believe me. So if he calls you up, tell him that I was over at your house last night--will you?--there's a dear--" "But I can't," said Mary, more breathless, more alarmed than ever. "Wally was over himself last night--and, oh, Helen, now I know! He was listening for your car every minute!" Helen stared ... and then suddenly she laughed--a laugh that had no mirth in it--that sound, half bitter, half mocking, which is sometimes used as ironical applause for ironical circumstance. "I guess I can square it up somehow," she said. "I'll drop in and see Burdon for a few minutes." Before her cousin knew it, she was gone. "I'll speak to her when she comes out," Mary told herself, but while she was trying to decide what to say, the morning mail was placed on her desk and the routine of the day began. Half an hour later she heard the sound of Helen's car rolling away. "She went without saying good-bye," thought Mary. "Oh, well, I'll see her again before long." To her own surprise the events of the last few days worried her less than she expected. For one reason, she had lived long enough to notice that no matter how involved things may look, Time has an astonishing faculty of straightening them out. And for another reason, having two worries to think about, each one tended to take her mind off the other. Whenever she started thinking about the accountant's report, she presently found herself wondering how Helen proposed to square it up with Wally. "Oh, well," she thought again, realizing the futility of trying to read the future, "let's hope everything will come out right in the end.... It always has, so far...." Archey came in toward noon, and Mary went with him to inspect a colony of bungalows which she was having built on the heights by the side of the lake. Another thing that she had lived long enough to notice was the different effect which different people had upon her. Although she preserved, or tried to preserve, the same tranquil air of interest toward them all--a tranquillity and interest which generally required no effort--some of the people she met in the day's work subconsciously aroused a feeling of antagonism in her, some secretly amused her, some irritated her, some made her feel under a strain, and some even had the queer, vampirish effect of leaving her washed out and listless--psychological puzzles which she had never been able to solve. But with Archey she always felt restful and contented, smiling at him and talking to him without exertion or repression and--using one of those old-fashioned phrases which are often the last word in description--always "feeling at home" with him, and never as though he had to be thought of as company. They climbed the hill together and began inspecting the bungalows. "I wouldn't mind living in one of these myself," said Archey. "What are you going to do with them?" But that was a secret. Mary smiled inscrutably and led the way into the kitchen. I have called it a kitchen, but it was just as much a living room, a dining room. A Pullman table had been built in between two of the windows and on each side of this was a settee. At the other end of the room was a gas range. When Wally opened the refrigerator door he saw that it could be iced from the porch. Electric light fixtures hung from the ceiling and the walls. "Going to have an artists' colony up here?" teased Archey, and looking around in admiration he repeated, "No, sir! I wouldn't mind living in one of these houses myself--" They went into the next room--the sitting room proper--unusual for its big bay window, its built-in cupboards and bookshelves. Then came the bathroom and three bed-rooms, all in true bungalow style on one floor. When they had first entered, Mary and Archey had chatted freely enough, but gradually they had grown quieter. There is probably no place in the world so contributive to growing intimacy as a new empty house--when viewed by a young man and a younger woman who have known each other for many years-- The place seems alive, hushed, expectant, watching every move of its visitors, breathing suggestions to them-- "Do you like it?" asked Mary, breaking the silence. Archey nodded, afraid for the moment to trust himself to speak. They looked at each other and, almost in haste, they went outside. "He'll never get over that trick of blushing," thought Mary. At the end of the hall was a closet door with a mirror set in it. She caught sight of her own cheeks. "Oh, dear!" she breathed to herself. "I wonder if I'm catching it, too!" Once outside, Archey began talking with the concentration of a man who is trying to put his mind on something else. "This work up here was a lucky turn for some of the strikers," he said. "Things are getting slack again now and men are being laid off. Here and there I begin to hear the old grumbling, 'Three thousand women keeping three thousand men out of jobs.' So whenever I hear that, I remind them how you found work for a lot of the men up here--and then of course I tell them it was their own fault--going on strike in the first place--just to get four women discharged!" "And even if three thousand women are doing the work of three thousand men," said Mary, "I don't see why any one should object--if the women don't. The wages are being spent just the same to pay rent and buy food and clothes--and the savings are going into the bank--more so than when the men were drawing the money!" "I guess it's a question of pride on the man's part--as much as anything else--" "Oh, Archey--don't you think a woman has pride, too?" "Well, you know what I mean. He feels he ought to be doing the work, instead of the woman." "Oh, Archey," she said again. "Can't you begin to see that the average woman has always worked harder than the average man? You ask any of the women at the factory which is the easiest--the work they are doing now--or the work they used to do." "I keep forgetting that. But how about this--I hear it all the time. Suppose the idea spreads and after a while there are millions of women doing work that used to be done by men--what are the men going to do?" "That's a secret," she laughed. "But I'll tell you some day--if you're good--" The friendly words slipped out unconsciously, but for some reason her tone and manner made his heart hammer away like that powerful downward passage of the Anvil Chorus. "I'll be good," he managed to say. Mary hardly heard him. "I wonder what made me speak like that," she was thinking. "I must be more dignified--or he'll think I'm bold...." And in a very dignified voice indeed, she said, "I must be getting back now. I wish you'd find the contractor and ask him when he'll be through." She went down the hill alone. On the way a queer thought came to her. I sha'n't attempt to explain it--only to report it. "Of course it isn't the only thing in life--that's ridiculous," she thought. "But sooner or later ... I guess it becomes quite important...." CHAPTER XXX A few hours later, Mary was sitting in her office, thinking of this and that (as the old phrase goes) when a knock sounded on the door and the elderly accountant entered. "We have finished the first part of our work," he said, "that dealing with factory costs. I will leave this with you and when you have read it, I would like to go over it with you in detail." It was a formidable document, nearly three hundred typewritten pages, neatly bound in hard covers. Mary hadn't looked in it far when she knew she was examining a work of art. "How he must love his work!" she thought, and couldn't help wondering what accidental turn of life had guided his career into the field of figures. "How interesting he makes it!" she thought again. "Why, it's almost like a novel." Brilliant sentences illuminated nearly every page. "This system, admirable in its way, is probably a legacy from the past, when the bookkeepers of Spencer & Son powdered their hair and used quill pens.--" "Under these conditions, a stock clerk must become a prodigy and depend upon his memory. When memory fails he must become a poet, for he has nothing but imagination to guide him." "Thus one department would corroborate another, like two witnesses independently sworn and each examined in private--" The back of the volume, she noticed, was filled with tables of figures. "This won't be so interesting," she told herself, turning the leaves. But suddenly she stopped at one of the open pages--and read it again--and again-- "Comparative Efficiency of Men's Labour and Women's Labour," the sheet was headed. And there it was in black and white, line after line, just how much it had cost to make each Spencer bearing when the men did the work, and just how much it was costing under the new conditions. "There!" said Mary, "I always knew we could do it, if the women in Europe could! There! No wonder we've been making so much money lately--!" She took the report home in triumph to show to her aunts, and when dinner was over she carried the volume to her den, and never a young lady in bye-gone days sat down to Don Juan with any more pleasurable anticipation than Mary felt when she buried herself in her easy chair and opened that report again. She was still gloating over the table of women's efficiency when Hutchins appeared. "Mr. Archibald Forbes is calling." Archey had news. "The men had a meeting this afternoon," he said. "They've been getting up a big petition, and they are going to send another committee to Washington." "What for?" "To press for that boycott. Headquarters put them off last time, but there are so many men out of work now at other factories that they hope to get a favourable decision." "I'll see Judge Cutler in the morning," promised Mary, and noticing Archey's expression, she said, "Don't worry. I'm not the least alarmed." "What bothers me," he said, "is to have this thing hanging over all the time. It's like old What's-his-name who had the sword hanging over his head by a single hair all through the dinner." The sword didn't seem to bother Mary, though. That comparative table had given her another idea--an idea that was part plan and part pride. When she reached the office in the morning she telephoned Judge Cutler and Uncle Stanley. "A directors' meeting--something important," she told them both; and after another talk with the accountant she began writing another of her advertisements. She was finishing this when Judge Cutler appeared. A minute later Uncle Stanley followed him. Lately Uncle Stanley had been making his headquarters at the bank--his attitude toward the factory being one of scornful amusement. "Women mechanics!" he sometimes scoffed to visitors at the bank. "Women foremen! Women presidents! By Judas, I'm beginning to think Old Ned himself is a woman--the sort of mischief he's raising lately!... Something's bound to crack before long, though." In that last sentence you have the picture of Uncle Stanley. Even as Mr. Micawber was always waiting for something to turn up, so Uncle Stanley was always waiting for something to go wrong. Mary opened the meeting by showing the accountants' report and then reading her proposed advertisement. If you had been there, I think you would have seen the gleam of satisfaction in Uncle Stanley's eye. "I knew I'd catch her wrong yet," he seemed to be saying to himself. "As soon as she's made a bit of money, she wants everybody to have it. It's the hen and the egg all over again--they've simply got to cackle." Thus the gleam in Uncle Stanley's eye. Looking up at the end of her reading, Mary caught it. "How he hates women!" she thought. "Still, in a way, you can't wonder at it.... If it hadn't been for women and the things they can do he would have had the factory long ago." Aloud she said, "What do you think of it?" "I think it's a piece of foolishness, myself," said Uncle Stanley promptly. "But I know you are going to do it, if you've made up your mind to do it." "I'm not so sure it's foolish," said the judge. "It seems to me it's going to bring us a lot of new business." "Got all we can handle now, haven't we?" "Well, we can expand! It wouldn't be the first time in Spencer & Son's history that the factory has been doubled, and, by Jingo, I believe Mary's going to do it, too!" Mary said nothing, but a few mornings later when the advertisement appeared in the leading newspapers throughout the country, she made a remark which showed that her co-directors had failed to see at least two of the birds at which she was throwing her stone.... She had the newspapers brought to her room that morning, and was soon reading the following quarter page announcement: THE FRUITS OF HER LABOUR For the past six months, Spencer bearings have been made exclusively by women. The first result of this is a finer degree of accuracy than had ever been attained before. The second result is a reduction in the cost of manufacture, this notwithstanding the fact that every woman on our payroll has always received man's wages, and we have never worked more than eight hours a day. To those who watched the work done by women in the war, neither of the above results will be surprising. Because of the accuracy of her work, Spencer bearings are giving better satisfaction than ever before. Because of her dexterity and quickness, we are able to make the following public announcement: We are raising the wages of every woman in our factory one dollar a day; and we are reducing the price of our bearings ten per cent. These changes go into effect immediately. JOSIAH SPENCER & SON, INC. MARY SPENCER, President. "There!" said Mary, sitting up in bed and making a gesture to the world outside. "That's what women can do! ... Are you going to boycott us now?" CHAPTER XXXI If you can imagine a smiling, dreamy-eyed bombshell that explodes in silence, aimed at men's minds instead of their bodies, rocking fixed ideas upon their foundations and shaking innumerable old notions upon their pedestals until it is hard to tell whether or not they are going to fall, perhaps you can get an idea of the first effect of Mary's advertisement. Wherever skilled workmen gathered together her announcement was discussed, and nowhere with greater interest than in her own home town. "Seems to me this thing may spread," said a thoughtful looking striker in Repetti's pool-room. "Looks to me as though we had started something that's going to be powerful hard to stop." "What makes you think it's going to spread?" asked another. "Stands to reason. If women can make bearings cheaper than men, the other bearing companies have got to hire women, too, or else go out of business. And you can bet your life they won't go out of business without giving the other thing a try." "Hang it all, there ought to be a law against women working," said a third. "You mean working for wages?" "Sure I mean working for wages." "How are you going to pass a law like that when women can vote?" impatiently demanded a fourth. "Bill's right," said another. "We've started something here that's going to be hard to stop." "And the next thing you know," continued Bill, looking more thoughtful than ever, "some manufacturer in another line of business--say automobiles--is going to get the idea of cutting his costs and lowering his prices--and pretty soon you'll see women making automobiles, too. You can go to sleep at some of those tools in a motor shop. Pie for the ladies!" "What are us men going to do after a while?" complained another. "Wash the dishes? Or sweep the streets? Or what?" "Search me. I guess it'll come out all right in the end; but, believe me, we certainly pulled a bonehead play when we went on strike because of those four women." "I was against it from the first, myself," said another. "So was I. I voted against the strike." "So did I!" "So did I!" It was a conversation that would have pleased Mary if she could have heard it, especially when it became apparent that those who had caused the strike were becoming so hard to find. But however much they might now regret the first cause, the effect was growing more irresistible with every passing hour. It began to remind Mary of the dikes in Holland. For centuries, working unconsciously more often than not, men had built walls that kept women out of certain industries. Then through their own strike, the men at New Bethel had made a small hole in the wall--and the women had started to trickle through. With the growth of the strike, the gap in the wall had widened and deepened. More and more women were pouring through, with untold millions behind them, a flowing flood of power that was beginning to make Mary feel solemn. Like William the Thoughtful, she, too, saw that she had started something which was going to be hard to stop.... All over the country, women had been watching for the outcome of her experiment, and when the last announcement appeared, a stream of letters and inquiries poured upon her desk.... The reporters returned in greater strength than ever.... It sometimes seemed to Mary that the whole dike was beginning to crack.... Even Jove must have felt a sense of awe when he saw the effect of his first thunderbolt.... "If they would only go slowly," she uneasily told herself, "it would be all right. But if they go too fast..." She made a helpless gesture--again the gesture of those who have started something which they can't stop--but just before she went home that evening she received a telegram which relieved the tension. "May we confer with you Monday at your office regarding situation at New Bethel?" That was the telegram. It was signed by three leaders of labour--the same men, Mary remembered, whom Judge Cutler had seen when he had visited headquarters. "Splendid men, all of them," she remembered him reporting. "I'm sure you'd like them, Mary." "Perhaps they'll be able to help," she told herself. "Anyhow, I'm not going to worry any more until I have seen them." That night, after dinner, two callers appeared at the house on the hill. The first was Helen. Dinner was hardly over when Mary saw her smart coupé turn in to the garage. A minute later Helen ran up the steps, a travelling bag in her hand. She kissed her cousin twice, quotation marks of affection which enclosed the whisper, "Do you mind if I stay all night?" "Of course I don't," said Mary, laughing at her earnestness. "What's the matter? Wally out of town?" "Oh, don't talk to me about Wally! ... No; he isn't out of town. That's why I'm here.... Can I have my old room?" She was down again soon, her eyes brighter than they should have been, her manner so high strung that it wasn't far from being flighty. As though to avoid conversation, she seated herself at the piano and played her most brilliant pieces. "I think you might tell me," said Mary, in the first lull. "I told you long ago. Men are fools! But if he thinks he can bully me--!" "Who?" "Wally!" Mary's exclamation of surprise was drowned in the ballet from Coppelia. "I don't allow any man to worry me!" said Helen over her shoulder. "But, Helen--don't you think it's just possible--that you've been worrying him?" A crashing series of chords was her only answer. In the middle of a run Helen topped and swung around on the bench. "Talking about worrying people," she said. "What's the matter with Burdon down at the office lately? What have you been doing to him?" "Helen! What a thing to say!" "Well, that's how it started, if you want to know! I was trying to cheer him up a little ... and Wally thought he saw more than he did...." For a feverish minute she resumed Delibes' dance, but couldn't finish it. She rose, half stumbling, blinded by her tears and Mary comforted her. "Now, go and get your bag, dear," she said at last, "and I'll go home with you, and stay all night if you like." But Helen wouldn't have that. "No," she said, "I'm going to stay here a few days. I told my maid where she could find me--but I made her promise not to tell Wally till morning--and I'm not going back till he comes for me." "I wonder what he saw..." Mary kept thinking. "Poor Wally!" And then more gently, "Poor Helen! ... It's just as I've always said." Mary was a long time going to sleep that night, thinking of Helen, and Wally and Burdon. Yes, Helen was right about Burdon. Something was evidently worrying him. For the last few days she had noticed how irritable he was, how drawn he looked. "I do believe he's in trouble of some sort," she sighed. "And he looks so reckless, too. I'm glad that Wally did speak to Helen. He isn't safe." And again the thought recurring, "I wonder what Wally saw...." A sound from the lawn beneath her window stopped her. At first she thought she was dreaming--but no, it was a mandolin being played on muted strings. She stole to the window. In the shadow stood a figure and at the first subdued note of his song, Mary knew who it was. "Soft o'er the fountain Ling'ring falls the southern moon--" "If that isn't Wally all over," thought Mary. "He thinks Helen's here, and he wants to make up." But how did he know Helen was there? And why was he singing so sadly, so plaintively just underneath Mary's window? Another possibility came to her mind and she was still wondering what to do when Helen came in, even as she had come in that night so long ago when Wally had sung Juanita before. "Wait till morning! He'll hear from me!" said Helen in indignation. Wally's song was growing fainter. He had evidently turned and was walking toward the driveway. A minute later the rumble of a car was heard. "If he thinks he can talk to me the way he did," said Helen, more indignant than before, "and then come around here like that--serenading you--!" "Oh, Helen, don't," said Mary, trembling. "...I think he was saying good-bye.... Wait till I put the light on...." The distress in her voice cheeked Helen's anger, and a moment later the two cousins were staring at each other, two tragic figures suddenly uncovered from the mantle of light. "I won't go back to my room; I'll stay here," whispered Helen at last. "Don't fret, Mary; he won't do anything." It was a long time, though, before Mary could stop trembling, but an hour later when the telephone bell began ringing downstairs, she found that her old habit of calmness had fallen on her again. "I'll answer it," she said to Helen. "Don't cry now. I'm sure it's nothing." But when she returned in a few minutes, Helen only needed one glance to tell her how far it was from being nothing. "Your maid," said Mary, hurrying to her dresser. "Wally's car ran into the Bar Harbor express at the crossing near the club.... He's terribly hurt, but the doctor says there's just a chance.... You run and dress now, as quickly as you can.... I have a key to the garage...." CHAPTER XXXII The first east-bound express that left New York the following morning carried in one of its Pullmans a famous surgeon and his assistant, bound for New Bethel. In the murk of the smoker ahead was a third passenger whose ticket bore the name of the same city--a bearded man with rounded shoulders and tired eyes, whose clothes betrayed a foreign origin. This was Paul Spencer on the last stage of his journey home. Until the train drew out of the station, the seat by his side was unoccupied. But then another foreign looking passenger entered and made his way up the aisle. You have probably noticed how some instinctive law of selection seems to guide us in choosing our companion in a car where all the window seats are taken. The newcomer passed a number of empty places and sat down by the side of Paul. He was tall, blonde, with dusty looking eyebrows and a beard that was nearly the colour of dead grass. "Russian, I guess," thought Paul, "and probably thinks I am something of the same." The reflection pleased him. "If that's the way I look to him, nobody else is going to guess." When the conductor came, Paul's seat-mate tried to ask if he would have to change cars before reaching his destination, but his language was so broken that he couldn't make himself understood. "I thought he was Russian," Paul nodded to himself, catching a word here and there; and, aloud, he quietly added in his mother's tongue, "It's all right, batuchka; you don't have to change." The other gave him a grateful glance, and soon they were talking together. "A Bolshevist," thought Paul, recognizing now and then a phrase or an argument which he had heard from some of his friends in Rio, "but what's he going to New Bethel for?" As the train drew nearer the place of his birth, Paul grew quieter. Old landmarks, nearly forgotten, began to appear and remind him of the past. "What time do we get there?" he asked a passing brakeman. "Eleven-thirty-four." Paul's companion gave him a look of envy. "You speak English well," said he. Paul didn't like that, and took refuge behind one of those Slavonic indirections which are typical of the Russian mind--an indirection hinting at mysterious purpose and power. "There are times in a life," said he, "when it becomes necessary to speak a foreign language well." They looked at each other then, and simultaneously they nodded. "You are right, batuchka," said the blonde giant at last, matching indirection with indirection. "For myself, I cannot speak English well--ah, no--but I have a language that all men understand--and fear--and when I speak, the houses fall and the mountains shake their heads." His eyes gleamed and he breathed quickly--intoxicated by the poetry of his own words; but Paul had heard too much of that sort of imagery to be impressed. "A Bolshevist, sure enough," he thought. A familiar landscape outside attracted his attention. "We'll be there in a few minutes," he thought. "Yes, there's the road ... and there's the lower bridge.... I hope that old place at the bend of the river's still there. I'll take a walk down this afternoon, and see." At the station he noted that his late companion was being greeted by a group of friends who had evidently come to meet him. Paul stood for a few minutes on the platform, unrecognized, unheeded, jostled by the throng. "The prodigal son returns," he sighed, and slowly crossed the square.... Late in the afternoon a tired figure made its way along the river below the factory. The banks were high, but where the stream turned, a small grass-covered cove had been hollowed out by the edge of the water. "This is the best of all," thought Paul after he had climbed down the bank and, sinking upon the grass, he lay with his face to the sun, as he had so often lain when he was a boy, dreaming those golden dreams of youth which are the heritage of us all. "I was a fool to come," he told himself. "I'll get back to the ship tomorrow...." For where he had hoped to find pleasure, he had found little but bitterness. The sight of the house on the hill, the factory in the hollow below the dam, even the faces which he had recognized had given him a feeling of sadness, of punishment--a feeling which only an outcast can know to the full--an outcast who returns to the scene of his home after many years, unrecognized, unwanted, afraid almost to speak for fear he will betray himself.... For a long time Paul lay there, sometimes staring up at the sky, sometimes half turning to look up the river where he could catch a glimpse of the factory grounds and, farther up, the high cascade of water falling over the dam--the bridge just above it.... Gradually a sense of rest, of relaxation took possession of him. "This is the best of all," he sighed, "but I'll get back to the ship tomorrow...." The sun shone on his face.... His eyes closed.... When he opened them again it was dark. "First time I've slept like that for years," he said, sitting up and stretching. Around him the grass was wet with dew. "Must be getting late," he thought. "I'd better get under shelter." On the bridge above the dam he saw the headlights of a car slowly moving. In the centre it stopped and the lights went out. "That's funny," he thought. "Something the matter with his wires, maybe." He stood up, idly watching. After a few minutes the lights switched on again and the car began to move forward. Behind it appeared the approaching lights of a second machine. "That first car doesn't want to be seen," thought Paul. At each end of the bridge was an arc lamp. As the first car passed under the light, he caught a glimpse of it--a grey touring car, evidently capable of speed. Paul didn't think of this again until he was near the place where he had decided to pass the night. At the corner of the street ahead of him a grey car stopped and three men got out--his blonde companion of the train among them, conspicuous both on account of his height and his beard. "That's the same car," thought Paul, watching it roll away; and frowning as he thought of his Russian acquaintance of the morning he uneasily added, "I wonder what they were doing on that bridge...." CHAPTER XXXIII The next morning Wally was a little better. He was still unconscious, but thanks to the surgeon his breathing was less laboured and he was resting more quietly. Mary had stayed with Helen overnight, and more than once it had occurred to her that even as it requires darkness to bring out the beauty of the stars, so in the shadow of overhanging disaster, Helen's better qualities came into view and shone with unexpected radiance. "I know..." thought Mary. "It's partly because she's sorry, and partly because she's busy, too. She's doing the most useful work she ever did in her life, and it's helping her as much as it's helping him--" They had a day nurse, but Helen had insisted upon doing the night work herself. There were sedatives to be given, bandages to be kept moist. Mary wanted to stay up, too, but Helen didn't like that. "I want to feel that I'm doing something for him--all myself," she said, and with a quivering lip she added, "Oh, Mary... If he ever gets over this...!" And in the morning, to their great joy, the doctor pronounced him a little better. Mary would have stayed longer, but that was the day when the labour leaders were to visit the factory; so after hearing the physician's good report, she started for the office. At ten o'clock she telephoned Helen who told her that Wally had just fallen off into his first quiet sleep. "I'm going to get some sleep myself, now, if I can," she added. "The nurse has promised to call me when he wakes." Mary breathed easier, for some deep instinct told her that Wally would come through it all right. She was still smiling with satisfaction when Joe of the Plumed Hair came in with three cards, the dignity of his manner attesting to the importance of the names. "All right, Joe, send them in," she said. "And I wish you'd find Mr. Forbes and Mr. Woodward, and tell them I would like to see them." "Mr. Woodward hasn't come down yet, but I guess I know where Mr. Forbes is--" He disappeared and returned with the three callers. Mary arose and bowed as they introduced themselves, meanwhile studying them with tranquil attentiveness. "The judge was right," she told herself. "I like them." And when they sat down, there was already a friendly spirit in the air. "This is a wonderful work you are doing here, Miss Spencer," said one. "You think so?" she asked. "You mean for the women to be making bearings?" "Yes. Weren't you surprised yourself when your idea worked out so well?" "But it wasn't my idea," she said. "It was worked out in the war--oh, ever so much further than we have gone here. We are only making bearings, but when the war was on, women made rifles and cartridges and shells, cameras and lenses, telescopes, binoculars and aeroplanes. I can't begin to tell you the things they made--every part from the tiniest screws as big as the end of this pin--to rough castings. They did designing, and drafting, and moulding, and soldering, and machining, and carpentering, and electrical work--even the most unlikely things--things you would never think of--like ship-building, for instance! "Ship-building! Imagine!" she continued. "Why, one of the members of the British Board of Munitions said that if the war had lasted a few months longer, he could have guaranteed to build a battleship from keel to crow's-nest--with all its machinery and equipment--all its arms and ammunition--everything on it--entirely by woman's labour! "So, you see, I can't very well get conceited about what we are doing here--although, of course, I am proud of it, too, in a way--" She stopped then, afraid they would think she was gossipy--and she let them talk for a while. The conversation turned to her last advertisement. "Are you sure your figures are right?" asked one. "Are you sure your women workers are turning out bearings so much cheaper than the men did?" "They are not my figures," she told them. "They are taken from an audit by a firm of public accountants." She mentioned the name of the firm and her three callers nodded with respect. "I have the report here," she said--and showed them the table of comparative efficiency. "Remarkable!" said one. "It only confirms," said Mary, "what often happened during the war." "Perhaps you are working your women too hard." "If you would like to go through the factory," said Mary, "you can judge for yourselves." Archey was in the outer office and they took him with them. They began with the nursery and went on, step by step, until they arrived at the shipping room. "Do you think they are overworked?" asked Mary then. The three callers shook their heads. They had all grown rather silent as the tour had progressed, but in their eyes was the light of those who have seen revelations. "As happy a factory as I have ever seen," said one. "In fact, it makes it difficult to say what we wanted to say." They returned to the office and when they were seated again, Mary said, "What is it you wanted to say?" "We wanted to talk to you about the strike. As we understand your principle, Miss Spencer, you regard it as unfair to bar a woman from any line of work which she may wish to follow--simply because she is a woman." "That's it," she said. "And for the same reason, of course, no man should be debarred from working, simply because he's a man." They smiled at that. "Such being the case," he continued, "I think we ought to be able to find some way of settling this strike to the satisfaction of both sides. Of course you know, Miss Spencer, that you have won the strike. But I think I can read character well enough to know that you will be as fair to the men as you wish them to be with the women." "The strike was absolutely without authority from us," said one of the others. "The men will tell you that. It was a mistake. They will tell you that, too. Worse than a mistake, it was silly." "However, that's ancient history now," said the third. "The present question is: How can we settle this matter to suit both sides?" "Of course I can't discharge any of the women," said Mary thoughtfully, "and I don't think they want to leave--" "They certainly don't look as if they did--" "I have another plan in mind," she said, more thoughtfully than before, "but that's too uncertain yet.... The only other thing I can think of is to equip some of our empty buildings and start the men to work there. Since our new prices went into effect we have been turning business away." "You'll do that, Miss Spencer?" "Of course the men would have to do as much work as the women are doing now--so we could go on selling at the new prices." "You leave that to us--and to them. If there's such a thing as pride in the world, a thousand men are going to turn out as many bearings as a thousand women!" "There's one thing more," said the second; "I notice you have raised your women's wages a dollar a day. Can we tell the men that they are going to get women's wages?" They laughed at this inversion of old ideas. "You can tell them they'll get women's wages," said Mary, "if they can do women's work!" But in spite of her smile, for the last few minutes she had become increasingly conscious of a false note, a forced conclusion in their plans--had caught glimpses of future hostilities, misunderstandings, suspicions. The next remark of one of the labour leaders cleared her thoughts and brought her back face to face with her golden vision. "The strike was silly--yes," one of the leaders said. "But back of the men's actions I think I can see the question which disturbed their minds. If women enter the trades, what are the men going to do? Will there be work enough for everybody?" Even before he stopped speaking, Mary knew that she had found herself, knew that the solid rock was under her feet again. "There is just so much useful work that has to be done in the world every day," she said, "and the more hands there are to do it, the quicker it will get done." That was as far as she had ever gone before, but now she went a step farther. "Let us suppose, for instance, that we had three thousand married men working here eight hours a day to support their families. If now we allow three thousand women to come out of those same homes and work side by side with the men--why, don't you see?--the work could be done in four hours instead of eight, and yet the same family would receive just the same income as they are getting now--the only difference being that instead of the man drawing all the money, he would draw half and his wife would draw half." "A four hour day!" said one of the leaders, almost in awe. "I'm sure it's possible if the women help," said Mary, "and I know they want to help. They want to feel that they are doing something--earning something--just the same as a man does. They want to progress--develop-- "We used to think they couldn't do men's work," she continued. "I used to think so, myself. So we kept them fastened up at home--something like squirrels in cages--because we thought housework was the only thing they could do.... "But, oh, how the war has opened our eyes!... "There's nothing a man can do that a woman can't do--nothing! And now the question is: Are we going to crowd her back into her kitchen, when if we let her out we could do the world's work in four hours instead of eight?" "Of course there are conditions where four hours wouldn't work," said one of the leaders half to himself. "I can see that in many places it might be feasible, but not everywhere--" "No plan works everywhere. No plan is perfect," said Mary earnestly. "I've thought of that, too. The world is doing its best to progress--to make people happier--to make life more worth living all the time. But no single step will mark the end of human progress. Each step is a step: that's all... "Take the eight hour day, for instance. It doesn't apply to women at all--I mean house women. And nearly half the people are house women. It doesn't apply to farmers, either; and more than a quarter of the people in America are on farms. But you don't condemn the eight hour day--do you?--just because it doesn't fit everybody?" "A four hour day!" repeated the first leader, still speaking in tones of awe. "If that wouldn't make labour happy," said the second, "I don't know what would." "Myself, I'd like to see it tried out somewhere," said the third. "It sounds possible--the way Miss Spencer puts it--but will it work?" "That's the very thing to find out," said Mary, "and it won't take long." She told them about the model bungalows. "I intended to try it with twenty-five families first," she said, taking a list from her desk. "Here are the names of a hundred women working here, whose husbands are among the strikers. I thought that out of these hundred families, I might be able to find twenty-five who would be willing to try the experiment." The three callers looked at each other and then they nodded approval. "So while we're having lunch," she said, "I'll send these women out to find their husbands, and we'll talk to them altogether." It was half past one when Mary entered the rest room with her three visitors and Archey. Nearly all the women had found their men, and they were waiting with evident curiosity. As simply as she could, Mary repeated the plan which she had outlined to the leaders. "So there you are," she said in conclusion. "I want to find twenty-five families to give the idea a trial. They will live in those new bungalows--you have probably all seen them. "There's a gas range in each to make cooking easy. They have steam heat from the factory--no stoves--no coal--no ashes to bother with. There's electric light, refrigerator, bathroom, hot and cold water--everything I could think of to save labour and make housework easy. "Now, Mrs. Strauss, suppose you and your husband decide to try this new arrangement. You would both come here and work till twelve o'clock, and the afternoons you would have to yourselves. "In the afternoons you could go shopping, or fishing, or walking, or boating, or skating, or visiting, or you could take up a course of study, or read a good book, or go to the theatre, or take a nap, or work in your garden--anything you liked.... "In short, after twelve o'clock, the whole day would be your own--for your own development, your own pleasure, your own ideas--anything you wanted to use it for. Do you understand it, Mrs. Strauss?" "Indeed I do. I think it's fine." "Is Mr. Strauss here? Does he understand it?" "Yes, I understand it," said a voice among the men. Assisted by his neighbours he arose. "I'm to work four hours a day," he said, "and so's the wife. Instead of drawing full money, I draw half and she draws half. We'd have to chip in on the family expenses. Every day is to be like Saturday--work in the morning and the afternoon off. Suits me to a dot, if it suits her. I always did think Saturday was the one sensible day in the week." A chorus of masculine laughter attested approval to this sentiment and Mr. Strauss sat down abashed. "Well, now, if you all understand it," said Mary, "I want twenty-five families who will volunteer to try this four-hour-a-day arrangement--so we can see how it works. All those who would like to try it--will they please stand up?" Presently one of the labour leaders turned to Mary with a beaming eye. "Looks as though they'll have to draw lots," said he... "They are all standing up...!" CHAPTER XXXIV The afternoon was well advanced when her callers left, and Mary had to make up her work as best she could. A violent thunder-storm had arisen, but in spite of the lightning she telephoned Helen. Wally was still improving. "I'll be over as soon as I've had dinner," said Mary, "but don't expect me early." She was hanging up the receiver when the senior accountant entered, a little more detached, a little more impersonal than she had ever seen him. "We shall have our final report ready in the morning," he said. "That's good," said Mary, starting to sign her letters. "I'll be glad to see it any time." At the door he turned, one hand on the knob. "I haven't seen Mr. Woodward, Jr., today. Do you expect him tomorrow?" At any other time she would have asked herself, "Why is he inquiring for Burdon?"--but she had so much work waiting on her desk, demanding her attention, that it might be said she was talking subconsciously, hardly knowing what was asked or answered. It was dusk when she was through, and the rain had stopped for a time. Near the entrance to the house on the hill--a turn where she always had to drive slowly--a shabby man was standing--a bearded man with rounded shoulders and tired eyes. "I wonder who he is?" thought Mary. "That's twice I've seen him standing there...." Without seeming to do so, a pretence which only a woman can accomplish, she looked at him again. "How he stares!" she breathed. As you have guessed, the waiting man was Paul. For the first time that morning he had heard about the strike--had heard other things, too--in the cheap hotel where he had spent the night--obscure but alarming rumours which had led him to change his plans about an immediate return to his ship. A bit here, a bit there, he had pieced the story of the strike together--a story which spared no names, and would have made Burdon Woodward's ears burn many a time if he had heard it. "There's a bunch of Bolshevikis come in now--" this was one of the things which Paul had been told. "'Down with the capitalists who prey on women!' That's them! But it hasn't caught on. Sounds sort of flat around here to those who know the women. So this bunch of Bols has been laying low the last few days. They've hired a boat and go fishing in the lake. They don't fool me, though--not much they don't. They're up to some deviltry, you can bet your sweet life, and we'll be hearing about it before long--" Paul's mind turned to the blonde giant who had ridden on the train from New York, and the group of friends who had been waiting for him at the station. "He was up to something--the way he spoke," thought Paul. "And last night he was in that car on the bridge.... Where do these Bols hang out?" he asked aloud. He was told they made their headquarters at Repetti's pool-room, but though he looked in that establishment half a dozen times in the course of the day, he failed to see them. "Looking for somebody?" an attendant asked him. "Yes," said Paul. "Tall man with a light beard. Came in from New York yesterday." "Oh, that bunch," grinned the attendant. "They've gone fishing again. Going to get wet, too, if they ain't back soon." For over three hours then the storm had raged, the rain falling with the force of a cloudburst. At seven it stopped and, going out, Paul found himself drifting toward the house on the hill. It was there he saw Mary turning in at the gate. He stood for a long time looking at the lights in the windows and thinking those thoughts which can only come to the Ishmaels of the world--to those sons of Hagar who may never return to their father's homes. "I was a fool for coming," he half groaned, tasting the dregs of bitterness. Unconsciously he compared the things that were with the things that might have been. "She certainly acted like a queen to Rosa," he thought once. For a moment he felt a wild desire to enter the gate, to see his home again, to make himself known--but the next moment he knew that this was his punishment--"to look, to long, but ne'er again to feel the warmth of home." He returned to the pool-room, his eyes more tired than ever, and found a seat in a far corner. Some one had left a paper in the next chair. Paul was reading it when he became conscious of some one standing in front of him, waiting for him to look up. It was his acquaintance of the day before--the Russian traveller--and Paul perceived that he was excited, and was holding himself very high. "Good evening, batuchka," said Paul, and looking at the other's wet clothes he added, "I see you were caught in the storm." "You are right, batuchka," said the other, and leaning over, his voice slightly shaking, he added, "Others, too, are about to be caught in a storm." He raised his finger with a touch of grandeur and took the chair by Paul's side, breathing hard and obviously holding himself at a tension. "Your friends aren't with you tonight?" Again the Russian spoke in parables. "Some men run from great events. Others stop to witness them." "Something in the wind," thought Paul. "I think he'll talk." Aloud he said, pretending to yawn, "Great events, batuchka? There are no more great events in the world." "I tell you, there are great events," said the other, "wherever there are great men to do them." "You mean your friends?" asked Paul. "But no. Why should I ask! For great men would not spend their days in catching little fishes--am I not right, batuchka?" "A thousand times right," said the other, his grandeur growing, "but instead of catching little fishes, what do you say of a man who can let loose a large fish--an iron fish--a fish that can speak with a loud noise and make the whole world tremble--!" Paul quickly raised his finger to his lips. "Let's go outside," he said. "Some one may hear us here..." CHAPTER XXXV At eight o'clock Mary had gone to Helen's. "If I'm not back at ten, I sha'n't be home tonight," she had told Hutchins as she left the house. At half past eight Archey called, full of the topic which had been started that afternoon. Hutchins told him what Mary had said. "All right," he said. "I'll wait." He left his car under the porte cochère, and went upstairs to chat with Miss Cordelia and Miss Patty. At twenty to ten, Hutchins was looking through the hall window up the drive when he saw a figure running toward the house. The door-bell rang--a loud, insistent peal. Hutchins opened the door and saw a man standing there, shabby and spattered with mud. "Is Miss Spencer in?" "No; she's out." The hall light shone on the visitor's face and he stared hard at the butler. "Hutch," he said in a quieter voice, "don't you remember me?" "N-n-no, sir; I think not, sir," said the other--and he, too, began to stare. "Don't you remember the day I fell out of the winesap tree, and you carried me in, and the next week I tried to climb on top of that hall clock, and knocked it over, and you tried to catch it, and it knocked you over, too?" The butler's lips moved, but at first he couldn't speak. "Is it you, Master Paul?" he whispered at last, as though he were seeing a visitor from the other world. And again "Is it you, Master Paul?" "You know it is. Listen, now. Pull yourself together. We've got to get to the dam before ten o'clock, or they'll blow it up. Put your hat on. Have you a car here?" In the hall the clock chimed a quarter to ten. The tone of its bell seemed to act as a spur to them both. "There's a young gentleman here," said Hutchins, suddenly turning. "I'll run and get him right away." As they speeded along the road which led to the bridge above the dam, Paul told what he had heard--Archey in the front seat listening as well as he could. "He didn't come right out and say so," Paul rapidly explained, "but he dropped hints that a blind man could see. I met him on a train yesterday--a Russian--a fanatic--proud of what he's done--! "As nearly as I can make it out, they have got a boat leaning against the dam with five hundred pounds of TNT in it--or hanging under it--I don't know which-- "There is a battery in the boat, and clockwork to set the whole thing off at ten o'clock tonight. He didn't come right out and say so, you understand, and I may be making a fool of myself. But if I am--God knows, it won't be the first time ... Anyhow we'll soon know." It was a circuitous road that led to the dam. The rain was pouring again, the streets deserted. Once they were held up at a railroad crossing.... The clock in the car pointed at five minutes to ten when their headlights finally fell upon the bridge. As they drew nearer they could hear nothing in the darkness but the thunder of the water. The bridge was a low one and only twenty yards up the stream from the falls; but though they strained their eyes to the uttermost they couldn't see as far as the dam. "I'll turn one of the headlights," said Archey, "and we'll drive over slow." The lamp, turned at an angle, swept over the edge of the dam like a searchlight. Half way over the bridge the car stopped. They had found what they were looking for. "Why doesn't it go over?" shouted Archey, jumping out. "Anchored to a tree up the bend, I guess," Paul shouted back. "They must have played her down the stream after dark." Nearly over the dam was a boat painted black and covered with tarpaulin. "The explosive is probably hanging from a chain underneath," thought Paul. "The current would hold it tight against the mason-work." "We ought to have brought some help," shouted Archey, suddenly realizing. "If that dam breaks, it will sweep away the factory and part of the town.... What are you going to do?" Paul had dropped his hat in the stream below the bridge and was watching to see where it went over the crest. It swept over the edge a few feet to the right of the boat. He moved up a little and tried next by dropping his coat. This caught fairly against the boat. Then before they knew what he was doing, he had climbed over the rail of the bridge and had dropped into the swiftly moving water below. "Done it!" gasped Hutchins. Paul's arms were clinging around the bow of the boat. He twisted his body, the current helping him, and gained the top of the tarpaulin. Under the spotlight thrown by the car, it was like a scene from some epic drama, staged by the gods for their own amusement--man against the elements, courage against the unknown-life against death. "He's feeling for his knife," thought Archey. "He's got it!" Paul ran his blade around the cloth and had soon tossed the tarpaulin over the dam. Then he made a gesture of helplessness. From the bridge, they could see that the stern of the boat was heavily boxed in. "It's under there!" groaned Hutchins. "He can't get to it!" Archey ran to the car for a hammer, but Paul had climbed to the bow and was looking at the ring in which was fastened the cable that held the boat in place. The strain of the current had probably weakened this, for the next thing they saw--Paul was tugging at the cable with all his strength, worrying it from side to side, kicking at the bow with the front of his heel, evidently trying to pull the ring from its socket. "If that gives way, the whole thing goes over," cried Archey. "I'll throw him the hammer." Even as he spoke the ring suddenly came out of the bow; and thrown off his balance by his own effort, Paul went over the side of the boat and in the same moment had disappeared from view. "Gone ..." gasped Hutchins. "And now that's going after him...." The boat was lurching forward--unsteadily--unevenly-- "Something chained to the bottom, all right," thought Archey, all eyes to see, the hammer still in his hand. As they watched, the boat tipped forward--lurched--vanished--followed quickly by two cylindrical objects which, in the momentary glimpse they caught of them, had the appearance of steel barrels. The two on the bridge were still looking at each other, when Archey thought to glance at the clock in his car. It was on the stroke of ten. "That may go off yet if the thing holds together," shouted Archey. "It was built good and strong...." They stood there for a minute looking down into the darkness and were just on the point of turning back to the car when an explosion arose from the racing waters far below the dam.... Presently the wind, blowing up stream, drenched their faces with spray.... Splinters of rock and sand began to fall.... CHAPTER XXXVI The next morning ushered in one of those days in June which make the spirit rejoice. When Mary left Helen's, she thought she had never known the sky so blue, the world so fair, the air so full of the breath of life, the song of birds, the scent of flowers. Wally was definitely out of danger and Helen was nursing him back to strength like a ministering angel, every touch a caress, every glance a look of love. "Now if Burdon will only leave her alone," thought Mary as she turned the car toward the factory. She needn't have worried. Before she had time to look at her mail, Joe announced that the two accountants were waiting to see her. "They've been hanging around for the last half hour," he confidentially added. "I guess they want to catch a train or something." "All right, Joe," she nodded. "Show them in." They entered, and for the first time since she had known them, Mary thought she saw a trace of excitement in their manner--such, for instance, as you might expect to see in two learned astronomers who had seen Sirius the dog-star rushing over the heavens in pursuit of the Big Bear--or the Virgin seating herself in Cassiopeia's Chair. "We finished our report last night," said the elder, handing her a copy. "As you will see, we have discovered a very serious situation in the treasurer's department." It struck Mary later that she showed no surprise. Indeed, more than once in the last few days, when noticing Burdon's nervous recklessness, she had found herself connecting it with the auditors' work upon the books. "I would have asked Mr. Woodward for an explanation," continued the accountant, "but he has been absent yesterday and today. However, as you will see, no explanation can possibly cover the facts disclosed. There is a clear case for criminal action against him." "I don't think there will be any action," said Mary, looking up after a pause. "I'm sure his father will make good the shortage." But when she looked at the total she couldn't help thinking, "It will be a tight squeeze, though, even for Uncle Stanley." Now that it was over, she felt relieved, as though a load had lifted from her mind. "He'll never bother Helen again," she found herself thinking. "Perhaps I had better telephone Judge Cutler and let him handle it--" The judge promised to be down at once, and Mary turned to her mail. Near the bottom she found a letter addressed in Burdon's writing. It was unstamped and had evidently been left at the office. The date-line simply said "Midnight." It was a long letter, some of it clear enough and some of it obscure. Mary was puzzling over it when Judge Cutler and Hutchins entered. As far as she could remember, it was the first time that the butler had ever appeared at the factory. "Anything wrong?" she asked in alarm. "He was in my office when you telephoned," said the judge. "I'll let him tell his story as he told it to me.... I think I ought to ask you something first, though.... Did any one ever tell you that you had a brother Paul? ..." "Yes," said Mary, her heart contracting. Throughout the recital she sat breathless. Now and then the colour rose to her cheeks, and more than once the tears came to her eyes, especially when Hutchins' voice broke, and when he said in tones of pride, "Before we could stop him, Master Paul was over the rail and in the water--" More than once Mary looked away to hide her emotion, glancing around the room at her forebears who had never seemed so attentive as then. "You may well listen," thought Mary. "He may have been the black sheep of the family, but you see what he did in the end...." Hutchins told them about the search which he and Archey had made up and down the banks, aided with a flashlight, climbing, calling, and sometimes all but falling in the stream themselves. "But it was no use, Miss Mary," he concluded. "Master Paul is past all finding, I'm afraid." For a long time Mary sat silent, her handkerchief to her eyes. "Archey is still looking," said the judge, rising. "I'll start another searching party at once. And telephone the towns below, too. We are bound to find him if we keep on looking, you know--" They found him sooner than they expected, in the grassy basin at the bend of the river, where the high water of the night before had borne him--in the place where he had loved to dream his dreams of youth and adventure when life was young and the future full of promise. He was lying on his side, his head on his arm, his face turned to the whispering river, and there perhaps he was dreaming again--those eternal dreams which only those who have gone to their rest can know. CHAPTER XXXVII Time, quickly passing, brought Mary to another wonderful morning in the Story of her life. Even as her father's death had broadened her outlook, so now Paul's heroism gave her a deeper glance at the future, a more tolerant view of the past. On the morning in question, Helen brought Wally to the office. He was now entirely recovered, but Helen still mothered him, every touch a caress, every glance a look of love. Mary grew very thoughtful as she watched them. The next morning they were leaving for a tour of the Maine woods. When they left, an architect called. Under his arm he had a portfolio of plans for a Welfare Building which he had drawn exactly according to Mary's suggestions. As long as the idea had been a nebulous one--drawn only in fancy and coloured with nothing stronger than conversation, she had liked it immensely; but seeing now precisely how the building would look--how the space would be divided, she found herself shaking her head. "It's my own fault," she said. "You have followed out every one of my ideas--but somehow--well, I don't like it: that's all. If you'll leave these drawings, I'll think them over and call you up again in a few days." At Judge Cutler's suggestion, Archey had been elected treasurer to take Burdon's place. Mary took the plans into his office and showed them to him. They were still discussing them, sitting at opposite sides of his flat-top desk, when the twelve o'clock whistle blew. A few minutes later, the four-hour workers passed through the gate, the men walking with their wives, the children playing between. "I wonder how it's going to turn out," said Archey. "I wonder ..." said Mary. "Of course it's too early to tell yet. I don't know.... Time will tell." "It was the only solution," he told her. "I wonder ..." she mused again. "Anyhow it was something definite. If women are really going to take up men's trades, it's only right that they should know what it means. As long as we just keep talking on general lines about a thing, we can make it sound as nice as we like. But when we try to put theory into practice ... it doesn't always seem the same. "Take these plans, for instance," she ruefully remarked. "I thought I knew exactly what I wanted. But now that I see it drawn out to scale, I don't like it. And that, perhaps, is what we've been doing here in the factory. We have taken a view of woman's possible future and we have drawn it out to scale. Everybody can see what it looks like now--they can think about it--and talk about it--and then they can decide whether they want it or not...." He caught a note in her voice that had a touch of emptiness in it. "Do you know what I would do if I were you?" he gently asked. She looked at him, his eyes eager with sympathy, his smile tender and touched with an admiration so deep that it might be called devotion. Never before had Archey seemed so restful to her--never before with him had she felt so much at home. "If I smile at him, he'll blush," she caught herself thinking--and experienced a rising sense of elation at the thought. "What would you do!" she asked. "I'd go away for a few weeks.... I believe the change would do you good." She smiled at him and watched his responding colour with satisfaction. "If Vera was right," she thought, "that's Chapter One the way he just spoke. Now next--he'll try to touch me." Her eyes ever so dreamy, she reached her hand over the desk and began playing with, the blotter. "Why, he's trembling a little," she thought. "And he's looking at it.... But, oh, isn't he shy!" She tried to hum then and lightly beat time with her hand. "No, it isn't the only thing in life," she repeated to herself, "but--just as I said before--sooner or later--it becomes awfully important--" She caught Archey's glance and smilingly led it back to her waiting fingers. "How dark your hand is by the side of mine," she said. He rose to his feet. "Mary!" "Yes ... Archey?" "If I were a rich man--or you were a poor girl...." Mary, too, arose. "Well," she laughed unsteadily, "we may be ... some day...." Ten minutes later Sir Joseph of the Plumed Crest opened the door with a handful of mail. He suddenly stopped ... stared ... smiled ... and silently withdrew. THE END 
453	----	EMMA McCHESNEY & CO. by Edna Ferber CONTENTS CHAPTER I. BROADWAY TO BUENOS AIRES II. THANKS TO MISS MORRISSEY III. A CLOSER CORPORATION IV. BLUE SERGE V. "HOOPS, MY DEAR!" VI. SISTERS UNDER THEIR SKIN VII. AN ETUDE FOR EMMA EMMA McCHESNEY & CO. I BROADWAY TO BUENOS AIRES The door marked "MRS. MCCHESNEY" was closed. T. A. Buck, president of the Buck Featherloom Petticoat Company, coming gaily down the hall, stopped before it, dismayed, as one who, with a spicy bit of news at his tongue's end, is met with rebuff before the first syllable is voiced. That closed door meant: "Busy. Keep out." "She'll be reading a letter," T. A. Buck told himself grimly. Then he turned the knob and entered his partner's office. Mrs. Emma McChesney was reading a letter. More than that, she was poring over it so that, at the interruption, she glanced up in a maddeningly half-cocked manner which conveyed the impression that, while her physical eye beheld the intruder, her mental eye was still on the letter. "I knew it," said T. A. Buck morosely. Emma McChesney put down the letter and smiled. "Sit down--now that you're in. And if you expect me to say, 'Knew what?' you're doomed to disappointment." T. A. Buck remained standing, both gloved hands clasping his walking stick on which he leaned. "Every time I come into this office, you're reading the latest scrawl from your son. One would think Jock's letters were deathless masterpieces. I believe you read them at half-hour intervals all week, and on Sunday get 'em all out and play solitaire with them." Emma McChesney's smile widened frankly to a grin. "You make me feel like a cash-girl who's been caught flirting with the elevator starter. Have I been neglecting business?" "Business? No; you've been neglecting me!" "Now, T. A., you've just come from the tailor's, and I suppose it didn't fit in the back." "It isn't that," interrupted Buck, "and you know it. Look here! That day Jock went away and we came back to the office, and you said----" "I know I said it, T. A., but don't remind me of it. That wasn't a fair test. I had just seen Jock leave me to take his own place in the world. You know that my day began and ended with him. He was my reason for everything. When I saw him off for Chicago that day, and knew he was going there to stay, it seemed a million miles from New York. I was blue and lonely and heart-sick. If the office-boy had thrown a kind word to me I'd have broken down and wept on his shoulder." Buck, still standing, looked down between narrowed lids at his business partner. "Emma McChesney," he said steadily, "do you mean that?" Mrs. McChesney, the straightforward, looked up, looked down, fiddled with the letter in her hand. "Well--practically yes--that is--I thought, now that you're going to the mountains for a month, it might give me a chance to think--to----" "And d'you know what I'll do meanwhile, out of revenge on the sex? I've just ordered three suits of white flannel, and I shall break every feminine heart in the camp, regardless-- Oh, say, that's what I came in to tell you! Guess whom I saw at the tailor's?" "Well, Mr. Bones, whom did you, and so forth?" "Fat Ed Meyers. I just glimpsed him in one of the fitting-rooms. And they were draping him in white." Emma McChesney sat up with a jerk. "Are you sure?" "Sure? There's only one figure like that. He had the thing on and was surveying himself in the mirror--or as much of himself as could be seen in one ordinary mirror. In that white suit, with his red face above it, he looked like those pictures you see labeled, 'Sunrise on Snow-covered Mountain.'" "Did he see----" "He dodged when he saw me. Actually! At least, he seems to have the decency to be ashamed of the deal he gave us when he left us flat in the thick of his Middle Western trip and went back to the Sans-Silk Skirt Company. I wanted him to know I had seen him. As I passed, I said, 'You'll mow 'em down in those clothes, Meyers.'" Buck sat down in his leisurely fashion, and laughed his low, pleasant laugh. "Can't you see him, Emma, at the seashore?" But something in Emma McChesney's eyes, and something in her set, unsmiling face, told him that she was not seeing seashores. She was staring straight at him, straight through him, miles beyond him. There was about her that tense, electric, breathless air of complete detachment, which always enveloped her when her lightning mind was leaping ahead to a goal unguessed by the slower thinking. "What's your tailor's name?" "Name? Trotter. Why?" Emma McChesney had the telephone operator before he could finish. "Get me Trotter, the tailor, T-r-o-double-t-e-r. Say I want to speak to the tailor who fits Mr. Ed Meyers, of the Sans-Silk Skirt Company." T. A. Buck leaned forward, mouth open, eyes wide. "Well, what in the name of----" "I'll let you know in a minute. Maybe I'm wrong. It's just one of my hunches. But for ten years I sold Featherlooms through the same territory that Ed Meyers was covering for the Sans-Silk Skirt people. It didn't take me ten years to learn that Fat Ed hadn't the decency to be ashamed of any deal he turned, no matter how raw. And let me tell you, T. A.: If he dodged when he saw you it wasn't because he was ashamed of having played us low-down. He was contemplating playing lower-down. Of course, I may be----" She picked up the receiver in answer to the bell. Then, sweetly, her calm eyes smiling into Buck's puzzled ones: "Hello! Is this Mr. Meyers' tailor? I'm to ask if you are sure that the grade he selected is the proper weight for the tropics. What? Oh, you say you assured him it was the weight of flannel you always advise for South America. And you said they'd be ready when? Next week? Thank you." She hung up the receiver. The pupils of her eyes were dilated. Her cheeks were very pink as always under excitement. She stood up, her breath coming rather quickly. "Hurray for the hunch! It holds. Fat Ed Meyers is going down to South America for the Sans-Silk Company. It's what I've been planning to do for the last six months. You remember I spoke of it. You pooh-poohed the idea. It means hundreds of thousands of dollars to the Sans-Silk people if they get it. But they won't get it." T. A. Buck stood up suddenly. "Look here, Emma! If you're----" "I certainly am. Nothing can stop me. The skirt business has been--well, you know what it's been for the last two years. The South American boats sail twice a month. Fat Ed Meyers' clothes are promised for next week. That means he isn't sailing until week after next. But the next boat sails in three days." She picked up a piece of paper from her desk and tossed it into Buck's hand. "That's the letter I was reading when you came in. No; don't read it. Let me tell you instead." Buck threw cane, hat, gloves, and letter on the broad desk, thrust his hands into his pockets, and prepared for argument. But he got only as far as: "But I won't allow it! You couldn't get away in three days, at any rate. And at the end of two weeks you'll have come to your senses, and besides----" "T. A., I don't mean to be rude. But here are your hat and stick and gloves. It's going to take me just forty-eight hours to mobilize." "But, Emma, even if you do get in ahead of Meyers, it's an insane idea. A woman can't go down there alone. It isn't safe. It's bad enough for a man to tackle it. Besides, we're holding our own." "That's just it. When a doctor issues a bulletin to the effect that the patient is holding his own, you may have noticed that the relatives always begin to gather." "It's a bubble, this South American idea. Oshkosh and Southport and Altoona money has always been good enough for us. If we can keep that trade, we ought to be thankful." Emma McChesney pushed her hair back from her forehead with one gesture and patted it into place with another. Those two gestures, to one who knew her, meant loss of composure for one instant, followed by the quick regaining of it the next. "Let's not argue about it now. Suppose we wait until to-morrow--when it's too late. I am thankful for the trade we've got. But I don't want to be narrow about it. My thanking capacity is such that I can stretch it out to cover some things we haven't got yet. I've been reading up on South America." "Reading!" put in Buck hotly. "What actual first-hand information can you get about a country from books?" "Well, then, I haven't only been reading. I've been talking to everyone I could lay my hands on who has been down there and who knows. Those South American women love dress--especially the Argentines. And do you know what they've been wearing? Petticoats made in England! You know what that means. An English woman chooses a petticoat like she does a husband--for life. It isn't only a garment. It's a shelter. It's built like a tent. If once I can introduce the T. A. Buck Featherloom petticoat and knickerbocker into sunny South America, they'll use those English and German petticoats for linoleum floor-coverings. Heaven knows they'll fit the floor better than the human form!" But Buck was unsmiling. The muscles of his jaw were tense. "I won't let you go. Understand that! I won't allow it!" "Tut, tut, T. A.! What is this? Cave-man stuff?" "Emma, I tell you it's dangerous. It isn't worth the risk, no matter what it brings us." Emma McChesney struck an attitude, hand on heart. "'Heaven will protect the working girrul,'" she sang. Buck grabbed his hat. "I'm going to wire Jock." "All right! That'll save me fifty cents. Do you know what he'll wire back? 'Go to it. Get the tango on its native tairn'--or words to that effect." "Emma, use a little logic and common sense!" There was a note in Buck's voice that brought a quick response from Mrs. McChesney. She dropped her little air of gayety. The pain in his voice, and the hurt in his eyes, and the pleading in his whole attitude banished the smile from her face. It had not been much of a smile, anyway. T. A. knew her genuine smiles well enough to recognize a counterfeit at sight. And Emma McChesney knew that he knew. She came over and laid a hand lightly on his arm. "T. A., I don't know anything about logic. It is a hot-house plant. But common sense is a field flower, and I've gathered whole bunches of it in my years of business experience. I'm not going down to South America for a lark. I'm going because the time is ripe to go. I'm going because the future of our business needs it. I'm going because it's a job to be handled by the most experienced salesman on our staff. And I'm just that. I say it because it's true. Your father, T. A., used to see things straighter and farther than any business man I ever knew. Since his death made me a partner in this firm, I find myself, when I'm troubled or puzzled, trying to see a situation as he'd see it if he were alive. It's like having an expert stand back of you in a game of cards, showing you the next move. That's the way I'm playing this hand. And I think we're going to take most of the tricks away from Fat Ed Meyers." T. A. Buck's eyes traveled from Emma McChesney's earnest, glowing face to the hand that rested on his arm. He reached over and gently covered that hand with his own. "I suppose you must be right, little woman. You always are. Dad was the founder of this business. It was the pride of his life. That word 'founder' has two meanings. I never want to be responsible for its second meaning in connection with this concern." "You never will be, T. A." "Not with you at the helm." He smiled rather sadly. "I'm a good, ordinary, common seaman. But you've got imagination, and foresight, and nerve, and daring, and that's the stuff that admirals are made of." "Bless you, T. A.! I knew you'd see the thing as I do after the first shock was over. It has always been nip and tuck between the Sans-Silk Company and us. You gave me the hint that showed me their plans. Now help me follow it up." Buck picked up his hat, squared his shoulders and fumbled with his gloves like a bashful schoolboy. "You--you couldn't kill two birds with one stone on this trip, could you, Mrs. Mack?" Mrs. McChesney, back at her desk again, threw him an inquiring glance over her shoulder. "You might make it a combination honeymoon and Featherloom expedition." "T. A. Buck!" exclaimed Emma McChesney. Then, as Buck dodged for the door: "Just for that, I'm going to break this to you. You know that I intended to handle the Middle Western territory for one trip, or until we could get a man to take Fat Ed Meyers' place." "Well?" said Buck apprehensively. "I leave in three days. Goodness knows how long I'll be gone! A business deal down there is a ceremony. And--you won't need any white-flannel clothes in Rock Island, Illinois." Buck, aghast, faced her from the doorway. "You mean, I----" "Just that," smiled Emma McChesney pleasantly. And pressed the button that summoned the stenographer. In the next forty-eight hours, Mrs. McChesney performed a series of mental and physical calisthenics that would have landed an ordinary woman in a sanatorium. She cleaned up with the thoroughness and dispatch of a housewife who, before going to the seashore, forgets not instructions to the iceman, the milkman, the janitor, and the maid. She surveyed her territory, behind and before, as a general studies troops and countryside before going into battle; she foresaw factory emergencies, dictated office policies, made sure of staff organization like the business woman she was. Out in the stock-room, under her supervision, there was scientifically packed into sample-trunks and cases a line of Featherloom skirts and knickers calculated to dazzle Brazil and entrance Argentina. And into her own personal trunk there went a wardrobe, each article of which was a garment with a purpose. Emma McChesney knew the value of a smartly tailored suit in a business argument. T. A. Buck canceled his order at the tailor's, made up his own line for the Middle West, and prepared to storm that prosperous and important territory for the first time in his business career. The South American boat sailed Saturday afternoon. Saturday morning found the two partners deep in one of those condensed, last-minute discussions. Mrs. McChesney opened a desk drawer, took out a leather-covered pocket notebook, and handed it to Buck. A tiny smile quivered about her lips. Buck took it, mystified. "Your last diary?" "Something much more important. I call it 'The Salesman's Who's Who.' Read it as you ought your Bible." "But what?" Buck turned the pages wonderingly. He glanced at a paragraph, frowned, read it aloud, slowly. "Des Moines, Iowa, Klein & Company. Miss Ella Sweeney, skirt buyer. Old girl. Skittish. Wants to be entertained. Take her to dinner and the theater." He looked up, dazed. "Good Lord, what is this? A joke?" "Wait until you see Ella; you won't think it's a joke. She'll buy only your smoothest numbers, ask sixty days' dating, and expect you to entertain her as you would your rich aunt." Buck returned to the little book dazedly. He flipped another leaf--another. Then he read in a stunned sort of voice: "Sam Bloom, Paris Emporium, Duluth. See Sadie." He closed the book. "Say, see here, Emma, do you mean to----" "Sam is the manager," interrupted Mrs. McChesney pleasantly, "and he thinks he does the buying, but the brains of that business is a little girl named Sadie Harris. She's a wonder. Five years from now, if she doesn't marry Sam, she'll be one of those ten-thousand-a-year foreign buyers. Play your samples up to Sammy, but quote your prices down to Sadie. Read the next one, T. A." Buck read on, his tone lifeless: "Miss Sharp. Berg Brothers, Omaha. Strictly business. Known among the trade as the human cactus. Canceled a ten-thousand-dollar order once because the grateful salesman called her 'girlie.' Stick to skirts." Buck slapped the book smartly against the palm of his hand. "Do you mean to tell me that you made this book out for me? Do you mean to say that I have to cram on this like a kid studying for exams? That I'll have to cater to the personality of the person I'm selling to? Why--it's--it's----" Emma McChesney nodded calmly. "I don't know how this trip of yours is going to affect the firm's business, T. A. But it's going to be a liberal education for you. You'll find that you'll need that little book a good many times before you're through. And while you're following its advice, do this: forget that your name is Buck, except for business purposes; forget that your family has always lived in a brownstone mausoleum in Seventy-second street; forget that you like your chops done just so, and your wine at such-and-such a temperature; get close to your trade. They're an awfully human lot, those Middle Western buyers. Don't chuck them under the chin, but smile on 'em. And you've got a lovely smile, T. A." Buck looked up from the little leather book. And, as he gazed at Emma McChesney, the smile appeared and justified its praise. "I'll have this to comfort me, anyway, Emma. I'll know that while I'm smirking on the sprightly Miss Sweeney, your face will be undergoing various agonizing twists in the effort to make American prices understood by an Argentine who can't speak anything but Spanish." "Maybe I am short on Spanish, but I'm long on Featherlooms. I may not know a senora from a chili con carne, but I know Featherlooms from the waistband to the hem." She leaned forward, dimpling like fourteen instead of forty. "And you've noticed--haven't you, T. A.?--that I've got an expressive countenance." Buck leaned forward, too. His smile was almost gone. "I've noticed a lot of things, Emma McChesney. And if you persist in deviling me for one more minute, I'm going to mention a few." Emma McChesney surveyed her cleared desk, locked the top drawer with a snap, and stood up. "If you do I'll miss my boat. Just time to make Brooklyn. Suppose you write 'em." That Ed Meyers might know nothing of her sudden plans, she had kept the trip secret. Besides Buck and the office staff, her son Jock was the only one who knew. But she found her cabin stocked like a prima donna's on a farewell tour. There were boxes of flowers, a package of books, baskets of fruit, piles of magazines, even a neat little sheaf of telegrams, one from the faithful bookkeeper, one from the workroom foreman, two from salesmen long in the firm's employ, two from Jock in Chicago. She read them, her face glowing. He and Buck had vied with each other in supplying her with luxuries that would make pleasanter the twenty-three days of her voyage. She looked about the snug cabin, her eyes suddenly misty. Buck poked his head in at the door. "Come on up on deck, Emma; I've only a few minutes left." She snatched a pink rose from the box, and together they went on deck. "Just ten minutes," said Buck. He was looking down at her. "Remember, Emma, nothing that concerns the firm's business, however big, is half as important as the things that concern you personally, however small. I realize what this trip will mean to us, if it pans, and if you can beat Meyers to it. But if anything should happen to you, why----" "Nothing's going to happen, T. A., except that I'll probably come home with my complexion ruined. I'll feel a great deal more at home talking pidgin-English to Senor Alvarez in Buenos Aires than you will talking Featherlooms to Miss Skirt-Buyer in Cedar Rapids, Iowa. But remember this, T. A.: When you get to know--really to know--the Sadie Harrises and the Sammy Blochs and the Ella Sweeneys of this world, you've learned just about all there is to know about human beings. Quick--the gangplank! Goodby, T. A." The dock reached, he gazed up at her as she leaned far over the railing. He made a megaphone of his hands. "I feel like an old maid who's staying home with her knitting," he called. The boat began to move. Emma McChesney passed a quick hand over her eyes. "Don't drop any stitches, T. A." With unerring aim she flung the big pink rose straight at him. She went about arranging her affairs on the boat like the business woman that she was. First she made her cabin shipshape. She placed nearest at hand the books on South America, and the Spanish-American pocket interpreter. She located her deck chair, and her seat in the dining-room. Then, quietly, unobtrusively, and guided by those years spent in meeting men and women face to face in business, she took thorough, conscientious mental stock of those others who were to be her fellow travelers for twenty-three days. For the most part, the first-class passengers were men. There were American business men--salesmen, some of them, promoters others, or representatives of big syndicates shrewd, alert, well dressed, smooth shaven. Emma McChesney knew that she would gain valuable information from many of them before the trip was over. She sighed a little regretfully as she thought of those smoking-room talks--those intimate, tobacco-mellowed business talks from which she would be barred by her sex. There were two engineers, one British, one American, both very intelligent-looking, both inclined to taciturnity, as is often the case in men of their profession. They walked a good deal, and smoked nut-brown, evil-smelling pipes, and stared unblinkingly across the water. There were Argentines--whole families of them--Brazilians, too. The fat, bejeweled Brazilian men eyed Emma McChesney with open approval, even talked to her, leering objectionably. Emma McChesney refused to be annoyed. Her ten years on the road served her in good stead now. But most absorbing of all to Emma McChesney, watching quietly over her book or magazine, was a tall, erect, white-bearded Argentine who, with his family, occupied chairs near hers. His name had struck her with the sound of familiarity when she read it on the passenger list. She had asked the deck-steward to point out the name's owner. "Pages," she repeated to herself, worriedly, "Pages? P----" Suddenly she knew. Pages y Hernandez, the owner of the great Buenos Aires shop--a shop finer than those of Paris. And this was Pages! All the Featherloom instinct in Emma McChesney came to the surface and stayed there, seething. That was the morning of the second day out. By afternoon, she had bribed and maneuvered so that her deck chair was next that of the Pages-family flock of chairs. Senor Pages reminded her of one of those dashing, white-haired, distinguished-looking men whose likeness graces the cover of a box of your favorite cigars. General Something-or-other-ending-in-z he should have been, with a revolutionary background. He dressed somberly in black, like most of the other Argentine men on board. There was Senora Pages, very fat, very indolent, very blank, much given to pink satin and diamonds at dinner. Senorita Pages, over-powdered, overfrizzed, marvelously gowned, with overplumpness just a few years away, sat quietly by Senora Pages' side, but her darting, flashing, restless eyes were never still. The son (Emma heard them call him Pepe) was barely eighteen, she thought, but quite a man of the world, with his cigarettes, his drinks, his bold eyes. She looked at his sallow, pimpled skin, his lean, brown hands, his lack-luster eyes, and she thought of Jock and was happy. Mrs. McChesney knew that she might visit the magnificent Buenos Aires shop of Pages y Hernandez day after day for months without ever obtaining a glimpse of either Pages or Hernandez. And here was Senor Pages, so near that she could reach out and touch him from her deck chair. Here was opportunity! A caller who had never been obliged to knock twice at Emma McChesney's door. Her methods were so simple that she herself smiled at them. She donned her choicest suit of white serge that she had been saving for shore wear. Its skirt had been cut by the very newest trick. Its coat was the kind to make you go home and get out your own white serge and gaze at it with loathing. Senorita Pages' eyes leaped to that suit as iron leaps to the magnet. Emma McChesney, passing her deck chair, detached the eyes with a neat smile. Why hadn't she spent six months neglecting Skirts for Spanish? she asked herself, groaning. As she approached her own deck chair again she risked a bright, "Good morning." Her heart bounded, stood still, bounded again, as from the lips of the assembled Pages there issued a combined, courteous, perfectly good American, "Good morning!" "You speak English!" Emma McChesney's tone expressed flattery and surprise. Pages pere made answer. "Ah, yes, it is necessary. There are many English in Argentina." A sigh--a fluttering, tremulous sigh of perfect peace and happiness--welled up from Emma McChesney's heart and escaped through her smiling lips. By noon, Senorita Pages had tried on the fascinating coat and secured the address of its builder. By afternoon, Emma McChesney was showing the newest embroidery stitch to the slow but docile Senora Pages. Next morning she was playing shuffleboard with the elegant, indolent Pepe, and talking North American football and baseball to him. She had not been Jock McChesney's mother all those years for nothing. She could discuss sports with the best of them. Young Pages was avidly interested. Outdoor sports had become the recent fashion among the rich young Argentines. The problem of papa Pages was not so easy. Emma McChesney approached her subject warily, skirting the bypaths of politics, war, climate, customs--to business. Business! "But a lady as charming as you can understand nothing of business," said Senor Pages. "Business is for your militant sisters." "But we American women do understand business. Many--many charming American women are in business." Senor Pages turned his fine eyes upon her. She had talked most interestingly, this pretty American woman. "Perhaps--but pardon me if I think not. A woman cannot be really charming and also capable in business." Emma McChesney dimpled becomingly. "But I know a woman who is as--well, as charming as you say I am. Still, she is known as a capable, successful business woman. She'll be in Buenos Aires when I am." Senor Pages shook an unbelieving head. Emma McChesney leaned forward. "Will you let me bring her in to meet you, just to prove my point?" "She must be as charming as you are." His Argentine betting proclivities rose. "Here; we shall make a wager!" He took a card from his pocket, scribbled on it, handed it to Emma McChesney. "You will please present that to my secretary, who will conduct you immediately to my office. We will pretend it is a friendly call. Your friend need not know. If I lose----" "If you lose, you must promise to let her show you her sample line." "But, dear madam, I do no buying." "Then you must introduce her favorably to the department buyer of her sort of goods." "But if I win?" persisted Senor Pages. "If she isn't as charming as--as you say I am, you may make your own terms." Senor Pages' fine eyes opened wide. It was on the fourteenth day of their trip that they came into quaint Bahia. The stay there was short. Brazilian business methods are long. Emma McChesney took no chances with sample-trunks or cases. She packed her three leading samples into her own personal suitcase, eluded the other tourists, secured an interpreter, and prepared to brave Bahia. She returned just in time to catch the boat, flushed, tired, and orderless. Bahia would have none of her. In three days they would reach Rio de Janeiro, the magnificent. They would have three days there. She told herself that Bahia didn't count, anyway--sleepy little half-breed town! But the arrow rankled. It had been the first to penetrate the armor of her business success. But she had learned things from that experience at Bahia. She had learned that the South American dislikes the North American because his Northern cousin patronizes him. She learned that the North American business firm is thought by the Southern business man to be tricky and dishonest, and that, because the Northerner has not learned how to pack a case of goods scientifically, as have the English, Germans, and French, the South American rages to pay cubic-feet rates on boxes that are three-quarters empty. So it was with a heavy heart but a knowing head that she faced Rio de Janeiro. They had entered in the evening, the sunset splashing the bay and the hills in the foreground and the Sugar-loaf Mountain with an unbelievable riot of crimson and gold and orange and blue. Suddenly the sun jerked down, as though pulled by a string, and the magic purple night came up as though pulled by another. "Well, anyway, I've seen that," breathed Emma McChesney thankfully. Next morning, she packed her three samples, as before, her heart heavy, her mind on Fat Ed Meyers coming up two weeks behind her. Three days in Rio! And already she had bumped her impatient, quick-thinking, quick-acting North American business head up against the stone wall of South American leisureliness and prejudice. She meant no irreverence, no impiety as she prayed, meanwhile packing Nos. 79, 65, and 48 into her personal bag: "O Lord, let Fat Ed Meyers have Bahia; but please, please help me to land Rio and Buenos Aires!" Then, in smart tailored suit and hat, interpreter in tow, a prayer in her heart, and excitement blazing in cheeks and eyes, she made her way to the dock, through the customs, into a cab that was to take her to her arena, the broad Avenida. Exactly two hours later, there dashed into the customs-house a well-dressed woman whose hat was very much over one ear. She was running as only a woman runs when she's made up her mind to get there. She came hot-foot, helter-skelter, regardless of modishly crippling skirt, past officers, past customs officials, into the section where stood the one small sample-trunk that she had ordered down in case of emergency. The trunk had not gone through the customs. It had not even been opened. But Emma McChesney heeded not trifles like that. Rio de Janeiro had fallen for Featherlooms. Those three samples, Nos. 79, 65, and 48, that boasted style, cut, and workmanship never before seen in Rio, had turned the trick. They were as a taste of blood to a hungry lion. Rio wanted more! Emma McChesney was kneeling before her trunk, had whipped out her key, unlocked it, and was swiftly selecting the numbers wanted from the trays, her breath coming quickly, her deft fingers choosing unerringly, when an indignant voice said, in Portuguese, "It is forbidden!" Emma McChesney did not glance around. Her head was buried in the depths of the trunk. But her quick ears had caught the word, "PROHIBA!" "Speak English," she said, and went on unpacking. "INGLES!" shouted the official. "No!" Then, with a superhuman effort, as Emma McChesney stood up, her arms laden with Featherloom samples of rainbow hues, "PARE! Ar-r-r-rest!" Mrs. McChesney slammed down the trunk top, locked it, clutched her samples firmly, and faced the enraged official. "Go 'way! I haven't time to be arrested this morning. This is my busy day. Call around this evening." Whereupon she fled to her waiting cab, leaving behind her a Brazilian official stunned and raging by turns. When she returned, happy, triumphant, order-laden, he was standing there, stunned no longer but raging still. Emma McChesney had forgotten all about him. The gold-braided official advanced, mustachios bristling. A volley of Portuguese burst from his long-pent lips. Emma McChesney glanced behind her. Her interpreter threw up helpless hands, replying with a still more terrifying burst of vowels. Bewildered, a little frightened, Mrs. McChesney stood helplessly by. The official laid a none too gentle hand on her shoulder. A little group of lesser officials stood, comic-opera fashion, in the background. And then Emma McChesney's New York training came to her aid. She ignored the voluble interpreter. She remained coolly unruffled by the fusillade of Portuguese. Quietly she opened her hand bag and plunged her fingers deep, deep therein. Her blue eyes gazed confidingly up into the Brazilian's snapping black ones, and as she withdrew her hand from the depths of her purse, there passed from her white fingers to his brown ones that which is the Esperanto of the nations, the universal language understood from Broadway to Brazil. The hand on her shoulder relaxed and fell away. On deck once more, she encountered the suave Senor Pages. He stood at the rail surveying Rio's shores with that lip-curling contempt of the Argentine for everything Brazilian. He regarded Emma McChesney's radiant face. "You are pleased with this--this Indian Rio?" Mrs. McChesney paused to gaze with him at the receding shores. "Like it! I'm afraid I haven't seen it. From here it looks like Coney. But it buys like Seattle. Like it! Well, I should say I do!" "Ah, senora," exclaimed Pages, distressed, "wait! In six days you will behold Buenos Aires. Your New York, Londres, Paris--bah! You shall drive with my wife and daughter through Palermo. You shall see jewels, motors, toilettes as never before. And you will visit my establishment?" He raised an emphatic forefinger. "But surely!" Emma McChesney regarded him solemnly. "I promise to do that. You may rely on me." Six days later they swept up the muddy and majestic Plata, whose color should have won it the name of River of Gold instead of River of Silver. From the boat's upper deck, Emma McChesney beheld a sky line which was so like the sky line of her own New York that it gave her a shock. She was due for still another shock when, an hour later, she found herself in a maelstrom of motors, cabs, street cars, newsboys, skyscrapers, pedestrians, policemen, subway stations. Where was the South American languor? Where the Argentine inertia? The rush and roar of it, the bustle and the bang of it made the twenty-three-day voyage seem a myth. "I'm going to shut my eyes," she told herself, "and then open them quickly. If that little brown traffic-policeman turns out to be a big, red-faced traffic-policeman, then I'm right, and this IS Broadway and Forty-second." Shock number three came upon her entrance at the Grande Hotel. It had been Emma McChesney's boast that her ten years on the road had familiarized her with every type, grade, style, shape, cut, and mold of hotel clerk. She knew him from the Knickerbocker to the Eagle House at Waterloo, Iowa. At the moment she entered the Grande Hotel, she knew she had overlooked one. Accustomed though she was to the sartorial splendors of the man behind the desk, she might easily have mistaken this one for the president of the republic. In his glittering uniform, he looked a pass between the supreme chancellor of the K.P.'s in full regalia and a prince of India during the Durbar. He was regal. He was overwhelming. He would have made the most splendid specimen of North American hotel clerk look like a scullery boy. Mrs. McChesney spent two whole days in Buenos Aires before she discovered that she could paralyze this personage with a peso. A peso is forty-three cents. Her experience at Bahia and at Rio de Janeiro had taught her things. So for two days, haunted, as she was, by visions of Fat Ed Meyers coming up close behind her, she possessed her soul in patience and waited. On the great firm of Pages y Hernandez rested the success of this expedition. When she thought of her little trick on Senor Pages, her blithe spirits sank. Suppose, after all, that this powerful South American should resent her little Yankee joke! Her trunks went through the customs. She secured an interpreter. She arranged her samples with loving care. Style, cut, workmanship--she ran over their strong points in her mind. She looked at them as a mother's eyes rest fondly on the shining faces, the well-brushed hair, the clean pinafores of her brood. And her heart swelled with pride. They lay on their tables, the artful knickerbockers, the gleaming petticoats, the pink and blue pajamas, the bifurcated skirts. Emma McChesney ran one hand lightly over the navy blue satin folds of a sample. "Pages or no Pages, you're a credit to your mother," she said, whimsically. Up in her room once more, she selected her smartest tailor costume, her most modish hat, the freshest of gloves and blouses. She chose the hours between four and six, when wheel traffic was suspended in the Calle Florida and throughout the shopping-district, the narrow streets of which are congested to the point of suffocation at other times. As she swung down the street they turned to gaze after her--these Argentines. The fat senoras turned, and the smartly costumed, sallow senoritas, and the men--all of them. They spoke to her, these last, but she had expected that, and marched on with her free, swinging stride, her chin high, her color very bright. Into the great shop of Pages y Hernandez at last, up to the private offices, her breath coming a little quickly, into the presence of the shiny secretary--shiny teeth, shiny hair, shiny skin, shiny nails. He gazed upon Emma McChesney, the shine gleaming brighter. He took in his slim, brown fingers the card on which Senor Pages had scribbled that day on board ship. The shine became dazzling. He bowed low and backed his way into the office of Senor Pages. A successful man is most impressive when in those surroundings which have been built up by his success. On shipboard, Senor Pages had been a genial, charming, distinguished fellow passenger. In his luxurious business office he still was genial, charming, but his environment seemed to lend him a certain austerity. "Senora McChesney!" ("How awful that sounds!" Emma McChesney told herself.) "We spoke of you but last night. And now you come to win the wager, yes?" He smiled, but shook his head. "Yes," replied Emma McChesney. And tried to smile, too. Senor Pages waved a hand toward the outer office. "She is with you, this business friend who is also so charming?" "Oh, yes," said Emma McChesney, "she's--she's with me." Then, as he made a motion toward the push-button, which would summon the secretary: "No, don't do that! Wait a minute!" From her bag she drew her business card, presented it. "Read that first." Senor Pages read it. He looked up. Then he read it again. He gazed again at Emma McChesney. Emma McChesney looked straight at him and tried in vain to remember ever having heard of the South American's sense of humor. A moment passed. Her heart sank. Then Senor Pages threw back his fine head and laughed--laughed as the Latin laughs, emphasizing his mirth with many ejaculations and gestures. "Ah, you Northerners! You are too quick for us. Come; I myself must see this garment which you honor by selling." His glance rested approvingly on Emma McChesney's trim, smart figure. "That which you sell, it must be quite right." "I not only sell it," said Emma McChesney; "I wear it." "That--how is it you Northerners say?--ah, yes--that settles it!" Six weeks later, in his hotel room in Columbus, Ohio, T. A. Buck sat reading a letter forwarded from New York and postmarked Argentina. As he read he chuckled, grew serious, chuckled again and allowed his cigar to grow cold. For the seventh time: DEAR T. A.: They've fallen for Featherlooms the way an Eskimo takes to gum-drops. My letter of credit is all shot to pieces, but it was worth it. They make you pay a separate license fee in each province, and South America is just one darn province after another. If they'd lump a peddler's license for $5,000 and tell you to go ahead, it would be cheaper. I landed Pages y Hernandez by a trick. The best of it is the man I played it on saw the point and laughed with me. We North Americans brag too much about our sense of humor. I thought ten years on the road had hardened me to the most fiendish efforts of a hotel chef. But the food at the Grande here makes a quarter-inch round steak with German fried look like Sherry's latest triumph. You know I'm not fussy. I'm the kind of woman who, given her choice of ice cream or cheese for dessert, will take cheese. Here, given my choice, I play safe and take neither. I've reached the point where I make a meal of radishes. They kill their beef in the morning and serve it for lunch. It looks and tastes like an Ethiop's ear. But I don't care, because I'm getting gorgeously thin. If the radishes hold out I'll invade Central America and Panama. I've one eye on Valparaiso already. I know it sounds wild, but it means a future and a fortune for Featherlooms. I find I don't even have to talk skirts. They're self-sellers. But I have to talk honesty and packing. How did you hit it off with Ella Sweeney? Haven't seen a sign of Fat Ed Meyers. I'm getting nervous. Do you think he may have exploded at the equator? EMMA. But kind fortune saw fit to add a last sweet drop to Emma McChesney's already brimming cup. As she reached the docks on the day of her departure, clad in cool, crisp white from hat to shoes, her quick eye spied a red-faced, rotund, familiar figure disembarking from the New York boat, just arrived. The fates, grinning, had planned this moment like a stage-manager. Fat Ed Meyers came heavily down the gangplank. His hat was off. He was mopping the top of his head with a large, damp handkerchief. His gaze swept over the busy landing-docks, darted hither and thither, alighted on Emma McChesney with a shock, and rested there. A distinct little shock went through that lady, too. But she waited at the foot of her boat's gangway until the unbelievably nimble Meyers reached her. He was a fiery spectacle. His cheeks were distended, his eyes protuberant. He wasted no words. They understood each other, those two. "Coming or going?" "Going," replied Emma McChesney. "Clean up this--this Bonez Areez, too?" "Absolutely." "Did, huh?" Meyers stood a moment panting, his little eyes glaring into her calm ones. "Well, I beat you in Bahia, anyway." he boasted. Emma McChesney snapped her fingers blithely. "Bah, for Bahia!" She took a step or two up the gangplank, and turned. "Good-by, Ed. And good luck. I can recommend the radishes, but pass up the beef. Dangerous." Fat Ed Meyers, still staring, began to stutter unintelligibly, his lips moving while no words came. Emma McChesney held up a warning hand. "Don't do that, Ed! Not in this climate! A man of your build, too! I'm surprised. Consider the feelings of your firm!" Fat Ed Meyers glared up at the white-clad, smiling, gracious figure. His hands unclenched. The words came. "Oh, if only you were a man for just ten minutes!" he moaned. II THANKS TO MISS MORRISSEY It was Fat Ed Meyers, of the Sans-Silk Skirt Company, who first said that Mrs. Emma McChesney was the Maude Adams of the business world. It was on the occasion of his being called to the carpet for his failure to make Sans-silks as popular as Emma McChesney's famed Featherlooms. He spoke in self-defense, heatedly. "It isn't Featherlooms. It's McChesney. Her line is no better than ours. It's her personality, not her petticoats. She's got a following that swears by her. If Maude Adams was to open on Broadway in 'East Lynne,' they'd flock to see her, wouldn't they? Well, Emma McChesney could sell hoop-skirts, I'm telling you. She could sell bustles. She could sell red-woolen mittens on Fifth Avenue!" The title stuck. It was late in September when Mrs. McChesney, sunburned, decidedly under weight, but gloriously triumphant, returned from a four months' tour of South America. Against the earnest protests of her business partner, T. A. Buck, president of the Buck Featherloom Petticoat Company, she had invaded the southern continent and left it abloom with Featherlooms from the Plata to the Canal. Success was no stranger to Mrs. McChesney. This last business victory had not turned her head. But it had come perilously near to tilting that extraordinarily well-balanced part. A certain light in her eyes, a certain set of her chin, an added briskness of bearing, a cocky slant of the eyebrow revealed the fact that, though Mrs. McChesney's feet were still on the ground, she might be said to be standing on tiptoe. When she had sailed from Brooklyn pier that June afternoon, four months before, she had cast her ordinary load of business responsibilities on the unaccustomed shoulders of T. A. Buck. That elegant person, although president of the company which his father had founded, had never been its real head. When trouble threatened in the workroom, it was to Mrs. McChesney that the forewoman came. When an irascible customer in Green Bay, Wisconsin, waxed impatient over the delayed shipment of a Featherloom order, it was to Emma McChesney that his typewritten protest was addressed. When the office machinery needed mental oiling, when a new hand demanded to be put on silk-work instead of mercerized, when a consignment of skirt-material turned out to be more than usually metallic, it was in Mrs. Emma McChesney's little private office that the tangle was unsnarled. She walked into that little office, now, at nine o'clock of a brilliant September morning. It was a reassuring room, bright, orderly, workmanlike, reflecting the personality of its owner. She stood in the center of it now and looked about her, eyes glowing, lips parted. She raised her hands high above her head, then brought them down to her sides again with an unconsciously dramatic gesture that expressed triumph, peace, content, relief, accomplishment, and a great and deep satisfaction. T. A. Buck, in the doorway, saw the gesture--and understood. "Not so bad to get back to it, is it?" "Bad! It's like a drink of cool spring water after too much champagne. In those miserable South American hotels, how I used to long for the orderliness and quiet of this!" She took off hat and coat. In a vase on the desk, a cluster of yellow chrysanthemums shook their shaggy heads in welcome. Emma McChesney's quick eye jumped to them, then to Buck, who had come in and was surveying the scene appreciatively. "You--of course." She indicated the flowers with a nod and a radiant smile. "Sorry--no. The office staff did that. There's a card of welcome, I believe." "Oh," said Emma McChesney. The smile was still there, but the radiance was gone. She seated herself at her desk. Buck took the chair near by. She unlocked a drawer, opened it, rummaged, closed it again, unlocked another. She patted the flat top of her desk with loving fingers. "I can't help it," she said, with a little shamed laugh; "I'm so glad to be back. I'll probably hug the forewoman and bite a piece out of the first Featherloom I lay hands on. I had to use all my self-control to keep from kissing Jake, the elevator-man, coming up." Out of the corner of her eye, Emma McChesney had been glancing at her handsome business partner. She had found herself doing the same thing from the time he had met her at the dock late in the afternoon of the day before. Those four months had wrought some subtle change. But what? Where? She frowned a moment in thought. Then: "Is that a new suit, T. A.?" "This? Lord, no! Last summer's. Put it on because of this July hangover in September. Why?" "Oh, I don't know"--vaguely--"I just--wondered." There was nothing vague about T. A. Buck, however. His old air of leisureliness was gone. His very attitude as he sat there, erect, brisk, confident, was in direct contrast to his old, graceful indolence. "I'd like to go over the home grounds with you this morning," he said. "Of course, in our talk last night, we didn't cover the South American situation thoroughly. But your letters and the orders told the story. You carried the thing through to success. It's marvelous! But we stay-at-homes haven't been marking time during your absence." The puzzled frown still sat on Emma McChesney's brow. As though thinking aloud, she said, "Have you grown thinner, or fatter or--something?" "Not an ounce. Weighed at the club yesterday." He leaned forward a little, his face suddenly very sober. "Emma, I want to tell you now that--that mother--she--I lost her just a few weeks after you sailed." Emma McChesney gave a little cry. She came quickly over to him, and one hand went to his shoulder as she stood looking down at him, her face all sympathy and contrition and sorrow. "And you didn't write me! You didn't even tell me, last night!" "I didn't want to distress you. I knew you were having a hard-enough pull down there without additional worries. It happened very suddenly while I was out on the road. I got the wire in Peoria. She died very suddenly and quite painlessly. Her companion, Miss Tate, was with her. She had never been herself since Dad's death." "And you----" "I could only do what was to be done. Then I went back on the road. I closed up the house, and now I've leased it. Of course it's big enough for a regiment. But we stayed on because mother was used to it. I sold some of the furniture, but stored the things she had loved. She left some to you." "To me!" "You know she used to enjoy your visits so much, partly because of the way in which you always talked of Dad. She left you some jewelry that she was fond of, and that colossal old mahogany buffet that you used to rave over whenever you came up. Heaven knows what you'll do with it! It's a white elephant. If you add another story to it, you could rent it out as an apartment." "Indeed I shall take it, and cherish it, and polish it up myself every week--the beauty!" She came back to her chair. They sat a moment in silence. Then Emma McChesney spoke musingly. "So that was it." Buck looked up. "I sensed something--different. I didn't know. I couldn't explain it." Buck passed a quick hand over his eyes, shook himself, sat up, erect and brisk again, and plunged, with a directness that was as startling as it was new in him, into the details of Middle Western business. "Good!" exclaimed Emma McChesney. "It's all very well to know that Featherlooms are safe in South America. But the important thing is to know how they're going in the corn country." Buck stood up. "Suppose we transfer this talk to my office. All the papers are there, all the correspondence--all the orders, everything. You can get the whole situation in half an hour. What's the use of talking when figures will tell you." He walked swiftly over to the door and stood there waiting. Emma McChesney rose. The puzzled look was there again. "No, that wasn't it, after all," she said. "Eh?" said Buck. "Wasn't what?" "Nothing," replied Emma McChesney. "I'm wool-gathering this morning. I'm afraid it's going to take me a day or two to get back into harness again." "If you'd rather wait, if you think you'll be more fit to-morrow or the day after, we'll wait. There's no real hurry. I just thought----" But Mrs. McChesney led the way across the hall that separated her office from her partner's. Halfway across, she stopped and surveyed the big, bright, busy main office, with its clacking typewriters and rustle and crackle of papers and its air of concentration. "Why, you've run up a partition there between Miss Casey's desk and the workroom door, haven't you?" "Yes; it's much better that way." "Yes, of course. And--why, where are the boys' desks? Spalding's and Hutchinson's, and--they're all gone!" She turned in amazement. "Break it to me! Aren't we using traveling men any more?" Buck laughed his low, pleasant laugh. "Oh, yes; but I thought their desks belonged somewhere else than in the main office. They're now installed in the little room between the shop and Healy's office. Close quarters, but better than having them out here where they were inclined to neglect their reports in order to shine in the eyes of that pretty new stenographer. There are one or two other changes. I hope you'll approve of them." "I'm sure I shall," replied Emma McChesney, a little stiffly. In Buck's office, she settled back in her chair to watch him as he arranged neat sheaves of papers for her inspection. Her eyes traveled from his keen, eager face to the piles of paper and back again. "Tell me, did you hit it off with the Ella Sweeneys and the Sadie Harrises of the great Middle West? Is business as bad as the howlers say it is? You said something last night about a novelty bifurcated skirt. Was that the new designer's idea? How have the early buyers taken to it?" Buck crooked an elbow over his head in self-defense. "Stop it! You make me feel like Rheims cathedral. Don't bombard until negotiations fail." He handed her the first sheaf of papers. But, before she began to read: "I'll say this much. Miss Sharp, of Berg Brothers, Omaha--the one you warned against as the human cactus--had me up for dinner. Well, I know you don't, but it's true. Her father and I hit it off just like that. He's a character, that old boy. Ever meet him? No? And Miss Sharp told me something about herself that explains her porcupine pose. That poor child was engaged to a chap who was killed in the Spanish-American war, and she----" "Kate Sharp!" interrupted Emma McChesney. "Why, T. A. Buck, in all her vinegary, narrow life, that girl has never had a beau, much less----" Buck's eyebrows came up slightly. "Emma McChesney, you haven't developed--er--claws, have you?" With a gasp, Emma McChesney plunged into the papers before her. For ten minutes, the silence of the room was unbroken except for the crackling of papers. Then Emma McChesney put down the first sheaf and looked up at her business partner. "Is that a fair sample?" she demanded. "Very," answered T. A. Buck, and handed her another set. Another ten minutes of silence. Emma McChesney reached out a hand for still another set of papers. The pink of repressed excitement was tinting her cheeks. "They're--they're all like this?" "Practically, yes." Mrs. McChesney faced him, her eyes wide, her breath coming fast. "T. A. Buck," she slapped the papers before her smartly with the back of her hand, "this means you've broken our record for Middle Western sales!" "Yes," said T. A., quietly. "Dad would have enjoyed a morning like this, wouldn't he?" Emma McChesney stood up. "Enjoyed it! He is enjoying it. Don't tell me that T. A., Senior, just because he is no longer on earth, has failed to get the joy of knowing that his son has realized his fondest dreams. Why, I can feel him here in this room, I can see those bright brown eyes of his twinkling behind his glasses. Not know it! Of course he knows it." Buck looked down at the desk, smiling curiously. "D'you know, I felt that way, too." Suddenly Emma McChesney began to laugh. It was not all mirth--that laugh. Buck waited. "And to think that I--I kindly and patronizingly handed you a little book full of tips on how to handle Western buyers, 'The Salesman's Who's Who'--I, who used to think I was the witch of the West when it came to selling! You, on your first selling-trip, have made me look like--like a shoe-string peddler." Buck put out a hand suddenly. "Don't say that, Emma. I--somehow it takes away all the pleasure." "It's true. And now that I know, it explains a lot of things that I've been puzzling about in the last twenty-four hours." "What kind of things?" "The way you look and act and think. The way you carry your head. The way you sit in a chair. The very words you use, your gestures, your intonations. They're different." T. A. Buck, busy with his cigar, laughed a little self-consciously. "Oh, nonsense!" he said. "You're imagining things." Which remark, while not a particularly happy one, certainly was not in itself so unfortunate as to explain why Mrs. McChesney should have turned rather suddenly and bolted into her own office across the hall and closed the door behind her. T. A. Buck, quite cool and unruffled, viewed her sudden departure quizzically. Then he took his cigar from his mouth and stood eying it a moment with more attention, perhaps, than it deserved, in spite of its fine aroma. When he put it back between his lips and sat down at his desk once more he was smiling ever so slightly. Then began a new order of things in the offices of the T. A. Buck Featherloom Petticoat Company. Feet that once had turned quite as a matter of course toward the door marked "MRS. MCCHESNEY," now took the direction of the door opposite--and that door bore the name of Buck. Those four months of Mrs. McChesney's absence had put her partner to the test. That acid test had washed away the accumulated dross of years and revealed the precious metal beneath. T. A. Buck had proved to be his father's son. If Mrs. McChesney noticed that the head office had miraculously moved across the hall, if her sharp ears marked that the many feet that once had paused at her door now stopped at the door opposite, if she realized that instead of, "I'd like your opinion on this, Mrs. McChesney," she often heard the new, "I'll ask Mr. Buck," she did not show it by word or sign. The first of October found buyers still flocking into New York from every State in the country. Shrewd men and women, these--bargain hunters on a grand scale. Armed with the long spoon of business knowledge, they came to skim the cream from factory and workroom products set forth for their inspection. For years, it had been Emma McChesney's quiet boast that of those whose business brought them to the offices and showrooms of the T. A. Buck Featherloom Petticoat Company, the foremost insisted on dealing only with her. She was proud of her following. She liked their loyalty. Their preference for her was the subtlest compliment that was in their power to pay. Ethel Morrissey, whose friendship dated back to the days when Emma McChesney had sold Featherlooms through the Middle West, used to say laughingly, her plump, comfortable shoulders shaking, "Emma, if you ever give me away by telling how many years I've been buying Featherlooms of you, I'll--I'll call down upon you the spinster's curse." Early Monday morning, Mrs. McChesney, coming down the hall from the workroom, encountered Miss Ella Sweeney, of Klein & Company, Des Moines, Iowa, stepping out of the elevator. A very skittish Miss Sweeney, rustling, preening, conscious of her dangling black earrings and her Robespierre collar and her beauty-patch. Emma McChesney met this apparition with outstretched, welcoming hand. "Ella Sweeney! Well, I'd almost given you up. You're late this fall. Come into my office." She led the way, not noticing that Miss Sweeney came reluctantly, her eyes on the closed door across the way. "Sit down," said Emma McChesney, and pulled a chair nearer her desk. "No; wait a minute! Let me look at you. Now, Ella, don't try to tell me that THAT dress came from Des Moines, Iowa! Do I! Why, child, it's distinctive!" Miss Sweeney, still standing, smiled a pleased but rather preoccupied smile. Her eyes roved toward the door. Emma McChesney, radiating good will and energy, went on: "Wait till you see our new samples! You'll buy a million dollars' worth. Just let me lead you to our new Walk-Easy bifurcated skirt. We call it the 'one-stepper's delight.'" She put a hand on Ella Sweeney's arm, preparatory to guiding her to the showrooms in the rear. But Miss Sweeney's strange reluctance grew into resolve. A blush, as real as it was unaccustomed, arose to her bepowdered cheeks. "Is--I--that is--Mr. Buck is in, I suppose?" "Mr. Buck? Oh, yes, he's in." Miss Sweeney's eyes sought the closed door across the hall. "Is that--his office?" Emma McChesney stiffened a little. Her eyes narrowed thoughtfully. "You have guessed it," she said crisply. "Mr. Buck's name is on the door, and you are looking at it." Miss Sweeney looked down, looked up, twiddled the chain about her neck. "You want to see Mr. Buck?" asked Emma McChesney quietly. Miss Sweeney simpered down at her glove-tips, fluttered her eyelids. "Well--yes--I--I--you see, I bought of him this year, and when you buy of a person, why, naturally, you----" "Naturally; I understand." She walked across the hall, threw open the door, and met T. A. Buck's glance coolly. "Mr. Buck, Miss Sweeney, of Des Moines, is here, and I'm sure you want to see her. This way, Miss Sweeney." Miss Sweeney, sidling, blushing, fluttering, teetered in. Emma McChesney, just before she closed the door, saw a little spasm cross Buck's face. It was gone so quickly, and a radiant smile sat there so reassuringly, that she wondered if she had not been mistaken, after all. He had advanced, hand outstretched, with: "Miss Sweeney! It--it's wonderful to see you again! You're looking----" The closed door stifled the rest. Emma McChesney, in her office across the way, stood a moment in the center of the room, her hand covering her eyes. The hardy chrysanthemums still glowed sunnily from their vase. The little room was very quiet except for the ticking of the smart, leather-encased clock on the desk. The closed door shut out factory and office sounds. And Emma McChesney stood with one hand over her eyes. So Napoleon might have stood after Waterloo. After this first lesson, Mrs. McChesney did not err again. When, two days later, Miss Sharp, of Berg Brothers, Omaha, breezed in, looking strangely juvenile and distinctly anticipatory, Emma greeted her smilingly and waved her toward the door opposite. Miss Sharp, the erstwhile bristling, was strangely smooth and sleek. She glanced ever so softly, sighed ever so flutteringly. "Working side by side with him, seeing him day after day, how have you been able to resist him?" Emma McChesney was only human, after all. "By remembering that this is a business house, not a matrimonial parlor." The dart found no lodging place in Miss Sharp's sleek armor. She seemed scarcely to have heard. "My dear," she whispered, "his eyes! And his manner! You must be--whatchamaycallit--adamant. Is that the way you pronounce it? You know what I mean." "Oh, yes," replied Emma McChesney evenly, "I--know what you mean." She told herself that she was justified in the righteous contempt which she felt for this sort of thing. A heart-breaker! A cheap lady-killer! Whereupon in walked Sam Bloom, of the Paris Emporium, Duluth, one of Mrs. McChesney's stanchest admirers and a long-tried business friend. The usual thing: "Younger than ever, Mrs. McChesney! You're a wonder--yes, you are! How's business? Same here. Going to have lunch with me to-day?" Then: "I'll just run in and see Buck. Say, where's he been keeping himself all these years? Chip off the old block, that boy." So he had the men, too! It was in this frame of mind that Miss Ethel Morrissey found her on the morning that she came into New York on her semi-annual buying-trip. Ethel Morrissey, plump, matronly-looking, quiet, with her hair fast graying at the sides, had nothing of the skittish Middle Western buyer about her. She might have passed for the mother of a brood of six if it were not for her eyes--the shrewd, twinkling, far-sighted, reckoning eyes of the business woman. She and Emma McChesney had been friends from the day that Ethel Morrissey had bought her first cautious bill of Featherlooms. Her love for Emma McChesney had much of the maternal in it. She felt a personal pride in Emma McChesney's work, her success, her clean reputation, her life of self-denial for her son Jock. When Ethel Morrissey was planned by her Maker, she had not been meant to be wasted on the skirt-and-suit department of a small-town store. That broad, gracious breast had been planned as a resting-place for heads in need of comfort. Those plump, firm arms were meant to enfold the weak and distressed. Those capable hands should have smoothed troubled heads and patted plump cheeks, instead of wasting their gifts in folding piles of petticoats and deftly twitching a plait or a tuck into place. She was playing Rosalind in buskins when she should have been cast for the Nurse. She entered Emma McChesney's office, now, in her quiet blue suit and her neat hat, and she looked very sane and cheerful and rosy-cheeked and dependable. At least, so Emma McChesney thought, as she kissed her, while the plump arms held her close. Ethel Morrissey, the hugging process completed, held her off and eyed her. "Well, Emma McChesney, flourish your Featherlooms for me. I want to buy and get it over, so we can talk." "Are you sure that you want to buy of me?" asked Emma McChesney, a little wearily. "What's the joke?" "I'm not joking. I thought that perhaps you might prefer to see Mr. Buck this trip." Ethel Morrissey placed one forefinger under Emma McChesney's chin and turned that lady's face toward her and gazed at her long and thoughtfully--the most trying test of courage in the world, that, to one whose eyes fear meeting yours. Emma McChesney, bravest of women, tried to withstand it, and failed. The next instant her head lay on Ethel Morrissey's broad breast, her hands were clutching the plump shoulders, her cheek was being patted soothingly by the kind hands. "Now, now--what is it, dear? Tell Ethel. Yes; I do know, but tell me, anyway. It'll do you good." And Emma McChesney told her. When she had finished: "You bathe your eyes, Emma, and put on your hat and we'll eat. Oh, yes, you will. A cup of tea, anyway. Isn't there some little cool fool place where I can be comfortable on a hot day like this--where we can talk comfortably? I've got at least an hour's conversation in me." With the first sip of her first cup of tea, Ethel Morrissey began to unload that burden of conversation. "Emma, this is the best thing that could have happened to you. Oh, yes, it is. The queer thing about it is that it didn't happen sooner. It was bound to come. You know, Emma, the Lord lets a woman climb just so high up the mountain of success. And then, when she gets too cocky, when she begins to measure her wits and brain and strength against that of men, and finds herself superior, he just taps her smartly on the head and shins, so that she stumbles, falls, and rolls down a few miles on the road she has traveled so painfully. He does it just as a gentle reminder to her that she's only a woman, after all. Oh, I know all about this feminist talk. But this thing's been proven. Look at what happened to--to Joan of Arc, and Becky Sharp, and Mary Queen of Scots, and--yes, I have been spending my evenings reading. Now, stop laughing at your old Ethel, Emma McChesney!" "You meant me to laugh, dear old thing. I don't feel much like it, though. I don't see why I should be reminded of my lowly state. Heaven knows I haven't been so terrifically pleased with myself! Of course, that South American trip was--well, gratifying. But I earned it. For ten years I lived with head in a sample-trunk, didn't I? I worked hard enough to win the love of all these Westerners. It wasn't all walking dreamily down Main Street, strewing Featherlooms along my path." Ethel Morrissey stirred her second cup of tea, sipped, stirred, smiled, then reached over and patted Emma McChesney's hand. "Emma, I'm a wise old party, and I can see that it isn't all pique with you. It's something else--something deeper. Oh, yes, it is! Now let me tell you what happened when T. A. Buck invaded your old-time territory. I was busy up in my department the morning he came in. I had my head in a rack of coats, and a henny customer waiting. But I sensed something stirring, and I stuck my head out of the coat-rack in which I was fumbling. The department was aflutter like a poultry-yard. Every woman in it, from the little new Swede stock-girl to Gladys Hemingway, who is only working to wear out her old clothes, was standing with her face toward the elevator, and on her face a look that would make the ordinary door-mat marked 'Welcome' seem like an insult. I kind of smoothed my back hair, because I knew that only one thing could bring that look into a woman's face. And down the aisle came a tall, slim, distinguished-looking, wonderfully tailored, chamois-gloved, walking-sticked Fifth Avenue person with EYES! Of course, I knew. But the other girls didn't. They just sort of fell back at his approach, smitten. He didn't even raise an eyebrow to do it. Now, Emma, I'm not exaggerating. I know what effect he had on me and my girls, and, for that matter, every other man or woman in the store. Why, he was a dream realized to most of 'em. These shrewd, clever buyer-girls know plenty of men--business men of the slap-bang, horn-blowing, bluff, good-natured, hello-kid kind--the kind that takes you out to dinner and blows cigar smoke in your face. Along comes this chap, elegant, well dressed and not even conscious of it, polished, suave, smooth, low-voiced, well bred. Why, when he spoke to a girl, it was the subtlest kind of flattery. Can you see little Sadie Harris, of Duluth, drawing a mental comparison between Sam Bloom, the store-manager, and this fascinating devil--Sam, red-faced, loud voiced, shirt-sleeving it around the sample room, his hat pushed 'way back on his head, chewing his cigar like mad, and wild-eyed for fear he's buying wrong? Why, child, in our town, nobody carries a cane except the Elks when they have their annual parade, and old man Schwenkel, who's lame. And yet we all accepted that yellow walking-stick of Buck's. It belonged to him. There isn't a skirt-buyer in the Middle West that doesn't dream of him all night and push Featherlooms in the store all day. Emma, I'm old and fat and fifty, but when I had dinner with him at the Manitoba House that evening, I caught myself making eyes at him, knowing that every woman in the dining-room would have given her front teeth to be where I was." After which extensive period, Ethel Morrissey helped herself to her third cup of tea. Emma McChesney relaxed a little and laughed a tremulous little laugh. "Oh, well, I suppose I must not hope to combat such formidable rivals as walking-sticks, chamois gloves, and EYES. My business arguments are futile compared to those." Ethel Morrissey delivered herself of a last shot. "You're wrong, Emma. Those things helped him, but they didn't sell his line. He sold Featherlooms out of salesmanship, and because he sounded convincing and sincere and businesslike--and he had the samples. It wasn't all bunk. It was three-quarters business. Those two make an invincible combination." An hour later, Ethel Morrissey was shrewdly selecting her winter line of Featherlooms from the stock in the showrooms of the T. A. Buck Company. They went about their business transaction, these two, with the cool abruptness of men, speaking little, and then only of prices, discounts, dating, shipping. Their luncheon conversation of an hour before seemed an impossibility. "You'll have dinner with me to-night?" Emma asked. "Up at my apartment, all cozy?" "Not to-night, dearie. I'll be in bed by eight. I'm not the girl I used to be. Time was when a New York buying-trip was a vacation. Now it's a chore." She took Emma McChesney's hand and patted it. "If you've got something real nice for dinner, though, and feel like company, why don't you ask--somebody else that's lonesome." After which, Ethel Morrissey laughed her wickedest and waved a sudden good-by with a last word about seeing her to-morrow. Emma McChesney, her color high, entered her office. It was five o'clock. She cleared her desk in half an hour, breathed a sigh of weariness, reached for hat and jacket, donned them, and, turning out her lights, closed her door behind her for the day. At that same instant, T. A. Buck slammed his own door and walked briskly down the hall. They met at the elevator. They descended in silence. The street gained, they paused uncertainly. "Won't you stay down and have dinner with me to-night, Emma?" "Thanks so much, T. A. Not to-night." "I'm--sorry." "Good night." "Good night." She turned away. He stood there, in the busy street, looking irresolutely and not at all eagerly in the direction of his club, perhaps, or his hotel, or whatever shelter he sought after business hours. Something in his attitude--the loneliness of it, the uncertainty, the indecision--smote Emma McChesney with a great pang. She came swiftly back. "I wish you'd come home to dinner with me. I don't know what Annie'll give us. Probably bread pudding. She does, when she's left to her own devices. But I--I wish you would." She looked up at him almost shyly. T. A. Buck took Emma McChesney's arm in a rather unnecessarily firm grip and propelled her, surprised and protesting, in the direction of the nearest vacant taxi. "But, T. A.! This is idiotic! Why take a cab to go home from the office on a--a week day?" "In with you! Besides, I never have a chance to take one from the office on Sunday, do I? Does Annie always cook enough for two?" Apparently Annie did. Annie was something of a witch, in her way. She whisked about, wrought certain changes, did things with asparagus and mayonnaise, lighted the rose-shaded table-candles. No one noticed that dinner was twenty minutes late. Together they admired the great mahogany buffet that Emma had miraculously found space for in the little dining-room. "It glows like a great, deep ruby, doesn't it?" she said proudly. "You should see Annie circle around it with the carpet-sweeper. She knows one bump would be followed by instant death." Looking back on it, afterward, they remembered that the dinner was a very silent one. They did not notice their wordlessness at the time. Once, when the chops came on, Buck said absently, "Oh, I had those for l----" Then he stopped abruptly. Emma McChesney smiled. "Your mother trained you well," she said. The October night had grown cool. Annie had lighted a wood fire in the living-room. "That was what attracted me to this apartment in the first place," Mrs. McChesney said, as they left the dining-room. "A fireplace--a practical, real, wood-burning fireplace in a New York apartment! I'd have signed the lease if the plaster had been falling in chunks and the bathtub had been zinc." "That's because fireplaces mean home--in our minds," said Buck. He sat looking into the heart of the glow. There fell another of those comfortable silences. "T. A., I--I want to tell you that I know I've been acting the cat ever since I got home from South America and found that you had taken charge. You see, you had spoiled me. The thing that has happened to me is the thing that always happens to those who assume to be dictators. I just want you to know, now, that I'm glad and proud and happy because you have come into your own. It hurt me just at first. That was the pride of me. I'm quite over that now. You're not only president of the T. A. Buck Company in name. You're its actual head. And that's as it should be. Long live the King!" Buck sat silent a moment. Then, "I had to do it, Emma." She looked up. "You have a wonderful brain," said Buck then, and the two utterances seemed connected in his mind. They seemed to bring no great satisfaction to the woman to whom he addressed them, however. She thanked him dryly, as women do when their brain is dragged into an intimate conversation. "But," said Buck, and suddenly stood up, looking at her very intently, "it isn't for your mind that I love you this minute. I love you for your eyes, Emma, and for your mouth--you have the tenderest, most womanly-sweet mouth in the world--and for your hair, and the way your chin curves. I love you for your throat-line, and for the way you walk and talk and sit, for the way you look at me, and for the way you don't look at me." He reached down and gathered Emma McChesney, the alert, the aggressive, the capable, into his arms, quite as men gather the clingingest kind of woman. "And now suppose you tell me just why and how you love me." And Emma McChesney told him. When, at last, he was leaving, "Don't you think," asked Emma McChesney, her hands on his shoulders, "that you overdid the fascination thing just the least leetle bit there on the road?" "Well, but you told me to entertain them, didn't you?" "Yes," reluctantly; "but I didn't tell you to consecrate your life to 'em. The ordinary fat, middle-aged, every-day traveling man will never be able to sell Featherlooms in the Middle West again. They won't have 'em. They'll never be satisfied with anything less than John Drew after this." "Emma McChesney, you're not marrying me because a lot of overdressed, giggling, skittish old girls have taken a fancy to make eyes at me, are you!" Emma McChesney stood up very straight and tall. "I'm marrying you, T. A., because you are a great, big, fine, upstanding, tender, wonderful----" "Oh, well, then that's all right," broke in Buck, a little tremulously. Emma McChesney's face grew serious. "But promise me one thing, T. A. Promise me that when you come home for dinner at night, you'll never say, 'Good heavens, I had that for lunch!'" III A CLOSER CORPORATION Front offices resemble back kitchens in this: they have always an ear at the keyhole, an eye at the crack, a nose in the air. But between the ordinary front office and the front office of the T. A. Buck Featherloom Petticoat Company there was a difference. The employees at Buck's--from Emil, the errand boy, to old Pop Henderson, who had started as errand boy himself twenty-five years before--possessed the quality of loyalty. They were loyal to the memory of old man Buck, because they had loved and respected him. They were loyal to Mrs. Emma McChesney, because she was Mrs. Emma McChesney (which amounts to the same reason). They were loyal to T. A. Buck, because he was his father's son. For three weeks the front office had been bewildered. From bewilderment it passed to worry. A worried, bewildered front office is not an efficient front office. Ever since Mrs. McChesney had come off the road, at the death of old T. A. Buck, to assume the secretaryship of the company which she had served faithfully for ten years, she had set an example for the entire establishment. She was the pacemaker. Every day of her life she figuratively pressed the electric button that set the wheels to whirring. At nine A.M., sharp, she appeared, erect, brisk, alert, vibrating energy. Usually, the office staff had not yet swung into its gait. In a desultory way, it had been getting into its sateen sleevelets, adjusting its eye-shades, uncovering its typewriter, opening its ledgers, bringing out its files. Then, down the hall, would come the sound of a firm, light, buoyant step. An electric thrill would pass through the front office. Then the sunny, sincere, "Good morning!" "'Morning, Mrs. McChesney!" the front office would chorus back. The day had begun for the T. A. Buck Featherloom Petticoat Company. Hortense, the blond stenographer (engaged to the shipping-clerk), noticed it first. The psychology of that is interesting. Hortense knew that by nine-thirty Mrs. McChesney's desk would be clear and that the buzzer would summon her. Hortense didn't mind taking dictation from T. A. Buck, though his method was hesitating and jerky, and he was likely to employ quite casually a baffling and unaccustomed word, over which Hortense's scampering pencil would pause, struggle desperately, then race on. Hortense often was in for a quick, furtive session with her pocket-dictionary after one of T. A.'s periods. But with Mrs. McChesney, dictation was a joy. She knew what she wanted to say and she always said it. The words she used were short, clean-cut, meaningful Anglo-Saxon words. She never used received when she could use got. Hers was the rapid-fire-gun method, each word sharp, well timed, efficient. Imagine, then, Hortense staring wide-eyed and puzzled at a floundering, hesitating, absent-minded Mrs. McChesney--a Mrs. McChesney strangely starry as to eyes, strangely dreamy as to mood, decidedly deficient as to dictation. Imagine a Hortense with pencil poised in air a full five minutes, waiting until Mrs. McChesney should come to herself with a start, frown, smile vaguely, pass a hand over her eyes, and say, "Let me see--where was I?" "'And we find, on referring to your order, that the goods you mention----'" Hortense would prompt patiently. "Oh, yes, of course," with an effort. Hortense was beginning to grow alarmed. In T. A. Buck's office, just across the hall, the change was quite as noticeable, but in another way. His leisurely drawl was gone. His deliberate manner was replaced by a brisk, quick-thinking, quick-speaking one. His words were brief and to the point. He seemed to be riding on the crest of an excitement-wave. And, as he dictated, he smiled. Hortense stood it for a week. Then she unburdened herself to Miss Kelly, the assistant bookkeeper. Miss Kelly evinced no surprise at her disclosures. "I was just talking about it to Pop yesterday. She acts worried, doesn't she? And yet, not exactly worried, either. Do you suppose it can be that son of hers--what's his name? Jock." Hortense shook her head. "No; he's all right. She had a letter from him yesterday. He's got a grand position in Chicago, and he's going to marry that girl he was so stuck on here. And it isn't that, either, because Mrs. McChesney likes her. I can tell by the way she talks about her. I ought to know. Look how Henry's ma acted toward me when we were first engaged!" The front office buzzed with it. It crept into the workroom--into the shipping-room. It penetrated the frowsy head of Jake, the elevator-man. As the days went on and the tempo of the front office slackened with that of the two bright little inner offices, only one member of the whole staff remained unmoved, incurious, taciturn. Pop Henderson listened, one scant old eyebrow raised knowingly, a whimsical half-smile screwing up his wrinkled face. At the end of three weeks, Hortense, with that display of temperament so often encountered in young ladies of her profession, announced in desperation that, if this thing kept on, she was going to forget herself and jeopardize her position by demanding to know outright what the trouble was. From the direction of Pop Henderson's inky retreat, there came the sound of a dry chuckle. Pop Henderson had been chuckling in just that way for three weeks, now. It was getting on the nerves of his colleagues. "If you ever spring the joke that's kept you giggling for a month," snapped Hortense, "it'll break up the office." Pop Henderson removed his eye-shade very deliberately, passed his thin, cramped old hand over his scant gray locks to his bald spot, climbed down stiffly from his stool, ambled to the center of the room, and, head cocked like a knowing old brown sparrow, regarded the pert Hortense over his spectacles and under his spectacles and, finally, through his spectacles. "Young folks now 'days," began Pop Henderson dryly, "are so darned cute and knowin' that when an old fellow cuts in ahead of 'em for once, he likes to hug the joke to himself a while before he springs it." There was no acid in his tone. He was beaming very benignantly down upon the little blond stenographer. "You say that Mrs. Mack is absent-minded-like and dreamy, and that young T. A. acts like he'd swallowed an electric battery. Well, when it comes to that, I've seen you many a time, when you didn't know any one was lookin', just sitting there at your typewriter, with your hands kind of poised halfway, and your lips sort of parted, and your eyes just gazing away somewhere off in the distance for fifteen minutes at a stretch. And out there in the shipping-room Henry's singing like a whole minstrel troupe all day long, when he isn't whistlin' so loud you can hear him over 's far as Eighth Avenue." Then, as the red surged up through the girl's fair skin, "Well?" drawled old Pop Henderson, and the dry chuckle threatened again. "We-e-ell?" "Why, Pop Henderson!" exploded Miss Kelly from her cage. "Why--Pop--Henderson!" In those six words the brisk and agile-minded Miss Kelly expressed the surprise and the awed conviction of the office staff. Pop Henderson trotted over to the water-cooler, drew a brimming glass, drank it off, and gave vent to a great exhaust of breath. He tried not to strut as he crossed back to his desk, climbed his stool, adjusted his eye-shade, and, with a last throaty chuckle, plunged into his books again. But his words already were working their wonders. The office, after the first shock, was flooded with a new atmosphere--a subtle, pervasive air of hushed happiness, of tender solicitude. It went about like a mother who has found her child asleep at play, and who steals away atiptoe, finger on lip, lips smiling tenderly. The delicate antennae of Emma McChesney's mind sensed the change. Perhaps she read something in the glowing eyes of her sister-in-love, Hortense. Perhaps she caught a new tone in Miss Kelly's voice or the forewoman's. Perhaps a whisper from the outer office reached her desk. The very afternoon of Pop Henderson's electrifying speech, Mrs. McChesney crossed to T. A. Buck's office, shut the door after her, lowered her voice discreetly, and said, "T. A., they're on." "What makes you think so?" "Nothing. That is, nothing definite. No man-reason. Just a woman-reason." T. A. Buck strolled over to her, smiling. "I haven't known you all this time without having learned that that's reason enough. And if they really do know, I'm glad." "But we didn't want them to know. Not yet--until--until just before the----" T. A. Buck laid his hands lightly on Emma McChesney's shoulders. Emma McChesney promptly reached up and removed them. "There you are!" exclaimed Buck, and rammed the offending hands into his pockets. "That's why I'm glad they know--if they really do know. I'm no actor. I'm a skirt-and-lingerie manufacturer. For the last six weeks, instead of being allowed to look at you with the expression that a man naturally wears when he's looking at the woman he's going to marry, what have I had to do? Glare, that's what! Scowl! Act like a captain of finance when I've felt like a Romeo! I've had to be dry, terse, businesslike, when I was bursting with adjectives that had nothing to do with business. You've avoided my office as you would a small-pox camp. You've greeted me with a what-can-I-do-for-you air when I've dared to invade yours. You couldn't have been less cordial to a book agent. If it weren't for those two hours you grant me in the evening, I'd--I'd blow up with a loud report, that's what. I'd----" "Now, now, T. A.!" interrupted Emma McChesney soothingly, and patted one gesticulating arm. "It has been a bit of a strain--for both of us. But, you know, we agreed it would be best this way. We've ten days more to go. Let's stick it out as we've begun. It has been best for us, for the office, for the business. The next time you find yourself choked up with a stock of fancy adjectives, write a sonnet to me. Work 'em off that way." T. A. Buck stood silent a moment, regarding her with a concentration that would have unnerved a woman less poised. "Emma McChesney, when you talk like that, so coolly, so evenly, so--so darned mentally, I sometimes wonder if you really----" "Don't say it, T. A. Because you don't mean it. I've had to fight for most of my happiness. I've never before found it ready at hand. I've always had to dig for it with a shovel and a spade and a pickax, and then blast. I had almost twenty years of that--from the time I was eighteen until I was thirty-eight. It taught me to take my happiness seriously and my troubles lightly." She shut her eyes for a moment, and her voice was very low and very deep and very vibrant. "So, when I'm coolest and evenest and most mental, T. A., you may know that I've struck gold." A great glow illumined Buck's fine eyes. He took two quick steps in her direction. But Emma McChesney, one hand on the door-knob, warned him off with the other. "Hey--wait a minute!" pleaded Buck. "Can't. I've a fitting at the tailor's at three-thirty--my new suit. Wait till you see it!" "The dickens you have! But so have I"--he jerked out his watch--"at three-thirty! It's the suit I'm going to wear when I travel as a blushing bridegroom." "So's mine. And look here, T. A.! We can't both leave this place for a fitting. It's absurd. If this keeps on, it will break up the business. We'll have to get married one at a time--or, at least, get our trousseaux one at a time. What's your suit?" "Sort of brown." "Brown? So's mine! Good heavens, T. A., we'll look like a minstrel troupe!" Buck sighed resignedly. "If I telephone my tailor that I can't make it until four-thirty, will you promise to be back by that time?" "Yes; but remember, if your bride appears in a skirt that sags in the back or a coat that bunches across the shoulders, the crime will lie at your door." So it was that the lynx-eyed office staff began to wonder if, after all, Pop Henderson was the wizard that he had claimed to be. During working hours, Mrs. McChesney held rigidly to business. Her handsome partner tried bravely to follow her example. If he failed occasionally, perhaps Emma McChesney was not so displeased as she pretended to be. A business discussion, deeply interesting to both, was likely to run thus: Buck, entering her office briskly, papers in hand: "Mrs. McChesney--ahem!--I have here a letter from Singer & French, Columbus, Ohio. They ask for an extension. They've had ninety days." "That's enough. That firm's slow pay, and always will be until old Singer has the good taste and common sense to retire. It isn't because the stock doesn't move. Singer simply believes in not paying for anything until he has to. If I were you, I'd write him that this is a business house, not a charitable institution---- No, don't do that. It isn't politic. But you know what I mean." "H'm; yes." A silence. "Emma, that's a fiendishly becoming gown." "Now, T. A.!" "But it is! It--it's so kind of loose, and yet clinging, and those white collar-and-cuff things----" "T. A. Buck, I've worn this thing down to the office every day for a month. It shines in the back. Besides, you promised not to----" "Oh, darn it all, Emma, I'm human, you know! How do you suppose I can stand here and look at you and not----" Emma McChesney (pressing the buzzer that summons Hortense): "You know, Tim, I don't exactly hate you this morning, either. But business is business. Stop looking at me like that!" Then, to Hortense, in the doorway: "Just take this letter, Miss Stotz-Singer & French, Columbus, Ohio. Dear Sirs: Yours of the tenth at hand. Period. Regarding your request for further extension we wish to say that, in view of the fact----" T. A. Buck, half resentful, half amused, wholly admiring, would disappear. But Hortense, eyes demurely cast down at her notebook, was not deceived. "Say," she confided to Miss Kelly, "they think they've got me fooled. But I'm wise. Don't I know? When Henry passes through the office here, from the shipping-room, he looks at me just as cool and indifferent. Before we announced it, we had you all guessing, didn't we? But I can see something back of that look that the rest of you can't get. Well, when Mr. Buck looks at her, I can see the same thing in his eyes. Say, when it comes to seeing the love-light through the fog, I'm there with the spy-glass." If Emma McChesney held herself well in leash during the busy day, she relished her happiness none the less when she could allow herself the full savor of it. When a girl of eighteen she had married a man of the sort that must put whisky into his stomach before the machinery of his day would take up its creaking round. Out of the degradation of that marriage she had emerged triumphantly, sweet and unsullied, and she had succeeded in bringing her son, Jock McChesney, out into the clear sunlight with her. The evenings spent with T. A. Buck, the man of fine instincts, of breeding, of proven worth, of rare tenderness, filled her with a great peace and happiness. When doubts assailed her, it was not for herself but for him. Sometimes the fear would clutch her as they sat before the fire in the sitting-room of her comfortable little apartment. She would voice those fears for the very joy of having them stilled. "T. A., this is too much happiness. I'm--I'm afraid. After all, you're a young man, though you are a bit older than I in actual years. But men of your age marry girls of eighteen. You're handsome. And you've brains, family, breeding, money. Any girl in New York would be glad to marry you--those tall, slim, exquisite young girls. Young! And well bred, and poised and fresh and sweet and lovable. You see them every day on Fifth Avenue, exquisitely dressed, entirely desirable. They make me feel--old--old and battered. I've sold goods on the road. I've fought and worked and struggled. And it has left its mark. I did it for the boy, God bless him! And I'm glad I did it. But it put me out of the class of that girl you see on----" "Yes, Emma; you're not at all in the class with that girl you see every day on Fifth Avenue. Fifth Avenue's full of her--hundreds of her, thousands of her. Perhaps, five years ago, before I had worked side by side with you, I might have been attracted by that girl you see every day on Fifth Avenue. You don't see a procession of Emma McChesneys every day on Fifth Avenue--not by a long shot! Why? Because there's only one of her. She doesn't come in dozen lots. I know that that girl you see every day on Fifth Avenue is all that I deserve. But, by some heaven-sent miracle, I'm to have this Emma McChesney woman! I don't know how it came to be true. I don't deserve it. But it is true, and that's enough for me." Emma McChesney would look up at him, eyes wet, mouth smiling. "T. A., you're balm and myrrh and incense and meat and drink to me. I wish I had words to tell you what I'm thinking now. But I haven't. So I'll just cover it up. We both know it's there. And I'll tell you that you make love like a 'movie' hero. Yes, you do! Better than a 'movie' hero, because, in the films, the heroine always has to turn to face the camera, which makes it necessary for him to make love down the back of her neck." But T. A. Buck was unsmiling. "Don't trifle, Emma. And don't think you can fool me that way. I haven't finished. I want to settle this Fifth Avenue creature for all time. What I have to say is this: I think you are more attractive--finer, bigger, more rounded in character and manner, mellower, sweeter, sounder, with all your angles and corners rubbed smooth, saner, better poised than any woman I have ever known. And what I am to-day you have made me, directly and indirectly, by association and by actual orders, by suggestion, and by direct contact. What you did for Jock, purposefully and by force, you did for me, too. Not so directly, perhaps, but with the same result. Emma McChesney, you've made--actually made, molded, shaped, and turned out two men. You're the greatest sculptor that ever lived. You could make a scarecrow in a field get up and achieve. Everywhere one sees women over-wrought, over-stimulated, eager, tense. When there appears one who has herself in leash, balanced, tolerant, poised, sane, composed, she restores your faith in things. You lean on her, spiritually. I know I need you more than you need me, Emma. And I know you won't love me the less for that. There--that's about all for this evening." "I think," breathed Emma McChesney in a choked little voice, "that that's about--enough." Two days before the date set for their very quiet wedding, they told the heads of office and workroom. Office and workroom, somewhat moist as to eye and flushed as to cheek and highly congratulatory, proved their knowingness by promptly presenting to their employers a very costly and unbelievably hideous set of mantel ornaments and clock, calculated to strike horror to the heart of any woman who has lovingly planned the furnishing of her drawing-room. Pop Henderson, after some preliminary wrestling with collar, necktie, spectacles, and voice, launched forth on a presentation speech that threatened to close down the works for the day. Emma McChesney heard it, tears in her eyes. T. A. Buck gnawed his mustache. And when Pop Henderson's cracked old voice broke altogether in the passage that touched on his departed employer, old T. A. Buck, and the great happiness that this occasion would have brought him, Emma's hand met young T. A.'s and rested there. Hortense and Henry, standing very close together all through the speech, had, in this respect, anticipated their employers by several minutes. They were to be away two weeks only. No one knew just where, except that some small part of the trip was to be spent on a flying visit to young Jock McChesney out in Chicago. He himself was to be married very soon. Emma McChesney had rather startled her very good-looking husband-to-be by whirling about at him with, "T. A., do you realize that you're very likely to be a step-grandfather some fine day not so far away!" T. A. had gazed at her for a rather shocked moment, swallowed hard, smiled, and said, "Even that doesn't scare me, Emma." Everything had been planned down to the last detail. Mrs. McChesney's little apartment had been subleased, and a very smart one taken and furnished almost complete, with Annie installed in the kitchen and a demure parlor-maid engaged. "When we come back, we'll come home," T. A. Buck had said. "Home!" There had been much to do, but it had all been done smoothly and expertly, under the direction of these two who had learned how to plan, direct, and carry out. Then, on the last day, Emma McChesney, visibly perturbed, entered her partner's office, a letter in her hand. "This is ghastly!" she exclaimed. Buck pulled out a chair for her. "Klein cancel his order again?" "No. And don't ask me to sit down. Be thankful that I don't blow up." "Is it as bad as that?" "Bad! Here--read that! No, don't read it; I'll tell you. It'll relieve my feelings. You know how I've been angling and scheming and contriving and plotting for years to get an exclusive order from Gage & Fosdick. Of course we've had a nice little order every few months, but what's that from the biggest mail-order house in the world? And now, out of a blue sky, comes this bolt from O'Malley, who buys our stuff, saying that he's coming on the tenth--that's next week--that he's planned to establish our line with their trade, and that he wants us to be prepared for a record-breaking order. I've fairly prayed for this. And now--what shall we do?" "Do?"--smoothly--"just write the gentleman and tell him you're busy getting married this week and next, and that, by a singular coincidence, your partner is similarly engaged; that our manager will attend to him with all care and courtesy, unless he can postpone his trip until our return. Suggest that he call around a week or two later." "T. A. Buck, I know it isn't considered good form to rage and glare at one's fiance on the eve of one's wedding-day. If this were a week earlier or a week later, I'd be tempted to--shake you!" Buck stood up, came over to her, and laid a hand very gently on her arm. With the other hand he took the letter from her fingers. "Emma, you're tired, and a little excited. You've been under an unusual physical and mental strain for the last few weeks. Give me that letter. I'll answer it. This kind of thing"--he held up the letter--"has meant everything to you. If it had not, where would I be to-day? But to-night, Emma, it doesn't mean a thing. Not--one thing." Slowly Emma McChesney's tense body relaxed. A great sigh that had in it weariness and relief and acquiescence came from her. She smiled ever so faintly. "I've been a ramrod so long it's going to be hard to learn to be a clinging vine. I've been my own support for so many years, I don't use a trellis very gracefully--yet. But I think I'll get the hang of it very soon." She turned toward the door, crossed to her own office, looked all about at the orderly, ship-shape room that reflected her personality--as did any room she occupied. "Just the same," she called out, over her shoulder, to Buck in the doorway, "I hate like fury to see that order slide." In hat and coat and furs she stood a moment, her fingers on the electric switch, her eyes very bright and wide. The memories of ten years, fifteen years, twenty years crowded up around her and filled the little room. Some of them were golden and some of them were black; a few had power to frighten her, even now. So she turned out the light, stood for just another moment there in the darkness, then stepped out into the hall, closed the door softly behind her, and stood face to face with the lettering on the glass panel of the door--the lettering that spelled the name, "MRS. MCCHESNEY." T. A. Buck watched her in silence. She reached up with one wavering forefinger and touched each of the twelve letters, one after the other. Then she spread her hand wide, blotting out the second word. And when she turned away, one saw--she being Emma McChesney, and a woman, and very tired and rather sentimental, and a bit hysterical and altogether happy--that, though she was smiling, her eyes were wet. In her ten years on the road, visiting town after town, catching trains, jolting about in rumbling hotel 'buses or musty-smelling small-town hacks, living in hotels, good, bad, and indifferent, Emma McChesney had come upon hundreds of rice-strewn, ribbon-bedecked bridal couples. She had leaned from her window at many a railway station to see the barbaric and cruel old custom of bride-and-bridegroom baiting. She had smiled very tenderly--and rather sadly, and hopefully, too--upon the boy and girl who rushed breathless into the car in a flurry of white streamers, flowers, old shoes, laughter, cheers, last messages. Now, as in a dream, she found herself actually of these. Of rice, old shoes, and badinage there had been none, it is true. She stood quietly by while Buck attended to their trunks, just as she had seen it done by hundreds of helpless little cotton-wool women who had never checked a trunk in their lives--she, who had spent ten years of her life wrestling with trunks and baggagemen and porters. Once there was some trifling mistake--Buck's fault. Emma, with her experience of the road, saw his error. She could have set him right with a word. It was on the tip of her tongue. By sheer force of will she withheld that word, fought back the almost overwhelming inclination to take things in hand, set them right. It was just an incident, almost trifling in itself. But its import was tremendous, for her conduct, that moment, shaped the happiness of their future life together. Emma had said that there would be no rude awakenings for them, no startling shocks. "There isn't a thing we don't know about each other," she had said. "We each know the other's weaknesses and strength. I hate the way you gnaw your mustache when you're troubled, and I think the fuss you make when the waiter pours your coffee without first having given you sugar and cream is the most absurd thing I've ever seen. But, then, I know how it annoys you to see me sitting with one slipper dangling from my toe, when I'm particularly comfortable and snug. You know how I like my eggs, and you think it's immoral. I suppose we're really set in our ways. It's going to be interesting to watch each other shift." "Just the same," Buck said, "I didn't dream there was any woman living who could actually make a Pullman drawing-room look homelike." "Any woman who has spent a fourth of her life in hotels and trains learns that trick. She has to. If she happens to be the sort that likes books and flowers and sewing, she carries some of each with her. And one book, one rose, and one piece of unfinished embroidery would make an oasis in the Sahara Desert look homelike." It was on the westbound train that they encountered Sam--Sam of the rolling eye, the genial grin, the deft hand. Sam was known to every hardened traveler as the porter de luxe of the road. Sam was a diplomat, a financier, and a rascal. He never forgot a face. He never forgave a meager tip. The passengers who traveled with him were at once his guests and his victims. Therefore his, "Good evenin', Mis' McChesney, ma'am. Good even'! Well, it suh't'nly has been a long time sense Ah had the pleasuh of yoh presence as passengah, ma'am. Ah sure am----" The slim, elegant figure of T. A. Buck appeared in the doorway. Sam's rolling eye became a thing on ball bearings. His teeth flashed startlingly white in the broadest of grins. He took Buck's hat, ran a finger under its inner band, and shook it very gently. "What's the idea?" inquired Buck genially. "Are you a combination porter and prestidigitator?" Sam chuckled his infectious negro chuckle. "Well, no, sah! Ah wouldn' go's fah as t' say that, sah. But Ah hab been known to shake rice out of a gen'lman's ordinary, ever'-day, black derby hat." "Get out!" laughed T. A. Buck, as Sam ducked. "You may as well get used to it," smiled Emma, "because I'm known to every train-conductor, porter, hotel-clerk, chamber-maid, and bell-boy between here and the Great Lakes." It was Sam who proved himself hero of the honeymoon, for he saved T. A. Buck from continuing his journey to Chicago brideless. Fifteen minutes earlier, Buck had gone to the buffet-car for a smoke. At Cleveland, Emma, looking out of the car window, saw a familiar figure pacing up and down the station platform. It was that dapper and important little Irishman, O'Malley, buyer for Gage & Fosdick, the greatest mail-order house in the world--O'Malley, whose letter T. A. Buck had answered; O'Malley, whose order meant thousands. He was on his way to New York, of course. In that moment Mrs. T. A. Buck faded into the background and Emma McChesney rose up in her place. She snatched hat and coat and furs, put them on as she went down the long aisle, swung down the car steps, and flew down the platform to the unconscious O'Malley. He was smoking, all unconscious. The Fates had delivered him into her expert hands. She knew those kindly sisters of old, and she was the last to refuse their largesse. "Mr. O'Malley!" He wheeled. "Mrs. McChesney!" He had just a charming trace of a brogue. His enemies said he assumed it. "Well, who was I thinkin' of but you a minute ago. What----" "I'm on my way to Chicago. Saw you from the car window. You're on the New York train? I thought so. Tell me, you're surely seeing our man, aren't you?" O'Malley's smiling face clouded. He was a temperamental Irishman--Ted O'Malley--with ideas on the deference due him and his great house. "I'll tell you the truth, Mrs. McChesney. I had a letter from your Mr. Buck. It wasn't much of a letter to a man like me, representing a house like Gage & Fosdick. It said both heads of the firm would be out of town, and would I see the manager. Me--see the manager! Well, thinks I, if that's how important they think my order, then they'll not get it--that's all. I've never yet----" "Dear Mr. O'Malley, please don't be offended. As a McChesney to an O'Malley, I want to tell you that I've just been married." "Married! God bless me--to----" "To T. A. Buck, of course. He's on that train. He----" She turned toward the train. And as she turned it began to move, ever so gently. At the same moment there sped toward her, with unbelievable swiftness, the figure of Sam the porter, his eyes all whites. By one arm he grasped her, and half carried, half jerked her to the steps of the moving train, swung her up to the steps like a bundle of rags, caught the rail by a miracle, and stood, grinning and triumphant, gazing down at the panting O'Malley, who was running alongside the train. "Back in a week. Will you wait for us in New York?" called Emma, her breath coming fast. She was trembling, too, and laughing. "Will I wait!" called back the puffing O'Malley, every bit of the Irish in him beaming from his eyes. "I'll be there when you get back as sure as your name's McBuck." From his pocket he took a round, silver Western dollar and, still running, tossed it to the toothy Sam. That peerless porter caught it, twirled it, kissed it, bowed, and grinned afresh as the train glided out of the shed. Emma, flushed, smiling, flew up the aisle. Buck, listening to her laughing, triumphant account of her hairbreadth, harum-scarum adventure, frowned before he smiled. "Emma, how could you do it! At least, why didn't you send back for me first?" Emma smiled a little tremulously. "Don't be angry. You see, dear boy, I've only been your wife for a week. But I've been Featherloom petticoats for over fifteen years. It's a habit." Just how strong and fixed a habit, she proved to herself a little more than a week later. It was the morning of their first breakfast in the new apartment. You would have thought, to see them over their coffee and eggs and rolls, that they had been breakfasting together thus for years--Annie was so at home in her new kitchen; the deft little maid, in her crisp white, fitted so perfectly into the picture. Perhaps the thing that T. A. Buck said, once the maid left them alone, might have given an outsider the cue. "You remind me of a sweetpea, Emma. One of those crisp, erect, golden-white, fresh, fragrant sweetpeas. I think it is the slenderest, sweetest, neatest, trimmest flower in the world, so delicately set on its stem, and yet so straight, so independent." "T. A., you say such dear things to me!" No; they had not been breakfasting together for years. "I'm glad you're not one of those women that wears a frowsy, lacy, ribbony, what-do-you-call-'em-boudoir-cap--down to breakfast. They always make me think of uncombed hair. That's just one reason why I'm glad." "And I'm glad," said Emma, looking at his clear eyes and steady hand and firm skin, "for a number of reasons. One of them is that you're not the sort of man who's a grouch at breakfast." When he had hat and coat and stick in hand, and had kissed her good-by and reached the door and opened it, he came back again, as is the way of bridegrooms. But at last the door closed behind him. Emma sat there a moment, listening to his quick, light step down the corridor, to the opening of the lift door, to its metallic closing. She sat there, in the sunshiny dining-room, in her fresh, white morning gown. She picked up her newspaper, opened it; scanned it, put it down. For years, now, she had read her newspaper in little gulps on the way downtown in crowded subway or street-car. She could not accustom herself to this leisurely scanning of the pages. She rose, went to the window, came back to the table, stood there a moment, her eyes fixed on something far away. The swinging door between dining-room and butler's pantry opened. Annie, in her neat blue-and-white stripes, stood before her. "Shall it be steak or chops to-night, Mrs. Mc--Buck?" Emma turned her head in Annie's direction--then her eyes. The two actions were distinct and separate. "Steak or----" There was a little bewildered look in her eyes. Her mind had not yet focused on the question. "Steak--oh! Oh, yes, of course! Why--why, Annie"--and the splendid thousand-h.-p. mind brought itself down to the settling of this butter-churning, two-h.-p. question--"why, Annie, considering all things, I think we'll make it filet with mushrooms." IV BLUE SERGE For ten years, Mrs. Emma McChesney's home had been a wardrobe-trunk. She had taken her family life at second hand. Four nights out of the seven, her bed was "Lower Eight," and her breakfast, as many mornings, a cinder-strewn, lukewarm horror, taken tete-a-tete with a sleepy-eyed stranger and presided over by a white-coated, black-faced bandit, to whom a coffee-slopped saucer was a matter of course. It had been her habit during those ten years on the road as traveling saleswoman for the T. A. Buck Featherloom Petticoat Company, to avoid the discomfort of the rapidly chilling car by slipping early into her berth. There, in kimono, if not in comfort, she would shut down the electric light with a snap, raise the shade, and, propped up on one elbow, watch the little towns go by. They had a wonderful fascination for her, those Middle Western towns, whose very names had a comfortable, home-like sound--Sandusky, Galesburg, Crawfordsville, Appleton--very real towns, with very real people in them. Peering wistfully out through the dusk, she could get little intimate glimpses of the home life of these people as the night came on. In those modest frame houses near the station they need not trouble to pull down the shades as must their cautious city cousins. As the train slowed down, there could be had a glimpse of a matronly housewife moving deftly about in the kitchen's warm-yellow glow, a man reading a paper in slippered, shirt-sleeved comfort, a pig-tailed girl at the piano, a woman with a baby in her arms, or a family group, perhaps, seated about the table, deep in an after-supper conclave. It had made her homeless as she was homesick. Emma always liked that picture best. Her keen, imaginative mind could sense the scene, could actually follow the trend of the talk during this, the most genial, homely, soul-cheering hour of the day. The trifling events of the last twelve hours in schoolroom, in store, in office, in street, in kitchen loom up large as they are rehearsed in that magic, animated, cozy moment just before ma says, with a sigh: "Well, folks, go on into the sitting-room. Me and Nellie've got to clear away." Just silhouettes as the train flashed by--these small-town people--but very human, very enviable to Emma McChesney. "They're real," she would say. "They're regular, three-meals-a-day people. I've been peeking in at their windows for ten years, and I've learned that it is in these towns that folks really live. The difference between life here and life in New York is the difference between area and depth. D'you see what I mean? In New York, they live by the mile, and here they live by the cubic foot. Well, I'd rather have one juicy, thick club-steak than a whole platterful of quarter-inch. It's the same idea." To those of her business colleagues whose habit it was to lounge in the hotel window with sneering comment upon the small-town procession as it went by, Emma McChesney had been wont to say: "Don't sneer at Main Street. When you come to think of it, isn't it true that Fifth Avenue, any bright winter afternoon between four and six, is only Main Street on a busy day multiplied by one thousand?" Emma McChesney was not the sort of woman to rail at a fate that had placed her in the harness instead of in the carriage. But during all the long years of up-hill pull, from the time she started with a humble salary in the office of the T. A. Buck Featherloom Petticoat Company, through the years spent on the road, up to the very time when the crown of success came to her in the form of the secretaryship of the prosperous firm of T. A. Buck, there was a minor but fixed ambition in her heart. That same ambition is to be found deep down in the heart of every woman whose morning costume is a tailor suit, whose newspaper must be read in hurried snatches on the way downtown in crowded train or car, and to whom nine A.M. spells "Business." "In fifteen years," Emma McChesney used to say, "I've never known what it is to loll in leisure. I've never had a chance to luxuriate. Sunday? To a working woman, Sunday is for the purpose of repairing the ravages of the other six days. By the time you've washed your brushes, mended your skirt-braid, darned your stockings and gloves, looked for gray hairs and crows'-feet, and skimmed the magazine section, it's Monday." It was small wonder that Emma McChesney's leisure had been limited. In those busy years she had not only earned the living for herself and her boy; she had trained that boy into manhood and placed his foot on the first rung of business success. She had transformed the T. A. Buck Featherloom Petticoat Company from a placidly mediocre concern to a thriving, flourishing, nationally known institution. All this might have turned another woman's head. It only served to set Emma McChesney's more splendidly on her shoulders. Not too splendidly, however; for, with her marriage to her handsome business partner, T. A. Buck, that well-set, independent head was found to fit very cozily into the comfortable hollow formed by T. A. Buck's right arm. "Emma," Buck had said, just before their marriage, "what is the arrangement to be after--after----" "Just what it is now, I suppose," Emma had replied, "except that we'll come down to the office together." He had regarded her thoughtfully for a long minute. Then, "Emma, for three months after our marriage will you try being just Mrs. T. A. Buck?" "You mean no factory, no Featherlooms, no dictation, no business bothers!" Her voice was a rising scale of surprise. "Just try it for three months, with the privilege of a lifetime, if you like it. But try it. I--I'd like to see you there when I leave, Emma. I'd like to have you there when I come home. I suppose I sound like a selfish Turk, but----" "You sound like a regular husband," Emma McChesney had interrupted, "and I love you for it. Now listen, T. A. For three whole months I'm going to be what the yellow novels used to call a doll-wife. I'm going to meet you at the door every night with a rose in my hair. I shall wear pink things with lace ruffles on 'em. Don't you know that I've been longing to do just those things for years and years? I'm going to blossom out into a beauty. Watch me! I've never had time to study myself. I'll hold shades of yellow and green and flesh-color up to my face to see which brings out the right tints. I'm going to gaze at myself through half-closed eyes to see which shade produces tawny lights in my hair. Ever since I can remember, I've been so busy that it has been a question of getting the best possible garments in the least possible time for the smallest possible sum. In that case, one gets blue serge. I've worn blue serge until it feels like a convict's uniform. I'm going to blossom out into fawn and green and mauve. I shall get evening dresses with only bead shoulder-straps. I'm going to shop. I've never really seen Fifth Avenue between eleven and one, when the real people come out. My views of it have been at nine A.M. when the office-workers are going to work, and at five-thirty when they are going home. I will now cease to observe the proletariat and mingle with the predatory. I'll probably go in for those tiffin things at the Plaza. If I do, I'll never be the same woman again." Whereupon she paused with dramatic effect. To all of which T. A. Buck had replied: "Go as far as you like. Take fencing lessons, if you want to, or Sanskrit. You've been a queen bee for so many years that I think the role of drone will be a pleasant change. Let me shoulder the business worries for a while. You've borne them long enough." "It's a bargain. For three months I shall do nothing more militant than to pick imaginary threads off your coat lapel and pout when you mention business. At the end of those three months we'll go into private session, compare notes, and determine whether the plan shall cease or become permanent. Shake hands on it." They shook hands solemnly. As they did so, a faint shadow of doubt hovered far, far back in the depths of T. A. Buck's fine eyes. And a faint, inscrutable smile lurked in the corners of Emma's lips. So it was that Emma McChesney, the alert, the capable, the brisk, the business-like, assumed the role of Mrs. T. A. Buck, the leisurely, the languid, the elegant. She, who formerly, at eleven in the morning, might have been seen bent on selling the best possible bill of spring Featherlooms to Joe Greenbaum, of Keokuk, Iowa, could now be found in a modiste's gray-and-raspberry salon, being draped and pinned and fitted. She, whose dynamic force once charged the entire office and factory with energy and efficiency, now distributed a tithe of that priceless vigor here, a tithe there, a tithe everywhere, and thus broke the very backbone of its power. She had never been a woman to do things by halves. What she undertook to do she did thoroughly and whole-heartedly. This principle she applied to her new mode of life as rigidly as she had to the old. That first month slipped magically by. Emma was too much a woman not to feel a certain exquisite pleasure in the selecting of delicate and becoming fabrics. There was a thrill of novelty in being able to spend an hour curled up with a book after lunch, to listen to music one afternoon a week, to drive through the mistily gray park; to walk up the thronged, sparkling Avenue, pausing before its Aladdin's Cave windows. Simple enough pleasures, and taken quite as a matter of course by thousands of other women who had no work-filled life behind them to use as contrast. She plunged into her new life whole-heartedly. The first new gown was exciting. It was a velvet affair with furs, and gratifyingly becoming. Her shining blond head rose above the soft background of velvet and fur with an effect to distract the least observing. "Like it?" she had asked Buck, turning slowly, frankly sure of herself. "You're wonderful in it," said T. A. Buck. "Say, Emma, where's that blue thing you used to wear--the one with the white cuffs and collar, and the little blue hat with the what-cha-ma-call-ems on it?" "T. A. Buck, you're--you're--well, you're a man, that's what you are! That blue thing was worn threadbare in the office, and I gave it to the laundress's niece weeks ago." Small wonder her cheeks took on a deeper pink. "Oh," said Buck, unruffled, "too bad! There was something about that dress--I don't know----" At the first sitting of the second gown, Emma revolted openly. On the floor at Emma's feet there was knotted into a contortionistic attitude a small, wiry, impolite person named Smalley. Miss Smalley was an artist in draping and knew it. She was the least fashionable person in all that smart dressmaking establishment. She refused to notice the corset-coiffure-and-charmeuse edict that governed all other employees in the shop. In her shabby little dress, her steel-rimmed spectacles, her black-sateen apron, Smalley might have passed for a Bird Center home dressmaker. Yet, given a yard or two or three of satin and a saucer of pins, Smalley could make the dumpiest of debutantes look like a fragile flower. At a critical moment Emma stirred. Handicapped as she was by a mouthful of nineteen pins and her bow-knot attitude, Smalley still could voice a protest. "Don't move!" she commanded, thickly. "Wait a minute," Emma said, and moved again, more disastrously than before. "Don't you think it's too--too young?" She eyed herself in the mirror anxiously, then looked down at Miss Smalley's nut-cracker face that was peering up at her, its lips pursed grotesquely over the pins. "Of course it is," mumbled Miss Smalley. "Everybody's clothes are too young for 'em nowadays. The only difference between the dresses we make for girls of sixteen and the dresses we make for their grandmothers of sixty is that the sixty-year-old ones want 'em shorter and lower, and they run more to rose-bud trimming." Emma surveyed the acid Miss Smalley with a look that was half amused, half vexed, wholly determined. "I shan't wear it. Heaven knows I'm not sixty, but I'm not sixteen either! I don't want to be." Miss Smalley, doubling again to her task, flung upward a grudging compliment. "Well, anyway, you've got the hair and the coloring and the figure for it. Goodness knows you look young enough!" "That's because I've worked hard all my life," retorted Emma, almost viciously. "Another month of this leisure and I'll be as wrinkled as the rest of them." Smalley's magic fingers paused in their manipulation of a soft fold of satin. "Worked? Earned a living? Used your wits and brains every day against the wits and brains of other folks?" "Every day." Into the eyes of Miss Smalley, the artist in draping, there crept the shrewd twinkle of Miss Smalley, the successful woman in business. She had been sitting back on her knees, surveying her handiwork through narrowed lids. Now she turned her gaze on Emma, who was smiling down at her. "Then for goodness' sake don't stop! I've found out that work is a kind of self-oiler. If you're used to it, the minute you stop you begin to get rusty, and your hinges creak and you clog up. And the next thing you know, you break down. Work that you like to do is a blessing. It keeps you young. When my mother was my age, she was crippled with rheumatism, and all gnarled up, and quavery, and all she had to look forward to was death. Now me--every time the styles in skirts change I get a new hold on life. And on a day when I can make a short, fat woman look like a tall, thin woman, just by sitting here on my knees with a handful of pins, and giving her the line she needs, I go home feeling like I'd just been born." "I know that feeling," said Emma, in her eyes a sparkle that had long been absent. "I've had it when I've landed a thousand-dollar Featherloom order from a man who has assured me that he isn't interested in our line." At dinner that evening, Emma's gown was so obviously not of the new crop that even her husband's inexpert eye noted it. "That's not one of the new ones, is it?" "This! And you a manufacturer of skirts!" "What's the matter with the supply of new dresses? Isn't there enough to go round?" "Enough! I've never had so many new gowns in my life. The trouble is that I shan't feel at home in them until I've had 'em all dry-cleaned at least once." During the second month, there came a sudden, sharp change in skirt modes. For four years women had been mincing along in garments so absurdly narrow that each step was a thing to be considered, each curbing or car-step demanding careful negotiation. Now, Fashion, in her freakiest mood, commanded a bewildering width of skirt that was just one remove from the flaring hoops of Civil War days. Emma knew what that meant for the Featherloom workrooms and selling staff. New designs, new models, a shift in prices, a boom for petticoats, for four years a garment despised. A hundred questions were on the tip of Emma's tongue; a hundred suggestions flashed into her keen mind; there occurred to her a wonderful design for a new model which should be full and flaring without being bulky and uncomfortable as were the wide petticoats of the old days. But a bargain was a bargain. Still, Emma Buck was as human as Emma McChesney had been. She could not resist a timid, "T. A., are you--that is--I was just wondering--you're making 'em wide, I suppose, for the spring trade." A queer look flashed into T. A. Buck's eyes--a relieved look that was as quickly replaced by an expression both baffled and anxious. "Why--a--mmmm--yes--oh, yes, we're making 'em up wide, but----" "But what?" Emma leaned forward, tense. "Oh, nothing--nothing." During the second month there came calling on Emma, those solid and heavy New Yorkers, with whom the Buck family had been on friendly terms for many years. They came at the correct hour, in their correct motor or conservative broughams, wearing their quietly correct clothes, and Emma gave them tea, and they talked on every subject from suffrage to salad dressings, and from war to weather, but never once was mention made of business. And Emma McChesney's life had been interwoven with business for more than fifteen years. There were dinners--long, heavy, correct dinners. Emma, very well dressed, bright-eyed, alert, intelligent, vital, became very popular at these affairs, and her husband very proud of her popularity. And if any one as thoroughly alive as Mrs. T. A. Buck could have been bored to extinction by anything, then those dinners would have accomplished the deadly work. "T. A.," she said one evening, after a particularly large affair of this sort, "T. A., have you ever noticed anything about me that is different from other women?" "Have I? Well, I should say I----" "Oh, I don't mean what you mean, dear--thanks just the same. I mean those women tonight. They all seem to 'go in' for something--votes or charity or dancing or social service, or something--even the girls. And they all sounded so amateurish, so untrained, so unprepared, yet they seemed to be dreadfully in earnest." "This is the difference," said T. A. Buck. "You've rubbed up against life, and you know. They've always been sheltered, but now they want to know. Well, naturally they're going to bungle and bump their heads a good many times before they really find out." "Anyway," retorted Emma, "they want to know. That's something. It's better to have bumped your head, even though you never see what's on the other side of the wall, than never to have tried to climb it." It was in the third week of the third month that Emma encountered Hortense. Hortense, before her marriage to Henry, the shipping-clerk, had been a very pretty, very pert, very devoted little stenographer in the office of the T. A. Buck Featherloom Petticoat Company. She had married just a month after her employers, and Emma, from the fulness of her own brimming cup of happiness, had made Hortense happy with a gift of linens and lingerie and lace of a fineness that Hortense's beauty-loving, feminine heart could never have hoped for. They met in the busy aisle of a downtown department store and shook hands as do those who have a common bond. Hortense, as pretty as ever and as pert, spoke first. "I wouldn't have known you, Mrs. Mc-- Buck!" "No? Why not?" "You look--no one would think you'd ever worked in your life. I was down at the office the other day for a minute--the first time since I was married. They told me you weren't there any more." "No; I haven't been down since my marriage either. I'm like you--an elegant lady of leisure." Hortense's bright-blue eyes dwelt searchingly on the face of her former employer. "The bunch in the office said they missed you something awful." Then, in haste: "Oh, I don't mean that Mr. Buck don't make things go all right. They're awful fond of him. But--I don't know--Miss Kelly said she never has got over waiting for the sound of your step down the hall at nine--sort of light and quick and sharp and busy, as if you couldn't wait till you waded into the day's work. Do you know what I mean?" "I know what you mean," said Emma. There was a little pause. The two women so far apart, yet so near; so different, yet so like, gazed far down into each other's soul. "Miss it, don't you?" said Hortense. "Yes; don't you?" "Do I! Say----" She turned and indicated the women surging up and down the store aisles, and her glance and gesture were replete with contempt. "Say; look at 'em! Wandering around here, aimless as a lot of chickens in a barnyard. Half of 'em are here because they haven't got anything else to do. Think of it! I've watched 'em lots of times. They go pawing over silks and laces and trimmings just for the pleasure of feeling 'em. They stand in front of a glass case with a figure in it all dressed up in satin and furs and jewels, and you'd think they were worshiping an idol like they used to in the olden days. They don't seem to have anything to do. Nothing to occupy their--their heads. Say, if I thought I was going to be like them in time, I----" "Hortense, my dear child, you're--you're happy, aren't you? Henry----" "Well, I should say we are! I'm crazy about Henry, and he thinks I'm perfect. Honestly, ain't they a scream! They think they're so big and manly and all, and they're just like kids; ain't it so? We're living in a four-room apartment in Harlem. We've got it fixed up too cozy for anything." "I'd like to come and see you," said Emma. Hortense opened her eyes wide. "Honestly; if you would----" "Let's go up now. I've the car outside." "Now! Why I--I'd love it!" They chattered like schoolgirls on the way uptown--these two who had found so much in common. The little apartment reached, Hortense threw open the door with the confident gesture of the housekeeper who is not afraid to have her household taken by surprise--whose housekeeping is an index of character. Hortense had been a clean-cut little stenographer. Her correspondence had always been free from erasures, thumb-marks, errors. Her four-room flat was as spotless as her typewritten letters had been. The kitchen shone in its blue and white and nickel. A canary chirped in the tiny dining-room. There were books and magazines on the sitting-room table. The bedroom was brave in its snowy spread and the toilet silver that had been Henry's gift to her the Christmas they became engaged. Emma examined everything, exclaimed over everything, admired everything. Hortense glowed like a rose. "Do you really like it? I like the green velours in the sitting-room, don't you? It's always so kind and cheerful. We're not all settled yet. I don't suppose we ever will be. Sundays, Henry putters around, putting up shelves, and fooling around with a can of paint. I always tell him he ought to have lived on a farm, where he'd have elbow-room." "No wonder you're so happy and busy," Emma exclaimed, and patted the girl's fresh, young cheek. Hortense was silent a moment. "I'm happy," she said, at last, "but I ain't busy. And--well, if you're not busy, you can't be happy very long, can you?" "No," said Emma, "idleness, when you're not used to it, is misery." "There! You've said it! It's like running on half-time when you're used to a day-and-night shift. Something's lacking. It isn't that Henry isn't grand to me, because he is. Evenings, we're so happy that we just sit and grin at each other and half the time we forget to go to a 'movie.' After Henry leaves in the morning, I get to work. I suppose, in the old days, when women used to have to chop the kindling, and catch the water for washing in a rain-barrel, and keep up a fire in the kitchen stove and do their own bread baking and all, it used to keep 'em hustling. But, my goodness! A four-room flat for two isn't any work. By eleven, I'm through. I've straightened everything, from the bed to the refrigerator; the marketing's done, and the dinner vegetables are sitting around in cold water. The mending for two is a joke. Henry says it's a wonder I don't sew double-breasted buttons on his undershirts." Emma was not smiling. But, then, neither was Hortense. She was talking lightly, seemingly, but her pretty face was quite serious. "The big noise in my day is when Henry comes home at six. That was all right and natural, I suppose, in those times when a quilting-bee was a wild afternoon's work, and teaching school was the most advanced job a woman could hold down." Emma was gazing fascinated at the girl's sparkling face. Her own eyes were very bright, and her lips were parted. "Tell me, Hortense," she said now; "what does Henry say to all this? Have you told him how you feel?" "Well, I--I talked to him about it once or twice. I told him that I've got about twenty-four solid hours a week that I might be getting fifty cents an hour for. You know, I worked for a manuscript-typewriting concern before I came over to Buck's--plays and stories and that kind of thing. They used to like my work because I never queered their speeches by leaving out punctuation or mixing up the characters. The manager there said I could have work any time I wanted it. I've got my own typewriter. I got it second hand when I first started in. Henry picks around on it sometimes, evenings. I hardly ever touch it. It's getting rusty--and so am I." "It isn't just the money you want, Hortense? Are you sure?" "Of course I'd like the money. That extra coming in would mean books--I'm crazy about reading, and so is Henry--and theaters and lots of things we can't afford now. But that isn't all. Henry don't want to be a shipping-clerk all his life. He's crazy about mechanics and that kind of stuff. But the books that he needs cost a lot. Don't you suppose I'd be proud to feel that the extra money I'd earned would lift him up where he could have a chance to be something! But Henry is dead set against it. He says he is the one that's going to earn the money around here. I try to tell him that I'm used to using my mind. He laughs and pinches my cheek and tells me to use it thinking about him." She stopped suddenly and regarded Emma with conscience-stricken eyes. "You don't think I'm running down Henry, do you? My goodness, I don't want you to think that I'd change back again for a million dollars, because I wouldn't." She looked up at Emma, conscience-stricken. Emma came swiftly over and put one hand on the girl's shoulder. "I don't think it. Not for a minute. I know that the world is full of Henrys, and that the number of Hortenses is growing larger and larger. I don't know if the four-room flats are to blame, or whether it's just a natural development. But the Henry-Hortense situation seems to be spreading to the nine-room-and-three-baths apartments, too." Hortense nodded a knowing head. "I kind of thought so, from the way you were listening." The two, standing there gazing at each other almost shyly, suddenly began to laugh. The laugh was a safety-valve. Then, quite as suddenly, both became serious. That seriousness had been the under-current throughout. "I wonder," said Emma very gently, "if a small Henry, some day, won't provide you with an outlet for all that stored-up energy." Hortense looked up very bravely. "Maybe. You--you must have been about my age when your boy was born. Did he make you feel--different?" The shade of sadness that always came at the mention of those unhappy years of her early marriage crept into Emma's face now. "That was not the same, dear," she explained. "I hadn't your sort of Henry. You see, my boy was my only excuse for living. You'll never know what that means. And when things grew altogether impossible, and I knew that I must earn a living for Jock and myself, I just did it--that's all. I had to." Hortense thought that over for one deliberate moment. Her brows were drawn in a frown. "I'll tell you what I think," she announced, at last, "though I don't know that I can just exactly put it into words. I mean this: Some people are just bound to--to give, to build up things, to--well, to manufacture, because they just can't help it. It's in 'em, and it's got to come out. Dynamos--that's what Henry's technical books would call them. You're one--a great big one. I'm one. Just a little tiny one. But it's sparking away there all the time, and it might as well be put to some use, mightn't it?" Emma bent down and kissed the troubled forehead, and then, very tenderly, the pretty, puckered lips. "Little Hortense," she said, "you're asking a great big question. I can answer it for myself, but I can't answer it for you. It's too dangerous. I wouldn't if I could." Emma, waiting in the hall for the lift, looked back at the slim little figure in the doorway. There was a droop to the shoulders. Emma's heart smote her. "Don't bother your head about all this, little girl," she called back to her. "Just forget to be ambitious and remember to be happy. That's much the better way." Hortense, from the doorway, grinned a rather wicked little grin. "When are you going back to the office, Mrs. Buck?" she asked, quietly enough. "What makes you think I'm going back at all?" demanded Emma, stepping into the shaky little elevator. "I don't think it," retorted Hortense, once more the pert. "I know it." Emma knew it, too. She had known it from the moment that she shook hands in her compact. There was still one week remaining of the stipulated three months. It seemed to Emma that that one week was longer than the combined eleven. But she went through with colors flying. Whatever Emma McChesney Buck did, she did well. But, then, T. A. Buck had done his part well, too--so well that, on the final day, Emma felt a sinking at her heart. He seemed so satisfied with affairs as they were. He was, apparently, so content to drop all thought of business when he left the office for his home. Emma had planned a very special little dinner that evening. She wore a very special gown, too--one of the new ones. T. A. noticed it at once, and the dinner as well, being that kind of husband. Still, Annie, the cook, complained later, to the parlor-maid, about the thanklessness of cooking dinners for folks who didn't eat more'n a mouthful, anyway. Dinner over, "Well, Emma?" said T. A. Buck. "Light your cigar, T. A.," said Emma. "You'll need it." T. A. lighted it with admirable leisureliness, sent out a great puff of fragrant smoke, and surveyed his wife through half-closed lids. Beneath his air of ease there was a tension. "Well, Emma?" he said again, gently. Emma looked at him a moment appreciatively. She had too much poise and balance and control herself not to recognize and admire those qualities in others. "T. A., if I had been what they call a homebody, we wouldn't be married to-day, would we?" "No." "You knew plenty of home-women that you could have married, didn't you?" "I didn't ask them, Emma, but----" "You know what I mean. Now listen, T. A.: I've loafed for three months. I've lolled and lazied and languished. And I've never been so tired in my life--not even when we were taking January inventory. Another month of this, and I'd be an old, old woman. I understand, now, what it is that brings that hard, tired, stony look into the faces of the idle women. They have to work so hard to try to keep happy. I suppose if I had been a homebody all my life, I might be hardened to this kind of thing. But it's too late now. And I'm thankful for it. Those women who want to shop and dress and drive and play are welcome to my share of it. If I am to be punished in the next world for my wickedness in this, I know what form my torture will take. I shall have to go from shop to shop with a piece of lace in my hand, matching a sample of insertion. Fifteen years of being in the thick of it spoil one for tatting and tea. The world is full of homebodies, I suppose. And they're happy. I suppose I might have been one, too, if I hadn't been obliged to get out and hustle. But it's too late to learn now. Besides, I don't want to. If I do try, I'll be destroying the very thing that attracted you to me in the first place. Remember what you said about the Fifth Avenue girl?" "But, Emma," interrupted Buck very quietly, "I don't want you to try." Emma, with a rush of words at her very lips, paused, eyed him for a doubtful moment, asked a faltering question. "But it was your plan--you said you wanted me to be here when you came home and when you left, didn't you? Do you mean you----" "I mean that I've missed my business partner every minute for three months. All the time we've been going to those fool dinners and all that kind of thing, I've been bursting to talk skirts to you. I--say, Emma, Adler's designed a new model--a full one, of course, but there's something wrong with it. I can't put my finger on the flaw, but----" Emma came swiftly over to his chair. "Make a sketch of it, can't you?" she said. From his pocket Buck drew a pencil, an envelope, and fell to sketching rapidly, squinting down through his cigar smoke as he worked. "It's like this," he began, absorbed and happy; "you see, where the fulness begins at the knee----" "Yes!" prompted Emma, breathlessly. Two hours later they were still bent over the much marked bit of paper. But their interest in it was not that of those who would solve a perplexing problem. It was the lingering, satisfied contemplation of a task accomplished. Emma straightened, leaned back, sighed--a victorious, happy sigh. "And to think," she said, marveling, "to think that I once envied the women who had nothing to do but the things I've done in the last three months!" Buck had risen, stretched luxuriously, yawned. Now he came over to his wife and took her head in his two hands, cozily, and stood a moment looking into her shining eyes. "Emma, I may have mentioned this once or twice before, but perhaps you'll still be interested to know that I think you're a wonder. A wonder! You're the----" "Oh, well, we won't quarrel about that," smiled Emma brazenly. "But I wonder if Adler will agree with us when he sees what we've done to his newest skirt design." Suddenly a new thought seemed to strike her. She was off down the hall. Buck, following in a leisurely manner, hands in pockets, stood in the bedroom door and watched her plunge into the innermost depths of the clothes-closet. "What's the idea, Emma?" "Looking for something," came back his wife's muffled tones. A long wait. "Can I help?" "I've got it!" cried Emma, and emerged triumphant, flushed, smiling, holding a garment at arm's length, aloft. "What----" Emma shook it smartly, turned it this way and that, held it up under her chin by the sleeves. "Why, girl!" exclaimed Buck, all a-grin, "it's the----" "The blue serge," Emma finished for him, "with the white collars and cuffs. And what's more, young man, it's the little blue hat with the what-cha-ma-call-ems on it. And praise be! I'm wearing 'em both down-town to-morrow morning." V "HOOPS, MY DEAR!" Emma McChesney Buck always vigorously disclaimed any knowledge of that dreamy-eyed damsel known as Inspiration. T. A. Buck, her husband-partner, accused her of being on intimate terms with the lady. So did the adoring office staff of the T. A. Buck Featherloom Petticoat Company. Out in the workshop itself, the designers and cutters, those jealous artists of the pencil, shears, and yardstick, looked on in awed admiration on those rare occasions when the feminine member of the business took the scissors in her firm white hands and slashed boldly into a shimmering length of petticoat-silk. When she put down the great shears, there lay on the table the detached parts of that which the appreciative and experienced eyes of the craftsmen knew to be a new and original variation of that elastic garment known as the underskirt. For weeks preceding one of these cutting-exhibitions, Emma was likely to be not quite her usual brisk self. A mystic glow replaced the alert brightness of her eye. Her wide-awake manner gave way to one of almost sluggish inactivity. The outer office, noting these things, would lift its eyebrows significantly. "Another hunch!" it would whisper. "The last time she beat the rest of the trade by six weeks with that elastic-top gusset." "Inspiration working, Emma?" T. A. Buck would ask, noting the symptoms. "It isn't inspiration, T. A. Nothing of the kind! It's just an attack of imagination, complicated by clothes-instinct." "That's all that ails Poiret," Buck would retort. Early in the autumn, when women were still walking with an absurd sidewise gait, like a duck, or a filly that is too tightly hobbled, the junior partner of the firm began to show unmistakable signs of business aberration. A blight seemed to have fallen upon her bright little office, usually humming with activity. The machinery of her day, ordinarily as noiseless and well ordered as a thing on ball bearings, now rasped, creaked, jerked, stood still, jolted on again. A bustling clerk or stenographer, entering with paper or memorandum, would find her bent over her desk, pencil in hand, absorbed in a rough drawing that seemed to bear no relation to the skirt of the day. The margin of her morning paper was filled with queer little scrawls by the time she reached the office. She drew weird lines with her fork on the table-cloth at lunch. These hieroglyphics she covered with a quick hand, like a bashful schoolgirl, when any one peeped. "Tell a fellow what it's going to be, can't you?" pleaded Buck. "I got one glimpse yesterday, when you didn't know I was looking over your shoulder. It seemed a pass between an overgrown Zeppelin and an apple dumpling. So I know it can't be a skirt. Come on, Emma; tell your old man!" "Not yet," Emma would reply dreamily. Buck would strike an attitude intended to intimidate. "If you have no sense of what is due me as your husband, then I demand, as senior partner of this firm, to know what it is that is taking your time, which rightfully belongs to this business." "Go away, T. A., and stop pestering me! What do you think I'm designing--a doily?" Buck, turning to go to his own office, threw a last retort over his shoulder--a rather sobering one, this time. "Whatever it is, it had better be good--with business what it is and skirts what they are." Emma lifted her head to reply to that. "It isn't what they are that interests me. It's what they're going to be." Buck paused in the doorway. "Going to be! Anybody can see that. Underneath that full, fool, flaring over-drape, the real skirt is as tight as ever. I don't think the spring models will show an inch of real difference. I tell you, Emma, it's serious." Emma, apparently absorbed in her work, did not reply to this. But a vague something about the back of her head told T. A. Buck that she was laughing at him. The knowledge only gave him new confidence in this resourceful, many-sided, lovable, level-headed partner-wife of his. Two weeks went by--four--six--eight. Emma began to look a little thin. Her bright color was there only when she was overtired or excited. The workrooms began to talk of new designs for spring, though it was scarcely mid-winter. The head designer came forward timidly with a skirt that measured a yard around the bottom. Emma looked at it, tried to keep her lower lip prisoner between her teeth, failed, and began to laugh helplessly, almost hysterically. Amazement in the faces of Buck and Koritz, the designer, became consternation, then, in the designer, resentment. Koritz, dark, undersized, with the eyes of an Oriental and the lean, sensitive fingers of one who creates, shivered a little, like a plant that is swept by an icy blast. Buck came over and laid one hand on his wife's shaking shoulder. "Emma, you're overtired! This--this thing you've been slaving over has been too much for you." With one hand, Emma reached up and patted the fingers that rested protectingly on her shoulder. With the other, she wiped her eyes, then, all contrition, grasped the slender brown hand of the offended Koritz. "Bennie, please forgive me! I--I didn't mean to laugh. I wasn't laughing at your new skirt." "You think it's too wide, maybe, huh?" Bennie Koritz said, and held it up doubtfully. "Too wide!" For a moment Emma seemed threatened with another attack of that inexplicable laughter. She choked it back resolutely. "No, Bennie; not too wide. I'll tell you to-morrow why I laughed. Then, perhaps, you'll laugh with me." Bennie, draping his despised skirt-model over one arm, had the courage to smile even now, though grimly. "I laugh--sure," he said, showing his white teeth now. "But the laugh will be, I bet you, on me--like it was when you designed that knickerbocker before the trade knew such a thing could be." Impulsively Emma grasped his hand and shook it, as though she found a certain needed encouragement in the loyalty of this sallow little Russian. "Bennie, you're a true artist--because you're big enough to praise the work of a fellow craftsman when you recognize its value." And Koritz, the dull red showing under the olive of his cheeks, went back to his cutting-table happy. Buck bent forward, eagerly. "You're going to tell me now, Emma? It's finished?" "To-night--at home. I want to be the first to try it on. I'll play model. A private exhibition, just for you. It's not only finished; it is patented." "Patented! But why? What is it, anyway? A new fastener? I thought it was a skirt." "Wait until you see it. You'll think I should have had it copyrighted as well, not to say passed by the national board of censors." "Do you mean to say that I'm to be the entire audience at the premiere of this new model?" "You are to be audience, critic, orchestra, box-holder, patron, and 'Diamond Jim' Brady. Now run along into your own office--won't you, dear? I want to get out these letters." And she pressed the button that summoned a stenographer. T. A. Buck, resigned, admiring, and anticipatory, went. Annie, the cook, was justified that evening in her bitter complaint. Her excellent dinner received scant enough attention from these two. They hurried through it like eager, bright-eyed school-children who have been promised a treat. Two scarlet spots glowed in Emma's cheeks. Buck's eyes, through the haze of his after-dinner cigar, were luminous. "Now?" "No; not yet. I want you to smoke your cigar and digest your dinner and read your paper. I want you to twiddle your thumbs a little and look at your watch. First-night curtains are always late in rising, aren't they? Well!" She turned on the full glare of the chandelier, turned it off, went about flicking on the soft-shaded wall lights and the lamps. "Turn your chair so that your back will be toward the door." He turned it obediently. Emma vanished. From the direction of her bedroom there presently came the sounds of dresser drawers hurriedly opened and shut with a bang, of a slipper dropped on the hard-wood floor, a tune hummed in an absent-minded absorption under the breath, an excited little laugh nervously stifled. Buck, in his role of audience, began to clap impatiently and to stamp with his feet on the floor. "No gallery!" Emma called in from the hall. "Remember the temperamental family on the floor below!" A silence--then: "I'm coming. Shut your eyes and prepare to be jarred by the Buck balloon-petticoat!" There was a rustling of silks, a little rush to the center of the big room, a breathless pause, a sharp snap of finger and thumb. Buck opened his eyes. He opened his eyes. Then he closed them and opened them again, quickly, as we do, sometimes, when we are unwilling to believe that which we see. What he beheld was this: A very pretty, very flushed, very bright-eyed woman, her blond hair dressed quaintly after the fashion of the early 'Sixties, her arms and shoulders bare, a pink-slip with shoulder-straps in lieu of a bodice, and--he passed a bewildered hand over his eyes a skirt that billowed and flared and flounced and spread in a great, graceful circle--a skirt strangely light for all its fulness--a skirt like, and yet, somehow, unlike those garments seen in ancient copies of Godey's Lady Book. "That can't be--you don't mean--what--what IS it?" stammered Buck, dismayed. Emma, her arms curved above her head like a ballet-dancer's, pirouetted, curtsied very low so that the skirt spread all about her on the floor, like the petals of a flower. "Hoops, my dear!" "Hoops!" echoed Buck, in weak protest. "Hoops, my DEAR!" Emma stroked one silken fold with approving fingers. "Our new leader for spring." "But, Emma, you're joking!" She stared, suddenly serious. "You mean--you don't like it!" "Like it! For a fancy-dress costume, yes; but as a petticoat for every-day wear, to be made up by us for our customers! But of course you're playing a trick on me." He laughed a little weakly and came toward her. "You can't catch me that way, old girl! It's darned becoming, Emma--I'll say that." He bent down, smiling. "I'll allow you to kiss me. And then try me with the real surprise, will you?" Her coquetry vanished. Her smile fled with it. Her pretty pose was abandoned. Mrs. T. A. Buck, wife, gave way to Emma McChesney Buck, business woman. She stiffened a little, as though bracing herself for a verbal encounter. "You'll get used to it. I expected you to be jolted at the first shock of it. I was, myself--when the idea came to me." Buck passed a frenzied forefinger under his collar, as though it had suddenly grown too tight for him. "Used to it! I don't want to get used to it! It's preposterous! You can't be serious! No woman would wear a garment like that! For five years skirts have been tighter and tighter----" "Until this summer they became tightest," interrupted Emma. "They could go no farther. I knew that meant, 'About face!' I knew it meant not a slightly wider skirt but a wildly wider skirt. A skirt as bouffant as the other had been scant. I was sure it wouldn't be a gradual process at all but a mushroom growth--hobbles to-day, hoops to-morrow. Study the history of women's clothes, and you'll find that has always been true." "Look here, Emma," began Buck, desperately; "you're wrong, all wrong! Here, let me throw this scarf over your shoulders. Now we'll sit down and talk this thing over sensibly." "I'll agree to the scarf"--she drew a soft, silken, fringed shawl about her and immediately one thought of a certain vivid, brilliant portrait of a hoop-skirted dancer--"but don't ask me to sit down. I'd rebound like a toy balloon. I've got to convince you of this thing. I'll have to do it standing." Buck sank into his chair and dabbed at his forehead with his handkerchief. "You'll never convince me, sitting or standing. Emma, I know I fought the knickerbocker when you originated it, and I know that it turned out to be a magnificent success. But this is different. The knicker was practical; this thing's absurd--it's impossible! This is an age of activity. In Civil War days women minced daintily along when they walked at all. They stitched on samplers by way of diversion." "What has all that to do with it?" inquired Emma sweetly. "Everything. Use a little logic." "Logic! In a discussion about women's dress! T. A., I'm surprised." "But, Emma, be reasonable. Good Lord! You're usually clear-sighted enough. Our mode of living has changed in the last fifty years--our methods of transit, our pastimes, customs, everything. Imagine a woman trying to climb a Fifth Avenue 'bus in one of those things. Fancy her in a hot set of tennis. Women use street-cars, automobiles, airships. Can you see a subway train full of hoop-skirted clerks, stenographers, and models? Street-car steps aren't built for it. Office-building elevators can't stand for it. Six-room apartments won't accommodate 'em. They're fantastic, wild, improbable. You're wrong, Emma--all wrong!" She had listened patiently enough, never once attempting to interrupt. But on her lips was the maddening half-smile of one whose rebuttal is ready. Now she perched for a moment at the extreme edge of the arm of a chair. Her skirt subsided decorously. Buck noticed that, with surprise, even in the midst of his heated protest. "T. A., you've probably forgotten, but those are the very arguments used when the hobble was introduced. Preposterous, people said--impossible! Women couldn't walk in 'em. Wouldn't, couldn't sit down in 'em. Women couldn't run, play tennis, skate in them. The car steps were too high for them. Well, what happened? Women had to walk in them, and a new gait became the fashion. Women took lessons in how to sit down in them. They slashed them for tennis and skating. And street-car companies all over the country lowered the car steps to accommodate them. What's true for the hobble holds good for the hoop. Women will cease to single-foot and learn to undulate when they walk. They'll widen the car platforms. They'll sit on top the Fifth Avenue 'buses, and you'll never give them a second thought." "The things don't stay where they belong. I've seen 'em misbehave in musical comedies," argued Buck miserably. "That's where my patent comes in. The old hoop was cumbersome, unwieldy, clumsy. The new skirt, by my patent featherboning process, is made light, graceful, easily managed. T. A., I predict that by midsummer a tight skirt will be as rare a sight as a full one was a year ago." "Nonsense!" "We're not quarreling, are we?" "Quarreling! I rather think not! A man can have his own opinion, can't he?" It appeared, however, that he could not. For when they had threshed it out, inch by inch, as might two partners whose only bond was business, it was Emma who won. "Remember, I'm not convinced," Buck warned her; "I'm only beaten by superior force. But I do believe in your woman's intuition--I'll say that. It has never gone wrong. I'm banking on it. "It's woman's intuition when we win," Emma observed, thoughtfully. "When we lose it's a foolish, feminine notion." There were to be no half-way measures. The skirt was to be the feature of the spring line. Cutters and designers were one with Buck in thinking it a freak garment. Emma reminded them that the same thing had been said of the hobble on its appearance. In February, Billy Spalding, veteran skirt-salesman, led a flying wedge of six on a test-trip that included the Middle West and the Coast. Their sample-trunks had to be rebuilt to accommodate the new model. Spalding, shirt-sleeved, whistling dolorously, eyed each garment with a look of bristling antagonism. Spalding sold skirts on commission. Emma, surveying his labors, lifted a quizzical eyebrow. "If you're going to sell that skirt as enthusiastically as you pack it, you'd better stay here in New York and save the house traveling expenses." Spalding ceased to whistle. He held up a billowy sample and gazed at it. "Honestly, Mrs. Buck, you know I'd try to sell pretzels in London if you asked me to. But do you really think any woman alive would be caught wearing a garment like this in these days?" "Not only do I think it, Billy; I'm certain of it. This new petticoat makes me the Lincoln of the skirt trade. I'm literally freeing my sisters from the shackles that have bound their ankles for five years." Spalding, unimpressed, folded another skirt. "Um, maybe! But what's that line about slaves hugging their chains?" The day following, Spalding and his flying squad scattered to spread the light among the skirt trade. And things went wrong from the start. The first week showed an ominous lack of those cheering epistles beginning, "Enclosed please find," etc. The second was worse. The third was equally bad. The fourth was final. The second week in March, Spalding returned from a territory which had always been known as firmly wedded to the T. A. Buck Featherloom petticoat. The Middle West would have none of him. They held the post-mortem in Emma's bright little office, and that lady herself seemed to be strangely sunny and undaunted, considering the completeness of her defeat. She sat at her desk now, very interested, very bright-eyed, very calm. Buck, in a chair at the side of her desk, was interested, too, but not so calm. Spalding, who was accustomed to talk while standing, leaned against the desk, feet crossed, brows furrowed. As he talked, he emphasized his remarks by jabbing the air with his pencil. "Well," said Emma quietly, "it didn't go." "It didn't even start," corrected Spalding. "But why?" demanded Buck. "Why?" Spalding leaned forward a little, eagerly. "I'll tell you something: When I started out with that little garment, I thought it was a joke. Before I'd been out with it a week, I began to like it. In ten days, I was crazy about it, and I believed in it from the waistband to the hem. On the level, Mrs. Buck, I think it's a wonder. Now, can you explain that?" "Yes," said Emma; "you didn't like it at first because it was a shock to you. It outraged all your ideas of what a skirt ought to be. Then you grew accustomed to it. Then you began to see its good points. Why couldn't you make the trade get your viewpoint?" "This is why: Out in Manistee and Oshkosh and Terre Haute, the girls have just really learned the trick of walking in tight skirts. It's as impossible to convince a Middle West buyer that the exaggerated full skirt is going to be worn next summer as it would be to prove to him that men are going to wear sunbonnets. They thought I was trying to sell 'em masquerade costumes. I may believe in it, and you may believe in it, and T. A.; but the girls from Joplin--well, they're from Joplin. And they're waiting to hear from headquarters." T. A. Buck crossed one leg over the other and sat up with a little sigh. "Well, that settles it, doesn't it?" he said. "It does not," replied Emma McChesney Buck crisply. "If they want to hear from headquarters, they won't have long to wait." "Now, Emma, don't try to push this thing if it----" "T. A., please don't look so forgiving. I'd much rather have you reproach me." "It's you I'm thinking of, not the skirt." "But I want you to think of the skirt, too. We've gone into this thing, and it has cost us thousands. Don't think I'm going to sit quietly by and watch those thousands trickle out of our hands. We've played our first card. It didn't take a trick. Here's another." Buck and Spalding were leaning forward, interested, attentive. There was that in Emma's vivid, glowing face which did not mean defeat. "March fifteenth, at Madison Square Garden, there is to be held the first annual exhibition of the Society for the Promotion of American Styles for American Women. For one hundred years we've taken our fashions as Paris dictated, regardless of whether they outraged our sense of humor or decency or of fitness. This year the American designer is going to have a chance. Am I an American designer, T. A., Billy?" "Yes!" in chorus. "Then I shall exhibit that skirt on a live model at the First Annual American Fashion Show next month. Every skirt-buyer in the country will be there. If it takes hold there, it's made--and so are we." March came, and with it an army of men and women buyers, dependent, for the first time in their business careers, on the ingenuity of the American brain. The keen-eyed legions that had advanced on Europe early, armed with letters of credit--the vast horde that returned each spring and autumn laden with their spoils--hats, gowns, laces, linens, silks, embroideries--were obliged to content themselves with what was to be found in their own camp. Clever manager that she was, Emma took as much pains with her model as with the skirt itself. She chose a girl whose demure prettiness and quiet charm would enhance the possibilities of the skirt's practicability in the eye of the shrewd buyer. Gertrude, the model, developed a real interest in the success of the petticoat. Emma knew enough about the psychology of crowds to realize how this increased her chances for success. The much heralded fashion show was to open at one o'clock on the afternoon of March fifteenth. At ten o'clock that morning, there breezed in from Chicago a tall, slim, alert young man, who made straight for the offices of the T. A. Buck Featherloom Petticoat Company, walked into the junior partner's private office, and took that astonished lady in his two strong arms. "Jock McChesney!" gasped his rumpled mother, emerging from the hug. "I've been hungry for a sight of you!" She was submerged in a second hug. "Come here to the window where I can get a real look at you! Why didn't you wire me? What are you doing away from your own job? How's business? And why come to-day, of all days, when I can't make a fuss over you?" Jock McChesney, bright-eyed, clear-skinned, steady of hand, stood up well under the satisfied scrutiny of his adoring mother. He smiled down at her. "Wanted to surprise you. Here for three reasons--the Abbott Grape-juice advertising contract, you, and Grace. And why can't you make a fuss over me, I'd like to know?" Emma told him. His keen, quick mind required little in the way of explanation. "But why didn't you let me in on it sooner?" "Because, son, nothing explains harder than embryo success. I always prefer to wait until it's grown up and let it do its own explaining." "But the thing ought to have national advertising," Jock insisted, with the advertising expert's lightning grasp of its possibilities. "What that skirt needs is publicity. Why didn't you let me handle----" "Yes, I know, dear; but you haven't seen the skirt. It won't do to ram it down their throats. I want to ease it to them first. I want them to get used to it. It failed utterly on the road, because it jarred their notion of what a petticoat ought to be. That's due to five years of sheath skirts." "But suppose--just for the sake of argument--that it doesn't strike them right this afternoon?" "Then it's gone, that's all. Six months from now, every skirt-factory in the country will be manufacturing a similar garment. People will be ready for it then. I've just tried to cut in ahead of the rest. Perhaps I shouldn't have tried to do it." Jock hugged her again at that, to the edification of the office windows across the way. "Gad, you're a wiz, mother! Now listen: I 'phoned Grace when I got in. She's going to meet me here at one. I'll chase over to the office now on this grape-juice thing and come back here in time for lunch. Is T. A. in? I'll look in on him a minute. We'll all lunch together, and then----" "Can't do it, son. The show opens at one. Gertrude, my model, comes on at three. She's going to have the stage to herself for ten minutes, during which she'll make four changes of costume to demonstrate the usefulness of the skirt for every sort of gown from chiffon to velvet. Come back here at one, if you like. If I'm not here, come over to the show. But--lunch! I'd choke." At twelve-thirty, there scampered into Emma's office a very white-faced, round-eyed little stock-girl. Emma, deep in a last-minute discussion with Buck, had a premonition of trouble before the girl gasped out her message. "Oh, Mrs. Buck, Gertie's awful sick!" "Sick!" echoed Emma and Buck, in duet. Then Emma: "But she can't be! It's impossible! She was all right a half hour ago." She was hurrying down the hall as she spoke. "Where is she?" "They've got her on one of the tables in the workroom. She's moaning awful." Gertie's appendix, with that innate sense of the dramatic so often found in temperamental appendices, had indeed chosen this moment to call attention to itself. Gertie, the demurely pretty and quietly charming, was rolled in a very tight ball on the workroom cutting-table. At one o'clock, she was on her way home in a cab, under the care of a doctor, Miss Kelly, the bookkeeper, and Jock, who, coming in gaily at one, had been pressed into service, bewildered but willing. Three rather tragic figures stared at one another in the junior partner's office. They were Emma, Buck, and Grace Galt, Jock's wife-to-be. Grace Galt, slim, lovely, girlish, was known, at twenty-four, as one of the most expert copy writers in the advertising world. In her clear-headed, capable manner, she tried to suggest a way out of the difficulty now. "But surely the world's full of girls," she said. "It's late, I know; but any theatrical agency will send a girl over." "That's just what I tried to avoid," Emma replied. "I wanted to show this skirt on a sweet, pretty, refined sort of girl who looks and acts like a lady. One of those blond show girls would kill it." Gloom settled down again over the three. Emma broke the silence with a rueful little laugh. "I think," she said, "that perhaps you're right, T. A., and this is the Lord's way of showing me that the world is not quite ready for this skirt." "You're not beaten yet, Emma," Buck assured her vigorously. "How about this new girl--what's her name?--Myrtle. She's one of those thin, limp ones, isn't she? Try her." "I will," said Emma. "You're right. I'm not beaten yet. I've had to fight for everything worth while in my life. I'm superstitious about it now. When things come easy I'm afraid of them." Then, to the stock-girl, "Annie, tell Myrtle I want to see her." Silence fell again upon the three. Myrtle, very limp, very thin, very languid indeed, roused them at her entrance. The hopeful look in Emma's eyes faded as she beheld her. Myrtle was so obviously limp, so hopelessly new. "Annie says you want me to take Gertie's place," drawled Myrtle, striking a magazine-cover attitude. "I don't know that you are just the--er--type; but perhaps, if you're willing----" "Of course I didn't come here as a model," said Myrtle, and sagged on the other hip. "But, as a special favor to you I'm willing to try it--at special model's rates." Emma ran a somewhat frenzied hand through her hair. "Then, as a special favor to me, will you begin by trying to stand up straight, please? That debutante slouch would kill a queen's coronation costume." Myrtle straightened, slumped again. "I can't help it if I am willowy"--listlessly. "Your hair!" Myrtle's hand went vaguely to her head. "I can't have you wear it that way." "Why, this is the French roll!" protested Myrtle, offended. "Then do it in a German bun!" snapped Emma. "Any way but that. Will you walk, please?" "Walk?"--dully. "Yes, walk; I want to see how you----" Myrtle walked across the room. A groan came from Emma. "I thought so." She took a long breath. "Myrtle, listen: That Australian crawl was necessary when our skirts were so narrow we had to negotiate a curbing before we could take it. But the skirt you're going to demonstrate is wide. Like that! You're practically a free woman in it. Step out! Stride! Swing! Walk!" Myrtle tried it, stumbled, sulked. Emma, half smiling, half woeful, patted the girl's shoulder. "Oh, I see; you're wearing a tight one. Well, run in and get into the skirt. Miss Loeb will help you. Then come back here--and quickly, please." The three looked at each other in silence. It was a silence brimming with eloquent meaning. Each sought encouragement in the eyes of the other--and failed to find it. Failing, they broke into helpless laughter. It proved a safety-valve. "She may do, Emma--when she has her hair done differently, and if she'll only stand up." But Emma shook her head. "T. A., something tells me you're going to have a wonderful chance to say, 'I told you so!' at three o'clock this afternoon." "You know I wouldn't say it, Emma." "Yes; I do know it, dear. But what's the difference, if the chance is there?" Suspense settled down on the little office. Billy Spalding entered, smiling. After five minutes of waiting, even his buoyant spirits sank. "Don't you think--if you were to go in and--and sort of help adjust things----" suggested Buck vaguely. "No; I don't want to prop her up. She'll have to stand alone when she gets there. She'll either do, or not. When she enters that door, I'll know." When Myrtle entered, wearing the fascinatingly fashioned new model, they all knew. Emma spoke decisively. "That settles it." "What's the matter? Don't it look all right?" demanded Myrtle. "Take it off, Myrtle." Then, to the others, as Myrtle, sulking, left the room: "I can stand to see that skirt die if necessary. But I won't help murder it." "But, Mrs. Buck," protested Spalding, almost tearfully, "you've got to exhibit that skirt. You've got to!" Emma shook a sorrowing head. "That wouldn't be an exhibition, Billy. It would be an expose." Spalding clapped a desperate hand to his bald head. "If only I had Julian Eltinge's shape, I'd wear it to the show for you myself." "That's all it needs now," retorted Emma grimly. Whereupon, Grace Galt spoke up in her clear, decisive voice. "Wait a minute," she said quietly. "I'm going to wear that skirt at the fashion show." "You!" cried the three, like a trained trio. "Why not?" demanded Grace Galt, coolly. Then: "No; don't tell me why not. I won't listen." But Emma, equally cool, would have none of it. "It's impossible, dear. You're an angel to want to help me. But you must know it's quite out of the question." "It's nothing of the kind. This skirt isn't merely a fad. It has a fortune in it. I'm business woman enough to know that. You've got to let me do it. It isn't only for yourself. It's for T. A. and for the future of the firm." "Do you suppose I'd allow you to stand up before all those people?" "Why not? I don't know them. They don't know me. I can make them get the idea in that skirt. And I'm going to do it. You don't object to me on the same grounds that you did to Myrtle, do you?" "You!" burst from the admiring Spalding. "Say, you'd make a red-flannel petticoat look like crepe de Chine and lace." "There!" said Grace, triumphant. "That settles it!" And she was off down the hall. They stood a moment in stunned silence. Then: "But Jock!" protested Emma, following her. "What will Jock say? Grace! Grace dear! I can't let you do it! I can't!" "Just unhook this for me, will you?" replied Grace Galt sweetly. At two o'clock, Jock McChesney, returned from his errand of mercy, burst into the office to find mother, step-father, and fiancee all flown. "Where? What?" he demanded of the outer office. "Fashion show!" chorused the office staff "Might have waited for me," Jock said to himself, much injured. And hurled himself into a taxi. There was a crush of motors and carriages for a block on all sides of Madison Square Garden. He had to wait for what seemed an interminable time at the box-office. Then he began the task of worming his way through the close-packed throng in the great auditorium. It was a crowd such as the great place had not seen since the palmy days of the horse show. It was a crowd that sparkled and shone in silks and feathers and furs and jewels. "Jove, if mother has half a chance at this gang!" Jock told himself. "If only she has grabbed some one who can really show that skirt!" He was swept with the crowd toward a high platform at the extreme end of the auditorium. All about that platform stood hundreds, close packed, faces raised eagerly, the better to see the slight, graceful, girlish figure occupying the center of the stage--a figure strangely familiar to Jock's eyes in spite of its quaintly billowing, ante-bellum garb. She was speaking. Jock, mouth agape, eyes protruding, ears straining, heard, as in a daze, the sweet, clear, charmingly modulated voice: "The feature of the skirt, ladies and gentlemen, is that it gives a fulness without weight, something which the skirt-maker has never before been able to achieve. This is due to the patent featherboning process invented by Mrs. T. A. Buck, of the T. A. Buck Featherloom Petticoat Company, New York. Note, please, that it has all the advantages of our grandmother's hoop-skirt, but none of its awkward features. It is graceful"--she turned slowly, lightly--"it is bouffant" she twirled on her toes--"it is practical, serviceable, elegant. It can be made up in any shade, in any material--silk, lace, crepe de Chine, charmeuse, taffeta. The T. A. Buck Featherloom Petticoat Company is prepared to fill orders for immediate----" "Well, I'll be darned!" said Jock McChesney aloud. And, again, heedless of the protesting "Sh-sh-sh-sh!" that his neighbors turned upon him, "Well, I'll--be--darned!" A hand twitched his coat sleeve. He turned, still dazed. His mother, very pink-cheeked, very bright-eyed, pulled him through the throng. As they reached the edge of the crowd, there came a great burst of applause, a buzz of conversation, the turning, shifting, nodding, staccato movements which mean approval in a mass of people. "What the dickens! How!" stammered Jock. "When--did she--did she----" Emma, half smiling, half tearful, raised a protesting hand. "I don't know. Don't ask me, dear. And don't hate me for it. I tried to tell her not to, but she insisted. And, Jock, she's done it, I tell you! She's done it! They love the skirt! Listen to 'em!" "Don't want to," said Jock. "Lead me to her." "Angry, dear!" "Me? No! I'm--I'm proud of her! She hasn't only brains and looks, that little girl; she's got nerve--the real kind! Gee, how did I ever have the gall to ask her to marry me!" Together they sped toward the door that led to the dressing-rooms. Buck, his fine eyes more luminous than ever as he looked at this wonder-wife of his, met them at the entrance. "She's waiting for you, Jock," he said, smiling. Jock took the steps in one leap. "Well, T. A.?" said Emma. "Well, Emma?" said T. A. Which burst of eloquence was interrupted abruptly by a short, squat, dark man, who seized Emma's hand in his left and Buck's in his right, and pumped them up and down vigorously. It was that volatile, voluble person known to the skirt trade as Abel I. Fromkin, of the "Fromkin Form-fit Skirt. It Clings!" "I'm looking everywhere for you!" he panted. Then, his shrewd little eyes narrowing, "You want to talk business?" "Not here," said Buck abruptly. "Sure--here," insisted Fromkin. "Say, that's me. When I got a thing on my mind, I like to settle it. How much you take for the rights to that skirt?" "Take for it!" exclaimed Emma, in the tone a mother would use to one who has suggested taking a beloved child from her. "Now wait a minute. Don't get mad. You ain't started that skirt right. It should have been advertised. It's too much of a shock. You'll see. They won't buy. They're afraid of it. I'll take it off your hands and push it right, see? I offer you forty thousand for the rights to make that skirt and advertise it as the 'Fromkin Full-flounce Skirt. It Flares!'" Emma smiled. "How much?" she asked quizzically. Abel I. Fromkin gulped. "Fifty thousand," he said. "Fifty thousand," repeated Emma quietly, and looked at Buck. "Thanks, Mr. Fromkin! I know, now, that if it's worth fifty thousand to you to-day as the 'Fromkin Full-flounce Skirt. It Flares!' then it's worth one hundred and fifty thousand to us as the 'T. A. Buck Balloon-Petticoat. It Billows!'" And it was. VI SISTERS UNDER THEIR SKIN Women who know the joys and sorrows of a pay envelope do not speak of girls who work as Working Girls. Neither do they use the term Laboring Class, as one would speak of a distinct and separate race, like the Ethiopian. Emma McChesney Buck was no exception to this rule. Her fifteen years of man-size work for a man-size salary in the employ of the T. A. Buck Featherloom Petticoat Company, New York, precluded that. In those days, she had been Mrs. Emma McChesney, known from coast to coast as the most successful traveling saleswoman in the business. It was due to her that no feminine clothes-closet was complete without a Featherloom dangling from one hook. During those fifteen years she had educated her son, Jock McChesney, and made a man of him; she had worked, fought, saved, triumphed, smiled under hardship; and she had acquired a broad and deep knowledge of those fascinating and diversified subjects which we lump carelessly under the heading of Human Nature. She was Mrs. T. A. Buck now, wife of the head of the firm, and partner in the most successful skirt manufactory in the country. But the hard-working, clear-thinking, sane-acting habits of those fifteen years still clung. Perhaps this explained why every machine-girl in the big, bright shop back of the offices raised adoring eyes when Emma entered the workroom. Italian, German, Hungarian, Russian--they lifted their faces toward this source of love and sympathetic understanding as naturally as a plant turns its leaves toward the sun. They glowed under her praise; they confided to her their troubles; they came to her with their joys--and they copied her clothes. This last caused her some uneasiness. When Mrs. T. A. Buck wore blue serge, an epidemic of blue serge broke out in the workroom. Did Emma's spring hat flaunt flowers, the elevators, at closing time, looked like gardens abloom. If she appeared on Monday morning in severely tailored white-linen blouse, the shop on Tuesday was a Boston seminary in its starched primness. "It worries me," Emma told her husband-partner. "I can't help thinking of the story of the girl and the pet chameleon. What would happen if I were to forget myself some day and come down to work in black velvet and pearls?" "They'd manage it somehow," Buck assured her. "I don't know just how; but I'm sure that twenty-four hours later our shop would look like a Buckingham drawing-room when the court is in mourning." Emma never ceased to marvel at their ingenuity, at their almost uncanny clothes-instinct. Their cheap skirts hung and fitted with an art as perfect as that of a Fifty-seventh Street modiste; their blouses, in some miraculous way, were of to-day's style, down to the last detail of cuff or collar or stitching; their hats were of the shape that the season demanded, set at the angle that the season approved, and finished with just that repression of decoration which is known as "single trimming." They wore their clothes with a chic that would make the far-famed Parisian outriere look dowdy and down at heel in comparison. Upper Fifth Avenue, during the shopping or tea-hour, has been sung, painted, vaunted, boasted. Its furs and millinery, its eyes and figure, its complexion and ankles have flashed out at us from ten thousand magazine covers, have been adjectived in reams of Sunday-supplement stories. Who will picture Lower Fifth Avenue between five and six, when New York's unsung beauties pour into the streets from a thousand loft-buildings? Theirs is no mere empty pink-and-white prettiness. Poverty can make prettiness almost poignantly lovely, for it works with a scalpel. Your Twenty-sixth Street beauty has a certain wistful appeal that your Forty-sixth Street beauty lacks; her very bravado, too, which falls just short of boldness, adds a final piquant touch. In the face of the girl who works, whether she be a spindle-legged errand-girl or a ten-thousand-a-year foreign buyer, you will find both vivacity and depth of expression. What she loses in softness and bloom she gains in a something that peeps from her eyes, that lurks in the corners of her mouth. Emma never tired of studying them--these girls with their firm, slim throats, their lovely faces, their Oriental eyes, and their conscious grace. Often, as she looked, an unaccountable mist of tears would blur her vision. So that sunny little room whose door was marked "MRS. BUCK" had come to be more than a mere private office for the transaction of business. It was a clearing-house for trouble; it was a shrine, a confessional, and a court of justice. When Carmela Colarossi, her face swollen with weeping, told a story of parental harshness grown unbearable, Emma would put aside business to listen, and six o'clock would find her seated in the dark and smelly Colarossi kitchen, trying, with all her tact and patience and sympathy, to make home life possible again for the flashing-eyed Carmela. When the deft, brown fingers of Otti Markis became clumsy at her machine, and her wage slumped unaccountably from sixteen to six dollars a week, it was in Emma's quiet little office that it became clear why Otti's eyes were shadowed and why Otti's mouth drooped so pathetically. Emma prescribed a love philter made up of common sense, understanding, and world-wisdom. Otti took it, only half comprehending, but sure of its power. In a week, Otti's eyes were shadowless, her lips smiling, her pay-envelope bulging. But it was in Sophy Kumpf that the T. A. Buck Company best exemplified its policy. Sophy Kumpf had come to Buck's thirty years before, slim, pink-cheeked, brown-haired. She was a grandmother now, at forty-six, broad-bosomed, broad-hipped, but still pink of cheek and brown of hair. In those thirty years she had spent just three away from Buck's. She had brought her children into the world; she had fed them and clothed them and sent them to school, had Sophy, and seen them married, and helped them to bring their children into the world in turn. In her round, red, wholesome face shone a great wisdom, much love, and that infinite understanding which is born only of bitter experience. She had come to Buck's when old T. A. was just beginning to make Featherlooms a national institution. She had seen his struggles, his prosperity; she had grieved at his death; she had watched young T. A. take the reins in his unaccustomed hands, and she had gloried in Emma McChesney's rise from office to salesroom, from salesroom to road, from road to private office and recognized authority. Sophy had left her early work far behind. She had her own desk now in the busy workshop, and it was she who allotted the piece-work, marked it in her much-thumbed ledger--that powerful ledger which, at the week's end, decided just how plump or thin each pay-envelope would be. So the shop and office at T. A. Buck's were bound together by many ties of affection and sympathy and loyalty; and these bonds were strongest where, at one end, they touched Emma McChesney Buck, and, at the other, faithful Sophy Kumpf. Each a triumphant example of Woman in Business. It was at this comfortable stage of Featherloom affairs that the Movement struck the T. A. Buck Company. Emma McChesney Buck had never mingled much in movements. Not that she lacked sympathy with them; she often approved of them, heart and soul. But she had been heard to say that the Movers got on her nerves. Those well-dressed, glib, staccato ladies who spoke with such ease from platforms and whose pictures stared out at one from the woman's page failed, somehow, to convince her. When Emma approved a new movement, it was generally in spite of them, never because of them. She was brazenly unapologetic when she said that she would rather listen to ten minutes of Sophy Kumpf's world-wisdom than to an hour's talk by the most magnetic and silken-clad spellbinder in any cause. For fifteen business years, in the office, on the road, and in the thriving workshop, Emma McChesney had met working women galore. Women in offices, women in stores, women in hotels--chamber-maids, clerks, buyers, waitresses, actresses in road companies, women demonstrators, occasional traveling saleswomen, women in factories, scrubwomen, stenographers, models--every grade, type and variety of working woman, trained and untrained. She never missed a chance to talk with them. She never failed to learn from them. She had been one of them, and still was. She was in the position of one who is on the inside, looking out. Those other women urging this cause or that were on the outside, striving to peer in. The Movement struck T. A. Buck's at eleven o'clock Monday morning. Eleven o'clock Monday morning in the middle of a busy fall season is not a propitious moment for idle chit-chat. The three women who stepped out of the lift at the Buck Company's floor looked very much out of place in that hummingly busy establishment and appeared, on the surface, at least, very chit-chatty indeed. So much so, that T. A. Buck, glancing up from the cards which had preceded them, had difficulty in repressing a frown of annoyance. T. A. Buck, during his college-days, and for a lamentably long time after, had been known as "Beau" Buck, because of his faultless clothes and his charming manner. His eyes had something to do with it, too, no doubt. He had lived down the title by sheer force of business ability. No one thought of using the nickname now, though the clothes, the manner, and the eyes were the same. At the entrance of the three women, he had been engrossed in the difficult task of selling a fall line to Mannie Nussbaum, of Portland, Oregon. Mannie was what is known as a temperamental buyer. He couldn't be forced; he couldn't be coaxed; he couldn't be led. But when he liked a line he bought like mad, never cancelled, and T. A. Buck had just got him going. It spoke volumes for his self-control that he could advance toward the waiting three, his manner correct, his expression bland. "I am Mr. Buck," he said. "Mrs. Buck is very much engaged. I understand your visit has something to do with the girls in the shop. I'm sure our manager will be able to answer any questions----" The eldest women raised a protesting, white-gloved hand. "Oh, no--no, indeed! We must see Mrs. Buck." She spoke in the crisp, decisive platform-tones of one who is often addressed as "Madam Chairman." Buck took a firmer grip on his self-control. "I'm sorry; Mrs. Buck is in the cutting-room." "We'll wait," said the lady, brightly. She stepped back a pace. "This is Miss Susan H. Croft"--indicating a rather sparse person of very certain years--"But I need scarcely introduce her." "Scarcely," murmured Buck, and wondered why. "This is my daughter, Miss Gladys Orton-Wells." Buck found himself wondering why this slim, negative creature should have such sad eyes. There came an impatient snort from Mannie Nussbaum. Buck waved a hasty hand in the direction of Emma's office. "If you'll wait there, I'll send in to Mrs. Buck." The three turned toward Emma's bright little office. Buck scribbled a hasty word on one of the cards. Emma McChesney Buck was leaning over the great cutting-table, shears in hand. It might almost be said that she sprawled. Her eyes were very bright, and her cheeks were very pink. Across the table stood a designer and two cutters, and they were watching Emma with an intentness as flattering as it was sincere. They were looking not only at cloth but at an idea. "Get that?" asked Emma crisply, and tapped the pattern spread before her with the point of her shears. "That gives you the fulness without bunching, d'you see?" "Sure," assented Koritz, head designer; "but when you get it cut you'll find this piece is wasted, ain't it?" He marked out a triangular section of cloth with one expert forefinger. "No; that works into the ruffle," explained Emma. "Here, I'll cut it. Then you'll see." She grasped the shears firmly in her right hand, smoothed the cloth spread before her with a nervous little pat of her left, pushed her bright hair back from her forehead, and prepared to cut. At which critical moment there entered Annie, the errand-girl, with the three bits of white pasteboard. Emma glanced down at them and waved Annie away. "Can't see them. Busy." Annie stood her ground. "Mr. Buck said you'd see 'em. They're waiting." Emma picked up one of the cards. On it Buck had scribbled a single word: "Movers." Mrs. T. A. Buck smiled. A little malicious gleam came into her eyes. "Show 'em in here, Annie," she commanded, with a wave of the huge shears. "I'll teach 'em to interrupt me when I've got my hands in the bluing-water." She bent over the table again, measuring with her keen eye. When the three were ushered in a moment later, she looked up briefly and nodded, then bent over the table again. But in that brief moment she had the three marked, indexed and pigeonholed. If one could have looked into that lightning mind of hers, one would have found something like this: "Hmm! What Ida Tarbell calls 'Restless women.' Money, and always have had it. Those hats were born in one of those exclusive little shops off the Avenue. Rich but somber. They think they're advanced, but they still resent the triumph of the motor-car over the horse. That girl can't call her soul her own. Good eyes, but too sad. He probably didn't suit mother." What she said was: "Howdy-do. We're just bringing a new skirt into the world. I thought you might like to be in at the birth." "How very interesting!" chirped the two older women. The girl said nothing, but a look of anticipation brightened her eyes. It deepened and glowed as Emma McChesney Buck bent to her task and the great jaws of the shears opened and shut on the virgin cloth. Six pairs of eyes followed the fascinating steel before which the cloth rippled and fell away, as water is cleft by the prow of a stanch little boat. Around the curves went the shears, guided by Emma's firm white hands, snipping, slashing, doubling on itself, a very swashbuckler of a shears. "There!" exclaimed Emma at last, and dropped the shears on the table with a clatter. "Put that together and see whether it makes a skirt or not. Now, ladies!" The three drew a long breath. It was the sort of sound that comes up from the crowd when a sky-rocket has gone off successfully, with a final shower of stars. "Do you do that often?" ventured Mrs. Orton-Wells. "Often enough to keep my hand in," replied Emma, and led the way to her office. The three followed in silence. They were strangely silent, too, as they seated themselves around Emma Buck's desk. Curiously enough, it was the subdued Miss Orton-Wells who was the first to speak. "I'll never rest," she said, "until I see that skirt finished and actually ready to wear." She smiled at Emma. When she did that, you saw that Miss Orton-Wells had her charm. Emma smiled back, and patted the girl's hand just once. At that there came a look into Miss Orton-Wells' eyes, and you saw that most decidedly she had her charm. Up spoke Mrs. Orton-Wells. "Gladys is such an enthusiast! That's really her reason for being here. Gladys is very much interested in working girls. In fact, we are all, as you probably know, intensely interested in the working woman." "Thank you!" said Emma McChesney Buck. "That's very kind. We working women are very grateful to you." "We!" exclaimed Mrs. Orton-Wells and Miss Susan Croft blankly, and in perfect time. Emma smiled sweetly. "Surely you'll admit that I'm a working woman." Miss Susan H. Croft was not a person to be trifled with. She elucidated acidly. "We mean women who work with their hands." "By what power do you think those shears were moved across the cutting-table? We don't cut our patterns with an ouija-board." Mrs. Orton-Wells rustled protestingly. "But, my dear Mrs. Buck, you know, we mean women of the Laboring Class." "I'm in this place of business from nine to five, Monday to Saturday, inclusive. If that doesn't make me a member of the laboring class I don't want to belong." It was here that Mrs. Orton-Wells showed herself a woman not to be trifled with. She moved forward to the edge of her chair, fixed Emma Buck with determined eyes, and swept into midstream, sails spread. "Don't be frivolous, Mrs. Buck. We are here on a serious errand. It ought to interest you vitally because of the position you occupy in the world of business. We are launching a campaign against the extravagant, ridiculous, and oftentimes indecent dress of the working girl, with especial reference to the girl who works in garment factories. They squander their earnings in costumes absurdly unfitted to their station in life. Our plan is to influence them in the direction of neatness, modesty, and economy in dress. At present each tries to outdo the other in style and variety of costume. Their shoes are high-heeled, cloth-topped, their blouses lacy and collarless, their hats absurd. We propose a costume which shall be neat, becoming, and appropriate. Not exactly a uniform, perhaps, but something with a fixed idea in cut, color, and style. A corps of twelve young ladies belonging to our best families has been chosen to speak to the shop girls at noon meetings on the subject of good taste, health, and morality in women's dress. My daughter Gladys is one of them. In this way, we hope to convince them that simplicity, and practicality, and neatness are the only proper notes in the costume of the working girl. Occupying as you do a position unique in the business world, Mrs. Buck, we expect much from your cooperation with us in this cause." Emma McChesney Buck had been gazing at Mrs. Orton-Wells with an intentness as flattering as it was unfeigned. But at the close of Mrs. Orton-Wells' speech she was strangely silent. She glanced down at her shoes. Now, Emma McChesney Buck had a weakness for smart shoes which her slim, well-arched foot excused. Hers were what might be called intelligent-looking feet. There was nothing thick, nothing clumsy, nothing awkward about them. And Emma treated them with the consideration they deserved. They were shod now, in a pair of slim, aristocratic, and modish ties above which the grateful eye caught a flashing glimpse of black-silk stocking. Then her eye traveled up her smartly tailored skirt, up the bodice of that well-made and becoming costume until her glance rested on her own shoulder and paused. Then she looked up at Mrs. Orton-Wells. The eyes of Mrs. Orton-Wells, Miss Susan H. Croft, and Miss Gladys Orton-Wells had, by some strange power of magnetism, followed the path of Emma's eyes. They finished just one second behind her, so that when she raised her eyes it was to encounter theirs. "I have explained," retorted Mrs. Orton-Wells, tartly, in reply to nothing, seemingly, "that our problem is with the factory girl. She represents a distinct and separate class." Emma McChesney Buck nodded: "I understand. Our girls are very young--eighteen, twenty, twenty-two. At eighteen, or thereabouts, practical garments haven't the strong appeal that you might think they have." "They should have," insisted Mrs. Orton-Wells. "Maybe," said Emma Buck gently. "But to me it seems just as reasonable to argue that an apple tree has no right to wear pink-and-white blossoms in the spring, so long as it is going to bear sober russets in the autumn." Miss Susan H. Croft rustled indignantly. "Then you refuse to work with us? You will not consent to Miss Orton-Wells' speaking to the girls in your shop this noon?" Emma looked at Gladys Orton-Wells. Gladys was wearing black, and black did not become her. It made her creamy skin sallow. Her suit was severely tailored, and her hat was small and harshly outlined, and her hair was drawn back from her face. All this, in spite of the fact that Miss Orton-Wells was of the limp and fragile type, which demands ruffles, fluffiness, flowing lines and frou-frou. Emma's glance at the suppressed Gladys was as fleeting as it was keen, but it sufficed to bring her to a decision. She pressed a buzzer at her desk. "I shall be happy to have Miss Orton-Wells speak to the girls in our shop this noon, and as often as she cares to speak. If she can convince the girls that a--er--fixed idea in cut, color, and style is the thing to be adopted by shop-workers I am perfectly willing that they be convinced." Then to Annie, who appeared in answer to the buzzer, "Will you tell Sophy Kumpf to come here, please?" Mrs. Orton-Wells beamed. The somber plumes in her correct hat bobbed and dipped to Emma. The austere Miss Susan H. Croft unbent in a nutcracker smile. Only Miss Gladys Orton-Wells remained silent, thoughtful, unenthusiastic. Her eyes were on Emma's face. A heavy, comfortable step sounded in the hall outside the office door. Emma turned with a smile to the stout, motherly, red-cheeked woman who entered, smoothing her coarse brown hair with work-roughened fingers. Emma took one of those calloused hands in hers. "Sophy, we need your advice. This is Mrs. Sophy Kumpf--Mrs. Orton-Wells, Miss Susan H. Croft"--Sophy threw her a keen glance; she knew that name--"and Miss Orton-Wells." Of the four, Sophy was the most at ease. "Pleased to meet you," said Sophy Kumpf. The three bowed, but did not commit themselves. Emma, her hand still on Sophy's, elaborated: "Sophy Kumpf has been with the T. A. Buck Company for thirty years. She could run this business single-handed, if she had to. She knows any machine in the shop, can cut a pattern, keep books, run the entire plant if necessary. If there's anything about petticoats that Sophy doesn't know, it's because it hasn't been invented yet. Sophy was sixteen when she came to Buck's. I've heard she was the prettiest and best dressed girl in the shop." "Oh, now, Mrs. Buck!" remonstrated Sophy. Emma tried to frown as she surveyed Sophy's bright eyes, her rosy cheeks, her broad bosom, her ample hips--all that made Sophy an object to comfort and rest the eye. "Don't dispute, Sophy. Sophy has educated her children, married them off, and welcomed their children. She thinks that excuses her for having been frivolous and extravagant at sixteen. But we know better, don't we? I'm using you as a horrible example, Sophy." Sophy turned affably to the listening three. "Don't let her string you," she said, and winked one knowing eye. Mrs. Orton-Wells stiffened. Miss Susan H. Croft congealed. But Miss Gladys Orton-Wells smiled. And then Emma knew she was right. "Sophy, who's the prettiest girl in our shop? And the best dressed?" "Lily Bernstein," Sophy made prompt answer. "Send her in to us, will you? And give her credit for lost time when she comes back to the shop." Sophy, with a last beamingly good-natured smile, withdrew. Five minutes later, when Lily Bernstein entered the office, Sophy qualified as a judge of beauty. Lily Bernstein was a tiger-lily--all browns and golds and creams, all graciousness and warmth and lovely curves. As she came into the room, Gladys Orton-Wells seemed as bloodless and pale and ineffectual as a white moth beside a gorgeous tawny butterfly. Emma presented the girl as formally as she had Sophy Kumpf. And Lily Bernstein smiled upon them, and her teeth were as white and even as one knew they would be before she smiled. Lily had taken off her shop-apron. Her gown was blue serge, cheap in quality, flawless as to cut and fit, and incredibly becoming. Above it, her vivid face glowed like a golden rose. "Lily," said Emma, "Miss Orton-Wells is going to speak to the girls this noon. I thought you might help by telling her whatever she wants to know about the girls' work and all that, and by making her feel at home." "Well, sure," said Lily, and smiled again her heart-warming smile. "I'd love to." "Miss Orton-Wells," went on Emma smoothly, "wants to speak to the girls about clothes." Lily looked again at Miss Orton-Wells, and she did not mean to be cruel. Then she looked quickly at Emma, to detect a possible joke. But Mrs. Buck's face bore no trace of a smile. "Clothes!" repeated Lily. And a slow red mounted to Gladys Orton-Wells' pale face. When Lily went out Sunday afternoons, she might have passed for a millionaire's daughter if she hadn't been so well dressed. "Suppose you take Miss Orton-Wells into the shop," suggested Emma, "so that she may have some idea of the size and character of our family before she speaks to it. How long shall you want to speak?" Miss Orton-Wells started nervously, stammered a little, stopped. "Oh, ten minutes," said Mrs. Orton-Wells graciously. "Five," said Gladys, quickly, and followed Lily Bernstein into the workroom. Mrs. Orton-Wells and Miss Susan H. Croft gazed after them. "Rather attractive, that girl, in a coarse way," mused Mrs. Orton-Wells. "If only we can teach them to avoid the cheap and tawdry. If only we can train them to appreciate the finer things in life. Of course, their life is peculiar. Their problems are not our problems; their----" "Their problems are just exactly our problems," interrupted Emma crisply. "They use garlic instead of onion, and they don't bathe as often as we do; but, then, perhaps we wouldn't either, if we hadn't tubs and showers so handy." In the shop, queer things were happening to Gladys Orton-Wells. At her entrance into the big workroom, one hundred pairs of eyes had lifted, dropped, and, in that one look, condemned her hat, suit, blouse, veil and tout ensemble. When you are on piece-work you squander very little time gazing at uplift visitors in the wrong kind of clothes. Gladys Orton-Wells looked about the big, bright workroom. The noonday sun streamed in from a dozen great windows. There seemed, somehow, to be a look of content and capableness about those heads bent so busily over the stitching. "It looks--pleasant," said Gladys Orton-Wells. "It ain't bad. Of course it's hard sitting all day. But I'd rather do that than stand from eight to six behind a counter. And there's good money in it." Gladys Orton-Wells turned wistful eyes on friendly little Lily Bernstein. "I'd like to earn money," she said. "I'd like to work." "Well, why don't you?" demanded Lily. "Work's all the style this year. They're all doing it. Look at the Vanderbilts and that Morgan girl, and the whole crowd. These days you can't tell whether the girl at the machine next to you lives in the Bronx or on Fifth Avenue." "It must be wonderful to earn your own clothes." "Believe me," laughed Lily Bernstein, "it ain't so wonderful when you've had to do it all your life." She studied the pale girl before her with brows thoughtfully knit. Lily had met too many uplifters to be in awe of them. Besides, a certain warm-hearted friendliness was hers for every one she met. So, like the child she was, she spoke what was in her mind: "Say, listen, dearie. I wouldn't wear black if I was you. And that plain stuff--it don't suit you. I'm like that, too. There's some things I can wear and others I look fierce in. I'd like you in one of them big flat hats and a full skirt like you see in the ads, with lots of ribbons and tag ends and bows on it. D'you know what I mean?" "My mother was a Van Cleve," said Gladys drearily, as though that explained everything. So it might have, to any but a Lily Bernstein. Lily didn't know what a Van Cleve was, but she sensed it as a drawback. "Don't you care. Everybody's folks have got something the matter with 'em. Especially when you're a girl. But if I was you, I'd go right ahead and do what I wanted to." In the doorway at the far end of the shop appeared Emma with her two visitors. Mrs. Orton-Wells stopped and said something to a girl at a machine, and her very posture and smile reeked of an offensive kindliness, a condescending patronage. Gladys Orton-Wells did a strange thing. She saw her mother coming toward her. She put one hand on Lily Bernstein's arm and she spoke hurriedly and in a little gasping voice. "Listen! Would you--would you marry a man who hadn't any money to speak of, and no sort of family, if you loved him, even if your mother wouldn't--wouldn't----" "Would I! Say, you go out to-morrow morning and buy yourself one of them floppy hats and a lace waist over flesh-colored chiffon and get married in it. Don't get it white, with your coloring. Get it kind of cream. You're so grand and thin, this year's things will look lovely on you." A bell shrilled somewhere in the shop. A hundred machines stopped their whirring. A hundred heads came up with a sigh of relief. Chairs were pushed back, aprons unbuttoned. Emma McChesney Buck stepped forward and raised a hand for attention. The noise of a hundred tongues was stilled. "Girls, Miss Gladys Orton-Wells is going to speak to you for five minutes on the subject of dress. Will you give her your attention, please. The five minutes will be added to your noon hour." Gladys Orton-Wells looked down at her hands for one terrified moment, then she threw her head up bravely. There was no lack of color in her cheeks now. She stepped to the middle of the room. "What I have to say won't take five minutes," she said, in her clear, well-bred tones. "You all dress so smartly, and I'm such a dowd, I just want to ask you whether you think I ought to get blue, or that new shade of gray for a traveling-suit." And the shop, hardened to the eccentricities of noonday speakers, made composed and ready answer: "Oh, get blue; it's always good." "Thank you," laughed Gladys Orton-Wells, and was off down the hall and away, with never a backward glance at her gasping and outraged mother. Emma McChesney Buck took Lily Bernstein's soft cheek between thumb and forefinger and pinched it ever so fondly. "I knew you'd do it, Judy O'Grady," she said. "Judy O'Who?" "O'Grady--a lady famous in history." "Oh, now, quit your kiddin', Mrs. Buck!" said Lily Bernstein. VII AN ETUDE FOR EMMA If you listen long enough, and earnestly enough, and with ear sufficiently attuned to the music of this sphere there will come to you this reward: The violins and oboes and 'cellos and brasses of humanity which seemed all at variance with each other will unite as one instrument; seeming discords and dissonances will blend into harmony, and the wail and blare and thrum of humanity's orchestra will sound in your ear the sublime melody of that great symphony called Life. In her sunny little private office on the twelfth floor of the great loft-building that housed the T. A. Buck Company, Emma McChesney Buck sat listening to the street-sounds that were wafted to her, mellowed by height and distance. The noises, taken separately, were the nerve-racking sounds common to a busy down-town New York cross-street. By the time they reached the little office on the twelfth floor, they were softened, mellowed, debrutalized, welded into a weird choirlike chant first high, then low, rising, swelling, dying away, rising again to a dull roar, with now and then vast undertones like the rumbling of a cathedral pipe-organ. Emma knew that the high, clear tenor note was the shrill cry of the lame "newsie" at the corner of Sixth Avenue and Twenty-sixth Street. Those deep, thunderous bass notes were the combined reverberation of nearby "L" trains, distant subway and clanging surface cars. That sharp staccato was a motorman clanging his bell of warning. These things she knew. But she liked, nevertheless, to shut her eyes for a moment in the midst of her busy day and listen to the chant of the city as it came up to her, subdued, softened, strangely beautified. The sound saddened even while it filled her with a certain exaltation. We have no one word for that sensation. The German (there's a language!) has it--Weltschmerz. As distance softened the harsh sounds to her ears, so time and experience had given her a perspective on life itself. She saw it, not as a series of incidents, pleasant and unpleasant, but as a great universal scheme too mighty to comprehend--a scheme that always worked itself out in some miraculous way. She had had a singularly full life, had Emma McChesney Buck. A life replete with work, leavened by sorrows, sweetened with happiness. These ingredients make for tolerance. She saw, for example, how the capable, modern staff in the main business office had forged ahead of old Pop Henderson. Pop Henderson had been head bookkeeper for years. But the pen in his trembling hand made queer spidery marks in the ledgers now, and his figure seven was very likely to look like a drunken letter "z." The great bulk of his work was done by the capable, comely Miss Kelly who could juggle figures like a Cinquevalli. His shaking, blue-veined yellow hand was no match for Miss Kelly's cool, firm fingers. But he stayed on at Buck's, and no one dreamed of insulting him with talk of a pension, least of all Emma. She saw the work-worn pathetic old man not only as a figure but as a symbol. Jock McChesney, very young, very handsome, very successful, coming on to New York from Chicago to be married in June, found his mother wrapped in this contemplative calm. Now, Emma McChesney Buck, mother of an about-to-be-married son, was also surprisingly young and astonishingly handsome and highly successful. Jock, in a lucid moment the day before his wedding, took occasion to comment rather resentfully on his mother's attitude. "It seems to me," he said gloomily, "that for a mother whose only son is about to be handed over to what the writers call the other woman, you're pretty resigned, not to say cheerful." Emma glanced up at him as he stood there, so tall and straight and altogether good to look at, and the glow of love and pride in her eyes belied the lightness of her words. "I know it," she said, with mock seriousness, "and it worries me. I can't imagine why I fail to feel those pangs that mothers are supposed to suffer at this time. I ought to rend my garments and beat my breast, but I can't help thinking of what a stunning girl Grace Galt is, and what a brain she has, and how lucky you are to get her. Any girl--with the future that girl had in the advertising field--who'll give up four thousand a year and her independence to marry a man does it for love, let me tell you. If anybody knows you better than your mother, son, I'd hate to know who it is. And if anybody loves you more than your mother--well, we needn't go into that, because it would have to be hypothetical, anyway. You see, Jock, I've loved you so long and so well that I know your faults as well as your virtues; and I love you, not in spite of them but because of them. "Oh, I don't know," interrupted Jock, with some warmth, "I'm not perfect, but a fellow----" "Perfect! Jock McChesney, when I think of Grace's feelings when she discovers that you never close a closet door! When I contemplate her emotions on hearing your howl at finding one seed in your orange juice at breakfast! When she learns of your secret and unholy passion for neckties that have a dash of red in 'em, and how you have to be restrained by force from----" With a simulated roar of rage, Jock McChesney fell upon his mother with a series of bear-hugs that left her flushed, panting, limp, but bright-eyed. It was to her husband that Emma revealed the real source of her Spartan calm. The wedding was over. There had been a quiet little celebration, after which Jock McChesney had gone West with his very lovely young wife. Emma had kissed her very tenderly, very soberly after the brief ceremony. "Mrs. McChesney," she had said, and her voice shook ever so little; "Mrs. Jock McChesney!" And the new Mrs. McChesney, a most astonishingly intuitive young woman indeed, had understood. T. A. Buck, being a man, puzzled over it a little. That night, when Emma had reached the kimono and hair-brushing stage, he ventured to speak his wonderment. "D'you know, Emma, you were about the calmest and most serene mother that I ever did see at a son's wedding. Of course I didn't expect you to have hysterics, or anything like that. I've always said that, when it came to repose and self-control, you could make the German Empress look like a hoyden. But I always thought that, at such times, a mother viewed her new daughter-in-law as a rival, that the very sight of her filled her with a jealous rage like that of a tigress whose cub is taken from her. I must say you were so smiling and urbane that I thought it was almost uncomplimentary to the young couple. You didn't even weep, you unnatural woman!" Emma, seated before her dressing-table, stopped brushing her hair and sat silent a moment, looking down with unseeing eyes at the brush in her hand. "I know it, T. A. Would you like to have me tell you why?" He came over to her then and ran a tender hand down the length of her bright hair. Then he kissed the top of her head. This satisfactory performance he capped by saying: "I think I know why. It's because the minister hesitated a minute and looked from you to Grace and back again, not knowing which was the bride. The way you looked in that dress, Emma, was enough to reconcile any woman to losing her entire family." "T. A., you do say the nicest things to me." "Like 'em, Emma?" "Like 'em? You know perfectly well that you never can offend me by making me compliments like that. I not only like them; I actually believe them!" "That's because I mean them, Emma. Now, out with that reason!" Emma stood up then and put her hands on his shoulders. But she was not looking at him. She was gazing past him, her eyes dreamy, contemplative. "I don't know whether I'll be able to explain to you just how I feel about it. I'll probably make a mess of it. But I'll try. You see, dear, it's just this way: Two years ago--a year ago, even--I might have felt just that sensation of personal resentment and loss. But somehow, lately, I've been looking at life through--how shall I put it?--through seven-league glasses. I used to see life in its relation to me and mine. Now I see it in terms of my relation to it. Do you get me? I was the soloist, and the world my orchestral accompaniment. Lately, I've been content just to step back with the other instruments and let my little share go to make up a more perfect whole. In those years, long before I met you, when Jock was all I had in the world, I worked and fought and saved that he might have the proper start, the proper training, and environment. And I did succeed in giving him those things. Well, as I looked at him there to-day I saw him, not as my son, my property that was going out of my control into the hands of another woman, but as a link in the great chain that I had helped to forge--a link as strong and sound and perfect as I could make it. I saw him, not as my boy, Jock McChesney, but as a unit. When I am gone I shall still live in him, and he in turn will live in his children. There! I've muddled it--haven't I?--as I said I would. But I think"-- And she looked into her husband's glowing eyes.--"No; I'm sure you understand. And when I die, T. A.----" "You, Emma!" And he held her close, and then held her off to look at her through quizzical, appreciative eyes. "Why, girl, I can't imagine you doing anything so passive." In the busy year that followed, anyone watching Emma McChesney Buck as she worked and played and constructed, and helped others to work and play and construct, would have agreed with T. A. Buck. She did not seem a woman who was looking at life objectively. As she went about her home in the evening, or the office, the workroom, or the showrooms during the day, adjusting this, arranging that, smoothing out snarls, solving problems of business or household, she was very much alive, very vital, very personal, very electric. In that year there came to her many letters from Jock and Grace--happy letters, all of them, some with an undertone of great seriousness, as is fitting when two people are readjusting their lives. Then, in spring, came the news of the baby. The telegram came to Emma as she sat in her office near the close of a busy day. As she read it and reread it, the slip of paper became a misty yellow with vague lines of blue dancing about on it; then it became a blur of nothing in particular, as Emma's tears fell on it in a little shower of joy and pride and wonder at the eternal miracle. Then she dried her eyes, mopped the telegram and her lace jabot impartially, went across the hall and opened the door marked "T. A. BUCK." T. A. looked up from his desk, smiled, held out a hand. "Girl or boy?" "Girl, of course," said Emma tremulously, "and her name is Emma McChesney." T. A. stood up and put an arm about his wife's shoulders. "Lean on me, grandma," he said. "Fiend!" retorted Emma, and reread the telegram happily. She folded it then, with a pensive sigh, "I hope she'll look like Grace. But with Jock's eyes. They were wasted in a man. At any rate, she ought to be a raving, tearing beauty with that father and mother." "What about her grandmother, when it comes to looks! Yes, and think of the brain she'll have," Buck reminded her excitedly. "Great Scott! With a grandmother who has made the T. A. Buck Featherloom Petticoat a household word, and a mother who was the cleverest woman advertising copy-writer in New York, this young lady ought to be a composite Hetty Green, Madame de Stael, Hypatia, and Emma McChesney Buck. She'll be a lady wizard of finance or a----" "She'll be nothing of the kind," Emma disputed calmly. "That child will be a throwback. The third generation generally is. With a militant mother and a grandmother such as that child has, she'll just naturally be a clinging vine. She'll be a reversion to type. She'll be the kind who'll make eyes and wear pale blue and be crazy about new embroidery-stitches. Just mark my words, T. A." Buck had a brilliant idea. "Why don't you pack a bag and run over to Chicago for a few days and see this marvel of the age?" But Emma shook her head. "Not now, T. A. Later. Let the delicate machinery of that new household adjust itself and begin to run smoothly and sweetly again. Anyone who might come in now--even Jock's mother--would be only an outsider." So she waited very patiently and considerately. There was much to occupy her mind that spring. Business was unexpectedly and gratifyingly good. Then, too, one of their pet dreams was being realized; they were to have their own house in the country, at Westchester. Together they had pored over the plans. It was to be a house of wide, spacious verandas, of fireplaces, of bookshelves, of great, bright windows, and white enamel and cheerful chintz. By the end of May it was finished, furnished, and complete. At which a surprising thing happened; and yet, not so surprising. A demon of restlessness seized Emma McChesney Buck. It had been a busy, happy winter, filled with work. Now that it was finished, there came upon Emma and Buck that unconscious and quite natural irritation which follows a long winter spent together by two people, no matter how much in harmony. Emma pulled herself up now and then, horrified to find a rasping note of impatience in her voice. Buck found himself, once or twice, fairly caught in a little whirlpool of ill temper of his own making. These conditions they discovered almost simultaneously. And like the comrades they were, they talked it over and came to a sensible understanding. "We're a bit ragged and saw-edged," said Emma. "We're getting on each other's nerves. What we need is a vacation from each other. This morning I found myself on the verge of snapping at you. At you! Imagine, T. A.!" Whereupon Buck came forward with his confession. "It's a couple of late cases of spring fever. You've been tied to this office all winter. So've I. We need a change. You've had too much petticoats, too much husband, too much cutting room and sales-room and rush orders and business generally. Too much Featherloom and not enough foolishness." He came over and put a gentle hand on his wife's shoulder, a thing strictly against the rules during business hours. And Emma not only permitted it but reached over and covered his hand with her own. "You're tired, and you're a wee bit nervous; so g'wan," said T. A., ever so gently, and kissed his wife, "g'wan; get out of here!" And Emma got. She went, not to the mountains or the seashore but with her face to the west. In her trunks were tiny garments--garments pink-ribboned, blue-ribboned, things embroidered and scalloped and hemstitched and hand-made and lacy. She went looking less grandmotherly than ever in her smart, blue tailor suit, her rakish hat, her quietly correct gloves, and slim shoes and softly becoming jabot. Her husband had got her a compartment, had laden her down with books, magazines, fruit, flowers, candy. Five minutes before the train pulled out, Emma looked about the little room and sighed, even while she smiled. "You're an extravagant boy, T. A. I look as if I were equipped for a dash to the pole instead of an eighteen-hour run to Chicago. But I love you for it. I suppose I ought to be ashamed to confess how I like having a whole compartment just for myself. You see, a compartment always will spell luxury to me. There were all those years on the road, you know, when I often considered myself in luck to get an upper on a local of a branch line that threw you around in your berth like a bean in a tin can every time the engineer stopped or started." Buck looked at his watch, then stooped in farewell. Quite suddenly they did not want to part. They had grown curiously used to each other, these two. Emma found herself clinging to this man with the tender eyes, and Buck held her close, regardless of train-schedules. Emma rushed him to the platform and watched him, wide-eyed, as he swung off the slowly moving train. "Come on along!" she called, almost tearfully. Buck looked up at her. At her trim, erect figure, at her clear youthful coloring, at the brightness of her eye. "If you want to get a reputation for comedy," he laughed, "tell somebody on that train that you're going to visit your granddaughter." Jock met her at the station in Chicago and drove her home in a very dapper and glittering black runabout. "Grace wanted to come down," he explained, as they sped along, "but they're changing the baby's food or something, and she didn't want to leave. You know those nurses." Emma felt a curious little pang. This was her boy, her baby, talking about his baby and nurses. She had a sense of unreality. He turned to her with shining eyes. "That's a stunning get-up, Blonde. Honestly, you're a wiz, mother. Grace has told all her friends that you're coming, and their mothers are going to call. But, good Lord, you look like my younger sister, on the square you do!" The apartment reached, it seemed to Emma that she floated across the walk and up the stairs, so eagerly did her heart cry out for a glimpse of this little being who was flesh of her flesh. Grace, a little pale but more beautiful than ever, met them at the door. Her arms went about Emma's neck. Then she stood her handsome mother-in-law off and gazed at her. "You wonder! How lovely you look! Good heavens, are they wearing that kind of hat in New York! And those collars! I haven't seen a thing like 'em here. 'East is east and West is west and----'" "Where's that child?" demanded Emma McChesney Buck. "Where's my baby?" "Sh-sh-sh-sh!" came in a sibilant duet from Grace and Jock. "Not now. She's sleeping. We were up with her for three hours last night. It was the new food. She's not used to it yet." "But, you foolish children, can't I peek at her?" "Oh, dear, no!" said Grace hastily. "We never go into her room when she's asleep. This is your room, mother dear. And just as soon as she wakes up--this is your bath--you'll want to freshen up. Dear me; who could have hung the baby's little shirt here? The nurse, I suppose. If I don't attend to every little thing----" Emma took off her hat and smoothed her hair with light, deft fingers. She turned a smiling face toward Jock and Grace standing there in the doorway. "Now don't bother, dear. If you knew how I love having that little shirt to look at! And I've such things in my trunk! Wait till you see them." So she possessed her soul in patience for one hour, two hours. At the end of the second hour, a little wail went up. Grace vanished down the hall. Emma, her heart beating very fast, followed her. A moment later she was bending over a very pink morsel with very blue eyes and she was saying, over and over in a rapture of delightful idiocy: "Say hello to your gran-muzzer, yes her is! Say, hello, granny!" And her longing arms reached down to take up her namesake. "Not now!" Grace said hastily. "We never play with her just before feeding-time. We find that it excites her, and that's bad for her digestion." "Dear me!" marveled Emma. "I don't remember worrying about Jock's digestion when he was two and a half months old!" It was thus that Emma McChesney Buck, for many years accustomed to leadership, learned to follow humbly and in silence. She had always been the orbit about which her world revolved. Years of brilliant success, of triumphant execution, had not spoiled her, or made her offensively dictatorial. But they had taught her a certain self-confidence; had accustomed her to a degree of deference from others. Now she was the humblest of the satellites revolving about this sun of the household. She learned to tiptoe when small Emma McChesney was sleeping. She learned that the modern mother does not approve of the holding of a child in one's arms, no matter how those arms might be aching to feel the frail weight of the soft, sweet body. She who had brought a child into the world, who had had to train that child alone, had raised him single-handed, had educated him, denied herself for him, made a man of him, now found herself all ignorant of twentieth century child-raising methods. She learned strange things about barley-water and formulae and units and olive oil, and orange juice and ounces and farina, and bath-thermometers and blue-and-white striped nurses who view grandmothers with a coldly disapproving and pitying eye. She watched the bathing-process for the first time with wonder as frank as it was unfeigned. "And I thought I was a modern woman!" she marveled. "When I used to bathe Jock I tested the temperature of the water with my elbow; and I know my mother used to test my bath-water when I was a baby by putting me into it. She used to say that if I turned blue she knew the water was too cold, and if I turned red she knew it was too hot." "Humph!" snorted the blue-and-white striped nurse, and rightly. "Oh, I don't say that your method isn't the proper one," Emma hastened to say humbly, and watched Grace scrutinize the bath-thermometer with critical eye. In the days that followed, there came calling the mothers of Grace's young-women friends, as Jock had predicted. Charming elderly women, most of them, all of them gracious and friendly with that generous friendliness which is of the West. But each fell into one of two classes--the placid, black-silk, rather vague woman of middle age, whose face has the blank look of the sheltered woman and who wrinkles early from sheer lack of sufficient activity or vital interest in life; and the wiry, well-dressed, assertive type who talked about her club work and her charities, her voice always taking the rising inflection at the end of a sentence, as though addressing a meeting. When they met Emma, it was always with a little startled look of surprise, followed by something that bordered on disapproval. Emma, the keenly observant, watching them, felt vaguely uncomfortable. She tried to be politely interested in what they had to say, but she found her thoughts straying a thousand miles away to the man whom she loved and who loved her, to the big, busy factory with its humming machinery and its capable office staff, to the tasteful, comfortable, spacious house that she had helped to plan; to all the vital absorbing, fascinating and constructive interests with which her busy New York life was filled to overflowing. So she looked smilingly at the plump, gray-haired ladies who came a-calling in their smart black with the softening lace-effect at the throat, and they looked, smiling politely, too, at this slim, erect, pink-cheeked, bright-eyed woman with the shining golden hair and the firm, smooth skin, and the alert manner; and in their eyes was that distrust which lurks in the eyes of a woman as she looks at another woman of her own age who doesn't show it. In the weeks of her stay, Emma managed, little by little, to take the place of second mother in the household. She had tact and finesse and cleverness enough even for that herculean feat. Grace's pale cheeks and last year's wardrobe made her firm in her stand. "Grace," she said, one day, "listen to me: I want you to get some clothes--a lot of them, and foolish ones, all of them. Babies are all very well, but husbands have some slight right to consideration. The clock, for you, is an instrument devised to cut up the day and night into your baby's eating- and sleeping-periods. I want you to get some floppy hats with roses on 'em, and dresses with ruffles and sashes. I'll stay home and guard your child from vandals and ogres. Scat!" Her stay lengthened to four weeks, five weeks, six. She had the satisfaction of seeing the roses blooming in Grace's cheeks as well as in her hats. She learned to efface her own personality that others might shine who had a better right. And she lost some of her own bright color, a measure of her own buoyancy. In the sixth week she saw, in her mirror, something that caused her to lean forward, to stare for one intent moment, then to shrink back, wide-eyed. A little sunburst, hair-fine but undeniable, was etched delicately about the corners of her eyes. Fifteen minutes later, she had wired New York thus: Home Friday. Do you still love me? EMMA. When she left, little Emma McChesney was sleeping, by a curious coincidence, as she had been when Emma arrived, so that she could not have the satisfaction of a last pressure of the lips against the rose-petal cheek. She had to content herself with listening close to the door in the vain hope of catching a last sound of the child's breathing. She was laden with fruits and flowers and magazines on her departure, as she had been when she left New York. But, somehow, these things did not seem to interest her. After the train had left Chicago's smoky buildings far behind, she sat very still for a long time, her eyes shut. She told herself that she felt and looked very old, very tired, very unlike the Emma McChesney Buck who had left New York a few weeks before. Then she thought of T. A., and her eyes unclosed and she smiled. By the time the train had reached Cleveland the little lines seemed miraculously to have disappeared, somehow, from about her eyes. When they left the One Hundred and Twenty-fifth Street station she was a creature transformed. And when the train rolled into the great down-town shed, Emma was herself again, bright-eyed, alert, vibrating energy. There was no searching, no hesitation. Her eyes met his, and his eyes found hers with a quite natural magnetism. "Oh, T. A., my dear, my dear! I didn't know you were so handsome! And how beautiful New York is! Tell me: Have I grown old? Have I?" T. A. bundled her into a taxi and gazed at her in some alarm. "You! Old! What put that nonsense into your head? You're tired, dear. We'll go home, and you'll have a good rest, and a quiet evening----" "Rest!" echoed Emma, and sat up very straight, her cheeks pink. "Quiet evening! T. A. Buck, listen to me. I've had nothing but rest and quiet evenings for six weeks. I feel a million years old. One more day of being a grandmother and I should have died! Do you know what I'm going to do? I'm going to stop at Fifth Avenue this minute and buy a hat that's a thousand times too young for me, and you're going with me to tell me that it isn't. And then you'll take me somewhere to dinner--a place with music and pink shades. And then I want to see a wicked play, preferably with a runway through the center aisle for the chorus. And then I want to go somewhere and dance! Get that, dear? Dance! Tell me, T. A.--tell me the truth: Do you think I'm old, and faded, and wistful and grandmotherly?" "I think," said T. A. Buck, "that you're the most beautiful, the most wonderful, the most adorable woman in the world, and the more foolish your new hat is and the later we dance the better I'll like it. It has been awful without you, Emma." Emma closed her eyes and there came from the depths of her heart a great sigh of relief, and comfort and gratification. "Oh, T. A., my dear, it's all very well to drown your identity in the music of the orchestra, but there's nothing equal to the soul-filling satisfaction that you get in solo work." 
