wayside courtships by hamlin garland author of a spoil of office, a little norsk, etc. new york d. appleton and company m dccc xcvii ----------------------------------------------------------------------- copyright, , by d. appleton and company copyright, , , , by hamlin garland ----------------------------------------------------------------------- wayside courtships ----------------------------------------------------------------------- hamlin garland's books. uniform edition. each, mo, cloth, $ . . wayside courtships. jason edwards. a spoil of office. a member of the third house. a little norsk. mo. cents. d. appleton & company, new york. ----------------------------------------------------------------------- the meeting of true lovers' eyes seems wrought of chance; and yet perhaps the same grim law abides therein as when the dead one lies low in the grave, and memory chides, and with hot tears love's lids are wet. ----------------------------------------------------------------------- contents. page at the beginning a preacher's love story a meeting in the foothills a stop-over at tyre an alien in the pines the owner of the mill farm of those who seek: i.--the prisoned soul ii.--a sheltered one iii.--a fair exile iv.--the passing stranger before the low green door upon impulse the end of love is love of love ----------------------------------------------------------------------- at the beginning. she was in the box; he was far above in the gallery. he looked down and across and saw her sitting there fair as a flower and robed like a royal courtesan in flame and snow. like a red torch flamed the ruby in her hair. her shoulders were framed in her cloak, white as marble warmed with firelight. her gloved hands held an opera glass which also glowed with flashing light. his face grew dark and stern. he looked down at his poor coat and around at the motley gallery which reeked with the smell of tobacco and liquor. students were there--poor like himself, but with great music-loving, hungry, ambitious souls. men and women of refinement and indomitable will sat side by side with drunken loafers who had chanced to stumble up the stairway. his eyes went back to her. so sweet and dainty was every thread on her fair body. no smell of toil, nor touch of care, nor mark of weariness. her flesh was ivory, her eyes were jewels, her heart was as clean and sweet as her eyes. she was perfectly clothed, protected, at ease. no, not at ease. she seemed restless. again and again she swept her glass around the lower balcony. the man in the gallery knew she was looking for him, and he took a bitter delight in the distance between them. he waited, calm as a lion in his power. the man at her elbow talks on. she does not hear. she is still looking--a little swifter, a little more anxiously--her red lips ready to droop in disappointment. the noise of feet, of falling seats, continues. boys call shrilly. ushers dart hastily to and fro. the soft laughter and hum of talk come up from below. she has reached the second balcony. she sweeps it hurriedly. her companion raises his eyes to the same balcony and laughs as he speaks. she colors a little, but smiles as she lifts her eyes to the third balcony. suddenly the glass stops. the color surges up her neck, splashing her cheeks with red. her breath stops also for a moment, then returns quick and strong. her smile settles into a curious contraction that is almost painful to see. his unsmiling eyes are looking somberly, sternly, accusingly into hers. they are charged with all the bitterness and hate and disappointed ambition which social injustice and inequality had wrought into his soul. she shivered and dropped her glass. shivered and drew her fleecy, pink and pale-blue cloak closer about her bare neck. her face grew timid, almost appealing, as she turned it upward toward him like a flower, to be kissed across the height that divided him from her. his heart swelled with exultation. his face softened. from the height of his intellectual pride he bent his head and sent a winged caress fluttering down upon that flowerlike face. and then the stealing harmony of the violins began, gliding like mist above the shuddering, tumultuous, obscure thunder of the drums, and the man's soul swept across that sea of song with the heart of a lion and the wings of an eagle. a tender, musing smile was on the woman's lips. ----------------------------------------------------------------------- wayside courtships a preacher's love story. i. the train drew out of the great van buren street depot at . of a dark day in late october. a tall young man, with a timid look in his eyes, was almost the last one to get on, and his pale face wore a worried look as he dropped into an empty seat and peered out at the squalid buildings reeling past in the mist. the buildings grew smaller, and vacant lots appeared stretching away in flat spaces, broken here and there by ridges of ugly squat little tenement blocks. over this landscape vast banners of smoke streamed, magnified by the misty rain which was driven in from the lake. at last there came a swell of land clothed on with trees. it was still light enough to see they were burr oaks, and the young student's heart thrilled at sight of them. his forehead smoothed out, and his eyes grew tender with boyish memories. he was seated thus, with head leaning against the pane, when another young man came down the aisle from the smoking car and took a seat beside him with a pleasant word. he was a handsome young fellow of twenty-three or four. his face was large and beardless, and he had beautiful teeth. he had a bold and keen look, in spite of the bang of yellow hair which hung over his forehead. some commonplaces passed between them, and then silence fell on each. the conductor coming through the car, the smooth-faced young fellow put up a card to be punched, and the student handed up a ticket, simply saying, "kesota." after a decent pause the younger man said "going to kesota, are you?" "yes." "so am i. i live there, in fact." "do you? then perhaps you can tell me the name of your county superintendent. i'm looking for a school." he smiled frankly. "i'm just out of jackson university, and----" "that so? i'm an ann arbor man myself." they took a moment for mutual warming up. "yes, i know the superintendent. why not come right up to my boarding place, and to-morrow i'll introduce you? looking for a school, eh? what kind of a school?" "oh, a village school, or even a country school. it's too late to get a good place; but i've been sick, and----" "yes, the good positions are all snapped up; still, you might by accident hit on something. i know mott; he'll do all he can for you. by the way, my name's allen." the young student understood this hint and spoke. "mine is stacey." the younger man mused a few minutes, as if he had forgotten his new acquaintance. suddenly he roused up. "say, would you take a country school several miles out?" "i think i would, if nothing better offered." "well, out in my neighborhood they're without a teacher. it's six miles out, and it isn't a lovely neighborhood. however, they will pay fifty dollars a month; that's ten dollars extra for the scrimmages. they wanted me to teach this winter--my sister teaches it in summer--but, great peter! i can't waste my time teaching school, when i can run up to chicago and take a shy at the pit and make a whole term's wages in thirty minutes." "i don't understand," said stacey. "wheat exchange. i've got a lot of friends in the pit, and i can come in any time on a little deal. i'm no jim keene, but i hope to get cash enough to handle five thousand. i wanted the old gent to start me up in it, but he said, 'nix come arouse.' fact is, i dropped the money he gave me to go through college with." he smiled at stacey's disapproving look. "yes, indeedy; there's where the jar came into our tender relations. oh, i call on the governor--always when i've got a wad. i have fun with him." he smiled brightly. "ask him if he don't need a little cash to pay for hog-killin', or something like that." he laughed again. "no, i didn't graduate at ann arbor. funny how things go, ain't it? i was on my way back the third year, when i stopped in to see the pit--it's one o' the sights of chicago, you know--and billy krans saw me looking over the rail. i went in, won, and then took a flyer on december. come a big slump, and i failed to materialize at school." "what did you do then?" asked stacey, to whom this did not seem humorous. "i wrote a contrite letter to the governor, stating case, requesting forgiveness--and money. no go! couldn't raise neither. i then wrote casting him off. 'you are no longer father of mine.'" he smiled again radiantly. "you should have seen me the next time i went home! plug hat! imported suit! gold watch! diamond shirt-stud! cost me $ to paralyze the general, but i did it. my glory absolutely turned him white as a sheet. i knew what he thought, so i said: 'perfectly legitimate, dad. the walls of joliet are not gaping for me.' that about half fetched him--calling him _dad_, i mean--but he can't get reconciled to my business. 'too many ups and downs,' he says. fact is, he thinks it's gambling, and i don't argue the case with him. i'm on my way home now to stay over sunday." the train whistled, and allen looked out into the darkness. "we're coming to the crossing. now, i can't go up to the boarding place when you do, but i'll give you directions, and you tell the landlady i sent you, and it'll be all right. allen, you remember--herman allen." following directions, stacey came at length to a two-story frame house situated on the edge of the bank, with its back to the river. it stood alone, with vacant lots all about. a pleasant-faced woman answered the ring. he explained briefly. "how do you do? i'm a teacher, and i'd like to get board here a few days while passing my examinations. mr. herman allen sent me." the woman's quick eye and ear were satisfied. "all right. walk in, sir. i'm pretty full, but i expect i can accommodate you--if you don't mind mr. allen for a roommate." "oh, not at all," he said, while taking off his coat. "come right in this way. supper will be ready soon." he went into a comfortable sitting room, where a huge open fire of soft coal was blazing magnificently. the walls were papered in florid patterns, and several enlarged portraits were on the walls. the fire was the really great adornment; all else was cheap, and some of it was tawdry. stacey spread his thin hands to the blaze, while the landlady sat down a moment, out of politeness, to chat, scanning him keenly. she was a handsome woman, strong, well rounded, about forty years of age, with quick gray eyes and a clean, firm-lipped mouth. "did you just get in?" "yes. i've been on the road all day," he said, on an impulse of communication. "indeed, i'm just out of college." "is that so?" exclaimed mrs. mills, stopping her rocking in an access of interest. "what college?" "jackson university. i've been sick, and only came west----" there came a look into her face that transformed and transfigured her. "_my_ boy was in ann arbor. he was killed on the train on his way home one day." she stopped, for fear of breaking into a quaver, and smiled brightly. "that's why i always like college boys. they all stop here with me." she rose hastily. "well, you'll excuse me, won't you, and i'll go an' 'tend to supper." there was a great deal that was feminine in stacey, and he felt at once the pathos of the woman's life. he looked a refined, studious, rather delicate young man, as he sat low in his chair and observed the light and heat of the fire. his large head looked to be full of learning, and his dark eyes were deep with religious fervor. several young women entered, and the room was filled with clatter of tongues. herman came in a few moments later, his face in a girlish glow of color. everybody rushed at him with loud outcry. he was evidently a great favorite. he threw his arms about mrs. mills, giving her a hearty hug. the girls pretended to be shocked when he reached out for them, but they were not afraid of him. they hung on his arms and besieged him with questions till he cried out, in jolly perplexity: "girls, girls! this will never do." mrs. mills brushed out his damp yellow curls with her hands. "you're all wet." "girls, if you'll let me sit down, i'll take one on each knee," he said, pleadingly, and they released him. stacey grew red with sympathetic embarrassment, and shrank away into a corner. "go get supper ready," commanded herman. and it was only after they left that he said to stacey: "oh, you found your way all right. i didn't see you--those confounded girls bother me so." he took a seat by the fire and surveyed his wet shoes. "i took a run up to mott's house--only a half block out o' the way. he said they'd be tickled to have you at cyene. by the way, you're a theolog, aren't you?" wallace nodded, and herman went on: "so i told mott. he said you might work up a society out there at cyene." "is there a church there?" "used to be, but--say, i tell you what you do: you go out with me to-morrow, and i'll give you the whole history." the ringing of the bell took them out into the cheerful dining room in a good-natured scramble. mrs. mills put stacey at one end of the table, near a young woman who looked like a teacher, and he had full sweep of the table, which was surrounded by bright and sunny faces. the station hand was there, and a couple of grocery clerks, and a brakeman sat at stacey's right hand. the table was very merry. they called each other by their christian names, and there was very obvious courtship on the part of several young couples. stacey escaped from the table as soon as possible, and returned to his seat beside the fire. he was young enough to enjoy the chatter of the girls, but his timidity made him glad they paid so little attention to him. the rain had changed to sleet outside, and hammered at the window viciously, but the blazing fire and the romping young people set it at defiance. the landlady came to the door of the dining room, dish and cloth in hand, to share in each outburst of laughter, and not infrequently the hired girl peered over her shoulder with a broad smile on her face. a little later, having finished their work, they both came in and took active part in the light-hearted fun. herman and one of the girls were having a great struggle over some trifle he had snatched from her hand, and the rest stood about laughing to see her desperate attempts to recover it. this was a familiar form of courtship in kesota, and an evening filled with such romping was considered a "cracking good time." after the girl, red and disheveled, had given up, herman sat down at the organ, and they all sang moody and sankey hymns, negro melodies, and college songs till nine o'clock. then mrs. mills called, "come, now, boys and girls," and they all said good night, like obedient children. herman and wallace went up to their bedroom together. "say, stacey, have you got a policy?" wallace shook his head. "and don't want any, i suppose. well, i just asked you as a matter of form. you see," he went on, winking at wallace comically, "nominally i'm an insurance agent, but practically i'm a 'lamb'--but i get a mouthful o' fur myself occasionally. what i'm working for is to get on that wheat exchange. that's where you get life! i'd rather be an established broker in that howling mob than go to congress." suddenly a thought struck him. he rose on his elbow in bed and looked at wallace just as he rose from a silent prayer. catching his eye, herman said: "say! why didn't you shout? i forgot all about it--i mean your profession." wallace crept into bed beside his communicative bedfellow in silence. he didn't know how to deal with such spirits. "say!" called herman suddenly, as they were about to go to sleep, "you ain't got no picnic, old man." "why, what do you mean?" "wait till you see cyene church. oh, it's a daisy snarl." "i wish you'd tell me about it." "oh, it's quiet now. the calmness of death," said herman. "well, you see, it came this way. the church is made up of baptists and methodists, and the methodists wanted an organ, because, you understand, father was the head center, and mattie is the only girl among the methodists who can play. the old man has got a head like a mule. he can't be switched off, once he makes up his mind. deacon marsden he don't believe in anything above tuning forks, and he's tighter'n the bark on a bulldog. he stood out like a sore thumb, and dad wouldn't give an inch. "you see, they held meetings every other sunday. so dad worked up the organ business and got one, and then locked it up when the baptists held their services. well, it went from bad to worse. they didn't speak as they passed by--that is, the old folks; we young folks didn't care a continental whether school kept or not. well, upshot is, the church died out. the wind blew the horse sheds down, and there they lie--and the church is standing there empty as an--old boot--and----" he grew too sleepy to finish. suddenly a comical idea roused him again. "say, stacey--by jinks!--are you a baptist?" "yes." "oh, peter! ain't that lovely?" he chuckled shamelessly, and went off to sleep without another word. ii. herman was still sleeping when stacey rose and dressed and went down to breakfast. mrs. mills defended herman against the charge of laziness: "he's probably been out late all the week." stacey found mott in the county courthouse, and a perfunctory examination soon put him in possession of a certificate. there was no question of his attainments. herman met him at dinner-time. "well, elder, i'm going down to get a rig to go out home in. it's colder'n a blue whetstone, so put on all the clothes you've got. gimme your check, and i'll get your traps. have you seen mott?" "yes." "well, then, everything's all fixed." he turned up about three o'clock, seated on the spring seat of a lumber wagon beside a woman, who drove the powerful team. whether she was young or old could not be told through her wraps. she wore a cap and a thick, faded cloak. mrs. mills hurried to the door. "why, mattie allen! what you doin' out such a day as this? come in here instanter!" "can't stop," called a clear, boyish voice. "too late." "well, land o' stars!--you'll freeze." when wallace reached the wagon side, herman said, "my sister, stacey." the girl slipped her strong brown hand out of her huge glove and gave him a friendly grip. "get right in," she said. "herman, you're going to stand up behind." herman appealed to mrs. mills for sympathy. "this is what comes of having plebeian connections." "oh, dry up," laughed the girl, "or i'll make you drive." stacey scrambled in awkwardly beside her. she was not at all embarrassed, apparently. "tuck yourself in tight. it's mighty cold on the prairie." "why didn't you come down with the baroosh?" grumbled herman. "well, the corn was contracted for, and father wasn't able to come--he had another attack of neuralgia last night after he got the corn loaded--so i had to come." "sha'n't i drive for you?" asked wallace. "no, thank you. you'll have all you can do to keep from freezing." she looked at his thin coat and worn gloves with keen eyes. he could see only her pink cheeks, strong nose, and dark, smiling eyes. it was one of those terrible illinois days when the temperature drops suddenly to zero, and the churned mud of the highways hardens into a sort of scoriac rock, which cripples the horses and sends the heavy wagons booming and thundering along like mad things. the wind was keen and terrible as a saw-bladed sword, and smote incessantly. the desolate sky was one thick, impenetrable mass of swiftly flying clouds. when they swung out upon the long pike leading due north, wallace drew his breath with a gasp, and bent his head to the wind. "pretty strong, isn't it?" shouted mattie. "oh, the farmer's life is the life for me, tra-la!" sang herman, from his shelter behind the seat. mattie turned. "what do you think of _penelope_ this month?" "she's a-gitten there," said herman, pounding his shoe heels. "she's too smart for young corey. she ought to marry a man like bromfield. my! wouldn't they talk?" "did y' get the second bundle of magazines last saturday?" "yes; and dad found something in the _popular science_ that made him mad, and he burned it." "did 'e? tum-la-la! oh, the farmer's life for me!" "are you cold?" she asked wallace. he turned a purple face upon her. "no--not much." "i guess you better slip right down under the blankets," she advised. the wind blew gray out of the north--a wild blast which stopped the young student's blood in his veins. he hated to give up, but he could no longer hold the blankets up over his knees, so he slipped down into the corner of the box, with his back to the wind, with the blankets drawn over his head. the powerful girl slapped the reins down on the backs of the snorting horses, and encouraged them with shouts like a man: "get out o' this, dan! hup there, nellie!" the wagon boomed and rattled. the floor of the box seemed beaten with a maul. the glimpses wallace had of the land appalled him, it was so flat and gray and bare. the houses seemed poor, and drain-pipe scattered about told how wet it all was. herman sang at the top of his voice, and danced, and pounded his feet against the wagon box. "this ends it! if i can't come home without freezing to death, i don't come. i should have hired a rig, irrespective of you----" the girl laughed. "oh, you're getting thin-blooded, herman. life in the city has taken the starch all out of you." "better grow limp in a great city than freeze stiff in the country," he replied. an hour's ride brought them into a yard before a large gray-white frame house. herman sprang out to meet a tall old man with head muffled up. "hello, dad! take the team. we're just naturally froze solid--at least i am. this is mr. stacey, the new teacher." "how de do? run in; i'll take the horses." herman and wallace stumbled toward the house, stiff and bent. herman flung his arms about a tall woman in the kitchen door. "hello, muz!" he said. "this is mr. stacey, the new teacher." "draw up to the fire, sir. herman, take his hat and coat." mattie came in soon with a boyish rush. she was gleeful as a happy babe. she unwound the scarf from her head and neck, and hung up her cap and cloak like a man, but she gave her hair a little touch of feminine care, and came forward with both palms pressed to her burning cheeks. "did you suffer, child?" asked mrs. allen. "no; i enjoyed it." herman looked at stacey. "i believe on my life she did." "oh, it's fun. i don't get a chance to do anything so exciting very often." herman clicked his tongue. "exciting? well, well!" "you must remember things are slower here," mattie explained. she came to light much younger than stacey thought her. she was not eighteen, but her supple and splendid figure was fully matured. her hair hung down her back in a braid, which gave a subtle touch of childishness to her. "sis, you're still a-growin'," herman said, as he put his arm around her waist and looked up at her. she seemed to realize for the first time that stacey was a young man, and her eyes fell. "well, now, set up the chairs, child," said mrs. allen. when the young teacher returned from his cold spare room off the parlor the family sat waiting for him. they all drew up noisily, and allen said: "ask the blessing, sir?" wallace said grace. as allen passed the potatoes he continued: "my son tells me you are a minister of the gospel." "i have studied for it." "what denomination?" "tut, tut!" warned herman. "don't start any theological rabbits to-night, dad. with jaw swelled up you won't be able to hold your own." "i'm a baptist," stacey answered. the old man's face grew grim. it had been ludicrous before with its swollen jaw. "baptist?" the old man turned to his son, whose smile angered him. "didn't you know no more'n to bring a baptist preacher into this house?" "there, there, father!" began the wife. "be quiet. i'm boss of this shanty." herman struck in: "don't make a show of yourself, old man. don't mind the old gent, stacey; he's mumpy to-day, anyhow." stacey rose. "i guess i--i'd better not stay--i----" "oh, no, no! sit down, stacey. it's all right. the old man's a little acid at me. he doesn't mean it." stacey got his coat and hat. his heart was swollen with indignation. he felt as if something fine were lost to him, and the cold outside was so desolate now. mrs. allen was in tears; but the old man, having taken his stand, was going to keep it. herman lost his temper a little. "well, dad, you're a little the cussedest christian i ever knew. stacey, sit down. don't you be a fool just because he is----" stacey was buttoning his coat with trembling hands, when martha went up to him. "don't go," she said. "father's sick and cross. he'll be sorry for this to-morrow." wallace looked into her frank, kindly eyes and hesitated. herman said: "dad, you are a lovely follower of christ. you'll apologize for this, or i'll never set foot on your threshold again." stacey still hesitated. he was hurt and angry, but being naturally a sweet and gentle nature, he grew sad, and, yielding to the pressure of the girl's hand on his arm, he began to unbutton his overcoat. she helped him off with it, and hung it back on the nail. she did not show tears, but her face was unwontedly grave. they sat at the table again, and herman and mattie tried to restore something of the brightness which had been lost. allen sat grimly eating, his chin pushed down like a hog's snout. after supper, as his father was about retiring to his bedroom, herman fixed his bright eyes on him, and something very hard and masterful came into his boyish face. "old man--you and i haven't had a settlement on this thing yet. i'll see you later." allen shrank before his son's look, but shuffled sullenly off without uttering a word. herman turned to wallace. "stacey, i want to beg your pardon for getting you into this scrape. i didn't suppose the old gentleman would act like that. the older he gets, the more his new hampshire granite shows. i hope you won't lay it up against me." wallace was too conscientious to say he didn't mind it, but he took herman's hand in a quick clasp. "let's have a song," proposed herman. "music hath charms to soothe the savage breast, to charm a rock, and split a cabbage." they went into the best room, where a fire was blazing, and mattie and herman sang hymns and old-fashioned love songs and college glees wonderfully intermingled. they ended by singing "lorena," a wailing, supersentimental love song current in war times, and when they looked around there was a lofty look on the face of the young preacher--a look of exaltation, of consecration and resolve. iii. the next morning, at breakfast, herman said, as he seized a hot biscuit, "we'll dispense with grace this morning, and till after the war is over." but wallace blessed his bread in a silent prayer, and mattie thought it very brave of him to do so. herman was full of mockery. "the sun rises just the same, whether it's 'sprinkling' or 'immersion.' it's lucky nature don't take a hand in these theological contests--she doesn't even referee the scrap. she never seems to care whether you are sparring for points or fighting to a finish. what you theologic middle-weights are really fighting for i can't see--and i don't care, till you fall over the ropes on to my corns." stacey listened in a daze to herman's tirade. he knew it was addressed to allen, and that it deprecated war, and that it was mocking. the fresh face and smiling lips of the young girl seemed to put herman's voice very far away. it was such a beautiful thing to sit at table with a lovely girl. after breakfast he put on his cap and coat and went out into the clear, cold november air. all about him the prairie extended, marked with farmhouses and lined with leafless hedges. artificial groves surrounded each homestead, relieving the desolateness of the fields. down the road he saw the spire of a small white church, and he walked briskly toward it, herman's description in his mind. as he came near he saw the ruined sheds, the rotting porch, and the windows boarded up, and his face grew sad. he tried one of the doors, and found it open. some tramp had broken the lock. the inside was even more desolate than the outside. it was littered with rotting straw and plum stones and melon seeds. obscene words were scrawled on the walls, and even on the pulpit itself. taken altogether it was an appalling picture to the young servant of the man of galilee, a blunt reminder of the ferocity and depravity of man. as he pondered the fire burned, and there rose again the flame of his resolution. he lifted his face and prayed that he might be the one to bring these people into the living union of the church of christ. his blood set toward his heart with tremulous action. his eyes glowed with zeal like that of the middle ages. he saw the people united once more in this desecrated hall. he heard the bells ringing, the sound of song, the smile of peaceful old faces, and voices of love and fellowship filling the anterooms where hate now scrawled hideous blasphemy against woman and against god. as he sat there herman came in, his keen eyes seeking out every stain and evidence of vandalism. "cheerful prospect--isn't it?" wallace looked up with the blaze of his resolution still in his eyes. his pale face was sweet and solemn. "oh, how these people need christ!" herman turned away. "they need killing--about two dozen of 'em. i'd like to have the job of indicating which ones; i wouldn't miss the old man, you bet!" he said, with blasphemous audacity. wallace was helpless in the face of such reckless thought, and so sat looking at the handsome young fellow as he walked about. "well, now, stacey, i guess you'll need to move. i had another session with the old man, but he won't give in, so i'm off for chicago. mother's brother, george chapman, who lives about as near the schoolhouse on the other side, will take you in. i guess we'd better go right down now and see about it. i've said good-by to the old man--for good this time; we didn't shake hands either," he said, as they walked down the road together. he was very stern and hard. something of the father was hidden under his laughing exterior. stacey regretted deeply the necessity which drove him out of allen's house. mrs. allen and mattie had appealed to him very strongly. for years he had lived far from young women, and there was a magical power in the intimate home actions of this young girl. her bare head, with simple arrangement of hair, someway seemed the most beautiful thing he had ever seen. he thought of her as he sat at the table with george and his aged mother. they lived alone, and their lives were curiously silent. once in a while a low-voiced question, and that was all. george read the _popular science_, _harper's monthly magazine_, and the _open court_, and brooded over them with slow intellectual movement. it was wonderful the amount of information he secreted from these periodicals. he was better informed than many college graduates. he had little curiosity about the young stranger. he understood he was to teach the school, and he did not go further in inquiry. he tried wallace once or twice on the latest discoveries of john fiske and edison, and then gave him up and retired to his seat beside the sitting-room stove. on the following monday morning school began, and as wallace took his way down the lane the wrecked church came again to his eyes. he walked past it with slow feet. his was a deeply religious nature, one that sorrowed easily over sin. suffering of the poor did not trouble him; hunger seemed a little thing beside losing one's everlasting soul. therefore to come from his studies upon such a monument of human depravity as this rotting church was to receive a shock and to hear a call to action. approaching the schoolhouse, his thought took a turn toward the scholars and toward mattie. he had forgotten to ask her if she intended to be one of his pupils. there were several children already gathered at the schoolhouse door as he came up. it was all very american--the boxlike house of white, the slender teacher approaching, the roughly clad urchins waiting. he said, "good morning, scholars." they chorused a queer croak in reply--hesitating, inarticulate, shy. he unlocked the door and entered the cold, bare room--familiar, unlovely, with a certain power of primitive associations. in such a room he had studied his primer and his ray's arithmetic. in such a room he had made gradual recession from the smallest front seat to the back wall seat; and from one side of such a room to the other he had furtively worshiped a graceful girlish head. he allowed himself but a moment of such dreaming, and then he assumed command, and with his ready helpers a fire was soon started. other children came in, timorous as rabbits, slipping by with one eye fixed on him like scared chickens. they pre-empted their seats by putting down books and slates, and there arose sly wars for possession, which he felt in curious amusement--it was so like his own life at that age. he assumed command as nearly in the manner of the old-time teachers as he could recall, and the work of his teaching was begun. the day passed quickly, and as he walked homeward again there stood that rotting church, and in his mind there rose a surging emotion larger than he could himself comprehend--a desire to rebuild it by uniting the warring factions, of whose lack of christianity it was fatal witness. iv. now this mystical thing happened. as this son of a line of preachers brooded on this unlovely strife among men, he lost the equipoise of the scholar and student of modern history. he grew narrower and more intense. the burden of his responsibility as a preacher of christ grew daily more insupportable. toward the end of the week he announced preaching in the schoolhouse on sunday afternoon, and at the hour set he found the room crowded with people of all ages and sorts. his heart grew heavy as he looked out over the room on women nursing querulous children, on the grizzled faces of grim-looking men, who studied him with keen, unsympathetic eyes. he had hard, unfriendly material to work with. there were but few of the opposite camp present, while the baptist leaders were all there, with more curiosity than sympathy in their faces. they exulted to think the next preacher to come among them as an evangelist should be a baptist. after the singing, which would have dribbled away into failure but for mattie, wallace rose, looking very white and weak, and began his prayer. some of the boys laughed when his voice stuck in his throat, but he went on to the end of an earnest supplication, feeling he had not touched them at all. while they sang again, he sat looking down at them with dry throat and staring eyes. they seemed so hard, so unchristianlike. what could he say to them? he saw mattie looking at him, and on the front seat sat three beautiful little girls huddled together with hands clasped; they were inexpressibly dainty by contrast. as he looked at them the thought came to him, what is the goodness of a girl--of a child? it is not partisan--it is not of creeds, of articles--it is goodness of thought, of deeds. his face lighted up with the inward feeling of this idea, and he rose resolutely. "friends, with the help of christ i am come among you to do you good. i shall hold meetings each night here in the schoolhouse until we can unite and rebuild the church again. let me say now, friends, that i was educated a baptist. my father was a faithful worker in the baptist church, and so was his father before him. i was educated in a baptist college, and i came here hoping to build up a baptist church." he paused. "but i see my mistake. i am here to build up a church of christ, of good deeds and charity and peace, and so i here say i am no longer a baptist or methodist. i am only a preacher, and i will not rest until i rebuild the church which stands rotting away there." his voice rang with intellectual determination as he uttered those words. the people listened. there was no movement now. even the babies seemed to feel the need of being silent. when he began again it was to describe that hideous wreck. he delineated the falling plaster, the litter around the pulpit, the profanation of the walls. "it is a symbol of your sinful hearts," he cried. much more he said, carried out of himself by his passion. it was as if the repentant spirit of his denominational fathers were speaking through him; and yet he was not so impassioned that he did not see, or at least feel, the eyes of the strong young girl fixed upon him; his resolution he spoke looking at her, and a swift response seemed to leap from her eyes. when it was over, some of the methodists and one of the baptists came up to shake hands with him, awkwardly wordless, and the pressure of their hands helped him. many of the baptist brethren slipped outside to discuss the matter. some were indignant, others much more moved. allen went by him with an audible grunt of derision, and there was a dark scowl on his face, but mattie smiled at him, with tears still in her eyes. she had been touched by his vibrant voice; she had no sins to repent of. the skeptics of the neighborhood were quite generally sympathetic. "you've struck the right trail now, parson," said chapman, as they walked homeward together. "the days of the old-time denominationalism are about played out." but the young preacher was not so sure of it--now that his inspiration was gone. he remembered his debt to his college, to his father, to the denomination, and it was not easy to set aside the grip of such memories. he sat late revolving the whole situation in his mind. when he went to bed it was still with him, and involved itself with his dreams; but always the young girl smiled upon him with sympathetic eyes and told him to go on--or so it seemed to him. he was silent at breakfast. he went to school with a feeling that a return to teaching little tow-heads to count and spell was now impossible. he sat in his scarred and dingy desk, while they took their places, and his eyes had a passionate intensity of prayer in them which awed the pupils. he had assumed new grandeur and terror in their eyes. when they were seated he bowed his head and uttered a short plea for grace, and then he looked at them again. on the low front seat, with dangling legs and red round faces, sat the little ones. someway he could not call them to his knees and teach them to spell; he felt as if he ought to call them to him, as christ did, to teach them love and reverence. it was impossible that they should not be touched by this hideous neighborhood of hate and strife. behind them sat the older children, some of them with rough, hard, sly faces. some grinned rudely and nudged each other. the older girls sat with bated breath; they perceived something strange in the air. most of them had heard his sermon the night before. at last he broke silence. "children, there is something i must say to you this morning. i'm going to have meeting here to-night, and it may be i shall not be your teacher any more--i mean in school. i wish you'd go home to-day and tell your people to come to church here to-night. i wish you'd all come yourselves. i want you to be good. i want you to love god and be good. i want you to go home and tell your people the teacher can't teach you here till he has taught the older people to be kind and generous. you may put your books away, and school will be dismissed." the wondering children obeyed--some with glad promptness, others with sadness, for they had already come to like their teacher very much. as he sat by the door and watched them file out, it was as if he were a king abdicating a throne, and these his faithful subjects. it was the most momentous hour of his life. he had set his face toward dark waters. mrs. allen came over with mattie to see him that day. she was a good woman, gentle and prayerful, and she said, with much emotion: "o mr. stacey, i do hope you can patch things up here. if you could only touch his heart! he don't mean to do wrong, but he's so set in his ways--if he says a thing he sticks to it." stacey turned to mattie for a word of encouragement, but she only looked away. it was impossible for her to put into words her feeling in the matter, which was more of admiration for his courage than for any part of his religious zeal. he was so different from other men. it seemed he had a touch of divinity in him now. it did him good to have them come, and he repeated his vow: "by the grace of our lord, i am going to rebuild the cyene church," and his face paled and his eyes grew luminous. the girl shivered with a sort of awe. he seemed to recede from her as he spoke, and to grow larger, too. such nobility of purpose was new and splendid to her. * * * * * the revival was wondrously dramatic. the little schoolhouse was crowded to the doors night by night. the reek of stable-stained coats and boots, the smell of strong tobacco, the effluvia of many breaths, the heat, the closeness, were forgotten in the fervor of the young evangelist's utterances. his voice took on wild emotional cadences without his conscious effort, and these cadences sounded deep places in the heart. to these people, long unused to religious oratory, it was like the return of john and isaiah. it was poetry and the drama, and processions and apocalyptic visions. he had the histrionic spell, too, and his slender body lifted and dilated, and his head took on majesty and power, and the fling of his white hand was a challenge and an appeal. a series of stirring events took place on the third night. on wednesday jacob turner rose and asked the prayers of his neighbors, and was followed by two baptist spearmen of the front rank. on thursday the women all were weeping on each other's bosoms; only one or two of the men held out--old deacon allen and his antagonist, stewart marsden. grim-visaged old figures they were, placed among repentant men and weeping women. they sat like rocks in the rush of the two factions moving toward each other for peaceful union. granitic, narrow, keen of thrust, they seemed unmoved, while all around them one by one skeptics acknowledged the pathos and dignity of the preacher's views of life and death. meanwhile the young evangelist lived at high pressure. he grew thinner and whiter each night. he toiled in the daytime to formulate his thoughts for the evening. he could not sleep till far toward morning. the food he ate did him little good, while his heart went out constantly to his people in strenuous supplication. it was testimony of his human quality that he never for one moment lost that shining girl face out of his thought. he looked for it there night after night. it was his inspiration in speaking, as at the first. on the nights when mattie was not there his speech was labored (as the elders noticed), but on the blessed nights when she came and sang, her voice, amid all the rest, came to him, and uttered poetry and peace like a rill of cool sweet water. and afterward, when he walked home under the stars, his mind went with her, she was so strong and lithe and good to see. he did not realize the worshiping attitude the girl took before divine duties. at last the great day came--the great night. in some way, perhaps by the growing mass of rushing emotion set in action by some deep-going phrase, or perhaps by some interior slow weakening of stubborn will, deacon allen gave way; and when the preacher called for penitents, the old man struggled to his feet, his seamed, weather-beaten face full of grotesque movement. he broke out: "brethren, pray for me; i'm a miserable sinner. i want to confess my sins--here--before ye all." he broke into sobbing terrible to hear. "my heart is made--flesh again--by the blessed power of christ ..." he struggled to get his voice. one or two cried, "praise god!" but most of them sat silent, awed into immobility. the old man walked up the aisle. "i've been rebellious--and now i want to shake hands with you all--and i ask your prayers." he bent down and thrust his hand to marsden, his enemy, while the tears streamed down his face. marsden turned white with a sort of fear, but he rose awkwardly and grasped the outstretched hand, and at the touch of palms every soul rose as if by electric shock. "amens!" burst forth. the preacher began a fervent prayer, and came down toward the grizzled, weeping old men, and they all embraced, while some old lady with sweet quavering voice raised a triumphal hymn, in which all joined, and found grateful relief from their emotional tension. allen turned to mattie and his wife. "my boy--send for him--herman." it seemed as if the people could not go away. the dingy little schoolhouse was like unto the shining temple of god's grace, and the regenerated seemed to fear that to go home might become a return to hate and strife. so they clung around the young preacher and would not let him go. at last he came out with allen holding to his arm. "you must come home with us to-night," he pleaded, and the young minister with glad heart consented, for he hoped he might walk beside mattie; but this was not possible. there were several others in the group, and they moved off two and two up the deep hollows which formed the road in the snow. the young minister walked with head uplifted to the stars, hearing nothing of the low murmur of talk, conscious only of his great plans, his happy heart, and the strong young girl who walked before him. in the warm kitchen into which they came he lost something of his spiritual tension, and became more humanly aware of the significance of sitting again with these people. he gave the girl his coat and hat, and then watched her slip off her knitted hood and her cloak. her eyes shone with returning laughter, and her cheeks were flushed with blood. looking upon her, the young evangelist lost his look of exaltation, his eyes grew soft and his limbs relaxed. his silence was no longer rapt--it was the silence of delicious, drowsy reverie. v. the next morning he did not rise at all. the collapse had come. the bad air, the nervous strain, the lack of sleep, had worn down his slender store of strength, and when the great victory came he fell like a tree whose trunk has been slowly gnawed across by teeth of silent saw. his drowse deepened into torpor. in the bright winter morning, seated in a gay cutter behind a bay colt strung with slashing bells, mattie drove to kesota for the doctor. she felt the discord between the joyous jangle of the bells, the stream of sunlight, and the sparkle of snow crystals, but it only added to the poignancy of her anxiety. she had not yet reached self-consciousness in her regard for the young preacher--she thought of him as a noble human being liable to death, and she chirped again and again to the flying colt, whose broad hoofs flung the snow in stinging showers against her face. a call at the doctor's house set him jogging out along the lanes, while she sent a telegram to herman. as she whirled bay tom into the road to go home, her heart rose in relief that was almost exaltation. she loved horses. she always sang under her breath, chiming to the beat of their bells, when alone, and now she loosened the rein and hummed an old love song, while the powerful young horse squared away in a trot which was twelve miles an hour--_click_, click-_click_, click-_clangle_, lang-_lingle_, ling. in such air, in such sun, who could die? her good animal strength rose dominant over fear of death. she came upon the doctor swinging along in his old blue cutter, dozing in country-doctor style, making up for lost sleep. "out o' the way, doctor!" she gleefully called. the doctor roused up and looked around with a smile. he was not beyond admiring such a girl as that. he snapped his whip-lash lightly on old sofia's back, who looked up surprised, and, seeming to comprehend matters, began to reach out broad, flat, thin legs in a pace which the proud colt respected. she came of illustrious line, did sofia, scant-haired and ungracious as she now was. "don't run over me," called the doctor, ironically, and with sofia still leading they swung into the yard. mattie went in with the doctor, while allen looked after both horses. they found chapman attending wallace--who lay in a dazed quiet--conscious, but not definitely aware of material things. the doctor looked his patient over carefully. then he asked, "who is the yoong mon?" "he's been teaching here, or rather preaching." "when did this coom on?" "last night. wound up a big revival last night, i believe. kind o' caved in, i reckon." "that's all. needs rest. he'll be wearin' a wood jacket if he doosna leave off preachin'." "regular jamboree. i couldn't stop him. one of these periodical neighborhood 'awakenings,' they call it." "they have need of it here, na doot." "well, they need something--love for god--or man." "m--well! it's lettle i can do. the wumman can do more, if the mon'll be eatin' what they cuke for 'im," said the candid old scotchman. "mak' 'im eat. mak' 'im eat." once more tom pounded along the shining road to kesota to meet the six-o'clock train from chicago. herman, magnificently clothed in fur-lined ulster and cap, alighted with unusually grave face and hurried toward mattie. "well, what is it, sis? mother sick?" "no; it's the teacher. he is unconscious. i've been for the doctor. oh, we were scared!" he looked relieved, but a little chagrined. "oh, well, i don't see why i should be yanked out of my boots by a telegram because the teacher is sick! he isn't kin--yet." for the first time a feeling of shame and confusion swept over mattie, and her face flushed. herman's keen eyes half closed as he looked into her face. "mat--what--what! now look here--how's this? where's ben holly's claim?" "he never had any." she shifted ground quickly. "o herman, we had a wonderful time last night! father and uncle marsden shook hands----" "what?" shouted herman, as he fell in a limp mass against the cutter. "bring a physician--i'm stricken." "don't act so! everybody's looking." "they'd better look. i'm drowning while they wait." she untied the horse and came back. "climb in there and stop your fooling, and i'll tell you all about it." he crawled in with tearing groans of mock agony, and then leaned his head against her shoulder. "well, go on, sis; i can bear it now." she nudged him to make him sit up. "well, you know we've had a revival." "so you wrote. must have been a screamer to fetch dad and old marsden. a regular pentecost of shinar." "it was--i mean it was beautiful. i saw father was getting stirred up. he prayed almost all day yesterday, and at night--well, i can't tell you, but wallace talked, oh, so beautiful and tender." "she calls him wallace?" mused herman, like a comedian. "hush! and then came the hand-shaking, and then the minister came home with us, because father asked him to." "well, well! i supposed _you_ must have asked him." the girl was hurt, and she showed it. "if you make fun, i won't tell you another word," she said. "away chicago! enter cyene! well, come, i won't fool any more." "then after wallace--i mean----" "let it stand. come to the murder." "then father came and asked me to send for you, and mother cried, and so did he. and, oh, hermie, he's so sweet and kind! don't make fun of him, will you? it's splendid to have him give in, and everybody feels glad that the district will be all friendly again." herman did not gibe again. his voice was gentle. the pathos in the scene appealed to him. "so the old man sent for me himself, did he?" "yes; he could hardly wait till morning. but this morning, when we came to call the teacher, he didn't answer, and father went in and found him unconscious. then i went for the doctor." bay tom whirled along in the splendid dusk, his nostrils flaring ghostly banners of steam on the cold crisp air. the stars overhead were points of green and blue and crimson light, low-hung, changing each moment. their influence entered the soul of the mocking young fellow. he felt very solemn, almost melancholy, for a moment. "well, sis, i've got something to tell you all. i'm going to tell it to you by degrees. i'm going to be married." "oh!" she gasped, with quick, indrawn breath. "who?" "don't be ungrammatical, whatever you do. she's a cashier in a restaurant, and she's a fine girl," he added steadily, as if combating a prejudice. he forgot for the moment that such prejudices did not exist in cyene. sis was instantly tender, and very, very serious. "of course she is, or you wouldn't care for her. oh, i'd like to see her!" "i'll take you up some day and show her to you." "oh, will you? oh, when can i go?" she was smit into gravity again. "not till the teacher is well." herman pretended to be angry. "dog take the teacher, the old spindle-legs! if i'd known he was going to raise such a ruction in our quiet and peaceful neighborhood, i never would have brought him here." mattie did not laugh; she pondered. she never quite understood her brother when he went off on those queer tirades, which might be a joke or an insult. he had grown away from her in his city life. they rode on in silence the rest of the way, except now and then an additional question from mattie concerning his sweetheart. as they neared the farmhouse she lost interest in all else but the condition of the young minister. they could see the light burning dimly in his room, and in the parlor and kitchen as well, and this unusual lighting stirred the careless young man deeply. it was associated in his mind with death and birth, and also with great joy. the house was lighted so the night his elder brother died, and it looked so to him when he whirled into the yard with the doctor when mattie was born. "oh, i hope he isn't worse!" said the girl, with deep feeling. herman put his arm about her, and she knew he knew. "so do i, sis." allen came to the door as they drove in, and the careless boy realized suddenly the emotional tension his father was in. as the old man came to the sleigh-side he could not speak. his fingers trembled as he took the outstretched hand of his boy. herman's voice shook a little: "well, dad, mattie says the war is over." the old man tried to speak, but only coughed and then he blew his nose. at last he said, brokenly: "go right in; your mother's waitin'." it was singularly dramatic to the youth. to come from the careless, superficial life of his city companions into contact with such primeval passions as these, made him feel like a spectator at some new and powerful and tragic play. his mother fell upon his neck and cried, while mattie stood by pale and anxious. inside the parlor could be heard the mumble of men's voices. in such wise do death and the fear of death fall upon country homes. all day the house had swarmed with people. all day this mother had looked forward to the reconciliation of her husband with her son. all day had the pale and silent minister of god kept his corpselike calm, while all about the white snow gleamed, and radiant shadows filled every hollow, and the cattle bawled and frisked in the barn-yard, and the fowls cackled joyously, while the mild soft wind breathed warmly over the land. mattie cried out to her mother in quick, low voice, "o mother, how is he?" "he ain't no worse. the doctor says there ain't no immediate danger." the girl brought her hands together girlishly, and said: "oh, i'm so glad. is he awake?" "no; he's asleep." "is the doctor still here?" "yes." "i guess i'll step in," said herman. the doctor and george chapman sat beside the hard-coal heater, talking in low voices. the old doctor was permitting himself the luxury of a story of pioneer life. he rose with automatic courtesy, and shook hands with herman. "how's the sick man getting on?" "vera well--vera well--consederin' the mon is a complete worn-out--that's all--naethin' more. thes floom-a-didale bezniss of rantin' away on the fear o' the laird for sax weeks wull have worn out the frame of a bool-dawg." herman and chapman smiled. "i hope you'll tell him that." "na fear, yoong mon," said the grim old warrior. "weel, now ai'll juist be takin' anither look at him." herman went in with the doctor, and stood looking on while the old man peered and felt about. he came out soon, and leaving a few directions with herman and chapman, took his departure. everything seemed favorable, he said. there was no longer poignancy of anxiety in mattie's mind, she was too much of a child to imagine the horror of loss, but she was grave and gay by turns. her healthy and wholesome nature continually reasserted itself over the power of her newly attained woman's interest in the young preacher. she went to bed and slept dreamlessly, while herman yawned and inwardly raged at the fix in which circumstances had placed him. like many another lover, days away from his sweetheart were lost days. he wondered how she would take all the life down here. it would be good fun to bring her down, anyway, and hear her talk. he planned such a trip, and grew so interested in the thought he forgot his patient. in the early dawn wallace rallied and woke. herman heard the rustle of the pillow, and turned to find the sick man's eyes looking at him fixedly, calm but puzzled. herman's lips slowly changed into a beautiful boyish smile, and wallace replied by a faint parting of the lips, when herman said: "hello, old man! how do you find yourself?" his hearty humorous greeting seemed to do the sick man good. herman approached the bed. "know where you are?" wallace slowly put out a hand, and herman took it. "you're coming on all right. want some breakfast? make it bucks?" he said, in chicago restaurant slang. "white wings--sunny--one up coff." all this was good tonic for wallace, and an hour later he sipped broth, while mrs. allen and the deacon and herman stood watching the process with apparently consuming interest. mattie was still soundly sleeping. there began delicious days of convalescence, during which he looked peacefully out at the coming and going of the two women, each possessing powerful appeal to him--one the motherly presence which had been denied him for many years, the other something he had never permitted himself--a sweetheart's daily companionship. he lay there planning his church, and also his home. into the thought of a new church came shyly but persistently the thought of a fireside of his own, with this young girl sitting in the glow of it waiting for him. his life had held little romance in its whole length. he had earned his own way through school and to college. his slender physical energies had been taxed to their utmost at every stage of his climb, but now it seemed as though some blessed rest and peace were at hand. meanwhile, the bitter partisans met each other coming and going out of the gate of the allen estate, and the goodness of god shone in their softened faces. herman was skeptical of its lasting quality, but was forced to acknowledge that it was a lovely light. he it was who made the electrical suggestion to rebuild the church as an evidence of good faith. "you say you're regenerated--go ahead and regenerate the church," he said. the enthusiasm of the neighborhood took flame. it should be done. a meeting was called. everybody subscribed money or work. it was a generous outpouring of love and faith. it was herman also who counseled secrecy. "it would be a nice thing to surprise him," he said. "we'll agree to keep the scheme from him at home, if you don't give it away." they set to work like bees. the women came down one day and took possession with brooms and mops and soap, and while the carpenters repaired the windows they fell savagely upon the grime of the seats and floors. the walls of the church echoed with woman's gossip and girlish laughter. everything was scoured, from the door-hinges to the altar rails. new doors were hung and a new stove secured, and then came the painters to put a new coat of paint on the inside. the cold weather forbade repainting the outside. the sheds were rebuilt by men whose hearts glowed with old-time fire. it was like pioneer days, when "barn-raising" and "bees" made life worth while in a wild, stern land. it was a beautiful time. the old men were moved to tears, and the younger rough men shouted cheery, boisterous cries to hide their own deep emotion. hand met hand in heartiness never shown before. neighbors frequented each other's homes, and the old times of visiting and brotherly love came back upon them. nothing marred the perfect beauty of their revival--save the fear of its evanescence. it seemed too good to last. meanwhile love of another and merrier sort went on. the young men and maidens turned prayer meeting into trysts, and scrubbing bees into festivals. they rode from house to house under glittering stars, over sparkling snows, singing: "hallelujah! 'tis done: i believe on the son; i am saved by the blood of the crucified one." and their rejoicing chorus was timed to the clash of bells on swift young horses. who shall say they did not right? did the galilean forbid love and joy? no matter. god's stars, the mysterious night, the bells, the watchful bay of dogs, the sting of snow, the croon of loving voices, the clasp of tender arms, the touch of parting lips--these things, these things outweigh death and hell, and all that makes the criminal tremble. being saved, they must of surety rejoice. and through it all wallace crawled slowly back to life and strength. he ate of mother allen's chicken-broth and of toast from mattie's care-taking hand, and gradually assumed color and heart. his solemn eyes looked at the powerful young girl with an intensity which seemed to take her strength from her. she would gladly have given her blood for him, if it had occurred to her, or if it had been suggested as a good thing; instead she gave him potatoes baked to a nicety, and buttered toast that would melt on the tongue, and, on the whole, they served the purpose better. one day a smartly dressed man called to see wallace. mattie recognized him as the baptist clergyman from kesota. he came in, and introducing himself, said he had heard of the excellent work of mr. stacey, and that he would like to speak with him. wallace was sitting in a rocking chair in the parlor. herman was in chicago, and there was no one but mrs. allen and mattie in the house. the kesota minister introduced himself to wallace, and then entered upon a long eulogium upon his work in cyene. he asked after his credentials, his plans, his connections, and then he said: "you've done a _fine_ work in softening the hearts of these people. we had almost _despaired_ of doing anything with them. yes, you have done a _won-der-ful work_, and now we must reorganize a regular society here. i will be out again when you get stronger, and we'll see about it." wallace was too weak to take any stand in the talk, and so allowed him to get up and go away without protest or explanation of his own plans. when herman came down on saturday, he told him of the baptist minister's visit and the proposition. herman stretched his legs out toward the fire and put his hands in his pockets. then he rose and took a strange attitude, such as wallace had seen in comic pictures--it was, in fact, the attitude of a bowery tough. "say--look here! if you want 'o set dis community by de ears agin, you do dat ting--see? you play dat confidence game and dey'll rat ye--see? you invite us to come into a non-partisan deal--see?--and den you springs your own platform on us in de joint corkus--and we won't stand it! dis goes troo de way it began, or we don't play--see?" out of all this wallace deduced his own feeling--that continued peace and good-will lay in keeping clear of all doctrinal debates and disputes--the love of christ, the desire to do good and to be clean. these emotions had been roused far more deeply than he realized, and he lifted his face to god in the hope that no lesser thing should come in to mar the beauty of his church. there came a day when he walked out in the sunshine, and heard the hens caw-cawing about the yard, and saw the young colts playing about the barn. and the splendor of the winter day dazzled him as if he were looking upon the broad-flung robe of the most high. everywhere the snow lay ridged with purple and brown hedges. smoke rose peacefully from chimneys, and the sound of boys skating on a near-by pond added the human element. the trouble of concealing the work of the community upon the church increased daily, and mattie feared that some hint of it had come to him. she had her plan. she wanted to drive him down herself, and let him see the reburnished temple alone. but this was impossible. on the day when he seemed able to go, her father drove them all down. marsden was there also, and several of his women-folks, putting down a new carpet on the platform. as they drew near the church, wallace said: "why, they've fixed up the sheds!" mattie nodded. she was trembling with the delicious excitement of it--she wanted him hurried into the church at once. he had hardly time to think before he was whirled up to the new porch, and marsden came out, followed by several women. he was bewildered by it all. marsden helped him out with hearty voice sounding: "careful now. don't hurry!" mattie took one arm, and so he entered the church. everything repainted! everything warm and bright and cozy! the significance of it came to him like a wave of light, and he took his seat in the pulpit chair and stared at them all with a look on his pale face which moved them more than words. he was like a man transfigured by an inward glow. his eyes for an instant flamed with this marvelous fire, then darkened, softened with tears, and his voice came back in a sob of joy, and he could only say: "friends--brethren!" marsden, after much coughing, said: "we all united on this. we wanted to have you come to the church and--well, we couldn't bear to have you see it again the way it was." he understood it now. it was the sign of a united community. it set the seal of christ's victory over evil passions, and the young preacher's head bowed in prayer, and they all knelt, while his weak voice returned thanks to the lord for his gifts. then they all rose and shook off the oppressive solemnity, and he had time to look around at all the changes. at last he turned to mattie and reached out his hand--he had the boldness of a man in the shadow of some mighty event which makes false modesty and conventions shadowy things of little importance. his sharpened interior sense read her clear soul, and he knew she was his, therefore he reached her his hand, and she came to him with a flush on her face, which died out as she stood proudly by his side, while he said: "and martha shall help me." therefore this good thing happened--that in the midst of his fervor and his consecration to god's work, the love of woman found a place. a meeting in the foothills. i. the train which brought young ramsey into red rock gave him no view of the mountains, because it arrived about eight o'clock of a dark day. he went to bed at once in order to be up early and prostrate himself before the peaks, for he was of the level middle-west. he was awakened by the sound of loud, hearty voices, and looking out of the window saw a four-horse team standing before the little hotel. on the wagon's side was a sign which made the heart of the youth leap. crinkle creek stage. dave willis, pro. he was in the land of gold! it was like a chapter from a story by bret harte. he dressed himself hurriedly, and went down and out into the cool, keen dawn, eager to catch a glimpse of the great peak whose name had been in his ear since a child, as the symbol of the rocky mountains. there it soared, dull purple, splotched with dark green, and rising to white at its shoulders, and radiant with light on its crown. in such impassible grandeur, it must have loomed upon the eyes of the first little caravan trailing its way across the plains to the mysterious west. he spent the day doing little else but gaze at the mountains and study the town. it was also much more stupendous than he had imagined, and doubts of his ability to fit with all this splendor came to him with great force. he remembered the smooth, green swells and fertile fields he had left behind, and the memory brought a touch of homesickness. after supper that evening he confided to the landlord his plans for finding a foreman's position on a stock farm. "well, i dunno. there are such places, but they're always snapped up 'fore you can say jack robinson." "well, i'm going to give it a good try," the young fellow said bravely. "that's right. if i was you, i'd go out and see some of these real-estate fellers; they most always know what's going on." "that's a good idea; much obliged. i'll tackle 'em to-morrow," said arthur, and he went off to bed, feeling victory almost a tame bird in his hands. the next forenoon he made his first attempt. he had determined on his speech, and he went into the first office with his song on his lips. "i'm looking for a place on a dairy farm; i've had five years' practical experience, and am a graduate of the----agricultural college. i'm after the position of bookkeeper and foreman." the man looked at him gravely. "you're aiming pretty high, young feller, for this country. there are plenty of chances to work, punching cattle, but i don't think chances are good for a foreman's place." he was a kindly man, and repented when he saw how the young man's face fell. "however, i'll give you some names of people to see." on the whole, this was not so depressing, arthur thought. the next man made a mistake and took him for an investor. he rose with great cordiality. "ah, good morning, sir--good morning! have a chair. just in? do you feel the draft there? oh, all right!" then he settled himself in his swivel chair and beamed his warmest. "well, what do you think of our charming town?" arthur had not the heart to undeceive him, and so, saturated in agony sweat, crawled out at last, and went timidly on to the third man, who was kindly and interested in a way, and gave him the names of some ranchers likely to hire a hand. some days passed in this sort of search and resulted in nothing materially valuable, but a strong quality came out in his nature. defeat seemed to put a grim sort of resolution into his soul. following faint clews, ramsey made long walks into the country, toiling from ranch to ranch over the dun-colored, lonely hills, dogged, persistent, with lips set grimly. he was returning late one afternoon from one of these fruitless journeys. it was one of those strange days that come in all seasons at that altitude. the air was full of suspended mist--it did not rain, the road was almost dry under foot, and yet this all-pervasive moisture seemed soaking everything. it was, in fact, a cloud, for this whole land was a mountain top. the road wound among shapeless buttes of red soil, the plain was clothed on its levels with a short, dry grass, and on the side of the buttes were scattering, scraggy cedars, looking at a distance like droves of cattle. he sat down upon a little hummock to rest, for his feet ached with the long stretches of hilly road. the larks cried to him out of the mist, with their piercing sweet notes, cheerful and undaunted ever. there was a sudden lighting up of the day, as if the lark's song had shot the mist with silver light. as he rose and started on with painful slowness, he heard the sound of horses' hoofs behind him, and a man in a yellow cart came swiftly out of the gray obscurity. arthur stepped aside to let him pass, but he could not help limping a little more markedly as the man looked at him. the man seemed to understand. "will you ride?" he asked. arthur glanced up at him and nodded without speaking. the stranger was a fine-looking man, with a military cut of beard, getting gray. his face was ruddy and smiling. "thank you. i am rather tired," arthur said, as he settled into the seat. "i guess i'll have to own up, i'm about played out." "i thought you looked foot-sore. i'm enough of a western man to feel mean when i pass a man on the road. a footman can get very tired on these stretches of ours." "i've tramped about forty miles to-day, i guess. i'm trying to find some work to do," he added, in desperate confidence. "is that so? what kind of work?" "well, i wanted to get a place as foreman on a ranch." "i'm afraid that's too much to expect." arthur sighed. "yes, i suppose it is. if i'd known as much two weeks ago as i do now, i wouldn't be here." "oh, don't get discouraged; there's plenty of work to do. i can give you something to do on my place." "well, i've come to the conclusion that there is nothing here for me but the place of a common hand, so if you can give me anything----" "oh, yes, i can give you something to do in my garden. perhaps something better will open up later. where are you staying?" he asked, as they neared town. arthur told him, and the man drove him down to his hotel. "i'd like to have you call at my office to-morrow morning; my partner does most of the hiring. i've been living in denver. here's my card." after he had driven away, the listening landlord broke forth: "you're in luck, cap. if you get a place with major thayer you're fixed." "who is he, anyhow?" "who is he? why, he owns all the land up the creek, and banks all over colorado." "is that so?" arthur was delighted. of course, it was only a common hand's place, but here was the vista he had looked for--here was the chance. he stretched his legs under the table in huge content as he ate his supper. his youthful imagination had seized upon this slender wire of promise and was swiftly making it a hoop of diamonds. ii. when he entered the office next day, however, the major merely nodded to him over the railing and said: "good morning. take a seat, please." he seemed deeply engaged with a tall young man of about thirty-five years of age, with a rugged, smooth-shaven face. the young man spoke with a marked english accent, and there was a quality in his manner of speech which appealed very strongly to arthur. "confeound the fellow," the young englishman was saying, "i've discharged him. i cawn't re-engage him, ye kneow! we cawn't have a man abeout who gets drunk, y' kneow--it's too bloody proveoking, majah." "but the poor fellow's family, saulisbury." "oh, hang the fellow's family," laughed saulisbury. "we are not a poorhouse, y' kneow--or a house for inebriates. i confess i deon't mind these things as you do, old man. i'm a britisher, y' kneow, and i haven't got intristed in your bloody radicalism, y' kneow. i'm in for sam saulisbury 'from the word go,' as you fellows say." "and you don't get along any better--i mean in a money way." "i kneow, and that's too deuced queeah. your blawsted sentimentality seems note to do you any harm. still i put it in this way, y' kneow--if he weren't so deadly sentimental, what couldn't the fellow do, y' kneow?" the major laughed. "well, i can't turn jackson off, even for you." "well, deon't do it then--only if he gets drunk agine and drops a match into the milk can, fancy! and blows us all up, deon't come back on me, that's all." they both laughed at this, and the major said: "this is the young man i told you about, mr.--a----" "ramsey is my name," said arthur, rising. "mr. ramsey, this is my partner, mr. saulisbury." "haow de do," said saulisbury, with a nod and a glance, which made arthur hot with wrath, coming as it did after the talk he had heard. saulisbury did not take the trouble to rise. he merely swung round on his swivel chair and eyed the young stranger. arthur was not thick-skinned, and he had been struck for the first time by the lash of caste, and it raised a welt. he choked with his rage and stood silent, while saulisbury looked him over, and passed upon his good points, as if he were a horse. there was something in the lazy lift of his eyebrows which maddened arthur. "he looks a decent young fellow enough; i suppeose he'll do to try," saulisbury said at last, with cool indifference. "i'll use him, majah." "by heaven, you won't!" arthur burst out. "i wouldn't work for you at any price." he turned on his heel and rushed out. he heard the major calling to him as he went down the stairs, but refused to turn back. the tears of impotent rage filled his eyes, his fists strained together, and the curses pushed slowly from his lips. he wished he had leaped upon his insulter where he sat--the smooth, smiling hound! he was dizzy with rage. for the first time in his life he had been trampled upon, and could not, at least he had not, struck his assailant. as he stood on the street-corner thinking of these things and waiting for the mist of rage to pass from his eyes, he felt a hand on his arm, and turned to major thayer, standing by his side. "look here, ramsey, you mustn't mind sam. he's an infernal englishman, and can't understand our way of meeting men. he didn't mean to hurt your feelings." arthur looked down at him silently, and there was a look in his eyes which went straight to the major's heart. "come, ramsey, i want to give you a place. never mind this. you will really be working for me, anyhow." saulisbury himself came down the stairs and approached them, putting on his gloves, and arthur perceived for the first time that his eyes were blue and very good-natured. saulisbury cared nothing for the youth, but felt something was due his partner. "i hope i haven't done anything unpardonable," he began, with his absurd, rising inflection. arthur flared up again. "i wouldn't work for a man like you if i starved. i'm not a dog. you'll find an american citizen won't knuckle down to you the way your english peasants do. if you think you can come out here in the west and treat men like dogs, you'll find yourself mighty mistaken, that's all!" the men exchanged glances. this volcanic outburst amazed saulisbury, but the major enjoyed it. it was excellent schooling for his english friend. "well, work for me, mr. ramsey. sam knuckles down to me on most questions. i hope i know how to treat my men. i'm trying to live up to traditions, anyway." "you'll admit it is a tradition," said saulisbury, glad of a chance to sidle away. the major dismissed saulisbury with a move of the hand. "now get into my cart, mr. ramsey, and we'll go out to the farm and look things over," he said; and arthur clambered in. "i can't blame you very much," the major continued, after they were well settled. "i've been trying lately to get into harmonious relations with my employees, and i think i'm succeeding. i have a father and grandfather in shirt sleeves to start from and to refer back to, but saulisbury hasn't. he means well, but he can't always hold himself in. he means to be democratic, but his blood betrays him." arthur soon lost the keen edge of his grievance under the kindly chat of the major. the farm lay on either side of a small stream which ran among the buttes and green mesas of the foothills. out to the left, the kingly peak looked benignantly across the lesser heights that thrust their ambitious heads in the light. cattle were feeding among the smooth, straw-colored or sage-green hills. a cluster of farm buildings stood against an abrupt, cedar-splotched bluff, out of which a stream flowed and shortly fell into a large basin. the irrigation ditch pleased and interested arthur, for it was the finest piece of work he had yet seen. it ran around the edge of the valley, discharging at its gates streams of water like veins, which meshed the land, whereon men were working among young plants. "i'll put you in charge of a team, i think," the major said, after talking with the foreman, a big, red-haired man, who looked at arthur with his head thrown back and one eye shut. "well, now you're safe," said the major, as he got into his buggy, "so i'll leave you. richards will see you have a bed." arthur knew and liked the foreman's family at once. they were familiar types. at supper he told them of his plans, and how he came to be out there; and they came to feel a certain proprietorship in him at once. "well, i'm glad you've come," said mrs. richards, after their acquaintanceship had mellowed a day or two. "you're like our own folks back in illinois, and i can't make these foreigners seem neighbors nohow. not but what they're good enough, but, land sakes! they don't jibe in someway." arthur winced a little at being classed in with her folks, and changed the subject. one sunday, a couple of weeks later, just as he was putting on his old clothes to go out to do his evening's chores, the major and a merry party of visitors came driving into the yard. arthur came out to the carriage, a little annoyed that these city people should not have come when he had on his sunday clothes. the major greeted him pleasantly. "good evening, ramsey. just hitch the horses, will you? i want to show the ladies about a little." arthur tied the horses to a post and came back toward the major, expecting him to introduce the ladies; but the major did not, and mrs. thayer did not wait for an introduction, but said, with a peculiar, well-worn inflection: "ramsey, i wish you'd stand between me and the horses. i'm as afraid as death of horses and cows." the rest laughed in musical uproar, but arthur flushed hotly. it was the manner in which english people, in plays and stories, addressed their butler or coachman. he helped her down, however, in sullen silence, for his rebellious heart seemed to fill his throat. the party moved ahead in a cloud of laughter. the ladies were dainty as spring flowers in their light, outdoor dresses, and they seemed to light up the whole barnyard. one of them made the most powerful impression upon arthur. she was so dainty and so birdlike. her dress was quaint, with puffed sleeves, and bands and edges of light green, like an april flower. her narrow face was as swift as light in its volatile changes, and her little chin dipped occasionally into the fluff of her ruffled bodice like a swallow into the water. every movement she made was strange and sweet to see. she cried out in admiration of everything, and clapped her slender hands like a wondering child. her elders laughed every time they looked at her, she was so entirely carried away by the wonders of the farm. she admired the cows and the colts very much, but shivered prettily when the bull thrust his yellow and black muzzle through the little window of his cell. "the horrid thing! isn't he savage?" "not at all. he wants some meal, that's all," said the major, as they moved on. the young girl skipped and danced and shook her perfumed dress as a swallow her wings, without appearing vain--it was natural in her to do graceful things. arthur looked at her with deep admiration and delight, even while mrs. saulisbury was talking to him. he liked mrs. saulisbury at once, though naturally prejudiced against her. she had evidently been a very handsome woman, but some concealed pain had made her face thin and drawn, and one corner of her mouth was set in a slight fold as if by a touch of paralysis. her profile was still very beautiful, and her voice was that of a highly cultivated american. she seemed to be interested in arthur, and asked him a great many questions, and all her questions were intelligent. saulisbury amused himself by joking the dainty girl, whom he called edith. "this is the cow that gives the cream, ye know; and this one is the buttermilk cow," he said, as they stood looking in at the barn door. edith tipped her eager little face up at him: "really?" the rest laughed again. "which is the ice-cream cow?" the young girl asked, to let them know that she was not to be fooled with. saulisbury appealed to the major. "majah, what have you done with our ice-cream cow?" "she went dry during the winter," said the major; "no demand on her. 'supply regulated by the demand,' you know." they drifted on into the horse barn. "we're in ramsey's domain now," said the major, looking at arthur, who stood with his hand on the hip of one of the big gray horses. edith turned and perceived arthur for the first time. a slight shock went through her sensitive nature, as if some faint prophecy of great storms came to her in the widening gaze of his dark eyes. "oh, do you drive the horses?" she asked quickly. "yes, for the present; i am the plowman," he said, in the wish to let her know he was not a common hand. "i hope to be promoted." her eyes rested a moment longer on his sturdy figure and his beautifully bronzed skin, then she turned to her companions. after they had driven away, arthur finished his work in silence; he could hardly bring himself to speak to the people at the supper table, his mind was in such tumult. he went up into his little room, drew a chair to the window facing the glorious mountains, and sat there until the ingulfing gloom of rising night climbed to the glittering crown of white soaring a mile above the lights of the city; but he did not really see the mountains; his eyes only turned toward them as a cat faces the light of a hearth. it helped him to think, somehow. he was naturally keen, sensitive, and impressionable; his mind worked quickly, for he had read a great deal and held his reading at command. his thought concerned itself first of all with the attitude these people assumed toward him. it was perfectly evident that they regarded him as a creature of inferior sort. he was their servant. it made him turn hot to think how terribly this contrasted with the flamboyant phraseology of his graduating oration. if the boys knew that he was a common hand on a ranch, and treated like a butler! he came back for relief to the face of the girl, the girl who looked at him differently somehow. the impression she made on him was one of daintiness and light; her eager face and her sweet voice, almost childish in its thin quality, appealed to him with singular force. she was strange to him, in accent and life; she was good and sweet, he felt sure of that, but she seemed so far away in her manner of thought. he wished he had been dressed a little better; his old hat troubled him especially. the girls he had known, even the daintiest of them, could drive horses and were not afraid of cows. their way of talking was generally direct and candid, or had those familiar inflections which were comprehensible to him. she was alien. was she a girl? sometimes she seemed a woman--when her face sobered a moment--then again she seemed a child. it was this change of expression that bewildered and fascinated him. then her lips were so scarlet and her level brown eyebrows wavered about so beautifully! sometimes one had arched while the other remained quiet; this gave a winsome look of brightness and roguishness to her face. he came at last to the strangest thing of all: she had looked at him, every time he spoke, as if she were surprised at finding herself able to understand his way of speech. he worked it all out at last. they all looked upon him as belonging to the american peasantry; he belonged to a lower world--a world of service. he was brick, they were china. saulisbury and mrs. thayer were perfectly frank about it; they spoke from the english standpoint. the major and mrs. saulisbury had been touched by the western spirit and were trying to be just to him, with more or less unconscious patronization. as his thoughts ran on, his fury came back, and he hammered and groaned and cursed as he tossed to and fro on his bed, determined to go back where the american ideas still held--back to the democracy of lodi and cresco. iii. these spring days were days of growth to the young man. he grew older and more thoughtful, and seldom joked with the other men. there came to the surface moods which he had not known before. there came times when his teeth set together like the clutch of a wolf, as some elemental passion rose from the depths of his inherited self. his father had been a rather morose man, jealous of his rights, quick to anger, but just in his impulses. arthur had inherited these stronger traits, but they had been covered and concealed thus far by the smiling exterior of youth. edith came up nearly every day with the major in order to enjoy the air and beauty of the sunshine, and when she did not come near enough to nod to arthur, life was a weary treadmill for the rest of the day, and the mountains became mere gloomy stacks of _dÃ�©bris_. sometimes she sat on the porch with the children, while mrs. richards, the foreman's wife, a hearty, talkative woman, plied her with milk and cookies. "it must be heaven to live here and feed the chickens and cows," the young girl said one day when arthur was passing by--quite accidentally. mrs. richards took a seat, wiping her face on her apron. "wal, i don't know about that, when it comes to waiting and tendin' on a mess of 'em; it don't edgicate a feller much. does it, art?" "we don't do it for play, exactly," he replied, taking a seat on the porch steps and smiling up at edith. "i can't stand cows; i like horses, though. of course, if i were foreman of the dairy, that would be another thing." the flowerlike girl looked down at him with a strange glance. something rose in her heart which sobered her. she studied the clear brown of his face and the white of his forehead, where his hat shielded it from the sun and the wind. the spread of his strong neck, where it rose from his shoulders, and the clutch of his brown hands attracted her. "how strong you look!" she said musingly. he laughed up at her in frank delight. "well, i'm not out here for my health exactly, although when i came here i was pretty tender. i was just out of college, in fact," he said, glad of the chance to let her know that he was not an ignorant workingman. she looked surprised and pleased. "oh, you're a college man! i have two brothers at yale. one of them plays half-back or short-stop, or something. of course you played?" "baseball? yes, i was pitcher for ' ." he heaved a sigh. he could not think of those blessed days without sorrow. "oh, i didn't mean baseball. i meant football." "we don't play that much in the west. we go in more for baseball. more science." "oh, i like football best, it's so lively. i like to see them when they get all bunched up, they look so funny, and then when some fellow gets the ball under his arms and goes shooting around, with the rest all jumping at him. oh, oh, it's exciting!" she smiled, and her teeth shone from her scarlet lips with a more familiar expression than he had seen on her face before. some wall of reserve had melted away, and they chatted on with growing freedom. "well, edith, are you ready?" asked the major, coming up. arthur sprang up as if he suddenly remembered that he was a workingman. edith rose also. "yes, all ready, uncle." "well, we'll be going in a minute.--mr. ramsey, do you think that millet has got water enough?" "for the present, yes. the ground is not so dry as it looks." as they talked on about the farm, mrs. richards brought out a glass of milk for the major. arthur, with nice calculation, unhitched the horse and brought it around while the major was detained. "may i help you in, miss newell?" she gave him her hand with a frank gesture, and the major reached the cart just as she was taking the lines from arthur. "are you coming?" she gayly cried. "if not, i'll drive home by myself." "you mean you'll hold the lines." "no, sir. i can drive if i have a chance." "that's what the american girl is saying these days. she wants to hold the lines." "well, i'm going to begin right now and drive all the way home." as they drove off she flashed a roguish glance back at arthur--a smile which shadowed swiftly into a look which had a certain appeal in it. he was very handsome in his working dress. all the rest of the day that look was with him. he could not understand it, though her mood while seated upon the porch was perfectly comprehensible to him. the following sunday morning he saddled up one of the horses and went down to church. he reasoned edith would attend the episcopal service, and he had the pleasure of seeing her pass up the aisle most exquisitely dressed. this feeling of pleasure was turned to sadness by sober second thought. added to the prostration before his ideal was the feeling that she belonged to another world--a world of pleasure and wealth, a world without work or worry. this feeling was strengthened by the atmosphere of the beautiful little church, fragrant with flowers, delicately shadowed, tremulous with music. he rode home in deep meditation. it was curious how subjective he was becoming. she had not seen him there, and his trip lacked so much of being a success. life seemed hardly worth living as he took off his best suit and went out to feed the horses. the men soon observed the regularity of these sunday excursions, and the word was passed around that arthur went down to see his girl, and they set themselves to find out who she was. they did not suspect that he sought the major's niece. it was a keen delight to see her, even at that distance. to get one look from her, or to see her eyelashes fall over her brown eyes, paid him for all his trouble, and yet it left him hungrier at heart than before. sometimes he got seated in such wise that he could see the fine line of her cheek and chin. he noticed also her growing color. the free life she lived in the face of the mountain winds was doing her good. sometimes he went at night to the song service, and his rides home alone on the plain, with the shadowy mountains over there massed in the starlit sky, were most wonderful experiences. as he rose and fell on his broncho's steady gallop, he took off his hat to let the wind stir his hair. riding thus, exalted thus, one night he shaped a desperate resolution. he determined to call on her just as he used to visit the girls at viroqua with whom he was on the same intimacy of footing. he was as good as any class. he was not as good as she was, for he lacked her sweetness and purity of heart, but merely the fact that she lived in a great house and wore beautiful garments, did not exclude him from calling upon her. iv. but week after week went by without his daring to make his resolution good. he determined many times to ask permission to call, but somehow he never did. he seemed to see her rather less than at first; and, on her part, there was a change. she seemed to have lost her first eager and frank curiosity about him, and did not always smile now when she met him. then, again, he could not in working dress ask to call; it would seem so incongruous to stand before her to make such a request covered with perspiration and dust. it was hard to be dignified under such circumstances; he must be washed and dressed properly. in the meantime, the men had discovered how matters stood, and some of them made very free with the whole situation. two of them especially hated him. these two men had drifted to the farm from the mines somewhere, and were rough, hard characters. they would have come to blows with him, only they knew something of the power lying coiled in his long arms. one day he overheard one of the men speaking of edith, and his tone stopped the blood in arthur's heart. when he walked among the group of men his face was white and set. "you take that back!" he said in a low voice. "you take that back, or i'll kill you right where you stand!" "do him up, tim!" shouted the other ruffian; but tim hesitated. "i'll do him, then," said the other man. "i owe him one myself." he caught up a strip of board which was lying on the ground near, but one of the norwegian workmen put his foot on it, and before he could command his weapon, arthur brought a pail which he held in his right hand down upon his opponent's head. the man fell as if dead, and the pail shattered into its original staves. arthur turned then to face tim, his hands doubled into mauls; but the other men interfered, and the encounter was over. arthur waited to see if the fallen man could rise, and then turned away reeling and breathless. for an hour afterward his hands shook so badly that he could not go on with his work. at first he determined to go to richards, the foreman, and demand the discharge of the two tramps, but as he thought of the explanation necessary, he gave it up as impossible. he almost wept with shame and despair at the thought of her name having been mixed in the tumult. he had meant to kill when he struck, and the nervous prostration which followed showed him how far he had gone. he had not had a fight since he was thirteen years of age, and now everything seemed lost in the light of his murderous rage. it would all come out sooner or later, and she would despise him. he went to see the man just before going to supper, and found him in his barracks, sitting near a pail of cold water from which he was splashing his head at intervals. he looked up as arthur entered, but went on with his ministrations; after a pause he said: "that was a terrible lick you give me, young feller--brought the blood out of my ears." "i meant to kill you," was arthur's grim reply. "i know you did. if that darned norse hadn't put his foot on that board _you'd_ be doing this." he lifted a handful of water to his swollen and aching head. "what did you go to that board for? why didn't you stand up like a man?" "because you were swinging that bucket." "oh, bosh! you were a coward as well as a blackguard." the man looked up with a gleam in his eye. "see here, young feller--if this head----" arthur's face darkened, and the man stopped short. "now listen, dan williams, i want to tell you something. i'm not going to report this. i'm going to let you stay here till you're well, and then i want this thing settled with richards looking on; when i get through with you, then, you'll want a cot in some hospital." the man's eyes sullenly fell, and arthur turned toward the door. at the doorway he turned and a terrible look came into his face. "and, more than that, if you say another word about--her, i'll brain you, sick or well!" as he talked, the old, wild fury returned, and he came back and faced the wounded man. "now, what do you propose to do?" he demanded, his hands clinching. the other man looked at him, with a curious frown upon his face. "think i'm a damned fool!" he curtly answered, and sopped his handkerchief in the water again. the rage went out of arthur's eyes, and he almost smiled, so much did that familiar phrase convey, with its subtle inflections. it was cunning and candid and chivalrous all at once. it acknowledged defeat and guilt and embodied a certain pride in the victor. "well, that settles that," said arthur. "one thing more--i don't want you to say what made the row between us." "all right, pard; only, you'd better see tim." in spite of his care, the matter came to the ears of richards, who laughed over it and told his wife, who stared blankly. "good land! when did it happen?" "a couple of days ago." "wal, there! i thought there was a nigger in the fence. dan had a head on him like a bushel basket. what was it about?" "something tim said about edith." "i want to know! wal, wal! an' here they've been going around as peaceful as two kittens ever since." "of course. they pitched in and settled it man fashion; they ain't a couple of women who go around sniffin' and spittin' at each other," said richards, with brutal sarcasm. "as near as i can learn, tim and dan come at him to once." "they're a nice pair of tramps!" said mrs. richards indignantly. "i told you when they come they'd make trouble." "i told you the cow'd eat up the grindstone," richards replied with a grin, walking away. the more mrs. richards thought of it, the finer it all appeared to her. she was deeply engaged now on arthur's side, and was very eager to do something to help on in his "sparking," as she called it. she seized the first opportunity to tell edith. "don't s'pose you heard of the little fracas we had t'other day," she began, in phrase which she intended to be delicately indirect. edith was sitting in the cart, and mrs. richards stood at the wheel, with her apron shading her head. "why, no. what was it?" "mr. ramsey come mighty near gettin' killed." the old woman enjoyed deeply the dramatic pallor and distortion of the girl's face. "why--why--what do you mean?" "wal, if he hadn't a lammed one feller with a bucket he'd a been laid out sure. so richards says; as it is, it's the other feller that has the head." she laughed to see the girl's face grow rosy again. "then--mr. ramsey isn't hurt?" "not a scratch! the funny part of it is, they've been going around here for a week, quiet as you please. i wouldn't have known anything about it only for richards." "oh, isn't it dreadful?" said the girl. "yes, 'tis!" the elder woman readily agreed; "but why don't you ask what it was all about?" "oh, i don't want to know anything more about it; it's too terrible." mrs. richards was approaching the climax. "it was all about you." the girl could not realize what part she should have with a disgraceful row in the barnyard of her uncle's farm. "yes, these men--they're regular tramps; i told richards so the first time i set eyes on 'em--they made a little free with your name, and art he overheard them and he went for 'em, and they both come at him, two to one, and he lammed both out in a minute--so richards says. now i call that splendid; don't you? a young feller that'll stand up for his girl ag'in two big tramps----" the major had been motioning for edith to drive on down toward the gate, and she seized the chance for escape. her lips quivered with shame and anger. it seemed already as if she had been splashed with mire. "oh, the vulgar creatures!" she said, in her throat, her teeth shut tight. "there, isn't that a fine field?" asked the major, as he pointed to the cabbages. "there is a chance for an american imitator of monet--those purple-brown deeps and those gray-blue-pink pearl tints--what's the matter, my dear?" he broke off to ask. "are you ill?" "no, no, only let's go home," she said, the tears coming into her eyes. he got in hastily. "my dear, you are really ill. what's the matter? has your old enemy the headache--" he put his arm about her tenderly. "no, no! i'm sick of this place--i wish i'd never seen it! how could those dreadful men fight about me? it's horrible!" the major whistled. "oh, ho! that's got around to you, has it? i didn't know it myself until yesterday; i was hoping it wouldn't reach you at all. i wouldn't mind it, my dear. it's the shadow every lovely woman throws, no matter where she walks; it's only your shadow that has passed over the cesspool." "but i can't even bear that; it seems like a part of me. what do you suppose they said of me?" she asked, in morbid curiosity. "now, now, dearest, to know that would be stepping into the muck after your shadow; the talk of such men is unimaginable to you." "you don't mean mr. ramsey?" "no; mr. ramsey is a different sort of man, and i don't suppose anything else would have brought him to blows with those rough men." they sat looking straight forward. "oh, it's horrible, horrible!" her uncle tightened his arm about her. "i suppose the knowledge of such lower deeps must come to you some day, but don't seek it now; i've told you all you ought to know. ramsey meant well," he went on, after a silence, "but such things do little good, not enough to pay for the outlay of self-respect. he can't control their talk when he's out of hearing." "but i supposed that if a woman was--good--i mean--i didn't know that men talked in that way about girls--like me. how could they?" the abyss still fascinated her. "my dear, such men are only half civilized. they have all the passions of animals, and all the vices of men. ramsey was too hot-headed; their words do not count; they weren't worth whipping." there was a little silence. they were nearing the mountains again, and both raised their eyes to the peaks deeply shadowed in tyrian purple. "i know how you feel, i think," the major went on, "but the best thing to do is to forget it. i'm sorry ramsey fought. to walk into a gang of rough men like that is foolish and dangerous too, for the ruffian is generally the best man physically, i'm sorry to say." "it was brave, though, don't you think so?" she asked. he looked at her quickly. "oh, yes; it was brave and very youthful." she smiled a little for the first time. "i guess i like youth." "in that case i'll have to promote him for it," he said with a smile that made her look away toward the mountains again. v. saulisbury took a sudden turn to friendliness, and defended the action when the major related the story that night at the dinner table, as they were seated over their coffee and cigars. he was dining with the saulisburys. "it's uncommon plucky, that's what i think, d'ye kneow. by jeove, i didn't think the young dog had it in him, really. he did one fellow up with a bucket, they say, and met the other fellow with his left. where did the young beggah get his science?" "at college, i suppose." "but i suppeosed these little western colleges were a milk-and-wahta sawt of thing, ye kneow--baptist and christian endeavor, and all that, ye kneow." "oh, no," laughed the major. "they are not so benighted as that. they give a little attention to the elementary studies, though i believe athletics do come second on the curriculum." "well, the young dog seems to have made some use of his chawnce," said saulisbury, who had dramatized the matter in his own way, and saw ramsey doing the two men up in accordance with queensberry rules. "i wouldn't hawf liked the jobe meself, do ye kneow. they're forty years apiece, and as hard as nails." mrs. saulisbury looked up from her walnuts. "sam is ready to carry the olive club to mr. ramsey. 'the poor beggar,' as he has called him all along, will be a gentleman from this time forward." after the major had gone, saulisbury said: "there's one thing the majah was careful note to mention, my deah. why should this young fellow be going abeout defending the good name of his niece? do ye kneow, my deah, i fancy the young idiot is in love with her." "well, suppose he is?" "but, my deah! in england, you kneow, it wouldn't mattah; it would be a case of hopeless devotion. but as i understand things heah, it may become awkward. don't ye think so, love?" "it depends upon the young man. edith could do worse than marry a good, clean, wholesome fellow like that." "good gracious! you deon't allow your mind to go that fah?" "why, certainly! i'd much rather she'd marry a strong young workingman than some burnt-out third-generation wreck of her own set in the city." "but the fellow has no means." "he has muscle and brains, and besides, she has something of her own." saulisbury filled his pipe slowly. "luckily, it's all theory on our part; the contingency isn't heah--isn't likely to arrive, in fact." "don't be too sure. if i can read a girl's heart in the lines of her face, she's got where principalities and powers are of small account." "really?" "sure as shooting," she smilingly said. saulisbury mused and puffed. "in that case, we will have to turn in and give the fellow what you americans call a boost." "that's _right_," his wife replied slangily. edith went to her room that night with a mind whirling in dizzying circles, whose motion she could not check. it was terrible to have it all come in this way. she knew arthur cared for her--she had known it from the first--but with the happy indifference of youth, she had not looked forward to the end of the summer. the sure outcome of passion had kept itself somewhere in a golden glimmer on the lower sweep of the river. she wished for some one to go to for advice. mrs. thayer, she knew, would exclaim in horror over the matter. the major had hinted the course she would have to take, which was to show arthur he had no connection with her life--if she could. but deep in her heart she knew she could not do that. suddenly a thought came to her which made her flush till the dew of shame stood upon her forehead. he had never been to see her; she had always been to see him! she knew that this was true. she did not attempt to conceal it from herself now. the charm of those rides with her uncle was the chance of seeing arthur. the sweet, never-wearying charm that made this summer one of perfect happiness, that had made her almost forget her city ways and friends, that had made her brown and strong with the soil and wind, was daily contact with a robust and wholesome young man, a sturdy figure with brown throat and bare, strong arms. she went off at this point into a retrospective journey along the pathways of her summer outing. at this place he stood at the watering trough, leaning upon his great gray horse. here he was walking behind his plow; he was lifting his hat--the clear sunshine fell over his face. she saw again the splendid flex of his side and powerful thigh. here he was in the hayfield, and she saw the fork-handle bend like a willow twig under his smiling effort, the muscles on his brown arms rolling like some perfect machinery. she idealized all he did, and the entire summer and the wide landscape seemed filled with prismatic colors. then her self-accusations came back. she had gone down into the field to see him; perhaps the very man who was with him then was one of those who had jested of her and whom he had punished. her little hands clutched. "i'll never go out there again! i'll never see him again--never!" she said, with her teeth shut tight. mrs. thayer did not take any very great interest in the matter until mrs. saulisbury held a session with her. then she sputtered in deep indignation. "why, how dare he make love to my niece? why, the presumptuous thing! why, the idea! he's a workingman!" mrs. saulisbury remained calm and smiling. she was the only person who could manage mrs. thayer. "yes, that's true. but he's a college-bred man, and----" "college-bred! these nasty little western colleges--what do they amount to? why, he curries our horses." mrs. saulisbury was amused. "i know that is an enormity, but i heard the major tell of currying horses once." "that was in the army--anyhow, it doesn't matter. edith can simply ignore the whole thing." "i hope she can, but i doubt it very much." "what do you mean?" "i mean that edith is interested in him." "i don't believe it! why, it is impossible! you're crazy, jeannette!" "he's very handsome in a way." "he's red and big-jointed, and he's a common plowboy." mrs. thayer gasped, returning to her original charge. mrs. saulisbury laughed, being malevolent enough to enjoy the whole situation. "he appears to me to be a very uncommon plowboy. well, i wouldn't try to do anything about it, charlotte," she added. "you remember the fate of the brookses, who tried to force maud to give up her clerk. if this is a case of true love, you might as well surrender gracefully." "but i can't do that. i'm responsible for her to her father. i'll go right straight and ask her." "charlotte," mrs. saulisbury's voice rang with a stern note, "don't you _presume_ to do such a thing! you will precipitate everything. the girl don't know her own mind, and if you go up there and attack this young man, you'll tip the whole dish over. don't you know you can't safely abuse that young fellow in her hearing? sit down now and be reasonable. leave her alone for a while. let her think it over alone." this good counsel prevailed, and the other woman settled into a calmer state. "well, it's a dreadful thing, anyhow." "perfectly dreadful! but you mustn't take a conventional view of it. you must remember, a good, handsome, healthy man should come first as a husband, and this young man is very attractive, and i must admit he seems a gentleman, so far as i can see. besides, you can't do anything by storming up to that poor girl. let her alone for a few days." following this suggestion, no one alluded to the fight, or appeared to notice edith's changed moods, but mrs. saulisbury could not forbear giving her an occasional squeeze of wordless sympathy, as she passed her. it was pitiful to see the tumult and fear and responsibility of the world coming upon this dainty, simple-hearted girl. life had been so straightforward before. no toil, no problems, no choosing of things for one's self. now suddenly here was the greatest problem of all coming at the end of a summer-time outing. meanwhile arthur was longing to see edith once more, and wondering why she had stopped coming. the major came up on friday and saturday, but came alone, and that left only the hope of seeing edith at church, and the young fellow worked on with that to nerve his arm. the family respected his departure on sunday. they plainly felt his depression, and sympathized with it. "walk home with her. i would," said mrs. richards, as he went through the kitchen. "so would i. dang me if i'd stand off," richards started to say, but arthur did not stop to listen. as he rode down to the city, he recovered, naturally, a little of his buoyancy. sleep had rested his body and cleared his mind for action. he sat in his usual place at the back of the church, and his heart throbbed painfully as he saw her moving up the aisle, a miracle of lace and coolness, with fragrant linen enveloping her lovely young form, so erect and graceful and slender. then his heart bowed down before her, not because she was above him in a social class--he did not admit that--but because he was a lover, and she was his ideal. he was cast down as suddenly as he had been exalted by her timid look around, as was her custom, in order to bow to him. he stood at the door as they came out, though he felt foolish and boyish in doing so. she approached him with eyes turned away; but as she passed him she flashed an appealing, mystical look at him, and, flushing a radiant pink, slipped out of the side door, leaving him stunned and smarting for a moment. as he mounted his horse and rode away toward the ranch, his thoughts were busy with that strange look of hers. he came to understand and to believe at last that she appealed to him and trusted in him and waited for him. then something strong and masterful rose in him. he lifted his big brown fist in the air in a resolution which was like that of napoleon when he entered russia. he turned and rode furiously back toward the town. as he walked up the gravel path to the thayer house it seemed like a castle to him. the great granite portico, the curving flight of steps, the splendor of the glass above the door, all impressed him with the terrible gulf between his fortune and hers. he was met at the door by the girl from the table. he greeted her as his equal, and said: "is miss newell at home?" the girl smiled with perfect knowledge and sympathy. she was on his side; and she knew, besides, how much it meant to have the hired man come in at the front door. "yes, she's at dinner. won't you come in, mr. ramsey?" he entered without further words, and followed her into the reception room, which was the most splendid room he had ever seen. he stood with his feet upon a rug which was worth more than his year's pay, and he knew it. "just take a seat here, and i'll announce you," said the girl, who was almost trembling with eagerness to explode her torpedo of news. "don't disturb them. i'll wait." but she had whisked out of the room, having plans of her own; perhaps revenges of her own. arthur listened. he could not help it. he heard the girl's clear, distinct voice; the open doorways conveyed every word to him. "it's mr. ramsey, ma'am, to see miss newell." the young man's strained ears heard the sudden pause in the click of knives and plates. he divined the gasps of astonishment with which mrs. thayer's utterance began. "well, i declare! now, major, you see what i told you?" "the plucky young dog!" said saulisbury, in sincere admiration. mrs. thayer went on: "now, mr. thayer, this is the result of treating your servants as equals." the major laughed. "my dear, you're a little precipitate. it may be a mistake. the young man may be here to tell me one of the colts is sick." "you don't believe any such thing! you heard what the girl said--oh, look at edith!" there was a sudden pushing and scraping of chairs. arthur rose, tense, terrified. a little flurry of voices followed. "here, give her some wine! the poor thing! no wonder----" then a slight pause. "she's all right," said the major in a relieved tone. "just a little surprised, that's all." there came a little inarticulate murmur from the girl, and then another pause. "by jove! this is getting dramatic!" said saulisbury. "be quiet, sam," said his wife. "i won't have any of your scoffing. i'm glad there is some sincerity of emotion left in our city girls." mrs. thayer broke in: "major, you go right out there and send that impudent creature away. it's disgraceful!" arthur turned cold and hard as granite. his heart rose with a murderous, slow swell. he held his breath, while the calm, amused voice of the major replied: "but, see here, my dear, it's none of my business. mr. ramsey is an american citizen--i like him--he has a perfect right to call----" "h'yah, h'yah!" called saulisbury in a chuckle. "he's a man of parts, and besides, i rather imagine edith has given him the right to call." the anger died out of arthur's heart, and the warm blood rushed once more through his tingling body. tears came to his eyes, and he could have embraced his defender. "nothing like consistency, majah," said saulisbury. "sam, will you be quiet?" the major went on: "i imagine the whole matter is for edith to decide. it's really very simple. let her send word to him that she does not care to see him, and he'll go away--no doubt of it." "why, of course," said mrs. thayer. "edith, just tell mary to say to mr. what's-his-name----" again that creeping thrill came into the young man's hair. his world seemed balanced on a needle's point. then a chair was pushed back slowly. there was another little flurry. again the blood poured over him like a splash of warm water, leaving him cold and wet. "edith!" called the astonished, startled voice of mrs. thayer. "what are you going to do?" "i'm going to see him," said the girl's firm voice. there was a soft clapping of two pairs of hands. as she came through the portiÃ�¨re, edith walked like a princess. there was amazing resolution in her back-flung head, and on her face was the look of one who sets sail into unknown seas. someway--somehow, through a mist of light and a blur of sound, he met her--and the cling of her arms about his neck moved him to tears. no word was uttered till the major called from the doorway: "mr. ramsey, mrs. thayer wants to know if you won't come and have some dinner." a stop-over at tyre. i. albert lohr was studying the motion of the ropes and lamps, and listening to the rumble of the wheels and the roar of the ferocious wind against the pane of glass that his head touched. it was the midnight train from marion rushing toward warsaw like some savage thing unchained, creaking, shrieking, and clattering through the wild storm which possessed the whole mississippi valley. albert lost sight of the lamps at last, and began to wonder what his future would be. "first i must go through the university at madison; then i'll study law, go into politics, and perhaps some time i may go to washington." in imagination he saw that wonderful city. as a western boy, boston to him was historic, new york was the great metropolis, but washington was the great american city, and political greatness the only fame. the car was nearly empty: save here and there the wide-awake western drummer, and a woman with four fretful children, the train was as deserted as it was frightfully cold. the engine shrieked warningly at intervals, the train rumbled hollowly over short bridges and across pikes, swung round the hills, and plunged with wild warnings past little towns hid in the snow, with only here and there a light shining dimly. one of the drummers now and then rose up from his cramped bed on the seats, and swore dreadfully at the railway company for not heating the cars. the woman with the children inquired for the tenth time, "is the next station lodi?" "yes, ma'am, it is," snarled the drummer, as he jerked viciously at the strap on his valise; "and darned glad i am, too, i can tell yeh! i'll be stiff as a car-pin if i stay in this infernal ice chest another hour. i wonder what the company think----" at lodi several people got on, among them a fat man and his pretty daughter abnormally wide awake considering the time of night. she saw albert for the same reason that he saw her--they were both young and good-looking. he began his musings again, modified by this girl's face. he had left out the feminine element; obviously he must recapitulate. he'd study law, yes; but that would not prevent going to sociables and church fairs. and at these fairs the chances were good for a meeting with a girl. her father must be influential--country judge or district attorney; this would open new avenues. he was roused by the sound of his own name. "is albert lohr in this car?" shouted the brakeman, coming in, enveloped in a cloud of fine snow. "yes, here!" shouted albert. "here's a telegram for you." albert snatched the envelope with a sudden fear of disaster at home; but it was dated "tyre": "get off at tyre. i'll be there. "hartley." "well, now, that's fun!" said albert, looking at the brakeman. "when do we reach there?" "about . ." "well, by thunder! a pretty time o' night!" the brakeman grinned sympathetically. "any answer?" he asked at length. "no; that is, none that 'u'd do the matter justice," albert said, studying the telegram. "hartley friend o' yours?" "yes; know him?" "yes; he boarded where i did in warsaw." when he came back again, the brakeman said to albert, in a hesitating way: "ain't going t' stop off long, i s'pose?" "may an' may not; depends on hartley. why?" "well, i've got an aunt there that keeps boarders, and i kind o' like t' send her one when i can. if you should happen to stay a few days, go an' see her. she sets up first-class grub, an' it wouldn't kill anybody, anyhow, if you went up an' called." "course not. if i stay long enough to make it pay i'll look her up sure. i ain't no vanderbilt to stop at two-dollar-a-day hotels." the brakeman sat down opposite albert, encouraged by his smile. "y' see, my division ends at warsaw, and i run back and forth here every other day, but i don't get much chance to see them, and i ain't worth a cuss f'r letter-writin'. y' see, she's only aunt by marriage, but i like her; an' i guess she's got about all she can stand up under, an' so i like t' help her a little when i can. the old man died owning nothing but the house, an' that left the old lady t' rustle f'r her livin'. dummed if she ain't sandy as old sand. they're gitt'n' along purty----" the whistle blew for brakes, and, seizing his lantern, the brakeman slammed out on the platform. "tough night for twisting brakes," suggested albert, when he came in again. "yes--on the freight." "good heavens! i should say so. they don't run freight such nights as this?" "don't they? well, i guess they don't stop for a storm like this if they's any money to be made by sending her through. many's the night i've broke all night on top of the old wooden cars, when the wind cut like a razor. shear the hair off a cast-iron mule--_woo-o-o_! there's where you need grit, old man," he ended, dropping into familiar speech. "yes; or need a job awful bad." the brakeman was struck with this idea. "there's where you're right. a fellow don't take that kind of a job for the fun of it. not much! he takes it because he's got to. that's as sure's you're a foot high. i tell you, a feller's got t' rustle these days if he gits any kind of a job----" "_toot, too-o-o-o-t, toot!