38029	----	Note: Project Gutenberg also has an HTML version of this file which includes the original illustration. See 38029-h.htm or 38029-h.zip: (http://www.gutenberg.org/files/38029/38029-h/38029-h.htm) or (http://www.gutenberg.org/files/38029/38029-h.zip) [Illustration: "Good-bye, Baltie, dear"] THREE LITTLE WOMEN, A STORY FOR GIRLS by GABRIELLE E. JACKSON 1913 CONTENTS CHAPTER I--The Carruths CHAPTER II--"Baltie" CHAPTER III--The Spirit of Mad Anthony CHAPTER IV--Baltie is Rescued CHAPTER V--A New Member of the Family CHAPTER VI--Blue Monday CHAPTER VII--Mammy Generalissimo CHAPTER VIII--Chemical Experiments CHAPTER IX--Spontaneous Combustion CHAPTER X--Readjustment CHAPTER XI--First Ventures CHAPTER XII--Another Shoulder is Added CHAPTER XIII--The Battle of Town and Gown CHAPTER XIV--The Candy Enterprise Grows CHAPTER XV--The Reckoning CHAPTER XVI--United We Stand, Divided We Fall CHAPTER XVII--A Family Council CHAPTER XVIII--"Save Me From My Friends" CHAPTER XIX--"An Auction Extraordinary" CHAPTER XX--Constance B.'s Venture CHAPTER XXI--Constance B.'s Candies CHAPTER XXII--First Steps CHAPTER XXIII--Opening Day CHAPTER XXIV--One Month Later CHAPTER I The Carruths The afternoon was a wild one. All day driving sheets of rain had swept along the streets of Riveredge, hurled against windowpanes by fierce gusts of wind, or dashed in miniature rivers across piazzas. At noon it seemed as though the wind meant to change to the westward and the clouds break, but the promise of better weather had failed, and although the rain now fell only fitfully in drenching showers, and one could "run between the drops" the wind still blustered and fumed, tossing the wayfarers about, and tearing from the trees what foliage the rain had spared, to hurl it to the ground in sodden masses. It was more like a late November than a late September day, and had a depressing effect upon everybody. "I want to go out; I want to go out; I want to go out, _out_, OUT!" cried little Jean Carruth, pressing her face against the window-pane until from the outside her nose appeared like a bit of white paper stuck fast to the glass. "If you do you'll get wet, _wet_, WET, as sop, _sop_, SOP, and then mother'll ask what _we_ were about to let you," said a laughing voice from the farther side of the room, where Constance, her sister, nearly five years her senior, was busily engaged in trimming a hat, holding it from her to get the effect of a fascinating bow she had just pinned upon one side. "But I haven't a single thing to do. All my lessons for Monday are finished; I'm tired of stories; I'm tired of fancy work, and I'm tired of--_everything_ and I want to go _out_," ended the woe-begone voice in rapid crescendo. "Do you think it would hurt her to go, Eleanor?" asked Constance, turning toward a girl who sat at a pretty desk, her elbows resting upon it and her hands propping her chin as she pored over a copy of the French Revolution, but who failed to take the least notice of the question. Constance made a funny face and repeated it. She might as well have kept silent for all the impression it made, and with a resigned nod toward Jean she resumed her millinery work. But too much depended upon the reply for Jean Carruth to accept the situation so mildly. Murmuring softly, "You wait a minute," she slipped noiselessly across the room and out into the broad hall beyond. Upon a deep window-seat stood a papier-mâché megaphone. Placing it to her lips, her eyes dancing with mischief above its rim, she bellowed: "Eleanor Maxwell Carruth, do you think it would hurt me to go out now?" The effect was electrical. Bounding from her chair with sufficient alacrity to send the French Revolution crashing upon the floor, Eleanor Carruth clapped both hands over her ears, as she cried: "Jean, you little imp of mischief!" "Well, I wanted to make you hear me," answered that young lady complacently. "Constance had spoken to you twice but you'd gone to France and couldn't hear her, so I thought maybe the megaphone would reach across the Atlantic Ocean, and it _did_. Now can I go out?" "_Can_ you or may you? which do you mean," asked the eldest sister somewhat sententiously. Constance laughed softly in her corner. "O, fiddlesticks on your old English! I get enough of it five days in a week without having to take a dose of it Saturday afternoon too. I know well enough that I _can_ go out, but whether you'll say yes is another question, and I want to," and Jean puckered up her small pug-nose at her sister. "What a spunky little body it is," said the latter, laughing in spite of herself, for Jean, the ten-year-old baby of the family was already proving that she was likely to be a very lively offspring of the Carruth stock. "And where are you minded to stroll on this charming afternoon when everybody else is glad to sit in a snug room and take a Saturday rest?" "Mother isn't taking hers," was the prompt retort. "She's down helping pack the boxes that are to go to that girls' college out in Iowa. She went in all the rain right after luncheon, and I guess if _she_ can go out while it poured 'cats and dogs,' I can when--when--when--well it doesn't even pour _cats_. It's almost stopped raining." "Where _do_ you get hold of those awful expressions, Jean? Whoever heard of 'cats and dogs' pouring down? What _am_ I to do with you? I declare I feel responsible for your development and--" "Then let me go _out_. I need some fresh air to develop in: my lungs don't pump worth a cent in this stuffy place. It's hot enough to roast a pig with those logs blazing in the fire-place. I don't see how you stand it." "Go get your rubber boots and rain coat," said Eleanor resignedly. "You're half duck, I firmly believe, and never so happy as when you're splashing through puddles. Thank goodness your skirts are still short, and you can't very well get _them_ sloppy; and your boots will keep your legs dry unless you try wading up to your hips. But where are you going?" "I'm going down to Amy Fletcher's to see how Bunny is. He got hurt yesterday and it's made him dreadfully sick," answered Jean, as she struggled with her rubber boots, growing red in the face as she tugged at them. In five minutes she was equipped to do battle with almost any storm, and with a "Good bye! I'll be back pretty soon, and then I'll have enough fresh air to keep me in fine shape for the night," out she flew, banging the front door behind her. Eleanor watched the lively little figure as it went skipping down the street, a street which was always called a beautiful one, although now wet and sodden with the rain, for Mr. Carruth had built his home in a most attractive part of the delightful town of Riveredge. Maybe you won't find it on the map by that name, but it's _there_ just the same, and quite as attractive to-day as it was several years ago. Bernard Carruth had been a man of refined taste and possessed a keen appreciation of all that was beautiful, so it was not surprising that he should have chosen Riveredge when deciding upon a place for his home. Situated as it was on the banks of the splendid stream which had suggested its name, the town boasted unusual attractions, and drew to it an element which soon assured its development in the most satisfactory manner. It became noted for its beautiful homes, its cultured people and its delightful social life. Among the prettiest of its homes was Bernard Carruth's. It stood but a short way from the river's bank, was built almost entirely of cobble-stones, oiled shingles being used where the stones were not practicable. It was made up of quaint turns and unexpected corners, although not a single inch of space, or the shape of a room was sacrificed to the oddity of the architecture. It was not a very large house nor yet a very small one, but as Mr. Carruth said when all was completed, the house sensibly and artistically furnished, and his family comfortably installed therein: "It is big enough for the big girl, our three little girls and their old daddy, and so what more can be asked? Only that the good Lord will spare us to each other to enjoy it." This was when Jean was but a little more than two years of age, and for five years they _did_ enjoy it as only a closely united family can enjoy a charming home. Then one of Mr. Carruth's college chums got into serious financial difficulties and Bernard Carruth indorsed heavily for him. The sequel was the same wretched old story repeated: Ruin overtook the friend, and Bernard Carruth's substance was swept into the maelstrom which swallowed up everything. He never recovered from the blow, or false representations which led to it, learning unhappily, when the mischief was done, how sorely he had been betrayed, and within eighteen months from the date of indorsing his friend's paper he was laid away in pretty Brookside Cemetery, leaving his wife and three daughters to face the world upon a very limited income. This was a little more than two years before the opening of this story. Little Jean was now ten and a half, Constance fifteen and Eleanor, the eldest, nearly seventeen, although many judged her to be older, owing to her quiet, reserved manner and studious habits, for Eleanor was, undoubtedly, "the brainy member of the family," as Constance put it. She was a pupil in the Riveredge Seminary, and would graduate the following June; a privilege made possible by an aunt's generosity, since Mrs. Carruth had been left with little more than her home, which Mr. Carruth had given her as soon as it was completed, and the interest upon his life insurance which amounted to less than fifteen hundred a year; a small sum upon which to keep up the home, provide for and educate three daughters. Constance was now a pupil at the Riveredge High School and Jean at the grammar school. Both had been seminary pupils prior to Mr. Carruth's death, but expenses had to be curtailed at once. Constance was the domestic body of the household; prettiest of the three, sunshiny, happy, resourceful, she faced the family's altered position bravely, giving up the advantages and delights of the seminary without a murmur and contributing to her mother's peace of mind to a degree she little guessed by taking the most optimistic view of the situation and meeting altered conditions with a laugh and a song, and the assurance that "_some_ day she was going to make her fortune and set 'em all up in fine shape once more." She got her sanguine disposition from her mother who never looked upon the dull side of the clouds, although it was often a hard matter to win around to their shiny side. Eleanor was quite unlike her; indeed, Eleanor did not resemble either her father or mother, for Mr. Carruth had been a most genial, warm-hearted man, and unselfish to the last degree. Eleanor was very reserved, inclined to keep her affairs to herself, and extremely matured for her years, finding her relaxation and recreation in a manner which the average girl of her age would have considered tasks. Jean was a bunch of nervous impulses, and no one ever knew where the madcap would bounce up next. She was a beautiful child with a mop of wavy reddish-brown hair falling in the softest curls about face and shoulders; eyes that shone lustrous and lambent as twin stars beneath their delicately arched brows, and regarded you with a steadfast interest as though they meant to look straight through you, and separate truth from falsehood. A mouth that was a whimsical combination of fun and resolution. A nose that could pucker disdainfully on provocation, and it never needed a greater than its owner's doubt of the sincerity of the person addressing her. This is the small person skipping along the pretty Riveredge street toward the more sparsely settled northern end of the town, hopping _not from_ dry spot to dry spot _between_ the puddles, but _into_ and _into_ the deepest to be found. Amy Fletcher's home was one of the largest in the outskirts of Riveredge and its grounds the most beautiful. Between it and Riveredge stood an old stone house owned and occupied by a family named Raulsbury; a family noted for its parsimony and narrow outlook upon life in general. Broad open fields lay between this house and the Fletcher place which was some distance beyond. In many places the fences were broken; at one point the field was a good deal higher than the road it bordered and a deep gully lay between it and the sidewalk. When Jean reached that point of her moist, breezy walk she stopped short. In the mud of the gully, drenched, cold and shivering lay an old, blind bay horse. He had stumbled into it, and was too feeble to get out. CHAPTER II "Baltie" "When he's forsaken Withered and shaken What can an old _horse_ Do but die?" (With apologies to Tom Hood.) For one moment Jean stood petrified, too overcome by the sight to stir or speak, then with a low, pitying cry of: "Oh, Baltie, Baltie! How came you there?" the child tossed her umbrella aside and scrambled down into the ditch, the water which stood in it splashing and flying all over her, as she hastened toward the prone horse. At the sound of her voice the poor creature raised his head which had been drooping forward upon his bent-up knees, turned his sightless eyes toward her and tried to nicker, but succeeded only in making a quavering, shivering sound. "Oh, Baltie, dear, dear Baltie, how did you get out of your stable and come way off here?" cried the girl taking the pathetic old head into her arms, and drawing it to her breast regardless of the mud with which it was thickly plastered. "You got out of the field through that broken place in the fence up there didn't you dear? And you must have tumbled right straight down the bank into this ditch, 'cause you're all splashed over with mud, poor, poor Baltie. And your legs are all cut and bleeding too. Oh, how long have you been here? You couldn't see where you were going, could you? You poor, dear thing. Oh, what shall I do for you? What shall I? If I could only help you up," and the dauntless little body tugged with all her might and main to raise the fallen animal. She might as well have striven to raise Gibraltar, for, even though the horse strove to get upon his feet, he was far too weak and exhausted to do so, and again dropped heavily to the ground, nearly over-setting his intrepid little friend as he sank down. Jean was in despair. What _should_ she do? To go on to her friend Amy's and leave the old horse to the chance of someone else's tender mercies never entered her head, and had any one been near at hand to suggest that solution of the problem he would have promptly found himself in the midst of a small tornado of righteous wrath. No, here lay misery incarnate right before her eyes and, of course, she must instantly set about relieving it. But how? "Baltie," or Old Baltimore, as the horse was called, belonged to the Raulsbury's. Everybody within a radius of twenty miles knew him; knew also that the family had brought him to the place when they came there from the suburbs of Baltimore more than twenty years ago. Brought him a high-stepping, fiery, thoroughbred colt which was the admiration and envy of all Riveredge. John Raulsbury, the grandfather, was his owner then, and drove him until his death, when "Baltimore" was seventeen years old; even that was an advanced age for a horse. From the moment of Grandfather Raulsbury's death Baltimore began to fail and lose his high spirits. Some people insisted that he was grieving for the friend of his colt-hood and the heyday of life, but Jabe Raulsbury, the son, said "the horse was gettin' played out. What could ye expect when he was more'n seventeen years old?" So Baltimore became "Old Baltie," and his fate the plow, the dirt cart, the farm wagon. His box-stall, fine grooming, and fine harness were things of the past. "The barn shed's good 'nough fer such an old skate's he's gettin' ter be," said Jabe, and Jabe's son, a shiftless nonentity, agreed with him. So that was blue-blooded Baltie's fate, but even such misfortune failed to break his spirit, and now and again, while plodding hopelessly along the road, dragging the heavy farm wagon, he would raise his head, prick up his ears, and plunge ahead, forgetful of his twenty years, when he heard a speedy step behind him. But, alas! his sudden sprint always came to a most humiliating end, for his strength had failed rapidly during the past few years, and the eyes, once so alert and full of fire, were sadly clouded, making steps very uncertain. An ugly stumble usually ended in a cruel jerk upon the still sensitive mouth and poor old Baltie was reduced to the humiliating plod once more. Yet, through it all he retained his sweet, high-bred disposition, accepting his altered circumstances like the gentleman he was, and never retaliating upon those who so misused him. During his twenty-third year he became totally blind, and when rheumatism, the outcome of the lack of proper stabling and care, added to his miseries, poor Baltie was almost turned adrift; the shed was there, to be sure, and when he had time to think about it, Jabe dumped some feed into the manger and threw a bundle of straw upon the floor. But for the greater part of the time Baltie had to shift for himself as best he could. During the past summer he had been the talk of an indignant town, and more than one threatening word had been spoken regarding the man's treatment of the poor old horse. For a moment the little girl stood in deep, perplexing thought, then suddenly her face lighted up and her expressive eyes sparkled with the thoughts which lay behind them. "I know what I'll do, Baltie: I'll go straight up to Jabe Raulsbury's and _make_ him come down and take care of you. Good-bye, dear; I won't be any time at all 'cause I'll go right across the fields," and giving the horse a final encouraging stroke, she caught up her umbrella which had meantime been resting handle uppermost up in a mud-puddle, and scrambling up the bank which had been poor Baltie's undoing, disappeared beneath the tumble-down fence and was off across the pasture heedless of all obstacles. Jabe Raulsbury's farm had once been part of Riveredge, but one by one his broad acres had been sold so that now only a small section of the original farmstead remained to him, and this was a constant eyesore to his neighbors, owing to its neglected condition, for beautiful homes had been erected all about it upon the acres he had sold at such a large profit. Several good offers had been made him for his property by those who would gladly have bought the land simply to have improved their own places and thus add to the attraction of that section of Riveredge. But no; not another foot of his farm would Jabe Raulsbury sell, and if ever dog-in-the-manger was fully demonstrated it was by this parsimonious irascible man whom no one respected and many heartily despised. This wild, wet afternoon he was seated upon a stool just within the shelter of his barn sorting over a pile of turnips which lay upon the floor near him. He was not an attractive figure, to say the least, as he bent over the work. Cadaverous, simply because he was too parsimonious to provide sufficient nourishing food to meet the demands of such a huge body. Unkempt, grizzled auburn hair and grizzled auburn beard, the latter sparse enough to disclose the sinister mouth. Eyes about the color of green gooseberries and with about as much expression. As he sat there tossing into the baskets before him the sorted-out turnips, he became aware of rapidly approaching footsteps, and raised his head just as a small figure came hurrying around the corner of the barn, for the scramble up the steep bank, and rapid walk across the wet pastures, had set Jean's heart a-beating, and that, coupled with her indignation, caused her to pant. She had gone first to the house, but had there learned from Mrs. Raulsbury, a timid, nervous, woefully-dominated individual, who looked and acted as though she scarcely dared call her soul her own, that "Jabe was down yonder in the far-barn sortin' turnips." So down to the "far-barn" went Jean. "Good afternoon, Mr. Raulsbury," she began, her heart, it must be confessed, adding, rather than lessening its number of beats, at confronting the forbidding expression of the individual with whom she was passing the time of day. "Huh!" grunted Jabe Raulsbury, giving her one searching look from between his narrowing eyelids, and then resuming his work. Most children would have been discouraged and dropped the conversation then and there. Jean's lips took on a firmer curve. "I guess after all it _isn't_ a good afternoon, is it? It is a pretty wet, horrid one, and not a very nice one to be out in, is it?" "Wul, why don't ye go home then?" was the gruff retort. "Because I have an important matter to 'tend to. I was on my way to visit Amy Fletcher; her cat is sick! he was hurt dreadfully yesterday; she thinks somebody must have tried to shoot him and missed him, for his shoulder is all torn. If anybody _did_ do such a thing to Bunny they'd ought to be ashamed of it, for he's a dear. If _I_ knew who had done it I'd--I'd--." "Wal, what _would_ ye do to 'em, heh?" and a wicked, tantalizing grin overspread Jabe Raulsbury's face. "Do? Do? I believe I'd scratch his eyes out; I'd hate him so, for being so cruel!" was the fiery, unexpected reply. "Do tell! Would ye now, really? Mebbe it's jist as well fer him that ye don't know the feller that did it then," remarked Raulsbury, although he gave a slight hitch to the stool upon which he was sitting as he said it, thus widening the space between them. "Well I believe I _would_, for I _despise_ a coward, and only a coward could do such a thing." "Huh," was the response to this statement. Then silence for a moment was broken by the man who asked: "Wal, why don't ye go along an' see if the cat's kilt. It aint _here_." "No, I know _that_, but I have found something more important to 'tend to, and that's why I came up here, and it's something you ought to know about too: Old Baltie has tumbled down the bank at the place in the pasture where the fence is broken, and is in the ditch. I don't know how long he's been there, but he's all wet, and muddy and shivery and he can't get up. I came up to tell you, so's you could get a man to help you and go right down and get him out. I tried, but I wasn't strong enough, but he'll die if you don't go quick." Jean's eyes shone and her cheeks were flushed from excitement as she described Baltie's plight, and paused only because breath failed her. "Wal, 'spose he does; what then? What good is he to anybody? He's most twenty-five year old an' clear played-out. He'd better die; it's the best thing could happen." The shifty eyes had not rested upon the child while the man was speaking, but some powerful magnetism drew and held them to her deep blazing ones as the last word fell from his lips. He tried to withdraw them, ejected a mouthful of tobacco juice at one particular spot which from appearances had been so favored many times before, drew his hand across his mouth and then gave a self-conscious, snickering laugh. "I don't believe you understood what I said, did you?" asked Jean quietly. "I'm sure you didn't." "Oh yis I did. Ye said old Baltie was down in the ditch yonder and like ter die if I didn't git him out. Wal, that's jist 'zactly what I want him _to_ do, an' jest 'zactly what I turned him out inter that field fer him ter do, an' jist 'zactly what I hope he _will_ do 'fore morning. He's got the last ounce o' fodder I'm ever a'goin' ter give him, an' I aint never a'goin' ter let him inter my barns agin. Now put _that_ in yer pipe an' smoke it, an' then git out durned quick." Jabe Raulsbury had partially risen from his stool as he concluded this creditable tirade, and one hand was raised threateningly toward the little figure standing with her dripping umbrella just within the threshold of the barn door. That the burly figure did not rise entirely, and that his hand remained suspended without the threatened blow falling can perhaps best be explained by the fact that the child before him never flinched, and that the scorn upon her face was so intense that it could be felt. CHAPTER III The Spirit of Mad Anthony Jean Carruth stood thus for about one minute absolutely rigid, her face the color of chalk and her eyes blazing. Then several things happened with extreme expedition. The position of the closed umbrella in her hands reversed with lightning-like rapidity; one quick step _forward_, _not_ backward, was made, thus giving the intrepid little body a firmer foothold, and then crash! down came the gun-metal handle across Jabe Raulsbury's ample-sized nasal appendage. The blow, with such small arms to launch it, was not of necessity a very powerful one, but it was the suddenness of the onslaught which rendered it effective, for not one sound had issued from the child's set lips as she delivered it, and Jabe's position placed him at a decided disadvantage. He resumed his seat with considerable emphasis, and clapping his hand to his injured feature, bellowed in the voice of an injured bull: "You--you--you little devil! You--you, let me get hold of you!" But Jean did not obey the command or pause to learn the result of her deed. With a storm of the wildest sobs she turned and fled from the barnyard, down the driveway leading to the road, and back to the spot where she had left Baltie in his misery, her tears nearly blinding her, and her indignation almost strangling her; back to the poor old horse, so sorely in need of human pity and aid. This, all unknown to his little champion, had already reached him, for hardly had Jean disappeared beneath the tumble-down fence, than a vehicle came bowling along the highway driven by no less a personage than Hadyn Stuyvesant, lately elected president of the local branch of the S. P. C. A. Poor old Baltie's days of misery had come to an end, for here was the authority either to compel his care or to mercifully release him from his sufferings. Perhaps not more than twenty minutes had elapsed from the time Jean started across the fields, to the moment of her return to the old horse, but in those twenty minutes Mr. Stuyvesant had secured aid from Mr. Fletcher's place, and when Jean came hurrying upon the scene, her sobs still rendering breathing difficult, and her troubled little face bathed in tears, she found three men standing near Baltie. "Oh, Baltie, Baltie, Baltie, I'm so glad! So glad! So glad!" sobbed the overwrought little girl, as she flew to the old horse's head. Mr. Stuyvesant and the men stared at her in astonishment. "Why little girl," cried the former. "Where in this world have _you_ sprung from? And what is the matter? Is this your horse?" "Oh, no--no; he isn't mine. It's old Baltie; don't you know him? I went to tell Jabe Raulsbury about him and he--he--" and Jean paused embarrassed. "Yes? Well? Is this his horse? Is he coming to get him? Did you find him?" "Yes, sir, I _found_ him," answered Jean, trembling from excitement and her exertions. "And is he coming right down?" persisted Mr. Stuyvesant, looking keenly, although not unkindly, at the child. "He--he--, oh, _please_ don't make me tell tales on anybody--it's so mean--but he--" "You might as well tell it right out an' done with it, little gal," broke in one of the men. "It ain't no state secret; everybody knows that that old skinflint has been abusing this horse shameful, for months past, an' I'll bet my month's wages he said he wouldn't come down, an' he hoped the horse 'd die in the ditch. Come now, out with it--_didn't_ he?" Jean would not answer, but there was no need for words; her eyes told the truth. Just then the other man came up to her; he was one of Mr. Fletcher's grooms. "Aren't you Mrs. Carruth's little girl?" he asked. But before Jean had time to answer Jabe Raulsbury came running along the road, one hand holding a handkerchief to his nose, the other waving wildly as he shouted: "Just you wait 'till I lay my hands on you--you little wild cat!" He was too blinded by his rage to realize the situation into which he was hurrying. Again Anthony Wayne's spirit leaped into Jean's eyes, as the dauntless little creature whirled about to meet the enemy descending upon her. With head erect, and nostrils quivering she stood as though rooted to the ground. "Great guns! How's _that_ for a little thoroughbred?" murmured the groom, laughing softly. Reaching out a protecting hand, Mr. Stuyvesant gently pushed the little girl toward the man who stood behind him, and taking her place let Jabe Raulsbury come head-on to his fate. Had the man been less enraged he would have taken in the situation at once, but his nose still pained severely from the well-aimed blow, and had also bled pretty freely, so it is not surprising that he lost his presence of mind. "Go slow! Go slow! You are exactly the man I want to see," said Mr. Stuyvesant, laying a detaining hand upon Jabe's arm. "Who 'n thunder air you?" demanded the half-blinded man. "Someone you would probably rather not meet at this moment, but since you have appeared upon the scene so opportunely I think we might as well come to an understanding at once, and settle some scores." "I ain't got no scores to settle with you, but I have with _that_ little demon, an' by gosh she'll know it, when I've done with her! Why that young 'un has just smashed me over the head with her umbril, I tell ye. _There_ it is, if ye don't believe what I'm a tellin' ye. I'm goin' ter have the _law_ on her and on her Ma, I tell ye, an' I call you three men ter witness the state I'm in. I'll bring suit agin' her fer big damages--that's what I'll do. Look at my _nose_!" As he ceased his tirade Jabe removed his handkerchief from the injured member. At the sight of it one of the men broke into a loud guffaw. Certainly, for a "weaker vessel" Jean had compassed considerable. That nose was about the size of two ordinary noses. Mr. Stuyvesant regarded it for a moment, his face perfectly sober, then asked with apparent concern: "And this little girl hit you such a blow as that?" Poor little Jean began to tremble in her boots. Were the tables about to turn upon her? Even Anthony Wayne's spirit, when harbored in such a tiny body could hardly brave _that_. The Fletcher's groom who stood just behind her watched her closely. Now and again he gave a nod indicative of his approval. "Yes she did. She drew off and struck me slam in the face with her umbril.," averred Jabe. "Had _you_ struck her? Did she strike in self-defense?" Mr. Stuyvesant gave a significant look over Jabe's head straight into the groom's eyes when he asked this question. The response was the slightest nod of comprehension. "Strike her? _No_," roared Jabe. "I hadn't teched her. I was a-sittin' there sortin' out my turnips 's peaceful 's any man in this town, when that little rip comes 'long and tells me I must go get an old horse out 'en a ditch: _that_ old skate there that's boun' ter die _any_ how, an' ought ter a-died long ago. I told her ter clear out an' mind her own business that I hoped the horse _would_ die, an' that's what I'd turned him out _to_ do. Then she drew off an' whacked me." "Just because you stated in just so many words that you meant to get rid of the old horse and had turned him out to die on the roadside. Is _that_ why she struck you?" Had Jabe been a little calmer he might have been aware of a change in Hadyn Stuyvesant's expression and his tone of voice, but men wild with rage are rarely close observers. "Yis! Yis!" he snapped, sure now of his triumph. "Well I'm only sorry the blow was such a light one. I wish it had been struck by a man's arm and sufficiently powerful to have half killed you! Even _that_ would have been _too_ good for you, you merciless brute! I've had you under my eye for your treatment of that poor horse for some time, and now I have you under my _hand_, and convicted by your own words in the presence of two witnesses, of absolute cruelty. I arrest you in the name of the S. P. C. A." For one brief moment Jabe stood petrified with astonishment. Then the brute in him broke loose and he started to lay about him right and left. His aggressiveness was brought to a speedy termination, for at a slight motion from Mr. Stuyvesant the two men sprang upon him, his arms were held and the next second there was a slight click and Jabe Raulsbury's wrists were in handcuffs. That snap was the signal for his blustering to take flight for he was an arrant coward at heart. "Now step into my wagon and sit there until I am ready to settle your case, my man, and that will be when I have looked to this little girl and the animal which, but for her pluck and courage, might have died in this ditch," ordered Mr. Stuyvesant. No whipped cur could have slunk toward the wagon more cowed. "Now, little lassie, tell me your name and where you live," said Mr. Stuyvesant lifting Jean bodily into his arms despite her mortification at being "handled just like a baby," as she afterwards expressed it. "I am Jean Carruth. I live on Linden Avenue. I'm--I'm terribly ashamed to be here, and to have struck him," and she nodded toward the humbled figure in the wagon. "You need not be. You did not give him one-half he deserves," was the somewhat comforting assurance. "O, but what _will_ mother say? She'll be _so_ mortified when I tell her about it all. It seems as if I just _couldn't_," was the distressed reply. "Must you tell her?" asked Mr. Stuyvesant, an odd expression overspreading his kind, strong face as he looked into the little girl's eyes. Jean regarded him with undisguised amazement as she answered simply: "Why of _course_! That would be deceit if I _didn't_. I'll have to be punished, but I guess I _ought_ to be," was the naïve conclusion. The fine face before her was transfigured as Hadyn Stuyvesant answered: "Good! _Your_ principles are all right. Stick to them and I'll want to know you when you are a woman. Now I must get you home for I've a word to say to your mother, to whom I mean to introduce myself under the circumstances," and carrying her to his two-seated depot wagon, he placed her upon the front seat. Jabe glowered at him from the rear one. His horse turned his head with an inquiring nicker. "Yes, Comet, I'll be ready pretty soon," he replied, pausing a second to give a stroke to the satiny neck. Then turning to the men he said: "Now, my men, let's on with this job which has been delayed too long already." He did not spare himself, and presently old Baltie was out of the ditch and upon his feet--a sufficiently pathetic object to touch any heart. "Shall I have the men lead him up to your barn?" asked Hadyn Stuyvesant, giving the surly object in his wagon a last chance to redeem himself. "No! I'm done with him; do your worst," was the gruff answer. "Very well," the words were ominously quiet, "then _I_ shall take him in charge." "Oh, _where_ are you going to take him, please?" asked Jean, her concern for the horse overcoming her embarrassment at her novel situation. "I'm afraid he will have to be sent to the pound, little one, for no one will claim him." "Is that the place where they _kill_ them? _Must_ Baltie be killed?" Her voice was full of tears. "Unless someone can be found who will care for him for the rest of his numbered days. I'm afraid it is the best and most merciful fate for him," was the gentle answer. "How long may he stay there without being killed? Until maybe somebody can be found to take him." "He may stay there one week. But now we must move along. Fasten the horse's halter to the back of my wagon, men, and I'll see to it that he is comfortable to-night anyway." The halter rope was tied, and the strange procession started slowly back toward Riveredge. CHAPTER IV Baltie is Rescued "How old are you, little lassie?" asked Hadyn Stuyvesant, looking down upon the little figure beside him, his fine eyes alive with interest and the smile which none could resist lighting his face, and displaying his white even teeth. "I'm just a little over ten," answered Jean, looking up and answering his smile with one equally frank and trustful, for little Jean Carruth did not understand the meaning of embarrassment. "Are you Mrs. Bernard Carruth's little daughter? I knew her nephew well when at college, although I've been away from Riveredge so long that I've lost track of her and her family." "Yes, she is my mother. Mr. Bernard Carruth was my father," and a little choke came into Jean's voice, for, although not yet eight years of age when her father passed out of her life, Jean's memory of him was a very tender one, and she sorely missed the kind, cheery, sympathetic companionship he had given his children. Hadyn Stuyvesant was quick to note the catch in the little girl's voice, and the tears which welled up to her eyes, and a strong arm was placed about her waist to draw her a little closer to his side, as, changing the subject, he said very tenderly: "You have had an exciting hour, little one. Sit close beside me and don't try to talk; just rest, and let _me_ do the talking. We must go slowly on Baltie's account; the poor old horse is badly knocked about and stiffened up. Suppose we go right to Mr. Pringle's livery stable and ask him to take care of him a few days any way. Don't you think that would be a good plan?" "But who will _pay_ for him? Don't you have to pay board for horses just like people pay their board?" broke in Jean anxiously. Hadyn Stuyvesant smiled at the practical little being his arm still so comfortingly encircled. "I guess the Society can stand the expense," he answered. "Has it got _lots_ of money to do such things with?" asked Jean, bound to get at the full facts. "I'm afraid it hasn't got 'lots of money'--I wish it had,--but I think it can pay a week's board for old Baltie in consideration of what you have done for him. It will make you happier to know he will be comfortable for a little while any way, won't it?" "Oh, yes! yes! And, and--perhaps _I_ could pay the next week's if we didn't find somebody the first week. I've got 'most five dollars in my Christmas bank. I've been saving ever since last January; I always begin to put in something on New Year's day, if it's only five cents, and then I never, never take any out 'till it's time to buy our next Christmas presents. And I really _have_ got 'most five dollars, and would _that_ be enough for another week?" and the bonny little face was raised eagerly to her companion's. Hadyn Stuyvesant then and there lost his heart to the little creature at his side. It is given to very few "grown-ups" to slip out of their own adult years and by some magical power pick up the years of their childhood once more, with all the experiences and view-points of that childhood, but Hadyn Stuyvesant was one of those few. He felt all the eagerness of Jean's words and his answer held all the confidence and enthusiasm of _her_ ten years rather than his own twenty-three. "Fully enough. But we will hope that a home may be found for Baltie before the first week has come to an end. And here we are at Mr. Pringle's. Raulsbury I shall have to ask you to get out here," added Mr. Stuyvesant, as he, himself, sprang from the depot wagon to the sidewalk. Raulsbury made no reply but stepped to the sidewalk, where, at a slight signal from Hadyn Stuyvesant, an officer of the Society who had his office in the livery stable came forward and motioned to Raulsbury to follow him. As they disappeared within the stable, Mr. Stuyvesant said to the proprietor: "Pringle, I've got a boarder for you. Don't know just how long he will stay, but remember, nothing is too good for him while he does, for he is this little girl's protégé, and I hold myself responsible for him." "All right, Mr. Stuyvesant. All right, sir. He shall have the best the stable affords. Come on, old stager; you look as if you wanted a curry-comb and a feed pretty bad," said Pringle, as he untied Baltie's halter. With all the gentleness of the blue-blooded old fellow he was, Baltie raised his mud-splashed head, sniffed at Mr. Pringle's coat and nickered softly, as though acknowledging his proffered hospitality. The man stroked the muddy neck encouragingly, as he said: "He don't look much as he did eighteen years ago, does he, Mr. Stuyvesant?" "I'm afraid I don't remember how he looked eighteen years ago, Pringle; there wasn't much of me to remember _with_ about that time. But I remember how he looked _eight_ years ago, before I went to Europe, and the contrast is enough to stir me up considerable. It's about time such conditions were made impossible, and I'm going to see what I can do to start a move in that direction," concluded Mr. Stuyvesant, with an ominous nod toward the stable door, through which Raulsbury had disappeared. "I'm glad to hear it, sir. We have had too much of this sort of thing in Riveredge for the past few years. I've been saying the Society needed a _live_ president and I'm glad it's got one at last." "Well, look out for old Baltie, and now I must take my little fellow-worker home," said Mr. Stuyvesant. "Oh, may I give him just _one_ pat before we go?" begged Jean, looking from Baltie to Mr. Stuyvesant. "Lead him up beside us, Pringle," ordered Mr. Stuyvesant smiling his consent to Jean. "Good-bye Baltie, dear. Good-bye. I won't forget you for a single minute; no, not for one," said the little girl earnestly, hugging the muddy old head and implanting a kiss upon the ear nearest her. "Baltie you are to be envied, old fellow," said Hadyn Stuyvesant, laughing softly, and nodding significantly to Pringle. "She was his first friend in his misery. I'll tell you about it later, but I must be off now or her family will have me up for a kidnapper. I'll be back in about an hour." Ten minutes' swift bowling along behind Hadyn Stuyvesant's beautiful "Comet" brought them to the Carruth home. Dusk was already beginning to fall as the short autumn day drew to its end, and Mrs. Carruth,--mother above all other things--stood at the window watching for this youngest daughter, regarding whom she never felt quite at ease when that young lady was out of her sight. When she saw a carriage turning in at her driveway and that same daughter perched upon the front seat beside a total stranger she began to believe that there had been some foundation for the misgivings which had made her so restless for the past hour. Opening the door she stepped out upon the piazza to meet the runaway, and was greeted with: "Oh mother, mother, I've had such an exciting experience! I started to see Amy Fletcher, but before I got there I found him in the ditch and lame and muddy and dirty, and I went up to tell Jabe he _must_ go get him out and then I got awful angry and banged him with my umbrella, and then I cried and _he_ found me," with a nod toward her companion, "and he got him out of the ditch and gave Jabe _such_ a scolding and took him to Mr. Pringle's and he's going to curry-comb him and get the mud all off of him and take care of him a week any way, and two weeks if I've got enough money in my bank and--and--" "Mercy! mercy! mercy!" cried Mrs. Carruth, breaking into a laugh and raising both hands as though to shield her head from the avalanche of words descending upon it. Hadyn Stuyvesant strove manfully to keep his countenance lest he wound the feelings of his little companion, but the situation was too much for him and his genial laugh echoed Mrs. Carruth's as he sprang from the depot wagon and raising his arms toward the surprised child said: "Let me lift you out little maid, and then I think perhaps you can give your mother a clearer idea as to whether it is Jabe Raulsbury, or old Baltie which is covered with mud and about to be curry-combed. Mrs. Carruth, let me introduce myself as Hadyn Stuyvesant. I knew your nephew when I was at college, and on the strength of my friendship for him, must beg you to pardon this intrusion. I came upon your little daughter not long since playing the part of the Good Samaritan to Raulsbury's poor old horse. She had tackled a job just a little too big for her, so I volunteered to lend a hand, and together we made it go." As he spoke Hadyn Stuyvesant removed his hat and ascended the piazza steps with hand outstretched to the sweet-faced woman who stood at the top. She took the extended hand, her face lighting with the winning smile which carried sunshine to all who knew her, and in the present instance fell with wonderful warmth upon the man before her, for barely a year had passed since his mother had been laid away in a beautiful cemetery in Switzerland, and the tie between that mother and son had been a singularly tender one. "I have often heard my nephew speak of you, Mr. Stuyvesant, and can not think of you as a stranger. I regret that we have not met before, but I understand you have lived abroad for several years. I am indebted to you for bringing Jean safely home, but quite at a loss to understand what has happened. Please come in and tell me. Will your horse stand?" "He will stand as long as I wish him to. But I fear I shall intrude upon you?" and a questioning tone came into his voice. "How could it be an intrusion under the circumstances? Come." "In a moment, then. I must throw the blanket over Comet," and running down the steps he took the blanket from the seat and quickly buckled it upon the horse which meanwhile nosed him and nickered. "Yes; it's all right, old man. Just you _stand_ till I want you," said his master, giving the pretty head an affectionate pat which the horse acknowledged by shaking it up and down two or three times. Hadyn Stuyvesant then mounted the steps once more and followed Mrs. Carruth and Jean into the house, across the broad hall into the cheerful living-room where logs blazed upon the andirons in the fire-place, and Constance was just lighting a large reading lamp which stood upon a table in the center of the room. "Constance, dear, this is Mr. Stuyvesant whom your cousin knew at Princeton. My daughter, Constance, Mr. Stuyvesant. And this is my eldest daughter, Eleanor," she added as Eleanor entered the room. Constance set the lamp shade upon its rest and advanced toward their guest with hand extended and a smile which was the perfect reflection of her mother's. Eleanor's greeting although graceful and dignified lacked her sister's cordiality. "Now," added Mrs. Carruth, "let us be seated and learn more definitely of Jean's escapade." "But it _wasn't_ an escapade _this_ time, mother. It was just an unhelpable experience, _wasn't_ it, Mr. Stuyvesant?" broke in Jean, walking over to Hadyn Stuyvesant's side and placing her hand confidingly upon his shoulder, as she peered into his kind eyes for his corroboration of this assertion. "_Entirely_ 'unhelpable,'" was the positive assurance as he put his arm about her and drew her upon his knee. "Suppose you let me explain it, and then your mother and sisters will understand the situation fully," and in as few words as possible he gave an account of the happenings of the past two hours, Jean now and again prompting him when he went a trifle astray regarding the incidents which occurred prior to his appearance upon the scene, and making a clean breast of her attack upon Jabe Raulsbury. When _that_ point in the narration was reached Mrs. Carruth let her hands drop resignedly into her lap; Constance laughed outright, and Eleanor cried: "Oh, Mr. Stuyvesant, what _must_ you think of Jean's training?" Jean's eyes were fixed upon his as though in his reply rested the verdict, and her fingers were clasped and unclasped nervously. It had been more than two years since a man had set judgment upon her. Hadyn Stuyvesant looked keenly into the big eyes looking so bravely and frankly into his own, drew the little girl close to him, rested his lips for a moment upon the silky curls and said: "Sometimes we can hardly be held accountable for what we do; especially when our sense of justice is sorely taxed. I believe I should have done the same. But since you love horses so dearly, won't you run and give Comet a lump of sugar? He has not had one to-day and will feel slighted unless he gets it. Hold it upon the palm of your hand and he will take it as gently as a kitten. Tell him I am coming right away," and placing Jean upon the floor, he gave an encouraging pat upon the brown curls. "I'll give it to him right away, quick," she cried delightedly as she ran from the room. "Good!" Then rising he extended his hand, saying, as he clasped Mrs. Carruth's: "She is a little trump, Mrs. Carruth. Jove! if you could have been there and seen her championship of that old horse, and her dauntless courage when that old rascal, Jabe, bore down upon her, you would be so set up that this house would have to expand to hold you. Please don't reprove her. I ask it as favor, although I have no right to do so. She has a fine spirit and a finer sense of duty, Mrs. Carruth, for she gave me a rare call-down when I tested it by hinting that she'd best keep mum on the subject if she was likely to come in for a wigging. She is a great little lassie and I am going to ask you to let me know her better." "Jean is about right, _I_ think, Mr. Stuyvesant," said Constance, as she shook hands good-bye. "She is peppery and impulsive, I know, but it would be a hard matter to make her tell an untruth, or go against what she considered her duty." "I'm _sure_ of it, Miss Constance," was the hearty answer. "And now good-bye. You will let me come again, Mrs. Carruth?" "We will be very pleased to welcome you," was the cordial reply. "Good! I'll come." CHAPTER V A New Member of the Family "Has you-all done 'cided to do wid out yo' suppers dis yer night? 'Cause if you _is_ I 'spec's I kin clar away," was the autocratic inquiry of Mammy Melviny as she stood in the doorway of the living-room, her ample proportions very nearly filling it. Hadyn Stuyvesant's call had been of longer duration than Mammy approved, for her hot corn cakes were being rapidly ruined by the delayed meal, and this was an outrage upon her skill in cooking. Mammy had been Mrs. Carruth's nurse "down souf" and still regarded that dignified lady as her "chile," and subject to her dictation. She was the only servant which Mrs. Carruth now kept, the others having been what Mammy stigmatized as "po' northern no 'count niggers" who gave the minimum of work for the maximum of pay, and were prompt to take their departure when adversity overtook their employer. Not so Mammy. When the crisis came Mrs. Carruth stated the case to her and advised her to seek another situation where she would receive the wages her ability commanded, and which Mrs. Carruth, in her reduced circumstances, could no longer afford to pay her. The storm which the suggestion produced was both alarming and amusing. Placing her arms upon her hips, and raising her head like a war-horse scenting battle, Mammy stamped her foot and cried: "Step down an' out? Get out 'en de fambly? Go wo'k fer some o' dese hyer strange folks what aint keer a cent fo' me, an' aint know who I _is_? _Me?_ a Blairsdale! Huh! What sort o' fool talk is _dat_, Baby? Yo' cyant _git_ me out. Yo' need 'n ter try, kase 'taint gwine be no good ter. I's hyer and hyer I's gwine _stay_, no matter _what_ come. 'Taint no use fer ter talk ter _me_ 'bout money and wages an' sich truck. What I kerrin' fer dem? I'se got 'nough, an' ter spare. What yo' t'ink I'se been doin' all dese years o' freedom? Flingin' my earnin's 'way? Huh! You _know_ I aint done no sich foolishness. I'se got a pile--yis, an' a _good_ pile too,--put 'way. I need n't ter ever do a stroke mo' work long 's I live if I don't wantter. I'se _rich_, I is. But I _gwine_ ter work jist 's long's I'se mind ter. Ain't I free? Who gwine ter say I cyant wo'k? Now go long an' tend ter yo' business and lemme lone ter tend ter mine, and dat's right down wid de pots and de kettles, and de stew pans, an' de wash biler and de wash tubs, an' I reckon I kin do more 'n six o' dese yer Norf niggers put togedder when I set out ter good an' hard if I _is_ most sixty years old. Hush yo' talk chile, an' don't let me ketch you a interferin' wid _my_ doin's agin. You heah _me_?" And at the end of this tirade, Mammy turned sharply about and marched off like a grenadier. Mrs. Carruth was deeply touched by the old woman's loyalty, but knowing the antebellum negro as she did, she realized how wounded Mammy had been by the suggestion that she seek a more lucrative situation among strangers. Mammy had been born and raised a slave on Mrs. Carruth's father's plantation in North Carolina, and would always consider herself a member of Mrs. Carruth's family. Alas for the days of such ties and such devotion! So Mammy was now the autocrat of the household and ruled with an iron hand, although woe to anyone who dared to overstep the bounds _she_ had established as her "Miss Jinny's" rights, or the "chillen's" privileges as "old marster's gran'-chillern." "Old Marster" was Mammy's ideal of what a gentleman should be, and "de days befo' de gre't turmoil" were the only days "fitten for _folks_ (always to be written in italics) to live in." She was an interesting figure as she stood in the doorway, and snapped out her question, although her old face, surmounted by its gay bandanna turban was the personification of kindliness, and her keen eyes held only love for her "white folks." She was decidedly corpulent and her light print gown and beautifully ironed white apron stood out from her figure until they completely filled the doorway. Mrs. Carruth turned toward her and asked with a quizzical smile; "What is spoiling, Mammy?" "Huh! Ain't nuffin spilin's I knows on, but dat Miss Nornie done say she ain't had no co'n cakes 'n 'bout 'n age an' if she _want_ 'em so turrible she'd better come and _eat_ 'em,"--and with a decisive nod Mammy stalked off toward the dining-room. "Come, girls, unless you want to evoke the displeasure of the presiding genius of the household," said Mrs. Carruth smiling, as she led the way in Mammy's wake. It was a pleasant meal, for Mammy would not countenance the least lapse from the customs of earlier days, and the same pains were taken for the simple meals now served as had been taken with the more elaborate ones during Mr. Carruth's lifetime. The linen must be ironed with the same care; the silver must shine as brightly, and the glass sparkle as it had always done. Miss Jinny must not miss any of the luxuries to which she had been born if Mammy could help it. "Isn't he splendid, mother?" asked Jean, as she buttered her third corn cake. "He was _so_ good to Baltie and to me." "I am very glad to know him, dear, for Lyman was much attached to him." "Where has he been all these years, mother, that we have never met him in Riveredge?" asked Eleanor. "He has lived abroad when not at college. He took his degree last spring. His mother died there a little more than a year ago, I understand. She never recovered from the blow of his father's death when Hadyn was about fifteen years of age. She went abroad soon after for her health and never came back. He came over for his college course at Princeton, but always rejoined her during his holidays." "How old a man is he, mother? He seems both young and old," said Constance. "I am not sure, but think he must be about Lyman's age--nearly twenty-four. But the Society seems to have made a wise choice in electing him its president; he has certainly taken energetic measures in this case and I am glad that he has, for it is disgraceful to have such a thing occur in Riveredge. Poor old horse! It would have been more merciful to shoot him. How could Jabe Raulsbury have been so utterly heartless?" "But, mother, suppose no one will take old Baltie and give him a home?" persisted Jean, "will he _have_ to be shot then?" "Would it not be kinder to end such a hapless existence than to leave it to an uncertain fate, dear?" asked Mrs. Carruth gently. "Well, maybe, but _I_ don't want him killed. He _loves_ me," was Jean's answer and the little upraising of the head at the conclusion of the remark conveyed more to Constance than to the others. Constance understood Jean better than any other member of the family, and during the summer just passed Jean had many times gone to the field in which Baltie was pastured to carry some dainty to the poor old horse and her love for him and compassion for his wretchedness were deep. No more was said just then, but Constance knew that the subject had not passed from Jean's thoughts and one afternoon, exactly two weeks from that evening, this was verified. Mrs. Carruth had gone to sit with a sick friend. Eleanor was in her room lost to everything but a knotty problem for Monday's recitation, and Mammy was busily occupied with some dainty dish against her Miss Jinny's home-coming. Constance was laying the tea-table when the crunch-crunch, crunch-crunch, upon the gravel of the driveway caused her to look up, there to behold Jean with old Baltie in tow. "Merciful powers, what _has_ the child done now?" she exclaimed as she let fall with a clatter the knife and fork she was about to place upon the table and flew to the front door, crying as she hastily opened it: "Jean Carruth what in this world _have_ you been doing?" "I've brought him home. I _had_ to. I went down to ask Mr. Pringle if anybody had come to take him, but he wasn't there. There wasn't _any_body there but old deaf Mike who cleans the stable and I couldn't make _him_ understand a single thing I said. He just mumbled and wagged his head for all the world like that China mandarin in the library, and didn't do a thing though I yelled at him as hard as I could." "But _how_ did you get Baltie and, greater marvel, _how_ did you bring him all this way home?" persisted Constance, bound to get to the bottom of facts. "I went into the box-stall--it's close to the door you know--and got him and led him here." "But where was Mike, and what was he doing all that time to _let_ you do such a thing?" "O, he went poking off down the stable and didn't pay any attention to me. It wouldn't have made any difference if he _had_; I had gone there to rescue Baltie and save him from being shot, and I didn't mean to come away without doing it. The two weeks were up to-day and he was _there_. If any one had been found to take him he _wouldn't_ have been there yet, would he? So _that_ settled it, and I wasn't going to take any chances. If I'd let him stay one day longer they might have shot him. If I could have found Mr. Pringle I'd have told him, but I couldn't, and I didn't dare to wait. I left my bank money, almost five dollars, to pay for this week's board--Mr. Stuyvesant said it would be enough--and a little note to tell him it was for Baltie; I wrote it on a piece of paper in his office, and then I came home as fast as Baltie could walk, and here we are." Jean had talked very rapidly and Constance was too dumfounded for the time being, to interrupt the flow of words. Presently however, she recovered her speech and, resting one hand on Baltie's withers and the other on Jean's shoulder, asked resignedly: "And now that you've got him, may I ask what in this world you propose to _do_ with him?" "Take him out to the stable of course and take care of him as long as he lives," was the uncontrovertible reply. "Mother will _never_ let you do such a thing, Jean, and he must be taken back to Pringle's at once," said Constance, with more emphasis than usually entered her speech toward this mad-cap little sister. "I won't! I won't! I _won't_ let him go back!" broke out Jean, a storm of sobs ending the protest and bringing Mammy upon the scene hot-foot, for Mammy's ears were keen for notes of woe from her baby. "What's de matter, honey? What done happen ter yo'?" she cried as she came hurrying across the little porch upon which the dining-room opened. "Bress Gawd what yo' got dere, chile? Huccum dat old horse here?" "Oh Mammy, Mammy, its Baltie, and she says I can't keep him, and they are going to _kill_ him, 'cause he's old and blind and hasn't anyone to take care of him. And Mammy, Mammy, _please_ don't let 'em 'cause I _love_ him. I do, I do, Mammy," cried Jean as she cast Baltie's leader from her and rushed to Mammy, to fling herself into those protecting arms and sob out her woes. "Wha', wha', wha', yo' say, Baby?" stammered Mammy, whose tongue sometimes became unruly under great excitement. "Somebody gwine tek away dat old horse dat yo' love, an' breck yo' heart? Huh! Who gwine do dat when Mammy stan' by? I like 'er _see_ 'em do it! _Co'se_ I knows Baltie. Ain' I seen him dese many years? An' yo' gwine pertec' him an' keer fer him in his discrepancy? Well, ef yo' wantter yo' _shall_, an' dat's all 'bout it." "But Mammy, Mammy, she can't; she mustn't; what will mother say?" remonstrated Constance smiling in spite of herself at the ridiculous situation for Mammy had promptly put on her war-paint, and was a formidable champion to overcome. "An' what yo' _ma_ gotter say 'bout it if _I_ sets out ter tak' care of an' old horse? 'Taint _her_ horse. _She_ aint got nothin' 'tall ter _do wid_ him. He's been a lookin', an' a waitin'; and de Lawd knows but he's been _a-prayin'_ fer a pertecter----how _we-all_ gwine know he aint _prayed_ ter de Lawd fer ter raise one up fer him in his mis'ry? An' now he's _got_ one an' it's _me_ an' dis chile. Go 'long an' set yo' table an' let us 'lone. Come on honey; we'll take old Baltie out yonder ter de stable an' bed him _down_ an' feed him _up_ twell he so sot up he like 'nough bus' wid pride, an' I just like ter see who gwine _stop_ us. Hi yah-yah, yah," and Mammy's wrath ended in a melodious laugh as she caught hold of the leader and stalked off with this extraordinary addition to her already manifold duties, Jean holding her free hand and nodding exultingly over her shoulder at Constance who had collapsed upon the lower step. CHAPTER VI Blue Monday October, with its wealth of color, its mellow days, and soft haze was passing quickly and November was not far off: November with its "melancholy days" of "wailing winds and wintry woods." Baltie had now been a member of the Carruth family for nearly a month and had improved wonderfully under Mammy Melviny's care. How the old woman found time to care for him and the means to provide for him was a source of wonder not only to Mrs. Carruth, but to the entire neighborhood who regarded the whole thing as a huge joke, and enjoyed many a hearty laugh over it, for Mammy was considered a character by the neighbors, and nobody felt much surprised at any new departure in which she might elect to indulge. Two or three friends had begged Mrs. Carruth to let them relieve her of the care of the old horse, assuring her that they would gladly keep him in their stables as long as he needed a home, and ended in a hearty laugh at the thought of Mammy turning groom. But when Mrs. Carruth broached the subject to Mammy she was met with flat opposition: "Send dat ole horse off ter folks what was jist gwine tek keer of him fer cha'ity? _No_ I aint gwine do no sich t'ing. De Lawd sartin sent him ter me ter tek keer of an' I'se gwin ter _do_ it. Aint he mine? Didn't Jabe Raulsbury say dat anybody what would tek keer of him could _have_ him? Well I'se tekin' keer of him so _co'se_ he's _mine_. I aint never is own no live stock befo' an now I _got_ some. Go 'long, Miss Jinny; you'se got plenty ter tend ter 'thout studyin' 'bout my _horse_. Bimeby like 'nough I have him so fed up and spry I can sell him fer heap er cash--dough I don' believe anybody's got nigh 'nough fer ter buy him whilst Baby loves him." And so the discussion ended and Baltie lived upon the fat of the land and was sheltered in Mrs. Carruth's unused stable. Dry leaves which fell in red and yellow clouds from the maple, birch and oak trees made a far softer bed than the old horse had known in many a day. A bag of bran was delivered at Mrs. Carruth's house for "Mammy Melviny," with Hadyn Stuyvesant's compliments. Mammy herself, invested in a sack of oats and a bale of cut hay, to say nothing of saving all bits of bread and parings from her kitchen, and Baltic waxed sleek and fat thereon. Jean was his devoted slave and daily led him about the grounds for a constitutional. Up and down the driveway paced the little girl, the old horse plodding gently beside her, his ears pricked toward her for her faintest word, his head held in the pathetic, listening attitude of a blind horse. He knew her step afar off, and his soft nicker never failed to welcome her as she drew near. To no one else did he show such little affectionate ways, or manifest such gentleness. He seemed to understand that to this little child, which one stroke of his great hoofs could have crushed, he owed his rescue and present comforts. And so the weeks had slipped away. The money which Jean had left for Mr. Pringle had been promptly refunded with a note to explain that the Society had borne all the expenses for Baltie's board. Mrs. Carruth sat in her library wrinkling her usually serene brow over a business letter this chilly Monday morning, and hurrying to get it completed before the arrival of the letter carrier who always took any letters to be mailed. Her face wore a perplexed expression, and her eyes had tired lines about them, for the past year had been harder for her than anyone suspected. Her income, at best, was much too limited to conduct her home as it had always been conducted, and the general expenses of living in Riveredge were steadily increasing. True, Mammy was frugality itself in the matter of providing, and Mrs. Carruth often marveled at the small amounts of her weekly bills. But the demands in other directions were heavy, and the expenses of the place itself were large. More than once had she questioned the wisdom of striving to keep the home, believing that the tax upon her resources, and her anxiety, would be less if she gave it up and removed to town where she could live for far less than in Riveredge. Then arose the memory of the building of the home, the hopes, the plans, and the joys so inseparable from it, the children's well-being and their love for the house their father had built; their education, and the environment of a home in such a town as Riveredge. Now, however, new difficulties were confronting her, for some of her investments were not making the returns she had expected and her income was seriously affected. In spite of the utmost frugality and care the outlook was not encouraging, and just now she had to meet the demand of the fire insurance upon the home and its contents, and just how to do so was the question which was causing her brows to wrinkle. She had let the matter stand until the last moment, but dared to do so no longer for upon that point Mr. Carruth had always been most emphatic; the insurance upon his property must never lapse. He had always carried one, and since his death his wife had been careful to continue it. But _now_ how to meet the sum, and meet it at once, was the problem. She had completed her letter when Mammy came to the door. "Is yo' here, Miss Jinny? Is yo' busy? I wants to ax you sumpin'," she said as she gave a quick glance at Mrs. Carruth from her keen eyes. "Come in, Mammy. What is it?" The voice had a tired, anxious note in it which Mammy was quick to catch. "Wha' de matter, honey? Wha's plaguin' you dis mawnin'?" she asked as she hurried across the room to rest her hand on her mistress' shoulder. Like a weary child Mrs. Carruth let her head fall upon Mammy's bosom--a resting place that as long as she could remember had never failed her--as she said: "Mammy, your baby is very weary, and sorely disheartened this morning, and very, very lonely." The words ended in a sob. Instantly all Mammy's sympathies were aroused. Gathering the weary head in her arms she stroked back the hair with her work-hardened hand, as she said in the same tender tones she had used to soothe her baby more than forty years ago: "Dere, dere, honey, don' yo' fret; don' yo' fret. Tell Mammy jist what's pesterin' yo' an' she'll mak' it all right fer her baby. Hush! Hush. Mammy can tek keer of anythin'." "Oh, Mammy dear, dear old Mammy, you take care of so much as it is. What _would_ we do without you?" "Hush yo' talk chile! What I gwine do widout yo' all? Dat talk all foolishness. Don't I b'long ter de fambly? Now yo' mind yo' Mammy an' tell her right off what's a frettin' yo' dis day. Yo' heah _me_?" Mammy's voice was full of forty-five years of authority, but her eyes were full of sympathetic tears, for her love for her "Miss Jinny" was beyond the expression of words. "O Mammy, I am so foolish, and I fear so pitifully weak when it comes to conducting my business affairs wisely. You can't understand these vexatious business matters which I must attend to, but I sorely miss Mr. Carruth when they arise and _must_ be met." "Huccum I cyan't understand 'em? What Massa Bernard done tackle in his business dat I cyan't ef _yo'_ kin? Tell me dis minute just what you' gotter do, an' I bate yo' ten dollars I c'n _do_ it." "I know there isn't anything you would not try to do, Mammy, from taking care of an old horse, to moving the contents of the entire house if it became necessary," replied Mrs. Carruth, smiling in spite of herself, as she wiped her eyes, little realizing how near the truth was her concluding remark regarding Mammy's prowess. "I reckon I c'd move de hull house if I had _time_ enough, an' as fer de horse--huh! ain't he stanin' dere a livin' tes'imony of what a bran-smash an' elbow-grease kin do? 'Pears lak his hairs rise right up an' call me bres-sed, dey's tekin' ter shinin' so sense I done rub my hans ober 'em," and Mammy, true to her racial characteristics, broke into a hearty laugh; so close together lies the capacity for joy or sorrow in this child race. The next instant, however, Mammy was all seriousness as she demanded: "Now I want yo' ter tell me all 'bout dis bisness flummy-diddle what's frettin' yo'. Come now; out wid it, quick." Was it the old habit of obedience to Mammy's dictates, or the woman's longing for someone to confide in during these trying days of loneliness, that impelled Mrs. Carruth to explain in as simple language as possible the difficulties encompassing her? The burden of meeting even the ordinary every-day expenses upon the very limited income derived from Mr. Carruth's life insurance, which left no margin whatsoever for emergencies. Of the imperative necessity of continuing the fire insurance he had always carried upon the home and its contents, lest a few hours wipe out what it had required years to gather together, and his wife and children be left homeless. How, under their altered circumstances this seemed more than ever imperative, since in the event of losing the house and its contents there would be no possible way of replacing either unless they kept the insurance upon them paid up. Mammy listened intently, now and again nodding her old head and uttering a Um-uh! Um-uh! of comprehension. When Mrs. Carruth ceased speaking she asked: "An' how much has yo' gotter plank right out dis minit fer ter keep dis hyer as'sur'nce f'om collaps'in', honey?" "Nearly thirty dollars, Mammy, and that seems a very large sum to me now-a-days." "Hum-uh! Yas'm. So it do. Um. An' yo' aint got it?" "I have not got it to-day, Mammy. I shall have it next week, but the time expires day after to-morrow and I do not know whether the company will be willing to wait, or whether I should forfeit my claim by the delay. I have written to ask." "Huh! Wha' sort o' compiny is it dat wouldn't trus' a _Blairsdale_, I like ter know?" demanded Mammy indignantly. Mrs. Carruth smiled sadly as she answered: "These are not the old days, Mammy, and you know 'corporations have no souls.'" "No so'les? Huh, _I'se_ seen many a corpo'ration dat hatter have good thick _leather_ soles fer ter tote 'em round. Well, well, times is sho' 'nough changed an' dese hyer Norf ways don't set well on my bile; dey rises it, fer sure. So dey ain't gwine _trus'_ you, Baby? Where dey live at who has de sesso 'bout it all?" "The main office is in the city, Mammy, but they have, of course, a local agent here." "Wha' yo' mean by a locum agen', honey?" "A clerk who has an office at 60 State street, and who attends to any business the firm may have in Riveredge." "Is yo' writ yo' letter ter him? Who _is_ he?" "No, I have written to the New York office, because Mr. Carruth always transacted his business there. I thought it wiser to, for this Mr. Sniffins is a very young man, and would probably not be prepared to answer my question." "Wha' yo' call him? Yo' don' mean dat little swimbly, red-headed, white-eyed sumpin' nu'er what sets down in dat basemen' office wid his foots cocked up on de rail-fence in front ob him, an' a segyar mos' as big as his laig stuck in he's mouf all de time? I sees _him_ eve'y time I goes ter market, an' he lak' ter mek me sick. Is _he_ de agen'?" "Yes, Mammy, and I dare say he is capable enough, although I do not care to come in contact with him if I can avoid it." "If I ketches yo' in dat 'tater sprout's office I gwine smack yo' sure's yo' bo'n. Yo' heah _me_? Why _his_ ma keeps the _sody_-fountain on Main street. Wha-fo you gotter do wid such folks, Baby?" "But, Mammy, they are worthy, respectable people,"--protested Mrs. Carruth. "Hush yo' talk, chile. _I_ reckon I knows de diff'rence twixt quality an' de _yether_ kind. Dat's no place fer yo' to go at," cried Mammy, all her instincts rebelling against the experiences her baby was forced to meet in her altered circumstances. "Gimme dat letter. I'se gwine straight off ter markit dis minit and I'll see dat it get sont off ter de right pusson 'for I'se done anudder ting." "But what did you wish to ask me, Mammy?" "Nuffin'. 'Taint no 'count 'tall. I'll ax it when I comes back. Go 'long up-stairs and mek yo' bed if yo pinin' for occerpation," and away Mammy flounced from the room, leaving Mrs. Carruth more or less bewildered. She would have been completely so could she have followed the old woman. CHAPTER VII Mammy Generalissimo Half an hour later a short, stout colored woman in neat, print gown, immaculate white apron, gorgeous headkerchief and gray plaid shawl, entered the office of the Red Star Fire Insurance Company, at No. 60 State street, and walking up to the little railing which divided from the vulgar herd the sacred precincts of Mr. Elijah Sniffins, representative, rested her hand upon the small swinging gate as she nodded her head slightly and asked: "Is yo' Mister Sniffins, de locum agen' fer de Fire Insur'nce Comp'ny?" "I am," replied that gentleman,--without removing from between his teeth the huge cigar upon which he was puffing until he resembled a small-sized locomotive, or changing his position--"Mr. Elijah Sniffins, representative of the Red Star Insurance Company. Are you thinkin' of taking out a policy?" concluded that gentleman with a supercilious smirk. Mammy's eyes narrowed slightly and her lips were compressed for a moment. "No, sir, I don' reckon I is studyin' 'bout takin' out no pol'cy. I jist done come hyer on a little private bisness wid yo'." Mammy paused, somewhat at a loss how to proceed, for business affairs seemed very complicated to her. Mr. Elijah Sniffins was greatly amused and continued to eye her and smile. He was a dapper youth of probably twenty summers, with scant blond hair, pale blue, shifty eyes, a weak mouth surmounted by a cherished mustache of numerable hairs and a chin which stamped him the toy of stronger wills. Mammy knew the type and loathed it. His smirk enraged her, and rage restored her self-possession. Raising her head with a little sidewise jerk as befitted the assurance of a Blairsdale, she cried: "Yas--sir, I done come to ax yo' a question 'bout de 'surance on a place in Riveredge. I hears de time fer settlin' up gwine come day atter to-morrer an' if 'taint settled up de 'surance boun' ter collapse. Is dat so?" "Unless the policy is renewed it certainly _will_ 'collapse,'" replied Mr. Sniffins breaking into an amused laugh. "Huh! 'Pears like yo' find it mighty 'musin'," was Mammy's next remark and had Mr. Elijah Sniffins been a little better acquainted with his patron he would have been wise enough to take warning from her tone. "Well, you see I am not often favored with visits from ladies of your color who carry fire insurance policies. A good many carry _life_ insurance, but as a rule they don't insure their estates against _fire_, an' the situation was so novel that it amused me a little. No offense meant." "An' none teken--from _your_ sort," retorted Mammy. "But how 'bout dis hyer pol'cy? What I gotter do fer ter keep it f'om collapsin' ef it aint paid by day atter to-morrer?" "Pay it _to-day, or_ to-morrow," was the suave reply accompanied by a wave of the hand to indicate the ultimatum. "'Spose dey ain't got de money fer ter pay right plank down, but kin pay de week atter? Could'n' de collapse be hild up twell den?" "Ha! Ha!" laughed Mr. Elijah. "I'm 'fraid not; I've heard of those 'next week' settlements before, and experience tells me that 'next week' aint never arrived yet. Ha! Ha!" "Den yo' won't trus' de Ca-- de fambly?" Mammy had very nearly betrayed herself. "Well, if it was the Rogers, or the Wellmans, or the Stuyvesants, or some of them big bugs up yonder on the hill, that everybody knows has got piles of money, and that everybody knows might let the policy lapse just because it had slipped their memory--why, that 'd be a different matter. We'd know down in this here office that it was just an oversight, yer see; not a busted bank account. So, of course, we'd make concessions; just jog 'em up a little and a check 'd come 'long all O.K. and no fuss. But these small policies--why--well, I've got ter be more careful of the company's interests; I hold a responsible position here." "De good Lawd, yo' don' sesso!" exclaimed Mammy, turning around and around to scrutinize every corner of the tiny office, and then letting her eyes rest upon the being whose sense of responsibility was apparently crushing him down upon his chair, if one could judge from his semi-recumbent position. "Dat's shore 'nough a pity. Look lak it mought be mos' too much fer yo'. Don' seem right fer a comp'ny ter put sich a boy as yo' is in sich a 'sponsible 'sition, do it now?" Mammy's expression was solicitude personified. Mr. Elijah Sniffins' face became a delicate rose color, and his feet landed upon the floor with emphasis as he straightened in his chair, and dragged nervously at the infinitesimal mustache, meanwhile eying Mammy with some misgivings. Mammy continued to smile upon him benignly, and her smile proved as disconcerting as she meant it should. She resolved to have her innings with the smug youth who had begun by slighting her race and ended by doing far worse; failing to class the Carruths among those whom everyone trusted as a matter of course. The former slight might have been disregarded; the latter? _Never._ Consequently Mammy had instantly decided "ter mak' dat little no'count sumpin 'er ner'er squirm jist fer ter te'ch him what's due de quality," and the process had begun. Poor Mammy! She would never learn that in the northern world where her lot was now cast the almighty dollar was king, queen and court combined. That its possession could carry into high places bad manners, low birth, aye actual rascality and hold them up to the shallow as enviable things when veneered with golden luster. That "de quality" without that dazzling reflector were very liable to be cast aside as of no value, as the nugget of virgin gold might be tramped upon and its worth never suspected by the unenlightened in their eagerness to reach a shining bit of polished brass farther along the path. But Mammy's traditions were deeply rooted. "I think I can take care of the position. What can I do for you? My time is valuable," snapped Mr. Elijah Sniffins, rising from his chair and coming close to the dividing railing, as a hint to Mammy to conclude her business. "De Lawd er massy! Is dat so? Now I ain't never is 'spitioned dat f'om de looks ob t'ings. 'Pears lak yo' got a sight o' time on han'. Wal I 'clar fo' it I do'n un'nerstan' dese hyer bisness places no how. Well! Well! So yo' want me fer ter state mine an' cl'ar long out, does yo' Mr. 'Lijah? 'Lijah; _'Lijah_. Was yo' ma a studyin' 'bout yo' doin's when she done giv' yo' dat name? Sort o' fits yo' pine blank, don' it now? Like 'nuf de cha'iot 'll come kitin' 'long one o' dese hyer days an' hike yo' inter de high places. Yah! Yah!" and Mammy's mellow laugh filled the office. "See here, old woman, if you've got some little picayune payment to make, _make_ it and clear out. I ain't got time ter stand here talkin' ter niggers," cried the agent, his temper taking final flight. Mammy eyed him steadily as she said: "Wall _dis yere_ time yo's gwine deal wid a nigger, an' yo's gwine do lak _she say_. Dis yere comp'ny 'sures de Carruth house an' eve'y last t'ing what's inside it, an' de policy yo' say 's gotter be settled up when it's gotter be, or de hul t'ing 'll collapse? Now Miss Jinny ain't never _is_ had no dealin's wid _yo'_, case I don' _let_ her have dealin's wid no white trash--_I_ handles _dat_ sort when it has ter be handled--an' I keeps jist as far f'om it as ever I kin _while_ I handles it. But I'se gotter settle up dis policy fer de fambly so what is it? How much is I gotter pay yo'?" The varying expressions passing over Mr. Sniffins' countenance during Mammy's speech would have delighted an artist. "What er? What er? What er you telling me?" he stammered. "De ain't no 'watter' 'bout it; it's _fire_, an' I done come ter settle up," asserted Mammy. "Have you brought the necessary papers with you? Have we a record in this office?" "Don' know nuffin' 'tall 'bout no papers nor no records. Jist knows dat Miss Jinny's insured fer $15,000," said Mammy, causing the youth confronting her to open his eyes. "Dis hyer letter what she done wrote dis mawn'in tells all 'bout it I 'spec'. She tol' me pos' it ter de comp'ny an' I reckons _yo'll_ do fer de comp'ny _dis_ time when de time's pressin' an' der ain't nuffin' _better_ ter han'." The contempt in Mammy's tone was tangible, as she held the letter as far from her as possible. Mr. Sniffins took it, noted the address and broke the seal. When he had read the letter he said with no little triumph in his voice: "But in this letter Mrs. Carruth says distinctly that she is not prepared to pay the sum which falls due day after to-morrow, and asks for an extension of time. I am not prepared to make this extension. _That's_ up to the company," and he held the letter toward Mammy as though he washed his hands of the whole affair. Mammy did not take it. Instead she said very much as she would have spoken to a refractory child who was not quite sure of what he could or could _not_ do: "La Honey, don' yo' 'spose I sensed _dat_ long go? Co'se I knows _yo'_ cyant do nuffin' much; yo's only a lil' boy, an' der cyant no boy do a man's wo'k. Yo's hyer fer ter tek in de _cash_, an' so _dat's_ what I done come ter pay. Miss Jinny she done mek up her mine dat she better pay dat policy dan use de money fer frolic'in'. I reckons yo' can tek cyer of it an' sen' it long down yonder whar de big comp'ny 's at. Dat's all I want _yo'_ ter do, so now go 'long an' git busy an' _do_ it. _Dere's_ thirty dollars; count it so's yo's suah. Den write it all out crost de back ob Miss Jinny's letter so's I have sumpin fer ter show dat it's done paid." "But I'll give you a regular receipt for the amount," said the clerk, now eager to serve a customer whose premium represented so large a policy. "Yo' kin give me dat too if yo' wantter, but I wants de sign on de letter too, an' yo' full name, Mr. Elijah Sniffins, ter boot, you knows what yo' jist done said 'bout trus'in' folks, an' _yo'_ don' berlong ter de Rogersers, ner de Wellmans, ner de Stuyvesants, but _I_ berlongs ter de _Blairsdales_!" Mammy grew nearly three inches taller as she made this statement, while her hearer seemed to grow visibly shorter. The receipt was duly filled out, likewise an acknowledgment written upon the blank side of Mrs. Carruth's letter and Elijah Sniffins' name signed thereto. Mammy took them scrutinized both with great care (she could not read one word) nodded and said: "Huh, Um. Yas, sir. I reckon _dat_ all squar'. If de house burn down ter night _we_ all gwine git de 'surance sure 'nough. Yas--yas." "You certainly could collect whatever was comin' to you," Mr. Sniffins assured her, his late supercilious smile replaced by a most obsequious one for this representative of the possessors of the dollars he worshiped. Mr. Sniffins meant to have a good many dollars himself some day and the luxuries which dollars stand for. Mammy nodded, and placing the receipt and letter in her bag gave a slight nod and turned to leave the office. Mr. Sniffins hurried to open the door for her. As she was about to cross the threshold she paused, eyed him keenly from the crown of his smoothly brushed head to his patent-leather-shod feet and then asked: "Huccum yo' opens de do' fer niggers? Ef yo' b'longed ter de quality yo'd let de niggers open de do's fer _yo_. Yo' better run 'long an' ten' yo' ma's sody foun'in 'twell yo' learns de quality manners." An hour later Mammy was busy in her kitchen, the receipts safely pinned within her bodice and no one the wiser for the morning's business transaction. CHAPTER VIII Chemical Experiments "Eleanor! Eleanor! where are you?" cried Constance at the foot of the third-story stairs the following day after luncheon. Blue Monday had passed with its dull gray clouds and chill winds to give place to one of those rare, warm days which sometimes come to us late in October, as though the glorious autumn were loath to depart and had turned back for a last smile upon the land it loved. The great river lay like shimmering liquid gold, the air was filled with the warm, pungent odors of the late autumn woods, and a soft haze rested upon the opposite hills. "Here in my room," answered Eleanor. "What is it? What do you want? I can't come just this minute. Come up if it's important." The voice was somewhat muffled as though the speaker's head were covered. Constance bounded up the stairs, hurried across the hall and entered the large third-story front room which Eleanor occupied. There was no sign of its occupant. "More experiments I dare say," she murmured as she entered, crossed the room and pushed open the door leading into a small adjoining room whereupon her nostrils were assailed by odors _not_ of Araby--the blessed. "Phew! Ugh! What an awful smell! What under the sun are you doing? If you don't blow yourself to glory some day I shall be thankful," she ended as she pinched her nostrils together. "Shut the door quick and don't let the smell get through the house or mother will go crazy when she gets home. Yes, it _is_ pretty bad, but tie your handkerchief over your nose and then you won't mind it so much. As for blowing myself to glory, perhaps that will be my only way of ever coming by any, so I ought to be willing to take that route. But what do you want?" concluded Eleanor, pouring one smelly chemical into a small glass which contained another, whereupon it instantly became a most exquisite shade of crimson. Constance watched her closely without speaking. Presently she said: "Well I dare say it is 'everyone to her fancy,' as the old lady said when she kissed her cow (Jean could appreciate that, couldn't she? She kisses Baltie often enough) but _I'd_ rather be excused when chemical experiments are in order. Don't for the life of me understand how you endure the smells and the mess. What is _that_ horrid looking thing over there?" and Constance pointed to a grewsome-looking object stretched upon a small glass table at the farther side of the room. "My rabbit. I got it at the school laboratory and I've been examining its respiratory organs. They're perfectly wonderful, Constance. Want to see them? I'll be done with this in just a minute." "_No I don't!_" was the empathic negative. "I dare say it's all very wonderful and interesting and I ought to know all about breathing apparatus----_es_, or apparatti, or whatever the plural of our wind-pump machine _is_, but if I've got to learn by hashing up animals I'll never, _never_ know, and that's all there is about it. I'll take my knowledge on theory or supposition or whatever you call it. But I've nearly forgotten to tell you the news. I've had a letter from Mrs. Hadyn, Mr. Stuyvesant's aunt, the one he is named for you know, asking me to help at the candy counter at the Memorial Hospital Fair, week after next, and, incidentally, contribute some of my 'delicious pralines and nut fudge'--that's in quotes remember,--and remain for the dance which will follow after ten-thirty on the closing evening. She will see that I reach home safely. How is _that_ for a frolic? I've been wild for a dance the past month." "Is mother willing? What will you wear?" was the essentially feminine inquiry which proved that Eleanor, even though absorbed in her sciences and isms, was a woman at heart. "What is the use of asking that? You know I've got to wear whatever is on hand to be utilized into gay and festive attire. I can't indulge in new frocks now-a-days when the finances are at such a low ebb. Need all we've got for necessities without thinking of spending money for notions. But I'll blossom out gloriously; see if I don't. That was one reason I came up to talk to you. Can you tear yourself away from your messes long enough to come up to the attic with me? I've been wanting to rummage for days, but haven't been able to get around to it. So tidy up, and come along. You've absorbed enough knowledge to last you for one while." Eleanor wavered a moment and then began to put aside her materials, and a few moments later the two girls were up in the attic. "Do you know what I believe I'll do?" said Constance, after a half hour's rummaging among several trunks had brought forth a perplexing array of old finery, winter garments and outgrown apparel. "I believe I'll just cart down every solitary dud we've got here and have them all aired. I heard mother say last week that they ought to be, and she would have it done the first clear, dry day, and this one is simply heavenly. Come on; take an armful and get busy. They smell almost as abominably from tar camphor as your laboratory smells of chemicals." "Think I'd rather have the chemicals if my choice were consulted," laughed Eleanor as obedient to instructions, she gathered up an armful of clothing and prepared to descend the stairs. "Thanks, I'll take the tar. Go on; I'll follow." Little was to be seen of either girl as she moved slowly down the stairs. At the foot stood Mammy. "Fo' de Lawd sake wha' yo' chillen at _now_?" she demanded as she stood barring their progress. "Bringing out our winter wardrobes, Mammy. Good deal of it as to quantity; what it will turn out as to quality remains to be seen," cried Constance cheerily. "Lak' 'nough mos' anyt'ing if yo' had de handlin' ob it. Yo' sartin' _is_ de banginest chile wid yo' han's," was Mammy's flattering reply. "Perhaps if I could 'bang' as well with my brains as with my hands I might amount to something, Mammy. But Nornie has all the brains of the family. _She_'ll make our fame and fortune some day; see if she doesn't." "Guess I'll have to do something clever then if I am to become famous in _this_ day and age," said Eleanor, as she made her way past Mammy. "Thus far I haven't given very noble promise." "Who sesso?" demanded Mammy. "Ain' yo' de fust and fo'most up dere whar de school's at? What fur ole Miss sendin' yo' dar fer den? Huh, I reckon _she_ know whar ter spen' her money, an' Gawd knows she ain' spendin' none what ain' gwine ter pintedly make up fer all she gin out. _She_ no fool, I tell yo'." The girls broke into peals of laughter, for Mammy's estimation of "ol' Miss," as she called Mr. Carruth's aunt by marriage, was a pretty accurate one, "Aunt Eleanor" being a lady who had very pronounced ideas and no hesitation whatever in giving expression to them, as well as a very strong will to back them up. She also had a pretty liberally supplied purse, the supply being drawn from a large estate which she had inherited from her father, a Central New York farmer, who had made a fortune in fruit-growing and ended his days in affluence, although he had begun them in poverty. She had no children, her only son having died when a child, and her husband soon afterward. Bernard Carruth had always been a favorite with her, although she never forgave him for what she pronounced his "utter and imbecilic folly." It was Aunt Eleanor who made the seminary possible for the niece who had been named for her; a compliment which flattered the old lady more than she chose to let others suspect, for the niece was manifesting a fine mind, and the aunt had secretly resolved to do not a little toward its development although she took pains to guard the fact. "Go along up-stairs and get an armful of things, Mammy. That will keep you from flattering me and making me conceited," cried Eleanor, when the laugh ended. "Huh! Mek a Blairsdale 'ceited?" retorted Mammy, as she started up to the attic. "Dey's got too much what dey _knows_ is de right stuff fer ter pester dey haids studyin' 'bout it; it's right dar all de endurin' time; dey ain' gotter chase atter it lessen dey loses it." "Was there ever such a philosopher as Mammy?" laughed Constance as they got beyond hearing. "Wish there were a few more with as much sound sense--black or white--" answered Eleanor as she shook out one of Jean's frocks and hung it across the clothes-line. A moment later Mammy joined them with more garments which cried aloud for the glorious fresh air and sunshine. She hung piece after piece upon the line, giving a shake here, a pat there, or almost a caress upon another, for each one recalled to her loving old heart the memory of more prosperous days, and each held its story for her. When all were swinging in the sunshine she stepped back and surveyed the array, her mouth pursed up quizzically, but her eyes full of kindness. "What are you thinking of Mammy?" asked Constance, slipping her fingers into Mammy's work-hardened hand very much as she had done when a little child. "Hum; Um: What's I t'inkin' of? I'se t'inkin' dat ar lot ob clo'se supin lak we-all here: De'y good stuff in um, an' I reckon dey c'n stan' 'spection, on'y dey sartin _do_ stan' in need ob jist a _leetle_ spondulix fer ter put em in shape. Dar's _too much_ ob em spread all _ober_. What dey needs is ter rip off some o' dem _ruffles_ and jis hang ter de plain frocks ter tek keer ob. We spen's a heap ob time breshin' ruffles dat we better spen' tekin' keer ob de frocks in," concluded Mammy with a sage nod as she turned and walked into the house. "Upon my word I believe Mammy's pretty near right Eleanor. We _have_ got a good many _ruffles_ to take care of on this big place and I sometimes feel that mother is wearing herself out caring for them. Perhaps we would be wiser to give them up." "Perhaps we would," agreed Eleanor, "but where will we go if we give up the home? We have hardly known any other, for we were both too little to think much about homes or anything else when we came into this one. For my part, I am ready to do whatever is best and wisest, although I love every stick and stone here. Mother has looked terribly worried lately although she hasn't said one word to me. Has she to you? "No, nothing at all. But I know what you mean; her eyes look so tired. I wonder if anything new has arisen to make her anxious. She says so little at any time. I mean to have a talk with her this evening if I can get a chance. Do you get Jean out of the way. She is such an everlasting chatterbox that there is no hope of a quiet half hour while she is around. Now let's take an inventory of this array and plan my frivolity frock," and Constance drew Eleanor down upon a rustic seat at one side of the lawn to discuss the absorbing question of the new gown to be evolved from some of the old ones which were swaying in the wind. Perhaps a half hour passed, the girls were giving little heed to time, for the drowsy dreamy influence of the afternoon was impressing itself upon them. Constance had planned the gown to the minutest detail, Eleanor agreeing and secretly marveling at her ability to do so, when both became aware of a strong odor of smoke. "What is burning, I wonder?" said Constance, glancing in the direction of a patch of woodland not far off. "Leaves, most likely. The Henrys' gardener has burned piles and piles of them ever since they began falling. I shouldn't think there would be any left for him to burn," answered Eleanor, looking in the same direction. "It doesn't smell like leaves, it smells like wood, and--oh! Eleanor, Eleanor, look! look at your window! The smoke is just pouring from it! The house is a-fire! Run! Run! Quick! Quick!" CHAPTER IX Spontaneous Combustion Had the ground opened and disgorged the town, men, women and children could hardly have appeared upon the scene with more startling promptitude than they appeared within five minutes after Constance's discovery of the smoke. How they got there only those who manage to get to every fire before the alarm ceases to sound can explain, and, as usual, there arrived with them the over-officious, and the over-zealous. As Constance and Eleanor rushed into the house, the multitude rushed across the grounds and followed them hotfoot, while one, more level-headed than his fellows, hastened to the nearest fire-box to turn in an alarm. Meanwhile Mammy had also smelt the smoke, and as the girls ran through the front hall she came through the back one crying: "Fo' de Lawd's sake wha' done happen? De house gwine burn down on top our haids?" "Quick, Mammy. It's Eleanor's room," cried Constance as she flew up the stairs. Mammy needed no urging. In one second she had grasped the situation and was up in Mrs. Carruth's room dragging forth such articles and treasures as she knew to be most valued and piling them into a blanket. There was little time to waste for the flames had made considerable headway when discovered and were roaring wildly through the upper floor when the fire apparatus arrived. Mrs. Carruth was out driving with a friend and Jean was off with her beloved Amy Fletcher. Only those who have witnessed such a scene can form any adequate idea of the confusion which followed that outburst of smoke from Eleanor's windows. Men ran hither and thither carrying from the burning house whatever articles they could lay their hands upon, to drop them from the windows to those waiting below to catch them. Firemen darted in and out, apparently impervious to either flames or smoke, directing their hose where the streams would prove most effectual and sending gallons of water upon the darting flames. The fact that the fire had started in the third-story saved many articles from destruction by the flames, although the deluge of water which flooded the house and poured down the stairways like miniature Niagaras speedily ruined what the flames spared. Eleanor rushed toward her room but was quickly driven back by a burst of flames and smoke that nearly suffocated her, while Constance flew to Jean's and her own room, meanwhile calling directions to Mammy. Five minutes, however, from the time they entered the house they were forced to beat a retreat, encountering as they ran Miss Jerusha Pike, a neighbor who never missed any form of excitement or interesting occurrence in her neighborhood. "What can I do? Have you saved your ma's clothes? Did you get out that mirror that belonged to your great-grandmother?" she cried, as she laid a detaining hand upon Constance's arm. "I don't know, Miss Pike. Come out quick. It isn't safe to stay here another second. We must let the men save what they can. Come." "No! No! I _must_ save your grandmother's mirror. I know just where it hangs. You get out quick. I won't be a second. Go!" "Never mind the mirror, there are other things more valuable than that," cried Eleanor as she tugged at the determined old lady's arm. But Miss Pike was not to be deterred and rushed away to the second story in spite of them. "She'll be burned to death! I _know_ she will," wailed Constance, as a man ran across the hall calling: "Miss Carruth, Miss Constance, where are you? You must get out of here instantly!" "Oh, Mr. Stuyvesant, Miss Pike has gone up to mother's room and I must go after her." "You must do nothing of the sort. Come out at once both of you. I'll see to her when I've got you to a place of safety," and without more ado Hadyn Stuyvesant hurried them both from the house to the lawn, where a motley crowd was gathered, and their household goods and chattels were lying about in the utmost confusion, while other articles, escorted by various neighbors, were being borne along the street to places of safety. One extremely proper and precise maiden lady was struggling along under an armful of Mr. Carruth's dress-shirts and pajamas brought forth from nobody knew where. A portly matron, with the tread of a general, followed her with a flatiron in one hand and a tiny doll in the other, while behind her a small boy of eight staggered beneath the weight of a wash boiler. "Where is Mammy? O _where_ is Mammy?" cried Eleanor, clasping her hands and looking toward the burning building. "Here me! Here me!" answered Mammy's voice as she hurried toward them with a great bundle of rescued articles. "I done drug dese yer t'ings f'om de burer in yo' ma's room an' do you keep tight fas' 'em 'twell I come back. Mind now what I'se telling' yo' kase dere's t'ings in dar dat she breck her heart ter lose. I'se gwine back fer sumpin' else." "O Mammy! Mammy, _don't go_. You'll be burned to death," cried Constance, laying her hand upon Mammy's arm to restrain her. "You mustn't Mammy! You mustn't," echoed Eleanor. "Stay here with the girls, Mammy, and let me get whatever it is you are bent upon saving," broke in Hadyn Stuyvesant. "Aint no time for argufying," cried Mammy, her temper rising at the opposition. "You chillun stan' _dar_ an' tek kere ob _dat_ bundle, lak I tell yo' an' yo', Massa Stuyv'sant, come 'long back wid me," was the ultimatum, and, laughing in spite of the gravity of the situation, Hadyn Stuyvesant followed Mammy whom he ever afterward called the General. As they hurried back to the kitchen entrance the one farthest removed from the burning portion of the building, Mammy's eyes were seemingly awake to every thing, and her tongue loosed of all bounds. As they neared the dining-room someone was dropping pieces of silver out of the window to someone else who stood just below it with skirts outspread to catch the articles. "Ain' dat de very las' bit an' grain o' nonsense?" panted Mammy. "Dey's a-heavin' de silver plate outen de winder, an' bangin' it all ter smash stidder totin' it froo' de back do', and fo' Gawd's sake look dar, Massa Stuyv'sant! Dar go de' lasses!" cried Mammy, her hands raised above her head as her words ended in a howl of derision, for, overcome with excitement the person who was dropping the pieces of silver had deliberately turned the syrup-jug bottom-side up and deluged the person below with the contents. Had he felt sure that it would have been his last Hadyn Stuyvesant could not have helped breaking into peals of laughter, nor was the situation rendered less absurd by the sudden reappearance of Miss Pike clasping the treasured mirror to her breast and crying: "Thank heaven! Thank heaven I'm alive and have _saved_ it. _Where_, where are those dear girls that I may deliver this priceless treasure into their hands?" "Out yonder near the hedge, Miss Pike. I'm thankful you escaped. They are much concerned about you. Better get along to them quick; I'm under Mammy's orders," answered Hadyn when he could speak. Off hurried the zealous female while Hadyn Stuyvesant followed Mammy who was fairly snorting with indignation. "Dat 'oman certain'y _do_ mak' me mad. Dat lookin' glass! Huh! I reckons when Miss Jinny git back an' find what happen she aint goin' ter study 'bout no lookin' glasses. No suh! She be studyin' 'bout whar we all gwine put our _haids_ dis yere night. An' dat's what _I_ done plan fer," concluded Mammy laying vigorous hold of a great roll of bedding which she had carried to a place of safety just outside the kitchen porch. "Please, suh, tek' holt here an' holp me get it out yander ter de stable, I'se done got a sight o' stuff out dere a-reddy," and sure enough Mammy, unaided, had carried enough furniture, bedding and such articles as were absolutely indispensable for living, out to the stable to enable the family to "camp out" for several days, and with these were piled the garments hastily snatched from the clothes-lines, Baltie mounting guard over all. Mrs. Carruth had not been so very far wrong when she told Mammy she believed she could move the house if necessity arose. Meanwhile Miss Pike and her rescued mirror had reached the hedge, the girls breathing a sigh of relief when they saw her bearing triumphantly down upon them. "There! There! If I never do another deed as long as I live I shall feel that I have _not_ lived in vain! What _would_ your poor mother have said had she returned to find this priceless heirloom destroyed," she cried, as she rested the mirror against a tree trunk and clasped her hands in rapture at sight of it. "Perhaps mother _might_ ask first whether _we_ had been rescued," whispered Constance, but added quickly, "_there_ is mother now. O I wonder who told her," for just then a carriage was driven rapidly to the front gate and as the girls ran toward it Mrs. Carruth stepped quickly from it. She was very white and asked almost breathlessly, "Girls, girls, is anyone hurt? Are you _all_ safe? Where's Mammy?" "We are all safe mother, Mammy is here. Don't be frightened. We have done everything possible and the fire is practically out now," said Constance, passing her arm about her mother who was trembling violently. "Don't be alarmed, mother. It isn't really so dreadful as it might have been; it truly isn't," said Eleanor soothingly. "Loads of things have been saved." "Yes, Mammy has outgeneraled us all, Mrs. Carruth," cried Hadyn Stuyvesant, who now came hurrying upon the scene. "I guess she has shown more sense than all the rest of us put together, for she's kept her head." "And oh, my dear! My dear, if all else were lost there is one invaluable treasure spared to you! Come with me. I saved it for you with my own hands. Come!" cried Miss Pike, as she slipped her arm through Mrs. Carruth's and hurried her willy-nilly across the lawn. There was the little round mirror in its quaint old-fashioned frame leaning against the tree and reflecting all the weird scene in its shining surface, and there, too, directly in front of it, strutted a lordly game cock which belonged to the Carruths' next door neighbor. How he happened to be there, in the midst of so much excitement and confusion no one paused to consider, but as Miss Pike hurried poor Mrs. Carruth toward the spot, Sir Chanticleer's burnished ruff began to rise and the next instant there was a defiant squawk, a frantic dash of brilliantly iridescent feathers, and the cherished heirloom lay shattered beneath the triumphant game-cock's feet as he voiced a long and very jubilant crow. It was the stroke needed, for in spite of the calamity which had overtaken her this was too much for Mrs. Carruth's sense of humor and she collapsed upon the piano stool which stood conveniently at hand, while Miss Pike bewailed Chanticleer's deed until one might have believed it had been her own revered ancestor's mirror which had been shattered by him. Just then Mammy came hurrying upon the scene and was quick enough to grasp the situation at a glance. "Bress de Lawd, Honey, ain' I allers tol' ye' chickens got secon' sight? Dat roos'er see double suah. He see himself in dat lookin' glass an' bus' it wide open, an' he see we-all need ter laf stidder cry, an' so he set out ter mek us." At sight of her Mrs. Carruth stretched forth both hands like an unhappy child and was gathered into her faithful old arms as she cried: "But oh, Mammy; Mammy, the insurance; the insurance. If I had _only_ been able to pay it yesterday." "Huh! Don't you fret ober de 'surance. Jis clap yo' eyes on _dat_," and Mammy thrust into her Miss Jinny's hands a paper which she hastily drew from the bosom of her frock. CHAPTER X Readjustment It was all over. The excitement had subsided and all that remained to tell the story of the previous afternoon's commotion was a fire-scorched, water-soaked dwelling with a miscellaneous collection of articles decorating its lawn. When the early morning sunshine looked down upon the home which for eight years had sheltered the Carruths, it beheld desolation complete. Alas for Eleanor's chemicals! Her experiments had cost the family dear. The only living being in sight was a policeman mounting guard over the ruins. A staid and stolid son of the Vatterland who had spent the wee sma' hours upon the premises and now stood upon the piazza upright and rigid as the inanimate objects all about him. Beside him was a small, toy horse "saddled and bridled and ready to ride," and anything more absurd than the picture cut by this guardian of the law and his miniature charger it would be hard to imagine. Meanwhile the family was housed among friends who had been quick to offer them shelter, Mr. Stuyvesant insisting that Mrs. Carruth and Constance accept his aunt's hospitality through him, while the next door neighbor, Mr. Henry, harbored Eleanor, Jean and Mammy, who refused point blank to go beyond sight of the premises and her charge--Baltie. Mammy was the heroine of the hour; for what the old woman had not thought of when everyone else's wits were scattered was hardly worth thinking of. In the blanket which she had charged the girls to guard were all of Mrs. Carruth's greatest treasures, among them a beautiful miniature of Mr. Carruth of which no one but Mammy had thought. Jewelry which had belonged to her mother was there, valuable papers hastily snatched from her desk, and many of the girl's belongings which would never have been saved but for Mammy's forethought. At seven o'clock, when all was over, the crowd dispersed and the family gathered together in Mr. Henry's living-room to collect their wits and draw a long breath, Mrs. Carruth drew Mammy to one side to ask: "Mammy, what is the meaning of this receipt? I cannot understand it. Who has paid this sum and where was it paid?" "Baby, dere comes times when 'taint a mite er use ter tell what we gwine _do_. Dat 'surance hatter be squar'd up an' dat settled it. So _I_ squar'd it--." "Oh, Mammy! Mammy!" broke in Mrs. Carruth, almost in tears. "Hush, chile! Pay 'tention ter _me_. What would a come of we-all if I hadn't paid dat bill den an' dar? Bress de Lawd I had de cash an' don' pester me wid questions. Ain' I tole yo' I'se _rich_? Well den, dat settles it. When _yo_ is, yo' kin settle wid _me_. _Dat_ don' need no argufyin' do it? Now go long wid Miss Constance an' Massa Stuyvesant lak dey say an' git yo' sef ca'med down. Yo' all a shakin' an' a shiverin' lak yo' got de ager, an' dat won' never do in de roun' worl'. Yo'll be down sick on my han's." And that was all the old woman would ever hear about it. When the thirty dollars were returned to her in the course of a few days she took it with a chuckle saying: "Huh! Reckons _I_ knows wha' ter investigate _my_ money. Done git my intrus so quick it like ter scar me." After the first excitement was over came the question of where the family was to live, and it was Hadyn Stuyvesant who settled it forthwith by offering the home which had been his mother's; a pretty little dwelling in the heart of Riveredge which had been closed since his mother's death and his own residence with his aunt. So in the course of the next week the Carruths were installed therein and began to adjust themselves to the new conditions The first question to be answered was the one concerning their home. Should it be rebuilt with the money to be paid by the insurance company, or should it be sold? It was hard to decide, for sentiment was strongly in favor of returning to the home they all loved, while sound sense dictated selling the land and thus lessening expenses. Sound sense carried the day, and the little house on Hillside street became home, and in the course of a few weeks the machinery ran along with its accustomed smoothness, although it was some time before the family recovered from the shock of realizing how close they had come to losing all they possessed, and also keenly alive to the fact that what _had_ been saved must be carefully guarded. Fifteen thousand was not an alarming sum to fall back upon and the rent for the new home although modest, compared with what their own would have commanded, had to be considered. Meanwhile the girls had returned to their school duties, the older ones working harder than ever, especially Eleanor, whose conscience troubled her not a little at thought of her carelessness which had caused all the trouble, for well she realized that her failure to care properly for the powerful acids with which she had been experimenting when Constance appeared upon the scene had started the fire. Constance had immediately set to work to evolve from the apparel rescued a winter wardrobe for the family, and displayed such ingenuity in bringing about new gowns and headgear from the old ones that the family flourished like green bay trees. Still Constance was not satisfied, and one afternoon said to Eleanor, who now shared her room, but who had _not_ laid in a new supply of chemicals: "Nornie, put down that book and listen to me, for I'm simmering with words o' wisdom and if I don't find a vent I'll boil over presently." Eleanor laid aside the book she was poring over, laughing as she asked: "What is it--some new scheme for making a two-pound steak feed five hungry mouths, or a preparation to apply to the soles of shoes to keep them from wearing out?" "It has more to do with the stomach than the feet, but I'm not joking. I want to take account of stock and find out just where we are _at_ and just what we _can_ do. Mother has her hands and head more than full just now, and I think _I_ ought to give a pull at the wheel too." "And what shall _I_ be about while you are doing the pulling? It seems to me a span can usually pull harder than a single horse. By-the-way, apropos of horses, what _has_ Mammy done to poor old Baltie? Do you realize that she has not yet had him two months, but no one would ever recognize the old horse for the decrepit creature Jean led home that afternoon." "I know it! Isn't she a marvel? I believe she is half witch. Why, blind and twenty-five years old as he is, old Baltie to-day would bring Jabe Raulsbury enough money to make the covetous old sinner smile, I believe; if anything on earth could make him smile. I thought I should have screamed when she started off with her steed the other day. That old phaeton and harness she found in the barn here were especially sent by Providence, I believe. I never expect to see a funnier sight if I live to be a hundred years old than Mammy driving off down the road with that great basket of apples by her side and Jean perched behind in the rumble. Mammy was simply superb and proud as the African princess she insists she is," and Constance laughed heartily at the picture she made. "What did she do with her apples? I wish I could have seen her," cried Eleanor. "She had them stored away in our cellar. She had gathered them herself from mother's pet tree and packed them carefully in a couple of barrels. How on earth she finds time to do all the things she manages to I can't understand. She took that basket out to Mrs. Fletcher. You remember Mrs. Fletcher once said there were no apples like ours and Mammy remembered it. Still, I am afraid Mrs. Fletcher would never have seen that basket of apples if her home had not adjoined the Raulsbury place. You know Jabe had to pay a large fine before he could get free. Such an hour of triumph rarely comes to two human beings as came to Mammy and Jean when they drove that old horse past Jabe's gateway and kind fate drew him to that very spot at the moment. Mammy is still chuckling over it, and Jean isn't to be lived with. But enough of Mammy and her charger, let's get to stock-taking." "Yes, do," said Eleanor. "I've been putting things down in black and white and here it is," said practical Constance, opening a little memorandum book and seating herself beside her sister. "You see mother has barely fifteen hundred dollars a year from father's life insurance and even _that_ is somewhat lessened by the slump in those old stocks. Now comes the fire insurance settlement and the interest on that won't be over seven hundred at the outside, will it?" "I'm afraid not," said Eleanor with a doubtful shake of her head. "But suppose we are able to sell the old place?" "Yes, 'suppose.' If we _do_, well and good, but supposes aren't much account for immediate needs, and those are the things we've got to think about now." "Then let me think too," broke in Eleanor. "You may _think_ all you've a mind to; that's exactly what your brains are for, and some day you'll astonish us all. Meanwhile _I'll_ work." "Now, Constance, what are you planning? You know perfectly well that if you leave school and take up something that _I_ shall too. I _won't_ take all the advantages." "Who said I had any notion of leaving school? Not a bit of it. My plan won't affect my school work. But of that later. Now to our capital. Mother will have at the outside nineteen hundred a year, and out of that she will have to pay five hundred rent for this house. That leaves fourteen hundred wherewith to feed and clothe five people, doesn't it? Now, she can't possibly _feed_, let alone clothe, us for less than twenty dollars a week, can she? And out of that must come fuel which is no small matter now-a-days. That leaves only three hundred and sixty dollars for all the other expenses of the year, and, Nornie, it isn't enough. We _could_ live on less in town I dare say, but town is no place for Jean while she's so little. She'd give up the ghost without a place to romp in. Then, too, mother loves every stone in Riveredge, and she is going to _stay_ here if I can manage it. So listen: You know what a fuss everybody at the fair made over my nut-fudge and pralines. Well, I'm going to make candy to sell----." "Oh, Constance, you can't! You mustn't!" interrupted Eleanor whose instincts shrank from any member of her family launching upon a business enterprise. "I can and I _must_," contradicted Constance positively. "And what is more, I shall. So don't have a conniption fit right off, because I've thought it all out and I know just exactly what I can do." "Mother will _never consent_," said Eleanor firmly, and added, "and I hope she won't." "Now Nornie, see here," cried Constance with decided emphasis. "What _is_ the use of being so ridiculously high and mighty? We aren't the first people, by a long chalk, that have met with financial reverses and been forced to do something to earn a livelihood. The woods are full of them and they are none the less respected either. For my part, I'd rather hustle round and earn my own duddies than settle down and wish for them, and wail because I can't have them while mother strives and struggles to make both ends meet. I haven't _brains_ to do big things in the world, but I've got what Mammy calls 'de bangenest han's' and we'll see what they'll bang out!" concluded Constance resolutely. "Mammy will never let you," cried Eleanor, playing what she felt to be her trump card. "On the contrary, Mammy is going to _help_ me," announced Constance triumphantly. "_What_, Mammy consent to a Blairsdale going into trade?" cried Eleanor, feeling very much as though the foundations of the house were sinking. "Even so, Lady," answered Constance, laughing at her sister's look of dismay. "Old Baltie was not rescued for naught. His days of usefulness were not ended as you shall see. But don't look so horrified, and, above all else, don't say one word to mother. There is no use to worry her, and remember she _is_ a Blairsdale and it won't be so easy to bring her to my way of thinking as it has been to bring _you_; you're only half one, like myself, and remember we've got Carruth blood to give us mercantile instincts." "As though the Carruths were not every bit as good as the Blairsdales," brindled Eleanor indignantly. "Cock-a-doodle! See its feathers ruffle. You are as spunky as the Henry's game cock," cried Constance laughing and gathering Eleanor's head into her arms to maul it until her hair came down. "Well," retorted Eleanor, struggling to free herself from the tempestuous embrace, "so they are." "Yes, my beloved sister. I'll admit all that, but bear in mind that _their_ ancestors were born in Pennsylvania _not_ in 'ole Caroliny, and that's the difference 'twixt tweedle-dum and tweedle-dee. I don't believe Mad Anthony stopped to consider whether he was a patrician or a plebeian when he was storming old Stony Point, or getting fodder for Valley Forge, so I don't believe _I_ will, when I set out to hustle for frocks and footgear for his descendants. So put your pride in your pocket, Nornie, and watch me grow rich and the family blossom out in luxuries undreamed of. I'm going to _do_ it: you'll see," ended Constance in a tone so full of hope and courage that Eleanor then and there resolved not to argue the point further or discourage her. "When are you going to begin this enterprise?" she asked. "This very day. I'm only waiting for Mammy to come back from market with some things I need, and there she is now. Good-bye. Go look after the little Mumsie, or Jean; you'd find your hands full with the last undertaking, no doubt," and with a merry laugh Constance ran down-stairs to greet Mammy who was just entering the back door. CHAPTER XI First Ventures "Did you get all the things, Mammy?" cried Constance, as she flew into the kitchen where Mammy stood puffing and panting like a grampus, for the new home was at the top of a rather steep ascent and the climb took the old woman's breath. "Co'se Ise got 'em," panted Mammy, as she untied the strings of her bright purple worsted hood. "Dar dey is, all ob 'em, eve'y one, an yo' kin git busy jes' as fas' as yo's a mind ter. But, la, honey, don' yo' let yo' _ma_ know nothin' 'tall 'bout it, 'cause she lak 'nough frail me out fer lettin' yo' do hit. But sumpin 's gotter be done in dis yere fambly. What wid de rint fer _dis_ place, an' de taxes for de yether, an' de prices dey's teken' ter chargin', fer t'ings ter _eat_, I 'clar' ter goodness dar ain't gwine be nuffin 'tall lef' fer we-all ter fall back on ef we done teken sick, er bleeged ter do sumpin' extra," ended Mammy as she bustled about putting away her things and untying the packages as Constance lifted them from the basket. "Yes, you've got every single thing I need, Mammy, and now I'll begin right off. Which kettles and pans can you spare for my very own? I don't want to bother to ask every time and if I have my own set at the very beginning that saves bother in the end," cried Constance, as she slipped her arms through the shoulder straps of a big gingham apron and after many contortions succeeded in buttoning it back of her shoulders. "Dar you is!" said Mammy, taking from their hooks, above her range two immaculate porcelain saucepans, and standing them upon the well-scrubbed kitchen table with enough emphasis to give the transfer significance. "Dey's yours fer keeps, but don' yo' let me ketch yo' burnin' de bottoms of 'em." Mammy could not resist this authoritative warning. Then bustling across to her pantry she took out three shining pans and placed them beside the saucepans, asking: "Now is yo' fixed wid all de impert'nances ob de bisness?" "All but the fire, Mammy," laughed Constance, rolling up her sleeves to disclose two strong, well-rounded arms. "Well yo' fire's gwine ter be gas _dis_ time, chile'. Yo' kin do what yo's a-mind ter wid dat little gas refrig'rator, what yo' turns on an' off wid de spiggots; _I_ aint got er mite er use fer hit. It lak ter scare me mos' ter deaf de fust mawnin' I done try ter cook de breckfus on it,--sputterin' an' roarin' lak it gwine blow de hull house up. No-siree, I ain' gwine be pestered wid no sich doin's 's _dat_. Stoves an' wood 's good 'nough fer _dis_ 'oman," asserted Mammy with an empathic wag of her head, for she had never before seen a gas range, and was not in favor of innovations. "Then I'm in luck," cried Constance, as she struck a match to light up her "gas refrigerator," Mammy meanwhile eying her with not a little misgiving, and standing as far as possible from the fearsome thing. "Tek keer, honey! Yo' don' know what dem new-fangled mak'-believe stoves lak ter do. Fust t'ing yo' know it bus' wide open mebbe." "Don't be scared, Mammy. They are all right, and safe as can be if you know how to handle them, and lots less trouble than the stove." "Dat may be too," was Mammy's skeptical reply. "But _I'll_ tek de trouble stidder de chance of a busted haid." Before long the odor of boiling sugar filled the little kitchen, the confectioner growing warm and rosy as she wielded a huge wooden spoon in the boiling contents of her saucepans, and whistled like a song thrush. Constance Carruth's whistle had always been a marvel to the members of her family, and the subject of much comment to the few outsiders who had been fortunate enough to hear it, occasionally, for it was well worth hearing. It had a wonderful flute-like quality, with the softest, tenderest, low notes. Moreover, she whistled without any apparent effort, or the ordinary distortion of the mouth which whistling generally involves. The position of her lips seemed scarcely altered while the soft sounds fell from them. But she was very shy about her "one accomplishment," as she laughingly called it, and could rarely be induced to whistle for others, though she seldom worked without filling the house with that birdlike melody. As she grew more and more absorbed with her candy-making the clear, sweet notes rose higher and higher, their rapid _crescendo_ and increasing _tempo_ indicating her successful progress toward a desired end. While apparently engaged in preparing a panful of apples, Mammy was covertly watching her, for, next to her baby, Jean, Constance was Mammy's pet. When the candy was done, Constance poured it into the pans. "Now in just about two jiffies that will be ready to cut. Keep one eye on it, won't you Mammy, while I run up-stairs for my paraffin paper," she said, as she set the pans outside to cool and whisked from the kitchen, Mammy saying under her breath as she vanished: "If folks could once hear dat chile _whis'le_ dey'd hanker fef ter hear it agin, an' dey'd keep on a hankerin' twell dey'd _done_ hit. She beat der bu'ds, an' dat's a fac'." "Now I guess I can cut it," cried Constance, as she came hurrying back. The sudden chill of the keen November air had made the candy the exact consistency for cutting into little squares, and in the course of the next half hour they were all cut, carefully wrapped in bits of paraffin paper and neatly tied in small white paper packages with baby-ribbon of different colors. Four dozen as inviting parcels of delicious home-made candy as any one could desire, and all made and done up within an hour and a half. "There, Mammy! What do you think of _that_ for my initial venture?" asked Constance, looking with not a little satisfaction upon the packages as they lay in the large flat box into which she had carefully packed them. "Bate yo' dey hits de markit spang on de haid," chuckled Mammy. "An' now _I'se_ gwine tek holt. La, ain' I gwine cut a dash, dough! Yo' see _me_," and hastily donning her hood and shawl, and catching up an apple from her panful, off Mammy hurried to the little stable which stood in one corner of the small grounds, where Baltie had lived, and certainly flourished since the family came to dwell in this new home. Mammy never entered that stable without some tidbit for her pet, for she had grown to love the blind old horse as well as Jean did, and was secretly consumed with pride at his transformation. As she entered the stable, Baltie greeted her with his soft nicker. "Yas, honey, Mammy's comin'; comin' wid yo' lolly-pop, kase she want yo' ter step out spry. Yo's gwine enter a pa'tner-ship, yo' know _dat_, Baltie-hawse? Yo' sure _is_. Yo's de silen' pa'tner, yo' is, an' de bline one too. Jis as well ter hab one ob 'em bline mebbe," and Mammy chuckled delightedly at her own joke. "Now come 'long out an' be hitched up, kase we's gwine inter business, yo' an' me' an' we gotter do some hustlin'. Come 'long," and opening the door of the box-stall in which old Baltie now-a-days luxuriated, Mammy dragged him forth by his forelock and in less time than one could have believed it possible, had him harnessed to the old-fashioned basket phaeton which during Mrs. Stuyvesant's early married life had been a most up-to-date equipage, but which now looked as odd and antiquated as the old horse harnessed to it. But in Mammy's eyes they were tangible riches, for Hadyn Stuyvesant had presented her with both phaeton and harness. Opening wide the stable doors, Mammy clambered into her chariot, and taking up the reins, guided her steed gently forward. Baltie ambled sedately up to the back door where Constance was waiting to hand Mammy the box. "Mind de do' an' don' let my apples bake all ter cinders," warned Mammy. "I will. I won't. Good luck," contradicted Constance, as she ran back into the house, and Mammy drove off toward South Riveredge; a section of the town as completely given over to commercial interests as Riveredge proper was to its homes. There a large carpet factory throve and flourished giving employment to many hands. There, also, stood a large building called the Central Arcade in which many business men had their offices. It was about a mile from the heart of Riveredge proper and as Mammy jogged along toward her destination, she had ample time to think, and chuckle to herself at her astuteness in carrying out her own ideas of the fitness of things while apparently fully concurring with Constance's wishes. Mammy had no objections to Constance _making_ all the candy she chose to make; that could be done within the privacy of her own home and shock _no_ one's sensibilities. But when the girl had announced her intention of going among her friends to secure customers, Mammy had descended upon her with all her powers of opposition. The outcome had been the present compromise. Very few people in South Riveredge knew the Carruths or Mammy, and this was exactly what the old woman wished. Driving her "gallumping" steed to the very heart of the busy town she drew up at the curbstone in front of the Arcade just a few moments before the five o'clock whistles blew. Stepping from her vehicle she placed a campstool upon the sidewalk beside it, and lifting her box of candy from the seat established herself upon her stool with the open box upon her lap. Within two minutes of the blowing of the whistles the streets were alive with people who came hurrying from the buildings on every side. Mammy was a novelty and like most novelties took at once, so presently she was doing a thriving business, her tongue going as fast as her packages of candy. People are not unlike sheep; where one leads, all the others follow. "Home-made candy, sah! Fresh f'om de home-kitchen; jis done mek hit. Ain' hardly col'. Ten cents a package, sah. Yes _sah_, yo' better is bleeve hit's deleshus. Yo' ain' tas' no pralines lak dem in all yo' bo'n days," ran on Mammy handing out her packages of candy and dropping her dimes into the little bag at her side. "Here, Aunty, give me four of those packages of fudge," cried a genial, gray-haired, portly old gentleman with a military bearing. "Porter, here, has just given me some of his and they're simply great! Did you make 'em? They touch the spot." "La, suh, I ain' _got_ four left: I ain', fer a fac'. Tek some of de pralines; deys mighty good, suh," bustled Mammy, offering her dainties. "Take all you've got. Did _you_ make 'em?" persisted her customer. "My _pa'tner_ done mak 'em," said Mammy with dignity, as she handed over her last package. "Well you darkies _can_ cook," cried the gentleman as he took the candy. For a moment it seemed as though Mammy were about to fly at him, and her customer was not a little astounded at the transformation which came over her old face. Then he concluded that the term "darkie" had been the rock on which they had split, and smiled as he said: "Better set up business right here in the Arcade. Buy you and your _partner_ out every day. Good-bye, Auntie." "Good-bye, suh! Good-bye," responded Mammy, her equanimity quite restored, for her good sense told her that no reflections had been cast upon her "pa'tner" in Riveredge, or her identity suspected. Moreover, her late customer had put a new idea into her wise old head which she turned over again and again as she drove back home. Constance was waiting with the lantern, and hurried out to the stable as Mammy turned in at the gate. "Oh, Mammy, did you _sell_ some?" she asked eagerly. "Sell some! What I done druv dar fer? Co'se I sell some; I sell eve'y las' bit an' grain. Tek dat bag an' go count yo' riches, honey. _Sell some!_ Yah! Yah!" laughed Mammy as she descended from her chariot and began to unharness her steed, while Constance hugged the bag and hurried into the house. "What are you hiding under your cape?" demanded Jean as her sister ran through the hall, and up the stairs. Jean's eyes did not often miss anything. "My deed to future wealth and greatness," answered Constance merrily, as she slipped into her room and locked the door, where she dumped the contents of the bag, dimes, nickels, and pennies, into the middle of the bed. "Merciful sakes! Who would have believed it?" she gasped. "Four dollars and eighty cents for one afternoon's work, and at least three-eighty of it clear profit, and Mammy has _got_ to share some of it. Mumsie, dear, I think I can keep the family's feet covered at all events," she concluded in an ecstatic whisper. CHAPTER XII Another Shoulder is Added Thanksgiving and Christmas had come and passed. Constance's "candy business" as she called it, throve and flourished spasmodically. Could she have carried out her wishes concerning it, the venture might have been more profitable, but Mammy, the autocrat, insisted that it should be kept a secret, and the habit of obedience to the old woman's dictates was deeply rooted in the Carruth family, even Mrs. Carruth yielding to it far more than she realized. So Constance made her candy during her free hours after school and Mammy carried it into South Riveredge when opportunity offered. This was sometimes twice, but more often only once, a week, for the faithful old soul had manifold duties and was too conscientious to neglect one. Sometimes all the packages were sold off as quickly as they had been on that first red-letter day, but at other times a good many were left over. Could they again have been offered for sale upon the following day they might easily have been disposed of, but Mammy could not go to South Riveredge two days in succession and, consequently, the candy grew stale before another sale's day arrived, was a loss to its anxious manufacturer, and caused her profits to shrink very seriously. Things had been going on in this rather unsatisfactory manner for about six weeks when one Saturday morning little Miss Paulina Pry, as Constance sometimes called Jean, owing to her propensity to get to the bottom of things in spite of all efforts to circumvent her, came into her sister's room to ask in the most innocent manner imaginable: "Connie, who does Mammy know in South Riveredge?" "Nobody, that I know of," answered Constance unsuspectingly. "I thought she had a cousin living there," was the next leader. "A cousin, child! Why Mammy hasn't a relative this side of Raleigh and I don't believe she has two to her name down there. If she has, she hasn't seen them since mother brought her north before we were born." "I knew it!" was the triumphant retort, "and _now_ I'll get even with her for telling me fibs." "Jean, what do you mean?" cried Constance now fully alive to the fact that she had fallen into a trap. "I mean just this: I've been watching Mammy drive off to South Riveredge every solitary week since before Thanksgiving, and I've asked her ever so many times to take me with her; she lets me go everywhere else with her and Baltie. But she wouldn't take me there and when I asked her why not, she always said because she was going to visit with her cousins in-the-Lord, and 'twan't no fit place for white folks. I _knew_ she was telling a fib, and _now_ I'm going right down stairs to tell her so," and Jean whirled about to run from the room. Constance made a wild dive and caught her by her sleeve. "Jean, stop! Listen to me. You are not to bother Mammy with questions. She has a perfect right to do or go as she chooses," said Constance with some warmth, and instantly realized that she had taken the wrong tack, for the little pepper-pot began to liven up. Jerking herself free she struck an attitude, saying: "You are just as bad as Mammy! _You_ know where she goes, and what she goes for, but you won't tell me. Keep your old secrets if you want to, but I'll find out, see if I don't. And I'll get even too. You and Mammy think I'm nothing but a baby, but you'll see. I'm most eleven years old, and if I can't be told the truth about things now, I'd like to know why," and with a final vigorous wrench Jean freed herself from her sister's grasp and fled down the stairs, Constance murmuring to herself as the little whirlwind disappeared: "I wonder if it wouldn't be wiser to let her into the secret after all? In the first place it is all nonsense to _keep_ it a secret, and just one of Mammy's high-falutin ideas of what's right and proper for a Blairsdale. Fiddlesticks for the Blairsdales say I, when certain things should be done. I'm going to tell that child anyway. She is ten times easier to deal with when she knows the truth, and she can keep a secret far better than some older people I might mention. Jean; Jean; come back; I want to tell you something." But Jean had gone beyond hearing. "Never mind; I'll tell her by-and-by," resolved Constance and soon forgot all about the matter while completing her English theme for Monday. Could she have followed her small sister her state of mind would have been less serene. Jean's first reconnoiter was the dining-room. All serene; nothing doing; mother up in her room. Eleanor gone out. Mammy in the kitchen stirring quietly about. Jean slipped into the butler's pantry. There on a shelf stood a big white box marked "Lord & Taylor, Ladies' Suit Dept." Jean's nose rose a degree higher in the air as she drew near it and carefully raised the lid. "Ah-hah! Didn't I know it! I guess her cousins-in-the-Lord must like candy pretty well, for she has taken that box with her every single time she's gone to South Riveredge," whispered this astute young person. Now it so happened that as Mammy had advanced in years, she had grown somewhat hard of hearing, and had also developed a habit quite common to her race; that of communing aloud with herself when alone. Jean was quite alive to this and more than once had caused the old woman to regard her with considerable awe by casually mentioning facts of which Mammy believed her to be entirely in ignorance, and, indeed, preferred she _should_ be, little guessing that her own monologues had given the child her cue. Clambering softly upon the broad shelf which ran along one side of the pantry, Jean gently pushed back the sliding door made to pass the dishes to and from the kitchen, and watched Mammy's movements. The kitchen was immaculate and Mammy was just preparing to set forth for her Saturday morning's marketing, a task she would not permit any one else to undertake, declaring that "dese hyer Norf butcher-men stood ready fer ter beat folks outen dey eyesight ef dey git er chance." As usual Mammy was indulging in a soliloquy. "Dar now. Dat's all fix an' right, an' de minit I gits back I kin clap it inter de oven," she murmured as she set her panfuls of bread over the range for their second rising. "I gotter git all dis hyer wo'k off my han's befo' free 'clock terday ef I gwine get ter Souf Riveredge in time fer ter sell all dat mes o' candy." Behind the window a small body's head gave a satisfied nod. "'Taint lak week days. De sto'es tu'n out mighty early on Sattidays. Hopes I kin sell eve'y bit and grain _dis_ time. I hates ter tote any home agin, an' dat chile tryin' so hard ter holp her ma." Over little Paulina Pry's face fell a shadow, and for a moment the big eyes grew suspiciously bright. Then wounded pride caused them to flash as their owner whispered to herself, "She _might_ have told me the truth." Then the kitchen door was shut, locked from the outside, and Mammy departed. Jean got down from her perch and stood for a few moments in the middle of the pantry floor in deep meditation. Then raising her head with a determined little nod she said under her breath, "_I'll_ show 'em." To hurry out to the hall closet where her everyday hat, coat and gloves were kept, took but a moment. In another she had put them on, and was on her way to the stable. To harness Baltie was somewhat of an undertaking, but by the aid of a box which raised her to the necessary height this was done, the old horse nickering softly and rubbing his head against her as she proceeded. "Yes Baltie, dear. _You_ and _I_ have a secret now and _don't_ you _tell_ it. If _they_ think they are so smart, _we'll_ show them that _we_ can do something too." At length the harnessing was done, and slipping back to the house Jean went into the pantry, lifted up the box so plainly labeled "Ladies' Suits" and sped away to the stable where she placed it carefully upon the bottom of the phaeton, tucking the carriage rug around and about it in such a manner that even the liveliest suspicion would have nothing to feed upon. Then opening the double doors she led Baltie through them, and out of the driveway to the side street on which it opened, and which could not be seen from the front of the house where the young lady knew her mother and sister to be at this critical moment. Only a second more was needed to run back and close the stable doors and the gates, and all tracks were covered. In that immediate vicinity the queer turnout was well-known by this time, so no curiosity was aroused by its appearance. As usual, Jean had not paused to mature her plans. Their inception was enough for the time being; details could follow later. Plod, plod, fell Baltie's hoofs upon the macadamized street as Jean guided him slowly along. The day was cold, but clear and crisp, with just a hint of wind or snow from the mare's tails overhead in the blue. Jean had no very clear idea of what her next step would be, and was rather trusting to fate to show her. Perhaps Baltie had a better one than his driver, or perhaps it was sense of direction and force of habit which was heading him toward South Riveredge; Baltie's intelligence did not appear to wane with his years. At all events, he was going his usual route when Jean spied Mammy far ahead and in a trice fate had stepped in to give things a twist. To pull Baltie around and guide him into a street which led to East instead of South Riveredge was the work of a second. Jean thought she could go back by another street which led diagonally into South Riveredge but when she reached it she found it closed for repairs. Turning around involved more or less danger and she had a thought for that which lay at her feet. So on she went, hoping to get into South Riveredge sooner or later. Like many suburban towns, Riveredge had certain sections which were given over to the poorer element, and in such sections could always be found enough idle, mischievous youngsters to make things interesting for other people, particularly on Saturdays when they were released from the restraint of school. Jean had proceeded well along upon her way when she was spied by two or three urchins upon whose hands time was hanging rather heavily, and to whom the novel sight of a handsome, neatly-clad child, perched in a phaeton which might have been designed for Noah, and driving a blind horse, was a vision of joy. "Hi, Billy, get on ter de swell rig," bawled one worthy son of McKim's Hollow. "Gee! Aint he a stunner! Say, where did yer git him?" yelled Billy, prompt to take up the ball, and give it a toss. "Mebbe he's de ghost av yer granfather's trotter," was the next salute. "Hi, what's his best time. Forty hours fer de mile?" asked a larger lad, hanging on to the back of the phaeton and winding his heels into the springs. "Get down! Go away!" commanded Jean. "Couldn't," politely replied her passenger. "Say yer oughter have a white hawse wid all dat red hair," yelled a new addition to the number already swarming after her. "Git a move on," was the next cry, as a youth armed with a long stick joined the crowd. Things were growing decidedly uncomfortable for Jean whose cheeks were blazing, and whose eyes were flashing ominously. Just then one urchin made a grab for the whip but she was too quick for him, and once having it in her hand was tempted to lay about vigorously. As though divining her thoughts, the smaller boys drew off but he of the stick scorned such an adversary, although discretion warned him not to lay it upon her. The old horse, however, was not so guarded by law and the stick descended upon his flanks with all the strength of the young rowdy's arms. He would better have struck Jean! Never since coming to live in his present home had Baltie felt a blow, but during all those four months had been petted, loved and cared for in a manner to make him forget former trials, and in spite of his age, renew his strength and spirits. True, he was never urged to do more than jog, jog, jog along, but under the spur of this indignity some of his old fire sprung up and with a wild snort of resentment he plunged forward. As he did so, down came the whip across his assailant's head, for Jean had forgotten all else in her wrath; she began to lay about her with vigor, and the battle was on in earnest. Perhaps John Gilpin cut a wilder dash yet it is doubtful. CHAPTER XIII The Battle of Town and Gown Jean had come about a mile from Riveredge before encountering her unwelcome escort, and a mile for old Baltie was considered a good distance by Mammy who always blanketed him carefully and gave him a long rest after such exertion. The sight of the old woman's care for her horse had won her more than one feminine customer in South Riveredge and not infrequently they entered into conversation with her regarding him. Mammy needed no greater encouragement to talk, and Baltie's history became known to many of her customers. Could Mammy have witnessed Baltie's wild careerings as he pounded along to escape his tormentors, while Jean strove desperately to beat them off, she would probably have expired upon the spot. But Baltie's strength was not equal to any long-sustained effort and his breath soon became labored. The shouting cavalcade had gone about half a mile at its wild pace and Jean had done her valiant best, but the numbers against her had been steadily augmented as she proceeded, and the situation was becoming really dangerous. She stood up in the phaeton, hat hanging by its elastic band, hair flying and eyes flashing as she strove to beat off her pursuers. Most of them, it must be admitted, were good-natured, and were simply following up their prank from a spirit of mischief. But two or three had received stinging lashes from the whip and the sting had aroused their ire. Jean's strength as well as old Baltie's was giving out when from the opposite side of a high arbor-vitæ hedge arose a cry of: "Gown to the rescue! Gown to the rescue!" and the next second the road seemed filled with lads who had apparently sprung from it, and a lively scrimmage was afoot. The boys who had so lately been making things interesting for Jean and Baltie, turned to flee precipitately, but were pretty badly hustled about before they could escape; he of the stick being captured red-handed as he launched a blow that came very near proving a serious one for Jean since it struck the whip from her hands and landed it in the road. The poor child collapsed upon the seat, and strove hard to suppress a sob, for she would have died sooner than cry before the boys of the "Irving Preparatory School." Baltie needed no second hint to make him understand that the time had come to let his friends take up the battle, and bracing his trembling old legs he stood panting in the middle of the road. "I say, what did this fellow do to you, little girl?" demanded a tall, fine-looking lad, whose dark gray eyes were flashing with indignation, and whose firm mouth gave his captive reason to know that he meant whatever he said. At any other time Jean would have resented the "little girl," but during the past fifteen minutes she had felt a very small girl indeed. "He's a coward! A great, hulking coward!" she blazed at the hapless youth whom her champion held so firmly by his collar as he stood by the phaeton. The other lads who had now completely routed Jean's tormentors were gathering about her, some with looks of concern for her welfare, some with barely restrained smiles at her plight and her turnout. "What'll I do to him? Punch his head?" demanded knight errant. "No, shake it most off!" commanded Jean. "He nearly made mine shake off," she concluded, as she pushed her hair from her eyes and jerked her hat back into place. "My goodness just look at the state I'm in and look at Baltie; I don't know what Mammy will say. Aren't you ashamed of yourself, you great big bully, to torment a girl and a poor old blind horse. Oh, I _wish_ I were a boy! If I wouldn't give you bally-whacks." A smile broke over knight errant's face, but his victim trembled in his boots. "All right then, here goes, since you won't let me punch it," and Jean's injunctions to shake her tormentor's head "most off" seemed in a fair way to be obeyed, for the next second its owner was being shaken very much as a rat is shaken by a terrier and the head was jerked about in a most startling manner. "Now get out! Skiddoo! And if we catch you and your gang out this way again you'll have a pretty lively time of it, and don't you forget it either," said knight errant with a final shake, and Long Stick was hustled upon his way toward his friends who had not paused to learn his fate. This boy who acted as spokesman, and who appeared to be a leader among his companions, then said: "I say, your old horse is pretty well knocked up, isn't she? How far have you come? Better drive into the school grounds and rest up a bit before you go back. Come on!" and going to Baltie's head the lad took hold of the rein to lead him through the gateway. Baltie never forgot his manners, however great the stress under which he was laboring, so turning his sightless eyes toward his new friend, he nickered softly, and rubbed his muzzle against him. The lad laughed and raising his hand stroked the warm neck as he said: "Found a friend at last, old boy? Well, come on then, for you needed one badly." "Guess he _did_!" said Jean. "My gracious, I don't know what we would have done if you boys hadn't come out to help us. How did you happen to hear us?" "We were out on the field with the ball. I guess it's lucky for you we were, too, for there's a tough gang up there near Riveredge. We're always on the lookout for some new outbreak, and we make it lively if they come up this way, you'd better believe. They don't try it very often, but you were too big a chance for 'em this time, and they sailed right in. But they sailed at the wrong time for we are never happier to exchange civilities with them than when we have on our togs," ended the lad, as he glanced at the foot-ball suits which he and a number of his chums were wearing. "Oh, are you playing foot-ball? I wish I could see you," cried Jean eagerly, all thoughts of her late plans flying straight out of her head. "Better come over to the field then," laughed her escort. "I'd love to but I guess I can't to-day. I'm on important business. I'm going to South Riveredge," she said, suddenly recalling her errand. "South Riveredge!" echoed a lad who walked at the other side of the phaeton. "Why it's nearly four miles from here. It's almost two to Riveredge itself. What brought you out this way if you were going to South Riveredge?" But to explain just why she had turned off the direct road to South Riveredge would be a trifle embarrassing, so Jean decided to give another reason: "I thought I knew my way but I guess I must have missed it, those boys tormented me so." "I guess you did miss it, but I don't wonder. Well, rest here a little while, and then we'll start you safely back. Guess one of us better go along with her hadn't we, Ned?" he asked of the gray-eyed boy. "If we want her to get back whole I guess we had," was the laughing answer, as Baltie's guide led him up to a carriage step and stopped. Baltie's coat was steaming. "Got a blanket? Better let me put it on your horse. He's pretty warm from his race and the day is snappy." Jean bounded up from the seat and pulled the blanket from it. It was not a very heavy blanket and when the boy had put it carefully upon the old horse, it seemed hardly thick enough to protect him. "Let me have the rug too," he ordered, and without a second's thought jerked up the rug and gave it a toss. Up came the box of candy with it, to balance a second upon one end as daintily as a tight-rope dancer balances upon a rope, then keel gracefully over and land bottom-side-up, upon the tan-bark of the driveway, the packages of candy flying in twenty different directions. Jean's cry of dismay was echoed by the boys' shouts as their eyes quickly grasped the significance of those dainty white parcels. A wild scramble to rescue her wares followed, as Jean was plied with questions. "Are they yours? What are you going to do with them?" "Are they for sale?" "Can we buy some?" "How much are they?" "Lend me some cash, Bob?" Never was an enterprising merchant so suddenly plunged into a rushing business. Jean's head whirled for a moment. How much were the packages of candy? She hadn't the vaguest idea, and circumstances had not made it convenient to ascertain before she set forth. However, her wits came to her rescue and she recalled the little packages which Constance had made for the fair, and which had sold for ten cents each. So ten cents _she_ would charge, and presently was doling out her rescued packages of fudge and dropping dimes into her box to take the place of the packages which were so quickly disappearing from it. Given four dozen packages of exceptionally delicious home-made candy, and twenty or thirty boys, after an hour's foot-ball exercise, upon a crisp January morning, each more or less supplied with pocket money, and it is a combination pretty sure to work to the advantage of the candy-maker. Jean's eyes danced, and her face was radiant. Her business was in its most flourishing stage when she became aware that another actor had appeared upon the scene, and was regarding her steadily through a pair of very large, very round, and very thick-lensed eye-glasses, and with the solemn expression of a meditative owl. How long he had been a silent observer of her financial operations Jean had no idea. His presence did not appear to embarrass the boys in any way; indeed, when they became aware of it two or three of them promptly urged him to partake of their toothsome dainties. This he did in the same grave, absorbed manner. "Great, aint they, Professor?" asked one lad. "Quite unusual. Who is the juvenile vender?" he asked. "We don't know. She was out yonder in the road with half McKim's Hollow after her when we fellows rallied to the rescue. She was as plucky as any thing, and was putting up a great standoff when we got in our licks." "Ah! Indeed! And how came she to have such a feast along with her. I'll take another, thank you, Ned. They are really excellent," and instead of "another" the last three of "Ned's" package were calmly appropriated and eaten in the same abstracted manner that the other pieces had been. Ned looked somewhat blank and turning toward one of his companions, winked and smiled slyly, then said to the Professor: "Better buy some quick. They are going like hot cakes." CHAPTER XIV The Candy Enterprise Grows "I believe I shall," and drawing closer to the phaeton the Professor peered more closely at its occupant as he said: "I say, little girl, I think I'll take all you have there. They are exceedingly palatable. And I would really like to know how it happens that a child apparently so respectable as yourself should be peddling sweets. You--why you might really be a gentleman's daughter," he drawled. Now it had never for a moment occurred to Jean that appearances might prove misleading to those whose powers of observation were not of the keenest, or that a much disheveled child driving about the country in an antiquated phaeton, to which was harnessed a patriarchal horse, might seem to belong to a rather lower order in the social scale than her mother had a right to claim. So the near-sighted Professor's remark held anything but a pleasing suggestion. For a moment she hardly grasped its full significance, then drawing up her head like an insulted queen, she regarded the luckless man with blazing eyes as she answered: "I am a Carruth, thank you, and the Carruths do as they _please_. You need not buy these candies if you don't wish to. I can get plenty of customers among my friends--the boys." When did unconscious flattery prove sweeter? Those same "friends--the boys" would have then and there died for the small itinerant whose wares had so touched their palates, and who was openly choosing their patronage over and above that of an individual who had now and again caused more than one of them to pass an exceedingly bad quarter of an hour. A suppressed giggle sounded not far off, but the Professor's face retained its perfect solemnity as he bent his head toward Jean to get a closer view. "Hum; ah; yes. I dare say you are quite right. I was probably over hasty in drawing conclusions," was the calm response. "_Mammy_ says a _gentleman_ can always rec'o'nize a lady," flashed Jean, unconsciously falling into Mammy's vernacular. "And who is Mammy, may I inquire?" asked the imperturbable voice, its owner absently eating lumps of fudge and pralines at a rate calculated to speedily reduce the supply he had on hand, the lads meanwhile regarding the vanishing "lumps of delight" with longing eyes. "Why she's _Mammy_," replied Jean with considerable emphasis. "Mammy _what_?" was the very unprofessional question which followed. "Mammy Blairsdale, of course. _Our_ Mammy." There was no answer for a moment as the candy continued to melt from sight like dew before the morning sun. Then the Professor looked at her steadily as he slowly munched his sweets, causing Jean to think of the Henrys' cow when in a ruminative mood. "Little girl, are you from the South?" "Don't _call_ me 'little girl' again!" flared Jean, bringing her foot down upon the bottom of the phaeton with a stamp. "I just naturally despise to be called 'little girl.' I'm Jean, and I want to be called Jean." "Jean, Jean. Pretty name. Well _Miss_ Jean, are you from the South?" "My _mother is_. She was a _Blairsdale_," replied "Miss" Jean, much as she might have said she is the daughter of England's Queen, much mollified at having the cognomen added. "Do you happen to know which part of the South you come from?" "_I_ don't come from the South at all. I was born right here in Riveredge. My mother came from Forestvale, North Carolina." "I thought I knew the name. Yes, it is very familiar. Blairsdale. Yes. Quite so. Quite so. Rather curious, however. So many years. My grandmother was a Blairsdale too. Singular coincidence, _she_ had red hair, I'm told, Yes, really. Think I must follow it up. Very good, indeed. Did _you_ make them? I judge not. Who did? I must know where to get more when I have a fancy for some," and having eaten the last praline the Professor absent-mindedly put into his mouth the paper in which they had been wrapped, having unconsciously rolled it into a nice little wad while talking. A funny twinkle came into his eyes when his mistake dawned upon him and turning to the grinning boys he said: "I have heard of men putting the lighted end of a cigar into their mouths by mistake. This was less unpleasant at all events," and the wad was tossed to the driveway. The boys burst into shouts of laughter and the ice was broken. Crowding about the phaeton they asked: "Who makes the candy? Do you always sell it? When can we get some more? Say, Professor, do you really know her folks? Who _is_ she any how?" "I told you my name, and I live in Riveredge. My sister makes the candy, but she doesn't know I'm selling it. Maybe she'll let me bring you some more, and maybe she won't. I don't know. And maybe I'll catch Hail-Columbia-Happy-Land when I get back home," concluded the young lady, her lips coming together with decision and her head wagging between doubt and defiance. "But I don't care one bit if I do. I've sold _all_ the candy, and I've got just piles of money; so _that_ proves that I _can_ help as well as the big girls even if _I_ am too little to be trusted with their old secrets. And now I've got to go straight back home or they'll all be scared half to death. Perhaps they won't want to scold so hard if they are good and scared." "One of us will go with you till you get past McKim's Hollow," cried the boys. "Ned can, can't he, Professor?" "I believe I'll go myself," was the unexpected reply. "I was about to walk over to Riveredge, but I think perhaps Miss Jean will allow me to ride with her," and without more ado Professor Forbes, B.A., B.C., B.M., and half a dozen other Bachelors, gravely removed the coverings from old Baltie, folding and carefully placing the blanket upon the seat and laying the rug over Jean's knees. After he had tucked her snugly in, he took his seat beside her. "Now, Miss Jean, I think we are all ready to start." If anything could have been added to complete Jean's secret delight at the attention shown her, it was the dignified manner in which the Professor raised his hat, the boys as one followed his example, as Baltie ambled forth. "That is the way I _like_ to be treated. I _hate_ to be snubbed because I'm only ten years old," thought she. As they turned into the road the distant whistles of South Riveredge blew twelve o'clock. Jean started slightly and glanced quickly up at her companion. "The air is very clear and still to-day," he remarked. "We hear the whistles a long distance." "It's twelve o'clock. I wonder what Mammy is thinking," was Jean's irrelevant answer. "Does Mammy think for the family?" asked the Professor, a funny smile lurking about the corners of his mouth. Jean's eyes twinkled as she answered: "She was _mother's_ Mammy too." "Ah! I think I understand. I lived South until I was fifteen." "Did you? How old are you now?" was the second startling question. "How old should you think?" was the essentially Yankee reply, which proved that the southern lad had learned a trick or two from his northern friends. Jean regarded him steadily for a few moments. "Well, when you raised your hat a few minutes ago your hair looked a little thin on _top_, so I guess you're going to be bald pretty soon. But your eyes, when you laugh, look just about like the boys'. Perhaps you aren't so very old though. Maybe you aren't much older than Mr. Stuyvesant. Do you know him?" "Yes, I know him. He is younger than I am though." The Professor did not add "exactly six months." "Yes, I thought you were lots older. He's the kind you _feel_ is young and you're the kind you feel is old, you know." "Oh, am I? Wherein lies the difference, may I inquire?" The voice sounded a trifle nettled. "Why I should think anyone could understand _that_," was the surprised reply. "Mr. Stuyvesant is the kind of a man who knows what children are thinking right down inside themselves all the time. They don't have to explain things to _him_ at all. Why the day I found Baltie he knew just as well how I felt about having him shot, and I knew just as well as anything that _he'd_ take care of him and make it all right. We're great friends. I love him dearly." "Whom? Baltie?" "Now there! What did I tell you? _That's_ why _you_ are _years_ and _years_ older than Mr. Stuyvesant. He _would'nt_ have had to say 'Whom? Baltie?' He'd just know such things without having to ask." The tone was not calculated to inspire self-esteem. "Hum," answered the man who could easily have told anyone the distance of Mars from the earth and many another scientific fact. "I think I'm beginning to comprehend what constitutes age." "Yes," resumed Jean as she flapped the reins upon Baltie who seemed to be lapsing into a dreamy frame of mind. "You can't always tell _how_ old a person is by just looking at 'em. Maybe you aren't nearly as old as I think you are, though I guess you can't be far from forty, and that's pretty bad. But if you'd sort of get gay and jolly, and try to think how you felt when you were little, or maybe even as big as the boys back yonder, you wouldn't seem any older to me than Mr. Stuyvesant." The big eyes were regarding him with the closest scrutiny as though their owner wished to avoid falling into any error concerning him. "Think perhaps I'll try it. It may prove worth while," and the Professor fell into a brown study while old Baltie plodded on and Jean let her thoughts outstrip his slow progress. At the other end of her commercial venture lay a reckoning as well she knew, and like most reckonings it held an element of doubt as well as of hope. It was nearly one o'clock when they came to the outskirts of Riveredge. The pretty town was quite deserted for it was luncheon hour. When they reached the foot of Hillside street, Jean said: "This is my street; I have to go up here," and drew up to the sidewalk for her passenger to descend. He seemed in no haste to take the hint, and Jean began to wonder if he would turn out a regular old man of the sea. Before she could frame a speech both positive and polite as a suggestion for his next move, her ears were assailed by: "Bress Gawd, ef dar aint dat pesterin' chile dis very minit! What I gwine _do_ wid yo'? Jis' tell me dat?" and Mammy came puffing and panting down the hill like a runaway steam-roller. Professor Forbes roused himself from the reverie in which he had apparently been indulging for several moments, and stepping from the phaeton to the sidewalk, advanced a step or two toward the formidable object bearing down upon him, and raising his hat as though saluting a royal personage, said: "I think I have the pleasure of addressing Mammy----_Blairsdale_." CHAPTER XV The Reckoning The descending steam-roller slowed down and finally came to a standstill within a few feet of the Professor, too non-plussed even to snort or pant, while that imperturbable being stood hat in hand in the sharp January air, and smiled upon it. There was something in the smile that caused the steam-roller to reconsider its plan of action, rapidly formed while descending the hill, for great had been the consternation throughout the dwelling which housed it, and the cause of all that consternation was now within reach of justice. "Mammy Blairsdale?" repeated the Professor suavely. "Mammy Blairsdale," echoed that worthy being, although the words were not quite so blandly spoken. "I am glad to make your acquaintance, Mammy. I have taken the liberty of escorting this young lady back home. She is very entertaining, and extremely practical, as well as enterprising. I am sure you will find her a successful coöperator. She has done a most flourishing business this morning." "B'isness! B'isness! For de Lawd's sake wha' dat chile been at now, an' we all cl'ar 'stracted 'bout her? Whar yo' bin at? Tell me dis minute. An' yo' ma, and Miss Constance and me jist plumb crazy 'bout you and dat hawse." The Professor attempted to put in a word of explanation, but a wave of Mammy's hand effectually silenced him and motioned him aside, as she stepped closer to the phaeton. Baltie had instantly recognized her voice and as she drew nearer, nickered. "Yas, Baltie hawse, what dat chile been doin' wid yo'?" she said softly as she laid her hand upon the old horse's neck. But the more resolute tone was resumed as she turned again to the phaeton, and demanded: "I wanter know wha' yo's been. You hear me? We's done chased de hull town ober fer yo' an' dat hawse, an' yo' ma done teken de trolley fer Souf Riveraige, kase someone done say dey seed yo' a gwine off dat-a-way. Now whar in de name o' man _is_ yo' been ter?" "I've been out to the Irving School selling your old _candy_, and your cousins-in-the-Lord, over in South Riveredge, can _wait_ a while for some. You and Connie thought you could fool me with your old talk but you couldn't; I found out _all_ about it. _She_ makes it and _you_ sell it, and now _I've_ sold it--yes every single package--and there's your money; I don't want it, but I've proved that I _can_ help mother, so there now!" and, figuratively speaking, Jean hurled at Mammy's feet the gauntlet, in the shape of her handkerchief, in which she had carefully tied the proceeds of her morning's sale, a no mean sum, by the way. Then, bounding out of the old phaeton, tore up the hill like a small whirlwind, leaving Mammy and the Professor to stare after her open-mouthed. The latter was the first to recover his speech. "Well, really! Quite vehement! Good deal of force in a small body." "Fo'ce! Well yo' ain' know dat chile ten years lak _I_ is. She cl'ar break loose some times, an' dis hyre's one ob 'em. But I 'spicioned dat she's done teken dat box o' candy. Minit my back turned out she fly wid it. An' sell hit, too? What _yo'_ know 'bout it, sar? Is yo' see her?" "I certainly did, and I haven't seen such a sight in some time. She's a good bit of a metaphysician into the bargain," and in a few words Professor Forbes told of the morning's business venture, and the lively experiences of the young merchant, Mammy listening attentively, only now and again uttering an expressive "Um-m! Uh-h!" When he had finished she looked at him sharply and said: "You know what dat chile' oughter be named? Wal, suh, Scape-many-dangers would fit her pine blank. De Lawd on'y knows what she gwine tu'n out, but hits boun' ter be one ting or turrer; she gwine be de banginest one ob de hull lot, or she gwine be jist nothin' but a little debbil. Now, suh, who is _yo'_?" The concluding question was sprung upon the Professor so suddenly that he nearly jumped. He looked at the old woman a moment, the suggestion of a twinkle in the eyes behind the big glasses, then answered soberly: "I might be termed a knight errant I presume; I've been guarding a young lady from the perils of the highway." "Night errand? 'Tain't no night errand as _I_ kin see. Can't be much broader day dan tis dis minute," retorted Mammy, looking up at the blazing luminary directly over her head by way of proving her assertion. "If you's on a errand dat's yo' b'isness; 'taint mine. But I'd lak ter know yo' name suh, so's I kin tell Miss Jinny." "Is Miss Jinny the older sister who manufactures that delicious candy?" asked the Professor, as he drew his card case from his pocket and handed Mammy his card. "No, suh, she's _my_ Miss Jinny: Miss Jinny Blairsdale; I mean Carruth. My mistis. Dat chile's mother. Thank yo', suh. I'll han' her dis cyard. Is she know yo', suh?" "No, I haven't the pleasure of Mrs. Carruth's acquaintance though I hope to before long. (Mammy made a slight sound through her half-closed lips.) My grandmother was a Blairsdale." "Open sesame" was a trifling talisman compared with the name of Blairsdale. "Wha', wha', wha', yo say, suh?" demanded Mammy, stammering in her excitement. "Yo's a Blairsdale?" "No, I am Homer Forbes. My mother's mother was a Blairsdale. I cannot claim the honor." "Yo' kin claim de _blood_ dough, an' dat's all yo' hatter claim. Yo' don' need ter claim nuttin' else ef yo' got some ob _dat_. But I mustn't stan' here talkin' no longer. Yo' kin come an' see my Miss Jinny ef yo' wantter. If yo's kin ob de Blairsdales' she'll be pintedly glad fer ter know yo'," ended Mammy, courtesying to this branch of the blood royal, and turning to lead Baltie up the hill. "Thank you. I think I'll accept the invitation before very long. I'd like to know Miss Jean a little better. Good-day Mammy _Blairsdale_." "Good-day, suh! Good-day," answered Mammy, smiling benignly upon the favored being. As she drew near the house a perplexed expression overspread her old face. She still held the handkerchief with its weight of change; earnest of the morning's good intentions. Yet what a morning it had been for her and the others! "I clar ter goodness dat chile lak ter drive us all 'stracted. Fust she scare us nigh 'bout ter death, an' we ready fer ter frail her out fer her doin's. Den she come pa'radin' home wid a bagful ob cash kase she tryin' fer ter help we-all. _Den_ what yo' gwine 'do wid her? Smack her kase she done plague yo', or praise her kase she doin' her bes' fer ter mek t'ings go a little mite easier fer her ma?" ended Mammy, bringing her tongue against her teeth in a sound of irritation. Meanwhile the cause of all the commotion had gone tearing up the hill and into the house where she ran pell-mell into Eleanor who had just come home, and who knew nothing of the excitement of the past few hours. Constance had gone over to Amy Fletcher's to inquire for the runaway. Jean was on the border land between tears and anger, and Eleanor was greeted with: "Now I suppose _you_ are going to lecture me too, tell me I'd no business to go off. Well you just needn't do any such a thing, and I don't care if I _did_ scare you. It was all your own fault 'cause you wouldn't let me into your old secret, and I'm _glad_ I scared you. Yes I am!" the words ended in a storm of sobs. For a moment Eleanor stood dumfounded. Then realizing that something more lay behind the volley of words than she understood, she said: "Come up to my room with me, Jean. I don't know what you are talking about. If anything is wrong tell me about it, but don't bother mother. The little Mumsey has a lot to bother her as it is." Jean instantly stopped crying and looked at this older sister who sometimes seemed very old indeed to her. "_You_ don't know what all the fuss is about, and why Mammy is waiting to give me Hail Columbia?" she asked incredulously. "I have just this moment come in. I have been out at Aunt Eleanor's all the morning, as you know quite well if you will stop to think," answered Eleanor calmly. "Then come up-stairs quick before Mammy gets in; I see her coming in the gate now. I did something that made her as mad as hops and scared mother. Come I'll tell you all about it," and Jean flew up the stairs ahead of Eleanor. Rushing into her sister's room she waited only for Eleanor to pass the threshold before slamming the door together and turning the key. Eleanor dropped her things upon the bed and sitting down upon a low chair, said: "Come here, Jean." Jean threw herself upon her sister's lap, and clasping her arms about her, nestled her head upon her shoulder. Eleanor held her a moment without speaking, feeling that it would be wiser to let her excitement subside a little. Then she said: "Now tell me the whole story, Jean." Jean told it from beginning to end, and ended by demanding: "Don't you really, truly, know anything about the candy Constance is making to sell?" "I know that she is making candy, and that she contrives somehow to sell a good deal of it, but she and Mammy have kept the secret as to _how_ it is sold. They did not tell me, and I wouldn't ask," said Eleanor looking straight into Jean's eyes. "Oh!" said Jean. "Mammy has rather high ideas of what we ought or ought not to do, you know, Jean," continued Eleanor, "and she was horrified at the idea of Constance making candy for money. And yet, Jean, both Constance and I _must_ do something to help mother. You say we keep you out of our secrets. We don't keep you _out_ of them, but we see no reason _why_ you should be made to bear them. Constance and I are older, and it is right that we should share some of the burden which mother must bear, but you are only a little girl and ought to be quite care-free." Jean's head dropped a trifle lower. "But since you have discovered so much, let _me_ tell you a secret which only mother and I know, and then you will understand why she is so troubled now-a-days. Even Connie knows nothing of it. Can I trust you?" "I'd _die_ before I'd tell," was the vehement protest. "Very well then, listen: You know our house was insured for a good deal of money--fifteen thousand dollars. Well, mother felt quite safe and comfortable when she found that Mammy had paid the premium just before the house burned down, and we all thought we would soon have the amount settled up by the company and that the interest would be a big help--" "What is the interest?" demanded Jean. "I can't stop to explain it all now, but when people put money in a savings bank a certain sum is paid to them each year. The bank pays the people the smaller sum each year because it--the bank, I mean--has the use of the larger amount for the time being. Do you understand?" "Yes, it's just as if I gave you my five dollars to use and you gave me ten cents each week for lending you the five dollars till I wanted it, isn't it?" "Yes, exactly. Well mother thought she would have about six hundred dollars each year, and everything seemed all right, and so we came to live here because it was less expensive. But, oh, Jean, my miserable experiments! My dreadful chemicals! When the insurance company began to look into the cause of the fire and learned that I had gasoline, and those powerful acids in my room, and the box of excelsior in which they had been sent out from the city was in the room where the fire started, they--they would not settle the insurance, and _all_ the money we had paid out was lost, and we could hardly collect anything. And it was _all_ my fault. _All_ my fault. But I did not know it! I did not guess the harm I was doing. I only thought of what I could learn from my experiments. And _see_ what mischief I have done," and poor Eleanor's story ended in a burst of sobs, as she buried her head against the little sister whom she had just been comforting. Jean was speechless for a moment. Then all her sympathies were alert, and springing from Eleanor's lap she flung her arms about her crying: "Don't cry, Nornie; don't cry! You didn't _mean_ to. You didn't know. You were trying to be good and learn a lot. You didn't know about those hateful old companies." "But I _ought_ to have known! I ought to have understood," sobbed Eleanor. "How _could_ you? But don't you cry. I'm glad now I _did_ run away with the box, 'cause I've found a way to make some money every single Saturday and I'm going to _do it_, Mammy or no Mammy. Baltie is just as much my horse as hers, and if he can't help us work I'd like to know why. Now don't you cry any more, 'cause it isn't your fault, and I'm going right straight down stairs to talk with mother, and tell her I'm sorry I frightened her but _I'm not_ sorry I went," and ending with a tempestuous hug and an echoing kiss upon her sister's cheek, little Miss Determination whisked out of the room. CHAPTER XVI United We Stand, Divided We Fall It need hardly be stated that Mrs. Carruth had passed anything but a tranquil morning. Indeed tranquillity of mind was almost unknown to her now-a-days, and her nights were filled with far from pleasant dreams. From the hour her old home had burned, disasters had crowded upon her. Her first alarm lest the insurance upon her property had lapsed, owing to her inability to meet the premium punctually, had been allayed by Mammy's prompt action and all seemed well. No one had given a thought to the conditions of the agreement, and, alas! no one had thought of Eleanor's laboratory. Indeed, had she done so, Mrs. Carruth was not sufficiently well informed upon such matters to have attached any importance to it. But one little clause in the policy had expressly prohibited the presence of "gasoline, excelsior or chemicals of any description upon the premises," and all three had been upon it when the house burned; and, fatal circumstance, had been the _cause_ of the fire. Such investigations move slowly, and weeks passed before these facts were brought to light and poor Mrs. Carruth learned the truth. She strove in every way to realize even a small proportion of the sum she could otherwise have claimed, and influential friends lent their aid to help her. But the terms of the contract had, unquestionably, been broken, even though done in ignorance--and the precautions taken for so many years ended in smoke. Mrs. Carruth had not meant to let the girls learn of it until, if worse came to worst, all hope of recovering something had to be given up. But, several days before, Eleanor had found her mother in a state of nervous collapse over the letter which brought the ultimatum, and had insisted upon knowing the truth. Mrs. Carruth confessed it only upon the condition of absolute secrecy on Eleanor's part, for Constance was in the midst of mid-year examinations and her mother would not have an extra care laid upon her just then. Eleanor had kept the secret until this morning when Jean's outbreak seemed to make it wiser to tell the truth, and, if the confession must be made, poor Eleanor could no longer conceal her remorse for the mischief her experiments had brought upon them all. She had gone that morning to her Aunt Eleanor's home to confess the situation to her, and to ask if she might leave school and seek some position. The interview had been a most unpleasant one, for Mrs. Eleanor Carruth, Senior, never hesitated to express her mind, and having exceptional business acumen herself, had little patience with those who had less. "Your mother has no more head for business than a child of ten. Not as much as _some_, I believe. And, your father wasn't much better. Good heavens and earth! the idea of a man in his sane senses agreeing to pay another man's debts. I don't believe he _was_ in his senses," stormed Mrs. Eleanor. "Please, Aunt Eleanor, don't say such things to me about father and mother," said Eleanor, with a little break in her voice. "Perhaps mother doesn't know as much about business matters as she ought, and father's heart got the better of his good sense, but they are father and mother and have always been devoted to us. I don't want to be rude to you, but I _can't_ hear them unkindly spoken of," she ended with a little uprearing of the head, which suddenly recalled to the irate lady a similar mannerism of her late husband who had been a most forebearing man up to a certain point, but when that was reached his wife knew a halt had been called; the same sudden uplifting of the head now gave due warning. However, Eleanor was only a child in her aunt's eyes, and, fond as she was of her, in her own peculiar way, she could not resist a final word: "Well, I've no patience with such goin's on. And now here's a pretty kettle of fish and no mistake. You've taken Hadyn Stuyvesant's house for a year, and of course you've got to _keep_ it, yet every cent you've got in this world to live on is twelve hundred dollars a year. That means less than twenty-five dollars a week to house, clothe and feed five people. I 'spose it can be done--plenty do it--but they're not Carruths, with a Carruth's ideas. And now _you_ want to quit school and go to work? Well, I don't approve of it; no, not for a minute. You'll do ten times better to stay at school and then enter college next fall. _You've_ got the ability to do it, and it's flyin' in the face of Providence _not_ to." Aunt Eleanor might just as well have added, "I representing Providence," since her tone implied as much. "Now run along home and leave me to think out this snarl. I can think a sight better when I'm alone," and with that summary and rather unsatisfactory dismissal, Eleanor departed for her own home to be met by Jean with her trials and tribulations. Meanwhile Mrs. Carruth had gone in quest of that young lady, for upon Mammy's return from market, Jean, Baltie and the box of candy had been missed, and the old woman had raised a hue and cry. At first they believed it to be some prank, but as the hours slipped away and Jean failed to reappear, Mrs. Carruth grew alarmed and all three set forth in different directions to search for her. Constance going to Amy Fletcher's home. Mammy to their old home, or at least all that was left of it, for Jean frequently went there on one pretext or another, and Mrs. Carruth down town, as the marketing section of Riveredge was termed. While there, one of the shopkeepers told her that Jean had driven by, headed for South Riveredge. Upon the strength of this vague information Mrs. Carruth had 'phoned home that she was setting out for South Riveredge by the trolley and hoped to find the runaway. But the search, naturally, was unavailing and she was forced to return in a most anxious state of mind. As she turned into Hillside street and began to mount the steep ascent, her limbs were trembling, partly from physical and partly from nervous exhaustion. Before she reached the top she saw the object of her quest bearing down upon her with arms outstretched and burnished hair flying all about her. Jean had not paused for the hat or coat, which she had impatiently flung aside upon entering Eleanor's room. Her one impulse after learning of the calamity which had overtaken them was to offer consolation to her mother. The impact when she met that weary woman came very near landing them both in the gutter, and nothing but the little fly-away's agility saved them. Jean was wonderfully strong for her age, her outdoor life having developed her muscles to a most unusual degree. "Oh, mother, mother. I'm _so_ sorry I frightened you. I didn't mean to; truly I didn't. I only wanted to prove I _could_ help, and now I _can_, 'cause I've got a _lot_ of new customers and made most four dollars. I could have made more if some of the papers hadn't bursted and spilt the candy in the road. We got some of it up, but it was all dirty and I couldn't take any money for _that_, though the boys _ate_ it after they'd washed if off at the hose faucet. It wasn't so very dirty, you know. And now I'm going out there every single Saturday morning, and Connie and I--" "Jean; Jean; stop for mercy's sake. What _are_ you talking about? Have you taken leave of your senses, child?" demanded poor Mrs. Carruth, wholly bewildered, for until this moment she had heard absolutely nothing of the candy-making, Mammy and Constance having guarded their secret well. It had never occurred to Jean that even her mother was in ignorance of the enterprise, and now she looked at her as though it had come her turn to question her mother's sanity. They had now reached the house and were ascending the steps, Jean assisting her mother by pushing vigorously upon her elbow. "Come right into the living-room with me, Jean, and let me learn where you've been this morning. You have alarmed me terribly, and Mammy has been nearly beside herself. She was sure you and Baltie were both killed." "Pooh! Fiddlesticks! She might have known better. She thinks Baltie is as fiery as Mr. Stuyvesant's Comet, and that nobody can drive him but herself. I've been to East Riveredge with the candy--" "_What_ candy, Jean? I do not know what you mean." "_Constance's_ candy!" emphasized Jean, and then and there told the whole story so far as she herself knew the facts regarding it. Mrs. Carruth sat quite speechless during the recitation, wondering what new development upon the part of her offspring the present order of things would bring to light. "And Mumsey, darling," continued Jean, winding her arms about her mother's neck and slipping upon her lap, "I'm going to help _now_; I really am, 'cause Nornie has told me about that horried old insurance and I know we haven't much money and--" "Nornie has told _you_ of the insurance trouble, Jean? How came she to do such a thing?" asked Mrs. Carruth, at a loss to understand why Eleanor had disobeyed her in the matter. "She told me 'cause I was so mad at her and Connie for having secrets, and treating me as if I hadn't the least little bit of sense, and couldn't be trusted. I am little, Mumsey, dear, but I can help. You see if I can't, and the boys were just splendid and want me to come every Saturday. Please, please say I may go," and Jean kissed her mother's forehead, cheeks and chin by way of persuasion. It must be confessed that Mrs. Carruth responded to these endearments in a rather abstracted manner, for she had had much to think of within the past few hours. "Please say yes," begged Jean. "Childie, I can not say yes or no just this moment. I am too overwhelmed by what I have heard. I must know _all_ now, and learn it from Mammy and Constance. I cannot realize that one of my children had actually entered upon such a venture. What _would_ your father say?" ended Mrs. Carruth, as though all the traditions of the Carruths, to say nothing of the Blairsdales, had been shattered to bits and thrown broadcast. "But you'll tell me before _next_ Saturday, won't you? You know the boys will be on the lookout for their candy and will be _so_ disappointed if I don't take it." "I can not promise _anything_ now. The first thing to do is to eat our luncheon; it is long past two o'clock. _Then_ we will hold a family council and I hope I shall recover my senses; I declare I feel as though they were tottering." Mrs. Carruth rose from her chair and with Jean dancing beside her entered the dining-room to partake of a very indifferent meal, for Mammy had been too exercised to give her usual care and thought to its preparation. CHAPTER XVII A Family Council Luncheon was over and Mrs. Carruth, the girls and Mammy were seated in the library; Mammy's face being full of solicitude for her Miss Jinny. Mammy could no more have been left out of this family council than could Eleanor. "An' you haint got dat 'surance money and cyant git hit, Baby?" she asked, when Mrs. Carruth had finished explaining the situation to them. "No, Mammy; it is impossible. I have hoped until the last moment, but now I must give up all hope." "But--but I done _paid_ de prem'ym ter dat little Sniffin's man, an' _he_ say we _git_ de money all right an' straight," argued Mammy, loath to give up _her_ hope. "I know that, Mammy. He told you so in all good faith. It is not his fault in the least. It would have been settled at once, had we not--had we not--" Mrs. Carruth hesitated. She was reluctant to lay the blame upon Eleanor. "Oh, it is _all_ my fault! All. If I had not brought those hateful acids into the house we would _never_ have had all this trouble. I shall never forgive myself, and I should think you'd all want to kill me," wailed the cause of the family's misfortune, springing to her feet to pace rapidly up and down the room, quite unconscious that a long feather boa which happened to have been upon the back of her chair, had caught upon her belt-pin and was trailing out behind in a manner to suggest Darwin's theory of the origin of man. "My child you need not reproach yourself. You were working for our mutual benefit. You knew nothing of the conditions--" "Knew nothing! Knew nothing!" broke in Eleanor. "That's just _it_. It was my business to know! And I tell you one thing, in future I _mean_ to know, and not go blundering along in ignorance and wrecking everybody else as well as myself. I'm just no better than a fool with _all_ my poring over books and experimenting. After this I'll find out where my _feet_ are, even if my head _is_ stuck in the clouds. And now, mother, listen: Since I _am_ responsible for this mess it is certainly up to me to help you to pull out of it, and I'm going to _do_ it, I've spoken to Mr. Hillard, and asked him about coaching, and he says he can get me plenty of students who will be only too glad if I can give them the time. And I'm going to do it three afternoons a week. I shall have to do it between four and six, as those are my only free hours, and if I can't coach better than some I've known to undertake it, I'll quit altogether." As Eleanor talked, Mammy's expression became more and more horrified. When she ceased speaking the old woman rose from the hassock upon which she sat, and crossing the room to Mrs. Carruth's side laid her hand upon her shoulder as she asked in an awed voice: "Baby you won't _let_ her do no sich t'ing as dat? Cou'se you won't. Wimmin folks now-a-days has powerful strange ways, dat I kin see myse'f, but we-all don' do sich lak. Miss Nornie wouldn't never in de roun' worl' do _dat_, would she, honey? She jist a projectin', ain't she?" Mammy's old face was so troubled that Mrs. Carruth was much mystified. "Why Mammy, I don't know of anything that Eleanor is better qualified to do than coach. And Mammy, dear, we _must_ do something--every one of us, I fear. We can not all live on the small interest I now have, and I shall never touch the principal if I can possibly avoid doing so. Eleanor can materially help by entering upon this work, and Constance has already shown that she can aid also. Even Baby has helped," added Mrs. Carruth, laying her arm caressingly across Jean's shoulders, for Jean had stuck to her side like a burr. "Then you _will_ let me go to East Riveredge with the candy?" cried Jean, quick to place her entering wedge. "We will see," replied Mrs. Carruth, but Jean knew from the smile that the day was won. "I know all dat, honey," resumed Mammy, "but dis hyer coachin' bisness. I ain' got _dat_ settle in my mind. Hit just pure scandal'zation 'cordin' ter my thinkin'. Gawd bress my soul what we-all comin' to when a Blairsdale teken ter drive a nomnibus fer a livin'? Tck! Tck!" and Mammy collapsed upon a chair to clasp her hands and groan. Then light dawned upon the family. "Oh, Mammy! I don't intend to become a stage-coach driver," cried Eleanor, dropping upon her knees beside the perturbed old soul, and laying her own hands upon the clasped ones as she strove hard not to laugh outright. "You don't understand at _all_, Mammy. A coach is someone who helps other students who can't get on well with their studies. Who gives an hour or two each day to such work. And it is very well paid work, too, Mammy." Mammy looked at her incredulously as though she feared she was being made game of. Then she glanced at the others. Their faces puzzled her, as well they might, since the individuals were struggling to repress their mirth lest they wound the old woman's feelings, but still were anxious to reassure her. "Miss Jinny, is dat de solemn prar-book truf?" "It surely is Mammy. We are not quite so degenerate as you think us," answered Mrs. Carruth soberly, although her eyes twinkled in spite of her. "Well! Well! Jes so; Jes so. I sutin'ly is behine de times. I speck I ain' unnerstan dese yer new-fangled wo'ds no mor'n I unnerstan de new-fangled stoves. If coachin' done tu'ned ter meanin' school marmin' I hatter give up. Now go on wid yo' talkin': I gwine tek a back seat an' listen twell I knows sumpin'," and, wagging her head doubtingly, Mammy went back to her hassock. "Well _two_ of us have settled upon our plan of action, now what are _you_ going to do, Connie? You said you were determined to make your venture a paying one. What is your plan?" asked Eleanor, turning to Constance, who thus far had said very little. "I can't tell you right now. I've had so many plans simmering since I began to make my candy, but Mammy has always set the kettle on the back part of the stove just as it began to boil nicely, haven't you Mammy?" asked Constance, smiling into Mammy's face. "'Specs I's 'sponsuble fer a heap o' unbiled kittles, dough hits kase I hates p'intedly ter see de Blairsdales fixin' ter bu'n dey han's," was the good soul's answer. "Our hands can stand a few burns in a good cause, Mammy, so don't worry about it. We're healthy and they'll heal quickly," was Constance's cheerful reply. "Mebbe so," said Mammy skeptically. "Seriously, Constance, what have you thought of doing, dear?" asked Mrs. Carruth, a tender note coming into her voice for this daughter who had been the first to put her shoulder to the wheel for them all. "Well, you let me answer that question day after to-morrow, Mumsey? Or, perhaps, it may take even a little longer. But I'll tell you all about my simmering ideas when I have had time to make a few inquiries. Don't grow alarmed, Mammy; I'm not going to apply for a position as motor-girl on a trolley car," said Constance, as she laughingly nodded at Mammy. "Aint nothin' ever gwine 'larm me no mo', I reckons. Speck some day I fin' dat chile stanin' down yonder on de cawner sellin' candy an' stuff. Mought mos' anyt'ing happen," answered Mammy, as she rose from her hassock. "Well, if _yo'_-all gwine go inter bisness, I specs _I_ gotter too, so don' be 'sprised ef yo' see me. Now I'se gwine ter get a supper dat's fitten fer ter _eat_; dat lunch weren't nothin' but a disgrace ter de hull fambly," and off she hurried to the kitchen to prepare a supper that many would have journeyed far to eat. "Children," said Mrs. Carruth, as Mammy disappeared, "whatever comes we must try to keep together. We can meet almost any difficulty if we are not separated, but _that_ would nearly break my heart, I believe; father so loved our home and the companionship of his family, that I shall do my utmost to keep it as he wished. We may be deprived of the major portion of our income, and find the path rather a stony one for a while, but we have each other, and the affection which began more than twenty years ago, when I came North to make my home has grown deeper as the years have passed. Each new little form in my arms made it stronger, and the fact that father is no longer here to share the joys or sorrows with us can never alter it. In one sense he is always with us. His love for us is manifested on every hand. We will face the situation bravely and try to remember that never mind what comes, we have each other, and his 'three little women,' as he used to love to call you, are worthy of that beautiful name. He was very proud of his girls and used to build beautiful 'castles in Spain' for them. If he could only have been spared to realize them." Mrs. Carruth could say no more. The day had been a trying one for her, and strength and voice failed together as she dropped upon a settee and the girls gathered about her. Jean with her head in her lap as she clasped her arms around her; Eleanor holding her hands, and Constance, who had slipped behind the settee, with the tired head clasped against her breast and her lips pressed upon the pretty hair with its streaks of gray. For a few moments there was no sound in the room save Mrs. Carruth's rapidly drawn breaths as she strove to control her feelings. She rarely gave way in the presence of her children, but they knew how hard it was for her to maintain such self-control. It was very sweet to feel the strength of the young arms about her, and the presence of the vigorous young lives so ready to be up and doing for her sake. "Come up-stairs and rest a while before supper," said Constance, softly. "Will you? Do, please. We'll be your handmaidens." "Yes do, Mumsey, dear. I'll tuck you all up 'snug as a bug in a rug,'" urged Jean. "And I'll go make you a cup of tea just as you love it," added Eleanor hurrying from the room. As Mrs. Carruth rose from the settee Constance slipped her strong arm about her to lead her up to her own room, Jean running on ahead to arrange the couch pillows comfortably. Presently Mrs. Carruth was settled in her nest with Jean upon a low hassock, at her feet, patting them to make her "go byelow," she said. In a few moments Eleanor came back with a dainty little tray and tea service, which she set upon the taborette Constance had placed for it, and proceeded to feed her mother as she would have fed an invalid. "Do you want to quite spoil me?" asked Mrs. Carruth, from her nest of pillows. "Not a bit of it! We only want to make you realize how precious you are, don't you understand?" said Eleanor, kissing her mother's forehead. "There! That is the last bite of cracker and the last drop of tea. Now take 'forty winks' and be as fresh as a daisy for supper. Come on, Jean, let Mumsey go to sleep." "Oh, please let me stay here cuddling her feet. I'll be just as quiet as a mouse," begged Jean. "Please _all_ stay; and Connie, darling, whistle me to the land o' nod," said Mrs. Carruth, slipping one hand into Constance's and holding the other to Eleanor, who dropped down upon the floor and rested her cheek against it as she nestled close to the couch. Only the flickering flames of the logs blazing upon the andirons, lighted the room as the birdlike notes began to issue from the girl's lips. She whistled an air from the Burgomeister, its pretty melody rippling through the room like a thrush's notes. Presently Mrs. Carruth's eyelids drooped and, utterly wearied by the day's exciting events, she slipped into dreamland upon the sweet melody. CHAPTER XVIII "Save Me From My Friends" "Miss Jinny! Miss Jinny! Wait a minit. Dar's a man yander at de back do' dat wants fer ter ax yo' sumpin' he say," called Mammy, as she hurried through the hall just as Mrs. Carruth was leaving the house upon the following Monday morning. "What is it, Mammy?" asked Mrs. Carruth, pausing. "He say he want ter see yo' pintedly." Mrs. Carruth retraced her steps and upon reaching the back porch found Mr. Pringle waiting to see her. "Hope I haven't delayed you, Mrs. Carruth, but I wanted to see you on a matter of business which might help both of us, you see. Ah, I thought--I thought mebbe you'd like to hear of it." "I certainly should like to if it is to my advantage, Mr. Pringle," replied Mrs. Carruth, with a pleasant smile for the livery stable keeper, who stood self-consciously twirling his cap. "Yes, ma'am. I thought so, ma'am. Well it's this: Your stable, ma'am, up at the old place, are you usin' it at all?" "Not as a stable. It is more like a storehouse just now, for many things saved from the fire are stored there." "Could you put them somewhere else and rent the stable to me, ma'am? I'm much put to it to find room for my boarding horses, and the carriages; my place is not big, and I thought could I rent your stable I'd keep most of my boarding horses up there; it's nearer to their owners you see, ma'am." Mrs. Carruth thought a moment before replying. "I shall have to think over your proposal, Mr. Pringle. There is a great deal of stuff stored in the stable and I am at a loss to know what we could do with it. However, I will let you know in a day or two if that will answer." "Take your own time, ma'am. Take your own time. There's no hurry at all. I'll call round about Thursday and you can let me know. I'd be willing to pay twenty-five dollars a month for it, ma'am." Pringle did not add that the step had been suggested to him by Hadyn Stuyvesant, or that he had also set the figure. When they were all gathered in the pleasant living-room that evening, she spoke of the matter, ending with the question: "But _where_ can we put all that furniture? _This_ house will not hold another stick I'm afraid; we are crowded enough as it is." For a few moments no one had a suggestion to offer, then Constance cried: "Mother couldn't we _sell_ a good many of the things? People do that you know. The Boyntons did when they left Riveredge." "Yes, they had a private sale and disposed of many things. They advertised for weeks. I am afraid that would delay things too much." "Why not have an auction then? _That_ moves quickly enough. The things go or they _don't_ go, and that is the end of it." "Oh, I should dislike to do that. So many of those things hold very tender associations for me," hesitated Mrs. Carruth. "Yet I am sure there are many things there which can't possibly have, mother. That patent washing machine, for example, that is as big as a dining-room table, and Mammy 'pintedly scorns,'" laughed Eleanor. "And Jean's baby carriage. And the old cider-press, and that Noah's ark of a sideboard that we never _can_ use," added Constance. "And my express-wagon. I'll never play with _that_ again you know; I'm far too old," concluded Jean with much self-importance. "I dare say there are a hundred things there we will never use again, and which would better be sold than kept. Come down to the place with us to-morrow afternoon, Mumsey, and we will have a grand rummage," said Eleanor. And so the confab ended. The following afternoon was given over to the undertaking, and as is invariably the case, they wondered more than once why so many perfectly useless articles had been so long and so carefully cherished. Among them, however, were many which held very dear memories for Mrs. Carruth, and with which she was reluctant to part. Among these was a small box of garden-tools, which had belonged to her husband, and with which he had spent many happy hours at work among his beloved flower beds. Also a reading lamp which they had bought when they were first married, and beneath whose rays many tender dreams had taken form and in many instances become realities. To be sure the lamp had not been used for more than ten years, as it had long since ceased to be regarded as either useful or ornamental, and neither it nor the garden tools were worth a dollar. But wives and mothers are strange creatures and recognize values which no one else can see. The girls appreciated their mother's love for every object which their father's hands had sanctified, and urged her to put aside the things she so valued, arguing that the proceeds could not possibly materially increase the sum they might receive for the general collection. But Mrs. Carruth insisted that if one thing was sold all should be, and that her personal feelings must not influence or enter into the matter. So in time all was definitely arranged; the auctioneer was engaged and the sale duly advertised for a certain Saturday morning. No sooner were the posters in evidence than Miss Jerusha Pike, likewise, became so. She swept in upon Mrs. Carruth one morning when the latter was endeavoring to complete a much-needed frock for Jean, as that young lady's elbows were as self-assertive as herself, and had a trick of appearing in public when it was most inconvenient to have them do so. Between letting down skirts and putting in new sleeves Mrs. Carruth's hands were usually kept well occupied. "Morning, Mammy," piped Miss Pike's high-pitched voice, as Mammy answered her ring at the front door. "What's the meaning of these signs I see about town. You don't mean to tell me you are going to sell _out_? I couldn't believe my own eyes, so I came right straight here to find out. _Where_ is that dear, dear woman?" "She up in her room busy wid some sewin'," stated Mammy, with considerable emphasis upon the last word as a hint to the visitor. "Well, tell her not to mind _me_; I'm an old friend, you know. I'll go right up to her room; I wouldn't have her come down for the world." "Hum! Yas'm," replied Mammy, moving slowly toward the stairs. Too slowly thought Miss Pike, for, bouncing up from the reception-room chair, upon which she had promptly seated herself, she hurried after the retreating figure saying: "Now don't you bother to go way up-stairs. I don't doubt you have a hundred things to do this morning, and I've never been up-stairs in this house, anyway. Go along out to your kitchen, Mammy, and I'll just announce myself." And brushing by the astonished old woman she rushed half way up the stairs before Mammy could recover herself. It was a master coup de main, for well Miss Pike knew that she would never be invited to ascend those stairs to the privacy of Mrs. Carruth's own room. Mammy knew this also, and the good soul's face was a study as she stared after her. Miss Pike disappeared around the curve of the stairs calling as she ascended: "It's only _me_, dear. Don't mind me in the least. Go right on with your work. I'll be charmed to lend you a hand; I'm a master helper at sewing." Mammy muttered: "Well ef yo' aint de banginest han' at pokin' dat snipe nose o' yours inter places whar 'taint no call ter be _I'd_ lak ter know who _is_. I'se jist a good min' ter go slap bang atter yo' an' hustle yo' froo' dat front door; I is fer a fac'." Meanwhile, aroused from her occupation by the high-pitched voice, Mrs. Carruth dropped her work and hurried into the hall. She could hardly believe that this busy-body of the town had actually forced herself upon her in this manner. She had often tried to do so, but as often been thwarted in her attempts. "Oh, _why did_ you get up to meet me? You shouldn't have done it, you dear thing. I know how valuable every moment of your time is now-a-days. Dear, dear, how times have changed, haven't they? Now go right back to your room and resume your sewing and let me help while I talk. I _felt I must_ come. Those awful signs have haunted me ever since I first set my eyes upon them. _Don't_ tell me you are going to sell anything! Surely you won't leave Riveredge? Why I said to Miss Doolittle on my way here, well, if the Carruths have met with _more_ reverses and have got to sell out, _I'll_ clear give up. You haven't, have you? But this house must be an awful expense, ain't it? How much does Hadyn Stuyvesant ask you for it anyway? I'll bet he isn't _giving_ it away. His mother was rather near, you know, and I dare say he takes after her. _Do_ you pay as much as fifty a month for it? I said to Miss Doolittle I bet anything you didn't get it a cent less. Now do you? It's all between ourselves; you know I wouldn't breathe it to a soul for worlds." If you have ever suddenly had a great wave lift you from your feet, toss you thither and yonder for a moment, and then land you high and dry upon the beach when you have believed yourself to be enjoying a delightful little dip in an apparently calm ocean, you will have some idea of how Mrs. Carruth felt as this tornado of a woman caught her by her arm, hurried her back into her quiet, peaceful bedroom, forced her into her chair, and picking up her work laid it upon her lap, at the same time making a dive for an unfinished sleeve, as she continued the volley. "Oh, I see just _exactly_ what you're doing. I can be the greatest help to you. Go right on and don't give this a thought. I've been obliged to do so much piecing and patching for the family that I'm almost able to patch _shoes_. Now _what_ did you say Haydn Stuyvesant charged you for this house?" The sharp eyes were bent upon the sleeve. "I don't think I said, Miss Pike. And, thank you, it is not necessary to put a patch upon the elbow of that sleeve as you are preparing to do; I have already made an entire new one. As to our leaving Riveredge I am sorry you have given yourself so much concern about it. When we decide to do so I dare say _you_ will be the first to learn of our intention. Yes, the auction is to take place at our stable as the announcement states. You learned all the particulars regarding it from the bills, I am sure. If you are interested you may find time to be present that morning. And now, since I am strongly averse to receiving even my most intimate friends in a littered-up room I will ask you to return to the reception room with me," and rising from her chair this quiet, unruffled being moved toward the door. "But your work, my dear. Your work! You can't afford to let me interrupt it, I'm afraid. Your time must be so precious." "It seems to have been interrupted already, does it not? Sometimes we would rather sacrifice our time than our temper, don't you think so?" and a quizzical smile crept over Mrs. Carruth's face. "Well, now, I hate to have you make company of me. I really do. I thought I'd just run in for a little neighborly chat and I seem to have put a stop to everything. Dear me, I didn't think you'd mind _me_ a mite. Are you going to sell this set of furniture? 'Taint so very much worn, is it? Only the edges are a little mite frayed. Some people mightn't notice it, but my eyesight's exceptional. Well, do tell me _what's_ goin'." As though fate had taken upon herself the responsibility of answering that question, the door-bell rang at the instant and when it was answered by Mammy, Mrs. Eleanor Carruth stalked into the hall. Mrs. Carruth rose to greet her. _Miss Pike rose to go._ If there was one person in this world of whom Jerusha Pike stood in wholesome awe it was Mrs. Eleanor Carruth, for the latter lady had absolutely no use for the former, and let her understand it. Madam Carruth, as she was often called, shook her niece's hand, looked at her keenly for a moment and then said: "My stars, Jenny, what ails you? You look as though you'd been blown about by a whirlwind. Oh, how do _you_ do, Miss Pike. Just going? You're under too high pressure, Jenny. We must ease it up a little, I guess. Good-bye, Miss Pike. My niece has always been considered a most amiable woman, hasn't she? I think she hasn't backbone enough at times. That is the reason I happen along unexpectedly to lend her some. Fine day, isn't it?" Two minutes later Miss Pike was in close confab with her friend Miss Doolittle. Aunt Eleanor was up in her niece's room putting in the neglected sleeve and saying: "If _I'd_ been in that front hall I'll guarantee she would never have clomb those stairs. Now tell me all about this auction." CHAPTER XIX "An Auction Extraordinary" "My! Just look at them perfec'ly good, new window screens. It _does_ seem a shame to sell 'em, don't it now? They might come in real handy sometime," cried one eager inspector of the collection of articles displayed for sale in the Carruths' barn the following Saturday morning. That the house for which those screens had been made lay almost in ashes not a hundred feet from her, and that the chances of their ever fitting any other house, unless it should be expressly built for them, did not enter that lady's calculations. "Yes, and just look at his elergant sideboard. My! it must have cost a heap o' money. Say, don't you think them Carruths were just a little mite extravagant? Seems ter me they wouldn't a been so put to it after Carruth's death if they hadn't a spent money fer such things as them. But I wonder what it'll bring? 'Tis elergant, aint it? I'm just goin' ter keep my eyes peeled, and maybe I c'n git it." "Why what in this world would you do with it if you _did_? You haven't a room it would stand in," cried the friend, looking first at the huge, old-fashioned, walnut sideboard, that Constance had called a Noah's Ark, and then at its prospective purchaser as though she questioned her sanity. "Yes, it _is_ big, that's so," agreed that lady, "but it's _so_ elergant. Why it would give a real air to my dining-room, and I guess I could sell our table if both wouldn't stand in the room. We could eat in the kitchen fer a spell, you know, till maybe Jim's wagers were raised an' we could go into a bigger house. Anyway I'm goin' ter _bid_ on it. It's too big a chanst ter let slip." "Yes, it _is_ pretty big," replied her friend, turning away to hide a slight sneer, for _she_ was a woman of discretion. "Now, ladies and gentlemen," called the auctioneer at that moment, "may I claim your attention for this most unusual sale; a sale of articles upon which you would never have had an opportunity to bid but for the 'calamity at your heels'--to quote the immortal William." The people massed in front of him, for Riveredge had turned out en masse, started and glanced quickly over their shoulders. "But for the tragedy of them ashes these elegant articles of furniture would never have been placed on sale; your opportunity would never have been. Alas! 'one man's meat is ever another man's poison.' Now what am I offered for this roll of fine Japanese matting? Yards and yards of it as you see; all perfectly new; a rare opportunity to secure a most superior floor covering for a low figure. What am I bid, ladies and gentlemen?" "One dollar," ventured a voice. "_One dollar!_ Did I hear right? Surely not. One dollar for at least fifteen yards of perfectly new Japanese matting? Never. Who will do better 'n that? Two? Two--two--" "Two-fifty!" "Good, that's better, but it's a wicked sacrifice Come now--two-fifty--two-fifty--" "Three. Three-fifty. Four," ran up the bids in rapid competition until seven dollars were bid for the roll. It was bought by the discreet lady. At that moment Jean, who had been everywhere, appeared upon the scene. "Oh, did you buy those pieces of matting?" she observed. "Mother told me to tell the auctioneer not to bother with them 'cause she didn't think there were two yards of any single pattern. I didn't get here in time though, I'm sorry, but I had to stop on my way." "Not two yards of any one pattern? Why there's yards and yards in this roll. Do you mean to tell me 'taint all alike?" "I guess not. It's pieces that were left from our house and all the rest was burned up." Just then Jean spied Constance and flew toward her leaving the discreet lady to discover just what she _had_ paid seven dollars for. On her way she ran into Jerusha Pike, who laid upon her a detaining hand. "Jean, you're exactly the child I want. Where is your sister Constance? I want to see her. Is your mother here?" "No, Miss Pike, mother didn't come. Connie is right yonder. See her?" Off hurried Miss Pike to the tree beneath which Constance stood watching the progress of the sale, which was now in full swing; the auctioneer feeling much elated at the returns of his initial venture, was warming up to his work. Eleanor, with her Aunt Eleanor, who was much in evidence this day, was seated behind the auctioneer's raised stand, and thus quite sheltered from observation. "Constance Carruth, you are the very girl I must see. _You_ can and will tell me what I wish to know, I am sure," cried Miss Pike, in a stage whisper. "If I can I will, Miss Pike," answered Constance with a mental reservation for the "can." "I want you to tell me what your poor dear mother most values among the things she has here. There _must_ be some treasures among them which she cherishes for sweet associations' sake. Name them, I implore you. I have never forgiven myself for the accident which befell that priceless mirror. If I can bid in something here for her let me do it, I beg of you. There is no one else to do it, and _you_ are far too young to be exposed to the idle gaze of these people." "But Miss Pike, Eleanor and----" "No! No! I cannot permit either of you to do this thing. Your dear mother would be shocked. _I'll_ attend to it for you, if you will only tell me." "But," began Constance, and was interrupted by the auctioneer's voice calling: "_Now_, ladies and gentlemen, here is a _fine_ set of garden tools in perfect order." "Oh, they were daddy's. That is the set mother felt so bad about selling, isn't it, Connie?" broke in Jean, who had not been paying much attention to the conversation between her sister and Miss Pike. "There! What did I say! I was confident of it! _Now_ is my opportunity to make reparation. _Nothing_ shall balk me." "But Miss Pike; Miss Pike; you must not. Aunt Eleanor----" But Miss Pike had rushed toward the auction stand. Meanwhile Eleanor had been saying: "I wish we had not offered that garden set at all. It was father's and mother really felt dreadful about selling it. I fully intended to have it put aside without saying anything to mother, but there was so much to attend to that I forgot it, and now it is too late." "Not in the least, _I'll_ bid it in," and rising from her chair, Madam Carruth prepared to do her duty by her niece. Just then Miss Pike appeared from the opposite direction. "How much am I bid for this garden set? All in perfect condition." "Ten cents," replied a strident voice. "Scandalous!" cried Miss Pike. "_I'll_ bid one dollar. It is sanctified by the touch of a vanished hand." "Indeed," murmured Madam Carruth, who could see Miss Pike, although that lady could not be seen by _her_. "Well, I guess _not_. One-fifty." Miss Pike was too intent upon securing the object to give heed to the speaker's voice or recognize it. "One-seventy-five! One-seventy-five! One-seventy-five! Going, going at one-seventy-five." "Two-seventy-five!" "Ah! That's better. It would be a shame to sacrifice this set for a song. It is no ordinary set of garden implements, but a most superior quality of steel. Two-seventy-five; two-seventy-five--" "Three! I must have them." The last words were spoken to a bystander, but Madam Carruth's ears were sharp. "Must you? Indeed! We'll see." One or two others, who began to believe that a rare article was about to slip from their possible grasp, now started in to bid, and in a few moments the price had bounded up to five dollars. The original cost of the set had been three. Then it went gayly skyward by leaps and bounds until in a reckless instant Miss Pike capped the climax with ten. "Well if she wants to be such a fool she may," exclaimed Madam Carruth. "I could buy four sets for that money and sometimes even sentiment comes too high. I'd save 'em for your mother if I could, but sound sense tells me she can make better use of a ten-dollar bill than of a half-dozen pieces of old ironmongery. That Pike woman always _was_ a fool." "Gone for ten dollars!" cried the auctioneer at that instant. Miss Pike's face was radiant. She was about to turn away when Jean made her way through the crowd to her side crying: "Did you really get them, Miss Pike? mother'll be so glad. When we were talking about selling these things she almost cried when she spoke about the garden tools and the lamp----" "_What_ lamp, child? Oh these heartrending changes! Tell me what the lamp is like. If it can be saved I'll save it for her. I can't understand _why_ your sisters permitted the objects, around which the tendrils of your mother's heart were so entwined, to be put up for sale. To me it seems a positive sacrilege." "But mother made them do it. She wouldn't let----and, oh, there's the lamp now. That one with the bronze bird on it, see?" "Oh, the tender memories that must cluster about it. I will hold them sacred for her. They shall not be desecrated. Stand beside me, child. I shall bid that in for your dear mother." Again the lively contest for possession was on, although the sums named did not mount by such startling bounds as in the case of the garden tools. Still, more than four dollars had been offered before Miss Pike, in flattering imitation of a large New York department store, offered $4.99, and became the triumphant owner of it. Miss Pike had a small income, but was by no means given to flinging her dollars to the winds. So it was not surprising that many who knew her marveled at the sums she was spending for her two purchases. Having paid her bill she promptly took possession of her lamp and her case of garden tools and stalked off through the throng of people in quest of Constance whom she found talking to a group of schoolmates near the ruins of the old home. "Congratulate me! Congratulate me! I've saved the treasures from the vandals! I've rescued them from sacrilegious hands. Behold! Take them to your mother with my dearest love. I had a struggle to get them, for some woman was determined to secure that garden set But _I_ came off victorious. I had to do battle royal, but I conquered. Now, my dear, when you go home take them with you. They _did_ come rather high; I had to pay ten dollars for the garden set, but I got the lamp for less than five!--four ninety-nine. But you need not pay me until it is _perfectly_ convenient. Don't let it worry you for a moment. I am repaid for the time being in the thought that I secured them for your mother. I knew she would rather pay twice the sum than see them fall into the hands of utter strangers. Good-bye, my dear, I must hurry home, for I have been absent too long already." As Miss Pike departed, Constance dropped upon the carriage step, which, being of stone, had survived flame and flood. Upon the ground before her lay their own garden set, and stood their own lamp for which her mother would have to return to Jerusha Pike, fourteen dollars and ninety-nine cents owing to that lady's unbridled zeal. She looked at them a moment, then glancing up at her friends whose faces were studies, the absurdity of the situation overcame her and them also, and peals of laughter echoed upon the wintry air. "Who was it that said 'Save me from my friends!' Connie?" asked a girl friend. Constance looked unspeakable things. Then bounding to her feet she cried: "Well, it's lucky we can return her own money to her, but that settles it. It might have been worse anyway. I've been on the fence for several days without knowing which way to jump. _Now_ I do know, and Miss Pike has given the push. It's been a case of: 'Our doubts are traitors And make us lose the good we oft might win By fearing to attempt.' "There, Belle, is a quotation to match yours, and bear in mind what I say: I'm going to live up to it. Now I'm going home. Come on, you people, and help me lug these treasures there," and off the laughing procession set, each girl or lad burdened with some article of the purchases, Constance leading the way with the lamp, and all singing: 'Doubt thou the stars are fire, Doubt that the sun doth move; Doubt truth to be a liar, Doubt _not_ Jerusha's love.' "I don't think I ever shall, but perhaps she has helped in one way, since she has settled _my_ doubts, and the next thing you people hear of me may make you open your eyes. No, I won't tell you a single thing. Just wait until next week, then you'll see." CHAPTER XX Constance B.'s Venture Owing to the stirring events at home, Jean had not set forth that morning, but the first excitement, incident to the sale of their belongings over, she prepared to drive out to East Riveredge, with her box of candies. Mrs. Carruth entertained some misgivings regarding the wisdom of letting her again pass through McKim's Hollow, but a compromise was effected by Jean agreeing to take a different road. It made the trip a trifle longer, but was free from dangers, and Jean set forth in high feather and bursting with importance. Having seen her off, Constance flew to her room, and within half an hour emerged therefrom dressed all in soft brown. Little brown toque, with a modest brown quill stuck through the folds of the cloth. Brown kilted skirt and box coat, brown furs and brown gloves. She looked almost as sedate as a little Quakeress, although her cheeks were rosy from excitement and her eyes shone. "Mother, I have a little matter to attend to in South Riveredge. You won't feel anxious if I am not back before dark will you?" she asked as she paused at her mother's door, on her way down-stairs. Mrs. Carruth looked at her a moment before replying and wondered if the girl had any idea how attractive she was. Then she asked: "Am I to refrain from making inquiries?" "Please don't ask a single question, for even if I wanted to answer them I couldn't," said Constance, as she kissed her mother good-bye. Half an hour later she was at the Arcade in South Riveredge, asking the elevator man to direct her to the office of the superintendent of the building. "Room 16, fourth floor," directed the man. So to the fourth floor went Constance. Opening the door of No. 16, she entered, but stood for a second upon the threshold rather at a loss how to proceed. Seated at a large rolltop desk was a man wearing a brisk, wide-awake air which instantly reminded her of her father. Gaining confidence from that fact, so often are we swayed by trifles, she advanced into the room, saying: "Good afternoon. Are you the superintendent of the building?" "I am," answered the gentleman, smiling pleasantly, and rising from his chair. "What can I do for you, young lady?" Now that she had actually come to the point of stating her errand, Constance hardly knew where to begin. The superintendent noticing her hesitancy said kindly: "Won't you be seated? It is always easier to talk business when seated, don't you think so?" and placing a chair near his desk, he motioned her toward it. Mr. Porter did not often have calls from such youthful business women, and was somewhat at a loss to understand the meaning of this one. Constance was not aware that in placing the chair for her he had put it where the light from the window just back of him would fall full upon _her_ face. Taking the chair she looked at him smiling half-doubtfully, and half-confidently as she said: "Maybe you will think I am very silly and inexperienced, and I know I _am_, but I'd like to know whether you have any offices to rent in this building, and how much you charge for them?" The big eyes looked very childish as they were turned upon him, and Mr. Porter could not help showing some surprise at the question. He had a daughter about this girl's age, and wondered how he would feel if she were in her place. "Yes, we have one unoccupied office on the eighth floor, in the rear of the building. It is divided into two fair-sized rooms and the rental is four hundred dollars a year." Constance jumped. "Four hundred a year! Why that is almost as much as we pay for our _whole_ house! My goodness, isn't that a lot? I had no idea they cost so much. Dear me, I'm afraid I can never, never do it," and her words ended with a doubtful shake of her head. "Do you object to telling me just what you wish to do and why you need an office?" asked Mr. Porter kindly. "Perhaps I could offer some suggestions. Sometimes our tenants like to rent desk room, and if you needed no more than a desk----why----." "But I couldn't use a desk for a counter, could I?" hesitated Constance. "That depends upon what the counter had to hold. Suppose you tell me. Then we will see." The deep blue eyes behind the glasses regarded her very encouragingly. Constance's eyebrows were raised doubtfully as she replied: "I'm afraid you will think me very foolish and unsophisticated, and of course I am, but I just _know_ I can succeed if I once get started right. Besides I _won't_ give up unless I _have_ to. Other girls do things and there is no reason _I_ shouldn't. I know my candy is good, 'cause if it wasn't Mammy could not sell it so easily, and--" "Candy? Are you planning to sell candy? If it's half as good as the candy an old colored woman sells around here you'll sell all you can make. I buy some of her every time she comes here, and my girls ask every day if she has been around with it. It's great candy." As Mr. Porter talked Constance's cheeks grew rosier and rosier, and her eyes danced with fun. Of this he speedily became aware, and looking at her keenly he asked: "Have you ever eaten any of the old Auntie's candy? Does she make it herself? I've asked her a dozen times, but I can't get her to commit herself! She always gets off a queer rigmarole about her 'pa'tner,'" ended Mr. Porter, smiling as he recalled Mammy's clever fencing with words. "Yes, I've eaten it. No, she doesn't make it; she only sells it. _I_ make it," confessed Constance, nervously toying with the ends of her fur collar. "You don't say so! Why it's the best candy I've ever tasted. Well, really! And you think of opening a _stand_?" concluded Mr. Porter, a little incredulously, for the girl before him did not seem to be one who would venture upon such an enterprise. "Well yes, and no. I want to have a place to sell it here in South Riveredge, but I can't exactly have a counter you see, because I am still in school the greater part of the day. So I thought up a plan and--and I want to try it. Would you mind if I told you about it?" The sweet voice and questioning look with which the words were spoken would have won the ear of a less interested man than Robert Porter. More than an hour passed before this plan which had been simmering in the girl's active brain, was laid before the practical business man, and he was amazed at what he afterwards pronounced its "level-headedness." When the conversation ended, Constance was wiser by many very sane suggestions made by her listener, and more than ever determined to carry her plan through. "Now, young lady, by-the-way, do you mind letting me know your name? We can talk better business if I do. Mine's Porter." "I am Constance Carruth," said Constance. "Carruth? Not Bernard Carruth's daughter?" "Yes." "You don't say so! Why I knew your father well, little girl, and respected him more than any man I've ever known. He was a fine man. Bernard Carruth's daughter? Well I declare." Constance's cheeks glowed more than ever. Praise of her father was sweet to her ears. "Well, well, Bernard Carruth's daughter," repeated Mr. Porter, as though he could not quite make it true. "Well, come with me. I've an idea for this candy selling scheme and we'll see what we can do." Rising from his chair he led the way to the elevator. Upon reaching the main floor he walked to the rear of the building where the stairway was situated. In the alcove made by the box-stairs stood the public telephone switch board and two booths. At the right, close under the stairs, was an empty space too low for the booths, and yet of no use to the operator, since while she might be able to occupy it when sitting at a desk, she was very likely to encounter a cracked crown if she rose too quickly from her chair. All was enclosed with a little wooden railing and well lighted by the electric lights. "Now I am wondering if we couldn't rig up a tempting little booth in this unoccupied space. Good afternoon, Miss Willing. How would you like to share your quarters with this enterprising young lady? She has a mighty clever idea in that logical head of hers and I'm going to do my best to help her make it a success. How about _you_?" he ended, making a mental contrast between the strikingly handsome, dark-haired, dark-eyed girl at the telephone booth, whose glances flashed back at him so boldly, and whose toilet would have been better suited to an afternoon function than a telephone booth, and the modest, well-gowned, young girl beside him. "I guess I won't bother her, and I'm sure she won't bother _me_," was the reply which proved the speaker's fiber, and caused Constance to look at her and wonder that any one _could_ be so lacking in refinement. Little Connie had many things to learn in the business world into which she was venturing. But the knowledge would do her no harm. She was well equipped to stand the test. The girl saw the look of surprise and no rebuke could have been keener. With a little resentful toss of her head, for this girl who had so innocently made her aware of her shortcomings, she turned to answer a call upon the 'phone, and Constance to listen to Mr. Porter's words. "Now, Miss Carruth, my idea is this: Suppose we have this little space fitted up with attractive cases, and the necessary shelves. It is not very large, but neither is the venture--yet. When it grows bigger we will find a bigger cubby for it. The thing to do now is to find the _right_ one; one where you can make a good show, and be sure of catching your customers, and where the customers are likely to come to be _caught_. I don't know of any place where, in the long run, more are likely to come than to a 'phone booth. What do you think of it?" "It's just _splendid_!" cried Constance. "I couldn't have found a better place no matter how long I tried. I'm _so_ much obliged to you, Mr. Porter." "Better wait until you see how it pans out--the booth, not the candy. I can speak for the panning of that," laughed Mr. Porter, then added: "Well, that is step No. 1 taken. Now for No. 2, and that is stocking up. Have you thought about that?" "Yes, I've thought. My goodness! I've thought until my wits are fairly muddled with thinking, but that is the part that bothers me most. I can make the candy easily enough after school hours, and I can manage to send it here, but I'm dreadfully afraid I haven't as much capital on hand as I ought to have to get all the boxes I need. They are very expensive I find. I wrote to two firms who make them, but it seems to me they charged me dreadful prices. Perhaps they suspected from my letter that I wasn't much of a business woman," confessed Constance, looking frankly into the friendly eyes. Mr. Porter laughed in spite of himself, then sobering down again asked: "Have you time to come back to my office? I would like to make a proposition to you." "Why yes, Mr. Porter, I have time enough," hesitated Constance. "But I am afraid I am taking a good deal more of yours than I ought to." "Am I not working in the interests of the owner of this building? I'm trying to secure a new tenant for him. What more could I do?" "I don't believe their income will be materially increased by _this_ tenant," answered Constance much amused at the thought. "Every one counts, you know. But now to business." Entering his office with a brisk air, he again motioned Constance to the chair by his desk, and asked: "Are you willing to discuss all the details with me? You know I do not ask from idle curiosity, I am sure. I am interested; very deeply interested. I want to see this thing succeed. You have outlined your plan and it is all right. All it needs now is a little capital to carry it through successfully. Now let us see if we can't _secure_ that." CHAPTER XXI Constance B.'s Candies "Now, Miss Carruth, tell me the prices quoted for the boxes, and how many you had thought of ordering," said Mr. Porter, in the voice so encouraging when used by older people to younger. "Well, if I order _any_ I suppose I ought to order a hundred," began Constance. "One hundred!" echoed Mr. Porter. "Why, little girl, that would not be a flea-bite. You ought to order five hundred at least." "_Five hundred!_" cried Constance, in dismay. "Why, Mr. Porter, I'm afraid I've hardly enough money to order one hundred at the rate they charge," and she named the sums asked by the firms to which she had written. "Bosh! Nonsense! That's downright robbery. You let _me_ write to a firm _I_ know of and we'll see what we'll see. And now I'm going to take some stock in this company right off. I'm going to invest one hundred dollars in it to be used as a working capital--there--don't say a word of protest," as Constance voiced an exclamation. "_I_ know what I'm up to, and--I love sweets. If you can't pay back in any other way you can keep me supplied for a year. Just now you've got to start out in good shape, and there is no use doing things half way. But you haven't asked me what I'm going to charge you for your booth?" concluded Mr. Porter, with a merry twinkle in his blue eyes. "Why I forgot all about the price," said Constance in confusion. "Oh, dear, how stupid I am." "Well, since it is a space we never thought to rent anyway, and couldn't use for anything else if we wished to, suppose we say five dollars a month? I think those are pretty good returns for a cubby. If I do as well in proportion with all the other offices I'll make the owners rich." "I'm afraid it is _very_ low. I think you are only letting me have it so cheap just because you liked father. Don't you think I ought really to pay more? I didn't think I could get _any_ sort of a place for _less_ than ten dollars a month," was Constance's most unbusinesslike speech. Mr. Porter looked at the earnest face regarding him so frankly and confidingly, and a very suspicious moisture came into his eyes. Rising from his chair he laid his hand kindly upon her shoulder as she arose and stood before him, and said very gently: "Don't worry yourself on _that_ score, little girl, and--don't mind it if I _do_ call you little girl; you seem that to me spite of your business aspirations. I am asking you a fair price because I know you would rather feel that you are _paying_ a fair price for what you get, and would prefer beginning your business venture on such a basis. I am also advancing this sum of money because I am confident you will succeed. It is purely a business speculation. I would do it for your father's sake, but I know you would rather I did it upon strictly business principles. I can not lose my money in any case, because if I do not get the actual cash, I know I shall get my sweets--a whole hundred dollars' worth. It fairly makes my mouth water to think of them, and my girls will go wild when I tell them. Keep up a brave heart, and, above all, keep that pretty modesty you have, for it will carry you farther than any amount of audacity. It is your best armor. There is nothing a man respects more than a brave and modest woman, my dear. Nothing in this world. Now, little woman, go home and think up the style and sizes of the boxes you will need and let me know at once. 'Phone me early Monday morning. Design something yourself if you can; it will take quicker. Next week I'll have your stall put into shape and you can make your candies and stock up as soon as your boxes come. _Then_ we will soon learn whether your faith in your fellow-beings is justified or misplaced. I believe you will find it justified; upon my soul I do; though I have never before seen such a scheme put to the test. Now good-bye; good-bye, and God bless you," ended Mr. Porter, warmly shaking the small gloved hand. "Good-bye, Mr. Porter, and, oh, thank you _so_ much for your kind interest. I feel so brave and encouraged to begin now," cried Constance, her eyes confirming her words, and her cheeks glowing. Mr. Porter accompanied her to the elevator, and with another hearty farewell, sped her upon her way brimful of enthusiasm, and more than ever resolved to carry into effect the scheme which had entered her head many weeks before, and which was now taking definite form and shape. The trolley car seemed fairly to crawl along, so did her desire to reach home and tell of the afternoon's undertaking outstrip its progress. It was quite dark when she alighted and climbed the hill at her home, thinking, as she ascended the steps, how sweet and cheerful the little home looked, for her mother, in spite of the warnings volunteered by some of her friends that some day she would be robbed as the outcome of letting all the world look in upon her, would never have the shades drawn. Mrs. Carruth always replied: "For the sake of those to whom a glimpse of our cheery hearth gives pleasure, and there are more than you guess, as I have learned to my own surprise, I shall take my chances with the possible unscrupulous ones." And so the window shades remained raised after the lamps were lighted, and many a passer-by was cheered along his way by a peep at the sweet, home-like picture of a gentle-faced woman, and three bright-faced girls, gathered around the blazing hearth, and reading or sewing in the soft lamp-light. "Dear little Mumsey," said Constance, softly, as she paused a moment before crossing the piazza. "Your girlie is going to help you keep just such a sweet home forever and ever, and ever." Then giving the whistling bird-call by which the members of the family signaled to each other, she went close to the window and looked smilingly in. Up bounced Jean to fly to the door; Eleanor raised her head from the book over which she was, as usual, bent, and nodded; Mrs. Carruth waved her hand and wafted a kiss. "Oh, come in quick, and tell us where you have been, and what you have done," cried Jean, opening the door with a whirl. "Hello, baby! Give me a big hug first," cried Constance, and Jean bounded into her arms. Mrs. Carruth had crossed the room to welcome the tardy one, and as soon as she was released from Jean's tempestuous embrace, took the glowing face in both her hands gently to kiss the cheeks as she said: "What a bonny, bonny glow the cheeks wear, sweetheart. Something very lovely must have happened." "Oh, mother, I've had such a perfectly splendid afternoon and feel so brave and proud about it all. Let me get my things off and I'll tell you all about it. But is supper almost ready? I'm half-starved? Excitement sharpens one's appetite doesn't it? Heigh-ho. Nornie. What news of the ponies? If you're to be a coach-woman you've got to have some sort of an equine creature to hustle along, haven't you? Did you have time to go and see the prospective ones this afternoon? And oh, _how_ did the auction turn out, mother? Gracious, what stirring people the Carruths are getting to be compared with the common-place, slow-going ones they were." "Jean, dear, run out and tell Mammy that Constance is home, and we will have supper at once. You can tell us all the news at the table, dear." Jean flew for Mammy's quarters, quite as eager as Constance to have the supper served. "Mammy! Mammy! Connie's got back, and she's starved _dead_! Mother says have supper right off quick," burst out Jean, as she whisked through the butler's pantry. "Jes so. Whar dat chile been? Go 'long back an' tell 'em de supper 'ready an' a waitin', as de hyme book say, an' I got sumpin' dat dat chile pintedly love." "What is it, Mammy? What is it?" cried Jean, eagerly, as she ran over to inspect the dishes upon the range. "Get out! Clear 'long! Yo' keep yo' little nose outen my dishes!" cried Mammy, with assumed wrath, as she pounced upon little Miss Inquisitive. "Yo' go right 'long an' tell her I'se got lay-over-catch-meddlers in hyer an' lessen yo' take keer you'll turn inter one." "Fiddlestick!" retorted Jean, as she flew back. A few moments later the family had gathered about the delightful supper table and Constance was relating the experiences of the afternoon, while first one and then another exclaimed over her venture, Mammy crying as she urged her to take another of the dainty waffles she had made especially for her. "Honey, what I tol' yo'? Ain' I perdic' dat yo' boun' ter hit de tack spang on de right en'? I say dat dem pralines and fudges de banginest candies I ever _is_ see, an' de folks what done buy 'em--huh! My lan' dey fair brek dey necks fallin' ober one an'ner ter git _at_ 'em de minit I sot myse'f on dat ar camp stool. An' now yo' gwine open a boof an' 'splay 'em fer sale? But yo' aint gwine stan' behin' de counter is yo'? Yo' better _not_ set out ter do no sich t'ing as _dat_, chile, whilst _I'se yo'_ Mammy. No-siree! I ain' gwine stan' fer no sich gwines-on as dat--in a Blairsdale. Yo' kin hab yo' cubby, as yo' calls hit, an' take yo' chances wedder yo' gits cheated or wedder yo' meets up with hones' folks, but yo' cyant go behin' no counter, an' dats flat. When yo' gwine begin makin' all dat mess o' candy?" "Just as soon as I have some boxes to sell it in, Mammy, and those I must design. At least must suggest something pretty for the covers." "Have a picture of Baltie on the cover, Connie. He was the first one to take your candies to South Riveredge," cried Jean, with thoughts ever for the faithful old silent partner. "No, Baltie belongs to you and Mammy. By-the-way, how did you get on at the school to-day? You haven't told me yet." "Just _splendiferous_! The boys bought every bit I took; I mean every bit that was _left_ after Professor Forbes got all _he_ wanted. He was at the gate when I drove up, and what do you think he did? Made me stop until he had bought six packages of fudge and six packages of pralines, and then made me promise always to save them for him. My goodness if that man doesn't have _one_ stomachache," ended this sage young lady speaking from bitter experiences of her own. "Jean!" cried Eleanor. "Well, it's true. Twelve whole packages of candy all for _himself_, greedy old thing! And he asked me if I couldn't come _twice_ a week. I told him I guessed not, and if he wanted it oftener than once a week he'd have to come after it. And he said that was precisely what he _would_ do, and to ask my sister to please to have twelve packages for him on Wednesday afternoon. _That_ man's teeth will need a dentist just you see if they don't," ended Jean with an ominous wag of the head for the sweet-toothed professor, while the rest of the family shrieked with laughter. "What do _you_ suggest for my boxes, mother?" asked Constance, when the laugh had subsided. "How about little white moire paper boxes with some pretty flower on the cover?" "Pretty, but not very distinctive I'm afraid," said Constance, doubtfully. "How about those pretty Japanese boxes they have at Bailey's?" ventured Eleanor. "Still less distinctive. No; I must have some design that suggests _me_. Don't think me conceited, but I want people to know that the candy is made and sold by a school-girl, who cannot be there to look after her counter, and must trust to their honesty. I've got an idea about my _sign_, but, somehow, I don't seem to be able to get one that is worth a straw for the boxes, yet I've been thinking as hard as I could think." "Wait a minit, Baby," said Mammy, and hurried from the room. She came back in about ten minutes holding a small box in her hand. Placing it upon the table before Constance, she said: "Now, Honey, mebbe dis yere idee ob mine ain' nothin' in de worl' but foolishness, but seems ter me ef yo' want distincshumness you's got hit _dar_. I ain' half lak ter let yo' _do_ hit, but dey's _yo'_ candies, so I spec' yo' might as well let folks unnerstan' hit." The box was one which Jean had given Mammy the previous Christmas. It was made of white moire paper with a small medallion in gilt in the left-hand upper corner, the medallion being in the shape of a little gold frame formed of gold beads. Originally there had been a colored picture of Santa Claus's face within it, but over this Mammy had carefully pasted a small photo of Constance; one taken several years before. In the center of the box was written in gold script "Merry Christmas," and just beneath that the word "bonbons." "Couldn't you have yo' name whar de Merry Christmas stan' at an' 'candies' whar de bong bongs is?" asked Mammy. "Mammy, you old dear!" cried Constance, springing to her feet to throw her arms about the wise old creature. "You've hit it exactly. Why I couldn't have anything better if I thought for a whole year. I'll have some pictures taken right off and the boxes shall be just exactly like this. Hurrah for 'Constance B.'s Candies!' Come on Mammy, we've got to celebrate the brilliant idea!" and catching the astonished old woman by the arms, Constance whirled her off on a lively two-step, whistling the accompaniment, while Mammy cried: "Gawd bress my soul, is yo' gone stark crazy, chile!" and at length broke away to vanish protesting within the privacy of her kitchen. CHAPTER XXII First Steps During the ensuing week it would have been hard to find a busier household than the Carruths'. Instead of telephoning to Mr. Porter on Monday morning, as he had suggested, Constance wrote a long letter Saturday evening, giving accurate directions for the boxes, and enclosing a paper design to be sent to the manufacturers. The letter reached him by the early mail, causing him to exclaim: "George, what a level little head she _has_ got! She shall have those boxes before next Saturday, if I have to go after them myself. Why the idea is simply great!" Going to his 'phone he called up Mrs. Carruth's home. Constance had already gone to school, but Mrs. Carruth answered the 'phone. She was quite as delighted as Constance would have been, and promised to deliver the message to her upon her return. When she heard it Constance's cheeks glowed. "Isn't he a _dear_, mother, to take so much trouble for me? And now I must get _busy, busy, busy_. I've pounds and pounds of candy to make between this and Saturday, and I must make it afternoons." "I can not bear to think of you doing this, dear," said Mrs. Carruth, laying her hand tenderly upon the soft brown hair. "Why not, I'd like to know?" cried Constance. "Because it takes the time you should spend in outdoor exercise. You work hard in school, and that has always seemed to me to be quite enough for any girl to undertake. Yet here you and Eleanor are about to give up your afternoons for this work and the coaching." Mrs. Carruth sighed, for it was hard for her to adjust herself to the new order of things in her family. Raised upon a large plantation, where she, the only daughter, was her father's idol, for whom everything must be done, and whose every wish must be considered, she shrank from the thought of her girls laboring for their daily bread, or stepping out into the world beyond their own thresholds. Her father would have felt that the world was about to cease revolving had _she_ been obliged to take such a step. Indeed it would have quite broken his heart, for never had any woman of _his_ household been forced to do aught toward her own maintenance. But times had changed since Reginald Blairsdale had been laid away in the little burial plot upon the plantation, where his wife had slept for so many years, and his daughter had lived to see many changes take place which would have outraged all his traditions. "Now, mother, _please_ listen to me," said Constance, earnestly, as she slipped her arm about her mother's waist. "I am _not_ going to give up all my afternoons, and neither is Eleanor. As to the exercise, we each have a pretty long walk to and from school mornings and afternoons, and, in addition to that, Eleanor will go to her pupils' houses to do her coaching. That gives her a good bit of exercise three afternoons each week, and she has _all_ her Saturdays free. I shall give little more than two hours a day to my candy making, and I know you and Jean will gladly help me do the packing and tying up. Just how I shall send it over, I haven't decided yet; that can be settled later when I send a ton or so each day," laughed Constance. "Meanwhile Mammy will take it over, or _I_ can. Only _please_ don't dampen my enthusiasm or worry because I am undertaking this step. I am perfectly well and strong, and I'll promise not to do anything to endanger that health and strength. So smile upon my venture, Mumsey, dear, and make up your mind that it _is_ going to be a _great_ success,--because it _is_," ended Constance, with a rapturous hug. "You are my brave, sweet girl!" said Mrs. Carruth, very tenderly. "Yes, I'll put my Blairsdale pride in my pocket--or rather my hand-bag, since pockets are no longer in fashion, and try to be a full-fledged, twentieth-century woman. Now what is the first step?" "The first step is to make my candies before I try to sell 'em. No, the first is to order the stuff sent home to make them of. I'll 'phone right down to Van Dorn's this minute. I've plenty on hand for this afternoon's candy, but I'll lay in a big supply ahead." The 'phoning was soon done, and then Constance hurried to the kitchen where for the two ensuing hours she worked like a beaver. At the end of that time several pounds of tempting sweets were made and ready to be wrapped in paraffin paper. When this was done all was packed carefully into tin boxes to await the arrival of the paper ones. Constance surveyed the candy with much satisfaction, as indeed she well might, for no daintier sweets could have been found. Turning to the others she cried: "I feel as self-satisfied and self-righteous as though I'd just put a new skirt braid on my skirt, and I don't know of anything that makes one feel more so. If I can make five pounds a day for six days I'd have a pretty good supply on hand for Saturday, my 'opening day.' My, doesn't that sound business-like? Nornie, don't you wish _you'd_ taken to a commercial rather than a professional life? Come on Jean, the others will die of envy when they see our candy booth spread and spread until it swallows up all the office space in the Arcade," and catching up the saucepan in which she had made her candy, Constance began to beat a lively tattoo upon the bottom of it, as an accompaniment to her whistling, as, still enveloped in her big apron, she pranced about the kitchen. Jean, also in gingham array, promptly joining in, for Jean's resentment had vanished since she had been taken into the girls' confidence and "entered the partnership" as she called it. In a day or two another message came over the 'phone to Constance, asking her to call at the Arcade, the following afternoon. Upon reaching there at three o'clock, she was met by Mr. Porter, who had been on the lookout for her. "Glad you've come, little girl! Glad to see you," he said heartily. "Come and look at your cubby and tell me what you think of it. _I_ think it great." While he talked Mr. Porter led the way to the rear of the Arcade. As they drew near the stairway, Miss Willing glanced up, gave an indifferent nod in answer to Constance's "How do you do, Miss Willing?" and turned to her 'phone. Miss Willing much preferred being the center of attraction beneath the stairs, and was not enthusiastic over the thought of sharing her corner with "one of them big-bugs, as they think themselves." Could she have known it, this girl, whom she was so stigmatizing, felt herself a very tiny bug indeed in the world in which Miss Willing dwelt, and secretly stood in considerable awe of the young lady who could look with so much self-assurance into the eyes of the patrons of her 'phone booth, and smile and joke with old and young men alike. There were always several around the booth. Constance wondered why they seemed to have to wait so long to have their calls answered. Her own 'phone calls at home were answered so promptly. However, while these sub-conscious thoughts passed through her brain, the more wide-awake portion of it was taking in the changed appearance of her cubby's corner. Mr. Porter had lost no time and spared no trouble, and the Arcade's carpenter to whom he had given instructions to "do that job in shape and mighty quick," had followed those instructions to a dot. There was the cubby, the wood all carefully painted in white enamel, the portable shelves made of sheets of heavy glass. A high railing and gate shut off one end, giving ingress to the proprietor, and privacy if she wished at any time to stay at her counter for awhile. On the lower shelf of the counter stood a little cash box divided into two sections: One for bills the other for silver. Just above it was a small white sign upon which was plainly painted in dark blue letters: "Constance B.'s Candies." Take what you wish. Leave cost of goods taken. Make your change from my cash box. Respecting my patrons' integrity, Constance B. C. Kindly close the door. Constance clasped her hands and gave a little cry of delight. All her ideas were so perfectly carried out. "Oh, Mr. Porter, it is perfectly fascinating! How good you are! How am I ever going to pay for it though? I had no idea you were going to so much trouble and expense." "But you don't _have_ to pay for it. Every office has to be fitted up for its tenant's needs you know, or he wouldn't rent it. So I had to have your cubby fitted up for yours. Now you can stock up as soon as you're a mind to. And, by-the-way, those boxes will be along to-morrow morning. I told them they must hustle, and they have. Are your photos ready to paste on 'em?" "Yes, they came home last evening; at least six dozen of them did, and the rest will come next week. I'll send them to the box manufacturers for the next lot and they can be put right on there. It will save our time." "Good! Twelve dozen boxes will be delivered this time, and the rest will be along pretty soon. Send your photos to them as quickly as you can. I'm glad you like your cubby." "Like it! Why I'd be the most ungrateful girl that ever lived if I didn't like it. It's just simply _splendid_! But a whole year's rent won't pay you back I'm afraid." "Don't care whether it does or not. Mean to make you sign a _five_ years' lease next time. When will you stock up?" "Mammy is coming over with me early Saturday morning. Just think we have already made over twenty-five pounds of candy. I want to have fifty on hand to start with. Do you think I'll _ever_ sell it?" and the pretty girlish face was raised to Mr. Porter's with the most winning of smiles. "Little flirt! I wonder if she knows he has daughters as old as _she_ is," muttered the girl at the 'phone. Constance was quite unconscious of either look or comment. "Of course you'll sell it. Mark my word it will go like hot cakes," was the encouraging answer. "I hope so. And thank you again and again for _all_ you have done. Good-bye. Please tell your daughters what a proud girl you have made me," and the little gloved hand was held toward him. He shook it warmly and walked with her to the front door. As he turned to go back a man who occupied a cigar stand near the door nodded and said with a laugh: "Got a new tenant, Mr. Porter? Goin' to let us have another pretty girl to talk to?" "I've got a new tenant, yes, Breckel, but, unless I am very much mistaken, you will not talk to her a great deal, and when you _do_ you'll take your hat off, and toss away your cigar. It's a pity we can't have a few more such girls in our business world. It would raise the standard considerably. Men would find a better occupation than making fool speeches to them then. Mark my word that little woman will succeed." "I'm sure I hope she will if she's the right stuff," answered Breckel, the laugh giving place to a more earnest expression and tone of voice, which proved that the man, like most of his stamp, had something good in him to be appealed to. CHAPTER XXIII Opening Day At last the eventful morning arrived. Constance and Mammy were astir long before the clock struck six, and the candy kettles were bubbling merrily. Constance was pulling her big lump of molasses candy when Jean came bounding into the kitchen arrayed in her little night toga. "Bress my soul!" cried Mammy. "Wha' yo' doin' down hyer? Kite long back dis minit. Does yer want ter kitch yo' deaf cold?" "But Connie didn't call me, and I said I'd help," protested Jean. "He'p! He'p! Yo' look lak yo' could he'p, don't yo'? stannin' dar dressed in nuffin in de worl' but yo' nightie an' yo' _skin_. Clar out dis minit befo' I smack yo' wid dis hyer gre't spoon," and Mammy made a dive for the culprit as she darted away. A few hours later the candy boxes were in the bottom of the phaeton, Constance mounting guard over them while Mammy acted as Jehu. When the Arcade was reached Mammy descended from the phaeton, blanketed Baltie, and then taking one of the large boxes in which the smaller ones were packed, said: "Now honey, yo' tek anodder--_No, not two_ of 'em--dey's too heavy fo' you; I'll come back fo' dose. Now walk 'long head ob me, kase I want dese hyer folks what's a-starin' at us lak dey aint neber _is_ seen anybody befo', ter unnerstan' dat I'se _yo' sarvint_, an' here fer ter pertec' yo'. _An' I ain' gwine stan' no nonsense needer._" "You need not be afraid Mammy. Everybody is just as kind and lovely as possible." "Huh! Dey'd _better_ be," retorted Mammy, with a warning snort. In a short time the little booth made a brave showing with its quarter-pound, half-pound, and pound boxes of candy, each tied with pretty ribbon, and each bearing upon its cover the smiling face of its young maker. When Miss Willing found a chance to take a sly peep at them she turned her head and sneered as she murmured: "Well, of all the conceit. My! Ain't she just stuck on that face of hers though." Scarcely was all arranged, when Mr. Porter appeared upon the scene. "Just in time to be the first customer," he cried gayly. "How are you this morning? How-de-do, Auntie? Ah, you see I know your partner now. What all have you got here anyhow?" he continued as he peered into the cases. "Pralines, plain fudge, nut fudge, molasses candy, cream walnuts, caramels, butter-scotch. I say! You've been working, little girl, haven't you?" "Lak ter wo'k her finges mos' off," asserted Mammy. "They're none of them missing, though," laughed Constance, holding up the pretty tapering fingers to prove her words. "Then give me my candies, quick! I can't wait another minute. You can almost see my mouth water like my old hunting dog's." "Which kind will you have Mr. Porter?" "_All_ kinds of course!" "Not really?" "Yes, _really_. Do you think I'm going to miss any of the treat? Biggest boxes, please." Constance lifted from the case a pound box of each variety. "How much?" asked Mr. Porter. "Why nothing to _you_? How _could_ I?" she asked, coloring at the thought of accepting more from him. "Now see here, young lady, that won't do. You can't begin _that_ way. Your business has got to be spot cash. Don't forget that, or you'll get into difficulties," said her customer with a warning nod of his head. "As near as I can make out Mr. Porter, it's just the other way about; I'm getting my cash in advance. Now please listen to me," said Constance very seriously, an appealing look in her expressive eyes. "You have done a great deal for me in arranging this booth so attractively, and encouraging me in every way. In addition to that you have 'taken stock,' as you call it, in the venture. Very well, _I_ call it simply advancing capital. Now I shall never feel at ease until that sum is paid off, and one way for me to do it is to let you have all the candy you want. No--wait a minute; I haven't finished," as Mr. Porter raised his hand in protest. "If you will promise to come to the booth for all the candy you want, I will charge you just the same for it as I charge the others, but it must go toward canceling my obligation _so far as money_ can cancel it. Now, _please_, say yes, and make my opening day a very happy one for me. Otherwise I shall have to refuse to let you have _any_ candy until I have paid back the hundred dollars. Isn't that right and fair, Mammy?" she asked, turning to look into the kind old face beside her. "Hits jist de fa'r an' squar' livin' truf. Hit suah is, Massa Potah. Ain' no gittin' roun' dat. We-all cyant tek no mo' 'vestments 'dout we gibs somepin fer ter mak hit right. Miss Constance, know what she a-sayin'." The gay bandanna nodded vigorously to emphasize this statement. Mr. Porter looked at them for a moment, and then broke into a hearty laugh. "I give it up!" he cried. "Have it your own way, but if I eat sweets until I lose all my teeth, upon your heads be the blame. It isn't every man who has a hundred dollars worth to pick from as he chooses." "_You_ won't have very long, because I expect to pay back in more ways than just candies," cried Constance, merrily. "But you surely don't want _all_ that?" she added, laying her hands upon the seven boxes lying upon the counter. "Yes, I do! My soul, if she isn't trying to do me out of my own purchases. Here, young lady, give me those boxes. I want them right in my own hands before you have some new protest to put forth," and hastily piling his seven pounds of candy upon his arm, Mr. Porter fled for the elevator, leaving Mammy and Constance to laugh at his speedy departure. At length all was arranged, the booth with its array of dainty boxes making a brave display. Constance and Mammy stood for a moment looking at it before taking their departure, well pleased with the result of their undertaking. Then with a pleasant good morning to Miss Willing, whose eyes and ears had been more than busy during the past hour, they departed, leaving the little candy booth, its cash box, and its very unusual announcement upon the sign which swung above it, to prove or disprove the faith which one young girl felt in her fellow beings. CHAPTER XXIV One Month Later One month had passed since the eventful opening day. A month of hard, incessant work for Constance, Mammy and Jean, who insisted upon doing her share. It was nearly March, and the air already held a hint of spring. The pussy-willows were beginning to peep out upon the world, and in sheltered spots far away in the woodland the faint fragrance of arbutus could be detected. From her opening day, Constance's venture had prospered, and the little candy booth's popularity became a fact assured. Up betimes every morning, Constance had her kettles boiling merrily and by seven o'clock many pounds of candy were ready to be packed in the dainty boxes. Then came Jean's part of the work and never had she failed to come to time. True to her word to be a "sure-enough partner," she was up bright and early and had her candies wrapped and packed before her breakfast was touched. Mammy and Baltie, soon became familiar figures in South Riveredge, and many of Constance's patrons believed the old woman to be the real mover of the enterprise. How she found time to convey the candy boxes to the booth, arrange them with such care, collect the money deposited there the previous day by the rapidly increasing number of customers, and still reach home in time to prepare the mid-day meal with her usual care, was a source of wonder to all. Yet do it she did, and her pride and ambition for the success of the venture rivaled Constance's. Failure was not even to be dreamed of. No one ever guessed the hours stolen from her sleep by the good soul to make up for the hours stolen from her daily duties, but many a night after bidding the family an ostentatious "good-night, ladies," and betaking herself to her bedroom above stairs, did she listen until every sound was hushed and then creep back to her kitchen and work softly until everything was completed to her satisfaction. Friday afternoons and Saturdays, Constance took matters into her own hands, and she soon discovered that another mode of transportation for her candy would be imperative, so rapidly was the demand for Constance B.'s Candies increasing. So after the first two weeks the local expressman was pressed into service, and the old colored man, who for years had run the elevator in the Arcade, received the boxes upon their delivery. The way in which the old man had scraped acquaintance with Mammy, caused Mr. Porter considerable amusement. Mammy's intercourse with the colored people she had met since coming North, had not been calculated to increase her respect for her race. Finding "Uncle Rastus" at the North, she instantly concluded that he had been born and raised there. That, like herself, he might have been transplanted, she did not stop to argue. But one day when Mammy was struggling with an unusually large consignment of candy, Uncle Rastus hurried to offer his services "to one ob de quality colored ladies," as he gallantly expressed it. This led to a better understanding between the two old people, and when Mammy discovered that Rastus had been born and raised in the county adjoining her own, and that his old master and hers had been warm friends, Rastus' claim to polite society was indisputable, and from that moment, Mammy and Rastus owned the Arcade, and the courtly old negro, and dignified old negress caused not a little amusement to Constance B.'s customers, and the people who frequented the Arcade. It would be hard to tell which grew to take the greater pride in the venture, for Rastus had all the old antebellum negro's love and respect for his white folks and Mammy lost no opportunity for singing the praises of hers. And thus another member was added to the firm and Constance's interests were well guarded. Not once since launching upon her venture had Constance met with any loss. The little cash box invariably held the correct amount to balance the number of boxes taken from the booth, and the returns surprised Constance more than anyone else. "I tell you I'm going to be a genuine business woman, see if I'm not," she cried, after balancing her accounts one Saturday evening. "Why just think of it Mumsey, dear, here are fifteen dollars over and above _all_ expenses for the week. If I continue like this I'll be a million_nairess_ before I know what has happened. How are you flourishing, Nornie? Are your Pegasus Ponies as profitable?" "Not quite, but I'm hopeful," laughed Eleanor. "Some of them are spavined in their minds, I fear. At any rate they don't 'arrive' as quickly as I'd like to have them in spite of all my efforts. However, they are not going backward, and I dare say that ought to gratify me, especially when they are willing to pay me two dollars an hour for helping them to stand _still_. I can't make such a showing from driving my coach as you can make from wielding your big spoon, Connie dear, but ten dollars added to your fifteen will keep the wolf from the door, won't it little mother?" ended Eleanor, laying her hand upon her mother's shoulder. Mrs. Carruth rested her cheek upon it as she replied: "What should I do without my girls? I am _so_ proud of my girls! So proud!--yet I cannot realize it all." "You haven't got to do without us. We're here to be done _with_, aren't _we_, Nornie?" cried Constance, gayly. "We certainly _are_," was the hearty response. "Then why don't you add my part?" demanded Jean, who had faithfully made her journeys to the Irving School each Saturday morning, and upon each occasion returned triumphant with her candy box empty, but her little coin bag well filled with dimes, for her customers were always on the lookout for her. "I have, Honey. It is all included in the amounts set down here," answered Constance. "Yes, but I want to know just which part of it is mine. How much did I sell last Saturday and how much to-day?" persisted Jean. "Twenty-five packages last Saturday and eighteen this. Forty-three in all. Four dollars and thirty cents in two weeks, and four dollars in your first two weeks. Eight dollars and thirty cents all told, little girl. Two dollars seven and a half cents a week. I call that pretty good for a ten-year-old business woman, don't you, Mumsey, dear?" "I call it truly wonderful," was Mrs. Carruth's warm reply. "What do _you_ think of it, Mammy?" cried Constance. "Aren't we here to be done with after that showing?" "Done wid _what_?" promptly demanded Mammy, who had no intention of committing herself before becoming fully informed of all the facts. "Done _everything_ with. Made use of. Worked for all there is in us. Made to pay for ourselves. Isn't that right, Mammy? Say 'yes' right off. Say 'yes' Mammy, because that's why we are big, and young, and strong, and happy, and anxious to prove that we are the 'banginest chillern' that _ever_ were. You've said so hundreds of times, you know you have, so don't try to go back on it now. Aren't we _just right_, Mammy? Successful business women and a firm of which you are proud to be a member? The Carruth Corporation, _bound_ to succeed because, unlike other corporations, it has a _soul_, yes, _four_ of 'em, and can prove that a corporation with four souls can outstrip any other ever associated. _Mine's_ as light as a feather this minute, so let's prance," ended Constance, springing toward Mammy, to catch her hardened hands in her own warm ones, and give a beckoning nod to Jean and Eleanor, who were quick to take her hint. The next instant a circle was formed around Mrs. Carruth's chair, the girls singing in voices that made the room ring. "Mammy, dear, Listen here, Isn't this a lark? Every day, Work and play, And each to do her part." While poor old Mammy sputtered and protested as she pounded around with them willy-nilly. "Bangin'est chillern! _Bangin'est_ chillern! Huh! I reckons you _is_! Huh! Let me go dis _minit_! Miss Jinny! Miss Jinny! Please ma'am, make 'em quit. Make 'em let loose ob me! Dar! You hear dat? Eben Baltie heer yo'in' holler. Bres Gawd, I believes he's 'fronted kase he lef' outen de cop'ration. Dat's hit! He's sure _is_. Let me go dis minit, I say. He gotter be part ob it," and giving a final wrench from the detaining hands, Mammy rushed away crying in answer to old Baltie's neigh, which had reached her ears from his stable: "Yas, yas, Baltic hawse, Mammy done heard yo' a-callin' an' she's a-comin'; comin' to passify yo' hurt feelin's case you's been left outen de cop'ration. Comin', honey, comin'." About this book: Original publication data: Title: Three Little Women, A Story for Girls Author: Gabrielle E. Jackson Publisher: John C. Winston Company Copyright: 1913, by John C. Winston Company 
42015	----	HELEN IN THE EDITOR'S CHAIR by RUTHE S. WHEELER The Goldsmith Publishing Company Chicago Copyright, 1932 The Goldsmith Publishing Company Made in U. S. A. CHAPTER CONTENTS CHAPTER PAGE I. The Weekly Herald. 13 II. Startling News. 22 III. In The Editor's Chair. 34 IV. Through the Storm. 50 V. Reporting Plus. 62 VI. A New Week Dawns. 75 VII. The First Issue. 93 VIII. Mystery in the Night. 111 IX. Rescue on Lake Dubar. 124 X. Behind the Footlights. 139 XI. New Plans. 160 XII. Special Assignment. 177 XIII. Helen's Exclusive Story. 195 XIV. The Queen's Last Trip. 209 XV. Success Attends. 225 Helen in the Editor's Chair CHAPTER I _The Weekly Herald_ Thursday! Press day! Helen Blair anxiously watched the clock on the wall of the assembly room. Five more minutes and school would be dismissed for the day. How those minutes dragged. She moved her books impatiently. Finally the dismissal bell sounded. Helen straightened the books in her desk and, with the 162 others in the large assembly of the Rolfe High School, rose and marched down to the cloak room. She was glad that school was over for, to her, Thursday was the big day of the week. Press day! What magic lay in those two words. By supper time the _Rolfe Herald_ would be in every home in town and, when families sat down to their evening meal, they would have the paper beside them. Helen's father, Hugh Blair, was the editor and publisher of the _Herald_. Her brother, Tom, a junior in high school, wrote part of the news and operated the Linotype, while Helen helped in the office every night after school and on Saturdays. On Thursday her work comprised folding the papers as they came off the clanking press. Her arms ached long before her task was done, but she prided herself on the neatness of the stacks of papers that grew as she worked. "Aren't you going to stay for the final sophomore debate tryouts?" asked Margaret Stevens. Margaret, daughter of the only doctor in Rolfe, lived across the street from the Blairs. "Not this afternoon," smiled Helen, "this is press day." "I'd forgotten," laughed Margaret. "All right, hurry along and get your hands covered with ink." "Come over after supper and tell me about the tryouts," said Helen. "I will," promised Margaret as she turned to the classroom where the tryouts were to be held. The air was warm and Helen, with her spring coat over her arm, hurried from the high school building and started down the long hill that led to the main street. Rolfe was a pretty midwestern village tucked away among the hills bordering Lake Dubar, a long, narrow body of water that attracted summer visitors from hundreds of miles away. The main street, built along a valley that opened out on the lake shore, was a broad, graveled street, flanked by a miscellaneous collection of stores and shops. Some of them were of weather-beaten red brick, others were of frame and a few of them, harking back to pioneer days, had false fronts. In the afternoon sun, it presented a quiet, friendly scene. Helen reached the foot of the school house hill and turned on to the main street. On the right of the street and just two blocks from the lake shore stood the one-story frame structure housing the postoffice and her father's printing plant. The postoffice occupied the front half of the building and the _Herald_ office was the rear. Helen walked down the alleyway between the postoffice and the Temple furniture store. She heard the noise of the press before she reached the office and knew that her father had started the afternoon run. The _Herald_, an eight page paper, used four pages of ready print and four pages of home print. Each week's supply of paper was shipped from Cranston, where four pages filled with prepared news and pictures, were printed. The other four, carrying local advertisements and news of Rolfe and vicinity were printed on the aged press in the _Herald_ office. Helen hurried up the three steps leading to the editorial office. Its one unwashed window shut out the sunlight, and the office lay in a semi-shadow. Unable to see clearly after the brightness of the sunlight, she did not see her father at his desk when she entered the office. "Hello, Dad," she called as she took off her tam and sailed it along the counter where it finally came to rest against a stack of freshly printed _Heralds_. Her father did not answer and Helen was on the point of going on into the composing room when she turned toward him. His head still rested on his arms and he gave no sign of having heard her. Concerned over his silence, she hurried to his desk. "Dad, Dad!" she cried. "What's the matter! Answer me!" Her father's head moved and he looked up at her. His face was pale and there were dark hollows under his eyes. "I'm all right, Helen," he said, but the usual smile was missing. "Just felt a little faint and came in here to take a few minutes rest. I'll be all right shortly. You go on and help Tom. I'll be with you in a while." "But if you don't feel well, Dad, you'd better go home and rest," insisted Helen. "You know Tom and I can finish getting out the paper. Now you run along and don't worry about things at the office." She reached for his hat and coat hanging on a hook at one side of the desk. He remonstrated at the prospect of going home with the work only half done, but Helen was adamant and her father finally gave in. "Perhaps it will be best," he agreed as he walked slowly toward the door. Helen watched him descend the steps; then saw him reach the street and turn toward home. She was startled by the expression she had just seen on her father's face. He had never been particularly robust and now he looked as though something had come upon him which was crushing his mind and body. Illness, worry and apprehension had carved lines in his face that afternoon. Helen went into the composing room where the Linotype, the rows of type cases, the makeup tables, the job press and the newspaper press were located. At the back end of the room was the large press, moving steadily back and forth as Tom, perched on a high stool, fed sheets of paper into one end. From the other came the freshly printed papers of that week's edition of the _Herald_. "Shut off the press," called Helen, shouting to make herself heard above the noise of the working machinery. "What say?" cried Tom. "Shut it off," his sister replied. Tom scowled as he reached for the clutch to stop the press. He liked nothing better than running the press and when he had it well under way, usually printed the whole edition without a stop unless the paper became clogged or he had to readjust the ink rollers. "What's the idea?" he demanded. "I'm trying to get through so I can play some baseball before dark." "Dad's sick," explained Helen, "and I made him go home. Do you know what's the matter?" "Gosh, no," said Tom as he climbed down from his stool. "He wasn't feeling very well when I came down from school and said he was going in the office to rest, but I didn't know he felt that badly." "Well, he did," replied Helen, "and I'm worried about him." "We always take him more or less for granted. He goes on year after year working in the office, getting enough together to make us all comfortable and hoping that he can send us to college some day. We help him when we can, but he plugs away day after day and I've noticed lately that he hasn't been very perky. Mother has been worried, too. I can tell from the way she acts when Dad comes home at night. She's always asking him how he feels and urging him to get to bed early. I tell you, Tom, something's wrong with Dad and we've got to find out and help him." "Let's go get Doctor Stevens right now," said the impetuous Tom, and he reached to shut off the motor of the press. "Not now," said Helen. "If Dad thought we weren't getting the paper out on time he'd worry all the more. We'll finish the paper and then have Doctor Stevens come over this evening. We can fix it so he'll just drop in for a social call." "Good idea," said Tom as he climbed back on his stool and threw in the clutch. The press started its steady clanking and Helen picked up a pile of papers and spread them out on one of the makeup stones. Her father had printed two of the pages of home news during the morning and these sheets were stacked in a pile in one corner. She arranged two piles of papers on the makeup table, one pile which her father had printed and one of papers which were coming off the press as fast as Tom could keep it rolling. Helen put on a heavy, blue-denim apron to protect her school dress and went to work. With nimble hands she put the sheets of paper together, folded them with a quick motion and slid the completed paper off the table and onto a box placed close by for that purpose. The press, of unknown vintage, moved slowly and when Helen started at the same time as Tom she could fold the papers as rapidly as they were printed. But that day Tom, who had managed to be excused half an hour early, had too much of a start and when he finished the press run Helen still had several hundred papers to fold. Tom stopped the press, shut off the motor, raised the ink rollers and then pulled the forms off the press and carried them to the other makeup table. After washing the ink off the type with a gasoline-soaked rag, he gathered an armful of papers Helen had folded and carried them into the editorial office. There he got out the long galleys which held the names of the subscribers. He inked each galley, placed it in the mailing machine, and then fed the papers into the mailer. They came out with the name of a subscriber printed at the top of each paper. The young Blairs worked silently, hastening to complete their respective tasks so they could hurry home. Tom had forgotten his plans to play baseball and all thought of the outcome of the debate tryouts had left Helen's mind. There was one thought uppermost in their minds. What was the matter with their father? CHAPTER II _Startling News_ The last paper folded, Helen removed the heavy apron and washed her hands at the sink behind the press. When she entered the editorial office Tom was putting the last of the papers through the mailer. They gathered them up, placed them in a large sack and carried them into the postoffice. "We won't stop to sweep out tonight," said Helen. "Let's lock up and then see Doctor Stevens on our way home. He's usually in his office at this time." Tom agreed and, after putting away the mailing machine, locked the back door, closed the windows in the shop and announced that he was ready to go. Helen locked the front door and they walked down main street toward the white, one-story building which housed the office of Doctor Stevens, the town's only physician. Tom was tall and slender with wavy, brown hair and brown eyes that were always alive with interest. Helen came scarcely above his shoulder, but she was five feet two of concentrated energy. She had left her tam at the office and the afternoon sun touched her blond hair with gold. Her eyes were the same clear blue as her mother's and the rosy hue in her cheeks gave hint of her vitality. They entered Doctor Stevens' waiting room and found the genial physician reading a medical journal. "Hello, Helen! How are you Tom?" He boomed in his deep voice. "We're fine, Doctor Stevens," replied Helen, "but we're worried about Dad." "Why, what's the matter with your father?" asked the doctor, adjusting his glasses. "Dad wasn't feeling very well when I came down from school at three-thirty," said Tom, "and when I started the afternoon press run, he went into the office to rest a while. When Helen came in a little after four, Dad looked pretty rocky and she made him go home." "How did he look when you talked with him?" Doctor Stevens asked Helen. "Awfully tired and mighty worried," replied Helen. "It was his eyes more than anything else. He's afraid of something and it has worried him until he is positively ill." "And haven't you any idea what it could be?" asked the doctor. "I've been thinking about it ever since Dad went home," said Helen, "and I don't know of a single thing that would worry him that much." "Neither do I," added Tom. "What we'd like to have you do," went on Helen, "is to drop in after supper. Make it look like a little social visit and it will give you a good excuse to give Dad the once over. We'll be ever so much relieved if you will." "Of course I will," the doctor assured them. "You're probably worrying about some little thing and the more you think about it, the larger it grows. Possibly a little touch of stomach trouble. What have you been trying to cook, lately?" he asked Helen. "Couldn't be my cooking," she replied. "I haven't done any for a week and you know that Mother's good cooking would never make anyone ill." "I'll come over about seven-thirty," promised Doctor Stevens, "and don't you two worry yourselves over this. Your father will be all right in a day or two." Helen and Tom thanked Doctor Stevens and continued on their way home. They went back past the postoffice and the _Herald_ and down toward the lake, whose waters reflected the rays of the setting sun in varied hues. A block from the lake shore they turned to their right into a tree-shaded street and climbed a gentle hill. Their home stood on a knoll overlooking the lake. It was an old-fashioned house that had started out as a three room cottage. Additions had been made until it rambled away in several directions. It boasted no definite style of architecture, but had a hominess that few houses possess. From the long, open front porch, there was an unobstructed view down the lake, which stretched away in the distance, its far reaches hidden in the coming twilight. A speed boat, being loaded with the afternoon mail for the summer resorts down the lake, was sputtering at the big pier at the foot of main street. A bundle of _Heralds_ was placed on the boat and then it whisked away down the lake, a curving streak of white marking its passage. Helen found her mother in the kitchen preparing their evening meal. Mrs. Blair, at forty-five, was a handsome woman. Her hair had decided touches of gray but her face still held the peachbloom of youth and she looked more like an older sister than a mother. She had been a teacher in the high school at Rolfe when Hugh Blair had come to edit the country paper. The teacher and the editor had fallen in love and she had given up teaching and married him. "How's Dad?" Helen asked. "He doesn't feel very well," her mother replied and Helen could see lines of worry around her mother's eyes. "Don't worry, Mother," she counselled. "Dad has been working too hard this year. In two more weeks school will be over and Tom and I can do most of the work on the paper. You two can plan on a fine trip and a real rest this summer." "I hope so," said Mrs. Blair, "for your father certainly needs a change of some kind." Helen helped her mother with the preparations for supper, setting the table and carrying the food from the kitchen to the dining room where broad windows opened out on the porch. Tom, who had been upstairs washing the last of the ink from his hands, entered the kitchen. "Supper about ready?" he asked. "I'm mighty hungry tonight." "All ready," smiled his mother. "I'll call your father." Helen turned on the lights in the dining room and they waited for their father to come from his bedroom. They could hear low voices for several minutes and finally Mrs. Blair returned to the dining room. "We'll go ahead and eat," she managed to smile. "Your father doesn't feel like supper right now." Tom started to say something, but Helen shook her head and they sat down and started their evening meal. Mrs. Blair, usually gay and interested in the activities of the day, had little to say, but Helen talked of school and the activities and plans of the sophomore class. "We're going to have a picnic down the lake next Monday," she said. "That's nothing," said Tom, who was president of the junior class. "We're giving the seniors the finest banquet they've ever had." Whereupon they fell into a heated argument over the merits of the sophomores and juniors, a question which had been debated all year without a definite decision. Sometimes Tom considered himself the victor while on other occasions Helen had the best of the argument. Supper over, Helen helped her mother clear the table and wash the dishes. It was seven-thirty before they had finished their work in the kitchen and Mrs. Blair was on her way to her husband's room when Doctor Stevens, bag in hand, walked in. A neighbor for many years, the genial doctor did not stop to knock. "Haven't been in for weeks," he said, "so thought I'd drop over and chin with Hugh for a while." "Hugh isn't feeling very well," said Mrs. Blair. "He came home from the office this afternoon and didn't want anything for supper." "Let me have a look at him," said Doctor Stevens. "Suppose his stomach is out of whack or something like that." Tom and Helen, standing in the dining room, watched Doctor Stevens and their mother go down the hall to their father's bedroom. The next half hour was one of the longest in their young lives. Tom tried to read the continued story in the _Herald_, while Helen fussed at first one thing and then another. The door of their father's room finally opened and Doctor Stevens summoned them. Neither Tom nor Helen would ever forget the scene in their father's bedroom that night. Their mother, seated at the far side of the bed, looked at them through tear-dimmed eyes. Their father, reclining on the bed, looked taller than ever, and the lines of pain which Helen had noticed in his face that afternoon had deepened. His hands were moving nervously and his eyes were bright with fever. "Sit down," said Doctor Stevens as he took a chair beside Hugh Blair's bed. Tom was about to ask his father how he felt, when Doctor Stevens spoke again. "We might as well face this thing together," he said. "I'll tell you now that it is going to be something of a fight for all of you, but unless I'm mistaken, the Blairs are all real fighters." "What's the matter Doctor Stevens?" Helen's voice was low and strained. "Your father must take a thorough rest," he said. "He will have to go to some southwestern state for a number of months. Perhaps it will only take six months, but it may be longer." "But I can't be away that long," protested Hugh Blair. "I must think of my family, of the _Herald_." "Your family must think of you now," said Doctor Stevens firmly. "That's why I wanted to talk this over with Tom and Helen." "Just what is wrong, Dad?" asked Tom. Doctor Stevens answered the question. "Lung trouble," he said quietly. "Your father has spent too many years bent over his desk in that dark cubbyhole of his--too many years without a vacation. Now he's got to give that up and devote a number of months to building up his body again." Helen felt the blood racing through her body. Her throat went dry and her head ached. She had realized only that afternoon that her father wasn't well but she had not been prepared for Doctor Stevens' announcement. The doctor was talking again. "I blame myself partly," he was telling Hugh Blair. "You worked yourself into this almost under my eyes, and I never dreamed what was happening. Too close to you, I guess." "When do you think Hugh should start for the southwest?" asked Helen's mother. "Just as soon as we can arrange things," replied Doctor Stevens. "This is Thursday. I'd like to have him on the way by Saturday night. Every day counts." "That's impossible," protested Hugh Blair, half rising from his bed. "I don't see how I can possibly afford it. Think of the expense of a trip down there, of living there. What about the _Herald_? What about my family?" A plan had been forming in Helen's mind from the time Doctor Stevens had said her father must go to a different climate. "Everything will be all right, Dad," she said. "There isn't a reason in the world why you shouldn't go. Tom and I are capable of running the _Herald_ and with what you've saved toward our college educations, you can make the trip and stay as long as you want to." "But I couldn't think of using your college money," protested her father, "even if you and Tom could run the _Herald_." "Helen's got the right idea," said Doctor Stevens. "Your health must come above everything else right now. I'm sure those youngsters can run the _Herald_. Maybe they'll do an even better job than you," he added with a twinkle in his eyes. "We can run the paper in fine shape, Dad," said Tom. "If you hired someone from outside to come in and take charge it would eat up all the profits. If Helen and I run the _Herald_, we'll have every cent we make for you and mother." Mrs. Blair, who had been silent during the discussion, spoke. "Hugh," she said, "Tom and Helen are right. I know how you dislike using their college money, but it is right that you should. I am sure that they can manage the _Herald_." Thus it was arranged that Tom and Helen were to take charge of the _Herald_. They talked with the superintendent of schools the next day and he agreed to excuse them from half their classes for the remaining weeks of school with the provision that they must pass all of their final examinations. Friday and Saturday passed all too quickly. Helen busied herself collecting the current accounts and Tom spent part of the time at the office doing job work and the remainder at home helping with the packing. Saturday noon Tom went to the bank and withdrew the $1,275 their father had placed in their college account. The only money left was $112 in the _Herald_ account, just enough to take care of running expenses of the paper. Hugh Blair owned his home and his paper, was proud of his family and his host of friends, but of actual worldly wealth he had little. Doctor Stevens drove them to the Junction thirty miles away where Hugh Blair was to take the Southwestern limited. There was little conversation during the drive. The limited was at the junction when they arrived and goodbyes were brief. Hugh Blair said a few words to his wife, who managed to smile through her tears. Then he turned to Tom and Helen. "Take good care of the _Herald_," he told them, as he gave them a goodbye hug. "We will Dad and you take good care of yourself," they called as he climbed into the Pullman. Cries of "boooo-ard," sounded along the train. The porters swung their footstools up into the vestibules, the whistle sounded two short, sharp blasts, and the limited rolled away from the station. Tom, Helen and their mother stood on the platform until the train disappeared behind a hill. When they turned toward home, Tom and Helen faced the biggest responsibility of their young lives. It was up to them to continue the publication of the _Herald_, to supply the money to keep their home going and to build up a reserve which their father could call upon if he was forced to use all the money from their college fund. CHAPTER III _In the Editor's Chair_ Sunday morning found Tom and Helen Blair entering a new era in their lives. While their father sped toward the southwest in quest of renewed health, they planned how they could develop the _Herald_. Their mother was silent through breakfast and several times they saw her eyes dim with tears. "Don't worry, Mother," said Helen. "We'll manage all right and Dad is going to pull through in fine shape. Why, he'll be back with us by Christmas time." "I wish I could be as optimistic as you are, Helen," said Mrs. Blair. "You'll feel better in a few more hours," said Tom. "It's the suddenness of it all. Now we've got to buckle down and make the _Herald_ keep on paying dividends." Tom and Helen helped their mother clear away the breakfast dishes and then dressed for Sunday school. Mrs. Blair taught a class of ten-to-twelve-year-old girls. Tom and Helen were in the upper classes. The Methodist church they attended was a red brick structure, the first brick building built in Rolfe, and it was covered with English ivy that threatened even to hide the windows. The morning was warm and restful and they enjoyed the walk from home to church. The minister was out of town on his vacation and there were no church services. After Sunday school the Blairs walked down to the postoffice. The large mail box which was rented for the _Herald_ was filled with papers, circulars and letters. "We might as well go back to the office and sort this out," said Tom, and Mrs. Blair and Helen agreed. The office was just as Tom and Helen had left it Thursday night for they had been too busy since then helping with the arrangements for their father's departure to clean it up. The type was still in the forms, papers were scattered on the floor and dust had gathered on the counter and the desk which had served Hugh Blair for so many years. "I'll open the windows and the back door," said Tom, "and we'll get some air moving through here. It's pretty stuffy." Mrs. Blair sat down in the swivel chair in front of her husband's desk and Helen pulled up the only other chair in the office, an uncomfortable straight-backed affair. "You're editor now," Mrs. Blair told Helen. "You'd better start in by sorting the mail." "Tom's in charge," replied Helen as her brother returned to the office. "Let's not argue," said Tom. "We'll have a business meeting right now. Mother, you represent Dad, who is the owner. Now you decide who will be what." "What will we need?" smiled Mrs. Blair. "We need a business manager first," said Helen. "Wrong," interjected Tom. "It's a publisher." "Then I say let's make it unanimous and elect mother as publisher," said Helen. "Second the motion," grinned Tom. "If there are no objections, the motion is declared passed," said Helen. "And now Mother, you're the duly elected publisher of the _Rolfe Herald_." "I may turn out to be a hard-boiled boss," said Mrs. Blair, but her smile belied her words. "We're not worrying a whole lot," said Tom. "The next business is selecting a business manager, a mechanical department, an editor, and a reporter. Also a couple of general handymen capable of doing any kind of work on a weekly newspaper." "That sounds like a big payroll for a paper as small as the _Herald_," protested Mrs. Blair. "I think you'll be able to get them reasonable," said Tom. "In which case," added Helen, "you'd better appoint Tom as business manager, mechanical department, and handyman." "And you might as well name Helen as editor, reporter and first assistant to the handyman," grinned Tom. "I've filled my positions easier than I expected," smiled Mrs. Blair. "As publisher, I'll stay at home and keep out of your way." "Mother, we don't want you to do that," exclaimed Helen. "We want you to come down and help us whenever you have time." "But what could I do?" asked her mother. "Lots of things. For instance, jot down all of the personal items you know about your friends and about all of the club meetings. That would be a great help to me. Sometimes in the evening maybe you'd even find time to write them up, for Tom and I are going to be frightfully busy between going to school and running the _Herald_." "I'll tell the town," said Tom. "If you'd handle the society news, Mother, you could make it a great feature. The _Herald_ has never paid much attention to the social events in town. Guess Dad was too busy. But I think the women would appreciate having all of their parties written up. I could set up a nice head, 'Society News of Rolfe,' and we'd run a column or so every week on one of the inside pages." "You're getting me all excited, Tom," said his mother. "Your father said I never would make a newspaper woman but if you and Helen will have a little patience with me, I'd really enjoy writing the social items." "Have patience with you, Mother?" said Helen. "It's a case of whether you'll have patience with us." "We're going to have to plan our time carefully," said Tom, "for we'll have to keep up in our school work. I've got it doped out like this. Superintendent Fowler says Helen and I can go half days and as long as we cover all of the class work, receive full credit. The first half of the week is going to be the busiest for me. I'll have to solicit my ads, set them up, do what job work I have time for and set up the stories Helen turns out for the paper. I could get in more time in the afternoon than in the morning so Helen had better plan on taking the mornings on Monday, Tuesday and Wednesday away from school." "It will work out better for her, too," went on Tom. "Many of the big news events happen over the week-end and she'll be on the job Monday morning. I'll have every afternoon and evening for my share of the work and for studying. Then we'll both take Thursday afternoon away from school and get the paper out. And on Friday, Mother, if you'll come down and stay at the office, we'll go to school all day. How does that sound?" "Seems to me you've thought of everything," agreed Helen. "I like the idea of doing my editorial work in the mornings the first part of the week and I'll be able to do some of it after school hours." "Then it looks like the _Herald_ staff is about ready to start work on the next issue," said Tom. "We have a publisher, a business manager and an editor. What we need now are plenty of ads and lots of news." "What would you say, Mother, if Tom and I stayed down at the office a while and did some cleaning up?" asked Helen. "Under the circumstances, I haven't any objections," said their mother. "There isn't any church service this morning and you certainly can put in a few hours work here in the office to good advantage. I'll stay and help you with the dusting and sweeping." "You run on home and rest," insisted Helen. "Also, don't forget Sunday dinner. We'll be home about two or two-thirty, and we'll be hungry by that time." Mrs. Blair picked up the Sunday papers and after warning Tom and Helen that dinner would be ready promptly at two-thirty, left them in the office. "Well, Mr. Business Manager, what are you going to start on?" asked Helen. "Mr. Editor," replied Tom, "I've got to throw in all the type from last week's forms. What are you going to do?" "The office needs a good cleaning," said Helen. "I'm going to put on my old apron and spend an hour dusting and mopping. You keep out or you'll track dirt in while I'm doing it." Tom took off the coat of his Sunday suit, rolled up his shirt sleeves and donned the ink-smeared apron he wore when working in the composing room. Helen put on the long apron she used when folding papers and they went to work with their enthusiasm at a high pitch. Their task was not new but so much now depended on the success of their efforts that they found added zest in everything they did. Helen went through the piles of old papers on her father's desk, throwing many of them into the large cardboard carton which served as a wastebasket. When the desk was finally in order, she turned her attention to the counter. Samples of stationery needed to be placed in order and she completely rearranged the old-fashioned show case with its display of job printing which showed what the _Herald_ plant was capable of doing. With the desk and counter in shape, Helen picked up all of the papers on the floor, pulled the now heavily laden cardboard carton into the composing room, and then secured the mop and a pail of water. The barber shop, located below the postoffice, kept the building supplied with warm water, and Helen soon had a good pail of suds. Tom stopped his work in the composing room and came in to watch the scrubbing. "First time that floor has been scrubbed in years," he said. "I know it," said Helen as she swished her mop into the corners. "Dad was running the paper and Mother was too busy bringing us up to come down here and do it for him." "He'll never recognize the old place when he comes back," said Tom. "We'll brighten it up a little," agreed Helen, as Tom returned to his task of throwing in the type. Helen had the editorial office thoroughly cleaned by one o'clock and sat down in her father's swivel chair to rest. Tom called in from the back room. "You'd better plan your editorial work for the week," he said. "I want to run the Linotype every afternoon and you'll have to have copy for me." "What do you want first?" said Helen. "Better get the editorials ready today," he replied. "They don't have to be absolutely spot copy. Dad wrote the first column himself and then clipped a column or a column and a half from nearby papers." "I'll get at it right away," said Helen. "The exchanges for last week are on the desk. After I've gone through them I'll write my own editorials." "Better have one about Dad going away," said Tom and there was a queer catch in his voice. Helen did not answer for her eyes filled with a strange mist and her throat suddenly felt dry and full. Their father's departure for the southwest had left a great void in their home life but Helen knew they would have to make the best of it. She was determined that their efforts on the _Herald_ be successful. Helen turned to the stack of exchanges which were on the desk and opened the editorial page of the first one. She was a rapid reader and she scanned paper after paper in quest of editorials which would interest readers of the _Herald_. When she found one she snipped it out with a handy pair of scissors and pasted it on a sheet of copy paper. Six or seven were needed for the _Herald's_ editorial page and it took her half an hour to get enough. With the clipped editorials pasted and new heads written on them, Helen turned to the typewriter to write the editorials for the column which her father was accustomed to fill with his own comments on current subjects. Helen had stacked the copypaper in a neat pile on the desk and she took a sheet and rolled it into the typewriter. She had taken a commercial course the first semester and her mastery of the touch system of typing was to stand her in good stead for her work as editor of the _Herald_. For several minutes the young editor of the _Herald_ sat motionless in front of her typewriter, struggling to find the right words. She knew her father would want only a few simple sentences about his enforced absence from his duties as publisher of the paper. Then Helen got the idea she wanted and her fingers moved rapidly over the keys. The leading editorial was finished in a short time. It was only one paragraph and Helen took it out of the machine and read it carefully. "Mr. Hugh Blair, editor and publisher of the _Herald_ for the last twenty years, has been compelled, by ill health, to leave his work at Rolfe and go to a drier climate for at least six months. In the meantime, we ask your cooperation and help in our efforts to carry out Mr. Blair's ideals in the publication of the _Herald_. Signed, Mrs. Hugh Blair, Helen and Tom Blair." After reading the editorial carefully, Helen called to her brother. "Come in and see what you think of my lead editorial," she said. Tom, his hands grimy with ink from the type he had been throwing into the cases, came into the editorial office. He whistled in amazement at the change Helen had brought about. The papers were gone from the floor, which had been scrubbed clean, and the desk and counter were neat and orderly. "Looks like a different office," he said. "But wait until I have a chance to swing a broom and mop in the composing room. And I'm going to fix some of the makeup tables so they'll be a little handier." Helen handed him the editorial and Tom read it thoughtfully. "It's mighty short," he said, "but it tells the story." "Dad wouldn't want a long sob story," replied Helen. "Here's the clipped editorials. You can put them on the hook on your Linotype and I'll bring the others out as soon as I write them." Tom returned to the composing room with the handful of editorial copy Helen had given him and the editor of the _Herald_ resumed her duties. She wrote an editorial on the beauty of Rolfe in the spring and another one on the desirability for a paved road between Rolfe and Gladbrook, the county seat. In advocating the paved road, Helen pointed to the increased tourist traffic which would be drawn to Rolfe as soon as a paved road made Lake Dubar accessible to main highways. It was nearly two o'clock when she finished her labor at the typewriter. She was tired and hungry. One thing sure, being editor of the _Herald_ would be no easy task. Of that she was convinced. "Let's go home for dinner," she called to Tom. "Suits me," replied her brother. "I've finished throwing in the last page. We're all ready to start work on the next issue." They took off their aprons and while Helen washed her hands, Tom closed the windows and locked the back door. He took his turn at the sink and they locked the front door and started for home. "What we need now is a good, big story for our first edition," said Tom. "We may have it before nightfall if those clouds get to rolling much more," said Helen. Tom scanned the sky. The sunshine of the May morning had vanished. Ominous banks of clouds were rolling over the hills which flanked the western valley of Lake Dubar and the lake itself was lashed by white caps, spurred by a gusty wind. They went down main street, turned off on the side street and climbed the slope to their home. Mrs. Blair was busy putting some heavy pots over flowers she wanted to protect from the wind. "Dinner's all ready," she told them, "and I've asked Margaret Stevens over. She wants to talk with Helen about the sophomore class picnic tomorrow." "I won't have time to go," said Helen. "We'll be awfully busy working on the next issue." "You're on the class committee, aren't you?" asked Tom. "Yes." "Then you're going to the picnic. We'll have lots to do on the _Herald_ but we won't have to give up all of our other activities." "Tom is right," said Mrs. Blair. "You must plan on going to the picnic." Margaret Stevens came across the street from her home. Margaret was a decided brunette, a striking contrast to Helen's blondness. "We'll go in and eat," said Mrs. Blair. "Then we'll come out and watch the storm. There is going to be a lot of wind." Margaret was jolly and good company and Helen thought her mother wise to have a guest for dinner. It kept them from thinking too much about their father's absence. There was roast beef and hashed brown potatoes with thick gravy, lettuce salad, pickled beets, bread and butter, large glasses of rich milk and lemon pie. "I've never tasted a better meal," said Tom between mouthfuls. "That's because you've been so busy at the office," smiled his mother. "We were moving right along," agreed Tom. "I got the forms all ready for the next issue and Helen has the editorials done." "Won't you need a reporter?" asked Margaret. "We may need one but Helen and Mother are going to try and do all the news writing," said Tom. "I mean a reporter who would work for nothing. I'd like to help for I've always wanted to write." "You could be a real help, Margaret," said Helen, "and we'd enjoy having you help us. Keep your ears open for all of the personal items and tell Mother about any parties. She's going to write the society news." "We're getting quite a staff," smiled Tom. "I'm open for applications of anyone who wants to work in the mechanical department." "That's not as romantic as gathering and writing news," said Margaret. "But just as important," insisted Tom. The room darkened and a particularly heavy gust of wind shook the house. From the west came a low rumbling. Tom dropped his knife and fork and went to the front porch. "Come here, Helen!" he cried. "The storm's breaking. You're going to have your first big story right now!" CHAPTER IV _Through the Storm_ Tom's cry brought the others from the dinner table to the screened-in porch which overlooked the lake. He was right. The storm was roaring down out of the hills in the west in all its fury. The black clouds which had been rolling along the horizon when Tom and Helen had come home were massed in a solid, angry front. Driven by a whistling wind, they were sweeping down on the lake. An ominous fringe of yellow wind clouds dashed on ahead and as they reached the porch they saw the waters of Lake Dubar whiten before the fury of the wind. "Looks like a twister," shouted Tom. His mother's face whitened and she anxiously scanned the sky. Doctor Stevens ran across from his home. "Better close all your windows and secure the doors," he warned. "We're going to get a lot of wind before the rain comes." "Tom is afraid of a tornado," said Mrs. Blair. "The weather is about right," admitted the doctor. "But we won't worry until we see the clouds start to swirl. Then we'll run for the storm cellar under my house." Helen and Margaret hurried to help Mrs. Blair close the upstairs windows while Tom went around to make sure that the screens were secure. He bolted all doors except the one to the porch and when he returned to join the others, the tempo of the wind was increasing rapidly. The wind suddenly dropped to a whisper and Doctor Stevens watched the rolling clouds with renewed anxiety. The waters of the lake were calmer and the dust clouds which the wind had driven over the water cleared partially. "Look!" cried Helen. "There's a motorboat trying to reach one of the boathouses here!" Through the haze of dust which still hung over the lake they could discern the outline of a boat, laboring to reach the safety of the Rolfe end of the lake. "It's Jim Preston," said Doctor Stevens. "He goes down to the summer resorts at the far end of the lake every Sunday morning with the mail and papers." "His boat's got a lot of water in it from the way it is riding," added Tom. "If the storm hits him he'll never make it." "Jim should have known better than to have taken a chance when he could see this mess of weather brewing," snorted the doctor. "His wife's sick," put in Mrs. Blair, "and Jim's probably taken an extra risk to get home as soon as possible." "I know," said Doctor Stevens. "He's bailing by hand," cried Tom. "That means something has gone wrong with the water pump on the engine." "Can you see what boat he has?" asked Doctor Stevens. "It looks like the Flyer," said Helen, who knew the lines of every motorboat on the lake. "That's the poorest wet weather boat Jim has," said Doctor Stevens. "Every white cap slops over the side. She's fast but a death trap in a storm. Either the Liberty or the Argosy would eat up weather like this." "Jim's been overhauling the engines in his other boats," said Tom, "and the Flyer is the only thing he has been using this spring." "Instead of standing here talking, let's get down to the shore," said Helen. "Maybe we can get someone to go out and help him." Without waiting for the others to reply, Helen started running toward the lake. She heard a cry behind her and turned to see Tom pointing toward the hills in the west. The wind was whistling again and when she turned to look in the direction her brother pointed, she stopped suddenly. The black storm clouds were massing for the main attack and they were rolling together. In the seconds that Helen watched, she saw them swirl toward a common center, heard the deafening rise of the wind and trembled as the clouds, now formed in a great funnel, started toward the lake. "Come back, Helen, come back!" Tom shouted. Forcing herself to overcome the storm terror which now gripped her, Helen looked out over the boiling waters of the lake. The wind was whipping into a new frenzy and she could just barely see the Flyer above the white-capped waves. Jim Preston was making a brave effort to reach shore and Helen knew that the little group at her own home were probably the only ones in Rolfe who knew of the boatman's danger. Seconds counted and ignoring the warning cries from her brother, she hurried on toward the lake. The noise of the oncoming tornado beat on her ears, but she dared not look toward the west. If she did she knew she would turn and race for the shelter and security of Doctor Stevens' storm cellar. The Flyer was rolling dangerously as Jim Preston made for the shore and Helen doubted if the boatman would ever make it. On and on the sleek craft pushed its way, the waves breaking over its slender, speedy nose and cascading back into the open cockpit in which Jim Preston was bailing furiously. The Flyer was nosing deeper into the waves as it shipped more water. When the ignition wires got wet the motor would stop and Preston's last chance would be gone. Helen felt someone grab her arms. It was Tom. "Come back!" he cried. "The tornado will be on us in another five minutes!" "We've got to help Mr. Preston," shouted Helen, and she refused to move. "All right, then I stay too," yelled Tom, who kept anxious eyes on the approaching tornado. The Flyer was less than a hundred yards from shore but was settling deeper and deeper into the water. "It's almost shallow enough for him to wade ashore," cried Helen. "Wind would sweep him off his feet," replied Tom. The speedboat was making slow progress, barely staggering along in its battle against the wind and waves. "He's going to make it!" shouted Helen. "I hope so," said Tom, but his words were lost in the wind. Fifty yards more and the Flyer would nose into the sandy beach which marked the Rolfe end of the lake. "Come on, Flyer, come on!" cried Helen. "The engine's dying," said Tom. "Look, the nose is going under that big wave." With the motor dead, the Flyer lost way and buried its nose under a giant white-cap. "He's jumping out of the boat," added Helen. "It's shallow enough so he can wade in if he can keep his feet." Ignoring the increasing danger of the tornado, they ran across the sandy beach. "Join hands," cried Helen. "We can wade out and pull him the last few feet." Realizing that his sister would go on alone if he did not help her, Tom locked his hands in hers and they plunged into the shallow water. Jim Preston, on the verge of exhaustion, staggered through the waves. The Flyer, caught between two large rollers, filled with water and disappeared less than ten seconds after it had been abandoned. The boatman floundered toward them and Tom and Helen found themselves hard-pressed to keep their own feet, for a strong undertow threatened to upset them and sweep them out into the lake. Preston lunged toward them and they caught him as he fell. Tom turned momentarily to watch the approach of the tornado. "Hurry!" he cried. "We'll be able to reach Doctor Stevens' storm cellar if we run." "I can't run," gasped Preston. "You youngsters get me to shore. Then save yourselves." "We'll do nothing of the kind," said Helen. With their encouragement, Preston made a new effort and they made their escape from the dangerous waters of the lake. Alone, Helen or Tom could have raced up the hill to Doctor Stevens in less than a minute but with an almost helpless man to drag between them, they made slow progress. "We've got to hurry," warned Tom as the noise of the storm told of its rapid approach. "Go on, go on! Leave me here!" urged Preston. But Helen and Tom were deaf to his pleas and they forced him to use the last of his strength in a desperate race up the hill ahead of the tornado. Doctor Stevens met them half way up the hill and almost carried Preston the rest of the way. "Across the street and into my storm cellar," he told them. "Is the tornado going to hit the town?" asked Helen as they hurried across the street. "Can't tell yet," replied Doctor Stevens. "There's a common belief that the hills and lake protect us so a tornado will never strike here," said Tom. "We'll soon know about that," said the doctor grimly. They got the exhausted boatman to the entrance of the cellar, where Mrs. Blair was anxiously awaiting their return. "Are you all right, Helen?" she asked. "A little wet on my lower extremities," replied the young editor of the _Herald_. "I simply had to go, mother." "Of course you did," said Mrs. Blair. "It was dangerous but I'm proud of you Helen." Mrs. Stevens brought out blankets and wrapped them around Jim Preston's shoulders while Margaret took candles down into the storm cellar. The noise of the storm had increased to such an intensity that conversation was almost impossible. Doctor Stevens maintained his watchful vigil, noting every movement of the tornado. The sky was so dark that the daylight had faded into dusk although it was only a few minutes after three. The whole western sky was filled with coal-black clouds and out of the center of this ominous mass rushed the lashing tongue which was destroying everything it touched. On and on came the storm, advancing with a deadly relentlessness. A farm house a little more than a mile away on one of the hills overlooking the lake exploded as though a charge of dynamite had been set off beneath it. "It's terrible, terrible," sobbed Margaret Stevens, who had come out of the cellar to watch the storm. "We're going to get hit," Tom warned them. "I've got to get home," said Jim Preston, struggling out of the blankets which Mrs. Stevens had wrapped around him. "My wife's all alone." "Stay here, Jim," commanded Doctor Stevens. "You couldn't get more than three or four blocks before the storm strikes and your place is clear across town. Everybody into the cellar," he commanded. Mrs. Stevens and Helen's mother went first to light the candles. They were followed by Margaret and Helen, then Tom and Jim Preston and finally the doctor, who remained in the doorway on guard. "What will this do to the _Herald_?" Helen whispered to Tom. Her brother nudged her hard. "Don't let Mother hear you," he replied. "There is nothing we can do now except hope. The _Herald_ building may not be destroyed." Helen dropped to the floor and her head bowed in prayer. Their father's illness had been a blow and to have the _Herald_ plant destroyed by a tornado would be almost more than they could bear. The noise of the tornado was terrific and they felt the earth trembling at the fury of the storm gods. Helen had seen pictures of towns razed by tornadoes but she had never dreamed that she would be in one herself. Suddenly the roar of the storm lessened and Doctor Stevens cautiously opened the door of the storm cellar. "We're safe!" he cried. They trooped out of the cellar. The tornado had swung away from Rolfe without striking the town itself and was lashing its way down the center of Lake Dubar. "It will wear itself out before it reaches the end of the lake," predicted Jim Preston. "I don't believe any houses in town were damaged," said Doctor Stevens. "A hen house and garage or two may have been unroofed but that will be about all." "How about the farmers back in the hills?" asked Helen. "They must have fared pretty badly if they were in the center of the storm," said the doctor. "I'm going to get my car and start out that way. Someone may need medical attention." "Can I go with you?" asked Helen. "I want to get all the facts about the storm for my story for the _Herald_." "Glad to have you," said the doctor. "Count me in," said Margaret Stevens. "I've joined Helen's staff as her first reporter," she told her father. "If you want to go down the lake in the morning and see what happened at the far end I'll be glad to take you," suggested Jim Preston. "I'm mighty grateful for what you and Tom did for me and I'll have the Liberty ready to go by morning." "What about the Flyer?" asked Tom. "I'll have to fish her out of the lake sometime next week," grinned the boatman. "I'm lucky even to be here, but I am, thanks to you." Doctor Stevens backed his sedan out of the garage and Helen started toward the car. "You can't go looking like that," protested her mother. "Your shoes and hose are wet and dirty and your dress looks something like a mop." "Can't help the looks, mother," smiled Helen. "I'll have to go as I am. This is my first big news and the story comes first." CHAPTER V _Reporting Plus_ Clouds which followed the terrific wind unleashed their burden and a gray curtain of rain swept down from the heavens. "Get your slickers," Doctor Stevens called to the girls and Helen raced across the street for her coat and a storm hat. "Better put on those heavy, high-topped boots you use for hiking," Tom advised Helen when they had reached the shelter of their own home. "You'll probably be gone the rest of the afternoon and you'll need the boots." Helen nodded her agreement and rummaged through the down stairs closet for the sturdy boots. She dragged them out and untangled the laces. Then she kicked off her oxfords and started to slide her feet into the boots. Her mother stopped her. "Put on these woolen stockings," she said. "Those light silk ones will wear through in an hour and your heels will be chafed raw." With heavy stockings and boots on, Helen slipped into the slicker which Tom held for her. She put on her old felt hat just as Doctor Stevens' car honked. "Bye, Mother," she cried. "Don't worry. I'll be all right with the doctor and Margaret." "Get all the news," cautioned Tom as Helen ran through the storm and climbed into the doctor's sedan. Margaret Stevens was also wearing heavy shoes and a slicker while the doctor had put on knee length rubber boots and a heavy ulster. "We'll get plenty of rain before we're back," he told the girls, "and we'll have to walk where the roads are impassable." They stopped down town and Doctor Stevens ran into his office to see if any calls had been left for him. When he returned his face was grave. "What's the matter?" asked Margaret. "I called the telephone office," replied her father, "and they said all the phone wires west of the lake were down but that reports were a number of farm houses had been destroyed by the tornado." "Then you think someone may have been hurt?" asked Helen. "I'm afraid so," admitted Doctor Stevens as he shifted gears and the sedan leaped ahead through the storm. "We'll have to trust to luck that we'll reach farms where the worst damage occurred." The wind was still of nearly gale force and the blasts of rain which swept the graveled highway rocked the sedan. There was little conversation as they left Rolfe and headed into the hill country which marked the western valley of Lake Dubar. The road wound through the hills and Doctor Stevens, unable to see more than fifty feet ahead, drove cautiously. "Keep a close watch on each side," he told the girls, "and when you see any signs of unusual damage let me know." They were nearly three miles from Rolfe when Margaret told her father to stop. "There's a lane to our right that is blocked with fallen tree trunks," she said. Doctor Stevens peered through the rain. A mail box leered up at them from a twisted post. "This is Herb Lauer's place," he said. "I'll get out and go up the lane." The doctor picked up his medical case and left the motor running so the heat it generated would keep ignition wires dry. One window was left open to guard against the car filling with gas and the girls followed him into the storm. They picked their way slowly over the fallen trees which choked the lane. When they finally reached the farmyard a desolate scene greeted them. The tornado, like a playful giant, had picked up the one story frame house and dashed it against the barn. Both buildings had splintered in a thousand pieces and only a huddled mass of wreckage remained. Miraculously, the corn crib had been left almost unharmed and inside the crib they could see someone moving. Doctor Stevens shouted and a few seconds later there came an answering cry. The girls followed him to the crib and found the family of Herb Lauer sheltered there. "Anyone hurt?" asked Doctor Stevens. "Herb's injured his arm," said Mrs. Lauer, who was holding their two young children close to her. "Think it's broken, Doc," said the farmer. "Broken is right," said Doctor Stevens as he examined the injury. "I'll fix up a temporary splint and in the morning you can come down and have it redressed." The doctor worked quickly and when he was ready to put on the splint had Margaret and Helen help him. In twenty minutes the arm had been dressed and put in a sling. "We'll send help out as soon as we can," said Doctor Stevens as they turned to go. Helen had used the time to good advantage, making a survey of the damage done to the farm buildings and learning that they were fully protected by insurance. Mrs. Lauer, between attempts to quiet the crying of the children, had given Helen an eye-witness account of the storm and how they had taken refuge in the corn crib just before the house was swirled from its foundations. Back in the car, the trio continued their relief trip. The rain abated and a little after four o'clock the sun broke through the clouds. Ditches along the road ran bankful with water and streams they crossed tore at the embankments which confined them. "The worst is over," said Doctor Stevens, "and we can be mighty thankful no one has been killed." Fifteen minutes later they reached another farm which had felt the effects of the storm. The house had been unroofed but the family had taken refuge in the storm cellar. No one had been injured, except for a few bruises and minor scratches. At dusk they were fifteen miles west of Rolfe and had failed to find anyone with serious injury. "We've about reached the limit of the storm area," said Doctor Stevens. "We'll turn now and start back for Rolfe on the Windham road." Their route back led them over a winding road and before they left the main graveled highway Doctor Stevens put chains on his car. They ploughed into the mud, which sloshed up on the sides of the machine and splattered against the windshield until they had to stop and clean the glass. Half way back to Rolfe they were stopped by a lantern waving in the road. Doctor Stevens leaned out the window. "What's the matter?" he asked. A farmer stepped out of the night into the rays of the lights of the car. "We need help," he cried. "The storm destroyed our house and one of my boys was pretty badly hurt. We've got to get him to a doctor." "I'm Doctor Stevens of Rolfe," said Margaret's father as he picked up his case and opened the door. "We need you doctor," said the farmer. Helen and Margaret followed them down the road and into a grassy lane. Lights were flickering ahead and when they reached a cattle shed they found a wood fire burning. Around the blaze were the members of the farmer's family and at one side of the fire was the blanket-swathed form of a boy of ten or eleven. "One of the timbers from the house struck him while he was running for the storm cave," explained the farmer. "He just crumpled up and hasn't spoken to us since. It's as though he was asleep." Doctor Stevens examined the boy. "He got a pretty nasty rap on the head," he said. "What he needs is a good bed, some warm clothes and hot food. We'll put him in my car and take him back to Rolfe. He'll be all right in two or three days." The doctor looked about him. "This is the Rigg Jensen place, isn't it?" he asked. "I'm Rigg Jensen," said the farmer. "You fixed me up about ten years ago when my shotgun went off and took off one of my little toes." "I remember that," said Doctor Stevens. "Now, if you'll help me carry the lad, we'll get him down to the car." "Hadn't I better go?" asked Mrs. Jensen. "Eddie may be scared if he wakes up and sees only strangers." "Good idea," said Doctor Stevens, as they picked up the boy and started for the car. Helen went ahead, carrying the lantern and lighting the way for the men. They made the boy comfortable in the back seat and his mother got in beside him. "Better come along," Doctor Stevens told the father. "Not tonight," was the reply. "Mother is with Eddie and I know he'll be all right now. I've got to take the lantern and see what happened to the livestock and what we've got left." There was no complaint in his voice, only a matter-of-factness which indicated that the storm could not have been prevented and now that it was all over he was going to make the best of it. Half an hour later they reached the gravel highway and sped into Rolfe. Doctor Stevens drove directly to his office and several men on the street helped him carry Eddie Jensen inside. "You'd better run along home," he told the girls, "and get something to eat." When Helen reached home, Tom was waiting on the porch. "Get a story?" he asked. The young editor of the _Herald_ nodded. "Anyone hurt?" Tom insisted. "No one seriously injured," replied Helen, "but a lot of farm buildings were destroyed." "I've been checking up on the damage down the lake," said Tom, "that new summer resort on the east shore got the worst of it. The phone office finally got through and they estimate the damage at the resort at about $50,000." "Doctor Stevens believes the damage along the west half of the valley will amount to almost a $100,000," said Helen. "That's a real story," enthused Tom. "It's big enough to telephone to the state bureau of the Associated Press at Cranston. They'll be glad to pay us for sending it to them." "You telephone," said Helen. "I'd be scared to death and wouldn't be able to give them all the facts." "You're the editor," replied Tom. "It's your story and you ought to do the phoning. Jot down some notes while I get a connection to Cranston." Tom went into the house to put in the long distance call just as Helen's mother hurried across from the Stevens home. "Are you all right, dear?" her mother asked. "Not even wet," replied Helen. "The coat and boots protected me even in the heaviest rain. Tom's just gone inside to call the Associated Press at Cranston and I'm going to tell them about the storm." "Hurry up there," came Tom's voice from inside the house. "The Cranston operator has just answered." "And I haven't had time to think what I'll say," added Helen, half to herself. Without stopping to take off her cumbersome raincoat, she hurried to the telephone stand in the dining room and Tom turned the instrument over to her. "All ready," he said. Helen picked up the telephone and heard a voice at the other end of the wire saying, "This is the state bureau of the Associated Press at Cranston. Who's calling?" Mustering up her courage, Helen replied, "this is Helen Blair, editor of the _Rolfe Herald_. We've had a tornado near here this afternoon and I thought you'd want the facts." "Glad to have them," came the peppy voice back over the wire. "Let's go." Helen forgot her early misgivings and briefly and concisely told her story about the storm, giving estimates of damage and the names of the injured. In three minutes she was through. "Fine story," said the Associated Press man at Cranston. "We'll mail you a check the first of the month. And say, you'd better write to us. We can use a live, wide-awake correspondent in your town." "Thanks, I will," replied Helen as she hung up the receiver. "What did he say?" asked Tom. "He told me to write them; that they could use a correspondent at Rolfe." "That's great," exclaimed Tom. "One more way in which we can increase our income and it means that some day you may be able to get a job with the Associated Press." "That will have to come later," said Helen's mother, "when school days are over." "Sure, I know," said Tom, "but creating a good impression won't hurt anything." Mrs. Blair had a hot supper waiting, hamburger cakes, baking powder biscuits with honey, and tea, and they all sat down to the table for a belated evening meal. Helen related the events of her trip with Doctor Stevens and Tom grew enthusiastic again over the story. "It's the biggest news the _Herald_ has had in years. If we were putting out a daily we'd be working on an extra now. Maybe the _Herald_ will be a daily some day." "Rolfe will have to grow a lot," smiled his mother. "I guess you're right," agreed Tom. Tom and Helen helped their mother clear away the supper dishes and after that Helen went into the front room and cleared the Sunday papers off the library table. She found some copypaper and a pencil in the drawer and sat down to work on her story of the storm. The excitement of the storm and the ensuing events had carried her along, oblivious of the fatigue which had increased with the passing hours. But when she picked up her pencil and tried to write, her eyes dimmed and her head nodded. She snuggled her head in her arms to rest for just a minute, she told herself. The next thing she knew Tom was shaking her shoulders. "Ten o'clock," he said, "and time for all editors to be in bed." Helen tried to rub the sleep from her eyes and Tom laughed uproariously at her efforts. "It's no use," he said. "You're all tired out. You can write your story in the morning. To bed you go." "Have I been asleep all evening?" Helen asked her mother. "Yes, dear," was the reply, "and I think Tom's right. Run along to bed and you'll feel more like working on your story in the morning." Goodnights were said and Helen, only half awake, went to her room, thus ending the most exciting day in her young life. CHAPTER VI _A New Week Dawns_ Monday morning dawned clear and bright. There were no traces in the sky of the storm which on the previous day had devastated so many farms west of Rolfe. The air was warm with a fragrance and sweetness that only a small town knows in springtime. Helen exchanged greetings with half a dozen people as she hurried down the street to start her first day at the office as editor of the _Herald_. Grant Hughes, the postmaster, was busy sweeping out his office but he stopped his work and called to Helen as she turned down the alley-way which led to the _Herald_ office. "Starting in bright and early, aren't you?" "Have to," smiled Helen, "for Tom and I have only half days in which to put out the paper and do the job work." "I know, I know," mused the old postmaster, "but you're chips off the old block. You'll make good." "Thanks, Mr. Hughes," said Helen. "Your believing in us is going to help." She hastened on the few steps to the office and opened the doors and windows for the rooms were close and stuffy after being closed overnight. The young editor of the _Herald_ paused to look around the composing room. Tom had certainly done a good job cleaning up the day before. The four steel forms which would hold the type for the week's edition were in place, ready for the news she would write and the ads which it would be Tom's work to solicit. The Linotype seemed to be watching her in a very superior but friendly manner and even the old press was polished and cleaned as never before. Helen returned to the editorial office, rolled a sheet of copypaper into her typewriter, and sat down to write the story of the storm. She might have to change certain parts of the story about the condition of the injured later in the week but she could get the main part of it written while it was still fresh in her memory. Hugh Blair had always made a point of writing his news stories in simple English and he had drilled Helen and Tom in his belief that the simpler a story is written the more widely it will be read. He had no time for the multitudes of adjectives which many country editors insist upon using, although he felt that strong, colorful words had their place in news stories. With her father's beliefs on news writing almost second nature, Helen started her story. It was simple and dramatic, as dramatic as the sudden descent of the storm on the valley. Her fingers moved rapidly over the keyboard and the story seemed to write itself. She finished one page and rolled another into the machine, hardly pausing in her rapid typing. Page after page she wrote until she finally leaned back in her swivel chair, tired from the strain of her steady work. She picked up the half dozen pages of typed copy. This was her first big story and she wanted it to read well, to be something of which her father would be proud when he read the copy of the paper they would send him. She went over the story carefully, changing a word here, another there. Occasionally she operated on some of her sentences, paring down the longer ones and speeding up the tempo of the story. It was nine-thirty before she was satisfied that she had done the best she could and she stuck the story on the copy spindle, ready for Tom when he wanted to translate it into type on the Linotype. Helen slid another sheet of copypaper into her typewriter and headed it "PERSONALS." Farther down the page she wrote four items about out-of-town people who were visiting in Rolfe. She had just finished her personals when she heard the whistle of the morning train. The nine forty-five in the morning and the seven-fifteen in the evening were the only trains through Rolfe on the branch line of the A. and T. railroad. The nine forty-five was the upbound train to Cranston, the state capital. It reached Cranston about one o'clock, turned around there and started back a little after three, passing through Rolfe on its down trip early in the evening, its over-night terminal being Gladbrook, the county seat. Helen picked up a pencil and pad of paper, snapped the lock on the front door and ran for the depot two blocks away. The daily trains were always good for a few personals. She meant to leave the office earlier but had lost track of the time, so intense had been her interest in writing her story of the storm. The nine forty-five was still half a mile below town and puffing up the grade to the station when Helen reached the platform. She spoke to the agent and the express man and hurried into the waiting room. Two women she recognized were picking up their suit cases when she entered. Helen explained her mission and they told her where they were going. She jotted down the notes quickly for the train was rumbling into town. The local ground to a stop and Helen went to the platform to see if anyone had arrived from the county seat. One passenger descended, a tall, austere-looking man whose appearance was not in the least inviting but Helen wanted every news item she could get so she approached him, with some misgiving. "I'm the editor for the _Rolfe Herald_," she explained, "and I'd like to have an item about your visit here." "You're what?" exclaimed the stranger. "I'm the editor of the local paper," repeated Helen, "and I'd like a story about your visit in town." "You're pretty young for an editor," persisted the stranger, with a smile that decidedly changed his appearance and made him look much less formidable. "I'm substituting for my father," said Helen. "That quite explains things," agreed the stranger. "I'm Charles King of Cranston, state superintendent of schools, and I'm making a few inspections around the state. If you'd like, I'll see you again before I leave and tell you what I think of your school system here." "I'm sure you'll thoroughly approve," said Helen. "Mr. Fowler, the superintendent, is very progressive and has fine discipline." "I'll tell him he has a good booster in the editor," smiled Mr. King. "Now, if you'll be good enough to direct me to the school I'll see that you get a good story out of my visit here." Helen supplied the necessary directions and the state superintendent left the depot. The nine forty-five, with its combination mail and baggage car and two day coaches, whistled out and Helen returned to the _Herald_ office. She found a farmer from the east side of the valley waiting for her. "I'd like to get some sale bills printed," he said, "and I'll need about five hundred quarter page bills. How much will they cost?" Helen opened the booklet with job prices listed and gave the farmer a quotation on the job. "Sounds fair enough," he said. "At least it's a dollar less than last year." "Paper doesn't cost quite as much," explained Helen, "and we're passing the saving on to you. Be sure and tell your neighbors about our reasonable printing prices." "I'll do that," promised the farmer. "I'll bring in the copy Tuesday and get the bills Friday morning." "My brother will have them ready for you," said Helen, "but if you want to get the most out of your sale, why not run your bill as an ad in the _Herald_. On a combination like that we can give you a special price. You can have a quarter page ad in the paper plus 500 bills at only a little more than the cost of the ad in the paper. It's the cost of setting up the ad that counts for once it is set up we can run off the bills at very little extra cost." "How much circulation do you have?" "Eight hundred and seventy-five," said Helen. "Three hundred papers go in town and the rest out on the country routes." She consulted her price book and quoted the price for the combination ad and bills. "I'll take it," agreed the farmer, who appeared to be a keen business man. "Tell you what," he went on. "If you'd work out some kind of a tieup with the farm bureau at Gladbrook and carry a page with special farm news you could get a lot of advertising from farmers. If you do, don't use 'canned' news sent out by agricultural schools. Get the county agent to write a column a week and then get the rest of it from farmers around here. Have items about what they are doing, how many hogs they are feeding, how much they get for their cattle, when they market them and news of their club activities." "Sounds like a fine idea," said Helen, "but we'll have to go a little slowly at first. My brother and I are trying to run the paper while Dad is away recovering his health and until we get everything going smoothly we can't attempt very many new things." "You keep it in mind," said the farmer, "for I tell you, we people on the farms like to see news about ourselves in the paper and it would mean more business for you. Well, I've got to be going. I'll bring my copy in tomorrow." "We'll be expecting it," said Helen. "Thanks for the business." She went around to the postoffice and returned with a handful of letters. Most of them were circulars but one of them was a card from her father. She read it with such eagerness that her hands trembled. It had been written while the train was speeding through southwestern Kansas and her father said that he was not as tired from the train trip as he had expected. By the time they received the card, he added, he would be at Rubio, Arizona, where he was to make his home until he was well enough to return to the more rigorous climate of the north. Helen telephoned her mother at once and read the message on the card. "I'm going to write to Dad and tell him all about the storm and how happy we are that everything is going well for him," said Helen. "I'll write this afternoon," said her mother, "and we'll put the letters in one envelope and get them off on the evening mail. Perhaps Tom will find time to add a note." Helen sat down at the desk, found several sheets of office stationery and a pen, and started her letter to her father. She was half way through when Jim Preston entered. "Good morning, Miss Blair," he said. "I've got the _Liberty_ ready to go if you'd like to run down the lake and see how much damage the twister caused at the summer resorts." "Thanks," replied Helen, "I'll be with you right away." She put her letter aside and closed the office. Five minutes later they were at the main pier on the lakeshore. The _Liberty_, a sturdy, 28-foot cruiser, was moored to the pier. The light oak hood covering the engine shone brightly in the morning sun and Helen could see that Jim Preston had waxed it recently. The hood extended for about fourteen feet back from the bow of the boat, completely enclosing the 60 horsepower engine which drove the craft. The steering wheel and ignition switches were mounted on a dash and behind this were four benches with leather covered cork cushions which could be used as life preservers. The boatman stepped into the _Liberty_ and pressed the starter. There was the whirr of gears and the muffled explosions from the underwater exhaust as the engine started. The _Liberty_ quivered at its moorings, anxious to be away and cutting through the tiny whitecaps which danced in the sunshine. Helen bent down and loosened the half hitches on the ropes which held the boat. Jim Preston steadied it while she stepped in and took her place on the front seat beside him. The boatman shoved the clutch ahead, the tone of the motor deepened and they moved slowly away from the pier. With quickening pace, they sped out into the lake, slapping through the white caps faster and faster until tiny flashes of spray stung Helen's face. "How long will it take us to reach Crescent Beach?" asked Helen for she knew the boatman made his first stop at the new resort at the far end of the lake. "It's nine miles," replied Jim Preston. "If I open her up we'll be down there in fifteen or sixteen minutes. Want to make time?" "Not particularly," replied Helen, "but I enjoy a fast ride." "Here goes," smiled Preston and he shoved the throttle forward. The powerful motor responded to the increased fuel and the _Liberty_ shook herself and leaped ahead, cutting a v-shaped swath down the center of the lake. Solid sheets of spray flew out on each side of the boat and Preston put up spray boards to keep them from being drenched. Helen turned around and looked back at Rolfe, nestling serenely along the north end of the lake. It was a quiet, restful scene, the white houses showing through the verdant green of the new leaves. She could see her own home and thought she glimpsed her mother working in the garden at the rear. Then the picture faded as they sped down the lake and Helen gave herself up to complete enjoyment of the boat trip. There were few signs along the shore of the storm. After veering away from Rolfe it had evidently gone directly down the lake until it reached the summer resorts. In less than ten minutes Rolfe had disappeared and the far end of the lake was in view. Preston slowed the _Liberty_ somewhat and swung across the lake to the left toward Crescent Beach, the new resort which several wealthy men from the state capital were promoting. They slid around a rocky promontory and into view of the resort. Boathouses dipped crazily into the water and the large bath-house, the most modern on the lake, had been crushed while the toboggan slide had been flipped upside down by the capricious wind. The big pier had collapsed and Preston nosed the _Liberty_ carefully in-shore until the bow grated on the fresh, clean sand of the beach. Kirk Foster, the young manager of the resort, was directing a crew of men who were cleaning up the debris. The boatman introduced Helen to the manager and he willingly gave her all the details about the damage. The large, new hotel had escaped unharmed and the private cottages, some of which were nicer than the homes in Rolfe, had suffered only minor damage. "The damage to the bathhouse, about $35,000, was the heaviest," said the manager, "but don't forget to say in your story that we'll have things fixed up in about two weeks, and everything is insured." "I won't," promised Helen, "and when you have any news be sure and let me know." "We cater to a pretty ritzy crowd," replied the manager, "and we ought to have some famous people here during the summer. I'll tip you off whenever I think there is a likely story." Jim Preston left the mail for the resort and they returned to the Liberty, backed out carefully, and headed across the lake for Sandy Point, a resort which had been on the lake for more years than Helen could remember. Sandy Point was popular with the townspeople and farmers and was known for its wonderful bathing beach. Lake Dubar was shallow there and it was safe for almost anyone to enjoy the bathing at Sandy Point. The old resort was not nearly as pretentious as Crescent Beach for its bathhouses, cottages and hotel were weather beaten and vine-covered. Art Provost, the manager, was waiting for the morning mail when the Liberty churned up to the pier. "Storm missed you," said the boatman. "And right glad I am that it did," replied Provost. "I thought we were goners when I saw it coming down the lake but it swung over east and took its spite out on Crescent Beach. Been over there yet?" "Stopped on the way down," replied Jim Preston. "They suffered a good bit of damage but will have it cleaned up in a couple or three days." "Glad to hear that," said Provost, "that young manager, Foster, is a fine fellow." Helen inquired for news about the resort and was told that it would be another week, about the first of June, before the season would be under way. They left Sandy Point and headed up the lake, this time at a leisurely twenty miles an hour. Helen enjoyed every minute of the trip, drinking in the quiet beauty of the lake, its peaceful hills and the charm of the farms with their cattle browsing contentedly in the pastures. It was noon when they docked at Rolfe and Helen, after thanking the boatman, went home instead of returning to the office. Tom had come from school and lunch was on the table. Helen told her brother of the sale of the quarter page ad for the paper and the 500 bills. "That's fine," said Tom, "but you must have looked on the wrong page in the cost book." "Didn't I ask enough?" "You were short about fifty cents," grinned Tom, "but we'll make a profit on the job, especially since you got him to run it as an ad in the paper." "What are you going to do this afternoon?" Mrs. Blair asked Tom. "I'll make the rounds of the stores and see what business I can line up for the paper," said the business manager of the _Herald_. "Then there are a couple of jobs of letterheads I'll have to get out of the way and by the time I get them printed the metal in the Linotype will be hot and I can set up Helen's editorials and whatever other copy she got ready this morning." "The storm story runs six pages," said Helen, "and when I add a few paragraphs about the summer resorts, it will take another page. Is it too long?" "Not if it is well written." "You'll have to judge that for yourself." "I walked home with Marg Stevens," said Tom, "and she said to tell you the sophomore picnic planned for this afternoon has been postponed until Friday. A lot of the boys from the country have to go home early and help clean up the storm damage." "Suits me just as well," said Helen, "for we'll have the paper off the press Thursday and I'll be ready for a picnic Friday." Tom went to the office after lunch and Helen walked to school with Margaret. Just before the assembly was called to order, one of the teachers came down to Helen's desk and told her she was wanted in the superintendent's office. When Helen reached the office she found Superintendent Fowler and Mr. King, the state superintendent of schools, waiting for her. The state superintendent greeted her cordially and told Superintendent Fowler how Helen had met him at the train. "I promised to give her a story about my visit," he explained, "and I thought this would be a good time." Superintendent Fowler nodded his agreement and the state school leader continued. "I hope you'll consider it good news," he told Helen, "when I say that the Rolfe school has been judged the finest in the state for towns under one thousand inhabitants." "It certainly is news," said Helen. "Mr. Fowler has worked hard in the two years he has been here and the _Herald_ will be glad to have this story." "I thought you would," said Mr. King, and he told Helen in detail of the improvement which had been made in the local school in the last two years and how much attention it was attracting throughout the state. "You really ought to have a school page in the local paper," he told Helen in concluding. "Perhaps we will next fall," replied the young editor of the _Herald_. "By that time Tom and I should be veterans in the newspaper game and able to add another page of news to the _Herald_." "We'll talk it over next August when I come back to get things in shape for the opening of the fall term," said Superintendent Fowler. "I'm heartily in favor of one if Tom and Helen can spare the time and the space it will require." Helen returned to the assembly with the handful of notes she had jotted down while Mr. King talked. Her American History class had gone to its classroom and she picked up her textbook and walked down the assembly, inquiring eyes following her, wondering why she had been called into the superintendent's office. They'd have to read the _Herald_ to find out that story. CHAPTER VII _The First Issue_ At the close of school Helen met Margaret Stevens in the hall outside the assembly room. "What is my first assignment going to be?" asked Helen's reporting staff. "I think it would be a good idea if you went to the teachers and got all the school news," Helen suggested. "It is almost the end of the year and most of the classes are planning parties and programs of various kinds." "I'll do it right away," promised Margaret and she hurried off on her first newspaper assignment. Helen smiled at her friend's enthusiasm and she hoped that it wouldn't wear off for Margaret was clever, knew a great many people and could be a real help if she made up her mind to gather news. In return, all Helen could offer would be the experience and the closer friendship which their constant association would mean. The young editor of the _Herald_ walked down the street alone, for most of the students had left the building while she had been talking with Margaret. When she reached the _Herald_ office she heard the steady hum of the electric motor of the Linotype and the clack of its long arm as Tom sent the lines of matrices into the mould to come out in the form of shiny, hot lead slugs--new type for their first edition of the _Herald_. Tom rose from his chair before the Linotype keyboard and came into the editorial office. "That's a fine story on the storm," he told Helen. "It's so interesting I can't make any time getting it into type; keep stopping to read your descriptions again." "I've got another good story," Helen replied, and she told her brother all about the visit of the state superintendent of schools and of his praise for the local school. "What a front page we'll have to send to Dad," chuckled Tom. "And to match your good news stories, I made the rounds of the stores the first thing this afternoon and got the ads lined up. I couldn't get the copy for all of them but I know just how much space each store will take. We'll have a 'pay dirt' issue this week with a little more than 250 inches of ads and at 25 cents a column inch that means better than $60 worth of business. Not bad for a starter, eh?" "Won't that crowd the inside pages?" "A little," Tom conceded, "but we've got to make every cent we can. I've been doing a little figuring on our expenses and how much business we ought to have. We think of the _Herald_ as an eight page paper. That's true, but four of the pages are printed at Cranston by the Globe Printing Company with our serial story, pictures of news of the world, fashion and menu suggestions and world news in general on them. We seldom if ever put ads on our front page and that leaves only three pages for which we can sell ads and on which we must earn enough to pay expenses, keep the family going and build up a surplus to take care of Dad when he needs more money. Those three six column pages have 360 column inches, 120 to each page, and at our rate of 25 cents an inch for advertising we've got to sell a lot to make the grade." "I hadn't figured it out like that," Helen admitted, "but of course you're right. Can't we expand the paper some way to get more business? Only this morning the farmer that came in to see about the sale bills said he wished we would run a farm page and the school superintendent would like to have a school page next fall." "The farm page," Tom said, "would undoubtedly bring us more business and the first time I have a half day to spare I'll take the old car and go down to Gladbrook and see the county agent. "Maybe I can get some job work from the offices at the courthouse," he added hopefully. The telephone rang and Helen answered the call. It was from a woman who had out-of-town guests and the young editor jotted the names down on a pad of paper. That done she turned to her typewriter and wrote the item, for with her half days to work she had to write her stories as soon as she had them. Margaret bounced in with a handful of notes. "I've got half a dozen school stories," she exclaimed. "Almost every teacher had something for me and they're anxious to see their school news in the paper." "I thought they would be," Helen smiled. "Can you run a typewriter?" "I'm a total stranger," Margaret confessed. "I'll do a lot better if I scribble my stories in longhand, if Tom thinks he can read my scrawls." "I'll try," came the reply from the composing room, "but I absolutely refuse to stand on my head to do it." "They're not that bad," laughed Margaret, "and I'll try to do especially well for you." Helen provided her first assistant with copypaper and Margaret sat down at the desk to write her stories. The editor of the _Herald_ then devoted her attention to writing up the notes she had taken in her talk with the state superintendent of schools. It was a story that she found slow to write for she wanted no mistakes in it. The afternoon was melting in a soft May twilight when Tom snapped the switch on the Linotype and came into the editorial office. "Almost six o'clock," he said, "and time for us to head for home and supper." Margaret, who had been at the desk writing for more than an hour, straightened her cramped back. "Ouch!" she exclaimed. "I never thought reporting could be such work and yet so much fun. I'm getting the biggest thrill out of my stories." "That's about all the pay you will get," grinned Tom. They closed the office and started home together. They had hardly gone a block when Helen stopped suddenly. "Give me the office key, Tom," she said. "I started a letter to Dad this morning and it got sidetracked when someone came in. I'm going back and get it. I can finish it at home and mail it on the seven-fifteen when I come down to meet the train." "I'll get it for you," said Tom and started on the run for the office. He got her half-finished letter, and rejoined Helen and Margaret, who had walked slowly. "I'll add a few lines to your letter," Tom said. "Dad will be glad to know we've lined up a lot of ads for our first issue." Doctor Stevens came out of his office and joined them in their walk home. "How are all the storm victims?" asked Helen. "Getting along fine," said the doctor. "I can't understand why there weren't more serious injuries. The storm was terrific." "Perhaps it is because most of them heard it coming and sought shelter in the strongest buildings or took refuge in cellars," suggested Tom. "I suppose that's the explanation." "I'll finish my school stories tomorrow afternoon," promised Margaret as she turned toward her home. The twilight hour was the one that Helen liked best of all the busy hours of her day. From the porch she could look down at the long, deep-blue stretch of water that was Lake Dubar while a liquid-gold sun settled into the western hills. Purple shadows in the little valleys bordering the lake, lights gleaming from farm house windows on far away hills, the mellow chime of a freight train whistling for a crossing and over all a pervading calmness that overcame any feeling of fatigue and brought only a feeling of rest and quiet to Helen. It was hard to believe that a little more than 24 hours before this peaceful scene had been threatened with total destruction by the fury of the elements. Helen's mother called and the _Herald_ editor went into the dining room. Tom, his hands scrubbed clean of printer's ink, was at the table when Helen took her place. Mrs. Blair bowed her head in silent prayer and Tom and Helen did likewise. "Didn't I see you working in the garden this morning when I went down the lake with Jim Preston?" Helen asked her mother. "Probably. I'm planning a larger garden than ever. We can cut down on our grocery bills if we raise more things at home." "Don't try to do too much," Tom warned, "for we're depending on you as the boss of this outfit now. I'll help you with the garden every chance I get." "I know you will," his mother replied, "but I thoroughly enjoy working outdoors. If you'll take care of the potato patch, I'll be able to do the rest and still find time to write a few social items for the paper." "Did you get any today?" Helen asked. "Nearly half a dozen. The Methodist Ladies Aid is planning a spring festival, an afternoon of quilting and a chicken dinner in the evening with everyone invited." "And what a feed they put out," added Tom. "I'll have to see their officers and get an ad for the paper." Supper over and the dishes washed, dried and put away, Helen turned her attention to finishing the letter to her father. Tom also sat down to write a note and when they had finished Mrs. Blair put their letters in the envelope with her own, sealed it and gave it to Helen. Margaret Stevens stuck her head in the door. "Going up to school for the sophomore-junior debate?" she asked. "I've got to meet the seven-fifteen first," Helen replied. "I'll meet you at school about seven-thirty." "Wait a minute, Marg," said Tom. "I guess I'll go along and see just how badly the sophomores are beaten. Of course you know you kids haven't got a chance." "Be careful, Tom," Helen warned. "Margaret is captain of our debate team." "Oh, that's all right," chuckled Tom. "No offense." "It will be an offense, though," smiled Margaret, "and the juniors will be on the receiving end of our verbal attack." "Look out for a counter attack," Tom grinned. "We'll be home early, mother," said Helen as they left the house. "I hope the sophomores win," her mother said. "Tom and his juniors are too sure of themselves." The seven-fifteen coughed its way into town, showering the few people on the platform with cinders. Helen ran to the mail car and dropped her letter into the mail slot. Mr. King, the state superintendent of instruction, was the only passenger leaving but there were several Rolfe people getting off the train. She got their names and stopped to talk a minute or two with the agent. "I'll have some news for next week's paper," he told her, but refused to say another word about the promised story and Helen went on to the high school. The assembly was well filled with students and a scattering of parents whose children were taking part in the inter-class debate. The senior debaters had already eliminated the freshmen and the winner of the sophomore-junior debate would meet the seniors for the championship of the school. Helen looked around for a seat and was surprised to see her mother beside Mrs. Stevens. "I didn't know you planned to come," Helen said. "I didn't," smiled her mother, "but just after you left Mrs. Stevens ran over and I decided to come with her." The debate was on the question of whether the state should adopt a paving program which would reach every county. The sophomores supported the affirmative and the juniors the negative. The question was of vital interest for it was to come to a vote in July and, if approved, Rolfe would get a place on the scenic highway which would run along the western border of the state, through the beautiful lake country. It would mean an increased tourist trade and more business for Rolfe. Margaret had marshalled her facts into impressive arguments and the weight of the evidence was with her team but the juniors threw up a smoke screen of ridicule to hide their weaker facts and Helen felt her heart sinking as the debate progressed. Margaret made the final rebuttal for the sophomores and gave a masterful argument in favor of the paved road program but the last junior speaker came back with a few humorous remarks that could easily confuse the judges into mistaking brilliant humor for facts. The debate closed and the judges handed their slips with their decisions to Superintendent Fowler. Every eye in the assembly watched the superintendent as he unfolded the slips and jotted down the results. He stood up behind his desk. "The judges vote two to one in favor of the sophomores," he announced. There was a burst of applause and students and parents crowded around the victorious team to congratulate it. When it was all over, Mrs. Blair, Mrs. Stevens, Margaret, Helen and Tom started home together. "And we didn't have a chance," Margaret chided Tom. "I still think we have the best team," insisted Tom. "The judges got a little confused." "If they were confused, Tom," his mother said, "it was by the juniors. Your team didn't have the facts; they resorted to humor and ridicule. I think it is a fine victory for the sophomores." Tuesday morning Helen looked over the stories Margaret had written the afternoon before and wrote a long story about the sophomore-junior debate, stressing the arguments in favor of the paving program which the sophomores had brought out. She was thoroughly in agreement and meant to devote space in the _Herald_, both editorially and from a news standpoint, to furthering the passage of the good roads program. The farmer who had called the day before came in with his copy for the ad and sale bills. "I've talked over the farm page idea with my brother," Helen told him, "and we'll get one started just as soon as he can find the time to go to Gladbrook and see the county agent." "I'm glad to hear that," replied the farmer, "and I'll pass the word around to our neighbors. Also, if you had a column of news each week from the courthouse it would help your paper. A lot of farmers take one of the Gladbrook papers just for that reason. They want courthouse news and can't get it in the _Herald_." "We'll see about that, too," promised Helen. She had almost forgotten that she was to write to the state bureau of the Associated Press and apply for the job as correspondent for Rolfe and the nearby vicinity. She wrote one letter, was dissatisfied, tore it up and wrote a second and then a third before she was ready to mail it. As Tom had said, it would be one way of increasing their income and at the same time might help her to secure a job later. Margaret finished her school stories after school that afternoon and Helen visited all of the stores down town in search of personals. Several fishermen had been fined for illegal fishing and she got that story from the justice of the peace. She called on the ministers and got their church notices. Wednesday was their big day and Helen worked hard all morning writing her personals. The main news stories about the storm, the visit of the state superintendent and the high school debate were already in type and Tom had finished setting most of the ads. When Helen came down after school Tom called her into the composing room. He had the ads for the two inside pages placed in the forms. One of the pages they devoted to the editorials and the other they filled with personal items about the comings and goings of local people. The ads were placed well in the pages and when Tom finished putting in the type he stood back and looked at his handiwork. "I call that mighty good makeup," he said. "Pyramiding the ads on the left side of the page makes them look better and then we always have news on the right-hand side." Helen agreed that the pages were well made up and Tom locked the type into the steel forms, picked up one of the pages and carried it to the press. The other page was put on and locked into place. Tom washed his hands and climbed up to take his place on the press. The paper for that issue of the _Herald_ had come down from Cranston the day before with four pages, two and three and six and seven already printed. Pages four and five, filled with local news and ads, were on the press. Tom would get them printed in the next two hours and on Thursday afternoon would make up and print page one and page eight. He smoothed the stack of paper on the feeding board, put a little glycerine on his fingers so he could pick up each sheet and feed it into the press, and then threw on the switch. The motor hummed. Tom fed one sheet into the press and pushed in the clutch. The press shook itself out of its week-long slumber, groaned in protest at the thought