_" the station passed, the brakeman did not return, perhaps because he found some other listener, perhaps because he was afraid of boring this pleasant young fellow. albert shuddered with a sympathetic pain as he thought of the men on the tops of the icy cars, with hands straining at the brake, and the wind cutting their faces like a sand-blast. his mind went out to the thousands of freight trains shuttling to and fro across the vast web of gleaming iron spread out on the mighty breast of the western plains. oh, those tireless hands at the wheel and throttle! he looked at his watch; it was two o'clock; the next station was tyre. as he began to get his things together, the brakeman came in. "oh, i forgot to say that the old lady's name is welsh--mrs. robert welsh. say i sent yeh, and it'll be all right." "sure! i'll try her in the morning--that is, if i find out i'm going to stay." "tyre! _tyre!_" yelled the brakeman, as with clanging bell and whizz of steam the train slowed down and the wheels began to cry out in the snow. albert got his things together, and pulled his cap firmly down on his head. "here goes!" he muttered. "hold y'r breath!" shouted the brakeman. albert swung himself to the platform before the station--a platform of planks along which the snow was streaming like water. "good night!" called the brakeman. "_good_ night!" "all-l abo-o-o-ard!" called the conductor somewhere in the storm; the brakeman swung his lantern, and the train drew off into the blinding whirl, and the lights were soon lost in the clouds of snow. no more desolate place could well be imagined. a level plain, apparently bare of houses, swept by a ferocious wind; a dingy little den called a station--no other shelter in sight; no sign of life save the dull glare of two windows to the left, alternately lost and found in the storm. albert's heart contracted with a sudden fear; the outlook was appalling. "where's the town?" he yelled savagely at a dimly seen figure with a lantern--a man evidently locking the station door, his only refuge. "over there," was the surly reply. "how far?" "'bout a mile." "a mile!" "that's what i said--a mile." "well, i'll be blanked!" "well, y' better be doing something besides standing here, 'r y' 'll freeze t' death. i'd go over to the arteeshun house an' go t' bed if i was in your fix." "oh, y' would!" "i would." "well, where _is_ the artesian house?" "see them lights?" "i see them lights." "well, they're it." "oh, wouldn't your grammar make old grammati-cuss curl up, though!" "what say?" queried the man, bending his head toward albert, his form being almost lost in the snow that streamed against them both. "i said i guessed i'd try it," grinned the youth invisibly. "well, i would if i was in your fix. keep right close after me; they's some ditches here, and the foot-bridges are none too wide." "the artesian is owned by the railway, eh?" "yup." "and you're the clerk?" "yup; nice little scheme, ain't it?" "well, it'll do," replied albert. the man laughed without looking around. "keep your longest cuss words till morning; you'll need 'em, take my word for it." in the little barroom, lighted by a vilely smelling kerosene lamp, the clerk, hitherto a shadow and a voice, came to light as a middle-aged man with a sullen face slightly belied by a sly twinkle in his eyes. "this beats all the winters i ever _did_ see. it don't do nawthin' but blow, _blow_. want to go to bed, i s'pose. well, come along." he took up one of the absurd little lamps and tried to get more light out of it. "dummed if a white bean wouldn't be better." "spit on it!" suggested albert. "i'd throw the whole business out o' the window for a cent," growled the man. "here's y'r cent," said the boy. "you're mighty frisky f'r a feller gitt'n' off'n a midnight train," replied the man, tramping along a narrow hallway, and talking in a voice loud enough to awaken every sleeper in the house. "have t' be, or there'd be a pair of us." "you'll laugh out o' the other side o' y'r mouth when you saw away on one o' the bell-collar steaks this house puts up," ended the clerk as he put the lamp down. "'sufficient unto the day is the evil thereof,'" called albert after him, and then plunged into the icy bed. he was awakened the next morning by the cooks pounding steak down in the kitchen and wrangling over some division of duty. it was a vile place at any time, but on a morning like this it was appalling. the water was frozen, the floor like ice, the seven-by-nine glass frosted so that he couldn't see to comb his hair. "all that got me out of bed," said albert to the clerk, "was the thought of leaving." "got y'r teeth filed?" said the day clerk, with a wink. "old collins's beef will try 'em." the breakfast was incredibly bad--so much worse than he expected that albert was forced to admit he had never seen its like. he fled from the place without a glance behind, and took passage in an omnibus for the town, a mile away. it was terribly cold, the thermometer twenty below zero; but the sun was very brilliant, and the air still. the driver pulled up before a very ambitious wooden hotel entitled "the eldorado," and albert dashed in at the door and up to the stove, with both hands covering his ears. as he stood there, frantic with pain, kicking his toes and rubbing his ears, he heard a chuckle--a slow, sly, insulting chuckle--turned, and saw hartley standing in the doorway, visibly exulting over his misery. "hello, bert! that you?" "what's left of me. say, you're a good one, you are? why didn't you telegraph me at marion? a deuce of a night i've had of it!" "do ye good," laughed hartley, a tall, alert, handsome fellow nearly thirty years of age. after a short and vigorous "blowing up," albert said: "well, now, what's the meaning of all this, anyhow? why this change from racine?" "well, you see, i got wind of another fellow going to work this county for a 'life of logan,' and thinks i, 'by jinks! i'd better drop in ahead of him with blaine's _twenty years._' i telegraphed f'r territory, got it, and telegraphed to stop you." "you did it. when did you come down?" "last night, six o'clock." albert was getting warmer and better-natured. "well, i'm here; what ye going t' do with me?" "i'll use you some way; can't tell. first thing is to find a boarding place where we can work in a couple o' books on the bill." "well, i don't know about that, but i'm going to look up a place a brakeman gave me a pointer on." "all right; here goes!" scarcely any one was stirring on the streets. the wind was pitilessly cold, though not strong. the snow under the feet cried out with a note like glass and steel. the windows of the stores were thick with frost, and albert gave a shudder of fear, almost as if he were homeless. he had never experienced anything like it before. entering one of the stores, they found a group of men sitting about the stove, smoking, chatting, and spitting aimlessly into a huge spittoon made of boards and filled with sawdust. each man suspended smoking and talking as the strangers entered. "can any of you gentlemen tell us where mrs. welsh lives?" there was a silence; then the clerk behind the counter said: "i guess so. two blocks north and three west, next to last house on left-hand side." "clear as a bell!" laughed hartley, and they pushed out into the cold again, drawing their mufflers up to their eyes. "i don't want much of this," muttered bert through his scarf. the house was a large frame house standing on the edge of a bank, and as the young men waited they could look down on the meadow land, where the river lay blue and still and as hard as iron. a pale little girl ten, or twelve years of age, let them in. "is this where mrs. welsh lives?" "yes, sir." "will you ask her to come here a moment?" "yes, sir," piped the little one. "won't you sit down by the fire?" she added, with a quaint air of hospitality. the room was the usual village sitting room: a cylinder heater full of wood at one side of it; a rag carpet, much faded, on the floor; a cabinet organ; a doleful pair of crayon portraits on the wall, one supposedly a baby--a figure dressed like a child of six months, but with a face old and cynical enough to be forty-five. the paper on the wall was of the hideous striped sort, and the chairs were nondescript; but everything was clean--so clean it looked worn more with brushing than with use. a slim woman of fifty, with hollow eyes and a patient smile, came in, wiping her hands on her apron. "how d'ye do? did you want to see me?" "yes," said hartley, smiling. "the fact is, we're book agents, and looking for a place to board." "well--a--i--yes, i keep boarders." "i was sent here by a brakeman on the midnight express," put in bert. "oh, tom," said the woman, her face clearing. "tom's always sending us people. why, yes; i've got room for you, i guess--this room here." she pushed open a folding door leading into what had been her parlor. "you can have this." "and the price?" "four dollars." "eight dollars f'r the two of us. all right; we'll be with you a week or two if we have luck." the woman smiled and shut the door. bert thought how much she looked like his mother in the back--the same tired droop in the shoulders, the same colorless dress, once blue or brown, now a peculiar drab, characterless with much washing. "excuse me, won't you? i've got to be at my baking; make y'rselves at home." "now, jim," said bert, "i'm going t' stay right here while you go and order our trunks around--just t' pay you off f'r last night." "all right," said hartley, cheerily going out. after getting warm, bert sat down at the organ and played a gospel hymn or two from the moody and sankey hymnal. he was in the midst of the chorus of "let your lower lights," etc., when a young woman entered the room. she had a whisk-broom in her hand, and stood a picture of gentle surprise. bert wheeled about on his stool. "i thought it was stella," she began. "i'm a book agent," said bert, rising with his best grace; "i might as well out with it. i'm here to board." "oh!" said the girl, with some relief. she was very fair and very slight, almost frail. her eyes were of the sunniest blue, her face pale and somewhat thin, but her lips showed scarlet, and her teeth were fine. bert liked her and smiled. "a book agent is the next thing to a burglar, i know; but still----" "oh, i didn't mean that, but i _was_ surprised. when did you come?" "just a few moments ago. am i in your way?" he inquired, with elaborate solicitude. "oh, no! please go on; you play very well, i think. it is so seldom young men play." "i had to at college; the other fellows all wanted to sing. you play, of course." "when i have time." she sighed. there was a weary droop in her voice; she seemed aware of it, and said more brightly: "you mean marion, i suppose?" "yes; i'm in my second year." "i went there two years. then i had to quit and come home to help mother." "did you? that's why i'm out here on this infernal book business--to get money." she looked at him with interest now, noticing his fine eyes and waving brown hair. "it's dreadful, isn't it? but you've got a hope to go back. i haven't. at first i didn't think i could live; but i did." she ended with a sigh, a far-off expression in her eyes. there was a pause again. bert felt that she was no ordinary girl, and she was quite as strongly drawn to him. "it almost killed me to give it up. i don't s'pose i'd know any of the scholars you know. even the teachers are not the same. oh, yes--sarah shaw; i think she's back for the normal course." "oh, yes!" exclaimed bert, "i know sarah. we boarded on the same street; used t' go home together after class. an awful nice girl, too." "she's a worker. she teaches school. i can't do that, for mother needs me at home." there was another pause, broken by the little girl, who called: "maud, mamma wants you." maud rose and went out, with a tired smile on her face that emphasized her resemblance to her mother. bert couldn't forget that smile, and he was still thinking about the girl, and what her life must be, when hartley came in. "by jinks! it's _snifty_, as dad used to say. you can't draw a long breath through your nostrils; freeze y'r nose solid as a bottle," he announced, throwing off his coat with an air which seemed to make him an old resident of the room. "by the way, i've just found out why you was so anxious to get into this house, hey?" he said, slapping bert's knee. "another case o' girl." bert blushed; he couldn't help it, notwithstanding his innocence in this case. hartley went on. "oh, i know you! a girl in the house; might 'a' known it," hartley continued, in a hoarse whisper. "i didn't know it myself till about ten minutes ago," protested bert. hartley winked prodigiously. "don't tell me! is she pretty?" "no--that is, _you_ wouldn't call her so." "oh, the deuce i wouldn't! don't you _wish_ i wouldn't? i'd like to see the girl i wouldn't call pretty, right to her face, too." the girl returned at this moment with an armful of wood. "let _me_ put it in," cried hartley, springing up. "excuse me. my name is hartley, book agent: blaine's 'twenty years,' plain cloth, sprinkled edges, three dollars; half calf, three fifty. this is my friend mr. lohr, of marion; german extraction, soph at the university." the girl bowed and smiled, and pushed by him toward the door of the parlor. hartley followed her in, and bert could hear them rattling away at the stove. "won't you sit down and play for us?" asked hartley, after they returned to the sitting room, with the persuasive music of the book agent in his fine voice. "oh, no! it's nearly dinner time, and i must help about the table." "now make yourselves at home," said mrs. welsh, appearing at the door leading to the kitchen; "if you want anything, just let me know." "all right. we will; don't worry. we'll be trouble enough.--nice people," said hartley, as he shut the door of their room and sat down. "but the girl _ain't_ what i call pretty." by the time the dinner bell rang they were feeling at home in their new quarters. at the table they met the other boarders: the brann brothers, newsdealers; old man troutt, who kept the livery stable (and smelled of it); and a small, dark, and wizened woman who kept the millinery store. the others, who came in late, were clerks. maud served the dinner, while stella and her mother waited upon the table. albert was accustomed to this, and made little account of the service. he did notice the hands of the girl, however, so white and graceful; no amount of work could quite remove their essential shapeliness. hartley struck up a conversation with the newsdealers and left bert free to observe maud. she was not more than twenty, he decided, but she looked older, so careworn and sad was her face. "they's one thing ag'in' yeh," troutt, the liveryman, was bawling to hartley: "they's jest been worked one o' the goldingedest schemes you _ever_ see! 'bout six munce ago s'm' fellers come all through here claimin' t' be after information about the county and the leadin' citizens; wanted t' write a history, an' wanted all the pitchers of the leading men, old settlers, an' so on. you paid ten dollars, an' you had a book an' your pitcher in it." "i know the scheme," grinned hartley. "wal, sir, i s'pose them fellers roped in every man in this town. i don't s'pose they got out with a cent less'n one thousand dollars. an' when the book come--wal!" here he stopped to roar. "i don't s'pose you ever see a madder lot o' men in your life. in the first place, they got the names and the pitchers mixed so that i was judge ricker, an' judge ricker was ol' man daggett. didn't the judge swear--oh, it was awful!" "i should say so." "an' the pitchers that wa'n't mixed was so goldinged _black_ you couldn't tell 'em from niggers. you know how kind o' lily-livered lawyer ransom is? wal, he looked like ol' black joe; he was the maddest man of the hull b'ilin'. he throwed the book in the fire, and tromped around like a blind bull." "it wasn't a success, i take it, then. why, i should 'a' thought they'd 'a' nabbed the fellows." "not much! they was too keen for that. they didn't deliver the books theirselves; they hired dick bascom to do it f'r them. course dick wa'n't t' blame." "no; i never tried it before," albert was saying to maud, at their end of the table. "hartley offered me a good thing to come, and as i needed money, i came. i don't know what he's going to do with me, now i'm here." albert did not go out after dinner with hartley; it was too cold. hartley let nothing stand in the way of business, however. he had been at school with albert during his first year, but had gone back to work in preference to study. albert had brought his books with him, planning to keep up with his class, if possible, and was deep in a study of cÃ�¦sar when he heard a timid knock on the door. "come!" he called, student fashion. maud entered, her face aglow. "how natural that sounds!" she said. albert sprang up to help her put down the wood in her arms. "i wish you'd let me bring the wood," he said pleadingly, as she refused his aid. "i wasn't sure you were in. were you reading?" "cÃ�¦sar," he replied, holding up the book. "i am conditioned on latin. i'm going over the 'commentaries' again." "i thought i knew the book," she laughed. "you read latin?" "yes, a little--vergil." "maybe you can help me out on these _oratia obliqua_. they bother me yet. i hate these 'cÃ�¦sar saids.' i like vergil better." she stood at his shoulder while he pointed out the knotty passage. she read it easily, and he thanked her. it was amazing how well acquainted they felt after this; they were as fellow-students. the wind roared outside in the bare maples, and the fire boomed in its pent place within. the young people forgot the time and place. the girl sank into a chair almost unconsciously as they talked of madison--a great city to them--of the capitol building, of the splendid campus, of the lakes and the gay sailing there in summer and ice-boating in winter, of the struggles of "rooming." "oh, it makes me homesick!" cried the girl, with a deep sigh. "it was the happiest, sunniest time of all my life. oh, those walks and talks! those recitations in the dear, chalky old rooms! oh, _how_ i would like to go back over that hollow doorstone again!" she broke off, with tears in her eyes. he was obliged to cough two or three times before he could break the silence. "i know just how you feel. i know, the first spring when i went back on the farm, it seemed as if i couldn't stand it. i thought i'd go crazy. the days seemed forty-eight hours long. it was so lonesome, and so dreary on rainy days! but of course i expected to go back; that's what kept me up. i don't think i could have stood it if i hadn't had hope." "i've given it up now," she said plaintively; "it's no use hoping." "why don't you teach?" asked albert, deeply affected by her voice and manner. "i did teach here for a year, but i couldn't endure the noise; i'm not very strong, and the boys were so rude. if i could teach in a seminary--teach latin and english--i should be happy, i think. but i can't leave mother now." she began to appear a different girl in the boy's eyes; the cheap dress, the check apron, could not hide her pure intellectual spirit. her large blue eyes were deep with thought, and the pale face, lighted by the glow of the fire, was as lovely as a rose. almost before he knew it, he was telling her of his life. "i don't see how i endured it as long as i did," he went on. "it was nothing but work, work, and mud the whole year round; it's just so on all farms." "yes, i guess it is," said she. "father was a carpenter, and i've always lived here; but we have people who are farmers, and i know how it is with them." "why, when i think of it now it makes me crawl! to think of getting up in the morning before daylight, and going out to the barn to do chores, to get ready to go into the field to work! working, wasting y'r life on dirt. goin' round and round in a circle, and never getting out." "it's just the same for us women," she corroborated. "think of us going around the house day after day, and doing just the same things over an' over, year after year! that's the whole of most women's lives. dish-washing almost drives me crazy." "i know it," said albert; "but a fellow has t' do it. if his folks are workin' hard, why, of course he can't lay around and study. they're not to blame. i don't know that anybody's to blame." "no, i don't; but it makes me sad to see mother going around as she does, day after day. she won't let me do as much as i would." the girl looked at her slender hands. "you see, i'm not very strong. it makes my heart ache to see her going around in that quiet, patient way; she's so good." "i know, i know! i've felt just like that about my mother and father, too." there was a long pause, full of deep feeling, and then the girl continued in a low, hesitating voice: "mother's had an awful hard time since father died. we had to go to keeping boarders, which was hard--very hard for mother." the boy felt a sympathetic lump in his throat as the girl went on again: "but she doesn't complain, and she didn't want me to come home from school; but of course i couldn't do anything else." it didn't occur to either of them that any other course was open, nor that there was any heroism or self-sacrifice in the act; it was simply _right_. "well, i'm not going to drudge all my life," said the boy at last. "i know it's kind o' selfish, but i can't live on a farm; it 'u'd kill me in a year. i've made up my mind to study law and enter the bar. lawyers manage to get hold of enough to live on decently, and that's more than you can say of the farmers. and they live in town, where something is going on once in a while, anyway." in the pause which followed, footsteps were heard on the walk outside, and the girl sprang up with a beautiful blush. "my stars! i didn't think--i forgot--i must go." hartley burst into the room shortly after she left it, in his usual breeze. "hul-_lo!_ still at the latin, hey?" "yes," said bert, with ease. "how goes it?" "oh, i'm whooping 'er up! i'm getting started in great shape. been up to the courthouse and roped in three of the county officials. in these small towns the big man is the politician or the clergyman. i've nailed the politicians through the ear; now you must go for the ministers to head the list--that's your lay-out." "how 'm i t' do it?" said bert, in an anxious tone. "i can't sell books if they don't want 'em." "yes, yeh can. that's the trade. offer a big discount. say full calf, two fifty; morocco, two ninety. regular discount to the clergy, ye know. oh, they're on to that little racket--no trouble. if you can get a few of these leaders of the flock, the rest will follow like lambs to the slaughter. tra-la-la--who-o-o-_ish_, whish!" albert laughed at hartley as he plunged his face into the ice-cold water, puffing and wheezing. "jeemimy crickets! but ain't that water cold! i worked rock river this way last month, and made a boomin' success. if you take hold here in the----" "oh, i'm all ready to do anything that is needed, short of being kicked out." "no danger of that if you're a real book agent. it's the snide that gets kicked. you've got t' have some savvy in this, just like any other business." he stopped in his dressing to say, "we've struck a great boarding place, hey?" "looks like it." "i begin t' cotton to the old lady a'ready. good 'eal like mother used t' be 'fore she broke down. didn't the old lady have a time of it raisin' me? phewee! patient! job wasn't a patchin'. but the test is goin' t' come on the biscuit; if her biscuit comes up t' mother's i'm hern till death." he broke off to comb his hair, a very nice bit of work in his case. ii. there was no discernible reason why the little town should have been called tyre, and yet its name was as characteristically american as its architecture. it had the usual main street lined with low brick or wooden stores--a street which developed into a road running back up a wide, sandy valley away from the river. being a county town, it had a courthouse in a yard near the center of the town, and a big summer hotel. the valley was peculiarly picturesque. curiously shaped and oddly distributed hills rose out of the valley sand abruptly, forming a sort of amphitheater in which the village lay. these square-topped hills rose to a common level, showing that they were not the result of an upheaval, but were the remains of the original stratification left standing after the vast scooping action of the post-glacial floods. the abrupt cliffs and lone huge pillars and peaks rising out of tamarack swamps here and there showed the original layers of rock unmoved. they looked like ruined walls of castles ancient as hills, on whose massive tops time had sown sturdy oaks and cedars. they lent a distinct air of romance to the valley at all times; but when in summer vines clambered over their rugged sides and underbrush softened their broken lines, it was not at all difficult to imagine them the remains of an unrecorded, very warlike people. even now, in winter, with yellow-brown and green cedars standing starkly upon their summits, the hickories and small ashes blue-black with their masses of fine bare limbs meshed against the snow, these towers had a distinct charm. the weather was glorious winter, and in the early morning when the trees glistened with frost, or at evening when the white light of the sun was softened and violet shadows lay along the snow, the whole valley was a delight to the eye, full of distinct and lasting charm, part of the beautiful and strange mississippi river scenery. in the campaign which hartley began albert did his best, and his best was done unconsciously, for the charm of his manner (all unknown to himself) was the most potent factor in securing consideration. "i'm not a book agent," he said to one of the clergymen to whom he first appealed; "i'm a student trying to sell a good book and make a little money to help me to complete my course at the university." he did not go to the back door, but walked up to the front, asked to see the minister, and placed his case at once before him with a smiling candor and a leisurely utterance quite the opposites of the brazen timidity and rapid, parrot-like tone of the professional. he secured three clergymen of the place to head his list, much to the delight and admiration of hartley. "good! now corral the alumni of the place. work the fraternal racket to the bitter end. oh, say! there's a sociable to-morrow night; i guess we'd better go, hadn't we?" "go alone?" "alone? no! take some girls. i'm going to take neighbor picket's daughter; she's homely as a hedge fence, but i'll take her--great scheme!" "hartley, you're an infernal fraud!" "nothing of the kind--i'm business," ended hartley, with a laugh. after supper the following day, as albert was still lingering at the table with the girls and mrs. welsh, he thought of the sociable, and said on the impulse: "are you going to the sociable?" "no; i guess not." "would you go if i asked you?" "try me and see!" answered the girl, with a laugh, her color rising. "all right. miss welsh, will you attend the festivity of the evening under my guidance and protection?" "yes, thank you." "i'll be ready before you are." "no doubt; i've got to wash the dishes." "i'll wash the dishes; you go get ready," said the self-regardless mother. albert felt that he had one of the loveliest girls in the room as he led maud down the floor of the vestry of the church, filled with laughing young people moving about or seated at the long tables. maud's cheeks were full of delicate color and her eyes shone with maidenly delight as they took seats at the table to sip a little coffee and nibble a bit of cake. "i suppose they _must_ have my fifteen cents some way," said albert, in a low voice, "and i guess we'd better sit down." maud introduced him to a number of young people who had been students at the university. they received him cordially, and in a very short time he was enjoying himself very well indeed. he was reminded rather disagreeably of his office, however, by seeing hartley surrounded by a laughing crowd of the more frolicsome young people. he winked at albert, as much as to say, "good stroke of business." the evening passed away with songs, games, and recitations, and it was nearly eleven o'clock when the young people began to wander off toward home in pairs. albert and maud were among the first of the young folks to bid the rest good night. the night was clear and cold, but perfectly still, and the young people, arm in arm, walked slowly homeward under the bare maples, in delicious companionship. albert held her arm close to his side. "are you cold?" he asked in a low voice. "no, thank you; the night is lovely," she replied; then added with a sigh, "i don't like sociables so well as i used to--they tire me out." "we stayed too long." "it wasn't that; i'm getting so they seem kind o' silly." "well, i feel a little that way myself," he confessed. "but there is so little to see here in tyre at any time--no music, no theaters. i like theaters, don't you?" "i can't go half enough." "but nothing worth seeing ever comes into these little towns--and then we're all so poor, anyway." the lamp, turned low, was emitting a terrible odor as they entered the sitting room. "my goodness! it's almost twelve o'clock. good night." she held out her hand. "good night," he said, taking it, and giving it a cordial pressure which she remembered long. "good night," she repeated softly, going up the stairs. hartley came in a few moments later, and found bert sitting thoughtfully by the fire, with his coat and shoes off, evidently in deep abstraction. "well, i got away at last--much as ever. great scheme, that sociable, eh? i saw your little girl introducing you right and left." "say, hartley, i wish you'd leave her out of this thing; i don't like the way you speak of her when----" "phew! you don't? oh, all right! i'm mum as an oyster--only keep it up! get in all the church sociables, and all that; there's nothing like it." hartley soon had canvassers out along the country roads, and was working every house in town. the campaign promised to lengthen into a month, perhaps longer. albert especially became a great favorite. every one declared there had never been such book agents in the town: such gentlemanly fellows, they didn't press anybody to buy; they didn't rush about and "poke their noses where they were not wanted." they were more like merchants with books to sell. the only person who failed to see the attraction in them was ed brann, who was popularly supposed to be engaged to maud. he grew daily more sullen and repellent, toward albert noticeably so. one evening about six, after coming in from a long walk about town, albert entered his room without lighting his lamp, lay down on the bed, and fell asleep. he had been out late the night before with maud at a party, and slumber came almost instantly. maud came in shortly, hearing no response to her knock, and after hanging some towels on the rack went out without seeing the sleeper. in the sitting room she met ed brann. he was a stalwart young man with curling black hair, and a heavy face at its best, but set and sullen now. his first words held a menace: "say, maud, i want t' talk to you." "very well; what is it, ed?" replied the girl quietly. "i want to know how often you're going to be out till twelve o'clock with this book agent?" perhaps it was the derisive inflection on "book agent" that woke albert. brann's tone was brutal--more brutal even than his words, and the girl turned pale and her breath quickened. "why, ed, what's the matter?" "matter is just this: you ain't got any business goin' around with that feller with my ring on your finger, that's all." he ended with an unmistakable threat in his voice. "very well," said the girl, after a pause, curiously quiet; "then i won't; here's your ring." the man's bluster disappeared instantly. bert could tell by the change in his voice, which was incredibly great, as he pleaded: "oh, don't do that, maud; i didn't mean to say that; i was mad--i'm sorry." "i'm _glad_ you did it _now_, so i can know you. take your ring, ed; i never'll wear it again." albert had heard all this, but he did not know how the girl looked as she faced the man. in the silence which followed she looked him in the face, and scornfully passed him and went out into the kitchen. he did not return at supper. young people of this sort are not self-analysts, and maud did not examine closely into causes. she was astonished to find herself more indignant than grieved. she broke into an angry wail as she went to her mother's bosom: "mother! mother!" "why, what's the matter, maudie? tell me. there, there! don't cry, pet! who's been hurtin' my poor little bird?" "ed has; he said--he said----" "there, there! poor child! have you been quarreling? never mind; it'll come out all right." "no, it won't--not the way you mean," the girl cried, lifting her head; "i've given him back his ring, and i'll never wear it again." the mother could not understand with what wounding brutality the man's tone had fallen upon the girl's spirit, and maud felt in some way as if she could not explain sufficiently to justify herself. mrs. welsh consoled herself with the idea that it was only a lovers' quarrel--one of the little jars sure to come when two natures are settling together--and that all would be mended in a day or two. but there was a peculiar set look on the girl's face that promised little for brann. albert, being no more of a self-analyst than maud, simply said, "served him right," and dwelt no more upon it for the time. at supper, however, he was extravagantly gay, and to himself unaccountably so. he joked troutt till maud begged him to stop, and after the rest had gone he remained seated at the table, enjoying the indignant color in her face and the flash of her infrequent smile, which it was such a pleasure to provoke. he volunteered to help wash the dishes. "thank you, but i'm afraid you'd be more bother than help," she replied. "thank _you_, but you don't know me. i ain't so green as i look, by no manner o' means. i've been doing my own housekeeping for four terms." "i know all about that," laughed the girl. "you young men rooming do precious little cooking and no dish-washing at all." "that's a base calumny! i made it a point to wash every dish in the house, except the spider, once a week; had a regular cleaning-up day." "and about the spider?" "i wiped that out nicely with a newspaper every time i wanted to use it." "oh, horrors!--mother, listen to that!" "why, what more could you ask? you wouldn't have me wipe it _six_ times a day, would you?" "i wonder it didn't poison you," commented mrs. welsh. "takes more'n that to poison a student," laughed albert, as he went out. the next afternoon he came bursting into the kitchen, where maud stood with her sleeves rolled up, deep in the dish pan, while stella stood wiping the dishes handed to her. "don't you want a sleigh ride?" he asked, boyishly eager. she looked up with shining eyes. "oh, wouldn't i!--can you get along, mother?" "certainly, child; the air'll do you good." "w'y, maud!" said the little girl, "you said you didn't want to when ed----" mrs. welsh silenced her, and said: "run right along, dear; it's just the nicest time o' day. are there many teams out?" "they're just beginning t' come out," said albert. "i'll have a cutter around here in about two jiffies; be on hand, sure." troutt was standing in the sunny doorway of his stable when the young fellow dashed up to him. "hullo, uncle troutt! harness the fastest nag into your swellest outfit instanter." "aha! goin' t' take y'r girl out, hey?" "yes; and i want 'o do it in style." "i guess ol' dan's the idee, if you can drive him; he's a ring-tailed snorter." "fast?" "nope; but safe. gentle as a kitten and as knowin' as a fox. drive him with one hand--left hand," the old man chuckled. "troutt, you're an insinuating old insinuator, and i'll----" troutt laughed till his long faded beard flapped up and down and quivered with the stress of his enjoyment of his joke. he ended by hitching a vicious-looking sorrel to a gay, duck-bellied cutter, saying as he gave up the reins: "now, be keerful; dan's foxy; he's all right when he sees you've got the reins, but don't drop 'em." "don't you worry about me; i grew up with horses," said the over-confident youth, leaping into the sleigh and gathering up the lines. "stand aside, my lord, and let the cortÃ�¨ge pass. hoop-la!" the brute gave a tearing lunge, and was out of the doorway like a shot before the old man could utter a word. albert thrilled with pleasure as he felt the reins stiffen in his hands, while the traces swung slack beside the thills. "if he keeps this up he'll do," he thought. as he turned up at the gate maud came gayly down the path, muffled to the eyes. "oh, what a nice cutter! but the horse--is he gentle?" she asked, as she climbed in. "as a cow," albert replied.--"git out o' this, bones!" the main street was already full of teams, wood sleighs, bob-sleighs filled with children, and here and there a man in a light cutter alone, out for a race. laughter was on the air, and the jingle-jangle of bells. the sun was dazzling in its brightness, and the gay wraps and scarfs lighted up the street with flecks of color. loafers on the sidewalks fired a fusillade of words at the teams as they passed: "go it, bones!" "'let 'er _go_, gallagher!'" "ain't she a daisy!" but what cared the drivers? if the shouts were insolent they laid them to envy, and if they were pleasant they smiled in reply. albert and maud had made two easy turns up and down the street, when a man driving a span of large black-hawk horses dashed up a side street and whirled in just before them. the man was a superb driver, and sat with the reins held carelessly but securely in his left hand, guiding the team more by his voice than by the bit. he sat leaning forward with his head held down in a peculiar and sinister fashion. "_hel_-lo!" cried bert; "that looks like brann." "it is," said maud. "cracky! that's a fine team--black hawks, both of them. i wonder if ol' sorrel can pass 'em?" "oh, please don't try," pleaded the girl. "why not?" "because--because i'm afraid." "afraid of what?" "afraid something'll happen." "something _is_ goin' t' happen; i'm goin' t' pass him if old bones has got any _git_ to him." "it'll make him mad." "who mad? brann?" "yes." "well, s'pose it does, who cares?" the teams moved along at an easy pace. some one called to brann: "they're on y'r trail, ed." there was something peculiar in the tone, and brann looked behind for the first time, and saw them. he swore through his teeth, and turned about. he looked dogged and sullen, with his bent shoulders and his chin thrust down. there were a dozen similar rigs moving up or down the street, and greetings passed from sleigh to sleigh. everybody except brann welcomed albert with sincere pleasure, and exchanged rustic jokes with him. as they slowed up at the upper end of the street and began to turn, a man on the sidewalk said confidentially: "say, cap', if you handle that old rack-o'-bones just right, he'll distance anything on this road. when you want him to do his best let him have the rein; don't pull a pound. i used to own 'im--i know 'im." the old sorrel came round "gauming," his ugly head thrown up, his great red mouth open, his ears back. brann and the young doctor of the place were turning together a little farther up the street. the blacks, superbly obedient to their driver, came down with flying hoofs, their great glossy breasts flecked with foam from their champing jaws. "come on, fellers!" yelled brann, insultingly, as he came down past the doctor, and seemed about to pass albert and maud. there was hate in the glare of his eyes. but he did not pass. the old sorrel seemed to lengthen; to the spectators his nose appeared to be glued to the glossy side of brann's off black. "see them blacks trot!" shouted albert, in ungrammatical enthusiasm. "see that old sorrel shake himself!" yelled the loafers. the doctor came tearing down with a spirited bay, a magnificent stepper. as he drew along so that bert could catch a glimpse of the mare's neck, he thrilled with delight. there was the thoroughbred's lacing of veins; the proud fling of her knees and the swell of her neck showed that she was far from doing her best. there was a wild light in her eyes. these were the fast teams of the town. all interest was centered in them. "clear the track!" yelled the loafers. "the doc's good f'r 'em." "if she don't break." albert was pulling at the sorrel heavily, absorbed in seeing, as well as he could for the flung snowballs, the doctor's mare draw slowly, foot by foot, past the blacks. suddenly brann gave a shrill yell and stood up in his sleigh. the gallant little bay broke and fell behind; brann gave a loud laugh; the blacks trotted on, their splendid pace unchanged. "let the sorrel out!" yelled somebody. "let him loose!" yelled troutt on the corner, quivering with excitement. "let him go!" albert remembered what the fellow had said; he let the reins loose. the old sorrel's teeth came together with a snap; his head lowered and his tail rose; he shot abreast of the blacks. brann yelled: "sam--saul, _git!_" "see them trot!" shouted bert, lost in admiration; but maud, frightened into silence, had covered her head with the robe to escape the blinding cloud of flying snow. the sorrel drew steadily ahead; he was passing when brann turned. "durn y'r old horse!" he yelled through his shut teeth, and laid the whip across the sorrel's hips. the blacks broke wildly, but, strange to say, the old sorrel increased his speed. again brann struck at him, but missed him, and the stroke fell on bert's outstretched wrists. he turned to see what brann meant by it; he did not see that the blacks were crowding him to the gutter; his hands felt numb. "look _out_, there!" before he could turn to look, the cutter seemed to be blown up by a bomb, and he rose in the air like a vaulter; he saw the traces part, he felt the reins slip through his hands, and that was all; he seemed to fall an immeasurable depth into a black abyss.... the next that he knew was a curious soft murmur of voices, out of which a sweet, agonized girl-voice broke, familiar but unrecognized: "oh, where's the doctor! he's dead--oh, he's dead! _can't_ you hurry?" next came a quick, authoritative voice, still far away, and a hush followed it; then an imperative order: "stand out o' the way! what do you think you can do by crowding on top of him?" "stand back! stand back!" other voices called. then he felt something cold on his head: they were taking his cap off and putting snow on his head; then the doctor (he knew him now) said: "let me take him!" "oh, can't i do something?" said the sweet voice. "no--nothing." then there came a strange fullness in his head. shadows lighted by dull red flashes passed before his eyes; he wondered, in a slow, dull way, if he were dying. then this changed: a dull, throbbing ache came into his head, and as this grew the noise of voices grew more distinct and he could hear sobbing. then the dull, rhythmic red flashes passed slowly away from his eyes, and he opened his lids, but the glare of the sunlight struck them shut again; he saw only maud's face, agonized, white, and wet with tears, looking down into his. he felt the doctor's hands winding bandages about his head, and he felt a crawling stream of blood behind his ear, getting as cold as ice as it sank under his collar. they raised him a little more, and he opened his eyes on the circle of hushed and excited men thronging about him. he saw brann, with wild, scared face, standing in his cutter and peering over the heads of the crowd. "how do you feel now?" asked the doctor. "can you hear us? albert, do you know me?" called the girl. his lips moved stiffly, but he smiled a little, and at length whispered slowly, "yes; i guess--i'm all--right." "put him into my cutter; maud, get in here, too," the doctor commanded, with all the authority of a physician in a small village. the crowd opened, and silenced its muttered comments as the doctor and troutt helped the wounded man into the sleigh. the pain in his head grew worse, but albert's perception of things grew in proportion; he closed his eyes to the sun, but in the shadow of maud's breast opened them again and looked up at her. he felt a vague, childlike pleasure in knowing she was holding him in her arms; he felt the sleigh moving; he thought of his mother, and how it would frighten her if she knew. the doctor was driving the horse and walking beside the sleigh, and the people were accosting him. albert could catch their words now and then, and the reply: "no; he isn't killed, nor anything near it; he's stunned, that's all; he isn't bleeding now. no; he'll be all right in a day or two." "hello!" said a breathless, hearty voice, "what the deuce y' been doing with my pardner? bert, old fellow, are you there?" hartley asked, clinging to the edge of the moving cutter, and peering into his friend's face. albert smiled. "i'm here--what there is left of me," he replied faintly. "glory! how'd it happen?" he asked of the girl. "i don't know--i couldn't see--we ran into a culvert," replied maud. "weren't you hurt?" "not a bit. i stayed in the cutter." albert felt a steady return of waves of pain, but did not know that they were waves of returning life. he groaned, and tried to rise. the girl gently but firmly restrained him. hartley was walking beside the doctor, talking loudly. "it was a devilish thing to do; the scoundrel ought 'o be jugged!" albert groaned, and tried to rise again. "i'm bleeding yet; i'm soaking you!" the girl shuddered, but remained firm. "no; we're 'most home." she felt no shame, but a certain exaltation, as she looked into the curious faces she saw in groups on the sidewalk. the boys who ran alongside wore in their faces a look of awe, for they imagined themselves in the presence of death. maud gazed unrecognizingly upon her nearest girl friends. they seemed something alien in that moment; and they, gazing upon her white face and unrecognizing eyes, spoke in awed whispers. at the gate the crowd gathered and waited with deepest interest, with a sort of shuddering pleasure. it was all a strange, unusual, inthralling romance to them. the dazzling sunshine added to the wonder of it all. "ed brann done it." "how?" asked several. "with the butt end of his whip." "that's a lie! his team ran into lohr's rig." "not much; ed crowded him into the ditch." "what fer?" "'cause bert cut him out with maud." "come, get out of the way! don't stand there gabbing," yelled hartley, as he took albert in his arms and, together with the doctor, lifted him out of the sleigh. "goodness sakes alive! ain't it terrible! how is he?" asked an old lady, peering at him as he passed. on the porch stood mrs. welsh, supported by ed brann. "she's all right, i tell you. he ain't hurt much, either; just stunned a little, that's all." "maud! child!" cried the mother, as maud appeared out of the crowd, followed by a bevy of girls. "mother, _i'm_ all right!" she said as gayly as she could, running into the trembling arms outstretched toward her; "but, oh, poor albert!" after they disappeared into the house the crowd dispersed. brann went off by way of the alley; he was not prepared to meet their questions; but he met his brother and several others in his store. "now, what in----you been up to?" was the fraternal greeting. "nothing." "welting a man on the head with a whip-stock ain't anything, hey?" "i didn't touch him. we was racing, and he run into the culvert." "hank says he saw you strike----" "he lies! i was strikin' the horse to make him break." "oh, yeh was!" sneered the older man. "well, i hope you understand that this'll ruin us in this town. if you didn't strike him, they'll say you run him into the culvert, 'n' every man, woman, 'n' child'll be down on you, and _me_ f'r bein' related to you. they all know how you feel towards him for cuttin' you out with maud welsh." "oh, don't bear down on him too hard, joe. he didn't mean t' do any harm," said troutt, who had followed ed down to the store. "i guess the young feller'll come out all right. just go kind o' easy till we see how he comes out. if he dies, why, it'll haf t' be looked into." ed turned pale and swallowed hastily. "if he should die!" he would be a murderer; he knew that hate was in his heart. he shivered again as he remembered the man's white face with the bright red stream flowing down behind his ear and over his cheek. it almost seemed to him that he _had_ struck him, so close had the accident followed upon the fall of his whip. iii. albert sank into a feverish sleep that night, with a vague perception of four figures in the room--maud, her mother, hartley, and the young doctor. when he awoke fully in the morning his head felt prodigiously hot and heavy. it was early dawn, and the lamp was burning brightly. outside, a man's feet could be heard on the squealing snow--a sound which told how still and cold it was. a team passed with a jingle of bells. albert raised his head and looked about. hartley was lying on the sofa, rolled up in his overcoat and some extra quilts. he had lain down at last, worn with watching. albert felt a little weak, and fell back on his pillow, thinking about the strange night he had passed--a night more filled with strange happenings than the afternoon. his sleep had been broken by the most vivid and exciting dreams, and through these visions had moved the figures of hartley, the doctor, and maud and her mother. he had a confused idea of the night, but a very clear idea of the afternoon. he could see the sidewalks lined with faces, the sun shining on the snow, the old sorrel's side-flung head and open mouth; the sleigh rose under him again, and he felt the reins burn through his hands. as the light grew in the room his mind cleared, and he began to feel quite like himself again. he lifted his muscular arm and opened and shut his hand, saying aloud in his old boyish manner: "i guess i'm all here." "what's that?" called hartley, rolling out of bed. "did you ask for anything?" "no--yes; gimme some water, jim; my mouth is dry as a powder mill." "how yeh feelin', anyway, pardner?" said hartley, as he brought the water. "first rate, jim; i guess i'll be all right." "well, i guess you'd better keep quiet." albert rose partly, assisted by his friend, and drank from the glass a moment; then fell back on his pillow. "i don't feel s' well when i sit up." "well, don't, then; stay right there where you are. oh-um!" gaped hartley, stretching himself; "it's about time f'r breakfast, i guess. want y'r hands washed and y'r hair combed?" "i guess i ain't reduced to _that_ yet." "well, i guess y' _be_, old man. now keep _quiet_, or have i got t' make yeh?" he asked in a threatening tone which made albert smile. he wondered if hartley hadn't been sitting up most of the night; but if he had, he showed little effect of it, for he began to sing a comic song as he pulled on his boots. he threw on his coat next, and went out into the kitchen, returning soon with some hot water, with which he began to bathe the wounded boy's face and hands as tenderly as a woman. "there; now i guess you're in shape f'r grub--feel any like grub?--come in," he called in answer to a knock on the door. mrs. welsh entered. "how is he?" she whispered anxiously. "oh, i'm all right," cried albert. "bring me a plate of pancakes, quick!" mrs. welsh turned to hartley with a startled expression, but hartley's grin assured her. "i'm glad to find you so much better," she said, going to his bedside. "i've hardly slep', i was so much worried about you." it was very sweet to feel her fingers in his hair, as his mother would have caressed him. "i guess i hadn't better take off the bandages till the doctor comes, if you're comfortable.--your breakfast is ready, mr. hartley, and i'll bring something for albert." another knock a few minutes later, and maud entered with a platter, followed closely by her mother, who carried some tea and milk. maud came forward timidly, but when he turned his eyes on her and said in a cheery voice, "good morning, miss welsh!" she flamed out in rosy color and recoiled. she had expected to see him pale, dull-eyed, and with a weak voice, but there was little to indicate invalidism in his firm greeting. she gave place to mrs. welsh, who prepared his breakfast. she was smitten dumb by this turn of affairs; she hardly dared look at him as he sat propped up in bed. the crimson trimming on his shirt-front seemed like streams of blood; his head, swathed in bandages, made her shudder. but aside from these few suggestions of wounding, there was little of the horror of the previous day left. he did not look so pale and worn as the girl herself. however, though he was feeling absurdly well, there was a good deal of bravado in his tone and manner, for he ate but little, and soon sank back on the bed. "i feel better when my head is low," he explained in a faint voice. "can't i do something?" asked the girl, her courage reviving as she saw how ill and faint he really was. his eyes were closed and he looked the invalid now. "i guess you better write to his folks." "no; don't do that," he said, opening his eyes; "it will only do them harm an' me no good. i'll be all right in a few days. you needn't waste your time on me; hartley'll wait on me." "mr. lohr, how can you say such cruel----" "don't mind him now," said mrs. welsh. "i'm his mother now, and he's goin' to do just as i tell him to--ain't you, albert?" he dropped his eyelids in assent, and went off in a doze. it was all very pleasant to be thus treated. hartley was devotion itself, and the doctor removed his bandages with the care and deliberation of a man with a moderate practice; besides, he considered albert a personal friend. hartley, after the doctor had gone, said with some hesitation: "well, now, pard, i _ought_ to go out and see a couple o' fellows i promised t' meet this morning." "all right, jim; all right. you go right ahead on business; i'm goin' t' sleep, anyway, and i'll be all right in a day or two." "well, i will; but i'll run in every hour 'r two and see if you don't want something. you're in good hands, anyway, when i'm gone." "won't you read to me?" pleaded albert in the afternoon, when maud came in with her mother to brush up the room. "it's getting rather slow business layin' here like this. course i can't ask jim to stay and read all the time, and he's a bad reader, anyway; won't you?" "shall i, mother?" "why, of course, maud!" so maud got a book, and sat down over by the stove, quite distant from the bed, and read to him from "the lady of the lake," while the mother, like a piece of tireless machinery, moved about the house at the never-ending succession of petty drudgeries which wear the heart and soul out of so many wives and mothers, making life to them a pilgrimage from stove to pantry, from pantry to cellar, and from cellar to garret--a life that deadens and destroys, coarsens and narrows, till the flesh and bones are warped to the expression of the wronged and cheated soul. albert's selfishness was in a way excusable. he enjoyed beyond measure the sound of the girl's soft voice and the sight of her graceful head bent over the page. he lay, looking and listening dreamily, till the voice and the sunlit head were lost in his deep, sweet sleep. the girl sat with closed book, looking at his face as he slept. it was a curious study to her, a young man--_this_ young man, asleep. his brown lashes lay on his cheek; his facial lines were as placid as a child's. as she looked she gained courage to go over softly and peer down on him. how boyish he seemed! how little to be feared! how innocent, after all! as she studied him she thought of him the day before, with closed eyes, a ghastly stream of blood flowing down and soaking her dress. she shuddered. his hands, clean and strong and white, lay out on the coverlet, loose and open, the fingers fallen into graceful lines. abruptly, a boy outside gave a shout, and she leaped away with a sudden spring that left her pale and breathless. as she paused in the door and looked back at the undisturbed sleeper, she smiled, and the pink came back into her thin face. albert's superb young blood began to assert itself, and on the afternoon of the second day he was able to sit in his rocking chair before the fire and read a little, though he professed that his eyes were not strong, in order that maud should read for him. this she did as often as she could leave her other work, which was "not half often enough," the invalid grumbled. "more than you deserve," she found courage to say. hartley let nothing interfere with the book business, and the popular sympathy for albert he coined into dollars remorselessly. "you take it easy," he kept saying to his partner; "don't you worry--your pay goes on just the same. you're doing well right where you are. by jinks! biggest piece o' luck," he went on, half in earnest. "why, i can't turn around without taking an order--fact! turned in a book on the livery bill--that's all right. we'll make a clear hundred dollars out o' that little bump o' yours." "little bump! say, now, that's----" "keep it up--put it on! don't get up in a hurry. i don't need you to canvass, and i guess you enjoy this 'bout as well." he ended with a sly wink and cough. yes; the convalescence was delicious; afterward it grew to be one of the sweetest weeks of his life. maud reading to him, bringing his food, and singing for him----yes; all that marred it was the stream of people who came to inquire how he was getting along. the sympathy was largely genuine, as hartley could attest, but it bored the invalid. he had rather be left in quiet with walter scott and maud, the drone of the long descriptive passages being a sure soporific. he did not say, as an older person might, that she was not to be held accountable for what she did under the stress and tumult of that day; but he unconsciously did so regard her actions, led to do so by the changed conditions. in the light of common day it was hurrying to be a dream. at the end of a week he was quite himself again, though he still had difficulty in wearing his hat. it was not till the second sunday after the accident that he appeared in the dining room for the first time, with a large traveling cap concealing the suggestive bandages. he looked pale and thin, but his eyes danced with joy. maud's eyes dilated with instant solicitude. the rest sprang up in surprise, with shouts of delight, as hearty as brethren. "ginger! i'm glad t' see yeh!" said troutt, so sincerely that he looked almost winning to the boy. the rest crowded around, shaking hands. "oh, i'm on deck again." ed brann came in a moment later with his brother, and there was a significant little pause--a pause which grew painful till albert turned and saw brann, and called out: "hello, ed! how are you? didn't know you were here." as he held out his hand, brann, his face purple with shame and embarrassment, lumbered heavily across the room and took it, muttering some poor apology. "hope y' don't blame me." "of course not--fortunes o' war. nobody to blame; just my carelessness.--yes; i'll take turkey," he said to maud, as he sank into the seat of honor at the head of the table. then the rest laughed and took seats, but brann remained standing near albert's chair. he had not finished yet. "i'm mighty glad yeh don't lay it up against me, lohr; an' i want 'o say the doctor's bill is all right; you un'erstand, it's _all right_." albert looked at him a moment in surprise. he knew this, coming from a man like brann, meant more than a thousand prayers from a ready apologist; it was a terrible victory, and he made it as easy for his rival as possible. "oh, all right, ed; only i'd calculated to cheat him out o' part of it--that is, turn in a couple o' blaine's 'twenty years' on the bill." hartley roared, and the rest joined in, but not even albert perceived all that it meant. it meant that the young savage had surrendered his claim in favor of the man he had all but killed. the struggle had been prodigious, but he had snatched victory out of defeat; his better nature had conquered. no one ever gave him credit for it; and when he went west in the spring, people said his love for maud had been superficial. in truth, he had loved the girl as sincerely as he had hated his rival. that he could rise out of the barbaric in his love and hate was heroic. when albert went to ride again, it was on melting snow, with the slowest horse troutt had. maud was happier than she had been since she left school, and fuller of color and singing. she dared not let a golden moment pass now without hearing it ring full, and she did not dare to think how short this day of happiness might be. iv. at the end of the fifth week there was a suspicion of spring in the wind as it swept the southern exposure of the valley. february was drawing to a close, and there was more than a suggestion of spring in the rapidly melting snow which still lay on the hills and under the cedars and tamaracks in the swamps. patches of green grass, appearing on the sunny side of the road where the snow had melted, led to predictions of spring from the loafers beginning to sun themselves on the salt-barrels and shoe-boxes outside the stores. a group sitting about the blacksmith shop were talking it. "it's an early seedin'--now mark my words," said troutt, as he threw his knife into the soft ground at his feet. "the sun is crossing the line earlier this spring than it did last." "yes; an' i heard a crow to-day makin' that kind of a--a spring noise that kind o'--i d' know what--kind o' goes all through a feller." "and there's uncle sweeney, an' that settles it; spring's comin' sure!" said troutt, pointing at an old man much bent, hobbling down the street like a symbolic figure of the old year. "when _he_ gits out the frogs ain't fur behind." "we'll be gittin' on to the ground by next monday," said sam dingley to a crowd who were seated on the newly painted harrows and seeders which "svend & johnson" had got out ready for the spring trade. "svend & johnson's agricultural implement depot" was on the north side of the street, and on a spring day the yard was one of the pleasantest loafing places that could be imagined, especially if one wished company. albert wished to be alone. something in the touch and tone of this spring afternoon made him restless and full of strange thoughts. he took his way out along the road which followed the river bank, and in the outskirts of the village threw himself down on a bank of grass which the snows had protected, and which had already a tinge of green because of its wealth of sun. the willows had thrown out their tiny light green flags, though their roots were under the ice, and some of the hard-wood twigs were tinged with red. there was a faint, peculiar but powerful odor of uncovered earth in the air, and the touch of the wind was like a caress from a moist magnetic hand. the boy absorbed the light and heat of the sun as some wild thing might, his hat over his face, his hands folded on his breast; he lay as still as a statue. he did not listen at first, he only felt; but at length he rose on his elbow and listened. the ice cracked and fell along the bank with a long, hollow, booming crash; a crow cawed, and a jay answered it from the willows below. a flight of sparrows passed, twittering innumerably. the boy shuddered with a strange, wistful longing and a realization of the flight of time. he could have wept, he could have sung; he only shuddered and lay silent under the stress of that strange, sweet passion that quickened his heart, deepened his eyes, and made his breath come and go with a quivering sound. across the dazzling blue arch of the sky the crow flapped, sending down his prophetic, jubilant note; the wind, as soft and sweet as april, stirred in his hair; the hills, deep in their dusky blue, seemed miles away; and the voices of the care-free skaters on the melting ice of the river below came to the ear subdued to a unity with the scene. suddenly a fear seized upon the boy--a horror! life, life was passing! life that can be lived only once, and lost, is lost forever! life, that fatal gift of the invisible powers to man--a path, with youth and joy and hope at its eastern gate, and despair, regret, and death at its low western portal! the boy caught a glimpse of his real significance--a gnat, a speck in the sun: a boy facing the millions of great and wise and wealthy. he leaped up, clasping his hands. "oh, i _must_ work! i mustn't stay here; i must get back to my studies. life is slipping by me, and i am doing nothing, being nothing!" his face, as pale as death, absolutely shone with his passionate resolution, and his hands were clinched in a silent, inarticulate desire. but on his way back he met the jocund party of skaters going home from the river, and with the easy shift and change of youth joined in their ringing laughter. the weird power of the wind's voice was gone, and he was the unthinking boy again; but the problem was only put off, not solved. he had a suspicion of it one night when hartley said: "well, pardner, we're getting 'most ready to pull out. some way i always get restless when these warm days begin. want 'o be moving some way." this was as sentimental as hartley ever got; or, if he ever felt more sentiment, he concealed it carefully. "i s'pose it must 'a' been in spring that those old chaps, on their steeds and in their steel shirts, started out for the holy land or to rescue some damsel, hey?" he ended, with a grin. "now, that's the way i feel--just like striking out for, say, oshkosh. this has been a big strike here, sure's you live; that little piece of lofty tumbling was a big boom, and no mistake. why, your share o' this campaign will be a hundred and twenty dollars sure." "more'n i've earned," replied bert. "no, it ain't. you've done your duty like a man. done as much in your way as i have. now, if you want to try another county with me, say so. i'll make a thousand dollars this year out o' this thing." "i guess i'll go back to school." "all right; don't blame you at all." "i guess, with what i can earn for father, i can pull through the year. i _must_ get back. i'm awfully obliged to you, jim." "that'll do on that," said hartley shortly; "you don't owe me anything. we'll finish delivery to-morrow, and be ready to pull out on friday or sat." there was an acute pain in albert's breast somewhere; he had not analyzed his case at all, and did not now, but the idea of going affected him strongly. it had been so pleasant, that daily return to a lovely girlish presence. "yes, sir," hartley was going on; "i'm going to just quietly leave a book on her center table. i don't know as it'll interest her much, but it'll show we appreciate the grub, and so on. by jinks! you don't seem to realize what a worker that woman is. up five o'clock in the morning--by the way, you've been going around with the girl a good deal, and she's introduced you to some first-rate sales; now, if you want 'o leave her a little something, make it a morocco copy, and charge it to the firm." albert knew that he meant well, but he couldn't, somehow, help saying ironically: "thanks; but i guess _one_ copy of blaine's 'twenty years' will be enough in the house, especially----" "well, give her anything you please, and charge it up to the firm. i don't insist on blaine; only suggested that because----" "i guess i can stand the expense of my own." "i didn't say you couldn't, man! but _i_ want a hand in this thing. don't be so turrible keen t' snap a feller up," said hartley, turning on him. "what the thunder is the matter of you anyway? i like the girl, and she's been good to us all round; she tended you like an angel----" "there, there! that's enough o' that," put in albert hastily. "f'r god's sake don't whang away on that string forever, as if i didn't know it!" hartley stared at him as he turned away. "well, by jinks! what _is_ the matter o' you?" he was too busy to dwell upon it much, but concluded his partner was homesick. albert was beginning to have a vague under-consciousness of his real feeling toward the girl, but he fought off the acknowledgment of it as long as possible. his mind moved in a circle, coming back to the one point ceaselessly--a dreary prospect, in which the slender girl-figure had no place--and each time the prospect grew more intolerably blank, and the pain in his heart more acute and throbbing. when he faced her that night, after they had returned from a final skating party down on the river, he was as far from a solution as ever. he had avoided all reference to their separation, and now he stood as a man might at the parting of two paths, saying: "i will not choose; i can not choose. i will wait for some sign, some chance thing, to direct me." they stood opposite each other, each feeling that there was more to be said; the girl tender, her eyes cast down, holding her hands to the fire; he shivering, but not with cold. he had a vague knowledge of the vast importance of the moment, and he hesitated to speak. "it's almost spring again, isn't it? and you've been here--" she paused and looked up with a daring smile--"seems as if you'd been here always." it was about half past eight. mrs. welsh was setting her bread in the kitchen; they could hear her moving about. hartley was downtown finishing up his business. albert's throat grew dry and his limbs trembled. his pause was ominous; the girl's smile died away as he took a seat without looking at her. "well, maud, i suppose--you know--we're going away to-morrow." "oh, must you? but you'll come back?" "i don't expect to--i don't see how." "oh, don't say that!" cried the girl, her face as white as silver, her clasped hands straining. "i must--i must!" he muttered, not looking at her, not daring to see her face. "oh, what can i do--_we_ do, without you! i can't bear it!" she stopped and sank back into a chair, her breath coming heavily from her twitching lips, the unnoticed tears falling from her staring, pitiful, wild, appealing eyes, her hands nervously twisting her gloves. there was a long silence. each was undergoing a self-revelation; each was trying to face a future without the other. "i must go!" he repeated aimlessly, mechanically. the girl's heavy breathing deepened into a wild little moaning sound, inexpressibly pitiful, her hungry eyes fixed on his face. she gave way first, and flung herself down upon her knees at his side, her hands seeking his neck. "albert, i can't _live_ without you now! take me with you! don't leave me!" he stooped suddenly and took her in his arms, raised her, and kissed her hair. "i didn't mean it, maud; i'll never leave you--never! don't cry!" she drew his face down to hers and kissed it, then turned her face to his breast and laughed and cried. there was a silence; then joy and confidence came back again. "i know now what you meant," the girl cried gayly, raising herself and looking into his face; "you were trying to scare me, and make me show how much i--cared for you--first!" there was a soft smile on her lips and a tender light in her eyes. "but i don't mind it." "i guess i didn't know myself what i meant," he said, with a grave smile. when mrs. welsh came in, they were sitting on the sofa, talking in low voices of their future. he was grave and subdued, while she was radiant with love and hope. the future had no terrors for her. all plans were good and successful now. but the boy unconsciously felt the gravity of life somehow deepened by his love. "why, maud!" mrs. welsh exclaimed, "what is----" "o mother, i'm so happy--just as happy as a bird!" she cried, rushing into her mother's arms. "why, why!--what is it? you're crying, dear!" "no, i'm not; i'm laughing--see!" mrs. welsh turned her dim eyes on the girl, who shook the tears from her lashes with the action of a bird shaking water from its wings. she seemed to shake off her trouble at the same moment. mrs. welsh understood perfectly. "i'm very glad, too, dearie," she said simply, looking at the young man with motherly love irradiating her worn face. albert went to her, and she kissed him, while the happy girl put her arms about them both in an ecstatic hug. "_now_ you've got a son, mother." "but i've lost a daughter--my first-born." "oh, wait till you hear our plans!" "he's going to settle down here--aren't you, albert?" then they sat down, all three, and had a sweet, intimate talk of an hour, full of plans and hopes and confidences. at last he kissed the radiant girl good night and, going into his own room, sat down by the stove and, watching the flicker of the flames through the chinks, pondered on the change that had come into his life. already he sighed with the stress of care, the press of thought, which came upon him. the longing uneasiness of the boy had given place to another unrest--the unrest of the man who must face the world in earnest now, planning for food and shelter; and all plans included maud. to go back to school was out of the question. to expect help from his father, overworked and burdened with debt, was impossible. he must go to work, and go to work to aid _her_. a living must be wrung from this town. all the home and all the property mrs. welsh had were here, and wherever maud went the mother must follow; she could not live without her. he was in the midst of the turmoil when hartley came in, humming the "mulligan guards." "in the dark, hey?" "completely in the dark." "well, light up, light up!" "i'm trying to." "what the deuce do you mean by that tone? what's been going on here since my absence?" albert did not reply, and hartley shuffled about after a match, lighted the lamp, threw his coat and hat in the corner, and then said: "well, i've got everything straightened up. been freezing out old daggett; the old skeesix has been promisin' f'r a week, and i just said, 'old man, i'll camp right down with you here till you fork over,' and he did. by the way, everybody i talked with to-day about leaving said, 'what's lohr going to do with that girl?' i told 'em i didn't know; do you? it seems you've been thicker'n i supposed." "i'm going to marry her," said albert calmly, but his voice sounded strangely alien. "what's that?" yelled hartley. "sh! don't raise the neighbors. i'm going to marry her." he spoke quietly, but there was a peculiar numbness creeping over him. "well, by jinks! when? say, looky here! well, i swanny!" exclaimed hartley helplessly. "when?" "right away; some time this summer--june, maybe." hartley thrust his hands into his trousers pockets, stretched out his legs, and stared at his friend in vast amaze. "you're givin' me guff!" "i'm in dead earnest." "i thought you was going through college all so fast?" "well, i've made up my mind it ain't much use to try," replied albert listlessly. "what y' goin' t' do here, or are y' goin' t' take the girl away with yeh?" "she can't leave her mother. we'll run this boarding house for the present. i'll try for the principalship of the school here. raff is going to resign, he says; if i can't get that, i'll get into a law office here. don't worry about me." "but why go into this so quick? why not put it off fifteen or twenty years?" asked hartley, trying to get back to cheerful voice. "what would be the use? at the end of a year i'd be just about as poor as i am now." "can't y'r father step in and help you?" "no. there are three boys and two girls, all younger than i, to be looked out for, and he has all he can carry. besides, _she_ needs me right here and right now. two delicate women struggling along; suppose one of 'em should fall sick? i tell you they need me, and if i can do anything to make life easy, or easier, i'm going t' do it. besides," he ended in a peculiar tone, "we don't feel as if we could live apart much longer." "but, great scott! man, you can't----" "now, hold on, jim! i've thought this thing all over, and i've made up my mind. it ain't any use to go on talking about it. what good would it do me to go to school another year, come out without a dollar, and no more fitted for earning a living for her than i am now? and, besides all that, i couldn't draw a free breath thinking of her here workin' away to keep things moving, liable at any minute to break down." hartley gazed at him in despair, and with something like awe. it was a tremendous transformation in the young, ambitious student. he felt in a way responsible for the calamity, and that he ought to use every effort to bring the boy to his senses. like most men in america, and especially western men, he still clung to the idea that a man was entirely responsible for his success or failure in life. he had not admitted that conditions of society might be so adverse that only men of most exceptional endowments, and willing and able to master many of the best and deepest and most sacred of their inspirations and impulses, could succeed. of the score of specially promising young fellows who had been with him at school, seventeen had dropped out and down. most of them had married and gone back to farming, or to earn a precarious living in the small, dull towns where farmers trade and traders farm. conditions were too adverse; they simply weakened and slipped slowly back into dullness and an oxlike or else a fretful patience. thinking of these men, and thinking their failure due to themselves alone, hartley could not endure the idea of his friend adding one more to the list of failures. he sprang up at last. "say, bert, you might just as well hang y'rself, and done with it! why, it's suicide! i can't allow it. i started in at college bravely, and failed because i'd let it go too long. i couldn't study--couldn't get down to it; but you--why, old man, i'd _bet_ on you!" he had a tremor in his voice. "i hate like thunder to see you give up your plans. say, you can't afford to do this; it's too much to pay." "no, it ain't." "i say it is. what do you get, in----" "i think so much o' her that----" "oh, nonsense! you'd get over this in a week." "jim!" called albert warningly, sharply. "all right," said jim, in the tone of a man who felt that it was all wrong--"all right; but the time'll come when you'll wish i'd--you ain't doin' the girl enough good to make up for the harm you're doin' yourself." he broke off again, and said in a tone of peculiar meaning: "i'm done. i'm all through, and i c'n see you're through with jim hartley. why, bert, look here--no? all right!" "darn curious," he muttered to himself, "that boy should get caught just at this time, and not with some one o' those girls in marion. well, it's none o' my funeral," he ended, with a sigh; for it had stirred him to the bottom of his sunny nature, after all. a dozen times, as he lay there beside his equally sleepless companion, he started to say something more in deprecation of the step, but each time stifled the opening word into a groan. it would not be true to say that love had come to albert lohr as a relaxing influence, but it had changed the direction of his energies so radically as to make his whole life seem weaker and lower. as long as his love-dreams went out toward a vague and ideal woman, supposedly higher and grander than himself, he was spurred on to face the terrible sheer escarpment of social eminence; but when he met, by accident, the actual woman who was to inspire his future efforts, the difficulties he faced took on solid reality. his aspirations fell to the earth, their wings clipped, and became, perforce, submissive beasts at the plow. the force that moved so much of his thought was transformed into other energy. whether it were a wise step or not he did not know; he certainly knew it was right. the table was very gay at dinner next day. maud was standing at the highest point of her girlhood dreams. her flushed face and shining eyes made her seem almost a child, and hartley wondered at her, and relented a little in the face of such happiness. her face was turned to albert in an unconscious, beautiful way; she had nothing to conceal now. mrs. welsh was happy, too, but a little tearful in an unobtrusive way. troutt had his jokes, of course, not very delicate, but of good intention. in fact, they were as flags and trumpets to the young people. mrs. welsh had confided in him, telling him to be secret; but the finesse of his joking could not fail to reveal everything he knew. but maud cared little. she was filled with a sort of tender boldness; and albert, in the delight of the hour, gave himself up wholly to a trust in the future and to the fragrance and music of love. "they're gay as larks now," thought hartley to himself, as he joined in the laughter; "but that won't help 'em any, ten years from now." he could hardly speak next day as he shook hands at the station with his friend. "good-by, ol' man; i hope it'll come out all right, but i'm afraid--but there! i promised not to say anything about it. good-by till we meet in congress," he ended in a lamentable attempt at being funny. "can't you come to the wedding, jim? we've decided on june. you see, they need a man around the house, so we--you'll come, won't you, old fellow? and don't mind my being a little crusty last night." "oh, yes; i'll come," jim said, in a tone which concealed a desire to utter one more protest. "it's no use; that ends him, sure's i'm a thief. he's jumped into a hole and pulled the hole in after him. a man can't marry a family like that at his age, and pull out of it. he _may_, but i doubt it. well, as i remarked before, it's none o' my funeral so long as _he's_ satisfied." but he said it with a painful lump in his throat, and he could not bring himself to feel that albert's course was right, and felt himself to be somehow culpable in the case. an alien in the pines. i. a man and a woman were pacing up and down the wintry station platform, waiting for a train. on every side the snow lay a stained and crumpled blanket, with here and there a light or a chimney to show the village sleeping beneath. the sky was a purple-black hemisphere, out of which the stars glittered almost white. the wind came out of the west, cold but amiable; the cracked bell of a switch engine gurgled querulously at intervals, followed by the bumping of coupling freight cars; roosters were crowing, and sleepy train men were assembling in sullen silence. the couple walked with arms locked like lovers, but the tones of their voices had the quality which comes after marriage. they were man and wife. the woman's clear voice arose. "o ed, isn't this delicious? what one misses by not getting up early!" "sleep, for instance," laughed her husband. "don't drag me down. you know what i mean. let's get up early every morning while we're up here in the woods." "shouldn't wonder if we had to. there'll be a lot to do, and i want to get back to chicago by the st of february." "this is an experience! isn't it still? when is our train due?" "due now; i think that is our headlight up the track." as he spoke, an engine added its voice to the growing noise of the station, and drew solemnly down the frosty steel. an eruption of shapeless forms of men from the depot filled the one general coach of the train. they nearly all were dressed in some sort of fur coat, and all had the look of men accustomed to outdoor life--powerful, loud-voiced, unrefined. they were, in fact, traveling men, business men, the owners of mills or timber. the stolid or patient oxlike faces of some norwegian workmen, dressed in gay mackinac jackets, were sprinkled about. the young wife was a fine type of woman anywhere, but these surroundings made her seem very dainty and startlingly beautiful. her husband had the fair skin of a city man, but his powerful shoulders and firm step denoted health and wholesome living. they were good to see as man and wife. they soon felt the reaction to sleepiness which comes to those not accustomed to early rising, and the wife, soothed by the clank of the train, leaned her head on her husband's shoulder and dozed. he looked out upon the landscape, glad that his wife was not observing it. he did not know such desolation existed in wisconsin. on every side were the evidences of a ruined forest land. a landscape of flat wastes, of thinned and burned and uprooted trees. a desolate and apparently useless land. here and there a sawmill stood gray and sagging, surrounded by little cabins of unpainted wood, to testify to the time when great pines stood all about, and the ring of the swamper's axe was heard in the intervals of silence between the howls of a saw. to the north the swells grew larger. birch and tamarack swamps alternated with dry ridges on which an inferior pine still grew. the swamps were dense tangles of broken and uprooted trees. slender pikelike stumps of fire-devastated firs rose here and there, black and grim skeletons of trees. it was a land that had been sheared by the axe, torn by the winds, and blasted by fire. off to the west low blue ridges rose, marking the boundaries of the valley which had been washed out ages ago by water. after the floods it had sprung up to pine forests, and these in their turn had been sheared away by man. it lay now awaiting the plow and seeder of the intrepid pioneer. suddenly the wife roused up. "why, we haven't had any breakfast!" he smiled at her childish look of bewilderment. "i've been painfully aware of it for some time back. i've been suffering for food while you slept." "why didn't you get into the basket?" "how could i, with you on my manly bosom?" she colored up a little. they had not been married long, evidently. they were soon eating a breakfast with the spirit of picnickers. occasionally she looked out of the window. "what a wild country!" she said. he did not emphasize its qualities to her; rather, he distracted her attention from the desolation. the train roared round its curves, conforming with the general course of the river. on every hand were thickening signs of active lumber industry. they flashed by freight trains loaded with logs or lumber or ties. mills in operation grew thicker. the car echoed with the talk of lumber. a brisk man with a red mustache was exhibiting a model of a machine to cut certain parts of machinery out of "two by fours." another was describing a new shingle mill he had just built. a couple of elderly men, one a german, were discussing the tariff on lumber. the workmen mainly sat silent. "it's all so strange!" the young wife said again and again. "yes, it isn't exactly the lake shore drive." "i like it. i wish i could smell the pines." "you'll have all the pines you can stand before we get back to chicago." "no, sir; i'm going to enjoy every moment of it; and you're going to let me help, you know--look over papers and all that. i'm the heiress, you must remember," she said wickedly. "well, we won't quarrel about that until we see how it all turns out. it may not be worth my time up here. i shall charge you roundly as your lawyer; depend on that." the outlook grew more attractive as the train sped on. old mosinee rose, a fine rounded blue shape, on the left. "why, there's a mountain! i didn't know wisconsin had such a mountain as that." "neither did i. this valley is fine. now, if your uncle's estates only included that hill!" the valley made off to the northwest with a bold, large, and dignified movement. the coloring, blue and silver, purple-brown and bronze-green, was suitable to the grouping of lines. it was all fresh and vital, wholesome and very impressive. from this point the land grew wilder--that is, more primeval: there was more of nature and less of man. the scar of the axe was here and there, but the forest predominated. the ridges of pine foliages broke against the sky miles and miles in splendid sweep. "this must be lovely in summer," the wife said, again and again, as they flashed by some lake set among the hills. "it's fine now," he replied, feeling the thrill of the sportsman. "i'd like to shoulder a rifle and plunge into those snowy vistas. how it brings the wild spirit out in a man! women never feel that delight." "oh, yes, we do," she replied, glad that something remained yet unexplained between them. "we feel just like men, only we haven't the strength of mind to demand a share of it with you." "yes, you feel it at this distance. you'd come back mighty quick the second night out." she did not relish his laughter, and so looked away out of the window. "just think of it--uncle edwin lived here thirty years!" he forbore to notice her inconsistency. "yes, the wilderness is all right for a vacation, but i prefer chicago for the year round." when they came upon ridgeley, both cried out with delight. "oh, what a dear, picturesque little town!" she said. "well, well! i wonder how they came to build a town without a row of battlemented stores?" it lay among and upon the sharp, low, stumpy pine ridges in haphazard fashion, like a swiss village. a small brook ran through it, smothered here and there in snow. a sawmill was the largest figure of the town, and the railway station was the center. there was not an inch of painted board in the village. everywhere the clear yellow of the pine flamed unstained by time. lumber piles filled all the lower levels near the creek. evidently the town had been built along logging roads, and there was something grateful and admirable in its irregular arrangement. the houses, moreover, were all modifications of the logging camps; even the drug store stood with its side to the street. all about were stumps and fringes of pines, which the lumbermen, for some good reason, had passed by. charred boles stood purple-black out of the snow. it was all green and gray and blue and yellow-white and wild. the sky was not more illimitable than the rugged forest which extended on every hand. "oh, this is glorious--glorious!" said the wife. "do i own some of this town?" she asked, as they rose to go out. "i reckon you do." "oh, i'm so glad!" as they stepped out on the platform, a large man in corduroy and wolf-skin faced them like a bandit. "hello, ed!" "hello, jack! well, we've found you. my wife, mr. ridgeley. we've come up to find out how much you've embezzled," he said, as ridgeley pulled off an immense glove to shake hands all round. "well, come right over to the hotel. it ain't the auditorium, but then, again, it ain't like sleeping outdoors." as they moved along they heard the train go off, and then the sound of the saw resumed its domination of the village noises. "was the town named after you, or you after the town?" asked field. "named after me. old man didn't want it named after him; would kill it," he said. mr. and mrs. field found the hotel quite comfortable and the dinner wholesome. they beamed upon each other. "it's going to be delightful," they said. ridgeley was a bachelor, and found his home at the hotel also. that night he said: "now we'll go over the papers and records of your uncle's property, and then we'll go out and see if the property is all there. i imagine this is to be a searching investigation." "you may well think it. my wife is inexorable." as night fell, the wife did not feel so safe and well pleased. the loud talking in the office below and the occasional whooping of a crowd of mill hands going by made her draw her chair nearer and lay her fingers in her husband's palm. he smiled indulgently. "don't be frightened, my dear. these men are not half so bad as they sound." ii. mrs. field sat in the inner room of ridgeley's office, waiting for the return of her husband with the team. they were going out for a drive. ridgeley was working at his books, and he had forgotten her presence. she could not but feel a deep admiration for his powerful frame and his quick, absorbed action as he moved about from his safe to his desk. he was a man of great force and ready decision. suddenly the door opened and a man entered. he had a sullen and bitter look on his thin, dark face. ridgeley's quick eyes measured him, and his hand softly turned the key in his money drawer, and as he faced about he swung shut the door of the safe. the stranger saw all this with eyes as keen as ridgeley's. a cheerless and strange smile came upon his face. "don't be alarmed," he said. "i'm low, but i ain't as low as that." "well, sir, what can i do for you?" asked ridgeley. mrs. field half rose, and her heart beat terribly. she felt something tense and strange in the attitude of the two men. but the man only said, "you can give me a job if you want to." ridgeley remained alert. he ran his eyes over the man's tall frame. he looked strong and intelligent, although his eyes were fevered and dull. "what kind of a job?" "any kind that will take me out into the woods and keep me there," the man replied. there was a self-accusing tone in his voice that ridgeley felt. "what's your object? you look like a man who could do something else. what brings you here?" the man turned with a sudden resolution to punish himself. his voice expressed a terrible loathing. "whisky, that's what. it's a hell of a thing to say, but i can't let liquor alone when i can smell it. i'm no common hand, or i wouldn't be if i--but let that go. i can swing an axe, and i'm ready to work. that's enough. now the question is, can you find a place for me?" ridgeley mused a little. the young fellow stood there, statuesque, rebellious. then ridgeley said, "i guess i can help you out that much." he picked up a card and a pencil. "what shall i call you?" "oh, call me williams; that ain't my name, but it'll do." "what you been doing?" "everything part of the time, drinking the rest. was in a livery stable down at wausau last week. it came over me, when i woke yesterday, that i was gone to hell if i stayed in town. so i struck out; and i don't care for myself, but i've got a woman to look out for--" he stopped abruptly. his recklessness of mood had its limits, after all. ridgeley penciled on a card. "give this to the foreman of no. . the men over at the mill will show you the teams." the man started toward the door with the card in his hand. he turned suddenly. "one thing more. i want you to send ten dollars of my pay every two weeks to this address." he took an envelope out of his pocket. "it don't matter what i say or do after this, i want that money sent. the rest will keep me in tobacco and clothing. you understand?" ridgeley nodded. "perfectly. i've seen such cases before." the man went out and down the walk with a hurried, determined air, as if afraid of his own resolution. as ridgeley turned toward his desk he met mrs. field, who faced him with tears of fervent sympathy in her eyes. "isn't it awful?" she said, in a half whisper. "poor fellow, what will become of him?" "oh, i don't know. he'll get along some way. such fellows do. i've had 'em before. they try it a while here; then they move. i can't worry about them." mrs. field was not listening to his shifty words. "and then, think of his wife--how she must worry." ridgeley smiled. "perhaps it's his mother or a sister." "anyway it's awful. can't something be done for him?" "i guess we've done about all that can be done." "oh, i wish i could help him! i'll tell ed about him." "don't worry about him, mrs. field; he ain't worth it." "oh yes, he is. i feel he's been a good boy once, and then he's so self-accusing." her own happiness was so complete, she could not bear to think of others' misery. she told her husband about williams, and ended by asking, "can't we do anything to help the poor fellow?" field was not deeply concerned. "no; he's probably past help. such men are so set in their habits, nothing but a miracle or hypnotism can save them. he'll end up as a 'lumber jack,' as the townsmen call the hands in the camps." "but he isn't that, edward. he's finer some way. you feel he is. ask mr. ridgeley." ridgeley merely said: "yes, he seemed to me to be more than a common hand. but, all the same, it won't be two weeks before he'll be in here as drunk as a wild cat, wanting to shoot me for holding back his money." in this way williams came to be to mrs. field a very important figure in the landscape of that region. she often spoke of him, and on the following saturday night, when field came home, she anxiously asked, "is williams in town?" "no, he hasn't shown up yet." she clapped her hands in delight. "good! good! he's going to win his fight." field laughed. "don't bet on williams too soon. we'll hear from him before the week is out." "when are we going to visit the camp?" she asked, changing the subject. "as soon as it warms up a little. it is too cold for you." she had a laugh at him. "you were the one who wanted to 'plunge into the snowy vistas.'" he evaded her joke on him by assuming a careless tone. "i'm not plunging as much as i was; the snow is too deep." "when you go i want to go with you--i want to see williams." "ha!" he snorted melodramatically. "she scorns me faithful heart. she turns----" mrs. field smiled faintly. "don't joke about it ed. i can't get that wife out of my mind." iii. a few very cold gray days followed, and then the north wind cleared the sky; and, though it was still cold, it was pleasant. the sky had only a small white cloud here and there to make its blueness the more profound. ridgeley dashed up to the door with a hardy little pair of bronchos hitched to a light pair of bobs, and mrs. field was tucked in like a babe in a cradle. almost the first thing she asked was, "how is williams?" "oh, he's getting on nicely. he refused to sleep with his bunk mate, and finally had to lick him, i understand, to shut him up. challenged the whole camp then to let him alone or take a licking. they let him alone, lawson says.--g'lang there, you rats!" mrs. field said no more, for the air was whizzing by her ears, and she hardly dared look out, so keen was the wind, but as soon as they entered the deeps of the forest it was profoundly still. the ride that afternoon was a glory she never forgot. everywhere yellow-greens and purple shadows. the sun in a burnished blue sky flooded the forests with light, striking down through even the thickest pines to lay in fleckings of radiant white and gold upon the snow. the trail (it was not a road) ran like a graceful furrow over the hills, around little lakes covered deep with snow, through tamarack swamps where the tracks of wild things thickened, over ridges of tall pine clear of brush, and curving everywhere amid stumps, where dismantled old shanties marked the site of the older logging camps. sometimes they met teams going to the store. sometimes they crossed logging roads--wide, smooth tracks artificially iced, down which mountainous loads of logs were slipping, creaking and groaning. sometimes they heard the dry click-clock of the woodsmen's axes, or the crash of falling trees deep in the wood. when they reached the first camp, ridgeley pulled up the steaming horses at the door and shouted, "hello, the camp!" a tall old man with a long red beard came out. he held one bare red arm above his eyes. he wore an apron. "hello, sandy!" "hello, mr. ridgeley!" "ready for company?" "am always ready for company," he said, with a scotch accent. "well, we're coming in to get warm." "vera wal." as they went in, under the roofed shed between the cook's shanty and the other and larger shanty, mrs. field sniffed. sandy led them past a large pyramid composed of the scraps of beef bones, eggshells, cans, and tea grounds left over during the winter. in the shed itself hung great slabs of beef. it was as untidy and suggestive of slaughter as the nest of a brood of eagles. sandy was beginning dinner on a huge stove spotted with rust and pancake batter. all about was the litter of his preparation. beef--beef on all sides, and tin dishes and bare benches and huge iron cooking pans. mrs. field was glad to get out into the sunlight again. "what a horrible place! are they all like that?" "no, my camps are not like that--or, i should say, _our_ camps," ridgeley added, with a smile. "not a gay place at all," said field, in exaggerated reserve. but mrs. field found her own camps not much better. true, the refuse was not raised in pyramidal shape before the front door, and the beef was a little more orderly, but the low log huts, the dim cold light, the dingy walls and floors, the lack of any womanly or home touch, the tin dishes, the wholesale cooking, all struck upon her with terrible force. "do human beings live here?" she asked ridgeley, when he opened the door of the main shanty of no. . "forty creatures of the men kind sleep and house here," he replied. "to which the socks and things give evidence," said field promptly, pointing toward the huge stove which sat like a rusty-red cheese in the center of the room. above it hung scores of ragged gray and red socks and mackinac boots and jackets which had been washed by the men themselves. around were the grimy bunks where the forty men slept like tramps in a steamer's hold. the quilts were grimy, and the posts greasy and shining with the touch of hands. there were no chairs--only a kind of rude stool made of boards. there were benches near the stove nailed to the rough floor. in each bunk, hanging to a peg, was the poor little imitation-leather hand-bag which contained the whole wardrobe of each man, exclusive of the tattered socks and shirts hanging over the stove. the room was chill and cold and gray. it had only two small windows. its doors were low. even mrs. field was forced to stoop in entering. this made it seem more like a den. there were roller towels in the corner, and washbasins, and a grindstone, which made it seem like a barn. it was, in fact, more cheerless than the barn, and less wholesome. "doesn't that hay in the bunks get a--a--sometimes?" asked field. "well, yes, i shouldn't wonder, though the men are pretty strict about that. they keep pretty free from that, i think. however, i shouldn't want to run no river chances on the thing myself." ridgeley smiled at mrs. field's shudder of horror. "is this the place?" the men laughed. she had asked that question so many times before. "yes, _this_ is where mr. williams hangs out.--say, field, you'll need to make some new move to hold your end up against williams." mrs. field felt hurt and angry at his rough joke. in the dim corner a cough was heard, and a yellow head raised itself over the bunk board ghastily. his big blue eyes fixed themselves on the lovely woman and he wore a look of childish wonder. "hello, gus--didn't see you. what's the matter--sick?" "yah, ai baen hwick two days. ai tank ai lack to hav doketer." "all right, i'll send him up. what seems the matter?" as they talked, mrs. field again chilled with the cold gray comfortlessness of it all; to be sick in such a place! the strange appearance of the man out of his grim corner was startling. she was glad when they drove out into the woods again, where the clear sunshine fell, and the pines stood against the blazing winter sky motionless as iron trees. her pleasure in the ride was growing less. to her delicate sense this life was sordid, not picturesque. she wondered how williams endured it. they arrived at no. just as the men were trailing down the road to work after eating their dinner. their gay-colored jackets of mackinac wool stood out like trumpet notes in the prevailing white and blue and bronze green. the boss and the scaler came out and met them, and after introductions they went into the shanty to dinner. the cook was a deft young norwegian--a clean, quick, gentlemanly young fellow with a fine brown mustache. he cleared a place for them at one end of the long table, and they sat down. it was a large camp, but much like the others. on the table were the same cheap iron forks, the tin plates, and the small tin basins (for tea) which made up the dinner set. basins of brown sugar stood about. "good gracious! do people still eat brown sugar? why, i haven't seen any of that for ages," cried mrs. field. the stew was good and savory, and the bread fair. the tea was not all clover, but it tasted of the tin. mrs. field said: "beef, beef, everywhere beef. one might suppose a menagerie of desert animals ate here. edward, we must make things more comfortable for our men. they must have cups to drink out of; these basins are horrible." it was humorous to the men, this housewifely suggestion. "oh, make it napkins, allie!" "you can laugh, but i sh'an't rest after seeing this. if you thought i was going to say, 'oh, how picturesque!' you're mistaken. i think it's barbarous." she was getting impatient of their patronizing laughter, as if she were a child. they changed their manner to one of acquiescence, but thought of her as a child just the same. after dinner they all went out to see the crew working. it was the biggest crew anywhere in the neighborhood, and they sat a long while and watched the men at work. ridgeley got out and hitched the team to a tree, and took field up to the skidway. mrs. field remained in the sleigh, however. near her "the swamping team," a span of big deep-red oxen, came and went among the green tops of the fallen pines. they crawled along their trails in the snow like some strange machinery, and the boy in a blue jacket moved almost as listlessly. somewhere in the tangle of refuse boughs the swampers' axes click-clocked, saws uttered their grating, rhythmic snarl, and great trees at intervals shivered, groaned, and fell with soft, rushing, cracking sweeps into the deep snow, and the swampers swarmed upon them like lilliputians attacking a giant enemy. there was something splendid (though tragic) in the work, but the thought of the homelessness of the men, their terrible beds, and their long hours of toil oppressed the delicate and refined woman. she began to take on culpability. she was partly in authority now, and this system must be changed. she was deep in plans for change, in shanties and in sleeping places, when the men returned. ridgeley was saying: "no, we control about thirty thousand acres of pine as good as that. it ain't what it was twenty years ago, but it's worth money, after all." it was getting near to dark as they reached no. again, and ridgeley drew up and helped them out and into the cook's shanty. mrs. field was introduced to the cook, a short, rather sullen, but intelligent man. he stood over the red-hot stove, laying great slices of beef in a huge dripping-pan. he had a taffler or assistant in the person of a half-grown boy, at whom he jerked rough orders like hunks of stove wood. some hit the boy and produced noticeable effects, others did not. meanwhile a triumphant sunset was making the west one splendor of purple and orange and crimson, which came over the cool green rim of the pines like the valhalla march in wagner. mrs. field sat there in the dim room by the window, seeing that splendor flush and fade, and thinking how dangerous it was to ask where one's wealth comes from in the world. outside, the voices of the men thickened; they were dropping in by twos and fours, with teams and on foot. the assistant arranged the basins in rows, and put one of the iron forks and knives on each side of each plate, and filled the sugar-basins and dumped in the cold beans, and split the bread into slabs, and put small pots of tea here and there ready for the hands of the men. at last, when the big pans of toast, the big plates of beef, were placed steaming on the table, the cook called field and ridgeley and said: "set right here at the end." he raised his arm to a ring which dangled on a wire. "now look out; you'll see 'em come sidewise." he jerked the ring and disappeared into the kitchen. there came shouts, trampling, laughter, and the door burst open and they streamed in--norwegians, french, half-breeds, dark-skinned fellows all of them save the norwegians. they came like a flood, but they fell silent at sight of a woman, so beautiful and strange to them. all words ceased. they sank into place beside the table with the thump of falling sandbags. they were all in their shirt sleeves, but they were cleanly washed, and the most of them had combed their hair; but they seemed very wild and hairy to mrs. field. she looked at her husband and ridgeley with a grateful pleasure; it was so restful to have them on each side of her. the men ate like hungry dogs. they gorged in silence. nothing was heard but the clank of knives on tin plates, the drop of heavy plates of food, and the occasional muttered words of some one asking for the bread and the gravy. as they ate they furtively looked with great curiosity and admiration up at the dainty woman. their eyes were bright and large, and gleamed out of the obscure brown of their dimly lighted faces with savage intensity--so it seemed to mrs. field, and she dropped her eyes upon her plate. her husband and ridgeley entered into conversation with those sitting near. ridgeley seemed on good terms with them all, and ventured a joke or word, at which they laughed with terrific energy, and fell as suddenly silent again. as mrs. field looked up the second time she saw the dark, strange face of williams a few places down, and opposite her. his eyes were fixed on her husband's hands with a singular intensity. her eyes followed his, and the beauty of her husband's hands came to her again with new force. they were perfectly shaped, supple, warm-colored, and strong. their color and deftness stood out in vivid contrast to the heavy, brown, cracked, and calloused pawlike hands of the men. why should williams study her husband's hands? if he had looked at her she would not have been surprised. the other men she could read. they expressed either frank, simple admiration or furtive desire. but this man looked at her husband, and his eyes fell often upon his own hands, which trembled with fatigue. he handled his knife clumsily, and yet she could see he, too, had a fine hand--a slender, powerful hand like that people call an artist hand--a craftsmanlike hand. he saw her looking at him, and he flashed one enigmatical glance into her eyes, and rose to go out. "how you getting on, williams?" ridgeley asked. williams resented his question. "oh, i'm all right," he said sullenly. the meal was all over in an incredibly short time. one by one, two by two, they rose heavily and lumbered out with one last wistful look at mrs. field. she will never know how seraphic she seemed sitting there amid those rough surroundings--the dim red light of the kerosene lamp falling across her clear pallor, out of which her dark eyes shone with liquid softness, made deeper and darker by her half-sorrowful tenderness for these homeless fellows. an hour later, as they were standing at the door, just ready to take to their sleigh, they heard the scraping of a fiddle. "oh, some one is going to play!" mrs. field cried, with visions of the rollicking good times she had heard so much about and of which she had seen nothing so far. "can't i look in?" ridgeley was dubious. "i'll go and see," he said, and entered the door. "boys, mrs. field wants to look in a minute. go on with your fiddling, sam--only i wanted to see that you weren't sitting around in dishabill." this seemed a good joke, and they all howled and haw-hawed gleefully. "so go right ahead with your evening prayers. all but--you understand!" "all right, captain," said sam, the man with the fiddle. when mrs. field looked in, two men were furiously grinding axes; several were sewing on ragged garments; all were smoking; some were dressing chapped or bruised fingers. the atmosphere was horrible. the socks and shirts were steaming above the huge stove; the smoke and stench for a moment were sickening, but ridgeley pushed them just inside the door. "it's better out of the draught." sam jigged away on the violin. the men kept time with the cranks of the grindstone, and all hands looked up with their best smile at mrs. field. most of them shrank a little from her look like shy animals. ridgeley threw open the window. "in the old days," he explained to mrs. field, "we used a fireplace, and that kept the air better." as her sense of smell became deadened the air seemed a little more tolerable to mrs. field. "oh, we must change all this," she said. "it is horrible." "play us a tune," said sam, extending the violin to field. he did not think field could play. it was merely a shot in the dark on his part. field took it and looked at it and sounded it. on every side the men turned face in eager expectancy. "he can play, that feller." "i'll bet he can. he handles her as if he knew her." "you bet your life.--tune up, cap." williams came from the obscurity somewhere, and looked over the shoulders of the men. "down in front," somebody called, and the men took seats on the benches, leaving field standing with the violin in hand. he smiled around upon them in a frank, pleased way, quite ready to show his skill. he played "annie laurie," and a storm of applause broke out. "_hoo_-ray! bully for you!" "sam, you're out of it." "sam, your name is mud." "give us another, cap." "it ain't the same fiddle." he played again some simple tune, and he played it with the touch which showed the skilled amateur. as he played, mrs. field noticed a grave restlessness on williams's part. he moved about uneasily. he gnawed at his finger nails. his eyes glowed with a singular fire. his hands drummed and fingered. at last he approached and said roughly: "let me take that fiddle a minute." "oh, cheese it, williams!" the men cried. "let the other man play." "what do _you_ want to do with the fiddle--think it's a music box?" asked sam, its owner. "go to hell!" said williams. as field gave the violin over to him his hands seemed to tremble with eagerness. he raised his bow and struck into an imposing brilliant strain, and the men fell back in astonishment. "well, i'll be damned!" gasped the owner of the violin. "keep quiet, sam." mrs. field looked at her husband. "why, ed, he is playing sarasate!" "that's what he is," he returned slangily, too much astonished to do more than gaze. williams played on. there was a faint defect in the high notes, as if his fingers did not touch the strings properly, but his bow action showed cultivation and breadth of feeling. as he struck into one of those difficult octave-leaping movements his face became savage. on the e string a squeal broke forth; he flung the violin into sam's lap with a ferocious curse, and then extending his hands, hard, crooked to fit the axe-helve, calloused and chapped, he said to field: "look at my cursed hands. lovely things to play with, ain't they?" his voice trembled with passion. he turned and went outside. as he passed mrs. field his head was bowed and he was uttering a groaning cry like one suffering acute physical agony. she went out quickly, and field and ridgeley followed. they were all moved--but the men made little of it, seeing how deeply touched she was. "that's what drink does for a man," ridgeley said, as they watched williams disappear down the swampers' trail. "that man has been a violinist," said field. "what's he doing up here?" "came up to get away from himself," ridgeley replied. "i'm afraid he's failed," said field, as he put his arm about his wife and led her to the sleigh. the ride home was made mainly in silence. "oh, the splendid silence!" the woman kept saying in her heart. "oh, the splendid moonlight, the marvelous radiance!" everywhere a heavenly serenity--not a footstep, not a bell, not a cry, not a cracking tree--nothing but vivid light, white snow dappled and lined with shadows, and trees etched against a starlit sky. splendor of light and sheen and shadow. wide wastes of snow so white the stumps stood like columns of charcoal. a night of nature's making when she is tired of noise and blare of color. and in the midst of it stood the camps and the reek of obscenity, foul odors, and tobacco smoke, to which a tortured soul must return. iv. the following saturday afternoon, as ridgeley and field entered the office, williams rose to meet them. he looked different; finer some way, field imagined. at any rate, he was perfectly sober. he was freshly shaven, and though his clothes were rough, he looked like a man of education. his manner was cold and distant. "i'd like to be paid off, mr. ridgeley," he said. "i guess what's left of my pay will take me out of this." "where do you propose to go?" ridgeley said kindly. williams must have perceived his kindliness, for he answered: "i'm going home to my wife. i am going to try it once more." after williams went out field said, "i wonder if he'll do it?" "oh, i shouldn't wonder. i've seen men brace up just as mysteriously as that and stay right by their resolutions. i thought he didn't look like a common lumber jack when he came in." "oh, how happy his wife will be!" mrs. field cried when she heard of williams's resolution. "she'll save him yet." "well, i don't know; depends on what kind of a woman she is." the owner of the mill farm. beyond his necessity, a tired man is not apt to be polite. this mrs. miner had generalized from long experience with her husband. she knew at a distance, by the way he wore his hat when he came in out of the field, whether he was in a peculiarly savage mood, or only in his usual state of sullen indifference. as he came in out of the barn on this spring day, he turned to look up at the roof with a curse. something had angered him. he did not stop to comb his hair after washing at the pump, but came into the neat kitchen and surlily took a seat at the table. mrs. miner, a slender little woman, quite ladylike in appearance, had the dinner all placed in steaming abundance upon the table, and the children, sitting side by side, watched their father in silence. there was an air of foreboding, of apprehension, over them all, as if they feared some brutal outbreak on his part. he placed his elbows on the table. his sleeves were rolled up, displaying his red and much sunburned arms. he wore no coat, and his face was sullen, and held, besides, a certain vicious quality, like that of a bad-tempered dog. he had not spoken to his wife directly for many weeks. for years it had been his almost constant habit to address her through the children, by calling her "she" or "your mother." he had done this so long that even the little ones were startled when he said, looking straight at her: "say, what are you going to do about that roof?" mrs. miner turned her large gray eyes upon him in sudden confusion. "excuse me, tom, i didn't----" "i said 'what you goin' t' do with that roof?'" he repeated brutally. "what roof?" she asked timidly. "what roof?" he repeated after her. "why, the barn, of course! it's leakin' and rottin' my oats. it's none o' my business," he went on, his voice containing an undercurrent of vicious insult. "only i thought you'd like to know it's worse than ever. you can do as you like about it," he said again, and there was a peculiar tone in his voice, as if, by using that tone, he touched her upon naked nerves somewhere. "i guess i can cover the oats up." a stranger would not have known what it all meant, and yet there was something in what he said that made his wife turn white. but she answered quietly: "i'll send word to the carpenter this forenoon. i'm sorry," she went on, the tears coming to her eyes. she turned away and looked out of the window, while he ate on indifferently. at last she turned with a sudden impulse: "o tom, why can't we be friends again? for the children's sake, you ought to----" "oh, shut up!" he snarled. "good god! can't you let a thing rest? suits me well enough. i ain't complainin'. so, just shut up." he rose with a slam and went out. the two children sat with hushed breath. they knew him too well to cry out. mrs. miner sat for a long time at the table without moving. at last she rose and went sighfully at work. "morty, i want you to run down to mr. wilber's and ask him to come up and see me about some work." she stood at the window and watched the boy as he stepped lightly down the road. "how much he looks like his father, in spite of his sunny temper!" she thought, and it was not altogether a pleasant thing to think of, though she did not allow such a thought to take definite shape. the young carpenter whom wilber sent to fill mrs. miner's order walked with the gay feet of youth as he passed out of the little town toward the river. when he came to the bridge, he paused and studied the scene with slow, delighted eyes. the water came down over its dam with a leap of buoyant joy, as if leaping to freedom. over the dam it lay in a quiet pool, mirroring every bud and twig. below, it curved away between low banks, with bushes growing to the water's edge, where the pickerel lay. but the young man seemed to be saddened by the view of the mill, which had burned some years before. it seemed like the charred body of a living thing, this heap of blackened and twisted shafts and pulleys, lying half buried in tangles of weeds. it appealed so strongly to young morris that he uttered an unconscious sigh as he walked on across the bridge and clambered the shelving road, which was cut out of the yellow sandstone of the hillside. the road wound up the sandy hillside and came at length to a beautiful broad terrace of farm land that stretched back to the higher bluffs. the house toward which the young fellow turned was painted white, and had the dark-green blinds which transplanted new-englanders carry with them wherever they go. soldierly lombardy poplar trees stood in the yard, and beds of flowers lined the walk. mrs. miner was at work in the beds when he came up. "good day," he said cordially. "glorious spring weather, isn't it?" he smiled pleasantly. "is this mrs. miner?" "yes, sir." she looked at him wonderingly. "i'm one of wilber's men," he explained. "he couldn't get away, so he sent me up to see what needed doing." "oh," she said, with a relieved tone. "very well; will you go look at it?" they walked, side by side, out toward the barn, which had the look of great age in its unpainted decay. it was gray as granite and worn fuzzy with sleet and snow. the young fellow looked around at the grass, the dandelions, the vague and beautiful shadows flung down upon the turf by the scant foliage of the willows and apple trees, and took off his hat, as if in the presence of something holy. "what a lovely place!" he said--"all but the mill down there; it seems too bad it burnt up. i hate to see a ruin, most of all, one of a mill." she looked at him in surprise, perceiving that he was not at all an ordinary carpenter. he had a thoughtful face, and the workman's dress he wore could not entirely conceal a certain delicacy of limb. his voice had a touch of cultivation in it. "the work i want done is on the barn," she said at length. "do you think it needs reshingling?" he looked up at it critically, his head still bare. she was studying him carefully now, and admired his handsome profile. there was something fine and powerful in the poise of his head. "you haven't been working for mr. wilber long," she said. he turned toward her with a smile of gratification, as if he knew she had detected something out of the ordinary in him. "no, i'm just out of beloit," he said, with ready confidence. "you see that i'm one of these fellows who have to work my passage. i put in my vacations at my trade." he looked up at the roof again, as if checking himself. "yes, i should think from here that it would have to be reshingled." she sighed resignedly, and he knew she was poor. "well, i suppose you had better do it." she thought of him pleasantly, as he walked off down the road after the lumber and tools that were necessary. and, in his turn, he wondered whether she were a widow or not. it promised to be a pleasant job. she was quite handsome, in a serious way, he decided--very womanly and dignified. perhaps this was his romance, he thought, with the ready imagination upon this point of a youth of twenty-one. he returned soon with a german teamster, who helped him unload his lumber and erect his stagings. when noon came he was working away on the roof, tearing the old shingles off with a spade. he was a little uncertain about his dinner. it was the custom to board carpenters when they were working on a farm, but this farm was so near town, possibly mrs. miner would not think it necessary. he decided, however, to wait till one o'clock, to be sure. at half past twelve, a man came in out of the field with a team--a short man, with curly hair, curly chin beard, and mustache. he walked with a little swagger, and his legs were slightly bowed. morris called him "a little feller," and catalogued him by the slant on his hat. "say," called morris suddenly, "won't you come up here and help me raise my staging?" the man looked up with a muttered curse of surprise. "who the hell y' take me for? hired man?" he asked, and then, after a moment, continued, in a tone which was an insult: "you don't want to rip off the whole broad side of that roof. ain't y' got any sense? come a rain, it'll raise hell with my hay." "it ain't going to rain," morris replied. he wanted to give him a sharp reply, but concluded not to do so. this was evidently the husband. his romance was very short. "tom, won't you call the man in?" asked mrs. miner, as her husband came up to the kitchen door. "no, call 'im yourself. you've got a gullet." mrs. miner's face clouded a little, but she composed herself. "morty, run out and tell the carpenter to come to dinner." "boss is in a temper," morris thought, as he listened to miner's reply. he came up to the well, where morty brought him a clean towel, and waited to show him into the kitchen. miner was just sitting down to the table when morris entered. his sleeves were rolled up. he had his old white hat on his head. he lounged upon one elbow on the table. his whole bearing was swinish. "what do i care?" he growled, as if in reply to some low-voiced warning his wife had uttered. "if he don't like it, he can lump it, and if you don't like my ways," he said, turning upon her, "all you've got to do is to say so, and i git out." morris was amazed at all this. he could not persuade himself that he had rightly understood what had been said. there was something beneath the man's words which puzzled him and forbade his inquiry. he sat down near the oldest child and opposite mrs. miner. miner began to eat, and morris was speaking pleasantly to the child nearest him, when he heard an oath and a slap. he looked up to see miner's hat falling from mrs. miner's cheek. she had begun a silent grace, and her husband had thrown his hat in her face. she kept her eyes upon her plate, and her lips moved as if in prayer, though a flush of red streamed up her neck and covered her cheek. morris leaped up, his eyes burning into miner's face. "h'yere!" he shouted, "what's all this? did you strike her?" "set down!" roared miner. "you're too fresh." "i'll let you know how fresh i am," said the young fellow, shaking his brawny fist in miner's face. mrs. miner rose, with a ghastly smile on her face, which was now as pale as it had been flushed. "please don't mind him; he's only fooling." morris looked at her and understood a little of her feeling as a wife and mother. he sat down. "well, i'll let him know the weight of my fist, if he does anything more of that business when i'm around," he said, looking at her, and then at her husband. "i didn't grow up in a family where things like that go on. if you'll just say the word, i--i'll----" "please don't do anything," she said, and he saw that he had better not, if he wished to shield her from further suffering. the meal proceeded in silence. miner apparently gloried in what he had done. the children were trembling with fear and could scarcely go on with their dinners. they dared not cry. their eyes were fixed upon their father's face, like the eyes of kittens accustomed to violence. the wife tried to conceal her shame and indignation. she thought she succeeded very well, but the big tears rolling down from her wide unseeing eyes, were pitiful to witness. morris ate his dinner in silence, not seeing anything further to do or say. his food choked him, and he found it necessary to drink great draughts of water. at last she contrived to say, "how did you find the roof?" it was a pitiful attempt to cover the dreadful silence. "it was almost as good as no roof at all," he replied, with the desire to aid her. "those shingles, i suppose, have been on there for thirty years. i suppose those shingles must have been rived out by just such a machine as old man means used, in the 'hoosier schoolmaster.'" from this, he went on to tell about some of the comical parts of the story, and so managed to end the meal in a fairly presentable way. "she's found another sympathizer," sneered the husband, returning to his habit of addressing his wife in the third person. after eating his dinner, miner lit his pipe and swaggered out, as if he had done an admirable thing. morris remained at the table, talking with the children. after miner had passed out of earshot, he looked up at mrs. miner, as if expecting her to say something in explanation of what had occurred. but she had again forgotten him, and sat biting her lips and looking out of the window. her bosom heaved like that of one about to weep. her wide-open eyes had unutterable sorrow in their beautiful depths. morris got up and went out, in order to prevent himself from weeping too. he hammered away on the roof like mad for an hour, and wished that every blow fell on that little villain's curly pate. he did not see mrs. miner to speak to her again till the next forenoon, when she came out to see how the work was getting on. he came down from the roof to meet her, and they stood side by side, talking the job over and planning other work. she spoke, at last, in a low, hesitating voice, and without looking at him: "you mustn't mind what mr. miner does. he's very peculiar, and you're likely--that is, i mean----" she could not finish her lie. the young man looked down on her resolutely. "i'd like to lick him, and i'd do it for a leather cent." she put out her hand with a gesture of dismay. "oh, don't make trouble; please don't!" "i won't if you don't want me to, but that man needs a licking the worst of any one i ever saw. mrs. miner," he said, after a little pause, "i wish you'd tell me why he acts that way. now, there must be some reason for it. no sane man is going to do a thing like that." she looked away, a hot flush rising upon her face. she felt a distinct longing for sympathy. there was something very engaging in this young man's candid manner. "i do not know who is to blame," she said at last, as if in answer to a question. "i've tried to be a good wife to him for the children's sake. i've tried to be patient. i suppose if i'd made the property all over to him, as most wives do, at first, it would have avoided all trouble." she paused to think a moment. "but, you see" she went on suddenly, "father never liked him at all, and he made me promise never to let the mill or the farm go out of my hands, and then i didn't think it necessary. it belonged to us both, just as much as if i'd signed it over. i considered he was my partner as well as my husband. i knew how father felt, especially about the mill, and i couldn't go against his wish." she had the impulse to tell it all now, and she sat down on a bunch of shingles, as if to be able to state it better. her eyes were turned away, her hands pressed upon each other like timid, living things seeking aid, and, looking at her trembling lips, the young man felt a lump rise in his throat. "it began all at once, you see. i mean the worst of it did. of course, we'd had sharp words, as all people who live together are apt to have, i suppose, but they didn't last long. you see, everything was mine, and he had nothing at all when he came home with me. he'd had bad luck, and he--he never was a good business man." the tears were on her face again. she was retrospectively approaching that miserable time when her suffering began. the droop of her head appealed to the young man with immense power. he had an impulse to take her in his arms and comfort her, as if she were his sister. she mastered herself at last, and went on in low, hesitating voice, more touching than downright sobbing: "one day, the same summer the mill burned, one of the horses kicked at little morty, and i said i'd sell it, and he said it was all nonsense; the horse wasn't to blame. and i told him i wouldn't have a horse around that would kick. and when he said i shouldn't sell it, i said a dreadful thing. i knew it would cut him, but i said it. i said: 'the horse is mine; the farm is mine; i can do what i please with my own, for all of you.'" she fell silent here, and morris was forced to ask, "what did he do then?" "he looked at me, a queer, long look that made me shiver, and then he walked off, and he never spoke to me again directly for six months. and from that day he almost never speaks to me except through the children. he calls me names through them. he cuts me every time he can. he does everything he can to hurt me. he never dresses up, and he wears his hat in the house at all times, and rolls up his sleeves at the table, just because he knows it makes me suffer. sometimes i think he is crazy, and yet----" "oh, no, he ain't crazy. he's devilish," morris blurted out. "great guns! i'd like to lay my hands on him." she seemed to feel that a complete statement was demanded. "i can't invite anybody to the house, for there's no knowing what he'll do. he may stay in the fields all day and never come in at all, or he may come in and curse and swear at me or do something--i never can tell what he is goin' to do." "haven't you any relatives here?" morris asked. "yes, but i'm ashamed to let them know about it, because they all said i'd repent; and then he's my husband, and he's the father of my children." "a mighty poor excuse of one i call him," said the young man with decision. "i tried to give him the farm, when i found it was going to make trouble, but he wouldn't take it _then_. he won't listen to me at all. he keeps throwing it up to me that he's earning his living, and if i don't think he is he will go any minute. he works in the field, but that's all. he won't advise with me at all. he says it's none of his business. he won't do a thing around the house or garden. i tried to get him to oversee the mill for me, but, after our trouble, he refused to do anything about it. i hired a man to run it, but it didn't pay that way, and then it was idle for a while, and at last it got afire some way and burned up--tramps, i suppose. "oh, dear!" she sighed, rising, "i don't see how it's going to end; it must end some time. sometimes it seems as if i couldn't stand it another day, and then i think of my duty as a mother and wife, and i think perhaps god intended this to be my cross." the young fellow was silent. it was a great problem. the question of divorce had never before been borne in upon him in this personal way. it seemed to him a clear case. the man ought to be driven off and the woman left in peace. he thought of the pleasure it would give her to hear the sound of the mill again. they stood there side by side, nearly the same age, and yet the woman's face was already lined with suffering, and her eyes were full of shadow. there seemed no future for her, and yet she was young. "please don't let him know i've said anything to you, will you?" "i'll try not to," he said, but he did not consider himself bound to any definite concealment. they ate dinner together without miner, who had a fit of work on hand which made him stubbornly unmindful of any call to eat. moreover, he was sure it would worry his wife. the meal was a pleasant one on the whole, and they found many things in common to talk about. morris wanted to ask her a few more questions about her life, but she begged him not to do so, and started him off on the story of his college life. he was an enthusiastic talker and told her his plans with boyish frankness. he forgot his fatigue, and she lost for a time her premature cares and despairs. they were laughing together over some of his college pranks when miner came in at the door. "oh, i see!" he said, with an insulting, insinuating inflection. "now i understand the early dinner." morris sprang up and, walking over to the sneering husband, glared down at him with a look of ferocity that sat singularly upon his round, fresh face. "now you _shut up!_ if you open your mouth to me again i'll lick you till your hide won't hold pumpkins!" miner shrank back, turned on his heel, and went off to the barn. he did not return for his dinner. morris insisted on helping mrs. miner clear up the yard and uncover the grapevine. he liked her very much. she appealed to the protector in him, and she interested him besides, because of the melancholy which was lined on her delicate face, and voiced in her low, soft utterances. he appealed to her, because of his delicacy as well as strength. he had something of the modern man's love for flowers, and did not attempt to conceal his delight in thus tinkering about at woman's work. he ate supper with her and worked on until it was quite dark, tired as he was, and then shook hands and said "good night." morris came back to his work the next day with a great deal of pleasure. he had spent considerable thought upon the matter. he had almost determined on a course of action. he had thought of going directly to miner and saying: "now look here, miner, if you was _half_ a man, you'd pull out and leave this woman in peace. how you can stand around here and occupy the position you do, i don't see." but when he remembered mrs. miner's words about the children, another consideration came in. suppose he should take the children with him--that was the point; that was the uncertain part of the problem. it did not require any thought to remember that the law took very little consideration of the woman's feelings. he said to himself that if he ever became judge, he would certainly give decisions that would send such a man as miner simply whirling out into space. miner was in the barn when morris clambered up the ladder with a bunch of shingles on his shoulder, about seven o'clock. he came out and said: "say, you want to fix that window up there." "get away from there!" shouted morris, in uncontrollable rage, "or i'll smash this bunch of shingles on your cursed head. don't you open that ugly p'tater trap at me, you bow-legged little skunk! i'm goin' to lick you like a sock before i'm done with you." he would have done so then had he been on the ground, but he disdained taking the trouble to climb down. he planned to catch him when he came up to dinner. the more he thought of it the more his indignation waxed. as he grew to hate the man more, he began to entertain the suspicions, which wilber confessed to in confidence, concerning the burning of the mill. they had a cheerful meal together again, for miner did not come in until one o'clock. during the nooning morris finished spading the flower beds, in spite of mrs. miner's entreaties that he should rest. it gave him great pleasure to work there with her and the children. "you see, i'm lonesome here," he explained. "just out of school, and i miss the boys and girls. i don't know anybody except a few of the carpenters here, and so--well, i kind of like it. i always helped around the house at home. it's all fun for me, so don't you say a word. i've got lots o' muscle to spare, and you're welcome to it." he spaded away without many words. the warm sun shone down upon them all, and they made a pretty group. mrs. miner, rake in hand, was pulverizing the beds as fast as he spaded, her face flushed and almost happy. the children were wrist-deep in the fresh earth, planting twigs and pebbles, their babble of talk some way akin to the cry of the woodpecker, the laugh of the robin, the twitter of the sparrow, the smell of spring, and the merry downpour of sunshine. mrs. miner was silent. she was thinking how different her life would have been if her husband had only taken an interest in her affairs. she did not think of any one else as her husband, but only miner in a different mood. morris went back to work. as the work neared the end, his determination to punish the scoundrel husband grew. his inclination to charge him with burning the mill grew stronger. he wondered if it wouldn't serve as a club. "now, sir," he said, meeting miner as he came out of the barn that night, "i'm done on the barn, but i'm not done on you. i'm goin' to whale you till you won't know yourself. i ought 'o 'a done it that first day at dinner." he advanced upon miner, who backed away, scared at something he saw in the young man's eyes and something he heard in his inflexible tone of voice. he thrust out his palm in a wild gesture. "keep away from me! i'll split your heart if you touch me!" morris advanced another step, his eyes looking straight into miner's with the level look of a tiger's. "no, y' won't! you're too much of an infernal, sneaky little _whelp_!" at the word whelp, he cuffed him with his hammerlike fist, and miner went down in a heap. he was so abject that the young man could only strike him with his open hand. he took him by the shirt collar with his left hand and began to cuff him leisurely and terribly with his right. his blows punctuated his sentences. "you're a little [whack] villain. i'll thrash you till you won't see out of your blasted eyes for a month! i can't stand a man [here he jounced him up and down with his left hand, apparently with infinite satisfaction] who bullies his wife and children as you do [here he cuffed him again], and i'll make it my business to even things up----" the prostrate man began to scream for help. he was livid with fear. he fancied murder in the blaze of his assailant's eye. "help! help! minnie!" "call her by her first name now, will yeh? will yeh? call her out to help yeh! do you think she will? i want to tell you, besides, i know something about that mill burning. it's just like your contemptible mustard-seed of a soul to burn that mill!" mrs. miner came flying out. she could not recognize her husband in the bleeding, dirty, abject thing squirming under the young man's knee. "why, mr. morris, who--why--why, it's tom!" she gasped, her eyes distended with surprise and horror. morris looked up at her coolly. "yes, it's tom." he then gave his attention to the writhing figure under him. "crawl, you infernal whelp! lick the dust, confound you! quick!" he commanded, growing each moment more savage. mrs. miner clung to his arm. "please don't," she pleaded. "you're killing him." morris did not look up. "oh, no, i ain't. i'm giving him a little taste of his own medicine." he flopped miner over on his face and dragged him around in the dust like an old sack. "beg her pardon, or i'll thrash the ground with yeh!" "please don't," pleaded the wife, using her whole strength to stop him in his circuit with the almost insensible miner. "beg!" he said again, "beg, or i'll cave your backbone in." there was a terrible upward inflection in his voice now, a half-jocular tone that was more terrible than the muffled snarl in which he had previously been speaking. "i beg! i beg!" cried miner. morris released him, and he crawled to a sitting posture. mrs. miner fell on her knees by his side, and began wiping the blood from his face. she was breathless with sobbing and the children were screaming. the tears streamed down her face, which was white and drawn into ghastly wrinkles. "you've killed him!" she gasped. morris put his hands in his pockets and looked down on them both, with a curious feeling of having done something which he might repent of. he felt in a way cut off from the satisfactory ending of the thing he had planned. "oh, you've killed him!" "oh, no, i haven't. he's all right." he looked at them a moment longer to see if there were any rage remaining in the face of the husband, and then at the wife to discover her feeling concerning his action. then he looked back at the husband again, and apparently justified himself for what he had done by the memory of the ineffable shame to which the wife had been subjected. "now, if i hear another word of your abuse," he said, as he shook the dust from his own clothes and prepared to go, "i'll give you another that will make you think that this is all fooling. more than that," he said, turning again, "i know something that will put you where the crows won't eat you!--if i can be of any service to you, mrs. miner, at any time while i'm here, i hope you'll let me know. good-by." mrs. miner did not reply, and when morris reached the gate and looked back she was still kneeling by the side of her husband, the sunlight shining down upon her graceful head. some way the problem had increased in complexity. he felt a disgust of her weakness, mingled with a feeling that he was losing something very fine and tender which had but just come into his life. he went back to his work on the other side of the river, where his crew was working. he was called home a few weeks later, and he never saw husband or wife again. he learned from wilber, however, in a short letter that things were going much the same as ever. "dear sir: i don't know much about miner. hees purty quiet i guess. dock moss thinks hees a little off his nut. i don't. i think its pur cussidness." of those who seek. i. the prisoned soul. the capitol swarmed with people. groups of legislators tramped noisily along the corridors, laughing loudly, gesticulating with pointed fingers or closed fists. squads of ragged, wondering, and wistful-eyed negroes, splashed with orange-colored mud from the fields, moved timidly on from magnificence to magnificence, keeping close to each other, solemn and silent. when they spoke they whispered. others from the city streets laughed loudly and swaggered along to show their contempt for the place and their knowledge of its public character; but their insolence was halfassumed. lean and lank southerners, with the imperial cut on their pale, brown whiskers, alternated with stalwart, slouch-hatted westerners. clean-shaven, pale clerks hurried to and fro; groups of sightseers infested every nook, and wore the look of those determined to see it all. they were accompanied often by one whose certainty of accent gave evidence of his fitness to be their guide. the sound of his voice proclaimed his judgments as he pushed his dazed wordless victims about. in a group in the center of the checkered marble floor of the rotunda, a powerful indian, dressed in semi-civilized fashion, was standing, looking wonderingly down into the upturned face of a little girl. the circle of bystanders silently studied both man and maid. she was about eleven years of age and was tastefully dressed, and seemed a healthy child. her face was solemn, sweet, and inquisitive. she held one half-opened hand in the air; with the other she touched the indian's dark, strongly molded cheek, and pressed his long hair which streamed from beneath his broad white hat. no one smiled. she was deaf and dumb and blind. in her raised rosy little palm, with lightning-swift motion, fluttered the hand of her teacher. by the teacher's side stood an indian interpreter, dressed in hunting shirt and broad hat. "i am umatilla," said the chief, in answer to a question from the teacher. his deep voice was like the mutter of a lion; he stood with gentle dignity still looking wonderingly down into the girl's sweet, solemn, and eager face. a bystander said, "poor child!" in a low, tremulous tone, followed by a sigh. the little one's hand, light, swift, and seeking, touched the indian's ringed ears and pressed again his long hair, while her teacher's swift fingers said, "this strange man comes from a far-off land, from vast mountains and forests away toward the western sea. the wind and sun have made his face dark, and the long hair is a protection from the cold. he is a chief." under her broad hat the child's exquisite mouth, with its dimpled corners, remained calm but touchingly wistful. her eyes were in shadow. her chin was a perfect oval, delicately beautiful, like the curving lines of a peach, with the clear transparency of color of a flower's chalice. but the bystander said again, "poor child!" as if a shudder of awe, of wordless compassion and bitterness, shook him. she was so beautiful, so gifted in spirit, to be thus shut in! her inclosing flesh was so fine and sweet, it seemed impossible it could be an impassable, almost impenetrable wall. he thought: she will soon be a woman, with all the vague, unutterable longings and passions of the woman. her lithe body will be as beautiful as her soul, and the warm oval of her face will flash and flame with her expanding, struggling life. her caged soul will struggle for light and companionship, blindly, vainly. life to her must remain a cruel fragment. light and color she may not miss; but wifehood, maternity, the touch of baby lips to her breast--these her soul will grope for in dumb maternal desire. she must inhabit her dark and soundless cavern alone. again she touched the chieftain's hair and earrings, and let her hand drop down along his sleeve to his hard, brown hand. then her hand fell to her side with a resigned action. as she walked away, a sweet smile of pleasure and gratitude flashed for an instant across the exquisite curving line of her lips, and then the sad and wistful repose of her face came back again as if her loneliness had only been lightened, not warmed. the young man drew a long breath of pain keen as a physical hurt. the elderly gentleman said again, "poor child!" the indian looked up again into the mighty dome soaring hundreds of feet above him, and wondered how those forms came to be set flying in mid-air, and his heart grew sad and wistful too, as if a realization of the power and majesty of the white man fell like a poisonous, fateful shadow over his people and himself. ii. a sheltered one. the young man came in out of the cold dash of rain. the negro man received his outside garments and ushered him into the drawing-room, where a bright fire welcomed him like a smiling hostess. he sat down with a sudden relaxation of his muscles. as he waited at his ease, his senses absorbed the light and warmth and beauty of the house. it was familiar and yet it had a new meaning to him. a bird was singing somewhere in the upper chambers, caroling with a joyous note that seemed to harmonize with the warmth and color of the room in which the caller sat. the young man stared at the fire, his head leaning on his hand. there were lines of gloomy thought in his face. there were marks of bitter struggle on his hands. his dress was strong and good, but not in the mode. he looked like a young lawyer, with his lean, dark face, smoothly shaven save for a little tuft on either cheek. his long hands were heavy-jointed with toil. he listened to the bird singing and to the answering, chirping call of a girl's voice. his head drooped forward in deep reverie. how beautiful her life is! his thought was. how absolutely without care or struggle! she knows no uncertainty such as i feel daily, hourly. she has never a doubt of daily food; the question of clothes has been a diversion for her, a worry of choice merely. dirt, grime, she knows nothing of. here she lives, sheltered in a glow of comfort and color, while i hang by my finger-ends over a bottomless pit. she sleeps and dreams while i fight. she is never weary, while i sink into my bed each night as if it were my grave. every hand held out to her is a willing hand--if it is paid for, it is willing, for she has no enemies even among her servants. o god! if i could only reach such a place to rest for just a year--for just a month! but such security, such rest is out of my reach. i must toil and toil, and when at last i reach a place to pause and rest, i shall be old and brutalized and deadened, and my rest will be merely--sleep. he looked once more about the lovely room. the ocean wind tore at the windows with wolfish claws, savage to enter. "the world howling out there is as impotent to do her harm as is that wind at the window," the young man added. the bird's song again joined itself to the gay voice of the girl, and then he heard quick footsteps on the stairs, and as he rose to greet her the room seemed to glow like the heart of a ruby. they clasped hands and looked into each other's eyes a moment. he saw love and admiration in her face. she saw only friendliness and some dark, unsmiling mood in his. they sat down and talked upon the fringe of personalities which he avoided. she fancied that she saw a personal sorrow in his face and she longed to comfort him. she longed to touch his vexed forehead with her fingers. they talked on, of late books and coming music. he noticed how clear and sweet and intelligent were her eyes. refinement was in the folds of her dress and in the faint perfume which exhaled from her drapery. the firm flesh of her arms appealed to him like the limbs of a child so beautiful and tender! he saw in her face something wistful, restless. he tried to ignore it, to seem unconscious of the adoration he saw there, for it pained him. it affected him as a part of the general misdirection of affection and effort in the world. she asked him about his plans. he told her of them. he grew stern and savage as he outlined the work which he had set himself to do. his hands spread and clutched, and his teeth set together involuntarily. "it is to be a fight," he said; "but i shall win. bribery, blackmail, the press, and all other forces are against me, but i shall win." he rose at length to a finer mood as he sketched the plan which he hoped to set in action. she looked at him with expanding eyes and quickened breath. a globed light each soft eye seemed to him. he spoke more freely of the struggle outside in order to make her feel her own sweet security--here where the grime of trade and the reek of politics never came. at last he rose to go, smiling a little as if in apology for his dark mood. he looked down at her slender body robed so daintily in gray and white; she made him feel coarse and rough. her eyes appealed to him, her glance was like a detaining hand. he felt it, and yet he said abruptly: "good night." "you'll come to see me again!" "yes," he answered very simply and gravely. and she, looking after him as he went down the street with head bent in thought, grew weak with a terrible weakness, a sort of hunger, and deep in her heart she cried out: "oh, the brave, splendid life _he_ leads out there in the world! oh, the big, brave world!" she clinched her pink hand. "oh, this terrible, humdrum woman's life! it kills me, it smothers me. i must do something. i must be something. i can't live here in this way--useless. i must get into the world." and looking around the cushioned, glowing, beautiful room, she thought bitterly: "this is being a woman. o god, i want to be free of four walls! i want to struggle like that." and then she sat down before the fire and whispered very softly, "i want to fight in the world--with him." iii. a fair exile. the train was ambling across the hot, russet plain. the wind, strong and warm and dry, sweeping up from the south, carried with it the subtle odor of september grass and gathered harvests. out of the unfenced roads the dust arose in long lines like smoke from some hidden burning which the riven earth revealed. the fields were tenanted with thrashing crews, the men diminished by distance to pygmies, the long belt of the engine flapping and shining like a ribbon in the flaming sunlight. the freight cars on the accommodation train jostled and rocked about and heaved up laterally, till they resembled a long line of awkward, frightened, galloping buffaloes. the one coach was scantily filled with passengers, mainly poorly clothed farmers and their families. a young man seated well back in the coach was looking dreamily out of the window, and the conductor, a keen-eyed young fellow, after passing him several times, said in a friendly way: "going up to boomtown, i imagine." "yes--if we ever get there." "oh, we'll get there. we won't have much more switching. we've only got an empty car or two to throw in at the junction." "well, i'm glad of that. i'm a little impatient because i've got a case coming up in court, and i'm not exactly fixed for it." "your name is allen, i believe." "yes, j. h. allen, of sioux city." "i thought so. i've heard you speak." the young lawyer was a tall, slender, dark-eyed man, rather somber in appearance. he did not respond to the invitation in the conductor's voice. "when do you reach the junction?" "next stop. we're only a few minutes late. expect to meet friends there?" "no; thought i'd get a lunch, that's all." at the junction the car became pretty well filled with people. two or three norwegian families came clattering in, the mothers clothed in heavy shawls and cheap straw hats, the flaxen-haired children in faded cottonade and blue denims. they filled nearly half the seats. several drummers came in, laughing loudly, bearing heavy valises. then allen heard above the noise the shrill but sweet voice of a girl, and caught the odor of violets as two persons passed him and took a seat just before him. the man he knew by sight and reputation as a very brilliant young lawyer, edward benson, of heron lake. the girl he knew instantly to be utterly alien to this land and people. she was like a tropic bird seen amid the scant foliage of northern hills. there was evidence of great care and taste in every fold of her modish dress. her hat was simple but in the latest city fashion, and her gloves were spotless. she gave off an odor of cleanliness and beauty. she was very young and slender. her face was piquant but not intellectual, and scarcely beautiful. it pleased rather by its life and motion and oddity than by its beauty. she looked at her companion in a peculiar way--trustfully almost reverently--and yet with a touch of coquetry which seemed perfectly native to every turn of her body or glance of her eyes. the young lawyer was a fine western type of self-made man. he was tall and broad-shouldered, but walked a little stooping, like a man of fifty. he wore a long prince albert frock coat hanging loosely from his rather square shoulders. his white vest was a little soiled by his watch chain and his tie was disarranged. his face was very fine and good. his eyes were gray-blue, deep and quiet but slightly smiling, as were his lips, which his golden-brown mustache shaded but did not hide. he was kept smiling in this quizzical way by the nervous chatter of the girl beside him. his profile, which was the view allen had of him, was handsome. the strong, straight nose and abrupt forehead formed a marked contrast to the rather characterless nose and retreating forehead of the girl. the first words that allen distinguished out of the merry war in which they seemed engaged were spoken in the tone of pretty petulance such women use, a coquette's defense. "you did, you did, you _did_. _now!_ you know you did. you told me that. you told me you despised girls like me." "i said i despised women who had no object in life but dress," he replied, rather soberly. "but you were hopping on me; you meant me, now! you can't deny it. you despise me, i know you do!" she challenged his flattery in her pouting self-depreciation. the young man tried to stop her in her course, to change her mood, which was descending to real feeling. his low words could not be heard. "yes, yes, try to smooth it over, but you can't fool me any more. but i don't want you to flatter me and lie to me the way judge stearns did," she said, with a sudden change of manner. "i like you because you're square." the phrase with which she ended seemed to take on a new meaning uttered by those red lips in childish pout. "now, why are you down on the judge? i don't see," said the man, as if she had gone back to an old attack. "well, if you'd seen what i have you'd understand." she turned away and looked out of the window. "oh, this terrible country! i'd die out here in six weeks. i know i should." the young lawyer was not to be turned aside. "of course i'm pleased to have you throw the judge over, and employ me, but, all the same, i think you do him an injustice. he's a good, square man." "square man!" she said, turning to him with a sudden fury in her eyes. "do you call it square for a man--married, and gray-haired, too--to take up with a woman like mrs. shellberg? say, do you, now?" "well, i don't quite believe----" "oh, i _lie_, do i?" she said, with another swift change to reproach. "you can't take my word for mrs. shellberg's visit to his office." "but he was her lawyer." "but you know what kind of a woman she is! she didn't need to go there every day or two, did she? what did he always receive her in his private office for? come, now, tell me that." "i don't know that he did," persisted the lawyer. a sort of convulsion passed over her face, her little hands clinched, and the tears started into her eyes. her voice was very quiet. "you think i lie, then?" "i think you are mistaken, just as other jealous women have----" "you think i'm jealous, do you?" "you act like a jeal----" "jealous of that gray-haired old wretch? no, sir! i--i--" she struggled to express herself. "i liked him, and i hated to lose all my faith in men. i thought he was good and honest when he prayed--oh, i've seen him pray in church, the old hypocrite!" her fury returned at the recollection. her companion's face grew grave. the smile went out of his eyes, leaving them dark and sorrowful. "i understand you now," he said, at last. she turned to look at him. "my practice in the divorce business out here has almost destroyed my faith in women. if it weren't for my wife and sister----" she broke in eagerly: "now i _know_ you know what i mean. sometimes i think men are--devils." she thrust this word forth, and her little face grew dark and strained. "but the judge kept me from thinking--i never loved my father; he didn't care for me; all he wanted to do was to make ten thousand barrels of beer a year and sell it; and the judge seemed like a father to me till _she_ came and destroyed my faith in him." "but--well, let mrs. s. go. there are lots of good men and pure women in the world. it's dangerous to think there aren't--especially for a handsome young woman like you. you can't afford to keep in that kind of a mood long." she looked at him curiously. "that's what i like about you," she said soberly. "you talk to me as if i had some sense--as if i was a human being. if you were to flatter me, now, and make love to me, i never would believe in any man again." he smiled again in his frank, good way, and drew a picture from his pocket. it was a picture of a woman bending down over a laughing, naked child, sprawling frogwise in her lap. the woman's face was broad and intellectual and handsome. the look of splendid maternity was in her eyes. they both looked at the picture in silence. the girl sighed. "i wish i was as good as that woman looks." "you can be if you try." "not with a big chicago brewer for a father and a husband that beats you whenever the mood takes him." "i admit that's hard. i think the atmosphere of that heron lake hotel isn't any great help to you." "oh, they're a gay lot there! we fight like cats and dogs." a look of slyness and boldness came over her face. "mrs. shellberg hates me as hard as i do her. she used to go around telling, 'it's very peculiar, you know'"--she imitated her rival's voice--"'but no matter which end of the dining room i sit, all the men look that way!'" the young lawyer laughed at her in spite of himself. "but they don't, now. that's the reason she hates me," she said, in conclusion. "the men don't notice her when i'm around." to hear her fresh young lips utter those words with their vile inflections was like taking a sudden glimpse into the underworld where harlots dwell and the spirits of unrestrained lusts dance in the shadowy recesses of the human heart. allen, hearing this fragmentary conversation, fascinated yet uneasy, looked at the pair with wonder. they seemed unconscious of their public situation. the young lawyer looked straight before him while the girl, swept on by her ignoble rage, displayed still more of the moral ulceration which had been injected into her young life. "i don't see what men find about her to like--unless it is her eyes. she's got beautiful eyes. but she's vulgar--ugh! the stories she tells--right before men, too! she'd kill any one that got ahead of her, that woman would! and yet she'll come into my room and cry and cry and say: 'don't take him away from me! leave him to me.' ugh! it makes me sick." she stamped her foot, then added, irrelevantly: "she wears a wig, too. i suppose that old fool of a judge thinks it's her own hair." the lawyer sat in stony silence. his grave face was accusing in its set expression, and she felt it and was spurred on to do still deeper injustice to herself--an insane perversity. "not that i care a cent--i'm not jealous of her. i ain't so bad off for company as she is. she can't take anybody away from me, but she must go and break down my faith in the judge." she bit her lips to keep from crying out. she looked out of the window again, seeking control. the "divorce colony" never appeared more sickening in its inner corruptions than when delineated by this dainty young girl. allen could see the swarming men about the hotels; he could see their hot, leering eyes and smell their liquor-laden breaths as they named the latest addition to the colony or boasted of their associations with those already well known. the girl turned suddenly to her companion. "how do those people live out here on their farms?" she pointed at a small shanty where the whole family stood to watch the train go by. "by eating boiled potatoes and salt pork." "salt pork!" she echoed, as if salt pork were old boot-heels or bark or hay. "why, it takes four hours for salt pork to digest!" he laughed again at her childish irrelevancy. "so much the better for the poor. where'd you learn all that, anyway?" "at school. oh, you needn't look so incredulous! i went to boarding school. i learned a good deal more than you think." "well, so i see. now, i should have said pork digested in three hours, speaking from experience." "well, it don't. what do the women do out here?" "they work like the men, only more so." "do they have any new things?" "not very often, i'm afraid." she sighed. after a pause she said: "you were raised on a farm?" "yes. in minnesota." "did you do work like that?" she pointed at a thrashing machine in the field. "yes, i plowed and sowed and reaped and mowed. i wasn't on the farm for my health." "you're very strong, aren't you?" she asked admiringly. "in a slab-sided kind of a way--yes." her eyes grew abstracted. "i like strong men. ollie was a little man, not any taller than i am, but when he was drunk he was what men call a--a--holy terror. he struck me with the water pitcher once--that was just before baby was born. i wish he'd killed me." she ended in a sudden reaction to hopeless bitterness. "it would have saved me all these months of life in this terrible country." "it might have saved you from more than you think," he said quietly, tenderly. "what do you mean?" "you've been brought up against women and men who have defiled you. they've made your future uncertain." "do you think it's so bad as that? tell me!" she insisted, seeing his hesitation. "you're on the road to hell!" he said, in a voice that was very low, but it reached her. it was full of pain and grave reprimand and gentleness. "you've been poisoned. you're in need of a good man's help. you need the companionship of good, earnest women instead of painted harlots." her voice shook painfully as she replied: "you don't think i'm _all_ bad?" "you're not bad at all--you're simply reckless. _you_ are not to blame. it depends upon yourself now, though, whether you keep a true woman or go to hell with mrs. shellberg." the conductor eyed them as he passed, with an unpleasant light in his eyes, and the drummers a few seats ahead turned to look at them. the tip had passed along from lip to lip. they were like wild beasts roused by the presence of prey. their eyes gleamed with relentless lust. they eyed the little creature with ravening eyes. her helplessness was their opportunity. allen, sitting there, saw the terror and tragedy of the girl's life. her reckless, prodigal girlhood; the coarse, rich father; the marriage, when a thoughtless girl, with a drunken, dissolute boy; the quarrels, brutal beatings; the haste to secure a divorce; the contamination of the crowded hotels in heron lake--and this slender young girl, naturally pure, alert, quick of impulse--she was like a lamb among lustful wolves. his heart ached for her. the deep, slow voice of the lawyer sounded on. his eyes turned toward her had no equivocal look. he was a brother speaking to a younger sister. the tears fell down her cheeks, upon her folded hands. her widely opened eyes seemed to look out into a night of storms. "oh, what shall i do?" she moaned. "i wish i was dead--and baby too!" "live for the baby--let him help you out." "oh, he can't! i don't care enough for him. i wish i was like other mothers; but i'm not. i can't shut myself up with a baby. i'm too young." he saw that. she was seeking the love of a man, not the care of a child. she had the wifely passion, but not the mother's love. he was silent; the case baffled him. "oh, i wish you could help me. i wish i had you all the time. i do! i don't care what you think, _i do, i do!_" "our home is open to you and baby, too," he said slowly. "my wife knows about you, and----" "who told her--did you?" she flashed out again, angrily, jealously. "yes. my wife is my other self," he replied quietly. she stared at him, breathing heavily, then looked out of the window again. at last she turned to him. she seemed to refer to his invitation. "oh, this terrible land! oh, i couldn't stay here. i'd go insane. perhaps i'm going insane anyway. don't you think so?" "no, i think you're a little nervous, that's all." "oh! do you think i'll get my divorce?" "certainly, without question." "can i wait and go back with you?" "i shall not return for several days. perhaps you couldn't bear the wait in this little town; it's not much like the city." "oh, dear! but i can't go about alone. i hate these men, they stare at me so! i wish i was a man. it's awful to be a woman, don't you think so? please don't laugh." the young lawyer was far from laughing, but this was her only way of defending herself. these pert, birdlike ways formed her shield against ridicule and misprision. he said slowly, "yes, it's an awful thing to be a woman, but it's an awful responsibility to be a man." "what do you mean?" "i mean that we are responsible as the dominant sex for every tragic, incomplete woman's life." "don't you blame mrs. shellberg?" she said, forcing him to a concrete example with savage swiftness. "no. she had a poor father and a poor husband, and she must earn her own living some way." "she could cook, or nurse, or something like that." "it isn't easy to find opportunity to cook or nurse. if it were as easy to earn a living in a pure way as it is in a vicious way all men would be rich and virtuous. but what had you planned to do after your divorce?" "oh, i'm going to travel for two years. then i'll try to settle down." "what you need is a good husband and a little cottage where you'd have to cook your own food--and tend the baby." "i wouldn't cook for any man living," she broke in, to express her bitterness that he could so coldly dispose of her future. "oh, this terrible train! can't it go faster? if i'd realized what a trip this was, i wouldn't have started." "this is the route you all go," he replied with grim humor, and his words pictured a ceaseless stream of divorcÃ�©es. she resented his classing her with the rest, but she simply said: "you despise me, don't you? but what can we do? you can't expect us to live with men we hate, can you? that would be worse than mrs. shellberg." "no, i don't expect that of you. i'd issue a divorce coupon with every marriage certificate, and done with it," he said, in desperate disgust. "then this whole cursed business would be done away with. it isn't a question of our laxity of divorce laws," he said, after a pause, "it's a question of the senseless severity of the laws in other states. that's what throws this demoralizing business into our hands here." "it pays, don't it? i know i've paid for everything i've had." "yes, that's the demoralizing thing. it draws a gang of conscienceless attorneys here, and it draws us who belong here off into dirty work, and it brings us into contact with men and women--i'm sick of the whole business." she had hardly followed him in his generalizations. she brought him back to the personal. "you're sick of me, i know you are!" she leaned her head on the window pane. her eyes closed. "oh, i wish my heart would stop beating!" she said, in a low tone. allen, sitting so close behind them, was forced to hear her, so piercingly sweet was her voice. he trembled for fear some one else might hear her. it seemed like profanation that any one but the woman's god should hear this outcry of a quivering, writhing soul. she faced her companion again. "you're the only man i know, now, that i respect, and you despise me." "no, i don't; i pity you." "that's worse. i want you to help me. oh, if you could go with me, or if i could be with you!" her gloved hands strained together in the agony of her desire. his calm lips did not waver. he did not smile even about the eyes. he knew her cry sprang from her need of a brother, not from the passion of a woman. "our home is yours, just as long as you can bear the monotony of our simple lives," he said, in his quiet way, but it was deep-throated and unmistakable in its sincerity. she laid her hand on his arm and clasped it hard, then turned away her head, and they rode in silence. after they left the car, allen sat with savage eyes and grimly set mouth, going over the problem again and again. he saw that young and helpless creature walking the gantlet between endless ranks of lustful, remorseless men, snatching at her in selfish, bestial desire. it made him bitter and despairing to think that women should be helpless--that they should need some man to protect them against some other man. he cursed the laws and traditions that had kept women subordinate and trivial and deceptive and vacillating. he wished they could be raised to the level of the brutes till, like the tigress or she-wolf, they could not only defend themselves, but their young. he tried to breathe a sigh of relief that she had gone out of his life but--he could not. it was not so easy to shake off the shadow of his responsibility. he followed her on her downward path till he saw her stretching out her hands in pitiful need to casual acquaintances--alone and without hope; still petite, still dainty in spite of all, still with flashes of wit, and then---- he shuddered. "o my god! upon whom does the burden of guilt lie?" * * * * * on the night of his return he sat among his romping babes debating whether he should tell the story to his wife or not. as the little ones grew weary, the noise of the autumn wind--the lonely, woeful, moaning prairie wind--came to his ears and he shuddered. his wife observed it. "what is it, joe? did you get a chill?" "oh, no. the wind sounds a little lonesome to-night, that's all." but he took his little girl into his arms and held her close. iv. the passing stranger. this was the story the mystic told: it was about eleven o'clock of an october night. the street was one of the worst of the city, but it was monday--one of its quiet nights. the saloons flared floods of feverish light upon the walk, and breathed their terrible odors, like caverns leading downward into hell. restless, loitering crowds moved to and fro, with rasping, uncertain footsteps, out of which the click of health had gone. policemen occasionally showed themselves menacingly, and the crowd responded to their impact by action quickened, like a python touched with a red-hot rod. it was nearly time to close, and the barkeepers were beginning to betray signs of impatience with their most drunken customers. a dark, tall man in cloak and fez moved slowly down the street. his face was serene but somber. in passing the window of a brilliantly lighted drinking place he stopped and looked in. in the small stall, near the window and behind the counter, sat three women and two men. all had mugs of beer in their hands. the women were all young, and one of them was handsome. they were dressed nattily, jauntily, in modish, girlish hats, and their dainty jackets fitted closely to their slight figures. their liquor had just been served, and their voices were ringing with wild laughter. their white teeth shone from their rouged faces with a mirth which met no answering smile from the strange young man without. he stood like a shadow against the pane. the smile on the face of the youngest girl stiffened into a strange contortion. her eyes looked straight ahead into the eyes of the stranger. her smile smoothed out. her face paled; her eyes expanded with wonder till they lost their insane glitter, and grew sad and soft and dark. "what is it, nell?" the others asked. she did not hear them. she seemed to listen. her eyes seemed to see mountains--or clouds. a land like her childhood's home with the sunset light over it. her mug fell with a crash to the table. she rose. her hand silenced them, with beautiful finger raised: "listen! don't you hear him? his eyes are calling me. it is christ." the others looked, but they saw only a tall figure moving away. he wore a long black cloak like a priest. "some foreign duffer lookin' in. let 'im look," said one of the other girls. "one o' them egyptian jugglers," said another. "what's the matter of ye, nell? you look as if you'd seen a ghost of y'r grandmother. set down an' drink y'r beer." the girl brushed her hand over her eyes. "i'm going home," she said in a low voice from which all individuality had passed. her face seemed anxious, her manner hurried. "what's the matter, nell? my god! look at her eyes!--i'm going with her." the girl put him aside with a gesture. her look awed him. one of the others began to laugh. "stop! you fool," one of the girls cried. they sat in silence as the younger girl went out, putting aside every hand stretched out to touch her. she walked like one in stupor--her face ghastly. the arch of her beautiful eyebrows was like that of ophelia in her bitterest moment. the others watched her go in silence. one of them drew a sigh and said: "i'm going home, too; i don't feel well." "i'll go with ye," one of the men said. "stay where you are!" said the girl sharply. * * * * * once on the street, the younger girl hurried on the way the stranger had gone. his face seemed before her. she could see it; she should always see it. it was the face of a young man. a firm chin, a strong mouth with a feminine curve in it, a face with a clear pallor that seemed foreign somehow. but the eyes--oh, the eyes! they were deep and brown, and filled with an infinite sadness--for her. she felt it, and the knot of pain in the forehead, that was also for her. something sweet and terrible went out from his presence. a knowledge of infinite space and infinite time and infinite compassion. no man had ever looked at her like that. there was something divine in the penetrating power of his eyes. some way she knew he was not a priest, though his cloak and turban cap looked like it. he seemed like a scholar from some strange land--a man above passion, a man who knew god. his eyes accused her and pitied her, while they called her. no smile, no shrinking of lips into a sneer--nothing but pity and wonder, and something else---- and a voice seemed to say: "you are too good to be there. follow me." as she thought of him he seemed to stand on an immeasurable height looking down at her. she had laughed at him--o god!--she flushed hot with shame from head to foot--but his eyes had not changed. his lips had kept their pitying droop, and his somber eyes had burned deep into the sacred places of her thought, where something sweet and girlish lay, unwasted and untrampled. "he called me. he called me." * * * * * under the trees where the moonlight threw tracing of shadows she came upon him standing, waiting for her. she held out her hand to him like a babe. he was taller than she thought. he took her hands silently and she grew calm at once. all shame left her. she forgot her city life; she remembered only the sweet, merry life of the village where she was born. the sound of sleigh bells and song, and the lisp of wind in the grass, and songs of birds in the maples came to her. his voice began softly: "you are too good and sweet to be so devoured of beasts. in your little northern home they are waiting for you. to-morrow you will go back to them." he placed his hand, which was soft and warm and broad, over her eyes. his voice was like velvet, soft yet elastic. "when you wake you will hate what you have been. no power can keep you here. you will go back to the simple life from which you should never have departed. you will love simple things and the pleasures of your native place." her face was turned upward, but her eyelids had fallen. "when you wake you will not remember your life here. you will be a girl again, unstained and ready to begin life without remorse and without accusing memory. when i leave you at your door to-night, you will belong to the kingdom of good and not to the kingdom of evil." he dropped her hands and pointed across the park. "now go to that gray house. ring the bell, and you will be housed for the night. _remember you are mine._ when the bell rings you will 'wake.'" she moved away without looking back--moved mechanically like one still in sleep. the man watched her until the door opened and admitted her; then he passed on into the shadow of the narrow street. and this the listener gravely asked: "one was chosen, the other left. were the others less in need of grace?" before the low green door. matilda bent was dying; there was no doubt of that now, if there had been before. the gruff old physician--one of the many overworked and underpaid country doctors--shook his head and pushed by joe bent, her husband, as he passed through the room which served as dining room, sitting room, and parlor. the poor fellow slouched back to his chair by the stove as if dazed, and before he could speak again the doctor was gone. mrs. ridings was just coming up the walk as the doctor stepped out of the door. "o doctor, how is she?" "she is a dying woman, madam." "oh! don't say that, doctor. what's the matter?" "cancer." "then the news was true----" "i don't know anything of the news, mrs. ridings, but mrs. bent is dying from the effects of a cancer primarily, which she has had for years--since her last child, which died in infancy, you remember." "but, doctor, she never told me----" "neither did she tell me. but no matter now. i have done all i can for her. if you can make death any easier for her, go and do it. you will find some opiate powders there with directions. keep the pain down at all hazards. don't let her suffer; that is useless. she is likely to last a day or two--but if any change comes to-night, send for me." when the good matron entered the dowdy, suffocating little room where matilda bent lay gasping for breath, she was sick for a moment with sympathetic pain. there the dying woman lay, her world narrowed to four close walls, propped up on the pillows near the one little window. her eyes seemed very large and bright, and the brow, made prominent by the sinking away of the cheeks, gave evidence that it was an uncommon woman who lay there quietly waiting the death angel. she smiled, and lifted her eyebrows in a ghastly way. "o marthy!" she breathed. "matildy, i didn't know you was so bad, or i'd 'a' come before. why didn't you let me know?" said mrs. ridings, kneeling by the bed and taking the ghostly hands of the sufferer in her own warm and soft palms. she shuddered as she kissed the thin lips. "i think you'll soon be around agin," she added, in the customary mockery of an attempt at cheer. the other woman started slightly, turned her head, and gazed on her old friend long and intently. the hollowness of her neighbor's words stung her. "i hope not, marthy--i'm ready to go. i want to go. i don't care to live." the two women communed by looking for a long time in each other's eyes, as if to get at the very secretest desires and hopes of the heart. tears fell from martha's eyes upon the cold and nerveless hands of her friend--poor, faithful hands, hacked and knotted and worn by thirty years of ceaseless daily toil. they lay there motionless upon the coverlet, pathetic protest for all the world to see. "o matildy, i wish i could do something for you! i want to help you so. i feel so bad that i didn't come before. ain't they somethin'?" "yes, marthy--jest set there--till i die--it won't be long," whispered the pale lips. the sufferer, as usual, was calmer than her visitor, and her eyes were thoughtful. "i will! i will! but oh! must you go? can't somethin' be done. don't yo' want the minister to be sent for?" "no, i'm all ready. i ain't afraid to die. i ain't worth savin' now. o marthy! i never thought i'd come to this--did you? i never thought i'd die--so early in life--and die--unsatisfied." she lifted her head a little as she gasped out these words with an intensity of utterance that thrilled her hearer--a powerful, penetrating earnestness that burned like fire. "are you satisfied?" pursued the steady lips. "my life's a failure, marthy--i've known it all along--all but my children. o marthy, what'll become o' them? this is a hard world." the amazed martha could only chafe the hands, and note sorrowfully the frightful changes in the face of her friend. the weirdly calm, slow voice began to shake a little. "i'm dyin', marthy, without ever gittin' to the sunny place we girls--used to think--we'd git to, by an' by. i've been a-gittin' deeper 'n' deeper--in the shade--till it's most dark. they ain't been no rest--n'r hope f'r me, marthy--none. i ain't----" "there, there! tillie, don't talk so--don't, dear. try to think how bright it'll be over there----" "i don't know nawthin' about over there; i'm talkin' about here. i ain't had no chance here, marthy." "he will heal all your care----" "he can't wipe out my sufferin's here." "yes, he can, and he will. he can wipe away every tear and heal every wound." "no--he--can't. god himself can't wipe out what has been. o mattie, if i was only there!--in the past--if i was only young and purty agin! you know how tall i was! how we used to run--o mattie, if i was only there! the world was all bright then--wasn't it? we didn't expect--to work all our days. life looked like a meadow, full of daisies and pinks, and the nicest ones and the sweetest birds was just a little ways on--where the sun was--it didn't look--wasn't we happy?" "yes, yes, dear. but you mustn't talk so much." the good woman thought matilda's mind was wandering. "don't you want some med'cine? ain't your fever risin'?" "but the daisies and pinks all turned to weeds," she went on, waiting a little, "when we picked 'em. an' the sunny place--has been always behind me, and the dark before me. oh! if i was only there--in the sun--where the pinks and daisies are!" "you mustn't talk so, mattie! think about your children. you ain't sorry y' had them. they've been a comfort to y'. you ain't sorry you had 'em." "i ain't glad," was the unhesitating reply of the failing woman; and then she went on, in growing excitement: "they'll haf to grow old jest as i have--git bent and gray, an' die. they ain't ben much comfort to me; the boys are like their father, and julyie's weak. they ain't no happiness--for such as me and them." she paused for breath, and mrs. ridings, not knowing what to say, did better than speak. she fell to stroking the poor face, and the hands getting more restless each moment. it was as if matilda fletcher had been silent so long, had borne so much without complaint, that now it burst from her in a torrent not to be stayed. all her most secret doubts and her sweetest hopes seemed trembling on her lips or surging in her brain, racking her poor, emaciated frame for utterance. now that death was sure, she was determined to rid her bosom of its perilous stuff. martha was appalled. "i used to think--that when i got married i'd be perfectly happy--but i never have been happy sence. it was the beginning of trouble to me. i never found things better than they looked; they was always worse. i've gone further an' further from the sunshiny meadow, an' the birds an' flowers----and i'll never git back to 'em again, never!" she ended with a sob and a low wail. her face was horrifying with its intensity of pathetic regret. her straining, wide-open eyes seemed to be seeing those sunny spots in the meadow. "mattie, sometimes when i'm asleep i think i am back there ag'in--and you girls are there--an' we're pullin' off the leaves of the wild sunflower--'rich man, poor man, beggar man'--and i hear you all laugh when i pull off the last leaf; an' when i come to myself--and i'm an old, dried-up woman, dyin' unsatisfied!" "i've felt that way a little myself, matildy," confessed the watcher in a scared whisper. "i knew it, mattie; i knew you'd know how i felt. things have been better for you. you ain't had to live in an old log house all your life, an' work yourself to skin an' bone for a man you don't respect nor like." "matildy bent, take that back! take it back, for mercy sake! don't you dare die thinkin' that--don't you dare!" bent, hearing her voice rising, came to the door, and the wife, knowing his step, cried: "don't let him in! don't! i can't bear him--keep him out; i don't want to see him ag'in." "who do you mean? not joe?" "yes. him." had the dying woman confessed to murder, good martha could not have been more shocked. she could not understand this terrible revulsion in feeling, for she herself had been absolutely loyal to her husband through all the trials which had come upon them. but she met bent at the threshold, and, closing the door, went out with him into the summer kitchen, where the rest of the family were sitting. a gloomy silence fell on them all after the greetings were over. the men were smoking; all were seated in chairs tipped back against the wall. joe bent, a smallish man, with a weak, good-natured face, asked in a hoarse whisper: "how is she, mis' ridings?" "she seems quite strong, mr. bent. i think you had all better go to bed; if i want you i can call you. doctor give me directions." "all right," responded the relieved man. "i'll sleep on the lounge in the other room. if you want me, just rap on the door." when, after making other arrangements, martha went back to the bedroom, she was startled to hear the sick woman muttering to herself, or perhaps because she had forgotten martha's absence. "but the shadows on the meadow didn't stay; they passed on, and then the sun was all the brighter on the flowers. we used to string sweet-williams on spears of grass--don't you remember?" martha gave her a drink of the opiate in the glass, adjusted her on the pillow, and threw open the window, even to the point of removing the screen, and the gibbous moon flooded the room with light. she did not light a lamp, for its flame would heat the room. besides, the moonlight was sufficient. it fell on the face of the sick woman, till she looked like a thing of marble--all but her dark eyes. "does the moon hurt you, tilly? shall i put down the curtain?" the woman heard with difficulty, and when the question was repeated said slowly: "no, i like it." after a little--"don't you remember, mattie 'how beautiful the moonlight seemed? it seemed to promise happiness--and love--but it never come for us. it makes me dream of the past now--just as it did o' future then; an' the whip-poor-wills too----" the night was perfectly beautiful, such a night as makes dying an infinite sorrow. the summer was at its liberalest. innumerable insects of the nocturnal sort were singing in unison with the frogs in the pools. a whip-poor-will called, and its neighbor answered it like an echo. the leaves of the trees, glossy from the late rain, moved musically to the light west wind, and the exquisite perfume of many flowers came in on the breeze. when the failing woman sank into silence, martha leaned her elbow on the window sill, and, gazing far into the great deeps of space, gave herself up to unwonted musings upon the problems of human life. she sighed deeply at times. she found herself at moments in the almost terrifying position of a human soul in space. not a wife, not a mother, but just a soul facing the questions which harass philosophers. as she realized her condition of mind she apprehended something of the thinking of the woman on the bed. matilda had gone beyond or far back of the wife and mother. the hours wore on; the dying woman stirred uneasily now and then, whispering a word or phrase which related to her girlhood--never to her later life. once she said: "mother, hold me. i'm so tired." martha took the thin form in her arms, and, laying her head close beside the sunken cheek, sang, in half breath, a lullaby till the sufferer grew quiet again. the eastern moon passed over the house, leaving the room dark, and still the patient watcher sat beside the bed, listening to the slow breathing of the dying one. the cool air grew almost chill; the east began to lighten, and with the coming light the tide of life sank in the dying body. the head, hitherto restlessly turning, ceased to move. the eyes grew quiet and began to soften like a sleeper's. "how are you now, dear?" asked the watcher several times, bending over the bed, and bathing back the straying hair. "i'm tired--tired, mother--turn me," she murmured drowsily, with heavy lids drooping. martha adjusted the pillows again, and turned the face to the wall. the poor, tortured, restless brain slowly stopped its grinding whirl, and the thin limbs, heavy with years of hopeless toil, straightened out in an endless sleep. matilda fletcher had found rest. upon impulse the seminary buildings stood not far from the low, lodgelike railway station, and a path led through a gap in the fence across the meadow. people were soberly converging toward its central building, as if proceeding to church. among the people who alighted from the two o'clock train were professor blakesly and his wife and a tall, dark man whom they called ware. mrs. blakesly was plump and pretty, plainly the mother of two or three children and the sovereign of a modest suburban cottage. blakesly was as evidently a teacher; even the casual glances of the other visitors might discover the character of these people. ware was not so easy to be read. his face was lean and brown, and his squarely clipped mustache gave him a stern look. his body was well rounded with muscle, and he walked alertly; his manner was direct and vigorous, manifestly of the open air. as they entered the meadow he paused and said with humorous irresolution, "i don't know what i am out here for." "to see the pretty girls, of course," said mrs. blakesly. "they may be plain, after all," he said. "they're always pretty at graduation time and at marriage," blakesly interpreted. "then there's the ice cream and cake," mrs. blakesly added. "where do all these people come from?" ware asked, looking about. "it's all farm land here." "they are the fathers, mothers, and brothers of the seminary girls. they come from everywhere. see the dear creatures about the door! let's hurry along." "they do not interest me. i take off my hat to the beauty of the day, however." ware had evidently come under protest, for he lingered in the daisied grass which was dappled with shadows and tinkling with bobolinks and catbirds. a broad path led up to the central building, whose double doors were swung wide with most hospitable intent. ware ascended the steps behind his friends, a bored look on his dark face. two rows of flushed, excited girls with two teachers at their head stood flanking the doorway to receive the visitors, who streamed steadily into the wide, cool hall. mrs. blakesly took ware in hand. "mr. ware, this is miss powell. miss powell, this is mr. jenkin ware, lawyer and friend to the blakeslys." "i'm very glad to see you," said a cool voice, in which gladness was entirely absent. ware turned to shake hands mechanically, but something in the steady eyes and clasp of the hand held out turned his listless manner into surprise and confusion. he stared at her without speaking, only for a second, and yet so long she colored and withdrew her hand sharply. "i beg your pardon, i didn't get the name." "miss powell," answered mrs. blakesly, who had certainly missed this little comedy, which would have been so delicious to her. ware moved on, shaking hands with the other teachers and bowing to the girls. he seized an early moment to turn and look back at miss powell. his listless indifference was gone. she was a fine figure of a woman--a strong, lithe figure, dressed in a well-ordered, light-colored gown. her head was girlish, with a fluff of brown hair knotted low at the back. her profile was magnificent. the head had the intellectual poise, but the proud bosom and strong body added another quality. "she is a modern type," ware said, remembering a painting of such a head he had seen in a recent exhibition. as he studied her she turned and caught him looking, and he felt again a curious fluttering rush at his heart. he fancied she flushed a little deeper as she turned away. as for him, it had been a very long while since he had felt that singular weakness in the presence of a young woman. he walked on, trying to account for it. it made him feel very boyish. he had a furtive desire to remain in the hall where he could watch her, and when he passed up the stairs, it was with a distinct feeling of melancholy, as if he were leaving something very dear and leaving it forever. he wondered where this feeling came from, and he looked into the upturned faces of the girls as if they were pansies. he wandered about the rooms with the blakeslys, being bored by introductions, until at last miss powell came up the stairway with the last of the guests. while the girls sang and went through some pretty drills ware again studied miss powell. her appeal to his imagination was startling. he searched for the cause of it. it could not be in her beauty. certainly she was fine and womanly and of splendid physique, but all about her were lovely girls of daintier flesh and warmer color. he reasoned that her power was in her eyes, steady, frank as sunlight, clear as water in a mountain brook. she seemed unconscious of his scrutiny. at last they began moving down the stairs and on to the other buildings. ware and blakesly waited for the ladies to come down. and when they came they were in the midst of a flood of girls, and ware had no chance to speak to them. as they moved across the grass he fell in behind mrs. blakesly, who seemed to be telling secrets to miss powell, who flushed and shook her head. mrs. blakesly turned and saw ware close behind her, and said, "o mr. ware, where is my dear, dear husband?" "back in the swirl," ware replied. mrs. blakesly artfully dropped miss powell's arm and fell back. "i must not desert the poor dear." as she passed ware she said, "take my place." "with pleasure," he replied, and walked on after miss powell, who seemed not to care to wait. how simply she was dressed! she moved like an athlete, without effort and without constraint. as he walked quickly to overtake her a finer light fell over the hills and a fresher green came into the grass. the daisies nodding in the wind blurred together in a dance of light and loveliness which moved him like a song. "how beautiful everything is to-day!" he said, as he stepped to her side. he felt as if he had said, "how beautiful you are!" she flashed a quick, inquiring glance at him. "yes; june can be beautiful with us. still, there is a beauty more mature, when the sickle is about to be thrust into the grain." he did not hear what she said. he was thinking of the power that lay in the oval of her face, in the fluffy tangle of her hair. _ah! now he knew._ with that upward glance she brought back his boy love, his teacher whom he had worshiped as boys sometimes will, with a love as pure as winter starlight. yes, now it was clear. there was the same flex of the splendid waist, the same slow lift of the head, and steady, beautiful eyes. as she talked, he was a youth of seventeen, he was lying at his teacher's feet by the river while she read wonderful love stories. there were others there, but they did not count. then the tears blurred his eyes; he remembered walking behind her dead body as it was borne to the hillside burying ground, and all the world was desolate for him. he became aware that miss powell was looking at him with startled eyes. he hastened to apologize and explain. "pardon me; you look so much like a schoolboy idol--i--i seem to see her again. i didn't hear what you said, you brought the past back so poignantly." there was something in his voice which touched her, but before he could go on they were joined by mr. and mrs. blakesly and one of the other teachers. there was a dancing light in mrs. blakesly's eyes as she looked at ware. she had just been saying to her husband: "what a splendid figure miss powell is! how well they look together! wouldn't it be splendid if----" "oh, my dear, you're too bad. please don't match-make any more to-day. let nature attend to these things," mr. blakesly replied with manifest impatience; "nature attended to our case." "i have no faith in nature any more. i want to have at least a finger in the pie myself. nature don't work in all cases. i'm afraid nature can't in his case." "careful! he'll hear you, my dear." "where do we go now, miss powell?" asked blakesly as they came to a halt on the opposite side of the campus. "i think they are all going to the gymnasium building. won't you come? that is my dominion." they answered by moving off, mrs. blakesly taking miss powell's arm. as they streamed away in files she said: "isn't he good-looking? we've known him for years. he's all right," she said significantly, and squeezed miss powell's arm. "well, lou blakesly, you're the same old irrepressible!" "blushing already, you _dear_! i tell you he's splendid. i wish he'd take to you," and she gave miss powell another squeeze. "it would be _such_ a match! brains and beauty, too." "oh, hush!" they entered the cool, wide hall of the gymnasium, with its red brick walls, its polished floor, and the yellow-red wooden beams lining the ceiling. there were only a few people remaining in the hall, most of them having passed on into the museum. as they came to the various appliances, miss powell explained them. "what are these things for?" inquired mrs. blakesly, pointing at the row of iron rings depending from long ropes. "they are for swinging on," and she leaped lightly upward and caught and swung by one hand. "mercy! do you do that?" "she seems to be doing it now," blakesly said. "i am one of the teachers," miss powell replied, dropping to the floor. it was glorious to see how easily she seized a heavy dumb-bell and swung it above her head. the front line of her body was majestic as she stood thus. "gracious! i couldn't do that," exclaimed mrs. blakesly. "no, not with your style of dress," replied her husband.--"i have to pin her hat on this year," he said to ware. "i love it," said miss powell, as she drew a heavy weight from the floor and stood with the cord across her shoulder. "it adds so much to life! it gives what browning calls the wild joy of living. do you know, few women know what that means? it's been denied us. only the men have known "'the wild joys of living! the leaping from rock up to rock, the strong rending of boughs from the fir tree, the cool silver shock of a plunge in the pool's living water.' i try to teach my girls 'how good is man's life, the mere living!'" the men cheered as she paused for a moment flushed and breathless. she went on: "we women have been shut out from the sports too long--i mean sports in the sun. the men have had the best of it. all the swimming, all the boating, wheeling, all the grand, wild life; now we're going to have a part." the young ladies clustered about with flushed, excited faces while their teacher planted her flag and claimed new territory for women. miss powell herself grew conscious, and flushed and paused abruptly. mrs. blakesly effervesced in admiring astonishment. "well, well! i didn't know you could make a speech." "i didn't mean to do so," she replied. "go on! go on!" everybody called out, but she turned away to show some other apparatus. "wasn't she fine?" exclaimed mrs. blakesly to ware. "beyond praise," he replied. she went at once to communicate her morsel of news to her husband, and at length to miss powell. the company passed out into other rooms until no one was left but mrs. blakesly, the professor, and ware. miss powell was talking again, and to ware mainly. ware was thoughtful, miss powell radiant. "i didn't know what life was till i could do that." she took up a large dumb-bell and, extending it at arm's length, whirled it back and forth. her forearm, white and smooth, swelled into strong action, and her supple hands had the unwavering power and pressure of an athlete, and withal ware thought: "she is feminine. her physical power has not coarsened her; it has enlarged her life, but left her entirely womanly." in some adroit way mrs. blakesly got her husband out of the room and left ware and miss powell together. she was showing him the view from the windows, and they seemed to be perfectly absorbed. she looked around once and saw that mrs. blakesly was showing her husband something in the farther end of the room. after that she did not think of them. the sun went lower in the sky and flamed along the sward. he spoke of the mystical power of the waving daisies and the glowing greens which no painter ever seems to paint. while they looked from the windows their arms touched, and they both tried to ignore it. she shivered a little as if a cold wind had blown upon her. at last she led the way out and down the stairs to the campus. they heard the gay laughter of the company at their cakes and ices, up at the central building. he stopped outside the hallway, and as she looked up inquiringly at him, he said quietly: "suppose we go down the road. it seems pleasanter there." she acquiesced like one in a pleasure which made duty seem absurd. strong and fine as she was, she had never found a lover to whom she yielded her companionship with unalloyed delight. she was thirty years of age, and her girlhood was past. she looked at this man, and a suffocating band seemed to encircle her throat. she knew he was strong and good. he was a little saddened with life--that she read in his deep-set eyes and unsmiling lips. the road led toward the river, and as they left the campus they entered a lane shaded by natural oaks. he talked on slowly. he asked her what her plans were. "to teach and to live," she said. her enthusiasm for the work seemed entirely gone. once he said, "this is the finest hour of my life." on the bank of the river they paused and seated themselves on the sward under a tree whose roots fingered the stream with knuckled hands. "yes, every time you look up at me you bring back my boyish idol," he went on. "she was older than i. it is as if i had grown older and she had not, and that she were you, or you were she. i can't tell you how it has affected me. every movement you make goes deep down into my sweetest, tenderest recollections. it's always june there, always sweet and sunny. her death and burial were mystical in their beauty. i looked in her coffin. she was the grandest statue that ever lay in marble; the greek types are insipid beside that vision. you'll say i idealized her; possibly i did, but there she is. o god! it was terrible to see one die so young and so lovely." there was a silence. tears came to her eyes. he could only exclaim; weeping was denied him. his voice trembled, but grew firmer as he went on: "and now you come. i don't know exactly in what way you resemble her. i only know you shake me as no other human being has done since that coffin-lid shut out her face." he lifted his head and looked around. "but nature is beautiful and full of light and buoyancy. i am not going to make you sad. i want to make you happy. i was only a boy to her. she cared for me only as a mature woman likes an apt pupil, but she made all nature radiant for me, as you do now." he smiled upon her suddenly. his somber mood passed like one of the shadows of the clouds floating over the campus. it was only a recollected mood. as he looked at her the old hunger came into his heart, but the buoyancy and emotional exaltation of youth came back also. "miss powell, are you free to marry me?" he said suddenly. she grew very still, but she flushed and then she turned her face away from him. she had no immediate reply. "that is an extraordinary thing to ask you, i know," he went on; "but it seems as if i had known you a long time, and then sitting here in the midst of nature with the insects singing all about us--well, conventions are not so vital as in drawing rooms. remember your browning." she who had declaimed browning so blithely now sat silent, but the color went out of her face, and she listened to the multitudinous stir and chirp of living things, and her eyes dreamed as he went on steadily, his eyes studying her face. "browning believed in these impulses. i'll admit i never have. i've always reasoned upon things, at least since i became a man. it has brought me little, and i'm much disposed to try the virtue of an impulse. i feel as certain that we can be happy together as i am of life, so i come back to my question, are you free to marry me?" she flushed again. "i have no other ties, if that is what you mean." "that is what i mean precisely. i felt that you were free, like myself. i might ask blakesly to vouch for me, but i prefer not. i ask for no one's opinion of you. can't you trust to that insight of which women are supposed to be happily possessed?" she smiled a little. "i never boasted of any divining power." he came nearer. "come, you and i have gone by rule and reason long enough. here we have a magnificent impulse; let us follow. don't ask me to wait, that would spoil it all; considerations would come in." "ought they not to come in?" "no," he replied, and his low voice had the intensity of a trumpet. "if this magnificent moment passes by, this chance for a pure impulsive choice, it is lost forever. you know browning makes much of such lost opportunities. seeing you there with bent head and blowing hair, i would throw the world away to become the blade of grass you break. there, will that do?" he smiled. "that speech should bring back youth to us both," she said. "right action _now_ will," he quickly answered. "but i must consider." "do not. take the impulse." "it may be wayward." "we've both got beyond the wayward impulse. this impulse rises from the profound deeps. come, the sun sinks, the insect voices thicken, a star passes behind the moon, and life hastens. come into my life. can't you trust me?" she grew very white, but a look of exaltation came into her face. she lifted her clear, steady eyes to his. she reached her hand to his. "i will," she said, and they rose and stood together thus. he uncovered his head. a sort of awe fell upon him. a splendid human life was put into his keeping. "a pure choice," he said exultingly--"a choice untouched by considerations. it brings back the youth of the world." the sun lay along the sward in level lines, the sky was full of clouds sailing in file, like mighty purple cranes in saffron seas of flame, the wind wavered among the leaves, and the insects sang in sudden ecstasy of life. the two looked into each other's faces. they seemed to be transfigured, each to the other. "you must not go back," he said. "they would not understand you nor me. we will never be so near a great happiness, a great holiday. it is holiday time. let us go to the mountains." she drew a sigh as if all her cares and duties dropped from her, then she smiled and a comprehending light sparkled in her eyes. "very well, to the clouds if you will." the end of love is love of love. they lay on the cliff where the warm sun fell. beneath them were rocks, lichen-spotted above, and orange and russet and pink beneath. around the headland the ocean ravened with roaring breath, flinging itself ceaselessly on the land, only to fall back with clutching snarl over the pebbles. the smell of hot cedars was in the air. the distant ships drove by with huge sails bellying. occasional crickets chirped faintly. sandpipers skimmed the beach. the man and woman were both gray. he lay staring at the sky. she sat with somber eyes fixed on the distant sea, whose crawling lines glittered in ever-changing designs on its purple sweep. they were man and wife; both were older than their years. they were far past the land of youth and love. "o wife!" he cried, "let us forget we are old; let us forget we are disillusioned of life; let us try to be boy and girl again." the woman shivered with a powerful, vague emotion, but she did not look at him. "o esther, i'm tired of life!" the man went on. "i'm tired of my children. i'm tired of you. do you know what i mean?" the woman looked into his eyes a moment, and said in a low voice: "no, charles." but the man knew she meant yes. the touch of her hand grew cold. "i'm tired of it all. i want to feel again the wonder and mystery of life. it's all gone. the love we have now is good and sweet and true; that of the old time was sweeter. it was so marvelous. i trembled when i kissed you, dear. i don't now. it had more of truth, of pure, unconscious passion, and less of habit. oh, teach me to forget!" he crept nearer to her, and laid his head in her lap. his face was knotted with his passion and pain. the wife and mother sighed, and looked down at his hair, which was getting white. "well, charles!" she said, and caressingly buried her fingers in his hair. "i'll try to forget for your sake." he could not understand her. he did not try. he lay with closed eyes, tired, purposeless. the sweet sea wind touched his cheek, white with the indoor pallor of the desk worker. the sound of the sea exalted him. the beautiful clouds above him carried him back to boyhood. there were tears on his face as he looked up at her. "i'm forgetting!" he said, with a smile of exultation. but the woman looked away at the violet-shadowed sails, afar on the changeful purple of the sea, and her throat choked with pain. the end ----------------------------------------------------------------------- d. appleton and company's publications. by a. conan doyle. uniform edition. mo. cloth, $ . per volume. uncle bernac. a romance of the empire. illustrated. this brilliant historical romance pictures napoleon's threatened invasion of england when his forces were encamped at boulogne. the story abounds in dramatic incidents, and the adventures of the hero will be followed with intense interest by a multitude of readers. rodney stone. illustrated. "a remarkable book, worthy of the pen that gave us 'the white company,' 'micah clarke,' and other notable romances."--london daily news. "a notable and very brilliant work of genius."--london speaker. "'rodney stone' is, in our judgment, distinctly the best of dr. conan doyle's novels.... there are few descriptions in fiction that can vie with that race upon the brighton road."--london times. the exploits of brigadier gerard. a romance of the life of a typical napoleonic soldier. illustrated. "the brigadier is brave, resolute, amorous, loyal, chivalrous; never was a foe more ardent in battle, more clement in victory, or more ready at need.... gallantry, humor, martial gayety, moving incident, make up a really delightful book."--london times. "may be set down without reservation as the most thoroughly enjoyable book that dr. doyle has ever published."--boston beacon. the stark munro letters. being a series of twelve letters written by stark munro, m. b., to his friend and former fellow-student, herbert swanborough, of lowell, massachusetts, during the years - . illustrated. "cullingworth, ... a much more interesting creation than sherlock holmes, and i pray dr. doyle to give us more of him."--richard le gallienne, in the london star. "'the stark munro letters' is a bit of real literature.... its reading will be an epoch-making event in many a life."--philadelphia evening telegraph. round the red lamp. being facts and fancies of medical life. "too much can not be said in praise of these strong productions, that to read, keep one's heart leaping to the throat, and the mind in a tumult of anticipation to the end.... no series of short stories in modern literature can approach them."--hartford times. "if dr. a. conan doyle had not already placed himself in the front rank of living english writers by 'the refugees,' and other of his larger stories, he would surely do so by these fifteen short tales."--new york mail and express. d. appleton and company, new york. ----------------------------------------------------------------------- d. appleton and company's publications. by s. r. crockett. uniform edition. each, mo, cloth, $ . . lads' love. illustrated. in this fresh and charming story, which in some respects recalls "the lilac sunbonnet," mr. crockett returns to galloway and pictures the humor and pathos of the life which he knows so well. cleg kelly, arab of the city. his progress and adventures. illustrated. "a masterpiece which mark twain himself has never rivaled.... if there ever was an ideal character in fiction it is this heroic ragamuffin."--london daily chronicle. "in no one of his books does mr. crockett give us a brighter or more graphic picture of contemporary scotch life than in 'cleg kelly.' ... it is one of the great books."--boston daily advertiser. "one of the most successful of mr. crockett's works."--brooklyn eagle. bog-myrtle and peat. third edition. "here are idyls, epics, dramas of human life, written in words that thrill and burn.... each is a poem that has an immortal flavor. they are fragments of the author's early dreams, too bright, too gorgeous, too full of the blood of rubies and the life of diamonds to be caught and held palpitating in expression's grasp."--boston courier. "hardly a sketch among them all that will not afford pleasure to the reader for its genial humor, artistic local coloring, and admirable portrayal of character."--boston home journal. "one dips into the book anywhere and reads on and on, fascinated by the writer's charm of manner."--minneapolis tribune. the lilac sunbonnet. eighth edition. "a love story pure and simple, one of the old-fashioned, wholesome, sunshiny kind, with a pure-minded, sound-hearted hero, and a heroine who is merely a good and beautiful woman; and if any other love story half so sweet has been written this year, it has escaped our notice."--new york times. "the general conception of the story, the motive of which is the growth of love between the young chief and heroine, is delineated with a sweetness and a freshness, a naturalness and a certainty, which places 'the lilac sunbonnet' among the best stories of the time."--new york mail and express. "in its own line this little love story can hardly be excelled. it is a pastoral, an idyl--the story of love and courtship and marriage of a fine young man and a lovely girl--no more. but it is told in so thoroughly delightful a manner, with such playful humor, such delicate fancy, such true and sympathetic feeling, that nothing more could be desired."--boston traveller. new york: d. appleton and company. ----------------------------------------------------------------------- d. appleton & co.'s publications. the statement of stella maberly. by f. anstey, author of "vice versa," "the giant's robe," etc. mo. cloth, special binding, $ . . "most admirably done.... we read fascinated, and fully believing every word we read.... the book has deeply interested us, and even thrilled us more than once."--london daily chronicle. 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"an original strain, bright and vivacious, and strong enough in its foolishness and its unexpected tragedy to prove its sterling worth."--boston herald. an imaginative man. by robert s. hichens, author of "the folly of eustace," "the green carnation," etc. mo. cloth, $ . . "a study in character.... just as entertaining as though it were the conventional story of love and marriage. the clever hand of the author of 'the green carnation' is easily detected in the caustic wit and pointed epigram."--jeannette l. gilder, in the new york world. corruption. by percy white, author of "mr. bailey-martin," etc. mo. cloth, $ . . "a drama of biting intensity. a tragedy of inflexible purpose and relentless result."--pall mall gazette. a hard woman. a story in scenes. by violet hunt. mo. cloth, $ . . "a good story, bright, keen, and dramatic.... it is out of the ordinary, and will give you a new sensation."--new york herald. new york: d. appleton & co., fifth avenue. ----------------------------------------------------------------------- d. appleton & co.'s publications. the reds of the midi. an episode of the french revolution. by fÃ�©lix gras. translated from the provenÃ�§al by mrs. catharine a. janvier. with an introduction by thomas a. janvier. with frontispiece. mo. cloth, $ . . "it is doubtful whether in the english language we have had a more powerful, impressive, artistic picture of the french revolution, from the revolutionist's point of view, than that presented in fÃ�©lix gras's 'the reds of the midi.' ... adventures follow one another rapidly; splendid, brilliant pictures are frequent, and the thread of a tender, beautiful love story winds in and out of its pages."--new york mail and express. "'the reds of the midi' is a red rose from provence, a breath of pure air in the stifling atmosphere of present-day romance--a stirring narrative of one of the most picturesque events of the revolution. it is told with all the strength of simplicity and directness; it is warm and pulsating, and fairly trembles with excitement."--chicago record. "to the names of dickens, hugo, and erckmann-chatrian must be added that of fÃ�©lix gras, as a romancer who has written a tale of the french revolution not only possessing historical interest, but charming as a story. a delightful piece of literature, of a rare and exquisite flavor."--buffalo express. "no more forcible presentation of the wrongs which the poorer classes suffered in france at the end of the eighteenth century has ever been put between the covers of a book."--boston budget. "every page is alive with incidents or scenes of the time, and any one who reads it will get a vivid picture that can never be forgotten of the reign of terror in paris."--san francisco chronicle. "the author has a rare power of presenting vivid and lifelike pictures. he is a true artist.... his warm, glowing, provenÃ�§al imagination sees that tremendous battalion of death even as the no less warm and glowing imagination of carlyle saw it."--london daily chronicle. "of 'the reds of the midi' itself it is safe to predict that the story will become one of the most widely popular stories of the next few months. it certainly deserves such appreciative recognition, for it throbs with vital interest in every line.... the characters are living, stirring, palpitating human beings, who will glow in the reader's memory long after he has turned over the last pages of this remarkably fascinating book."