of printing another week's issue, but at the continued urging of the powerful motor, clanked into motion. "See how the ink looks," Tom called and Helen seized the first few papers. Her brother stopped the press and climbed down to look over the pages for possible corrections. "Looks all right," he conceded as he scanned the cleanly printed page. "Wonder how Dad will like our new editorial head and the three column box head I set for your personals?" "He'll like them," Helen said. "The only reason he didn't do things like that was because he didn't have the strength." Tom nodded, wiped a tear from his eyes, and went back to feeding the press. Helen kept the papers stacked neatly as they came out and it was nearly six o'clock before Tom finished the first run. "We'll go home and get something to eat," he said, "and then come back. I've got some more copy to set on the Linotype and you write your last minute stories. Maybe we'll have time to make up part of the front page before we go home tonight. I'd like to have you here and we'll write the heads together and see how they look." "Are you going to head all of the front page stories?" asked Helen. "If I have time," Tom replied. "It improves the looks of the paper; makes it look newsy and alive." Supper was waiting for them when they reached home and Tom handed his mother a copy of the two inside pages they had just printed. "It looks fine," enthused Mrs. Blair, "and the ads are so well arranged and attractive. Tom, you've certainly worked hard, and, Helen, I don't see where you got so many personals." "We're going to use your column of social news on page eight," Tom went on. "It's on the last run and in that way we can be sure of getting in all of your news." "I have three more items," said his mother. "They're all written and ready to be set up." "We're going back for a while after supper," said Helen, "but I don't think it will take us over a couple of hours to finish, do you, Tom?" "About nine-thirty," replied Tom, who was devoting himself whole-heartedly to a large baked potato. When they returned to the office Helen finished the last of her items in half an hour. By eight-thirty Tom had all of the news in type and had made the necessary corrections from the proofs which Helen had read. "We need a head for the storm story," he said. "A three line, three column 30 point one ought to be about right. You jot one down on a sheet of paper and I'll try and make it fit." Helen worked several minutes on a headline. "This is the best I can do," she said: "TORNADO CAUSES $150,000 DAMAGE NEAR ROLFE SUNDAY; MISSES TOWN BUT STRIKES RESORT ALONG LAKE" "Sounds fine," Tom said. "Now I'll see how it fits." He set up the headline and Helen wrote a two column one for the story of the Rolfe school being the best for its size in the state. Tom put the headlines on the front page and placed the stories under them. Shorter stories, some of them written by Margaret, filled up the page and they turned their attention to page eight, the last one to be made up. Their mother's social items led the page, followed by the church notices and the last of Helen's personals. "We've got about ten inches too much type," said Tom. "See if some of the personals can't be left out and run next week." Helen culled out six items that could be left out and Tom finished making up the page. Tomorrow he would print the last two pages and Helen would assemble the papers and fold them. Their first issue of the _Herald_ was ready for the press. CHAPTER VIII _Mystery in the Night_ Helen and Tom hurried home from school Thursday noon, ate a hasty lunch and then went on to the _Herald_ office to finish their task of putting out their first issue of the paper. Helen stopped at the postoffice for the mail and Tom went on to unlock the office, put the pages on the press and start printing the last run. In the mail Helen found a letter postmarked Rubio, Arizona, and in her Father's familiar handwriting. She ran into the _Herald_ office and on into the composing room where Tom was locking the last page on the old flat-bed press. "Tom," she cried, "here's a letter from Dad!" "Open it," he replied. "Let's see what he has to say." Helen was about to tear open the envelope when she paused. "No," she decided. "Mother ought to be the one to read it first. I'll call her and tell her it's here. She'll want to come down and get it." "You're right," agreed Tom as he climbed up on the press. He turned on the motor and threw in the clutch. The old machine clanked back and forth, gathering momentum for the final run of the week. Helen eagerly scanned the front page as it came off the press. It was heavy with fresh ink but she thrilled at the makeup on page one. There were her stories, the one about the tornado and the other about the high standing of the local school. Tom's heads looked fine. The paper was bright and newsy--easy to read. She hoped her Dad would be pleased. With the final run on the press it was Helen's task to assemble and fold the papers. She donned a heavy apron, piled the papers on one of the makeup tables and placed a chair beside her. With arms moving methodically, she started to work, folding the papers and sliding them off the table onto the chair. Tom had just got the press running smoothly when there was a grinding crash followed by the groaning of the electric motor. Helen turned quickly. Something might have happened to Tom. He might have slipped off his stool and fallen into the machinery of the press. But Tom was all right. He reached for the switch and shut off the power. "What happened?" gasped Helen, her face still white from the shock. "Breakdown," grunted Tom disgustedly. "This antique has been ready for the junk pile for years but Dad never felt he could afford to get a new one or even a good second-hand one." "What will we do?" asked Helen anxiously. "We've got to get the paper out." "I'll run down to the garage and get Milt Pearsall to come over. He's a fine mechanic and Dad has called on him before when things have gone wrong with the press." Tom hastened out and Helen resumed her task of folding the few papers which had been printed before the breakdown. Everything had been going so smoothly until this trouble. Now they might be delayed hours if the trouble was anything serious. She heard someone call from the office. It was her mother and she hastened out of the composing room. "Here's the letter," she said, pulling it out of a pocket in her dress. "We knew you'd be anxious to hear." "Why didn't you open it and then telephone me?" her mother asked. "We could have done that," Helen admitted, "but we thought you'd like to be the first to open and read it." "You're so thoughtful," murmured her mother. With hands that trembled in spite of her effort to be calm, she opened the letter and unfolded the single page it contained. Helen waited, tense, until her mother had finished. "How's Dad?" she asked. "His letter is very cheerful," replied Mrs. Blair, handing it to Helen. "Naturally he is tired but he says the climate is invigorating and he expects to feel better soon." "Of course he will," agreed Helen. "Where's Tom?" "The press broke down and he went to the garage to get Milt Pearsall." "I hope it's nothing serious," said her mother. "Is there something I can do?" "If you've got the time to spare, I'd like to have you look over our first issue. Here's a copy." Helen's mother scanned the paper with keen, critical eyes. "It looks wonderful to me," she exclaimed. "I like the heads on the front page and you've so many good stories. Tom did splendidly on the ads. How proud your father will be when he gets a copy." "I thought perhaps you'd like to write his address on a wrapper and we'll put it in the mail tonight when the other papers go out," said Helen. Mrs. Blair nodded and addressed the wrapper Helen supplied. "If you're sure there's nothing I can do at the office," she said, "I'll go on to the kensington at Mrs. Henderson's." "Don't forget to pick up all the news you can at the party," cautioned Helen. "I won't," promised her mother. Helen had just finished folding the papers when Tom returned with Milt Pearsall. The mechanic was a large, heavy-set man with a mop of unruly hair, eyes that twinkled a merry blue, and lips that constantly smiled. "Hello, Editor," he boomed. "Press broke again, Tom says. Huh, expected it to happen most anytime. Well, let's see what's the matter." He eased his bulk down under the press, dug into his tool kit for a flashlight and wormed his way into the machinery. "Get me the long wrench," he directed Tom. The request complied with, there followed a number of thumps and whacks of steel against steel, a groan as Pearsall bumped his head in the crowded quarters, and finally a grunt of satisfaction. The mechanic crawled from under the press, a smudge of ink across his forehead. He wiped his hands thoughtfully. "Some day," he ventured, "that old press is going to fall apart and I won't be able to tease it back again." "What was the trouble?" asked Tom. "Cross bar slipped out of place and dropped down so it caught and held the bed of the press from moving. Good thing you shut off the power or you might have snapped that rod. Then we'd have been out of luck until I could have made a new one." "How much will it be?" Tom asked. The big mechanic grinned. "Oh, that's all right, Tom," he chuckled. "Just forget to send me a bill for my subscription. That's the way your Dad and I did." "Thanks a lot for helping us out," said Tom, "and I'll see that you don't get a subscription dun." Tom climbed back to his place on the press, turned on the power and eased the clutch in gently. Helen watched anxiously, afraid that they might have another breakdown but the old machine clanked along steadily and she picked up the mounting pile of papers and returned to her task of folding. Paper after paper she assembled, folded and slid onto the pile on the chair. When the chair overflowed with papers she stopped and carried them into the editorial office and piled them on the floor. Tom finished his press run and went into the editorial office to get out their old hand mailer and start running the papers through to stamp the names and addresses on each one. After an hour of steady folding Helen's arms ached so severely she stopped working and went into the editorial office. "Getting tired?" Tom asked. She nodded. "You run the mailer for a while and I'll fold papers," said her brother. "That will give you a rest." Helen agreed and they switched work. She clicked the papers through the mailer at a steady pace. "Papers ready?" called the postmaster from his office in the front half of the _Herald_ building. "The city list is stamped and ready," replied Helen. "I'll bring them in right away." "Never mind," said Mr. Hughes, "I'll save you a trip." "Matter of fact," continued the postmaster when he entered the office, "I wanted to see what kind of an issue you two kids got out." Helen handed him an unstamped paper and he sat down in the one vacant chair. She valued the old postmaster's friendship highly and awaited his comment with unusual interest. "One of the best issues of the _Herald_ I've ever seen," he enthused when he had finished looking over the paper. "Your stories have got all your Dad's 'get up and go' and these headlines are something new for the _Herald_. Believe I like 'em." "Some people may not," said Helen, "so we'll appreciate all of the boosting you do." "I'll do plenty," he chuckled as he picked up an armful of papers and returned to the postoffice. Margaret Stevens bustled in after school in time to help carry the last of the papers to the postoffice and she insisted on sweeping out the editorial office. "You're just 'white' tired," she scolded Helen. "Sit down and I'll swing this broom a few times." "I am a little tired," admitted Helen. "How about you, Tom?" "Me for bed just as soon as I get home and have something to eat," agreed her brother. "Guess we were all worked up and nervous over our first issue." "You were a real help, Margaret," said Helen, "and I hope you'll like reporting well enough to stick with us." "I'm crazy about it," replied Margaret, wielding the broom with new vigor. Conversation among the sophomores the next morning at school was devoted solely to the class picnic in the afternoon. The refreshment committee had been busy and each member of the class was to furnish one thing. Helen was to bring pickles and Margaret's mother was baking a large chocolate cake. The class was dismissed at noon for the rest of the day, to meet again at one o'clock at Jim Preston's boat landing for the trip down the lake to the picnic grounds on Linder's farm. There were 18 in the sophomore class and it was necessary for the boatman to make two trips with the _Liberty_ to transport them to the picnic grounds. Helen and Margaret were in the first boat load and were the first ones out on the sandy beach at Linder's. The rambling old farmhouse, famous for its home cooked chicken dinners, set back several hundred feet from the lake shore. To the left of the farm was a dense grove of maples. The picnic was to be along the shore just in front of the maples where there was ample shade to protect the group from the warm rays of the sun. Miss Carver, the class advisor, rented two rowboats at Linder's, and the class took turns enjoying cruises along the shore, hunting unusual rocks and shells for their collection at school. The day previous Miss Carver and another teacher had come down the lake and made arrangements for a treasure hunt. The first clue was to be revealed at three o'clock and the class, divided into two groups, was to compete to see which group could find the hidden treasure. The first clue took them to the Linder farmyard, the second through the maples to an old sugarhouse, and the third brought them out of the timber and along a meadow where placid dairy cattle looked at them with wondering eyes. The fourth clue was found along the stream which cut through the meadow and Helen, leading one group, turned back toward the lake. A breeze was freshening out of the west and the sun dropped rapidly toward the shadows which were enfolding the hills. The final clue took them back to their picnic ground and they arrived just ahead of Margaret and her followers to claim the prize, a two pound box of chocolates. Miss Carver had laid out the baskets and hampers of food and the girls, helped by the boys in their clumsy way, started serving the supper. One of the boys built a bonfire and with the coming of twilight and the cooling of the air its warmth felt good. The flames chased the shadows back toward the timber and sent dancing reflections out on the ruffled waters of Lake Dubar. The afternoon in the open had whetted their appetites and they enjoyed their meal to the fullest. Thick, spicy sandwiches disappeared as if by magic, pickles followed in quick order and the mounds of potato salad melted away. They stopped for a second wind before attacking the cakes and cookies but when those fortresses of food had been conquered the boys cut and sharpened sticks and the girls opened a large sack of marshmallows. More wood was heaped on the fire and they gathered around the flames to toast the soft, white cubes. With the wind whispering through the trees and the steady lap, lap, lap of the waves on the shore, it was the hour for stories and they settled back from the fire to listen to Miss Carver, whose reputation as a story teller was unexcelled. "It was a night like this," she started, "and a class something like this one was on a picnic. After supper they sat down at the fire to tell ghost stories, each one trying to outdo the other in the horror of the things they told." From somewhere through the night came a long drawn out cry rising from a soft note to a high crescendo that sent shivers running up and down the back of everyone at the fireside. Helen laughed. "It's only the whistle of a freight train," she assured the others, but they all moved closer to the fire. "While they told stories," went on Miss Carver, "the blackness of the night increased, the stars faded and over all there was a canopy of such darkness as had never been seen before. The wind moaned dismally like a lost soul and the waters of the lake, white-capped by the breeze, chattered against the rocky beach. The last ghost story was being told by one of the boys. He told how people disappeared as if by magic, leaving no trace behind them, uttering no sound. Some of the other stories had been surprising, but this one gave the class the creeps and everyone turned to see if the others were there." Involuntarily Helen reached out to clasp Margaret's hand and when she failed to find it, turned to the spot where Margaret had been sitting beside her a few minutes before. Margaret had disappeared! CHAPTER IX _Rescue on Lake Dubar_ Helen stared hard at the place where her friend should have been. Had the magic of Miss Carver's story been so strong that she was imagining things? She rubbed her eyes and looked again. There was no mistake. Margaret had disappeared! Helen's cry caught the attention of the other members of the class and Miss Carver stopped her story. "What's the matter, Helen?" the teacher asked. "Look," cried Helen dazedly, pointing to the spot where Margaret had been sitting, "Margaret's gone!" Miss Carver's eyes widened and she gave a little shudder. Then she smiled to reassure Helen and the other members of the class. "Probably Margaret slipped away and is hiding just to add a thrill to my ghost story. I'll call her." "Margaret, oh, Margaret!" The teacher's voice rang through the night. She cupped her hands and called again when there was no response to her first one. Once more she called but still there was no answer from the massed maples behind them or the dark waters of the lake. "This is more than a joke," muttered Ned Burns, the class president. "We'd better get out and have a look around." He stepped toward the fire, threw on an armful of fresh, dry sticks, and the flames leaped higher, throwing their reflection further into the night. "We'll take a look into the woods," he told Miss Carver, "and you and the girls hunt along the lake shore. Margaret might have fallen and hurt herself." Miss Carver agreed and the girls gathered around her. There was a queer tightness in Helen's throat and a tugging at her heart that unnerved her--a vague, pressing fear that something was decidedly wrong with Margaret. The boys disappeared into the shadows of the timber and the girls turned toward the lake shore. They had just started their search when Miss Carver made an important discovery. "Girls," she cried, "One of the rowboats we rented this afternoon is missing!" Helen ran toward the spot, the other girls crowding around her. They could make out the marks of the boat's keel in the sand and a girl's footprints. "Those prints were made by Margaret's shoes," said Helen. "You can see the marks of the heel plates she has on her oxfords." "We'll call the boys," said Miss Carver, and Helen thought she detected a real note of alarm in the teacher's voice although Miss Carver was making every possible effort to appear calm. When the boys arrived, Miss Carver told them of their discovery and Ned Burns took charge of the situation. "We'll get in the other rowboat," he said, "and start looking for Margaret. In the meantime, someone must go up to Linder's farmhouse and telephone town. Margaret's father ought to know she's out on the lake in the boat. Also call Jim Preston and if he hasn't started down with the _Liberty_, have him come at once." "I'll go to the farm," volunteered Helen. "O. K.," nodded Ned as he selected two other boys to accompany him in the rowboat. They pushed off the sandy beach, dropped the oars in the locks, and splashed away into the night. "Don't you want someone to go to the farmhouse with you?" Miss Carver asked Helen. But Helen shook her head and ran up the beach. She didn't want anyone with her; she wanted to be alone. The other girls didn't realize the seriousness of the situation. She could understand what Margaret had done. Realizing that Miss Carver would tell them a first rate thriller of a ghost story, Margaret had decided to add an extra thrill by disappearing for a few minutes. But something had gone wrong and she hadn't been able to get back. Helen paused and looked over the black, mysterious waters of Lake Dubar. What secret were they keeping from her? Thoughts of what might have happened to Margaret brought the queer, choky sobs again and she ran on toward Linder's where the welcome glow of light showed through the windows of the farmhouse. Old Mr. Linder came to the door in answer to Helen's quick, insistent knocks. "What's the matter, young Lady?" he asked, peering at her through the mellow radiance of the kerosene lamp which he held in one hand. "I'm Helen Blair," she explained, "and one of my classmates has disappeared from our picnic party down the beach. One of the boats we rented from you is missing and we're sure Margaret is adrift on the lake and unable to get back. I'd like to use your telephone to let her father know and to call Jim Preston." "Why, certainly," said Mr. Linder, "I don't wonder at your hurry. Come right in and use the phone. Who did you say the girl was?" "Margaret Stevens," Helen replied. "Must be Doctor Stevens' daughter," said the farmer. "She is," Helen replied, as she reached the telephone in the hallway. While Helen was ringing for the operator at Rolfe, Mr. Linder stuck his head in the living room. "Mother," he said, "Doctor Stevens' daughter is adrift somewhere on the lake in one of our boats. I'm going down and see if I can help find her." Mrs. Linder came into the hall and Helen heard her husband telling her what had happened. Then the Rolfe operator answered and Helen gave her the number of Doctor Stevens' office. The doctor answered almost instantly and Helen, phrasing her sentences as tactfully as possible so as not to unduly alarm the doctor, told him what had happened. "Sounds just like Margaret," he snorted. "I'll be right down. Now don't worry too much, Helen," he added. "I won't, Doctor Stevens," promised Helen with a shaky attempt at cheerfulness. Then she called Jim Preston's home and learned that he had left fifteen minutes before and should be almost down to Linder's. "We'll go down to the landing and wait for Jim," said Mr. Linder as he lighted a lantern he had brought from the kitchen. "Everything will come out all right," Mrs. Linder assured Helen. The farmer led the way down to the landing. The wind was freshening rapidly and Helen saw Mr. Linder anxiously watching the white caps which were pounding against the sandy beach. Down the beach their picnic campfire was a red glow and Helen could see Miss Hughes and the girls huddled around it. The boys who had not accompanied Ned Burns were walking up and down along the shore. She turned and looked up the lake. Two lights, one red and one green, the markers of the _Liberty_, were coming down the lake. "Jim Preston will be here in another minute," said Mr. Linder, "and with the searchlight he's got on the _Liberty_ it won't take us long to find Doctor Stevens' daughter." Helen nodded miserably as the _Liberty_ slowed down and swung its nose toward the Linder pier. There was the grinding of the reverse gear as Jim Preston checked the speed of his boat and left it drift against the pier. "Don't shut it off, Jim," cried the farmer. "Doc Stevens' daughter is adrift in the lake in one of my rowboats. We've got to go out and look for her." They climbed into the boat and Jim Preston backed the _Liberty_ away from the pier. "How did it happen?" he asked Helen. She told him briefly and he shook his head, as though to say, "too bad, it's getting to be a nasty night on the lake." The boatman opened the throttle, the motor roared its response and the _Liberty_ leaped ahead and down the lake. They ran parallel to the shore until they were opposite the picnic ground. There Jim Preston slowed down, got the direction of the wind, and turned the nose of the _Liberty_ toward the open and now wind-tossed lake. He snapped on the switch and a crackling, blue beam of light cut a path ahead of the boat. "Keep the searchlight moving," he directed the farmer, who stood up in the _Liberty_, his hands on the handles of the big, nickel lamp. The boatman held the _Liberty_ at about one third speed and they moved almost directly across the lake while Mr. Linder kept the searchlight swinging in an arc to cover the largest possible area. A third of the way across they sighted a boat far to their right and Jim Preston swung the nose of the _Liberty_ around sharply and opened the throttle. They sliced through the white caps at a pace that drenched them with the flying spray but they were too intent on reaching the distant boat to stop and put up the spray boards. Helen's keen eyes were the first to identify the boat. "It's the boys," she cried. "They're beckoning us on." Jim Preston checked the _Liberty_ carefully and nosed alongside the tossing rowboat. "No sign of Margaret," admitted Ned Burns, "and the lake's getting too rough for us to stay out much longer. We've had half a dozen waves break over us now." "Better get in with us," advised Preston. "Hand me the oars," said Mr. Linder, "and we'll let the rowboat drift. I'll pick it up in the morning." The boys tossed their oars into the _Liberty_ and scrambled up into the motorboat. Jim Preston threw in the clutch and the _Liberty_ leaped ahead to resume its search for Margaret. Helen's lips were dry and fevered despite the steady showers of spray and her heart hammered madly. Lake Dubar had always had a nasty reputation for ugliness in a fresh, sharp wind but Helen had never before realized its true danger and what a lost and helpless feeling one could have on it at night, especially when a friend was missing. There was no conversation as the _Liberty_ continued across the choppy expanse of the lake. The searchlight picked up the far shore of the lake with the waves hammering against the rocks which lined that particular section. It was a grim, unnerving picture and Helen saw Jim Preston's jaw harden as he swung the _Liberty_ around the cross back to Linder's side of the lake. Back and forth the searchlight swung in its steady, never tiring arc, but it revealed only the danger of Lake Dubar at night. There was no sign of Margaret. They reached the shore from which they had started and turned around for a third trip across the lake. This time they slapped through the waves at twenty-five miles an hour and every eye was trained to watch for some sign of the missing boat and girl. Helen caught a flash of white just as the searchlight reached the end of its arc. "Wait!" she cried. "I saw something far to the right." Preston slapped the wheel of the _Liberty_ over and the speedboat roared away in the direction Helen pointed, its questing searchlight combing the waves. "There it is again," Helen cried and pointed straight ahead where they could discern some object half hidden by the waves. "That's one of my boats," muttered old Mr. Linder as they drew nearer, "but it doesn't look like there was anyone in it." "Don't, don't say that!" cried Helen. "There must be someone there. Margaret must be in it!" In her heart she knew Mr. Linder was right. The boat was rolling in the choppy waves and there was no one visible. "It's half full of water," exclaimed Ned Burns as they drew nearer and Jim Preston throttled down the _Liberty_ and eased in the clutch. Helen pushed them aside and stared at the rowboat, fully revealed in the glaring rays of the searchlight. Tragedy was dancing on the waters of Lake Dubar that night, threatening to write an indelible chapter on the hearts of Helen and her classmates for there was no sign of Margaret in the boat. "Maybe she shoved the boat out into the lake and hid in the woods," said Ned Burns. "She wouldn't do that," protested Helen. They edged nearer the rowboat, Preston handling the _Liberty_ with care lest the waves created by the boat's powerful propeller capsize the smaller boat. "There's something or someone in the back end," cried Ned Burns, who was three or four inches taller than anyone else in the boat. Helen stood on tip-toe. "It's Margaret," she cried. "Something's wrong. It looks like she's asleep." But sleep in a water-logged rowboat in the middle of Lake Dubar was out of the question and Helen realized instantly that something unusual had happened to Margaret, something which would explain the whole joke which had turned out to be such a ghastly nightmare. Jim Preston eased the _Liberty_ alongside the rowboat and Mr. Linder reached down and picked Margaret up. There was a dark bruise over her left eye and her clothes were soaked. The boatman found an old blanket in one of the lockers and they wrapped Margaret in it and pillowed her head in Helen's lap. Margaret's eyes were closed tightly but she was breathing slowly and her pulse was irregular. "Hurry," Helen whispered to Jim Preston. "Head for Linder's. Her father will be there by this time." The boatman sensed the alarm in Helen's words and he jerked open the throttle of the _Liberty_ and sent the boat racing through the night. In less than five minutes they were slowing down for the pier. The lights of a car were at the shore end of the landing and someone with an electric torch was awaiting their arrival. It was Doctor Stevens, pacing along the planks of the landing stage. "Have you found Margaret?" he cried as the _Liberty_ sidled up to the pier. "Got her right here," replied Jim Preston, "but she's got a bad bump on her head." Doctor Stevens jumped into the boat and turned his flashlight on Margaret's face. Helen saw his lips tighten into a thin straight line. He felt her pulse. "Run ahead," he told Ned Burns, "and tell Mother Linder to open one of those spare beds of hers and get me plenty of hot water." He stooped and picked Margaret up in his arms, carrying her like a baby. Mr. Linder hurried ahead to light the way. Helen stopped to talk with Jim Preston for a moment. "I think you'd better take the class home," she said. "There's nothing more they can do here." "Will you go back with them now?" asked the boatman. "No, I'm going to stay here tonight. I'll phone mother." Helen turned and ran toward the farmhouse. Inside there was an air of quiet, suppressed activity. Doctor Stevens had carried Margaret into the large downstairs bedroom which Mother Linder reserved for company occasions. Two kerosene lamps on a table beside the bed gave a rich light which softened the pallor of Margaret's cheeks. Doctor Stevens was busy with an injection from a hypodermic needle, working as though against time. Tragedy had danced on the tips of the waves a few minutes earlier but how close it came to entering the farmhouse only Doctor Stevens knew at that hour for Margaret's strength, sapped by the terrifying experience on the lake, was near the breaking point and only the injection of a strong heart stimulant saved her life. Two hours later, hours which had been ages long to Helen as she sat beside the bed with the doctor, Margaret opened her eyes. "Don't talk, Marg," begged Helen. "Everything is all right. You're in a bedroom at the Linders and your father is here with you." Margaret nodded slightly and closed her eyes. It was another hour before she moved again and when she did Mother Linder was at hand with a steaming bowl of chicken broth. The nourishing food plus the hour of calm sleep had partially restored Margaret's strength and when she had finished the broth she sat up in bed. "I've been such a little fool," she said, but her father patted her hand. "Don't apologize for what's happened," he said. "We're just supremely happy to have you here," his voice so low that only Margaret and Helen heard him. "I thought it would be a good joke to disappear when Miss Carver started telling the ghost story," explained Margaret. "I got the boat out into the lake without anyone seeing me and let it drift several hundred feet. When I tried to put the oars in the locks I stumbled, dropped them overboard and that's the last I knew, except that for hours I was falling, falling, falling, and always there was the noise of the waves." Margaret slipped back into a deep, restful sleep when she had finished her story. Helen, worn by the hours of tension, slid out of her chair and onto the floor, and when Doctor Stevens picked her up she was sound asleep. CHAPTER X _Behind the Footlights_ By the first of the following week the near tragedy of the picnic seemed only a terrible nightmare to Helen and Margaret and they devoted all of their extra time to helping Tom get out the next edition of the _Herald_. Monday morning's mail brought a long letter from Helen's father, a letter in which he praised them warmly for their first edition of the _Herald_. He added that he had recovered from the fatigue of his long trip into the southwest and was feeling much stronger and a great deal more cheerful. The newsy letter brightened the whole atmosphere of the Blair home and for the first time since their father had left, Tom and Helen saw their mother like her old self, smiling, happy and humming little tunes as she worked about the house. Events crowded one on another as the school year neared its close. There were final examinations, the junior-senior banquet, the annual sophomore party and finally, graduation exercises. The seniors had been rehearsing their play, "The Spell of the Image," for a month and for the final week had engaged a special dramatic instructor from Cranston to put the finishing touches on the cast. Helen had read the play several times. It was a comedy-drama concerning the finding of an ancient and valuable string of pearls in an old image. It had action, mystery and romance and she thrilled when she thought that in two more years she would be in her own class play. The dramatic instructor arrived. She was Anne Weeks, a slender, dark-haired girl of 25 who had attended the state university and majored in dramatics. Every boy in high school promptly thought he was in love with her. The seniors rehearsed their parts every spare hour and every evening. The play was to go on Thursday night with the graduation exercises Friday evening. Dress rehearsal was called for Tuesday and Helen went down to the opera house to peek in and see how it was going. She found a disconsolate cast sitting around the stage, looking gloomily at Miss Weeks. "This looks more like a party of mourners than a play practice," observed Helen. "It's just about that bad," replied Miss Weeks. "Sarah Jacobs has come down with a severe cold and can't talk, which leaves us in a fine pickle." "Won't she be able to go on Thursday night?" "It will be at least a week before she'll be able to use her voice for a whole evening," Miss Weeks said. "In the meantime, we've got to find another girl, about Sarah's size, to play her part and every member of the senior class is in the play now." She stopped suddenly and looked at Helen. "You're about Sarah's size," she mused, "and you're blonde and you have blue eyes. You'll do, Helen." "Do for what?" asked the astounded Helen. "Why, for Sarah's part," exclaimed Miss Weeks. "Come now, hurry up and get into Sarah's costume," and she pointed to a dainty colonial dress which the unfortunate Sarah was to have worn in the prologue. "But I don't know Sarah's part well enough," said Helen. "I've only read the play twice and then just for fun." "You'll catch on," said Miss Weeks, "if you're half as smart as I think you are." "Go on, Helen," urged the seniors. "Help us out. We've got to put the play across or we'll never have enough money to pay Miss Weeks." "Now you know why I'm so anxious for you to take the part," smiled the play instructor. "I'll do my best," promised Helen, gathering the costume under her arm and hurrying toward the girls' dressing room. Ten minutes later she emerged as a dainty colonial dame. Miss Weeks stared hard at her and then smiled an eminently satisfactory smile. "Now if she can only get the lines in two nights," she whispered to herself. Helen's reading of the play had given her a thorough understanding of the action and they went through the prologue without a slip. Scenery was shifted rapidly and the stage changed from a colonial ballroom to a modern garden scene. Costumes kept up with the scenery and when the members of the cast reappeared on the stage they were dressed in modern clothes. Helen poured over the pages of the play book and because she had only a minor part in the first act, got through it nicely. The second act was her big scene and she was decidedly nervous when it came time for her cue. One of the seniors was to make love to her and she didn't especially like him. But the play was the thing and the seniors certainly did need someone to take the vacant part. She screwed up her courage and played the rôle for all it was worth. Once she forgot her lines but she managed to fake a little conversation and they got back to the regular lines without trouble. When the curtain was rung down on the third act Miss Weeks stepped out of the orchestra pit where she had been directing the changes in minor details of the action and came over to Helen. "You're doing splendidly," she told the young editor of the _Herald_. "Don't worry about lines. Read them over thoroughly sometime tomorrow and we'll put the finishing touches on tomorrow night." When Helen reached home Tom had returned from the office, his work done for the night. "Thought you were just going down the street to see how play practice was coming?" he said. "I did," Helen replied, "and I'm so thrilled, Tom. Sarah Jacobs, who has the juvenile lead in the play is ill with a sore throat and Miss Weeks asked me to take the part." "Are you going to?" "I have," smiled Helen. "That's where I've been. Rehearsing for the play Thursday night." "Well, you're a fine editor," growled Tom. "How am I going to get out the paper?" "Oh, you don't need to worry about copy," Helen assured him. "Margaret has half a dozen stories to turn in tomorrow noon and I'll have all of mine written by supper time. And I'll do my usual work Thursday afternoon." "I was just kidding," grinned Tom. "I think it's great that Miss Weeks picked you to fill in during the emergency. Quite a compliment, I say." Helen's mother, who had been across the street at the Stevens', came home and Helen had to tell her story over again. "What about your costumes?" asked her mother. "The class rents the colonial dress for the prologue," explained Helen, "and for the other acts Miss Weeks is going to loan me some smart frocks from her own wardrobe. We're practically the same size." "What a break for you," Tom laughed. "You'll be the smartest dressed girl in the class if I know anything about Miss Weeks." "Which you don't!" retorted his sister. Helen's regular Wednesday morning round of news gathering took her to the depot to meet the nine forty-five and she found the agent waiting. "Remember I promised you a story this week?" he said. "I'm ready to take it," Helen smiled. "What we want is news, more news and then more news." "This is really a good story," the railroad man assured her. "Wait until you see the nine forty-five." "What's the matter? Is it two or three hours late?" "It will be in right on time," the agent promised. Helen sat down on a box on the platform to await the arrival of the morning local. Resting there in the warm sunshine, she pulled her copy of the play book out of her pocket and read the second act, with her big scene, carefully. The words were natural enough and she felt that she would have little trouble remembering them. She glanced at the depot clock. It was nine forty. The local should be whistling for the crossing down the valley. She looked in the direction from which the train was coming. There was no sign of smoke and she knew it would be late. She had picked up her play book and turned to the third act when a mellow chime echoed through the valley. It was like a locomotive whistle and yet unlike one. "New whistle on the old engine?" Helen asked the agent. "More than that," he grinned. The _Herald's_ editor watched for the train to swing into sight around a curve but instead of the black, stubby snout of the regular passenger engine, a train of three cars, seemingly moving without a locomotive, appeared and rolled smoothly toward the station. As it came nearer Helen could hear the low roar of a powerful gasoline engine, which gradually dropped to a sputtering series of coughs as the three car train drew abreast the station. "Latest thing in local trains," exclaimed the agent. "It's a gas-electric outfit with the motive power in the front end of the first car. Fast, clean and smooth and it's economical to run. Don't take a fireman." Helen jotted down hasty notes. Everyone in the town and countryside would be interested in seeing and reading about the new train. The agent gave Helen a hand into the cab where the engineer obligingly explained the operation of the gas-electric engine. The conductor called "All aboo-ord," and Helen climbed down out of the cab. The gasoline engine sputtered as it took up the load of starting the train. When the cars were once under way, it settled down to a steady rumble and the train picked up speed rapidly and rolled out of town on its way to the state capital. "What do you think of it?" asked the agent. "It's certainly a fine piece of equipment," said Helen, "but I hate to see the old steam engines go. There's something much more romantic about them than these new trains." "Oh, we'll have steam on the freight trains," the agent hastened to add. "Give us a good write up." "I will," Helen promised as she started for the _Herald_ office to write her story of the passing of the steam passenger trains on the branch line. Margaret came in with a handful of school stories she had written during an assembly hour. "Congratulations," she said to Helen. "I've just heard about your part. You'll put it across." "I'm glad you think so, Marg, for I'd hate to make a fizzle of it." Helen finished writing her copy for the paper that afternoon after school and before she went home to supper with Tom wrote the headlines for the main stories on page one. "Did you write a story about the sophomore picnic and what happened to Margaret?" asked Tom. "It's with the copy I just put on your machine," Helen replied. "Everyone knows something about it and of course there is a lot of talk. I've seen Doctor Stevens and Margaret and they both agree that a story is necessary and that the simple truth is the best thing to say with no apologies and nothing covered up." "Doc Stevens is a brick," exclaimed Tom. "Most men would raise the very dickens if such a story were printed but it will stop idle talk which is certainly much worse than having the truth known." "That's the way he feels," Helen said. Margaret came over after supper to go down to the opera house with Helen for play practice. "I'm getting almost as big a thrill out of it as Helen," she told Mrs. Blair, "only I wouldn't be able to put it across and Helen can." Miss Weeks had brought three dresses for Helen to wear, one for each act in the play. They were dainty, colorful frocks that went well with Helen's blondness. The stage was set with all of the properties for the prologue and Helen hastened into the girl's dressing room to put on her colonial costume. When she returned to the stage, Miss Weeks was addressing the cast. "Remember," she warned them, "that this is the last rehearsal. Everything is just as it will be tomorrow night. Imagine the audience is here tonight. Play up to them." The main curtain was dropped, the house lights went off and the battery of brilliant electrics in the footlights blazed. The curtain moved slightly; then went up smoothly and disappeared in the darkness above the stage. The play was on. The prologue went smoothly and without a mistake and when the curtain dropped the stage became a scene of feverish activity. "Five minutes to change," Miss Weeks warned them as they went to their dressing rooms. For the first act Helen was to wear a white sport dress with a blazing red scarf knotted loosely around her neck. She wiggled into her outfit, brushed her hair with deft hands, dabbed fresh powder on her cheeks, touched up her lips with scarlet and was ready for her cue. She said her lines with an ease and clearness that surprised even herself and was back in the wings and on her way to the dressing room almost before she knew it. In the second act Helen had her big part and Miss Weeks had provided a black, velvet semiformal afternoon gown. It was fashioned in plain, clinging lines, caught around the waist with a single belt of braided cloth of gold and with the neckline trimmed in the same material. Golden slippers and hose and one bracelet, a heavy, imitation gold band, completed the accessories. Between acts Miss Weeks came into see how the costume fitted. "Why, Helen," she exclaimed. "You're gorgeous--beautiful. Every boy in town will be crazy about you." "I'll worry about that later," Helen replied. "But I'm so glad you think I look all right." "You're perfectly adorable." The praise from Miss Weeks buoyed Helen with an inner courage that made her fairly sparkle and she played her part for all it was worth. Again she forgot her lines but she managed to escape by faking conversation. When the rehearsal was over, Margaret hastened to the stage. "You'll be the hit of the show," she whispered to Helen. "And think of it, one of the sophomores running away with the seniors play." "But I don't intend to do that," Helen replied. "I'm only here to help them out. Besides, I may forget my lines and make some terrible mistake tomorrow night." "You'll do nothing of the kind," Margaret insisted, as they left the theater. Thursday was Helen's busy day. Final examinations for two periods in the morning and then to the office after lunch to help Tom fold and mail the week's edition of the _Herald_. Tom had put the two pages for the last run on the press before going home for lunch so when they returned the press was ready for the afternoon's work. Advertising had not been quite as heavy as the first week and Tom had used every line of copy Helen had written, but the paper looked clean and readable. Helen stacked the papers on the makeup table and started folding. When Tom finished the press run he folded while Helen started stamping the names of the subscribers on the papers. By four o'clock every paper was in the postoffice and half an hour later they were ready to call it a day and lock up the office. When Helen reached home her mother made her go to her room and rest for an hour before supper. They were eating when Margaret hurried in. "Here are your tickets," she told Mrs. Blair. "I managed to get them exchanged so we'll all be together." "But I thought you had decided not to go to the play?" Helen said to her mother. "That was before you had a part in it," smiled Mrs. Blair. "Where are you going to sit?" "You don't want to know," put in Tom. "If you did, it would make you nervous. It's bad enough to know that we'll be there." The cast had been called to meet on the stage at seven-fifteen for last minute instructions. The curtain was at eight-fifteen and that would give them an hour to dress and get into makeup. Miss Weeks had little to say when she faced the group of seniors and the lone sophomore. "Remember that this is no different from last night's rehearsal," she told them. "Play up to each other. If you forget a few lines, fake the conversation until you can get back to your cues. You will disappoint me greatly if you don't put on the best senior play ever given in Rolfe." Then they were swept away in the rush of last minute preparations for the first call. The girl's dressing room was filled with the excited chatter of a dozen girls and the air was thick with the smell of grease paint and powder. Colonial costumes came out of the large wardrobe which filled one side of the room and there was the crisp rustle of silk as the girls donned their costumes. Miss Weeks moved through the room, adding a touch of makeup here and taking off a bit where some over-zealous young actress had been too enthusiastic. "Ten minutes," Miss Weeks warned the girls. "Everyone out and on the stage." There was a general checkup on costumes and stage properties. Through the heavy curtain Helen heard the high school orchestra swing into the overture. The electrician moved the rheostat which dimmed the house lights. The banks of electrics in the flies about the stage awoke into glaring brilliance as the overture reached its crescendo. The stage was very quiet. Everyone was ready for the curtain. All eyes were on Miss Weeks and Helen felt a last second flutter of her heart. In another second or two she would be in the full glare of the footlights. She was thankful that she had only a few lines in the prologue. It would give her time to gain a stage composure and prepare for her big scene in the second act. Miss Weeks' hand moved. The man at the curtain shifted and it started slowly upward. Helen blinked involuntarily as she faced the full glare of the footlights. Beyond them she could see only a sea of faces, extending row on row toward the back of the theater. Somewhere out there her mother and Tom would be watching her. And with them would be Margaret and her parents. The play was on and Helen forgot her first nervousness. Dainty colonial dames moved about the stage and curtsied before gallant white-wigged gentlemen. The prologue was short but colorful. Just enough to reveal that a precious string of pearls had been hidden in the ugly little image which reposed so calmly on a pedestal. As the curtain descended, a wave of applause reached the stage. It was ardent and prolonged and Miss Weeks motioned for the cast to remain in their places. The curtain ascended half way and the cast curtsied before it descended again. "You're doing splendidly," Miss Weeks told them. "Now everyone to the dressing rooms to change for the first act. Be back on the stage ready to go in five minutes." The girls flocked to the dressing room. Colonial costumes disappeared and modern dresses took their place. Helen slipped into her white sport outfit with the scarlet scarf. Her cheeks burned with the excitement of the hour. She dabbed her face with a powder puff and returned to the stage. The scenery had been shifted for the first act and the curtain went up on time to the second. Helen felt much easier. Her first feeling of stage fright had disappeared and she knew she was the master of her own emotions. She refused to think of the possibility of forgetting her lines and resolved to put herself into the character she was playing and do and act in the coming situations, as that character would do. Helen was on the stage only a few minutes during the first act and she had ample time to change for the second. The dressing room was almost deserted and she took her time. The heavy, black velvet dress Miss Weeks had loaned her was entrancing in its rich beauty and distinctiveness. She combed her blond hair until it looked like burnished gold. Then she pulled it back and caught it at the nape of her neck. It was the most simple hair dress possible but the most effective in its sheer simplicity. Other girls crowded into the room. The first act was over. Miss Weeks came in and Helen stood up. "Wonderful, Helen, wonderful," murmured the instructor, but not so loud that the other girls would hear. There was the call for the second act and Helen went onto the stage. The senior she played opposite came up. "All set?" he asked. Helen smiled, just a bit grimly, for she was determined to play her part for all it was worth. The orchestra stopped playing and the curtain slid upward. She heard her cue and walked into the radiance of the lights. She heard the senior, her admirer in the play, talking to her. He was telling her of his recent adventures and how, at the end of a long, moonlit trail, he had finally come upon the girl of his dreams. Then she heard herself replying, protesting that there was no such thing as love at first sight, but that ardent young Irish adventurer refused no for an answer and Helen backed away from him. She heard a warning hiss from the wings but it was too late. She walked backwards into a pedestal with a vase of flowers. There was a sudden crash of the falling pedestal and the tinkle of breaking glass. The audience roared with laughter. Helen was stunned for the moment. In her chance to make good in high school dramatics she had clumsily backed into the stand and upset it, breaking the vase. Tears welled into her eyes and her lips trembled. The senior was staring at her, too surprised to talk. The laughter continued, and Helen seized the only chance for escape. Could she make it appear that the accident was a part of the play, a deliberate bit of comedy? "Smile," she whispered to the senior. "We can make it look like a part of the play. Follow my cue." He nodded slightly to show that he understood. The laughter subsided enough for them to continue their lines and Helen managed to smile. She hoped it wouldn't look too forced. "Look what you made me do," she said, pointing at the wreckage of the vase. "Sorry," smiled the senior. "I'm just that way about you." Then they swung back into the lines of the play and three minutes later Helen was again in the wings. Miss Weeks was waiting for her and Helen expected a sharp criticism. "Supreme comedy," congratulated the dramatic instructor. "How did you happen to think of that?" "But I didn't think of it," protested Helen. "It was an accident. I was scared to death." Miss Weeks stared at her hard. "Well," she commented, "you certainly carried it off splendidly. It was the best comedy touch of the show." The third act went on and then "The Spell of the Image" was over. The curtain came down on the final curtain call. The orchestra blared as the audience left the hall while parents and friends trooped onto the stage to congratulate the members of the cast. Helen suddenly felt very tired and there was a mist in her eyes, but she brightened visibly when her mother and Tom, followed by the Stevens, pushed through the crowd. She listened eagerly to their praises and to Tom's whole-hearted exclamations over her beauty and charm. Then the lights of the stage dimmed. She had had her hour as an actress; she knew she had acquitted herself well. The smell of grease, paint and powder faded and she was a newspaperwoman again--the editor of the _Herald_. CHAPTER XI _New Plans_ With the end of the school year Tom and Helen were able to give their complete time and energies to the _Herald_. When Monday, the first of June arrived, they were working on their fourth issue of the _Herald_ and Helen had written a number of stories on the last week's activities at school, the graduation exercises, the junior-senior dinner and the senior class play. She praised Miss Weeks highly for her work with the class play and lauded the seniors for their fine acting. Although urged that she say something about her own part, Helen steadfastly refused and her brother finally gave up in disgust and delved in to the ledger for on his shoulders fell the task of making out the monthly bills and handling all of the business details of the paper. When Tom had completed his bookkeeping he turned to his sister. "Helen," he began, "we're not making enough." "But, Tom," she protested, "the paper is carrying more advertising than when Dad ran it." "Yes, but our expenses are high," said Tom. "We've got to look ahead all the time. Dad will have used all of the money he took with him in a little less than six months. After that it will be up to us to have the cash in the bank. Right now we've just a little under a hundred dollars in the bank. Current bills will take more than that, and our own living expenses, that is for mother and we two, will run at least $100 a month. With our total income from the paper only slightly more than $200 a month on the basis of the present amount of advertising, you see we're not going to be able to save much toward helping Dad." "Then we'll have to find ways of increasing our volume of business," said Helen. "That won't be easy to do in a town this size," replied Tom, "and I won't go out and beg for advertising." "No one is going to ask you to," said Helen. "We'll make the _Herald_ such a bright, outstanding paper that all of the business men will want to advertise." "We'll do the best we can," agreed Tom. "Then let's start right now by putting in a farm page," suggested Helen. "But there won't be many farm sales from now on," argued Tom. "No," conceded his sister, "but there is haying, threshing and then corn picking and all of the stores have supplies to sell to the farmers." "I believe you're right. If you'll do the collecting this afternoon, I'll go down to Gladbrook and see if we can get the cooperation of the county agent. Lots of the townships near here have farm bureaus and I'll get the names of all of their leaders and we'll write and tell them what we plan to do." After lunch Tom teased the family flivver into motion and set out for Gladbrook while Helen took the sheaf of bills and started the rounds of the business houses. She had no trouble getting her money from all of the regular advertisers and in every store in which she stopped she took care to ask the owner about news of the store and of his family. She noticed that it flattered each one and she resolved to call on them at least once a week. Tom returned from Gladbrook late in the afternoon. He was enthusiastic over the success of his talk with the county agent. "He's a fine chap," Tom explained. "Had a course in agricultural journalism in college and knows news and how to write it. The Gladbrook papers, the _News_ and the _Times_, don't come up in this section of the county and he'll be only too glad to send us a column each week." "When will he start?" "Next week will be the first one. He'll mail his column every Tuesday evening and we'll have it on the Wednesday morning mail. Now, here's even better news. I went to several of the department stores at Gladbrook and told them we were going to put out a real farm page. They're actually anxious to buy space and by driving down there once a week I can get two or three good ads." "How will the local merchants feel?" asked Helen. "They won't object," replied Tom, "for I was careful to stress that I would only accept copy which would not conflict with that used by our local stores." "That was a wise thing to do," Helen said. "We can't afford to antagonize our local advertisers. I made the rounds and collected all of the regular accounts. There's only about eighteen dollars outstanding on this month's bills and I'll get all but about five dollars of that before the week is over." "Want to go to Cranston Friday or Saturday?" asked Tom. "I surely do," Helen replied. "But what for, Tom, and can we afford it?" "One of us will have to make the trip," her brother said. "Putting on this farm page means we'll have to print two more pages at home, six altogether, and will need only two pages of ready-print a week from the World Printing Company. We'll go down and talk with their manager at Cranston and select the features we want for the two pages they will continue to print for us." "Our most important features in the ready-print now are the comics, the serial story and the fashion news for women," said Helen. "Then we'll have one page of comics," said Tom, "and fill the other page with features of special interest to our women readers." The next three days found the young Blairs so busy getting out the current edition of the paper that they had little time to talk about their plans. They had decided to go to Cranston Friday but when Helen found that there were special rates for Saturday, they postponed the trip one day. When the Friday morning mail arrived, Helen was glad they had changed their plans. While sorting the handful of letters, most of them circulars destined for the wastepaper basket, she came upon the letter she had been looking forward to for days. The words in the upper left hand corner thrilled her. It was from the Cranston bureau of the Associated Press. With fingers that trembled slightly, she tore it open. Would she get the job as Rolfe correspondent? A green slip dropped out of the envelope and Tom, who had come in from the composing room, reached down and picked it up. "Ten dollars!" he whistled. "What's that?" demanded Helen, incredulously. "It's your check from the Associated Press for covering the tornado," explained Tom. "Look!" Helen took the slip of crisp, green paper. She wasn't dreaming. It was a check, made out in her name and for $10. "But there must be some mistake," she protested. "They didn't mean to pay me that much." "If you think there's a mistake," grinned Tom, "you can go and see them when we reach Cranston tomorrow. However, if I were you, I'd tuck it in my pocket, invite my brother across the street to the drug store, and buy him a big ice cream soda." "Wait until I see what the letter says," replied Helen. She pulled it out of the envelope and Tom leaned over to read it with her. "Dear Miss Blair," it started, "enclosed you will find check for your fine work in reporting the tornado near Rolfe. Please consider this letter as your appointment as Rolfe correspondent for the Associated Press. Serious accidents, fires of more than $5,000 damage and deaths of prominent people should be sent as soon as possible. Telegraph or telephone, sending all your messages collect. In using the telegraph, send messages by press rate collect when the story is filed in the daytime. If at night, send them night press collect. And remember, speed counts but accuracy must come first. Stories of a feature or time nature should be mailed. We are counting on you to protect us on all news that breaks in and near Rolfe. Very truly yours, Alva McClintock, Correspondent in charge of the Cranston Bureau." "He certainly said a lot in a few words," was Tom's comment. "Now you're one up on me. You're editor of the _Herald_ and Associated Press correspondent and I'm only business manager." "Don't get discouraged," laughed Helen, "I'll let you write some of the Associated Press stories." "Thanks of the compliment," grinned Tom. "I'm still waiting for that ice cream soda, Miss Plutocrat." "You'll grumble until I buy it, I suppose, so I might as well give in right now," said Helen. "Come on. I'm hungry for one myself." Tom and Helen boarded the nine forty-five Saturday morning and arrived at the state capital shortly after noon. It was Helen's first trip to Cranston and she enjoyed every minute of it, the noise and confusion of the great railroad terminal, the endless bobbing about of the red caps, the cries of news boys heralding noonday editions and the ceaseless roar of the city. They went into the large restaurant at the station for lunch and after that Tom inquired at the information desk for directions on how to reach the plant of the World Printing Company. He copied the information on a slip of paper and the two young newspaper people boarded a street car. Half an hour later they were on the outskirts of the industrial district and even before the conductor called their stop, Tom heard the steady roar of great presses. "Here we are," he told Helen as they stepped down from the car and looked up at a hulking ten story building that towered above them. "The Cranston plant of the _Rolfe Herald_," chuckled Helen. "Lead on." They walked up the steps into the office, gave their names and indicated their business to the office girl. After waiting a few minutes they were ushered into an adjoining office where an energetic, middle aged man who introduced himself as Henry Walker, service manager, greeted them. "Let's see, you're from the _Rolfe Herald_?" he asked. "My sister and I are running the paper while Dad is in the southwest regaining his health," explained Tom. "We've got to expand the paper to increase our advertising space and the only thing we can see to do is cut down our ready-print to two pages." "Explain just what you mean," suggested the service manager. Tom outlined their advertising field and how they hoped to increase business by adding two more pages of home print, one of which would be devoted to farm advertising and news and the other to be available for whatever additional advertising they could produce. "We'll be sorry to have you drop two pages of ready-print," said Mr. Walker, "but I believe you're doing the right thing. Now let's see what you want on the two pages you'll retain." "Helen is editor," Tom explained, "and it's up to her to pick out what she wants." "You're doing a splendid job on the _Herald_," the service manager told Helen. "I get copies of every paper we serve and I've been noticing the changes in make-up and the lively stories. However, I am sorry to hear about your father but with you two youngsters to give him pep and courage he ought to be back on the job in a few months." "We're sure he will," smiled Helen as she unfolded a copy of their last edition of the _Herald_. "I've pasted up two pages of the features I want to retain," she explained as she placed them in front of the service manager. "I see," he said. "You're going to be quite metropolitan with a full page of comics and a page devoted to women. I'm glad of that. Too many editors of weeklies fail to realize that the women and not the men are the real readers of their papers. If you run a paper which appeals to women and children you'll have a winner. Comics for the youngsters and a serial story with a strong love element and fashions and style news for the women." "How about cost?" asked Tom. "Dropping the two pages won't quite cut your bill with us in half," explained Mr. Walker, "for you're retaining all of our most expensive features. However, this new plan of yours will reduce your weekly bill about 40 per cent." "That's satisfactory," agreed Tom, "and we'd like to have it effective at once. Helen has written the headings she wants for each page." "We'll send the pages, made up in the new way, down at the usual time next week," promised the service manager, "and when there is anything else we can do, don't hesitate to let us know." When they were out of the building, they paused to decide what to do next. "I liked Mr. Walker," said Helen. "He didn't attempt to keep us from making the change. It means less money for his company yet he didn't object." "It was good business on his part," replied Tom. "Now we feel kindly toward him and although he has lost temporarily he will gain in the end for we'll give him every bit of business we can in the way of ordering supplies for job printing and extra stock for the paper." "If we have time," suggested Helen, "I'd like to go down to the Associated Press office." "Good idea," agreed Tom. "I'd like to see how they handle all of the news." They boarded the first down town street car and got off fifteen minutes later in the heart of Cranston's loop district. Across the street was the building which housed the _Cranston Chronicle_, the largest daily newspaper in the state. They consulted the directory in the lobby of the building and took the elevator to the fifth floor where the Associated Press offices were located. They stepped out of the elevator and into a large room, filled with the clatter of many machines. A boy, his face smeared with blue smudges off carbon paper, rushed up to them and inquired their business. "I'm Helen Blair, a new correspondent at Rolfe," explained the editor of the _Herald_, "and I'd like to see Mr. McClintock, the chief correspondent." "Okay," grinned the boy. "I'll tell him. You wait here." The youngster hurried across the room to a large table, shaped like a half moon and behind which sat a touseled haired chap of indeterminate age. He might be 30 and he might be 40, decided Helen. "Glad to know you, Miss Blair," he said. "You did a nice piece of work on the storm." "Thank you, Mr. McClintock," replied Helen. "But my brother, Tom, deserves all of the credit. He suggested calling the story to you." "Then I'll thank Tom, too," laughed the head of the Cranston bureau of the Associated Press. "We're here today on business for our paper," explained Helen, "and with a few minutes to spare before train time hoped you wouldn't mind if we came in and saw how the 'wheels go round' here." "I'll be happy to show you the 'works'," replied Mr. McClintock, and he took them over to a battery of electric printers. "These," he explained, "bring us news from every part of the country, east, south and far west. In reality, they are electric typewriters controlled from the sending station in some other city. We take the news which comes in here, sift it out and decide what will interest people in our own state, and send it on to daily papers in our territory." "Do these electric printers run all day?" asked Tom. "Some of them go day and night," continued Mr. McClintock, "for the A.P. never sleeps. Whenever news breaks, we've got to be ready to cover it. That's why we appreciated your calling us on the storm. We knew there was trouble in your part of the state but we didn't have a correspondent at Rolfe. It was a mighty pleasant surprise when you phoned." They visited with the Associated Press man for another fifteen minutes and would have continued longer if Tom had not realized that they had less than twenty minutes to make their train. The last two blocks to the terminal were covered at a run and they raced through the train gates just before they clanged shut. "Close call," panted Tom as they swung onto the steps of the local and it slid out of the train shed. "Too close," agreed Helen, who was breathless from their dash. "Had to make it, though," added Tom, "or we'd have been stranded here flat broke with the next train for home Monday night." "Don't worry about something that didn't happen," Helen said. "I've enjoyed every minute of our trip and we're all ready now to start our expansion program for the _Herald_ in earnest." Adding two more pages of home print to the paper meant more work than either Tom or Helen had realized. There was more news to be written and more ads to be set and another run to be made on the press. With early June at hand the summer season at the resorts on the lower end of Lake Dubar got under way and Helen resolved to make a trip at least once a week and run a column or two of personals about people coming and going. She also gave liberal space to the good roads election in July, stressing the value the paved scenic highway would be to Rolfe. The two pages of ready-print arrived on Tuesday and Tom and Helen were delighted with the appearance of the comic page and the feature page for women readers. "We'll have the snappiest looking paper in the county," chuckled Tom. "Dad won't know the old paper when he sees this week's issue." The county agent kept his promise to send them at least a column of farm news and Helen made it a point to gather all she could while Tom went to the county seat Tuesday morning and solicited ads for the page. The result was a well-balanced page, half ads and half news. Careful solicitation of home town merchants also brought additional ads and when they made up the last two pages Thursday noon they felt the extra work which increasing the size of the paper meant was more than repaid in extra advertising. "I'm printing a number of extra copies this week," explained Tom. "There are lots of people around here who ought to take the _Herald_. With our expansion program we may pick up some extra subscriptions and we might get a chance at the county printing." "Tom!" exclaimed Helen. "Do you really think we might get to be an official county paper." "I don't see why not," said Tom. "Of course the two Gladbrook papers will always be on the county list but there are always three who print the legal news and the third one is the _Auburn Advocate_. Auburn isn't any larger than Rolfe and I know darned well we have almost as many subscriptions as they do." "How do they decide the official papers?" Helen wanted to know. "The county board of supervisors meets once a year to select the three official papers," Tom explained, "and the three showing the largest circulation are selected. It would mean at least $2,000 extra revenue to us, most of which would be profit." "Then why didn't Dad try for it?" Helen asked. "I'm not sure," said Tom slowly. "There are probably several reasons, the principal one being that he wasn't strong enough to make the additional effort to build up the circulation list. The other is probably Burr Atwell, owner and publisher of the _Auburn Advocate_. I've heard Dad often remark that Atwell is the crookedest newspaperman in the state." "How much circulation do you think the _Advocate_ has now?" Helen asked. "Their last postoffice statement showed only 108 more than ours," replied Tom. "And when do the supervisors have their annual meeting?" "About the 15th of December," said Tom. "Now what's up?" "Nothing much," smiled Helen. "Only, when the supervisors meet next the _Rolfe Herald_ is going to have enough circulation to be named an official county paper. "Why Tom," she went on enthusiastically, "think what it would mean to Dad?" "I'm thinking of that," nodded her brother, "but I'm also thinking of what Burr Atwell might do to the _Herald_." CHAPTER XII _Special Assignment_ The enlarged edition of the _Herald_ attracted so much comment and praise from the readers that Tom and Helen felt well repaid for their additional efforts. Tom sat down and figured out the profit, deducted all expenses, and announced that they had made $78 on the edition, which, they agreed, was a figure they should strive to reach each week. "If we can keep that up," commented Tom, "we'll be sitting on top of the world." "But if we were only an official county paper we'd have the moon, too," Helen said. They discussed the pros and cons of getting enough additional circulation to beat the _Auburn Advocate_ and the danger of arousing the anger of Burr Atwell, its publisher. "We don't need to make a big campaign for subscriptions," argued Helen. "We've taken the biggest step right now--improving and expanding the amount of local and country reading matter. Whenever I have an extra afternoon this summer I'll drive out in the country and see if I can't get some people who haven't been subscribers to take our paper." Tom agreed with Helen's suggestion and that very afternoon they took the old family touring car, filled it with gas and oil, and ambled through the countryside. Tom had a list of farmers who were non-subscribers and before the afternoon was over they had added half a dozen new names to the _Herald's_ circulation list. In addition, they had obtained at least one item of farm news at every place they stopped. "I call that a good afternoon's work," Helen commented when they drove the ancient flivver into the garage at home. "Not bad at all," Tom agreed. "Only, we'll keep quiet about our circulation activities. No use to stir up Burr Atwell until he finds it out for himself, which will be soon enough." The remaining weeks of June passed uneventfully. The days were bright and warm with the softness of early summer and the countryside was green with a richness that only the middle west knows. Helen devoted the first part of each week to getting news in Rolfe and on Fridays and Saturdays took the old car and rambled through the countryside, stopping at farmhouses to make new friends for the _Herald_ and gather news for the farm page. The revenue of the paper was increasing rapidly and they rejoiced at the encouraging news which was coming from their father. The Fourth of July that year came on Saturday, which meant a two day celebration for Rolfe and the summer resorts on Lake Dubar. Special trains would be routed in over the railroad and the boats on the lake would do a rushing business. The managers of Crescent Beach and Sandy Point planned big programs for their resorts and ordered full page bills to be distributed throughout that section of the state. The county seat papers had usually obtained these large job printing orders but by carefully figuring, Tom put in the lowest bids. Kirk Foster, the manager of Crescent Beach, ordered five thousand posters while Art Provost, the owner of Sandy Point, ordered twenty thousand. Crescent Beach catered to a smaller and more exclusive type of summer visitors while Sandy Point welcomed everyone to its large and hospitable beach. There was not much composition for the posters but the printing required hours and it seemed to Helen that the old press rattled continuously for the better part of three days as Tom fed sheet after sheet of paper into the ancient machine. The wonder of it was that they had no breakdowns and the bills were printed and delivered on time. "All of which means," said Tom when he had finished, "that we've added a clear profit of $65 to our bank account." "If we keep on at this rate," Helen added, "we'll have ample to take care of Dad when he needs more money." "And he'll be needing it sometime this fall," Tom said slowly. "Gee whizz, but it sure does cost to be in one of those sanitariums. Lucky we could step in and take hold here for Dad." "We owe him more than we'll ever repay," said Helen, "and the experience we're getting now will be invaluable. We're working hard but we find time to do the things we like." Helen planned special stories for the edition just before the Fourth and visited the managers of both resorts to get their complete programs for the day. Kirk Foster at Crescent Beach explained that there would be nothing unusual there except the special display of night fireworks but Art Provost over at Sandy Point had engaged a line of free attractions that would rival any small circus. Besides the usual boating and bathing, there would be free acts by aerialists, a high dive by a girl into a small tank of water, half a dozen clowns to entertain the children, a free band concert both afternoon and evening, two ball games and in addition to the merry-go-round on the grounds there would be a ferris wheel and several other "thrill" rides brought in for the Fourth. "You ought to have a great crowd," said Helen. "Goin' to be mighty disappointed if I don't," said the old resort manager. "Plannin' a regular rip-snorter of a day. No admission to the grounds, but Boy! it'll cost by the time they leave." "Going to double the prices of everything?" asked Helen. "Nope. Goin' to have so many things for folks to do they'll spend everything they got before they leave." "In that case," replied Helen, "I see where I stay at home. I'm a notorious spendthrift when it comes to celebrating the Fourth." "I should say you're not goin' to stay home," said Mr. Provost. "You and your mother and Tom are goin' to be my guests. I've got your passes all filled out. Swim, ride in the boats, dance, roller skate, see the ball games, enjoy any of the 'thrill rides' you want to. Won't cost you a cent." "But I can't accept them," protested Helen. "We'll pay if we come down. Besides, we didn't give you all of those bills for nothing." "Seemed mighty near nothin' compared with the prices all the other printers in the county wanted," smiled Mr. Provost. "You've been down every week writin' items about the folks who come here and, believe me, I appreciate it. These passes are just a little return of the courtesy you've shown me this summer." "When you put it that way, I can scarcely refuse them," laughed Helen. "As a matter of fact," she added, "I wanted them terribly for we honestly couldn't afford to come otherwise." When Helen returned to the office she told Tom about the passes and he agreed that acceptance of them would not place the _Herald_ under obligation to the resort owner. "I always thought old man Provost a pretty good scout," he said, "but I hardly expected him to do this. And say, these passes are good for both Saturday and Sunday. What a break!" "If we see everything Saturday we'll be so tired we won't want to go back Sunday," Helen said. "Besides, Mother has some pretty strong ideas on Sunday celebrations." The telephone rang and Helen hastened into the editorial office to answer. She talked rapidly for several minutes, jotting down notes on a pad of scratch paper. When she had finished, she hurried back into the composing room. "Tom," she cried, "that was Mr. Provost calling." "Did he cancel the passes?" "I should say not. He called to say he had just received a telegram from the Ace Flying Circus saying it would be at Sandy Point to do stunt flying and carry passengers for the Fourth of July celebration." "Why so excited about that? We've had flying circuses here before." "Yes, I know, Tom, but 'Speed' Rand is in charge of the Ace outfit this year." "'Speed' Rand!" whistled Tom. "Well, I should say that was different. That's news. Why Rand's the man who flew from Tokyo to Seattle all alone. Other fellows had done it in teams but Rand is the only one to go solo. He's big news in all of the dailies right now. Everyone is wondering what daredevil stunt he'll do next." "He's very good looking and awfully rich," smiled Helen. "Flies just for fun," added Tom. "With all of the oil land he's got he doesn't have to worry about work. Tell you what, I'll write to the _Cranston Chronicle_ and see if they'll send us a cut of Rand. It would look fine on the front page of this week's issue." "Oh," exclaimed Helen "I almost forgot the most important part of Mr. Provost's call. He wants you to get out 10,000 half page bills on the Ace Flying Circus. Here are the notes. He said for you to write the bill and run them off as soon as you can." The order for the bills put Tom behind on his work with the paper and it was late Thursday afternoon before Helen started folding that week's issue. But they didn't mind being late. The bill order from Sandy Point had meant another piece of profitable job work and Mr. Provost had also taken a half page in the _Herald_ to advertise the coming of his main attraction for the Fourth. Mrs. Blair came down to help with the folding and Margaret Stevens, just back from a vacation in the north woods with her father, arrived in time to lend a hand. "Nice trip?" Helen asked as she deftly folded the printed sheets. "Wonderful," smiled Margaret, "but I'm glad to get back. I missed helping you and Tom. Honestly, I get a terrific thrill out of reporting." "We're glad to have you back," replied Helen, "and I think Mr. Provost down at Sandy Point will be glad to give me an extra pass for the Fourth. I'll tell him you're our star reporter." "I'd rather go to Crescent Beach for the Fourth," said Margaret. "It's newer and much more ritzy than Sandy Point." "You'd better stop and look at the front page carefully," warned Tom, who had shut off the press just in time to hear Margaret's words. She stopped folding papers long enough to read the type under the two column picture on the front page. "What!" she exclaimed, "'Speed' Rand coming here?" "None other and none such," laughed Tom. "Guaranteed to be the one and only 'Speed' Rand. Step right this way folks for your airplane tickets. Five dollars for five minutes. See the beauty of Lake Dubar from the air. Don't crowd, please." "Do you still want me to get a pass?" Helen asked. "It will be honored any place at Sandy Point during the celebration and Mr. Provost says we can all have rides with the air circus 'Speed' Rand is running." "I should say I do want a pass," said Margaret. "At least it's some advantage to being a newspaper woman besides just the fun of it." The famous Ace air circus of half a dozen planes roared over Rolfe just before sunset Friday night and the whole town turned out to see them and try to identify the plane which "Speed" Rand was flying. The air circus was flying in two sections, three fast, trim little biplanes that led the way, followed by three large cabin planes used for passenger carrying. Every ship was painted a brilliant scarlet and they looked like tongues of flames darting through the sky, the afternoon sun glinting on their wings. The air circus swung over Rolfe in a wide circle and the leading plane dropped down out of the sky, its motor roaring so loud the windows in the houses rattled in their frames. "He's going to crash!" cried Margaret. "Nothing of the kind," shouted Tom, who had read widely of planes and pilots and flying maneuvers. "That's just a power dive--fancy flying." Tom was right. When the scarlet biplane seemed headed for certain destruction the pilot pulled its nose up, levelled off, shot over Rolfe at dizzying speed and then climbed his craft back toward the fleecy, lazy white clouds. "That's Rand," announced Tom with a certainty that left no room for argument. "He's always up to stunts like that." "It must be awfully dangerous," said Helen as she watched the plane, now a mere speck in the sky. "It is," agreed Tom. "Everything depends on the motor in a dive like that. If it started to miss some editor would have to write that particular flyer's obituary." The morning of Saturday, the Fourth, dawned clear and bright. Small boys whose idea of fun was to arise at four o'clock and spend the next two hours throwing cannon crackers under windows had their usual good time and Tom and Helen, unable to sleep, were up at six o'clock. Half an hour later Margaret Stevens, also awakened by the almost continuous cannonading of firecrackers, came across the street. "Jim Preston is going to take us down the lake on his seven-thirty trip before the special trains and the big crowds start coming in," said Tom. "But I'd like to see the trains come in," protested Helen. "If we wait until then," explained Tom, "we'll be caught in the thick of the rush for the boats and we may never get to Sandy Point. We'd better take the seven-thirty boat." From the hill on which the Blair home stood they looked down on the shore of Lake Dubar with its half dozen boat landings, each with two or three motorboats awaiting the arrival of the first special excursion train. Mrs. Blair called them to breakfast and they were getting up to go inside when Margaret's exclamation drew their attention back to the lake. "Am I seeing things or is that the old _Queen_?" she asked, pointing down the lake. Tom and Helen looked in the direction she pointed. An old, double decked boat, smoke rolling from its lofty, twin funnels, was churning its way up the lake. "We may all be seeing things," cried Tom, "but it looks like the _Queen_. I thought she had been condemned by the steamboat inspectors as unfit for further service." "The news that 'Speed' Rand is going to be at Sandy Point is bringing hundreds more than the railroad expected," said Helen. "I talked with the station agent last night and they have four specials scheduled in this morning and they usually only have two." "If they vote the paved roads at the special election next week," commented Tom, "the railroad will lose a lot of summer travel. As it is now, folks almost have to come by train for the slightest rain turns the roads around here into swamps and they can't run the risk of being marooned here for several days." The _Queen_ puffed sedately toward shore. They heard the clang of bells in the engine room and the steady chouf-chouf of the exhaust cease. The smoke drifted lazily from the funnels. Bells clanged again and the paddle wheel at the stern went into the back motion, churning the water into white froth. The forward speed of the _Queen_ was checked and the big double-decker nosed into its pier. "There's old Capt. Billy Tucker sticking his white head out of the pilot house," said Tom. "He's probably put a few new planks in the _Queen's_ rotten old hull and gotten another O. K. from the boat inspectors. But if that old tub ever hits anything, the whole bottom will cave in and she'll sink in five minutes." "That's not a very cheerful Fourth of July idea," said Margaret. "Come on, let's eat. Your mother called us hours ago." They had finished breakfast and were leaving the table when Mrs. Blair spoke. "I've decided not to go down to Sandy Point with you," she said. "The crowd will be so large I'm afraid I wouldn't enjoy it very much." "But we've planned on your going, Mother," said Helen. "I'm sorry to disappoint you," smiled her mother, "but Margaret's mother and I will spend the day on the hill here. We'll be able to see the aerial circus perform and really we'll enjoy a quiet day here at home more than being in the crowd." "It won't be very quiet if those kids keep on shooting giant crackers," said Tom. "They'll be going to the celebration in another hour or two and then things will quiet down," said Mrs. Blair. "How about a plane ride if the circus has time to take us?" asked Tom. Helen saw her mother tremble at Tom's question, but she replied quickly. "That's up to you, Tom. You know more about planes than I do and if you're convinced the flying circus is safe, I have no objection." But Helen made a mental reservation that the planes would have to look mighty safe before any of them went aloft. They hurried down the hill to the pier which Jim Preston used. The boatman and his helpers had just finished polishing the three speed boats Preston owned, the _Argosy_, the _Liberty_ and the _Flyer_, which had been raised from the bottom of the lake and partially rebuilt. "All ready for the big day?" asked the genial boatman. "We're shy a few hours sleep," grinned Tom. "Those cannon crackers started about four o'clock but outside of that we're all pepped up and ready to go." "About three or four years ago," reminded the boatman, "you used to be gallivantin' around town with a pocketful of those big, red crackers at sun-up. Guess you can't complain a whole lot now." Tom admitted that he really couldn't complain and they climbed into the _Liberty_. "I'm takin' some last minute supplies down to the hotel at Sandy Point," said the boatman, "so we won't wait for anyone else." He switched on the starter and the boat quivered as the powerful motor took hold. They were backing away from the pier when the pilot of one of the other boats shouted for them to stop. A boy was running down Main Street, waving a yellow envelope in his hand. Jim Preston nosed the _Liberty_ back to the pier and the boy ran onto the dock. "Telegram for you," he told Helen. "It's a rush message and I just had to get it to you." "Thanks a lot," replied Helen. "Are there any charges?" "Nope. Message is prepaid." Helen ripped open the envelope with nervous fingers. Who could be sending her a telegram? Was there anything wrong with her father? No, that couldn't be it for her mother would have received the message. She unfolded the single sheet of yellow paper and read the telegraph operator's bold scrawl. "To: Helen Blair, _The Herald_, Rolfe. Understand 'Speed' Rand is at Rolfe for two days. Have rumor his next flight will be an attempted non-stop refueling flight around the world. See Rand at once and try for confirmation of rumor. Telephone as soon as possible. McClintock, The AP." Helen turned to Tom and Margaret. "I'm to interview 'Speed' Rand for the Associated Press," she exclaimed. "Let's go!" CHAPTER XIII _Helen's Exclusive Story_ While the _Liberty_ whisked them through the glistening waters of Lake Dubar toward Sandy Point, Margaret and Tom plied Helen with questions. "Do you think Rand will give you an interview?" demanded Tom. "I've got to get one," said Helen, her face flushed and eyes glowing with the excitement of her first big assignment for the Associated Press. "What will you ask him? How will you act?" Margaret wanted to know. "Now don't try to get me flustered before I see Rand," laughed Helen. "I think I'll just explain that I am the local correspondent for the Associated Press, show him the telegram from Mr. McClintock and ask him to confirm or deny the story." "I'll bet Rand's been interviewed by every famous reporter in the country," said Tom. "Which will mean all the more honor and glory for Helen if she can get him to tell about his plans," said Margaret. "I'll do my best," promised Helen and her lips set in a line that indicated the Blair fighting spirit was on the job. They were still more than two miles from Sandy Point when a scarlet-hued plane shot into sight and climbed dizzily toward the clouds. It spiralled up and up, the roar of its motor audible even above the noise of the speedboat's engine. "There's 'Speed' Rand now!" cried Tom. "No one flies like that but 'Speed'." The graceful little plane reached the zenith of its climb, turned over on its back and fell away in twisting series of spirals that held the little group in the boat breathless. The plane fluttered toward the lake, seemingly without life or power. Just before it appeared about to crash, the propeller fanned the sunlight, the nose jerked up, and the little ship skimmed over the waters of the lake. It was coming toward the _Liberty_ at 200 miles an hour. On and on it came until the roar of its motor drowned out every other sound. Helen, Tom and Margaret threw themselves onto the floor of the boat and Jim Preston crouched low behind his steering wheel. There was a sharp crash and Helen held her breath. She was sure the plane had struck the _Liberty_ but the boat moved steadily ahead and she turned quickly to look for the plane. The scarlet sky bird was limping toward the safety of the higher altitudes, its under-carriage twisted into a grotesque knot. "What happened?" cried Tom as he stared aghast at 'Speed' Rand's damaged plane. "Did we get hit?" "Nothing wrong with the _Liberty_," announced Jim Preston. "I don't know what happened." Helen glanced at the speedboat's wake where a heavy wave was being rolled up by the powerful propeller. "I know what happened," she cried. "'Rand' was just trying to give us an extra Fourth of July thrill and he forgot about the heavy wave the _Liberty_ pulls. He must have banged his landing gear into it." "You're right, Helen," agreed Tom. "But I can't figure out why he didn't nose over and dive to the bottom of the lake." "I expect that would have happened to any flyer except Rand," said Helen. "He's supposed to be a wizard in the air." "Wonder how this accident will affect the crowd at Sandy Point. Think it will keep them from riding with the air circus?" Margaret asked. "Depends on how widely the story gets out," said Tom. "I'd hate to have Old Man Provost's celebration ruined by wild rumors. He's spent a lot of money getting ready to give the public a good time." Helen had been watching the progress of Rand's plane. Instead of heading back toward Sandy Point he was crossing the lake to the east side. "He's not going back to Sandy Point," Helen cried. "Look, he's going to land on the east side back in the hills." "Then he'll leave the plane there and no one at Sandy Point will know anything about the accident," exclaimed Tom. "That means we're the only ones who know." Helen was thinking rapidly. Here was just the chance she needed to get hold of Rand and ask him about his world trip. She might be able to make a trade with him. It was worth a try. She leaned forward and spoke to the boatman. "Will you swing over east, land and pick up the pilot of that plane?" she asked Jim Preston. Tom, divining the motive back of Helen's request, added, "We'll pay for the extra time." The boatman agreed and the nose of the _Liberty_ was soon cleaving a white-crested path for the east shore. The scarlet plane had disappeared but from the drone of the motor they knew it was somewhere in the hills back from the lakeshore. Jim Preston let the _Liberty_ drift to an easy landing alongside a rocky outcropping and Tom, Helen and Margaret hopped out. "We won't be gone long," they promised. Back through the sparse timber along the lake shore they hurried and out into a long, narrow meadow. The scene that greeted them held them spellbound for a moment. Then they raced toward the far end of the pasture. "Speed" Rand had landed the damaged plane in a fence. Tom was the first to reach the wrecked craft. He expected to find the famous flyer half dead in the wreckage. Instead, he was greeted by a debonair young fellow who crawled from beneath one wing where he had been tossed by the impact when the plane struck the fence. "My gosh," exclaimed Tom, "aren't you hurt?" "Sorry," smiled Rand, "but I'll have to disappoint you. I haven't anything more than a few bruises." Helen and Margaret arrived so out of breath they were speechless. Rand bowed slightly. Then his eyes glowed with recognition. "Hello," he said. "Aren't you the folks in the speedboat?" "We sure were," Tom said. "You scared us half to death." "I scared myself," admitted Rand, his blue eyes reflecting the laughter on his lips. "It's been so long since I've been in a speedboat I'd forgotten all about the big wake one of those babies pull. I'm just lucky not to be at the bottom of the lake." "You're really 'Speed' Rand, aren't you?" asked Margaret. He smiled and nodded and Margaret decided she had never seen a more likable young man. His hair was brown and curly and his face was bronzed by the sun of many continents. "If you've got your boat around here, suppose you give me a lift back to Sandy Point," suggested Rand. "We'll be glad to," Helen replied. "I don't suppose you'll want it broadcast about the accident this morning on the lake and your cracking up in a fence over here?" "What are you driving at? Trying to hi-jack me into paying you to keep quiet?" The last words were short and angry and his eyes hardened. "Nothing like that," explained Tom quickly. "We know that broadcasting news of an accident to 'Speed' Rand will hurt Old Man Provost and his celebration." "Then what do you want?" Rand insisted. "We want to know whether there is anything to the rumor that you're considering a non-stop refueling flight around the world," said Helen. Rand stopped and stared at the young editor of the _Herald_ in open amazement. "Great heavens," he exclaimed. "You sound like a newspaper reporter." "I am," replied Helen. "I'm the editor of the _Rolfe Herald_ and also correspondent for the Associated Press." "And you want a story from me about my world flight in return for keeping quiet about the accident." "You can call it that," admitted Helen. They had reached the shore of the lake and Rand did not answer until they were in the _Liberty_ and Jim Preston had the craft headed for Sandy Point. "Suppose I deny the rumor," said Rand. "You've already admitted it," Helen replied. "I have?" he laughed. "How?" "Less than five minutes ago you said 'And you want a story about my world flight in return for keeping quiet about the accident?' That certainly indicates that you are seriously considering such a project." Rand laughed and shook his head. "I guess I might as well give in," he chuckled. "I've been questioned in every city I've been in and so far I've managed to evade confirming the rumor but it looks like you've got me in a corner. If I don't tell you, will you still spread the story about the accident?" "No," replied Helen quickly. "Mr. Provost has too much at stake to risk ruining his celebration. It was foolish on your part to take the risk you did and we're trusting that there won't be any more such risks taken by the air circus while it is here." "You're right. There won't be," said Rand firmly, "and I've learned a lesson myself." "You're actually planning the world flight?" asked Tom, who wanted to get Rand back on the subject of Helen's assignment. "I can't get away from you," smiled the flyer, "so I might as well give you all of the details. Got some copypaper?" Helen fished a pad of paper and a pencil from a pocket and handed them to Rand. "If you don't mind," he explained, "I'll jot down the principal names of the foreign towns where I'll make the refueling contacts. Some of them have queer names and it will help you keep them straight." The flyer drew a rough sketch of the world, outlining the continents of the northern hemisphere. He located New York on the map and then drew a dotted line extending eastward across the North Atlantic, over Great Britain, Germany, Russia, Siberia, a corner of China, out over the Kamchatka peninsula, across the Bering Sea, over Alaska and then almost a straight line back to New York. "This is my proposed route," he explained, "covering some 15,000 miles. It will take about four days if I have good luck and am not forced down." "But I thought the distance around the world was 25,000 miles," said Margaret. "That's the circumference at the equator," smiled Rand, "but I'm going to make the trip well up in the northern latitudes. In fact, I'll be pretty close to the Arctic circle part of the time." Rand bent over his makeshift map again, marking in the names of the cities where he intended to refuel while in flight. "When will you take off from New York?" Helen asked. "In about two weeks," replied Rand without looking up from the map. Helen gasped. This, indeed, was news. Every paper in the land would carry it on the front page. "What kind of a plane do you intend to use?" Tom wanted to know. "I'm having one built to order," said the flyer. "It's a special monoplane the Skycraft Company is testing now at their factory in Pennsylvania. I had a telegram yesterday saying the plane would be ready the first of next week so when I leave Sandy Point I'll go directly to Pennsylvania to get the plane and make the final tests myself. The air circus will finish its summer tour alone." Before they reached the landing at Sandy Point, Rand explained how he intended to refuel while in flight, gave Helen the name of his mechanic and described details of the plane. When they touched the landing at Sandy Point a heavyset man dressed in brown coveralls jumped into the boat. "What in heaven's name happened?" he asked Rand excitedly. "I flew too close to this motor boat," said the flyer, "and damaged my landing gear on the wave it was pulling. Instead of coming back here to crack up I went across the lake and landed in a meadow. These young people followed and brought me back. I banged the ship up considerable and in return for keeping them quiet, I gave them the story about my world flight. They're newspaper folks." The heavy man stared at Helen, Tom and Margaret. "Well, I guess it had to come out some time," he admitted and Rand introduced him as Tiny Adams, his manager of the air circus. "Tiny runs the show when I go gallivanting around on some fool stunt," explained Rand. Even at that early hour the crowd was gathering at Sandy Point. Motor boats were whisking down the lake from Rolfe and the beautiful beach was thick with bathers in for a morning dip in the clear waters of the lake. They hurried off the boat dock and pushed their way through the crowd along the lake shore. "I'm going to the hotel and telephone my story to the Associated Press," said Helen. "And thanks so much, Mr. Rand, for confirming it." "That's all right," grinned the famous flyer. "I guess you youngsters deserve the break. You certainly were after the news and I appreciate you're keeping quiet about my accident." "We'll have to print it in our weekly," warned Tom. "Oh, that's all right," said Rand. "The celebration will be over long before your paper comes out. See you at the field later," he added as he hurried away, followed by the manager of the air circus. Helen stood for a moment looking after the tall flyer as he edged his way through the ever-increasing crowd. "Isn't he handsome?" sighed Margaret. "What a story," commented Tom. "Let's get going," said Helen, and she started for the hotel. They reached the rambling old hotel which overlooked the lake and were met at the door by Art Provost, the manager of the resort. "Glad to see you down so early," he said as he welcomed them. "We thought we'd get here before the crowd," Tom said, "but from the looks of the young mob down at the beach now they must have started coming in about sundown last night." "They did," chuckled Mr. Provost. "Looks like the greatest celebration in the history of Lake Dubar. It's the air circus that's drawing them in and I hope there are no accidents." Helen glanced at Tom, warning her brother not to reply. "I've met 'Speed' Rand," she said, "and I think you'll find him a careful flyer. I'm sure he'll insist on every possible precaution." They went into the lobby of the hotel and Helen entered the telephone booth. She started to put in a long distance call for the Associated Press, then changed her mind and returned to where Tom and Margaret were waiting. "I'm so nervous I'm afraid I won't be able to talk," she said. "Feel my hands." Tom and Margaret did as Helen directed. They found her hands clammy with perspiration. "I think I'll sit down and write the story and telegraph it," said Helen. "You'll do nothing of the kind," insisted Tom. "Here, I'll put the call through and you just repeat what Rand told you. They'll write the story at the Cranston bureau." Helen nodded in agreement and Tom bolted into the telephone booth, got the long distance operator at Rolfe and put in a collect call for the Cranston bureau of the Associated Press. Two minutes later Tom announced that the A.P. was on the line. Helen entered the booth and took the receiver. Tom pulled the door shut and Helen was closeted with her big story in the tiny room, the mouthpiece before her connecting her with the bureau where they were waiting for the story. "Is Mr. McClintock in the office?" she asked. "He's busy," replied the voice. "I'll take the message." "Tell Mr. McClintock that Helen Blair is calling about the Rand story," she insisted. She heard the connection switch and the chief of the Cranston bureau snapped a question at her. "What's the matter?" he asked. "Rand give you the usual denial?" The sharpness of the words nettled Helen. "No he didn't," she replied. "He gave me the whole story. He'll leave New York within the next two weeks on a non-stop refueling flight around the world." "What!" shouted the A.P. chief. Helen repeated her statement. "You've got the biggest story in days," gasped McClintock. "Have you got plenty of substantiation in case he tries to deny it later." "Two witnesses," replied Helen, "and a map of his route which he drew and signed for me." "That's enough. Let's go. Give me everything he told you. Spell the names of his foreign refueling points slowly. I'll take it directly on a typewriter and we'll start the bulletins out on the main news wires." The first excitement of the story worn off, Helen found herself exceedingly calm. In short, clear sentences she related for McClintock all of the information "Speed" Rand had given her. "Send me the map he drew by the first mail," the A.P. correspondent instructed. "It will make a great feature story. Thanks a lot, Miss Blair. You're a real newspaperwoman." CHAPTER XIV _The Queen's Last Trip_ When Helen left the close confines of the telephone booth after completing her call to the Associated Press she suddenly felt very weak and tired. "What's the matter?" Tom asked. "I feel just a little faint," confessed Helen. "Guess the excitement of getting the story and sending it in was a little too much." "Take my arm," her brother commanded. "We'll go back to the restaurant and get a glass of milk and a sandwich and you'll feel all right in a few minutes." The food restored Helen's strength and in less than half an hour she was her old self, ready to enjoy the Fourth of July celebration. Every boat from Rolfe increased the size of the crowd at Sandy Point. The speedboats dashed down the lake carrying their capacity of passengers, turned and sped back to the town for another load. The _Queen_ sedately churned its way through the lake, its double decks jammed with humanity. As they stood on the beach Helen wondered if the old lake boat would come through the day without a mishap. Almost any small accident could throw the passengers into a panic and the capsizing of the _Queen_ might follow if they rushed to one side of the flat-bottomed old craft. The _Queen_ sidled up to the big pier at Sandy Beach and Capt. Billy Tucker stuck his white head out of a window in the pilot house and watched his passengers rush for the beach. "He's in his glory on a day like this," Tom said, "but it's probably the last year for the _Queen_. The boat inspectors won't dare pass the old tub next year no matter how much they like Captain Billy." "What will he do if they don't license the _Queen_?" asked Margaret. "Oh, he'll get along all right," said Tom. "Captain Billy has plenty salted away. It's just that he loves the lake and the _Queen_." The planes of the air circus were wheeling overhead and they left the beach and started for the air field. The attractions along the midway were gathering their share of the crowd and the mechanical band on the merry-go-round blared with great gusto. The ferris wheel was swinging cars loaded with celebrators into the tree-tops and the whip and other thrill rides were crowded. Beyond the midway was the large pasture which had been turned into a landing field. A sturdy wire fence had been thrown across the side toward the summer resort and it was necessary to have a pass or ticket to get through the gate. Two small stunt planes were taking off when the members of the _Herald_ staff arrived and the three large cabin planes were being filled with passengers. Two of the planes carried eight passengers apiece while the largest, a tri-motor, could accommodate 12. They were sturdy, comfortable looking craft and Helen noticed that they appeared to be in the best possible condition. They presented their passes at the gate and were admitted to the field. "Speed" Rand, hurrying along toward the largest plane, caught sight of them. "Want to ride?" he called. The answer was unanimous and affirmative. A minute later they were seated in the 12-passenger plane in comfortable wicker chairs. The door was closed, the motors roared, they bumped over the pasture and then floated away on magic wings. The ground dropped away from them; the resort and the lake were miniatures bordered by the rich, green lands of the valley and at the far end of the lake, Rolfe, a handful of houses, basked. It was glorious, thrilling, and Helen enjoyed every minute. They swung over the lake where the speedboats were cutting white swaths through the water. They did not cross to the east side and Helen guessed that the pilots were afraid some passenger with unusually keen eyes might detect the remains of the plane Rand had damaged that morning. Then the trip was over. They drifted down to the field, the motor idling as they lost altitude. Helen sat absolutely rigid for a few seconds, wondering if the plane would land all right. The motors roared again, the nose came up and they settled to earth with little more than a bump. Rand greeted them when they stepped out of the plane. "Like it?" he inquired. "You bet," said Tom enthusiastically. "Biggest thrill I ever had." "How about you?" Rand asked Helen. "I loved every minute until we started to come down," she smiled. "Then I wondered where we were going to stop and how, but everything came out all right and I really did enjoy it." "Get your story in to the A.P.?" asked the flyer. "Just as soon as I could reach a telephone," Helen replied. "The bureau chief appeared pleased." "He should be," chuckled Rand. "It seems like every place I've gone for the last month there's been a reporter waiting to ask me questions about my world flight. Honestly, it got so I used to look under the bed at night for fear I might talk in my sleep and wake up in the morning to find a reporter had been hidden in my room." Another flyer called Rand and the famous aviator slipped away through the crowd. It was the last they were to see of him and they turned and went back to the attractions of the midway. They tried every ride, the merry-go-round and the ferris wheel, roller skated, went bathing, listened to the band concert, munched hot dogs at irregular intervals and wound up the afternoon almost exhausted and ready to start for home. So were some other hundreds of people and they found it impossible to get a place in one of the speedboats. The _Queen_ puffed majestically at her pier and Capt. Billy Tucker pulled twice on the whistle cord. Two long, mellow blasts echoed over the lake. The _Queen_ would leave for Rolfe in five minutes. "Looks like we'll have to take the _Queen_ if we want to get home in any reasonable time," said Margaret. Tom looked at the throngs waiting for the boats. "You're right," he agreed. "We won't be able to get on one of the fast boats for at least two hours and I'm getting hungry. I saw mother putting some pie away in the ice box last night and there'll be plenty of cold milk at home." "Don't," protested Helen, "I'm so hungry now I'm hollow." "Then let's take the _Queen_," urged Margaret. They bought their tickets and hurried onto the main deck of the old lake boat. "It will be cooler on top," said Helen and they went up the broad stairs to the upper deck. Perched on this deck was the pilot house where Captain Billy ruled. He saw them and motioned them to join him. "Have a big celebration?" he asked when they entered the pilot house. "Finest ever," said Margaret, "but we're ready to call it a day and start home." "Better set down on those benches," said Captain Billy, motioning toward the leather-cushioned lockers which lined the walls of the pilot house. The veteran lake skipper leaned out of the pilot house, watching the crowd on the beach. The electric lights flashed on as twilight draped its purple mantle over the lake and the whole scene was subdued. The cries from the bathers were not as sharp, the music from the midway seemed to have lost some of its sharpness and the whole crowd of holiday celebrators relaxed with the coming of night. Captain Billy glanced at his watch. "Two minutes," he said, half to himself as he reached for the whistle cord. Again the mellow whistle of the _Queen_ rang out and belated excursionists hastened aboard. The ticket seller at the pier head sounded his final warning bell, and there was the last minute rush across the stubby gang plank. Captain Billy signalled the engine room, bells rang in the depths of the boat and the easy chouf-chouf of the twin stacks deepened as the engines took up their work and the _Queen_ backed slowly away from the pier. Two men who had tarried at the midway too long ran down the pier and yelled at Captain Billy. The skipper picked up his megaphone. "Sorry, too late," he shouted. "We'll be back in two hours." "Gosh-dinged idiots," he grumbled to himself. "Here I wait as long as I can and then they expect me to put back in shore. Not me, by Joe, when I've got to make connections with one of them excursion trains." "Have lots of business today?" asked Tom. "Biggest day in the twenty odd years I've had the _Queen_ on the lake," he chuckled. "The old girl is about on her last legs but this season looks like the best of all. If the paved road goes through they'll all come in cars and the railroad and the _Queen_ will be out of luck." "But you're not objecting to the paved road, are you?" asked Helen. "Course not," he replied. "It's progress and you can't stop it." The _Queen_, ablaze with lights, churned steadily up the lake and the electrics along the beach at Sandy Point faded into a string of dots. Speed boats, showing their red and green riding lights, raced past in smothers of foam but the _Queen_ rocked only slightly as they passed and continued steadily on her way. The band on the after part of the top deck played slower, softer melodies and the whole scene was one of calm and quiet, a fitting end for a great celebration. Of all the people on the _Queen_, only Captain Billy in the pilot house and the crew in the black depths of the engine room were alive to the dangers of the night. They knew how anything unusual and startling might cause a panic which would capsize the _Queen_ or how careless navigation on the part of Captain Billy might shove the _Queen_ onto one of the jagged ledges of rock which were hazards to navigation in certain parts of the lake. But the _Queen_ passed safely through the rock-strewn sections of the lake and Captain Billy relaxed as the lights of Rolfe came into view. The _Queen_ was less than half a mile from her pier when the unexpected happened. A speed boat, without lights, loomed out of the night. Screams echoed from the lower deck. Before Captain Billy could twirl his wheel and shift the blunt nose of the _Queen_, the speed boat knifed into the bow of the old steamer. There was the crash of splintering wood, and muffled cries from the men and women in the smaller boat. Captain Billy knew the danger even before the boats met. The crash of the collision was still in their ears when he called to Tom. "Take the wheel," he cried, "and keep the _Queen_ headed for the beach. Don't change the course." Then he leaned over the speaking tube to the engine room. "Captain Billy speaking," he shouted. "A speed boat just hit us. Full speed ahead until we ground on the sandy beach." They could feel the _Queen_ trembling as the crowd on the lower deck rushed forward toward the scene of the accident. "The fools, the fools," muttered Captain Billy as he ran from the pilot house. The leader of the band ran forward. "Get back and play," ordered the captain. "Play anything loud." A deck hand, racing up from below, met Captain Billy at the head of the stairs. "They knocked a hole clear through us," he gasped. "We're taking water fast." "Shut up," snapped the captain. "Stay here and don't let anyone off the upper deck." The young people in the pilot house saw Captain Billy rush down the stairs and they looked at one another in open amazement. "He's every inch a skipper," said Tom as he clung to the wheel of the _Queen_. "I hope he pulls us through," said Margaret, staring at the lights of Rolfe. A minute ago they had seemed so close; now they were so far away, the longest half mile any of them would ever know. "He'll get us there if it is humanly possible," Helen said hopefully. The crowd on the upper deck milled excitedly but the deck hand forced them back from the stairway and the steady playing of the band and continued forward movement of the _Queen_ seemed to allay their worst fears. Sparks rolled from the twin funnels as the engines labored to the utmost but Tom, his hands on the sensitive wheel, knew that the speed was decreasing. The _Queen_ was harder to handle, the bow was settling lower in the water but less than a quarter of a mile remained. He reached up and pulled the whistle cord. Three short, sharp blasts shattered the night. Three more and then three more. It was the signal for help but he wondered how many would be in Rolfe to answer the call. "How deep is the water from here in?" asked Helen. "About twenty feet," replied her brother. "Better slip on those life preservers and get ready to jump. We're taking water fast." "There are several hundred in the lockers here," said Helen. "I'm going to pass them out to the people on deck." "It will only alarm them," said Tom. "But they've got to have a chance if we go under," replied Helen and with Margaret to help her, she hurled scores of life preservers out of the pilot house onto the deck. The passengers had lost their first panic. They knew the _Queen_ was making a valiant fight to reach shore but the tenseness, the grimness of the crew told them it was going to be close. In the emergency they used their heads and put on the life preservers as fast as Helen and Margaret could pull them from the lockers. The lights of Rolfe were agonizingly close. Less than six hundred feet separated them from the safety of the sandy shore. On the upper deck the passengers were quiet, ready for the crisis. Tom leaned close to the speaking tube. The chief engineer was talking. "What's he saying?" Helen demanded. "Water's in the engine room," replied her brother. "The fires under the boiler will be out in another minute or two. Then blewy!" "Isn't there enough steam to make shore?" asked Margaret desperately, for after her experience on the lake earlier in the summer she had a very real fear of Dubar at night. "All we can do is hope," replied Tom. "They'll keep the engines turning over as long as there is any steam left." The warning from the whistle was bringing people from town and they were gathering under the electrics along the beach. Helen wondered if they knew that death was riding on the bow of the _Queen_, that tragedy was waiting to swoop down on the old boat and its load of excursionists. The _Queen_ staggered, wabbled dangerously, and the wheel jerked out of Tom's hands. He grabbed the spokes and held the bow steady as the _Queen_ stumbled ahead. They could see the faces of the people on the beach now, saw the look of horror that spread over them as they saw the stove-in bow of the _Queen_. There were only two hundred feet to go but they were still in deep water. The voice from the speaking tube rolled into the pilot house. "Steam's gone!" On the echo of the words the steady beat of the engines slowed and it was only by clinging to the wheel with all of his strength that Tom held the _Queen_ in to shore. The bow was almost even with the water now. They seemed to be plowing their way into the depths of the lake. Then the bow lifted and grated on the sand. The momentum carried the _Queen_ forward, shivering and protesting at every foot it was driven into the beach. There was a wild scramble on the main deck, cries of relief and happiness as passengers by the score jumped into the knee deep water and ran for shore. The men, women and children on the upper deck hurried down the stairs while through it all the band kept up its steady blare, the crash of brass on brass and the constant thump, thump of the bass drum. The danger past, Tom stepped back from the wheel. His arms felt as though they had been almost pulled from their sockets, so great had been the strain of holding the _Queen_ on its course. Helen and Margaret stripped off their life preservers and went down to the main deck with Tom. There they found Captain Billy and the crew of the _Queen_ gathered at the bow of the boat. A great hole had been torn in the old steamer's hull by the speed boat and Tom marveled that they had been able to make shore. "Why didn't we sink out in the lake?" he asked Captain Billy. "Guess we might have," smiled the captain, "but we managed to hold the speed boat in the hole it had made until we were most to shore. Otherwise we'd have filled and gone down inside a couple of minutes after they hit us." A decidedly sheepish young man broke through the group and faced Captain Billy. "I'm the owner of the boat that hit you," he explained. "We were going to see how close we could come and one of the girls in the boat tickled me and I swung the wheel the wrong way." "You almost swung about four hundred people into the lake," Captain Billy reminded him tartly. "I'm terribly sorry," replied the owner of the speed boat, "and I'm decidedly grateful to you for fishing us out of it after we hit you. I'm Maxfield Hooker of Cranston and I'll be glad to pay for all of the damage to your boat." "We'll talk about that later," said Captain Billy. "I've got to see that those excursionists all make their trains." "Did you get that?" said Tom as he nudged Helen. "Maxfield Hooker of Cranston, son of the multi-millionaire soap manufacturer. Captain Billy can have a new _Queen_ if he wants one." "My guess is that he won't want one," said Helen. "After all, the _Queen_ has had a long and useful career and she certainly proved herself in the emergency tonight." Captain Billy made sure that all of the excursionists were safely off the boat and that done, he came back to where Tom, Helen and Margaret were standing. "I've a great deal to be thankful for," he told them. "It was only through the nerve and calmness of the crew and such as you three that the _Queen_ pulled through. Tom, I'm eternally grateful to you for sticking in the pilot house and to you girls for having the presence of mind to pass out the life preservers." Before they could reply Captain Billy turned and hastened up to the pilot house. Tom started to follow but Helen stopped him. "Don't go," she said. "He wants to say good-bye to the _Queen_." CHAPTER XV _Success Attends_ Later that night the _Queen_ caught fire and burned to the water's edge. Some said that Captain Billy, saddened by the tragedy which had almost befallen the majestic old craft, had set the fire himself but none ever knew definitely. Helen telephoned the story of Captain Billy and the burning of the _Queen_ to the _Associated Press_ at Cranston and found the night editor there anxious for the story. "Great human interest stuff," he said as he hung up. The Blairs and Stevens watched the burning of the _Queen_ from the knoll on which the Blair home was situated and later they saw the shower of fireworks set off at Crescent Beach, far down the lake. It was well after midnight when they finally called it a day, one which would long be remembered by Tom and Helen Blair and Margaret Stevens. The second day of the celebration, Sunday, they rested quietly at home and planned for the coming week. With the Monday morning mail came the papers from Cranston, a letter from McClintock of the _Associated Press_ and new thrills for Helen. The Cranston papers blazoned her story of "Speed" Rand's plans to circle the globe in a nonstop refueling flight on the front page and the big surprise was the first line which read: "By Helen Blair, Special Correspondent of the Associated Press, Copyright 1932 (All Rights Reserved)." Helen gazed at the story in frank awe and amazement. She knew it was a highly important story, but to get a by-line with the Associated Press was an honor she scarcely had dared dream about. The letter from McClintock commended her further for her work, promised that her monthly check would be a liberal one and added that when she finished high school he would be glad to consider her for a job with the Associated Press. Helen sat down and wrote a long letter to her father, telling in detail the events of the Fourth and enclosing the Associated Press story and her letter from McClintock. That done, she turned to the task of writing her stories for the _Weekly Herald_. Tom was out soliciting ads, Margaret had gone down the lake to check up at both summer resorts about possible accidents and she had the office to herself that morning. Which story should Helen write first, "Speed" Rand's world flight, the celebration at Sandy Point or the story of Captain Billy and the _Queen_? She threaded a sheet of copy paper into her typewriter and sought inspiration in a blank gaze at the ceiling. Inspiration failed to come from that source and she scrawled aimlessly with pencil and paper, her mind mulling over the myriad facts of her stories. Then she started typing. Her first story concerned Captain Billy and the _Queen_, for Captain Billy and his ancient craft were known to every reader of the _Herald_. They were home news. "Speed" Rand and his plans concerned the outside world. The events of the night of the Fourth were indelibly printed in Helen's mind and the copy rolled from her typewriter, two, four, six, ten pages. She stopped long enough to delve into the files and find the story which the _Herald_ had printed 23 years before when the _Queen_ made her maiden trip on Lake Dubar. Two more pages of copy rolled from her machine. Helen picked up the typed pages, 12 altogether. She hadn't intended to make the story that long but it had written itself, it was one of those stories in which danger and heroism combine to make the human-interest that all newspaper readers enjoy. With the story of Captain Billy and the _Queen_ out of the way, Helen wrote a short lead about "Speed" Rand and then clipped the rest of the story for the _Herald_ from the one she had telephoned the Associated Press. Even then it would run more than a column and with a long story on the general Fourth of July celebration she felt that the _Herald_ would indeed give its subscribers their money's worth of news that week. There was a slight let-down in advertising the week following the Fourth but they crammed the six home-printed pages of the _Herald_ full of news and went to press early Thursday, for it was election day and the fate of the paved road program was at stake. For the last month Helen had written editorials urging the improvement of the roads and they went directly from the office Thursday afternoon to the polling place to remain there until the last ballot had been counted. The vote was heavy and Rolfe favored the good roads 452 to 73. Doctor Stevens, who announced the vote to the anxious crowd, added, "And I think we can thank Helen Blair, our young editor of the _Herald_, for showing us the value of better roads." There was hearty applause and calls for speech, but Helen refused to talk, hurrying away to telephone the Rolfe vote to the Associated Press. The morning papers announced that the program had carried in the state as a whole and that paving would start at once with Rolfe assured of being on the scenic highway not later than the next summer. News from their father in Arizona continued cheering and as their own bank account increased steadily and circulation mounted, Tom and Helen felt that they were making a success of their management of the _Herald_. The remainder of July passed rapidly and the hot blasts of August winds seared the valley of Lake Dubar. The only refreshing thing was the night breeze from the lake which cooled the heat-baked town and afforded some relief. Then came the cooler days of September and the return to school. Superintendent Fowler arrived a week before the opening of the fall term and Tom and Helen arranged to attend part time, yet carry full work. Helen also worked out plans for a school page, news of every grade to be written by some student especially designated as a reporter for the "_School Herald_." Tom and Helen had so systematized their work that the task of getting out the paper was reduced to a minimum. With Margaret willing to help whenever needed, they felt sure they could continue the successful operation of the _Herald_. Every spare hour Helen devoted to building up the circulation list and by early October they had added 400 new subscribers, which gave the _Herald_ a total of 1,272 in the county and every one paid up. "Gosh, I never thought we could get that many," said Tom as he checked over the circulation records. "Now I'm sure we'll be named one of the official county papers. What a surprise that will be for Dad." "I thought you said we'd have a lot of trouble with Burr Atwell, editor of the _Advocate_ at Auburn," chided Helen as she recalled her brother's dire statements of what the fiery editor of the Auburn paper would do when he found the _Herald_ was trying to take the county printing away from him. "We've just been lucky so far," replied Tom. "Atwell will wake up one of these days and then we'll have plenty of trouble. He won't fight fair." "Let's not borrow trouble until it arrives," Helen smiled. Organization of the high school classes and election of officers followed the opening of school and Helen found herself president of the juniors while Tom was named secretary and treasurer of the seniors. "I'm mighty proud of both of you," said Mrs. Blair when they told her the news that night at dinner. "It is no more than you deserve but I hope it won't be too much of a burden added to your work on the paper." "It won't take much time," Tom assured her, "and since Marg Stevens is vice president of the juniors Helen can turn a lot of the work over to her." They were still at the dinner table when a heavy knock at the front door startled them. Tom answered the summons and they heard him talking with someone with an exceedingly harsh voice. When Tom returned he was accompanied by a stranger. "Mother," he said, "this is Mr. Atwell, editor of the _Auburn Advocate_." Mrs. Blair acknowledged the introduction and Tom introduced the visiting editor to Helen. Mr. Atwell sat down heavily in a chair Tom offered. "I suppose you know why I'm here?" he asked. "I'm afraid not," replied Mrs. Blair. "It's about the _Herald_ and the circulation tactics of these young whipper-snappers of yours. I hear they're trying to take the county printing away from me and become one of the official papers of the county." "Who informed you of that?" asked Helen, who had taken an instant dislike to the pudgy visitor whose flabby cheeks were covered with a heavy stubble of whiskers. "Folks have been talking," he replied. "When you want information like that you'd better come to those concerned," retorted the energetic young editor of the _Herald_. "That's just what I'm a-doing," he replied. "Are you?" "Are we what?" interposed Tom. "Are you trying to be a county paper?" snorted Atwell. "Yes," replied Helen, "we are. This section of the county doesn't have an official weekly and the people here want one." "You're trying to rob me of my bread and butter for your own selfish ends," stormed the visitor. "We're not trying to rob anybody," replied Tom. "Get this straight. We've as much if not more right to be a county weekly than you have. All we have to say is be sure your records are correct when the supervisors meet in December. Now get out of here!" Atwell rose slowly, his heavy features suffused with anger and his hands shaking. "I serve notice on you," he stormed, "that you'll never win out." He stomped from the room, slamming the front door as he went. Mrs. Blair looked at Tom and Helen. "Don't you think you were a little short with him?" she asked. "Perhaps," admitted Helen, "but he can't tell us what to do." "In that," smiled her mother, "you take after your father." They refused to let the warning from the editor of the Auburn paper dim their hopes or retard their efforts. Circulation mounted steadily until by mid-November it had reached an even 1,400. Tom continued his weekly trips to Gladbrook to get the county farm news and to solicit advertising. From one of these trips he returned jubilant. "I've been talking with the supervisors," he said, "and they're all in favor of naming the _Herald_ the third official paper instead of the _Advocate_. One of them suggested that we get an auditor from Cranston to go over our circulation list and officially audit it and then have him with us when we appear before the board." "But wouldn't that cost a lot of money?" "Probably $50 but having an audited list will practically insure us of getting the county work. Also, I'm going to take our subscription records and list over to the bank and keep them there until we need them every Thursday." "Why, what's the matter, Tom?" "I heard some talk in the courthouse that Atwell had been boasting he'd get even with us and I'm not going to take any chances with the records." With characteristic determination Tom made the transfer that afternoon and it was only mid-evening of the same day when the fire siren sounded its alarm. All of the Blairs hurried outside where, from the front porch of their home, they could look down main street. "The truck is stopping in front of the _Herald_ office!" gasped Helen. Without a word Tom plunged down the hill, running full speed for the office. Helen and her mother followed as quickly as possible. Main street rapidly filled with excited townspeople and they caught the odor of burning wood as they neared the _Herald_ building. Margaret Stevens ran up to them. "It doesn't look bad," she tried to reassure them, "and the firemen have it under control." Helen was so weak from the shock of the fire that she clung to Margaret and her mother for support. Her head reeled as picture thoughts raced through her mind. The threats of Burr Atwell, all of their months of hard work, the expense of the fire, their father's need for money, Tom's precautions in moving the circulation list. Then it was over. The firemen dragged their line of hose from the chemical tank back to the street and they crowded into the smoke-filled rooms. The fire had started near the back door but thanks to the night watchman had been detected before it had gained headway. The week's supply of print paper was ruined and the two rooms blackened by smoke and splattered with the chemical used to check the flames, but the press and Linotype were undamaged. Tom wanted to stay and clean up the office but Mrs. Blair insisted that they all return home, herself instructing the night watchman to hire several town laborers to work the rest of the night cleaning up the office. "That fire was deliberately set," raged Tom as they walked home. "The fire chief saved the greasy rags he found in the corner of the composing room where it started. Ten more minutes without discovery and we wouldn't have had a newspaper." "Who could have done such a thing?" protested his mother. "Burr Atwell," declared Tom. "The editorial office had been ransacked for the circulation records. It's a good thing I moved them this afternoon." "Can we prove Atwell had a hand in this?" "I don't suppose so," admitted Tom, "but we'll run a story in this week's issue that will scare him. We'll say the fire chief is investigating and may ask for state secret service men to help him run down the fire bug who started it. That ought to give Atwell a queer feeling." They telephoned for another supply of print paper for the week's issue and the next morning were back at the office. The men who had worked through the night had done a good job of cleaning and there was little evidence of fire other than the charred casings of the back door and smudgy condition of the walls and ceiling. Thanksgiving was brightened by word from their father that he would be able to return home in the spring but despite that it was a sad day in the Blair home for there was none to fill his chair at the head of the table. "Christmas," thought Helen, "is going to be terribly lonesome for mother with Dad so far away," and the more she thought about it the more determined she became. Without saying anything to Tom or her mother, she made several guarded inquiries at the station and elicited the desired information. The days before the annual meeting of the supervisors passed rapidly. The ground whitened under the first snow of the year and the auditor for whom Tom had arranged in Cranston arrived to audit their circulation list officially. For a week before his arrival Tom and Helen concentrated every effort on their circulation with the result that when the audit was completed the _Herald_ could boast of 1,411 paid up subscriptions. "You've done a remarkably fine piece of work," Curtis Adams, the auditor, told Helen, "and I'm sure you young folks deserve the county work." The supervisors met on Thursday, December 15th, and in order to attend the meeting Tom and Helen worked most of Wednesday night getting the final pages of the _Herald_ on the press, assembling and folding the papers. It was three o'clock in the morning when they reached home and their mother, who had been sleeping on a davenport awaiting their return, prepared a hot lunch and then sent them to bed. At nine o'clock Tom teased their venerable flivver into motion and with their records and the auditor in the back seat, they started for Gladbrook. It was well after ten o'clock when they reached the courthouse and they went directly to the supervisors' rooms where a clerk asked them to wait. Half an hour later they were called and Helen went into the board room with mixed emotions throbbing through her mind. What would be the answer to their months of work? Would they get the county work which meant so much or would Burr Atwell succeed in defeating them? Her arms ached from the heavy task of folding the papers the night before and she was so nervous she was on the verge of tears. If they won they would be able to buy a folder for the press and she wouldn't have to fold any more papers. That thought alone gave her new courage and she smiled bravely at Tom as he stepped forward and told the supervisors why he believed the _Herald_ should be the third county paper. Then Mr. Adams, the auditor, presented his sworn statement of the circulation of the _Herald_ and in conclusion, he added: "I have never seen a sounder or better circulation than these young people have built up. They have made no special offers nor have they reduced rates. People who take the _Herald_ do so because it is one of the best weekly papers I have ever seen." The chairman of the board of supervisors looked expectantly around the room. "The Gladbrook papers, the _News_ and the _Times_, have made their application and the _Herald_ has just been heard," he explained. "I expected Mr. Atwell of the _Auburn Advocate_ would be here." The board waited for fifteen minutes. Then there was a whispered conference between members and the chairman stood up. "The selection of official papers has been made," he announced. "_The Gladbrook News_, the _Gladbrook Times_ and the _Rolfe Herald_ will be known as the official papers for the ensuing year. The meeting is adjourned until afternoon." The editors of the Gladbrook papers offered Tom and Helen their congratulations and expressed willingness to cooperate in every way. When they were alone Tom looked at Helen through eyes that were dim. "We won," he said huskily, "and it's all due to your hard work on circulation." Helen's eyes were just as misty as she smiled back. "No," she replied, "it was your hunch in putting the records in the bank. We'd have been ruined if you hadn't. I'm wondering why Mr. Atwell didn't appear." "I have a hunch he was afraid we had connected him with the fire," said Tom. "Now let's phone mother and then send a wire to Dad." That afternoon Tom completed the arrangements to publish the official proceedings of the county supervisors and increased the amount of job printing he was to get from the courthouse. He also hired a middle-aged printer who agreed to come to Rolfe and work for $18 a week. "But isn't that a little extravagant?" asked Helen. "We must have help now," explained Tom, "and with the county printing safely tucked away we can afford it. Also, I bought a second-hand folder from the _Times_ here. It only cost me $50 and you'll never have to fold papers again." "Oh, I'm so happy," exclaimed Helen, "for I did hate to fold them. There were so many along toward the end." On the way home that afternoon they made further plans and checked up on their funds in the bank. "We've got a little over $900 right now," said Tom, "and that's deducting all of my extravagances of an auditor and buying the second-hand folder. Our bills are all paid and we're having a record December in advertising. I'd say we were sitting pretty." "I was thinking about Christmas," said Helen. "It's going to be mighty lonesome without Dad," admitted Tom. "Mother will miss him especially. They've never been away from each other at the holidays before." Something in Helen's voice caught Tom's attention and he glanced at her sharply. "Say, what the dickens are you driving at?" he asked. "Give me a check for $200 and I'll show you," replied Helen. "It will mean the happiest Christmas we've ever had." "I'll do it and no questions asked until you're ready to tell me," agreed Tom and when they reached Rolfe he went to the office and signed a check for $200 payable to Helen Blair. The following Thursday fell on the 22nd of December and there was so much advertising they had to run two sections of the _Herald_. The printer they had hired in Gladbrook was slow but thorough and they got the paper to press on time. With the folder installed, Helen was spared the arduous duties of folding all of the papers and she devoted her time to running the mailing machine. "Spent that $200 yet?" asked Tom as they walked home through the brisk December evening, snow crunching underfoot. "All gone," smiled Helen, "and the big surprise is here in my pocket. Wait until we get home and I tell mother about it." "Guess I'll have to," grinned Tom. They found their mother in the kitchen busy with the evening meal. "Mother, we've got a Christmas surprise for you," said Helen. "Come in the living room." Mrs. Blair looked up quickly. "That's thoughtful of you," she said, "but I hope you didn't spend too much money." Wiping her hands on her apron, she preceded them into the living room. "Where is it?" she asked. "Over there on the library table," replied Helen, pointing to an envelope tied with a band of red ribbon with a sprig of holly on top. Mrs. Blair picked up the envelope, untied the ribbon and looked inside. She pulled out two objects. One was a long, green strip of paper with many perforations and much printing. The other was a small black book similar to a check book. She held the long slip with hands that trembled as she read it. "It's a round trip ticket to Rubio, Arizona!" she gasped, "Oh, Helen! Tom! How kind of you. Father and I will have Christmas together! And here's a book of traveler's checks and Pullman reservations. I'm to leave tomorrow." Tom gave Helen a hearty hug. "So that's where the $200 went," he whispered. "Are you sure it's enough?" "Plenty," she replied. Mrs. Blair sat down in her favorite chair, the ticket and check book in her hands, her eyes dim with tears. "But I can't go away and leave you two here alone during holidays," she said. "Oh yes you can, Mother," said Tom. "We'll be happy just knowing that you and Dad are together and you can tell him all about us and then, when you come back, you can tell us all about him." "You must go, Mother," insisted Helen. "I've let Dad in on the surprise and we can't disappoint him now." Doctor Stevens drove them to the junction where Mrs. Blair was to board the Southwestern limited. Snow was falling steadily, one of those dry, sifting snows that presage a white Christmas in the middle west. The limited poked its dark nose through the storm and drew its string of Pullmans up to the bleak platform. It paused for only a minute and the goodbyes were hasty. The limited whirled away into the storm and Tom and Helen, standing alone on the platform, watched it disappear in the snow. It would be a quiet Christmas for them but they were supremely happy knowing that their father was on the road to health and that they had made a success of the _Herald_. THE END BOOKS for GIRLS THE MERRIWEATHER GIRLS SERIES BY LIZETTE EDHOLM The Merriweather girls, Bet, Shirley, Joy and Kit are four fun-loving chums, who think up something exciting to do every minute. The romantic old Merriweather Manor is where their most thrilling adventures occur. The author has given us four exceptional titles in this series--absorbing mysteries and their solutions, school life, horseback riding, tennis and adventures during their school vacations. The Merriweather Girls and the Mystery of the Queen's Fan The Merriweather Girls on Campers Trail The Merriweather Girls in Quest of Treasure The Merriweather Girls at Good Old Rock Hill CAMPFIRE GIRLS SERIES BY MARGARET PENROSE These stories take in the activities of several bright girls who become interested in all present day adventures. Campfire Girls of Roselawn Campfire Girls on Program Campfire Girls on Station Island Campfire Girls at Forest Lodge EVERYGIRL'S SERIES Grouped in the Everygirl's Series are five volumes selected for excellence. Shirley Watkins, Caroline E. Jacobs, Ruthe Wheeler and Blanche Elizabeth Wade contribute stories that are both fascinatingly real and touched with romance. Every girl who dips into one of these stories will find herself enthralled to the end. The S.W.F. Club Caroline E. Jacobs Jane Lends a Hand Shirley Watkins Nancy of Paradise College Shirley Watkins Georgina Finds Herself Shirley Watkins Helen in the Editors Chair Ruthe Wheeler PEGGY STEWART SERIES _By_ GABRIELLE E. JACKSON Peggy Stewart at Home Peggy Stewart at School Peggy, Polly, Rosalie, Marjorie, Natalie, Isabel, Stella and Juno--girls all of high spirits make this Peggy Stewart series one of entrancing interest. Their friendship, formed in a fashionable eastern school, they spend happy years crowded with gay social affairs. The background for these delightful stories is furnished by Annapolis with its naval academy and an aristocratic southern estate. THE PEGGY STEWART SERIES _By_ GABRIELLE E. JACKSON Against the colorful background of Annapolis and a picturesque southern estate, Gabrielle E. Jackson paints the human and lovely story of a human and lovely girl. Real girls will revel in this wholesome tale and its enchanting telling. Peggy Stewart at Home Peggy Stewart at School The Motor Girls Series _By_ MARGARET PENROSE A dashing, fun-loving girl is Cora Kimball and she is surrounded in her gypsy-like adventures with a group of young people that fairly sparkle. Girls who follow their adventurous steps will find a continuing delight in their doings. In the series will be found some absorbing mysteries that will keep the reader guessing so that the element of suspense is added to make the perusal thoroughly enjoyable. The Motor Girls On Tour At Lookout Beach Through New England On Cedar Lake On the Coast On Crystal Bay On Waters Blue At Camp Surprise In the Mountains Helen In the Editor's Chair _By_ RUTHE S. WHEELER "Helen in the Editor's Chair" strikes a new note in stories for girls. Its heroine, Helen Blair, is typical of the strong, self-reliant girl of today. When her father suffers a breakdown and is forced to go to a drier climate to recuperate, Helen and her brother take charge of their father's paper, the _Rolfe Herald_. They are faced with the problem of keeping the paper running profitably and the adventures they encounter in their year on the _Herald_ will keep you tingling with excitement from the first page to the last. RED STAR CLASSICS Heidi By Johanna Spyri Treasure Island By Robert Louis Stevenson Hans Brinker By Mary Mapes Dodge Gulliver's Travels By Jonathan Swift Alice in Wonderland By Lewis Carrol Pinocchio By Carlo Collodi The Story of a Bad Boy By Thomas Bailey Aldrich Kidnapped By Robert Louis Stevenson Stories from King Arthur Retold The Little Lame Prince By Miss Mulock Boys and girls the world over worship these "Classics" of all times, and no youth is complete without their imagination-stirring influence. They are the time-tested favorites loved by generations of young people. The Goldsmith Publishing Co. CHICAGO * * * * * Transcriber's note: --Obvious typographical errors were corrected without changing nonstandard spellings that might have been dialectical. 
3016	----	WHAT DIANTHA DID By Charlotte Perkins Gilman CHAPTER I. HANDICAPPED One may use the Old Man of the Sea, For a partner or patron, But helpless and hapless is he Who is ridden, inextricably, By a fond old mer-matron. The Warden house was more impressive in appearance than its neighbors. It had “grounds,” instead of a yard or garden; it had wide pillared porches and “galleries,” showing southern antecedents; moreover, it had a cupola, giving date to the building, and proof of the continuing ambitions of the builders. The stately mansion was covered with heavy flowering vines, also with heavy mortgages. Mrs. Roscoe Warden and her four daughters reposed peacefully under the vines, while Roscoe Warden, Jr., struggled desperately under the mortgages. A slender, languid lady was Mrs. Warden, wearing her thin but still brown hair in “water-waves” over a pale high forehead. She was sitting on a couch on the broad, rose-shaded porch, surrounded by billowing masses of vari-colored worsted. It was her delight to purchase skein on skein of soft, bright-hued wool, cut it all up into short lengths, tie them together again in contrasting colors, and then crochet this hashed rainbow into afghans of startling aspect. California does not call for afghans to any great extent, but “they make such acceptable presents,” Mrs. Warden declared, to those who questioned the purpose of her work; and she continued to send them off, on Christmases, birthdays, and minor weddings, in a stream of pillowy bundles. As they were accepted, they must have been acceptable, and the stream flowed on. Around her, among the gay blossoms and gayer wools, sat her four daughters, variously intent. The mother, a poetic soul, had named them musically and with dulcet rhymes: Madeline and Adeline were the two eldest, Coraline and Doraline the two youngest. It had not occurred to her until too late that those melodious terminations made it impossible to call one daughter without calling two, and that “Lina” called them all. “Mis' Immerjin,” said a soft voice in the doorway, “dere pos'tively ain't no butter in de house fer supper.” “No butter?” said Mrs. Warden, incredulously. “Why, Sukey, I'm sure we had a tub sent up last--last Tuesday!” “A week ago Tuesday, more likely, mother,” suggested Dora. “Nonsense, Dora! It was this week, wasn't it, girls?” The mother appealed to them quite earnestly, as if the date of that tub's delivery would furnish forth the supper-table; but none of the young ladies save Dora had even a contradiction to offer. “You know I never notice things,” said the artistic Cora; and “the de-lines,” as their younger sisters called them, said nothing. “I might borrow some o' Mis' Bell?” suggested Sukey; “dat's nearer 'n' de sto'.” “Yes, do, Sukey,” her mistress agreed. “It is so hot. But what have you done with that tubful?” “Why, some I tuk back to Mis' Bell for what I borrered befo'--I'm always most careful to make return for what I borrers--and yo' know, Mis' Warden, dat waffles and sweet potaters and cohn bread dey do take butter; to say nothin' o' them little cakes you all likes so well--_an'_ de fried chicken, _an'_--” “Never mind, Sukey; you go and present my compliments to Mrs. Bell, and ask her for some; and be sure you return it promptly. Now, girls, don't let me forget to tell Ross to send up another tub.” “We can't seem to remember any better than you can, mother,” said Adeline, dreamily. “Those details are so utterly uninteresting.” “I should think it was Sukey's business to tell him,” said Madeline with decision; while the “a-lines” kept silence this time. “There! Sukey's gone!” Mrs. Warden suddenly remarked, watching the stout figure moving heavily away under the pepper trees. “And I meant to have asked her to make me a glass of shrub! Dora, dear, you run and get it for mother.” Dora laid down her work, not too regretfully, and started off. “That child is the most practical of any of you,” said her mother; which statement was tacitly accepted. It was not extravagant praise. Dora poked about in the refrigerator for a bit of ice. She had no idea of the high cost of ice in that region--it came from “the store,” like all their provisions. It did not occur to her that fish and milk and melons made a poor combination in flavor; or that the clammy, sub-offensive smell was not the natural and necessary odor of refrigerators. Neither did she think that a sunny corner of the back porch near the chimney, though convenient, was an ill-selected spot for a refrigerator. She couldn't find the ice-pick, so put a big piece of ice in a towel and broke it on the edge of the sink; replaced the largest fragment, used what she wanted, and left the rest to filter slowly down through a mass of grease and tea-leaves; found the raspberry vinegar, and made a very satisfactory beverage which her mother received with grateful affection. “Thank you, my darling,” she said. “I wish you'd made a pitcherful.” “Why didn't you, Do?” her sisters demanded. “You're too late,” said Dora, hunting for her needle and then for her thimble, and then for her twist; “but there's more in the kitchen.” “I'd rather go without than go into the kitchen,” said Adeline; “I do despise a kitchen.” And this seemed to be the general sentiment; for no one moved. “My mother always liked raspberry shrub,” said Mrs. Warden; “and your Aunt Leicester, and your Raymond cousins.” Mrs. Warden had a wide family circle, many beloved relatives, “connections” of whom she was duly proud and “kin” in such widening ramifications that even her carefully reared daughters lost track of them. “You young people don't seem to care about your cousins at all!” pursued their mother, somewhat severely, setting her glass on the railing, from whence it was presently knocked off and broken. “That's the fifth!” remarked Dora, under breath. “Why should we, Ma?” inquired Cora. “We've never seen one of them--except Madam Weatherstone!” “We'll never forget _her!”_ said Madeline, with delicate decision, laying down the silk necktie she was knitting for Roscoe. “What _beautiful_ manners she had!” “How rich is she, mother? Do you know?” asked Dora. “Rich enough to do something for Roscoe, I'm sure, if she had a proper family spirit,” replied Mrs. Warden. “Her mother was own cousin to my grandmother--one of the Virginia Paddingtons. Or she might do something for you girls.” “I wish she would!” Adeline murmured, softly, her large eyes turned to the horizon, her hands in her lap over the handkerchief she was marking for Roscoe. “Don't be ungrateful, Adeline,” said her mother, firmly. “You have a good home and a good brother; no girl ever had a better.” “But there is never anything going on,” broke in Coraline, in a tone of complaint; “no parties, no going away for vacations, no anything.” “Now, Cora, don't be discontented! You must not add a straw to dear Roscoe's burdens,” said her mother. “Of course not, mother; I wouldn't for the world. I never saw her but that once; and she wasn't very cordial. But, as you say, she might do _something._ She might invite us to visit her.” “If she ever comes back again, I'm going to recite for her,” said, Dora, firmly. Her mother gazed fondly on her youngest. “I wish you could, dear,” she agreed. “I'm sure you have talent; and Madam Weatherstone would recognize it. And Adeline's music too. And Cora's art. I am very proud of my girls.” Cora sat where the light fell well upon her work. She was illuminating a volume of poems, painting flowers on the margins, in appropriate places--for Roscoe. “I wonder if he'll care for it?” she said, laying down her brush and holding the book at arm's length to get the effect. “Of course he will!” answered her mother, warmly. “It is not only the beauty of it, but the affection! How are you getting on, Dora?” Dora was laboring at a task almost beyond her fourteen years, consisting of a negligee shirt of outing flannel, upon the breast of which she was embroidering a large, intricate design--for Roscoe. She was an ambitious child, but apt to tire in the execution of her large projects. “I guess it'll be done,” she said, a little wearily. “What are you going to give him, mother?” “Another bath-robe; his old one is so worn. And nothing is too good for my boy.” “He's coming,” said Adeline, who was still looking down the road; and they all concealed their birthday work in haste. A tall, straight young fellow, with an air of suddenly-faced maturity upon him, opened the gate under the pepper trees and came toward them. He had the finely molded features we see in portraits of handsome ancestors, seeming to call for curling hair a little longish, and a rich profusion of ruffled shirt. But his hair was sternly short, his shirt severely plain, his proudly carried head spoke of effort rather than of ease in its attitude. Dora skipped to meet him, Cora descended a decorous step or two. Madeline and Adeline, arm in arm, met him at the piazza edge, his mother lifted her face. “Well, mother, dear!” Affectionately he stooped and kissed her, and she held his hand and stroked it lovingly. The sisters gathered about with teasing affection, Dora poking in his coat-pocket for the stick candy her father always used to bring her, and her brother still remembered. “Aren't you home early, dear?” asked Mrs. Warden. “Yes; I had a little headache”--he passed his hand over his forehead--“and Joe can run the store till after supper, anyhow.” They flew to get him camphor, cologne, a menthol-pencil. Dora dragged forth the wicker lounge. He was laid out carefully and fanned and fussed over till his mother drove them all away. “Now, just rest,” she said. “It's an hour to supper time yet!” And she covered him with her latest completed afghan, gathering up and carrying away the incomplete one and its tumultuous constituents. He was glad of the quiet, the fresh, sweet air, the smell of flowers instead of the smell of molasses and cheese, soap and sulphur matches. But the headache did not stop, nor the worry that caused it. He loved his mother, he loved his sisters, he loved their home, but he did not love the grocery business which had fallen so unexpectedly upon him at his father's death, nor the load of debt which fell with it. That they need never have had so large a “place” to “keep up” did not occur to him. He had lived there most of his life, and it was home. That the expenses of running the household were three times what they needed to be, he did not know. His father had not questioned their style of living, nor did he. That a family of five women might, between them, do the work of the house, he did not even consider. Mrs. Warden's health was never good, and since her husband's death she had made daily use of many afghans on the many lounges of the house. Madeline was “delicate,” and Adeline was “frail”; Cora was “nervous,” Dora was “only a child.” So black Sukey and her husband Jonah did the work of the place, so far as it was done; and Mrs. Warden held it a miracle of management that she could “do with one servant,” and the height of womanly devotion on her daughters' part that they dusted the parlor and arranged the flowers. Roscoe shut his eyes and tried to rest, but his problem beset him ruthlessly. There was the store--their one and only source of income. There was the house, a steady, large expense. There were five women to clothe and keep contented, beside himself. There was the unappeasable demand of the mortgage--and there was Diantha. When Mr. Warden died, some four years previously, Roscoe was a lad of about twenty, just home from college, full of dreams of great service to the world in science, expecting to go back for his doctor's degree next year. Instead of which the older man had suddenly dropped beneath the burden he had carried with such visible happiness and pride, such unknown anxiety and straining effort; and the younger one had to step into the harness on the spot. He was brave, capable, wholly loyal to his mother and sisters, reared in the traditions of older days as to a man's duty toward women. In his first grief for his father, and the ready pride with which he undertook to fill his place, he had not in the least estimated the weight of care he was to carry, nor the time that he must carry it. A year, a year or two, a few years, he told himself, as they passed, and he would make more money; the girls, of course, would marry; he could “retire” in time and take up his scientific work again. Then--there was Diantha. When he found he loved this young neighbor of theirs, and that she loved him, the first flush of happiness made all life look easier. They had been engaged six months--and it was beginning to dawn upon the young man that it might be six years--or sixteen years--before he could marry. He could not sell the business--and if he could, he knew of no better way to take care of his family. The girls did not marry, and even when they did, he had figured this out to a dreary certainty, he would still not be free. To pay the mortgages off, and keep up the house, even without his sisters, would require all the money the store would bring in for some six years ahead. The young man set his teeth hard and turned his head sharply toward the road. And there was Diantha. She stood at the gate and smiled at him. He sprang to his feet, headacheless for the moment, and joined her. Mrs. Warden, from the lounge by her bedroom window, saw them move off together, and sighed. “Poor Roscoe!” she said to herself. “It is very hard for him. But he carries his difficulties nobly. He is a son to be proud of.” And she wept a little. Diantha slipped her hand in his offered arm--he clasped it warmly with his, and they walked along together. “You won't come in and see mother and the girls?” “No, thank you; not this time. I must get home and get supper. Besides, I'd rather see just you.” He felt it a pity that there were so many houses along the road here, but squeezed her hand, anyhow. She looked at him keenly. “Headache?” she asked. “Yes; it's nothing; it's gone already.” “Worry?” she asked. “Yes, I suppose it is,” he answered. “But I ought not to worry. I've got a good home, a good mother, good sisters, and--you!” And he took advantage of a high hedge and an empty lot on either side of them. Diantha returned his kiss affectionately enough, but seemed preoccupied, and walked in silence till he asked her what she was thinking about. “About you, of course,” she answered, brightly. “There are things I want to say; and yet--I ought not to.” “You can say anything on earth to me,” he answered. “You are twenty-four,” she began, musingly. “Admitted at once.” “And I'm twenty-one and a half.” “That's no such awful revelation, surely!” “And we've been engaged ever since my birthday,” the girl pursued. “All these are facts, dearest.” “Now, Ross, will you be perfectly frank with me? May I ask you an--an impertinent question?” “You may ask me any question you like; it couldn't be impertinent.” “You'll be scandalised, I know--but--well, here goes. What would you think if Madeline--or any of the girls--should go away to work?” He looked at her lovingly, but with a little smile on his firm mouth. “I shouldn't allow it,” he said. “O--allow it? I asked you what you'd think.” “I should think it was a disgrace to the family, and a direct reproach to me,” he answered. “But it's no use talking about that. None of the girls have any such foolish notion. And I wouldn't permit it if they had.” Diantha smiled. “I suppose you never would permit your wife to work?” “My widow might have to--not my wife.” He held his fine head a trifle higher, and her hand ached for a moment. “Wouldn't you let me work--to help you, Ross?” “My dearest girl, you've got something far harder than that to do for me, and that's wait.” His face darkened again, and he passed his hand over his forehead. “Sometimes I feel as if I ought not to hold you at all!” he burst out, bitterly. “You ought to be free to marry a better man.” “There aren't any!” said Diantha, shaking her head slowly from side to side. “And if there were--millions--I wouldn't marry any of 'em. I love _you,”_ she firmly concluded. “Then we'll just _wait,”_ said he, setting his teeth on the word, as if he would crush it. “It won't be hard with you to help. You're better worth it than Rachael and Leah together.” They walked a few steps silently. “But how about science?” she asked him. “I don't let myself think of it. I'll take that up later. We're young enough, both of us, to wait for our happiness.” “And have you any idea--we might as well face the worst--how many years do you think that will be, dearest?” He was a little annoyed at her persistence. Also, though he would not admit the thought, it did not seem quite the thing for her to ask. A woman should not seek too definite a period of waiting. She ought to trust--to just wait on general principles. “I can face a thing better if I know just what I'm facing,” said the girl, quietly, “and I'd wait for you, if I had to, all my life. Will it be twenty years, do you think?” He looked relieved. “Why, no, indeed, darling. It oughtn't to be at the outside more than five. Or six,” he added, honest though reluctant. “You see, father had no time to settle anything; there were outstanding accounts, and the funeral expenses, and the mortgages. But the business is good; and I can carry it; I can build it up.” He shook his broad shoulders determinedly. “I should think it might be within five, perhaps even less. Good things happen sometimes--such as you, my heart's delight.” They were at her gate now, and she stood a little while to say good-night. A step inside there was a seat, walled in by evergreen, roofed over by the wide acacia boughs. Many a long good-night had they exchanged there, under the large, brilliant California moon. They sat there, silent, now. Diantha's heart was full of love for him, and pride and confidence in him; but it was full of other feelings, too, which he could not fathom. His trouble was clearer to her than to him; as heavy to bear. To her mind, trained in all the minutiae of domestic economy, the Warden family lived in careless wastefulness. That five women--for Dora was older than she had been when she began to do housework--should require servants, seemed to this New England-born girl mere laziness and pride. That two voting women over twenty should prefer being supported by their brother to supporting themselves, she condemned even more sharply. Moreover, she felt well assured that with a different family to “support,” Mr. Warden would never have broken down so suddenly and irrecoverably. Even that funeral--her face hardened as she thought of the conspicuous “lot,” the continual flowers, the monument (not wholly paid for yet, that monument, though this she did not know)--all that expenditure to do honor to the man they had worked to death (thus brutally Diantha put it) was probably enough to put off their happiness for a whole year. She rose at last, her hand still held in his. “I'm sorry, but I've got to get supper, dear,” she said, “and you must go. Good-night for the present; you'll be round by and by?” “Yes, for a little while, after we close up,” said he, and took himself off, not too suddenly, walking straight and proud while her eyes were on him, throwing her a kiss from the corner; but his step lagging and his headache settling down upon him again as he neared the large house with the cupola. Diantha watched him out of sight, turned and marched up the path to her own door, her lips set tight, her well-shaped head as straightly held as his. “It's a shame, a cruel, burning shame!” she told herself rebelliously. “A man of his ability. Why, he could do anything, in his own work! And he loved it so! “To keep a grocery store!!!!! “And nothing to show for all that splendid effort!” “They don't do a thing? They just _live_--and 'keep house!' All those women! “Six years? Likely to be sixty! But I'm not going to wait!” CHAPTER II. AN UNNATURAL DAUGHTER The brooding bird fulfills her task, Or she-bear lean and brown; All parent beasts see duty true, All parent beasts their duty do, We are the only kind that asks For duty upside down. The stiff-rayed windmill stood like a tall mechanical flower, turning slowly in the light afternoon wind; its faint regular metallic squeak pricked the dry silence wearingly. Rampant fuchsias, red-jewelled, heavy, ran up its framework, with crowding heliotrope and nasturtiums. Thick straggling roses hung over the kitchen windows, and a row of dusty eucalyptus trees rustled their stiff leaves, and gave an ineffectual shade to the house. It was one of those small frame houses common to the northeastern states, which must be dear to the hearts of their dwellers. For no other reason, surely, would the cold grey steep-roofed little boxes be repeated so faithfully in the broad glow of a semi-tropical landscape. There was an attempt at a “lawn,” the pet ambition of the transplanted easterner; and a further attempt at “flower-beds,” which merely served as a sort of springboard to their far-reaching products. The parlor, behind the closed blinds, was as New England parlors are; minus the hint of cosiness given by even a fireless stove; the little bedrooms baked under the roof; only the kitchen spoke of human living, and the living it portrayed was not, to say the least, joyous. It was clean, clean with a cleanness that spoke of conscientious labor and unremitting care. The zinc mat under the big cook-stove was scoured to a dull glimmer, while that swart altar itself shone darkly from its daily rubbing. There was no dust nor smell of dust; no grease spots, no litter anywhere. But the place bore no atmosphere of contented pride, as does a Dutch, German or French kitchen, it spoke of Labor, Economy and Duty--under restriction. In the dead quiet of the afternoon Diantha and her mother sat there sewing. The sun poured down through the dangling eucalyptus leaves. The dry air, rich with flower odors, flowed softly in, pushing the white sash curtains a steady inch or two. Ee-errr!--Ee-errr!--came the faint whine of the windmill. To the older woman rocking in her small splint chair by the rose-draped window, her thoughts dwelling on long dark green grass, the shade of elms, and cows knee-deep in river-shallows; this was California--hot, arid, tedious in endless sunlight--a place of exile. To the younger, the long seam of the turned sheet pinned tightly to her knee, her needle flying firmly and steadily, and her thoughts full of pouring moonlight through acacia boughs and Ross's murmured words, it was California--rich, warm, full of sweet bloom and fruit, of boundless vitality, promise, and power--home! Mrs. Bell drew a long weary sigh, and laid down her work for a moment. “Why don't you stop it Mother dear? There's surely no hurry about these things.” “No--not particularly,” her mother answered, “but there's plenty else to do.” And she went on with the long neat hemming. Diantha did the “over and over seam” up the middle. “What _do_ you do it for anyway, Mother--I always hated this job--and you don't seem to like it.” “They wear almost twice as long, child, you know. The middle gets worn and the edges don't. Now they're reversed. As to liking it--” She gave a little smile, a smile that was too tired to be sarcastic, but which certainly did not indicate pleasure. “What kind of work do you like best--really?” her daughter inquired suddenly, after a silent moment or two. “Why--I don't know,” said her mother. “I never thought of it. I never tried any but teaching. I didn't like that. Neither did your Aunt Esther, but she's still teaching.” “Didn't you like any of it?” pursued Diantha. “I liked arithmetic best. I always loved arithmetic, when I went to school--used to stand highest in that.” “And what part of housework do you like best?” the girl persisted. Mrs. Bell smiled again, wanly. “Seems to me sometimes as if I couldn't tell sometimes what part I like least!” she answered. Then with sudden heat--“O my Child! Don't you marry till Ross can afford at least one girl for you!” Diantha put her small, strong hands behind her head and leaned back in her chair. “We'll have to wait some time for that I fancy,” she said. “But, Mother, there is one part you like--keeping accounts! I never saw anything like the way you manage the money, and I believe you've got every bill since you were married.” “Yes--I do love accounts,” Mrs. Bell admitted. “And I can keep run of things. I've often thought your Father'd have done better if he'd let me run that end of his business.” Diantha gave a fierce little laugh. She admired her father in some ways, enjoyed him in some ways, loved him as a child does if not ill-treated; but she loved her mother with a sort of passionate pity mixed with pride; feeling always nobler power in her than had ever had a fair chance to grow. It seemed to her an interminable dull tragedy; this graceful, eager, black-eyed woman, spending what to the girl was literally a lifetime, in the conscientious performance of duties she did not love. She knew her mother's idea of duty, knew the clear head, the steady will, the active intelligence holding her relentlessly to the task; the chafe and fret of seeing her husband constantly attempting against her judgment, and failing for lack of the help he scorned. Young as she was, she realized that the nervous breakdown of these later years was wholly due to that common misery of “the square man in the round hole.” She folded her finished sheet in accurate lines and laid it away--taking her mother's also. “Now you sit still for once, Mother dear, read or lie down. Don't you stir till supper's ready.” And from pantry to table she stepped, swiftly and lightly, setting out what was needed, greased her pans and set them before her, and proceeded to make biscuit. Her mother watched her admiringly. “How easy you do it!” she said. “I never could make bread without getting flour all over me. You don't spill a speck!” Diantha smiled. “I ought to do it easily by this time. Father's got to have hot bread for supper--or thinks he has!--and I've made 'em--every night when I was at home for this ten years back!” “I guess you have,” said Mrs. Bell proudly. “You were only eleven when you made your first batch. I can remember just as well! I had one of my bad headaches that night--and it did seem as if I couldn't sit up! But your Father's got to have his biscuit whether or no. And you said, 'Now Mother you lie right still on that sofa and let me do it! I can!' And you could!--you did! They were bettern' mine that first time--and your Father praised 'em--and you've been at it ever since.” “Yes,” said Diantha, with a deeper note of feeling than her mother caught, “I've been at it ever since!” “Except when you were teaching school,” pursued her mother. “Except when I taught school at Medville,” Diantha corrected. “When I taught here I made 'em just the same.” “So you did,” agreed her mother. “So you did! No matter how tired you were--you wouldn't admit it. You always were the best child!” “If I was tired it was not of making biscuits anyhow. I was tired enough of teaching school though. I've got something to tell you, presently, Mother.” She covered the biscuits with a light cloth and set them on the shelf over the stove; then poked among the greasewood roots to find what she wanted and started a fire. “Why _don't_ you get an oil stove? Or a gasoline? It would be a lot easier.” “Yes,” her mother agreed. “I've wanted one for twenty years; but you know your Father won't have one in the house. He says they're dangerous. What are you going to tell me, dear? I do hope you and Ross haven't quarrelled.” “No indeed we haven't, Mother. Ross is splendid. Only--” “Only what, Dinah?” “Only he's so tied up!” said the girl, brushing every chip from the hearth. “He's perfectly helpless there, with that mother of his--and those four sisters.” “Ross is a good son,” said Mrs. Bell, “and a good brother. I never saw a better. He's certainly doing his duty. Now if his father'd lived you two could have got married by this time maybe, though you're too young yet.” Diantha washed and put away the dishes she had used, saw that the pantry was in its usual delicate order, and proceeded to set the table, with light steps and no clatter of dishes. “I'm twenty-one,” she said. “Yes, you're twenty-one,” her mother allowed. “It don't seem possible, but you are. My first baby!” she looked at her proudly. “If Ross has to wait for all those girls to marry--and to pay his father's debts--I'll be old enough,” said Diantha grimly. Her mother watched her quick assured movements with admiration, and listened with keen sympathy. “I know it's hard, dear child. You've only been engaged six months--and it looks as if it might be some years before Ross'll be able to marry. He's got an awful load for a boy to carry alone.” “I should say he had!” Diantha burst forth. “Five helpless women!--or three women, and two girls. Though Cora's as old as I was when I began to teach. And not one of 'em will lift a finger to earn her own living.” “They weren't brought up that way,” said Mrs. Bell. “Their mother don't approve of it. She thinks the home is the place for a woman--and so does Ross--and so do I,” she added rather faintly. Diantha put her pan of white puff-balls into the oven, sliced a quantity of smoked beef in thin shavings, and made white sauce for it, talking the while as if these acts were automatic. “I don't agree with Mrs. Warden on that point, nor with Ross, nor with you, Mother,” she said, “What I've got to tell you is this--I'm going away from home. To work.” Mrs. Bell stopped rocking, stopped fanning, and regarded her daughter with wide frightened eyes. “Why Diantha!” she said. “Why Diantha! You wouldn't go and leave your Mother!” Diantha drew a deep breath and stood for a moment looking at the feeble little woman in the chair. Then she went to her, knelt down and hugged her close--close. “It's not because I don't love you, Mother. It's because I do. And it's not because I don't love Ross either:--it's because I _do._ I want to take care of you, Mother, and make life easier for you as long as you live. I want to help him--to help carry that awful load--and I'm going--to--do--it!” She stood up hastily, for a step sounded on the back porch. It was only her sister, who hurried in, put a dish on the table, kissed her mother and took another rocking-chair. “I just ran in,” said she, “to bring those berries. Aren't they beauties? The baby's asleep. Gerald hasn't got in yet. Supper's all ready, and I can see him coming time enough to run back. Why, Mother! What's the matter? You're crying!” “Am I?” asked Mrs. Bell weakly; wiping her eyes in a dazed way. “What are you doing to Mother, Diantha?” demanded young Mrs. Peters. “Bless me! I thought you and she never had any differences! I was always the black sheep, when I was at home. Maybe that's why I left so early!” She looked very pretty and complacent, this young matron and mother of nineteen; and patted the older woman's hand affectionately, demanding, “Come--what's the trouble?” “You might as well know now as later,” said her sister. “I have decided to leave home, that's all.” “To leave home!” Mrs. Peters sat up straight and stared at her. “To leave home!--And Mother!” “Well?” said Diantha, while the tears rose and ran over from her mother's eyes. “Well, why not? You left home--and Mother--before you were eighteen.” “That's different!” said her sister sharply. “I left to be married,--to have a home of my own. And besides I haven't gone far! I can see Mother every day.” “That's one reason I can go now better than later on,” Diantha said. “You are close by in case of any trouble.” “What on earth are you going for? Ross isn't ready to marry yet, is he?” “No--nor likely to be for years. That's another reason I'm going.” “But what _for,_ for goodness sake.” “To earn money--for one thing.” “Can't you earn money enough by teaching?” the Mother broke in eagerly. “I know you haven't got the same place this fall--but you can get another easy enough.” Diantha shook her head. “No, Mother, I've had enough of that. I've taught for four years. I don't like it, I don't do well, and it exhausts me horribly. And I should never get beyond a thousand or fifteen hundred dollars a year if I taught for a lifetime.” “Well, I declare!” said her sister. “What do you _expect_ to get? I should think fifteen hundred dollars a year was enough for any woman!” Diantha peered into the oven and turned her biscuit pan around. “And you're meaning to leave home just to make money, are you?” “Why not?” said Diantha firmly. “Henderson did--when he was eighteen. None of you blamed him.” “I don't see what that's got to do with it,” her mother ventured. “Henderson's a boy, and boys have to go, of course. A mother expects that. But a girl--Why, Diantha! How can I get along without you! With my health!” “I should think you'd be ashamed of yourself to think of such a thing!” said young Mrs. Peters. A slow step sounded outside, and an elderly man, tall, slouching, carelessly dressed, entered, stumbling a little over the rag-mat at the door. “Father hasn't got used to that rug in fourteen years!” said his youngest daughter laughingly. “And Mother will straighten it out after him! I'm bringing Gerald up on better principles. You should just see him wait on me!” “A man should be master in his own household,” Mr. Bell proclaimed, raising a dripping face from the basin and looking around for the towel--which his wife handed him. “You won't have much household to be master of presently,” said Mrs. Peters provokingly. “Half of it's going to leave.” Mr. Bell came out of his towel and looked from one to the other for some explanation of this attempted joke, “What nonsense are you talking?” he demanded. “I think it's nonsense myself,” said the pretty young woman--her hand on the doorknob. “But you'd better enjoy those biscuits of Di's while you can--you won't get many more! There's Gerald--good night!” And off she ran. Diantha set the plateful on the table, puffy, brown, and crisply crusted. “Supper's ready,” she said. “Do sit down, Mother,” and she held the chair for her. “Minnie's quite right, Father, though I meant not to tell you till you'd had supper. I am going away to work.” Mr. Bell regarded his daughter with a stern, slow stare; not so much surprised as annoyed by an untimely jesting. He ate a hot biscuit in two un-Fletcherized mouthfuls, and put more sugar in his large cup of tea. “You've got your Mother all worked up with your nonsense,” said he. “What are you talking about anyway?” Diantha met his eyes unflinchingly. He was a tall old man, still handsome and impressive in appearance, had been the head of his own household beyond question, ever since he was left the only son of an idolizing mother. But he had never succeeded in being the head of anything else. Repeated failures in the old New England home had resulted in his ruthlessly selling all the property there; and bringing his delicate wife and three young children to California. Vain were her protests and objections. It would do her good--best place in the world for children--good for nervous complaints too. A wife's duty was to follow her husband, of course. She had followed, willy nilly; and it was good for the children--there was no doubt of that. Mr. Bell had profited little by his venture. They had the ranch, the flowers and fruit and ample living of that rich soil; but he had failed in oranges, failed in raisins, failed in prunes, and was now failing in wealth-promising hens. But Mrs. Bell, though an ineffectual housekeeper, did not fail in the children. They had grown up big and vigorous, sturdy, handsome creatures, especially the two younger ones. Diantha was good-looking enough. Roscoe Warden thought her divinely beautiful. But her young strength had been heavily taxed from childhood in that complex process known as “helping mother.” As a little child she had been of constant service in caring for the babies; and early developed such competence in the various arts of house work as filled her mother with fond pride, and even wrung from her father some grudging recognition. That he did not value it more was because he expected such competence in women, all women; it was their natural field of ability, their duty as wives and mothers. Also as daughters. If they failed in it that was by illness or perversity. If they succeeded--that was a matter of course. He ate another of Diantha's excellent biscuits, his greyish-red whiskers slowly wagging; and continued to eye her disapprovingly. She said nothing, but tried to eat; and tried still harder to make her heart go quietly, her cheeks keep cool, and her eyes dry. Mrs. Bell also strove to keep a cheerful countenance; urged food upon her family; even tried to open some topic of conversation; but her gentle words trailed off into unnoticed silence. Mr. Bell ate until he was satisfied and betook himself to a comfortable chair by the lamp, where he unfolded the smart local paper and lit his pipe. “When you've got through with the dishes, Diantha,” he said coldly, “I'll hear about this proposition of yours.” Diantha cleared the table, lowered the leaves, set it back against the wall, spreading the turkey-red cloth upon it. She washed the dishes,--her kettle long since boiling, scalded them, wiped them, set them in their places; washed out the towels, wiped the pan and hung it up, swiftly, accurately, and with a quietness that would have seemed incredible to any mistress of heavy-footed servants. Then with heightened color and firm-set mouth, she took her place by the lamplit table and sat still. Her mother was patiently darning large socks with many holes--a kind of work she specially disliked. “You'll have to get some new socks, Father,” she ventured, “these are pretty well gone.” “O they'll do a good while yet,” he replied, not looking at them. “I like your embroidery, my dear.” That pleased her. She did not like to embroider, but she did like to be praised. Diantha took some socks and set to work, red-checked and excited, but silent yet. Her mother's needle trembled irregularly under and over, and a tear or two slid down her cheeks. Finally Mr. Bell laid down his finished paper and his emptied pipe and said, “Now then. Out with it.” This was not a felicitious opening. It is really astonishing how little diplomacy parents exhibit, how difficult they make it for the young to introduce a proposition. There was nothing for it but a bald statement, so Diantha made it baldly. “I have decided to leave home and go to work,” she said. “Don't you have work enough to do at home?” he inquired, with the same air of quizzical superiority which had always annoyed her so intensely, even as a little child. She would cut short this form of discussion: “I am going away to earn my living. I have given up school-teaching--I don't like it, and, there isn't money enough in it. I have plans--which will speak for themselves later.” “So,” said Mr. Bell, “Plans all made, eh? I suppose you've considered your Mother in these plans?” “I have,” said his daughter. “It is largely on her account that I'm going.” “You think it'll be good for your Mother's health to lose your assistance, do you?” “I know she'll miss me; but I haven't left the work on her shoulders. I am going to pay for a girl--to do the work I've done. It won't cost you any more, Father; and you'll save some--for she'll do the washing too. You didn't object to Henderson's going--at eighteen. You didn't object to Minnie's going--at seventeen. Why should you object to my going--at twenty-one.” “I haven't objected--so far,” replied her father. “Have your plans also allowed for the affection and duty you owe your parents?” “I have done my duty--as well as I know how,” she answered. “Now I am twenty-one, and self-supporting--and have a right to go.” “O yes. You have a right--a legal right--if that's what you base your idea of a child's duty on! And while you're talking of rights--how about a parent's rights? How about common gratitude! How about what you owe to me--for all the care and pains and cost it's been to bring you up. A child's a rather expensive investment these days.” Diantha flushed, she had expected this, and yet it struck her like a blow. It was not the first time she had heard it--this claim of filial obligation. “I have considered that position, Father. I know you feel that way--you've often made me feel it. So I've been at some pains to work it out--on a money basis. Here is an account--as full as I could make it.” She handed him a paper covered with neat figures. The totals read as follows: Miss Diantha Bell, To Mr. Henderson R. Bell, Dr. To medical and dental expenses... $110.00 To school expenses... $76.00 To clothing, in full... $1,130.00 To board and lodging at $3.00 a week... $2,184.00 To incidentals... $100.00 -------- $3.600.00 He studied the various items carefully, stroking his beard, half in anger, half in unavoidable amusement. Perhaps there was a tender feeling too, as he remembered that doctor's bill--the first he ever paid, with the other, when she had scarlet fever; and saw the exact price of the high chair which had served all three of the children, but of which she magnanimously shouldered the whole expense. The clothing total was so large that it made him whistle--he knew he had never spent $1,130.00 on one girl's clothes. But the items explained it. Materials, three years at an average of $10 a year... $30.00 Five years averaging $20 each year... $100.00 Five years averaging $30 each year... $50.00 Five years averaging $50 each year... $250.00 ------- $530.00 The rest was “Mother's labor”, averaging twenty full days a year at $2 a day, $40 a year. For fifteen years, $600.00. Mother's labor--on one child's, clothes--footing up to $600.00. It looked strange to see cash value attached to that unfailing source of family comfort and advantage. The school expenses puzzled him a bit, for she had only gone to public schools; but she was counting books and slates and even pencils--it brought up evenings long passed by, the sewing wife, the studying children, the “Say, Father, I've got to have a new slate--mine's broke!” “Broken, Dina,” her Mother would gently correct, while he demanded, “How did you break it?” and scolded her for her careless tomboy ways. Slates--three, $1.50--they were all down. And slates didn't cost so much come to think of it, even the red-edged ones, wound with black, that she always wanted. Board and lodging was put low, at $3.00 per week, but the items had a footnote as to house-rent in the country, and food raised on the farm. Yes, he guessed that was a full rate for the plain food and bare little bedroom they always had. “It's what Aunt Esther paid the winter she was here,” said Diantha. Circuses--three... $1.50 Share in melodeon... $50.00 Yes, she was one of five to use and enjoy it. Music lessons... $30.00 And quite a large margin left here, called miscellaneous, which he smiled to observe made just an even figure, and suspected she had put in for that purpose as well as from generosity. “This board account looks kind of funny,” he said--“only fourteen years of it!” “I didn't take table-board--nor a room--the first year--nor much the second. I've allowed $1.00 a week for that, and $2.00 for the third--that takes out two, you see. Then it's $156 a year till I was fourteen and earned board and wages, two more years at $156--and I've paid since I was seventeen, you know.” “Well--I guess you did--I guess you did.” He grinned genially. “Yes,” he continued slowly, “I guess that's a fair enough account. 'Cording to this, you owe me $3,600.00, young woman! I didn't think it cost that much to raise a girl.” “I know it,” said she. “But here's the other side.” It was the other side. He had never once thought of such a side to the case. This account was as clear and honest as the first and full of exasperating detail. She laid before him the second sheet of figures and watched while he read, explaining hurriedly: “It was a clear expense for ten years--not counting help with the babies. Then I began to do housework regularly--when I was ten or eleven, two hours a day; three when I was twelve and thirteen--real work you'd have had to pay for, and I've only put it at ten cents an hour. When Mother was sick the year I was fourteen, and I did it all but the washing--all a servant would have done for $3.00 a week. Ever since then I have done three hours a day outside of school, full grown work now, at twenty cents an hour. That's what we have to pay here, you know.” Thus it mounted up: Mr. Henderson R. Bell, To Miss Diantha Bell, Dr. For labor and services!!!!! Two years, two hours a day at 10c. an hour... $146.00 Two years, three hours a day at 10c. an hour... $219.00 One year, full wages at $5.00 a week... $260.00 Six years and a half, three hours a day at 20c... $1423.50 -------- $2048.50 Mr. Bell meditated carefully on these figures. To think of that child's labor footing up to two thousand dollars and over! It was lucky a man had a wife and daughters to do this work, or he could never support a family. Then came her school-teaching years. She had always been a fine scholar and he had felt very proud of his girl when she got a good school position in her eighteenth year. California salaries were higher than eastern ones, and times had changed too; the year he taught school he remembered the salary was only $300.00--and he was a man. This girl got $600, next year $700, $800, $900; why it made $3,000 she had earned in four years. Astonishing. Out of this she had a balance in the bank of $550.00. He was pleased to see that she had been so saving. And her clothing account--little enough he admitted for four years and six months, $300.00. All incidentals for the whole time, $50.00--this with her balance made just $900. That left $2,100.00. “Twenty-one hundred dollars unaccounted for, young lady!--besides this nest egg in the bank--I'd no idea you were so wealthy. What have you done with all that?” “Given it to you, Father,” said she quietly, and handed him the third sheet of figures. Board and lodging at $4.00 a week for 4 1/2 years made $936.00, that he could realize; but “cash advance” $1,164 more--he could not believe it. That time her mother was so sick and Diantha had paid both the doctor and the nurse--yes--he had been much cramped that year--and nurses come high. For Henderson, Jr.'s, expenses to San Francisco, and again for Henderson when he was out of a job--Mr. Bell remembered the boy's writing for the money, and his not having it, and Mrs. Bell saying she could arrange with Diantha. Arrange! And that girl had kept this niggardly account of it! For Minnie's trip to the Yosemite--and what was this?--for his raisin experiment--for the new horse they simply had to have for the drying apparatus that year he lost so much money in apricots--and for the spraying materials--yes, he could not deny the items, and they covered that $1,164.00 exactly. Then came the deadly balance, of the account between them: Her labor... $2,047.00 Her board... $936.00 Her “cash advanced”... $1,164.00 --------- $4,147.00 His expense for her... $3,600 --------- Due her from him... $547.00 Diantha revolved her pencil between firm palms, and looked at him rather quizzically; while her mother rocked and darned and wiped away an occasional tear. She almost wished she had not kept accounts so well. Mr. Bell pushed the papers away and started to his feet. “This is the most shameful piece of calculation I ever saw in my life,” said he. “I never heard of such a thing! You go and count up in cold dollars the work that every decent girl does for her family and is glad to! I wonder you haven't charged your mother for nursing her?” “You notice I haven't,” said Diantha coldly. “And to think,” said he, gripping the back of a chair and looking down at her fiercely, “to think that a girl who can earn nine hundred dollars a year teaching school, and stay at home and do her duty by her family besides, should plan to desert her mother outright--now she's old and sick! Of course I can't stop you! You're of age, and children nowadays have no sense of natural obligation after they're grown up. You can go, of course, and disgrace the family as you propose--but you needn't expect to have me consent to it or approve of it--or of you. It's a shameful thing--and you are an unnatural daughter--that's all I've got to say!” Mr. Bell took his hat and went out--a conclusive form of punctuation much used by men in discussions of this sort. CHAPTER III. BREAKERS Duck! Dive! Here comes another one! Wait till the crest-ruffles show! Beyond is smooth water in beauty and wonder-- Shut your mouth! Hold your breath! Dip your head under! Dive through the weight and the wash, and the thunder-- Look out for the undertow! If Diantha imagined that her arithmetical victory over a too-sordid presentation of the parental claim was a final one, she soon found herself mistaken. It is easy to say--putting an epic in an epigram--“She seen her duty and she done it!” but the space and time covered are generally as far beyond our plans as the estimates of an amateur mountain climber exceed his achievements. Her determination was not concealed by her outraged family. Possibly they thought that if the matter was well aired, and generally discussed, the daring offender might reconsider. Well-aired it certainly was, and widely discussed by the parents of the little town before young people who sat in dumbness, or made faint defense. It was also discussed by the young people, but not before their parents. She had told Ross, first of all, meaning to have a quiet talk with him to clear the ground before arousing her own family; but he was suddenly away just as she opened the subject, by a man on a wheel--some wretched business about the store of course--and sent word that night that he could not come up again. Couldn't come up the next night either. Two long days--two long evenings without seeing him. Well--if she went away she'd have to get used to that. But she had so many things to explain, so much to say to make it right with him; she knew well what a blow it was. Now it was all over town--and she had had no chance to defend her position. The neighbors called. Tall bony Mrs. Delafield who lived nearest to them and had known Diantha for some years, felt it her duty to make a special appeal--or attack rather; and brought with her stout Mrs. Schlosster, whose ancestors and traditions were evidently of German extraction. Diantha retired to her room when she saw these two bearing down upon the house; but her mother called her to make a pitcher of lemonade for them--and having entered there was no escape. They harried her with questions, were increasingly offended by her reticence, and expressed disapproval with a fullness that overmastered the girl's self-control. “I have as much right to go into business as any other citizen, Mrs. Delafield,” she said with repressed intensity. “I am of age and live in a free country. What you say of children no longer applies to me.” “And what is this mysterious business you're goin' into--if one may inquire? Nothin you're ashamed to mention, I hope?” asked Mrs. Delafield. “If a woman refuses to mention her age is it because she's ashamed of it?” the girl retorted, and Mrs. Delafield flushed darkly. “Never have I heard such talk from a maiden to her elders,” said Mrs. Schlosster. “In my country the young have more respect, as is right.” Mrs. Bell objected inwardly to any reprimand of her child by others; but she agreed to the principle advanced and made no comment. Diantha listened to quite a volume of detailed criticism, inquiry and condemnation, and finally rose to her feet with the stiff courtesy of the young. “You must excuse me now,” she said with set lips. “I have some necessary work to do.” She marched upstairs, shut her bedroom door and locked it, raging inwardly. “Its none of their business! Not a shadow! Why should Mother sit there and let them talk to me like that! One would think childhood had no limit--unless it's matrimony!” This reminded her of her younger sister's airs of superior wisdom, and did not conduce to a pleasanter frame of mind. “With all their miserable little conventions and idiocies! And what 'they'll say,' and 'they'll think'! As if I cared! Minnie'll be just such another!” She heard the ladies going out, still talking continuously, a faint response from her mother now and then, a growing quiet as their steps receded toward the gate; and then another deeper voice took up the theme and heavily approached. It was the minister! Diantha dropped into her rocker and held the arms tight. “Now I'll have to take it again I suppose. But he ought to know me well enough to understand.” “Diantha!” called her mother, “Here's Dr. Major;” and the girl washed her face and came down again. Dr. Major was a heavy elderly man with a strong mouth and a warm hand clasp. “What's all this I hear about you, young lady?” he demanded, holding her hand and looking her straight in the eye. “Is this a new kind of Prodigal Daughter we're encountering?” He did not look nor sound condemnatory, and as she faced him she caught a twinkle in the wise old eyes. “You can call it that if you want to,” she said, “Only I thought the Prodigal Son just spent his money--I'm going to earn some.” “I want you to talk to Diantha, Doctor Major,” Mrs. Bell struck in. “I'm going to ask you to excuse me, and go and lie down for a little. I do believe she'll listen to you more than to anybody.” The mother retired, feeling sure that the good man who had known her daughter for over fifteen years would have a restraining influence now; and Diantha braced herself for the attack. It came, heavy and solid, based on reason, religion, tradition, the custom of ages, the pastoral habit of control and protection, the father's instinct, the man's objection to a girl's adventure. But it was courteous, kind, and rationally put, and she met it point by point with the whole-souled arguments of a new position, the passionate enthusiasm of her years. They called a truce. “I can see that you _think_ its your duty, young, woman--that's the main thing. I think you're wrong. But what you believe to be right you have to do. That's the way we learn my dear, that's the way we learn! Well--you've been a good child ever since I've known you. A remarkably good child. If you have to sow this kind of wild oats--” they both smiled at this, “I guess we can't stop you. I'll keep your secret--” “Its not a secret really,” the girl explained, “I'll tell them as soon as I'm settled. Then they can tell--if they want to.” And they both smiled again. “Well--I won't tell till I hear of it then. And--yes, I guess I can furnish that document with a clean conscience.” She gave him paper and pen and he wrote, with a grin, handing her the result. She read it, a girlish giggle lightening the atmosphere. “Thank you!” she said earnestly. “Thank you ever so much. I knew you would help me.” “If you get stuck anywhere just let me know,” he said rising. “This Proddy Gal may want a return ticket yet!” “I'll walk first!” said Diantha. “O Dr. Major,” cried her mother from the window, “Don't go! We want you to stay to supper of course!” But he had other calls to make, he said, and went away, his big hands clasped behind him; his head bent, smiling one minute and shaking his head the next. Diantha leaned against a pearly eucalyptus trunk and watched him. She would miss Dr. Major. But who was this approaching? Her heart sank miserably. Mrs. Warden--and _all_ the girls. She went to meet them--perforce. Mrs. Warden had always been kind and courteous to her; the girls she had not seen very much of, but they had the sweet Southern manner, were always polite. Ross's mother she must love. Ross's sisters too--if she could. Why did the bottom drop out of her courage at sight of them? “You dear child!” said Mrs. Warden, kissing her. “I know just how you feel! You want to help my boy! That's your secret! But this won't do it, my dear!” “You've no idea how badly Ross feels!” said Madeline. “Mrs. Delafield dropped in just now and told us. You ought to have seen him!” “He didn't believe it of course,” Adeline put in. “And he wouldn't say a thing--not a thing to blame you.” “We said we'd come over right off--and tried to bring him--but he said he'd got to go back to the store,” Coraline explained. “He was mad though!” said Dora--“_I_ know.” Diantha looked from one to the other helplessly. “Come in! Come in!” said Mrs. Bell hospitably. “Have this rocker, Mrs. Warden--wouldn't you like some cool drink? Diantha?” “No indeed!” Mrs. Warden protested. “Don't get a thing. We're going right back, it's near supper time. No, we can't think of staying, of course not, no indeed!--But we had to come over and hear about this dear child's idea!--Now tell us all about it, Diantha!” There they sat--five pairs of curious eyes--and her mother's sad ones--all kind--all utterly incapable of understanding. She moistened her lips and plunged desperately. “It is nothing dreadful, Mrs. Warden. Plenty of girls go away to earn their livings nowadays. That is all I'm doing.” “But why go away?” “I thought you were earning your living before!” “Isn't teaching earning your living?” “What _are_ you going to do?” the girls protested variously, and Mrs. Warden, with a motherly smile, suggested!!!!! “That doesn't explain your wanting to leave Ross, my dear--and your mother!” “I don't want to leave them,” protested Diantha, trying to keep her voice steady. “It is simply that I have made up my mind I can do better elsewhere.” “Do what better?” asked Mrs. Warden with sweet patience, which reduced Diantha to the bald statement, “Earn more money in less time.” “And is that better than staying with your mother and your lover?” pursued the gentle inquisitor; while the girls tried, “What do you want to earn more money for?” and “I thought you earned a lot before.” Now Diantha did not wish to state in so many words that she wanted more money in order to marry sooner--she had hardly put it to herself that way. She could not make them see in a few moments that her plan was to do far more for her mother than she would otherwise ever be able to. And as to making them understand the larger principles at stake--the range and depth of her full purpose--that would be physically impossible. “I am sorry!” she said with trembling lips. “I am extremely sorry. But--I cannot explain!” Mrs. Warden drew herself up a little. “Cannot explain to me?--Your mother, of course, knows?” “Diantha is naturally more frank with me than with--anyone,” said Mrs. Bell proudly, “But she does not wish her--business--plans--made public at present!” Her daughter looked at her with vivid gratitude, but the words “made public” were a little unfortunate perhaps. “Of course,” Mrs. Warden agreed, with her charming smile, “that we can quite understand. I'm sure I should always wish my girls to feel so. Madeline--just show Mrs. Bell that necktie you're making--she was asking about the stitch, you remember.” The necktie was produced and admired, while the other girls asked Diantha if she had her fall dressmaking done yet--and whether she found wash ribbon satisfactory. And presently the whole graceful family withdrew, only Dora holding her head with visible stiffness. Diantha sat on the floor by her mother, put her head in her lap and cried. “How splendid of you, Mother!” she sobbed. “How simply splendid! I will tell you now--if--if--you won't tell even Father--yet.” “Dear child” said her Mother, “I'd rather not know in that case. It is--easier.” “That's what I kept still for!” said the girl. “It's hard enough, goodness knows--as it is! Its nothing wicked, or even risky, Mother dear--and as far as I can see it is right!” Her mother smiled through her tears. “If you say that, my dear child, I know there's no stopping you. And I hate to argue with you--even for your own sake, because it is so much to my advantage to have you here. I--shall miss you--Diantha!” “Don't, Mother!” sobbed the girl. “Its natural for the young to go. We expect it--in time. But you are so young yet--and--well, I had hoped the teaching would satisfy you till Ross was ready.” Diantha sat up straight. “Mother! can't you see Ross'll never be ready! Look at that family! And the way they live! And those mortgages! I could wait and teach and save a little even with Father always losing money; but I can't see Ross wearing himself out for years and years--I just _can't_ bear it!” Her mother stroked her fair hair softly, not surprised that her own plea was so lost in thought of the brave young lover. “And besides,” the girl went on “If I waited--and saved--and married Ross--what becomes of _you,_ I'd like to know? What I can't stand is to have you grow older and sicker--and never have any good time in all your life!” Mrs. Bell smiled tenderly. “You dear child!” she said; as if an affectionate five-year old had offered to get her a rainbow, “I know you mean it all for the best. But, O my _dearest_! I'd rather have you--here--at home with me---than any other 'good time' you can imagine!” She could not see the suffering in her daughter's face; but she felt she had made an impression, and followed it up with heart-breaking sincerity. She caught the girl to her breast and held her like a little child. “O my baby! my baby! Don't leave your mother. I can't bear it!” A familiar step outside, heavy, yet uncertain, and they both looked at each other with frightened eyes. They had forgotten the biscuit. “Supper ready?” asked Mr. Bell, with grim humor. “It will be in a moment, Father,” cried Diantha springing to her feet. “At least--in a few moments.” “Don't fret the child, Father,” said Mrs. Henderson softly. “She's feeling bad enough.” “Sh'd think she would,” replied her husband. “Moreover--to my mind--she ought to.” He got out the small damp local paper and his pipe, and composed himself in obvious patience: yet somehow this patience seemed to fill the kitchen, and to act like a ball and chain to Diantha's feet. She got supper ready, at last, making griddle-cakes instead of biscuit, and no comment was made of the change: but the tension in the atmosphere was sharply felt by the two women; and possibly by the tall old man, who ate less than usual, and said absolutely nothing. “I'm going over to see Edwards about that new incubator,” he said when the meal was over, and departed; and Mrs. Bell, after trying in vain to do her mending, wiped her clouded glasses and went to bed. Diantha made all neat and tidy; washed her own wet eyes again, and went out under the moon. In that broad tender mellow light she drew a deep breath and stretched her strong young arms toward the sky in dumb appeal. “I knew it would be hard,” she murmured to herself, “That is I knew the facts--but I didn't know the feeling!” She stood at the gate between the cypresses, sat waiting under the acacia boughs, walked restlessly up and down the path outside, the dry pepper berries crush softly under foot; bracing herself for one more struggle--and the hardest of all. “He will understand!” he told herself, over and over, but at the bottom of her heart she knew he wouldn't. He came at last; a slower, wearier step than usual; came and took both her hands in his and stood holding them, looking at her questioningly. Then he held her face between his palms and made her look at him. Her eyes were brave and steady, but the mouth trembled in spite of her. He stilled it with a kiss, and drew her to a seat on the bench beside him. “My poor Little Girl! You haven't had a chance yet to really tell me about this thing, and I want you to right now. Then I'm going to kill about forty people in this town! _Somebody_ has been mighty foolish.” She squeezed his hand, but found it very difficult to speak. His love, his sympathy, his tenderness, were so delicious after this day's trials--and before those further ones she could so well anticipate. She didn't wish to cry any more, that would by no means strengthen her position, and she found she couldn't seem to speak without crying. “One would think to hear the good people of this town that you were about to leave home and mother for--well, for a trip to the moon!” he added. “There isn't any agreement as to what you're going to do, but they're unanimous as to its being entirely wrong. Now suppose you tell me about it.” “I will,” said Diantha. “I began to the other night, you know, you first of course--it was too bad! your having to go off at that exact moment. Then I had to tell mother--because--well you'll see presently. Now dear--just let me say it _all_--before you--do anything.” “Say away, my darling. I trust you perfectly.” She flashed a grateful look at him. “It is this way, my dear. I have two, three, yes four, things to consider:--My own personal problem--my family's--yours--and a social one.” “My family's?” he asked, with a faint shade of offence in his tone. “No no dear--your own,” she explained. “Better cut mine out, Little Girl,” he said. “I'll consider that myself.” “Well--I won't talk about it if you don't want me to. There are the other three.” “I won't question your second, nor your imposing third, but isn't the first one--your own personal problem--a good deal answered?” he suggested, holding her close for a moment. “Don't!” she said. “I can't talk straight when you put it that way.” She rose hurriedly and took a step or two up and down. “I don't suppose--in spite of your loving me, that I can make you see it as I do. But I'll be just as clear as I can. There are some years before us before we can be together. In that time I intend to go away and undertake a business I am interested in. My purpose is to--develop the work, to earn money, to help my family, and to--well, not to hinder you.” “I don't understand, I confess,” he said. “Don't you propose to tell me what this 'work' is?” “Yes--I will--certainly. But not yet dear! Let me try to show you how I feel about it.” “Wait,” said he. “One thing I want to be sure of. Are you doing this with any quixotic notion of helping me--in _my_ business? Helping me to take care of my family? Helping me to--” he stood up now, looking very tall and rather forbidding, “No, I won't say that to you.” “Would there be anything wrong in my meaning exactly that?” she asked, holding her own head a little higher; “both what you said and what you didn't?” “It would be absolutely wrong, all of it,” he answered. “I cannot believe that the woman I love would--could take such a position.” “Look here, Ross!” said the girl earnestly. “Suppose you knew where there was a gold mine--_knew it_--and by going away for a few years you could get a real fortune--wouldn't you do it?” “Naturally I should,” he agreed. “Well, suppose it wasn't a gold mine, but a business, a new system like those cigar stores--or--some patent amusement specialty--or _anything_--that you knew was better than what you're doing--wouldn't you have a right to try it?” “Of course I should--but what has that to do with this case?” “Why it's the same thing! Don't you see? I have plans that will be of real benefit to all of us, something worth while to _do_--and not only for us but for _everybody_--a real piece of progress--and I'm going to leave my people--and even you!--for a little while--to make us all happier later on.” He smiled lovingly at her but shook his head slowly. “You dear, brave, foolish child!” he said. “I don't for one moment doubt your noble purposes. But you don't get the man's point of view--naturally. What's more you don't seem to get the woman's.” “Can you see no other point of view than those?” she asked. “There are no others,” he answered. “Come! come! my darling, don't add this new difficulty to what we've got to carry! I know you have a hard time of it at home. Some day, please God, you shall have an easier one! And I'm having a hard time too--I don't deny it. But you are the greatest joy and comfort I have, dear--you know that. If you go away--it will be harder and slower and longer--that's all. I shall have you to worry about too. Let somebody else do the gold-mine, dear--you stay here and comfort your Mother as long as you can--and me. How can I get along without you?” He tried to put his arm around her again, but she drew back. “Dear,” she said. “If I deliberately do what I think is right--against your wishes--what will you do?” “Do?” The laughed bitterly. “What can I do? I'm tied by the leg here--I can't go after you. I've nothing to pull you out of a scrape with if you get in one. I couldn't do anything but--stand it.” “And if I go ahead, and do what you don't like--and make you--suffer--would you--would you rather be free?” Her voice was very low and shaken, but he heard her well enough. “Free of you? Free of _you_?” He caught her and held her and kissed her over and over. “You are mine!” he said. “You have given yourself to me! You cannot leave me. Neither of us is free--ever again.” But she struggled away from him. “Both of us are free--to do what we think right, _always_ Ross! I wouldn't try to stop you if you thought it was your duty to go to the North Pole!” She held him a little way off. “Let me tell you, dear. Sit down--let me tell you all about it.” But he wouldn't sit down. “I don't think I want to know the details,” he said. “It doesn't much matter what you're going to do--if you really go away. I can't stop you--I see that. If you think this thing is your 'duty' you'll do it if it kills us all--and you too! If you have to go--I shall do nothing--can do nothing--but wait till you come back to me! Whatever happens, darling--no matter how you fail--don't ever be afraid to come back to me.” He folded his arms now--did not attempt to hold her--gave her the freedom she asked and promised her the love she had almost feared to lose--and her whole carefully constructed plan seemed like a child's sand castle for a moment; her heroic decision the wildest folly. He was not even looking at her; she saw his strong, clean-cut profile dark against the moonlit house, a settled patience in its lines. Duty! Here was duty, surely, with tenderest happiness. She was leaning toward him--her hand was seeking his, when she heard through the fragrant silence a sound from her mother's room--the faint creak of her light rocking chair. She could not sleep--she was sitting up with her trouble, bearing it quietly as she had so many others. The quiet everyday tragedy of that distasteful life--the slow withering away of youth and hope and ambition into a gray waste of ineffectual submissive labor--not only of her life, but of thousands upon thousands like her--it all rose up like a flood in the girl's hot young heart. Ross had turned to her--was holding out his arms to her. “You won't go, my darling!” he said. “I am going Wednesday on the 7.10,” said Diantha. CHAPTER IV. A CRYING NEED “Lovest thou me?” said the Fair Ladye; And the Lover he said, “Yea!” “Then climb this tree--for my sake,” said she, “And climb it every day!” So from dawn till dark he abrazed the bark And wore his clothes away; Till, “What has this tree to do with thee?” The Lover at last did say. It was a poor dinner. Cold in the first place, because Isabel would wait to thoroughly wash her long artistic hands; and put on another dress. She hated the smell of cooking in her garments; hated it worse on her white fingers; and now to look at the graceful erect figure, the round throat with the silver necklace about it, the soft smooth hair, silver-filletted, the negative beauty of the dove-colored gown, specially designed for home evenings, one would never dream she had set the table so well--and cooked the steak so abominably. Isabel was never a cook. In the many servantless gaps of domestic life in Orchardina, there was always a strained atmosphere in the Porne household. “Dear,” said Mr. Porne, “might I petition to have the steak less cooked? I know you don't like to do it, so why not shorten the process?” “I'm sorry,” she answered, “I always forget about the steak from one time to the next.” “Yet we've had it three times this week, my dear.” “I thought you liked it better than anything,” she with marked gentleness. “I'll get you other things--oftener.” “It's a shame you should have this to do, Isabel. I never meant you should cook for me. Indeed I didn't dream you cared so little about it.” “And I never dreamed you cared so much about it,” she replied, still with repression. “I'm not complaining, am I? I'm only sorry you should be disappointed in me.” “It's not _you,_ dear girl! You're all right! It's just this everlasting bother. Can't you get _anybody_ that will stay?” “I can't seem to get anybody on any terms, so far. I'm going again, to-morrow. Cheer up, dear--the baby keeps well--that's the main thing.” He sat on the rose-bowered porch and smoked while she cleared the table. At first he had tried to help her on these occasions, but their methods were dissimilar and she frankly told him she preferred to do it alone. So she slipped off the silk and put on the gingham again, washed the dishes with the labored accuracy of a trained mind doing unfamiliar work, made the bread, redressed at last, and joined him about nine o'clock. “It's too late to go anywhere, I suppose?” he ventured. “Yes--and I'm too tired. Besides--we can't leave Eddie alone.” “O yes--I forget. Of course we can't.” His hand stole out to take hers. “I _am_ sorry, dear. It's awfully rough on you women out here. How do they all stand it?” “Most of them stand it much better than I do, Ned. You see they don't want to be doing anything else.” “Yes. That's the mischief of it!” he agreed; and she looked at him in the clear moonlight, wondering exactly what he thought the mischief was. “Shall we go in and read a bit?” he offered; but she thought not. “I'm too tired, I'm afraid. And Eddie'll wake up as soon as we begin.” So they sat awhile enjoying the soft silence, and the rich flower scents about them, till Eddie did wake presently, and Isabel went upstairs. She slept little that night, lying quite still, listening to her husband's regular breathing so near her, and the lighter sound from the crib. “I am a very happy woman,” she told herself resolutely; but there was no outpouring sense of love and joy. She knew she was happy, but by no means felt it. So she stared at the moon shadows and thought it over. She had planned the little house herself, with such love, such hope, such tender happy care! Not her first work, which won high praise in the school in Paris, not the prize-winning plan for the library, now gracing Orchardina's prettiest square, was as dear to her as this most womanly task--the making of a home. It was the library success which brought her here, fresh from her foreign studies, and Orchardina accepted with western cordiality the youth and beauty of the young architect, though a bit surprised at first that “I. H. Wright” was an Isabel. In her further work of overseeing the construction of that library, she had met Edgar Porne, one of the numerous eager young real estate men of that region, who showed a liberal enthusiasm for the general capacity of women in the professions, and a much warmer feeling for the personal attractions of this one. Together they chose the lot on pepper-shaded Inez Avenue; together they watched the rising of the concrete walls and planned the garden walks and seats, and the tiny precious pool in the far corner. He was so sympathetic! so admiring! He took as much pride in the big “drawing room” on the third floor as she did herself. “Architecture is such fine work to do at home!” they had both agreed. “Here you have your north light--your big table--plenty of room for work! You will grow famouser and famouser,” he had lovingly insisted. And she had answered, “I fear I shall be too contented, dear, to want to be famous.” That was only some year and a-half ago,--but Isabel, lying there by her sleeping husband and sleeping child, was stark awake and only by assertion happy. She was thinking, persistently, of dust. She loved a delicate cleanliness. Her art was a precise one, her studio a workshop of white paper and fine pointed hard pencils, her painting the mechanical perfection of an even wash of color. And she saw, through the floors and walls and the darkness, the dust in the little shaded parlor--two days' dust at least, and Orchardina is very dusty!--dust in the dining-room gathered since yesterday--the dust in the kitchen--she would not count time there, and the dust--here she counted it inexorably--the dust of eight days in her great, light workroom upstairs. Eight days since she had found time to go up there. Lying there, wide-eyed and motionless, she stood outside in thought and looked at the house--as she used to look at it with him, before they were married. Then, it had roused every blessed hope and dream of wedded joy--it seemed a casket of uncounted treasures. Now, in this dreary mood, it seemed not only a mere workshop, but one of alien tasks, continuous, impossible, like those set for the Imprisoned Princess by bad fairies in the old tales. In thought she entered the well-proportioned door--the Gate of Happiness--and a musty smell greeted her--she had forgotten to throw out those flowers! She turned to the parlor--no, the piano keys were gritty, one had to clean them twice a day to keep that room as she liked it. From room to room she flitted, in her mind, trying to recall the exquisite things they meant to her when she had planned them; and each one now opened glaring and blank, as a place to work in--and the work undone. “If I were an abler woman!” she breathed. And then her common sense and common honesty made her reply to herself: “I am able enough--in my own work! Nobody can do everything. I don't believe Edgar'd do it any better than I do.--He don't have to!”--and then such a wave of bitterness rushed over her that she was afraid, and reached out one hand to touch the crib--the other to her husband. He awakened instantly. “What is it, Dear?” he asked. “Too tired to sleep, you poor darling? But you do love me a little, don't you?” “O _yes_!” she answered. “I do. Of _course_ I do! I'm just tired, I guess. Goodnight, Sweetheart.” She was late in getting to sleep and late in waking. When he finally sat down to the hurriedly spread breakfast-table, Mr. Porne, long coffeeless, found it a bit difficult to keep his temper. Isabel was a little stiff, bringing in dishes and cups, and paying no attention to the sounds of wailing from above. “Well if you won't I will!” burst forth the father at last, and ran upstairs, returning presently with a fine boy of some eleven months, who ceased to bawl in these familiar arms, and contented himself, for the moment, with a teaspoon. “Aren't you going to feed him?” asked Mr. Porne, with forced patience. “It isn't time yet,” she announced wearily. “He has to have his bath first.” “Well,” with a patience evidently forced farther, “isn't it time to feed me?” “I'm very sorry,” she said. “The oatmeal is burned again. You'll have to eat cornflakes. And--the cream is sour--the ice didn't come--or at least, perhaps I was out when it came--and then I forgot it..... I had to go to the employment agency in the morning!.... I'm sorry I'm so--so incompetent.” “So am I,” he commented drily. “Are there any crackers for instance? And how about coffee?” She brought the coffee, such as it was, and a can of condensed milk. Also crackers, and fruit. She took the baby and sat silent. “Shall I come home to lunch?” he asked. “Perhaps you'd better not,” she replied coldly. “Is there to be any dinner?” “Dinner will be ready at six-thirty, if I have to get it myself.” “If you have to get it yourself I'll allow for seven-thirty,” said he, trying to be cheerful, though she seemed little pleased by it. “Now don't take it so hard, Ellie. You are a first-class architect, anyhow--one can't be everything. We'll get another girl in time. This is just the common lot out here. All the women have the same trouble.” “Most women seem better able to meet it!” she burst forth. “It's not my trade! I'm willing to work, I like to work, but I can't _bear_ housework! I can't seem to learn it at all! And the servants will not do it properly!” “Perhaps they know your limitations, and take advantage of them! But cheer up, dear. It's no killing matter. Order by phone, don't forget the ice, and I'll try to get home early and help. Don't cry, dear girl, I love you, even if you aren't a good cook! And you love me, don't you?” He kissed her till she had to smile back at him and give him a loving hug; but after he had gone, the gloom settled upon her spirits once more. She bathed the baby, fed him, put him to sleep; and came back to the table. The screen door had been left ajar and the house was buzzing with flies, hot, with a week's accumulating disorder. The bread she made last night in fear and trembling, was hanging fatly over the pans; perhaps sour already. She clapped it into the oven and turned on the heat. Then she stood, undetermined, looking about that messy kitchen while the big flies bumped and buzzed on the windows, settled on every dish, and swung in giddy circles in the middle of the room. Turning swiftly she shut the door on them. The dining-room was nearly as bad. She began to put the cups and plates together for removal; but set her tray down suddenly and went into the comparative coolness of the parlor, closing the dining-room door behind her. She was quite tired enough to cry after several nights of broken rest and days of constant discomfort and irritation; but a sense of rising anger kept the tears back. “Of course I love him!” she said to herself aloud but softly, remembering the baby, “And no doubt he loves me! I'm glad to be his wife! I'm glad to be a mother to his child! I'm glad I married him! But--_this_ is not what he offered! And it's not what I undertook! He hasn't had to change his business!” She marched up and down the scant space, and then stopped short and laughed drily, continuing her smothered soliloquy. “'Do you love me?' they ask, and, 'I will make you happy!' they say; and you get married--and after that it's Housework!” “They don't say, 'Will you be my Cook?' 'Will you be my Chamber maid?' 'Will you give up a good clean well-paid business that you love--that has big hope and power and beauty in it--and come and keep house for me?'” “Love him? I'd be in Paris this minute if I didn't! What has 'love' to do with dust and grease and flies!” Then she did drop on the small sofa and cry tempestuously for a little while; but soon arose, fiercely ashamed of her weakness, and faced the day; thinking of the old lady who had so much to do she couldn't think what to first--so she sat down and made a pincushion. Then--where to begin! “Eddie will sleep till half-past ten--if I'm lucky. It's now nearly half-past nine,” she meditated aloud. “If I do the upstairs work I might wake him. I mustn't forget the bread, the dishes, the parlor--O those flies! Well--I'll clear the table first!” Stepping softly, and handling the dishes with slow care, she cleaned the breakfast table and darkened the dining-room, flapping out some of the flies with a towel. Then she essayed the parlor, dusting and arranging with undecided steps. “It _ought_ to be swept,” she admitted to herself; “I can't do it--there isn't time. I'll make it dark--” “I'd rather plan a dozen houses!” she fiercely muttered, as she fussed about. “Yes--I'd rather build 'em--than to keep one clean!” Then were her hopes dashed by a rising wail from above. She sat quite still awhile, hoping against hope that he would sleep again; but he wouldn't. So she brought him down in full cry. In her low chair by the window she held him and produced bright and jingling objects from the tall workbasket that stood near by, sighing again as she glanced at its accumulated mending. Master Eddy grew calm and happy in her arms, but showed a growing interest in the pleasing materials produced for his amusement, and a desire for closer acquaintance. Then a penetrating odor filled the air, and with a sudden “O dear!” she rose, put the baby on the sofa, and started toward the kitchen. At this moment the doorbell rang. Mrs. Porne stopped in her tracks and looked at the door. It remained opaque and immovable. She looked at the baby--who jiggled his spools and crowed. Then she flew to the oven and dragged forth the bread, not much burned after all. Then she opened the door. A nice looking young woman stood before her, in a plain travelling suit, holding a cheap dress-suit case in one hand and a denim “roll-bag” in the other, who met her with a cheerful inquiring smile. “Are you Mrs. Edgar Porne?” she asked. “I am,” answered that lady, somewhat shortly, her hand on the doorknob, her ear on the baby, her nose still remorsefully in the kitchen, her eyes fixed sternly on her visitor the while; as she wondered whether it was literature, cosmetics, or medicine. She was about to add that she didn't want anything, when the young lady produced a card from the Rev. Benjamin A. Miner, Mrs. Porne's particularly revered minister, and stated that she had heard there was a vacancy in her kitchen and she would like the place. “Introducing Mrs. D. Bell, well known to friends of mine.” “I don't know--” said Mrs. Porne, reading the card without in the least grasping what it said. “I--” Just then there was a dull falling sound followed by a sharp rising one, and she rushed into the parlor without more words. When she could hear and be heard again, she found Mrs. Bell seated in the shadowy little hall, serene and cool. “I called on Mr. Miner yesterday when I arrived,” said she, “with letters of introduction from my former minister, told him what I wanted to do, and asked him if he could suggest anyone in immediate need of help in this line. He said he had called here recently, and believed you were looking for someone. Here is the letter I showed him,” and she handed Mrs. Porne a most friendly and appreciative recommendation of Miss D. Bell by a minister in Jopalez, Inca Co., stating that the bearer was fully qualified to do all kinds of housework, experienced, honest, kind, had worked seven years in one place, and only left it hoping to do better in Southern California. Backed by her own pastor's approval this seemed to Mrs. Porne fully sufficient. The look of the girl pleased her, though suspiciously above her station in manner; service of any sort was scarce and high in Orchardina, and she had been an agelong week without any. “When can you come?” she asked. “I can stop now if you like,” said the stranger. “This is my baggage. But we must arrange terms first. If you like to try me I will come this week from noon to-day to noon next Friday, for seven dollars, and then if you are satisfied with my work we can make further arrangements. I do not do laundry work, of course, and don't undertake to have any care of the baby.” “I take care of my baby myself!” said Mrs. Porne, thinking the new girl was presuming, though her manner was most gently respectful. But a week was not long, she was well recommended, and the immediate pressure in that kitchen where the harvest was so ripe and the laborers so few--“Well--you may try the week,” she said. “I'll show you your room. And what is your name?” “Miss Bell.” CHAPTER V. When the fig growns on the thistle, And the silk purse on the sow; When one swallow brings the summer, And blue moons on her brow!!!!! Then we may look for strength and skill, Experience, good health, good will, Art and science well combined, Honest soul and able mind, Servants built upon this plan, One to wait on every man, Patiently from youth to age,-- For less than a street cleaner's wage! When the parson's gay on Mondays, When we meet a month of Sundays, We may look for them and find them-- But Not Now! When young Mrs. Weatherstone swept her trailing crepe from the automobile to her friend's door, it was opened by a quick, soft-footed maid with a pleasant face, who showed her into a parlor, not only cool and flower-lit, but having that fresh smell that tells of new-washed floors. Mrs. Porne came flying down to meet her, with such a look of rest and comfort as roused instant notice. “Why, Belle! I haven't seen you look so bright in ever so long. It must be the new maid!” “That's it--she's 'Bell' too--'Miss Bell' if you please!” The visitor looked puzzled. “Is she a--a friend?” she ventured, not sure of her ground. “I should say she was! A friend in need! Sit here by the window, Viva--and I'll tell you all about it--as far as it goes.” She gaily recounted her climax of confusion and weariness, and the sudden appearance of this ministering angel. “She arrived at about quarter of ten. I engaged her inside of five minutes. She was into a gingham gown and at work by ten o'clock!” “What promptness! And I suppose there was plenty to do!” Mrs. Porne laughed unblushingly. “There was enough for ten women it seemed to me! Let's see--it's about five now--seven hours. We have nine rooms, besides the halls and stairs, and my shop. She hasn't touched that yet. But the house is clean--_clean_! Smell it!” She took her guest out into the hall, through the library and dining-room, upstairs where the pleasant bedrooms stretched open and orderly. “She said that if I didn't mind she'd give it a superficial general cleaning today and be more thorough later!” Mrs. Weatherstone looked about her with a rather languid interest. “I'm very glad for you, Belle, dear--but--what an endless nuisance it all is--don't you think so?” “Nuisance! It's slow death! to me at least,” Mrs. Porne answered. “But I don't see why you should mind. I thought Madam Weatherstone ran that--palace, of yours, and you didn't have any trouble at all.” “Oh yes, she runs it. I couldn't get along with her at all if she didn't. That's her life. It was my mother's too. Always fussing and fussing. Their houses on their backs--like snails!” “Don't see why, with ten (or is it fifteen?) servants.” “Its twenty, I think. But my dear Belle, if you imagine that when you have twenty servants you have neither work nor care--come and try it awhile, that's all!” “Not for a millionaire baby's ransom!” answered Isabel promptly. “Give me my drawing tools and plans and I'm happy--but this business”--she swept a white hand wearily about--“it's not my work, that's all.” “But you _enjoy_ it, don't you--I mean having nice things?” asked her friend. “Of course I enjoy it, but so does Edgar. Can't a woman enjoy her home, just as a man does, without running the shop? I enjoy ocean travel, but I don't want to be either a captain or a common sailor!” Mrs. Weatherstone smiled, a little sadly. “You're lucky, you have other interests,” she said. “How about our bungalow? have you got any farther?” Mrs. Porne flushed. “I'm sorry, Viva. You ought to have given it to someone else. I haven't gone into that workroom for eight solid days. No help, and the baby, you know. And I was always dog-tired.” “That's all right, dear, there's no very great rush. You can get at it now, can't you--with this other Belle to the fore?” “She's not Belle, bless you--she's 'Miss Bell.' It's her last name.” Mrs. Weatherstone smiled her faint smile. “Well--why not? Like a seamstress, I suppose.” “Exactly.” That's what she said. “If this labor was as important as that of seamstress or governess why not the same courtesy--Oh she's a most superior _and_ opinionated young person, I can see that.” “I like her looks,” admitted Mrs. Weatherstone, “but can't we look over those plans again; there's something I wanted to suggest.” And they went up to the big room on the third floor. In her shop and at her work Isabel Porne was a different woman. She was eager and yet calm; full of ideas and ideals, yet with a practical knowledge of details that made her houses dear to the souls of women. She pointed out in the new drawings the practical advantages of kitchen and pantry; the simple but thorough ventilation, the deep closets, till her friend fairly laughed at her. “And you say you're not domestic!” “I'm a domestic architect, if you like,” said Isabel; “but not a domestic servant.--I'll remember what you say about those windows--it's a good idea,” and she made a careful note of Mrs. Weatherstone's suggestion. That lady pushed the plans away from her, and went to the many cushioned lounge in the wide west window, where she sat so long silent that Isabel followed at last and took her hand. “Did you love him so much?” she asked softly. “Who?” was the surprising answer. “Why--Mr. Weatherstone,” said Mrs. Porne. “No--not very much. But he was something.” Isabel was puzzled. “I knew you so well in school,” she said, “and that gay year in Paris. You were always a dear, submissive quiet little thing--but not like this. What's happened Viva?” “Nothing that anybody can help,” said her friend. “Nothing that matters. What does matter, anyway? Fuss and fuss and fuss. Dress and entertain. Travel till you're tired, and rest till you're crazy! Then--when a real thing happens--there's all this!” and she lifted her black draperies disdainfully. “And mourning notepaper and cards and servant's livery--and all the things you mustn't do!” Isabel put an arm around her. “Don't mind, dear--you'll get over this--you are young enough yet--the world is full of things to do!” But Mrs. Weatherstone only smiled her faint smile again. “I loved another man, first,” she said. “A real one. He died. He never cared for me at all. I cared for nothing else--nothing in life. That's why I married Martin Weatherstone--not for his old millions--but he really cared--and I was sorry for him. Now he's dead. And I'm wearing this--and still mourning for the other one.” Isabel held her hand, stroked it softly, laid it against her cheek. “Oh, I'll feel differently in time, perhaps!” said her visitor. “Maybe if you took hold of the house--if you ran things yourself,”--ventured Mrs. Porne. Mrs. Weatherstone laughed. “And turn out the old lady? You don't know her. Why she managed her son till he ran away from her--and after he got so rich and imported her from Philadelphia to rule over Orchardina in general and his household in particular, she managed that poor little first wife of his into her grave, and that wretched boy--he's the only person that manages her! She's utterly spoiled him--that was his father's constant grief. No, no--let her run the house--she thinks she owns it.” “She's fond of you, isn't she?” asked Mrs. Porne. “O I guess so--if I let her have her own way. And she certainly saves me a great deal of trouble. Speaking of trouble, there they are--she said she'd stop for me.” At the gate puffed the big car, a person in livery rang the bell, and Mrs. Weatherstone kissed her friend warmly, and passed like a heavy shadow along the rose-bordered path. In the tonneau sat a massive old lady in sober silks, with a set impassive countenance, severely correct in every feature, and young Mat Weatherstone, sulky because he had to ride with his grandmother now and then. He was not a nice young man. ***** Diantha found it hard to write her home letters, especially to Ross. She could not tell them of all she meant to do; and she must tell them of this part of it, at once, before they heard of it through others. To leave home--to leave school-teaching, to leave love--and “go out to service” did not seem a step up, that was certain. But she set her red lips tighter and wrote the letters; wrote them and mailed them that evening, tired though she was. Three letters came back quickly. Her mother's answer was affectionate, patient, and trustful, though not understanding. Her sister's was as unpleasant as she had expected. “The _idea!_” wrote Mrs. Susie. “A girl with a good home to live in and another to look forward to--and able to earn money _respectably!_ to go out and work like a common Irish girl! Why Gerald is so mortified he can't face his friends--and I'm as ashamed as I can be! My own sister! You must be _crazy_--simply _crazy!_” It was hard on them. Diantha had faced her own difficulties bravely enough; and sympathized keenly with her mother, and with Ross; but she had not quite visualized the mortification of her relatives. She found tears in her eyes over her mother's letter. Her sister's made her both sorry and angry--a most disagreeable feeling--as when you step on the cat on the stairs. Ross's letter she held some time without opening. She was in her little upstairs room in the evening. She had swept, scoured, scalded and carbolized it, and the hospitally smell was now giving way to the soft richness of the outer air. The “hoo! hoo!” of the little mourning owl came to her ears through the whispering night, and large moths beat noiselessly against the window screen. She kissed the letter again, held it tightly to her heart for a moment, and opened it. “Dearest: I have your letter with its--somewhat surprising--news. It is a comfort to know where you are, that you are settled and in no danger. “I can readily imagine that this is but the preliminary to something else, as you say so repeatedly; and I can understand also that you are too wise to tell me all you mean to be beforehand. “I will be perfectly frank with you, Dear. “In the first place I love you. I shall love you always, whatever you do. But I will not disguise from you that this whole business seems to me unutterably foolish and wrong. “I suppose you expect by some mysterious process to “develope” and “elevate” this housework business; and to make money. I should not love you any better if you made a million--and I would not take money from you--you know that, I hope. If in the years we must wait before we can marry, you are happier away from me--working in strange kitchens--or offices--that is your affair. “I shall not argue nor plead with you, Dear Girl; I know you think you are doing right; and I have no right, nor power, to prevent you. But if my wish were right and power, you would be here to-night, under the shadow of the acacia boughs--in my arms! “Any time you feel like coming back you will be welcome, Dear. “Yours, Ross.” “Any time she felt like coming back? Diantha slipped down in a little heap by the bed, her face on the letter--her arms spread wide. The letter grew wetter and wetter, and her shoulders shook from time to time. But the hands were tight-clenched, and if you had been near enough you might have heard a dogged repetition, monotonous as a Tibetan prayer mill: “It is right. It is right. It is right.” And then. “Help me--please! I need it.” Diantha was not “gifted in prayer.” When Mr. Porne came home that night he found the wifely smile which is supposed to greet all returning husbands quite genuinely in evidence. “O Edgar!” cried she in a triumphant whisper, “I've got such a nice girl! She's just as neat and quick; you've no idea the work she's done today--it looks like another place already. But if things look queer at dinner don't notice it--for I've just given her her head. I was so tired, and baby bothered so, and she said that perhaps she could manage all by herself if I was willing to risk it, so I took baby for a car-ride and have only just got back. And I _think_ the dinner's going to be lovely!” It was lovely. The dining-room was cool and flyless. The table was set with an assured touch. A few of Orchardina's ever ready roses in a glass bowl gave an air of intended beauty Mrs. Porne had had no time for. The food was well-cooked and well-served, and the attendance showed an intelligent appreciation of when people want things and how they want them. Mrs. Porne quite glowed with exultation, but her husband gently suggested that the newness of the broom was visibly uppermost, and that such palpable perfections were probably accompanied by some drawbacks. But he liked her looks, he admitted, and the cooking would cover a multitude of sins. On this they rested, while the week went by. It was a full week, and a short one. Mrs. Porne, making hay while the sun shone, caught up a little in her sewing and made some conscience-tormenting calls. When Thursday night came around she was simply running over with information to give her husband. “Such a talk as I have had with Miss Bell! She is so queer! But she's nice too, and it's all reasonable enough, what she says. You know she's studied this thing all out, and she knows about it--statistics and things. I was astonished till I found she used to teach school. Just think of it! And to be willing to work out! She certainly does her work beautiful, but--it doesn't seem like having a servant at all. I feel as if I--boarded with her!” “Why she seemed to me very modest and unpresuming,” put in Mr. Porne. “O yes, she never presumes. But I mean the capable way she manages--I don't have to tell her one thing, nor to oversee, nor criticize. I spoke of it and she said, 'If I didn't understand the business I should have no right to undertake it.” “That's a new point of view, isn't it?” asked her husband. “Don't they usually make you teach them their trade and charge for the privilege?” “Yes, of course they do. But then she does have her disadvantages--as you said.” “Does she? What are they?” “Why she's so--rigid. I'll read you her--I don't know what to call it. She's written out a definite proposition as to her staying with us, and I want you to study it, it's the queerest thing I ever saw.” The document was somewhat novel. A clear statement of the hours of labor required in the position, the quality and amount of the different kinds of work; the terms on which she was willing to undertake it, and all prefaced by a few remarks on the status of household labor which made Mr. Porne open his eyes. Thus Miss Bell; “The ordinary rate for labor in this state, unskilled labor of the ordinary sort, is $2.00 a day. This is in return for the simplest exertion of brute force, under constant supervision and direction, and involving no serious risk to the employer.” “Household labor calls for the practice of several distinct crafts, and, to be properly done, requires thorough training and experience. Its performer is not only in a position of confidence, as necessarily entrusted with the care of the employer's goods and with knowledge of the most intimate family relations; but the work itself, in maintaining the life and health of the members of the household, is of most vital importance. “In consideration of existing economic conditions, however, I am willing to undertake these intricate and responsible duties for a seven day week at less wages than are given the street-digger, for $1.50 a day.” “Good gracious, my dear!” said Mr. Porne, laying down the paper, “This young woman does appreciate her business! And we're to be let off easy at $45.00 a month, are we.” “And feel under obligations at that!” answered his wife. “But you read ahead. It is most instructive. We shall have to ask her to read a paper for the Club!” “'In further consideration of the conditions of the time, I am willing to accept part payment in board and lodging instead of cash. Such accommodations as are usually offered with this position may be rated at $17.00 a month.'” “O come now, don't we board her any better than that?” “That's what I thought, and I asked her about it, and she explained that she could get a room as good for a dollar and a-half a week--she had actually made inquiries in this very town! And she could; really a better room, better furnished, that is, and service with it. You know I've always meant to get the girl's room fixed more prettily, but usually they don't seem to mind. And as to food--you see she knows all about the cost of things, and the materials she consumes are really not more than two dollars and a half a week, if they are that. She even made some figures for me to prove it--see.” Mr. Porne had to laugh. “Breakfast. Coffee at thirty-five cents per pound, one cup, one cent. Oatmeal at fourteen cents per package, one bowl, one cent. Bread at five cents per loaf, two slices, one-half cent. Butter at forty cents per pound, one piece, one and a-half cents. Oranges at thirty cents per dozen, one, three cents. Milk at eight cents per quart, on oatmeal, one cent. Meat or fish or egg, average five cents. Total--thirteen cents.” “There! And she showed me dinner and lunch the same way. I had no idea food, just the material, cost so little. It's the labor, she says that makes it cost even in the cheapest restaurant.” “I see,” said Mr. Porne. “And in the case of the domestic servant we furnish the materials and she furnishes the labor. She cooks her own food and waits on herself--naturally it wouldn't come high. What does she make it?” 'Food, average per day.............$0.35 Room, $1.50 per w'k, ave. per day.....22 ----- .57 Total, per month... $17.10 $1.50 per day, per month... $45.00 “'Remaining payable in cash, $28.00.' Do I still live! But my dear Ellie, that's only what an ordinary first-class cook charges, out here, without all this fuss!” “I know it, Ned, but you know we think it's awful, and we're always telling about their getting their board and lodging clear--as if we gave'em that out of the goodness of our hearts!” “Exactly, my dear. And this amazing and arithmetical young woman makes us feel as if we were giving her wampum instead of money--mere primitive barter of ancient days in return for her twentieth century services! How does she do her work--that's the main question.” “I never saw anyone do it better, or quicker, or easier. That is, I thought it was easy till she brought me this paper. Just read about her work, and you'll feel as if we ought to pay her all your salary.” Mr. Porne read: “Labor performed, average ten hours a day, as follows: Preparation of food materials, care of fires, cooking, table service, and cleaning of dishes, utensils, towels, stove, etc., per meal--breakfast two hours, dinner three hours, supper or lunch one hour--six hours per day for food service. Daily chamber work and dusting, etc., one and one-half hours per day. Weekly cleaning for house of nine rooms, with halls, stairs, closets, porches, steps, walks, etc., sweeping, dusting, washing windows, mopping, scouring, etc., averaging two hours per day. Door service, waiting on tradesmen, and extras one-half hour per day. Total ten hours per day.” “That sounds well. Does it take that much time every day?” “Yes, indeed! It would take me twenty!” she answered. “You know the week I was here alone I never did half she does. Of course I had Baby, but then I didn't do the things. I guess when it doesn't take so long they just don't do what ought to be done. For she is quick, awfully quick about her work. And she's thorough. I suppose it ought to be done that way--but I never had one before.” “She keeps mighty fresh and bright-looking after these herculean labors.” “Yes, but then she rests! Her ten hours are from six-thirty a.m., when she goes into the kitchen as regularly as a cuckoo clock, to eight-thirty p.m. when she is all through and her kitchen looks like a--well it's as clean and orderly as if no one was ever in it.” “Ten hours--that's fourteen.” “I know it, but she takes out four. She claims time to eat her meals.” “Preposterous!” “Half an hour apiece, and half an hour in the morning to rest--and two in the afternoon. Anyway she is out, two hours every afternoon, riding in the electric cars!” “That don't look like a very hard job. Her day laborer doesn't get two hours off every afternoon to take excursions into the country!” “No, I know that, but he doesn't begin so early, nor stop so late. She does her square ten hours work, and I suppose one has a right to time off.” “You seem dubious about that, my dear.” “Yes, that's just where it's awkward. I'm used to girls being in all the time, excepting their day out. You see I can't leave baby, nor always take him--and it interferes with my freedom afternoons.” “Well--can't you arrange with her somehow?” “See if you can. She says she will only give ten hours of time for a dollar and a half a day--tisn't but fifteen cents an hour--I have to pay a woman twenty that comes in. And if she is to give up her chance of sunlight and fresh air she wants me to pay her extra--by the hour. Or she says, if I prefer, she would take four hours every other day--and so be at home half the time. I said it was difficult to arrange--with baby, and she was very sympathetic and nice, but she won't alter her plans.” “Let her go, and get a less exacting servant.” “But--she does her work so well! And it saves a lot, really. She knows all about marketing and things, and plans the meals so as to have things lap, and it's a comfort to have her in the house and feel so safe and sure everything will be done right.” “Well, it's your province, my dear. I don't profess to advise. But I assure you I appreciate the table, and the cleanness of everything, and the rested look in your eyes, dear girl!” She slipped her hand into his affectionately. “It does make a difference,” she said. “I _could_ get a girl for $20.00 and save nearly $2.60 a week--but you know what they are!” “I do indeed,” he admitted fervently. “It's worth the money to have this thing done so well. I think she's right about the wages. Better keep her.” “O--she'll only agree to stay six months even at this rate!” “Well--keep her six months and be thankful. I thought she was too good to last!” They looked over the offered contract again. It closed with: “This agreement to hold for six months from date if mutually satisfactory. In case of disagreement two weeks' notice is to be given on either side, or two weeks' wages if preferred by the employer.” It was dated, and signed “Miss D. C. Bell.” And with inward amusement and great display of penmanship they added “Mrs. Isabel J. Porne,” and the contract was made. CHAPTER VI. THE CYNOSURE. It's a singular thing that the commonest place Is the hardest to properly fill; That the labor imposed on a full half the race Is so seldom performed with good will-- To say nothing of knowledge or skill! What we ask of all women, we stare at in one, And tribute of wonderment bring; If this task of the million is once fitly done We all hold our hands up and sing! It's really a singular thing! Isabel Porne was a cautious woman, and made no acclaim over her new acquisition until its value was proven. Her husband also bided his time; and when congratulated on his improved appearance and air of contentment, merely vouchsafed that his wife had a new girl who could cook. To himself he boasted that he had a new wife who could love--so cheerful and gay grew Mrs. Porne in the changed atmosphere of her home. “It is remarkable, Edgar,” she said, dilating repeatedly on the peculiar quality of their good fortune. “It's not only good cooking, and good waiting, and a clean house--cleaner than I ever saw one before; and it's not only the quietness, and regularity and economy--why the bills have gone down more than a third!” “Yes--even I noticed that,” he agreed. “But what I enjoy the most is the _atmosphere,_” she continued. “When I have to do the work, the house is a perfect nightmare to me!” She leaned forward from her low stool, her elbows on her knees, her chin in her hands, and regarded him intently. “Edgar! You know I love you. And I love my baby--I'm no unfeeling monster! But I can tell you frankly that if I'd had any idea of what housework was like I'd never have given up architecture to try it.” “Lucky for me you hadn't!” said he fondly. “I know it's been hard for you, little girl. I never meant that you should give up architecture--that's a business a woman could carry on at home I thought, the designing part anyway. There's your 'drawing-room' and all your things--” “Yes,” she said, with reminiscent bitterness, “there they are--and there they might have stayed, untouched--if Miss Bell hadn't come!” “Makes you call her “Miss Bell” all the time, does she?” Mrs. Porne laughed. “Yes. I hated it at first, but she asked if I could give her any real reason why the cook should be called by her first name more than the seamstress or governess. I tried to say that it was shorter, but she smiled and said that in this case it was longer!--Her name is Diantha--I've seen it on letters. And it is one syllable longer. Anyhow I've got used to Miss Bell now.” “She gets letters often?” “Yes--very often--from Topolaya where she came from. I'm afraid she's engaged.” Mrs. Porne sighed ruefully. “I don't doubt it!” said Mr. Porne. “That would account for her six months' arrangement! Well, my dear--make hay while the sun shines!” “I do!” she boasted. “Whole stacks! I've had a seamstress in, and got all my clothes in order and the baby's. We've had lot of dinner-parties and teas as you know--all my “social obligations” are cleared off! We've had your mother for a visit, and mine's coming now--and I wasn't afraid to have either of them! There's no fault to be found with my housekeeping now! And there are two things better than that--yes, three.” “The best thing is to see you look so young and handsome and happy again,” said her husband, with a kiss. “Yes--that's one. Another is that now I feel so easy and lighthearted I can love you and baby--as--as I _do!_ Only when I'm tired and discouraged I can't put my hand on it somehow.” He nodded sympathetically. “I know, dear,” he said. “I feel that way myself--sometimes. What's the other?” “Why that's best of all!” she cried triumphantly. “I can Work again! When Baby's asleep I get hours at a time; and even when he's awake I've fixed a place where he can play--and I can draw and plan--just as I used to--_better_ than I used to!” “And that is even more to you than loving?” he asked in a quiet inquiring voice. “It's more because it means _both!_” She leaned to him, glowing, “Don't you see? First I had the work and loved it. Then you came--and I loved you--better! Then Baby came and I loved him--best? I don't know--you and baby are all one somehow.” There was a brief interim and then she drew back, blushing richly. “Now stop--I want to explain. When the housework got to be such a nightmare--and I looked forward to a whole lifetime of it and _no_ improvement; then I just _ached_ for my work--and couldn't do it! And then--why sometimes dear, I just wanted to run away! Actually! From _both_ of you!--you see, I spent five years studying--I was a _real_ architect--and it did hurt to see it go. And now--O now I've got It and You too, darling! _And_ the Baby!--O I'm so happy!” “Thanks to the Providential Miss Bell,” said he. “If she'll stay I'll pay her anything!” The months went by. Peace, order, comfort, cleanliness and economy reigned in the Porne household, and the lady of the house blossomed into richer beauty and happiness; her contentment marred only by a sense of flying time. Miss Bell fulfilled her carefully specified engagement to the letter; rested her peaceful hour in the morning; walked and rode in the afternoon; familiarized herself with the length and breadth of the town; and visited continuously among the servants of the neighborhood, establishing a large and friendly acquaintance. If she wore rubber gloves about the rough work, she paid for them herself; and she washed and ironed her simple and pretty costumes herself--with the result that they stayed pretty for surprising periods. She wrote letters long and loving, to Ross daily; to her mother twice a week; and by the help of her sister's authority succeeded in maintaining a fairly competent servant in her deserted place. “Father was bound he wouldn't,” her sister wrote her; “but I stood right up to him, I can now I'm married!--and Gerald too--that he'd no right to take it out of mother even if he was mad with you. He made a fuss about your paying for the girl--but that was only showing off--_he_ couldn't pay for her just now--that's certain. And she does very well--a good strong girl, and quite devoted to mother.” And then she scolded furiously about her sister's “working out.” Diantha knew just how hard it was for her mother. She had faced all sides of the question before deciding. “Your mother misses you badly, of course,” Ross wrote her. “I go in as often as I can and cheer her up a bit. It's not just the work--she misses you. By the way--so do I.” He expressed his views on her new employment. Diantha used to cry over her letters quite often. But she would put them away, dry her eyes, and work on at the plans she was maturing, with grim courage. “It's hard on them now,” she would say to herself. “Its hard on me--some. But we'll all be better off because of it, and not only us--but everybody!” Meanwhile the happy and unhappy households of the fair town buzzed in comment and grew green with envy. In social circles and church circles and club circles, as also in domestic circles, it was noised abroad that Mrs. Edgar Porne had “solved the servant question.” News of this marvel of efficiency and propriety was discussed in every household, and not only so but in barber-shops and other downtown meeting places mentioned. Servants gathered it at dinner-tables; and Diantha, much amused, regathered it from her new friends among the servants. “Does she keep on just the same?” asked little Mrs. Ree of Mrs. Porne in an awed whisper. “Just the same if not better. I don't even order the meals now, unless I want something especial. She keeps a calendar of what we've had to eat, and what belongs to the time of year, prices and things. When I used to ask her to suggest (one does, you know: it is so hard to think up a variety!), she'd always be ready with an idea, or remind me that we had had so and so two days before, till I asked her if she'd like to order, and she said she'd be willing to try, and now I just sit down to the table without knowing what's going to be there.” “But I should think that would interfere with your sense of freedom,” said Mrs. Ellen A Dankshire, “A woman should be mistress of her own household.” “Why I am! I order whenever I specially want anything. But she really does it more--more scientifically. She has made a study of it. And the bills are very much lower.” “Well, I think you are the luckiest woman alive!” sighed Mrs. Ree. “I wish I had her!” Many a woman wished she had her, and some, calling when they knew Mrs. Porne was out, or descending into their own kitchens of an evening when the strange Miss Bell was visiting “the help,” made flattering propositions to her to come to them. She was perfectly polite and agreeable in manner, but refused all blandishments. “What are you getting at your present place--if I may ask?” loftily inquired the great Mrs. Thaddler, ponderous and beaded. “There is surely no objection to your asking, madam,” she replied politely. “Mrs. Porne will not mind telling you, I am sure.” “Hm!” said the patronizing visitor, regarding her through her lorgnette. “Very good. Whatever it is I'll double it. When can you come?” “My engagement with Mrs. Porne is for six months,” Diantha answered, “and I do not wish to close with anyone else until that time is up. Thank you for your offer just the same.” “Peculiarly offensive young person!” said Mrs. Thaddler to her husband. “Looks to me like one of these literary imposters. Mrs. Porne will probably appear in the magazines before long.” Mr. Thaddler instantly conceived a liking for the young person, “sight unseen.” Diantha acquired quite a list of offers; places open to her as soon as she was free; at prices from her present seven dollars up to the proposed doubling. “Fourteen dollars a week and found!--that's not so bad,” she meditated. “That would mean over $650 clear in a year! It's a wonder to me girls don't try it long enough to get a start at something else. With even two or three hundred ahead--and an outfit--it would be easier to make good in a store or any other way. Well--I have other fish to fry!” So she pursued her way; and, with Mrs. Porne's permission--held a sort of girl's club in her spotless kitchen one evening a week during the last three months of her engagement. It was a “Study and Amusement Club.” She gave them short and interesting lessons in arithmetic, in simple dressmaking, in easy and thorough methods of housework. She gave them lists of books, referred them to articles in magazines, insidiously taught them to use the Public Library. They played pleasant games in the second hour, and grew well acquainted. To the eye or ear of any casual visitor it was the simplest and most natural affair, calculated to “elevate labor” and to make home happy. Diantha studied and observed. They brought her their poor confidences, painfully similar. Always poverty--or they would not be there. Always ignorance, or they would not stay there. Then either incompetence in the work, or inability to hold their little earnings--or both; and further the Tale of the Other Side--the exactions and restrictions of the untrained mistresses they served; cases of withheld wages; cases of endless requirements; cases of most arbitrary interference with their receiving friends and “followers,” or going out; and cases, common enough to be horrible, of insult they could only escape by leaving. “It's no wages, of course--and no recommendation, when you leave like that--but what else can a girl do, if she's honest?” So Diantha learned, made friends and laid broad foundations. The excellence of her cocking was known to many, thanks to the weekly “entertainments.” No one refused. No one regretted acceptance. Never had Mrs. Porne enjoyed such a sense of social importance. All the people she ever knew called on her afresh, and people she never knew called on her even more freshly. Not that she was directly responsible for it. She had not triumphed cruelly over her less happy friends; nor had she cried aloud on the street corners concerning her good fortune. It was not her fault, nor, in truth anyone's. But in a community where the “servant question” is even more vexed than in the country at large, where the local product is quite unequal to the demand, and where distance makes importation an expensive matter, the fact of one woman's having, as it appeared, settled this vexed question, was enough to give her prominence. Mrs. Ellen A. Dankshire, President of the Orchardina Home and Culture Club, took up the matter seriously. “Now Mrs. Porne,” said she, settling herself vigorously into a comfortable chair, “I just want to talk the matter over with you, with a view to the club. We do not know how long this will last--” “Don't speak of it!” said Mrs. Porne. “--and it behooves us to study the facts while we have them.” “So much is involved!” said little Mrs. Ree, the Corresponding Secretary, lifting her pale earnest face with the perplexed fine lines in it. “We are all so truly convinced of the sacredness of the home duties!” “Well, what do you want me to do?” asked their hostess. “We must have that remarkable young woman address our club!” Mrs. Dankshire announced. “It is one case in a thousand, and must be studied!” “So noble of her!” said Mrs. Ree. “You say she was really a school-teacher? Mrs. Thaddler has put it about that she is one of these dreadful writing persons--in disguise!” “O no,” said Mrs. Porne. “She is perfectly straightforward about it, and had the best of recommendations. She was a teacher, but it didn't agree with her health, I believe.” “Perhaps there is a story to it!” Mrs. Ree advanced; but Mrs. Dankshire disagreed with her flatly. “The young woman has a theory, I believe, and she is working it out. I respect her for it. Now what we want to ask you, Mrs. Porne, is this: do you think it would make any trouble for you--in the household relations, you know--if we ask her to read a paper to the Club? Of course we do not wish to interfere, but it is a remarkable opportunity--very. You know the fine work Miss Lucy Salmon has done on this subject; and Miss Frances Kellor. You know how little data we have, and how great, how serious, a question it is daily becoming! Now here is a young woman of brains and culture who has apparently grappled with the question; her example and influence must not be lost! We must hear from her. The public must know of this.” “Such an ennobling example!” murmured Mrs. Ree. “It might lead numbers of other school-teachers to see the higher side of the home duties!” “Furthermore,” pursued Mrs. Dankshire, “this has occured to me. Would it not be well to have our ladies bring with them to the meeting the more intelligent of their servants; that they might hear and see the--the dignity of household labor--so ably set forth? “Isn't it--wouldn't that be a--an almost dangerous experiment?” urged Mrs. Ree; her high narrow forehead fairly creped with little wrinkles: “She might--say something, you know, that they might--take advantage of!” “Nonsense, my dear!” replied Mrs. Dankshire. She was very fond of Mrs. Ree, but had small respect for her judgment. “What could she say? Look at what she does! And how beautifully--how perfectly--she does it! I would wager now--_may_ I try an experiment Mrs. Porne?” and she stood up, taking out her handkerchief. “Certainly,” said Mrs. Porne, “with pleasure! You won't find any!” Mrs. Dankshire climbed heavily upon a carefully selected chair and passed her large clean plain-hemmed handkerchief across the top of a picture. “I knew it!” she proclaimed proudly from her eminence, and showed the cloth still white. “That,” she continued in ponderous descent, “that is Knowledge, Ability and Conscience!” “I don't see how she gets the time!” breathed Mrs. Ree, shaking her head in awed amazement, and reflecting that she would not dare trust Mrs. Dankshire's handkerchief on her picture tops. “We must have her address the Club,” the president repeated. “It will do worlds of good. Let me see--a paper on--we might say 'On the True Nature of Domestic Industry.' How does that strike you, Mrs. Ree?” “Admirable!” said Mrs. Ree. “So strong! so succinct.” “That certainly covers the subject,” said Mrs. Porne. “Why don't you ask her?” “We will. We have come for that purpose. But we felt it right to ask you about it first,” said Mrs. Dankshire. “Why I have no control over Miss Bell's movements, outside of working hours,” answered Mrs. Porne. “And I don't see that it would make any difference to our relations. She is a very self-poised young woman, but extremely easy to get along with. And I'm sure she could write a splendid paper. You'd better ask her, I think.” “Would you call her in?” asked Mrs. Dankshire, “or shall we go out to the kitchen?” “Come right out; I'd like you to see how beautifully she keeps everything.” The kitchen was as clean as the parlor; and as prettily arranged. Miss Bell was making her preparation for lunch, and stopped to receive the visitors with a serenely civil air--as of a country store-keeper. “I am very glad to meet you, Miss Bell, very glad indeed,” said Mrs. Dankshire, shaking hands with her warmly. “We have at heard so much of your beautiful work here, and we admire your attitude! Now would you be willing to give a paper--or a talk--to our club, the Home and Culture Club, some Wednesday, on The True Nature of Domestic Industry?” Mrs. Ree took Miss Bell's hand with something of the air of a Boston maiden accosting a saint from Hindoostan. “If you only would!” she said. “I am sure it would shed light on this great subject!” Miss Bell smiled at them both and looked at Mrs. Porne inquiringly. “I should be delighted to have you do it,” said her employer. “I know it would be very useful.” “Is there any date set?” asked Miss Bell. “Any Wednesday after February,” said Mrs. Dankshire. “Well--I will come on the first Wednesday in April. If anything should happen to prevent I will let you know in good season, and if you should wish to postpone or alter the program--should think better of the idea--just send me word. I shall not mind in the least.” They went away quite jubilant, Miss Bell's acceptance was announced officially at the next club-meeting, and the Home and Culture Club felt that it was fulfilling its mission. CHAPTER VII. HERESY AND SCHISM. You may talk about religion with a free and open mind, For ten dollars you may criticize a judge; You may discuss in politics the newest thing you find, And open scientific truth to all the deaf and blind, But there's one place where the brain must never budge! CHORUS. Oh, the Home is Utterly Perfect! And all its works within! To say a word about it-- To criticize or doubt it-- To seek to mend or move it-- To venture to improve it-- Is The Unpardonable Sin! --“Old Song.” Mr. Porne took an afternoon off and came with his wife to hear their former housemaid lecture. As many other men as were able did the same. All the members not bedridden were present, and nearly all the guests they had invited. So many were the acceptances that a downtown hall had been taken; the floor was more than filled, and in the gallery sat a block of servant girls, more gorgeous in array than the ladies below whispering excitedly among themselves. The platform recalled a “tournament of roses,” and, sternly important among all that fragrant loveliness, sat Mrs. Dankshire in “the chair” flanked by Miss Torbus, the Recording Secretary, Miss Massing, the Treasurer, and Mrs. Ree, tremulous with importance in her official position. All these ladies wore an air of high emprise, even more intense than that with which they usually essayed their public duties. They were richly dressed, except Miss Torbus, who came as near it as she could. At the side, and somewhat in the rear of the President, on a chair quite different from “the chair,” discreetly gowned and of a bafflingly serene demeanor, sat Miss Bell. All eyes were upon her--even some opera glasses. “She's a good-looker anyhow,” was one masculine opinion. “She's a peach,” was another, “Tell you--the chap that gets her is well heeled!” said a third. The ladies bent their hats toward one another and conferred in flowing whispers; and in the gallery eager confidences were exchanged, with giggles. On the small table before Mrs. Dankshire, shaded by a magnificent bunch of roses, lay that core and crux of all parliamentry dignity, the gavel; an instrument no self-respecting chairwoman may be without; yet which she still approaches with respectful uncertainty. In spite of its large size and high social standing, the Orchardina Home and Culture Club contained some elements of unrest, and when the yearly election of officers came round there was always need for careful work in practical politics to keep the reins of government in the hands of “the right people.” Mrs. Thaddler, conscious of her New York millions, and Madam Weatherstone, conscious of her Philadelphia lineage, with Mrs. Johnston A. Marrow (“one of the Boston Marrows!” was awesomely whispered of her), were the heads of what might be called “the conservative party” in this small parliament; while Miss Miranda L. Eagerson, describing herself as 'a journalist,' who held her place in local society largely by virtue of the tacit dread of what she might do if offended--led the more radical element. Most of the members were quite content to follow the lead of the solidly established ladies of Orchard Avenue; especially as this leadership consisted mainly in the pursuance of a masterly inactivity. When wealth and aristocracy combine with that common inertia which we dignify as “conservatism” they exert a powerful influence in the great art of sitting still. Nevertheless there were many alert and conscientious women in this large membership, and when Miss Eagerson held the floor, and urged upon the club some active assistance in the march of events, it needed all Mrs. Dankshire's generalship to keep them content with marking time. On this auspicious occasion, however, both sides were agreed in interest and approval. Here was a subject appealing to every woman present, and every man but such few as merely “boarded”; even they had memories and hopes concerning this question. Solemnly rose Mrs. Dankshire, her full silks rustling about her, and let one clear tap of the gavel fall into the sea of soft whispering and guttural murmurs. In the silence that followed she uttered the momentous announcements: “The meeting will please come to order,” “We will now hear the reading of the minutes of the last meeting,” and so on most conscientiously through officer's reports and committees reports to “new business.” Perhaps it is their more frequent practice of religious rites, perhaps their devout acceptance of social rulings and the dictates of fashion, perhaps the lifelong reiterance of small duties at home, or all these things together, which makes women so seriously letter-perfect in parliamentry usage. But these stately ceremonies were ended in course of time, and Mrs. Dankshire rose again, even more solemn than before, and came forward majestically. “Members---and guests,” she said impressively, “this is an occasion which brings pride to the heart of every member of the Home and Culture Club. As our name implies, this Club is formed to serve the interests of The Home--those interests which stand first, I trust, in every human heart.” A telling pause, and the light patter of gloved hands. “Its second purpose,” pursued the speaker, with that measured delivery which showed that her custom, as one member put it, was to “first write and then commit,” “is to promote the cause of Culture in this community. Our aim is Culture in the broadest sense, not only in the curricula of institutions of learning, not only in those spreading branches of study and research which tempts us on from height to height”--(“proof of arboreal ancestry that,” Miss Eagerson confided to a friend, whose choked giggle attracted condemning eyes)--“but in the more intimate fields of daily experience.” “Most of us, however widely interested in the higher education, are still--and find in this our highest honor--wives and mothers.” These novel titles called forth another round of applause. “As such,” continued Mrs. Dankshire, “we all recognize the difficult--the well-nigh insuperable problems of the”--she glanced at the gallery now paying awed attention--“domestic question.” “We know how on the one hand our homes yawn unattended”--(“I yawn while I'm attending--eh?” one gentleman in the rear suggested to his neighbor)--“while on the other the ranks of mercenary labor are overcrowded. Why is it that while the peace and beauty, the security and comfort, of a good home, with easy labor and high pay, are open to every young woman, whose circumstances oblige her to toil for her living, she blindly refuses these true advantages and loses her health and too often what is far more precious!--in the din and tumult of the factory, or the dangerous exposure of the public counter.” Madam Weatherstone was much impressed at this point, and beat her black fan upon her black glove emphatically. Mrs. Thaddler also nodded; which meant a good deal from her. The applause was most gratifying to the speaker, who continued: “Fortunately for the world there are some women yet who appreciate the true values of life.” A faint blush crept slowly up the face of Diantha, but her expression was unchanged. Whoso had met and managed a roomful of merciless children can easily face a woman's club. “We have with us on this occasion one, as we my say, our equal in birth and breeding,”--Madam Weatherstone here looked painfully shocked as also did the Boston Marrow; possibly Mrs. Dankshire, whose parents were Iowa farmers, was not unmindful of this, but she went on smoothly, “and whose first employment was the honored task of the teacher; who has deliberately cast her lot with the domestic worker, and brought her trained intelligence to bear upon the solution of this great question--The True Nature of Domestic Service. In the interests of this problem she has consented to address us--I take pleasure in introducing Miss Diantha Bell.” Diantha rose calmly, stepped forward, bowed to the President and officers, and to the audience. She stood quietly for a moment, regarding the faces before her, and produced a typewritten paper. It was clear, short, and to some minds convincing. She set forth that the term “domestic industry” did not define certain kinds of labor, but a stage of labor; that all labor was originally domestic; but that most kinds had now become social, as with weaving and spinning, for instance, for centuries confined to the home and done by women only; now done in mills by men and women; that this process of socialization has now been taken from the home almost all the manufactures--as of wine, beer, soap, candles, pickles and other specialties, and part of the laundry work; that the other processes of cleaning are also being socialized, as by the vacuum cleaners, the professional window-washers, rug cleaners, and similar professional workers; and that even in the preparation of food many kinds are now specialized, as by the baker and confectioner. That in service itself we were now able to hire by the hour or day skilled workers necessarily above the level of the “general.” A growing rustle of disapproval began to make itself felt, which increased as she went on to explain how the position of the housemaid is a survival of the ancient status of woman slavery, the family with the male head and the group of servile women. “The keynote of all our difficulty in this relation is that we demand celibacy of our domestic servants,” said Diantha. A murmur arose at this statement, but she continued calmly: “Since it is natural for women to marry, the result is that our domestic servants consist of a constantly changing series of young girls, apprentices, as it were; and the complicated and important duties of the household cannot be fully mastered by such hands.” The audience disapproved somewhat of this, but more of what followed. She showed (Mrs. Porne nodding her head amusedly), that so far from being highly paid and easy labor, house service was exacting and responsible, involving a high degree of skill as well as moral character, and that it was paid less than ordinary unskilled labor, part of this payment being primitive barter. Then, as whispers and sporadic little spurts of angry talk increased, the clear quiet voice went on to state that this last matter, the position of a strange young girl in our homes, was of itself a source of much of the difficulty of the situation. “We speak of giving them the safety and shelter of the home,”--here Diantha grew solemn;--“So far from sharing our homes, she gives up her own, and has none of ours, but the poorest of our food and a cramped lodging; she has neither the freedom nor the privileges of a home; and as to shelter and safety--the domestic worker, owing to her peculiarly defenceless position, furnishes a terrible percentage of the unfortunate.” A shocked silence met this statement. “In England shop-workers complain of the old custom of 'sleeping in'--their employers furnishing them with lodging as part payment; this also is a survival of the old apprentice method. With us, only the domestic servant is held to this antiquated position.” Regardless of the chill displeasure about her she cheerfully pursued: “Let us now consider the economic side of the question. 'Domestic economy' is a favorite phrase. As a matter of fact our method of domestic service is inordinately wasteful. Even where the wife does all the housework, without pay, we still waste labor to an enormous extent, requiring one whole woman to wait upon each man. If the man hires one or more servants, the wastes increase. If one hundred men undertake some common business, they do not divide in two halves, each man having another man to serve him--fifty productive laborers, and fifty cooks. Two or three cooks could provide for the whole group; to use fifty is to waste 47 per cent. of the labor. “But our waste of labor is as nothing to our waste of money. For, say twenty families, we have twenty kitchens with all their furnishings, twenty stoves with all their fuel; twenty cooks with all their wages; in cash and barter combined we pay about ten dollars a week for our cooks--$200 a week to pay for the cooking for twenty families, for about a hundred persons! “Three expert cooks, one at $20 a week and two at $15 would save to those twenty families $150 a week and give them better food. The cost of kitchen furnishings and fuel, could be reduced by nine-tenths; and beyond all that comes our incredible waste in individual purchasing. What twenty families spend on individual patronage of small retailers, could be reduced by more than half if bought by competent persons in wholesale quantities. Moreover, our whole food supply would rise in quality as well as lower in price if it was bought by experts. “To what does all this lead?” asked Diantha pleasantly. Nobody said anything, but the visible attitude of the house seemed to say that it led straight to perdition. “The solution for which so many are looking is no new scheme of any sort; and in particular it is not that oft repeated fore-doomed failure called 'co-operative housekeeping'.” At this a wave of relief spread perceptibly. The irritation roused by those preposterous figures and accusations was somewhat allayed. Hope was relit in darkened countenances. “The inefficiency of a dozen tottering households is not removed by combining them,” said Diantha. This was of dubious import. “Why should we expect a group of families to “keep house” expertly and economically together, when they are driven into companionship by the fact that none of them can do it alone.” Again an uncertain reception. “Every family is a distinct unit,” the girl continued. “Its needs are separate and should be met separately. The separate house and garden should belong to each family, the freedom and group privacy of the common milkman, by a common baker, by a common cooking and a common cleaning establishment. We are rapidly approaching an improved system of living in which the private home will no more want a cookshop on the premises than a blacksmith's shop or soap-factory. The necessary work of the kitchenless house will be done by the hour, with skilled labor; and we shall order our food cooked instead of raw. This will give to the employees a respectable well-paid profession, with their own homes and families; and to the employers a saving of about two-thirds of the expense of living, as well as an end of all our difficulties with the servant question. That is the way to elevate--to enoble domestic service. It must cease to be domestic service--and become world service.” Suddenly and quietly she sat down. Miss Eagerson was on her feet. So were others. “Madam President! Madam President!” resounded from several points at once. Madam Weatherstone--Mrs. Thaddler--no! yes--they really were both on their feet. Applause was going on--irregularly--soon dropped. Only, from the group in the gallery it was whole-hearted and consistent. Mrs. Dankshire, who had been growing red and redder as the paper advanced, who had conferred in alarmed whispers with Mrs. Ree, and Miss Massing, who had even been seen to extend her hand to the gavel and finger it threateningly, now rose, somewhat precipitately, and came forward. “Order, please! You will please keep order. You have heard the--we will now--the meeting is now open for discussion, Mrs. Thaddler!” And she sat down. She meant to have said Madam Weatherstone, by Mrs. Thaddler was more aggressive. “I wish to say,” said that much beaded lady in a loud voice, “that I was against this--unfortunate experiment--from the first. And I trust it will never be repeated!” She sat down. Two tight little dimples flickered for an instant about the corners of Diantha's mouth. “Madam Weatherstone?” said the President, placatingly. Madam Weatherstone arose, rather sulkily, and looked about her. An agitated assembly met her eye, buzzing universally each to each. “Order!” said Mrs. Dankshire, “ORDER, please!” and rapped three times with the gavel. “I have attended many meetings, in many clubs, in many states,” said Madam Weatherstone, “and have heard much that was foolish, and some things that were dangerous. But I will say that never in the course of all my experience have I heard anything so foolish and so dangerous, as this. I trust that the--doubtless well meant--attempt to throw light on this subject--from the wrong quarter--has been a lesson to us all. No club could survive more than one such lamentable mistake!” And she sat down, gathering her large satin wrap about her like a retiring Caesar. “Madam President!” broke forth Miss Eagerson. “I was up first--and have been standing ever since--” “One moment, Miss Eagerson,” said Mrs. Dankshire superbly, “The Rev. Dr. Eltwood.” If Mrs. Dankshire supposed she was still further supporting the cause of condemnation she made a painful mistake. The cloth and the fine bearing of the young clergyman deceived her; and she forgot that he was said to be “advanced” and was new to the place. “Will you come to the platform, Dr. Eltwood?” Dr. Eltwood came to the platform with the easy air of one to whom platforms belonged by right. “Ladies,” he began in tones of cordial good will, “both employer and employed!--and gentlemen--whom I am delighted to see here to-day! I am grateful for the opportunity so graciously extended to me”--he bowed six feet of black broadcloth toward Mrs. Dankshire--“by your honored President. “And I am grateful for the opportunity previously enjoyed, of listening to the most rational, practical, wise, true and hopeful words I have ever heard on this subject. I trust there will be enough open-minded women--and men--in Orchardina to make possible among us that higher business development of a great art which has been so convincingly laid before us. This club is deserving of all thanks from the community for extending to so many the privilege of listening to our valued fellow-citizen--Miss Bell.” He bowed again--to Miss Bell--and to Mrs. Dankshire, and resumed his seat, Miss Eagerson taking advantage of the dazed pause to occupy the platform herself. “Mr. Eltwood is right!” she said. “Miss Bell is right! This is the true presentation of the subject, 'by one who knows.' Miss Bell has pricked our pretty bubble so thoroughly that we don't know where we're standing--but she knows! Housework is a business--like any other business--I've always said so, and it's got to be done in a business way. Now I for one--” but Miss Eagerson was rapped down by the Presidential gavel; as Mrs. Thaddler, portentous and severe, stalked forward. “It is not my habit to make public speeches,” she began, “nor my desire; but this is a time when prompt and decisive action needs to be taken. This Club cannot afford to countenance any such farrago of mischievous nonsense as we have heard to-day. I move you, Madam President, that a resolution of condemnation be passed at once; and the meeting then dismissed!” She stalked back again, while Mrs. Marrow of Boston, in clear, cold tones seconded the motion. But another voice was heard--for the first time in that assembly--Mrs. Weatherstone, the pretty, delicate widower daughter-in-law of Madam Weatherstone, was on her feet with “Madam President! I wish to speak to this motion.” “Won't you come to the platform, Mrs. Weatherstone?” asked Mrs. Dankshire graciously, and the little lady came, visibly trembling, but holding her head high. All sat silent, all expected--what was not forthcoming. “I wish to protest, as a member of the Club, and as a woman, against the gross discourtesy which has been offered to the guest and speaker of the day. In answer to our invitation Miss Bell has given us a scholarly and interesting paper, and I move that we extend her a vote of thanks.” “I second the motion,” came from all quarters. “There is another motion before the house,” from others. Cries of “Madam President” arose everywhere, many speakers were on their feet. Mrs. Dankshire tapped frantically with the little gavel, but Miss Eagerson, by sheer vocal power, took and held the floor. “I move that we take a vote on this question,” she cried in piercing tones. “Let every woman who knows enough to appreciate Miss Bell's paper--and has any sense of decency--stand up!” Quite a large proportion of the audience stood up--very informally. Those who did not, did not mean to acknowledge lack of intelligence and sense of decency, but to express emphatic disapproval of Miss Eagerson, Miss Bell and their views. “I move you, Madam President,” cried Mrs. Thaddler, at the top of her voice, “that every member who is guilty of such grossly unparlimentary conduct be hereby dropped from this Club!” “We hereby resign!” cried Miss Eagerson. “_We_ drop _you!_ We'll have a New Woman's Club in Orchardina with some warmth in its heart and some brains in its head--even if it hasn't as much money in its pocket!” Amid stern rappings, hissings, cries of “Order--order,” and frantic “Motions to adjourn” the meeting broke up; the club elements dissolving and reforming into two bodies as by some swift chemical reaction. Great was the rejoicing of the daily press; some amusement was felt, though courteously suppressed by the men present, and by many not present, when they heard of it. Some ladies were so shocked and grieved as to withdraw from club-life altogether. Others, in stern dignity, upheld the shaken standards of Home and Culture; while the most conspicuous outcome of it all was the immediate formation of the New Woman's Club of Orchardina. CHAPTER VIII. Behind the straight purple backs and smooth purple legs on the box before them, Madam Weatherstone and Mrs. Weatherstone rolled home silently, a silence of thunderous portent. Another purple person opened the door for them, and when Madam Weatherstone said, “We will have tea on the terrace,” it was brought them by a fourth. “I was astonished at your attitude, Viva,” began the old lady, at length. “Of course it was Mrs. Dankshire's fault in the first place, but to encourage that,--outrageous person! How could you do it!” Young Mrs. Weatherstone emptied her exquisite cup and set it down. “A sudden access of courage, I suppose,” she said. “I was astonished at myself.” “I wholly disagree with you!” replied her mother-in-law. “Never in my life have I heard such nonsense. Talk like that would be dangerous, if it were not absurd! It would destroy the home! It would strike at the roots of the family.” Viva eyed her quietly, trying to bear in mind the weight of a tradition, the habits of a lifetime, the effect of long years of uninterrupted worship of household gods. “It doesn't seem so to me,” she said slowly, “I was much interested and impressed. She is evidently a young woman of knowledge and experience, and put her case well. It has quite waked me up.” “It has quite upset you!” was the reply. “You'll be ill after this, I am sure. Hadn't you better go and lie down now? I'll have some dinner sent to you.” “Thank you,” said Viva, rising and walking to the edge of the broad terrace. “You are very kind. No. I do not wish to lie down. I haven't felt so thoroughly awake in--” she drew a pink cluster of oleander against her cheek and thought a moment--“in several years.” There was a new look about her certainly. “Nervous excitement,” her mother-in-law replied. “You're not like yourself at all to-night. You'll certainly be ill to-morrow!” Viva turned at this and again astonished the old lady by serenely kissing her. “Not at all!” she said gaily. “I'm going to be well to-morrow. You will see!” She went to her room, drew a chair to the wide west window with the far off view and sat herself down to think. Diantha's assured poise, her clear reasoning, her courage, her common sense; and something of tenderness and consecration she discerned also, had touched deep chords in this woman's nature. It was like the sound of far doors opening, windows thrown up, the jingle of bridles and clatter of hoofs, keen bugle notes. A sense of hope, of power, of new enthusiasm, rose in her. Orchardina Society, eagerly observing “young Mrs. Weatherstone” from her first appearance, had always classified her as “delicate.” Beside the firm features and high color of the matron-in-office, this pale quiet slender woman looked like a meek and transient visitor. But her white forehead was broad under its soft-hanging eaves of hair, and her chin, though lacking in prognathous prominence or bull-dog breadth, had a certain depth which gave hope to the physiognomist. She was strangely roused and stirred by the afternoon's events. “I'm like that man in 'Phantastes',” she thought contemptuously, “who stayed so long in that dungeon because it didn't occur to him to open the door! Why don't I--?” she rose and walked slowly up and down, her hands behind her. “I will!” she said at last. Then she dressed for dinner, revolving in her mind certain suspicions long suppressed, but now flaming out in clear conviction in the light of Diantha's words. “Sleeping in, indeed!” she murmured to herself. “And nobody doing anything!” She looked herself in the eye in the long mirror. Her gown was an impressive one, her hair coiled high, a gold band ringed it like a crown. A clear red lit her checks. She rang. Little Ilda, the newest maid, appeared, gazing at her in shy admiration. Mrs. Weatherstone looked at her with new eyes. “Have you been here long?” she asked. “What is your name?” “No, ma'am,” said the child--she was scarce more. “Only a week and two days. My name is Ilda.” “Who engaged you?” “Mrs. Halsey, ma'am.” “Ah,” said Mrs. Weatherstone, musing to herself, “and I engaged Mrs. Halsey!” “Do you like it here?” she continued kindly. “Oh yes, ma'am!” said Ilda. “That is--” she stopped, blushed, and continued bravely. “I like to work for you, ma'am.” “Thank you, Ilda. Will you ask Mrs. Halsey to come to me--at once, please.” Ilda went, more impressed than ever with the desirability of her new place, and mistress. As she was about to pass the door of Mr. Matthew Weatherstone, that young gentleman stepped out and intercepted her. “Whither away so fast, my dear?” he amiably inquired. “Please let one pass, sir! I'm on an errand. Please, sir?” “You must give me a kiss first!” said he--and since there seemed no escape and she was in haste, she submitted. He took six--and she ran away half crying. Mrs. Halsey, little accustomed to take orders from her real mistress, and resting comfortably in her room, had half a mind to send an excuse. “I'm not dressed,” she said to the maid. “Well she is!” replied Ilda, “dressed splendid. She said 'at once, please.'” “A pretty time o' day!” said the housekeeper with some asperity, hastily buttoning her gown; and she presently appeared, somewhat heated, before Mrs. Weatherstone. That lady was sitting, cool and gracious, her long ivory paper-cutter between the pages of a new magazine. “In how short a time could you pack, Mrs. Halsey?” she inquired. “Pack, ma'am? I'm not accustomed to doing packing. I'll send one of the maids. Is it your things, ma'am?” “No,” said Mrs. Weatherstone. “It is yours I refer to. I wish you to pack your things and leave the house--in an hour. One of the maids can help you, if necessary. Anything you cannot take can be sent after you. Here is a check for the following month's wages.” Mrs. Halsey was nearly a head taller than her employer, a stout showy woman, handsome enough, red-lipped, and with a moist and crafty eye. This was so sudden a misadventure that she forgot her usual caution. “You've no right to turn me off in a minute like this!” she burst forth. “I'll leave it to Madam Weatherstone!” “If you will look at the terms on which I engaged you, Mrs. Halsey, you will find that a month's warning, or a month's wages, was specified. Here are the wages--as to the warning, that has been given for some months past!” “By whom, Ma'am?” “By yourself, Mrs. Halsey--I think you understand me. Oscar will take your things as soon as they are ready.” Mrs. Halsey met her steady eye a moment--saw more than she cared to face--and left the room. She took care, however, to carry some letters to Madam Weatherstone, and meekly announced her discharge; also, by some coincidence, she met Mr. Matthew in the hall upstairs, and weepingly confided her grievance to him, meeting immediate consolation, both sentimental and practical. When hurried servants were sent to find their young mistress they reported that she must have gone out, and in truth she had; out on her own roof, where she sat quite still, though shivering a little now and then from the new excitement, until dinner time. This meal, in the mind of Madam Weatherstone, was the crowning factor of daily life; and, on state occasions, of social life. In her cosmogony the central sun was a round mahogany table; all other details of housekeeping revolved about it in varying orbits. To serve an endless series of dignified delicious meals, notably dinners, was, in her eyes, the chief end of woman; the most high purpose of the home. Therefore, though angry and astounded, she appeared promptly when the meal was announced; and when her daughter-in-law, serene and royally attired, took her place as usual, no emotion was allowed to appear before the purple footman who attended. “I understood you were out, Viva,” she said politely. “I was,” replied Viva, with equal decorum. “It is charming outside at this time in the evening--don't you think so?” Young Matthew was gloomy and irritable throughout the length and breadth of the meal; and when they were left with their coffee in the drawing room, he broke out, “What's this I hear about Mrs. Halsey being fired without notice?” “That is what I wish to know, Viva,” said the grandmother. “The poor woman is greatly distressed. Is there not some mistake?” “It's a damn shame,” said Matthew. The younger lady glanced from one to the other, and wondered to see how little she minded it. “The door was there all the time!” she thought to herself, as she looked her stepson in the eye and said, “Hardly drawing-room language, Matthew. Your grandmother is present!” He stared at her in dumb amazement, so she went on, “No, there is no mistake at all. I discharged Mrs. Halsey about an hour before dinner. The terms of the engagement were a month's warning or a month's wages. I gave her the wages.” “But! but!” Madam Weatherstone was genuinely confused by this sudden inexplicable, yet perfectly polite piece of what she still felt to be in the nature of 'interference' and 'presumption.' “I have had no fault to find with her.” “I have, you see,” said her daughter-in-law smiling. “I found her unsatisfactory and shall replace her with something better presently. How about a little music, Matthew? Won't you start the victrolla?” Matthew wouldn't. He was going out; went out with the word. Madam Weatherstone didn't wish to hear it--had a headache--must go to her room--went to her room forthwith. There was a tension in the atmosphere that would have wrung tears from Viva Weatherstone a week ago, yes, twenty-four hours ago. As it was she rose to her feet, stretching herself to her full height, and walked the length of the great empty room. She even laughed a little. “It's open!” said she, and ordered the car. While waiting for it she chatted with Mrs. Porne awhile over the all-convenient telephone. ***** Diantha sat at her window, watching the big soft, brilliant moon behind the eucalyptus trees. After the close of the strenuous meeting, she had withdrawn from the crowd of excited women anxious to shake her hand and engage her on the spot, had asked time to consider a number of good opportunities offered, and had survived the cold and angry glances of the now smaller but far more united Home and Culture Club. She declined to talk to the reporters, and took refuge first in an open car. This proved very unsatisfactory, owing to her sudden prominence. Two persistent newspaper men swung themselves upon the car also and insisted on addressing her. “Excuse me, gentlemen,” she said, “I am not acquainted with you.” They eagerly produced their cards--and said they were “newspaper men.” “I see,” said Diantha, “But you are still men? And gentlemen, I suppose? I am a woman, and I do not wish to talk with you.” “Miss Bell Declines to Be Interviewed,” wrote the reporters, and spent themselves on her personal appearance, being favorably impressed thereby. But Miss Bell got off at the next corner and took a short cut to the house where she had rented a room. Reporters were waiting there, two being women. Diantha politely but firmly declined to see them and started for the stairs; but they merely stood in front of her and asked questions. The girl's blood surged to her cheeks; she smiled grimly, kept absolute silence, brushed through them and went swiftly to her room, locking the door after her. The reporters described her appearance--unfavorably this time; and they described the house--also unfavorably. They said that “A group of adoring-eyed young men stood about the doorway as the flushed heroine of the afternoon made her brusque entrance.” These adorers consisted of the landlady's Johnny, aged thirteen, and two satellites of his, still younger. They _did_ look at Diantha admiringly; and she _was_ a little hurried in her entrance--truth must be maintained. Too irritated and tired to go out for dinner, she ate an orange or two, lay down awhile, and then eased her mind by writing a long letter to Ross and telling him all about it. That is, she told him most of it, all the pleasant things, all the funny things; leaving out about the reporters, because she was too angry to be just, she told herself. She wrote and wrote, becoming peaceful as the quiet moments passed, and a sense grew upon her of the strong, lasting love that was waiting so patiently. “Dearest,” her swift pen flew along, “I really feel much encouraged. An impression has been made. One or two men spoke to me afterward; the young minister, who said such nice things; and one older man, who looked prosperous and reliable. 'When you begin any such business as you have outlined, you may count on me, Miss Bell,' he said, and gave me his card. He's a lawyer--P. L. Wiscomb; nice man, I should think. Another big, sheepish-looking man said, 'And me, Miss Bell.' His name is Thaddler; his wife is very disagreeable. Some of the women are favorably impressed, but the old-fashioned kind--my! 'If hate killed men, Brother Lawrence!'--but it don't.” She wrote herself into a good humor, and dwelt at considerable length on the pleasant episode of the minister and young Mrs. Weatherstone's remarks. “I liked her,” she wrote. “She's a nice woman--even if she is rich.” There was a knock at her door. “Lady to see you, Miss.” “I cannot see anyone,” said Diantha; “you must excuse me.” “Beg pardon, Miss, but it's not a reporter; it's--.” The landlady stretched her lean neck around the door edge and whispered hoarsely, “It's young Mrs. Weatherstone!” Diantha rose to her feet, a little bewildered. “I'll be right down,” she said. But a voice broke in from the hall, “I beg your pardon, Miss Bell, but I took the liberty of coming up; may I come in?” She came in, and the landlady perforce went out. Mrs. Weatherstone held Diantha's hand warmly, and looked into her eyes. “I was a schoolmate of Ellen Porne,” she told the girl. “We are dear friends still; and so I feel that I know you better than you think. You have done beautiful work for Mrs. Porne; now I want you to do to it for me. I need you.” “Won't you sit down?” said Diantha. “You, too,” said Mrs. Weatherstone. “Now I want you to come to me--right away. You have done me so much good already. I was just a New England bred school teacher myself at first, so we're even that far. Then you took a step up--and I took a step down.” Diantha was a little slow in understanding the quick fervor of this new friend; a trifle suspicious, even; being a cautious soul, and somewhat overstrung, perhaps. Her visitor, bright-eyed and eager, went on. “I gave up school teaching and married a fortune. You have given it up to do a more needed work. I think you are wonderful. Now, I know this seems queer to you, but I want to tell you about it. I feel sure you'll understand. At home, Madam Weatherstone has had everything in charge for years and years, and I've been too lazy or too weak, or too indifferent, to do anything. I didn't care, somehow. All the machinery of living, and no _living_--no good of it all! Yet there didn't seem to be anything else to do. Now you have waked me all up--your paper this afternoon--what Mr. Eltwood said--the way those poor, dull, blind women took it. And yet I was just as dull and blind myself! Well, I begin to see things now. I can't tell you all at once what a difference it has made; but I have a very definite proposition to make to you. Will you come and be my housekeeper, now--right away--at a hundred dollars a month?” Diantha opened her eyes wide and looked at the eager lady as if she suspected her nervous balance. “The other one got a thousand a year--you are worth more. Now, don't decline, please. Let me tell you about it. I can see that you have plans ahead, for this business; but it can't hurt you much to put them off six months, say. Meantime, you could be practicing. Our place at Santa Ulrica is almost as big as this one; there are lots of servants and a great, weary maze of accounts to be kept, and it wouldn't be bad practice for you--now, would it?” Diantha's troubled eyes lit up. “No--you are right there,” she said. “If I could do it!” “You'll have to do just that sort of thing when you are running your business, won't you?” her visitor went on. “And the summer's not a good time to start a thing like that, is it?” Diantha meditated. “No, I wasn't going to. I was going to start somewhere--take a cottage, a dozen girls or so--and furnish labor by the day to the other cottages.” “Well, you might be able to run that on the side,” said Mrs. Weatherstone. “And you could train my girls, get in new ones if you like; it doesn't seem to me it would conflict. But to speak to you quite frankly, Miss Bell, I want you in the house for my own sake. You do me good.” They discussed the matter for some time, Diantha objecting mainly to the suddenness of it all. “I'm a slow thinker,” she said, “and this is so--so attractive that I'm suspicious of it. I had the other thing all planned--the girls practically engaged.” “Where were you thinking of going?” asked Mrs. Weatherstone. “To Santa Ulrica.” “Exactly! Well, you shall have your cottage and our girls and give them part time. Or--how many have you arranged with?” “Only six have made definite engagements yet.” “What kind?” “Two laundresses, a cook and three second maids; all good ones.” “Excellent! Now, I tell you what to do. I will engage all those girls. I'm making a change at the house, for various reasons. You bring them to me as soon as you like; but you I want at once. I wish you'd come home with me to-night! Why don't you?” Diantha's scanty baggage was all in sight. She looked around for an excuse. Mrs. Weatherstone stood up laughing. “Put the new address in the letter,” she said, mischievously, “and come along!” ***** And the purple chauffeur, his disapproving back ineffectual in the darkness, rolled them home. CHAPTER IX. “SLEEPING IN.” Men have marched in armies, fleets have borne them, Left their homes new countries to subdue; Young men seeking fortune wide have wandered-- We have something new. Armies of young maidens cross our oceans; Leave their mother's love, their father's care; Maidens, young and helpless, widely wander, Burdens new to bear. Strange the land and language, laws and customs; Ignorant and all alone they come; Maidens young and helpless, serving strangers, Thus we keep the Home. When on earth was safety for young maidens Far from mother's love and father's care? We preserve The Home, and call it sacred-- Burdens new they bear. The sun had gone down on Madam Weatherstone's wrath, and risen to find it unabated. With condensed disapprobation written on every well-cut feature, she came to the coldly gleaming breakfast table. That Mrs. Halsey was undoubtedly gone, she had to admit; yet so far failed to find the exact words of reproof for a woman of independent means discharging her own housekeeper when it pleased her. Young Mathew unexpectedly appeared at breakfast, perhaps in anticipation of a sort of Roman holiday in which his usually late and apologetic stepmother would furnish the amusement. They were both surprised to find her there before them, looking uncommonly fresh in crisp, sheer white, with deep-toned violets in her belt. She ate with every appearance of enjoyment, chatting amiably about the lovely morning--the flowers, the garden and the gardeners; her efforts ill seconded, however. “Shall I attend to the orders this morning?” asked Madam Weatherstone with an air of noble patience. “O no, thank you!” replied Viva. “I have engaged a new housekeeper.” “A new housekeeper! When?” The old lady was shaken by this inconceivable promptness. “Last night,” said her daughter-in-law, looking calmly across the table, her color rising a little. “And when is she coming, if I may ask?” “She has come. I have been with her an hour already this morning.” Young Mathew smiled. This was amusing, though not what he had expected. “How extremely alert and businesslike!” he said lazily. “It's becoming to you--to get up early!” “You can't have got much of a person--at a minute's notice,” said his grandmother. “Or perhaps you have been planning this for some time?” “No,” said Viva. “I have wanted to get rid of Mrs. Halsey for some time, but the new one I found yesterday.” “What's her name?” inquired Mathew. “Bell--Miss Diantha Bell,” she answered, looking as calm as if announcing the day of the week, but inwardly dreading the result somewhat. Like most of such terrors it was overestimated. There was a little pause--rather an intense little pause; and then--“Isn't that the girl who set 'em all by the ears yesterday?” asked the young man, pointing to the morning paper. “They say she's a good-looker.” Madam Weatherstone rose from the table in some agitation. “I must say I am very sorry, Viva, that you should have been so--precipitate! This young woman cannot be competent to manage a house like this--to say nothing of her scandalous ideas. Mrs. Halsey was--to my mind--perfectly satisfactory. I shall miss her very much.” She swept out with an unanswerable air. “So shall I,” muttered Mat, under his breath, as he strolled after her; “unless the new one's equally amiable.” Viva Weatherstone watched them go, and stood awhile looking after the well-built, well-dressed, well-mannered but far from well-behaved young man. “I don't _know_,” she said to herself, “but I do feel--think--imagine--a good deal. I'm sure I hope not! Anyway--it's new life to have that girl in the house.” That girl had undertaken what she described to Ross as “a large order--a very large order.” “It's the hardest thing I ever undertook,” she wrote him, “but I think I can do it; and it will be a tremendous help. Mrs. Weatherstone's a brick--a perfect brick! She seems to have been very unhappy--for ever so long--and to have submitted to her domineering old mother-in-law just because she didn't care enough to resist. Now she's got waked up all of a sudden--she says it was my paper at the club--more likely my awful example, I think! and she fired her old housekeeper--I don't know what for--and rushed me in. “So here I am. The salary is good, the work is excellent training, and I guess I can hold the place. But the old lady is a terror, and the young man--how you would despise that Johnny!” The home letters she now received were rather amusing. Ross, sternly patient, saw little difference in her position. “I hope you will enjoy your new work,” he wrote, “but personally I should prefer that you did not--so you might give it up and come home sooner. I miss you as you can well imagine. Even when you were here life was hard enough--but now!!!!!! “I had a half offer for the store the other day, but it fell through. If I could sell that incubus and put the money into a ranch--fruit, hens, anything--then we could all live on it; more cheaply, I think; and I could find time for some research work I have in mind. You remember that guinea-pig experiment I want so to try?” Diantha remembered and smiled sadly. She was not much interested in guinea-pigs and their potential capacities, but she was interested in her lover and his happiness. “Ranch,” she said thoughtfully; “that's not a bad idea.” Her mother wrote the same patient loving letters, perfunctorily hopeful. Her father wrote none--“A woman's business--this letter-writin',” he always held; and George, after one scornful upbraiding, had “washed his hands of her” with some sense of relief. He didn't like to write letters either. But Susie kept up a lively correspondence. She was attached to her sister, as to all her immediate relatives and surroundings; and while she utterly disapproved of Diantha's undertaking, a sense of sisterly duty, to say nothing of affection, prompted her to many letters. It did not, however, always make these agreeable reading. “Mother's pretty well, and the girl she's got now does nicely--that first one turned out to be a failure. Father's as cranky as ever. We are all well here and the baby (this was a brand new baby Diantha had not seen) is just a Darling! You ought to be here, you unnatural Aunt! Gerald doesn't ever speak of you--but I do just the same. You hear from the Wardens, of course. Mrs. Warden's got neuralgia or something; keeps them all busy. They are much excited over this new place of yours--you ought to hear them go on! It appears that Madam Weatherstone is a connection of theirs--one of the F. F. V's, I guess, and they think she's something wonderful. And to have _you_ working _there!_--well, you can just see how they'd feel; and I don't blame them. It's no use arguing with you--but I should think you'd have enough of this disgraceful foolishness by this time and come home!” Diantha tried to be very philosophic over her home letters; but they were far from stimulating. “It's no use arguing with poor Susie!” she decided. “Susie thinks the sun rises and sets between kitchen, nursery and parlor! “Mother can't see the good of it yet, but she will later--Mother's all right. “I'm awfully sorry the Wardens feel so--and make Ross unhappy--but of course I knew they would. It can't be helped. It's just a question of time and work.” And she went to work. ***** Mrs. Porne called on her friend most promptly, with a natural eagerness and curiosity. “How does it work? Do you like her as much as you thought? Do tell me about it, Viva. You look like another woman already!” “I certainly feel like one,” Viva answered. “I've seen slaves in housework, and I've seen what we fondly call 'Queens' in housework; but I never saw brains in it before.” Mrs. Porne sighed. “Isn't it just wonderful--the way she does things! Dear me! We do miss her! She trained that Swede for us--and she does pretty well--but not like 'Miss Bell'! I wish there were a hundred of her!” “If there were a hundred thousand she wouldn't go round!” answered Mrs. Weatherstone. “How selfish we are! _That_ is the kind of woman we all want in our homes--and fuss because we can't have them.” “Edgar says he quite agrees with her views,” Mrs. Porne went on. “Skilled labor by the day--food sent in--. He says if she cooked it he wouldn't care if it came all the way from Alaska! She certainly can cook! I wish she'd set up her business--the sooner the better.” Mrs. Weatherstone nodded her head firmly. “She will. She's planning. This was really an interruption--her coming here, but I think it will be a help--she's not had experience in large management before, but she takes hold splendidly. She's found a dozen 'leaks' in our household already.” “Mrs. Thaddler's simply furious, I hear,” said the visitor. “Mrs. Ree was in this morning and told me all about it. Poor Mrs. Ree! The home is church and state to her; that paper of Miss Bell's she regards as simple blasphemy.” They both laughed as that stormy meeting rose before them. “I was so proud of you, Viva, standing up for her as you did. How did you ever dare?” “Why I got my courage from the girl herself. She was--superb! Talk of blasphemy! Why I've committed _lese majeste_ and regicide and the Unpardonable Sin since that meeting!” And she told her friend of her brief passage at arms with Mrs. Halsey. “I never liked the woman,” she continued; “and some of the things Miss Bell said set me thinking. I don't believe we half know what's going on in our houses.” “Well, Mrs. Thaddler's so outraged by 'this scandalous attack upon the sanctities of the home' that she's going about saying all sorts of things about Miss Bell. O look--I do believe that's her car!” Even as they spoke a toneless voice announced, “Mr. and Mrs. Thaddler,” and Madam Weatherstone presently appeared to greet these visitors. “I think you are trying a dangerous experiment!” said Mrs. Thaddler to her young hostess. “A very dangerous experiment! Bringing that young iconoclast into your home!” Mr. Thaddler, stout and sulky, sat as far away as he could and talked to Mrs. Porne. “I'd like to try that same experiment myself,” said he to her. “You tried it some time, I understand?” “Indeed we did--and would still if we had the chance,” she replied. “We think her a very exceptional young woman.” Mr. Thaddler chuckled. “She is that!” he agreed. “Gad! How she did set things humming! They're humming yet--at our house!” He glanced rather rancorously at his wife, and Mrs. Porne wished, as she often had before, that Mr. Thaddler wore more clothing over his domestic afflictions. “Scandalous!” Mrs. Thaddler was saying to Madam Weatherstone. “Simply scandalous! Never in my life did I hear such absurd--such outrageous--charges against the sanctities of the home!” “There you have it!” said Mr. Thaddler, under his breath. “Sanctity of the fiddlesticks! There was a lot of truth in what that girl said!” Then he looked rather sheepish and flushed a little--which was needless; easing his collar with a fat finger. Madam Weatherstone and Mrs. Thaddler were at one on this subject; but found it hard to agree even so, no love being lost between them; and the former gave evidence of more satisfaction than distress at this “dangerous experiment” in the house of her friends. Viva sat silent, but with a look of watchful intelligence that delighted Mrs. Porne. “It has done her good already,” she said to herself. “Bless that girl!” Mr. Thaddler went home disappointed in the real object of his call--he had hoped to see the Dangerous Experiment again. But his wife was well pleased. “They will rue it!” she announced. “Madam Weatherstone is ashamed of her daughter-in-law--I can see that! _She_ looks cool enough. I don't know what's got into her!” “Some of that young woman's good cooking,” her husband suggested. “That young woman is not there as cook!” she replied tartly. “What she _is_ there for we shall see later! Mark my words!” Mr. Thaddler chuckled softly. “I'll mark 'em!” he said. Diantha had her hands full. Needless to say her sudden entrance was resented by the corps of servants accustomed to the old regime. She had the keys; she explored, studied, inventoried, examined the accounts, worked out careful tables and estimates. “I wish Mother were here!” she said to herself. “She's a regular genius for accounts. I _can_ do it--but it's no joke.” She brought the results to her employer at the end of the week. “This is tentative,” she said, “and I've allowed margins because I'm new to a business of this size. But here's what this house ought to cost you--at the outside, and here's what it does cost you now.” Mrs. Weatherstone was impressed. “Aren't you a little--spectacular?” she suggested. Diantha went over it carefully; the number of rooms, the number of servants, the hours of labor, the amount of food and other supplies required. “This is only preparatory, of course,” she said. “I'll have to check it off each month. If I may do the ordering and keep all the accounts I can show you exactly in a month, or two at most.” “How about the servants?” asked Mrs. Weatherstone. There was much to say here, questions of competence, of impertinence, of personal excellence with “incompatibility of temper.” Diantha was given a free hand, with full liberty to experiment, and met the opportunity with her usual energy. She soon discharged the unsatisfactory ones, and substituted the girls she had selected for her summer's experiment, gradually adding others, till the household was fairly harmonious, and far more efficient and economical. A few changes were made among the men also. By the time the family moved down to Santa Ulrica, there was quite a new spirit in the household. Mrs. Weatherstone fully approved of the Girls' Club Diantha had started at Mrs. Porne's; and it went on merrily in the larger quarters of the great “cottage” on the cliff. “I'm very glad I came to you, Mrs. Weatherstone,” said the girl. “You were quite right about the experience; I did need it--and I'm getting it!” She was getting some of which she made no mention. As she won and held the confidence of her subordinates, and the growing list of club members, she learned their personal stories; what had befallen them in other families, and what they liked and disliked in their present places. “The men are not so bad,” explained Catharine Kelly, at a club meeting, meaning the men servants; “they respect an honest girl if she respects herself; but it's the young masters--and sometimes the old ones!” “It's all nonsense,” protested Mrs. James, widowed cook of long standing. “I've worked out for twenty-five years, and I never met no such goings on!” Little Ilda looked at Mrs. James' severe face and giggled. “I've heard of it,” said Molly Connors, “I've a cousin that's workin' in New York; and she's had to leave two good places on account of their misbehavin' theirselves. She's a fine girl, but too good-lookin'.” Diantha studied types, questioned them, drew them out, adjusted facts to theories and theories to facts. She found the weakness of the whole position to lie in the utter ignorance and helplessness of the individual servant. “If they were only organized,” she thought--“and knew their own power!--Well; there's plenty of time.” As her acquaintance increased, and as Mrs. Weatherstone's interest in her plans increased also, she started the small summer experiment she had planned, for furnishing labor by the day. Mrs. James was an excellent cook, though most unpleasant to work with. She was quite able to see that getting up frequent lunches at three dollars, and dinners at five dollars, made a better income than ten dollars a week even with several days unoccupied. A group of younger women, under Diantha's sympathetic encouragement, agreed to take a small cottage together, with Mrs. James as a species of chaperone; and to go out in twos and threes as chambermaids and waitresses at 25 cents an hour. Two of them could set in perfect order one of the small beach cottage in an hour's time; and the occupants, already crowded for room, were quite willing to pay a little more in cash “not to have a servant around.” Most of them took their meals out in any case. It was a modest attempt, elastic and easily alterable and based on the special conditions of a shore resort: Mrs. Weatherstone's known interest gave it social backing; and many ladies who heartily disapproved of Diantha's theories found themselves quite willing to profit by this very practical local solution of the “servant question.” The “club girls” became very popular. Across the deep hot sand they ploughed, and clattered along the warping boardwalks, in merry pairs and groups, finding the work far more varied and amusing than the endless repetition in one household. They had pleasant evenings too, with plenty of callers, albeit somewhat checked and chilled by rigorous Mrs. James. “It is both foolish and wicked!” said Madam Weatherstone to her daughter-in-law, “Exposing a group of silly girls to such danger and temptations! I understand there is singing and laughing going on at that house until half-past ten at night.” “Yes, there is,” Viva admitted. “Mrs. James insists that they shall all be in bed at eleven--which is very wise. I'm glad they have good times--there's safety in numbers, you know.” “There will be a scandal in this community before long!” said the old lady solemnly. “And it grieves me to think that this household will be responsible for it!” Diantha heard all this from the linen room while Madam Weatherstone buttonholed her daughter-in-law in the hall; and in truth the old lady meant that she should hear what she said. “She's right, I'm afraid!” said Diantha to herself--“there will be a scandal if I'm not mighty careful and this household will be responsible for it!” Even as she spoke she caught Ilda's childish giggle in the lower hall, and looking over the railing saw her airily dusting the big Chinese vases and coquetting with young Mr. Mathew. Later on, Diantha tried seriously to rouse her conscience and her common sense. “Don't you see, child, that it can't do you anything but harm? You can't carry on with a man like that as you can with one of your own friends. He is not to be trusted. One nice girl I had here simply left the place--he annoyed her so.” Ilda was a little sulky. She had been quite a queen in the small Norwegian village she was born in. Young men were young men--and they might even--perhaps! This severe young housekeeper didn't know everything. Maybe she was jealous! So Ilda was rather unconvinced, though apparently submissive, and Diantha kept a careful eye upon her. She saw to it that Ilda's room had a bolt as well as key in the door, and kept the room next to it empty; frequently using it herself, unknown to anyone. “I hate to turn the child off,” she said to herself, conscientiously revolving the matter. “She isn't doing a thing more than most girls do--she's only a little fool. And he's not doing anything I can complain of--yet.” But she worried over it a good deal, and Mrs. Weatherstone noticed it. “Doesn't your pet club house go well, 'Miss Bell?' You seem troubled about something.” “I am,” Diantha admitted. “I believe I'll have to tell you about it--but I hate to. Perhaps if you'll come and look I shan't have to say much.” She led her to a window that looked on the garden, the rich, vivid, flower-crowded garden of Southern California by the sea. Little Ilda, in a fresh black frock and snowy, frilly cap and apron, ran out to get a rose; and while she sniffed and dallied they saw Mr. Mathew saunter out and join her. The girl was not as severe with him as she ought to have been--that was evident; but it was also evident that she was frightened and furious when he suddenly held her fast and kissed her with much satisfaction. As soon as her arms were free she gave him a slap that sounded smartly even at that distance; and ran crying into the house. “She's foolish, I admit,” said Diantha,--“but she doesn't realize her danger at all. I've tried to make her. And now I'm more worried than ever. It seems rather hard to discharge her--she needs care.” “I'll speak to that young man myself,” said Mrs. Weatherstone. “I'll speak to his grandmother too!” “O--would you?” urged Diantha. “She wouldn't believe anything except that the girl 'led him on'--you know that. But I have an idea that we could convince her--if you're willing to do something rather melodramatic--and I think we'd better do it to-night!” “What's that?” asked her employer; and Diantha explained. It was melodramatic, but promised to be extremely convincing. “Do you think he'd dare! under my roof?” hotly demanded Madam Weatherstone. “I'm very much afraid it wouldn't be the first time,” Diantha reluctantly assured her. “It's no use being horrified. But if we could only make _sure_--” “If we could only make his grandmother sure!” cried Madam Weatherstone. “That would save me a deal of trouble and misunderstanding. See here--I think I can manage it--what makes you think it's to-night?” “I can't be absolutely certain--” Diantha explained; and told her the reasons she had. “It does look so,” her employer admitted. “We'll try it at any rate.” Urging her mother-in-law's presence on the ground of needing her experienced advice, Mrs. Weatherstone brought the august lady to the room next to Ilda's late that evening, the housekeeper in attendance. “We mustn't wake the servants,” she said in an elaborate whisper. “They need sleep, poor things! But I want to consult you about these communicating doors and the locksmith is coming in the morning.--you see this opens from this side.” She turned the oiled key softly in the lock. “Now Miss Bell thinks they ought to be left so--so that the girls can visit one another if they like--what do you think?” “I think you are absurd to bring me to the top floor, at this time of night, for a thing like this!” said the old lady. “They should be permanently locked, to my mind! There's no question about it.” Viva, still in low tones, discussed this point further; introduced the subject of wall-paper or hard finish; pointed out from the window a tall eucalyptus which she thought needed heading; did what she could to keep her mother-in-law on the spot; and presently her efforts were rewarded. A sound of muffled speech came from the next room--a man's voice dimly heard. Madam Weatherstone raised her head like a warhorse. “What's this! What's this!” she said in a fierce whisper. Viva laid a hand on her arm. “Sh!” said she. “Let us make sure!” and she softly unlatched the door. A brilliant moon flooded the small chamber. They could see little Ilda, huddled in the bedclothes, staring at her door from which the key had fallen. Another key was being inserted--turned--but the bolt held. “Come and open it, young lady!” said a careful voice outside. “Go away! Go away!” begged the girl, low and breathlessly. “Oh how _can_ you! Go away quick!” “Indeed, I won't!” said the voice. “You come and open it.” “Go away,” she cried, in a soft but frantic voice. “I--I'll scream!” “Scream away!” he answered. “I'll just say I came up to see what the screaming's about, that's all. You open the door--if you don't want anybody to know I'm here! I won't hurt you any--I just want to talk to you a minute.” Madam Weatherstone was speechless with horror, her daughter-in-law listened with set lips. Diantha looked from one to the other, and at the frightened child before them who was now close to the terrible door. “O please!--_please!_ go away!” she cried in desperation. “O what shall I do! What shall I do!” “You can't do anything,” he answered cheerfully. “And I'm coming in anyhow. You'd better keep still about this for your own sake. Stand from under!” Madam Weatherstone marched into the room. Ilda, with a little cry, fled out of it to Diantha. There was a jump, a scramble, two knuckly hands appeared, a long leg was put through the transom, two legs wildly wriggling, a descending body, and there stood before them, flushed, dishevelled, his coat up to his ears--Mat Weatherstone. He did not notice the stern rigidity of the figure which stood between him and the moonlight, but clasped it warmly to his heart.--“Now I've got you, Ducky!” cried he, pressing all too affectionate kisses upon the face of his grandmother. Young Mrs. Weatherstone turned on the light. It was an embarrassing position for the gentleman. He had expected to find a helpless cowering girl; afraid to cry out because her case would be lost if she did; begging piteously that he would leave her; wholly at his mercy. What he did find was so inexplicable as to reduce him to gibbering astonishment. There stood his imposing grandmother, so overwhelmed with amazement that her trenchant sentences failed her completely; his stepmother, wearing an expression that almost suggested delight in his discomfiture; and Diantha, as grim as Rhadamanthus. Poor little Ilda burst into wild sobs and choking explanations, clinging to Diantha's hand. “If I'd only listened to you!” she said. “You told me he was bad! I never thought he'd do such an awful thing!” Young Mathew fumbled at the door. He had locked it outside in his efforts with the pass-key. He was red, red to his ears--very red, but there was no escape. He faced them--there was no good in facing the door. They all stood aside and let him pass--a wordless gauntlet. Diantha took the weeping Ilda to her room for the night. Madam Weatherstone and Mrs. Weatherstone went down together. “She must have encouraged him!” the older lady finally burst forth. “She did not encourage him to enter her room, as you saw and heard,” said Viva with repressed intensity. “He's only a boy!” said his grandmother. “She is only a child, a helpless child, a foreigner, away from home, untaught, unprotected,” Viva answered swiftly; adding with quiet sarcasm--“Save for the shelter of the home!” They parted in silence. CHAPTER X. UNION HOUSE. “We are weak!” said the Sticks, and men broke them; “We are weak!” said the Threads, and were torn; Till new thoughts came and they spoke them; Till the Fagot and the Rope were born. For the Fagot men find is resistant, And they anchor on the Rope's taut length; Even grasshoppers combined, Are a force, the farmers find-- In union there is strength. Ross Warden endured his grocery business; strove with it, toiled at it, concentrated his scientific mind on alien tasks of financial calculation and practical psychology, but he liked it no better. He had no interest in business, no desire to make money, no skill in salesmanship. But there were five mouths at home; sweet affectionate feminine mouths no doubt, but requiring food. Also two in the kitchen, wider, and requiring more food. And there were five backs at home to be covered, to use the absurd metaphor--as if all one needed for clothing was a four foot patch. The amount and quality of the covering was an unceasing surprise to Ross, and he did not do justice to the fact that his womenfolk really saved a good deal by doing their own sewing. In his heart he longed always to be free of the whole hated load of tradesmanship. Continually his thoughts went back to the hope of selling out the business and buying a ranch. “I could make it keep us, anyhow,” he would plan to himself; “and I could get at that guinea pig idea. Or maybe hens would do.” He had a theory of his own, or a personal test of his own, rather, which he wished to apply to a well known theory. It would take some years to work it out, and a great many fine pigs, and be of no possible value financially. “I'll do it sometime,” he always concluded; which was cold comfort. His real grief at losing the companionship of the girl he loved, was made more bitter by a total lack of sympathy with her aims, even if she achieved them--in which he had no confidence. He had no power to change his course, and tried not to be unpleasant about it, but he had to express his feelings now and then. “Are you coming back to me?” he wrote. “How con you bear to give so much pain to everyone who loves you? Is your wonderful salary worth more to you than being here with your mother--with me? How can you say you love me--and ruin both our lives like this? I cannot come to see you--I _would_ not come to see you--calling at the back door! Finding the girl I love in a cap and apron! Can you not see it is wrong, utterly wrong, all this mad escapade of yours? Suppose you do make a thousand dollars a year--I shall never touch your money--you know that. I cannot even offer you a home, except with my family, and I know how you feel about that; I do not blame you. “But I am as stubborn as you are, dear girl; I will not live on my wife's money--you will not live in my mother's house--and we are drifting apart. It is not that I care less for you dear, or at all for anyone else, but this is slow death--that's all.” Mrs. Warden wrote now and then and expatiated on the sufferings of her son, and his failing strength under the unnatural strain, till Diantha grew to dread her letters more than any pain she knew. Fortunately they came seldom. Her own family was much impressed by the thousand dollars, and found the occupation of housekeeper a long way more tolerable than that of house-maid, a distinction which made Diantha smile rather bitterly. Even her father wrote to her once, suggesting that if she chose to invest her salary according to his advice he could double it for her in a year, maybe treble it, in Belgian hares. _“They'd_ double and treble fast enough!” she admitted to herself; but she wrote as pleasant a letter as she could, declining his proposition. Her mother seemed stronger, and became more sympathetic as the months passed. Large affairs always appealed to her more than small ones, and she offered valuable suggestions as to the account keeping of the big house. They all assumed that she was permanently settled in this well paid position, and she made no confidences. But all summer long she planned and read and studied out her progressive schemes, and strengthened her hold among the working women. Laundress after laundress she studied personally and tested professionally, finding a general level of mediocrity, till finally she hit upon a melancholy Dane--a big rawboned red-faced woman--whose husband had been a miller, but was hurt about the head so that he was no longer able to earn his living. The huge fellow was docile, quiet, and endlessly strong, but needed constant supervision. “He'll do anything you tell him, Miss, and do it well; but then he'll sit and dream about it--I can't leave him at all. But he'll take the clothes if I give him a paper with directions, and come right back.” Poor Mrs. Thorald wiped her eyes, and went on with her swift ironing. Diantha offered her the position of laundress at Union House, with two rooms for their own, over the laundry. “There'll be work for him, too,” she said. “We need a man there. He can do a deal of the heavier work--be porter you know. I can't offer him very much, but it will help some.” Mrs. Thorald accepted for both, and considered Diantha as a special providence. There was to be cook, and two capable second maids. The work of the house must be done thoroughly well, Diantha determined; “and the food's got to be good--or the girls wont stay.” After much consideration she selected one Julianna, a “person of color,” for her kitchen: not the jovial and sloppy personage usually figuring in this character, but a tall, angular, and somewhat cynical woman, a misanthrope in fact, with a small son. For men she had no respect whatever, but conceded a grudging admiration to Mr. Thorald as “the usefullest biddablest male person” she had ever seen. She also extended special sympathy to Mrs. Thorald on account of her peculiar burden, and the Swedish woman had no antipathy to her color, and seemed to take a melancholy pleasure in Julianna's caustic speeches. Diantha offered her the place, boy and all. “He can be 'bell boy' and help you in the kitchen, too. Can't you, Hector?” Hector rolled large adoring eyes at her, but said nothing. His mother accepted the proposition, but without enthusiasm. “I can't keep no eye on him, Miss, if I'm cookin' an less'n you keep your eye on him they's no work to be got out'n any kind o' boy.” “What is your last name, Julianna?” Diantha asked her. “I suppose, as a matter o' fac' its de name of de last nigger I married,” she replied. “Dere was several of 'em, all havin' different names, and to tell you de truf Mis' Bell, I got clean mixed amongst 'em. But Julianna's my name--world without end amen.” So Diantha had to waive her theories about the surnames of servants in this case. “Did they all die?” she asked with polite sympathy. “No'm, dey didn't none of 'em die--worse luck.” “I'm afraid you have seen much trouble, Julianna,” she continued sympathetically; “They deserted you, I suppose?” Julianna laid her long spoon upon the table and stood up with great gravity. “No'm,” she said again, “dey didn't none of 'em desert me on no occasion. I divorced 'em.” Marital difficulties in bulk were beyond Diantha's comprehension, and she dropped the subject. Union House opened in the autumn. The vanished pepper trees were dim with dust in Orchardina streets as the long rainless summer drew to a close; but the social atmosphere fairly sparkled with new interest. Those who had not been away chattered eagerly with those who had, and both with the incoming tide of winter visitors. “That girl of Mrs. Porne's has started her housekeeping shop!” “That 'Miss Bell' has got Mrs. Weatherstone fairly infatuated with her crazy schemes.” “Do you know that Bell girl has actually taken Union House? Going to make a Girl's Club of it!” “Did you ever _hear_ of such a thing! Diantha Bell's really going to try to run her absurd undertaking right here in Orchardina!” They did not know that the young captain of industry had deliberately chosen Orchardina as her starting point on account of the special conditions. The even climate was favorable to “going out by the day,” or the delivery of meals, the number of wealthy residents gave opportunity for catering on a large scale; the crowding tourists and health seekers made a market for all manner of transient service and cooked food, and the constant lack of sufficient or capable servants forced the people into an unwilling consideration of any plan of domestic assistance. In a year's deliberate effort Diantha had acquainted herself with the rank and file of the town's housemaids and day workers, and picked her assistants carefully. She had studied the local conditions thoroughly, and knew her ground. A big faded building that used to be “the Hotel” in Orchardina's infant days, standing, awkward and dingy on a site too valuable for a house lot and not yet saleable as a business block, was the working base. A half year with Mrs. Weatherstone gave her $500 in cash, besides the $100 she had saved at Mrs. Porne's; and Mrs. Weatherstone's cheerfully offered backing gave her credit. “I hate to let you,” said Diantha, “I want to do it all myself.” “You are a painfully perfect person, Miss Bell,” said her last employer, pleasantly, “but you have ceased to be my housekeeper and I hope you will continue to be my friend. As a friend I claim the privilege of being disagreeable. If you have a fault it is conceit. Immovable Colossal Conceit! And Obstinacy!” “Is that all?” asked Diantha. “It's all I've found--so far,” gaily retorted Mrs. Weatherstone. “Don't you see, child, that you can't afford to wait? You have reasons for hastening, you know. I don't doubt you could, in a series of years, work up this business all stark alone. I have every confidence in those qualities I have mentioned! But what's the use? You'll need credit for groceries and furniture. I am profoundly interested in this business. I am more than willing to advance a little capital, or to ensure your credit. A man would have sense enough to take me up at once.” “I believe you are right,” Diantha reluctantly agreed. “And you shan't lose by it!” Her friends were acutely interested in her progress, and showed it in practical ways. The New Woman's Club furnished five families of patrons for the regular service of cooked food, which soon grew, with satisfaction, to a dozen or so, varying from time to time. The many families with invalids, and lonely invalids without families, were glad to avail themselves of the special delicacies furnished at Union House. Picnickers found it easier to buy Diantha's marvelous sandwiches than to spend golden morning hours in putting up inferior ones at home; and many who cooked for themselves, or kept servants, were glad to profit by this outside source on Sunday evenings and “days out.” There was opposition too; both the natural resistance of inertia and prejudice, and the active malignity of Mrs. Thaddler. The Pornes were sympathetic and anxious. “That place'll cost her all of $10,000 a year, with those twenty-five to feed, and they only pay $4.50 a week--I know that!” said Mr. Porne. “It does look impossible,” his wife agreed, “but such is my faith in Diantha Bell I'd back her against Rockefeller!” Mrs. Weatherstone was not alarmed at all. “If she _should_ fail--which I don't for a moment expect--it wont ruin me,” she told Isabel. “And if she succeeds, as I firmly believe she will, why, I'd be willing to risk almost anything to prove Mrs. Thaddler in the wrong.” Mrs. Thaddler was making herself rather disagreeable. She used what power she had to cry down the undertaking, and was so actively malevolent that her husband was moved to covert opposition. He never argued with his wife--she was easily ahead of him in that art, and, if it came to recriminations, had certain controvertible charges to make against him, which mode him angrily silent. He was convinced in a dim way that her ruthless domineering spirit, and the sheer malice she often showed, were more evil things than his own bad habits; and that even in their domestic relation her behavior really caused him more pain and discomfort than he caused her; but he could not convince her of it, naturally. “That Diantha Bell is a fine girl,” he said to himself. “A damn fine girl, and as straight as a string!” There had crept out, through the quenchless leak of servants talk, a varicolored version of the incident of Mathew and the transom; and the town had grown so warm for that young gentleman that he had gone to Alaska suddenly, to cool off, as it were. His Grandmother, finding Mrs. Thaddler invincible with this new weapon, and what she had so long regarded as her home now visibly Mrs. Weatherstone's, had retired in regal dignity to her old Philadelphia establishment, where she upheld the standard of decorum against the weakening habits of a deteriorated world, for many years. As Mr. Thaddler thought of this sweeping victory, he chuckled for the hundredth time. “She ought to make good, and she will. Something's got to be done about it,” said he. Diantha had never liked Mr. Thaddler; she did not like that kind of man in general, nor his manner toward her in particular. Moreover he was the husband of Mrs. Thaddler. She did not know that he was still the largest owner in the town's best grocery store, and when that store offered her special terms for her exclusive trade, she accepted the proposition thankfully. She told Ross about it, as a matter well within his knowledge, if not his liking, and he was mildly interested. “I am much alarmed at this new venture,” he wrote, “but you must get your experience. I wish I could save you. As to the groceries, those are wholesale rates, nearly; they'll make enough on it. Yours is a large order you see, and steady.” When she opened her “Business Men's Lunch” Mr. Thaddler had a still better opportunity. He had a reputation as a high flyer, and had really intended to sacrifice himself on the altar of friendship by patronizing and praising this “undertaking” at any cost to his palate; but no sacrifice was needed. Diantha's group of day workers had their early breakfast and departed, taking each her neat lunch-pail,--they ate nothing of their employers;--and both kitchen and dining room would have stood idle till supper time. But the young manager knew she must work her plant for all it was worth, and speedily opened the dining room with the side entrance as a “Caffeteria,” with the larger one as a sort of meeting place; papers and magazines on the tables. From the counter you took what you liked, and seated yourself, and your friends, at one of the many small tables or in the flat-armed chairs in the big room, or on the broad piazza; and as this gave good food, cheapness, a chance for a comfortable seat and talk and a smoke, if one had time, it was largely patronized. Mr. Thaddler, as an experienced _bon vivant,_ despised sandwiches. “Picnicky makeshifts” he called them,--“railroad rations”--“bread and leavings,” and when he saw these piles on piles of sandwiches, listed only as “No. 1,” “No. 2” “No. 3,” and so on, his benevolent intention wavered. But he pulled himself together and took a plateful, assorted. “Come on, Porne,” he said, “we'll play it's a Sunday school picnic,” and he drew himself a cup of coffee, finding hot milk, cream and sugar crystals at hand. “I never saw a cheap joint where you could fix it yourself, before,” he said,--and suspiciously tasted the mixture. “By jing! That's coffee!” he cried in surprise. “There's no scum on the milk, and the cream's cream! Five cents! She won't get rich on this.” Then he applied himself to his “No. 1” sandwich, and his determined expression gave way to one of pleasure. “Why that's bread--real bread! I believe she made it herself!” She did in truth,--she and Julianna with Hector as general assistant. The big oven was filled several times every morning: the fresh rolls disappeared at breakfast and supper, the fresh bread was packed in the lunch pails, and the stale bread was even now melting away in large bites behind the smiling mouths and mustaches of many men. Perfect bread, excellent butter, and “What's the filling I'd like to know?” More than one inquiring-minded patron split his sandwich to add sight to taste, but few could be sure of the flavorsome contents, fatless, gritless, smooth and even, covering the entire surface, the last mouthful as perfect as the first. Some were familiar, some new, all were delicious. The six sandwiches were five cents, the cup of coffee five, and the little “drop cakes,” sweet and spicy, were two for five. Every man spent fifteen cents, some of them more; and many took away small cakes in paper bags, if there were any left. “I don't see how you can do it, and make a profit,” urged Mr. Eltwood, making a pastorial call. “They are so good you know!” Diantha smiled cheerfully. “That's because all your ideas are based on what we call 'domestic economy,' which is domestic waste. I buy in large quantities at wholesale rates, and my cook with her little helper, the two maids, and my own share of the work, of course, provides for the lot. Of course one has to know how.” “Whenever did you find--or did you create?--those heavenly sandwiches?” he asked. “I have to thank my laundress for part of that success,” she said. “She's a Dane, and it appears that the Danes are so fond of sandwiches that, in large establishments, they have a 'sandwich kitchen' to prepare them. It is quite a bit of work, but they are good and inexpensive. There is no limit to the variety.” As a matter of fact this lunch business paid well, and led to larger things. The girl's methods were simple and so organized as to make one hand wash the other. Her house had some twenty-odd bedrooms, full accommodations for kitchen and laundry work on a large scale, big dining, dancing, and reception rooms, and broad shady piazzas on the sides. Its position on a corner near the business part of the little city, and at the foot of the hill crowned with so many millionaires and near millionaires as could get land there, offered many advantages, and every one was taken. The main part of the undertaking was a House Worker's Union; a group of thirty girls, picked and trained. These, previously working out as servants, had received six dollars a week “and found.” They now worked an agreed number of hours, were paid on a basis by the hour or day, and “found” themselves. Each had her own room, and the broad porches and ball room were theirs, except when engaged for dances and meetings of one sort and another. It was a stirring year's work, hard but exciting, and the only difficulty which really worried Diantha was the same that worried the average housewife--the accounts. CHAPTER XI. THE POWER OF THE SCREW. Your car is too big for one person to stir-- Your chauffeur is a little man, too; Yet he lifts that machine, does the little chauffeur, By the power of a gentle jackscrew. Diantha worked. For all her employees she demanded a ten-hour day, she worked fourteen; rising at six and not getting to bed till eleven, when her charges were all safely in their rooms for the night. They were all up at five-thirty or thereabouts, breakfasting at six, and the girls off in time to reach their various places by seven. Their day was from 7 A. M. to 8.30 P. M., with half an hour out, from 11.30 to twelve, for their lunch; and three hours, between 2.20 and 5.30, for their own time, including their tea. Then they worked again from 5.30 to 8.30, on the dinner and the dishes, and then they came home to a pleasant nine o'clock supper, and had all hour to dance or rest before the 10.30 bell for bed time. Special friends and “cousins” often came home with them, and frequently shared the supper--for a quarter--and the dance for nothing. It was no light matter in the first place to keep twenty girls contented with such a regime, and working with the steady excellence required, and in the second place to keep twenty employers contented with them. There were failures on both sides; half a dozen families gave up the plan, and it took time to replace them; and three girls had to be asked to resign before the year was over. But most of them had been in training in the summer, and had listened for months to Diantha's earnest talks to the clubs, with good results. “Remember we are not doing this for ourselves alone,” she would say to them. “Our experiment is going to make this kind of work easier for all home workers everywhere. You may not like it at first, but neither did you like the old way. It will grow easier as we get used to it; and we _must_ keep the rules, because we made them!” She laboriously composed a neat little circular, distributed it widely, and kept a pile in her lunch room for people to take. It read thus: UNION HOUSE Food and Service. General Housework by the week..... $10.00 General Housework by the day....... $2.00 Ten hours work a day, and furnish their own food. Additional labor by the hour....... $.20 Special service for entertainments, maids and waitresses, by the hour..........$.25 Catering for entertainments. Delicacies for invalids. Lunches packed and delivered. Caffeteria... 12 to 2 What annoyed the young manager most was the uncertainty and irregularity involved in her work, the facts varying considerably from her calculations. In the house all ran smoothly. Solemn Mrs. Thorvald did the laundry work for thirty-five--by the aid of her husband and a big mangle for the “flat work.” The girls' washing was limited. “You have to be reasonable about it,” Diantha had explained to them. “Your fifty cents covers a dozen pieces--no more. If you want more you have to pay more, just as your employers do for your extra time.” This last often happened. No one on the face of it could ask more than ten hours of the swift, steady work given by the girls at but a fraction over 14 cents an hour. Yet many times the housekeeper was anxious for more labor on special days; and the girls, unaccustomed to the three free hours in the afternoon, were quite willing to furnish it, thus adding somewhat to their cash returns. They had a dressmaking class at the club afternoons, and as Union House boasted a good sewing machine, many of them spent the free hours in enlarging their wardrobes. Some amused themselves with light reading, a few studied, others met and walked outside. The sense of honest leisure grew upon them, with its broadening influence; and among her thirty Diantha found four or five who were able and ambitious, and willing to work heartily for the further development of the business. Her two housemaids were specially selected. When the girls were out of the house these two maids washed the breakfast dishes with marvelous speed, and then helped Diantha prepare for the lunch. This was a large undertaking, and all three of them, as well as Julianna and Hector worked at it until some six or eight hundred sandwiches were ready, and two or three hundred little cakes. Diantha had her own lunch, and then sat at the receipt of custom during the lunch hour, making change and ordering fresh supplies as fast as needed. The two housemaids had a long day, but so arranged that it made but ten hours work, and they had much available time of their own. They had to be at work at 5:30 to set the table for six o'clock breakfast, and then they were at it steadily, with the dining rooms to “do,” and the lunch to get ready, until 11:30, when they had an hour to eat and rest. From 12:30 to 4 o'clock they were busy with the lunch cups, the bed-rooms, and setting the table for dinner; but after that they had four hours to themselves, until the nine o'clock supper was over, and once more they washed dishes for half an hour. The caffeteria used only cups and spoons; the sandwiches and cakes were served on paper plates. In the hand-cart methods of small housekeeping it is impossible to exact the swift precision of such work, but not in the standardized tasks and regular hours of such an establishment as this. Diantha religiously kept her hour at noon, and tried to keep the three in the afternoon; but the employer and manager cannot take irresponsible rest as can the employee. She felt like a most inexperienced captain on a totally new species of ship, and her paper plans looked very weak sometimes, as bills turned out to be larger than she had allowed for, or her patronage unaccountably dwindled. But if the difficulties were great, the girl's courage was greater. “It is simply a big piece of work,” she assured herself, “and may be a long one, but there never was anything better worth doing. Every new business has difficulties, I mustn't think of them. I must just push and push and push--a little more every day.” And then she would draw on all her powers to reason with, laugh at, and persuade some dissatisfied girl; or, hardest of all, to bring in a new one to fill a vacancy. She enjoyed the details of her lunch business, and studied it carefully; planning for a restaurant a little later. Her bread was baked in long cylindrical closed pans, and cut by machinery into thin even slices, not a crust wasted; for they were ground into crumbs and used in the cooking. The filling for her sandwiches was made from fish, flesh, and fowl; from cheese and jelly and fruit and vegetables; and so named or numbered that the general favorites were gradually determined. Mr. Thaddler chatted with her over the counter, as far as she would allow it, and discoursed more fully with his friends on the verandah. “Porne,” he said, “where'd that girl come from anyway? She's a genius, that's what she is; a regular genius.” “She's all that,” said Mr. Porne, “and a benefactor to humanity thrown in. I wish she'd start her food delivery, though. I'm tired of those two Swedes already. O--come from? Up in Jopalez, Inca County, I believe.” “New England stock I bet,” said Mr. Thaddler. “Its a damn shame the way the women go on about her.” “Not all of them, surely,” protested Mr. Porne. “No, not all of 'em,--but enough of 'em to make mischief, you may be sure. Women are the devil, sometimes.” Mr. Porne smiled without answer, and Mr. Thaddler went sulking away--a bag of cakes bulging in his pocket. The little wooden hotel in Jopalez boasted an extra visitor a few days later. A big red faced man, who strolled about among the tradesmen, tried the barber's shop, loafed in the post office, hired a rig and traversed the length and breadth of the town, and who called on Mrs. Warden, talking real estate with her most politely in spite of her protestation and the scornful looks of the four daughters; who bought tobacco and matches in the grocery store, and sat on the piazza thereof to smoke, as did other gentlemen of leisure. Ross Warden occasionally leaned at the door jamb, with folded arms. He never could learn to be easily sociable with ranchmen and teamsters. Serve them he must, but chat with them he need not. The stout gentleman essayed some conversation, but did not get far. Ross was polite, but far from encouraging, and presently went home to supper, leaving a carrot-haired boy to wait upon his lingering customers. “Nice young feller enough,” said the stout gentleman to himself, “but raised on ramrods. Never got 'em from those women folks of his, either. He _has_ a row to hoe!” And he departed as he had come. Mr. Eltwood turned out an unexpectedly useful friend to Diantha. He steered club meetings and “sociables” into her large rooms, and as people found how cheap and easy it was to give parties that way, they continued the habit. He brought his doctor friends to sample the lunch, and they tested the value of Diantha's invalid cookery, and were more than pleased. Hungry tourists were wholly without prejudice, and prized her lunches for their own sake. They descended upon the caffeteria in chattering swarms, some days, robbing the regular patrons of their food, and sent sudden orders for picnic lunches that broke in upon the routine hours of the place unmercifully. But of all her patrons, the families of invalids appreciated Diantha's work the most. Where a little shack or tent was all they could afford to live in, or where the tiny cottage was more than filled with the patient, attending relative, and nurse, this depot of supplies was a relief indeed. A girl could be had for an hour or two; or two girls, together, with amazing speed, could put a small house in dainty order while the sick man lay in his hammock under the pepper trees; and be gone before he was fretting for his bed again. They lived upon her lunches; and from them, and other quarters, rose an increasing demand for regular cooked food. “Why don't you go into it at once?” urged Mrs. Weatherstone. “I want to establish the day service first,” said Diantha. “It is a pretty big business I find, and I do get tired sometimes. I can't afford to slip up, you know. I mean to take it up next fall, though.” “All right. And look here; see that you begin in first rate shape. I've got some ideas of my own about those food containers.” They discussed the matter more than once, Diantha most reluctant to take any assistance; Mrs. Weatherstone determined that she should. “I feel like a big investor already,” she said. “I don't think even you realize the _money_ there is in this thing! You are interested in establishing the working girls, and saving money and time for the housewives. I am interested in making money out of it--honestly! It would be such a triumph!” “You're very good--” Diantha hesitated. “I'm not good. I'm most eagerly and selfishly interested. I've taken a new lease of life since knowing you, Diantha Bell! You see my father was a business man, and his father before him--I _like it._ There I was, with lots of money, and not an interest in life! Now?--why, there's no end to this thing, Diantha! It's one of the biggest businesses on earth--if not _the_ biggest!” “Yes--I know,” the girl answered. “But its slow work. I feel the weight of it more than I expected. There's every reason to succeed, but there's the combined sentiment of the whole world to lift--it's as heavy as lead.” “Heavy! Of course it's heavy! The more fun to lift it! You'll do it, Diantha, I know you will, with that steady, relentless push of yours. But the cooked food is going to be your biggest power, and you must let me start it right. Now you listen to me, and make Mrs. Thaddler eat her words!” Mrs. Thaddler's words would have proved rather poisonous, if eaten. She grew more antagonistic as the year advanced. Every fault that could be found in the undertaking she pounced upon and enlarged; every doubt that could be cast upon it she heavily piled up; and her opposition grew more rancorous as Mr. Thaddler enlarged in her hearing upon the excellence of Diantha's lunches and the wonders of her management. “She's picked a bunch o' winners in those girls of hers,” he declared to his friends. “They set out in the morning looking like a flock of sweet peas--in their pinks and whites and greens and vi'lets,--and do more work in an hour than the average slavey can do in three, I'm told.” It was a pretty sight to see those girls start out. They had a sort of uniform, as far as a neat gingham dress went, with elbow sleeves, white ruffled, and a Dutch collar; a sort of cross between a nurses dress and that of “La Chocolataire;” but colors were left to taste. Each carried her apron and a cap that covered the hair while cooking and sweeping; but nothing that suggested the black and white livery of the regulation servant. “This is a new stage of labor,” their leader reminded them. “You are not servants--you are employees. You wear a cap as an English carpenter does--or a French cook,--and an apron because your work needs it. It is not a ruffled label,--it's a business necessity. And each one of us must do our best to make this new kind of work valued and respected.” It is no easy matter to overcome prejudices many centuries old, and meet the criticism of women who have nothing to do but criticize. Those who were “mistresses,” and wanted “servants,”--someone to do their will at any moment from early morning till late evening,--were not pleased with the new way if they tried it; but the women who had interests of their own to attend to; who merely wanted their homes kept clean, and the food well cooked and served, were pleased. The speed, the accuracy, the economy; the pleasant, quiet, assured manner of these skilled employees was a very different thing from the old slipshod methods of the ordinary general servant. So the work slowly prospered, while Diantha began to put in execution the new plan she had been forced into. While it matured, Mrs. Thaddler matured hers. With steady dropping she had let fall far and wide her suspicions as to the character of Union House. “It looks pretty queer to me!” she would say, confidentially, “All those girls together, and no person to have any authority over them! Not a married woman in the house but that washerwoman,--and her husband's a fool!” “And again; You don't see how she does it? Neither do I! The expenses must be tremendous--those girls pay next to nothing,--and all that broth and brown bread flying about town! Pretty queer doings, I think!” “The men seem to like that caffeteria, don't they?” urged one caller, perhaps not unwilling to nestle Mrs. Thaddler, who flushed darkly as she replied. “Yes, they do. Men usually like that sort of place.” “They like good food at low prices, if that's what you mean,” her visitor answered. “That's not all I mean--by a long way,” said Mrs. Thaddler. She said so much, and said it so ingeniously, that a dark rumor arose from nowhere, and grew rapidly. Several families discharged their Union House girls. Several girls complained that they were insultingly spoken to on the street. Even the lunch patronage began to fall off. Diantha was puzzled--a little alarmed. Her slow, steady lifting of the prejudice against her was checked. She could not put her finger on the enemy, yet felt one distinctly, and had her own suspicions. But she also had her new move well arranged by this time. Then a maliciously insinuating story of the place came out in a San Francisco paper, and a flock of local reporters buzzed in to sample the victim. They helped themselves to the luncheon, and liked it, but that did not soften their pens. They talked with such of the girls as they could get in touch with, and wrote such versions of these talks as suited them. They called repeatedly at Union House, but Diantha refused to see them. Finally she was visited by the Episcopalian clergyman. He had heard her talk at the Club, was favorably impressed by the girl herself, and honestly distressed by the dark stories he now heard about Union House. “My dear young lady,” he said, “I have called to see you in your own interests. I do not, as you perhaps know, approve of your schemes. I consider them--ah--subversive of the best interests of the home! But I think you mean well, though mistakenly. Now I fear you are not aware that this-ah--ill-considered undertaking of yours, is giving rise to considerable adverse comment in the community. There is--ah--there is a great deal being said about this business of yours which I am sure you would regret if you knew it. Do you think it is wise; do you think it is--ah--right, my dear Miss Bell, to attempt to carry on a--a place of this sort, without the presence of a--of a Matron of assured standing?” Diantha smiled rather coldly. “May I trouble you to step into the back parlor, Dr. Aberthwaite,” she said; and then; “May I have the pleasure of presenting to you Mrs. Henderson Bell--my mother?” ***** “Wasn't it great!” said Mrs. Weatherstone; “I was there you see,--I'd come to call on Mrs. Bell--she's a dear,--and in came Mrs. Thaddler--” “Mrs. Thaddler?” “O I know it was old Aberthwaite, but he represented Mrs. Thaddler and her clique, and had come there to preach to Diantha about propriety--I heard him,--and she brought him in and very politely introduced him to her mother!