--london daily mail. "a delightful romance.... the story is not only historically accurate; it is one of continuous and vivid interest."--philadelphia press. "simply enthralling.... the narrative abounds in vivid descriptions of stirring incidents and wonderfully attractive depictions of character. indeed, one might almost say of 'the reds of the midi' that it has all the fire and forcefulness of the elder dumas, with something more than dumas's faculty for dramatic compression."--boston beacon. "a charmingly told story, and all the more delightful because of the unstudied simplicity of the spokesman, pascalet. fÃ�©lix gras is a true artist, and he has pleaded the cause of a hated people with the tact and skill that only an artist could employ."--chicago evening post. "much excellent revolutionary fiction in many languages has been written since the announcement of the expiration of , or rather since the contemporary publication of old war records newly discovered, but there is none more vivid than this story of men of the south, written by one of their own blood."--boston herald. new york: d. appleton & co., fifth avenue. ----------------------------------------------------------------------- d. appleton & co.'s publications. miss f. f. montrÃ�Â�sor's books. false coin or true? mo. cloth, $ . . "one of the few true novels of the day.... it is powerful, and touched with a delicate insight and strong impressions of life and character.... the author's theme is original, her treatment artistic, and the book is remarkable for its unflagging interest."--philadelphia record. "the tale never flags in interest, and once taken up will not be laid down until the last page is finished."--boston budget. "a well-written novel, with well-depicted characters and well-chosen scenes."--chicago news. "a sweet, tender, pure, and lovely story."--buffalo commercial. the one who looked on. mo. cloth, $ . . "a tale quite unusual, entirely unlike any other, full of a strange power and realism, and touched with a fine humor."--london world. "one of the most remarkable and powerful of the year's contributions, worthy to stand with ian maclaren's."--british weekly. "one of the rare books which can be read with great pleasure and recommended without reservation. it is fresh, pure, sweet, and pathetic, with a pathos which is perfectly wholesome."--st. paul globe. "the story is an intensely human one, and it is delightfully told.... the author shows a marvelous keenness in character analysis, and a marked ingenuity in the development of her story."--boston advertiser. into the highways and hedges. mo. paper, cents; cloth, $ . . "a touch of idealism, of nobility of thought and purpose, mingled with an air of reality and well-chosen expression, are the most notable features of a book that has not the ordinary defects of such qualities. with all its elevation of utterance and spirituality of outlook and insight it is wonderfully free from overstrained or exaggerated matter, and it has glimpses of humor. most of the characters are vivid, yet there are restraint and sobriety in their treatment, and almost all are carefully and consistently evolved."--london athenÃ�¦um. "'into the highways and hedges' is a book not of promise only, but of high achievement. it is original, powerful, artistic, humorous. it places the author at a bound in the rank of those artists to whom we look for the skillful presentation of strong personal impressions of life and character."--london daily news. "the pure idealism of 'into the highways and hedges' does much to redeem modern fiction from the reproach it has brought upon itself.... the story is original, and told with great refinement."--philadelphia public ledger. new york: d. appleton & co., fifth avenue. ----------------------------------------------------------------------- d. appleton & co.'s publications. gilbert parker's best books. the seats of the mighty. being the memoirs of captain robert moray, sometime an officer in the virginia regiment, and afterwards of amherst's regiment. mo. cloth, illustrated, $ . . "another historical romance of the vividness and intensity of 'the seats of the mighty' has never come from the pen of an american. mr. parker's latest work may, without hesitation, be set down as the best he has done. from the first chapter to the last word interest in the book never wanes; one finds it difficult to interrupt the narrative with breathing space. it whirls with excitement and strange adventure.... all of the scenes do homage to the genius of mr. parker, and make 'the seats of the mighty' one of the books of the year."--chicago record. "mr. gilbert parker is to be congratulated on the excellence of his latest story, 'the seats of the mighty,' and his readers are to be congratulated on the direction which his talents have taken therein.... it is so good that we do not stop to think of its literature, and the personality of doltaire is a masterpiece of creative art."--new york mail and express. the trail of the sword. a novel. mo. paper, cents; cloth, $ . . "mr. parker here adds to a reputation already wide, and anew demonstrates his power of pictorial portrayal and of strong dramatic situation and climax."--philadelphia bulletin. "the tale holds the reader's interest from first to last, for it is full of fire and spirit, abounding in incident, and marked by good character drawing."--pittsburg times. the trespasser. mo. paper, cents; cloth, $ . . "interest, pith, force, and charm--mr. parker's new story possesses all these qualities.... almost bare of synthetical decoration, his paragraphs are stirring because they are real. we read at times--as we have read the great masters of romance--breathlessly."--the critic. "gilbert parker writes a strong novel, but thus far this is his masterpiece.... it is one of the great novels of the year."--boston advertiser. the translation of a savage. mo. flexible cloth, cents. "a book which no one will be satisfied to put down until the end has been matter of certainty and assurance."--the nation. "a story of remarkable interest, originality, and ingenuity of construction."--boston home journal. "the perusal of this romance will repay those who care for new and original types of character, and who are susceptible to the fascination of a fresh and vigorous style."--london daily news. new york: d. appleton & co., fifth avenue. ----------------------------------------------------------------------- d. appleton & co.'s publications. stephen crane's books. the third violet. mo. cloth, $ . . mr. crane's new novel is a fresh and delightful study of artist life in the city and the country. the theme is worked out with the author's characteristic originality and force, and with much natural humor. in subject the book is altogether different from any of its predecessors, and the author's marked success proves his breadth and the versatility of his great talent. the little regiment, and other episodes of the american civil war. mo. cloth, $ . . 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"there is nothing in american fiction to compare with it.... mr. crane has added to american literature something that has never been done before, and that is, in its own peculiar way, inimitable."--boston beacon. "a truer and completer picture of war than either tolstoy or zola."--london new review. new york: d. appleton and company. ----------------------------------------------------------------------- d. appleton & co.'s publications. sir mark. a tale of the first capital. by anna robeson brown. mo. cloth, cents. "one could hardly imagine a more charming short historical tale.... it is almost classic in its simplicity and dignity."--baltimore news. the folly of eustace. by r. s. hichens, author of "an imaginative man," "the green carnation," etc. mo. cloth, cents. 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"a better book than 'the prisoner of zenda.'"--london queen. the chronicles of count antonio. by anthony hope, author of "the god in the car," "the prisoner of zenda," etc. with photogravure frontispiece by s. w. van schaick. third edition. mo. cloth, $ . . "no adventures were ever better worth recounting than are those of antonio of monte velluto, a very bayard among outlaws.... to all those whose pulses still stir at the recital of deeds of high courage, we may recommend this book.... the chronicle conveys the emotion of heroic adventure, and is picturesquely written."--london daily news. "it has literary merits all its own, of a deliberate and rather deep order.... in point of execution 'the chronicles of count antonio' is the best work that mr. hope has yet done. the design is clearer, the workmanship more elaborate, the style more colored.... the incidents are most ingenious, they are told quietly, but with great cunning, and the quixotic sentiment which pervades it all is exceedingly pleasant."--westminster gazette. "a romance worthy of all the expectations raised by the brilliancy of his former books, and likely to be read with a keen enjoyment and a healthy exaltation of the spirits by every one who takes it up."--the scotsman. "a gallant tale, written with unfailing freshness and spirit."--london daily telegraph. "one of the most fascinating romances written in english within many days. the quaint simplicity of its style is delightful, and the adventures recorded in these 'chronicles of count antonio' are as stirring and ingenious as any conceived even by weyman at his best."--new york world. "romance of the real flavor, wholly and entirely romance, and narrated in true romantic style. the characters, drawn with such masterly handling, are not merely pictures and portraits, but statues that are alive and step boldly forward from the canvas."--boston courier. "told in a wonderfully simple and direct style, and with the magic touch of a man who has the genius of narrative, making the varied incidents flow naturally and rapidly in a stream of sparkling discourse."--detroit tribune. "easily ranks with, if not above, 'a prisoner of zenda.' ... wonderfully strong, graphic, and compels the interest of the most _blasÃ�©_ novel reader."--boston advertiser. "no adventures were ever better worth telling than those of count antonio.... the author knows full well how to make every pulse thrill, and how to hold his readers under the spell of his magic."--boston herald. "a book to make women weep proud tears, and the blood of men to tingle with knightly fervor.... in 'count antonio' we think mr. hope surpasses himself, as he has already surpassed all the other story-tellers of the period."--new york spirit of the times. new york: d. appleton & co., fifth avenue. ----------------------------------------------------------------------- d. appleton & co.'s publications. novels by hall caine. the manxman. mo. cloth, $ . . "a story of marvelous dramatic intensity, and in its ethical meaning has a force comparable only to hawthorne's 'scarlet letter.'"--boston beacon. "a work of power which is another stone added to the foundation of enduring fame to which mr. caine is yearly adding."--public opinion. "a wonderfully strong study of character; a powerful analysis of those elements which go to make up the strength and weakness of a man, which are at fierce warfare within the same breast; contending against each other, as it were, the one to raise him to fame and power, the other to drag him down to degradation and shame. never in the whole range of literature have we seen the struggle between these forces for supremacy over the man more powerfully, more realistically delineated than mr. caine pictures it."--boston home journal. the deemster. a romance of the isle of man. mo. cloth, $ . . "hall caine has already given us some very strong and fine work, and 'the deemster' is a story of unusual power.... certain passages and chapters have an intensely dramatic grasp, and hold the fascinated reader with a force rarely excited nowadays in literature."--the critic. "one of the strongest novels which has appeared in many a day."--san francisco chronicle. "fascinates the mind like the gathering and bursting of a storm."--illustrated london news. "deserves to be ranked among the remarkable novels of the day."--chicago times. the bondman. new edition, mo. cloth, $ . . "the welcome given to this story has cheered and touched me, but i am conscious that, to win a reception so warm, such a book must have had readers who brought to it as much as they took away.... i have called my story a saga, merely because it follows the epic method, and i must not claim for it at any point the weighty responsibility of history, or serious obligations to the world of fact. but it matters not to me what icelanders may call 'the bondman,' if they will honor me by reading it in the open-hearted spirit and with the free mind with which they are content to read of grettir and of his fights with the troll."--from the author's preface. capt'n davy's honeymoon. a manx yarn. mo. paper, cents; cloth, $ . . "a new departure by this author. unlike his previous works, this little tale is almost wholly humorous, with, however, a current of pathos underneath. it is not always that an author can succeed equally well in tragedy and in comedy, but it looks as though mr. hall caine would be one of the exceptions."--london literary world. "it is pleasant to meet the author of 'the deemster' in a brightly humorous little story like this.... it shows the same observation of manx character, and much of the same artistic skill."--philadelphia times. new york: d. appleton & co., fifth avenue. ----------------------------------------------------------------------- d. appleton & co.'s publications. the story of the west series. edited by ripley hitchcock. "there is a vast extent of territory lying between the missouri river and the pacific coast which has barely been skimmed over so far. that the conditions of life therein are undergoing changes little short of marvelous will be understood when one recalls the fact that the first white male child born in kansas is still living there; and kansas is by no means one of the newer states. revolutionary indeed has been the upturning of the old condition of affairs, and little remains thereof, and less will remain as each year goes by, until presently there will be only tradition of the sioux and comanches, the cowboy life, the wild horse, and the antelope. histories, many of them, have been written about the western country alluded to, but most if not practically all by outsiders who knew not personally that life of kaleidoscopic allurement. but ere it shall have vanished forever we are likely to have truthful, complete, and charming portrayals of it produced by men who actually knew the life and have the power to describe it."--henry edward rood, in the mail and express. now ready: the story of the indian. by george bird grinnell, author of "pawnee hero stories," "blackfoot lodge tales," etc. mo. cloth, $ . . "in every way worthy of an author who, as an authority upon the western indians, is second to none. a book full of color, abounding in observation, and remarkable in sustained interest, it is at the same time characterized by a grace of style which is rarely to be looked for in such a work, and which adds not a little to the charm of it."--london daily chronicle. "only an author qualified by personal experience could offer us a profitable study of a race so alien from our own as is the indian in thought, feeling, and culture. only long association with indians can enable a white man measurably to comprehend their thoughts and enter into their feelings. such association has been mr. grinnell's."--new york sun. the story of the mine. by charles howard shinn. illustrated. mo. cloth, $ . . "the author has written a book, not alone full of information, but replete with the true romance of the american mine."--new york times. "few chapters of recent history are more fascinating than that which mr. shinn has told in 'the story of the mine.'"--the outlook. "both a history and a romance.... highly interesting, new, and thrilling."--philadelphia inquirer. in preparation. the story of the trapper. by gilbert parker. the story of the cowboy. by e. hough. the story of the soldier. by capt. j. mcb. stembel, u.s.a. the story of the explorer. the story of the railroad. new york: d. appleton & co., fifth avenue. ----------------------------------------------------------------------- novels by maarten maartens. the greater glory. a story of high life. by maarten maartens, author of "god's fool," "joost avelingh," etc. mo. cloth, $ . . "until the appletons discovered the merits of maarten maartens, the foremost of dutch novelists, it is doubtful if many american readers knew that there were dutch novelists. his 'god's fool' and 'joost avelingh' made for him an american reputation. to our mind this just published work of his is his best.... he is a master of epigram, an artist in description, a prophet in insight."--boston advertiser. "it would take several columns to give any adequate idea of the superb way in which the dutch novelist has developed his theme and wrought out one of the most impressive stories of the period.... it belongs to the small class of novels which one can not afford to neglect."--san francisco chronicle. "maarten maartens stands head and shoulders above the average novelist of the day in intellectual subtlety and imaginative power."--boston beacon. god's fool. by maarten maartens. mo. cloth, $ . . "throughout there is an epigrammatic force which would make palatable a less interesting story of human lives or one less deftly told."--london saturday review. "perfectly easy, graceful, humorous.... the author's skill in character-drawing is undeniable."--london chronicle. "a remarkable work."--new york times. "maarten maartens has secured a firm footing in the eddies of current literature.... pathos deepens into tragedy in the thrilling story of 'god's fool.'"--philadelphia ledger. "its preface alone stamps the author as one of the leading english novelists of to-day."--boston daily advertiser. "the story is wonderfully brilliant.... the interest never lags; the style is realistic and intense; and there is a constantly underlying current of subtle humor.... it is, in short, a book which no student of modern literature should fail to read."--boston times. "a story of remarkable interest and point."--new york observer. joost avelingh. by maarten maartens. mo. cloth, $ . . "so unmistakably good as to induce the hope that an acquaintance with the dutch literature of fiction may soon become more general among us."--london morning post. "in scarcely any of the sensational novels of the day will the reader find more nature or more human nature."--london standard. "a novel of a very high type. at once strongly realistic and powerfully idealistic."--london literary world. "full of local color and rich in quaint phraseology and suggestion."--london telegraph. "maarten maartens is a capital story-teller."--pall mall gazette. "our english writers of fiction will have to look to their laurels."--birmingham daily post. rudyard kipling's new book. the seven seas. a new volume of poems by rudyard kipling, author of "many inventions," "barrack-room ballads," etc. mo. cloth, $ . ; half calf, $ . ; morocco, $ . . "the spirit and method of kipling's fresh and virile song have taken the english reading world.... when we turn to the larger portion of 'the seven seas,' how imaginative it is, how impassioned, how superbly rhythmic and sonorous!... the ring and diction of this verse add new elements to our song.... the true laureate of greater britain."--e. c. stedman, in the book buyer. "the most original poet who has appeared in his generation.... his is the lustiest voice now lifted in the world, the clearest, the bravest, with the fewest false notes in it.... i do not see why, in reading his book, we should not put ourselves in the presence of a great poet again, and consent to put off our mourning for the high ones lately dead."--w. d. howells. "the new poems of mr. rudyard kipling have all the spirit and swing of their predecessors. throughout they are instinct with the qualities which are essentially his, and which have made, and seem likely to keep, for him his position and wide popularity."--london times. "he has the very heart of movement, for the lack of which no metrical science could atone. he goes far because he can."--london academy. "'the seven seas' is the most remarkable book of verse that mr. kipling has given us. here the human sympathy is broader and deeper, the patriotism heartier and fuller, the intellectual and spiritual insight keener, the command of the literary vehicle more complete and sure, than in any previous verse work by the author. the volume pulses with power--power often rough and reckless in expression, but invariably conveying the effect intended. there is scarcely a line which does not testify to the strong individuality of the writer."--london globe. "if a man holding this volume in his hands, with all its extravagance and its savage realism, is not aware that it is animated through and through with indubitable genius--then he must be too much the slave of the conventional and the ordinary to understand that poetry metamorphoses herself in many diverse forms, and that its one sovereign and indefeasible justification is--truth."--london daily telegraph. "'the seven seas' is packed with inspiration, with humor, with pathos, and with the old unequaled insight into the mind of the rank and file."--london daily chronicle. "mr. kipling's 'the seven seas' is a distinct advance upon his characteristic lines. the surpassing strength, the almost violent originality, the glorious swish and swing of his lines--all are there in increased measure.... the book is a marvel of originality and genius--a brand-new landmark in the history of english letters."--chicago tribune. "in 'the seven seas' are displayed all of kipling's prodigious gifts.... whoever reads 'the seven seas' will be vexed by the desire to read it again. the average charm of the gifts alone is irresistible."--boston journal. new york: d. appleton & co., fifth avenue. ----------------------------------------------------------------------- yekl. a tale of the new york ghetto. by a. cahan. uniform with "the red badge of courage." mo. cloth, $ . . "a new and striking tale; the charm, the verity, the literary quality of the book depend upon its study of character, its 'local color,' its revelation to americans of a social state at their very doors of which they have known nothing."--new york times. "the story is a revelation to us. it is written in a spirited, breezy way, with an originality in the telling of which is quite unexpected. the dialect is striking in its truth to nature."--boston courier. "is in all probability the only true picture we have yet had of that most densely populated spot on the face of the earth--the ghetto of the metropolis, rather the metropolis of the ghettos of the world."--new york journal. "a series of vivid pictures of a strange people.... the people and their social life the author depicts with marvelous success."--boston transcript. "the reader will become deeply interested in mr. cahan's graphic presentation of ghetto life in new york."--minneapolis journal. "a strong, quaint story."--detroit tribune. "every feature of the book bears the stamp of truth.... undoubtedly 'yekl' has never been excelled as a picture of the distinctive life of the new york ghetto."--boston herald. the sentimental sex. by gertrude warden. mo. cloth, $ . . "the cleverest book by a woman that has been published for months.... such books as 'the sentimental sex' are exemplars of a modern cult that will not be ignored."--new york commercial advertiser. "there is a well-wrought mystery in the story and some surprises that preserve the reader's interest, and render it, when all is said, a story of considerable charm."--boston courier. "an uncommonly knowing little book, which keeps a good grip on the reader up to the last page.... the author's method of handling the plot is adroit and original."--rochester herald. "miss warden has worked out her contrasts very strikingly, and tells her story in a cleverly flippant way, which keeps the reader on the qui vive for the cynical but bright sayings she has interspersed."--detroit free press. "the story forms an admirable study. the style is graphic, the plot original and cleverly wrought out."--philadelphia evening bulletin. new york: d. appleton & co., fifth avenue. transcriber's notes. introduction. welcome to project gutenberg's edition of _wayside courtships_ by hamlin garland. this collection of short stories was released in . we used the book in hathitrust from the cornell university library for our transcription. similar books by garland are: _main-travelled roads_, _prairie folks_, and _other main-travelled roads_. five short stories from this collection were reprinted in _other main-travelled roads_: âÂ�¢ a stop-over at tyre âÂ�¢ a fair exile âÂ�¢ an alien in the pines âÂ�¢ before the low green door âÂ�¢ a preacher's love story detailed notes. chapter --a meeting in the foothills. on page : barn-yard is hyphenated and split between two lines. on page , barn-yard was hyphenated, and on page , it was not. since barnyard on page was part of the same short story as barnyard on page , the spelling without the hyphen took precedence over the hyphenated spelling from _a preacher's love story_. on page , we changed ransey to ramsey in the question: "you don't mean mr. ransey?" chapter --a stop-over in tyre. on page : removed period after exclamation point in by jinks! .you don't seem to realize ... when this story was reprinted in _main-travelled roads_, this extract was written "by jinks! you don't seem to realize ..." chapter --of those who seek. on page : halfassumed is spelled as one word, without a space or hyphen. we retained the spelling from the book. the vehement flame a novel by margaret deland author of dr. lavendar's people, old chester tales, etc. to lorin: together, so many years ago--seven, i think, or eight--you and i planned this story. the first chapters had the help of your criticism ... then, i had to go on alone, urged by the memory of your interest. but all the blunders are mine, not yours; and any merits are yours, not mine. that it has been written, in these darkened years, has been because your happy interest still helped me. margaret _may th, _ the vehement flame chapter i _love is as strong as death; jealousy is cruel as the grave: the coals thereof are coals of fire, which hath a most vehement flame._ _the song of solomon, viii, ._ there is nothing in the world nobler, and lovelier, and more absurd, than a boy's lovemaking. and the joyousness of it!... the boy of nineteen, maurice curtis, who on a certain june day lay in the blossoming grass at his wife's feet and looked up into her dark eyes, was embodied joy! the joy of the warm earth, of the sunshine glinting on the slipping ripples of the river and sifting through the cream-white blossoms of the locust which reared its sheltering branches over their heads; the joy of mating insects and birds, of the whole exulting, creating universe!--the unselfconscious, irresponsible, wholly beautiful joy of passion which is without apprehension or humor. the eyes of the woman who sat in the grass beside this very young man, answered his eyes with love. but it was a more human love than his, because there was doubt in its exultation.... the boy took out his watch and looked at it. "we have been married," he said, "exactly fifty-four minutes." "i can't believe it!" she said. "if i love you like this after fifty-four minutes of married life, how do you suppose i shall feel after fifty-four years of it?" he flung an arm about her waist, and hid his face against her knee. "we are married," he said, in a smothered voice. she bent over and kissed his thick hair, silently. at which he sat up and looked at her with blue, eager eyes. "it just came over me! oh, eleanor, suppose i hadn't got you? you said 'no' six times. you certainly did behave very badly," he said, showing his white teeth in a broad grin. "some people win say i behaved very badly when i said 'yes.'" "tell 'em to go to thunder! what does mrs. maurice curtis (doesn't that sound pretty fine?) care for a lot of old cats? don't we _know_ that we are in heaven?" he caught her hand and crushed it against his mouth. "i wish," he said, very low, "i almost wish i could die, now, here! at your feet. it seems as if i couldn't live, i am so--" he stopped. so--what? words are ridiculously inadequate things!... "happiness" wasn't the name of that fire in his breast, happiness? "why, it's god," he said to himself; "_god._" aloud, he said, again, "we are married!" she did not speak--she was a creature of alluring silences--she just put her hand in his. suddenly she began to sing; there was a very noble quality in the serene sweetness of her voice: "o thou with dewy locks, who lookest down through the clear windows of the morning, ten thine angel eyes upon our western isle, which in full choir hails thy approach, o spring!" that last word rose like a flight of wings into the blue air. her husband looked at her; for a compelling instant his eyes dredged the depths of hers, so that all the joyous, frightened woman in her retreated behind a flutter of laughter. "'o spring!'" he repeated; "_we_ are spring, nelly--you and i.... i'll never forget the first time i heard you sing that; snowing like blazes it was,--do you remember? but i swear i felt this hot grass then in mrs. newbolt's parlor, with all those awful bric-à-brac things around! yes," he said, putting his hand on a little sun-drenched bowlder jutting from the earth beside him; "i felt this sun on my hand! and when you came to 'o spring!' i saw this sky--" he stopped, pulled three blades of grass and began to braid them into a ring. "lord!" he said, and his voice was suddenly startled; "what a darned little thing can throw the switches for a man! because i didn't get by in math. d and ec , and had to crawl out to mercer to cram with old bradley--i met you! eleanor! isn't it wonderful? a little thing like that--just falling down in mathematics--changed my whole life?" the wild gayety in his eyes sobered. "i happened to come to mercer--and, you are my wife." his fingers, holding the little grassy ring, trembled; but the next instant he threw himself back on the grass, and kicked up his heels in a preposterous gesture of ecstasy. then caught her hand, slipped the braided ring over that plain circle of gold which had been on her finger for fifty-four minutes, kissed it--and the palm of her hand--and said, "you never can escape me! eleanor, your voice played the deuce with me. i rushed home and read every poem in my volume of blake. go on; give us the rest." she smiled; ".... and let our winds kiss thy perfumed garments; let us taste thy morn and evening breath!..." "oh--_stop_! i can't bear it," he said, huskily; and, turning on his face, he kissed the grass, earth's "perfumed garment," snow-sprinkled with locust blossoms.... but the moment of passion left him serious. "when i think of mrs. newbolt," he said, "i could commit murder." in his own mind he was saying, "i've rescued her!" "auntie doesn't mean to be unkind," eleanor explained, simply; "only, she never understood me--maurice! be careful! there's a little ant--don't step on it." she made him pause in his diatribe against mrs. newbolt and move his heel while she pushed the ant aside with a clover blossom. her anxious gentleness made him laugh, but it seemed to him perfectly beautiful. then he went on about mrs. newbolt: "of course she couldn't understand _you_! you might as well expect a high-tempered cow to understand a violin solo." "how mad she'd be to be called a cow! oh, maurice, do you suppose she's got my letter by this time? i left it on her bureau. she'll rage!" "let her rage. nothing can separate us now." thus they dismissed mrs. newbolt, and the shock she was probably experiencing at that very moment, while reading eleanor's letter announcing that, at thirty-nine, she was going to marry this very young man. "no; nothing can part us," eleanor said; "forever and ever." and again they were silent--islanded in rippling tides of wind-blown grass, with the warm fragrance of dropping locust blossoms infolding them, and in their ears the endless murmur of the river. then eleanor said, suddenly: "maurice!--mr. houghton? what will _he_ do when he hears? he'll think an 'elopement' is dreadful." he chuckled. "uncle henry?--he isn't really my uncle, but i call him that;--he won't rage. he'll just whistle. people of his age have to whistle, to show they're alive. i have reason to believe," the cub said, "that he 'whistled' when i flunked in my mid-years. well, i felt sorry, myself--on his account," maurice said, with the serious and amiable condescension of youth. "i hated to jar him. but--gosh! i'd have flunked a b c's, for _this_. nelly, i tell you heaven hasn't got anything on this! as for uncle henry, i'll write him to-morrow that i had to get married sort of in a hurry, because mrs. newbolt wanted to haul you off to europe. he'll understand. he's white. and he won't really mind--after the first biff;--that will take him below the belt, i suppose, poor old uncle henry! but after that, he'll adore you. he adores beauty." her delight in his praise made her almost beautiful; but she protested that he was a goose. then she took the little grass ring from her finger and slipped it into her pocketbook. "i'm going to keep it always," she said. "how about mrs. houghton?" "she'll love you! she's a peach. and little skeezics--" "who is skeezics?" "edith. their kid. eleven years old. she paid me the compliment of announcing, when she was seven, that she was going to marry me when she grew up! but i believe, now, she has a crush on sir walter raleigh. she'll adore you, too." "i'm afraid of them all," she confessed; "they won't like--an elopement." "they'll fall over themselves with joy to think i'm settled for life! i'm afraid i've been a cussed nuisance to uncle henry," he said, ruefully; "always doing fool things, you know,--i mean when i was a boy. and he's been great, always. but i know he's been afraid i'd take a wild flight in actresses." "'_wild_' flight? what will he call--" she caught her breath. "he'll call it a 'wild flight in angels'!" he said. the word made her put a laughing and protesting hand (which he kissed) over his lips. then she said that she remembered mr. houghton: "i met him a long time ago; when--when you were a little boy." "and yet here you are, 'mrs. maurice curtis!' isn't it supreme?" he demanded. the moment was so beyond words that it made him sophomoric--which was appropriate enough, even though his freshman year had been halted by those examinations, which had so "jarred" his guardian. "i'll be twenty in september," he said. evidently the thought of his increasing years gave him pleasure. that eleanor's years were also increasing did not occur to him; and no wonder, for, compared to people like mr. and mrs. houghton, eleanor was young enough!--only thirty-nine. it was back in the 'nineties that she had met her husband's guardian, who, in those days, had been the owner of a cotton mill in mercer, but who now, instead of making money, cultivated potatoes (and tried to paint). eleanor knew the houghtons when they were mercer mill folk, and, as she said, this charming youngster--living then in philadelphia--had been "a little boy"; now, here he was, her husband for "fifty-four minutes." and she was almost forty, and he was nineteen. that henry houghton, up on his mountain farm, pottering about in his big, dusty studio, and delving among his potatoes, would whistle, was to be expected. "but who cares?" maurice said. "it isn't his funeral." "he'll think it's yours," she retorted, with a little laugh. she was not much given to laughter. her life had been singularly monotonous and, having seen very little of the world, she had that self-distrust which is afraid to laugh unless other people are laughing, too. she taught singing at fern hill, a private school in mercer's suburbs. she did not care for the older pupils, but she was devoted to the very little girls. she played wonderfully on the piano, and suffered from indigestion; her face was at times almost beautiful; she had a round, full chin, and a lovely red lower lip; her forehead was very white, with soft, dark hair rippling away from it. certainly, she had moments of beauty. she talked very little; perhaps because she hadn't the chance to talk--living, as she did, with an aunt who monopolized the conversation. she had no close friends;--her shyness was so often mistaken for hauteur, that she did not inspire friendship in women of her own age, and mrs. newbolt's elderly acquaintances were merely condescending to her, and gave her good advice; so it was a negative sort of life. indeed, her sky terrier, bingo, and her laundress, mrs. o'brien, to whose crippled baby grandson she was endlessly kind, knew her better than any of the people among whom she lived. when maurice curtis, cramming in mercer because destiny had broken his tutor's leg there, and presenting (with the bored reluctance of a boy) a letter of introduction from his guardian to mrs. newbolt--when maurice met mrs. newbolt's niece, something happened. perhaps because he felt her starved longing for personal happiness, or perhaps her obvious pleasure in listening, silently, to his eager talk, touched his young vanity; whatever the reason was, the boy was fascinated by her. he had ("cussing," as he had expressed it to himself) accepted an invitation to dine with the "ancient dame" (again his phrase!)--and behold the reward of merit:--the niece!--a gentle, handsome woman, whose age never struck him, probably because her mind was as immature as his own. before dinner was over eleanor's silence--silence is very moving to youth, for who knows what it hides?--and her deep, still eyes, lured him like a mystery. then, after dinner ("a darned good dinner," maurice had conceded to himself) the calm niece sang, and instantly he knew that it was beauty which hid in silence--and he was in love with her! he had dined with her on tuesday, called on wednesday, proposed on friday;--it was all quite like solomon grundy! except that, although she had fallen in love with him almost as instantly as he had fallen in love with her, she had, over and over again, refused him. during the period of her refusals the boy's love glowed like a furnace; it brought both power and maturity into his fresh, ardent, sensitive face. he threw every thought to the winds--except the thought of rescuing his princess from mrs. newbolt's imprisoning bric-a-bràc. as for his "cramming" the tutor into whose hands mr. houghton had committed his ward's very defective trigonometry and economics, mr. bradley, held in mercer because of an annoying accident, said to himself that his intentions were honest, but if curtis didn't turn up for three days running, he would utilize the time his pupil was paying for by writing a paper on "the fourth dimension." maurice was in some new dimension himself! except "old brad," he knew almost no one in mercer, so he had no confidant; and because his passion was, perforce, inarticulate, his candid forehead gathered wrinkles of positive suffering, which made him look as old as eleanor, who, dazed by the first very exciting thing that had ever happened to her,--the experience of being adored (and adored by a boy, which is a heady thing to a woman of her age!)--eleanor was saying to herself a dozen times a day: "i _mustn't_ say 'yes'! oh, what _shall_ i do?" then suddenly there came a day when the rush of his passion decided what she would do.... her aunt had announced that she was going to europe. "i'm goin' to take you," mrs. newbolt said. "_i_ don't know what would become of you if i left you alone! you are about as capable as a baby. that was a great phrase of your dear uncle thomas's--'capable as a baby,' i'm perfectly sure the parlor ceilin' has got to be tinted this spring. when does your school close? we'll go the minute it closes. you can board bingo with mrs. o'brien." eleanor, deeply hurt, was tempted to retort with the announcement that she needn't be "left alone"; she might get married! but she was silent; she never knew what to say when assailed by the older woman's tongue. she just wrote maurice, helplessly, that she was going abroad. he was panic-stricken. going abroad? uncle henry's ancient dame was a she-devil, to carry her off! then, in the midst of his anger, he recognized his opportunity: "the hell-cat has done me a good turn, i do believe! i'll get her! bless the woman! i'll pay her passage myself, if she'll only go and never come back!" it was on the heels of mrs. newbolt's candor about eleanor's "capableness" that he swept her resistance away. "you've _got_ to marry me," he told her; "that's all there is to it." he put his hand in his pocket and pulled out a marriage license. "i'll call for you to-morrow at ten; we'll go to the mayor's office. i've got it all fixed up. so, you see there's no getting out of it." "but," she protested, dazzled by the sheer, beautiful, impertinence of it, "maurice, i can't--i won't--i--" "you _will_," he said. "to-morrow's saturday," he added, practically, "and there's no school, so you're free." he rose.... "better leave a letter for your aunt. i'll be here at five minutes to ten. be ready!" he paused and looked hard at her; caught her roughly in his arms, kissed her on her mouth, and walked out of the room. the mere violence of it lifted her into the great adventure! when he commanded, "be ready!" she, with a gasp, said, "yes." well; they had gone to the mayor's office, and been married; then they had got on a car and ridden through mercer's dingy outskirts to the end of the route in medfield, where, beyond suburban uglinesses, there were glimpses of green fields. once as the car rushed along, screeching around curves and banging over switches, eleanor said, "i've come out here four times a week for four years, to fern hill." and maurice said: "well, _that's_ over! no more school-teaching for you!" she smiled, then sighed. "i'll miss my little people," she said. but except for that they were silent. when they left the car, he led the way across a meadow to the bank of the river; there they sat down under the locust, and he kissed her, quietly; then, for a while, still dumb with the wonder of themselves, they watched the sky, and the sailing white clouds, and the river--flowing--flowing; and each other. "fifty-four minutes," he had said.... so they sat there and planned for the endless future--the "fifty-four years." "when we have our golden wedding," he said, "we shall come back here, and sit under this tree--" he paused; he would be--let's see: nineteen, plus fifty, makes sixty-nine. he did not go farther with his mental arithmetic, and say thirty-nine plus fifty; he was thinking only of himself, not of her. in fifty years he would be, he told himself, an old man. and what would happen in all these fifty golden years? "you know, long before that time, perhaps it won't be--just us?" he said. the color leaped to her face; she nodded, finding no words in which to expand that joyous "perhaps," which touched the quick in her. instantly that sum in addition which he had not essayed in his own mind, became unimportant in hers. what difference did the twenty severing years make, after all? her heart rose with a bound--she had a quick vision of a little head against her bosom! but she could not put it into words. she only challenged, him: "i am not clever like you. do you think you can love a stupid person for fifty years?" "for a thousand years!--but you're not stupid." she looked doubtful; then went on confessing: "auntie says i'm a dummy, because i don't talk very much. and i'm awfully timid. and she says i'm jealous." "you don't talk because you're always thinking; that's one of the most fascinating things about you, eleanor,--you keep me wondering what on earth you're thinking about. it's the mystery of you that gets me! and if you're 'timid'--well, so long as you're not afraid of me, the more scared you are, the better i like it. a man," said maurice, "likes to feel that he protects his--his wife." he paused and repeated the glowing word ... "his wife!" for a moment he could not go on with their careless talk; then he was practical again. that word "protect" was too robust for sentimentality. "as for being jealous, that, about me, is a joke! and if you were, it would only mean that you loved me--so i would be flattered. i hope you'll be jealous! eleanor, _promise_ me you'll be jealous?" they both laughed; then he said: "i've made up my mind to one thing. i won't go back to college." "oh, maurice!" he was very matter of fact. "i'm a married man; i'm going to support my wife!" he ran his fingers through his thick blond hair in ridiculous pantomime of terrified responsibility. "yes, sir! i'm out for dollars. well, i'm glad i haven't any near relations to get on their ear, and try and mind my business for me. of course," he ruminated, "bradley will kick like a steer, when i tell him he's bounced! but that will be on account of money. oh, i'll pay him, all same," he said, largely. "yes; i'm going to get a job." his face sobered into serious happiness. "my allowance won't provide bones for bingo! so it's business for me." she looked a little frightened. "oh, have i made you go to work?" she had never asked him about money; she had plunged into matrimony without the slightest knowledge of his income. "i'll chuck bradley, and i'll chuck college," he announced, "i've got to! of course, ultimately, i'll have plenty of money. mr. houghton has dry-nursed what father left me, and he has done mighty well with it; but i can't touch it till i'm twenty-five--worse luck! father had theories about a fellow being kept down to brass tacks and earning his living, before he inherited money another man had earned--that's the way he put it. queer idea. so, i must get a job. uncle henry'll help me. you may bet on it that mrs. maurice curtis shall not wash dishes, nor yet feed the swine, but live on strawberries, sugar, and--what's the rest of it?" "i have a little money of my own," she said; "six hundred a year." "it will pay for your hairpins," he said, and put out his hand and touched her hair--black, and very soft and wavy "but the strawberries i shall provide." "i never thought about money," she confessed. "of course not! angels don't think about money." * * * * * "so they were married"; and in the meadow, fifty-four minutes later, the sun and wind and moving shadows, and the river--flowing--flowing--heralded the golden years, and ended the saying: "_lived happy ever afterward_." chapter ii it was three days after the young husband, lying in the grass, his cheek on his wife's hand, had made his careless prophecy about "whistling," that henry houghton, jogging along in the sunshine toward grafton for the morning mail, slapped a rein down on lion's fat back, and whistled, placidly enough.... (but that was before he reached the post office.) his wife, whose sweet and rosy bulk took up most of the space on the seat, listened, smiling with content. when he was placid, she was placid; when he wasn't, which happened now and then, she was an alertly reasonable woman, defending him from himself, and wrenching from his hand, with ironic gayety, or rallying seriousness, the dagger of his discontent with what he called his "failure" in life--which was what most people called his success--a business career, chosen because the support of several inescapable blood relations was not compatible with his own profession of painting. all his training and hope had been centered upon art. the fact that, after renouncing it, an admirably managed cotton mill provided bread and butter for sickly sisters and wasteful brothers, to say nothing of his own modest prosperity, never made up to him for the career of a struggling and probably unsuccessful artist--which he might have had. he ran his cotton mill, and supported all the family undesirables until, gradually, death and marriage took the various millstones from around his neck; then he retired, as the saying is--although it was really setting sail again for life--to his studio (with a farmhouse attached) in the mountains. there had been a year of passionate work and expectation--but his pictures were dead. "i sold my birthright for a bale of cotton," he said, briefly. but he still stayed on the farm, and dreamed in his studio and tried to teach his little, inartistic edith to draw, and mourned. as for business, he said, "go to the devil!"--except as he looked after maurice curtis's affairs; this because the boy's father had been his friend. but it was the consciousness of the bartered birthright and the dead pictures in his studio which kept him from "whistling" very often. however, on this june morning, plodding along between blossoming fields, climbing wooded hills, and clattering through dusky covered bridges, he was not thinking of his pictures; so, naturally enough, he whistled; a very different whistling from that which maurice, lying in the grass beside his wife of fifty-four minutes, had foreseen for him--when the mail should be distributed! once, just from sheer content, he stopped his: "did you ever ever ever in your life life life see the devil devil devil or his wife wife wife--" and turned and looked at his mary. "nice day, kit?" he said; and she said, "lovely!" then she brushed her elderly rosy cheek against his shabby coat and kissed it. they had been married for thirty years, and she had held up his hands as he placed upon the altar of a repugnant duty, the offering of a great renunciation. she had hoped that the birth of their last, and only living, child, edith, would reconcile him to the material results of the renunciation; but he was as indifferent to money for his girl as he had been for himself.... so there they were, now, living rather carefully, in an old stone farmhouse on one of the green foothills of the allegheny mountains. the thing that came nearest to soothing the bruises on his mind was the possibilities he saw in maurice. "the inconsequence of the scamp amounts to genius!" he used to tell his mary with admiring displeasure at one or another of maurice's scrapes. "heaven knows what he'll do before he gets to the top of fool hill, and begins to run on the state road! look at this mid-year performance. he ought to be kicked for flunking. he simply dropped everything except his music! apparently he _can't_ study. even spelling is a matter of private judgment with maurice! oh, of course, i know i ought to have scalped him; his father would have scalped him. but somehow the scoundrel gets round me! i suppose its because, though he is provoking, he is never irritating. and he's as much of a fool as i was at his age! that keeps me fair to him. well, he has _stuff_ in him, that boy. he's as truthful as edith; an appalling tribute, i know--but you like it in a cub. and there's no flapdoodle about him; and he never cried baby in his life. and he has imagination and music and poetry! edith is a nice little clod compared to him." the affection of these two people for maurice could hardly have been greater if he had been their son. "mother loves maurice better 'an she loves me," edith used to reflect; "i guess it's because he never gets muddy the way i do, and tracks dirt into the house. he wipes his feet." "what do you suppose," mrs. houghton said, remembering this summing up of things, "edith told me this morning that the reason i loved maurice more than i loved her--" "what!" "yes; isn't she funny?--was because he 'wiped his feet when he came into the house.'" edith's father stopped whistling, and smiled: "that child is as practical as a shuttle; but she hasn't a mean streak in her!" he said, with satisfaction, and began to whistle again. "nice girl," he said, after a while; "but the most rationalizing youngster! i hope she'll get foolish before she falls in love. mary, one of these days, when she grows up, perhaps she and maurice--?" "matchmaker!" she said, horrified; then objected: "can't she rationalize and fall in love too? i'm rather given to reason myself, henry." "yes, honey; you are _now_; but you were as sweet a fool as anybody when you fell in love, thank god." she laughed, and he said, resignedly, "i suppose you'll have an hour's shopping to do? you have only one of the vices of your sex, mary, you have the 'shopping mind.' however, with all thy faults i love thee still.... we'll go to the post office first; then i can read my letters while you are colloguing with the storekeepers." mrs. houghton, looking at her list, agreed, and when he got out for the mail she was still checking off people and purchases; it was only when she had added one or two more errands that she suddenly awoke to the fact that he was very slow in coming back with the letters. "stupid!" she thought, "opening your mail in the post office, instead of keeping it to read while i'm shopping!"--but even as she reproached him, he came out and climbed into the buggy, in very evident perturbation. "where do you want to go?" he said; she, asking no questions (marvelous woman!) told him. he said "g'tap!" angrily; lion backed, and the wheel screeched against the curb. "oh, _g'on_!" he said. lion switched his tail, caught a rein under it, and trotted off. mr. houghton leaned over the dashboard, swore softly, and gave the horse a slap with the rescued rein. but the outburst loosened the dumb distress that had settled upon him in the post office; he gave a despairing grunt: "well! maurice has come the final cropper." "smith's next, dear," she said; "what is it, henry?" "he's gone on the rocks (druggist smith, or fish smith?)" "druggist. has maurice been drinking?" she could not keep the anxiety out of her voice. "drinking? he could be as drunk as a lord and i wouldn't--whoa, lion!... get me some shaving soap, kit!" he called after her, as she went into the shop. when she came back with her packages and got into the buggy, she said, quietly, "tell me, henry." "he has simply done what i put him in the way of doing when i gave him a letter of introduction to that mrs. newbolt, in mercer." "newbolt? i don't remember--" "yes, you do. pop eyes. fat. talked every minute, and everything she said a _nonsequitur_. i used to wonder why her husband didn't choke her. he was on our board. died the year we came up here. talked to death, probably." "oh yes. i remember her. well?" "i thought she might make things pleasant for maurice while he was cramming. he doesn't know a soul in mercer, and bradley's game leg wouldn't help out with sociability. so i gave him letters to two or three people. mrs. newbolt was one of them. i hated her, because she dropped her g's; but she had good food, and i thought she'd ask him to dinner once in a while." "well?" "_she did._ and he's married her niece." "what! without your consent! i'm shocked that mrs. newbolt permitted--" "probably her permission wasn't asked, any more than mine." "you mean an elopement? how outrageous in maurice!" mrs. houghton said. her husband agreed. "abominable! mary, do you mind if i smoke?" "very much; but you'll do it all the same. i suppose the girl's a mere child?" then she quailed. "henry!--she's respectable, isn't she? i couldn't bear it, if--if she was some--dreadful person." he sheltered a sputtering match in his curving hand and lighted a cigar; then he said, "oh, i suppose she's respectable enough; but she's certainly 'dreadful.' he says she's a music teacher. probably caught him that way. music would lead maurice by the nose. confound that boy! and his father trusted me." his face twitched with distress. "as for being a 'mere child,'--there; read his letter." she took it, fumbling about for her spectacles; halfway through, she gave an exclamation of dismay. "'a few years older'?--she must be _twenty_ years older!" "good heavens, mary!" "well, perhaps not quite twenty, but--" henry houghton groaned. "i'll tell bradley my opinion of him as a coach." "my dear, mr. bradley couldn't have prevented it.... yes; i remember her perfectly. she came to tea with mrs. newbolt several times. rather a temperamental person, i thought." "'temperamental'? may the lord have mercy on him!" he said. "yes, it comes back to me. dark eyes? looked like one of rossetti's women?" "yes. handsome, but a little stupid. she's proved _that_ by marrying maurice! oh, what a fool!" then she tried to console him: "but one of the happiest marriages i ever knew, was between a man of thirty and a much older woman." "but not between a boy of nineteen and a much older woman! the trouble is not her age but his youth. why didn't she adopt him?... i bet the aunt's cussing, too." "probably. well, we've got to think what to do," mary houghton said. "do? what do you mean? get a divorce for him?" "he's just married; he doesn't want a divorce yet," she said, simply; and her husband laughed, in spite of his consternation. "oh, lord, i wish i was asleep! i've always been afraid he'd go high-diddle-diddling off with some shady girl;--but i swear, that would have been better than marrying his grandmother! mary, what i can't understand, is the woman. he's a child, almost; and vanity at having a woman of forty fall in love with him explains him. and, besides, maurice is no eurydice; music would lead him into hell, not out of it. it's the other fool that puzzles me." his wife sighed; "if her mind keeps young, it won't matter so much about her body." "my dear," he said, dryly, "human critters are human critters. in ten years it will be an impossible situation." but again she contradicted him: "no! unhappiness is possible; but _not_ inevitable!" "dear goose, may a simple man ask how it is to be avoided?" "by unselfishness," she said; "no marriage ever went on the rocks where both 'human critters' were unselfish! but i hope this poor, foolish woman's mind will keep young. if it doesn't, well, maurice will just have to be tactful. if he is, it may not be so _very_ bad," she said, with determined optimism. "kit, when a man has to be 'tactful' with his wife, god help him!--or a woman with her husband," he added in a sudden tender afterthought. "we've never been 'tactful' with each other, mary?" she smiled, and put her cheek against his shoulder. "'tactfulness' between a husband and wife," said henry houghton, "is confession that their marriage is a failure. you may tell 'em so, from me." "you may tell them yourself!" she retorted. "what are they going to live on?" she pondered "can his allowance be increased?" "it can't. you know his father's will. he won't get his money until he's twenty-five." "he'll have to go to work," she said; "which means not going back to college, i suppose?" "yes," he said, grimly; "who would support his lady-love while he was in college? and it means giving up his music," he added. "if he makes as much out of his renunciation as you have out of yours," she said, calmly, "we may bless this poor woman yet." "oh, you old humbug," he told her--but he smiled. then she repeated to him an old, old formula for peace; "'consider the stars,' henry, and young foolishness will seem very small. maurice's elopement won't upset the universe." they were both silent for a while; then mary houghton said, "i'll write the invitation to them; but you must second it when you answer his letter." "invitation? what invitation?" "why, to come and stay at green hill until you can find something for him to do." "i'll be hanged if i invite her! i'll have nothing to do with her! maurice can come, of course; but he can't bring--" his wife laughed, and he, too, gave a reluctant chuckle. "i suppose i've got to?" he groaned. "_of course_, you've got to!" she said. the rest of the ride back to the old stone house among its great trees, halfway up the mountain, was silent. mrs. houghton was thinking what room she would give the bride and groom--for the little room maurice had had in all his vacations since he became her husband's ward was not suitable. "edith will have to let them have her room," she thought. she knew she could count on edith not to make a fuss. "it's such a comfort that edith has sense," she ruminated aloud. but her husband was silent; there was no more whistling for henry houghton that day. chapter iii edith and her fourteen-year-old neighbor, johnny bennett, had climbed into the old black-heart cherry tree--(johnny always conceded that edith was a good climber--"for a girl.") but when they saw lion, tugging up the road, edith, who was economical with social amenities, told her guest to go home. "i don't want you any longer," she said; "father and mother are coming!" and with that she rushed around to the stable door, just in time to meet the returning travelers, and ask a dozen questions--the first: "_did_ you get a letter from maurice?" but when her father threw the reins down on lion's back, and said, briefly, "can't you unharness him yourself, buster?" she stuck out her tongue, opened her eyes wide, and said nothing except, "yes, father." then she proceeded, with astonishing speed, to put lion into his stall, run the buggy into the carriage house, and slam the stable door, after which she tore up to her mother's room. "mother! something has bothered father!" "well, yes," mrs. houghton said; "a little. maurice is married." edith's lips fell apart; "maurice? _married_? who to? did she wear a veil? i don't see why father minds." mrs. houghton, standing in front of her mirror, said, dryly: "there are things more important than veils, when it comes to getting married. in the first place, they eloped--" "oh, how lovely! i am going to elope when i get married!" "i hope you won't have such bad taste. of course they ought not to have got married that way. but the thing that bothers your father, is that the lady maurice has married is--is older than he." "how much older?" edith demanded; "a year?" "i don't just know. probably twenty years older." edith was silent, rapidly adding up nineteen and twenty; then she gasped, "_thirty-nine_!" "well, about that; and father is sorry, because maurice can't go back to college. he will have to go into business." edith saw no cause for regret in this. "guess he's glad not to have to learn things! but why weren't we invited to the wedding? i always meant to be maurice's bridesmaid." mrs. houghton said she didn't know. edith was silent, for a whole minute. then she said, soberly: "i suppose father's sorry 'cause she'll die so soon, she's so old? and then maurice will feel awfully. poor maurice! well, i'll live with him, and comfort him." "my dear, i'm fifty!" mrs. houghton said, much amused. "oh, well, _you_--" edith demurred; "that's different. you're my mother, and you--" she paused; "i never thought of you being old, or dying, _ever_. and yet i suppose you are rather old?" she pondered. "i suppose some day you'll die? mother!--promise me you won't!" she said, quaveringly. "edith, don't be a goose!" mrs. houghton said, laughing--but she turned and kissed the rosy, anxious face, "maurice's wife isn't old at all. she's quite young. it's only that he is so much younger." edith lapsed into silence. she was very quiet for the rest of that summer morning. just before dinner she went across the west pasture to doctor bennett's house, and, hailing johnny, told him the news. his indifference--for he only looked at her, with his mild, nearsighted brown eyes, and said, "huh?"--irritated her so that she would not confide her dismay at maurice's approaching widowerhood, but ran home to a sympathetic kitchen: "katy! maurice got eloped!" katy was much more satisfactory than johnny; she said, "god save us! mr. maurice eloped? who with, then? well, well!" but edith was still abstracted. time, as related to life, had acquired significance. at dinner she regarded her father with troubled eyes. he, too, was old, like maurice's wife. he, too, as well as the bride, and her mother, would die, sometime. and she and maurice would have such awful grief!... something tightened in her throat; "please 'scuse me," she said, in a muffled voice; and, slipping out of her chair, made a dash for the back door, and ran as hard as she could to her chicken house. the little place was hot, and smelled of feathers; through the windows, cobwebbed and dusty, the sunshine fell dimly on the hard earth floor, and on an empty plate or two and a rusty, overturned tin pan. here, sitting on a convenient box, she could think things out undisturbed: maurice, and his lovely, dying bride; herself, orphaned and alone; johnny bennett, indifferent to all this oncoming grief! probably maurice was worrying about it all the time! how long would the bride live? suddenly she remembered her mother's age, and had a revulsion of hope for maurice. perhaps his wife would live to be as old as mother? "why, i hadn't thought of that! well, then, she will live--let's see: thirty-nine from fifty leaves eleven--yes; the bride will live eleven years!" why, that wasn't so terrible, after all. "that's as long as i have been alive!" obviously it would not be necessary to take care of maurice for quite a good while. "i guess," she reflected, "i'll have some children by that time. and maybe i'll be married, too, for maurice won't need me for eleven years. but i don't know what i'd do with my husband then?" she frowned; a husband would be bothering, if she had to go and live with maurice. "oh, well, probably my husband will be so old, he'll die about the time maurice's wife does." she had meant to marry johnny. "but i won't. he's too young. he's only three years older 'an me. he might live too long. i must get an old husband. i'll tell johnny about it to-morrow. i'll wear mourning," she thought; "a long veil! it's so interesting. but not over my face--you can't see through it, and it isn't sense not to be able to see." (the test edith applied to conduct was always, "is it sense?") "of course i shall feel badly about my husband; but i've got to take care of maurice.... yes; i must get an old one," she thought. "i must get one as old as the bride. if they'd only waited, the bride could have married my husband!" but this line of thought was too complicated; and, besides, she had so entirely cheered up that she practically forgot death. she began to count how much money her mother owed her for eggs--which reminded her to look into the nests; and when, in spite of a clucking remonstrance, she put her hand under a feathery breast and touched the hot smoothness of a new-laid egg, she felt perfectly happy. "i guess i'll go and get some floating-island," she thought. "oh, i _hope_ they haven't eaten it all up!" with the egg in her hand, she rushed back to the dining room, and was reassured by the sight of the big glass dish, still all creamy yellow and fluffy white. "edith," mrs. houghton said, "you won't mind letting maurice and eleanor have your room, will you, dear?" "is her name 'eleanor'? i think it's a perfectly beautiful name! no, i'd love to give her my room! mother, she won't be as old as you are for eleven years, and that's as long as i have been alive. so i won't worry about maurice just yet. mother, may i have two helpings? when are they coming?" "they haven't been asked yet," her father said, grimly. "i'm not going to concoct a letter, mary, for a week. let 'em worry! maurice, confound him!--has never worried in his life. everything rolls off him like water off a duck's back. it will do him good to chew nails for a while. i wish i was asleep!" "why, father!" edith said, aghast; "i don't believe you _want_ the bride!" "you're a very intelligent young person," her father said, scratching a match under the table and lighting a cigar. "but, my dear," his wife said, "has it occurred to you that it may be as unpleasant for the bride to come, as for you to have her? _henry!_ that's the third since breakfast!" "wrong for once, mrs. houghton. it's the fourth." "_i_ want the bride," said edith. her mother laughed. "come along, honey," she said, putting her hand on her husband's shoulder, "and tell me what to say to her." "say she's a harpy, and tell her to go to the--" "henry!" "my dear, like mr. f.'s aunt, 'i hate a fool.' oh, i'll tell you what to say: say, 'mr. f.'s aunt will send her a wedding present.' that's friendly, isn't it?" "better not be too literary in public," his wife cautioned him, with a significant glance at edith, who was all ears. when, laughing, they left the table, their daughter scraping her plate, pondered thus: "i suppose mr. f. is the bride's father. i wonder what present his aunt will give her? i wonder what 'f' stands for--frost? fuller? father and mother don't want the bride to come; and mother thinks the bride don't want to come. so why should they ask her to come? and why should she come? i wouldn't," edith said; "but i hope she will, for i love her! and oh, i _hope_ she'll bring her harp! i've never seen a harpy. but people are funny," edith summed it up; "inviting people and not wanting 'em; and visiting 'em and not wanting to. it ain't sense," said edith. chapter iv in spite of his declaration of indifference to the feelings of his guardian, the married boy was rapidly acquiring that capacity for "worry" which mr. houghton desired to develop in him. _what would the mail bring him from green hill?_ it brought nothing for a week--a week in which he experienced certain bad moments which encouraged "worry" to a degree that made his face distinctly older than on that morning under the locust tree, when he had been married for fifty-four minutes. the first of these educating moments came on monday, when he went to see his tutor, to say that he was--well, he was going to stop grinding. "what?" said mr. bradley, puzzled. "i'm going to chuck college, sir," maurice said, and smiled broadly, with the rollicking certainty of sympathy that a puppy shows when approaching an elderly mastiff. "chuck college! what's the matter?" the mastiff said, putting a protecting hand over his helpless leg, for maurice's restlessness--tramping about, his hands in his pockets--was a menace to the plastered member. "i'm going into business," the youngster said; "i--well; i've got married, and--" "_what!_" "--so, of course, i've got to go to work." "see here, what are you talking about?" the uneasy color sprang into maurice's face, he stood still, and the grin disappeared. when he said explicitly what he was "talking about," mr. bradley's angry consternation was like the unexpected snap of the old dog; it made eleanor's husband feel like the puppy. "i ought to have rounded him up," mr. bradley was saying to himself; "houghton will hold me responsible!" and even while making unpleasant remarks to the bridegroom, he was composing, in his mind, a letter to mr. houghton about the helplessness incidental to a broken leg, which accounted for his failure in "rounding up." "_i_ couldn't get on to his trail!" he was exonerating himself. when maurice retreated, looking like a schoolboy, it took him a perceptible time to regain his sense of age and pride and responsibility. he rushed back to the hotel--where he had plunged into the extravagance of the "bridal suite,"--to pour out his hurt feelings to eleanor, and while she looked at him in one of her lovely silences he railed at bradley, and said the trouble with him was that he was sore about money! "he needn't worry! i'll pay him," maurice said, largely. and then forgot bradley in the rapture of kissing eleanor's hand. "as if we cared for his opinion!" he said. "we don't care!" she said, joyously. her misgivings had vanished like dew in the hot sun. old mrs. o'brien had done her part in dissipating them. while maurice was bearding his tutor, eleanor had gone across town to her laundress's, to ask if mrs. o'brien would take bingo as a boarder--. "i can't have him at the hotel," she explained, and then told the great news:--"i'm going to live there, because i--i'm married,"--upon which she was kissed, and blessed, and wept over! "the gentleman is a little younger than i am," she confessed, smiling; and mrs. o'brien said: "an' what difference does that make? he'll only be lovin' ye hotter than an old fellow with the life all gone out o' him!" eleanor said, laughing, "yes, that's true!" and cuddled the baby grandson's head against her breast. "you'll be happy as a queen!" said mrs. o'brien; and "in a year from now you'll have something better to take care of than bingo--_he'll_ be jealous!" but she hardly heeded mrs. o'brien and her joyful prophecy of bingo's approaching jealousy; having taken the dive, she had risen into the light and air, and now she forgot the questioning depths! she was on the crest of contented achievement. she even laughed to think that she had ever hesitated about marrying maurice. absurd! as if the few years between them were of the slightest consequence! mrs. o'brien was right.... so she smoothed over maurice's first bad moment with an indifference as to mr. bradley's opinion which was most reassuring to him. (yet once in a while she thought of mr. houghton, and bit her lip.) the next bad moment neither she nor maurice could dismiss so easily; it came in the interview with her astounded aunt, whose chief concern (when she read the letter which eleanor had left on her pincushion) was lest the houghtons would think she had inveigled the boy into marrying her niece. to prove that she had not, mrs. newbolt told the bride and groom that she would have nothing more to do with eleanor! it was when the fifty-four minutes had lengthened into three days that they had gone, after supper, to see her. eleanor, supremely satisfied, with no doubts, now about the wisdom of what she had done, was nervous only as to the effect of her aunt's temper upon maurice; and he, full of a bravado of indifference which confessed the nervousness it denied, was anxious only as to the effect of the inevitable reproaches upon eleanor. their five horrid minutes of waiting in the parlor for mrs. newbolt's ponderous step on the stairs, was broken by bingo's dashing, with ear-piercing barks, into the room: eleanor took him on her knee, and maurice, giving the little black nose a kindly squeeze, looked around in pantomimic horror of the obese upholstery, and rogers groups on the tops of bookcases full of expensively bound and unread classics. "how have you stood it?" he said to his wife; adding, under his breath, "if she's nasty to you, i'll wring her neck!" she was very nasty. "i'm not a party to it," mrs. newbolt said; she sat, panting, on a deeply cushioned sofa, and her wheezy voice came through quivering double chins; her protruding pale eyes snapped with anger. "i shall tell you exactly what i think of you, eleanor, for, as my dear mother used to say, if i have a virtue it is candor; i think you are a puffect fool. as for mr. curtis, i no more thought of protectin' him than i would think of protectin' a baby in a perambulator from its nursemaid! bingo was sick at his stomach this mornin'. you've ruined the boy's life." eleanor cringed, but maurice was quite steady: "we will not discuss it, if you please. i will merely say that i dragged eleanor into it; i _made_ her marry me. she refused me repeatedly. come, eleanor." he rose, but mrs. newbolt, getting heavily on to her small feet, and talking all the time, walked over to the doorway and blocked their retreat. "you needn't think i'll do anything for you!" she said to her niece; "i shall write to mr. houghton and tell him so. i shall tell him he isn't any more disgusted with this business than i am. and you can take bingo with you!" "i came to get him," eleanor said, faintly. "come, eleanor," maurice said; and mrs. newbolt, puffing and talking, had to make way for them. as they went out of the door she called, angrily: "here! stop! i want to give bingo a chocolate drop!" they didn't stop. in the street on the way to bingo's new home, eleanor, holding her little dog in her arms, was blind with tears, but maurice effervesced into extravagant ridicule. his opinion of mrs. newbolt, her parlor, her ponderosity, and her missing g's, exhausted his vocabulary of opprobrious adjectives; but eleanor was silent, just putting up a furtive handkerchief to wipe her eyes. it was dark, and he drew her hand through his arm and patted it. "don't worry, star. uncle henry is white! she can write to him all she wants to! i'm betting that we'll get an invitation to come right up to green hill." she said nothing, but he knew she was trembling. as they entered mrs. o'brien's alley, they paused where it was dark enough, halfway between gaslights, for a man to put his arm around his wife's waist and kiss her. (bingo growled.) "eleanor! i've a great mind to go back to that hell-cat, and tell her what i think of her!" "no. very likely she's right. i--i have injured you. oh, maurice, if i _have_--" "you'd have injured me a damn sight more if you hadn't married me!" he said. but for the moment her certainty that her marriage was a glorious and perfect thing, collapsed; her voice was a broken whisper: "if i've spoiled your life--she says i have;--i'll ... kill myself, maurice." she spoke with a sort of heavy calmness, that made a small, cold thrill run down his back; he burst into passionate protest: "all i am, or ever can be, will be because you love me! darling, when you say things like--like what you said, i feel as if you didn't love me--" of course the reproach tautened her courage; "i do! i do! but--" "then never say such a wicked, cruel thing again!" it was when bingo had been left with mrs. o'brien that, on their way back to the hotel, maurice, in a burst of enthusiasm, invited his third bad moment: "i am going to have a rattling old dinner party to celebrate your escape from the hag! how about saturday night?" she protested that he was awfully extravagant; but she cheered up. after all, what difference did it make what a person like auntie thought! "but who will you ask?" she said. "i suppose you don't know any men here? and i don't, either." he admitted that he had only two or three acquaintances in mercer--"but i have a lot in philadelphia. you shan't live on a desert island, nelly!" "ah, but i'd like to--_with you_! i don't want anyone but you, in the world," she said, softly. he thrilled at the wonder of that: she would be contented, _with him_,--on a desert island! oh, if he could only always be enough for her! he vowed to himself, in sudden boyish solemnity, that he _would_ always be enough for her. aloud, he said he thought he could scratch up two or three fellows. then eleanor's apprehension spoke: "what _will_ mr. houghton say?" "oh, he's all right," maurice said, resolutely hiding his own apprehension. he could hide it, but he could not forget it. even while arranging for his dinner party, and plunging into the expense of a private dining room, he was thinking, of his guardian; "will he kick?" aloud he said, "i've asked three fellows, and you ask three girls." "i don't know many girls," she said, anxiously. "how about that girl you spoke to on the street yesterday? (if uncle henry could only see her, he'd be crazy about her!)" "rose ellis? well, yes; but she's rather young." "oh, that's all right," maurice assured her. "(i wish i hadn't told him she is older than i am. trouble with me is, i always plunk out the truth!) the fellows like 'em young," he said. then he told her who the fellows were: "i don't know 'em very well; they're just boys; not in college. younger than i am, except tom morton. mort's twenty, and the brainiest man i know. and hastings has a bag of jokes--well, not just for ladies," said maurice, grinning, "and you'll like dave brown. you rake in three girls. we'll have a stunning spread, and then go to the theater." he caught her in his arms and romped around the room with her, then dropped her into a chair, and watched her wiping away tears of helpless laughter. "yes--i'll rake in the girls!" she gasped. she wasn't very successful in her invitations. "i asked rose, but i had to ask her mother, too," she said; "and one of the teachers at the medfield school." maurice looked doubtful. rose was all right; but the other two? "aren't they somewhat faded flowers?" "they're about my age," eleanor teased him. as for maurice, he thought that it didn't really matter about the ladies, faded or not; they were eleanor's end of the shindy. "spring chickens are mort's meat," he said... the three rather recent acquaintances who were maurice's end of the shindy, had all gaped, and then howled, when told that the dinner was to celebrate his marriage. "i got spliced kind of in a hurry," he explained; "so i couldn't have any bachelor blow-out; but my--my--my wife, mrs. curtis, i mean--and i, thought we'd have a spree, to show i am an old married man." the fellows, after the first amazement, fell on him with all kinds of ragging: who was she? was she out of baby clothes? would she come in a perambulator? "shut up!" said the bridegroom, hilariously. he went home to eleanor tingling with pride. "i want you to be perfectly stunning, star! of course you always are; but rig up in your best duds! i'm going to make those fellows cross-eyed with envy. i wonder if you could sing, just once, after dinner? i want them to hear you! (mr. houghton will love her voice!)" eleanor--who had stopped counting the minutes of married life now, for, this being the sixth day of bliss, the arithmetic was too much for her--was as excited about the dinner as he was. yet, like him, under the excitement, was a little tremor: "they will be angry because--because we eloped!" any other reason for anger she would not formulate. sometimes her anxiety was audible: "do you suppose auntie has written to mr. houghton?" and again: "what _will_ he say?" maurice always replied, with exuberant indifference, that he didn't know, and he didn't care! "_i_ care, if he is horrid to you!" eleanor said "he'll probably say it was wicked to elope?" mr. houghton continued to say nothing; and the "care" maurice denied, dogged all his busy interest in his dinner--for which he had made the plans, as eleanor, until the term ended, was obliged to go out to medfield to give her music lessons; besides, "planning" was not her forte! but in the thrill of excitement about the dinner and in the mounting adventure of being happy, she was able to forget her fear that mr. houghton might be "horrid" to maurice. if the houghtons didn't like an elopement, it would mean that they had no romance in them! she was absorbed in her ardent innocent purpose of "impressing" maurice's friends, not from vanity, but because she wanted to please him. as she dressed that evening, all her self-distrust vanished, and she smiled at herself in the mirror for sheer delight, for his sake, in her dark, shining eyes, and the red loveliness of her full lip. in this wholly new experience of feeling, not only happy, but important,--she forgot mrs. newbolt, sailing angrily for europe that very day, and was not even anxious about the houghtons! after all, what difference did it make what such people thought of elopements? "fuddy-duddies!" she said to herself, using maurice's slang with an eager sense of being just as young as he was. when the guests arrived and they all filed into the private and very expensive dining room, eleanor looked indeed quite "stunning"; her shyness did not seem shyness, but only a sort of proud beauty of silence, which might cover heaven knows what deeps of passion and of knowledge! little rose was glowing and simpering, and the two older ladies were giving each other significant glances. maurice's "fellows," shepherded by their host, shambled speechlessly along in the background. the instant that they saw the bride they had fallen into dumbness. brown said, under his breath to hastings, "gosh!" and hastings gave morton a thrust in the ribs, which morton's dignity refused to notice; later, when he was at eleanor's right, the flattery of her eagerly attentive silence instantly won him. maurice had so expatiated to her upon morton's brains, that she was really in awe of him--of which, of course, morton was quite aware! it was so exhilarating to his twenty years that he gave his host a look of admiring congratulation--and maurice's pride rose high!--then fell; for, somehow, his dinner wouldn't "go"! he watched the younger men turn frankly rude shoulders to the older ladies, who did their best to be agreeable. he caught stray words: eleanor's efforts to talk as rose talked--rose's dog was "perfectly sweet," but "simply awful"; then a dog story; "wasn't that _killing_?" and eleanor: she once had a cat--"perfectly frightfully cunning!" said eleanor, stumbling among the adverbs of adolescence. at rose's story the young men roared, but eleanor's cat awoke no interest. then one of the "faded flowers" spoke to brown, who said, vaguely, "what, ma'am?" the other lady was murmuring in maurice's ear: "what is your college?" maurice trying to get rose's eye, so that he might talk to her and give the boys a chance to do their duty, said, distractedly, "princeton. say, hastings! tell mrs. ellis about the miner who lost his shirt--" mrs. ellis looked patient, and hastings, dropping into agonized shyness, said, "oh, i can't tell stories!" after that, except for morton's philosophical outpourings to the listening eleanor, most of the dreary occasion of eating poor food, served by a waiter who put his thumb into things, was given up to the stifled laughter of the girl and boys, and to conversation between the other two guests, who were properly arch because of the occasion, but disappointed in their dinner, and anxious to shake their heads and lift shocked hands as soon as they could get out of their hostess's sight. for maurice, the whole endless hour was a seesaw between the past and the present, between his new dignity and his old irresponsibility. he tried--at first with boisterous familiarity, then with ponderous condescension--to draw his friends out. what would eleanor think of them--the idiots! and what would she think of him, for having such asinine friends? he hoped mort was showing his brains to her! he mentally cursed hastings because he did not produce his jokes; as for brown, he was a kid. "i oughtn't to have asked him! what _will_ eleanor think of him!" he was thankful when dessert came and the boys stopped their fatuous murmurings to little rose, to gorge themselves with ice cream. he talked loudly to cover up their silence, and glanced constantly at his watch, in the hope that it was time to pack 'em all off to the theater! yet, even with his acute discomfort, he had moments of pride--for there was eleanor sitting at the head of the table, silent and handsome, and making old mort crazy about her! in spite of those asses of boys, he was very proud. he had simply made a mistake in inviting hastings and brown; "tom morton's all right," he told himself; "but, great scott! how young those other two are!" when the evening was over (the theater part of it was a success, for the play was good, and maurice had nearly bankrupted himself on a box), and he and eleanor were alone, he drew her down on the little sofa of their sitting room, and worshiped. "oh, star, how wonderful you are!" "did i do everything right?" she was breathless with happiness. "i tried so hard! but i _can't_ talk. i never know what to say." "you were perfect! and they were all such idiots--except mort. mort told me you were very temperamental, and had a wonderful mind. i said, 'you bet she has!' the old ladies were pills." "oh, maurice, you goose!... maurice, what will mr. houghton say?" "hell say, 'bless you, my children!' nelly, what _was_ the matter with the dinner?" "matter? why, it was perfect! it was"--she made a dash for some of his own words--"simply corking! though perhaps rose was a little too young for it. didn't you enjoy it?" she demanded, astonished. he said that if she enjoyed it, that was all he cared about! he didn't tell her--perhaps he didn't know it himself--that his own lack of enjoyment was due to his inarticulate consciousness that he had not belonged anywhere at that dinner table. he was too old--and he was too young. the ladies talked down to him, and brown and hastings were polite to him. "damn 'em, _polite_! well," he thought, "'course, they know that a man in my position isn't in their class. but--" after a while he found himself thinking: "those hags eleanor raked in had no manners. talked to me about my 'exams'! i'm glad i snubbed the old one, i don't think rose was too young," he said, aloud. "oh, star, you are wonderful!" and she, letting her hair fall cloudlike over her shoulders, silently held out her arms to him. instantly his third bad moment vanished. but a fourth was on its way; even as he kissed that white shoulder, he was thinking of the letter which must certainly come from mr. houghton in a day or two. "what will _he_ get off?" he asked himself; "probably old brad and mrs. newbolt have fed oats to him, so he'll kick--but what do i care? not a hoot!" thus encouraging himself, he encouraged eleanor: "don't worry! uncle henry'll write and _beg_ me to bring you up to green hill." the fifty-four minutes of married life had stretched into eight days, and maurice had chewed the educating nails of worry pretty thoroughly before that "begging" letter from henry houghton arrived. there was an inclosure in it from mrs. houghton, and the young man, down in the dark lobby of the hotel, with his heart in his mouth, read what both old friends had to say--then rushed upstairs, two steps at a time, to make his triumphant announcement to his wife: "what did i tell you? uncle henry's _white_!" he gave her a hug; then, plugging his pipe full of tobacco, handed her the letters, and sat down to watch the effect of them upon her; there was no more "worry" for maurice! but eleanor, standing by the window silhouetted against the yellow twilight, caught her full lower lip between her teeth as she read: "of course," mr. houghton wrote--(it had taken him the week he had threatened to "concoct" his letter, which he asked his wife if he might not sign "mr. f.'s aunt." "i bet she doesn't know her dickens; it won't convey anything to her," he begged; "i'll cut out two cigars a day if you'll let me do it?" she would not let him, so the letter was perfectly decorous.)--"of course it was not the proper way to treat an old friend, and marriage is too serious a business to be entered into in this way. also i am sorry that there is any difference in age between you and your wife. but that is all in the past, and mrs. houghton and i wish you every happiness. we are looking forward to seeing you next month." ... ("exactly," he explained to his mary, "as i look forward to going to the dentist's. _you_ tell 'em so.") as mrs. houghton declined to "tell 'em," eleanor, reading the friendly words, was able to say, "i don't think he's angry?" "'course not!" said maurice. then she opened the other letter. my dear boy,--i wish you hadn't got married in such a hurry; edith is dreadfully disappointed not to have had the chance "to be your bridesmaid"! you must give us an opportunity soon to know your wife. of course you must both come to green hill as usual, for your vacation. "_she_ is furious," said eleanor. "she thinks it's dreadful to have eloped." she had turned away from him, and was looking out across the slow current of the river at the furnaces on the opposite bank--it was the same river, that, ten days ago, had run sparkling and lisping over brown depths and sunny shallows past their meadow. her face lightened and darkened as the sheeting violet and orange flames from the great smokestacks roared out against the sky, and fell, and rose again. the beauty of them caught maurice's eye, and he really did not notice what she was saying, until he caught the words: "mrs. houghton's like auntie--she thinks i've injured you--" before he could get on his feet to go and take her in his arms, and deny that preposterous word, she turned abruptly and came and sat on his knee; then, with a sort of sob, let herself sink against his breast. "but oh, i did so want to be happy!--and you made me do it." he gave her a quick squeeze, and chuckled: "you bet i made you!" he said; he pushed her gently to her feet, and got up and walked about the room, his hands in his pockets. "as for mrs. houghton, you'll love her. she never fusses; she just says, 'consider the stars.' i do hope you'll like them, eleanor," he ended, anxiously. he was still in that state of mind where the lover hopes that his beloved will approve of his friends. later on, when he and she love each other more, and so are more nearly one, he hopes that his friends will approve of his beloved, even as he used to be anxious that they should approve of him. "i do awfully want you to like 'em at green hill! we'll go the minute your school closes." "_must_ we?" she said, nervously. "i'm afraid we've got to," he said; "you see, i must find out about ways and means. and edith would be furious if we didn't come," he ended, chuckling. "is she nice?" "why, yes," he said; "she's just a child, of course. only eleven. but she and i have great times. we have a hut on the mountain; we go up for a day, and edith cooks things. she's a bully cook. her beloved johnny bennett tags on behind." "but do you like to be with a _child_?" she said, surprised. "oh, she's got a lot of sense. say, nelly, i have an idea. while we are at green hill, let's camp out up there?" "you don't mean stay all night?" she said, flinching. "oh, wouldn't it be very uncomfortable? i--i hate the dark." the sweet foolishness of it enchanted him (baby love feeds on pap!) "pitch dark," he teased, "and lions and tigers roaring around, and snakes--" "of course i'll go, if you want me to," she said, simply, but with a real sinking of the heart. "edith adores it," he said. "speaking of edith, i must tell you something so funny. last summer i was at green hill, and one night mr. and mrs. houghton were away, and there was a storm. gee, i never saw such a storm in my life! edith has no more nerves than a tree, but even she was scared. well, i was scared myself." he had stretched himself out on the sofa, and she was kneeling beside him, her eyes worshiping him. "_i_ would have been scared to death," she confessed. "well, _i_ was!" he said. "the tornado--it was just about that!--burst on to us, and nearly blew the house off the hill--and such an infernal bellowing, and hellish green lightning, you never saw! well, i was just thinking about buster--her father calls her buster; and wondering whether she was scared, when in she rushed, in her night-gown. she made a running jump for my bed, dived into it, grabbed me, and hugged me so i was 'most suffocated, and screamed into my ear, 'there's a storm!'--as if i hadn't noticed it. i said--i could hardly make myself heard in the racket--i yelled, 'don't you think you'd better go back to your own room? i'll come and sit there with you.' and she yelled, 'i'm going to stay here.' so she stayed." "i think she was a little old for that sort of thing," eleanor said, coldly. he gave a shout of laughter. "eleanor! do you mean to tell me you don't see how awfully funny it was? the little thing hugged me with all her might until the storm blew over. then she said, calmly: 'it's cold. i'll stay here. you can go and get in my bed if you want to.'" eleanor gave a little shrug, then rose and went over to the window. "oh yes, it was funny; but i think she must be a rather pert little thing. i don't want to go to green hill." maurice looked worried. "i hate to urge anything you don't like, nelly; but i really do feel we ought to accept their invitation? and you'll like them! of course they're not in your class. nobody is! i mean they're old, and sort of commonplace. but we can go and live in the woods most of the time, and get away from them,--except little skeezics. we'll take her along. you'll love having her; she's lots of fun. you see, i've _got_ to go to green hill, because i must get in touch with uncle henry; i've got to find out about our income!" he explained, with a broad grin. "i should think edith would bore you," she said. her voice was so sharply irritated that maurice looked at her, open-mouthed; he was too bewildered to speak. "why, eleanor," he faltered; "why are you--on your ear? was it what i told you about edith? you didn't think that she wasn't _proper_?" "no! of course not! it wasn't _that_." she came quickly and knelt beside him. "of course it wasn't _that_! it was--" she could not say what it was; perhaps she did not quite know that her annoyance at maurice's delight in edith was the inarticulate pain of recognizing that he might have more in common with a child, eight years his junior, than he could have with a woman twenty years his senior. her eyes were suddenly bright with frightened tears. in a whisper, that fear which, in these days of complete belief in her own happiness, she had forgotten even to deny, came back: "what really upset me was the letters. the houghtons are angry because i am--" she flinched, and would not utter the final word which was the hidden reason of her annoyance at edith; so, instead of uttering it, she said, "because we eloped." as for maurice, he rallied her, and pretended to scold her, and tasted her tears salt upon his lips. he felt very old and protecting. "nonsense!" he said. "mrs. houghton and uncle henry are old, and of course they can't understand love. but the romance of it will touch them!" and again love cast out fear; eleanor, her face hidden on his shoulder, told herself that it really didn't matter what the houghtons thought of ... an elopement. chapter v the cloud of their first difference had blown over almost before they felt its shadow, and the sky of love was as clear as the lucid beryl of the summer night. yet even the passing shadow of the cloud kept both the woman and the boy repentant and a little frightened; he, because he thought he had offended her by some lack of delicacy; she, because she thought she had shocked him by what he might think was harshness to a child. even a week afterward, as they journeyed up to green hill in a dusty accommodation train, there was an uneasy memory of that cloud--black with maurice's dullness, and livid with the zigzag flash of eleanor's irritation--and then the little shower of tears! ... what had brought the cloud? would it ever return? ... as for those twenty dividing years, they never thought of them! in the train they held each other's hands under the cover of a newspaper; and sometimes maurice's foot touched hers, and then they looked at each other, and smiled--but each was wondering: his wonder was, "what made her offended at edith?" and hers was, "how can he like to be with an eleven-year-old child!" their talk, however, confessed no wonderings! it was the happy commonplace of companionship: mrs. newbolt and her departure for europe; would mrs. o'brien be good to bingo? what maurice's business should be. then maurice yawned, and said he was glad that the commencement exercises at fern hill were over; and she said she was glad, too; she had danced, she said, until she had a pain in her side! after which he read his paper, and she looked out of the window at the flying landscape. suddenly she said: "that girl you danced with last night--you danced with her three times!" she said, with sweet reproach--"didn't know we were married!--she wasn't a fern hill girl. she told me she had been dancing with my 'nephew.'" "did she?... eleanor, look at that elm tree, standing all alone in the field, like--like a wineglass full of summer!" for a moment she didn't understand his readiness to change the subject--then she had a flash of instinct: "i believe she said the same thing to you!" "oh, she got off some fool thing." the annoyance in his voice was like a rapier thrust of certainty. "i knew it! but i don't care. why should i care?" "you shouldn't. besides, it was only funny. i was tremendously amused." she turned and looked out of the window. maurice lifted the paper which had been such a convenient shelter for clasping hands, and seemed to read for a while. then he said, abruptly, "i only thought it was funny for her to make such a mistake." she was silent. "eleanor, don't be--that way!" "what 'way'? you mean"--her voice trembled--"feel hurt to have you dance _three times_, with a girl who said an uncomplimentary thing about me?" "but it wasn't uncomplimentary! it was just a silly mistake anyone might make--" he stopped abruptly, for there were tears in her eyes--and instantly his tenderness infolded her like sunshine. but even while he was making her talk of other things--the heat, or the landscape--he was a little preoccupied; he was trying to explain this tiny, ridiculous, lovely unreasonableness, by tracking it back to some failure of sensitiveness on his own part. it occurred to him that he could do this better if he were by himself--not sitting beside her, faintly conscious of her tenseness. so he said, abruptly, "star, if you don't mind, i'll go and have a smoke." "all right," she said; "give me the paper; i haven't looked at the news for days!" she was trembling a little. the mistake of a silly girl had had, at first, no significance, it was just, as it always is to the newly married woman, amusing to be supposed not to be married! but that maurice, knowing of the mistake, had not mentioned its absurdity, woke an uneasy consciousness that he had thought it might annoy her! why should it annoy her?--unless the reason of the mistake was as obvious to him as to the girl?--whom he had found attractive enough to dance with three times! it was as if a careless hand had pushed open a closed door, and given maurice's wife a glimpse of a dark landscape, the very existence of which her love had so vehemently denied. an hour later, however, when maurice returned, she was serene again. love had closed the door--bolted it! barred it! and the gray landscape of dividing years was forgotten. and as her face had cleared, so had his. he had explained her annoyance by calling himself a clod! "she hated not to be thought married--of _course_!" what a brute he was not to have recognized the subtle loveliness of a sensitiveness like that! he wanted to tell her so, but he could only push the newspaper toward her and slip his hand under it to feel for hers--which he clutched and gripped so hard that her rings cut into the flesh. she laughed, and opened her pocketbook and showed him the little circle of grass which he had slipped over her wedding ring after fifty-four minutes of married life. at which his whole face radiated. it was as if, through those gay blue eyes of his, he poured pure joy from his heart into hers. "be careful," he threatened: "one minute more, and i'll kiss you right here, before people!" she snapped her purse shut in pretended terror, but after that they held hands under the newspaper, and were perfectly happy--until the moment came of meeting the houghtons on the platform at the junction; then happiness gave way to embarrassment. henry houghton, obliged to throw away a half-smoked cigar, and, saying under his breath that he wished he was asleep, was cross; but his wife was pleasantly commonplace. she kissed the bride, and the groom, too, and said that edith was in a great state of excitement about them! then she condoled with eleanor about the heat, and told maurice there were cinders on his hat. but not even her careful matter-of-courseness could make the moment anything but awkward. in the four-mile drive to green hill--during which eleanor said she hoped old lion wouldn't run away;--the young husband seemed to grow younger and younger; and his wife, in her effort to talk to mr. houghton, seemed to grow older and older.... "if i didn't happen to know she was a fool," henry houghton said to his mary, washing his hands before going down to supper, "i should think she was quite a nice woman--she's so good looking." "_henry!_ at your time of life, are you deciding a woman's 'niceness' by her looks?" "but tell her she mustn't bore him," he said, ignoring the rebuke. "tell her that when it comes to wives, every husband on earth is mr. f.'s aunt--he 'hates a fool'!" "why not tell her yourself?" she said: then she sighed; "why _did_ she do it?" "she did it," he instructed her, "because the flattery of a boy's lovemaking went to her head. i have an idea that she was hungry for happiness--so it was champagne on an empty stomach. think of the starvation dullness of living with that newbolt female, who drops her g's all over the floor! edith likes her," he added. "oh, edith!" said edith's mother, with a shrug; "well; if you can explain eleanor, perhaps you can explain maurice?" "_that's_ easy; anything in petticoats will answer as a peg for a man (we are the idealizing sex) to hang his heart on. then, there's her music--and her pathos. for she is pathetic, kit?" but mary houghton shook her head: "it is maurice who is pathetic--my poor maurice!..." when they went down to the east porch, with its great white columns, and its broad steps leading into mrs. houghton's gay and fragrant garden, they found edith there before them--sitting on the top step, her arms around her knees, her worshiping eyes fixed on the bride. edith had nothing to say; it was enough to look at the "bridal couple," as the kitchen had named them. when her father and mother appeared, she did manage, in the momentary bustle of rising and offering chairs, to say to maurice: "oh, isn't she lovely! oh, maurice, let's go out behind the barn after supper and talk! maurice, _did_ she bring her harp? i want to see her play on it! i saw her wedding ring," she ended, in an ecstatic whisper. "she doesn't play on the harp; she plays on the piano. did you twig her hair?" maurice whispered back; "it's like black down!" edith was speechless with adoration; she wished, passionately, that maurice would put his coat down for the bride to step on, like sir walter raleigh! "for she is a _queen_!" edith thought: then maurice pulled one of her pigtails and she kicked him--and after that she was forgotten, for the grown people began to talk, and say it had been a hot day, and that the strawberries needed rain--but eleanor hoped there wouldn't be a thunderstorm. "they _have_ to say things, i suppose," edith reflected, patiently: "but after supper, maurice and i will talk." so she bore with her father and mother, who certainly tried to be conversational. the bride, edith noticed, was rather silent, and maurice, though grown up to the extent of being married, hadn't much to say--but once he winked at edith and again tried to pull her hair,--so she knew that he, also, was patient. she was too absorbed to return the wink. she just stared at eleanor. she only dared to speak to her once; then, breathlessly: "i--i'm going to go to your school, when i'm sixteen." it was as if she looked forward to a pilgrimage to a shrine! it was impossible not to see the worship in her face; eleanor saw her smile made edith almost choke with bliss. but, like herself, the bride had nothing to say. eleanor just sat in sweet, empty silence, and watched maurice, twisting old rover's ears, and answering mrs. houghton's maternal questions about his winter underclothing and moths; she caught that wink at edith, and the occasional broad grin when mrs. houghton scolded him for some carelessness, and the ridiculous gesture of tearing his hair when she said he was a scamp to have forgotten this or that. looking at the careless youth of him, she laughed to herself for sheer joy in the beauty of it! but edith's plan for barn conversation with maurice fell through, because after supper, with an air of complete self-justification, he said to his hosts, "_now_ you must hear eleanor sing!" at which she protested, "oh, maurice, no!" the houghtons, however, were polite; so they all went into the studio, and, standing in the twilight, with maurice playing her accompaniment, she sang, very simply, and with quite poignant beauty, the song of "golden numbers," with its serene refrain: "_o sweet, o sweet content!_" "lovely, my dear," mrs. houghton said, and maurice was radiant. "is mr. f. your father?" edith said, timidly; and while eleanor was giving her maiden name, edith's terrified father said, in a ferocious aside, "mary! kill that child!" late that night he told his wife she really must do something about edith: "fortunately, eleanor is as ignorant of dickens as of 'most everything else. i bet she never read _little dorrit_. but, for god's sake, muzzle that daughter of yours! ... mary, you see how he was caught?--the woman's voice." "don't call her 'the woman'!" "well, vampire. kit, what do you make of her?" "i wish i knew what to make of her! i feel sure she is really and truly _good_. but, oh, henry, she's so mortal dull! she hasn't a spark of humor in her." "'course not. if she had, she wouldn't have married him. but _he_ has humor! better warn her that a short cut to matrimonial unhappiness is not to have the same taste in jokes! mary, maybe, her music will hold him?" "maybe," said mary houghton, sighing. "'consider the stars,'" he quoted, sarcastically; but she took the sting out of his gibe by saying, very simply: "yes, i try to." "he is good stuff," her husband said; "straight as a string! when he came into the studio to talk things over he was as sober as if he were fifty, and hadn't made an ass of himself. he took up the income question in a surprisingly businesslike way; then he said that of course he knew i didn't like it--his giving up college and flying off the handle, and getting married without saying anything to me. 'but,' he said, 'eleanor's aunt is an old hell-cat;--she was going to drag eleanor abroad, and i had to get her out of her clutches!' ... i think," henry houghton interrupted himself, "that's one explanation of maurice: rescuing a forlorn damsel. well, i was perfectly direct with him; i said, 'my dear fellow, mrs. newbolt is not a hell-cat; and the elopement was in bad taste. elopements are always in bad taste. but the elopement is the least important part of it. the difference in age is the serious thing.' i got it out of him just what it is--almost twenty years. she might be his mother!--he admitted that he had had to lie about himself to get the license. i said, '_your_ age is the dangerous thing, maurice, not hers; and it's up to you to keep steady!' of course he didn't believe me," said mr. houghton, sighing. "he's in love all right, poor infant! the next thing is for me to find a job for him.... she is good looking, mary?" she nodded, and he said again, "a pre-raphaelite woman; those full red lips, and that lovely black hair growing so low on her forehead. and a really good voice. and a charming figure. but i tell you one thing: she's got to stop twitting on facts. did you hear her say, 'maurice is so ridiculously young, he doesn't remember'--? i don't know what it was he didn't remember. something unimportant. but she must not put ideas about his youth into his head. he'll know it soon enough! _you_ tell her that." "thank you so much!" said mary houghton. "henry, you mustn't say things before edith! suppose eleanor had known her _little dorrit_?" "she doesn't know anything; and she has nothing to say." "well, it might be worse," she encouraged him. "suppose she were talkative?" he nodded: "yes; a dull woman is bad, and a talkative woman is bad; but a dull talkative woman is hell." "my _dear_! i'm glad edith's in bed. well, i think i like her." chapter vi but the time arrived when mrs. houghton was certain that she "liked" maurice's wife. it would have come sooner if eleanor's real sweetness had not been hidden by her tiresome timidity ... a thunderstorm sent her, blanched and panting, to sit huddled on her bed, shutters closed, shades drawn; she schemed not to go upstairs by herself in the dark; she was preoccupied when old lion took them off on a slow, jogging drive, for fear of a runaway. everybody was aware of her nervousness. until it bored him, henry houghton was touched by it;--probably there is no man who is so intelligent that the clinging vine makes no appeal to him. mrs. houghton was impatient with it. edith, who could not understand fear in any form, tried, in her friendly little way, to reason eleanor out of one panic or another. the servants joked among themselves at the foolishness of "mrs. maurice"; and the monosyllabic johnny bennett, when told of some of eleanor's scares, was bored. "let's play indian," said johnny. it was only maurice who found all the scares--just as he found the silences and small jealousies--adorable! the silences meant unspeakable depths of thought; the jealousies were a sign of love. the terrors called for his protecting strength! one of the unfair irrationalities of love is that it may, at first, be attracted by the defects of the beloved, and later repelled by them. maurice loved eleanor for her defects. once, when he and edith were helping mrs. houghton weed her garden, he stopped grubbing, and sat down in the gold and bronze glitter of coreopsis, to expatiate upon the exquisiteness of the defects. her wonderful mind: "she doesn't talk, because she is always thinking; her ideas are way over _my_ head!" her funny timidity: "she wants me to take care of her!" her love: "she's--it sounds absurd!--but she's jealous, because she's so--well, fond of me, don't you know, that she sort of objects to having people round. did you ever hear of anything so absurd?" "i certainly never did," his old friend said, dryly. "well, but"--maurice defended his wife--"it's because she cares about me, don't you know? she--well, this is in confidence--she said once that she'd like to live on a desert island, just with me!" "so would i," said edith. her mother laughed: "tell her desert islands have to have a 'man friday'--to say nothing of a few 'women thursdays'!" eleanor was, maurice said, like music heard far off, through mists and moonlight in a dark garden, "full of--of--what are those sweet-smelling things, that bloom only at night?" (mary houghton looked fatigued.) "well, anyway, what i mean is that she isn't like ordinary people, like me--" "or johnny," edith broke in, earnestly. "johnny? gosh! why, mrs. houghton, things that don't touch most human beings, affect her terribly. the dark, or thunderstorms, or--or anything, makes her nervous. you understand?" mrs. houghton said yes, she understood, but she would leave the rest of the weeding to her assistants ... in the studio, dropping her dusty garden gloves on a fresh canvas lying on the table, she almost wept: "henry, it is _too_ tragic! she is such a goose, and he is so silly about her! what shall we do?" "i'll tell you what not to do--spoil my new canvas! if you _really_ want my advice:--tell eleanor that the greatest compliment any husband can pay his wife is contained in four words: 'you never bore me'; and that if she isn't careful maurice will never compliment her." down in the garden, no one was aware of any tragedy. "when i go to fern hill," edith said, "i'm going to tell all the girls _i know eleanor_! i'm 'ordinary,' too, beside her. and so is mother." maurice agreed. "we are all crude, compared to her." edith sighed with joy; if she had had any inclination to be contemptuous of eleanor's timidity, it vanished when it was pointed out to her that it was really a sign of the bride's infinite superiority.... so the three houghtons accepted--one with amused pity, and the other with concern, and the third with admiration of such super-refinement,--the fact that eleanor was a coward. yet if she had not been a coward, something she did would not have been particularly brave, nor would it have wrung from mary houghton the admission: "i _like_ her!" the conquering incident happened in august. the hut up in the woods meant to maurice and edith and johnny that eager grasping at hardship with which age has no sympathy, but which is the very essence of youth. within a week of her arrival at green hill, eleanor (who did not like hardship;) had been carried off for a day of eating smoky food, cooked on a camp fire, and watching cloud shadows drift across the valley and up and over the hills; she had wondered, silently, why maurice liked this very tiring sort of thing?--and especially why he liked to have edith go along! "a child of her age is such a nuisance," eleanor thought. but he did like it, all of it!--the fatigue, and the smoke, and the grubby food--and edith!--he liked it so much that, just before the time set for their departure for mercer--and the position in a real-estate office, which had been secured for maurice--he said: "nelly, let's camp out up in the cabin for our last week, all by ourselves!" edith's face fell, and so, for that matter, did the bride's. edith said, "by yourselves? not johnny and me, too?" and eleanor said, "_at night?_ oh, maurice!" "it will be beautiful," he said; "there'll be a moon next week, and we'll sit up there and look down into the valley, and see the treetops lift up out of the mist--like islands from the foam of 'faerylands forlorn'! you'll love it." "i'm crazy about camping," said edith, eagerly;--and waited for an invitation, which was not forthcoming. instead, maurice, talking his plans over with her, made it quite clear that her room was better than her company. it was edith's first experience in being left out, and it sobered her a little; but she swallowed the affront with her usual good sense: "i guess he likes eleanor more 'an me, so, 'course, it's nice to be by himself with her." the prospect of being "by themselves" for a week was deeply moving to maurice. and even eleanor, though she quaked at the idea of spiders or thunderstorms, thought of the passion of it with a thrill. "we'll be all alone!" she said to herself. the morning that they started gypsying, everything was very impatient and delightful. the packing, the rolling up of blankets, the stowing of cooking utensils, the consulting of food lists to make sure nothing was being forgotten--all meant much tearing about and bossing; then came the loading the stuff into the light wagon, which, with old lion, mr. houghton had offered to convey the campers (and a temporary edith) up to the top of the mountain. edith was, of course, frankly envious, but accepted the privilege of even a day in camp with humble gratitude. "rover and johnny and i will come up pretty often, even if it's only for an hour, because eleanor must not hurt her hands by washing dishes," she said, earnestly (still fishing for an invitation). but maurice only agreed, as earnestly: "no! imagine eleanor washing dishes! but i don't want you to stay all night, buster," he told her, candidly; then he paused in his work, flung up his arms with a great breath of joyousness. "great scott!" he said. "i don't see why gypsies _ever_ die!" edith felt an answering throb of ecstasy. "oh, maurice, i wish you and i were gypsies!" she said. she did not in the least resent his candor as to her presence during the week of camping; though just before they started her feelings really were a little hurt: it happened that in trying to help eleanor pack, she was close enough to her to notice a thread on her hair; instantly, she put out a friendly and officious thumb and finger to remove it--at which eleanor winced, and said, "_ouch!_" "i thought it was a white thread," edith explained, abashed. eleanor said, sharply, "please don't touch my hair!" which conveyed nothing to edith except that the bride--who instantly ran up to her room--"was mad." when she came back (the "thread" having disappeared) edith was full of apologies. "awfully sorry i mussed your hair," she said. she went up the mountain with them, walking on the hard grades, and trying to placate eleanor by keeping a hand on lion's bridle, so that she might feel sure he wouldn't run away. when at last, rather blown and perspiring, they reached the camp, eleanor got out of the wagon and said she wanted to "help"; but edith, still contrite about the "thread," said: "not i'm not going to have you hurt your lovely hands!" in the late afternoon, having saved eleanor's hands in every possible way, she left them, and thinking, without the slightest rancor, of the rough bliss she was not asked to share, went running down the mountain with rover at her heels. eleanor, wondering at her willingness to take that long road home with only the lumbering old dog for company, was intensely glad to have her go. "girls of that age are so uninteresting," she told maurice; "and now we'll be all by ourselves!" "yes; adam and eve," he said; "and twilight; and the world spread out like a garden! do you see that glimmer over there to the left? that's the beginning of the river--our river!" he had made her comfortable with some cushions piled against the trunk of a tree, and lighted a fire in a ring of blackened stones; then he brought her her supper, and ate his own on his knees beside her, watching eagerly for ways to serve her, laughing because she cringed when, from an overhanging bough, a spider let himself down upon her skirt, and hurrying to bring her a fresh cup of coffee, because an unhappy ant had scalded himself to death in her first cup. afterward he would not let her "hurt her hands" by washing the dishes. when this was over, and the dusk was deepening, he went into the woods to the "lean-to" in which lion was quartered, to see that the old horse was comfortable, but a minute later came crashing back through the underbrush, laughing, but provoked. "that imp, edith, didn't hitch him securely, and the old fellow has walked home, if you please--!" "lion--gone? oh, what shall we do?" "ill pull the wagon down when i want to go back for food." "_pull_ it?" "won't need much pulling! it will go down by itself. if i put you in it, i'll have to rope a log on behind as a brake, or it would run over me! i bet i give edith a piece of my mind, when i get hold of her. but it doesn't really matter. i think i like it better to have not even lion. just you--and the stars. they are beginning to prick out," he said. he stretched himself on the ground beside her, his hands clasped under his head, and his happy eyes looking up into the abyss. "sing, star, sing!" he said. so she sang, softly: "how many times do i love again? tell me how many beads there are in a silver chain of evening rain unraveled from the tumbling main and threading the eye of a yellow star-- so many times-- "it looks," she broke off, "a little black in the west? and--was that lightning?" "only heat lightning. and if it should storm,--i have you here, in my arms, alone!" he turned and caught her to him, and his mouth crushed hers. her eyes closed, and her passion answered his, and all that he whispered. yet while he kissed her, her eyes opened and she looked furtively beyond him, toward that gathering blackness. they lay there together in the starlit dark, for a long time, his head on her breast. sometimes she thrilled at his touch or low word, and sometimes she held his hand against her lips and kissed it--which made him protest--but suddenly he said, "by george! nelly, i believe we are going to have a shower!" instantly she was alert with fright, and sat up, and looked down into the valley, where the heat lightning, which had been winking along the line of the hills, suddenly sharpened into a flash. "_oh!_" she said, and held her breath until, from very far off, came a faint grumble of thunder. "oh, maurice!" she said, "it is horrible to be out here--if it thunders!" "we won't be. well go into the cabin, and we'll hear the rain on the roof, and the clash of the branches; and we'll see the lightning through the chinks--and i'll have you! oh, nelly, we shall be part of the storm!--and nothing in god's world can separate us." but this time she could not answer with any elemental impulse; she had no understanding of "being part of the storm"; instead, she watched the horizon. "oh!" she said, flinching. "i don't like it. what shall we do? maurice, it _is_ going to thunder!" "i think i did feel a drop of rain," he said,--and held out his hand: "yes, star, rain! it's begun!" he helped her to her feet, gathered up some of the cushions, and hurried her toward the little shelter. she ran ahead of him, her very feet reluctant, lest the possible "snake" should curl in the darkness against her ankles; but once in the cabin, with a candle lighted, she could not see the lightning, so she was able to laugh at herself; when maurice went out for the rest of the cushions, she charged him to _hurry_! "the storm will be here in a minute!" she called to him. and he called back: "i'll only be a second!" she stood in the doorway looking after him, and saw his figure outlined against the glimmer of their fire, which had already felt the spatter of the coming storm and was dying down; then, even as she looked, he seemed to plunge forward, and fall--the thud of that fall was like a blow on her throat! she gasped, "maurice--" and again, "_maurice!_ have you hurt yourself?" he did not rise. a splash of rain struck her face; the mountain darkness was slit by a rapier of lightning, and there was a sudden violent illumination; she saw the tree and the cushions, and maurice on the ground--then blackness, and a tremendous crash of thunder. "maurice!" she called. "maurice!" the branches over the roof began to move and rustle, and there was a sudden downpour of rain; the camp fire went out, as if an extinguisher had covered it. she stood in the doorway for a breathless instant, then ran back into the cabin, and, catching the candle from the table, stepped out into the blackness; instantly the wind bore the little flame away!--then seemed to grip her, and twist her about, and beat her back into the house. in her terror she screamed his name; and as she did so, another flash of lightning showed her his figure, motionless on the ground. "_he is dead_" she said to herself, in a whisper. "what shall i do?" then, suddenly, she knew what to do: she remembered that she had noticed a lantern hanging on the wall near the door; and now something impelled her to get it. in the stifling darkness of the shack she felt her way to it, held its oily ring in her hand, thought, frantically, of matches, groped along toward the mantelpiece, stumbled over a chair--and clutched at the match box! something made her open the isinglass slide, strike a match, and touch the blackened wick with the sulphurous sputter of flame,--the next moment, with the lighted lantern in her hand, she was out in the sheeting blackness of the rain!--running!--running!--toward that still figure by the deadened fire. just before she reached it a twig rolled under her foot, and she said, "a _snake_,"--but she did not flinch. as she gained the circle of stones, a flash of lightning, with its instant and terrific crack and bellow of thunder, showed her a streak of blood on maurice's face.... he had tripped and fallen, and his head had struck one of the blackened stones. "he is dead," she said again, aloud. she put the lantern on the ground and knelt beside him; she had an idea that she should place her hand on his heart to see if he were alive. "he isn't," she told herself; but she laid her fingers, which were shaking so that she could not unfasten his coat, somewhere on his left side; she did not know whether there was any pulse; she knew nothing, except that he was "dead." she said this in a whisper, over and over. "he is dead. he is dead." the rain came down in torrents; the trees creaked and groaned in the wind; twice there were flashes of lightning and appalling roars of thunder. maurice was perfectly still. the smoky glimmer of the lantern played on the thin streak of blood and made it look as though it was moving--trickling-- then eleanor began to think: "there ought to be a doctor...." if she left him, to bring help, he might bleed to death before she could get back to him. instantly, as she said that, she knew that she did not believe that he was dead! she knew that she had hope. with hope, a single thought possessed her. _she must take him down the mountain...._ but how? she could not carry him;--she had managed to prop him up against her knee, his blond head lolling forward, awfully, on his breast--but she knew that to carry him would be impossible. and lion was not there! "i couldn't have harnessed him if he were," she thought. she was entirely calm, but her mind was working rapidly: the wagon was in the lean-to! could she get him into it? the road was downhill.... almost to doctor bennett's door.... instantly she sprang to her feet and, with the pale gleam of the lantern zigzagging across the path, she ran back to the shed; just as she reached it, a glimmer of light fell on the soaked earth, and she looked up with a start and saw the moon peering out between two ragged, swiftly moving clouds; then all was black again--but the rain was lessening, and there had been no lightning for several minutes. "he will die; i must save him," she said, her lips stiff with horror. she lifted the shafts of the wagon, and gave a little pull; it moved easily enough, and, guiding it along the slight decline, she brought it to maurice's side. there, looking at him, she said again, rigidly: "he will die; i must save him." as henry houghton said afterward, "it was impossible!--so she did it." it took her more than an hour to do it, to pull and lift and shove the inert figure! afterward she used to wonder how she had done it; wonder how she had given the final _push_, which got his sagging body up on to the floor of the wagon! it had strained every part of her;--her shoulder against his hips, her head in the small of his back, her hands gripping his heavy, dangling legs. she was soaking wet; her hair had loosened, and stray locks were plastered across her forehead. she grunted like a toiling animal. it seemed as if her heart would crack with her effort, her muscles tear; she forgot the retreating rumble of the storm, the brooding, dripping forest stillness; she forgot even her certainty that he would die. she entirely forgot herself. she only knew--straining, gasping, sweating--that she must get the body--the dead body perhaps!--into the wagon. and she did it! just as she did it, she heard a faint groan. her heart stood still with terror, then beat frantically with joy. _he was alive!_ she ran back to the cabin for the cushions he had saved from the rain, and pushed them under his head; then tied the lantern to the whip socket; then recalled what he had said about "roping a log on behind as a brake." "of course!" she thought; and managed,--the splinters tearing her hands--to fasten a fairly heavy piece of wood under the rear axle, so that it might bump along behind the wagon as a drag. she pondered as she did these things why she should know so certainly how they must be done? but when they were done, she said, _"now!"..._ and went and stood between the shafts. it was after midnight when the descent began. the moon rode high among fleecy clouds, but on either side of the road gulfs of darkness lay under motionless foliage. sometimes the smoky light from the swaying lantern shone on a wet black branch, snapped by the gale and lying in the path, and eleanor, seeing it, wedging her heels into the mud and sliding stones of the road, and straining backward between the shafts, would say, "a snake.... i must save maurice." sometimes she would hear, above the crunching of the wheels behind her, a faint noise in the undergrowth: a breaking twig, a brushing sound, as of a furtive footstep--and she would say, "a man.... i must save maurice." the yellow flame of the lantern was burning white in the dawn, as, holding back against the weight of the wagon--the palms of her bleeding hands clenched on the shafts, her feet slipping, her ankles twisted and wrenched--by and by, with the tears of physical suffering streaming down her face, she reached the foot of the mountain. the, thin, cool air of morning flowed about her in crystalline stillness; suddenly the sun tipped the green bowl of the world, and all at once shadows fell across the road like bars. they seemed to her, in her daze of terror and exhaustion, insurmountable: the road was level now, but she pulled and pulled, agonizingly, over those bars of nothingness; then one wheel sank into a rut, and the wagon came to a dead standstill; but at the same moment she saw ahead of her, among the trees, doctor bennett's dark, sleeping house. so, dropping the shafts, she went stumbling and running, to pound on the door, and gasp out: "come--help--maurice--come--" * * * * * "i think," she said afterward, lying like a broken thing upon her bed, "i was able to do it, because i kept saying, 'i must save maurice.' of course, to save maurice, i wouldn't mind dying." "my dear, you are magnificent!" mary houghton said, huskily. then she told her husband: "henry, i _like_ her! i never thought i would, but i do." "i'll never say 'mr. f.'s aunt' again!" he promised, with real contrition. it was eleanor's conquering moment, for everybody liked her, and everybody said she was 'magnificent'--except maurice, who, as he got well, said almost nothing. "i can't talk about it," was all he had to say, choking. "she's given her life for mine," he told the doctor. "i hope not," doctor bennett said, "i _hope_ not. but it will take months, maurice, for her to get over this. as for saving your life, my boy, she didn't. she made things a lot more dangerous for you. she did the wrong thing--with greatness! you'd have come to, after a while. but don't tell her so." "well, i should say not!" maurice said, hotly. "she'll never know _that_! and anyway, sir, i don't believe it. i believe she saved my life." "well, suit yourself," the doctor said, good-naturedly; "but i tell you one thing: whether she saved your life or not, she did a really wonderful thing--considering her temperament." maurice frowned: "i don't think her temperament makes any difference. it would have been wonderful for anybody." "well, suit yourself," doctor bennett said again; "only, if edith had done it, say, for johnny, who weighs nearly as much as you, i wouldn't have called it particularly wonderful." "oh, edith," maurice said, grinning; "no; i suppose not. i see what you mean." and to himself he added: "edith is like an ox, compared to star. just flesh and blood. no nerves. no soul. doctor bennett was right. eleanor's temperament does make it more wonderful." chapter vii it was after this act of revealing and unnecessary courage, that the houghton family entirely accepted eleanor. there were a few days of anxiety about her, and about maurice, too; for, though his slight concussion was not exactly alarming--yet, "keep your shirt on," doctor bennett cautioned him; "don't get gay. and don't talk to mrs. curtis." so maurice lay in his bed in another room, and entered, silently, into a new understanding of love, which, as soon as he was permitted to see eleanor, he tried stumblingly to share with her. physically, she was terribly prostrated; but spiritually, feeding on those stumbling words, she rejoiced like a strong man to run a race! she saw no confession in the fact that everybody was astonished at what she had done; she was astonished herself. "i wasn't afraid!" she said, wonderingly. "it was because you liked maurice more than you were scared," edith said; she offered this explanation the day that maurice had been allowed to come across the hall, rather shakily, to adore his wife. his first sight of her was a great shock.... the strain of that terrible night had blanched and withered her face; there were lines on her forehead that never left it. edith, sneaking in behind him, said under her breath: "goodness! don't she look old!" she did. but as maurice fell on his knees beside her, it seemed as if she drank youth from his lips. under his kisses her worn face bloomed with joy. "it was nothing--nothing," she insisted, stroking his thick hair with her trembling hand, and trying to silence his words of wondering worship. "i was not worthy of it.... to think that you--" he hid his face on her shoulder. afterward, when he went back to his own room, she lay, smiling tranquilly to herself; her look was the look one sees on the face of a woman who, in that pallid hour after the supreme achievement of birth, has looked upon her child. she was entirely happy. from the open door of maurice's room came, now and then, the murmur of edith's honest little voice, or maurice's chuckle. they were talking about her, she knew, and the happy color burned in her cheeks. when he came in for his second visit, late that afternoon, she asked him, archly, what he and edith had been talking about so long in his room? "i believe you were telling her what a goose i am about thunderstorms," she said. "i was not!" he declared--and her eyes shone. but when she urged-- "well, what _were_ you talking about?" he couldn't remember anything but a silly story of edith's hens. he repeated it, and eleanor sighed; how could he be interested in anything so childish! as it happened, he was not; he had scarcely listened to edith. the only thing that interested maurice now, was what eleanor had done for him! thinking of it, he brooded over her, silently, his cheek against hers, then mrs. houghton came in and banished him, saying that eleanor must go to sleep; "and you and edith must keep quiet!" she said. he was so contrite that, tiptoeing to his own room, he told poor faithful edith her voice was too loud: "you disturb eleanor. so dry up, skeezics!" as he grew stronger, and was able to go downstairs, edith felt freer to talk to him--for down on the porch, or out in the garden, her eager young voice would not reach those languid ears. then, suddenly, all her chances to talk stopped: "what's the matter with maurice?" she pondered, crossly; "he's backed out of helping me. why can't he go on shingling the chicken coop?" for it was while this delightful work was under way that it, and "talk," came to an abrupt end. the shingling, begun joyously by the big boy and the little girl on monday, promised several delightfully busy mornings.... of course the setting out for mercer had been postponed; there was no possibility of moving eleanor for the present; so maurice's "business career," as he called it, with grinning pomposity, had to be delayed--eleanor turned white at the mere suggestion of convalascing at green hill without him! consequently maurice, when not worshiping his wife, had nothing to do, and edith had seized the opportunity to make him useful.... "we'll shingle my henhouse," she had announced. maurice liked the scheme as much as she did. the september air, the smell of the fresh shingles, the sitting with one leg doubled under you, and the other outstretched on the hot slope of the roof, the tap-tapping of the hammers, the bossing of edith, the trying to talk of eleanor, and thunderstorms, while you hold eight nails between your lips; then the pause while edith climbs down the ladder and runs to the kitchen for hot cookies; all these things would be a delightful occupation for any intelligent person! "it'll take three mornings to do it," edith said, importantly; and maurice said: "it will, because you keep putting the wrong end up! i wish eleanor was well enough to do it," he said--and then burst into self-derisive chuckles: "imagine eleanor straddling that ridgepole! it would scare her stiff!" it was after this talk that maurice "backed out" on the job--but edith never knew why. she saw no connection between the unfinished roof, and the fact that that same afternoon, sitting on the floor in the bride's room, she had, in her anxiety to be entertaining, repeated maurice's remark about the ridgepole. eleanor, who had had an empty morning, listening to the distant tapping of hammers, had drooped a weary lip. "i should hate it. horrid, dirty work!" "oh no! it's nice, clean work," edith corrected her. "but _you_ wouldn't like it, of course," she said, with satisfaction; "you'd be scared! you're scared of everything, maurice says. you were scared to death, up on the mountain." eleanor was silent. "he thinks it's lovely for you to be scared; it's funny about maurice," said edith, thoughtfully; "he doesn't like it when _i'm_ scared--not that i ever am, now, but i used to be when i was a child." the color flickered on eleanor's cheeks: "edith, i'll rest now," she said; her voice broke. edith looked at her, open-mouthed. "why, eleanor!" she said; "what's the matter? are you mad at anything? have you a stomachache? i'll run for mother!" "there's nothing the matter. but--but i wish you'd tell maurice to come and speak to me." edith tore downstairs, and out of the front door: "maurice! where are you?"--then, catching sight of him, reading and smoking in a hammock slung between two of the big columns on the east porch, she rushed at him, and pulled him to his astonished feet. "eleanor wants you! something's the matter, and--" before she could finish, maurice was tearing upstairs, two steps at a time.... and so it was that edith, sulkily, worked on the roof by herself. yet maurice had not entirely "backed out." ... the very next morning, before edith was awake, he had gone out to the henhouse, and, alone, done more than his share of the shingling. "but, maurice, why didn't you wake me?" edith protested, when she discovered what he had done. "i'd have gone out, too!" "i liked doing it by myself," maurice evaded. and for five minutes edith was sulky again. "he puts on airs, 'cause he's married! well, i don't care. he can shingle the whole roof by himself if he wants to! i don't like married men, anyhow." the married man had, indeed, wanted to be by himself--to put the nails in his mouth, and to sit on the cold, slippery shingles in the gray september morning, and to tap-tap-tap--and think, and think. but he didn't like his thoughts very well.... he thought how he had rushed upstairs, terrified lest eleanor was fainting or had a "stomachache," or something--and found her sitting up in bed, her cheeks red and glazed with tears, her round, full chin quivering. he thought how he had tried to make out what she was driving at about edith, and the chicken coop, and the ridgepole! "you told edith i was scared!" maurice's bewilderment was full of stumbling questions: "told edith? when? what?" and as she said "when" and "what," ending with, "you said i am scared!" maurice could only say, blankly. "but my darling, you _are_!" "you may think i am a fool, but to tell edith so--" "but great scott! i didn't!" "i won't have you talking me over with edith; she's a _child_! it was just what you did when you danced three times with that girl who said--edith is as rude as she was!--and she's a _child_. how can you like to be with a child?" of course, it was all her fear of youth,--but eleanor did not know that; she thought she was hurt at the boy's neglect. her face, wet with tears, was twitching, her voice--that lovely voice!--was shrill in his astonished ears.... maurice, on the sloping roof, in the chill september dawn, his fingers numb on the frosty nails, stopped hammering, and leaned his chin on his fist, and thought: "she's sick. she almost killed herself to save me; so her nerve has all gone. that's why she talked--that way." he put a shingle in its place, and planted a nail; "it was because she was scared that what she did was so brave! i couldn't make her see that the more scared she was, the braver she was. it wouldn't have been brave in that gump, edith, without a nerve in her body. but why is she down on edith? i suppose she's a nuisance to a person with a wonderful mind like eleanor's. talks too much. i'll tell her to dry up when she's with eleanor." and again he heard that strange voice: "you like to talk to a _child_." maurice, pounding away on edith's roof, grew hot with misery, not because it was so terrible to have eleanor angry with him; not even because he had finally got mad, and answered back, and said, "don't be silly!" the real misery was something far deeper than this half-amused remorse. it was that those harmless, scolding words of his held a perfectly new idea: he had said, "don't be silly." _was eleanor silly?_ now, to a man whose feeling about his wife has been a sort of awe, this question is terrifying. maurice, in his boy's heart, had worshiped in eleanor, not just the god of love, but the love of god. and was she--_silly_? no! of course not! he pounded violently, hit his thumb, put it into his mouth, then proceeded, mumblingly, to bring his god back from the lower shrine of a pitying heart, to the high alter of a justifying mind: eleanor was ill.... she was nervous.... she was an exquisite being of mist and music and courage and love! so of course she was sensitive to things ordinary people did not feel. saying this, and fitting the shingles into place, suddenly the warm and happy wave of confident idealism began to flood in upon him, and immediately his mind as well as his heart was satisfied. he reproached himself for having been scared lest his star was just a common candle, like himself. he had been cruel to judge her, as he might have judged her had she been well--or a gump like edith! for had she been well, she would not have been "silly"! had she been well--instead of lying there in her bed, white and strained and trembling, all because she had saved his life, harnessing herself to that wagon, and bringing him, in the darkness, through a thousand terrors--nonexistent, to be sure, but none the less real--to safety and life! oh, how could he have even thought the word "silly"? he was ashamed and humble; never again would he be cross to her! "silly? i'm the silly one! i'm an ass. i'll tell her so! i don't suppose she'll ever forgive me. she said i 'didn't understand her'; well, i didn't! but she'll never have cause to say it again! i understand her now," then, once more, he thought, frowning, "but why is she so down on edith?" that eleanor's irritation was jealousy--not of edith, but of edith's years--never occurred to him. so all he said was, "she oughtn't to be down on edith; _she_ has always appreciated her!" edith had never said that eleanor was "silly"! but so long as it bothered eleanor (being nervous) to have the imp round, he'd tell her not to be a nuisance. "you can say anything to skeezics; she has sense. she understands." but all the same, maurice shingled his part of the henhouse before breakfast. maurice did not call eleanor "silly" again for a long time. there was always--when she was unreasonable--the curbing memory that her reasonableness had been shaken by that assault of darkness and fear, and the terrible fatigue of saving his robust young life. furthermore, doctor bennett--telling henry houghton that eleanor had done the worst possible thing, "magnificently"--told maurice she had "nervous prostration,"--a cloaking phrase which kindly doctors often give to perplexed husbands, so that the egotism of sickly wives may be covered up! so maurice, repeating to himself these useful words, saw only ill health, not silliness, in eleanor's occasional tears. it was a week after the shingling of the henhouse, that, leaving her to recuperate still further at green hill, he started in on his job of "office boy"--his jocose title for his position in the real-estate office in mercer. eleanor did not want to be left, and said so, wistfully. "i'll come up for sundays," maurice comforted her, tenderly. on these weekly visits the houghtons were impressed by his tenderness; he played solitaire with his wife by the hour; he read poetry to her until she fell asleep; and he told her everything he had done and every person he had seen, while he was away from her! but the rest of the household didn't get much enjoyment out of eleanor. even the adoring edith had moments when admiration had to be propped up by doctor bennett's phrase. as, for instance, on one of maurice's precious sundays, he and she and johnny bennett and rover and old lion climbed up to the cabin to make things shipshape before closing the place for the winter. "you'll be away from me all day," eleanor said, and her eyes filled. maurice said he hated to leave her, but he had always helped edith on this closing-up job. "oh, well; go, if you want to," eleanor said; "but i don't see how you can enjoy being with a perfect child, like edith!" maurice went--not very happily. but it was such a fine, tingling day of hard work, in a joyous wind, with resulting appetites, and much yelling at each other--"here, drop that!" ... "hurry up, slow poke!"--that he was happy again before he knew it. after the work was over they had a lazy hour before the fire, their eyes stinging with smoke which seemed to envelop them, no matter on which side they sat; an hour in which rover drowsed at maurice's feet, and johnny, in spectacles, read _a boy's adventures in the forests of brazil_, and edith gabbled about eleanor.... "oh, i wish _i_ was married," edith said; "i'd just love to save my husband's life!" maurice said little, except to ask johnny if he had got to such and such a place in the _adventures_, or to assent to edith's ecstasies; but once he sighed, and said eleanor was awfully pulled down by that--that night. "i should think," edith said, "you'd feel she'd just about died for you, like people in history who died for each other." "i do," maurice said, soberly. when they drove home in the dusk, maurice singing, loudly; edith, on the front seat of the wagon, snuggling against him; johnny standing up, balancing himself by holding on to their shoulders, and old rover jogging along on the footpath,--they were all in great spirits, until a turn in the road showed them eleanor, sitting on a log, looking rather white. "suffering snakes!" said maurice, breaking off in the middle of a word. before lion could quite stop, he was at his wife's side. "eleanor! how did you get here? ... you _walked_? oh, star, you oughtn't to have done such a thing!" "i was frightened about you. it was so late. i was afraid something had happened. i came to look for you." edith and johnny looked on aghast; then edith called out: "why, eleanor! i wouldn't let anything happen to maurice!" maurice, kneeling beside his wife, had put his arms around her and was soothing her with all sorts of gentlenesses: "dear, you mustn't worry so! nelly, don't cry; why, darling, we were having such a good time, we never noticed that it was getting late ..." "you forgot me," eleanor said; "as long as you had edith, you never thought how i might worry!" she hid her face in her hands. maurice came back to the wagon; "edith," he said, in a low voice, "would you and johnny mind getting out and walking? i'll bring eleanor along later. i'm sorry, but she's--she's tired." edith said in a whisper, "'course not!" then, without a look behind her at the crying woman on the log, and the patient, mortified boy bending over her, she, and the disgusted and more deliberate johnny, ran down the road into the twilight. edith was utterly bewildered. with her inarticulate consciousness of the impropriety of emotion, naked, _in public_! was the shyness of a child in meeting a stranger--for that crying woman was practically a stranger. she wasn't the bride--silent and lovely! at johnny's gate she said, briefly, "'night!" and went on, running--running in the dusk. when she reached the house, and found her father and mother on the east porch, she was breathless, which accounted for her brevity in saying that maurice and eleanor were coming--and she was just starved! in the dining room, eating a very large supper, she listened for the wheels of the wagon and reflected: "why was eleanor mad at _me_? she was mad at maurice, too. but most at me. why?" she took an enormous spoonful of sliced peaches, and stared blankly ahead of her. ten minutes later, hearing wheels grating on the gravel at the front door, and maurice's voice, subdued and apologetic, she pushed her chair away from the table, rushed through the pantry and up the back stairs. she didn't know why she fled. she only knew that she couldn't face eleanor, who would sit with maurice while he bolted a supper for which--though edith didn't know it!--all appetite had gone. in her room in the ell, edith shut the door, and, standing with her back against it, tried to answer her own question: "why was eleanor mad?" but she couldn't answer it. jealousy, as an emotion, in herself or anybody else, was absolutely unknown to her. she had probably never even heard the word--except in the second commandment, or as a laughing reproach to old rover--so she really did not know enough to use it now to describe eleanor's behavior. she only said, "maybe it's the nervous prostration? well, i don't like her very much. i'm glad she won't be at fern hill when i go there." to be a bride--and yet to cry before people! "crying before people," edith said, "is just like taking off all your clothes before people--i don't care how bad her nervous prostration is; it isn't nice! but why is she mad at me? that isn't sense." you can't run other people's feelings to cover, and try to find their cause, without mental and moral development; all this analysis lessened very visibly edith's childishness; also, it made her rather rudely cold to eleanor, whose effort to reinstate herself in the glories of the little girl's imagination only resulted in still another and entirely new feeling in edith's mind--contempt. "if she had a right to be mad at me yesterday--why isn't she mad to-day?" edith reasoned. eleanor was quick to feel the contempt. "i don't care for edith," she told maurice, who looked surprised. "she's only a child," he said. edith seemed especially a child now to maurice, since he had embarked on his job at mercer. not only was she unimportant to him, but, in spite of his mortification at that scene on the road, his saturday-night returns to his wife were blowing the fires of his love into such a glory of devotion, that edith was practically nonexistent! his one thought was to take eleanor to mercer. he wanted her all to himself! also, he had a vague purpose of being on his dignity with a lot of those mercer people: eleanor's aunt, just back from europe; brown and hastings--cubs! but below this was the inarticulate feeling that, away from the houghtons, especially away from edith, he might forget his impulse to use--for a second time--that dreadful word "silly." so, as the th of october approached--the day when they were to go back to town--he felt a distinct relief in getting away from green hill. the relief was general. edith felt it, which was very unlike edith, who had always sniffled (in private) at maurice's departure! and her father and mother felt it: "eleanor's mind," henry houghton said, "is exactly like a drum--sound comes out of emptiness!" "but maurice seems to like the sound," mrs. houghton reminded him; "and she loves him." "she wants to monopolize him," her husband said; "i don't call that love; i call it jealousy. it must be uncomfortable to be jealous," he ruminated; "but the really serious thing about it is that it will bore any man to death. point that out to her, mary! tell her that jealousy is self-love, plus the consciousness of your own inferiority to the person of whom you are jealous. and it has the same effect on love that water has on fire. my definition ought to be in a dictionary!" he added, complacently. "what sweet jobs you do arrange for me!" she said; "and as for your definition, i can give you a better one--and briefer: 'jealousy is human natur'! but i don't believe eleanor's jealous, henry; she's only conscious, poor girl! of maurice's youth. but there is something i _am_ going to tell her...." she told her the day before the bridal couple (edith still reveled in the phrase!) started for mercer. "come out into the orchard," mary houghton called upstairs to eleanor, "and help me gather windfalls for jelly." "i must pack maurice's things," eleanor called over the banisters, doubtfully; "he's a perfect boy about packing; he put his boots in with his collars." "oh, come along!" said mrs. houghton. and eleanor yielded, scolding happily while she pinned her hat on before the mirror in the hall. in the orchard they picked up some apples, then sat down on the bleached stubble of the mowed hillside and looked over at the dark mass of the mountain, behind which a red sun was trampling waist deep through leaden clouds. "how _can_ i bring it in?" mrs. houghton thought; "it won't do to just throw a warning at her!" but she didn't have to throw it; eleanor invited it. "i'm glad we're going to the hotel, just at first," she said; "auntie says i don't know anything about keeping house, and i get worried for fear i won't make maurice comfortable. i tell him so all the time!" "i wouldn't put things into his head, eleanor," mrs. houghton said (beginning her "warning"); "i mean things that you don't want him to feel. i remember when my first baby was coming--the little boy we lost--" she stopped and bit her lip; the "baby" had been gone for nearly twenty years, but he was still her little boy--"i was very forlorn, and i couldn't do anything, or go anywhere; and henry stayed at home with me like a saint. well, i told my father that i had told henry it was hard on him to 'sit at home with an invalid wife.' and father said, 'if you tell him so often enough, he'll agree with you,' there's a good deal in that, eleanor?" "i suppose there is," maurice's wife said, vaguely. "so, if i were you," mrs. houghton said, still feeling her way, "i wouldn't give him the idea that you are any--well, older than he is. a wife might be fifty years older than her husband, and if her _spirit_ was young, years wouldn't make a bit of difference!" eleanor took this somewhat roundabout advice very well. "the only thing in the world i want," she said, simply, "is to make him happy." they went back to the house in silence. but that night eleanor paused in putting some last things into her trunk, and, going over to maurice, kissed his thick hair. "maurice," she said, "are you happy?" "you bet i am!" "you haven't said so once to-day." "i haven't said i'm alive," he said, grinning. "oh, star, won't it be wonderful when we can go away from the whole caboodle of 'em, and just be by ourselves?" "that's what i want!" she said; "just to be alone with you. i wish we could live on a desert island!..." down in the studio, mr. houghton, smoking up to the fire limit a cigar grudgingly permitted by his wife ("it's your eighth to-day," she reproached him), henry houghton, listening to his mary's account of the talk in the orchard, told her what he thought of her: "may you be forgiven! your intentions are doubtless excellent, but your truthfulness leaves something to be desired: 'years won't make any difference'? mary! mary!" but she defended herself: "i mean, 'years' can't kill love--the highest love--the love that grows out of, _and then outgrows_, the senses! the body may be just an old glove--shabby, maybe; but if the hand inside the glove is alive, what real difference does the shabbiness make? if eleanor's mind doesn't get rheumatic, _and if she will forget herself_!--they'll be all right. but if she thinks of herself--" mary houghton sighed; her husband ended her sentence for her: "she'll upset the whole kettle of fish?" "what i'm afraid of," she said, with a troubled look, "is that you are right:--she's inclined to be jealous, i saw her frown when he was playing checkers with edith. i wanted to tell her, but didn't dare to, that jealousy is as amusing to people who don't feel it, as it is undignified in people who do." "my darling, you are a brute," said mr. houghton; "i have long suspected it, _in re_ tobacco. as for eleanor, _i_ would never have such cruel thoughts! _i_ belong to the gentler sex. i would merely refer her to mr. f.'s aunt." chapter viii they reached mercer in the rainy october dusk. it was cold and raw, and a bleak wind blew up the river, which, with its shifting film of oil, bent like a brown arm about the grimy, noisy town. the old hotel, with its doric columns grimed with years of smoky river fogs, was dark, and smelled of soot; and the manners of the waiters and chambermaids would have set eleanor's teeth on edge, except that she was so absorbed in the thrill of being back under the roof which had sheltered them in those first days of bliss. "do you _remember_?" she said, significantly. maurice, looking after suitcases and hand bags, said, absently, "remember what?" she told him "what" and he said: "yes. where do you want this trunk put, eleanor?" she sighed; to sentimentalize and receive no response in kind, is like sitting down on a chair which isn't there. after dinner, when she and maurice came up to their room, which had fusty red hangings and a marble-topped center table standing coldly under a remote chandelier, she sighed again, for maurice said that, as for this hole of a hotel, the only thing _he_ thought of, was how soon they could get out of it! "i can get that little house i told you about, only it's rather out of the way. not many of your kind of people 'round!" she knelt down beside him, pushing his newspaper aside and pressing her cheek against his. "_that_ doesn't make any difference!" she said; "i'm glad not to know anybody. i just want you! i don't want people." "neither do i," maurice agreed; "i'd have to shell out my cigars to 'em if they were men!" "oh, is that your reason?" she said, laughing. "say, star, would you mind moving? i was just reading--" she rose, and, going over to the window, stood looking out at the streaming rain in one of those empty silences which at first had been so alluringly mysterious to him. she was waiting for his hand on her shoulder, his kiss on her hair--but he was immersed in his paper. "how can he be interested about football, _now_, when we're alone?" she thought, wistfully. then, to remind him of lovelier things, she began to sing, very softly: "art thou poor, yet hast thou golden slumbers? sweet content! to add to golden numbers, golden numbers, o sweet content!-- sweet, o sweet content--" he dropped his paper and listened--and it seemed as if music made itself visible in his ardent, sensitive face! after a while he got up and went over to the window, and kissed her gently ... maurice was very happy in these first months in mercer. the weston office liked him--and admired him, also, which pleased his young vanity!--though he was jeered at for an incorrigible and alarming truthfulness which pointed out disadvantages to possible clients, but which--to the amazement of the office--frequently made a sale! as a result he acquired, after a while, several small gilt hatchets, presented by the "boys," and also the nickname of "g. washington." he accepted these tributes with roars of laughter, but pointed to results: "_i get the goods!_" so, naturally, he liked his work--he liked it very much! the joy of bargaining and his quick and perhaps dangerously frank interest in clients as personalities, made him a most beguiling salesman; as a result he became, in an astonishingly short time, a real force in the office; all of which hurried him into maturity. but the most important factor in his happiness was his adoration of eleanor. he was perfectly contented, evening after evening in the hotel, to play her accompaniments (on a rented piano), read poetry aloud, and beat her at solitaire. also, she helped him in his practicing with a certain sweet authority of knowledge, which kept warm in his heart the sense of her infinite superiority. so when, later, they found a house, he entered very gayly upon the first test of married life--house furnishing! it was then that his real fiber showed itself. it is a risky time for all husbands and wives, a time when it is particularly necessary to "consider the stars"! it needs a fine sense of proportion as to the value, relatively, of peace and personal judgment, to give up one's idea in regard, say, to the color of the parlor rug. maurice's likes and dislikes were emphatic as to rugs and everything else,--but his sense of proportion was sound, so eleanor's taste,--and peace,--prevailed. it was good taste, so he really had nothing to complain of, though he couldn't for the life of him see why she picked out a _picture_ paper for a certain room in the top of the house! "i thought i'd have it for a smoking room," he said, ruefully; "and a lot of pink lambs and green chickens cavorting around don't seem very suitable. still, if you like it, it's all right!" the memory of the night on the mountain, when eleanor gave all she had of strength and courage and fear and passion to the saving of his life--made pink lambs, or anything else, "all right"! when the house-furnishing period was over, and they settled down, the "people" eleanor didn't want to see, seemed to have no particular desire to see them; so their solitude of two (and bingo, who barked whenever maurice put his arms around eleanor) was not broken in upon--which made for domestic, even if stultifying, content. but the thing that really kept them happy during that first rather dangerous year, was the smallness of their income. they had very little money; even with eleanor's six hundred, it was nearer two thousand dollars than three, and that, for people who had always lived in more or less luxury, was very nearly poverty;--for which, of course, they had reason, so far as married happiness went, to thank god! if there are no children, it is the limited income which can be most certainly relied upon to provide the common interest which welds husband and wife together. this more or less uncomfortable, and always anxious, interest, generally develops in that critical time when the heat of passion has begun to cool, and the friction of the commonplace produces a certain warmth of its own. these are the days when conjugal criticism, which has been smothered under the undiscriminating admiration of first love, begins to raise its head--an ugly head, with a mean eye, in which there is neither imagination nor humor. when this criticism begins to creep into daily life, and the lure of the bare shoulder and perfumed hair lessens--because they are as assured as bread and butter!--it is then that this saving unity of purpose in acquiring bread and butter comes to the rescue. it came to the rescue of maurice and eleanor; they had many welding moments of anxiety on his part, and eager self-sacrifice on her part; of adding up columns of figures, with a constantly increasing total, which had to be subtracted from a balance which decreased so rapidly that eleanor felt quite sure that the bank was cheating them! of course they did not appreciate the value of this blessed young poverty--who of us ever appreciates poverty while we are experiencing it? we only know its value when we look back upon it! but they did--or at least eleanor did--appreciate their isolation, never realizing that no human life can refresh another unless it may itself drink deep of human sympathies and hopes. maurice could take this refreshment through business contacts; but, except for mrs. o'brien, and her baby grandson, don, eleanor's acquaintances in mercer had been limited to her aunt's rather narrow circle. when mrs. newbolt got back from europe, maurice was introduced to this circle at a small dinner given to the bride and groom to indicate family forgiveness. the guests were elderly people, who talked politics and surgical operations, and didn't know what to say to maurice, whose blond hair and good-humored blue eyes made him seem distressingly young. nor did maurice know what to say to them. "i'd have gone to sleep," he told eleanor, in exploding mirth, on their way home, "if it hadn't been that the food was so mighty good! i kept awake, in spite of that ancient dame who hashed up the civil war, just to see what the next course would be!" it was about this time that maurice began to show a little longing for companionship (outside the office) of a kind which did not remember the civil war. his evenings of solitaire and music were awfully nice, but-- "brown and hastings are in college," he told his wife; "and mort's on a job at his father's mills. i miss 'em like the devil." "_i_ don't want anyone but you," she said, and the tears started to her eyes; he asked her what she was crying about, and she said, "oh, nothing." but of course he knew what it was, and he had to remind himself that "she had nervous prostration"; otherwise that terrible, hidden word "silly" would have been on his lips. eleanor, too, had a hidden word; it was the word "boy." it was mrs. newbolt who thrust it at her, in those first days of settling down into the new house. she had come in, waddling ponderously on her weak ankles, to see, she said, how the young people were getting along: "at least, _one_ of you is young!" mrs. newbolt said, jocosely. she was still puffing from a climb upstairs, to find eleanor, dusty and disheveled, in a little room in the top of the house. she was sitting on the floor in front of a trunk, with bingo fast asleep on her skirt. "what's this room to be?" said mrs. newbolt; then looked at the wall paper, gay with prancing lambs and waddling ducks, and noah's ark trees. "what! a _nursery_?" said mrs. newbolt; "do you mean--?" "no," eleanor said, reddening; "oh no! i only thought that if--" "you are forehanded," said mrs. newbolt, and was silent for almost a minute. the vision of eleanor choosing a nursery paper, for little eyes (which might never be born!) to look upon, touched her. she blinked and swallowed, then said, crossly: "you're thinner! for heaven's sake don't lose your figger! my dear grandmother used to say--i can see her now, skimmin' milk pans, and then runnin' her finger round the rim and lickin' it. she was a dennison. i've heard her say to her daughters, i'd rather have you lose your virtue than lose your figger'; and my dear grandfather--your great-grandfather--wore knee breeches; he said--well, i suppose you'd be shocked if i told you what he said? he said, 'if a gal loses one, she--' no; i guess i won't tell you. old maids are so refined! _he_ wasn't an old maid, i can tell you! i brought a chocolate drop for bingo. have you a cook?" eleanor, gasping with the effort to keep up with the torrent, said, "yes; but she doesn't know how to do things." mrs. newbolt raised pudgy and protesting hands. "get somebody who can do things! come here, little bingo! eleanor, if you don't feed that boy, you'll lose him. i remember puffectly well hearin' my dear father say, 'if you want to catch a man's heart, set a trap in his stomach.' bingo! bingo!" (the little dog, standing on his hind legs, superciliously accepted a chocolate drop--then ran back to eleanor.) "maurice will be a man one of these days, and a man can't live on love; he wants 'wittles and drink.' when i married your uncle thomas, my dear father said, 'feed him--and amuse him.' so i made up my mind on my weddin' day to have good food and be entertainin'. and i must say i did it! i fed your dear uncle, and i talked to him, until he died." she paused, and looked at the paper on the wall. "i _hope_ the lord will send you children; it will help you hold the boy--and perhaps you'll be more efficient! you'll have to be, or they'll die. get a cook." then, talking all the way downstairs, she trundled off, in angry, honest, forgiving anxiety for her niece's welfare. eleanor, planning for the little sunny room, felt bruised by that bludgeon word--which, as it happened, was not accurate, for maurice, by this time, had gained a maturity of thought and patience that put him practically out of boyhood. when eleanor repeated her caller's remarks to him, she left that one word out; "auntie implied," she said, "that you wouldn't love me, if you didn't have fancy cooking." "she's a peach on cooking herself," declared maurice; "but, as far as my taste goes, i don't give a hoot for nightingales' tongues on toast." so, as fancy cooking was not a necessity to maurice, and as he had resigned himself to an absence of any social life, and didn't really mind smoking in a room with a silly paper on the walls (he had been very much touched when eleanor told him what the paper meant to her in hope, and unsatisfied longing), he was perfectly contented in the ugly little house in the raw, new street. in point of fact, music and books provided the bread of life to maurice--with solitaire thrown in as a pleasant extra!--so "wittles and drink" did not begin to be a consideration until the first year of married life had passed. eleanor remembered the date when--because of something maurice said--she began to realize that they must be considered. it was on the anniversary of their wedding--a cloudy, cold day; but all the same, with valiant sentimentality, they went--bingo at their heels--to celebrate, in the meadow of those fifty-four minutes of married life. as they crossed the field, where the tides of blossoming grass ebbed and flowed in chilly gusts of wind, they reminded each other of the first time they had come there, and of every detail of the elopement. when they sat down under the locust tree, eleanor opened her pocketbook and showed him the little grass ring, lying flat and brittle in a small envelope; and he laughed, and said when he got rich he would buy her a circle of emeralds! "it's confoundedly cold," he said; "b-r-r! ... oh, i must tell you the news: i got one in on 'em at the office this morning: old west has been stung on a big block on taylor street. nothing doing. no tenants. i've been working on a fellow for a month, and, by george! i've landed him! i told him the elevator service was rotten--and one or two other pretty little things they've been sliding over, gracefully, at the office; but i landed him! say, nelly, morton asked me to go to a stag party to-morrow night; do you mind if i go?" she smiled vaguely at his truthtelling; then sighed, and said, "why, no; if you _want_ to. maurice, do you remember you said we'd come back here for our golden wedding?" "so i did! i'd forgotten. gosh! maybe we'll be grandparents by that time!" the idea seemed to him infinitely humorous, but she winced. "what a memory you have!" he said. "you ought to be in weston's! they'd never catch _you_ forgetting where some idiot left the key of the coal bin." "i sang 'kiss thy perfumed garments'; remember?" "'course i do. hit 'em again." she laughed, but ruefully; he had not spoken just that way a year ago. she noticed, suddenly, how much older he looked than on that worshiping day--still the blue, gay eyes, the wind-ruffled blond hair, the hilarious laugh that displayed the very white teeth; but all the same he looked older by more than one year: his mouth had a firmer line; his whole clean-cut face showed responsibility and eager manhood. eleanor, clasping her hands around her knees, and watching the grass ebbing and flowing in the wind, sang, "o spring!" and maurice, listening, his eyes following the brown ripple of the river lisping in the shallows around the sandbar, and flowing--flowing--like life, and time, and love, sighed with satisfaction at the pure beauty of her voice. "the notes are like wings," he said; "give us a sandwich. i'm about starved." they spread out their luncheon, and maurice expressed his opinion of it: "this cake is the limit!" he threw a piece of it at the little dog. "there, bingo!... eleanor, he's losing his waist line. but this cake won't fatten him! it's sawdust." "hannah _is_ a poor cook," she agreed, nervously; "but if i didn't keep her i don't know what she would do, she's so awfully deaf! she couldn't get another place." "why don't you teach her to do things? i suppose she thinks we can live on love," he said, chuckling. she bit her lip,--and thought of mrs. newbolt. "because i don't know how myself," she said. "why don't you learn?" he suggested, feeding the rest of his cake to bingo; "edith used to make bully cake--" she said, with a worried look, that she _would_ try-- instantly he was patient and very gentle, and said that the cake didn't matter at all! "but i move we try boarding." they were silent, watching the slipping gleam on the ripples, until eleanor said, "oh, maurice,--if we only had a child!" "maybe we will some day," he said, cheerfully. then, to tease bingo, he put his arms around his wife and hugged her,--which made the little dog burst into a volley of barks! maurice laughed, but remembered that he was hungry and said again, "let's board." eleanor, soothing bingo, wild-eyed and trembling with jealous love, said no! she would try to have things better. "perhaps i'll get as clever as edith," she said--and her lip hardened. he said he wished she would: "edith used to make a chocolate cake i'd sell my soul for, pretty nearly! why didn't hannah give us hard-boiled eggs?" he pondered, burrowing in the luncheon basket for something more to eat; "they don't take brains!" of course he was wrong; any cooking takes brains--and nobody seemed able, in his little household, to supply them. however, boarding was such a terrible threat, that eleanor, dismayed at the idea of leaving that little room, waiting at the top of the house, with its ducks and shepherdesses; and thinking, too, of a whole tableful of people who would talk to maurice! made heroic efforts to help hannah, her mind fumbling over recipes and ingredients, as her hands fumbled over dishes and oven doors and dampers. she only succeeded in burning her wrist badly, and making the deaf hannah say she didn't want a lady messing up her kitchen. by degrees, however, "living on love" became more and more uncomfortable, and in october the fiasco of a little dinner for henry houghton made maurice say definitely that, when their lease expired, they would board. mr. houghton had come to mercer on business, bringing edith with him, as a sort of spree for the child; and when he got home he summed up his experience to his mary: "that daughter of yours will be the death of me! there was one moment at dinner when only the grace of god kept me from wringing her neck. in the first place, she commented upon the food--which was awful!--with her usual appalling candor. but when she began on the 'harp'--" "harp?" mary houghton looked puzzled. "i won't go to their house again! i detest married people who squabble in public. let 'em scratch each other's eyes out in private if they want to, the way we do! but i'll be hanged if i look on. she calls him 'darling' whenever she speaks to him. she adores him,--poor fellow! i tell you, mary, a mind that hasn't a single thought except love must be damned stupid to live with. i wished i was asleep a dozen times." maurice, too, at his own dinner table, had "wished he was asleep." in the expectation of seeing mr. houghton, eleanor had planned an early and extra good dinner, after which they meant to take their guests out on the river and float down into the country to a spot--green, still, in the soft october days--from which they could look back at the city, with its myriad lights pricking out in the dusk, and see the copper lantern of the full moon lifting above the black line of the hills. eleanor, taught by maurice, had learned to feel the strange loveliness of mercer's ugliness, and it was her idea that mr. houghton should feel it, too. "edith's too much of a child to appreciate it," she said. "she's not much of a child; she's almost fourteen!" "i think," said eleanor, "that if she's fourteen, she's too old to be as free and easy with men--as she is with you." "_me?_ i'm just like a brother! she has no more sense of beauty than a puppy, but she'll like the boat, provided she can row, and adore you." "nonsense!" eleanor said. "oh, i _hope_ the dinner will be good." it was far from good; the deaf hannah had scorched the soup, to which edith called attention, making no effort to emulate the manners of her father, who heroically took the last drop in his plate. maurice, anxious that eleanor's housekeeping should shine, thought the best way to affirm it was to say that _this_ soup was vile, "but generally our soup is fine!" "maurice thinks edith is a wonderful cook," eleanor said; her voice trembled. something went wrong at dessert, and edith said, generously, that she "didn't mind a bit!" it was at that point that the race of god kept her father from murdering her, for, in a real desire to be polite and cover up the defective dessert, she became very talkative, and said, wasn't it funny? when she was little, she thought a harpy played on a harp; "and i thought you had a harp, because father--" "i'd like some more ice cream!" mr. houghton interrupted, passionately. "but there's salt in it!" said edith, surprised. to which her father replied, breathlessly, that he believed he'd not go out on the river; he had a headache. ("mary has got to do something about this child!") "_i'll_ go," edith announced, cheerfully. "i think i'll stay at home," eleanor said; "my head is rather inclined to ache, too, mr. houghton; so we'll none of us go." "me and maurice will," edith protested, dismayed. maurice gave an anxious look at eleanor: "it might do your head good, nelly?" "oh, let's go by ourselves," edith burst out; "i mean," she corrected herself, "people like father and eleanor never enjoy the things we do. they like to talk." "i'd like to choke you!" the exasperated father thought. but he cast a really frightened eye at eleanor, who grew a little paler. there was some laborious talk in the small parlor, where eleanor's piano took up most of the space: comments on the weather, and explanations of bingo's snarling. "he's jealous," eleanor said, with amused pride, and stroking the little faithful head that pressed so closely against her. at which edith began, eagerly, "father says--" ("what the deuce will she say now?" poor mr. houghton thought)--"father says rover has a human being's horridest vice--jealousy." "i don't think jealousy is a vice," eleanor said, coldly. mr. houghton, giving his offspring a terrible glance, said that he must go back to the hotel and take something for his headache; "and don't keep that imp out too late, maurice. you want to get home and take care of eleanor." "oh no; he doesn't," eleanor said, and shook hands with her embarrassed guest, who was saying, under his breath, "_what_ taste!" out in the street maurice hurried so that edith, tucking, unasked, her hand through his arm, had to skip once or twice to keep up with him.... "maurice," she said, breathlessly, "will you let me row?" "o lord--yes! i don't care." after that edith did all the talking, until they reached the wharf where maurice kept his boat; when edith had secured the oars and they pushed off, he took the tiller ropes, and sat with moody eyes fixed on the water. the mortification of the dinner was gnawing him; he was thinking of the things he might have said to bring eleanor to her senses! yet he realized that to have said anything would have added to mr. houghton's embarrassment. "i'll have it out with her when i get home," he thought, hotly. "edith started the mess; why did she say that about mr. houghton and eleanor?" he glanced at her, and edith, rowing hard, saw the sudden angry look, and was so surprised that she caught a crab, almost keeled over, laughed loudly, and said, _"goodness!"_ which was at that time, her most violent expletive. "maurice," she demanded, "did you see that lady on the float, getting into the boat with those two gentlemen?" maurice said, absently: "there were two or three people round. i don't know which you mean." "the young one. she had red cheeks. i never saw such red cheeks!" "oh," said maurice; "_that_ one? yes. i saw her. paint." "on her cheeks?" edith said, with round, astonished eyes. "do ladies put paint on their cheeks?" miserable as maurice was, he did chuckle. "no, edith; _ladies_ don't," he said, significantly. (such was the innocent respectability of !) edith looked puzzled: "you mean she isn't a lady, maurice?" "look out!" he said, jamming the tiller over; "you were on your right oar." "but, maurice," she insisted, "_why_ do you say she isn't a lady?... oh, maurice! there she is now! see? in that boat?" "well, for heaven's sake don't announce it to the world!" maurice remonstrated. "guess i'll take the oars, edith. i want some exercise." edith sighed, but said, "all right." she wanted to row; but she wanted even more to get maurice good-natured again. "he's huffy," she told herself; "he's mad at eleanor, and so am i; but it's no sense to take _my_ head off!" she hated to change seats--they drew in to shore to do it, a concession to safety on maurice's part--for she didn't like to turn her back on the red-cheeked lady with the two gentlemen in the following skiff; however, she did it; after all, it was maurice's boat, and she was his company; so, if he "wanted to row her" (thus her little friendly thoughts ran), "why, all right!" still, she hated not to look at the lady that maurice said was not a lady. "she must be twice as old as i am; i should think you were a lady when you were twenty-six," she reflected. but because her back was turned to the "lady," she did not, for an instant, understand the loud splash behind them, and maurice's exclamation, "capsized!" the jerk of their boat, as he backed water, made it rock violently. "idiots!" said maurice. "i'll pick you up!" he yelled, and rowed hard toward the three people, now slapping about in not very deep water. "tried to change seats,"--he explained to edith. "i'm coming!" he called again. edith, wildly excited and swaying back and forth, like a coxswain in a boat race, screamed: "we're coming! you'll get drowned--you'll get drowned!" she assured the gasping, bubbling people, who were, somehow or other, making their muddy way toward the shore. "get our skiff, will you?" one of the "gentlemen" called to maurice, who, seeing that there was no danger to any of the immersed merrymakers, turned and rowed out to the slowly drifting boat. "grab the painter!" he told edith as he gained upon it; she obeyed his orders with prompt dexterity. "you can always depend on old skeezics," maurice told himself, with a friendly look at her. he had forgotten eleanor's behavior, and was trying to suppress his grins at the forlorn and dripping people, who were on land now, shivering, and talking with astonishing loudness. "oh, the lady's cheeks are coming off!" edith gasped, as they beached. maurice, shoving the trailing skiff on to its owners, said: "can i do anything to help you?" "i'll catch my death," said the lady, who was crying; her trickling tears and her sopping handkerchief removed what remnants of her "cheeks" the sudden bath in the river had left. as the paint disappeared, one saw how very pretty the poor draggled butterfly was--big, honey-dark eyes, and quite exquisite features. "oh, my soul and body!--i'll die!" she said, sobbing with cold and shock. "here," said maurice, stripping off his coat; "put this on." the girl made some faint demur, and the men, who were bailing out their half-filled skiff, said, "oh--she can have our coats." "they're soaked, aren't they?" maurice said; "and i don't need mine in the least." edith gasped; such reckless gallantry gave her an absolutely new sensation. her heart seemed to lurch, and then jump; she breathed hard, and said, under her breath, "oh, _my_!" she felt that she could never speak to maurice again; he was truly a grown-up gentleman! her eyes devoured him. "do take it," she heard him say to the crying lady, who no longer interested her; "i assure you i don't need it," he said, carelessly; and the "lady" reached out a small, shaking hand, on which the kid glove was soaking wet, and said, her teeth chattering, that she was awfully obliged. "get in--get in!" one of the "gentlemen" said, crossly, and as she stepped into the now bailed-out skiff, she said to maurice, "where shall i return it to?" "i'll come and get it," maurice said--and she called across the strip of water widening between the two boats: "i'm miss lily dale--" and added her street and number. maurice, in his shirt sleeves, lifted his hat; then looked at edith and grinned. "did you ever see such idiots? those men are chumps. did you hear the fat one jaw at the girl?" "did he?" edith said, timidly. she could hardly bear to look at maurice, he was so wonderful. but he, entirely good-natured again, was overflowing with fun. "let's turn around," he said, "and follow 'em! that fatty was rather happy--did you get on to that flask?" edith had no idea what he meant, but she said, breathlessly, "yes, maurice." in her own mind she was seeing again that princely gesture, that marvelous tossing of his own coat to the "lady"! "he is _exactly_ like sir walter raleigh," she said to herself. she remembered how at green hill she had wanted him to spread his coat before eleanor's feet;--but _that_ was commonplace! eleanor was just a married person, "like mother." this was a wonderful drowning lady! oh, he _was_ sir walter! her eyes were wide with an entirely new emotion--an emotion which made her draw back sharply when once, as he rowed, his hand touched hers. she was afraid of that careless touch. yet oh, if he would only give _her_ some of his clothes! oh, why hadn't _she_ fallen into the water! her heart beat so that she felt she could not speak. it was not necessary; maurice, singing a song appropriate to the lady with the red cheeks, was not aware of her silence. "i bet," he said, "that cad takes it out of the little thing! she looked scared, didn't you think, edith?" "yes, ... _sir_" the little girl said, breathlessly. maurice did not notice the new word; "sorry not to take you down to the point," he said; "but i ought to keep tabs on that boat. if they capsize again, somebody really might get hurt. she's a--a little fool, of course; but i'd hate to have the fat brute drown her, and he looks capable of it." however, trailing along in the deepening dusk behind the fat brute, who was rowing hard against the current, they saw the dripping survivors of the shipwreck reach the wharf safely five minutes ahead of them, and scurry off into the darkness of the street. maurice, in high spirits, had quite forgiven eleanor. "i meant to treat you to ice cream, skeezics," he said, "but i can't go into the hotel. shirt sleeves wouldn't be admitted in the elegant circles of the mercer house!" instantly a very youthful disappointment readjusted things for edith; she forgot that strange consciousness which had made her shrink from his careless touch; she had no impulse to say "sir"; she was back again at the point at which the red-cheeked lady had broken in upon their lives. she said, frowning: "my! i did want some ice cream. i _wish_ you hadn't given the lady your coat!" when maurice got home, he found a repentant eleanor bathing very red and swollen eyes. "how's your head?" he said, as he came, in his shirt sleeves, into her room; she, turning to kiss him and say it was better, stopped short. "maurice! where's your coat?" his explanation deepened her repentance; "oh, maurice,--if you've caught cold!" he laughed and hugged her (at which bingo, in his basket, barked violently); and said, "the only thing that bothered me was that i couldn't treat edith to ice cream." eleanor's face, passionately tender, changed sharply: "edith is an extremely impertinent child! did you hear her, at dinner, talk about jealousy?" he looked blank, and said, "what was 'impertinent' in that? say, star, the girl in the boat was--tough; she was painted up to the nines, and of course it all came out in the wash. and buster said her 'cheeks came off'! but she was pretty," maurice ruminated, beginning to pull off his boots. "i don't see how you can call a painted woman 'pretty,'" eleanor said, coldly. maurice yawned. "she seemed to belong to the fat brute. he was so nasty to her, i wanted to punch his head." "poor girl!" eleanor said, and her voice softened. "perhaps i could do something for her? she ought to make him marry her." maurice chuckled. "oh, nelly, you _are_ innocent! no, my dear; she'll paint some more, and then, probably, get to drinking; and meet one or two more brutes. when she gets quite into the gutter, she'll die. the sooner the better! i mean, the less harm she'll do." eleanor's recoil of pain seemed to him as exquisite as a butterfly's shrinking from some harsh finger. he looked at her tenderly. "star, you don't know the world! and i don't want you to." "i'd like to help her," eleanor said, simply. "you?" he said; "i wouldn't have you under the same roof with one of those creatures!" his sense of her purity pleased her; the harem idea is, at bottom, pleasing to women; they may resent it with their intellect, but they all of them like to feel they are too precious for the wind of evil realities to blow upon. so, honestly enough, and with the childlike joy of the woman in love, she played up to the harem instinct, shrinking a little and asking timid questions, and making innocent eyes; and was kissed, and assured she was a lovely goose; for maurice played up to his part, too, with equal honesty (and youth)--the part of the worldly-wise protector. it was the fundamental instinct of the human male; he resents with his intellect the idea that his woman is a fool; but the more foolish she is (on certain lines) the more important he feels himself to be! so they were both very contented, until maurice happened to say again that he was sorry to have disappointed edith about the ice cream. "she's a greedy little thing," eleanor said from her pillows; her voice was irritated. "what nonsense!" maurice said; "as for ice cream, all youngsters like it. i know i do!" "i saw her hang on to your arm as you went down the street," eleanor said. "mrs. houghton ought to tell her that nice girls don't paw men!" "eleanor! she's nothing but a child, and i'm her brother--" "you are _not_ her brother." "oh, eleanor, don't be so--" he paused; oh, that dreadful word which must not be spoken!--"so unreasonable," he ended, wearily. he lay down beside her in the darkness, and by and by he heard her crying, very softly. "_oh_, lord!" he said; and turned over and went to sleep. thus do the clouds return after rain. yet each day the sun rises again.... at breakfast eleanor, with a pitying word for the "poor thing," reminded her husband that he must go and get his coat. he said, "gosh! i'd forgotten it!" and added that he liked his eggs softer. he would have "played up" again, and smiled at her innocence, if he had thought of it, but he was really concerned about his eggs, "hannah seems to think i like brickbats," he said, good-naturedly. eleanor winced; "poor hannah is so stupid! but she's getting deafer every day, so i _can't_ send her away!" added to her distress at the scorched soup of the night before, was this new humiliation of "brickbats;" naturally she forgot the "poor thing." maurice almost forgot her himself; but as he left the office in the afternoon he did remember the coat. at the address which the red-cheeked lady had given him, he found her card--"miss lily dale"--below a letter box in the tiled, untidy vestibule of a yellow-brick apartment house, where he waited, grinning at the porcelain ornateness about him, for a little jerking elevator to take him up to the fourth floor. there, in a small, gay, clean parlor of starched lace curtains, and lithographs, and rows of hyacinth bulbs just started in blue and purple glasses on the window sill, he found the red-cheeked young lady, rather white-cheeked. indeed, there were traces of hastily wiped-away tears on her pretty face. "my friend, mr. batty, said i upset the boat," she said, taking the coat out of the wardrobe and brushing it briskly with a capable little hand. the coat reeked with perfumery, and maurice said, "phew!" to himself; but threw it over his arm, and said that mr. batty had only himself to blame. "a man ought to know enough not to let a lady move about in a rowboat!" "won't you be seated?" lily said; she lighted a cigarette, and shoved the box over to him, across the varnished glitter of the table top. maurice, introducing himself--"my name's curtis";--and, taking in all the details of the comfortable, vulgar little room, sat down, took a cigarette, and said it was a warm day for october; she said she hated heat, and he said he liked winter best.... then he saw a bruise on her wrist and said: "why, you gave yourself a dreadful knock, didn't you? was it on the rowlock?" her face dropped into sullen lines: "it wasn't the boat did it." maurice, with instant discretion, dropped the subject. but he was sorry for her; she made him think of a beaten kitten. "you must take care of that wrist," he said, his blue eyes full of sympathy. when he went away he told himself he had spotted the big man as a brute the minute he saw him. the "kitten" seemed to him so pathetic that he forgot eleanor's exquisiteness, and told her about the bruised wrist and the reeking coat, and how pretty the girl was. "i don't know anything vulgarer than perfumery!" his wife said, with a delicate shrug. maurice agreed, adding, with a grin, that he had noticed that when ladies were short on the odor of sanctity, they were long on the odor of musk. "i always keep dried rose leaves in my bureau drawers," eleanor said; and he had the presence of mind to say, "you are a rose yourself!" a husband's "presence of mind" in addressing his wife is, of course, a confession; it means they are not one--for nobody makes pretty speeches to oneself! however, maurice's "rose" made no such deduction. chapter ix it was after mr. houghton had swallowed the scorched soup and meditated infanticide, that boarding became inevitable. several times that winter maurice said that hannah "was the limit; so let's board?" and toward spring, in spite of the cavorting lambs and waddling ducks in the little waiting, empty room upstairs, eleanor yielded. "we can go to housekeeping again," she thought, "_if_--" so the third year of their marriage opened in a boarding house. they moved (bingo again banished to mrs. o'brien), on their wedding anniversary, and instead of celebrating by going out to "their river," they spent a hot, grimy day settling down in their third-floor front. "if people come to see us," said maurice, ruefully, standing with his hands in his pockets surveying their new quarters, "they'll have to sit on the piano!" "nobody'll come," eleanor said. maurice's eyes narrowed: "i believe you need 'em, nelly? i knock up against people at the office, and i know several fellows and girls outside--" "what girls?" "oh, the fellows' sisters; but you--" "i don't want anybody but you!" maurice was silent. two years ago, when eleanor had said almost the same thing: she was willing to live on a desert island, _with him_!--it had been oil on the flames of his love; now, it puzzled him. he didn't want to live on a desert island, with anybody! he needed more than one man "friday," and any women "thursdays" who might come along were joyously welcomed. "i am a social beggar, myself," he said; and began to whistle and fuss about, trying to bring order out of a chaos of books and photographs and sheet music. she sat watching him--the alert, vigorous figure; the keen face under the shock of blond hair; the blue eyes that crinkled so easily into laughter. her face was thinner, and there were rings of fatigue under her dark eyes, and that little nursery in the house they had left, made a swelling sense of emptiness in her heart. ("if i see any awfully pretty nursery paper this winter, i'll buy it, and have it ready,--_in case_ we should have to get another house," she thought.) "oh, do stop whistling," she said; "it goes through me!" "poor nelly!" he said, kindly, and stopped. the astonishing thing about the "boarding-house marriage," is that it ever survives the strain of the woman's idleness and the man's discomfort! but it does, occasionally. even this marriage survived miss ladd's boarding house, for a time. at first it went smoothly enough because maurice couldn't blame eleanor's cook, and eleanor couldn't say that "nothing she did pleased maurice"; so two reasons for irritability were eliminated; but a new reason appeared: maurice's eager interest in everything and everybody--especially everybody!--and his endless good nature, overflowed around the boarding-house table. everyone liked him, which eleanor entirely understood; but he liked everyone,--which she didn't understand. the note of this mutual liking was struck the very first night when maurice went down into the dingy basement dining room; he and eleanor made rather a sensation as they entered: eleanor, handsome and silent, produced the impression of cold reserve; maurice, amiable and talkative, gave a little shock of interest and pleasure to the fifteen or twenty people eating indifferent food about a table covered with a not very fresh cloth. before the meal was over he had made himself agreeable to an elderly woman on his left, ventured some drollery to a pretty high-school teacher of mathematics opposite him, and given a man at the end of the table the score. when eleanor rose, maurice had to rise, too, though his dessert was not quite devoured; and as the couple left the room there was a murmur of pleasure: "a real addition to our family," said miss ladd. the bond salesman said, "i wonder if he'll go to the ball game with me on saturday? i'll get the tickets." the school-teacher said, "he's awfully good looking." the widow's comment was only, "nice boy." upstairs in their own room, maurice said: "what pleasant people! nelly, let's get some fun out of this; don't dash up here the minute you swallow your food!" she wondered, silently, how he could call them "pleasant"! to her they were all rather common, pushing persons, who wanted to talk to maurice. but as her one desire was to do what he liked, she really did try to help him "get some fun out of them." every night at dinner she smiled laboriously when he teased the teacher, and she listened to the elderly woman in mourning, whose clever talk was so absorbing to maurice that sometimes he didn't hear his wife speaking to him! yes; eleanor tried. yet, in less than a month maurice found himself beside a boarder of his own sex, instead of mrs. davis, and saw that the school-teacher was too far down the table for jokes. when he asked why their seats had been changed, eleanor said she had felt a draught--which caused the widow to smile, and write on a piece of paper an arithmetical statement: "selfishness + vanity - humor = jealousy." she handed it to the teacher, who laughed and shrugged her shoulders: "but she's awfully in love with him," she conceded, under her breath. the older woman shook her head: "no, my dear; she isn't. no jealous woman knows the meaning of love." but eleanor did not see miss moore's contemptuous smile, or mrs. davis's grave glance. one of the pitiful things about jealous people is that they don't know how amusing--or else boring--or else irritating--they are to an observant and entirely unsympathetic world! eleanor had no idea that the whole tableful of people knew she was jealous, and found her ridiculous. she only knew that maurice seemed to like them--which meant that her society "wasn't enough for him "! so she tried to make it enough for him. at dinner she talked to him so animatedly (and so personally) that no one else could get a word in edgewise. dinner over, she was uneasy until she had dragged her eager-eyed young husband up to the desert island of their third-floor front--a dingy room, with a black-marble mantelpiece, and a worn and frowzy carpet. there were some steel engravings, dim under their old glasses, on the wall,--evangeline, and lincoln's cabinet, and daniel webster in a rumpled shirt and a long swallowtail;--all of which eleanor's looking-glass and the mirrored doors of a black-walnut wardrobe, reflected in multiplying dullness. maurice's charming good nature in that first boarding winter never failed. eleanor's silences--which he had long since discovered were merely empty, not mysterious--were at least no tax on his patience; so he never once called her "silly." he did, occasionally, feel a faint uneasiness lest people might think she was older than he--which was, of course, the beginning of self-consciousness as to what he had done in marrying her. but he loved her. he still loved her. "she isn't very well," he used to defend her to mrs. newbolt; "she nearly killed herself, saving my life. she's not been the same girl since." "'girl'?" said mrs. newbolt; "she's exactly the same _woman_, only more so because she's older. i hope she won't lose her figger; she's gettin' thin. my dear grandmother--she was a dennison; fat; i can hear her now talkin' to her daughters: 'girls! _don't_ lose your figgers!' she had red hair." eleanor had not lost her figure; it was still graciously erect, and with lovely curves of bosom and shoulders; but, somehow, she seemed older--older even than she was! perhaps because of her efforts to be girlish? it was as if she wore clothes she had outgrown--clothes that were too tight and too short. she used maurice's slang without its virile appropriateness; when they accepted an invitation from one of maurice's new acquaintances, her anxiety to be of his generation was pathetic--or ludicrous, as one happened to look at it. these friends of maurice's seemed to have innumerable interests in common with him that she knew nothing about--and jokes! how tired she got of their jokes, which were mostly preposterous badinage, expressed with entire solemnity and ending in yells of laughter. yet she tried to laugh, too; though she rarely knew what it was all about. there is nothing which divides the generations more sharply than their ideas of humor. but eleanor tried, very pitifully hard, to be silly with the kind of silliness which maurice seemed to enjoy; but, alas! she only achieved the silliness which he--like every husband on earth!--hated: the silliness of small jealousies. once she told maurice she didn't like those dinner parties that his friends were always asking them to,--"i think it's nicer here," she said. and he said, cheerfully: "don't go! i don't mind going alone." "i know you don't," she said, wistfully.... "why can't he be satisfied to stay at home with me?" she said once to her aunt; and mrs. newbolt told her why: "because you don't interest him. eleanor! if you want to keep that boy, urge him to go out and have a good time, _without you_!" then she added some poignantly true remarks: "my dear father used to say, 'just as many men are faithless to their wives because their wives have plain minds, as because other women have pretty faces.' well, i'm afraid poor dear mother's mind was plain; that's why i always made an effort to talk to your uncle, and be entertainin'. and i'll tell you another thing--for if i have a virtue it's candor--if you let him see you're jealous, he'll make it worth your while! you've got a rip in the back seam of your waist. no man ever keeps on lovin' a jealous woman; he just pretends to, to keep the peace." of course this was as unintelligible to eleanor as it is to all women of her type of mind. so, instead of considering maurice's enjoyment of society, she committed the absurdity of urging him to enjoy what she enjoyed--a solitude of two. to herself she explained his desire to see other people, by saying it was because they had no children. "when we have a child, he won't want to be with those boys and girls! oh, why don't we have a baby?" her longing for children was like physical hunger. but only mrs. o'brien understood it. when eleanor went, in her faithful way, two or three times a week, to sing to little sickly don (and pet the boarding and rather pining bingo), mrs. o'brien, listening to the little songs, pretty and silly, would draw a puckery hand over her eyes: "she'd ought to have a dozen of her own! if that boy don't treat her good, i'll iron off every button he's got!" when eleanor (hoping for a baby) worried lest maurice's hopes, too, were disappointed, her gentleness to him was passionate and beseeching; but sometimes, watching his attention to other people, the gentleness grew rigid in an accusation that, because they hadn't a child, he was "getting tired of her"! whenever she said this foolish thing, there would come, afterward, a rain of repentant tears. but repentance cannot always change the result of foolish words--and the result is so often out of proportion to the words! as maurice had said that day in their meadow, of professor bradley and the banana skin--a very little thing "can throw the switches," in human life! it was the "little thing" of a lead pencil, in keeping the accounts of their endless games of solitaire, that threw the switches now, for maurice curtis.... he happened to produce a very soft pencil, which he had borrowed, he said, "from a darned pretty woman he was showing a house to," and had forgotten to return to her. eleanor said it seemed to her bad taste to talk of a strange woman that way: "if she's a lady she wouldn't want a man she didn't know to speak so--so lightly of her." "i have yet to meet one of your sex who objects to being called pretty," maurice said, dryly. to which eleanor replied that she preferred a hard lead pencil, anyhow,--but _her_ wishes seemed to be of no importance! "you're tired of me, maurice." he said, "oh, damn!" she said, "i won't have you swear at me!" he pushed back his chair, toppled the flimsy table over, scattering all the cards on the floor. the falling table struck her knee; she screamed; he flung out of the room--out of the house, into the hot darkness of an august night.... the switches were thrown.... down on tyler street there had been another quarrel--as trivial as the difference of opinion as to hard and soft lead pencils, and again human lives were shifted from one track to another. it was lily who ran out into the darkness, and wandered through the streets; then strayed down to the bridge that spanned the hurrying black water of that same river which, two years before, had lisped and laughed under maurice and eleanor's happy eyes. lily, watching the current, thought angrily of batty--then a passing elbow jostled her and some one said, "beg pardon!" she turned and saw maurice. "well, i do say!" she said; and maurice, pausing at the voice in the dark, began a brief, "excuse me; i stumbled--" saw who it was, and said, "why, miss lily! how are you? i haven't seen you for an age!" she answered with some small jocosity; then suddenly struck her little fist on the railing. "well, i'm just miserable; that's how i am, if you want to know! batty--" maurice frowned. "has that pup hurt you?" she nodded: "i don't know why i put up with him!" "shake him!" he advised, good-naturedly. "i 'ain't got any other friend." she spoke with half-laughing anger; indeed, she was so pretty and so plucky that he forgot, for a moment, the irritation at eleanor which had driven him out into the night, and it came into his mind that something ought to be done for girls like this. he remembered that eleanor herself had said so, "perhaps i could do something for her?" eleanor had said. "she isn't bad," he thought, looking at lily; "she's just a fool, like all of 'em. but there ought to be some way of fishing 'em out of the gutter, before they get to the very bottom. maybe eleanor could give her a hand up?" then he asked her about herself: had she friends? where did her family live? could she do any work? he was rather diverted by his own philanthropy, but it seemed to him that it would be the decent thing to advise the girl, seriously. "i'll talk to her," he thought. "come on!" he said; "let's hunt up some place and have something to eat." "i ain't hungry," she said--then saw the careless straightforwardness of his face, and was straightforward herself: "i guess i'd better be going home." "oh, come on," he urged her. she yielded, with a little rollicking chuckle; and as they walked toward a part of town more suitable for such excursions, she confided to him she was twenty, and she'd been "around" for a year. ("twenty-five, if she's a day," he thought.) they strolled along for several blocks before discovering, in the purlieus of tyler street, a dingy "ice-cream parlor," eminently fitted for interviews with the lilys of the locality. at a marble-topped table, translucent with years of ice-cream rendezvous, they waited for his order to be filled, and she saw the amused honesty of his face and he saw the good nature of hers; which made him think again of eleanor's wish to help her. he urged some indifferent cake upon her, and joked about how many saucers of ice cream they could consume between them; then he became serious: why didn't she drop batty? "oh," she said, "if i only _could_ drop him! i hate him. he's the first friend i've had." "was he really the--the first?" maurice said. his question was the old human interest of playing with fire, but he supposed that it was a desire to raise the fallen. "well, except ... there was a man; i expected to marry _him_. then batty, he come along." "i see," said maurice. "where's the first man?" "_i_ don't know. i was only sixteen." "damn him!" maurice said, sympathetically. he was so moved that he ordered more ice cream; then it occurred to him that he ought to let her know that he was entirely a philanthropist. "my wife and i'll help you," he said. "oh ... you're _married_? you're real young!" she commented. "i'm no chicken. my wife and i think exactly alike about these things. of course she's not a prude. she understands life, just as i do. and she'd love to be a real friend to you. she'll put you on your feet, and think none the worse of you. tell me about yourself," he urged, intimately; he felt some deep satisfaction stir within him, which he supposed was his recognition of a moral purpose. but she drew back into her own reserves. "they always ask that," she thought; and the momentary reality she had shown hardened into the easy lying of her business: she told this or that--the cruel father of fiction, who tried to drive her into marriage with the rich old man; the wicked lover who destroyed trusting innocence; the inevitable _facilis descensus_--batty at last. and now the ice-cream parlor in this dirty street, with the clear-eyed, handsome, amused young man, who had forgotten his own anger in the impulse, so frequent in the very young and very upright man, to "save" some little creature of the gutter! as for maurice, he said to himself, "she's a sweet little thing; and not really bad." he was right there: lily was not bad; she was as far from sin as she was from virtue--just a little, unmoral, very amiable animal. as for maurice, he continued to discuss her future of rectitude and honor--his imagination reaching in a bound amazing heights. why not be a trained nurse?--and have a hospital of her own, and gather about her, as assistants, girls who--"well, had had a tough time of it," he said, delicately. as he talked, fatigue at the boredom of his highly moral sentiments crept into her face. she swallowed an occasional yawn, and murmured to most of his statements, "is that so?" she was sleepy, and wished he would stop talking.... "guess i'll be going along," she said, good-naturedly. "i'll come and see you to-morrow," maurice said, impassioned with the idea of saving her; "then i'll tell you what my wife will do for you." they went out together and walked toward lily's rooms; but somehow they both fell silent. lily was again afraid of batty, and maurice's exhilaration had begun to ebb; there came into his mind the bleak remembrance of the overturned table and eleanor's sobs.... at the door of the apartment house where lily lived, she said, nervously, "i'd ask you to come in, but he--" "oh, i understand; i've no desire to meet the gentleman! what time will i come to-morrow, when he's not around?" she reflected, uneasily: "well, i ain't sure--" before she could finish, batty loomed up beside them. he was plainly drunk. "i lost my key," he said; "and i've been waiting--" "good night, miss lily," maurice said,--"if he's nasty to her, i'll go back," he thought. he was only halfway down the block when he heard a little piping scream--"o-o-o-w! o-o-o-w!" he turned, and saw her trying to pull her hand away from batty's twisting grip: he was at her side in a moment: "here! _drop_ it!" he said, sharply--and landed an extremely neat blow on the drunken man's jaw. batty, rubbing his cheek, and staring at this very unexpected assailant in profound and giggling astonishment, slouched into the house. "he 'most twisted my hand off!" lily said; "oh, ain't he the beast?" she cringed and shook her bruised wrist, then gave maurice an admiring look. "my soul and body! you lit into him good!" she said; "what am i going to do? i'm afraid to go in." "if i had a house of my own," maurice said, "i'd take you home, and my wife would look after you. but we are boarding.... haven't you some friend you could go to for to-night? ... to-morrow my wife will come and see you," he declared. "oh, gracious me, no!" in the midst of her anger she couldn't help laughing. ("he's a reg'lar baby!" she thought.) "no; your wife's a busy society lady, i'm sure. don't bother about me. i'll just wait round till he goes to sleep." she dabbed at her eyes with a little wet ball of a handkerchief. "here, take mine," he said. and with this larger and dryer piece of linen, she did manage to make her face more presentable. "when he's asleep, i'll slip in," she said. "well, let's go and sit down somewhere," maurice suggested. she agreed, and there was some haphazard wandering about in the darkness, then a weary sitting on a bench in the park, marking time till batty would surely be asleep. "you sure handed one out to him," lily said. maurice chuckled at the role of knight-errant which she seemed to discern in him, but he talked earnestly of her future, and once or twice, soothed by his voice, she dozed--but he didn't know it. indeed, he told himself afterward that her silences showed how his words were sinking in! "it only goes to prove," he thought, when at midnight he left her at her own door, "that the _flower_ is in all of them! if you only go about it right, you can bring their purity to the surface! she felt all i said. eleanor will be awfully interested in her." he was quite sure about eleanor; he had entirely forgiven her; he wanted to wake her up, and sit on the edge of her bed, and tell her of his evening, and what a glorious thing it would be to lift one lovely young soul from the gutter. chapter x but eleanor would not "wake up." within an hour of her foolish outbreak she had begun to listen for his returning step. then she went to bed and cried and cried, "he doesn't love me," she said, over and over; and once she said, "it is because i am--" but she didn't finish this; she just got up and went over to the bureau and stared into the mirror; she even lit a candle and held it close to the glass; after a while she saw what she was looking for. "edith tried to make him notice them, that first summer at green hill," she thought. at eleven she went to the window and watched, her eyes straining into the darkness. when, far down the street, a man's figure came in range, she held her breath until it walked into and out of the circling glare of the arc light--not maurice! it was after twelve when she saw him coming--and instantly she flew back to her bed. when he entered the faintly lighted room, eleanor was, apparently, sound asleep. "star?" no answer. he leaned over, saw the droop of her lip and the puffed eyelids--and drew back. perhaps, if he had kissed her, the soft lead pencil might not have acted as destiny; she might have melted under the forlorn story he was so eager to tell her. but her tear-stained face did not suggest a kiss. in the morning eleanor had what she called a "bilious headache," and when maurice skirted the subject of the "_flower_," she was too physically miserable to be interested. when she was well again, the opportunity--if it was an opportunity!--was lost; her interest in lily was not needed, because a call at the apartment house showed maurice that batty was forgiven. so he forgot his desire to lift the fallen, in more of those arid moments with eleanor; reproaches--and reconciliations! tears--and fire! but fires gradually die down under tears, no matter how one spends one's breath blowing loving words on the wet embers! enough tears will put out any fire. lily, too, was shedding angry tears in those days, and they probably had their effect in cooling batty's heart; for his unpleasantness finally culminated in his leaving her, and by october she was living in the yellow-brick apartment house alone, and very economically--yet not so economically that she did not buy hyacinth bulbs for the blue and purple glasses on her sunny window sill. once maurice, remembering with vague amusement his reformatory impulse, went to see her; but he did not talk to eleanor about the call. by this time there were days when he talked as little as possible to eleanor about anything,--not because he was secretive--he hated secrecy! "it's next door to lying," he thought, faintly disgusted at himself,--but because she seemed to feel hurt if he was interested in anyone except herself. maurice had passed the point which had seemed so terrible at green hill, where he had called his wife "silly." he never called her silly now. he merely, over and over, called himself a fool. "i've made an ass of myself," he used to think, sorting out his cards for solitaire and looking furtively at the thin face, with its lines of wistful and faded beauty. at forty-two, a happy, busy woman, with a sound digestion, will not look faded; on the contrary, she is at her best--as far as looks are concerned! eleanor was not happy; her digestion was uncertain; she did not go into society, and she had no real occupation, except to go every day to mrs. o'brien's and take bingo for a walk. even her practicing had been pretty much given up, for fear of disturbing the people on the floor below her. "why don't you have some plants around?" maurice suggested; "they'd give you something to do! i saw a lot of hyacinths growing in glasses, once; i'll buy some bulbs for you." "oh, i'm one of the people flowers won't grow for," she said. mrs. newbolt made a suggestion, too. "pity you can't have bingo to keep you company. that's what comes of boarding. i knew a woman who boarded, and she lost her teeth. chambermaid threw 'em away. come in and see me any evening when maurice is out." as maurice was frequently out, the invitation was sometimes accepted, and it was on one of these occasions that mrs. newbolt, spreading out her cards on the green baize of her solitaire table with fat, beringed hands, made her suggestion: "eleanor, you've aged. i believe you're unhappy?" "no, i'm not! why should i be?" "well, i wouldn't blame you if you were," mrs. newbolt said. "'course you'd have brought it on yourself; i could have told you what to expect! your dear uncle thomas used to say that, after a thing happened, i was the one to tell people that they might have expected it. you see, i made a point of bein' intelligent; of course i wasn't _too_ intelligent. a man doesn't like that. you're gettin' gray, eleanor. pity you haven't children. _he_ doesn't look very contented!--but men are men," said mrs. newbolt. "he _ought_ to be contented," eleanor said, passionately; "i adore him!" "you've got to interest him," her aunt said; "that's more important than adorin' him! a man can buy a certain kind of adoration, but he can't purchase interest." "i don't know what you're talking about," eleanor said, trembling. "well, if you don't, i'm sure i can't tell you," mrs. newbolt said, despairingly; but she made one more attempt: "my dear father used to say that the finest tribute a man could put on his wife's tombstone would be, '_she was interestin' to live with_.' so i tell you, eleanor, if you want to hold that boy, _make him laugh_!" she was so much in earnest that for a few minutes she actually stopped talking! eleanor could not make maurice laugh--she never made anybody laugh! but for a while she did "hold him"--because he was a gallant youngster, making the best of his bargain. that he had begun to know it was a bad bargain did not lessen his regret for his wife's childlessness, which he knew made her unhappy, nor his pity for her physical forlornness--which he blamed largely on himself: "she almost died that night on the mountain, to save my life!" but he had ceased to be touched by her reiterated longing for children; he was even a little bored by it. and he was very much bored by her reproaches, her faint tempers and their following ardors of repentant love--bitternesses, and cloying sweetnesses! yet, in spite of these things, the boarding-house marriage survived the lengthening of the fifty-four minutes of ecstasy into three years. but it might not have survived its own third winter had it not been that maurice's unfaithfulness enforced his faithfulness. for by spring that squabble about lead pencils, which had turned his careless steps toward the bridge, had turned his life so far from eleanor's that he had been untrue to her. he had not meant to be untrue; nothing had been farther from his mind or purpose. but there came a bitter sunday afternoon in march ... eleanor, saying he did not "understand her," cried about something--afterward maurice was not sure just what--perhaps it was a question from one of the other boarders about the early 'eighties, and she felt herself insulted; "as if i could remember!" she told maurice; but whatever it was, he had tried to comfort her by joking about it. then she had reproached him for his unkindness--to most crying wives a joke is unkind. then she had said that he was tired of her! at which he took refuge in silence--and she cried out that he acknowledged it! "you can't deny it! you're tired of me because i'm older than you!" and he said, between his teeth, "if you were old enough to have any sense, i wouldn't be tired of you." she gave a cry; then stood, the back of her hand against her lips, her eyes wide with terror. maurice threw down a book he had been trying to read, got up, plunged into his overcoat, pulled his hat down over his eyes, and, without a word, walked out of the room. a moment later the front door banged behind him. eleanor, alone, stood perfectly still; she had said foolish things like that many times; she rather liked to say them! but she had not believed them; now, her own words were a boomerang,--they seemed to strike her in the face! _he was tired of her._ instantly she was alert! what must she do? she sat down, tense with thought; first of all, she must be sweet to him; she mustn't be cross; then she must try (mrs. newbolt had told her so!) to "entertain" him. "i'll read things, and talk to him the way mrs. davis does!" she must sew on his buttons, and scold poor old o'brien.... with just this same silent determination she had hurried to act that night on the mountain! but while she was sitting there in their cheerless room, planning and planning!--maurice was out, wandering about in the gray afternoon. it had begun to snow, in a fitful, irritating way--little gritty pellets that blew into his face. he had nowhere to go--four o'clock is a dead time to drop in on people! he had nothing to do, and nothing to think of--except the foolish, middle-aged woman, stating, in their dreary third-floor front, an undeniable fact--he was tired of her! walking aimlessly about in the cold, he said to himself, dully, "why _was_ i such an idiot as to marry her?" he was old enough to curse himself for his folly, but he was young enough to suffer, agonies of mortification, and to pity himself, too; pity himself for the mere physical discomfort of his life: the boarding-house table, with its uninteresting food; the worn shirt cuff which was scratching his wrist; and he pitied himself for his spiritual discomfort--when eleanor called him "darling" at the dinner table, or exhibited her jealousy before people! "they're sorry for me--confound 'em!" he thought.... yet how trivial the cuff was, or even--yes, even the impertinence which was "sorry" for him!--how unimportant, when compared to a ring of braided grass, and the smell of locust blossoms, and a lovely voice, rising and falling: "o spring!" "oh, _damn_!" he said to himself, feeling the scrape of worn linen on the back of his hand. then he fell into certain moody imaginings with which that winter he frequently and harmlessly amused himself. he used to call these flights of fancy "fool thoughts"; but they were at least an outlet to his smoldering irritation, "suppose i should kick over the traces some day?" his thoughts would run; and again, "suppose i should be in a theater fire, and 'disappear,' and never come back, and she'd think i was dead," "suppose there should be a war, and i should enlist," ... and so forth, and so forth. "fool thoughts," of course!