--it was rich, Isabel.” “How did Diantha manage it?” asked her friend. “She's been trying to arrange it for ever so long. Of course her father objected--you'd know that. But there's a sister--not a bad sort, only very limited; she's taken the old man to board, as it were, and I guess the mother really set her foot down for once--said she had a right to visit her own daughter!” “It would seem so,” Mrs. Porne agreed. “I _am_ so glad! It will be so much easier for that brave little woman now.” It was. Diantha held her mother in her arms the night she came, and cried tike a baby. “O mother _dear!_” she sobbed, “I'd no idea I should miss you so much. O you blessed comfort!” Her mother cried a bit too; she enjoyed this daughter more than either of her older children, and missed her more. A mother loves all her children, naturally; but a mother is also a person--and may, without sin, have personal preferences. She took hold of Diantha's tangled mass of papers with the eagerness of a questing hound. “You've got all the bills, of course,” she demanded, with her anxious rising inflection. “Every one,” said the girl. “You taught me that much. What puzzles me is to make things balance. I'm making more than I thought in some lines, and less in others, and I can't make it come out straight.” “It won't, altogether, till the end of the year I dare say,” said Mrs. Bell, “but let's get clear as far as we can. In the first place we must separate your business,--see how much each one pays.” “The first one I want to establish,” said her daughter, “is the girl's club. Not just this one, with me to run it. But to show that any group of twenty or thirty girls could do this thing in any city. Of course where rents and provisions were high they'd have to charge more. I want to make an average showing somehow. Now can you disentangle the girl part front the lunch part and the food part, mother dear, and make it all straight?” Mrs. Bell could and did; it gave her absolute delight to do it. She set down the total of Diantha's expenses so far in the Service Department, as follows: Rent of Union House $1,500 Rent of furniture................... $300 One payment on furniture............ $400 Fuel and lights, etc................ $352 Service of 5 at $10 a week each... $2,600 Food for thirty-seven............. $3,848 ----- Total............................. $9,000 “That covers everything but my board,” said Mrs. Bell. “Now your income is easy--35 x $4.50 equals $8,190. Take that from your $9,000 and you are $810 behind.” “Yes, I know,” said Diantha, eagerly, “but if it was merely a girl's club home, the rent and fixtures would be much less. A home could be built, with thirty bedrooms--and all necessary conveniences--for $7,000. I've asked Mr. and Mrs. Porne about it; and the furnishing needn't cost over $2,000 if it was very plain. Ten per cent. of that is a rent of $900 you see.” “I see,” said her mother. “Better say a thousand. I guess it could be done for that.” So they set down rent, $1,000. “There have to be five paid helpers in the house,” Diantha went on, “the cook, the laundress, the two maids, and the matron. She must buy and manage. She could be one of their mothers or aunts.” Mrs. Bell smiled. “Do you really imagine, Diantha, that Mrs. O'Shaughnessy or Mrs. Yon Yonson can manage a house like this as you can?” Diantha flushed a little. “No, mother, of course not. But I am keeping very full reports of all the work. Just the schedule of labor--the hours--the exact things done. One laundress, with machinery, can wash for thirty-five, (its only six a day you see), and the amount is regulated; about six dozen a day, and all the flat work mangled. “In a Girl's Club alone the cook has all day off, as it were; she can do the down stairs cleaning. And the two maids have only table service and bedrooms.” “Thirty-five bedrooms?” “Yes. But two girls together, who know how, can do a room in 8 minutes--easily. They are small and simple you see. Make the bed, shake the mats, wipe the floors and windows,--you watch them!” “I have watched them,” the mother admitted. “They are as quick as--as mill-workers!” “Well,” pursued Diantha, “they spend three hours on dishes and tables, and seven on cleaning. The bedrooms take 280 minutes; that's nearly five hours. The other two are for the bath rooms, halls, stairs, downstairs windows, and so on. That's all right. Then I'm keeping the menus--just what I furnish and what it costs. Anybody could order and manage when it was all set down for her. And you see--as you have figured it--they'd have over $500 leeway to buy the furniture if they were allowed to.” “Yes,” Mrs. Bell admitted, “_if_ the rent was what you allow, and _if_ they all work all the time!” “That's the hitch, of course. But mother; the girls who don't have steady jobs do work by the hour, and that brings in more, on the whole. If they are the right kind they can make good. If they find anyone who don't keep her job--for good reasons--they can drop her.” “M'm!” said Mrs. Bell. “Well, it's an interesting experiment. But how about you? So far you are $410 behind.” “Yes, because my rent's so big. But I cover that by letting the rooms, you see.” Mrs. Bell considered the orders of this sort. “So far it averages about $25.00 a week; that's doing well.” “It will be less in summer--much less,” Diantha suggested. “Suppose you call it an average of $15.00.” “Call it $10.00,” said her mother ruthlessly. “At that it covers your deficit and $110 over.” “Which isn't much to live on,” Diantha agreed, “but then comes my special catering, and the lunches.” Here they were quite at sea for a while. But as the months passed, and the work steadily grew on their hands, Mrs. Bell became more and more cheerful. She was up with the earliest, took entire charge of the financial part of the concern, and at last Diantha was able to rest fully in her afternoon hours. What delighted her most was to see her mother thrive in the work. Her thin shoulders lifted a little as small dragging tasks were forgotten and a large growing business substituted. Her eyes grew bright again, she held her head as she did in her keen girlhood, and her daughter felt fresh hope and power as she saw already the benefit of the new method as affecting her nearest and dearest. All Diantha's friends watched the spread of the work with keenly sympathetic intent; but to Mrs. Weatherstone it became almost as fascinating as to the girl herself. “It's going to be one of the finest businesses in the world!” she said, “And one of the largest and best paying. Now I'll have a surprise ready for that girl in the spring, and another next year, if I'm not mistaken!” There were long and vivid discussions of the matter between her and her friends the Pornes, and Mrs. Porne spent more hours in her “drawing room” than she had for years. But while these unmentioned surprises were pending, Mrs. Weatherstone departed to New York--to Europe; and was gone some months. In the spring she returned, in April--which is late June in Orchardina. She called upon Diantha and her mother at once, and opened her attack. “I do hope, Mrs. Bell, that you'll back me up,” she said. “You have the better business head I think, in the financial line.” “She has,” Diantha admitted. “She's ten times as good as I am at that; but she's no more willing to carry obligation than I am, Mrs. Weatherstone.” “Obligation is one thing--investment is another,” said her guest. “I live on my money--that is, on other people's work. I am a base capitalist, and you seem to me good material to invest in. So--take it or leave it--I've brought you an offer.” She then produced from her hand bag some papers, and, from her car outside, a large object carefully boxed, about the size and shape of a plate warmer. This being placed on the table before them, was uncovered, and proved to be a food container of a new model. “I had one made in Paris,” she explained, “and the rest copied here to save paying duty. Lift it!” They lifted it in amazement--it was so light. “Aluminum,” she said, proudly, “Silver plated--new process! And bamboo at the corners you see. All lined and interlined with asbestos, rubber fittings for silver ware, plate racks, food compartments--see?” She pulled out drawers, opened little doors, and rapidly laid out a table service for five. “It will hold food for five--the average family, you know. For larger orders you'll have to send more. I had to make _some_ estimate.” “What lovely dishes!” said Diantha. “Aren't they! Aluminum, silvered! If your washers are careful they won't get dented, and you can't break 'em.” Mrs. Bell examined the case and all its fittings with eager attention. “It's the prettiest thing I ever saw,” she said. “Look, Diantha; here's for soup, here's for water--or wine if you want, all your knives and forks at the side, Japanese napkins up here. Its lovely, but--I should think--expensive!” Mrs. Weatherstone smiled. “I've had twenty-five of them made. They cost, with the fittings, $100 apiece, $2,500. I will rent them to you, Miss Bell, at a rate of 10 per cent. interest; only $250 a year!” “It ought to take more,” said Mrs. Bell, “there'll be breakage and waste.” “You can't break them, I tell you,” said the cheerful visitor, “and dents can be smoothed out in any tin shop--you'll have to pay for it;--will that satisfy you?” Diantha was looking at her, her eyes deep with gratitude. “I--you know what I think of you!” she said. Mrs. Weatherstone laughed. “I'm not through yet,” she said. “Look at my next piece of impudence!” This was only on paper, but the pictures were amply illuminating. “I went to several factories,” she gleefully explained, “here and abroad. A Yankee firm built it. It's in my garage now!” It was a light gasolene motor wagon, the body built like those old-fashioned moving wagons which were also used for excursions, wherein the floor of the vehicle was rather narrow, and set low, and the seats ran lengthwise, widening out over the wheels; only here the wheels were lower, and in the space under the seats ran a row of lockers opening outside. Mrs. Weatherstone smiled triumphantly. “Now, Diantha Bell,” she said, “here's something you haven't thought of, I do believe! This estimable vehicle will carry thirty people inside easily,” and she showed them how each side held twelve, and turn-up seats accommodated six more; “and outside,”--she showed the lengthwise picture--“it carries twenty-four containers. If you want to send all your twenty-five at once, one can go here by the driver. “Now then. This is not an obligation, Miss Bell, it is another valuable investment. I'm having more made. I expect to have use for them in a good many places. This cost pretty near $3,000, and you get it at the same good interest, for $300 a year. What's more, if you are smart enough--and I don't doubt you are,--you can buy the whole thing on installments, same as you mean to with your furniture.” Diantha was dumb, but her mother wasn't. She thanked Mrs. Weatherstone with a hearty appreciation of her opportune help, but no less of her excellent investment. “Don't be a goose, Diantha,” she said. “You will set up your food business in first class style, and I think you can carry it successfully. But Mrs. Weatherstone's right; she's got a new investment here that'll pay her better than most others--and be a growing thing I do believe.” And still Diantha found it difficult to express her feelings. She had lived under a good deal of strain for many months now, and this sudden opening out of her plans was a heavenly help indeed. Mrs. Weatherstone went around the table and sat by her. “Child,” said she, “you don't begin to realize what you've done for me--and for Isobel--and for ever so many in this town, and all over the world. And besides, don't you think anybody else can see your dream? We can't _do_ it as you can, but we can see what it's going to mean,--and we'll help if we can. You wouldn't grudge us that, would you?” As a result of all this the cooked food delivery service was opened at once. “It is true that the tourists are gone, mostly,” said Mrs. Weatherstone, as she urged it, “but you see there are ever so many residents who have more trouble with servants in summer than they do in winter, and hate to have a fire in the house, too.” So Diantha's circulars had an addition, forthwith. These were distributed among the Orchardinians, setting their tongues wagging anew, as a fresh breeze stirs the eaves of the forest. The stealthy inroads of lunches and evening refreshments had been deprecated already; this new kind of servant who wasn't a servant, but held her head up like anyone else (“They are as independent as--as--'salesladies,'” said one critic), was also viewed with alarm; but when even this domestic assistant was to be removed, and a square case of food and dishes substituted, all Archaic Orchardina was horrified. There were plenty of new minds in the place, however; enough to start Diantha with seven full orders and five partial ones. Her work at the club was now much easier, thanks to her mother's assistance, to the smoother running of all the machinery with the passing of time, and further to the fact that most of her girls were now working at summer resorts, for shorter hours and higher wages. They paid for their rooms at the club still, but the work of the house was so much lightened that each of the employees was given two weeks of vacation--on full pay. The lunch department kept on a pretty regular basis from the patronage of resident business men, and the young manager--in her ambitious moments--planned for enlarging it in the winter. But during the summer her whole energies went to perfecting the _menus_ and the service of her food delivery. Mrs. Porne was the very first to order. She had been waiting impatiently for a chance to try the plan, and, with her husband, had the firmest faith in Diantha's capacity to carry it through. “We don't save much in money,” she explained to the eager Mrs. Ree, who hovered, fascinated, over the dangerous topic, “but we do in comfort, I can tell you. You see I had two girls, paid them $12 a week; now I keep just the one, for $6. My food and fuel for the four of us (I don't count the babies either time--they remain as before), was all of $16, often more. That made $28 a week. Now I pay for three meals a day, delivered, for three of us, $15 a week--with the nurse's wages, $21. Then I pay a laundress one day, $2, and her two meals, $.50, making $23.50. Then I have two maids, for an hour a day, to clean; $.50 a day for six days, $3, and one maid Sunday, $.25. $26.75 in all. So we only make $1.25. _But!_ there's another room! We have the cook's room for an extra guest; I use it most for a sewing room, though and the kitchen is a sort of day nursery now. The house seems as big again!” “But the food?” eagerly inquired Mrs. Ree. “Is it as good as your own? Is it hot and tempting?” Mrs. Ree was fascinated by the new heresy. As a staunch adherent of the old Home and Culture Club, and its older ideals, she disapproved of the undertaking, but her curiosity was keen about it. Mrs. Porne smiled patiently. “You remember Diantha Bell's cooking I am sure, Mrs. Ree,” she said. “And Julianna used to cook for dinner parties--when one could get her. My Swede was a very ordinary cook, as most of these untrained girls are. Do take off your hat and have dinner with us,--I'll show you,” urged Mrs. Porne. “I--O I mustn't,” fluttered the little woman. “They'll expect me at home--and--surely your--supply--doesn't allow for guests?” “We'll arrange all that by 'phone,” her hostess explained; and she promptly sent word to the Ree household, then called up Union House and ordered one extra dinner. “Is it--I'm dreadfully rude I know, but I'm _so_ interested! Is it--expensive?” Mrs. Porne smiled. “Haven't you seen the little circular? Here's one, 'Extra meals to regular patrons 25 cents.' And no more trouble to order than to tell a maid.” Mrs. Ree had a lively sense of paltering with Satan as she sat down to the Porne's dinner table. She had seen the delivery wagon drive to the door, had heard the man deposit something heavy on the back porch, and was now confronted by a butler's tray at Mrs. Porne's left, whereon stood a neat square shining object with silvery panels and bamboo trimmings. “It's not at all bad looking, is it?” she ventured. “Not bad enough to spoil one's appetite,” Mr. Porne cheerily agreed. “Open, Sesame! Now you know the worst.” Mrs. Porne opened it, and an inner front was shown, with various small doors and drawers. “Do you know what is in it?” asked the guest. “No, thank goodness, I don't,” replied her hostess. “If there's anything tiresome it is to order meals and always know what's coming! That's what men get so tired of at restaurants; what they hate so when their wives ask them what they want for dinner. Now I can enjoy my dinner at my own table, just as if I was a guest.” “It is--a tax--sometimes,” Mrs. Ree admitted, adding hastily, “But one is glad to do it--to make home attractive.” Mr. Porne's eyes sought his wife's, and love and contentment flashed between them, as she quietly set upon the table three silvery plates. “Not silver, surely!” said Mrs. Ree, lifting hers, “Oh, aluminum.” “Aluminum, silver plated,” said Mr. Porne. “They've learned how to do it at last. It's a problem of weight, you see, and breakage. Aluminum isn't pretty, glass and silver are heavy, but we all love silver, and there's a pleasant sense of gorgeousness in this outfit.” It did look rather impressive; silver tumblers, silver dishes, the whole dainty service--and so surprisingly light. “You see she knows that it is very important to please the eye as well as the palate,” said Mr. Porne. “Now speaking of palates, let us all keep silent and taste this soup.” They did keep silent in supreme contentment while the soup lasted. Mrs. Ree laid down her spoon with the air of one roused from a lovely dream. “Why--why--it's like Paris,” she said in an awed tone. “Isn't it?” Mr. Porne agreed, “and not twice alike in a month, I think.” “Why, there aren't thirty kinds of soup, are there?” she urged. “I never thought there were when we kept servants,” said he. “Three was about their limit, and greasy, at that.” Mrs. Porne slipped the soup plates back in their place and served the meat. “She does not give a fish course, does she?” Mrs. Ree observed. “Not at the table d'hote price,” Mrs. Porne answered. “We never pretended to have a fish course ourselves--do you?” Mrs. Ree did not, and eagerly disclaimed any desire for fish. The meat was roast beef, thinly sliced, hot and juicy. “Don't you miss the carving, Mr. Porne?” asked the visitor. “I do so love to see a man at the head of his own table, carving.” “I do miss it, Mrs. Ree. I miss it every day of my life with devout thankfulness. I never was a good carver, so it was no pleasure to me to show off; and to tell you the truth, when I come to the table, I like to eat--not saw wood.” And Mr. Porne ate with every appearance of satisfaction. “We never get roast beef like this I'm sure,” Mrs. Ree admitted, “we can't get it small enough for our family.” “And a little roast is always spoiled in the cooking. Yes this is far better than we used to have,” agreed her hostess. Mrs. Ree enjoyed every mouthful of her meal. The soup was hot. The salad was crisp and the ice cream hard. There was sponge cake, thick, light, with sugar freckles on the dark crust. The coffee was perfect and almost burned the tongue. “I don't understand about the heat and cold,” she said; and they showed her the asbestos-lined compartments and perfectly fitting places for each dish and plate. Everything went back out of sight; small leavings in a special drawer, knives and forks held firmly by rubber fittings, nothing that shook or rattled. And the case was set back by the door where the man called for it at eight o'clock. “She doesn't furnish table linen?” “No, there are Japanese napkins at the top here. We like our own napkins, and we didn't use a cloth, anyway.” “And how about silver?” “We put ours away. This plated ware they furnish is perfectly good. We could use ours of course if we wanted to wash it. Some do that and some have their own case marked, and their own silver in it, but it's a good deal of risk, I think, though they are extremely careful.” Mrs. Ree experienced peculiarly mixed feelings. As far as food went, she had never eaten a better dinner. But her sense of Domestic Aesthetics was jarred. “It certainly tastes good,” she said. “Delicious, in fact. I am extremely obliged to you, Mrs. Porne, I'd no idea it could be sent so far and be so good. And only five dollars a week, you say?” “For each person, yes.” “I don't see how she does it. All those cases and dishes, and the delivery wagon!” That was the universal comment in Orchardina circles as the months passed and Union House continued in existence--“I don't see how she does it!” CHAPTER XII. LIKE A BANYAN TREE The Earth-Plants spring up from beneath, The Air-Plants swing down from above, But the Banyan trees grow Both above and below, And one makes a prosperous grove. In the fleeting opportunities offered by the Caffeteria, and in longer moments, rather neatly planned for, with some remnants of an earlier ingenuity, Mr. Thaddler contrived to become acquainted with Mrs. Bell. Diantha never quite liked him, but he won her mother's heart by frank praise of the girl and her ventures. “I never saw a smarter woman in my life,” he said; “and no airs. I tell you, ma'am, if there was more like her this world would be an easier place to live in, and I can see she owes it all to you, ma'am.” This the mother would never admit for a moment, but expatiated loyally on the scientific mind of Mr. Henderson Bell, still of Jopalez. “I don't see how he can bear to let her out of his sight,” said Mr. Thaddler. “Of course he hated to let her go,” replied the lady. “We both did. But he is very proud of her now.” “I guess there's somebody else who's proud of her, too,” he suggested. “Excuse me, ma'am, I don't mean to intrude, but we know there must be a good reason for your daughter keeping all Orchardina at a distance. Why, she could have married six times over in her first year here!” “She does not wish to give up her work,” Mrs. Bell explained. “Of course not; and why should she? Nice, womanly business, I am sure. I hope nobody'd expect a girl who can keep house for a whole township to settle down to bossing one man and a hired girl.” In course of time he got a pretty clear notion of how matters stood, and meditated upon it, seriously rolling his big cigar about between pursed lips. Mr. Thaddler was a good deal of a gossip, but this he kept to himself, and did what he could to enlarge the patronage of Union House. The business grew. It held its own in spite of fluctuations, and after a certain point began to spread steadily. Mrs. Bell's coming and Mr. Eltwood's ardent championship, together with Mr. Thaddler's, quieted the dangerous slanders which had imperilled the place at one time. They lingered, subterraneously, of course. People never forget slanders. A score of years after there were to be found in Orchardina folk who still whispered about dark allegations concerning Union House; and the papers had done some pretty serious damage; but the fame of good food, good service, cheapness and efficiency made steady headway. In view of the increase and of the plans still working in her mind, Diantha made certain propositions to Mr. Porne, and also to Mrs. Porne, in regard to a new, specially built club-house for the girls. “I have proved what they can do, with me to manage them, and want now to prove that they can do it themselves, with any matron competent to follow my directions. The house need not be so expensive; one big dining-room, with turn-up tables like those ironing-board seat-tables, you know--then they can dance there. Small reception room and office, hall, kitchen and laundry, and thirty bedrooms, forty by thirty, with an “ell” for the laundry, ought to do it, oughtn't it?” Mrs. Porne agreed to make plans, and did so most successfully, and Mr. Porne found small difficulty in persuading an investor to put up such a house, which visibly could be used as a boarding-house or small hotel, if it failed in its first purpose. It was built of concrete, a plain simple structure, but fine in proportions and pleasantly colored. Diantha kept her plans to herself, as usual, but they grew so fast that she felt a species of terror sometimes, lest the ice break somewhere. “Steady, now!” she would say. “This is real business, just plain business. There's no reason why I shouldn't succeed as well as Fred Harvey. I will succeed. I am succeeding.” She kept well, she worked hard, she was more than glad to have her mother with her; but she wanted something else, which seemed farther off than ever. Her lover's picture hung on the wall of her bedroom, stood on her bureau, and (but this was a secret) a small one was carried in her bosom. Rather a grim looking young woman, Diantha, with the cares of the world of house-keepers upon her proud young shoulders; with all the stirring hopes to be kept within bounds, all the skulking fears to be resisted, and the growing burden of a large affair to be carried steadily. But when she woke, in the brilliant California mornings, she would lie still a few moments looking at the face on the wall and the face on the bureau; would draw the little picture out from under her pillow and kiss it, would say to herself for the thousandth time, “It is for him, too.” She missed him, always. The very vigor of her general attitude, the continued strength with which she met the days and carried them, made it all the more needful for her to have some one with whom she could forget every care, every purpose, every effort; some one who would put strong arms around her and call her “Little Girl.” His letters were both a comfort and a pain. He was loyal, kind, loving, but always that wall of disapproval. He loved her, he did not love her work. She read them over and over, hunting anew for the tender phrases, the things which seemed most to feed and comfort her. She suffered not only from her loneliness, but from his; and most keenly from his sternly suppressed longing for freedom and the work that belonged to him. “Why can't he see,” she would say to herself, “that if this succeeds, he can do his work; that I can make it possible for him? And he won't let me. He won't take it from me. Why are men so proud? Is there anything so ignominious about a woman that it is disgraceful to let one help you? And why can't he think at all about the others? It's not just us, it's all people. If this works, men will have easier times, as well as women. Everybody can do their real work better with this old primitive business once set right.” And then it was always time to get up, or time to go to bed, or time to attend to some of the numberless details of her affairs. She and her mother had an early lunch before the caffeteria opened, and were glad of the afternoon tea, often held in a retired corner of the broad piazza. She sat there one hot, dusty afternoon, alone and unusually tired. The asphalted street was glaring and noisy, the cross street deep in soft dust, for months unwet. Failure had not discouraged her, but increasing success with all its stimulus and satisfaction called for more and more power. Her mind was busy foreseeing, arranging, providing for emergencies; and then the whole thing slipped away from her, she dropped her head upon her arm for a moment, on the edge of the tea table, and wished for Ross. From down the street and up the street at this moment, two men were coming; both young, both tall, both good looking, both apparently approaching Union House. One of them was the nearer, and his foot soon sounded on the wooden step. The other stopped and looked in a shop window. Diantha started up, came forward,--it was Mr. Eltwood. She had a vague sense of disappointment, but received him cordially. He stood there, his hat off, holding her hand for a long moment, and gazing at her with evident admiration. They turned and sat down in the shadow of the reed-curtained corner. The man at the shop window turned, too, and went away. Mr. Eltwood had been a warm friend and cordial supporter from the epoch of the Club-splitting speech. He had helped materially in the slow, up-hill days of the girl's effort, with faith and kind words. He had met the mother's coming with most friendly advances, and Mrs. Bell found herself much at home in his liberal little church. Diantha had grown to like and trust him much. “What's this about the new house, Miss Bell? Your mother says I may know.” “Why not?” she said. “You have followed this thing from the first. Sugar or lemon? You see I want to disentangle the undertakings, set them upon their own separate feet, and establish the practical working of each one.” “I see,” he said, “and 'day service' is not 'cooked food delivery.'” “Nor yet 'rooms for entertainment',” she agreed. “We've got them all labelled, mother and I. There's the 'd. s.' and 'c. f. d.' and 'r. f. e.' and the 'p. p.' That's picnics and parties. And more coming.” “What, more yet? You'll kill yourself, Miss Bell. Don't go too fast. You are doing a great work for humanity. Why not take a little more time?” “I want to do it as quickly as I can, for reasons,” answered Diantha. Mr. Eltwood looked at her with tender understanding. “I don't want to intrude any further than you are willing to want me,” he said, “but sometimes I think that even you--strong as you are--would be better for some help.” She did not contradict him. Her hands were in her lap, her eyes on the worn boards of the piazza floor. She did not see a man pass on the other side of the street, cast a searching glance across and walk quickly on again. “If you were quite free to go on with your beautiful work,” said Mr. Eltwood slowly, “if you were offered heartiest appreciation, profound respect, as well as love, of course; would you object to marrying, Miss Bell?” asked in an even voice, as if it were a matter of metaphysical inquiry. Mrs. Porne had told him of her theory as to a lover in the home town, wishing to save him a long heart ache, but he was not sure of it, and he wanted to be. Diantha glanced quickly at him, and felt the emotion under his quiet words. She withdrew her eyes, looking quite the other way. “You are enough of a friend to know, Mr. Eltwood,” she said, “I rather thought you did know. I am engaged.” “Thank you for telling me; some one is greatly to be congratulated,” he spoke sincerely, and talked quietly on about less personal matters, holding his tea untasted till it was cold. “Do let me give you some that is hot,” she said at last, “and let me thank you from my heart for the help and strength and comfort you have been to me, Mr. Eltwood.” “I'm very glad,” he said; and again, “I am very glad.” “You may count upon anything I can do for you, always,” he continued. “I am proud to be your friend.” He held her hand once more for a moment, and went away with his head up and a firm step. To one who watched him go, he had almost a triumphant air, but it was not triumph, only the brave beginning of a hard fight and a long one. Then came Mrs. Bell, returned from a shopping trip, and sank down in a wicker rocker, glad of the shade and a cup of tea. No, she didn't want it iced. “Hot tea makes you cooler,” was her theory. “You don't look very tired,” said the girl. “Seems to me you get stronger all the time.” “I do,” said her mother. “You don't realize, you can't realize, Diantha, what this means to me. Of course to you I am an old woman, a back number--one has to feel so about one's mother. I did when I married, and my mother then was five years younger than I am now.” “I don't think you old, mother, not a bit of it. You ought to have twenty or thirty years of life before you, real life.” “That's just what I'm feeling,” said Mrs. Bell, “as if I'd just begun to live! This is so _different!_ There is a big, moving thing to work for. There is--why Diantha, you wouldn't believe what a comfort it is to me to feel that my work here is--really--adding to the profits!” Diantha laughed aloud. “You dear old darling,” she said, “I should think it was! It is _making_ the profits.” “And it grows so,” her mother went on. “Here's this part so well assured that you're setting up the new Union House! Are you _sure_ about Mrs. Jessup, dear?” “As sure as I can be of any one till I've tried a long time. She has done all I've asked her to here, and done it well. Besides, I mean to keep a hand on it for a year or two yet--I can't afford to have that fail.” Mrs. Jessup was an imported aunt, belonging to one of the cleverest girls, and Diantha had had her in training for some weeks. “Well, I guess she's as good as any you'd be likely to get,” Mrs. Bell admitted, “and we mustn't expect paragons. If this can't be done by an average bunch of working women the world over, it can't be done--that's all!” “It can be done,” said the girl, calmly. “It will be done. You see.” “Mr. Thaddler says you could run any kind of a business you set your hand to,” her mother went on. “He has a profound respect for your abilities, Dina.” “Seems to me you and Mr. Thaddler have a good deal to say to each other, motherkins. I believe you enjoy that caffeteria desk, and all the compliments you get.” “I do,” said Mrs. Bell stoutly. “I do indeed! Why, I haven't seen so many men, to speak to, since--why, never in my life! And they are very amusing--some of them. They like to come here--like it immensely. And I don't wonder. I believe you'll do well to enlarge.” Then they plunged into a discussion of the winter's plans. The day service department and its employment agency was to go on at the New Union House, with Mrs. Jessup as manager; the present establishment was to be run as a hotel and restaurant, and the depot for the cooked food delivery. Mrs. Thorvald and her husband were installed by themselves in another new venture; a small laundry outside the town. This place employed several girls steadily, and the motor wagon found a new use between meals, in collecting and delivering laundry parcels. “It simplifies it a lot--to get the washing out of the place and the girls off my mind,” said Diantha. “Now I mean to buckle down and learn the hotel business--thoroughly, and develop this cooked food delivery to perfection.” “Modest young lady,” smiled her mother. “Where do you mean to stop--if ever?” “I don't mean to stop till I'm dead,” Diantha answered; “but I don't mean to undertake any more trades, if that is what you mean. You know what I'm after--to get 'housework' on a business basis, that's all; and prove, prove, PROVE what a good business it is. There's the cleaning branch--that's all started and going well in the day service. There's the washing--that's simple and easy. Laundry work's no mystery. But the food part is a big thing. It's an art, a science, a business, and a handicraft. I had the handicraft to start with; I'm learning the business; but I've got a lot to learn yet in the science and art of it.” “Don't do too much at once,” her mother urged. “You've got to cater to people as they are.” “I know it,” the girl agreed. “They must be led, step by step--the natural method. It's a big job, but not too big. Out of all the women who have done housework for so many ages, surely it's not too much to expect one to have a special genius for it!” Her mother gazed at her with loving admiration. “That's just what you have, Dina--a special genius for housework. I wish there were more of you!” “There are plenty of me, mother dear, only they haven't come out. As soon as I show 'em how to make the thing pay, you'll find that we have a big percentage of this kind of ability. It's all buried now in the occasional 'perfect housekeeper.' “But they won't leave their husbands, Dina.” “They don't need to,” the girl answered cheerfully. “Some of them aren't married yet; some of them have lost their husbands, and _some_ of them”--she said this a little bitterly--“have husbands who will be willing to let their wives grow.” “Not many, I'm afraid,” said Mrs. Bell, also with some gloom. Diantha lightened up again. “Anyhow, here you are, mother dear! And for this year I propose that you assume the financial management of the whole business at a salary of $1,000 'and found.' How does that suit you?” Mrs. Bell looked at her unbelievingly. “You can't afford it, Dina!” “Oh, yes, I can--you know I can, because you've got the accounts. I'm going to make big money this year.” “But you'll need it. This hotel and restaurant business may not do well.” “Now, mother, you _know_ we're doing well. Look here!” And Diantha produced her note-book. “Here's the little laundry place; its fittings come to so much, wages so much, collection and delivery so much, supplies so much--and already enough patronage engaged to cover. It will be bigger in winter, a lot, with transients, and this hotel to fall back on; ought to clear at least a thousand a year. The service club don't pay me anything, of course; that is for the girls' benefit; but the food delivery is doing better than I dared hope.” Mrs. Bell knew the figures better than Diantha, even, and they went over them carefully again. If the winter's patronage held on to equal the summer's--and the many transient residents ought to increase it--they would have an average of twenty families a week to provide for--one hundred persons. The expenses were: Food for 100 at $250 a week. Per capita. $600 --- per year $13,000 Labor--delivery man. $600 Head cook. $600 Two assistant cooks. $1,040 Three washers and packers. $1,560 Office girl. $520 --- Per year $4,320 Rent, kitchen, office, etc. $500 Rent of motor. $300 Rent of cases. $250 Gasolene and repairs. $630 --- Per year $1,680 Total. $19,000 “How do you make the gasolene and repairs as much as that?” asked Mrs. Bell. “It's margin, mother--makes it even money. It won't be so much, probably.” The income was simple and sufficient. They charged $5.00 a week per capita for three meals, table d'hote, delivered thrice daily. Frequent orders for extra meals really gave them more than they set down, but the hundred-person estimate amounted to $26,000 a year. “Now, see,” said Diantha triumphantly; “subtract all that expense list (and it is a liberal one), and we have $7,000 left. I can buy the car and the cases this year and have $1,600 over! More; because if I do buy them I can leave off some of the interest, and the rent of kitchen and office comes to Union House! Then there's all of the extra orders. It's going to pay splendidly, mother! It clears $70 a year per person. Next year it will clear a lot more.” It did not take long to make Mrs. Bell admit that if the business went on as it had been going Diantha would be able to pay her a salary of a thousand dollars, and have five hundred left--from the food business alone. There remained the hotel, with large possibilities. The present simple furnishings were to be moved over to New Union House, and paid for by the girls in due time. With new paint, paper, and furniture, the old house would make a very comfortable place. “Of course, it's the restaurant mainly--these big kitchens and the central location are the main thing. The guests will be mostly tourists, I suppose.” Diantha dwelt upon the prospect at some length; and even her cautious mother had to admit that unless there was some setback the year had a prospect of large success. “How about all this new furnishing?” Mrs. Bell said suddenly. “How do you cover that? Take what you've got ahead now?” “Yes; there's plenty,” said Diantha. “You see, there is all Union House has made, and this summer's profit on the cooked food--it's plenty.” “Then you can't pay for the motor and cases as you planned,” her mother insisted. “No, not unless the hotel and restaurant pays enough to make good. But I don't _have_ to buy them the first year. If I don't, there is $5,500 leeway.” “Yes, you are safe enough; there's over $4,000 in the bank now,” Mrs. Bell admitted. “But, child,” she said suddenly, “your father!” “Yes, I've thought of father,” said the girl, “and I mean to ask him to come and live at the hotel. I think he'd like it. He could meet people and talk about his ideas, and I'm sure I'd like to have him.” They talked much and long about this, till the evening settled about them, till they had their quiet supper, and the girls came home to their noisy one; and late that evening, when all was still again, Diantha came to the dim piazza corner once more and sat there quite alone. Full of hope, full of courage, sure of her progress--and aching with loneliness. She sat with her head in her hands, and to her ears came suddenly the sound of a familiar step--a well-known voice--the hands and the lips of her lover. “Diantha!” He held her close. “Oh, Ross! Ross! Darling! Is it true? When did you come? Oh, I'm so glad! So _glad_ to see you!” She was so glad that she had to cry a little on his shoulder, which he seemed to thoroughly enjoy. “I've good news for you, little girl,” he said. “Good news at last! Listen, dear; don't cry. There's an end in sight. A man has bought out my shop. The incubus is off--I can _live_ now!” He held his head up in a fine triumph, and she watched him adoringly. “Did you--was it profitable?” she asked. “It's all exchange, and some cash to boot. Just think! You know what I've wanted so long--a ranch. A big one that would keep us all, and let me go on with my work. And, dear--I've got it! It's a big fruit ranch, with its own water--think of that! And a vegetable garden, too, and small fruit, and everything. And, what's better, it's all in good running order, with a competent ranchman, and two Chinese who rent the vegetable part. And there are two houses on it--_two_. One for mother and the girls, and one for us!” Diantha's heart stirred suddenly. “Where is it, dear?” she whispered. He laughed joyfully. “It's _here!”_ he said. “About eight miles or so out, up by the mountains; has a little canyon of its own--its own little stream and reservoir. Oh, my darling! My darling!” They sat in happy silence in the perfumed night. The strong arms were around her, the big shoulder to lean on, the dear voice to call her “little girl.” The year of separation vanished from their thoughts, and the long years of companionship opened bright and glorious before them. “I came this afternoon,” he said at length, “but I saw another man coming. He got here first. I thought--” “Ross! You didn't! And you've left me to go without you all these hours!” “He looked so confident when he went away that I was jealous,” Ross admitted, “furiously jealous. And then your mother was here, and then those cackling girls. I wanted you--alone.” And then he had her, alone, for other quiet, happy moments. She was so glad of him. Her hold upon his hand, upon his coat, was tight. “I don't know how I've lived without you,” she said softly. “Nor I,” said he. “I haven't lived. It isn't life--without you. Well, dearest, it needn't be much longer. We closed the deal this afternoon. I came down here to see the place, and--incidentally--to see you!” More silence. “I shall turn over the store at once. It won't take long to move and settle; there's enough money over to do that. And the ranch pays, Diantha! It really _pays,_ and will carry us all. How long will it take you to get out of this?” “Get out of--what?” she faltered. “Why, the whole abominable business you're so deep in here. Thank God, there's no shadow of need for it any more!” The girl's face went white, but he could not see it. She would not believe him. “Why, dear,” she said, “if your ranch is as near as that it would be perfectly easy for me to come in to the business--with a car. I can afford a car soon.” “But I tell you there's no need any more,” said he. “Don't you understand? This is a paying fruit ranch, with land rented to advantage, and a competent manager right there running it. It's simply changed owners. I'm the owner now! There's two or three thousand a year to be made on it--has been made on it! There is a home for my people--a home for us! Oh, my beloved girl! My darling! My own sweetheart! Surely you won't refuse me now!” Diantha's head swam dizzily. “Ross,” she urged, “you don't understand! I've built up a good business here--a real successful business. Mother is in it; father's to come down; there is a big patronage; it grows. I can't give it up!” “Not for me? Not when I can offer you a home at last? Not when I show you that there is no longer any need of your earning money?” he said hotly. “But, dear--dear!” she protested. “It isn't for the money; it is the work I want to do--it is my work! You are so happy now that you can do your work--at last! This is mine!” When he spoke again his voice was low and stern. “Do you mean that you love--your work--better than you love me?” “No! It isn't that! That's not fair!” cried the girl. “Do you love your work better than you love me? Of course not! You love both. So do I. Can't you see? Why should I have to give up anything?” “You do not have to,” he said patiently. “I cannot compel you to marry me. But now, when at last--after these awful years--I can really offer you a home--you refuse!” “I have not refused,” she said slowly. His voice lightened again. “Ah, dearest! And you will not! You will marry me?” “I will marry you, Ross!” “And when? When, dearest?” “As soon as you are ready.” “But--can you drop this at once?” “I shall not drop it.” Her voice was low, very low, but clear and steady. He rose to his feet with a muffled exclamation, and walked the length of the piazza and back. “Do you realize that you are saying no to me, Diantha?” “You are mistaken, dear. I have said that I will marry you whenever you choose. But it is you who are saying, 'I will not marry a woman with a business.'” “This is foolishness!” he said sharply. “No man--that is a man--would marry a woman and let her run a business.” “You are mistaken,” she answered. “One of the finest men I ever knew has asked me to marry him--and keep on with my work!” “Why didn't you take him up?” “Because I didn't love him.” She stopped, a sob in her voice, and he caught her in his arms again. It was late indeed when he went away, walking swiftly, with a black rebellion in his heart; and Diantha dragged herself to bed. She was stunned, deadened, exhausted; torn with a desire to run after him and give up--give up anything to hold his love. But something, partly reason and partly pride, kept saying within her: “I have not refused him; he has refused me!” CHAPTER XIII. ALL THIS. They laid before her conquering feet The spoils of many lands; Their crowns shone red upon her head Their scepters in her hands. She heard two murmuring at night, Where rose-sweet shadows rest; And coveted the blossom red He laid upon her breast. When Madam Weatherstone shook the plentiful dust of Orchardina from her expensive shoes, and returned to adorn the more classic groves of Philadelphia, Mrs. Thaddler assumed to hold undisputed sway as a social leader. The Social Leader she meant to be; and marshalled her forces to that end. She Patronized here, and Donated there; revised her visiting list with rigid exclusiveness; secured an Eminent Professor and a Noted Writer as visitors, and gave entertainments of almost Roman magnificence. Her husband grew more and more restive under the rising tide of social exactions in dress and deportment; and spent more and more time behind his fast horses, or on the stock-ranch where he raised them. As a neighbor and fellow ranchman, he scraped acquaintance with Ross Warden, and was able to render him many small services in the process of settling. Mrs. Warden remembered his visit to Jopalez, and it took her some time to rearrange him in her mind as a person of wealth and standing. Having so rearranged him, on sufficient evidence, she and her daughters became most friendly, and had hopes of establishing valuable acquaintance in the town. “It's not for myself I care,” she would explain to Ross, every day in the week and more on Sundays, “but for the girls. In that dreadful Jopalez there was absolutely _no_ opportunity for them; but here, with horses, there is no reason we should not have friends. You must consider your sisters, Ross! Do be more cordial to Mr. Thaddler.” But Ross could not at present be cordial to anybody. His unexpected good fortune, the freedom from hated cares, and chance to work out his mighty theories on the faithful guinea-pig, ought to have filled his soul with joy; but Diantha's cruel obstinacy had embittered his cup of joy. He could not break with her; she had not refused him, and it was difficult in cold blood to refuse her. He had stayed away for two whole weeks, in which time the guinea-pigs nibbled at ease and Diantha's work would have suffered except for her mother's extra efforts. Then he went to see her again, miserable but stubborn, finding her also miserable and also stubborn. They argued till there was grave danger of an absolute break between them; then dropped the subject by mutual agreement, and spent evenings of unsatisfying effort to talk about other things. Diantha and her mother called on Mrs. Warden, of course, admiring the glorious view, the sweet high air, and the embowered loveliness of the two ranch houses. Ross drew Diantha aside and showed her “theirs”--a lovely little wide-porched concrete cottage, with a red-tiled roof, and heavy masses of Gold of Ophir and Banksia roses. He held her hand and drew her close to him. He kissed her when they were safe inside, and murmured: “Come, darling--won't you come and be my wife?” “I will, Ross--whenever you say--but--!” She would not agree to give up her work, and he flung away from her in reckless despair. Mrs. Warden and the girls returned the call as a matter of duty, but came no more; the mother saying that she could not take her daughters to a Servant Girls' Club. And though the Servant Girls' Club was soon removed to its new quarters and Union House became a quiet, well-conducted hotel, still the two families saw but little of each other. Mrs. Warden naturally took her son's side, and considered Diantha an unnatural monster of hard-heartedness. The matter sifted through to the ears of Mrs. Thaddler, who rejoiced in it, and called upon Mrs. Warden in her largest automobile. As a mother with four marriageable daughters, Mrs. Warden was delighted to accept and improve the acquaintance, but her aristocratic Southern soul was inwardly rebellious at the ancestorlessness and uncultured moneyed pride of her new friend. “If only Madam Weatherstone had stayed!” she would complain to her daughters. “She had Family as well as Wealth.” “There's young Mrs. Weatherstone, mother--” suggested Dora. “A nobody!” her mother replied. “She has the Weatherstone money, of course, but no Position; and what little she has she is losing by her low tastes. She goes about freely with Diantha Bell--her own housekeeper!” “She's not her housekeeper now, mother--” “Well, it's all the same! She _was!_ And a mere general servant before that! And now to think that when Ross is willing to overlook it all and marry her, she won't give it up!” They were all agreed on this point, unless perhaps that the youngest had her inward reservations. Dora had always liked Diantha better than had the others. Young Mrs. Weatherstone stayed in her big empty house for a while, and as Mrs. Warden said, went about frequently with Diantha Bell. She liked Mrs. Bell, too--took her for long stimulating rides in her comfortable car, and insisted that first one and then the other of them should have a bit of vacation at her seashore home before the winter's work grew too heavy. With Mrs. Bell she talked much of how Diantha had helped the town. “She has no idea of the psychic effects, Mrs. Bell,” said she. “She sees the business, and she has a great view of all it is going to do for women to come; but I don't think she realizes how much she is doing right now for women here--and men, too. There were my friends the Pornes; they were 'drifting apart,' as the novels have it--and no wonder. Isabel was absolutely no good as a housekeeper; he naturally didn't like it--and the baby made it all the worse; she pined for her work, you see, and couldn't get any time for it. Now they are as happy as can be--and it's just Diantha Bell's doings. The housework is off Isabel's shoulders. “Then there are the Wagrams, and the Sheldons, and the Brinks--and ever so many more--who have told me themselves that they are far happier than they ever were before--and can live more cheaply. She ought to be the happiest girl alive!” Mrs. Bell would agree to this, and quite swelled with happiness and pride; but Mrs. Weatherstone, watching narrowly, was not satisfied. When she had Diantha with her she opened fire direct. “You ought to be the happiest, proudest, most triumphant woman in the world!” she said. “You're making oodles of money, your whole thing's going well, and look at your mother--she's made over!” Diantha smiled and said she was happy; but her eyes would stray off to the very rim of the ocean; her mouth set in patient lines that were not in the least triumphant. “Tell me about it, my friend,” said her hostess. “Is it that he won't let you keep on with the business?” Diantha nodded. “And you won't give it up to marry him?” “No,” said Diantha. “No. Why should I? I'd marry him--to-morrow!” She held one hand with the other, tight, but they both shook a little. “I'd be glad to. But I will not give up my work!” “You look thin,” said Mrs. Weatherstone. “Yes--” “Do you sleep well?” “No--not very.” “And I can see that you don't eat as you ought to. Hm! Are you going to break down?” “No,” said Diantha, “I am not going to break down. I am doing what is right, and I shall go on. It's a little hard at first--having him so near. But I am young and strong and have a great deal to do--I shall do it.” And then Mrs. Weatherstone would tell her all she knew of the intense satisfaction of the people she served, and pleasant stories about the girls. She bought her books to read and such gleanings as she found in foreign magazines on the subject of organized house-service. Not only so, but she supplied the Orchardina library with a special bibliography on the subject, and induced the new Woman's Club to take up a course of reading in it, so that there gradually filtered into the Orchardina mind a faint perception that this was not the freak of an eccentric individual, but part of an inevitable business development, going on in various ways in many nations. As the winter drew on, Mrs. Weatherstone whisked away again, but kept a warm current of interest in Diantha's life by many letters. Mr. Bell came down from Jopalez with outer reluctance but inner satisfaction. He had rented his place, and Susie had three babies now. Henderson, Jr., had no place for him, and to do housework for himself was no part of Mr. Bell's plan. In Diantha's hotel he had a comfortable room next his wife's, and a capacious chair in the firelit hall in wet weather, or on the shaded piazza in dry. The excellent library was a resource to him; he found some congenial souls to talk with; and under the new stimulus succeeded at last in patenting a small device that really worked. With this, and his rent, he felt inclined to establish a “home of his own,” and the soul of Mrs. Bell sank within her. Without allowing it to come to an issue between them, she kept the question open for endless discussion; and Mr. Bell lived on in great contentment under the impression that he was about to move at almost any time. To his friends and cronies he dilated with pride on his daughter's wonderful achievements. “She's as good as a boy!” he would declare. “Women nowadays seem to do anything they want to!” And he rigidly paid his board bill with a flourish. Meanwhile the impressive gatherings at Mrs. Thaddler's, and the humbler tea and card parties of Diantha's friends, had a new topic as a shuttlecock. A New York company had bought one of the largest and finest blocks in town--the old Para place--and was developing it in a manner hitherto unseen. The big, shabby, neglected estate began to turn into such a fairyland as only southern lands can know. The old live-oaks were untouched; the towering eucalyptus trees remained in ragged majesty; but an army of workmen was busy under guidance of a master of beauty. One large and lovely building rose, promptly dubbed a hotel by the unwilling neighbors; others, smaller, showed here and there among the trees; and then a rose-gray wall of concrete ran around the whole, high, tantalizing, with green boughs and sweet odors coming over it. Those who went in reported many buildings, and much activity. But, when the wall was done, and each gate said “No admittance except on business,” then the work of genii was imagined, and there was none to contradict. It was a School of Theosophy; it was a Christian Science College; it was a Free-Love Colony; it was a Secret Society; it was a thousand wonders. “Lot of little houses and one big one,” the employees said when questioned. “Hotel and cottages,” the employers said when questioned. They made no secret of it, they were too busy; but the town was unsatisfied. Why a wall? What did any honest person want of a wall? Yet the wall cast a pleasant shadow; there were seats here and there between buttresses, and, as the swift California season advanced, roses and oleanders nodded over the top, and gave hints of beauty and richness more subtly stimulating than all the open glory of the low-hedged gardens near. Diantha's soul was stirred with secret envy. Some big concern was about to carry out her dream, or part of it--perhaps to be a huge and overflowing rival. Her own work grew meantime, and flourished as well as she could wish. The food-delivery service was running to its full capacity; the girls got on very well under Mrs. Jessup, and were delighted to have a house of their own with the parlors and piazzas all to themselves, and a garden to sit in as well. If this depleted their ranks by marriage, it did not matter now, for there was a waiting list in training all the time. Union House kept on evenly and profitably, and Diantha was beginning to feel safe and successful; but the years looked long before her. She was always cheered by Mrs. Weatherstone's letters; and Mrs. Porne came to see her, and to compare notes over their friend's success. For Mrs. Weatherstone had been presented at Court--at more than one court, in fact; and Mrs. Weatherstone had been proposed to by a Duke--and had refused him! Orchardina well-nigh swooned when this was known. She had been studying, investigating, had become known in scientific as well as social circles, and on her way back the strenuous upper layer of New York Society had also made much of her. Rumors grew of her exquisite costumes, of her unusual jewels, of her unique entertainments, of her popularity everywhere she went. Other proposals, of a magnificent nature, were reported, with more magnificent refusals; and Orchardina began to be very proud of young Mrs. Weatherstone and to wish she would come back. She did at last, bringing an Italian Prince with her, and a Hoch Geborene German Count also, who alleged they were travelling to study the country, but who were reputed to have had a duel already on the beautiful widow's account. All this was long-drawn gossip but bore some faint resemblance to the facts. Viva Weatherstone at thirty was a very different woman front the pale, sad-eyed girl of four years earlier. And when the great house on the avenue was arrayed in new magnificence, and all Orchardina--that dared--had paid its respects to her, she opened the season, as it were, with a brilliant dinner, followed by a reception and ball. All Orchardina came--so far as it had been invited. There was the Prince, sure enough--a pleasant, blue-eyed young man. And there was the Count, bearing visible evidence of duels a-plenty in earlier days. And there was Diantha Bell--receiving, with Mrs. Porne and Mrs. Weatherstone. All Orchardina stared. Diantha had been at the dinner--that was clear. And now she stood there in her soft, dark evening dress, the knot of golden acacias nestling against the black lace at her bosom, looking as fair and sweet as if she had never had a care in her life. Her mother thought her the most beautiful thing she had ever seen; and her father, though somewhat critical, secretly thought so, too. Mrs. Weatherstone cast many a loving look at the tall girl beside her in the intervals of “Delighted to see you's,” and saw that her double burden had had no worse effect than to soften the lines of the mouth and give a hint of pathos to the clear depths of her eyes. The foreign visitors were much interested in the young Amazon of Industry, as the Prince insisted on calling her; and even the German Count for a moment forgot his ancestors in her pleasant practical talk. Mrs. Weatherstone had taken pains to call upon the Wardens--claiming a connection, if not a relationship, and to invite them all. And as the crowd grew bigger and bigger, Diantha saw Mrs. Warden at last approaching with her four daughters--and no one else. She greeted them politely and warmly; but Mrs. Weatherstone did more. Holding them all in a little group beside her, she introduced her noble visitors to them; imparted the further information that their brother was _fiance_ to Miss Bell. “I don't see him,” she said, looking about. “He will come later, of course. Ah, Miss Madeline! How proud you all must feel of your sister-in-law to be!” Madeline blushed and tried to say she was. “Such a remarkable young lady!” said the Count to Adeline. “You will admire, envy, and imitate! Is it not so?” “Your ladies of America have all things in your hands,” said the Prince to Miss Cora. “To think that she has done so much, and is yet so young--and so beautiful!” “I know you're all as proud as you can be,” Mrs. Weatherstone continued to Dora. “You see, Diantha has been heard of abroad.” They all passed on presently, as others came; but Mrs. Warden's head was reeling. She wished she could by any means get at Ross, and _make_ him come, which he had refused to do. “I can't, mother,” he had said. “You go--all of you. Take the girls. I'll call for you at twelve--but I won't go in.” Mr. and Mrs. Thaddler were there--but not happy. She was not, at least, and showed it; he was not until an idea struck him. He dodged softly out, and was soon flying off, at dangerous speed over the moon-white country roads. He found Ross, dressed and ready, sulking blackly on his shadowy porch. “Come and take a spin while you wait,” said Mr. Thaddler. “Thanks, I have to go in town later.” “I'll take you in town.” “Thank you, but I have to take the horses in and bring out my mother and the girls.” “I'll bring you all out in the car. Come on--it's a great night.” So Ross rather reluctantly came. He sat back on the luxurious cushions, his arms folded sternly, his brows knit, and the stout gentleman at his side watched him shrewdly. “How does the ranch go?” he asked. “Very well, thank you, Mr. Thaddler.” “Them Chinks pay up promptly?” “As prompt as the month comes round. Their rent is a very valuable part of the estate.” “Yes,” Mr. Thaddler pursued. “They have a good steady market for their stuff. And the chicken man, too. Do you know who buys 'em?” Ross did not. Did not greatly care, he intimated. “I should think you'd be interested--you ought to--it's Diantha Bell.” Ross started, but said nothing. “You see, I've taken a great interest in her proposition ever since she sprung it on us,” Mr. Thaddler confided. “She's got the goods all right. But there was plenty against her here--you know what women are! And I made up my mind the supplies should be good and steady, anyhow. She had no trouble with her grocery orders; that was easy. Meat I couldn't handle--except indirectly--a little pressure, maybe, here and there.” And he chuckled softly. “But this ranch I bought on purpose.” Ross turned as if he had been stung. “You!” he said. “Yes, me. Why not? It's a good property. I got it all fixed right, and then I bought your little upstate shop--lock, stock and barrel--and gave you this for it. A fair exchange is no robbery. Though it would be nice to have it all in the family, eh?” Ross was silent for a few turbulent moments, revolving this far from pleasing information. “What'd I do it for?” continued the unasked benefactor. “What do you _think_ I did it for? So that brave, sweet little girl down here could have her heart's desire. She's established her business--she's proved her point--she's won the town--most of it; and there's nothing on earth to make her unhappy now but your pigheadedness! Young man, I tell you you're a plumb fool!” One cannot throw one's host out of his own swift-flying car; nor is it wise to jump out one's self. “Nothing on earth between you but your cussed pride!” Mr. Thaddler remorselessly went on. “This ranch is honestly yours--by a square deal. Your Jopalez business was worth the money--you ran it honestly and extended the trade. You'd have made a heap by it if you could have unbent a little. Gosh! I limbered up that store some in twelve months!” And the stout man smiled reminiscently. Ross was still silent. “And now you've got what you wanted--thanks to her, mind you, thanks to her!--and you ain't willing to let her have what she wants!” The young man moistened his lips to speak. “You ain't dependent on her in any sense--I don't mean that. You earned the place all right, and I don't doubt you'll make good, both in a business way and a scientific way, young man. But why in Hades you can't let her be happy, too, is more'n I can figure! Guess you get your notions from two generations back--and some!” Ross began, stumblingly. “I did not know I was indebted to you, Mr. Thaddler.” “You're not, young man, you're not! I ran that shop of yours a year--built up the business and sold it for more than I paid for this. So you've no room for heroics--none at all. What I want you to realize is that you're breaking the heart of the finest woman I ever saw. You can't bend that girl--she'll never give up. A woman like that has got more things to do than just marry! But she's pining for you all the same. “Here she is to-night, receiving with Mrs. Weatherstone--with those Bannerets, Dukes and Earls around her--standing up there like a Princess herself--and her eyes on the door all the time--and tears in 'em, I could swear--because you don't come!” ***** They drew up with a fine curve before the carriage gate. “I'll take 'em all home--they won't be ready for some time yet,” said Mr. Thaddler. “And if you two would like this car I'll send for the other one.” Ross shook hands with him. “You are very kind, Mr. Thaddler,” he said. “I am obliged to you. But I think we will walk.” Tall and impressive, looking more distinguished in a six-year-old evening suit than even the Hoch Geborene in his uniform, he came at last, and Diantha saw him the moment he entered; saw, too, a new light in his eyes. He went straight to her. And Mrs. Weatherstone did not lay it up against him that he had but the briefest of words for his hostess. “Will you come?” he said. “May I take you home--now?” She went with him, without a word, and they walked slowly home, by far outlying paths, and long waits on rose-bowered seats they knew. The moon filled all the world with tender light and the orange blossoms flooded the still air with sweetness. “Dear,” said he, “I have been a proud fool--I am yet--but I have come to see a little clearer. I do not approve of your work--I cannot approve of it--but will you forgive me for that and marry me? I cannot live any longer without you?” “Of course I will,” said Diantha. CHAPTER XIV. AND HEAVEN BESIDE. They were married while the flowers were knee-deep over the sunny slopes and mesas, and the canyons gulfs of color and fragrance, and went for their first moon together to a far high mountain valley hidden among wooded peaks, with a clear lake for its central jewel. A month of heaven; while wave on wave of perfect rest and world-forgetting oblivion rolled over both their hearts. They swam together in the dawn-flushed lake, seeing the morning mists float up from the silver surface, breaking the still reflection of thick trees and rosy clouds, rejoicing in the level shafts of forest filtered sunlight. They played and ran like children, rejoiced over their picnic meals; lay flat among the crowding flowers and slept under the tender starlight. “I don't see,” said her lover, “but that my strenuous Amazon is just as much a woman as--as any woman!” “Who ever said I wasn't?” quoth Diantha demurely. A month of perfect happiness. It was so short it seemed but a moment; so long in its rich perfection that they both agreed if life brought no further joy this was Enough. Then they came down from the mountains and began living. ***** Day service is not so easily arranged on a ranch some miles from town. They tried it for a while, the new runabout car bringing out a girl in the morning early, and taking Diantha in to her office. But motor cars are not infallible; and if it met with any accident there was delay at both ends, and more or less friction. Then Diantha engaged a first-class Oriental gentleman, well recommended by the “vegetable Chinaman,” on their own place. This was extremely satisfactory; he did the work well, and was in all ways reliable; but there arose in the town a current of malicious criticism and protest--that she “did not live up to her principles.” To this she paid no attention; her work was now too well planted, too increasingly prosperous to be weakened by small sneers. Her mother, growing plumper now, thriving continuously in her new lines of work, kept the hotel under her immediate management, and did bookkeeping for the whole concern. New Union Home ran itself, and articles were written about it in magazines; so that here and there in other cities similar clubs were started, with varying success. The restaurant was increasingly popular; Diantha's cooks were highly skilled and handsomely paid, and from the cheap lunch to the expensive banquet they gave satisfaction. But the “c. f. d.” was the darling of her heart, and it prospered exceedingly. “There is no advertisement like a pleased customer,” and her pleased customers grew in numbers and in enthusiasm. Family after family learned to prize the cleanliness and quiet, the odorlessness and flylessness of a home without a kitchen, and their questioning guests were converted by the excellent of the meals. Critical women learned at last that a competent cook can really produce better food than an incompetent one; albeit without the sanctity of the home. “Sanctity of your bootstraps!” protested one irascible gentleman. “Such talk is all nonsense! I don't want _sacred_ meals--I want good ones--and I'm getting them, at last!” “We don't brag about 'home brewing' any more,” said another, “or 'home tailoring,' or 'home shoemaking.' Why all this talk about 'home cooking'?” What pleased the men most was not only the good food, but its clock-work regularity; and not only the reduced bills but the increased health and happiness of their wives. Domestic bliss increased in Orchardina, and the doctors were more rigidly confined to the patronage of tourists. Ross Warden did his best. Under the merciless friendliness of Mr. Thaddler he had been brought to see that Diantha had a right to do this if she would, and that he had no right to prevent her; but he did not like it any the better. When she rolled away in her little car in the bright, sweet mornings, a light went out of the day for him. He wanted her there, in the home--his home--his wife--even when he was not in it himself. And in this particular case it was harder than for most men, because he was in the house a good deal, in his study, with no better company than a polite Chinaman some distance off. It was by no means easy for Diantha, either. To leave him tugged at her heart-strings, as it did at his; and if he had to struggle with inherited feelings and acquired traditions, still more was she beset with an unexpected uprising of sentiments and desires she had never dreamed of feeling. With marriage, love, happiness came an overwhelming instinct of service--personal service. She wanted to wait on him, loved to do it; regarded Wang Fu with positive jealousy when he brought in the coffee and Ross praised it. She had a sense of treason, of neglected duty, as she left the flower-crowned cottage, day by day. But she left it, she plunged into her work, she schooled herself religiously. “Shame on you!” she berated herself. “Now--_now_ that you've got everything on earth--to weaken! You could stand unhappiness; can't you stand happiness?” And she strove with herself; and kept on with her work. After all, the happiness was presently diluted by the pressure of this blank wall between them. She came home, eager, loving, delighted to be with him again. He received her with no complaint or criticism, but always an unspoken, perhaps imagined, sense of protest. She was full of loving enthusiasm about his work, and he would dilate upon his harassed guinea-pigs and their development with high satisfaction. But he never could bring himself to ask about her labors with any genuine approval; she was keenly sensitive to his dislike for the subject, and so it was ignored between them, or treated by him in a vein of humor with which he strove to cover his real feeling. When, before many months were over, the crowning triumph of her effort revealed itself, her joy and pride held this bitter drop--he did not sympathize--did not approve. Still, it was a great glory. The New York Company announced the completion of their work and the _Hotel del las Casas_ was opened to public inspection. “House of the Houses! That's a fine name!” said some disparagingly; but, at any rate, it seemed appropriate. The big estate was one rich garden, more picturesque, more dreamily beautiful, than the American commercial mind was usually able to compass, even when possessed of millions. The hotel of itself was a pleasure palace--wholly unostentatious, full of gaiety and charm, offering lovely chambers for guests and residents, and every opportunity for healthful amusement. There was the rare luxury of a big swimming-pool; there were billiard rooms, card rooms, reading rooms, lounging rooms and dancing rooms of satisfying extent. Outside there were tennis-courts, badminton, roque, even croquet; and the wide roof was a garden of Babylon, a Court of the Stars, with views of purple mountains, fair, wide valley and far-flashing rim of sea. Around it, each in its own hedged garden, nestled “Las Casas”--the Houses--twenty in number, with winding shaded paths, groups of rare trees, a wilderness of flowers, between and about them. In one corner was a playground for children--a wall around this, that they might shout in freedom; and the nursery thereby gave every provision for the happiness and safety of the little ones. The people poured along the winding walls, entered the pretty cottages, were much impressed by a little flock of well-floored tents in another corner, but came back with Ohs! and Ahs! of delight to the large building in the Avenue. Diantha went all over the place, inch by inch, her eyes widening with admiration; Mr. and Mrs. Porne and Mrs. Weatherstone with her. She enjoyed the serene, well-planned beauty of the whole; approved heartily of the cottages, each one a little different, each charming in its quiet privacy, admired the plentiful arrangements for pleasure and gay association; but her professional soul blazed with enthusiasm over the great kitchens, clean as a hospital, glittering in glass and copper and cool tiling, with the swift, sure electric stove. The fuel all went into a small, solidly built power house, and came out in light and heat and force for the whole square. Diantha sighed in absolute appreciation. “Fine, isn't it?” said Mr. Porne. “How do you like the architecture?” asked Mrs. Porne. “What do you think of my investment?” said Mrs. Weatherstone. Diantha stopped in her tracks and looked from one to the other of them. “Fact. I control the stock--I'm president of the Hotel del las Casas Company. Our friends here have stock in it, too, and more that you don't know. We think it's going to be a paying concern. But if you can make it go, my dear, as I think you will, you can buy us all out and own the whole outfit!” It took some time to explain all this, but the facts were visible enough. “Nothing remarkable at all,” said Mrs. Weatherstone. “Here's Astor with three big hotels on his hands--why shouldn't I have one to play with? And I've got to employ _somebody_ to manage it!” ***** Within a year of her marriage Diantha was at the head of this pleasing Centre of Housekeeping. She kept the hotel itself so that it was a joy to all its patrons; she kept the little houses homes of pure delight for those who were so fortunate as to hold them; and she kept up her “c. f. d.” business till it grew so large she had to have quite a fleet of delivery wagons. Orchardina basked and prospered; its citizens found their homes happier and less expensive than ever before, and its citizenesses began to wake up and to do things worth while. ***** Two years, and there was a small Ross Warden born. She loved it, nursed it, and ran her business at long range for some six months. But then she brought nurse and child to the hotel with her, placed them in the cool, airy nursery in the garden, and varied her busy day with still hours by herself--the baby in her arms. Back they came together before supper, and found unbroken joy and peace in the quiet of home; but always in the background was the current of Ross' unspoken disapproval. Three years, four years. There were three babies now; Diantha was a splendid woman of thirty, handsome and strong, pre-eminently successful--and yet, there were times when she found it in her heart to envy the most ordinary people who loved and quarreled and made up in the little outlying ranch houses along the road; they had nothing between them, at least. Meantime in the friendly opportunities of Orchardina society, added to by the unexampled possibilities of Las Casas (and they did not scorn this hotel nor Diantha's position in it), the three older Miss Wardens had married. Two of them preferred “the good old way,” but one tried the “d. s.” and the “c. f. d.” and liked them well. Dora amazed and displeased her family, as soon as she was of age, by frankly going over to Diantha's side and learning bookkeeping. She became an excellent accountant and bade fair to become an expert manager soon. Ross had prospered in his work. It may be that the element of dissatisfaction in his married life spurred him on, while the unusual opportunities of his ranch allowed free effort. He had always held that the “non-transmissability of acquired traits” was not established by any number of curtailed mice or crop-eared rats. “A mutilation is not an acquired trait,” he protested. “An acquired trait is one gained by exercise; it modifies the whole organism. It must have an effect on the race. We expect the sons of a line of soldiers to inherit their fathers' courage--perhaps his habit of obedience--but not his wooden leg.” To establish his views he selected from a fine family of guinea-pigs two pair; set the one, Pair A, in conditions of ordinary guinea-pig bliss, and subjected the other, Pair B, to a course of discipline. They were trained to run. They, and their descendants after them, pair following on pair; first with slow-turning wheels as in squirrel cages, the wheel inexorably going, machine-driven, and the luckless little gluttons having to move on, for gradually increasing periods of time, at gradually increasing speeds. Pair A and their progeny were sheltered and fed, but the rod was spared; Pair B were as the guests at “Muldoon's”--they had to exercise. With scientific patience and ingenuity, he devised mechanical surroundings which made them jump increasing spaces, which made them run always a little faster and a little farther; and he kept a record as carefully as if these little sheds were racing stables for a king. Several centuries of guinea-pig time went by; generation after generation of healthy guinea-pigs passed under his modifying hands; and after some five years he had in one small yard a fine group of the descendants of his gall-fed pair, and in another the offspring of the trained ones; nimble, swift, as different from the first as the razor-backed pig of the forest from the fatted porkers in the sty. He set them to race--the young untrained specimens of these distant cousins--and the hare ran away from the tortoise completely. Great zoologists and biologists came to see him, studied, fingered, poked, and examined the records; argued and disbelieved--and saw them run. “It is natural selection,” they said. “It profited them to run.” “Not at all,” said he. “They were fed and cared for alike, with no gain from running.” “It was artificial selection,” they said. “You picked out the speediest for your training.” “Not at all,” said he. “I took always any healthy pair from the trained parents and from the untrained ones--quite late in life, you understand, as guinea-pigs go.” Anyhow, there were the pigs; and he took little specialized piglets scarce weaned, and pitted them against piglets of the untrained lot--and they outran them in a race for “Mama.” Wherefore Mr. Ross Warden found himself famous of a sudden; and all over the scientific world the Wiesmanian controversy raged anew. He was invited to deliver a lecture before some most learned societies abroad, and in several important centers at home, and went, rejoicing. Diantha was glad for him from the bottom of her heart, and proud of him through and through. She thoroughly appreciated his sturdy opposition to such a weight of authority; his long patience, his careful, steady work. She was left in full swing with her big business, busy and successful, honored and liked by all the town--practically--and quite independent of the small fraction which still disapproved. Some people always will. She was happy, too, in her babies--very happy. The Hotel del las Casas was a triumph. Diantha owned it now, and Mrs. Weatherstone built others, in other places, at a large profit. Mrs. Warden went to live with Cora in the town. Cora had more time to entertain her--as she was the one who profited by her sister-in-law's general services. Diantha sat in friendly talk with Mrs. Weatherstone one quiet day, and admitted that she had no cause for complaint. “And yet--?” said her friend. Young Mrs. Warden smiled. “There's no keeping anything from you, is there? Yes--you're right. I'm not quite satisfied. I suppose I ought not to care--but you see, I love him so! I want him to _approve_ of me!--not just put up with it, and bear it! I want him to _feel_ with me--to care. It is awful to know that all this big life of mine is just a mistake to him--that he condemns it in his heart.” “But you knew this from the beginning, my dear, didn't you?” “Yes--I knew it--but it is different now. You know when you are _married_--” Mrs. Weatherstone looked far away through the wide window. “I do know,” she said. Diantha reached a strong hand to clasp her friend's. “I wish I could give it to you,” she said. “You have done so much for me! So much! You have poured out your money like water!” “My money! Well I like that!” said Mrs. Weatherstone. “I have taken my money out of five and seven per cent investments, and put it into ten per cent ones, that's all. Shall I never make you realize that I am a richer woman because of you, Diantha Bell Warden! So don't try to be grateful--I won't have it! Your work has _paid_ remember--paid me as well as you; and lots of other folks beside. You know there are eighteen good imitations of Union House running now, in different cities, and three 'Las Casas!' all succeeding--and the papers are talking about the dangers of a Cooked Food Trust!” They were friends old and tried, and happy in mutual affection. Diantha had many now, though none quite so dear. Her parents were contented--her brother and sister doing well--her children throve and grew and found Mama a joy they never had enough of. Yet still in her heart of hearts she was not wholly happy. ***** Then one night came by the last mail, a thick letter from Ross--thicker than usual. She opened it in her room alone, their room--to which they had come so joyously five years ago. He told her of his journeying, his lectures, his controversies and triumphs; rather briefly--and then: “My darling, I have learned something at last, on my travels, which will interest you, I fancy, more than the potential speed of all the guinea-pigs in the world, and its transmissability. “From what I hear about you in foreign lands; from what I read about you wherever I go; and, even more, from what I see, as a visitor, in many families; I have at last begun to grasp the nature and importance of your work. “As a man of science I must accept any truth when it is once clearly seen; and, though I've been a long time about it, I do see at last what brave, strong, valuable work you have been doing for the world. Doing it scientifically, too. Your figures are quoted, your records studied, your example followed. You have established certain truths in the business of living which are of importance to the race. As a student I recognize and appreciate your work. As man to man I'm proud of you--tremendously proud of you. As your husband! Ah! my love! I am coming back to you--coming soon, coming with my Whole Heart, Yours! Just wait, My Darling, till I get back to you! “Your Lover and Husband.” Diantha held the letter close, with hands that shook a little. She kissed it--kissed it hard, over and over--not improving its appearance as a piece of polite correspondence. Then she gave way to an overmastering burst of feeling, and knelt down by the wide bed, burying her face there, the letter still held fast. It was a funny prayer, if any human ear had heard it. “Thank you!” was all she said, with long, deep sobbing sighs between. “Thank you!--O--thank you!” 
40179	----	[Illustration: She found Douglas sitting in a forlorn heap in their tent. (_Frontis_) (_The Carter Girls' Week-End Camp_)] THE CARTER GIRLS' WEEK-END CAMP By NELL SPEED AUTHOR OF "The Molly Brown Series," "The Tucker Twins Series," etc. A. L. BURT COMPANY Publishers New York Printed in U. S. A. Copyright, 1918, By HURST & COMPANY CONTENTS CHAPTER PAGE I. A LETTER 5 II. THE RETURN 12 III. THE PROBLEM 30 IV. ROBERT CARTER'S ASTONISHING GIRLS 48 V. THE TUCKERS 66 VI. POST-PRANDIAL CONVERSATIONS 78 VII. THE STORM 97 VIII. THE DAMAGE DONE 115 IX. MR. MACHIAVELLI TUCKER 126 X. MR. HIRAM G. PARKER 142 XI. THE BIRD 165 XII. PLEASE REMIT 185 XIII. TEAKETTLE 194 XIV. THE FORAGERS 212 XV. BABES IN THE WOOD 232 XVI. TOM TIT 252 XVII. THE SPRING-KEEPER 269 XVIII. MORE FINDS 278 XIX. A DISCUSSION 286 XX. DR. WRIGHT TO THE RESCUE 298 XXI. LETTERS 311 The Carter Girls' Week-End Camp CHAPTER I A LETTER From Douglas Carter to her mother, Mrs. Robert Carter GREENDALE, VA., AUGUST --, 19--. MY DARLING MOTHER: Words cannot express the joy and gratitude all of us feel that father is really getting well. I shall never forget the miserable time last spring when Dr. Wright came into the library where Helen and Nan and Lucy and I were sitting and told us of his very serious condition. I had felt he was in a very bad way but did not realize it was quite so dreadful. I am sure you did not, either. And when Dr. Wright said that you must take him on a long sea voyage and we understood that we were to be left behind, the bottom seemed to drop out of the universe. And now, dear mother, I have a confession to make: You took for granted we were going to the springs when we wrote we were to spend the summer in the mountains, and we thought with all the worry you had about father, perhaps it was best to let you go on thinking it. Of course you did not dream of the necessity of our doing anything to make money as father had never told you much about his finances. Well, mother dear, there was about $80 in the bank in father's private account. Fortunately for the business, which Mr. Lane and Dick have carried on to the best of their ability, there was some more in another account, but we have managed without touching that. I hope I am not going to shock you now, but you shall have to know it--we have rented our lovely home, furnished, for six months with privilege of a year, and we have sold the car, dismissed the servants--all but Susan and Oscar, who are up here at Greendale with us. This is what might shock you: We are running a week-end boarding camp here in the mountains and the really shocking part of it is--we are making money! It was a scheme that popped into Helen's head and it seemed such an excellent one that we fell to it, and with dear Cousin Lizzie Somerville chaperoning us and Lewis Somerville protecting us, we have opened our camp and actually would have to turn away boarders except that the boys are always willing to sleep out-of-doors and that makes room for others not so inclined. We see Dr. Wright quite often. He comes up for the Sunday in his car whenever he can spare the time. He has been kindness itself and has helped us over many rough places. There have been times when we have been downhearted and depressed over you and father, and then it has been his office to step in and reassure us that father was really getting better. He and Bobby are sworn friends and there is nothing Bobby will not do for him--even keep himself clean. We are well. Indeed, the mountain air has done wonders for all of us. Helen is working harder than any of us, but is the picture of health in spite of it. Nan is more robust than she has ever been in her life. I think the tendency she has always had to bronchitis has entirely disappeared. Dr. Wright says it is sleeping out-of-doors that has fixed her. Lucy has grown two inches, I do believe. She has been very sweet and helpful and as happy as the day is long with her chum Lil Tate here for the whole summer. Mrs. Tate brought her up for a week-end and the child has been with us now for over two months. We have two boys of fifteen who are here for the summer, too, Frank Maury and Skeeter Halsey. They are a great comfort to me as I feel sure Lucy and Lil will be taken care of by these nice boys. Of course, the original idea of our camp was to have only week-end boarders, but we find it very nice to have some steadies besides as that means a certain fixed amount of money, but I am not going to let you worry your pretty head about money. We have a perennial guest, also--none other than pretty, silly Tillie Wingo. She came to the opening week-end and proved herself to be such a drawing card for the male sex that we decided it would be good business to ask her to visit us indefinitely. It was Nan's idea. You know Tillie well enough to understand that she is always thoroughly good-natured and kind without being helpful in any way. All she has to do is look pretty and chatter and giggle. Of course she must dance, and she does that divinely. She is a kind of social entertainer, and the number of youths who swarm to Week-End Camp because of her would astonish you. She is certainly worth her keep. Here I am touching on finances again when I did not mean to at all. We are so happy at the thought of having you and father with us for the rest of the summer. Dr. Wright thinks the life here will be almost as good for father as that on shipboard, provided the week-enders do not make too much racket for him. If they do, we are to have a tent pitched for him out of ear-shot. Poor Cousin Lizzie Somerville is very happy over your coming because it will release her. Her duties as chaperone have not been very strenuous, but the life up here has been so different from anything she has ever had before that it has been hard on her, I know, harder than she has ever divulged, I am sure. Now she can go to her beloved springs and play as many games of cards as she chooses. Dr. Wright says it would be better for you not to go to Richmond at all before coming here, as father might want to go to work again, and it is very important for him to be kept from it for many months yet. He is to meet you in New York and bring you straight to Greendale. I can go down to Richmond with you after we get father settled here, and we can get what clothes you want for the mountains. We have everything in the way of clothes stored at Cousin Lizzie Somerville's. It is very lovely here at Greendale, and I do hope you and father will like it as much as we have. Dr. Wright will tell you more about it when he meets you in New York on Wednesday. I am sending this letter by him as it seems safer than to trust to Uncle Sam. We only hope the life up here will not be too rough for you. We will do all we can to smooth it for you; but a camp is a camp, you know, dear mother. Our best love to father. Your loving daughter, DOUGLAS. CHAPTER II THE RETURN "Oh, Douglas, I'm all of a tremble!" declared Helen Carter, as she knotted her jaunty scarlet tie and settled her gray felt hat at exactly the proper angle. "To think that they are really coming back!" "I can hardly believe it. The time has gone quickly and still it seems somehow as though we had been living in this camp for ages. I am afraid it will go hard with the poor little mother." "Cousin Lizzie stood it and she is years and years older than mother," and Helen looked critically at her dainty nose and rubbed a little powder on it. "Yes, I know, but Cousin Lizzie is made of sterner stuff than poor little mumsy. I think that mother is the kind of woman that men would fight to protect but when all is told that Cousin Lizzie is the kind who would go out and help fight if need be. I can fancy her loading rifles and handing them to the men----" "So can I," laughed Helen, "and saying as she loaded: 'To everything there is a season, and a time to every purpose under the heaven; a time to kill and a time to heal.'" "I am ashamed of myself--but somehow I am glad Cousin Lizzie did not think it was her duty to defer her going until mother and father got here. She has been splendid and too good to us for anything, but it is a kind of relief for her to be out of the cabin and away before they come," said Douglas as she completed her rapid dressing by pulling an old khaki hat down over her rather refractory, if very lovely Titian hair. "I know just what you mean. I hoped all the time she would realize that the morning train was much the better one for her to get off on, and then she could reach the springs in time for an afternoon game. It was a feeling I had that she might be too critical of poor little mumsy. You see we don't know just how camp life is going to appeal to mumsy," said Helen. "Exactly! It may take her a while to get used to it," and Douglas let a little sigh escape her. "I wish they could have arrived on any other day than Friday. Our week-ends in August have been so full. I fancy many of the week-enders will want to stay on for holidays, too." "If it is only not too much for father. Dr. Wright thinks it won't be. He says noise in the open air is so different from housed noises for nervous persons." A honk from the faithful old mountain goat, a name they had given the ancient Ford that Bill Tinsley had contributed to the camp's use, warned them it was time to start for the station. One more dab of powder on Helen's nose completed her toilet and calling to Nan and Lucy to pile in, they started their ever perilous descent of the mountain to Greendale. Bobby, who had been captured by a determined Susan and washed and dressed in honor of his returning parents, was occupying the seat of state in Josh's cart, clean but indignant at the outrage committed. "'Tain't no sense in washin'. I mos' wisht I'd been born a pig. If I had, I betcher I'd a been a pet pig an' some fool woman would er wanted to curl my tail and tie a bow 'round my neck." Such pessimism was too much for Josh, who shook with laughter as the slab-sided mule, Josephus, limped cheerfully down the mountain road. To think that mother and father were really coming! The Carter girls lined themselves along the little station awaiting the train bearing the beloved passengers. What a healthy-looking quartette they were after a whole summer in the open. Douglas' fair skin was reddened from exposure and her hair showed the lack of care that her mother had always exacted. Douglas attached very little importance to her appearance, and was constantly being put to rights by the more correct Helen. Even now, as they waited for the train, Helen was regretting that she had permitted her older sister to wear the very disgraceful-looking khaki hat. "Khaki color is certainly unbecoming to blondes," she thought. "I do want Douglas to look her best for mother. Father will think all of us are beautiful, anyhow, no matter what we wear," and Helen could not help a feeling of satisfaction over her own very becoming cold-gravy costume with the touch of scarlet at her throat. It had seen much service but still had that unmistakable air of style that was characteristic of all of Helen Carter's belongings. Nan was quite robust-looking for Nan. She had inherited from her mother that soft black hair and those dusky eyes and a complexion of wondrous fairness that is seen sometimes in a rare type of Creole beauty. Mrs. Carter's almost angelic beauty (her few enemies called it doll-like) was repeated in her daughter in a somewhat more sturdy edition. Nan's mouth was larger and her eyes not quite so enormous; her nose a bit broader at the base and her chin squarer. Her attractive countenance showed a mixture of poetic feeling and sturdy common sense with a plentiful seasoning of humor and gave promise of her development into a very enchanting woman. All Nan asked of life was plenty of books and time to read them and a cloak of invisibility so that she would not be noticed. She was gradually overcoming the shyness that had always made her think that next to a cloak of invisibility the greatest boon her fairy godmother could grant her would be seven-league boots, so that she could get away from all embarrassing persons even if she could not hide from them. The summer of camping had certainly taken from her the look of fragility that had always been a source of uneasiness to her father but which her beautiful mother had rather prided herself on as it was in her eyes a mark of race and breeding. Lucy Carter, the youngest of the four, was developing rapidly into a very attractive girl. Her resemblance to Helen was growing more marked, much to her pretended disgust, but to her secret delight. Already her long legs had shot her saucy head up to within a level of Helen's, which made the younger sister ecstatically confident of her equality with the elder, whom in her heart of hearts she considered a paragon of perfection but with whom she was usually on sparring terms. Bobby, the idolized little brother, had changed more than any of the Carters during that summer. He had lost forever the baby curves and had taken on a lean, wiry spareness. His almost unearthly beauty was gone by reason of a great gap in his face caused by the loss of his first teeth. One permanent tooth had found its way through and, as is the way with the first permanent tooth, seemed very enormous in contrast to the tiny little pearls that had hitherto passed for teeth. His knees were scarred and scratched as were his lean brown legs. Two sore toes were tied up in dirty rags, having been ministered to by Aunt Mandy, the kind old mountain woman who bore the proud distinction in Bobby's mind of being the mother of Josh the boy and the owner of Josephus the mule. "I hear the whistle!" exclaimed Lucy, prancing with excitement. "So do I, but it is the saw mill over in the hollow," drawled Nan. "Won't it be terrible if the train is late and all the week-enders get here before mother and father?" wailed Helen. "Awful!" exclaimed Douglas. "If we can only get them settled in the cabin before the hullabaloo begins, maybe it won't seem so bad to them. I just can't stand it if the camp is going to be too much for father." "I'm most sure he will like it, but it's mother who will be the one to kick," said Nan. Kicking was not a very elegant way to express what no doubt would be the state of Mrs. Carter's mind over the rough camp life. "She's a-comin' now!" shouted Bobby. "I kin hear her a-chuggin' up grade! Listen! This is what she says: 'Catch a nigger! Catch a nigger! I'm a-comin'! I'm a-comin'!'" and the scion of the Carter family whistled shrilly through his sparse teeth, an accomplishment that had but recently come to him by reason of his loss. It was the train and on time, which would give the youthful proprietors of the week-end boarding camp time to get their invalid father and dainty mother safely stowed away in the cabin before the onrush of harum-scarum guests should begin. "Thank heaven!" was the pious ejaculation of the older girls. Douglas and Helen felt all the qualms and responsibilities that had been theirs on the opening of the camp at the beginning of the summer. It had proved such a success that confidence had come to them, but now that their parents were to join them, although they were very happy at the thought of seeing them, they had grave doubts about the way in which their mother would look upon their venture and about the ability of their father to endure the noise and confusion. Dr. Wright, who had gone to New York to meet the steamer, got off first, laden with parcels. Then came Mrs. Carter, looking so young and pretty that her daughters felt suddenly very mature. Mr. Carter followed his wife. He also was laden with bandboxes and bundles, while the grinning porter emerged with some difficulty from under a mass of suitcases, steamer rugs and dress boxes. Lewis Somerville extricated him in time for him to jump on the departing train as it made its laborious way up the steep grade, still singing the song that Bobby had declared it sang: "Catch a nigger! Catch a nigger! I'm a-comin'! I'm a-comin'!" "My girls! My girls!" Mrs. Carter flew from one to the other like a butterfly who cannot tell which flower to light on, but Robert Carter dropped his parcels and enfolded all of them in a mighty embrace. How lean and brown he was! On sight he seemed like his old self to Helen, who was the first to find her way to his eager arms and the last to leave their encircling shelter. A closer scrutiny of his face, however, told her there was still something wrong. His snap and vim were gone. Intelligence shone from his kind blue eyes and his countenance bespoke contentment and happiness, but his old sparkle and alertness were missing. The overworked nerves had lost their elasticity and a certain power that had been a part of Robert Carter was gone forever. It was the power of leading and directing, taking the initiative. There was something very pathetic about it all, just as though a great general had been reduced to the ranks and must ever after serve as a private. What made it sadder was that he seemed content to follow. Someone else must work out the problem of how to keep his expensive family in all the luxuries they had demanded. It was no longer up to him! That was the way his expression impressed Helen. She escaped from the others and ran behind the little station. "Father! Father!" she sobbed in an agony of love and misery. "He is not well yet! He never will be!" "Oh yes, he will," said a quiet, deep voice. It belonged to George Wright, who had come around the other side of the waiting room after helping Lewis Somerville deposit the luggage in Josh's cart. "He is much better, better than I dared dream he would be. You see, he has had only four months and I said all the time it would take a year of rest and maybe more. What makes you think he is still so badly off?" Dr. Wright had a ridiculous notion that he could explain to Helen much better her father's condition if she would only put her head on his shoulder and do her sobbing there, but he buried his hands firmly in his pockets and made no intimation of his idea. He had constantly to take himself to task for forgetting that Helen was little more than a child. "You must wait, you fool!" he would reason with himself. "But suppose someone else doesn't wait and she gets snapped up before your eyes--what then?" But wait he felt he must, and in the meantime Helen often felt that his sternness meant disapproval and wondered what she had done to merit it--that is, what new thing. Of course she always knew she had merited his disapproval by her behavior when he had given the verdict that her father must go off on the voyage for health. And now when he said: "What makes you think he is still so badly off?" he sounded very stern and superior. "He seems so--so--meek," she faltered. "Well, who would not be meek with all those parcels?" he laughed. "Your mother had only part of a day in New York, but she bought out the town. I'm meek myself." The conversation was interrupted by Lucy, who was always eager to find out what Helen was doing so she could do it too. When she saw her sister's tear-stained countenance she bitterly regretted her dry eyes but cry she could not, especially as she did not see anything to cry about. Mrs. Carter, meanwhile, after flitting from daughter to daughter, had cried out: "But Bobby! Where is my precious Bobby?" "Here me!" said that youngster. "We uns ain't fur." "Bobby! Bobby! I didn't know you! Where are your teeth? Why did you have your hair cut so short? My baby, my baby!" and the poor little lady enfolded a rather abashed boy in her arms. "Baby your grandmother! I ain't nobody's baby. We uns is Dr. Wright's shover cept'n when we uns is in the mountings and thin we uns is the 'spressman's sisterant." "We uns? What do you mean, Bobby?" wailed the mother. "I say we uns whenever we uns thinks to do it. That's the way mountingyears talks." "Robert! Robert, look at Bobby and listen to him!" Mr. Carter did look at Bobby and the remembrance of his own boyhood came back to him and he laughed as he seldom did now-a-days. "Well, bless my soul, what a great big son I have got!" and he slapped Bobby on the back. "I fancy you are too big to kiss, you rascal!" "I ain't too big to kiss if you uns comes behind the station where Josh'n Josephus can't see us," and Bobby led his willing parent behind the station where Helen had gone to shed a bitter tear and where Dr. Wright had discovered her and where Lucy had discovered them. "Oh, shucks! They's too many folks here," he declared. "Will all of you please step out of the way?" begged Mr. Carter. "Bobby has an important thing to discuss with me and we should like the back of the station to ourselves for a moment." Left alone, the big man held his little son tight in his arms and in spite of Bobby's boasted manhood he was very happy to be once more hugged and kissed by his father. Dr. Wright smiled into Helen's reddened eyes and said: "Bobby will do more for your father than anyone else now. If he can be a boy again he will get entirely well." The many parcels were at last stowed away in the cart and Josh clucked sadly to Josephus. "I reckon Bobby's done left us all, now that his paw is come," he said sadly to the sympathetic mule. But Bobby came running after him. "Hi there! Wait, Josh! Father says he would sooner trust his bones to us than that old Tin Lizzie. You'n him'n me can squzzle in on the front seat." "Sho' we kin!" declared the delighted Josh. He hadn't lost an old friend after all, but gained a new one. Mr. Carter proved even more agreeable to the little mountain boy than his idol, Lewis Somerville. He had such wonderful things to tell of ships and things and seemed to understand a boy so well. Mr. Somerville was right strict with a fellow, expecting him to be clean all the time and never forget, but somehow, Mr. Carter was a little easier. "You are frightfully burned, Douglas," complained Mrs. Carter as they finally got themselves stowed away in the faithful mountain goat. "I can't see why you do not protect your skin. Your neck will take months to recover from such a tanning." "Well, I don't think that will make much difference," laughed Douglas. "I fancy it will be many a day before I go décolleté." "I don't see that. If you are not going to college, I see no reason why you should not make your debut next winter." Douglas looked at her mother in amazement. Could it be that even now she did not understand? She said nothing, feeling that it would be wiser to wait until she and her mother were alone. Never having economized in her life, Mrs. Carter did not know the meaning of the word. The many parcels that were borne from the train gave Douglas a faint feeling. Had her mother been buying things in New York? "I brought you a perfect love of a hat, darling," Mrs. Carter chattered on, "but of course you shall have to bleach up a bit for it to be becoming to you. I did not dream you were so burned or I should not have selected such pale trimmings. I have a delightful plan! Since you are to come out next winter, I think a fortnight at the White in late August would be charming--give you that poise that debutantes so often lack. We can leave the children with your father and go together----" "But, mother----" "Oh, we shan't go quite yet! I know you want to see your father for a few days before you leave him even for a fortnight." Douglas was speechless; Nan, who was crowded in by her, gave her a sympathetic squeeze. "It is lovely to be with my girls again," the little lady bubbled on. "Of course your letter was a great surprise to me, Douglas. The idea of my children making money!" and she gave a silvery laugh. "I am delighted that you have, because now no doubt your coming out will be even more delightful than I had anticipated. Of course those persons who are in our house in Richmond will simply have to get out." "But, mother----" "Simply have to--how can a girl come out suitably unless she is in her own home?" CHAPTER III THE PROBLEM The cabin was looking very sweet and fresh after a thorough cleaning from the willing hands of Susan, who was in a state of bliss because her beloved mistress was returning. Gwen had found some belated Cherokee roses and with a few sprays of honeysuckle added had glorified the plain room. "You think Miss Lizzie Somerville is el'gant! Well, you jes' oughter see my missis. She is the mos' el'gantes' lady in the whole er Richmond. I bet Mis' Carter ain't never in all her life done a han's turn. Gawd knows what she gonter say 'bout these here young ladies er hern workin' like they was in service," Susan remarked to the little English Gwen, who had done many a hand's turn herself and still had an elegance all her own, so evident that the colored servants recognized her as a "lady bawn." "I think it is very wonderful that the Carter girls should be able to work so well when they have never been brought up to it," said Gwen as she hung the last freshly laundered sash curtain. "That's they paw in 'em," declared Susan. "He is the wuckinest gemman I ever seed. 'Tain't nothin' he won't turn his han' ter. He don't never set back and holler fer help when he wants the fire fixed er sech like. No'm, he jes' jumps up an' waits on hisself. Sometimes he used ter git Mis' Carter kinder put out 'cause he'd even do his own reaching at the table. Miss Douglas is the spittin' image of him. None of the gals favors her much 'cep Miss Nan. She looks like her but she ain't so langrous like when they's work on hand. Miss Helen is the same kind er spender as her maw. I believe my soul them two would ruther buy than eat. Cook used ter say that Mis' Carter an' Miss Helen spent like we done come to the millionennium. Great Gawd! Here they is an' I ain't got on my clean apron. That's one thing that Mis' Carter'll certainly git cross over--aprons." She did not, however. Too pleased to see the faithful Susan, Mrs. Carter overlooked the doubtful apron. "What a charming room! Is this where I am to be? And you girls in the tents beyond? And Bobby--where does Bobby sleep?" "He is with Lewis Somerville and his friend, Bill Tinsley. I believe he wrote you about Bill," said Helen, "--the young man who was shipped from West Point when Lewis was." "Oh yes, I remember! I am glad to see you have not let yourself run down like Douglas, my dear. Your hair looks well kept and your complexion is perfect." Douglas, much perturbed over her mother's plans, had rushed off to be alone for a moment to compose herself. "But, mother, I don't burn like Douglas, and then Douglas' hair is so lovely it doesn't make any difference what she does to it. Mine must be well kept to pass muster. I hope you are not going to find it too rough here for you, mumsy," and Helen put a protecting arm around the little mother, who was more like a sister, and a younger one at that, than a mother to these great girls. "Oh, I think it is delightful for a while. Of course I have been on shipboard so long that I really am longing for some society. Did you hear me tell Douglas what my plan is for her and me? I should like to include you, too, but perhaps it would be best for you to wait a year." "No, I did not hear; you see the car is such a noisy one that one never can hear. What is your plan?" "I want to take Douglas to the White for several weeks preparatory to her making her debut this winter." "Debut!" gasped Helen. "White Sulphur!" "Certainly, why not?" "But, mother, we haven't money for clothes and things." "Nonsense! Our credit is perfectly good. I fancy there is not a man in Richmond who has paid his bills so regularly as Robert Carter, and now that he is not able to work for a few months I feel sure there is not a single tradesman with whom we have always dealt who would not be more than pleased to have us on his books for any amount." "I wanted to charge a lot of things I thought we needed, but Douglas just wouldn't have it. She never does realize the importance of clothes. I don't mean to criticize Douglas, she is wonderful, but she is careless about clothes." "Well, I shall put a stop to that, now that I am back with my children. Your father is so much better I can give my time to other things now. How exciting it will be to have a daughter in society! I never did want Douglas to go to college. What made her give it up? She never did say what her reason was. Letters are very unsatisfactory things when one is on shipboard." "It was money, of course," said Helen. "There was no money for college." "Oh, to be sure! I forgot that college takes cash. Well, I am heartily glad she has given it up. I think college girls get too independent. I am dying to show you my purchases in New York." "I am dying to see them, too, but, mumsy, I shall have to leave you now and run and do a million things. We have a great crowd of week-enders coming up on the late train." "Can't Susan attend to the things?" "Oh, Susan does a lot, but I am the chief cook and Douglas is the brains of the concern and looks after all the money and does the buying. Nan attends to all the letter writing, and you would be astonished to see how much she has to do because we have showers of mail about board. Lucy sees to the setting of the tables, and all of us do everything that turns up to be done. Even Bobby helps." "How ridiculous! Well, take care of your hands, darling. I hate to see a girl with roughened hands. There is simply no excuse for it." Helen was dazed by her mother's attitude. "She is just presenting a duck-back to trouble," thought the girl, looking rather ruefully at her shapely hands which were showing the inevitable signs of work. She found Douglas sitting in a forlorn heap in their tent. Her countenance was the picture of woe. "Helen! Helen! What are we to do?" "Well, it wouldn't be so bad to take a trip to the White, and you certainly deserve a change. Poor mumsy, too, is bored to death with such a long sea trip and she needs some society." "But, honey, the money!" "Oh, I don't see that we need worry so about that. Mother says that there is not a tradesman in Richmond who would not be pleased to have us on his books for any amount. I, for one, am longing for some new clothes. I don't mind a bit working and cooking, but I do think I need some new things--and as for you--why, Douglas, you are a perfect rag bag." Douglas looked at her sister in amazement. The lesson, then, was not learned yet! She had thought that Helen understood about the necessity of making no bills as the bills were what had helped to reduce their father to this state of invalidism, but here she was falling into the mother's way of thinking--willing to plunge into debt to any amount. "But Dr. Wright----" "Oh, always Dr. Wright!" "But, Helen, you know you like Dr. Wright now and you must trust him." "So I do. I like him better and trust him entirely and he himself told me at the station that father was getting well fast. He said it would take a little more time but that he would be perfectly well again--at least that is what I gathered. I know father would be the last man in the world to want his girls to go around looking like ash cats and you know it would make him ill indeed to think that mother wanted to go to White Sulphur for a while and could not go because of lack of money." "Of course it would, but surely neither you nor mother would tell him that she wanted to go if you know there is no money to pay for such a trip." "But there is money!" exclaimed Helen with some asperity. "You told me yourself that the camp was paying well enough for us to begin to have quite a bank account." "Yes--but----" "Well now, if we have some money you must think that I have helped to earn it!" "Why, Helen dear, you have done more than any of us. You are so capable----" "I don't say I have done more, no one could have worked harder than you have--in fact, everybody has worked, but if I have done my share of the work, then I am certainly entitled to my share of the money and I intend to take my share and send mother to White Sulphur for a change. Of course you will simply have to go with her as she has set her heart on it." "I will not," announced Douglas, her girlish face taking on stern determination. A shout from Bobby heralded the arrival of Josephus with the luggage. The discussion ended for the time being as Douglas and Helen were both needed to prepare for the inroad of week-enders that were to arrive in a few minutes. Mr. Carter alighted from the cart, already looking better. He was most enthusiastic over the camp and all of its arrangements. "I am going to be your handy man," he said, putting his arm around Douglas. "Are you well, honey? You look bothered." "Oh yes, I am as well as can be," said Douglas, trying to smooth her wrinkled brow. How she did want to talk all the troubles over with her father, but he of all persons must not be bothered. The old habit of going to him with every worry was so strong that it was difficult to keep from doing it now, but she bit her lips and held it in. "I'll tell Lewis," she thought. "He will at least sympathize." What was she to do about her mother and Helen? They seemed to have no more gumption about money than the birds. Even then parcels were being carried into the cabin from the cart that must have meant much money spent in New York. Where did mother get it? The rent from the house in town had been sent to Mrs. Carter for running expenses on shipboard and hotels at the many places where they had stopped, but that must have gone for the trip. Could she have charged the purchases in New York? Poor Douglas! She had felt that the problem of making her sisters see the necessity of economizing had been a great one, but she realized that it was nothing to what she must face now. She felt that all her former arguments had been in vain since Helen was dropping into her mother's habit of thought and upholding that charming butterfly-like person in all her schemes of extravagance. Lucy was sure to follow Helen's lead and begin to demand clothes, treats, trips and what-not. Nan, dear sensible, unselfish Nan, would be the only one who would sympathize with her older sister in regard to the necessity of continuing the strict economy they had practiced since early in May, when Dr. Wright had declared that the only thing that would save their father's reason was an immediate change, a long rest and complete cessation of all business worries. Nan's tastes were simple, but she had a passion for color and beautiful textiles and sometimes indulged that taste in adorning her dainty little person. As a rule, however, she was quite satisfied to behold the color in a Persian rug or the wings of a butterfly. Beauty was to the girl the most important thing in life whether it was of line, color, sound or idea. She was perfectly happy with a good book and a comfortable place in which to curl up. Her fault was laziness, a certain physical inertia which her indulgent mother always attributed to her delicate constitution; but the summer in the mountains with the enforced activity had proven that the delicate constitution was due to the inertia and not the inertia to the delicate constitution. Up to that time in her life there had been no especial reason for exerting herself, but Nan was very unselfish and when she realized that her sisters were one and all busying themselves, she threw off her lazy habits as she would an ugly robe, and many tasks at Week-End Camp fell to her share. Douglas, in this trouble that had arisen, felt that she could go to Nan for comfort and advice. Nan's mind was as normally active as her graceful little body was inactive and she had a faculty of seeing her way through difficulties that the conscientious but more slowly thinking Douglas much envied her. "Nan, it's fifteen minutes before train time when the week-enders will come piling in--I'm dying to have a talk with you." "Well, don't die--just talk," drawled Nan, looking up from her book but never stopping turning the crank of the mayonnaise mixer. This was a job Nan loved, making mayonnaise. She had gotten it down to a fine art since she could mix and read at the same time. She declared it was a plain waste of time to use your hands without using your head and since turning a mayonnaise mixer crank required no intelligence beyond that of seeing that the funnel was filled with olive oil, she was able to indulge in her passion for poetry while she was making the quarts of mayonnaise that the young housekeepers dealt out so generously to their week-enders. "Listen to this!" and Nan turned the crank slowly while she read: "'Alas for all high hopes and all desires! Like leaves in yellow autumn-time they fall-- Alas for prayers and psalms and love's pure fires-- One silence and one darkness ends them all!'" The crank stopped and all of the oil flowed through the funnel while Nan softly turned the leaves of Marston's "Last Harvest." "Yes, honey, it is beautiful, but you had better read a livelier form of verse or your salad dressing will go back on you." "Heavens, you are right! I've got 'Barrack Room Ballads' here ready in case I get to dawdling," laughed Nan. "I want to talk about something very important, Nan. Can you turn your crank and listen?" "Yes, indeed, but you'll have to talk fast or else I'll get to poking again. You see, I have to keep time." So Douglas rapidly repeated the conversations she had had with her mother and later with Helen. "What are we to do? Must I tell Dr. Wright? I am afraid to get them started for fear father will be mixed up in it. He must not know mother wants to go to White Sulphur--he would be sure to say let her go and then he would try to work again before he is fit for it, and he would certainly get back into the same state he was in last spring." "Poor little mumsy! I was sure she would not understand," and once more the mixer played a sad measure. "I was afraid she wouldn't," sighed Douglas, "but I did think Helen had been taught a lesson and realized the importance of our keeping within our earnings and saving something, too, for winter." "Helen--why, she is too young for the lesson she learned to stick. She is nothing but a child." "Is that so, grandmother?" laughed Douglas, amused in spite of her trouble at Nan's ancient wisdom (Nan being some two years younger than Helen). "Why, Douglas, Helen has just been play-acting at being poor. She has no idea of its being a permanency," and Nan filled the funnel again with oil and began to turn her crank with vigor. "But what are we to do? I am not going to White Sulphur and I am not going to make my debut--that's sure. I have never disobeyed mother that I can remember, but this time I shall have to. I don't know what I am to say about the trip to the White. Helen is saying she has helped to earn the money and she means to spend her share giving poor mumsy a little fun after her tiresome long journey on the water. I wish we had never told her we were able to put something in the bank last month. It was precious little and Helen's share would not keep them at White Sulphur more than two or three days. Helen thinks I am stingy and mother thinks I am stubborn and ugly and sunburned--and there's the train with all the week-enders----" and poor Douglas gave a little sob. "And I have turned my wheel until this old mayonnaise is done--just look how beautiful it is! And you, poor old Doug, must just leave it to me, and I'll think up something to keep them here if I have to break out with smallpox and get them quarantined on the mountain." "Oh, Nan! Is there some way out of it without letting father know that mother wants something and cannot have it for lack of money?" "Sure there is! You go powder your nose and put on a blue linen blouse and give a few licks to your pretty hair while I hand over the mayonnaise to Gwen and see that Lucy has counted noses for the supper tables. I've almost got a good reason already for mumsy's staying here aside from the lack of tin, but I must get it off to her with great finesse." "I knew you would help!" and Douglas gave her little sister and the mayonnaise bowl an impartial hug, and then hastened to make herself more presentable, hoping to find favor in the eyes of her fastidious mother. CHAPTER IV ROBERT CARTER'S ASTONISHING GIRLS August, the month for holidays, was bringing much business to the proprietresses of Week-End Camp. Such a crowd came swarming up the mountain now that Lucy, who had set the tables with the assistance of her chum, Lil Tate, and the two sworn knights, Skeeter Halsey and Frank Maury, and had carefully counted noses according to the calculations Nan had made from the applications she had received, had to do it all over to make room for the unexpected guests. "Just kilt-plait the places," suggested Lil. "If they keep on coming we'll have to accordeon-plait 'em," laughed Lucy. "Gee, I'm glad your eats don't land in your elbows!" from Skeeter. "Me, too!" exclaimed Frank. "Miss Helen tipped me a wink that there's Brunswick stew made out of the squirrels we got yesterday. And there is sho' no elbow room at these tables." "Look at 'em swarming up the mountain. Where do you reckon they'll sleep?" asked Lil. "Have to roost in the trees." "I bet more than half of them didn't bring their blankets," hazarded Lucy. "Yes, that's the way they do, these town fellows," said Skeeter, forgetting that he too had been a town fellow only a few weeks before that time. The summer in the mountains was doing wonders for these youngsters. Sleeping in the open had broadened their chests. They were wiry and tanned and every day brought some new delightful duty that was never called a duty and so was looked upon by all of them as a great game. Theirs was the task of foraging for the camp, and no small job was it to find chickens and vegetables and fruit for the hungry hordes that sought the Week-End Camp for holiday and recreation. They had found their way to many a remote mountain cabin and engaged all chickens hatched and unhatched. They had spread the good news among the natives that blackberries, huckleberries, peaches, apples, pears and plums were in demand at their camp. Eggs were always needed. Little wild-eyed, tangled-haired children would come creeping from the bushes, like so many timid rabbits, bringing their wares; sometimes a bucket of dewberries or some wild plums; sometimes honey from the wild bees, dark and strong and very sweet, "bumblebee honey," Skeeter called it. All was grist that came to the mill of the week-enders. No matter how much was provided, there was never anything to speak of left over. "These hyar white folks is same as chickens," grumbled old Oscar. "They's got no notion of quittin' s'long as they's any corn lef' on the groun'." "They sho' kin eat," agreed Susan, "but Miss Douglas an' Miss Helen done said we mus' fill 'em up and that's what we is hyar fur." The above is a conversation that, with variations, occurred during almost every meal at the camp. Oscar and Susan, the faithful servants the Carters had brought from Richmond, were proving more and more efficient now that the first sting of the country was removed and camp life had become a habit with them. They were creatures of habit and imbued with the notion that what was good enough for white folks was good enough for them. Their young mistresses were contented with the life in the camp, so they were, too. Their young mistresses were not above doing any work that came to hand, so they, too, must be willing to do what fell to their lot. Susan forgot the vows she had so solemnly sworn when she became a member of the housemaids' league, to do housework and nothing else. She argued that a camp wasn't a house and she could do what she chose. Oscar had, while in town, held himself above any form of labor not conducive to the dignity of a butler serving for many years in the best families. But if Mr. Lewis Somerville and Mr. Bill Tinsley, both of them belonging to fust famblies, could skin squirrels, why then, he, Oscar, must be a sport and skin them, too. These week-ends in August were hard work for all concerned and now there was talk of some of the guests staying over for much longer and spending two weeks with them. That meant no cessation of fillin' 'em up. Previous to this time, Monday had been a blessed day for all the camp, boarders gone and time to take stock and rest, but now there was to be no let up in the filling process. Susan, for the time completely demoralized by the return of her beloved mistress, had left her work to whomsoever it might concern and had constituted herself lady's maid for Mrs. Carter. She unpacked boxes and parcels, hovering over the pretty things purchased in New York; she fetched and carried for that dainty lady, ignoring completely the steady stream of week-enders climbing up the mountain or being carried up by the faithful and sturdy mountain goat, with the silent Bill as chauffeur. Helen had reluctantly torn herself from the delectable boxes and parcels and was busily engaged in concocting a wonderful potato salad, something she always attended to herself. Gwen was making batter bread after having put to rise pan after pan of rolls. Oscar had begun to fry the apples, a dish ever in demand at camp. The Brunswick stew had been safely deposited in the fireless cooker early in the day and all was going well. "There!" exclaimed Helen, putting the finishing touch to the last huge bowl of salad and stepping back to admire her handiwork. "That substantial salad unites beauty and utility." "It sho' do, Miss Helen, it sho' do!" declared Oscar, adroitly turning his apples just as they reached the proper stage of almost and not quite being candied. "They's nothin' like tater salid fer contitutioning a foumdation stone on which to build fillin' victuals. It's mo' satisfying to my min' than the staft of life itself. All I is a-hopin' is that they won't lick the platter befo' I gits to it." "You are safe there, Oscar, as I made this extra dishful to be kept back so you and Susan will be sure to get some." "Susan, indeed!" sniffed her fellow-servant. "She ain't called on to expect no favors at yo' han'. To be foun' by the wayside, a fallin' down wantin' jes' at this crucible moment!" "I think she is helping mother." "Then I's got nothin' to say--but I 'low she helpin' yo' maw with one han' an' Susan Jourdan with yudder." Mr. Carter and Dr. Wright looked into the kitchen a moment. Dr. Wright had been showing his patient over the camp, as all of the daughters were occupied. Mr. Carter was delighted with the arrangements and amazed at the scope of the undertaking. Could this be his Helen, the queen of the kitchen, attending to the preparation of this great quantity of food? He never remembered before seeing Helen do any more strenuous work than play a corking good game of tennis, and here she was handling a frying pan with the same skill with which she had formerly handled a racquet, looking after the apples while Oscar cracked ice and carried up into the pavilion the great pitchers of cold tea destined to quench the thirst of the week-enders. Helen was looking wholly lovely in her becoming bungalow apron, with her flushed cheeks and hair a bit dishevelled from the hurry of getting things done without the assistance of the capable Susan. Robert Carter looked in amazement at the great bowls of potato salad and the pans of rolls, being taken from the oven to make room for other pans. "In heaven's name, what is all this food for?" he asked, laughing. "Have you seen the week-enders swarming up the mountain?" "Why yes, but they couldn't eat all this." "Don't you fool yourself!" and Helen gave her dear father a fried apple hug. She was very happy. The beloved parents were back with them. Dr. Wright assured her that her father was improving. The camp had been her very own idea and it was successful. They were making money and she was going to take her share of the profits and give her mother a trip. She, Helen Carter, only eighteen, could do all of this! She had no idea what the profits amounted to, but Nan and Douglas had only the week before congratulated themselves that they were putting more money in the bank than they were drawing out. She cared nothing for money in the bank except as a means of gratifying the ones she loved. The poor little mumsy had been shut up on shipboard for months and surely she deserved some recreation. She was astonished at Douglas for being so stingy. It was plain stinginess that would make her think more of having some paltry savings than of wanting to give to their charming, beautiful little mother her heart's desire, so Helen thought. Dr. Wright was smiling on her, too. He seemed to think she was a very remarkable girl, at least that was what one might gather from his expression as he stood by the kitchen and gazed in through the screening at the bright-eyed, eager young cook. "Where are the other girls?" asked Mr. Carter. "Oh, they have a million things to do! We always divide up and spread ourselves over the whole camp when the train gets in. Lucy has just finished setting the tables, and that is some job, I can tell you, but Lil Tate and Frank Skeeter always help. Nan has been making mayonnaise enough to run us over Sunday, and now she has gone with Douglas to receive the week-enders and show them their tents and cots. Douglas is the great chief--she does all the buying and supervising, looks after the comfort of the week-enders and sees that everything is kept clean and sanitary. Nan writes all the letters, and believe me, that is no little task. She also makes the mayonnaise and helps me here in the kitchen when I need her, but Gwen is my right hand man. But what am I thinking of? You haven't even met Gwen!" The young English girl was looking shyly at the big man and thinking what she would give to have her own father back again. Dr. Wright had told Mr. Carter of Gwen and her romantic history, how Helen had found the wallet in the scrub oak tree containing all of the dead Englishman's papers, of old Abner Dean's perfidy in taking the land from Gwen when the receipt had not been found, although the child was sure her father had paid for the side of the mountain before he had built his cabin there. Mr. Carter had been greatly interested in the recital and now his kind friendliness brought a mist to the eyes of the girl. "I am very glad to know you, my dear. Dr. Wright has told me of you and now I hope to be numbered among your friends." Gwen looked so happy and grateful that Helen had to give her father one more fried apple hug before she pushed him out of the kitchen to make room for the important ceremony of dishing up supper. "Where did I ever get them, Doctor, these girls? Why, they are perfect bricks! To think of my little Helen forgetting the polish on her fingernails and actually cooking! I don't see where they came from." It was rather wonderful and George Wright was somewhat at a loss himself to account for them as he watched the dainty mother of the flock trip lightly across the rough mountain path connecting the cabin with the pavilion. Robert Carter himself had character enough to go around, but when one considered that his character had been alloyed with hers to make this family it was a wonder that they had that within them that could throw off tradition and environment as they had done and undertake this camp that was proving quite a stupendous thing for mere girls. "Well, Dr. Wright," trilled Mrs. Carter, "isn't this a delightful adventure for my girls to have amused themselves with? The girl of the day is certainly an enterprising person. Of course a thing like this must not be carried too far, as there is danger of their forgetting their mission in life." "And that mission is----?" "Being ornaments of society, of course," laughed the little lady. Mrs. Carter had long ago overcome the fear she had entertained for the young physician. He had been so unfailingly kind to her and his diagnosis of her husband's case had been so sure and his treatment so exactly right that she could have nothing but liking and respect for him. She even forgave him the long exile he had subjected her to on that stupid ship. It had cured her Robert and she was willing to have cut herself off from society for those months if by doing so she had contributed to the well-being of her husband. She had been all devotion and unselfishness in the first agony of his illness. The habits of her lifetime had been seemingly torn up by the roots and from being the spoiled and petted darling she had turned into the efficient nurse. As his health returned, however, it had been quite easy to slip back into her former place of being served instead of serving. It was as much Robert Carter's nature to serve as it was hers to be served. The habits had not been torn up by the roots, after all, but only been trimmed back, and now they were sprouting out with added vigor from their pruning. Very lovely the little lady looked in her filmy lace dress. Her charming face, framed by its cloud of blue-black hair, showed no trace of having gone through the anxiety of a severe illness of one whom she loved devotedly. Nothing worried her very long and she had the philosophy of a young child, taking no thought of the yesterdays or of the morrows. Dr. Wright looked on her in amazement. Her speaking of the camp as an adventure chosen by the girls as something with which to amuse themselves would have been laughable had it not been irritating to the young man. And now, forsooth, their business in life was to become ornaments of society! "Humph!" was all he said, although he had to turn on his heel and walk off to keep from asserting that their mission in life should be to become useful members of society. He had a dread of appearing priggish, however, and then this was Helen's mother and he wanted to do nothing to mar in any way the friendship that had sprung up between that elusive young person and himself. "Where are all the children, Robert?" asked Mrs. Carter, wondering in her well-bred mind why Dr. Wright should be so brusque. "There aren't any children, Annette," sighed Mr. Carter, "but I shouldn't sigh but be glad and happy. Why, they are perfect wonders! Helen is in the kitchen, not eating bread and honey, but cooking and bossing, and all the other girls are flying around taking care of the boarders." "Boarders! Oh, Robert, what a name to call them! I can't contemplate it. Who are all those people I saw coming up the road?" "They are the boarders." "Not all that crowd! I thought they had only a select few." "No, indeed, they take all that come and I can tell you they have made the place very popular. I did not know they had it in them. I believe it was a good thing I went off my hooks for a while, as it has brought out character in my girls that I did not dream they had." "It seems hardly ladylike for them to be so--so--successful at running a boarding place. I wonder what people will say." "Why they will say: 'Hurrah for the Carter Girls!' At least, that is what the worth-while people will say." "Well, if you think it all right, I know it must be," sighed the poor little lady, "but somehow I think it would be much better for them to have visited Cousin Elizabeth Somerville until we got back or had her visit them in Richmond. I don't at all approve of their renting my house. Douglas is so coarsened by this living out-of-doors. She has the complexion that must be guarded very carefully or she will lose her beauty very early. I think the summer before a girl makes her debut should be spent taking care of her complexion." Robert Carter laughed. He was always intensely amused by his wife's outlook on life and society and looked upon it as one of her girlish charms. Common sense had not been what made him fall in love with her twenty years before, so the lack of it did not detract in any way from his admiration of her in these latter years. She was what she had always been: beautiful, graceful, sweet, charming; made to be loved, served and spoiled. "Where is Bobby? He, at least, cannot be busy with these awful boarders." "Bobby? Why, he is now engaged in helping Josh, the little mountain boy who is serving as expressman for the girls, to curry Josephus, the mule. These boarders are not awful, my dear. You will find many acquaintances among them. Jeffry Tucker came with his two girls, the twins, and a friend of theirs from Milton, Page Allison is her name. There are several others whom you will be glad to see, I know. I think it would be well for us to go up in the pavilion where they dine and then dance, and you can receive them there as they arrive." Mrs. Carter patted her creamy lace dress with a satisfied feeling that she was looking her best. It was a new creation from a most exclusive shop in New York--quite expensive, but then she had had absolutely no new clothes for perfect ages and since the proprietor of the shop had been most pleased to have her open an account with him, the price of the gown was no concern of hers. It set off her pearly skin and dusky hair to perfection. She was glad Jeffry Tucker was at the camp. He was a general favorite in Richmond society and his being there meant at least that her girls had not lessened themselves in the eyes of the elite. Surely he would not bring his daughters to this ridiculous camp unless he felt that it would do nothing toward lowering their position. The pretty, puzzled lady took her place at one end of the great long dining pavilion as the week-enders swarmed up the steps, attracted hither by the odor of fried apples and hot rolls that was wafted o'er the mountainside. CHAPTER V THE TUCKERS There had been general rejoicing at Week-End Camp when Nan had announced that Jeffry Tucker and his daughters were to come up for a short stay. The Tuckers were great favorites and were always received with open arms at any place where fun was on foot. Mr. Tucker had written for accommodations for himself and daughters and their friend, Miss Allison. No one would have been more astonished than Jeffry Tucker, the father of the Heavenly Twins, at the kind of reputation he had with a society woman of Mrs. Carter's standing. For her to think that his bringing his daughters to the camp meant that he considered it to their social advantage--at least not to their social detriment--would have convulsed that gentleman. He thought no more of the social standing of his daughters Virginia and Caroline (Dum and Dee) than he did of the fourth dimension. He came to the camp and brought his daughters and Page Allison just because he heard it was great fun. He had known Robert Carter all his life and admired and liked him. His daughters had gone to the kindergarten and dancing school with Douglas and Helen and when rumor had it that these girls were actually making a living with week-end boarders at a camp in Albemarle, why it was the most natural thing in the world for the warm-hearted Jeffry Tucker immediately to write for tent room for his little crowd. I hope my readers are glad to see the Tuckers and Page Allison. The fact of the business is that they are a lively lot and it is difficult to keep them in the pages of their own books. They might have stayed safely there had not the Carter girls started this venture in the mountains. That was too much for them. Zebedee had promised Tweedles again and again to take them camping, and since what they did Page must do too, of course she was included in the promise. This is not their own camp and not their own book but here they are in it! "Douglas Carter, we think you are the smartest person that ever was!" enthused Dum Tucker as Douglas showed them to their tent where three other girls were to sleep, too. "Isn't this just too lovely?" "I'm not smart, it's Helen who thought up this plan," insisted Douglas. "We are so glad you have come and we do hope you will like it." "Like it! We are wild about it," cried Dee, and Page Allison was equally enthusiastic. "Where is Helen?" demanded Dum. "She is chief cook and can't make her appearance until she has put the finishing touches to supper." "Does she really cook, herself?" cried Dee. "How grand!" "Sometimes she cooks herself," drawled Nan, coming into the tent to see the Tuckers, who were great favorites with her, too, "sometimes when we get out of provisions, which we are liable to do now as six persons have come who had not written me for accommodations." "Mother and father got here from a long trip this afternoon," explained Douglas, "and we are so upset over seeing them that we are rather late. Helen usually does all she has to do before the week-enders come." "Let us help!" begged Dee. "Dum and I can do lots of stunts, and Page here is a wonderful pie slinger." "Well, we would hardly press Miss Allison into service when she has just arrived," smiled Douglas. "Please, please don't Miss Allison me! I'm just Page and my idea of camping is cooking, so if I can help, let me," and Page, who had said little up to that time, spoke with such genuine frankness that Douglas and Nan felt somehow that a new friend had come into their circle. "We'll call on all three of you if we need you," promised Douglas, hastening off with Nan to see that other guests had found their tents and had what they wanted in the way of water and towels. "Isn't this great?" said Dee. "I'm so glad Zebedee thought of coming. I think Douglas Carter looks healthy but awful bothered, somehow." "I thought so, too. I'm afraid her father is not so well or something. Think of Helen Carter's cooking!" wondered Dum. "Why shouldn't she?" asked Page. "Is she so superior?" "No, not that," tweedled the twins. "Helen's fine but so--so--stylish. Mrs. Carter is charming but she is one butterfly and we always rather expected Helen to be just like her--more sense than her mother, but dressy," continued Dee. "You will know what Mrs. Carter is, just as soon as you look at her hands," declared Dum. "If the lilies of the field were blessed with hands they would look exactly like Mrs. Carter's." "Well, come let's find Zebedee. I smelt apples frying," and the three friends made their way to the pavilion where Mrs. Carter was receiving the week-enders with all the charm and ceremony she might have employed at a daughter's debut party. Her reception of the Tuckers was warm and friendly. It had been months since she had seen anyone who moved in her own circle and now there were many questions to ask of Richmond society. Jeffry Tucker, who could make himself perfectly at home with any type, now laid himself out to be pleasant to his hostess. He told her all the latest news of Franklin street and recounted the gossip that had filtered back from White Sulphur and Warm Springs. He turned himself into a society column and announced engagements and rumors of engagements; who was at the beach and who was at the mountains. He even made a stagger at the list of debutantes for the ensuing winter. "I mean that Douglas shall come out next winter, too," said the little lady during the supper that followed. Nan, seeing that her mother was having such a pleasant time with the genial Jeffry Tucker, arranged to have the Tuckers placed at the table that had been set aside for their mother and father. The Carter girls made it a rule to scatter themselves through the crowd the better to look after the hungry and see that no one's wants were unsatisfied. "Ah, is that so? I had an idea she was destined for college. It seems to me that Tweedles told me she had passed her Bryn Mawr exams." "So she did, but I am glad to say she has given up all idea of that foolishness. I am very anxious for her to make her debut." Nan, who was making the rounds of the various tables to see that everyone was served properly, overheard her mother's remark and glanced shyly at Mr. Tucker. She caught his eye unwittingly but there was something in the look that he gave her that made her know he understood the whole situation and was in sympathy with Douglas, who was very busy at the next table helping hungry week-enders to the rapidly disappearing potato salad. There was a rather pathetic droop to Douglas' young shoulders as though the weight of the universe were getting a little too much for her. Mr. Tucker looked from her to Robert Carter who seemed to be accepting things as he found them with an astonishing calmness. He was certainly a changed man. Remembering him as a person of great force and energy, who always took the initiative when any work was to be done or question decided, his old friend wondered at his almost flabby state. Here he was calmly letting his silly wife, because silly she seemed to Jeffry Tucker, although charming and even lovable, put aside his daughter's desires for an education and force her into society. He could see it all with half an eye and what he could not see for himself the speaking countenance of the third Carter, Nan, was telling him as plainly as a countenance could. He determined to talk with the girl as soon as supper was over and see if he could help her in some way, how, he did not know, but he felt that he might be of some use. The supper was a very merry one in spite of the depression that had seized poor Douglas. She tried not to let her gloom permeate those around her. Helen was in a perfect gale and the Tucker Twins took their cue from her and the ball of good-humored repartee was tossed back and forth. Tillie Wingo was resplendent in a perfectly new dancing frock. The beaux buzzed around her like bees around a honey pot. The silent Bill Tinsley kept on saying nothing but his calf eyes were more eloquent than any words. He had fallen head over heels in love with the frivolous Tillie from the moment she offered to tip him on the memorable occasion of her first visit to the camp. Lewis Somerville, usually with plenty to say for himself, was almost as silent as his chum, Bill. It seemed as though Douglas' low spirits had affected her cousin. "What is it, Douglas?" he whispered, as he took the last plate of salad from her weary hand. "You look all done up. Are you sick?" "No, indeed! Nothing!" "When the animals have finished feeding, I want to talk to you. Can you give me a few minutes?" "Why, of course, Lewis, as many as you want." Douglas and Lewis had been friends from the moment they had met. That had been some eighteen years before when Douglas had been crawling on the floor, not yet trusting to her untried legs, and Lewis, just promoted from skirts to breeches, had proudly paraded up and down in front of his baby cousin. There never had been a problem in Douglas' life that she had not discussed with her friend, but she felt a delicacy in talking about this trouble that had arisen on her horizon because it would mean a certain criticism of both her mother and sister. "Walk after supper?" Bill whispered to Tillie. "Something to say." Tillie nodded an assent. Supper over, the tables and chairs were piled up in a twinkling and the latest dance record put on the Victrola. "Why, this is delightful!" exclaimed Mrs. Carter, looking around for Mr. Tucker to come claim her for the first dance, but she saw that gentleman disappearing over the mountainside with Nan. "Nan is entirely too young for such nonsense!" she exclaimed with some asperity, but partners were forthcoming a-plenty so she was soon dancing like any girl of eighteen, while her indulgent husband smoked his pipe and looked contentedly on. Susan and Oscar washed the dishes with more rattling than usual as Oscar had much grumbling in store for the delinquent Susan. "Wherefo' you done lef' yo' wuck to Miss Helen?" "I's a-helpin' Mis' Carter. She kep' me a-openin' boxes an' hangin' up things. I knowed Miss Helen wouldn't min'. She thinks her maw oughter have what she wants. I done heard her tell Miss Douglas that she means to see her maw has her desires fulfilled. Sounded mos' lak qua'llin' the way the young missises was a-talkin'." "Well, all I got to say is that Mis' Carter ain't called on to git any mo' waitin' on than the young ladies. They's as blue-blooded as what she is an' even mo' so as they is got all the blood she's got an' they paw's beside. I bet she ain't goin' to tun a han' to fill any of these folks up. There she is now a-dancin' 'round like a teetotaller a-helpin' the boarders to shake down they victuals. I'll be boun' some of these here Hungarians will be empty befo' bed time." CHAPTER VI POSTPRANDIAL CONVERSATIONS It was a wonderful night. The sun had set in a glory of clouds while Oscar was still endeavoring to fill 'em up. The moon was full and "round as the shield of my fathers." It was very warm with not a breeze stirring. Jeffry Tucker drew Nan down on the first fallen log they came to out of reach of the noise from the pavilion. "It is fine to be able to leave the city for a while," he said, drawing in deep breaths of mountain air. "And now, Miss Nan Carter, I want you to tell me what was the reason for the S. O. S. that you sent out to me as plain as one pair of eyes can speak to another. I am a very old friend of your father, have known him ever since I was a little boy at school where I looked up to him and admired him as only a little boy can a big one. I see he is in poor health, at least in a nervous state, and I am wondering if there isn't something I can do. I don't want to butt in--you understand that, don't you? But if I can help, I want to." And then Nan Carter did just exactly what everybody always did: she took Jeffry Tucker into her confidence and told him all of the troubles of the family. He listened attentively. "I see! The rent from the house in Richmond is the only income you can depend upon just now, and your mother wants to live at home again and have Miss Douglas make her debut in state. She has given up college for lack of funds, but she is to make her debut instead--a much more expensive pastime, I fancy. What does your father say?" "Oh, that is the terrible part of it! We don't want anyone to appeal to father--he is sure to say that mother must do just as she chooses. He always has said that and he thinks that he is put on earth just to gratify mother's every wish. Mr. Tucker, please don't think mother is selfish--it isn't that--she is just inexperienced." "Certainly not! Certainly not!" But that gentleman crossed his fingers and quickly possessed himself of a bit of green leaf, which was the Tucker twins' method, as children, when they made a remark with a mental reservation, the remark for politeness and the mental reservation for truth. "You see, if father begins to think that mother wants things that it will take more money to buy, he will go back to work, and Dr. Wright says that nothing but a complete rest will cure him--rest and no worries." "Can't Dr. Wright have a plain talk with your mother and explain matters to her?" "Ye-e-s, but there is a kind of complication there, too. You see, Dr. Wright had a horrid time at first trying to beat it into us that father was in a bad way. Helen kicked against his diagnosis like I don't know what, treated Dr. Wright mighty badly. He was fine about it and so patient that by and by Helen came to her senses, and began to appreciate all he had done for father, and she and Dr. Wright are real good friends. Now Helen is siding with mother and thinks that whatever mother wants to do she should do. She even wants Douglas to go to White Sulphur with mother for several weeks, right now in our very busiest season." Mr. Tucker could not help laughing at the child by his side, so seriously discussing the trials of her family and now talking about their busiest season like some veteran hotel keeper. "White Sulphur would mean an added expense, too," he suggested. "Of course, and Helen says she will take her share of the summer's earnings and send mother. Helen is very generous and very impulsive, with no more idea of saving for winter than a grasshopper." "This is what I take it you want me to do: make your mother change her mind about going to White Sulphur and decide of her own accord that this winter it would be a mistake to bring Miss Douglas out to make her bow before Richmond society." "Exactly! Oh, Mr. Tucker, if you only could without having father even know that mother is not having everything she wants!" "I'll do my best. I may have to take Dr. Wright into consultation before I get through. Already a plan is surging in my brain." "Let's fly back to the pavilion then and you start to work!" Nan forgot to be shy in her eagerness to thank Mr. Tucker for his interest in their affairs and her hurry to get him launched in the undertaking of coercing her mother without that little lady's knowledge. She wondered if she had spoken too plainly about Dr. Wright and Helen. Nan was sentimental, as one of her poetic nature would be apt to be, and the budding romance that she thought she could spy springing up between Dr. Wright and her sister, far be it from her to blight. She felt sure Dr. Wright would feel it to be his duty to protect his patient from mental worry, but she was also sure that Helen would be quite impatient if Dr. Wright ventured to criticize her mother. What a relief it was to have unbosomed herself to this dear, kind Mr. Tucker, who understood her so readily and still did not seem to think her poor little mother was selfish or silly! (The crossing of fingers and holding something green had escaped her notice.) "I won't tell Douglas I have said anything to him," she promised herself. "It would be difficult to explain that I caught his eye at the supper table and he divined that I was in trouble. That is the truth, though, no matter how silly it sounds." She wondered what the plan was that had begun to surge but she determined to leave it to Mr. Tucker. That gentleman, whatever his idea of attack, did not immediately approach her mother but made his way to the middle of the pavilion where he awaited his chance to break in on a dance with Page Allison, his daughters' friend. "She may be part of his plan! Who knows? At any rate, I believe he is going to get us out of the trouble somehow." As Douglas and Lewis left the pavilion they took the path straight up the mountain. "Let's go this way and shake the crowd for a little while," suggested Lewis. "But we mustn't be long. Helen will have too much entertaining to do. We can't get it out of our heads that we must treat these boarders as though we were having a house-party." "Well, I reckon that's the reason you have been so successful. I have heard some of the fellows say that they never hear the chink of coin here. It really seems like a house-party." "I am so glad, but I am glad of the chink of coin, too." "But, Douglas, I did not bring you out here to talk about boarders and coin--I have got something else to say. Bill and I have just been waiting until Cousin Robert and Cousin Annette got back because we couldn't leave you without any protection----" "Leave us! Oh, Lewis!" "Do you mind really, Douglas?" "Mind? Why, I can't tell you how much I mind!" "We know we have no business staying here indefinitely and we feel we must get to work. We are going to enlist for the Mexican border. We have got over our grouch against Uncle Sam for firing us from West Point and now that he needs us, we are determined to show him we are ready to serve him in any capacity. You know we are right, don't you?" "Ye-e-s, but----" By that time Lewis had taken possession of Douglas' hands and with a voice filled with emotion, he said: "I can't bear to leave you, but now Cousin Robert is here he will make it safe for you. I have tried to help some----" "Oh, and you have! We couldn't have done a thing without you and Bill." "I don't know about that. I believe there is no limit to what you Carter girls can do--but, Douglas--honey--before I go to Mexico--I--I just have to tell you how much I love you. I don't mean like a cousin--I'm not such close kin to you after all--I mean I love you so much that the thought of leaving you is agony. You knew all the time that it was no cousin business, didn't you, Douglas?" "Why, Lewis, I never thought of such a thing. You are almost like my brother," and Douglas devoutly wished the moon would hurry up and get behind a big black cloud that was coming over the mountain. "Brother much! I'm not the least little bit like a brother. Bill's got sisters and I don't believe he is bothering about leaving them one-tenth as much as he is leaving Tillie Wingo. Why, honey, ever since I can remember I have been meaning to get you to marry me when we both grew up. Of course, I can't ask you to marry me now as I haven't a piece of prospect and will have to enlist in the ranks and work up, but I mean to work up fast and be so steady that I'll be a lieutenant before Carranza and Villa can settle their difficulty. Won't you be engaged to me so I'll have something to work for until I can see you again?" "Engaged to you! Why, Lewis, I--I--how can I be when it is so sudden? You never told me before that you cared for me the least little bit." "Told you before! Ye Gods and little fishes! I've been telling you for pretty near eighteen years." "Well, I never heard you!" "Why don't you say you don't give a hang for me and let me go?" "But, Lewis, I give a whole lot of hangs for you and I don't want you to go." "Oh, I know the kind of hangs you give: just this brother and sister business," and the young man dropped the girl's hands. Douglas felt like crying, but Lewis was so absurd she had to laugh. What time had she to think about getting engaged? She felt as though the whole world rested on her young shoulders. Here was her mother wanting her to make a debut, and Helen wanting to spend on a silly trip the pitiful little money they had begun to save from their boarding camp. And now Lewis Somerville and Bill Tinsley, the brawn and sinew of their undertaking, suddenly deciding that they must enlist and hike out for the Mexican border! "We must go back to the pavilion," she said wearily. Her voice sounded very tired and she stumbled a little as she turned to go down the path. "Now, Douglas, I have distressed you," and Lewis was all thoughtfulness and consideration. "I didn't mean to, honey--I just want you to say you love me the way I love you." "And I can't say it, because I never thought of your caring for me in any different way. You are the best friend I have in the world." "Well, that is something and I am going to keep on being it. Maybe when I come back from Mexico you will think differently. You will write to me, won't you?" "Why, of course I will, Lewis! Haven't I always written to you?" "Douglas, don't you think you could love me a little?" "But, Lewis, I do love you a whole lot!" "But I mean be engaged to me?" "Lewis Somerville, would you want me to be engaged to you when you know perfectly well that I have never thought of you except as the very best friend I've got in the world, and if not as a brother, at least as a cousin who has been almost like a brother? If I did engage myself to you, you wouldn't have the least bit of respect for me and you know you wouldn't; would you?" But Lewis would not answer. He just drew her arm in his and silently led her back to the pavilion. The big cloud had made its way in front of the moon and he took advantage of the darkness to kiss her hand, but he was very gentle and seemingly resigned to the brother business that he had so scorned. His youthful countenance was very sad and stern, however, as he turned and made his way to the tent that he shared with Bill and Bobby. Bill Tinsley and Tillie Wingo, too, were walking on the mountainside, Bill as silent as the grave but in a broad grin while Tillie kept up her accustomed chatter. It flowed from her rosy lips with no more effort than water from a mountain spring. "Do you know, Mr. Tinsley, that I have danced out five dresses this summer? As for shoes! If Helen had not given me some of her slippers, I would be barefooted this minute. I don't mind this rough dressing in the day time, but I must say when evening comes I like to doll up. I believe Mrs. Carter feels the same way. Isn't that a lovely dress she has on this evening? There is no telling what it cost. If their mother can buy such a frock as that, I think it is absurd for the girls to be working so hard--and believe me, they are some workers. Now, I'm real practical and know how to dress on very little and, if I do say it that shouldn't, I bet there is not a girl in Richmond who makes a better appearance on as little money as I spend, but I know what things cost--you can't fool me--and I'm able to tell across the room that that filmy lace effect that Mrs. Carter is sporting set her back a good seventy-five." "Whew!" from Bill. "Easy, seventy-five, I say, and maybe more! It would take a lot of week-enders to pay for it and I bet she no more thinks about it than she does about the air she breathes. Now she wants to bring Douglas out and you know she wouldn't be willing to let her come out like a poor girl--no sirree! Douglas would have to have all kinds of clothes and all kinds of parties. She would have to come out in a blaze of glory if her mother has a finger in it. Girls who come out that way don't have such a lot on the ones who just quietly crawl out--like I did, f'instance. I just quietly crawled--you could not call it coming----" Here Bill gave one of his great laughs, breaking his vow of silence. At least it seemed as though he must have made such a vow as through all of Tillie's chatter he had uttered not one word more than the "Whew" over Mrs. Carter's extravagance. The picture of Tillie's quietly crawling got the better of his risibles. "You needn't laugh! I can assure you I came out in home-made clothes and during the entire winter I had not one thing done for me to push me in society--not a cup of tea was handed in my name. One lady did put my card in some invitations she got out, trying to relaunch a daughter who had been out for three seasons and gone in again, but she had an inconvenient death in the family and had to recall the invitations; so I got no good of it after all. Not that I cared--goodness no! I had all the fun there was to have and I'm still having, although I'm not able to keep in the swim, giving entertainments and what not. Of course, I was not included in select luncheons and dinner dances and the like. Those expensive blowouts are given with a view of returning all kinds of obligations or of putting people in your debt so you are included in theirs--but I got to all the big things and got there without the least wire-pulling or working. Of course, I did get to some of the small things because I was run in a lot as substitute when some girl dropped out. I wasn't proud and did not mind in the least being second or third choice. People who never entertain need not expect to be on the original list. I just took a sensible view of the matter. I tell you, if a girl wants to have a good time she's got no business with a chip on her shoulder. Society is a give-and-take game and if you are poorish and want to get without giving, you've got to be willing to do a lot in the way of swallowing your pride. At least, I had no slights offered me where the dancing men were concerned. I made every german and that is something many a rich debutante can't say for herself." Tillie paused for breath and then Bill opened his mouth to speak, but the loquacious Tillie got in before he could begin and he had to wait. "Now I believe Douglas would have lots of attention even if her mother did nothing to help on, but Mrs. Carter would enjoy having a daughter in society more than a daughter would enjoy being there, I believe, and she would be entertaining and spending money from morning until night. Of course, Lewis Somerville would be lots of help as he would stand ready to take Douglas anywhere that she did not get a bid from some other man----" "But Lewis'll be gone," broke in Bill. "Gone! Nonsense! Now that he is out of West Point I'll be bound he will just dance attendance on Douglas. He is dead gone on her. That helps a lot in a girl's first year: to have a devoted--that is, if he is not silly jealous." "He'll be gone." "Gone where?" "Mexican border!" "But he is out of soldiering." "Both of us enlisting!" Tillie was absolutely silenced for a moment and Bill went on: "See here, Miss Wingo, Tillie! I'd be glad if you would--if--I'm stuck on you for sure." "Oh, come off! You know you think I'm the silliest ever." "I think you are about the prettiest, jolliest ever. I wish you would let me go off to Mexico engaged to you. It would make it lots easier to work and I mean to work like a whole regiment and make good. Won't you, Tillie?" "Well, I don't care if I do. You are a fine dancer and I think a heap of you, Bill. I'd rather keep it dark, though, if you don't mind, as it queers a girl's game sometimes if she gets engaged." "Lord, no! I don't mind just so I know it myself," and the happy Bill enfolded his enamorata in his arms, although she carefully admonished him not to crush her new dress. "I never dreamed you were thinking about me seriously," she confessed as she emerged from his embrace. "Honest? Been dotty about you ever since you took me for a jitney driver and tipped me a quarter. Got it yet." "Look how dark it is! I believe we are going to have a storm. What a great black cloud! Let's hurry, as I have no idea of getting my frock wet." Hurry they did and reached the pavilion just as great drops began to fall. Bill was in a state of happy excitement over his engagement, although it was something he must keep to himself. He felt like shouting it on the housetops, but instead he gave one of his great laughs that startled Mrs. Carter so she stopped dancing and hunted up Bobby. "It sounded like bears and lions," she declared, "and I felt uneasy about my baby." She found that youngster fast asleep cuddled up in his father's arms, the father looking very happy and peaceful. Robert Carter felt quite like a little child himself with his great girls taking care of him. CHAPTER VII THE STORM That storm was always known as "The Storm" by everyone who was at the Week-End Camp on that night in August. Greendale had been singularly free from severe storms that season and the Carters had had no difficulty up to that time in keeping dry. They had had rain in plenty but never great downpours and their mountain had escaped the lightning that on several occasions had played havoc not many miles from them. The day had been exceptionally warm but very clear. The full moon had taken the place of the sun when night came on and so brilliant was the glow from that heavenly orb, one could almost fancy heat was reflected as well as light. The great black cloud that came rolling over the mountain was as much an astonishment to the dancers in the pavilion as it was to the moon herself. They refused to recognize the fact that a storm was coming up and the moon also held her own for some time after the downpour was upon them. She kept peeping out through rifts in the clouds and once when the storm was at its fiercest she sailed clear of all clouds for a few moments, and then it was that the rarest of all beauties in Nature was beheld by the damp and huddled-up crowd of week-enders: a lunar rainbow. It stretched across the valley, a perfect arc with the colors as clearly defined as a solar bow but infinitely more delicate than any rainbow ever beheld before. There was no such thing as keeping dry. When Lewis Somerville and Bill Tinsley built the pavilion, they had kept exactly to the architect's plans, drawn so carefully by Robert Carter's assistant, Mr. Lane. The roof projected so far on every side that they had remarked at the time that nothing short of horizontal rain could find its way under that roof. Well, this rain was horizontal and it came in first one direction and then another until every bit of floor space was flooded. The thunder sounded like stage thunder made by rolling barrels of bricks down inclined planes and helped out with the bass drum. Great clouds rested on the mountain tops and a wind, that seemed demoniacal in the tricks it played, bent over great forest trees as though they were saplings and then let them snap back into place with a deafening crack. "Save the Victrola," whispered Tillie to Bill. "I want to dance with you once before you go off, and water will ruin it." That was enough for the devoted Bill. He took off his coat and wrapped it tenderly over the top of the Victrola, which was still playing a gay dance tune as no one had had the presence of mind to stop it. Then he made a dash for the kitchen just as a river of water was descending and in a twinkling was back bearing in his arms a great tin tub. This he placed over the top of the precious music-maker. He felt very tender toward Tillie just then for although her new dress was being ruined, still her first thought had been for the Victrola so she could dance with him. The storm having come up so suddenly found the crowd totally unprepared. Tent flys had been left up and the windows and door of the cabin, where Mrs. Carter was installed, were wide open for the four winds of heaven to blow through. Sad havoc they played with the dainty finery that Mrs. Carter and Susan had left spread out on the bed. The wonderful hat, brought as a present for Douglas, was picked up the next morning half way down the mountain; at least the ruin was supposed to be that hat but it was never quite identified as it had lost all semblance to a hat. Lewis, after hearing the ultimatum from Douglas, as I have said, made his solitary way to his tent where he threw himself on his cot to fight it out with his disappointed self. A dash of rain on his tent aroused him and then a mighty gust of wind simply picked up the tent and wafted it away like thistledown. "Well, of all----" but Lewis never finished of all the what, but in a twinkling he had rolled up the bed clothes belonging to himself and his tent mates, and then rushing to the neighboring tents that were still withstanding the raging hurricane he rolled up blankets found there and piled cots on top of the bundles. It was a real fight, strong man that he was, to make his way to the pavilion. Trees were bending before the wind and he found the only way to locomote was to crawl. "Just suppose the pavilion doesn't hold!" was ringing in his mind; but the young men "had builded better than they knew." It did hold although the roof was straining at the rafters and Lewis and Bill feared every moment it might rise up and float off as their tent had done. Lewis came under cover wetter than he would have been had he been in swimming, he declared. Swimming just soaks the water in but the rain had beat it in and hammered it down. The wind was still driving the rain in horizontal sheets and the pavilion was getting damper and damper. The week-enders were a very forlorn looking crowd and no doubt the majority of them were far from blessing the day that had brought them to the camp in Albemarle. They ran from corner to corner trying to get out of the searching flood. "I know they are blaming it on us!" cried Nan to Mr. Tucker. "Who is blaming it on you?" laughed Page Allison. "Why, honey, it may be doing worse things in other places. We should be thankful we are on a mountain top instead of in a valley." Then she drew Mr. Tucker aside and whispered to him: "See here, Zebedee, don't you think it is up to us somehow to relieve this situation? If we get giddy and act as though it were a privilege to be wet to the skin, don't you think we might stir up these people and make a lark of this storm instead of a calamity? You remember you told me once that you and Miss Jinny Cox saved the day for a picnic at Monticello when a deluge hit you there?" Zebedee was the Tucker Twins' pet name for their father, and Page Allison, their best friend, was also privileged to use the name for that eternally youthful gentleman. "I've been thinking we must do something, but the lightning is so severe that somehow I think I must wait." "You are like Mammy Susan who says: 'Whin the Almighty is a-doing his wuck ain't the time fur a po' ole nigger ter be a-doin' hern.'" "Exactly! But it is letting up a bit now, that is, the lightning is, but the rain is even more terrific." A great crash of thunder, coming simultaneously with a flash of lightning that cracked like a whip, put a stop to conversation, and Page, in spite of her bravery, for she was not the least afraid of storms as a rule--clung to Mr. Tucker. Everybody was clinging to everybody else and in the stress of the moment no one was choosy about the person to cling to. Bill cursed his stars that Tillie was hanging on to Skeeter, as pale as a little ghost, when she might just as well be hanging on to him, while he, in turn, was supporting a strange person he had never even met. "That hit close to us!" exclaimed someone. "I believe it hit me!" screamed a girl. "Where are Susan and Oscar?" cried Douglas. "They will be scared to death." "When I went down in the kitchen after the tub for the Victrola, Oscar was under the table and Susan was trying to get in the fireless cooker, head first," volunteered Bill. "The kitchen is really the dryest place on the mountain, I fancy." "You forget the shower bath," suggested Helen. "Turn it on full force and it would still be a thousand times dryer than any place here." "I tell you what let's do!" spoke Dum Tucker with an inspiration that all regretted had not come sooner. "Let's climb up and sit on the rafters!" Suiting the action to the word, she lightly ascended the trunk of the huge tulip poplar tree that had been left in the center of the pavilion as a support to the roof. The branches had been sawed off, leaving enough projecting to serve as hat racks for the camp. These made an admirable winding stair which an athletic girl like Dum Tucker made nothing of climbing. "Splendid!" and Dee Tucker followed her twin. In short order many of the more venturesome members of the party were perched on the rafters where they defied the rain to reach them. Even poor Mrs. Carter, her pretty lace dress, if not absolutely ruined, at least with all of its first freshness gone, was persuaded to come up, too, and there she sat trembling and miserable. "Come on up, Page!" shouted Dee to her chum. "I'll be there soon," but Page had an idea that she meant first to propose to Douglas. Poor Douglas, this was a fitting ending to a day of worry and concern. She felt like one "Whom unmerciful disaster Followed fast and followed faster." Of course country folk are always made to feel in some intangible way that they are responsible for the weather when the weather happens to be bad and city folk are visiting them. Douglas thought she had enough not to bear the weight of the storm, but somehow she felt that that, too, was added to her burden. "I know exactly what you are thinking," said Page, coming up and putting her wet arm around Douglas' wet waist. "I have lived in the country all my life and whenever we have a big storm at Bracken or unseasonable weather of any sort, we are always held personally responsible for it by a certain type of visitors. You think this is going to harm your camp and keep people from coming, don't you?" "Why, how did you know?" "A little bird told me--a stormy petrel. Now I tell you what we must do: we must whoop things up until all of these week-enders will think that the storm was about the most interesting thing that ever happened at Camp Carter and they will come again hoping for a repetition of the experience." "Oh, Page! How can we?" and Douglas smiled in spite of herself. "Well, let's call a council and appoint a committee on ways and means." Mr. Tucker was first on the list, then Helen and Dr. Wright, Bill Tinsley and Lewis Somerville. Nan was so busy looking at the beauties of Nature that she had to be called three times before she answered. "Come on, Miss Nan!" begged Mr. Tucker. "Your wise little head is wanted on this committee." "Only look at that bank of clouds as the lightning strikes on the edge of it! It looks like the portals of heaven." "Yes, and it came mighty near being that same thing," muttered Mr. Tucker. The storm was really passing. Flashes of lightning and peals of thunder grew farther and farther apart. The rain gave one big last dash and stopped as suddenly as it had begun and then the moon asserted herself once more. Every member of the hastily called council had some suggestion to make and every suggestion was eagerly taken by the committee on ways and means, that committee being composed of the entire council. Page said hot coffee for the entire camp must be made immediately and she would do the making. Dr. Wright said a fire would be a pretty good thing if it could be managed, and Bill Tinsley remembered some charcoal braziers that Susan used for ironing and a box of charcoal in the corner of the kitchen. Lewis went to gather up all the blankets in the camp and those that were damp were draped along the rafters by the climbers. Soon the brazier had a glow of coals that sent up heat to the rafters, and Bill also put into use the great iron pot that had hung over the camp fire just for picturesqueness. It had never had anything in it but water, all the cooking being done on kerosene stoves and in a fireless cooker. This made an excellent brazier and the coals were kept red hot with the help of the automobile tire pump in lieu of bellows. Helen had ambition for a welsh rarebit and started in with chafing dishes. This called into requisition more workers and all of the camp was soon busy cutting up cheese and toasting bread and crackers. The Victrola was relieved of its tub and a ragtime record put on that made all of the workers step lively, which did much toward starting their circulation and warming them up generally. The Victrola ever after that was called Diogenes, after a certain wise man who lived in a tub. Everybody danced at his work and everybody was laughing and happy. The moonlight was so dazzling in its brilliancy that it was difficult to realize that not ten minutes before the biggest storm Greendale had ever known had been making even the strong men tremble. Nan seemed to be the only person who had not been afraid. Even those who had never before minded a storm had been cowed by this one. Page declared she had always liked storms before; even when a big gum tree on the lawn at Bracken had been struck before her very eyes she had not been afraid, but this time she was scared to death. Dum said it seemed to be such a personal storm somehow and each flash seemed to mean her. "I felt my naked soul was exposed to my Maker," she said, as she gave her beloved father a hug. "I have got all kinds of things to 'fess to you, Zebedee, things that I never thought made any difference before," she whispered. "Why, Dumdeedledums! What on earth?" "Only this evening I smoked a cigarette, although I know you hate it--I owe a little bill for soda water at Miller's, although I know you don't want me to charge things--there are other things but I can't think of them just now. Suppose--only suppose that I had winked out without telling you or worse than that, suppose you had----" but Dum couldn't finish for the big tears that rolled out of her eyes and which Tucker-like she made no attempt to conceal. Zebedee lent her his handkerchief and then had to wipe his own eyes, too. "That is all right, honey, but don't do it any more. And now you turn in and help these Carter girls and Page jolly up this crowd. Page is making coffee and I am going with Somerville to right the tents and take stock of the damage done by the storm." When Page had first entered the kitchen she found the two negroes bent over in abject woe. Oscar was praying while Susan moaned and groaned with occasional ejaculations like a Greek chorus in a tragedy of Euripides. "Oh my Gawd, let the deep waters pass over me and let me come out whiter than the snow and sweeter than the honey in the honey comb--let me be putrified by fire and let the rollin' thunder's shock pass me by, leavin' me stand steadfast, a pillar of smoke by day and a pillar of fire by night like unto a lily of the valley, a bright an' mawnin' star that casts its beams on the jest an' the onjest----" "Yes, my Gawd!" wailed the chorus. "An' the jest an' the onjest shall lie down together like the lion an' the lamb in that great an' mighty day an' who Gawd has united let no man pull acinder." "Yes! Yes! In that day when the Rock of Ages shall smite the Shibboleth and the Urum an' Thurum may be delivered not--remember thou thy servant Oscar----" "Yes! Yes, Lord! an' thy handy maiden Susan!" Page entered and put a stop to the impassioned appeal by asking for the coffee pot, while Bill Tinsley bore off the big brazier full of charcoal. "The storm is over, I think," said Page, with difficulty restraining her smiles. "It was very terrible indeed." "Turrible ain't no word for it; an' now you say the white folks wants to eat agin? Lord love us if ev'thing don't make these here week-enders emptier an' emptier. Feedin' of them is like pourin' water down a rat hole." "Well, you see, uncle, they all of them got so wet that it is wise to give them something hot to drink, and then, too, we want them to forget the terrible storm and think of the camp only with pleasure. You see they might not come back again." "Forget it! forget it! You can't lose these here folks. They'd ride all the way from Richmond jes' to fill theyselves up, if for no other reason. They is the empties' lot I ever come acrost." Dee Tucker followed Page to the kitchen to see if she could be of any assistance in making the coffee. She felt keenly sorry for the Carters on account of this storm. Not being connected with them in any way, the grumblers had not hesitated to criticize the whole thing in Dee's presence when they got wet and scared. Dee had done all in her power to soften their judgment, but there were several who did not hesitate to blame the Carter girls because of their wetting. Nothing is so catching as criticism and it spreads like wildfire with the genus boarder. She told Page of her fears. "We'll have to put a stop to it. You get Tillie Wingo and you and she soft soap the men who are grouching, and then get Zebedee to go after the females. He can make them believe they only dreamed it stormed." CHAPTER VIII THE DAMAGE DONE Jeffry Tucker and his daughter Caroline, otherwise known as Dee, were surely the most tactful human beings in the world. They could almost always gain any goal by tact. They set out now to make the grouchy week-enders dry up and cheer up, and in half an hour after the storm was over they had attained their object. Page overheard Mr. Tucker pacifying a very disconsolate maiden lady whose hair had come out of curl and whose rosy cheeks had run off--not far, however--only to her jaws. "This is a most outrageous way to treat boarders!" she exclaimed. "The idea of having no proper shelter for them--charging an enormous price, too! I certainly intend to leave tomorrow and I will stop some friends of mine who were planning to come up next week. Isn't it strange how these places are overrated? Anyhow, I'll not give it a good name but will get out the first thing in the morning." "Oh, don't do that," begged the wily Zebedee. "I had planned to get you to take a walk with me tomorrow evening. The moon will be gorgeous and there are some wonderful spots around here--romantic spots." "Well, of course I wouldn't think of going if it clears up." "It has already cleared up! Just look at the moon! I almost think we might take a walk now, but it might be very muddy. Let's fox trot instead." "'Done, for a ducat!'" laughed Page to herself, as Mr. Tucker and the much mollified week-ender danced off together. "I am afraid poor Zebedee will have his whole holiday taken up showing the moon to wet hens." What Mr. Tucker accomplished with the females, Tillie and Dee did likewise to the males. Tillie exercised all her fascinations on some hallroom boys, while Dee went in for some old bachelors who loved their ease and comfort and did not at all relish the idea of wet sheets on soggy cots. "Here is some hot coffee!" she said, with a very winning smile. "Two lumps, or one?" "None for me, miss," from a terrible old grouch who had been particularly loud in his praise of Nature before Nature had shown what she really could do. "I don't expect to sleep a wink as it is. I am perfectly sure the beds will be damp." "But I am sure they will not be. Douglas is seeing about it now and she says they have plenty of dry bed linen. You had better have some coffee and I will dance with you until you get sleepy." "Egad, that would be very pleasant! I am going back to the city tomorrow and I could sleep on the train, perhaps." "Oh, please don't go tomorrow. I thought you would be here over Sunday and we might get up a little crowd and go sit on the rocks and read aloud or something." "Well, if it clears I may change my mind." "It has already cleared! Goody! Goody! Now you will have to stay. Wouldn't the old-fashioned waltz go well with that record Helen has just put on? Do you know I adore the old-fashioned waltz?" As the old-fashioned waltz was the only thing that staid bachelor could dance, never having been able to master the new dances, this put him in rare good humor. He swallowed his coffee hastily, pronouncing it excellent, and in a twinkling he and Dee were dancing the dances of the early eighties and one more week-ender was saved to the Carters to give the camp a good name. After a severe storm sometimes it is more of a wonder what the damage isn't than what it is. It seems at the time that nothing will ever be dry and straight again, and then in a very short while the world looks normal once more. Camp Carter recuperated in a miraculous manner. Only one tent had been blown away and those that stood the test of wind had also stood the test of rain. Some of the blankets were damp but most of them, thanks to Lewis' foresight, had been protected. The drainage on the side of a mountain is naturally perfect so there were no disconcerting puddles, and the rocky paths were hardly muddy, so hard and driving had been the downpour. Lewis and Bill Tinsley went with Douglas and Nan to take stock of the damage and to repair what they could. Their relief was great at the state of affairs until they entered the cabin. The wind and rain had gone straight through it. The pretty rag rugs were sopping wet and, as I have said before, all the dainty finery spread out on the bed, was blown hither and yon. Douglas looked at the havoc in dismay. Would her mother want to buy more things to replace these that were ruined? She missed the pretty hat intended for her own fair head and was in a measure relieved that she would not have to wear it. "Let's build a fire immediately," and Nan began to pile up paper and chips in the open fireplace, the cabin boasting the one chimney in camp where a fire was possible. "Now this will dry out the room before mother comes in to go to bed." "Yes, and we had better put a cot in here for Bobby, now that our tent is blown off," suggested Lewis. "But where will you and Bill sleep?" asked Douglas. "Oh, we can curl up on the floor of the pavilion. Our cots are soaking. I kept the blankets dry, though." "But I am so afraid you won't be comfortable." "Oh, that's all right! Get us in training for the border! Bill and I have been living so soft I fancy a little roughing it will be good for us." Lewis sounded rather bitter and Douglas felt that she would give worlds if she could tell him that she had decided she did care for him as he wanted her to. Other girls pretended, why not she? But there was an uprightness about Douglas Carter that would not let her be a party to any form of deceit. She was sorry, very sorry, but she could not be like Tillie Wingo and engage herself to anyone on a moment's notice. "We are going to miss both of you ever and ever so much. Think what it would be in a time like this without you to help! I can hardly contemplate running the camp without you." "Oh, that will be easy enough! Skeeter and Frank can do what we have done. You won't miss us at all." "I didn't mean just the work you do," faltered poor Douglas. "Oh, well, the rest won't amount to much," declared Lewis, determined to be difficult. Bill listened to his chum in amazement. He was in such a seventh heaven of bliss himself that he could not understand anyone's being anything but happy. For his part he could not see why Lewis didn't settle matters with his cousin before going to the border. It never entered his head that anyone could refuse a Greek god of a fellow like Lewis Somerville. If a belle like Tillie Wingo could put up with him, why, there was not a girl living who would not jump at his friend. Nan sniffed a romance in the air where she had not expected to find it. She, like all her family, was so accustomed to the friendship between her elder sister and Lewis that she had not thought of a more serious relationship being the outcome. Lewis was certainly sounding cold and formal and Douglas was looking distressed. "I see how it is," she said to herself; "Lewis has proposed to Douglas and Douglas has turned him down. He told her he was going to enlist and proposed all in one breath and poor old Doug couldn't adjust herself fast enough. She no doubt does love him but doesn't know it. Just wait until he gets out of sight!" The week-enders were finally all put to bed in dry sheets and warmed blankets, after having drunk hot coffee and eaten a rarebit that was so tender even the grouchiest of the grouchy could not get up indigestion over it. The leaven of good-humor spread by the Tuckers and Page Allison had begun to work and all were rising to the occasion and quite proud of themselves over taking everything so philosophically. The maiden lady who had threatened to leave on the morning train but had been persuaded by Zebedee to stay over to take a moonlight walk with him was now loud in her praise of camp life. "I say the only way to get along is to take things as they come. I was just telling Mr. Tucker that one can't expect the comforts of the Jefferson Hotel up in camp, but then if one wants the comforts of the Jefferson one had better go there and not come to the country. Now I would give up any comforts for the beauties of nature!" and so on, and so on! Dee danced the old-fashioned waltz until she almost forgot how to do a single modern step. The grouchy bachelor forgot to worry about the possibility of damp sheets and babbled along about the dances of the eighties, and promised to teach his young partner the racket and the heel and toe polka if any of the records would fit those defunct dances. The sprightliness of that particular bachelor was catching, and the two others, who had begun to inquire about time tables with a view to beating a hasty retreat to the safety-firstness of the city, found themselves cheering up, too; and warmed by the good hot coffee, they began to dance with youthful ardor and actually grumbled when the crowd broke up for needed repose. "Aren't the Tuckers splendid?" said Douglas, when she and her sisters were undressing. "Indeed they are," agreed Helen, "and I like that little Allison girl a lot, too. She waltzed in and helped with the eats as though she were one of us." "I think Mr. Tucker is kind of gone on her," drawled Nan. "Nonsense! You are always thinking somebody is gone on somebody," laughed Helen. "Well, somebody always is. He treats her just like he does the twins, only different." "How's that, like triplets?" But Nan had gone to sleep before she could formulate her ideas about how Mr. Tucker treated Page. She only devoutly hoped he would devise some method by which he could persuade her mother to give up the idea of going to White Sulphur and let Douglas alone about making her debut the following winter. CHAPTER IX MR. MACHIAVELLI TUCKER Nan wondered what Mr. Tucker had in mind to relieve the situation which she had so ingenuously disclosed to him on that little walk in the moonlight. The next morning she watched him closely and there was something about the businesslike way in which he sought out Mrs. Carter, when that lady appeared long after breakfast, that made her divine he had something up his sleeve. The charming lady was looking especially lovely in a white linen morning dress. She said she had slept splendidly in spite of the fact that she rather missed the rolling of the ship. Again she had kept Susan so busy waiting on her that the labor of serving breakfast properly had fallen on Helen. A tray of breakfast had to be arranged exactly as though they were still in the city, and Susan made many trips from the cabin to the kitchen. Mrs. Carter was one of those persons who was always treated as more or less of an invalid because of a certain delicate look she had, but her girls could not remember her having had a real illness. She must not be awakened in the morning and she must never be asked to go out in bad weather. She must have the daintiest food; the warmest corner in winter and the coolest in summer. She had never demanded these things, but they had always been given her as though she had a kind of divine right to them. Her husband had, from the moment he saw her, the belle of belles at White Sulphur, felt that she was to be served as a little queen and the children had slipped into their father's way. No one would have been more astonished than Annette Carter had anyone accused her of selfishness. Selfishness was something ugly and greedy and no one could say that she was that. She never made demands on anyone. In fact, she quite prided herself on not making demands. Everyone was kind and thoughtful of her, but then was she not kind and thoughtful of everyone? Had she not brought a present to every one of her girls and a great box of expensive toys for Bobby? It was not her fault that Bobby preferred currying that disgraceful-looking old mule to playing with the fine things she had purchased for him at the most exclusive toy shop in New York. Had she not even remembered every one of the servants, not only Susan and Oscar but the ones who had been in her service when she had left Richmond? The fact that she had charged all of these gifts and that the money to pay for them was to be worked for by her daughters had not for a moment entered her mind. "And how is camp life treating you this morning?" asked Jeffry Tucker, as he led the little lady to a particularly pleasant corner of the pavilion that commanded a view of the beautiful apple orchards of that county of Virginia famous for the Albemarle pippins. "Did you ever see such a morning? I can hardly believe that only last night we were in the throes of the fiercest storm I have ever seen." "Oh, I am quite in love with camp life. It is not so rough as I expected it to be when I arrived yesterday. I have a very comfortable bed and a nice bright fire cheered me up wonderfully after I left the pavilion last night. I must confess I was scared to death during the storm, although I held on to myself wonderfully." "Yes, wonderfully!" but Jeffry Tucker crossed his fingers and reached out for a bit of green from the pine tree growing close to the post. He could not but picture the little woman of the evening before hanging on to her husband, intent on protecting her dress and shrieking at every close flash of lightning or loud clap of thunder. "I am so glad you are here because I am thinking of leaving my girls at the camp for a while, and of course I could not think of doing it unless you were here to chaperone them." "Oh, I never thought of my presence being necessary as a chaperone! You know I am thinking of taking Douglas to the White for a fortnight." "Oh, I am sorry. Of course I could not leave my girls unless they are to be chaperoned." "But Robert will be here; he is enough chaperone surely." "Yes, enough in our eyes but not the eyes of the world. You see, I think one cannot be too careful about what Mrs. Grundy will say," and Jeffry Tucker crossed his fingers again and reached for more green, "especially when girls are about the age of mine and yours, too, about to be launched in the world, as it were." He was devoutly thankful that his girls could not hear him indulging in this homily. If there ever lived a person who scorned Mrs. Grundy that was this same Jeffry Tucker. He devoutly hoped that Mrs. Carter would not hear that Page Allison was in the habit of being chaperoned by him, if one could call it being chaperoned. He well knew that as a chaperone Robert Carter had him beat a mile but he felt that a little subterfuge was permissable in as strenuous a case as this. "Why, Mr. Tucker, I did not dream you were such a stickler for the proprieties!" "Ahem--I am more so than I used to be. Having these girls almost grown makes me feel I must be more careful than--my nature--er--er--dictates." "Exactly! I respect you for it. I, too, think it very important, especially if a girl is to make a debut as I mean that Douglas shall. I am very sorry, though, that you could not leave Virginia and Caroline up here in Robert's care. I am sure it will be all right for once. I have quite set my heart on White Sulphur for a few weeks. I think it gives a girl a certain poise to be introduced to society in an informal way before she makes her debut." "Well, I am sorry, too, sorrier than I can say. You see, I had planned to come up again myself next Saturday and I thought I would bring with me Hiram G. Parker. He would like this sort of thing and fit in nicely with these young girls. You know how much he takes to the girls before they are quite grown." "Ye--es!" and Mrs. Carter was lost in a revery. She well knew that the name of Hiram G. Parker was one that controlled society. He was the Beau Brummel of Richmond and in some unaccountable way had become the dictator of society, that is of the debutante society. He passed the word about whether or not a girl was to be a belle and his judgment was seldom gainsaid. Mrs. Carter was thinking that no doubt the presence of Hiram G. Parker in their camp would be of more benefit than a trip to White Sulphur. Her position in society was of course assured beyond a doubt but that did not mean a successful debut for one of her daughters, certainly not for one who was to be persuaded if not forced to be a debutante. The business of coming out must be taken quite seriously and the importance of it not belittled. Poor Douglas was taking it seriously enough, but not in a way her mother thought desirable for success. "Do you know, Mr. Tucker, I have half a mind to give up the trip to White Sulphur.--It is so pleasant here and so delightful to be with my children again; and if your daughters and that sweet little friend of theirs care to remain with us, I shall be more than pleased to chaperone them." "Oh, you are kind!" exclaimed the wily Zebedee. "I cannot thank you enough. If you choose to make it so, Camp Carter will vie with White Sulphur as a resort. I shall certainly bring Parker up next week." Mr. Tucker grasped the first opportunity to inform the anxious Nan of his successfully performed mission. "Oh, how did you do it?" "By just a little twist of the wrist. You shall have to put up with my girls though for another week or so. Your mother has promised to chaperone them until I fetch them away." "Splendid! Do they want to stay?" "They are dying to. I only hope they won't tear things wide open at camp. They are terribly hoydenish at times." "Mr. Tucker, tell me: did you really get mother to give up White Sulphur just to chaperone the twins and Page?" "You ask her! I think she thinks she did." "I believe I'll call you Mr. Machiavelli Tucker." "Don't flatter me so yet. Wait until I accomplish the seemingly impossible of making your mother decide of her own accord that your sister had better not come out yet." "Can you do that, too?" "I don't want to sound conceited but I believe I can. This is our secret, so don't tell a soul that we have any hand in this matter. Just let Douglas think it is fortune smiling on her." "All right, but nothing can ever make me forget your kindness!" and Nan held his hand with both of hers with no more trace of shyness than Hiram G. Parker might have shown in dancing a german. "What on earth have you done to make Nan so eternally grateful?" demanded Dum Tucker, coming suddenly around a spur of rock on the mountain path where her father had accosted Nan. "I am going to leave you girls up here for some days longer. Isn't that enough for her to be grateful over?" "We--ll, I don't know--that sounds rather fishy." "And besides, I am going to send her up a ouija board to pass the hours away until I return. How about that?" "Oh, now you are talking! That is something to be grateful about. We are all of us dying to try it," but Dum could not see why Nan was blushing so furiously and evidently trying to hold in the giggles, and she plainly caught a wink passing between her dignified parent and the demure Nan. "He's up to something, but it wouldn't be very gentlemanly of me to try to find out if he doesn't want me to know," she said to herself. The Tucker Twins had been motherless since they were tiny babies and their ridiculously young father had had the rearing of them alone and unaided. Many stepmothers had been picked out for these irrepressible girls by well meaning friends and relatives, but Jeffry Tucker had remained unmarried, much to the satisfaction of the said twins. "He is much too young and inexperienced to marry," they would say when the matter was broached by wily mammas who hoped to settle their daughters. And so he did seem to be. Time had no power to age Jeffry Tucker. He was in reality very young to be the father of these great girls, as the romance of his life had occurred when he was only twenty, still in college, and the little wife had died after only a year of happiness. In rearing his girls he had had only one rule to go by: they must conduct themselves like gentlemen on all occasions. "I don't know what ladylike rules are but I do know what is expected of a gentleman, and if my girls come up to that standard I am sure they will pass muster," he had declared. As a rule the twins did pass muster. They were perfectly honorable and upright and the mischief they got into was never anything to be ashamed of--only something to be gotten out of, never too serious to tell their father all about. The fact that they were to stay longer than the week-end was greeted with joy by the Carters. Page had already made herself popular, too. Douglas was soon informed by her mother that she had given up the trip to the White, so some of the load was lifted from the poor girl's heart. There was much more talk, however, of the proposed debut and Helen upheld her mother in thinking that since Douglas was not going to college she must come out. "But, Helen, the money for a debut! And if we go into our house and turn out the desirable tenants, where are we to get an income to exist on?" "Oh, always money, money! It can be gotten, and mother says our credit is as good as the U. S. mint. She has often heard father say so." "Of course it was as good, but now that father is no longer able to earn money it would not be quite square to presume on that credit when we have no way of paying the bills." Douglas would go over and over the same argument and Helen would still not be convinced. "Are we to spend the rest of our lives digging and delving for gold and then not use the money? How does our bank account stand now?" "I don't know, but it is not so large that we could make a debut on it," smiled Douglas. "But we could make a start and then earn some more." "But why spend it on me when I don't want to go into society?" "Why, for mother's sake, goose. She has set her heart on it and you know we have always let her do whatever she wanted to. It would make father miserable to think mother wanted something and could not have it." "Yes, I know! He mustn't know she wants it and can't have it." "But she must have it. She is planning all the time for your being a great belle." "Dr. Wright said that father----" but Helen flounced off, refusing to hear what Dr. Wright said. She had overcome all of her antipathy for that young physician and in fact liked him rather more than anyone of her acquaintance of the male persuasion, but she still resented any tendency on his part to dictate to her. Mrs. Carter, having given up her trip to White Sulphur, felt that virtue must be rewarded and so actually persuaded Douglas to protect her complexion. She was not allowed to go in the sun at all and in the shade she must wear a great hat tied under her chin, with a curtain of blue veiling draped over it. Every night she must be anointed with some kind of cucumber cream and her hair must be brushed with one hundred licks every night and morning. Lewis Somerville and Bill Tinsley made their sorrowful adieux. Everyone missed them. They seemed as important to the camp as the great poplar tree in the center of the pavilion was to that edifice. There was a feeling that everything might topple over now that those two young men were gone. It didn't, however. Skeeter Halsey and Frank Maury did what they could to fill their places, but as they expressed it, they "sho' did rattle 'round in 'em." Mr. Carter, too, delighted to be of use and to find something he could do without using his poor fagged brain too much, was busy at something from morning until night. First the reservoir must be repaired after the heavy rain had caved in part of the dam; then the roof of the cabin needed a shingle here and there. A rustic bench must be put by the spring which formed the reservoir, and then a table was added so that afternoon tea might be served there on occasions. He was so busy and so happy in being busy that it was delightful to see him. Bobby was his companion at all times, even deserting the beloved Josh and Josephus to be with his father. This was a new father, one who had time to play and talk. Together they made wonderful little water wheels and put them in a tiny mountain stream where they turned continuously to the delight of Bobby. The successful architect of other days drew plans for bird houses and he and his little son whittled them out of stray bits of lumber and cigar boxes and placed them in the trees, no doubt filling a long felt want for suburban villas in bird society. The miracle was happening! The cure that Dr. Wright had predicted was taking place. Robert Carter was on the high road to recovery. CHAPTER X MR. HIRAM G. PARKER Susan had been kept very busy all week doing lady's maid work for her mistress. Susan's usefulness in the kitchen was about over, the Carter girls feared. There never seemed to be a moment that she was not wanted to wait on Mrs. Carter. When she took the daintily arranged breakfast tray to the cabin she was kept to fetch and carry and do a million foolish little nothings that an idle woman can always find to occupy other persons. Then the many new dresses must be pressed and white skirts must be laundered. Mrs. Carter always had worn white in the summer, and although washing was something of a problem at the camp, she still must wear white. Not a speck must be on those snowy garments even if it did take all of Susan's time to keep them in condition. "There is no excuse for letting oneself go even if it is necessary to live in a camp," she would assert. "I think it is very important to look nice wherever one happens to be." "It sho' is, Mis' Carter, an' you jes' call on me to washanirn all the things you need. That's what I'm here fur," and Susan, who much preferred the job of lady's maid to that of assistant cook, gathered up an armful of rumpled skirts and blouses and carried them off to launder. She adored her mistress and saw no reason at all why the girls need mind doing extra work so that she could give all of her attention to the whims of the mother. "What's all that?" grumbled Oscar, who saw many reasons why Miss Helen should not be doing Susan's work. "You ain't a-goin' to do no washinanirnin' in this hyar kitchen today. You know puffectly well that them thar week-enders is a-comin' pilin' in hyar this ebenin', all of 'em as empty as gourds." "Well, these here langery is got to be did up, an' I is got to do 'em up, an' as fur as I know thain't no place to do 'em up but in the kitchen. It's jes' because of some of these here week-enders that they is got to be landered. You is so ign'rant that you don't know that one of these here week-enders what is a-comin' is what Mis' Carter call a arbitrator of sassiety." "Well, I may be ign'rant but I knows one thing, that ifn a nice little gal named Miss Page Allison hadn't a come in an' helped Miss Helen an' I, we wouldn't a got breakfast on the table. Miss Gwen warn't here this mornin' cause that ole po' white mounting ooman what she calls Aunt Mandy done took with cramps in the night an' Miss Gwen couldn't leave her. This is a been the busiest week of the camp an' you--you ain't been wuth standin' room in de bad place all week. You an' yo' mistress with yo' langery an' yo' arbors of sassiety. I don't know who he is a-comin' but whoever he is, he ain't no better'n our folks." "He's Mr. Hiram G. Parker hisself!" "What, that little ole Hi Parker? He ain't nuthin'. If he's done riz to the top er sassiety it's caze he's the scum an' the scum jes natch'ly gits on top. Who was his folks? Tell me that, who was they? You don't know an' neither do lots er folks but I knows an' he knows. That's the reason he's so partic'lar 'bout who he consorts with. He has to be! Yi! Yi! He has to be! Arbor er sassiety much! Back po'ch er sassiety, mo' lak!" and Oscar chuckled with delight at his wit. "I betcher Mis' Carter better not hear you a-talkin' thataway." "Well, she ain't a-goin' ter hear me--'cause I ain't a-goin' ter talk thataway befo' her, but that ain't a-keepin' me from knowin' all about little Hi Parker's fo-bars. Thain't much ter know 'cause he warn't troubled with many. His grandpap had a waggin with a bell on it an' went aroun' hollerin: 'Ragsoleioncopperanbrass! Ragsoleioncopperanbrass!' I 'member it mighty well 'cause my mammy uster say she goin' ter thow me in the waggin an' sell me ter ole Parker if I didn't 'have myself." "Well, howsomever it might a-been, tain't thataway now! Mis' Carter is 'cited over his a-comin'. She done made po' Miss Douglas sleep with some kinder wax on her competence las' night to peel off the remains of the sunburn an' she done made her promus not to wear that there cowboy suit for supper. Mis' Carter says she thinks Miss Douglas oughter be dressed in diafricanus interial." "Humph! The missus is all right, but she better let these here young ladies run this here camp like they been doin'. If they take to dressin' up it'll mean all yo' time'll be spent pressin' an' fixin' an' I want ter know who'll be a-doin' yo' work. Not me! By the time I get through butlerin' these here week-enders, I ain't got the back ter washanwipe all the dishes." Susan quietly started the charcoal brazier and put her irons to heat. She knew that the mistress' word was law and that although Oscar might grumble until he was even blacker in the face than nature had made him, he would go on washing dishes until he dropped in his tracks rather than make a real disturbance. Nan and Dum Tucker came to the kitchen after breakfast and helped him while Susan washed and ironed the many white things that Mrs. Carter had discarded as too soiled to appear before Mr. Hiram G. Parker. "I'll wash and you wipe," suggested Nan. "No, please let me wash," begged Dum, "I adore sloshing in suds." "Well, they's lots er suds here ter slosh in," grinned Oscar, bringing a great steaming dish pan, "an' if you is so enjoyful of suds, mebbe you young ladies could spare me altogether an' let me pick them there chickens 'gainst it's time ter fry 'em for supper." "Yes, indeed! Go!" from Dum. "We can do them in no time, can't we, Nan?" "We can do them, but not in no time," drawled Nan. "I can't think it is right for people to use so many dishes. Wouldn't it be grand to be like Aeneas and put your food on a little cake and then eat the cake?" "Yes, but if you can't do that, I think the feeders should at least have the grace to lick their plates. What on earth do you do with all the scraps?" asked Dum as she vigorously scraped plates, a part of the work that everyone hates. "Fatten chickens for killin'," answered Oscar, sharpening a great knife fit for the deed he had to do. "For land's sake, Miss Dum, don't arsk none of the week-enders ter lick they plates. They don't leave nothin' now for my chickens. The gals even eat the tater peelin's. They say it gwine make they har curl, but they eat so much they don't leave no room for they har ter curl." Dum and Nan had become fast friends during that week at camp. The several years' difference in their ages was as nothing. The feeling for beauty which both of them had to a great degree was what drew them together. Nan was so quiet and unostentatious in her unselfishness, few at the camp realized how much she did. For instance: the person who cooks a meal is usually praised by the hungry ones, but the person who patiently scrapes and washes dishes is hardly thought of at all by the satiated. On that Friday morning, Helen had, with the help of Page, produced a wonderful breakfast; and when these two girls came to that meal flushed but triumphant in the knowledge that their popovers popped over and that their omelettes had risen to the occasion, the breakfasters had given them three rousing cheers. No one thought of who was going to wash up. While Dum was sloshing in the suds and Nan was busily drying the dishes that piled up to such great heights they looked like ramparts, Page and Helen came in to try their hands at pies for Saturday's picnic. Page had on one of Helen's bungalow aprons and seemed as much at home as though she had been born and bred in camp. Page always had that quality of making herself at home wherever she happened to drop. Dee used to say she was just like a kitten and wasn't particular where she was, just so it was pleasant and people were kind. "What kind of pies shall it be?" asked Helen. "Something not too squashy!" pleaded Dum. "Nan and I have found the most adorable spot for a picnic: a fallen tree about half a mile around the mountain--not a freshly fallen one but one that must have fallen ages and ages ago as it has decided just to grow horizontally. Any old person could climb up it, just walk up it in fact--such seats were never imagined--the limbs all twisted into armchairs." "Of course if we are going to eat up a tree we had better have mighty solid pies," laughed Page. "How about fried turnovers like Mammy Susan makes?" "Grand!" from Dum. "Apple?" "Yes, apple," laughed Helen, amused at Dum's enthusiasm, "also some lemon pies, don't you think? I mean cheese cakes." "Splendid and more and more splendid!" The girls went to work, Page on the fried turnovers and Helen on the cheese cakes. Such a merry time they were having, all busy and all talking! Oscar sat outside picking chickens and of necessity Susan was driven to the extreme corner of the kitchen with her heap of washing and ironing. "I think you are awfully clever, Helen, to learn to make pastry so quickly. How did you do it?" said Page, deftly forming a turnover. "I don't know--I just did it. It seems to me as though anyone can cook who will follow a recipe. I had a few lessons at the Y. W. C. A. in the spring and I learned a lot there. How did you learn?" "Well, when I was a kiddie I had no one to play with but Mammy Susan, so I used to stay in the kitchen and play cooking. I've been making thimble biscuit and eggshell cake ever since I could walk." "How do you make eggshell cake?" "Just put the left-over scrapings of batter in the eggshells and bake it. It cooks in a minute and then you peel off the shell. Scrumptious!" Dee came running in with the mail, having been to the post office at Greendale with Josh and Bobby and the faithful Josephus. "A letter from Zebedee and he will be up for sure this evening! Ain't that grand? But guess who is coming with him--old Hiram G. Parker! I believe Zebedee must have lost his mind. I am really uneasy about him." "Why, what is the matter with Mr. Parker?" asked Helen, who had been much interested in what she had heard of that gentleman's charms and graces. "'No matter, no matter, only ideas!' as the idealist said when the materialist saw him falling down stairs, bumping his head at every step, and asked him what was the matter," laughed Dee. "Didn't you ever meet Mr. Parker?" "No, but I have always understood he was all kinds of lovely things." "Oh, he'll do," put in Dum, "if you like wax works. He wears the prettiest pants in town and has more neckties and socks than an ordinary man could buy if he went shopping every day. He knows all the latest jokes and when they give out, he starts in on the others. He makes jokes of his own, too--not like Zebedee's--Zebedee always bubbles out in a joke but Hiram G. leads up to his. First he gets one, a joke I mean, and then he gets a crowd of listeners. Then he directs the conversation into the proper channel and dams it up and when it is just right he launches his joke." "You certainly do mix your metaphors," laughed Page, crimping her turnovers with a fork. "You start out with bubbling brooks and end up with the launching of ships. "'She starts! she moves! she seems to feel The thrill of life along her keel.'" "Well, Zebedee does bubble and Hiram G. Parker doesn't; neither does a boat, so there. Oh, oh! Look at the goodies. How on earth do you make such cute edges to your tarts? Just see them, girls!" "I did mine with a broken fork but Mammy Susan says she knows an old woman who always did hers with her false teeth." After the shout that went up from this had subsided, Helen begged to know more of Mr. Parker. "Is he a great friend of your father?" "Why no, that is the reason I can't divine why he is bringing him up here. I believe Zebedee likes him well enough--at least I never heard him say anything to the contrary. There is no harm in the dude that I ever heard of. Of course he is the Lord High Muck-a-Muck with the buds. He decides which ones are to ornament society and which ones to be picked for funerals. He has already looked over Dum and me at a hop last Thanksgiving at the Jefferson; Page, too. I believe he thinks we'll do, at least he danced us around and wrote on our back with invisible chalk: 'Passed by the Censor of Society.' I believe he thinks a lot of Zebedee, but then everyone does who has even a glimmering of sense," and Dee reread her father's letter, a joint one for her and her sister, with a postscript for Page. "Well, all he says is that he is coming and going to bring the immaculate Hi and we must behave," declared Dum, reading over Dee's shoulder. "I don't know whether I am going to behave or not. That Mr. Parker gets on my nerves. He's too clean, somehow. I'm mighty afraid I'm going to roll him down the mountain." "Mis' Carter is fixin' up a lot for the gent," said Susan, who had been busily engaged with her wash tub while the girls were talking, "if it's Mr. Hiram G. Parker you is a-speakin' of. She done say he is a very high-up pusson. I do believe it was all on account of him that she done made Miss Douglas look after her hide so keerful this week." "Why, does mother know he is coming up?" asked Helen. "She never told me. Nan, did you know he was coming?" Nan hadn't known, but she had a great light break on her mind when she heard that her mother knew he was to come: Mr. Tucker had certainly used this visit of Mr. Parker's to persuade her mother to give up the trip to White Sulphur. "No! I never heard a word of it," Nan answered sedately but her eyes were dancing and it was with difficulty that she restrained a giggle. How could her mother be so easily influenced? She must consider Mr. Parker very well worth while to stay at camp just to see him. That was the reason for all of this extra washing and ironing Susan had on hand. Nan loved her mother devotedly but she had begun to feel that perhaps she was a very--well, to say the least--a very frivolous lady. Nan's judgment was in a measure more mature than Helen's although Helen was almost two years her senior. Where Helen loved, she loved without any thought of the loved one's having any fault. She wondered now that her mother should have known of Mr. Parker's coming without mentioning it, but as for that little lady's dressing up to see this society man, why, that was just as it should be. She had absolutely no inkling of her mother's maneuvering to push Douglas toward a successful debut. Susan's intimation that Douglas was to preserve her complexion for Mr. Parker's benefit was simply nonsense. Susan was after all a very foolish colored girl who had gotten things mixed. Douglas was to protect her delicate blond skin for all society, not for any particular member of it. The train arrived bearing many week-enders and among them Zebedee and the precious Mr. Hiram G. Parker, looking his very fittest in a pearl gray suit with mauve tie and socks and a Panama hat that had but recently left the block. Zebedee could not help smiling at the fine wardrobe trunk that his companion had brought and comparing it with his own small grip with its changes of linen packed in the bottom and the boxes of candy for Tweedles and Page squeezed on top. "Thank Heaven, I don't have a reputation to keep up!" he said to himself. The wardrobe trunk was not very large, not much more bulky than a suitcase but it had to be carried up the mountain by Josephus and its owner seemed to be very solicitous that it should be stood on the proper end. "One's things get in an awful mess from these mountain roads. A wardrobe trunk should be kept upright, otherwise even the most skillful packing cannot insure one that trousers will not be mussed and coats literally ruined." Mr. Tucker felt like laughing outright but he had an ax to grind and Hiram G. Parker was to turn the wheel, so he bridled his inclination. He had asked the society man to be his guest for the week-end, intimating that he had a favor to ask of him. Parker accepted, as he had an idea he would, since the summer was none too full of invitations with almost no one in town. His position in the bank held him in town and he must also hold the position, since it was through it he was enabled to belong to all the clubs and to have pressed suits for all occasions. He had no idea what the favor was but he liked to keep in with these newspaper chaps since it was through the newspapers, when all was told, that he had attained his success, and through the society columns of those dailies that he kept in the public eye. He liked Jeffry Tucker, too, for himself. There was something so spontaneous about him. With all of Hiram Parker's society veneer there was a human being somewhere down under the varnish and a heart, not very big, but good of its kind. On the train en route to Greendale Mr. Tucker had divulged what that favor was. He led up to it adroitly so that when he finally reached it Mr. Parker was hardly aware of the fact that he had arrived. "Long list of debutantes this season, I hear," he started out with, handing an excellent cigar to his guest. "Yes, something appalling!" answered Mr. Parker, settling himself comfortably in the smoker after having taken off his coat and produced a pocket hanger to keep that garment in all the glory of a recent pressing. "I see many hen parties in prospect. There won't be near enough beaux to go round." "So I hear, especially since the militia has been ordered to the border. So many dancing men are in the Blues. I heard today that young Lane is off. He is Robert Carter's assistant and since Carter has been out of the running has been endeavoring to keep the business going. I fancy it will be a blow to the Carters that he has had to go." "Yes, too bad! Quite a dancing man! He will be missed in the germans." Jeffry Tucker smiled as he had been thinking the Carters might miss the assistance that Lane rendered their father, but since Mr. Parker's mind ran more on germans than on business that was, after all, what he was bringing him up to Greendale for. "Lewis Somerville has enlisted, too." "You don't say! I had an idea when he left West Point he would be quite an addition to Richmond society." "I think Mrs. Carter thought he would be of great assistance to her eldest daughter," said Mr. Machiavelli Tucker. "Oh, I hadn't heard that one of Robert Carter's daughters was to make her debut. I haven't seen her name on the list. Is she a good looker?" "Lovely and very sweet! I think it is a pity for her to come out and not be a success, but her mother is determined that she shall enter the ring this winter." "Yes, it is a pity. This will be a bad year for buds. There are already so many of them and such a dearth of beaux I have never beheld. I don't care how good-looking a girl is, she is going to have a hard time having a good time this year," and the expert sighed, thinking of the work ahead of him in entertaining debutantes. He was not so young as he had been and there were evenings when he rather longed to get into slippers and dressing gown and let himself go, but a leader must be on the job constantly or someone else would usurp his place. Many debutantes and a few society men meant he must redouble his activities. "I hope you will be nice to this girl, Hi. She is a splendid creature. Since her father has been sick, she has taken the burden of the whole family on her shoulders. All of the girls help and the second one, Helen, is doing wonders, too--in fact, all of them are wonders." "So----" thought the leader of germans, "we are coming to the favor. Tucker wants me to help launch this girl. Well, I'll look her over first. No pig in a poke for me!" He took another of the very good cigars, not that he wanted it at that moment, but he might need it later on. "Now this is what I want you to do, this is how I want you to be good to her." Hi Parker smiled a knowing smile. How many times had he been approached in just this way? "I don't want you to ask her to dance a german with you----" Oh, what was the fellow driving at, anyhow? "No, indeed! There is no man living that I would ask to do such a thing. I feel it is a kind of insult to a girl to go around drumming up partners for her." Mr. Parker gasped. "What I want you to do for me is to persuade Mrs. Carter that this is a bad year to bring a girl out. You have already said you think it is, so you would be perfectly honest in doing so. The Carters' finances are at a low ebb and this fine girl, Douglas, is doing her best to economize and have the family realize the importance of it, and now her mother is determined that she shall stop everything and go into society." Mr. Tucker, during the journey to Greendale, succeeded in convincing Mr. Parker that it was an easy matter to persuade Mrs. Carter to give up the project. "I'll do what I can, but if you take the matter so much to heart why don't you do it yourself, Tucker? I make it a rule not to butt in on society's private affairs if I can possibly keep out of it." "I ask you because I believe in getting an expert when a delicate operation is needed. You are a social expert and this is a serious matter." The upshot was that Mr. Hiram G. Parker was flattered into making the attempt and Mrs. Carter's opinion of that gentleman's social knowledge was so great and her faith in him so deep-rooted that she abandoned her idea of forcing Douglas out for that season. She gave it up with a sigh of resignation. Anyhow, she was glad she had made Douglas bleach her complexion before Mr. Parker was introduced to her. The girl was looking lovely and the shyness she evinced on meeting that great man was just as it should be. Too much assurance was out of place with a bud and this introduction and impression would hold over until another year. CHAPTER XI THE BIRD "Softly a winged thing Floats across the sky, And earth from slumber waketh And looketh up on high, Sees it is only a bird-- A great white bird-- That floating thro' the darkness undisturbed Floats on, and on, and on." Late sleeping in a tent is rather a difficult feat as the morning sun seems to spy out the sleeper's eyes and there is no way to escape him. Some of the campers tied black ribbons around their eyes and some even used black stockings, but the first rays of the sun always found Nan stirring. It was not that she was especially energetic, she was indeed rather lazy, according to her more vigorous sisters, but the charm of the early morning was so wonderful that she hated to miss it lying in bed. It was also such a splendid time to be alone. The camp was a bustling, noisy place when everyone was up, and early morning was about the only time the girl had for that communing with herself which was very precious to one of her poetic temperament. She slept in a tent, not only with her sisters but with Lil Tate and Tillie Wingo, now that the week-enders had swarmed in on them at such a rate, stretching their sleeping accommodations to the utmost. Of course it was great fun to sleep in a tent but there were times when Nan longed for a room with four walls and a door that she could lock. The next best thing to a door she could lock was the top of the mountain in the early morning. Unless some enthusiastic nature-lover had got up a sunrise party she was sure to have the top of the mountain to herself. Mr. Tucker had divulged to her the night before that her mother had abandoned the designs she had been entertaining for Douglas, and she in turn had been able to pass on the good news to Douglas. Mrs. Carter had not told her daughter herself but was evidently going to take her own good time to do so. Their mother's being a bit cattish was not worrying either Douglas or Nan. They were too happy over the abandonment of the plan. Of course they could not help feeling that since the plan was abandoned, it would have been sweet of their mother to let Douglas know immediately since she was well aware of the fact that the idea was far from pleasing to her daughter. And since it would have been sweet of her to let her know the moment she had abandoned the plan, it was on the other hand slightly cattish of her to conceal the fact. Of course the girls did not call it cattish even in their own minds--just thoughtlessness. Douglas had no idea of how the change had come about, and Nan held her counsel. It was Mr. Tucker's and her secret. As she crept out of the cot on that morning, before the sun was up, she glanced at her elder sister and a feeling of intense satisfaction filled her heart to see how peacefully Douglas was sleeping. Her beautiful hair, in a great golden red rope, was trailing from the low cot along the floor of the tent; her face that had looked so tired and anxious lately had lost its worried expression--she looked so young--hardly any older than Lucy, who lay in the next bed. "Thank goodness, the poor dear is no longer worried," thought Nan devoutly as she slipped on her clothes and crept noiselessly out of the tent. What a morning it was! The sun was not quite up and there was a silver gray haze over everything. The neighboring mountains were lost, as were the valleys. The air had a freshness and sweetness that is peculiar to dawn. "'The innocent brightness of a new-born day is lovely yet,'" quoted Nan. "If I can only get to the top of the mountain before the sun is up!" She hurried along the path, stopping a moment at the spring to drink a deep draft of water and to splash the clear water on her face and hands. She held her face down in the water a moment and came up shaking the drops off her black hair, which curled in innumerable little rings from the wetting. She laughed aloud in glee. Life was surely worth living, everything was so beautiful. The sides of the mountain were thickly wooded but at the top there was a smooth plateau with neither tree nor bush. One great rock right in the middle of this clearing Nan used as a throne whereon she could view the world--if not the world, at least a good part of Albemarle county and even into Nelson on one hand and Orange on the other. Sometimes she thought of this stone as an altar and of herself as a sun-worshipper. On that morning she clambered up the rock just a moment before the sun peeped through a crack in the mist. She stood with arms outstretched facing the sun. The mists were rolling away and down in the valley she could distinguish the apple orchards and now a fence, and now a haystack. There a mountain cabin emerged from the veil and soon a spiral of thin blue smoke could be spied rising from its chimney. "I wonder what they are going to have for breakfast!" exclaimed the wood nymph, and then she took herself to task for thinking of food when everything was so poetical. Just as she was wondering what the mountaineers who lived in that tiny cabin were going to cook on the fire whose smoke she saw rising in that "thin blue reek" the sun came up. A wonderful sight, but the sun has been rising for so many æons that we have become accustomed to it. Something else happened at that moment, something we are not quite accustomed to even yet: Far off over the crest of a mountain Nan thought she saw an eagle. The first rays of the sun glinted on the great white wings. For a moment it was lost to view as it passed behind a cloud and then it appeared again flying rapidly. "It is coming this way, a great white bird! I am almost afraid it might pick me up in its huge talons and carry me off, carry me 'way up in the air--I almost hope it will--it would be so glorious to fly!" She stood up on her throne and stretched her arms out, crying an invocation to the winged thing. She heeded not the buzzing of the aeroplane as it approached. To her it was a great white bird and she only awakened from her trance when the machine had actually landed on her plateau. The humming had stopped and it glided along the grass, kept closely cropped by Josephus, as this was his grazing ground when he was not busy pulling the cart. Nan stood as though petrified, a graceful little figure in her camp-fire girls' dress. Her arms were still outstretched as when she cried her invocation to the great white bird. The machine came to a standstill quite close to her altar and a young man in aviator's costume sprang from it. Taking off his helmet and goggles, he made a low bow to Nan. "Oh, mountain nymph, may a traveler land in your domain?" "Welcome, stranger!" "And may I ask what is this enchanted land?" "This is Helicon--and you--who are you?" "I am Bellerophon and yonder winged steed is Pegasus. Maid, will you fly with me?" He held out his hand and Nan, with no more thought of the proprieties than a real mountain nymph would have had, let him help her into his machine. He wrapped a great coat around her, remarking that even nymphs might get cold, and seemingly with no more concern than Bill Tinsley felt over starting the mountain goat, he touched some buttons and turned some wheels and in a moment the aeroplane was gliding over the plateau and then floating in the air, mounting slowly over the tree tops. Up, up they went and then began making beautiful circles in the air. Nan sighed. "Are you scared?" and the aviator looked anxiously at his little companion. He had not resumed his helmet and goggles and his eyes were so kind and so merry that Nan felt as though she had known him all her life. "Scared! Of course not! I am just so happy." "Have you ever flown before?" "Not in reality--but it is just as I have dreamed it." "You dream then a great deal?" "Yes! 'In a dream all day I wander only half awake.' I am sure I must be dreaming now." "I, too! But then the best of life is the dreams, the greatest men are the dreamers. If it had not been for a dreamer, we could not have had this machine. Look! Isn't that wonderful?" Nan was looking with all eyes at the panorama spread out below them. The sun was up now in good earnest and the mountains had shaken off the mist as sleepers newly aroused might throw off their coverlids. The orchards in the valleys looked like cabbage beds and the great mansions that adorn the hills and are the pride and boast of the county seemed no larger than doll houses. From every chimney in the valley smoke was arising. Nan was disgusted with herself that again the thought came to her: "What are all of these people going to have for breakfast?" They dipped and floated and curvetted. Nan thought of Hawthorne's description of Pegasus in the "Chimæra" and the very first opportunity she had later on she got the book and reread the following passage: "Oh, how fine a thing it is to be a winged horse! Sleeping at night, as he did, on a lofty mountain-top, and passing the greater part of the day in the air, Pegasus seemed hardly to be a creature of the earth. Whenever he was seen, up very high above people's heads, with the sunshine on his silvery wings, you would have thought that he belonged to the sky, and that, skimming a little too low, he had got astray among our mists and vapors, and was seeking his way back again. It was very pretty to behold him plunge into the fleecy bosom of a bright cloud, and be lost in it for a moment or two, and then break forth from the other side." Once they went through a low-hanging cloud. Nan felt the drops of water on her face. "Why, it is raining!" she cried. "No, that was a cloud we dipped through," laughed her companion. "Are you cold?" "Cold? I don't know! I have no sensation but joy." The young man smiled. There was something about Nan's drawl that made persons want to smile anyhow. "You forgot your hat and goggles," she said as she noticed his blue eyes and the closely cropped brown hair that looked as though it had to be very closely cropped to keep it from curling. "That's so! Some day maybe I shall go back after them. Now shall we fly to 'Frisco? How about High Olympus? Remember we are on Pegasus now and he can take us wherever we want to go." "Breakfast first," drawled Nan. "Come with me and I can feed you on nectar and ambrosia." "Oh what a wonderful wood nymph! She understands that mortal man cannot feed on poetry alone." They glided to the plateau and landed again by the great rock. "This is a wonderful place to light," said the birdman. "And now, fair mountain nymph, please tell me who you are when you are not a nymph--and what you are doing on the top of a lonely mountain before the sun is up." "Nan Carter! And if you think this is a lonely mountain, you ought to try to get by yourself for a few minutes on it. Before sunrise, on the tip top point, is the only place where one can be alone a minute----" "And then great creatures come swooping down out of the clouds and carry you off. It was very kind of you to go with me." "Kind of me! Oh, Mr. Bellerophon, I never can thank you enough for taking me. I have never been so happy in all my life. It is perfect, all but the noise-- I do wish it wouldn't click and buzz so. I know Pegasus did not make such a fuss--only the swish of his wings could be heard and sometimes, as the maiden said, the brisk and melodious neigh." "Don't you want to know my name, too, Miss Nan Carter? I have a name I use sometimes when I am not mounted on Pegasus." "I don't want to know it at all, but perhaps my mother, who is chaperoning the camp and who is rather particular, might think Mr. Bellerophon sounded rather wily Greekish." The young man laughed. Such a nice laugh it was that Nan could not help thinking it sounded rather like a melodious neigh. He was possessed of very even white teeth and a Greek profile, at least it started out to be Greek but changed its mind when it got to the tip of his nose which certainly turned up a bit. On the whole he was a very pleasant, agreeable-looking young man, tall and broad-shouldered, clean-limbed and athletic-looking. What Nan liked most about him were his eyes and his hands. "I hate to tell you my name, wood nymph. It sounds so commonplace after what we have done this morning. I am afraid when you hear it you will simply knock on one of these great oak trees and a door will open and you will disappear from my eyes forever." "Not before breakfast," drawled Nan. "But you must tell me your name before breakfast because I shall have to introduce you to the others." "What others? Not more wood nymphs!" "More Carters--and week-enders!" "You don't mean I have actually landed at Week-End Camp? Why, that is what I have been looking for, but I had no idea of striking it the first thing, right out of the blue, as it were. I heard about the camp at the University, and want to come board there for a while." "Well, I am the one to apply to," said Nan primly. "Apply to a wood nymph for board! Absurd!" "Not at all! Of course, I can't take you to board without knowing your name and--er--number." "Well, if you must, you must--Tom Smith is my name--as for my number--there is only one of me." "I mean by your number, where you live." "Oh, I live in the air mostly. Sometimes I come down to have some washing done and to vote--at least, I came down once to vote--that was last June, but as no elections were going on just then and as my having arrived at the age of twenty-one did not seem to make them hurry, I went up in the air again. When I do vote, though, it will be out in Louisville, Kentucky. That's where I have my washing done. You don't say what you think of such a name as Tom Smith." "It is not very--romantic, but it must have been a nice name to go to school with." "Great! There were so many of us that the lickings didn't go round." The girl was leading the way down the mountain path and they came to the spring where she had performed her ablutions earlier. "This is the fountain of Pirene." "Ah! I fancied we would come to it soon," and he stooped and drank his fill, shaking the drops from his crisp curls as he got up. "I love to drink that way," cried Nan. "I had a big deep drink as I went up the mountain." "Of course you drink that way! How else could a wood nymph drink? You might make a cup of your little brown hand, but even that is almost too modern. Ah, there is the camp! How jolly it looks! Are there any people there? It looks so quiet." "Any people there? Quiet! It is running over with people. They are all asleep now, that is the reason it is so quiet. There will be noise enough later." As she spoke there were shouts from the shower bath where some of the youths from the camp had assembled for a community shower, and as the cold mountain water struck them they certainly made the welkin ring. "There is father! Come, and I'll introduce you." Mr. Carter was coming from the kitchen bearing a cup of coffee for his wife, who stuck to the New Orleans habit of black coffee the first thing in the morning, and Mr. Carter loved to be the one to take it to her bedside. "Father, this is Mr. Bel--Smith. He flew over here this morning," and Nan suddenly remembered that she was not a wood nymph and that this mountain in Albemarle was not Helicon. Also that it was not a very usual thing for well-brought-up young ladies to go flying with strange young men before breakfast, even if strange young men did almost have Greek profiles. For the first time that morning Nan blushed. Her shyness returned. She could hardly believe that it was she, Nan Carter, who had been so bold. Her Bellerophon was plain Tom Smith and Pegasus was a very modern flying machine lying up in Josephus's pasture, that pasture on top of a prosaic mountain in Albemarle County and not Mount Helicon. The fountain of Pirene was nothing but the spring that fed the reservoir from which they got the water supply for the shower bath where those boys were making such an unearthly racket. She was not a wood nymph--there were no wood nymphs--but just a sentimental little girl of sixteen who no doubt needed a good talking to and a reprimand for being so very imprudent. What would her mother say to such an escapade? With all of Mrs. Carter's delicate spirituelle appearance there was nothing poetical in her make-up. She would never understand this talk of forgetting that one was not a wood nymph. There was more chance of the father's sympathy. Nan took the bull by the horns and plunged into her confession. "Father, I have been up in Mr. Bel--Smith's flying machine. I don't know what made me do it except I just--it was so early--I--I forgot it wasn't a flying horse." Mr. Carter looked at his little daughter with a smile of extreme tenderness. He had taken flights on Pegasus himself in days gone by. He seldom mounted him now--the burden of making a living had almost made him forget that Pegasus was not a plough horse--not quite, however, and now as his little girl stood in front of him, her hair all ruffled by her flight, her cheeks flushed and in her great brown eyes the shadow of her dream, he understood. "It is still early in the morning, honey, for you--no doubt the aeroplane is Pegasus. I envy you the experience. Everyone might not see it as I do, however, so you and Mr. Belsmith and I had better keep it to ourselves," and he shook the birdman's hand. "Smith is my name--Tom Smith," and the young man smiled into the eyes of the older man. "I am very glad to see you, and just as soon as I take this coffee to my wife, I will come and do the honors of the camp," and Robert Carter hastened off, thinking what a boon it would be to be young again in this day of flying machines. Nan found her tent about as she had left it. The inmates were still asleep. "How strange," she said to herself, "that I should have been to the top of Helicon and taken flight with Bellerophon on Pegasus while these girls have slept on not knowing a thing about it! I wonder where their astral bodies have been! Douglas looks so happy, poor dear, I fancy hers has been in heaven." Aloud she cried: "Get up, girls! Wake up! It is awfully late--the camp is stirring and there is a lot to do. I have found a new boarder! He dropped from the clouds and is starved to death." CHAPTER XII PLEASE REMIT Of course everyone was vastly interested in Mr. Tom Smith and his aeroplane. That young man, however, exhibited a modest demeanor which was very pleasant to members of his sex. He promised to take any and all of the campers flying if his machine was in good order. He thought it needed a little tinkering, however, as he had noticed a little clicking sound above the usual clack and hum of the motor. "How on earth did you happen to land here?" asked someone. "Airman's instinct, I reckon. I was looking for the camp and had heard there was a mountain with a smooth plateau around here somewhere. A place to land is our biggest problem. The time will come when there will be landing stations for flyers just as they have tea houses for automobilists now. There is great danger of becoming entangled in trees and telegraph wires. A place looks pretty good for lighting when you are up in the clouds and then when you get down you find what seemed to be a smooth, grassy plain is perhaps the top of a scrub oak forest." After breakfast the whole camp of week-enders marched to the top of the mountain to view the great bird, but the Carter girls had to stay behind to prepare for the picnic. Many sandwiches must be made and the baskets packed. Nan had her usual bowl of mayonnaise to stir. She looked very demure in her great apron but her eyes were dancing with the remembrance of her morning's escapade. "You look very perky this morning, honey," said Douglas, as she packed a basket of turnovers and cheese cakes with great care not to crush those wonders of culinary art. "You look tolerable perky yourself," retorted her sister. Just as the sophomores and seniors of a college seem to fraternize, so it is often the case with the first and third members of a family. Douglas and Nan hit it off better with one another than they did with either Helen or Lucy. "I feel like flying!" declared Douglas. "I don't mean in an aeroplane but just of my own accord. I am so happy that mother has given up that terrible plan for me, given it up without father's knowing anything about it. I wish I knew who had persuaded her or how it came about. She is rather--well, not exactly cold with me--but not exactly chummy. She has not told me yet, but if you say it is so, I know it is so. I went to her room this morning so she could tell me if she wanted to, but she didn't say a thing about it. She got a lot of letters from New York by the early mail. I am mighty afraid they are bills." "Pretty apt to be," sighed Nan. "I hope she won't give them to father." "Oh, she mustn't do that. I shall have to ask her for them. I hate to do it. She thinks I am so stern." "Let me do it," said Nan magnanimously. "I wonder how much they amount to." "Oh, Nan! Would you mind asking for them?" "Well, I am not crazy about it, but I'll do it," and do it she did. She found her mother in a dainty negligee writing notes at a little desk her devoted husband had fashioned from a packing box. "Ah, Nan, how sweet of you to come to me! I see so little of my girls now, they are so occupied with outside interests. Here, child, just run these ribbons in my underwear. It really takes a great deal of time to keep one's clothes in order. Susan should do such things for me, but she is constantly being called off to do other things, at least she says she is. What, I can't for the life of me see." Nan dutifully began to do her mother's bidding, but when she saw the drawer full of things she was supposed to decorate with ribbons she had to call a halt. "I am very sorry, mumsy, but I am helping Douglas pack the lunch baskets. This is a day for a picnic, you know." "No, I didn't know. Who is going?" "Everyone, we hope, as that gives Oscar and Susan a chance to get a thorough cleaning done, with no dinner to cook." "Oh, how absurdly practical you girls have become! I just hate it in you. What business has a girl of your age to know about who does thorough cleaning and when it is done?" Nan restrained a giggle. She had come to a full realization of what a very frivolous person her little mother was and while it made her sad in a way it also touched her sense of humor irresistibly. "I am deeply disappointed in the fact that Douglas is not to come out next winter. Mr. Parker advises me strongly against trying to launch her. He says there are so many debutantes already and that he is engaged up to every dance and that all of the dancing men are in the same fix. Of course if I should go against his advice Douglas would fall as flat as possible. She has no desire to come out as it is and no doubt would do nothing to further her cause. I do not feel equal to the task of bringing her out and of putting spirit into her at the same time. She has been so lifeless and listless lately." Nan smiled, thinking of how she had left Douglas actually dancing as she packed the goodies and smiling all over her happy face. "What a lot of letters you have, mumsy! You are almost as busy as I am with letters. It takes me hours every day answering applications for board." "Oh, yes, I have many notes to answer--friends, welcoming me back to Virginia. This pile over here is nothing but bills--things bought in New York, on my way home. I think it is most impertinent of these tradespeople to send them so promptly. They were so eager for me to open accounts, and now they write to me as though I were a pickpocket. 'Please Remit' at the bottom of every bill, and one man actually accuses me of being slow in payment. He says he understood I was to send money as soon as I reached Virginia. I have no money myself. I shall just have to hand them over to your father----" "Oh, mother, please don't do that!" "Why not? How else am I to get them paid?" "But, mother, the doctor said no money matters must be brought to father for at least a year and maybe not then. It was bills that made him ill, and bills would be so bad for him now." "Bills, indeed! It was overwork! I did my best to make him relax and not work so hard, but he would not listen to me. Many a time I tried to make him stop and go to the opera with me or to receptions, but it was always work, work, work!--day and night. I'm sure no one can accuse me of selfishness in the matter--I did my best." "Yes, dear, I know you did," said Nan solemnly and gently, as though she were soothing a little child who had dropped a bowl of goldfish or done something equally disastrous and equally irreparable. "I tell you what you do, though, honey, you give me the bills. You see, I write all the letters for the camp and I will attend to them." Mrs. Carter handed over the offensive pile of envelopes with an air of washing her hands of the matter. "There is one thing, mumsy: if I were you, I'd withdraw my patronage from such persons. I'd never favor tradespeople like these with another order." "Never!" exclaimed the mother. "'Please Remit,' indeed! I never imagined such impertinence." Nan bore off the sheaf of bills. They were not quite so large as they had feared. Mrs. Carter had unwittingly managed very well since she had accidentally struck August sales in New York and the things she had bought really were bargains. "We will pay them immediately, Nan," said Douglas. "I am so thankful that father did not see them. It would be so hard on him that I am sure much of the good that has come to him from the long rest would be done away with." "Do they make you blue, these bills?" "No, indeed! Nothing will make me blue now that mother has given up making me be a debutante. I can go on working and make more money to take the place of this we shall have to take out of the bank to pay for these things mother bought. But just suppose she had carried her point and forced me into society. I could have earned no money and would have had such a lot spent on me. Why can't she see, Nan?" "She is color blind, I think, unless it is couleur de rose. We must be patient with her, Douglas." "All right, grandma!" And if Mrs. Carter could have heard the peal of laughter from Douglas, she would not have thought her lifeless and listless. "You are such a dear little wise old lady, Nan!" CHAPTER XIII TEAKETTLE The fallen tree where Nan and Dum Tucker had chosen to have the picnic proved to be most attractive. It was a great oak that had attained its growth before it had been felled in some wind storm, and now it lay like some bed-ridden old giant who refuses to die. Part of the roots held to the soil while part stood up like great toes, poking their way through the blanket of ferns and moss that were doing their best to cover them. This tree not only clung to its old branches but had actually the hardihood to send out new shoots. These branches were not growing as the limbs of an oak usually grow, with a slightly downward tendency from the main trunk, but shot straight to the sky, upright and vigorous. "It is just like some old man who has to stay in bed but still is open to convictions of all kinds, who reads and takes in new ideas and is willing to try new things and think new thoughts," suggested Page Allison. "Yes, that strong green branch struggling to the light there might be equal suffrage," teased Mr. Tucker. "Yes, and that one that has outstripped all the others is higher education of women," declared Douglas. "These little ferns and wild flowers that are trying to cover up his ugly old toes are modern verse. He even reads the poetry of the day and does not just lie back on stuffy old pillows and insist that poetry died with Alfred Tennyson," whispered Nan, who did not like much to speak out loud in meetin'. Tom Smith heard her, however, and smiled his approval of her imagery. "Well, I only hope while we are picnicking on his bed he won't decide to turn over and go to sleep. It would certainly play sad havoc with cheese cakes," laughed Helen. Much to the satisfaction of the Carter girls, all the week-enders did decide to come on the picnic, also their mother. They knew very well that had that lady made up her mind to remain in camp, Susan's time would have been taken up waiting on her and the thorough cleaning that the pavilion and kitchen were crying out for would never be accomplished. Mr. Hiram G. Parker, in faultless morning costume, had proffered himself as squire of dames and was assisting that dainty little lady on the rough journey to the fallen tree. She, too, had attired herself with thoughtful care in sheer white linen lawn with a large picture hat of finest straw and a ruffled lace parasol. The girls were in strong contrast to their chaperone, since one and all, even Tillie Wingo, were dressed in khaki skirts and leggins. The only variation in costume was that some wore middies and some sport shirts. First a fire must be built and a big one at that, as it takes many hot coals to roast potatoes. Lucy and Lil Tate, with their faithful followers, Skeeter and Frank, had gone on a little ahead, and when the rest of the crowd reached the spot the fire was already burning merrily. In a short time it was ready to drop the potatoes in, Irish potatoes and great yams that looked big enough for the bed-ridden giant himself to make a meal of. Then the roasting ears of corn must be opened, the silk removed and the ears wrapped carefully in the shucks again and placed in just exactly the right part of the fire to cook but not to burn. There was some kind of work for all of those inclined to usefulness, and any who were not so inclined could wander around admiring the scenery or climb up in the tree to secure the choice seats. There were seats for all and to spare in the gnarled old limbs of the giant oak. Mrs. Carter was enthroned in a leafy armchair while Hiram G. perched beside her. Evidently he was prepared to be waited on and not to wait. Bobby climbed to the tiptop of one of the great branches where he looked like a "little cherub that sits up aloft." "I'm a-gonter let down a string and pull my eats up here," he declared. "Oh, Bobby!" shuddered his mother. "Don't say such words!" "What I done now?" cried that young hopeful, peeping down through the leafy screen, with an elfish, toothless grin. "Don't say eats! Say luncheon!" "Yes, I won't! If I say luncheon, they'll send me up 'bout 'nough to put in my eye. I've a great mind to say victuals like Oscar and then they'll send me up something sho'. Hi, Helen! Put my victuals in a bucket and tie it to this string!" he cried, dangling a string before Helen's eyes as she stooped under the tree, unpacking the basket containing the paper plates and Japanese napkins. "I won't put anything in the bucket unless you mind mother," said Helen severely, but her eye was twinkling at Bobby's philological distinction. "Well, then, Helen dear, be so kind as to put my luncheon in that there little bucket what you see turned up over yonder by the fire. But, Helen," in a stage whisper, "please don't put it in like a luncheon but like it was jes' victuals. Luncheons ain't never 'nough for workin' mens." So all in good time Helen packed a hefty lunch in the bucket for her darling and he drew it up to his castle in the tree and feasted right royally. When everyone was too hungry to stand it another moment the potatoes were done, all burnt on the outside and delicious and mealy within. There never were such sandwiches as Helen's; and the corn, roasted in the shucks, was better than corn ever had been before. The cheese cakes and fried turnovers proved very good for tree eating and not too squashy. Boxes of candy appeared like magic from the pockets of masculine week-enders. Mr. Tucker produced three, one for each of his girls. "Oh, Zebedee!" exclaimed Dum. "I am so relieved. I thought you were getting hippy. It was candy all the time." When every vestige of food was devoured and all the paper plates and papers carefully burned, as Nan said, to keep from desecrating Nature, someone proposed that they should play games. "Let's play teakettle!" exclaimed Skeeter, so teakettle it was. Some of the company had to be enlightened as to the game and perhaps some of my readers may have to be also. This is the way: whoever is "It" or "Old Man" must go out of ear shot and then the company selects a word. The "Old Man" then returns and asks a question to each one in turn. The answer must contain the chosen word, but in place of the word, "teakettle" must be inserted. "You go out, Zebedee, you are so spry," suggested the irreverent Dum. "No, that's not fair! We must count out," declared Dee, determined that her parent must be bossed only by her own sweet self. "I bid to count!" from Lucy. "'Eny, meny, miny mo, cracker, feny, finy, fo, ommer noocher, popper toocher, rick, bick, ban, do, as, I, went, up the, apple, tree, all, the, apples, fell, on, me, bake a, pudding, bake, a, pie, did, you, ever, tell, a, lie, yes, you, did, you, know, you, did, you, broke, your, mammy's, tea, pot, lid, did, she, mind?'" She stopped at Lil Tate, who was equal to the occasion. "No!" cried Lil; and Lucy took up her counting out in the sing-song we hear from children engaged in that delightful occupation of finding out who is to be "It." No matter where one lives--east, west, north or south--it is the same except for slight variations in the sense of the incantation. "N, o, spells, the, word, no, and, you, are, really--It!" An accusing finger was pointed at Nan, who perforce must crawl from her comfortable perch and go around the side of the mountain while the assembled company chose a word. After much whispering, Mr. Tucker hit on a word that appealed to all of them, and Nan was whistled for to return. "Helen, what do you enjoy most in camp life?" "Teakettles!" was the prompt response. "Skeeter, did you and Frank get any squirrels yesterday?" "No, not one! We told them if they would let us shoot them that they could come with us on the picnic--but they said: no teakettles for them!" Indignant cries from Skeeter's chums ensued. "You came mighty near giving us away, you nut!" Nan thought a moment. "Is it pies? Helen certainly enjoys pies, and if the squirrels had come on the picnic it would have been in a pie." "No; guess again! Guess again!" "Mother, are you comfortable up there?" "Yes, my dear; I had no idea one could have an armchair at a teakettle." "'Picnic!' 'Picnic!' I know that is the word. Mumsy gave it away. You have to go out, mumsy." "Picnic" was the word and everyone thought Nan very clever to guess it so quickly. Mrs. Carter was loath to leave her leafy bower, so Mr. Parker gallantly offered to take her place and be "It." A word was quickly chosen for Mr. Parker although they feared it would be too easy. That gentleman was really enjoying himself very much. Climbing trees was not much in his line, but he congratulated himself that while his suit no doubt looked perfectly new, it was in reality three years old and was only his eighteenth best. The lapels were a little smaller than the prevailing mode and the coat cut away a bit more than the latest fashion. He could not wear it much longer, anyhow, and in the meantime he was having a very pleasant time. The girls were a ripping lot and he would no doubt have the pleasure of bringing them out in years to come. He might even stretch a point and ask some of them to dance the german with him before they made their debuts. That little Allison girl from the country was a charmer and as for the Tucker twins--the only trouble about them was he could not decide which one would take the better in society. Helen Carter was sure to win in whatever class she entered. Douglas Carter had deceived him somewhat. The evening before, while looking very pretty she had lacked animation. He had been quite serious in his advice to Mrs. Carter not to bring her out that year. With the scarcity of beaux only a girl who was all animation had any show of having a good time in her debutante year. Now today this girl had thrown off her listlessness and was as full of life as anyone. She was really beautiful. If a complexion could show up as well as hers did in the sunlight what would it not do in artificial light? And her hair! Hair like that could stand the test of dancing all night, and Mr. Hiram G. Parker had found out from long experience that not much hair could stand the test. "Always coming out of curl and getting limp!" he muttered, but just then they whistled for him and he returned to the tree. "Ahem! Miss Douglas, are you expecting to miss the boys who have gone to the border with the Blues?" "Yes, indeed!" blushed Douglas; "but if I were a teakettle it would be even worse." "Is it a mother? Of course it would be worse if you were a mother! Ah, maybe you have been promising to be a sister to one of them." Douglas blushed so furiously that she almost fell off her precarious perch. "'Mother' isn't the word--neither is 'sister'!" shouted the crowd. "Guess again!" "Miss Dum Tucker, are you going to remain long in camp?" "I am afraid I shall have to leave on Monday, but if the teakettle fancier is no longer here, I don't believe I should care to remain." "Teakettle fancier! Sounds like spinsters. I can't see what it is. Miss Dee, what are these teakettles like?" "There are as many styles of teakettles as there are teakettles, tall and narrow, short and squat, with snouts of all shapes." "Heavens! Still no light on the subject! Tucker, what is your opinion of the war? Will it last much longer?" "I hope not, although I hear it is an excellent way to dispose of last year's teakettles. They are using so many of them in the Red Cross service." "Oh, come now! I must do better than this. Mrs. Carter, have you any of these teakettles about you?" "No, Mr. Parker, I haven't a single teakettle--ye-et," rather sadly. "Mr. Smith!" That young aviator, not expecting to be called on, almost fell out of the tree, which would have been an ignominious proceeding for one accustomed to the dizzy heights of the clouds. "Do you come across any of this stuff, whatever it is that these crazy folks call teakettles?" "Yes, I do occasionally. Even here in this camp there is a lot of the stuff that teakettles are made of--the raw material, I might say, but if I should, no doubt future teakettles would climb up the tree and mob me." "'Debutantes!' 'Debutantes!' That is the word! Stupid of me not to guess it sooner. Thank you, Miss Dum, for the compliment you just paid me, or did you mean your father? Because I understand that he is somewhat fond of young girls himself." "I meant you in the game--but Zebedee in reality," declared Dum, who had no more idea of coquetting than a real teakettle. "Mr. Smith is 'It'!" shouted Lucy. "We are going to get a hard one for him." Skeeter wanted to take "flying machine" but that was too easy. Many suggestions were made but Nan finally hit on a word that they were sure he could never guess. "The trouble is it is hardly fair to take a word that is so obscure," objected Mr. Carter, who had been quietly enjoying the fun as much as any of the party. "Well, it is a compliment to give him a hard one," declared Mr. Tucker. "It means we have some reliance on his wit." Tom Smith was proving himself a very agreeable companion and old and young were feeling him to be an acquisition to the camp. "You youngsters up there in the top of the tree, come down and be questioned!" cried the "Old Man." "You, Bobby, what are you doing up there?" "I'm a-playin' I'm one er them there teakettles," said that ready-witted infant. Everyone shouted for joy at his answer. "And you, Frank Maury! Do you want to take a trip with me some day?" "Sure! I'd ruther be a birdman than--a--teakettle," said Frank lamely. "Did you ever see one of these teakettles, Skeeter?" "Naw, and nobody else." "But you didn't use the word, Skeeter," admonished Lil. "Then you use it for him," suggested the questioner. "I take it then if he never saw a teakettle and no one else has ever seen one, that it is some kind of mythological creature. Am I right?" he appealed, following up the advantage Skeeter had given him. "Yes, a teakettle is a mythological being," said Lil primly. "Skeeter can give more things away without using the word than most folks can using it," declared Lucy cruelly. "Miss Nan, did I ever see a teakettle that you know of?" "I have an idea you thought you saw a teakettle once," drawled Nan. "'Wood nymph!'" exclaimed Tom Smith. Everyone thought he was very clever to have guessed a very difficult and obscure word in five questions. "Nan's turn again! That isn't fair when Skeeter really and truly was the one who got him going. You've got to go, Skeeter," and Frank and Lil and Lucy pounced on their chum and dragged him from the tree. "Yes, I haven't! I'd never guess c-a-t. Get somebody else." "I'll go," Mr. Tucker volunteered magnanimously. "Let him; he's dying to!" exclaimed the twins in one breath. "Well, don't tweedle!" commanded their father. He always called it tweedling when his twins spoke the same thing at the same time. A word was hard to hit on because as his daughters said Mr. Tucker had what men call feminine intuition. "You can't keep a thing from him," Dum said. "And sometimes he sees something before it happens," declared Dee. "Oh, spooks!" laughed Page. "'Spooks' would be a good word," suggested someone, but Mrs. Carter had a word which was finally determined on. Zebedee was whistled for and came quickly to the front. "Mr. Smith, tell me, while flying through the air would you like to have one of these teakettles with you? I mean would it be the kind of thing you could carry with you? Would it be of any value on the journey?" "We--el, I can't say that a teakettle would be of any great practical value on a flight, but it would certainly be great to have one. I believe I'd rather have one than anything I can think of. In fact, I mean to take one with me some day." Mr. Tucker looked into the glowing countenance of the young birdman. He saw there youth, character, romance. "A 'teakettle' is a 'sweetheart,'" he said simply. "Talking about spooks--what do you know about that?" cried one of the crowd. "Well, what did I tell you? Didn't I say you couldn't keep anything from Zebedee?" said triumphant Dee. "I betcher I ain't a-gonter take no sweetheart with me when I gits me a arryplane," shouted Bobby from his vantage ground. "I'm a-gonter take Josh and Josephus, ander--ander--father." The picnic in the tree had been a decided success. It was one more perfect day for the week-enders to report as worth while to the possible future boarders. Even Mr. Parker was enthusiastic, although he was not as a rule much of an outdoor man. He was conscious of the fact that he shone in a drawing room, and under the "great eye of Heaven" did not amount to quite so much as he did under electric lights with pink shades. CHAPTER XIV THE FORAGERS "Miss Douglas, them week-enders done cl'ared the coop. Thain't nary chicken lef' standin' on a laig. Looks like these here Hungarians don't think no mo' of 'vourin' a chicken than a turkey does of gobblin' up a grasshopper." "All of them gone, Oscar?" "Yas'm! Thain't hide or har of them lef'. If I hadn't er wrung they necks myself, I would er thought somethin's been a-ketchin' 'em; but land's sakes, the way these week-enders do eat chicken is a caution!" "All right, I'll get our young people to start out today and find some more for us. A big crowd will be up on Friday." "Yes, I'll be bound they will, and all of them empty. I should think the railroad cyars would chawge mo' ter haul the folks back from this here camp than what they do to git 'em here. They sho' goes back a-weighing mo' than what they do whin they comes a-creepin' up the mountain actin' like they ain't never seed a squar' meal in they lives." Oscar's grumbling on the subject of the amount of food consumed by the boarders was a never failing source of amusement to the Carter girls. They were never so pleased as when the boarders were hungry and enjoyed the food. No doubt Oscar was pleased, too, but he was ever outwardly critical of the capacity of the week-enders. Lucy and Lil, Skeeter and Frank were delighted to be commissioned to go hunting for food. Many were the adventures they had while out on these foraging parties and many the tales they had to tell of the inhabitants of the mountain cabins. There were several rules they must obey and besides those they had perfect liberty to do as they felt like. The first rule was that they must wear thick boots and leggins on these tramps. The snake bite Helen had got early in the summer had been a lesson learned in time and now all the campers were made to comply with the rule of leggins whenever they went on hikes. The second rule was that they must be home before dark and must report to Douglas or Helen as soon as they got home. The third was that they must tell all their adventures to one of the older girls. If they obeyed these three rules they were sure to get into no trouble. "Fix us up a big lunch, please, Helen. We are going 'way far off. There's a man on the far side of Old Baldy that Josh says has great big frying-sizers," declared Lil. "Well, be sure you are back before dark," admonished Helen, in her grownupest tone, according to Lucy. "All right, Miss Grandma, but I don't see why I have to get in before dark if you don't. You know you and Doctor Wright came in long after supper one night--said you got lost, but you can tell that to the marines," said Lucy pertly. "Just for that, I've a great mind to put red pepper in your sandwiches," said Helen, blushing in spite of herself. "Well, I suppose if we get lost, we won't have to get in before dark, either," teased Lucy. "Yes, but don't you get lost. Douglas and I are always a bit uneasy until you are back, as it is," pleaded Helen. "You know mother would have a fit if you were out late." "Oh, don't listen to her, Miss Helen. We'll take care of the girls and bring 'em back safe. Frank and I couldn't get lost on these mountains if we tried," and Skeeter drew himself up to his full height, which was great for a boy of fifteen and seemed even greater because of his extreme leanness. "Can't we take our guns, Miss Helen?" pleaded Frank. There was another rule that the boys must not take the guns if the girls were along. Guns are safe enough if there are no bystanders. "Oh, Frank, ask Douglas! I am afraid to be the one to let you do it." "Can I tell her you say yes if she does?" "Yes, I reckon so! But if she does say yes, please be awfully careful." "Sure we will! I tell you, Miss Helen, if anything happens to these girls, Skeeter and I'd never show our faces in camp again." "I know you will look after them," said Helen. These boys were great favorites with Helen, and they admired her so extravagantly that sometimes Lil and Lucy, their sworn chums, were a bit jealous. "I've made your kind of sandwiches, Frank, sardines. And I've stuffed some eggs with minced ham the way you like them, Skeeter." "Bully!" exclaimed both knights. "And I s'pose what Lil and I like or don't like didn't enter your head," pouted Lucy. "Why, Lucy, you know you like sardine sandwiches better than anything, you said so yourself," admonished Lil. "Helen didn't know it." "If you don't like what I put up, you can do it yourself next time," snapped Helen. "''Tis dog's delight To bark and bite,'" sang Douglas, coming into the kitchen to spy out the nakedness of the land preparatory to sending her order for provisions to the wholesale grocer in Richmond. "What are you girls scrapping about?" "Helen said----" "Lucy's always----" "Yes, I haven't a doubt of it," laughed the elder sister, who was ever the peacemaker. "I haven't a doubt that Helen did say it, but she was just joking, and I know Lucy is always trying to help and is a dear girl. Now you children trot along and bring back all the chickens you can carry. Have you got your bags?" Gunnysacks were always taken to bring home the provender. "And money to pay for the chickens? If you see any eggs, buy them, and more roasting ears, but don't try to carry everything you see. Have the mountaineers bring them to camp. Good-bye! Be sure to come back before dark." "Ask her about the guns," whispered Frank to Lil. "Douglas, can the boys take their guns? Helen says she says yes if you say yes. They won't carry 'em loaded." "We--ll, I believe we can trust you; but do be careful, boys." With a whoop the boys flew to their tent for the guns. The sizable lunch was dumped in the bottom of a gunnysack and slung over Skeeter's shoulder, and the cavalcade started, after many admonitions from Douglas and Helen to be careful of their guns and to come back before dark. "Ain't they the scared cats, though?" laughed Lucy. "Yes; what on earth could happen to us?" said Lil. "Nothing, I reckon, with Skeeter and me here to protect you--eh, Skeeter?" "I just guess we could hold a whole litter of bears at bay with these guns. I almost wish we would run into some kind of trouble just so Frank and I could show your big sisters we are responsible parties." "Maybe we will," and Lil danced in glee at the possible chance of getting into trouble so their devoted swains could extricate them. "Maybe we will meet a drunken mountaineer--or maybe it will be a whole lot of drunken mountaineers, a camp of moonshiners--maybe they will capture Lucy and me and carry us to their mountain fastness and there hold us for ransom." "Huh! And what do you think Skeeter and I'll be doing while they are carrying you off?" sniffed Frank. "Standing still, I reckon, and weeping down our gun barrels!" "Well, s'pose they are all of them armed to the teeth, a company of stalwart brigands," suggested Lil, who, by the way, was something of a movie fan, "and they come swooping down on us, the leader bearing a lasso in his brawny hand." "Yes," put in Lucy, "and he will swirl it around and will catch both of you in the same coil and then will tie you to a tree there to await his pleasure. I think there had better be two leaders, though, Lil. So you can have one and I can have one. I bid for the biggest." "Bid for him! If you girls don't beat all! I do believe you would like to be attacked by outlaws," and Skeeter looked his disgust at the eternal feminine. "Of course we'd like it if it came out all right; that is, if the leaders fell in love with us and reformed and turned out to be gentlemen who took to moonshining and highwaying because they had been cheated out of their inheritances by fat-faced uncles in Prince Albert coats," and Lil looked very saucy as she switched on ahead of the others down the narrow trail. "And where would we come in?" asked Frank whimsically. "We would have to stay tied to the tree while you and Lucy acted about a thousand feet of reels. I tell you what I mean to do. I mean to train a squirrel to come gnaw me free. What you say to that, Skeeter?" "Squirrel much! I'm going to be so quick with my gun that the bold brigands will wish they had stayed with Uncle Albert. As for lassoing--I am some pumpkins myself with the rope. Look at this!" and twirling the gunnysack around with the lunch serving as ballast, Skeeter caught his chum neatly around the neck. "Oh, oh! You'll mash the sandwiches!" wailed the others. "Let's sit down and eat 'em up now," suggested Skeeter. "I am tired of being made the beast of burden. I believe in distribution of labor." "Why, Skeeter, we haven't walked a mile yet, and it can't be more than ten o'clock." "Well, then, my tumtum must be fast. I shall have to regulate it. It tells me it is almost twelve." No one had a watch so there was no way to prove the time except by the shadows, and Skeeter declared that the shadows on the mountain perforce must slant even at twelve. "Let's eat part of the lunch," suggested Lucy. "That will keep poor Skeeter from starving and lighten the load some, too. There is no telling what time it is, but if we are hungry I can't see that it makes much difference what time it is. I'm starved myself almost." "Me, too," chorused the others. They ate only half, prudently putting the rest back in the gunnysack for future reference. "Gee, I feel some better," sighed Skeeter, whose appetite was ever a marvel to his friends since it never seemed to have the slightest effect on his extreme leanness. Oscar always said: "That there young Marster Skeeter eats so much it makes him po' to carry it." "Do you boys know exactly where we are going?" asked Lil. They had walked a long distance since the distribution of burdens and now had come to a place where the trail went directly down the mountainside. "Of course we do! Josh said that when we got to a place where the path suddenly went down we were almost over the cabin where Jude Hanford lives. Didn't he, Frank?" "He sure did!" "But there was a place back further where a path forked off. I saw it, didn't you, Lucy?" "Yes, but I thought it was maybe just a washed place." "This is right, I'm sure," said Skeeter confidently, so the young people clambered down the mountainside following Skeeter's lead. The path went almost exactly perpendicularly down the mountain for fifty yards and then, as is the way with mountain paths, it changed its mind and started up the mountain again. "This is a terribly silly path," declared the self-constituted guide, "but I reckon it will start down again soon. Josh said that Jude Hanford lives almost at the foot of the mountain." "Let's keep a-going; there's no use in turning back," said Frank. "This path is obliged to lead somewhere." "Maybe it leads to the brigand's cave," shivered Lil. "Which way is home?" asked Lucy. "That way!" "Over there!" "Due north from here!" But as the three of her companions all pointed in different directions, Lucy laughed at them and chose an entirely different point of the compass as her idea of where Camp Carter was situated. They had been walking for hours and as far as they could tell had not got off of their own mountain. No one seemed to be the least worried about being lost, so Lucy calmed her fears, which were not very great. How could they get lost? All they had to do was retrace their steps if they did not find Jude Hanford's cabin, where the frying-sized chickens and the roasting ears were supposed to thrive. "Let's eat again," suggested the ever empty Skeeter. They had come to a wonderful mountain stream, one they had never seen before in their rambles. It came dashing down the incline singing a gay song until it found a temporary resting place in a deep hole which seemed to be hollowed out of the living rock. "What a place to swim!" they exclaimed in a breath. "I bet it's cold, though, cold as flugians." Lil trailed her fingers through the icy water and a little fish rose to the surface and gave a nibble. "Look! Look! Isn't he sweet?" "Let's fish," suggested Lucy. "Fish with what? Guns?" asked Skeeter scornfully. "No, fishing lines with minnows for bait," and Lucy found a pin in her middy blouse and with a narrow pink ribbon drawn mysteriously from somewhere tied to the pin, which she bent into a fine hook, she got ready for the gentle art. A sardine from a sandwich made excellent bait, at least the speckled beauties in that pool thought so as they rose to it greedily. "E--e-ee!" squealed Lucy, flopping an eight-inch trout out on the bank. "I caught a fish! I caught a fish!" "Oh, gimme a pin, please," begged the boys, so Lucy and Lil had to find fish hooks for their cavaliers and more strings and in a short while all of them were eagerly fishing. "I never saw such tame fish in all my life," said Frank. "They are just begging to be caught. It seems not very sporty to hook them in, somehow." "I didn't know there were any trout in these streams. Doctor Wright says there used to be but the natives have about exterminated them. Gee, there's a beaut!" and Skeeter flopped a mate to Lucy's catch out on the grass. "Let's stop fishing and fry these," he suggested, "I'm awfully hungry." "Hungry! Oh, Skeeter! I'm right uneasy about you," teased Lil. "Well, I never did think sandwiches were very filling. Somehow they don't stick to your ribs. Come on, Frank, we can get a fire in no time." "How can we fry anything without lard and a pan?" "Oh, we won't fry, we'll broil." "We, indeed!" sniffed Lucy. "You know mighty well, you boys, that when cooking time comes, Lil and I'll have to do it. I know how to cook fish without a pan--learned in Camp-Fire Girls. Just run a green switch through the gills and lay it across on two pronged sticks stuck up on each side of the fire. You go on and make the fire while Lil and I try to catch some more fish. I wonder what Doctor Wright will say when we tell him we caught game fish with a bent pin tied on lingerie ribbon. He brought up all kinds of rods and reels and flies and whipped the streams for miles around and never caught anything but Helen's veil." The trout seemed to have become sophisticated when two of their number had been caught and refused to be hooked any more with bent pins and lingerie ribbon, although it was pink and very attractive. The fire went out and Lucy and Lil had to try a hand at it before it could be persuaded to burn. "It looks to me like fire-making must be woman's work because they certainly can do it better than us men," said Skeeter solemnly, and the others laughed at him until Lil slipped into the water. Only one foot got wet, however, so there was no harm done. The fire finally burned and the two little fish, after being scaled and cleaned, were strung across on a green wand. Of course the fire had not been allowed to get to the proper state of red embers so the fish were well smoked before they began to cook. "Umm! They smell fine!" cried the famished Skeeter. "They smell mighty like burnt fish to me," said Frank. They tasted very like burnt fish, too, when they were finally taken from their wand and the young folks drew up for the feast. They lacked salt and were burnt at the tail and raw at the head, but Skeeter picked the bones and pronounced them prime. "I believe it's getting mighty late and we have not found Jude Hanford's cabin yet. You stop stuffing now, Skeeter, and let's get along," said Frank, gathering up the gunnysacks and guns. "Do you think we had better cross this stream?" "Sure, if we go back, it will just take us home. We won't dare show our faces at camp unless we have at least the promise of some chickens and roasting ears. I hope to carry back some in the gunnysacks." "Of course we must go on," chorused the girls. "We are not one bit tired and if we go on we are sure to come to Jude's cabin." Go on they did, how far there was no telling. The path went down, down, down, but led only to another spring. The boys shot some squirrels and the girls found a vine laden with fox grapes. "Let's get all we can carry so we can make some jelly. Helen was wishing only the other day she had some. They make the best jelly going," said Lucy, and so they pulled all they could reach and decided the ones that hung too high would be sour. "Do you know I believe it's most supper time--I'm getting powerful empty," declared the insatiable Skeeter. "Supper time! Nonsense! I betcher 'tain't three o'clock," and Frank peered knowingly at the sun. "That mountain over yonder is so high, that's the reason the sun is getting behind it. I betcher anything on top of the mountain it is as light as midday." "I do wish we could find Jude's cabin. This has been the longest walk we ever have taken," sighed Lil. "Not that I am the least bit tired." Lil was not quite so robust as Lucy, but wild horses would not drag from her the admission that she could not keep up with her chum. "Let's sit down a minute and rest," suggested Frank, "and kinder get our bearings. I'm not sure but perhaps it would be less loony if we start right off for home." The sun had set for them and it was growing quite gloomy down in the valley where the path had finally led them. Of course they well knew that it was shining brightly on those who were so fortunate as to be on the heights, but the thing is they were in the depths. "All right, let's go home," agreed Skeeter. "We will strike them at supper, I feel sure." They retraced their steps, stopping occasionally to argue about the trail. There seemed to be a great many more bypaths going up the mountain than they had noticed going down. "This is right. I know, because here is the fox grape vine we stripped on the way down," cried Lucy, when there was more doubt than usual about whether or not they were on the right road. "Well, more have grown mighty fast," declared Skeeter. "Look, this is still full." "But we couldn't reach the high ones and decided like Brer Fox that they were sour." "Brer Fox, indeed! That wasn't Brer Fox but the one in Aesop," laughed Lil. "Well, he acted just like Brer Fox would have acted, anyhow, and I bet Aesop got him from Uncle Remus. But see, Lil! This isn't the same vine. We never could have skipped all these grapes. Only look what beauts!" "We might just as well pick 'em," said Skeeter, suiting the action to the word. "They might come in handy later on for eats if we can't find our way home." "Not find our way home!" scoffed Frank. "Why, home is just over the mountain. All we have to do is keep straight up and go down on the other side. These paths have mixed us up but the mountain is the same old cove. He can't mix us up." CHAPTER XV BABES IN THE WOOD The pull up that mountain was about the hardest one any of those young people had ever had. As a rule Lil and Lucy required no help from the boys, as they prided themselves upon being quite as active as any members of the opposite sex, but now they were glad of the assistance the boys shyly offered. "Just catch on to my belt, Lil; I can pull you up and carry the grapes and my gun, too," insisted Frank, while Skeeter made Lucy take hold of his gun so he could help her. "We are most to the top now," they encouraged the girls. Their way lay over rocks and through brambles, as they had given up trying to keep to a trail since the trails seemed to lead nowhere. They argued if they could get to the top they could see where they were. The top was reached, but, strange to say, it wasn't a top, after all, but just an excrescence on the side of the mountain, a kind of a hump. It led down sharply into a dimple covered with beautiful green grass, and then towering up on the other side of this dimple was more and more mountain. "Well, ain't this the limit? I didn't know there was a place like this on our mountain!" exclaimed Frank. "Th'ain't! This is no more our mountain than I'm Josephus," said Skeeter. "Do you think we are lost?" asked Lil. "Well, we are certainly not found," and Skeeter's young countenance took on a very grim expression. "Somebody please kick me, and then I'll feel better," groaned Frank. "Why kick you? You didn't lose us; we lost ourselves," said Lucy. "You just say that to keep me from feeling bad. I said all the time we were on our own mountain and I was certainly the one to suggest our climbing up to the top. I don't see how or when we managed to get in this mix-up." "You see, we were down at the foot of the mountain and we must have spilled over on another one without knowing it. They so kinder run together at the bottom," soothed Lucy. Lil was so worn out after the climb that she could do no more than sink to the ground; but she smiled bravely at poor self-accusing Frank as she gasped out: "What a grand, romantic spot to play 'Babes in the Wood'! I bid to be a babe and let you boys be the robins." "In my opinion it is nobody's fault that we have got lost, but lost we are. Of course Frank and I ought to have had more sense, but we didn't have it, and I reckon what we ain't got ain't our fault.--But if it wasn't our fault for losing you girls, it is sure up to us to get you home again and now we had better set to it somehow." Skeeter deposited his gunnysack of squirrels beside the one of grapes and threw himself down beside Lil on the green, green grass of the unexpected dimple. "Well, Lil and I are not blaming you. If we haven't got as much sense as you boys, I dare one of you to say so. We could have told we were getting lost just as much as either one of you, and it is no more your business to get us home than it is our business to get you home, is it, Lil?" "I--I--reckon not," faltered Lil; "but I've got to rest a while before I can get myself or anybody else home." Poor Lil! She was about all in but she kept up a brave smile. "There must be water here or this grass would not be so pizen green in August," said Skeeter. "Let's go find the spring first, Frank." The boys wanted to get off together to discuss ways and means and hold a council of war. "Say, Skeeter, what are we going to do?" asked Frank, as they made for a pile of rocks down in the middle of the dimple, where it seemed likely a spring might be hidden. "Darnifiknow!" "Do you know it's 'most night? I thought when we got to the top there would be lots of light, but all the time we were coming up the sun was going down, and blamed if it hasn't set now." "Yes, and no moon until 'most morning. What will Miss Douglas and Miss Helen say to us?" "I'm not worrying about what they will say, but what will they think? I am afraid Lil can't take another step tonight. She is game as game, but she is just about flopped." "We might make a basket of our hands and carry her thataway," suggested Skeeter. "Yes, we might! Lil is not so big but she is no dollbaby, and I don't believe we could pack her a mile if our lives depended on it." "Well, what will we do? Can you think of anything?" "Well, I think that one of us must stay with the girls and the other one go snooping around to try to find somebody, a house, or something. You stay with them and I'll go. I bid to!" "All--right!" But Skeeter did think, considering he was at least two months older than Frank and at least three inches taller, that he should be the one to go the front. The rôle of home guard did not appeal to him much, but when a fellow says "he bids to," that settles it. The spring was found down low between the rocks--such a clear, clean spring that even the greatest germ fearer would not hesitate to drink of its waters. "Look, there's a little path leading from the other side! It must go somewhere!" cried Frank. "Yes, it must go somewhere just as all the trails we have followed today must--but where? Don't tell me about paths! They are frauds, delusions and snares. I reckon there won't be any supper for us tonight, so I might just as well fill up on water," and Skeeter stooped and drank until his chum became alarmed. Skeeter's capacity was surely miraculous. "Let's not tell the girls we might not be able to get back before night. It might get them upset," cautioned Frank. They reckoned without their host, however, in this matter. When the boys returned to the forlorn damsels bearing a can of water for their refreshment, the can having been discovered by the spring, they found them not forlorn at all. They had spunked up each other and now were almost lively. Lil was tired and pale and Lucy had a rather bedraggled look, but they called out cheerily: "What ho, brave knights!" "Listen! Don't you hear a strange sound, kind of like music without a tune?" said Lucy. There was a sound, certainly. It might be the wind in the pines and it might be a giant fly buzzing in a flower that had closed its doors for the night. "It is coming closer," cried Lil. "Maybe it is the bold brigands who are to bear us off to captivity in their mountain fastnesses. I tell you, if they want me they will have to bear me. I can't hobble." Just then there came through the scrub growth on the opposite side of the green dimple where our young people had made their temporary abiding place, a strange figure. It was a tall, lean young man dressed in a coat of many colors, a shirt that seemed to be made of patches, no two patches of the same color and none of them matching the original color of the shirt, which was of a vivid blue. His trousers were of bright pink calico, the kind you see on the shelves of country stores and that is usually spoken of as "candy pink." His head was bare; his hair long and yellow. A large tin bucket was hung on his arm while he diligently played a jew's-harp. The effect of this strange figure was so weird as it appeared through the gathering twilight that the girls could hardly hold in the screams that were in their throats. They controlled them, however, so that they only came out as faint giggles. The music of the jew's-harp can be very eyrie in broad daylight when made by an ordinary human being; but just at dusk in a mountain fastness when four young persons have decided they are lost and may have to spend the night in the woods, this music, coming from such a strange, motley figure, seemed positively grewsome. "Speak to it!" gasped Lucy. "'Angels and ministers of grace, defend us! Be thou a spirit of health, or goblin damned, Bring with thee airs from heaven, or blasts from hell, Be thy intents wicked, or charitable, Thou com'st in such a questionable shape, That I will speak to thee,'" spouted Skeeter. The youth stood still in his path but went on with his weird near-tune. Skeeter approached him and the others followed, although poor Lil found herself limping painfully. "Please, we are lost!" "Oh, no, not lost, for I have found you uns. We uns is always findin'." His voice had an indescribable softness and gentleness and his blue eyes a far-away look as though he lived in some other world. "Only t'other day we uns 'most found a great bird floating in the sky, but it flew away. We uns thought at first it was lost but it wasn't. If it had a been lost, we uns would have found it. A great big bird, bigger'n a bald-headed eagle, bigger'n a buzzard." "Now that you have found us, what are you going to do with us?" asked Lil. "Oh, what we uns finds, we uns hides ag'in. Thar's a hole in the mounting whar we uns puts things." "Uhhh--a brigand, sure enough!" whispered Lucy. "But you wouldn't put us there, because we are alive. You have a home somewhere near here, haven't you?" asked Frank. But the half-witted fellow shook his head sadly. "We uns ain't got no mo' home since they came and found my maw--they came and found her and hid her in the ground. We uns must have lost her and never can find her--but there are lots of other things to find," and his blue eyes that had looked all clouded at the sad thought of never finding his mother, now began to sparkle. "Only this evening we uns found the prettiest light in the sky--it's gone now--gone--before we uns could hide it in the hole, but we uns will find another." "Where do you live?" Skeeter asked it gently. "Oh, we uns lives with the spring-keeper." "The spring-keeper! Who is he?" "Oh, we uns found him when they took my maw! He is a little daffy--that is what folks say, but we uns can't see but he is as smart as them what laughs at him." The young people were quite aghast at the news that the person with whom this strange being lived was considered daffy. The boys had their doubts about the advantage of asking shelter in a house where two crazy people lived, but perhaps the spring-keeper was not crazy, after all. This young man certainly seemed harmless enough, and perhaps he could show them the way to Greendale. "Does the spring-keeper live far from here?" asked Lil. "Oh, no, just round the mounting. We uns will show you uns the way." He filled his bucket at the crystal spring and then led the way along the narrow path. "Who taught you to play the jew's-harp?" asked Lucy. "Nobody! We uns just makes the music we uns finds in the trees. We uns can make the tune the bee tree makes, too. We uns can do so many things. We uns made these pants and every day we uns sews a pretty new color on this shirt. The spring-keeper fetches pretty cloth from the store and sometimes we uns sews quilts. Look, thar's the place whar the spring-keeper lives when he ain't a-tendin' to his business." "What is his business?" asked Frank. "We uns done told you he's a spring-keeper. Be you uns daffy, too?" That made them all laugh, and then the guide laughed too, delightedly. "Now we uns is found some happiness!" he exclaimed. "The spring-keeper says that is all that's worth finding. He says he has found it but he never laughs like that. He just smiles but never makes no music when he's happy. But neither does the sunshine." The cabin which they were approaching was different in a way from the usual one found in the mountains. It was made of logs and had the outline of the ordinary abode of the mountaineer, but a long porch went along two sides and this porch was screened. Screening is something almost unheard-of with the natives, although the flies abound in the mountains as well as in the valleys. A little clearing around the cabin was one great tangle of flowers: golden glow, love-in-the-mist, four o'clocks, bachelor's buttons, zenias, asters, hollyhocks, sunflowers, poppies, cornflowers, scarlet sage, roses and honeysuckles. Some greedy bees were still buzzing around the roses, although the sun was down and it was high time all laborers were knocking off for the night. There was a light in the cabin which sent a very cheering message to the foot-sore travelers--also an odor of cooking that appealed very strongly to all of them but sent Skeeter off into an ecstasy of anticipation. The guide put down his bucket of water and placing his jew's-harp to his lips gave a kind of buzzing call. Immediately an old man came out of the door. "Is that you, Tom Tit?" It was such a kind, sweet voice that the four were made sure they were right in coming to his abode. "Yes, Spring-keeper, and we uns found something." "I'll be bound you have! What is it this time? Another aeroplane or a rainbow?" "No, it is four laughs, look!" The old man did look, and when he saw the wanderers, he hastened out to make them welcome. Never was there a more charming manner than his. No wonder the half-witted youth thought of the sunshine in connection with his smile. He was tall and stalwart, with a long gray beard that could only be equalled by Santa Claus himself. His hair was silver white and his cheeks as rosy as a girl would like to have hers. His eyes were gray and so kind and twinkling that all fear of his being crazy was immediately dispelled from the minds of our young people. "They thought they were lost but they were wrong--we uns found 'em." "Good work, Tom Tit! And now what are we to do with them?" he asked, although he did not wait to find out what his poor companion had in his befuddled mind but ushered them to the porch, where he made the girls comfortable in steamer chairs and let the boys find seats for themselves. Their story was soon told and much was their amazement to learn that they were more than ten miles from Greendale. "You must have been walking all day in the wrong direction. No wonder this poor little girl is limping. Now the first thing for us to do is to have something to eat." "Ahem!" from Skeeter. The spring-keeper smiled. "Ah, methinks thou hast a lean and hungry look." "Hungry's not the word. Starving Belgium is nothing to me. I feel as though I had had nothing to eat since yesterday." "Oh, Skeeter! Think of all that lunch!" exclaimed Lil, lolling back luxuriously in the steamer chair with grass cloth cushions tucked in around her. "Why, Mr.--Mr.--Spring-keeper, he has done nothing but eat all day!" "We think it is very hard on you for all of us to come piling in on you this way," said Lucy. "Hard on us! Why, Tom Tit and I are so happy we hardly know what to do to show it," said the old man kindly. "But you must excuse me while I go prepare some food for you." "But you must let us help!" from the girls, although Lil was rather perfunctory in her offers of assistance. She felt as though nothing short of dynamite could get her out of that chair. "No, indeed! Tom Tit and I are famous cooks and we can get something ready in short order." "Please, sir," said Frank, who had been very quiet while the others were telling their host of their adventures, "I--I--must not stop one moment to eat or anything else. I want you to tell me how to find my way back to Greendale so I can tell the people at the camp that Lucy and Lil are all right. They were put in our charge, and I must let them know." "Of course, I am going, too," put in Skeeter, "but I thought I might eat first." Everyone had to laugh at poor Skeeter's rueful countenance. The spring-keeper smiled broadly, but he patted Frank on the back. "Have you a telephone at camp?" "Yes, we had to put one in." "Well, then, we'll just 'phone them even before we begin to cook our feast." "'Phone! Have you a telephone here?" exclaimed Lucy. "Yes, my dear young lady. I love the wildwood, but I have to know what's going on in the world. A man who does not take the good the gods provide him in the way of modern inventions is a fool. I may be a fool, but I'm not that kind of a fool." "Lucy, you had better do the 'phoning so they'll know you girls are safe, first thing," suggested Frank. "Yes, and it had better be done immediately," said their host. "Central in the mountains goes to roost very early, and you might not get connection. I'll call up Greendale and make them give me the camp." Connection was got without much trouble and Lucy took the receiver. "Hello! Is that Camp Carter? Well, this is me." "Lucy! Is it you?" in Helen's distracted tones from the other end. "Yes, it's me, and all of us are all right, but we are going to spend the night out." "Out where?" "About ten miles from Greendale!" "You mean outdoors?" "Oh, no; with a spring-keeper!" "A what? Oh, Lucy, are you crazy? We are so uneasy about all of you, we are nearly wild! It's dark as can be and we are trying to keep it from mother and father that you have not come home. Tell me where you are. Speak distinctly and loudly and stop giggling." Of course the usual giggles had rendered Lucy unable to speak. "Here, Skeeter, come and tell her!" she gasped. "Hello, Miss Helen! I'm Skeeter. The girls are all right. Yes, Frank and I are, too. We got lost somehow and never did find Jude Hanford's, but we found a kind gentleman who lives 'way over on another mountain and he is going to feed us right now." "Who is the gentleman?" "Mr. Spring-keeper is his name." "You can't get home somehow tonight?" "No'm! Lil is mighty tired and will have to rest up some. We'll be home tomorrow. You mustn't worry about the girls--they're all right and the gentleman is bully. We'll tell you all about it when we see you. Say, Miss Helen, the lunch was out of sight." "You bet it was when once Skeeter got his hooks into it," muttered Frank. "The supper will be, too, in no time." "Well, good-bye, Skeeter! We are still trusting you and Frank to take care of our girls and bring them back safely. I knew all the time you were doing your best, although I was uneasy about all of you. I was afraid you had shot each other or snakes had bitten you or something." "Not on your life! We shot some squirrels and got you some fox grapes, though. Good-bye! Good-bye!" "I tell you, Miss Helen is a peach," he added to Frank, after he hung up the receiver. "She is still trusting us." CHAPTER XVI TOM TIT "I'm dying to know who he is and what he is," whispered Lil to Lucy, as they tidied themselves up a bit in the neat little room to which the gray-bearded host had shown them. "So'm I! Did you ever see such a cute little room? It looks like a stateroom on the steamboat. Do you reckon we will sleep in here?" It was a tiny little room with one great window. Two bunks were built in the wall opposite the window, one over the other. A little mirror hung over a shelf whereon the girls found a white celluloid comb and brush, spotlessly clean--indeed, the whole room was so clean that one doubted its ever having been occupied. The floor was scrubbed until Lucy said it reminded her of a well-kept kitchen table. A rag rug was the only decoration the room boasted and that was a beautiful thing of brilliant hue. The walls were whitewashed, also the doors, of which there were two, one opening into the main room and the other one, the girls fancied, into a cupboard. "Ain't it grand we got lost?" from Lil, as she made a vain endeavor to see her sunburned nose in the mirror that was hung so high she was sure Mr. Spring-keeper had never had a female visitor before, or if he had, it had been a giantess. "Hurry up! Your nose is all right.--Maybe we can help him some, and I'm just dying to hear the story of his life. Do you reckon he will tell us all about himself and poor Tom Tit without our pumping him? I believe he is a king or something." Whether the old gentleman were a king or not, he could certainly cook a supper to a king's taste. Skeeter's nostrils were quivering with anticipatory enjoyment as the lost ones took their seats around the massive table in the comfortable living room. "It looks like a room I saw at the movies last spring," Frank had said to Skeeter, as they waited for the girls to finish dolling up. "That one had a stone fireplace and furniture that looked just like this, great big tables and chairs that must have been made out of solid oak or walnut or something. The hero had fashioned them himself with a jack-knife, I believe. The mantelpiece was high just like this one, but there were skins spread on the floor instead of these rag rugs." "It is a bully room, and, gee, what a good smell of eats." The supper was a simple one, consisting of corn pone and buttermilk, bacon and scrambled eggs. "I am giving you exactly what Tom Tit and I were to have. I only tripled the quantity," said their host, as they drew up the chairs to the great table. "Then we aren't so very much trouble?" asked Lil. "Trouble! Why, my dear young lady, Tom Tit and I would not live on this thoroughfare if we did not love visitors." "Thoroughfare!" gasped Lucy. Maybe the old gentleman was daffy. "Why, certainly! You don't know how many things happen in the mountains. Someone is always turning up. Eh, Tom Tit?" "Yes, indeed! We uns finds something every day. One time it was a baby fox and one time it was a man in ugly striped pants." "He means our convict. It was a poor fellow who had escaped from a road gang and took refuge in the mountains and Tom Tit found him almost starved to death. We fed him up until he could go back to work." "You didn't give him up!" asked Frank, his eyes flashing. "Oh, no; he gave himself up. I got him to tell me just exactly why he was put in the penitentiary, and since his crime surely warranted some punishment, I made him understand that the best thing for him to do was go back to his road making and expiate his crime. That was much better than being hounded for the rest of his time. What do you think about it?" "Y-e-s, you are right, but I'm glad you didn't give him up." "Tom Tit and I go see him every now and then. Tom Tit feels sorry for him because his trousers are so ugly. He likes to work and wouldn't mind road-building a bit." "When we uns digs, we uns finds so many things, but we uns couldn't wear such ugly pants. Sometime we uns is a-goin' to make the poor sick man some pretty pink ones like these," and he stood up to show his bright pink trousers. They were strangely fashioned, looking rather like Turkish trousers. "Was the man sick?" asked Lucy, devoutly praying that a fit of the giggles would not choke her. "You see, Tom Tit and I think that when persons are what the world and the law calls bad, they are really sick. Sometimes they are too sick to be cured, but not often. It is the fault of the doctors and the system and not theirs when they are not cured." "Do you live here all the time?" asked Lil. She was dying of curiosity about the strange pair who were so ill assorted and still so intimate. "Tom Tit does, but I have to go away for a time every fall and winter and Tom Tit keeps house for me while I am gone. He is a famous housekeeper." "Do you get lonesome all by yourself?" asked Lucy. "We uns ain't never alone. There's the baby fox and the cow and the chickens, and every day we uns tries to find something and then we uns has to write it down for the spring-keeper 'ginst he comes home. Every day we uns has to go to the post office for the letter, too, and that takes time. The days in winter are so short." "Oh, do you get a letter every day? How jolly! My mother doesn't write to me but once a week," said Lil, "--although of course she 'phones me in the meantime and sends me candy and things." "We uns never does git letters from maw," and poor Tom Tit's eyes clouded sadly. "Ever since the men came and found her and hid her in that hole she ain't writ a line to poor Tom Tit." "But you write to her every time you write to me, don't you, Tom Tit?" and the old gentleman put a calming and kindly hand on the shoulder of the trembling youth. It seemed that at every mention of mothers the thought of his own mother came back to him and the agony he went through with at the time of her death seized hold of him. The young people learned later from their host, while Tom Tit was washing the supper dishes, all about the poor boy's history. "Tom Tit's mother was a very fine woman of an intelligence and character that was remarkable even in these mountains where intelligence and character are the rule rather than the exception. She had no education, but the things she could accomplish without education were enough to make the ones who have been educated blush to think how little they do with it. She had evolved a philosophy of her own of such goodness and serenity that to know her and talk with her was a privilege. She seemed to me to be like these mountains, where she was born and where she died. She had had trouble enough to break the spirit of any ordinary mortal, but she said her spirit was eternal and could not be broken. "Her husband was a very desperate character. Convicted of illicit distilling, he was sentenced to serve a term in the penitentiary, but he managed to escape and for one whole year he evaded the sheriff, hiding in the mountains. Of course his wife had to go through the agony of this long search. She told me she had never slept more than an hour at a time while her husband was in hiding. That was the one thing she was bitter over--that long hounding of her husband. She used to say if the government had spent the money and energy in educating the mountaineers that they had in hunting for them, there would have been no cause for hunting for them. Moonshining is to them a perfectly reasonable and lawful industry, and nothing but education can make them see it differently. His hiding place was finally ferreted out and he was surrounded and captured, but not before he had managed to shoot five men, killing two of them and being fatally wounded himself. "That was many years ago when Tom Tit was a little chap of three. Melissa, the mother, was wrapped up in the child. His intelligence then was keen and his love of Nature and beautiful things was so pronounced from the beginning that if this cloud had not come over his intellect he would surely have been a great artist of some kind, whether poet, painter or musician, I can't say." "Perhaps all of them, like Leonardo da Vinci!" exclaimed Lil, who always did know things. The old gentleman smiled at her appreciatively. "What is an artist but a person who finds things, just like my poor Tom Tit, and then is able to tell to the world what he has found?" "When he writes to you, does he tell you things in poetical language?" asked Lucy, her gray eyes very teary as she listened to the story of the mountain youth. "My dear, his writing is not ordinary writing. He can neither read nor write as you think of it. His letters to me are written in another way. He tells me what he has found each day with some kind of rude drawing or with some device of his own." "Please show us some of them!" begged all four of the guests. "I am going to let you guess what he meant." He took from his desk in the corner a packet of large envelopes. "I leave with my friend enough addressed and stamped envelopes to run him until I return, and all he has to do is put in his letter and seal it and drop it in the box at Bear Hollow, our post office. Sometimes he draws me a picture and sometimes he just sends me something he has found. What do you think he intended to convey by this?" On a sheet of paper were drawn many stars of various kinds and sizes, and down in the corner was what was certainly meant for an axe. "Clear night and going coon hunting, I think," said Skeeter solemnly. "No!" cried Lucy and Lil in a breath. "Those are meant for snow flakes! It has begun to snow!" "Right you are! Good girls, go up head! And how about the axe, since it is not meant to signify coon hunting?" "It is going to be cold," suggested the practical Frank, "and he must go to work and lay in wood before the snow gets deep." "Fine! I am glad to see there are others who can interpret my poor Tom Tit's letters. Now this is the one I received the next day." It was evidently meant for a deep snow. The roof of a house and a few bare branches were shown but from the chimney a column of smoke ascended and in that smoke was plainly drawn a grin: a mouth with teeth. "Snowed under!" cried Skeeter. "But he got his wood cut and is now sitting by the fire quite happy, even grinning," declared Lucy. "Right again! Now comes a piece of holly and a pressed violet. That means that he finds a little belated violet in our flower beds in spite of the fact that the holly is king at this season. Sometimes he has so much to tell me that he must make many pictures. Here he found a sunset and it was so beautiful that he had to paint it with his colored crayons. This is where he fed the birds during the deep snow. He has a trough where he puts grain and seeds and crumbs for his winged friends. This is a picture of the trough and see the flocks of birds he has tried to draw to show how many are fed in his trough. This means a stranger has come in on him!" It was a picture of a hat and staff and down one side of the page were many drops of water, at least that was what the interested audience thought they were. At the top was an eye. "Oh, I know!" exclaimed Lil. "If a hat and staff mean a stranger, those drops of water must mean rain." "The eye looks like a Mormon sign," suggested Skeeter. "I bet it means this," said Lil, studying the page intently. "It means the stranger is old, or he would not have a staff, and it means he is unhappy. Those drops are tear drops. See how sad the eye looks!" "'Oh, a Daniel come to judgment!' Young lady, you are right. That was a tired, sick traveler that our Tom Tit found and brought in and looked after for two weeks last winter. He was trying to cross the mountains and got lost and Tom Tit picked him up, almost starved and frozen. In this one, he shows the sick guest is still with him and in bed. He cannot draw faces well and hates to make anything too grotesque, so he usually has a sign or symbol for persons. The staff and hat in bed mean the guest is there. These little saddle-bags and hat mean he had to send for the doctor. Look at the medicine the poor staff and hat must take from the cruel saddle-bags! His own symbol is usually a jew's-harp, although sometimes he makes himself a kind of butterfly----" "Just like Whistler!" cried Lil. "Yes, and in his way he is as great an artist as Whistler," said the old man sadly. "If he had only had his chance! Well, well! Maybe he is happier as he is. I never saw a happier person, as a rule, than my poor boy. Tom Tit could never have written letters that would have been put in a book and called 'The Gentle Art of Making Enemies,' as that other great artist did. He makes friends with every living thing, and inanimate objects are friendly to him, too, I sometimes think. If his wits had been spared him, the world would have called him and the peace of the mountains would no longer have been his." The old man fingered the packet of letters tenderly while the young guests sat thoughtfully by. They could hear the cheerful Tom Tit in the kitchen washing dishes and whistling a strange crooning melody. "Here it is spring and he has found the first hepatica. See, he sends me a pressed one! And this is my love letter. What do you make of it?" It was six little stamped envelopes, all with wings, and in the corner was a jew's-harp unmistakably dancing a jig. "I know! I know!" cried Lucy. "So do I!" from Lil. "I can't see any kind of sense in it!" pondered Frank. "Nor I," grumbled Skeeter. "You girls just make up answers." "I'm going to whisper my answer to Mr. Spring-keeper," suggested Lil. The old man smiled as Lil whispered her answer. "Good! Splendid! And now what do you think?" turning to Lucy. "I think that he has only six envelopes left, and that means you will be back in six days. He is so happy he is dancing and he is so busy the days are just flying away." "Well, if you girls aren't clever! No wonder they say women are the most appreciative sex although men are the creative. A few men create while all women appreciate. And now, my dear young people, this is so pleasant for me that I am afraid of being selfish, so I am going to insist on your going to bed. You have had a hard day and must be tired." "We have had a wonderful day with a wonderful en----" said Lil, a yawn hitting her midway so she could not get out the "ding." "But I hate to go to bed until you tell us something about yourself," blurted out Skeeter. The story of the half-witted young mountaineer was very interesting, no doubt, but Skeeter wanted to know why this highly educated gentleman was spending so much time in the mountains, cooking for himself and taking care of lost sheep. "Oh, my story is such an ordinary one I can tell it while I light a candle for these young ladies," laughed their host, not at all angry at Skeeter's curiosity, although Lil and Lucy were half dead of embarrassment when Skeeter came out so flat-footed with the question which was almost bubbling over on their lips, but which they felt they must not put. "I am a successful manufacturer---- I have made enough money selling clothes pins and ironing boards and butter tubs to stop. In fact, I stopped many years ago and now I do nothing but enjoy myself in my own way." "And that way is----?" "Trying to help a little. In the winter I live in New York and teach the boys' clubs on the East Side, and in the summer I am spring-keeper in the mountains." "But isn't your name Mr. Spring-keeper?" asked Lil. "No, my dear, spring-keeping is my occupation. My name is Walter McRae. Here is your candle, and pleasant dreams." "Won't you tell us some more about yourself?" asked Lucy as she took the candle from him. "Another time! Anything so dry as my story will keep." CHAPTER XVII THE SPRING-KEEPER "Isn't this grand?" were the last words both of our girls uttered as they rolled into the bunks that had been made up with fresh, lavender-scented linen. The brigands had captured them certainly and their adventure was complete. The boys were sleeping on the porch in hammocks. Mr. McRae always slept on the porch unless weather drove him in, and Tom Tit had a little room that he loved, where he kept his treasures, all those he did not put in the hole in the mountain. Dawn found the babes in the wood much refreshed. The boys were up and out early, helping Tom Tit milk the cow and chop wood. Mr. McRae had started the cooking of breakfast when Lucy and Lil appeared. "We are so ashamed to be late but we almost slept our heads off," they apologized. "Now let us help!" "All right, set the table and skim the milk and get the butter out of the dairy." The dairy was a cave dug in the side of the mountain where all their food was kept cool in summer and warm in winter. "We shall breakfast on the porch." The girls made all haste and set the table with great care. "Let's get him to tell us all about himself this morning," whispered Lucy. "I'm dying to hear about him. Isn't he romantic?" "I'm crazy about him. Don't you reckon he'll go to the camp with us? Nan would be wild over him." "Yes, but he's ours. We certainly found him." "You sound like Tom Tit," laughed Lil. "I hope the people at the camp won't laugh at poor Tom Tit," said Lucy. "If we could only get there a little ahead and prepare them for his pink pants." She need not have worried, as the wise Mr. McRae knew how to manage Tom Tit so that he discarded his pink pants when he was to go among strangers. "Now, Tom Tit, we must hurry with all of our duties so we can make an early start to walk home with our guests; and we must put on our corduroys for such a long tramp, as the brambles might tear your lovely new trousers." So poor Tom Tit did the outside chores with the help of the boys, while the girls assisted Mr. McRae in the house. Having breakfasted a little after dawn, by seven o'clock they were ready for their ten mile tramp back to the camp. The boys shouldered their guns and the sacks of fox grapes and squirrels. Mr. McRae took with him a small spade while Tom Tit carried a hoe. "I can't help thinking both of them are a bit loony," Skeeter whispered to Lucy. "Why on earth do they want to carry garden tools on a ten mile tramp?" "Loony yourself! I reckon they want to dig something." The old gentleman, as though divining Skeeter's thoughts, remarked: "Tom Tit and I have a little duty to attend to today, so we are taking our implements. There are several springs I have not been able to visit this summer and I am going to combine duty with pleasure and look after them today." "Look after springs! What for?" from Skeeter. "I thought I told you that I am a spring-keeper. Perhaps you don't know what a spring-keeper is." "N--o! Not exactly!" said Skeeter. "Well, every country child knows that in every spring there is or should be a spring-keeper to keep the water clear. It is a kind of crawfish. It may be a superstition that he really does purify water. At any rate, it is a pleasing idea that he can. Whether he can or not, I know I can help a great deal by digging out of the springs the old dead roots and vegetable matter that decays there, so my self-appointed job is to keep the springs of Albemarle county in condition. I am sure I have saved many families from typhoid in the last years. That is something. "I was born in the mountains, born in a cabin that stands just where the one I live in now stands, in fact the chimney is the same one that has always been there, but the house is new. When I was a mere lad, about twelve years old, there was a terrible epidemic of typhoid fever in the mountains. My whole family was wiped out by it, my father, mother and two sisters dying of it. I just did escape with my life and was nursed back to health by Tom Tit's granny, as good a woman as ever lived. Afterwards, having no home ties, I drifted to the city where I was successful financially. We of the mountains had not known in the old days what caused typhoid, but afterwards, when I learned it was the water we drank, I determined to come back to my county whenever I could and make some endeavor to better the conditions. Would God that I might have been sooner! My poor boy had an attack of the dread disease just the year before I got my affairs in condition to leave New York, and that is what caused his brain trouble." Tom Tit was ahead of the party, gazing up into the air as his old friend spoke. He had a rapt expression on his face that made him for the moment look like Guido Reni's Christ. "Sometimes," continued the old man, "in typhoid, the temperature is so high that certain brain tissue seems to be burned out. I am afraid that is what has happened to my boy." "All of us have been inoculated against typhoid," said Lucy. "Dr. Wright insisted on it--every member of the family. Helen kicked like a steer but she had to do it, too." "Well named, well named, that young doctor! I try to get the friends in the mountains to submit to it, too, but it is a difficult matter. I keep the virus on hand all the time, a fresh supply. If I can't persuade them to let me give them the treatment, I can at least keep their springs clean for them. Sometimes they even object to that," he laughed, "but they can't help it, as I do it without their leave. They say I take all the taste out of the water." Their way lay around the mountain instead of over it, the course they had taken the day before, and much to the amazement of the young people, they went to the left instead of to the right. "But Greendale is that way!" declared Frank, pointing to the east. "Greendale is really due north of us, but I thought you wanted to go by Jude Hanford's cabin to do your errand. We could go either way to the camp from here, but if we go east, we will miss Jude." "Well, if that doesn't beat all!" exclaimed Frank. Mr. McRae laughed. "What would you have done last night if Tom Tit had not found you and brought you home?" "I was going to lie right down and let the robins cover me up," said Lil. "I was going to climb the highest tree and look out and see if I could spy a light, like the cock in the 'Musicians of Bremen,'" said Lucy. "I was going to follow the path from the spring," said Frank. "I felt sure from the cleanliness of the spring that we were near some house." "And I was going to build a fire and skin the squirrels and have supper," declared Skeeter. "I was just about famished and I knew that food was what Lil and Lucy needed to put heart in them." "Yes, it wouldn't!" laughed Lil. "Much good burnt squirrel without any salt would do a bruised heel. That was all that was the matter with me." That ten miles back to the camp seemed much shorter than it had the day before, and in fact it was, as they made no digressions on the homeward trip. "We must really have walked twenty miles yesterday. Just think how many times we doubled on our tracks," said Frank when they finally came to a familiar spot. They found Jude Hanford's yard running over with frying-sized chickens and on his door step a water bucket full of eggs all ready to take to the store. Of course he was pleased to sell them without having to take off the commission for the middleman. He joined their procession, with his eggs and three dozen chickens distributed among the bearers. CHAPTER XVIII MORE FINDS "Look!" exclaimed Lucy as they neared the camp. "Mr. Smith is flying this morning. I wonder who is with him. He hasn't taken me yet but he promised to today. Please don't tell mother. She would be terribly alarmed at the prospect." "Oh, there's my bird!" and Tom Tit dropped his hoe and the basket of chickens he was carrying and clasped his hands in an ecstasy of delight. "See, see, how it floats! I have found it again! I have found it again!" "Tom Tit, would you like to fly with that great bird?" asked Lucy gently. "Fly? Oh, I always dream I can fly! Can I really fly?" "Yes, Tom Tit, if you want to I will give you my place. The birdman promised to take me today and I will get him to take you instead." Tom Tit looked wonderingly and trustingly at Lucy. Mr. McRae smiled his approval. "It will be an experience my boy will remember all his life." "Spending the night at your home will be one we will remember always, too. It beat flying," and all of the wanderers agreed with her. Mr. Tom Smith was perfectly willing to take Tom Tit on a flight if he promised to sit still, which of course he did. The aeroplane was a great astonishment to him and the fact that the birdman could leave the bird and talk and walk filled him with awe. "We uns ain't never seen buzzards and eagles git out'n their wings, but then we uns ain't never been so clost to the big ones, the ones that sails way up in the clouds." When they landed after a rather longer flight than Tom Smith usually took the would-be flyers, Tom Tit's expression was that of one who has glimpsed the infinite. He said not a word for a moment after he found himself once more on terra firma, and then he turned to his old friend and whispered: "Oh, Spring-keeper, I have found so many things that I'll never be sad again." The Carters, of course, gave Mr. McRae a warm welcome. They could not do enough to express their gratitude for his kindness and hospitality to their young people. Mrs. Carter was graciousness itself to the old man, but looked rather askance at the queer figure of his companion. I wonder what she would have thought had she seen his pink calico trousers and his patched shirt that he considered so beautiful. Bobby, however, was drawn to him immediately and treated him just as though he had been another little boy who had come to see him. He took his new friend to see all of his bird houses and water wheels, and Tom Tit followed him about with adoration in his eyes. "We uns kin talk like you uns when we uns remembers," said Bobby. "We uns would like to talk like Spring-keeper but always forgits," sighed Tom Tit. "Spring-keeper used to talk just like we uns when he was little but he's got larnin' now." "We uns don't never want no larnin'," declared Bobby. "'Tain't no use. Josh wants to git larnin', too, but when he does he ain't goin' to be my bes' frien' no mo'. I'm a-goin' to be you bes' frien' then; I mean, we uns is." "What's a bes' frien'? We uns ain't never found one." "Oh, a bes' frien' is somebody you likes to be with all the time." "Oh, then Spring-keeper is a bes' frien'." "But he is an old man. A bes' frien' must be young." "Then we uns'll have to take the baby fox. Will that do?" "Oh, yes, that'll do if'n they ain't no boys around." "We uns will keep the baby fox for one of them things until Josh gits larnin' and then you kin be it," and Tom Tit laughed for joy. "Is you uns ever flew?" Tom Tit asked Bobby. "No--my mother is so skittish like, she ain't never let me. She's 'bout one of the scaredest ladies they is." "We uns' maw is done flew away herself and she didn't mind when we uns went a bit. We uns useter think that when the men found maw they took her and hid her in a hole in the ground. Spring-keeper done tole me lots of times that she wasn't in the ground but had flew up to heaven, but we uns ain't never seed no one fly, so we uns just thought he was a foolin'. And you see," he whispered, "Spring-keeper is kinder daffy sometimes, so the folks say, and we uns has to humor him. But now--but now--we uns done flewed away up in the air. If we uns kin fly, why maw kin do it, too. She ain't in a hole in the ground no mo'. We uns almost saw her flyin' way up over the mountain tops." "I'm--I mean we uns is a-goin' to come to see you. My father is goin' to take me there some day. Kin you play on the Victrola?" "No--we uns ain't never seed one. What is it?" "Why, it makes music." "Oh, we uns kin play the jew's-harp." "Gee! I wish I could--I mean we uns wishes we uns could. If you show me how to play the jew's-harp, I'll show you how to play the Victrola. Come on, I'll show you first while th'ain't nobody in the pavilion. You see, my sisters is some bossy an' they's always sayin' I scratch the records an' won't never let me play it by myself, but they is about the bossiest ever. I ain't a-goin' to hurt the old records." Tom Tit looked at the Victrola with wondering eyes while Bobby wound it up. He had seen a small organ once and the postmistress at Bear Hollow had a piano, but this musical instrument was strange indeed. "I'm a-gonter leave the record on that Helen's been a-playin'. I don't know what it is. I can't read good yet but I reckon it's something pretty." It was Zimbalist playing the "Humoresque." Fancy the effect of such a wonderful combination of sounds breaking for the first time on the sensitive ears of this mountain youth. He had heard music in the wind and music in the water; the birds had sung to him and the beasts had talked to him; but what was this? He stood like one enchanted, his hands clasped and his lips parted. At one point in the music when the great artist was evidently putting his whole soul in it, Tom Tit began to sob. Tears rolled down his cheeks. "Why, what's the matter? Don't you like it? I'll put a ragtime piece on," cried Bobby, abruptly stopping the machine with a scraping sound that certainly proved he was a great scratcher of records. "Oh, now it's lost! It's lost! We uns thought we uns had found something beautiful. Where has it gone?" "Did you like it then? What made you bawl?" "We uns has to cry when we uns finds something beautiful sometimes. We uns cries a little when the sun sets but it is tears of happiness. Can you uns play that again?" "Sure!" and Bobby started up the "Humoresque" again and this time Tom Tit dried his eyes and stood with a smile on his face. "Oh, Spring-keeper!" he cried when Mr. McRae came hunting him, "we uns has found something more beautiful than sunsets and flowers--prettier than birds--prettier than pink--prettier than blue or yellow. It shines like dew and tastes like honey--Oh, Spring-keeper, listen!" "Yes, my boy, it is beautiful. And now I think you have found enough things for today and we must go home." "Go home and leave this!" and Tom Tit embraced the Victrola. "We uns can't leave it." "Listen, my boy! I will get one for you. I don't know why I never thought of it before. Within a week you shall have one all your own and play it as much as you choose." Of course Bobby had to be instructed in the rudiments of jew's-harp playing first, according to agreement, and then with many expressions of mutual regard our young people parted from the spring-keeper and Tom Tit. CHAPTER XIX A DISCUSSION August was over and our girls were not sorry. The camp had been like an ant hill all during that month of holidays. Not that it had been a month of holidays for the Carters, far from it. There had been times when they did not see how they could accomplish the work they had undertaken. They were two hands short almost all of the month which made the work fall very heavily on the ones who were left. Gwen was taken up with Aunt Mandy, the kind old mountain woman who had been so good to the little English orphan. Now that Aunt Mandy was ill, Gwen felt it her duty to be with her day and night. Susan was so busy waiting on Mrs. Carter that she never had time for her regular duties in the kitchen. Lewis and Bill were terribly missed. They had done so many things for the campers, had been so strong and willing and untiring in their service that the girls felt the place could hardly be run without them. Skeeter and Frank did all they could but they were but slips of lads after all and there were many things where a man's strength was necessary. Mr. Carter was glad to help when he was called on, but he did not seem to see the things that were to be done without having them pointed out. When there was much of a crowd he rather shrank from the noise and the girls felt they must not let him be made nervous by the confusion. Of course there was much confusion when twenty and more boarders would arrive at once, have to be hauled up the mountain and assigned tent room and then as Oscar would say, "have to be filled up." The girls would do much giggling and screaming; the young men would laugh a great deal louder than their jokes warranted, and the boys seemed to think that camp was a place especially designed for practical jokes. It was a common thing to hear shrieks from the tents when the crowd was finally made to retire by the chaperone, and then the cry, "Ouch! Chestnut burrs in my bed!" Once it was a lemon meringue pie, brought all the way from Richmond by an inveterate joker who felt that a certain youth was too full of himself and needed taking down a peg! Now there is nothing much better than a lemon meringue pie taken internally, but of all the squashy abominations to find in one's bed and to have applied externally, a lemon meringue pie is the worst. It was as a censor of practical jokes that Douglas and Helen missed the young soldiers most. They had been wont to stand just so much and no more from the wild Indians who came to Camp Carter for the week-end, and now that there was no one to reach forth a restraining hand, there was no limit to the pranks that were played. Mrs. Carter felt that the job of chaperone for such a crowd was certainly no sinecure. She complained quite bitterly of her duties. After all, they consisted of having the new-comers introduced to her and of presiding at supper and of staying in the pavilion until bed time. Miss Elizabeth Somerville had made nothing of it, and one memorable night when there was too much racket going on from the tents the boys occupied, she had arisen from her bed in the cabin and, wrapped in a dressing gown and armed with an umbrella, had marched to the seat of war and very effectively quelled the riot by laying about her with said umbrella. The girls looked back on her reign, regretting that it was over. It was lovely to have their mother with them again but she was quite different from the mother they had known in Richmond in the luxurious days. That mother had always been gentle while this one had a little sharp note to her voice that was strange to them. It was most noticeable when she had expressed some desire that was not immediately gratified. "I am quite tired of chicken," she said to Douglas one day. "I wish you would order some sweetbreads for me. I need building up. This rough life is very hard on me and nothing but my being very unselfish and devoted makes me put up with it." "Yes, mother! I am sorry, but my order for this week is in the mail and I could not change it now, but I will send a special order for some Texas sweetbreads to Charlottesville. I have no doubt I can get them there." Either the order or the sweetbreads went astray. Mrs. Carter refused to eat any dinner in consequence and sulked a whole day. "If she only doesn't complain to father we can stand it," Douglas confided to Nan. "What are we going to do, Nan? I am so afraid she will make father feel he must go back to work, and then all the good of the rest will be done away with. She treats me, somehow, as though it were all my fault." "Oh no, honey, you mustn't feel that way. Poor little mumsy is just spoiled to death and does not know how to adapt herself to this change of fortune." "You see, Nan, now that Mr. Lane has had to go to Texas with the militia the business is at a standstill. He was trying to fill the orders they had on their books without father's help." "Yes, Mr. Tucker said that father's business was a one man affair and when that one man, father, was out of the running there was nothing to do about it. Thank goodness, father is not worrying about things himself." "I know we should be thankful, but somehow his not worrying makes it just so much more dreadful. I feel that he is even more different than mother. It is an awful problem--what to do." "What's a problem?" asked Helen, coming suddenly into the tent where her sisters were engaged in the above conversation. "Oh, just--just--nothing much!" faltered Douglas. "Now that's a nice way to treat a partner. You and Nan are always getting off and whispering together and not letting me in on it. What's worrying you?" "The situation!" "Political or climatic?" "Carteratic!" drawled Nan. "We were talking about mother and father." "What about them? Is father worse?" Helen was ever on the alert when her father's well-being was in question. "No, he is better in some ways, but unless he is kept free from worry he will never be well," said Douglas solemnly. She had not broached the subject of money with Helen since the question of White Sulphur had been discussed by them, feeling that Helen would not or could not understand. "Who's going to worry him? Not I!" "Of course not you. Just the lack of money is going to worry him, and he is going to feel the lack of it if mother wants things and can't have them." "Why don't you let her have them?" "How can I? I haven't the wherewithal any more than you." "I thought we were making money." "So we are, but not any great amount. I think it is wonderful that we have been able to support ourselves and put anything in the bank. I had to draw out almost all of our earnings to pay for the things mother bought in New York, not that I wasn't glad to do it, but that means we have not so much to go on for the winter." "Oh, for goodness' sake don't be worrying about the winter now! Mother says our credit is so good we need not worry a bit." Douglas and Nan looked at each other sadly. Douglas turned away with a "what's the use" expression. Helen looked a little defiant as she saw her sister's distress. "See here, Helen!" and this time Nan did not drawl. Helen realized her little sister was going to say something she must listen to. "You have got a whole lot of sense but you have got a whole lot to learn. I know you are going to laugh at me for saying you have got to learn a lot that I, who am two years younger than you, already know. You have got to learn that our poor little mumsy's judgment is not worth that," and Nan snapped her finger. "Nan! You ought to be ashamed of yourself." "Well, I am ashamed of myself, but I am telling the truth. I don't see the use in pretending any more about it. I love her just as much, but anyone with half an eye can see it. I think what we must do is to face it and then tactfully manage her." Douglas and Helen could not help laughing at Nan. "You see," she continued, "it is up to us to support the family somehow and make mumsy comfortable and keep her from telling father that she hasn't got all she wants. Of course she can't have all she wants, but she can be warm and fed at least." "But, Nan, it isn't up to you to support the family," said Douglas. "You must go back to school, you and Lucy." "Well, it is up to me to spend just as little money as possible and to earn some if I can. I am not going to be a burden on you and Helen. You needn't think it." "We'll have the one hundred from the rent of the house and then Helen and I shall have to find jobs. What, I don't know." "Well, I, for one, can't find a job until I get some new clothes," declared Helen. "I haven't a thing that is not hopelessly out of style." "Can't your last winter's suit be done over? Mine can." "Now, Douglas, what's the use in going around looking like a frump? I think we should all of us get some new clothes and then waltz in and get good jobs on the strength of them. If I were employing girls I should certainly choose the ones who look the best." Douglas shook her head sadly. Helen was Helen and there was no making her over. She would have to learn her lesson herself and there was no teaching her. "Dr. Wright says we must keep father out of the city this winter but we need not be in the dead country. We can get a little house on the edge of town so Nan and Lucy can go in to school. I think we can get along on the rent from the house if you and I can make something besides." When the question of where they were to live for the winter was broached to Mrs. Carter, she was taken quite ill and had to stay in bed a whole day. "No one considers me at all," she whimpered to Nan, who had brought her a tray with some tea and toast for her luncheon. "Just because you and Douglas like the country you think it is all right. I am sure I shall die in some nasty little frame cottage in the suburbs. It is ridiculous that we cannot turn those wretched people out of my house and let me go back and live in it again." "But, mumsy," soothed Nan, "we are going to make you very comfortable and we will find a pretty house and maybe it will be brick." "But to dump me down in the suburbs when I have had to be away from society for all these months as it is! I am sure if I could talk it over with your father he would agree with me--but you girls even coerce me in what I shall and shall not say to my own husband. I do not intend to submit to it any longer." "Oh, mother, please--please don't tell father. Dr. Wright says----" "Don't tell me what Dr. Wright says! I am bored to death with what he says. I know he has been kind but I can't see that our affairs must be indefinitely directed by him. I will sleep a little now if you will let me be quiet." CHAPTER XX DR. WRIGHT TO THE RESCUE Nan went sadly off. What should she do? Dr. Wright was expected at the camp that afternoon and she determined to speak to him and ask him once more to interfere in the Carters' affairs. Even if the young physician did bore her mother, it was necessary now for him to step in. If only she would not carry out her threat of speaking to her husband! Dr. Wright treated the matter quite seriously when Nan told him of the mix-up. "Certainly your father must not be worried. It is quite necessary that he shall be kept out of the city for many months yet and no one must talk money to him. Can't your mother see this?" "She doesn't seem to." "But Helen understands, surely!" "I--I--think Helen thinks father is so much better that we can--we can--kind of begin to spend again," faltered Nan, whose heart misgave her, fearing she might be saying something to obstruct the course of true love which her romantic little soul told her was going on between Helen and Dr. Wright. At least she could not help seeing that he was casting sheep's eyes at Helen, and that while Helen was not casting them back at him she was certainly not averse to his attentions. "Begin to spend again! Ye gods and little fishes! Why, if bills begin to be showered in again on Robert Carter I will not answer for his reason. He is immensely improved, but it is only because he has had no worries. Where is your mother?" His face looked quite stern and his kind blue eyes were not kind at all but flashed scornfully. "She is in bed." "Is she ill?" "Well, not exactly--she--she--is kind of depressed." "Depressed! Depressed over what?" "Oh, Dr. Wright, I hate to be telling you these things! It looks as though I did not love my mother to be talking about her, but indeed I do. Douglas and I are so miserable about it, but we--we--somehow we feel that we are a great deal older than mumsy. We know it is hard on her--all of this----" "All of what?" "This living such a rough life--and having to give up society and our pretty house and everything." "Of course it is hard, but then aren't all of you giving up things, too?" "But we don't mind--at least we don't mind much. It is harder on Helen and mother because--because they--they are kind of different. And they don't understand money." "And do you understand it?" laughed the young doctor. "Well, Douglas and I understand it better. We know that when you spend a dollar you haven't got a dollar, but Helen and mother seem to think if you haven't got it you can charge it. I think they are suffering with a kind of disease--chargitis." George Wright was looking quite solemn as he made his way to the cabin where Mrs. Carter had taken to her bed. He was not relishing the idea of having to speak to the wife of his patient, but speak he must. He knew very well that Nan would never have come to him if matters had not reached a crisis. How would Helen take his interference? He could not fool himself into the belief that what Helen said and thought made no difference to him. It made all the difference in the world. But duty was duty and since he was ministering to a mind diseased, he must guard that mind from all things that were harmful to it, just as much as a doctor who is treating an open wound must see that it is kept aseptic. If Robert Carter's wife was contemplating upsetting the good that had been done her husband, why, it was his duty as that husband's physician to warn her of the result. Mrs. Carter was looking very lovely and pathetic, acting the invalid. An extremely dainty and costly negligee accentuated her beauty. Her cabin room, while certainly not elegant, was perfectly comfortable and kept in spotless condition by the devoted Susan. There were no evidences of rough living in her surroundings and the hand which she extended feebly to welcome the physician could not have been smoother or whiter had it belonged to pampered royalty. "Ah, Dr. Wright, it is kind of you to come in to see me." She smiled a wan smile. "I am sorry you are ill. What is troubling you?" He felt her pulse, and finding it quite regular, he smiled, but did not let her see his amusement. "I think it is my heart. I can make no exertion without great effort." "Any appetite?" "Oh, very little--I never eat much, and I am so tired of chicken! Fried chicken, broiled chicken, stewed chicken!" "Yes, spring chicken is a great hardship, no doubt," he said rather grimly. "I like broiled chicken very much in the spring, but I never did care very much for chicken in the summer. People seem to have chicken so much in the summer. I never could see why." "It might be because it is cheaper when they are plentiful," he suggested, finding it difficult to keep the scorn he felt for this foolish little butterfly out of his voice. "Perhaps it is, I never thought of that." Helen came in just then, bringing a bouquet of garden flowers that Mr. McRae had sent to the ladies of the camp. "I might as well tackle them together," he thought, taking a long breath. "Ahem--are your plans for the winter made yet?" he asked Mrs. Carter. "Why, the girls--at least Douglas and Nan, have some ridiculous scheme about taking a cottage in the suburbs and letting those people keep my house. I don't see why I need call it my house, however, as I seem to have no say-so in the matter," she answered complainingly. "Helen and I both think it would be much more sensible to go into our own house and be comfortable. Douglas is very unreasonable and headstrong. The paltry sum that these tenants pay is the only argument she has against our occupying the house ourselves." "Excuse me, Mrs. Carter, but as your husband's physician, I may perhaps be able to point out the relation of the steady, if small, income from the house and his very serious condition." "I--I thought he was almost well." "No, madam, much better but not almost well! Do you think that if he were almost well he would sit passively down and let his daughters decide for him as he is doing now? Has he not always been a man of action, one to take the initiative? Look at him now, not even asking what the plans are when you leave the camp, which you will have to do in the course of a few weeks. Can't you see that he is still in a very nervous state and the least little worry might upset his reason? No troubles must be taken to him. He must not be consulted about arrangements any more than Bobby would be. His tired brain is beginning to recover and a few more months may make him almost himself again, but," and Dr. Wright looked so stern and uncompromising that Helen and her mother felt that the accusing angel had them on the last day, the day of judgment, "if he is worried by all kinds of foolish little things, there will be nothing for him but a sanitarium. I am hoping that he will be spared this, and it rests entirely with his family whether he is spared it or not." "Oh, Doctor, I shall try!" and poor little Mrs. Carter looked very like Bobby and not much older. "I have been very remiss. I did not know." "Another thing," and the accusing angel went on in a stern voice. He had heard all of this before from this little butterfly woman and he felt that he must impress upon her even more the importance of guarding her husband from all financial worries. "If when he's well he finds bills to be paid and obligations to be met, he will drop right back into the condition in which I found him last May when I was called to the case. You remember," and he turned to Helen, "his troubled talk about lamb chops and silk stockings, do you not?" Helen dropped the gay bouquet and covered her face with her hands. Great sobs shook her frame. Remember! Could she ever forget it? And yet she had been behaving as though she had forgotten it, only that morning insisting she must have a new suit before she could get a job. What was Dr. Wright thinking of her? He had spoken so sternly and looked so scornful. His scorn was all turned to concern now. He had not meant to distress Helen so much, only to impress upon her the importance of not letting financial worries reach her father. He looked at the poor stricken little woman who seemed to have shrivelled up into a wizened little child who had just been punished. Had he been too severe in his harangue? Well, nothing short of severity would reach the selfish heart of Mrs. Carter. But Helen--Helen was not selfish, only thoughtless and young. He had not meant to grieve her like this. "I'm sorry," was all he could say. "It seems awful that we should be so blind that you should have to say such things to us," said Helen, trying to control her voice. "I know I am a worthless woman," said the poor little mother plaintively. "Nobody ever expected me to be anything else and I have never been anything else. I don't understand finance--I don't understand life. Please call Douglas and Nan here, Helen. I want to speak to them." "Let me do it," said the young doctor eagerly. He felt that running away from the scene of disaster would be about the most graceful thing he could do just then. "I believe I should like you to be here if you don't mind." Nan and Douglas were quickly summoned, indeed they were near the cabin, eagerly waiting to hear the outcome of the interview that they well knew Dr. Wright was having with their mother. "My daughters," began the little lady solemnly, "I have just come to the realization of my worthlessness. I want all of you to know that I do realize it, and with Dr. Wright as witness I want to resign in a way as--as--as a guardian to you. Your judgment is better than mine and after this I am going to trust to it rather than to my own. I know nothing about money, nothing about economy. Douglas, you will have to be head of the family until your poor father can take up his burdens again. Whatever you think best to do, I will do. Treat me about as you treat Bobby and Lucy--no, not Lucy--even Lucy's judgment is better than mine." Douglas was on her knees by the bedside, holding her mother in her arms. "Oh, mumsy! Mumsy! Don't talk that way about yourself. It 'most kills me." Nan buried her face in her hands. She was sure she felt worse than any of them because she had given voice to exactly the same truth concerning her mother in her conversation with Douglas and Helen. Dr. Wright would have been glad if he had never been born, but since he had been he would have welcomed with joy an earthquake if it had only come at that moment and swallowed him up. Would Helen ever forgive him? He had no idea he was having such an effect on Mrs. Carter. She had seemed to him heartless and selfish and stubborn. She was in reality nothing but a child. She was no more responsible than Bobby himself. Mrs. Carter, childlike, was in a way enjoying herself very much. Had she not been punished and now were not all the grownups sorry for her and petting her? She had announced her policy for ever after and now nothing more was ever to be expected of her. Life was not to be so hard after all. Her Robert was still in a way ill, but he would get well finally, and now Douglas would take hold and think for her. Her girls would look after her and take care of her. She regretted not having a debutante daughter, as she well knew that society was one thing she could do, but since that was to be denied her, she would be the last person in the world to make herself disagreeable over her disappointment. A saccharine policy was to be hers on and after this date. Unselfishness and sweetness were to be synonymous with her name. All of the daughters kissed her tenderly and Dr. Wright bent over her fair hand with knightly contrition. How pleasant life was! A tray, more daintily arranged than usual, was brought in at supper time, and under a covered dish there reposed the coveted sweetbreads. CHAPTER XXI LETTERS Miss Nan Carter from Mr. Thomas Smith BY WIRELESS FROM THE CLOUDS, SEPTEMBER .., 19.. MY DEAR WOOD NYMPH: I have made many flights and many landings but no landing has been so delightful as the one I made on Helicon and no flight so beautiful as when a certain little wood nymph deigned to accompany me. I think very often of the few happy days I spent at Week-End Camp and of the hospitable Carters. The picnic on the fallen tree was the very best picnic I ever attended and the game of teakettle the best game I ever played. Some day, and not so many years hence I hope it will be, I intend to make a flight and take my teakettle with me. Guess what that word is! BELLEROPHON. Miss Douglas Carter from Mr. Lewis Somerville BROWNSVILLE, TEXAS, SEPTEMBER .., 19.. MY DEAR DOUGLAS: Your letter telling of the doings of the camp made Bill and me mighty blue. We think maybe we should not have left you when we did, but we felt we were getting too soft hanging round you girls all the time, and then, too, we wanted to let Uncle Sam know that we were willing to do any kind of old work that came up to do. If he wanted to ship us from West Point, all well and good--that was his own affair, but we feel that since he has given us three years' education we must pay him back somehow, and enlisting is about the only way we can do it. At first we thought perhaps it had better be with the volunteers, and then we thought maybe the regulars could do better service, so regulars it is. It does seem funny to be in the ranks when we had always expected to be officers, but that is all right--we are not grouching. No doubt it is good for us. At least we can get the outlook of the private, and if because of bravery or luck we ever rise from the ranks, we can better understand the men under us. It is awfully hot down here but just when it is so hot that you feel you must turn over on the other side to keep from burning and to brown evenly, why a wind comes up they call "a norther" and you sizzle like a red hot poker stuck into cold water. A norther is about the coldest and most penetrating thing I have ever struck. We never seem to catch cold, however. The norther blows all the germs off of one, I fancy. Bill is fine. Already he is known by his guffaw. He let out a laugh the other day that made General Funston jump, and I can tell you that is going some. Not many people can lay claim to the distinction of having made that great man jump. I think they ought to send Bill out to hunt Villa. If that bandit is hiding in the mountains, I bet Bill could laugh loud enough to make him peep out to see what's up. He's mighty soft on Tillie Wingo and carries her tin-type around his neck. I want to tell you, dear Douglas, that I think you were just exactly right to turn me down the way you did. I am ashamed of myself to have asked you to think of me when I realize how far I am from success. I may be a private for the rest of my life and what could I offer a girl like you? I know it wasn't that that kept you from being engaged to me, but it would have been very ridiculous for me to have bound you by a promise when I may be old and gray-headed before I even get a sergeant's stripes. Please write to me when you find time and tell me what the plans are for the winter. I wish I could help you some, but about all I am good for is to keep the Mexicans from getting into Texas and maybe finding their way up to Virginia, where you are. I feel about as big as a grain of sand on a Texan prairie. My love to all the Carters. Your very affectionate cousin, LEWIS SOMERVILLE. Miss Helen Carter from Dr. George Wright RICHMOND, VA., SEPTEMBER .., 19.. MY DEAR MISS HELEN: The thought of having wounded you is very bitter to me. I did not mean to be unkind either to you or your mother. I know you must wish you had never seen me. I seem to have spent my time since I first met you making myself unpleasant. If you can forgive me, please write and say so. I hope your mother is better and that her appetite has returned. If I can be of any service to you at any time and in any way, you must call on me. Very sincerely, GEORGE WRIGHT. Miss Lucy Carter from Frank Maury RICHMOND, VA., SEPTEMBER .., 19.. DEAR LUCY: Not much on writing but here goes. Skeeter and I took Lil to the movies last night and we wished for you some. Movies don't touch the tramps in the mountains but they are better than nothing. When are you going to leave those diggings and come back to the good old burg? Skeeter ate three cream puffs and two ice cream cones after the show and washed them down with a couple of chocolate milk shakes. Mrs. Halsey says she may have to go to boarding to fill her hopeful up. I pity the boardinghouse keeper. The worst thing about Skeeter is that he never shows his keep. After all those weeks in the mountains and all those good eats he is as skinny as ever. Do you ever see Mr. Spring-keeper and Tom Tit? I sent Tom Tit a rag time record for his new Victrola. It is a peach and I bet it will set him to dancing to beat a jew's-harp. Lil, who is mighty missish, says Tom Tit has too good taste to like such common music but I just know he will like it. Skeeter sends his regards. He and I are both to have military training at the high school so you will see us in skimpy blue gray uniforms when you come back to Richmond. Skeeter looks powerful skinny in his. I don't know what I look like in mine. Yours truly, FRANK MAURY. The silence of September settled down upon Camp Carter. The mountains had never been more glorious nor a period of rest and recreation more welcome. Noise, numbers, confusion--all were conspicuously absent. To look back was gratifying and to feel an inward sense of "well done!" was satisfying. The summer was over for the Carter girls but their work was by no means finished. Unforeseen obstacles were no doubt to be met and overcome; many problems were to puzzle them and hard lessons were to be learned. But at the same time happy days were to be in store for them, their lives, like all of ours, a mixture of sunshine and shadow, work and play. They looked toward the future with eager hope. In "The Carter Girls' Mysterious Neighbors" we will hear how they came in touch with some of the wide-reaching events of the world war. [Illustration] The Girl Scouts Series BY EDITH LAVELL A new copyright series of Girl Scouts stories by an author of wide experience in Scouts' craft, as Director of Girl Scouts of Philadelphia. Clothbound, with Attractive Color Designs. =PRICE, 50 CENTS EACH= =POSTAGE 10c EXTRA= THE GIRL SCOUTS AT MISS ALLEN'S SCHOOL THE GIRL SCOUTS AT CAMP THE GIRL SCOUTS' GOOD TURN THE GIRL SCOUTS' CANOE TRIP THE GIRL SCOUTS' RIVALS THE GIRL SCOUTS ON THE RANCH THE GIRL SCOUTS' VACATION ADVENTURES THE GIRL SCOUTS' MOTOR TRIP THE GIRL SCOUTS' CAPTAIN THE GIRL SCOUTS' DIRECTOR For sale by all booksellers, or sent on receipt of price by the Publishers A. L. BURT COMPANY, 114-120 E. 23d St., NEW YORK [Illustration] Books for Girls By GRACE MAY NORTH Author of The Virginia Davis Series. Girls, Other Girls would Like to Know. All Clothbound. Copyright Titles. _With Individual Jackets in Colors._ =PRICE, 75 CENTS EACH= =POSTAGE 10c EXTRA= MEG OF MYSTERY MOUNTAIN RILLA OF THE LIGHTHOUSE NAN OF THE GYPSIES For sale by all booksellers, or sent on receipt of price by the Publishers A. L. BURT COMPANY, 114-120 E. 23d St., NEW YORK Transcriber's Note In this text-version italics has been indicated with _italics_ and bold with =bold=. Small capitals has been changed to all capitals. A few obvious printer's errors have been corrected. Otherwise the original has been preserved, including inconsistencies in spelling, hyphenation or accentuation. 