--but maurice is not the only man upon whom a jealous woman has thrust such thoughts, or who has found solace in the impossible! so, now, wandering about in the cold, he amused himself by imagining various ways of "kicking over the traces"; then, suddenly, it occurred to him that he wanted something to eat. "by george!" he thought, "i'll get that girl, lily, and we'll go and have a good dinner!" even in the rococo vestibule of the yellow-brick apartment house, while he pressed the bell below miss lily dale's letter box, he began to feel a glow of comfort; and when lily let him into her little parlor, all clean and vulgar and warm, and fragrant with blossoming bulbs, and gave him a greeting that was almost childlike in its laughing pleasure, his sense of physical well-being was a sort of hitting back at eleanor. "oh," said little lily, "my! ain't you cold! why, your hand's just like ice!" he let her help him off with his coat, and push him into what had been the vanished batty's chair; then she saw that his feet were wet, and insisted (to his horror) on unlacing his boots and making him put on a pair of slippers. "but i was going to take you out to dinner," he remonstrated. she said: "oh no! it's cold. i'll cook something for you, and we'll have our dinner right by that fire." "can you cook?" he said, with admiring astonishment. "you bet i can!" she said; "i'll give you a _good_ supper: you just wait!" in her pretty, laughing face was very honest friendliness. "i 'ain't forgot that time you handed it out to batty! he had a bruise on his chin for a week!" "a steak!" he exclaimed, watching her preparations in the tiny closet of a kitchen that opened into her parlor. she nodded: "ain't it luck to have it in the house? a friend of mine gave it to me this afternoon; her father's a butcher; and he's got a dandy shop on the next block; an' annie run in with it, an' she says" (lily was greasing her broiler), "'there,' she says, 'is a present for you!'" maurice insisted upon helping, and was told where to get the dishes and what to put on the table, and that if he opened that closet he'd see the beer. "i got just one bottle," she said, chuckling; "batty stocked up. when he lit out, that was all he left behind him." "seen him lately?" maurice asked. lily's face changed. "i 'ain't seen--anyone, since november," she said; "i'm a saleslady at marston's. but i'll have to get out of this flat when batty's lease runs out. he took it by the year. he was going to 'settle down,' and 'have a home,'--you know the talk? so he took it for the year. well, he said i could stay till june. so i'm staying. there! it's done!" she put the sizzling steak on a platter and pressed butter and pepper and salt into it with an energetic knife and fork. "i bet," she said, "you wouldn't get a better steak than this at the mercer house!" "i bet i wouldn't get one as good," he assured her. as he ate his extremely well-cooked steak, and drank a cup of extremely well-made coffee, and reflected that the pretty, amber-eyed woman who, after the manner of her kind, had already dropped into the friendliness of a nickname, and who waited on him with a sweet deftness, was a reformed character, owing, no doubt, to his own efforts, maurice, comfortable in mind and body, felt the intense pleasure of punishing eleanor by his mere presence in lily's rooms. for, _if she could know where he was_!... "gosh!" said maurice. but of course she never would know. he wouldn't think of telling her where he had spent his evening; which shows how far they had drifted apart since that night when he had come home in his shirt sleeves, and been so eager to tell her how he had given his coat to the "poor thing"! no; if he told eleanor of lily, now, there would be no sympathy for a girl who was really trying to keep straight; no impulse to do any "uplift" work! for that matter, lily could do something in the way of uplift for eleanor! ... look at this tidy, gay little room, and the well-cooked steak, and the bulbs on the window sill! he strolled over and looked at the row of purple hyacinth glasses, full now of threadlike roots and topped with swelling buds. "you're quite a gardener," he said. "well, there!" said lily; "if i hadn't but ten cents, i'd spend five for a flower!" after they had washed the dishes together she made him comfortable in the big chair, and even put a blossoming hyacinth on the table beside him, so he could smell it now and then. then she sat down on a hassock at his feet, with her back to the fire, and, flecking off the ashes of her cigarette over her shoulder, she talked a friendly trickle of funny stories; maurice, smoking, too, thought how comfortable he was, and how pleasant it was to have a girl like lily to talk to. once or twice he laughed uproariously at some giggling joke. "she has lots of fun in her," he reflected; "and she's a bully cook; and her hair is mighty pretty.... say, lily, don't you want to trim my cuff? it's scratching me to death." "you bet i do!" lily said, and got her little shiny scissors and trimmed the broken edge of a worn-out cuff that eleanor had never noticed. he felt her small, warm fingers on his hand, and had a sense of comfort that made him almost forget eleanor. "it would serve her right if i took lily on," he thought. but he had not the remotest intention of taking lily on! he only played with the idea, because the impossible reality would serve eleanor right. it was a month or two later, on the rebound of another dreariness with eleanor, that the reality came, and he did "take lily on." when he did so, no one could have been more astonished--under his dismay and horror--than maurice. unless it was lily? she had been so certain that he had no ulterior purpose, and so completely satisfied with her own way of living, that her rather snuggling friendliness with him was as honest as a boy's. her surprise at her own mistake showed how genuine her intention of straightness really was. when he came, once or twice to see her, he called her lily, and she called him "curt," and they joked together like two playfellows,--except when he was too gloomy to joke. but it was his gloominess that made her feel sure there was nothing but friendliness in his calls. she was not curious about him; she knew he was married, but she never guessed that his preoccupation--during the spring maurice was very preoccupied with his own wretchedness and given to those cynical fancies about "theater fires";--was due to the fact that he and his wife didn't get along. she merely supposed that, like most of her "gentlemen friends," "curt" didn't talk about his wife. but, unlike the gentlemen of her world he was, apparently, a husband whose acquaintance with her had its limits. so they were both astonished.... but when maurice discovered that such acquaintance had also its risks, the shock was agonizing. he was overwhelmed with disgust and shame. once, at his desk, brooding over what had happened, his whipping instinct of truthfulness roused a sudden, frantic impulse in him to go home and confess to eleanor, and ask her to forgive him. she never would, of course! no woman would; eleanor least of all. but oh, if he only could tell her! as he couldn't, remorse, with no outlet of words, smoldered on his consciousness, as some hidden and infected wound might smolder in his flesh. yet he knew there would be no further unfaithfulness. he would never, he told himself, see lily again! _that_ was easy! he was done with all "lilys." if he could only shed the self-knowledge which he was unable to share with eleanor, as easily as he could shed lily, how thankful he would be! if he could but forget lily by keeping away from her! but of course he could not forget. and with memory, and its redeeming pain of shame, was also the stabbing mortification of knowing that he had made a fool of himself, _again_! first eleanor; then--lily. sometimes, with this realization of his idiocy, he would feel an almost physical nausea. it was so horrible to him, that when, a month later, the anniversary which marked his first folly came around again, he made an excuse of having to be away on business. it seemed to maurice that to go out to their field, with this loathsome secrecy (which was, of course, an inarticulate lie) buried in his soul, would be like carrying actual corruption in his hands! so he went out of town on some trumped-up engagement, and eleanor, left to herself, took little pining bingo for a walk. in a lonely; place in the park, holding the dog on her knee, she looked into his passionately loving liquid eyes and wiped her own; eyes on his silky ears.... those were aging months for maurice; and though, of course, the poignancy of shame lessened after a while, it left its imprint on his face, as well as on his mind. they speculated about it at the office: "'g. washington's' got a grouch on," one clerk said; "probably told the truth and lost a transfer! let's give him another hatchet." and the friendly people at the boarding house noticed the change in him. he had almost nothing to say, now, at dinner--no more jokes with the school-teacher, no more eager talks with the gray-haired woman.... "has she forbidden conversation, do you suppose?" miss moore asked, giggling; but the widow said, soberly, that she was afraid mr. curtis was troubled about something. mrs. newbolt saw that there was something wrong with him, and talked of it to eleanor, without a pause, for an hour. and of course eleanor felt a difference in him; all day long, in the loneliness of their third-floor front, under the gaze of daniel webster, she brooded over it. even while she was reading magazines and plodding through newspaper editorials on public questions she had never heard of, so that she could find things to talk about to him, she was thinking of the change, and asking herself what she had done--or left undone--to cause it? she also asked him: "maurice! something bothers you! i'm not enough for you. what _is_ the matter?" he said, shortly, "nothing." at which she retreated into the silence of hurt feelings. once, she knelt down, her face hidden on the grimy bed-spread, and prayed: "god, _please_ give us a child--that will make him happy. and show me what to do to please him! show me! oh, _show_ me! i'll do anything!" and who can say that her prayer was not answered? for certainly an idea did spring into her mind: those tiresome people downstairs--he liked to talk to them;--to miss moore, who giggled, and tried, eleanor thought, to seem learned; and to the elderly woman who told stories. how could he enjoy talking to them when he could talk to her? but he did. so, suppose she tried to be more sociable with them? "i might invite mrs. davis to come up to our room some evening--and i would sing for her? ... but not miss moore; she is _too_ silly, with her jokes!" her mind strained to find ways to be friendly with these people he seemed to like. and circumstances helped her.... that was the month of the great eclipse. for a week miss ladd's boarders had talked about it, exchanging among themselves much newspaper astronomical misinformation--which the learned miss moore good-naturedly corrected. it was her suggestion that the household should make a night of it: "let's all go up on the roof and see the show!" so the friendly gayety was planned--a supper in the basement dining room at half past eleven--ginger ale! ice cream! chocolate! then an adjournment _en masse_ to the top of the house. of course miss moore, engineering the affair, invited the curtises, confident of a refusal--and an acceptance;--both of which, indeed, she secured; but, to her astonishment, it was mr. curtis who declined, and his wife who accepted. "it's a bore," maurice told eleanor, listlessly. she looked worried: "oh, i am so sorry! i told them at luncheon that we would come. i thought you'd enjoy it" (her acceptance, which had been a real sacrifice to her, was a bomb to the other boarders. "what _has_ happened?" they said to each other, blankly. "she'll be an awful wet blanket," some one said, frowning; and some one else said, "she's accepted because she won't let him out at night, alone!") when the heterogeneous household gathered in the dining room, and corks popped and jokes were made, eleanor and maurice were there; he, watching the other people eat and drink and saying almost nothing; she, talking nervously and trying hard to be slangy about astronomy. once he looked at her with faint interest--for she was so evidently "trying"! at midnight they all toiled up four flights of stairs from the basement to the garret, where, with proper squeamishness on the part of the ladies, and much gallantry of pushing and pulling on the part of the gentlemen, and all sorts of awkwardnesses and displaying of legs, they climbed a ladder and got out through the scuttle on to the flat roof. then came the calculating of minutes, and facetiousness as to other people's watches and directions as to what one might expect to see. "it'll look like a bite out of a cookie, when it begins," the bond salesman said; and miss ladd tittered, and said what the ladies wanted to see was the man in the moon! maurice, intolerably irked, had moved across to the parapet and was staring out over the city. below him spread the dim expanse of roofs and chimneys, with here and there the twinkle of light in an attic window. leaning on the coping and looking down, he thought of the humanity under the dark roofs: a horizontal humanity--everybody asleep! the ugly fancy came to him that if that sleeping layer of bodies could be stirred up, there would be instantly a squirming mass of loathsome thoughts--maggots of lust, and shame, and jealousy, and fear. "my god! we're a nasty lot," he thought. "look!" a voice said at his shoulder. he sighed, impatiently--and looked. above him soared the abyss of space, velvet black, pricked faintly here and there by stars; and, riding high--eternal and serene--the moon. he heard miss moore say, "_it's beginning._" ... and the solemn curve of the shadow touched the great disk. no one spoke: they stood--a handful of little human creatures, staring up into immensity; specks of consciousness on a whirling ball that was rushing forever into the void, and, as it rushed, its shadow, sweeping soundless through the emptiness of space, touched the watching moon ... and the broad plaque, silver gilt, lessened--lessened. to half. to a quarter. to a glistening line. then coppery darkness. no one spoke. the flow of universes seemed to sweep personality out upon eternal tides. yet, strangely, maurice felt a sudden uprush of personality! ... little he was--oh, infinitely little; too little, of course, to be known by the power that could do this--spread out the heavens, and rule the deeps of space; and yet he felt, somehow, near to the power. "it's what they call god, i suppose?" he said. it flashed into his mind that he had said almost exactly the same thing that day in the field (when he was a fool), of the fire of joy in his breast: he had said that happiness was god! and some people thought this stupendous energy could know--_us_? absurd! "might as well say a man could know an ant." yet, just because inconceivable greatness was great, mightn't it know inconceivable littleness? "the smaller i am--the nastier, the meaner, the more contemptible--the greater it would have to be to know me? to say i was too little for it to know about, would be to set a limit to its greatness." how foolish reason looks, limping along behind such an intuition--intuition, running and leaping, and praising god! maurice's reason strained to follow intuition: "if it knows about me, it could help me, ... because it holds the stars. why! _it_ could fix things--with eleanor!" looking up into the gulf, his tiny misery suddenly fell away. "it would just prove its greatness, to help me!" while he groped thus for god among the stars, the order of rushing worlds brought light, just as it had brought darkness: first a gleam; then a curving thread; then a silver sickle; then, magnificently! a shield of light--and the moon's unaltered face looked down at them. maurice had an overwhelming impulse to drop his weakness into endless, ageless, limitless power; his glimmer of self-knowledge, into enormous all-knowledge; his secrecy into truth. an impulse to be done with silences. "god knows; so eleanor shall know." the idea of telling the truth was to maurice--slipping and sinking into bottomless lying--like taking hold upon the great steadinesses of the sky.... people began to talk; maurice did not hear them. miss ladd made a joke; miss moore said something about "light miles"; the old, sad, clever woman said, "the firmament showeth his handiwork,"--and instantly, as though her words were a signal--a voice, as silvery as the moon, broke the midnight with a swelling note: "the spacious firmament on high, with all the blue ethereal sky ..." a shock of attention ran through the watchers on the roof: eleanor, standing with her hands clasped lightly in front of her, her head thrown back, her eyes lifted to the unplumbed deeps, was singing: "the moon takes up the wondrous tale and nightly to the listening earth repeats the story of her birth; whilst all the stars that round her burn, and all the planets in their turn--" a window was thrown open in a dark garret below, and some one, unseen, listened. down in the street, two passers-by paused, and looked up. no one spoke. the voice soared on--and ended: "forever singing as they shine...." maurice came to her side and caught her hand. there was a long sigh from the little group. for several minutes no one spoke. miss moore wiped her eyes; the baseball fan said, huskily, "my mother used to sing that"; the widow touched eleanor's shoulder. "my--my husband loved it," she said, and her voice broke. the garret window slammed down; the two people in the street vanished in the darkness. the little party on the roof melted away; they climbed through the scuttle, forgetting to joke, but saying to each other, in lowered voices: "would you have _believed_ it?" "how wonderful!" and to eleanor, rather humbly: "it was beautiful, mrs. curtis!" in their own room, maurice took his wife in his arms and kissed her. "i am going to tell her," he said to himself, calmly. the overwhelming grandeur of the heavens had washed him clean of fear, clean even of shame, and left him impassioned with beauty and law, which two are truth. "i will tell her," he said. eleanor had sung without self-consciousness; but now, when they were back again in their room--so stifling after those spaces between the worlds!--self-consciousness flooded in: "i suppose it was queer?" she said. "it was perfect," maurice said; he was very pale. "i wanted to do something that they would like, and i thought they might like a hymn? some of them said they did. but if you liked it, that is all i want." "i loved it." his heart was pounding in his throat.... "eleanor" (he could hardly see that terrible path among the stars, but he stumbled upward), "eleanor, i'm not good enough for you." "not good enough? for _me_?" she laughed at such absurdity. he was sitting down, his elbow on his knee, his head in his hand. she came and knelt beside him. "if you are only happy! i did it to make you happy." she heard him catch his breath. "how much do you love me?" he said. (oh, how long it was since he had talked that way--asking the sweet, unanswerable question of happy love!--how long since he had spoken with so much precious foolishness!) "how _much_? why, maurice, i love you so that sometimes, when i see you talking to other people--even these tiresome people here in the house, i could just die! i want you all to myself! i--i guess i feel about you the way bingo feels about me," she said, trying to joke--but there were tears in her eyes. "i'm not always ... what i ought to be," he said; "i am not--" (the path was very dim)--"awfully good. i--" "i suppose i'm naturally jealous," she confessed; "i could die for you, maurice; but i couldn't share your little finger! do you remember, on our wedding day, you made me promise to be jealous? well, i _am_." she laughed--and he was dumb. there, on the roof, truth seemed as inevitable as law. it did not seem inevitable now. he had lost his way among the stars. he could not find words to begin his story. but words overflowed on eleanor's lips!... "sometimes i get to thinking about myself--i _am_ older than you, you know, a little. not that it matters, really; but when i see you with other people, and you seem to enjoy talking to them--it nearly kills me! and you _do_ like to talk to them. you even like to talk to--edith, who is rude to me!" her words poured out sobbingly: "why, _why_ am i not enough for you? you are enough for me!" he was silent. "and ... and ... and we haven't a baby," she said in a whisper, and dropped her face on his knee. he tried to lift her, but his soul was sinking within him; dropping down--down from the awful heights. yet still he caught at truth! "dear, don't! as for people, i may talk to them; i may even--even be with them, or seem to like them, and--and do things, that--i don't love anybody but you, eleanor; but i--i--" it was a final clutch at the hand that holds the stars. but his entreating voice broke, for she was kissing his confession from his lips. those last words--"i don't love anybody but you"--folded her in complete content! "dear," she said, "that's all i want--that you don't love anybody but me." she laid her wet cheek against his in silence. what could he do but be silent, too? what could he do but choke down the confessing, redeeming words that were on his lips? so he did choke them down, turning his back on the clean freedom of truth; and the burden of his squalid secret, which he had been ready to throw away forever, was again packed like some corroding thing in his soul.... when, late in august, he and eleanor went to green hill for a few days vacation, the effect of this repression was marked. there were wrinkles on his forehead under the thatch of his blond hair; his blue eyes were dulled, and he was taciturn to the point of rudeness--except to eleanor. he was very polite to eleanor. he never, now, amused himself by imagining how he could disappear if he had the luck to be in a theater fire. he knew that because he had enslaved himself to a lie, he had lost the right even to dream freedom. so there were no more "fool thoughts" as to how a man might "kick over the traces." there was nothing for him to do, now (he said), but "play the game." the houghtons were uneasily aware of a difference in him; and edith, fifteen now, felt that he had changed, and had fits of shyness with him. "he's like he was that night on the river," she told herself, "when he gave the lady his coat." she sighed when she said this, and it occurred to her that she would be a missionary. "i won't get married," she thought; "i'll go and nurse lepers. he's _exactly_ like sir walter raleigh." but of course she had moments of forgetting the lepers--moments when she came down to the level of people like johnny bennett. when this happened, she thought that, instead of going to the south seas, she would become a tennis star and figure in international tournaments; even johnny admitted that she served well--for a girl. one day she confessed this ambition to maurice, but he immediately beat her so badly that she became her old childlike, grumpy self, and said johnny was nicer for singles; which enabled maurice to turn her loose on john and go off alone to climb the mountain. he had a dreary fancy for looking at the camp, and living over again those days when he was still young--and a fool, of course; but not so great a fool as now, with lily living in a little flat in mercer. batty's lease had expired, and she had moved into a cheaper, but still ornate, apartment house on the other side of the river. well! lily had floated into his life as meaninglessly as a mote floats into a streak of light, and then floated out again. he hadn't seen her since--since that time in may. _"ass--ass!"_ he said to himself. "if eleanor _knew_," he thought, "there'd be a bust-up in two minutes." he even smiled grimly to think of that evening of the eclipse when, shaken by the awful beauty of eternal order, he had, for just one high moment, dreamed that he, too, could attain the orderliness of truth--and tell eleanor. "idiot!" he said, contemptuously. probably maurice touched his lowest level when he said that; for to be ashamed of an aspiration, to be contemptuous of emotion, is to sin against the holy ghost. when maurice reached the camp he stood for a while looking about him. the shack had not wintered well: the door sagged on a broken hinge, and the stovepipe had blown over and lay rusting on the roof. in the blackened circle of stones were some charred logs, which made him think of the camp fire on that night of eleanor's courage and love and terror. he even reverted to those first excuses for her: "she nearly killed herself for me. nervous prostration, doctor bennett said. i suppose a woman never gets over that. poor eleanor!" he said, softening; "it would kill her ... if she knew." he sat down and looked off across the valley ... "what am i going to do?" he said to himself. "i can't make her happy; i'd like to, but you can't reason with her any more than if she was a child. edith has ten times her sense! how absurd she is about edith. lord! what would she do if she knew about lily!" he reflected, playing with the mere horror of the thought, upon just how complete the "bust-up" would be if she knew! he realized that he had undeserved good luck with lily; she hadn't fastened herself on him. she was decent about that; if she'd been a different sort, he might have had a nasty time. but lily was a sport--he'd say that for her; she hadn't clawed at him! and she had protested that she didn't want any money, and wouldn't take it! and she hadn't taken it. he had made some occasional presents, but nothing of any value. he had given her nothing, hardly even a thought (except the thought that he was an ass), since last may. thinking of her now, he had another of those pangs of shame which had stabbed him so at first, but to which of late he had grown callous. the shame of having been the one--after all his goody-goody talk!--to pull her off the track; still, she was straight again now. he was quite sure of that. "you can tell when they're straight," he thought, heavily. perhaps, in the winter, he would send her some flowers. he thought of the bulbs on the window sill of lily's parlor, and tried to remember a verse; something about--about--what was it? "if of thy store there be but left two loaves, sell one, and with the dole buy hyacinths to feed thy soul." he laughed; _lily_, feeding her "soul"! "well, she has more 'soul,' with her flower pots and her good cooking, than some women who wouldn't touch her with a ten-foot pole! still, _i'm_ done with her!" he thought. but he had no purpose of "uplift"; the desire to reform lily had evaporated. "queer; i don't care a hoot," he told himself, watching with lazy eyes the smoke from his pipe drift blue between himself and the valley drowsing in the heat. "i'd like to see the little thing do well for herself--but really i don't give a damn." his moral listlessness, in view of the acuteness of that first remorse, and especially of that moment among the stars, when he had stretched out hands passionately eager for the agonizing sacrament of confession, faintly surprised him. how could he have been so wrought up about it? he looked off over the valley--saw the steely sickle of the river; saw a cloud shadow touch the shoulder of a mountain and move down across the gracious bosom of its forests. below him, chestnuts twinkled and shimmered in the sun, and there were dusky stretches of hemlocks, then open pastures, vividly green from the august rains.... "it ought to be set to music," he thought; the violins would give the flicker of the leaves--"and the harps would outline the river. eleanor's voice is lovely ... she looks fifty. how," he pondered, interested in the mechanics of it, "did she ever get me into that wagon?" then, again, he was sorry for her, and said, "poor girl!" then he was sorry for himself. he knew that he was tired to death of eleanor--tired of her moods and her lovemaking. he was not angry with her; he did not hate her;--he had injured her too much to hate her; he was simply unutterably tired of her--what he did hate, was this business of lugging a secret around! "i feel," he said to himself, "like a dog that's killed a hen, and had the carcass tied around his neck." his face twitched with disgust at his own simile. but as for eleanor, he had been contemptibly mean to her, and, "by god!" he said to himself, "at least i'll play the game. i'll treat her as well as i can. other fools have married jealous women, and put up with them. but, good lord!" he thought, with honest perplexity, "can't the women _see_ how they push you into the very thing they are afraid of, because they bore you so infernally? if i look at a woman, eleanor's on her ear.... queer," he pondered; "she's good. look how kind she is to old o'brien's lame child. and she _can_ sing." he hummed to himself a lovely lilting line of one of eleanor's songs. "confound it! why did i meet lily? eleanor is a million times too good for me...." far off he heard a sound and, frowning, looked toward the road: yes; somebody was coming! "can't a man get a minute to himself?" maurice thought, despairingly. it was the mild-eyed and spectacled johnny bennett, and behind him, edith, panting and perspiring, and smiling broadly. "hello!" she called out, in cheerful gasps; "thought we'd come up and walk home with you!" "'lo," maurice said. the boy and girl achieving the rocky knoll on which maurice was sitting, his hands locked about his knees, his eyes angry and ashamed, staring over the treetops, sat down beside him. johnny pulled out his pipe, and edith took off her hat and fanned herself. "mother and eleanor went for a ride. i thought i'd rather come up here." "um--" maurice said. "two letters for you," she said. "eleanor told me to bring 'em up. might be business." as she handed them to him, his eye caught the address on one of them, and a little cold tingle suddenly ran down his spine. lily had never written to him, but some instinct warned him that that cramped handwriting on the narrow lavender envelope, forwarded from the office, could only be hers. a whiff of perfumery made him sure. he had a pang of fright. at what? he could not have said; but even before he opened the purple envelope he knew the taste of fear in his mouth.... sitting there on the mountain, looking down into the misty serenities of the sun-drenched valley, with the smoke of johnny bennett's pipe in his nostrils, and the friendly edith beside him, he tore open the scented envelope, and as his eyes fell on the first lines it seemed as if the spreading world below rose up and hit him in the face: dear friend curt,--i don't know what you'll say. i hope you won't be mad. i'm going to have a baby. _it's yours_.... maurice could not see the page, a wave of nausea swamped even his horror; he swallowed--swallowed--swallowed. edith heard him gasp, and looked at him, much interested. "what's the matter with your hands?" edith inquired. "johnny! look at his hands!" maurice's fingers, smoothing out the purple sheet, were shaking so that the paper rustled. he did not hear her. then he read the whole thing through to its laconic end: _it's yours_--honest to god. can you help me a little? sorry to trouble you on your vacation. your friend, lily. "what _is_ the matter with your hands?" edith said, very much interested. chapter xi when, a year after his marriage, maurice began to awaken to eleanor's realities, maturity had come to him with a bound. but it was almost age that fell upon him when lily's realities confronted him. in the late afternoon, as he and edith and the silent johnny walked down the mountain, he was dizzy with terror of lily! _she was blackmailing him._ but even as he said the word, he had an uprush of courage; he would get a lawyer, and shut her up! that's what you do when anybody blackmails you. perfectly simple. "a lawyer will shut her up!" it was a hideous mess, and he had no money to spend on lawyers; but it would never get out--the newspapers couldn't get hold of it--because a lawyer would shut her up! though, probably, he'd have to give her some money? how much would he have to give her? and how much would he have to pay the lawyer? he had a crazy vision of lily's attaching his salary. he imagined a dialogue with his employer: "a case of blackmail, sir." "don't worry about it, curtis; we'll shut her up." this brought an instant's warm sense of safety, which as instantly vanished--and again he was walking down the road, with edith beside him, talking, talking... eleanor would have to know... no! she wouldn't! he could keep it a secret. but he'd have to tell mr. houghton. then mrs. houghton would know! again a wave of nausea swept over him, and he shuddered; then said to himself: "no: uncle henry's white. he won't even tell her." edith was asking him something; he said, "yes," entirely at random--and was at once involved in a snarl of other questions, and other random answers. under his breath he thought, despairingly, "won't she ever stop talking! ... edith, i'll give you fifty cents if you'll keep quiet." edith was willing enough to be quiet; "but," she added, practically, "would you mind giving me the fifty cents now, maurice? you always tear off to eleanor the minute you get home, and i'm afraid you'll forget it." he put his hand in his pocket and produced the half dollar. "anything to keep you still!" he said. "you don't mind if i talk to johnny?" he didn't answer; at that moment he was not aware of her existence, still less johnny's, for a frightful thought had stabbed him: suppose it wasn't blackmail? _suppose lily had told the truth_? suppose "it" was his? "she can't prove it--she can't prove it!" he said, aloud. "prove what? who can't?" edith said, interested. maurice didn't hear her. suddenly he felt too sick to follow his own thought, and go to the bottom of things; he was afraid to touch the bottom! he made a desperate effort to keep on the surface of his terror by saying: "it's all eleanor's fault. damnation! her idiotic jealousy drove me out of the house that sunday afternoon!" at this moment johnny bennett and edith broke into shrieks of laughter. "say, maurice," johnny began-- "can't you children be quiet for five minutes?" maurice said. johnny whistled and, behind his spectacles, made big eyes at edith. "what's _he_ got on his little chest?" johnny inquired. but maurice was deaf to sarcasm.... "it all goes back to eleanor!" under the chatter of the other two, it was easier to say this than to say, "is lily telling the truth?" it was easier to hate eleanor than to think about lily. and, hating, he said again, aloud, the single agonized word. edith stood stock-still with amazement; she could not believe her ears. _maurice_ had said--? as for maurice, his head bent as if he were walking in a high wind he strode on, leaving her in the road staring after him. "johnny!" said edith; "did you hear?" "that's nothing," johnny said; "i say it often, when mother ain't round. at least i say the first part." "oh, _johnny_!" edith said, dismayed. to maurice, rushing on alone, the relief of hating eleanor was lost in the uprush of that ghastly possibility: "if it _is_ mine?" something in him struggled to say: "if it _is_, why, then, i must--but it isn't!" maurice was, for the moment, a horribly scared boy; his instinct was to run to cover at any cost. he forgot edith, coming home by herself after johnny should turn in at his own gate; he was conscious only of his need to be alone to think this thing out and decide what he must do. there was no possible privacy in the house. "if i go up to our room," he thought, frantically, "eleanor'll burst in on me, and then she'll get on to it that there's something the matter!" suddenly he remembered the chicken coop. "it's late. edith won't be coming in." so he skulked around behind the house and the stable, and up the gravel path to the henhouse. lifting the rusty latch, he stepped quietly into the dusky, feathery shelter. "i can think the damned business out, here," he thought. there was a scuffling "cluck" on the roosts, but when he sat down on an overturned box, the fowls settled into stillness and, except for an occasional sleepy squawk, the place was quiet. he drew a long breath, and dropped his chin on his fist. "now i'll think," he said. then, through the cobwebby windows, he saw in the yellowing west the new moon, and below it the line of distant hills. an old pine tree stretched a shaggy branch across the window, and he said to himself that the moon and the hills and the branch were like a japanese print. he took the letter out of his pocket--his very fingers shrinking as he touched it--and straining his eyes in the gathering dusk, he read it all through. then he looked at the moon, which was sliding--sliding behind the pine. yes, that ragged branch was very japanese. if he hadn't gone out on the river that night with edith, he would never have met lily. the thing he had said on his wedding day, in the meadow, about "switches," flashed into his mind: "a little thing can throw the switches." "ten minutes in a rowboat," he said,--"and _this_!" one of the hens clucked. "i'll fight," he said. "lots of men come up against this sort of thing, and they hand the whole rotten business over to a lawyer. i'll fight. or i'll move.... perhaps that's the best way? i'll just tell eleanor we've got to live in new york. damn it! she'd ask why? i'll say i have a job there. lily'd never be able to find me in new york." the moon slipped out below the pine, and hung for a dim moment in the haze. maurice's mind went through a long and involved plan of concealing his address from lily when he moved to new york.... "but what would we live on while i was finding a job?" ... suddenly thought stopped short; he just watched the moon, and listened to a muffled stir among the hens. then he took out his knife, and began to cut little notches on the window sill. "i'll fight," he said, mechanically. there were running steps on the gravel path, and instantly he was on his feet. he had the presence of mind to put his hand into a nest, so that when edith came in she reproached him for getting ahead of her in collecting eggs. "how many have you got? two? griselda was on the nest when i started up the mountain, but i thought there was another egg there?" "only one," he said, thickly, and handed it to her. "come on in the house," edith commanded; "i suppose," she said, resignedly, "eleanor is playing on the piano!" (edith, as her adoration of eleanor lessened, was frankly bored by her music.) "all right," maurice said, and followed her. edith asked no questions; maurice's "word" on the road had sobered her too much for talk. "he's mad about something," she thought; "but i never heard maurice say--_that_!" she didn't quite like to repeat what he had said, though johnny had confessed to saying "part of it." "i don't believe he ever did," edith thought; "he's putting on airs! but for maurice to say _all_ of it!--that was wrong," said edith, gravely. they went out of the henhouse together in silence. maurice was saying to himself, "i might not be able to get a job in new york... i'll fight." yet certain traditional decencies, slowly emerging from the welter of his rage and terror, made him add, "if it was mine, i'd have to give her something... but it isn't. i'll fight." he was so absorbed that before he knew it he had followed edith to the studio, where, in the twilight. mr. and mrs. houghton were sitting on the sofa together, hand in hand, and eleanor was at the piano singing, softly, old songs that her hosts loved. "if," said henry houghton, listening, "heaven is any better than this, i shall consider it needless extravagance on the part of the almighty,"--and he held his wife's hand against his lips. maurice, at the door, turned away and would have gone upstairs, but mr. houghton called out: "sit down, man! if _i_ had the luck to have a wife who could sing, i'd keep her at it! sit down!" eleanor's voice, lovely and noble and serene, went on: "to add to golden numbers, golden numbers! sweet content! o sweet, o sweet content!" maurice sat down; it was as if, after beating against crashing seas with a cargo of shame and fear, he had turned suddenly into a still harbor: the faintly lighted studio, the stillness of the summer evening, the lovely voice--the peace and dignity and safety of it all gave him a strange sense of unreality... then, suddenly, he heard them all laughing and telling eleanor they were sorry for her, to have such an unappreciative husband!--and he realized that the fatigue of terror had made him fall asleep. later, when he came to the supper table, he was still dazed. he said he had a headache, and could not eat; instantly eleanor's anxiety was alert. she suggested hot-water bags and mustard plasters, until mr. houghton said to himself: "how _does_ he stand it? mary must tell her not to be a mother to him--or a grandmother." all that hot evening, out on the porch, maurice was silent--so silent that, as they separated for the night, his guardian put a hand on his shoulder, "come into the studio," he said; "i want to show you a thing i've been muddling over." maurice followed him into the vast, shadowy, untidy room ("no females with dusters allowed on the premises!" henry houghton used to say), glanced at a half-finished canvas, said, "fine!" and turned away. "anything out of kilter? i mean, besides your headache?" "well ... yes." ("he's going to say he's hard up--the extravagant cuss!" henry houghton thought, with the old provoked affection.) "i'm bothered about ... something," maurice began. ("he's squabbled with eleanor. i wish i was asleep!") "uncle henry," maurice said, "if you were going to see a lawyer, who would you see?" "i wouldn't see him. lawyers make their cake by cooking up other people's troubles. sit down. let's talk it out." he settled himself in a corner of the ragged old horsehair sofa which faced the empty fireplace and motioned maurice to a chair. "i thought it wasn't all headache; what's the matter, boy?" maurice sat down, cleared his throat, and put his hands in his pockets so they would not betray him. "i--" he said. mr. houghton appeared absorbed in biting off the end of his cigar. "i--" maurice said again. "maurice," said henry houghton, "keep the peace. if you and eleanor have fallen out, don't stand on your dignity. go upstairs and say you're sorry, whether you are or not. don't talk about lawyers." "my god!" said maurice; "did you suppose it was _that_?" mr. houghton stopped biting the end of his cigar, and looked at him. "why, yes; i did. you and she are rather foolish, you know. so i supposed--" maurice dropped his face on his arms on the big dusty table, littered with pamphlets and charcoal studies and squeezed-out paint tubes. after a while he lifted his head: "_that's_ nothing. i wish it was that." the older man rose and stood with his back to the mantelpiece. they both heard the clock ticking loudly. then, almost in a whisper, maurice said: "i've been--blackmailed." mr. houghton whistled. "i've had a letter from a woman. she says--" "has she got anything on you?" "no proof; but--" "but you have made a fool of yourself?" "yes." mr. houghton sat down again. "go on," he said. maurice reached for a maulstick lying across the table; then leaned over, his elbows on his knees, and tried, with two trembling forefingers, to make it stand upright on the floor. "she's common. she can't prove it's--mine." his effort to keep the stick vertical with those two shaking fingers was agonizing. "begin at the beginning," henry houghton said. maurice let the maulstick drop against his shoulder and sunk his head on his hands. suddenly he sat up: "what's the use of lying? she's _not_ bad all through." the truth seemed to tear him as he uttered it. "that's the worst of it," he groaned. "if she was, i'd know what to do. but probably she's not lying... she says it's mine. yes; i pretty well know she's not lying." "we'll go on the supposition that she is. i have yet to see a white crow. how much does she want?" "she's only asked me to help her, when--it's born. and of course, if it _is_ mine, i--" "we won't concede the 'if.'" "uncle henry," said the haggard boy, "i'm several kinds of a fool, but i'm not a skunk. i've got to be decent" "you should have thought of decency sooner." "i know. i know." "you'd better tell me the whole thing. then we'll talk lawyers." so maurice began the squalid story. twice he stopped, choking down excuses that laid the blame on eleanor.... "it wouldn't have happened if i hadn't been--been bothered." and again, "something had thrown me off the track; and i met lily, and--" at last it was all said, and he had not skulked behind his wife. he had told everything, except those explaining things that could not be told. when the story was ended there was silence. the older man, guessing the untold things, could not trust himself to speak his pity and anger and dismay. but in that moment of silence the comfort of confession made the tears stand in the boy's eyes; he said, impulsively, "uncle henry, i thought you'd kick me out of the house!" henry houghton blew his nose, and spoke with husky harshness. "eleanor has no suspicions?" (he, too, was choking down references to eleanor which must not be spoken.) "no. do you think i ought to--to tell--?" "no! no! with some women you could make a clean breast... i know a woman--her husband hadn't a secret from her; and i know _he_ was a fool before his marriage! he made a clean breast of it, and she married him. but she knew the soul of him, you see? she knew that this sort of rotten foolishness was only his body. so he worshiped her. naturally. properly. she meant god to him... mighty few women like that! candidly, i don't think your wife is one of them. besides, this is _after_ marriage. that's different, maurice. very different. it isn't a square deal." maurice made a miserable shamed sound of agreement. then he said, huskily, "of course i won't lie; i'll just--not tell her." "the thing for us to do," said mr. houghton, "is to get you out of this mess. then you'll keep straight? some fellows wouldn't. you will, because--" he paused; maurice looked at him with scared eyes--"because if a man is sufficiently aware of having been a damned fool, he's immune. i'll bet on you, maurice." chapter xii yet henry houghton had moments of fearing that he would lose his bet, for maurice was such a very damned fool! one might have guessed as much when he would not admit that lily was lying. she might be blackmailing him, he said; she might be a "crow"; but she wasn't lying. when his guardian had talked it all out with him, and written a letter which maurice was to take to a lawyer ("she'll want to get rid of the child; they always want to get rid of the child; so she may let you off easier if you say you'll see that it is cared for; and we'll have hayes put it in black and white") when all these arrangements had been made, maurice almost dished the whole thing (so mr. houghton expressed it) by saying--again as if the words burst up from some choked well of truthfulness: "uncle henry, it isn't blackmail; and--and i've got to be half decent!" down from the upper hall came a sweet, anxious voice: "maurice, darling! it's twelve o'clock! what _are_ you doing?" mr. houghton called back: "we're talking business, eleanor. i'll send him up in a quarter of an hour. don't lose your beauty sleep, my dear. (mary _must_ tell her not to be such an idiot!)" then he looked at maurice: "my boy, you can't be decent with a leech. you've got to leave this to hayes." "she isn't a leech. i ought to help her, i'll see her myself." "my dear fellow, don't be a bigger ass than you can help! you can meet what you see fit to call your responsibilities, as a few other conscientious fools have done before you; though," he added, heavily, "i hope she won't suck you dry! how you are going to squeeze out the money, _i_ don't know! i can't help you much. but you mustn't appear in this for a single minute. hayes will see her, and buy her off." maurice shook his head, despairingly: "uncle henry, she's common; but she's not vicious. she's a nice little thing. i know lily! i'll see her. _i'll have to!_ i'll tell her i'll--i'll help her." no wonder poor henry houghton feared he would lose his bet! "i know you think i'm easy meat," maurice said; "but i'm not. only," his face was anguished, "i've _got_ to be half decent." it was after one o'clock when the two men went upstairs, though there had been another summons over the banisters: "maurice! why don't you come to bed?" when they parted at maurice's door, mr. houghton struck his ward on the shoulder and whispered, "you're more than half decent. i'll bet on you!" and maurice whispered back: "you're _white_, uncle henry!" he went into his room on tiptoe, but eleanor heard him and said, sleepily, "what on earth have you been talking about?" "business," maurice told her. "who was your lavender-colored letter from?" eleanor said, yawning; "i forgot to ask you. it was awfully scented!" there was an instant's pause; maurice's lips were dry;--then he said: "from a woman... about a house. (my god! i've _lied_ to her!)" he said to himself... mary houghton, reading comfortably in bed, looked up at her old husband over her spectacles. "i've heated some cocoa, dear," she said. "drink it before you undress; you are worn out. what kept you downstairs until this hour?" "business." mary houghton smiled: "might as well tell the truth." "oh, kit, it's a horrid mess!" he groaned; "i thought that boy had got to the top of fool hill when he married eleanor! but he hadn't." "can't tell me, i suppose?" "no. mary, mayn't i have a cigar? i'm really awfully used up, and--" "henry! you are perfectly depraved! no; you may _not_. drink your cocoa, honey. and consider the stars;--they shine, even above fool hill. and 'messes' look mighty small beside the pleiades!" then she turned a page of her novel, and added, "poor eleanor." "i don't know why you say 'poor eleanor'!" "because i know that maurice isn't sharing his 'mess' with her." "you are uncanny!" henry houghton said, stirring his cocoa and looking at her admiringly. "no; merely intelligent. henry, don't let him have any secrets from eleanor! tell him to _tell_ her. she'll forgive him." "she's not that kind, mary." "dear, _almost_ every woman is 'that kind'! it's deception, not confession, that makes them--the other kind. if maurice will confess--" "i haven't said there was anything to confess," he protested, in alarm. "oh no; certainly not. you haven't said a word! (well; you may have just one of those _little_ cigars--you poor dear!) henry, listen: if maurice hangs a secret round his neck it will drown him." "if eleanor would make cocoa for him at one o'clock in the morning there would be no chance for secrets. kit, i have long known that you are the wisest, as well as the most virtuous and most lovable of your sex, and that i shall only get to heaven by hanging on to your petticoats; but in this one particular i am much more intelligent than you." "heaven send you a good opinion of yourself!" his wife murmured. but he insisted. "on certain subjects women prefer to be lied to." "did any woman ever tell you so?" she inquired, dryly. he shrugged his shoulders, put his cup down, and came over to give her a kiss. "which is to say, 'hold your tongue'?" his mary inquired. "oh, never!" he said, and in spite of his distress he laughed; but he looked at her tenderly. "the lord was good to me, mary, when he made you take me." that talk in the studio marked the moment when maurice curtis turned his back on youth. it was the beginning of the retreat of an ardent and gayly candid boy into the adult sophistications of secrecy. the next day when he and eleanor returned to mercer, he sat in the car watching with unseeing eyes the back of her head,--her swaying hat, the softly curling tendrils of dark hair in the nape of her neck--and he saw before him a narrow path, leading--across quaking bogs of evasions!--toward a goal of always menaced safety. mr. houghton had indicated the path in that midnight talk, and maurice's first step upon it would be his promise to relieve lily of the support of her child--"_on condition that she would never communicate with him again_." after that, henry houghton said, "the lawyer will clinch things; and nobody will ever be the wiser!" because eleanor was the woman she was, he saw no way of escape for maurice, except through this bog of secrecy, where any careless step might plunge him into a lie. he had not dared to point out that other path, which his mary thought so much safer than the sucking shakiness of the swamp--the rough and terrible path of confession, which lies across the firm aridities of truth, and leads to that orderly freedom of the stars to which maurice had once aspired! so now the boy was going back to mercer to plunge into the pitfalls and limitless shades of concealment. he did it with a hard purpose of endurance, without hope, and also without complaint. "if i can just avoid out-and-out lying," he told himself, "i can take my medicine. but if i have to lie--!" he knew the full bitterness of his medicine when he went to see lily... he went the very next day, after office hours... there had been a temptation to postpone the taking of the medicine, because it had been difficult to escape from eleanor. the well-ordered household at green hill had fired her with an impulse to try housekeeping again, and she wanted to urge the idea upon maurice: "we would be so much more comfortable; and i could have little bingo!" "we can't afford it," he said. (oh, how many things he wouldn't be able to afford, now!) "it wouldn't cost much more. i'll come down to the office this afternoon and walk home with you, and tell you what i've thought out about it." maurice said he had to--to go and see an apartment house at five. "that's no matter! i'll meet you and walk along with you." "i have several other places to go." that hurt her. "if you don't want me--" he was so absorbed that her words had no meaning to him. "good-by," he said, mechanically--and the next moment he was on his way. at the office his employer gave him a keen glance. "you look used up, curtis; got a cold?" mr. weston asked, kindly. maurice, sick in spirit, said, "no, sir; i'm all right." and so the minutes of the long day ticked themselves away, each a separate pang of disgust and shame, until five o'clock came, and he started for lily's. while he waited in the unswept vestibule of an incredibly ornate frame apartment house for the answer to his ring, and the usual: "my goodness! is that you? come on up!" he had the feeling of one who stands at a closed door, knowing that when he opens it and enters he will look upon a dead face. the door was lily's, and the face was the face of his dead youth. carelessness was over for maurice, and irresponsibility. and hope, too, he thought, and enthusiasm, and ambition. all over! all dead. all lying stiff and still on the other side of a shiny golden-oak door, with its half window hung with a nottingham lace curtain. when he started up the three flights of stairs to that little flat where he was to look upon his dead, he was calm to the point of listlessness. "my own fault. my own fault," he said. she was waiting for him on the landing, her fresh cleanness in fragrant contrast to the forlorn untidiness of the stairways. they went into her parlor together and he began to speak at once. "i got your letter. no; i won't sit down. i--" "my soul and body! you're all in!" lily said, startled, "let me get you some whisky--" "no, please, nothing! lily, i'm ... awfully sorry, i--i'll do what i can. i--" she put her hands over her face; he went on mechanically, with his carefully prepared sentences, ending with: "there's no reason why we should meet any more. but i want you to know that the--the--_it_, will be taken care of. my lawyer will see you about it; i'll have it placed somewhere." she dropped her hands and looked at him, her little, pretty face amazed and twitching: "do you mean you'll take my baby?" "i'll see that it's provided for." "i ain't that kind of a girl!" they were standing, one on either side of a highly varnished table, on which, on a little brass tray, a cigarette stub was still smoldering. "_i_ don't want anything out of you"--lily paused; then said, "mr. curtis"--(the fact that she didn't call him "curt" showed her recognition of a change in their relationship)--"i'm not on the grab. i can keep on at marston's for quite a bit. all i want is just if you can help me in february? but i'll never give my baby up! my first one died." "your _first_--" "so i'll never, never give it up!" her shallow, honest, amber-colored eyes overflowed with bliss. "i'll just love it!" she said. maurice felt an almost physical collapse; neither he nor henry houghton had reckoned on maternal love. mr. houghton had implied that lily's kind did not have maternal love. "she'll leave it on a convenient doorstep--unless she's a white blackbird," henry houghton had said. maurice, too, had taken for granted lily's eagerness to get rid of the child. in his amazement now, at this revelation of an unknown lily--a white blackbird lily!--he began, angrily, to argue: "it is impossible for you to keep it! impossible! i won't permit it--" "i wouldn't give it up for anything in the world! i'll take care of it. you needn't worry for fear i'll put it onto you." "but i won't have you keep it! i promise you i'll look after it. you must go away, somewhere. anywhere!" "but i don't want to leave mercer," she said, simply. in his despairing confusion, he sat down on the little bowlegged sofa and looked at her; lily, sitting beside him, put her hand on his--which quivered at the touch. "don't you worry! i'd never play you any mean trick. you treated me good, and i'll never treat you mean; i 'ain't forgot the way you handed it out to batty! i'll never let on to anybody. say--i believe you're afraid i'll try a hold-up on you some day? why, mr. curtis, _i_ wouldn't do a thing like that--no, not for a million dollars! look here; if it will make you easy in your mind, i'll put it down in writing; i'll say it _ain't_ yours! will that make you easy in your mind?" her kind eyes were full of anxious pity for him. "i'll do anything for you, but i won't give up my baby." she was trying to help him! he was so angry and so frightened that he felt sick at his stomach; but he knew that she was trying to help him! "you see," she explained, "the first one died; now i'm going to have another, and you bet i'm going to have things nice for her! i'm going to buy a parlor organ. and i'll have her learned to play. it's going to be a girl. oh, won't i dress her pretty! but i'll never come down on you about her. now, don't you worry." the generosity of her! she'd "put it down in writing"! "i _told_ uncle henry she was white," he thought. but in spite of her whiteness his blue eyes were wide with horror; all those plans, of lily in another city, and an unacknowledged child, in still another city--for of course _it_ could not be in mercer any more than lily could!--all these safe arrangements faded into a swift vision of lily, in this apartment, with _it_! lily, meeting him on the street!--a flash of imagination showed him lily, pushing a baby carriage! for just a moment sheer terror made that dead youth of his stir. "you can't keep it!" he said again, hoarsely; "i tell you, i won't allow it! i'll look after it. _but i won't have it here!_ and i won't ever see you." "you needn't," she said, reassuringly; "and i'll never bother you. that ain't me!" he was dumb. "an' look," she said, cheerfully; "honest, it's better for you. what would you do, looking after a little girl? why, you couldn't even curl her hair in the mornings!" maurice shuddered. "and i'll never ask you for a cent, if you can just make it convenient to help me in february?" "of course i'll help you," he said; then, suddenly, his anger fell into despair. "oh, what a damned fool i was!" "all gentlemen are," she tried to comfort him. her generosity made him blush. added to his shame because of what he had done to eleanor, was a new shame at his own thoughts about this little, kind, bad, honest woman! "look here," lily said; "if you're strapped, never mind about helping me. they'll take you at the maternity free, if you _can't_ pay. so i'll go there; and i'll say i'm married; i'll say my husband was mr. george dale, and he's dead; i'll never peep your name. now, don't you worry! i'll keep on at marston's for four months, anyway. yes; i'll buy me a ring and call myself mrs. dale; i guess i'll say mrs. robert dale; robert's a classier name than george. and nobody can say anything to my baby." "of course i'll give you whatever you need for--when--when it's born," he said. he was fumbling with his pocketbook; he had nothing more to say about leaving mercer. she took the money doubtfully. "i won't want it yet awhile," she said. "i'll make it more if i can," he told her; he got up, hesitated, then put out his hand. for a single instant, just for her pluck, he was almost fond of her. "take care of yourself," he said, huskily; and the next minute he was plunging down those three flights of unswept stairs to the street. "my own fault--my own fault," he said, again; "oh, what a cussed, cussed, cussed fool!" it was over, this dreadful interview! this looking at the dead face of his youth. over, and he was back again just where he was when he came in. nothing settled. lily--who was so much more generous than he!--would still be in mercer, waiting for this terrible child. his child! he had accomplished nothing, and he saw before him the dismaying prospect of admitting his failure to mr. houghton. the only comfort in the whole hideous business was that he wouldn't have to pull a lawyer into it, and pay a big fee! he was frantic with worry about expense. well, he must strike mr. weston for a raise!... which he wouldn't tell eleanor about. a second step into the bog of secrecy! when he got home, eleanor, in the dingy third-floor front, was waiting for him, alert and tender, and gay with purpose: "maurice! i've counted expenses, and i'm sure we can go to housekeeping! and i can have little bingo. mrs. o'brien says he's just pining away for me!" "we can't afford it," he said again, doggedly. "i believe," she said, "you like this horrid place, because you have people to talk to!" "it's well enough," he said. he was standing with his back to her, his clenched hands in his pockets, staring out of the window. his very attitude, the stubbornness of his shoulders, showed his determination not to go to housekeeping. "what _is_ the matter, maurice?" she said, her voice trembling. "you are not happy! oh, what _can_ i do?" she said, despairingly. "i am as happy as i deserve to be," he said, without turning his head. she came and stood beside him, resting her cheek on his shoulder. "oh," she said, passionately, "if i only had a child! you are disappointed because we have no--" his recoil was so sharp that she could not finish her sentence, but clutched at his arm to steady herself; before she could reproach him for his abruptness he had caught up his hat and left the room. she stood there quivering. "he _would_ be happier and love me more, if we had a child!" she said again. she thought of the joy with which, when they first went to housekeeping, she had bought that foolish, pretty nursery paper--and again the old disappointment ached under her breastbone. tears were just ready to overflow; but there was a knock at the door and old mrs. o'brien came in with her basket of laundry; she gave her beloved miss eleanor a keen look "it's worried you are, my dear? it ain't the wash, is it?" eleanor tried to laugh, but the laugh ended in a sob. "no. it's--it's only--" then she said something in a whisper. "no baby? bless you, _he_ don't want no babies! what would a handsome young man like him be wanting a baby for? no! and it would take your good looks, my dear. keep handsome, miss eleanor, and you needn't worry about _babies_! and say, miss eleanor, never let on to him if you see him give a look at any of his lady friends. i'm old, my dear, but i noticed, with all my husbands--and i've had three--that if you tell'em you see'em lookin' at other ladies, _they'll look again_!--just to spite you. don't notice'em, and they'll not do it. men is children." eleanor, laughing in spite of her pain, said mr. curtis didn't "look at other ladies; but--but," she said, wistfully, "i hope i'll have a baby." then she wiped her eyes, hugged old o'brien, and promised to "quit worrying." but she didn't "quit," for maurice's face did not lighten. henry houghton, too, saw the aging heaviness of the young face when, having received the report of that interview with lily, he came down to mercer to go over the whole affair and see what must be done. but there was nothing to be done. up in his room in the hotel he and maurice thrashed it all out: "she prefers to stay in mercer," maurice explained; "and she'll stay. there's nothing i can do; absolutely nothing! but she'll play fair. i'm not afraid of lily." if mr. houghton wished, uneasily, that his ward was afraid of lily, he did not say so. he only told maurice again that he was "betting on him." "you won't lose," maurice said, laconically. "perhaps," henry houghton said, doubtfully, "i ought to say that mrs. houghton--who is the wisest woman i know, as well as the best--has an idea that in matters of this sort, frankness is the best course. but in your case (of which, of course, she knows nothing) i don't agree with her." "it would be impossible," maurice said, briefly. and his guardian, whose belief in secrecy had been shaken, momentarily, by his mary's opinion, felt that, so long as he had quoted her, his conscience was clear. so he only told the boy again he was _sure_ he could bet on him! and because shame, and those bleak words "my own fault," kept the spiritual part of maurice alive,--(and because lily was a white blackbird!) the bet stood. but he made no promises about the future. however much of a liar maurice was going to be, to eleanor, he would not, he told himself, lie to this old friend by saying he would never see lily again. the truth was, some inarticulate moral instinct made him know that there would come a time when he would _have_ to see her... during all that winter, when he sat, night after night, at miss ladd's dinner table, and eleanor fended off miss moore and the widow, or when, in those long evenings in their own room they played solitaire, he was thinking of lily, thinking of that inner summons to what he called "decency," which would, he knew, drive him--in three months--in two months--in one month!--to lily's door. by and by it was three weeks--two weeks--one week! then came days when he said, in terror, "i'll go to-morrow." and again: "to-morrow, i _must_ go. damn it! i must!" so at last, he went, lashed and driven by that mastering "decency"! he had bought a box of roses, and, looping two fingers through its strings, he walked twice around the block past the ugly apartment house before he could make up his mind to enter. he wondered whether lily had died? women do die, sometimes. "of course i don't want anything to happen to her; but--" then he wondered, with a sudden pang of hope, if anything had happened to--_it_? "they're born dead, sometimes!" nothing wrong in wishing that, for the thing would be better off dead than alive. he wished he was dead himself! ... the third time he came to the apartment house the string of the box was cutting into his fingers, and that made him stop, and set his teeth, and push open the door of the vestibule. he touched the button under the name "dale," and called up, huskily, "is miss--mrs. dale in?" a brisk voice asked his name. "a friend of mrs. dale's," he said, very low. there seemed to be a colloquy somewhere, and then he was told to "come right along!" he turned to the stairway, and as he walked slowly up, it came into his mind that this was the way a man might climb the scaffold steps: step... step... step--his very feet refusing! step... step--and lily's door. the nurse, who met him on the landing, said mrs. dale would be glad to see him.... she was in bed, very white and radiant, and with a queer, blanketed bundle on one arm; if she was, as the nurse said, "glad to see him," she did not show it. she was too absorbed in some gladness of her own to feel any other kind of gladness. as maurice handed her the box of roses, she smiled vaguely and said. "why, you're real kind!" then she said, eagerly, "he was born the day the pink hyacinth came out! want to see him?" her voice thrilled with joy. without waiting for his answer--or even giving a look at the roses the nurse was lifting out of their waxed papers, she raised a fold of the blanket and her eyes seemed to feed on the little red face with its tightly shut eyes and tiny wet lips. maurice looked--and his heart seemed to drop, shuddering, in his breast. "how nasty!" he thought; but aloud he said, stammering, "why it's--quite a baby." "you may hold him," she said; there was a passionate generosity in her voice. maurice tried to cover his recoil by saying, "oh, i might drop it." lily was not looking at him; it seemed as if she was glad not to give up the roll of blankets, even for a minute. "he's perfectly lovely. he's a reg'lar rascal! the doctor said he was a wonderful child. i'm going to have him christened ernest augustus; i want a swell name. but i'll call him jacky." she strained her head sidewise to kiss the red, puckered flesh, that looked like a face, and in which suddenly a little orifice showed itself, from which came a small, squeaking sound. maurice, under the shock of that sound, stood rigid; but lily's feeble arms cuddled the bundle against her breast; she said, "sweety--sweety--sweety!" the young man sat there speechless.... this terrible squirming piece of flesh--was part of himself! "i wouldn't touch it for a million dollars!" he was thinking. he got up and said: "good-by. i hope you--" lily was not listening; she said good-by without lifting her eyes from the child's face. maurice stumbled out to the staircase, with little cold thrills running down his back. the experience of recognizing the significance of what he had done--the setting in motion that stupendous and eternal _exfoliating_, called; life; the seeing a thing, himself, separated from himself! himself, going on in spite of himself!--brought a surge of engulfing horror. this elemental shock is not unknown to men who look for the first time at their first-born; instantly the feeling may disappear, swallowed up in love and pride. but where, as with maurice, there is neither pride nor love, the shock remains. his organic dismay was so overwhelming that he said to himself he would never see lily again--because he would not see it!--which was, in fact, "_he_," instead of the girl lily had wanted. but though his spiritual disgust for what he called, in his own mind, "the whole hideous business," did not lessen, he did, later, through the pressure of those heavy words, "my own fault," go to see lily--she had taken a little house out in medfield--just to put down on the table, awkwardly, an envelope with some bills in it. he didn't inquire about it, and he got out of the house as quickly as possible. lily had no resentment at his lack of feeling for the child; the baby was so entirely hers that she did not think of it as his, too. this sense of possession, never menaced on maurice's part by even a flicker of interest in the little thing, kept them to the furtive and very formal acquaintance of giving and receiving what money he could spare--or, oftener, _couldn't_ spare! as a result, he thought of jacky only in relation to his income. every time some personal expenditure tempted him, he summed up the child's existence in four disgusted and angry words, "i can't afford it." but it was for lily's sake, not jacky's, that he economized! he was wretchedly aware that if it had not been for jacky, lily might still be a "saleslady" at marston's, earning good wages. instead, she was taking lodgers--and it was not easy to get them!--so that she could be at home and look after the baby. maurice aged ten years in that first winter of rigid and unexplainable penuriousness, and of a secrecy which meant perilous skirtings of downright lying; for eleanor occasionally asked why they had so little money to spend? he had requested a raise--and not mentioned to eleanor the fact that he had got it. when she complained because his salary was so low, he told her weston was paying him all he was worth, and he _wouldn't_ strike for more! "so it's impossible to go to housekeeping," he said--for of course she continued to urge housekeeping, saying that she couldn't understand why they had to be so economical! but he refused, patiently. to be patient, maurice did not need, now, to remind himself of the mountain and her faithfulness to him; he had only to remind himself of the yellow-brick apartment house, and his faithlessness to her. "i've got to be kind, or i'd be a skunk," he used to think. so he was very kind. he did not burst out at her with irritated mortification when she telephoned to the office to know if "mr. curtis's headache was better";--he had suffered so much that he had gone beyond the self-consciousness of mortification;--and he walked with her in the park on sunday afternoons to exercise bingo; and on their anniversary he sat beside her in the grass, under the locust tree, and watched the river--their river, which had brought lily into his life!--and listened to the lovely voice: "o thou with dewy locks who lookest down!" chapter xiii the next fall, however, the boarding did come to an end, and they went to housekeeping. it was mrs. houghton who brought this about. edith was to enter fern hill school in the fall, and her mother had an inspiration: "let her board with eleanor and maurice! the trolley goes right out to medfield, and it will be very convenient for her. also, it will help them with expenses," mrs. houghton said, comfortably. "but why can't she live at the school?" edith's father objected, with a troubled look; somehow, he did not like the idea of his girl in that pathetic household, which was at once so conscious and so unconscious of its own instability! "why does she have to be with eleanor and maurice?" henry houghton said. "eleanor has the refinement that a hobbledehoy like edith needs," mrs. houghton explained; "and i think the child will have better food than at fern hill. school food is always horrid." "but won't eleanor's dullness afflict buster?" he said, doubtfully; then--because at that moment edith banged into the room to show her shuddering mother a garter snake she had captured--he added, with complacent subtlety, "as for food, i, personally, prefer a dinner of herbs with an _interesting_ woman, than a stalled ox and eleanor." which caused edith to say, "is eleanor uninteresting, father?" "good heavens, no!" said mr. houghton, with an alarmed look; "_of course_ she isn't! what put such an idea into your head?" and as buster and her squirming prize departed, he told his mary that her daughter was destroying his nervous system. "she'll repeat that to eleanor," he groaned. his wife had no sympathy for him; "you deserve anything you may get!" she said, severely; and proceeded to write to eleanor to make her proposition. if they cared to take edith, she said, they could hire a house and stop boarding--"which is dreadful for both of your digestions; and i will be glad if this plan appeals to you, to feel that edith is with anyone who has such gentle manners as you." eleanor, reading the friendly words at the boarding-house breakfast table, said quickly to herself, "i don't want her... she would monopolize maurice!" then she hesitated; "he would be more comfortable in a house of his own... but edith? oh, i _don't_ want her!" she turned to show the letter to maurice, but he was sitting sidewise, one arm over the back of his chair, in vociferous discussion with a fellow boarder. "no, sir!" he was declaring; "if they revise the rules again, they'll revise the guts out of the whole blessed game; they'll make it all muscle and no mind." "but football isn't any intellectual stunt," the other boarder insisted. "it _is_--to a degree. the old flying wedge--" "maurice!" eleanor said again; but maurice, impassioned about "rules," didn't even hear her. she gave his arm a little friendly shake. "maurice! you are the limit, with your old football!" he turned, laughing, and took the letter from her hand. as he read it, his face changed sharply. "but fern hill is in medfield!" he exclaimed. "i suppose she could take the trolley almost to the school grounds," eleanor conceded, reluctantly. "why can't she live out there? it's a boarding school, isn't it?" (she might meet lily on the car!) for a moment she accepted his decision with relief; then the thought of his comfort urged her: "i know of an awfully attractive house, with a garden. little bingo could hide his bones in it." "no," he said, sharply; "it wouldn't do. i don't want her." instantly eleanor was buoyantly ready to have edith ... he "_didn't want her_!" when maurice rose from the table she went to the front door with him, detaining him--until the pretty school-teacher was well on her way down the street;--with tender charges to take care of himself. then, in the darkness of the hall, with maurice very uneasy lest some one might see them, she kissed him good-by. "if we could afford to keep house without taking edith," she said, "i'd rather not have her. (kiss me again--no-body's looking!) but we can't. so let's have her." "in two years i'll have my own money," he reminded her; "this hard sledding is only temporary." but she looked so disappointed that he hesitated; after all, if she wanted a house so much he ought not to stand in the way. poor eleanor hadn't much fun! and, as far as he was concerned, he would like to have edith around. "it's only the medfield part of it i don't like," he told himself. yet lily, on maple street, a mile from fern hill, was a needle in a haystack! (and even if edith should ever see her, she wouldn't know her.) ... "if you really want to have her," he told eleanor, "go ahead." so that was how it happened that edith burst in upon eleanor's dear domesticity of two. maurice, having once agreed to his wife's wish, was rather pleased at the prospect. "it will help on money," he thought; "another hundred a year will come in handy to lily. and it will be sort of nice to have buster in the house." lily had not said she must have another hundred. she did not even think so. "_i_ can swing it!" lily had said, sturdily. and she did; but of course, as maurice, to his intense discomfort, knew only too well, it was hard to swing it. even with what help he could give her, she couldn't possibly have got along if she had not been astonishingly efficient and thrifty, always looking at both sides of a cent! "i ain't smoking any more," lily said once; "well, 'tain't _only_ to save money; but i don't want jacky to be getting any funny ideas!" (this when "ernest augustus" was only a few months old!) she had a tiny house on maple street, with a sun-baked front yard, in which a few shrubs caught the dust on their meager foliage; and she had a border of pansies in the shade under the bay window;--"i _must_ have flowers!" lily said, apologetically;--and she had three roomers, and she had scraped the locality for mealers. she would have made more money if she had not fed her boarders so well. "but there!" said lily; "if i give 'em nice food, they'll stay!" but, all the same, maurice knew that two or three dollars more a week would "come in handy." his sense of irritated responsibility about her made him long for that twenty-fifth birthday which would bring him his own money. for, in spite of lily's thriftiness, her expenses, as well as her toil, kept increasing, and maurice, cursing himself whenever he thought that but for him she would be "on easy street" at marston's, had begun the inevitable borrowing. the payment of the interest on his note was a tax on his salary; yet not so taxing as the necessity of being constantly on guard against some careless word which might make eleanor ask questions about that salary. but eleanor asked very few questions about anything so practical as income. her interest in money matters, now, in regard to edith, was merely that edith was a means to an end--maurice could have his own home! the finding a house, under mrs. newbolt's candid guidance--and maurice's worried reminders that he couldn't "afford" more than so much rent!--gave eleanor the pleasantest summer she had had since that first summer when, in the meadow, she and maurice had watched the clouds, and the locust blossoms, and told each other that nothing in heaven or earth, or the waters under the earth, could part them... the old house they finally secured was in an unfashionable locality; there was a tailor shop next door and an undertaker across the street, and a clanging trolley car screeched on the curve at the end of the block; but the dignity of the pillared doorway, and the carved window casings, had appealed to maurice; and also the discovery in the parlor, behind a monstrous air-tight stove, of a bricked-up fireplace (which he promptly tore open), all combined to make undertakers and tailors, as neighbors, unimportant! on the rear of the house was an iron veranda--roped with wistaria; below, inclosed in a crumbling brick wall, was the back yard--"_garden_, if you please!" maurice announced--for bingo's bones. clumps of madonna lilies had bloomed here, and died, and bloomed again, for almost a century; the yard was shaded by a silver poplar, which would gray and whiten in the wind in hot weather, or delicately etch itself against a wintry sky. a little path, with moss between the bricks and always damp in the shadow of the poplar, led from the basement door to an iron gate; through its rusty bars one could see, a block away, the slipping gleam of the river, hurrying down from "their meadow," to disappear under the bridge. maurice said he would build a seat around the poplar, "... and we'll put a table under it, and paint it green, and have tea there in the afternoon! skeezics will like that." "edith looks healthy," said mrs. newbolt; "my dear father used to say he liked healthy females. old-fashioned word--females. well, i'm afraid dear father liked 'em too much. but my dear mother--she was a dennison--pretended not to see it. she had sense. great thing in married life, to have sense, and know what not to see! pity edith's not musical. have you a cook? i believe she'd have caught you, maurice, if eleanor hadn't got in ahead! i brought a chocolate drop for bingo. here, bingo!" bingo, silky and snarly, climbed on to her steeply sloping black-satin lap, ate the chocolate drop--keeping all the while a liquid and adoring eye upon his mistress--then slid down and ran to curl up on eleanor's skirt. by september the moving and seat building were accomplished--the last not entirely on edith's account; it was part of maurice's painstaking desire to do something--anything!--for "poor eleanor," as he named her in his remorseful thought. there was never a day--indeed, there was not often an hour!--when his own meanness to his wife (combined with disgust at being a liar) did not ache somewhere in the back of his mind. so he tried, in all sorts of anxious ways, to please her. he almost never saw lily; but the thought of her often brought eleanor a box of candy or a bunch of violets. such expenditures were slightly easier for him now, because he had had another small raise,--which this time he had told eleanor about. on the strength of it he said to himself that he supposed he ought to give lily a little something extra? so on the day when mrs. houghton and edith were to arrive in mercer, he went out to medfield to tell jacky's mother that she might count on a few dollars more each month. the last time he had seen her, lily had told him that jacky "was fussing with his teeth something fierce. i had to hire a little girl from across the street," she said, "to take him out in the perambulator, or else i couldn't 'tend to my cooking. it costs money to live, mr. curtis," lily had said, "and eggs are going up, awful!" she had never gone back to the familiarity of those days when she called him "curt." that he, dull and preoccupied, still called her lily gave her, somehow, such a respectful consciousness of his superiority that she had hesitated to speak of anything so intimate as eggs... "yes, i must give her something extra," maurice thought, remembering the "cost" of living. "talk about paying the piper! i bet _i'm_ paying him, all right!" he was to meet mrs. houghton at seven-thirty that night, and it occurred to him that if he told eleanor he had some extra work to do at his desk he could wedge this call in between office hours and the time when he must go to the station--("and they call me 'g. washington'!") he felt no special cautiousness in going out to maple street; the few people he knew in mercer did not frequent this locality, and if any of them should chance to see him--a most remote possibility!--why, was he not in the real-estate business, and constantly looking at houses? on this particular afternoon, jolting along in the trolley car, he grimly amused himself with the thought of what he would do if, say, eleanor herself should see him turning that infernally shrill bell on lily's door. it was a wild flight of imagination, for eleanor never would see him--never could see him! eleanor, who only went to medfield when their wedding anniversary came round, and she dragged him out to sit by the river and sentimentalize! he thought of the loveliness of that past june--and the contrasting and ironic ugliness of the present september.... now, the little secret house in the purlieus of mercer's smoke and grime; then, the river, and the rippling tides of grass and clover, and the blue sky--and that ass, lying at the feet of a woman old enough to be his mother! he laughed as he swung off the car--then frowned; for he saw that to reach lily's door he would have to pass a baby carriage standing just inside the gate. he didn't glance into the carriage at the roly-poly youngster. he never, on the rare occasions when he went to see lily, looked at his child if he could avoid doing so--and she never asked him to. once, annoyed at jacky's shrill noisiness, he had protested, frowning: "can't you keep it quiet? it needs a spanking!" after that indifferent criticism ("for _i_ don't care how she brings it up!") lily had not wanted him to see her baby. she could not have said just why--perhaps it was fear lest maurice would notice his growing perfection--but when jacky's father came she kept jacky in the background! on this september afternoon she said, as she opened the door: "why, you're a great stranger! come right in! wait a second till i get jacky. i've just nursed him and i put him out there so i could watch him while i scrubbed the porch." she ran out to the gate, then pushed the carriage up the path. "let me help you," maurice said, politely; adding to himself, "damn--damn--!" stepping backward, he lifted the front wheels, and with lily's help pulled the perambulator on to the little porch and over the threshold into the house--which always shone with immaculate neatness and ugly comfort. he kept his eyes away from the sleeping face on the pillow. together they got the carriage into the hall--lily fumbling all the while with one hand to fasten the front of her dress and skipping a button or two as she did so; but he had a glimpse of the heavy abundance of her bosom, and thought to himself that, esthetically, maternity was rather unpleasant. "go on into the parlor and sit down," she said; "i'll put him in the kitchen," she pushed the elaborate wicker perambulator, adorned with bows of blue-satin ribbon, down a dark entry smelling of very good soup stock. when she came back she found maurice, his hat and stick in his hands, standing in her tiny front room, where the sunny window was full of geraniums and scraggly rose bushes. "i got 'em in early. and i dug up my dahlias--i was afraid of frost. (mercy! i must clean that window on the outside!) well, you _are_ a stranger!" she said, again, good-naturedly. then she sighed: "mr. curtis, jacky seems kind o' sick. he's been coughing, and he's hot. would you send for a doctor, if you was me?" "why, if you're worried, yes," maurice said, impatiently; "i was just passing, and--no, thank you; i won't sit down. i was passing, and i thought i'd look in and give you a--a little present. if the youngster's upset, it will come in well," he ended, as his hand sought his waistcoat pocket. lily's face was instantly anxious. "what! did _you_ think he looked sick, too? i was kind of worried, but if you noticed it--" "i didn't in the least," he said, frowning; "i didn't look at him." "he 'ain't never been what you'd call sick," lily tried to reassure herself; "he's a reg'lar rascal!" she ended, tenderly; her eyes--those curious amber eyes, through which sometimes a tigress looks!--looked now at maurice in passionate motherhood. maurice, putting the money down on the table, said, "i wish i could do more for you, lily; but i'm dreadfully strapped." "say, now, you take it right back! i can get along; i got my two upstairs rooms rented, and i've got a new mealer. and if jacky only keeps well, i can manage fine. but that girl that's been wheelin' him has measles at her house--little slut!" lily said (the yellow eyes glared); "she didn't let on to me about it. wanted her two dollars a week! if jacky's caught 'em, i--i'll see to her!" "oh, he's all right," maurice said; he didn't like "it"--although, if it hadn't been for "it" he would probably, long before this, have slipped down into the mere comfort of lily; "it" held him prisoner in self-contempt; "it," or perhaps the larger it? the it which he had seen first in his glorious, passionately selfish ecstasy on his wedding day; then glimpsed in the awful orderliness of the universe,--the it that held the stars in their courses! perhaps the tiny, personal thing, joy, and the stupendous, impersonal thing, law, and the mysterious, unseen thing, life, were all one? "call it god," maurice had said of ecstasy, and again of order; he did not call jacky's milky lips "god." the little personality which he had made was not in the least god to him! on the contrary, it was a nuisance and a terror, and a financial anxiety. he shrank from the thought of it, and kept "decent," merely through disgust at the child as an entity--an entity which had driven him into loathsome evasions and secrecies which once in a while sharpened into little lies. but he was faintly sorry, now, to see lily look unhappy about the thing; and he even had a friendly impulse to comfort her: "jacky's all right! but i'll send a doctor in, if you want me to. i saw a doctor's shingle out as i came around the corner." she said she'd be awfully obliged; and he, looking at his watch, and realizing that mrs. houghton's train was due in less than an hour, hurried off. the doctor's bell was not answered promptly; then the doctor detained him by writing down the address, getting it wrong, correcting it, and saying: "mrs. dale? oh yes; you are mr. dale?" "no--not at all! just a friend. i happened to be calling, and mrs. dale asked me to stop and ask you to come in." then he rushed off. on the way to town, staring out of the window of the car, he tingled all over at doctor nelson's question: "you are mr. dale?"... "why the devil did i offer to get a doctor? i wish lily would move to the ends of the earth; or that the brat would get well; or--or something." there was a little delay in reaching the station, and when he got there, it was to find that mrs. houghton's train was in and she and edith, shifting for themselves, had presumably taken a hack to find their way to maurice's house. he was mortified, but annoyed, too, because it involved giving eleanor some sort of lying explanation for his discourtesy. "i'll have to cook up some kind of yarn!" he thought, disgustedly... when edith and her mother had arrived, unaccompanied by maurice, eleanor was sharply worried; had anything happened to him? oh, she was afraid something had happened to him! "where _do_ you suppose he is?" she said, over and over. "i'm always so afraid he's been run over!" and when maurice, flushed and apologetic, appeared, she was so relieved that she was cross. what on earth had detained him? "how _did_ you miss them?" so maurice immediately told half of the truth,--this being easier for him than an out-and-out lie. he had been detained because he had to go and see a house in medfield. "awfully sorry, mrs. houghton!" eleanor said she should have thought he needn't have stayed long enough to be late at the station! well, he hadn't stayed long; but the--"the tenant was afraid her baby had measles and she had asked him to go and get a doctor, and--" "of course!" mrs. houghton said; "don't give it a thought, maurice. john bennett met us--you knew he was at the polytechnical?--and brought us here. but, anyhow, edith and i were quite capable of looking out for ourselves; weren't we, edith?" edith, almost sixteen now, long-legged, silent, and friendly, said, "yes, mother" and helped herself so liberally to butter that her hostess thought to herself, _"gracious!"_ however, assured that maurice had not been run over, eleanor was really indifferent to edith's appetite, for the sum mrs. houghton had offered for the girl's board was generous. so, proud of the new house, and pleased with sitting at the head of her own table, and hoping that maurice would like the pudding, which, with infinite fussing, she had made with her own hands, she felt both happy and hospitable. she told edith to take some more butter (which she did!); and tell johnny to come to dinner some night, "and we'll have some music," she added, kindly. "johnny doesn't like music," said edith; "well, i don't, either. but i guess he'll come. he likes food." edith effaced herself a good deal in the few days that, her mother stayed on in mercer to launch her at fern hill; effaced herself, indeed, so much that maurice, full of preoccupations of his own, was hardly aware of her presence!... he had had a scared note from lily: doctor nelson says he's _awful_ sick, and i've got to have a nurse. i don't like to, because i can't bear to have anybody do for him but me, and she charges so much. makes me tired to see her all fussed up in white dresses--i suppose it's her laundry i'm paying for! that little girl he caught it from ought to be sent to a reformatory. i'm afraid my new mealer'll go, if she thinks there's anything catching in the house. i hate to ask you-- the scented, lavender-colored envelope was on maurice's desk at the office the morning after mrs. houghton and edith arrived. when he had read it, and torn it into minute scraps, maurice had something else to think of than edith! he knew lily wouldn't want to leave "her" baby to go out and cash a money order, and checks were dangerous; so he must take that trip to medfield again. "well," said maurice--pulled and jerked out to maple street on the leash of an ineradicable sense of decency--"the devil is getting his money's worth out of _me_!" he entered no. without turning the clanging bell, for the door was ajar. lily was in the entry, talking to the doctor, who gave mrs. dale's "friend" a rather keen look. "oh, mr. curtis, he's _awful_ sick!" lily said; she was haggard with fright. maurice, swearing to himself for having arrived at that particular moment, said, coldly, "too bad." "oh, we'll pull him through," the doctor said, with a kind look at lily. she caught his hand and kissed it, and burst out crying. the two men looked at each other--one amused, the other shrinking with disgust at his own moral squalor. then from the floor above came a whimpering cry, and lily, calling passionately, "yes, sweety! maw's coming!" flew upstairs. "i'll look in this evening," doctor nelson said, and took himself off, rubbing the back of his hand on his trousers. "i wonder if there's any funny business there?" he reflected. but he thought no more about it until weeks afterward, when he happened, one day, in the bank, to stand before maurice, waiting his turn at the teller's window. he said, "hello!" and maurice said, "hello!" and added that it was a cold day. the fact that maurice said not a word about that recovering little patient in medfield made the doctor's mind revert to the possibilities he had recognized in lily's entry. "yet he looks too decent for that sort of thing," the doctor thought; "well, it's a rum world." then maurice took his turn at the window, and doctor nelson put his notes in his pocket, and the two men nodded to each other, and said, "by," and went their separate ways. chapter xiv edith's first winter in mercer went pretty well; she was not fussy about what she had to eat; "i can always stoke on bread and butter," she said, cheerfully; and she was patient with the aging bingo's yapping jealousies; "the smaller a dog is, the more jealous he is!" she said, with good-humored contempt; and she didn't mind eleanor's speechlessness. "_i_ talk!" edith said. but maurice?... "i love him next to father and mother," edith thought; but, all the same, she didn't know what to make of maurice! he had very little to say to her--which made her feel annoyingly young, and made him seem so old and stern that sometimes she could hardly realize that he was the maurice of the henhouse, and the camp, and the squabbles. instead, he was the maurice of that night on the river, the "sir walter raleigh" maurice! once in a while she was quite shy with him. "he's awfully handsome," she thought, and her eyes dreamed. "what a clod johnny is, compared to him!" ... as for eleanor, edith, being as unobservant as most sixteen-year-old girls, saw only the lovely dark eyes and the beautiful brow under the ripple of soft black hair, eleanor's sterile silences did not trouble her, and she never knew that the traces of tears meant a helpless consciousness that dinner had been a failure. the fact was, she never noticed eleanor's looks! she merely thought maurice's wife was old, and didn't "get much fun out of life--she just plays on the piano!" edith thought. pain of mind or body was, to edith--as probably it ought to be to youth--unintelligible; so she had no sympathy. in fact, being sixteen, she had still the hard heart of a child. it may have been the remembrance of sir walter raleigh that made her, one night, burst into reminiscent questions: "maurice! do you remember the time that boat upset, and that girl--all painted, you know--flopped around in the water?" maurice said, briefly, why, yes; he believed he remembered. "i remember that girl, too," eleanor said; "maurice told me about her." "well, what do you suppose?" edith said; "i saw her to-day." maurice, pushing back his chair, got up and went into the little room opening into the dining room, which they called the library. at his desk, his pen in his hand, his jaw set, he sat listening--listening! what in hell would she say next? what she said was harmless enough: "yes, i saw her. i was walking home, and on maple street who should i see going into a house but this woman! she was lugging a flower pot, and a baby. and,--now, isn't this funny?--she sort of stumbled at the gate, _right by me_! and i grabbed her, and kept the child from falling; and i said--" in the library maurice's face was white--"i said, 'why, _i_ saw you once--you're miss dale. your boat upset,' and she said, 'you have the advantage of me.' of course she isn't a lady, you know." eleanor smiled, and called significantly to her husband, "edith says your rescued friend isn't a 'lady,' maurice!" he didn't answer, and she added to edith, "no; she certainly isn't a lady! darling," she called again; "do you suppose she's got married?" to which he answered, "where did i put those sheets of blotting paper, eleanor?" "oh yes, she's married," edith said, scraping her plate; "she told me her name was _mrs_. henry dale. she couldn't seem to remember maurice giving her his coat, which i thought was rather funny in her, 'cause maurice is so handsome you'd think she'd remember him. and i said he was 'mr. curtis,' and she said she'd never heard the name. i got to talking to her," ("i bet you did," maurice thought, despairingly); "and she told me that 'jacky' had had the measles, and been awfully sick, but he was all well now, and she'd taken him into mercer to get him a cap." ("what's lily mean by bringing the thing into town!" jacky's father was saying through set teeth.) "she was perfectly bursting with pride about him," edith went on; "said he was 'a reg'lar rascal'! isn't it queer that i should meet her, after all these years?" when eleanor went into the library to hunt for the blotting paper, she, too, commented on the queerness of edith's stumbling on the lady who wasn't a lady. "how small the world is!" said eleanor. "why, maurice, here's the paper! right before you!" "oh," said maurice, "yes; thank you." he was saying to himself, "i might have known this kind of thing would happen!" he was consumed with anxiety to ask edith some questions, but of course he had to be silent. to show even the slightest interest was impossible--and edith volunteered no further information, for that night eleanor took occasion to intimate to her that "mrs. dale" must not be referred to. "you can't speak of that kind of person, you know." "why not?" edith said. "well, she isn't--nice. she wasn't married. and edith, it really isn't good taste to tell a man, right to his face, that he's handsome! i don't think any man likes flattery." "you mean because i said maurice was handsome? i didn't say it to his face--he was in the library. and it isn't flattery to tell the truth. he is! as for mrs. dale, she _is_ married; this little jacky was her baby! she said so. he had the bluest eyes! i never saw such blue eyes--except maurice's. 'course she's not a lady; but i don't see what right you have to say she isn't nice." eleanor, laughing, threw up despairing hands; "edith, don't you know _anything_?" "i know _everything_," edith said, affronted; "i'm sixteen. of course i know what you mean; but mrs. dale isn't--that. and," edith ended, on the spur of the moment, "and i'm going to see her sometime!" the under dog always appealed to edith houghton, and when eleanor left her, appalled by her failure to instill proprieties into her, edith was distinctly hot. "i'm not going to see her!" she told herself. "i wouldn't think of such a thing. but i won't listen to eleanor abusing her." as for eleanor, she confided her alarm to maurice. "she mustn't go to see that woman!" his instant horrified agreement was a satisfaction to her: "of _course_ not!" "she won't listen to _me_," eleanor complained; "you'll have to tell her she mustn't." "i will," he said, grimly. and the very next day he did. he happened (as it seemed) to start for his office just as edith started for school, so they walked along together. "edith," he said, the moment they were clear of his own doorway and eleanor's ears; "that mrs. dale; i'd keep away from her, if i were you." "goodness!" said edith; "did you suppose i was going to fall into her arms? why should i have anything to do with her?" "eleanor said you said--" "oh, i just said that because eleanor was down on her, and that made me mad. i couldn't go and see her, if i was dying to--'cause i don't know where she lives--unless it was that house she was going into? do you know, maurice?" "great scott! how should i know where she lives?" "'course not," said edith. but it was many days before maurice's alarm quieted down sufficiently to let him drift back into the furtive security of knowing that neither edith nor eleanor could, by any possibility, get on lily's track. "and, besides, lily's too good a sport to give anything away. pretty neat in her to 'forget' that coat! but she ought to be careful not to forget her husband's name!--it seems to be henry, now." chapter xv a moody maurice, who puzzled her, and a faultfinding eleanor, whom she was too generous to understand, drove the sixteen-year-old edith into a real appreciation of johnny bennett. with him, she was still in the stage of unsentimental frankness that pierced ruthlessly to what she conceived to be the realities; and because she was as unselfconscious as a tree, she was entirely indifferent to the fact that johnny was a boy and she was a girl, johnny, however, nearsighted and in enormous shell-rimmed spectacles, and still inarticulate, was quite aware of it; more definitely so every week,--for he saw her on saturdays and sundays. "and it's the greatest possible relief to talk to you!" edith told him. johnny accepted the tribute as his due. they had been coasting, and now, on the hilltop, were sitting on their sleds, resting. "gosh! it's hot!" johnny said: he had taken off his red sweater and tied its sleeves around his neck; "zero? you try pulling both those sleds up here, and you'll think it's the fourth of july," johnny said, adjusting his spectacles with a mittened hand. he frequently reverted to the grumpy stage--yet now, looking at edith, grumpiness vanished. she was breathless from the long climb, and her white teeth showed between her parted, panting lips: her cheeks were burning with frosty pink. johnny looked, and looked away, and sighed. "johnny," edith said, "why do you suppose eleanor gives me so many call-downs? 'course i hate music; and once i said she was always pounding on the piano--and she didn't seem to like it!" edith was genuinely puzzled. "i can't understand eleanor," she said; "she makes me tired." "i should think she'd make maurice tired!" johnny said, and added: "that's the worst of getting married. i shall never marry." "when i was a child," edith said, "i always said that when i grew up i was going to marry maurice, because he was just like sir walter raleigh. wasn't that a joke?" johnny saw nothing amusing in such foolishness; he said that maurice was old enough to be her father! as for himself, he felt, he said, that marriage was a mistake. "women hamper a man dreadfully. still--i may marry," johnny conceded; "but it will be somebody very young, so i can train her mind. i want a woman (if i decide to marry) to be just the kind i want. otherwise, you get hung up with eleanors." edith lifted her chin. "well, i like that! why shouldn't she train your mind?" "because," johnny said, firmly, "the man's mind is the stronger." edith screamed with laughter, and threw a handful of snow in his neck. "b-r-r-r!" she said; "it's getting cold! i'll knock the spots out of you on belly bumps!" she got on her feet, shook the snow from the edge of her skirt, flung herself face down on her sled, and shot like a blue comet over the icy slope. johnny sped after her, his big sled taking flying leaps over the kiss-me-quicks. they reached the bottom of the hill almost together, and johnny, looking at her standing there, breathless and rosy, with shining eyes which were as impersonal as stars, said to himself, with emotion: "she's got sense--for a girl." his heart was pounding in his broad chest, but he couldn't think of a thing to say. he was still dumb when she said good-by to him at maurice's door. "why don't you come to dinner next saturday?" she said, carelessly; "maurice will be away all week on business; but he'll be back saturday." johnny mumbled something to the effect that he could survive, even if maurice wasn't back. "i couldn't," edith said. "i should simply die, in this house, if it wasn't for maurice!" as, whistling, she ran upstairs, edith thought to herself that johnny was a _lamb_! "but, compared to maurice, he's awfully uninteresting." edith, openly and audibly, compared every male creature to maurice, and none of them ever measured up to him! his very moodiness had its charm; when he sat down at the piano after dinner and scowled over some new music, or when he lounged in his big chair and smoked, his face absorbed to the point of sternness, edith, loving him "next to father and mother," watched him, and wondered what he was thinking about? sometimes he came out of his abstraction and teased her, and then she sparkled into gay impertinences; sometimes he asked her what she thought of this or that phrasing, "...though you are a barbarian, skeezics, about music"; sometimes he would pull a book from the shelf over his desk and read a poem to her; and he was really interested in her opinion,--ardently appreciative if he liked the poem; if he didn't, it was "the limit." maurice was at home that saturday night for which edith had thrown the careless invitation to johnny; and mrs. newbolt also dropped in to dinner. it was not a pleasant dinner. eleanor sat in one of her empty silences; saw maurice frown at an overdone leg of lamb; heard her aunt's stream of comments on her housekeeping; listened to edith's teasing chatter to johnny;--"what _can_ maurice see in her!" she thought. before dinner was over, she excused herself; she had a headache, she said. "you won't mind, auntie, will you?" mrs. newbolt said, heartily, "_not_ a bit! my dear mother used to--" eleanor, picking up little bingo, went with lagging step out of the room. "children," said mrs. newbolt, "why don't you make taffy this evening?" "_that's_ sense," said edith; "let's! it's mary's night out. sorry poor old eleanor isn't up to it." maurice frowned; "look here, edith, that isn't--respectful." edith looked so blankly astonished that mrs. newbolt defended her: "but eleanor _does_ look old! and she'll lose her figger if she isn't careful! my dear grandmother--used to say, 'girls, i'd rather have you lose your vir--'" "don't raise cain in the kitchen, you two," maurice said, hastily; "eleanor hates noise." edith, subdued by his rebuke, said she wouldn't raise cain; and, indeed, she and johnny were preternaturally quiet until things had been cleared away and the taffy could be started. when it was on the stove, there was at least ten minutes of whispering while they watched the black molasses shimmer into the first yellow rings. then johnny, in a low voice, talked for a good while of something he called "philosophy"--which seemed to consist in a profound disbelief in everything. "take religion," said johnny. "i'd like to discuss it with you; i think you have a very good mind--for a woman. religion is an illustration of what i mean. it's a delusion. a complete delusion. i have ceased to believe in anything." "oh, johnny, how awful!" said edith, stirring the seething sweetness; "johnny, be a lamb, and get me a tumbler of cold water, will you, to try this stuff?" johnny brought the water ("oh, how young she is!" he thought), and edith poured a trickle of taffy into it. "is it done?" edith said, and held out the brittle string of candy; he bit at it, and said he guessed so. then they poured the foamy stuff into a pan, and put it in the refrigerator. "we'll wait till it gets stiff," said edith. "i think," said johnny, in a low voice, "your hair is handsomer than most women's. i'm particular about a woman's hair." edith, sitting on the edge of the table, displaying very pretty ankles, put an appraising hand over the brown braids that were wound around her head in a sort of fillet. "are you?" she said, and began to yawn--but stopped short, her mouth still open, for johnny bennett was _looking at her_! "let's go into the library," she said, hurriedly. "i like it out here," johnny objected. but as he spoke maurice lounged into the kitchen. "stiff?" he said. "no; won't be for ages," edith said--and instantly the desire to fly to the library ceased, especially as mrs. newbolt came trundling in. with maurice astride one of the wooden chairs, his blue eyes droll and teasing, and mrs. newbolt enthroned in adipose good nature close to the stove, edith was perfectly willing to stay in the kitchen! "i say!" maurice said. "let's pull the stuff!" johnny looked cross. "what," he asked himself, "are maurice and mrs. newbolt butting in for?" then he softened, for maurice was teasing edith, and mrs. newbolt was tasting the candy, and the next minute all was in delightful uproar of stickiness and excitement, and johnny, exploding into wild cackles of laughter, felt quite young for the next hour. eleanor, upstairs, with bingo's little silken head on her breast, did not feel young; she heard the noise, and smelled the boiling molasses, and knew that mary would be cross when she came home and found the kitchen in a mess. "how can maurice stand such childishness!" she lay there with a cologne-soaked handkerchief on her forehead, and sighed with pain. "why _doesn't_ he stop them?" she thought. she heard his shout of laughter, and edith's screaming giggle, and moved her head to find a cool place on the pillow. "she's too old to romp with him." suddenly she sat up, tense and listening; he was enjoying himself--and she was suffering! "if he had a headache, i would sit with him; i wouldn't leave him alone!" but she was sick in bed,--and he was having a good time--_with edith_. her resentment was not exactly jealousy; it was fear; the same fear she had felt when maurice had told her how edith had rushed into his room the night of the great storm, _the fear of youth_! she moved bingo gently, stroking him until he seemed to be asleep; then sat up, and put her feet on the floor. the folded handkerchief slipped from her forehead, and she pressed her hands against her temples. "i'm going downstairs," she said to herself; "i won't be left out!" she felt a sick qualm as she got on to her feet, and went over to look at herself in the mirror ... her face was pale, and her hair, wet with cologne, was pasted down in straggling locks on her forehead; she tried to smooth it. "oh, i look old enough to be--his aunt," she said, hopelessly. when she opened her door she heard a little thud behind her; it was bingo, scrambling off the bed to follow her; as she went downstairs, unsteadily, and clinging to the banisters, he stepped on her skirt, so she had to stoop and pick him up. at the closed kitchen door she paused for a moment, leaning against the wall; her head swam. bingo, held in one trembling arm, put out his little pink tongue and licked her cheek. "i _won't_ be left out," she said again. just as her hand touched the knob there was an outburst of joyous yells, and a _whack_! as a lump of taffy, flung by one of the roisterers, hit the resounding panel of the door--then mrs. newbolt's fat chuckle, and johnny's voice vociferating that edith was the limit, and maurice--"edith, if you put that stuff in my hair, i'll skin you alive!" "boil her in oil!" yelled johnny. eleanor turned around and crept back to the stairs; she caught at the newel post, and stood, gasping; then, somehow, she climbed up to her room. there, lifting bingo into his basket, she sank on her bed, groping blindly for the damp handkerchief to put across her forehead. "mary will give notice," she said. after a while, as the throbbing grew less acute, she said, "he's their age." bingo, crawling out of his basket, scrabbled up on to the bed; she felt his little loving cold nose against her face. chapter xvi "what a kid johnny bennett is!" maurice told eleanor. he was detailing to her, while he was scrubbing the stickiness of the kitchen festivities off his hands, what had happened downstairs. "but do you know, i believe he's soft on edith! how old is he?" "he's nearly nineteen. children, both of them." "nineteen?" maurice said, astounded. nineteen! johnny? "why, _i_ was nineteen, when--" he paused. she was silent. suddenly maurice felt _pity_. he had run the gamut of many emotions in the last four years--love, and fright, and repentance, and agonies of shame, and sometimes anger; but he had never touched pity. it stabbed him now, and its dagger blade was sawtoothed with remorse. he looked at his wife, lying there with closed eyes, her pillow damp where the wet handkerchief had slipped from her temples, and her beautiful mouth sagging with pain. "oh, i must be nice to her, poor thing!" he thought. aloud he said, "poor eleanor!" instantly her dark eyes opened in startled joy; his tenderness lifted her into indifference to that throbbing in her temples. "i don't mind anything," she said, "if you love me." "can't i do something for your head?" "just kiss me, darling," she said. he kissed her, for he was sorry for her. but he was thinking of himself. "i was johnny bennett's age, when ... and i _wanted_ to kiss her! my god! i may have to keep up this kissing business for--for forty years!" and whenever he was kissing her, he would have to think how he was deceiving her; he would have to think of lily. yes; he had been a "kid," like johnny! how _could_ she have done it! pity sharpened into anger: how could she have taken advantage of a boy? well; he had had his fling. to be sure, he was paying for it now, not only in anxiety about money, but in shame, and furtiveness, and the corroding consciousness of being a liar, and in the complete shipwreck of every purpose and ambition that a young man ought to have. "and that day, in the field, i called it _love_!" he would have been amused at the cynical memory, if he had not been so bitter. "love? rot! still, i ought to be kinder to her;--but i can't bear to look at her. she's an old woman." eleanor put out her hot, trembling hand and groped for his. "good night, darling," she said; "my head's better." "so glad," he said. the next morning, as eleanor, rather white and shaky, was dressing, she said, "edith doesn't seem to realize that she is too old to be so free and easy with johnny bennett--and you." "she's getting mighty good looking," maurice said. "she has too much color," eleanor said, quickly. maurice was right. during edith's second winter in mercer she grew prettier all the time; poor, speechless johnny, looking at her through his spectacles, was quite miserable. he told some of his intimate friends that life was a bad joke. "i shall never marry; just do some big work, and then get out. there is nothing really worth while. mere looks in a woman don't attract me," johnny said. but that maurice found "looks" attractive, began to be obvious to eleanor, who, night after night, at the dinner table, watched the smiling, shining, careless thing--youth!--sitting there on maurice's right, and felt herself withering in the dividing years. as a result, the annoyance which, when edith was a child, she had felt at her childishness, began to harden into irritation at her womanliness. "i _wish i_ could get her out of the house!" she used to think, helplessly. she felt this irritation especially when they all went, one night, to dine with tom morton, who had just married and gone to housekeeping. it was a somewhat looked-forward-to event, although eleanor thought edith too young to dine out, and also the shabbiness of maurice's evening clothes was on her mind. "do get a new dress suit!" she urged; and he gave the stereotyped answer: "can't afford it." they started for the mortons' gayly enough; but maurice's gayety went out like a candle in the wind when, as he followed eleanor and edith into the parlor, he saw, and after a puzzled moment recognized, the third man in the morton dinner of six--the man who had stood in lily's little hall and said that the child would "pull through." ... the spiritual squalor of that scene flashed back in sharp visualization: the doctor; lily, her amber eyes overflowing with tears, kissing his hand; jacky's fretful cry from upstairs.... here he was! that same kindly medical man, "getting off some guff to mrs. morton," maurice told himself, in agonized uncertainty as to what he had better do. should he recognize him? or pretend not to know him? it galloped through his mind that if he did "know" him, eleanor would ask questions. oh, he knew eleanor's questions! but if he didn't "know" him, doctor nelson would know that questions might be asked. the instant's hesitation between the two risks was decided by doctor nelson. he put out his hand and said, "oh, how are you?" so maurice said, "oh, how are you?" as carelessly as anybody else. eleanor, when the doctor was introduced, said, a little surprised, "you know my husband?" "i think i've met mr. curtis somewhere," doctor nelson said, vaguely. "he knows so many people i don't," she thought, but she said nothing. no one noticed her silence--or maurice's, either! the doctor, and morton, and the handsome bride, were listening to edith, amused, apparently, at her crudity and ignorance. "oh yes," eleanor heard her say; "eleanor's voice is perfectly _fine_, father says. i'm not musical. father says i don't know the difference between 'yankee doodle' and 'old hundred.' father say--" and so on. "she's tiresome!" eleanor told herself. later, as she sat at the little dinner table, all gay with flowers and the bride's new candlesticks and glittering bonbon dishes ("hetty's showing off our loot," the bridegroom said, proudly), eleanor, looking on, and straining sometimes to be silly like the rest of them, said to herself, bleakly, that the doctor, who looked fifty, had been asked on her account. when he began to talk to her it was all she could do to say, "really?" or, "of course!" at the proper places; she was absorbed in watching edith--the vivid face, the broad smile, the voice so full of preposterous certainties! "i _look_ old," she thought; and indeed she did--most unnecessarily! for she was only forty-four. her throat suddenly ached with unshed tears of longing to be young. yet if she had not been so bitter she would have seen that maurice looked almost as old as she did! and no wonder. his consternation at the sight of doctor nelson had been panic! he could hardly eat. naturally, the preoccupation of the two curtises threw the burden of talk upon the others. doctor nelson gave himself up to his hostess, and morton found edith's ardors, upon every subject under heaven, most diverting; he teased her and baited her, and her eyes grew more shining, and her cheeks pinker, and her gayety more contagious with every repartee she flung back at him. mrs. morton struggled heroically with maurice's heaviness, but she told her husband afterward, that mr. curtis was nearly as dull as his wife! "i _couldn't_ make him talk!" she said. after a while she gave up trying to make him talk, and listened to edith's story of what happened when she was a little girl and came to mercer with her father: "a terrible shipwreck!" edith said; "i remember it because of maurice's gallantry in giving the flopping girl his coat--he was a perfect sir walter raleigh! remember, maurice?" maurice said, briefly, that he "remembered"; "if she says dale, i'm dished," he thought; aloud, he said that the river was growing impossible for boating; which caused them to drop the subject of the flopping girl, and talk about mercer's increasing dinginess, at which edith said, eagerly: "you ought to see our mountains--no smoke there!" then, of course, came tales of camping, and, most animatedly, the story of eleanor's wonderful rescue of maurice. "she pulled that great big maurice all the way down to doctor bennett's! and we were all so proud of her!" eleanor protested: "it was nothing at all." maurice, in his own mind, was saying, "i wish she'd left me there!" when the ladies left the gentlemen to their cigars, edith was bubbling over with anxiety to confide to mrs. morton the joke about the "lady's cheeks coming off," and that gave the married women the chance to express melancholy convictions as to the wickedness of the world, to which edith listened with much interest. "i think my painted lady lives in medfield," she said. "why, how do you know?" eleanor exclaimed, surprised. "why, don't you remember the time i saw her, with that blue-eyed baby? she was just going into a house on maple street." it was at this moment that the gentlemen entered, so there was no further talk of painted ladies; and, besides, maurice was alert to catch eleanor's eye, and go home! "edith is capable of saying anything!" he was thinking, desperately. however, edith said nothing alarming, and maurice was able to get her safely away from the powder magazine in the shape of the amiable doctor, who, following them a few minutes later, was saying to himself: "how scared he was! yet he looks like a good fellow at bottom. a rum world--a rum world!" the "good fellow" hurried his womenkind down the street in angry preoccupation. as soon as he and eleanor were alone, he said, "when does edith graduate?" "she has two years more." "oh, _lord_!" maurice said, despairingly; "has she got to be around for two years?" eleanor's face lightened, but maurice was instantly repentant. "i ought to be ashamed of myself for saying that! edith's fine; and she has brains; but--" "she monopolized the conversation to-night," eleanor said; "maurice, it is very improper for her to keep talking all the time about that horrid woman!" the sharpness of his agreement made her look at him in surprise. "she _mustn't_ talk about mrs. dale!" he said, angrily. "dale? is that her name?" said eleanor. "i don't know. i think so; didn't edith call her that? well, anyway, she mustn't keep talking about her!" his irritation was so marked, that eleanor's heart warmed; but she said, wearily, "i'll be glad myself when she graduates." chapter xvii edith, reflecting upon her first dinner party, wished johnny had seen her, all dressed up. then she pondered the possibilities of her allowance: if she was "going out," oughtn't she to have a real evening dress? but this daring thought faded very soon, for there didn't seem to be any dinner parties ahead. mrs. newbolt's supper table was, as maurice said, sarcastically, the extent of the "curtises' social whirl"--a fact which did not trouble him in the least! he had his own social whirl. he had made a man-circle for himself; some of the fellows in the office were his sort, he told edith, and it was evident that their bachelor habits appealed to him, for he dined out frequently; and when he did, he was careful not to tell eleanor where he was going, because once or twice, when he had told her, she had called up the club or house on the telephone about midnight to inquire if "mr. curtis had started home?" ... "i was worried about you, it was so late," she defended herself against his irritated mortification. he used to report these stag parties to edith, telling her some of the stories he had heard; it didn't occur to him to tell any stories to eleanor, because, as henry houghton had once said, maurice and his wife didn't "have the same taste in jokes." when edith chuckled over this or that witticism (or frowned at any opinion contrary to maurice's opinion!) eleanor sat in unsmiling silence. it was about this time maurice fell into the way of saying "we" to edith: "we" will have tea in the garden; "we" will put in a lot of bulbs on each side of the brick path; "we" will go down to the square and hear the election returns. occasionally he remembered to say, "why don't you come along, eleanor?" "no, thank you," she said; and sometimes, to herself, she added, "he keeps me out." the jealous woman always says this, never realizing the deeper truth, which is that she keeps herself out! maurice did not notice how, all that winter, eleanor was keeping herself out. she was steadily retreating into some inner solitude of her own. no one noticed it, except mrs. o'brien--and perhaps fat, elderly, snarling bingo, who must sometimes, when his small pink tongue lapped her cheek, have tasted tears. by another year, eleanor's mind had so utterly diverged from maurice's that not even his remorse (which he had grown used to, as one grows used to some encysted thing) could achieve for them any unity of living. she bored him, and he hurt her; she loved him and tried to please him; he didn't love her, but tried to be polite; he was not often angry with her, he wasn't fond enough of her to be angry! so, forgetful of that security of the stars--truth!--to which he had once aspired, he grew dully used to the arid safety of untruth,--though sometimes he swore softly to himself at the tiresome irony of the office nickname which, with an occasional gilt hatchet, still persisted. he would remember that evening of panic at the mortons', and think, lazily, "she can't possibly get on lily's track!" so lily lived in anxious thriftiness at maple street; and maurice, no longer acutely afraid of her, and only seeing her two or three times a year, was more or less able to forget her, in his growing pleasure in edith's presence in his house--a pleasure quite obvious to eleanor. as for edith, she used to wonder, sometimes, why eleanor was so "up stage"? (that was her latest slang); but it did not trouble her much, for she was too generous to put two and two together. "eleanor has nervous prostration," she used to tell herself, with good-natured excuse for some especial coldness; and she even tried, once in a while, "to make things pleasant for poor old eleanor!" "i lug her in," she told johnny. "she's a dose," said johnny. "yes," edith agreed; "she's stupid. but i'm going to pull off a picnic, some sunday, to cheer her up. 'course you needn't come, if you don't want to." johnny, looking properly bored, said, briefly, "i don't mind." this was in mid-september. "are you game for it, eleanor?" edith said one night at dinner; "we can find some pleasant place by the river--" "i know a bully place," maurice said, "in the medfield meadows; remember, eleanor? we went there on our trolley wedding trip," he informed edith. eleanor, struggling between the pleasure of maurice's "remember," and antagonism at sharing that sacred remembering with edith, objected; "it may rain." "oh, come on," edith rallied her: "be a sport! it won't kill you if it does rain!" but maurice, after his impulsive recollection of the "bully place," remembered that the trolley car which would take them out to the river, must pass lily's door; "i hope it will rain," he thought, uneasily. however, on that serene september sunday a week later, it didn't rain; and maurice fell into the spirit of edith's plans; for, after all, even if the car did pass lily's ugly little house, it wouldn't mean anything to anybody! "i'll sit with my back to that side of the street," he told himself. "it's safe enough! and it will give buster a good time." he didn't realize that he rather hankered for a good time himself; to be sure, he felt a hundred years old! but money was no longer a very keen anxiety (he had passed his twenty-fifth birthday); and the day was glittering with sunshine, and edith would make coffee, and eleanor would sing. yes! edith should have a good time! they went clanging gayly along over the bridge, down maple street, and through the suburbs of medfield until they came to the end of the car line, where they piled out, with all their impediments, and started for the river and the big locust. "you'll sing, nelly," maurice said--eleanor's face lighted with pleasure;--"and i'll tell edith how a girl ought to behave on her wedding trip, and you can instruct johnny how to elope." then, with little bingo springing joyously, but rather stiffly, ahead of them, they tramped across the yellowing stubble of the mowed field, talking of their coffee, and whether there would be too much wind for their fire--and all the while maurice was aware of lily at no. ; and eleanor was remembering her hope of a time when she and maurice would be coming here, and it would not be "just us"! and johnny was thinking that edith was intelligent--for a woman; and edith was telling herself that _this_ kind of thing was some sense! eleanor, sitting down under the old locust, watched the three young people. she wondered when maurice would tell her to sing. "the river is a lovely accompaniment, isn't it?" she hinted. no one replied. "i'm going in wading after dinner," edith announced; "what do you say, boys? let's take off our shoes and stockings, and walk down to the second bridge. eleanor can sit here and guard our things." "i'm with you!" maurice said; and johnny said he didn't mind; but eleanor protested. "you'll get your skirts wringing wet, edith. and--i thought we were to sit here and sing?" "oh, you can sing any old time," edith said, lifting the lid of the coffee pot and stirring the brown froth with a convenient stick. "and i'm just to look on?" eleanor said. "why, wade, if you want to," her husband said; "it's safe enough to leave edith's things here." after that he was too much absorbed in shooing ants off the marmalade to give any thought to his wife. the luncheon (except to her) was the usual delightful discomfort of balancing coffee cups on uncertain knees, and waving off wasps, and upsetting glasses of water. maurice talked about the ball game, and edith gossiped darkly of her teachers, and johnny bennett ate enormously and looked at edith. eleanor neither ate nor gossiped; but she, too, watched edith--and listened. bingo, in his mistress's lap, had snarled at johnny when he took eleanor's empty cup away, which led edith to say that he was jealous. "i don't call it 'jealous,'" eleanor said, "to be fond of a person." "you can't _really_ be fond of anybody, and be jealous," edith announced; "or if you are, it is just bingoism." this brought a quick protest from eleanor, which was followed by the inevitable discussion; edith began it by quoting, "'love forgets self, and jealousy remembers self.'" maurice grinned and said nothing--it was enough for him to see eleanor hit, _hard_! but johnny protested: "if your girl monkeys round with another fellow," he said, "you have a right to be jealous." "of course," said eleanor. "no, sir!" said edith. "you have a right to be _unhappy._ if the other fellow's nicer than you--i mean if he has something that attracts her that you haven't, of course you'd be unhappy! (though you could get busy and _be_ nice yourself.) or, if he's not as nice as you, you'd be unhappy, because you'd be so awfully disappointed in her. but there's no jealousy about _that_ kind of thing! jealousy is hogging all the love for yourself. like bingo! and _i_ call it plain garden selfishness--and no sense, either, because you don't gain anything by it. do you think you do, maurice? ... for heaven's sake, hand me the sandwiches!" maurice didn't express his thoughts; he just roared with laughter. eleanor reddened; johnny, handing the sandwiches, said that, though edith generally could reason pretty well--for a woman--in this particular matter she was 'way off. "you are long on logic, edith," maurice agreed; "but short on human nature; (she hasn't an idea how the shoe fits!)." "the reason i'm so up on jealousy," edith explained, complacently, "is because yesterday, in english lit., our professor worked off a lot of quotations on us. listen to this (only i can't say just exactly the words!): '_though jealousy be produced by love, as ashes by fire, yet jealousy_'--oh, what does come next? oh yes; i know--'_yet jealousy extinguishes love, as ashes smother flames_.'" "who said that?" maurice said. edith said she'd forgotten: "but i bet it's true. i'd simply hate a jealous person, no matter how much they loved me! wouldn't you, eleanor? wouldn't you hate maurice if he was jealous of you? i declare i don't see how you can be so fond of bingo!" maurice, suddenly ashamed of himself for his pleasure in seeing eleanor hit, was saying, inaudibly, "good lord! what will she say next?" to keep her quiet, he said, good-naturedly, "don't you want to sing, nelly?" she said, very low, "no." her throat ached with the pain of knowing that the one little contribution she could make to the occasion was not really wanted! maurice did not urge her. he and the other two took off their shoes and stockings; and went with squeals across the stubble, down a steep bank, to a pebbly point of sand, round which a sunny swirl of water chattered loudly, then went romping off into sparkling shallows. edith's lifted skirt, as she stepped into the current, assured her against the wetting eleanor had foreseen, and also showed her pretty legs--and eleanor, on the bank, her tensely trembling hand cuddling bingo against her knee, "guarded" her things! it was at this moment that her old, unrecognized envy of youth turned into a perfectly recognizable fear of age. edith was a woman now, not a child! "and i--dislike her!" eleanor said to herself. she sat there alone, thinking of edith's defects--her big mouth, her bad manners, her loud voice; and as she thought,--watching the waders all the while with tear-blurred eyes until a turn in the current hid them--she felt this new dislike flowing in upon her: "he talks to her; and forgets all about me!" ... she was deeply hurt. "he says she has 'brains.' ... he doesn't mind it when she says she 'doesn't care for music,' which is rude to me! and she talks about jealousy! she knows i'm jealous. any woman who loves her husband is jealous." of course this pathetically false opinion made it impossible for her to realize that jealousy is just a form of self-love, nor could she enlarge upon edith's naïve generalization and say that, if a woman suffers because she is not the equal of the rival who gains her lover's love--_that_ is not jealousy! it is the anguish of recognizing her own defects, and it may be very noble. if she suffers because the rival is her inferior, _that_ is not jealousy; it is the anguish of recognizing defects in her lover, and it, too, is noble, for she is unhappy, not because he has slighted her, but because he has slighted himself! jealousy has no such noble elements; it is the unhappiness that bingo knows--an ignoble agony! ... but eleanor, like many pitiful wives, did not know this. sitting there on the bank of the river, without aspiration for herself or regret for maurice, she knew only the anguish of being neglected. "he wouldn't have left me six years ago," she said; "he doesn't even ask me if i want to wade! i don't; but he didn't _ask_ me. he just went off with her!" suddenly, her fingers trembling, she began to take off her shoes and stockings. she _would_ do what edith did! ... it was a tremor of aspiration!--an effort to develop in herself a quality he liked in edith. she went, barefooted, with wincing cautiousness, and with bingo stepping gingerly along beside her, across the mowed grass; then, haltingly, down the bank to the sandy edge of the river; there, while the little dog looked up at her anxiously, she dipped a white, uncertain foot into the water--and as she hesitated to essay the yielding mud, and the slimy things under the stones, she heard the returning splash of wading feet. a minute later the three youngsters appeared, edith's skirts now very well above the danger line of wetness, and the two men offering eager guiding hands, which were entirely disdained! then as, from under the leaning trees, they rounded the bend, there came an astonished chorus: _"why, look at eleanor!"_ "your skirt's in the water," edith warned her; "hitch it up, and 'come on in--the water's fine!'" she shook her head, and turned to climb up the bank. "'the king of france,'" edith quoted, satirically, "'marched _down_ a hill, and then marched up again!'" eleanor was silent. when the three began to put on their shoes and stockings, eleanor, putting on her own, her skirt wet and drabbled about her ankles, heard maurice and johnny offering to tie edith's shoestrings--a task which edith, with condescending giggles, permitted. both of the boys--for maurice seemed suddenly as much of a boy as johnny!--went on their knees to tie, and re-tie, the brown ribbons, maurice with gleeful and ridiculous deference. "want me to tie your shoestrings for you, nelly?" he said over his shoulder. "i am capable of tying my own, thank you," she said, so icily that the three playfellows looked at one another and maurice, reddening sharply, said: "give us a song, nelly!" but she sitting with clenched hands and tensely silent, shook her head. she was too wounded to speak. for the rest of the poor little picnic, with its gathering up of fragments and burning paper napkins--the conversation was labored and conscious. on the trolley going home, edith was the only one who tried to talk; eleanor, holding bingo in her lap, was dumb; and johnny--hunting about for an excuse to "get away from the whole blamed outfit!" only said "m-m" now and then. but maurice said nothing at all. after all, what can a man say when his wife has made a fool of herself? "even lily would have had more sense!" he thought. chapter xviii that dismal festivity of the meadow marked the time when maurice began to live in his own house only from a sense of duty ... and because edith was there! a fact which eleanor's aunt recognized almost as soon as eleanor did; so, with her usual candor, mrs. newbolt took occasion to point things out to her niece. she had bidden eleanor come to dinner, and eleanor had said she would--"if maurice happened to be going out." "better come when he's _not_ going out, so he can be at home and amuse edith!" said mrs. newbolt. "eleanor, my dear father used to say that women were puffect fools, because they never could realize that if they left the door _open_, a cat would put on his slippers and sit by the fire and knit; if they locked it, he'd climb up the chimney, but what he'd feel free to prowl on the roof!" eleanor preferred to "lock the door"; and certainly during that next winter edith's gay interest in every topic under heaven was a roof on which maurice prowled whenever he could! sometimes he stayed at home in the evening, just to talk to her! when he did, those "brains" which eleanor resented, made him indifferent to many badly cooked dinners--during which eleanor sat at the table and saw his enjoyment, and felt that dislike of their "boarder," which had become acute the day of the picnic, hardening into something like hatred. she wondered how he endured the girl's chatter? sometimes she hinted as much, but edith never knew she was being criticized! she was too generous to recognize the significance of what she called (to herself) eleanor's grouch, and maurice's delight in such unselfconsciousness helped to keep her ignorant, for he held his tongue--with prodigious effort!--even when eleanor hit edith over his shoulder. if he defended her, he told himself, the fat _would_ be in the fire! so, as no one pointed out to edith what the grouch meant, she had not the faintest idea that eleanor was saying to herself, "oh, if i could _only_ get rid of her!" and as no one pointed out to eleanor that the way to hold maurice was not to get rid of edith, but to "open the door," that corrosive thing the girl had called "bingoism" kept the anger of the day in the field smoldering in her mind. it was like a banked fire eating into her deepest consciousness; it burned all that winter; it was still burning even when the summer vacation came and edith went home. her departure was an immense relief to eleanor; she told maurice she didn't want her to come back, ever! "why not?" he said, sharply; "_i_ like having her here. besides, think of telling uncle henry we didn't want edith next winter! if you have the nerve for that, _i_ haven't." eleanor had not the nerve; so when, at the end of june, edith rushed home, it was understood that she would be with maurice and eleanor during the next term.... that was the summer that marked the seventh year of their marriage--and the fourth year of jacky, over in the little frame house on maple street. but it was the first year of a knowledge, surprisingly delayed!--which came to edith; namely, that johnny bennett was "queer." it may have been this "queerness" which made her attach herself to eleanor, who, in august, went to green hill for the usual two weeks' visit. maurice had to go away on office business three or four times during that fortnight, but he came up for one sunday. he had insisted upon eleanor's going, because, he said, she needed the change. "can't you come?" she pleaded. "do take some extra time from the office!" "and be docked? can't afford it!" he said; "but i'll get one week-end in with you," he promised her, looking forward with real satisfaction to the solitude of his own house. so eleanor, saying she couldn't understand why he was so awfully economical now that he had his own money!--came alone,--full of remorse at deserting him, and worry because of his loneliness, and leaving a pining bingo behind her. but, to her silent annoyance, as soon as she arrived at green hill she encountered a new and tiresome attentiveness from edith! edith was inescapably polite. she did not urge upon eleanor any of those strenuous amusements to which she and johnny were devoted; she merely gave up the amusements, and, as johnny expressed it, "stuck to eleanor"! eleanor couldn't understand it, and when maurice at last arrived, johnny's perplexity became audible: "perhaps," he told edith, satirically, "you may be able, now, to tear yourself away from eleanor, and go fishing with me? you fish pretty well--for a woman. maurice can lug her round." "i will, if maurice will go, too," edith said. "what do you drag him in for?"--john paused; understanding dawned upon him: "she doesn't want to be by herself with me!" his tanned face slowly reddened, and those brown eyes of his behind the big spectacles grew keen. he didn't speak for quite a long time; then he said, very low, "i'll be here to-morrow morning at four-thirty. be ready. i'll dig bait." "all right," said edith; after which, for the first time in her life, she played a shabby trick on johnny bennett; as soon as he had gone home, she invited eleanor (who promptly declined), and maurice (who as promptly accepted), to go fishing, too! then, having got what she wanted, she reproached herself: "johnny'll be mad as fury. but when he gets to saying things to me he makes me feel funny in the back of my neck. besides, i want maurice." the fishermen were to assemble in the grayness of the august dawn; and johnny was, as usual, prepared to throw a handful of gravel at edith's window to hurry her downstairs. but when he loomed up in the mist, who should be on the porch, fooling with a rod, but maurice! "what's he butting in for?" johnny thought, looking so cross that edith, coming out with the luncheon basket, was really remorseful. "hullo, johnny," she said. ("i never played it on him before," she was thinking.) but at that moment her remorse was lost in alarm, for standing in the doorway was eleanor, her hair caught up in a hurried twist, a wrapper over her shoulders, her bare feet thrust into pink bedroom slippers. (forty-six looks fifty-six at . a.m.) "darling," eleanor said, "i believe i'd like to go up to the cabin to-day. do let's do it--just you and i!" the three young people all spoke at once: johnny said: "good scheme! we'll excuse maurice." edith said, "oh, eleanor, maurice loves fishing!" and maurice said: "i sort of think i'd like to catch a sucker or two in this pool johnny is always cracking up. i bet he's in for a big jolt about his trout! you come, too?" "i'd get so awfully tired. and i--i thought we could have a day together up on the mountain," she ended, wistfully. there was a dead silence. johnny was thinking: "gosh! i hope she gets him." and edith was thinking, "i'd like to choke her!" maurice's thoughts could not be spoken; he merely said, "all right; if you want to." "i don't believe i'll go fishing, either," edith said. eleanor, on the threshold, turned quickly: "please don't stay at home on my account!" but maurice settled it. "i'll not go," he said, patiently; "but you must, edith." he threw down his rod and went into the house; eleanor, in her flopping pink slippers, hurried after him.... "i did so want to have you to myself," she said; "you don't mind not going fishing with those children, do you?" he said, listlessly: "oh no. but don't let's attempt the cabin stunt." then he stood at the window and watched johnny and edith, with fishing rods and lunch basket, disappear down the road into the fog. he was too bored to be irritated; he only counted the hours until he could get back to mercer, and the office, and the table under the silver poplar. "i'll get hold of the mortons, and hannah can give us some sort of grub, and then we'll go to a show," he thought. "i can stick it out here for thirty-six hours more." he stuck it out that morning by sitting in mr. houghton's studio, one leg across the arm of his chair, reading and smoking. once eleanor came in and asked him if he was all right. he said, briefly, "yes." but she was uneasy: "maurice, i'll play tennis with you?" this at least made him chuckle. "_you?_ how long since? my dear, you couldn't play a set to save your life!" after that she let him alone for a while. early in the afternoon the need to make up to him for what she had done grew intolerable: "darling, let's play solitaire?" "i'm going to write letters." she left him to his letters for an hour, then came again: "let's walk!" "well, if you want to," maurice said, and yawned. so they trudged off. eleanor, walking very close to her husband, was thinking, heavily, how far they were apart; but she did her best to amuse him by anxious ponderings of household expenses. he, sheering off to the other side of the road to escape her intimate and jostling shoulder, was thinking of the expenses of another household, and making no effort whatever to amuse her. his silence confessed an irritation which she felt but could not understand; so by and by she fell silent, too, though the helpless tears stood in her eyes. then, apparently, he put his annoyance, whatever it was, behind him. "nelly," he said, "let's go down by the west branch and meet edith and johnny? they'll be coming home that way, 'laden with trout,' i suppose," he ended, sarcastically. eleanor began to say, "oh _no_!" then something, she didn't know what, made her say, "well, all right." as they turned into the wood road that ran up toward the mountain, she said another unexpected thing: "maurice, i'm tired. i'll go home; you go on by yourself, and--and meet johnny." she didn't know, herself, why she said it! perhaps, it was just an effort to make up for what she had done in the morning? maurice, astonished, made some half-hearted protest; he would go back with her? but she said no, and walked home alone. her throat ached with unshed tears. "he _likes_ to be with her! he doesn't want me,--and i love him--i love him!" * * * * * the two youngsters had made a long day of it. on their way to the brook that morning, crashing through underbrush, climbing rotting rail fences that were hidden in docks and briers, balancing on the precarious slipperiness of mossy rocks, the triumphant johnny, his heart warm with gratitude to eleanor, had led his captive and irritated edith. when they broke through low-hanging boughs and found the pool, the trout possibilities of which johnny had so earnestly "cracked up," edith was distinctly grumpy. "eleanor is a selfish thing," she said. "gimme a worm." "i think maurice would have been cussedly selfish not to do what she wanted," johnny said; "my idea of marriage is that a man must do everything his wife wants." "maurice is never selfish! he's great, simply great!" edith said. "oh, he's decent enough," johnny admitted, then he paused, frowning, for he couldn't open his bait box; he banged it on a stone, pried his knife under the lid, swore at it--and turned very red. edith giggled. "let me try," she said. "no use; the rotten thing's stuck." but she took it, shook it, gave an easy twist, and the maddening lid--loosened, of course, by johnny's exertions--came off! edith shrieked with joy; but johnny, though mortified, was immensely relieved. they sat down on a sloping rock, and talked bait, and the grave and spectacled johnny became his old self, scolding edith for talking so loudly. "girls," he said, "are _born_ not fishermen!" then they waded out into the stream, and began to cast. it was broad daylight by this time, and the woods were filling with netted sunbeams; the water whispered and chuckled. "pretty nice?" johnny said, in a low voice; and edith, all her grumpiness flown, said: "you bet it is!" then, as an afterthought, she called back, "but eleanor is the limit!" johnny, forgetting his gratitude to eleanor, said, savagely: "_keep quiet!_ you scared him off! gosh! girls are awful." so edith kept quiet, and he wandered up the stream, and she wandered down the stream, and they fished, and they fished--and they never caught a thing. "i had _one_ bite," johnny said when, at about eleven, fiercely hungry, they met on the bank where they had left their lunch basket; "but you burst out about eleanor, and drove him off. girls simply _can't_ fish." edith was contrite--but doubted the bite. then they sat down on a mossy rock, and ate stacks of sandwiches and hard-boiled eggs, and watched the water, and talked, talked, talked. at least edith talked--mostly about maurice. johnny lit his pipe, puffed once or twice, then let it go out and sat staring into the green wall of the woods on the other side of the brook. then, suddenly, quietly, he began to speak.... "i want to say something." "the mosquitoes here are awful!" edith said, nervously; "don't you think we'd better go home?" "look here, edith; you've got to be half decent to me--unless, of course, you've soured on me? if you have, i'll shut up." "johnny, don't be an idiot! 'course i haven't soured on you. you're the oldest friend i've got. older than maurice, even." "well, i guess i am an older friend than maurice! but lately you've treated me like a dog. you skulk round to keep from being by ourselves. you never give me a chance to open my head to you--" "johnny, that's perfectly absurd! i've had to look after eleanor--" "eleanor _nothing_! it's me you want to shake." "i do _not_ want to shake you! i'm just busy." "edith, i care a lot about you. i don't care much for girls, as a rule. but you're not girly. and every time i try to talk to you, you sidestep me." "now, johnny--" "but i'm going to tell you, all the same." he made a clutch at the sopping-wet hem of her skirt. "i _will_ say it! i care an awful lot about you. i'm not a boy. i want to marry you." there was a dead silence; then edith said, despairingly, "oh, johnny, how perfectly horrid you are!" he gasped. "you simply spoil everything with this sort of ... of ... of talk." "you mean you don't like me?" his face twitched. "like you? i like you awfully! that's why i'm so mad at you. why, i'm _awfully_ fond of you--" "edith!" "i mean i never had a friend like you. i've always liked you ten times better than any silly old girl friend i ever had. i've liked you _almost_ as much as maurice. of course i shall never like anybody as much as maurice. he comes next to father and mother. but now you go and--and talk ... i just can't bear it," edith said, and fumbled for her pocket handkerchief; "i _hate_ talk." her eyes overflowed. "edith! look here; now, _don't_! honestly, i can stand being turned down, but i can't stand--that. edith, _please_! i never saw you do that--girl stunt. i'll never bother you again, if you'll just stop crying!" edith, unable to find her handkerchief, bent over and wiped her eyes on her dress. "i'm _not_ crying," she said, huskily; "but--" "i think," john bennett said, "honestly, edith, i think i've loved you all my life." "and i have loved you," she said; "you are a lamb! oh, johnny, i'm perfectly crazy about you!" his swiftly illuminating face made her add, hastily, "and now you go and spoil everything!" "i won't spoil things, skeezics," he said, gently; "oh, say, edith, let up on crying! _that_ breaks me all up." but edith, having discovered her handkerchief, was mopping very flushed cheeks and mumbling on about her own woes. "why can't you be satisfied just to go on the way we always have? why can't you be satisfied to have me like you almost as much as i like maurice?" "maurice!" the young man said, with a helpless laugh. "oh, edith, you are several kinds of a goose! in the first place, maurice is married; and in the second place, he's old enough to be your father--" "he isn't old enough to be my father! and i shall _never_ like anybody as much as maurice, because there isn't anybody like him in the entire world. i've always thought he was exactly like sir walter raleigh. besides, i shall never marry _anybody_! but i mean, i don't see why it isn't enough for you to have me awfully fond of you?" "well, it isn't," johnny said, briefly, "but don't you worry." he was white, but his tenderness was like a new sense. edith had never seen _this_ johnny. her entirely selfish impatience turned to shyness. "edith," he said, very gently, "you don't understand, dear. you're awfully young--younger than your age. i didn't take in how young you were--talking about maurice! i suppose it's because you know so few girls, that you are so young. well; i can't hang round with you any more, as if we were ten years old. you see, i--i love you, edith. that makes the difference ... dear." "oh," said edith, desperately, "how perfectly _horrid_--" she looked really distracted, poor child! (but that was the moment when her preposterous youthfulness ceased.) she jumped to her feet so suddenly that johnny, who had begun, his fingers trembling, to scrape out the bowl of his pipe, dropped his jackknife, which rolled down the steeply sloping rock into the water. "oh, i'm so sorry!" edith said. john sighed. "oh, that's nothing," he said, and slid over the moss and ferns to the water's edge; there, lying flat on his stomach, his sleeve rolled up, he thrust his bare white arm into the dark and troutless depths of the pool, and salvaged his knife. edith, on the bank, began furiously to pack up. when johnny climbed back to her she said she wanted to go home, "_now_!" "all right," he said again, gently. so, silently, they started homeward; and never in her life had edith been so glad to see any human creature as she was to see maurice on the west branch road! but she let him do all the talking. to herself she was saying, "it's all eleanor's fault for not letting him come this morning! i just hate her!..." that night her father said to her mother, rather sadly, "mary, our little girl has grown up. johnny bennett is casting sheep's eyes at her." "nonsense!" said mary houghton, comfortably; "she's a perfect child, and so is he." chapter xix curiously enough, though edith's mother did not recognize what was going on between "the children," eleanor did. when she came back to mercer, a week later, she overflowed about it to maurice. "calf love!" she summed it up. "she didn't look down on that kind of love seven years ago," he thought, cynically. but he didn't say so; no matter what his thoughts were, he was always kind to eleanor. lily, over in medfield; lily, in the small, secret house; lily, with the good-looking little boy--blue-eyed, rosy-cheeked, blond-haired!--the squalid memory of lily, said to him, over and over: "you are a confounded liar; so the least you can do is to be decent to eleanor." so he was kind. "_i_ couldn't bear myself," he used to think, "if i wasn't--but, _o_ lord!" that "_o_ lord!" was his summing up of a growing and demoralizing sense of the worthlessness and unreality of life. like solomon (and all the rest of us, who see the universe as a mirror for ourselves!) he appraised humanity at his valuation of himself. he didn't use solomon's six words, but the eight of his generation were just as exact--"_the whole blooming outfit is a rotten lie!_ if," he reflected, "deceit isn't on my 'lily' line, it is on a thousand other lines." from the small cowardices of appreciations and admirations which one did not really feel, up through the bread-and-butter necessities of business, on into the ridiculousness of what is called "democracy" or "liberty"--on, even, into those emotional evasions of logic and reason labeled "religion"--all lies--all lies! he told himself. "and i," he used to think, looking back on seven years of marriage, "i am the most accomplished liar of the whole shootin' match!... if they get off that g. washington gag on me any more at the office, somebody'll get their head punched." all the same, even if he did say, "_o_ lord!" he was carefully kind to his boring wife. but when edith (suddenly grown up, it seemed to maurice) came back for the fall term, he said "_o_ lord!" less frequently. the world began to seem to him a less rotten place. "nice to have you round again, skeezics!" he told her; and eleanor, listening, went up to her room, and sat with her fingers pressed hard on her eyes. "it's dreadful to have her around! how _can_ i get rid of her?" she thought. very often now the flame of jealousy flared up; it scorched her whenever she recognized edith's "brains," whenever she noticed some gay fearlessness, or easy capability; whenever she watched the girl's high-handed treatment of maurice: criticizing him! telling him he was mean because he was always saying he "couldn't afford things"! declaring that she wished he would stop his everlasting practicing--and apparently not caring a copper for him! if edith said, "oh, maurice, you are a perfect _idiot_!" eleanor would see him grin with pleasure; but when eleanor put her arms around him and kissed him, he sighed. to maurice's wife these things were all like oil on fire; but it never occurred to her to try to develop in herself any of the qualities he seemed to find attractive in edith. instead, she thought of that june day in the meadow by the river when he said he loved her inefficiency--he loved her timidity, and, oh, how he had loved her love! he had made her promise to be jealous! eleanor was not a reasoning person--probably no jealous woman is; but she did recognize the fact that what made him love her then, made him impatient with her now. this seemed to her irrational; and so, of course, it was!--just as the tide is irrational, or the turning of the earth on its axis is irrational. nature has nothing to do with reason. so, in its deep and beautiful and animal beginnings, love, too, is irrational. it has to ascend to reason! but eleanor did not know these things. all she knew was that maurice _hurt_ her, a dozen times a day. she was brooding over this one sunday afternoon in late september, when, at the open window of her bedroom, with bingo snoozing in her lap, she listened to edith, down in the garden: "how about a jug of dahlias on the table?" and maurice: "bully! say, edith, why couldn't we have a yellow scheme for the grub? orange cup, and that sort of fussy business you make out of cheese and the yolks of eggs? and yellow cakes?" "splendid! i'll mix up some perfectly stunning little sponge cakes, 'lemon queens.' yellow as anything!" this was all to get ready for a tea under the silver poplar, which was dropping yellow leaves down on the green table, and the mossy brick path, and the chairs for the company. the mortons were coming, and there would be, eleanor told herself, wearily, the usual shrieking over flat jokes,--edith's jokes, mostly. her dislike of edith was a burning ache below her breastbone. "maurice has her, so he doesn't want me," she thought; then suddenly she got up and hurried downstairs. "i'll fix the table!" she said, peremptorily. "it's all done," edith said; "doesn't it look pretty? oh, eleanor, let me put a dahlia behind your ear! you'll look like a spanish lady!" she put the gorgeous flower into the soft disorder of eleanor's dark hair, avoiding bingo's angry objections, and said, with open admiration, "eleanor, you _are_ handsome! i adore dahlias!" she announced; "those quilly ones, red on the outside and yellow inside! there are some stunning ones on maple street, where i saw that dale woman. wonder if she'd sell some roots?" the color flew into maurice's face. "did you get your bicycle mended?" he said. instantly edith forgot the dahlias, and plunged into bicycle technicalities, ending with the query, "why don't you squeeze out some money, and buy one of those cheap little automobiles, maurice, you mean old thing!" "can't afford it," maurice said. but eleanor was puzzled. there had been a hurried note in maurice's voice when he asked edith about her bicycle--an imperative changing of the subject! she looked at him wonderingly. why should he change the subject? was he annoyed at edith's bad taste in referring to the creature? but edith's taste was always bad, and maurice was not generally so sensitive to it; not as sensitive as he ought to be! or as he had been in those old days when he had said that eleanor was too lovely to know the wickedness of the world, and he "didn't want her to"! she was really perplexed; and when edith rushed off to make the cakes, and maurice went indoors, she sat there in the garden, looking absently out through the rusty bars of the iron gate at the distant glimmer of the river, and wondered: "why?" she was still wondering even when the mortons arrived, bringing with them--of all people!--doctor nelson. (_"gosh!"_ said maurice.) "we're celebrating his appointment at the hospital; he's the new superintendent!" mrs. morton explained. eleanor said, mechanically, "so glad to see you, doctor nelson!" but she was saying to herself, "_why_ was maurice provoked when edith spoke of mrs. dale?" when some more noisy and very young people arrived, she was too abstracted to talk to them. she was so silent that most of them forgot her; until mrs. morton, suddenly remembering her existence, tried to be conversational: "i suppose mr. curtis told you of our wild adventure on the river in august, when we got beached and spent the afternoon on a mud flat?" "no," eleanor said, vaguely. but afterward, when the guests had gone, she said to maurice, "why didn't you tell me about your adventure with the mortons?" "he told me," edith said, complacently. "i forgot, i suppose," maurice said, carelessly, and lounged off into the house to sit down at the piano--where lie immediately "forgot" not only the adventure on the river--but even his dismay at seeing doctor nelson!--who by this time was, of course, quite certain that it was a "rum world." that winter--although he was not conscious of it--maurice's "forgetfulness" in regard to his wife became more and more marked, so it was a year of darkening loneliness for eleanor. she was at last on that "desert island"--which had once seemed so desirable to her;--she had nothing to interest her except her music (and the quality of her voice was changing, pathetically); furthermore, maurice rarely asked her to sing, so the passion had gone out of what voice she had! she didn't care for books; she didn't know how to sew; and, except for mrs. newbolt, there was no one she wanted to see. often, in her empty evenings, while edith was in her own room studying, she sat by the fire and cried, and broke her heart upon her desire for a child--"_then_ he would be happy, and stay at home!" it was a dull house; so dull that edith made up her mind to get out of it for her next winter at fern hill. when she went home for the easter vacation, she expressed decided opinions: "father, once, ages ago"--she was sitting on her father's knee, and tormenting him by trying to take his cigar away from him--"you got off something about the dinner of herbs and eleanor's stalled ox--" "good heavens, buster! you haven't said that before eleanor?" "ha! i got a rise out of you!" edith said, joyfully; "i haven't mentioned it, _yet_; but i shall make a point of doing so unless you order two pounds of candy for me, _at once_. well, i suppose what you meant was that eleanor is stupid?" "mary," said henry houghton, "your blackmailing daughter is displaying a glimmer of intelligence." "i'm only reminding you of your own remark," edith said, "to explain why i want to be in one of the dormitories next winter. eleanor _is_ stupid--though she's never fed me on stalled ox! and i think she sort of doesn't like it because i'm not _awfully_ fond of music." "you are an absolute heathen about music," her father said. "well, it bores me," edith explained, cheerfully; "though i adore maurice's playing. maurice is a lamb, and i adore just being in the house with him! but she's nasty to him sometimes. and when she is, i'd like to choke her!" "edith--edith--" her mother remonstrated. and her father reminded her that she must _not_ lose her temper. "let your other parent be a warning to you as to the horrors of an uncontrolled temper," said henry houghton; "i have known your mother, in one of her outbursts of fury, so far forget herself as to say, _'oh, my!'_" edith grinned, but insisted, "eleanor is dull as all get out!" "consider the stars," mrs. houghton encouraged her. but mr. houghton said, "mary, you've got to do something about this girl's english! ... you miss john bennett?" he asked edith (johnny was taking a special course in an eastern institute of technology). "he did well enough to fill in the chinks," edith said, carelessly; "but it's maurice's being away that takes the starch out of me. he's everlastingly tearing off on business. and when he's at home--" edith was suddenly grave--"of course maurice is always 'the boy stands on the burning deck'; but you can't help seeing that he's fed up on poor old eleanor! sometimes i wonder he ever does come home! if i were in his place, when she gets to nagging _i'd_ go right up in the air! i'd say, well,--something. but he keeps his tongue between his teeth." that evening, when henry houghton was alone with his wife, he said what he thought about maurice: "he _is_ standing on the burning deck of this pathetic marriage of his, magnificently. he never bats an eyelash! (your daughter's slang is vulgar.)" "eleanor is the pathetic one," mary houghton said, sadly; "maurice has grown cynical--which is a sort of protection to him, i suppose. yes; i'm afraid edith is right; she'd better be out at the school next winter. it isn't well for a girl to see differences between a husband and wife.... henry, you shan't have another cigar! that's the third since supper! dear, what _is_ the trouble about maurice?" "mary, things have come to a pretty pass, when you snoop around and count up my cigars! i _will_ smoke!" but he withdrew an empty hand from his cigar box, and said, sighing, "i wish i could tell you about maurice; kit; but i can't betray his confidence." "if i guessed, you wouldn't betray anything?" "well, no. but--" "i guessed it a good while ago. some foolishness about a woman, of course. or--or badness?" she ended, sadly. he nodded. "i wish i was asleep whenever i think of it! mary, there are some pretty steep grades on fool hill, and he's had hard climbing.... it's ancient history now; but i can't go into it." "of course not. oh, my poor maurice! does eleanor know?" "heavens, no! it wouldn't do." "honey, the unforgivable thing, to a woman, is not the sin, but the deceit. and, besides, eleanor loves him enough to forgive him. she would die for him, i really believe!" "yet the green-eyed monster looks out of her eyes if he plays checkers with edith! my darling," said henry houghton, "as i have before remarked, your ignorance on this one subject is colossal. _women can't stand truth._" "it's a provision of nature, then, that all men are liars?" she inquired, sweetly; "henry, the loss of edith's board won't trouble maurice much, will it?" "not _as_ much, of course, now that he has all his money; but he has to scratch gravel to make four ends meet," henry houghton said. "_four_ ends!" she said; "oh, is it as bad as that? he has to support--somebody?" he said, "yes; so long as you have guessed. mary, i really must have a smoke." "why _am_ i so weak-minded as to give in to you!" she sighed; then handed him the cigar box, and scratched a match for him; he held her wrist--the sputtering match in her fingers--lighted the cigar, blew out the match, and kissed her hand. "you are a snooper and a porcupine about tobacco; but otherwise quite a nice woman," he said. chapter xx when edith's easter vacation was over, and she went back to mercer, she was followed by a letter from mrs. houghton to eleanor, explaining the plan for the school dormitory the following winter. but there was another letter, to maurice, addressed (discreetly) to his office. it was from henry houghton, and it was to the effect that if any "unexpected expenses" came along, and maurice felt strapped because of the cessation of edith's board, he must let mr. houghton know; then a suggestion as to realizing on certain securities. "that's considerate in him," eleanor said; "but i don't know what 'unexpected expenses' we could have?" it was a chilly april day. maurice happened to be laid up home with a sore throat; eleanor, searching for a cook, had stopped at his office for a lease he wanted to see, and brought back with her some mail she found on his desk. "i knew this letter was from mr. houghton, so i opened it," she said, as she handed it to him. his instant and very sharp annoyance surprised her. "i wouldn't open your _business_ letters," she defended herself; "but i didn't suppose you'd mind my seeing anything the houghtons might write--" "i don't like to have any of my mail opened!" he said, briefly, his eyes raking henry houghton's letter, and discovering (of course!) nothing in the fine, precise handwriting which was in the least betraying. ("but suppose he _had_ said what the 'unexpected expenses' might be!") "we shall miss edith's board," eleanor said; "but, oh, i'll be so glad to have her go!" maurice was silent. "if she lives in medfield all the time, she'll be sure and run into lily," he thought. "the devil's in it." he was in his bedroom, wrapped up in a blanket, shivering and hot and headachy. the chance of edith's "running into lily" would, of course, be even less if she were at fern hill, than it was now when she was going back and forth in the trolley every day; but he was so uncomfortable, physically, that he didn't think of that; and his preoccupation made him blind to eleanor's hurt look. "i am willing to have you read all _my_ letters," she said. "i'm not willing to have you read mine!" he retorted. "why not?" she demanded--"unless you have secrets from me." "oh, eleanor, don't be an idiot!" he said, wearily. "i believe you _have_ secrets!" she said--and burst out crying and ran out of the room. he called her back and apologized for his irritability; but as he got better, he forgot that he had been irritable--he had something else to think of! he must get down to the office and write to mr. houghton, asking him to address personal letters to a post-office box. and he made things still safer by going out to medfield to see lily and give her the number of the box in case she, too, had occasion to write any "personal" letters, which, indeed, she very rarely had. "i say _that_ for her!" maurice told himself. he hoped--as he always did when he had to go to maple street, that he would not see it--an it which had, of course, long before this, acquired sufficient personality to its father to be referred to as "jacky"; a jacky who, in his turn, had discovered sufficient personality in maurice to call him "mr. gem'man"--a corruption of his mother's title for her very infrequent visitor, "the gentleman." jacky's "mr. gem'man" found the front door of the little house open, and, looking in, saw lily in the parlor, mounted on a ladder, hanging wall paper. she stepped down, laughing, and moved her bucket of paste out of his way. "won't you be seated?" she said. her rosy face was beaming with artistic satisfaction; "ain't this paper lovely?" she demanded; "it's one of them children's papers that's all the rage now. i call it a reg'lar art gallery! look at the pants on them rabbits! it pretty near broke me to buy it. the swells put this kind of paper in 'nurseries,' and stick their kids off in 'em; but that ain't _me_! i put it on the parlor! set down, won't you?" maurice sat down and, very much bored, listened while lily chattered on, with stories about jacky: "he says to the milkman yesterday, 'i like your shirt,' he says. and amos--that's his name--he said, 'you can get one like it when you're grown up like me.' and jacky, he says--oh, just as _sad_!--i'd rather have it now, 'cause when i grow up, maybe i'll be a lady.'" maurice smiled perfunctorily. "ain't he the limit?" lily demanded, proudly; "he's a reg'lar rascal! he stuck out his tongue at the grocer's boy, yesterday, 'cause he stepped on my pansy bed. i wish you could 'a' seen him." maurice swallowed a yawn. "he's fresh." "'course," lily said, quickly, "i gave him a smack! he's getting a good bringing up, mr. curtis. i give him a cent every morning, to say his prayers." maurice didn't care a copper about jacky's manners, or his morals, either; but he said, carelessly, "a kid that's fresh is a bore." lily frowned. when maurice, having explained about the letter box, gave her the usual "present" she made her usual good-natured protest--but this time there was more earnestness in it, and even a little sharpness. "i don't need it; i've got three more mealers--well, one of 'em can't pay me; her husband's out of work; but she don't eat more than a canary, poor thing! i can take care of jacky _myself_." the emphasis puzzled jacky's father for a moment. that lily, seeing the growing perfection of her handsome, naughty little boy, was becoming uneasy lest maurice might be moved to envy, never occurred to him. if it had, he would of course have been enormously relieved; he might even have played upon her fear of such an impossibility to induce her to move away from mercer! as it was, after listening to the account of the pansy catastrophe, he got up to go, thankful that he had not had to lay eyes on the child, whose voice he heard from the back yard. lily, friendly enough in spite of that moment of resentment, went to the front door with him. she had grown rather stout in the last year or two, but she was always as shiningly clean as a rose, and her little lodging house was clean, too; she was indefatigably thorough--scrubbing and sweeping and dusting from morning to night! "it's good business," said little lily; "and it is just honest, too, for they pay me good!" her only unbusinesslike quality was a generous kindliness, which sometimes considered the "mealers'" purses rather than her own. she had, to be sure, small outbursts of temper, when she "smacked" jacky, or berated her lodgers for wasting gas; but jacky was smothered with kisses even before his howls ceased, and the lodgers were placated with cookies the very next day--but that, too, was "good business"! her "respectability" had become a deep satisfaction to her. she occasionally referred to herself as "a perfect lady." her feeling about "imperfect" ladies was of most virulent disapproval. but she had no more spirituality than a hen. her face was as good-humored, and common, and pretty as ever; and she had a fund of not too refined, but always funny, stories to tell maurice; so he liked her, after a fashion, and she liked him, after a fashion, too, although she was a little afraid of him; his bored preoccupation seemed like sternness to lily. "grouchiness," she called it; "probably that's why he don't take to jacky," she thought; "well, it's lucky he don't, for he shouldn't have him!" but as maurice, on the little porch, said good-by, she really wondered at his queerness in not taking to jacky, who, grimy and handsome, was sitting on the ground, spooning earth into an empty lard pail. "come in out o' the dirt, sweety!" lily called to him. jacky rose reluctantly, then stood looking, open-mouthed, at his mother's visitor. "say," he remarked; "i kin swear." "you don't say so!" said maurice. "i kin say 'dam,'" jacky announced, gravely. "you are a great linguist! who instructed you in the noble art of profanity?" "huh?" said jacky, shyly. "who taught you?" "maw," said jacky. maurice roared; lily giggled,--"my soul and body! listen to that child! jacky, you naughty boy, telling wrong stories. one of these days i'm going to give you a reg'lar spanking." then she stamped her foot, for jacky had settled down again in the dust; "do you hear me? come right in out of the dirt! that's one on me!" she confessed, laughing: then added, anxiously: "say, mr. curtis, i do smack him when he says bad words; honest, i do! he's getting a _good_ bringing up, though my mealers spoil him something awful. but i'd just shake his prayers out of him, if he forgot 'em." maurice, still laughing, said: "well, don't become too proficient, jacobus. good-by," he said again. and as he said it, eleanor, in a trolley car, glanced out of the window and saw him. "why, there's maurice!" she said; and motioned to the conductor to stop. hunting for a cook had brought her to this impossible suburb, where maurice, no doubt, was trying to buy or sell a house. "i'll get out and walk home with him," she thought, eagerly. but the car would not stop until the end of the second block, and when she hurried back maurice had disappeared. he had either gone off in another direction, or else entered the house; but she could not remember which house!--those gingerbread tenements were all so much alike that it was impossible to be sure on which of the small porches she had seen her husband, and a fat, common-looking woman, and a child playing in the yard. all she could do was to wander up and down the block, looking at every front door in the hope that he would appear; as he didn't, she finally took the next car into town. "did you sell the house this afternoon?" she asked maurice at dinner that night; and he, remembering how part of his afternoon had been spent, said he hadn't any particular house on the string at the moment. "then what took you to medfield?" eleanor asked, simply. "medfield!" "i saw you out there this afternoon," she said; "you were talking to a woman. i supposed she was a tenant. i got off the car to walk home with you, but i wasn't sure of the house; they were all alike." "what were you doing in medfield?" "oh, hannah has given notice; i was hunting for a cook. i heard of one out on bell street." "did you find her?" "no," eleanor said, sighing, "it's perfectly awful!" "too bad!" her husband sympathized. in the parlor, after dinner, while eleanor was getting out the cards for solitaire, maurice, tingling with alarm and irritation, sat down at the piano and banged out all sorts of chords and discords. "lily'll _have_ to move," he was saying to himself. (bang--_bang!_) his imagination raced with the possibilities of what would have happened if eleanor had found the house which was "like all the other houses," and heard his "good-by" to lily, or perhaps even caught the latest addition to jacky's vocabulary! "the jig would have been up," he thought. (bang--crash!)... "she'll _have_ to move! suppose eleanor took it into her head to hunt her up? she's capable of it!" (crash!) eleanor's absorption in the cook she could not find kept her for nearly forty-eight hours from speculation as to what, if not office business, took maurice to medfield. when she did begin to speculate she said to herself, "he doesn't tell me things about his business!" then she was stabbed again by his annoyance because she had opened the letter from mr. houghton; then by his secretiveness in regard to that adventure on the river with mrs. morton. (he had told edith!) then this--then that--and by and by a tiny heap of nothings, that implied reserves. he wasn't confidential. she told him _everything_! she never kept a thing from him! and he didn't even tell her why he was over in medfield when no real-estate matters took him there. why should he _not_ tell her? and when she said that, the inevitable answer came: he didn't tell her, because he didn't want her to know! perhaps he had friends there? no. no friends of maurice's could live in such a locality. well, perhaps there was some woman? even as she said this, she was ashamed. she knew she didn't believe it. of course there wasn't any woman!... but, at any rate, he had interests in medfield that he did not tell her about. she hinted this to him at breakfast the next morning. she had not meant to speak of it; she knew she would be sorry if she did. eleanor was incapable of analysis, but she was, in her pitiful way, aware that jealousy, _when articulate_, is almost always vulgar--perhaps because the decorums of breeding (which insist that, for the sake of others, one's own pain must be hidden) are not propped up by the reserves of pride. at any rate, she was not often publicly bitter to maurice. this time, however, she was. "apparently," she said, "maurice has acquaintances on maple street whom i don't know." "the élite," edith remarked, facetiously; "his lovely mrs. dale lives there." maurice's start was perceptible. "perhaps it was mrs. dale you went to see?" eleanor said. maurice, trained in these years of furtiveness to self-control, said, "does she live on maple street, edith?" "i guess so. the time i rescued her little boy and her flower pot, ages ago, she was going into a house on maple street." "i saw maurice in medfield on thursday," said eleanor; "and he doesn't seem to want to say what he was doing there!" "i am perfectly willing to tell you what i was doing," he retorted; "i went from our office to see the woman who rents the house." eleanor's slow mind accepted this entirely true and successfully false remark with only the wonder of wounded love. "why didn't he say that at first?" she thought; "why does he hide things from me?" maurice, however, made sure of that "hiding." eleanor's attack upon him frightened him so badly that that very afternoon, after office hours (eleanor being safe in bed with a headache), he went to see lily. her astonishment at another visit so soon was obvious; she was still further astonished when he told her why he had come. he hated to tell her. to speak of eleanor offended his taste--but it had to be done. so, stammering, he began--but broke off: "send that child away!" "run out in the yard, sweety," lily commanded. "won't," said jacky. "clear out!" maurice said, sharply, and jacky obeyed like a shot--but paused on the porch to turn the ferociously clanging doorbell round and round and round. "well," maurice began, "i'll tell you what's happened... lily! make him stop!" "say, now, jacky, stop," lily called; but jacky, seized apparently with a new idea, had already stopped, and was running out on to the pavement. so again maurice began his story. lily's instant and sympathetic understanding was very reassuring. he even caught himself, under the comfort of her quick co-operation, ranging himself with her, and saying _"we."_ "we've got to guard against anything happening, you know." "oh, my soul and body, yes!" lily agreed; "it would be too bad, and no sense, either; you and me just acquaintances. 'course i'll move, mr. curtis. but, there! i hate to leave my garden--and i've just papered this room! and i don't know where to go, either," she ended, with a worried look. "how would you like to go to new york?" he said, eagerly. she shook her head: "i've got a lot of friends in this neighborhood. but there's a two-family house on ash street--" "say," said jacky, in the hall; "i got--" "oh, but you must leave medfield!" he protested; "she"--that "she" made him wince--"she may try to hunt you up." "she can't. she don't know my name." maurice felt as if privacy were being pulled away from his soul, as skin might be flayed from living flesh. "but you see," he began, huskily, "there's a--a girl who lives with us; and she--she mentioned your name." then, cringing, he told her about edith. lily looked blankly puzzled; then she remembered; "why, yes, sure enough! it was right at the gate--oh, as much as four years ago; i slipped, and she grabbed jacky. yes; it comes back to me; she told me she seen me the time we got ducked. 'course, i gave her the glassy eye, and said i didn't remember the gentleman in the boat with her. and she caught on that i lived here? well, now, ain't the world small?" "damned small," maurice said, dryly. "say," said jacky, from the doorway, "i got a--" "well, she--i mean this young lady--told my--ah, wife that you lived on maple street, and--" he was stammering with angry embarrassment; lily gave a cluck of dismay. "confound it!" said maurice; "what'll we do?" "now, don't you worry!" lily said, cheerfully. "if she ever speaks to me again, i'll say, 'why, you have the advantage of me!'" her mincing politeness made him laugh, in spite of his irritation. "i think you'd like it in new york?" he urged. lily's amber eyes were full of sympathy--but she was firm: "i wouldn't live in new york for anything!" "mr. gem'man," said jacky, sidling crabwise into the room to the shelter of his mother's skirt; "i--" "say, now, sweety, be quiet! no, mr. curtis; i only go into real good society, and i've always heard that new york ladies ain't what they should be. and, besides, i want a garden for jacky. i'll tell you what i'll do! i'll take the top flat in that house on ash street. it has three little rooms i could let. there's a widow lady's been asking me to go in on it with her; it has a garden back of it jacky could play in--last summer there was a reg'lar hedge of golden glow inside the fence! mr. curtis, you'd 'a' laughed! he pinched an orange off a hand-cart yesterday, just as cute! 'course i gave him a good slap, and paid the man; but i had to laugh, he was so smart. and he's got going now, on god--since i've been paying him to say his prayers. well, i suppose i'll have to be going to church one of these days," she said, resignedly. "the questions he asks about god are something fierce! _i_ don't know how to answer 'em. crazy to know what god eats--i told him bad boys." "lily, i don't think--_thunder and guns!_" said maurice, leaping to his feet and rubbing his ankle; "lily, call him off! the little wretch put his teeth into me!" lily, horrified, slapped her son, who explained, bawling, "well, b-b-but he didn't let on he heard me tellin' him that i--" "i _felt_ you," maurice said, laughing; "gosh, lily! he's cut his eyeteeth--i'll say that for him!" he poked jacky with the toe of his boot, good-naturedly: "don't howl, jacobus. sorry i hurt your feelings. lily, what i was going to say was, i don't believe that ash street place is what you want?" "yes, it is. the widow lady is a dressmaker, and she has three children. we were talking about it only yesterday. her father's feeble-minded, poor old man! i take him in some doughnuts whenever i fry 'em. mr. curtis, don't worry; i'll fix it, somehow! and until i get moved, i won't answer the bell here. look! i'll give you a key, and you can come in without ringing if you want to." "no--_no_! i don't want a key! i wouldn't take a key for a million dollars!" lily's quick flush showed how innocent her offer had been. "i suppose that doesn't sound very high toned--to offer a gentleman a key? but i'll tell you! i ain't giving any door keys to my house. jacky ain't ever going to feel funny about his mother," she said, sharply. it was on the tip of maurice's tongue to say, "nor about his father!" but he was silent. it was the first time his mind had articulated his paternity, and the mere word made him dumb with disgust. lily, however, was her kind little self again, full of promises to "clear out," and reassurances that "_she_" would never get on to it. it was then that the grimness of the situation for maurice lightened for a ridiculous moment. jacky, breathing very hard, peered from behind his mother, and stretched out to maurice an extremely dirty, tightly clenched fist. "i got a--a pre-present for you," he explained, panting. maurice, in a great hurry to get away, paused to put out his hand, in which his son placed, very gently, a slimy, half-smoked cigar. "found it," jacky said, in a stertorous whisper, "in the gutter." it was impossible not to laugh, and maurice swallowed his impatience long enough to say, "jacobus, you overwhelm me!" then he took his departure, holding the gift between a reluctant thumb and finger. "funny little beggar," he said to himself, and pitched the stub into the gutter from which jacky had salvaged it; he didn't look back to see his son hanging over the palings, watching the fate of his present with stricken eyes... so it was that, when the day came that eleanor did actually begin to search for what was hidden, maple street was empty of possibilities; lily had flitted away into the secrecy of the two-family house on ash street. it was nearly three months before the search began. edith had gone home, mrs. newbolt was at the sea-shore, and maurice was in and out--away for two or three days at a time on office business, and when at home absent almost every evening with some of those youthful acquaintances who seemed ignorant of eleanor's existence. so there were long hours when, except for her little old dog, she was entirely alone--alone, to brood over maurice's queer look when she had accused him of having an "acquaintance on maple street"; and by and by she said, "i'll find out who it is!" yet she had moments of trying to tear from her mind the idea of any concealment, because the mere suspicion was an insult to maurice! she had occasional high moments of saying, "i _won't_ think he has secrets from me; i'll trust him." but still, because suspicion is the diversion of an empty mind, she played with it, as one might play with a dagger, careful only not to let it touch the quick of belief. after a while she deluded herself into thinking that, to exonerate maurice, she must prove the suspicion false! it was only fair to him to do that. so she must find the woman whom she had seen on the porch with him. if she wasn't mrs. dale, that would "prove" that everything was all right, and that maurice's presence there only meant that he was attending to office business; nothing to be jealous about in _that_! and if the woman _was_ mrs. dale? eleanor's throat contracted so sharply that she gasped. but again and again she put off the search for the exonerating proof--for she was ashamed of herself, "i'll do it to-morrow." ... "i'll do it next week." it was a scorching, windy july day when she took her first defiling step and "did it." there had been a breakfast-table discussion of a vacation at green hill, the usual invitation having been received. "do go," maurice had urged. "i'll do what i did last year--hang around here, and go to the ball games, and come up to green hill for sundays." he was acutely anxious to have her go. she was silent. "_why_ does he want to be alone?" she thought; "why--unless he goes over to medfield?" then, in sudden decision, she said to herself, "i will find out why, to-day!" but she was afraid that maurice would, somehow, guess what she was going to do; so, to throw him quite off the track, she told him that donny o'brien was sick again; "i must go and see him this morning," she said. maurice, reading the sports page of the morning paper, said, "too bad!" and went on reading. he had no interest in his wife's movements; the two-family house on ash street was beyond her range! an hour later, eleanor, giving bingo a cooky to console him for being left at home, started out into the blazing heat, saying to herself: "i'll recognize her the minute i see her. of course i _know_ she isn't the dale woman, but i want to _prove_ that she isn't!" her plan was to ring the bell at every one of the gingerbread houses on that block on maple street, and ask if mrs. dale lived there? if she was not to be found, that would prove that maurice had not gone to see her. if she was found, why, then--well, then eleanor would say that she had heard that the house was in the market? if mrs. dale said it was not, that would show that it wasn't "office business" which had brought maurice to that porch! on maple street the heat blazed up from the untidy pavement, and a harsh wind was whirling little spirals of dust up and down the dry gutter. eleanor's heart was beating so smotheringly that when her first ring was answered she could scarcely speak: "does mrs. dale live here?" "no," said the girl who opened the door, "there ain't nobody by that name livin' here." and at the next door: "mrs. dale? no. this is mrs. mahoney's house." it was at the sixth house, where some dusty pansies were drying up under the little bay window, that a woman whose red, soapy hands had just left the wash tub, said: "some folks with that name lived here before i took the house. but they moved away. she was real nice; used to give candy to the children round here. she was a widow lady. she told me her husband's name was joseph. was it her you was looking for?" "i don't know her husband's name," eleanor said. "her baby had measles when mine did," the woman went on; "i lived across the street, then. but i took a fancy to the house, because she'd papered the parlor so handsome, so i moved in the first of may, when she got out." a little cold, prickling thrill ran down eleanor's back. she had told herself that "maurice had a secret"; but she had not really believed that the secret was about mrs. dale. she had been sure, in the bottom of her heart, that she would be able to "prove" that the woman he had been talking to that day was not mrs. dale. now, she had proved--that she was. eleanor swayed a little, and put her hand out to clutch at the porch railing. the woman exclaimed: "come in and sit down! i'll get you a glass of water." eleanor followed her into the kitchen and sat down on a wooden chair. she was silent, but she whitened slowly. the mistress of the house, scared at her pallor, ran to draw a tumbler of water from the faucet in the sink; she held it to eleanor's lips, apologizing for her wet hands: "i was tryin' to get my wash out.... where do you feel bad?" "it's so hot, that's all," eleanor said, faintly: "i--i'm not ill--thank you very much." she tried to smile, but the ruthless glare of sunshine through the open kitchen door showed her face strained, as if in physical suffering. "i'm awfully sorry i can't tell you where mrs. dale lives," the woman said, sympathetically. "was she a friend of yours?" eleanor shook her head. "there! i'll tell you who maybe could tell you--the doctor. he took care of her baby. doctor nelson--" "nelson!" "he's the hospital doctor now. why don't you ask him?" "thank you," said eleanor vaguely. she rose, saying she felt better and was much obliged. then she went out on to the porch, and down the broken steps to the windy scorching street. she was certain: maurice had gone to medfield to see mrs. dale... _why?_ she was quite calm, so calm that she found herself thinking that she had forgotten to get an yeast cake for mary. "i'll get it as i go home," she thought. but as she stood waiting for the car it occurred to her that she had better think things out before she went home. better not see maurice until she had decided just how she should tell him that there was no use having secrets from her! that she _knew_ he was seeing mrs. dale! then he would have to tell her _why_ he was seeing her... there could be only one reason... for a moment she was suffocated by that "reason"! she let the returning car pass, and signaled the one going out into the country; she would go, she told herself, to the end of the route, and by that time she would know what to do. the car was crowded, but a kindly faced young woman rose and offered her a seat. eleanor declined it, although her knees were trembling. "oh, do take it!" the woman urged, pleasantly, and eleanor could not resist sinking into it. "you are very kind," she said, smiling faintly. the woman smiled, too, and said, "well, i always think what i'd like anyone to do for my mother, if _she_ couldn't get a seat in a car! i guess you're about her age." eleanor hardly heard her; she sat staring out of the window--staring at that same landscape on which she and maurice had gazed in the unseeing ecstasy of their fifty-four minutes of married life! "he said we would come back in fifty years--not by ourselves." as she said that, a thought stabbed her! _there was a child that day, in the yard!_ when she saw that the car was approaching the end of the route, she thought of the locust tree, and the blossoming grass, and the whispering river. "i'll go there, and think," she said. "all out!" said the conductor; and she rose and walked, stumbling once or twice, and with one hand outstretched, as if--in the dazzling july day--she had to feel her way in an enveloping darkness. she went down the country road, where the bordering weeds were white with dust, toward that field of young love, and clover, and blue sky. when she reached the river, curving around the meadow, brown and shallow in the midsummer droughts, she saw that the big locust was long past blossoming, but some elderberry bushes, in full bloom, made the air heavy with acrid perfume; the grass, starred by daisies, and with here and there a clump of black-eyed susans, was ready for mowing, and was tugging at its anchoring roots, blowing, and bending, and rippling in the wind, just as it had that other day!... "and i sat right here, by the tree," she said, "and he lay there--i remember the exact place. and he took my hand--" her mind whirled like a merry-go-round: "well, i knew he was hiding something. i wish i had seen doctor nelson, and asked him where she lives. i wonder if he's the mortons' friend?... if i don't get that yeast cake to mary before lunch, she can't set the rolls.... edith saw her with a child five years ago. why"--her mind stumbled still farther back--"why, the very day edith arrived in mercer, maurice had been looking at some house in medfield, where the tenant had a sick child. that was why he was late in meeting mrs. houghton!... the child had measles. i wish i had gone to see doctor nelson! then i would have known.... i can get some rolls at the bakery, and mary needn't set them for dinner. i sang 'o spring.'" she put her hands over her face, but there were no tears. "he kissed the earth, he was so happy. when did he stop being happy? what made him stop?... i wonder if there are any snakes here?--oh, i _must_ think what to do!" again her mind flew off at so violent a tangent that she felt dizzy. "i didn't tell mary what to have for dinner.... he gave her his coat, that time when the boat upset.... she was all painted, he said so." she picked three strands of grass and began to braid them together: "he did that; he made the ring, and put it over my wedding ring." mechanically she opened her pocketbook, and took out the little envelope, shabby now, with years of being carried there. she lifted the flap, and looked at the crumbling circle. then she put it back again, carefully, and went on with her toilsome thinking: "i'll tell him i know that he went to see the dale woman. ... he said we had been married fifty-four minutes. it's eight years and one month. he thinks i'm old. well, i am. that woman in the car thought i was her mother's age, and _she_ must have been thirty! why did he stop loving me? he hates mary's cooking. he said edith could make soup out of a paving stone and a blade of grass. edith is rude to me about music, and he doesn't mind! how vulgar girls are, nowadays. oh--i _hate_ her!... mary'll give notice if i say anything about her soup." suddenly through this welter of anger and despair a small, confused thought struggled up; it was so unexpected that she actually gasped: he hadn't quite lied to her! "there _was_ office business!" some real-estate transfer must have been put through, because--"mrs. dale had moved"! in her relief, eleanor burst into violent crying; he had not _entirely_ lied! to be sure, he didn't say that the woman whom he had gone "from the office" to see, the woman who rented the house, was mrs. dale; in that, he had not been frank; he kept the name back--but that was only a reserve! only a harmless secrecy. there was nothing _wrong_ in renting a house to the dale woman! as eleanor said this to herself, it was as if cool water flowed over flame-licked flesh. yes; he didn't talk to her as he did to edith of business matters; he didn't tell her about real-estate transactions; but that didn't mean that the dale woman was anything to him! she was crying hard, now; "he just isn't frank, that's all." she could bear _that_; it was cruel, but she could bear it! and it was a protection to maurice, too; it saved him from the slur of being suspected. "oh, i am ashamed to have suspected him!" she thought; "how dreadful in me! but i've proved that i was wrong." when she said that she knew, in a numb way, that after this she must not play with the dagger of an unbelieved suspicion. she recognized that this sort of thing may be a mental diversion--but it is dangerous. if she allowed herself to do it again, she might really be stabbed; she might lose the saving certainty that he had not lied to her--that he had only been "not frank." suddenly she remembered how unwilling he had been, years ago, to talk of the creature to her! she smiled faintly at his foolishness. perhaps he didn't want to talk of her now? men are so absurd about their wives! her heart thrilled at such precious absurdity. as for seeing that doctor--of course she wouldn't see him! she didn't _need_ to see him. and, anyhow, she wouldn't, for anything in the world, have him, or anybody else, suppose that she had had even a thought that maurice wasn't--all right! "he just wasn't quite frank; that was all." ... oh, she had been wicked to suspect him! "he would never forgive me if he knew i had thought of such a thing, he must never know it." in the comfort of her own remorse, and the reassurance of his half frankness, she walked back to the station and waited, in the midday heat, for the returning car. her head had begun to ache, but she said to herself that she must not disappoint little donny. so she went, in the blazing sun, to the old washerwoman's house, climbed three flights of stairs, and found the boy in bed, flushed with worry for fear "miss eleanor" wasn't coming. she took the little feeble body in her arms, and sat down in the steamy kitchen by an open window, where donny could see, on the clothes lines that stretched like gigantic spiderwebs across a narrow courtyard, shirts and drawers, flapping and kicking and bellying in the high, hot wind. she talked to him, and said that if his grandmother would hire a piano, she would give him music lessons;--and all the while her sore mind was wondering how old the mother of that woman in the car was? then she sang to donny--little merry, silly songs that made him smile: "the king of france, and forty thousand men, marched up a hill--" she stopped short; edith had thrown "the king of france" at her, that day of the picnic, when she had cringed away from the water and the slimy stones, and climbed up on the bank where she had been told to "guard the girl's shoes and stockings"! "oh, i'll be so glad to get her and her 'brains' out of the house!" eleanor thought. but her voice, lovely still, though fraying with the years--went on: "marched up a hill-- _and then marched down again_!" when, with a splitting headache, she toiled home through the heat, she said to herself: "he ought to have been frank, and told me the woman was mrs. dale; i wouldn't have minded, for i know such a person couldn't have interested him. she had no figure, and she looked stupid. he couldn't have said _she_ had 'brains'! that girl in the car was impertinent." chapter xxi the heat and the wind--and remorse--gave eleanor such a prolonged headache that maurice, in real anxiety and without consulting her--wrote to mrs. houghton that "nelly was awfully used up by the hot weather," and might he bring her to green hill now, instead of later? her prompt and friendly telegram, "_come at once_," made him tell his wife that he was going to pack her off to the mountains, _quick_! she began to say no, she couldn't manage it; "i--i can't leave bingo" (she was hunting for an excuse not to leave maurice), "bingo is so miserable if i am out of his sight." "you can take him,--old rover's gone to heaven. think you can start to-morrow?" he sat down beside her and took her hand in his warm young paw; the pity of her made him frown--pity, and an intolerable annoyance at himself! she, a woman twice his age, had married him, when, of course, she ought to have told him not to be a little fool; "...wiped my nose and sent me home!" he thought, with cynical humor. but, all the same, she loved him. and he had played her a damned cheap trick!--which was hidden safely away in the two-family house on ash street. "hidden." what a detestable word! it flashed into maurice's mind that if, that night among the stars, he had made a clean breast of it all to eleanor, he wouldn't now be going through this business of hiding things--and covering them up by innumerable, squalid little falsenesses. "there would have been a bust-up, and she might have left me. but that would have been the end of it!" he thought; he would have been _free_ from what he had once compared to a dead hen tied around a dog's neck--the clinging corruption of a lie! the truth would have made him free. aloud, he said, "star,"--she caught her breath at the old lovely word--"i'll go to green hill with you, and take care of you for a few days. i'm sure i can fix it up at the office." the tears leaped to her eyes. "oh, maurice!" she said; "i haven't been nice to you. i'm afraid i'm--rather temperamental. i--i get to fancying things. one day last week i--had horrid thoughts about you." "about _me_?" he said, laughing; "well, no doubt i deserved 'em!" "no!" she said, passionately; "no--you didn't! i know you didn't. but i--" with the melody of that old name in her ears, her thoughts were too shameful to be confessed. she wouldn't tell him how she had wronged him in her mind; she would just say: "don't keep things from me, darling! be frank with me, maurice. and--" she stopped and tried to laugh, but her mournful eyes dredged his to find an indorsement of her own certainties--"and tell me you don't love anybody else?" she held her breath for his answer: "you _bet_ i don't!" the humor of such a question almost made him laugh. in his own mind he was saying, "lily, and _love_? good lord!" eleanor, putting her hand on his, said, in a whisper, "but we have no children. do you mind--very much?" "great scott! no. don't worry about _that_. that's the last thing i think of! now, when do you think you can start?" he spoke with wearied but determined gentleness. she did not detect the weariness,--the gentleness made her so happy; he called her "star"! he said he didn't love anyone else! he said he didn't mind because they had no children.... oh, how dreadful for her to have had those shameful fears--and out in "their meadow," too! it was sacrilege.... aloud, she said she could be ready by the first of the week; "and you'll stay with me? can't you take two weeks?" she entreated. "oh, i can't afford _that_" he said; "but i guess i can manage one...." later that day, when she told mrs. newbolt--who had come home for a fortnight--what maurice had planned for her, eleanor's happiness ebbed a little in the realization that he would be in town all by himself, "for a whole week! he'll go off with the mortons, i suppose," she said, uneasily. "well," said mrs. newbolt, with what was, for her, astonishing brevity, "why shouldn't he? don't forget what my dear father said about cats: _'open the door!'_ tell maurice you _want_ him to go off with the mortons!" of course eleanor told him nothing of the sort. but she was obliged, at green hill, to watch him "going off" with edith. "i should think," she said once, "that mrs. houghton wouldn't want her to be wandering about with you, alone." "perhaps mrs. houghton doesn't consider me a desperate character," he said, dryly; "and, besides, johnny bennett chaperones us!" sometimes not even john's presence satisfied eleanor, and she chaperoned her husband herself. she did it very openly one day toward the end of maurice's little vacation. henry houghton had said, "look here; you boys" (of course johnny was hanging around) "must earn your salt! we've got to get the second mowing in before night. i'll present you both with a pitchfork." to which maurice replied, "bully!" "me, too!" said edith. and john said, "i'll be glad to be of any assistance, sir." ("how their answers sum those youngsters up!" mr. houghton told his mary.) eleanor, dogging maurice to a deserted spot on the porch, said, uneasily, "don't do it, darling; it's too hot for you." but he only laughed, and started off with the other two to work all morning in the splendid heat and dazzle of the field. "skeezics, don't be so strenuous!" he commanded, once; and johnny was really nervous: "it's too hot for you, buster." "too hot for your grandmother!" edith said--bare-armed, open-throated, her creamy neck reddening with sunburn. toward noon, maurice's chaperon, toiling out across the hot stubble to watch him, called from under an umbrella, "edith! you'll get freckled." "when i begin to worry about my complexion, i'll let you know," edith retorted; "maurice, your biceps are simply great!" "_how_ she flatters him!" eleanor thought; "and she knows he is looking at her." he was! edith, lifting a forkful of hay, throwing the weight on her right thigh and straining backward with upraised arms, her big hat tumbling over one ear, and the sweat making her hair curl all around her forehead, was something any man would like to look at! no man would want to look at eleanor--a tired, dull, jealous woman, whose eyes were blinking from the glare and whose face sagged with elderly fatigue. she turned silently and went away. "he likes to be with her--but he doesn't say so. oh, if he would only be frank!" her eyes blurred, but she would not let the tears come, so they fell backward into her heart--which brimmed with them, to overflow, after a while, in bitter words. edith, watching the retreating figure, never guessing those unshed tears, said, despairingly, to herself, "i suppose i ought to go home with her?" she dropped her pitchfork; "i'll come back after dinner, boys," she said; "i must look after eleanor now." "quitter!" maurice jeered; but johnny said, "i'm glad she's gone; it's too much for a girl." his eyes followed her as she went running over the field to catch up with eleanor, who, on the way back to the house, only poke once; she told edith that flattery was bad taste the cup overflowed! "men hate flattery," she said. "hate it?" said edith, "they lap it up!" when the two young men sat down under an oak for their noon hour, with a bucket of buttermilk standing precariously in the grass beside them, john said again, anxiously, "it was too hot for her; i hope she won't have a headache." "she always has headaches," maurice said, carelessly. "what!" said bennett, alarmed; "she's never said a word to me about headaches." "oh, you mean edith? i thought you meant eleanor. edith never had a headache in her life! some girl, johnny?" "has that just struck you?" said john. maurice fished some grass seeds out of the buttermilk, took a deep draught of it, and looked at his companion, lying full length on the stubble in the shadow of the oak. it came to him with a curious shock that bennett was in love. no "calf love" this time! just a young man's love for a young woman--sound and natural, and beautiful, and right.... "i wonder," maurice thought, "does she know it?" it seemed as if johnny, puffing at his pipe, and slapping a mosquito on his lean brown hand, answered his thought: "edith's astonishingly young. she doesn't realize that she's grown up." there was a pause; "_or that i have._" maurice was silent; he suddenly felt old. these two--these children!--believing in love, and in each other, were in a world of their own; a world which knew no hidden household in the purlieus of mercer; no handsome, menacing, six-year-old child; no faded, jealous woman, overflowing with wearisome caresses! in this springtime world was edith--vigorous, and sweet, and supremely reasonable;--and _never_ temperamental! and this young man, loving her.... maurice turned over on his face in the grass; but he did not kiss the earth's "perfumed garment"; he bit his own clenched fist. he was very silent for the rest of their day in the field for one thing, they had to work at a high pitch, for then were blue-black clouds in the west! at a little after three edith came out again, but not to help. "i had to put on my glad rags," she said, sadly, "because some people are coming to tea. i hate 'em--i mean the rags." maurice stopped long enough to turn and look at her, and say, "they're mighty pretty!" and so, indeed, they were--a blue organdie, with white ribbons around the waist, and a big white hat with a pink rose in a knot of black velvet on the brim. "how's eleanor?" he said, beginning to skewer a bale of hay on to his pitchfork. "she's afraid there's going to be a thunderstorm," edith said; "that's why i came out here. she wants you, maurice." "all right," he said, briefly; and struck his fork down in the earth. "i've got to go, johnny." to do one's duty without love is doubtless better than to fail in doing one's duty, but it has its risks. maurice's heartless "kindness" to his wife was like a desert creeping across fertile earth; the eager generosity of boyhood had long ago hardened into the gray aridity of mere endurance. edith turned and walked back with him; they were both silent until maurice said, "you've got johnny's scalp all right, skeezics." "don't be silly!" she said; her annoyance made her look so mature that he was apologetic; was she in love with the cub? he was suddenly dismayed, though he could not have said why. "i don't like jokes like that," edith said. "i beg your pardon, edith. i somehow forget you're grown up," he said, and sighed. she laughed. "eleanor and you have my age on your minds! eleanor informed me that i was too old to be rampaging round making hay with you two boys! and she thinks i 'flatter' you," edith said, grinning. "i trust i'm not injuring your immortal soul, maurice, and making you vain of your muscle?" instantly he was angry. eleanor, daring to interfere between himself and edith? he was silent for the rest of the walk home; and he was still silent when he went up to his wife's room and found her lying on her bed, old bingo snoozing beside her--windows closed, shades down. "oh, maurice!" she said, with a gasp of relief; "i was so afraid you would get caught in a thunderstorm!" "_don't_ be so absurd!" he said. "i--i love you; that's why i am 'absurd,'" she said, piteously. it was as if she held to his lips the cup of her heart, brimming with those unshed tears,--but is there any man who would not turn away from a cup that holds so bitter a draught? maurice turned away. "this room is insufferably hot!" he said. he let a window curtain roll up with a jerk, and flung open a window. she was silent. "i wish," he said, "that you'd let up on edith. you're always criticizing her. i don't like it." * * * * * that night johnny bennett, somehow, lured edith out on to the porch to say good night. the thunderstorm had come and gone, and the drenched garden was heavy with wet fragrance. "let's sit down," johnny said; then, beseechingly, "edith, don't you feel a little differently about me, now?" "oh, johnny, _dear_!" "just a little, edith? you don't know what it would mean to me, just to hope?" "johnny, i am awfully fond of you, but--" "well, never mind," he said, patiently, "i'll wait." he went down the steps, hesitated, and, while edith was still squeezing a little wet ball of a handkerchief against her eyes, came back. "do you mind if i ask you just one question, edith?" "of course not! only, johnny, it just about _kills_ me to be--horrid to you." "have you really got to be horrid?" said john bennett. "johnny, i _can't_ help it!" "is it because there's any other fellow, edith? that's the question i wanted to ask you." she was silent. "edith, i really think i have a right to know?" still she didn't speak. "of course, if there _is_--" "there isn't!" she broke in.... "why, johnny, you're the best friend i have. no; there isn't anybody else. the honest truth is, i don't believe i'm the sort of girl that gets married. i can't imagine caring for _anybody_ as much as i care for father and mother and maurice. i--i'm not sentimental, johnny, a bit. i'm awfully fond of you; _awfully_! you come next to maurice. but--but not that way. that's the truth, johnny. i'm perfectly straight with you; you know that? and you won't throw me over, will you? if i lost you, i declare i--i don't know what i'd do! you won't give me up, will you?" john bennett was silent for a long minute; then he said, "no, edith; i'll never give you up, dear." and he went away into the darkness. chapter xxii edith's flight to one of the schoolhouses was not the entire release that eleanor expected. "look here, skeezics," maurice had announced; "you can't turn me down this way! you've got to come to supper every sunday night!--when i'm at home. isn't that so, nelly?" eleanor said, bleakly: "why, if edith would _like_ to, of course. but i shouldn't think she'd care to come in to town at six, and rush out to medfield right after supper." "i don't mind," edith said. "you bet she won't rush off right after supper!" maurice said; "i won't let her. and if she doesn't get in here by three o'clock, i'll know the reason why!" so edith came in every sunday afternoon at three--and eleanor never left her alone with maurice for a moment! she sat and watched them; saw edith's unconcealed affection for maurice, saw maurice's pleasure in edith, saw his entire forgetfulness of herself,--and as she sat, silently, watching, watching, jealousy was like a fire in her breast. however, in spite of eleanor, sitting on the other side of the fire, in bitter silence, those sunday afternoons were delightful to edith. she and maurice were more serious with each other now. his feeling about her was that she was a mighty pretty girl, who had sense, and who, as he expressed it, "spoke his language." her feeling about him was a frankly expressed appreciation which eleanor called "flattery." she had an eager respect for his opinions, based on admiration for what she called to herself his hard-pan goodness. "how he keeps civil to eleanor, _i_ don't know!" edith used to think. sometimes, watching his civility--his patience, his kindness, and especially his ability to hold his tongue under the provocation of some laconic and foolish criticism from eleanor--edith felt the old thrill of the sir walter raleigh moment. yes; there was no one on earth like maurice! then she thought, contritely, of good old johnny. "if i hadn't known maurice, i might have liked johnny," she thought; "he _is_ a lamb." when she reflected upon eleanor, something in her generous, careless young heart hardened: "she's not nice to maurice!" she had no sympathy for eleanor. youth, having never suffered, is brutally unsympathetic. edith had known nothing but love,--given and received; so of course she could not sympathize with eleanor! when the sunday-night suppers were over, eleanor and maurice escorted their guest back to fern hill; edith always said, "don't bother to go home with me, eleanor!" and maurice always said, "i'll look after the tyke, nelly, you needn't go"; and eleanor always said, "oh, i don't mind." which was, of course, her way of "locking the door" to keep her cat from a roof that became more alluring with every bolt and bar which shut him from it. on these trolley rides through medfield maurice was apt to be rather silent, and he had a nervous way of looking toward the rear platform whenever the car stopped to take on a passenger--"although," he told himself, "what difference would it make if lily did get on board? she's so fat now, edith wouldn't know her. and as for lily, she's white. she'd play up, like a 'perfect lady'!" he was quite easy about lily. he hadn't seen her for more than a year, and she made no demands on him. she was living in the two-family house on ash street, with the dressmaker and her three children and feeble-minded father, in the lower flat. there was the desired back yard for jacky, where a thicket of golden glow lounged against the fence, and where, tinder stretching clothes lines, a tiny garden overflowed with color and perfume. every day little lily would leave her own work (which was heavy, for she had several "mealers") and run downstairs to help mrs. hayes wash and dress the imbecile old man. and she kept a pot of hyacinths blooming on his window sill. maurice (with grinding economies) sent her a quarterly money order, and felt that he was, as he expressed it to himself, "square with the game,"--with the lily-and-jacky game. he could never be square with the game he played with eleanor; and as for his own "game," his steadily pursued secretiveness was a denial of his own standards which permanently crippled his self-respect. though, curiously enough, these years of careful lying had made him, on every subject except those connected with the household in medfield, of a most scrupulous truthfulness. indeed, the office still called him "g. washington." jacky was six that winter--a handsome, spoiled little boy. he looked like maurice--the same friendly, eager, very bright blue eyes and the same shock of blond hair. lily's ideas of discipline were, of course, ruining him, to which fact maurice was entirely indifferent; his feeling about jacky was nothing but a sort of spiritual nausea; jacky was not only an economic nuisance, but he had made him a liar! he said to himself that of course he didn't want anything to happen to the brat ("that would break lily's heart!"), but-- then in march, something did happen to him. it was on a sunday that the child came down with scarlet fever, and lily, in her terror, did the one thing that she had never done, and that maurice, in his certainty of her "whiteness," felt sure she never would or could do: she sent a telegram--_to his house_! it had been a cold, sunny day. just before luncheon eleanor had been summoned to mrs. o'brien's: "_donny is kind of pining; do please come and sing to him, miss eleanor_," the worried grandmother wrote, and eleanor hadn't the heart to refuse. "i suppose," she thought, looking at maurice and edith, "they'll be glad to get rid of me!" they were squabbling happily as to whether altruism was not merely a form of selfishness; edith had flung, "_idiot!_" at maurice; and maurice had retorted, "i never expect a woman to reason!" it was the kind of squabbling which is the hall mark of friendship and humor, and it would have been impossible between eleanor and her husband.... she left them, burning with impatience to get down to mrs. o'brien's and back again in the shortest possible time. as soon as she was out of the house maurice disposed of altruism by a brief laying down of the law: "there's no such thing as disinterestedness. you never do anything for anybody, except for what you get out of it for yourself.... let's go skating?" the suggestion was not the result of premeditation; maurice, politely opening the front door for his wife, had realized, as he stood on the threshold and a biting wind flung a handful of powdery snow in his face,--the sparkling coldness of the day; and he thought to himself, "this is about the last chance for skating! there'll be a thaw next week." so, when he came back, whistling, to the library, he said: "are you game for skating? it's cold as blazes!" and edith said: "you bet i am! only we'll have to go to fern hill for my skates!" maurice said, "all right!" and off they went, the glowing vigor and youth of them a beauty in itself! so it was that when eleanor got home, after having gently and patiently sung to poor donny for nearly an hour, the library was empty; but a note on the mantelpiece said: "we've gone skating.--e. and m." "she waited until i went out," eleanor thought; "_then_ she suggested it to him!" she sat down, huddling over the fire, and thinking how maurice neglected her; "he doesn't want me. he likes to go off with edith, alone!" they had probably gone to the river--"our river!"--that broad part just below the meadow, where there was apt to be good skating. that made her remember the september day and the picnic, when edith had talked about jealousy--"bingoism," she had called it. "she tried to attract him by being _smart_. i detest smartness!" the burning pain under her breastbone was intolerable. she thought of the impertinent things edith had said that day--and the ridiculous inference that if the person of whom you were jealous, was more attractive in any way than you were yourself, it was unreasonable to be jealous;--"get busy, and _be_ attractive!" edith had said, with pert shallowness. "she doesn't know what she's talking about!" eleanor said; and jealousy seared her mind as a flame might have seared her flesh. "i haven't skated since i was a girl.... i--i believe next winter i'll take it up again." the tears stood in her eyes. it was at that moment that the telegram was brought into the library. "mr. curtis isn't in," eleanor told the maid; then she did what anyone would do, in the absence of the person to whom the dispatch was addressed; signed for it ... opened it ... read it. _jacky's sick; please come over quick. l. d_. "there's no answer," she said. when the maid had left the room, maurice's wife moistened the flap of the flimsy brown envelope--it had been caught only on one side; got up, went into the hall, laid the dispatch on the table, came back to the library, and fainted dead away. no one heard her fall, so no one came to help her--except her little dog, scrabbling stiffly out of his basket, and coming to crouch, whining, against her shoulder. it was only a minute before her eyelids flickered open;--closed--opened again. after a while she tried to rise, clutching with one hand at the rung of a chair, and with the other trying to prop herself up; but her head swam, and she sank back. she lay still for a minute; then realized that if maurice came in and found her there on the floor, he would know that she had read the telegram.... so again she tried to pull herself up; caught at the edge of his desk, turned sick, saw everything black; tried again; then, slowly, the room whirling about her, got into a chair and lay back, crumpled up, blindly dizzy, and conscious of only one thing: she must get upstairs to her own room before edith and maurice came home! she didn't know why she wanted to do this; she was even a little surprised at herself, as she had been surprised when, that night on the mountain, "to save maurice," she had, instinctively, done one sensible thing after another. so now she knew that, when he came home with edith, maurice must be saved "a scene." he must not discover, yet, that ... _she knew_. for of course now, it was knowledge, not suspicion: maurice was summoned to see a sick boy called jacky; jacky was the child of l. d.; and l. d. was the dale woman, who had lived in the house on maple street. her shameful suspicion had not been shameful! it had been the recognition of a fact.... clutching at supporting chairs, eleanor, somehow, got out of the library; saw that brown envelope in the hall, stopped (holding with one hand to the table), to make sure it was sealed. bingo, following her, whimpered to be lifted and carried upstairs, but she didn't notice him. she just clung to the banisters and toiled up to her room. she pushed open her door and looked at her bed, desiring it so passionately that it seemed to her she couldn't live to reach it--to fall into it, as one might fall into the grave, enamored with death. down in the hall the little dog cried. she didn't faint again. she just lay there, without feeling, or suffering. after a while she heard the front door open and close; heard edith's voice: "hullo, eleanor! where are you? we've had a bully time!" heard maurice: "headache, nelly? too ba--" then silence; he must have seen the envelope--picked it up--read it.... that was why he didn't finish that word--so hideously exact!--"_bad_." after a while he came tiptoeing into the room. "headache? sorry. anything i can do?" "no." he did not urge; he was too engrossed in the shock of an escaped catastrophe; _suppose eleanor had read that dispatch_! good god! was lily mad? he must go and see her, quick, and say--he grew so angry as he thought of what he was going to say that he did not hear edith's friendly comments on "poor dear eleanor." "edith," he said, "that--that dispatch: i've got to see somebody on business. awfully sorry to take you out to fern hill before supper, but i'm afraid i've got to rush off--" "'course! but don't bother to take me home. i can go by myself." "no. it's all right. i have time; but i've got to go right off. i hate to drag you away before supper--" "that's of no consequence!" she said, but she gave maurice a swift look. what was the matter with him? his forehead, under that thatch of light hair, was so lined, and his lips were set in such a harsh line, that he looked actually _old_! edith sobered into real anxiety. "i wish," she said, "that you wouldn't go out to fern hill; you'll have to come all the way back to town for your appointment!" he said, "no: the--the appointment is on that side of the river." on the trolley there was no more conversation than there might have been if eleanor had been present. at edith's door he said, "'night--" but as he turned away, she called to him, "maurice!" then ran down the steps and put her hand on his arm: "maurice, look here; is there anything i can do? you're bothered!" he gave a grunt of laughter. "to be exact, edith, i'm damned bothered. i've been several kinds of a fool." "you haven't! and it wouldn't make any difference if you had. maurice, you're a perfect _lamb_! i won't have you call yourself names! why"--her eyes were passionate with tenderness, but she laughed--"i used to call you 'sir walter raleigh,' you know, because you're great, simply great! maurice, i bet on you every time! do tell me what's the matter? maybe i can help. father says i have lots of sense." maurice shook his head. "you do have sense! i wish i had half as much. no, skeezics; there's nothing anybody can do. i pay as i go. but you're the dearest girl on earth!" she caught at his hand, flung her arm around his shoulder, and kissed him: "you are the dearest boy on earth!" before he could get his breath to reply, she flew into the house--flew upstairs--flew into her own room, and banged the door shut. "_maurice is unhappy!