39515	----	_BOOKS BY THE SAME AUTHOR_ NOVELS. FOR BETTER, FOR WORSE GLAMOUR THE MIRROR AND THE LAMP THE DEVIL'S GARDEN GENERAL MALLOCK'S SHADOW IN COTTON WOOL MRS. THOMPSON THE REST CURE SEYMOUR CHARLTON HILL RISE THE GUARDED FLAME VIVIEN THE RAGGED MESSENGER THE COUNTESS OF MAYBURY A LITTLE MORE SHORT STORIES. LIFE CAN NEVER BE THE SAME ODD LENGTHS FABULOUS FANCIES MRS. THOMPSON _A NOVEL_ BY W. B. MAXWELL AUTHOR OF "THE GUARDED FLAME," "VIVIEN," ETC. [Illustration: Logo] NEW YORK DODD, MEAD & COMPANY 1922 Copyright, 1911, by DODD, MEAD & COMPANY PRINTED IN U. S. A. "Give her of the fruit of her hands; and let her own works praise her in the gates." --PROVERBS. MRS. THOMPSON I It was early-closing day in the town of Mallingbridge; and the Thompson's, "established 1813," had begun to hide its wares from the sunlight of High Street. Outside its windows the iron shutters were rolling down; inside its doors male and female assistants, eager for the weekly half-holiday, were despatching the last dilatory customers, packing their shelves, spreading their dust-sheets, and generally tidying up with anxious speed. Mrs. Thompson, the sole proprietress, emerging from internal offices and passing through her prosperous realm, cast an attentive eye hither and thither; and, wherever she glanced, saw all things right, and nothing wrong. System, method, practised control visible in each department. Carpets, Bedding, Curtains, House Furnishings, all as they should be--no disturbing note, no hint of a dangerous element in the well-ordered working scheme of Thompson's. Managerial Mr. Mears, a big elderly man, took his hands from beneath the skirts of his frock-coat; smiled and bowed; and spoke to the proprietress confidentially on one or two important matters. "By the way," said Mr. Mears. "About Household Crockery--is it to be a promotion, or do you still think of getting someone in? Of course there's a lot of talk--must be while the appointment remains open. But you haven't made up your mind yet, have you?" "Oh, yes," said Mrs. Thompson, arranging her reticule, and not looking at Mr. Mears. "I shall appoint Mr. Marsden." "Young Marsden? Never!" "Yes," said Mrs. Thompson firmly. "You surprise me. I admit it." "You don't think," said Mrs. Thompson, "that he is old enough for the responsibility. But, Mr. Mears, he has _brains_ and he likes _work_. Tell the others that the appointment is made." And big Mr. Mears did then what everyone in Thompson's always did--that is to say, he immediately obeyed orders; and before the last shutter was down, the news had flashed all through the restricted space of the old-fashioned shop. "Dicky Marsden! Oh, drop me off a roof.... Marsden up again! Well, I'm bust!" Thompson's young gentlemen murmuring their comments, expressed astonishment, and a certain amount of envy. "Marsden over all our heads! This is a rum go, if you like." "Fancy! What next! Would you believe it?" Thompson's young ladies, after being breathless, became shrill. "Why, on'y six months ago he was Number Three in the Carpets." "He'll be prouder than ever." "I shan't dare so much as speak to him." "He always treated one as dirt under his feet," said a dark-haired, anæmic young lady. "And _now_!" "With the increased screw," said a pert, blond young lady, "he'll be able to buy more smart clothes, and he'll look more fetching than ever. Yes, and you'll all be more in love with him than you are a'ready." "Speak for yourself." "Well, say I'm as bad as you. We're all a lot of fools together." Of course there must be talk. The Napoleonic rise of this fortunate shopman had been sufficiently rapid to stir the whole of his little shop-world. Starting thus, to what heights might he not attain in Thompson's? There would be talk and more talk. But not within the hearing of Mr. Mears. "Jabber, jabber," said Mr. Mears with unusual severity. "Less of it. You're like so many cackling hens in some back yard--instead of ladies who know how to behave themselves in a high-class emporium." Evidently Mr. Mears was not pleased with the appointment. He stamped off; and the girls observed the characteristic swish of the coat tails, the manner in which he puffed out his chest, and the faint flush upon his bearded face. Meanwhile Mrs. Thompson had passed onward and upward, through many departments, to the door of communication on the first floor that led from her public shop to her private house. Outwardly it was quite an old-fashioned shop, still encased with the red-brick fabric of Georgian days; but inwardly its structure had been almost entirely modernised. The bird-cage art of steel-girdering had swept away division-walls, opened out the department to the widest possible extent and given an unimpeded run of floor area where once the goods used to be stored in rooms the size of pigeon-holes. The best shop-architects had gutted the place, and, so far as they were permitted, had "brought it up to date"; but in all recent improvements the style of substantial, respectable grandeur was preserved. The new mahogany staircases were of a Georgian pattern; there were no fantastic white panellings, no coloured mosaics, no etagères of artificial flowers. Really the vast looking-glasses were the only decoration that one could condemn as altogether belonging to the vulgar new school. The mirrors were perhaps overdone. So, as Mrs. Thompson ascended the short flight of stairs out of Bedding, Etc., a pleasant, middle-aged woman in stately black with pendent chatelaine, climbed opposing steps to meet her face to face on the landing. As she moved on she was moving in many glasses, so that nearly all the assistants could see her or her reflected image: a procession of Mrs. Thompsons advancing from Woollens and Yarns, another converging column of Mrs. Thompsons from Cretonnes and Chintzes, reinforcements coming forward in the big glass opposite the entrance of Household Linen; while the young men behind the Blankets counter raised their eyes to watch the real Mrs. Thompson march by with a company of false Mrs. Thompsons stretching in perfect line from the right--innumerable Mrs. Thompsons shown by the glasses; some looking bigger, some looking slighter; but all the glasses showing a large-bosomed, broad-hipped woman of forty-five, with florid colouring and robust deportment; a valiant solid creature seeming, as indeed she was, well able to carry the burden of the whole shop on her firm shoulders. Then the glasses were empty again: Mrs. Thompson had disappeared through the door of communication. On this side of the door lay all her working life, the struggle, the fight, the courageous plans, and the unflagging labours; on the other side of the door lay the object for which she had toiled, the end and aim of every brave endeavour. "Enid, my darling, are you there?... Yates, is Miss Enid in?" "Yes, ma'am, Miss Enid has lunched, and is upstairs--dressing for the drive." Yates, the old servant, maid, housekeeper, and faithful friend, came bustling and smiling to the welcome sounds of her employer's kind voice. Mrs. Thompson sat for a few minutes in the vacated dining-room, talking to Yates and hearing the domestic news. The headache of Miss Enid, Yates reported, was much better; but she had not been out this morning. She seemed to be rather languid, and, as Yates guessed, perhaps felt a little dull and moped after the gaieties and excitements of the country-house visit from which she had just returned. "Ah, well," said Mrs. Thompson cheerfully, "our drive will do her good. And now that the summer is coming on, she shall not want for occupation and amusement." All through the snug little box of a house, filched out of the block of shop premises, there was evidence of the occupations and amusements of Miss Enid. Bookcases with choicely bound volumes of romance and poetry, elegant writing-desks, various musical instruments, materials for painting in oil or water colour, new inventions for the practice of miniature sculpture, the most costly photographic cameras, tennis rackets, hockey sticks, and other implements of sport and pastime--on this floor as on the upper floors, in dining-room, drawing-room, boudoir, as well as bedroom and dressing-room, were things that should provide a young lady with occupation and amusement. The rooms were comfortably furnished and brightly ornamented, and all had a homelike soothing aspect to their busy owner. To other people they might seem lacking in the studious taste by which the rich and idle can make of each apartment a harmonious picture. Here money had been spent profusely but hurriedly, at odd times and not all together: whatever at the moment had appeared to be desirable or necessary had been at once procured. So that comfort and luxury rather jostled each other; the Sheraton cabinets which were so charming to look at were apt to get hidden by the leather armchairs which were so soothing to have a nap in; and the Chelsea china in the glass-fronted corner cupboard completely lost itself behind the Japanese screen that guarded against draughts from the old sashed window. "Enid, may I come in?" Mrs. Thompson tapped softly at the door of her daughter's dressing-room. "Mother dear, is that you?" The door was opened, and the two women embraced affectionately. Miss Thompson, in her fawn-coloured coat and skirt, feathered hat and spotted veil, was a tall, slim, graceful figure, ready now to adorn the hired landau from Mr. Young's livery stables. Her hair was dark and her complexion naturally pallid; with a long straight nose in a narrow face, she resembled her dead father, but what was sheep-like and stupid in him was rather pretty in the girl;--altogether, a decent-looking, fairly attractive young woman of twenty-two, but not likely to obtain from the world at large the gaze of admiring satisfaction with which an adoring mother regarded her. "The carriage isn't there yet," said Mrs. Thompson, "and I promise not to keep you waiting. I'll change my dress in a flash of lightning." "What did you think of wearing this afternoon?" Mrs. Thompson proposed to put on her new mauve gown and the hat with the lilac blossoms; but her daughter made alternative suggestions. In the shop Mrs. Thompson carried a perpetual black; outside the shop she was perhaps unduly fond of vivid tints, and it was Enid's custom to check this rainbow tendency. "Very well," said Mrs. Thompson, "it shall be the brown again;" and she laughed good-humouredly. "I bow to your judgment, my dear, if I don't endorse its correctness." "You look sweet in the brown, mother." "Do I?... But remember what Miss Macdonald says. With my high complexion, I _need_ colour." Yates soon braced and laced her mistress into the sober brown cloth and velvet that Enid considered suitable for the occasion; a parlourmaid with light rugs went forward to the carriage; and mother and daughter came down the steep and narrow flight of stairs to their outer door. There was no ground floor to the dwelling-house--or rather the ground floor formed an integral part of the shop. The street door stood in St. Saviour's Court--the paved footway that leads from High Street to the churchyard,--sandwiched with its staircase between the two side windows that contained basket chairs and garden requisites. The court was sufficiently wide and sufficiently pleasant: a quiet, dignified passage of entry, with the peaceful calm of the old church walls at one end, and the stir and bustle of the brilliant High Street at the other end. Enid and her mamma, following the neat and mincing parlourmaid, made a stately procession to the main thoroughfare, where the really handsome equipage provided by Mr. Young was awaiting their pleasure. The liveried coachman touched his hat, idle loungers touched their caps, prosperous citizens uncovered and bowed. "There goes Mrs. Thompson." People ran to upper windows to see Mrs. Thompson start for her Thursday drive. "There she goes." "Who?" "Mrs. Thompson." "Oh!" The genial May sunshine flashed gaily, lighting up the whole street, making both ladies blink their eyes as the carriage rolled away. "What a crowd there is outside Bence's," said Miss Enid. "How mean it is of him not to close!" The first shop they passed was Bence's drapery stores, and Mrs. Thompson glanced carelessly at the thronged pavement in front of these improperly open windows. "Mr. Bence's motto," said Mrs. Thompson, "is cheap and nasty," and she laughed with an amused scorn for so mean a trade rival. "His method of doing business is like the trumpery he offers to the public. I have a rather impudent letter from him in my pocket now, and I want--" But then Mrs. Thompson's strong eyebrows contracted, and she shrugged her shoulders and looked away from Bence's. She had just noticed two of her own shop-girls going into Bence's to buy his trumpery. Something distinctly irritating in the thought that these feather-headed girls regularly carried half their wages across the road to Bence's! Throughout the length of High Street there were too many of such signs of the vulgar times: the ever-changing trade, old shops giving place to new ones--an American boot-shop, a branch of the famous cash tobacconists, the nasty cheap restaurant opened by the great London caterers, Parisian jewellery absorbing one window of the historic clocksmiths,--everywhere indications of that love of tawdriness and glitter which slowly atrophies the sense of solid worth, of genuineness and durability. Yet everywhere, also, signs of the old life of the town still vigorous--aldermen and councillors taking the air; Mr. Wiseman, the wealthy corn-merchant; Mr. Dempsey, the auctioneer-mayor; Mr. Young, owner of a hundred horses besides this pair of gallant greys that were drawing Mrs. Thompson. Everyone of the solid old townsfolk knew her; all that was respectably permanent bowed and smiled at her. The drive was like a royal progress when they swept through the market square, past the ancient town hall now a museum, under the shadows thrown by the new municipal buildings, and the other and bigger church of Holy Trinity, out beneath the noble gatehouse, and up into the sunlit slope of Hill Street. Hats off on either side, broad masculine faces smiling in the sunlight. All the best of the town knew her and was proud of her. Her story was of the simplest, and all knew it. Mr. Thompson had been the last and most feeble representative of a powerful dynasty of shop-keepers; at his death it became at once apparent that the grand old shop was nothing but an effete, played out, and utterly exhausted possession; his widow was left practically penniless, with an insolvent business to wind up, and an orphaned little girl to support and rear. And young Mrs. Thompson was ignorant of all business matters, knew nothing more of shops than can be learned by any shop-customer. Nevertheless, with indomitable energy, she threw herself into business life. She did not shut up Thompson's; she kept it going. In two years it was again a paying concern; in a few more years it was a stronger and more flourishing enterprise than it had ever been since its establishment in 1813; now it was immensely prosperous and a credit to the town. They all knew how she had toiled until the success came, how generously she had used the money that her own force and courage earned--a large-minded, open-handed, self-reliant worker, combining a woman's endurance with a man's strength,--and only one weakness: the pampering devotion to her girl. She was making her daughter too much of a fine lady; she had extravagantly worshipped this idol; she had _spoiled_ the long-nosed Enid. The town knew all about that. Bowing to right and to left, Mrs. Thompson drove up Hill Street, and then stopped the carriage outside the offices of Mr. Prentice, solicitor and commissioner of oaths. "Only two or three words with him, Enid. I promise not to be more than five minutes." Mr. Prentice came to the carriage door; and was asked to read the letter from Mr. Bence the fancy draper. "Don't you think it's rather impertinent?" "Of course I do," said Mr. Prentice. "I wouldn't answer it. Throw it into the waste-paper basket." "Oh, no, I shall answer it ... I can't allow Mr. Bence to suppose that I should ever be afraid of him." "Afraid of him!" And Mr. Prentice laughed contemptuously. "_You_ afraid of such a little bounder.... Look here. Shall I go round and kick the brute?" Mrs. Thompson laughed, too. "No, no," she said, "that would scarcely be professional." "I'll do it after office hours--in my private capacity--and of course without entering it to your account." Mr. Prentice was a jolly red-faced man of fifty, with healthy clean-shaven cheeks, and small grey whiskers of a sporting cut. Altogether the most eminent solicitor in Mallingbridge, he had clients among all the country gentlefolk of the neighbourhood; he rode to hounds still, and kept his horses at Young's stables; he stood high in the Masonic craft and could sing an excellent comic song. He was at once Mrs. Thompson's trusted legal adviser, her staunch friend, and, as he himself declared, her admiring slave. "One more word," said Mrs. Thompson. "It is time that I gave another dinner at the Dolphin. There are two new men on the Council--and there will be more new men next November. I shall want your help to act as deputy host for me. Will you think it out--draw up a list of guests--and arrange everything?" "It is for you to command, and for me to obey," said genial Mr. Prentice. "But, upon my word, I don't know why you should go on feasting people in this way." "I like to stand well with the town." "And so you do. So you would, if you never gave them another glass of champagne.... I think your mamma is far too generous." But Miss Enid, who seemed unutterably bored, was staring out of the carriage in the other direction. She had not been listening to Mr. Prentice, and she did not hear him when he addressed her directly. "Then good-bye. Drive on, coachman.... There," and Mrs. Thompson turned gaily to her daughter. "That's more than enough business for Thursday afternoon, isn't it, Enid?" They drove along the London road, through the pretty village of Haggart's Cross, as far as the chalk cliffs beneath the broad downs; and then, descending again, through beech woods and fir plantations to the valley where the river Malling runs and twists beside the railway line all the way home to the town. The world was fresh and bright, with the May wind blowing softly and the May flowers budding sweetly. Cattle in the green fields, birds in the blue sky, pinafored children chanting a lesson behind the latticed panes of their schoolhouse, primroses peeping from grassy banks, and, far and near, the white hawthorn shedding its perfume, giving its fragrant message of spring, of hope, of life--plenty of things to look at with pleasure, plenty of things to talk about, though one might often have seen them before. But Enid was somehow languid, listless, even lumpish, and Mrs. Thompson did nearly all the looking and talking. "I always think that is such an imposing place. The entrance seems to warn one off--to tell one not to forget what a tremendous swell the owner is." They were passing the lodge-gates of a great nobleman's seat, and one had a rapid impression of much magnificence. Stone piers, sculptured urns, floreated iron, massive chains; and behind the forbidding barrier a vista of swept gravel and mown grass, with solemn conifers proudly ranked, and standard rhododendrons just beginning pompously to bloom--no glimpse of the mansion itself, but an intuitive perception of something vast, remote, unattainable. Enid looked through the bars at my lord's gravel drive attentively, almost wistfully, perhaps thinking of the few and august people to whom these splendours would be familiar--of the lucky people who are brought up in palaces instead of in shops. "It is a meet of hounds." Miss Enid broke a long silence to give her mother this information. "And when I was staying at Colonel Salter's, I met a man who had once been to a ball there." "Ah, well," said Mrs. Thompson, with cheerful briskness, "now you mention hunting, that reminds me. We must get you on horseback again.... You do like your riding, don't you?" "Oh, yes," said Enid listlessly. "Mr. Young said you were making such good progress. And," added Mrs. Thompson gently, "it is a pity to take up things and drop them. It is just wasted effort--if one stops before reaching the goal." The road, turning and crossing the railway, gave them a well-known view of Mallingbridge--the town quite at its best, four miles away in the middle of the broad plain, smoke and haze hanging over it, but with tempered sunlight glistening on countless roofs, and the square tower of St. Saviour's and the tall spire of Holy Trinity rising proudly above the mass of lesser buildings. There, stretched at her feet, was Mrs. Thompson's world, the world that she had conquered. In another mile they passed a residence that to her mind formed a pleasant contrast with the oppressive splendour of the nobleman's domain. Here there were white gates between mellow brick walls, easy peeps into a terraced garden, stables and barns as at a farm, pigeons settling on some thatch, friendly English trees guarding but not hiding a dear old English country house. "Look, Enid," and Mrs. Thompson pointed to the broad eaves, the white windows, and the solid chimney stacks, as they showed here and there between the branches of oak and maple. "There. That's a place I fell in love with the first time I saw it.... I would like a house just like that--for you and me to live in when I am able to give up my work...." "What were you saying, mother?" Enid, not listening or absorbed by her own thoughts, had not heard. "I was only saying, that's the sort of house I should like for us two--when I retire." "Mother, I sometimes wish that you had retired years ago." "Well, my dear," said Mrs. Thompson meekly, "retiring is all very well--but you and I wouldn't be sitting here driving so comfortably if I had been afraid of my work and in a hurry to get done with it." II In her marriage she had sacrificed all the natural hopes and inclinations of a healthy young woman. She and her widowed mother were very poor, quite alone in the world; and it seemed a proper and a wise thing to marry Mr. Thompson for his money. No one could guess that the money was already a phantom and no longer a fact. The man was middle-aged, feeble of body and mind, a stupid and a selfish person; but it seemed that he would assure the future of his wife and provide a comfortable home for his mother-in-law. Then after five years the man and his money were gone forever; the mother for whom the sacrifice had been made was herself dead; only the wife and her little child remained. Five years of dull submission to an unloved husband; five years spent in the nursing of two invalids, with the vapid meaningless monotony of wasted days broken sharply by the pains of child-birth, the agonized cares of early motherhood, and the shock of death;--and at the end of the years, a sudden call for limitless courage and almost impossible energy. Quiet unobtrusive Mrs. Thompson answered the call fully. Deep-seated fighting instincts arose in her; unsuspected powers were put forth to meet the exigencies of the occasion; the hero-spirit that lies buried in many natures sprang nobly upward. At first she possessed only one commercial asset, the reputation of Thompson's. For so many years Thompson's had been known as a good shop that here was a legend which might counterbalance debts, exhausted credit, antiquated stock, and incompetent staff. The town and the country during generations had come to Thompson's for good things--not cheap things, but the things that last: dress fabrics that stand up by themselves, chairs and tables that you can leave intact to your grandchildren, carpets that unborn men will be beating when you yourself are dust. Mrs. Thompson, in her widow's weeds, went round the big supply houses, telling the great trade chieftains that the legend was still alive, though the man who already owed them so much money was dead; saying in effect to all the people who held her fate in their hands, "Don't let old Thompson's go down. Don't smash me. Help me. Give me time to secure your twenty shillings in the pound, instead of the meagre seven and sixpence which you can get now." The wholesale trade helped her. Little by little all the world came to her aid. Mr. Prentice the solicitor was a skilful ally. As soon as it could be seen locally that she was keeping her head above water, friends on the bank began to beckon to her. Rich aldermen, advised that there was now small risk, lent her money; and these loans rendered her independent of Trade assistance. Soon she could get whatever sums she required for the restoration and expansion of the business. In all her dealings she won respect. The confidence that she inspired was her true commercial asset, her capital, her good-will, her everything; and it was always growing. "Very remarkable," said travellers, reporting at headquarters, "how that Mrs. Thompson has pulled the fat out of the fire at Mallingbridge. What she wants now is some sound business man for partner--and there's no knowing what she mightn't do." Then some other and more philosophic traveller, impressed by the swift revivification of Thompson's, said enthusiastically, "The best business head in this town is on a woman's shoulders." The saying was quoted, misquoted, echoed and garbled, until it concreted itself into an easy popular formula which the whole town used freely. "The best man of business in Mallingbridge is a woman." Everyone knew who that woman was. Mrs. Thompson. And the town, speaking on important occasions through the mouth of its mayor, aldermen, and councillors, for the first time said that it was proud of her. And then the town began to ask her hand in wedlock. In these days, at the dawn of her success, Mrs. Thompson was not without obvious personal attraction. She was fair and plump, with light wavy hair, kind grey eyes beneath well-marked eyebrows, and good colour warmly brightening a clean white skin;--she "looked nice" in her widow's black, smiling at a hard world and so bravely tackling her life problem. Quite a large number of well-to-do citizens were smilingly rejected by the buxom widow. Pretenders were slow to believe in the finality of her refusals; as the success became more patent, they tried their luck again, and again, but always with the same emptiness of result. Indeed it was a town joke, as well as an unquestionable fact, that old Chambers the wine-merchant regularly proposed three times a year to nice-looking Mrs. Thompson. She wanted no second husband. The fight and the child were enough for her. Those deep and unsapped springs of love that might have gushed forth to make a fountain stream of happiness for Alderman Brown or Councillor Jones flowed calmly and steadfastly now in a concentrated channel of motherly affection. To work for the child, to love and tend the child--that was henceforth her destiny. And she felt strong enough to watch in her own face the blurring destructive print of time, if she might watch in her girl's face time's unfolding glories. For the cruel years took from her irrevocably those physical seductions of neatly rounded form and smooth pinkness and whiteness. The colour that had been sufficient became too much, plumpness changed to stoutness--once, for a year, she was fat. But she tackled this trouble too, bravely and unflinchingly,--went to London for Swedish exercises; banted; brought herself down, down, down, until Dr. Eldridge told her she must stop, or she would kill herself. After that she settled to a steady solidness, a well-maintained amplitude of contour; and the years seemed to leave her untouched as the wide-breasted, rotund-hipped, stalwart Mrs. Thompson of a decade--red-cheeked, bright-eyed, gallant and strong. Yet still she had suitors. The physical charm was gone, but other charm was present--that blending of kindness and power which wins men's hearts, if it does not stir their pulses, gave her a dominating personality, and made the circle of her influence exactly as large as the circle of her acquaintance. People at the circumference of the circle seemed to be surely drawn, by a straight or vacillating radius, to its centre. The better you knew her, the more you thought about her. So that old friends after years of thought now and then surprised her by suggesting that friendship should be exchanged for a closer bond; pointing out the advantages of a common-sense union, the marriage of convenience, sympathy, and mutual regard, that becomes appropriate when the volcano glow of youth has faded; and inviting her to name an early day for going to St. Saviour's Church with them. In the shop, among all grades of employees, there had ever been a dread of St. Saviour's Church and wedding bells. They got on so well with their mistress that the idea of a master was extraordinarily abhorrent to them. But one day, a day now long past, Mrs. Thompson told Mr. Mears authoritatively that joy bells would never sound for her again; Mr. Mears, by permission, or in the exercise of his own discretion, passed on the glad tidings; and the only dark thought that could worry a contented staff was removed. "No, Mr. Mears, I don't say that I have never contemplated the possibility of such an event; but I can say emphatically I have decided that in my case it _is_ impossible." That was sufficient. What Mrs. Thompson said Mrs. Thompson meant. A decision with her was a decision. Of all her trusty subordinates none had served her so loyally as big Mr. Mears. His whole life had been spent in Thompson's. Once he had been boy messenger, window-cleaner, boot-blacker; and now, at the age of sixty, he had risen to managerial rank. He was the acknowledged chief of the staff, Mrs. Thompson's right-hand man; and he was as proud of his position and the culminating grandeurs of his career as if he had been a successful general, a prime-minister, or a pope. Mrs. Thompson knew and openly told him that he was invaluable to her. Such words were like wine and music: they intoxicated and enchanted him. Truly he was whole-hearted, faithful, devoted, with a deep veneration for his mistress; with an intense and almost passionate esteem for her skill, her comprehension, her vigour, and for her herself--perhaps too with a love that he scarcely himself understood. Anyhow this heavy grey-haired shopman and his employer were very close allies, generally thinking as one, and always acting as one, able to talk together with a nearly absolute freedom on any question, however intimately private in its character. "You see, Mr. Mears, if I ever meant to do it, I should have done it ages ago. Now that my daughter is growing up, her claims for attention are becoming stronger every day." Mr. Mears and the rest of the staff were more than satisfied. Perhaps they blessed the idolized Enid for an increasing capacity to absorb every energy and volition that Mrs. Thompson could spare from the shop. Whatever Enid wished for her mother provided. She racked her brains in order to forestall the child's wishes. But the difficulty always was this, one could not be quite sure what Enid really wished. She accepted the pretty gifts, the conditions of her life, the plans for her future, with a calm unruffled acquiescence. When Mrs. Thompson regretfully decided that it would be advisable to dismiss the expensive governesses and send the home pupil to an expensive school, Enid placidly and immediately agreed. Mrs. Thompson thought that school would open Enid's mind, that school would give her an opportunity of making nice girl-friends. Enid at once thought so, too. "But, oh, my darling, what a gap there will be in this house! You'll leave a sore and a sad heart behind you. I shall miss you woefully." "And I shall miss you, mamma." Then, when Enid had gone to the fashionable seminary at Eastbourne, with the faithful Yates as escort, with a wonderful luncheon-basket of delicacies in the first-class reserved compartment, with several huge boxes of school trousseau in the luggage van, Mrs. Thompson began to suffer torment. Was it not cruel to send the brave little thing away from her? Might not her darling be now a prey to similar yearnings and longings for a swift reunion? The torment became agony; and after two days Mrs. Thompson rushed down to see for herself if the new scholar was all right. Enid was entirely all right--playing with the other girls at the bottom of the secluded garden. "Is that you, mummy?" This was a form of greeting peculiar to Enid from very early days. "I am so glad to see you," and she kissed mamma affectionately. She was uniformly affectionate, whether at school or at home, but never explosive or demonstrative in the manifestations of her affection. There was more warmth in her letters than in her spoken words. "My own dearest mother," she used to write, "I am so looking forward to being with you again. Do meet me at the station." But when the train arrived and Mrs. Thompson, who had been pacing the Mallingbridge platform in a fever of expectation, clasped the beloved object to her heart, she experienced something akin to disappointment. It was a sedately composed young lady that offered a cool cheek to the mother's tremulous lips. Now and then a school-friend came to stay with Enid. A Miss Salter, whose parents proved large-minded enough to overlook the glaring fact of the shop, was a fairly frequent visitor. During the visit one of Mr. Young's carriages stood at the disposal of the young hostess and her guest all day long; breakfasts were served in bed; a private box at the local theatre might be occupied any evening between the cosy dinner and the dainty little supper; and Mrs. Thompson arranged delightful expeditions to London, where, under the guardianship of Yates, larger sights and more exciting treats could be enjoyed than any attainable in Mallingbridge. The condescending guest returned to her distinguished circle laden with presents, and frankly owned that she had been given a royal time at the queer shop-house in St. Saviour's Court. Enid in her turn visited the houses of her friends, and came home to tell Mrs. Thompson of that pleasant gracious world in which people do not work for their living, but derive their ample means from splendidly interred ancestors. With satisfaction, if not with animation, she described how greatly butlers and footmen surpass the art of parlourmaids in waiting at table; how gay an effect is produced by young men dining in red coats, how baronets often shoot with three guns, how lords never use less than two horses in the hunting field, and so on. And Mrs. Thompson was happy in the thought that her daughter should be mingling with fine company and deriving pleasure from strange scenes. She was careful to obliterate herself in all such social intercourse. Courteous letters were exchanged between her and Enid's hosts; but the girl and Yates were despatched together, and Mrs. Thompson refused even a glimpse of the Salters' mansion. "Later on," she told Enid, "when we have done with the shop, I shall hope to take my place in society by my pretty daughter's side. But for the present I must just keep to myself.... The old prejudice against retail trade still lingers--more especially among the class that used to be termed _country_ people." Enid dutifully agreed. Indeed she told her mother that the old prejudice was much more active than anyone could guess who had not personally encountered it. The shop was, so to speak, a very large pill, and needed a considerable amount of swallowing. "I found that out in my first term at school, mother dear." "Mother dear" was now Enid's unvaried mode of address when talking to her mamma. All her friends addressed their mammas as mother dear. School was over in these days. Miss Thompson had been finished; she did her country-house visiting with a maid of her own, and no longer with old Yates; as much as she appeared to like anything, she liked staying about at country-houses; she never refused an invitation--except when she was previously engaged. Something perhaps wanting here in the finished article, as polished and pointed by Eastbourne school-mistresses; something not quite right in Enid's placid acquiescences and too rapid concurrences; something that suggested the smooth surface of a languid shallow stream, and not the broad calm that lies above deep strong currents! Perhaps Mrs. Thompson would have preferred a more exuberant reciprocity in her great love; perhaps she secretly yearned for a full response to the open appeal of her expansive, generous nature. If so, she never said it. She was generous in thoughts as well as in deeds. In big things as in small things she seemed to think that it was for her to give and for others to receive. From the vicar craving funds for his new organ to the crossing sweeper who ostentatiously slapped his chest on cold mornings, all who asked for largesse received a handsome dole. At the railway-station, when she appeared, ticket-collectors and porters tumbled over one another in their rush to dance attendance--so solid was her reputation as a lavishly tremendous tipper. "She is making so much money herself that she can afford to be free with it." That was the view of the town, and her own view, too. So all the tradesmen with whom she dealt flagrantly overcharged her--dressmakers, livery stable keepers, wine-merchants, florists, every one of them said it was a privilege to serve her, and then sent in an extortionate bill. And she paid and thanked with a genial smile. Donations to the hospitals, subscriptions to the police concert, the watermen's regatta, the railway servants' sports--really there was no end to the demands that she met so cheerily. Christmas turkeys for the Corporation underlings; cigars for the advertisement printers; small and big dinners, with salvos of champagne corks threatening the Dolphin ceilings, for aldermen, councillors, and all other urban magnates--really it was no wonder that the town had a good word for her. Mr. Prentice, the solicitor, always tried and always failed to curb her liberality. Mr. Prentice kept himself outside of the Corporation's affairs, and expressed considerable contempt for the municipal representatives and the local tradesmen. When Mrs. Thompson spoke with gratitude of the kindness of friends who helped her by loans in her early struggle, Mr. Prentice mocked at these spurious benefactors. "They did nothing for you," said Mr. Prentice. "Oh, how can you pretend that?" "They lent you money on excellent security and took high interest; and you have been feasting them and flattering them ever since." "I do like to feel that I am on good terms with those about me." Then Mr. Prentice would laugh. "Oh, well, you have certainly got the Corporation in your pocket. You make them your slaves--as you make me and everyone else. So I'll say no more. No doubt you know your own business best." And she did. That well-used formula of the town might have been a high-flown compliment at the beginning, but it was sober truth now. No man in Mallingbridge could touch her. The years, taking so much from her, had also brought her much. With ripening judgment, widening knowledge, and the accumulated treasure of experience, her business faculty had developed into something very near the highest form of genius. She had insight, sense of organization, the power of launching out boldly and accepting heavy risks to secure large gains; but she had also caution, concentration of purpose in minor aims, and rapid decision in facing a failure and cutting short consequent losses. In a word, she possessed all the best attributes of your good man of business, and the little more that makes up greatness. She could always do that which very few men consistently achieve. She mastered the situation of the moment, struck directly at the root of the difficulty that confronted her, and, sweeping aside irrelevancies, non-essentials, and entanglements, saw in the cold bright light of logical thought the open road that leads from chaos to security. And no man could have been a more absolute ruler. Every year of her success made her dominion more complete. Womanlike, she ruled her world by kindness; but man-like, she enforced her law by a show of strength, and weight, and even of mere noise. Not often, but whenever necessary, she acted a man's violence, and used bad language. When Mrs. Thompson swore the whole shop trembled. The swearing was a purely histrionic effort, but she carried it through nobly. "Have you heard?" A tremulous whisper ran along the counters. "Mrs. T. went out into the yard, and damned those carters into heaps.... Mrs. T. 'as just bin down into the packing room, and given 'em damson pie--and I'm sure they jolly well deserved it.... Look out. Here she comes!" The brawny carters hung their heads, the hulking packers cleared their throats huskily, the timorous shop-hands looked at the floor. Mrs. Thompson passed like a silent whirlwind through the shop, and banged the counting-house door behind her. When Enid was away from home the counting-house was sometimes occupied to a late hour. Staff long since gone, lights out everywhere; but light still shining in that inner room, fighting the darkness above the glass partitions. The night watchman, pacing to and fro, kept himself alert--a real watchman, ready with his lantern to conduct Mrs. Thompson through the shrouded avenues of counter, and upstairs to the door of communication. When Enid was away the house seemed empty; and the empty house, curiously enough, always seemed smaller. It was as though because the life of the house had contracted, the four walls had themselves drawn nearer together. Yet the little rooms were just big enough to hold ghosts and sad memories. "You look thoroughly fagged out, ma'am. You overdo it. Let me open you a pint of champagne for your supper." "No, thank you, Yates.... But sit down, and talk to me." The old servant sat at the table, and kept her mistress company through what would otherwise have been a lonely meal. In Miss Enid's absence she had no house news to offer, so Mrs. Thompson gave her the shop news. "I swore at them to-day, Yates." "Did you indeed, ma'am?" "Yes." "What drove you to that, ma'am?" "Oh, the packing-room again--and those carters. I informed Mr. Mears that I should do it; and he kept his eyes open, and came up quietly and told me when.... Mr. Mears was delighted with it. He told me at closing time that things had gone like clockwork ever since." In her comfortable bedroom Mrs. Thompson shivered. "Yates, I feel cold. I suppose it is because I'm tired." "Shall I make you a glass of hot grog to drink in bed?" "No.... But come in again when I ring--and stay with me for a few minutes, will you, Yates?" The old servant sat by the bedside until her mistress became drowsy. "I'll leave you now, ma'am. Good-night, and pleasant dreams." "Yates--kiss me." Yates stooped over her lonely mistress, and kissed her. Then she softly switched off the light, and left Mrs. Thompson alone in the darkness. III When old employees looked out of Thompson's windows they sometimes had a queer impression that this side of the street was stationary, and that the other side of the street was moving. Six years ago Bence the fancy-draper had been eight doors off; but he had come nearer and nearer as he absorbed his neighbours' premises one after another. Now the end of Bence's just overlapped Thompson's. For three or four feet he was fairly opposite. Just as Thompson's represented all that was good and stable in the trade of Mallingbridge, Bence's stood for everything bad and evanescent. A horrid catch-penny shop, increasing its business rapidly, practising the odious modern methods of remorseless rivalry, Bence's was almost universally hated. They outraged the feelings of old established tradesmen by taking up lines which cut into one cruelly: they burst out into books, into trunks, into ironmongery; at Christmas, in what they called their grand annual bazaar, they had a cut at the trade of every shop throughout the length of High Street. But especially, at all seasons of the year, they cut into Thompson's. The marked deliberate attack was when they first regularly took up Manchester goods. Then came Carpets, then Crockery, and then Garden requisites. But Bence, in the person of Mr. Archibald, the senior partner, always announced the coming attack to Mrs. Thompson. He said she was the superior of all the other traders; he could never forget that she was a lady, and that he himself was one of her most respectful yet most ardent admirers; he desired ever to treat her with the utmost chivalry. Thus now he came over, full of gallant compliments, to make a fresh announcement. Mrs. Thompson always treated Bence and his dirty little tricks as a joke. She used to laugh at him with a good-humoured tolerance. "Of course, Mrs. Thompson, I don't like seeming to run you hard in any direction. But lor', how can _I_ hurt you? You're big--you're right up there"--and Mr. Bence waved a thin hand above his bald head--"a colossal statue, made of granite. And _I_, why I'm just a poor little insect scrabbling about in the mud at your feet." "Oh, no," said Mrs. Thompson, smiling pleasantly, "you're nothing of the sort. You are a very clever enterprising gentleman. But I'm not in the least afraid of you, Mr. Bence." "That's right," said Bence delightedly. "And always remember this. I am not _fighting_ you. Any attempt at a real fight is simply foreign from my nature--that is, where you are concerned." "Never mind me," said Mrs. Thompson once. "But take care on your own account. Vaulting ambition sometimes o'erleaps itself." "Ah," said Bence. "There you show your marvellous power. You put your finger on the sore spot in a moment. I _am_ ambitious. I might almost say my ambitions are boundless. Work is life to me--and if I was by myself, I don't believe anything would stop me. But," said Bence, with solemn self-pity, "as all the world knows, Mrs. Thompson, there's a _leak_ in my business." Mrs. Thompson perfectly understood what he meant. This working Bence was a sallow, prematurely bald man with a waxed moustache and a cracked voice, and he toiled incessantly; but there were two younger Bences, bluff, hearty, hirsute men, who were sleeping partners, and eating, drinking, and loose-living partners. While Mr. Archibald laboured in Mallingbridge, Mr. Charles and Mr. George idled and squandered in London. "That's the trouble with me," said Mr. Archibald sadly. "I'm the captain on his bridge, sending the ship full speed ahead, but knowing full well that there's a leak down below in the hold.... Never sufficient money behind me.... Oh, Mrs. Thompson," cried Bence, in a burst of enthusiasm, "if I only had the money behind me, I'd soon show you what's what and who's who. But I'm a man fighting with tied hands." "Not fighting _me_, Mr. Bence. You said so yourself." "No, no. Never _you_. I was thinking of the others." Well then, Bence had come across the road once more. In the letter which Mrs. Thompson, when showing it to her solicitor, had described as impertinent, Bence presented his compliments and begged an early appointment for a communication of some importance. Mr. Bence added that "any hints from Mrs. Thompson in regard to his proposed new departure would be esteemed a privileged favour." Mrs. Thompson considered the suggestion that she should advise the rival in his attack as perhaps something beyond the limits of a joke. Nevertheless, she gave the appointment, and smilingly received the visitor in her own room behind the counting-house. "May I begin by saying how splendidly well you are looking, Mrs. Thompson?... When I came in at that door, I thought there'd been a mistake. Seeing you sitting there at your desk, I thought, 'But this is _Miss_ Thompson, and not my great friend _Mrs._ Thompson.' Mistook you for your own daughter, till you turned round and showed me that well-known respected countenance which--" "Now Mr. Bence," said Mrs. Thompson, laughing, "I can't allow you to waste your valuable time in saying all these flattering things." "No flattery." "Please sit down and tell me what new wickedness you are contemplating." Then Mr. Bence made his announcement. It was Furniture this time. He had bought out two more neighbours--the old-fashioned sadler and the bookseller; and he proposed to convert these two shops into his new furniture department. Mrs. Thompson's brows gathered in a stern frown; only by a visible effort could she wipe out the aspect of displeasure, and speak with careless urbanity. "Let me see exactly what it means, Mr. Bence.... I suppose you mean that your Furniture windows will be exactly opposite mine." "Well, as near as makes no difference." "That will be very convenient--for both of us, won't it? I think it is an excellent idea, Mr. Bence," and Mrs. Thompson laughed. "Customers who can't see what they want here, can step across and look for it with you." "Oh, I daren't hope that we should ever draw anybody from your pavement, Mrs. Thompson." "You are much too modest. But if it should ever happen that you fail to supply any customers with what they desire, you can send them across to us. You'd do that, wouldn't you?" "Of course I will," said Bence heartily. "That's what I say. We don't clash. We _can't_ clash." Mrs. Thompson struck the bell on her desk, and summoned a secretary. "Send Mr. Mears to me." The sight of Bence always ruffled and disturbed old Mears. Seeing Bence complacently seated near the bureau in the proprietorial sanctum, his face flushed, his grey beard bristled, and his dark eyes rolled angrily. When Mrs. Thompson told him all about the furniture, he grunted, but did not at first trust himself to words. "Well, Mr. Mears, what do you think about it?" "I think," said Mears gruffly, "that it's _like_ Mr. Bence." "I was remarking," said Bence, nodding and grinning, "that we cannot possibly clash. Our customers are poor little people--not like your rich and influential clientele. Our whole scheme of business is totally different from yours." "That's true," said Mears, and he gave another grunt. "You know," said Mrs. Thompson, "Mr. Bence is not _fighting_ us. He is only carrying out his own system." "Yes," said Mears, "we are acquainted with his system, ma'am." "Then I think that no more need be said. We are quite prepared for any opposition--or competition." "Quite, ma'am." "Then I won't detain you, Mr. Mears." "Good morning, Mr. Mears," said Bence politely. But Mr. Mears only grunted at him. "What a sterling character," said Bence, as soon as Mr. Mears had closed the glass door. "One of the good old school, isn't he? I do admire that sort of dignified trustworthy personage. Gives the grand air to an establishment.... But then if it comes to that, I admire all your people, Mrs. Thompson;" and he wound up this morning call with sycophantically profuse compliments. "Your staff strikes me as unique. I don't know where you get 'em from. You seem to spot merit in the twinkling of an eye.... But I have trespassed more than sufficient. I see you wish to get back to your desk. _Good_ morning, Mrs. Thompson. Ever your humble servant;" and Mr. Bence bowed himself out. IV Certainly, if Mrs. Thompson could not accept the bulk of Archibald Bence's compliments, she might justly pride herself on being always anxious to spot merit among her people. Unaided by any advice, she had quickly spotted the young man in the Carpets department. Making her tour of inspection one day, she was drawn towards the wide entrance of Carpets by the unseemly noise of a common female voice. Looking into Carpets, she found the shrewish wife of an old farmer raging and nagging at everybody, because she could not satisfy herself with what was being offered to her. Half the stock was already on the floor; Number One and Number Two were at their wits' ends, becoming idiotic, on the verge of collapse; Number Three had just come to their rescue. "Oh, take it away.... No--not a bit like what I'm asking for." And the virago turned to her hen-pecked husband. "You were a fool to bring me here. I told you we ought to have gone to London." "But madam knows the old saying. One may go farther and fare worse. I can assure you, madam, there's nothing in the London houses that we can't supply here." "Oh, yes, you're glib enough--but if you've got it, why don't you bring it out?" "If madam will have patience, I guarantee that we will suit her--yes, in less than three minutes." The young man spoke firmly yet pleasantly; and he looked and smiled at this ugly vixenish customer as though she had been young, gracious, and beautiful. Mrs. Thompson did not intervene: she stood near the entrance, watching and listening. "Now, madam, if you want value for your money, look at this.... No?... Very good. This is Axminster--genuine Axminster,--and very charming colouring.... No?... What does madam think of _this_?... No?" He spun out the vast webs; with bowed back and quick movements of both hands he trundled the enormous rollers across the polished floor; he ran up the ladders and jerked the folded masses from the shelves; he flopped down the cut squares so fast that the piled heaps seemed to grow by magic before the customer's chair. Doubtless he knew that he was being observed, but he showed no knowledge of the fact. As he hurried past Mrs. Thompson, she noticed that he was perspiring. He dabbed his white forehead with his handkerchief as he passed again, trundling a roll with one hand. Mrs. Thompson felt astounded by his personal strength. Mr. Mears was strong, a man of comparatively huge girth and massive limbs; he could lift big weights; but Mears in his prime could not have shifted the carpet rolls as they were shifted by this slim-waisted stripling. Two minutes gone, and the querulous, nagging tones were modulated to the note of vulgar affability. Two minutes--thirty seconds, and the customer had decided that her carpet should be one of the three which she was prodding at with her umbrella. She asked Mr. Marsden to help her in making the final selection. Mr. Marsden was standing up now, Numbers One and Two clumsily hovering about him, while he talked easily and confidentially to the 'mollified customer. And while he talked, Mrs. Thompson scrutinized him carefully. He could not be more than twenty-seven--possibly less. He was gracefully although so strongly built, of medium height, with an excellent poise of the head. His hair was brownish, stiff, cut very short; his small stiff moustache was brushed up in the military fashion; his features were of the firmest masculine type--nose perhaps a shade too thick and not sufficiently well modelled. She could not see the colour of his eyes. But his manner! It was the salesman's art in its highest and rarest form. He had charmed, fascinated, hypnotised the troublesome customer. She bought her carpets, and two door mats; she smiled and nodded and prattled; she seemed quite sorry to say good-bye to Mr. Marsden. "I shall tell my friends to come here," and then she giggled stupidly. "And I shall tell them to ask for you." Without entering Carpets, Mrs. Thompson walked away. She did not utter a word then; but she had determined to promote Number Three, to give him more scope, and to see what she could make of him. She moved him through the Woollens, the Cretonnes; and then again, upstairs into Crockery. Crockery, which had of late betrayed sluggishness, was one side of a large department. Beginning with common pots and pans, it shaded off into glass and china; and on this side ran up to the big money which was properly demanded for the most delicate porcelain and ornamental ware--such as best English dinner services and modern _Sèvres_ candelabra. Young Marsden was given charge of the cheaper and quicker-selling stuff, while Miss Woolfrey, a freckled, sandy lady of forty, remained for the present in control of the expensive side. But she was not a titular head; Mears and Mrs. Thompson herself superintended her, allowing her little discretion, and instructing her from day to day. After a week Marsden, the newcomer, got a distinct move on the sluggish earthenware; and, after three weeks, Mears rather grudgingly confessed that the whole department appeared to be brisker, livelier, more what one would wish it to be. On the whole, then, Mrs. Thompson was well pleased with her protégé. She spoke to him freely, encouraged him by carefully chosen words of approval. One day, while talking to a desk-clerk, she saw him in an adjacent mirror that gave one a round-the-corner view of Glass and China. He was standing with a trade catalogue in his hands, surrounded by Miss Woolfrey and three girls. He seemed to be expounding the catalogue, and the women seemed to exhibit a docile attention. Mrs. Thompson went in and talked to them. There had been an accident, and Mr. Marsden was looking up the trade price of the destroyed article. Poor Miss Woolfrey had broken a cut-glass decanter--she got upon the steps to fetch it down, and it was heavier than she expected. "Why," inquired Mrs. Thompson, "didn't you ask someone to help you?" "I never thought till it was too late, and I'd found out my mistake." There was no need to offer apologies to the proprietress, because all breakages of this character were made good out of an insurance fund to which all the employees subscribed. The whole shop was therefore interested in each smash, since everybody would pay a share of the damage. "Mr. Marsden," said Miss Woolfrey, "has so very kindly priced it for me. He will send on the order at once. So it shall be replaced, ma'am, without delay." The three interested girls lingered at Mr. Marsden's elbows; they watched his face; they hung upon his words. Miss Woolfrey continued to thank him for all the trouble he was taking. Mrs. Thompson walked away, thinking about Mr. Marsden. These women were too obviously subject to the young man's personal fascination; their silly glances were easy to interpret; and middle-aged Miss Woolfrey and the three immature underlings had all betrayed the same weakness. This implied a situation that must be thought out. Lady-killers, though useful with the customers, may cause a lot of trouble with the staff. There was no indication of the professional heart-disturber in the young fellow's general air. Mrs. Thompson had found his manner scrupulously correct--except that, as she remembered now, there was perhaps something too hardy in the way he kept his eyes fixed on her face. She attributed this to sheer intentness, mingled with juvenile simplicity. Most of the older men instinctively dropped their eyes in her presence. After a little thought she called Mears behind the glass, and interrogated him. "Behind the glass" was a shop term for all the sacred region masked by the glass partitions, and containing counting-house, clerks' and secretary's offices, managerial and the proprietorial departments. "If you want the plain fact," said Mr. Mears, "there's little difference in the pack of 'em." "Do you mean they are _silly_ about him?" "Yes," said Mears scornfully. "Spoony sentimental--talking ridiculous over him." "But is _he_ all right with the girls? What is _his_ attitude?... Find out for me." Mrs. Thompson was always wisely strict on this most important point of shop discipline. No playing the fool between the young ladies and young gentlemen under the care of Mrs. Thompson. "I will not permit it," she said sternly; and she laid her open hand upon the desk, to give weightier emphasis to the words. "We must have no condoning of that sort of thing. If I catch him at it--if I catch anyone, out he goes neck and crop." In the course of a few days Mr. Mears reported, still grudgingly, that young Marsden's demeanour towards the young ladies was absolutely perfect. Stoical indifference, calm disregard, not even a trace of that flirting or innocently philandering tone which is so common, and to which one can scarcely object. "Good," said Mrs. Thompson. "I'm glad to hear it--because now I shan't be afraid of advancing him." "But," said Mears, "you _have_ advanced him. You aren't thinking of putting him up again?" "I am not sure. Something must be done about Miss Woolfrey. I will think about it." It was not long before Mears, young Marsden and Miss Woolfrey were all summoned together behind the glass. The typewriting girl had been sent out of the room; Mrs. Thompson sat in front of her bureau, looking like a great general; Mr. Mears, at her side, looked like a glum aide-de-camp; the young man looked like a soldier who had been beckoned to step forward from the ranks. He stood at a respectful distance, and his bearing was quite soldierlike--heels together, head well up, the broad shoulders very square, and the muscular back straight and flat. His eyes were on the general's face. Sandy, freckled Miss Woolfrey merely looked foolish and frightened. She caught her breath and coughed when Mrs. Thompson informed her that Mr. Marsden was to be put in charge of the whole department. "Over my head, ma'am?" "It will make no difference to you. Your salary will be no less. And yours, Mr. Marsden, will be no more. But you will have fuller scope." Miss Woolfrey feebly protested. She had hoped,--she had naturally hoped;--in a customary shop-succession the post should be hers. "Miss Woolfrey, do you feel yourself competent to fill it? Hitherto you have been under the constant supervision of Mr. Mears. But do you honestly feel you could stand alone?" "I'd do my best, ma'am." "Yes," said Mrs. Thompson cordially, "I'm sure you would. But with the best will in the world, there are limits to one's capacity. I have come to the conclusion that this is a man's task;" and she turned to the fortunate salesman. "Mr. Marsden, you will not in any way interfere with Miss Woolfrey--but you will remember that the department is now in your sole charge. If I have to complain, it will be to you. If things go wrong, it is you that I shall call to account." Nothing went wrong in China and Glass. But sometimes Mrs. Thompson secretly asked herself if she or Mears had been right. Had she acted wisely when pushing an untried man so promptly to the front? During these pleasant if enervating months of May and June she watched him closely. Somehow he took liberties. It was difficult to define. He talked humbly. His voice was always humble, and his words too--but his eyes were bold. Something of aggressive virility seemed to meet and attempt to beat down that long-assumed mastership to which everyone else readily submitted. In the shop she was a man by courtesy--the boss, the cock of the walk; and she was never made to remember, when issuing orders to the men who served her, that she was not really and truly male. All this might be fancy; but it made a slight want of ease and comfort in her intercourse with Mr. Marsden--a necessity felt only with him, an instinct telling her that here was a servant who must be kept in his place. Once or twice, when she was examining returns with him, his assiduous attention bothered her. "Thank you, Mr. Marsden, I can see it for myself." And there was a certain look in his eyes while he talked to her--respectfully admiring, pensively questioning, familiar,--no, not to be analysed. But nevertheless it was a look that she did not at all care about. The eyes that he used so hardily were of a lightish brown, speckled with darker colour; and above them the dark eyebrows grew close together, making almost an unbroken line across his brow. She saw or guessed that his beard would be tawny, if he let it grow; but he was always beautifully shaved. High on his cheeks there were tiny russet hairs, like down, that he never touched with the razor. All through May China and Glass did better and better. Miss Woolfrey, meekly submitting to fate, worked loyally under the new chief. "If anyone had to be put above me," said poor Miss Woolfrey, "I'd rather it was him." When a truly excellent week's returns were shown in June, Mrs. Thompson took an opportunity of praising Mr. Marsden generously. And again, after he had bowed and expressed his gratification, she saw the look that she did not care about. She read it differently now. It was probably directly traceable to the arrogance bred of youth and strength--and perhaps a fairly full measure of personal conceit. Although so circumspect with the other sex, he had a reliance on his handsome aspect. Perhaps unconsciously he was always falling back on this--because hitherto it might never have failed him. It was Enid who made her think him handsome. Till Enid used the word, she would have thought it too big. One morning she had brought her daughter to the China department in order to select a wedding-present for a girlfriend. Miss Woolfrey was serving her, but Mr. Marsden came to assist. Then Mrs. Thompson saw how he looked at Enid. Some sort of introduction had been made--"Enid, my dear, Mr. Marsden suggests this vase;" and the girl had immediately transferred her attention from the insipid serving woman to the resourceful serving-man. Mr. Marsden showed her more and more things--"This is good value. Two guineas--if that is not beyond your figure. Or this is a quaint notion--Parrots! They paint them so natural, don't they?" And Mrs. Thompson saw the look, and winced. With his eyes on the girl's face, he smiled--and Enid began to smile, too. "What is the joke, Mr. Marsden?" Mrs. Thompson had spoken coldly and abruptly. "Joke?" he echoed. "You appear to be diverted by the idea of my daughter's purchase--when really it is simply a matter of business." "Exactly--but if I can save you time by--" "Thank you, Miss Woolfrey is quite competent to show us all that we require;" and Mrs. Thompson turned her broad back on the departmental manager. Enid, when leaving China and Glass, glanced behind her, and nodded to Mr. Marsden. "Mother," she whispered, "how handsome he is.... But how sharply you spoke to him. You quite dropped on him." "Well, my dear, one has to drop on people sometimes; and Mr. Marsden is just a little disposed to be pushing." "Oh," said Enid, "I thought he was such a favourite of yours." Alone in her room, Mrs. Thompson felt worried. A thought had made her wince. This young man carried about with him an element of vague danger. Of course Enid would never be foolish; and he would never dare to aspire to such a prize; still Enid should get her next wedding present in another department--or in another shop, if she must have china. It was only a brief sense of annoyance or discomfort, say five minutes lost in a busy day. Mrs. Thompson dismissed it from her mind. But Mr. Marsden brought it back again. Towards closing time, when she was signing letters at the big bureau, he came behind the glass and entered her room. "What is it?" said Mrs. Thompson, without looking up. "Mrs. Thompson, I want to make an apology and a request." At the sound of his voice she perceptibly started. His presence down here was unusual and unexpected. "I have been making myself rather unhappy about what happened when you and Miss Thompson were in my department." "Nothing happened," said Mrs. Thompson decisively. "Oh, yes, ma'am, and I offer an apology for my mistake." "Mr. Marsden," said Mrs. Thompson, with dignity, "there is not the slightest occasion for an apology. Please don't make mountains out of molehills." "No--but I am in earnest. It is your own great kindness that led me to forget. And I confess that I did for a moment forget the immense difference of social station that lies between us. A shopman should never speak to his employer--much less his employer's relatives--in a tone implying the least friendliness or equality." "Mr. Marsden, you quite misunderstand." "You were angry with me?" "No," said Mrs. Thompson firmly. "To be frank, I was not exactly pleased with you--and I took the liberty of showing it. That is a freedom to which I am accustomed." "Then I humbly apologise." "I have told you it is unnecessary.... That will do, Mr. Marsden;" and she took up her pen again. "But may I make one request--that when I am unfortunate enough to deserve reproof, it may be administered privately and not in public?" "Mr. Marsden, I make no conditions. If people are discontented with my methods--well, the remedy lies in their own hands." "Isn't that just a little cruel?" "It is my answer to your question." "I don't think, ma'am, you know the chivalrous and devoted feeling that runs through this shop. There's not a man in it to whom your praise and your blame don't mean light and darkness." Mrs. Thompson flushed. "Mr. Marsden, you are all very good and loyal. I recognize that. But I don't care about compliments." "Compliments!... When a person is feeling almost crushed with the burden of gratitude--" "But, Mr. Marsden, gratitude should be shown and not talked about." "And I'll show mine some day, please God." Mrs. Thompson turned right round on her revolving chair, and spoke very gently. "I am sorry that you should have upset yourself about such a trifle." Then Mr. Marsden asked if he might come down behind the glass for direction and orders when he felt in doubt or perplexity. A few words now and then would be helpful to him. Mrs. Thompson hesitated, and then answered kindly. "Certainly. Why not? I am accessible here to any of the staff--from Mr. Mears to the door boy. That has always been a part of my system." After this the young man appeared from time to time, craving a draught of wisdom at the fountain-head. The department was doing well, and he never brought bad news. But he was a little too much inclined to begin talking about himself; telling his story--an orphan who had made his own way in the world; describing his efforts to improve a defective education, his speaking at a debating society, his acting with the Kennington Thespian Troupe. "Your elocution," said Mrs. Thompson, "no doubt profited by the pains you took.... But now, if you please--" Mrs. Thompson, with business-like firmness, stopped all idle chatter. A hint was enough for him, and he promptly became intent on matters of business. He worked hard upstairs. He was the first to come and the last to go. Once or twice he brought papers down to the dark ground floor when Mrs. Thompson was toiling late. One night he showed her the coloured and beautifully printed pictures that had been sent with the new season's lists. "There. This is my choice." She laid her hand flat on a picture; and he, pushing about the other pictures and talking, put his hand against hers. He went on talking, as if unconscious that he had touched her, that he was now touching her. She moved her hand away, and for a moment an angry flame of thought swept through her brain. Had it been an accident, or a monstrous impertinence? He went on talking without a tremor in his voice; and she understood that he was absolutely unconscious of what he had done. He was completely absorbed by consideration of the coloured prints of tea and dinner services. Mrs. Thompson abruptly struck the desk bell, drew back her chair, and rose. "Davies," she called loudly, "bring your lantern. I am going through.... Don't bother me any more about all that, Mr. Marsden. Make your own selections--and get them passed by Mr. Mears. Good-night." V Miss Enid had again taken up riding, and she seemed unusually energetic in her efforts to acquire a difficult art. During this hot dry weather the roads were too hard to permit of hacking with much pleasure; but Enid spent many afternoons in Mr. Young's fine riding school. She was having jumping lessons; and she threw out hints to Mrs. Thompson that next autumn she would be able not only to ride to meet, but even to follow hounds. "Oh, my darling, I should never have a moment's peace of mind if I knew you were risking your pretty neck out hunting." "I could easily get a good pilot," said Enid; "and then I should be quite safe." One Thursday afternoon--early-closing day--Mr. Marsden, who happened to know that Enid would be at the school, went round to see his friend Mr. Whitehouse, the riding-master. He looked very smart in his blue serge suit, straw hat, and brown boots; and the clerk in Mr. Young's office quite thought he was one of the governor's toffs come to buy horses. Mr. Marsden sent his card to Mr. Whitehouse; and then waited in a sloping sanded passage, obviously trodden by four-footed as well as two-footed people, from which he could peep into the dark office, a darker little dressing-room, and an open stable where the hind quarters of horses showed in stalls. There was a queer staircase without stairs, and he heard a sound of pawing over his head--horses upstairs as well as downstairs. The whole place looked and smelt very horsey. The riding-master's horse was presently led past him; the lesson was nearly over, and the young lady was about to take a few leaps. A groom told him that he might go in. The vast hall had high and narrow double doors to admit the horses; and inside, beneath the dirty glass roof, it was always twilight, with strange echoes and reverberations issuing from the smooth plastered walls; at a considerable height in one of the walls there was a large window, opening out of a room that looked like the royal box of a theatre. This hall had been the military school; it remained as a last evidence of the demolished barracks, and the town was proud of its noble dimensions--a building worthy of the metropolis. "How d'ye do," said the riding-master, a slim, tall, elegant young man in check breeches and black boots. "Come and stand by us in the middle." There was another tall young man, who wore drab breeches and brown gaiters on his long thin legs, and who was helping a stableman to drag the barred hurdle across the tan and put it in position against the wall. "Now, Miss Thompson.... Steady. Steady. Let her go." Enid on a heavily bandaged bay mare came slowly round, advanced in a scrambling canter, and hopped over the low obstacle. "Very good." She looked charming as she came round again--her usually cold pale face now warm and red, a wisp of her dark hair flying, the short habit showing her neatly booted legs. "Very good." "I am lost in admiration," said Marsden; and the strange young man stared hard at him. "Oh, is that you, Mr. Marsden," said Enid. "I didn't know I had an audience." Then she jumped again. This time, in obedience to the directions of Mr. Whitehouse, she rode at the hurdle much faster; the mare cocked her ears, charged, and she and Enid sailed over the white bar in grand style. But the thud of hoofs, the tell-tale reverberations roused the invisible Mr. Young, and brought him to the window of the private box. "Not so fast--not nearly so fast," shouted Mr. Young. "There's no skill or sense in that.... Mr. Whitehouse, I can't understand you. D'you want that mare over-reaching herself?" And Mr. Young's voice, dropping in tone, still betrayed his irritation. "Who are these gentlemen? We can't have people in the school during lessons." "All right," said the young man in the brown gaiters. "I've come to look at the new horse--the one you bought from Griffin." "Very good, Mr. Kenion. I didn't see who you were.... But who's the other gentleman?" "He is a friend of mine," said Mr. Whitehouse. "Well, that's against our rules--visitors in lessons. You know that as well as I do." "I am quite aware of your rules," said Mr. Whitehouse curtly. "But the lesson is finished.... That will be sufficient, Miss Thompson. Three minutes over your hour--and we don't want to tire you." Mr. Young snorted angrily, and disappeared. The strange young man assisted Miss Enid to dismount and went out with her, the bandaged mare following them with the helper. "Who," asked Marsden, "was that spindle-shanked ass?" "Oh, he's not a bad boy," said the riding-master patronisingly. "And he can ride, mind you--which is more than most hunting men can." "Is he a hunting man? What's his name?" "Mr. Kenion.... Look here, don't hurry off. I want to have a yarn with you." "But Mr. Young--" "Oh, blast Mr. Young. I want to talk to you, my boy, about the ladies." "Do you?" Marsden half closed his eyes, and showed his strong teeth in a lazy smile. "What do you think of our young lady?" "Miss Thompson?" Mr. Whitehouse shrugged his shoulders. "Oh, not bad." Then long thin Mr. Kenion returned. "Let's try the new crock over your sticks," said Mr. Kenion languidly. "I suppose he _is_ a crock--or he wouldn't be here?" "I won't bias your judgment," said Mr. Whitehouse as he strolled across the tan. "See for yourself," and he rang a noisy bell. "But I must make you known to each other;" and he introduced Mr. Marsden as "one of the managers at Thompson's." Mr. Young's new purchase was brought in, and Mr. Kenion rode it. The horse at first appeared to resent the silly jumping performance; but Marsden heard the work of the rider's unspurred heels on the animal's flanks, watched the effective use Mr. Whitehouse made of his whip as he ran behind, and soon saw the hurdle negotiated in flying fashion, again and again--and faster and faster. "_Not_ so fast! God bless my soul, I think you must all be mad this afternoon." Old Young had come to his window, furious. "Mr. Kenion, I'm surprised at you, yes, I am, sir." "How can I judge of a horse without trying him?" "Well, I don't want my horses tried like that. You may buy 'em or leave 'em." "All right," said Mr. Kenion, laughing. "Come out and have a drink. You've stood me a ride, and I'll stand you a drink." Mr. Kenion, Mr. Young, and the jumping horse all disappeared, and Marsden and the riding-master were left together on the tan. Here, in the dim twilight that the glass roof made of this bright June day, they had a long quiet chat about women. "Dicky," said the riding-master, "I'm going to talk to you like a Dutch uncle." "Fire away." "All for your own good. See?... Now I suppose when you want a mash, you don't think of looking outside the shop." "I never have a mash inside it." "Is that so?" Mr. Whitehouse seemed astonished. "Why, I thought you smart managers with all those shop girls round you were like so many grand Turks with their serrallyhos." "Not much. That's against etiquette--and a fool's game into the bargain. You're safe to be pinched--and, second, you get so jolly sick of being mewed up with 'em all day that you never want to speak to 'em out of hours." "Then how do you get along? The customers?" "Yes," said Marsden; and he stroked his moustache, and smiled. "Customers are often very kind." "Not real ladies?" "We don't ask their pedigrees. Go down St. Saviour's Court any fine evening, and see the domestic servants waiting in their best clothes. It'll remind you of Piccadilly Circus;" and both gentlemen laughed. "There's a parlourmaid," continued Marsden, "out of Adelaide Crescent--who is simply a little lump of all right. Venetian red hair--a picture." "Red hair," said Mr. Whitehouse reflectively. "They say with us, a good horse has no colour. That means, if the horse is a good 'un, never mind his colour;--and I suppose it's true of women.... I don't object to chestnut horses--or red-haired gells.... But, look here, Master Dick, I tell you frank, you're wasting your opportunities." "You can't teach me anything, old man." "Can't I? Never turn a deaf ear to a friendly tip--a chance tip may alter a man's life. That's a motto with me--and I'm acting on it this moment, myself." Then Mr. Whitehouse told his friend that he was about to leave Mallingbridge forever. Mallingbridge was too small; he intended to throw himself into the larger world of London. He had very nearly fixed up an engagement with the big Bayswater people; it was practically a settled thing. "That's why I checked the old bloke like I done just now. Mr. Young he twigs there's something up; but he doesn't know what's in store for him. The minute I've got my job definite, I shall open my chest to him--tell him once for all what I think of him. 'E won't forget it;" and the riding-master laughed confidently. "I'm sorry you're going." "Thanks. But why am I lighting out so determined and sudden, instead of vegetating here half me life? Well--because I got a straight tip, and all by chance." "How was that?" "About a month ago a chap comes in here with a lady for a lesson. Captain Mellish--Meller--I forget the name. Anyhow, he was a son of a gun of a swell to look at--sploshing it about up at the Dolphin; and he brings in this actress from the theatre--not a chorus gell, mind you, but the leading performer--who was drawing her hundred quid a week, so they said. Well, he evidently fancied he was a bit of a horseman himself, and he keeps chipping in. When I told her to get her hands back, and hold her reins long, he says, 'yes, but you'll want to hold a horse shorter by the head, if he balks at his fences.' I answered without hesitation, 'I'm very well aware of refusing horses,' I said, 'and also how easy it is to hang on by a horse's mouth when you land over a fence.... But,' I said, 'let me know who is giving the lesson--you or me. Wait, miss,' I said, 'if the Captain has other directions to give you.' She rounded on him at once, asking him to shut his head. He turned it off with a laugh, and gave me a slap on the back. 'Have it your own way, Mr. Riding-Master.' You'll understand, he said that sneering. "But I believe he thought the more of me before the lesson was over. Anyhow, when his tart had gone to the dressing-room to change her things, he and I got yarning here--exactly as if it had been you and me--like we're doing now. "Mind you, he was a wrong 'un. You couldn't talk friendly to him without twigging that. But, Holy Moses, he was fairly up to snuff.... We went yarning on, and presently he says, 'It beats me why a knowledgeable young chap like you should bury himself as a mere servant. Take my tip,' he says, 'Get hold of a bit of money, and light out on your own.'... 'And how am I to get the money?' I asked him. "'Get it from the ladies,' he says. 'Take my tip. I suppose you make love to all your pupils--you fellows always do. Well, make 'em pay.' I'm giving you what he said, word for word. 'You're wasting yourself,' he says. 'See? You're only young once. You've got something to bring to market, and you're letting it go stale every hour.' "Then he run on about what women can do for a man nowadays--and he _knew_, mind you. He'd _been_ there. Who makes the members of parliament, the bishops, the prime ministers? Why, women. Leave them out of your plans--if you want to labour in the sweat of your brow till you drop. But if not, take the tip. It's the women that give a man his short-cut to ease and comfort. See?" "Yes," said Mr. Marsden. "I see that--but I don't see anything new in it." "Dicky," said Mr. Whitehouse solemnly, "it's a straight tip.... But you'll never profit by it, my boy, until you stop messing about with your dressed-up slaveys, and light out for something bigger." "I have told you," said Marsden, smiling, "that you can't teach me anything." "You're too cock-sure," said Mr. Whitehouse, almost sadly; "but you're just wasting yourself.... Here's the tip of a life-time. I've thought it all out, and I see my own line clear. Drop the gells--and go for the matrons. Pick your chance, and go for it hammer and tongs.... It's what I shall do meself. Bayswater is full of rich Jewesses--some of 'em fairly wallowing in it. And I shan't try to grab some budding beauty. I shall pick a ripe flower." "I wish you luck." "Same to you, old pal. But you won't find it the way you're trying just now;" and Mr. Whitehouse laughed enigmatically. "I can't teach you anything, but I can give you a parting warning.... D'you think I don't twig what you were after to-day--wanting to see me especial--and coming round here,--and losing yourself in admiration of Miss Thompson? And I don't say you mightn't have pulled it off, if you'd started a bit earlier. But you're too late. Mr. Kenion has got there first." "Is that true--bar larks?" "You may bet your boots on it. He's here every time she comes. After the lessons he sees her home--by a round-about way. The only reason he didn't go with her this afternoon is because the shop is shut, and they're afraid of meeting the old lady.... No, my little boy, your Miss Enid is booked." VI Enid was away again, staying for a few days with some friends or friends of the Salters; and during her absence her mother suffered from an unusual depression of spirits. In the shop it was noticed that Mrs. Thompson seemed, if not irritable, at least rather difficult to please; but all understood that she felt lonely while deprived of the young woman's society, and all sympathised with her. Assistants, who happened to meet her after closing time, taking a solitary walk outside the boundaries of the town, were especially sympathetic, and perhaps ventured to think that fashionable Miss Enid left her too much alone. One evening after a blazing airless day, Dick Marsden, very carefully dressed in his neat blue serge, with his straw hat jauntily cocked, came swaggering through St. Saviour's Court, and attracted, as he passed, many feminine glances of admiration. The pretty housemaid from Adelaide Crescent ogled and languished; but he merely bowed and passed by. He could not waste his time with her to-night. There was bigger game on foot. At the bottom of Frederick Street he hurried down the walled passage that leads to the railway embankment; thence through the vaultlike tunnel under the line, past the gas-works; over the iron bridge that spans the black water of the canal, and out into the open meadows. These meadows, a broad flat between the canal and the river, belonged to the railway company; and almost every gate and post reminded one of their legal owners. Notices in metal frames somewhat churlishly announced that, "This gate will be closed and locked on one day in each year"; "There is no right of way here"; "The public, who are only admitted as visitors, will kindly act as visitors and refrain from damage, or the privilege will be withdrawn." The public, enjoying the privilege freely but not arrogantly, ranged about the pleasant fields, played foot-ball in winter, picked buttercups and daisies in spring, and even provided themselves with Corporation seats--to be removed at a moment's notice if the Corporation should be bidden to remove them. On warm summer evenings like this, the public were principally represented by lovers strolling in linked pairs, looking into each other's eyes, and making of the railway fields a road through dreamland to paradise. Marsden walked swiftly across the parched grass, moving with strong light tread, and gazing here and there with clear keen vision. As he moved thus lightly and swiftly, looking so strong and yet so agile, he seemed a personification of masculine youth and vigour, the coarse male animal in its pride of brutal health. Or, if one merely noticed the catlike tread, so springy and easy in its muscular power, he might suggest the graceful yet fierce beast of prey who paces through failing sunlight and falling shadows in search of the inoffensive creature that he will surely destroy. A solitary figure moving slowly between the trees by the river--Mr. Marsden hurried on. "Good evening, Mrs. Thompson."--He took off his hat, and bowed very respectfully. "Oh! Good evening, Mr. Marsden." "You don't often come this way?" "Oh, yes, I do," said Mrs. Thompson rather stiffly. "It is a favourite walk of mine." "I venture to applaud your taste." And he pointed in the direction of the town. "Old Mallingbridge looks quite romantic from along here.... But the gas-works spoil the picture, don't they?" The town looked pretty enough in the mellow evening glow. Beyond the railway embankment, where signal lamps began to show as spots of faint red and green, the clustered roofs mingled into solid sharp-edged masses, and the two church towers appeared strangely high and ponderous against the infinitely pure depths of a cloudless sky. Soon a soft greyness would rise from the horizon; indistinctness, vagueness, mystery would creep over the town and the fields, blotting out the ugly gas-works, hiding the common works of men, giving the world back to nature; but there would be no real night. In these, the longest days of the year, the light never quite died. The colour of her blue dress and of the pink roses in her toque was clearly visible, as Mrs. Thompson and the young man walked on side by side. For a minute she politely made conversation. "I have often wondered," she said, with brisk business-like tones, "what use the railway company will eventually make of all this land." "Ah! I wonder." "They would not have bought it unless they had some remote object in view; and they would not have held it if the object had vanished. Sensible people don't keep two hundred acres of land lying idle unless they have a purpose." "No." "It has often occurred to me--from what I have heard--that they will one day convert it into some sort of depot. There is nothing in the levels to prevent their doing so. The embankment is no height." "I should think you have made a very shrewd guess." "If that were to happen, the question would arise, Will it prove an injury or a benefit to the town?" Then Mrs. Thompson ceased to make conversation; her manner became very dignified and reserved; and she carried herself stiffly--perhaps wishing to indicate by the slight change of deportment that the interview was now at an end. But Marsden did not take the hint. He walked by her side, and soon began to talk about himself. An effort was made to check him when he entered on the subject of the great benefits that a kind hand had showered upon him, but presently Mrs. Thompson was listening without remonstrance to his voice. And her own voice, when in turn she spoke, was curiously soft and gentle. "As this chance has come," he said humbly, "I avail myself of it. Though I could never thank you sufficiently, I have been longing for an opportunity to thank you _somehow_ for the confidence you have reposed in me." "I'm sure you'll justify it, Mr. Marsden." "I don't know. I'm afraid you'll think not--when you hear the dreadful confession that I have to make." Mrs. Thompson drew in her breath, and stopped short on the footpath. "Mr. Marsden"--she spoke quite gently and kindly--"You really must not tell me about your private affairs. Unless your confession concerns business matters--something to do with the shop--I cannot listen to it." "Oh, it only amounts to this--but I know it will sound ungrateful ... Mrs. Thompson, in spite of everything, of all you have done for me, I am not very happy down here." "Indeed?" She had drawn in her breath again, and she walked on while she spoke. "Does that mean that you are thinking of leaving us?" "Yes, I sometimes think of that." "To better yourself?" "Oh, no--I should never find such another situation." "Then why are you discontented in this one?" With the permission conveyed by her question, he described at length his queer state of mind--a man on whom fortune had smiled, a man with work that he liked, yet feeling restless and unhappy, feeling alone in the midst of a crowd, longing for sympathy, yearning for companionship. "That's how I feel," he said sadly, after a long explanation. Mrs. Thompson had been looking away from him, staring across the river. She held herself rigidly erect, and she spoke now in another voice, with a tone of hardness and coldness. "I think I recognize the symptoms, Mr. Marsden. When a young man talks like this, the riddle is easy to guess." "Then guess it." "Well," she said coldly, "you force me to the only supposition. You are telling me that you have fallen in love." "Yes." She winced almost as if he had struck her; and then the parted lips closed, her whole face assumed a stonelike dignity. "Tell me all about it, Mr. Marsden--since you seem to wish to." "Love is a great crisis in a man's life. It generally makes him or breaks him forever." "I hope that fate will read kindly--in your case." "He either fears his fate too much or his deserts are small--But, Mrs. Thompson, I do fear my fate. It isn't plain-sailing for me. There are difficulties, barriers--it's all darkness before me." "I hope you haven't made an injudicious choice." "Yes, I have--in one way. Shall we sit down here? It is still very warm." It was as though the heated earth panted for breath; no evening breeze stirred the leaves; the air was heavy and languorous. Mrs. Thompson seemed glad to sit upon the Corporation bench. She sank down wearily, leaned her back against the wooden support, and stared at the darkly flowing water. "So difficult," he murmured. "So many difficulties." He looked behind him at the empty meadows, and up and down the empty path. Then he took off his hat, laid it on the seat beside him; and, bringing a silk handkerchief from his sleeve, wiped his forehead. "There are almost insurmountable barriers between us." "Have you given your heart to some married woman? Is she not free to respond to your affections?" "No, she was married, but she's free now.... And I think it amuses her to encourage me--and make me suffer." He had taken one of the hands that lay listlessly in the wide lap. "She is _you_." Mrs. Thompson snatched her hand away, sprang up from the seat, and spoke indignantly. "Mr. Marsden, have you gone out of your senses?" "Yes, I think I have. And who's to blame? Who's driven me out of them?" He was standing close in front of her, barring the path. "Oh, I can't go on with all this deception. I lied to you just now. I knew you were coming here,--and I followed you. I felt I must once for all be with you alone." "Not another word. I will not listen.... Oh!" Suddenly he had seized her. Roughly and fiercely he flung his arms round her, forced her to him, and kissed her. "Mr. Marsden!... Shame!... How dare you?... Let me go." She was struggling in his arms, her head down, her two hands trying to keep him off. Her broad bosom panted, her big shoulders heaved; but with remorseless brutal use of his strength he held her tightly and closely against him. "There," he said. "Don't fight. You'll have to go through it now.... You women think you can play the fool with a man--set all his blood on fire, and then tell him to behave himself." "Mr. Marsden, let me go--or I shall die of shame." "No you won't. Rot. D'you hear? Rot. You're a woman all through: and that face was made to be kissed--like this--like this.... There, this is my hour--" "Will you let me go?" "Yes, in a minute.... You'll dismiss me to-morrow, won't you? I'd better pack to-night. But I shall always go on loving you.... Oh, my goodness, what is my life to be without you?" And suddenly he released her, dropped upon the seat, and buried his face in his hands. She walked fast away--and then slowly returned. He was still sitting, with his head down, motionless. "Mr. Marsden!... You have insulted me in the most outrageous manner--and the only possible excuse would be the absolute sincerity of the feelings that you have expressed so brutally. If I could for a moment believe--" "Why can't you believe?" "Because it is too absurd. I am no longer young--the mother of a girl old enough herself to marry." "I don't want any pasty-faced girls. I want _you_." He spoke without looking up at her, and his face remained hidden by his hands. "If I sit down and talk to you quietly, will you promise that you won't begin again?" "Yes." "You give me your word of honour that you won't--won't touch me?" "Oh, yes," he said dejectedly, "I promise." "When you began just now, you implied--you accused me as if you thought I had been--encouraging you. But, Mr. Marsden, you must know that such an accusation is unjust and untrue." "Is it? I don't think you women much care how you lead people on." "But indeed I do care. I should be bitterly ashamed of myself if I was not certain that I had never given you the slightest encouragement." "Oh, never mind. What does it matter? I have made a fool of myself--that's all. Love blinds a man to plain facts." He had raised his head again, and was looking at her. They sat side by side, and the dusk began to envelope them so that their faces were white and vague. "At the first," he went on, "I could see that it was hopeless. If social position didn't interfere, the money would prove a barrier there'd be no getting round. You are rich, and I am poor. At the first I saw how unhappy it was going to make me. I saw it was hopeless--most of all, because I'm not a man who could consent to pose as the pensioner of a rich wife.... But then I forgot--and I began to hope. Yes, I did really hope." "What is it you hoped for?" "Why, that chance would turn up lucky--that somehow I might be put more on an equality. Or that you would marry me in spite of all--that you'd come to think money isn't everything in this world, and love counts most of all." "But, Mr. Marsden, how can I for one moment of time credit you with--with the love you will go on talking about?" "Haven't I _shown_ it to you?" "I think--I am quite sure you are deceiving yourself. But nothing can deceive me. You mistake the chivalrous romantic feelings of youth for something far different." "No, I don't mistake." "The disparity in our years renders such a thing impossible. Between you and me, love--the real love--is out of the question." "Yes, you can say that easily--because no doubt it's true on your side. If you felt for me what I feel for you--then it would be another story." "But suppose I had been foolish enough to be taken with you, to let myself be carried away by your eloquence--which I believe was all acting!" "Acting? That's good--that's devilish good." "I say, suppose I had believed you--and yielded one day, don't you know very well that all the world would laugh at me?" "Why?" "Why--because, my dear boy, I'm almost old enough to be your mother--and I have done with love, and all that sort of thing." "No, you haven't. You're just ripe for love--I felt _that_ when I was kissing you." Mrs. Thompson rose abruptly. "I must go home.... Come;" and they walked side by side through the summer dusk towards the lamp-light of the town. "This must never be spoken of again," she said firmly; and before they reached the last field gate, she had told him many times that her rejection of his suit was final and irrevocable. Hers was a flat deliberate refusal, and nothing could ever modify it. "Yes," he said sadly, "it's hopeless. I knew it all along, in my secret heart--quite hopeless." But she told him that if he promised never to think of it again, she would allow him to remain in the shop. "Frankly, I would much rather you should go--But that would be a pity. It might break your career--or at least throw you too much on your own resources at a critical point. Stay--at any rate until you get a suitable opening." "Your word is my law." "Now leave me. I do not wish anyone to see us walking together." He obeyed her; and she walked on without an escort, through the dark tunnel and into the lamp-light of Frederick Street. VII "You must 'a been a tremendous long walk," said Yates; "but you're looking all the better for it, ma'am--though you aren't brought back an appetite." Mrs. Thompson was trifling with her supper--only pretending to eat. The electric light, shining on her hair, made the rounded coils and central mass bright, smooth, and glossy; the colour in her cheeks glowed vividly and faded quickly, and, as it came and went, the whole face seemed softened and yet unusually animated; the parted lips were slightly tremulous, and the eyes, with distended pupils, were darker and larger than they had been in the daylight. By a queer chance the old servant began to speak of her mistress's personal appearance. "Yes," said Yates, "it's the fresh air you want.--Stands to reason you do, shut up in the shop all day. You look another woman to what you did when you went out;" and she studied Mrs. Thompson's face critically and admiringly. Mrs. Thompson smiled, and her lips were quite tremulous. "Another woman, Yates? What sort of woman do I look like now?" "A very handsome one," said Yates affectionately. "And more like the girl Mr. Thompson led up the stairs such a long time ago--the first time I ever set eyes on her, and was thinking however she and I would get on together." "We've got on well together, haven't we, Yates?" "That we have," said Yates, with enthusiasm. "Yates, don't stare so;" and Mrs. Thompson laughed. "You make me nervous. And I don't want you to flatter me.... But tell me, candidly, supposing you met me now as a stranger--how old would you guess I was?" Yates, with her head slightly on one side, scrutinized her mistress very critically. "Why, I don't believe that anyone seeing you as I do now would take you for more than forty-two--at the outside." "Forty-two! Three years less than my real age. Thank you for nothing, Yates." Mrs. Thompson laughed, but with little merriment in her laugh. "You haven't joined my band of flatterers. You have given me an honest answer." Perhaps, if some faint doubt was lingering in Mrs. Thompson's mind, Yates had provided an answer to that as well as to the direct question. The mistress did not invite the servant to sit at table this evening and help her through the lonely meal. Her thoughts were sufficient company. At night she could not sleep. The contact with the fierce strong male had completely upset her--never in all her life had she been so handled by a man. And the extent of the contact seemed mysteriously to have multiplied the effect of its local violences; the dreaded grip of the powerful arms, the resistless pressure of the forcing hands, and the cruel hot print of his kisses were the salient facts in her memory of the embrace; but it seemed that from every point of the surface of her body while compelled to touch him a nerve thrill had been sent vibrating in her brain, and the diffused nerve-messages, concentrating there, had produced overwhelmingly intense disturbance. And memory gave her back these sensations--the wide thrilling wave from surface to brain, and the explosion of the central nerve-storm flashing its rapid recognition back to the outer boundaries. Lying in her dark room she lived through the experience again--was forced to suffer the embrace not once but again and again. It was dreadful that a man, simply by reason of his sex, should have this power, dreadful that he should abuse his power in thus treating a woman,--and most dreadful that of all women in the world the woman should be herself. And she thought of the late Mr. Thompson's timid and maladroit caresses--inspired, monotonous, stereotyped endearments, totally devoid of nervous excitation, dutifully borne by her, day after day, month after month, throughout the long years. But memory, doing its faithful and accurate work, failed to restore to her that glow of angry protest, that recoil of outraged dignity which she had felt when the young man took her in his arms. She could feel his arms about her still, but the sense of shame had gone. Here in the darkened room she could see him--she could not help seeing him. Hot tears filled her eyes, she writhed and twisted, she tossed and turned, as the mental pictures came and went; but nothing could drive him away. He had taken possession of her thoughts; and she wept because she understood that he had not achieved this tyrannous rule to-day, or yesterday, but a long time ago, a disgracefully long time ago. In imagination she was watching him among the china and glass, when Woolfrey and the others showed her plainly how dangerous he really was--and it had begun then. Why else should she have felt such a wrathful discontent at the idea of his courting all the silly girls? In imagination, she could see him among the carpets, trundling the great rolls, fascinating, enthralling the rude customer,--and it seemed to her that it had begun even then. She and the shrew were one in their weakness; both had been hypnotised together. Mears said all the women in the shop had submitted to the spell--but not the silliest, most feather-headed slut of them all had fallen into such idiotic depths as those in which their proud and stately chief lay weeping. She dried her eyes, got out of bed and drank water, stood at the open window, turned on the light, turned off the light, lay down again and tried desperately to sleep. In a moment her cheeks were burning.--She could feel the hot kisses; she could hear the hurried words. "A face made to be kissed--setting one's blood on fire.... You are a woman all through--you are ripe for love." Ah, if only one could give way to such a dream of rapture; if one could believe that the lost years might be recovered, that all one has missed in life--its passionate sweetness and its satisfying fullness--might be won by a miraculous interposition of fate. Nothing less than a miracle can bring back the wasted past. She did not sleep; but with the return of day she grew calmer. Thoughts of Enid helped her. A second marriage--even what the world would call a wise and fitting alliance--was utterly out of the question. It would be the death of her daughter's love; it would render the story of her own life meaningless; it would destroy all the results of twenty-two years' maternal devotion. Enid had been all in all to her: Enid must remain what she had always been. If on the mother's part there was a brave renunciation of self, it belonged to the dim past; it was over and done with--a solid fact, not to be modified, far less overturned. Least of all by such a marriage as this--laughter mingling with the sound of bells, coarse jokes to be thrown after them instead of pretty confetti, even the sacred words of the priest at the altar echoed by derisive words of rabble in the porch! Enid would never forgive her--were she ever to forgive herself. In the broad light of day, in the cold light of logic, she saw that it was impossible. Her emotions might be roused, unsuspected sexual instincts might be partially awakened, beneath the matronly time-worn outer case a virginal mechanism might be stirring; but the whole intellectual side of her nature was strong enough to reinforce the special functions of her will. Too late to snatch at lost joys! Reason rejected the impossibility. She was too old. The chance had gone years ago. The young man, even if she could believe that he loved her now--much as a romantic subject might fancy that he loved his queen,--would soon grow weary. Familiarity would rob her of all queenly attributes; at the best nothing would be left except disappointment, and at the worst disgust. And then she would suffer intolerable torment. She saw it quite clearly--the martyrdom of a middle-aged wife who cannot retain her young husband's love. None of that. She rose after the sleepless night with her decision fortified. VIII But the fortifying of the decision had cost her much, and the after-effects of nerve-strain were easily to be perceived. She was rather terrible in the shop, and all noticed a sudden and mysterious change. Of a morning she used to appear with dark circles round her eyes; her greetings, or acknowledgments of greetings, were less cordial; she moved more slowly; and in her stern glance it seemed that there was the certainty of finding something amiss, instead of the hope of seeing nothing wrong. Rather terrible--easily irritated, impatient of argument, quick to resent advice: as the young ladies put it, ready to snap your head off at any minute. A whisper, somehow passing out of house to shop, said she was suffering from continued sleeplessness; and the loyal staff were eager to make allowances. But they wondered how long the change would last; they hoped that she would soon get a comfortable night, and wake up again as their kind and considerate mistress. In fact, many little things that once would not have worried her now jarred upon tired nerves. She felt worried by Bence's, by her husband's stupid relations, by Mr. Mears; and by Mr. Prentice, the solicitor, who took the liberties permitted to an old friend. He and all other old friends worried her. She was altogether unable to laugh as of old at the impudence of Bence. She frowned and stamped her foot when, looking across the road, she first read the placard on the shuttered frontage of the ancient sadler and the bookseller. It was not in small print: you could read it from Thompson's without a telescope. "These Premises," said the poster, "will shortly be opened as the new Furniture department of Bence Brothers, and a long-felt want will be supplied by an extensive stock of high-class goods at reasonable prices." And this, if you please, immediately facing the two windows that from immemorial time had exhibited Thompson's solid oak chairs and polished walnut tables! The gross, large-typed piece of impertinence annoyed her excessively. She had always been extraordinarily good to old Thompson's relatives, who were common and troublesome. They all hung on to her, called her Cousin Jenny, boasted about their prosperous connection by marriage; they received benefits with scant thanks, grumbled when they fancied themselves neglected; and they were all extremely jealous and watchful of one another. Yet till now they had never exhausted her patience and magnanimity. One of them, John Edward Thompson, a grocer in a small way of business at Haggart's Cross, had often drawn heavily upon her for financial aid. He was a short, squat, bearded man; and he used to come into the shop unexpectedly, and meander about it aimlessly, to the trouble and confusion of the shop-walkers. "What department, sir?" He did not answer. "What can I have the pleasure of showing you, sir?" "Don't mind me, young man. Go on with your work. I'm just looking round to find my cousin." "May I be of assistance, sir? If you will be good enough to tell me your cousin's name?" "My cousin's name," said John Edward shortly, "is _Mrs. Thompson_.... There. Put that in your pipe and smoke it." It nearly always happened that he found Mrs. Thompson with her back turned towards him. Then he would put two somewhat grubby hands on her shoulders, with cousinly playfulness pull her round the right way, and publicly kiss her. This was an act of affection, and a triumphant assertion of the relationship--something more for those foppish shopwalkers to put in their pipes and smoke. "Cousin Jenny, how goes it?" Then, after the kiss, he would look at her reproachfully, and begin to grumble. "Cousin Jenny, you drove through Haggart's Cross last Thursday in your carriage and pair. _I_ saw you. But you didn't see _me_. No, you didn't think of stopping the horses for half a minute, and passing the time of day to your cousin." Mrs. Thompson used smilingly to lead him into the counting-house, give him kind words, give him good money. He took the money grumblingly, as if it was the least that could be offered as atonement for the neglectfulness of last Thursday; but he went home very happy. He had done all this scores of times, and Mrs. Thompson had borne it all with unflinching generosity. But now, on a broiling July day, he did it once too often. He got as far as the public salute, and no further. She was upstairs, standing near a desk, with her back towards China and Glass. He came behind her, playfully laid hold of her, kissed her. She gave a cry, turned upon him in a white fury, and, seeing who he was, snapped his head off. That day he did not go home happy. Other cousins were old Mrs. Price and her two daughters, who would all three have been in the workhouse but for Mrs. Thompson. Thanks to her, they were living comfortably at Riverdale, with a pleasant rent-free cottage, garden, and orchard. The Miss Prices made jam and brought it as a present to Mrs. Thompson, keeping up a baseless tradition that she loved their preserve--and taking immense gifts in exchange for it. They visited their cousin twice in July, first to say they would soon make the jam, secondly to bring the jam; and each time they spent a long day at Mallingbridge, coming in and out of house and shop, cackling and giggling, and almost driving Mrs. Thompson mad. Then there was Gordon Thompson, a farmer at Linkfield, who sometimes came into town on market day, and ate his mid-day meal with his rich cousin in St. Saviour's Court. He used to open the house door without ringing the bell, and whistle a few notes as a familiar signal. "Cousin Jen-ny! Cousin Jen-ny." He would shout this with an ascending intonation, and then come clambering up the steep staircase. "Any dinner to-day for a poor relation?... Ah, my dear, you're not the sort to turn a hungry man away from your table. Garr--but I can tell you I'm sharp set." He was a hale and hearty-looking fellow, full of noisy jests, with a great affectation of joviality; but in his twinkling eyes and about his pursed lips there was the peasant's wariness, astuteness, and greed. Truly he took all he could get from everybody, including his fortunate cousin. Enid said his hob-nailed boots were dirty as well as ugly, malodorous too; and she always fled at his approach, and did not reappear while Mrs. Thompson feasted him and made much of him. Now, when Mrs. Thompson heard the well-known whistle in the hall, she followed her daughter's example; forsaking the luncheon-dishes, she fled back to the shop through the door of communication, and left Yates to entertain hungry Gordon. Enid was at home, but she failed as a soothing and calming influence. If her mother turned to her, endeavoured to lean upon her for support in an unexpected need, she found a blank void, a totally inadequate buttress. Enid was self-absorbed, busy with her own little affairs, taking lessons from the new riding-master at Young's school, spending long hours away from the house. She seemed like a person who really has no intuitive sympathy to offer: a person locking up her life against intruders, keeping close guard over secret emotions, and neither willing to share her own hopes and fears nor to comprehend those of others. Perhaps Enid's coldness--so often felt, but never till now admitted in the mother's thoughts--added to the hidden trouble of Mrs. Thompson. She entered the China department as rarely as possible, and her intercourse with its head was of the most formal and distant character. The conduct of Mr. Marsden was irreproachable: he was composed, polite, respectful; and he never came down behind the glass. But he used his eyes--a mute yet deadly attack, whenever she encountered them. She dreaded the attack, braced herself for it when it could no longer be avoided; and these meetings, however brief, had painful consequences. They enervated her, sapped her energy, and left her with an incredible sense of fatigue, so that after each of them she walked downstairs to her room heavily and wearily, sat at the big desk breathing fast and trembling, feeling for a little while quite unable to work--almost as if she had been worn out by another physical tussle, instead of by a mere exchange of glances. She was sitting thus, breathless and perturbed, when Mr. Mears came bothering. Earlier in the day she had admonished the second in command very sharply, and it appeared that he could not bear her momentary censure. He said she had snapped at him as she had never, never snapped. The vast ponderous man was completely overcome; his voice shook, his hands shook, and tears trickled down his cheeks while he solemnly tendered his resignation. "Resign? What nonsense are you talking, Mr. Mears?" But Mears said it was not nonsense: he meant every word of it. Rather than suffer here, he would go out and brave the world in his old age. "Sit down, Mr. Mears--and don't be so foolish." "I don't recognise you these last weeks," said Mears sadly; and he told her of how intensely he had always venerated her. "Everything you did was right--It is almost a religion with me. And now I couldn't bear it--it would break my heart if I was to be pushed aside." "You won't be pushed aside. No fear of that." "Or if there was to be any great changes in the shop." "There will be no great changes in the shop." "Nor in your private life?" Then Mrs. Thompson snapped again. "What do you mean by that? What is my private life to you--or anybody else? What are you insinuating?... Answer me. What do you mean?" He would not, or he could not say. Perhaps he really did not know what he meant; or some subtle instinct, telling him that a great peril to his peace and comfort was drawing nearer and nearer, had enabled him to pierce the mystery and had prompted the words of the offending question. He sat gasping and gaping while she stormed at him. "Understand once for all that I won't be watched and spied upon." "I am no spy," he said huskily; "except when you've made me one." The door was closed, but her angry voice rang out above the glass partitions. All through the offices it was known that the manager had put Mrs. T. into tantrums. Suddenly the storm blew itself out. Mrs. Thompson paced the room; then stopped near the empty fireplace, with her hands clasped behind her back. Her attitude was altogether manlike. It was the big man, sitting huddled on the chair, wiping his cheeks, and blowing his nose, who displayed signs of womanish emotion. "Mr. Mears, don't let's have any more of it. You and I must never quarrel. It would be too absurd. We are _friends_--we are _comrades_;" and she went over to the chair, and shook hands with her comrade. "That's right. You and I _know_ each other; you and I can _trust_ each other." Then she again walked up and down the room, speaking as she moved. "To show how absolutely I trust you, I'll say to you what I wouldn't say to anyone--no, not to my daughter. I am sorry if I have seemed fretful of late. But the reason is this. I have been passing through a mental struggle--a struggle that has tried me sorely." In her tone and the whole aspect of her face as she made this confession, there was something far above the narrow realm of sex, something that man or woman might be proud to show--a generous candour, a fearless truth, a noble simplicity. "A hard struggle, Mr. Mears--and I'm a little shaken, but quite victorious.... Now this is between ourselves--and it must go no further." "It never shall," said Mr. Mears earnestly. "And not a word either about our tiff, or your unkind threat to resign." "No--er, no. I shan't say another word about that." But unfortunately Mr. Mears had already said a word or two about it to Mr. Prentice the solicitor; and very soon Mr. Prentice came, tactlessly blundering, to see Mrs. Thompson. No one could admire her more than Mr. Prentice--truly his admiration was so obviously genuine that people sometimes wondered what Mrs. Prentice thought about it. Staunch friendship, skilled service, as well as the admiration, had won him many privileges; but he overstepped their limits now. "I say. Is it all serene between you and Mears? Let me advise you--don't allow the breach to widen. I should consider it a great pity if you were to part with your right-hand man because of any trifling difference of--" Mrs. Thompson cut him short. "Mr. Prentice, there is one thing I cannot permit--even from you." She was dignified, but terrible. "I cannot, and I will not permit interference in what is my business, and my business only." "Sorry--very sorry.... No idea I should put you out like this." Mr. Prentice, with muttered apologies, hurried away, looking scared and abashed, carrying his square bowler all through the shop into the street, as if in his confusion he had forgotten that it belonged to his head. IX Shortly after this unlucky visit Mr. Prentice wanted to tell Mrs. Thompson some startling news, but he did not dare. He consulted Mr. Mears, and asked him to tell her; but Mears did not dare either. Mears advised the solicitor to take Yates into his confidence, and let Yates tell her. So then at last Mrs. Thompson heard what so many people knew already--that Enid was carrying on with a young man in a very unbecoming fashion. Scandalized townsfolk had seen Enid at the school with him, in the museum with him, in the train with him;--they had met her at considerable distances from Mallingbridge, dressed for riding, with this groomlike attendant, but without a horse. The news shocked and distressed Mrs. Thompson--during her first surprise and pain, it seemed to her as cruel as if Enid had driven a sharp knife into her heart. But was the thing true? Yates thought it was all true--none of it exaggerated. Mrs. Thompson made a few discreet inquiries, ascertained the correctness of the facts, and then tackled Enid. "Mother dear," said Enid, with self-possession but slightly ruffled, "no one could help liking Charles. I'm sure you'll like him when you see him." "Why haven't I seen him? Why have you left me to learn his name from the lips of servants and busybodies? Oh, Enid," said Mrs. Thompson indignantly, yet very sadly, "didn't you ever think how deeply this would wound me?" "But, mother dear, you must have known that it would happen some day--that sooner or later I should fall in love." "Yes, but I never guessed that, when the time came, or you fancied it had come, you would keep me in the dark--treat me as if I was a stranger, and not your best friend." "Charlie didn't wish me to tell you about it just yet." "And why not?" "He said we were both old enough to know our own minds, and we ought to be quite sure that we really and truly suited each other before we talked about it. But we are both sure now." "I think he has behaved very badly--almost wickedly." "How can you say that, mother?" "I say it emphatically. He is a man of the world--and he had no right to allow you to act so foolishly." But Enid appeared not to understand her mother's meaning. She could not measure the enormity of her conduct when indulging in those train-journeys and museum-wanderings. She admitted everything; she was ashamed of nothing. "Surely," said Mrs. Thompson, "you could see that a girl of your age cannot do such things without malicious people saying unkind things?" "When one is in love, one cannot trouble to think what malicious people will say." In fact Enid seemed to believe that she and Mr. Kenion had created a small universe of their own, into which no one else had a right to push themselves. "Mother dear," and for the first time she spoke pleadingly and anxiously. "Please--please don't try to come between us. I could never give him up." It was a turn of the knife with which she had stabbed her mother. The words of the appeal would have been appropriate in addressing a harsh and obdurate guardian, instead of an adoring parent. "If," said Mrs. Thompson sadly, "he is worthy of you, I shall be the last person in the world who will ask you to give him up." Enid seemed delighted. "Mother dear, he is more than worthy." "We shall see.... But it all hangs on that _if_--a big _if_, I am much afraid.... You must pull yourself together, Enid, and be a good and brave girl--and you must prepare yourself for disappointment. So far, I do not receive satisfactory reports of him." "No one on earth ought to be believed if they bring you tales against him." And then little by little Enid told her mother of Mr. Kenion's many charms and virtues, and of how and why he had won her love so easily. He came to dinner at the Salters, and he wore a red coat. She had never seen him till she saw him dining in pink, with brass buttons and white silk facings. He was a magnificent horseman--rode two winners at Cambridge undergraduate races;--had since ridden several seconds in point-to-points;--even Mr. Bedford, Young's new riding-master, confessed that he had a perfect seat on a horse. And he belonged to one of the oldest families in England. Although old Mr. Kenion was only a clergyman, he had a cousin who was an English marquis, and another cousin who was an Irish viscount--if six people had died, and a dozen people hadn't legally married, or hadn't been blessed with children, Charles himself would have been a lord. Even if Mrs. Thompson had heard nothing to his disadvantage, the plain facts of the case would have convinced her that he was a bad lot. As a woman of business, she had little doubt that she was called upon to deal with a worthless unprincipled adventurer. His game had been to force her hand--by compromising the girl, insure the mother's consent to an engagement. If not interrupted in his plan, he would bring matters to a point where the choice lay between an imprudent marriage and the loss of reputation. When Mrs. Thompson thought of her cowardly adversary, anger made the blood beat at her temples. If she had been a father instead of a mother, she would have bought one of the implements of the chase to which he was so much addicted, and have given Mr. Kenion a wholesome horse-whipping. But when she thought of Enid all her pride smarted, and anger changed to dolorous regret. It was indescribably mortifying to think that Enid, the carefully brought up young lady, the highly finished pupil of sedate private governesses and a majestically fashionable school, should forget the ordinary rules of delicacy, modesty, propriety, and exhibit less reticence in her actions than might be expected from one of Bence's drapery girls. Enid had been pointed at, laughed at, talked about. It was horrible to Mrs. Thompson. It struck directly at her own sense of dignity and importance. In cheapening herself, Enid had lowered the value of everybody connected with her. Enid, slinking out of the house, furtively hurrying to her lover, clandestinely meeting him, and lingering at his side in unseemly obliviousness of the passing hours, had been not only jeopardising her own good fame, but robbing her mother of public esteem. Yet far worse than the wound to her pride was the bitter blow to her affection. Half her life had been spent in proving that her greatest wish, her single aim was her child's happiness; but all the years counted for nothing. Trust and confidence extinguished; no natural impulse to pour out the heart's secrets to a mother's ear--"Charlie didn't wish me to tell you." Enid said this as if it formed a completely adequate explanation: she must of course implicitly obey the strange voice. The mother who worshipped her had sunk immediately to less than nothing. A man in a red coat, a man in gaiters, the first man who whistled to her--and Enid had gone freely and willingly to exchange the dull old love for the bright new one. There lay the stinging pain of it. What to do? One must do something. Mrs. Thompson took up the business side of it, and determined as a first step to tackle the young man. Purchased horsewhips impossible; but carefully chosen words may produce some effect. She told Enid--after several conversations on the disastrous subject--that she desired an interview with Mr. Charles Kenion. Enid might write, inviting him to call upon her mother, or Mrs. Thompson would herself write. Enid said she would write to him without delay; but she begged that he might be received at the house, and not be asked to enter the shop. She seemed to dread the idea of bringing so fine a gentleman into close touch with the common aspects of mercantile existence. "No," said Mrs. Thompson firmly. "Let him come to me in my shop. It is purely a business interview, and I prefer to hold it in a place of business." It was a most unsatisfactory interview. Mrs. Thompson hated the young man at the very first glimpse of him as he came lounging into her room. He was tall and skinny; his dark, straight hair was plastered back from a low forehead; he had no moustache; and his teeth, which showed too much in a narrow mouth, were ugly, set at a slightly projecting angle, as with parrots. No reasonable being could call him handsome; but of course his general air and manner were gentlemanlike--Mrs. Thompson admitted so much at once, and disliked him all the more for it. Gentlemanlikeness was his sole stock in trade: he would push that for all it was worth, and she was immediately conscious that in his easy tone and careless lounging attitude there was a quiet, steady assumption of his social value as the well-bred young gentleman whose father is related to the peerage. "Please be seated, Mr. Kenion." "Thanks." She had ignored his obvious intention of shaking hands, and he was not apparently in the least disconcerted by her refusal of the friendly overture. "I feel sure, Mr. Kenion, that if we have a good talk, you and I will be able to understand each other." "Er--yes, I hope so." "I think it is important that you and I _should_ understand each other as soon as possible." "Thanks awfully. I'm sure it's very good of you to let me come. I know how busy you are." He was looking at various objects in the room, and a slow smile flickered about his small mouth. He looked especially at some files on the desk, and at the massive door of one of the big safes standing ajar and displaying iron shelves. He looked at these things with childish interest; and Mrs. Thompson felt annoyance from the thought that the smile was intended to convey the inference of his never having seen such things before, and of his being rather amused by them. But she permitted no indication of her thoughts to escape her. The governing powers of her mind were concentrated on the business in hand; her face was a solid mask, expressing quiet strength, firm resolution, worldly shrewdness, and it never changed except in colour, now getting a little redder, now a little paler; she sat squarely, so that her revolving chair did not turn an inch to one side or the other; and throughout the interview she seemed and was redoubtable. "My daughter tells me that you have proposed to her." "Yes--I may as well say at once that I'm awfully in love.... And Enid has been good enough to--er--reciprocate. I'm sure I don't know what I've done to deserve such luck." "Nor do I as yet, Mr. Kenion." "Exactly. Of course Enid is a stunner." "But it was about you, and not my daughter, that I wished to talk. Perhaps it will save time if I ask you a few questions. That is usual on these occasions, is it not?" "Well, as to that, I can't say," and he laughed stupidly. "This is the first time I've been bowled over." "As a question to begin with--what about your prospects, in whatever career you have planned?" "My plans, don't you know, would depend more or less on Enid." "But you can give me some account of your position in the world--and so forth." "Oh, well, that's pretty well known--such as it is. Not brilliant, don't you know.... But I relied on Enid to tell you all that." "No, please don't rely on her. Only rely on yourself, Mr. Kenion." Something of the quiet swagger had evaporated. The sunshine came streaming down from a skylight and fell upon him. Mrs. Thompson had put him where he would get all the light, and she scrutinized him attentively. His suit of grey flannels, although not of sporting cut or material, suggested nothing but a stable and horses; and beneath his casual air of gentlemanly ease there was raffishness, looseness, disreputability. In the bright sunbeams he looked sallow and bilious; his eyelids drooped, an incipient yawn was lazily suppressed; and she thought that very likely he had been drinking last night and would soon be drinking again this morning. Mentally she compared him with another young man. In her mind she carried now at all times the vividly detailed picture of a masculine type; and it was impossible not to use it as a standard or measure. Mr. Kenion seemed very weak and mean and valueless, when set beside her standard. "What is your profession, Mr. Kenion?" He had no profession: as she well knew, he was what is called a gentleman at large. With vague terms he conveyed the information to her again. "Really? Not a professional man? Are you a man of property--landed estates, and so on?" No, Mr. Kenion was acreless. "But you are expecting property at your father's death? Is it entailed upon you? I mean, are you sure of the succession?" Mr. Kenion smilingly confessed that his father's death would not bring him land. "But you are assured that he can supply you with ample means during his lifetime?" Oh, no. Mr. Kenion explained that the vicar of Chapel-Norton was in no sense a capitalist. "My governor couldn't do anything more for me--and I shouldn't care to ask him. He has done a good deal for me already--it wouldn't be fair to my brothers and sisters to ask him to stump up again;" and he went on to hint plainly that in his opinion the fact of his being a gentleman--a real gentleman--should counterbalance such a trifle as the deficiency of material resources. Mrs. Thompson refused to comprehend the hint. "Surely, Mr. Kenion, if a young man proposes to a young lady--and asks her to engage herself to him without her mother's knowledge, that should imply that he is prepared to take over all responsibilities?" She had not uttered a single reproach, or even by innuendo upbraided him for the improper course that he had pursued when persuading Enid to defy the laws of chaperonage and go about with him alone. Her pride would not permit her to make the slightest allusion to the girl's folly. Besides, that would be to play his game for him. By her silence she intended to show him that he had not scored a point. "Don't you admit as much as that, Mr. Kenion? If I were to countenance the suggested engagement, how do you propose to maintain such a wife suitably--in the manner in which she has been brought up?" "Well, of course I couldn't promise to open a shop for her;" and he laughed with fatuous good-humour, as if what he had said was rather funny, and not an impertinence. "There are worse things in the world than shops, Mr. Kenion." "Exactly;" and he laughed again. "As to ways and means--of course I haven't made any inquiries of any sort. But Enid gave me to understand--or I gathered, don't you know, that money was no object." "Indeed it is an object," said Mrs. Thompson warmly. "I might almost say it has been the object of my life. I know how difficult it is to earn, and how easy to waste.... But I doubt if anything can be gained by further discussion. Your answers to my questions have left me no alternative. I must altogether refuse my sanction to an engagement." "You won't consent to it?" "No, Mr. Kenion, the man who marries my daughter with my consent must first prove to me that he is worthy of her." "But of course as to that--well, Enid tells me she is over twenty-one." "Oh, yes. I see what you mean. A man might marry her without my consent. But then he would get her--and not one penny with her.... That, Mr. Kenion, is quite final." He seemed staggered by the downright weight of this final statement. "Of course," he said, rather feebly, "we are desperately in love with one another." Contempt flashed from her eyes as she asked him still another question or two. "What did you expect--that I should welcome your proposal and thank you for it?" "Well, Enid and I had made up our minds that you wouldn't thwart her wishes." "But, Mr. Kenion, even if I had agreed and made everything easy and pleasant for you, surely you would not be content to live as a pensioner for the rest of your days?" She was thinking of what Dick Marsden had said to her in the dusk by the river. "I could not pose as the pensioner of a rich wife." It seemed to her a natural and yet a noble sentiment; and she contrasted the proper manly frame of mind that found expression in such an utterance with the mean-spirited readiness to depend on others that Mr. Kenion confessed so shamelessly. Marsden was perhaps not a gentleman in the snobbish, conventional sense, but how much more a man than this Kenion! "Don't you know," he was saying feebly; and, as he said it, he stifled another yawn; "I should certainly try to do something myself." "What?" "Well, perhaps a little farming. I think I could help to keep the pot on the boil by making and selling hunters--and a good deal can be done with poultry, if you set to work in the right way.... Enid seemed to like the notion of living in the country." Mrs. Thompson turned the revolving chair round a few inches towards the desk, and politely told Mr. Kenion that she need not detain him any further. He had come in loungingly, and he went out loungingly; but he was limper after the interview than before it. He probably felt that the stuffing had been more or less knocked out of him; for he presently turned into a saloon bar, and sought to brace himself again with strong stimulants. No doubt he complained bitterly enough to Enid of the severely chilling reception that he had met with in the queer back room behind the shop. Anyhow Enid complained with bitterness to her mother. Indeed at this crisis of her life Enid was horrid. Yates begged her to be more considerate, and committed a breach of confidence by telling her of how her unkind tone had twice made the mistress weep; but Enid could attend only to one thing at a time. She wanted her sweetheart, and she thought it very hard that anybody should attempt to deprive her of him. "And it will all be no use, mother--because I never, never can give him up." Thus the days passed miserably; and a sort of stalemate seemed to have occurred. Kenion had not retired, but he was not coming on; and Enid was horrid. In her perplexity and distress Mrs. Thompson went to Mr. Prentice, and asked him for advice and aid. Mr. Prentice, delighted to be restored to favour after his recent disgrace, was jovial and cheering. He pooh-poohed the notion that Enid had in the smallest degree compromised herself; he talked of the wide latitude given to modern girls, of their independence, their capacity to take care of themselves in all circumstances; and stoutly declared his belief that among fashionable people the chaperon had ceased to exist. "Don't you worry about that, my dear. No one is going to think any the worse of her for being seen with a cavalier dangling at her heels." Nevertheless he heartily applauded Mrs. Thompson for her firm tackling of the indigent suitor; he offered to find out everything about Kenion and his family, and promised that he would render staunch aid in sending him "to the right-abouts." When Mrs. Thompson called again Mr. Prentice had collected a formidable dossier, and he read out the damaging details of Mr. Kenion's history with triumphant relish. "Now this is private detective work, not solicitors' work--and I expect a compliment for the quick way I've got the information.... Well then, there's only one word for Mr. Kenion--he's a thorough rotter." And Mr. Prentice began to read his notes. "Our friend," as he called the subject of the memoir, was sent down from Cambridge in dire disgrace. He had attempted an intricately dangerous transaction, with a credit-giving jeweller and three diamond rings at one end of it, and a pawnbroker at the other. The college authorities heard of it--from whom do you suppose? _The police!_ Old Kenion paid the bill, to avoid something worse than the curtailment of the university curriculum. Since then "our friend" had been mixed up with horsedealers of ill repute--riding their horses, taking commissions when he could sell them. "He gambles," said Mr. Prentice with gusto; "he drinks; he womani--I should say, his morals with the other sex are a minus quantity.... And last of all, I can tell you this. I've seen the fellow--got a man to point him out to me; and there's _blackguard_ written all over him." "Then how _can_ respectable people like the Salters entertain him?" "Ah," said Mr. Prentice philosophically, "that's the way we live nowadays. The home is no longer sacred. People don't seem to care who they let into their houses. If a fellow can ride and can show a few decent relations, hunting folk forgive him a good deal. And the Salters very likely hadn't heard--or at any rate didn't _know_ anything against him." At his own suggestion, jumped at by his client, Mr. Prentice returned with Mrs. Thompson to St. Saviour's Court, and told Miss Enid that it would be madness for her any longer to encourage the attentions of such a ne'er-do-well. "If you were my own daughter," said Mr. Prentice solemnly, "I should forbid your ever seeing him again. And I give you my word of honour I believe that before a year has past you'll thank Mrs. Thompson for standing firm now." But Enid was still horrid. She seemed infatuated; she would not credit, she would not listen to, anything of detriment to her sweetheart's character. She spoke almost rudely to her mother; and when Mr. Prentice took it on himself to reprove her, she spoke quite rudely to him. Then she marched out of the room. "I am afraid," said Mr. Prentice, "there'll be a certain amount of wretchedness before you bring her to reason." There was wretchedness in the little house--Enid pining and moping, assuming the airs of a victim; her mother trying to soften the disappointment, arguing, consoling, promising better fish in the sea than as yet had come out of it. Enid refused to go away from Mallingbridge. Mrs. Thompson herself longed for change, and the chance of forgetting all troubles; there was nothing to keep her here now, although her presence would be required in September; but Enid seemed tied by invisible strings to the home she was making so very uncomfortable. She would not go away, and she would not undertake to refrain from seeing or writing to Mr. Kenion. She did give her word that she would not slink out and marry him on the sly. But she could safely promise that, because, under the existing conditions of stalemate, it was very doubtful if Mr. Kenion would abet her in so bold a measure. Probably she was aware that Mr. Kenion's courtship had been successfully checked; and the knowledge made her all the more difficult to deal with. Mr. Kenion was neither retiring, nor coming forward: he was just beating time; and perhaps Enid felt humiliated as well as angry when she observed his stationary position. A pitiful state of affairs--mother and daughter separated in heart and mind; on one side increasing coldness, on the other lessening hope; an estrangement that widened every day. Then at last Enid consented to start with her mother for a rapid tour in Switzerland. Mr. Kenion, it appeared, had crossed the Irish Channel on some kind of horse-business; and so Lucerne and Mallingbridge had become all one to Enid. They stayed in many hotels, visited many new scenes; and Mrs. Thompson, looking at high mountains and broad lakes, was still vainly trying to recover her lost child. Enid was calm again, polite again, even conversational; but between herself and her mother she had made a wall as high as the loftiest mountain and a chasm as wide as the biggest of the lakes. X The books of Thompson's were made up and audited at the end of each summer season, and in accordance with an unbroken custom the proprietress immediately afterwards gave a dinner to the heads of departments. Printed invitations were invariably issued for this small annual banquet; the scene of the entertainment was the private house; and the highly glazed cards, with which Mrs. Thompson requested the honour of the company of Mr. Mears and the others in St. Saviour's Court at 6:45 for 7 o'clock, used to be boastfully shown along the counters by the eight or ten happy gentlemen who had received them. During the course of the dinner--the very best that the Dolphin could send in--Mrs. Thompson would thank her loyal servants, give her views as to where the shop had failed to achieve the highest possible results, and discuss the plan of campaign for the next twelve months. The heads of departments, warmed with the generous food, cheered with the sparkling wine, charmed and almost overwhelmed by Mrs. Thompson's gracious condescension, said the same things every year, made the same suggestions, never by any chance contributed an original idea. But the dinner was doing them good; they would think better and work harder when it was only a memory. At the moment it was sufficient for them to realize that they were here, sitting at the same luxurious table with their venerated employer, revelling in her smiles, seeing her evening robe of splendour instead of the shop black; admiring her bare shoulders and her white gloves, her costly satin and lace, her glittering sequins or shimmering beads; and most of all admiring her herself, the noble presiding spirit of Thompson's. Jolly Mr. Prentice was always present--acting as a deputy-host; and at the end of dinner he always gave the traditional toast. "Gentlemen, raise your glasses with me, and drink to the best man of business in Mallingbridge. That is, to Mrs. Thompson.... Mrs. Thompson.... Mrs. Thompson!" Then little Mr. Ridgway of Silks used to start singing. "'For she's a jolly good fellow'".... "Please, please," said Mrs. Thompson, picking up her fan, and rising. "_Without_ musical honours, please;" and the chorus immediately stopped. "Gentlemen, I thank you;" and she sailed out of the room, always turning at the door for a last word. "Mr. Prentice, the cigars are on the side table. Don't let my guests want for anything." Now once again the night of this annual feast had come round, the champagne corks were popping, the Dolphin waiters were carrying their dainty dishes; and Mrs. Thompson sat at the top of her table, like a kindly queen beaming on her devoted courtiers. Yates, standing idle as a major-domo while the hirelings bustled to and fro, was ravished by the elegant appearance of the queen. Yates had braced her into some new tremendous fashionable stays from Paris, and she thought the effect of slimness was astonishing. Truly Mrs. Thompson had provided herself with a magnificent dress--a Paris model, of grey satin with lace and seed pearls all over the bodice; and her opulent shoulders, almost bursting from the pretty shoulder-straps, gleamed finely and whitely in the lamp-light. Her hair made a grand full coronet, low across the brow; her face seemed unusually pale; and there were dark shadows about her glowing eyes. "Yes, Mr. Mears--as you say, travelling opens the mind. But I fear I have brought home no new information." "What you have brought home," said Mr. Ridgway, gallantly, "is a pleasure to see--and that is, if I may say so"-- The little man had intended to pay a courageously direct compliment, by saying that Mrs. Thompson had never looked so attractive as she did now after the brief Continental tour; but suddenly his courage failed him, nervousness overcame him, and, floundering, he tailed off weakly. "You have, I hope, ma'am, brought home replenished health and renewed vigour." "Thank you, Mr. Ridgway;" and the nervousness seemed to have communicated itself to Mrs. Thompson's voice. "A change of scene is certainly stimulating." "I've always had a great ambition," said Mr. Fentiman of Woollens, "to get a peep at Switzerland before I die." "Then you must arrange to do so," said Mrs. Thompson, with kindly significance. "Some autumn--I'm sure it would be easy to arrange." "I figure it," said Mr. Fentiman sententiously, "as a gigantic panorama--stupefying in its magnitude--and, ah, in all respects unique." "It is very beautiful," said Mrs. Thompson; and she glanced at Enid, who was pensively playing with her breadcrumbs. "The Swiss," said Mr. Mears, "are reputed a thrifty race. Did you, madam, observe signs of economic prosperity among the people?" Mr. Prentice chimed in boisterously from the bottom of the table. "What no one will ever observe among the Swiss people is a pretty girl. Did you see a pretty girl on all your travels, Mrs. Thompson--except the one you took with you?" And Mr. Prentice bowed to Enid, and then laughed loudly and cheerfully. "Is that a fact?" asked Mr. Ridgway. "Are they really so ill-favoured?" "Plainest-headed lot in Europe," shouted Mr. Prentice. "And do you, madam, endorse the verdict?" "Oh, no. Far too sweeping;" and Mrs. Thompson laughed nervously, and attempted to draw her daughter into the conversation. "Enid, Mr. Ridgway is asking if we saw no pretty girls in Switzerland." But Enid was dull. She had volunteered to join the party, but she would not assist the hostess in making it a success. She need not have been here; and it was stupid or unkind of her to come, and yet not try to be pleasant. "Didn't we, mother? I don't remember." All this strained talk about Switzerland was heavy and spiritless. One heard the note of effort all through it. In the old days they would have been chattering freely of the shop and themselves. Mrs. Thompson felt painfully conscious that there was something wrong with the feast. No gaiety. Some influence in the air that proved alternately chilling and nerve-disturbing. She knew that Mr. Prentice felt it, too. He was endeavouring to make things go; and when he wanted things to go, he became noisy. He was growing noisier and noisier. She looked at her guests while Mr. Prentice bellowed in monologue. They were eating and drinking, but somehow failing to enjoy themselves. Big Mr. Mears, sitting beside her, ate enormously. He wore a black bow tie, with a low-cut black waistcoat and his voluminous frock-coat--he would not go nearer to the conventional dress-clothes, not judging the swallow-tail as befitting to his station in life, or his figure. Scrubby little Mr. Ridgway, on her other side, emptied his glass with surprising rapidity. Mr. Fentiman, a tall skinny man, ate almost as much as Mr. Mears. He had cleared his plate and was looking at the ceiling, with his long neck saliently exposed above a turn-down collar, as he dreamed perhaps of next year's holiday and a foreign trip financed by a liberal patroness. Wherever she turned her eyes, she saw the familiar commonplace faces--bald heads glistening, jaws masticating, hands busy with knife and fork; but nowhere could she see any light-hearted jollity or genuine amusement and interest. She looked at the head of China and Glass last of all. On this occasion Mr. Marsden made his initial appearance at her hospitable board. It was, of course, impossible to leave him out of the gathering; but great, very great trouble of mind had been aroused by the necessity to include him. She had feared the meeting under the relaxed conditions of friendly informal intercourse. Perhaps, so far as she was concerned, all the nerve-vibrating element in the atmosphere was caused by his quiet unobtrusive presence. He wore faultless evening-dress, with a piqué shirt, a white waistcoat, and a flower in his button-hole; and, sitting at the other end of the table, near Mr. Prentice, he was very silent--almost as silent as Enid. Not quite, because he spoke easily and naturally when anybody addressed him. And his silence was smiling and gracious. Among the other men he seemed to be a creature from a different world--so firm in his quiet strength, so confident in his own power, so young, so self-possessed, and so extraordinarily, overbearingly handsome. The dinner was more than half over; the Dolphin waiters were carving and serving some savoury game; Mrs. Thompson exerted herself as a watchful and attentive hostess. "Mr. Greig, you mustn't refuse the grouse. It was specially sent from Scotland for us." "Really, madam," said Mr. Greig, the obese chief of Cretonnes etc., "your menoo is that ample I find it difficult not to shirk my duties to it. But still, since you're so kind as to mention it--yes, I thank you." "That's right, Mr. Greig." "Greig, my good friend," said Mr. Prentice, "you'd make a poor show at the Guildhall or the Mansion House, if you can't stay the course without all these protestations and excuses." "I've never dined with the Lord Mayor," said Mr. Greig; "but I cannot believe his lordship offers the most distinguished company a more ample menoo than this." "Enid," said Mrs. Thompson, "do have some grouse." "No, thank you, mother." It was Enid who cast a chill upon everything and everybody; all the cold and depressing influence issued from her. She looked pretty enough in her pink and silver frock, and she ought to have been a charming and welcome addition to the party; but she would not put herself to the trouble of talking and smiling. She made no slightest effort to set these more or less humble folk at their ease. She showed that she was absent-minded, and allowed people to guess that she was also bored. Now Mr. Prentice was rallying her with genial, paternal freedom--and she would not even answer his questions. He turned away, to bellow at Mr. Fentiman; and obviously felt crushed by his failure to make things go. The point had been reached when it was customary to begin their friendly business talk; but to-night it seemed impossible for them to speak comfortably of the shop. The presence of the fashionable outsider tied all their tongues. Old Mears ponderously started the ball; but no one could keep it rolling. "Well, ma'am," said Mr. Mears. "Another year has come and gone. We are in a position to look behind us; and, as usual, before we commence to look ahead of us, any words that fall from your lips will be esteemed a favour." "Hear, hear," said Mr. Ridgway, shyly and feebly. "Really, gentlemen," said Mrs. Thompson, "I don't know that I have any words likely to be of value." "Always valuable--your words," said fat Mr. Greig. "But I take this opportunity," and Mrs. Thompson looked nervously at her daughter--"this opportunity of thanking you for all you have done for me in the past, and of assuring you that I place the fullest confidence in you--in you all--for the future." Enid had thrown a blight over the proceedings. She made them all shy and uneasy. Even Mrs. Thompson herself could not speak of the shop without hesitating and stammering. "So, really," she went on, "that is all I need say, gentlemen. But, as always, I shall be--shall be glad--extremely glad if you will give me your candid views on any subjects--on all subjects.... Have you any suggestions to make, Mr. Mears?" Mr. Mears coughed, and hummed and hawed before replying. "We must adhere to our maxims--and not get slack, no matter how good business may be." "That's it," said Mr. Ridgway. "Keep up the high standard of Thompson's, whatever else we do." "Any suggestions from _you_, Mr. Greig?" "No more," said Mr. Greig, "than the remarks which my confreers have passed. I say the same myself." She asked them each in turn, hurrying through her questions, scarcely waiting to hear the unusually imbecile answers. "Mr. Marsden--have you any suggestions to make?" "None," said Marsden, firmly and unhesitatingly. "Unless, madam, you would authorise me to break the neck of Mr. Archibald Bence." This sally was received with universal applause and laughter. "Bravo," cried Mr. Prentice. "Take me with you, my boy, when you go on that job." "And me, too." "And I must be there--if it's only to pick up the remains." "And to bury 'em decently." "Which is more than Master Bence deserves." They were all laughing heartily and happily, all talking at once, gesticulating, pantomiming. Even old Mears beat upon the table with a fork to express his satisfaction, and his agreement with the general feeling. All the tongues were untied by the seasonable facetiousness of Mr. Marsden. The hostess flashed a grateful glance at him; but he was not looking in her direction. He was courteously listening to Mr. Prentice, who had lowered his voice now that things had begun to go of their own accord. And things continued to go well for the rest of the dinner. The name of Bence had acted like a charm; they all could find something to say about the hated and unworthy rival, and their hitherto frozen tongues now wagged unceasingly. "Did you ever see such wretched little starveling girls as he puts into the bazaar at Christmas?" "It's a disgrace to the town, importing such waifs and strays." "They tell me he gets 'em out of a place in Whitechapel--and they're in charge of a couple of detectives all the time." "Yes, you bet. Two upon ten, or the poor little beggars would prig his gimcracks as fast as he put them out." "I don't vouch for it--but I believe it myself: they had three cases of pocket-picking in an hour. And it was one of his shop-girls who done it." "That's a nice way of doing business! 'Step this way, miss, and look at our twopenny 'a'penny toys'--and pick the customer's pocket as you are serving her." While they talked so cheerily and pleasantly Mrs. Thompson several times glanced down the table at her youngest manager. She need not have dreaded the meeting. He had made it quite easy for her. He had proved that he possessed the instincts of a true gentleman--not a make-believe gentleman; he had displayed consideration, tact, good breeding; and by his ready wit he had come to her aid and dissipated the dullness of her guests. She sat smiling and nodding in the midst of their lively chatter, and looked at Mr. Marsden's strong, clear-cut profile. It seemed to her statuesque, noble, magnificent; and it did not once change into a full face during all the time she watched it. Now the guests had eaten their dessert, and the hired waiters had gone from the room. The moment had come for the toast. "Gentlemen," said Mr. Prentice, "fill your glasses and drink a health. I give you two people rolled into one--that is, the best Man of business in Mallingbridge and Mrs. Thompson.... Mrs. Thompson!" "Now, all together," said Mr. Ridgway; and he began to sing. "'For _she_'s a jolly good fel-low'".... "Please, please," said Mrs. Thompson, getting up from her chair, and stopping the chorus. "No musical honours, _please_.... Gentlemen, I thank you.... And now my daughter and I will leave you to your coffee and cigars." Then she followed Enid to the door, and turned on the threshold. "Mr. Prentice, don't let our guests want for anything.... Yates has put the cigars on the side-table." In the other room Enid walked over to the piano, and, without uttering a word, began to play. "After all," said Mrs. Thompson, with a sigh of relief, "it didn't go off so badly." "No," said Enid, looking at her fingers as they slowly struck the notes, "I suppose not." "What is it you are playing?" Mrs. Thompson asked the question abruptly. "Chopin." "Can't you play anything gayer? That's so sad." "Is it?... I don't feel very gay." The plaintive and depressing melody continued, while Mrs. Thompson walked about the room restlessly. Then she came to the side of the piano, and leaned her arm upon the folded lid. "Enid. Stop playing." She spoke eagerly and appealingly; and Enid, looking up, saw that her eyes were wet with tears. "Mother, what's the matter?" "Everything is the matter;" and she stretched out her hand above the ivory keys. "Enid, are you purposely, wilfully unkind to me?... Where has my child gone?... It's wicked, and _stupid_ of you. Because I am trying to save you from a great folly, you give me these cold tones; day after day, you--you treat me as a stranger and an enemy." "Mother, I am sorry. But you must know what I feel about it.... Is it any good going over the ground again?" "Yes, it _is_ good," said Mrs. Thompson impetuously; and she withdrew the hand that had vainly invited another hand to clasp it. "You and I must come to terms. This sort of thing is what I can't stand--what I _won't_ stand." With a vigorous gesture she brushed away her tears, and began to walk about the room again. Enid was looking down her long nose at the key-board; and her whole face expressed the sheep-like but unshakable obstinacy that she had inherited from her stupid father. "Mother," she said slowly, "I told you at the very beginning that I could never give him up." Then Yates brought in the coffee. "Put it down there," said Mrs. Thompson, "and leave us." And Yates, with shrewd and rather scared glances at mother and daughter, went out again. "I don't believe--I _know_ that this man is not worthy of you. I won't tell you how meanly I think of him." "No, please don't speak against him any more. You have done that so often already." "And haven't I the right to state my opinion--and to act on it, too? Am I not your mother? Can I forget that--even if you forget it?" "Mother, I haven't forgotten. I remember all your goodness--up to now." "Mr. Kenion simply wants the money that I could give you, if I pleased." "He only wants us to have just sufficient to live on." "The money is his first aim." "Mother, if that were _true_, nothing would ever make me believe it." "No doubt he is fond of you--in a way.... Enid, I implore you not to harden yourself against me.... Of course he is attracted by you. Who wouldn't be? You are young and charming--with every grace and spell to win men's love. Any man should love you--and other men will.... Be reasonable--be brave. It isn't as if you could possibly feel that this was the last chance--the last offer of love in a woman's life." "Mother, it must always be the last chance--the only chance, when one has set one's heart on it." "Set your heart!" cried Mrs. Thompson, vehemently and passionately. "Your heart? You haven't got a heart--or you couldn't, you couldn't make me so miserably unhappy as you are doing now." "I am very sorry--but I share the unhappiness, don't I? Mother, I, too, am most miserably unhappy." Mrs. Thompson was pacing to and fro rapidly and excitedly; her bosom heaved, and the words were beginning to pour out with explosive force. "He is everything then--the sun, moon, and stars to you; and I am a cipher. The mother who bore you counts for less than any Tom, Dick, or Harry who puts his arms round your waist and pulls your silly face towards him." "Mother!" "Yes, mother! That's my name still--and you use it from habit. Only the fact--the plain meaning of the word is gone." "Mother, they'll hear you in the other room." "But I'm not a woman to be ignored and slighted--and pushed aside. There's nothing of the patient Griselda in my nature. I am what I _am_--all alive still--not done for, and on the shelf. I have subordinated my life to yours--let you rule it how you chose. But you must rule it by kindness--not by cold looks and cutting words. I don't submit to that--I _won't_ submit to it." "Mother dear, I have told you how grateful I am." "And gratitude--as you understand it--is no use to me. I've a _right_--yes, a right to your affection--the natural affection that I've striven to retain, that I've done nothing to forfeit." "No, no. Mother dear, you have my affection." "Then what's it worth? Not much--no, not very much, if the first time I appeal to your sense of duty too, it isn't to be found. I tell you not to be a fool--and you swear I am wrecking your life. I'm the villain of your trumpery little drama--plotting and scheming to frustrate your love and spoil your life. That's too rich--that's too good, altogether too good." The expression of Enid's face had changed from obstinacy to alarm. She watched her mother apprehensively, and stammered some calming phrases. "Mother dear, I'm sorry. Don't, don't get excited--or I'm sure they'll hear us in the other room." "Your life, yes. And what about _my_ life?" The words were pouring out in an unchecked torrent. "Look back at my life and see what it has been. You're twenty-two, aren't you? And I was that age more than twenty-two years ago--and all the twenty-two years I've given you. Something for something--not something for nothing. We traders like fair exchange--but you've put yourself above all that.... No, leave me alone. Don't touch me, since you have ceased to care for me." Enid had come from the piano, and was endeavouring to subdue the emotional explosion by a soothing caress. "Leave me to myself--leave me alone. I'm nothing to you--and you know it." Enid's caress was roughly repulsed; and Mrs. Thompson sat upon the sofa, hid her flushed face upon her arms, and burst into a fit of almost hysterical sobbing. "Mother, mother--don't, please don't;" and Enid sat beside her, patted her shoulder, and begged her quickly to compose herself lest the gentlemen should come and see her in her distress. "It's so cruel," sobbed Mrs. Thompson. "And now--now of all times, I can't bear it.... But I mustn't let myself go like this. I daren't give way like this." Then very soon her broad back ceased to shake; the convulsing gasping sobs were suppressed, and she sat up and dried her eyes. "Enid, have I made a horrible fright of myself?" And she rose from the sofa, and went to look in the glass over the fireplace. The tears had left little trace; the reflection in the glass reassured her. She was comparatively calm when she returned to the sofa and sat down again. "Enid, my dear, I'm ashamed to have been betrayed into such weakness," and she smiled piteously. "But you have tested me too severely of late--since this unlucky affair began. I have thought myself strong enough; but the strongest things have their snapping point--even iron and steel;--and I am only flesh and blood.... You don't understand, but I warn you that I _need_ the sympathy and the kindness which you withhold from me.... Be nice to me--be kind to me." But Enid was crying now. Tears trickled down her narrow face. The strange sight of her mother's violent and explosive distress had quite overcome her. "I do try to do what's right," she whimpered. "Yes, my darling girl," said Mrs. Thompson tenderly. "And so do I. It's all summed up in that. We must do what's right and wise--not just what seems easy and delightful. There. There.... Use my handkerchief;" and in her turn she reminded Enid that the gentlemen would be with them at any minute. "Mother, when you ask me to give him up, it's more than I _can_ do." "But would I ask you if I wasn't certain--as certain as I can be of anything in the world--that you could never be happy with him? You'd be risking a lifetime's regret." "I am ready to take the risk. Don't come between us." "Enid, my dearest--my own Enid, trust me--trust the mother who has never, never thwarted you till now. You know I'm not selfish--not greedy of money. Truly I have only worked for you.... And think--though I hate to say it--of the many--the many, many things I have given up for your sake. It wasn't difficult perhaps--because you were everything on earth to me. But any middle-aged woman who knew my life would tell you that I have made great sacrifices--and all for you." "I know you have, mother. It's dreadful to think of how you have worked, year after year." "Then can't you make this one sacrifice for me?" "If it was anything else;" and Enid sniffed, and another tear or two began to trickle. "If it was anything else, I'd obey you implicitly--and know it was my duty." "Why isn't it your duty now?" "Because this is so different." "Enid, stop. Don't say any more." "But, mother dear, do understand what I mean." "Yes, I understand too well." "I'm not ungrateful. If you called on me to pay back some of my debt, I'd work for you till I dropped. I'd try to make every sort of sacrifice that you have made for me. But when it comes to a woman's love, she _can't_ sacrifice herself." "Then, by God, I'll take you at your word." Mrs. Thompson had sprung up from the sofa; and once more she paced to and fro, a prey to an increasing excitement. "Mother? You'll consent?" "Yes--I consent. A woman can't sacrifice her love! Very good. So be it. That's your law. Then obey it--and, as there's a God in Heaven, I'll obey it, too." The gentlemen, leaving their dinner table, heard the raised voice, and paused in surprise outside the drawing-room door. When they entered the room, Mrs. Thompson, with blazing cheeks and flashing eyes, turned towards them and gazed eagerly through the open doorway. "Mr. Marsden, where are you? Come here." Marsden went to her quickly; and she drew him away to the curtained windows, and spoke in an eager whisper. "Did you mean what you told me by the river?" "Yes." "Do you mean it still?" "Yes." "On your honour as a man, is that true?" "Yes." Then she took his right hand in her two hands, and held it tightly. "Gentlemen--listen to me, please;" and she spoke with feverish resolution. "This is not perhaps an opportune moment for making the announcement--but I want you to know, I want all my friends to know without further delay that Mr. Marsden and I are engaged to be married." Silence like a dead weight seemed to fall upon the room. Enid had uttered a half-stifled exclamation of horror, but blank amazement rendered the guests dumb. Mr. Prentice, who had become apoplectically red, opened and shut his mouth; but no sound issued from it. Mr. Mears, with bowed head and heavily hanging arms, stared at the carpet. Gradually every eye sank, and all were staring downwards--as if unable to support the sight of the couple who stood hand in hand before them. At last Mr. Ridgway tried to say something; and then Mr. Fentiman feebly echoed his words. "You have taken our breath away, madam. But it behoves us to--ah--congratu--to felicitate." "Or to proffer our good wishes." "And our best hopes." But Mrs. Thompson did not look at them or listen to them. Marsden was speaking to her in a low voice. "Yes, yes, yes. Every word. Every word. I meant all I said then--and I mean it a thousand times more now. You are making me the proudest of mortals--but don't forget one thing." "What?" "Why, all I said about the difficulties--the, the inequality of our position, which must somehow be got rid of. But of course you've thought it out." "What do you mean?" She was gazing at him with love and admiration; but an intense anxiety came into her eyes. "Well, I mean exactly what I said then. Nothing can change my mind. But, as I told you, I can't have all the world pointing at me as a penniless adventurer who has caught a rich wife.... But you've planned--you mean to prevent--" His eyes did not meet hers. She dropped his hand, and looked at him now with a passionate, yearning intentness. "Go on--quickly. Say what it is that you mean." "I mean, it is to be a thorough partnership--husband and wife on an equal footing. You mean it, too, don't you? Partners in love and partners in everything else!" "Yes," she said, after a scarcely perceptible hesitation. "I did mean that. You have anticipated what I intended." "My sweetheart and my wife." As he whispered the words, her whole face lit up with triumphant joy. "I knew that you meant it all along. And I'm the happiest proudest man that ever lived.... Now you'd better tell them. Let them know that, too." Again she hesitated. She was in a fever of excitement, with all real thought obliterated by the flood of emotion; and yet perhaps already, though unconsciously to herself, she had attained a complete knowledge of the fatal nature of her mistake. "Do you want me to tell them now--at once?" "Yes," he said gaily. "No time like the present. Let them know how my dear wife and I mean to stand--and then there'll be nothing for anybody to chatter about." "Very well." "That's right;" and he gently drew her round towards her audience. "That's _our_ way--side by side, shoulder to shoulder, you and I, facing the world." "Gentlemen," said Mrs. Thompson firmly, "there's another thing that I must add to what I have said. Mr. Marsden, when he comes into this house as my husband, will come into the business as my partner." Marsden, with his head raised and his shoulders squared, stood boldly smiling at the silent men. XI She was conscious that the whole world had turned against her; in every face she could read her condemnation; when she drove through High Street she felt like a deposed monarch--hats were still removed, but with pitying courtesy instead of with loyal fervour. Constraint and embarrassment sounded in every fresh voice to which she listened. Mr. Prentice, taking her instructions, assumed a ridiculously hollow cheerfulness, as if he had been speaking to somebody who had contracted an incurable disease. The shop staff dared not look at her, and yet could not look away from her with any air of naturalness; up and down the counters male and female assistants, so soon as she appeared, became preposterously busy; and she knew that they avoided meeting her eyes. She knew also that the moment she had passed, their eyes followed her--they were at once frightened and fascinated, as if she had been a person who had confessed to a great crime, who was still at large, but who would be arrested almost immediately. During the first few days of her engagement she suffered under the heavy sense that every friend had abandoned her. In street, shop, or house, she could find no comforter. Even Yates was cruel. "Why do you look so glum?" At last she roundly upbraided Yates. "Don't wait upon me at all, if you can only do it as though you were going to a funeral." Yates, in sorrowful tones said that her glumness was caused by her thoughts. Then Mrs. Thompson piteously prayed for support from the old servant. "Are you going to drive me mad among you--make me commit suicide? Oh, Yates, do stand by me." And Yates wept, and swore that henceforth she would stand by her mistress. "Say you think I'm right in what I'm doing." "I'll say this, ma'am--that no one should be the judge except you of what's right. No one hasn't any qualification to interfere with you in what you please to do." "But, Yates, say you approve of it." "Well then, I do say it." Yates said that she approved; but no one else said so. Enid did not pretend to approve--although she talked very little about her mother's plans. She had obtained the desire of her own heart; she and Mr. Kenion were to be made one as soon as possible; she was buying her trousseau, and Mr. Prentice was drawing the marriage settlement. Both marriages were to be pushed on rapidly. No time like the present, as Marsden joyously declared. "What's the good of waiting, when you have made up your mind?" But Enid was to be cleared out of the way first; and not till Enid had left the little house could her mother throw herself completely into her own dream of bliss. There were some trifling difficulties, some slight delays. Mr. Kenion, as one about to become a member of the family, frankly confessed that he viewed the Marsden alliance with repugnance. He told Mr. Prentice that it altered the whole condition of affairs, that his relatives begged him to stand out for a much more liberal settlement than would previously have appeared to be ample; and he hinted on his own account that if Mrs. Thompson didn't stump up, he would feel justified in withdrawing altogether. Mr. Prentice, however, made short work of this suitor's questionings and threatenings. He did not mention that, on the strong advice of Mr. Marsden, his client had largely cut down the proposed amount; but he said that in his own opinion the settlement was quite ample. "Of course," said Kenion, "what we get now is all we shall ever get. I don't value Enid's further expectations at a brass farthing." "That's as it may be. Possibly you are wise in not building on the future. But my instructions merely concern the present. As to the amount decided on by my client, whether big or little--well, it is to take or leave." Charlie Kenion, lounging deep in one of the solicitor's leather armchairs, said that he would take it. At this period Mr. Prentice also received visits from the other suitor. Marsden called several times, to talk about the terms of his partnership, and to urge the importance of not overdoing it with regard to the provision for Enid. These marriage settlements, he reminded the solicitor, are irrevocable things--what you put into them you can't get out of them. Nothing ever comes back to you. A woman in Mrs. Thompson's position should therefore exercise some caution. She is rich now, but she may not always be so rich; she must not give away more than she can spare; it is folly not to keep a reserve fund. Then, when paying his last call before his departure for London, he slid very naturally from the subject of Enid's settlement to a vague question about a settlement in his own case. Was there any idea of making a permanent provision for him? "Of course there is. You are to be a partner." That of course was understood, but Marsden had some doubt as to whether there were other intentions. "I am only asking," he said pleasantly. "I leave myself entirely in your hands--and I'd like to say that I've the utmost confidence in _you_." "Thank you," said Mr. Prentice drily. "These settlements seem the usual things in marriages--so I thought the rule would apply to my marriage." "In _your_ marriage, Mr. Marsden, there is very little that is usual--but, nevertheless, I think the usual rules should apply." "You do? You think some moderate settlement would be proper." "Very proper indeed--if you have anything to settle. By giving you a half share in her business Mrs. Thompson is treating you with a generosity--a munificence--an unprecedented munificence--" "Oh, I know she is." "And if therefore you on your side can make a settlement--however moderate--in her favour, it will be a graceful and a natural act." Marsden laughed, and shrugged his shoulders. "That's very funny--very neatly put. But I see what you mean. You think I ought not to have made the suggestion." "Oh, no," said Mr. Prentice, obviously meaning, "Oh, yes." "I fancied that she herself might wish it; but I haven't said a word about it to her.... Don't mention it to her.... Good morning." Meanwhile Enid was collecting garments, hats, frills, and feathers. She had been given unlimited scope; prices need not be scrutinized; the best London shops, as well as Thompson's, were open to her; and she went about her business in a commendably business-like fashion. She did not require Mrs. Thompson's advice--she knew exactly what she wanted. When those few trickling tears had been dried and the bombshell-tidings of her mother's engagement had burst upon her with such appalling violence, she hardened and grew cold again. Nothing now would soften her. She calmly announced that Charles had been lucky enough to find just the house they wished for--a farmhouse recently converted into a gentleman's residence, with some land and excellent stabling, eight miles from Mallingbridge, between Haggart's Cross and Chapel-Norton; but she did not invite Mrs. Thompson to inspect the premises, or even to examine the patterns of the new wallpapers. She disgusted Mr. Prentice by her obstinate support of her future husband in his final contention that the life interest given to him under the settlement should be absolute and inalienable. Mr. Prentice naturally desired to protect her from obvious dangers; but, instead of strengthening his hands, she idiotically declared her wish to compliment Kenion by an exhibition of blind confidence. "It must be as Enid wishes," said Mrs. Thompson; and Mr. Prentice was forced to give way. The days were racing by. Mornings had a snap of frost in the air; autumn rains brought the yellow leaves tumbling from the churchyard elms, and autumn winds sent them spinning and eddying over the iron railings into St. Saviour's Court. Very soon now October would be here--and on the first day of October the church bells were to ring for Enid Thompson, spinster, of this parish. Mrs. Thompson heard the banns read; but she could not hear the other banns in which the name of Thompson was again mumbled. Her emotion made the sound of the parson's voice inaudible to her. One afternoon she saw Yates carrying up a large cardboard box to Enid's dressing-room, and the printed label on the box gave her a stab of pain. _Bence Brothers!_ Enid, pressed for time, or now careless of how often she wounded her mother's sensibilities, had gone across the road to buy her ultimate batch of fal-lals. Then one morning--a dull, grey first of October--Enid offered her cheek to her mother's lips. "I hope you'll be very happy, mother." These were her last words. The rooks, startled by the clashing bells, flew up from the tops of the churchyard trees; the misty air vibrated as the organ rolled out its voluminous music; the keen, sharp-edged wind blew the dead leaves down the court and past the house;--and Enid was blown away with them, into her lover's arms and out of her mother's life, as it seemed, forever. The days were swinging in a mad whirl; Mrs. Thompson had entered upon her feverish dream; and nothing outside herself seemed of any consequence to her now--except the man who was to be her husband. He was in London, well supplied with cash for his immediate necessities, and he would not return until he came to lead her to the altar. Several times she ran up to London with Yates, bought trousseau all the morning, and then, casting off Yates, had luncheon with him at some smart restaurant. A first glance told her that he was more splendid than any other man in the building, and then everything about and beyond him became vague and dim and unsubstantial. She could see nothing else. Light and sound mingled; past and present fused, to make a panoramic changing background in front of which he could stand out more solidly and brilliantly. She heard the wheels of the train that had brought her to him, and at the same time she heard the waltz played by this restaurant band; she was surrounded by meaningless figures, from the field of vision and the fog of memory; close to her sat fashionable people at little tables;--but among them and through them moved the people she had seen in the open street, at the dressmaker's, to-day, yesterday, or a year ago. But there was nothing vague or uncertain about him: he was overpoweringly, gloriously distinct. She could see every thread in his lovely new clothes, every hair in his perfumed, carefully brushed moustache, each tiny speck of brown on the liquid amber of his eyes. From those eyes, as she knew so well, he could shoot the darts of flame that lodged a burning distress in one's breast, as easily as he could send forth the gentle caressing beams that made one slowly melt in ecstasy. His glance was always softly caressing now, soothing her, calming her, filling her with joy. She could not eat. She could only look at him while he ate, with hearty youthful vigour, quite enough for two. She drank a glassful out of his bottle of wine, and found an incredible delight in watching him drink the remainder. The waiter put the programme of the day's music by her side; but it did not matter what the band played. Her music--the only significant music--was in her sweetheart's voice. He called her Janey, Little woman, My kind fairy; and each time that he spoke to her thus endearingly she thrilled with rapture. "Well, Janey, what do you think of my new coat? I look all right, don't I? You are not ashamed to be seen with me--eh, little woman?... And how's Mallingbridge? What do they say of me down there?... "Oh, by the way, I haven't thanked my kind fairy for the present she sent me yesterday. It's a dressing-case fit for a king;" and then he laughed gaily. "Janey, take care. You are trying to spoil me." Sometimes for a moment he held her hand under the table-cloth, and pressed it lovingly. When the luncheon was over she was glad to notice that he tipped the waiter liberally. It would have been irksome to her, as a prodigious tipper, to observe any economy--but Marsden gave almost as much as if she herself had taken the money out of the purse. She used to hand him her purse as they went into the restaurant, and he gave it back to her as they came out again. Serving-girls at the fashionable London shops were inclined to smile while they waited upon Mrs. Thompson choosing her nuptial finery. She seemed to them so innocent--appealing to them with simple trustfulness, and begging them to show her not merely pretty things, but the things that gentlemen would think pretty. In truth, all her business faculty had temporarily forsaken her; the strong will, the quick insight, the grit and the grip were gone; the experience of long years had been washed out: she was an inexperienced girl again, with all a girl's tremors, joyous hopes, and nameless fears for the future. Her fingers shook as she smoothed and patted the wonderful underclothes offered by a famous lingerie establishment; and as old Yates, sitting by the side of her mistress, gave a casting vote for this or that daintily laced garment, the lingerie young woman was obliged to turn a slim back in order to conceal her mirth. Perhaps it would have made her cry if she could have understood. But no one could see the poignantly touching truth, that beneath the beaded mantle of this reddish, stoutish, middle-aged customer, a maiden's heart was fondly beating. "You know, Yates, I'm not so stupid as to suppose that I shall always be able to keep him tied to my apron strings." This was in the train, when they were returning to Mallingbridge after an arduous day's shopping. They had the compartment to themselves, and they nearly filled it with their parcels. "Men must be allowed freedom and liberty." "Yes, ma'am, _bachelor_ gentlemen. But I'm not so sure about too much liberty for _married_ gentlemen." "They can't be continually cooped up in their home--however comfortable you make it for them. No, many happy marriages are upset by the wife's silliness--in thinking that a husband is forever to be dancing attendance on her. I shan't commit that error." "No, ma'am. Of course it isn't as if it was your first time." Truly, however, it was her first time. The recollection of the dead husband and the loveless marriage made her wince. "A little tact," she said hurriedly. "A wife--especially in the early days--is called on for a little tact." "Oh, ma'am, you'll manage him all right--with your knowledge of the world." But her knowledge of the world had gone, and she did not wish it back again. Each time that for a brief space she thought logically and clearly, doubt and fear tortured her. In the night fear used to come. Suddenly her rainbow-tinted dream disintegrated, fell into shreds and patches of cloud with wisps of coloured light that gyrated and faded; and then she lay staring at the blank wall of hard facts. This thing was monstrous--no valid hope of permanent happiness in it. And she thought with dreadful clearness that she was either not young enough or not old enough for such a marriage. If she had been ten years older, it would not have mattered--it would be just a legalized companionship--an easier arrangement, but essentially the same thing as though she had adopted him as her son. But now it must be a _real_ marriage--or a most tragic failure. He had made her believe that the realm of passion and love was not closed to her; that he would give her back what the years had taken from her; that she might drink at the fountain of his youth and so renew her own. In the dark cold night when the dream vanished, fear ruled over her. The words of the marriage service--heard so lately--echoed in her ears. Solemnization or sacrament--it is impious, blasphemous to enter God's house and ask for a blessing on the bond, unless the marriage falls within the limits of nature's laws. She remembered what the priest says about the causes for which matrimony was ordained; she remembered what the woman has to say about God's holy ordinance; and best of all she remembered what the man, taught by the priest, says when he slips the ring on the woman's finger. "With my body I thee worship!"... Could it be possible? "Taught by the Priest"--yes, but the man should need no teaching. The words on his lips should be the light rippling murmur above the strong-flowing stream of his secret thoughts, and the stream must be fed by deep springs of perfectly normal love. Nothing less will satisfy, nothing less _can_ satisfy the hungry heart that is surrendering itself to his power. Respect, esteem, steadfast affection--none of that will do. It must be love, or nothing. Yet after each of these troubled nights the day brought back her dream. Yates had promised to stand by her, and she faithfully kept the promise. She gave homely, well-meant advice; occasionally administered a little dose of pain in what was intended for a sedative or stimulant; but was always ready with sympathy, even when she failed to supply consolation and encouragement. Apparently forgetting in the excitement of the hour that she herself was an old spinster, she spoke with extreme confidence of all the mysteries of the marriage state. There was uneasiness about little secrets concerning Mrs. Thompson's toilet; but Yates made light of them. "Oh, nonsense," said Yates. "It isn't as if you were like some of these meretrishis ladies with nothing genuine about 'em. You're all genuine--and not a grey hair on your head." There was nothing very terrible in the secrets. The worst secret perhaps was the diminution in aspect, the shrinking of the coronet of hair, when the sustaining frame had been removed. But Yates, the old spinster, speaking so wisely and confidently, said, "Don't tell me, ma'am. If he's fond of you, a little thing like that isn't going to put him off.... Besides, you must fluff it out big--like I'm doing;" and Yates worked on with brush and comb. "Now look at yourself." And Mrs. Thompson peered at her reflection in the glass. The frame lay on the dressing-table. Still she seemed to have a fine tawny mane of her own, fluffed wide from her brows, and falling in respectably big masses. "Show me, Yates, exactly how you get the effect." And under the watchful tuition of Yates, Mrs. Thompson toiled at her lesson. "Is that right?" "Yes, that's pretty near as well as I can work it out, myself.... Yes, that'll do very nice.... You know, it'll only be at first that you need take so much trouble." "Yates, I shall be nervous and clumsy--I shall forget, and make a mess of it." "Then take me with you," said Yates earnestly. "I can't think why you don't take me along with you." "Oh, I couldn't," said Mrs. Thompson. "I _couldn't_ have anyone with me--least of all, anyone who'd known me before." It had come to be the day before the day of days, and St. Saviour's Court lay wrapped in drab-hued fog, so that from the windows of the house she could not see as far as the churchyard on one side or the street on the other; and all day long, behind the curtain of fog, the chilly autumn rain was falling. Throughout the day she remained indoors, reviewing and arranging her trousseau, watching Yates pack the new trunks and bags, and learning how and where she was to find things when she and some strange hotel chambermaid hastily did the unpacking. Now, late at night, her bedroom was still in confusion--empty cardboard boxes littering the floor, dressing-gowns trailing across the backs of chairs, irrepressible silk skirts bulging from beneath trunk lids. At last Yates finished the task, prepared her mistress for bed, and left her. "Good-night, ma'am--and mind you sleep sound. Don't get thinking about to-morrow, and wearing yourself out instead of taking your rest." Unfortunately Mrs. Thompson was not able to follow this sensible advice. A fire burned cheerfully in the grate, the room was warm and comfortable, and she wandered about aimlessly and musingly--picking up silver brushes and putting them down again, gently pressing the trunk tops, looking at the new initials that had been painted on the glazed leather. Presently she was stooping over one of the smaller trunks, smoothing and patting the folded night-dress that she and Yates had so carefully selected at the famous London shop. Her lips parted in a smile as she looked at its infinitely delicate tucks and frills, and she let her fingers play with the lace and feel the extraordinary lightness and softness of its texture. Then, yielding to a sudden impulse, she pulled out the garment, carried it to the bed, and, hastily stripping, tried it on. To-night Yates had done no fluffing-out of her hair. It was tightly screwed against her head, in the metal curling-clips that were to give it a pretty wave when pulled over the frame to-morrow; but it had a bald aspect now, with its queer little rolled excrescences protruding above the scalp, and two mean pigtails hanging limply behind the ears, and hiding their ends in the lace of the night-dress collar. The electric light was shining full into the cheval glass as she came and stood before it, with the smile of pleasure still on her lips. Then she saw herself in the glass, and began to tremble. Through the diaphanous veil the strong light seemed to show her a grotesque and lamentable figure: heavy fullness instead of shapely slenderness, exaggerated curves, distorted outlines,--the pitiless ravages wrought by time. With a sob of terror, she ran to the door, and again to the dressing-table, switching off the light, desperately seeking the kindly darkness. Her hands were shaking, she felt sick and faint, while she tore the nightgown from her shoulders and kicked it from her on the floor. Then she covered herself with a woollen dressing-gown and crept, sobbing, into bed. The firelight flickered on the ceiling, but no heat was thrown by the yellow flames or the red coals; a deadly chill seemed to have issued from the polished surface of the big glass, striking at her heart, reaching and gripping her bones. She lay shivering and weeping. Outside the windows the cruel autumn rain pattered on the stone flags, the cruel autumn wind sighed and moaned and echoed from the cold brick walls. The year was dying; the fertile joyous months were dead; soon the barren hopeless winter would be here. And she felt that her own life was dead; warmth, colour, beauty, had gone from it; only ugliness, disfigurement, decay, were left. And she wept for her wasted youth, her vanished grace, for all that makes the summer in a woman's life. But next day she woke in sunlight. White clouds raced across a blue sky; the air was warm and genial; and, as she walked up St. Saviour's Court, leaning on the kind arm of Mr. Prentice, she was a girl again. There were many people in the church, but their curious glances did not trouble her. Sunbeams streaming through painted glass made a rainbow radiance on the chancel steps; and here she stood by her lover's side, feeling happy and at ease in the radiant heart of the glorious dream. Sweet music, sacred words--and then the sound of his voice, the pressure of his fingers. Nothing could touch her now--she was safe in the dream, beyond the reach of ridicule, high above the range of pity. Solemnization or sacrament--now at the last it did not matter which; for she had brought to the rites all that priests can demand: pure and unselfish thoughts, guileless faith, and innocent hope. The loud swelling pipes of the organ rolled forth their harmonious thunders, filling the air with waves, making the book on the vestry table throb beneath her hand. She was half laughing, half crying, and a shaft of sunlight danced about her head. "Happy is the bride that the sun shines on," said Mr. Prentice, very, very kindly. "God bless you, my dear." Another day's sun was shining on the bride. This was the third day of the wonderful, miraculously blissful honeymoon; and, with windows wide open and the sweet clean air blowing in upon them, the husband and wife lingered over their breakfast in the private sitting-room of the tremendous and magnificent Brighton hotel. Presently Mr. Marsden got up, stretched himself; and, going to one of the windows, looked down at the sparkling brightness and pleasant gaiety of the King's Road. "Now, little woman, I'm going to smoke my cigar outside.... You can put on your hat, and join me whenever you please." Mrs. Marsden followed him to the window, sat upon the arm of a large velvet chair, and leaned her face against his coat sleeve. "Take care," he said, laughing, "or you'll find yourself on the floor." The chair had in fact shown signs of overturning, and Mrs. Marsden playfully pretended that she could not retain her position, and allowed herself to flop down upon her knees. "Isn't this my right place, Dick--kneeling on the ground at your feet?" Then with a gesture that would have been infinitely graceful in quite a young girl, she took his hand and held it to her lips. "You foolish Janey, get up," and he gave her cheek a friendly tap. "My own boy," she murmured, "why shouldn't I kneel? You have opened the gates of heaven for me." After he had left the room she stood at the window, and watched until he reappeared on the broad pavement below. People were walking, riding, spinning along in motor-cars; gulls hovered above the beach on lazy wings; pebbles, boat gunwales, lamp-posts, every smooth hard surface, flashed in the sunlight; the gentle breeze smelt deliciously fresh and clean;--all was bright and gay and splendid, because so full of pulsing life. But the most splendid thing in sight was her husband. The man out there--that glorious creature, with his hat cocked and his stick twirling as he swaggered across the broad roadway--was her handsome, splendid husband. The sun shone on her face, and the love shone out of it to meet the genial vivifying rays. "My husband;" and she murmured the words aloud. "My own darling boy. My strong, kind, noble husband." It was a real marriage. XII The abnormally bright weather continued in an unbroken spell, and it seemed to her a part of the miracle that had been granted to her prayers--as if nature had suddenly abrogated all laws, and when giving her back love and youth, had given warmth and sunshine to the whole world. One afternoon, as they were sauntering home to the hotel, he asked her if there was not some special name for this snatch of unseasonable autumn brightness. "It's more than we had a right to expect, Janey, so late in the year. Here we are in the first week of November, and I'll swear to-day has been as warm as May or June." "Yes, hasn't it?" "But what do they call it when the weather plays tricks at this time of year? You know--not the Hunter's moon, but some name like that." "Oh, yes, I know what you mean--St. Martin's summer." "That's right--learned old girl! St. Martin's Summer." Then they turned to the shop windows, and considered the window-dressing art as displayed by these Brighton tradesmen. All through their honeymoon the King's Road shops provided a source of unfailing entertainment. "I don't see that they know much," he said patronisingly. "I think I could open their eyes. You wait, old girl, till we get back to Mallingbridge, and I'll astonish you. I'm bubbling over with ideas.... Halloa! That's rather tasty." They were looking into a jeweller's window, and his eye had been caught by a cigarette case. "Now I wonder, Janey, what they'd have the cheek to ask for that." "Let us go in and enquire." "Oh, no. It's not worth while. Why, the gold alone, without the gems, would cost fifteen quid; and if the stones are as good as they look, I daresay this chap would expect a hundred guineas for it." "Well, we might enquire." "No, I mustn't think about it. Come on, old girl, or my mouth will begin to water for it;" and, laughing, he linked his arm in hers, and led her away from this too tempting shop. "Let 'em keep it till they can catch a millionaire." They ordered tea in the great noisy hall of the hotel, which he preferred to the quiet grandeur of the private sitting-room; and she, pretending that she wished to go upstairs, hurried past the lift door, dodged round by a crowd of new arrivals, ran down the steps, and left the building. She was hot and red and breathless when, after twenty minutes, she came bustling into the hall again. The tea-tray stood waiting for them; but he had moved away to another table, and was drinking a whisky and soda with some hotel acquaintances. These were a loud vulgar man and two over-dressed, giggling, free-and-easy daughters. Marsden for a little time did not see his wife: he was laughing and talking vivaciously; and the young women contorted themselves in shrill merriment, ogled and leered, and made chaffing, unbecomingly familiar interjections. "That fellow," said Marsden presently, when he had returned to his wife's table, "is in a very big way of business--and he might be useful to us some day or other. That's why I do the civil to him." "Yes," said Mrs. Marsden. "But where the dickens did you slip away to? Your tea must be cold. Shall I order a fresh pot?" "Oh, no, this is quite right, thank you." She drank a little of her tepid tea; and then, fumblingly, with fingers that were slightly trembling, she brought the little parcel out of her pocket and put it in his hand. "What on earth is this?" "Can't you guess?" "No--I can't imagine--unless"-- He was slowly unfolding the layers of tissue paper; and until the precious metal discovered itself, he did not raise his eyes. "Oh, I _say_! Janey! But you shouldn't have done it--you really shouldn't. It's too bad--altogether too bad of you." "Dick!" "Come upstairs and let me kiss you--or I shall have to kiss you here, with everybody looking at us." Then Mrs. Marsden was well content with her little act of extravagance. The culmination of the glorious weather came on Sunday. In the morning, when she emerged from the dim church where she had been pouring out her fervent gratitude for so much happiness, the glare of the sea-front almost blinded her. All the wide lawns by the sea were densely thronged with people, and amongst the moving crowd she searched in vain for her husband. He had said he would meet her for this church parade. But at the hotel there was a note to explain his absence. "My friends," she read, "insist on carrying me off for a long run in their car. Shall try to be back for dinner. But don't wait." While she was kneeling in the church, thanking God for having given him to her, he was rolling fast away--with that loud man and the two shrill young women. It was late in the afternoon--the close of the brilliant sun-lit day, and the Hove lawns were still crowded. The sky preserved its clear blue, unspoilt by the faint white stains of cloud; the sea sparkled; and the shadows thrown by the green chairs and the iron railings crept imperceptibly across the grass. Behind the railings the long façades of the white houses stretched westward like a perspective-drawing; and down the broad road a motor fizzed past every moment, changed to a black speck, and vanished. The gaiety and life of the hours was lasting bravely. Coloured flags floated above the pier; and from the monstrous protuberance at its far end, the glass and iron castle of the tourist mob, light flashed as though striking mirrors; a band was playing at a distance; and the Worthing steamboat, as it hurriedly approached, made a rhythmic beating on the water. Mrs. Marsden, in possession of a penny chair, sat alone, and watched the crowd that had been walking all day long. She felt absolutely lost in the crowd; and it seemed to her, coming from her quiet country town, that the world could not contain so many people. She watched them with tired eyes. All sorts: fine ladies and gentlemen; visitors and residents--down the scale to mere shopgirls and housemaids; pale men who toiled indoors, bronzed men who lived in the open air; Jews and Jewesses; smiling matrons, sour-visaged spinsters; girls with powdered faces and immense hats--whom she classed as actresses, and judged to be no better than they ought to be,--lounging and simpering beside sawny cavaliers. She watched the various couples--boys and girls, men and women, young and old; and she saw that every couple was of corresponding, _suitable_ age: tottering old men and white-haired wrinkled dames--thinking of their golden weddings; fat paunchy men in the prime of life with gorgeous mature consorts; lithe and athletic men with long-legged, striding, game-playing mates; and so on, like with like, or each the normal complement of the other. It happened that, while she watched with a growing intentness, there passed no Mays and Decembers. An old man and his daughter--or just possibly his wife! But no young man with a middle-aged woman. Not even a son escorting his mother. Age has no claim on youth. Then she saw the roaming solitary men who were seeking love or adventure; saw how they stared at the girls,--stopped and turned,--with their eyes wistfully followed the graceful gracious forms. And no man in all the vast crowd looked at her. Not even the purple-cheeked veterans. None gave her the aldermanic approving glance that might seem to say, "There's a well-preserved woman--not yet quite devoid of charm." Not even a glance of curiosity. It was as if for a penny the chair had rendered her invisible. A cold air came off the sea, and she shivered. Looking round, she saw that the sun had just dipped behind the long white cornice of the stately houses. The wide lawn was in shadow. She felt cold, and shivered several times as she walked home to the noisy hotel. XIII They had been married nearly three months, and each month seemed longer to her than any year of her previous existence. Many changes were visible at the shop. Indeed, from the back wall of the carters' yard to the sign-board over the front doors, nothing was quite as it used to be. The big white board, which told the world that the business "Established 1813" now belonged to Thompson & Marsden, was a makeshift affair; but the new partner had ordered a gigantic and artistic fascia, and this, he said, would be a real ornament to High Street. He promised soon to inaugurate new departments, to introduce improvements in the old ones, to revolutionize old-fashioned time-wasting methods of book-keeping and all other office work; but so far he had only achieved something very like chaos. "Don't fuss," he used to say. "I'll soon get to work; but I can't attend to it for the moment." Thus the little realm behind the glass had been turned upside down and not yet replaced upon its feet again. The rooms were blocked with the opened and unopened packing-cases that contained the materials for Mr. Marsden's clever arrangement--innumerable desks and cabinets, immense index cupboards, racks and sideless stands, by the use of which weapons such antiquated devices as letter-presses, copying-machines, and pigeon-holes would be abolished. Every shred of paper would be filed flat; thousands of letters would lie in the space hitherto occupied by half a dozen; each correspondent would be allotted a file to himself, letter and answer together; and this novel system would deprive clerks of the power of making mistakes; order would reign; confusion would be impossible. But at present, with the two systems inextricably mixed, the new system half started and the old system half discarded, confusion was not only possible but unavoidable. "Let them rub along as they can pro tem. I'll straighten it out for them directly I settle down to it." Just now he could throw himself into the business only by fits and starts, but he assured everybody that it should soon secure his undivided care. "_I'll_ wake 'em up;" and he tapped his forehead and laughed. "There's a reservoir of enterprise here--the ideas simply bubbling over." Then he would bring out his jewelled cigarette-case, light a cigarette, and swagger off to keep some pleasant appointment. He was candidly enjoying the softer side of his new position, and postponing its arduous duties. He both looked and felt very jolly. Except when anyone accidentally made him angry, he was always ready to laugh and joke. He had a small run-about car, and was rapidly learning to drive it while a much bigger car was being built for him. He was renewing old acquaintances and picking up fresh friends. He showed a fine catholic taste for amusement, and handsomely supported the theatre, the music-hall, the race-course. In the good company with which he was now able to surround himself he dashed to and fro all over England, to see the winter sport between the flags. He dressed grandly, drank bravely, spent freely--in a word, he was hastily completing his education as a gentleman. "Must have my fling, old girl"--He was nearly always jolly about it to his wife. "But don't you fear that I'm turning into an idler. Not much. This is my holiday. And no one can say I haven't _earned_ a holiday. Ever since I was fourteen I've been putting my back into it like a good 'un." He was especially genial when luck had been kind to him and he had won a few bets. Returning after a couple of fortunate days at Manchester or Wolverhampton, he jingled the sovereigns in his pockets and chattered gleefully. "Rare fun up there--and little Dick came out on top. Cheer up, Jane. Give a chap a welcome. This doesn't cost one half what you might guess.... Besides, anyhow, I've got to do it--for a bit--not forever.... I'm young--don't forget that. Only one life to live--in this vale of tears." He pleaded his youth, as if it must always prove a sufficient excuse for anything; but she never invited either excuses or apologies. "Well, old girl, I'm leaving you to your own resources again--but, you understand, don't you? Boys will be boys;" and he laughed. "This isn't naughtiness--only what is called the levity of youth. Ta-ta--take care of yourself." He liked to avail himself of a spare day between two race-meetings, and run up to London, make a swift tour of the wholesale houses, and do a little of that easiest and proudest sort of business which is known as "buying for a sound firm." His vanity was flattered by the outward show of respect with which these big London people received him. Managers fawned upon him; even principals begged him to join them at their luncheon table; and he described to his wife something of his satisfaction when he found himself seated with the bosses, at places that he used to enter a few years ago as a poor little devil trotting about the city to match a ribbon or a tape string. He came home one night, when the rain was beating on the window-panes and sending a river down St. Saviour's Court to swell the sea of mud in High Street, and told her he had heard big news while lunching with his silk merchants. She was waiting for him by the dining-room fire, and when he first came in he displayed anger because the cabman had wanted more than his fare. "But he didn't get it. I took his number--and threatened to report him.... It's infernally inconvenient not being able to drive up to your own door--it's like living in a back alley." Then, with an air of rather surly importance, he told her his news about Bence. "They're _afraid_ of him. They gave me the straight tip that he's shaky. Mark my words, _that_ bubble is going to be burst." "But people have said so for so long." And she explained that the story of Bence's approaching destruction was really a very old one. "Year after year Mr. Prentice used to tell me the same thing--that Bence's were financially rotten, and couldn't last." "Prentice is an old ass, and you're quite right not to believe all _he_ tells you. Between you and me and the post, I reckon that Mr. P. wants a precious sharp eye kept on him--I don't trust him an inch farther than I can see him.... But what was I saying? Oh, yes, Bence's. Well, it is not what Prentice says now--it's what _I_ say." Then he asked if there was anything in the house to eat. Yes, the dinner that had been ready for him three hours ago was still being kept hot for him. "I don't want any dinner. I dined in London.... But I think I could do with a snack of supper." He went over to the sideboard, unlocked a lower division of it with his private key, and drew forth a half-bottle of champagne. "If you'll help me, I'll make it a whole bottle." "No, thank you." Before re-locking the cupboard, he peered into it suspiciously. "I don't think my wine is any too safe in this cellaret. How do I know how many keys there aren't knocking about the house? I may be wrong, but I thought I counted three more bottles than what's left." Then he rang the bell, and at the same time called loudly for the parlourmaid. "Mary! Mary! Why the devil doesn't she come in and ask if anything's wanted?" He left the room, grumbling and fuming. Mrs. Marsden heard his voice outside, and the voice of Yates timidly apologising. Mary the parlourmaid had a very bad cold, and Yates had ventured to allow her to go to bed. "Thank you for nothing.... Where's the cook? Cook--wake up, please;" and he went into the kitchen. The servants feared him. They stammered and became stupid when he spoke to them crossly, but never failed to smile sycophantically when he expressed pleasure. All that he required on this occasion from Cook was plenty of hot toast and cayenne pepper. But he sent Yates to buy some smoked salmon or herring at the restaurant in High Street. "And sharp's the word.... What are you waiting for?" "Oh, I don't mind going, sir--but I shall get wet to the skin." "Take my umbreller," said the cook. Yates went down the steep stairs, and the master looked in at the dining-room door. "That woman is like some old cat--afraid of a drop of rain on her mangy old fur." Then Mrs. Marsden heard his footsteps overhead in the dressing-room. When he reappeared he had taken off his tie and collar, and was wearing a crimson velvet smoking jacket. The toast sandwiches were promptly placed before him, and he sat eating and drinking,--not really hungry, but avidly gulping the wine; and rapidly becoming jolly again. "What was I talking about?" "Bence's." "Oh, yes. I tell you, he has just about got to the end of his tether. All the best people funk having him on their books.... I give him two years from to-day." "I wonder." "Mind you, he has fairly smacked us in the eye with his furniture." And it was unfortunately but too true that there had of late been an ugly drop in the sales of Thompson's solid, well-made chairs and tables. "But," continued Marsden, "we aren't going to take it lying down any longer. He has got a _man_ to reckon with henceforth. He'll learn what tit-for-tat means.... It was too late to attempt anything last Christmas. But let him wait till next December. Then it shall be, A very happy Christmas to you, Mr. Bence." "What do you propose for Christmas?" "You wait, too." "Yes, but, Dick, you won't begin launching out without consulting me--allowing some weight to my opinion?" "No, of course I shan't. We're partners, aren't we? I know what a partnership is. But you won't need persuading. You'll jump at my ideas when you hear them." "Why not let me hear them now? I could be thinking over them--I like to brood upon plans." "Well, something is going to happen in our basement next Christmas, which will be tidings of peace and great joy to everybody but Bence;" and he laughed with riotous amusement. "Get me my pipe, old woman. I can't go into business matters now. You wait, and trust your Dickybird." She brought him his pipe and tobacco; and he explained to her that he fancied a pipe because he had been smoking cigars ever since the morning, and the tip of his tongue felt sore. He puffed at the pipe in silence, and luxuriously stretched his slippered feet towards the warmth of the fire. "You best go to by-by, Jane. I'm too tired to talk. I've had a heavy day--one way and another; and a longish journey before me to-morrow.... Good-night. Tell 'em I must be called at eight-thirty sharp." This was a typical evening. There were many evenings like it. Frequently two or three days passed without her once entering the shop. Sometimes she could not brace herself sufficiently to go down and face the staff. They all saw her subjection to her husband; and although they endeavoured not to betray their thoughts, it was obvious that to almost all of them she appeared as the once absolute princess who had, in abdicating, sunk to a state of ignominious dependence. She walked among them with downcast eyes; for too often she had surprised their glances of pity. But she saw that in the street also--pity or contempt. One or other each citizen's face seemed to show her plainly. She knew exactly what shop and town said and thought of her new partner. At dusk on these winter afternoons, when she had not lately used the door of communication, Miss Woolfrey or Mr. Mears would come through it and inform her of the day's affairs. Miss Woolfrey's reports consisted merely of vapid and irresponsible gossip, but Mrs. Marsden seemed to have discovered fresh merits in this sandy, freckled, commonplace chatter-box--perhaps for no other reason than because she belonged so entirely to the old régime and was intellectually incapable of absorbing unfamiliar ideas. But it was Mears who supplied any real instruction, and it was with him that Mrs. Marsden talked seriously. One afternoon when he was about to leave her, she detained him. "Mr. Mears--I've something to ask you." "Yes, ma'am." She had laid her hand upon his great fore-arm; she was gazing at him very earnestly; but she hesitated, with lips trembling nervously, and seemed for a few moments unable to say any more. "Yes, ma'am." Then she spoke quickly and eagerly. "Stick to me, Mr. Mears. Whatever happens, don't give me up. I should be truly lost without you. Even if it's difficult, stick to me." "As long as he lets me," said Mears huskily. "He's going to talk to you. Humour him. He has a great respect for you, really." "He hasn't shown it so far." "Make allowances. It's his way. He has such notions about the new style--which we--which you and I mayn't always approve. But he knows your value. He has said so again and again." It was not long after this secret appeal--one morning that Marsden spent in Mallingbridge--when the shop heard "the Guv'nor begin on Mr. M." "Look here, my friend," said Mr. Marsden loudly, "it's about time that we took each other's measure. Is it you or I who is to be cock of the walk? Just step in here, please." This was said outside the counting-house. The proprietor and the manager at once disappeared; and the news flew far and wide, downstairs and upstairs. "He has got old Mears behind the glass.... He is giving old Mears a dressing-down." All had known that the thing was infallibly coming; the encounter between the greater and the lesser force had been unaccountably delayed; every man and woman in the building now trembled for the result. "You want to put your authority up against mine. That won't do. One boss is enough in a larger establishment than this." But behind the glass old Mears was very firm. He made himself as big as possible, standing at his full height, seeming to imitate Marsden's trick of squaring the shoulders and throwing back the head. "_I_ am the boss. And what I say _goes_." "And your partner, sir? Mrs. Thompson, I should say Mrs. Marsden--are we to disregard her?" "No. But I speak for self and partner. Please make a note of that." "Very good, sir." "Then that's all right. It was a case of '_Twiggez-vous?_' But I think you twig now that I don't stand nonsense--or go on paying salaries in exchange for bounce and impudence." "May I ask if you think I am not earning my salary, sir?" "I haven't said you aren't." "Or do you think, sir, if you hunted the country, you'd find a man who'd give the same service for the same money?" "Oh, if you want to blow your trumpet--" "No, sir, I want to find my bearings--to learn where I am--if I _can_. It isn't boasting, it's only business. I've a value here, or I haven't. I've been under the impression I was valuable. You know that, don't you, sir?" "Oh, I've no quarrel with you--if you'll go on serving me faithfully." "I'll serve the firm faithfully, sir--with the uttermost best that's in me." "All right then." "Because that's _my_ way, sir--the old-fashioned style I took up as a boy--and couldn't change now, sir, if I wanted to." When Mears came from behind the glass his face was flushed; he breathed stertorously; and he held his hands beneath the wide skirts of his frock coat to conceal the fact that they were shaking. But he kept the coat-tails swishing bravely, and he marched up and down between two counters with so grand a tramp that no one dared look at him closely. Then, after a few minutes, Marsden came swaggering, with his hat cocked and a lighted cigar in his mouth. Before going out into the street, he ostentatiously paused; and spoke to Mr. Mears amicably, even jovially. And the shop comprehended that the battle was over, and that there was to be a truce between the two men. On some days when Mrs. Marsden would probably have come down from the house into the counting-house she was prevented from doing so by a grievous headache. These headaches attacked her suddenly and with appalling force. At first the pain was like toothache; then it was like earache, and then the whole head seemed to be rent as if struck with an axe--and afterwards for several hours there was a dull numbing discomfort, with occasional neuralgic twinges and throbbings. Resting in her bedroom after such an attack, she was surprised by receiving a visit from Enid. She was lying on a sofa that Yates had pushed before the fire, and at the sound of voices outside the door she started up and hastily scrambled to her feet. "Mother dear, may I come in? I'm so sorry you're ill." Since their parting last autumn they had not set eyes on each other, and for a little while they talked almost as strangers. "Yates, bring up the tea." "Oh, but isn't it too early for tea?" "No. Get it as quickly as you can, Yates. Mrs. Kenion must be ready for tea--after her long drive." "I came by train. Thank you--I own I should like a cup, if it isn't really troubling you." "Of course not.... Do take the easy chair." "This is very comfortable.... But won't you lie down again? I have disturbed you." "Not in the least. I think it will do me good to sit up. Won't you take off your coat?" Enid let the fur boa fall back from her slender neck, and undid two buttons of her long grey coat. "Really," she said, with a little laugh, "it's so cold that I haven't properly thawed yet." She was charmingly dressed, and she looked very graceful and well-bred--but not at all plump; in fact rather too thin. While they drank their tea, she told her mother of the kindness of her husband's relatives--a sister-in-law was a particular favourite; but everybody was nice and kind; there were many pleasant neighbours, and all had called and paid friendly attentions to the young couple. "I am so glad to hear that," said Mrs. Marsden. "My only fear of the country was that you might sometimes feel yourself too much isolated." "Oh, I'm never in the least lonely. There's so much to do--and even if there weren't people coming in and out perpetually, the house would take up all my time." "Ah yes.... I suppose you are quite settled down by now." "No, I wish we were. Things are still rather at sixes and sevens. Otherwise I should have begged you to come and see for yourself. We are both so anxious to get you out there." "I shall be delighted to come, my dear. But I myself have been rather rushed of late." "Of course you have.... Er--Mr. Marsden is away, Yates told me." "Yes, but only for a few days. I get him back to-morrow night;" and Mrs. Marsden laughed cheerfully. "Do you know, he has taken a leaf out of Mr. Kenion's book. He is quite mad about racing." "Is he? How amusing!" "These violent delights have violent ends. He says it is only a passing fancy; and I suppose he'll be taking up something else directly--golf perhaps--and going mad about that." "No doubt. Men all seem alike, don't they?" And Enid smiled and nodded her head. "Though I must say, Charles is very true to his hunting. I mean to wean him from steeple-chasing; but I like him to hunt. It keeps him in such splendid health." "Yes, dear. It must be tremendous exercise. Do you ride to the meets with him?" "No, I never seem to have time--and for the moment, though we've six horses in the stable, there's not one that I quite see myself on." And Enid laughed again, gaily. "Good enough for Charles, you know--but _he_ can ride anything. He wants to get me a pony-cart, and I shall be safer in that." The constraint was wearing off. While they talked, each availed herself of any chance of investigating the other's face--a shy swift glance, instantaneously deflected to the teacups or the mantelpiece, if a head turned to meet it. At first there had been difficulty in speaking of the husbands, but now it was quite easy; and it all sounded fairly natural. "Oh, but that is just the sort of thing Charlie says." The daughter helped the mother. "Men always think they can manage things better than we can--and they're _always_ troublesome about the servants. The only occasions on which Charles makes one _really_ angry are when he upsets the servants." And Mrs. Marsden helped Enid. "You must employ all your tact--men are so easily led, though they won't be driven." "No, they must be led," said Enid, with a return to complete artificiality of manner. "How true that is!" But there was a very subtle alteration in Enid. Beneath the artificial manner gradually there became perceptible something altogether new and strange. This was another Enid--not the old Enid. She had evidently caught the peculiar tone of bucolic gentility and covert-side fashion common to most of her new associates, and this had slightly altered her; but deeper than the surface change lay the changes slowly manifesting themselves to the instinctive penetration of her mother. Enid was softer, more gentle, a thousand times more capable of sympathy. "Dick," Mrs. Marsden was saying, "is fearfully ambitious." "That's a good fault, mother." "He even talks of--of going into Parliament." "And why not?" "He belongs to the Conservative Club here--but he wants," and Mrs. Marsden showed embarrassment,--"he would like to join the County Club." "Oh!" "Do you think Mr. Charles--or his family--would be kind enough to use influence?" "Yes, mother dear, I'll make them--if possible." Enid had leant forward; and she shyly took her mother's hand, and gently squeezed it. "But now I must go. I do hope I haven't increased your headache." "No, my dear, you have done me good." Enid rose, buttoned her coat, and began to pull on her grey reindeer gloves. "Mother! My old room--is it empty, or are you using it for anything?" "Oh, Dick uses that, dear." "And the dressing-room?" "He uses that, too." "Would you mind--would he mind if I went in and looked round?" "No.... Of course not." "Only for a peep. Then I'll come back--and say good-bye." But she was a long time in the other rooms; and when she returned Mrs. Marsden saw and affected not to see that she had been crying. The warmth of the fire after the cold of the street, or the sight of her old home after a few months in her new one, had properly thawed elegant, long-nosed Enid. She sank on her knees by the sofa, flung her arms round the neck of her mother, and kissed her again and again; and Mrs. Marsden felt what in vain she had waited for during so many years--her child's heart beating with expansive sympathy against her breast. "Mother, how good you were--oh, how good you were to me!" And she clung and pressed and kissed as in all her life she had never done till now. "Enid--my darling." When she had gone, Mrs. Marsden lay musing by the fire. It was impossible not to divine the very simple cause of this immense alteration in Enid. Already poor Enid had learnt her lesson--she knew what it was to have a rotten bad husband. XIV But not so bad as her own husband. No, that would be an impossibility. She did not want to think about it; but just now her control over her thoughts had weakened, while the thoughts themselves were growing stronger. She was subject to rapid ups and downs of health, the victim of an astounding crisis of nerves, so that one hour she experienced a queer longing for muscular fatigue, and the next hour laughed and wept in full hysteria. At other times she felt so weak that she believed she might sink fainting to the ground if she attempted to go for the shortest walk. Generally on days when Marsden was away from Mallingbridge she crept to bed at dusk. Yates used to aid her as of old, sit by the bed-side talking to her; and then leave her in the fire-glow, to watch the dancing shadows or listen to the whispering wind. She did not wish to think; but in spite of all efforts to forget facts and to hold firmly to delusions, her old power of logical thought was remorselessly returning to her. In defiance of her enfeebled will, the past reconstituted itself, events grouped themselves in sequence; hitherto undetected connections linked up, and made the solid chain that dragged her from vague surmise to definite conclusions. Then with the full vigour of the old penetrative faculties she thought of her mistake. He did not care for her. He had never cared for her. It was all acting. All that she relied on was false; all that had been real was the steadfast sordid purpose sustaining him throughout his odious dissimulation. His marriage was a brutal male prostitution, in which he had sold his favours for her gold. And shame overwhelmed her as she thought of how easily she had been trapped. While he was coldly calculating, she was endowing him with every attribute of warm-blooded generosity; when her fine protective instincts made her yearn over him, longing to give him happiness, comfort, security, he was in truth playing with her as a cat plays with a wounded mouse--no hurry, no excitement, but steel-bright eyes watching, retracted claws waiting. And she remembered his studied phrases that rang so true to the ear, till too late she discovered their miserable falsity. With what art he had prepared the way for the final disclosure of his effrontery! He could not brook the sense of dependence, his manly spirit would not allow him to pose as the pensioner of a rich wife, and so on--and then, even at the last, how he waited until she had completely betrayed her secret, and he could be certain that her pride as a woman would infallibly prevent her from drawing back. Not till then, when she had taken the world into her confidence, when escape had become impossible, did he drive his bargain. While the honeymoon was not yet over she imagined she could understand the pain that lay before her. But in these three months she had suffered more than she had conceived to be endurable by any living creature. If pain can kill, she should be dead. Her punishment had been like the fabled torture of the Chinese--hundreds of small lacerations, a thousand slicing cuts of the executioner's sword, and the kind death-stroke craftily withheld. But the swordsman of the East does not laugh while he mutilates. And _he_ struck at her with a smiling face. She thought of how in every hour of their companionship he had wounded her; with what unutterable baseness he had used his power over her--the power given to him by her love. The love stripped her of every weapon of defence; she was tied, naked, with not a guarding rag to shelter her against the blows--and the pitiless blows fell upon her from her gagged mouth to her pinioned feet. Daily he attacked her pride, her self-respect, her bodily health and her mental equipoise; but most of all she suffered in her love--that terrible flower of passion that refuses to die. Torn up by its bleeding roots, it replants itself--and will thrive on the barren rock as well as in life's richest garden. Robbed of light, air, sustenance, it will cling to the dungeon wall, and bud and burst again for the prisoner to touch its blossoms in his darkness. Its flame-petals can be seen by the glazing eyes that have lost sight of all else, and its burning poisonous fruit is still tasted in the earth of our graves. She thought of what he had said to her when they first came back to the house that she had decorated and made luxurious for him. A laugh, a nudge of the elbow--"This is the beginning of Chapter Two, Janey. We can't be honeymooning forever, old girl;" and then some more unforgettable words, to formulate the request that they might occupy different rooms; and so, in the home-coming hour, he had struck a deadly blow at her pride by the brutally direct implication that what she most desired was that which every woman craves for least. As if the grosser manifestations could satisfy, when all the spiritual joys are denied! But he judged her nature by his own. He was common as dirt. He was savage as a beast of the forest, a creature of fierce strong appetites that believes the appeasement of any physical craving--to drink deeply, to eat greedily, to sleep heavily--is the highest pleasure open to the animal kingdom; and that man the king is no higher than the dog, his servant. He knew only worthless women, and he supposed that all women were alike. Undoubtedly he remembered the innumerable conquests won simply by his handsome face, the ready and absolute surrender to a sensual thraldom that had made other women his abject slaves; and he dared to think that his wife was as impotent as they to resist the viler impulses of the ungoverned flesh. He dared to think it.--But was he wrong? And she recalled the episodic renewal of their embraces during these last months. Once after high words; once after he had found her weeping; once for no reason at all that she knew of--except a carelessly systematic desire on his part to keep her in good temper--or perhaps merely because he had the prostitute's point of honour. A bargain is a bargain. He had been paid his price without haggling, and he intended to fulfil the conditions of the contract--so far as certain limits fixed by himself. Horrible scenes to look back at--when the cruelly bright light of reason flashes upon the decorously obscured past and shows the ignominious secrets of a life: blind instincts moving us, all that is high beaten down by all that is low, the soul held in fetters by the flesh. Much of her slow agony had come from the stinging pricks of jealousy. He was unfaithful--he was notoriously unfaithful. Already, after three months, everyone in the shop knew that he frequently broke the marriage vow. She would have known it anyhow--even if one of his vulgar friends, turning to a more vulgar enemy, had not troubled to tell her in an ill-spelt series of anonymous letters. She remembered how he once used to look at her, and she saw how in her presence he now looked at other women. Each look was an insult to her. Each word was an outrage. "There's a pert little minx;" and he would smile as he watched some passer-by. "Young hussy! Dressed up to the nines--wasn't she?" And he swelled out his chest, and swaggered more arrogantly by the side of his wife, unconscious of the swift completeness with which she could interpret the thoughts behind his bold eyes and his lazily lascivious smile. And she thought of how he harped upon the over-tightened string of youth, making every fibre of her tired brain vibrate to the discord of the jarring note. It was melody to him. Youth was his own paramount merit, and he praised it as the only merit that he could admit of in others. He had forgotten half the lies of his courtship. Age was contemptible--the thing one should hide, or excuse, or ransom. "Only one life! Remember, I'm young--I am not old." But her friends, the people she trusted, were shamefully old, even a few years older than herself. Old Prentice, Old Yates, Old Mears; and he never spoke of them without the scornful epithet. But the jingling coin that she had put in his pockets would procure him the solace to be derived from youthful companions. With the money she had paid for all the love that he could give, he bought from loose women all the love that he cared for. Of course when he stayed in London he was carrying on his promiscuous amours.... Perhaps, too, here in Mallingbridge. Yet when he came back to her, she had failed to resist him. She knew the reflective air with which he considered her face when he proposed to exercise his sway. She trembled when he lightly slapped her on the shoulder, or took her chin in his hand, and spoke with caressing tones. He was beginning to act the lover. He had made up his mind to wipe out the past, to subjugate her afresh, to assure himself that his poor slave was not slipping away. "Janey--dear old Janey.... I leave you alone, don't I?" And with an arm round her waist, he would pull her to him, and hold her closer and closer. "Have you missed me? Eh? Have you missed your Dickybird?" And she could not resist him. There was the abominable basis of the tragedy--worse, infinitely worse than the imagined horrors that had troubled her before the marriage. Love dies so slowly. But the night spent in the same room with him was like a fatal abandonment to some degrading habit--as if in despair she had taken a heavy dose of laudanum,--knowing that the drug is deadly, yet seeking once more to stupefy herself, impelled at all hazards to pass again through the gates of delirium into the vast blank halls of unconsciousness. Next day she felt sick, broken, shattered--like the drug-taker after his debauch. Each relapse seemed now an immeasurably lower fall. Each awakening brought with it a sharper pang of despair: as when a wrecked man on a raft, who in his madness of thirst has drunk at the salt spray, wakes from frenzied dreams to see the wide immensity of ocean mocking him with space great enough to hold all things except one--hope. Such thoughts as these came sweeping upon her like waves of light, illuminating the darkest recesses of her mind, showing the innermost meaning of every cruel mystery, forcing her to see and to know herself as she was, and not as she wished to be. Then the light would suddenly fade. The stress of emotion had relaxed, and she could consider her circumstances calmly--could try to make the best of him. A difficult task--a poor best. She thought of his varied meannesses. In only one direction was he ever really generous. He grudged nothing to himself--he could be lavish when pandering to his own inclinations, reckless when gratifying the moment's whim, and retrospectively liberal when counting the cost of past amusements; but in his dealings with the rest of the world he was cautious, watchful, tenaciously close-fisted. She felt a vicarious humiliation in hearing him thank instead of tip; or seeing him, when he had failed to dodge the necessity of a gift, make the gift so small as to be ludicrous. Not since he carried her purse at the London restaurants had he ever exhibited a large-handed kindness to subordinates. He never alluded to the household expenses--had accepted as quite natural the fact that the female partner should defray the expenses of the household. Without a Please or a Thank-you he took board and lodging free of charge; but he bought for himself cigars, liqueurs, and wine, and he always spoke of my brandy, my champagne, etc. It was _our_ house, but _my_ wine. Nevertheless, the habitual use in the singular of the personal pronoun did not render him egotistically anxious to pay his own bills. Once, when after delay a tobacconist addressed an account to her care, and she timidly reproached the cigar-smoker for a lapse of memory that might almost seem undignified, she was answered with chaffing, laughing, joviality. "Well, my dear, if you're so afraid of our credit going down, there's an easy way out of the difficulty. Write a cheque yourself, and clean the slate for me." But one must make allowances. This was a favourite phrase of hers, and it helped the drift of her calmer thoughts. As he said so often, youth has its characteristic faults. Want of thought is not necessarily want of heart. Perhaps when he began to work, he might improve. There was no doubt that he possessed the capacity for work. He _had_ worked, hard and well. Many a good horse that has not shied or swerved when kept into its collar will, if given too much stable and too many beans, show unsuspected vice and kick the cart to pieces. And the cure for your horse, the medicine for your man, is work. Of course he had many redeeming traits. One was his jollity--not often disturbed, if people would humour him. Comfort, too, in the recollection that he treated her with respect--never consciously insulted her--in public. Sometimes when the shadows and the flickering glow drowsily slackened in their dance, and sleep with soft yet heavy fingers at last pressed upon her eyelids, she was willing to believe that all her fiery thought and shadowy dread was but morbid nonsense occasioned by the queer state of her nerves, and by nothing else. Truly, during this period of her extreme weakness, she was physically incapable of standing up to him; there was no fight left in her. For a time at least, she could not attempt to protect herself, or anyone else who looked to her for protection. It pained her, but she was unable to interfere, when he roughly repulsed Gordon Thompson. They were sitting at luncheon, with the servant going in and out of the room; she heard the street door open and shut; there was a sound of hob-nailed boots, and then came the familiar whistle--like a ghostly echo from the past. "Who the devil's that?" "I--I think it must be my Linkfield cousin." "Oh, is it?" And Marsden jumped up, and went out to the landing. "Jen-ny! Jen-ny! You up there?" The farmer stood at the bottom of the steep stairs, and Marsden was at the top, looking down at him. Mrs. Marsden heard nearly the whole of the conversation, but dared not, could not interfere. "Any dinner for a hungry wayfarer?" Gordon Thompson, furious at the marriage, had missed many mid-day meals; but now he came to pick up the severed thread of kindness. However, he was not confident; his whistle had been feeble, tentative, and the ascending note of his voice quavered. In order to propitiate, he had brought from Linkfield a market-gardener's basket with celery and winter cabbages. The present would surely make them glad to see him. "What do you want here? No orders are given at the door. We buy our vegetables at Rogers's in High Street. Don't come cadging here. Get out." Marsden wickedly pretended to mistake him for an itinerant greengrocer. "Mayn't I go up?... Is it to be cuts? Am I not to call on my cousin?" "Who's your cousin, I'd like to know." "Jen-ny Thompson." "No one of that name lives here." "Jen-ny Marsden then. I say--it's all right. You're him, I suppose. Well, I'm Gordon Thompson--your wife's cousin." "My wife never had a cousin of that name. Before she married me, she married a man called Thompson--though she didn't marry all his humbugging beggarly relations." "Oh, I say--don't go on like that. Don't make it cuts." "Thompson--your cousin--is in the cemetery, if you wish to call on him. He has been there a long time--waiting for you;" and Marsden laughed. "The sexton will tell you where to find him.... Go and plant your cabbages out there. We don't want 'em here." He returned to the luncheon table in the highest good-humour. "There, old girl, I've ridded you of _that_ nuisance. You won't be bothered with _him_ any more." Mrs. Marsden could not answer. She could not even raise her eyes from the table-cloth. But when her husband offered to give her a rare afternoon treat by taking her for a run in his small two-seated car, she looked up; and, meekly thanking him, accepted the invitation. As the car carried them slowly through the market-place, neatly threading its way among laden carts and emptied stalls, she saw cousin Gordon standing, rueful and disconsolate, outside the humble tavern at which it was the custom of the lesser sort of farmers to dine together on market-day. Had Gordon dined, or had anger and resentment deprived him of appetite and spared his ill-filled purse? She would not think of it. She turned, and watched her husband's face. It was hard as granite while with concentrated attention he manipulated the steering wheel, moved a lever, or sounded his brazen-tongued horn--the signal of danger to anyone who refused to get out of his road. Almost immediately, they were in the open country, whirling past bare fields and leafless copses, leaping fiercely at each hill that opposed them, and swooping with a shrill, buzzing triumph down the long slopes of the valleys. "Now we are travelling," said Marsden joyously. She nodded her head, although she had not caught the words; and presently he shouted close to her ear. "Moving now, aren't we? Doesn't she run smooth?" "Yes, yes. Capital." The wind, breaking on the glass screen, sang as it swept over them; hedge-rows, telegraph poles, and wayside cottages hurried towards them, rising and growing as they came; long stretches of straight road, along which Mr. Young's horses used to plod for half an hour, were snatched at, conquered, and contemptuously thrown behind, almost before one could recognize them. That pretty country-house which she had always admired passed her; and, passing, seemed like a faintly tinted picture in a book whose pages are turned too fast by careless hands. Naked branches of high trees, broad eaves and nestling windows, weak sunlight upon latticed glass, and pale smoke rising from clustered chimneys--that was all she saw. A few dead leaves pretended to be live things, scampered beside the long wall; a few dead thoughts revived in her mind, and swiftly she recalled her old fancies, the dream of the future, Enid and herself living together so quietly beneath the grey roof;--and then the pretty house with its pretty grounds had been left far behind. It had lost its brief aspect of reality as completely as a half-forgotten dream. "There, we'll go easy now." They were approaching a village, and he reduced the speed. "You're a good plucked 'un, Jane;" and he glanced at her approvingly. "You don't funk a little bit of pace." They stopped at an inn, thirty miles from Mallingbridge, and drank tea--that is to say, Mrs. Marsden drank tea and Mr. Marsden drank something else, for the good of the house. Then, after a cigar, he lighted his lamps, and drove her home through the greyness, the dusk, and the dark. And for the three hours or so that she was with him, for the whole time that this outing lasted, she was almost happy. XV The nervous distress had gone--with extraordinary suddenness; and a curiously unruffled calm filled her mind. Nothing matters. This is not _all_. She was a deeply religious woman, but quite unorthodox in the letter of her faith. There might be as many rituals as there are social communities, a different altar for every day of the year; but, however you dressed the eternal glory and the limitless power in garments taken from the poor wardrobe of man's imagination, the veritable God was unchanged, unchanging. And her toleration of the diverse opinions of others enabled her to worship as comfortably under the high-vaulted magnificence of a Catholic cathedral as within the narrow shabbiness of a Wesleyan chapel. The perfume of swinging censers did not cloud her brain, nor the ugliness of white-washed walls grieve her eyes--any consecrated place of prayer was good enough to pray in. But for the sake of old associations, by reason of its familiar homeliness, its air of solidity without pomp, and a simplicity that yet is not undignified, she loved this parish church of St. Saviour's; and it was here, sitting through the long undecorated service, that mental equanimity was most strangely if temporarily restored to her. Although not participating, she stayed for the celebration of the communion; and while the mystic, symbolic rites were performed, she neither prayed nor meditated. For her it was a blank pause,--no thought,--nothing; but nevertheless she became aware of a deepening perception of rest and peace, and the feeling that she had been uplifted--raised to a spiritual height from which she could look down on the common pains of earth, and see their intrinsically trivial character. Our life, be it what it may, does not end here. This is not all. Something wider, more massive, infinitely grander, is coming to us, if we will wait patiently. She sat motionless until all the congregation had dispersed; and when she left the church, there was an expression of gravity on her face and a sense of contentment in her heart. At the sight of some children romping by the church-yard railings, she smiled. A boy pushed a girl with mirthful vigorousness, and she spoke to him gently. "Don't be rough, little boy. Take care, and don't hurt her--even in play." Then she gave the children "silver sixpences to buy sweeties," and went slowly down the court. She could think kindly and benignantly of all the world. There was not a tinge of bitterness remaining when she thought of her husband. As she lay in bed one morning after a night of dreamless sleep, a chance word dropped by Yates set her lazily thinking of the last date on which she had suffered from those normal and not accidental fluctuations of energy that are produced by periodically recurrent causes. Beginning to count the weeks, she fancied that some error of memory was confusing her--time of late had moved with such heavy feet; what seemed long was really short in the story of her days. Then she began to count the days, trying to make fixed points, and laboriously filling the gaps that intervened. Then she stopped counting and thinking. Yates had gone out of the room, and she lay quite still, with relaxed limbs and slackened respiration. And her mind seemed dull and void, though wonder stirred and thrilled. It was like dawn in a hill-girt valley--black darkness mingling with silver mist; shadows growing thin, but not retreating; the ribbed sides of the mountains very slowly becoming more and more solidly stupendous, but refusing to disclose the details of their form or colour, although, beyond the vast ramparts with which they aid the night, the sun is surely rising. Not till the sun bursts in fire above the eastern wall does the day begin. So, with flooding golden light, the splendid hope came to her. She waited for a few more days. There was no mistake; she knew that she had counted correctly; but she pretended to herself that she must allow a wide margin to cover the contingency of miscalculation. Then she spoke of the facts to Yates, after extracting a solemn vow of secrecy. Yates said they could draw only one conclusion from the facts; it was impossible to doubt--but they would know for certain next time. They must count again; and, after allowing another wide margin, settle the approaching date which would infallibly confirm their hopes or cruelly dissipate them. For a little while longer, then, she must keep her splendid secret. Her heart was overflowing with a joy such as she had thought she could never feel again. And with the warm stream of bliss there were gushing fountains of gratitude. She will forgive her husband everything, because he has crowned her life with this ineffable glory. It justifies her marriage; in a manner more perfect than she had dared to imagine, it gives her back her youth. All mothers at the cradle have one age--the age of motherhood. And irresistibly it will win his respect and love--some love must come for the mother of his babe. Although she was waiting with so much anxiety until the second significant epoch should be passed, she found that time glided by her now easily and swiftly. Yates--the wise old spinster--assuming in a more marked degree that air of matronly authority that she had worn before the wedding, told her of the vital importance of taking good rest, good nourishment, and good cheerful views regarding the future. So she often lay upon the sofa in her room--resting,--smiling and dreaming. She had no real doubt now. It was miraculous, glorious, true. She thought of the many symptoms that she had noticed but never considered, so that the revelation of their meaning brought the same glad surprise as to a young and innocent bride. She might have guessed.--The dreadful instability of nerves; longings for the widest outlet of physical effort, alternating with weak horrors of the slightest task; and, above all, the facile tears always springing to her eyes--these things, in one who by habit was firm of purpose and who wept with difficulty, should have been promptly recognized as unfailing signs of her condition. Lesser signs, too, had not been wanting--the vagrant fancies, the mental ups and downs which correspond with the changed states of the body; and she groped in the dim past, comparing her recent sensations and reveries with those experienced twenty-three years ago, before the birth of Enid. She might have guessed.--But truly perhaps she had been too humble of spirit ever to prepare herself for the admission of so proud a thought. Even in the brightly coloured dreams from which realities had so rudely awakened her, she was not advancing towards so triumphant an apotheosis. But no morning sickness! Not yet. It will begin later this time--for the second child; and it will not be so bad. That first time--when poor Enid was coming into the world--she was but a slip of a girl; depressed by heavy care; worn out by the watchings and nursings of her mother's illness. But now everything was and would be different. She possessed robust and long-established health; her husband was a magnificently strong man; their child would be a most noble gorgeous creature. And each time that she thought thus of the child's father, the fountain springs of her intense gratitude rose and gushed higher and broader. She was only vaguely conscious of the extent of the revulsion of her feelings where he was concerned. The change seemed so natural and so little mysterious that she did not measure it. With the awakening of the new hopes, there had arisen a new love for him--a love purged of all impurities. This was the real love--wide-reaching sympathy, infinite tenderness; the love that can understand all and forgive all; the instinct of protection blending with the instinct of submission; the maternal feeling extending beyond the unborn child to its creator--making them both her children. One day when he said he wanted to ask her a favour, she told him, before he added another word, that she felt sure she would grant the favour. She was reading, in the drawing-room; and she slipped the book under the cushion of the sofa, and looked up at him with an expectant smile. Then, showing some slight embarrassment, he explained that he had been "outrunning the constable." All the arrangements of the partnership were formally settled; nothing had been overlooked by clever Mr. Prentice; everything was cut and dried; certain proportionately fixed sums were to be passed from time to time to the private credit of each partner; and then at the appointed seasons, when the true profits of the firm had been ascertained, amounts making up the balance of earned income would be paid over. All the usual precautions, and some that perhaps were rather unusual, had been adopted in order to prevent the partners from anticipating profits by premature drafts upon the funds of the firm. But now, as Marsden explained, he had exhausted his private account and was in sad need of a little ready to keep him going. She instantly agreed to give him the money--with the pleasure a too indulgent mother might feel in giving to a spendthrift son. Extravagance--what is it? Only one of those faults of youth by which the thoughtless young culprits endear themselves to their elderly guardians. "Yes, Dick, I'll write the cheque at once. My chequebook is over there." She rose slowly from the sofa, and slowly moved across the room to the Sheraton desk near the window. Yates had begged her to beware of abrupt and hasty movements, and she walked about the house now with careful, well-considered footsteps. "Of course, old girl, if you can see your way to making the amount for a little _more_?" And she made it for a little more. He was delighted. "Upon my word, Jane, you're a trump. No rot about you. When you see anyone in a hole, you don't badger him with a pack of questions--you just pull him out of the hole...." He thanked her and praised her so much that she melted in tenderness, and almost told him her secret. She looked at him fondly and admiringly. He seemed so strong and so brave--with his stiff close-cropped hair and his white evenly-shaped teeth,--laughing gleefully as he pocketed his present,--like a great happy schoolboy. While she looked at him, the secret was trying to escape, was burning her lips, and knocking at her breast with each quickened heartbeat. She succeeded, however, in restraining the expansive impulse. The delay can but heighten the triumph--it is so much grander to be able to say, not "I _think_," but "I _know_." When he had hurried away to cash his cheque, she took out the Book that she had been reading and had shyly concealed under the cushion. It was the Bible. Reverently reopening it and musingly turning the leaves, she glanced at those chapters of Genesis that tell of the first gift of human life.... "In sorrow thou shalt bring forth children; and thy desire shall be to thy husband; and he shall rule over thee." The softness and the exaltation of her mood showed very plainly in the expression of her face as she read the nobly fabled origin of love and marriage. While reading she made vows to God and to herself. If all went well, she would cheerfully bear the hardest usage, at her husband's hands. She would never reproach him, she would ever be a comfort to him. And so long as their child lived, the torch-bearer carrying the fire of life kindled from their joint lives should guide her steps through the darkest places towards the distant glimmer of eternal light. That night she was roused from her first sleep by the sound of heavily blundering footsteps. Mr. Marsden had come home in an unusually jolly state. His wife heard him stumbling about the adjacent room, knocking over a chair, laughing, and singing drunken snatches of song. He had never before been quite so jolly. For a minute the hilarious music saddened her; but then she felt quite happy again. He was not really drunk--merely excited, elated. And besides, this sort of thing would not occur in the future: a generous fear of the questioning eyes of an innocent child would help to keep him straight. And she fell to thinking of domestic arrangements that would be necessary before the great event. His bedroom and the dressing-room used to be the day and night nursery when Enid was a baby. The grandmother slept in the room at present occupied by Yates, and Yates slept in a smaller room. How would they manage now? This room should be the night nursery--she herself could sleep anywhere. Probably Yates would have to give up her nice room--but Yates would not mind. And, yes--the difficulty must be confronted--Dick must give up his dressing-room. Would he mind? No. Every difficulty would be surmounted. All would be smoothly and easily arranged in the end. Dreamily sweeping away the difficulties, she sank again into restful sleep. That important second date was drawing near, and Yates was becoming more and more fussily attentive. It taxed all her strength of mind to keep the secret to herself; she longed for the time when it might be made public property. "Look here, ma'am," she said mysteriously, "don't let anyone see us opening this parcel. Let's go upstairs and open it there, quiet and comfortable." "What is it, Yates?" Upstairs in the bedroom, Yates, with many shrewd nods and meaning smiles, untied her parcel, and displayed to Mrs. Marsden its entrancingly fascinating contents. "Oh, Yates!" They were the prettiest imaginable little baby-things--woollen socks, flannel robes, etc., articles of costume suitable to the very earliest stage; together with materials for binders, wrappers, and so on, that would require cutting, stitching, _making_. "The work will do you good," said Yates. "Just to amuse yourself, when you're sitting all alone up here--and to keep your mind off the strain." "Oh, Yates, they are lovely. Where did you get them?" "Don't you bother where I got them," said Yates, looking shame-faced all at once. "I don't intend to tell you." But then she went on defiantly: "Well, if you _must_ know, I got them in the children's outfitting department--over at Bence's." Her mistress was not in the least angry. She smiled at the sound of the rival's name;--and, of course, in this particular department there was no rivalry between the two shops. Yates was particular that her interesting patient should enjoy a moderate amount of fresh air, and advised that in these cases gentle carriage exercise is distinctly beneficial. Several times therefore a brougham was procured from Mr. Young's stables, and mistress and maid went for a quiet afternoon drive. Yates would have preferred to enjoy these airings earlier in the day, but she agreed with Mrs. Marsden that a morning drive might appear "conspicuous." As it was, Yates made the excursion quite sufficiently remarkable--hot-water bottle for the patient's feet, rugs for her legs, three or four shawls for her shoulders. "And don't you drive too fast," said Yates sternly to Mr. Young's coachman. "Take us along quiet.... And if you meet any of those great engines on the road, just turn round and go the other way." "I don't want you frightened," she told Mrs. Marsden, "if only for half a minute." Mr. Young's horses, at an easy jog trot, took them along very, very quietly; some air, but not too much, blew in upon them pleasantly; and throughout the drive the two women talked unceasingly of the same engrossing subject. "Which do you hope for, yourself, ma'am?" "Yates, I scarcely know." "Well, ma'am, I'll tell you candid, it's a girl _I_ am hoping for." "But whichever it is--boy or girl--you'll love it just the same, won't you, Yates?" "Indeed I shall, ma'am." And they discussed christian names. "If it is a boy, of course I shall wish him to have his father's name for one." "Yes, I suppose so, ma'am." "Richard for his first name; and, if Mr. Marsden approves, I shall call him Martin. I should like him to bear the name of Saint Martin--for a little romantic reason of my own. And I also like the name of Roderick--if that isn't too grand." "I like the plain names best," said Yates. "If it's a girl, I do hope and trust you'll give her your own name, ma'am. You can never get a better name than Jane. Let her be Miss Jane." They met no ugly traction engines to upset the horses, and disturb the patient's composure. They chose the level sheltered roads, and avoided the dangerous windy hills; and Mrs. Marsden looked through the half-shut window at the featureless landscape, and thought it almost beautiful, even at this dead time of the year. It was bare and nearly colourless,--all the hedgerows of a dull brown, the far-off woods a misty grey, and here and there, seen through the black field-gates, patches of snow faintly sparkling beneath the feeble light. The tardy spring as yet showed scarce a sign of nascent energy. But the winter had no terrors for her now. There was summer in her heart. The date had passed; and, passing, had left apparent certainty. Yates was wildly excited, irrepressibly jubilant. "You'll tell him now, won't you, ma'am?" "Yes, I can tell him now." "Everybody may know it now, ma'am--And, oh, won't they be glad to hear the news in the shop." But naturally Mr. Marsden must hear the news before anybody else; and unluckily Mr. Marsden was not in Mallingbridge to hear it. He had been expected home two days ago, but something was detaining him in London. This final useless delay, after the long unavoidable delay, seemed more than Mrs. Marsden could support. "Oh, why is he away? Oh, Yates, I want him--I want him with me. Oh, oh!" She burst into a sobbing fit, and rung her hands piteously. "Yates, fetch him. Bring my husband back to me. Don't let him leave me now--of all times." This was in the morning, before Mrs. Marsden had got up. After sobbing for a little while, she became suddenly faint and breathless, and sank back upon her pillow. Yates, scared by her faintness and whiteness, ran out of the room and despatched a hasty messenger. She could not fetch the husband; so the good soul did the next best thing, and sent for the doctor. When she returned to the bedroom Mrs. Marsden seemed all right again. "Doctor Eldridge is coming to see you, ma'am." "Is he?" "It's only wise," said Yates authoritatively, "that he should take charge of the case now. It's full time we had him in. He knows your constitution--and you can trust him, and feel quite safe to go on just as he advises you." Dr. Eldridge was a long time alone with the patient. After Yates had been told to leave them, he talked gently and gravely to his old friend. He confessed to being rather sceptical by habit of mind; in forming a diagnosis he was perhaps always disposed to err on the side of caution, and thus he often declined to accept what at first sight seemed an obvious inference until it had been corroborated by indisputable evidence;--but then again, all his experience had shown him how prudent, how necessary it is to prepare oneself for disappointment.... He thought that Mrs. Marsden should, if possible, prepare herself for disappointment. Outside the room, he spoke to Yates with a severity that was only mitigated by contempt. "What nonsense have you been stuffing her up with? It's too bad of you." And then the professional contempt for amateur doctors sounded in the severe tone of his voice. "You ought to know better at your time of life." He came again next day, and told Mrs. Marsden the bitter truth. The correct interpretation of the symptoms was far, very far different from that which she had imagined. And then he pronounced the words of doom. It was not the birth of hope, but the death of hope. Somewhat earlier than one would have predicted as likely, she had passed the turning-point in the cyclic history of her existence. A deadly, numbing apathy descended upon her. She was not ill; but in order to escape the infinitely oppressive duties of dressing, sitting at meals, walking up and down stairs, listening to voices and answering questions, she pretended illness; and, to cover the pretence, Dr. Eldridge frequently visited her. Day after day she lay upon her sofa, watching the feeble daylight turn to dusk, staring at the red glow of the coals or the golden flicker of burning wood--feeling too sad to reproach, too weak to curse the inexorable laws of destiny. Her husband used to enter the room noisily and jovially, with a cigar in his mouth and a shining silk hat on the back of his head. "What the dickens is the matter with you, Jane?" He did not guess. He could never read her thoughts. "I believe you ought to rouse yourself, old girl. I suppose old Eldridge sees a chance of running up a nice little bill--and Yates will have her bit out of it. Between them, they'll persuade you you're going to kick the bucket." "I feel so tired, Dick." "Then go on taking it easy," said Marsden genially. "But here's my tip--look out for another doctor, and another maid. I wouldn't bid twopence, if both of them were put up to auction." Another time he said, "Jane, do you twig why I am wearing my topper? That means _business_. Yes, I'm going to throw myself into my work now, heart and soul. Buck up as soon as you can, and come and see how I'm setting about me." While he stood by the door, talking and smoking, she looked at him with dull but kind eyes. Some of the glamour of that vanished hope still hung about him; and the sense of gratitude, although now meaningless, lingered for a long while. But for herself, it would have been a fact instead of an hysterical fancy. It was her fault, not his. When he had shut the door, she thought of herself dully, without pity, in stupid wonder. This is the end. The heats of summer gone; the mimic warmth of autumn gone, too; nothing left but the cold, dead winter--the end of all. XVI The state of apathetic indifference continued; the slow months dragged by, and still she could not shake off her invincible weariness and spur herself to resume activity. Once or twice Enid invited her to pay the long-postponed visit of inspection; and, when these invitations were refused, she offered to come to see her mother. But she was put off with vague excuses. The weather seemed so doubtful this week; later in the year Mrs. Marsden would certainly make the eight-mile journey, and examine the charming home of her daughter and her son-in-law. It was an effort even to write a letter; nothing really interested her; her highest wish was to be left alone. She heard and occasionally saw what was happening in the shop; but the old keen delight in business had faded with all other delights. She was not wanted down there behind the glass. Her husband was master there now, and he did not require her assistance. He was pushing on with his programme of change and innovation; he brought her architects' drawings and builders' plans to sign, and she signed them without questioning; he jauntily told her about his new Japanese department, his new agency trade, his revolutionised carpet store, and she listened meekly to everything, appeared willing to concur in anything. He was inordinately pleased with himself, and his boastful self-confidence brimmed over in noisy chatter. He had declared war against Bence; henceforth, he vowed, the tit-for-tat policy should be pursued with implacable thoroughness. "Look out for yourself, Mr. Bence," he said vaingloriously. "It has been very nice for you up to now. Because you saw a naked face, you smacked it. But now you're smacked back--as you'll jolly well find. I expect my new fascia has opened your eyes to what's coming." The new fascia had been erected. It was made of chestnut wood--a most artistic up-to-date piece of work, with the names Thompson & Marsden alternating in carved lozenges over all the windows, with linked festoons of flowers, with high relief and intaglio cutting--with what not decorative and grand. It ran the whole length of the street frontage and round the corner up St. Saviour's Court, and it cost £750. But that expense was a fleabite when compared with the cost of the structural alterations that were now fairly in hand. The yard was being completely covered. The carts would drive into what would be the ground floor; and above this there would be three floors of packing rooms, with every imaginable convenience of lifts, slides, and shoots, for manipulating the goods and discharging them at the public. Meanwhile, the old packing rooms had been huddled into unused cellars, and the space that they had occupied in the basement, indeed the entire basement, was being excavated to an astounding depth. Soon an immense subterranean area would be scooped out; vast halls with wide staircases would be constructed; a shop below a shop would be ready for Mr. Marsden's use. But what he proposed to do with it he had not as yet disclosed. He was feverishly anxious to get all the work finished, but the new basement especially occupied his ambitious dreams. "Mears, old buck," he said often, "I'm itching to get down there. And how damn slow they are, aren't they?" Having had his fling as a gentleman at large, he seemed to enjoy for a little while the quieter but more massive importance derived from his position as the proprietor of a successful business, the employer of labour, the patron of art and manufacture. He paid handsomely for the insertion of his portrait in the local newspaper, and arranged with the editor that paragraphs about himself and his operations should appear amongst news items without the objectionable word Advertisement. On early closing day he swaggered about the town, feeling that he was one of its most prominent citizens, and proving himself always ready to stand a drink to anyone who would say so. When his architect came down from London to go over the works with the contractor, he carried them off to the Dolphin, before anything had been done, and gave them a sumptuous luncheon--sat bragging and drinking with them for hours. When at dusk they returned to the shop, Marsden was red and noisy, the architect was in a fuddled state, and the contractor frankly hiccoughed. "Down with you, old boy," said Marsden jovially. "And buck 'em up--the lazy bounders. Get a move on. I want this job finished; and it seems to me you're all playing with it." After the governor had been lunching he lost that sense of decorum which from long habit should make it almost as impossible to speak loudly in a shop as in a church. All the assistants and several customers were scandalized by the noisy tongues of Mr. Marsden and his architect. "And you jolly well remember that everything's to be done without interference to my business. It's in the contract--and don't you forget it. Start to finish--that was the bargain--business to be carried on as usual." "Oh, we don't forget, Mist' Marsd---- No interferens. Bizniz muz go on zactly as usual." But did it? Mears was appalled by the disturbance and confusion. Outside in the street a long line of builders' carts blocked the approach of carriage-folk; from beneath the windows, through the opened gratings, earth and gravel and lumps of broken concrete were being painfully hauled out; the pavement was covered with mud, obstructed with débris, so that foot-people could not pass in comfort, and the Borough Surveyor had sent three notices urgently requesting the abatement of what was a public as well as a private nuisance. Inside the shop one heard growling thunders from the depths below one's feet, and sudden explosions as if one were walking over a volcano, while from every entrance to the dark vaults there issued clouds of destructive lime dust. Sometimes a department was shut up for an hour while a steel girder was rolled along the floor by twenty perspiring men; processions of bucket-bearers emerged unexpectedly; and one saw in every mirror a grimy face or a plaster-stained back. What was the use of asking ladies to step upstairs and view our Oriental novelties, when the nearest staircase was temporarily converted into a slide for roped planks? Ladies said No, thank you; they would call again. "This is going to hit us, sir," said Mr. Mears gloomily. "It is going to hit us hard if it continues much longer." "But it won't continue," said Marsden irritably. "They're bound by contract to finish before the twentieth of next month. Besides, you can't make an omelette without breaking eggs." There could be no doubt, thought Mears, as to the broken eggs; but the question was, Would Mr. Marsden's omelette ever come to table, or would it get tossed into the fire with so much else that seemed finding an end there? Towards the completion of the contract time, Marsden more than once forced his wife to come through the door of communication, and have a look round the altered shop. She was admittedly convalescent now. She had not demurred when the master of the house gave Dr. Eldridge what he called "a straight tip" to cease paying professional visits. She had not protested when, in her presence, an almost straighter tip was given to Yates that the boring fuss about a malady of the imagination must cease. In fact she herself had said that there was nothing the matter with her. She could not therefore refuse to show herself when he explicitly commanded her to do so. Many changes--as she passed by Woollens and China and Glass, it was like walking in a dream, among the distorted shadows of familiar objects. Miss Woolfrey ran out of China and Glass to welcome her; but the other assistants, male and female, seemed shy of attracting her attention. Changes on all sides, which she looked at with indifferent eyes--but one change that slowly compelled a more careful observation. Perhaps downstairs this, the greatest of the changes, would not be observable? But no, it was noticed as plainly downstairs as upstairs. There were fewer customers. She glanced at the clock outside the counting-house. Three-twenty! In the middle of the afternoon, at this season of the year, the shop should be thronged with customers; and it appeared to be, comparatively speaking, empty. Marsden was waiting to receive her behind the glass, in her old sanctum. "Come in, Jane. Here I am--hard at it." Her bureau had disappeared. Where it used to stand there was a large but compact American desk; and in front of this Mr. Marsden sat enthroned. She glanced round the room, and saw a small new writing-table in the space between the second safe and the wall. "I thought you could sit over there, Jane," said Marsden, pointing with his patent self-feeding pen. "You'd be out of the draught--for one thing." She was to be pushed into a corner, to be made to understand her insignificant position under the new order of things,--but she did not protest. "Now then. Come along." He took her first of all through the Furniture, and showed her his sub-department for the sale of desks and all other office requisites similar to those which he had purchased for his own use. This was what he called agency work. "No risk, don't you see, old girl! Doing the trick with other people's capital." And he explained how the German firm that supplied England with these American goods had given him most advantageous terms. "A splendid agreement for _us_! If the things don't go off quick, we just shovel the lot back at them--and try something else. That's _trade_. Keep a move on--don't go to sleep." Then presently he took her upstairs, to what he called his Japan Exhibition. The Cretonne Department had been compressed and curtailed to make room for this new feature, and she passed through the archway of an ornate partition in order to admire and wonder at the Oriental novelties. "Now, Jane, this is what I'm really proud of." There was plenty to see and to think about--Marsden made her handle carved and tinted ivory warriors with glittering swords and tiny burnished helmets, dragons with jewelled eyes and enamelled jaws, exquisite little cloisonne boxes; made her stoop to look at the malachite plinths of huge squat vases; and made her stretch her neck to look at gold-embossed friezes of great tall screens. All these goods were very expensive; and she asked if any of them had been introduced, like the Yankee furniture, on sale or return. "No, these are our own racket--and tip-top stuff, the best of its kind, never brought to Europe till last summer.... The stock stands us in close on four thousand pounds. You wouldn't think it, would you? But it's _art_. It's an education to possess such things." She hazarded another question. Did he think Mallingbridge would consent to pay for such high-class education? "It'll be a great disappointment to me if they don't clear us out in three months from now. Of course they haven't discovered yet what we're offering them. But they _will_. I go on the double policy--play down to your public in one department, but try to lift your public in another. That's the way to keep alive." And, as they left the Japanese treasures and strolled about the upper floor, he rattled off his glib catch-words. "These are hustling times. Get a move on somehow. That's what I tell them--They'll soon tumble to it." He parted from her near the door of communication. "Ta-ta, old girl.... Oh, by the way, I shan't be in to dinner to-night--or to-morrow either. I'm off to London. I'm wanted there about my Christmas Baz----" And he checked himself. "But I'll ask old Mears to tell you all about that." Then he ran downstairs, two steps at a time, and swaggered here and there between the counters to impress the assistants with his hustlingly Napoleonic air. Occasionally he loved to step forward, wave aside the assistant, and himself serve a customer. He thoroughly enjoyed the awe-struck admiration of the shop when he thus granted it a display of his skill. It was his only real gift--the salesman art; and it never failed him. But it was something that he could not impart. Assistants who imitated his method--trying to catch the smiling, almost chaffing manner that could immediately convert a grumpy lethargic critic into a prompt and cheerful buyer--were merely familiar and impudent, and ended by huffing the customer. And the governor, when he happened to detect want of success in one of his young gentlemen or young ladies, came down like a hundred of bricks. He treated the two sexes quite impartially, and the women could not say that he bullied the men worse than he bullied them. But he had a deadly sort of satire that the younger girls dreaded more than the angriest storm of abuse. Thus if he saw one of them sitting down, he would address her with apparently amiable solicitude. "Is that ledge hard, Miss Vincent? Couldn't someone get her a cushion? Make yourself at home. Why don't you come round the counter and sit on the customers' laps?... We must find you a comfortable seat _somewhere_--and change of air, too. Mallingbridge isn't agreeing with your constitution, if you feel as slack as all this." Like the people of his house, these people of his shop feared him, and, perhaps without putting the thoughts into words, or troubling to quote adages, understood that beggars on horseback always ride with reckless disregard of the safety and comfort of the humble companions with whom they were recently tramping along the hard road, and that no master is so tyrannical as a promoted servant. In the opinion of the shop-assistants, he could not go to London too often or stay there too long. While he was away this time, Mears came to Mrs. Marsden with a long face and a gloomy voice, and gave her the delayed information as to her husband's Christmas programme. The new underground floor was to be used for a grand Bazaar, and Mears had been told to win her round to the idea. Mears himself hated the idea. He thought the bazaar a brainless plagiarism of Bence's, and altogether unworthy of Thompson's. It would be exactly like Bence's, but on a much larger scale--beneath the good respectable shop, a cheap and nasty shop, in which catchpenny travesties of decent articles would be the only wares; fancy stationery, sham jewellery, spurious metals; horrid little clocks that won't go, knives and scissors that won't cut, collar-boxes more flimsy than the collars they are intended to hold--everything beastly that crumples, bends, or breaks before you can get home with it. "But he won't abandon the idea," said Mears. "That's a certainty. He's mad keen on it. The only thing is for you to use your influence--and I'll back you up solid--to persuade him to modify it." And Mears strongly advocated modification on these lines: make the bazaar a fitting annex,--substitute boots and shoes for the sixpenny toys, good leather trunks for the paper boxes, nice engravings for the coloured photographs,--offer the public genuine stuff and not trash. Accordingly, Mr. Marsden, as soon as he returned, was begged by his partner and his manager to grant their joint petition for a slightly modified Christmas carnival. But he said it was too late. They ought to have gone into the matter earlier. He had bought the trash,--had engaged his London girls,--was ready; and like a general on the eve of campaign, he could not be bothered with advice from subordinate officers. When discussing this horrible innovation, Mears had extracted from Mrs. Marsden a distinct show of interest; several times afterwards he had endeavoured to stimulate and increase the interest; and now, just before Christmas, he earnestly implored her to rouse herself. "We miss you, ma'am, worse every day. It isn't _safe_ to let things drift. We can't get on without you." Then one morning she had an early breakfast, dressed herself in her shop black, came down behind the glass, took her seat at the little corner table of her old room, and unobtrusively began working. Marsden, when he came in two or three hours later, was surprised to see her. "Hullo, Jane, what do you think you are doing?" "Well, Dick," she said submissively, "I should like to help in the shop--as I used to, you know." "Bravo. Excellent! I want all the help that anyone can give me;" and he seated himself in the chair of honour. "But look here. Don't mess about with the papers on this desk. I work after a system--and if my papers are muddled, it simply upsets me and wastes my time." XVII It had been a fearful year for Thompson & Marsden's. From the moment that the grand fascia permanently recorded the new style of the firm, money had flowed out of the business like water--and like big water, like mountain torrents or sea waves; while the feeding-stream of money that flowed into the business was obstructed, deflected, and plainly lessened in volume. And now, when all the immense outlay should begin to prove remunerative, even Marsden himself confessed that results were inadequate and unsatisfactory. The Bazaar was a disastrous fiasco. The builders had broken their contract; the basement had not been completed on the stipulated date, and a law-suit was pending. Marsden swore that he would recover damages for the loss entailed by his builders' wickedness; but Mr. Prentice advised that he had a weak case. When, to the strains of a Viennese orchestra, the public were invited to go down and enjoy themselves underground, they flatly declined the invitation. A peep into the brilliantly lighted depths was sufficient for them. Damp exhaled from the plastered walls; the few adventurous customers shivered and the girls sneezed in their faces. An epidemic of sore throat, engendered down there, rose and spread through the upper shop. After three weeks, Marsden's grand Christmas entertainment was withdrawn--like a pantomime that is too stupid to attract the children; the regiment of sneezing girls was disbanded; the mass of unsold rubbish was sent to London, to be disposed of for what it would fetch. And that, as the whole shop knew, was half nothing. The Japanese department was almost as bad a bargain; the little ivory warriors terrified cautious citizens with their high prices; no one would come to buy and be educated. But Marsden for a long time was obstinate about his Oriental goods. He would not face the loss, and cut it short. He seemed to have forgotten his American office equipments; but this feature had also failed to fulfil expectations. Only three small articles had been sold. However, as there was no risk here, the want of success did not much matter; but still it must be counted as one more of the governor's false moves. Indeed, as all now saw, everything attempted by the governor during this period of his energetic efforts had gone hopelessly wrong. But he himself could not brook the disappointment caused by his failures. He was disgusted when he thought of what had happened since his pompous declaration of war. Although he would not admit that so far Bence was beating him, he inveighed against fate, against Mallingbridge, against all the world. "What the devil can you do when you're buried in a dead and alive hole like this, surrounded by idiotic prejudices, and dependent on a lot of old fossils to carry out your ideas?" The fitful energy that had occasioned so much trouble was now quite exhausted. He seemed to have entered another phase. He was never jolly now, but always discontented, and generally querulous, morose, or violently angry. One after another the old shop chieftains succumbed beneath his bullying attacks. Mr. Ridgway and Mr. Fentiman had gone. Mr. Greig was going. Mrs. Marsden always recognized the beginning of his onslaught upon anybody to whom in the old days she had been strongly attached. A few sneering words--lightly and carelessly; and then, when he returned to the charge, gross abuse of the doomed thing. She knew that it was doomed. In the wreck of her life this too must go. Then very soon there were insults and violences that rendered the position of the victim untenable, unendurable. Thus he had forced Mr. Ridgway and the others to resign. Yates, the servant and friend that she loved, was also doomed. She was struggling to avert the stroke of doom, but she knew that sooner or later it must fall. And during all this time his demands for cash were increasingly frequent. By his colossal outlay he had mortgaged the profits of years, and it was essential that the partners should wait patiently until they came into their own again. But he would not wait, and vowed that he could not further retrench his personal expenses. How was he to live without _some_ ready cash? And if the firm could not furnish it, she must. "I _am_ trying to sell my big car," he told her. "And I suppose you will ask me to sell the little one next--and paddle about in the mud again. But, no, thank you, that doesn't suit my book at all." At last she summoned to her aid something of that old resolution that seemed to have left her forever, and refused to comply with his request. "No, Dick, I can't. It isn't fair. I can't." "You mean, you _won't_." "Well, if you force me to use that word, I shall use it." Then there was a terrible quarrel--or rather he abused her meanness and selfishness with brutal violence, and she protested against his injustice and cruelty with all the strength that she possessed. After this he absented himself for a fortnight. He sent no messages; he left the business to take care of itself, or be run by the other partner; nobody knew where he was. When he reappeared he showed a perceptible deterioration of aspect, as if the vicious orgies through which probably he had been passing had set their ugly print upon his mouth, and had tarnished the healthy brightness of his eyes. Henceforth the evidences of his increasing dissipation became more and more obvious. He had abandoned himself to the influences of this second phase. He drank heavily. He was careless about his clothes; never looked spick and span and well-groomed; often looked quite seedy and shabby, lounging in and out of the Dolphin Hotel, with cheeks unshaven, and an unbrushed pot hat on the back of his head. But although he neglected his work, he made people understand that he still considered himself the boss, and whenever he came into the shop he asserted his authority. After lying in bed sometimes till late in the afternoon, he would come down and upset everybody just when the day's work was drawing to a close. At the sight of him all eyes were lowered, and many hands began to tremble behind the counters. Before he had progressed from the door of communication to the top of the staircase, somebody, it was certain, would be dropped on. But on whom would he drop? Once it was his ancient admirer and ally, Miss Woolfrey. Outside China & Glass, she spoke to him pleasantly if nervously. "Good evening, sir. You'll find Mrs. Thompson downstairs in the office." "Who the devil are you talking about?" "Mrs. Thompson, sir--Oh, lor, how silly of me! Mrs. _Marsden_, sir." "Yes, that's the name; and I'll be obliged if you won't forget it." He was always exceedingly angry if, as still often happened, the old assistants accidentally used the name that from long habit sprang so easily to their lips. "Mrs. Marsden, if you please. And not too much of that." He looked about him wrathfully, involving half the upper floor in his displeasure. "I wish you'd all learnt manners before you got yourselves taken on here. 'Yes, Mrs. Marsden. No, Mrs. Marsden'--that's the way I hear you. Don't any of you know that Madam is the proper form of address when you're speaking to your employer's wife?" When he went behind the glass all the clerks began to blunder and to get confused. He called for day-books, ledgers, and cash-books, and glanced at them with lordly superciliousness while the poor clerks humbly held them open before him. Nothing was ever quite right--he blamed somebody for illegible hand-writing, someone else for a blot, someone else for the dog's ear of a page. As promised by Miss Woolfrey, he found the late Mrs. Thompson quietly working at the little corner table in his room. Then he stood before the fire warming his legs, and haranguing about shop-etiquette, up-to-date methods, time-saving systems, and complaining of the many faults that he had discovered. His wife listened without discontinuing the work. Gradually, in spite of all his dictatorial interferences, he was allowing her to do more and more work. He told the heads of the staff that when he was out of the way, they were to take their instructions from Mrs. Marsden. Then, when underlings came to him, obsequiously asking for his orders in regard to small matters, he said he could not be worried about trifles. Mrs. Marsden would direct them. He had more than enough important things to think of, and could not descend to petty details. One afternoon he came in from the street, turned the type-writing girl out of the room, and told his wife to give him all her attention. "Attend to me, old girl. News. Great news." He slapped his legs, and laughed. He was elated and excited. It was a flash of jollity after months of gloom. "Do you remember what I told you eighteen months ago?" "What did you tell me, Dick?" "I asked you to mark my words--and I said, that little bounder over there wasn't going to last much longer." The old story of Bence's approaching bankruptcy had been revived again. Marsden had heard it once more, at the Dolphin bar or in the Conservative Club billiard room, and he greedily swallowed every word of it. He said it was a hard-boiled fact this time. One of the profligate brothers had died; the widow was taking his money out of the business; and Archibald Bence, deprived of capital without which he could not scrape along, would go phutt at any minute. "There, old girl, I thought it would buck you up to hear such news, so I ran in to tell you. But now I must be off." And then, in his unusual good temper, he noticed the difficulties under which she was labouring. "I say, you don't seem very comfortable with all your papers spread out on chairs like that. It looks so infernally messy--but I suppose you haven't space for them on your table." "I could do with more space, certainly." "Very well. You can sit at my desk--when I am not here. But don't fiddle about with anything in the drawers;" and he laughed. "You'd better not pry among my papers, or you may get your fingers snapped off. The whole damned thing shut up with a bang when I was looking for something in a hurry the other day." She wondered if there could be any valid reason for the persistent recurrence of these stories of financial shakiness behind their rival's outward show of prosperity. Were these little puffs of smoke, appearing and disappearing so frequently, indicative of latent fire? She asked Mr. Mears what he thought about the gossip carried in such triumph by her credulous husband. Mears did not believe a word of it. "We've heard such yarns for ten years, haven't we?" And Mears nodded his head in the direction of the street. "I've used my eyes, and I don't see any signs of it--and I think Mr. Marsden shouldn't reckon on it." "No, I quite agree with you." "Although," said Mears, "it would be very convenient to us, if it _did_ happen--and if it _is_ going to happen, the sooner it happens the better." "It won't happen," said Mrs. Marsden, sadly and wearily. "The wish is father to the thought--there's no real sense in it." At this time she often thought of Archibald Bence; and of how, when alluding to his idle spendthrift brothers, he used to say with quaintly candid self-pity, "There's a leak in my shop." Well, there was a leak on each side of the street, now. Availing herself of her husband's permission, she came out of the corner, and was generally to be seen seated in the chair of honour at the tricky American desk. Little by little she was resuming control over the ordinary routine management of the shop; and, although in its greater and more momentous affairs she remained practically impotent, she was allowed full opportunities to supervise and encourage its daily traffic. Once or twice as Mears stood by her chair in the office and watched her knitted brows while she considered the questions of the hour, he thought and felt that it was quite like old times. But this was a transient thought. Old times could never really come again. Stooping to take the papers on which she had scrawled her brief and rapid directions, he noticed the coarse grey strands in the hair that such a little while ago used to be so smooth, so glossy, and to his mind so pretty. He could see, too, the differences in her whole face. The face was slightly smaller; the florid colours were fading so fast that occasionally she seemed sallow; the lines of the kind mouth had grown harder; and there was a curious, passive, subdued look where once there had been outpouring vitality. And the bodice of the black dress hung loose, in small folds and creases, on the shoulders that used to fill it with such handsome thoroughness. But instinctively Mears understood that behind the narrower and less glowing mask the inward force was not extinguished--the indomitable spirit was there still, not yet quenched, and perhaps unquenchable. He watched her--with a veneration deeper than he had ever felt in the easy prosperous past--while she went on quietly, bravely working, day by day, week after week. One Saturday evening, after an uneventful but laborious week, when she had supped alone and was reading by the dining-room fire, Marsden came in and abruptly asked her for money. "This is serious, Jane--no rot about it. I'm stuck for a couple of hundred, and I must have it." "Really, Dick, I cannot--" "I don't ask it as a gift. Of course I meant to pay you back the other advances, but everything's been against me. I _will_ try to pay you. Anyhow, this is a bona fide loan. It's only to tide me over." "But you said that last time." "Last time you refused--and I had to chuck away my little run-about--simply chuck it away. And I wanted to keep that car as much for your sake as for mine. I knew you enjoyed a ride in it." She had ridden in the car once, and once only. "Look here, old girl." And he removed his hat, and sat down on the other side of the dinner-table. Perhaps he had hoped that she would give him a cheque and let him go out again in two or three minutes; but now he saw it would take longer. "I must have the money by Monday morning--or I shall be in a devil of a hole. More or less a matter of honour.... Don't be nasty. Help a pal. It's not _like_ you to refuse--when I tell you I'm in earnest." "But, Dick, I am in earnest, too. Truly I can't do it." "Rot. You can do it without feeling it." And he assumed a facetious air. "Just your autograph--that's all I ask for. I'll write out the cheque myself--save you all trouble. Just sign your name." "No, I'm very sorry; but it's impossible." He got up, and began to walk about the room, fuming angrily. "Then I shall draw on the firm." "Then I shall have to call in Mr. Prentice, and ask him to protect the firm--to go to the law courts if necessary." "Oh, that's all my aunt. I've had enough of Mr. Prentice--Mr. Prentice isn't my wet nurse." "Dick, be reasonable. Be kind to me. Don't you see, yourself, that--" "I'm not going to have you and old Prentice treating me as if I was a baby in arms--lecturing, and preaching to me about the firm. You and Prentice aren't the firm. I'm just as much the firm as you are." "Have I put myself forward? Do I ever deny your rights?" "Be damned to Prentice." He took his hands out of his overcoat pockets, and brandished them furiously. "Prentice was my enemy from the very beginning;" and he raised his voice. It seemed as if he was purposely working himself into a passion. "I was a fool to submit to his bounce. I ought to have had a marriage settlement--money properly settled on me--and I was a fool to let him jew me out of it." "I gave you a half share." "Yes, in the business--but _only_ the business." "Wasn't that enough for you?" "Yes, in good times, no doubt. But what about bad times? And what the devil did I know of the business before I came into it? Nothing was explained to me. I came in blindfold. I took everything on trust." "Oh, I think you understood it was a paying concern." "It wasn't _proved_ to me, anyhow. No one took the trouble to let me see the books--and give me the plain figures. Oh, no, that would have been beneath your dignity." "Or beneath yours, Dick?" "Yes, and I was a fool to consider my dignity. That was old Prentice again. I suppose he took his cue from you. You had put your heads together, and decided that I was to behave like the good boy in the copy-books. Open your mouth and shut your eyes, and see what God will send you." "Dick, please--please don't go on." Suddenly he stopped walking about, leaned his hands on the table, and stared across at her. "Suppose the entire business goes to pot. What then?" "The business will recover, and continue--if it isn't drained to death." "Yes, but it's all mighty fine for _you_. You can afford to take a lofty tone. Fat years are followed by lean years--We must wait for the fat years again. I know all that cut and dried cackle--it's the way people of property always talk. I came in with nothing--please to remember that. I'm absolutely dependent on the business--if the profits go down to nothing, am I to starve?" "You shan't starve;" and she looked round the comfortable, well-furnished room. "_You_ had your private fortune--all that you'd put by,--and I suppose you have got all of it still." "How can I have it all--when you know what I gave to Enid?" "You gave Enid a dashed sight too much--but you had plenty left, in spite of that." "Dick, on my honour, I hadn't a large amount left. I used to count myself a rich woman, but I was only relying on the business. What I took out one year I put back into it another year. I was always trying to improve it." "I'll swear you haven't put any back since you married me." "No, I haven't." "No, that I'll swear." He had lowered his voice, and he was speaking with a scornful intensity. "No, good times or bad times in the shop, you are content to pouch your dividends from all your stocks and shares, and sit watching your nest-egg grow bigger and bigger, while--" "Dick! You are tiring me out. Don't go on." "Yes, I will go on. You started it--and now I mean to get to the bottom of things. Let's get to plain figures at last. What are you worth now--of your very own--apart from the firm?" "Not one penny more than I need--for my own safety." "Ha-ha! You're afraid to tell me." "Why should I tell you? Dick, don't go on. It's cruel of you to bully me--when I'm so tired." "Twenty thousand? Thirty thousand? How much? Oh, I dare say I can figure it out for myself--without your help. Say twelve or fifteen hundred a year, coming in like clockwork. Why I saved you two-fifty a year myself, by cutting down what you intended to settle on Enid and that skinny rascal of a horse-coper." "Dick--for pity's sake--" "Then answer me." And he raised his voice louder than before. "What are you doing with your private income?" "This house costs _something_." "Oh, this house can't stand you in much. Where does the rest go--if you aren't saving it? Are you giving it to Enid?... That's it, I suppose. If that lazy swine wants two hundred to buy himself another thoroughbred hunter, I suppose he sends Enid sneaking over here--when my back's turned--and just taps you for it. You don't refuse _him_. But if _I_ come to you, it's 'No, certainly not. Do you want to ruin me?'" "Dick!" "Then, will you let me have it?" Her face was drawn and haggard; she looked at him with piteous, imploring eyes; and she hesitated. But the hesitation was caused by dread of his wrath, and not by doubt as to her reply. "Dick. I am sorry. But I cannot do it." "Is that your answer?" "Yes, that is my answer." "Very good." He snatched up his hat, clapped it on the back of his head, and stood for a few moments staring at her vindictively. Then, clenching his fist and striking the table, he burst into a storm of abuse.... "But you'll be sorry for this, my grand lady. I'll make you pay for it before I've done with you." This was after he had been raving at her for a couple of minutes, and his voice had become hoarse. "You'll learn better--or I'll know the reason why." Then he turned, flung open the door, and stamped out of the room. "What do you want here--you prying old hag? Stand on one side, unless you wish me to pitch you down the stairs." Outside on the landing he had found Yates hastily moving away from the dining-room door. Terrified by the noise, she had been irresistibly drawn towards the room where her mistress was suffering. She longed to aid, but did not dare. She came into the room now, and saw Mrs. Marsden leaning back in her chair, white and nearly breathless, looking half dead. "Oh, ma'am--oh, ma'am! Whatever are we to do?" "It's all right, Yates. Don't distress yourself. It's nothing.... Mr. Marsden lost his temper for the moment--but I assure you, it's all right." "Let me get you upstairs to bed." "No, leave me alone, please. I am quite all right--but I'll stay here quietly for a little while.... Go to bed, yourself. Don't sit up for me." And her mistress was so firm that Yates felt reluctantly compelled to obey orders. An hour passed; and Mrs. Marsden still sat before the fire, alone with her thoughts in the silent house. And then a totally unexpected sound startled her. The front door had been opened and shut; there were footsteps on the stairs: the master of the house had returned, to resume the conversation. But to resume it in a very different tone.--He took off his hat and coat, came to the fire, warmed his hands; and then, resting an elbow on the mantelpiece, smilingly looked down at his wife. "Jane, I'm penitent.... Really and truly, I'm ashamed of myself for letting fly at you just now. But you did rile me awfully by saying you hadn't _got_ the money. Anyhow, I've come back to ask for pardon." "Or have you come back to ask for the money again?" "No, no. Wash that out. If you don't want to part, there's no more to be said. Forget all about it. Wash it all out. The word is, As you were--eh?... Old Girl?" He was leaning down towards her, putting out his hand; and she was shrinking away from him, watching him with terror in her eyes. Before the hand could touch her face, she sprang from the chair and threw it over, to make a barrier against his movement. "Janey! What's the matter with you? You naughty girl-- I've apologised, haven't I? Let bygones be bygones--won't you?" She had run round the table, and was standing where he had stood an hour ago. As he advanced she dodged away from him, keeping the length or the breadth of the table between them. "Janey? What are you playing at? Hide and Seek--Catch who, Catch can? How silly you are!" "Then stop. Don't touch me." "Well, I never!" He had stopped, and he laughed gaily. "What next? This is a funny way to treat your lord and master. Janey, dear, you are forgetting your duties. You're very, very naughty." He laughed again, and joined his hands in an attitude of devotion. "There, I'm praying to you--like a repulsed sweetheart, and not like a husband who is being set at defiance. Dicky prays you to make it up. Janey, be nice--be good.... Dear old Janey--don't you know what this means?" "Yes--it means that you want the money very badly." Her face, that till now was so white, had flushed to a bright crimson. "What a horrid thing to say! I'd forgotten all about the money. Why can't _you_ forget it?... No, hang the money. Money isn't everything.... But, Jane, I've been thinking--for a long time--about the way you and I are going on together." And he changed his tone again, and spoke with affected solemnity. "It isn't _right_, you know. It has been going on a good deal too long, Janey--and it's just how real estrangements begin.... I don't know which of us is to blame--but I want to get back into our jolly old ways." "That's impossible. We can never get back." "Oh, rot, my dear. Skittles to that. When we used to have a tiff--well, we always made it up soon. It was like a lovers' squabble, and it only made us fonder of each other.... Janey, I want to make it up." And with outstretched arms he advanced a step or two, pausing as she retreated. "Oh, Janey--how can you?" Then he brought out all the old seductions--the half-closed eyes, from which the simulated light of love was glittering; the half-opened lips, that trembled with a mimic passion; the soft caressing tones, made to vibrate with echoes of a feigned desire. To her it was all horrible--the most miserable of failures, an effort to charm that merely produces disgust. But he never was able to read her thoughts. He acted his little comedy to the end--like the cockbird who has started his amatory dance to fascinate the timid hen, he was perhaps too busy to observe results till the dance had finished. "Dick--I implore you. Stop this hideous pretence." Then he saw how entirely he had failed. "All that is done with forever." Her face had become livid; she shivered, and her mouth twitched, as if a wave of nausea had come sweeping upward to her brain. "On my side it is dead--utterly dead;" and she struck her breast with a closed hand. "On your side it never existed.... So don't--don't think I can ever be deceived again." And she spoke with a concentrated force that completely staggered him. "If you didn't understand it--if you attempted to compel me, I believe--before God--that I should go out and buy a revolver, and kill myself--or kill you." "I say. Steady." He shrugged his shoulders, and turned away. Before he spoke again, he had picked up the overturned chair and seated himself by the fire. "Very well, Jane. I twig;" and he laughed languidly. "I'm not such a cad as to make love to a lady against her will. I'm all obedience. The next overture must come from you." She could read his thoughts always, though he could never read hers. Moreover, he had ceased to act, and perhaps made no attempt to conceal the sense of relief that sounded with such a brutal plainness. "But we can be friends, Dick--if you don't make it impossible. There must be shreds of our self-respect left. We can patch them together--if you don't tear them into smaller pieces." "Oh, you're having it all your own way now." "I'm bound to you; and I won't rebel--unless you drive me to despair. I'm your wife still." As she said it, a sob choked the last words, and tears suddenly filled her eyes. "I'm your wife still. I'll carry the chain--until you consent to break it." "By Jove, you _are_ on the high rope to-night." "Now, about this money?" And she wiped her eyes, and blew her nose. "You've proved to me that you must have it. You've shown that you wouldn't shrink from any--from any ordeal in order to get it." He looked round with reawakened interest. "I do want it most damnably, or of course I wouldn't have asked you for it." "Then for this once I suppose I must give it to you." "Jane! Do you really mean it?" "Yes. I'll give it you, if you'll tell me that you understand--if you'll promise that this shall be the very last time.... But with or without the promise, it will be useless to apply to me again." "There's my hand on it." He promised freely and readily. XVIII Next day she was too tired to get up for the morning service, but she went to St. Saviour's church in the evening. More and more she loved the quiet hours spent in church. Here, and only here, she was safely shut up in the world of her own thoughts, and could feel certain that the thread of ideas would not be snapped by a rough voice, or her nerves be shaken by the unanticipated violence of some fresh misfortune. And St. Saviour's was even more restful at night than in the daytime. She listened automatically to the beautiful opening prayer; and then she retired deep into herself. Except for the chancel, the building was dimly lighted. The roof and the empty galleries were almost hidden by shadows; lamps reflected themselves feebly from the dark wood-work; and the people, sitting wide apart from one another in the sparsely occupied pews, seemed vague black figures and not strong living men and women. Each time that she rose, she looked from the semi-darkness towards the brilliant light of the chancel--at the white surplices and the shining faces of the choir, the golden tubes of the organ, and the soft radiance that flashed from the brass of the altar rails. But all the while, whether she sat down or stood up, her thoughts were struggling in darkness and vainly seeking for the faintest glimmer of light. She thought of her husband and of the shop. He was holding her, would hold her as a tied and gagged prisoner surrounded with the dark chaos that he had caused. How could she save herself--or him? He concealed facts from her; he told her lies; he never let her hear of a difficulty until it was too late to find any means of escape. And she thought of the destruction of her whole lifework. She saw it certainly approaching--the only possible end to such a partnership. All that she had laboriously constructed was to be stupidly beaten down. The splendid old business would infallibly be ruined. No business, however firmly established, can withstand the double attack of gross mismanagement and reckless depletion of its funds. As she thought of it, those words of her inveterately active rival echoed and re-echoed. A leak, and no chance of stopping the leak--disaster foreseen, but not to be averted. The leak was too great. All hands at the pumps would not save the ship. A new and if possible more poignant bitterness filled her mind. It was another long-drawn agony that lay before her; and it seemed to her, looking back at the older pain, that this was almost worse. Confusion, entanglement, darkness--no light, no hope, no chance of opening the track that leads from chaos to security. Bitter, oh, most bitter--to taste the failure one has not deserved, to work wisely and be frustrated by folly, to watch passively while all that one has created and believed to be permanent is slowly demolished and obliterated. Quite automatically, she had stood up again, and was looking towards the brightly illuminated choir. They were singing the appointed psalms now; and, as half consciously she listened to each chanted verse, the words wove themselves into the burden of her thoughts.... ... "They have compassed me about also ... and fought against me without cause." Altogether without cause. There was the pity of it. If only he would curb his insensate greed, put some check or limit to his excesses, the business would soon recover from the shaking he had given it; and then there would be enough to maintain him in idleness for the rest of his days. She would work for him, if he would but let her. ... "For the love that I had unto them, lo, they take now my contrary part." Yes, in all things he would frustrate her efforts. ... "Thus have they rewarded me evil for good; and hatred for my good will." The good will! How much value had he knocked off the good will already? If they tried to turn themselves into a company to-morrow, what price could they put down for it? Soon there would be no good will left. "Set thou an ungodly man to be ruler over him; and let Satan stand at his right hand." Ah! There spoke the implacable voice of the Hebrew king. No mercy for the ungodly. "When sentence is given upon him, let him be condemned, and let his prayer be turned into sin." Ah! There again. "Let his days be few; and let another take his office." She listened now fully, as the verses of condemnation followed one another in a dreadful sequence. That was the spirit of the Old Testament. The God of those days was anthropomorphic, a god of battles, a leader, a fighter: the friend of our friends, but the foe to our foes. He taught one to fight against the most desperate odds--and not to forgive enemies, but to punish them. And to-night the spirit in her own breast responded to the ancient barbarity of creed. That softer doctrine of the Gospel, with its soothingly mystical miracles of forgiveness, was not substantial enough for the stern facts of life. She felt too sore and too sick for the aid that comes veiled with inscrutable symbolism, and seems to martyrize when it seeks to save. All that faith was beautiful but dim, like the unsubstantiality of these church columns ascending through the shadows to the darkness that hid the roof. The reality was before her eyes, where in the strong light those men stood firmly on their own feet, and, singing the grand old psalm, craved swift retribution for the ungodly. These harder thoughts soon faded. As always happened, the hour in church did her good. Self-pity, except as the most transient emotion, was well nigh impossible to her. Courage was always renewing itself, and she could not long retard the heightening glow that succeeded each fit of depression. After all, she was in no worse a fix than when her first husband threw a ruined business on her hands. While there's life there's hope. To her surprise she found Mr. Prentice waiting for her outside the church porch. "Good evening, Mr. Prentice;" and she looked at him anxiously. "Nothing wrong, I hope?" "No, no," said Mr. Prentice jovially. "The fact is, my wife is on the sick list again; and as I'm at a loose end, I've come round to ask if you could give me a bit of supper." The real fact was that earlier in the day he had seen Mr. Marsden driving to the railway station with a valise and dressing-case on the box of the fly. He knew that this gentleman was by now safe in London, and he had grasped an opportunity of seeing his old friend alone. He desired, and intended if possible, to cheer her up and put new heart into her. "Come along then." She was obviously pleased to accept his company. "But I'm afraid there won't be much supper--because Richard is away to-night." "I'm not hungry. I over-ate myself at dinner--I always over-eat on Sundays. Bread and cheese will do me grandly." "We'll try to produce something better than that"; and Mrs. Marsden bustled up the stairs, calling loudly for Yates. Yates produced some cold meat; and Mr. Prentice said he thought it delicious. Yates herself waited upon them. The cupboard that contained the master's strong drink was of course locked; but there was a supply of good soda water accessible, and Yates ran out and bought some doubtful whisky. Mr. Prentice, however, declared that the whisky was excellent. His kind face beamed; he chaffed Yates, and made her toss her head and giggle as she filled his glass; he chatted gaily and easily with his hostess;--he was so friendly, so genial, so thoroughly welcome, that this was the happiest supper seen in St. Saviour's Court for a very long time. No fire had been lighted in the drawing-room, so when their meal was done they sat together by the dining-room fire. "What pleasant hours," said Mr. Prentice, looking round at the familiar walls, "what pleasant, pleasant hours I've spent in this room. Those autumn dinners--with Mears and the rest! How I used to enjoy them!" "You helped us to enjoy them." "You've discontinued them altogether--haven't you?" "Yes. Not without regret, both my husband and I decided that we could not keep up that little festival. Of course you know, we have been obliged to cut down expenses wherever possible. The times are not very good." Of course he knew very well all about her difficulties in the house and in the shop. "Better times are coming," he said cheerily. "I hear on all sides of the low ebb of trade. It's a regular commercial crisis. But things are going to improve. The rotten enterprises will go down, and the really sound ones will come out stronger than ever." "Oh, I forgot. You like to smoke--but I'm afraid the cigars are locked up, too." "I've plenty in my pocket--if you're sure you don't mind." She laughed amiably. "How can you ask? I'm quite smoke-dried. I let Richard smoke all over the house." While he cut his cigar and lit it, he thought how wonderful she was--with the mingled pride and courage that allowed her always to speak of her Richard as if he had been everything that a husband should be. He sat smoking for a few minutes in a comfortable silence, while she, with her hands placidly clasped upon her lap, gazed reflectively at the fire. "Now," he said, holding his cigar over the fender and gently tapping it until the whitened ash fell, "there are one or two little things that I'd like to talk to you about." She raised her eyes, and looked at him attentively. "Nothing really worrying," he said quickly. "And something which you'll consider very much the reverse. But I'll keep that for the last.... I had a call the other day from your son-in-law, Mr. Kenion." "Did you?" "Yes. Amongst other matters, he went for me about the marriage settlement;" and Mr. Prentice laughed and nodded his head. "You know, he says that Enid ought to have been given power to raise money for his advancement in life. His friends had told him it is always done, when the wife has the money; and he thought that the trustees ought to manage it somehow--because he has been offered a great opening. You'll smile when you hear what it was." "What was it?" "There was a fellow called Whitehouse who used to be Young's riding-master; and it seems he has made some money in London, and set up a smart livery stable--and he proposed that Mr. Kenion should join forces with him. Mr. Kenion was to go about the country, buying horses--and so on.... But I only mentioned this to amuse you. Of course I said Bosh--not to be thought of." "It does not sound very promising, or very reputable." "Besides, where did Enid come in? Was she to accompany him, or to stay moping at home by herself?... Do you see much of them out there?" Mrs. Marsden confessed that she had not as yet ever seen the Kenions in their home. "It isn't that there's the least bad blood between us," she hastened to add. "No, dear Enid and I are now the best of friends. Ever since her marriage she has been sweet to me. But life rushes on so fast--and married women are not free agents. When Richard is away, I consider myself responsible in the shop." "Just so." And Mr. Prentice, puffing out some smoke, looked at the ceiling. "By the by, that's rather an awkward dispute that Mr. Marsden has let himself into with those German people." "What is the dispute?" "Hasn't he told you about it?" "I don't seem to remember--but no doubt he told me." "Well, if he hasn't it's a good sign: because it probably means that he intends to act on my advice after all." Then he explained the odious mess that Marsden had made of his American office equipments. It appeared that, when arranging to sell these wretched things for a handsome commission, he had undertaken to send his principals accurate monthly reports and immediately account for all moneys received; and had further bound himself, in default of carrying out the precise provisions of the agreement, to take over at catalogue price the entire stock that had been entrusted to his care. But he had sent no reports; he had forgotten all his undertakings; he had received cash for three small articles and had never furnished any account; and the Germans said the goods now belonged to him, and not to them. Mr. Prentice declared that it was the most imprudent agreement he had ever read; and, although speaking guardedly, he implied that in his opinion no one but a fool would have signed it. But there it was, signed and stamped; and he did not see how you could wriggle out of it. "Your husband vowed that he wouldn't give in to them. But I told him, from the first, that he hadn't a leg to stand on." "I'll persuade him not to go to law about it." "Yes, I'm sure it will be best to settle the wrangle. You see, he took such a high tone with them that they've turned nasty--talk big about obtaining goods under false pretences, and so on. But that's bluster--they'll be glad enough to get their money." She remembered her thoughts in church. It was hopeless. He kept her in the dark. No business could stand it--the double attack: bleeding and buffeting at the same time. He would destroy their credit too; these continual blunders and the attempts to repudiate obligations would become known; and the firm would acquire a bad name. "Don't look so grave, my dear. Your husband must pay up, and make the best of it.... And now for my _bonne bouche_." Mr. Prentice's eyes twinkled with kindly merriment; and he spoke slowly, in immense enjoyment of his words. "This is something from which you cannot fail to derive benefit. It is what I have always been hoping for. It will altogether relieve the pressure." "What is it?" "Well--immediately facing you there is a large and flourishing organization, known to the world as--" "O, Mr. Prentice!" Her face had brightened, but now it clouded once more. "Don't say you are going to tell me again that Bence is smashing." "Yes, my dear, I am. A most tremendous smash!" And Mr. Prentice repeated the old story in a slightly altered form. According to his certain knowledge, Archibald Bence was vainly striving to raise money--was moving heaven and earth to obtain even a comparatively small sum. About a year ago, one of Bence's bad brothers had been bought out of the business; then the other brother died, and Bence was compelled to satisfy the claims of the widow and children; and since that period he had been drawing nearer and nearer to his catastrophe. Now he was done for, unless he could get some capital to replace what had been taken from him. For years he had been working with the finest possible margin of cash to support his credit. At last he had cut it too fine. The wholesale trade were tired of the risk they had run in dealing with him. They would not supply him any further, unless he showed them first his penny for each reel of cotton or yard of tape. "But what makes you believe all this?" "I am not free to mention the sources of my information. There is such a thing as backstairs knowledge." Mr. Prentice nodded his head, and smiled enigmatically, as he said this. Then he went on to speak of the solicitors who acted for Bence. Messrs. Hyde & Collins were held in supreme contempt by old-fashioned Mr. Prentice. They were--as he never scrupled to say--sharp practitioners, shady beggars, dirty dogs; and at the offices in the side street that gives entrance to Trinity Square, they looked after the dubious affairs of a lot of shabby clients. It was a bad sign when a Mallingbridge citizen went to Hyde & Collins: it meant that his finances were shaky, or that he had become involved in some disreputable transaction. "It was enough for me," said Mr. Prentice, "to know that Bence was in their hands. I guessed six years ago what would come of it." "Yes, but guesses, guesses! What are guesses?" "My dear, you have only to _look_ at Bence now. It is written in his face--a desperate man." And Mr. Prentice reminded Mrs. Marsden of the fact that from his office windows he had an uninterrupted view down the side street to the front door of Hyde & Collins. Well, every day, and two or three times a day, Archibald Bence could be seen hurrying to his solicitors--a man driven by despair, a gold-seeker amidst unyielding rocks, a poor famished little rat scampering to and fro in quest of food. "Of course," said Mr. Prentice, with a touch of pity in his voice, "it's his brothers who have done for him. They have literally sucked him dry. Really, if it wasn't for _you_, I could almost feel sorry for him. But the dirty tricks he has played you put him out of court." "I wonder," said Mrs. Marsden, thoughtfully looking into the fire. "Don't wonder," said Mr. Prentice jovially. "Just wait and see. You won't have long to wait." "I wish you could find out for certain." "I _am_ certain.... Well, you always get one's little secrets out of one. I've no right to mention this. But Hyde & Collins recently approached one of my own clients--to find out if he had more money than brains. Coupled with the other information, that clinches it.... I stake my reputation--for what it's worth--that unless Mr. Archibald procures help within the next fortnight, he will have to put up his shutters." "A fortnight," said Mrs. Marsden absently. Then they talked of something else, and soon Mr. Prentice bade his hostess good-night. It had been a pleasant evening for her--a respite from the storm and stress of the days. But when she slept, the respite was immediately over; in dreams she fell back upon doubt and difficulty; in troubled and confused dreams she was desperately fighting for life. XIX At last Mrs. Marsden went to see her daughter, and in the next few months she paid many visits. Enid had written, asking her to come as soon as possible, and giving her a reason why she must not refuse this invitation. Enid had just discovered that she was going to have a baby. The happy event was not expected until the spring; but Enid said she longed to see her mother without an hour's avoidable delay. Mrs. Marsden telegraphed her reply. She would come out to-morrow, Thursday--early closing day--directly after luncheon. In the old days she would have driven in one of Mr. Young's luxurious landaus; but now she travelled by train, in a second class carriage, and walked the mile and a half from Haggart's Road station to the Kenions' converted farmhouse. The day was bright and fine; and the air felt quite mild, although there had been a sharp frost overnight. She had hoped that Enid might feel up to walking, and perhaps meet her at the station--or somewhere on the road, if the station was too far. But she saw no friendly face on the straight road, along which she plodded with resolute vigour. Two road-menders near a quaint little stone church directed her to the house. It was situated on sufficiently high ground, at the end of an accommodation lane; and, as she passed through the gate and walked up the little carriage drive, she thought it all looked very nice and comfortable. The house itself seemed old and rather humble--less attractive than she had anticipated; but the large outbuildings gave the place a certain air of importance and gentility. She caught a glimpse of the capacious stableyard, saw a groom crossing it, and heard voices from an invisible saddle-room--Mr. Kenion's voice, as she believed among the rest. The thick-growing ivy on the walls was pretty, but it would have been the better for cutting; and the garden, on this side of the house, appeared to be sadly neglected. The front door stood open; and while she waited for somebody to answer the bell, she had an opportunity of glancing at the decorations of the hall. They had all been paid for by her purse, so she was fairly entitled to look at them critically if she pleased. She liked the appearance of the painted ceiling-beams, the panelled dado, the modern basket grate with the blue and white tiles; but she did not so much like the sporting prints, the heads and tails of foxes, the hats and coats lying so untidily on all the chairs, the immense number of whips and sticks, and the ugly glass case that held horses' bits and men's spurs and stirrups. _That_ was a decoration more suitable to Mr. Kenion's harness room than to Mrs. Kenion's hall. She could hear the servants talking somewhere quite near; and yet they could not hear the bell, although she had rung it loudly enough three times. Presently, as if by chance, a maid showed herself. "Not at home," said the maid briskly. Mrs. Marsden gave her name, and explained that the mistress of the house would certainly be at home to her. "Very good, ma'am," said the maid, doubtfully. "Step this way, and I'll tell her. She's upstairs, lying down, I think." Then Mrs. Marsden was shown into what she supposed to be the drawing-room, and left waiting there. There was something rather chilling and disappointing in the whole manner of her reception at the home that she had provided for Enid and her husband. She was allowed plenty of time to examine more ceiling beams and blue tiles, to admire photographs in silver frames, or to read the sporting newspapers and magazines that littered every table. The room was pretty--but dreadfully untidy. She walked over to one of the windows, and looked out. There had been no greater attempt at gardening on this side of the house than on the other: the few shrubs were overgrown; the gravel paths had almost disappeared under moss and weeds. Beyond iron railings she saw the grass fields that Enid had said were like a park. As a park they were completely disfigured by some ugly buildings with corrugated iron roofs--really hideous erections, which she guessed to be horseboxes. In each meadow there was an artificially made jump for the horses; and, looking farther away, she saw that these sham obstacles together with the natural banks and hedges formed a miniature steeplechase course. With a sigh she turned from the windows. Indoors and out of doors there was too much evidence of the husband's amusements, and not enough evidence of the wife's tastes and occupations. The whole place was altogether too much like a bachelor's home to please Enid's mother. Suddenly the door opened, and Kenion slouched in. He had his hands in the pockets of his riding breeches; and he looked gloomy, worried, anything but glad to see the visitor. It was the first time that they had met since the wedding, and it proved rather an unfortunate meeting. "How do you do--Mr. Charles?" "Oh, you've come after all. You got the news, I suppose?" "Yes, indeed I have." "Beastly unlucky, isn't it?" "What's that?" "But I _am_ unlucky." "_Unlucky_, Mr. Kenion!" Mrs. Marsden had flushed; and her face plainly expressed the anger and contempt that she felt. "No one can say I'm to blame," Kenion went on gloomily and grumblingly. "I'd have given fifty pounds to prevent its happening. It wasn't _my_ fault. I knew she was as clever as a cat. I thought she _couldn't_ make a mistake." "Mr. Kenion," said Mrs. Marsden hotly, "if you aren't ashamed to speak like this, I am ashamed to listen to you." "Eh--what?" "Where is Enid?" And she moved towards the door. "I think your attitude is unmanly--mean--and _despicable_; and I wish--yes, I wish Enid's child was going to have a better father." "Eh--what?" "If you had a spark of proper feeling, you'd rejoice, you'd thank God that this--this great blessing was coming to her." Kenion suddenly bent his thin back, and became completely doubled up with a fit of cackling laughter. "It's too comic," he spluttered. "Best thing I ever heard--Ought to be sent to _Punch_!" "If you are joking, Mr. Kenion, I'm sorry for your ideas of fun." "No. No--don't be angry. You'll laugh when you see the joke. Of course you"--and again his own laughter interrupted him--"you--you were talking about Enid's baby.... Well, _I_ was talking about Mrs. Bulford's mare." Then he explained the disaster that had befallen them. A very valuable animal, the property of a friend, had been placed in his charge to train it for a point-to-point race; and this morning it had broken its back over one of the artificial jumps. "And we were all so upset--Enid has been crying about it--that I sent you a telegram, telling you what had happened, and asking you not to come out to-day. But you never got it really?" "No, it must have arrived after I started." "Well, I'm glad you've come--for you have given me a good laugh. Though Heaven knows"--and he became gloomy again--"it isn't a laughing matter. I wonder I was able to laugh." Then Enid came into the room. There were red rims round her eyes, and her nose seemed swollen; evidently she had shed many tears. "Mother dear, isn't this dreadful?" "Yes, dear." "I'm so sorry for poor Charles." "So am I, dear," said Mrs. Marsden. "But we must be glad that he himself escaped without injury." "Oh, I wasn't riding her," said Charles. "No," said Enid. "Tom was riding her--and he has broken his collar bone." "Yes," said Charles, plunging his hands deep in his pockets and hunching his shoulders. "That's another bit of luck. My second-horseman laid up, just when I most wanted him." "It was the frost in the ground," said Enid sadly. "All the frost seemed to be gone;" and she turned to her husband. "Charlie, it wasn't your fault. Mrs. Bulford _can't_ blame you." "No, I don't believe she will. She's a stunner--but Bulford may kick up a fuss." "Oh, how can he? He knew that the mare had to be trained." Mrs. Marsden made this first visit a very short one. The host and hostess were too much perturbed and agitated to entertain visitors. Next time she came out, Enid was less preoccupied with her husband's affairs, and able to talk freely of her own hopes. She clung to her mother affectionately, and once again was the new Enid who had knelt by the sofa and sobbed her gratitude for past kindness. Each kept up the pretence of being satisfied and contented in her married life. Enid never had a bad word to say of Charles; and Mrs. Marsden spoke of Richard with as yet unabated courage. In fact there was probably no one with whom she was so very careful to maintain a decorous appearance of connubial happiness as with the daughter who, by the light of her own experience, would most surely detect the imposture. But behind the dual reticences there was an ever increasing sympathy. The hard facts which neither would admit were drawing them nearer and nearer together. So that it seemed sometimes that on all subjects except the two forbidden subjects they were now absolutely of the same mind. When Enid noticed the careworn, harassed look in her mother's face, she used at once to think, "That brute has committed some fresh villainy during the week." But what she said was something after this style: "Mother dear, I'm afraid you have been working too hard"; or "Mother dear, you ought to have had a fly from the station. I am afraid the walk has fatigued you." And when Mrs. Marsden saw Enid's worried, nervous manner, the traces of more tears about the pretty grey eyes, she thought, "This selfish beast has been tormenting her again. I suppose he does everything short of beating her; and perhaps he'll do that before very long." But she merely said, "Enid, my dear, I hope you have had no more bother about the horses. You mustn't let Charles' worries set you fretting--especially _now_." The indications of Mr. Kenion's selfishness were so painfully plain that little penetration was required to understand the discomfort that they caused. No wife, however loyal, could feel any peace or comfort with such a self-centred, insensible, shallow-pated companion. Whenever he appeared he made Mrs. Marsden supremely uncomfortable. When indoors he was always restless. He wandered aimlessly about the house, coming in and out of rooms, fidgetting and bothering about trifles--behaving generally like the spoilt and rather vicious child who on wet days renders existence intolerable to all the grown-up people compelled to remain under the same roof with him. "Hullo! More tea!" And he would come lounging after the maid who was bringing in the tea-things. "It seems as if you are having tea from morning to night. What? I tell Enid she drinks a lot too much tea--and it only makes her jumpy and peevish." He himself drank very little tea; and Mrs. Marsden gathered that not the least of Enid's anxieties was occasioned by his intemperance. But this was a summer trouble. In the hunting season men who regularly ride hard can also regularly drink hard without apparently hurting themselves. Once when Mrs. Marsden was about to set out for her lonely tramp to the station, Enid with some very pretty words asked her for a photograph. "There's not one of you in all the house, mother--and I want one now badly.... If it is to be a girl, I want her to be like you--in all things, mother--and not like me." Mrs. Marsden was more deeply touched by this request than she cared to show. She kissed Enid smilingly, patted her hand, and promised to send out a portrait. There was one in the drawing-room at home, which no doubt Mr. Marsden could spare. Then, while putting on her gloves and talking cheerfully, she glanced at Enid's collection of photographs in the silver frames. "Who is that lady, Enid?" "Oh, that's Mamie Bulford." Several of the frames contained pictures of this important personage, who appeared to be a hard-visaged but rather handsome woman of thirty or thirty-five. She was enormously rich, Enid said, and madly keen about hunting; and she and her husband lived at a beautiful place called Widmore Towers, two miles the other side of Linkfield village. This year Charlie was acting as her pilot in the hunting field; and four horses were kept at the Towers solely for the pilot's use. "Charlie," said Enid, "is such a magnificent pilot--for anyone who means going. And Mamie _will_ be there, or thereabouts, don't you know, all the time." "Does not Mr. Bulford go out hunting?" "Major Bulford! Yes, but he's crocked--stiff leg--so he hunts on wheels--follows in a dog-cart. That's rather fun, you know. You see a lot of sport that way." "Yes, dear, I remember you said you were going to do that, yourself." And Mrs. Marsden asked about the pony-cart that was to have been procured for Enid. But the pony-cart had become impossible--and Enid vaguely hinted at hard times, difficulty of finding spare cash for expenses that were not urgently necessary, and so on. Besides, it was a perambulator and not a pony carriage that Mr. Kenion must now buy. The baby--a girl--was born early in April. Mrs. Marsden tried but failed to get a fly at Haggart's Road station, and almost ran for the mile and a half that still separated her from her daughter. Everything was all right; mother and child were doing well; it was the finest and most beautiful infant that had ever been seen. The grandmother, eagerly scanning its tiny features, was gratified by recognizing the mother's grey eyes and what might be taken for the first immature sketch of her long nose. She was, if possible, more pleased by her inability to trace the faintest resemblance to the father. When in a few days she came again, it was to find Enid radiantly happy and picking up strength delightfully. And at this visit Mrs. Marsden's heart was made to overflow by the things that Enid said to her. Amongst the things was the emphatic statement that the child should be called Jane, and that her grandmother should also be her godmother. Mr. Kenion accepted his blessing phlegmatically. "Pity it isn't a boy," he said to Mrs. Marsden. Enid said he hid his delight. It was a pose. He was really revelling in the joy of being a father. But he had not yet bought the perambulator. He asked his mother-in-law's advice--because, as he said, she was "up in that sort of thing." Did people hire perambulators, or buy them right out? Could one get a decent perambulator in Mallingbridge, or would one have to go fagging up to London? Mrs. Marsden bought the perambulator, and sent it with her love in the carrier's cart; and Mr. Kenion told Enid that he hoped her mother hadn't given much for it, because it didn't look worth much. Once, before the christening, Enid slightly attacked those diplomatic barriers of reserve that had been established by tacit consent between her and her mother. She nervously and timidly asked if Mr. Marsden would mind not coming to the little feast. But Mrs. Marsden was on the defensive in a moment. Even at this auspicious and sentimental time she could not permit any breach in her barrier. She said that her husband was generally considered very good company, and he would have no wish to go where he was not wanted. "It is only," said Enid, "because I should be afraid of Charles and him not getting on well together--and I do so want everything to go off happily. You know, he wrote Charles a very indignant letter about the County Club." "He felt rather sore on that subject, dear--and so did I." "Really, mother, Charles did all he could; but they made him withdraw the candidature. Of course it's absurd--but they are so severe with regard to retail trade." "Well, be all that as it may," said Mrs. Marsden, "you need not disturb your mind about Richard. He could not have come in any case. I told him the date--and he is not free on that day." But for Mr. Charles, it might have been a satisfactory christening. He was a most uncomfortable host; continually getting up from the luncheon table, walking about the room, worrying the maid-servants; and wounding Enid by his facetiously disparaging remarks about the food. "Our meals are always rather a picnic," he told the guests; "so you must look out for yourselves.... I say, how am I supposed to carve this? What? A pudding! What's the good of dabbing a lot of sweets in front of people, before they've had any meat? Enid, isn't there any fish? I thought you said there was curried sole;" and he got up, and rambled away to the sideboard. "Charles," said Enid plaintively, "this is the curry--here." "What? Then fire ahead with it.... But where's Harriet disappeared to?" "She is fetching the cutlets--and the other things. Do sit down." "Oh, Harriet, here you are.... Where the dickens have you hidden the wine? This seems to be a very _dry_ party;" and he gave his stupid cackling laugh just behind Mrs. Marsden's back. "Oh, here we are. Now then, ladies and gentlemen, hock, claret, whisky and soda? Name your tipple. And please excuse short-comings." But in truth there were no short-comings. Poor Enid had tried so hard to have everything really nice--the best glass and china, pretty flowers, and dainty appetising food, sufficient for twenty people and good enough for princes. And she looked so charming at the head of the table--her face rounder and plumper than it used to be, her figure fuller, her complexion delicately glowing, her eyes shining softly,--the young mother, in what should have been the hour of her undimmed glory. Mrs. Marsden, as she listened to the cackling fool behind her chair and saw the shadow of pain take the brightness from Enid's face, bridled and grew warm. "Whisky and soda, Mrs. B?... Father, put a name to it." Mrs. Bulford--a hardy brunette, richly attired, and undoubtedly handsome, but older than she looked in her photographs--was to be the other godmother. She and the host were evidently on excellent terms, understanding each other's form of humour, possessing little secret jokes of their own--so that every time Charles cackled she had a suffocating laugh ready. The hostess called her "Mamie," and even "Mamie dear"; but Mrs. Marsden surmised that Enid did not really like her, and had not wanted her for a godmother. Old Mr. Kenion--the vicar of Chapel Norton--was white-haired, thin, and fragile; and Mrs. Marsden thought he seemed to be a good, weak, over-burdened man. His manner was mild, courteous, kindly. Mrs. Kenion was shabbily pretentious, with faded airs of fashion and dull echoes of distinguished voices. They had brought one of their daughters with them--a spinster of uncertain age in a tailor-made gown and a masculine collar. The curate of the small stone church made up the party. But old Mr. Kenion would read the christening service, and not this local clergyman. "Yes," he said, mildly beaming across the table at Mrs. Marsden, "I am to have the privilege to hold my grandchild at the font." And then presently, when the servant had poured out some hock for him, he addressed Mrs. Marsden again. "May I advert to a practice that has fallen into disuse, and drink a glass of wine with you?... To our better acquaintance, Mrs. Marsden;" and he bowed in quite a pleasant old-world style. "Bravo, governor," said Charles. "Fill, and fill again. Nothing like toasts to keep the bottle moving." "Yes, I'm sure," said the vicar's wife, with patronising urbanity; "so very pleased to make your acquaintance--at _last_, don't you know. We only _saw_ one another at the wedding." And while Charles and Mrs. Bulford took alternate parts in the telling of an anecdote, she continued to talk to Mrs. Marsden. "Of course I have known you in your _public_ capacity for years. My girls and I have always been devoted to Thompson's. 'Get it at Thompson's'--that's what they always said." She was honestly trying to be agreeable. Indeed she particularly wished to please. "All my girls said it. Is it not so, Emily?... She does not hear. She is too much amused by her brother's story.... But that was always the cry. 'Get it at Thompson's!' And I'm sure we never failed at Thompson's." "Oh, shut up, Pontius," said Mrs. Bulford, loudly. "You're spoiling the point. Let me go on by myself." "Yes, that's what you often say--but you're glad to have me ahead of you when you think there's wire about." "Will you be quiet, Pontius?" And Mrs. Bulford was allowed to finish the anecdote in her own way. Then she suffocated, and Charles cackled; but no one else, not even Mrs. Kenion, could see the point of the little tale. The local curate, a shy, pink-complexioned young man, had scarcely talked at all; but now he was endeavouring to make a little polite conversation with Enid. He said he hoped the church would be found quite warm; he had given orders that the hot-water apparatus should be set working in good time; and he thought they were, moreover, fortunate to have such genial bright weather. Sometimes April days proved treacherously cold. Then he inquired if the godfather was to be present at the ceremony. "No," said Charles, answering for his wife. "I am to be proctor--proxy--what d'ye call it?--for Jack Gascoigne, a pal of mine.... You must teach me the business, Mrs. B." "All right, Pontius," said Mrs. Bulford gaily. "Copy me." "You will not come to the church in that costume," said old Kenion, with sudden gravity. "Why not? Ain't I smart enough? These are a new pair of breeches." "Of course you must change your clothes, Pontius," said Mrs. Bulford. "I wouldn't be seen in church with you like that." Then old Kenion asked a question which Mrs. Marsden would herself have wished to ask. "Why do you call my son Pontius?" "You'd better not ask her to tell you, father. She has been very badly brought up--and she'll shock you." But Mrs. Bulford insisted upon telling the old vicar. "I call him Pontius because he is my _pilot_.... Don't you see? Pontius Pilot!... There, I _have_ shocked him;" and she gave her suffocating laugh and Charles began to cackle. His father looked distressed and confused; the curate, with the pink of his complexion greatly intensified, examined the design on a dessert plate; Mrs. Marsden frowned and bit her lip; old Mrs. Kenion opened a voluble discourse on the virtues of fresh air for young children. "I hope, Enid, that you will bring up the little one as a hardy plant. Windows wide--floods of air! I beg of you not to coddle her. I never would allow any of my children to be coddled...." Charles sat dilatorily drinking port after luncheon; and, while he changed his clothes, everybody was kept waiting with the baby at the church. That is to say, everybody except Mrs. Bulford. She stayed at the house, having promised to hustle Charles along as quickly as possible. But a shower of rain detained them; and it seemed an immense time before they finally appeared on the church path, walking arm in arm, under one umbrella. When the service was over, and a group had assembled round the perambulator at the church gate, and all were offering congratulations to the proud mother, old Mrs. Kenion gently drew Mrs. Marsden aside and spoke to her in urgent entreaty. "Now that they've given you a dear little granddaughter, you _will_ do something for them, won't you?" "But I think," said Mrs. Marsden, rather grimly, "that I _have_ done something for them." "Yes, but you'll do a little _more_ now, won't you?" "I fear that your son must not rely on me for further aid." "Oh, _do_," said Mrs. Kenion earnestly. "Poor Charles would not care to ask you himself. So I determined to take my courage in both hands, and speak to you with absolute candour. It _is_ such a tight fit for him--and _now_, with nurses and all the rest of it! We would come to the rescue so gladly, if we could--but, alas, how can we? You do know that we would, don't you, dear Mrs. Marsden?... No, please, not a definite answer now. Only think about it. Your kind heart will plead for them more eloquently than any words of mine."... Mrs. Marsden had given the nurse a sovereign. She hurried back to the church, and tipped the clerk and the pew-owner. Then she trudged off to the railway station; and went home, like Sisyphus or the Danaides, to take up her apparently impossible task. XX Two years had passed, and the grand old shop was plainly going down. It could not satisfy chance customers; it had begun to lose its staunchest supporters. Gradually and fatally, cruel words were going round the town and far out into the country villages. "It isn't what it used to be.... It has had its day.... Nothing lasts forever." Fewer and fewer carriages of the local gentry were to be seen standing outside its doors. Farmers' wives, who for more than a decade had driven into Mallingbridge and spent Saturday afternoons picking and choosing at Thompson's, now did all their shopping somewhere else. The whole world seemed to be discovering that you could get whatever you wanted quite as well and more cheaply somewhere else. And from somewhere else, your goods--no matter where you lived, whether far or near--were delivered free of charge, with marvellous celerity, and "returnable if damaged." Inside the sinking shop every assistant too well knew that horrid expression, "Somewhere else." It paralysed the tongues of the shop girls; it struck them stupid. Each time they heard it, their courage waned, their hopes drooped; they gave up struggling. "Thank you, I won't trouble you any more." "Not the least trouble, I assure you." "No, you're very good--but I'm in a hurry. I'll try somewhere else." "Very well, madam." A lost customer--no more to be done. Yet the assistants had before their eyes a fine example of unflagging courage. Of one of the partners at least, it could not be said that there was supineness, neglect, or bungling practices to account for the long-continued and increasing depression that all the employees were feeling so severely. Of the other partner, the less said the better. They could not indeed find words adequate for the expression of their opinions in regard to _him_. When Mrs. Marsden, bravely facing the situation and calmly acknowledging the logic of facts, had declared that it was imperatively necessary to reduce what in railway management are called running expenses, and at all hazards bring expenditure and receipts again to a proper working ratio, the dominant partner selfishly jumped at the idea, converted it into a fresh weapon of destruction, and used it with wicked force. Cut down the staff? Yes, this is a luminous notion. Where there have been five assistants at a counter, let us have three--or only two. "We must weed 'em out, Mears. No more cats than can catch mice! I'll soon weed 'em out." It seemed to the people behind the counters that he took a diabolical pleasure in the weeding-out process. Instead of getting through his dismissals as quickly as possible, he kept the poor souls in suspense--giving the sack to two or three every day; so that these black weeks were a reign of terror, during which one rose each morning with the dreadful doubt whether one would survive till night. When at last the executions ceased, almost every one of the important heads had fallen. Why pay high wages for subordinate chieftains when the over-lords can supervise for nothing? Mrs. Marsden received instructions to keep an eye on all departments; shop-walkers were made by giving counter-hands additional duties without additional pay; and Mr. Mears and Miss Woolfrey could respectively be considered as remaining in managerial charge of the whole ground floor and the whole first floor. The gigantic basement was in charge of darkness, damp, and the cold spirit of failure. Marsden never spoke of it himself, and might not be reminded about it by others. He wished to forget the deep hole into which he had poured so much irretrievable gold. Miss Woolfrey could not boast of having been promoted: she had merely survived: she obtained neither recompense nor praise for doing the extra work that a stern master had pushed into her way. If Mr. Mears had not been driven out into the street, it was because Marsden, whose selfish folly was sometimes tempered by a certain shrewd cunning, had definitely come to the conclusion that, bad as things were, they would be worse if he deprived himself of the help of this faithful servant. Mears had stood up to him; Mears had convinced him; Mears would never be dismissed, because Mears could never be replaced. It was perhaps some slight comfort to Mrs. Marsden to know now that her oldest shop friend would be allowed to keep his promise, and to stick to her as long as he cared to do so. Soon after the reduction of the staff, Marsden introduced another economy. Without warning he started an entirely new system of payment. Hitherto all wages had been at fixed rates, with progressive rises; and the staff, feeling security in their situations and able to look to an assured future, had worked loyally without the stimulus of commission. But Marsden said these methods were antiquated, exploded; they did very well before Noah's flood, but they wouldn't do nowadays. Henceforth everybody's screw must depend upon the commissions earned: in other words, the basis for the calculation of wages must be the amount of the shop's receipts. Mears, protesting but submitting, carried the new order into effect. "I've no objection on principle," said Mears heavily; "but you have chosen a queer time to do it, sir--just when takings have dropped to their lowest, and there's no movement in any line." Resentment, murmuring, discontent followed; half a dozen sufferers went into voluntary exile; then there was silence. And then Marsden thought of a third economy. Thompson's had ever been famed for keeping a generous table. You were sure of good sound grub, and as much of it as you could stow away, to sustain you in your toil. The kitchens and dining-rooms were controlled by a man and his wife, with four cook-maids and three waitresses; and for many years these people had given the utmost satisfaction, both to their employer and her daily guests. Now Mr. Marsden swept the lot of them out of doors. He had entered into an agreement with the cheap and nasty restaurant in High Street; and henceforth the staff would be catered for at starvation prices--so much, or rather so little, per head per meal. This was a fresh and a great misery--short commons bang on top of mutilated salaries,--almost more than one could bear. Marsden, however, felt thoroughly pleased; and was willing to believe that by the aid of his drastic remedies he had cured the evil which afflicted him. For the end of each of these two years showed a substantial profit. It was quite useless for Mrs. Marsden and Mears to point out the dangers that lay ahead, to hint that profits now were essentially fictitious, to warn him that what he had grasped at as income should more properly be described as realisation of capital, to sigh and shake their heads, and to plead for prompt renewal of diminished stock. He was too well contented with immediate results. To-day is to-day; to-morrow can take care of itself. He had given the business another ferocious squeeze; and, under the pressure, it had yielded what he wanted--some cash to keep him going. The turf was again engaging his attention; but he pursued his amusement in a far less splendid manner than during those glorious days of fine clothes and full pockets after the honey-moon. His nose had thickened, his whole face had become coarser and grosser; and flesh round his eyes showed an unhealthy puffiness, and his neck bulged large above an often dirty collar. He wore a brown bowler hat, a weather-proof overcoat, and heavy field boots; crumpled newspapers protruded from his breast, and a glass in a soiled and battered leather case was negligently slung over his shoulders. In fact he looked now like the typical racing man of the third or fourth class; and directly he reached London he mingled with and was lost in a crowd of exactly similar ruffians, hurrying together to make a train-load of disreputability and scoundrelism for Hurst Park or Kempton. But at Mallingbridge he was always noticeable. He produced a wretched impression in the shop each time that, dressed for sport, he passed through it; he was its secret destroyer and its visible disgrace; his mere appearance was sufficient to send thousands of customers somewhere else. While the cash lasted, the house saw little of him. As soon as the cash gave out, the house again groaned under his presence. Till he could set his hands on more cash, he must be lodged and boarded by the stay-at-home partner. Many were the dark and dismal days to be remembered, if his wife ever made a retrospect of two years' suffering; humiliations, griefs--darkness with but few gleams of light. Visits from Enid with the child and her nurse--an hour rescued from a long month--formed spots of brightness to look back at. But, for the rest, there was black gloom, as of moonless, starless nights. Perhaps his most malignant cruelty was the driving away of Yates. The doomed wretch struggled so hard not to be torn from the side of her beloved mistress. Mrs. Marsden knew that the struggle was futile, begged her to go; but still she tried to stay--accepting insults and abuse, and only piteously smiling at her persecutor. A cruel, most cruel hour, when one evening the shabby old trunks stood corded and waiting at the foot of the stairs, and Yates in her bonnet and shawl came into the drawing-room to say good-bye. That was the final smashing of a home, for the mistress as well as for the maid. All that made the house endurable to Mrs. Marsden had now gone from it--no sound of a friendly voice to welcome her as she came through the door of communication; no solace after the exhausting day; a strange face to meet her, unfamiliar, clumsy hands to wait upon her at the lonely supper. She never really learned to know the faces of her new servants. They changed so often. No servant would stop with them for long. The work was heavier than it used to be; after Yates had gone the mistress could not afford to keep a maid-housekeeper; in these hard times a cook and a housemaid must suffice for the establishment. Departing servants said the mistress gave little trouble; she was patient and kind; they had no fault to find with her--but the master was "a fair terror." Yet he had promised, when consummating the sacrifice of Yates, that he would refrain from again upsetting the domestic arrangements. But what promises would he not make? What promise had he ever failed to break? Once he promised not to parade his infidelity in Mallingbridge. This was after the scandal he had caused by taking a set of bachelor rooms in the new flats near the railway station, and bringing down a London woman to occupy them from Saturdays to Mondays. Every Sunday he made himself conspicuous by flaunting about the town with this brazen creature. Probably he was tired of his Sabbath promenades by the time that Mrs. Marsden resolutely declared that, for the sake of the business as well as for her own sake, she would not support so glaring an outrage. Anyhow he said it should cease, and swore that he would for the future be more circumspect. But he pretended to believe that his wife had given him a letter of license, full authority to resume the habits of bachelorhood, the freedom of manners that naturally accompanies a release from the closer bonds of the marriage state. He had never for a moment thought she would mind; but he vowed that what she was pleased to consider offensive and derogatory to the reputation of herself and the shop should never occur again. Nevertheless, it was soon known to everybody but Mrs. Marsden that he was committing more local breaches of etiquette. On idle evenings he would prowl about the streets, accosting servant girls and shop girls, loitering at corners, and laughing and chaffing with any little sluts who consented to entertain his badinage. Sense of shame and the last remembrances of shop-propriety seemed to be deserting him. Soon his own young ladies met him talking to the girls that belonged to his great trade rival. That tow-haired huzzy who regularly came mincing up St. Saviour's Court to wait for the guv'nor, was--and the thing seemed so monstrous that it was recorded in an awed whisper--neither more nor less than _a ribbon girl from Bence's_! Then, after a little while, the governor told Mears that he had engaged a new hand for the upper floor. She would come in on Monday morning, and Miss Woolfrey had better put her into China and Glass, and see how she got on there. She was good at anything, and would soon pick up the hang of everything. But what a whisper ran round the shop when the newcomer was seen by the horror-struck assistants! The tow-haired minx from over the road! It was an open and egregious scandal, shocking everybody except the unsuspecting female partner. The shop spoke of the new girl as "Miss Bence." The governor was always trotting upstairs to murmur and chuckle with Miss Bence. Someone saw him pinching Miss Bence's ear--and so on. It was another outrage that could not be permitted to continue. Sadly and heavily old Mears told Mrs. Marsden all about it. The disclosure threw her into a quite unusual agitation. She seemed to be more terrified than disgusted. It was as if, in spite of all attempts to keep a bold front before the world, the mere name of their remorseless and overwhelming rival now had power to set her apprehensively trembling. "I don't want any communications passing between Bence's and us"--And she showed that this idea was sufficient in itself to frighten her. "The girl may be a spy. She may go back there." "She won't do that," said Mears. "She was dismissed for misconduct." Mrs. Marsden seemed relieved rather than shocked by hearing this. "Besides," added Mears, "Bence never takes anyone back." "I don't want people passing backwards and forwards--on any pretext. We mustn't allow communications.... Where is Mr. Marsden? I must speak to Mr. Marsden." There was a terrific scene behind the glass, with Marsden, his wife, and Mears shut in together. Presently the cashier was summoned; books were fetched; accounts were examined. That afternoon Mrs. Marsden went round to the bank; and next day the tow-haired girl had disappeared. In the evening Mr. Marsden left Mallingbridge. It was understood that he had gone to Monte Carlo. He would not be back for a fortnight at least. Mears had said that Bence never allowed a discharged servant to return to him, and it was equally true that he never gave back a stolen customer. Bence's was the "somewhere else" to which Thompson & Marsden's customers had nearly all repaired; and of the dozens, the hundreds, who, throwing off their old allegiance, crossed the road to the opposite pavement, not one was ever seen again. Evidently the claims of those two bad brothers had somehow been satisfied. The leak was stopped; Bence had weathered the storm, and was going full speed ahead. If there was any truth in the last story of the desperate plight to which he had been reduced, the crisis had long since passed and he had emerged from his difficulties stronger than ever. If one could attach any importance to the firm belief of that sagacious solicitor, Mr. Prentice, Bence must have found the money necessary to save him. Either he had discovered a backer, or he had never needed one. Who could say what was true or false in this connection? Sometimes of course a very little money boldly hazarded will decide the fate of the very largest enterprise; but in the business world it is precisely at such times that it is almost impossible to meet with anyone shrewd enough and courageous enough to risk a small loan on the off chance of making a splendid investment. Therefore Bence had been lucky, or had not really wanted luck. He was safe now--obviously, too obviously safe, with money behind him and success before him. Employees at Thompson & Marsden's, with little else to do, watched him arrive of a morning. His twelve-year-old daughter drove him to business in a pretty basket car with a high-stepping, long-tailed pony; a smart groom who had been waiting on the pavement ascended the car in the place of the happy father, and Mr. Archibald stood smiling and kissing the tips of his fingers as the car drove away. It was a symbol of his greatness: a triumphal car. He himself was neat and natty, perfumed and oiled, smelling of success--with a flower in his coat, new wash-leather gloves on his industrious hands and a shining topper upon his clever bald head. On window-dressing days he was up and down the street half the morning. He stood with his back to Thompson's, studying the glorious effect of his displays; ran quickly from window to window, and made imperative signs to those within. He put his head one side, twirled his moustaches, rubbed his small face with a rapidly moving paw--and looked now like a sleek, well-fed little rat who meant to nibble away all the cake that the town of Mallingbridge could provide. And the windows when done--who could resist them? Is it straw hats for ladies? Do you wish one of the new fashionable Leghorns?... Two windows have turned yellow; from ceiling to floor nothing but the finest straw; here are more Leghorns than you would expect to see at a big London warehouse, more than an ignorant person would have supposed that the city of Leghorn could manufacture in a year.... See! Already his Leghorns have caught the eye of the public; young women are bustling; nursemaids with their perambulators have stopped--there is a block on the pavement, and a constable has courteously requested people to keep moving. There again, the constable is busy outside another window. Do you wish a blouse of the prevailing tint? Mauve blouses, nothing except mauve, all blouses, a window full of them--hardly to be described as for sale, almost literally to be given away. On advertised bargain-days four policemen are required to regulate the traffic; for Bence opens his doors and locks them--you must wait your turn to get inside. But on all days there is more or less of a crowd outside and inside the triumphant shop. At eleven A.M. the first batch of red carts go whirling away, round the town and far out on the country roads. This is what Bence calls his mid-day delivery. There will be two more deliveries before the day is done. If the afternoon proves foggy and dull, there comes a tremendous lightning flash along the extended frontage of Bence; and for a moment you are blinded, as you look towards his windows. Bence has turned on the electric. He makes no appointed hour for lighting up. He will have light whenever he desires it. With his outside arcs and his inside incandescents he makes a light strong enough to throw the shadows of Thompson & Marsden's window columns straight backward across the floor, even when their poor lamps are burning at their brightest. And no longer can one say that all the goods of Bence are rubbish. High-class expensive articles are mingled with the cheap trash; solidity and lasting value have now a place in his programme; he caters for the large country house as well as for the restricted villa; he invites patronage from prince and peasant: it is his aim to be a universal provider. Truly it was an appalling competition; and if it was dangerous to so big a rival as Thompson's, it was deadly to all the lesser powers. No small shop could live beside Bence; and it seemed that he could kill even at a considerable distance. After the collapse of the sadler and the bookseller, their next-door neighbour, the ironmonger, failed; and the shell of him Bence also swallowed. The man now next to Bence was Mr. Bennett, the old-established butcher; beyond him was Mr. Adcock, the dispensing chemist, and beyond him there were the baker and the auctioneer. Then came Mr. Newall, the greengrocer, whose shop faced the far corner of Thompson's. One morning the greengrocer did not take down his shutters. He had flitted in the night. "Well," said Mr. Mears, looking sadly at the shop, "it's fortunate it isn't alongside of Bence, or I suppose he'd grab that too." Next day workmen erected a hoarding outside the derelict shop. Soon the boards were painted white, and curious saunterers lingered to read the black-lettered notice. "_These premises are being fitted, regardless of expense, in a thoroughly up-to-date manner._ "_They will shortly be opened again._ "_But as what?_ "_Why, just what you want._" "That's a catchpenny vulgar dodge," said Mears, "if ever I saw one." "I wonder what it is to be," said Miss Woolfrey. "I guess sweetstuff. It can't be a shooting-gallery. It isn't deep enough." In a few weeks all knew what it was. Mr. Archibald himself came to see the last boards of the hoarding removed, and to watch the first customers troop into Bence's Fruit & Vegetable Market! But for a gap of seventy feet made by four ancient traders, Bence now faced Marsden & Thompson for its whole length from end to end. Bence was irresistible, overpowering, deadly. The hearts of many people opposite sank into their boots. XXI Late one evening, when Marsden was taking what he called his night-cap in the drawing-room, he began to ask questions about the Sheraton desk and cabinets. "Those things are not at all bad--but they aren't genuine, I suppose?" "The desk is genuine," said Mrs. Marsden; "but the other things are modern." "They are uncommonly good imitations," said Marsden; and he knelt in front of one of the cabinets and studied it carefully. "This is an excellently made piece--tip-top workmanship. Why, it must be worth twenty or thirty guineas." "Yes, it cost something like that." "Where did you get it?" "It came out of the shop." "Ah. Exactly what I supposed;" and he got up from his knees, and stood looking at her thoughtfully. "Out of the shop. Just so.... I must think this out." But his train of thought was interrupted by a timid knock at the door. It was their last new housemaid, come to ask if the master and the mistress required anything further to-night. She remained on the threshold, breathing hard, and staring shyly, while she waited for an answer--a bouncing, apple-cheeked, country bumpkin of a girl, who had accepted very modest wages for this her first place. "No," said Marsden shortly, "I don't want anything more--What's your name?" "Susan, sir." "All right. Then shut the door, Susan." "Good night, Susan," said Mrs. Marsden kindly. "Where did you pick _her_ up?" asked Marsden, when the girl had gone. "She's healthy enough and plump enough--but she looks half-baked." "She will do very well, if you give her time to learn." "Oh, _I_'ll let her learn, if _you_ can teach her.... But what was I saying? Oh, yes--about the furniture!" Then he walked round the room, pointing at different things, and continuing his questions. "Did this come out of the shop?" "Yes." "And this?... And those chairs?... And the sofa?" She did not understand why he asked. But he soon explained himself. He said that all this furniture was taken out of the shop, and it therefore belonged to the firm--or at any rate could not be considered as her private property. "A partnership is a partnership," he added sententiously. "But it was ages before the partnership. And all the things were paid for by me." "No, not paid for," he said quickly. "Not paid for in _cash_--just a matter of writing down a debit somewhere and a credit somewhere else, and saying it was accounted for. But from the point of view of the shop, that's a bogus transaction." "How absurd!" "No, _not_ absurd--common sense. The shop never got a penny profit, and it seems to me that--" "Oh, I won't dispute it with you. What is it that you want done?" "I want the _right_ thing to be done," he replied slowly, as if deliberating on a knotty point. "And it isn't easy to say off-hand what that is." "Do you want me to send the things back into the department?" "No.... No, the time has passed for doing that. It would muddle the accounts. Come into the dining-room, and show me the shop things in there." She obeyed him; and then he asked if there were any shop things upstairs. "Yes, several." "Well, you can show me those to-morrow morning.... I begin to see my way. Yes, I think I see now what's fair and proper." "Do you?" He said emphatically that in justice and equity he possessed a half share of all goods taken out of his shop, no matter how long ago. And he insisted on having his share. He would obtain a valuation of the goods, and Mrs. Marsden could pay him cash for half the amount, and retain the goods. Or he would send the goods to London and sell them by auction; and they would each take half the proceeds. Mrs. Marsden chose the second method of dealing with the problem. "All right," said Marsden. "So be it. I dare say they'll fetch a tidy sum--and it's share and share alike, of course, for the two of us." Two days after this the house was stripped of nearly all that had given it an air of opulent comfort and decorative luxury. Mrs. Marsden went to the department of the firm, and bought the cheapest bedroom things she could find to fill the blank spaces and ugly gaps upstairs, and paid for everything with her private purse. In a fortnight the furniture auctioneers wrote to inform Mr. Marsden that the goods under the hammer had brought the respectable sum of one hundred and thirty pounds. Account for commission, etc., with cheque to balance, should follow shortly. And before long he duly received the balancing cheque. But the loss of the cabinets and sofas made the living rooms seem bare and forlorn. The house and the shop had become alike: in each one could now see the empty, cheerless aspect of impending ruin. Enid, when next she brought her child to call on granny, uttered an exclamation of surprise and distress. "Mother! What has happened? Where has everything gone?" "To London--to be sold." "Oh, mother. Has he obliged you to do this?" "Yes." The barrier of reserve so long maintained by Mrs. Marsden had worn very thin. It gave small shelter now; and the brave defender seemed to be growing careless of exposure. And Enid too was losing the power to protect herself from pity and commiseration. The misery caused by both husbands could not much longer be concealed. Yet Enid's state was surely a happy one, when compared with the prevailing gloom in which her mother vainly laboured. Enid had a child to console her. Weeks passed; but Marsden said nothing of the "share and share alike" settlement that was to clear up that little difficulty of the furniture. At last his wife asked him if he had heard from the auctioneers. "Oh, yes. Didn't I tell you? The things went pretty well." "What did they bring?" "Oh, about a hundred quid." "Then when may I have my share?" "Oh, you shall have your share all right--but you can't have it now." "Dick, have you spent it--have you spent what belonged to me?" "Who says I have spent it?" And he turned on her angrily. "If it isn't convenient to me to square up at the moment, why can't you wait? What does it matter to you when you get it? Why should you pretend to be in such a deuce of a hurry?" This again was late at night. They were alone together in the dismantled drawing-room. "Dick," she said quietly but resolutely, "I must have my share." "Then you'll jolly well wait for it.... Look here. Shut up. I'm not going to be nagged at. Be damned to your share. You don't want it." "Yes, I do want it--I have relied on it." "Oh, _you_'re all right. You've plenty of money stowed away _somewhere_." "On my honour, I have no money available." "Available! That's a good word. That means funds that you don't intend to touch. Prices on change are down, are they?--and you don't care to realise just now?" She looked at him steadily and unflinchingly. Her eyebrows were contracted; her face had hardened. "Dick, this isn't fair. It is something that I can't allow," and she spoke slowly and significantly. "Please pull yourself together. You can't go on doing things of this sort. They are dangerous." "Will you shut up, and stop nagging?" It was by no means the first time that he had stuck to money when it should have passed through his hands to hers. Indeed in all their private transactions, whenever a chance offered, he had promptly cheated her. But during the last six months it had come to her knowledge that he was not confining his trickery to transactions which could be considered as outside the business. "Dick, I _must_ go on. It is for your sake as well as mine. There is a principle at stake." "Rot." "What you are doing is dishonest. It is embezzlement!" and she turned from him, and looked at the empty fireplace. With an oath he seized her arm, and swung her round till she faced him again. "Take that back--or you'll be sorry for it. Do you dare to say that word again? Now we'll see." Holding her with one hand, he swayed her to and fro, as if to force her down to her knees; and his other hand was raised threateningly on a level with her face. "Are you going to strike me?" And she looked at him with still unflinching eyes. "Why don't you do it? Why are you hesitating? Oh, my God--it only wanted this to justify everything." Her courage seemed to increase his hesitation. He lowered the threatening hand, but continued to hold her tightly. "Say what you mean. Out with it." "Dick, you know very well what I mean.... It must be stopped." "What must be stopped?" "Your dangerous irregularities." "I don't know what you're talking about. Someone has been telling you a pack of lies. You're ready to believe any lie against _me_." "There was a cheque of the firm--made out to bearer--on the third of last month." "I know nothing about it." "No more did I. They sent for me to the bank--to look at the signatures and the initials." "Well?" "I told them it was all right." "Well, what about it?" "There was the hundred pounds that was to be paid Osborn & Gibbs on account--to keep them quiet. It was written off in the books--you showed their acknowledgment for it.... But what's the use of going on? Dick, pull yourself together. I hold the _proof_ of your folly." He had let her go, and was walking about the room with his hands in his pockets. When he spoke again, it was sullenly and grumblingly. "I know nothing whatever about it. I can keep accounts in my head just as well as in the books.... If I seem unbusinesslike--it is because I'm called away so often; and those fools don't understand my system.... I go for facts, and don't bother about all the fuss of book-keeping--which is generally in a muddle whenever I ask for plain statements.... No, you've got on to a wrong track. But I'll go to the bottom of the matter to-morrow--or the day after. I'm busy with other things to-morrow." "Never mind what's past, Dick; but go into matters for the future." "All right. Then say no more. Don't nag me.... And look here. Of course I fully intend to pay you your share. I admit the debt. I owe you fifty pounds." He had been cowed for a few moments; but now he was recovering his angry bluster. "That's enough," he went on. "I'll settle as soon as I can. But, upon my word, you _are_ turning into a harpy for ready money. What have you done with all your own? How have you dribbled it away--and let yourself get so low that you have to come howling for a beggarly fifty pounds?" Mrs. Marsden raised her hands to her forehead, with a gesture that he might interpret as expressive of hopeless despair; but she did not answer him in words. "Oh, all right," he growled, to himself rather than to her. "The old explanation, I suppose. I'm to be the scapegoat! But I know jolly well where your money has gone. Enid and that squalling brat have pretty near cleared you out. Nothing's too much for Enid to ask.... If I wasn't a fool, I should forbid her the house.... And I will too, if you drive me to it." It maddened him to think of all the sovereigns that might have chinked in his pocket, if Enid had not rapaciously intervened. But in fact Mrs. Marsden had given her daughter no money. And this was not because Enid had refrained from asking for it. Compelled to do so by Kenion, she had more than once reluctantly sued for substantial assistance. "Enid dear, don't ask me again. Truly, it is impossible." Mrs. Marsden stood firm in the attitude that she had adopted when pestered by old Mrs. Kenion at the christening. Of course she gave presents to little Jane. The trifling aid that a young mother needs in rearing a beloved child Enid might be sure of obtaining; but the source of supply for a husband's selfish extravagance had run dry. "Enid, my darling, I can't do it--I simply _can't_. He should not send you to me. I told his mother that it was useless to expect more from me." Enid hugged Mrs. Marsden, said she felt a wretch, begged for forgiveness; but soon she had to confess that Charles bore these rebuffs very badly, and that it would be better for Mrs. Marsden never to come any more to the farmhouse. If she came, Charles might insult her. And now Richard had hinted that he would not allow Enid to come to St. Saviour's Court. It seemed that soon the mother and daughter would be able to meet only by stealth and on rare occasions. If the barrier was shattered and broken in front of Enid, it was completely down between Mrs. Marsden and Mr. Prentice. No further pretence was possible to either of them: the strenuous pressure of open facts had forced both to speak more or less plainly when they spoke of Marsden. Although Marsden always abused the solicitor behind his back, he ran to him for help every time he got into a scrape; and during the last year one might almost say that he had kept Mr. Prentice busily employed. A horrid mess with London book-makers; two rows with the railway company, about cards in a third-class carriage, and no ticket in a first-class carriage; a fracas with the billiard-marker at his club--one after another, stupid and disgraceful scrapes. Mr. Prentice, doing his best for the culprit, each time found it necessary to obtain Mrs. Marsden's instructions, and to put things before her plainly. The club committee had eventually desired their obstreperous member to forward a resignation; and, on his refusal to do so, had removed his name from their list. Mr. Marsden, who in his boastful pride once considered himself eligible for the select company of the County gentlemen, had thus been ignominiously expelled from the large society of petty tradesmen, clerks, tag, rag, and bobtail, known as the Mallingbridge Conservative. At last, after a discussion concerning one of these scrapes, Mr. Prentice abandoned the slightest shadow of pretence, and gave his old client the plainest conceivable advice. "Screw yourself up to strong measures," said Mr. Prentice, "and get rid of him." "How could I--even if I were willing?" "Go for a divorce." "I shouldn't be given one." "I think you would." They were in Mr. Prentice's room--the fine panelled room with the two tall Queen Anne windows, and the pleasant view up Hill Street, and through the side street into Trinity Square. Mrs. Marsden sat facing the light, her back towards the big safe and the racks of tin boxes; and Mr. Prentice, seated by his table, looked at her gravely and watched her changing expression while he spoke. "I think that you would obtain your divorce," he repeated. Then he got up, and opened and closed the door. The passage to the clerks' office was empty. He came back to his table, and sat down again. "Don't give him any more chances. Take it from me--he'll never reform. Get rid of him now." "Oh no--quite impossible." "I had a talk the other day with Yates," said Mr. Prentice quietly. "Yates is prepared to give evidence that he knocked you about." "But it's not true," said Mrs. Marsden hotly. The blood rose to her cheeks, and her lips trembled; but Mr. Prentice had ceased to watch her face. He was playing with an inkless pen and some white blotting-paper. "Yates is ready to go into the box and swear it." "Then she would be swearing an untruth." "Yates would be a very good witness. Really I don't see how anybody could shake her.... I asked her a few questions.... She impressed me as being just the right sort of witness." "Please don't say any more." "Honestly, I believe we should pull it off. And why not? If ever a woman deserved--" But Mrs. Marsden would hear no more of this kind of advice. "I see no reason against it," said Mr. Prentice, persisting. "No, no," said Mrs. Marsden sadly. "It's the only thing to do." "You don't understand me." And as she said it, there was dignity as well as sadness in her voice. "Even if it were all easy and straightforward, I could never consent to allow the story of my married life to be told in Court--to the public. I could not bear it. I simply could not bear the shame of it." "Oh!... Well, it would be like having a tooth out. Soon over." "But that is only one reason. There are many others." "Are there?" "You shouldn't--you mustn't assume that he only is to blame. There are faults on both sides. And I have this on my conscience--that perhaps he would have done very well, if I hadn't married him." "My dear--forgive my saying so--that is magnanimous, but nonsense." "No," she said firmly, "it is the truth. He had some good qualities. He was a worker. Idleness--with more money than he was accustomed to--brought temptations;--and he was very young. If he had remained poor, he might have developed into a better man." "I won't contradict you.... Only it isn't what he might have developed into, but what he has developed into; and what fresh developments we can reasonably expect.... I see no hope. Really, I must say it. I believe, as sure as I sit here, that he'll eat you up--he'll ruin you, if you let him--he'll land you in the workhouse before you've done with him. That's why I say, get rid of him--at all costs." But Mrs. Marsden only shook her head sadly and wearily. Mr. Prentice stood at his window, looking down into the street, and mournfully watching her as she walked away. She was dressed in black--she who had been so fond of bright colours never wore anything but black now; and the black was growing shabby and rusty. She seemed taller, now that she had become so much thinner; the grey hair at the sides of her forehead and the unfashionable bonnet tied with ribbons under her chin made her appear old; the florid complexion had changed to a dull white--as she turned her face, and hurried across the road, he thought that it showed almost a ghostly whiteness. And truly she was the ghost of the prosperous, radiant, richly-clothed woman that he remembered. She had been so strong, and now she had become so weak--so pitiably weak; with a weakness that rendered it impossible to save her. His heart ached as he thought of her weakness. She would be eaten up--soul and body. Secret information made him aware that she had sold the various stocks that she held at her marriage. The manager of the bank had regretfully told him so, at a meeting of the Masonic lodge--a secret between tried friends and trusted Masons, to go no further. She had employed the bank to sell these securities for her. In the old days she would have come to him for advice, and he would have sent the order direct to the stock-brokers; but now she was weakly afraid of his knowing anything about her suicidal transactions. He was looking out from the same window one afternoon a few weeks later, and he saw something that really horrified him. He could scarcely believe his eyes. Mrs. Marsden had gone swiftly down the side street, and had vanished through the front door of those shady, wicked solicitors, Hyde & Collins. He felt so greatly discomposed that he snatched up his hat, ran down into the side street, and stood waiting for her outside the hated and ominous doorway. When after half an hour she emerged from the clutch of his unworthy confrères, he took her arm and led her into Trinity Square; and, walking with her round and round the small enclosure, reproached her for deserting him in favour of such people. "But I haven't deserted you," she said meekly bearing the reproaches. "This is only some private business that they are attending to." "But is it kind to me? You know what I think of them. I ask you, is it kind to me?" "I meant no unkindness," she said earnestly. And she offered apologies based on vague generalities. Life is complex and difficult. One is forced out of one's path by unusual circumstances. Sometimes one is driven to do things of so private a nature that one cannot speak about them to one's oldest and best friends. "Very well. But if you feel disinclined to confide everything to me--there are other men that you could depend on. Go to Dickinson--he's a thorough good sort. Or Loder--or Selby! Go to any one of them. But don't--for mercy's sake--mix yourself up with these brutes." In order to defend herself, Mrs. Marsden was obliged to defend Hyde & Collins. "They are quick to understand one. Really they seem sharp--" "_Sharp!_ Yes--too sharp--a thousand times too sharp. But ask anybody's opinion of them. Look at their clients. They haven't got a single solid client." "But they still act for Bence's--they do everything for Mr. Bence." "Yes," said Mr. Prentice contemptuously, "but who's Bence, when all's said and done?" "Ah!" And Mrs. Marsden drew in her breath, as if she felt incapable of continuing the conversation. "I grant you that Bence has done wonders--and proved me a bad prophet. But we haven't got to the last chapter of Bence yet. I don't believe Bence is really solid--and I never shall do, while I see him going in and out of Hyde & Collins's." Mrs. Marsden meekly bore all reproaches; but she showed a stubbornness that no warnings could shake. She met direct questions with generalized vagueness. What is unwise in some circumstances may be not unwise in other circumstances. Life is complex--and so on. When Mr. Prentice left her, he went back to his office full of the most dismal forebodings. She had placed herself in the hands of Hyde & Collins. She was indisputably done for. XXII Time was passing. One Sunday morning in November, while the vicar of St. Saviour's preached a sermon about immortality, she looked at the familiar faces of the congregation and thought sadly of the impermanence of all earthly things. So many of the people she had known were gone; so few remained, and these each showed so plainly the havoc and the change wrought by the flying years. She glanced at the card in the metal frame that was half hidden by her prayer-books--"Mrs. Marsden, two seats." Once the writing on the card read "Mr. and Mrs. Thompson, three seats," and she had sat there with her husband and mother. Then the writing changed again--"Mrs. Thompson, two seats." How many years she and Enid had been here together! And the other people in the pew--a man and a wife, with little children who had slowly grown into men and women; two elderly ladies; a widower and his sister--all had gone. She glanced across the side aisle at a white-haired feeble old man, and a wizened monkey-like old dame who nodded and shook unceasingly--Mr. Bennett, the High Street butcher, and his palsied helpmate;--and she thought of what they were when first she came to St. Saviour's: a hearty vigorous couple in the prime of life, the man seeming big enough to knock down one of his bullocks, and the woman singing the hymns so loudly that her neighbours could not hear the choir. Now they had dwindled and shrunk to this--nerveless arms, bloodless hues, and frozen silence. Wherever she turned her eyes, she saw the same signs and could read the same story--bowed backs, bald heads, blue-veined hands. Everyone had grown old, everyone had grown feeble, of those who had seen her as a young bride, as a young mother. And no new faces seemed to have replaced the faces that had vanished. Fashion in recent years had leaned steadily towards the other church. Holy Trinity possessed lighted candles on its altars, embroidered copes on its priests, stringed instruments in its organ loft: it was there that all the young people went--to be thrilled with strange music, to be charmed with smart hats, to be set throbbing with irrelevant dreams of courtship and love. Only the old and the worn out had been true to quiet peaceful St. Saviour's. She herself was absolutely faithful to the church that she had used and loved for so long. It had become her place of rest, her harbour of refuge. It was only here that she ever felt quite at peace. She knew that here she was safe for an hour at least; while the service lasted no one could molest her; no one could even speak to her: during this brief hour she belonged to herself. She could not forget the outside world, but she resolutely tried not to think of it. Just now she had driven away a thought of Marsden. He was lying in bed; perhaps he would sleep till late afternoon; perhaps he would be lazily getting ready for his food when she returned to the house;--but she need not think of him. He would not join her here. She folded her hands, and listened to the kind old vicar as he told her of things that are incomprehensible, immutable, and everlasting. A man had come up the side aisle, and was stupidly staring at the people in the pews. Mrs. Marsden, glancing at him inattentively, vaguely wondered why he didn't take one of the many empty seats and sit down. She knew him very well. He was a loafer of the better class; and on Sundays he regularly made his beat up and down St. Saviour's Court, picking up odd six-pences by running off to fetch cabs, bringing forgotten umbrellas, or retailing second-hand newspapers to laggards who had missed the paper-boy. Presently he discovered Mrs. Marsden's pew, entered it, and whispered hoarsely. "You're wanted at the house. The gentleman said you was to come at once." Followed by this seedy messenger, she hastened from the church. "What is it?" she asked him when they got outside. "I dunno. The gentleman hollered to me from the door, and sent me to fetch you." The house door stood ajar; and her husband, in his dressing-gown and slippers, was anxiously waiting for her and guarding the foot of the stairs. "All right," he said to the loafer. "I'll remember you another time;" and he shut the door and bolted it. From the top of the stairs there came a sound of wailing and lamentation. "Jane, look here. I want you to stop this fool's mouth--what's her name--Susan. I've somehow upset her. And that infernal cook is encouraging her to squall the house down." Without a word Mrs. Marsden hurried upstairs. The cook, a sour-visaged woman of thirty-five, was on the threshold of the kitchen; and Susan, the apple-cheeked housemaid, was clinging to cook's arm, and sobbing and howling. "Emily--Susan," said Mrs. Marsden quietly, "what _is_ all this noise and fuss about?" "The master frightened her," said the cook, very sourly, "and she wishes to go to the police." "The police! What nonsense! Why?" "The master rang, and she took up his shaving water--and what happened frightened her." "Where's father and mother?" cried Susan. "I want my mother. Take me home to tell father. Or let me go to the police station, and I'll tell them." Marsden had followed his wife upstairs, and he showed himself at the kitchen door. At sight of him, Susan ceased talking and began to howl again. "She's frightened to death," said the cook. Mrs. Marsden was patting the girl's shoulder, studying her tear-stained face eagerly and intently. "There, there," she said gently, as if reassured by all that the red cheeks and streaming eyes had told her. "I think this is a great noise about nothing at all." "Of course it is," said Marsden, at the door. "Don't leave me alone with him," bellowed Susan. "I won't be kep' a prisoner. I want to see my mother--and my father." "Hush--Susan," said Mrs. Marsden, soothingly. "Compose yourself. There is no need to cry any more." "No need to have cried at all," said Marsden. Obviously he was afraid: he alternately blustered and cringed. "You silly girl," he said cringingly, "what rubbish have you got into your head? I pass a few chaffing remarks--and you suddenly behave like a raving lunatic." And then he went on blusteringly. "Talk about going! It's _us_ who ought to dismiss you for your impudence, and your disrespect." "You did something to frighten her, sir," said the cook. "It's a lie--a damned lie." "If so," said the cook, with concentrated sourness, "why not let her go to the police, as she wishes?" "No," shouted Marsden. "I can't have my servants libelling and scandalizing me. I've a public position in this town--and I won't have people sneaking out of my house to spread a lot of innuendos against their employers." Then he beckoned his wife, and spoke to her in a whisper. "For God's sake, shut her up. Give her a present--square her. Shut her mouth somehow.... It's all right, you know--but we mustn't give her the chance of slandering me;" and he went out of the kitchen. But he returned almost immediately, to beckon and whisper again. "Jane. Don't let her out of your sight." So this was her task for the remainder of the day of rest--to sit and chat with a blubbering housemaid until a pacification of nerves and mind had been achieved. She performed the task, but found it a fatiguing one. Susan made her labours arduous by returning to the starting point every time that any progress had been made. "I'd sooner go back 'ome at once, ma'am." "I think that would be a pity, Susan. If you leave me like this, I may not be able to get you another place. Why should you throw up a comfortable situation?" "It isn't comfortable." "Susan, you shouldn't say that. Haven't I treated you kindly?" "Yes, _you_ have." "And haven't I taken trouble in teaching you your duties? You are getting on very nicely; and if you stay with me a little longer, I shall be able to recommend you as competent." But this servant said what all other servants had said to Mrs. Marsden. Susan had no fault to find with her mistress. "I should be comfortable, if it wasn't for _him_. But I've never been comfortable with him." And then she went back to her starting point. "I'd rather go 'ome. I must ask mother's advice--and tell father too. I don't believe father would wish it 'ushed up." However, Mrs. Marsden finally succeeded. By bedtime Susan was pacified. "Yes, I'll stay, ma'am. I'd like to stay with you--but may I sleep in Em'ly's room?" "Of course you may." Next morning no one came to call Mrs. Marsden; no fires were lighted; no breakfast was being prepared. Both the servants had gone. In the night cook had persuaded the girl to change her mind. A letter from cook, conspicuously displayed on the dining-room mantelpiece, explained matters. "_Dear Madame_,-- "We are sorry to leave you but feel we cannot stay in this house. I have advised Susan to go to her Home and she has gone there. "Yours respectfully, "MISS EMILY HOWARD." Mrs. Marsden went to her husband's room, woke him, and repeated the substance of Miss Howard's note. He was dreadful to see, in the cold morning light--unshaven, white and puffy; sitting up in bed, biting his coarse fingers, and looking at her with cowardly blood-shot eyes. "Where is her home?" Mrs. Marsden said that Susan's parents lived somewhere on the other side of Linkfield. "Twelve miles away! She's gone out by train. She has got there by now. What are we to do?" "I scarcely know." "Let me think a minute.... Yes, look here. Get hold of old Prentice--He's a man of the world. He'll help you. He'll be able to shut them up." And with terrified haste he gave her his directions. She was to run to Mr. Prentice's private house, and catch him before he started for his office. Then she was to run to Cartwright's garage and hire a motor-car for the day; and then she and Mr. Prentice were to go scouring out into the country, to silence Susan and all her relatives. "Tell Prentice to take plenty of money with him. And don't forget--ask for Cartwright's open car. It's faster. And don't waste a minute--don't wait for breakfast or anything--and don't let Prentice wait either." In an hour she and her old friend were spinning along the Linkfield road in the hired motor-car. The east wind cut their faces, dirt sprinkled their arms, gloomy thoughts filled their minds. This, then, was her Monday's task--to begin Sunday's toil, on a larger scale, all over again. With some difficulty they found the cottage for which they were seeking. Susan's mother opened the door in response to prolonged tappings. Susan had safely reached home. "Oh, come inside," said the mother; and she pretended to shed tears. "Oh dear, oh dear. Who could of believed such a thing 'appening?" "Nothing has happened," said Mr. Prentice, confidently and jovially; "except that your daughter has left her situation without warning, and we want to know what she means by it." "Oh, she's told me everything," said the mother, dolefully shaking her head. "Everything." "There was nothing to tell," said Mr. Prentice; "beyond the fact that she has behaved in a very stupid manner. Where is she?" The mother indicated a door behind her. "Poor dear, she's so exhausted, I've been trying to persuade her to eat a morsel of something." Mr. Prentice lifted a latch, opened the inner door, and disclosed the humble home-picture--Susan, with her mouth full of bacon and bread, stretching a hearty hand towards the metal tea-pot. "Ah, thank goodness," said the mother, "she _'as_ bin able to pick a bit. Don't be afraid, Susan--you're 'ome now, along of your own mother and father;" and she addressed Mrs. Marsden. "'Er father 'as 'eard everything, too." Mr. Prentice was laughing gaily. "Well done, Susan. Don't be afraid of another slice of bacon. Don't be afraid of a fourth cup of tea." "No, sir," said Susan shyly. "Where _is_ her father?" asked Mr. Prentice. "I'd like to have a few words with him." But father, having heard his daughter's tale, had started on a long journey with an empty waggon. He would return with it full of manure any time this afternoon. And going, and loading, and returning, he would be thinking over everything, and deciding what he and Susan should next do. Mr. Prentice, considering that even a hired motor-car ought to be able to overtake a manure waggon though empty, started in pursuit of father; and Mrs. Marsden was left to conduct the pacific negotiations at the cottage. It was a long and weary day, full of small difficulties--father, when recovered, not a free man, unable to talk, compelled to attend to his master's business; mother unable to express any opinion without previous discussion with father; empty fruitless hours slowly dragging away; meals at a public-house; a walk with Susan;--then darkness, and father talking to Mr. Prentice in the parlour; and, finally, mother and Mrs. Marsden summoned from the kitchen to assist at ratification of peace proposals. It was late at night when Mrs. Marsden got back to St. Saviour's Court. Her husband had not been out all day. He was sitting by the dining-room fire, with his slippered feet on the fender, and a nearly emptied whisky bottle on the corner of the table near his elbow. "Well?" He looked round anxiously and apprehensively. "It is over. There will be no trouble--not even a scandal." She was blue with cold; her hands were numbed, and hung limply at her sides; her voice had become husky. "Bravo! Well done!" He stood up, and stretched and straightened himself, as if throwing off the heavy load that had kept him crouched and bent in the armchair. "Excellent! I knew you'd do it all right;" and he drew a deep breath, and then began to chuckle. "And, by Jove, old girl, I'm grateful to you.... Look here. Have you had your grub? Don't you want some supper?" "No." "Well, understand--my best thanks;" and really he seemed to feel some little gratitude as well as great satisfaction. "Jane, you're a brick. You never show malice. You've a large heart." "No," she said huskily; and with a curious slow gesture, she raised her numbed hands and pressed them against her breast. "I had a large heart once; but it has grown smaller and smaller, and harder and harder--till now it is a lump of stone." "No, no. Rot." "Yes. And that's lucky--or before this you would have broken it." He stood staring at the door when it had closed behind her. Then he shrugged his shoulders, turned to the table, and replenished his glass with whisky. XXIII It was immediately after this fatiguing episode that Mr. Prentice made his last urgent prayer to Mrs. Marsden. Complying with his request for an interview, she had come again to the panelled room in Hill Street. But on this occasion she chose a different chair, and sat with her back to the windows and her face in shadow. "You see for yourself," said Mr. Prentice, with culminating plainness: "he is an unmitigated blackguard. Get rid of him." "I can't." "You can. Yates is still game--I mean, Yates has not forgotten anything. Yates will swear to everything that she remembers.... So far as Yates goes, her evidence may be all the better for the delay. It will be all the more difficult to shake it after the lapse of time.... Of course we shall be asked, 'Why have you sat down on your wrongs for so long?' But we have our answer now. This is the answer. You put up with his ill-usage and infidelities until he befouled your home. A disgraceful affair with a servant girl under your own roof! That was the last straw--and it has driven you to the Court, to ask for the relief to which you have been entitled for years." "Oh, no--impossible." "I pledge you my word, we shan't fail. We shall pull it off to a certainty." "No, I can't do it. And even if we succeeded, it would be only a half relief. Divorce wouldn't end the business partnership." "No. But when once your marriage is dissolved, we shall be able to make terms with him. Wipe him out as your husband, and he loses the tremendous hold he has on you. Get rid of your incubus. Think what it would mean to you. He would be gone--you would be alone again; able to pull things together, work up the business, nurse it back to life. On my honour, I think you are capable of restoring your fortunes even at this late day." But Mrs. Marsden only shook her head, while Mr. Prentice continued to entreat her to act on his advice. "Suppose you always have to go on paying him half of all you can make by your industry? Never mind. What does it matter? You'll pay it to him at a distance--you'll never have to see him--you will have swept him out of your life. My dear, the years will roll off your back; you'll be able to breathe, to _live_--you'll feel that you are your own self again." "No--impossible." "Yes. Leave it to me. I answer for everything, before and afterwards. I'll manage my fine gentleman--I'll cut his claws so that he'll be a very quiet sort of partner in the years to come. I'll work at it till I drop--but I swear I'll put you on safe ground, if only you'll trust me and let me tackle the job." And Mr. Prentice, leaning forward in his chair, took her hand and pressed it imploringly. "You are what you have always been to me, Mr. Prentice,--the best, the kindest of friends." She allowed him to retain her hand for a few moments, and then gently withdrew it. "But it is difficult for me to explain--so that you would understand me." "I shall understand any explanation." "I took him for better for worse. And once I promised him that I would hold to him until he set me free." She paused, as if carefully putting her thought into appropriate words. "It may come to it.... Yes, it is what I hope for--that he himself may give me back my freedom." "But how?" "He might consent to a separation--without scandal, without publicity." "Why should he do that? While you've a shot in the locker, he'll stick to you." Mr. Prentice's voice conveyed his sense of despair. She would not be convinced. He got up, sat down again, and vigorously resumed his appeal. "Can't you see now the force of what I have told you so often? He will not only disgrace you, he will eat you up. It is what he is doing--has almost done. And when you have let him squander your last farthing, he'll desert you--but he won't desert you till then." But Mrs. Marsden again shook her head, and once more fell back upon the vagueness that baffles argument if it cannot refute it. "No--dear Mr. Prentice, I feel that I couldn't make any move now. Life is so complicated--there are difficulties on all sides--my hands are tied.... Perhaps I will ask you for your aid--but not now--and not for a divorce." "But if you wait, no one will be able to aid you. The hour for aid will have passed forever." And Mr. Prentice brought out all his eloquence in vain. "Try to recover your old attitude of mind. Consider the thing as a business woman. Tear away sentiment and feminine fancies. Make this effort of mind--you would have been strong enough to do it a little while ago,--and consider yourself and him as if you were different people. Now--from the business point of view--and no sentiment! He is an undeserving blackguard." "No. I can't do anything now.... I _have_ considered it as a business woman. I have looked at it from every point of view. Believe me, I must go my own way." This was the final appeal of Mr. Prentice. He said no more on the subject then, or afterwards. He had shot his bolt. XXIV Early in the new year Marsden had a serious illness. He caught a chill on a suburban racecourse, came home to shiver and groan and curse, and two days afterwards was down with double pneumonia. He kept the hospital nurses, his wife, and the doctor busy for three weeks; and throughout this time there was no point at which it could be said that he was not in imminent danger of death. Then the shop assistants heard, with properly concealed feelings of exultation, that a devoted wife, a clever doctor, and two skilled nurses had saved the governor's life. The governor had pulled through. Dr. Eldridge, as the shop understood, was able to make the gratifying pronouncement that the patient possessed a naturally magnificent frame and constitution, which had been but partially weakened or impaired by carelessness and imprudence. They need not entertain any further fear. The dear governor will last for a splendidly long time yet. But his convalescence was slow; and after the recovery of normal health he passed swiftly into a third phase. He showed no inclination to rush about; his mental indolence had become so great that the mere notion of a train-journey fatigued him; he did his betting locally, and spent his days with the red-haired barmaid in the Dolphin bar. At the Dolphin Hotel he had slid down a descending scale of importance which emblematized, with a strange accurateness, his descent in the town of Mallingbridge and in the world generally. Once he used to come swaggering into the noble coffee room, and be flattered by the landlord and fawned on by the manager while he gave his orders for sumptuous luncheons and dinners à la carte, with champagne of the choicest brands, and the oldest and costliest of liqueurs. After that, a period arrived when the restaurant and a table-d'hôte repast, washed down with any cheap but strong wine, were good enough for him. Then he was seen only in the billiard room; or in the small grill-room, where he would sit drinking for hours while relays of commercial travellers and minor tradesmen bolted their chops and steaks. Now he had descended to what was called the saloon bar; and here, since he had lost his club, he made himself quite at ease, and was listened to with some semblance of respect by the shabby frequenters, and always smiled upon by the barmaid--who was an old, and of late a very intimate friend. He could not drop any lower at the Dolphin, unless he went out to the stable yard and sat with ostlers and fly-drivers in the taproom beneath the arch. At mid-day there were eatables of a light sort on the saloon counter; but, rejecting such scratchy fare, Mr. Marsden regularly came home for his solid luncheon. After lunching heavily he went back to the saloon, stayed there through the tea hour, and returned to St. Saviour's Court for dinner. He was regular in his attendance at meals, but except for meal-time the house never saw him. In fact he was settling down into stereotyped habits. When dinner was over he retired again--to take his grog in the saloon, to help the barmaid close the saloon, and to escort her thence to her modest little dwelling-house. Mrs. Marsden knew all about this barmaid, with her fascinating smiles and her Venetian red hair--and indeed about her dwelling-house also. It was common knowledge that a few years ago she had been a parlourmaid in Adelaide Crescent; had somehow got into trouble; and somehow getting out of it, had risen to the surface as a saloon siren, and proved herself attractive to more persons than one. As to her place of residence, an illuminating letter had reached Marsden & Thompson and been duly opened behind the glass--"re No. 16 New Bridge Road. We beg to remind you that your firm have guaranteed Miss Ingram's rent, and the same being now nearly a quarter in arrear, we beg, etc., etc...." Then it was to Number Sixteen that Mr. Marsden walked every evening, wet or fine. No one knew when he returned home again. But he was always ready for his late breakfast in his own bed. Thanks to the regularity of these habits, Enid could now come and see her mother without risk of encountering her stepfather. That cruel threat of his had been often repeated, but never converted into an explicit order; he disapproved of Mrs. Kenion's visits, and if they were brought to his notice he would certainly prohibit them. But now the house was safe ground between luncheon and dinner; and there were few Thursday afternoons on which Enid did not come with her child to share Mrs. Marsden's weekly half holiday. Little Jane was old enough to do without the constant vigilance of a nurse; and almost old enough, it sometimes seemed, to understand that she was her mother's only joy and consolation. "You must always be a good little girl," Mrs. Marsden used to say, "and make mummy happy, and very proud of you." And the child, looking at granny with such wise eyes, said she was always good, and never disturbed mummy in her room, or asked to be read to when mummy was crying. Really, as she said this sort of thing, she seemed to comprehend as clearly as her grandmother that there was misery, deepening misery, in the ivy-clad farmhouse. "Mummy mustn't cry," said Mrs. Marsden tenderly. "Mummy must remember that while she has you, she has everything.... Enid, don't give way." For mummy was there and then beginning to do just what she mustn't do. "Mother, I can't help it;" and Enid wiped her eyes. "I'm not brave like you. And I feel now and then that I can't go on with it." Enid's barrier had fallen; she, too, abandoned the defence of an impossible position. Often she showed a disposition to plunge into open confidence, and tell the long tale of her trials and sorrows; but Mrs. Marsden did not encourage a confidential outbreak, indeed checked all tendencies in this direction. She used to take the child on her lap; and, after a little fondling and whispering, Jane always fell asleep. Then, with the small flaxen head nestled against her bosom, she talked quietly to her daughter, endeavouring to put forward cheerful optimistic views, and providing the philosophic generalities from which in troublous hours one should derive stimulation and support. "She's tired from the journey. How pretty she is growing, Enid. She will be extraordinarily pretty when she is grown-up. She will be exactly what you were." "No one ever thought me pretty, except you, mother." "Nonsense, dear. Everyone admired you. You were enormously admired." "Then there was something wanting," said Enid bitterly. "I hadn't the charms that have lasting power." But Mrs. Marsden would not allow the conversation to take an awkward turn. "And Jane looks so well," she went on cheerfully. "Such limbs--and such a _weight_! She is a glorious child. She does you credit, dear. You have every reason to be proud of her--and you will be prouder and prouder, in the time to come." "I hope so--I pray so. I shall have nothing else to be proud of." Once or twice, while the child was sleeping, Enid glided from obvious hints to a bald statement, in spite of all Mrs. Marsden's endeavours to restrain her. "Mother, my life is insupportable;" and tears began to flow. "Mother dear, can't you help me?" "My darling, how can I? I have told you of my difficulties--but you don't dream, you would never guess what they are." "It isn't money now," sobbed Enid. "I'd never again ask you for money--and money, if you had thousands to give, would do me no good.... Oh, I'm so wretched--so utterly wretched." "My dearest girl," and Mrs. Marsden, in the agitation caused by this statement, moved uneasily and woke the little girl. "You tear me to pieces when you ask me to help you. My own Enid, I can't help you. I can't help you now. You must be brave, and carry your burdens by yourself.... You say I am brave. Then be like me. I'm in the midst of perils and fears--my hands are tied; yet I go on fighting. I swear to you I am fighting hard. I've not given up hope. No, no. Don't think that I'm not wanting to help you--longing to help you--_meaning_ to help you, when the chance comes." Jane had extricated herself from the arms that held her; and, sliding to the floor, she went to her mother's side. The energy of granny's voice frightened her. "I'll do my best," said Enid. "I'll try to bear things submissively, as you do." "And don't lose hope in the future," said Mrs. Marsden, dropping her voice, and summoning every cheerful generality she could remember. "Be patient. Wait--and clouds will pass. You are young--with more than half your life before you. You have your sweet child. Go on hoping for happy days. The clouds will pass. The sun will shine again." But before any gleam of sunshine appeared, the sombre clouds that lowered over Enid's head burst into a heavy storm. One morning Mrs. Marsden was engaged with Mears on what had become a painful duty. They were stock-taking in the silk department; and, as the empty shelves sadly confronted them, Mears looked at her with dull eyes, opened and shut his mouth, but could not speak. He thought of what this particular department had once been, and of his own delight in especially fostering and tending it; of how it had improved under his care; of how he and Mr. Ridgway had built up quite a respectable little wholesale trade, as adjunct to the ordinary retail business, supplying the smaller shops and steadily extending the connection. When he thought of these things, it was no wonder that he could not speak. "Never mind, Mr. Mears," said Mrs. Marsden, in a whisper. Intuitively she knew what was passing in his mind. "It's no good looking backwards. We must look ahead." "Yes, no doubt," said Mears blankly. "I see what you mean. But we'll get an order through--before very long. Meanwhile, you must do some more of your clever dressing." And it was just then--before Mr. Mears could promise to dress the empty shelves--that the house servant appeared, and told her mistress of the unexpected arrival of Mrs. Kenion. It was not a Thursday; and Enid came only on Thursdays, and never before luncheon. Mrs. Marsden knew at once that something remarkable had occurred. "Is Miss Jane with her?" "Yes, ma'am. They're waiting for you upstairs in the drawing-room." Mrs. Marsden hurried up to the first floor, and rushed through the door of communication. "Enid, my dearest child." "Oh, mother, mother! It's all over." Enid was in a pitiable state of distress; the red circles round her eyes were absolutely disfiguring; she wrung her hands, and contorted her whole body. "Enid dear--tell me. Don't keep me in suspense." "He has gone--went to London this morning." "Who went? Charles? Do you mean Charles?" "Yes--and I don't believe he will ever come back to me." "Wait a moment, my love," said Mrs. Marsden. "Jane shall have a treat. Jane, you shall come and play in the pantry. Won't that be nice?" And she took her grandchild by the hand, and led her from the room. Outside in the passage she smiled at the little girl, patted her cheek, stooped to hug and kiss her. Then she gave her over to the charge of the housemaid--an elderly woman with an ugly face and an austere manner--and walked briskly back to the dining-room. "Eliza will amuse Jane," she said cheerfully. "Eliza is kind, although she seems so forbidding.... And now, my dear, you can tell me all about this news--this great news--this _astonishing_ news of yours." Enid told her tale confusedly. She was too much distressed to record events in their logical sequence. She worked backwards and forwards, breaking the thread with ejaculations, laments, and sad reflections, mixing yesterday with days that belonged to last year and the year before last year. But Mrs. Marsden soon grasped the import of the tale. Mr. Kenion was the lover as well as the pilot of that rich hunting lady. Enid had suspected the truth for a long time, had been certain of the truth and suffered under the certainty for another long time--all that, however, belonged to the past days and was quite unimportant. Yesterday was the important day. Yesterday there had been a lawn meet--whether at Widmore Towers or somewhere else, Mrs. Marsden did not gather. Mrs. Bulford's horse was there; but as yet Mrs. Bulford had not shown herself. Charles was there, dismounted for the moment, walking about among the gentlemen in front of the house, taking nips of cherry brandy and nibbling biscuits offered by the footmen with the trays. All was jollity and animation--promise of fine sport; dull sky, gentle westerly breeze, dew-sprinkled earth; kindly nature seemed to proclaim a good scenting day. And somebody, who has proved a very dull-nosed hound, is on the scent at last. Here comes stiff-legged Major Bulford, armed with a hunting crop although he only hunts on wheels, hobbling over the lawn among the gentlemen. Hullo! What's up? Look! Bulford is wanging into Charlie, calling him names as he slashes him across the face with stick and thong, using a fist now,--hobbling after Charlie when Charlie has had enough, trying with his uninjured leg to kick behind Charlie's back,--and tumbling at full length on the damp grass. Mr. Kenion took his bleeding face home to be patched; and early this morning he had gone to London--where Mrs. Bulford was waiting for him. "And, mother, he as good as said that I should never see him again. He confessed that he and Mamie had been very imprudent--and Major Bulford has discovered everything." "But, my darling, why do you cry? Why aren't you rejoicing--singing your song of joy?" "Mother!" "All this is splendid good news--not bad news." "Mother, don't say it." "But I do say it. I say, Thank God--if this is going to give my girl release from her slavery." Mrs. Marsden had spoken in a tone of exaltation; but now her brows contracted, and her voice became grave. "Enid, we mustn't run on so fast. To me it seems almost too good to be true." "To me it seems dreadful." "Yes, at the moment. But later, you will know it is emancipation, _life_. Only, let us keep calm. This man--Bulford--may not intend to divorce her." "Oh, he _will_." "You think he will wish to cast her off?" "Yes. Charlie as good as said so." "But tell me this--You say they are very rich. Which of them has the money--the husband or the wife?" "Oh, it is all Mrs. Bulford's--her very own." "Ah! The man may not divorce her--but if he does, there is one thing of which you can be absolutely certain. Kenion will stick to her, and give you your freedom." It was nearly one o'clock. Mrs. Marsden, glancing at the mantlepiece, started. Her husband would soon return for his substantial mid-day meal. "Enid dear, I must take you and Jane out to lunch. I know you won't care to meet Richard. Come! I shan't be a minute putting on my bonnet;" and she hurried from the room. "Eliza! If Mr. Marsden asks for me, tell him I shall not be in to luncheon.... That is all that you need say." To avoid the chance of being seen by her husband in High Street, she led Enid and the little girl up the court instead of down it, round the church-yard, and through devious ways to Gordon's, the confectioner's. Here, at a small table in the back room, she gave them a comfortable and sufficient repast--chicken for Enid, and nice soup and milk pudding for Jane. She herself was unable to eat: excitement had banished all appetite. She cut up toast for the soup, carved the chicken, dusted the pudding with sugar; and smilingly watched over her guests. But every now and then she frowned, and became lost in deep thought. Once, after a frowning pause, she leaned across the table and clutched Enid's arm. "Enid," she whispered, with intense anxiety, "is this Bulford really an upright honourable man who will do the right thing, and cast her off; or is he a mean-spirited cur who will support his disgrace for the sake of the cash?" They remained at the confectioner's until Mrs. Marsden could feel no doubt that her husband was now safe in his saloon; and then she took them back to the house. She sent Mears a message to say that he and the shop must do without her this afternoon, and she sat for a couple of quiet hours hearing the remainder of Enid's grievous tale. Plainly it did Enid good to talk about her troubles; the longer she talked the calmer she grew; and while stage by stage she traced the history of her unhappy married life, Mrs. Marsden thought very often of her own experiences. Jane, contented and replete, had fallen asleep upon granny's lap; and Mrs. Marsden softly rocked her to and fro, to make the sleep sweeter and easier. Unhappy Enid! She recited all her pains and pangs and torments. She had loved the man, had thought him a fine gentleman, and had found him a cruel beast. She had dreamed and awakened. She had tried to reconstitute the dream, to shut her eyes to realities, and live in the dream that she knew to be unreal. But he would not let her. She had forgiven misdeeds, and even forgotten them; he had hurt her again and again and again; and each time she had healed her wounds, and presented herself to him whole and loyal once more. While Mrs. Marsden listened, she was thinking, "Yes, that is the keynote, the apology, and the explanation. Love dies so slowly." Now Enid had come to the end of her tale. "Mother," she was saying, "I know I shall never see him any more;" and, saying it, she began to cry again. "He spoke to me so kindly when he was going from me.... And I looked at his poor face, all striped with the sticking-plaster, and I thought of what he had been to me. It all came back to me in a rush--the old feelings, mother,--and I begged him not to go. And I asked him at least to kiss me--and he did it--and I knew that he was sorry." Very quietly and carefully Mrs. Marsden got up, and placed the sleeping child on her mother's lap. "Enid, take what is left to you. Put your arms round her, and hold her against your heart. Hold her safe, and hold her close--for you are holding all the world." Then, in great agitation, she walked up and down the room; and when she stopped, and stood by Enid's chair, her eyes were streaming. "Never mind, my darling." An extraordinary exaltation sounded in her voice; and, as she struggled to moderate its tone, there came a queer vibration and huskiness. It seemed that but for dread of waking the little girl, she would have shouted her words. "Never mind. You have your child. Think of that. Nothing else matters. _I_ have suffered; _you_ have suffered--never mind. Perhaps we women were intended to suffer--and we have to bear some things so cruel that they must be borne in silence. If we spoke of them, they might kill. But it is all nothing compared with _this_;" and she stooped to kiss Enid's forehead, and very gently and softly stroked the child's hair. "You and I have both made our link in the wonderful chain of life. We have given what God gave us. We carried the torch, and it has not been struck out of our hands and extinguished.... We will rear your child; and I shall see you in her; and she will grow tall and strong; and she will love--you most--the mother,--but me too, when she understands that you came to her from me.... And the sun shall shine again, and you shall be happy again--for God is kind, and God is _just_.... And then there will be no more tears--and a touch of your child's lips will destroy the memory of tears." XXV Another year had slowly dragged by. Enid was still living with her child at the farmhouse; but all the personal property of the child's father, all those numerous signs of too engrossing amusements, had disappeared. Horses and grooms, brushes and boots, spurs and bridles--all were gone. In the suit of Bulford vs. Bulford and Kenion, the petitioner obtained a decree nisi; and soon the decree will be made absolute. Another undefended suit--that of Kenion vs. Kenion--is down for hearing. Very soon now Enid will be free. Meanwhile the big looking-glasses on the stairs and at department entrances of Thompson & Marsden's shop had been growing tarnished, dull, and spotted. They showed nothing new in their misty depths--emptiness and desolation; unused space so great that it was not necessary to multiply it by reflection; and a grey-haired black-robed woman passing and repassing through the faint bluish fog, with shadowy, ghostly lines of such sad figures marching and wheeling at her side. But there was no space for fog in the establishment across the road. During these twelve slow months the visible, unmistakable prosperity of Bence had been stupendous. He had bought out Mr. Bennett, the butcher. He would buy the whole street. He had enlarged his popular market, adding Flowers to Fruit and Vegetables. The old auctioneer had retired, in order to make room for this addition; and where for a half a century there had been no objects more interesting than sale bills and house registers and dangling bunches of keys, beautiful unseasonable blossoms now shed their fragrance throughout the year. Plainly there was nothing too old, or too hard, or too large for Bence to swallow. And the reputation of Bence's, as well as its mere success, had steadily been rising. It seemed as if the remorseless and triumphant Archibald had not only stolen the entire trade of his principal rival, but had also borrowed all the methods that in the old time built up the trade. In his best departments the goods were now as solid and as real as those which had made the glory of Thompson's at its zenith. But beyond this laudable improvement of stock--a matter that no one could complain of,--Bence betrayed a cruel persistence in imitating subsidiary characteristics of Mrs. Thompson's tactical campaign. Gradually Bence had won the town. It was Bence who now feasted and flattered the municipal authorities, exactly as Mrs. Thompson had done years ago. Dinners to aldermen and councillors; soirées and receptions for their wives; compliments, largesse, confidential attention flowing out in a generous stream for the benefit of all--high and low--who could possibly assist or hinder the welfare of Bence! Last Christmas--by way of inaugurating his twentieth grand annual bazaar--he gave a ball to four hundred people, with a military band and a champagne sit-down supper. The ancient aldermen were nearly all gone; the council nowadays professed themselves to be advocates of modern ideas; they said the conditions of life are always changing; and they were ready to admit the new style of trade as fundamentally correct. Then, making speeches after snug Bence-provided banquets, they said that their host represented in himself and his career the Spirit of the Age. They raised their glasses in a toast which all would honour. "Mr. Archibald Bence, you are a credit to the town of Mallingbridge; and speaking for the town, I say the town is proud of you, sir.... Now, gentlemen, give him a chorus--'For he's a jolly good fellow'".... Bence never stopped their music. He sat at the head of the table, twirling his waxed moustache, fingering his jewelled studs, and smiling enigmatically--as if he considered the adulation of his guests quite natural and proper, or as if he felt amused by vulgar praise and a homage which could be purchased with a little meat and drink. "Gentlemen," said Bence, rising to return thanks, and addressing the assemblage in the usual tone of mock modesty, "I am overwhelmed by your good-nature. I lay no claim to merit. The most I ever say of myself is that I do work hard, and try my best. But I have been very lucky. Anybody could have done what I have done, if they had been given the same opportunity--and the same support." "No, no," cried the noisy guests. "Not one in a million. No one but yourself, Mr. Bence. That's why we're so proud of you." And just as the town had turned towards Bence in his prosperity, so it had turned away from Mrs. Marsden in her adversity. These people worshipped success, and nothing else. The old shop was dying fast; its legend was already dead. The ancient triumph of the brave young widow was thus in a few years almost totally forgotten. It was a fabled greatness that faded before her present insignificance. There were of course some who still remembered; but they did not trouble to sustain or revive her name and fame. Did she know how they spoke of her--these few who remembered? A pitiful story: a poor wretch who posed for a little while as a good woman of business, and got absurd kudos for what was sheer luck. Just clever enough to make a little money in propitious times; but without staying power, unable to adapt herself to new methods--a _stupid_ woman, really! That was the kindest talk. Others, who should have been grateful and did not care to pay their debts, spoke of her as a criminal. "I never forgave her that disgraceful marriage. I endeavoured to prevent it, and warned her what would be the consequence of her--say her folly; but I think one would be justified in using a stronger word. Well, she has made her bed; and she must lie upon it." On a cold winter evening, when she had walked to the railway station with Enid and was finding her a seat in the local train, a porter officiously pointed out Bence. "There! That's Mr. Bence, ma'am. Mr. Bence--the small gentleman!" The local train was on one side of the platform, and on the other stood the London express. And Bence, in fur coat and glossy topper, surrounded with sycophantic inspectors and ticket-collectors, was approaching the Pullman car. He was off to London, to buy fresh cargos of Leghorn hats or whole warehouses of mauve blouses. The local train, with Enid in it, rolled away; and Mrs. Marsden, a shabby insignificant black figure, remained motionless, waving a pocket handkerchief and staring wistfully at the receding train. Then, as Bence came bustling from the Pullman door to the book-stall at the end of the platform, he and Mrs. Marsden met face to face. It was a strange encounter. Intelligent onlookers, if there had been any on the platform, might have found food for much thought in studying this chance meeting between the Spirit of the age and the Ghost of the past. There was nothing of the conqueror's exultant air in Bence's low bow. He uncovered his bald head and bowed deeply, with ostentatious humbleness and almost excessive respect--as if magnanimously determined to show that greatness though fallen was still greatness to him. And there was nothing of the conquered in Mrs. Marsden's dignified acknowledgment of the passing courtesy. Bowing, she looked at Bence and through Bence; and her face seemed calm, cold, dispassionate: as absolutely devoid of trouble or resentment as if one of the ticket-collectors whom she used to tip had touched his hat to her. None of these greedy ruffians did salute her. In all the station, through which she used to pass as a queen, only little Bence showed her a sign of respect to-night. In her deserted shop there were still faithful hearts; outside the shop, in all Mallingbridge, it seemed as if she could not count more than one true friend. Prentice was true as the magnet to the pole. For a long time he had asked her no questions, given her no advice; and she told him nothing of her affairs, either commercial or domestic. But he guessed that things were going from bad to worse. He knew that she was more and more frequently at the offices of Hyde & Collins. He saw her entering their front door almost as often as he saw Bence entering it; and he interpreted these visits as a certain indication that they were still raising money for her. She had probably sold the last of her stocks and shares, and now they were helping her to get rid of the small remainder of her possessions. He knew of two or three houses in River Street, and of a moderate mortgage on this property. Hyde & Collins might effect a second mortgage perhaps; and then the houses would be practically gone, as everything else had gone--into the bottomless pit. They would not care how quickly she beggared herself. When she was squeezed dry, they would just shut the door in her face. Insolent, unscrupulous brutes! And he thought with anger of how cavalierly they would treat her even now, before the end: breaking their appointments, telling her to call again, leaving her to wait in outer rooms while they kow-towed to their best client, their only prosperous client, the omnipotent Bence. To the mind of loyal Prentice the utter downfall of Mrs. Marsden was abominable and intolerable. He could not bear it--this wreck of a life that had been so noble. His hope of saving something from the wreck was cruelly frustrated. He had tried again and again; but she would not listen, she would not be guided. He thought sadly of the bright past, of her talent and genius; and, above all, of her tremendous intellectual strength. In those days, when he began to unfold a matter of business, she stopped him before he had completed half a dozen sentences. It was enough--she had grasped the whole position, sent beams from the search-light of her intelligence flashing all round it, shown him essential points that he had not seen himself. Difficulties never frightened her; she was subtle in defence, swift in attack. Give her but a hint of danger, and in a moment she was armed and ready. Before you knew what she would be at, she had sprung into decisive action; and before you could hurry up with your feeble reinforcements, the danger was over, the battle had been gained. But now she was weak as water--helpless, yet refusing help, hopeless and making hope impossible, just drifting to her fate. At night Mr. Prentice sometimes could not sleep. He lay awake, thinking of what it would come to in the end--bankruptcy, her little hoard squandered, her last penny gone in the futile effort to satisfy her husband and sustain the shop. And then? She was so proud that perhaps she might not allow Enid to supply her simplest daily needs. He tossed and turned restlessly as he thought of Enid's marriage settlement; and, remembering some of its ill-advised clauses, he felt stung by remorse. He had bungled the settlement. He ought to have stood firm, and not have permitted himself to be overruled by the idiotic whims of a love-sick girl who was being generous at another person's expense. He blamed himself bitterly now for the manner in which funds had been permanently secured to Enid's worthless husband. Of course the Divorce Court, exercising its statutory powers, might wipe out the entire blunder, and handsomely punish the offender by handsomely benefiting the wife; but he had small hope that this would happen. No, the rascal Charles Kenion, when disposed of, will still enjoy his life interest. The money that should come back now to the hand that gave it is gone. Enid will not have more than she wants for herself and her child. He could not sleep. The thought of Mrs. Marsden's pride made him shiver. No prouder woman ever lived: famine and cold would not break her pride. He had thought of her in the workhouse, or an almshouse, finishing her days on the bread of charity. But no--great Heaven!--she would never consent to do that. She would rather sell matches in the street. And he imagined her appearance. An old woman in rags--creeping at dusk with bent back,--pausing on a country road to hold her side and cough,--lying down on the frozen ground beneath a haystack, and dying in the winter storm. He knew--only too well--that these are the things that happen: the inexorable facts of the world. But never should they happen in this case--not while he had one sixpence to rub against another. He could not go on thinking about it without doing something. So he woke up his invalid wife. That seemed the only thing he could do just then;--and he told Mrs. Prentice that she must be kind to Mrs. Marsden; she must begin being kind the first thing in the morning; she must write a letter, pay a call, do _something_ to cheer and gladden his poor old friend. Mrs. Prentice, an amiable nondescript woman, readily obeyed her husband; and after this nocturnal conversation she used frequently to wait upon Mrs. Marsden, often persuade her to go out for a drive, and now and then entice her to come and dine in a quiet friendly fashion without any fuss or ceremony. These pleasant evenings must have made bright and warm spots amidst the cold dark gloom that now surrounded Mrs. Marsden. At Mr. Prentice's comfortable private house she was treated with an honour to which she had been long unaccustomed; there was nothing here to remind her of her troubles; and she really appeared to forget them when chatting freely with her kind host and hostess. "My dear Mrs. Prentice, it is too good of you to let me drop in on you like this." "No, it is so good of you," said Mrs. Prentice, "to give us the pleasure of your company." "It is a great pleasure to _me_," said Mrs. Marsden; "and I always thoroughly enjoy myself." Mrs. Prentice liked her better in her adversity than in her prosperity. She found it easy to join her husband in his admiration of the fortitude and dignity of Mrs. Marsden as an ill-used wife and a broken-down shopkeeper--now that the fable of her colossal brain-power was finally shattered. Perhaps Mrs. Prentice's naturally kind heart had never opened to Mrs. Marsden till the day when Mr. Prentice said that his idol was acting like a fool. Their guest used to eat sparingly, although the hostess pressed her to taste of every dish; and she scarcely drank more than half a glass of wine, although the host had brought out his most highly prized vintage; but she talked so cheerfully, so calmly, and so wisely, that her society was as charming as it was welcome. Mr. Prentice, beaming on her and listening with deference to her lightest words, was especially delighted each time that he recognized something like a flash of the old light. Once they were discussing a rumour that had just reached Mallingbridge. It was said that the War Office had purchased a tract of land on the downs, and proposed to establish a large permanent camp up there. "Half a dozen regiments, with all their followers--an invasion!" "It will be dreadful for the town," said Mrs. Prentice. "Utterly destroy its character." "That's what I think," said Mr. Prentice. "Do no good to anybody." "Do you know," said Mrs. Marsden, "I am inclined to disagree. Since the soldiers came to Ellerford, trade--I am told--has picked up wonderfully." "Ah, yes," said Prentice. "But that's a trifling affair--a very small camp, compared with what this would be." "But, Mr. Prentice," and Mrs. Marsden smiled; "if a small camp does a little good, why shouldn't a large camp do a lot of good?" It sounded quite simple, and yet only she would have said it. Mr. Prentice laughed. It reminded him of the old way she had of going straight to the point, and flooring you by a question that seemed childishly naïve until all at once you found you could not answer it. Mrs. Prentice continued to lament the many degradations that Mallingbridge had already undergone. "The Theatre Royal turned into a music hall! The Royal! That is the last blow. _Three_ music halls in the place, and not one theatre where you can go and see a real play.... I used to love the Royal. It seemed a _part_ of Mallingbridge." "My dear Mrs. Prentice," said the guest, calmly and philosophically, "the town that you and I loved has gone. It was inevitable--one can't put back the clock. Time won't stand still for us." "No, but they're making the new town so ugly, so vulgar. Whenever they pull down one of the dear old houses, they do build such gimcrack monstrosities." "I fancy," said Mrs. Marsden, "that the distance from London decided our destiny. It was just far enough off to reproduce and copy the metropolis. Nowadays, the little places that remain unchanged are all close to the suburban boundary." When she talked in this style, Prentice thought how effectually she gave the lie to people who said of her, that she had failed because she lacked the faculty of appreciating altered conditions. "Did you happen," she asked him, "to read the report of the general meeting of the railway company?" "No--I don't think I did." "The chairman mentioned Mallingbridge." "What did he say about it?" "He said that they might before long have to consider the propriety of building a new station, and putting it on another site." "Why should they do that?" "Why?" And again Mrs. Marsden smiled. "Why indeed? It set me thinking--and I read the speech carefully. Later on, the chairman spoke of the scheme for moving their carriage and engine works out of the London area. Well, I put those two hints together; and this is what I made of them. I believe that the company intend at last to develop all that land of theirs--the fields by the river,--and I prophesy that within three years they'll have built the new carriage works there." She said this exactly as she used to say those luminously clever things that he remembered in the past. He listened wonderingly and admiringly. But when the ladies left him alone to smoke his cigar or finish the wine that the guest had neglected, he sighed. She could give these flashes of the old logic and insight; she could talk so wisely about matters that in no way concerned her; but in the one great matter of her own life, where common sense was most desperately required, she had behaved like a lunatic. He let his cigar go out, and he could not drink any more wine. Rain was pattering on the windows, and the wind moaned round the house--a sad dark night. He rang the bell, and told the servant to order a fly for Mrs. Marsden at a quarter to ten. The fly took her home comfortably; and when she alighted at the bottom of St. Saviour's Court and offered the driver something more than his fare, he refused it. "Mr. Prentice paid me, ma'am." "Oh!... Then you must accept this shilling for yourself." "No, ma'am. Mr. Prentice tipped me. Good-night, ma'am." XXVI Enid was free. The farmhouse stood empty, with the ivy hanging in festoons and long streamers about the windows, the grass growing rank and strong over the carriage drive, and a board at the gate offering this eligible modernised residence to be let on lease. Its sometime mistress had gone with her little daughter to the seaside for eight or ten months. After her stay at Eastbourne she would return to Mallingbridge, and take furnished apartments--or perhaps rent one of the tiny new villas on the Linkfield Road. She wished to be near her mother, and she apologized now for leaving Mrs. Marsden quite alone during so many months; but, as she explained, Jane needed sea air. "Never mind about me," said Mrs. Marsden. "Only the child matters. Build up her health. Make her strong. I shall do very well--though of course I shall miss you both." She was getting accustomed to solitude and silence. Truly she had never been so entirely isolated and lonely as now. In the far-off days when Enid used by her absence to produce a wide-spreading sense of loss, there had been the work and bustle of the thriving shop to counteract the void and quiet of the house. And there had been Yates. Now there was nobody but the plain-faced grim-mannered Eliza, who had become the one general-servant of the broken home. Mr. Marsden still lunched and dined at the house, but he was never there for breakfast. He did not go upstairs to his bedroom and dressing-room once in a week. Sometimes for a fortnight he and his wife did not meet at meals. His voracious appetite manifested itself intermittently; there were days on which he gorged like a boa-constrictor, and others on which he felt disinclined to eat at all. Then he required Eliza to tempt him with savoury highly-spiced food, or to devise some dainty surprise which would stimulate his jaded fancy and woo him to a condescending patronage. He would toy with a bird--or a couple of dozen oysters--or a bit of pickled mackerel. Now and then, after he had been drinking more heavily than usual, he would himself inspire Eliza. "Eliza, I can't touch all that muck;" and he pointed with a slightly tremulous hand at the dinner table. "But I believe I could do with just a simple hunk of bread and cheese, and a quart of stout. Run out and get some stout--get two or three bottles, with the screw tops. You know, the large bottles." Then perhaps he would find eventually that this queer dinner-menu was a false inspiration. The bread and cheese were more than he could grapple with--and he asked for something else to assist the stout. In a word, he was rather troublesome about his meals; and Mrs. Marsden fell into the habit of taking her scanty refreshment at irregular hours. He did not upbraid her for keeping out of his way. Eliza looked after him in a satisfactory manner; and he never upset or frightened Eliza. Grim Eliza ran no risk of receiving undesired attentions. Everybody knew that Mr. Marsden often drank too much. One night when he failed to appear at dinner time, he was found--not by Eliza but by the Borough constabulary--in a state of total intoxication on the pavement outside the Dolphin. After this regrettable incident the Dolphin dismissed him and his barmaid together. The attendance at the saloon had been dropping off. A siren cannot draw custom, when you have a great hulking bully who sits in the corner and threatens to punch the head of every inoffensive moderate-sized gentleman upon whom the siren begins to exert her spell. The Dolphin was very glad to see the backs of Miss Ingram and her friend. Miss Ingram secured an engagement at the bar of the Red Cow, and Mr. Marsden faithfully followed her thither. The Red Cow was the disreputable betting public-house of which the town council were so much ashamed; people went there to bet, and it was likely to lose its license; but Marsden was content to make it his temporary club, and indeed seemed to settle down there comfortably enough. He still occasionally came to the shop. All eyes were averted when he swung one of the street doors and slouched in. He seemed to know and almost to admit that he was a disgrace and an eyesore, and though he scowled at the shop-walker swiftly dodging away and diving into the next department, he did not bellow a reprimand. He hurried up the shop; and it was only when he got behind the glass that he attempted to display anything like the old swagger and bluster. "Well, Mears, what's the best news with you?... You all look as if you were starting for a funeral--as black as a lot of mutes. How's business?" And he began to whistle, or to rattle the bunch of duplicate shop-keys that he carried in his trousers pocket. "I say, Mears, old pal--I'm run dry. Can't you and the missus do an advance--something on account--however small--to keep me going?" A few shillings were generally produced, and the advance was solemnly entered in the books, to the governor's name. Then he nearly always announced that he had come to the shop for the purpose of keeping a business appointment. "Look here. I'm expecting a gentleman. Show him straight in." These gentlemen were more dreadful to look at than the governor himself. He gave appointments to most terrific blacklegs--the unwashed rabble of the Red Cow, book-makers and their clerks, race-course touts,--inviting them to the shop in order to establish his credit, and prove to these seedy wretches that he was veritably the Marsden of Thompson & Marsden's. For such interviews he used to turn his wife out of the room. At a word she meekly left the American desk and walked out. "That you, Rooney? Come into my office. Here I am, you see. Sit down." The Red Cow gentlemen were overcome by the grandeur of Mr. Marsden in his own office; the size and magnificence of the establishment filled them with awe and envy; it surpassed belief. "Blow me, but it's true," they said afterwards. "Every word what he told us is the Gospel truth. He's the boss of the whole show. I witnessed it with my own eyes." Yet if his visitors had possessed real business acumen, the shop would have impressed them with anything but confidence. To a trade expert one glance would have sufficed. The forlorn aspect of the ruined shop told the gloomy facts with unmistakable clearness. So few assistants, so pitiably few customers, such a beggarly array of goods! Those shelves have all been dressed with dummies; those rolls of rich silk are composed of a wooden block, some paper, and half a yard of soiled material; within those huge presses you will find only darkness. Emptiness, desolation, death! And what could not be seen could readily be guessed. Behind the glass only two people--a man laboriously muddling with unfilled ledgers, a girl at a type-writing machine--only one type-writer, a sadly feeble clicking in the midst of vast unoccupied space; not a sound in the covered yard; no horses, no carts; no purchased goods to be handled in the immense packing rooms; no stock, no cash, no credit, no nothing! When a customer appeared, the shop seemed to stir uneasily in the sleep that was so like death; a faint vibration disturbed the heavy atmosphere; shop-walkers flitted to and fro; assistants yawned and stretched themselves. What is it? Yes, it _is_ another customer. "What can we show madam?" "Well, I wanted--but really I think I've made a mistake--" and the stranger looked about her, and seemed perplexed. "My friends said it was in High Street--but I see this isn't it. Yes, I've made a mistake. Good morning." "_Good_ morning, madam." The bright spring sunshine pouring in at the windows lit up the threadbare, colourless matting, showed the dust that danced above the parquet after each footfall; but it could not reach the great mirror on the stairs. The mirrors were growing dimmer and dimmer. As the black figure passed and repassed, the first reflected Mrs. Marsden was scarcely less vague and unsubstantial than the line of Mrs. Marsdens walking by her side. Mr. Mears and Miss Woolfrey, disconsolately pacing the lower and the upper floor, seemed like captains of a ship becalmed--like honest captains of a water-logged ship, feeling it tremble and shiver as it settled down beneath their feet, knowing that it was soon to sink, and thinking that they were ready to go down with it. When they paused in their rounds of inspection, it was because really there was nothing to inspect. They turned their heads and looked, from behind the dusty piles of carpets or the trays of fly-blown china, at the establishment over the way--looked from death to life; and for a few minutes watched the jostling crowd and the brilliant range of colours on the other side of the road. No dust there. Here, it was impossible to prevent the dust. The dust-sheets were in tatters; the brooms and sprinklers were worn out; there were not enough hands to sweep and rub. Mears himself looked dusty. And when the sunlight fell upon him, he looked very old, very grey, and rather shaky. He never blew out his cheeks or swished his coat-tails now. The voluminous frock-coat seemed several sizes too large for him; it was greasy at the elbows, and frayed at the cuffs. The salary of Mears was hopelessly in arrear. For a long time Mears, like the governor, had found himself obliged to crave for something on account--just to keep going with. One sunny April day Marsden entered the shop about noon, went into the office; and, not discovering his wife there, ordered the type-writing girl to fetch her immediately. "What is it, Richard?" said Mrs. Marsden, presently appearing. "Oh, there you are--at last. You never seem to be in your right place when you're wanted. I've been waiting here five minutes--and not a soul on the lookout to receive people." "I am sorry." "Anybody could walk in from the street and march slap into this room, without being asked who he was and what his business was. And a nice idea it would give a stranger of our management." "I am sorry. But was that all you had to say to me?" "No. Look here," he went on grumblingly. "Bence, if you please, has asked me for an appointment." "Will you see him?" "Yes--I think so." "Very good." "Yes, I've told the little bounder I'll see him." "Do you wish me to be present at the interview?" "No--better not." A quarter of an hour afterwards Mr. Archibald Bence was coming up the empty shop. It was years since he had crossed the threshold; and certainly his eyes were expert enough to see now, if he cared to look about him, the dire results of his implacable rivalry. But he showed nothing in his face: smugly self-possessed, smilingly imperturbable, he followed the shop-walker straight to the counting-house. The shop-walker announced him at the door of the inner room, and he marched in. He bowed low, as Mrs. Marsden, with a slight inclination of the head, passed out. Then Marsden shut the door. But upstairs and downstairs the dull air vibrated as if electric discharges were passing through it in all directions; the whole shop stirred and throbbed; the whispering assistants quivered. "Did you see him?" "I couldn't get a peep at him." "I just saw the top of his hat." Bence had come to call upon the governor. Bence was in the shop. That great man was behind their glass. Soon they heard sounds of the noisy interview--at least, Marsden was making a lot of noise. The minutes seemed long; but there were only five or six of them before the counting-house doors opened and Bence reappeared. He was perfectly calm, talking quietly and politely, though the governor bellowed. "All right, Mr. Marsden, don't excite yourself. I only asked a question." "Yes, a blasted impertinent one." "Well, no bones broken, anyhow," and Bence smiled. "If you should ever change your mind--come over the road, and let me know." "I'll see you damned first." Nothing, however, could ruffle Bence. "Just so. But, as I was saying, if you ever _should_ care to do business--well, I'm not far off. Good morning to you." Mrs. Marsden, when she returned to the inner room, found her husband standing near the desk, sullenly scowling at the floor. "I was a fool to swear at him. I ought to have kicked him down the shop.... Can you guess what he came about?" "I'm not clever at guessing. I'll wait till you tell me." "He wanted us to close more than half the shop, and sublet it to him for the remainder of the lease." And Marsden sullenly and growlingly described the details of this impudent proposal. Bence suggested that the yard and the new packing rooms could be used by him as a warehouse; that all departments to the west of the silk counter might be transferred to the eastern side; that he would build a party wall at his own expense, and use all this western block "for one thing or another." Bence's question in plain words therefore was, Would they now confess to the universe that their premises were about four times too big for their trade? "Not to be thought of," said Mrs. Marsden. "No. I suppose not;" and Marsden glanced at her furtively, and then rattled the keys in his pocket. "We won't think of it." XXVII Another month had gone, and the end of all things was approaching. "Jane," said Marsden, "we're beat. We'd better own it. We are beat to the world. It's no good going on." "What do you mean?" It was a dull and depressing afternoon--the sky obscured by heavy clouds, a little rain falling at intervals,--so dark in the room behind the glass that Mrs. Marsden was compelled to switch on the electric light above the American desk. She had turned in her chair, and was watching her husband's face intently; and the light from the lamp showed that her own face had become extraordinarily pale. "It's no good, Jane. You must see it just the same as I do. We're done--and the only thing is to consider how we are to escape a smash." Then he told her that Bence had offered to buy them out. Bence was ready to swallow them whole. Bence was prepared to give them a fair price for their entire property--long lease of the premises, stock, fittings, assets, the complete bag of tricks. He would take it over as a still going concern, with all its debts and liabilities. If they accepted Bence's offer, they would merely have to put the money in their pockets, and could wash their hands of a bitterly bad job. "Don't talk so loud. Someone may hear you." "No," he said, "there's no one outside, except Miss O'Donnell; and you can hear her machine--so she can't be eavesdropping.... I'll give you my reasons for saying it's a fair price." "Yes, please do.... You haven't mentioned the amount yet." "I'm coming to it. I want to prepare your mind. Of course I don't know how it will strike you."... "Go on, please." "First of all, I'll say I'm certain it's more than we should get from anyone else. I've gone to the root of everything. I have worked it out with plain figures.... Well, then--Bence will give six thousand pounds." "No, I won't accept the offer." "It would be three thousand apiece." "I refuse to agree to the sale." "It will be ready money, you know--paid on the nail." "Richard, I can't agree to it." "Why not? Of course I know I can't jump you into it. I don't want to do so. I simply want to persuade you that it's our only course." Then he began to argue and plead with her. He said that he considered it would be madness obstinately to decline such an opportunity, and she ought really to be grateful to him for cutting the knot of their difficulties. He explained that only two days after Bence's memorable visit, he had gone across the road and reopened negotiations on a wider scale. He owned that he had at first resented the approach of Bence as a gross insult; he had felt disposed to kick Bence; but _afterwards_, calmly thinking it over, he had come to the conclusion that Bence--"if properly, handled"--might eventually prove their best friend. In this softer, calmer mood, he had made a return call on Bence--had handled him magnificently, had bluffed him and jollied him, had slowly but surely screwed him up to make a splendid and a firm offer. "But, Richard, supposing that we were to sell the business, what would happen to you?" "I should go away--to California. I'm sick of this stinking town. It's played out for me. At Mallingbridge I'm a dead-beat--people don't believe in me--I've no real friends. But I should do all right out West--and I want a decent climate. Between you and me and the post, I funk another English winter." "Do you mean that you want to desert me altogether?" "Jane, what's the use of asking me that? You and I have got to the end of our tether, haven't we? What good can I do sticking here any longer? I can't help you--I can't help myself. We're done. You'd far wiser divide what we can grab from Bence, and let me go." "But to a person of your tastes and habits, three thousand pounds is not an inexhaustible sum. Do you think that, as your entire capital, it would be enough for you?" "Yes, I do," he said eagerly. "Life is cheaper out there. In that lovely climate one doesn't want to binge up. There aren't the same temptations. I should turn over a new leaf--put the brake on--make a fresh start." "And should I never see you again?" "Oh, I don't say that. No--of course I should come back. I don't see what real difference it would make to you. We're a semi-detached couple, as it is." "Yes, but not quite detached." "Well, you'd let me go on a little longer string. That's all about it;" and he laughed good-humouredly. He believed that he would soon overcome her opposition. "I never meant any total severance, you know. We should be like the swells--Mrs. Marsden is residing at Mallingbridge; Mr. Marsden has gone to the Pacific Coast for the winter. We'd put it in the paper, if you liked." "I see that you are very keen to close with--with Mr. Bence's proposal." "Yes, I am--and I honestly believe you ought to be just as keen." And again he extolled his personal merit in screwing up the proposer. Bence had pointed out that if he quietly waited until Thompson & Marsden were forced as bankrupts to put up their shutters, he would buy all he wanted at a much lower price. The premises, and the premises only, were what Bence wanted. After a bankruptcy he could buy the lease at the market price, and not have to give a penny for anything else. Bence said his offer was extravagantly liberal; but he frankly admitted that he felt in a hurry to clear up the street, and make it neat and tidy. He would therefore fork out thus handsomely to avoid delay. "He said we were doing the street _harm_, Jane. And, upon my word, I couldn't deny that. I've often told Mears we have got to look more like a funeral than anything else." "And you wish us to be decently buried?" He laughed and shrugged his shoulders in the utmost good-humour. He felt sure now that she would yield; and with increasing eagerness he urged her to adopt his views. "Very well," she said at last. "It is your wish?" "Yes, it is." "Then on one condition," and she spoke in a hard, matter-of-fact voice,--"on _one_ condition, I'll consent." "What's your condition?" "When we wind up our business relations, we must wind up all our other relations.... It must be a total severance--I am using your own word--and no half measures. When you leave Mallingbridge you must leave it forever. You must undertake--bind yourself never to set foot in it again." "Oh, I say." "You must execute a deed of separation." He seemed greatly surprised; and for a little while hesitated, as if unable to express his thoughts. "Look here, Jane.... You're talking big, old lady. What next?... Deed of separation! That's a very large order." "You are taking freedom for yourself. You must give me freedom." "Oh, no, you overdo that line," he said slowly. "I told you I would come back--some day or other. Yet now you take up this high and mighty tone--as though I had given you the right to cut me adrift altogether." "Ah! I understand. You thought you'd have _your_ three thousand to spend, and _my_ three thousand to fall back upon. Then again I refuse the offer." "Don't be hasty--and don't impute bad motives where none exist. No, you have struck me all of a heap by what you demand. I wasn't prepared for it--and it wants a bit of thought, before I can say yes or no." And he began to bargain about the deed of separation. He had seen an unexpected chance, and he meant to make the most of it. "Let's be business-like, Jane. If I renounce all claims on you forever--if I agree to make a formal renunciation,--well, surely that's worth _something_ to you?" "Do you mean, worth money? Are you asking me to pay you?" "I want to start a new life out there--and I shall need all the money I can get. You told me so, yourself--three thou. is devilish little to face the world on." "Yes," she said quietly, "and with another person dependent on you." "What do you say?" "I say, you are not going alone.... We must think of your companion, as well as of yourself." "Jane, you're hard on me." "Am I?" And the bargaining went on. Finally they came to terms. She was to give him half her share, in exchange for absolute freedom. He would thus have four thousand five hundred pounds as initial impetus for his new career. "Do you say _done_ to that?" "Yes," she replied coldly and firmly, "I say done." He sat down, drew out a dirty handkerchief, and wiped his forehead. His argumentative efforts had made him warm; but he smiled contentedly. He considered that "in the circs." it was a jolly good bargain. "Dick," and her voice suddenly softened. "Have you thought what _I_ am to do? Fifteen hundred pounds isn't much for _me_--to start a new life with." "You have money of your own.... I am certain that you have a tidy nest-egg still." "If I were to tell you that I hadn't another penny in the world?" "I shouldn't believe it." "If I convinced you that it was literally true, would it make any difference to you?" "I don't follow." "Would you still take half my share from me?" "What's the good of talking about it?" And he looked at her thoughtfully. "Jane, the devil is driving me. I'm not the man I was. I funk dangers. My health is broken.... You'll be all right. You have friends. I have none. It's vital to me to know that we--that I shall have enough to rub along with out there." Mrs. Marsden said no more. "Yes, you'll be all right, old girl. Never fear!" And he got up, and stretched himself. "But I say! We've been jawing such a deuce of a time that it'll be too late to do anything to-day, unless we look sharp.... Will you give me a letter to Hyde & Collins, saying you accept?" "No, I'll go there, and tell them by word of mouth." "May I go with you?" "No, that's unnecessary." "But you _will_ go, Jane? I mean, at once. You do intend to go--and no rot?" "I have told you I am going." "Yes, but hurry up then. They don't keep open all night." "I'll tell them within an hour." Within an hour she had spoken to Mr. Bence's solicitors and gone on to the office of Mr. Prentice. "Now," she said to her old friend, "you see me in my need. The time has come. Help me with all your power." Then very rapidly she told him all that had happened. "So there goes the end of an old song," said Mr. Prentice. "Mind you, I don't tell you that you are doing wrong. It may be--probably it _is_--the only thing to do.... Six thousand pounds!" It was obvious that Mr. Prentice had been astonished by the largeness of this sum. But he would not admit the fact. He spoke cautiously. "It is more than anyone else would have given." "Possibly! But I might have got you better terms from Bence. Let me take up the negotiations now. If he will give as much as six thousand, he may give more." "No, I have told Hyde & Collins that we accept." "That was premature. But you referred them to me?" "No. I told them to prepare the conveyance at once." "But--good gracious--they can't act for both sides." "Of course they can. It will save time--it will save money. There is no difficulty _there_. We sell all we have. A child could carry it through." "Oh, but really, I don't know. Your interests must be guarded." "No, no." She was nervous and excited, and she spoke piteously and yet irritably. "I have instructed them. They must attend to the sale. And _you_ must attend to the deed of separation. Concentrate your mind--all your mind on it.... Don't you understand, don't you see that this is everything and the sale is nothing?" "No, I don't see that at all." "It is what I have been praying for night and day--it is my escape. And he is granting it to me of his own consent--he consents to give me unmolested freedom." And she implored Mr. Prentice to use his skill and sagacity to their uttermost extent. "I want it to be a renunciation of all possible claims. It must be absolutely clear that this is the end of our partnership." "Oh, as to that," said Mr. Prentice, "the partnership ends automatically with the sale of the business." "But put it in the deed--explicitly. Make him surrender every claim--even if it seems to you only the shadow of a claim." Then, without saying that she was to pay a price for Marsden's acquiescence, she repeated the agreed conditions of the separation. She became agitated when Mr. Prentice assured her that he would easily draft the deed. "No, don't treat it as an easy task. Get counsel's opinion--the best counsel. Spare no expense--in this case. It is life and death to me.... Oh, Mr. Prentice, don't fail me _now_. Make the deed strong--make it so binding that he can never slip out of it." "I won't fail you," said Mr. Prentice earnestly. "We'll make your deed as strong--as effective--as is humanly possible--a deed that the Courts will be far more inclined to support than to upset." "Yes, yes," she said, as if now satisfied. "That's all I ask for--as strong as is humanly possible." XXVIII It was a bright May morning and the sunshine streamed into Mr. Prentice's room gaily and warmly, lighting up the old panelled walls, flickering on the bunch of keys that hung from the lock of the open safe, and making the tin boxes show queer reflections of the windows, the tops of houses on the other side of Hill Street, and even of the blue sky above the chimney-pots. A large table had been brought in for the occasion; a clerk had furnished it with newly-filled ink-stands and nice clean blotting paper; another clerk was ready to receive the visitors as they came upstairs. Mr. Prentice moved his armchair to the head of the table. He would sit here, and preside over the meeting. He glanced at the clock.--A quarter to twelve! At noon Mr. Archibald Bence or his representative was to complete the purchase of Marsden & Thompson's by handing over cash; and at the same time the domestic affairs of Mrs. Marsden were to be wound up forever. Mrs. Marsden was the first of the interested parties to arrive on the scene. She looked careworn and nervous; and, as she shook hands, Mr. Prentice noticed that her fingers trembled. "Now, my dear," he said kindly, "there's nothing to worry about. You sit by my side here, and take things quietly." Mrs. Marsden, however, preferred to sit away from the table, on a chair between the windows, with her back to the light. "Nothing to worry about now," repeated Mr. Prentice, confidently and cheerily. "It'll soon be over." "But it won't be over without some unpleasantness." "Why? Mr. Marsden has been quite pleasant so far--really quite easy to deal with." "But he won't be to-day--I know it." And she showed great anxiety. "You say he has made all arrangements for his voyage?" "Yes. He tells me he sails on Thursday. And he goes to London to-night." "I wonder if he truly means it." "Of course he means it." "I suppose he does. The things he packed at our house went straight to Liverpool. But--even now--he may change his mind." "How can he?... Hush!" There was a heavy footstep in the passage. The clerk opened the door, and announced Mr. Marsden. "Am I late?" "No, you are in excellent time," said Prentice; and, looking at him, he endeavoured not to manifest the thoughts aroused by his appearance. It seemed that Marsden, bracing himself for the day, was trying to maintain a sort of buccaneering joviality. Evidently, too, he had made some attempts to render himself presentable in general company. He had visited the barber, and his bloated face was smooth and glistening after a close shave; a neatly cut piece of plaster covered an eruption on the back of his neck; he wore a clean collar, and the cheap violet satin neck-tie conveyed the idea that it had been chosen by feminine taste. Probably his travelling companion had assisted in brushing and cleaning him, and sending him forth as nice as possible. Yet, in spite of this unusual care, he looked most ruffianly as he lolled in a chair near the open safe, with the bright sunlight full upon him. His eyes were slightly bloodshot; and the gross, overfed frame suggested the characteristics of a beast of prey who for a long time has ceased to undergo the invigorating activities of the chase and been enabled without effort to gorge at will. Now he had come for his last greedy and unearned meal. Mrs. Marsden, on the other side of the room, lowered her eyes, folded her hands, sat silent and motionless. Mr. Collins of Hyde & Collins, followed by his own clerk, was the next to arrive. He came bustling into the room, and immediately seemed to take possession of it. "Good morning. Good morning. Here we are. Put my bag on the table.... Where are you sitting, Prentice.... Over there? All right. Then I'll sit here;" and he took the chair at the end of the table, opposite to Mr. Prentice. "You sit there, Fielding;" and he waved to his clerk. "Sit down. Don't stand." Mr. Prentice disliked Collins rather more than he disliked Hyde. To his mind, Collins was everything that a solicitor should not be--impudent, unscrupulous, vulgar; a discredit to the profession. His ragged beard, his snout of a nose, his little ferret-eyes, shifting so rapidly behind steel-rimmed spectacles, were all obnoxious; but what made Mr. Prentice really angry was his irrepressible familiarity, with the odious facetious manner that accompanied it. He said Prentice instead of _Mister_ Prentice; and, refusing to recognize snubs, always pretended that they were on the best of terms with each other. "Well," asked Marsden, "why don't we begin?" "No hurry, is there?" said Collins. He was busy with his ugly black bag, getting out the important document, and unfolding some memorandum papers. "Oh, _I_'m in no particular hurry," said Marsden. "But twelve o'clock was the hour named." "Is it twelve.... Can you hear Holy Trinity clock from here, Prentice? We hear it plainly at our place." Then dapper, smiling Mr. Archibald Bence was announced. "Come in," said Collins patronisingly. "Here we are, all assembled. Be seated. Fielding, put a chair for Mr. Bence." Mr. Archibald looked splendid in the sunlight. He shone all over, from his bald head to his patent leather boots. His black coat was beautifully braided, elegantly padded on the shoulders, tightly pulled in at the waist; his buff waistcoat exactly matched his wash-leather gloves; and with him there entered the room a pleasing fragrance shed by the moss roses in his button-hole. He bowed gallantly to the only lady present, had an affable word for Prentice and Collins, and nodded rather contemptuously to Marsden. "Gentlemen," he said blandly, "it is the sort of day on which one is glad to be alive;" and he turned about, with a dandified air, to find a vacant spot for his brand-new topper. "Take Mr. Bence's hat," said Collins; and his clerk did as he was bid. Bence, declining a chair, went and leaned against the wall near Mrs. Marsden, and twirled his moustache. "What are we waiting for?" asked Marsden. "Only for one small trifle," said Mr. Collins facetiously. "But I don't suppose you'd dispense with it. Not quite a matter of form." "What is it?" "The money--the purchase money, my dear sir." "What? Haven't you got it with you?" "Oh, dear me, no," said Mr. Collins. "But it's coming--oh, yes, it's coming." "I understand that a clerk is bringing it from the bank," said Mr. Prentice. He found the facetious manner of Mr. Collins utterly insufferable. Marsden shrugged his shoulders, and crossed his legs. Archibald Bence was looking at him; Collins looked at him; old Prentice looked at him; and all at once he seemed to feel the necessity of asserting himself. "I never understood the use of appointments unless they are punctually attended. It's waste of time asking people for twelve, if you don't intend to get to work till half an hour later." Bence moved to the window, and looked out. "A thousand apologies for keeping you waiting, Mr. Marsden." He spoke over his shoulder. "Ah, here the man comes;" and he pulled out his grand gold watch. "Then I've really only wasted three minutes of your valuable time." "All right," said Marsden sulkily. The bank clerk came in, and bowed to the company as he went to Mr. Collins's side at the table. Then he opened his wallet and brought out the white sheaves of bank-notes. "Will you go through them, sir?" "Yes," said Mr. Collins. "Will you kindly check them with me, Prentice?" "I'll count them after you," said Mr. Prentice. It did not suit his dignity to leave his chair and go round the table to stand at Collins's elbow. Mr. Collins found the total of the notes correct, pushed them across to Prentice, and signed the bank receipt. "Then you won't want me any more," said the bank clerk. "Wait," said Collins pompously, as if the bank, as well as Mr. Prentice's room, belonged to him. "Stand over there--or sit down, if you please. My clerk will go back with you." Marsden had risen and approached the table. It was as if the bank-notes had irresistibly drawn him. Perhaps, though in his career he had dissipated so many notes singly or by small batches, he had never yet seen such a good show of them, all together, at one time. And such noble denominations! "Twice three thousand," said Prentice. "Quite right." While counting, he had divided the notes into two piles; and now he slid them towards the middle of the table, and put an ink-stand on top to prevent their blowing away. Marsden stood over them. He could not leave the table now. "Then here we are. All in order," said Collins, as he spread out his parchment and glanced at Mrs. Marsden. "I suppose, strictly speaking, it should be ladies first. But as the pen is close to your hand, Mr. Marsden--will you, sir, open the ball?" "Oh, that's the conveyance for the sale, eh? Where do I sign?" "There--against the seal--over the pencil marks.... And I'll witness your signature." Then Mr. Marsden duly signed his name, and repeated the formula as prompted by Collins. "I deliver it as my act and deed.... Now, Jane!" Mrs. Marsden had not stirred from her seat. "Don't put down your pen, Richard. There's the other deed to sign. Mr. Prentice is ready for you." "All right--but you come and sign the conveyance;" and he moved to Mr. Prentice's end of the table. "I ought to read this--but I suppose I may take it as read." "Oh, yes, I think so," said Mr. Prentice. "It's exactly the same as the draft that I passed?" "Yes, of course." "I may trust you not to have dabbed in something artful that I'd never heard of?" "You had better read it," said Prentice curtly, "if you _can't_ trust me." "Oh, that's all right;" and Marsden laughed. "Now then--where do you want my autograph?" Still chuckling, he affixed his signature; and, he smiled good-humouredly while the witness filled the attestation space. Mrs. Marsden had come to the table, and was pulling off a rusty black glove. "There you are," said her husband. "The conveyance first, Jane." "No," said Mrs. Marsden, looking at him resolutely. "I'll sign this deed first. It's the one I'm most interested in;" and she turned to Mr. Prentice. "But I must try the pen. Kindly let me have a bit of paper." Mr. Prentice fetched a half sheet of note-paper from his desk, and handed it to her. "Thank you." Stooping over the table, she tested the pen by scribbling a few words. Then she executed the deed; and, while Mr. Fielding was being good enough to write his name and address as witness, she gave the half-leaf of paper to Mr. Prentice. "Now then," said Marsden. "Look sharp. Don't be all night about it." He had gone to the other end of the table, and he waited anxiously to see the conveyance completed. Mr. Prentice was reading Mrs. Marsden's scribbled words. He looked at her, and she pointed with her pen. She had written: "Lock the deed in your safe, and put the keys in your pocket." "Now I am ready, Richard." But still she did not sign. She was watching Mr. Prentice. The door of the safe shut with a faint, dull clank, and Mr. Prentice locked the door and took out the keys. Then Mrs. Marsden signed the conveyance, and Fielding obligingly witnessed her signature. "Thank you," she said; and, returning to her chair between the windows, she sat down again. "That's done," said Collins; and he called to the bank clerk, who had been patiently waiting in a corner of the room. "Mr. Fielding will go back with you. This document is to be put away with Mr. Bence's papers. My compliments to the manager. He knows all about it." "But," said Marsden, "doesn't Mr. Bence sign it?" "It isn't necessary," said Collins. "Are you sure?" And Marsden looked at Bence suspiciously. "He can sign it at his convenience," said Collins, "if he ever wishes to do so.... Run along, young fellows. My compliments to the manager;" and he addressed Marsden with extreme facetiousness. "We pay on this--so you can be quite sure we are not deceiving you. The money _talks_. You can take it whenever you please.... Ah! I see--you're not slow about that." And in fact, without waiting for Mr. Collins to conclude his invitation, Marsden had pushed aside the ink-stand and picked up the notes. One bundle he unceremoniously thrust into the breast pocket of his coat; and now with a licked finger he was separating the edges of the other bundle. "Stop," said Mr. Prentice. "What are you doing? Allow me, please;" and he held out his hand. "I will attend to this." Marsden, without surrendering the notes, explained matters in a confidential whisper. "Fifteen hundred goes to her, and the rest to me." "Indeed it doesn't," said Prentice warmly. "It's all right," said Marsden. "It was arranged between her and me." "But I know nothing of any such arrangement. I can't permit it for a moment." "_You_ can't permit it!" said Marsden indignantly. "What the dickens has it got to do with you?" Mr. Collins, with an assumption of tactful delicacy, had pushed back his chair. "Excuse me. This is a private conversation. I hasten to withdraw." And he went across to Archibald Bence and Mrs. Marsden, and talked to them in a rapid undertone. Mr. Prentice went on protesting; and Marsden, cutting him short, called loudly to his wife. "Jane, tell him that it is all right." "Yes," she said. "Quite all right, Mr. Prentice." "Oh, you mean that you are giving him a present of fifteen hundred pounds?" "It's not a present," said Marsden. "No," said Mrs. Marsden, "it was a bargain." "Between ourselves, and concerning nobody else;" and Marsden glared at Mr. Prentice. Nevertheless Mr. Prentice still expostulated. "I think it is highly improper. I would never have consented to--" "Pardon me," said Collins, "if I intrude--but it has been impossible not to catch the gist of your discussion. Really it seems to me that it is too late for you, Prentice, to tender advice on the point--and that the lady's wish must decide the matter. If Mrs. Marsden announces that she wishes--" "Just so, Mr. Collins;" and Marsden looked at him gratefully. "Exactly," said Bence soothingly. "That's how it strikes me, too." Marsden looked at Bence with surprise and pleasure. They all seemed to be on his side. He appealed to his wife with a rather boisterous joviality. "Jane, speak up for me. Tell them that you did wish it." "Yes, I did wish it." "Then there is no more to be said," continued Bence, smoothly and glibly. "On an occasion like this, one naturally wishes to avoid any acrimonious talk. Especially in a peculiar case like the present--when a gentleman and a lady are parting,--there's no need for them to part other than as good friends. That, madam, I feel certain is also your wish." "Yes," said Mrs. Marsden in a low voice, "I do greatly wish it." "Thank you, Jane. I'm sure I do. But I don't know why we should make speeches about it, or get Mr. Bence to expound our sentiments." "Forgive me," said Bence, "if I trespass. You are leaving us, Mr. Marsden--and I share Mrs. Marsden's desire that you should not leave us with any feeling of ill-will." "Precisely," said Collins, picking up the word, almost as if taking his cue in a rehearsed dialogue. "That is what everyone must feel." He had reseated himself at the table; and he looked round with a comprehensive smile, as if assuming sole charge of everything and everybody. "Mr. Bence has touched the point very gracefully.... Pray be seated, Mr. Marsden." "What, aren't we done?" "Yes, yes, my dear sir," said Collins with consequential urbanity. "Our business is done. But spare us one minute for friendly chat. Do sit down.... Thank you. As I was about to say, following the line of our friend Bence: In the hour of separation, when two parties by mutual agreement are saying good-bye, it is always well that they should thoroughly understand the future situation." "What's all this gas about?" said Marsden. "Are you trying to pull my leg? What are you getting at?" "Mr. Marsden, you are retiring from trade, you are going to the other side of the world--I wish you health and prosperity." "And I, too," said Bence. "The best of luck, Mr. Marsden." Marsden got up again. "Thank you for nothing, Mr. Archibald Bence. You're both trying to be funny, I suppose. Only I fail to see the joke.... Good morning;" and he moved towards the door. "Jane, good-bye." "But," said Mr. Archibald, "we've wished you luck. Don't go without wishing us luck." "Yes," said Collins, "don't go without wishing your wife luck." "Then here's luck, Jane;" and Marsden laughed. "And luck to Bence's," said Collins blandly. "Wish luck to Bence's." "No, I'll be damned if I do." "But that," said Collins, with a grin, "invalidates your other good wish. You can't wish luck to your wife without wishing luck to Bence's;" and he bowed to Mrs. Marsden. "I think you should now explain. He will take it better from you." "Richard," said Mrs. Marsden quietly and firmly, "_I_ am Bence's." For a few moments there was silence. Then Marsden came slowly to the table, leaned both hands on it, and stared across at his wife. "What do you mean by that, Jane? Is this another joke?" "Oh, no," said Mr. Archibald. "It is strictly accurate. Bence's, with all that's in it--including your humble servant--practically belongs to this lady." "And we all felt," said Collins, "that you ought to know the facts before you started on your journey. We didn't want you coming back again to inquire--don't you know." Marsden seemed not to hear. He stared at his wife, with his blood-shot eyes widely distended; and he spoke only to her. "Jane, answer me. Is it true?" "Yes, Richard." "But _how_?" "You asked me what I did with my money--the remainder of my own money. You were always asking me. Well, I gave it to Mr. Bence." "How much was it?" "Not very much," said Mrs. Marsden deprecatingly; "but he has done very well with it." "But that was treachery--a damnable betrayal." "Richard, don't use strong words. It was no betrayal. It was common sense. Remember, desperate diseases need desperate remedies." "You went over to my enemy. You helped him to destroy our business." "I didn't," said Mrs. Marsden earnestly. "I gave him my money; but I gave you my work. I never ceased fighting him. Isn't that true, Mr. Bence?" "Strictly accurate," said Bence. "She fought gamely to the bitter end." "You shut your head," said Marsden fiercely. "Don't interfere between me and my wife. I must have this out with her first. I'll talk to you directly." "I'll be ready for you," said Bence. "But till then, please moderate your language;" and he moved to a window, and looked down into the street. "So that's what you did, Jane, eh? Sneaked off behind my back, and sold yourself to the enemy!" "I continued to serve you faithfully. Success or failure lay in your hands, not mine. I never ceased working for the firm." "Oh, that's easy to say, isn't it?" "It's the truth." "It's a lie--and you know it." "Will you moderate your language?" said Bence. "Gentlemen, I beg your support. This lady must be protected from insult." But the attention of Marsden and his wife was so entirely concentrated on each other that neither of them seemed to hear the interruption. "Richard, don't go on like this--don't force me to say unkind things which I shall regret later." "I knew there was some infernal mystery at the bottom of our troubles. But, by Jove, I never guessed that it was _you_ who'd played false." "Richard, don't abuse me." "Abuse you? I shan't waste breath on abusing you. You have cheated me--or you've _tried_ to cheat me. For I'm not going to let you;" and he turned towards the others. "Take notice, all of you, that I shan't submit to this. Prentice, do you understand? You were always hostile to me. I suppose you helped to hatch this plot." Mr. Prentice was looking so absolutely bewildered that his face should have been sufficient proof of his innocence. "No," he said feebly. "All this has come upon me as a complete surprise." "Then you, Mr. Collins--understand it's all mighty fine, but it won't wash." "Won't it?" said Collins. "No, I don't allow myself to be cheated--even by my wife." "Richard," said Mrs. Marsden, "don't call me a cheat again." "You there--Bence--take notice. I'll bring you to account for this. I'm not the sort to be tricked and fooled by any little swine that gets plotting with my wife. No, not if I know it. Cheating people is very clever, but--" Mrs. Marsden sprang up from her chair by the wall. "How dare you call me a cheat?" Her eyes were blazing. She had clenched her fists; and, trembling with passion, she came to the table and faced her husband. "What have you ever given me in exchange for all I gave you--except shame and sorrow?" "I'm not going to listen to your yelling and--" "I gave you my love, and you trampled on it--I gave you my home, and you polluted it--I gave you the work of my life, and you pulled it to pieces before my eyes. Yet still I was true and loyal to you. I could have divorced you, and I wouldn't do it. I promised you that I'd hold to you till you yourself consented to set me free; and I kept my promise. You were a liar--but I respected your words. You were a thief--but I dealt with you as if you had been an honest man. I fed and clothed you when you were well, I nursed you when you were sick--I hid your crimes, I sheltered you from their consequences. At this minute I am keeping you out of the prison that is your only proper place.... And yet--great God--he has the audacity to say that I am cheating him!" And then Mrs. Marsden, shaking in excitement and anger, went back to her chair and sat down. "You asked for that," said Collins, with renewed facetiousness, "and you got it." Bence was looking out of the window; and he whistled and gently clapped his hands, as if applauding the passionate force of Mrs. Marsden's unexpected tirade. "I don't know what she means," said Marsden hoarsely. "And I dare say she doesn't know, herself." He had been staggered by his wife's attack; and at her last words he recoiled from the table, as if suddenly daunted, almost cowed. Now he was pulling himself together again. "Who cares what a woman says?" And he cleared his throat, and spoke loudly and defiantly. "I don't, for one." "Richard," murmured Mrs. Marsden, in a still tremulous voice. "I'm sorry I said it." "All right. That's enough.... But now, if you please, we men will talk;" and he looked from one to another. The veins showed redly on his forehead; his glistening jaw was protruded; and he squared his huge shoulders pugnaciously. "I tell you, once for all, I'm not going to stand any damned rot. As to the sale--Mr. Clever Bence,--I repudiate it utterly. It was obtained under false pretences, and I'll have it set aside. As to the separation--I'm speaking to you, Prentice,--that bargain falls through with the other.... And to show you what I think of it--I am now going to tear up the deed." "Oh no, you're not," said Collins. "I warn you all," said Marsden furiously: "if anyone touches me, he'll be sorry for it. Now, Prentice, fetch out your deed again. You shoved it away in that safe, didn't you? Well, out with it." And he moved to the side of Mr. Prentice, and stood over him threateningly. "Out with it--d'you hear?" Bence and Collins had both begun to clap their hands loudly. And with this noisy applause other sounds were mingling. Mr. Prentice, as he rose to confront Marsden, heard quick footsteps in the passage. The door was abruptly opened, and two policemen came into the room. "This way, officers," said Collins pompously. "You are just in time to prevent a breach of the peace. There's your man--keep your eyes on him." Marsden, turning hurriedly, saw the two uniforms and helmets solemnly advance, and showed a craven dissatisfaction at the sight. "What are you up to now?" he asked glumly. But Collins, ignoring the question, continued to talk pompously to the new arrivals. "As I told your superintendent, he is a dangerous character. He has been threatening us with assault and battery--but we do not wish to give him in charge, if we can help it. Your presence will probably be sufficient to restrain him." "Very good, sir." "He is the same man who made the disturbance at the Red Cow--and I think he has been charged once or twice as a drunk and disorderly." "You needn't introduce him so carefully," said Bence, with a snigger. "Mr. Marsden is already well known to the police." "Yes, Mr. Bence," said one of the policemen, "_we_ know the gent." "Very well," continued Collins, with the air of a magistrate presiding over a crowded court. "He is leaving the town to-night--forever,--and I shall ask for a constable to see him off. From the mayor down to the humblest citizen, Mallingbridge is tired of him--so he is going to the western states of America. He will be more at home among the desperados of some mining camp than he can be in a peaceful hum-drum town like this." And Mr. Collins turned to Marsden, as though haranguing the prisoner. "Now, sir, will you behave yourself, and let us finish our conversation quietly and decently?" "Oh, you can finish your chin-music in any tune you like." Marsden growled this out; but the voice was heavy and dejected, altogether lacking in animation. Very obviously the arrival of the police had crushed his spirit. "So be it," said Collins. "Then I think, officers, that will do. You may safely leave us for the moment. But please wait outside the door, to protect us if necessary." "Yes," said Bence, "we'll give you the same signal, if you're wanted again." "All right, Mr. Bence." And the policemen left the room. To their eyes the famous Mr. Bence was the natural chieftain of any assemblage, no matter how pompously anybody else talked. Here, they were at his service, detailed for Bence's just as much as if it had been a sale day and they and their mates were regulating the traffic in front of the shop. "Now," said Collins, with a change of manner, and speaking in a conciliatory if argumentative tone, "we can pick up our little debate. Mr. Marsden, come now, after all, what is this fuss about?" Marsden laughed; but his laughter was dull and spiritless. "Go on--jabber, jabber." "Really now. What is the grievance? You have sold your business and been paid for it. Of your own free will, you have parted with your interests. You have renounced all claims upon your wife." "Yes--but I've been tricked into doing it." "Where's the trick?" "She made me think we were done." "So you were. You came to her and told her so. You prevailed on her to agree to the sale. It wasn't her proposition, but yours." "I shouldn't have made it if I had known." "You thought you had got all you could out of her--and that was the fact. You thought she was poor; and you find that she has made a good investment--with her own private funds, mark you,--and she is therefore not poor, but rather the reverse. Where's your quarrel with that?" "I am entitled to my share in her investment." "Oh, bosh! That's simply absurd." Marsden was standing up, resting his red hands on the back of a chair. Now he moved the chair to Mr. Prentice's end of the table, sat down, and spoke in an eager whisper. "Prentice, hostile or not, you _are_ honest. I call on you to see fair play. She can't do this, can she?" "She _has_ done it," said Prentice feebly. "But tell her it isn't fair. She knows you're straight, and above board. It's all mighty fine to bowl me out--and perhaps you don't think I deserve any pity. But still, speak for me. She can't round on me like this--she can't say 'Your firm is killed, and I've transferred myself across the road to the firm that killed it.' Surely the law wouldn't allow her to spoof me like that?" But sharp-eared Mr. Collins had heard the whisper. "Prentice, don't answer him. Mr. Marsden, I'll answer that question. I answer for the law. I am your wife's legal adviser in all this. Please address me, sir." Marsden turned with a final burst of fierce rage. "Then I say, curse you, I'll have the law on it." "Now look here, Marsden," and Mr. Collins's voice changed once more--to an uncompromisingly ugly tone. "If you want the law, we'll give you your bellyful of the law." "A good deal more than you'll like," said Bence, failing to ask for moderation of language. "Your wife," Collins went on, "dropped a plain hint just now; and I was very pleased to hear it, because I thought you'd understand. But I see I must amplify it for you. Mrs. Marsden has been good enough to entrust to my care all her private papers--that is, papers she has kept private to oblige you." "I--I don't in the least follow--what you're driving at." "Oh, you know what I'm talking about. Specimens of your handwriting, and so on--papers that the law would call incriminating documents,--papers that the law would call conclusive evidence,--papers that the law would call forgeries." "Prentice! Don't believe him." "Never mind Mr. Prentice. Attend to me.... Ah-ha,--you're beginning to look rather foolish.... Now, how much law do you want?" "I think," said Bence, "if he has time to get safely out of the country, that's all the law he ought to ask for." Marsden was cowed and beaten. He sat heavily and limply on his chair, sprawling one red hand across the table, and nervously fingering his lips with the other hand. "Well," said Collins mockingly, "what are you going to do--keep your bargain, or go to law with us?" Marsden was thoroughly cowed and beaten. He cleared his throat several times, and even then spoke huskily. "I must say a word or two to my wife;" and he rose from his chair slowly.... "Of course, when a man's down, everyone can jump on him." And he went over to Mrs. Marsden, stooped, and whispered. Collins tapped his nose jocosely, and smiled at Mr. Prentice--seeming to say without words, "What do you think of that, old boy? That's the way Hyde & Collins tackle this sort of troublesome customer." Little Bence, resuming his dandified air and ostentatiously leaving Mrs. Marsden and her husband to whisper together, picked up his glossy hat, and dusted it with a neatly folded silk handkerchief. "Jane," said Marsden pleadingly, almost whimperingly, "you come out on top--and I mustn't bear malice. But you _have_ been hard--cruelly hard." "Dick," said Mrs. Marsden, in a shaky whisper, "don't reproach me." "But don't you think you have been a _little_ hard." "No. Or it is _you_ who have made me hard. I wasn't hard--once. And remember this, Dick. Even at the end, I tried to get one word of tenderness from you--to make you say you cared just a little for what happened to me. But no--" "I _did_ care." "No. You hadn't one kind word--or one kind thought. You and your--your companion were going to new scenes, new hopes; and I might be left to starve." "Jane, I swear I thought you were all right. I said so, again and again. And now, you're rich--you're really rolling in money; and it is I who may starve. Jane--for auld lang syne--do a bit more for me." "No;" and she shook her head resolutely. "Jane! Be like yourself.... I'm not grasping or avaricious. But at least I ought to get as much as the business fetched. Let me have that extra fifteen hundred." "Well--perhaps. I'll think about it." "Do it now--hand over now, or they'll only persuade you not to." "No--but I'll give it you later. I promise. I'll send it to your address in California--as soon as I am sure that you have really arrived there." "All right. Thanks. Jane--I'll say it once again. I wish you luck. You're a good plucked 'un--I always knew that." Then the meeting broke up. Marsden was the first to go. His wife watched him as he went slouching down the street. When he disappeared she did not immediately turn from the window. She had furtively produced her pocket handkerchief, and the gentlemen heard her blow her nose loudly and strenuously; but no one saw her wipe the tears from her eyes. Mr. Collins, on the threshold of the room, was dismissing the policemen with pompous thanks, and promising to drop in upon their superintendent shortly. "By the way," he said, looking round; "shall we let them escort Mrs. Marsden home?" "No," said Mr. Archibald gallantly. "That shall be my honour and pleasure. And there's no danger of his molesting her now." "I agree with you," said Collins. "We've fairly knocked the bounce out of _him_." And he spoke to Mrs. Marsden with sentimental solicitude. "There will be a plain-clothes constable in St. Saviour's Court, watching your door till the evening. But you needn't be afraid. Our friend won't venture to go there." Mr. Prentice sat at the head of his table, looking dazed and confused. He and his whole house were taken possession of by Collins; policemen walked in and out; astounding things happened--the morning's work had been almost too much for him. With an effort he got upon his legs to bow and smile at Mrs. Marsden, as she and Bence went out. "Well now," said Collins; and he shut his black bag. "I don't think that, under the peculiar conditions of the case, anything could have been more satisfactory--do you?" "Of course," said Mr. Prentice, sitting down again "you know, as well as I do, that what Marsden said was true. He could make her account to the firm for all her profits in Bence's. Such an investment isn't allowed--it isn't lawful." "I'll tell you what it is," said Collins, enthusiastically blinking behind his spectacles. "It's _great_--that's what it is; and I'm proud to have carried it through for her." Mr. Prentice really did not know what to say. "And I'll tell you something more. If it isn't law, it's _justice_. I've never been such a stickler as you for mere outward form. Here were two people in terrible difficulty--Bence and Mrs. Marsden. She saw the way to save them both, and had the grit to take all risks and do it. That was good enough for me. As I say, I'm not so formal as you. I don't let a string of red tape trip up a brave woman when she's running for her life--that is, if I can prevent it.... Good morning, Prentice. Good morning to you." XXIX However he might demur at first, Mr. Prentice soon came to the conclusion that it was truly great. Perhaps at first he was so completely flabbergasted by the surprise of the thing that he could not really take it all in; his numbed brain, only partially working, fixed upon technical objections to the conduct of affairs by Hyde & Collins; and then, with awakening comprehension of a masterly coup, the sense of having been left out in the cold diminished his delight. But this soon passed, and he began to glow joyously. Yes, _great_! No other word for it! Magnificent justification of all that he had ever said and thought of her! _Not_ weak, but strong--as strong as she used to be; no, stronger than at any time. And he thought of her, overwhelmed with misfortunes, hemmed round by insurmountable difficulties, brought lower and lower, until she was apparently so impotent and negligible a unit in the town's life that she had become an object of contemptuous pity to the very crossing-sweepers. He thought of what the scientists say about the conservation of energy and the indestructibility of matter. Great natural forces cannot be wiped out. Just when they seem gone, you get a fresh manifestation--the same force in another form. And so it was here. Mrs. Marsden, seemingly abolished, bursts out in another place, explodes the debris of ruin that was holding her down, changes direction, and rises in blazing triumph on the other side of the street. Wonderful! "Not now; but perhaps later, when the time comes"--he remembered her words. "I must do things my own way." Yes, her own way was right--because her way is the way of genius. A veritable stroke of genius--no lesser term will do,--seeming so simple to look back at, although so impenetrable till it was explained! She had seen the only means by which she could successfully extricate herself from an impossible situation. Only she could have escaped the imminent disaster. Only she could have turned an overwhelming defeat into a transcendent victory. "Talk about giving women the vote," cried Mr. Prentice noisily. "That woman ought to be prime minister." Mrs. Prentice, rejoicing at the good news, wished that her husband could have told it less vociferously. It happened that this evening she was the victim of a bilious headache, and she lay supine on a sofa, unable to sit up for dinner. The slightest noise made her headache worse, and the mere smell of food was distressing. Mr. Prentice, banging in and out of the room, let savoury odours reach her; and his exultant voice set up a painful throbbing. "I told you so all along.... What did I say from the beginning?... Colossal brain power! No one like her!" This really was the substance of all that he had to say, and he had already said it; yet he kept running in from the dinner table to say it again. A bottle of the very best champagne was opened; and he brought the invalid a glass of it, to drink Mrs. Marsden's health. Mrs. Prentice, staunchly obeying, drank the old, still wine, and immediately felt as if she had stepped from an ocean-going liner into a dancing row-boat. In the exuberance of his rapture, Mr. Prentice also invited the parlourmaid to drink Mrs. Marsden's health. "There, toss that off--to the most remarkable lady _you_'ve ever seen." "Yes, sir. She _is_ a nice lady, sir--and always speaks so sensible." "_Sensible!_ Why, bless my soul, there's no one in the length and breadth of England that can hold a candle to her for sheer--" But he could not of course talk freely of these high matters to a parlourmaid. So he trotted off to the other room, to tell Mrs. Prentice once again. As he walked to the office next morning, he hummed one of the comic songs that he had not sung for years, and snapped his fingers by way of castanet accompaniment. He felt so light-hearted and joyous that he would have willingly thrown his square hat in the air, and cut capers on the pavement. He could not work. For two or three days he was quite unable to attend to ordinary business. When clients came to talk about themselves, he scarcely listened; but, giving the conversation a violent wrench, began talking to them about Mrs. Marsden. Then one afternoon he was taken with a burning desire for a quiet chat with Archibald Bence. If he could get hold of little Archibald and ply him with questions, he would obtain all sorts of delightful explanatory details concerning Mrs. Marsden's splendid mystery. He hurried down High Street, and, approaching the old shop, was puzzled by a strange phenomenon. The pavement in front of Marsden & Thompson's seemed to be blocked by a dense crowd. The blinds were drawn on the upper floor; the iron shutters masked the windows and doors on the ground floor: the whole shop was closed--and yet there were infinitely more people lingering outside it than when it had been open. White bills on all the shutters showed the cause of the phenomenon. "Astonishing Bargains"--these two portentous words headed each white placard in monstrous red capitals;--"Bence Brothers, having acquired this old-established business, will clear the entire stock, together with surplus and slightly soiled goods from their own house, at heart-breaking reductions on cost;"--"Opening 9 A.M. Monday next. Come early. This is not an ordinary bargain sale, but a forced sacrifice by which only the public can benefit." And the public, eager for the benefit, wishing that it was already Monday, pressed and strove to read and reread the white and red notices on the iron shutters. "Don't push," said one nursemaid to another. "Take your turn. I've just as much right to see as you have." Mr. Prentice laughed heartily and happily. He thought as he crossed the road and entered Bence's, "What a dog this Archibald is--to be sure!" He found the grand little man in his private room, and was affably received by him. "Oh, yes," said Archibald, sniggering modestly. "We hope to make rather a big thing of our clearance sale.... How long shall we keep it going? Well, that depends. It wouldn't last long, if we'd nothing to dispose of beyond what's left over there; but we shall clear this side at the same time." And Bence rattled on glibly, as though Mr. Prentice had come to interview him for an article in an important newspaper. "The ancient notion was that this kind of special selling took the cream off one's ordinary trade. But experience has taught us that such is not the case. We find that trade breeds trade. And you can't _tire_ your public--you can't over-stimulate them. It is the excited public that is your best _buying_ public." Mr. Prentice listened respectfully; and then, after the manner of a good interviewer, begged the host to pass from general views to personal reminiscences. "What is it you wish to know?" "About you and her," said Prentice. "I should enormously like to know the inward history of it." "Well, now that the secret's out," said Archibald, rubbing his chin, and wrinkling the flesh round his bright little eyes, "I suppose there's no harm in speaking about it." "Certainly not to me," said Prentice. "Although I wasn't in her confidence about this, I am a real true friend of hers." "I know you are," said Bence cordially. "She has said so a hundred times." "Tell me how it began--the very beginning of things." A gloomy cloud passed over Bence's animated face. "Upon my word, I don't care to look back upon those days. I _was_ in such bitter trouble, Mr. Prentice." "When did you think of going to her?" "I never thought of it. _She_ came to me. I couldn't believe my ears when she opened the matter." "What did she say?" "Oh, she didn't beat about the bush. She said, if it was really true that I wanted money, she might supply it--on certain terms." "Yes, yes--and tell me, my dear fellow, what were her terms?" "Mr. Prentice," said Bence solemnly, "her terms were terrible--it was just buying me at a knock-out price." "You don't say so?" "The fact.... This is as between Masons, isn't it?... I may consider that we are tiled in." "Yes, yes--as brother to brother." And then Bence, who was never averse to hearing the sound of his own voice when safe and suitable occasions offered, talked with unchecked freedom and confidence. "You know, I'd always entertained the highest and most genuine respect for her. When they used to say she was the best man of business in Mallingbridge, there was no one more ready to admit it than I was. I regarded her as right up there," and he waved his hand towards the ceiling. "Right up--one of the largest and most comprehensive int'lects of the age." "Just so--just so." "And I don't mind confessing I was always a bit afraid of her. Years ago--oh, I don't know how many years ago--when I was passing compliments to her, she'd look at me, not a bit unkind, but inscrutable--yes, that's it--inscrutable, and say, 'You take care, Mr. Bence. Don't jump too big, or one day you'll jump over yourself.'" "Meaning your various extensions?" "Yes. It always made me uncomfortable when she spoke like that--though I just laughed it off. Anyhow, it seemed to show how clear she saw through one." "Yes, nothing escaped her." "So I thought I knew what she was--but I never did really know what she was, till we came to fair handy grips over this.... Mr. Prentice, I flattered her--no go. I tried to bluff her--ditto. Then I sued to her for mercy. I said, 'Madam, I'm like a wounded man on a field of battle asking for a cup of water.' But she said, 'If I understand the position correctly, Mr. Bence, you are more like a dead man; and you ask to be brought to life again.'... And it was true. I was dead--down--done for.... "It was my brothers--God forgive them--who had frustrated me--not bad luck--or any faults of mine. Take, take, take--whatever my work produced, out it went.... Well then, I was what she described--lying at her feet, and praying for life. So I said I'd take it--on her own terms.... "But when it was over, oh, Mr. Prentice the relief! I had lit'rally come to life again. I was _safe_--with money behind me,--with _driving_ power behind me. I went home that night to Mrs. Bence and cried as if I'd been a baby--and after I'd had my cry, I _slept_. What's that proverb? Sleep, it is a blessed thing! I hadn't slept sound for years. Don't you see? I was certain we should go on all right now--now that the burden was on _her_ shoulders." And then Bence had his idiosyncratic touch of self-pity. "I don't know whether you were aware of it, Mr. Prentice--these things get about when one is more or less a public man,--but the incessant worry had given me kidney disease. Well,--will you believe it?--from that hour I got better. The doctors reported less,--less again,--and at last, not a trace of it. I was simply another man." "But, Bence, my dear fellow, what fills me with such amazement and admiration is the rapidity of your success from that point. You seemed to be on the crest of the wave instantaneously." "Ah! That was the magician's wand. Instead of having our earnings snatched out the moment they reached the till, the profits were being put back into the concern. I was working on a salary--a very handsome one--with my commission; and she never took out a penny more than was absolutely necessary. There was the whole difference--and it's magic in trade. I was given scope, capital, an easy road--with no blind turnings." "But I suppose you did it all under her direction?" "Well, I don't know how to answer that;" and Bence grinned, and twirled his moustache. "No. I suppose I ought to say no. I had full scope--and was never interfered with.... We used to meet at Hyde & Collins's; and I reported things--just reported them. She used to look at me in that inscrutable way of hers, and say, 'I can't advise. I have nothing to do with your business--beyond having my money in it: just as I might have it in any other form of investment. But speaking merely as an outsider, I think you are going on very nice. Go on just the same, Mr. Bence.' Sometimes she did drop a word. It was always light.... Oh, she's unique, Mr. Prentice--quite unique." Bence grinned more broadly as he went on. "Of course it was by her orders--or I ought to say, it was acting on a hint she let fall, that I made myself so popular with the authorities. You never came to one of my dinner-parties?... No, I did ask you; but you wouldn't come.... Well, you're acquainted with Mallingbridge oratory. After dinner, when the speeches began, they used to butter me up to the skies; and I used to tell them straight--though of course they couldn't see it--that I was only a figure-head, a dummy. 'Don't praise _me_,' I told 'em, 'I'm nobody--just the outward sign of the enterprise and spirit that lays behind me.' Yes, and I put it straighter than that sometimes--it tickled me to give 'em the truth almost in the plainest words.... And I knew there was no risk. _They_'d never tumble to it." After this delightful conversation, Mr. Prentice went across the road again. He felt that he could not any longer refrain from calling upon Mrs. Marsden; and, as the afternoon was now well advanced, he thought that she might perhaps invite him to drink a cup of tea with her. In St. Saviour's Court the house door stood open; men from Bence's Furniture department were busily delivering chairs and sofas; and the narrow passage was obstructed by further goods. Mr. Prentice heard a familiar voice issuing instructions with a sharp tone of command. "This is for the top floor. Front bedroom. Take this up too--same room.... Who's that out there? Oh, is it you, Mr. Prentice?" "What, Yates, you are soon on duty again." Old Yates laughed and tossed her head. "Yes, sir, here I am.... That's for the top floor--back. Take it up steady, now." "You seem to be refurnishing--and on a large scale." "Oh, no," said Yates. "We're only putting things straight. We're expecting Mrs. Kenion and the young lady up from Eastbourne to-night--and it's a job to get the house ready in the time." "Ah, then I am afraid visitors will hardly be welcome just now." "No, sir, not ordinary visitors--but Mrs. Thompson never counted you as an ordinary visitor--did she, sir? I'll take on me to say _you_'ll be welcome to Mrs. Thompson. Please go upstairs, sir. She's in the dining-room." And truly this visitor was welcomed most cordially. "My _dear_ Mr. Prentice. How kind of you--how very kind of you to come! I have been wishing so to see you." Yates without delay disengaged herself from the furniture men, and brought in tea. Then the hostess seated herself at the table, and insisted that the visitor should occupy the easiest of the new armchairs--and she smiled at him, she waited upon him, she made much of him; she lulled and soothed and charmed him, until he felt as if twenty years had rolled away, and he and she were back again in the happiest of the happy old days. "I trust that dear Mrs. Prentice is well.... Ah, yes, it _is_ headachy weather, isn't it. I have ventured to send her a few flowers--and some peaches and grapes." It seemed incredible. But she _looked_ younger--many years younger than when he had seen her in the shadow cast by his office wall less than a week ago. Her voice had something of the old resonance; she sat more upright; she carried her head better. She was still dressed in black; but this new costume was of fine material, fashionable cut, very becoming pattern; and it gave to its wearer a quiet importance and a sedate but opulent pomp. Very curious! It was as if all that impression of shabbiness, insignificance, and poverty had been caused merely by the shadow; and that as soon as she came out of the shadow into the sunlight, one saw her as she really was, and not as one had foolishly imagined her to be. This thought was in the mind of Mr. Prentice while he listened to her pleasantly firm voice, and watched the play of light and life about her kind and friendly eyes. The shadow that had lain so heavy upon her was mercifully lifted. She had been a prisoner to the powers of darkness, and now the sunshine had set her free. This was really all that had happened. "I am so particularly glad," she was saying, "that you came to-day, because I want your advice badly." "It is very much at your service." "Then do you think there would be any objection--would you consider it might seem bad taste if henceforth I were to resume my old name? I have an affection for the name of Thompson--though it isn't a very high-sounding one." "I noticed that Yates called you Mrs. Thompson." "Yes, I mentioned my idea to Yates; but I told her I shouldn't do it without consulting you. I did not think of dropping my real name altogether, but I thought I might perhaps call myself Mrs. Marsden-Thompson--with or without a hyphen." And she went on to explain that she was doubtful as to the legal aspects of the case. She did not wish to advertise the change of name, or to make it a formal and binding change. She just wished to call herself Mrs. Marsden-Thompson. "Very well, Mrs. Marsden-Thompson, consider it done. For there's nothing to prevent your doing it. Your friends will call you by any name you tell them to use--with or without a hyphen." "Oh, I'm so glad you say that. I was afraid you might not approve.... And now I want your advice about something else. It is a house with a little land that I am most anxious to buy, if I can possibly manage it--and I want you to find out if the owners would be inclined to sell." Mr. Prentice advised her on this and several other little matters. Indeed, before his third cup of tea was finished, he had made enlightening replies to questions that related to half a dozen different subjects. "Thank you. A thousand thanks. Some more tea, Mr. Prentice?" But Mr. Prentice did not answer this last question. He put down his empty cup, and began to laugh heartily. "Why are you laughing like that?" "Mrs. Marsden-Thompson," he said jovially. "For once I have seen through you. All things are permissible to your sex; but if you were a man, I should be tempted to say you are an impostor--an arch-impostor." "Oh, Mr. Prentice! Why?" "Because you don't really think my advice worth a straw. You don't want my advice, or anybody else's. No one is capable of advising you. You just do things in your own way--and a very remarkable way it is." "But really and truly I--" "No. Not a bit of it. You fancied that my feathers might have been rubbed the wrong way by recent surprises; and ever since I came into this room, you have been most delicately smoothing my ruffled plumage." "Oh, no," said Mrs. Marsden-Thompson demurely, "I assure you--" "Yes, yes. But, my dear, it wasn't in the least necessary. I am just as pleased as Punch, and I have quite forgiven you for keeping me so long in the dark." "On my honour," she said earnestly, "I wouldn't have kept you in the dark for _one_ day, if I could have avoided doing so. It was most painful to me, dear Mr. Prentice, to practice--or rather, to allow of any deception where _you_ were concerned.... But my course was so difficult to steer." "You steered it splendidly." "But I do want you to understand. I shall be miserable if I think that you could ever harbour the slightest feeling of resentment." "Of course I shan't." "Or if you don't believe that I trust you absolutely, and have the greatest possible regard for your professional skill.... You may remember how I _almost_ told you about it." "No, I'll be hanged if I remember that." "Well, I tried to explain--indirectly--that the whole affair was so complicated.... There were so many things to be thought of. There was Enid. I had to think of _her_ all the time.... Honestly, I put her before myself. Until Enid could get rid of Kenion, it didn't seem much use for me to get rid of poor Richard.... And if either of them had guessed, everything might have gone wrong--I mean, might have worked out differently. And of course it made _secrecy_ of such vital importance. You do understand that, don't you?" "Yes," said Mr. Prentice, laughing contentedly, "I do understand. But now I wonder--would you mind telling me when it was that you first thought of the Bence coup?" "Well, I fancy that the germ of the idea came to me in church;" and Mrs. Marsden-Thompson folded her hands, and looked reflectively at the tea-cups. "I was thinking of Richard, and of Mr. Bence--and then some verses in a psalm struck me most forcibly. One verse especially--I shall never forget it. 'Let his days be few; and let another take his office.'" "How did that apply?" "Well, I suppose I thought vaguely--quite vaguely--that if Richard was bad at managing a business, Mr. Bence was rather good at it.... Then, that very evening, you so kindly came in to supper, and told me as a positive fact that Bence was nearly done for. And then it struck me at once that, in the long run, Bence's failure could prove of advantage to nobody, and that it ought to be prevented;" and she looked up brightly, and smiled at Mr. Prentice. "So really and truly, it is _you_ that I have to thank. You brought me that _invaluable_ information. _You_ inspired me to do it." Mr. Prentice got up from the easy chair, and playfully shook a forefinger at his hostess. "Now--now. Don't drag _me_ into it. I'm too old a bird to be caught with chaff." "But I am truly forgiven?" And she stretched out her hand towards him. "Not the smallest soreness left? You will still be what you have always been--my best and kindest friend?" Mr. Prentice took her hand; and, with a graceful old-world air of gallantry that perhaps the headachy lady at home had never seen, he raised it to his lips. "I shall be what I have always been--your humble, admiring slave." XXX One of the oldest of her dreams had become partially true. She had bought that pretty country-house, and was living in it with Enid. Not the total fulfilment of the dream, because she had not retired from business. She was busier than ever. Many things foretold by her had now come to pass. The military camp on the downs, with its twenty thousand armed men and half as many thousand followers, had brought increased prosperity to the neighbourhood; the carriage and locomotive works established by the railway company had added to the old town another town that by itself would have been big enough to sustain a mayor and corporation; builders could not build fast enough to house the rapidly swelling population; the well-filled suburbs stretched for two long miles in all directions from the ancient town boundaries; and by platform lecturers, by members of parliament, by writers of statistical reviews, the growth of Mallingbridge was cited as one of the most remarkable and gratifying achievements of the last decade. In a word--the cant word--Mallingbridge had boomed. And right at the top of the boom, rolling on to glory, was Bence's. The prodigious success of Bence's made the world gasp. Nothing could hinder it. People fancied that the rebuilding might prove a dangerous, if not a fatal crisis in its affairs; but the proprietress accomplished the colossal operation without even a temporary set-back. She moved Bence's bodily across the road, squashed it into the confines of old Thompson's, and left it there for eighteen months while the new Bence palace was being erected. The magnificence of these modern up-to-date premises surpassed belief--facade of pure white stone; gigantic caryatids, bearing on their heads the projected ledge of the second floor, and holding in their hands the sculptured brackets of the monstrous arc lamps; fluted columns from the second floor to the fourth; and above the deep cornice, just visible from the street, the cupola on top of the vast dome that was the crowning splendour of the whole. Then directly the shop had been moved back into this ornate frame, down went the old red-brick block of Thompson's; and on the site still another palace for Bence began to rise. It seemed no less magnificent than the other; and it was finished off--by way of balance to the dome--with a stupendous clock-tower. The local press, in a series of articles describing this useful monument, said that the four-faced time-piece was an exact replica of Big Ben at Westminster; the base of the numeral twelve was one hundred and thirty-two feet above the pavement; the small hand was as long as a short man, and the long hand was longer than an excessively tall man;--and so on. The author of the articles also stated that the architectural effect of Bence on both sides of the street was very similar to the _coup d'oeil_ offered by the dome and tower of the cathedral at Florence. Customers scarcely knew on which side of the street they were doing their shopping: they went into one of the two palaces, and surprised themselves by emerging from the other. You entered a lift, and, as it swooped, the crowded floors flashed upward. "Which department, madam? Parisian Jewellery?... Boots and Shoes! Step this way." You passed through a long, narrow and brilliantly illuminated department, such as Sham Diamonds or Opera Cloaks, where artificial light is a necessity for correct selection; you went up a broad flight of shallow stairs; and there you were, in Boots and Shoes. But the thing you didn't know, the funny thing, was that all unconsciously you had been through a sub-way under the road. Just when you stood to gape at the sparkling ear-rings or to finger the rich soft cloaks, the heavy traffic of High Street was bang over your head. And truly there was nothing that you could not buy now at Bence's--on one side of the road or the other. Ball dresses for as much as fifty guineas, tailor-made walking costumes for as little as eighteen shillings, a thousand pound coat of Russian sable, or a farthing packet of pins, palm trees for the conservatory or Brussels sprouts for the kitchen--whatever the varied wants of the universe, it was Bence's proud boast that they could be supplied here without failure or delay. Sometimes when business had taken Mrs. Marsden to London and she and Yates were driving through the streets in a four-wheeled cab, she studied the appearance of the great metropolitan shops, and mentally compared them with what she had left behind her at Mallingbridge. Once, when the dusk of an autumn day was falling and she chanced to pass the most world-famous of all emporiums, she told the cabman to let his horse walk; then, as they crawled by the endless frontage, she measured the glare of the electric lamps, counted the big commissionaires, estimated the volume of the crowd outside the glittering windows; and, critically examining the thing in its entirety, she felt a supreme satisfaction. To her eye and judgment it was no bigger, brighter, or more impressive than Bence's. In all respects Bence's was every bit as good. Each morning, fair or foul, at nine-thirty sharp, she left her charming and luxurious home, and came spinning in her small motor-car down the three-mile slope that now divided house from shop. The car, avoiding High Street, wheeled round through Trinity Square, worked its swift way to the back of Bence's, swept into a quiet, stately court-yard, and delivered her at the perron of a noble architraved doorway. This was the private or business entrance to the domed palace. A porter in sombre livery was waiting on the marble steps to receive her, to carry her shawl or reticule, to usher her to the golden gates of the private lift. In a minute she had majestically soared to an upper floor. This managerial side of the building would not unworthily have formed a portion of a public department, such as the Treasury or India Office: it was all spacious, silent, grand. She passed through a wide and lofty corridor, with mahogany doors on either hand--the closed doors of the managers' rooms; and no sound of the shop was audible, no sign of it visible. Her own room, at the end of the corridor, was very large, very high, very plainly decorated. Mahogany book-cases, with a few busts on top of them; one table with newspapers of all countries, another table with four or five telephonic instruments--but absolutely no office equipment of any sort: not so much as a writing desk, Yankee or British. She scarcely ever writes a letter now; even marginal notes are dictated. Time is too precious to be wasted on manual labour, however rapid. Time is capital; and it must be invested in the way that will yield the highest interest. "What is the time?" and she glanced at the clock on the carved stone mantelpiece. "It wants seven minutes of ten." All clocks are correct, because they are carefully synchronized with the clock in the tower; and that _must_ be correct, because time-signals from Greenwich are continually instructing it--and the whole town works by Bence time. "Good. Then I am not late." "No, madam." She came earlier now than she used to do a little while ago. But since Mr. Archibald finally withdrew from affairs, she has been in sole charge of the mighty organization. She could not refuse to let Archibald enjoy his well-earned rest. Though still under fifty years of age, he was a tired man, worn out by the battle, needing repose. And why should he go on working? Thanks to the liberality of his patron, he possessed ample means--almost one might say he was opulent. "I am ready." "Yes, madam." Then the day's toil begins. First it is the solemn entry of the managers, one after another succinctly presenting his report. Then it is the turn of head clerks and secretaries, who have gathered and are silently waiting outside the door. After that, audience is given to buyers who have returned from or are about to leave for the marts of the world. And with the fewest possible words she issues her commands. She sits with folded hands, or paces to and fro with hands clasped behind her back, or stands and knits her brows; but not a word, not a moment is squandered. She says, Do this; but very rarely explains how it is to be done. It is their duty to know how. If they don't know, they are inefficient. It is for her to give orders: it is for subordinates to carry them into effect. The general of an army must be something more than a good regimental officer; the admiral of the fleet cannot teach common sailors the best way to polish the brass on the binnacle. With surprising rapidity these opening labours are completed. Well before noon the last of the clerks has gone, and Mrs. Marsden-Thompson stands in an empty room--may take a breathing-pause, or, if she pleases, fill it with tasks of light weight. Perhaps now an old friend is announced. It is Miss Woolfrey from China and Glass. May she come in? Or shall she call again? No, ask Miss Woolfrey to come in. And then time is flagrantly wasted. Miss Woolfrey has nothing to say, can put forward no valid reason for bothering the commander-in-chief. Miss Woolfrey giggles foolishly, gossips inanely, meanders with a stream of senseless twaddle; but she is gratified by smiles and nods and handshakings. "Well, now, really--my dear Miss Woolfrey--you cheer me with your excellent account of this little storm in a tea-cup.... Yes, I'll remember all you say.... How kind of you to ask! Yes, my daughter is very well." And Miss Woolfrey goes away happy. She is a licensed offender--has been accorded unlimited privilege to waste time. Incompetent as ever, and totally unable to adapt herself to modern conditions, she enjoys a splendid sinecure in the new China and Glass. She has clever people over her to keep her straight, and will never be deprived of her salary until she accepts a pension in exchange. Sooner or later during the forenoon, Mrs. Marsden-Thompson rings her bell and asks for Mr. Mears. "Is Mr. Mears in his room?" "I believe so, madam." "Then give Mr. Mears my compliments, and say I shall be glad to see him if it is convenient to him--only if convenient, not if he is occupied." It was always convenient to Mr. Mears. His convenience is her convenience. Almost immediately the door opens, and he appears--and very grand he looks, bowing on the threshold; massive and strong again; no shaky dotard, but a vigorous elderly man, who might be mistaken for a partner in a bank, a president of a chamber of commerce, a member of the Privy Council, or anybody eminently prosperous and respectable. "Good morning, Mr. Mears. Please be seated." And then she discusses with him all those matters of which she can speak to no one else. Mears is never a time-waster; he, too, makes few words suffice; long practice has given him quickness in catching her thought. "Mr. Mears, what are we to do about Mr. Greig? Frankly, he is getting past his work." "I admit it," says Mears. "It will be better for all parties if he retires." "He won't like the idea." Mr. Greig, the obese chieftain of Cretonnes in the days of old Thompson's, is threatened with no real peril. If he ceases working to-morrow, he will continue to receive his working wage till death; but the difficulty is to remove him from the sphere of action without a wound to his feelings. "Will you talk to him--introduce the idea to him gradually, bring him to it little by little, so that if possible he may come to think that it is his own idea, and that he himself wants to retire?" And Mears promises that he will deal thus diplomatically with the faithful old servant. They are nearly all here--the old servants; from chieftains like Greig and Ridgway to lieutenants like Davies the night watchman, each has found his snug billet. All who shivered with her in the cold are welcome to warmth and sunshine. She has forgotten no one: she could not forget old friends. Sometimes, of course, her bounteous intentions have been rendered nugatory by fate. A few friends are gone beyond the reach of help; others it has been impossible to discover. Even now Mears has occasionally to tell her of someone raked out of the past. For instance, this morning he brings with him a small bundle of papers, and speaks to her of such an one. They have only now found Mr. Fentiman, the lanky and sententious lord of Thompson's Woollens. Mr. Fentiman had sunk very low--never knew that she was Bence's, never saw her advertisements in agony columns, never guessed year after year that a munificent protector was seeking him. But he has been found at last, in a wretched little hosier's at Portsmouth--ill and weak and pitifully poor. "Are you quite sure that he is our Fentiman?" "Quite," said Mears; and he laid the Fentiman dossier on the table. When Mears had left her she fetched an ink-pot from the mantelpiece, opened a drawer, and extracted pens and note-paper. This morning it was necessary to write a letter in her own hand. Secretaries could not assist her with the task, and time must no longer be nicely measured. "My dear Mr. Fentiman, I am so glad to hear of you again, and so sorry to learn that your health is not what it should be." Then she invited him to resign his present situation and come to Mallingbridge, where it would doubtless be easy to offer him an opening more suited to his experience and capacity. If he would kindly advise Mr. Mears as to the arrival of his train, Mr. Mears would meet him at the railway station and conduct him to apartments. "Before you plunge into work again, I must beg you to take a complete rest; and as soon as you feel strong enough, I particularly wish you to spend a holiday in Switzerland. I expressed this wish many years ago, one night when you had kindly given me your company at dinner; but although you tacitly allowed me to understand that you would comply with it, circumstances prevented its fulfilment. If you are still of the same mind, it will afford me the utmost pleasure to arrange for your Swiss tour." Having written so far, she laid down her pen, picked up a telephone receiver, and spoke to the counting-house. She was writing again, and did not raise her eyes, when a clerk came into the room. "Put them down." And the clerk placed the bank-notes on the table, and silently retired. "Meanwhile," she was writing, "I must ask you to accept my small enclosure, and to believe me to be, Yours with sincere regard, Jane Marsden-Thompson." Then she sealed the envelope, rang a bell, and told someone to despatch her letter by registered post. Fentiman had mopped up a lot of time--but no matter. Nevertheless, she moved with quick footsteps as she went from the room, and passed along the lofty, silent corridors. Presently using a master-key, she opened a fire-proof door, and entered a narrow passage. In this passage the silence was broken by a vague murmuring sound--like the ripple of sea waves heard echoing in a shell. She opened another door, and immediately the sound swelled to a confused roar. Through this second door she had come out into a circular gallery just beneath the huge concave of the dome. Looking downward, she could see the extraordinary inverted perspective of circles, floor below floor, each circle apparently smaller than the one above; she could see long strands of gauze and lace, artfully festooned in void space from the gilt rails of the Curtain department, like streamers of white cloud; and beneath the pretty cloud she could see the rainbow colours of delicate satins and silks; and still lower she could see the stir of multitudinous life concentrating at this focal point of the busy shop. But she scarcely looked: she listened. Perched high in her dome, solitary, motionless, august, she was like the queen-bee in the upper part of a hive attentively listening to the buzz of industry. And it seemed that the sound was sufficient: her instinct was so fine--she knew by the quality of the humming note that Bence's was working well. XXXI All well at Bence's; and all well at home. It was pleasant to her, returning from her work on summer evenings, to see the white gates and long wall speed towards her: as if coming once again out of the land of dreams into the realm of facts, because she called them to her. She had wished for them, and they were hers. While her car glided from the gates to the porch, she enjoyed the full sight of the things that, seen in glimpses, soothed her eyes so many years ago--the comfortable eaves and latticed windows, the dark masses of foliage casting restful shadows on the sun-lit lawns, the steps and brickwork of the terraced garden giving value and form to the gay exuberance of the summer flowers. "Are the ladies in?" When the footman said that the ladies were out, she gave a little sigh. It was only a moment's disappointment. By the time that the butler had come forward and was telling her where the ladies had gone, the faint sense of emptiness and disillusionment had vanished. Really she liked the ladies to be out and about as much as possible. There was a big motor-car to take them far from home, and there were horses and carriages to take them on quiet little journeys; for, pleasant as home might be, they must not be allowed to feel themselves prisoners in it. All this side of her life belonged to them: they ruled the world that lay outside her work. When the footman told her that the ladies were to be found somewhere beneath the eaves or within the walls of the garden, she sprang out of the car as lightly as a girl. "I think Miss Jane is in the music room, ma'am." Her face lit up; she smiled contentedly, and hurried through the porch to search for Miss Jane. The house was bigger in fact than it had been in the dream. She had tacked on a new wing at each end of it; and her architect had so cleverly preserved the external style that no one outside the building could guess which was the old part and which the new. Inside, you might guess by the size of the rooms. In one wing there was a large dining-room, and in the other wing there was Miss Jane's school-room, play-room, or music-room. This was an unexpectedly noble hall, containing an organ, a minstrel gallery, and a raised stage for dramatic entertainment; here the young lady had obtained much instruction and amusement; here she learned to sing and dance, to fence and do Swedish exercises, to know the kings of England and to spin tops, to talk French and to play badminton. Her grandmother, bustling to it, sometimes heard and always loved to hear the music of organ or piano; sometimes all she heard was a young voice talking or laughing--but that was the music that she loved best. "Granny dear!" "Mother dear!" The double welcome was her daily reward, the handsome payment that made her think the long day's toil so light. A certain pomp was maintained in their manner of living: meals were served with adequate ceremony; butler and footmen instead of parlourmaids waited at table; the family wore rich dresses of an evening;--but all this was to please Enid. Everything that Enid once had seemed to care for must be provided now--the stateliness of liveried men, the grandeur of formal dinner-parties, the small or big extravagances that come with complete immunity from any thought of cost. And on the little girl's account, too. It was essential that Enid should be able to bring up her child in the midst of fitting, proper, even fashionable surroundings. Enid took all these benefits placidly and naturally: very much as of old, when she had been an unmarried girl receiving benefits from the same source in St. Saviour's Court. Indeed she had insensibly dropped back into her old way. Except for the one great permanent change that sprang from a dual cause--her deepened affection for her mother and her idolizing devotion to her daughter,--she was strikingly similar to the graceful long-nosed Miss Thompson who went with a smile to meet her fate at Mr. Young's riding-school. She looked scarcely a day older. She was neither thinner nor fatter; her face, after being pinched by misfortune, had exactly filled out again to the elegant oval of careless youth. The bad time with all its hard lessons was almost obliterated by present ease and comfort: certainly it did not seem to have left indelible marks. She could speak of it--did often speak of it--without wincing, and in the even, unemotional tone that she habitually used. Only when Jane was ill, she altogether burst through the smooth outer surface of calm propriety, and showed that, if they could be reached, there were some really strong feelings underneath. When Jane was ill, no matter how slightly, Mrs. Kenion became almost demented. To some juvenile ailments the most jealously guarded child must submit sooner or later. Jane has a sore throat and a cold in the head; Jane slept badly last night; and, oh--merciful powers,--Jane exhibits red spots on her little white chest. Dr. Eldridge says--now, don't be frightened by a word;--Dr. Eldridge says he believes that, well, ah, yes--it is measles. But there is nothing in that to distress or alarm; rather one might say it is a very good thing. One cannot reasonably hope that Miss Jane will escape measles all her life; and one may be glad that she has this propitious chance to do her measling under practically ideal conditions. Yet, late in the afternoon, when wise Eldridge has gone, here is Enid with fear-distended eyes and grief-stricken face, white, shaking, absolutely frantic, as she clings to her mother's arm. "Mother, don't let her die. Oh, don't let her die." "She shall not die." In these emergencies Mrs. Marsden-Thompson is solid as her clock-tower. "But Dr. Eldridge mayn't be right--perhaps it's something a thousand times worse than measles.... Oh, oh. What _can_ we do? It may be some virulent fever--and when she drops off to sleep, she may never wake." What Mrs. Marsden-Thompson can do to allay Enid's anxiety, she does do, and at once. She telephones to London, to the most famous physician of the period. "There, my darling," she says presently; "now keep calm. Sir John is coming--by the evening express." "Mother dear, how can I thank you enough?" "My own Enid, there's nothing to thank me for. It will relieve all our minds to have the very highest opinion.... And Sir John will spend the night here--that will be nice for you, to know that he is remaining on the spot." Then in due course the illustrious Sir John arrives, and confirms the diagnosis of Dr. Eldridge. It _is_ measles--and a very mild case of it. Jane grew up strong and hearty, none the worse for childish ailments, and uninjured by the idolatry of her two nearest female relatives. As Yates said, it was a miracle that Jane didn't get absolutely spoilt by so much fussing care and loving worship. But Yates stoutly declared that the young lady was not spoilt up to now; and attributed her escape from spoiling to the fortunate circumstance that she took after her grandmother. Outwardly she was like her mother, but perhaps inwardly she did somewhat resemble her granny. At fourteen she was certainly more enthusiastic, vivacious, and expansive than Enid had been at that age. And, unlike the young Enid, she could not readily take the impress of other people's minds and manners. Governesses said she was _very_ clever, but too much disposed to rely on conclusions reached by trains of thought set in motion by herself and running on lines of her own construction. Governesses would not say she was obstinate--oh, no, far from it--but perhaps guilty now and then of a certain intellectual arrogance that was unbecoming in one so young. Fourteen--fifteen--past her sixteenth birthday! Jane is really growing up; and nearer and nearer draws the time when mother and grandmother will be confronted with the awful problem of finding her a suitable husband--a _good_ husband, if such a thing exists on the broad surface of the earth. It is appalling to think about; but it cannot be blinked or evaded. The fiery chain of life must have its new link of flame: Jane must carry the torch, and give it safely to the small hands that are waiting somewhere in immeasurable darkness to grasp it and bear it still onward. Once when Enid lightly hinted at this terrifying matter, Jane caught the hint that was not intended for her ears, and replied very shrewdly. "It strikes me, mummy, that most likely you'll be married before I shall." Mrs. Kenion laughed and flushed, and seemed rather gratified by this compliment; but she promised never to introduce Jane to a stepfather. No, she will never marry again--has no faintest inclination for further experiments of that sort. Once bit, twice shy. She will act on the adage; although, when she speaks so blandly of the bad ungrateful dog that bit her, one might almost suppose that she had forgotten nearly all the pain of the bite. "Mother dear, isn't it wonderful? He is riding again;" and Enid looks up from the morning newspaper, sips her breakfast coffee, and speaks with calm admiration. She always reads the sporting news, and never misses an entry of Charlie's name in minor steeplechase meetings. Here it is:--Mrs. Charles Kenion's Dreadnought; Trainer, private; Jockey, Mr. Kenion. "And Charles is over forty-five. Really, I do think it's wonderful," says Enid calmly and admiringly. "But he shouldn't go on riding races. She oughtn't to let him. It can only end"--and Enid says this with unruffled calm--"in his breaking his neck." But it seems that Charlie's neck is charmed: that it cannot be broken over the sticks, or--sinister thought!--that it is being preserved for another and more formal method of dislocation. Nearer than the necessity of discovering a worthy mate for Jane, there looms the smaller necessity of presenting her at Court, giving her a London season, and so forth. As to the presentation, a very obliging offer has been tendered by the great lady of the county--wife of that local potentate who lives in the sheltered magnificence behind the awe-inspiring iron gates. Her ladyship has voluntarily suggested that she should take Miss Kenion, when properly feathered and betrained, into the effulgent presence of her sovereign. Naturally, since those tremendous iron gates have opened to Mrs. Marsden-Thompson, no lesser entrances are closed against her. Success, if it is big enough, condones most offences; and the prejudiced objection to retail trade, under which Enid once suffered, has been generously waived. What she used artlessly to call county people make much of her and her daughter. They are bidden to the very best houses; they may consort on equal terms with the highest quality; there is no one so fine that he or she will resent an invitation to dinner. "Oh yes, Mrs. Marsden-Thompson is an old dear. And her daughter is quite charming. I don't know what to make of the girl--but of course you know, she is going to be an immense heiress." Mrs. Marsden-Thompson, presiding at a banquet to the county, perhaps was pleased to think that this, too, she had at last been able to give her Enid. Really tip-top society--social concert-pitch, if compared with the flat tinkling that Enid used to hear at Colonel Salter's. Gold plate on the table; liveried home-retainers, with soberly-clad aids from Bence's refreshment departments; a white waistcoat or silver buttons behind every chair; and, seated on the chairs, a most select and notable company of guests, gracious smiling ladies and grandiosely urbane lords; pink and white faces of candid young girls and sun-burnt faces of gallant young soldiers; shimmer of pearls, glitter of diamonds, flash of bright eyes, and a polite murmur of well-bred voices--surely this is all that Enid could possibly desire. But it was not the society that the hostess really cared about. The dinner-parties that she enjoyed were far different from this. She gave this sort of feast to please Enid; but at certain seasons--at Christmas especially--she gave a feast to please herself. Then the old friends came. The two motor-cars and the large landau went to fetch some of the guests. Few of them were carriage-folk. Mr. and Mrs. Archibald Bence had their own brougham of course; Mr. and Mrs. Prentice used one of Young's flies; but most of the others were very glad to accept a lift out and home. By special request they all came early, and in morning-dress. "We dine at seven," wrote the hostess in her invitations; "but please come early, so that we can have a chat before dinner. And as it is to be just a friendly unceremonious gathering, do you mind wearing morning dress?" Did they mind? What a thoughtless question, when she might have known that some of them had nothing but morning dress! Mr. Mears, in spite of his rise in the world, rigidly adhered to the frock coat, as the garment most suitable to his years and his figure. Cousin Thompson--the ex-grocer of Haggart's Cross--considered swallow-tails and white chokers to be fanciful nonsense: he would not make a merry-andrew of himself to please anybody. Neither of the two Miss Prices had ever possessed a low-cut bodice--old Mrs. Price would probably have whipped her for her immodesty if she had ever been caught in one. Then buttoned coats and no spreading shirt fronts, high-necked blouses and no bare shoulders; but in other respects full pomp for this humbler banquet: home-servants and Bence-servants; the electric light blazing on the splendid epergnes, the exquisite Bohemian glass, and the piled fruit in the Wedgewood china; the long table stretched to its last leaf; more than thirty people eating, drinking, talking, laughing, shining with satisfaction--and Mrs. Marsden-Thompson at the head of the sumptuous board, shedding quick glances, kind smiles, friendly nods, making the wine taste better and the lamps glow brighter, gladdening and cheering every man and woman there. "Cousin Jenny!" It is our farmer cousin shouting from the end of the table. "You're so far off that I shall have to whistle to you. You haven't forgotten my whistle?" "No, that I haven't, cousin Gordon." And radiant cousin Gordon turns to tell Miss Jane the story of the Welshman, the Irishman, and the Scotsman who met on London Bridge; and Miss Jane is good enough to be amused. "Lord, how often I've told that story to your grandmother! I'll tell it her again when we get back into the music-room. 'Tis a favourite of hers." Jane and Enid are both very sweet on these occasions, loyally assisting the hostess, and winning the hearts of the humblest guests. There is perhaps a just perceptible effort in Enid's pretty manner; but with Jane it is all entirely natural. "Mr. Prentice," says Jane impudently, "you mayn't know it, but you are going to sing us a comic song after dinner." Mr. Prentice is delighted yet coy. "No, no--certainly not." "Oh yes, you will. Won't he, Mrs. Prentice?" "I'm sure he will, if you wish it, Miss Jane." Mr. Archibald Bence, looking rather wizened and wan, is just off to the South of France for the remainder of the winter; and Mr. Fentiman, talking across the table, urges him to see the falls of the Rhine on his return journey. "When I was touring in Switzerland last autumn," says Fentiman sententiously, "I gave one whole day to Schaffhausen, and it amply repaid me for the time and trouble." Wherever the hostess turns her kind eyes, she can see someone looking at her gratefully and affectionately. There is our grumbling cousin who once was a poor little grocer. She has done so much for him that he has almost entirely ceased to grumble. There is noisy, would-be-facetious cousin Gordon, once a little struggling tenant, now a landlord successfully farming his own land. There is corpulent Greig, on the retired list, but jovial and contented, with his pride unwounded, revelling in high-paid tranquillity. There are the cackling, stupid Miss Prices and their greedy old mother. They have looked at workhouse doors and shivered apprehensively; but now they chide the maid when she fails to make up the drawing-room fire, and bully the butcher if he sends them a scraggy joint for Sunday. There is faithful Mears in his newest frock-coat, close beside her, as of right, very close to her heart. And there, behind her chair, is faithful Yates--in rustling black silk, with kerchief of real point lace. She does not of course appear when the county dines with us; but to-night Yates stands an honorary major-domo at the Christmas dinner--because she exactly understands the spirit of the feast, and knows how her mistress wishes things to be done. "And now," says Mr. Prentice, "I'm not going to break the rule. No speeches. But just one toast.... Our hostess!" The faces of the guests all turn towards her; and the lamp-light, flashing here and there, shows her gleams of gold. The golden shower that falls so freely has left some drops on each of them. Her small gifts are visible--the rings on their fingers, the brooches at their necks; but the lamp-light cannot reach her greater gifts--the soft beds, the warm fires, the money in their banks, the comfort in their breasts. XXXII Of course she had sent her husband money. Only Mears knew how much. Mears acted as intermediary, conducted the correspondence; and in despatching the doles, whether much or little, he rarely failed to reiterate the proviso that the recipient was not to set foot in England. That was the irrepealable condition under which aid from time to time was granted. But of late it had become plain that no attempt would be made to set the prohibition at defiance: Mr. Marsden would never revisit his native land. During the last year his wife had written to him twice or thrice, supplementing the communications of Mears with extra bounties and some hopeful, cheering words. Mr. Marsden was begged to employ these additional drafts in defraying the expenses of illness, to take care of himself, and to fight against desponding thoughts. Now, one summer morning, when she entered her room at Bence's, Mr. Mears stood by a window waiting for her arrival. "Good morning, Mr. Mears;" and she looked at his solemn face. "Anything out of the way?" "Yes. Some news from California." "Ah!" And she pointed to the letter in his hand. "Is it the news that we had reason to expect?" "Yes.... It's all over;" and Mr. Mears placed a chair for her, near the newspaper table. She sat down, took the letter, spread it open on the table; and, shading her eyes with a hand, began to read it. "Mr. Mears!" She spoke without looking up. "I shall do no work to-day. Tell them all that I cannot see them." In the lofty corridor the doors of the managers' rooms were opening; the chieftains were bringing their reports; secretaries and clerks were silently assembling. Mr. Mears left the room, whisperingly dismissed everybody; and with closed lips and noiseless footsteps, the little crowd dispersed. When he returned to the room she spoke to him again, still without raising her eyes. "The car has gone home, of course. Please telephone to the house, and tell them to send it back for me at once." He transmitted her order, and then went to a window and looked down into the court-yard. "Mr. Mears!" She had finished the letter, and was carefully folding it. "There. You had better keep it--with the other papers.... Sit down, please. Stay with me till the car comes." Mr. Mears sat down, put the folded letter in his pocket, but did not speak. He noticed that her eyes were free from moisture, and her quiet voice betrayed no emotion of any sort. "Ah, well;" and she gave a little sigh. "He wanted for nothing. His friend says so explicitly.... Mr. Mears, she cannot have been a bad woman--according to her lights. You see, she has stuck to him faithfully." Then, after a long pause, she spoke very kindly of the dead man; and Mears noticed the pitying tenderness that had come into her voice. But it could not have been called emotion: it was a benign, comprehensive pity, a ready sympathy for weakness and misfortune, and no deep disturbance of personal feeling. Mears had heard her talk in just such a tone when she had been told about the sad end of a total stranger. "Poor fellow! A wasted life, Mr. Mears!... And he had many good points. He was naturally a _worker_. Considerable capacity--he seemed to promise great things in the beginning.... You know, _you_ thought well of him at first." "At first," said Mears. "I admit it. He was a good salesman." "He was a _grand_ salesman, Mr. Mears.... I have never met a better one." Enid was waiting for her at the white gates, when the car brought her home. "Mother dear, is anything wrong? Are you ill?" The car had stopped; and Enid, clambering on the step, showed a white, scared face. "No, my dear. I am quite all right. I'll get out here, and stroll in the garden with you.... My sweet Enid, did the message frighten you?" "Yes, dreadfully." "It was inconsiderate of me not to say I wasn't ill.... I am taking the day off. That is all." "But what has happened? Something has upset you. I can see it in your face." Then, as they walked slowly to and fro along a terrace between bright and perfumed flowers, Mrs. Marsden-Thompson quietly told her daughter the news. "I am a widow, Enid dear.... No, it did not upset me. Mr. Mears and I were both prepared to hear it.... But of course it takes one back into the past; it sets one thinking--and I felt at once that I ought not to attend to ordinary business, that it would be only proper to take the day off.... "And I think, Enid, that henceforth I shall call myself Mrs. Thompson--plain Mrs. Thompson, dropping the other name altogether."... She had paused on the path, to pick a sprig of verbena; and she gently crushed a thin leaf, and inhaled its perfume. "Yes, dear. I always liked the old name best. But I felt that while he was living, it might seem unkind, and in bad taste, if I altogether refused to bear his name. Now, however, it cannot matter;" and she opened her hand and let the crushed leaf fall. "He has gone. And he is quite forgotten. There is nobody who can think it unkind if his name dies, too." XXXIII The pleasant years were slipping away, and Mrs. Thompson was just as busy as she had ever been. She had long ago ceased to speak of retiring, and now she did not even think of it. The success of Bence's had continued to swell larger and larger; its trade grew steadily and surely; its financial position was so strong that nothing could shake it. Prentice and Archibald Bence often advised the proprietress to turn herself into a company, and she was more or less disposed to adopt their suggestion. Some day or other she might do it. But it would be a big job--the promotion of a company on the grandest scale, with enormous capital involved, wants careful consideration. Perhaps she was a little inclined to shrink the preliminary labours of the scheme--and in any event the flotation could not bring her more leisure, because she would certainly be obliged to remain at Bence's as managing director. In these years Jane had made her bow at the Court of St. James's, and had experienced the excitement of a London season; but as yet her guardians had found her no suitable sweetheart. They were difficult to please; and she herself appeared to be in no hurry. However, Jane at twenty-two was so good-looking, so vivaciously amiable, so altogether charming, that Mrs. Thompson and Mrs. Kenion knew well that they would not be able to put off the heavy day much longer. The right man, though still unseen, must have drawn very near by now. On Thursday afternoons, weather permitting, Mrs. Thompson liked to drive in the carriage; and it was always an especial treat when the social engagements of her ladies allowed them to accompany her. As the big bay horses trotted along the smooth roads she leaned back in her seat with luxurious contentment and beamed at Jane, at Enid, at all the world. "Now is not this much nicer--the air, the quiet enjoyment, the gentle motion--than if we were being whirled past everything in a motor-car?" "Yes, granny, it _is_ very nice." "I fear that you would have preferred the car, Enid?" "Oh no, mother dear. I think horses are delightful when you don't want to go far, and time is no object." "That's just it," said Mrs. Thompson. "Time is no object. The horses help me to remember that; and I like to remember it--because it gives one the holiday feeling." "Poor granny!" Jane had taken one of grandmamma's hands, and was squeezing it affectionately. "And it's only a _half_-holiday. You don't get enough of the holiday feeling.... Oh, where's my Kodak? I must snap those children." The carriage was stopped; Jane sprang out, and ran back to photograph three little girls in a cottage garden. "There," said Mrs. Thompson triumphantly. "If we had been in the car, she wouldn't have seen them. We should have passed too quickly." Jane stopped the carriage again, when they came to a point where the road turns abruptly to cross a high bridge above the railway. "Here we are, granny. Here's your favourite view." Mrs. Thompson had always been fond of this view of Mallingbridge; and though it was much too large for a snapshot photograph, Jane liked it, too. Looking down from the bridge you have Mallingbridge, stretched as a map, at your feet. Once the clustered roofs made a large spot four miles away in the middle of the plain. Now the roofs had encroached until very little plain was left. The town and its suburbs had rolled out in all directions, burying green meadows beneath warehouses and factories, stifling the copses with red-brick villas, planting the flowery slopes with tram-lines and iron standards. To-day the light was bad; the sun only here and there could pierce the drab clouds of smoke that rose from countless chimneys, and drifted and hung over the central part of the town; but the three big towers showed plainly enough--the square tower of St. Saviour's, the steeple of Holy Trinity, and the pinnacled monument of Bence's clock. And very plainly, with the sunshine suddenly striking it, one saw the huge dome of Bence. A changed view, a widely extended map, since Mrs. Thompson first looked at it. But there at her feet lay the world that she had conquered and held. Perhaps, while the horses stood champing their bits and the coachman and footman stifled yawns of ennui, Mrs. Thompson extracted from the wide view a warm and comfortable sensation of happiness and pride. She was quite happy, with every fierce passion burnt out, with the disturbing energy of the emotions nearly all gone; but with the full and satisfying work still left to her, and the zest for the work growing always keener, keeping her young of spirit, defying the years. And she was proud--very proud in her undiminished power of protecting those she loved. She had never failed to protect. Her mother,--her dull old husband,--her daughter,--her daughter's daughter: all who had touched the orbit of her strength with love had found security. And she had been able to break as well as to make. All who had served her were guarded and safe: all who had opposed her were crushed and done for. "Shall I drive on, ma'am?" "Yes, drive on." The coachman and footman in their black liveries and white gloves had a grand air; the bay horses were large highly-bred beasts; the carriage was one of those four-seated victorias which are much affected by royal persons--the whole equipage offered a majestic appearance. If the route of the excursion led them by the avenues of new villas and through some of the crowded streets of the town, Mrs. Thompson's weekly outing became exactly like a queen's procession. Hats off on either side; continuous bowing to right and left; men and women staring from open doors, running to upper windows, bumping into one another on the pavement. "Who is it?" "Mrs. Thompson." "Oh!" "What is it? I couldn't see. Was it the fire-engine?" "No. Mrs. Thompson--taking her Thursday drive. Just gone round the corner to Bridge Street." In Bridge Street, people on the top of trams stood up to stare at her; and if it chanced that there rode on the car some stranger to Mallingbridge, the conductor and all the passengers volubly instructed him. "Who did you say it was?" "Mrs. Thompson!... She's _Bence's_; she is ... Mrs. Thompson, don't I tell you? But Bence's is all hers.... She built that tower what you're looking at now.... She gave the money to build the new hospital that we're coming to presently.... Mrs. Thompson! They say she's rich enough to buy the blooming town." When she got home she thanked her companions for giving her the treat. "It is sweet of you both--and I hope you haven't been bored. It has been the greatest treat for me." Another of her great treats--enjoyed more rarely than the carriage drive--was on a Sunday night, when she and her granddaughter went in to Mallingbridge for the evening service at St. Saviour's Church. "We won't ask your mother to come, because I fancy she is a little tired. But if you feel up to it?" "_Rather_," said Jane. "Really and truly, you won't mind?" "I shall love it, granny." Then, time being an object, the small car was ordered, and the chauffeur jumped gleefully to obey the sabbath-infringing order. He knew that he would receive a thumping tip as guerdon for his extra pains. She sat in the old pew, with Jane by her side. She had retained the places, although she could so infrequently use them; and the card in the metal frame once again read, "Mrs. Thompson, two seats." The dim light fell softly on her white hair and pale face, on her ermine fur and the purple velvet of her mantle; and the congregation, sparse rows of vague, meaningless figures, sent shadowy glances at her back and at her sides. There was no one here now who had seen her as a bride, with her pretty hair and fresh, vividly coloured complexion; but all knew who she was, and everybody seemed to be stirred by her dignified presence. At her entrance a whisper and a movement had run along the pews. "Look! Mrs. Thompson!" A young curate conducted the service with a kind of languid hurry. The old broad church vicar was dead, and a low church vicar had obtained the living. So there was less singing and chanting than of past days; and the choir boys, standing or sitting in the brightly illuminated chancel, had not so much work to do. It was all one to Mrs. Thompson--the old way or the new way. The sensible view, the _business_ view of the matter remained unaltered. Given a consecrated house of prayer, anyone who isn't a faddist ought to be able to pray in it. The congregation had stood up, to recite the evening psalms in alternate verses with the curate; and Mrs. Thompson, standing very erect, looked from the darkness towards the light. ... "The Lord is with them that uphold my soul;" and then the congregation recited their verse. Jane glanced at granny's face--so fine, so strong, so brave; and listened to her firm, resolute voice. "He shall reward evil until mine enemies: destroy thou them in thy truth." While the curate read the next verse, Jane was still watching her granny's face. "For," answered Mrs. Thompson, "he hath delivered me out of all my trouble; and mine eye hath seen his desire upon mine enemies." "Glory be to the Father," said the curate, in a perfunctory tone, "and to the Son: and to the Holy Ghost;" "As it was in the beginning," said Mrs. Thompson, firmly and fervently, "is now, and ever shall be: world without end. Amen." 
43703	----	scanned images of public domain material from the Google Print archive. [Illustration: Book Cover] THE BUSINESS OF LIFE Novels by Robert W. Chambers The Business of Life Blue-Bird Weather Japonette The Adventures of a Modest Man The Danger Mark Special Messenger The Firing Line The Younger Set The Fighting Chance Some Ladies in Haste The Tree of Heaven The Tracer of Lost Persons A Young Man in a Hurry Lorraine Maids of Paradise Ashes of Empire The Red Republic Outsiders The Gay Rebellion The Streets of Ascalon The Common Law Ailsa Paige The Green Mouse Iole The Reckoning The Maid-at-arms Cardigan The Haunts of Men The Mystery of Choice The Cambric Mask The Maker of Moons The King in Yellow In Search of the Unknown The Conspirators A King and a Few Dukes In the Quarter [Illustration: "'I--yes. Yes--I'll be ready----'" [Page 317]] _The_ BUSINESS OF LIFE BY ROBERT W. CHAMBERS [Illustration] WITH ILLUSTRATIONS BY CHARLES DANA GIBSON NEW YORK AND LONDON D. APPLETON AND COMPANY 1913 COPYRIGHT, 1913, BY ROBERT W. CHAMBERS Copyright, 1912, by the INTERNATIONAL MAGAZINE COMPANY TO ELSIE CHAMBERS "Il est des noeuds secrets, il est des sympathies Dont par le doux rapport les Ames assorties S'attachent l'une à l'autre et se laissent piquer Par ces je ne sais quoi qu'on ne peut expliquer." RODOGUNE. LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS PAGE "'I--yes. Yes--I'll be ready----'" _Frontispiece_ "A lady to see you, sir'" 3 "Now and then she ... halted on tip-toe to lift some slitted visor" 51 "She took it ... then read aloud the device in verse" 57 "'Are business and friendship incompatible?'" 71 "'There are nice men, too'" 79 "And he sat thinking of Jacqueline Nevers" 93 "She turned leisurely.... 'Did you say anything recently, Mr. Desboro?'" 116 "Desboro stood staring down at the magic picture. Mrs. Clydesdale, too, had risen" 151 "'Which is the real pleasure?' she asked" 159 "'The thing to do,' he said ... 'is for us both to keep very busy'" 161 "'I--I beg your pardon,' said Jacqueline" 181 "There was, for a moment, an unconscious and unwonted grace in his manner" 197 "All the men there had yielded to the delicate attraction of her" 205 "In all the curious eyes turned toward her he saw admiration, willing or conceded" 209 "She lost herself in a dreamy Bavarian folk-song" 219 "Cheer after cheer rang through the hallway" 251 "'Business is kinder to men than women sometimes believe'" 273 "'Be careful,' he said ... 'People are watching us'" 277 "Mr. Waudle gaped at her like a fat and expiring fish; the poet ... said not a word" 345 "'My dear!' she exclaimed. 'What a perfectly charming office!'" 358 "She turned ... looked back, hesitated" 379 "'_That's_ how hungry I am, Jim. I warned you'" 385 "'It was rather odd, wasn't it, Jim?'" 395 "'Why don't you ask your--wife?'" 411 "'I do not believe you,' she said between her teeth" 419 "What was she to do? She had gone half mad with fear" 427 "'Jacqueline--my wife--is the result of a different training'" 441 "In the rose dusk of the drawn curtains he stood beside it" 445 "'Now,' she said, leaning forward ... 'what is the meaning of this?'" 455 "'You have no further interest in me, have you?'" 479 "'I--I have never thought mercilessly'" 487 "And, as she rose, he was still figuring" 499 THE BUSINESS OF LIFE CHAPTER I [Illustration: "'A lady to see you, sir'"] "A lady to see you, sir," said Farris. Desboro, lying on the sofa, glanced up over his book. "A _lady_?" "Yes, sir." "Well, who is she, Farris?" "She refused her name, Mr. James." Desboro swung his legs to the carpet and sat up. "What kind of lady is she?" he asked; "a perfect one, or the real thing?" "I don't know, sir. It's hard to tell these days; one dresses like t'other." Desboro laid aside his book and arose leisurely. "Where is she?" "In the reception room, sir." "Did you ever before see her?" "I don't know, Mr. James--what with her veil and furs----" "How did she come?" "In one of Ransom's hacks from the station. There's a trunk outside, too." "What the devil----" "Yes, sir. That's what made me go to the door. Nobody rang. I heard the stompin' and the noise; and I went out, and she just kind of walked in. Yes, sir." "Is the hack out there yet?" "No, sir. Ransom's man he left the trunk and drove off. I heard her tell him he could go." Desboro remained silent for a few moments, looking hard at the fireplace; then he tossed his cigarette onto the embers, dropped the amber mouthpiece into the pocket of his dinner jacket, dismissed Farris with a pleasant nod, and walked very slowly along the hall, as though in no haste to meet his visitor before he could come to some conclusion concerning her identity. For among all the women he had known, intimately or otherwise, he could remember very few reckless enough, or brainless enough, or sufficiently self-assured, to pay him an impromptu visit in the country at such an hour of the night. The reception room, with its early Victorian furniture, appeared to be empty, at first glance; but the next instant he saw somebody in the curtained embrasure of a window--a shadowy figure which did not seem inclined to leave obscurity--the figure of a woman in veil and furs, her face half hidden in her muff. He hesitated a second, then walked toward her; and she lifted her head. "Elena!" he said, astonished. "Are you angry, Jim?" "What are you doing here?" "I didn't know what to do," said Mrs. Clydesdale, wearily, "and it came over me all at once that I couldn't stand him any longer." "What has he done?" "Nothing. He's just the same--never quite sober--always following me about, always under foot, always grinning--and buying sixteenth century enamels--and--I can't stand it! I----" Her voice broke. "Come into the library," he said curtly. She found her handkerchief, held it tightly against her eyes, and reached out toward him to be guided. In the library fireplace a few embers were still alive. He laid a log across the coals and used the bellows until the flames started. After that he dusted his hands, lighted a cigarette, and stood for a moment watching the mounting blaze. She had cast aside her furs and was resting on one elbow, twisting her handkerchief to rags between her gloved hands, and staring at the fire. One or two tears gathered and fell. "He'll divorce me now, won't he?" she asked unsteadily. "Why?" "Because nobody would believe the truth--after this." She rested her pretty cheek against the cushion and gazed at the fire with wide eyes still tearfully brilliant. "You have me on your hands," she said. "What are you going to do with me?" "Send you home." "You can't. I've disgraced myself. Won't you stand by me, Jim?" "I can't stand by you if I let you stay here." "Why not?" "Because that would be destroying you." "Are you going to send me away?" "Certainly." "Where are you going to send me?" "Home." "Home!" she repeated, beginning to cry again. "Why do you call his house 'home'? It's no more my home than he is my husband----" "He _is_ your husband! What do you mean by talking this way?" "He _isn't_ my husband. I told him I didn't care for him when he asked me to marry him. He only grinned. It was a perfectly cold-blooded bargain. I didn't sell him _everything_!" "You married him." "Partly." "What!" She flushed crimson. "I sold him the right to call me his wife and to--to make me so if I ever came to--care for him. That was the bargain--if you've got to know. The clergy did their part----" "Do you mean----" "Yes!" she said, exasperated. "I mean that it is no marriage, in spite of law and clergy. And it never will be, because I hate him!" Desboro looked at her in utter contempt. "Do you know," he said, "what a rotten thing you have done?" "Rotten!" "Do you think it admirable?" "I didn't sell myself wholesale. It might have been worse." "You are wrong. Nothing worse could have happened." "Then I don't care what else happens to me," she said, drawing off her gloves and unpinning her hat. "I shall not go back to him." "You can't stay here." "I will," she said excitedly. "I'm going to break with him--whether or not I can count on your loyalty to me----" Her voice broke childishly, and she bowed her head. He caught his lip between his teeth for a moment. Then he said savagely: "You ought not to have come here. There isn't one single thing to excuse it. Besides, you have just reminded me of my loyalty to you. Can't you understand that that includes your husband? Also, it isn't in me to forget that I once asked you to be my wife. Do you think I'd let you stand for anything less after that? Do you think I'm going to blacken my own face? I never asked any other woman to marry me, and this settles it--I never will! You've finished yourself and your sex for me!" She was crying now, her head in her hands, and the bronze-red hair dishevelled, sagging between her long, white fingers. He remained aloof, knowing her, and always afraid of her and of himself together--a very deadly combination for mischief. And she remained bowed in the attitude of despair, her lithe young body shaken. His was naturally a lightly irresponsible disposition, and it came very easily for him to console beauty in distress--or out of it, for that matter. Why he was now so fastidious with his conscience in regard to Mrs. Clydesdale he himself scarcely understood, except that he had once asked her to marry him; and that he knew her husband. These two facts seemed to keep him steady. Also, he rather liked her burly husband; and he had almost recovered from the very real pangs which had pierced him when she suddenly flung him over and married Clydesdale's millions. One of the logs had burned out. He rose to replace it with another. When he returned to the sofa, she looked up at him so pitifully that he bent over and caressed her hair. And she put one arm around his neck, crying, uncomforted. "It won't do," he said; "it won't do. And you know it won't, don't you? This whole business is dead wrong--dead rotten. But you mustn't cry, do you hear? Don't be frightened. If there's trouble, I'll stand by you, of course. Hush, dear, the house is full of servants. Loosen your arms, Elena! It isn't a square deal to your husband--or to you, or even to me. Unless people have an even chance with me--men or women--there's nothing dangerous about me. I never dealt with any man whose eyes were not wide open--nor with any woman, either. Cary's are shut; yours are blinded." She sprang up and walked to the fire and stood there, her hands nervously clenching and unclenching. "When I tell you that my eyes _are_ wide open--that I don't care what I do----" "But your husband's eyes are not open!" "They ought to be. I left a note saying where I was going--that rather than be his wife I'd prefer to be your----" "Stop! You don't know what you're talking about--you little idiot!" he broke out, furious. "The very words you use don't mean anything to you--except that you've read them in some fool's novel, or heard them on a degenerate stage----" "My words will mean something to _him_, if I can make them!" she retorted hysterically, "--and if you really care for me----" Through the throbbing silence Desboro seemed to see Clydesdale, bulky, partly sober, with his eternal grin and permanently-flushed skin, rambling about among his porcelains and enamels and jades and ivories, like a drugged elephant in a bric-a-brac shop. And yet, there had always been a certain kindly harmlessness and good nature about him that had always appealed to men. He said, incredulously: "Did you write to him what you have just said to me?" "Yes." "You actually left such a note for him?" "Yes, I did." The silence lasted long enough for her to become uneasy. Again and again she lifted her tear-swollen face to look at him, where he stood before the fire, but he did not even glance at her; and at last she murmured his name, and he turned. "I guess you've done for us both," he said. "You're probably right; nobody would believe the truth after this." She began to cry again silently. He said: "You never gave your husband a chance. He was in love with you and you never gave him a chance. And you're giving yourself none, now. And as for me"--he laughed unpleasantly--"well, I'll leave it to you, Elena." "I--I thought--if I burned my bridges and came to you----" "What _did_ you think?" "That you'd stand by me, Jim." "Have I any other choice?" he asked, with a laugh. "We seem to be a properly damned couple." "Do--do you care for any other woman?" "No." "Then--then----" "Oh, I am quite free to stand the consequences with you." "Will you?" "Can we escape them?" "_You_ could." "I'm not in the habit of leaving a sinking ship," he said curtly. "Then--you will marry me--when----" She stopped short and turned very white. After a moment the doorbell rang again. Desboro glanced at the clock, then shrugged. "Wh--who is it?" she faltered. "It's probably somebody after you, Elena." "It _can't_ be. He wouldn't come, would he?" The bell sounded again. "What are you going to do?" she breathed. "Do? Let him in." "Who do you think it is?" "Your husband, of course." "Then--why are you going to let him in?" "To talk it over with him." "But--but I don't know what he'll do. I don't know him, I tell you. What do I know about him--except that he's big and red? How do I know what might be hidden behind that fixed grin of his?" "Well, we'll find out in a minute or two," said Desboro coolly. "Jim! You _must_ stand by me now!" "I've done it so far, haven't I? You needn't worry." "You won't let him take me back! He can't, can he?" "Not if you refuse to go. But you won't refuse--if he's man enough to ask you to return." "But--suppose he won't ask me to go back?" "In that case I'll stand for what you've done. I'll marry you if he means to disgrace you. Now let's see what he does mean." She caught his sleeve as he passed her, then let it go. The steady ringing of the bell was confusing and terrifying her, and she glanced about her like a trapped creature, listening to the distant jingling of chains and the click of bolts as Desboro undid the outer door. Silence, then a far sound in the hall, footsteps coming nearer, nearer; and she dropped stiffly on the sofa as Desboro entered, followed by Cary Clydesdale in fur motor cap, coat and steaming goggles. Desboro motioned her husband to a chair, but the man stood looking at his wife through his goggles, with a silly, fixed grin stamped on his features. Then he drew off the goggles and one fur gauntlet, fumbled in his overcoat, produced the crumpled note which she had left for him, laid it on the table between them, and sat down heavily, filling the leather armchair with his bulk. His bare red hand steamed. After a moment's silence, he pointed at the note. "Well," she said, with an effort, "what of it! It's true--what this letter says." "It isn't true yet, is it?" asked Clydesdale simply. "What do you mean?" But Desboro understood him, and answered for her with a calm shake of his head. Then the wife understood, too, and the deep colour dyed her skin from throat to brow. "Why do you come here--after reading that?" She pointed at the letter. "Didn't you read it?" Clydesdale passed his hand slowly over his perplexed eyes. "I came to take you home. The car is here." "Didn't you understand what I wrote? Isn't it plain enough?" she demanded excitedly. "No. You'd better get ready, Elena." "Is that as much of a man as you are--when I tell you I'd rather be Mr. Desboro's----" Something behind the fixed grin on her husband's face made her hesitate and falter. Then he swung heavily around and looked at Desboro. "How much are you in this, anyway?" he asked, still grinning. "Do you expect an answer?" "I think I'll get one." "I think you won't get one out of me." "Oh. So you're at the bottom of it all, are you?" "No doubt. A woman doesn't do such a thing unpersuaded. If you don't know enough to look after your own wife, there are plenty of men who'll apply for the job--as I did." "You're a very rotten scoundrel, aren't you?" said Clydesdale, grinning. "Oh, so-so." Clydesdale sat very still, his grin unchanged, and Desboro looked him over coolly. "Now, what do you want to do? You and Mrs. Clydesdale can remain here to-night if you wish. There are plenty of bedrooms----" Clydesdale rose, bulking huge and menacing in his furs; but Desboro, sitting on the edge of the table, continued to swing one foot gently, smiling at danger. And Clydesdale hesitated, then veered around toward his wife, with the heavy movement of a perplexed and tortured bear. "Get your furs on," he said, in a dull voice. "Do you wish me to go home?" "Get your furs on!" "Do you wish me to go home, Cary?" "Yes. Good God! What do you suppose I came here for?" She walked over to Desboro and held out her hand: "No wonder women like you. Good-bye--and if I come again--may I remain?" "Don't come," he said, smiling, and holding her coat for her. Clydesdale strode forward, took the fur garment from Desboro's hands, and held it open. His wife looked up at him, shrugged her shoulders, and suffered him to invest her with the coat. After a moment Desboro said: "Clydesdale, I am not your enemy. I wish you good luck." "You go to hell," said Clydesdale thickly. Mrs. Clydesdale moved toward the door, her husband on one side, Desboro on the other, and so, along the hall in silence, and out to the porch, where the glare of the acetylenes lighted up the frozen drive. "It feels like rain," observed Desboro. "Not a very gay outlook for Christmas. All the same, I wish you a happy one, Elena. And, really, I believe you could have it if you cared to." "Thank you, Jim. You have been mistakenly kind to me. I am afraid you will have to be crueller some day. Good-bye--till then." Clydesdale had descended to the drive and was conferring with the chauffeur. Now he turned and looked up at his wife. She went down the steps beside Desboro, and he nodded good-night. Clydesdale put her into the limousine and then got in after her. A few moments later the red tail-lamp of the motor disappeared among the trees bordering the drive, and Desboro turned and walked back into the house. "That," he said aloud to himself, "settles the damned species for me! Let the next one look out for herself!" He sauntered back into the library. The letter that she had left for her husband still lay on the table, apparently forgotten. "A fine specimen of logic," he said. "She doesn't get on with him, so she decides to use Jim to jimmy the lock of wedlock! A white man can understand the Orientals better." He glanced at the clock, and decided that there was no sense in going to bed, so he composed himself on the haircloth sofa once more, lighted a cigarette, and began to read, coolly using the note she had left, as a bookmark. It was dawn before he closed the book and went away to bathe and change his attire. While breakfasting he glanced out and saw that it had begun to rain. A green Christmas for day after to-morrow! And, thinking of Christmas, he thought of a girl he knew who usually wore blue, and what sort of a gift he had better send her when he went to the city that morning. But he didn't go. He called up a jeweler and gave directions what to send and where to send it. Then, listless, depressed, he idled about the great house, putting off instinctively the paramount issue--the necessary investigation of his finances. But he had evaded it too long to attempt it lightly now. It was only a question of days before he'd have to take up in deadly earnest the question of how to pay his debts. He knew it; and it made him yawn with disgust. After luncheon he wrote a letter to one Jean Louis Nevers, a New York dealer in antiques, saying that he would drop in some day after Christmas to consult Mr. Nevers on a matter of private business. And that is as far as he got with his very vague plan for paying off an accumulation of debts which, at last, were seriously annoying him. The remainder of the day he spent tramping about the woods of Westchester with a pack of nondescript dogs belonging to him. He liked to walk in the rain; he liked his mongrels. In the evening he resumed his attitude of unstudied elegance on the sofa, also his book, using Mrs. Clydesdale's note again to mark his place. Mrs. Quant ventured to knock, bringing some "magic drops," which he smilingly refused. Farris announced dinner, and he dined as usual, surrounded by dogs and cats, all very cordial toward the master of Silverwood, who was unvaryingly so just and so kind to them. After dinner he lighted a pipe, thought idly of the girl in blue, hoped she'd like his gift of aquamarines, and picked up his book again, yawning. He had had about enough of Silverwood, and he was realising it. He had had more than enough of women, too. The next day, riding one of his weedy hunters over Silverwood estate, he encountered the daughter of a neighbor, an old playmate of his when summer days were half a year long, and yesterdays immediately became embedded in the middle of the middle ages. She was riding a fretful, handsome Kentucky three-year-old, and sitting nonchalantly to his exasperating and jiggling gait. The girl was one Daisy Hammerton--the sort men call "square" and "white," and a "good fellow"; but she was softly rounded and dark, and very feminine. She bade him good morning in a friendly voice; and her voice and manner might well have been different, for Desboro had not behaved very civilly toward her or toward her family, or to any of his Westchester neighbors for that matter; and the rumours of his behaviour in New York were anything but pleasant to a young girl's ears. So her cordiality was the more to her credit. He made rather shame-faced inquiries about her and her parents, but she lightly put him at his ease, and they turned into the woods together on the old and unembarrassed terms of comradeship. "Captain Herrendene is back. Did you know it?" she asked. "Nice old bird," commented Desboro. "I must look him up. Where did he come from--Luzon?" "Yes. He wrote us. Why don't you ask him up for the skating, Jim?" "What skating?" said Desboro, with a laugh. "It will be a green Christmas, Daisy--it's going to rain again. Besides," he added, "I shan't be here much longer." "Oh, I'm sorry." He reddened. "You always were the sweetest thing in Westchester. Fancy your being sorry that I'm going back to town when I've never once ridden over to see you as long as I've been here!" She laughed. "We've known each other too long to let such things make any real difference. But you _have_ been a trifle negligent." "Daisy, dear, I'm that way in everything. If anybody asked me to name the one person I would not neglect, I'd name you. But you see what happens--even to you! I don't know--I don't seem to have any character. I don't know what's the matter with me----" "I'm afraid that you have no beliefs, Jim." "How can I have any when the world is so rotten after nineteen hundred years of Christianity?" "I have not found it rotten." "No, because you live in a clean and wholesome circle." "Why don't you, too? You can live where you please, can't you?" He laughed and waved his hand toward the horizon. "You know what the Desboros have always been. You needn't pretend you don't. All Westchester has it in for us. But relief is in sight," he added, with mock seriousness. "I'm the last of 'em, and your children, Daisy, won't have to endure the morally painful necessity of tolerating anybody of my name in the county." She smiled: "Jim, you could be so nice if you only would." "What! With no beliefs?" "They're so easily acquired." "Not in New York town, Daisy." "Perhaps not among the people you affect. But such people really count for so little--they are only a small but noisy section of a vast and quiet and wholesome community. And the noise and cynicism are both based on idleness, Jim. Nobody who is busy is destitute of beliefs. Nobody who is responsible can avoid ideals." "Quite right," he said. "I am idle and irresponsible. But, Daisy, it's as much part of me as are my legs and arms, and head and body. I am not stupid; I have plenty of mental resources; I am never bored; I enjoy my drift through life in an empty tub as much as the man who pulls furiously through it in a rowboat loaded with ambitions, ballasted with brightly moral resolves, and buffeted by the cross seas of duty and conscience. That's rather neat, isn't it?" "You can't drift safely very long without ballast," said the girl, smiling. "Watch me." She did not answer that she had been watching him for the last few years, or tell him how it had hurt her to hear his name linked with the gossip of fashionably vapid doings among idle and vapid people. For his had been an inheritance of ability and culture, and the leisure to develop both. Out of idleness and easy virtue had at last emerged three generations of Desboros full of energy and almost ruthless ability--his great-grandfather, grandfather and father--but he, the fourth generation, was throwing back into the melting pot all that his father and grandfathers had carried from it--even the material part of it. Land and fortune, were beginning to disappear, together with the sturdy mental and moral qualities of a race that had almost overcome its vicious origin under the vicious Stuarts. Only the physical stamina as yet seemed to remain intact; for Desboro was good to look upon. "An odd thing happened the other night--or, rather, early in the morning," she said. "We were awakened by a hammering at the door and a horn blowing--and guess who it was?" "Not Gabriel--though you look immortally angelic to-day----" "Thank you, Jim. No; it was Cary and Elena Clydesdale, saying that their car had broken down. What a ridiculous hour to be motoring! Elena was half dead with the cold, too. It seems they'd been to a party somewhere and were foolish enough to try to motor back to town. They stopped with us and took the noon train to town. Elena told me to give you her love; that's what reminded me." "Give her mine when you see her," he said pleasantly. * * * * * When he returned to his house he sat down with a notion of trying to bring order out of the chaos into which his affairs had tumbled. But the mere sight of his desk, choked with unanswered letters and unpaid bills, sickened him, and he threw himself on the sofa and picked up his book, determined to rid himself of Silverwood House and all its curious, astonishing and costly contents. "Tell Riley to be on hand Monday," he said to Mrs. Quant that evening. "I want the cases in the wing rooms and the stuff in the armoury cleaned up, because I expect a Mr. Nevers to come here and recatalogue the entire collection next week." "Will you be at home, Mr. James?" she asked anxiously. "No. I'm going South, duck-shooting. See that Mr. Nevers is comfortable if he chooses to remain here; for it will take him a week or two to do his work in the armoury, I suppose. So you'll have to start both furnaces to-morrow, and keep open fires going, or the man will freeze solid. You understand, don't you?" "Yes, sir. And if you are going away, Mr. James, I could pack a little bottle of 'magic drops'----" "By all means," he said, with good-humoured resignation. He spent the evening fussing over his guns and ammunition, determined to go to New York in the morning. But he didn't; indecision had become a habit; he knew it, wondered a little at himself for his lack of decision. He was deadly weary of Silverwood, but too lazy to leave; and it made him think of the laziest dog on record, who yelped all day because he had sat down on a tack and was too lazy to get up. So it was not until the middle of Christmas week that Desboro summoned up sufficient energy to start for New York. And when at last he was on the train, he made up his mind that he wouldn't return to Silverwood in a hurry. But that plan was one of the mice-like plans men make so confidently under the eternal skies. CHAPTER II Desboro arrived in town on a late train. It was raining, so he drove to his rooms, exchanged his overcoat for a raincoat, and went out into the downpour again, undisturbed, disdaining an umbrella. In a quarter of an hour's vigorous walking he came to the celebrated antique shop of Louis Nevers, and entered, letting in a gust of wind and rain at his heels. Everywhere in the semi-gloom of the place objects loomed mysteriously, their outlines lost in shadow except where, here and there, a gleam of wintry daylight touched a jewel or fell across some gilded god, lotus-throned, brooding alone. When Desboro's eyes became accustomed to the obscurity, he saw that there was armour there, complete suits, Spanish and Milanese, and an odd Morion or two; and there were jewels in old-time settings, tapestries, silver, ivories, Hispano-Moresque lustre, jades, crystals. The subdued splendour of Chinese and Japanese armour, lacquered in turquoise, and scarlet and gold, glimmered on lay figures masked by grotesque helmets; an Ispahan rug, softly luminous, trailed across a table beside him, and on it lay a dead Sultan's scimitar, curved like the new moon, its slim blade inset with magic characters, the hilt wrought as delicately as the folded frond of a fern, graceful, exquisite, gem-incrusted. There were a few people about the shop, customers and clerks, moving shapes in the dull light. Presently a little old salesman wearing a skull cap approached him. "Rainy weather for Christmas week, sir. Can I be of service?" "Thanks," said Desboro. "I came here by appointment on a matter of private business." "Certainly, sir. I think Miss Nevers is not engaged. Kindly give me your card and I will find out." "But I wish to see Mr. Nevers himself." "Mr. Nevers is dead, sir." "Oh! I didn't know----" "Yes, sir. Mr. Nevers died two years ago." And, as Desboro remained silent and thoughtful: "Perhaps you might wish to see Miss Nevers? She has charge of everything now, including all our confidential affairs." "No doubt," said Desboro pleasantly, "but this is an affair requiring personal judgment and expert advice----" "I understand, sir. The gentlemen who came to see Mr. Nevers about matters requiring expert opinions now consult Miss Nevers personally." "Who is _Miss_ Nevers?" "His daughter, sir." He added, with quaint pride: "The great jewelers of Fifth Avenue consult her; experts in our business often seek her advice. The Museum authorities have been pleased to speak highly of her monograph on Hurtado de Mendoza." Desboro hesitated for a moment, then gave his card to the old salesman, who trotted away with it down the unlighted vista of the shop. The young man's pleasantly indifferent glance rested on one object after another, not unintelligently, but without particular interest. Yet there were some very wonderful and very rare and beautiful things to be seen in the celebrated shop of the late Jean Louis Nevers. So he stood, leaning on his walking stick, the upturned collar of his raincoat framing a face which was too colourless and worn for a man of his age; and presently the little old salesman came trotting back, the tassel on his neat silk cap bobbing with every step. "Miss Nevers will be very glad to see you in her private office. This way, if you please, sir." Desboro followed to the rear of the long, dusky shop, turned to the left through two more rooms full of shadowy objects dimly discerned, then traversed a tiled passage to where electric lights burned over a doorway. The old man opened the door; Desboro entered and found himself in a square picture gallery, lighted from above, and hung all around with dark velvet curtains to protect the pictures on sale. As he closed the door behind him a woman at a distant desk turned her head, but remained seated, pen poised, looking across the room at him as he advanced. Her black gown blended so deceptively with the hangings that at first he could distinguish only the white face and throat and hands against the shadows behind her. "Will you kindly announce me to Miss Nevers?" he said, looking around for a chair. "I am Miss Nevers." She closed the ledger in which she had been writing, laid aside her pen and rose. As she came forward he found himself looking at a tall girl, slim to thinness, except for the rounded oval of her face under a loose crown of yellow hair, from which a stray lock sagged untidily, curling across her cheek. He thought: "A blue-stocking prodigy of learning, with her hair in a mess, and painted at that." But he said politely, yet with that hint of idle amusement in his voice which often sounded through his speech with women: "Are you the Miss Nevers who has taken over this antique business, and who writes monographs on Hurtado de Mendoza?" "Yes." "You appear to be very young to succeed such a distinguished authority as your father, Miss Nevers." His observation did not seem to disturb her, nor did the faintest hint of mockery in his pleasant voice. She waited quietly for him to state his business. He said: "I came here to ask somebody's advice about engaging an expert to appraise and catalogue my collection." And even while he was speaking he was conscious that never before had he seen such a white skin and such red lips--if they were natural. And he began to think that they might be. He said, noticing the bright lock astray on her cheek once more: "I suppose that I may speak to you in confidence--just as I would have spoken to your father." She was still looking at him with the charm of youthful inquiry in her eyes. "Certainly," she said. She glanced down at his card which still lay on her blotter, stood a moment with her hand resting on the desk, then indicated a chair at her elbow and seated herself. He took the chair. "I wrote you that I'd drop in sometime this week. The note was directed to your father. I did not know he was not living." "You are the Mr. Desboro who owns the collection of armour?" she asked. "I am that James Philip Desboro who lives at Silverwood," he said. "Evidently you have heard of the Desboro collection of arms and armour." "Everybody has, I think." He said, carelessly: "Museums, amateur collectors, and students know it, and I suppose most dealers in antiques have heard of it." "Yes, all of them, I believe." "My house," he went on, "Silverwood, is in darkest Westchester, and my recent grandfather, who made the collection, built a wing to contain it. It's there as he left it. My father made no additions to it. Nor," he added, "have I. Now I want to ask you whether a lot of those things have not increased in value since my grandfather's day?" "No doubt." "And the collection is valuable?" "I think it must be--very." "And to determine its value I ought to have an expert go there and catalogue it and appraise it?" "Certainly." "Who? That's what I've come here to find out." "Perhaps you might wish us to do it." "Is that still part of your business?" "It is." "Well," he said, after a moment's thought, "I am going to sell the Desboro collection." "Oh, I'm sorry!" she exclaimed, under her breath; and looked up to find him surprised and beginning to be amused again. "Your attitude is not very professional--for a dealer in antiques," he said quizzically. "I am something else, too, Mr. Desboro." She had flushed a little, not responding to his lighter tone. "I am very sure you are," he said. "Those who really know about and care for such collections must feel sorry to see them dispersed." "I had hoped that the Museum might have the Desboro collection some day," she said, in a low voice. He said: "I am sorry it is not to be so," and had the grace to redden a trifle. She played with her pen, waiting for him to continue; and she was so young, and fresh, and pretty that he was in no hurry to finish. Besides, there was something about her face that had been interesting him--an expression which made him think sometimes that she was smiling, or on the verge of it. But the slightly upcurled corners of her mouth had been fashioned so by her Maker, or perhaps had become so from some inborn gaiety of heart, leaving a faint, sweet imprint on her lips. To watch her was becoming a pleasure. He wondered what her smile might be like--all the while pretending an absent-minded air which cloaked his idle curiosity. She waited, undisturbed, for him to come to some conclusion. And all the while he was thinking that her lips were perhaps just a trifle too full--that there was more of Aphrodite in her face than of any saint he remembered; but her figure was thin enough for any saint. Perhaps a course of banquets--perhaps a régime under a diet list warranted to improve---- "Did you ever see the Desboro collection, Miss Nevers?" he asked vaguely. "No." "What expert will you send to catalogue and appraise it?" "_I_ could go." "You!" he said, surprised and smiling. "That is my profession." "I knew, of course, that it was your father's. But I never supposed that you----" "Did you wish to have an appraisement made, Mr. Desboro?" she interrupted dryly. "Why, yes, I suppose so. Otherwise, I wouldn't know what to ask for anything." "Have you really decided to sell that superb collection?" she demanded. "What else can I do?" he inquired gayly. "I suppose the Museum ought to have it, but I can't afford to give it away or to keep it. In other words--and brutal ones--I need money." She said gravely: "I am sorry." And he knew she didn't mean that she was sorry because he needed money, but because the Museum was not to have the arms, armour, jades, and ivories. Yet, somehow, her "I am sorry" sounded rather sweet to him. For a while he sat silent, one knee crossed over the other, twisting the silver crook of his stick. From moment to moment she raised her eyes from the blotter to let them rest inquiringly on him, then went on tracing arabesques over her blotter with an inkless pen. One slender hand was bracketed on her hip, and he noticed the fingers, smooth and rounded as a child's. Nor could he keep his eyes from her profile, with its delicate, short nose, ever so slightly arched, and its lips, just a trifle too sensuous--and that soft lock astray again against her cheek. No, her hair was not dyed, either. And it was as though she divined his thought, for she looked up suddenly from her blotter and he instantly gazed elsewhere, feeling guilty and impertinent--sentiments not often experienced by that young man. "I'll tell you what I'll do, Miss Nevers," he concluded, "I'll write you a letter to my housekeeper, Mrs. Quant. Shall I? And you'll go up and look over the collection and let me know what you think of it!" "Do you not expect to be there?" "Ought I to be?" "I really can't answer you, but it seems to me rather important that the owner of a collection should be present when the appraiser begins work." "The fact is," he said, "I'm booked for a silly shooting trip. I'm supposed to start to-morrow." "Then perhaps you had better write the letter. My full name is Jacqueline Nevers--if you require it. You may use my desk." She rose; he thanked her, seated himself, and began a letter to Mrs. Quant, charging her to admit, entertain, and otherwise particularly cherish one Miss Jacqueline Nevers, and give her the keys to the armoury. While he was busy, Jacqueline Nevers paced the room backward and forward, her pretty head thoughtfully bent, hands clasped behind her, moving leisurely, absorbed in her cogitations. Desboro ended his letter and sat for a moment watching her until, happening to glance at him, she discovered his idleness. "Have you finished?" she asked. A trifle out of countenance he rose and explained that he had, and laid the letter on her blotter. Realising that she was expecting him to take his leave, he also realised that he didn't want to. And he began to spar with Destiny for time. "I suppose this matter will require several visits from you," he inquired. "Yes, several." "It takes some time to catalogue and appraise such a collection, doesn't it?" "Yes." She answered him very sweetly but impersonally, and there seemed to be in her brief replies no encouragement for him to linger. So he started to pick up his hat, thinking as fast as he could all the while; and his facile wits saved him at the last moment. "Well, upon my word!" he exclaimed. "Do you know that you and I have not yet discussed terms?" "We make our usual charges," she said. "And what are those?" She explained briefly. "That is for cataloguing and appraising only?" "Yes." "And if you sell the collection?" "We take our usual commission." "And you think you _can_ sell it for me?" "I'll have to--won't I?" He laughed. "But _can_ you?" "Yes." As the curt affirmative fell from her lips, suddenly, under all her delicate, youthful charm, Desboro divined the note of hidden strength, the self-confidence of capability--oddly at variance with her allure of lovely immaturity. Yet he might have surmised it, for though her figure was that of a girl, her face, for all its soft, fresh beauty, was a woman's, and already firmly moulded in noble lines which even the scarlet fulness of the lips could not deny. For if she had the mouth of Aphrodite, she had her brow, also. He had not been able to make her smile, although the upcurled corners of her mouth seemed always to promise something. He wondered what her expression might be like when animated--even annoyed. And his idle curiosity led him on to the edges of impertinence. "May I say something that I have in mind and not offend you?" he asked. "Yes--if you wish." She lifted her eyes. "Do you think you are old enough and experienced enough to catalogue and appraise such an important collection as this one? I thought perhaps you might prefer not to take such a responsibility upon yourself, but would rather choose to employ some veteran expert." She was silent. "Have I offended you?" She walked slowly to the end of the room, turned, and, passing him a third time, looked up at him and laughed--a most enchanting little laugh--a revelation as delightful as it was unexpected. "I believe you really _want_ to do it yourself!" he exclaimed. "_Want_ to? I'm dying to! I don't think there is anything in the world I had rather try!" she said, with a sudden flush and sparkle of recklessness that transfigured her. "Do you suppose anybody in my business would willingly miss the chance of personally handling such a transaction? Of _course_ I want to. Not only because it would be a most creditable transaction for this house--not only because it would be a profitable business undertaking, but"--and the swift, engaging smile parted her lips once more--"in a way I feel as though my own ability had been questioned----" "By me?" he protested. "Did I actually dare question your ability?" "Something very like it. So, naturally, I would seize an opportunity to vindicate myself--if you offer it----" "I do offer it," he said. "I accept." There was a moment's indecisive silence. He picked up his hat and stick, lingering still; then: "Good-bye, Miss Nevers. When are you going up to Silverwood?" "To-morrow, if it is quite convenient." "Entirely. I may be there. Perhaps I can fix it--put off that shooting party for a day or two." "I hope so." "I hope so, too." He walked reluctantly toward the door, turned and came all the way back. "Perhaps you had rather I remained away from Silverwood." "Why?" "But, of course," he said, "there is a nice old housekeeper there, and a lot of servants----" She laughed. "Thank you very much, Mr. Desboro. It is very nice of you, but I had not considered that at all. Business women must disregard such conventions, if they're to compete with men. I'd like you to be there, because I may have questions to ask." "Certainly--it's very good of you. I--I'll try to be there----" "Because I might have some very important questions to ask you," she repeated. "Of course. I've got to be there. Haven't I?" "It might be better for your interests." "Then I'll be there. Well, good-bye, Miss Nevers." "Good-bye, Mr. Desboro." "And thank you for undertaking it," he said cordially. "Thank _you_ for asking me." "Oh, I'm--I'm really delighted. It's most kind of _you_. _Good_-bye, Miss Nevers." "_Good_-bye, Mr. Desboro." He had to go that time; and he went still retaining a confused vision of blue eyes and vivid lips, and of a single lock of hair astray once more across a smooth, white cheek. When he had gone, Jacqueline seated herself at her desk and picked up her pen. She remained so for a while, then emerged abruptly from a fit of abstraction and sorted some papers unnecessarily. When she had arranged them to her fancy, she rearranged them. Then the little Louis XVI desk interested her, and she examined the inset placques of flowered Sèvres in detail, as though the little desk of tulip, satinwood and walnut had not stood there since she was a child. Later she noticed his card on her blotter; and, face framed in her hands, she studied it so long that the card became a glimmering white patch and vanished; and before her remote gaze his phantom grew out of space, seated there in the empty chair beside her--the loosened collar of his raincoat revealing to her the most attractive face of any man she had ever looked upon in her twenty-two years of life. Toward evening the electric lamps were lighted in the shop; rain fell more heavily outside; few people entered. She was busy with ledgers and files of old catalogues recording auction sales, the name of the purchaser and the prices pencilled on the margins in her father's curious handwriting. Also her card index aided her. Under the head of "Desboro" she was able to note what objects of interest or of art her father had bought for her recent visitor's grandfather, and the prices paid--little, indeed, in those days, compared with what the same objects would now bring. And, continuing her search, she finally came upon an uncompleted catalogue of the Desboro collection. It was in manuscript--her father's peculiar French chirography--neat and accurate as far as it went. Everything bearing upon the Desboro collection she bundled together and strapped with rubber bands; then, one by one, the clerks and salesmen came to report to her before closing up. She locked the safe, shut her desk, and went out to the shop, where she remained until the shutters were clamped and the last salesman had bade her a cheery good night. Then, bolting the door and double-locking it, she went back along the passage and up the stairs, where she had the two upper floors to herself, and a cook and chambermaid to keep house for her. In the gaslight of the upper apartment she seemed even more slender than by daylight--her eyes bluer, her lips more scarlet. She glanced into the mirror of her dresser as she passed, pausing to twist up the unruly lock that had defied her since childhood. Everywhere in the room Christmas was still in evidence--a tiny tree, with frivolous, glittering things still twisted and suspended among the branches, calendars, sachets, handkerchiefs still gaily tied in ribbons, flowering shrubs swathed in tissue and bows of tulle--these from her salesmen, and she had carefully but pleasantly maintained the line of demarcation by presenting each with a gold piece. But there were other gifts--gloves and stockings, and bon-bons, and books, from the friends who were girls when she too was a child at school; and a set of volumes from Cary Clydesdale whose collection of jades she was cataloguing. The volumes were very beautiful and expensive. The gift had surprised her. Among her childhood friends was her social niche; the circumference of their circle the limits of her social environment. They came to her and she went to them; their pastimes and pleasures were hers; and if there was not, perhaps, among them her intellectual equal, she had not yet felt the need of such companionship, but had been satisfied to have them hold her as a good companion who otherwise possessed much strange and perhaps useless knowledge quite beyond their compass. And she was shyly content with her intellectual isolation. So, amid these people, she had found a place prepared for her when she emerged from childhood. What lay outside of this circle she surmised with the intermittent curiosity of ignorance, or of a bystander who watches a pageant for a moment and hastens on, preoccupied with matters more familiar. All young girls think of pleasures; she had thought of them always when the day's task was ended, and she had sought them with all the ardour of youth, with a desire unwearied, and a thirst unquenched. In her, mental and physical pleasure were wholesomely balanced; the keen delight of intellectual experience, the happiness of research and attainment, went hand in hand with a rather fastidious appetite for having the best time that circumstances permitted. She danced when she had a chance, went to theatres and restaurants with her friends, bathed at Manhattan in summer, when gay parties were organised, and did the thousand innocent things that thousands of young business girls do whose lines are cast in the metropolis. Since her father's death she had been intensely lonely; only a desperate and steady application to business had pulled her through the first year without a breakdown. The second year she rejoined her friends and went about again with them. Now, the third year since her father's death was already dawning; and her last prayer as the old year died had been that the new one would bring her friends and happiness. Seated before the wood fire in her bedroom, leisurely undressing, she thought of Desboro and the business that concerned him. He was so very good looking--in the out-world manner--the manner of those who dwelt outside her orbit. She had not been very friendly with him at first. She had wanted to be; instinct counselled reserve, and she had listened--until the very last. He had a way of laughing at her in every word--in even an ordinary business conversation. She had been conscious all the while of his half-listless interest in her, of an idle curiosity, which, before it had grown offensive, had become friendly and at times almost boyish in its naïve self-disclosure. And it made her smile to remember how very long it took him to take his leave. But--a man of that kind--a man of the out-world--with the _something_ in his face that betrays shadows which she had never seen cast--and never would see--_he_ was no boy. For in his face was the faint imprint of that pallid wisdom which warned. Women in his own world might ignore the warning; perhaps it did not menace them. But instinct told her that it might be different outside that world. She nestled into her fire-warmed bath-robe and sat pensively fitting and refitting her bare feet into her slippers. Men were odd; alike and unalike. Since her father's death, she had had to be careful. Wealthy gentlemen, old and young, amateurs of armour, ivories, porcelains, jewels, all clients of her father, had sometimes sent for her too many times on too many pretexts; and sometimes their paternal manner toward her had made her uncomfortable. Desboro was of that same caste. Perhaps he was not like them otherwise. * * * * * When she had bathed and dressed, she dined alone, not having any invitation for the evening. After dinner she talked on the telephone to her little friend, Cynthia Lessler, whose late father's business had been to set jewels and repair antique watches and clocks. Incidentally, he drank and chased his daughter about with a hatchet until she fled for good one evening, which afforded him an opportunity to drink himself very comfortably to death in six months. "Hello, Cynthia!" called Jacqueline, softly. "Hello! Is it you, Jacqueline, dear?" "Yes. Don't you want to come over and eat chocolates and gossip?" "Can't do it. I'm just starting for the hall." "I thought you'd finished rehearsing." "I've got to be on hand all the same. How are you, sweetness, anyway?" "Blooming, my dear. I'm crazy to tell you about my good luck. I have a splendid commission with which to begin the new year." "Good for you! What is it?" "I can't tell you yet"--laughingly--"it's confidential business----" "Oh, I know. Some old, fat man wants you to catalogue his collection." "No! He isn't fat, either. You _are_ the limit, Cynthia!" "All the same, look out for him," retorted Cynthia. "_I_ know man and his kind. Office experience is a liberal education; the theatre a post-graduate course. Are you coming to the dance to-morrow night?" "Yes. I suppose the usual people will be there?" "Some new ones. There's an awfully good-looking newspaper man from Yonkers. He has a car in town, too." Something--some new and unaccustomed impatience--she did not understand exactly what--prompted Jacqueline to say scornfully: "His name is Eddie, isn't it?" "No. Why do you ask?" A sudden vision of Desboro, laughing at her under every word of an unsmiling and commonplace conversation, annoyed her. "Oh, Cynthia, dear, every good-looking man we meet is usually named Ed and comes from places like Yonkers." Cynthia, slightly perplexed, said slangily that she didn't "get" her; and Jacqueline admitted that she herself didn't know what she had meant. They gossiped for a while, then Cynthia ended: "I'll see you to-morrow night, won't I? And listen, you little white mouse, I get what you mean by 'Eddie'." "Do you?" "Yes. Shall I see you at the dance?" "Yes, and 'Eddie,' too. Good-bye." Jacqueline laughed again, then shivered slightly and hung up the receiver. Back before her bedroom fire once more, Grenville's volume on ancient armour across her knees, she turned the illuminated pages absently, and gazed into the flames. What she saw among them apparently did not amuse her, for after a while she frowned, shrugged her shoulders, and resumed her reading. But the XV century knights, in their gilded or silvered harness, had Desboro's lithe figure, and the lifted vizors of their helmets always disclosed his face. Shields emblazoned with quarterings, plumed armets, the golden morions, banner, pennon, embroidered surtout, and the brilliant trappings of battle horse and palfry, became only a confused blur of colour under her eyes, framing a face that looked back at her out of youthful eyes, marred by the shadow of a wisdom she knew about--alas--but did not know. * * * * * The man of whom she was thinking had walked back to the club through a driving rain, still under the fascination of the interview, still excited by its novelty and by her unusual beauty. He could not quite account for his exhilaration either, because, in New York, beauty is anything but unusual among the hundreds of thousands of young women who work for a living--for that is one of the seven wonders of the city--and it is the rule rather than the exception that, in this new race which is evolving itself out of an unknown amalgam, there is scarcely a young face in which some trace of it is not apparent at a glance. Which is why, perhaps, he regarded his present exhilaration humorously, or meant to; perhaps why he chose to think of her as "Stray Lock," instead of Miss Nevers, and why he repeated confidently to himself: "She's thin as a Virgin by the 'Master of the Death of Mary'." And yet that haunting expression of her face--the sweetness of the lips upcurled at the corners--the surprising and lovely revelation of her laughter--these impressions persisted as he swung on through the rain, through the hurrying throngs just released from shops and great department stores, and onward up the wet and glimmering avenue to his destination, which was the Olympian Club. In the cloak room there were men he knew, being divested of wet hats and coats; in reading room, card room, lounge, billiard hall, squash court, and gymnasium, men greeted him with that friendly punctiliousness which indicates popularity; from the splashed edge of the great swimming pool men hailed him; clerks and club servants saluted him smilingly as he sauntered about through the place, still driven into motion by an inexplicable and unaccustomed restlessness. Cairns discovered him coming out of the billiard room: "Have a snifter?" he suggested affably. "I'll find Ledyard and play you 'nigger' or 'rabbit' afterward, if you like." Desboro laid a hand on his friend's shoulder: "Jack, I've a business engagement at Silverwood to-morrow, and I believe I'd better go home to-night." "Heavens! You've just been there! And what about the shooting trip?" "I can join you day after to-morrow." "Oh, come, Jim, are you going to spoil our card quartette on the train? Reggie Ledyard will kill you." "He might, at that," said Desboro pleasantly. "But I've got to be at Silverwood to-morrow. It's a matter of business, Jack." "_You_ and business! Lord! The amazing alliance! What are you going to do--sell a few superannuated Westchester hens at auction? By heck! You're a fake farmer and a pitiable piker, that's what _you_ are. And Stuyve Van Alstyne had a wire to-night that the ducks and geese are coming in to the guns by millions----" "Go ahead and shoot 'em, then! I'll probably be along in time to pick up the game for you." "You won't go with us?" "Not to-morrow. A man can't neglect his own business _every_ day in the year." "Then you won't be in Baltimore for the Assembly, and you won't go to Georgia, and you won't do a thing that you expected to. Oh, you're the gay, quick-change artist! And don't tell me it's business, either," he added suspiciously. "I _do_ tell you exactly that." "You mean to say that nothing except sheer, dry business keeps you here?" The colour slowly settled under Desboro's cheek bones: "It's a matter with enough serious business in it to keep me busy to-morrow----" "Selecting pearls? In which show and which row does she cavort, dear friend--speaking in an exquisitely colloquial metaphor!" Desboro shrugged: "I'll play you a dozen games of rabbit before we dress for dinner. Come on, you suspicious sport!" "Which show?" repeated Cairns obstinately. He did not mean it literally, footlight affairs being unfashionable. But Desboro's easy popularity with women originated continual gossip, friendly and otherwise; and his name was often connected harmlessly with that of some attractive woman in his own class--like Mrs. Clydesdale, for instance--and sometimes with some pretty unknown in some class not specified. But the surmise was idle, and the gossip vague, and neither the one nor the other disturbed Desboro, who continued to saunter through life keeping his personal affairs pleasantly to himself. He linked his arm in Cairns's and guided him toward the billiard room. But there were no tables vacant for rabbit, which absurd game, being hard on the cloth, was limited to two decrepit pool tables. So Cairns again suggested his celebrated "snifter," and then the young men separated, Desboro to go across the street to his elaborate rooms and dress, already a little less interested in his business trip to Silverwood, already regretting the gay party bound South for two weeks of pleasure. And when he had emerged from a cold shower which, with the exception of sleep, is the wisest counsellor in the world, now that he stood in fresh linen and evening dress on the threshold of another night, he began to wonder at his late exhilaration. To him the approach of every night was always fraught with mysterious possibilities, and with a belief in Chance forever new. Adventure dawned with the electric lights; opportunity awoke with the evening whistles warning all labourers to rest. Opportunity for what? He did not know; he had not even surmised; but perhaps it was that _something_, that subtle, evanescent, volatile _something_ for which the world itself waits instinctively, and has been waiting since the first day dawned. Maybe it is happiness for which the world has waited with patient instinct uneradicated; maybe it is death; and after all, the two may be inseparable. * * * * * Desboro, looking into the coals of a dying fire, heard the clock striking the hour. The night was before him--those strange hours in which anything could happen before another sun gilded the sky pinnacles of the earth. Another hour sounded and found him listless, absent-eyed, still gazing into a dying fire. CHAPTER III At eleven o'clock the next morning Miss Nevers had not arrived at Silverwood. It was still raining hard, the brown Westchester fields, the leafless trees, hedges, paths, roads, were soaked; pools stood in hollows with the dead grass awash; ditches brimmed, river and brook ran amber riot, and alder swamps widened into lakes. The chances were now that she would not come at all. Desboro had met both morning trains, but she was not visible, and all the passengers had departed leaving him wandering alone along the dripping platform. For a while he stood moodily on the village bridge beyond, listening to the noisy racket of the swollen brook; and after a little it occurred to him that there was laughter in the noises of the water, like the mirth of the gods mocking him. "Laugh on, high ones!" he said. "I begin to believe myself the ass that I appear to you." Presently he wandered back to the station platform, where he idled about, playing with a stray and nondescript dog or two, and caressing the station-master's cat; then, when he had about decided to get into his car and go home, it suddenly occurred to him that he might telephone to New York for information. And he did so, and learned that Miss Nevers had departed that morning on business, for a destination unknown, and would not return before evening. Also, the station-master informed him that the morning express now deposited passengers at Silverwood Station, on request--an innovation of which he had not before heard; and this put him into excellent spirits. "Aha!" he said to himself, considerably elated. "Perhaps I'm not such an ass as I appear. Let the high gods laugh!" So he lighted a cigarette, played with the wastrel dogs some more, flattered the cat till she nearly rubbed her head off against his legs, took a small and solemn child onto his knee and presented it with a silver dollar, while its overburdened German mother publicly nourished another. "You are really a remarkable child," he gravely assured the infant on his knee. "You possess a most extraordinary mind!"--the child not having uttered a word or betrayed a vestige of human expression upon its slightly soiled features. Presently the near whistle of the Connecticut Express brought him to his feet. He lifted the astonishingly gifted infant and walked out; and when the express rolled past and stopped, he set it on the day-coach platform beside its stolid parent, and waved to it an impressive adieu. At the same moment, descending from the train, a tall young girl, in waterproofs, witnessed the proceedings, recognised Desboro, and smiled at the little ceremony taking place. "Yours?" she inquired, as, hat off, hand extended, he came forward to welcome her--and the next moment blushed at her impulsive informality. "Oh, all kids seem to be mine, somehow or other," he said. "I'm awfully glad you came. I was afraid you wouldn't." "Why?" "Because I didn't believe you really existed, for one thing. And then the weather----" "Do you suppose mere _weather_ could keep me from the Desboro collection? You have much to learn about me." "I'll begin lessons at once," he said gaily, "if you don't mind giving them. Do you?" She smiled non-committally, and looked around her at the departing vehicles. "We have a limousine waiting for us behind the station," he said. "It's five muddy miles." "I had been wondering all the way up in the train just how I was to get to Silverwood----" "You didn't suppose I'd leave you to find your way, did you?" "Business people don't expect limousines," she said, with an unmistakable accent that sounded priggish even to herself--so prim, indeed, that he laughed outright; and she finally laughed, too. "This is very jolly, isn't it?" he remarked, as they sped away through the rain. She conceded that it was. "It's going to be a most delightful day," he predicted. She thought it was likely to be a _busy_ day. "And delightful, too," he insisted politely. "Why particularly delightful, Mr. Desboro?" "I thought you were looking forward with keen pleasure to your work in the Desboro collection!" She caught a latent glimmer of mischief in his eye, and remained silent, not yet quite certain that she liked this constant running fire of words that always seemed to conceal a hint of laughter at her expense. Had they been longer acquainted, and on a different footing, she knew that whatever he said would have provoked a response in kind from her. But friendship is not usually born from a single business interview; nor is it born perfect, like a fairy ring, over night. And it was only last night, she made herself remember, that she first laid eyes on Desboro. Yet it seemed curious that whatever he said seemed to awaken in her its echo; and, though she knew it was an absurd idea, the idea persisted that she already began to understand this young man better than she had ever understood any other of his sex. He was talking now at random, idly but agreeably, about nothing in particular. She, muffled in the fur robe, looked out through the limousine windows into the rain, and saw brown fields set with pools in every furrow, and squares of winter wheat, intensely green. And now the silver birch woods, which had given the house its name, began to appear as outlying clumps across the hills; and in a few moments the car swung into a gateway under groves of solemnly-dripping Norway spruces, then up a wide avenue, lined with ranks of leafless, hardwood trees and thickets of laurel and rhododendron, and finally stopped before a house made of grayish-brown stone, in the rather inoffensive architecture of early eighteen hundred. Mrs. Quant, in best bib and tucker, received them in the hallway, having been instructed by Desboro concerning her attitude toward the expected guest. But when she became aware of the slender youth of the girl, she forgot her sniffs and misgivings, and she waddled, and bobbed, and curtsied, overflowing with a desire to fondle, and cherish, and instruct, which only fear of Desboro choked off. But as soon as Jacqueline had followed her to the room assigned, and had been divested of wet outer-clothing, and served with hot tea, Mrs. Quant became loquacious and confidential concerning her own personal ailments and sorrows, and the history and misfortunes of the Desboro family. Jacqueline wished to decline the cup of tea, but Mrs. Quant insisted; and the girl yielded. "Air you sure you feel well, Miss Nevers?" she asked anxiously. "Why, of course." "Don't be _too_ sure," said Mrs. Quant ominously. "Sometimes them that feels bestest is sickest. I've seen a sight of sickness in my day, dearie--typod, mostly. You ain't never had typod, now, hev you?" "Typhoid?" "Yes'm, typod!" "No, I never did." "Then you take an old woman's advice, Miss Nevers, and don't you go and git it!" Jacqueline promised gravely; but Mrs. Quant was now fairly launched on her favourite topic. "I've been forty-two years in this place--and Quant--my man--he was head farmer here when he was took. Typod, it was, dearie--and you won't never git it if you'll listen to me--and Quant, a man that never quarreled with his vittles, but he was for going off without 'em that morning. Sez he, 'Cassie, I don't feel good this mornin'!'--and a piece of pie and a pork chop layin' there onto his plate. 'My vittles don't set right,' sez he; 'I ain't a mite peckish.' Sez I, 'Quant, you lay right down, and don't you stir a inch! You've gone and got a mild form of typod,' sez I, knowing about sickness as I allus had a gift, my father bein' a natural bone-setter. And those was my very words, dearie, 'a mild form of typod.' And I was right and he was took. And when folks ain't well, it's mostly that they've got a mild form of typod which some call malairy----" There was no stopping her; Jacqueline tasted her hot tea and listened sympathetically to that woman of many sorrows. And, sipping her tea, she was obliged to assist at the obsequies of Quant, the nativity of young Desboro, the dissolution of his grandparents and parents, and many, many minor details, such as the freezing of water-pipes in 1907, the menace of the chestnut blight, mysterious maladies which had affected cattle and chickens on the farm--every variety of death, destruction, dissolution, and despondency that had been Mrs. Quant's portion to witness. And how she gloried in detailing her dismal career; and presently pessimistic prophecies for the future became plainer as her undammed eloquence flowed on: "And Mr. James, _he_ ain't well, neither," she said in a hoarse whisper. "He don't know it, and he won't listen to _me_, dearie, but I _know_ he's got a mild form of typod--he's that unwell the mornings when he's been out late in the city. Say what you're a mind to, typod is typod! And if you h'ain't got it you're likely to git it most any minute; but he won't swaller the teas and broths and suffusions I bring him, and he'll be took like everybody else one of these days, dearie--which he wouldn't if he'd listen to me----" "Mrs. Quant," came Desboro's voice from the landing. "Y--yes, sir," stammered that guilty and agitated Cassandra. Jacqueline set aside her teacup and came to the stairs; their glances met in the suppressed amusement of mutual comprehension, and he conducted her to the hallway below, where a big log fire was blazing. "What was it--death, destruction, and general woe, as usual?" he asked. "And typod," she whispered. "It appears that _you_ have it!" "Poor old soul! She means all right; but imagine me here with her all day, dodging infusions and broths and red flannel! Warm your hands at the blaze, Miss Nevers, and I'll find the armoury keys. It will be a little colder in there." She spread her hands to the flames, conscious of his subtle change of manner toward her, now that she was actually under his roof--and liked him for it--not in the least surprised that she was comprehending still another phase of this young man's most interesting personality. For, without reasoning, her slight misgivings concerning him were vanishing; instinct told her she might even permit herself a friendlier manner, and she looked up smilingly when he came back swinging a bunch of keys. "These belong to the Quant," he explained, "--honest old soul! Every gem and ivory and lump of jade in the collection is at her mercy, for here are the keys to every case. Now, Miss Nevers, what do you require? Pencil and pad?" "I have my note-book, thanks--a new one in your honour." He said he was flattered and led the way through a wide corridor to the eastern wing; unlocked a pair of massive doors, and swung them wide. And, beside him, she walked into the armoury of the famous Desboro collection. Straight ahead of her, paved with black marble, lay a lane through a double rank of armed and mounted men in complete armour; and she could scarcely suppress a little cry of surprise and admiration. "This is magnificent!" she exclaimed; and he saw her cheeks brighten, and her breath coming faster. "It _is_ fine," he said soberly. "It is, indeed, Mr. Desboro! That is a noble array of armour. I feel like some legendary princess of long ago, passing her chivalry in review as I move between these double ranks. What a _wonderful_ collection! All Spanish and Milanese mail, isn't it? Your grandfather specialised?" "I believe he did. I don't know very much about the collection, technically." "Don't you care for it?" "Why, yes--more, perhaps, than I realised--now that you are actually here to take it away." "But I'm not going to put it into a magic pocket and flee to New York with it!" She spoke gaily, and his face, which had become a little grave, relaxed into its habitual expression of careless good humour. They had slowly traversed the long lane, and now, turning, came back through groups of men-at-arms, pikemen, billmen, arquebussiers, crossbowmen, archers, halbardiers, slingers--all the multitudinous arms of a polyglot service, each apparently equipped with his proper weapon and properly accoutred for trouble. Once or twice she glanced at the trophies aloft on the walls, every group bunched behind its shield and radiating from it under the drooping remnants of banners emblazoned with arms, crests, insignia, devices, and quarterings long since forgotten, except by such people as herself. [Illustration: "Now and then she ... halted on tip-toe to lift some slitted visor"] She moved gracefully, leisurely, pausing now and then before some panoplied manikin, Desboro sauntering beside her. Now and then she stopped to inspect an ancient piece of ordnance, wonderfully wrought and chased, now and then halted on tip-toe to lift some slitted visor and peer into the dusky cavern of the helmet, where a painted face stared back at her out of painted eyes. "Who scours all this mail?" she asked. "Our old armourer. My grandfather trained him. But he's very old and rheumatic now, and I don't let him exert himself. I think he sleeps all winter, like a woodchuck, and fishes all summer." "You ought to have another armourer." "I can't turn Michael out to starve, can I?" She swung around swiftly: "I didn't mean _that_!" and saw he was laughing at her. "I know you didn't," he said. "But I can't afford two armourers. That's the reason I'm disposing of these tin-clothed tenants of mine--to economise and cut expenses." She moved on, evidently desiring to obtain a general impression of the task before her, now and then examining the glass-encased labels at the feet of the figures, and occasionally shaking her head. Already the errant lock curled across her cheek. "What's the trouble?" he inquired. "Aren't these gentlemen correctly ticketed?" "Some are not. That suit of gilded mail is not Spanish; it's German. It is not very difficult to make such a mistake sometimes." Steam heat had been put in, but the vast hall was chilly except close to the long ranks of oxidised pipes lining the walls. They stood a moment, leaning against them and looking out across the place, all glittering with the mail-clad figures. "I've easily three weeks' work before me among these mounted figures alone, to say nothing of the men on foot and the trophies and artillery," she said. "Do you know it is going to be rather expensive for you, Mr. Desboro?" This did not appear to disturb him. "Because," she went on, "a great many mistakes have been made in labelling, and some mistakes in assembling the complete suits of mail and in assigning weapons. For example, that mounted man in front of you is wearing tilting armour and a helmet that doesn't belong to it. That's a childish mistake." "We'll put the proper lid on _him_," said Desboro. "Show it to me and I'll put it all over him now." "It's up there aloft with the trophies, I think--the fifth group." "There's a ladder on wheels for a closer view of the weapons. Shall I trundle it in?" He went out into the hallway and presently came back pushing a clanking extension ladder with a railed top to it. Then he affixed the crank and began to grind until it rose to the desired height. "All I ask of you is not to tumble off it," he said. "Do you promise?" She promised with mock seriousness: "Because I need _all_ my brains, you see." "You've a lot of 'em, haven't you, Miss Nevers?" "No, not many." He shrugged: "I wonder, then, what a quantitative analysis of _mine_ might produce." She said: "You are as clever as you take the trouble to be--" and stopped herself short, unwilling to drift into personalities. "It's the interest that is lacking in me," he said, "--or perhaps the incentive." She made no comment. "Don't you think so?" "I don't know." "--And don't care," he added. She flushed, half turned in protest, but remained silent. "I beg your pardon," he said, "I didn't mean to force your interest in myself. Tell me, is there anything I can do for your comfort before I go? And shall I go and leave you to abstruse and intellectual meditation, or do I disturb you by tagging about at your heels?" His easy, light tone relieved her. She looked around her at the armed figures: "You don't disturb me. I was trying to think where to begin. To-morrow I'll bring up some reference books----" "Perhaps you can find what you want in my grandfather's library. I'll show you where it is when you are ready." "I wonder if he has Grenville's monograph on Spanish and Milanese mail?" "I'll see." He went away and remained for ten minutes. She was minutely examining the sword belonging to a rather battered suit of armour when he returned with the book. "You see," she said, "you _are_ useful. I did well to suggest that you remain here. Now, look, Mr. Desboro. This is German armour, and here is a Spanish sword of a different century along with it! That's all wrong, you know. Antonius was the sword-maker; here is his name on the hexagonal, gilded iron hilt--'_Antonius Me Fecit_'." "You'll put that all right," he said confidently. "Won't you?" "That's why you asked me here, isn't it?" He may have been on the point of an indiscreet rejoinder, for he closed his lips suddenly and began to examine another sword. It belonged to the only female equestrian figure in the collection--a beautifully shaped suit of woman's armour, astride a painted war-horse, the cuirass of Milan plates. "The Countess of Oroposa," he said. "It was her peculiar privilege, after the Count's death, to ride in full armour and carry a naked sword across her knees when the Spanish Court made a solemn entry into cities. Which will be about all from me," he added with a laugh. "Are you ready for luncheon?" "Quite, thank you. But you _said_ that you didn't know much about this collection. Let me see that sword, please." [Illustration: "She took it ... then read aloud the device in verse"] He drew it from its scabbard and presented the hilt. She took it, studied it, then read aloud the device in verse: "'Paz Comigo Nunca Veo Y Siempre Guera Dese.'" ("There is never peace with me; my desire is always war!") Her clear young voice repeating the old sword's motto seemed to ring a little through the silence--as though it were the clean-cut voice of the blade itself. "What a fine motto," he said guilelessly. "And you interpret it as though it were your own." "I like the sound of it. There is no compromise in it." "Why not assume it for your own? 'There is never peace with me; my desire is always war!' Why not adopt it?" "Do you mean that such a militant motto suits me?" she asked, amused, and caught the half-laughing, half malicious glimmer in his eyes, and knew in an instant he had divined her attitude toward himself, and toward to her own self, too--war on them both, lest they succumb to the friendship that threatened. Silent, preoccupied, she went back with him through the armoury, through the hallway, into a rather commonplace dining-room, where a table had already been laid for two. Desboro jingled a small silver bell, and presently luncheon was announced. She ate with the healthy appetite of the young, and he pretended to. Several cats and dogs of unaristocratic degree came purring and wagging about the table, and he indulged them with an impartiality that interested her, playing no favourites, but allotting to each its portion, and serenely chastising the greedy. "What wonderful impartiality!" she ventured. "I couldn't do it; I'd be sure to prefer one of them." "Why entertain preference for anything or anybody?" "That's nonsense." "No; it's sense. Because, if anything happens to one, there are the others to console you. It's pleasanter to like impartially." She was occupied with her fruit cup; presently she glanced up at him: "Is that your policy?" "Isn't it a safe one?" "Yes. Is it yours?" "Wisdom suggests it to me--has always urged it. I'm not sure that it always works. For example, I prefer champagne to milk, but I try not to." "You always contrive to twist sense into nonsense." "You don't mind, do you?" "No; but don't you ever take anything seriously?" "Myself." "I'm afraid you don't." "Indeed, I do! See how my financial mishaps sent me flying to you for help!" She said: "You don't even take seriously what you call your financial mishaps." "But I take the remedy for them most reverently and most thankfully." "The remedy?" "You." A slight colour stained her cheeks; for she did not see just how to avoid the footing they had almost reached--the understanding which, somehow, had been impending from the moment they met. Intuition had warned her against it. And now here it was. How could she have avoided it, when it was perfectly evident from the first that he found her interesting--that his voice and intonation and bearing were always subtly offering friendship, no matter what he said to her, whether in jest or earnest, in light-hearted idleness or in all the decorum of the perfunctory and commonplace. To have made more out of it than was in it would have been no sillier than to priggishly discountenance his harmless good humour. To be prim would have been ridiculous. Besides, everything innocent in her found an instinctive pleasure, even in her own misgivings concerning this man and the unsettled problem of her personal relations with him--unsolved with her, at least; but he appeared to have settled it for himself. As they walked back to the armoury together, she was trying to think it out; and she concluded that she might dare be toward him as unconcernedly friendly as he would ever think of being toward her. And it gave her a little thrill of pride to feel that she was equipped to carry through her part in a light, gay, ephemeral friendship with one belonging to a world about which she knew nothing at all. That ought to be her attitude--friendly, spirited, pretending to a _savoir faire_ only surmised by her own good taste--lest he find her stupid and narrow, ignorant and dull. And it occurred to her very forcibly that she would not like that. So--let him admire her. His motives, perhaps, were as innocent as hers. Let him say the unexpected and disconcerting things it amused him to say. She knew well enough how to parry them, once her mind was made up not to entirely ignore them; and that would be much better. That, no doubt, was the manner in which women of his own world met the easy badinage of men; and she determined to let him discover that she was interesting if she chose to be. She had produced her note-book and pencil when they entered the armoury. He carried Grenville's celebrated monograph, and she consulted it from time to time, bending her dainty head beside his shoulder, and turning the pages of the volume with a smooth and narrow hand that fascinated him. From time to time, too, she made entries in her note-book, such as: "Armet, Spanish, late XV century. Tilting harness probably made by Helmschmid; espaliers, manteau d'armes, coude, left cuisse and colleret missing. War armour, Milanese, XIV century; probably made by the Negrolis; rere-brace, gorget, rondel missing; sword made probably by Martinez, Toledo. Armour made in Germany, middle of XVI century, probably designed by Diego de Arroyo; cuisses laminated." They stopped before a horseman, clad from head to spurs in superb mail. On a ground of blackened steel the pieces were embossed with gold grotesqueries; the cuirass was formed by overlapping horizontal plates, the three upper ones composing a gorget of solid gold. Nymphs, satyrs, gods, goddesses and cupids in exquisite design and composition framed the "lorica"; cuisses and tassettes carried out the lorica pattern; coudes, arm-guards, and genouillères were dolphin masks, gilded. "Parade armour," she said under her breath, "not war armour, as it has been labelled. It is armour de luxe, and probably royal, too. Do you see the collar of the Golden Fleece on the gorget? And there hangs the fleece itself, borne by two cupids as a canopy for Venus rising from the sea. That is probably Sigman's XVI century work. Is it not royally magnificent!" "Lord! What a lot of lore you seem to have acquired!" he said. "But I was trained to this profession by the ablest teacher in America--" her voice fell charmingly, "--by my father. Do you wonder that I know a little about it?" They moved on in silence to where a man-at-arms stood leaning both clasped hands over the gilded pommel of a sword. She said quickly: "That sword belongs to parade armour! How stupid to give it to this pikeman! Don't you see? The blade is diamond sectioned; Horn of Solingen's mark is on the ricasse. And, oh, what a wonderful hilt! It is a miracle!" The hilt was really a miracle; carved in gold relief, Italian renaissance style, the guard centre was decorated with black arabesques on a gold ground; quillons curved down, ending in cupid's heads of exquisite beauty. The guard was engraved with a cartouche enclosing the Three Graces; and from it sprang a beautiful counter-guard formed out of two lovely Caryatids united. The grip was made of heliotrope amethyst inset with gold; the pommel constructed by two volutes which encompassed a tiny naked nymph with emeralds for her eyes. "What a masterpiece!" she breathed. "It can be matched only in the Royal Armoury of Madrid." "Have you been abroad, Miss Nevers?" "Yes, several times with my father. It was part of my education in business." He said: "Yours is a French name?" "Father was French." "He must have been a very cultivated man." "Self-cultivated." "Perhaps," he said, "there once was a _de_ written before 'Nevers.'" She laughed: "No. Father's family were always bourgeois shopkeepers--as I am." He looked at the dainty girl beside him, with her features and slender limbs and bearing of an aristocrat. "Too bad," he said, pretending disillusion. "I expected you'd tell me how your ancestors died on the scaffold, remarking in laudable chorus, '_Vive le Roi!_'" She laughed and sparkled deliciously: "Alas, no, monsieur. But, _ma foi!_ Some among them may have worked the guillotine for Sanson or drummed for Santerre. "You seem to me to symbolise all the grace and charm that perished on the Place de Grève." She laughed: "Look again, and see if it is not their Nemesis I more closely resemble." And as she said it so gaily, an odd idea struck him that she _did_ embody something less obvious, something more vital, than the symbol of an aristocratic régime perishing en masse against the blood-red sky of Paris. He did not know what it was about her that seemed to symbolise all that is forever young and fresh and imperishable. Perhaps it was only the evolution of the real world he saw in her opening into blossom and disclosing such as she to justify the darkness and woe of the long travail. She had left him standing alone with Grenville's book open in his hands, and was now examining a figure wearing a coat of fine steel mail, with a black corselet protecting back and breast decorated with _horizontal_ bands. "Do you notice the difference?" she asked. "In German armour the bands are vertical. This is Milanese, and I think the Negrolis made it. See how exquisitely the morion is decorated with these lions' heads in gold for cheek pieces, and these bands of gold damascene over the skull-piece, that meet to form Minerva's face above the brow! I'm sure it's the Negrolis work. Wait! Ah, here is the inscription! 'P. Iacobi et Fratr Negroli Faciebant MDXXXIX.' Bring me Grenville's book, please." She took it, ran over the pages rapidly, found what she wanted, and then stepped forward and laid her white hand on the shoulder of another grim, mailed figure. "This is foot-armour," she said, "and does not belong with that morion. It's neither Milanese nor yet of Augsburg make; it's Italian, but who made it I don't know. You see it's a superb combination of parade armour and war mail, with all the gorgeous design of the former and the smoothness and toughness of the latter. Really, Mr. Desboro, this investigation is becoming exciting. I never before saw such a suit of foot-armour." "Perhaps it belonged to the catcher of some ancient baseball club," he suggested. She turned, laughing, but exasperated: "I'm not going to let you remain near me," she said. "You annihilate every atom of romance; you are an anachronism here, anyway." "I know it; but you fit in delightfully with tournaments and pageants and things----" "Go up on that ladder and sit!" resolutely pointing. He went. Perched aloft, he lighted a cigarette and surveyed the prospect. "Mark Twain killed all this sort of thing for me," he observed. She said indignantly: "It's the only thing I never have forgiven him." "He told the truth." "I know it--I know it. But, oh, how could he write what he did about King Arthur's Court! And what is the use of truth, anyway, unless it leaves us ennobling illusions?" Ennobling illusions! She did not know it; but except for them she never would have existed, nor others like her that are yet to come in myriads. Desboro waved his cigarette gracefully and declaimed: "The knights are dust, Their good swords bust; Their souls are up the spout we trust--" "Mr. Desboro!" "Mademoiselle?" "That silly parody on a noble verse is not humorous." "Truth seldom is. The men who wore those suits of mail were everything that nobody now admires--brutal, selfish, ruthless----" "Mr. Desboro!" "Mademoiselle?" "Are there not a number of such gentlemen still existing on earth?" "New York's full of them," he admitted cheerfully, "but they conceal what they really are on account of the police." "Is that all that five hundred years has taught men--concealment?" "Yes, and five thousand," he muttered; but said aloud: "It hasn't anything to do with admiring the iron hats and clothes they wore. If you'll let me come down I'll admire 'em----" "No." "I want to carry your book for you." "No." "--And listen to everything you say about the vertical stripes on their Dutch trousers----" "Very well," she consented, laughing; "you may descend and examine these gold inlaid and checkered trousers. They were probably made for a fashionable dandy by Alonso Garcia, five hundred years ago; and you will observe that they are still beautifully creased." So they passed on, side by side, while she sketched out her preliminary work. And sometimes he was idly flippant and irresponsible, and sometimes she thrilled unexpectedly at his quick, warm response to some impulsive appeal that he share her admiration. Under the careless surface, she divined a sort of perverse intelligence; she was certain that what appealed to her he, also, understood when he chose to; because he understood so much--much that she had not even imagined--much of life, and of the world, and of the men and women in it. But, having lived a life so full, so different from her own, perhaps his interest was less easily aroused; perhaps it might be even a little fatigued by the endless pageant moving with him amid scenes of brightness and happiness which seemed to her as far away from herself and as unreal as scenes in the painted arras hanging on the walls. They had been speaking of operas in which armour, incorrectly designed and worn, was tolerated by public ignorance; and, thinking of the "horseshoe," where all that is wealthy, and intelligent, and wonderful, and aristocratic in New York is supposed to congregate, she had mentally placed him there among those elegant and distant young men who are to be seen sauntering from one gilded box to another, or, gracefully posed, decorating and further embellishing boxes already replete with jeweled and feminine beauty; or in the curtained depths, mysterious silhouettes motionless against the dull red glow. And, if those gold-encrusted boxes had been celestial balconies, full of blessed damosels leaning over heaven's edge, they would have seemed no farther away, no more accessible to her, than they seemed from where she sometimes sat or stood, all alone, to listen to Farrar and Caruso. * * * * * The light in the armoury was growing a little dim. She bent more closely over her note-book, the printed pages of Mr. Grenville, and the shimmering, inlaid, and embossed armour. "Shall we have tea?" he suggested. "Tea? Oh, thank you, Mr. Desboro; but when the light fails, I'll have to go." It was failing fast. She used the delicate tips of her fingers more often in examining engraved, inlaid, and embossed surfaces. "I never had electricity put into the armoury," he said. "I'm sorry now--for your sake." "I'm sorry, too. I could have worked until six." "There!" he said, laughing. "You have admitted it! What are you going to do for nearly two hours if you don't take tea? Your train doesn't leave until six. Did you propose to go to the station and sit there?" Her confused laughter was very sweet, and she admitted that she had nothing to do after the light failed except to fold her hands and wait for the train. "Then won't you have tea?" "I'd--rather not!" He said: "You could take it alone in your room if you liked--and rest a little. Mrs. Quant will call you." She looked up at him after a moment, and her cheeks were very pink and her eyes brilliant. "I'd rather take it with you, Mr. Desboro. Why shouldn't I say so?" No words came to him, and not much breath, so totally unexpected was her reply. Still looking at him, the faint smile fading into seriousness, she repeated: "Why shouldn't I say so? Is there any reason? You know better than I what a girl alone may do. And I really would like to have some tea--and have it with you." He didn't smile; he was too clever--perhaps too decent. "It's quite all right," he said. "We'll have it served in the library where there's a fine fire." So they slowly crossed the armoury and traversed the hallway, where she left him for a moment and ran up stairs to her room. When she rejoined him in the library, he noticed that the insurgent lock of hair had been deftly tucked in among its lustrous comrades; but the first shake of her head dislodged it again, and there it was, threatening him, as usual, from its soft, warm ambush against her cheek. "Can't you do anything with it?" he asked, sympathetically, as she seated herself and poured the tea. "Do anything with what?" "That lock of hair. It's loose again, and it will do murder some day." She laughed with scarcely a trace of confusion, and handed him his cup. "That's the first thing I noticed about you," he added. "That lock of hair? I can't do anything with it. Isn't it horribly messy?" "It's dangerous." "How absurd!" "Are you ever known as 'Stray Lock' among your intimates?" "I should think not," she said scornfully. "It sounds like a children's picture-book story." "But you look like one." "Mr. Desboro!" she protested. "Haven't you any common sense?" "You look," he said reflectively, "as though you came from the same bookshelf as 'Gold Locks,' 'The Robber Kitten,' and 'A Princess Far Away,' and all those immortal volumes of the 'days that are no more.' Would you mind if I label you 'Stray Lock,' and put you on the shelf among the other immortals?" Her frank laughter rang out sweetly: "I very _much_ object to being labeled and shelved--particularly shelved." "I'll promise to read you every day----" "No, thank you!" "I'll promise to take you everywhere with me----" "In your pocket? No, thank you. I object to being either shelved or pocketed--to be consulted at pleasure--or when you're bored." They both had been laughing a good deal, and were slightly excited by their game of harmless _double entendre_. But now, perhaps it was becoming a trifle too obvious, and Jacqueline checked herself to glance back mentally and see how far she had gone along the path of friendship. She could not determine; for the path has many twists and turnings, and she had sped forward lightly and swiftly, and was still conscious of the exhilaration of the pace in his gay and irresponsible company. Her smile changed and died out; she leaned back in her leather chair, gazing absently at the fiery reflections crimsoning the andirons on the hearth, and hearing afar, on some distant roof, the steady downpour of the winter rain. Subtly the quiet and warmth of the room invaded her with a sense of content, not due, perhaps, to them alone. And dreamily conscious that this might be so, she lifted her eyes and looked across the table at him. "I wonder," she said, "if this _is_ all right?" "What?" "Our--situation--here." "Situations are what we make them." "But," she asked candidly, "could you call this a business situation?" He laughed unrestrainedly, and finally she ventured to smile, secretly reassured. [Illustration: "'Are business and friendship incompatible?'"] "Are business and friendship incompatible?" he inquired. "I don't know. Are they? I have to be careful in the shop, with younger customers and clerks. To treat them with more than pleasant civility would spoil them for business. My father taught me that. He served in the French Army." "Do you think," he said gravely, "that you are spoiling me for business purposes?" She smiled: "I was thinking--wondering whether you did not more accurately represent the corps of officers and I the line. I am only a temporary employee of yours, Mr. Desboro, and some day you may be angry at what I do and you may say, 'Tonnerre de Dieu!' to me--which I wouldn't like if we were friends, but which I'd otherwise endure." "We're friends already; what are you going to do about it?" She knew it was so now, for better or worse, and she looked at him shyly, a little troubled by what the end of this day had brought her. Silent, absent-eyed, she began to wonder what such men as he really thought of a girl of her sort. It could happen that his attitude toward her might become like that of the only men of his kind she had ever encountered--wealthy clients of her father, young and old, and all of them inclined to offer her attentions which instinct warned her to ignore. As for Desboro, even from the beginning she felt that his attitude toward her depended upon herself; and, warranted or not, this sense of security with him now, left her leisure to study him. And she concluded that probably he was like the other men of his class whom she had known--a receptive opportunist, inevitably her antagonist at heart, but not to be feared except under deliberate provocation from her. And that excuse he would never have. Aware of his admiration almost from the very first, perplexed, curious, uncertain, and disturbed by turns, she was finally convinced that the matter lay entirely with her; that she might accept a little, venture a little in safety; and, perfectly certain of herself, enjoy as much of what his friendship offered as her own clear wits and common sense permitted. For she had found, so far, no metal in any man unalloyed. Two years' experience alone with men had educated her; and whatever the alloy in Desboro might be that lowered his value, she thought it less objectionable than the similar amalgam out of which were fashioned the harmless youths in whose noisy company she danced, and dined, and bathed, and witnessed Broadway "shows"; the Eddies and Joes of the metropolis, replicas in mind and body of clothing advertisements in street cars. Her blue eyes, wandering from the ruddy andirons, were arrested by the clock. What had happened? Was the clock still going? She listened, and heard it ticking. "Is _that_ the right time?" she demanded incredulously. He said, so low she could scarcely hear him: "Yes, Stray Lock. Must I close the story book and lay it away until another day?" She rose, brushing the bright strand from her cheek; he stood up, pulled the tassel of an old-time bell rope, and, when the butler came, ordered the car. She went away to her room, where Mrs. Quant swathed her in rain garments and veils, and secretly pressed into her hand a bottle containing "a suffusion" warranted to discourage any insidious advances of typod. "A spoonful before meals, dearie," she whispered hoarsely; "and don't tell Mr. James--he'd be that disgusted with me for doin' of a Christian duty. I'll have some of my magic drops ready when you come to-morrow, and you can just lock the door and set and rock and enj'y them onto a lump of sugar." A little dismayed, but contriving to look serious, Jacqueline thanked her and fled. Desboro put her into the car and climbed in beside her. "You needn't, you know," she protested. "There are no highwaymen, are there?" "None more to be dreaded than myself." "Then why do you go to the station with me?" He did not answer. She presently settled into her corner, and he wrapped her in the fur robe. Neither spoke; the lamplight flashed ahead through the falling rain; all else was darkness--the widest world of darkness, it seemed to her fancy, that she ever looked out upon, for it seemed to leave this man and herself alone in the centre of things. Conscious of him beside her, she was curiously content not to look at him or to disturb the silence encompassing them. The sense of speed, the rush through obscurity, seemed part of it--part of a confused and pleasurable irresponsibility. Later, standing under the dripping eaves of the station platform with him, watching the approaching headlight of the distant locomotive, she said: "You have made it a very delightful day for me. I wanted to thank you." He was silent; the distant locomotive whistled, and the vista of wet rails began to glisten red in the swift approach. "I don't want you to go to town alone on that train," he said abruptly. "What?" in utter surprise. "Will you let me go with you, Miss Nevers?" "Nonsense! I wander about everywhere alone. Please don't spoil it all. Don't even go aboard to find a seat for me." The long train thundered by, brakes gripping, slowed, stopped. She sprang aboard, turned on the steps and offered her hand: "Good-bye, Mr. Desboro." "To-morrow?" he asked. "Yes." They exchanged no further words; she stood a moment on the platform, as the cars glided slowly past him and on into the rainy night. All the way to New York she remained motionless in the corner of the seat, her cheek resting against her gloved palm, thinking of what had happened--closing her blue eyes, sometimes, to bring it nearer and make more real a day of life already ended. CHAPTER IV When the doorbell rang the maid of all work pushed the button and stood waiting at the top of the stairs. There was a pause, a moment's whispering, then light footsteps flying through the corridor, and: "Where on earth have you been for a week?" asked Cynthia Lessler, coming into Jacqueline's little parlour, where the latter sat knitting a white wool skating jacket for herself. Jacqueline laid aside the knitting and greeted her visitor with a warm, quick embrace. "Oh, I've been everywhere," she said. "Out in Westchester, mostly. To-day being Sunday, I'm at home." "What were you doing in the country, sweetness?" "Business." "What kind?" "Oh, cataloguing a collection. Take the armchair and sit near the stove, dear. And here are the chocolates. Put your feet on the fender as I do. It was frightfully cold in Westchester yesterday--everything frozen solid--and we--I skated all over the flooded fields and swamps. It was simply glorious, Cynthia----" "I thought you were out there on business," remarked Cynthia dryly. "I was. I merely took an hour at noon for luncheon." "Did you?" "Certainly. Even a bricklayer has an hour at noon to himself." "Whose collection are you cataloguing?" "It belongs to a Mr. Desboro," said Jacqueline carelessly. "Where is it?" "In his house--a big, old house about five miles from the station----" "How do you get there?" "They send a car for me----" "Who?" "They--Mr. Desboro." "They? Is he plural?" "Don't be foolish," said Jacqueline. "It is his car and his collection, and I'm having a perfectly good time with both." "And with him, too? Yes?" "If you knew him you wouldn't talk that way." "I know who he is." "Do you?" said Jacqueline calmly. "Yes, I do. He's the 'Jim' Desboro whose name you see in the fashionable columns. I know something about _that_ young man," she added emphatically. Jacqueline looked up at her with dawning displeasure. Cynthia, undisturbed, bit into a chocolate and waved one pretty hand: "Read the _Tattler_, as I do, and you'll see what sort of a man your young man is." "I don't care to read such a----" "I do. It tells you funny things about society. Every week or two there's something about him. You can't exactly understand it--they put it in a funny way--but you can guess. Besides, he's always going around town with Reggie Ledyard, and Stuyve Van Alstyne, and--Jack Cairns----" "_Don't_ speak that way--as though you usually lunched with them. I hate it." "How do you know I don't lunch with some of them? Besides everybody calls them Reggie, and Stuyve, and Jack----" "Everybody except their mothers, probably. I don't want to hear about them, anyway." "Why not, darling?" "Because you and I don't know them and never will----" Cynthia said maliciously: "You may meet them through your friend, Jimmy Desboro----" "_That_ is the limit!" exclaimed Jacqueline, flushing; and her pretty companion leaned back in her armchair and laughed until Jacqueline's unwilling smile began to glimmer in her wrath-darkened eyes. "Don't torment me, Cynthia," she said. "You know quite well that it's a business matter with me entirely." "Was it a business matter with that Dawley man? You had to get me to go with you into that den of his whenever you went at all." Jacqueline shrugged and resumed her knitting: "What a horrid thing he was," she murmured. Cynthia assented philosophically: "But most men bother a girl sooner or later," she concluded. "You don't read about it in novels, but it's true. Go down town and take dictation for a living. It's an education in how to look out for yourself." "It's a rotten state of things," said Jacqueline under her breath. "Yes. It's funny, too. So many men _are_ that way. What do they care? Do you suppose we'd be that way, too, if we were men?" [Illustration: "'There are nice men, too'"] "No. There are nice men, too." "Yes--dead ones." "Nonsense!" "With very few exceptions, Jacqueline. There are horrid, _horrid_ ones, and _nice_, horrid ones, and dead ones and _dead_ ones--but only a few nice, _nice_ ones. I've known some. You think your Mr. Desboro is one, don't you?" "I haven't thought about him----" "Honestly, Jacqueline?" "I tell you I haven't! He's nice to _me_. That's all I know." "Is he _too_ nice?" "No. Besides, he's under his own roof. And it depends on a girl, anyway." "Not always. If we behave ourselves we're dead ones; if we don't we'd better be. Isn't it a rotten deal, Jacqueline! Just one fresh man after another dropped into the discards because he gets too gay. And being employed by the kind who'd never marry us spoils us for the others. _You_ could marry one of your clients, I suppose, but I never could in a million years." "You and I will never marry such men," said Jacqueline coolly. "Perhaps we wouldn't if they asked us." "_You_ might. You're educated and bright, and--you _look_ the part, with all the things you know--and your trips to Europe--and the kind of beauty yours is. Why not? If I were you," she added, "I'd kill a man who thought me good enough to hold hands with, but not good enough to marry." "I don't hold hands," observed Jacqueline scornfully. "I do. I've done it when it was all right; and I've done it when I had no business to; and the chances are I'll do it again without getting hurt. And then I'll finally marry the sort of man you call Ed," she added disgustedly. Jacqueline laughed, and looked intently at her: "You're _so_ pretty, Cynthia--and so silly sometimes." Cynthia stretched her young figure full length in the chair, yawning and crooking both arms back under her curly brown head. Her eyes, too, were brown, and had in them always a half-veiled languor that few men could encounter undisturbed. "A week ago," she said, "you told me over the telephone that you would be at the dance. _I_ never laid eyes on you." "I came home too tired. It was my first day at Silverwood. I overdid it, I suppose." "Silverwood?" "Where I go to business in Westchester," she explained patiently. "Oh, Mr. Desboro's place!" with laughing malice. "Yes, Mr. Desboro's place." The hint of latent impatience in Jacqueline's voice was not lost on Cynthia; and she resumed her tormenting inquisition: "How long is it going to take you to catalogue Mr. Desboro's collection?" "I have several weeks' work, I think--I don't know exactly." "All winter, perhaps?" "Possibly." "Is _he_ always there, darling?" Jacqueline was visibly annoyed: "He has happened to be, so far. I believe he is going South very soon--if that interests you." "'Phone me when he goes," retorted Cynthia, unbelievingly. "What makes you say such things!" exclaimed Jacqueline. "I tell you he isn't that kind of a man." "Read the _Tattler_, dearest!" "I won't." "Don't you ever read it?" "No. Why should I?" "Curiosity." "I haven't any." Cynthia laughed incredulously: "People who have no curiosity are either idiots or they have already found out. Now, you are not an idiot." Jacqueline smiled: "And I haven't found out, either." "Then you're just as full of curiosity as the rest of us." "Not of unworthy curiosity----" "I never knew a good person who wasn't. I'm good, am I not, Jacqueline?" "Of course." "Well, then, I'm full of all kinds of curiosities--worthy and unworthy. I want to know about everything!" "Everything good." "Good and bad. God lets both exist. I want to know about them." "Why be curious about what is bad? It doesn't concern us." "If you know what concerns you only, you'll never know anything. Now, when I read a newspaper I read about fashionable weddings, millionaires, shows, murders--I read everything--not because I'm going to be fashionably married, or become a millionaire or a murderer, but because all these things exist and happen, and I want to know all about them because I'm not an idiot, and I haven't already found out. And so that's why I buy the _Tattler_ whenever I have five cents to spend on it!" "It's a pity you're not more curious about things worth while," commented Jacqueline serenely. Cynthia reddened: "Dear, I haven't the education or brain to be interested in the things that occupy you." "I didn't mean that," protested Jacqueline, embarrassed. "I only----" "I know, dear. You are too sweet to say it; but it's true. The bunch you play with knows it. We all realise that you are way ahead of us--that you're different----" "Please don't say that--or think it." "But it's true. You really belong with the others--" she made a gay little gesture--"over there in the Fifth Avenue district, where art gets gay with fashion; where lady highbrows wear tiaras; where the Jims and Jacks and Reggies float about and hand each other new ones between quarts; where you belong, darling--wherever you finally land!" Jacqueline was laughing: "But I don't wish to land _there_! I never wanted to." "All girls do! We all dream about it!" "Here is one girl who really doesn't. Of course, I'd like to have a few friends of that kind. I'd rather like to visit houses where nobody has to think of money, and where young people are jolly, and educated, and dress well, and talk about interesting things----" "Dear, we all would like it. That's what I'm saying. Only there's a chance for you because you know something--but none for us. We understand that perfectly well--and we dream on all the same. We'd miss a lot if we didn't dream." Jacqueline said mockingly: "I'll invite you to my Fifth Avenue residence the minute I marry what you call a Reggie." "I'll come if you'll stand for me. I'm not afraid of any Reggie in the bench show!" They laughed; Cynthia stretched out a lazy hand for another chocolate; Jacqueline knitted, the smile still hovering on her scarlet lips. Bending over her work, she said: "You won't misunderstand when I tell you how much I enjoy being at Silverwood, and how nice Mr. Desboro has been." "_Has_ been." "Is, and surely will continue to be," insisted Jacqueline tranquilly. "Shall I tell you about Silverwood?" Cynthia nodded. "Well, then, Mr. Desboro has such a funny old housekeeper there, who gives me 'magic drops' on lumps of sugar. The drops are aromatic and harmless, so I take them to please her. And he has an old, old butler, who is too feeble to be very useful; and an old, old armourer, who comes once a week and potters about with a bit of chamois; and a parlour maid who is sixty and wears glasses; and a laundress still older. And a whole troop of dogs and cats come to luncheon with us. Sometimes the butler goes to sleep in the pantry, and Mr. Desboro and I sit and talk. And if he doesn't wake up, Mr. Desboro hunts about for somebody to wait on us. Of course there are other servants there, and farmers and gardeners, too. Mr. Desboro has a great deal of land. And so," she chattered on quite happily and irrelevantly, "we go skating for half an hour after lunch before I resume my cataloguing. He skates very well; we are learning to waltz on skates----" "Who does the teaching?" "He does. I don't skate very well; and unless it were for him I'd have _such_ tumbles! And once we went sleighing--that is, he drove me to the station--in rather a roundabout way. And the country was _so_ beautiful! And the stars--oh, millions and millions, Cynthia! It was as cold as the North Pole, but I loved it--and I had on his other fur coat and gloves. He is very nice to me. I wanted you to understand the sort of man he is." "Perhaps he is the original hundredth man," remarked Cynthia skeptically. "Most men are hundredth men when the nine and ninety girls behave themselves. It's the hundredth girl who makes the nine and ninety men horrid." "That's what you believe, is it?" "I do." "Dream on, dear." She went to a glass, pinned her pretty hat, slipped into the smart fur coat that Jacqueline held for her, and began to draw on her gloves. "Can't you stay to dinner," asked Jacqueline. "Thank you, sweetness, but I'm dining at the Beaux Arts." "With any people I know?" "You don't know that particular 'people'," said Cynthia, smiling, "but you know a friend of his." "Who?" "Mr. Desboro." "Really!" she said, colouring. Cynthia frowned at her: "Don't become sentimental over that young man!" "No, of course not." "Because I don't think he's very much good." "He _is_--but I _won't_," explained Jacqueline laughing. "I know quite well how to take care of myself." "Do you?" "Yes; don't you?" "I--don't--know." "Cynthia! Of course you know!" "Do I? Well, perhaps I do. Perhaps all girls know how to take care of themselves. But sometimes--especially when their home life is the limit----" She hesitated, slowly twisting a hairpin through the buttonhole of one glove. Then she buttoned it decisively. "When things got so bad at home two years ago, and I went with that show--you didn't see it--you were in mourning--but it ran on Broadway all winter. And I met one or two Reggies at suppers, and another man--the same sort--only his name happened to be Jack--and I want to tell you it was hard work not to like him." Jacqueline stood, slim and straight, and silent, listening unsmilingly. Cynthia went on leisurely: "He was a friend of Mr. Desboro--the same kind of man, I suppose. _That's_ why I read the _Tattler_--to see what they say about him." "Wh-what do they say?" "Oh, things--funny sorts of things, about his being attentive to this girl, and being seen frequently with that girl. I don't know what they mean exactly--they always make it sound queer--as though all the men and women in society are fast. And this man, too--perhaps he is." "But what do you care, dear?" "Nothing. It was hard work not to like him. You don't understand how it was; you've always lived at home. But home was hell for me; and I was getting fifteen per; and it grew horribly cold that winter. I had no fire. Besides--it was so hard not to like him. I used to come to see you. Do you remember how I used to come here and cry?" "I--I thought it was because you had been so unhappy at home." "Partly. The rest was--the other thing." "You _did_ like him, then!" "Not--too much." "I understand that. But it's over now, isn't it?" Cynthia stood idly turning her muff between her white-gloved hands. "Oh, yes," she said, after a moment, "it's over. But I'm thinking how nearly over it was with me, once or twice that winter. I thought I knew how to take care of myself. But a girl never knows, Jacqueline. Cold, hunger, debt, shabby clothes are bad enough; loneliness is worse. Yet, these are not enough, by themselves. But if we like a man, with all that to worry over--then it's pretty hard on us." "How _could_ you care for a bad man?" "Bad? Did I say he was? I meant he was like other men. A girl becomes accustomed to men." "And likes them, notwithstanding?" "Some of them. It depends. If you like a man you seem to like him anyhow. You may get angry, too, and still like him. There's so much of the child in them. I've learned that. They're bad; but when you like one of them, he seems to belong to you, somehow--badness and all. I must be going, dear." Still, neither moved; Cynthia idly twirled her muff; Jacqueline, her slender hands clasped behind her, stood gazing silently at the floor. Cynthia said: "That's the trouble with us all. I'm afraid you like this man, Desboro. I tell you that he isn't much good; but if you already like him, you'll go on liking him, no matter what I say or what he does. For it's that way with us, Jacqueline. And where in the world would men find a living soul to excuse them if it were not for us? That seems to be about all we're for--to forgive men what they are--and what they do." "_I_ don't forgive them," said Jacqueline fiercely; "--or women, either." "Oh, nobody forgives women! But you will find excuses for some man some day--if you like him. I guess even the best of them require it. But the general run of them have got to have excuses made for them, or no woman would stand for her own honeymoon, and marriages would last about a week. Good-bye, dear." They kissed. At the head of the stairs outside, Jacqueline kissed her again. "How is the play going?" she inquired. "Oh, it's going." "Is there any chance for you to get a better part?" "No chance I care to take. Max Schindler is like all the rest of them." Jacqueline's features betrayed her wonder and disgust, but she said nothing; and presently Cynthia turned and started down the stairs. "Good-night, dear," she called back, with a gay little flourish of her muff. "They're all alike--only we always forgive the one we care for!" CHAPTER V On Monday, Desboro waited all the morning for her, meeting every train. At noon, she had not arrived. Finally, he called up her office and was informed that Miss Nevers had been detained in town on business, and that their Mr. Kirk had telephoned him that morning to that effect. He asked to speak to Miss Nevers personally; she had gone out, it appeared, and might not return until the middle of the afternoon. So Desboro went home in his car and summoned Farris, the aged butler, who was pottering about in the greenhouses, which he much preferred to attending to his own business. "Did anybody telephone this morning?" asked the master. Farris had forgotten to mention it--was very sorry--and stood like an aged hound, head partly lowered and averted, already blinking under the awaited reprimand. But all Desboro said was: "Don't do it again, Farris; there are some things I won't overlook." He sat for a while in the library where a sheaf of her notes lay on the table beside a pile of books--Grenville, Vanderdyne, Herrara's splendid folios--just as she had left them on Saturday afternoon for the long, happy sleigh-ride that ended just in time for him to swing her aboard her train. He had plenty to do beside sitting there with keen, gray eyes fixed on the pile of manuscript she had left unfinished; he always had plenty to do, and seldom did it. His first impulse had been to go to town. Her absence was making the place irksome. He went to the long windows and stood there, hands in his pockets, smoking and looking out over the familiar landscape--a rolling country, white with snow, naked branches glittering with ice under the gilded blue of a cloudless sky, and to the north and west, low, wooded mountains--really nothing more than hills, but impressively steep and blue in the distance. A woodpecker, one of the few feathered winter residents, flickered through the trees, flashed past, and clung to an oak, sticking motionless to the bark for a minute or two, bright eyes inspecting Desboro, before beginning a rapid, jerky exploration for sustenance. The master of Silverwood watched him, then, hands driven deeper into his pockets, strolled away, glancing aimlessly at familiar objects--the stiff and rather picturesque portraits of his grandparents in the dress of 1820; the atrocious portraits of his parents in the awful costume of 1870; his own portrait, life size, mounted on a pony. He stood looking at the funny little boy, with the half contemptuous, half curious interest which a man in the pride of his strength and youth sometimes feels for the absurdly clothed innocence of what he was. And, as usual when noticing the picture, he made a slight, involuntary effort to comprehend that he had been once like that; and could not. At the end of the library, better portraits hung--his great-grandmother, by Gilbert Stuart, still fresh-coloured and clear under the dim yellow varnish which veiled but could not wither the delicate complexion and ardent mouth, and the pink rosebud set where the folds of her white kerchief crossed on her breast. And there was her husband, too, by an unknown or forgotten painter--the sturdy member of the Provincial Assembly, and major in Colonel Thomas's Westchester Regiment--a fine old fellow in his queue-ribbon and powdered hair standing in the conventional fortress port-hole, framed by it, and looking straight out of the picture with eyes so much like Desboro's that it amused people. His easy attitude, too, the idle grace of the posture, irresistibly recalled Desboro, and at the moment more than ever. But he had been a man of vigour and of wit and action; and he was lying out there in the snow, under an old brown headstone embellished with cherubim; and the last of his name lounged here, in sight, from the windows, of the spot where the first house of Desboro in America had stood, and had collapsed amid the flames started by Tarleton's blood-maddened troopers. To and fro sauntered Desboro, passing, unnoticed, old-time framed engravings of the Desboros in Charles the Second's time, elegant, idle, handsome men in periwigs and half-armour, and all looking out at the world through port-holes with a hint of the race's bodily grace in their half insolent attitudes. But office and preferment, peace and war, intrigue and plot, vigour and idleness, had narrowed down through the generations into a last inheritance for this young man; and the very last of all the Desboros now idled aimlessly among the phantoms of a race that perhaps had better be extinguished. He could not make up his mind to go to town or to remain in the vague hope that she might come in the afternoon. He had plenty to do--if he could make up his mind to begin--accounts to go over, household expenses, farm expenses, stable reports, agents' memoranda concerning tenants and leases, endless lists of necessary repairs. And there was business concerning the estate neglected, taxes, loans, improvements to attend to--the thousand and one details which irritated him to consider; but which, although he maintained an agent in town, must ultimately come to himself for the final verdict. What he wanted was to be rid of it all--sell everything, pension his father's servants, and be rid of the entire complex business which, he pretended to himself, was slowly ruining him. But he knew in his heart where the trouble lay, and that the carelessness, extravagance, the disinclination for self-denial, the impatient and good-humoured aversion to economy, the profound distaste for financial detail, were steadily wrecking one of the best and one of the last of the old-time Westchester estates. In his heart he knew, too, that all he wanted was to concentrate sufficient capital to give him the income he thought he needed. No man ever had the income he thought he needed. And why Desboro required it, he himself didn't know exactly; but he wanted sufficient to keep him comfortable--enough so that he could feel he might do anything he chose, when, how, and where he chose, without fear or care for the future. And no man ever lived to enjoy such a state of mind, or to do these things with impunity. But Desboro's mind was bent on it; he seated himself at the library table and began to figure it out. Land in Westchester brought high prices--not exactly in that section, but near enough to make his acreage valuable. Then, the house, stable, garage, greenhouses, the three farms, barns, cattle houses, water supply, the timber, power sites, meadow, pasture--all these ought to make a pretty figure. And he jotted it down for the hundredth time in the last two years. Then there was the Desboro collection. That ought to bring---- [Illustration: "And he sat thinking of Jacqueline Nevers"] He hesitated, his pencil finally fell on the table, rolled to the edge and dropped; and he sat thinking of Jacqueline Nevers, and of the week that had ended as the lights of her train faded far away into the winter night. He sat so still and so long that old Farris came twice to announce luncheon. After a silent meal in company with the dogs and cats of low degree, he lighted a cigarette and went back into the library to resume his meditations. Whatever they were, they ceased abruptly whenever the distant telephone rang, and he waited almost breathlessly for somebody to come and say that he was wanted on the wire. But the messages must have been to the cook or butler, from butcher, baker, and gentlemen of similar professions, for nobody disturbed him, and he was left free to sink back into the leather corner of the lounge and continue his meditations. Once the furtive apparition of Mrs. Quant disturbed him, hovering ominously at the library door, bearing tumbler and spoon. "I won't take it," he said decisively. There was a silence, then: "Isn't the young lady coming, Mr. James?" "I don't know. No, probably not to-day." "Is--is the child sick?" she stammered. "No, of course not. I expect she'll be here in the morning." * * * * * She was not there in the morning. Mr. Mirk, the little old salesman in the silk skull-cap, telephoned to Farris that Miss Nevers was again detained in town on business at Mr. Clydesdale's, and that she might employ a Mr. Sissly to continue her work at Silverwood, if Mr. Desboro did not object. Mr. Desboro was to call her up at three o'clock if he desired further information. Desboro went into the library and sat down. For a while his idle reflections, uncontrolled, wandered around the main issue, errant satellites circling a central thought which was slowly emerging from chaos and taking definite weight and shape. And the thought was of Jacqueline Nevers. Why was he waiting here until noon to talk to this girl? Why was he here at all? Why had he not gone South with the others? A passing fancy might be enough to arouse his curiosity; but why did not the fancy pass? What did he want to say to her? What did he want of her? Why was he spending time thinking about her--disarranging his routine and habits to be here when she came? _What_ did he want of her? She was agreeable to talk to, interesting to watch, pretty, attractive. Did he want her friendship? To what end? He'd never see her anywhere unless he sought her out; he would never meet her in any circle to which he had been accustomed, respectable or otherwise. Besides, for conversation he preferred men to women. What did he want with her or her friendship--or her blue eyes and bright hair--or the slim, girlish grace of her? What was there to do? How many more weeks did he intend to idle about at her heels, follow her, look at her, converse with her, make a habit of her until, now, he found that to suddenly break the habit of only a week's indulgence was annoying him! And suppose the habit were to grow. Into what would it grow? And how unpleasant would it be to break when, in the natural course of events, circumstances made the habit inconvenient? And, always, the main, central thought was growing, persisting. _What_ did he want of her? He was not in love with her any more than he was always lightly in love with feminine beauty. Besides, if he were, what would it mean? Another affair, with all its initial charm and gaiety, its moments of frivolity, its moments of seriousness, its sudden crisis, its combats, perplexities, irresolution, the faint thrill of its deeper significance startling both to clearer vision; and then the end, whatever it might be, light or solemn, irresponsible or care-ridden, gay or sombre, for one or the other. What did he want? Did he wish to disturb her tranquility? Was he trying to awaken her to some response? And what did he offer her to respond to? The flattery of his meaningless attentions, or the honour of falling in love with a Desboro, whose left hand only would be offered to support both slim white hands of hers? He ought to have gone South, and he knew it, now. Last week he had told himself--and her occasionally--that he was going South in a week. And here he was, his head on his hands and his elbows on the table, looking vacantly at the pile of manuscript she had left there, and thinking of the things that should not happen to them both. And who the devil was this fellow Sissly? Why had she suddenly changed her mind and suggested a creature named Sissly? Why didn't she finish the cataloguing herself? She had been enthusiastic about it. Besides, she had enjoyed the skating and sleighing, and the luncheons and teas, and the cats and dogs--and even Mrs. Quant. She had said so, too. And now she was too busy to come any more. Had he done anything? Had he been remiss, or had he ventured too many attentions? He couldn't recall having done anything except to show her plainly enough that he enjoyed being with her. Nor had she concealed her bright pleasure in his companionship. And they had become such good comrades, understanding each other's moods so instinctively now--and they had really found such unfeigned amusement in each other that it seemed a pity--a pity---- "Damn it," he said, "if she cares no more about it than that, she can send Sissly, and I'll go South!" But the impatience of hurt vanity died away; the desire to see her grew; the habit of a single week was already unpleasant to break. And it would be unpleasant to try to forget her, even among his own friends, even in the South, or in drawing-rooms, or at the opera, or at dances, or in any of his haunts and in any sort of company. He might forget her if he had only known her better, discovered more of her real self, unveiled a little of her deeper nature. There was so much unexplored--so much that interested him, mainly, perhaps, because he had not discovered it. For theirs had been the lightest and gayest of friendships, with nothing visible to threaten a deeper entente; merely, on her part, a happy enjoyment and a laughing parrying in the eternal combat that never entirely ends, even when it means nothing. And on his side it had been the effortless attentions of a man aware of her young and unspoiled charm--conscious of an unusual situation which always fascinates all men. He had had no intention, no idea, no policy except to drift as far as the tides of destiny carried him in her company. The situation was agreeable; if it became less so, he could take to the oars and row where he liked. But the tides had carried him to the edge of waters less clear; he was vaguely aware of it now, aware, too, that troubled seas lay somewhere behind the veil. The library clock struck three times. He got up and went to the telephone booth. Miss Nevers was there; would speak to him if he could wait a moment. He waited. Finally, a far voice called, greeting him pleasantly, and explaining that matters which antedated her business at Silverwood had demanded her personal attention in town. To his request for particulars, she said that she had work to do among the jades and Chinese porcelains belonging to a Mr. Clydesdale. "I know him," said Desboro curtly. "When do you finish?" "I have finished for the present. Later there is further work to be done at Mr. Clydesdale's. I had to make certain arrangements before I went to you--being already under contract to Mr. Clydesdale, and at his service when he wanted me." There was a silence. Then he asked her when she was coming to Silverwood. "Did you not receive my message?" she asked. "About--what's his name? Sissly? Yes, I did, but I don't want him. I want you or nobody!" "You are unreasonable, Mr. Desboro. Lionel Sissly is a very celebrated connoisseur." "Don't you want to come?" "I have so many matters here----" "Don't you _want_ to?" he persisted. "Why, of course, I'd like to. It is most interesting work. But Mr. Sissly----" "Oh, hang Mr. Sissly! Do you suppose he interests me? You said that this work might take you weeks. You said you loved it. You apparently expected to be busy with it until it was finished. Now, you propose to send a man called Sissly! Why?" "Don't you know that I have other things----" "What have I done, Miss Nevers?" "I don't understand you." "What have I done to drive you away?" "How absurd! Nothing! And you've been so kind to me----" "You've been kind to me. Why are you no longer?" "I--it's a question--of business--matters which demand----" "Will you come once more?" No reply. "Will you?" he repeated. "Is there any reason----" "Yes." Another pause, then: "Yes, I'll come--if there's a reason----" "When?" "To-morrow?" "Do you promise?" "Yes." "Then I'll meet you as usual." "Thank you." He said: "How is your skating jacket coming along?" "I have--stopped work on it." "Why?" "I do not expect to--have time--for skating." "Didn't you ever expect to come up here again?" he asked with a slight shiver. "I thought that Mr. Sissly could do what was necessary." "Didn't it occur to you that you were ending a friendship rather abruptly?" She was silent. "Don't you think it was a trifle brusque, Miss Nevers?" "Does the acquaintanceship of a week count so much with you, Mr. Desboro?" "You know it does." "No. I did not know it. If I had supposed so, I would have written a polite letter regretting that I could no longer personally attend to the business in hand." "Doesn't it count at all with you?" he asked. "What?" "Our friendship." "Our acquaintanceship of a single week? Why, yes. I remember it with pleasure--your kindness, and Mrs. Quant's----" "How on earth can you talk to me that way?" "I don't understand you." "Then I'll say, bluntly, that it meant a lot to me, and that the place is intolerable when you're not here. That is specific, isn't it?" "Very. You mean that, being accustomed to having somebody to amuse you, your own resources are insufficient." "Are you serious?" "Perfectly. That is why you are kind enough to miss my coming and going--because I amuse you." "Do you think that way about me?" "I do when I think of you. You know sometimes I'm thinking of other things, too, Mr. Desboro." He bit his lip, waited for a moment, then: "If you feel that way, you'll scarcely care to come up to-morrow. Whatever arrangement you make about cataloguing the collection will be all right. If I am not here, communications addressed to the Olympian Club will be forwarded----" "Mr. Desboro!" "Yes?" "Forgive me--won't you?" There was a moment's interval, fraught heavily with the possibilities of Chance, then the silent currents of Fate flowed on toward her appointed destiny and his--whatever it was to be, wherever it lay, behind the unstirring, inviolable veil. "Have you forgiven me?" "And you me?" he asked. "I have nothing to forgive; truly, I haven't. Why did you think I had? Because I have been talking flippantly? You have been so uniformly considerate and kind to me--you _must_ know that it was nothing you said or did that made me think--wonder--whether--perhaps----" "What?" he insisted. But she declined further explanation in a voice so different, so much gayer and happier than it had sounded before, that he was content to let matters rest--perhaps dimly surmising something approaching the truth. She, too, noticed the difference in his voice as he said: "Then may I have the car there as usual to-morrow morning?" "Please." He drew an unconscious sigh of relief. She said something more that he could scarcely hear, so low and distant sounded her voice, and he asked her to repeat it. "I only said that I would be happy to go back," came the far voice. Quick, unconsidered words trembled on his lips for utterance; perhaps fear of undoing what had been done restrained him. "Not as happy as I will be to see you," he said, with an effort. "Thank you. Good-bye, Mr. Desboro." "Good-bye." * * * * * The sudden accession of high spirits filled him with delightful impatience. He ranged the house restlessly, traversing the hallway and silent rooms. A happy inclination for miscellaneous conversation impelled him to long-deferred interviews with people on the place. He talked business to Mrs. Quant, to Michael, the armourer; he put on snow-shoes and went cross lots to talk to his deaf head-farmer, Vail. Then he came back and set himself resolutely to his accounts; and after dinner he wrote letters, a yellow pup dozing on his lap, a cat purring on his desk, and occasionally patting with tentative paw the letter-paper when it rustled. A mania for cleaning up matters which had accumulated took possession of him--and it all seemed to concern, in some occult fashion, the coming of Jacqueline on the morrow--as though he wished to begin again with a clean slate and a conscience undisturbed. But what he was to begin he did not specify to himself. Bills--heavy ones--he paid lightly, drawing check after check to cover necessities or extravagances, going straight through the long list of liabilities incurred from top to bottom. Later, the total troubled him, and he made himself do a thing to which he was averse--balance his check-book. The result dismayed him, and he sat for a while eyeing the sheets of carelessly scratched figures, and stroking the yellow pup on his knees. "What do I want with all these clubs and things?" he said impatiently. "I never use 'em." On the spur of impulse, he began to write resignations, wholesale, ridding himself of all kinds of incumbrances--shooting clubs in Virginia and Georgia and North Carolina, to which he had paid dues and assessments for years, and to which he had never been; fishing clubs in Maine and Canada and Nova Scotia and California; New York clubs, including the Cataract, the Old Fort, the Palisades, the Cap and Bells, keeping only the three clubs to which men of his sort are supposed to belong--the Patroons, the Olympian, and his college club. But everything else went--yacht clubs, riding clubs, golf clubs, country clubs of every sort--everything except his membership in those civic, educational, artistic, and charitable associations to which such New York families as his owed a moral and perpetual tribute. It was nearly midnight when the last envelope was sealed and stamped, and he leaned back with a long, deep breath of relief. To-morrow he would apply the axe again and lop off such extravagances as saddle-horses in town, and the two cars he kept there. They should go to the auction rooms; he'd sell his Long Island bungalow, too, and the schooner and the power boats, and his hunters down at Cedar Valley; and with them would go groom and chauffeur, captain and mechanic, and the thousand maddening expenses that were adding daily to a total debt that had begun secretly to appal him. In his desk he knew there was an accumulated mass of unpaid bills. He remembered them now and decided he didn't want to think about them. Besides, he'd clear them away pretty soon--settle accounts with tailor, bootmaker, haberdasher--with furrier, modiste and jeweler--and a dull red settled under his cheek bones as he remembered these latter bills, which he would scarcely care to exhibit to the world at large. "Ass that I've been," he muttered, absently stroking the yellow pup. Which reflection started another train of thought, and he went to a desk, unlocked it, pulled out the large drawer, and carried it with its contents to the fireplace. The ashes were still alive and the first packet of letters presently caught fire. On them he laid a silken slipper of Mrs. Clydesdale's and watched it shrivel and burn. Next, he tossed handfuls of unassorted trifles, letters, fans, one or two other slippers, gloves of different sizes, dried remnants of flowers, programmes scribbled over; and when the rubbish burned hotly, he added photographs and more letters without even glancing at them, except where, amid the flames, he caught a momentary glimpse of some familiar signature, or saw some pretty, laughing phantom of the past glow, whiten to ashes, and evaporate. Fire is a great purifier; he felt as though the flames had washed his hands. Much edified by the moral toilet, and not concerned that all such ablutions are entirely superficial, he watched with satisfaction the last bit of ribbon shrivel, the last envelope flash into flame. Then he replaced the desk drawer, leaving the key in it--because there was now no reason why all the world and its relatives should not rummage if they liked. He remembered some letters and photographs and odds and ends scattered about his rooms in town, and made a mental note to clear them out of his life, too. Mentally detached, he stood aloof in spirit and viewed with interest the spectacle of his own regeneration, and calmly admired it. "I'll cut out all kinds of things," he said to himself. "A devout girl in Lent will have nothing on me. Nix for the bowl! Nix for the fat pat hand! Throw up the sponge! Drop the asbestos curtain!" He made pretence to open an imaginary door: "Ladies, pass out quietly, please; the show is over." The cat woke up and regarded him gravely; he said to her: "You don't even need a pocket-book, do you? And you are quite right; having things is a nuisance. The less one owns the happier one is. Do you think I'll have sense enough to remember this to-morrow, and not be ass enough to acquire more--a responsibility, for example? Do you think I can be trusted to mind my business when _she_ comes to-morrow? And not say something that I'll be surely sorry for some day--or something she'll be sorry for? Because she's so pretty, pussy--so disturbingly pretty--and so sweet. And I ought to know by this time that intelligence and beauty are a deadly combination I had better let alone until I find them in the other sort of girl. That's the trouble, pussy." He lifted the sleepy cat and held it at arm's length, where it dangled, purring all the while. "That's the trouble, kitty. I haven't the slightest intentions; and as for friends, men prefer men. And that's the truth, between you and me. It's rather rotten, isn't it, pussy? But I'll be careful, and if I see that she is capable of caring for me, I'll go South before it hurts either of us. That will be the square thing to do, I suppose--and neither of us the worse for another week together." He placed the cat on the floor, where it marched to and fro with tail erect, inviting further attentions. But Desboro walked about, turning out the electric lights, and presently took himself off to bed, fixed in a resolution that the coming week should be his last with this unusual girl. For, after all, he concluded she had not moved his facile imagination very much more than had other girls of various sorts, whose souvenirs lay now in cinders on his hearth, and long since had turned to ashes in his heart. What was the use? Such affairs ended one way or another--but they always ended. All he wanted to find out, all he was curious about, was whether such an unusual girl could be moved to response--he merely wanted to know, and then he would let her alone, and no harm done--nothing to disturb the faint fragrance of a pretty souvenir that he and she might carry for a while--a week or two--perhaps a month--before they both forgot. And, conscious of his good intentions, feeling tranquil, complacent, and slightly noble, he composed himself to slumber, thinking how much happier this world would be if men invariably behaved with the self-control that occasionally characterised himself. * * * * * In the city, Jacqueline lay awake on her pillow, unable to find a refuge in sleep from the doubts, questions, misgivings assailing her. Wearied, impatient, vexed, by turns, that her impulse and decision should keep her sleepless--that the thought of going back to Silverwood should so excite her, she turned restlessly in her bed, unwilling to understand, humiliated in heart, ashamed, vaguely afraid. Why should she have responded to an appeal from such a man as Desboro? Her own calm judgment had been that they had seen enough of each other--for the present, anyway. Because she knew, in her scared soul, that she had not meant it to be final--that some obscure idea remained of seeing him again, somewhere. Yet, something in his voice over the wire--and something more disturbing still when he spoke so coolly about going South--had swayed her in her purpose to remain aloof for a while. But there was no reason, after all, for her to take it so absurdly. She would go once more, and then permit a long interval to elapse before she saw him again. If she actually had, as she began to believe, an inclination for his society, she would show herself that she could control that inclination perfectly. Why should any man venture to summon her--for it was a virtual summons over the wire--and there had been arrogance in it, too. His curt acquiescence in her decision, and his own arbitrary decision to go South had startled her out of her calmly prepared rôle of business woman. She was trying to recall exactly what she had said to him afterward to make his voice change once more, and her own respond so happily. Why should seeing him be any unusual happiness to her--knowing who and what he had been and was--a man of the out-world with which she had not one thing in common--a man who could mean nothing to her--could not even remain a friend because their two lives would never even run within sight of each other. She would never know anybody he knew. They would never meet anywhere except at Silverwood. How could they, once the business between them was transacted? She couldn't go to Silverwood except on business; he would never think of coming here to see her. Could she ask him--venture, perhaps, to invite him to dinner with some of her friends? Which friends? Cynthia and--who else? The girls she knew would bore him; he'd have only contempt for the men. Then what did all this perplexity mean that was keeping her awake? And why was she going back to Silverwood? Why! Why! Was it to see with her own eyes the admiration for herself in his? She had seen it more than once. Was it to learn more about this man and his liking for her--to venture a guess, perhaps, as to how far that liking might carry him with a little encouragement--which she would not offer, of course? She began to wonder how much he really did like her--how greatly he might care if she never were to see him again. Her mind answered her, but her heart appealed wistfully from the clear decision. Lying there, blue eyes open in the darkness, head cradled on her crossed arms, she ventured to recall his features, summoning them shyly out of space; and she smiled, feeling the tension subtly relaxing. Then she drifted for a while, watching his expression, a little dreading lest even his phantom laugh at her out of those eyes too wise. Visions came to her awake to reassure her; he and she in a sleigh together under the winter stars--he and she in the sunlight, their skates flashing over the frozen meadows--he and she in the armoury, heads together over some wonder of ancient craftsmanship--he and she at luncheon--in the library--always he and she together in happy companionship. Her eyelids fluttered and drooped; and sleep came, and dreams--wonderful, exquisite, past belief--and still of him and of herself together, always together in a magic world that could not be except for such as they. CHAPTER VI When the sombre morning broke at last, Jacqueline awoke, sprang from her bed, and fluttered away about her dressing as blithely as an April linnet in a hurry. She had just time to breakfast and catch her train, with the help of heaven and a taxicab, and she managed to do it about the same moment that Desboro, half a hundred miles away, glanced out of his dressing-room window and saw the tall trees standing like spectres in the winter fog, and the gravel on the drive shining wet and muddy through melting snow. But he turned to the mirror again, whistling a gay air, and twisted his necktie into a smarter knot. Then he went out to the greenhouses and snipped off enough carnations to make a great sheaf of clove-scented blossoms for Jacqueline's room; and after that he proceeded through the other sections of the fragrant glass galleries, cutting, right and left, whatever he considered beautiful enough to do her fresh, young beauty honour. At the station, he saw her standing on the platform of the drawing-room car as the train thundered in, veil and raincoat blowing, just as he had seen her there the first time she arrived at Silverwood station. The car steps were sheathed in ice; she had already ventured down a little way when he reached her and offered aid; and she permitted him to swing her to the cinder-strewn ground. "Are you really here!" he exclaimed, oblivious of interested glances from trainmen and passengers. They exchanged an impulsive hand-clasp. Both were unusually animated. "Are you well?" she asked, as though she had been away for months. "Yes. Are you? It's perfectly fine of you to come"--still retaining her hand--"I wonder if you know how glad I am to see you! I wonder if you really do!" She started to say something, hesitated, blushed, then their hands parted, and she answered lightly: "What a very cordial welcome for a business girl on a horrid day! You mustn't spoil me, Mr. Desboro." "I was afraid you might not come," he said; and indiscreet impulse prompted her to answer, as she had first answered him there on the platform two weeks ago: "Do you suppose that mere weather could have kept me away from the famous Desboro collection?" The charming malice in her voice, the delightful impertinence of her reply, so obviously at variance with fact, enchanted him. She was conscious of its effect on him, and, already slightly excited, ventured to laugh at her own thrust as though challenging his self-conceit to believe that she had even grazed herself with the two-edged weapon. "Do I count for absolutely nothing?" he said. "Do you flatter yourself that I returned to see _you_?" "Let me believe it for just one second." "I don't doubt that you will secretly and triumphantly believe it all the time." "If I dared----" "Is that sort of courage lacking in you, Mr. Desboro? I have heard otherwise. And how long are we going to remain here on this foggy platform?" Here was an entirely new footing; but in the delightful glow of youthful indiscretion she still maintained her balance lightly, mockingly. "Please tell me," she said, as they entered the car, and he drew the big fur robe around her, "just how easily you believe in your own overpowering attractions. Do women encourage you in such modest faith in yourself? Or are you merely created that way?" "The house has been a howling wilderness without you," he said. "I admit _my_ loneliness, anyway." "_I_ admit nothing. Besides, I wasn't." "Is that true?" She laughed tormentingly, eyes and cheeks brilliant, now undisguisedly on guard--her first acknowledgment that in this man she condescended to divine the hereditary adversary. "I mean to punish," said her eyes. "What an attack from a clear sky on a harmless young man," he said, at last. "No, an attack from the fog on an insufferable egoist--an ambush, Mr. Desboro. And I thought a little sword-play might do your complacent wits a service. Has it?" "But you begin by a dozen thrusts, then beat down my guard, and cuff me about with blade and pommel----" "I had to. Now, does your vanity believe that my return to Silverwood was influenced by your piteous appeal over the wire--and your bad temper, too?" "No," he said solemnly. "Well, then! I came here partly to put my notes in better shape for Mr. Sissly, partly to clear up odds and ends and leave him a clear field to plow--in your persistent company," she added, with such engaging malice that even the name of Sissly, which he hated, made him laugh. "You won't do that," he said confidently. "Do what, Mr. Desboro?" "Turn me over to anything named Sissly." "Indeed, I will--you and your celebrated collection! Of course you _could_ go South, but, judging from your devotion to the study of ancient armour----" "You don't mean it, do you?" "What? About your devotion?" "No, about Sissly." "Yes, I do. Listen to me, Mr. Desboro. I made up my mind that sleighing, and skating, and luncheon and tea, and--_you_, are not good for a busy girl's business career. I'm going to be very practical and very frank with you. I don't belong here except on business, and you make it so pleasant and unbusinesslike for me that my conscience protests. You see, if the time I now take to lunch with you, tea with you, skate, sleigh, talk, listen, in your very engaging company is properly employed, I can attend to yards and yards of business in town. And I'm going to. I mean it, please," as he began to smile. His smile died out. He said, quietly: "Doesn't our friendship count for anything?" She looked at him; shrugged her shoulders: "Oh, Mr. Desboro," she said pleasantly, "does it, _really_?" The blue eyes were clear and beautiful, and a little grave; only the upcurled corners of her mouth promised anything. The car drew up at the house; she sprang out and ran upstairs to her room. He heard her in animated confab with Mrs. Quant for a few minutes, then she came down in her black business gown, with narrow edges of lawn at collar and cuffs, and the bright lock already astray on her cheek. A white carnation was tucked into her waist; the severe black of her dress, as always, made her cheeks and lips and golden hair more brilliant by contrast. "Now," she said, "for my notes. And what are you going to do while I'm busy?" "Watch you, if I may. You've heard about the proverbial cat?" "Care killed it, didn't it?" "Yes; but it had a good look at the Queen first." A smile touched her eyes and lips--a little wistfully. "You know, Mr. Desboro, that I like to waste time with you. Flatter your vanity with that confession. And even if things were--different--but they couldn't ever be--and I must work very hard if I'm ever going to have any leisure in my old age. But come to the library for this last day, and smoke as usual. And you may talk to amuse me, if you wish. Don't mind if I'm too busy to answer your folly in kind." They went together to the library; she placed the mass of notes in front of her and began to sort them--turned for a second and looked around at him with adorable malice, then bent again to the task before her. "Miss Nevers!" "Yes?" "You will come to Silverwood again, won't you?" She wrote busily with a pencil. "Won't you?" She made some marginal notes and he looked at the charming profile in troubled silence. [Illustration: "She turned leisurely.... 'Did you say anything recently, Mr. Desboro?'"] About ten minutes later she turned leisurely, tucking up the errant strand of hair with her pencil: "Did you say anything recently, Mr. Desboro?" "Out of the depths, yes. The voice in the wilderness as usual went unheeded. I wished to explain to you how we might give up our skating and sleighing and everything except the bare necessities--and you could still come to Silverwood on business----" "What are the 'bare necessities'?" "Your being here is one----" "Answer me seriously, please." "Food, then. We must eat." She conceded that much. "We've got to motor to and from the station!" She admitted that, too. "Those," he pointed out, "are the bare necessities. We can give up everything else." She sat looking at him, playing absently with her pencil. After a while, she turned to her desk again, and, bending over it, began to make meaningless marks with her pencil on the yellow pad. "What is the object," she said, "of trying to make me forget that I wouldn't be here at all except on business?" "Do you think of that every minute?" "I--must." "It isn't necessary." "It is imperative, Mr. Desboro--and you know it." She wrote steadily for a while, strapped a bundle of notes with an elastic band, laid it aside, and turned around, resting her arm on the back of the chair. Blue eyes level with his, she inspected him curiously. And, if the tension of excitement still remained, all her high spirits and the indiscreet impulses of a gay self-confidence had vanished. But curiosity remained--the eternal, insatiable curiosity of the young. How much did this man really mean of what he said to her? What did his liking for her signify other than the natural instinct of an idle young man for any pretty girl? What was he going to do about it? For she seemed to be conscious that, sooner or later, somewhere, sometime, he would do something further about it. Did he mean to make love to her sometime? Was he doing it now? It resembled the preliminaries; she recognised them--had been aware of them almost from the very first. Men had made love to her before--men in her own world, men in his world. She had learned something since her father died--not a great deal; perhaps more from hearsay than from experience. But some unpleasant knowledge had been acquired at first hand; two clients of her father's had contributed, and a student, named Harroun, and an amateur of soft paste statuettes, the Rev. Bertie Dawley. Innocently and wholesomely equipped to encounter evil, cool and clear eyed mistress of herself so far, she had felt, with happy contempt, that her fate was her own to control, and had wondered what the word "temptation" could mean to any woman. What Cynthia had admitted made her a little wiser, but still incredulous. Cold, hunger, debts, loneliness--these were not enough, as Cynthia herself had said. Nor, after all, was Cynthia's liking for Cairns. Which proved conclusively that woman is the arbiter of her own destiny. Desboro, one knee crossed over the other, sat looking into the fire, which burned in the same fireplace where he had recently immolated the frivolous souvenirs of the past. Perhaps some gay ghost of that scented sacrifice took shape for a moment in the curling smoke, for he suddenly frowned and passed his hand over his eyes in boyish impatience. Something--the turn of his head and shoulders--the shape of them--she did not know what--seemed to set her heart beating loudly, ridiculously, without any apparent reason on earth. Too much surprised to be disturbed, she laid her slim hand on her breast, then against her throat, till her pulses grew calmer. Resting her chin on her arm, she gazed over her shoulder into the fire. He had laid another log across the flames; she watched the bark catch fire, dully conscious, now, that her ideas were becoming as irresponsible and as reasonless as the sudden stirring of her heart had been. For she was thinking how odd it would be if, like Cynthia, she too, ever came to care about a man of Desboro's sort. She'd see to it that she didn't; that was all. There were other men. Better still, there were to be no men; for her mind fastidiously refused to consider the only sort with whom she felt secure--her intellectual inferiors whose moral worthiness bored her to extinction. Musing there, half turned on her chair, she saw Desboro rise, still looking intently into the fire, and stand so, his well-made, graceful figure, in silhouette, edged with the crimson glow. "What do you see in it, Mr. Desboro?" He turned instantly and came over to her: "A bath of flames would be very popular," he said, "if burning didn't hurt. I was just thinking about it--how to invent----" She quoted: "'But I was thinking of a plan to dye one's whiskers green.'" He said: "I suppose you think me as futile as that old man 'a-settin' on a gate.'" "Your pursuits seem to be about as useful as his." "Why should I pursue things? I don't want 'em." "You are hopeless. There is pleasure even in pursuit of anything, no matter whether you ever attain it or not. I will never attain wisdom, but it's a pleasure to pursue it." "It's a pleasure even to pursue pleasure--and it's the only pleasure in pleasure," he said, so gravely that for a moment she thought with horror that he was trying to be precious. Then the latent glimmer in his eyes set them laughing, and she rose and went over to the sofa and curled up in one corner, abandoning all pretense of industry. "Once," she said, "I knew a poet who emitted such precious thoughts. He was the funniest thing; he had the round, pale, ancient eyes of an African parrot, a pasty countenance, and a derby hat resting on top of a great bunch of colourless curly hair. And that's the way _he_ talked, Mr. Desboro!" He seated himself on the other arm of the sofa: "Did you adore him?" "At first. He was a celebrity. He did write some pretty things." "What woke you up?" She blushed. "I thought so," observed Desboro. "Thought what?" "That he came out of his trance and made love to you." "How did you know? Wasn't it dreadful! And he'd always told me that he had never experienced an emotion except when adoring the moon. He was a very dreadful young man--perfectly horrid in his ideas--and I sent him about his business very quickly; and I remember being a little frightened and watching him from the window as he walked off down the street in his soiled drab overcoat and the derby hat on his frizzly hair, and his trousers too high on his ankles----" Desboro was so immensely amused at the picture she drew that her pretty brows unbent and she smiled, too. "What did he want of you?" he asked. "I didn't fully understand at the time----" she hesitated, then, with an angry blush: "He asked me to go to Italy with him. And he said he couldn't marry me because he had already espoused the moon!" Desboro's laughter rang through the old library; and Jacqueline was not quite certain whether she liked the way he took the matter or not. "I know him," said Desboro. "I've seen him about town kissing women's hands, in company with a larger and fatter one. Isn't his name Munger?" "Yes," she said. "Certainly. And the fat one's name is Waudle. They were a hot team at fashionable literary stunts--the Back Alley Club, you know." "No, I don't know." "Oh, it's just silly; a number of fashionable and wealthy young men and women pin on aprons, now and then, and paint and model lumps of wet clay in several severely bare studios over some unfragrant stables. They proudly call it The Back Alley Club." "Why do you sneer at it?" "Because it isn't the real thing. It's a strutting ground for things like Munger and Waudle, and all the rag-tag that is always sniffing and snuffling at the back doors of the fine arts." "At least," she said, "they sniff." He said, good-humouredly: "Yes, and I don't even do that. Is that what you mean?" She considered him: "Haven't you any profession?" "I'm a farmer." "Why aren't you busy with it, then?" "I have been, disastrously. There was a sickening deficit this autumn." She said, with pretty scorn: "I'll wager I could make your farm pay." He smiled lazily, and indulgently. After a moment he said: "So the spouse of the moon wanted you to go to Italy with him?" She nodded absently: "A girl meets queer men in the world." "Did you ever meet any others?" She looked up listlessly: "Yes, several." "As funny as the poet?" "If you call him funny." "I wonder who they were," he mused. "Did you ever hear of the Reverend Bertie Dawley?" "No." "He was one." "_That_ kind?" "Oh, yes. He collects soft paste figurines; he was a client of father's; but I found very soon that I couldn't go near him. He has a wife and children, too, and he keeps sending his wife to call on me. You know he's a good-looking young man, too, and I liked him; but I never dreamed----" "Sure," he said, disgusted at his own sex--with the exception of himself. "That seems to be the way of it," she said thoughtfully. "You can't be friends with men; they all annoy you sooner or later in one way or another!" "Annoy you? Do you mean make love to you?" "Yes." "_I_ don't; do I?" She bent her head and sat playing with the petals of the white carnation drooping on her breast. "No," she said calmly. "You don't annoy me." "Would it seriously annoy you if I did make love to you some day?" he asked, lightly. Instinct was whispering hurriedly to her: "Here it is at last. Do something about it, and do it quick!" She waited until her heart beat more regularly, then: "You couldn't annoy--make love--to a girl you really don't care for. That is very simple, isn't it?" "Suppose I did care for you." She looked up at him with troubled eyes, then lowered them to the blossom from which her fingers were detaching petal after petal. "If you did really care, you wouldn't tell me, Mr. Desboro." "Why not?" "Because it would not be fair to me." A flush of anger--or she thought it was, brightened her cheeks. "This is nonsense," she said abruptly. "And I'll tell you another thing; I can't come here again. You know I can't. We talk foolishness--don't you know it? And there's another reason, anyway." "What reason?" "The _real_ reason," she said, clenching both hands. "You know what it is and so do I--and--and I'm tired of pretending that the truth isn't true." "What is the truth?" She had turned her back on him and was staring out of the windows into the mist. "The truth is," she answered deliberately, "that you and I can not be friends." "Why?" "Because we can't be! Because--men are always men. There isn't any way for men and women to be friends. Forgive me for saying it. But it is quite true. A business woman in your employment--can't forget that a real friendship with you is impossible. That is why, from the very beginning, I wanted it to be purely a matter of business between us. I didn't really wish to skate with you, or do anything of that kind with you. I'd rather not lunch with you; I--I had rather you drew the line--and let me draw it clearly, cleanly, and without mistake--as I draw it between myself and my employees. If you wish, I can continue to come here on that basis until my work is finished. Otherwise, I shall not come again." Her back was still toward him. "Very well," he said, bluntly. She heard him rise and walk toward the door; sat listening without turning her head, already regretting what she had said. And now she became conscious that her honesty with herself and with him had been a mistake, entailing humiliation for her--the humiliation of letting him understand that she couldn't afford to care for him, and that she did already. She had thought of him first, and of herself last--had conceded a hopeless situation in order that her decision might not hurt his vanity. It had been a bad mistake. And now he might be thinking that she had tried to force him into an attitude toward herself which she could not expect, or--God knew what he might be thinking. Dismayed and uncertain, she stood up nervously as he reëntered the room and came toward her, holding out his hand. "I'm going to town," he said pleasantly. "I won't bother you any more. Remain; come and go as you like without further fear of my annoying you. The servants are properly instructed. They will be at your orders. I'm sorry--I meant to be more agreeable. Good-bye, Miss Nevers." She laid her hand in his, lifelessly, then withdrew it. Dumb, dreadfully confused, she looked up at him; then, as he turned coolly away, an inarticulate sound of protest escaped her lips. He halted and turned around. "It isn't fair--what you are doing--Mr. Desboro." "What else is there to do?" "Why do you ask me? Why must the burden of decision always rest with me?" "But my decision is that I had better go. I can't remain here without--annoying you." "Why can't you remain here as my employer? Why can't we enjoy matter-of-fact business relations? I ask no more than that--I want no more. I am afraid you think I do expect more--that I expect friendship. It is impossible, unsuitable--and I don't even wish for it----" "I do," he said. "How can we be friends, from a social standpoint? There is nothing to build on, no foundation--nothing for friendship to subsist on----" "Could you and I meet anywhere in the world and become _less_ than friends?" he asked. "Tell me honestly. It is impossible, and you and I both know it." And, as she made no reply: "Friends--more than friends, possibly; never less. And you know it, and so do I," he said under his breath. She turned sharply toward the window and looked out across the foggy hills. "If that is what you believe, Mr. Desboro, perhaps you had better go." "Do you send me?" "Always the decision seems to lie with me. Why do you not decide for yourself?" "I will; and for you, too, if you will let me relieve you of the burden." "I can carry my own burdens." Her back was still toward him. After a moment she rested her head against the curtained embrasure, as though tired. He hesitated; there were good impulses in him, but he went over to her, and scarcely meaning to, put one arm lightly around her waist. She laid her hands over her face, standing so, golden head lowered and her heart so violent that she could scarcely breathe. "Jacqueline." A scarcely perceptible movement of her head, in sign that she listened. "Are we going to let anything frighten us?" He had not meant to say that, either. He was adrift, knew it, and meant to drop anchor in a moment. "Tell me honestly," he added, "don't you want us to be friends?" She said, her hands still over her face: "I didn't know how much I wanted it. I don't see, even now, how it can be. Your own friends are different. But I'll try--if you wish it." "I do wish it. Why do you think my friends are so different from you? Because some happen to be fashionable and wealthy and idle? Besides, a man has many different kinds of friends----" She thought to herself: "But he never forgets to distinguish between them. And here it is at last--almost. And I--I do care for him! And here I am--like Cynthia--asking myself to pardon him." She looked up at him out of her hands, a little pale, then down at his arm, resting loosely around her waist. "Don't hold me so, please," she said, in a low voice. "Of course not." But instead he merely took her slender hands between his own, which were not very steady, and looked her straight in the eyes. Such men can do it, somehow. Besides, he really meant to control himself and cast anchor in a moment or two. "Will you trust me with your friendship?" he said. "I--seem to be doing it. I don't exactly understand what I am doing. Would you answer me one question?" "If I can, Jacqueline." "Then, friendship _is_ possible between a man and a woman, isn't it?" she insisted wistfully. "I don't know." "What! Why don't you know? It's merely a matter of mutual interest and respect, isn't it?" "I've heard so." "Then isn't a friendship between us possible without anything threatening to spoil it? Isn't it to be just a matter of enjoying together what interests each? Isn't it? Because I don't mind waiving social conditions that can't be helped, and conventions that we simply can't observe." "Yes, you wonderful girl," he said under his breath, meaning to anchor at once. But he drifted on. "You know," she said, forcing a little laugh, "I _am_ rather wonderful, to be so honest with a man like you. There's so much about you that I don't care for." He laughed, enchanted, still retaining her hands between his own, the palms joined together, flat. "You're so wonderful," he said, "that you make the most wonderful masterpiece in the Desboro collection look like a forgery." She strove to speak lightly again: "Even the gilding on my hair is real. You didn't think so once, did you?" "You're all real. You are the most real thing I've ever seen in the world!" She tried to laugh: "You mustn't believe that I've never before been real when I've been with you. And I may not be real again, for a long time. Make the most of this moment of expansive honesty, Mr. Desboro. I'll remember presently that you are an hereditary enemy." "Have I ever acted that part?" "Not toward me." He reddened: "Toward whom?" "Oh," she said, with sudden impatience, "do you suppose I have any illusions concerning the sort of man you are? But what do I care, as long as you are nice to me?" she laughed, more confidently. "Men!" she repeated. "I know something about them! And, knowing them, also, I nevertheless mean to make a friend of one of them. Do you think I'll succeed?" He smiled, then bent lightly and kissed her joined hands. "Luncheon is served," came the emotionless voice of Farris from the doorway. Their hands fell apart; Jacqueline blushed to her hair and gave Desboro a lovely, abashed look. She need not have been disturbed. Farris had seen such things before. * * * * * That evening, Desboro went back to New York with her and took her to her own door in a taxicab. "Are you quite sure you can't dine with me?" he asked again, as they lingered on her doorstep. "I could--but----" "But you won't!" One of her hands lay lightly on the knob of the partly open door, and she stood so, resting and looking down the dark street toward the distant glare of electricity where Broadway crossed at right angles. "We have been together all day, Mr. Desboro. I'd rather not dine with you--yet." "Are you going to dine all alone up there?" glancing aloft at the lighted windows above the dusky old shop. "Yes. Besides, you and I have wasted so much time to-day that I shall go down stairs to the office and do a little work after dinner. You see a girl always has to pay for her transgressions." "I'm terribly sorry," he said contritely. "Don't work to-night!" "Don't be sorry. I've really enjoyed to-day's laziness. Only it mustn't be like this to-morrow. And anyway, I knew I'd have to make it up to-night." "I'm terribly sorry," he said again, almost tenderly. "But you mustn't be, Mr. Desboro. It was worth it----" He looked up, surprised, flushing with emotion; and the quick colour in her cheeks responded. They remained very still, and confused, and silent, as fire answered fire; suddenly aware how fast they had been drifting. She turned, nervously, pushed open the door, and entered the vestibule; he held the door ajar for her while she fitted her key with unsteady fingers. "So--thank you," she said, half turning around, "but I won't dine with you--to-night." "Then, perhaps, to-morrow----" "Don't come into town with me to-morrow, Mr. Desboro." "I'm coming in anyway." "Why?" "There's an affair--a kind of a dance. There are always plenty of things to take me into town in the evenings." "Is that why you came in to-night?" She knew she should not have said it. He hesitated, then, with a laugh: "I came in to town because it gave me an hour longer with you. Are you going to send me away now?" And her folly was answered in kind. She said, confused and trying to smile: "You say things that you don't mean. Evening, for us, must always mean 'good-night.'" "Why, Jacqueline?" "Because. Also, it is my hour of freedom. You wouldn't take that away from me, would you?" "What do you do in the evenings?" "Sew, read, study, attend to the thousand wretched little details which concern my small household. And, sometimes, when I have wasted the day, I make it up at night. Because, whether I have enjoyed it or not, this day _has_ been wasted." "But sometimes you dine out and go to the theatre and to dances and things?" "Yes," she said gravely. "But you know there is no meeting ground there for us, don't you?" "Couldn't you ask me to something?" "Yes--I could. But you wouldn't care for the people. You know it. They are not like the people to whom you are accustomed. They would only bore you." "So do many people I know." "Not in the same way. Why do you ask me? You know it is better not." She added smilingly: "There is neither wealth nor fashion nor intellectual nor social distinction to be expected among my friends----" She hesitated, and added quietly: "You understand that I am not criticising them. I am merely explaining them to you. Otherwise, I'd ask you to dinner with a few people--I can only have four at a time, my dining room is so small----" "Ask me, Jacqueline!" he insisted. She shook her head; but he continued to coax and argue until she had half promised. And now she stood, facing him irresolutely, conscious of the steady drift that was forcing her into uncharted channels with this persuasive pilot who seemed to know no more of what lay ahead of them than did she. But there was to be no common destination; she understood that. Sooner or later she must turn back toward the harbour they had left so irresponsibly together, her brief voyage over, her last adventure with this man ended for all time. And now, as the burden of decision still seemed to rest upon her, she offered him her hand, saying good-night; and he took it once more and held it between both of his. Instantly the impending constraint closed in upon them; his face became grave, hers serious, almost apprehensive. "You have--have made me very happy," he said. "Do you know it, Jacqueline?" "Yes." A curious lassitude was invading her; she leaned sideways against the door frame, as though tired, and stood so, one hand abandoned to him, gazing into the lamp-lit street. "Good-night, dear," he whispered. "Good-night." She still gazed into the lamp-lit darkness beyond him, her hand limp in his; and he saw her blue eyes, heavy lidded and dreamy, and the strand of hair curling gold against her cheek. When he kissed her, she dropped her head, covering her face with her forearm, not otherwise stirring--as though the magic pageant of her fate which had been gathering for two weeks had begun to move at last, passing vision-like through her mind with a muffled uproar--sweeping on, on, brilliant, disarrayed, timed by the deafening beating of her heart. Dully she realised that it was here at last--all that she had dreaded--if dread be partly made of hope! "Are you crying?" he said, unsteadily. She lifted her face from her arm, like a dazed child awaking. "You darling," he whispered. Eyes remote, she stood watching unseen things in the darkness beyond him. "Must I go, Jacqueline?" "Yes." "You are very tired, aren't you?" "Yes." "You won't sit up and work, will you?" "No." "Will you go straight to bed?" She nodded slowly, yielding to him as he drew her into his arms. "To-morrow, then?" he asked under his breath. "Yes." "And the next day, and the next, and next, and--always, Jacqueline?" he demanded, almost fiercely. After a moment she slowly turned her head and looked at him. There was no answer, and no question in her gaze, only the still, expressionless clairvoyance of a soul that sees but does not heed. There was no misunderstanding in her eyes, nothing wistful, nothing afraid or hurt--nothing of doubt. What had happened to others in the world was happening now to her. She understood it; that was all--as though the millions of her sisters who had passed that way had left to her the dread legacy of familiarity with the smooth, wide path they had trodden since time began on earth. And here it was, at last! Her own calmness surprised her. He detained her for another moment in a swift embrace; inert, unresponsive, she stood looking down at the crushed gardenia in his buttonhole, dully conscious of being bruised. Then he let her go; her hand fell from his arm; she turned and faced the familiar stairs and mounted them. Dinner waited for her; whether she ate or not, she could not afterward remember. About eleven o'clock, she rose wearily from the bed where she had been lying, and began to undress. * * * * * As for Desboro, he had gone straight to his rooms very much excited and unbalanced by the emotions of the moment. He was a man not easily moved to genuine expression. Having acquired certain sorts of worldly wisdom in a career more or less erratic, experience had left him unconvinced and even cynical--or he thought it had. But now, for the moment, all that lay latent in him of that impetuous and heedless vigour which may become strength, if properly directed, was awakening. Every recurring memory of her had already begun to tamper with his self-control; for the emotions of the moments just ended had been confusingly real; and, whatever they were arousing in him, now clamoured for some sort of expression. The very thought of her, now, began to act on him like some freshening perfume alternately stimulating and enervating. He made the effort again and again, and could not put her from his mind, could not forget the lowered head and the slender, yielding grace of her, and her fragrance, and her silence. Dressing in his rooms, growing more restless every moment, he began to walk the floor like some tormented thing that seeks alleviation in purposeless activity. He said, half aloud, to himself: "I can't go on this way. This is damn foolish! I've got to find out where it's landing me. It will land her, too--somewhere. I'd better keep away from her, go off somewhere, get out, stop seeing her, stop remembering her!--if she's what I think she is." Scowling, he went to the window and jerked aside the curtain. Across the street, the Olympian Club sparkled with electricity. "Good Lord!" he muttered. "What a tempest in a teapot! What the devil's the matter with me? Can't I kiss a girl now and then and keep my senses?" It seemed that he couldn't, in the present instance, for after he had bitten the amber stem of his pipe clean through, he threw the bowl into the fireplace. It had taken him two years to colour it. "Idiot!" he said aloud. "What are you sorry about? You know damn well there are only two kinds of women, and it's up to them what sort they are--not up to any man who ever lived! What are you sorry for? For her?" He stared across the street at the Olympian Club. He was expected there. "If she only wasn't so--so expressionless and--silent about it. It's like killing something that lets you do it. That's a crazy thing to think of!" Suddenly he found he had a fight on his hands. He had never had one like it; didn't know exactly what to do, except to repeat over and over: "It isn't square--it isn't square. She knows it, too. She's frightened. She knows it isn't square. There's nothing ahead but hell to pay! She knows it. And she doesn't defend herself. There _are_ only two kinds of women. It _is_ up to them, too. But it's like killing something that lets you kill it. Good God! What a damn fool I am!" Later he repeated it. Later still he found himself leaning over his desk, groping blindly about for a pen, and cursing breathlessly as though he had not a moment to lose. He wrote: "DEAR LITTLE JACQUELINE: I'm not going to see you again. Where the fool courage to write this comes from I don't know. But you will now learn that there is nothing to me after all--not even enough of positive and negative to make me worth forgiveness. And so I let it go at that. Good-bye. "DESBORO." In the same half blind, half dazed way, cursing something all the while, he managed to seal, stamp, and direct the letter, and get himself out of the house with it. A club servant at the Olympian mailed it; he continued on his way to the dining room, and stumbled into a chair between Cairns and Reggie Ledyard, who were feasting noisily and unwisely with Stuyvesant Van Alstyne; and the racket and confusion seemed to help him. He was conscious of laughing and talking and drinking a great deal--conscious, too, of the annoyance of other men at other tables. Finally, one of the governors came over and very pleasantly told him to shut up or go elsewhere. They all went, with cheerfulness unimpaired by gubernatorial admonition. There was a large dinner dance for debutantes at the Barkley's. This function they deigned to decorate with their presence for a while, Cairns and Van Alstyne behaving well enough, considering the manners of the times; Desboro, a dull fire smouldering in his veins, wandered about, haunted by a ghost whose soft breath touched his cheek. His manners were good when he chose; they were always faultless when he was drunk. Perfectly steady on his legs, very pale, and a trifle over polite, the drunker he was the more courtly he invariably became, measuredly graceful, in speech reticent. Only his pallor and the lines about his mouth betrayed the tension. Later, one or two men familiar with the house strolled into the distant billiard room and discovered him standing there looking blankly into space. Ledyard, bad tempered when he had dined too well, announced that he had had enough of that debutante party: "Look at 'em," he said to Desboro. "Horrible little fluffs just out of the incubator--with their silly brains and rotten manners, and their 'Bunny Hugs' and 'Turkey Trots' and 'Dying Chickens,' and the champagne flaming in their baby cheeks! Why, their mothers are letting 'em dance like _filles de Brasserie_! Men used to know where to go for that sort of thing----" Cairns, balancing gravely on heels and toes, waved one hand comprehensively. "Problem was," he said, "how to keep the young at home. Bunny Hug solves it. See? All the comforts of the Tenderloin at home. Tha's 'splaination." "Come on to supper," said Ledyard. "Your Blue Girl will be there, Jim." "By all means," said Desboro courteously. "My car is entirely at your disposal." But he made no movement. "Come to supper," insisted Ledyard. "Commer supper," echoed Cairns gravely. "Whazzer mazzer? Commer supper!" "Nothing," said Desboro, "could give me greater pleasure." He rose, bowed courteously to Ledyard, included Cairns in a graceful salute, and reseated himself. Ledyard lost his temper and began to shout at him. "I beg your pardon for my inexcusable absent-mindedness," said Desboro, getting slowly onto his feet once more. With graceful precision, he made his way to his hostess and took faultless leave of her, Cairns and Ledyard attempting vainly to imitate his poise, urbanity and self-possession. The icy air of the street did Cairns good and aided Ledyard. So they got themselves out across the sidewalk and ultimately into Desboro's town car, which was waiting, as usual. "Little bunny-hugging, bread-and-butter beasts," muttered Ledyard to himself. "Lord! Don't they want us to draw the line between them and the sort we're to meet at supper?" "They're jus' fools," said Cairns. "No harm in 'em! And I'm not going to supper. I'll take you there an' go'me!" "What's the matter with _you_?" demanded Ledyard. "No--I'm through, that's all. You 'sult nice li'l debutantes. Rotten bad taste. Nice li'l debbys." "Come on, you jinx!" "That girl in blue. Will she be there--the one who does the lute solo in 'The Maid of Shiraz'?" "Yes, but she's crazy about Desboro." "I waive all pretension to the charming condescension of that very lovely young lady, and cheerfully concede your claims," said Desboro, raising his hat and wrecking it against the roof of the automobile. "As you wish, dear friend. But why so suddenly the solitary recluse?" "A personal reason, I assure you." "I see," remarked Ledyard. "And what may be the name and quality of this personal reason? And is she a blonde?" Desboro shrugged his polite impatience. But when the others got out at the Santa Regina he followed. Cairns was inclined to shed a few tears over Ledyard's insults to the "debbys." "Sure," said the latter, soothingly. "The brimming beaker for you, dear friend, and it will pass away. Hark! I hear the fairy feetsteps of a houri!" as they landed from the elevator and encountered a group of laughing, bright-eyed young girls in the hallway, seeking the private supper room. One of them was certainly the girl in blue. The others appeared to Desboro as merely numerous and, later, exceedingly noisy. But noise and movement seemed to make endurable the dull pain thudding ceaselessly in his heart. Music and roses, flushed faces, the ringing harmony of crystal and silver, and the gaiety _à diable_ of the girl beside him would ease it--_must_ ease it, somehow. For it had to be first eased, then killed. There was no sense, no reason, no excuse for going on this way--enduring such a hurt. And just at present the remedy seemed to lie in a gay uproar and many brilliant lights, and in the tinted lips of the girl beside him, babbling nonsense while her dark eyes laughed, promising all they laughed at--if he cared to ask an answer to the riddle. But he never asked it. Later somebody offered a toast to Desboro, but when they looked around for him in the uproar, glasses aloft, he had disappeared. CHAPTER VII There was no acknowledgment of his note to Jacqueline the day following; none the next day, or the next. It was only when telephoning to Silverwood he learned by chance from Mrs. Quant that Jacqueline had been at the house every day as usual, busy in the armoury with the work that took her there. He had fully expected that she would send a substitute; had assumed that she would not wish to return and take the chance of his being there. What she had thought of his note to her, what she might be thinking of him, had made him so miserable that even the unwisdom of excess could not dull the pain of it or subdue the restless passion ever menacing him with a shameful repudiation of the words he had written her. He had fought one weakness with another, and there was no strength in him now. He knew it, but stood on guard. For he knew, too, in his heart that he had nothing to offer her except a sentiment which, in the history of man, has never been anything except temporary. With it, of course, and part of it, was a gentler inclination--love, probably, of one sort or another--with it went also genuine admiration and intellectual interest, and sympathy, and tenderness of some unanalysed kind. But he knew that he had no intention of marrying anybody--never, at least, of marrying out of his own social environment. That he understood fully; had wit and honesty enough to admit to himself. And so there was no way--nothing, now, anyway. He had settled that definitely--settled it for her and for himself, unrequested; settled, in fact, everything except how to escape the aftermath of restless pain for which there seemed to be no remedy so far--not even the professional services of old Doctor Time. However, it had been only three days--three sedative pills from the old gentleman's inexhaustible supply. It is the regularity of taking it, more than the medicine itself which cures. On the fourth day, he emerged from the unhappy seclusion of his rooms and ventured into the Olympian Club, where he deliberately attempted to anæsthetise his badly battered senses. But he couldn't. Cairns found him there, sitting alone in the library--it was not an intellectual club--and saw what Desboro had been doing to himself by the white tensity of his features. "Look here," he said. "If there's really anything the matter with you, why don't you go into business and forget it? You can't fool real trouble with what you buy in bottles!" "What business shall I go into?" asked Desboro, unoffended. "Stocks or literature. All the ginks who can't do anything else go into stocks or literature." Desboro waved away the alternatives with amiable urbanity. "Then run for your farms and grow things for market. You could do that, couldn't you? Even a Dutchess County millionaire can run a milk-route." "I don't desire to grow milk," explained Desboro pleasantly. Cairns regarded him with a grin of anxiety. "You're jingled," he concluded. "That is, you are as jingled as _you_ ever get. Why?" "No reason, thanks." "It isn't some girl, is it? _You_ never take them seriously. All the same, _is_ it?" Desboro smiled: "Do you think it's likely, dear friend?" "No, I don't. But whatever you're worrying about isn't improving your personal beauty. Since you hit this hamlet you've been on one continuous tootlebat. Why don't you go back to Westchester and hoe potatoes?" "One doesn't hoe them in January, you know," said Desboro, always deprecatingly polite. "Please cease to trouble yourself about me. I'm quite all right, thanks." "You've resigned from a lot of clubs and things, I hear." "Admirably reported, dear friend, and perfectly true." "Why?" "Motives of economy; nothing more serious, John." "You're not in any financial trouble, are you?" "I--ah--possibly have been a trifle indiscreet in my expenditures--a little unfortunate in my investments, perhaps. You are very kind to ask me. It may afford you some gratification to learn that eventually I anticipate an agreeable return to affluence." Cairns laughed: "You _are_ jingled all right," he said. "I recognise the urbane symptoms of your Desboro ancestors." "You flatter them and me," said Desboro, bowing. "They were the limit, and I'm nearing it." "Pardon! You have arrived, sir," said Cairns, returning the salute with exaggerated gravity. They parted with pomp and circumstance, Desboro to saunter back to his rooms and lie limply in his arm chair beside an empty fireplace until sleep overcame him where he sat. And he looked very young, and white, and somewhat battered as he lay there in the fading winter daylight. The ringing racket of his telephone bell aroused him in total darkness. Still confused by sleep, he groped for the electric light switch, could not find it; but presently his unsteady hand encountered the telephone, and he unhooked the receiver and set it to his ear. At first his imagination lied to him, and he thought it was Jacqueline's distant voice, though he knew in his heart it could not be. "Jim," repeated the voice, "what are you doing this evening?" "Nothing. I was asleep. It's you, Elena, isn't it?" "Of course. To whom are you in the habit of talking every evening at seven by special request?" "I didn't know it was seven." "That's flattering to me. Listen, Jim, I'm coming to see you." "I've told you a thousand times it can't be done----" "Do you mean that no woman has ever been in your apartments?" "You can't come," he repeated obstinately. "If you do, it ends my interest in your various sorrows. I mean it, Elena." She laughed: "I only wanted to be sure that you are still afraid of caring too much for me. Somebody told me a very horrid thing about you. It was probably a lie--as long as you are still afraid of me." He closed his eyes patiently and leaned his elbow on the desk, waiting for her to go on or to ring off. "Was it a lie, Jim?" "Was what a lie?" "That you are entertaining a very pretty girl at Silverwood House--unchaperoned?" "Do you think it likely?" "Why not? They say you've done it before." "Nobody has been there except on business. And, after all, you know, it doesn't----" "Yes, it does concern me! Oh, Jim, _are_ you being horrid--when I'm so unhappy and helpless----" "Be careful what you say over the wire!" "I don't care who hears me. If you mean anybody in your apartment house, they know my voice already. I want to see you, Jim----" "No!" "You said you'd be friendly to me!" "I am--by keeping away from you." "Do you mean that I am never to see you at all?" "You know well enough that it isn't best, under the circumstances." "You could come here if you only would. He is not in town to-night----" "Confound it, do you think I'm that sort?" "I think you are very absurd and not very consistent, considering the things that they say you are not too fastidious to do----" "Will you please be a little more reticent over the telephone!" "Then take me out to dinner somewhere, where we _can_ talk!" "I'm sorry, but it won't do." "I thought you'd say that. Very well, then, listen: they are singing _Ariane_ to-night; it's an 8:15 curtain. I'll be in the Barkley's box very early; nobody else will arrive before nine. Will you come to me at eight?" "Yes, I'll do that for a moment." "Thank you, dear. I just want to be happy for a few minutes. You don't mind, do you?" "It will be very jolly," he said vaguely. * * * * * The galleries were already filling, but there were very few people in the orchestra and nobody at all to be seen in the boxes when Desboro paused before a door marked with the Barkleys' name. After a second's hesitation, he turned the knob, stepped in, and found Mrs. Clydesdale already seated in the tiny foyer, under the hanging shadow of her ermine coat--a charming and youthful figure, eyes and cheeks bright with trepidation and excitement. "What the dickens do you suppose prompted Mrs. Hammerton to arrive at such an hour?" she said, extending her hand to Desboro. "That very wicked old cat got out of somebody's car just as I did, and I could feel her beady eyes boring into my back all the way up the staircase." "Do you mean Aunt Hannah?" "Yes, I do! What does she mean by coming here at such an unearthly hour? Don't go out into the box, Jim. She can see you from the orchestra. I'll wager that her opera glasses have been sweeping the house every second since she saw me!" "If she sees me she won't talk," he said, coolly. "I'm one of her exempts----" "Wait, Jim! What are you going to do?" "Let her see us both. I tell you she never talks about me, or anybody with whom I happen to be. It's the best way to avoid gossip, Elena----" "I don't want to risk it, Jim! Please don't! I'm in abject terror of that woman----" But Desboro had already stepped out to the box, and his keen, amused eyes very soon discovered the levelled glasses of Mrs. Hammerton. "Come here, Elena!" "Had I better?" "Certainly. I want her to see you. That's it! That's enough. She won't say a word about you now." Mrs. Clydesdale shrank back into the dim, rosy half-light of the box; Desboro looked down at Mrs. Hammerton and smiled; then rejoined his flushed companion. "Don't worry; Aunt Hannah's fangs are extracted for this evening. Elena, you are looking pretty enough to endanger the record of an aged saint! There goes that meaningless overture! What is it you have to say to me?" "Why are you so brusque with me, Jim?" "I'm not. But I don't want the Barkleys and their guests to find us here together." "Betty knows I care for you----" "Oh, Lord!" he said impatiently. "You always did care for anything that is just out of reach when you stand on tip-toe. You always were that way, Elena. When we were free to see each other you would have none of me." She was looking down while he spoke, smoothing one silken knee with her white-gloved hand. After a moment, she lifted her head. To his surprise, her eyes were brilliant with unshed tears. "You don't love me any more, do you, Jim?" "I--I have--it is about as it always will be with me. Circumstances have altered things." "_Is_ that all?" He thought for a moment, and his eyes grew sombre. "Jim! Are you going to marry somebody?" she said suddenly. He looked up with a startled laugh, not entirely agreeable. "Marry? No." "Is there any girl you want to marry?" "No. God forbid!" "Why do you say that? Is it because of what you know about marriages--like mine?" "Probably. And then some." "There are happy ones." "Yes, I've read about them." "But there really are, Jim." "Mention one." She mentioned several among people both knew. He smiled. Then she said, wearily: "There are plenty of decent people and decent marriages in the world. The people we play with are no good. It's only restlessness, idleness, and discontent that kills everything among people of our sort. I know I'm that way, too. But I don't believe I would be if I had married you." "You are mistaken." "Why? Don't you believe any marriage can be happy?" "Elena, have you ever heard of a honeymoon that lasts? Do you know how long any two people can endure each other without merciful assistance from a third? Don't you know that, sooner or later, any two people ever born are certain to talk each other out--pump each other dry--love each other to satiation--and ultimately recoil, each into the mysterious seclusion of its own individuality, from whence it emerged temporarily in order that the human race might not perish from the earth!" "What miserable lesson have you learned to teach you such a creed?" she asked. "I tell you the world is full of happy marriages--full of honoured husbands and beloved wives, and children worshipped and adored----" "Children, yes, they come the nearest to making the conventional contract endurable. I wish to God you had some!" "Jim!" He said, almost savagely: "If you _can_, and _don't_, you'll make a hell for yourself with any man, sooner or later--mark my words! And it isn't worth while to enact the hypocrisy of marriage with nothing more than legal license in view! Why bother with priest or clergyman? That contract won't last. And it's less trouble not to make one at all than to go West and break one." "Do you know you are talking very horridly to me?" she said. "Yes--I suppose I am. I've got to be going now, anyway----" As he spoke, the glittering house became dark; the curtain opened upon a dim scene of shadowy splendour, into which, exquisite and bewitchingly immortal as any goddess in the heavenly galaxy, glided Farrar, in the shimmering panoply of _Ariane_. [Illustration: "Desboro stood staring down at the magic picture. Mrs. Clydesdale, too, had risen"] Desboro stood staring down at the magic picture. Mrs. Clydesdale, too, had risen. Below them the beauty of Farrar's matchless voice possessed the vast obscurity, searching the darkness like a ray of crystal light. One by one the stone crypts opened, disclosing their tinted waterfalls of jewels. "I've got to go," he whispered. "Your people will be arriving." They moved silently to the door. "Jim?" "Yes." "There _is_ no other woman; is there?" "Not now." "Oh! _Was_ there?" "There might have been." "You mean--to--to marry?" "No." "Then--I suppose I can't help _that_ sort. Men are--that way. Was it that girl at Silverwood?" "No," he said, lying. "Oh! Who was that girl at Silverwood?" "A business acquaintance." "I hear she is unusually pretty." "Yes, very." "You found it necessary to be at Silverwood when she was there?" "Once or twice." "It is no longer necessary?" "No longer necessary." "So you won't see her again?" "No." "I'm glad. It hurt, Jim. Some people I know at Willow Lake saw her. They said she was unusually beautiful." "Elena," he said, "will you kindly come to your senses? I'm not going to marry anybody; but that doesn't concern you. I advise you to attend to your own life's business--which is to have children and bring them up more decently than the present generation are being brought up in this fool of a town! If nothing else will make your husband endurable, children will come nearest to it----" "Jim--please----" "For heaven's sake, don't cry!" he whispered. "I--won't. Dear, don't you realise that you are all I have in the world----" "We haven't got each other, I tell you, and we're not going to have each other----" "Yes--but don't take anybody else--marry anyone----" "I won't. Control yourself!" "Promise me!" "Yes, I do. Go forward into the box; those people will be arriving----" "Do you promise?" "Yes, if you want me to. Go forward; nobody can see you in the dark. Good-bye----" "Good-bye, dear. And thank you----" He coolly ignored the upturned face; she caught his hand in a flash of impatient passion, then, with a whispered word, turned and went forward, mistress of herself again, to sit there for an hour or two and witness a mystery that has haunted the human heart for aeons, unexpressed. On the fifth day, Desboro remained indoors and wrote business letters until late in the afternoon. Toward evening he telephoned to Mrs. Quant to find out whether everything was being done to render Miss Nevers's daily sojourn at Silverwood House agreeable. He learned that everything was being done, that the young lady in question had just departed for New York, and, furthermore, that she had inquired of Mrs. Quant whether Mr. Desboro was not coming soon to Silverwood, desiring to be informed because she had one or two business matters on which to consult him. "Hold the wire," he said, and left it for a few moments' swift pacing to and fro. Then he came again to the telephone. "Ask Miss Nevers to be kind enough to write me about the matters she has in mind, because I can not leave town at present." "Yes, Mr. James. Are you well, sir?" "Perfectly." "Thank you, sir. If you feel chilly like at night----" "But I don't. Good-night!" He dressed, dined at the club, and remained there reading the papers until he had enough of their complacent ignorance. Then he went home, still doggedly refusing to attempt to analyse the indirect message from Jacqueline. If it had any significance other than its apparent purport, he grimly refused to consider even such a possibility. And, deadly weary at last, he fell asleep and slept until late in the morning. It was snowing hard when he awoke. His ablutions ended, he rang for breakfast. On his tray was a note from the girl in blue; he read it and dropped it into his pocket, remembering the fireplace sacrifice of a few days ago at Silverwood, and realising that such frivolous souvenirs were beginning to accumulate again. He breakfasted without interest, unfolded the morning paper, glanced over the headlines, and saw that there was a little more murder, divorce, and boot-licking than he cared for, laid it aside, and lighted a cigarette. As he dropped the burnt match on the tray, he noticed under it another letter which he had overlooked among the bills and advertisements composing the bulk of the morning mail. For a little while he held the envelope in his hand, not looking at it; then, with careless deliberation, he cut it open, using a paper knife, and drew out the letter. As he slowly opened it his hands shook in spite of him. "MY DEAR MR. DESBORO: I telephoned Mrs. Quant last night and learned that she had given you my message over the wire only a few minutes before; and that you had sent word you could not come to Silverwood, but that I might communicate with you by letter. "This is what I had to say to you: There is a suit of armour here which is in a very bad condition. It will be expensive to have it repaired by a good armourer. Did you wish to include it in the sale as it is, or have it repaired? It is No. 41 in the old list; No. 69 in my catalogue, now almost completed and ready for the printer. It is that rather unusual suit of black plate-mail, called 'Brigandine Armour,' a XV century suit from Aragon; and the quilted under-jacket has been ruined by moths and has gone completely to pieces. It is a very valuable suit. "Would you tell me what to do? "Very sincerely yours, "JACQUELINE NEVERS." An hour later he still sat there with the letter in his hand, gazing at nothing. And until the telephone beside him rang twice he had not stirred. "Who is it?" he asked finally. At the reply his face altered subtly, and he bowed his head to listen. The distant voice spoke again, and: "Silverwood?" he asked. "Yes, here's your party." An interval filled with a vague whirring, then: "Mr. Desboro?" "Yes. Good-morning, Miss Nevers." "Good-morning. Have you a note from me?" "Yes, thank you. It came this morning. I was just reading it--again." "I thought I ought to consult you in such a matter." "Certainly." "Then--what are your wishes?" "My wishes are yours." "I cannot decide such a matter. It will be very expensive----" "If it is worth the cost to you, it is worth it to me." "I don't know what you mean. The burden of decision lies with you this time, doesn't it?" "With us both. Unless you wish me to assume it." "But it _is_ yours to assume!" "If you wish, then. But I may ask your opinion, may I not?" There was a silence, then: "Whatever you do I approve. I have no--opinion." "You do not approve _all_ I do." The rejoinder came faintly: "How do you know?" "I--wrote to you. Do you approve my writing to you?" "Yes. If _you_ do." "And do you approve of what I wrote?" "Not of _all_ that you wrote." "I wrote that I would not see you again." "Yes." "Do you think that is best?" "I--do not think about it." He said: "That, also, is best. Don't think of it at all. And about the armour, do exactly what you would do if you were in my place. Good-bye." "Mr. Desboro----" "Yes." "Could you wait a moment? I am trying to think----" "Don't try, Jacqueline!" "Please wait--for me!" There was a silence; a tiny spot of blood reddened his bitten lip before she spoke again; then: "I wished to tell you something. I knew why you wrote. Is it right for me to tell you that I understood you? I wanted to write and say so, and--say something else--about how I felt--but it seems I can't. Only--we could be friends more easily now--if you wish." "You have not understood!" he said. "Yes, I have, Mr. Desboro. But we _can_ be friends?" "Could you be _mine_, after what I have written?" "I thought I couldn't, at first. But that day was a--long one. And when a girl is much alone she becomes very honest with herself. And it all was entirely new to me. I didn't know what I ought to have done about it--only what I wished to do." "And--what is that, Jacqueline?" "Make things as they were--before----" "Before I wrote?" "Yes." "All up to that time you wish might be again as it was? _All?_" No answer. "All?" he repeated. "Don't ask me. I don't know--I don't know what I think any more." "How deeply do you suppose I feel about it?" "I did not know you felt anything very deeply." There was a long pause, then her voice again: "You know--you need not be afraid. I did not know enough to be until you wrote. But I understand, now." He said: "It will be all right, then. It will be quite all right, Jacqueline. I'll come up on the noon train." * * * * * His car met him at the station. The snow had melted and the wet macadam road glittered under a declining winter sun, as the car rolled smoothly away through the still valleys of Westchester. Mrs. Quant, in best bib and tucker and lilac ribbons, welcomed him, and almost wept at his pallor; but he shrugged impatiently and sprang up the low steps. Here the necessity for self-control stopped him short on his way to the armoury. He turned to Mrs. Quant with an effort: "Is everything all right?" "No, Mr. James. Phibby broke a cup and saucer Saturday, and there is new kittens in the laundry--which makes nine cats----" "Oh, all right! Miss Nevers is here?" "Yes, sir--in the liberry--which ain't been dusted right by that Phibby minx----" "Tell Phoebe to dust it!" he said sternly. "Do you suppose Miss Nevers cares to handle dirty books!" His restless glance fell on the clock: "Tell Farris I'm here and that Miss Nevers and I will lunch as soon as it's served. And say to Miss Nevers that I'll be down in a few minutes." He turned and mounted the stairs to his room, and found it full of white, clove-scented carnations. Mrs. Quant came panting after him: "Miss Nevers, she cut them in the greenhouse, and told me to put 'em in your room, sayin' as how clove pinks is sanitary. Would you--would you try a few m-m-magic drops, Mr. James, sir? Miss Nevers takes 'em regular." "Oh, Lord!" he exclaimed, laughing in sheer exuberance of spirits. "I'll swallow anything you like, only hurry!" She dosed him with great content, he, both hands in soap-suds, turning his head to receive the potion. And at last, ablutions finished, he ran down the stairs, checked himself, and managed to stroll leisurely through the hall and into the library. She was writing; looked up, suddenly pale under her golden crown of hair; and the red lips quivered, but her eyes were steady. She bent her head again, both hands abandoned to him, sitting in silence while his lips rested against her fingers. "Is all well with you, Jacqueline?" "Yes. And with you?" "All is well with me. I missed you--if you know what that really means." "Did you?" "Yes. Won't you even look at me?" "In a moment. Do you see all these piles of manuscript? All that is your new catalogue--and mine," she added, with a faint smile; but her head remained averted. "You wonderful girl!" he said softly. "You wonderful girl!" "Thank you. It was a labor of--pleasure." Colour stole to the tips of her ears. "I have worked--worked--every minute since----" "Yes." "Really, I have--every minute. But somehow, it didn't seem to tire me. To-day--now--I begin to feel a little tired." She rested her cheek on one hand, still looking away from him. "I took a peep into the porcelain and jade rooms," she said, "just a glance over what lies before me. Mrs. Quant very kindly gave me the keys. Did you mind?" "Do I mind anything that it pleases you to do? What did you find in the jade room?" She smiled: "Jadeite, of course; and lapis and crystals--the usual." "Any good ones?" "Some are miracles. I don't really know, yet; I gave just one swift glance and fled--because you see I haven't finished in the armoury, and I ought not to permit myself the pleasures of curiosity." "The pleasures of curiosity and of anticipation are the only real ones. Sages have said it." She shook her head. "Isn't it true?" he insisted. She looked up at him at last, frank-eyed but flushed: [Illustration: "'Which is the real pleasure?' she asked"] "Which is the real pleasure," she asked, "seeing each other, or anticipating the--the resumption of the entente cordial?" "You've smashed the sages and their philosophy," he nodded, studying the exquisite, upturned features unsmilingly. "To be with you is the greater--content. It's been a long time, hasn't it?" She nodded thoughtfully: "Five days and a half." "You--counted them, too?" "Yes." This wouldn't do. He rose and walked over to the fire, which needed a log or two; she turned and looked after him with little expression in her face except that the blue of her eyes had deepened to a lilac tint, and the flush on her cheeks still remained. "You know," she said, "I didn't mean to take you from any business in New York--or pleasures----" He shuddered slightly. "Did I?" she asked. "No." "I only wished you to come--when you had time----" "I know, Jacqueline. Don't show me your soul in every word you utter." "What?" He turned on his heel and came back to her, and she shrank a little, not knowing why; but he came no nearer than her desk. [Illustration: "'The thing to do,' he said ... 'is for us both to keep very busy'"] "The thing to do," he said, speaking with forced animation and at random, "is for us both to keep very busy. I think I'll go into farming--raise some dinky thing or other--that's what I'll do. I'll go in for the country squire business--that's what I'll do. And I'll have my neighbours in. I'm never here long enough to ask 'em. They're a funny lot; they're all right, though--deadly respectable. I'll give a few parties--ask some people from town, too. Betty Barkley could run the conventional end of it. And you'd come floating in with other unattached girls----" "You want _me_!" He said, astonished: "Well, why on earth do you suppose I'm taking the trouble to ask the others?" "You want _me_--to come--where your friends----" "Don't you care to?" "I--don't know." The surprise of it still widened her eyes and parted her lips a little. She looked up at him, perplexed, encountered something in his eyes which made her cheeks redden again. "What would they think?" she asked. "Is there anything to think?" "N-no. But they don't know who I am. And I have nobody to vouch for me." "You ought to have a companion." "I don't want any----" "Of course; but you ought to have one. Can you afford one?" "I don't know. I don't know what they--they cost----" "Let me fix that up," he said, with animation. "Let me think it out. I know a lot of people--I know some indigent and respectable old terrors who ought to fill the bill and hold their tongues as long as their salary is paid----" "Oh, please don't, Mr. Desboro!" He seated himself on the arm of her chair: "Jacqueline, dear, it's only for your sake----" "But I _did_ understand your letter!" "I know--I know. I just want to see you with other people. I just want to have them see you----" "But I don't need a chaperon. Business women are understood, aren't they? Even women whom you know go in for house decoration, and cigarette manufacturing, and tea rooms, and hats and gowns." "But they were socially known before they went in for these things. It's the way of the world, Jacqueline--nothing but suspicion when intelligence and beauty step forward from the ranks. And what do you suppose would happen if a man of my sort attempts to vouch for any woman?" "Then don't--please don't try! I don't care for it--truly I don't. It was nice of you to wish it, Mr. Desboro, but--I'd rather be just what I am and--your friend." "It can't be," he said, under his breath. But she heard him, looked up dismayed, and remained mute, crimsoning to the temples. "This oughtn't to go on," he said, doggedly. She said: "You have not understood me. I am different from you. You are not to blame for thinking that we are alike at heart; but, nevertheless, it is a mistake. I can be what I will--not what I once seemed to be--for a moment--with you--" Her head sank lower and remained bowed; and he saw her slender hands tightening on the arm of the chair. "I--I've got to be honest," she said under her breath. "I've got to be--in every way. I know it perfectly well, Mr. Desboro. Men seem to be different--I don't know why. But they seem to be, usually. And all I want is to remain friends with you--and to remember that we are friends when I am at work somewhere. I just want to be what I am, a business woman with sufficient character and intelligence to be your friend quietly--not even for one evening in competition with women belonging to a different life--women with wit and beauty and charm and savoir faire----" "Jacqueline!" he broke out impulsively. "I want you to be my guest here. Won't you let me arrange with some old gorgon to chaperon you? I can do it! And with the gorgon's head on your moral shield you can silence anybody!" He began to laugh; she sat twisting her fingers on her lap and looking up at him in a lovely, distressed sort of way, so adorably perplexed and yet so pliable, so soft and so apprehensive, that his laughter died on his lips, and he sat looking down at her in silence. After a while he spoke again, almost mechanically: "I'm trying to think how we can best be on equal terms, Jacqueline. That is all. After your work is done here, I want to see you here and elsewhere--I want you to come back at intervals, as my guest. Other people will ask you. Other people must be here, too, when you are. I know some who will accept you on your merits--if you are properly chaperoned. That is all I am thinking about. It's fairer to you." But even to himself his motive was not clear--only the rather confused idea persisted that women in his own world knew how to take care of themselves, whatever they chose to do about it--that Jacqueline would stand a fairer chance with herself, and with him, whatever his intentions might really be. It would be a squarer deal, that was all. She sat thinking, one slim forefinger crook'd under her chin; and he saw her blue eyes deep in thought, and the errant lock curling against her cheek. Then she raised her head and looked at him: "Do you think it best?" "Yes--you adorable little thing!" She managed to sustain his gaze: "Could you find a lady gorgon?" "I'm sure I can. Shall I?" "Yes." A moment later Farris announced luncheon. A swarm of cats greeted them at the door, purring and waiving multi-coloured tails, and escorted them to the table, from whence they knew came the delectable things calculated to satisfy the inner cat. CHAPTER VIII The countryside adjacent to Silverwood was eminently and self-consciously respectable. The fat, substantial estates still belonged to families whose forefathers had first taken title to them. There were, of course, a number of "colonial" houses, also a "colonial" inn, The Desboro Arms, built to look as genuine as possible, although only two years old, steam heated, and electric lighted. But things "colonial" were the traditional capital of Silverwood, and its thrifty and respectable inhabitants meant to maintain the "atmosphere." To that end they had solemnly subscribed a very small sum for an inn sign to swing in front of The Desboro Arms; the wheelwright painted it; somebody fired a shotgunful of antiquity into it, and American weather was rapidly doing the rest, with a gratifying result which no degenerate European weather could have accomplished in half a century of rain and sunshine. The majority of the mansions in Silverwood township were as inoffensively commonplace as the Desboro house. Few pre-Revolutionary structures survived; the British had burned the countryside from Major Lockwood's mansion at Pound Ridge all the way to Bedford Village and across to the Connecticut line. With few exceptions, Silverwood houses had shared the common fate when Tarleton and DeLancy galloped amuck among the Westchester hills; but here and there some sad old mansion still remained and was reverently cherished, as was also the graveyard, straggling up the hill, set with odd old headstones, upon which most remarkable cherubim smirked under a gladly permitted accumulation of lichen. Age, thrift, substance, respectability--these were the ideals of Silverwood; and Desboro and his doings would never have been tolerated there had it not been that a forbear of his, a certain dissolute half-pay captain, had founded the community in 1680. This sacred colonial fact had been Desboro's social salvation, for which, however, he did not seem to care very much. Good women continued to be acidly civil to him on this account, and also because Silverwood House and its estates could no more be dropped from the revered galaxy of the county than could a star be cast out of their country's flag for frivolous behavior. So worthy men endured him, and irreproachable women grieved for him, although it was rumoured that he gave parties now and then which real actresses had actually attended. Also, though he always maintained the Desboro pew in church, he never decorated it with his person. Nor could the countryside count on him socially, except at eccentric intervals when his careless, graceful presence made the Westchester gaiety seem rather stiff and pallid, and gave the thin, sour claret an unwonted edge. And another and radical incompatibility; the Desboros were the only family of Cavalier descent in the township. And deep in the hearts of Silverwood folk the Desboros had ever seemed a godless race. Now, there had been already some gossip among the Westchester hills concerning recent doings at Silverwood House. Even when it became known that the pretty girl who sped to and fro in Desboro's limousine, between house and station, was a celebrated art expert, and was engaged in cataloguing the famous Desboro collection, God-fearing people asked each other why Desboro should find it necessary to meet her at the station in the morning, and escort her back in the evening; and whether it were actually obligatory for him to be present while the cataloguing was in progress. Westchester womanhood was beginning to look wan and worried; substantial gentlemen gazed inquiringly at each other over the evening chess-board; several flippant young men almost winked at each other. But these latter had been accustomed to New York, and were always under suspicion in their own families. Therefore, it was with relief and surprise that Silverwood began to observe Desboro in furs, driving a rakish runabout, and careering about Westchester with Vail, his head farmer, seated beside him, evidently intent on committing future agriculture--palpably planning for two grass-blades where only one, or a mullein, had hitherto flourished within the memory of living man. Fertiliser in large loads was driven into the fallow fields of the Desboros; brush and hedges and fences were being put in order. People beheld these radical preliminaries during afternoon drives in their automobiles; local tradesmen reported purchases of chemicals for soil enriching, and the sale of all sorts of farm utensils to Desboro's agent. At the Country Club all this was gravely discussed; patriarchs mentioned it over their checkers; maidens at bowls or squash or billiards listened to the exciting tale, wide-eyed; hockey, ski, or skating parties gossiped recklessly about it. The conclusion was that Desboro had already sowed his wilder oats; and the worthy community stood watching for the prodigal's return, intending to meet him while yet he was far off. He dropped in at the Country Club one day, causing a little less flutter than a hawk in a hen-yard. Within a week he had drifted casually into the drawing-rooms of almost all his father's old friends for a cup of tea or an informal chat--or for nothing in particular except to saunter into his proper place among them with all of the Desboro grace and amiable insouciance which they had learned to tolerate but never entirely to approve or understand. It was not quite so casually that he stopped at the Hammerton's. And he was given tea and buns by Mrs. Hammerton, perfectly unsuspicious of his motives. Her husband came rambling in from the hothouses, presently, where he spent most of his serious life in pinching back roses and chrysanthemums; and he extended to Desboro a large, flat and placid hand. "Aunt Hannah and Daisy are out--somewhere--" he explained vaguely. "You must have passed them on the way." "Yes, I saw Daisy in the distance, exercising an old lady," said Desboro carelessly. He did not add that the sight of Aunt Hannah marching across the Westchester horizon had inspired him with an idea. From her lair in town, she had come hither, for no love of her nephew and his family, nor yet for Westchester, but solely for economy's bitter sake. She made such pilgrimages at intervals every year, upsetting the Hammerton household with her sarcasms, her harsh, high-keyed laughter, her hardened ways of defining the word "spade"--for Aunt Hannah was a terror that Westchester dreaded but never dreamed of ignoring, she being a wayward daughter of the sacred soil, strangely and weirdly warped from long transplanting among the gay and godless of Gotham town. And though her means, after her husband's scared soul had taken flight, were painfully attenuated, the high priests and captains among the gay and godless feared her, and she bullied them; and she and they continued to foregather from sheer tradition, but with mutual and sincere dislike. For Aunt Hannah's name would always figure among the names of certain metropolitan dowagers, dragons, gorgons, and holy harridans; always be connected with certain traditional social events as long as the old lady lived. And she meant to survive indefinitely, if she had anything to say about it. She came in presently with Daisy Hammerton. The latter gave her hand frankly to her childhood's comrade; the former said: "Hah! James Desboro!" very disagreeably, and started to nourish herself at once with tea and muffins. "James Desboro," she repeated scornfully, darting a wicked glance at him where he stood smiling at her, "James Desboro, turning plow-boy in Westchester! What's the real motive? That's what interests me. I'm a bad old woman--I know it! All over paint and powder, and with too small a foot and too trim a figger to be anything except wicked. Lindley knows it; it makes his fingers tremble when he pinches crysanthemums; Susan knows it; so does Daisy. And I admit it. And that's why I'm suspicious of you, James; I'm so wicked myself. Come, now; why play the honest yokel? Eh? You good-looking good-for-nothing!" "My motive," he said amiably, "is to make a living and learn what it feels like." "Been stock-gambling again?" "Yes, dear lady." "Lose much?" she sniffed. "Not a very great deal." "Hah! And now you've got to raise the wind, somehow?" He repeated, good-humouredly: "I want to make a living." The trim little old lady darted another glance at him. "Ha--ha!" she laughed, without giving any reason for the disagreeable burst of mirth; and started in on another muffin. "I think," said Mr. Hammerton, vaguely, "that James will make an excellent agriculturist----" "Excellent fiddlesticks!" observed Aunt Hannah. "He'd make a good three-card man." Daisy Hammerton said aside to Desboro: "Isn't she a terror!" "Oh, she likes me!" he said, amused. "I know she does, immensely. She makes me take her for an hour's walk every day--and I'm so tired of exercising her and listening to her--unconventional stories--about you." "She's a bad old thing," said Desboro affectionately, and, in his natural voice: "Aren't you, Aunt Hannah? But there isn't a smarter foot, or a prettier hand, or a trimmer waist in all Gotham, is there?" "Philanderer!" she retorted, in a high-pitched voice. "What about that Van Alstyne supper at the Santa Regina?" "Which one?" he asked coolly. "Stuyve is always giving 'em." "Read the _Tattler_!" said the old lady, seizing more muffins. Mrs. Hammerton closed her tight lips and glanced uneasily at her daughter. Daisy sipped her tea demurely. She had read all about it, and burned the paper in her bedroom grate. Desboro gracefully ignored the subject; the old lady laughed shrilly once or twice, and the conversation drifted toward the more decorous themes of pinching back roses and mixing plant-food, and preparing nourishment for various precocious horticultural prodigies now developing in Lindley Hammerton's hothouses. Daisy Hammerton, a dark young girl, with superb eyes and figure, chatted unconcernedly with Desboro, making a charming winter picture in her scarlet felt hat and jacket, from which the black furs had fallen back. She went in for things violent and vigorous, and no nonsense; rode as hard as she could in such a country, played every game that demanded quick eye and flexible muscle--and, in secret, alas, wrote verses and short stories unanimously rejected by even the stodgier periodicals. But nobody suspected her of such weakness--not even her own mother. Desboro swallowed his tea and took leave of his rose-pinching host and hostess, and their sole and lovely progeny, also, perhaps, the result of scientific concentration. Aunt Hannah retained his hand: "Where are you going now, James?" "Nowhere--home," he said, pretending embarrassment, which was enough to interest Aunt Hannah in the trap. "Oh! Nowhere--home!" she mimicked him. "Where is 'nowhere home'? Somewhere out? I've a mind to go with you. What do you say to that, young man?" "Come along," he said, a shade too promptly; and the little, bright, mink-like eyes sparkled with malice. The trap was sprung, and Aunt Hannah was in it. But she didn't yet suspect it. "Slip on my fur coat for me," she said. "I'll take a spin with you in your runabout." "You overwhelm me," he protested, holding up the fur coat. "I may do that yet, my clever friend! Come on! No shilly-shallying! Susan! Tell your maid to lay out that Paquin gown which broke my financial backbone last month! I'll bring James back to dinner--or know the reason why!" "I'll tell you why not, now," said Desboro. "I'm going to town early this evening." "Home, nowhere, and then to town," commented Aunt Hannah loudly. "A multi-nefarious destination. James, if you run into the _Ewigkeit_ by way of a wire fence or a tree, I'll come every night and haunt you! But don't poke along as Lindley pokes, or I'll take the wheel myself." The deaf head-farmer, Vail, who had kept the engine going for fear of freezing, left the wheel and crawled resignedly into the tonneau. Aunt Hannah and Desboro stowed themselves aboard; the swift car went off like a firecracker, then sped away into the darkness at such a pace that presently Aunt Hannah put her marmot-like face close to Desboro's ear and swore at him. "Didn't you want speed?" he asked, slowing down. "Where are you going, James--home, or nowhere?" "Nowhere." "Well, we arrived there long ago. Now, go home--_your_ home." "Sure, but I've got to catch that train----" "Oh, you'll catch it--or something else. James?" "Madame?" "Some day I want to take a look at that young woman who is cataloguing your collection." "That's just what I want you to do now," he said cheerfully. "I'm taking her to New York this evening." Aunt Hannah, astonished and out of countenance, remained mute, her sharp nose buried in her furs. She had been trapped, and she knew it. Then her eyes glittered: "You're being talked about," she said with satisfaction. "So is she! Ha!" "Much?" he asked coolly. "No. The good folk are only asking each other why you meet her at the station with your car. They think she carries antique gems in her satchel. Later they'll suspect who the real jewel is. Ha!" "I like her; that's why I meet her," he said coolly. "You _like_ her?" "I sure do. She is some girl, dear lady." "Do you think your pretense of guileless candour is disarming me, young man?" "I haven't the slightest hope of disarming you or of concealing anything from you." "Follows," she rejoined ironically, "that there's nothing to conceal. Bah!" "Quite right; there is nothing to conceal." "What do you want with her, then?" "Initially, I want her to catalogue my collection; subsequently, I wish to remain friends with her. The latter wish is becoming a problem. I've an idea that you might solve it." "_Friends_ with her," repeated Aunt Hannah. "Oh, my! "'And angels whisper Lo! the pretty pair!' "I suppose! Is that the hymn-tune, James?" "Precisely." "What does she resemble--Venus, or Rosa Bonheur?" "Look at her and make up your mind." "Is she _very_ pretty?" "_I_ think so. She's thin." "Then what do you see unusual about her?" "Everything, I think." "Everything--he thinks! Oh, my sense of humour!" "That," said Desboro, "is partly what I count on." "Have you any remote and asinine notions of educating her and marrying her, and foisting her on your friends? There are a few fools still alive on earth, you know." "So I've heard. I haven't the remotest idea of marrying her; she is better fitted to educate me than I am her. Not guilty on these two counts. But I had thought of foisting some of my friends on her. You, for example." Aunt Hannah glared at him--that is, her tiny eyes became almost luminous, like the eyes of small animals at night, surprised by a sudden light. "I know what you're meditating!" she snapped. "I suppose you do, by this time." "You're very impudent. Do you know it?" "Lord, Aunt Hannah, so are you!" he drawled. "But it takes genius to get away with it." The old lady was highly delighted, but she concealed it and began such a rapid-fire tirade against him that he was almost afraid it might bewilder him enough to affect his steering. "Talk to _me_ of disinterested friendship between you and a girl of that sort!" she ended. "Not that I'd care, if I found material in her to amuse me, and a monthly insult drawn to my order against a solvent bank balance! What is she, James; a pretty blue-stocking whom nobody 'understands' except you?" "Make up your own mind," he repeated, as he brought around the car and stopped before his own doorstep. "I'm not trying to tell _you_ anything. She is here. Look at her. If you like her, be her friend--and mine." Jacqueline had waited tea for him; the table was in the library, kettle simmering over the silver lamp; and the girl was standing before the fire, one foot on the fender, her hands loosely linked behind her back. She glanced up with unfeigned pleasure as his step sounded outside along the stone hallway; and the smile still remained, curving her lips, but died out in her eyes, as Mrs. Hammerton marched in, halted, and stared at her unwinkingly. Desboro presented them; Jacqueline came forward, offering a shy hand to Aunt Hannah, and, bending her superb young head, looked down into the beady eyes which were now fairly electric with intelligence. Desboro began, easily: "I asked Mrs. Hammerton to have tea with----" "I asked myself," remarked Aunt Hannah, laying her other hand over Jacqueline's--she did not know just why--perhaps because she was vain of her hands, as well as of her feet and "figger." She seated herself on the sofa and drew Jacqueline down beside her. "This young man tells me that you are cataloguing his grandfather's accumulation of ancient tin-ware." "Yes," said Jacqueline, already afraid of her. And the old lady divined it, too, with not quite as much pleasure as it usually gave her to inspire trepidation in others. Her shrill voice was a little modified when she said: "Where did you learn to do such things? It's not usual, you know." "You have heard of Jean Louis Nevers," suggested Desboro. "Yes--" Mrs. Hammerton turned and looked at the girl again. "Oh!" she said. "I've heard Cary Clydesdale speak of you, haven't I?" Jacqueline made a slight, very slight, but instinctive movement away from the old lady, on whom nothing that happened was lost. "Mr. Clydesdale," said Mrs. Hammerton, "told several people where I was present that you knew more about antiquities in art than anybody else in New York since your father died. That's what he said about you." Jacqueline said: "Mr. Clydesdale has been very kind to me." "Kindness to people is also a Clydesdale tradition--isn't it, James?" said the old lady. "How kind Elena has always been to you!" The covert impudence of Aunt Hannah, and her innocent countenance, had no significance for Jacqueline--would have had no meaning at all except for the dark flush of anger that mounted so suddenly to Desboro's forehead. He said steadily: "The Clydesdales are very old friends, and are naturally kind. Why you don't like them I never understood." "Perhaps you can understand why one of them doesn't like me, James." "Oh! I can understand why many people are not crazy about you, Aunt Hannah," he said, composedly. "Which is going some," said the old lady, with a brisk and unabashed employment of the vernacular. Then, turning to Jacqueline: "Are you going to give this young man some tea, my child? He requires a tonic." Jacqueline rose and seated herself at the table, thankful to escape. Tea was soon ready; Aunt Hannah, whose capacity for browsing was infinite, began on jam and biscuits without apology. And Jacqueline and Desboro exchanged their first furtive glances--dismayed and questioning on the girl's part, smilingly reassuring on Desboro's. Aunt Hannah, looking intently into her teacup, missed nothing. "Come to see me!" she said so abruptly that even Desboro started. [Illustration: "'I--I beg your pardon,' said Jacqueline"] "I--I beg your pardon," said Jacqueline, not understanding. "Come to see me in town. I've a rotten little place in a fashionable apartment house--one of the Park Avenue kind, which they number instead of calling it the 'Buena Vista' or the 'Hiawatha.' Will you come?" "Thank you." The old lady looked at her grimly: "What does 'thank you' mean? Yes or no? Because I really want you. Don't you wish to come?" "I would be very glad to come--only, you know, I am in business--and go out very little----" "Except on business," added Desboro, looking Aunt Hannah unblushingly in the eye until she wanted to pinch him. Instead, she seized another biscuit, which Farris presented on a tray, smoking hot, and applied jam to it vigorously. After she had consumed it, she rose and marched around the room, passing the portraits and book shelves in review. Half turning toward Jacqueline: "I haven't been in the musty old mansion for years; that young man never asks me. But I used to know the house. It was this sort of house that drove me out of Westchester, and I vowed I'd marry a New York man or nobody. Do you know, child, that there is a sort of simpering smugness about a house like this that makes me inclined to kick dents in the furniture?" Jacqueline ventured to smile; Desboro's smile responded in sympathy. "I'm going home," announced Aunt Hannah. "Good-bye, Miss Nevers. I don't want you to drive me, James; I'd rather have your man take me back. Besides, you've a train to catch, I understand----" She turned and looked at Jacqueline, who had risen, and they stood silently inspecting each other. Then, with a grim nod, as though partly of comprehension, partly in adieu, Aunt Hannah sailed out. Desboro tucked her in beside Vail. The latter being quite deaf, they talked freely under his very nose. "James!" "Yes, dear lady." "You gave _yourself_ away about Elena Clydesdale. Haven't you any control over your countenance?" "Sometimes. But don't do that again before _her_! The story is a lie, anyway." "So I've heard--from you. Tell me, James, do you think this little Nevers girl dislikes me?" "Do you want her to?" "No. You're a very clever young one, aren't you? Really quite an expert! Do you know, I don't think that girl would care for what I might have to offer her. There's more to her than to most people." "How do you know? She scarcely spoke a word." The old lady laughed scornfully: "I know people by what they _don't_ say. That's why I know you so much better than you think I do--you and Elena Clydesdale. And _I_ don't think you're much good, James--or some of your married friends, either." She settled down among the robes, with a bright, impertinent glance at him. He shrugged, standing bareheaded by the mud-guard, a lithe, handsome young fellow. "--A Desboro all over," she thought, with a mental sniff of admiration. "Are you going to speak to Miss Nevers?" she asked, abruptly. "About what!" "About employing me, you idiot!" "Yes, if you like. If she comes up here as my guest, she'll need a gorgon." "I'll gorgon you," she retorted, wrathfully. "Thanks. So you'll accept the--er--job?" "Of course, if she wishes. I need the money. It's purely mercenary on my part." "That's understood." "Are you going to tell her I'm mercenary?" "Naturally." "Well, then--_don't_--if you don't mind. Do you think I want _every_ living creature to detest me?" "_I_ don't detest you. And you have an unterrified tabby-cat at home, haven't you?" She could have boxed his ears as he leaned over and deliberately kissed her cheek. "I love you because you're so bad," he whispered; and, stepping lightly aside, nodded to Vail to go ahead. The limousine, acetylenes shining, rolled up as the other car departed. He went back to the library and found Jacqueline pinning on her hat. "Well?" he inquired gaily. "Why did you bring her, Mr. Desboro?" "Didn't you like her?" "Who is she?" "A Mrs. Hannah Hammerton. She knows everybody. Most people are afraid of her. She's poor as a guinea-pig." "She was beautifully gowned." "She always is. Poor Aunt Hannah!" "Is she your aunt?" "No, she's Lindley Hammerton's aunt--a neighbour of mine. I call her that; it made her very mad in the beginning, but she rather likes it now. You'll go to call on her, won't you?" Jacqueline turned to him, drawing on her gloves: "Mr. Desboro, I don't wish to be rude; and, anyway, she will forget that she asked me in another half-hour. Why should I go to see her?" "Because she's one species of gorgon. Now, do you understand?" "What!" "Of course. It isn't a case of pin-money with her; it's a case of clothing, rent, and nourishment. A microscopic income, supplemented by gifts, commissions, and odd social jobs, keeps her going. What you and I want of her is for her to be seen at various times with you. She'll do the rest in talking about you--'my unusually talented young friend, Miss Nevers,' and that sort of thing. It will deceive nobody; but you'll eventually meet some people--she knows all kinds. The main point is that when I ask you here she'll bring you. People will understand that you are another of her social enterprises, for which she's paid. But it won't count against you. It will depend on yourself entirely how you are received. And not a soul will be able to say a word--" he laughed, "--except that I am very devoted to the beautiful Miss Nevers--as everybody else will be." Jacqueline remained motionless for a few moments, an incomprehensible expression on her face; then she went over to him and took one of his hands in her gloved ones, and stood looking down at it in silence. "Well," he asked, smiling. She said, still looking down at his hand lying between her own: "You have behaved in the sweetest way to me--" Her voice grew unsteady, and she turned her head sharply away. "Jacqueline!" he exclaimed under his breath. "It's a broken reed you're trusting. Don't, dear. I'm like all the others." She shook her head slightly, still looking away from him. After a short silence, her voice returned to her control again. "You are very kind to me, Mr. Desboro. When a man sees that a girl likes him--and is kind to her--it is wonderful to her." He tried to take a lighter tone. "It's the case of the beast born in captivity, Jacqueline. I'm only going through the tricks convention has taught me. But every instinct remains unaltered." "That _is_ civilisation, isn't it?" "Oh, I don't know what it is--you wonderful little thing!" He caught her hand, then encircled her waist, drawing her close. After a moment, she dropped her big, fluffy muff on his shoulder and hid her flushed face in the fur. "Don't trust me, will you?" he said, bluntly. "No." "Because I--I'm an unaccountable beast." "We--both have to account--sometime--to somebody. Don't we?" she said in a muffled voice. "That would never check me." "It would--me." "Spiritual responsibility?" "Yes." "Is that _all_?" "What else is there to remember--when a girl--cares for a man." "Do you really care very much?" Perhaps she considered the question superfluous, for she remained silent until his nerveless arm released her. Then she lifted her face from the muff. It was pale but smiling when he met her eyes. "I'll go to see Mrs. Hammerton, some day," she said, "because it would hurt too much not to be able to come here when you ask me--and other people--like the--the Clydesdales. You _were_ thinking of me when you thought of this, weren't you?" "In a way. A girl has got to reckon with what people say." She nodded, pale and expressionless, slowly brushing up the violets fastened to her muff. Farris appeared, announced the time, and held Desboro's coat. They had just margin enough to make their train. CHAPTER IX The following morning, Aunt Hannah returned to her tiny apartment on Park Avenue, financially benefitted by her Westchester sojourn, having extracted a bolt of Chinese loot-silk for a gown from her nephew's dismayed wife, and the usual check from her nephew. Lindley, a slow, pallid, and thrifty soul, had always viewed Aunt Hannah's event with unfeigned alarm, because, somehow or other, at the close of every visit he found himself presenting her with a check. And it almost killed him. Years ago he had done it for the first time. He had never intended to; certainly never meant to continue. Every time she appeared he vowed to himself that he wouldn't. But before her visit ended, the pressure of custom became too much for him; a deadly sense of obligation toward this dreadful woman--of personal responsibility for her indigence--possessed him, became gradually an obsession, until he exorcised it by the present of a check. She never spoke of it--never seemed to hint at it--always seemed surprised and doubtful of accepting; but some devilish spell certainly permeated the atmosphere in her immediate vicinity, drawing perfectly good money out of his innermost and tightly buttoned breast-pockets and leaving it certified and carelessly crumpled in her velvet reticule. It happened with a sickening regularity which now he had come to view with the modified internal fury of resignation. It had simply become a terrible custom, and, with all his respectable inertia and thrifty caution, adherence to custom ruled Lindley Hammerton. For years he had pinched roses; for years he had drawn checks for Aunt Hannah. Nothing but corporeal dissolution could terminate these customs. As for Aunt Hannah, she banked her check and had her bolt of silk made into a gown, and trotted briskly about her business with perennial self-confidence in her own ability to get on. Once or twice during the following fortnight she remembered Jacqueline, and mentally tabulated her case as a possible source of future income; but social duties were many and acridly agreeable, and pecuniary pickings plenty. Up to her small, thin ears in intrigue, harmless and not quite so harmless, she made hay busily while the social sun shone; and it was near the end of February before a stagnation in pleasure and business brought Jacqueline's existence into her mind again. She called up Silverwood, and eventually got Desboro on the wire. "Do you know," she said, "that your golden-headed and rather attenuated inamorata has never had the civility to call on me!" "She has been too busy." "Too busy gadding about Silverwood with you!" "She hasn't been here since you saw her." "What!" "It's quite true. An important collection is to be sold under the hammer on the premises; she had the contract to engineer that matter before she undertook to catalogue my stuff." "Oh! Haven't you seen her since?" "Yes." "_Not_ at Silverwood?" "No, only at her office." He could hear her sniff and mutter something, then: "I thought you were going to give some parties at Silverwood, and ask me to bring your pretty friend," she said. "I am. She has the jades and crystals to catalogue. What I want, as soon as she gets rid of Clydesdale, is for her to resume work here--come up and remain as my guest until the cataloguing is finished. So you see I'll have to have you, too." "That's a cordial and disinterested invitation, James!" "Will you come? I'll ask half a dozen people. You can kill a few at cards, too." "When?" "The first Thursday in March. It's a business proposition, but it's between you and me, and she is not to suspect it." "Very well," said Aunt Hannah cheerfully. "I'll arrange my engagements accordingly. And do try to have a gay party, James; and don't ask the Clydesdales. You know how Westchester gets on my nerves. And I always hated her." "You are very unjust to her and to him----" "You can't tell me anything about Cary Clydesdale, or about his wife, either," she interrupted tartly, and rang off in a temper. And Desboro went back to his interrupted business with Vail. Since Jacqueline had been compelled to suspend temporarily her inventory at Silverwood in favor of prior engagements, Desboro had been to the city only twice, and both times to see her. He had seen her in her office, remained on both occasions for an hour only, and had then taken the evening train back to Silverwood. But every evening he had written her of the day just ended--told her about the plans for farming, now maturing, of the quiet life at Silverwood, how gradually he was reëstablishing neighbourly relations with the countryside, how much of a country squire he was becoming. "--And the whole thing with malice aforethought," he wrote. "--Every blessed move only a strategy in order that, to do you honour, I may stand soberly and well before the community when you are among my guests. "In tow of Aunt Hannah; engaged for part of the day in your business among the jades, crystals, and porcelains of a celebrated collection; one of a house party; and the guest of a young man who has returned very seriously to till the soil of his forefathers; all that anybody can possibly think of it will be that your host is quite as captivated by your grace, wisdom, and beauty as everybody else will be. "And what do you think of that, Jacqueline?" * * * * * "I think," she wrote, "that no other man has ever been as nice to me. I do not really care about the other people, but I quite understand that you and I could not see each other as freely as we have been doing, without detriment to me. I like you--superfluous admission! And I should miss seeing you--humble confession! And so I suppose it is best that everybody should know who and what I am--a business woman well-bred enough to sit at table with your friends, with sufficient self-confidence to enter and leave a room properly, to maintain my grasp on the conversational ball, and to toss it lightly to my vis-à-vis when the time comes. "All this is worth doing and enduring for the sake of being your guest. Without conscientious scruples, apprehensions, perplexities, and fears I could never again come to Silverwood and be there alone with you as I have been. Always I have been secretly unhappy and afraid after a day with you at Silverwood. Sooner or later it would have had to end. It can not go on--as it has been going. I know it. The plea of business is soon worn threadbare if carelessly used. "And so--caring for your friendship as I do--and it having become such a factor in my life--I find it easy to do what you ask me; and I have arranged to go with Mrs. Hammerton to Silverwood on the first Thursday in March, to practice my profession, enjoy the guests at your house party, and cultivate our friendship with a clear conscience and a tranquil and happy mind. "It was just that little element of protection I needed to make me more happy than I have ever been. Somehow, I _couldn't_ care for you as frankly and freely as I wanted to. And some things have happened--you know what I mean. I didn't reproach you, or pretend surprise or anger. I felt neither--only a confused sense of unhappiness. But--I cared for you enough to submit. "Now I go to you with a sense of security that is delightful. You don't understand how a girl situated as I am feels when she knows that she is in a position where any woman has the right to regard her with suspicion. Skating, motoring, with you, I could not bear to pass people you knew and to whom you bowed--women--even farmers' wives. "But now it will be different; I feel so warmly confident at heart, so secure, that I shall perhaps dare to say and do and be much that you never suspected was in me. The warm sun of approval makes a very different person of me. A girl, who, in her heart, does not approve of what she is doing, and who is always expecting to encounter other women who would not approve, is never at her best--isn't even herself--and isn't really happy, even with a man she likes exceedingly. You will, I think, see a somewhat different girl on Thursday." * * * * * "If your words are sometimes a little misty," he wrote, "your soul shines through everything you say, with a directness entirely heavenly. Life, for us, begins on Thursday, under cover no longer, but in the open. And the field will be as fair for you as for me. That is as it should be; that is as far as I care to look. But somehow, after all is done and said that ever will be said and done between you and me, I am conscious that when we two emerge from the dream called 'living,' you will lead and direct us both--even if you never do so here on earth. "I am not given to this sort of stuff. "Jacqueline, dear, I'd like to amuse my guests with something unusual. Could you help me out?" * * * * * She answered: "I'll do anything in the world I can to make your house party pleasant for you and your guests. So I've asked Mr. Sissly to give a recital. It is quite the oddest thing; you don't _listen_ to a symphony which he plays on the organ; you _see_ it. He will send the organ, electrical attachments, lights, portable stage and screen, to Silverwood; and his men will install everything in the armoury. "Then, if it would amuse your guests, I could tell them a little about your jades and crystals, and do it in a rather unusual way. I think you'd rather like it. Shall I?" * * * * * He wrote some days later: "What a darling you are! Anything you do will be charming. Sissly's men have arrived and are raising a racket in the armoury with hammer and saw. "The stage will look quite wonderful between the wide double rank of equestrian figures in armour. "Aunt Hannah writes that you called on her and that you and she are coming up on the train together, which is delightfully sensible, and exactly as it should be. Heaven alone knows how long you are going to be able to endure her. It's rather odd, you know, but I like her and always have, though she's made things disagreeable for me more than once in my life. "Your room is ready; Aunt Hannah's adjoins. Quarters for other guests are ready also. Have you any idea how I look forward to your coming?" * * * * * Three days later his guests arrived on the first three morning trains--a jolly crowd of young people--nineteen of them--who filled his automobiles and horse-drawn vehicles. Their luggage followed in vans, from which protruded skis and hockey sticks. There being no porter, the butler of Silverwood House received them in front of the lodge at the outer gates, offering the "guest cup," a Desboro custom of many generations, originating in England, although the lodge had stood empty and the gates open since his grandfather's time. [Illustration: "There was, for a moment, an unconscious and unwonted grace in his manner"] Desboro welcomed them on his own doorstep; and there was, for a moment, an unconscious and unwonted grace in his manner and bearing--an undefined echo in his voice of other and more courtly times, as he gave his arm to Aunt Hannah and led her inside the hall. There it exhaled and vanished as Mrs. Quant and the maids smilingly conducted the guests to their various quarters--vanished with the smiling formality of his greeting to Jacqueline. The men returned first, clad in their knickerbockers and skating jackets. Cocktails awaited them in the billiard-room, and they gathered there in noisy curiosity over this celebrated house not often opened to anybody except its owner. "Who is the dream, Jim?" demanded Reginald Ledyard. "I mean the wonder with the gold hair, that Mrs. Hammerton has in tow?" "A friend of Aunt Hannah's--an expert in antique art--and as clever and charming as she is pretty," said Desboro pleasantly. "High-brow! Oh, help!" muttered Ledyard. "Where's your library? I want to read up." "She can talk like other people," remarked Van Alstyne. "I got next on the train--old lady Hammerton stood for me. She can flirt some, I'll tell you those." Bertie Barkley extracted the olive from a Bronx and considered it seriously. "The old lady is on a salary, of course. Nobody ever heard of anybody named Nevers," he remarked. "They'll hear of somebody named Nevers now," observed Captain Herrendene with emphasis, "or," he added in modest self-depreciation, "I am all kinds of a liar." "Where did you know her, Jim?" inquired Ledyard curiously. "Oh, Miss Nevers's firm has charge of cataloguing my armour and jades. They're at it still. That's how I first met her--in a business way. And when I found her to be a friend of Aunt Hannah's, I asked them both up here as my guests." "You always had an eye for beauty," said Cairns. "What do you suppose Mrs. Hammerton's game is?" "Why, to make Miss Nevers known where she really ought to belong," replied Desboro frankly. "How high does she plan to climb?" asked Barkley. "Above the vegetating line?" "Probably not as far as the line of perpetual stupidity," said Desboro. "Miss Nevers appears to be a very busy, and very intelligent, and self-sufficient young lady, and I imagine she would have neither time nor inclination to decorate any of the restless, gilt-encrusted sets." Van Alstyne said: "She's got the goods to deliver almost anywhere Mrs. Hammerton chooses--F. O. B. what?" "She's some dream," admitted Ledyard as they all moved toward the library. There were a lot of gay young girls there in skating costumes; Ledyard's sister Marie, with her large figure and pretty but slightly stupid face; Helsa Steyr, blonde, athletic, and red-haired; Athalie Vannis, with her handsome, dark face, so often shadowed by discontent; Barkley's animated little wife, Elizabeth, grey-eyed and freckled and brimming with mischief of the schoolboy quality; the stately Katharine Frere; Aunt Hannah; and Jacqueline. All except the latter two had been doing something to cocktails of various species; Jacqueline took nothing; Aunt Hannah, Scotch whiskey with relish. "It's about the last of the skating," said Desboro, "so we'd better take what we can get as soon as luncheon is over. Pick your partners and don't squabble. Me for Mrs. Hammerton!" and he led her out. At table he noticed that Captain Herrendene had secured Jacqueline, and that Reggie Ledyard, on the other side, was already neglecting his own partner in his eager, good-looking and slightly loutish fashion of paying court to the newest and prettiest girl. Aunt Hannah's glance continually flickered sideways at Desboro, but when she discovered that he was aware of her covert scrutiny, she said under her breath: "I've been shopping with her; the little thing didn't know how to clothe herself luxuriously in the more intimate details. I'd like to see anybody's maid patronise her now! Yours don't know enough--but she'll go where there are those who do know, sooner or later. What do you think of her?" "What I always think," he said coolly. "She is the most interesting girl I ever met." "She's too clever to care very much for what I can offer her," said Mrs. Hammerton drily. "Glitter and tinsel would never dazzle her, James; pretense, complacency, bluff, bragg, she'd devilish soon see through it all with those clear, intelligent eyes--see at the bottom what lies squirming there--anxiety, self-distrust, eternal dread, undying envy, the secret insecurity of those who imitate the real--which does not exist in America--and who know in their hopeless hearts that they are only shams, like that two-year-old antique tavern yonder, made quaint to order." He said smilingly: "She'll soon have enough of your particular familiars. But, little by little, she'll find herself in accord with people who seek her as frankly as she seeks them. Natural selection, you know. Your only usefulness is to give her the opportunity, and you've begun to do it, bless your heart." She flashed a malicious glance at him; under cover of the gay hubbub she said: "I may do more than that, James." "Really." "Yes; I may open her eyes to men of your sort." "Her eyes are open already, I suppose." "Not very wide. For example--you'd never marry her. Would you?" "Don't talk that way," he said coldly. "No, I don't have to talk at all. I _know_. If you ever marry, I know what deadly species of female it will be. You're probably right; you're that kind, too--no real substance to you, James. And so I think I'll have to look after my intellectual protégée, and be very sure that her pretty eyes are wide open." He turned toward her; their glances met level and hard: "Let matters alone," he said. "I have myself in hand." "You have in hand a horse with a runaway record, James." Cairns, on her left, spoke to her; she turned and answered, then presented her well-shaped back to that young gentleman and again crossed glances with Desboro, who was waiting, cool as steel. "Come, James," she said in a low voice, "what do you mean to do? A man always means something or nothing; and the latter is the more dangerous." As that was exactly what Desboro told himself he had always meant, he winced and remained silent. "Oh, you--the lot of you!" she said with smiling contempt. "I'll equip that girl to take care of herself before I'm through with her. Watch me." "It is part of your business. Equip her to take care of herself as thoroughly as anybody you know. Then it will be up to her--as it is up to all women, after all--and to all men." "Oh, is it? You've all the irresponsibility and moral rottenness of your Cavalier ancestors in you; do you know it, James? The Puritan, at least, never doubted that he was his brother's keeper." Desboro said doggedly: "With the individual alone rests what that individual will be." "Is that your mature belief?" she asked ironically. "It is, dear lady." "Lord! To think of a world full of loosened creatures like you! A civilised society swarming with callow and irresponsible opportunists, amateur Jesuits, idle intelligences reinfected with the toxins of their own philosophy! But," she shrugged, "I am indicting man himself--nations and nations of him. Besides, we women have always known this. And hybrids are hybrids. If there's any claret in the house, tell Farris to fetch some. Don't be angry, James. Man and woman once were different species, and the world has teemed with their hybrids since the first mating." Mrs. Barkley leaned across the table toward him: "What's the matter, James? You look dangerous." His face cleared and he smiled: "Nobody is really dangerous except to themselves, Betty." She quoted saucily: "Il n'y a personne qui ne soit dangereux pour quelqu'un!" Mrs. Hammerton added: "Il faut tout attendre et tout craindre du temps et des hommes." Reggie Ledyard, much flattered, admitted the wholesale indictment against his sex: "How can we help it? Man, possessing always dual personality, is naturally inclined toward a double life." "Man's chief study has been man for so long," observed Mrs. Hammerton, "that the world has passed by, leaving him behind, still engrossed in counting his thumbs. Name your French philosopher who can beat that reflection," she added to Desboro, who smiled absently. [Illustration: "All the men there had yielded to the delicate attraction of her"] From moment to moment he had been watching Jacqueline and the men always leaning toward her--Reggie Ledyard persistently bringing to bear on her the full splendour of his straw-blond and slightly coarse beauty; Cairns, receptive and débonnaire as usual; Herrendene, with his keen smile and sallow visage lined with the memory of things that had left their marks--all the men there had yielded to the delicate attraction of her. Desboro said to Mrs. Hammerton: "Now you realise where she really belongs." "Better than you do," she retorted drily. After luncheon there were vehicles to convey them to the pond, a small sheet of water down in the Desboro woods. And while a declining sun glittered through the trees, the wooded shores echoed with the clatter and scrape of skates and the rattle of hockey-sticks crossed in lively combat. But inshore the ice had rotted; the end of such sport was already in sight. Along the gravelly inlet, where water rippled, a dozen fingerling trout lay half hidden among the pebbles; over a bank of soft, sun-warmed snow, gnats danced in the sunset light; a few tree-buds had turned sticky. Later, Vail came and built a bonfire; Farris arrived with tea baskets full of old-fashioned things, such as turnovers and flip in stone jugs of a century ago. Except for a word or two at intervals, Desboro had found no chance to talk to Jacqueline. Now and then their glances encountered, lingered, shifted, with scarcely a ghost of a smile in forced response to importunities. So he had played an impartial game of hockey, skated with any girl who seemed to be receptive, cut intricate figures with Mrs. Hammerton in a cove covered with velvet-smooth black ice, superintended the bonfire construction, directed Farris with the tea. Now, absently executing a "grape-vine," he was gliding along the outer ranks of his guests with the mechanical patrolling instinct of a collie, when Jacqueline detached herself from a fire-lit group and made him a gay little sign to halt. Picking her way through the soft snow on the points of her skates, she took to the ice and joined him. They linked hands and swung out into the starlight. "Are you enjoying it?" he asked. "That's why I signalled you. I never have had such a good time. I wanted you to know it." "You like my friends?" She looked up: "They are all so charming to me! I didn't expect people to be cordial." "You need expect nothing else wherever you go and whomever you meet--barring the inevitable which no attractive girl can avoid arousing. Do you get on with Aunt Hannah?" She laughed: "Isn't it odd? _I_ call her that, too. She asked me to. And do you know, she has been a perfect dear about everything. We shopped together; I never had quite ventured to buy certain fascinating things to wear. And we had such a good time lunching at the Ritz, where I had never dared go. Such beautiful women! Such gowns! Such jewels!" They halted and looked back across the ice at the distant fire and the dark forms moving about it. "You've bowled over every man here, as a matter of course," he said lightly. "If you'll tell me how you like the women I'll know whether they like you." "Oh, I like them; they are as nice to me as they are to each other!" she exclaimed, "--except, perhaps, one or two----" "Marie Ledyard is hopelessly spoiled; Athalie Vannis is usually discontented," he said philosophically. "Don't expect either of them to give three cheers for another girl's popularity." They crossed hands and swept toward the centre of the pond on the "outer edge." Jacqueline's skating skirt was short enough for her to manage a "Dutch roll," steadied and guided by Desboro; then they exchanged it for other figures, not intricate. "Your friend, Mr. Sissly, is dining with us," he observed. "He's really very nice," she said. "Just a little too--artistic--for you, perhaps, and for the men here--except Captain Herrendene----" "Herrendene is a fine fellow," he said. "I like him so much," she admitted. He was silent for a moment, turned toward her as though to speak, but evidently reconsidered the impulse. "He is not very young, is he?" she asked. "Herrendene? No." "I thought not. Sometimes in repose his face seems sad. But what kind eyes he has!" "He's a fine fellow," said Desboro without emphasis. Before they came within the firelight, he asked her whether she had really decided to give them a little lecture on jades and crystals; and she said that she had. "It won't be too technical or too dry, I hope," she added laughingly. "I told Captain Herrendene what I was going to say and do, and he liked the idea." "Won't you tell me, too, Jacqueline?" "No, I want _you_ to be surprised. Besides, I haven't time; we've been together too long already. Doesn't one's host have to be impartially attentive? And I think that pretty little Miss Steyr is signalling you." Herrendene came out on the ice toward them: "The cars are here," he said, "and Mrs. Hammerton is cold." Dinner was an uproariously lively function, served amid a perfect eruption of bewildering gowns and jewels and flowers. Desboro had never before seen Jacqueline in a dinner gown, or even attempted to visualise her beauty amid such surroundings in contrast with other women. She fitted exquisitely into the charming mosaic; from crown to toe she was part of it, an essential factor that, once realised, became indispensable to the harmony. Perhaps, he told himself, she did not really dominate with the fresh delicacy of her beauty; perhaps it was only what he saw in her and what he knew of her that made the others shadowy and commonplace to him. [Illustration: "In all the curious eyes turned toward her, he saw admiration, willing or conceded."] Yet, in all the curious eyes repeatedly turned toward her, he saw admiration, willing or conceded, recognised every unspoken tribute of her own sex as well as the less reserved surrender of his; saw her suddenly developed into a blossom of unabashed and youthful loveliness under what she had once called "the warm sun of approval"; and sat in vague and uneasy wonder, witnessing the transfiguration. Sissly was there, allotted to Katharine Frere; and that stately girl, usually credited among her friends with artistic aspirations, apparently found him interesting. So all went well enough, whether gaily or seriously, even with Aunt Hannah, who had discovered under Desboro's smiling composure all kinds of food for reflection and malicious diversion. For such a small party it was certainly a gay one--at least people were beginning to think so half way through dinner--which merely meant that everybody was being properly appreciated by everybody's neighbours, and that made everybody feel unusually witty, and irrepressible, and a little inclined to be silly toward the end. But then the after-dinner guests began to arrive--calm, perfectly poised and substantial Westchester propositions who had been bidden to assist at an unusual programme, and to dance afterward. The stodgy old house rang with chatter and laughter; hall, stairs, library, and billiard-room resounded delightfully; you could scare up a pretty girl from almost any cover--if you were gunning for that variety of girl. Reggie Ledyard had managed to corner Jacqueline on the stairs, but couldn't monopolise her nor protect himself against the shameless intrusion of Cairns, who spoiled the game until Herrendene raided the trio and carried her off to the billiard-room on a most flimsy pretext. Here, very properly, a Westchester youth of sterling worth got her away and was making toward the library with her when Desboro unhooked a hunting horn from the wall and filled the house with deafening blasts as signal that the show was about to begin in the armoury. The armoury had been strung with incandescent lights, which played over the huge mounted figures in mail, and glanced in a million reflections from the weapons on the wall. A curtained and raised stage faced seats for a hundred people, which filled the long, wide aisle between the equestrian shapes; and into these the audience was pouring, excited and mystified by the odd-looking and elaborate electrical attachments flanking the stage in front of the curtained dressing-rooms. Jacqueline, passing Desboro, whispered: "I'm so thrilled and excited. I know people will find Mr. Sissly's lecture interesting, but do you think they'll like mine?" "How do I know, you little villain? You've told Herrendene what you are going to do, but you haven't given me even a hint!" "I know it; I wanted to--to please you--" Her light hand fell for a moment on his sleeve, and he saw the blue eyes a little wistful. "You darling," he whispered. "Thank you. It isn't the proper thing to say to me--but I've quite recovered my courage." "Have you quite recovered all the scattered fragments of your heart? I am afraid some of these men may carry portions of it away with them." "I don't think so, monsieur. Really, I must hurry and dress----" "Dress?" "Certainly; also make up!" "But I thought you were to give us a little talk on Chinese jades." "But I must do it in my own way, Mr. Des----" "Wait!" They were in the rear of the dressing-room and he took her hand. "I call you Jacqueline, unreproved. Is my name more difficult for you?" "Do you wish me to? In cold blood?" "Not in cold blood." He took her into his arms; she bent her head gravely, but he felt her restless fingers worrying his sleeve. "Jacqueline?" "Yes--Jim." The swift fire in his face answered the flush in hers; he drew her nearer, but she averted her dainty head in silence and stood so, her hand always restless on his arm. "You haven't changed toward me in these few weeks, have you, Jacqueline?" "Do you think I have?" He was silent. After a moment she glanced up at him with adorable shyness. He kissed her, but her lips were cold and unresponsive, and she bent her head, still picking nervously at the cloth of his sleeve. "I _must_ go," she said. "I know it." He released her waist. She drew a quick, short breath and looked up smiling; then sighed again, and once more her blue eyes became aloof and thoughtful. He stood leaning against the side of the dressing-room, watching her. Finally she said with composure: "I _must_ go. Please like what I shall do. It will be done to please you--Jim." He opened the dressing-room door for her; she entered, turned to look back at him for an instant, then closed the door. He went back to his place among the audience. A moment later a temple gong struck three times; the green curtains parted, revealing a white screen, and Mr. Lionel Sissly advancing with a skip to the footlights. The audience looked again at its programme cards and again read: "No. 1: A Soundless Symphony ... Lionel Sissly." "Colour," lisped Mr. Sissly, "is not only precious for its own sake, but also because it is the blessed transmogrification of sound. And sound is sacred because all vibrations, audible or inaudible, are in miraculous harmony with that holiest of all phenomena, silence!" "Help!" whispered Ledyard to Cairns, with resignation. "Any audible rate of regular air vibrations is a musical note," continued Mr. Sissly. "If you double that vibratory speed, you have the first note of the octave above it. Now, the spectrum band is the colour counterpart of the musical octave; the ether vibrates with double the speed at the _violet_ end of the spectrum band that it does at the opposite extremity, or _red_ end. Let me show you the chromatic scales in colour and music--the latter the equivalent of the former, revealing how the intervals correspond when C represents red." And he flashed upon the screen a series of brilliant colours. "Remember," he said, "that it is with colour as it is with sound--there is a long range of vibrations below and above the first and last visible colour and the first and last audible note--a long, long range beyond compass of the human eye and ear. Probably the music of the spheres is composed of such harmonies," he simpered. "Modern occidental music is evolved in conformity with an arbitrary scale," he resumed earnestly. "An octave consists of seven whole tones and five half-tones. Combinations and sequences of notes or tints affect us emotionally--pleasurably when harmonious, painfully when discordant. But," and his voice shook with soulful emotion, "the holiest and the most precious alliance ever dreamed of beyond the Gates of Heaven lies in the sacred intermingling of harmonious colour and harmonious silence. Let me play for you, upon my colour organ, my soundless symphony which I call 'Weather.' Always in the world there will be weather. We have it constantly; there is so much of it that nobody knows how much there is; and I do not see very clearly how there ever could be any less than there is. Weather, then, being the only earthly condition which is eternal, becomes precious beyond human comprehension; and I have tried to interpret it as a symphony of silence and of colour divinely intermingled." Ledyard whispered to Betty Barkley: "I'll go mad and bite if he says another word!" She cautioned him with a light touch of her gloved hand, and strove very hard to remain serious as Mr. Sissly minced over to his "organ," seated himself, and gazed upward. All at once every light in the house went out. For a while the great screen remained invisible, then a faint sheen possessed its surface, blotted out at eccentric intervals by a deep and thunderous tint which finally absorbed it and slowly became a coldly profound and depthless blue. The blue was not permanent; almost imperceptible pulsations were stirring and modifying it toward a warmer and less decisive hue, and through it throbbed and ebbed elusive sensations of palest turquoise, primrose and shell-pink. This waned and deepened into a yellow which threatened to become orange. Suddenly all was washed out in unaccented grey; the grey gradually became instinct with rose and gold; the gold was split by a violet streak; then virile scarlet tumbled through crashing scales of green, amethyst, crimson, into a chaos of chromatic dissonance, and vanished engulfed in shimmering darkness. The lights flashed up, disclosing Mr. Sissly, very pale and damp of features, facing the footlights again. "That," he faltered, amid a stillness so profound that it seemed to fill the ear like a hollow roar,--"that is weather. If you approve it, the most precious expression of your sympathy will be absolute silence." Fortunately, not even Reggie Ledyard dropped. Mr. Sissly passed a lank and lily hand across his large pale eyes. "Like the Japanese," he lisped, "I bring to you my most precious thought-treasures one at a time--and never more than two between the rising of the orb of day and the veiling of it at eventide. I offer you, on the altar of my colour organ, a transposition of Von Schwiggle's symphony in A minor; and I can only say that it is replete with a meaning so exquisitely precious that no human intelligence has yet penetrated it." Out went the lights. Presently the screen became visible. Upon it there seemed to be no colour, no hint of any tint, no quality, no value. It was merely visible, and remained so for three mortal minutes. Then the lights broke out, revealing Mr. Sissly half fainting at his organ, and two young women in Greek robes waving bunches of violets at him. And the curtain fell. "There only remains," whispered Ledyard, "the funny-house for me." "If you make me laugh I'll never forgive you," Mrs. Barkley warned him under her breath. "But--oh, do look at Mrs. Hammerton!" Aunt Hannah's visage resembled that of a cornered and enraged mink surrounded by enemies. "If that man comes near me," she said to Desboro, "I shall destroy him with hatpins. You'd better keep him away. I'm morally and nervously disorganised." Sissly had come off the stage and now stood in the wide aisle, surrounded by the earnest and intellectual womanhood of Westchester, eagerly seeking more light. But there was little in Mr. Sissly's large and washed-out eyes; even less, perhaps, than illuminated his intellect. He gazed wanly upon adoration, edging his way toward Miss Frere, who, at dinner, had rashly admitted that she understood him. "Was it satisfying?" he lisped, when he had attained to her vicinity. "It was most--remarkable," she said, bewildered. "So absolutely new to me that I can find nothing as yet to say to you, except thank you." "Why say it? Why not merely look it? Your silence would be very, very precious to me," he said in a low voice. And the stately Miss Frere blushed. The audience, under the stimulus of the lights, recovered very quickly from its semi-stupor, and everybody was now discussing with animation the unique experience of the past half-hour. New York chattered; Westchester discussed; that was the difference. Both had expected a new kind of cabaret show; neither had found the weird performance disappointing. Flippant and unintellectual young men felt safe in the certainty that neither their pretty partners nor the more serious representatives of the substantial county knew one whit more about soundless symphonies than did they. [Illustration: "She lost herself in a dreamy Bavarian folk-song"] So laughter and noise filled the armoury with a gaily subdued uproar, silenced only when Katharine Frere's harp was brought in, and the tall, handsome girl, without any preliminaries, went forward and seated herself, drew the gilded instrument back against her right shoulder, set her feet to the pedals, her fingers to the strings, and wandered capriciously from _Le Donne Curiose_ and the far, brief echoes of its barcarolle, into _Koenigskinder_, and on through _Versiegelt_, till she lost herself in a dreamy Bavarian folk-song which died out as sunset dies on the far alms of the Red Valepp. Great applause; no cabaret yet. The audience looked at the programme and read: "A Thousand Years B.C. ... Miss Nevers." And Reggie Ledyard was becoming restless, thinking perhaps that a little ragtime of the spheres might melt the rapidly forming intellectual ice, and was saying so to anybody who'd listen, when ding-dong-dang! ding-dong! echoed the oriental gong. Out went the lights, the curtain split open and was gathered at the wings; a shimmering radiance grew upon the stage disclosing a huge gold and green dragon of porcelain on its faïence pedestal. And there, high cradled between the forepaws of the ancient Mongolian monster, sat a slim figure in silken robes of turquoise, rose, and scarlet, a Chinese lute across her knees, slim feet pendant below the rainbow skirt. Her head-dress was wrought fantastically of open-work gold, inlaid with a thousand tiny metallic blue feathers, accented by fiery gems; across the silky folds of her slitted tunic were embroidered in iris tints the single-winged birds whirling around each other between floating clouds; little clog-like shoes of silk and gold, embroidered with moss-green arabesques inset with orange and scarlet, shod the feet. Ancient Cathay, exquisitely, immortally young, sat in jewelled silks and flowers under the huge and snarling dragon. And presently, string by string, her idle lute awoke, picked with the plectrum, note after note in strange and unfamiliar intervals; and, looking straight in front of her, she sang at random, to "the sorrows of her lute," verses from "The Maker of Moons," sung by Chinese lovers a thousand years ago: "Like to a Dragon in the Sky The fierce Sun flames from East to West; The flower of Love within my breast Blooms only when the Moon is high And Thou art nigh." The dropping notes of her lute answered her, rippled on, and were lost like a little rill trickling into darkness. "The Day burns like a Dragon's flight Until Thou comest in the night With thy cool Moon of gold-- Then I unfold." A faint stirring of the strings, silence; then she struck with her plectrum the weird opening chord of that sixth century song called "The Night Revel"; and sang to the end the ancient verses set to modern music by an unknown composer: "Along the River scarlet Lanterns glimmer, Where gilded Boats and darkling Waters shimmer; Laughter with Singing blends; But Love begins and ends Forever with a sigh-- A whispered sigh. "In fire-lit pools the crimson Carp are swirling; The painted peacocks shining plumes are furling; Now in the torch-light by the Gate A thousand Lutes begin the Fête With one triumphant Cry! Why should Love sigh?" The curtain slowly closed on the echoes of her lute; there came an interval of absolute silence, then an uproar of cries and of people getting to their feet, calling out: "Go on! Go on! Don't stop!" No applause except this excited clamour for more, and the racket of moving chairs. "Good Lord!" muttered Captain Herrendene. "Did you ever see anything as beautiful as that girl?" And: "Where did she learn such things?" demanded people excitedly of one another. "It must be the real business! How does she know?" The noise became louder and more emphatic; calls for her reappearance redoubled and persisted until the gong again sounded, the lights went out, and the curtains twitched once more and parted. She slid down from her cradled perch between the forelegs of the shadowy dragon and came to the edge of the footlights. "I was going to show you one or two jades from the Desboro collection, and tell you a little about them," she began, "but my lute and I will say for you another song of ancient China, if you like. It was made by Kao-Shih about seven hundred years after the birth of Christ. He was one of the T'ang poets--and not a very cheerful one. This is his song." And she recited for them: "There was a king of Liang." After that she stepped back; but they would not have it, to the point of enthusiastic rudeness. She recited for them Mêng Hao-Jan's "A Friend Expected," from "The Maker of Moons," and the quatrains of the lovely, naïve little "Spring Dream," written by Ts'en-Ts'an in the eighth century. But they demanded still more. She laid aside her lute and intoned for them the noble lines of China's most famous writer: "Thou that hast seen six kingdoms pass away----" Then, warming to her audience, and herself thrilled with the spirit of the ancient splendour, she moved forward in her whispering silks, and, slightly bending, her finger lifted like one who hushes children with a magic tale, she spoke to them of Fei-yen, mistress of the Emperor; and told them how T'ai-Chên became an empress; sang for them the song of Yu Lao, the "Song of the Moon Moth": "The great Night Moth that bears her name Is winged in green, Pale as the June moon's silver flame Her silken sheen: No other flame they know, these twain Where dark dews rain-- This great Night Moth that bears her name And my sweet Queen; So let me light my Lantern flame And breathe Her name." She held her audience in the palm of her smooth little hand; she knew it, and tasted power. She told them of the Blue Mongol's song, reciting: "From the Gray Plains I ride, Where the gray hawks wheel, In armour of lacquered hide, Sabre and shield of steel; The lance in my stirrup rattles, And the quiver and bow at my back Clatter! I sing of Battles, Of Cities put to the sack! Where is the Lord of the West, The Golden Emperor's son? I swung my Mongol sabre;-- He and the Dead are one. For the tawny Lion of the Iort And the Sun of the World are One!" Then she told them the old Chinese tale called "The Never-Ending Wrong"--the immortal tragedy of that immortal maid, "a reed in motion and a rose in flame," from where she alights "in the white hibiscus bower" to where "death is drumming at the door" and "ten thousand battle-chariots on the wing" come clashing to a halt; and the trapped King, her lover, sends her forth "Lily pale, Between tall avenues of spears, to die." And so, amid "the sullen soldiery," white as a flower, and all alone in soul, she "shines through tall avenues of spears, to die." "The King has sought the darkness of his hands," standing in stricken grief, then turns and gazes at what lies there at his feet amid its scattered "--_Ornaments of gold,_ _One with the dust; and none to gather them;--_ _Hair-pins of jade and many a costly gem,_ _Kingfishers' wings and golden beads scarce cold._" Lingering a moment in the faint reflection of the low-turned footlights, she stood looking out over the silent audience; and perhaps her eyes found what they had been seeking, for she smiled and stepped back as the curtain closed. And no uproar of applause could lure her forth again until the lights had been long blazing and the dancers were whirling over the armoury floor, and she had washed the paint from lid and lip and cheek, and put off her rustling antique silken splendour to bewitch another century scarce begun. Desboro, waiting at her dressing-room door for her, led her forth. "You have done so much for me," he whispered. "Is there anything in all the world I can do for you, Jacqueline?" She was laughing, flushed by the flattery and compliments from every side, but she heard him; and after a moment her face altered subtly. But she answered lightly: "Can I ask for more than a dance or two with you? Is not that honour enough?" Her voice was gay and mocking, but the smile had faded from eye and lip; only the curved sweetness of the mouth remained. They caught the music's beat and swung away together among the other dancers, he piloting her with great adroitness between the avenues of armoured figures. When he had the opportunity, he said: "What may I send you that you would care for?" "Send me?" She laughed lightly again. "Let me see! Well, then, perhaps you may one day send me--send me forth 'between tall avenues of spears, to die.'" "What!" he said sharply. "The song is still ringing in my head--that's all. Send me any inexpensive thing you wish--a white carnation--I don't really care--" she looked away from him--"as long as it comes from you." CHAPTER X Desboro's guests were determined to turn the house out of the windows; its stodgy respectability incited them; every smug, smooth portrait goaded them to unusual effort, and they racked their brains to invent novelties. On one day they opened all the windows in the disused west wing, flooded the ground floor, hung the great stone room with paper lanterns, and held an ice carnival. As masks and costumes had been made entirely out of paper, there were several startling effects and abrupt retirements to repair damages; but the dancing on skates in the lantern light was very pretty, and even the youth and pride of Westchester found the pace not unsuitably rapid. On another day, Desboro's feminine guests sent to town for enough green flannel to construct caricatures of hunting coats for everybody. The remains of a stagnant pack of harriers vegetated on a neighbouring estate; Desboro managed to mount his guests on his own live-stock, including mules, farm horses, polo ponies, and a yoke of oxen; and the county saw a hunting that they were not likely to forget. Reggie Ledyard was magnificent astride an ox, with a paper megaphone for a hunting horn, rubber boots, and his hastily basted coat split from skirt to collar. The harriers ran wherever they pleased, and the astonished farm mules wouldn't run at all. There was hysterical excitement when one cotton-tail rabbit was started behind a barn and instantly lost under it. The hunt dinner was a weird and deafening affair, and the Weber-Field ball costumes unbelievable. Owing to reaction and exhaustion, repentant girls came to Jacqueline requesting an interim of intellectual recuperation; so she obligingly announced a lecture in the jade room, and talked to them very prettily about jades and porcelains, suiting her words to their intellectual capacity, which could grasp Kang-he porcelains and Celedon and Sang-de-boeuf, but balked at the "three religions," and found _blanc de Chine_ uninspiring. So she told them about the _famille vert_ and the _famille rose_; about the K'ang Hsi period, which they liked, and how the imperial kilns at Kiangsi developed the wonderful _clair de lune_ "turquoise blue" and "peach bloom," for which some of their friends or relatives had paid through their various and assorted noses. All of this her audience found interesting because they recognised in the exquisite examples from Desboro's collection, with which Jacqueline illustrated her impromptu lecture, objects both fashionable and expensive; and what is both fashionable and expensive appeals very forcibly to mediocrity. "I saw a jar like that one at the Clydesdales'," said Reggie Ledyard, a trifle excited at his own unexpected intelligence. "How much is it worth, Miss Nevers?" She laughed and looked at the vase between her slender fingers. "Really," she said, "it isn't worth very much. But wealthy people have established fictitious values for many rather crude and commonplace things. If people had the courage to buy only what appealed to them personally, there would be a mighty crash in tumbling values." "We'd all wake up and find ourselves stuck," remarked Van Alstyne, who possessed some pictures which he had come to loathe, but for which he had paid terrific prices. "Jim, do you want to buy any primitives, guaranteed genuine?" "There's the thrifty Dutch trader for you," said Reggie. "I'm loaded with rickety old furniture, too. They got me to furnish my place with antiques! But you don't see me trying to sell 'em to my host at a house party!" "Stop your disputing," said Desboro pleasantly, "and ask Miss Nevers for her professional opinion later. The chances are that you both have been properly stuck, and I never had any sympathy for wealthy ignorance, anyway." But Ledyard and Van Alstyne, being very wealthy, became frightfully depressed over the unfeeling jibes of Desboro; and Jacqueline seemed to be by way of acquiring a pair of new clients. In fact, both young men at various moments approached her on the subject, but Desboro informed them that they might with equal propriety ask a physician to prescribe for them at a dance, and that Miss Nevers' office was open from nine until five. "Gad," remarked Ledyard to Van Alstyne, with increasing respect, "she is some girl, believe _me_, Stuyve. Only if she ever married up with a man of our kind--good-night! She'd quit him in a week." Van Alstyne touched his forehead significantly. "Sure," he said. "Nothing doing _inside_ our conks. But why the Lord made her such a peach outside as well as inside is driving me to Jersey! Most of 'em are so awful to look at, don't y'know. Come on, anyway. _I_ can't keep away from her." "She's somewhere with the others playing baseball golf," said Reggie, gloomily, following his friend. "Isn't it terrible to see a girl in the world like that--apparently created to make some good gink happy--and suddenly find out that she has even more brains than beauty! My God, Stuyve, it's hard on a man like me." "Are you really hard hit?" "_Am_ I? And how about you?" "It's the real thing here," admitted Van Alstyne. "But what's the use?" They agreed that there was no use; but during the dance that evening both young men managed to make their intentions clear to Jacqueline. Reggie Ledyard had persuaded her to a few minutes' promenade in the greenhouse; and there, standing amid thickets of spicy carnations, the girl listened to her first proposal from a man of that outer world about which, until a few days ago, she had known nothing. The boy was not eloquent; he made a clumsy attempt to kiss her and was defeated. He seemed to her very big, and blond, and handsome as he stood there; and she felt a little pity for him, too, partly because his ideas were so few and his vocabulary so limited. Perplexed, silent, sorry for him, yet still conscious of a little thrill of wonder and content that a man of the outer world had found her eligible, she debated within herself how best to spare him. And, as usual, the truth presented itself to her as the only explanation. "You see," she said, lifting her troubled eyes, "I am in love with some one else." "Good God!" he muttered. After a silence he said humbly: "Would it be unpardonable if I--_would_ you tell me whether you are engaged?" She blushed with surprise at the idea. "Oh, no," she said, startled. "I--don't expect to be." "What?" he exclaimed incredulously. "Is there a man on earth ass enough not to fall in love with you if you ever condescended to smile at him twice?" But the ideas which he was evoking seemed to distress her, and she averted her face and stood twisting a long-stemmed carnation with nervous fingers. Not even to herself, either before or since Desboro's letter which had revealed him so unmistakably, had the girl ventured in her inmost thoughts to think the things which this big, blond, loutish boy had babbled. What Desboro was, she understood. She had had the choice of dismissing him from her mind, with scorn and outraged pride as aids to help the sacrifice, or of accepting him as he was--as she knew him to be--for the sake of something about him as yet inexplicable even to herself. And she had chosen. But now a man of Desboro's world had asked her to be his wife. More than that; he had assumed that she was fitted to be the wife of anybody. * * * * * They walked back together. She was adorable with him, kind, timidly sympathetic and smilingly silent by turns, venturing even to rally him a little, console him a little, moved by an impulse toward friendship wholly unfeigned. "All I have to say is," he muttered, "that you're a peach and a corker; and I'm going to invent some way of marrying you, even if it lands me in an East Side night-school." Even he joined in her gay laughter; and presently Van Alstyne, who had been glowering at them, managed to get her away. But she would have nothing further to do with greenhouses, or dark landings, or libraries; so he asked her bluntly while they were dancing; and she shook her head, and very soon dropped his arm. There was a bay-window near them; she made a slight gesture of irritation; and there, in the partly curtained seclusion, he learned that she was grateful and happy that he liked her so much; that she liked him very much, but that she loved somebody else. He took it rather badly at first; she began to understand that few girls would have lightly declined a Van Alstyne; and he was inclined to be patronising, sulky and dignified--an impossible combination--for it ditched him finally, and left him kissing her hands and declaring constancy eternal. That night, at parting, Desboro retained her offered hand a trifle longer than convention required, and looked at her more curiously than usual. "Are you enjoying the party, Jacqueline?" "Every minute of it. I have never been as happy." "I suppose you realise that everybody is quite mad about you." "Everybody is nice to me! People are so much kinder than I imagined." "Are they? How do you get on with the gorgon?" "Mrs. Hammerton? Do you know she is perfectly sweet? I never dreamed she could be so gentle and thoughtful and considerate. Why--and it seems almost ridiculous to say it--she seems to have the ideas of a mother about whatever concerns me. She actually fusses over me sometimes--and--it is--agreeable." An inexplicable shyness suddenly overcame her, and she said good-night hastily, and mounted the stairs to her room. Later, when she was prepared for bed, Mrs. Hammerton knocked and came in. "Jacqueline," she said bluntly, "what was Reggie Ledyard saying to you this evening? I'll box his ears if he proposed to you. Did he?" "I--I am afraid he did." "You didn't take him?" "No." "I should think not! I'd as soon expect you to marry a stable groom. He has all the beauty and healthy colour of one. Also the distinguished mental capacity. You don't want that kind." "I don't want any kind." "I'm glad of it. Did any other fool hint anything more of that sort?" "Mr. Van Alstyne." "Oho! Stuyvesant, too? Well, what did you say to _him_?" asked the old lady, with animation. "I said no." "What?" "Of course, I said no. I am not in love with Mr. Van Alstyne." "Child! Do you realise that you had the opportunity of your life!" Jacqueline's smile was confused and deprecating. "But when a girl doesn't care for a man----" "Do you mean to marry for _love_?" The girl sat silent a moment, then shook her head. "I shall not marry," she said. "Nonsense! And if you feel that way, what am I good for? What earthly use am I to you? Will you kindly inform me?" She had seated herself on the bed's edge, leaning over the girl where she lay on her pillows. "Answer me," she insisted. "Of what use am I to you?" For a full minute the girl lay there looking up at her without stirring. Then a smile glimmered in her eyes; she lifted both arms and laid them on the older woman's shoulders. "You are useful--this way," she said; and kissed her lightly on the forehead. The effect on Aunt Hannah was abrupt; she caught the girl to her breast and held her there fiercely and in silence for a moment; then, releasing her, tucked her in with mute violence, turned off the light and marched out without a word. * * * * * Day after day Desboro's guests continued to turn the house inside out, ransacking it from garret to cellar. "We don't intend to do anything in this house that anybody has ever done here, or at any house party," explained Reggie Ledyard to Jacqueline. "So if any lady cares to walk down stairs on her head the incident will be quite in order." "Can she slide down the banisters instead?" asked Helsa Steyr. "Oh, you'll have to slide up to be original," said Betty Barkley. "How can anybody slide _up_ the banisters?" demanded Reggie hotly. "You've the intellect of a terrapin," said Betty scornfully. "It's because nobody has ever done it that it ought to be done here." Desboro, seated on the pool table, told her she could do whatever she desired, including arson, as long as she didn't disturb the Aqueduct Police. Katharine Frere said to Jacqueline: "Everything you do is so original. Can't you invent something new for us to do?" "She might suggest that you all try to think," said Mrs. Hammerton tartly. "That would be novelty enough." Cairns seized the megaphone and shouted: "Help! Help! Aunt Hannah is after us!" Captain Herrendene, seated beside Desboro with a half smile on his face, glanced across at Jacqueline who stood in the embrasure of a window, a billiard cue resting across her shoulders. "Please invent something for us, Miss Nevers," he said. "Why don't you play hide and seek?" sneered Mrs. Hammerton, busily knitting a tie. "It's suited to your intellects." "Let Miss Nevers suggest a new way of playing the oldest game ever invented," added Betty Barkley. "There is no possibility of inventing anything new; everything was first done in the year one. Even protoplasmic cells played hide-and-seek together." "What rot!" said Reggie. "You can't play that in a new way." "You could play it in a sporting way," said Cairns. "How's that, old top?" "Well, for example, you conceal yourself, and whatever girl finds you has got to marry you. How's that for a reckless suggestion?" But it had given Reggie something resembling an idea. "Let us be hot sports," he said, with animation; "draw lots to see which girl will hide somewhere in the house; make a time-limit of one hour; and if any man finds her she'll marry him. There isn't a girl here," he added, jeeringly, "who has the sporting nerve to try it!" A chorus of protests greeted the challenge. Athalie Vannis declared that she was crazy to marry somebody; but she insisted that the men would only pretend to search, and were really too cowardly to hunt in earnest. Cairns retorted that the girl in concealment would never permit a real live man to miss her hiding place while she possessed lungs to reveal it. "There isn't," repeated Reggie, "a girl who has the nerve! Not one!" He inspected them scornfully through the wrong end of the megaphone. "Phony sports," he added. "No nerves and all fidgets. Look at me; _I_ don't want to get married; but I'm game for an hour. There isn't a girl here to call my bluff!" And he ventured to glance at Jacqueline. "They've had a chance to look at you by daylight, Reggie, and that is fatal," said Cairns. "Now, if they were only sure that I'd discover 'em, or the god-like captain yonder, or the beautiful Mr. Desboro----" "I've half a mind to do it," said Helsa Steyr. "Marie, will you draw lots to see who hides?" "Why doesn't a man hide?" drawled Miss Ledyard. "I'm very sure I could drag him to the altar in ten minutes." Cairns had found a sheet of paper, torn it into slips, and written down every woman's name, including Aunt Hannah's. "She's retired to her room in disgust," said Jacqueline, laughing. "Is _she_ included?" faltered Reggie. "You've brought it on yourself," said Cairns. "Are you going to renig just because Aunt Hannah is a possible prize? Are you really a tin sport?" "No, by heck! Come on, Katharine!" to Miss Frere. "But Betty Barkley can't figure in this, or there may be bigamy done." "That makes it a better sporting proposition," said Betty coolly. "I insist on figuring; Bertie can take his chances." "Then I'm jingled if I don't play, too," said Barkley. "And I'm not sure I'll hunt very hard if it's Betty who hides." The pretty little woman turned up her nose at her husband and sent a dazzling smile at Desboro. "I'll whistle three times, like the daughter in the poem," she said. "Please beat my husband to it." Cairns waved the pool basket aloft: "Come ladies!" he cried. "Somebody reach up and draw; and may heaven smile upon your wedding day!" Betty Barkley, standing on tip-toe, reached up, stirred the folded ballots with tentative fingers, grasped one, drew it forth, and flourished it. "Goodness! How my heart really beats!" she said. "I don't know whether I want to open it or not. I hadn't contemplated bigamy." "If it's my name, I'm done for," said Katharine Frere calmly. "I'm nearly six feet, and I can't conceal them all." "Open it," said Athalie Vannis, with a shiver. "After all there's the divorce court!" And she looked defiantly at Cairns. Betty turned over the ballot between forefinger and thumb and regarded it with dainty aversion. "Well," she said, "if I'm in for a scandal, I might as well know it. Will you be kind to me, Jim, and not flirt with my maid?" She opened the ballot, examined the name written there, turned and passed it to Jacqueline, who flushed brightly as a delighted shout greeted her. "The question is," said Reggie Ledyard excitedly, "are you a sport, Miss Nevers, or are you not? Kindly answer with appropriate gestures." The girl stood with her golden head drooping, staring at the bit of paper in her hand; then, as Desboro watched her, she glanced up with that sudden, reckless smile which he had seen once before--the first day he met her--and made a gay little gesture of acceptance. "You're not really going to do it, are you?" said Betty, incredulously. "You don't have to; they're every one of them short sports themselves!" "_I_ am not," said Jacqueline, smiling. "But," argued Katharine Frere, "suppose Reggie should find you. You'd never marry _him_, would you?" "Great Heavens!" shouted Ledyard. "She might have a worse fate. There's Desboro!" "You don't really mean it, do you, Miss Nevers?" asked Captain Herrendene. "Yes, I do," said Jacqueline. "I always was a gambler by nature." The tint of excitement was bright on her cheeks; she shot a daring glance at Ledyard, looked at Van Alstyne and laughed, but her back remained turned toward Desboro. He said: "If the papers ever get wind of this they'll print it as a serious item." "I _am_ perfectly serious," she said, looking coolly at him over her shoulder. "If there is a man here clever enough to find me, I'll marry him in a minute. But"--and she laughed in Desboro's face--"there isn't. So nobody need really lose one moment in anxiety. And if a girl finds me it's all off, of course. May I have twenty minutes? And will you time me, Mr. Ledyard? And will you all remain in this room with the door closed?" "If nobody finds you," cried Cairns, as she crossed the threshold, "we each forfeit whatever you ask of us?" She paused at the door, looking back: "Is that understood?" Everybody cried: "Yes! Certainly!" She nodded and disappeared. For twenty minutes they waited; then, as Reggie closed his watch, a general stampede ensued. Amazed servants shrank aside as Cairns, blowing fearful blasts on the megaphone, cheered on the excited human pack; everywhere Desboro's cats and dogs fled before the invasion; room after room was ransacked, maids routed, butler and valet defied. Even Aunt Hannah's sanctuary was menaced until that lady sat up on her bed and swore steadily at Ledyard, who had scaled the transom. Desboro, hunting by himself, entered the armoury, looked suspiciously at the armoured figures, shook a few, opened the vizors of others, and peered at the painted faces inside the helmets. Others joined him, prying curiously, gathering in groups amid the motionless army of mailed men. Then, as more than half of the allotted hour had already expired, Ledyard suggested an attic party, where trunks full of early XIXth century clothing might be rifled with pleasing results. "We may find her up there in a chest, like the celebrated bride," remarked Aunt Hannah, who had reappeared from her retreat. "It's the lesser of several tragedies that might happen," she added insolently, to Desboro. "To the attic!" thundered Cairns through his megaphone; and they started. But Desboro still lingered at the armoury door, looking back. The noise of the chase died away in the interior of the main house; the armoury became very still under the flood of pale winter sunshine. He glanced along the steel ranks of men-at-arms; he looked up at the stately mounted figures; dazzling sunlight glittered over helmet and cuirass and across the armoured flanks of horses. Could it be possible that she was seated up there, hidden inside some suit of blazing mail, astride a battle-horse? Cautiously he came back, skirting the magnificent and motionless ranks, hesitated and halted. Of course the whole thing had been proposed and accepted in jest; he told himself that. And yet--if some other man did discover her--the foundation of the jest might serve for a more permanent understanding. He didn't want her to have any intimate understanding with anybody until he and she understood each other, and he understood himself. He didn't want another man to find and claim the forfeit, even in jest, because he didn't know what might happen. No man was ever qualified to foretell what another man might do; and men already were behaving toward her with a persistency and seriousness unmistakable--men like Herrendene, who meant what he looked and said; and young Hammerton, Daisy's brother, eager, inexperienced and susceptible; and Bertie Barkley, a little, hard-faced snob, with an unerring instinct for anybody who promised to be popular among desirable people, was beginning to test her metal with the acid of his experience. Desboro stood quite still, looking almost warily about him and thinking faster and faster, trying to recollect who it was who had dragged in the silly subject of marriage. That blond and hulking ass Ledyard, wasn't it? He began to walk, slowly passing the horsemen in review. Suppose a blond animal like Reggie Ledyard offered himself in earnest. Was she the kind of girl who would nail the worldly opportunity? And Herrendene--that quiet, self-contained, keen-eyed man of forty-five. You could never tell what Herrendene was thinking about anything, or what he was capable of doing. And his admiration for Jacqueline was undisguised, and his attentions frankly persistent. Last night, too, when they were coasting under the new moon, there was half an hour's disappearance for which neither Herrendene nor Jacqueline had even pretended to account, though bantered and challenged--to Desboro's vague discomfort. And the incident had left Desboro a trifle cool toward her that morning; and she had pretended not to be aware of the slight constraint between them, which made him sulky. * * * * * He had reached the end of the double lane of horsemen. Now he pivoted and retraced his steps, hands clasped behind his back, absently scanning the men-at-arms, preoccupied with his own reflections. How seriously had she taken the rôle she was playing somewhere at that moment? Only fools accepted actual hazards when dared. He himself was apt to be that kind of a fool. Was _she_? Would she really have abided by the terms if discovered by Herrendene, for example, or Dicky Hammerton--if they were mad enough to take it seriously? He thought of that sudden and delicious flash of recklessness in her eyes. He had seen it twice now. "By God!" he thought. "I believe she would! She is the sort that sees a thing through to the bitter end." He glanced up, startled, as though something, somewhere in the vast, silent place, had moved. But he heard nothing, and there was no movement anywhere among the armoured effigies. Suppose she were here hidden somewhere within a hollow suit of steel. She must be! Else why was he lingering? Why was he not hunting her with the pack? And still, if she actually were here, why was he not searching for her under every suit of sunlit mail? Could it be because he did not really _want_ to find her--with this silly jest of marriage dragged in--a thing not to be mentioned between her and him even in jest? Was it that he had become convinced in his heart that she must be here, and was he merely standing guard like a jealous, sullen dog, watching lest some other fool come blundering back from a false trail to discover the right one--and perhaps her? Suddenly, without reason, he became certain that she and he were there in the armoury alone together. He knew it somehow, felt it, divined it in every quickening pulse beat. He heard the preliminary click of the armoury clock, indicating five minutes' grace before the hour struck. He looked up at the old dial, where it was set against the wall--an ancient piece in azure and gold under a foliated crest borne by some long dead dignitary. Four more minutes now. And suppose she should stir in her place, setting her harness clashing? Had the thought of marrying him ever entered her head? Was it in such a girl to challenge the possibility, make it as near a serious question as it ever could be? It had never existed for them, even as a question. It was not a dead issue, because it had never lived. If she made one movement now, if she so much as lifted her finger, this occult thing would be alive. He knew it--knew that it lay with her; and stood silent, unstirring, listening for the slightest sound. There was no sound. It lacked now only a minute to the hour. He looked at the face of the lofty clock; and, looking, all in a moment it flashed upon him where she was concealed. Wheeling in his tracks, on the impulse of the moment he walked straight back to the great painted wooden charger, sheathed in steel and cloth of gold, bearing on high a slender, mounted figure in full armour--the dainty Milanese mail Of the Countess of Oroposa. The superb young figure sat its saddle, hollow backed, graceful, both delicate gauntlets resting easily over the war-bridle on the gem-set pommel. Sunbeams turned the long spurs to two golden flames, and splintered into fire across the helmet's splendid crest. He could not pierce the dusk behind the closed vizor; but in every heart-beat, every nerve, he felt her living presence within that hollow shell of inlaid steel and gold. For a moment he stood staring up at her, then glanced mechanically toward the high clock. Thirty seconds! Time to speak if he would; time for her to move, if in her heart there ever had been the thought which he had never uttered, never meant to voice. Twenty seconds! Through that slitted vizor, also, the clock was in full view. She could read the flight of time as well as he. Now she must move--if ever she meant to challenge in him that to which he never would respond. He waited now, looking at the clock, now at the still figure above him. Ten seconds! Five! "Jacqueline!" he cried impulsively. There was no movement, no answer from the slitted helmet. "Jacqueline! Are you there?" No sound. Then the lofty gold and azure clock struck. And when the last of the twelve resounding strokes rang echoing through the sunlit armoury, the mailed figure stirred in its saddle, stretched both stirrups, raised its arms and flexed them. "You nearly caught me," she said calmly. "I was afraid you'd see my eyes through the helmet slits. Was it your lack of enterprise that saved me--or your prudence?" "I spoke to you before the hour was up. It seems to me that I _have_ won." "Not at all. You might just as well have stood in the cellar and howled my name. That isn't discovering me, you know." "I felt in my heart that you were there," he said, in a low voice. She laughed. "What a man feels in his heart doesn't count. Do you realise that I'm nearly dead sitting for an hour here? This helmet is abominably hot! How in the world could that poor countess have stood it?" "Shall I climb up beside you and unlace your helmet?" he asked. "No, thank you. Mrs. Quant will get me out of it." She rose in the stirrups, swung one steel-shod leg over, and leaped to the floor beside him, clashing from crest to spur. "What a silly game it was, anyway!" she commented, lifting her vizor and lowering the beaver. Her face was deliciously flushed, and the gold hair straggled across her cheeks. "It's quite wonderful how the armour of the countess fits me," she said. "I wonder what she looked like. I'll wager, anyway, that she never played as risky a game in her armour as I have played this morning." "You didn't really mean to abide by the decision, did you?" he asked. "Do you think I did?" "No, of course not." She smiled. "Perhaps you are correct. But I've always been afraid I'd do something radical and irrevocable, and live out life in misery to pay for it. Probably I wouldn't. I _must_ take off these gauntlets, anyway. Thank you"--as he relieved her of them and tossed them under the feet of the wooden horse. "Last Thursday," he said, "you fascinated everybody with your lute and your Chinese robes. Heaven help the men when they see you in armour! I'll perform my act of fealty now." And he lifted her hands and kissed them lightly where the gauntlets had left pink imprints on the smooth white skin. As always when he touched her, she became silent; and, as always, he seemed to divine the instant change in her to unresponsiveness under physical contact. It was not resistance, it was a sort of inertia--an endurance which seemed to stir in him a subtle brutality, awaking depths which must not be troubled--unless he meant to cut his cables once for all and drift headlong toward the rocks of chance. "You and Herrendene behaved shockingly last night," he said lightly. "Where on earth did you go?" "Is it to you that I must whisper 'je m'accuse'?" she asked smilingly. "To whom if not to me, Jacqueline?" "Please--and what exactly then may be your status? Don't answer," she added, flushing scarlet. "I didn't mean to say that. Because I know what is your status with me." "How do you know?" "You once made it clear to me, and I decided that your friendship was worth everything to me--whatever you yourself might be." "Whatever _I_ might be?" he repeated, reddening. "Yes. You are what you are--what you wrote me you were. I understood you. But--do you notice that it has made any difference in my friendship? Because it has not." The dull colour deepened over his face. They were standing near the closed door now; she laid one hand on the knob, then ventured to raise her eyes. "It has made no difference," she repeated. "Please don't think it has." His arms had imprisoned her waist; she dropped her head and her hand slipped from the knob of the great oak door as he drew her toward him. "In armour!" she protested, trying to speak lightly, but avoiding his eyes. "Is that anything new?" he said. "You are always instantly in armour when my lightest touch falls on you. Why?" He lifted her drooping head until it rested against his arm. "Isn't it anything at all to you when I kiss you?" he asked unsteadily. She did not answer. "Isn't it, Jacqueline?" But she only closed her eyes, and her lips remained coldly unresponsive to his. After a moment he said: "Can't you care for me at all--in this way? Answer me!" "I--care for you." "_This_ way?" Over her closed lids a tremor passed, scarcely perceptible. "Don't you know how--how deeply I--care for you?" he managed to say, feeling prudence and discretion violently tugging at their cables. "Don't you _know_ it, Jacqueline?" "Yes. I know you--care for me." "Good God!" he said, trying to choke back the very words he uttered. "Can't you respond--when you know I find you so adorable! When--when you must know that I love you! Isn't there anything in you to respond?" "I--care for you. If I did not, could I endure--what you do?" A sort of blind passion seized and possessed him; he kissed again and again the fragrant, unresponsive lips. Presently she lifted her head, loosened his clasp at her waist, stepped clear of the circle of his arms. "You see," she managed to say calmly, "that I do care for you. So--may I go now?" He opened the door for her and they moved slowly out into the hall. "You do not show that you care very much, Jacqueline." "How can a girl show it more honestly? Could you tell me?" "I have never stirred you to any tenderness--never!" She moved beside him with head lowered, hands resting on her plated hips, the bright hair in disorder across her cheeks. Presently she said in a low voice: "I wish you could see into my heart." "I wish I could! And I wish you could see into mine. That would settle it one way or another!" "No," she said, "because I _can_ see into your heart. And it settles nothing for me--except that I would like to--remain." "Remain? Where?" "There--in your heart." He strove to speak coolly: "Then you _can_ see into it?" "Yes." "And you know that you are there alone?" "Yes--I think so." "And now that you have looked into it and know what is there, do you care to remain in the heart of--of such a man as I am?" "Yes. What you are I--forgive." An outburst of merriment came from the library, and several figures clad in the finery of the early nineteenth century came bustling out into the hall. [Illustration: "Cheer after cheer rang through the hallway"] Evidently his guests had rifled the chests and trunks in the attic and had attired themselves to their heart's content. At sight of Desboro approaching accompanied by a slim figure in complete armour, they set up a shout of apprehension and then cheer after cheer rang through the hallway. "Do you know," cried Betty Barkley, "you are the most darling thing in armour that ever happened! I want to get into some steel trousers like yours immediately! Are there any in the armoury that will fit me, Jim?" "Did _you_ discover her?" demanded Reggie Ledyard, aghast. "Not within the time limit, old chap," said Desboro, pretending deep chagrin. "Then you don't have to marry him, do you, Miss Nevers?" exclaimed Cairns, gleefully. "I don't have to marry anybody, Mr. Cairns. And _isn't_ it humiliating?" she returned, laughingly, edging her way toward the stairs amid the noisy and admiring group surrounding her. "No! No!" cried Katharine Frere. "You can't escape! You are too lovely that way, and you certainly must come to lunch in your armour!" "I'd perish!" protested Jacqueline. "No Christian martyr was ever more absolutely cooked than am I in this suit of mail." Helsa Steyr started for her, but Jacqueline sprang to the stairs and ran up, pursued by Helsa and Betty. "_Isn't_ she the cunningest, sweetest thing!" sighed Athalie Vannis, looking after her. "I'm simply and sentimentally mad over her. Why _didn't_ you have brains enough to discover her, Jim, and make her marry you?" "I'd have knocked 'em out if he had had enough brains for that," muttered Ledyard. "But the horrible thing is that I haven't any brains, either, and Miss Nevers has nothing but!" "A girl like that marries diplomats and dukes, and discoverers and artists and things," commented Betty. "You're just a good-looking simp, Reggie. So is Jim." Ledyard retorted wrathfully; Desboro, who had been summoned to the telephone, glanced at Aunt Hannah as he walked away, and was rather disturbed at the malice in the old lady's menacing smile. But what Daisy Hammerton said to him over the telephone disturbed him still more. "Jim! Elena and Cary Clydesdale are stopping with us. May I bring them to dinner this evening?" For a moment he was at a loss, then he said, with forced cordiality: "Why, of course, Daisy. But have you spoken to them about it? I've an idea that they might find my party a bore." "Oh, no! Elena wished me to ask you to invite them. And Cary was listening." "Did _he_ care to come?" "I suppose so." "What did he say?" "He grinned. He always does what Elena asks him to do." "Oh! Then bring them by all means." "Thank you, Jim." And that was all; and Desboro, astonished and troubled for a few moments, began to see in the incident not only the dawn of an understanding between Clydesdale and his wife, but something resembling a vindication for himself in this offer to renew a friendship so abruptly terminated. More than that, he saw in it a return of Elena to her senses, and it pleased him so much that when he passed Aunt Hannah in the hall he was almost smiling. "What pleases you so thoroughly, James--yourself?" she asked grimly. But he only smiled at her and sauntered on, exchanging friendly body-blows with Reggie Ledyard as he passed. "Reggie," said Mrs. Hammerton, with misleading mildness, "come and exercise me for a few moments--there's a dear." And she linked arms with him and began to march up and down the hall vigorously. "She's very charming, isn't she?" observed Aunt Hannah blandly. "Who?" "Miss Nevers." "She's a dream," said Reggie, with emphasis. "Such a thoroughbred air," commented the old lady. "Rather!" "And yet--she's only a shop-keeper." "Eh?" "Didn't you know that Miss Nevers keeps an antique shop?" "What of it?" he said, turning red. "I peddle stocks. My grandfather made snuff. What do I care what Miss Nevers does?" "Of course. Only--would _you_ marry her?" "Huh! Like a shot! But I see her letting me! Once I was even ass enough to think I could kiss her, but it seems she won't even stand for that! And Herrendene makes me sick--the old owl--sneaking off with her whenever he can get the chance! They all make me sick!" he added, lighting a cigarette. "I wish to goodness I had a teaspoonful of intellect, and I'd give 'em a run for her. Because I have the looks, if I do say it," he added, modestly. "Looks never counted seriously with a woman yet," said Mrs. Hammerton maliciously. "Also, I've seen better looking coachmen than you." "Thanks. What are you going to do with her anyway?" "I don't have to do anything. She'll do whatever is necessary." "That's right, too. Lord, but she'll cut a swathe! Even that dissipated creature Cairns sits up and takes notice. I should think Desboro would, too--more than he does." "I understand there's a girl in blue, somewhere," observed Mrs. Hammerton. "That's a different kind of girl," said the young man, with contempt, and quite oblivious to his own naïve self-revelation. Mrs. Hammerton shrugged her trim shoulders. "Also," he said, "there is Elena Clydesdale--speaking of scandal and James Desboro in the same breath." "Do you believe that story?" "Yes. But that sort of affair never counts seriously with a man who wants to marry." "Really? How charming! But perhaps it might count against him with the girl he wants to marry. Young girls are sometimes fastidious, you know." "They never hear about such things until somebody tells 'em, after they're married. Then it's rather too late to throw any pre-nuptial fits," he added, with a grin. "Reginald," said Mrs. Hammerton, "day by day I am humbly learning how to appreciate the innate delicacy, chivalry, and honourable sentiments of your sex. You yourself are a wonderful example. For instance, when rumour couples Elena Clydesdale's name with James Desboro's, does it occur to you to question the scandal? No; you take it for granted, and very kindly explain to me how easily Mrs. Clydesdale can be thrown over if her alleged lover decides he'd like to marry somebody." "That's what's done," he said sulkily. "When a man----" "You don't have to tell _me_!" she fairly hissed, turning on him so suddenly that he almost fell backward. "Don't you think I know what is the code among your sort--among the species of men you find sympathetic? You and Jack Cairns and James Desboro--and Cary Clydesdale, too? Let him reproach himself if his wife misbehaves! And I don't blame her if she does, and I don't believe she does! Do you hear me, you yellow-haired, blue-eyed little beast?" Ledyard stood open-mouthed, red to the roots of his blond hair, and the tiny, baleful black eyes of Mrs. Hammerton seemed to hypnotise him. "You're all alike," she said with withering contempt. "Real men are out in the world, doing things, not crawling around over the carpet under foot, or sitting in clubs, or dancing with a pack of women, or idling from polo field to tennis court, from stable to steam-yacht. You've no real blood in you; it's only Scotch and soda gone flat. You've the passions of overfed lap dogs with atrophied appetites. There's not a real man here--except Captain Herrendene--and he's going back to his post in a week. You others have no posts. And do you think that men of your sort are fitted to talk about marrying such a girl as Miss Nevers? Let me catch one of you trying it! She's in my charge. But that doesn't count. She'll recognise a real man when she sees one, and glittering counterfeits won't attract her." "Great heavens!" faltered Reggie. "What a horrible lambasting! I--I've heard you could do it; but this is going some--really, you know, it's going some! And I'm not all those things that you say, either!" he added, in naïve resentment. "I may be no good, but I'm not as rotten as all that." He stood with lips pursed up into a half-angry, half-injured pout, like a big, blond, blue-eyed yokel facing school-room punishment. Mrs. Hammerton's harsh face relaxed; and finally a smile wrinkled her eyes. "I suppose men can't help being what they are--a mixture of precocious child and trained beast. The best of 'em have both of these in 'em. And you are far from the best. Reggie, come here to me!" He came, after a moment's hesitation, doubtfully. "Lord!" she said. "How we cherish the worst of you! I sometimes think we don't know enough to appreciate the best. Otherwise, perhaps they'd give us more of their society. But, generally, all we draw is your sort; and we cast our nets in vain into the real world--where Captain Herrendene is going on Monday. Reggie, dear?" "What?" he said suspiciously. "Was I severe with you and your friends?" "Great heavens! There isn't another woman I'd take such a drubbing from!" "But you _do_ take it," she said, with one of her rare and generous smiles which few people ever saw, and of which few could believe her facially capable. And she slipped her arm through his and led him slowly toward the library where already Farris was announcing luncheon. "By heck!" he repeated later, in the billiard room, to a group of interested listeners. "Aunt Hannah is all that they say she is. She suddenly let out into me, and I give y'm'word she had me over the ropes in one punch--tellin' me what beasts men are--and how we're not fit to associate with nice girls--no b'jinks--nor fit to marry 'em, either." Cairns laughed unfeelingly. "Oh, you can laugh!" muttered Ledyard. "But to be lit into that way hurts a man's self-respect. You'd better be careful or you'll be in for a dose of Aunt Hannah, too. She evidently has no use for any of us--barrin' the Captain, perhaps." That gentleman smiled and picked up his hockey stick. "There's enough ice left--if you don't mind a wetting," he said. "Shall we start?" Desboro rose, saying carelessly: "The Hammertons and Clydesdales are coming over. I'll have to wait for them." Bertie Barkley turned his hard little smooth-shaven face toward him. "Where are the Clydesdales?" "I believe they're stopping with the Hammertons for a week or two--I really don't know. You can ask them, as they'll be here to dinner." Cairns laid aside a cue with which he had been punching pool-balls; Van Alstyne unhooked his skate-bag, and the others followed his example in silence. Nobody said anything further about the Clydesdales to Desboro. Out in the hall a gay group of young girls in their skating skirts were gathering, among them Jacqueline, now under the spell of happiness in their companionship. Truly, even in these few days, the "warm sunlight of approval" had done wonders for her. She had blossomed out deliriously and exquisitely in her half-shy friendships with these young girls, responding diffidently at first to their overtures, then frankly and with a charming self-possession based on the confidence that she was really quite all right if everybody only thought so. Everybody seemed to think so; Athalie Vannis's friendship for her verged on the sentimental, for the young girl was enraptured at the idea that Jacqueline actually earned her own living. Marie Ledyard lazily admired and envied her slight but exceedingly fashionable figure; Helsa Steyr passionately adored her; Katharine Frere was profoundly impressed by her intellectual attainments; Betty Barkley saw in her a social success, with Aunt Hannah to pilot her--that is, every opportunity for wealth or position, or even both, through the marriage to which, Betty cheerfully conceded, her beauty entitled her. So everybody of her own sex was exceedingly nice to her; and the men already were only too anxious to be. And what more could a young girl want? As the jolly party started out across the snow, in random and chattering groups made up by hazard, Jacqueline turned from Captain Herrendene, with whom she found herself walking, and looked back at Desboro, who had remained standing bareheaded on the steps. "Aren't you coming?" she called out to him, in her clear young voice. He shook his head, smiling. "Please excuse me a moment," she murmured to Herrendene, and ran back along the middle drive. Desboro started forward to meet her at the same moment, and they met under the dripping spruces. "Why aren't you coming with us?" she asked. "I can't very well. I have to wait here for some people who might arrive early." "You are going to remain here all alone?" "Yes, until they come. You see they are dining here, and I can't let them arrive and find the house empty." "Do you want me to stay with you? Mrs. Hammerton is in her room, and it would be perfectly proper." He said, reddening with surprise and pleasure: "It's very sweet of you. I--had no idea you'd offer to do such a thing----" "Why shouldn't I? Besides, I'd rather be where you are than anywhere else." "With _me_, Jacqueline?" "Are you really surprised to hear me admit it?" "A little." "Why, if you please?" "Because you never before have been demonstrative, even in speech." She blushed: "Not as demonstrative as you are. But you know that I might learn to be." He looked at her curiously, but with more or less self-control. "Do you really care for me that way, Jacqueline?" "I know of no way in which I don't care for you," she said quickly. "Does your caring for me amount to--love?" he asked deliberately. "I--think so--yes." The emotion in his face was now palely reflected in hers; their voices were no longer quite steady under the sudden strain of self-repression. "Say it, Jacqueline, if it is true," he whispered. His face was tense and white, but not as pale as hers. "Say it!" he whispered again. "I can't--in words. But it is true--what you asked me." "That you love me?" "Yes. I thought you knew it long ago." They stood very still, facing each other, breathing more rapidly. Her fate was upon her, and she knew it. Captain Herrendene, who had waited, watched them for a moment more, then, lighting a cigarette, sauntered on carelessly, swinging his hockey-stick in circles. Desboro said in a low, distinct voice, and without a tremor: "I am more in love with you than ever, Jacqueline. But that is as much as I shall ever say to you--nothing more than that." "I know it." "Yes, I know you do. Shall I leave you in peace? It can still be done. Or--shall I tell you again that I love you?" "Yes--if you wish, tell me--that." "Is love _enough_ for you, Jacqueline?" "Ask yourself, Jim. With what you give I must be content--or starve." "Do you realise--what it means for us?" He could scarcely speak now. "Yes--I know." She turned and looked back. Herrendene was now a long way off, walking slowly and alone. Then she turned once more to Desboro, absently, as though absorbed in her own reflections. Herrendene had asked her to marry him that morning. She was thinking of it now. Then, in her remote gaze the brief dream faded, her eyes cleared, and she looked up at the silent man beside her. "Shall I remain here with you?" she asked. He made an effort to speak, but his voice was no longer under command. She waited, watching him; then they both turned and slowly entered the house together. Her hand had fallen into his, and when they reached the library he lifted it to his lips and noticed that her fingers were trembling. He laid his other hand over them, as though to quiet the tremor; and looked into her face and saw how colourless it had become. "My darling!" But the time had not yet come when he could tolerate his own words; contempt for them choked him for a moment, and he only took her into his arms in silence. She strove to think, to speak, to master her emotion; but for a moment his mounting passion subdued her and she remained silent, quivering in his embrace. Then, with an effort, she found her voice and loosened his arms. "Listen," she whispered. "You must listen. I know what you are--how you love me. But you are wrong! If I could only make you see it! If you would not think me selfish, self-seeking--believe unworthy motives of me----" "What do you mean?" he asked, suddenly chilled. "I mean that I am worth more to you than--than to be--what you wish me to be to you. You won't misunderstand, will you? I am not bargaining, not begging, not trading. I love you! I couldn't bargain; I could only take your terms--or leave them. And I have not decided. But--may I say something--for your sake more than for my own?" "Yes," he said, coolly. "Then--for your sake--far more than for mine--if you do really love me--make more of me than you have thought of doing! I know I shall be worth it to you. Could you consider it?" After a terrible silence, he said: "I can--get out of your life--dog that I am! I can leave you in peace. And that is all." "If that is all you can do--don't leave me--in peace. I--I will take the chances of remaining--honest----" The hint of fear in her eyes and in her voice startled him. "There is a martyrdom," she said, "which I might not be able to endure forever. I don't know. I shall never love another man. And all my life I have wanted love. It is here; and I may not be brave enough to deny it and live my life out in ignorance of it. But, Jim, if you only could understand--if you only knew what I can be to you--to the world for your sake--what I can become merely because I love you--what I am capable of for the sake of your pride in--in me--and----" She turned very white. "Because it is better for your sake, Jim. I am not thinking of myself, and how wonderful it would be for me--truly I am not. Don't you believe me? Only--there is so much to me--I am really so much of a woman--that it would begin to trouble you if ever I became anything--anything less than your--wife. And you would feel sorry for me--and I couldn't truthfully console you because all the while I'd know in my heart what you had thrown away that might have belonged to us both." "Your life?" he said, with dry lips. "Oh, Jim! I mean more than your life and mine! For our lives--yours and mine--would not be all you would throw away and deny. Before we die we would want children. Ought I not to say it?" She turned away, blind with tears, and dropped onto the sofa. "I'm wondering if I'm in my right mind," she sobbed, "for yesterday I did not even dare think of these things I am saying to you now! But--somehow--even while Captain Herrendene was speaking--it all flashed into my mind. I don't know how I knew it, but I suddenly understood that you belonged to me--just as you are, Jim--all the good, all the evil in you--everything--even your intentions toward me--how you may deal with me--all, all belonged to me! And so I went back to you, to help you. And now I have said this thing--for your sake alone, not for my own--only so that in years to come you may not have me on your conscience. For if you do not marry me--and I let myself really love you--you will wish that the beginning was to be begun again, and that we had loved each other--otherwise." He came over and stood looking down at her for a moment. His lips were twitching. "Would you marry me now," he managed to say, "_now_, after you know what a contemptible cad I am?" "You are only a man. I love you, Jim. I will marry you--if you'll let me----" Suddenly she covered her eyes with her hands. He seated himself beside her, sick with self-contempt, dumb, not daring to touch her where she crouched, trembling in every limb. For a long while they remained so, in utter silence; then the doorbell startled them. Jacqueline fled to her room; Desboro composed himself with a desperate effort and went out into the hall. He welcomed his guests on the steps when Farris opened the door, outwardly master of himself once more. "We came over early, Jim," explained Daisy, "because Uncle John is giving a dinner and father and mother need the car. Do you mind?" He laughed and shook hands with her and Elena, who looked intently and unsmilingly into his face, and then let her expressionless glance linger for a moment on her husband, who was holding out a huge hand to Desboro. "I'm glad to see you, Clydesdale," said Desboro pleasantly, and took that bulky gentleman's outstretched hand, who mumbled something incoherent; but the fixed grin remained. And that was the discomforting--yes, the dismaying--characteristic of the man--his grin never seemed to be affected by his emotions. Mrs. Quant bobbed away upstairs, piloting Daisy and Elena. Clydesdale followed Desboro to the library--the same room where he had discovered his wife that evening, and had learned in what esteem she held the law that bound her to him. Both men thought of it now--could not avoid remembering it. Also, by accident, they were seated very nearly as they had been seated that night, Clydesdale filling the armchair with his massive figure, Desboro sitting on the edge of the table, one foot resting on the floor. Farris brought whiskey; both men shook their heads. "Will you have a cigar, Clydesdale?" asked the younger man. "Thanks." They smoked in silence for a few moments, then: "I'm glad you came," said Desboro simply. "Yes. Men don't usually raise that sort of hell with each other unless a woman starts it." "Don't talk that way about your wife," said Desboro sharply. "See here, young man, I have no illusions concerning my wife. What happened here was her doing, not yours. I knew it at the time--if I didn't admit it. You behaved well--and you've behaved well ever since--only it hurt me too much to tell you so before to-day." "That's all right, Clydesdale----" "Yes, it is going to be all right now, I guess." A curious expression flitted across his red features, softening the grin for a moment. "I always liked you, Desboro; and Elena and I were staying with the Hammertons, so she told that Daisy girl to ask you to invite us. That's all there is to it." "Good business!" said Desboro, smiling. "I'm glad it's all clear between us." "Yes, it's clear sailing now, I guess." Again the curiously softening expression made his heavy red features almost attractive, and he remained silent for a while, occupied with thoughts that seemed to be pleasant ones. Then, abruptly emerging from his revery, he grinned at Desboro: "So Mrs. Hammerton has our pretty friend Miss Nevers in tow," he said. "Fine girl, Desboro. She's been at my collection, you know, fixing it up for the hammer." "So you are really going to sell?" inquired Desboro. "I don't know. I _was_ going to. But I'm taking a new interest in my hobby since----" he reddened, then added very simply, "since Elena and I have been getting on better together." "Sure," nodded Desboro, gravely understanding him. "Yes--it's about like that, Desboro. Things were rotten bad up to that night. And afterward, too, for a while. They're clearing up a little better, I think. We're going to get on together, I believe. I don't know much about women; never liked 'em much--except Elena. It's funny about Miss Nevers, isn't it?" "What do you mean?" "Mrs. Hammerton's being so crazy about her. She's a good girl, and a pretty one. Elena is wild to meet her." "Didn't your wife ever meet her at your house?" asked Desboro dryly. "When she was there appraising my jim-cracks? No. Elena has no use for my gallery or anybody who goes into it. Besides, until this morning she didn't even know that Miss Nevers was the same expert you employed. Now she wants to meet her." Desboro slowly raised his eyes and looked at Clydesdale. The unvaried grin baffled him, and presently he glanced elsewhere. Clydesdale, smoking, slowly crossed one ponderous leg over the other. Desboro continued to gaze out of the window. Neither spoke again until Daisy Hammerton came in with Elena. If the young wife remembered the somewhat lurid circumstances of her last appearance in that room, her animated and smiling face betrayed no indication of embarrassment. "When is that gay company of yours going to return, Jim?" she demanded. "I am devoured by curiosity to meet this beautiful Miss Nevers. Fancy her coming to my house half a dozen times this winter and I never suspecting that my husband's porcelain gallery concealed such a combination of genius and beauty! I could have bitten somebody's head off in vexation," she rattled on, "when I found out who she was. So I made Daisy ask you to invite us to meet her. _Is_ she so unusually wonderful, Jim?" "I believe so," he said drily. "They say every man who meets her falls in love with her immediately--and that most of the women do, too," appealing to Daisy, who nodded smiling corroboration. "She is very lovely and very clever, Elena. I think I never saw anything more charming than that rainbow dance she did for us last night in Chinese costume," turning to Desboro, "'The Rainbow Skirt,' I think it is called?" "A dance some centuries old," said Desboro, and let his careless glance rest on Elena for a moment. "She looked," said Daisy, "like some exquisite Chinese figure made of rose-quartz, crystal and green jade." "Jade?" said Clydesdale, immediately interested. "That girl knows jades, I can tell you. By gad! The first thing she did when she walked into my gallery was to saw into a few glass ones with a file; and good-night to about a thousand dollars in Japanese phony!" "That was pleasant," said Desboro, laughing. "Wasn't it! And my rose-quartz Fêng-huang! The Chia-Ching period of the Ming dynasty! Do you get me, Desboro? It was Jap!" "Really?" Clydesdale brought down his huge fist with a thump on the table: "I wouldn't believe it! I told Miss Nevers she didn't know her business! I asked her to consider the fact that the crystallisation was rhombohedral, the prisms six-sided, hardness 7, specific gravity 2.6, no trace of cleavage, immune to the three acids or the blow-pipe alone, and reacted with soda in the flame. I thought I knew it all, you see. First she called my attention to the colour. 'Sure,' I said, 'it's a little faded; but rose-quartz fades when exposed to light!' 'Yes,' said she, 'but moisture restores it.' So we tried it. Nix doing! Only a faint rusty stain becoming visible and infecting that delicious rose colour. 'Help!' said I. 'What the devil is it?' 'Jap funny business,' said she. 'Your rose-quartz phoenix of the Ming dynasty is common yellow crystal carved in Japan and dyed that beautiful rose tint with something, the composition of which my chemist is investigating!' Wasn't it horrible, Desboro?" Daisy's brown eyes were very wide open, and she exclaimed softly: "What a beautiful knowledge she has of a beautiful profession!" And to Desboro: "Can you imagine anything in the world more fascinating than to use such knowledge? And how in the world did she acquire it? She is so very young to know so much!" "Her father began her training as a child," said Desboro. There was a slight burning sensation in his face, and a hotter pride within him. After a second or two he felt Elena's gaze; but did not choose to encounter it at the moment, and was turning to speak to Daisy Hammerton when Jacqueline entered the library. Clydesdale lumbered to his feet and tramped over to shake hands with her; Daisy greeted her cordially; she and Elena were presented, and stood smiling at each other for a second's silence. Then Mrs. Clydesdale moved a single step forward, and Jacqueline crossed to her and offered her hand, looking straight into her eyes so frankly and intently that Elena's colour rose and for once in her life her tongue remained silent. "Your husband and I are already business acquaintances," said Jacqueline. "I know your very beautiful gallery, too, and have had the privilege of identifying and classifying many of the jades and porcelains." Elena's eyes were level and cool as she said: "If I had known who you were I would have received you myself. You must not think me rude. Mr. Desboro's unnecessary reticence concerning you is to blame; not I." Jacqueline's smile became mechanical: "Mr. Desboro's reticence concerning a business acquaintance was very natural. A busy woman neither expects nor even thinks about social amenities under business circumstances." [Illustration: "'Business is kinder to men than women sometimes believe'"] Elena's flush deepened: "Business is kinder to men than women sometimes believe--if it permits acquaintance with such delightful people as yourself." Jacqueline said calmly: "All business has its compensations,"--she smiled and made a friendly little salute with her head to Clydesdale and Desboro,--"as you will witness for me. And I am employed by other clients who also are considerate and kind. So you see the woman who works has scarcely any time to suffer from social isolation." Daisy said lightly: "Nobody who is happily employed worries over social matters. Intelligence and sweet temper bring more friends than a busy girl knows what to do with. Isn't that so, Miss Nevers?" Jacqueline turned to Elena with a little laugh: "It's an axiom that nobody can have too many friends. I want all I can have, Mrs. Clydesdale, and am most grateful when people like me." "And when they don't," asked Elena, smiling, "what do you do then, Miss Nevers?" "What is there to do, Mrs. Clydesdale?" she said gaily. "What would you do about it?" But Elena seemed not to have heard her, for she was already turning to Desboro, flushed, almost feverish in her animation: "So many things have happened since I saw you, Jim----" she hesitated, then added daringly, "at the opera. Do you remember _Ariane_?" "I think you were in the Barkley's box," he said coolly. "Your memory is marvellous! In point of fact, I was there. And since then so many, many things have happened that I'd like to compare notes with you--sometime." "I'm quite ready now," he said. "Do you think your daily record fit for public scrutiny, Jim?" she laughed. "I don't mind sharing it with anybody here," he retorted gaily, "if you have no objection." His voice and hers, and their laughter seemed so perfectly frank that thrust and parry passed as without significance. She and Desboro were still lightly rallying each other; Clydesdale was explaining to Daisy that lapis lazuli was the sapphire of the ancients, while Jacqueline was showing her a bit under a magnifying glass, when the noise of sleighs and motors outside signalled the return of the skating party. As Desboro passed her, Elena said under her breath: "I want a moment alone with you this evening." "It's impossible," he motioned with his lips; and passed on with a smile of welcome for his returning guests. Later, in the billiard room, where they all had gathered before the impromptu dance which usually terminated the evening, Elena found another chance for a word aside: "Jim, I must speak to you alone, please." "It can't be done. You see that for yourself, don't you?" "It can be done. Go to your room and I'll come----" "Are you mad?" "Almost. I tell you you'd better find some way----" "What has happened?" "I mean to have _you_ tell _me_, Jim." A dull flush came into his face: "Oh! Well, I'll tell you now, if you like." Her heart seemed to stop for a second, then almost suffocated her, and she instinctively put her hand to her throat. He was leaning over the pool table, idly spinning the ivory balls; she, seated on the edge, one pretty, bare arm propping her body, appeared to be watching him as idly. All around them rang the laughter and animated chatter of his guests, sipping their after-dinner coffee and cordial around the huge fireplace. "Don't say--that you are going to--Jim----" she breathed. "It isn't true--it mustn't be----" He interrupted deliberately: "What are you trying to do to me? Make a servant out of me? Chain me up while you pass your life deciding at leisure whether to live with your husband or involve yourself and me in scandal?" "Are you in love with that girl--after what you have promised me?" "Are you sane or crazy?" "You once told me you would never marry. I have rested secure in the knowledge that when the inevitable crash came you would be free to stand by me!" "You have a perfectly good husband. You and he are on better terms--you are getting on all right together. Do you expect to keep me tied to the table-leg in case of eventualities?" he said, in a savage whisper. "How many men do you wish to control?" "One! I thought a Desboro never lied." "Have I lied to you?" "If you marry Miss Nevers you will have lied to me, Jim." "Very well. Then you'll release me from that fool of a promise. I remember I did say that I would never marry. I've changed my mind, that's all. I've changed otherwise, too--please God! The cad you knew as James Desboro is not exactly what you're looking at now. It's in me to be something remotely resembling a man. I learned how to try from her, if you want to know. What I was can't be helped. What I'm to make of the débris of what I am concerns myself. If you ever had a shred of real liking for me you'll show it now." "Jim! Is this how you betray me--after persuading me to continue a shameful and ghastly farce with Cary Clydesdale! You _have_ betrayed me--for your own ends! You have made my life a living lie again--so that you could evade responsibility----" "Was I ever responsible for you?" "You asked me to marry you----" "Before you married Cary. Good God! Does that entail hard labour for life?" "You promised not to marry----" "What is it to you what I do--if you treat your husband decently?" "I have tried----" She crimsoned. "I--I endured degradation to which I will never again submit--whatever the law may be--whatever marriage is supposed to include! Do you think you can force me to--to that--for your own selfish ends--with your silly and unsolicited advice on domesticity and--and children--when my heart is elsewhere--when you have it, and you know you possess it--and all that I am--every bit of me. Jim! Don't be cruel to me who have been trying to live as you wished, merely to satisfy a moral notion of your own! Don't betray me now--at such a time--when it's a matter of days, hours, before I tell Cary that the farce is ended. Are you going to leave me to face things alone? You can't! I won't let you! I am----" [Illustration: "'Be careful,' he said.... 'People are watching us'"] "Be careful," he said, spinning the 13 ball into a pocket. "People are watching us. Toss that cue-ball back to me, please. Laugh a little when you do it." For a second she balanced the white ivory ball in a hand which matched it; then the mad impulse to dash it into his smiling face passed with a shudder, and she laughed and sent it caroming swiftly from cushion to cushion, until it darted into his hand. "Jim," she said, "you are not really serious. I know it, too; and because I do know it, I have been able to endure the things you have done--your idle fancies for a pretty face and figure--your indiscretions, ephemeral courtships, passing inclinations. But this is different----" "Yes, it is different," he said. "And so am I, Elena. Let us be about the honest business of life, in God's name, and clear our hearts and souls of the morbid and unwholesome mess that lately entangled us." "Is _that_ how you speak of what we have been to each other?" she asked, very pale. He was silent. "Jim, dear," she said timidly, "won't you give me ten minutes alone with you?" He scarcely heard her. He spun the last parti-coloured ball into a corner pocket, straightened his shoulders, and looked at Jacqueline where she sat in the corner of the fireplace. Herrendene, cross-legged on the rug at her feet, was doing Malay card tricks to amuse her; but from moment to moment her blue eyes stole across the room toward Desboro and Mrs. Clydesdale where they leaned together over the distant pool table. Suddenly she caught his eye and smiled a pale response to the message in his gaze. After a moment he said quietly to Elena: "I am deeply and reverently in love--for the first and only time in my life. It is proper that you should know it. And now you do know it. There is absolutely nothing further to be said between us." "There is--more than you think," she whispered, white to the lips. CHAPTER XI Nobody, apparently, was yet astir; not a breakfast tray had yet tinkled along the dusky corridors when Desboro, descending the stairs in the dim morning light, encountered Jacqueline coming from the general direction of the east wing, her arms loaded with freshly cut white carnations. "Good morning," he whispered, in smiling surprise, taking her and her carnations into his arms very reverently, almost timidly. She endured the contact shyly and seriously, as usual, bending her head aside to avoid his lips. "Do you suppose," he said laughingly, "that you could ever bring yourself to kiss me, Jacqueline?" She did not answer, and presently he released her, saying: "You never have yet; and now that we're engaged----" "Engaged!" "You _know_ we are!" "Is that what you think, Jim?" "Certainly! I asked you to marry me----" "No, dear, _I_ asked _you_. But I wasn't certain you had quite accepted me----" "Are you laughing at me?" "I don't know--I don't know what I am doing any more; laughter and tears seem so close to each other--sometimes--and I can never be certain which it is going to be any more." Her eyes remained grave, but her lips were sweet and humourous as she stood there on the stairs, her chin resting on the sheaf of carnations clasped to her breast. "What is troubling you, Jacqueline?" he asked, after a moment's silence. "Nothing. If you will hold these flowers a moment I'll decorate you." He took the fragrant sheaf from her; she selected a magnificent white blossom, drew the stem through the lapel of his coat, patted the flower into a position which suited her, regarded the effect critically, then glanced up out of her winning blue eyes and found him watching her dreamily. "I try to realise it, and I can't," he said vaguely. "Can you, dear?" "Realise what?" she asked, in a low voice. "That we are engaged." "Are you so sure of me, Jim?" "Do you suppose I could live life through without you _now_?" "I don't know. Try it for two minutes anyway; these flowers must stand in water. Will you wait here for me?" He stepped forward to aid her, but she passed him lightly, avoiding his touch, and sped across the corridor. In a few minutes she returned and they descended the stairs together, and entered the empty library. She leaned back against the table, both slender hands resting on the edge behind her, and gazed out at the sparrows in the snow. And she did not even appear to notice his arm, which ventured around her waist, or his lips resting against the lock of bright hair curling on her cheek, so absorbed she seemed to be in her silent reflections. After a few moments she said, still looking out of the window: "I must tell you something now." "Are you going to tell me that you love me?" "Yes--perhaps I had better begin that way." "Then begin, dearest." "I--I love you." His arm tightened around her, but she gently released herself. "There is a--a little more to say, Jim. I love you enough to give you back your promise." "My promise!" "To marry me," she said steadily. "I scarcely knew what I was saying yesterday--I was so excited, so much in love with you--so fearful that you might sometime be unhappy if things continued with us as they threatened to continue. I'm afraid I overvalued myself--made you suspect that I am more than I really am--or can ever be. Besides, I frightened you--and myself--unnecessarily. I never could be in any danger of--of loving you--unwisely. It was not perfectly fair to you to hint such a thing--because, after all, there is a third choice for you. A worthy one. For you _could_ let me go my way out of your life, which is already so full, and which would fill again very easily, even if my absence left a little void for a while. And if it was any kind of pity you felt for me--for what I said to you--that stirred you to--ask of me what I begged you to ask--then I give you back your promise. I have not slept for thinking over it. I must give it back." He remained silent for a while, then his arms slipped down around her body and he dropped on one knee beside her and laid his face close against her. She had to bend over to hear what he was saying, he spoke so low and with such difficulty. "How can you care for me?" he said. "How _can_ you? Don't you understand what a beast I was--what lesser impulse possessed me----" "Hush, Jim! Am I different?" "Good God! Yes!" "No, dear." "You don't know what you're saying!" "_You_ don't know. Do you suppose I am immune to--to the--lesser love--at moments----" He lifted his head and looked up at her, dismayed. "You!" "I. How else could I understand _you_?" "Because you are so far above everything unworthy." "No, dear. If I were, you would only have angered and frightened me--not made me sorry for us both. Because women and men are something alike at moments; only, somehow, women seem to realise that--somehow--they are guardians of--of something--of civilisation, perhaps. And it is their instinct to curb and silence and ignore whatever unworthy threatens it or them. It is that way with us, Jim." She looked out of the window at the sky and the trees, and stood thinking for a while. Then: "Did you suppose it is always easy for a girl in love--whose instinct is to love--and to give? Especially such a girl as I am, especially when she is so dreadfully afraid that her lover may think her cold-blooded--self-seeking--perhaps a--a schemer----" She covered her face with her hand--the quick, adorable gesture he knew so well. "I--_did_ ask you to marry me," she said, in a stifled voice, "but I am not a schemer; my motive was not self-interest. It was for you I asked it, Jim, far more than for myself--or I never could have found the courage--perhaps not even the wish. Because, somehow, I am too proud to wish for anything that is not offered." As he said nothing, she broke out suddenly with a little sob of protest in her voice: "I am _not_ a self-seeking, calculating woman! I am not naturally cold and unresponsive! I am--inclined to be--otherwise. And you had better know it. But you won't believe it, I am afraid, because I--I have never responded to--to you." Tears fell between her fingers over the flushed cheeks. She spoke with increasing effort: "You don't understand; and I can't explain--except to say that to be demonstrative seemed unworthy in me." He put his arms around her shoulders very gently; she rested her forehead against his shoulder. "Don't think me calculating and cold-blooded--or a fool," she whispered. "Probably everybody kisses or is kissed. I know it as well as you do. But I haven't the--effrontery--to permit myself--such emotions. I couldn't, Jim. I'd hate myself. And I thought of that, too, when I asked you to marry me. Because if you had refused--and--matters had gone on--you would have been sorry for me sooner or later--or perhaps hated me. Because I would have been--been too much ashamed of myself to have--loved you--unwisely." He stood with head bent, listening; and, as he listened, the comparison between this young girl and himself forced itself into his unwilling mind--how that all she believed and desired ennobled her, and how what had always governed him had made of him nothing more admirable than what he was born, a human animal. For what he began as he still was--only cleverer. What else was he--except a trained animal, sufficiently educated to keep out of jail? What had he done with his inheritance? His body was sane and healthy; he had been at pains to cultivate that. How was it with his mind? How was it with his spiritual beliefs? Had he cultivated and added to either? He had been endowed with a brain. Had he made of it anything except an instrument for idle caprice and indolent passions to play upon? "Do you understand me now?" she whispered, touching wet lashes with her handkerchief. He replied impetuously, hotly; her hands dropped from her face and she looked up at him with sweet, confused eyes, blushing vividly under his praise of her. He spoke of himself, too, with all the quick, impassioned impulse of youthful emotion, not sparing himself, promising better things, vowing them before the shrine of her innocence. Yet, a stronger character might have registered such vows in silence. And his fervour and incoherence left her mute; and after he had ceased to protest too much she stood quiet for a while, striving to search herself so that nothing unworthy should remain--so that heart and soul should be clean under the magic veil of happiness descending before her enraptured eyes. Gently his arms encircled her; her clasped hands rested on his shoulder, and she gazed out at the blue sky and sun-warmed snow as at a corner of paradise revealed. Later, when the household was astir, she went out with him into the greenhouse, where the enchanted stillness of growing things thrilled her, and the fragrance and sunlight made the mystery of love and its miracle even more exquisitely unreal to her. At first they did not speak; her hand lay loosely in his, her blue eyes remained remote; and together they slowly paced the long, glass-sheeted galleries between misty, scented mounds of bloom, to and fro, under the flood of pallid winter sunshine, pale as the yellow jasmine flowers overhead. After a while a fat gardener came into one of the further wings. Presently the sound of shovelled coal from the furnace-pit aroused them from their dream; and they looked at each other gravely. After a moment, he said: "Does it make a difference to you, Jacqueline, what I was before I knew you?" "No." "I was only wondering what you really think of me." "You know already, Jim." He shook his head slowly. "Jim! Of course you know!" she insisted hotly. "What you may have been before I knew you I refuse to consider. Anyway, it was _you_--part of you--and belongs to me now! Because I choose to make it mine--all that you were and are--good and evil! For I won't give up one atom of you--even to the devil himself!" He tried to laugh: "What a fierce little partisan you are," he said. "Very--where it concerns you," she said, unsmiling. "Dear--I had better tell you now; you may hear things about me----" "I won't listen to them!" "No; but one sometimes hears without listening. People may say things. They _will_ say things. I wish I could spare you. If I had known--if I had only known--that you were in the world----" "Don't, Jim! It--it isn't best for me to hear. It doesn't concern me," she insisted excitedly. "And if anybody dares say one word to me----" "Wait, dear. All I want to be sure of is that you _do_ love me enough to--to go on loving me. I want to be certain, and I want you to be certain before you are a bride----" She was growing very much excited, and suddenly near to tears, for the one thing that endangered her self-control seemed to be his doubt of her. "There is nothing that I haven't forgiven you," she said. "Nothing! There is nothing I won't forgive--except--one thing----" "What?" "I can't say it. I can't even think it. All I know is that _now_ I couldn't forgive it." Suddenly she became perfectly quiet. "I know what you mean," he said. "Yes. It is what no wife can forgive." She looked at him, clear eyed, intelligent, calm; for the moment without any illusion; and he seemed to feel that, in the light of what she knew of him, she was coolly weighing the danger of the experiment. Never had he seen so cold and lustrous a brow, such limpid clarity of eye, searching, fearless, direct. Then, in an instant, it all seemed to melt into flushed and winsome loveliness; and she was murmuring that she loved him, and asking pardon for even one second's hesitation. "It never could be; it is unthinkable," she whispered. "And it is too late anyway for me--I would love you now, whatever you killed in me. Because I must go on loving you, Jim; for that is the way it is with me, and I know it now. As long as there is life in me I'll strive for you in my own fashion--even against yourself--to keep you for mine, to please you, to be to you and to the world what you wish me to be--for your honour and your happiness--which also must be my own--the only happiness, now, that I can ever understand." He held her in his arms, smoothing the bright hair, touching the white brow with his lips at moments, happy because he was so deeply in love, fearful because of it--and, deep in his soul, miserable, afraid lest aught out of his past life return again to mock her--lest some echo of folly offend her ears--some shadow fall--some phantom of dead days rise from their future hearth to stand between them. It is that way with a man who has lived idly and irresponsibly, and who has gone lightly about the pleasure of life and not its business. For sometimes there arrives an hour of unbidden clairvoyance--not necessarily a spiritual awakening--but a moment of balanced intelligence and sanity and clear vision. And when it arrives, the road to yesterday suddenly becomes visible for its entire length; and when a man looks back he sees it stretching away behind him, peopled with every shape that has ever traversed it, and every spectre that ever has haunted it. Sorrow for what need not have been, regret and shame for what had been--and the bitterness of the folly--the knowledge, too late, of what he could have been to the girl he held now in his arms--how he could have met her on more equal terms had he saved his youth and strength and innocence and pride for her alone--how he could have given it unsullied into her keeping. All this Desboro was beginning to realise now. And many men have realised it when the tardy understanding came too late. For what has been is still and will be always; and shall appear here or hereafter, or after that--somewhere, sometime, inevitably, inexorably. There is no such thing as expunging what has been, or of erasing what is to be. All records stand; hope lies only in lengthening the endless chapters--chapters which will not be finished when the sun dies, and the moon fails, and the stars go out forever. * * * * * Walking slowly back together, they passed Herrendene in the wing hall, and his fine and somewhat melancholy face lighted up at the encounter. "I'm _so_ sorry you are going to-day," said Jacqueline, with all her impulsive and sweet sincerity. "Everybody will miss you and wish you here again." "To be regretted is one of the few real pleasures in life," he said, smiling. His quick eye had rested on Desboro and then reverted to her, and his intuition was warning him with all the brutality and finality of reason that his last hope of her must end. Desboro said: "I hate to have you go, Herrendene, but I suppose you must." "Must you?" echoed Jacqueline, wistful for the moment. But the irresistible radiance of happiness had subtly transfigured her, and Herrendene looked into her eyes and saw the new-born beauty in them, shyly apparent. "Yes," he said, "I must be about the business of life--the business of life, Miss Nevers. Everybody is engaged in it; it has many names, but it's all the same business. You, for example, pass judgment on beautiful things; Desboro, here, is a farmer, and I play soldier with sword and drum. But it's all the same business--the business of life; and one can work at it or idle through it, but never escape it, because, at the last, every soul in the world must die in harness. And the idlest are the heaviest laden." He laughed. "That's quite a sermon, isn't it, Miss Nevers? And shall I make my adieux now? Were you going anywhere? You see I am leaving Silverwood directly after breakfast----" "As though Mr. Desboro and I would go off anywhere and not say good-bye to _you_!" she exclaimed indignantly, quite unconscious of being too obvious. So they all three returned to the breakfast room together, where Clydesdale, who had come over from the Hammertons' for breakfast, was already tramping hungrily around the covered dishes on the sideboard, hot plate in hand, evidently meditating a wholesale assault. He grinned affably as Jacqueline and Desboro came in, and they all helped themselves from the warmers, returning laden to the table with whatever suited their fancy. Other guests, to whom no trays had been sent, arrived one after another to prowl around the browse and join in the conversation if they chose, or sulk, as is the fashion with some perfectly worthy souls at breakfast-tide. "This thaw settles the skating for good and all," remarked Reggie Ledyard. "Will you go fishing with me, Miss Nevers? It's our last day, you know." Cairns growled over his grape-fruit: "You can't make dates with Miss Nevers at the breakfast table. It isn't done. I was going to ask her to do something with me, anyway." "I hate breakfast," said Van Alstyne. "When I see it I always wish I were dead or that everybody else was. Zooks! This cocktail helps some! Try one, Miss Nevers." "There's reason in your grouch," remarked Bertie Barkley, with his hard-eyed smile, "considering what Aunt Hannah and I did to you and Helsa at auction last night." "Aunt Hannah will live in luxury for a year on it," added Cairns maliciously. "Doesn't it make you happy, Stuyve?" "Oh--blub!" muttered Van Alstyne, hating everybody and himself--and most of all hating to think of his losses and of the lady who caused them. Only the really rich know how card losses rankle. Cairns glanced banteringly across at Jacqueline. It was his form of wit to quiz her because she neither indulged in cocktails nor cigarettes, nor played cards for stakes. He lifted his eyebrows and tapped the frosted shaker beside him significantly. "I've a new kind of mountain dew, warranted to wake the dead, Miss Nevers. I call it the 'Aunt Hannah,' in her honour--honour to whom honour is dew," he added impudently. "Won't you let me make you a cocktail?" "Wait until Aunt Hannah hears how you have honoured her and tempted me," laughed Jacqueline. "I never tempted maid or wife Or suffragette in all my life----" sang Ledyard, beating time on Van Alstyne, who silently scowled his displeasure. Presently Ledyard selected a grape-fruit, with a sour smile at one of Desboro's cats which had confidently leaped into his lap. "Is this a zoo den in the Bronx, or a breakfast room, Desboro? I only ask because I'm all over cats." Bertie Barkley snapped his napkin at an intrusive yellow pup who was sniffing and wagging at his elbow. Jacqueline comforted the retreating animal, bending over and crooning in his floppy ear: "They gotta stop kickin' my dawg aroun'." "What do _you_ care what they do to Jim's live stock, Miss Nevers?" demanded Ledyard suspiciously. She laughed, but to her annoyance a warmer colour brightened her cheeks. "Heaven help us!" exclaimed Reggie. "Miss Nevers is blushing at the breakfast table. Gentlemen, _are_ we done for without even suspecting it? And by that--that"--pointing a furious finger at Desboro--"_that_!" "Certainly," said Desboro, smiling. "Did you imagine I'd ever let Miss Nevers escape from Silverwood?" Ledyard heaved a sigh of relief: "Gad," he muttered, "I suspected you both for a moment. Anyway, it doesn't matter. Every man here would have murdered you in turn. Come on, Miss Nevers; you've made a big splash with me, and I'll play you a game of rabbit--or anything on earth, if you'll let me run along beside you." "No, I'm driving with Captain Herrendene to the station," she said; and that melancholy soldier looked up in grateful surprise. And she did go with him; and everybody came out on the front steps to wish him _bon voyage_. "Are you coming back, Miss Nevers?" asked Ledyard, in pretended alarm. "I don't know. Is Manila worth seeing, Captain Herrendene?" she asked, laughingly. "If you sail for Manila with that tin soldier I'll go after you in a hydroplane!" called Reggie after them, as the car rolled away. He added frankly, for everybody's benefit: "I hate any man who even looks at her, and I don't care who knows it. But what's the use? Going to night-school might help me, but I doubt it. No; she's for a better line of goods than the samples at Silverwood. She shines too far above us. Mark that, James Desboro! And take what comfort you can in your reflected glory. For had she not been the spotlight, you'd look exactly like the rest of us. And that isn't flattering anybody, I'm thinking." It was to be the last day of the party. Everybody was leaving directly after luncheon, and now everybody seemed inclined to do nothing in particular. Mrs. Clydesdale came over from the Hammerton's. The air was soft and springlike; the snow in the fields was melting and full of golden pools. People seemed to be inclined to stroll about outdoors without their hats; a lively snowball battle began between Cary Clydesdale on one side and Cairns and Reggie Ledyard on the other--and gradually was participated in by everybody except Aunt Hannah, who grimly watched it from the library window. But her weather eye never left Mrs. Clydesdale. She was still standing at the window when somebody entered the library behind her, and somebody else followed. She knew who they were; the curtains screened her. For one second the temptation to listen beset her, but she put it away with a sniff, and had already turned to disclose herself when she heard Mrs. Clydesdale say something that stiffened her into a rigid silence. What followed stiffened her still more--and there were only a few words, too--only: "For God's sake, what are you thinking of?" from Desboro; and from Elena Clydesdale: "This has got to end--I can't stand it, Jim----" "Stand what?" "Him! And what you are doing!" "Be careful! Do you want people to overhear us?" he said, in a low voice of concentrated anger. "Then where----" "I don't know. Wait until these people leave----" "To-night?" "How can we see each other to-night!" "Cary is going to New York----" Voices approaching through the hall warned him: "All right, to-night," he said, desperately. "Go out into the hall." "To-night, Jim?" "Yes." She turned and walked out into the hall. He heard her voice calmly joining in the chatter now approaching, and, without any reason, he walked to the window. And found Mrs. Hammerton there. Astonishment and anger left him dumb and scarlet to the roots of his hair. "It isn't my fault," she hissed. "You and that other fool had already committed yourselves before I could stir to warn you. What do I care for your vile little intrigues, anyway! I don't have to listen behind curtains to learn what anybody could have seen at the Metropolitan Opera----" "You are absolutely mistaken----" "No doubt, James. But whether I am or not makes absolutely no difference to me--or to Jacqueline Nevers----" "What do you mean by that?" "What I say, exactly. It will make no difference to Jacqueline, because you are going to keep your distance." "Do you think so?" "If you don't keep away from her I'll tell her a few things. Listen to me very carefully, James. You think I'm fond of you, don't you? Well, I am. But I've taken a fancy to Jacqueline Nevers that--well, if I were not childless I might feel it less deeply. I've put my arms around her once and for all. Now do you understand?" "I tell you," he said steadily, "you are mistaken in believing----" "Very well. Granted. What of it? One dirty little intrigue more or less doesn't alter what you are and have been. The plain point of the matter is this, James: you are not fit to aspire seriously to Jacqueline Nevers. Are you? I ask you, now, honestly; are you?" "Does that concern you?" She fairly snapped her teeth and her eyes sparkled: "Yes; it concerns me! Keep away! I warn you--you and the rest of the Jacks and Reggies and similar assorted pups. Your hunting ground is elsewhere." A sort of cold fury possessed him: "You had better not say anything to Miss Nevers about what you overheard in this room," he said in a colourless voice. "I'll use my own judgment," she retorted tartly. "Use mine. It is perhaps better. Don't interfere." "Don't be a fool, James." "Will you listen to me----" "About Elena Clydesdale?" she asked maliciously. "There is nothing to tell about her." "Naturally. I never heard the Desboros were blackguards--only a trifle airy, James--a trifle gallant! Dear child, don't anger me. You know it wouldn't be well for you." "I ask you merely to mind your business." "That I shall do. My life's business is Jacqueline. You yourself made her so----" Malice indescribable snapped in her tiny black eyes, and she laughed harshly. "You made that motherless girl my business. Ask yourself if you've ever, inadvertently, done as decent a thing?" "Do you understand that I wish to marry her?" he asked, white with passion. "_You!_ What do I care what your patronising intentions may be? And, James, if you drive me to it----" she fairly glared at him, "--I'll destroy even your acquaintanceship with her. And I possess the means to do it!" "Try it!" he motioned with dry lips. A moment later the animated chatter of young people filled the room, and among them sounded Jacqueline's voice. "Oh!" she said, laughing, when she saw Mrs. Hammerton and Desboro coming from the embrasure of the window. "Have you been flirting again, Aunt Hannah!" "Yes," said the old lady grimly, "and I think I've taken him into camp." "Then it's my turn," said Jacqueline. "Come on, Mr. Desboro, you can't escape me. I'm going to beat you a game of rabbit!" Everybody drifted into the billiard-room at their heels, and found them already at their stations on either side of the pool table, each one covering the side pocket with left hand spread wide. Jacqueline had the cue-ball; it lay on the cloth in front of her, and her slim right hand covered it. "Ready?" she asked of Desboro. "Ready," he said, watching her. She made a feint; he sprang to the left; she shot the ball toward the right corner pocket, missed, carromed, and tried to recover it; but Desboro's arm shot out across the cloth and he seized it and shot it at her left corner pocket. It went in with a plunk! "One for Jim!" said Reggie gravely, and, picking up a cue, scored with a button overhead. "Plunk!" went the ball again into the same pocket; and Jacqueline gave a little cry of dismay as Desboro leaned far over the table, threatening, feinting, moving the ball so fast she could scarcely follow his hand. Then she thought she saw the crisis coming, sprang toward the left corner pocket, gave a cry of terror, and plunk! went the ball into her side pocket. Flushed, golden hair in pretty disorder, she sprang back on guard again, and the onlookers watched the movement of her hands, fascinated by their grace and beauty as she defended her side of the table and, finally, snatched the ball from the very jaws of the right corner. It was a breathless, exciting game, even for rabbit, and was fought to a furious finish; but she went down to defeat, and Desboro came around the table to condole with her, and together they stepped aside to leave the arena free for Katharine Frere and Reggie. "I'm so sorry, dear," he said under his breath. "It's what I want, Jim. Never let me take the lead again--in anything." His laugh was not genuine. He glanced across the room and saw Aunt Hannah pretending not to watch him. Near her stood Elena Clydesdale beside her husband, making no such pretence. He said in a low voice: "Jacqueline, would you marry me as soon as I can get a license--if I asked you to do it?" She blushed furiously; then walked over to the window and gazed out, dismayed and astounded. He followed. "Will you, dear? I have the very best of reasons for asking you." "Could you tell me the reasons, Jim?" she asked, still dazed. "I had rather not--if you don't mind. Will you trust me when I say it is better for us to marry quietly and at once?" She looked up at him dumbly, the scarlet slowly fading from brow and cheek. "Do you trust me?" he repeated. "Yes--I trust you." "Will you marry me, then, as soon as I can arrange for it?" She was silent. "Will you?" he urged. "Jim--darling--I wanted to be equipped--I wanted to have some pretty things, in order to--to be at my very best--for you. A girl is a bride only once in her life; a man remembers her as she came to him first." "Dearest, as I saw you first, so I will always think of you." "Oh, Jim! In that black gown and cuffs and collar!" "You don't understand men, dear. No coronation robe ever could compete with that dress in my affections. You always are perfect; I never saw you when you weren't bewitching----" "But, dear, there are other things----" "We'll buy them together!" "Jim, _must_ we do it this way? I don't mean that I wished for any ostentation----" "I did! I would have wished for a ceremony suited to your beauty and----" "No, no! I didn't expect----" "But I did--damn it!" he said between his teeth. "I wished it; I expected it. Don't you think I know what a girl ought to have? Indeed I do, Jacqueline. And in New York town another century will never see a bride to compare with you! But, my darling, I cannot risk it!" "Risk it?" "Don't ask me any more." "No." "And--will you do it--for my sake?" "Yes." There was a silence between them; he lighted a cigarette, turned coolly around, and glanced across the room. Elena instantly averted her gaze. Mrs. Hammerton sustained his pleasant inspection with an unchanging stare almost insolent. After a moment he smiled at her. It was a mistake to do it. * * * * * After luncheon, Elena Clydesdale found an opportunity for a word with him. "Will you remember that you have an engagement to-night?" she said in a guarded voice. "I shall break it," he replied. "What!" "This is going to end here and now! Your business is with your husband. He's a decent fellow; he's devoted to you. I won't even discuss it with you. Break with him if you want to, but don't count on me!" "I can't break with him unless I can count on you. Are you going to lie to me, Jim?" "You can call it what you like. But if you break with him it will end our friendship." "I tell you I've _got_ to break with him. I've got to do it now--at once!" "Why?" "Because--because I've got to. I can't go on fencing with him." "Oh!" She crimsoned and set her little white teeth. "I've got to leave him or be what--I won't be!" "Then break with him," he said contemptuously, "and give a decent man another chance in life!" "I can't--unless you----" "Good God! I'd sooner cut my throat. My sympathy is for your husband. You're convicting yourself, I tell you! I've always had a dim idea that he was all right. Now I know it--and my obligations to you are ended." "Then--you leave me--to him? Answer me, Jim. You refuse to stand between me and my--my degradation? Is that what you mean to do? Knowing I have no other means of escaping it except through you--except by defying the world with you!" She broke off with a sob. "Elena," he said, "your one salvation in this world is to have children! It will mean happiness and honour for you both--mutual respect, and, if not romantic love, at least a cordial understanding and mutual toleration. If you have such a chance, don't throw it away. Your husband is a slow, intelligent, kind, and patient man, who has borne much from you because he is honestly in love with you. Don't mistake his consideration for weakness, his patience for acquiescence. What kindness you have pretended to show him recently has given him courage. He is trying to make good because he believes that he can win you. This is clear reason; it is logic, Elena." She turned on him in a flash of tears and exasperation. "Logic! Do you think a woman wants that?" she stammered. "Do you think a woman arrives at any conclusion through the kind of reasoning that satisfies men? What difference does what you say make to me, when I hate _him_ and I love _you_? How does your logic help me to escape what is--is abhorrent to me! Do you suppose your reasoning makes it more endurable? Oh, Jim! For heaven's sake don't leave me to that--that man! Let me come here this evening after he has gone, and try to explain to you how I----" "No." "You won't!" "No. I am going to town with Mrs. Hammerton and Miss Nevers on the evening train. And some day I am going to marry Miss Nevers." CHAPTER XII During her week's absence from town Jacqueline's mail had accumulated; a number of business matters had come into the office, the disposal of which now awaited her decision--requests from wealthy connoisseurs for expert opinion, offers to dispose of collections entire or in part, invitations to dealers' secret conferences, urgent demands for appraisers, questions concerning origin or authenticity, commissions to buy, sell, advertise, or send searchers throughout the markets at home or abroad for anything from a tiny shrine of Limoges enamel to a complete suit of equestrian armour to fill a gap in a series belonging to some rich man's museum. On the evening of her arrival at the office, she was beset by her clerks and salesmen, bringing to her hundreds of petty routine details requiring her personal examination. Also, it appeared that one of her clients had been outrageously swindled by a precious pair of fly-by-nights; and the matter required immediate investigation. So she was obliged to telephone to Mrs. Hammerton that she could not dine with her at the Ritz, and to Desboro that she could not see him for a day or two. In Desboro's case, a postscript added: "Except for a minute, dearest, whenever you come." She did not even take the time to dine that evening, but settled down at her office desk as soon as the retail shop below was closed; and, with the tea urn and a rack of toast at her elbow, plunged straight into the delightfully interesting chaos confronting her. As far as the shop was concerned, the New Year, as usual, had brought to that part of the business a lull in activity. It always happened so after New Years; and the stagnation steadily increased as spring approached, until by summer time the retail business was practically dead. But a quiet market did not mean that there was nothing for her to do. Warehouse sales must be watched, auctions, public and private, in town and country, must be attended by one or more of her representatives; private clients inclined to sell always required tactful handling and careful consideration; her confidential agents must always be alert. Also, always her people were continually searching for various objects ardently desired by all species of acquisitive clients; she must keep in constant touch with everything that was happening in her business abroad; she must keep abreast of her times at home, which required much cleverness, intuition, and current reading, and much study in the Museum and among private collections to which she had access. She was a very, very busy girl, almost too busy at moments to remember that she had fallen in love. That night she worked alone in her office until long after midnight; and all the next day until noon she was busy listening to or instructing salesmen, clerks, dealers, experts, auctioneers, and clients. Also, the swindle and the swindlers were worrying her extremely. Luncheon had been served on a tray beside her desk, and she was still absent-mindedly going over the carbon files of business letters, which she had dictated and dispatched that morning, when Desboro's card was brought to her. She sent word that she would receive him. "Will you lunch with me, Jim?" she asked demurely, when he had appeared and shaken hands vigorously. "I've a fruit salad and some perfectly delicious sherbet! Please sit on the desk top and help me consume the banquet." "Do you call that a banquet, darling?" he demanded. "Come out to the Ritz with me this instant----" "Dearest! I can't! Oh, you don't know what an exciting and interesting mess my business affairs are in! A girl always has to pay for her pleasure. But in this case it's a pleasure to pay. Bring up that chair and share my luncheon like a good fellow, so we can chat together for a few minutes. It's all the time I can give you to-day, dearest." He pulled up a chair and seated himself, experiencing somewhat mixed emotions in the presence of such bewildering business capability. "You make me feel embarrassed and ashamed," he said. "Rotten loafer that I am! And you so energetic and industrious--you darling thing!" "But, dear, your farmer can't plow frozen ground, you know; all your men can do just now is to mend fences and dump fertiliser and lime and gypsum over everything. And I believe they were doing that when I left." "If," he said, "I were a real instead of a phony farmer, I'd read catalogues about wire fences; I'd find plenty to do if I were not a wretched sham. It's only, I hope, because you're in town that I can't drive myself back where I belong. I ought to be sitting in a wood-shed, in overalls, whittling sticks and yelling bucolic wisdom at Ezra Vail---- Oh, you needn't laugh, darling, but that's where I ought to be, and what I ought to be doing if I'm ever going to support a wife!" "Jim! You're _not_ going to support a wife! You absurd boy!" "What!" he demanded, losing countenance. "Did you think you were obliged to support me? How ridiculous! I'd be perfectly miserable----" "Jacqueline! What on earth do you mean? We are going to live on my income." "Indeed we are not! What use would I be to you if I brought you nothing except an idle, useless, lazy girl to support! It's unthinkable!" "Do you expect to _remain_ in business?" he asked, incredulously. "Certainly I expect it!" "But--darling----" "Jim! I _love_ my business. It was father's business; it represents my childhood, my girlhood, my maturity. Every detail of it is inextricably linked with memories of him--the dearest memories, the tenderest associations of my life! Do you wish me to give them up?" "How can you be my wife, Jacqueline, and still remain a business woman?" "Dear, I am certainly going to marry you. Permit me to arrange the rest. It will not interfere with my being your devoted and happy wife. It wouldn't ever interfere with--with my being a--a perfectly good mother--if that's what you fear. If it did, do you suppose I'd hesitate to choose?" "No," he said, adoring her. "Indeed, I wouldn't! But remaining in business will give me what every girl should have as a right--an object in life apart from her love for her husband--and children--apart from her proper domestic duties. It is her right to engage in the business of life; it makes the contract between you and me fairer. I love you more than anything in the world, but I simply couldn't keep my self-respect and depend on you for everything I have." "But, my darling, everything I have is already yours." "Yes, I know. We can pretend it is. I know I _could_ have it--just as you could have this rather complicated business of mine--if you want it." "Oh, Lord!" he exclaimed. "Imagine the fury of a connoisseur who engaged me to identify his priceless penates!" He was laughing, too, now. They had finished their fruit salad and sherbet; she lighted a cigarette for him, taking a dainty puff and handing it to him with an adorable shudder. "I _don't_ like it! I don't like any vices! How women can enjoy what men enjoy is a mystery to me. Smoke slowly, darling, because when that cigarette is finished you must make a very graceful bow and say good-bye to me until to-morrow." "This is simply devilish, Jacqueline! I never see you any more." "Nonsense! You have plenty to do to amuse you--haven't you, dear?" But the things that once occupied his leisure so casually and so agreeably no longer attracted him. "I don't want to read seed catalogues," he protested. "Couldn't I be of use to you, Jacqueline? I'll do anything you say--take off my coat and sweep out your office, or go behind the counter in the shop and sell gilded gods----" "Imagine the elegant Mr. Desboro selling antiquities to the dangerous monomaniacs who haunt such shops as mine! Dear, they'd either drive you crazy or have you arrested for fraud inside of ten minutes. No; you will make a perfectly good husband, Jim, but you were never created to decorate an antique shop." He tried to smile, but only flushed rather painfully. A sudden and wholly inexplicable sense of inferiority possessed him. "You know," he said, "I'm not going to stand around idle while you run a prosperous business concern. And anyway, I can't see it, Jacqueline. You and I are going to have a lot of social obligations to----" "We are likely to have all kinds of obligations," she interrupted serenely, "and our lives are certain to be very full, and you and I are going to be equal to every opportunity, every demand, every responsibility--and still have leisure to love each other, and to be to each other everything that either could desire." "After all," he said, serious and unconvinced, "there are only twenty-four hours in a day for us to be together." "Yes, darling, but there will be no wasted time in those twenty-four hours. That is where we save a sufficient number of minutes to attend to the business of life." "Do you mean that you intend to come into this office every day?" "For a while, yes. Less frequently when I have trained my people a little longer. What do you suppose my father was doing all his life? What do you suppose I have been doing these last three years? Why, Jim, except that hitherto I have loved to fuss over details, this office and this business could almost run itself for six months at a time. Some day, except for special clients here and there, Lionel Sissly will do what expert work I now am doing; and this desk will be his; and his present position will be filled by Mr. Mirk. That is how it is planned. And if you had given me two or three months, I might have been able to go on a bridal trip with you!" "We _are_ going, aren't we?" he asked, appalled. "If I've got to marry you offhand," she said seriously, "our wedding trip will have to wait. Don't you know, dear, that it always costs heavily to do anything in a hurry? At this time of year, and under the present conditions of business, and considering my contracts and obligations, it would be utterly impossible for me to go away again until summer." He sprang up irritated, yet feeling utterly helpless under her friendly but level gaze. Already he began to realise the true significance of her position and his own in the world; how utterly at a moral disadvantage he stood before this young girl--moral, intellectual, spiritual--he was beginning to comprehend it all now. A dull flush of anger made his face hot and altered his expression to sullenness. Where was all this leading them, anyway--this reversal of rôles, this self-dependent attitude of hers--this calm self-reliance--this freedom of decision? Once he had supposed there was something in her to protect, to guide, advise, make allowance for--perhaps to persuade, possibly, even, to instruct. Such has been the immemorial attitude of man; it had been instinctively, and more or less unconsciously, his. And now, in spite of her youth, her soft pliability, her almost childish grace and beauty, he was experiencing a half-dazed sensation as though, in full and confident career, he had come, slap! into collision with an occult barrier. And the impact was confusing him and even beginning to hurt him. He looked around him uneasily. Everything in the office, somehow, seemed to be in subtle league with her to irritate him--her desk, her loaded letter-files, her stacks of ledgers--all these accused and offended him. But most of all his own helpless inferiority made him angry and ashamed--the inferiority of idleness confronted by industry; of aimlessness face to face with purpose; of irresolution and degeneracy scrutinised by fearlessness, confidence, and happy and innocent aspiration. And the combination silenced him. And every mute second that he stood there, he felt as though something imperceptible, intangible, was slipping away from him--perhaps his man's immemorial right to lead, to decide, to direct the common destiny of this slim, sweet-lipped young girl and himself. For it was she who was serenely deciding--who had already laid out the business of life for herself without hesitation, without resort to him, to his man's wisdom, experience, prejudices, wishes, desires. Moreover, she was leaving him absolutely free to decide his own business in life for himself; and that made her position unassailable. For if she had presumed to advise him, to suggest, even hint at anything interfering with his own personal liberty to decide for himself, he might have found some foothold, some niche, something to sustain him, to justify him, in assuming man's immemorial right to leadership. "Dear," she said wistfully, "you look at me with such very troubled eyes. Is there anything I have said that you disapprove?" "I had not expected you to remain in business," was all he found to say. "If my remaining in business ever interferes with your happiness or with my duty to you, I will give it up. You know that, don't you?" He reddened again. "It looks queer," he muttered, "--your being in business and I--playing farmer--like one of those loafing husbands of celebrated actresses." "Jim!" she exclaimed, scarlet to the ears. "What a horrid simile!" "It's myself I'm cursing out," he said, almost angrily. "I can't cut such a figure. Don't you understand, Jacqueline? I haven't anything to occupy me! Do you expect me to hang around somewhere while you work? I tell you, I've got to find something to do as soon as we're married--or I couldn't look you in the face." "That is for you to decide. Isn't it?" she asked sweetly. "Yes, but on what am I to decide?" "Whatever you decide, don't do it in a hurry, dear," she said, smiling. The sullen sense of resentment returned, reddening his face again: "I wouldn't have to hurry if you'd give up this business and live on our income and be free to travel and knock about with me----" "Can't you understand that I _will_ be free to be with you--free in mind, in conscience, in body, to travel with you, be with you, be to you whatever you desire--but only if I keep my self-respect! And I can't keep that if I neglect the business of life, which, in my case, lies partly here in this office." She rose and laid one slim, pretty hand on his shoulder. She rarely permitted herself to touch him voluntarily. "Don't you wish me to be happy?" she asked gently. "It's all I wish in the world, Jacqueline." "But I couldn't be happy and remain idle; remain dependent on you for anything--except love. Life to the full--every moment filled--that is what living means to me. And only one single thing never can fill one's life--not intellectual research alone; not spiritual remoteness; nor yet the pursuit of pleasure; nor the swift and endless hunt for happiness; nor even love, dearest among men! Only the business of life can quite fill life to the brimming for me; and that business is made up of everything worthy--of the pleasures of effort, duty, aspiration, and noble repose, but never of the pleasures of idleness. Jim, have I bored you with a sermon? Forgive me; I am preaching only to instruct myself." He took her hand from his shoulder and stood holding it and looking at her with a strange expression. So dazed, yet so terribly intent he seemed at moments that she laid her other hand over his, pressing it in smiling anxiety. "What is it, dearest?" she murmured. "Don't you approve of me as much as you thought you did? Am I disappointing you already?" "Good God!" he muttered to himself. "If there is a heaven, and your sort inhabit it, hell was reformed long ago." "What are you muttering all to yourself, Jim?" she insisted. "What troubles you?" "I'll tell you. You've picked the wrong man. I'm absolutely unfit for you. I know about all those decent things you believe in--all the things you _are_! But I don't know about them from personal experience; I never did anything decent because it was my duty to do it--except by accident. I never took a spiritual interest in anything or anybody, including myself! I never made a worthy effort; I never earned one second's worth of noble repose. And now--if there's anything in me to begin on--it's probably my duty to release you until I have made something of myself, before I come whining around asking you to marry a man not fit to marry----" "My darling!" she protested, half laughing, half in tears, and closing his angry lips with both her hands. "I want _you_, not a saint or a holy man, or an archangel fresh from paradise! I want you as you _are_--as you have been--as you are going to be dear! Did any girl who ever lived find pleasure in perfection? Even in art it is undesirable. That's the beauty of aspiration; the pleasures of effort never pall. I don't know whether I'm laughing or crying, Jim! You look so solemn and miserable, and--and funny! But if you try to look dignified now, I'll certainly laugh! You dear, blessed, overgrown boy--just as bad as you possibly can be! Just as funny and unreasonable and perverse as are all boys! But Jacqueline loves you dearly--oh, dearly--and she trusts you with her heart and her happiness and with every beauty yet undreamed and unrevealed that a girl could learn to desire on earth! Are you contented? Oh, Jim! Jim! If you knew how I adore you! You must go, dear. It will mean a long night's work for me if you don't. But it's so hard to let you go--when I--love you so! When I love you so! Good-bye. Yes, to-morrow. Don't call at noon; Mrs. Hammerton is coming for a five-minute chat. And I do want you to myself for the few moments we may have together. Come about five and we can have tea here beside my desk." * * * * * He came next day at five. The day after that he arrived at the same hour, bringing with him her ring; and, as he slipped it over her finger, for the first time her self-control slipped, too, and she bent swiftly and kissed the jewel that he was holding. Then, flushed and abashed, she shrank away, an exquisite picture of confusion, and stood turning and turning the ring around, her head obstinately lowered, absolutely unresponsive again to his arm around her and his cheek resting close against hers. "What a beauty of a ring, Jim!" she managed to say at last. "No other engagement ring ever existed half as lovely and splendid as my betrothal ring. I am sorry for all the empresses and queens and princesses who can never hope to possess a ring to equal the ring of Jacqueline Nevers, dealer in antiquities." "Nor can they hope to possess such a hand to adorn it," he said, "--the most beautiful, the purest, whitest, softest, most innocent hand in the world! The magic hand of Jacqueline!" "Do you like it?" she asked, shyly conscious of its beauty. "It is matchless, darling. Let empresses shriek with envy." "I'm listening very intently, but I don't hear them. Jim. Also, I've seen a shop-girl with far lovelier hands. But please go on thinking so and hearing crowned heads shriek. I rather like your imagination." He laughed from sheer happiness: "I've got something to whisper to you. Shall I?" "What?" "Shall I whisper it?" She inclined her small head daintily, then: "Oh!" she exclaimed, startled and blushing to the tips of her ears. "Will you be ready?" "I--yes. Yes--I'll be ready----" "Does it make you happy?" "I can't realise--I didn't know it was to be so soon--so immediate----" "We'll go to Silverwood. We can catch the evening express----" "Dearest!" "You can go away with me for _one_ week, can't you?" "I can't go now!" she faltered. "For how long can you go, Jacqueline?" "I--I've got to be back on Tuesday morning." "Tuesday!" "Isn't it dreadful, Jim. But I can't avoid it if we are to be married on Monday next. I must deal honourably by my clients who trust me. I warned you that our wedding trip would have to be postponed if you married me this way--didn't I, dear?" "Yes." She stood looking at him timidly, almost fearfully, as he took two or three quick, nervous steps across the floor, turned and came back to her. "All right," he said. "Our wedding trip will have to wait, then; but our wedding won't. We'll be married Monday, go to Silverwood, and come back Tuesday--if it's a matter of honour. I never again mean to interfere with your life's business, Jacqueline. You know what is best; you are free and entitled to the right of decision." "Yes. But because I _must_ decide about things that concern myself alone, you don't think I adore you any the less, do you, Jim?" "Nor do I love you the less, Jacqueline, because I can decide nothing for you, do nothing for you." "Jim! You _can_ decide everything for me--do everything! And you _have_ done everything for me--by giving me my freedom to decide for myself!" "_I_ gave it to you, Jacqueline?" "Did you think I would have taken it if you had refused it?" "But you said your happiness depended on it." "Which is why you gave it to me, isn't it?" she asked seriously. He laughed. "You wonderful girl, to make me believe that any generosity of mine is responsible for your freedom!" "But it is! Otherwise, I would have obeyed you and been disgraced in my own estimation." "Do you mean that mine is to be the final decision always?" "Why, of course, Jim." He laughed again. "Empty authority, dear--a shadowy symbol of traditional but obsolete prerogative." "You are wrong. Your decision is final. But--as I know it will always be for my happiness, I can always appeal from your prejudice to your intelligence," she added naïvely. And for a moment was surprised at his unrestrained laughter. "What does it matter?" she admitted, laughing, too. "Between you and me the right thing always will be done sooner or later." His laughter died out; he said soberly: "Always, God willing. It may be a little hard for me to learn--as it's hard, now, for example, to say good-bye." "Jim!" "You know I must, darling." "But I don't mind sitting up a few minutes later to-night----" "I know you don't. But here's where I exercise my harmlessly arbitrary authority for your happiness and for the sake of your good digestion." "What a brute you are!" "I know it. Back to your desk, darling! And go to bed early." "I wanted you to stay----" "Ha! So you begin to feel the tyranny of man! I'm going! I've got a job, too, if you want to know." "What!" "Certainly! How long did you suppose I could stand it to see you at that desk and then go and sit in a silly club?" "What do you mean, darling?" she asked, radiant. "I mean that Jack Cairns, who is a broker, has offered me a job at a small but perfectly proper salary, with the usual commission on all business I bring in to the office. And I've taken it!" "But, dear----" "Oh, Vail can run my farm without any advice from me. I'm going to give him more authority and hold him responsible. If the place can pay for itself and let us keep the armour and jades, that's all I ask of it. But I am asking more of myself--since I have begun to really know you. And I'm going to work for our bread and butter, and earn enough to support us both and lay something aside. You know we've got to think of that, because----" He looked very serious, hesitated, bent and whispered something that sent the bright colour flying in her cheeks; then he caught her hand and kissed the ring-finger. "Good-bye," she murmured, clinging for an instant to his hand. The next moment he was gone; and she stood alone for a while by her desk, his ring resting against her lips, her eyes closed. * * * * * Sunday she spent with him. They went together to St. John's Cathedral in the morning--the first time he had been inside a church in years. And he was in considerable awe of the place and of her until they finally emerged into the sunshine of Morningside Park. Under a magnificent and cloudless sky, they walked together, silent or loquacious by turns, bold and shy, confident and timid. And she was a little surprised to find that, in the imminence of marriage, her trepidation was composure itself compared to the anxiety which seemed to assail him. All he had thought of was the license and the clergyman; and they had attended to those matters together. But she had wished him to have Jack Cairns present, and had told him that she desired to ask some friend of her girlhood to be her bridesmaid. "Have you done so?" he inquired, as they descended the heights of Morningside, the beautiful weather tempting them to a long homeward stroll through Central Park. "Yes, Jim, I must tell you about her. She, like myself, is not a girl that men of your sort might expect to meet----" "The loss is ours, Jacqueline." "That is very sweet of you. Only I had better tell you about Cynthia Lessler----" "Who?" he asked, astonished. "Cynthia Lessler, my girlhood friend." "She is an actress, isn't she?" "Yes. Her home life was very unhappy. But I think she has much talent, too." "She has." "I am glad you think so. Anyway, she is my oldest friend, and I have asked her to be my bridesmaid to-morrow." He continued silent beside her so long that she said timidly: "Do you mind, Jim?" "I was only thinking--how it might look in the papers--and there are other girls you already know whose names would mean a lot----" "Yes, I know. But I don't want to pretend to be what I am not, even in the papers. I suppose I do need all the social corroboration I can have. I know what you mean, dear. But there were reasons. I thought it all over. Cynthia is an old friend, not very happy, not the fortunate and blessed girl that your love is making of me. But she is good and sweet and loyal to me, and I can't abandon old friends, especially one who is not very fortunate--and I--I thought perhaps it might help her a little--in various ways--to be my bridesmaid." "That is like you," he said, reddening. "You never say or do anything but there lies in it some primary lesson in decency to me." "You goose! Isn't it natural for a girl to wish for her oldest friend at such a time? That's really all there is to the matter. And I do hope you will like Cynthia." He nodded, preoccupied. After a few moments he said: "Did you know that Jack Cairns had met her?" "Yes." "Oh!" His troubled eyes sought hers, then shifted. "That was another reason I wish to ask her," she said in a low voice. "What reason?" "Because Mr. Cairns knew her only as a very young, very lonely, very unhappy girl, inexperienced, friendless, poor, almost shelterless; and engaged in a profession upon which it is almost traditional for men to prey. And I wish him to know her again as a girl who is slowly advancing in an honest profession--as a modest, sweet, self-respecting woman--and as my friend." "And mine," he said. "You--darling!" she whispered. CHAPTER XIII They were married in the morning at St. George's in Stuyvesant Square. Gay little flurries of snow, like wind-blown petals from an apple bough, were turning golden in the warm outbreak of brilliant sunshine; and there was blue sky overhead and shining wet pavements under foot as Jacqueline and Desboro came out of the shadows of the old-time church into the fresh splendour of the early morning. The solemn beauty of the service still possessed and enthralled them. Except for a low word or two, they were inclined to silence. But the mating sparrows were not; everywhere the little things, brown wings a-quiver, chattered and chirped in the throes of courtship; now and then, from some high façade rang out the clear, sweet whistle of a starling; and along the warm, wet streets ragged children were selling violets and narcissus, and yellow tulips tinted as delicately as the pale spring sunshine. A ragged little girl came to stare at Jacqueline, the last unsold bunch of wilted violets lying on her tray; and Jacqueline laid the cluster over the prayer-book which she was carrying, while Desboro slipped a golden coin into the child's soiled hand. Down the street his chauffeur was cranking the car; and while they waited for it to draw up along the curb, Jacqueline separated a few violets from the faintly fragrant cluster and placed them between the leaves of her prayer-book. After a few moments he said, under his breath: "Do you realise that we are married, Jacqueline?" "No. Do you?" "I'm trying to comprehend it, but I can't seem to. How soft the breeze blows! It is already spring in Stuyvesant Square." "The Square is lovely! They will be setting out hyacinths soon, I think." She shivered. "It's strange," she said, "but I feel rather cold. Am I horridly pale, Jim?" "You are a trifle colourless--but even prettier than I ever saw you," he whispered, turning up the collar of her fur coat around her throat. "You haven't taken cold, have you?" "No; it is--natural--I suppose. Miracles frighten one at first." Their eyes met; she tried to smile. After a moment he said nervously: "I sent out the announcements. The evening papers will have them." "I want to see them, Jim." "You shall. I have ordered all this evening's and to-morrow morning's papers. They will be sent to Silverwood." The car rolled up along the curb and stopped. "Can't I take you to your office?" he whispered. "No, dear." She laid one slim hand on his arm and stood for a moment looking at him. "How pale you are!" he said again, under his breath. "Brides are apt to be. It's only a swift and confused dream to me yet--all that has happened to us to-day; and even this sunshine seems unreal--like the first day of spring in paradise!" She bent her proud little head and stood in silence as though unseen hands still hovered above her, and unseen lips were still pronouncing her his wife. Then, lifting her eyes, winningly and divinely beautiful, she looked again on this man whom the world was to call her husband. "Will you be ready at five?" he whispered. "Yes." They lingered a moment longer; he said: "I don't know how I am going to endure life without you until five o'clock." She said seriously: "I can't bear to leave you, Jim. But you know you have almost as many things to do as I have." "As though a man could attend to _things_ on his wedding day!" "This girl _has_ to. I don't know how I am ever going to go through the last odds and ends of business--but it's got to be managed somehow. Do you really think we had better go up to Silverwood in the car? Won't this snow make the roads bad? It may not have melted in the country." "Oh, it's all right! And I'll have you to myself in the car----" "Suppose we are ditched?" She shivered again, then forced a little laugh. "Do you know, it doesn't seem possible to me that I am going to be your wife to-morrow, too, and the next day, and the next, and always, year after year. Somehow, it seems as though our dream were already ending--that I shall not see you at five o'clock--that it is all unreal----" The smile faded, and into her blue eyes came something resembling fear--gone instantly--but the hint of it had been there, whatever it was; and the ghost of it still lingered in her white, flower-like face. She whispered, forcing the smile again: "Happiness sometimes frightens; and it is making me a little afraid, I think. Come for me at five, Jim, and try to make me comprehend that nothing in the world can ever harm us. Tell your man where to take me--but only to the corner of my street, please." He opened the limousine door; she stepped in, and he wrapped the robe around her. A cloud over the sun had turned the world grey for a moment. Again she seemed to feel the sudden chill in the air, and tried to shake it off. "Look at Mr. Cairns and Cynthia," she whispered, leaning forward from her seat and looking toward the church. He turned. Cairns and Miss Lessler had emerged from the portico and were lingering there in earnest consultation, quite oblivious of them. "Do you like her, Jim?" she asked. He smiled. "I didn't notice her very much--or Jack either. A man isn't likely to notice anybody at such a time--except the girl he is marrying----" "Look at her now. Don't you think her expression is very sweet?" "It's all right. Dear, do you suppose I can fix my attention on----" "You absurd boy! Are you really as much in love with me as that? Please be nice to her. Would you mind going back and speaking to her when I drive away?" "All right," he said. Their glances lingered for a moment more; then he drew a quick, sharp breath, closed the limousine door, and spoke briefly to the chauffeur. As long as the car remained in sight across the square, he watched it; then, when it had disappeared, he turned toward the church. But Cairns and Cynthia were already far down the street, walking side by side, very leisurely, apparently absorbed in conversation. They must have seen him. Perhaps they had something more interesting to say to each other than to him. He followed them irresolutely for a few steps, then, as the idea persisted that they might not desire his company, he turned and started west across the sunny, wet pavement. * * * * * It was quite true that Cairns and Cynthia had seen him; also it was a fact that neither had particularly wanted him to join them at that exact moment. Meeting at St. George's for the first time in two years, and although prepared for the encounter, these two, who had once known each other so well, experienced a slight shock when they met. The momentary contact of her outstretched hand and his hand left them both very silent; even the formal commonplaces had failed them after the first swift, curious glance had been exchanged. Cairns noticed that she had grown taller and slenderer. And though there seemed to be no more of maturity to her than to the young girl he had once known, her poise and self-control were now in marked contrast to the impulsive and slightly nervous Cynthia he had found so amusing in callower days. Once or twice during the ceremony he had ventured to glance sideways at her. In the golden half-light of the altar there seemed to be an unfamiliar dignity and sweetness about the girl that became her. And in the delicate oval of her face he thought he discerned those finer, nobler contours made by endurance, by self-denial, and by sorrow. Later, when he saw her kiss Jacqueline, something in the sweet sincerity of the salute suddenly set a hidden chord vibrating within him; and, to his surprise, he found speech difficult for a moment, checked by emotions for which there seemed no reason. And at last Jacqueline and Desboro went away, and Cynthia slowly turned to him, offering her hand in adieu. "Mr. Cairns," she said quietly, "this is the last place on earth that you and I ever thought to meet. Perhaps it is to be our last meeting place. So--I will say good-bye----" "May I not walk home with you? Or, if you prefer to drive, my car is here----" he began. "Thank you; it's only to the theatre--if you care to walk with me----" "Are you rehearsing?" "There is a rehearsal called for eleven." "Shall we drive or walk, Cynthia?" "I prefer to walk. Please don't feel that you ought to go back with me." He said, reddening: "I do not remember that my sense of duty toward you has ever been persistent enough to embarrass either of us." "Of course not. Why should you ever have felt that you owed any duty to me?" "I did not say that I ever felt it." "Of course not. You owed me none." "That is a different matter. Obligations once sat very lightly on my shoulders." "You owe me none," she repeated smilingly, as they emerged from the church into the warm March sunshine. He was saying: "But isn't friendship an obligation, Cynthia?" She laughed: "Friendship is merely an imaginary creation, and exists only until the imagination wearies. That is not original," she added. "It is in the new Barrie comedy we are rehearsing." She turned her pretty head and glanced down the street where Jacqueline and Desboro still stood beside the car. Cairn's car was also waiting, and its owner made a signal to the chauffeur that he did not need him. Looking at Jacqueline, Cynthia said: "Long ago I knew that she was fitted for a marriage such as this--or a better one," she added in a lower voice. "A better one?" he repeated, surprised. "Yes," she nodded calmly. "Can you not imagine a more desirable marriage for a girl?" "Don't you _like_ Desboro?" he demanded. "I like him--considering the fact that I scarcely know him. He has very handsome and very reckless eyes, but a good mouth. To look at him for the first time a woman would be inclined to like him--but he might hesitate to trust him. I had hoped Jacqueline might marry a professional man--considerably older than Mr. Desboro. That is all I meant." He said, looking at her smilingly but curiously: "Have you any idea, Cynthia, how entirely you have changed in two years?" She shook her head: "I haven't changed." "Indeed you have----" "Only superficially. What I was born I shall always be. Years teach endurance and self-control--if they teach anything. All one can learn is how to control and direct what one already is." "The years have taught you a lot," he murmured, astonished. "I have been to school to many masters, Mr. Cairns; I have studied under Sorrow; graduated under Poverty and Loneliness; and I am now taking a finishing course with Experience. Truly enough, I should have learned _something_, as you say, by this time. Besides, _you_, also, once were kind enough to be interested in my education. Why should I not have learned something?" He winced and bit his lip, watching Desboro and Jacqueline below. And, after a moment: "Shall we walk?" she suggested, smilingly. He fell into step beside her. Half way down the block she glanced back. Desboro was already crossing the square; the limousine had disappeared. "I wonder sometimes," she remarked, "what has become of all those amusing people we once knew so well--Marianne Valdez, Jessie Dain, Reggie Ledyard, Van Alstyne. Do you ever see them any more?" "Yes." "And are they quite as gay and crazy as ever?" "They're a bit wild--sometimes." "Do they ever speak of me? I--wonder," she mused, aloud. "Yes. They know, of course, what a clever girl you have turned into. It isn't usual, you know, to graduate from a girlie show into the legit. And I was talking to Schindler the other evening; and he had to admit that he had seen nothing extraordinary in you when you were with his noisy shows. It's funny, isn't it?" "Slightly." "Besides, you were such a wild little thing--don't you remember what crazy things we used to do, you and I----" "Did I? Yes, I remember. In those days a good dinner acted on me like champagne. You see I was very often hungry, and when I wasn't starved it went to my head." "You need not have wanted for anything!" he said sharply. "Oh, no! But I preferred the pangs of hunger to the pangs of conscience," she retorted gaily. "I didn't mean that. There was no string to what I offered you, and you know it! And you know it now!" "Certainly I do," she said calmly. "You mean to be very kind, Jack." "Then why the devil didn't----" "Why didn't I accept food and warmth and raiment and lodging from a generous and harebrained young man? I'll tell you now, if you wish. It was because my conscience forbade me to accept all and offer nothing in return." "Nonsense! I didn't ask----" "I know you didn't. But I couldn't give, so I wouldn't take. Besides, we were together too much. I knew it. I think even you began to realise it, too. The situation was impossible. So I went on the road." "You never answered any of those letters of mine." "Mentally I answered every one." "A lot of good that did me!" "It did us both a lot of good. I meant to write to you some day--when my life had become busy enough to make it difficult for me to find time to write." He looked up at her sharply, and she laughed and swung her muff. "I suppose," he said, "now that the town talks about you a little, you will have no time to waste on mere Johnnies." "Well, I don't know. When a mere Johnnie is also a Jack, it makes a difference--doesn't it? Do you think that you would care to see me again?" "Of course I do." "The tickets," she said demurely, "are three dollars--two weeks in advance----" "I know that by experience." "Oh! Then you _have_ seen 'The Better Way'?" "Certainly." "Do you like--the show?" "You are the best of it. Yes, I like it." "It's my first chance. Did you know that? If poor little Graham hadn't been so ill, I'd never have had a look in. They wouldn't give me anything--except in a way I couldn't accept it. I tell you, Jack, I was desperate. There seemed to be absolutely no chance unless I--paid." "Why didn't you write me and let me----" "You know why." "It would have been reward enough to see you make good--and put it all over that bald-headed, dog-faced----" "My employer, please remember," she said, pretending to reprove him. "And, Jack, he's amusingly decent to me now. Men are really beginning to be kind. Walbaum's people have written to me, and O'Rourke sent for me, and I'm just beginning to make professional enemies, too, which is the surest sign that I'm almost out of the ranks. If I could only study! Now is the time! I know it; I feel it keenly--I realise how much I lack in education! You see I only went to high-school. It's a mercy that my English isn't hopeless----" "It's good! It's better than I ever supposed it would be----" "I know. I used to be careless. But what can you expect? After I left home you know the sort of girls I was thrown among. Fortunately, father was educated--if he was nothing else. My degeneracy wasn't permanent. Also, I had been thrown with Jacqueline, and with you----" "Fine educational model I am!" "And," she continued, not heeding him, "when I met you, and men like you, I was determined that whatever else happened to me my English should not degenerate. Jacqueline helped me so much. I tried to study, too, when I was not on the road with the show. But if only I could study now--study seriously for a year or two!" "What do you wish to study, Cynthia?" he asked carelessly. "English! Also French and German and Italian. I would like to study what girls in college study. Then I'd like to learn stage dancing thoroughly. And, of course, I'm simply crazy to take a course in dramatic art----" "But you already know a lot! Every paper spoke well of you----" "Oh, Jack! Does that mean anything--when I know that I don't know anything!" "Rot! Can you beat professional experience as an educator?" "I'm not quite ready for it----" "Very well. If you feel that way, will you be a good sort, Cynthia, and let me----" "No!" "I ask you merely to let me take a flyer!" "No, Jack." "Why can't I take a flyer? Why can't I have the pleasure of speculating on a perfectly sure thing? It's a million to nothing that you'll make good. For the love of Mike, Cynthia, borrow the needful and----" "From _you_?" "Naturally." "No, Jack!" "Why not? Why cut off your nose to spite your face? What difference does it make where you get it as long as it's a decent deal? You can't afford to take two or three years off to complete your education----" "Begin it, you mean." "I mean finish it! You can't afford to; but if you'll borrow the money you'll make good in exactly one-tenth of the time you'd otherwise take to arrive----" "Jack, I won't discuss it with you. I know you are generous and kind----" "I'm _not_! I'm anything _but_! For heaven's sake let a man indulge his vanity, Cynthia. Imagine my pride when you are famous! Picture my bursting vanity as I sit in front and tell everybody near me that the credit is all mine; that if it were not for me you would be nowhere!" "It's so like you," she said sweetly. "You always were an inordinate boaster, so I am not going to encourage you." "Can't you let me make you a business loan at exorbitant interest without expiring of mortification?" They had reached the theatre; a few loafers sunning themselves by the stage entrance leered at them. "Hush, Jack! I can't discuss it with you. But you know how grateful I am, don't you?" "No, I don't----" he said sulkily. "You are cross now, but you'll see it as I do half an hour hence." "No, I won't!" he insisted. She laughed: "_You_ haven't changed, at all events, have you? It takes me back years to see that rather becoming scowl gather over the bridge of your ornamental nose. But it is very nice to know that you haven't entirely forgotten me; that we are still friends." "Where are you living, Cynthia?" She told him, adding: "Do you really mean to come?" "Watch me!" he said, almost savagely, took off his hat, shook her hand until her fingers ached, and marched off still scowling. The stage loafers shifted quids and looked after him with sneers. "Trun out!" observed one. "All off!" nodded another. The third merely spat and slowly closed his disillusioned and leisure-weary eyes. * * * * * Cairns' energetic pace soon brought him to the Olympian Club, where he was accustomed to lunch, it being convenient to his office, which was on Forty-sixth Street. Desboro, who, at Jacqueline's request, had gone back to business, appeared presently and joined Cairns at a small table. "Anything doing at the office?" inquired the latter. "I suppose you were too nervous and upset to notice the market though." "Well, ask yourself how much _you'd_ feel like business after marrying the most glorious and wonderful----" "Ring off! I concede everything. It is going to make some splash in the papers. Yes? Lord! I wish you could have had a ripping big wedding though! Wouldn't she have looked the part? Oh, no!" "It couldn't be helped," said Desboro in a low, chagrined voice. "I'd have given the head off my shoulders to have had the sort of a wedding to which she was entitled. But--I couldn't." Cairns nodded, not, however, understanding; and as Desboro offered no explanation, he remained unenlightened. "Rather odd," he remarked, "that she didn't wish to have Aunt Hannah with her at the fatal moment. They're such desperate chums these days." "She did want her. I wouldn't have her." "Is that so?" "It is. I'll tell you why some day. In fact, I don't mind telling you now. Aunt Hannah has it in for me. She's a devil sometimes. You know it and I do. She has it in for me just now. She's wrong; she's made a mistake; but I couldn't tell her anything. You can't tell that sort of a woman anything, once she's made up her mind. And the fact is, Jack, she's already made up her mind that I was not to marry Jacqueline. And I was afraid of her. And _that's_ why I married Jacqueline this way." Cairns stared. "So now," added Desboro, "you know how it happened." "Quite so. Rotten of her, wasn't it?" "She didn't mean it that way. She got a fool idea into her head, that's all. Only I was afraid she'd tell it to Jacqueline." "I see." "That's what scared me. I didn't know what she might tell Jacqueline. She threatened to tell her--things. And it would have involved a perfectly innocent woman and myself--put me in a corner where I couldn't decently explain the real facts to Jacqueline. Now, thank God, it's too late for Aunt Hannah to make mischief." Cairns nodded, thinking of Mrs. Clydesdale. And whatever he personally was inclined to believe, he knew that gossip was not dealing very leniently with that young wife and the man who sat on the other side of the table, nervously pulling to pieces his unlighted cigarette. * * * * * But it needed no rumour, no hearsay evidence, no lifted eyebrows, no shrugs, no dubious smiles, no half-hearted defence of Elena Clydesdale, to thoroughly convince Mrs. Hammerton of Desboro's utter unfitness as a husband for the motherless girl she had begun to love with a devotion so fierce that at present it could brook no rival at all of either sex. For Mrs. Hammerton had never before loved. She had once supposed that she loved her late husband, but soon came to regard him as a poor sort of thing. She had been extremely fond of Desboro, too, in her own way, but in the vivid fire of this new devotion to Jacqueline, any tenderness she ever might have cherished for that young man was already consumed and sacrificed to a cinder in the fiercer flame. Into her loneliness, into her childless solitude, into the hardness, cynicism, and barren emptiness of her latter years, a young girl had stepped from nowhere, and she had suddenly filled her whole life with the swift enchantment of love. A word or two, a smile, the magic of two arms upon her bony shoulders, the shy touch of youthful lips--these were the very simple ingredients which apparently had transmuted the brass and tinsel and moral squalor of Aunt Hannah's life into charming reality. From sudden tenderness to grim love, to jealous, watchful, passionate adoration--these were the steps Mrs. Hammerton had taken in the brief interval of time that had elapsed since she had first seen Jacqueline. Into the clear, truthful eyes she had looked, and had seen within only an honest mind and a clean young soul. Wisdom, too, only lacking in experience, she divined there; and less of wisdom than of intelligence; and less of that than of courage. And it all was so clear, so perfectly apparent to the cold and experienced scrutiny of the woman of the world, that, for a while, she could not entirely believe what she understood at the first glance. When she _was_ convinced, she surrendered. And never before in all her unbelieving, ironical, and material career had she experienced such a thrill of overwhelming delight as when, that evening at Silverwood, Jacqueline had drawn her head down and had touched her dry forehead with warm, young lips. Everything about the girl fascinated her--her independence and courage; her adorable bashfulness in matters where experience had made others callous--in such little things, for example, as the response to an invitation, the meeting with fashionable strangers--but it was only the nice, friendly, and thoroughbred shyness of inexperience, not the awkwardness of under-breeding or of that meaner vanity called self-consciousness. Poor herself, predatory, clever, hard as nails, her beady eyes ever alert for the main chance, she felt for the first time in her life the real bitterness of comparative poverty--which is the inability to give where one loves. She had no illusions; she knew that what she had to offer the girl would soon pall; that Jacqueline would choose her own friends among the sane and simple and sincere, irrespective of social and worldly considerations; that no glitter, no sham, no tinsel could permanently hold her attention; no lesser ambition seduce her; no folly ever awake her laughter more than once. What the girl saw she would understand; and, in future, she would choose for herself what she cared to see and know of a new world now gradually opening before her. But in the meantime Jacqueline must see before she could learn, and before she could make up her mind what to discard and what to retain. So Mrs. Hammerton had planned that Jacqueline should be very busy during March and April; and her patience was sorely tried when she found that, for a week or two, the girl could give her only a very few minutes every other day. At first it was a grim consolation to her that Jacqueline still remained too busy to see anybody, because that meant that Desboro, too, would be obliged to keep his distance. For at first Mrs. Hammerton did not believe that the girl could be seriously interested in Desboro; in fact, she had an idea that, so far, all the sentiment was on Desboro's side. And both Jacqueline's reticence and her calm cordiality in speaking of Desboro were at first mistaken by Aunt Hannah for the symptoms of a friendship not sentimentally significant. But the old lady's doubts soon became aroused; she began to watch Jacqueline askance--began to test her, using all her sly cleverness and skill. Slowly her uncertainty, uneasiness, and suspicion changed to anger and alarm. If she had been more than angry and suspicious--if she had been positive, she would not have hesitated an instant. For on one matter she was coldly determined; the girl should not marry Desboro, or any such man as Desboro. It made no difference to her whether Desboro might be really in love with her. He was not fit for her; he was a man of weak character, idle, useless, without purpose or ability, who would never amount to anything or be anything except what he already was--an agreeable, graceful, amusing, acceptable item in the sort of society which he decorated. She knew and despised that breed of youth; New York was full of them, and they were even less endurable to her than the similar species extant in England and on the Continent; for the New York sort were destitute of the traditions which had created the real kind--and there was no excuse for them, not even the sanction of custom. They were merely imitation of a more genuine degeneracy. And she held them in contempt. She told Jacqueline this, as she was saying good-night on Saturday, and was alarmed and silenced by the girl's deep flush of colour; and she went home in her scrubby brougham, scared and furious by turns, and determined to settle Desboro's business for him without further hesitation. Sunday Jacqueline could not see her; and the suspicion that the girl might be with Desboro almost drove the old lady crazy. Monday, too, Jacqueline told her over the telephone would be a very busy day; and Aunt Hannah acquiesced grimly, determined to waste no further time at the telephone and take no more chances, but go straight to Jacqueline and take her into her arms and tell her what a mother would tell her about Desboro, and how, at that very hour perhaps, he was with Mrs. Clydesdale; and what the world suspected, and what she herself knew of an intrigue that had been shamelessly carried into the very house which had sheltered Jacqueline within a day or two. So on Monday morning Mrs. Hammerton went to see Jacqueline; and, learning that the girl had gone out early, marched home again, sat down at her desk, and wrote her a letter. When she had finished she honestly believed that she had also finished Desboro; and, grimly persuaded that she had done a mother's duty by the motherless, she summoned a messenger and sent off the letter to a girl, who, at that very moment, had returned to her desk, a wife. The rapid reaction from the thrilling experience of the morning had made Jacqueline nervous and unfit for business, even before she arrived at her office. But she entered the office resolutely and seated herself at her desk, summoning all her reserve of self-control to aid her in concentrating her mind on the business in hand. First she read her morning's mail and dictated her answers to a red-headed stenographer. Next she received Lionel Sissly, disposed of his ladylike business with her; sent for Mr. Mirk, went over with him his report of the shop sales, revised and approved the list of prices to be ticketed on new acquisitions, re-read the sheaf of dictated letters laid before her by the red-headed stenographer, signed them, and sent down for the first client on the appointment-list. The first on the list was a Mr. Hyman Dobky; and his three months' note had gone to protest, and Mr. Dobky wept. She was not very severe with him, because he was a Lexington Avenue dealer just beginning in a small way, and she believed him to be honest at heart. He retired comforted, swabbing his eyes with his cuff. Then came a furtive pair, Orrin Munger, the "Cubist" poet, and his loud-voiced, swaggering confrère, Adalbert Waudle, author of "Black Roses" and other phenomena which, some people whispered, resembled blackmail. It had been with greatest reluctance, and only because it was a matter concerning a client, that she had consented to receive the dubious pair. She had not forgotten her experience with the "Cubist," and his suggestion for an informal Italian trip, and had never again desired or expected to see him. He now offered her an abnormally flat and damp hand; and hers went behind her back and remained there clasped together, as she stood inspecting Mr. Munger with level eyes that harboured lightning. She said quietly: "My client, Mr. Clydesdale, recently requested my opinion concerning certain jades, crystals and Chinese porcelains purchased by him from you and from Mr. Waudle. I have, so far, examined some twenty specimens. Every specimen examined by me is a forgery." [Illustration: "Mr. Waudle gaped at her like a fat and expiring fish; the poet ... said not a word"] Mr. Waudle, taken completely by surprise, gaped at her like a fat and expiring fish; the poet turned a dull and muddy red, and said not a word. "So," added Jacqueline coldly, "at Mr. Clydesdale's request I have asked you to come here and explain the situation to me." Waudle, writer of "Pithy Points" for the infamous _Tattler_, recovered his wits first. "Miss Nevers," he said menacingly, "do you mean to insinuate that I am a swindler?" "_Are_ you, Mr. Waudle?" "That's actionable. Do you understand?" "Perfectly. Please explain the forgeries." The poet, who had sunk down upon a chair, now arose and began to make elaborate gestures preliminary to a fluency of speech which had never yet deserted him in any crisis where a lady was involved. "My dear child----" he began. "_What!_" cut in Jacqueline crisply. "My--my dear and--and honored, but very youthful and inexperienced young lady," he stammered, a trifle out of countenance under the fierce glimmer in her eyes, "do you, for one moment, suppose that such a writer as Mr. Waudle would imperil his social and literary reputation for the sake of a few wretched dollars!" "Fifteen thousand," commented Jacqueline quietly. "Exactly. Fifteen thousand contemptible dollars--inartistically designed," he added, betraying a tendency to wander from the main point; and was generously proceeding to instruct her in the art of coin design when she brought him back to the point with a shock. "_You_, also, are involved in this questionable transaction," she said coldly. "Can you explain these forgeries?" "F-forgeries!" he repeated, forcibly injecting indignation into the exclamation; but his eyes grew very round, as though frightened, and a spinal limpness appeared which threatened the stability of his knees. But the poet's fluency had not yet deserted him; he opened both arms in a gesture suggesting absolute confidence in a suspicious and inartistic world. "I am quite guiltless of deception," he said, using a slight tremolo. "Permit me to protest against your inexperienced judgment in the matter of these ancient and precious specimens of Chinese art; I protest!" he exclaimed earnestly. "I protest in the name of that symbol of mystery and beauty--that occult lunar _something_, my dear young lady, which we both worship, and which the world calls the moon----" "I beg your pardon----" she interrupted; but the poet was launched and she could not check him. "I protest," he continued shrilly, "in the name of Art! In the name of all that is worth while, all that matters, all that counts, all that is meaningful, sacred, precious beyond price----" "Mr. Munger!" "I protest in the name of----" "_Mr. Munger!_" "Eh!" he said, coming to and rolling his round, washed-out eyes toward her. "Be kind enough to listen," she said curtly. "I am compelled to interrupt you because to-day I am a very busy person. So I am going to be as brief with you as possible. This, then, is the situation as I understand it. A month or so ago you and your friend, Mr. Waudle, notified Mr. Clydesdale that you had just returned from Pekin with a very unusual collection of ancient Chinese art, purchased by you, as you stated, from a certain Chinese prince." The faint note of scorn in her voice did not escape the poet, who turned redder and muddier and made a picturesque gesture of world-wide appeal; but no words came from either manufacturer of literary phrases; Waudle only closed his cod-like mouth, and the eyes set in his fat face became small and cunning like something in the farthest corner of a trap. Jacqueline continued gravely: "At your solicitation, I understand, and depending upon your representations, my client, Mr. Clydesdale, purchased from you this collection----" "We offered no guarantees with it," interrupted Waudle thickly. "Besides, his wife advised him to buy the collection. I am an old and valued friend of Mrs. Clydesdale. She would never dream of demanding a guarantee from _me_! Ask her if----" "What _is_ a guarantee?" inquired Jacqueline. "I'm quite certain that you don't know, Mr. Waudle. And did you and Mr. Munger regard your statement concerning the Chinese prince as poetic license? Or as diverting fiction? Or what? You were not writing romance, you know. You were engaged in business. So I must ask you again who is this prince?" "There was a prince," retorted Waudle sullenly. "Can you prove there wasn't?" "There are several princes in China. And now I am obliged to ask you to state distinctly exactly how many of these porcelains, jades and crystals which you sold to Mr. Clydesdale were actually purchased by you from this particular Chinese prince?" "Most of them," said Waudle, defiantly. "Prove the contrary if you can!" "Not _all_ of them, then--as you assured Mr. Clydesdale?" "I didn't say all." "I am afraid you did, Mr. Waudle. I am afraid you even _wrote_ it--over your own signature." "Very well," said Waudle, with a large and careless sweep of his hand, "if any doubt remains in Mr. Clydesdale's mind, I am fully prepared to take back whatever specimens may not actually have come from the prince----" "There were _some_, then, which did not?" "One or two, I believe." "And who is this Chinese prince, Mr. Waudle?" she repeated, not smiling. "What is his name?" Munger answered; he knew exactly what answer to make, and how to deliver it with flowing gestures. He had practised it long enough: "When I was travelling with His Excellency T'ang-K'ai-Sun by rail from Szechuan to Pekin to visit Prince----" "The railroad is not built," interrupted the girl drily. "You could not have travelled that way." Both men regarded her as though paralysed by her effrontery. "Continue, please," she nodded. The poet swallowed nothing very fast and hard, and waved his damp hand at her: "Tuan-Fang, Viceroy of Wuchang----" "He happens to be Viceroy of Nanking," observed the girl. Waudle, frightened, lost his temper and turned on her, exasperated: "Be careful! Your insinuations involve our honour and are actionable! Do you realise what you are saying?" "Perfectly." "I fear not. Do you imagine you are competent to speak with authority about China and its people and its complex and mysterious art when you have never been in the country?" "I have seen a little of China, Mr. Waudle. But I do not pretend to speak with undue authority about it." "You say you've been in China?" His tone of disbelief was loud and bullying. "I was in China with my father when I was a girl of sixteen." "Oh! Perhaps you speak Chinese!" he sneered. She looked at him gravely, not answering. He laughed: "Now, Miss Nevers, you have intimated that we are liars and swindlers. Let's see how much you know for an expert! You pretend to be an authority on things Chinese. You will then understand me when I say: 'Jen chih ch'u, Hsing pen shan----'" "I do understand you, Mr. Waudle," she cut in contemptuously. "You are repeating the 'three-word-classic,' which every school-child in China knows, and it merely means 'Men when born are naturally good.' I think I may qualify in Chinese as far as San Tzu Ching and his nursery rhymes. And I think we have had enough of this dodging----" The author flushed hotly. "Do you speak Wenli?" he demanded, completely flustered. "Do _you_?" she retorted impatiently. "I do," he asserted boldly. "Indeed!" "I may even say that I speak very fluently the--the literary language of China--or Wenli, as it is commonly called." "That is odd," she said, "because the literary language of China, commonly called Wenli, is not and never has been spoken. It is only a written language, Mr. Waudle." The Cubist had now gone quite to pieces. From his colourless mop of bushy hair to the fringe on his ankle-high trousers, he presented a study in deep dejection. Only his round, pale, parrot-like eyes remained on duty, staring unwinkingly at her. "Were _you_ ever actually in China?" she asked, looking around at him. The terrified poet feebly pointed to the author of "Black Roses." "Oh!" she said. "Were _you_ in China, Mr. Waudle, or only in Japan?" But Mr. Waudle found nothing further to say. "Because," she said, "in Japan sometimes one is deceived into buying alleged Chinese jades and crystals and porcelains. I am afraid that you were deceived. I hope you were honestly deceived. What you have sold to Mr. Clydesdale as jade is not jade. And the porcelains are not what you represented them to be." "That's where _you_ make a mistake!" shouted Waudle loudly. "I've had the inscription on every vase translated, and I can prove it! How much of an expert are you? Hey?" "If _you_ were an expert," she explained wearily, "you would understand that inscriptions on Chinese porcelains are not trustworthy. Even hundreds of years ago forgeries were perpetrated by the Chinese who desired to have their works of art mistaken for still more ancient masterpieces; and so the ancient and modern makers of porcelains inscribed them accordingly. Only when an antique porcelain itself conforms to the inscription it bears do we venture to accept that inscription. Never otherwise." Waudle, hypnotised, stood blinking at her, bereft of speech, almost of reason. The poet piped feebly: "It was not our fault! We were brutally deceived in Japan. And, oh! The bitter deception to me! The cruelty of the awakening!" He got up out of his chair; words and gestures were once again at his command; tears streaked his pasty cheeks. "Miss Nevers! My dear and honoured young lady! You know--_you_ among all women must realise how precious to me is the moon! Sacred, worshipped, adored--desired far more than the desire for gold--yea, than much fine gold! Sweeter, also, than honey in the honeycomb!" he sobbed. "And it was a pair of moon vases, black as midnight, pearl-orbed, lacquered, mystic, wonderful, that lured me----" "A damned Japanese in Tokio worked them off on us!" broke out the author of "Black Roses," hoarsely. "That was the beginning. What are you going to do about it? You've got us all right, Miss Nevers. The Jap did us. We did the next man. If you want to send us up, I suppose you can! I don't care. I can't keep soul and body together by selling what I write. I tell you I've starved half my life--and when I hear about the stuff that sells--all these damned best sellers--all this cheap fiction that people buy--while they neglect me--it breaks my heart----" He turned sharply and passed his hand over his face. It was not an attitude; for a fraction of a second it was the real thing. Yet, even while the astonished poet was peeping sideways at his guilty companion, a verse suggested itself to him; and, quite unconsciously, he began to fumble in his pockets for a pencil, while the tears still glistened on his cheeks. "Mr. Waudle," said Jacqueline, "I am really sorry for you. Because this is a very serious affair." There was a silence; then she reseated herself at her desk. "My client, Mr. Clydesdale, is not vindictive. He has no desire to humiliate you publicly. But he is justly indignant. And I know he will insist that you return to him what money he paid you for your collection." Waudle started dramatically, forgetting his genuine emotion of the moment before. "Does this rich man mean to ruin me!" he demanded, making his resonant voice tremble. "On the contrary," she explained gently, "all he wants is the money he paid you." As that was the only sort of ruin which Mr. Waudle had been fearing, he pressed his clenched fists into his eyes. He had never before possessed so much money. The mere idea of relinquishing it infuriated him; and he turned savagely on Jacqueline, hesitated, saw it was useless. For there remained nothing further to say to such a she-devil of an expert. He had always detested women anyway; whenever he had any money they had gotten it in one way or another. The seven thousand, his share, would have gone the same way. Now it was going back into a fat, rich man's capacious pockets--unless Mrs. Clydesdale might be persuaded to intervene. She could say that _she_ wanted the collection. Why not? She had aided him before in emergencies--unwillingly, it is true--but what of that? No doubt she'd do it again--if he scared her sufficiently. Jacqueline waited a moment longer; then rose from her desk in signal that the interview was at an end. Waudle slouched out first, his oblong, evil head hanging in a picturesque attitude of noble sorrow. The Cubist shambled after him, wrapped in abstraction, his round, pale, bird-like eyes partly sheathed under bluish eyelids that seemed ancient and wrinkled. He was already quite oblivious to his own moral degradation; his mind was completely obsessed by the dramatic spectacle which the despair of his friend had afforded him, and by the idea for a poem with which the episode had inspired him. He was still absently fishing for a pencil and bit of paper when his companion jogged his elbow: "If we fight this business, and if that damn girl sets Clydesdale after us, we'll have to get out. But I don't think it will come to that." "Can you stop her, Adalbert--and retain the money?" "By God! I'm beginning to think I can. I believe I'll drop in to see Mrs. Clydesdale about it now. She is a very faithful friend of mine," he added gently. "And sometimes a woman will rush in to help a fellow where angels fear to tread." The poet looked at him, then looked away, frightened. "Be careful," he said, nervously. "Don't worry. I know women. And I have an idea." The poet of the Cubists shrugged; then, with a vague gesture: "My mistress, the moon," he said, dreamily, "is more to me than any idea on earth or in Heaven." "Very fine," sneered Waudle, "but why don't you make her keep you in pin money?" "Adalbert," retorted the poet, "if you wish to prostitute your art, do so. Anybody can make a mistress of his art and then live off her. But the inviolable moon----" "Oh, hell!" snapped the author of "Black Roses." And they wandered on into the busy avenue, side by side, Waudle savagely biting his heavy under-lip, both fists rammed deep into his overcoat pockets; the Cubist wandering along beside him, a little derby hat crowning the bunch of frizzled hair on his head, his soiled drab trousers, ankle high, flapping in the wind. Jacqueline glanced at them as they passed the window at the end of the corridor, and turned hastily away, remembering the old, unhappy days after her father's death, and how once from a window she had seen the poet as she saw him now, frizzled, soiled, drab, disappearing into murky perspective. She turned wearily to her desk again. A sense of depression had been impending--but she knew it was only the reaction from excitement and fought it nervously. They brought luncheon to her desk, but she sent away the tray untouched. People came by appointment and departed, only to give place to others, all equally persistent and wholly absorbed in their own affairs; and she listened patiently, forcing her tired mind to sympathise and comprehend. And, in time, everybody went away satisfied or otherwise, but in no doubt concerning the answer she had given, favourable or unfavourable to their desires. For that was her way in the business of life. At last, once more looking over her appointment list, she found that only Clydesdale remained; and almost at the same moment, and greatly to her surprise, Mrs. Clydesdale was announced. "Is Mr. Clydesdale with her?" she asked the clerk, who had also handed her a letter with the visiting card of Mrs. Clydesdale. "The lady is alone," he said. Jacqueline glanced at the card again. Then, thoughtfully: "Please say to Mrs. Clydesdale that I will receive her," she said; laid the card on the desk and picked up the letter. It was a very thick letter and had arrived by messenger. The address on the envelope was in Mrs. Hammerton's familiar and vigorous back-stroke writing, and she had marked it "_Private! Personal! Important!_" As almost every letter from her to Jacqueline bore similar emphatic warnings, the girl smiled to herself and leisurely split the envelope with a paper knife. She was still intent on the letter, and was still seated at her desk when Mrs. Clydesdale entered. And Jacqueline slowly looked up, dazed and deathly white, as the woman about whom she had at that moment been reading came forward to greet her. Then, with a supreme effort, she rose from her chair, managing to find the ghost of a voice to welcome Elena, who seemed unusually vivacious, and voluble to the verge of excitement. [Illustration: "'My dear!' she exclaimed. 'What a perfectly charming office!'"] "My dear!" she exclaimed. "What a perfectly charming office! It's really too sweet for words, Miss Nevers! It's enough to drive us all into trade! Are you very much surprised to see me here?" "A--little." "It's odd--the coincidence that brought me," said Elena gaily, "--and just a trifle embarrassing to me. And as it is rather a confidential matter----" She drew her chair closer to the desk. "_May_ I speak to you in fullest candour and--and implicit confidence, Miss Nevers?" "Yes." "Then--there is a friend of mine in very serious trouble--a man I knew slightly before I was married. Since then I--have come to know him--better. And I am here now to ask you to help him." "Yes." "Shall I tell you his name at once?" "If you wish." "Then--his name is Adalbert Waudle." Jacqueline looked up at her in weary surprise. Elena laughed feverishly: "Adalbert is only a boy--a bad one, perhaps, but--you know that genius is queer--always unbalanced. He came to see me at noon to-day. It's a horrid mess, isn't it--what he did to my husband? I know all about it; and I know that Cary is wild, and that it was an outrageous thing for Adalbert to do. But----" Her voice trembled a little and she forced a laugh to conceal it: "Adalbert is an old friend, Miss Nevers. I knew him as a boy. But even so, Cary couldn't understand if I pleaded for him. My husband means to send him to jail if he does not return the money. And--and I am sorry for Mrs. Waudle. Besides, I like the porcelains. And I want you to persuade Cary to keep them." Through the whirling chaos of her thoughts, Jacqueline still strove to understand what this excited woman was saying; made a desperate effort to fix her attention on the words and not on the flushed and restless young wife who was uttering them. "Will you persuade Cary to keep the collection, Miss Nevers?" "That is for you to do, Mrs. Clydesdale." "I tried. I called him up at his office and asked him to keep the jades and porcelains because I liked them. But he was very obstinate. What you have told him about--about being swindled has made him furious. That is why I came here. Something must be done." "I don't think I understand you." "There is nothing to understand. I want to keep the collection. I ask you to convince my husband----" "How?" "I d--don't know," stammered Elena, crimson again. "You ought to know how to--to do it." "If Mr. Waudle returns your husband's money, no further action will be taken." "He can not," said Elena, in a low voice. "Why?" "He has spent it." "Did he tell you that?" "Yes." "Then I am afraid that Mr. Clydesdale will have him arrested." There was an ominous silence. Jacqueline forced her eyes away from the terrible fascination of Elena's ghastly face, and said: "I am sorry. But I can do nothing for you, Mrs. Clydesdale. The decision rests with your husband." "You _must_ help me!" "I cannot." "You _must_!" repeated Elena. "How?" "I--I don't care how you do it! But you must prevent my husband from prosecuting Mr. Waudle! It--it has got to be done--somehow." "What do you mean?" Elena's face was burning and her lips quivered: "It has got to be done! I can't tell you why." "Can you not tell your husband?" "No." Jacqueline was quivering, too, clinging desperately to her self-control under the menace of an impending horror which had already partly stunned her. "Are you--_afraid_ of this man?" she asked, with stiffening lips. Elena bowed her head in desperation. "What is it? Blackmail?" "Yes. He once learned something. I have paid him--not to--to write it for the--the _Tattler_. And to-day he came to me straight from your office and made me understand that I would have to stop my husband from--taking any action--even to recover the money----" Jacqueline sat nervously clenching and unclenching her hands over the letter which lay under them on the blotter. "What scandal is it you fear, Mrs. Clydesdale?" she asked, in an icy voice. Elena coloured furiously: "Is it necessary for me to incriminate myself before you help me? I thought you more generous!" "I can not help you. There is no way to do so." "Yes, there is!" "How?" "By--by telling my husband that the--the jades are _not_ forgeries!" Jacqueline's ashy cheeks blazed into colour. "Mrs. Clydesdale," she said, "I would not do it to save myself--not even to save the dearest friend I have! And do you think I will lie to spare _you_?" In the excitement and terror of what now was instantly impending, the girl had risen, clutching Mrs. Hammerton's letter in her hand. "You need not tell me why you--you are afraid," she stammered, her lovely lips already distorted with fear and horror, "because I--I _know_! Do you understand? I know what you are--what you have done--what you are doing!" She fumbled in the pages of Mrs. Hammerton's letter, found an enclosure, and held it out to Elena with shaking fingers. It was Elena's note to her husband, written on the night she left him, brought by her husband to Silverwood, left on the library table, used as a bookmark by Desboro, discovered and kept by its finder, Mrs. Hammerton, for future emergencies. Elena re-read it now with sickened senses, and knew that in the eyes of this young girl she was utterly and irretrievably damned. "Did you write that?" whispered Jacqueline, with lips scarcely under control. "I--you do not understand----" "Did you know that when I was a guest under Mr. Desboro's roof everything that he and you said in the library was overheard? Do you know that you have been watched--not by me--but even long before I knew you--watched even at the opera----" Elena drew a quick, terrified breath; then the surging shame mantled her from brow to throat. "That was Mrs. Hammerton!" she murmured. "I warned Jim--but he trusted her." Jacqueline turned cold all over. "He is your--lover," she said mechanically. Elena looked at her, hesitated, came a step nearer, still staring. Her visage and her bearing altered subtly. For a moment they gazed at each other. Then Elena said, in a soft, but deadly, voice: "Suppose he is my lover! Does that concern _you_?" And, as the girl made no stir or sound: "However, if you think it does, you will scarcely care to know either of us any longer. I am quite satisfied. Do what you please about the man who has blackmailed me. I don't care now. I was frightened for a moment--but I don't care any longer. Because the end of all this nightmare is in sight; and I think Mr. Desboro and I are beginning to awake at last." * * * * * Until a few minutes before five Jacqueline remained seated at her desk, motionless, her head buried in her arms. Then she got to her feet somehow, and to her room, where, scarcely conscious of what she was doing, she bathed her face and arranged her hair, and strove to pinch and rub a little colour into her ghastly cheeks. CHAPTER XIV Desboro came for her in his car at five and found her standing alone in her office, dressed in a blue travelling dress, hatted and closely veiled. He partly lifted the veil, kissed the cold, unresponsive lips, the pallid cheek, the white-gloved fingers. "Is Her Royal Shyness ready?" he whispered. "Yes, Jim." "All her affairs of state accomplished?" he asked laughingly. "Yes--the day's work is done." "Was it a hard day for you, sweetheart?" "Yes--hard." "I am so sorry," he murmured. She rearranged her veil in silence. * * * * * Again, as the big car rolled away northward, and they were alone once more in the comfortable limousine, he took possession of her unresisting hand, whispering: "I am so sorry you have had a hard day, dear. You really look very pale and tired." "It was a--tiresome day." He lifted her hand to his lips: "Do you love me, Jacqueline?" "Yes." "Above everything?" "Yes." "And you know that I love you above everything in the world?" She was silent. "Jacqueline!" he urged. "Don't you _know_ it?" "I--think you--care for me." He laughed: "Will Your Royal Shyness never unbend! Is _that_ all the credit you give me for my worship and adoration?" She said, after a silence: "If it lies with me, you really will love me some day." "Dearest!" he protested, laughing but perplexed. "Don't you know that I love you _now_--that I am absolutely mad about you?" She did not answer, and he waited, striving to see her expression through the veil. But when he offered to lift it, she gently avoided him. "Did you go to business?" she asked quietly. "I? Oh, yes, I went back to the office. But Lord! Jacqueline, I couldn't keep my attention on the tape or on the silly orders people fired at me over the wire. So I left young Seely in charge and went to lunch with Jack Cairns; and then he and I returned to the office, where I've been fidgeting about ever since. I think it's been the longest day I ever lived." "It has been a long day," she assented gravely. "Did Mr. Cairns speak to you of Cynthia?" "He mentioned her, I believe." "Do you remember what he said about her?" "Well, yes. I think he spoke about her very nicely--about her being interesting and ambitious and talented--something of that sort--but how could I keep my mind on what he was saying about another girl?" Jacqueline looked out of the window across a waste of swamp and trestle and squalid buildings toward University Heights. She said presently, without turning: "Some day, may I ask Cynthia to visit me?" "Dearest girl! Of course! Isn't it your house----" "Silverwood?" "Certainly----" "No, Jim." "What on earth do you mean?" "What I say. Silverwood is not yet even partly mine. It must remain entirely yours--until I know you--better." "Why on earth do you say such silly----" "What is yours must remain yours," she repeated, in a low voice, "just as my shop, and office, and my apartment must remain mine--for a time." "For how long?" "I can not tell." "Do you mean for always?" "I don't know." "And I don't understand you, dear," he said impatiently. "You will, Jim." He smiled uneasily: "For how long must we twain, who are now one, maintain solitary sovereignty over our separate domains?" "Until I know you better." "And how long is that going to take?" he asked, smilingly apprehensive and deeply perplexed by her quiet and serious attitude toward him. "I don't know how long, I wish I did." "Jacqueline, dear, has anything unpleasant happened to disturb you since I last saw you?" She made no reply. "Won't you tell me, dear," he insisted uneasily. "I will tell you this, Jim. Whatever may have occurred to disturb me is already a matter of the past. Life and its business lie before us; that is all I know. This is our beginning, Jim; and happiness depends on what we make of our lives from now on--from now on." The stray lock of golden hair had fallen across her cheek, accenting the skin's pallor through the veil. She rested her elbow on the window ledge, her tired head on her hand, and gazed at the sunset behind the Palisades. Far below, over the grey and wrinkled river, smoke from a steamboat drifted, a streak of bronze and purple, in the sunset light. "_What_ has happened?" he muttered under his breath. And, turning toward her: "You must tell me, Jacqueline. It is now my right to know." "Don't ask me." His face hardened; for a moment the lean muscles of the jaw worked visibly. "Has anybody said anything about me to you?" No reply. "Has--has Mrs. Hammerton been to see you?" "No." He was silent for a moment, then: "I'll tell you now, Jacqueline; she did not wish me to marry you. Did you know it?" "I know it." "I believe," he said, "that she has been capable of warning you against me. Did she?" No reply. "And yet you married me?" he said, after a silence. She said nothing. "So you could not have believed her, whatever she may have said," he concluded calmly. "Jim?" "Yes, dear." "I married you because I loved you. I love you still. Remember it when you are impatient with me--when you are hurt--perhaps angry----" "Angry with _you_, my darling!" "You are going to be--very often--I am afraid." "Angry?" "I--don't know. I don't know how it will be with us. If only you will remember that I love you--no matter how I seem----" "Dear, if you tell me that you do love me, I will know that it must be so!" "I tell you that I do. I could never love anybody else. You are all that I have in the world; all I care for. You are absolutely everything to me. I loved you and married you; I took you for mine just as you were and are. And if I didn't quite understand all that--that you are--I took you, nevertheless--for better or for worse--and I mean to hold you. And I know now that, knowing more about you, I would do the same thing if it were to be done again. I would marry you to-morrow--knowing what I know." "What more do you know about me than you did this morning, Jacqueline?" he asked, terribly troubled. But she refused to answer. He said, reddening: "If you have heard any gossip concerning Mrs. Clydesdale, it is false. Was _that_ what you heard? Because it is an absolute lie." But she had learned from Mrs. Clydesdale's reckless lips the contrary, and she rested her aching head on her hand and stared out at the endless lines of houses along Broadway, as the car swung into Yonkers, veered to the west past the ancient manor house, then rolled northward again toward Hastings. "Don't you believe me?" he asked at length. "That gossip is a lie--if that is what you heard." She thought: "This is how gentlemen are supposed to behave under such circumstances." And she shivered. "Are you cold?" he asked, with an effort. "A little." He drew the fur robe closer around her, and leaned back in his corner, deeply worried, impatient, but helpless in the face of her evident weariness and reticence, which he could not seem to penetrate or comprehend. Only that something ominous had happened--that something was dreadfully wrong--he now thoroughly understood. In the purposeless career of a man of his sort, there is much that it is well to forget. And in Desboro's brief career there were many things that he would not care to have such a girl as Jacqueline hear about--so much, alas! of folly and stupidity, so much of idleness, so much unworthy, that now in his increasing chagrin and mortification, in the painful reaction from happy pride to alarm and self-contempt, he could not even guess what had occurred, or for which particular folly he was beginning to pay. Long since, both in his rooms in town, and at Silverwood, he had destroyed the silly souvenirs of idleness and folly. He thought now of the burning sacrifice he had so carelessly made that day in the library--and how the flames had shrivelled up letter and fan, photograph and slipper. And he could not remember that he had left a rag of lace or a perfumed envelope unburned. Had the ghosts of their owners risen to confront him on his own hearthstone, standing already between him and this young girl he had married? What whisper had reached her guiltless ears? What rumour, what breath of innuendo? Must a man still be harassed who has done with folly for all time--who aspires to better things--who strives to change his whole mode of life merely for the sake of the woman he loves--merely to be more worthy of her? As he sat there so silently in the car beside her, his dark thoughts travelled back again along the weary, endless road to yesterday. Since he had known and loved her, his thoughts had often and unwillingly sought that shadowy road where the only company were ghosts--phantoms of dead years that sometimes smiled, sometimes reproached, sometimes menaced him with suddenly remembered eyes and voiceless but familiar words forever printed on his memory. Out of that grey vista, out of that immaterial waste where only impalpable shapes peopled the void, vanished, grew out of nothing only to reappear, _something_ had come to trouble the peace of mind of the woman he loved--some spectre of folly had arisen and had whispered in her ear, so that, at the mockery, the light had died out in her fearless eyes and her pure mind was clouded and her tender heart was weighted with this thing--whatever it might be--this echo of folly which had returned to mock them both. "Dearest," he said, drawing her to him so that her cold cheek rested against his, "whatever I was, I am no longer. You said you could forgive." "I do--forgive." "Can you not forget, too?" "I will try--with your help." "How can I help you? Tell me." "By letting me love you--as wisely as I can--in my own fashion. By letting me learn more of you--more about men. I don't understand men. I thought I did--but I don't. By letting me find out what is the wisest and the best and the most unselfish way to love you. For I don't know yet. I don't know. All I know is that I am married to the man I loved--the man I still love. But how I am going to love him I--I don't yet know." He was silent; the hot flush on his face did not seem to warm her cheek where it rested so coldly against his. "I want to hold you because it is best for us both," she said, as though speaking to herself. "But--you need make no effort to hold me, Jacqueline!" e protested, amazed. "I want to hold you, Jim," she repeated. "You are my husband. I--I must hold you. And I don't know how I am to do it. I don't know how." "My darling! Who has been talking to you? What have they said?" "It has _got_ to be done, somehow," she interrupted, wearily. "I must learn how to hold you; and you must give me time, Jim----" "Give you time!" he repeated, exasperated. "Yes--to learn how to love you best--so I can serve you best. That is why I married you--not selfishly, Jim--and I thought I knew--I thought I knew----" Her cheek slipped from his and rested on his shoulder. He put his arm around her and she covered her face with her gloved hands. "I love you dearly, dearly," he whispered brokenly. "If the whisper of any past stupidity of mine has hurt you, God knows best what punishment He visits on me at this moment! If there were any torture I could endure to spare you, Jacqueline, I would beg for it--welcome it! It is a bitter and a hopeless and a ridiculous thing to say; but if I had only known there was such a woman as you in the world I would have understood better how to live. I suppose many a man understands it when it is too late. I realise now, for the first time, how changeless, how irrevocably fixed, are the truths youth learns to smile at--the immutable laws youth scoffs at----" He choked, controlled his voice, and went on: "If youth could only understand it, the truths of childhood are the only truths. The first laws we learn are the eternal ones. And their only meaning is self-discipline. But youth is restive and mistakes curiosity for intelligence, insubordination for the courage of independence. The stupidity of orthodoxy incites revolt. To disregard becomes less difficult; to forget becomes a habit. To think for one's self seems admirable; but when youth attempts that, it thinks only what it pleases or does not think at all. I am not trying to find excuses or to evade my responsibility, dear. I had every chance, no excuse for what I have--sometimes--been. And now--on this day--this most blessed and most solemn day of my life--I can only say to you I am sorry, and that I mean so to live--always--that no man or woman can reproach me." She lay very silent against his shoulder. Blindly striving to understand him, and men--blindly searching for some clue to the path of duty--the path she must find somehow and follow for his sake--through the obscurity and mental confusion she seemed to hear at moments Elena Clydesdale's shameless and merciless words, and the deadly repetition seemed to stun her. Vainly she strove against the recurring horror; once or twice, unconsciously, her hands crept upward and closed her ears, as though she could shut out what was dinning in her brain. With every reserve atom of mental strength and self-control she battled against this thing which was stupefying her, fought it off, held it, drove it back--not very far, but far enough to give her breathing room. But no sooner did she attempt to fix her mind on the man beside her, and begin once more to grope for the clue to duty--how most unselfishly she might serve him for his salvation and her own--than the horror she had driven back stirred stealthily and crawled nearer. And the battle was on once more. Twilight had fallen over the Westchester hills; a familiar country lay along the road they travelled. In the early darkness, glancing from the windows he divined unseen landmarks, counted the miles unconsciously as the car sped across invisible bridges that clattered or resounded under the heavy wheels. The stars came out; against them woodlands and hills took shadowy shape, marking for him remembered haunts. And at last, far across the hills the lighted windows of Silverwood glimmered all a-row; the wet gravel crunched under the slowing wheels, tall Norway spruces towered phantomlike on every side; the car stopped. "Home," he whispered to her; and she rested her arm on his shoulder and drew herself erect. Every servant and employee on the Desboro estate was there to receive them; she offered her slim hand and spoke to every one. Then, on her husband's arm, and her proud little head held high, she entered the House of Desboro for the first time bearing the family name--entered smiling, with death in her heart. * * * * * At last the dinner was at an end. Farris served the coffee and set the silver lamp and cigarettes on the library table, and retired. Luminous red shadows from the fireplace played over wall and ceiling--the same fireplace where Desboro had made his offering--as though flame could purify and ashes end the things that men have done! In her frail dinner gown of lace, she lay in a great chair before the blaze, gazing at nothing. He, seated on the rug beside her chair, held her limp hand and rested his face against it, staring at the ashes on the hearth. And this was marriage! Thus he was beginning his wedded life--here in the house of his fathers, here at the same hearthstone where the dead brides of dead forebears had sat as his bride was sitting now. But had any bride ever before faced that hearth so silent, so motionless, so pale as was this young girl whose fingers rested so limply in his and whose cold palm grew no warmer against his cheek? What had he done to her? What had he done to himself--that the joy of things had died out in her eyes--that speech had died on her lips--that nothing in her seemed alive, nothing responded, nothing stirred. Now, all the bitterness that life and its unwisdom had stored up for him through the swift and reckless years, he tasted. For that cup may not pass. Somewhere, sooner or later, the same lips that have so lightly emptied sweeter draughts must drain this one. None may refuse it, none wave it away until the cup be empty. "Jacqueline?" She moved slightly in her chair. "Tell me," he said, "what is it that can make amends?" "They--are made." "But the hurt is still there. What can heal it, dear?" "I--don't know." "Time?" "Perhaps." "Love?" "Yes--in time." "How long?" "I do not know, Jim." "Then--what is there for me to do?" She was silent. "Could you tell me, Jacqueline?" "Yes. Have patience--with me." "With _you_?" "It will be necessary." "How do you mean, dear?" "I mean you must have patience with me--in many ways. And still be in love with me. And still be loyal to me--and--faithful. I don't know whether a man can do these things. I don't know men. But I know myself--and what I require of men--and of you." "What you require of me I can be if you love me." "Then never doubt it. And when I know that you have become what I require you to be, you could not doubt my loving you even if you wished to. _Then_ you will know; _until_ then--you must _believe_." He sat thinking before the hearth, the slow flush rising to his temples and remaining. "What is it you mean to do, Jacqueline?" he asked, in a low voice. "Nothing, except what I have always done. The business of life remains unchanged; it is always there to be done." "I mean--are you going to--change--toward me?" "I have not changed." "Your confidence in me has gone." "I have recovered it." "You believe in me still?" "Oh, yes--yes!" Her little hand inside his clenched convulsively and her voice broke. Kneeling beside her, he drew her into his arms and felt her breath suddenly hot and feverish against his shoulder. But if there had been tears in her eyes they dried unshed, for he saw no traces of them when he kissed her. "In God's name," he whispered, "let the past bury its accursed dead and give me a chance. I love you, worship you, adore you. Give me my chance in life again, Jacqueline!" "I--I give it to you--as far as in me lies. But it rests with you, Jim, what you will be." His own philosophy returned to mock him out of the stainless mouth of this young girl! But he said passionately: "How can I be arbiter of my own fate unless I have all you can give me of love and faith and unswerving loyalty?" "I give you these." "Then--as a sign--return the kiss I give you--now." There was no response. "Can you not, Jacqueline?" "Not--yet." "You--you can not respond!" "Not--that way--yet." "Is--have I--has what you know of me killed all feeling, all tenderness in you?" "No." "Then--why can you not respond----" "I can not, Jim--I can not." He flushed hotly: "Do you--do I inspire you with--do I repel you--physically?" She caught his hand, cheeks afire, dismayed, striving to check him: "Please--don't say such--it is--not--true----" "It seems to be----" "No! I--I ask you--not to say it--think it----" "How can I help thinking it--thinking that you only care for me--that the only attraction on your part is--is intellectual----" She disengaged her hand from his and shrank away into the velvet depths of her chair. "I can't help it," he said. "I've got to say what I think. Never since I have told you I loved you have you ever hinted at any response, even to the lightest caress. We are married. Whatever--however foolish I may have been--God knows you have made me pay for it this day. How long am I to continue paying? I tell you a man can't remain repentant too long under the stern and chilling eyes of retribution. If you are going to treat me as though I were physically unfit to touch, I can make no further protest. But, Jacqueline, no man was ever aided by a punishment that wounds his self-respect." "I must consider mine, too," she said, in a ghost of a voice. "Very well," he said, "if you think you must maintain it at the expense of mine----" "Jim!" The low cry left her lips trembling. "What?" he said, angrily. "Have--have you already forgotten what I said?" "What did you say?" "I asked--I asked you to be patient with me--because--I love you----" But the words halted; she bowed her head in her hands, quivering, scarcely conscious that he was on his knees again at her feet, scarcely hearing his broken words of repentance and shame for the sorry and contemptible rôle he had been playing. No tears came to help her even then, only a dry, still agony possessed her. But the crisis passed and wore away; sight and hearing and the sense of touch returned to her. She saw his head bowed in contrition on her knees, heard his voice, bitter in self-accusation, felt his hands crisping over hers, crushing them till her new rings cut her. For a while she looked down at him as though dazed; then the real pain from her wedding ring aroused her and she gently withdrew that hand and rested it on his thick, short, curly hair. For a long while they remained so. He had ceased to speak; her brooding gaze rested on him, unchanged save for the subtle tenderness of the lips, which still quivered at moments. Clocks somewhere in the house were striking midnight. A little later a log fell from the dying fire, breaking in ashes. He felt her stir, change her position slightly; and he lifted his head. After a moment she laid her hand on his arm, and he aided her to rise. As they moved slowly, side by side, through the house, they saw that it was filled with flowers everywhere, twisted ropes of them on the banisters, too, where they ascended. Her own maid, who had arrived by train, rose from a seat in the upper corridor to meet her. The two rooms, which were connected by a sitting room, disclosed themselves, almost smothered in flowers. Jacqueline stood in the sitting room for a moment, gazing vaguely around her at the flowers and steadying herself by one hand on the centre-table, which a great bowlful of white carnations almost covered. Then, as her maid reappeared at the door of her room, she turned and looked at Desboro. There was a silence; his face was very white, hers was deathly. He said: "Shall we say good-night?" "It is--for you--to say." "Then--good-night, Jacqueline." "Good-night." [Illustration: "She turned ... looked back, hesitated"] She turned, took a step or two--looked back, hesitated, then slowly retraced her steps to where he was standing by the flower-covered table. From the mass of blossoms she drew a white carnation, touched it to her lips, and, eyes still lowered, offered it to him. In her palm, beside it, lay a key. But he took only the blossom, touching it to his lips as she had done. She looked at the key, lying in her trembling hand, then lifted her confused eyes to his once more, whispering: "Good-night--and thank you." "Good-night," he said, "until to-morrow." And they went their separate ways. CHAPTER XV Une nuit blanche--and the young seem less able to withstand its corroding alchemy than the old. It had left its terrible and pallid mark on Desboro; and on Jacqueline it had set its phantom sign. That youthfully flushed and bright-eyed loveliness which always characterised the girl had whitened to ashes over night. And now, as she entered the sunny breakfast room in her delicate Chinese morning robes, the change in her was startlingly apparent; for the dead-gold lustre of her hair accented the pallor of a new and strange and transparent beauty; the eyes, tinted by the deeper shadows under them, looked larger and more violet; and she seemed smaller and more slender; and there was a snowy quality to the skin that made the vivid lips appear painted. Desboro came forward from the recess of the window; and whether in his haggard and altered features she read of his long night's vigil, or whether in his eyes she learned again how she herself had changed, was not plain to either of them; but her eyes suddenly filled and she turned sharply and stood with the back of one slender hand across her eyes. Neither had spoken; neither spoke for a full minute. Then she walked to the window and looked out. The mating sparrows were very noisy. Not a tear fell; she touched her eyes with a bit of lace, drew a long, deep, steady breath and turned toward him. "It is all over--forgive me, Jim. I did not mean to greet you this way. I won't do it again----" She offered her hand with a faint smile, and he lifted it and touched it to his lips. "It's all over, all ended," she repeated. "Such a curious phenomenon happened to me at sunrise this morning." "What?" "I was born," she said, laughing. "Isn't it odd to be born at my age? So as soon as I realised what had happened, I went and looked out of the window; and there was the world, Jim--a big, round, wonderful planet, all over hills and trees and valleys and brooks! I don't know how I recognised it, having just been born into it, but somehow I did. And I knew the sun, too, the minute I saw it shining on my window and felt it on my face and throat. Isn't that a wonderful way to begin life?" There was not a tremor in her voice, nothing tremulous in the sweet humour of the lips; and, to his surprise, in her eyes little demons of gaiety seemed to be dancing all at once till they sparkled almost mockingly. "Dear," he said, under his breath, "I wondered whether you would ever speak to me again." "_Speak_ to you! You silly boy, I expect to do little else for the rest of my life! I intend to converse and argue and importune and insist and nag and nag. Oh, Jim! _Please_ ring for breakfast. I had no luncheon yesterday and less dinner." A slight colour glowed under the white skin of her cheeks as Farris entered with the fruit; she lifted a translucent cluster of grapes from the dish, snipped it in half with the silver scissors, glanced at her husband and laughed. [Illustration: "'_That's_ how hungry I am, Jim. I warned you'"] "_That's_ how hungry I am, Jim. I warned you. Of what are you thinking--with that slight and rather fascinating smile crinkling your eyes?" She bit into grape after grape, watching him across the table. "Share with me whatever amuses you, please!" she insisted. "Never with my consent shall you ever again laugh alone." "You haven't seen last evening's and this morning's papers," he said, amused. "Have they arrived? Oh, Jim! I wish to see them, please!" He went into his room and brought out a sheaf of clippings. "Isn't this all of the papers that you cared to see, Jacqueline?" "Of course! What _do_ they say about us? Are they brief or redundant, laconic or diffuse? And are they nice to us?" She was already immersed in a quarter column account of "A Romantic Wedding" at "old St. George's"; and she read with dilated eyes all about the "wealthy, fashionable, and well-known clubman," which she understood must mean her youthful husband, and all about Silverwood and the celebrated collections, and about his lineage and his social activities. And by and by she read about herself, and her charm and beauty and personal accomplishments, and was amazed to learn that she, too, was not only wealthy and fashionable, but that she was a descendant of an ancient and noble family in France, entirely extinguished by the guillotine during the Revolution, except for her immediate progenitors. Clipping after clipping she read to the end; then the simple notices under "Weddings." Then she looked at Desboro. "I--I didn't realise what a very grand young man I had married," she said, with a shy smile. "But I am very willing to admit it. Why do they say such foolish and untrue things about _me_?" "They meant to honour you by lying about you when the truth about you is far more noble and more wonderful," he said. "Do you think so?" "Do you doubt it?" She remained silent, turning over the clippings in her hand; then, glancing up, found him smiling again. "Please share with me--because I know your thoughts are pleasant." "It was seeing you in these pretty Chinese robes," he smiled, "which made me think of that evening in the armoury." "Oh--when I sat under the dragon, with my lute, and said for your guests some legends of old Cathay?" "Yes. Seeing you here--in your Chinese robes--made me think of their astonishment when you first dawned on their mental and social horizon. They are worthy people," he added, with a shrug. "They are as God made them," she said, demurely. "Only they have always forgotten, as I have, that God merely begins us--and we are expected to do the rest. For, once made, He merely winds us up, sets our hearts ticking, and places us on top of the world. Where we walk to, and how, is our own funeral henceforward. Is that your idea of divine responsibility?" "I think He continues to protect us after we start to toddle; and after that, too, if we ask Him," she answered, in a low voice. "Do you believe in prayer, dear?" "Yes--in unselfish prayer. Not in the acquisitive variety. Such petitions seem ignoble to me." "I understand." She said, gravely: "To pray--not for one's self--except that one cause no sorrow--that seems to me a logical petition. But I don't know. And after all, what one does, not what one talks about, counts." She was occupied with her grapes, glancing up at him from moment to moment with sweet, sincere eyes, sometimes curious, sometimes shy, but always intent on this tall, boyish young fellow who, she vainly tried to realise, belonged to her. In his morning jacket, somehow, he had become entirely another person; his thick, closely brushed hair, the occult air of freshness from ablutions that left a faint fragrance about him, accented their new intimacy, the strangeness of which threatened at moments to silence her. Nor could she realise that she belonged there at all--there, in her frail morning draperies, at breakfast with him in a house which belonged to him. Yet, one thing she was becoming vaguely aware of; this tall, young fellow, in his man's intimate attire, was quietly and unvaryingly considerate of her; had entirely changed from the man she seemed to have known; had suddenly changed yesterday at midnight. And now she was aware that he still remained what he had been when he took the white blossom from her hand the night before, and left in her trembling palm, untouched, the symbol of authority which now was his forever. Even in the fatigue of body and the deadlier mental weariness--in the confused chaos of her very soul, that moment was clearly imprinted on her mind--must remain forever recorded while life lasted. She divided another grape; there were no seeds; the skin melted in her mouth. "Men," she said absently, "_are_ good." When he laughed, she came to herself and looked at him with shy, humourous eyes. "They _are_ good, Jim. Even the Chinese knew it thousands of years ago. Have you never heard me recite the three-word-classic of San Tzu Ching? Then listen, white man! "Jen chih ch'u Hsing pen shan Hsing hsiang chin Hsi hsiang yuan Kou pu chiao Hsing nai ch'ien Chiao chih tao Kuei i chuan----" She sat swaying slightly to the rhythm, like a smiling child who recites a rhyme of the nursery, accenting the termination of every line by softly striking her palms together; and the silken Chinese sleeves slipped back, revealing her white arms to the shoulder. Softly she smote her smooth little palms together, gracefully she swayed; her silks rustled like the sound of slender reeds in a summer wind, and her cadenced voice was softer. Never had he seen her so exquisite. She stopped capriciously. "All that is Chinese to me," he said. "You make me feel solitary and ignorant." And she laughed and tossed the lustrous hair from her cheeks. "This is all it means, dear: "Men at their birth Are naturally good. Their natures are much the same; Their habits become widely different. If they are not taught, Their natures will deteriorate. The right way in teaching Is to attach the utmost importance to thoroughness---- "And so forth, and so forth," she ended gaily. "Where on earth did you learn Chinese?" he remonstrated. "You know enough without that to scare me to death! Slowly but surely you are overwhelming me, Jacqueline, and some day I shall leave the house, dig a woodchuck hole out on the hill, and crawl into it permanently." "Then I'll have to crawl in, too, won't I? But, alas, Jim! The three-word-classic is my limit. When father took me to Shanghai, I learned it--three hundred and fifty-six lines of it! But it's all the Chinese I know--except a stray phrase or two. Cheer up, dear; we won't have to look for our shadows on that hill." Breakfast was soon accomplished; she looked shyly across at him; he nodded, and they rose. "The question is," she said, "when am I going to find time to read the remainder of the morning paper, and keep myself properly informed from day to day, if you make breakfast so agreeable for me?" "Have I done that?" "You know you have," she said lightly. "Suppose you read the paper aloud to me, while I stroll about for the sake of my figure." They laughed; he picked up the paper and began to read the headlines, and she walked about the room, her hands bracketed on her hips, listening sometimes, sometimes absorbed in her own reflections, now and then glancing out of the window or pausing to rearrange a bowl of flowers. Little by little, however, her leisurely progress from one point of interest to another became more haphazard, and she moved restlessly, with a tendency to drift in his direction. Perhaps she realised that, for she halted suddenly. "Jim, I have enough of politics, thank you. And it's almost time to put on more conventional apparel, isn't it? I have a long and hard day before me at the office." "As hard as yesterday?" he asked, unthinkingly; then reddened. She had moved to the window as she spoke; but he had seen the quick, unconscious gesture of pain as her hand flew to her breast; and her smiling courage when she turned toward him did not deceive him. "That _was_ a hard day, Jim. But I think the worst is over. And you may read your paper if you wish until I am ready. You have only to put on your business coat, haven't you?" So he tried to fix his mind on the paper, and, failing, laid it aside and went to his room to make ready. When he was prepared, he returned to their sitting room. She was not there, and the door of her bedroom was open and the window-curtains fluttering. So he descended to the library, where he found her playing with his assortment of animals, a cat tucked under either arm and a yellow pup on her knees. "They all came to say good-morning," she explained, "and how could I think of my clothing? Would you ask Farris to fetch a whisk-broom?" Desboro rang: "A whisk-broom for--for Mrs. Desboro," he said. _Mrs. Desboro!_ She had looked up startled; it was the first time she had heard it from his lips, and even the reiteration of her maid had not accustomed her to hear herself so named. Both had blushed before Farris, both had thrilled as the words had fallen from Desboro's unaccustomed lips; but both attempted to appear perfectly tranquil and undisturbed by what had shocked them as no bomb explosion possibly could. And the old man came back with the whisk-broom, and Desboro dusted the cat fur and puppy hairs from Jacqueline's brand-new gown. They were going to town by train, not having time to spare. "It will be full of commuters," he said, teasingly. "You don't know what a godsend a bride is to commuters. I pity _you_." "I shall point my nose particularly high, monsieur. Do you suppose I'll know anybody aboard?" "What if you don't! They'll know who _you_ are! And they'll all read their papers and stare at you from time to time, comparing you with what the papers say about you----" "Jim! Stop tormenting me. Do I look sallow and horrid? I believe I'll run up to my room and do a little friction on my cheeks----" "With nail polish?" "How do _you_ know? Please, Jim, it isn't nice to know so much about the makeshifts indulged in by my sex." She stood pinching her cheeks and the tiny lobes of her close-set ears, regarding him with beautiful but hostile eyes. "You know too much, young man. You don't wish to make me afraid of you, do you? Anyway, you are no expert! Once you thought my hair was painted, and my lips, too. If I'd known what you were thinking I'd have made short work of you that rainy afternoon----" "You _did_." She laughed: "You _can_ say nice things, too. Did you really begin to--to care for me that actual afternoon?" "That actual afternoon." "A--about what time--if you happen to remember," she asked carelessly. "About the same second that I first set eyes on you." "Oh, Jim, you _couldn't_!" "Couldn't what?" "Care for me the actual second you first set eyes on me. Could you?" "I _did_." "Was it _that_ very second?" "Absolutely." "You didn't show it." "Well, you know I couldn't very well kneel down and make you a declaration before I knew your name, could I, dear?" "You did it altogether too soon as it was. Jim, what _did_ you think of me?" "You ought to know by this time." "I don't. I suppose you took one look at me and decided that I was all ready to fall into your arms. Didn't you?" "You haven't done it yet," he said lightly. There was a pause; the colour came into her face, and his own reddened. But she pretended to be pleasantly unconscious of the significance, and only interested in reminiscence. "Do you know what I thought of you, Jim, when you first came in?" "Not much, I fancy," he conceded. "Will it spoil you if I tell you?" "Have you spoiled me very much, Jacqueline?" "Of course I have," she said hastily. "Listen, and I'll tell you what I thought of you when you first came in. I looked up, and of course I knew at a glance that you were nice; and I was very much impressed----" "The deuce you were!" he laughed, unbelievingly. "I was!" "You didn't show it." "Only an idiot of a girl would. But I was--very--greatly--impressed," she continued, with a delightfully pompous emphasis on every word, "very--greatly--impressed by the tall and fashionable and elegant and agreeably symmetrical Mr. Desboro, owner of the celebrated collection of arms and armour----" "I knew it!" "Knew what?" "You never even took the trouble to look at me until you found out that the armour belonged to me----" "That is what _ought_ to have been true. But it wasn't." "Did you actually----" "Yes, I did. Not the very second I laid eyes on you----" she added, blushing slightly, "but--when you went away--and afterward--that evening when I was trying to read Grenville on Armour." "You thought of me, Jacqueline?" [Illustration: "'It was rather odd, wasn't it, Jim?'"] "Yes--and tried not to. But it was no use; I seemed to see you laughing at me under every helmet in Grenville's plates. It was rather odd, wasn't it, Jim? And to think--to think that now----" Her smile grew vaguer; she dropped her head thoughtfully and rested one hand on the library table, where once her catalogue notes had been piled up--where once Elena's letter to her husband had fallen from Clydesdale's heavy hand. Then, gradually into her remote gaze came something else, something Desboro had learned to dread; and she raised her head abruptly and gazed straight at him with steady, questioning eyes in which there was a hint of trouble of some kind--perhaps unbelief. "I suppose you are going to your office," she said. "After I have taken you to yours, dear." "You will be at leisure before I am, won't you?" "Unless you knock off work at four o'clock. Can you?" "I can not. What will you do until five, Jim?" "There will be nothing for me to do except wait for you." "Where will you wait?" He shrugged: "At the club, I suppose." The car rolled up past the library windows. "I suppose," she said carelessly, "that it would be too stupid for you to wait _chez moi_." "In your office? No, indeed----" "I meant in my apartment. You could smoke and read--but perhaps you wouldn't care to." They went out into the hall, where her maid held her ulster for her and Farris put Desboro into his coat. Then they entered the car which swung around the oval and glided away toward Silverwood station. "To tell you the truth, dear," he said, "it _would_ be rather slow for me to sit in an empty room until you were ready to join me." "Of course. You'd find it more amusing at your club." "I'd rather be with you at your office." "Thank you. But some of my clients stipulate that no third person shall be present when their business is discussed." "All right," he said, shortly. The faint warmth of their morning's _rapprochement_ seemed somehow to have turned colder, now that they were about to separate for the day. Both felt it; neither understood it. But the constraint which perhaps they thought too indefinite to analyse persisted. She did not fully understand it, except that, in the aftermath of the storm which had nigh devastated her young heart, her physical nearness to him seemed to help the tiny seed of faith which she had replanted in agony and tears the night before. To see him, hear his voice, somehow aided her; and the charm of his personality for a while had reawakened and encouraged in her the courage to love him. The winning smile in his eyes had, for the time, laid the phantoms of doubt; memory had become less sensitive; the demon of distrust which she had fought off so gallantly lay somewhere inert and almost forgotten in the dim chamber of her mind. But not dead--no; for somewhere in obscurity she had been conscious for an instant that her enemy was stirring. Must this always be so? Was faith in this man really dead? Was it only the image of faith which her loyalty and courage had set up once more for an altar amid the ruins of her young heart? And always, always, even when she seemed unaware, even when she had unconsciously deceived herself, her consciousness of the _other woman_ remained alive, like a spark, whitened at moments by its own ashes, yet burning terribly when touched. Slowly she began to understand that her supposed new belief in this man would endure only while he was within her sight; that the morning's warmth had slowly chilled as the hour of their separation approached; that her mind was becoming troubled and confused, and her heart uncertain and apprehensive. And as she thought of the future--years and years of it--there seemed no rest for her, only endless effort and strife, only the external exercise of mental and spiritual courage to fight back the creeping shadow which must always threaten her--the shadow that Doubt casts, and which men call Fear. "Shall we go to town in the car?" he said, looking at his watch. "We have time; the train won't be in for twenty minutes." "If you like." He picked up the speaking tube and gave his orders, then lay back again to watch the familiar landscape with worried eyes that saw other things than hills and trees and wintry fields and the meaningless abodes of men. So this was what Fate had done to him--_this_! And every unconsidered act of his had been slyly, blandly, maliciously leading him into this valley of humiliation. He had sometimes thought of marrying, never very definitely, except that, if love were to be the motive, he would have ample time, after that happened, to reform before his wedding day. Also, he had expected to remain in a laudable and permanent state of regeneration, marital treachery not happening to suit his fastidious taste. That was what he had intended in the improbable event of marriage. And now, suddenly, from a clear sky, the bolt had found him; love, courtship, marriage, had followed with a rapidity he could scarcely realise; and had left him stranded on the shores of yesterday, discredited, distrusted, deeply, wretchedly in love; not only unable to meet on equal terms the young girl who had become his wife, but the involuntary executioner of her tender faith in him! To this condition the laws of compensation consigned him. The man-made laws which made his complaisance possible could not help him now; the unwritten social law which acknowledges a double standard of purity for man and woman he must invoke in vain. Before the tribunal of her clear, sweet eyes, and before the chastity of her heart and mind, the ignoble beliefs, the lying precedents, the false standards must fall. There had been no shelter there for him, and he had known it. Reticence, repentance, humble vows for the future--these had been left to him, he supposed. But the long, dim road to yesterday was thronged with ghosts, and his destiny came swiftly upon him. Tortured, humiliated, helpless, he saw the lash that cut him fall also upon her. Sooner or later, all that is secret of good or of evil shall be made manifest, here or elsewhere; and the suffering may not be abated. And he began to understand that reticence can not forever hide what has been; that no silence can screen it; no secrecy conceal it; that reaction invariably succeeds action; and not a finger is ever lifted that the universe does not experience the effect. How he or fate might have spared her, he did not know. What she had learned about him he could not surmise. As far as Elena was concerned, he had been no worse than a fastidious fool dangling about a weaker and less fastidious one. If gossip of that nature had brought this grief upon her, it was damnable. All he could do was to deny it. He _had_ denied it. But denial, alas, was limited to that particular episode. He could not make it more sweeping; he _was not on equal ground with her_; he was at a disadvantage. Only spiritual equality dare face its peer, fearless, serene, and of its secrets unafraid. Yet--she had surmised what he had been; she had known. And, insensibly, he began to feel a vague resentment toward her, almost a bitterness. Because she had accepted him without any illusion concerning him. That had been understood between them. She knew he loved her; she loved him. Already better things had been in sight for him, loftier aspirations, the stirring of ambition. And suddenly, almost at the altar itself, this thing had happened--whatever it was! And all her confidence in him, all her acquiescence in what had been, all her brave words and promises--all except the mere naked love in her breast had crashed earthward under its occult impact, leaving their altar on their wedding night shattered, fireless, and desolate. He set his teeth and the muscles in his cheeks hardened. "By God!" he thought. "I'll find out what this thing is, and who has done it. She knew what I was. There is a limit to humiliation. Either she shall again accept me and believe in me, or--or----" But there seemed to present itself no alternative which he could tolerate; and the thread of thought snapped short. They were entering the city limits now, and he began to realise that neither had spoken for nearly an hour. He ventured to glance sideways at her. The exquisitely sad profile against the window thrilled him painfully, almost to the verge of anger. Unwedded, she had been nearer to him. Even in his arms, shy and utterly unresponsive, she had been closer, a more vital thing, than ever she had been since the law had made her his wife. For a moment the brutality in him stirred, and he felt the heat of blood in his face, and his heart grew restless and beat faster. All that is latent in man of impatience with pain, of intolerance, of passion, of violence, throbbed in every vein. Then she turned and looked at him. And it was ended as suddenly as it began. Only his sense of helplessness and his resentment remained--resentment against fate, against the unknown people who had done this thing to him and to her; against himself and his folly; even subtly, yet illogically, against her. "I was thinking," she said, "that we might at least lunch together--if you would care to." "Would _you_?" he asked coldly. "If you would." His lip began to tremble and he caught it between his teeth; then his anger flared, and before he meant to he had said: "A jolly luncheon it would be, wouldn't it?" "What?" "I said it would be a jolly affair--considering the situation." "What is the situation, Jim?" she asked, very pale. "Oh, what I've made of it, I suppose--a failure!" "I--I thought we were trying to remake it into a success." "Can we?" "We must, Jim." "How?" She was silent. "I'll tell you how we can _not_ make a success out of it," he said hotly, "and that's by doing what we have been doing." "We have--have had scarcely time yet to do anything very much." "We've done enough to widen the breach between us--however we've managed to accomplish it. That's all I know, Jacqueline." "I thought the breach was closing." "I thought so, too, this morning." "Wounds can not heal over night," she said, in a low voice. "Wounds can not heal at all if continually irritated." "I know it. Give me a little time, Jim. It is all so new to me, and there is no precedent to follow--and I haven't very much wisdom. I am only trying to find myself so I shall know how best to serve you----" "I don't want to be served, Jacqueline! I want you to love me----" "I do." "You do in a hurt, reproachful, frightened, don't-touch-me sort of way----" "Jim!" "I'm sorry; I don't know what I'm saying. There isn't anything for me to say, I suppose. But I don't seem to have the spirit of endurance in me--humble submission isn't my line; delay makes me impatient. I want things to be settled, no matter what the cost. When I repent, I repent like the devil--just as hard and as fast as I can. Then it's over and done with. But nobody else seems to notice my regeneration." For a moment her face was a study in mixed emotions, then a troubled smile curved her lips, but her eyes were unconvinced. "You are only a boy, aren't you?" she said gently. "I know it, somehow, but there is still a little awe of you left in me, and I can't quite understand. Won't you be patient with me, Jim?" He bent over and caught her hand. "Only love me, Jacqueline----" "Oh, I do! I do! And I don't know what to do about it! All my thoughts are concentrated on it, how best to make it strong, enduring, noble! How best to shelter it, bind up its wounds, guard it, defend it. I--I know in my heart that I've got to defend it----" "What do you mean, my darling?" "I don't know--I don't know, Jim. Only--if I knew--if I could always know----" She turned her head swiftly and stared out of the window. On the glass, vaguely, Elena's shadowy features seemed to smile at her. Was _that_ what tortured her? Was that what she wished to know when she and this man separated for the day--_where the woman was_? Had her confidence in him been so utterly, so shamefully destroyed that it had lowered her to an ignoble level--hurled down her dignity and self-respect to grovel amid unworthy and contemptible emotions? Was it the vulgar vice of jealousy that was beginning to fasten itself upon her? Sickened, she closed her eyes a moment; but on the lids was still imprinted the face of the woman; and her words began to ring in her brain. And thought began to gallop again, uncurbed, frantic, stampeding. How could he have done it? How could he have carried on this terrible affair after he had met her, after he had known her, loved her, won her? How could he have received that woman as a guest under the same roof that sheltered her? How could he have made a secret rendezvous with the woman scarcely an hour after he had asked her to marry him? Even if anybody had come to her and told her of these things she could have found it in her heart to find excuses, to forgive him; she could have believed that he had received Elena and arranged a secret meeting with her merely to tell her that their intrigue was at an end. She could have accustomed herself to endure the knowledge of this concrete instance. And, whatever else he might have done in the past she could endure; because, to her, it was something too abstract, too vague and foreign to her to seem real. But the attitude and words of Elena Clydesdale--the unmistakable impression she coolly conveyed that this thing was not yet ended, had poisoned the very spring of her faith in him. And the welling waters were still as bitter as death to her. What did faith matter to her in the world if she could not trust this man? Of what use was it other than to believe in him? And now she could not. She had tried, and she could not. Only when he was near her--only when she might see him, hear him, could she ever again feel sure of him. And now they were to separate for the day. And--where was he going? And where was the other woman? And her heart almost stopped in her breast as she thought of the days and days and years and years to come in which she must continue to ask herself these questions. Yet, in the same quick, agonised breath, she knew she was going to fight for him--do battle in behalf of that broken and fireless altar where love lay wounded. There were many ways of doing battle, but only one right way. And she had thought of many--confused, frightened, unknowing, praying for unselfishness and for light to guide her. But there were so many ways; and the easiest had been to forgive him, surrender utterly, cling to him, love him with every tenderness and grace and accomplishment and art and instinct that was hers--with all of her ardent youth, all of her dawning emotion, all of her undeveloped passion. That had been the easier way in the crisis which stunned and terrified her--to seek shelter, not give it; to surrender, not to withhold. But whether through wisdom or instinct, she seemed to see farther than the moment--to divine, somehow, that his salvation and hers lay not only in forgiveness and love, but in her power to give or withhold; her freedom to exact what justly was her due; in the preservation of her individuality with all its prerogative, its liberty of choice, its self-respect unshaken, its authority unweakened and undiminished. To yield when he was not qualified to receive such supreme surrender boded ill for her, and ultimately for him; for it made of her merely an instrument. Somehow she seemed to know that sometime, for her, would come a moment of final victory; and in that moment only her utter surrender could make the victory eternal and complete. And until that moment came she would not surrender prematurely. She had a fight on her hands; she knew it; she must do her best, though her own heart were a sword that pierced her with every throb. For his sake she would deny; for his sake remain aloof from the lesser love, inviolate, powerful, mistress of herself and of her destiny. And yet--she _was_ his wife. And, after all was said and done, she understood that no dual sovereignty ever is possible; that one or the other must have the final decision; and that if, when it came to that, his ultimate authority failed him, then their spiritual union was a failure, though the material one might endure for a while. And so, believing this, honest with herself and with him, she had offered him her fealty--a white blossom and her key lying beside it in the palm of her hand--in acknowledgment that the supreme decision lay with him. He had not failed her; the final authority still lay with him. Only that knowledge had sustained her during the long night. The car stopped at her establishment; she came out of her painful abstraction with a slight start, flushed, and looked at him. "Will you lunch with me, Jim?" "I think I'll lunch at the club," he said, coolly. "Very well. Will you bring the car around at five?" "The car will be here for you." "And--you?" She tried to smile. "Probably." "Oh! If you have any engagements----" "I might make one between now and five," he said carelessly. "If I do, I'll come up on the train." She had not been prepared for this attitude. But there was nothing to say. He got out and aided her to descend, and took her to the door. His manners were always faultless. "I hope you will come for me," she said, almost timidly. "I hope so," he said. And that was all; she offered her hand; he took it, smiled, and replaced his hat after the shop door closed behind her. Then he went back to the car. "Drive me to Mrs. Hammerton's," he said curtly; got in, and slammed the door. CHAPTER XVI A surprised and very doubtful maid admitted him to Mrs. Hammerton's tiny reception room and took his card; and he fidgeted there impatiently until the maid returned to conduct him. Mrs. Hammerton sat at coffee in the combination breakfast and dining room of her pretty little apartment. He had never seen her wear glasses, but a pair, presumably hers, was lying across the morning paper on the edge of the table. Windows behind her threw her face into shadow against the sunlight, and he could not clearly distinguish her features. A canary sang persistently in the sunshine; a friendly cat yawned on the window sill. "Have some coffee, James?" she asked, without greeting him. "Thanks, I've breakfasted." "Very well. There's a chair." She motioned dismissal to the maid. "And close the door!" she added curtly. The maid vanished, closing the door. Aunt Hannah poured more coffee for herself; now she began to browse on toast and bacon. "Have you seen the papers?" he asked bluntly. Her eyes snapped fire: "That was a brave thing _you_ did! I never knew any of the Desboros were cowards." He looked at her in angry astonishment. "Well, what do _you_ call it if it isn't cowardice--to slink off and marry a defenseless girl like that!" "Did you expect me to give you a chance to destroy me and poison Jacqueline's mind? If I _had_ been guilty of the thing with which you charge me, what I have done _would_ have been cowardly. Otherwise, it is justified." "You have been guilty of enough without that particular thing to rule you out." "If," he said, controlling his anger, "you really were appointed God's deputy on earth, you'd have to rule out the majority of men who attempt to marry." "I'd do it, too," she remarked. "Fortunately," he went on, "your authority for meddling is only self delegated. You once threatened me. You gave me warning like a fair adversary. But even rattlesnakes do that!" He could see her features more plainly now, having become accustomed to the light; and her scornful expression and the brilliant danger in her beady eyes did not escape him. She darted at a bit of toast and swallowed it. "So," he ended calmly, "I merely accepted the warning and acted accordingly--if you call that cowardly." "I see. You were much too clever for me. In other words, you forestalled me, didn't you?" "Ask yourself, Aunt Hannah." "No, I ask you. You _did_ forestall me, didn't you, Jim?" "I think it amounts to that." "Oh! Then why are you here at this hour of the morning, after your wedding night?" There was a silence. Presently she put on her glasses and glanced at the paper. When he had his temper and his voice under absolute control again, he said very quietly: "Somebody is trying to make my wife unhappy. May I ask if it is you?" "Certainly you may ask, James. Ask as many times as you like." She continued to scan the paper. "I do ask," he insisted. [Illustration: "'Why don't you ask your--wife?'"] She laid aside the paper and took off her glasses: "Very well; failing to obtain the desired information from me, why don't you ask your--wife?" "I have asked her," he said, in a low voice. "Oh, I see! Jacqueline also refuses the desired information. So you come to inquire of me. Is that it?" "Yes, that is it." "You go behind your wife's back----" "Don't talk that way, please." "Indeed! Now, listen very attentively, James, because that is exactly the way I am going to talk to you. And I'll begin by telling you plainly just what you have done. _You_--and you know what _you_ are--have married clandestinely a young, innocent, inexperienced girl. You, who are not fit to decide the fate of a new-born yellow pup, have assumed the irrevocable responsibility of this girl's future--arranged it yourself in the teeth of the eternal fitness and decency of things! _You_, James Desboro, a good-for-nothing idler, irresponsible spendthrift, half bankrupt, without ambition, without a profession, without distinction except that you have good looks and misleading manners and a line of ancestors which would make an Englishman laugh. "When you did this thing you knew you were not fit to tie her shoes. You knew, too, that those who really love her and who might have shielded her except for this--this treachery, had warned you to keep your distance. You knew more than that; you knew that our little Jacqueline had all her life before her; that for the first time in her brief career the world was opening its arms to her; that she was certain to be popular, sure to be welcomed, respected, liked, loved. You knew that now she was going to have her chance; that men of distinction, of attainment, of lofty ideals and irreproachable private lives--men well to do materially, too--men of wealth, ambitious men, forceful men who count, certainly would seek her, surround her, prefer her, give her what she had a right to have--the society of her intellectual peers--the exercise of a free, untrammeled judgment, and, ultimately, the opportunity to select from among real men the man most worthy of such a woman as she is." Mrs. Hammerton laid one shapely hand on the table, fingers clenched, and, half rising, fairly glared at Desboro. "You have cheated her out of what was her due! You have stolen her future! You have robbed her of a happy and worthy career to link her life with your career--_your_ career--or whatever you call the futile parody on life which men of your sort enact, disgracing God that He knew no more than to create you! And my righteous anger against you is not wholly personal--not because you have swindled me alone--taken from me the only person I have really ever cared for--killed her confidence in me, her tenderness--but because you have cheated _her_, and the world, too! For she is a rare woman--a rare, sweet woman, James. And _that_ is what you have done to the civilisation that has tolerated you!" He had risen, astounded; but as her denunciation of him became fiercer, and the concentrated fury in her eyes more deadly, a slightly dazed feeling began to dull his own rage, and he found himself listening as though a mere spectator at the terrible arraignment of another man. He remained standing. But she had finished; and she was shaking a little when she resumed her chair; and still he stood there, pallid, staring at space. For several minutes neither of them stirred. Finally she said, in a harsh but modified voice: "I will tell you this much. Since I have known that she is married I have not interfered. On the contrary, I have written her offering her my love, my sympathy, and my devotion as long as I live. But it is a terrible and wicked thing that you have done. And I can see little chance for her, little hope, and less of happiness--when she fully realises what she has done, and what you have done to her--when she really understands how low she has stooped and to what level she has descended to find the man she has married." He merely gazed at her without expression. She shook her head. "Hers will become a solitary life, intellectually and spiritually. There is nothing in you to mate with it. Only materially are you of the slightest use--and I think I am not mistaken when I say your usefulness even there is pitiably limited, and that what you have to offer her will not particularly attract her. For she is a rare woman, James--a species of being absolutely different from you. And it had been well for you, also, if you had been wise enough to let her alone. High altitudes don't agree with you; and not even the merry company on Mount Olympus--let alone the graver gathering higher up--are suitable for such as you and your mundane kind." He nodded, scarcely conscious of his mechanical acquiescence in what she said. Hat and stick in hand, he moved slowly toward the door. She, watching his departure, said in a lower voice: "You and I are of the same species. I am no better than you, James. But--she is different. And you and I are capable of recognising that there _is_ a difference. It seems odd, almost ridiculous to find out at this late date that it is not an alliance with fashion, wealth, family, social connections, that can do honour to Jacqueline Nevers, bourgeoise daughter of a French shop-keeper; it is Jacqueline who honours the caste to which, alas, she has not risen, but into which she has descended. God knows how far such a sour and soggy loaf can be leavened by such as she--or what she can do for you! Perhaps----" She checked herself and shook her head. He walked back to her, made his adieux mechanically, then went out slowly, like a man in a trance. Down in the sunny street the car was waiting; he entered and sat there, giving no orders, until the chauffeur, leaning wide from his seat and still holding open the door, ventured to remind him. "Oh, yes! Then--you may drive me to Mrs. Clydesdale's." * * * * * But the woman whose big and handsome house was now his destination, had forbidden her servants to disturb her that morning; so when Desboro presented himself, only his card was received at the door. Elena, in the drawing-room, hearing the bell, had sprung to her feet and stepped into the upper hall to listen. She heard Desboro's voice and shivered, heard her butler say that she was not at home, heard the bronze doors clash behind him. Then, with death in her heart, she went back noiselessly into the drawing-room where Mr. Waudle, who was squatting on a delicate French chair, retaining his seat, coolly awaited a resumption of the interrupted conference. As a matter of fact, he resumed it himself before she was seated on the sofa at his elbow. "As I was telling you," he continued, "I've got to make a living. Why shouldn't you help me? We were friends once. You found me amusing enough in the old days----" "Until you became impudent!" "Who provoked me? Women need never fear familiarity unless they encourage it!" "It was absolutely innocent on my part----" "Oh, hell!" he said, disgustedly. "It's always the man's fault! When you pull a cat's tail and the animal scratches, it's the cat's fault. All right, then; granted! But the fact remains that if you hadn't looked sideways at me it never would have entered my head to make any advances to you." Which was a lie. All men made advances to Elena. "Leave it so," she said, with the angry flush deepening in her cheeks. "Sure, I'll leave it; but I'm not going to leave _you_. Not yet, Elena. You owe me something for what you've done to me." "Oh! Is _that_ the excuse?" she nodded scornfully; but her heart was palpitating with fear, and her lips had become dry again. He surveyed her insolently under his heavy eyelids. "Come," he said, "what are you going to do about it? You are the fortunate one; you have everything--I nothing. And, plainly, I'm sick of it. What are you going to do?" "Suppose," she said, steadily, "that I tell my husband what you are doing? Had you considered _that_ possibility?" "Tell him if you like." She shrugged. "What you are doing is blackmail, isn't it?" she asked disdainfully. "Call it what you please," he said. "Suit yourself, Elena. But there is a bunch of manuscript in the _Tattler's_ office which goes into print the moment you play any of your catty games on me. Understand?" She said, very pale: "Will you not tell me--give me some hint about what you have written?" He laughed: "Better question your own memory, little lady. Maybe it isn't about you and Desboro at all; maybe it's something else." "There was nothing else." "There was--_me_!" "You?" "Sure," he said cheerfully. "What happened in Philadelphia, if put skillfully before any jury, would finish _you_." "_Nothing_ happened! And you know it!" she exclaimed, revolted. "But juries--and the public--don't know. All they can do is to hear the story and then make up their minds. If you choose to let them hear _your_ story----" "There was nothing! I did nothing! _Nothing_----" she faltered. "But God knows the facts look ugly," he retorted, with smirking composure. "You're a clever girl; ask yourself what you'd think if the facts about you and young Desboro--you and me--were skillfully brought out?" She sat dumb, frightened, twisting her fingers; then, in the sudden anger born of torture: "If I am disgraced, what will happen to _you_!" she flashed out--and knew in the same breath that the woman invariably perishes where the man usually survives; and sat silent and pallid again, her wide eyes restlessly roaming about her as though seeking refuge. "Also," he said, "if you sue the _Tattler_ for slander, there's Munger, you know. He saw us in Philadelphia that night----" "What!" "Certainly. And if a jury learned that you and I were in the same----" "I did not dream you were to be in the same hotel--in those rooms--you miserable----" "Easy, little lady! Easy, now! Never mind what you did or didn't dream. You're up against reality, now. So never mind about me at all. Let that Philadelphia business go; it isn't essential. I've enough to work on without _that_!" [Illustration: "'I do not believe you,' she said between her teeth"] "I do not believe you," she said, between her teeth. "Oh! Are you really going to defy me?" "Perhaps." "I see," he said, thoughtfully, rising and looking instinctively around. He had the quick, alert side-glance which often characterises lesser adepts in his profession. Then, half way to the door, he turned on her again: "Look here, Elena, I'm tired of this! You fix it so that your husband keeps those porcelains, or I'll go down town now and turn in that manuscript! Come on! Which is it?" "Go, if you like!" There ensued a breathless silence; his fat hand was on the door, pushing it already, when a stifled exclamation from her halted him. After a moment he turned warily. "I'm desperate," he said. "Pay, or I show you up. Which is it to be?" "I--how do I know? What proof have I that you can damage me----" He came all the way back, moistening his thick lips, for he had played his last card at the door; and, for a second, he supposed that he was beaten. "Now, see here," he said, "I don't want to do this. I don't want to smash anybody, let alone a woman. But, by God! I'll do it if you don't come across. So make up your mind, Elena." She strove to sustain his gaze and he leered at her. Finally he sat down beside her: "I said I wouldn't give you any proofs. But I guess I will. I'll prove to you that I've got you good and plenty, little lady. Will that satisfy you?" "Prove it!" she strove to say; but her lips scarcely obeyed her. "All right. Do you remember one evening, just before Christmas, when you and your husband had been on the outs?" She bit her lip in silence. "_Do_ you?" he insisted. "Perhaps." "All right, so far," he sneered. "Did he perhaps tell you that he had an appointment at the Kiln Club with a man who was interested in porcelains and jades?" "No." "Well, he did. He had an appointment for that night. I was the man." She understood nothing. "So," he said, "I waited three hours at the Kiln Club and your husband didn't show up. Then I telephoned his house. You and he were probably having your family row just then, for the maid said he was there, but was too busy to come to the telephone. So I said that I'd come up to the house in half an hour." Still she did not comprehend. "Wait a bit, little lady," he continued, with sly enjoyment of his own literary methods. "The climax comes where it belongs, not where you expect it. So now we'll read you a chapter in which a bitter wind blows heavily, and a solitary taxicab might have been seen outward bound across the wintry wastes of Gotham Town. Get me?" She merely looked at him. "In that low, black, rakish taxi," he went on, "sat an enterprising man bent upon selling to your husband the very porcelains which he subsequently bought. In other words, _I_ sat in that taxi. _I_ stopped in front of this house; _I_ saw _you_ leave the house and go scurrying away like a scared rabbit. And then I went up the steps, rang, was admitted, told to wait in the library. I waited." "Where?" The word burst from her involuntarily. "In the library," he repeated. "It's a nice, cosy, comfortable place, isn't it? Fine fat sofas, soft cushions, fire in the grate--oh, a very comfortable place, indeed! I thought so, anyway, while I was waiting for your husband to come down stairs." "It appeared that he had finally received my telephone message--presumably after you and he had finished your row--and had left word that I was to be admitted. That's why they let me in. So I waited very, v--ery comfortably in the library; and somebody had thoughtfully set out cigars, and whisky, and lemon, and sugar, _and_ a jug of hot water. It _was_ a cold night, if you remember." He paused long enough to leer at her. "Odd," he remarked, "how pleasantly things happen sometimes. And, as I sat there in that big leather chair--you must know which one I mean, Elena--it is the fattest and most comforting--I smoked my cigar and sipped my hot grog, and gazed innocently around. And _what_ do you suppose my innocent eyes encountered--just like that?" "W--what?" she breathed. "Why, a letter!" he said, jovially slapping his fat thigh, "a real letter lying right in the middle of the table--badly sealed, Elena--very carelessly sealed--just the gummed point of the envelope clinging to the body of it. Now, wasn't that a peculiar thing for an enterprising young man to discover, I ask you?" He leered and leered into her white face; then, satisfied, he went on: "The writing was _yours_, dearie. I recognised it. It was addressed to your own husband, who lived under the same roof. _And_ I had seen you creep out, close the front door softly, and scurry away into the night." He made a wide gesture with his fat hands. "Naturally," he said, "I thought I ought to summon a servant to call your husband, so I could tell him what I had seen you do. But--there was a quicker way to learn what your departure meant--whether you were at that moment making for the river or for Maxim's--anyway, I knew there was no time to be lost. So----" She shrank away and half rose, strangling a cry of protest. "Sure I did!" he said coolly. "I read your note very carefully, then licked the envelope and resealed it, and put it into my pocket. After all, Mr. Desboro is a man. It was none of my business to interfere. So I let him have what was coming to him--and you, too." He shrugged and waved his hand. "Your husband came down later; we talked jades and porcelains and prices until I nearly yawned my head off. And when it was time to go, I slipped the letter back on the table. After all, you and Desboro had had your fling; why shouldn't hubby have an inning?" He lay back in his chair and laughed at the cowering woman, who had dropped her arms on the back of her chair and buried her face in them. Something about the situation struck him as being very funny. He regarded her for a few moments, then rose and walked to the door. There he turned. "Fix it for me! Understand?" he said sharply; and went out. As the bronze doors closed behind Mr. Waudle, Elena started and lifted her frightened face from her arms. For a second or two she sat there, listening, then rose and walked swiftly and noiselessly to the bay window. Mr. Waudle was waddling down the street. Across the way, keeping a parallel course, walked the Cubist poet, his ankle-high trousers flapping. They did not even glance at each other until they reached the corner of Madison Avenue. Here they both boarded the same car going south. Mr. Waudle was laughing. She came back into the drawing-room and stood, clasped hands twisting in sheer agony. To whom could she turn now? What was there to do? Since January she had given this man so much money that almost nothing remained of her allowance. How could she go to her husband again? Never had she betrayed the slightest sympathy for him or any interest in his hobby until his anger was awakened by the swindle of which he had been a victim. Then, for the first time, under the menacing pressure from Waudle, she had attempted finesse--manoeuvred as skillfully as possible in the short space of time allotted her, cleverly betrayed an awakening interest in her husband's collection, pretended to a sudden caprice for the forgeries recently acquired, and carried off very well her astonishment when informed that the jades and porcelains were swindling imitations made in Japan. It had been useless for her to declare that, whatever they were, she liked them. Her husband would have none of them in spite of his evident delight in her sudden interest. He promised to undertake her schooling in the proper appreciation of all things Chinese--promised to be her devoted mentor and companion in the eternal hunt for specimens. Which was scarcely what she wanted. But he flatly refused to encourage her in her admiration for these forgeries or to tolerate such junk under his roof. [Illustration: "What was she to do? She had gone half mad with fear"] What was she to do? She had gone, half mad with fear, to throw herself upon the sympathy and mercy of Jacqueline Nevers. Terrified, tortured, desperate, she had even thought to bribe the girl to pronounce the forgeries genuine. Then, suddenly, at the mere mention of Desboro, she had gone all to pieces. And when it became clear to her that there was already an understanding between this girl and the man she had counted on as her last resort, fear and anger completed her demoralisation. She remembered the terrible scene now, remembered what she had said--her shameless attitude--the shameful lie which her words and her attitude had forced Jacqueline to understand. Why she had acted such a monstrous falsehood she scarcely knew; whether it had been done to cut the suspected bond between Desboro and Jacqueline before it grew too strong to sever--whether it had been sheer hysteria under the new shock--whether it was reckless despair that had hardened her to a point where she meant to take the final plunge and trust to Desboro's chivalry, she did not know then; she did not know now. But the avalanche she had loosened that night in December, when she wrote her note and went to Silverwood, was still thundering along behind her, gathering new force every day, until the menacing roar of it never ceased in her ears. And now it had swept her last possible resource away--Desboro. All her humiliation, all her shame, the lie she had acted, had not availed. This girl had married him after all. Like a lightning stroke the news of their wedding had fallen on her. And on the very heels of it slunk the blackmailer with his terrifying bag of secrets. Where was she to go? To her husband? It was useless. To Desboro? It was too late. Even now, perhaps, he was listening scornfully to his young wife's account of that last interview. She could see the contempt in his face--contempt for her--for the woman who had lied to avow her own dishonour. Why had he come to see her then? To threaten her? To warn her? To spurn her? Yet, that was not like Desboro. Why had he come? What she had said and intimated to Jacqueline was done _after_ the girl was a wife. Could it be possible that Jacqueline was visiting her anger on Desboro, having learned too late that which would have prevented her from marrying him at all? Elena crept to the sofa and sank down in a heap, cowering there in one corner, striving to think. What would come of it? Would this proud and chaste young girl, accepting the acted lie as truth, resent it? By leaving Desboro? By beginning a suit for divorce--and naming---- Elena cringed, stifling a cry of terror. What had she done? Every force she had evoked was concentrating into one black cloud over her head, threatening her utter destruction. Everything she had done since that December night was helping the forces gathering to annihilate her. Even Desboro, once a refuge, was now part of this tempest about to be unloosened. Truly she had sowed the wind, and the work of her small white hands was already established upon her. Never in her life had she really ever cared for any man. Her caprice for Desboro, founded on the lesser motives, had been the nearest approach. It had cost her all her self-control, all her courage, to play the diplomat with her husband for the sake of obtaining his consent to keep the forged porcelains. And after all it had been in vain. In spite of her white misery and wretchedness, now, as she sat there in the drawing-room alone, her cheeks crimsoned hotly at the memory of her arts and wiles and calineries; of her new shyness with the man she had never before spared; of her clever attitude toward him, the apparent dawn of tenderness, the faint provocation in her lifted eyes--God! It should have been her profession, for she had taken to it like a woman of the streets--had submitted like one, earning her pay. And, like many, had been cheated in the end. She rose unsteadily, cooling her cheeks in her hands and gazing vacantly in front of her. She had not been well for a few days; had meant to see her physician. But in the rush of events enveloping her there had been no moment to think of mere bodily ills. Now, dizzy, trembling, and faintly nauseated, she stood supporting her weight on a gilded chair, closing her eyes for a moment to let the swimming wretchedness pass. It passed after a while, leaving her so utterly miserable that she leaned over and rang for a maid. "Order the car--the Sphex limousine," she said. "And bring me my hat and furs." "Yes, madame." "And--my jewel box. Here is the key----" detaching a tiny gold one from its chain in her bosom. "And if Mr. Clydesdale comes in, say to him that I have gone to the doctor's." "Yes, madame." "And--I shall take some jewels to--the safe deposit--one or two pieces which I don't wear." The maid was silent. "Do you understand about the--jewels?" "Yes, madame." She went away. Presently she returned with Elena's hat and furs and jewel box. The private garage adjoined the house; the car rolled out before she was ready. On the way down town she was afraid she would faint--almost wished she would. The chauffeur's instructions landed her at a jeweler's where she was not known. A few moments later, in a private office, a grey old gentleman very gently refused to consider the purchase of any jewelry from her unless he knew her name, residence, and other essentials which she flatly declined to give. So a polite clerk put her into her car and she directed the chauffeur to Dr. Allen's office, because she felt really too ill for the moment to continue her search. Later she would manage to find somebody who would buy sufficient of her jewelry to give her--and Mr. Waudle--the seven thousand dollars necessary to avoid exposure. Dr. Allen was in--just returned. Only one patient was ahead of her. Presently she was summoned, rose with an effort, and went in. The physician was a very old man; and after he had questioned her for a few moments he smiled. And at the same instant she began to understand; got to her feet blindly, stood swaying for a moment, then dropped as he caught her. Neither the physician nor the trained nurse who came in at his summons seemed to be very greatly worried. As they eased the young wife and quietly set about reviving her, they chatted carelessly. Later Elena opened her eyes. Later still the nurse went home with her in her limousine. CHAPTER XVII About midday Clydesdale, who had returned to his house from a morning visit to his attorney in Liberty Street, was summoned to the telephone. "Is that you, Desboro?" he asked. "Yes. I stopped this morning to speak to your wife a moment, but very naturally she was not at home to me at such an hour in the morning. I have just called her on the telephone, but her maid says she has gone out." "Yes. She is not very well. I understand she has gone to see Dr. Allen. But she ought to be back pretty soon. Won't you come up to the house, Desboro?" There was a short pause, then Desboro's voice again, in reply: "I believe I will come up, Clydesdale. And I think I'll talk to you instead of to your wife." "Just as it suits you. Very glad to see you anyway. I'll be in the rear extension fussing about among the porcelains." "I'll be with you in ten minutes." * * * * * In less time than that Desboro arrived, and was piloted through the house and into the gallery by an active maid. At the end of one of the aisles lined by glass cases, the huge bulk of Cary Clydesdale loomed, his red face creased with his eternal grin. "Hello, Desboro!" he called. "Come this way. I've one or two things here which will match any of yours at Silverwood, I think." And, as Desboro approached, Clydesdale strode forward, offering him an enormous hand. "Glad to see you," he grinned. "Congratulations on your marriage! Fine girl, that! I don't know any to match her." He waved a comprehensive arm. "All this stuff is her arrangement. Gad! But I had it rottenly displayed. And the collection was full of fakes, too. But she came floating in here one morning, and what she did to my junk-heap was a plenty, believe _me_!" And the huge fellow grinned and grinned until Desboro's sombre face altered and became less rigid. A maid appeared with a table and a frosted cocktail shaker. "You'll stop and lunch with us," said Clydesdale, filling two glasses. "Elena won't be very long. Don't know just what ails her, but she's nervous and run down. I guess it's the spring that's coming. Well, here's to all bad men; they need the boost and we don't. Prosit!" He emptied his glass, set it aside, and from the open case beside him extracted an exquisite jar of the Kang-He, _famille noire_, done in five colours during the best period of the work. "God knows I'm not proud," he said, "but can you beat it, Desboro?" Desboro took the beautiful jar, and, carefully guarding the cover, turned it slowly. Birds, roses, pear blossoms, lilies, exquisite in composition and colour, passed under his troubled eyes. He caressed the paste mechanically. "It is very fine," he said. "Have you anything to beat it?" "I don't think so." "How are yours marked?" inquired the big man, taking the jar into his own enormous paws as lovingly as a Kadiak bear embraces her progeny. "This magnificent damn thing is a forgery. Look! Here's the mark of the Emperor Ching-hwa! Isn't that the limit? And the forgery is every bit as fine as the originals made before 1660--only it happened to be the fashion in China in 1660 to collect Ching-hwa jars, so the maker of this piece deliberately forged an earlier date. Can you beat it?" Desboro smiled as though he were listening; and Clydesdale gingerly replaced the jar and as carefully produced another. "Ming!" he said. "Seventeenth century Manchu Tartar. I've some earlier Ming ranging between 1400 A.D. and 1600; but it can't touch this, Desboro. In fact, I think the eighteenth century Ming is even finer; and, as far as that goes, there is magnificent work being done now--although the occidental markets seldom see it. But--Ming for mine, every time! How do _you_ feel about it, old top?" Desboro looked at the vase. The soft beauty of the blue underglaze, the silvery thickets of magnolia bloom amid which a magnificent, pheasant-hued phoenix stepped daintily, meant at the moment absolutely nothing to him. Nor did the _poudre-bleu_ jar, triumphantly exhibited by the infatuated owner--a splendid specimen painted on the overglaze. And the weeds and shells and fiery golden fishes swimming had been dimmed a little by rubbing, so that the dusky aquatic depths loomed more convincingly. "Clydesdale," said Desboro in a low voice, "I want to say one or two things to you. Another time it would give me pleasure to go over these porcelains with you. Do you mind my interrupting you?" The big man grinned. "Shoot," he said, replacing the "powder-blue" and carefully closing and locking the case. Then, dropping the keys into his pocket, he came over to where Desboro was seated beside the flimsy folding card-table, shook the cocktail shaker, offered to fill Desboro's glass, and at a gesture of refusal refilled his own. "This won't do a thing to my appetite," he remarked genially. "Go ahead, Desboro." And he settled himself to listen, with occasional furtive, sidelong glances at his beloved porcelains. Desboro said: "Clydesdale, you and I have known each other for a number of years. We haven't seen much of each other, except at the club, or meeting casually here and there. It merely happened so; if accident had thrown us together, the chances are that we would have liked each other--perhaps sought each other's company now and then--as much as men do in this haphazard town, anyway. Don't you think so?" Clydesdale nodded. "But we have been on perfectly friendly terms, always--with one exception," said Desboro. "Yes--with one exception. But that is all over now----" "I am afraid it isn't." Clydesdale's grin remained unaltered when he said: "Well, what the hell----" and stopped abruptly. "It's about that one exception of which I wish to speak," continued Desboro, after a moment's thought. "I don't want to say very much--just one or two things which I hope you already know and believe. And all I have to say is this, Clydesdale; whatever I may have been--whatever I may be now, that sort of treachery is not in me. I make no merit of it--it may be mere fastidiousness on my part which would prevent me from meditating treachery toward an acquaintance or a friend." Clydesdale scrutinised him in silence. "Never, since Elena was your wife, have I thought of her except as your wife." Clydesdale only grinned. "I want to be as clear as I can on this subject," continued the other, "because--and I must say it to you--there have been rumours concerning--me." "And concerning _her_," said Clydesdale simply. "Don't blink matters, Desboro." "No, I won't. The rumours have included her, of course. But what those rumours hint, Clydesdale, is an absolute lie. I blame myself in a measure; I should not have come here so often--should not have continued to see Elena so informally. I _was_ in love with her once; I did ask her to marry me. She took you. Try to believe me, Clydesdale, when I tell you that though for me there did still linger about her that inexplicable charm which attracted me, which makes your wife so attractive to everybody, never for a moment did it occur to me not to acquiesce in the finality of her choice. Never did I meditate any wrong toward you or toward her. I _did_ dangle. That was where I blame myself. Because where a better man might have done it uncriticised, I was, it seems, open to suspicion." "You're no worse than the next," said Clydesdale in a deep growl. "Hell's bells! I don't blame _you_! And there would have been nothing to it anyway if Elena had not lost her head that night and bolted. I was rough with you all right; but you behaved handsomely; and I knew where the trouble was. Because, Desboro, my wife dislikes me." "I thought----" "No! Let's have the truth, damn it! _That's_ the truth! My wife dislikes me. It may be that she is crazy about you; I don't know. But I am inclined to think--after these months of hell, Desboro--that she really is not crazy about you, or about any man; that it is only her dislike of me that possesses her to--to deal with me as she has done." He was still grinning, but his heavy lower lip twitched, and suddenly the horror of it broke on Desboro--that this great, gross, red-faced creature was suffering in every atom of his unwieldy bulk; that the fixed grin was covering anguish; that the man's heart was breaking there, now, where he sat, the _rictus mortis_ stamped on his quivering face. "Clydesdale," he said, unsteadily, "I came here meaning to say only what I have said--that you never had anything to doubt in me--but that rumours still coupled my name with Elena's. That was all I meant to say. But I'll say more. I'm sorry that things are not going well with you and Elena. I would do anything in the world that lay within my power to help make yours a happy marriage. But--marriages all seem to go wrong. For years--witnessing what I have--what everybody among our sort of people cannot choose but witness--I made up my mind that marriage was no good." He passed his hand slowly over his eyes; waited a moment, then: "But I was wrong. That's what the matter is--that is how the matter lies between the sort of people we are and marriage. It is _we_ who are wrong; there's nothing wrong about marriage, absolutely nothing. Only many of us are not fit for it. And some of us take it as a preventive, as a moral medicine--as though anybody could endure an eternal dosing! And some of us seek it as a refuge--a refuge from every ill, every discomfort, every annoyance and apprehension that assails the human race--as though the institution of marriage were a vast and fortified storehouse in which everything we have ever lacked and desired were lying about loose for us to pick up and pocket." He bent forward across the table and began to play absently with his empty glass. "Marriage is all right," he said. "But only those fit to enter possess the keys to the magic institution. And they find there what they expected. The rest of us jimmy our way in, and find ourselves in an empty mansion, Clydesdale." For a long while they sat there in silence; Desboro fiddling with his empty glass, the other, motionless, his ponderous hands clasped on his knees. At length, Desboro spoke again: "I do not know how it is with you, but I am not escaping anything that I have ever done." "I'm getting mine," said Clydesdale heavily. After a few moments, what Desboro had said filtered into his brain; and he turned and looked at the younger man. "Have these rumours----" he began. And Desboro nodded: "These rumours--or others. _These_ happen not to have been true." "That's tough on _her_," said Clydesdale gravely. "That's where it is toughest on us. I think we could stand anything except that _they_ should suffer through us. And the horrible part of it is that we never meant to--never dreamed that we should ever be held responsible for the days we lived so lightly--gay, careless, irresponsible days--God! Is there any punishment to compare with it, Clydesdale?" "None." Desboro rose and stood with his hand across his forehead, as though it ached. [Illustration: "'Jacqueline--my wife--is the result of a different training'"] "You and Elena and I are products of the same kind of civilisation. Jacqueline--my wife--is the result of a different training in a very different civilisation." "And the rottenness of ours is making her ill." Desboro nodded. After a moment he stirred restlessly. "Well," he said, "I must go to the office. I haven't been there yet." Clydesdale got onto his feet. "Won't you stay?" "No." "As you wish. And--I'm sorry, Desboro. However, you have a better chance than I--to make good. My wife--dislikes me." He went as far as the door with his guest, and when Desboro had departed he wandered aimlessly back into the house and ultimately found himself among his porcelains once more--his only refuge from a grief and care that never ceased, never even for a moment eased those massive shoulders of their dreadful weight. From where he stood, he heard the doorbell sounding distantly. Doubtless his wife had returned. Doubtless, too, as long as there was no guest, Elena would prefer to lunch alone in her own quarters, unless she had an engagement to lunch at the Ritz or elsewhere. He had no illusion that she desired to see him, or that she cared whether or not he inquired what her physician had said; but he closed and locked his glass cases once more and walked heavily into the main body of the house and descended to the door. To the man on duty there he said: "Did Mrs. Clydesdale come in?" "Yes, sir." "Thank you." He hesitated, turned irresolutely, and remounted the stairs. To a maid passing he said: "Is Mrs. Clydesdale lunching at home?" "Yes, sir. Mrs. Clydesdale is not well, sir." "Has she gone to her room?" "Yes, sir." "Please go to her and say that I am sorry and--and inquire if there is anything I can do." The maid departed and the master of the house wandered into the music-room--perhaps because Elena's tall, gilded harp was there--the only thing in the place that ever reminded him of her, or held for him anything of her personality. [Illustration: "In the rose dusk of the drawn curtains, he stood beside it"] Now, in the rose dusk of the drawn curtains, he stood beside it, not touching it--never dreaming of touching it without permission, any more than he would have touched his wife. Somebody knocked; he turned, and the maid came forward. "Mrs. Clydesdale desires to see you, sir." He stared for a second, then his heart beat heavily with alarm. "Where is Mrs. Clydesdale?" "In her bedroom, sir." "Unwell?" "Yes, sir." "In _bed_?" "I think so, sir. Mrs. Clydesdale's maid spoke to me." "Very well. Thank you." He went out and mounted the stairs, striding up silently to the hall above, where his wife's maid quietly opened the door for him, then went away to her own little chintz-lined den. Elena was lying on her bed in a frilly, lacy, clinging thing of rose tint. The silk curtains had been drawn, but squares of sunlight quartered them, turning the dusk of the pretty room to a golden gloom. She opened her eyes and looked up at him as he advanced. "I'm terribly sorry," he said; and his heavy voice shook in spite of him. She motioned toward the only armchair--an ivory-covered affair, the cane bottom covered by a rose cushion. "Bring it here--nearer," she said. He did so, and seated himself beside the bed cautiously. She lay silent after that; once or twice she pressed the palms of both hands over her eyes as though they pained her, but when he ventured to inquire, she shook her head. It was only when he spoke of calling up Dr. Allen again that she detained him in his chair with a gesture: "Wait! I've got to tell you something! I don't know what you will do about it. You've had trouble enough--with me. But this is--is--unspeakable----" "What on earth is the matter? Aren't you ill?" he began. "Yes; that, too. But--there is something else. I thought it had made me ill--but----" She began to shiver, and he laid his hand on hers and found it burning. "I tell you Allen ought to come at once----" he began again. "No, no, no! You don't know what you're talking about. I--I'm frightened--that's what is the matter! That's one of the things that's the matter. Wait a moment. I'll tell you. I'll _have_ to tell you, now. I suppose you'll--divorce me." There was a silence; then: "Go on," he said, in his heavy, hopeless voice. She moistened her lips with her tongue: "It's--my fault. I--I did not care for you--that is how it--began. No; it began before that--before I knew you. And there were two men. You remember them. They were the rage with our sort--like other fads, for a while--such as marmosets, and--things. One of these things was the poet, Orrin Munger. He called himself a Cubist--whatever that may be. The other was the writer, Adalbert Waudle." Clydesdale's grin was terrible. "No," she said wearily, "I was only a more venturesome fool than other women who petted them--nothing worse. They went about kissing women's hands and reading verses to them. Some women let them have the run of their boudoirs--like any poodle. Then there came that literary and semi-bohemian bal-masque in Philadelphia. It was the day before the Assembly. I was going on for that, but mother wouldn't let me go on away earlier for the bal-masque. So--I went." "What?" "I lied. I pretended to be stopping with the Hammertons in Westchester. And I bribed my maid to lie, too. But I went." "Alone?" "No. Waudle went with me." "Good God, Elena!" "I know. I was simply insane. I went with him to that ball and left before the unmasking. Nobody knew me. So I went to the Bellevue-Stratford for the night. I--I never dreamed that _he_ would go there, too." "Did he?" "Yes. He had the rooms adjoining. I only knew it when--when I awoke in the dark and heard him tapping on the door and calling in that thick, soft voice----" She shuddered and clenched her hands, closing her feverish eyes for a moment. Her husband stared at her, motionless in his chair. She unclosed her eyes wearily: "That was all--except--the other one--the little one with the frizzy hair--Munger. He saw me there. He knew that Waudle had the adjoining rooms. So then, very early, I came back to New York, badly scared, and met my maid at the station and pretended to mother that I had just arrived from Westchester. And that night I went back to the Assembly. But--ever since that night I--I have been--paying money to Adalbert Waudle. Not much before I married you, because I had very little to pay. But all my allowance has gone that way--and now--now he wants more. And I haven't it. And I'm sick----" The terrible expression on her husband's face frightened her, and, for a moment, she faltered. But there was more to tell, and she must tell it though his unchained wrath destroy her. "You'll have to wait until I finish," she muttered. "There's more--and worse. Because he came here the night I--went to Silverwood. He saw me leave the house; he unsealed and read the note I left on the library table for you. He knows what I said--about Jim Desboro. He knows I went to him. And he is trying to make me pay him--to keep it out of the--the _Tattler_." Clydesdale's congested face was awful; she looked into it, thought that she read her doom. But the courage of despair forced her on. "There is worse--far worse," she said with dry lips. "I had no money to give; he wished to keep the seven thousand which was his share of what you paid for the forged porcelains. He came to me and made me understand that if you insisted on his returning that money he would write me up for the _Tattler_ and disgrace me so that you would divorce me. I--I must be honest with you at such a time as this, Cary. I wouldn't have cared if--if Jim Desboro would have married me afterward. But he had ceased to care for me. He--was in love with--Miss Nevers; or she was with him. And I disliked her. But--I was low enough to go to her in my dire extremity and--and ask her to pronounce those forged porcelains genuine--so that you would keep them. And I did it--meaning to bribe her." Clydesdale's expression was frightful. "Yes--I did this thing. And worse. I--I wish you'd kill me after I tell you! I--something she said--in the midst of my anguish and terror--something about Jim Desboro, I think--I am not sure--seemed to drive me insane. And she was married to him all the while, and I didn't know it. And--to drive her away from him, I--I made her understand that--that I was--his--mistress----" "Good God!" "Wait--for God's sake, wait! I don't care what you do to me afterward. Only--only tell that woman I wasn't--tell her I never was. Promise me that, whatever you are going to do to me--promise me you'll tell her that I never was any man's mistress! Because--because--I am--ill. And they say--Dr. Allen says I--I am going to--to have a baby." The man reared upright and stood swaying there, ashy faced, his visage distorted. Suddenly the features were flooded with rushing crimson; he dropped on his knees and caught her in his arms with a groan; and she shut her eyes, thinking the world was ending. After a long while she opened them, still half stunned with terror; saw his quivering lips resting on her tightly locked hands; stared for a while, striving to comprehend his wet face and his caress. And, after a while, timidly, uncertainly, wondering, she ventured to withdraw one hand, still watching him with fascinated eyes. She had always feared him physically--feared his bulk, and his massive strength, and his grin. Otherwise, she had held him in intellectual contempt. Very cautiously, very gently, she withdrew her hand, watching him all the while. He had not annihilated her. What did he mean to do with this woman who had hated him and who now was about to disgrace him? What did he mean to do? What was he doing now--with his lips quivering against her other hand, all wet with his tears? "Cary?" she said. He lifted a passion-marred visage; and there seemed for a moment something noble in the high poise of his ugly head. And, without knowing what she was doing, or why, she slowly lifted her free hand and let it rest lightly on his massive shoulder. And, as she looked into his eyes, a strange expression began to dawn in her own--and it became stranger and stranger--something he had never before seen there--something so bewildering, so wonderful, that his heart seemed to cease. Suddenly her eyes filled and her face flushed from throat to hair and the next instant she swayed forward, was caught, and crushed to his breast. "Oh!" she wept ceaselessly. "Oh, oh, Cary! I didn't know--I didn't know. I--I want to be a--a good mother. I'll try to be better; I'll try to be better. You are so good--you are so good to me--so kind--so kind--to protect me--after what I've done--after what I've done!" CHAPTER XVIII Desboro passed a miserable afternoon at the office. If there had been any business to take his mind off himself it might have been easier for him; but for a long time now there had been nothing stirring in Wall Street; the public kept away; business was dead. After hours he went to the club, feeling physically wretched. Man after man came up and congratulated him on his marriage--some whom he knew scarcely more intimately than to bow to, spoke to him. He was a very great favourite. In the beginning, it was merely a stimulant that he thought he needed; later he declined no suggestion, and even made a few, with an eye on the clock. For at five he was to meet Jacqueline. Toward five his demeanour had altered to that gravely urbane and too courteous manner indicative of excess; and his flushed face had become white and tense. Cairns found him in the card room at six, saw at a glance how matters stood with him, and drew him into a corner of the window with scant ceremony. "What's the matter with you?" he said sharply. "You told me that you were to meet your wife at five!" Desboro's manner became impressively courteous. "Inadvertently," he said, "I have somehow or other mislaid the clock. Once it stood somewhere in this vicinity, but----" "Damn it! There it is! Look at it!" Desboro looked gravely in the direction where Cairns was pointing. "That undoubtedly _is_ a clock," he said. "But now a far more serious problem confronts us, John. Having located a clock with a certain amount of accuracy, what is the next step to take in finding out the exact time?" "Don't you know how to tell the time?" demanded Cairns, furious. "Pardon. I know how to _tell_ it, provided I once know what it is----" "Are you drunk?" "I have never," said Desboro, courteously, "experienced intoxication. At present I am perfectly cognisant of contemporary events now passing in my immediate vicinity----" "Where were you to meet your wife?" "At the depository of her multitudinous and intricate affairs of business--in other words, at her office, dear friend." "You can't go to her this way." "It were unwise, perhaps," said Desboro, pleasantly. Cairns gripped his arm: "You go to the baths; do you hear? Tell Louis to massage the edge off you. I'm going to speak to your wife." So Desboro sauntered off toward the elevator and Cairns called up Jacqueline's office. It appeared that Jacqueline had left. Should they switch him on to her private apartments above? In a moment his call was answered. "Is this Mrs. Desboro?" he asked. And at the same instant recognised Cynthia Lessler's voice. She returned his greeting briefly. "Jacqueline thought that perhaps she had misunderstood Mr. Desboro, so she has gone to the station. Did he go there?" "N--no. He had an appointment and----" "Where?" "At the club--the Olympian Club----" "Is he there?" "Yes----" "Then tell him to go at once to the station, or he will miss his wife and the 6:15 train, too!" "I--he--Jim isn't feeling very well----" "Is he _ill_!" "N--no. Oh, no! He's merely tired--over-worked----" "What!" "Oh, he's just taking a cold plunge and a rub-down----" "Mr. Cairns!" "Yes." "Take a taxi and come here before Jacqueline returns." "Did you wish----" "Yes. How soon can you get here?" "Five minutes." "I'll wait." "A rotten piece of business," muttered Cairns, taking hat and stick from the cloak room. The starter had a taxi ready. Except for the usual block on Fifth Avenue, they would have made it in four minutes. It took them ten. Cynthia met him on the landing and silently ushered him into Jacqueline's pretty little parlour. She still wore her hat and coat; a fur boa lay on a sofa. [Illustration: "'Now,' she said, leaning forward ... 'what is the meaning of this?'"] "Now," she said, leaning forward in her chair as soon as he was seated, "what is the meaning of this?" "Of what?" he asked, pretending mild surprise. "Of Mr. Desboro's behaviour! He was married yesterday to the dearest, sweetest, loveliest girl in the world. To-day, I stop at her office to see her--and I find that she is unhappy. She couldn't hide it from _me_! I _love_ her! And all her smiles and forced gaiety and clever maneuvering were terrible to me--heart-breaking. She is dreadfully unhappy. Why?" "I didn't know it," said Cairns honestly. "Is that true?" "Absolutely." "Very well. But you know why he didn't meet Jacqueline at five, don't you?" He looked at her miserably: "Yes, I know. I wouldn't let him." "Is he intoxicated?" "No. He has had more than he should have." "What a cur!" she said between her teeth. Cairns bit his lip and nervously twirled his walking stick. "See here, Cynthia, Jim isn't a cur, you know." "What do _you_ call a man who has done what he's done?" "I--I tell you it has me guessing. Because it isn't like Jim Desboro. He's never that way--not once in years. Only when he's up against it does he ever do that. And he's perfectly mad about his wife. Don't make any mistake there; he's dead in love with her--crazy about her. But--he came into the office about one to-day, looking like the deuce--so changed, so white, so 'all in,' that I thought he had the grippe or something." Cynthia said: "They've had a quarrel. Oh, what is it--what could it be, Jack? You know it will break her heart. It's breaking mine now. I can't bear it--I simply can't----" "Haven't the least idea what's wrong," said Cairns, leaning forward, elbows on his knees, and beating the hearth with his walking stick. "Can't Mr. Desboro come here pretty soon?" "Oh, yes, I think so. I'll go back and look him over----" Cynthia's eyes suddenly glistened with tears, and she bowed her head. "My dear child," expostulated Cairns, "it's nothing to weep over. It's a--one of those things likely to happen to any man----" "But I can't bear to have it happen to Jacqueline's husband. Oh, I wish she had never seen him, never heard of him! He is a thousand, thousand miles beneath her. He isn't worth----" "For heaven's sake, Cynthia, don't think that!" "_Think_ it! I _know_ it! Of what value is that sort of man compared to a girl like Jacqueline! Of what use is that sort of man anyway! I know them," she said bitterly, "I've had my lesson in that school. One and all, young and old, rich or poor--_comparatively_ poor--they are the same. The same ideas haunt their idle and selfish minds, the same motives move them, the same impulses rule them, and they reason with their emotions, not with their brains. Arrogant, insolent, condescending, self-centred, self-indulgent, and utterly predatory! That is the type! And they _belong_ where people prey upon one another, not among the clean and sweet and innocent. They belong where there is no question of marriage or of home or of duty; they belong where lights are many and brilliant, where there is money, and plenty of it! Where there is noise, and too much of it! That is where that sort of man belongs. And nobody knows it as well as such a girl as I! Nobody, _nobody_!" Her lip quivered and she choked back the tears. "And--and now--such a man has taken my little friend--my little girl--Jacqueline----" "Do you think he's as rotten as what you say?" "Yes. _Yes!_" "Then--what must you think of me?" She glanced up, blotting her wet lashes with her handkerchief. "What do you mean, Jack?" "I suppose I'm included among the sort of men you have been so graphically describing?" She did not answer. "Am I not included?" She shook her head slightly. "Why not? If your description fits Jim Desboro and Reggie Ledyard, and that set, it must naturally fit me, also." But she shook her head almost imperceptibly. "Why do you exclude me, Cynthia?" But she had nothing to say about him. Long ago--long, long since, she had made excuses for all that he should have been and was not. It was not a matter for discussion; she and her heart had settled it between them without calling in Logic as umpire, and without recourse to Reason for an opinion. "The worst of it is," he said, rising and picking up his hat, "some of your general description does fit me." "I--did not mean it that way----" "But it does fit, Cynthia; doesn't it?" "No." "What!" incredulously. She said in a low voice: "You were very kind to me, Jack; and--not like other men. Do you think I can ever forget that?" He forced a laugh: "Great actresses are expected to forget things. Besides, there isn't anything to remember--except that--we were friends." "_Real_ friends. I know it now. Because the world is full of the other kind. But a _real_ friend does not--destroy. Good-bye." "Shall I see you again?" he asked, troubled. "If you wish. I gave you my address yesterday." "Will you really be at home to me, Cynthia?" "Try," she said, unsmiling. She went to the landing with him. "Will you see that Mr. Desboro comes here as soon as he is--fit?" "Yes." "Very well. I'll tell Jacqueline he was not feeling well and fell asleep at the club. It's one of those lies that may be forgiven--" she shrugged "--but anyway I'll risk it." So he went away, and she watched his departure, standing by the old-time stair-well until she heard the lower door clang. Then, grieved and angry, she seated herself and nervously awaited Jacqueline's reappearance. The girl returned ten minutes later, pale and plainly worried, but carrying it off lightly enough. "Cynthia!" she exclaimed, smilingly. "_Where_ do you suppose that husband of mine can be! He isn't at the station. I boarded the train, but he was not on it! Isn't it odd? I--I don't suppose anything could have happened to him--any accident--because the motor drivers are so reckless----" "You darling thing!" laughed Cynthia. "Your young man is perfectly safe----" "Oh, of course I--I believe so----" "He _is_! He's at his club." "What!" "It's perfectly simple," said Cynthia coolly, "he went there from his office, feeling a bit under the weather----" "Is he _ill_?" "No, no! He was merely tired, I believe. And he stretched out and fell asleep and failed to wake up. That's all." Jacqueline looked at her in relieved astonishment for a moment. "Did he telephone?" "Yes--or rather, Mr. Cairns did----" "Mr. Cairns! Why did Mr. Cairns telephone? Why didn't my husband telephone? Cynthia--look at me!" Cynthia met her eye undaunted. "Why," repeated Jacqueline, "didn't my husband telephone to me? Is he too ill? Is _that_ it? Are you concealing it? _Are_ you, Cynthia?" Cynthia smiled: "He's a casual young man, darling. I believe he's taking a cold plunge or something. He'll probably be here in a few minutes. So I'll say good-night." She picked up her fur neckpiece, glanced at the mirror, fluffed a curl or two, and turned to Jacqueline. "Don't spoil him, ducky," she whispered, putting her hands on the young wife's shoulders and looking her deep in the eyes. Jacqueline flushed painfully. "How do you mean, Cynthia?" The latter said: "There are a million ways of spoiling a man beside giving up to him." "I don't give up to him," said Jacqueline in a colourless voice. Cynthia looked at her gravely: "It's hard to know what to do, dear. When a girl gives up to a man she spoils him sometimes; when she doesn't she sometimes spoils him. It's hard to know what to do--very hard." Jacqueline's gaze grew troubled and remote. "How to love a man wisely--that's a very hard thing for a girl to learn," murmured Cynthia. "But--the main thing--the important thing, is to love him, I think. And I suppose we have to take our chances of spoiling him." "The main thing," said Jacqueline slowly, "is that he should know you _do_ love him; isn't it?" "Yes. But the problem is, how best to show it. And that requires wisdom, dear. And where is a girl to acquire that kind of wisdom? What experience has she? What does she know? Ah, we _don't_ know. There lies the trouble. By instinct, disposition, natural reticence, and training, we are disposed to offer too little, perhaps; But often, in fear that our reticence may not be understood, we offer too much." "I--am afraid of that." "Of offering too much?" "Yes." They stood, thoughtful a moment, not looking at each other. Cynthia said in a low voice: "Be careful of him, ducky. His is not the stronger character. Perhaps he needs more than you give." "What!" "I--I think that perhaps he is not the kind of man to be spoiled by giving. And--it is possible to starve some men by the well-meant kindness of reserve." "All women--modest women--are reserved." "Is a mother's reserve praiseworthy when her child comes to her for intimate companionship--for tenderness perhaps--and puts its little arms around her neck?" Jacqueline stared, then blushed furiously. "Why do you suppose that I am likely to be lacking in sympathy, Cynthia?" "You are not. I know you too well, ducky. But you might easily be exquisitely undemonstrative." "All women--are--undemonstrative." "Not always." "An honest, chaste----" "No." Jacqueline, deeply flushed, began in a low voice: "To discourage the lesser emotions----" "No! To separate them, class them as lesser, makes them so. They are merely atoms in the molecule--a tiny fragment of perfection. To be too conscious of them makes them too important; to accept them with the rest as part of the ensemble is the only way." "Cynthia!" "Yes, dear." "Who has been educating you to talk this way?" "Necessity. There is no real room for ignorance in my profession. So I don't go to parties any more; I try to educate myself. There are cultivated people in the company. They have been very kind to me. And my carelessness in English--my lack of polish--these were not inherited. My father was an educated man, if he was nothing else. You know that. Your father knew it. All I needed was to be awakened. And I am awake." She looked honestly into the honest eyes that met hers, and shook her head. "No self-deception can aid us to lie down to pleasant dreams, Jacqueline. And the most terrible of all deceptions is self-righteousness. Let me know myself, and I can help myself. And I know now how it would be with me if the happiness of marriage ever came to me. I would give--give everything good in me, everything needed--strip myself of my best! Because, dear, we always have more to give than they; and they need it all--all we can give them--every one." After a silence they kissed each other; and, when Cynthia had departed, Jacqueline closed the door and returned to her chair. Seated there in deep and unhappy thought, while the slow minutes passed without him, little by little her uneasiness returned. Eight o'clock rang from her little mantel clock. She started up and went to the window. The street lamps were shining over pavements and sidewalks deserted. Very far in the west she could catch the low roar of Broadway, endless, accentless, monotonous, interrupted only by the whiz of motors on Fifth Avenue. Now and then a wayfarer passed through the silent street below; rarely a taxicab; but neither wayfarer nor vehicle stopped at her door. She did not realise how long she had been standing there, when from behind the mantel clock startled her again, ringing out nine. She came back into the centre of the room, and, hands clasped, stared at the dial. She had not eaten since morning; there had been no opportunity in the press of accumulated business. She felt a trifle faint, mostly from a vague anxiety. She did not wish to call up the club; instinct forbade it; but at a quarter to ten she went to the telephone, and learned that Desboro had gone out between eight and nine. Then she asked for Cairns, and found that he also had gone away. Sick at heart she hung up the receiver, turned aimlessly into the room again, and stood there, staring at the clock. What had happened to her husband? What did it mean? Had she anything to do with his strange conduct? In her deep trouble and perplexity--still bewildered by the terrible hurt she had received--had her aloofness, her sadness, impossible to disguise, wounded him so deeply that he had already turned away from her? She had meant only kindness to him--was seeking only her own convalescence, desperately determined to love and to hold this man. Hadn't he understood it? Could he not give her time to recover? How could he expect more of her--a bride, confronted in the very first hours of her wedded life by her husband's self-avowed mistress! She stood, hesitating, clenching and unclenching her white and slender hands, striving to think, succeeding only in enduring, until endurance itself was rapidly becoming impossible. Why was he hurting her so? Why? _Why?_ Yet, never once was her anger aroused against this man. Somehow, he was not responsible. He was a man as God made him--one in the endless universe of men--the _only_ one in that limitless host existing for her. He was hers--the best of him and the worst. And the worst was to be forgiven and protected, and the best was to thank God for. She knew fear--the anxious solicitude that mothers know, awaiting the return of an errant child. She knew pain--the hurt dismay of a soul, deep wounded by its fellow, feeling a fresher and newer wound with every dragging second. Her servant came, asking in an awed whisper whether her mistress would not eat something. Jacqueline's proud little head went up. "Mr. Desboro has been detained unexpectedly. I will ring for you when he comes." But at midnight she rang, saying that she required nothing further, and that the maid could retire after unhooking her gown. Now, in her loosened chamber-robe, she sat before the dresser combing out the thick, lustrous hair clustering in masses of gold around her white face and shoulders. She scarcely knew what she was about--knew not at all what she was going to do with the rest of the night. Her hair done, she lay back limply in her chintz armchair, haunted eyes fixed on the clock; and, after staring became unendurable, she picked up a book and opened it mechanically. It was Grenville, on Spanish Armour. Suddenly she remembered sitting here before with this same volume on her knees, the rain beating against the windows, a bright fire in the grate--and Fate at her elbow, bending in the firelight beside her as one by one she turned the illuminated pages, only to encounter under every jeweled helmet Desboro's smiling eyes. And, as her fingers crisped on the pages at the memory, it seemed to her at one moment that it had all taken place many, many years ago; and, in the next moment, that it had happened only yesterday. How young she had been then--never having known sorrow except when her father died. And that sorrow was different; there was nothing in it hopeless or terrifying, believing, as she believed, in the soul's survival; nothing to pain, wound, menace her, or to awake in depths unsounded a hell of dreadful apprehension. How young she had been when last she sat here with this well-worn volume on her knees! Nothing of love had she ever known, only the affection of a child for her father. But--now she knew. The torture of every throbbing minute was enlightening her. Her hands, tightly clasped together, rested on the pages of the open book; and she was staring at nothing when, without warning, the doorbell rang. She rose straight up and pressed her left hand to her side, pale lips parted, listening; then she sprang to the door, opened it, pulled the handle controlling the wire which lifted the street-door latch. Far below in the darkness she heard the click, click, click of the latch, the opening and closing of the door, steps across the hall on the stairs, mounting nearer and nearer. And when she knew that it was he she left the door open and returned to her armchair and lay back almost stifled by the beating of her heart. But when the shaft of light across the corridor fell on him and he stood on her threshold, her heart almost stopped beating. His face was drawn and pinched and colourless; his eyes were strange, his very presence seemed curiously unfamiliar--more so still when he forced a smile and bent over her, lifting her limp fingers to his lips. "What has been the matter, Jim?" she tried to say, but her voice almost broke. He closed the door and stood looking around him for a moment. Then, with a glance at her, and with just that shade of deference toward her which he never lost, he seated himself. "The matter is," he said quietly, "that I drank to excess at the club and was not fit to keep my appointment with you." "What!" she said faintly. "That was it, Jacqueline. Cairns did his best for us both. But--I knew it would be for the last time; I knew you would never again have to endure such things from me." "What do you mean?" "Just what I have said, Jacqueline. You won't have it to endure again. But I had to have time to recover my senses and think it out. That is why I didn't come before. So I let Cairns believe I was coming here." "Where did you go?" "To my rooms. I had to face it; I had to think it all over before I came here. I would have telephoned you, but you could not have understood. What time is it?" "Two o'clock." "I'm sorry. I won't keep you long----" "What do you mean? Where are you going?" "To my rooms, I suppose. I merely came here to tell you what is the only thing for us to do. You know it already. I have just realised it." "I don't understand what----" "Oh, yes, you do, Jacqueline. You now have no illusions left concerning me. Nor have I any left concerning what I am and what I have done. Curious," he added very quietly, "that people had to tell me what I am and what I have done to you before I could understand it." "What have you--done--to me?" "Married you. And within that very hour, almost, brought sorrow and shame on you. Oh, the magic mirror has been held up to me to-day, Jacqueline; and in it everything I have done to you since the moment I first saw you has been reflected there in its real colours. "I stepped across the straight, clean pathway of your life, telling myself the lie that I had no intentions of any sort concerning you. And, as time passed, however indefinite my motives, they became at least vaguely sinister. You were aware of this; I pretended not to be. And at last you--you saved me the infamy of self-revelation by speaking as you did. You engaged yourself to marry me. And I let you. And, not daring to let you stand the test which an announcement of our engagement would surely mean, and fearing to lose you, dreading to see you turn against me, I was cowardly enough to marry you as I did, and trust that love and devotion would hold you." He leaned forward in his chair and shook his head. "No use," he said quietly. "Love and devotion never become a coward. Both mean nothing unless based on honesty. And I was dishonest with you. I should have told you I was afraid that what might be said to you about me would alter you toward me. I should have told you that I dared not stand the test. But all I said to you was that it was better for us to marry as we did. And you trusted me." Her pale, fascinated face never moved, nor did her eyes leave his for a second. He sustained her gaze gravely, and with a drawn composure that seemed akin to dignity. "I came here to tell you this," he said, "to admit that I cheated you, cheated the world out of you, robbed you of your independence under false pretenses, married you as I did because I was afraid I'd lose you otherwise. My justification was that I loved you--as though that could excuse anything. Only could I be excused for marrying you if our engagement had been openly announced and you had found it in you to withstand and forgive whatever ill you heard of me. But I did not give you that chance. I married you. And within that very hour you learned something--whatever it was--that changed you utterly toward me, and is threatening to ruin your happiness--to annihilate within you the very joy of living." He shook his head again, slowly. "That won't do, Jacqueline. Happiness is as much your right as is life itself. The world has a right to you, too; because you have lived nobly, and your work has been for the betterment of things. Whoever knows you honours you and loves you. It is such a woman as you who is of importance in the world. Men and women are better for you. You are needed. While I----" He made a quick gesture; his lip trembled, but he smiled. "So," he said, "I have thought it all out--there alone in my rooms to-night. There will be no more trouble, no anxiety for you. I'll step out of your life very quietly, Jacqueline, without any stir or fuss or any inconvenience to you, more than waiting for my continued absence to become flagrant and permanent enough to satisfy the legal requirements. And in a little while you will have your liberty again; the liberty and, very soon, the tranquillity of mind and the happiness out of which I have managed to swindle you." She had been seated motionless, leaning forward in her chair to listen. After a few moments of silence which followed, the constraint of her attitude suddenly weakened her, and she slowly sank back into the depths of her big chair. "And that," she said aloud to herself, "is what he has come here to tell me." "Yes, Jacqueline." She turned her head toward him, her cheek resting flat against the upholstered chintz back. "One thing you have not told me, Jim." "What is that?" he asked in a strained voice. "How I am to live without you." There was a silence. When his self-control seemed assured once more, he said: "Do you mean that the damage I have done is irreparable?" "What you have done cannot be undone. You have made me--love you." Her lip trembled in a pitiful attempt to smile. "Are you, after all, about to send me forth 'between tall avenues of spears, to die?'" "Do you still think you care for such a man as I am?" he said hoarsely. She nodded: "And if you leave me it will be the same, Jim. Wherever you are--living alone or married to another woman--or whether you are living at all, or dead, it will always be the same with me. Love is love. Nothing you say now can alter it. Words--yours or the words of others--merely wound _me_, and do not cripple my love for you. Nor can deeds do so. I know that, now. They can slay only me, not my love, Jim--for I think, with me, it is really and truly immortal." His head dropped between his hands. She saw his body trembling at moments. After a little while she rose, and, stepping to his side, bent over him, letting her hand rest lightly on his hair. "All I ask of you is to be patient," she whispered. "And you don't understand--you don't seem to understand me, dear. I am learning very fast--much faster and more thoroughly than I believed possible. Cynthia was here this evening. She helped me so much. She taught me a great deal--a very great deal. And your goodness--your unselfishness in coming to me this way--with your boyish amends, your unconsidered and impulsive offers of restitution--restitution of single blessedness----" She smiled; and, deep within her breast, a faint thrill stirred her like a far premonition. Timidly, scarcely daring, she ventured by degrees to encircle his head with her arm, letting her cool fingers rest over the tense, and feverish hands that covered his face. "What a boy is this grown man!" she whispered. "What a foolish, emotional, impulsive boy! And such an unhappy one; and _such_ a tired one!" And, once more hesitating, and with infinite precaution, lest he become suddenly too conscious of this new and shy demonstration, she ventured to seat herself on the arm of his chair and bend closer to him. "You must go back to your rooms, dear," she murmured. "It is morning, and we both are in need of sleep, I think. So you must say good-night to me and go back to--to pleasant dreams. And to-morrow we will go to Silverwood for over Sunday. Two whole days together, dear----" Her soft cheek rested against his; her voice died out. Slowly, guided by the most delicate pressure, his head moved toward her shoulder, resisted, fell forward on her breast. For one instant's ecstasy she drew his face against her, tightly, almost fearfully, then sprang to her feet, breathless, blushing from throat to brow, and stepped back. He was on his feet, too, flushed, dazed, moving toward her. She stretched out both hands swiftly. "Good-night, dearest--dearest of men. You have made me happy again. You are making me happier every moment. Only--be patient with me. And it will all come true--what we have dreamed." Her fragrant hands were crushed against his lips, and her heart was beating faster and faster, and she was saying she scarcely knew what. "All will be well with us. _I_ no longer doubt it. _You_ must not. I--I _am_ the girl you desire. I will be, always--always. Only be gentle and patient with me--only that--only that." "How can I take you this way--and keep you--after what I have done?" he stammered. "How can I let your generosity and mercy rob you of what is your due----" "Love is my due, I think. But only you can give it. And if you withhold it, Jim, I am robbed indeed." "Your pity--your sweetness----" "My pity is for myself if you prove unkind." "I? Unkind! Good God----" "Oh! He _is_ good, Jim! And He will be. Never doubt it again. And lie down to pleasant dreams. Will you come for me to-morrow at five?" "Yes." "And never again distrust yourself or me?" He drew a deep, unsteady breath. "Good-night," she whispered. CHAPTER XIX Jacqueline had been half an hour late at her office and the routine business was not yet quite finished when Captain Herrendene was announced at the telephone. "I thought you had sailed!" she exclaimed in surprise, as he greeted her over the wire. He laughed: "I'm ordered to Governor's Island. Jolly, isn't it?" "Fine!" she said cordially. "We shall see you sometimes, I suppose." "I'm asked to the Lindley Hammertons for the week-end. Are you to be at Silverwood by any happy chance?" "Indeed we are. We are going up to-night." "Good business!" he said. "And--may I wish you happiness, Mrs. Desboro? Your husband is a perfectly bully fellow--lots of quality in that young man--loads of reserve and driving force! Tell him I congratulate him with all my heart. You know what I think of _you_!" "It's very sweet of you to speak this way about us," she said. "You may surmise what I think of my husband. So thank you for wishing us happiness. And you will come over with Daisy, won't you? We are going to be at home until Monday." "Indeed I _will_ come!" he said heartily. She hung up the receiver, smiling but a trifle flushed; and in her blue eyes there lingered something resembling tenderness as she turned once more to the pile of typewritten letters awaiting her signature. She had cared a great deal for this man's devotion; and since she had refused him she cared for his friendship even more than before. And, being feminine, capable, and very tender-hearted, she already was experiencing the characteristic and ominous solicitude of her sex for the future consolation and ultimate happiness of this young and unmarried man. Might it not be accomplished through Daisy Hammerton? What could be more suitable, more perfect? Her sensitive lips were edged with a faint smile as she signed her name to the first business letter. It began to look dark for Captain Herrendene. No doubt, somewhere aloft, the cherubim were already giggling. When a nice girl refuses a man, his business with her has only just begun. She continued to sign her letters, the ominous smile always hovering on her upcurled lips. And, pursuing that train of thought, she came, unwittingly, upon another, so impossible, yet so delightful and exciting that every feminine fibre in her responded to the invitation to meddle. She could scarcely wait to begin, so possessed was she by the alluringly hopeless proposition evolved from her inner consciousness; and, as soon as the last letter had been signed, and her stenographer had taken away the correspondence, she flew to the telephone and called up Cynthia Lessler. "Is it you, dear?" she asked excitedly; and Cynthia, at the other end of the wire, caught the happy ring in her voice, for she answered: "You sound very gay this morning. _Are_ you, dear?" "Yes, darling. Tell me, what are you doing over Sunday?" Cynthia hesitated, then she answered calmly: "Mr. Cairns is coming in the morning to take me to the Metropolitan Museum." "What a funny idea!" "Why is it funny? He suggested that we go and look at the Chinese porcelains so that we could listen more intelligently to you." "As though I were accustomed to lecture my friends! How absurd, Cynthia. You can't go. I want you at Silverwood." "Thank you, dear, but I've promised him----" "Then come up on the noon train!" "In the afternoon," explained Cynthia, still more calmly, "Mr. Cairns and I are to read together a new play which has not yet been put in rehearsal." "But, darling! I do want you for Sunday! Why can't you come up for this week-end, and postpone the Museum meanderings? Please ask him to let you off." There was a pause, then Cynthia said in a still, small voice: "Mr. Cairns is here. You may ask him." Cairns came to the telephone and said that he would consult the wishes and the convenience of Miss Lessler. There ensued another pause, ostensibly for consultation, during which Jacqueline experienced a wicked and almost overwhelming desire to laugh. Presently Cynthia called her: "_We_ think," she said with pretty emphasis, "that it would be very jolly to visit you. We can go to the museum any other Sunday, Mr. Cairns says." But the spirit of mischief still possessed Jacqueline, and she refused to respond to the hint. "So you are coming?" she exclaimed with enthusiasm. "If you want _us_, darling." "That's delightful! You know Jim and I haven't had a chance yet to entertain our bridesmaid. We want her to be our very first guest. Thank you so much, darling, for coming. And please say to Mr. Cairns that it is perfectly dear of him to let you off----" "But _he_ is coming, too, isn't he?" exclaimed Cynthia anxiously. "You are asking us both, aren't you. _What_ are you laughing at, you little wretch!" But Jacqueline's laughter died out and she said hastily: "Bring him with you, dear," and turned to confront Mrs. Hammerton, who arrived by appointment and exactly on the minute. The clerk who, under orders, had brought the old lady directly to the office, retired, closing the door behind him. Jacqueline hung up the telephone receiver, rose from her chair and gazed silently at the woman whose letter to her had first shattered her dream of happiness. Then, with a little gesture: "Won't you please be seated?" she said quietly. Aunt Hannah's face was grim as she sat down on the chair indicated. [Illustration: "'You have no further interest in me, have you?'"] "You have no further interest in me, have you?" she demanded. Jacqueline did not answer. "I ought to have come here before," said Aunt Hannah. "I ought to have come here immediately and explained to you that when I wrote that letter I hadn't the vaguest notion that you were already married. Do you think I'd have been such a fool if I'd known it, Jacqueline?" Jacqueline lifted her troubled eyes: "I do not think you should have interfered at all." "Good heavens! I know that! I knew it when I did it. It's the one hopelessly idiotic act of my life. Never, _never_ was anything gained or anything altered by interfering where real love is. I knew it, child. It's an axiom--a perfectly self-evident proposition--an absolutely hopeless effort. But I chanced it. Your mother, if she were alive, would have chanced it. Don't blame me too much; be a little sorry for me. Because I loved you when I did it. And many, many of the most terrible mistakes in life are made because of love, Jacqueline. The mistakes of hate are fewer." Aunt Hannah's folded hands tightened on the gun-metal reticule across her knees. "It's too late to say I'm sorry," she said. "Besides, I'd do it again." "What!" "Yes, I would. So would your mother. I _am_ sorry; but I _would_ do it again! I love you enough to do it again--and--and suffer what I _am_ suffering in consequence." Jacqueline looked at her in angry bewilderment, and the spark in the little black eyes died out. "Child," she said wearily, "we childless women who love are capable of the same self-sacrifice that mothers understand. I wrote you to save you, practically certain that I was giving you up by doing it--and that with every word of warning I was signing my own death warrant in your affections. But I _couldn't_ sit still and let you go to the altar unwarned. Had I cared less for you, yes! I could have let you take your chances undisturbed by me. But--you took them anyway--took them before my warning could do anything except anger you. Otherwise, it would have hurt and angered you, too. I have no illusions; what I said would have availed nothing. Only--it was my duty to say it. I never was crazy about doing my duty. But I did it this time." She found a fresh handkerchief in her reticule and rolled it nervously into a wad. "So--that is all, Jacqueline. I've made a bad mess of it. I've made a far worse one than I supposed possible. You are unhappy. James is perfectly wretched. The boy came to me furious, bewildered, almost exasperated, to find out what had been said about him and who had said it. And--and I told him what I thought of him. I _did_! And when he had gone, I--cried myself sick--_sick_, I tell you. "And that's why I'm here. It has given me courage to come here. I know I am discredited; that what I say will be condemned in advance; that you are too hurt, too hostile to me to be influenced. But--I must say my say before I go out of your life--and his--forever. And what I came to say to you is this. Forgive that boy! Pardon absolutely everything he has done; eliminate it; annihilate the memory of it if you can! Memory _can_ be stunned, if not destroyed. I know; I've had to do it often. So I say to you, begin again with him. Give that boy his chance to grow up to your stature. In all the world I believe you are the only woman who can ennoble him and make of him something fine--if not your peer, at least its masculine equivalent. I do not mean to be bitter. But I cannot help my opinion of things masculine. Forgive him, Jacqueline. Many men are better than he; many, many are worse. But the best among them are not so very much better than your boy Jim. Forgive him and help him to grow up. And--that is all--I think----" She rose and turned sharply away. Jacqueline rose and crossed the room to open the door for her. They met there. Aunt Hannah's ugly little face remained averted while she waited for the open door to free her. "Mr. Desboro and I are going to be happy," said Jacqueline in a strained voice. "It lies with you," snapped Aunt Hannah. "Yes--a great deal seems to lie with me. The burden of decision seems to lie with me very often. Somehow I can't escape it. And I am not wise, not experienced enough----" "You are _good_. That's wisdom enough for decision." "But--do you know--I am _not_ very good." "Why not?" "Because I understand much that is evil. How can real innocence be so unworthily wise?" "Innocence isn't goodness by a long shot!" said Aunt Hannah bluntly. "The good _know_--and refrain." There was a silence; the elder woman in her black gown stood waiting, her head still obstinately averted. Suddenly she felt the girl's soft arms around her neck, quivered, caught her in a fierce embrace. "I--I want you to care for Jim," faltered the girl. "I want you to know what he really is--the dearest and most generous of men. I want you to discover the real nobility in him. He _is_ only a boy, as yet, Aunt Hannah. And he--he must not be--cruelly--punished." When Aunt Hannah had marched out, still inclined to dab at her eyes, but deeply and thankfully happy, Jacqueline called up her husband at his office. "Jim, dear," she said, "I have had a visit from Aunt Hannah. And she's terribly unhappy because she thinks you and I are; so I told her that we are not unhappy, and I scolded her for saying those outrageous things to you. And she took it so meekly, and--and she does really care for us--and--and I've made up with her. Was it disloyal to you to forgive her?" "No," he said quietly. "What she said to me was the truth." "I don't know what she said to you, dear. She didn't tell me. But I gathered from her that it was something intensely disagreeable. So don't ever tell me--because I might begin to dislike her again. And--it wasn't true, anyway. She knows that now. So--we will be friendly to her, won't we?" "Of course. She adores you anyway----" "If she doesn't adore you, too, I won't care for her!" said the girl hotly. He laughed; she could hear him distinctly; and she realised with a little thrill that it was the same engaging laugh which she had first associated with the delightful, graceful, charming young fellow who was now her husband. "What are you doing, Jim?" she asked, smiling in sympathy. "There's absolutely nothing doing in the office, dear." "Then--could you come over here?" "Oh, Jacqueline! Do _you_ tempt me?" "No," she said hastily. "I suppose you ought to be there in the office, whether there's anything to do or not. Listen, Jim. I've invited Cynthia and Jack Cairns for the week-end. Was it all right?" "Of course." "You don't really mind, do you?" "Not a bit, dear." "We can be by ourselves if we wish. They're going to read a play together," she explained naïvely, "and they won't bother us----" She checked herself, blushing furiously. He, at his end of the wire, could scarcely speak for the quick tumult of his heart, but he managed to say calmly enough: "We've got the entire estate to roam over if they bore us." "Will you take me for a walk on Sunday?" "Yes, if you would care to go." "Haven't I invited you to take me?" "Have you really, Jacqueline?" "Yes. Good-bye. I will be waiting for you at five." She returned to her desk, the flush slowly cooling in her cheeks; and she was just resuming her seat when a clerk brought Clydesdale's card. "I could see Mr. Clydesdale now," she said, glancing over the appointment list on her desk. Her smile had died out with the colour in her cheeks, and her beautiful eyes grew serious and stern. For the name that this man bore was associated in her mind with terrible and unspeakable things. Never again could she hear that name with equanimity; never recall it unmoved. Yet, now, she made an effort to put from her all that menaced her composure at the mere mention of that name--strove to think only of the client and kindly amateur who had treated her always with unvarying courtesy and consideration. He came in grinning, as usual, and she took his extended and highly-coloured paw, smiling her greeting. "Is it a little social visit, Mr. Clydesdale, or have you discovered some miracle of ancient Cathay which you covet?" "It's--my wife." Her smile fled and her features altered to an expressionless and colourless mask. For a second there was a gleam of fear in her eyes, then they grew cold and clear and blue as arctic ice. He remained standing, the grin stamped on his sanguine features. Presently he said, heavily: "I have come to you to make what reparation I can--in my wife's name--in her behalf. Our deep humiliation, deeper contrition, are the only reparation we can offer you. It is hard for me to speak. My wife is at home, ill. And she can not rest until she has told you, through me, that--that what she said to you the last time she saw you--here, in this office--was an untruth." Jacqueline, dazed, merely stared at him. He bent his head and seemed to be searching in his mind for words. He found them after a while. "Yes," he said in a low voice, "what my wife said, and what she permitted you to infer--concerning herself and--Mr. Desboro--was utterly untrue. God alone knows why she said it. But she did. I could plead extenuation for her--if your patience permits. She is naturally very nervous; she _did_ care a great deal for Mr. Desboro; she did, at that time, really dislike me," he added with a quiet dignity which made every word he uttered ring out clear as a shot. And Jacqueline seemed to feel their impact on her very heart. He said: "There are other circumstances--painful ones. She had been for months--even years--in fear of blackmail--terrorised by it until she became morbid. I did not know this. I was not aware that an indiscreet but wholly innocent escapade of her youth had furnished this blackmailer with a weapon. I understand now, why, caring as she did for Mr. Desboro, and excited, harassed, terrified, exasperated, she was willing to make an end of it with him rather than face possible disgrace with me for whom she did not care. It is no excuse. She offers none. I offer none for her. Nothing--no mental, no physical state could excuse what she has done. Only--I wish--and she wishes you to know that she has been guilty of permitting you to believe a monstrous untruth which would have consigned her to infamy had it been true, and absolutely damned the man you have married." She strove to comprehend this thing that he was saying--tried to realise that he was absolutely clearing her husband of the terrible and nameless shadow which, she knew now, never could have entirely fled away, except for the mercy of God and the words of humiliation now sounding in her ears. She stared at him. And the terrible thing was that he was grinning still--grinning through all the agony of his shame and dreadful abasement. And she longed to turn away--to shut out his face from her sight. But dared not. "That is all," he said heavily. "Perhaps there is a little more to say--but it will leave you indifferent, very naturally. Yet, may I say that this--this heart-breaking crisis in her life, and--in mine--has--brought us together? And--a little more. My wife is to become a mother. Which is why I venture to hope that you will be merciful to us both in your thoughts. I do not ask for your pardon, which you could never give----" "Mr. Clydesdale!" She had risen, trembling, both little hands flat on the desk top to steady her, and was looking straight at him. [Illustration: "'I--I have never thought mercilessly'"] "I--my thoughts----" she stammered "are not cruel. Say so to your wife. I--I have never thought mercilessly. Every instinct within me is otherwise. And I know what suffering is. And I do not wish it for anybody. Say so to your wife, and that I wish her--happiness--with her baby." She was trembling so that he could scarcely control between his two huge fists the little hand that he saluted in wordless gratitude and grief. Then, without looking at her again, or speaking, he went his way. And she dropped back into her chair, the tears of sheer happiness and excitement flowing unchecked. But she was permitted no time to collect her thoughts, no solitude for happy tears, and, at the clerk's sharp knocking, she dried her eyes hastily and bade him enter. The card he laid on her desk seemed to amaze her. "_That_ man!" she said slowly. "Is he _here_, Mr. Mirk?" "Yes, madam. He asks for one minute only, saying that it is a matter of most desperate importance to you----" "To _me_?" "Yes, madam." Again she looked at Mr. Waudle's card. "Bring him," she said crisply. And the blue lightning flashed in her eyes. When Mr. Waudle came in and the clerk had gone and closed the door, Jacqueline said quietly: "I'll give you one minute, Mr. Waudle. Proceed." "I think," he said, looking at her out of his inflamed eyes, "that you'll feel inclined to give me more than that when you understand what I've got in this packet." And he drew from his overcoat pocket a roll of galley proofs. "What is it?" she asked, looking calmly into his dangerous red eyes. "It's a story, set up and in type--as you see. And it's about your husband and Mrs. Clydesdale--if you want to know." A shaft of fear struck straight through her. Then, in an instant the blanched cheeks flushed and the blue eyes cleared and sparkled. "What is it you wish?" she asked in a curiously still voice. "I'll tell you; don't worry. I want you to stop this man Clydesdale, and stop him short. I don't care how you do it; _do_ it, that's all. He's bought and paid for certain goods delivered to him by me. Now he's squealing. He wants his money back. And--if he gets it back this story goes in. Want me to read it to you?" "No. What is it you wish me to do--deceive Mr. Clydesdale? Make him believe that the remainder of the jades and rose-quartz carvings are genuine?" "It looks good to me," said Mr. Waudle more cheerfully. "It sounds all right. You threw us down; it's up to you to pick us up." "I see," she said pleasantly. "And unless I do you are intending to publish that--story?" "Sure as hell!" he nodded. She remained silent and thoughtful so long that he began to hitch about in his chair and cast furtive, sidelong glances at her and at the curtained walls around the room. Suddenly his face grew ghastly. "Look here!" he whispered hoarsely. "Is this a plant?" "What?" "Is there anybody else in this room?" He lurched to his feet and waddled hastily around the four walls, flinging aside the green velvet curtains. Only the concealed pictures were revealed; and he went back to his chair, removing the cold sweat from his forehead and face with his sleeve. "By God!" he said. "For a moment I thought you had done me good and plenty. But it wouldn't have helped _you_! They've got this story in the office, and the minute I'm pinched, in it goes! Understand?" "No," she said serenely, "but it doesn't really matter. You may go now, Mr. Waudle." "Hey?" "Must I ring for a clerk to put you out?" "Oh! So that's the game, is it? Well, I tell you that you can't bluff me, little lady! Let's settle it now." "No," she said. "I must have time to consider." "How long?" "An hour or two." "You'll make up your mind in two hours?" "Yes." "All right," he said, almost jovially. "That suits me. Call me up on the 'phone and tell me what you decide. My number is on my card." She looked at the card. It bore his telephone number and his house address. He seemed inclined to linger, evidently with the idea of tightening his grip on her by either persuasion or bullying, as her attitude might warrant. But she touched the bell and Mr. Mirk appeared; and the author of "Black Roses" took himself off perforce, with many a knowing leer, both threatening and blandishing. As soon as he had gone, she called up her husband. Very quietly, but guardedly, she conversed with him for a few moments. When she hung up the receiver she was laughing. But it was otherwise with Desboro. "Cairns," he said, turning from the telephone to his associate, "there's a silly fellow bothering my wife. If you don't mind my leaving the office for a few minutes I'll step around and speak to him." His usually agreeable features had grown colourless and ugly, but his voice sounded casual enough. "What are you going to do, Jim? Murder?" Desboro laughed. "I'll be gone only a few minutes," he said. "It _could_ be done in a few minutes," mused Cairns. "Do you want me to go with you?" "No, thanks." He picked up his hat, nodded curtly, and went out. Mr. Waudle and Mr. Munger maintained a "den," literary and otherwise, in one of the new studio buildings just east of Lexington Avenue. This was the address Mr. Waudle had left for Jacqueline; to this destination Desboro now addressed himself. Thither an itinerant taxicab bore him on shaky springs. He paid the predatory chauffeur, turned to enter the building, and met Clydesdale face to face, entering the same doorway. "Hello!" said the latter with a cheerful grin. "Where are you bound?" "Oh, there's a man hereabouts with whom I have a few moments' business." "Same here," observed Clydesdale. They entered the building together, and both walked straight through to the elevator. "Mr. Waudle," said Clydesdale briefly to the youth in charge. "You need not announce me." Desboro looked at him curiously, and caught Clydesdale's eyes furtively measuring him. "Odd," he said pleasantly, "but my business is with the same man." "I was wondering." They exchanged perfectly inexpressive glances. "Couldn't your business wait?" inquired Desboro politely. "Sorry, Desboro, but I was a little ahead of you in the entry, I think." The car stopped. "Studio twenty," said the boy; slammed the gates, and shot down into dimly lighted depths again, leaving the two men together. "I am wondering," mused Clydesdale gently, "whether by any chance your business with this--ah--Mr. Waudle resembles my business with him." They looked at each other. Desboro nodded: "Very probably," he said in a low voice. "Oh! Then perhaps you might care to be present at the business meeting," said Clydesdale, "as a spectator, merely, of course." "Thanks, awfully. But might I not persuade _you_ to remain as a spectator----" "Very good of you, Desboro, but I need the--ah--exercise. Really, I've gone quite stale this winter. Don't even keep up my squash." "Mistake," said Desboro gravely. "'Fraid you'll overdo it, old chap." "Oh, I'll have a shy at it," said Clydesdale cheerfully. "Very glad to have you score, if you like." "If you insist," replied the younger man courteously. There was a bell outside Studio No. 20. Desboro punched it with the ferrule of his walking stick; and when the door opened, somewhat cautiously, Clydesdale inserted his huge foot between the door and the sill. There was a brief and frantic scuffle; then the poet fled, his bunch of frizzled hair on end, and the two men entered the apartment. To the left a big studio loomed, set with artistic furniture and bric-a-brac and Mr. Waudle--the latter in motion. In fact, he was at that moment in the process of rushing at Mr. Clydesdale, and under full head-way. Whenever Mr. Waudle finally obtained sufficient momentum to rush, he appeared to be a rather serious proposition; for he was as tall as Clydesdale and very much fatter, and his initial velocity, combined with his impact force per square inch might have rivalled the dynamic problems of the proving ground. Clydesdale took one step forward to welcome him, and Waudle went down, like thunder. Then he got up, went down immediately; got up, went down, stayed down for an appreciable moment; arose, smote the air, was smitten with a smack so terrific that the poet, who was running round and round the four walls, squeaked in sympathy. Waudle sat up on the floor, his features now an unrecognisable mess. He was crying. "I say, Desboro, catch that poet for me--there's a good chap," said Clydesdale, breathing rather hard. The Cubist, who had been running round and round like a frantic rabbit, screamed and ran the faster. "Oh, just shy some bric-a-brac at him and come home," said Desboro in disgust. But Clydesdale caught him, seated himself, jerked the devotee of the moon across his ponderous knees, and, grinning, hoisted on high the heavy hand of justice. And the post-impressionistic literature of the future shrieked. "Very precious, isn't it?" panted Clydesdale. "You dirty little mop of hair, I think I'll spank _you_ into the future. Want a try at this moon-pup, Desboro? No? Quite right; you don't need the exercise. Whew!" And he rolled the writhing poet off his knees and onto the floor, sat up breathing hard and grinning around him. "Now for the club and a cold plunge--eh, Desboro? I tell you it puts life into a man, doesn't it? Perhaps, while I'm about it, I might as well beat up the other one a little more----" "My God!" blubbered Waudle. "Oh, very well--if you feel that way about it," grinned Clydesdale. "But you understand that you won't have any sensation to feel with at all if you ever again even think of the name of Mrs. Clydesdale." He got up, still panting jovially, pleased as a great Dane puppy who has shaken an old shoe to fragments. At the door he paused and glanced back. "Take it from me," he said genially, "if we ever come back, we'll kill." * * * * * In the street once more, they lingered on the sidewalk for a moment or two before separating. Clydesdale drew off his split and ruined gloves, rolled them together and tossed them into the passing handcart of a street sweeper. "Unpleasant job," he commented. "I don't think you'll have it to do over again," smiled Desboro. "No, I think not. And thank you for yielding so gracefully to me. It was my job. But you didn't miss anything; it was like hitting a feather bed. No sport in it--but had to be done. Well, glad to have seen you again, Desboro." They exchanged grips; both flushed a trifle, hesitated, nodded pleasantly to each other, and separated. At the office Cairns inspected him curiously as he entered, but, as Desboro said nothing, he asked no questions. A client or two sauntered in and out. At one o'clock they lunched together. "I understand you're coming up for the week-end," said Desboro. "Your wife was good enough to ask me." "Glad you're coming. Old Herrendene has been ordered to Governor's Island. He expects to stop with the Lindley Hammertons over Sunday." "That Daisy girl's a corker," remarked Cairns, "--only I've always been rather afraid of her." "She's a fine girl." "Rather in Herrendene's class--lots of character," nodded Cairns thoughtfully. "Having none myself, she always had me backed up against the rail." After a silence, Desboro said: "That was a ghastly break of mine last night." "Rotten," said Cairns bluntly. The painful colour rose to Desboro's temples. "It will be the last, Jack. I lived a thousand years last night." "I lived a few hundred myself," said Cairns reproachfully. "And _what_ a thoroughbred your wife is!" Desboro nodded and drew a deep, unsteady breath. "Well," he said, after a few moments, "it is a terrible thing for a man to learn what he really is. But if he doesn't learn it he's lost." Cairns assented with a jerk of his head. "But who's to hold up the mirror to a man?" he asked. "When his father and mother shove it under his nose he won't look; when clergy or laymen offer him a looking-glass he shuts his eyes and tries to kick them. That's the modern youngster--the product of this modern town with its modern modes of thought." "The old order of things was the best," said Desboro. "Has anybody given us anything better than what they reasoned us into discarding--the old gentleness of manners, the quaint, stiff formalisms now out of date, the shyness and reticence of former days, the serenity, the faith which is now unfashionable, the old-time reverence?" "I don't know," said Cairns, "what we've gained in the discard. I look now at the cards they offer us to take up, and there is nothing on them. And the game has forced us to throw away what we had." He caressed his chin thoughtfully. "The only way to do is to return to first principles, cut a fresh pack, never mind new rules and innovations, but play the game according to the decalogue. And nobody can call you down." He reddened, and added honestly: "That's not entirely my own, Jim. There are some similar lines in a new play which Miss Lessler and I were reading this morning." "Reading? Where?" "Oh, we walked through the Park together rather early--took it easy, you know. She read aloud as we walked." "She is coming for the week-end," said Desboro. "I believe so." Desboro, lighting a cigarette, permitted his very expressionless glance to rest on his friend for the briefest fraction of a second. "The papers," he said, "speak of her work with respect." "Miss Lessler," said Cairns, "is a most unusual girl." Neither men referred to the early days of their acquaintance with Cynthia Lessler. As though by tacit agreement those days seemed to have been entirely forgotten. "A rarely intelligent and lovely comedienne," mused Cairns, poking the cigar ashes on the tray and finally laying aside his cigar. "Well, Jim, I suppose the office yawns for us. But it won't have anything on my yawn when I get there!" They went back across Fifth Avenue in the brilliant afternoon sunshine, to dawdle about the office and fuss away the afternoon in pretense that the awakening of the Street from its long lethargy was imminent. At half past three Cairns took himself off, leaving Desboro studying the sunshine on the ceiling. At five the latter awoke from his day dream, stood up, shook himself, drew a deep breath, and straightened his shoulders. Before him, now delicately blurred and charmingly indistinct, still floated the vision of his day-dream; and, with a slight effort, he could still visualise, as he moved out into the city and through its noise and glitter, south, into that quieter street where his day-dream's vision lived and moved and had her earthly being. Mr. Mirk came smiling and bowing from the dim interior. There was no particular reason for the demonstration, but Desboro shook his hand cordially. "Mrs. Desboro is in her office," said Mr. Mirk. "You know the way, sir--if you please----" He knew the way. It was not likely that he would ever forget the path that he had followed that winter day. At his knock she opened the door herself. "I don't know how I knew it was your knock," she said, giving ground as he entered. There was an expression in his face that made her own brighten, as though perhaps she had not been entirely certain in what humour he might arrive. "The car will be here in a few minutes," he said. "That's a tremendously pretty hat of yours." "Do you like it? I saw it the other day. And somehow I felt extravagant this afternoon and telephoned for it. Do you really like it, Jim?" "It's a beauty." "I'm so glad--so relieved. Sometimes I catch you looking at me, Jim, and I wonder how critical you really are. I _want_ you to like what I wear. You'll always tell me when you don't, won't you?" "No fear of my not agreeing with your taste," he said cheerfully. "By the way--and apropos of nothing--Waudle won't bother you any more." "Oh!" "I believe Clydesdale interviewed him--and the other one--the poet." He laughed. "Afterward there was not enough remaining for me to interview." Jacqueline's serious eyes, intensely blue, were lifted to his. "We won't speak of them again, ever," she said in a low voice. "Right, as always," he rejoined gaily. She still stood looking at him out of grave and beautiful eyes, which seemed strangely shy and tender to him. Then, slowly shaking her head she said, half to herself: "I have much to answer for--more than you must ever know. But I shall answer for it; never fear." "What are you murmuring there all by yourself, Jacqueline?" he said smilingly; and ventured to take her gloved hand into his. She, too, smiled, faintly, and stood silent, pretty head bent, absorbed in her own thoughts. A moment later a clerk tapped and announced their car. She looked up at her husband, and the confused colour in her face responded to the quick pressure of his hands. "Are you quite ready to go?" he asked. "Yes--ready always--to go where--you lead." Her flushed face reflected the emotion in his as they went out together into the last rays of the setting sun. "Have we time to motor to Silverwood?" she asked. "Would you care to?" "I'd love to." So he spoke to the chauffeur and entered the car after her. It was a strange journey for them both, with the memory of their last journey together still so fresh, so pitilessly clear, in their minds. In this car, over this road, beside this man, she had travelled with a breaking heart and a mind haunted by horror unspeakable. To him the memory of that journey was no less terrible. They spoke to each other tranquilly but seriously, and in voices unconsciously lowered. And there were many lapses into stillness--many long intervals of silence. But during the longest of these, when the Westchester hills loomed duskily ahead, she slipped her hand into his and left it there until the lights of Silverwood glimmered low on the hill and the gate lanterns flashed in their eyes as the car swung into the fir-bordered drive and rolled up to the house. "Home," she said, partly to herself; and he turned toward her in quick gratitude. Once more the threatened emotion confused her, but she evaded it, forcing a gaiety not in accord with her mood, as he aided her to descend. "Certainly it's my home, monsieur, as well as yours," she repeated, "and you'll feel the steel under the velvet hand of femininity as soon as I assume the reins of government. For example, you can _not_ entertain your cats and dogs in the red drawing-room any more. Now do you feel the steel?" They went to their sitting-room laughing. About midnight she rose from the sofa. They had been discussing plans for the future, repairs, alterations, improvements for Silverwood House--and how to do many, many wonderful things at vast expense; and how to practice rigid economy and do nothing at all. [Illustration: "And, as she rose, he was still figuring"] It had been agreed that he was to give up his rooms in town and use hers whenever they remained in New York over night. And, as she rose, he was still figuring out, with pencil and pad, how much they would save by this arrangement. Now he looked up, saw her standing, and rose too. She looked at him with sweet, sleepy, humourous eyes. "Isn't it disgraceful and absurd?" she said. "But if I don't have my sleep I simply become stupid and dreary and useless beyond words." "Why did you let me keep you up?" he said gently. "Because I wanted to stay up with you," she said. She had moved to the centre table where the white carnations, as usual, filled the bowl. Her slender hand touched them caressingly, lingered, and presently detached a blossom. She lifted it dreamily, inhaling the fragrance and looking over its scented chalice at him. "Good-night, Jim," she said. "Good-night, dearest." He came over to her, hesitated, reddening; then bent and kissed her hand and the white flower it held. At her own door she lingered, turning to look after him as he crossed his threshold; then slowly entered her room, her lips resting on the blossom which he had kissed. CHAPTER XX On Saturday afternoon Cynthia arrived at Silverwood House, with Cairns in tow; and they were welcomed under the trees by their host and hostess. Which was all very delightful until Cynthia and Jacqueline paired off with each other and disappeared, calmly abandoning Cairns and Desboro to their own devices, leaving them to gaze at each other in the library with bored and increasing indifference. "You know, Jim," explained the former, in unfeigned disgust, "I have quite enough of you every day, and I haven't come sixty miles to see more of you." "I sympathise with your sentiments," said Desboro, laughing, "but Miss Lessler has never before seen the place, and, of course, Jacqueline is dying to show it to her. And, Jack--did you _ever_ see two more engaging young girls than the two who have just deserted us? Really, partiality aside, does any house in town contain two more dignified, intelligent, charming----" "No, it doesn't!" said Cairns bluntly. "Nor any two women more upright and chaste. It's a fine text, isn't it, though?" he added morosely. "How do you mean?" "That their goodness is due to their characters, not to environment or to any material advantages. Has it ever occurred to you how doubly disgraceful it is for people, with every chance in the world, not to make good?" "Yes." "It has to me frequently of late. And I wonder what I'd have turned into, given Cynthia's worldly chances." He shook his head, muttering to himself: "It's fine, _fine_--to be what she is after what she has had to stack up against!" Desboro winced. Presently he said in a low voice: "The worst she had to encounter were men of our sort. That's a truth we can't blink. It wasn't loneliness or poverty or hunger that were dangerous; it was men." "Don't," said Cairns, rising impatiently and striding about the room. "I know all about _that_. But it's over, God be praised. And I'm seeing things differently now--very, very differently. You are, too, I take it. So, for the love of Mike, let's be pleasant about it. I hate gloom. Can't a fellow regenerate himself and remain cheerful?" Desboro laughed uncertainly, listening to the gay voices on the stairs, where Jacqueline and Cynthia were garrulously exploring the house together. * * * * * "Darling, it's too lovely!" exclaimed Cynthia, every few minutes, while Jacqueline was conducting her from one room to another, upstairs, down again, through the hall and corridor, accompanied by an adoring multitude of low-born dogs and nondescript cats, all running beside her with tails stuck upright. And so, very happily together, they visited the kitchen, laundry, storeroom, drying room, engine room, cellars; made the fragrant tour of the greenhouses and a less fragrant visit to the garage; inspected the water supply; gingerly traversed the gravel paths of the kitchen garden, peeped into tool houses, carpenters' quarters; gravely surveyed compost heaps, manure pits, and cold frames. Jacqueline pointed out the distant farm, with its barns, stables, dairy, and chicken runs, from the lantern of the windmill, whither they had climbed; and Cynthia looked out over the rolling country to the blue hills edging the Hudson, and down into gray woodlands where patches of fire signalled the swelling maple buds; and edging willows were palely green. Over brown earth and new grass robins were running; and bluebirds fluttered from tree to fencepost. Cynthia's arm stole around Jacqueline's waist. "I am so glad for you--so glad, so proud," she whispered. "Do you remember, once, long ago, I prophesied this for you? That you would one day take your proper place in the world?" "Do you know," mused Jacqueline, "I don't really believe that the _place_ matters so much--as long as one is all right. That sounds horribly priggish--but isn't it so, Cynthia?" "Few ever attain that self-sufficient philosophy," said Cynthia, laughing. "You can spoil a gem by cheap setting." "But it remains a gem. Oh, Cynthia! _Am_ I such a prig as I sound?" They were both laughing so gaily that the flock of pigeons on the roof were startled into flight and swung around them in whimpering circles. As they started to descend the steep stairs, Jacqueline said casually: "Do you continue to find Mr. Cairns as agreeable and interesting as ever?" "Oh, yes," nodded the girl carelessly. "Jim likes him immensely." "He is a very pleasant companion," said Cynthia. When they were strolling toward the house, she added: "He thinks you are very wonderful, Jacqueline. But then everybody does." The girl blushed: "The only thing wonderful about me is my happiness," she said. Cynthia looked up into her eyes. "_Are_ you?" "Happy? Of course." "Is that quite true, dear?" "Yes," said Jacqueline under her breath. "And--there is no flaw?" "None--now." Cynthia impulsively caught up one of her hands and kissed it. In the library they found beside their deserted swains two visitors, Daisy Hammerton and Captain Herrendene. "Fine treatment!" protested Cairns, looking at Cynthia, as Jacqueline came forward with charming friendliness and greeted her guests and made Cynthia known to them. "Fine treatment!" he repeated scornfully, "--leaving Jim and me to yawn at each other until Daisy and the Captain yonder----" "Jack," interrupted his pretty hostess, "if you push that button somebody will bring tea." "Twice means that Scotch is to be included," remarked Desboro. "You didn't know that, did you, dear?" "The only thing I know about your house, monsieur, is that your cats and dogs must _not_ pervade the red drawing-room," she said laughing. "_Look_ at Captain Herrendene's beautiful cutaway coat! It's all covered with fur and puppy hair! And now _he_ can't go into the drawing-room, either!" Cairns looked ruefully at a black and white cat which had jumped onto his knees and was purring herself to sleep there. "If enough of 'em climb on me I'll have a motor coat for next winter," he said with resignation. Tea was served; the chatter and laughter became general. Daisy Hammerton, always enamoured of literature, and secretly addicted to its creation, spoke of Orrin Munger's new volume which Herrendene had been reading to her that morning under the trees. "Such a queer book," she said, turning to Jacqueline, "--and I'm not yet quite certain whether it's silly or profound. Captain Herrendene makes fun of it--but it seems as though there _must_ be _some_ meaning in it." "There isn't," said Herrendene. "It consists of a wad of verse, blank, inverted, and symbolic. Carbolic is what it requires." "Isn't that the moon-youth who writes over the heads of the public and far ahead of 'em into the next century?" inquired Cairns. "When an author," said Herrendene, "thinks he is writing ahead of his readers, the chances are that he hasn't yet caught up with them." The only flaw in Daisy Hammerton's good sense was a mistaken respect for printed pages. She said, reverently: "When a poet like Orrin Munger refers to himself as a Cubist and a Futurist, it _must_ have some occult significance. Besides, he went about a good deal last winter, and I met him." "What did you think of him?" asked Desboro drily. "I scarcely knew. He _is_ odd. He kissed everybody's hand and spoke with such obscurity about his work--referred to it in such veiled terms that, somehow, it all seemed a wonderful mystery to me." Desboro smiled: "The man who is preëminent in his profession," he said quietly, "never makes a mystery of it. He may be too tired to talk about it, too saturated with it, after the day's work, to discuss it; but never fool enough to pretend that there is anything occult in it or in the success he has made of it. Only incompetency is self-conscious and secretive; only the ass strikes attitudes." Jacqueline looked at him with pride unutterable. She thought as he did. He smiled at her, encouraged, and went on: "The complacent tickler of phrases, the pseudo-intellectual scrambler after subtleties that do not exist, the smirking creators of the tortuous, the writhing explorers of the obvious, who pretend to find depths where there are shallows, the unusual where only the commonplace and wholesome exist--these will always parody real effort, and ape real talent in all creative professions, and do more damage than mere ignorance or even mere viciousness could ever accomplish. And, to my mind, that is all there is and all there ever will be to men like Munger." Daisy laughed and looked at Herrendene. "Then I've wasted your morning!" she said, pretending contrition. He looked her straight in the eye. "I hadn't thought of it that way," he said pleasantly. Cairns, tired of feigning an interest in matters literary, tinkled the ice in his glass and looked appealingly at Cynthia. And his eyes said very plainly: "Shall we go for a walk?" But she only smiled, affecting not to understand; and the discussion of things literary continued. It was very pleasant there in the house; late sunshine slanted across the hall; a springlike breeze fluttered the curtains, and the evening song of the robins had begun, ringing cheerily among the Norway spruces and over the fresh green lawns. "It's a shame to sit indoors on a day like this," said Desboro lazily. Everybody agreed, but nobody stirred, except Cairns, who fidgeted and looked at Cynthia. Perhaps that maiden's heart softened, for she rose presently, and drifted off into the music room. Cairns followed. The others listened to her piano playing, conversing, too, at intervals, until Daisy gave the signal to go, and Herrendene rose. So the adieux were said, and a wood ramble for the morrow suggested. Then Daisy and her Captain went away across the fields on foot, and Cynthia returned to the piano, Cairns following at heel, as usual. Jacqueline and Desboro, lingering by the open door, saw the distant hills turn to purest cobalt, and the girdling woodlands clothe themselves in purple haze. Dusk came stealing across the meadows, and her frail ghosts floated already over the alder-hidden brook. A near robin sang loudly. A star came out between naked branches and looked at them. "How still the world has grown," breathed Jacqueline. "Except for its silence, night with all its beauties would be unendurable." "I believe we both need quiet," he said. "Yes, quiet--and each other." Her voice had fallen so exquisitely low that he bent his head to catch her words. But when he understood what she had said, he turned and looked at her; and, still gazing on the coming night, she leaned a little nearer to him, resting her cheek lightly against his shoulder. "That is what we need," she whispered, "--silence, and each other. Don't you think so, Jim?" "I need _you_--your love and faith and--forgiveness," he said huskily. "You have them all. Now give me yours, Jim." "I give you all--except forgiveness. I have nothing to forgive." "You dear boy--you don't know--you will never know how much you have to forgive me. But if I told you, I know you'd do it. So--let it rest--forgotten forever. How fragrant the night is growing! And I can hear the brook at intervals when the wind changes--very far away--very far--as far as fairyland--as far as the abode of the Maker of Moons." "Who was he, dear?" "Yu Lao. It's Chinese--and remote--lost in mystery eternal--where the white soul of her abides who went forth 'between tall avenues of spears, to die.' And that is where all things go at last, Jim--even the world and the moon and stars--all things--even love--returning to the source of all." His arm had fallen around her waist. Presently, in the dusk, he felt her cool, fresh hand seeking for his, drawing his arm imperceptibly closer. In the unlighted music room Cynthia's piano was silent. Presently Jacqueline's cheek touched his, rested against it. "I never knew I could feel so safe," she murmured. "I am--absolutely--contented." "Do you love me?" "Yes." "You have no fear of me now?" "No. But don't kiss me--yet," she whispered, tightening his arm around her. He laughed softly: "Your Royal Shyness is so wonderful--so wonderful--so worshipful and adorable! When may I kiss you?" "When--we are alone." "Will you respond--when we are alone?" But she only pressed her flushed cheek against his shoulder, clinging there in silence, eyes closed. A few seconds later they started guiltily apart, as Cairns came striding excitedly out of the darkness: "I'm going to get married! I'm going to get married!" he repeated breathlessly. "I've asked her, but she is crying! Isn't it wonderful! Isn't it wonderful! Isn't it won----" "_You!_" exclaimed Jacqueline, "and Cynthia! The _darling_!" "I _said_ she was one! I called her that, too!" said Cairns, excitedly. "And she began to cry. So I came out here--and I _think_ she's going to accept me in a minute or two! Isn't it wonderful! Isn't it won----" "You lunatic!" cried Desboro, seizing and shaking him, "--you incoherent idiot! If that girl is in there crying all alone, _what_ are you doing out here?" "I don't know," said Cairns vacantly. "I don't know what I'm doing. All this is too wonderful for me. I thought she knew me too well to care for me. But she only began to cry. And I am going----" He bolted back into the dark music room. Desboro and Jacqueline gazed at each other. "That man is mad!" snapped her husband. "But--I believe she means to take him. Don't you?" "Why--I suppose so," she managed to answer, stifling a violent inclination to laugh. They listened shamelessly. They stood there for a long while, listening. And at last two shadowy figures appeared coming toward them very slowly. One walked quietly into Jacqueline's arms; the other attempted it with Desboro, and was repulsed. "You're not French, you know," said the master of the house, shaking hands with him viciously. "Never did I see such a blooming idiot as you can be--but if Cynthia can stand you, I'll have to try." Jacqueline whispered: "Cynthia and I want to be alone for a little while. Take him away, Jim." So Desboro lugged off the happy but demoralised suitor and planted him in a library chair vigorously. "Now," he said, "how about it? Has she accepted you?" "She hasn't said a word yet. I've done nothing but talk and she's done nothing but listen. It knocked me galley west, too. But it happened before I realised it. She was playing on the piano, and suddenly I knew that I wanted to marry her. And I said 'You darling!' And she grew white and began to cry." "Did you ask her to marry you?" "About a thousand times." "Didn't she say anything?" "Not a word." "That's odd," said Desboro, troubled. A few minutes later the clock struck. "Come on, anyway," he said, "we've scarcely time to dress." In his room later, tying his tie, Cairns' uncertainty clouded his own happiness a little; and when he emerged to wait in the sitting-room for Jacqueline, he was still worrying over it. When Jacqueline opened her door and saw his perplexed and anxious face, she came forward in her pretty dinner gown, startled, wondering. "What is it, Jim?" she asked, her heart, still sensitive from the old, healed wounds, sinking again in spite of her. "I'm worried about that girl----" "_What_ girl!" "Cynthia----" "Oh! _That!_ Jim, you frightened me!" She laid one hand on her heart for a moment, breathed deeply her relief, then looked at him and laughed. "Silly! Of course she loves him." "Jack says that she didn't utter a word----" "She uttered several to me. Rather foolish ones, Jim--about her life's business--the stage--and love. As though love and the business of life were incompatible! Anyway, she'd choose him." "Is she going to accept him?" "Of course she is. I--I don't mean it in criticism--and I love Cynthia--but I think she is a trifle temperamental--as well as being the dearest, sweetest girl in the world----" She took his arm with a pretty confidence of ownership that secretly thrilled him, and they went down stairs together, she talking all the while. "Didn't I tell you?" she whispered, as they caught a glimpse of the library in passing, where Cairns stood holding Cynthia's hands between his own and kissing them. "Wait, Jim, darling! You mustn't interrupt them----" "I'm going to!" he said, exasperated. "I want to know what they're going to do----" "Jim!" "Oh, all right, dear. Only they gave me a good scare when I wanted to be alone with you." She pressed his arm slightly: "You haven't noticed my gown." "It's a dream!" He kissed her shoulder lace, and she flushed and caught his arm, then laughed, disconcerted by her own shyness. Farris presented himself with a tray of cocktails. "Jack! Come on!" called Desboro; and, as that gentleman sauntered into view with Cynthia on his arm, something in the girl's delicious and abashed beauty convinced her host. He stretched out his hand; she took it, looking at him out of confused but sincere eyes. "Is it all right to wish you happiness, Cynthia?" "It is quite all right--thank you." "And to drink this H. P. W. to your health and happiness?" "That," she said laughingly, "is far more serious. But--you may do so, please." The ceremony ended, Desboro said to Jacqueline, deprecatingly: "This promises to be a jolly, but a rather noisy, dinner. Do you mind?" And it was both--an exceedingly jolly and unusually noisy dinner for four. Jacqueline and Cynthia both consented to taste the champagne in honour of this occasion only; then set aside their glasses, inflexible in their prejudice. Which boded well for everybody concerned, especially to two young men to whom any countenance of that sort might ultimately have proved no kindness. And Jacqueline was as wise as she was beautiful; and Cynthia's intuition matched her youthful loveliness, making logic superfluous. Feeling desperately frivolous after coffee, they lugged out an old-time card table and played an old-time game of cards--piquet--gambling so recklessly that Desboro lost several cents to Cairns before the evening was over, and Jacqueline felt that she had been dreadfully and rather delightfully imprudent. Then midnight sounded from the distant stable clock, and every timepiece in the house echoed the far Westminster chimes. Good-nights were said; Jacqueline went away with Cynthia to the latter's room; Desboro accompanied Cairns, and endured the latter's rhapsodies as long as he could, ultimately escaping. In their sitting-room Jacqueline was standing beside the bowl of white carnations, looking down at them. When he entered she did not raise her head until he took her into his arms. Then she looked up into his eyes and lifted her face. And for the first time her warm lips responded to his kiss. She trembled a little as he held her, and laid her cheek against his breast, both hands resting on his shoulders. After a while he was aware that her heart was beating as though she were frightened. "Dearest," he whispered. There was no answer. "Dearest?" He could feel her trembling. After a long while he said, very gently: "Come back and say good-night to me when you are ready, dear." And quietly released her. And she went away slowly to her room, not looking at him. And did not return. So at one o'clock he turned off the lights and went into his own room. It was bright with moonlight. On his dresser lay a white carnation and a key. But he did not see them. Far away in the woods he heard the stream rushing, bank full, through the darkness, and he listened as he moved about in the moonlight. Tranquil, he looked out at the night for a moment, then quietly composed himself to slumber, not doubting, serene, happy, convinced that her love was his. For a long while he thought of her; and, thinking, dreamed of her at last--so vividly that into his vision stole the perfume of her hair and the faint fresh scent of her hands, as when he had kissed the slender fingers. And the warmth of her, too, seemed real, and the sweetness of her breath. His eyes unclosed. She lay there, in her frail Chinese robe, curled up beside him in the moonlight, her splendid hair framing a face as pale as the flower that had fallen from her half-closed hand. And at first he thought she was asleep. Then, in the moonlight, her eyes opened divinely, met his, lingered unafraid, and were slowly veiled again. Neither stirred until, at last, her arms stole up around his neck and her lips whispered his name as though it were a holy name, loved, honoured, and adored. THE END