_" she said. the tears started, and she stamped her foot. "i can't _bear_ it! old darling maurice--what makes him unhappy? i could kill anybody that hurts maurice!" she began to take off her hat, her fingers trembling--then stopped and frowned: "i believe eleanor's been nasty to him? i'd like to choke her!" suddenly her cheeks burned; she stood still, and caught her lower lip between her teeth; "i don't care! i'm _glad_ i did it. i--i'd do it again! ... darling old maurice!" chapter xxiii when jacky's father--with that honest young kiss warm upon his cheek--reached the little "two-family" house, he saw the red sign on the door: _scarlet fever_. "he's got it," he thought, fiercely; "but why in hell did she send for me?--and a telegram!--to the _house_! she's mad." he was panting with anger as he pressed the button at lily's door; "i'll tell her i'll never see her again, long as i live!" furious words were on the tip of his tongue; then she opened the door, and he was dumb. "oh, mr. curtis--don't--don't let them take jacky! oh, mr. curtis!" she flung herself upon him, sobbing frantically. "don't let them--i'll kill them if they touch jacky! oh, my soul and body! he'll die if they take him--i won't let them take him--" she was shaking and stammering and gasping. "i won't have him touched.... you got to stop them--" "lily, _don't_! what's the matter?" "this woman downstairs 's about crazy, because she has three children. i hope they all catch it and die and go to hell! she's shut up there with 'em in her flat. she won't put her nose outside the door! she come up here this morning, and saw jacky, and she said it was scarlet fever. seems she knew what it was, 'cause she had a boy die of it--glad he did! and she sent--the slut!--a complaint to the board of health--and the doctor, he come this afternoon, and said it was! and he said he was going to take jacky _to-night_!" her voice made him cringe; her yellow tigress eyes blazed at him; he had known that lily, for all her good humor, had occasional sharp gusts of temper, little squalls that raced over summer seas of kindliness! but he had never seen this lily: a ferocious, raucous lily, madly maternal! a lily of the pavements.... "an' i said he wasn't going to do no such thing! an' i said i'd stop it: i said i'd take the law to him; i said i'd get jacky's father: i--" "good god! lily--" "oh, what do i care about _you_? i ain't goin' to kill jacky to protect _you_! you got to stop them taking him!" she clutched his arm and shook it: "i never asked nothing of you, yet. i ask it now, and you'll _do_ it, or i'll tell everybody in town that he's yours--" her menacing voice broke and failed, but her lips kept moving; those kind, efficient hands of hers, clutching at him, were the claws of a mother beast. maurice took her arm and guided her into the little parlor, where a row of hyacinths on the window sill made the air overpoweringly sweet; he sat down beside her on the sofa. "get steady, lily, and tell me: i'll see what can be done. but there's to be no _father_ business about it, you understand? i'm just a 'friend.'" so, stammering and breaking into sobs and even whispered screams, and more outrageous abuse of her fellow tenant, she told him: it was scarlet fever, and there were children in the house. the board of health, "sicked on by that damned woman," said that jacky must go to the hospital--to the contagious ward. "and the doctor said he'd be better off there; he said they could do for him better than me--me, his mother! they're going to send a ambulance--i telegraphed you at four o'clock--and here it is six! you _must_ have got it by five--why didn't you come? oh--my god, _jacky_!" her suffering was naked; shocking to witness! it made maurice forget his own dismay. "i was out," he began to explain, "and--" but she went on, beads of foam gathering in the corners of her mouth: "i didn't telephone, for fear _she'd_ get on to it." he could see that she was angry at her own consideration. "i'd ought to have sent for you when he come down with it!" ... where had he been all this time, anyway!--and her nearly out of her head thinkin' this rotten woman downstairs was sicking the board o' health on to her! "and look how i've washed her father for her! i'll spit on him if--if--if anything happens to jacky. yes, i tell you, and you mind what i say: if jacky dies, i'll kill her--my soul and body, i'll kill her anyway!" "lily, get steady. i'll fix things for you. i'll go to the board of health and see what can be done; just as--as a friend of yours, you understand." from the next room came a wailing voice: "maw--" "yes, sweety; in a minute--" she grasped maurice's hand, clung to it, kissed it. "mr. curtis, i'll never make trouble for you after this! oh, i'll go to new york, and live there, if you want me to. i'll do _anything_, if you just make 'em leave jacky! (yes, darling sweety, maw's coming.) you'll do it? oh, i knew you'd do it!" she ran out of the room. he got up, beside himself with perplexity: but even as he tried to think what on earth he could do, the doctor came. the ambulance would arrive, he said, with bored cheerfulness, in twenty minutes. lily, rushing from jacky's bedside, flew at him with set teeth, her trembling hands gripping the white sleeve of his linen jacket. "this gentleman's a friend of mine," she said, jerking her head toward maurice; "he says you _shan't_ carry jacky off!" the doctor's relief at having a man to talk to was obvious. and while maurice was trying to get in a word, there came another whimper from the room where jacky lay, red and blotched, talking brokenly to himself: "maw!" lily ran to him, leaving the two men alone. "thank heaven!" the doctor said; "i'd about as soon argue with a hornet as a mother. she's nearly crazy! i'll tell you the situation." he told it, and maurice listened, frowning. "what can be done?" he said; "i--i am only an acquaintance; i hardly know mrs. dale; but she sent for me. she's frantic at the idea of the boy being taken away from her." "he'll _have_ to be taken away! besides, he'll have ten times better care in the hospital than he could have here." "can she go with him?" maurice said. "why, if she can afford to take a private room--" "good heavens! money's no object; anything to keep her from doing some wild thing!" "you a relation?" the doctor asked. "not the slightest. i--knew her husband." "the thing for you to do," said the doctor, "is to hustle right out to a telephone; call up the hospital. get doctor nelson, if you can--" "nelson!" "yes; if not, get baker; tell him i--" then followed concise directions; "but try and get nelson; he's the top man. they're frightfully crowded, and if you fool with understrappers, you'll get turned down. i'd do it, but i've got to stay here and see that she doesn't get perfectly crazy." almost before the doctor finished his directions, maurice was rushing downstairs.... that next half hour was a nightmare. he ran up the street, slippery with ice; saw over a drug store the blue sign of the public telephone, and dashed in--to wait interminably outside the booth! a girl in a silly hat was drawling into the transmitter. once maurice, pacing frantically up and down, heard her flat laugh; then, to his dismay, he saw her, through the glass of the door, instead of hanging up the receiver, drop a coin into the slot.... "damn! _another_ five minutes!" he turned and struck his fist on the counter. "why the devil don't you have two booths here?" he demanded. the druggist, lounging against the soda-water fountain, smiled calmly: "you can search _me_. ask the company." "can't you stop that woman? my business is important. for god's sake pull her out!" "she's telephoning her beau, i guess. who's going to stop a lady telephoning her beau? not me." the feather gave a last flirtatious jerk--and the booth was empty. maurice, closing its double doors, and shutting himself into the tiny box where the fetid air seemed to take him by the throat and the space was so narrow he could hardly crowd his long legs into it, rushed into another delay. wrong number! ... when at last he got the right number and the hospital, there were the usual deliberate questions; and the, "i'll connect you with so-and-so's desk." maurice, sitting with the receiver to his ear, could feel the blood pounding in his temples. his mind whirled with the possibilities of what lily might say in his absence: "she'll tell the doctor my name--" as his wire was connected, first with one authority and then with another, each authority asked the same question, "are you one of the family?" and to each he gave the same answer, "no; a friend; the doctor asked me to call you up." finally came the voice of the "top man"--the voice which had spoken in lily's narrow hall six years ago, the voice which had joked with edith at the mortons' dinner party, the voice which had burst into extravagant guffaws under the silver poplar in his own garden--doctor nelson's voice--curt, impersonal: "who is this speaking?" then maurice's voice, disguised into a gruff treble, "a friend." "one of the family?" "no." five minutes later maurice, coming out of that horrible little booth, the matter arranged at an expense which, later, would give jacky's father some bad moments, was cold from head to foot. when he reached lily's house the ambulance was waiting at the door. upstairs, the doctor said, "well?" and lily said: "did you do it? if you didn't, i'll--" "i did," maurice said. then he asked if he could be of any further service. "no; the orderly will get him downstairs. he's too heavy for mrs. dale to carry. she's got her things all ready. you--" he said, smiling at maurice, "mr.--? i didn't get your name. you look all in!" maurice shook his head: "i'm all right. mrs. dale will you step in here? i want to speak to you a minute." as lily preceded him into the dining room, he said, quickly, to the doctor, "i want to tell her not to worry about money, you know." to lily--when he closed the door--he was briefly ruthless: "i'll pay for everything. but i just want to say, if he dies--" she screamed out, "_no--no!_" "he won't," he said, angrily; "but if he does, you are to say his father's dead. do you understand? say his name was--what did you call it?--william?" "i don't know. my god! what difference does it make? call it anything! john." "well, say his father was john dale of new york, and he's dead. promise me!" she promised--"honest to god!" her face was furrowed with fright. as they went back to the doctor maurice had a glimpse of lily's bedroom, where jacky, rolled in a blanket, was vociferating that he would _not_ be carried downstairs by the orderly. "oh, sweety," lily entreated; "see, nice pretty gentleman! let him carry you?" "won't," said jacky. at which maurice said, decidedly: "behave yourself, jacobus! i'll carry you." instantly jacky stopped crying: "you throwed away the present i give you," he said; "but," he conceded, "you may carry me." the doctor objected. "it isn't safe--" "oh, let's get it over," maurice said, sharply; "i shan't see any children. it's safe enough! anything to stop this scene!" the bothered doctor half consented, and maurice lifted jacky, very gently; as he did so, the little fellow somehow squirmed a hand out of the infolding blanket, and made a hot clutch for his father's ear; he gripped it so firmly that, in spite of maurice's wincing expostulation, he pulled the big blond head over sidewise until it rested on his own little head. that burning grip held maurice prisoner all the way downstairs; it chained him to the child until they reached the street. there the clutch relaxed, but for one poignant moment, as maurice lifted jacky into the ambulance, father and son looked into each other's eyes, and maurice said--the words suddenly tumbling from his lips: "now, my little jacky, you'll be good, won't you?" then the ambulance rolled softly away, and he stood on the curbstone and felt his heart swelling in his throat: "why did i say '_my_'?" as he walked home he tried to explain the possessing word away: "of course i'd say 'my' to any child; it didn't mean anything! but suppose the orderly had heard me?" even while he thus denied the holy spirit within him, he was feeling again that hot, ridiculous tug on his ear. "_i_ was the only one who could manage him," he thought.... "of course what i said didn't mean anything." he stopped on the bridge and looked down into the water--black and swift and smooth between floating cakes of ice. now and then a star glimmered on a slipping ripple; on the iron bridge farther up the river a row of lights were strung like a necklace across the empty darkness.... somewhere, in the maze of streets at one end of the bridge, was eleanor, lying in bed with a desperate headache. somewhere, in the maze of streets at the other end of the bridge, was lily, taking "his" little jacky to the hospital. somewhere, on one of the hillsides beyond medfield, was edith in the schoolhouse. and eleanor was loving him and trusting him; and lily was "blessing him" (so she had told him) for his goodness; and edith was "betting on him"! ... "i wonder if anybody was ever as rotten as i am?" maurice pondered. then he forgot his "rottenness," and smiled. "he obeyed _me_! lily couldn't do a thing with him; what did he mean about the 'present'? i believe it was that old cigar! he must have seen me pitch it into the gutter. he wanted me to carry him; wouldn't look at that orderly! what made him grab my ear?" when maurice said that, down, down, under his rage at lily, under his fear of exposure, under his nauseating disgust at himself--something stirred, something fluttered. the tremor of a moral conception: paternal pride. "_what_ a grip!" chapter xxiv after a tornado comes quietness; again the sun shines, and birds sing, and many small things look up, unhurt. it was incredible to maurice, eating his breakfast the next morning, reading his paper, opening his letters, and glancing at a pale eleanor, heavy-eyed and silent, that his world was still the same world that it had been before he had picked up the sealed telegram on the hall table. he asked eleanor how she felt; told her to take care of herself; said he'd not be at home to dinner, and went off to his office.... he was safe! those two minutes in the dining room of lily's flat, while the white-jacketed orderly was trying to persuade the protesting jacky to let him carry him downstairs, had removed any immediate alarm; lily had promised not to communicate with jacky's father. so maurice, walking to the office, told himself that everything was all right--but "a close call!" then he thought of jacky, who, at his command, had so instantly "behaved himself"; and of that grip on his ear; and again that pang of something he did not recognize made him swallow hard. "poor little beggar!" he thought: "i wonder how he is? i wonder if he'll pull through?" he hoped he would. "tough on lily, if anything happens." but his anxiety--though he did not know it--was not entirely on lily's account. for the first time in the child's life, maurice was aware of jacky as a possession. the tornado of the night before--the anger and fear and pity--had plowed down below the surface of his mind, and touched that subsoil of conscious responsibility for creation, the realization that, whether through love or through selfishness, the man who brings a child into this terrible, squalid, glorious world, is a creator, even as god is the creator. so maurice, sitting at his desk that next day, answering a client on the telephone, or making an appointment to go and "look at a house," was really feeling in his heart--not love, of course, but a consciousness of his own relation to that little flushed, suffering body out in the contagious ward of the hospital in medfield. "will he pull through?" maurice asked himself. it was six years ago that, standing at the door of a yellow-brick apartment house, with two fingers looped through the strings of a box of roses, jacky's father had said, "perhaps it will be born dead!" how dry his lips had been that day with the hope of death! now, suddenly, his lips were dry with fear that the kid wouldn't pull through--which would be "tough on lily." his face was stern with this new emotion of anxiety which was gradually becoming pain; he even forgot how scared he had been at the thought that eleanor _might_ have opened that telegram. "i swear, i wish i hadn't hurt his feelings about that cigar stub!" he said. then he remembered eleanor: "i could wring lily's neck!" but eleanor hadn't opened the telegram; and maurice hoped jacky would get well--because "it would be tough on lily" if he didn't. thus he dismissed his wife. so long as lily's recklessness had not done any harm, it was easy to dismiss her--so very far had she receded into the dull, patiently-to-be-endured, background of life! the eleanor of the next few weeks, who seemed just a little more melancholy and silent than usual, a little more devoted to old bingo, did not attract his attention in any way. but when edith came in on the following sunday, he had his wife sufficiently on his mind to say, in a quick aside: "edith, don't give me away on being sort of upset last sunday night, will you?" (as he spoke, he remembered that swift kiss. "nice little skeezics!" he thought.) but he finished his sentence with perfect matter-of-factness: "it was just a--a little personal worry. i don't want eleanor bothered, you understand?" "of course," said edith, gravely and so it was that in another month or two, with reliance upon edith's discretion, and satisfaction in a recovering jacky, the track of the tornado in maurice's mind was quite covered up with the old, ugly, commonplace of furtive security. in the security maurice was conscious, in a kindly way, that poor old eleanor looked pretty seedy; so he brought her some flowers once in a while; not as often as he would have liked to, for, though he had more money now, eight weeks of a private room in a hospital "kind o' makes a dent in your income," maurice told himself; "but i don't begrudge it," he thought; "i'm glad the kid got well." so, after that night of terror and turmoil,--when eleanor had fainted--maurice's life in his own house settled again into the old tranquil forlornness, enlivened only by those sunday-afternoon visits from edith. and eleanor?... there had been some dumb days, when she moved about the house or sat opposite maurice at table, or exercised bingo, like an automaton. sometimes she sat at her window, looking down through the bare branches of the poplar at the still, wintry garden; the painted table, heaped with grimy snow slowly melting in the chill march sunshine; the dead stalks of the lilies on each side of the icy bricks of the path; the rusty bars of the iron gate, through which, now and then, came the glimmer, a block away, of the river--"their river"! sometimes for an hour her mind numbly considered these things; then would come a fierce throb of pain: "he was all the time saying he 'couldn't afford' things; that was so he could give her money, i suppose?" then blank listlessness again. she did not suffer very much. she was too stunned to suffer. she merely said to herself, vaguely, "i'll leave him." it may have been on the third day that, when she said, "i will leave him; he has been false to me," her mind whispered back, very faintly, like an echo, "he has been false to himself." for just a moment she loved him enough to think that he had sinned. _maurice has sinned!_ when she said that, the dismay of it made her forget herself. she said it with horror, and after a while she added a question: "_why_ did he do it?" then came beating its way up through anger and wounded pride, and suffering love, still another question: "was it my fault that he did it? did he fall in love with that frightful woman because i failed him?" instantly her mind sheered off from this question: "i did everything i knew how to make him happy! i would have died to make him happy. i adored him! how could he care for that common, ignorant woman i saw on the porch? a woman who wasn't a lady. a--a _bad_ woman!" but yet the question repeated itself: "why? why?" it demanded an answer: why did maurice--high-minded, pure-hearted, overflowing with a love as beautiful, and as perfect as youth itself--how _could_ maurice be drawn to such a woman? and by and by the answer struggled to her lips, tearing her heart as it came with dreadful pain: "he did it because i didn't make him happy." just as maurice, recognizing the responsibility of creation, had, at the touch of his son's little hand, felt the tremor of a moral conception, so now eleanor, barren so long! felt the pangs of a birth of spiritual responsibility: "i didn't make him happy, so--oh, my poor maurice, it was my fault!"... but of course this divine self-forgetfulness in self-reproach, was as feeble as any new-born thing. when it stirred, and uttered little elemental sounds--"my fault, my fault"--she forgot the wrong he had done her, in seeing the wrong he had done himself.... "oh, my maurice--my maurice!" but most of the time she did not hear this frail cry of the sense of sin! she thought entirely and angrily of herself; she said, over and over, that she was going to leave him. she was absorbed in hideous and poignant imaginings, based on that organic curiosity which is experienced only by the woman who meditates upon "the other woman." when these visions overwhelmed her, she said she wouldn't leave him--she would hold him! she wouldn't give him up to that frightful creature, whom he--kissed.... "oh, my god! he _kisses_ her!" no; she wouldn't give him up; she would just accuse him; just tell him she knew he had been false; tell him there was no use lying about it! then, perhaps, say she would forgive him?... yes; if he would promise to throw the vile woman over, she would forgive him. she did not, of course, reflect that forgiveness is not a thing that can be promised; it cannot be manufactured. it comes in exact proportion as we love the sinner more and self less. and forgiveness is not forgetfulness! it is more love. eleanor did not know this. so, except for those occasional cooling and divine moments of blaming herself, she scorched and shriveled in the flames of self-love. and as usual, she was speechless. there were many of these silent hours (which were such a matter of course to maurice that he never noticed them!) before she gathered herself together, and decided that she would not leave him. she would fight! how? "oh, i _can't_ think!" she moaned. so those first days passed--days of impotent determinations, which whirled and alternated, and contradicted each other. once maurice, glancing at her over his newspaper at breakfast, thought to himself, "she hasn't said a word since she got up! poor eleanor!..." then he remembered how he had once supposed these silences of hers were full of things too lovely and profound for words! he frowned, and read the sporting page, and forgot her silences, and her, too. but he did not forget jacky. "i'll buy the kid a ball," he was thinking.... so the days passed, and each day eleanor dredged her silences, to find words: "what shall i say to him?" for of course she must say _something_! she must "have it out with him," as the phrase is. sometimes she would decide to burst into a statement of the fact: "somebody called 'l. d.' has a claim upon you, because she sends for you when 'jacky' is sick. i am certain that 'jacky' is your child! i am certain that 'l.d.' is mrs. dale. i am certain that you don't love me...." and he would say--then her heart would stand still: what _would_ he say? he would say, "i stopped loving you _because you are old_." and to that would come her own terrible assent: "i had no right to marry him--he was only nineteen. i had no right..." (thus did that new-born sense of her own complicity in maurice's sin raise its feeble voice!) and little by little the voice became stronger: "i didn't make him happy _not_ because i was old, but because i was selfish...." so, in alternating gusts of anger and fear, and outraged pride,--and self-forgetting horror for maurice,--her soul began to awake. again and again she counted the reasons why he had not been happy, beginning with the obvious reason, his youth and her age: but that did not explain it. "we had no children." that did not explain it! nor, "i wasn't a good housekeeper"; nor, "i didn't do things with him ... i didn't skate, and walk, and joke with him"; nor, "i didn't entertain him. auntie always said men must be entertained. i--i am stupid." there was no explanation in such things; neither dullness nor inefficiency was enough to drive a man like maurice curtis into dishonor or faithlessness! then came the real explanation--which jealousy so rarely puts into words: "_i was selfish._" at first, this bleak truthfulness was only momentary. almost immediately she was swept from the noble pain of knowing that maurice had been false to himself; swept from the sense of her own share in that falseness, swept back to the insult to _herself_! back to self-love. with this was the fear that if she accused him, if she told him that she knew he was false to her, if she made him very angry, he would leave her, and go and live with this woman--who had given him a child ... yet every morning when she got up, she would say to herself, "i'll tell him to-day." and every night when she went to bed, "to-morrow." still she did not "have it out with him." then weeks pushed in between her and that sunday afternoon when the resealed telegram had been put on the hall table. and by and by it was a month, and still she could not speak. and after a while it was june--june, and the anniversary (which maurice happened to forget, and to which eleanor's suffering love would not permit her to refer!). by that june day, that marked nine of the golden fifty years, eleanor had done what many another sad and injured woman has done--dug a grave in her heart, and buried trust and pride in it; and then watched the grave night and day. sometimes, as she watched, her thought was: "if he would tell me the truth, even now, i would forgive him. it is his living a lie, every day, every minute, that i can't bear!" then she would look at maurice--sitting at the piano, perhaps, playing dreamily, or standing up in front of the fireplace filling his pipe, and poking old bingo with his foot and telling him he was getting too fat; "you're 'losin' your figger,' bingo!" eleanor, looking and listening, would say to herself, "is he thinking of mrs. dale, _now_?" and all day long, when she was alone (watching the grave), she would think: "where is he _now_? is he with her? oh, i think i will follow him,--and _watch_.... was he with her last night when he said he had gone to the theater? ... is he lying to me when he says he has to go away on business, and is he really with her? it's the _lying_ i can't bear! if only he would not lie to me!... does she call him 'maurice'? perhaps she called him 'darling'?" the thought of an intimacy like _that_, was oil on the vehement flame! "you look dreadfully, eleanor," mrs. newbolt told her once, her pale, protruding eyes full of real anxiety. "i'd go and see a doctor, if i were you." "i'm well enough," eleanor said, listlessly. "at your age," said her aunt, "you never can tell _what's goin' on inside_! here's a piece of candy for bingo--he's too fat. my dear father used to say that a man's soul and his gizzard could hold a lot of secrets. it's the same with women. so look out for your gizzard. here, bingo!" eleanor was silent. she had just come from mrs. o'brien's, where she had given the slowly failing donny a happy hour, and she was tired. mrs. newbolt found her alone in the garden, sitting under the shimmering silver poplar. the lilies were just coming into bloom, and on the age-blackened iron trellis of the veranda the wistaria had flung its purple scarves among the thin fringes of its new leaves. the green tea table was bare: "i'd give you a cup of tea," eleanor said, "but maurice is going out to dinner, so i told mary not to keep the fire up, just for me." "maurice goin' out to dinner! why, it's your weddin' day! eleanor, if i have one virtue, it's candor: maurice oughtn't to be out to dinner so much--and on your anniversary, too! of course, it's just what i expected when you married him; but that's done, and i'm not one to keep throwin' it up at you. if you want to hold him, _now_, you've got to keep your figger, and set a good table. yes, and leave the door open! edith has a figger. she entertains him, just the way i used to entertain your dear uncle--by talkin'. i'd have bingo put away, if i were you; he's too old to be comfortable. you got to make him _want_ to sit by the fire and knit! but here you are, sittin' by yourself, lookin' like a dead fish. a man don't like a dead fish--unless it's cooked! i used to broil shad for your dear uncle." for an instant she had no words to express that culinary perfection by which she had kept the deceased mr. newbolt's stomach faithful to her. "yes, you've got to be entertainin', or else he'll go up the chimney, and out to dinner, and forget what day it is!" eleanor's sudden pallor made her stop midway in her torrent of frankness; it was then she said, again, really alarmed: "see a doctor! you know," she added, jocosely; "if you die, he'll marry edith; and you wouldn't like that!" "no," eleanor said, faintly, "i wouldn't like that." chapter xxv when a rather shaky jacky was discharged from the hospital, lily notified maurice of his recovery and added that she had moved. i couldn't [lily wrote] go back to that woman who turned me out when jacky was sick: so i got me a little house on maple street--way down at the far end from where i was before, so you needn't worry about anybody seeing me. my rent's higher, but there's a swell church on the next street. i meant to move, anyway, because i found out that there was a regular huzzy living in the next house on ash street, painted to beat the band! and i don't want jacky to see that kind. i've got five mealers. but eggs is something fierce. i am writing these few lines to say jacky's well, and i hope they find you in good health. it was real nice in you to fix that up at the hospital for me. i hope you'll come and see us one of these days. your friend, lily. p.s.--of course i'm sorry for her poor old father. reading this, maurice said to himself that it would be decent to go and see lily; which meant, though he didn't know it, that he wanted to see jacky. he wasn't aware of anything in the remotest degree like affection for the child; he just had this inarticulate purpose of seeing him, which took the form of saying that it would be "decent" to inquire about him. however, he did not yield to this formless wish until june. then, on that very afternoon when mrs. newbolt had been so shatteringly frank to eleanor, he walked down to the "far end of maple street." and as he walked, he suddenly remembered that it was "the day"! "great scott! i forgot it!" he thought. "funny, eleanor didn't remind me. maybe she's forgotten, too?" but he frowned at the bad taste of such an errand on such a day, and would have turned back--but at that moment he saw what (with an eagerness of which he was not conscious!) he had been looking for--a tow-headed boy, who, pulling a reluctant dog along by a string tied around his neck, was following a hand organ. and maurice forgot his wedding anniversary! he freed the half-choked puppy, and told his son what he thought. but jacky, glaring up at the big man who interfered with his joys, told his father what _he_ thought: "if i was seven years old, i'd lick the tar out of you! but i'm six, going on seven." maurice, looking down on this miniature self, was, to his astonishment, quite diverted. "you need a licking yourself, young man! is your mother at home?" jacky wouldn't answer. maurice took a quarter out of his pocket and held it up. "know what that is?" jacky, advancing slowly, looked at the coin, but made no response. "come back to the house and find your mother, and i'll give it to you." jacky, keeping at a displeased distance behind the visitor, followed him to his own gate, then darted into the house, yelled, "maw!" returned, and held out his hand. maurice gave him the quarter and went into the parlor, where the south window was full of plants, and the sunshine was all a green fragrance of rose geraniums. when a shiningly clean, smiling lily appeared--evidently from the kitchen, for she was carrying a plate of hot gingerbread--she found maurice sitting down, his hands in his pockets, his long legs stretched out in front of him, baiting jacky with questions, and chuckling at the courageous impudence of the youngster. "he's no fool," said maurice to himself. "this kid is a handful!" he told lily ... "you're a bully cook!" "you bet he is!" lily said, proudly. "have another piece? i've got to take some over to ash street for that poor old man.... oh yes; i _was_ kind of put out at his daughter. wouldn't you think, if anyone was enough of a lady to wash your father, you wouldn't go to the board of health about her? but there! the old gentleman's silly, so i have to take him some gingerbread.... say, i must tell you something funny--he's the cutest young one! i gave him five cents for the missionary box, and he went and bought a jew's-harp! i had to laugh, it was so cute in him. but i declare, sometimes i don't know what i'm going to do with him, he's that fresh!" "spank him," maurice advised. lily looked annoyed; "he suits me--and he belongs to me." "of course he does! you needn't think that i--" he paused; something would not let him finish those denying words: "that _i_--want him." jacky, standing with stocky legs wide apart, his hands behind him, his fearless blue eyes looking right into maurice's, made his father's heart quicken. jacky was lily's, of course, but-- so they looked at each other--the big, blond, handsome father and the little son--and jacky said, "mr. curtis, does god see everything?" "why, yes," maurice said, rather confused, "he does; jacky. so," he ended, with proper solemnity, "you must be a very good boy." "why," said jacky, "will he get one in on me if i ain't?" "so i'm told," said maurice. "does he see _everything_?" jacky pressed, frowning; and maurice said: "yes, sir! everything." jacky reflected and sighed. "well," he said, "i should think he'd laugh when he sees your shoes." "why! what's the matter with my shoes?" his discomfited father said, looking down at his feet. "my shoes are all right!" he defended himself. "big," jacky said, shyly. maurice roared, crushed a geranium leaf in his hand, and asked his son what he was going to be when he grew up; "theology seems to be your long suit, jacobus. better go into the church." jacky shook his head. "i'm going to be a enginair. or a robber." "i'd try engineering if i were you. people don't like robbers." "but _i'll_ be a _nice_ robber," jacky explained, anxiously. "i'll bring you a train of cars some day," maurice said. "say, 'thank you,' jacky," lily instructed him. again jacky shook his head. "he 'ain't gimme the cars yet." maurice was immensely amused. "he wants the goods before he signs a receipt! i'll buy some cars for him." "my soul and body!" said lily, following him to the door; "that boy gets 'round everybody! well, what do you suppose? i go to church with him! ain't that rich? me! he don't like church--though he's crazy about the music. but i take him. and i don't have to listen to what the man says. i just plan out the food for a week. sometimes,"--her amber eyes were lovely with anxiously pondering love--"sometimes i don't know but what i'll make a preacher of him? some preachers marry money, and get real gentlemanly. and then again i think i'd rather have him a clubman. but, anyway, i'm savin' up every last cent to educate him!" "he's worth it," maurice said, and there was pride in his voice; "yes, we must--i mean, you must educate him." on his way home, stopping to buy some flowers for his wife, maurice found himself thinking of jacky as a boy ... as a mighty bright boy, who must be educated. as--_his_ boy! "you forgot the day," he challenged eleanor, good-naturedly, when he handed her the violets. she said, briefly, "no; i hadn't forgotten." the pain in her worn face made him wince.... but he was able to forget it in thinking of the toys he had ordered for jacky on the way home. "i'd like to see him playing with them," he said to himself, reflecting upon the track, and the engine, and the very expensive wonder of a tiny snow plow. but he didn't yield to the impulse to see the boy for a month. for one thing, he was afraid to. the recollection of that day when lily's doorstep had been the edge of a volcano still made him shiver; and as eleanor had briefly but definitely refused to take her usual "vacation" at green hill without him, there was no time when he could be sure that she would not wander out to medfield! so it was not until one august afternoon, when he knew that she was going to a concert, that he went to maple street. but first he bought a top;--and just as he was leaving the office, he went back and rummaged in a pigeonhole in his desk and found a tiny gilt hatchet; "it will amuse him," he thought, cynically. lily was not at home; but jacky was sitting on the back doorstep, twanging his jew's-harp. he was shy at first, and tongue-tied; then wildly excited on learning that there were "presents" in mr. curtis's pocket. when the top was produced, he dropped his jew's-harp to watch it spin on a string held between maurice's hands; then he devoted himself to the hatchet, and chopped his father's knee, energetically. "pity there's no cherry tree round," said maurice; "look here, jacobus, i want you always to tell the truth. understand?" "huh?" said jacky. however, under the spell of his gifts he became quite conversational; he said that one of these here automobiles drooled a lot of oil. "an' it ran into the gutter. an' say, mr. curtis, i saw a rainbow in a puddle. an' say, it was handsome." after that he got out his locomotive and its cars. maurice mended a broken switch for him, and then they laid the tracks on the kitchen floor, and the big father and the little son pushed the train under a table; that was a roundhouse, maurice told jacky. ("why don't they have a square house?" jacky said); and beneath the lounge--which was a tunnel, the bigger boy announced ("what is a tunnel?" said jacky)--and over lily's ironing board stretched between two stools; "that's a trestle." ("what grows trestles?" jacky demanded.) exercise, and a bombardment of questions, brought the perspiration out on maurice's forehead. he took off his coat, and arranged the tracks so that the switches would stop derailing trains. in the midst of it the door opened, and jacky said, sighing, "maw." lily came in, smiling and good-natured, and very red-faced with the fatigue of carrying a hideous leprous-leaved begonia she had bought; but when she saw the intimacy of the railroad, she frowned. "he'll wear out his pants, crawling round that way," she said, sharply. "now, you get up, jacky, and don't be bothering mr. curtis." "he brung me two presents. i like presents. mr. curtis, does god eat stars?" "god doesn't eat," maurice said, amused; "i'd say 'brought,' instead of 'brung,' if i were you." "hasn't he got any mouth?" jacky said, appalled. "well, no," maurice began (entering that path of unanswerable questions in which all parents are ordained to walk); "you see, god--why, god, he hasn't any mouth. he--" "has he got a beak?" jacky said, intensely interested. "lily, for heaven's sake," maurice implored, "doesn't he _ever_ stop?" "never," said lily, resignedly, "except when he's asleep. and nobody can answer him. but i wish he'd let up on god. i tell him whatever pops into my head. when it comes to god, i guess one thing 's as true as another. anyway, nobody can prove it ain't." just as maurice was going away, his theological son detained him by a little clutch at his coat. "i'll give you a present next time you come," jacky said, shyly. even the hope of a present did not lure maurice out to maple street very soon. but it was self-preservation, as well as fear of discovery, which kept him away. "if i saw much of him i might--well, get kind of fond of the little beggar." the same thought may have occurred to lily; at any rate, when, four weeks later, jacky's father came again; she didn't welcome him in quite her old, sweet, hospitable way; but jacky welcomed him!... jacky knew his mother as his slave; he showed her an absent-minded affection when he wanted to get anything out of her; but he knew mr. curtis as "the man"--the man who "ordered him round," to be sure, but who gave him presents and who,--jacky boasted to some of his gutter companions,--"could spit two feet farther than the p'leesman." "aw, how do you know?" the other boys scoffed. jacky, evading the little matter of evidence, said, haughtily, "i _know_." when "the man" declared that next fall jacky was to go to school, _regularly_, and not according to his own sweet will, jacky waited until he was alone with his mother to kick and scream and say he wouldn't. lily slapped him, and said, "mr. curtis will give you a present if you're on time every morning!" she told maurice to what she had committed him: "you see, i'm bound to educate him, and make a gentleman of him, so he can have an automobile, and marry a society girl. no chippy is going to get jacky--smoking cigarettes, and saying 'la! la!' to any man that comes along. i hate those cheap girls. look at the paint on 'em. i don't see how they have the face to show themselves on the street! well, _i_ can't make him prompt at school; but he'll be johnny-on-the-spot if you say so. my soul and body, he'll do anything for you! he's saved up all his prayer money and bought a lot of chewing gum for you." "great scott!" said maurice, appalled at the experimental obligations which his son's gift might involve. "so i told him that next winter you'd give him a box of candy every saturday if he was on time all the week. i ain't asking you to go to any expense," she pleaded; "i'll buy the candy. but you promise him--" "i'll promise him a spanking if he's _not_ on time, once," maurice retorted; "for heaven's sake, lily, let up on spoiling him!" at which lily said: "he's my boy! i guess i know how to bring him up!" maurice, the next morning, looking across his breakfast table at eleanor and remembering this remark, said to himself: "lily needn't worry; i don't want him--and i couldn't have him if i did! but what _is_ going to become of him?" his new, slowly awakening sense of responsibility expressed itself in this unanswerable question, which irritated his mind as a splinter might have irritated his flesh. he thought of it constantly--thought of it when eleanor sang (with a slurred note once or twice), "o sweet, o sweet content!" thought of it when his conscience reminded him that he must have tea with her in the garden under the poplar on sunday afternoons. thought of it when he and she went up to the houghtons', to spend labor day (she would not go without him!). perhaps the thing that gave him some moments of forgetfulness was a quite different irritation which he felt when, on reaching green hill, he discovered that john bennett, too, was spending labor day in the mountains. johnny had come he said, to see his father.... "i wouldn't have known it if he hadn't mentioned it!" said doctor bennett; for, johnny practically lived at the houghtons', where edith was so painstakingly kind to him that he was a good deal discouraged; but the two families made pleasing deductions! mary houghton intimated as much to maurice. "what!" he said. "are they engaged?" "well, no; not _yet_." there was a little pause; then maurice (this was one of the moments when he forgot jacky's future!) said, with great heartiness, "old john's in luck!" he and mrs. houghton were sitting on the porch in that somnolent hour after dinner, before she went upstairs to take a nap, and maurice should go over to the bennetts' for singles with johnny; eleanor was resting. out on the lawn in the breezy sun and shadow under the tulip tree, edith, fresh from a shampoo, was reading. now and then she tossed her head like a colt, to make her fluffy hair blow about in a glittering brown nimbus. maurice got up and sauntered over to her. "coming to see me wallop johnny?" "maybe; if my horrid old hair ever dries." maurice looked at the "horrid old hair," and wished he could put out his hand and touch it. he was faintly surprised at himself that he didn't do it! "how mad i used to make her when i pulled her hair!" now, he couldn't even put a finger on it. he remembered the night of lily's distracted telegram, when he had taken edith to fern hill, and she had "bet on him," and had been again, just for an instant, so entirely the "little girl" of their old frank past, that she had _kissed him_! "so, why can't i touch her hair, now?" he pondered; "we are just like brother and sister." but he knew he couldn't. aloud, he said, "don't be lazy, skeezics," and lounged off toward doctor bennett's. his face was heavy. at the doctor's, john, sitting on a gate post, waiting for him, yelled, derisively: "you're late! 'fraid of getting walloped? where's buster?" "she's forgotten all about you. get busy!" maurice commanded. they played, neither of them with much zest, and both of them with glances toward the road. the walloping was fairly divided; but it was maurice who gave out first, and said he had to go home. ("eleanor'll be hunting for me, the first thing i know," he thought.) "tell edith i'll come over to-night," johnny called after him. "i'm not carrying _billets-doux_," maurice retorted. "i suppose," he thought, listlessly, "it will be a short engagement." he went home by the path through the woods, and halfway back edith met him--the shining hair dried, but inclined to tumble over her ears, so that her hat slipped about on her head. she said: "johnny lick you?" "johnny? no! he's not up to it!" they both grinned, and maurice sat down on a wayside log to put a knot in a broken shoestring. edith sat down, too, trying to keep her hat on, and cursing (she said) the unreliability of her hair. the shoestring mended, maurice batted a tall fern with his racket. "eleanor's sort of forlorn, maurice?" edith said. "generally is." he slashed at the fern, and she heard him sigh. "that time she dragged me down the mountain took it out of her." edith nodded; then she said, with her straight look: "you're a perfect lamb, maurice! you are awfully"--she wanted to say "patient," but there was an implication in that; so she said, lamely--"nice to eleanor." "the lord knows i ought to be!" he said, cynically. "yes; she just about killed herself to save you," edith agreed. "oh, not because of that!" the misery in his voice startled her; she said, quickly, "how do you mean, maurice? i don't understand." "i ought to be 'nice' to her." "but you are! you are!" "i'm not." "maurice, i'm awfully fond of eleanor; you won't think i'm finding fault, or anything? but sometimes, when she doesn't feel very well, she--you--i mean, you really _are_ a lamb, maurice!" edith was twenty that summer--a strong, gay creature; but her old, ridiculous, incorrigible candor (and that honest kiss in the darkness!) made her still a child to maurice.... yet johnny bennett was going to marry her!... maurice rested his chin on his left fist, and batted the fern; then he said: "i've been infernally mean to eleanor. it's little enough to be 'nice,' as you call it, now." she flew to his defense. "talk sense! you never did a mean thing in your life." his shrug fired her into a frankness which she regretted the next minute. "maurice, you are too good for eleanor--or anybody," she ended, hastily. he gave her a look of entreaty for understanding--though he knew, he thought, that in her ignorance of life she couldn't understand even if she had been told! yet for the mere relief of speaking, he skirted the ugly truth: "i can't be too patient with her when she's forlorn, because i--i haven't played the game with her." "it's up to her to forgive that!" "she doesn't know it." "maurice! you haven't a secret from eleanor?" her dismay was like a stab. "edith, i can't help it! it was a long time ago--but it would upset her to know that i'd--well, failed her in any way." his face was so wrung that edith could have cried; but she said what she thought: "secrets are horrid, maurice. you've made a mistake." "a 'mistake'?" he almost laughed at the devilish humor of that little word 'mistake,' as applied to his ruined life. "well, yes, edith; i made a 'mistake,' all right." "oh, i don't mean a 'mistake' as to this thing you say that eleanor wouldn't like," edith said. "i mean not telling her." he shook his head; with that nagging thought of jacky in the back of his mind, it was impossible not to smile at her dogmatic ignorance. "because," edith explained, "secrets trip you into fibbing." "you bet they do! i'm quite an accomplished liar." edith did not smile; she spoke with impatient earnestness: "that's perfectly silly; you are not a liar! you couldn't lie to save your life, and you know it." maurice laughed. "why, maurice, don't you suppose i know you, through and through? _i_ know what you are!--a 'perfec' gentil knight.'" she laughed, and maurice threw up his hands. "bouquets," edith conceded, grinning; "but i won't hand out any more, so you needn't fish! well, i don't know what on earth you've done, and i don't care; and you can't tell me, of course! but one thing i do know; it isn't fair to eleanor not to tell her, because--" "my dear child--" "because she wouldn't really mind, she's so awfully devoted to you. oh, maurice, do tell eleanor!" then, even as she spoke, she was frightened; what was this thing that he did not dare to tell eleanor?--"or me?" edith thought. it couldn't be that maurice--was not good? edith quailed at herself. she had a quick impulse to say, "forgive me, maurice, for even thinking of such a horrid thing!" but all she said, aloud, briefly, was, "as i see it, telling eleanor would be playing the game." maurice put his hand over her fist, clenched with conviction on her knee. "skeezics," he said, "you are the soundest thing the lord ever made! as it happens, it's a thing i can't talk about--to anybody. but i'll never forget this, edith. and ... dear, i'm glad you're going to be happy; you deserve the best man on earth, and old johnny comes mighty darned near being the best!" edith, frowning, rose abruptly. "please don't talk that way. i hate that sort of talk! johnny is my friend; that's all. so, please never--" "i won't," maurice said, meekly; but some swift exultation made him add to himself, "poor old johnny!" his face was radiant. as for edith, she hardly spoke all the way back to the house. but not because of "poor old johnny"! she was absorbed by that intuition--which she did not, she told herself, believe. yet it clamored in her mind: maurice had done something wrong. something so wrong, that he couldn't speak of it, even to her! then it must be--? "no! _that's_ impossible!" but with this recoil from a disgusting impossibility, came an upsurge of something she had never felt in her life--something not unlike that emotion she had once called bingoism--a resentful consciousness that maurice had not been as completely and confidentially her friend as she was his! but edith hadn't a mean fiber in her! instantly, on the heels of that small pain came a greater and nobler pain: "i can't bear it if he has done anything wrong! but if he has, it's some wicked woman's fault." as she said that, anger at an injury done to maurice made her almost forget that first virginal repulsion--and made her entirely forget that fleeting pain of knowing that she had not meant as much to him as he meant to her! "but he _hasn't_ done anything wrong," she insisted; "he wouldn't look at a horrid? woman!" "for heaven's sake, edith," maurice remonstrated; "this isn't any marathon! go slow. i'm not in any hurry to get home." "i am," edith said, briefly. she was in a great hurry! she wanted to be alone, and argue to herself that she had been guilty of a dreadful disloyalty to him.... "maurice? why! he would be the last man in the world to--to do _that_,--darling old maurice! he has simply had a crush on somebody, and likes her better than he likes eleanor--or me; but _that's_ nothing. eleanor deserves it; and very likely i do, too! but he's so frightfully honorable about eleanor--he's a perfect crank on honor!--that he blames himself for even that." by this time the possibility that the unknown somebody was "horrid" had become unthinkable; she was probably terribly attractive, and maurice had a crush on ... "though, of course, she can't be really nice," edith thought; "maurice simply doesn't see through her. boys are so stupid! they don't know girls," again there was a bingo moment of hot dislike for the "girl," whoever she was!--and she walked faster and faster. maurice, striding along beside her, was thinking of the irony of the "bouquet" she had thrown at him, and the innocence of that "tell eleanor"! "what a child she is still! and she's not in love with johnny--" he didn't understand his exhilaration when he said that, but, except when he reproached her for tearing ahead, it kept him silent... supper was ready when they got home, so edith had no chance to be solitary, and after supper johnny bennett dropped in. when he took his reluctant departure ("confound him!" maurice thought, impatiently, "he has on his sitting breeches to-night!") maurice told edith to come into the garden with him, and listen to the evening primroses; "they 'blossom with a silken burst of sound'--they _do_!" he insisted, for she jeered at the word "listen." "they don't!" she said, and ran down the steps, flitting ahead of him in the dusk like a white moth. in their preoccupation, they neither of them looked at eleanor; sitting silently on the porch between mr. and mrs. houghton. they went, between the box hedges, to the primrose border, and maurice quoted: "silent they stood. hand clasped in hand, in breathless hush around! and saw her shyly doff her soft green hood, and blossom--with a silken burst of sound! "let's clasp hands," maurice suggested. "no, thank you," said edith. and so they watched and listened. a tightly twisted bud loosened half a petal--then another half--and another--until it was all a shimmering whorl of petals, each caught at one side to the honeyed crosspiece of the pistil; then: "_there!_" said maurice. "did you hear it?"--all the silken disks were loose, and the flower cup, silver-gilt, spilled its fragrance into the stillness! "it was the dream of a sound," she admitted her voice was a dream sound, too, he thought; a wordless tenderness for her flooded his mind, as the perfume of the primroses flooded the night. it seemed as if the lovely ignorance of her was itself a perfume! "'tell eleanor'! she doesn't know the wickedness of the world, and i don't want her to." he put his hand on her shoulder in the old, brotherly way--but drew it back as if something had burned him! that recoil should have revealed things to him, but it didn't. so far as his own consciousness went, he was too intent on what he called "the square deal" for eleanor, to know what had happened to him; all he knew was that edith, all of a sudden, was grown up! her childishness was gone. he mustn't even put his hand on her shoulder! he had an uneasy moment of wondering--"girls are so darned knowing, nowadays!"--whether she might be suspicious as to what that secret was, which she had advised him to "tell eleanor"? but that was only for a moment; "edith's not that kind of a girl. and, anyway, she'd never think of such a thing of me--which makes me all the more rotten!" so he clutched at edith's undeserved faith in him, and said, "she'll never think of _that_." still, she was grown up ... and he mustn't touch her. (this was one of the times when he was not worrying about jacky!) edith, talking animatedly of primroses, had her absorbing thoughts, too; they were nothing but furious denial! "maurice--horrid? never!" then, on the very breath of "never," came again the insistent reminder: "but he could tell _me_ anything, except--" so, thinking of just one thing, and talking of many other things, she walked up and down the primrose path with maurice. they neither of them wanted to go back to the three older people: the father and mother--and wife. eleanor, on the porch, strained her eyes into the dusk; now and then she caught a glimmer of the dim whiteness of edith's skirt, or heard maurice's voice. she was suffering so that by and by she said, briefly, to her hosts--her trembling with unshed tears--"good night," and went upstairs, alone--an old, crying woman. eleanor had been unreasonable many times; but this time she was not unreasonable! that night anyone could have seen that she was, to maurice, as nonexistent as any other elderly woman might have been. the houghtons saw it, and when she went into the house mary houghton said, with distress: "she suffers!" her husband nodded, and said he wished he was asleep. "why," he demanded, "are women greater fools about this business than men? poor maurice ventures to talk to edith of 'shoes and ships and sealing wax,'--and eleanor weeps! why are there more jealous women than men?" "because," mary houghton said, dryly, "more men give cause for jealousy than women." "_touché! touché!_" he conceded; then added, quickly, "but maurice isn't giving any cause." "well, i'm not so sure," she said. up in her own room, eleanor, sitting in the dark by the open window, stared out into the leafy silence of the night. once, down in the garden, maurice laughed;--and she struck her clenched hand on her forehead: "i can't bear it!" she said, gaspingly, aloud; "i can't bear it--_she interests him_!" his pleasure in edith's mind was a more scorching pain to her than the thought of lily's body.... later, when maurice and edith came up from the garden darkness, they found a deserted porch. "let's talk," he said, eagerly. edith shook her head. "too sleepy," she said, and ran upstairs. he called after her, "quitter!" but it provoked no retort, and he would have gone back to walk up and down alone, by the primroses, and worry over jacky's future, if a melancholy voice had not come from the window of their room: "maurice.... it's twelve o'clock." and he followed edith indoors.... edith had been sharply anxious to be by herself. she could not sit on the porch with maurice, and not burst out and tell him--what? tell him that nothing he had done could make the slightest difference to her! "he has probably met some awfully nice girl and likes her--a good deal. as for there being anything wrong, i don't believe it! that would be horrible. i'm a beast to have thought of such a thing!" she decided to put it out of her mind, and went to her desk, saying, "i'll straighten out my accounts." she began, resolutely; added up one column, and subtracted the total from another; said: "gosh! i'm out thirty dollars!" nibbled the end of her pen, and reflected that she would have to work on her father's sympathies;--then, suddenly, her pen still in her hand, she sat motionless. "even if there _was_ anything--bad, i'd forgive him. he's a lamb!" but as she spoke, childishness fell away--she was a deeply distressed woman. maurice was suffering. and she knew, in spite of her assertions to the contrary, that it wasn't because of any slight thing; any "crush" on a girl--nice or otherwise! he was suffering because he had done wrong--and she couldn't tear downstairs and say: "maurice, never mind! i love you just as much; i don't care what you've done!" why couldn't she say that? why couldn't she go now, and sit on the porch steps beside him, and say--anything? she got up and began to walk about the room; her heart was beating smotheringly. "why shouldn't i tell him i love him so that i'd forgive--_anything_? he knows i've always loved him!--next to father and mother. why can't i tell him so, now?" then something in her breast, beating like wings, made her know why she couldn't tell him! "i love him; that's why." after a while she said: "there's nothing wrong in it. i have a right to love him! he'll never know. how funny that i never knew--until to-night! yet i've felt this way for ever so long. i think since that time at fern hill, when he was so bothered and wouldn't tell me what was the matter." yes; it was strange that now, when some stabbing instinct had made her know that maurice was not her "perfec' gentil knight," that same instinct should make her know that she loved him!... not with the old love; not with the love that could overflow into words, the love that had kissed him when he had been "bothered"! "i can never kiss him again," she thought. she did not love him, now, "next to father and mother--dear darlings!" and when she said that, edith knew that the "darlings" were of her past. "i love them next to maurice," she thought, smiling faintly. "well, he will never know it! nobody will ever know it.... i'll just keep on loving him as long as i live." she had no doubt about that; and she did not drop into the self-consciousness of saying, "i am wronging eleanor." that, to edith, would not have been sense. she knew that she was not "wronging" anyone. as for the unknown girl, who, perhaps, had "wronged" eleanor, and about whom, now, maurice was so ashamed and so repentant--she was of no consequence anyhow. "of course she is bad," edith thought, "and the whole thing was her fault!" but it was in the past; he had said so. "he said it was long ago. if," she thought, "he did run crooked, why, i'm sorry for poor eleanor; and he ought to tell her; there's no question about _that_! it's wrong not to tell her. and of course he couldn't tell me. that wouldn't be square to eleanor!... but i hate to have him so unhappy.... no; it's right for him to be unhappy. he ought to be! it would be dreadful if he wasn't. but, somehow, the thing itself doesn't seem to touch me. i love him. i am going to love him all i want to! but no one will ever know it." by and by she knelt down and prayed, just one word: _"maurice."_ she was not unhappy. chapter xxvi during the next two days at green hill, eleanor's dislike of edith had no chance to break into silent flames, for the girl was so quiet that not even eleanor could see anything in her behavior to maurice to criticize. it was maurice who did the criticizing! "edith, come down into the garden; i want to read something to you." "can't. have to write letters." "edith, if you'll come into the studio i'll play you something i've patched up." "i'm a heathen about music. let's sit with eleanor." "skeezics, what's the matter with you? why won't you come and walk? you're getting lazy in your old age!" "busy," edith said, vaguely. at this point maurice insisted, and edith sneaked out to the back entry and telephoned johnny bennett: "come over, lazybones, and take some exercise!" john came, with leaps and bounds, so to speak, and maurice said, grumpily: "what do you lug johnny in for?" so, during the rest of her visit (with john bennett as maurice's chaperon!) eleanor merely ached with dislike of edith; but, even so, she had the small relief of not having to say to herself: "is he seeing mrs. dale, now? ... did he go to her house yesterday?" of course, as soon as she went back to mercer those silent questions began again; and her audible question nagged maurice whenever he was in the house: "did you go to the theater last night? ... yes? _did you go alone?_ ... will you be home to-night to dinner? ... no? _where are you going?_" maurice, answering with bored patience, thought, with tender amusement, of edith's advice, "tell eleanor." how little she knew! he did not see edith very often that next winter, "which is just as well," he thought. but his analysis stopped there; he did not ask himself why it was just as well. she made flying visits to mercer, for shopping or luncheons, so he had glimpses of her, and whenever he saw her he was conscious of a little wistful change in her, for she was shy with him--_edith_, shy!--and much gentler. when they discussed the eternities or the ball game, she never pounded his arm with an energetic and dissenting fist, nor was there ever the faintest suggestion of the sexless "rough-house" of their old jokes! as for coming to town, she explained that she was too busy; she had taken the burden of housekeeping from her mother, and she was doing a good deal of hard reading preparatory to a course of technical training in domestic science, to which she was looking forward when she could find time for it. but whenever she did come to mercer, she did her duty by rushing in to see eleanor! eleanor's criticisms of her, when she rushed out again, always made maurice silently, but deeply, irritated. the criticisms lessened in the fall, because eleanor had the pitiful preoccupation of watching poor don o'brien fade out of the world; and when he had gone she had to push her own misery aside while his grandmother's heart broke into the meager tears of age upon her "miss eleanor's" breast. but, besides that, she did not have the opportunity to criticize edith, for the houghtons went abroad. so the rest of that year went dully by. to eleanor, it was a time of spasmodic effort to regain maurice's love; spasmodic, because when she had visions--hideous visions! of maurice and the "other woman,"--then, her aspirations to regain his love, which had been born in that agony of recognized complicity in his faithlessness, would shrivel up in the vehement flame of jealousy. to maurice, it was a time of endurance; of vague thoughts of edith, but of no mental disloyalty to his wife. its only brightness lay in those rare visits to medfield, when jacky looked at him like a worshiping puppy, and asked forty thousand questions which he couldn't answer! they were very careful visits, made only when maurice was sure eleanor would not be going to "look for a cook." he always balanced his brief pleasure of an hour with his little boy by an added gentleness to his wife--perhaps a bunch of violets, bought at the florist's on maple street where lily got her flower pots or her bulbs. he was very lonely, and increasingly bothered about jacky. ... "lily will let him go plumb to hell. but i put him on the toboggan! ... i'm responsible for his existence," he used to think. and sometimes he repeated the words he had spoken that night when he had felt the first stir of fatherhood, "my little jacky." he would hardly have said he loved the child; love had come so gradually, that he had not recognized it! yet it had come. it had been added to those other intimations of god, which also he had not recognized. personal joy on his wedding day had been the first; and the next had come when he looked up at the heights of law among the stars, and then there had been the terrifying vision of the awfulness of life, at jacky's birth. now, into his soul, arid with long untruth, came this flooding in of love--which in itself is life, and joy, and the fulfilling of law! or, as he had said, once, carelessly, "call it god." this pursuing god, this inescapable god! was making him acutely uncomfortable now, about jacky. maurice felt the discomfort, but he did not recognize it as salvation, or know whose mercy sent it! he merely did what most of us do when we suffer: he gave the credit of his pain to the devil--not to infinite love. "oh," the poor fellow thought, coming back one day from a call at the little secret house on maple street, "the devil's getting his money's worth out of me; well, i won't squeal about _that_! but he's getting his money's worth out of my boy, too. she's ruining him!" he said this once when he had been rather recklessly daring in seeing "his boy." it was saturday afternoon, and jacky was free from his detested school. maurice had given him a new sled, and then had "fallen," as he expressed it, to the little fellow's entreaty: "mr. curtis, if you'll come up to the hill, i'll show you how she'll go!" but before they started maurice had a disagreeable five minutes with lily. she had told him, tears of laughter running down her rosy cheeks, of some performance of jacky's. he had asked her, she said, about his paw; "and i said his name was mr. george dale, and he died ten or eleven years ago of consumption--had to tell him something, you know! an' he says,--he's great on arithmetic,--'poor paw!' he says, 'how many years was that before i was born?' i declare, i was all balled up!" then, as she wiped her laughing eyes, she had grown suddenly angry: "i'm going to take him away from his new sunday school; the teacher--it was her did the paul pry act, and asked him about his father;--well, i guess she ain't much of a lady; i never see her name in the sunday papers;--she came down on jacky because he told her a 'lie'; that's what she called it, 'a lie'! said he'd go to hell if he told lies. i said, 'i won't have you threatening my child!' i declare i felt like saying, 'you go to hell yourself!' but of course i don't say things that ain't refined." "well, but lily, the little beggar must tell the truth--" "mr. curtis, jacky didn't say anything but what you or me would say a dozen times a day. he just told her he hadn't a library book out, when he had. seems he forgot to bring it back, so, 'course, he just said he hadn't any book. well, this teacher, she put the lie onto him. it's a vulgar word, 'lie.' and as for hell, they say society people don't believe there is such a place any more." when he and his little son walked away (jacky dragging his magnificent sled), maurice was nervously anxious to counteract such views. "jacobus," he said, "i'm going to tell you something: big men never say anything that isn't so! do you get on to that?" (in his own mind he added, "i'm a sweet person to tell him that!") "promise me you'll never say anything that isn't just exactly so," said maurice. "yes, sir," said jacky. "say, mr. curtis, have you got teeth you can take out?" when maurice said, rather absently, that he had not, jacky's dismay was pathetic. "why, maw can do _that_," he said, reproachfully. it was the first flaw in his idol. it took several minutes to recover from the shock of disappointment; then he said: "lookee here!" he paused beside a hydrant, and with his mittened hand broke off a long icicle, held it up and turned it about so that the sun flashed on it. "handsome, ain't it?" he asked, timidly. maurice said yes, it was "handsome";--"but suppose you say _'isn't_ it' instead of _'ain't_ it.' 'ain't' is not a nice word. and remember what i told you about telling the truth." "yes, sir," said jacky, and trudged along, pulling his sled with one hand and carrying his icicle in the other. after this paternal effort, maurice stood in the snow watching the crowd of children--red-cheeked, shrill-voiced--sliding down winpole hill and yelling and snow-balling each other as they pulled their sleds up to the top of the slope again. it was during one of these panting tugs uphill, that jacky saw fit to slap a fellow coaster, a little, snub-nosed girl with a sniffling cold in her head, and all muffled up in dirty scarves. instantly maurice, striding in among the children, took his son by the arm, and said, sharply: "young man, apologize! _quick!_ or i'll take you home!" jacky gaped. "pol'gize?" "say you're sorry! out with it. tell the little girl you're sorry you hit her." "but i ain't," jacky explained, anxiously; "an' you said i mustn't say what ain't so." "well, tell her you won't do it again," maurice commanded, evading, as perplexed fathers must, moral contradictions. jacky, bewildered, said to his howling playmate, "i don't like you, but i won't hit you again, less i have to; then i'll lick the tar out of you!" he paused, rummaged in his pocket, produced a horrid precious little gray lump of something, and handed it to her. "gum," he said, briefly. maurice, taking another step into paternal wisdom, was deaf to the statute of limitation in the apology; but walking home with the little boy, he said to himself, "she's ruining him!" and fell into such moody silence that he didn't even notice jacky's obedient struggles with "isn't." once, a week later, as a result of this experience, he tried to make some ethical suggestions to lily. she was displaying her latest triumph--a rosebush, blossoming in _february_! and maurice, duly admiring the glowing flower, against its background of soot-speckled snowdrift on the window sill, began upon jacky's morals. lily's good-humored face hardened. "mr. curtis, you don't need to worry about jacky! he don't steal, and he don't swear,--much; and he's never been pinched, and he's awful handsome; and, my god! what more do you want? i ain't going to make his life miserable by tellin' him to talk grammar, or do the polite act!" "lily, i only mean i want him to turn out well, and he won't unless he tells the truth--" "he'll turn out good. you needn't worry. anybody's got to have sense about telling the truth; you can't just plunk everything out! i--i believe i'll go and live in new york." instantly maurice was silenced. "she _mustn't_ take him away!" he thought, despairingly. his fear that she would do so was a constant worry.... his work in the weston real-estate office involved occasional business trips of a few days, and his long hours on trains were filled with this increasing anxiety about jacky. "if she takes him away from mercer, and i can't ever see him, nothing can save him! but, damn it! what can i do?" he would say. he tried to reassure himself by counting up lily's good points; her present uprightness; her honest friendliness to him; her almost insane devotion to jacky, and her pathetic aspiration for respectability, which was summed up in that one word of collective emptiness,--"society." but immediately her bad points clamored in his mind; her ignorance and unmorality and vulgarity. "truth is just a matter of expediency with her. if he gets to be a liar, i'll boot him!" maurice would think of these bad points until he got perfectly frantic! his sense of wanting advice was like an ache in his mind--for there was no one who could advise him. then, quite unexpectedly, advice came.... in the fall the houghtons got back from europe. maurice saw them only between trains in mercer, for henry houghton was in a great hurry to get up to green hill, and edith, too, was exercised about her trunks and the unpacking of her treasures of reminiscence. but mrs. houghton said: "we shall be coming down to do some shopping before christmas. no! we'll _not_ inflict ourselves upon eleanor! we'll go to the hotel; you will both take dinner with us." they came, and maurice and eleanor dined with them, as mrs. houghton had insisted that they should; but only mrs. houghton accepted eleanor's repaying hospitality. "mother has virtue enough for the family," edith said; "i'm going to stay here with father." "it will be a jewel in your crown," henry houghton told his mary. "why not collect jewels for your crown?" she inquired. "henry, maurice looks troubled. what do you suppose is the matter?" "he does look seedy," he agreed; "poke about and find out what's wrong. you can do it better if your inelegant offspring isn't around, and if i'm not there, either. he won't open his lips to me! i think it's money. he's carrying a pretty heavy load. but he never peeps.... i wish he wouldn't economize on cigars, though; he offered me one yesterday, and politeness compelled me to smoke it!" "'peeps'!" said edith; "how elegant!" so that was how it happened that mary houghton went alone to dine with maurice and eleanor. but she couldn't discover, in maurice's talk or eleanor's silences, any hint of financial anxiety. "so," she said to herself, "it isn't money that worries him." when he walked back with her to the hotel after dinner, he was thinking, "she'd know what to do about jacky." but of course he couldn't ask her what to do! he could never ask anybody--except, perhaps, mr. houghton; and what would he, an old man, know about bringing up a little boy? he was listening, not very closely, to mrs. houghton's talk of the custom house; but when she said, "john bennett met us on the dock," he was suddenly attentive. "has edith--?" he began. she laughed ruefully. "no. young people are not what they were in my day. edith is not a bit sentimental." maurice was silent. when they reached the hotel, they went upstairs into a vast, bleak parlor, and steered their way among enormous plush armchairs to a sofa. a few electric bulbs, glaring among the glass prisms of a remote chandelier, made a dim light--but not too dim for mary houghton to see that maurice's face was drawn and worried; involuntarily she said: "you dear boy, i wish you didn't look so careworn!" "i'm bothered about something," he said. "your uncle henry told me to 'poke around,' and see if you were troubled about money?" she said, smiling. "oh, not especially. i'm always more or less strapped. but money isn't worth bothering about, really." "if you 'consider the stars,' you will find very few things are worth bothering about! except, of course, wrongdoing." and, to his own astonishment, he found himself saying, "i'm afraid that's where i come in!" as he spoke, he remembered that night of the eclipse--oh, those moon-washed depths, those stupendous serenities of law and beauty which, together, are truth! how passionately he had desired truth. and now mrs. houghton was saying "consider the stars." "if i could only tell her!" he thought. "if the wrongdoing is behind you," said mary houghton, "let it go." "it won't let me go," he said, with nervous lightness. "though it's behind me, all right!" which made her say, gently, "maurice, perhaps i know what troubles you?" his start made her add, quickly: "your uncle henry has never betrayed your confidence; but ... i guessed, long ago, that something had gone wrong. i don't know how wrong--" "oh, mrs. houghton," he said, despairingly, "awfully wrong! awfully--awfully wrong!" he put his elbow on his knee, and rested his chin on his clenched fist; she was silent. then he said: "you've always been an angel to me. i am glad you guessed. because--i don't know what to do." "about the woman?" "no. the boy." "oh!" she said; "a _child_!" her dismay was like a blow. "but you said you had 'guessed'?" "i guessed that there was a woman; but i didn't know--" she put her arm over his shoulders and kissed him. "my poor maurice!" the tears stood in her eyes. "i told you it was 'awful,'" he said, simply; "yes, it is my little boy; i'm worried to death about him. lily--that's her name--is perfectly all right; she means well, and adores him, and all that; but--" then he told her what jacky's mother had been and what she was now; and the illustrations he gave of lily's ignorance of ethical standards made mary houghton cringe. "she's ruining the little fellow," he said; "he's not mean nor a coward--i'll say that for him! but he lies whenever he feels like it, and honesty only means not getting 'pinched.' she's awfully ambitious for him; but her idea of success is what she calls 'society,' oh, it's such a relief to speak to you, mrs. houghton! i haven't a soul i can talk to." "maurice, can't you get him?" her voice was shocked. he almost laughed. "wild horses wouldn't drag him from lily!" she was silent before the complexity of the situation--the furtive paternity, with its bewildered sense of responsibility, in conflict with the passion of the dam! "i have to be so infernally secret," maurice said. "if it wasn't for that, i could train him a little, because he's fond of me," he explained--and for a moment his face relaxed into one of his old charming smiles. "he really is an awfully fine little beggar. i swear i believe he's musical! and he's confoundedly clever. why, he said--" mrs. houghton could have wept with the pitifulness of it! for maurice went on, like any proud young father, with a story of how his little boy had said this or done that. "but he's fresh, sometimes, and he's the kind that, if he got fresh, ought to be licked. she can't make him mind; but"--here the poor, shamed pride shone again in his blue eyes--"he minds _me_!" mary houghton was silent; she tried to consider the stars, but her dismay at a child endangered, came between her and the eternal tranquillities. "the boy must be saved," she thought, "at any cost! it isn't a question of maurice's happiness; it's a question of his _obligation_." "this thing of having a secret hanging round your neck is hell!" maurice told her. "every minute i think--'suppose eleanor should find out?'" mrs. houghton put her hand on his knee. "the only way to escape from the fear of being found out, maurice, _is to be found out_. get rid of the millstone. tell eleanor." "you don't know eleanor," he said, dryly. "yes, i do. she loves you so much that she would forgive you. and with forgiveness would come helpfulness with the little boy. the child is the important one--not you, nor eleanor, nor the woman. oh, maurice, a child is the most precious thing in the world! you _must_ save him!" "don't you suppose i want to? but, good god! i'm helpless." "if you tell eleanor, you won't be 'helpless.'" "you don't understand. she's jealous of--of everybody." "telling her will prove to her she needn't be jealous of--this person. and the chance to do something for you would mean so much to her. she will forgive you--eleanor can always do a big thing! remember the mountain? maurice! let her do another great thing for you. let her help you save your child, by making it possible for you to be open and aboveboard, and see him all you want to--all you _ought_ to. oh, maurice dear, it would have been better, of course, if you had told eleanor at first. you wouldn't have had to carry this awful load for all these years. but tell her now! give her the chance to be generous. let her help you to do your duty to the little boy. maurice, his character, and his happiness, are your job! just as much your job as if he had been eleanor's child, instead of the child of this woman. perhaps more so, for that reason. don't you see that? _tell_ eleanor, so that you can save him!" the appeal was like a bugle note. maurice--discouraged, thwarted, hopeless--heard it, and his heart quickened. this inverted idea of recompense--of making up to eleanor for having secretly robbed her, by telling her she had been robbed!--stirred some hope in him. he did not love his wife; he was profoundly tired of her; but suppose, now, he did throw himself upon her generosity and give her a chance to prove that love which was a daily fatigue to him? mere _truth_ would, as mrs. houghton said, go far toward saving jacky. he was silent for a long time. then mary houghton said: "i ought to tell you, maurice, that henry--who is the very best man in the world, as well as the wisest!--doesn't agree with me about this matter of confession. he doesn't understand women! he thinks you ought not to tell eleanor." "i know. he said so. that first night, when i told him the whole hideous business, he said so. and i thought he was right. i'm afraid i still think so." "he was wrong. maurice, save the child! tell eleanor." "that is what edith said." "_edith!_" mary houghton was stupefied. "oh, not about this. i only mean edith said once, 'don't have a secret from eleanor.'" "she was right," edith's mother said, getting her breath. then they were silent again. a distant measure of ragtime floated up from the lobby; once, as a heavy team passed down in the street, the chandelier swayed, and little lights flickered among the faintly clicking prisms. mrs. houghton looked at him--and looked away. maurice was thirty-one; his face was patient and melancholy; the old crinkling laughter rarely made gay wrinkles about his eyes, yet wrinkles were there, and his lips were cynical. suddenly, he turned and struck his hand on hers: "i'll do it," he said.... late that night henry houghton, listening to his mary's story of this talk, looked almost frightened. "mary, it's an awful risk--eleanor will never stand up to it!" "i think she will." "my dear, when it comes to children, you--with your stars!--get down to the elemental straighter than i do; i know that! and i admit that it is terrible for maurice's child to be scrapped, as he will be if he is brought up by this impossible person. but as for eleanor's helping maurice to save him from the scrap heap, you overlook the fact that to tell a jealous woman that she has cause for jealousy is about as safe as to take a lighted match into a powder magazine. there'll be an explosion." "well," she said, "suppose there is?" "good heavens, mary! do you realize what that means? she'll leave him!" "i don't believe she will," his wife said, "but if she does, he can at least see all he wants of the boy. he seems to be an unusually bright child." her husband nodded. "yes; nature isn't shocked at illegitimacy; and god doesn't penalize it." "but _you_ do," she said, quickly, "when you won't admit that jacky is the crux of the whole thing! it isn't poor maurice who ought to be considered, nor that sad, tragic old eleanor; nor the dreadful person in medfield. but just that little child--_whom maurice has brought into the world_." "do you mean," her husband said, aghast, "that if eleanor saw fit to divorce him, you think he should marry this 'lily,' so that he could get the child?" she did shrink at that. "well--" she hesitated. he saw his advantage, and followed it: "he couldn't get complete possession in any other way! unless he were legally the father, the woman could, at any minute, carry off this--what did you say his name was?--jacky?--to kamchatka, if she wanted to! or she might very well marry somebody else; that kind do. then maurice wouldn't have any finger in the pie! no; really to get control of the child, he'd have to marry her, which, as you yourself admit, is impossible." "i don't admit it." "_mary!_ you must be reasonable; you know it would be shocking! so why not keep things as they are? why run the risk of an explosion, by confessing to eleanor?" mary houghton pondered, silently. "kit," he said, "this is a 'condition and not a theory'; the woman was--was common, you know. maurice doesn't owe her anything; he has paid the piper ten times over! any further payment, like ruining his career by 'making an honest woman' of her,--granting an explosion and then eleanor's divorcing him,--would be not only wrong, but ridiculous; which is worse! maurice is an able fellow; i rather expect to see him go in for politics one of these days. imagine this 'lily' at the head of his table! or even imagine her as a fireside companion!" "it would be terrible," she admitted--her voice trembled--"but jacky's life is more important than maurice's dinner table. and fireside happiness is less important than the meeting of an obligation! henry, maurice made a bad woman jacky's mother; he owes _her_ nothing. but do you mean to say that you don't think he owes the child a decent father?" "my darling," henry houghton said, tenderly, "you are really a little crazy. you are like your stars, you so 'steadfastly pursue your shining,' that you fail to see that, in this dark world of men, there has to be compromise. if this impossible situation should arise--which god forbid!--if the explosion should come, and eleanor should leave him, of course maurice wouldn't marry the woman! i should consider him a candidate for an insane asylum if he thought of such a thing. he would simply do what he could for the boy, and that would be the end of it." "oh," she said, "don't you see? it would be the _beginning_ of it!--the beginning of an evil influence in the world; a bad little boy, growing into a bad man--and his own father permitting it! but," she ended, with a sudden uplifted look, "the 'situation,' as you call it, won't arise; eleanor will prevent it! eleanor will save jacky." chapter xxvii walking home that night, with mrs. houghton's "tell eleanor" ringing in his ears, maurice imagined a "confession," and he, too, used mr. houghton's words, "'there will be an explosion!' but i'll gamble on it; i'll tell her. i promised mrs. houghton i would," then, very anxiously, he tried to decide how he should do it; "i must choose just the right moment," he thought. when, three months later, the moment came, he hardly recognized it. he had been playing squash and had given his knee a nasty wrench; the ensuing synovitis meant an irritable fortnight of sitting at home near the telephone, with his leg up, fussing about office work. and when he was not fussing he would look at eleanor and say to himself, "how can i tell her?" then he would think of his boy developing into a little joyous liar--and thief! the five cents that purchased the jew's-harp, instead of going into the missionary box, was intensely annoying to him. "but the lying is the worst. i can stand anything but lying!" the poor lying father thought. it was then that eleanor caught his eye, a half-scared, appraising, entreating eye--and stood still, looking down at him. "maurice, you want something? what is it?" "oh, nelly!" he said; "i want--" and the thing tumbled from his lips in six words: "i want you to forgive me." eleanor put her hand to her throat; then she said, "i know, maurice." silence tingled between them. maurice said, "you _know_?" she nodded. he was too stunned to ask how she knew; he only said, "i've been a hound." instantly, as though some locked and bolted door had been forced, her heart was open to him. "maurice! i can bear it--if only you don't lie to me!" "i have lied," he said; "but i can't go on lying any more! it's been hell. of course you'll never forgive me." instantly she was on her knees beside him, and her lips trembled against his cheek; but she was silent. she was agonizing, not for herself, but for him; _he had suffered_. and when that thought came, love rose like a wave and swept jealousy away! it was impossible for her to speak. over in his basket old bingo growled. "it was years ago," he said, very low; "i haven't--had anything to do with her since; but--" she said, gasping, "do you ... love her still?" "good god! no; i never loved her." "then," she said, "i don't mind." his arms went about her, his head dropped on her shoulder. the little dog, unnoticed, barked angrily. for a few minutes neither of them could speak. to him, the unexpectedness of forgiveness was an absolute shock. eleanor, her cheek against his hair, wept. happy tears! then she whispered: "there is ... a child?" he nodded speechlessly. "maurice, i will love it--" he was too overcome to speak. here she was, this irritating, foolish, faithful woman, coming, with outstretched, forgiving arms--to rescue him from his long deceit! "i have known it," she said, "for nearly two years." "and you never spoke of it!" "i couldn't." "i want to tell you everything, eleanor. it was--that dale woman." she pressed very close to him: "i know." he wondered swiftly how she knew, but he did not stop to ask; his words rushed out; it was as if the jab of a lancet had opened a hidden wound: "i never cared a copper for her. never! but--it happened. i was angry about something, and,--oh, i'm not excusing myself. there isn't any excuse! but i met her, and somehow--oh, eleanor!" "maurice, ... what does she call you?" "call me? what do you mean?" "what name?" "why, 'mr. curtis,' of course." "not 'maurice'? oh--i'm so glad! go on." "well, i never saw her again until she wrote to me about ... this child. eleanor! i tried to tell you. do you remember? one night in the boarding house--the night of the eclipse? i thought you'd never forgive me, but i tried to tell you ... oh, star, you are wonderful!" it was an amazing moment; he said to himself: "mrs. houghton was right. edith was right. how i have misjudged her!" he went on, eleanor still kneeling beside him, sometimes holding his hand to her lips, sometimes pressing her wet cheek against his; once her graying hair fell softly across his eyes ... "then," he said, "then ... the baby was born." "oh, _we_ had no children!" his arms comforted her. "i didn't care. i have never cared. i hated the idea of children, because of ... this child." "is his name jacky?" "that's what she called him. i never really noticed him, until winter before last; then i kind of--" he paused, then rushed on; it was to be truth henceforward between them! "i sort of--got fond of him." he waited, holding his breath; but there was no "explosion"! she just pressed his hand against her breast. "yes, maurice?" "he was sick and she sent for me--" "i know. that's how i knew. the telegram came, and i--oh," she interrupted herself, "i wasn't prying!" she was like a dog, shrinking before an expected blow. the fright in her face went to his heart; what a brute he must have been to have made her so afraid of him! "it was all right to open it! i'm glad you opened it. well, he was pretty sick, and i had to get him into the hospital; and after that i began to get sort of--interested in him. but now i'm worried to death, because--" then he told why he was worried; he told her almost with passion!... "for he's an awfully fine little chap! but she's ruining him." it was amazing how he was able to pour himself out to her! his anxiety about jacky, his irritation at lily--yet his appreciation of lily; he wouldn't go back on lily! "she wasn't bad--ever. just unmoral." "i understand." "oh, eleanor, to be able to talk to you, and tell you!" so he went on telling her: he told her of his faint, shy pride in his little son; told her a funny speech, and she laughed. told her jacky had seen a rainbow in the gutter and said it was "handsome." "he really notices beauty!" told her of lily's indignation at the sunday-school teacher, and his own effort to make jacky tell the truth, "i have a tremendous influence over him. he'll do anything for me; only, i see him so seldom that i can't counteract poor old lily's influence. she hasn't any idea of our way of looking at things." "you must counteract her! you must see him all the time." "eleanor," he said, "i have never known you!" he tried to lift her and hold her in his arms, but she was terrified about his knee. "no! don't move! you'll hurt your knee. maurice, can't i see him?" "what! do you really want to?" he said, amazed "eleanor, you are wonderful!" that whole evening was entire bliss--as much to maurice as to eleanor; to him, it was escape from the bog of secrecy in which, soiled with self-disgust, he had walked for nearly nine years; and with the clean sense of touching the bedrock of truth was an upspringing hope for his little boy, who "noticed beauty"! he would be able to see jacky, and train him, and gain his affection, and make a man of him. he had a sudden vision of companionship. "he'll be in business with me." but that made him smile at himself. "well, we'll go to ball games, anyway!" to eleanor, the evening was a mountain peak; from the sun-smitten heights of a forgiveness that knew itself to be love, and forgot that it forgave, she looked out, and saw--not that grave where truth and pride were buried, but a new heaven and a new earth; maurice's complete devotion. and his child,--whom she could love. chapter xxviii those next weeks were full of plans and hopes on eleanor's part, and gratitude on maurice's part. but she would not let him say that he was grateful, or that she was generous; he had told her, of course, how mrs. houghton had guessed long ago what had happened, and how she had urged him to trust his wife's nobility--but eleanor would not let him call her "noble"; "don't say it! and don't be 'grateful,' i just love you," she said; "and if you only knew what it means to me to be able to do anything for you! it's so long since you've needed me, maurice." the pathos of her sense of uselessness made his eyes sting. "i couldn't get along without you," he told her. once, on a rainy april sunday morning, when they were talking about jacky (maurice had gone to see him the day before, and was gnashing his teeth over some cheerful obliquity on the part of lily)--maurice said, emphatically: "gosh! nelly, i don't know what i'd do without you!" she, sitting on a stool at his side (and looking, poor woman! old enough to be his mother), was radiant. "and you don't enjoy talking to lily?" she said--just for the happiness of hearing, again, his horrified protest, "i should say _not_! there's nothing she can talk about." "she doesn't know about books and things? she hasn't--brains?" "brains? she probably never read anything in her life! she has lots of sense, but no intellect. she hasn't an idea beyond food and flowers--and jacky." "i wish i had her idea about food," eleanor said, simply. it was her fairness toward lily that amazed him; it made him reproach himself for his stupidity in not having confessed to her long ago! "why was i such a fool, eleanor, as not to know that you were a big woman? mrs. houghton knew it. why, even edith knew it! she told me you'd forgive anything." "_what_!" she rose abruptly and stood looking at him with suddenly angry eyes. "does edith know?" she said. "no! of course she doesn't know--_this_! but one day she and i were taking a walk, and i was thinking what a devilish mess i was in.... and i suppose edith saw i was down by the head, and she got to talking about you--" "you let her talk about me!" "she was saying how perfectly fine you had been about the mountain--" "i don't need edith houghton's approval of my conduct, maurice." she was trembling, and her face was quite pale. he rushed in deeper than ever: "i was only saying i felt so--badly, because i had failed to make you happy. of course i didn't say how! and she said, 'don't have any secrets from eleanor!'" "so it was edith who made you--" for a moment maurice was too dismayed to speak; besides, he didn't know what to say. what he did say was that she misunderstood him. "good heavens! eleanor, you didn't think i'd tell edith a thing like _that_? or that i'd tell any woman, when i didn't tell you? but edith knew you better than i did; she said no matter what i'd done (i just happened to say i was a skunk), you loved me enough to forgive me. and you have forgiven me." "yes," she said, in a whisper; "i've forgiven you." she went over to the window, and stood perfectly silent. it was raining steadily; the river, a block away, was hidden in the yellow fog; down in the yard, the tables and chairs under the poplar dripped and dripped. as for maurice, it was as if some dark finger had stretched out and touched a bubble.... she was the same eleanor. but he did not dwell upon this revealing moment; it was enough that at last he could stop lying, and that eleanor would help him about jacky! he called her back from the window and made her sit down again beside him, pretending not to see how her hands were trembling. then he went on talking about jacky. "his latest achievement is an infernal mouth harmonicon." she said, listlessly, "i wish i could give him music lessons." "he's crazy about music; trails hand organs all over medfield!" maurice said, with a great effort to be cheerfully casual; "but, heaven knows, i'd be glad if you could give him lessons in anything! manners, for instance. he hasn't any. or grammar; i told him not to say 'ain't,' and, if you please! he told his mother _she_ mustn't say it! lily got on her ear." she smiled faintly. "i wish i could see him," she said. she had urged this more than once, but it had not seemed practicable. "i can't bring him here," maurice explained; "he'd blurt out to lily where he'd been, and she'd get uneasy. even as it is, i live in dread that she'll pack up and clear out with him." "she _shan't_ take him away!" eleanor said; she was eager again;--after all, edith, for all her impertinence in advising maurice how to treat his wife!--edith could not break in upon an intimacy like this! her incessant talk about jacky (which might have bored maurice just a little, if it had not touched him) gave her, in some subtle, spiritual way, a sense of approaching motherhood: _she made preparations_! she planned little gifts for him;--maurice had told her of jacky's lively interest in benefits to come; once, she thought, "i suppose he's too old to have one of those funny papers in his room? i saw such a pretty one to-day, little rabbits in trousers!"--for by this time she had determined that, somehow, she would get possession of him! in these maternal moments she feared no rivalry from edith houghton. jacky would save her from edith! "oh, maurice! i _must_ see him," she said once. "i'll fix it so you can," he told her. but it was two months before he was able to fix it; then "forepaws" came to town, and the way was clear! he would take jacky, and eleanor should go and have a seat near by, and come up and speak to the youngster, as any admiring stranger might, and, indeed, often did, for jacky was a striking child--his eyes blue and keen, his skin very clear, and his cheeks glowing with health. "if he goes home and tells lily a lady spoke to him," maurice said, "she won't think anything of it." "may i give him some candy?" "no; he has too much of it as it is; get one of those tin horns for him. he'll raise cain for lily, i suppose; but we won't have to listen to him!" (that "we" so fed eleanor's starved soul, that she thought of edith houghton with a sort of gay contempt: "_i'm_ not afraid of her!") the plan for seeing jacky went through easily enough. "i'll take that boy of yours to the circus," maurice told lily, carelessly, one day. "why, that's awful kind in you, mr. curtis; but ain't you afraid somebody'll see you luggin' a child around?" "lots of men take kids to the circus--just as an excuse to go themselves." so maurice and the eight-year-old jacky, in a new sailor suit, and a face so clean that it shone, walked in among the gilded cages, felt the sawdust under their feet, smelled the wild animals, heard the yelps of the jackals, the booming roar of lions, and the screeching chatter of the monkeys. and as jacky dragged his father from cage to cage, a yard or two behind them came eleanor.... now and then, over jacky's head, she caught maurice's eye; and they both smiled. when a speechless jacky was taken into the central tent to sit on a narrow bench, and drink pink lemonade and eat peanuts, eleanor was quite near him. he was unconscious of her presence--unconscious of everything! except the blare of the band, the elephants, the performing dogs--especially the poor, strained performing dogs! he never spoke once; his eyes were fixed on the rings; he didn't see his father watching him, amused and proud; still less did he see the lady who had been at his heels in the animal tent, and who now kept her mournful dark eyes on his face. when the last horse gave the last kick and trotted out through the exit, with its mysterious canvas walls, jacky was in a daze of bliss. he sat, open-mouthed, staring at the empty, trampled sawdust. "come along, young man!" maurice said; "do you want to stay here all night?" "i'm going to be a circus rider," said jacky, solemnly. it was then that the "lady" spoke to him--her voice broke twice: "well, little boy, did you like the circus?" the lady said. she was so pale that maurice put his hand on her arm. "better sit down, nelly," he said, kindly, under his breath. she shook her head. "no ... jacky, don't you want to tell me your name?" "but you _know_ my name," said jacky, with a bored look. maurice gave her a warning glance, and she tried to cover her blunder: "i heard your father--i mean this gentleman--call you 'jacky,'" she explained--panting, for maurice's quick frown frightened her. "here's a present for you," she said. "_present_!" said jacky--and made a joyous grab at the horn, which he immediately put to his lips; but before it could emit its ear-piercing screech, maurice struck it down. "where are your manners? say 'thank you' to the lady." jacky sighed, but murmured, "'ank you." eleanor, her chin trembling, said: "may i kiss him?" "'course," maurice said, huskily. she bent down and kissed him with trembling lips--"ach!--you make me all wet," jacky said, frowning at her tears on his rosy cheek. later, as maurice pulled his reluctant son out on to the pavement, he was so moved that he almost forgot that she was still the old eleanor; he didn't even listen to his little boy's passionate assertion that he would be a flying-trapeze man. as he walked along beside his wife to put her on the car he spoke with great tenderness: "i'll leave him at lily's, and then i'll come right home, dear, and we'll talk things over." when he and his son got back to maple street, jacky was blowing that infernal horn so that the whole neighborhood was aware of his ecstasy. lily, waiting for them at the gate, put her hands over her ears. "my soul and body! for the land's sake, stop! who give you that horrid thing?" "an old lady," said jacky--and blew a shattering screech on eleanor's horn. chapter xxix from the day of the circus, jacky became, to eleanor, not a symbol of maurice's unfaithfulness, but a hope for the future. the thought of his mother was only the scar of a wound, which maurice, in some single slashing moment, had made in her heart. she was crippled by it, of course. but the wound had healed so she could forget the scar--because maurice had never loved lily, never found her "interesting," never wanted to wander about with _her_, in a dark garden, and talk of shoes--and ships--and sealing wax-- and cabbages--and kings ... to be sure the scar ached dully once in a while; but eleanor knew that if she could get possession of jacky she would be protected against other wounds--wounds which would never heal! she said to herself that maurice would never think of edith houghton if he had jacky! but how should she get jacky? for months she revolved countless schemes to persuade lily to resign him; schemes so futile that maurice, listening to them every night when he got home from the office, was touched, of course; but by and by he was also a little uneasy. he had told her where lily lived, then regretted it, for once she walked up and down before the house on maple street for an hour, hoping to see "the woman," but failing, because lily and jacky happened to be in town that afternoon. "i have a great mind to steal him for you!" she said, telling maurice of her fruitless effort. he protested, too disturbed at her mere presence on lily's street to notice her attempt at a joke. "if lily should imagine that we were interested in jacky, she'd run!" he explained; "it's dangerous, nelly, really. you mustn't go near her!" she promised she wouldn't; but every day of that mercer winter of low-hanging smoke and damp chilliness, she longed to get possession of the child--first to make maurice happy; then with the craving, driving, elemental desire for maternity; and then for self-protection,--jacky would vanquish edith! so she brooded: _a child_! "if i could only get him, it wouldn't be 'just us'!" ... "a boy's clothes are not as pretty as a girl's, but a little rough suit would be awfully attractive.... i'd give him music lessons.... we could go out to our field in june. and he would take off his shoes and stockings and wade!" how foolish edith's grown-up childishness of wading looked, compared to the scene which she visualized--a little, handsome boy, standing in the shallow rippling water, bareheaded, probably; the sunshine sifting down through the locust blossoms and touching that thatch of yellow hair, and glinting into those blue eyes. "he would call me 'mamma'!" then she hummed to herself, "'o spring!' oh, i _must_ have him!" her hope became such an obsession that its irrationality did not strike her. it was so in her mind that she even spoke of it once to mrs. houghton. "i know you _know_?" she said; "maurice told me he told you." mary houghton said, hesitatingly, "i think i know what you mean." this was in march. mrs. houghton and edith were in town for a few days' shopping, and of course they meant to see eleanor. "i'll go to the dressmaker's," edith had told her mother, "and then i'll corral maurice, and we'll drop in on mrs. newbolt, and _then_ i'll meet you at eleanor's. i don't hanker for a long call on eleanor." edith's gayly candid face hardened. so it was that mrs. houghton had arrived ahead of her girl, and the two older women were alone before a little smoldering fire in the library. eleanor had left her tea tray to go across the room and give little helpless bingo a lump of sugar. "he only eats what i give him," she said; "dear old bingo! i think he actually suffers, he's so jealous." then, pouring mrs. houghton's tea, she suddenly spoke: "i know you--know?" when mary houghton said, gravely, yes, she "_knew_," eleanor said, "oh, mrs. houghton, maurice and i are nearer to each other than we ever were before!" "that's as it should be. and as i knew it would be, too. you've done a noble thing, eleanor." "no! no! don't say that! it was nothing. because i--love him so. and he never cared for that woman. she has no brains, he says. but what i want is to get the boy for him. oh, he must have the boy!" then she told mrs. houghton how maurice went to see the child. "he goes once a week, though he says she's jealous if he makes too many suggestions; so he has to be very careful or she would get angry. but he has managed it so i have seen him; last summer he took him to the circus, and i sat near them. and twice he's had him in the park and i spoke to him. and on christmas he took him to the movies; i sat beside him. and i buttoned his coat when he went out!" her eyes were rapt. mary houghton, listening, said to herself, "_now_ what will henry houghton say about the 'explosion'? i shall rub it into him when i get home!" ... "eleanor, you are magnificent!" she said. "but how could i do anything else--if i loved maurice?" eleanor said. "oh, i do want him to have jacky! we must make a man of him. it would be wicked to let lily ruin him! and i want to give him music lessons. he has maurice's blue eyes." it was infinitely pathetic, this woman with gray hair, telling of her young husband's joy in his little son--who was not hers. and eleanor's sense of the paramount importance of the child gave mrs. houghton a new and real respect for her. aloud, she agreed heartily with the statement that jacky must be saved from lily. "she isn't bad," eleanor explained; "but she's just like an animal, maurice says. devoted to jacky, but no more idea of right and wrong than--than bingo!" she was so happy that she laughed, and looked almost young--but at that moment the street door opened, closed, and in the hall some one else laughed. instantly eleanor looked old. "it's edith," she said, coldly. it was--with maurice in tow. "i haled him forth from his office," edith said; "and we went to see your aunt, eleanor. she's a lamb!" "tea?" eleanor said, briefly. "yes, indeed!" edith said. she looked very pretty--cheeks glowing and brown hair flying about the rounded brim of a brown fur toque. maurice, keeping an eye on her, was gently kind to his wife. "head better, nelly?" then, having secured his tea, he drew edith over to the window and they went on with some discussion which had paused as they entered the house. eleanor, watching them, and making another cup of tea for mrs. houghton, spilled the boiling water on the tray and on her own hand. "my dear!" said mrs. houghton, "you have scalded yourself!" and, indeed, eleanor whitened with the pain of her smarting, puffing fingers. but she said, her eyes fixed on edith, "what _are_ they talking about?" mrs. houghton's look of surprise made her add: "edith seems so interested. i just wondered...." she had caught a phrase or two: "i can take the spring course,--it's three months. i think our university domestic science department is just every bit as good as any of the eastern ones." "where did you two meet each other?" eleanor called, sharply. "why, i told you," edith said, coming over to the tea table; "i dragged him from his desk!" "come, edith, we must go," mrs. houghton said, rising. "why don't you stay to dinner?" maurice urged--but eleanor was silent. "if you are in town next week, skeezics, you've got to put up here. understand? tell her so, eleanor!" eleanor said nothing. mrs. houghton said she was afraid it wouldn't be convenient. eleanor said nothing. "of course you will come here!" maurice said; he was sharply angry at his wife. in the momentary and embarrassing pause, the color flew into edith's face, but she was elaborately indifferent. "good-by, eleanor; good-by, maurice!" "i'm going to escort you to the hotel," maurice said; and, over his shoulder to eleanor: "i've got to rush off to st. louis to-night, eleanor. that greenleaf business. has mrs. o'brien brought my things home?"' "i'll see," she said, mechanically.... nobody had much to say on that walk to the hotel; but when maurice had left them, and the two ladies were in their room, edith faced her mother: "what _is_ the matter?" "you mean with eleanor? she has a headache, i suppose." "mother, don't squirm! you know just as well as i do that she doesn't want me to stay with them. why not?" she did not wait for an answer, which, indeed, her mother could not immediately find. "well, heaven knows i'm not pining to be with her! i shall run in to-morrow morning, and tell her that mrs. newbolt asked me to stay with her.... mother, how _could_ maurice have fallen in love with eleanor?" her voice trembled; she went over to the window and stood looking down into the street; her hands were clenched behind her, and her soft young chin was rigid. "he was just a boy," she said; her eyes were blurring so that the street was a gray fog; "how _could_ eleanor?" it seemed as if her own ardent, innocent body felt the recoil of maurice's youth from eleanor's age! she thought of that dark place in his past, which she had accepted with pain, but always with defending excuses; she excused him again, now, in her thoughts: "eleanor was _impossible_! that's why somebody else ... caught him. and it was long ago. and eleanor's old enough to be his mother. he never could have loved her!" suddenly she had a fleeting, but real, pity for eleanor: "poor thing!" aloud she said, huskily, over her shoulder, "if she had really loved him, she wouldn't have done such a terrible thing as marry him." mrs. houghton, reading the evening paper, said, briefly, "she loves him _now_, my dear." "oh!" edith said, passionately, "sometimes i am sorry for eleanor--and then the next minute i perfectly hate her!" "she was only forty when she married him," mary houghton said; "that isn't old at all! and i have always been sorry for her." she looked up over her spectacles at the tense young figure by the window, outlined against the yellow sunset; saw those clenched hands, heard the impetuous voice break on a word,--and forgot eleanor in a more intimate anxiety: "of course," she said, "such a difference in age as there is between maurice and eleanor is a pity. but maurice is devoted to her, and with reason. she has been generous when he has been unkind. i happen to know that." "maurice couldn't be unkind!" her mother ignored this. "and remember another thing, edith: it isn't years that decide whether a marriage is a failure. one of the happiest marriages i ever knew was between a woman of fifty and a man of thirty. you see--" she paused, and took off her spectacles, and tapped the arm of her chair, thoughtfully: "you see, edith, you don't understand. you are so appallingly young! you think love speaks only through the senses. my dear, love's highest speech is in the spirit; the language of the senses is only it's pretty, stammering, divine baby-talk!" edith was silent. her mother went on: "yes, it isn't age that decides things. it's selfishness or unselfishness. at present eleanor is extraordinarily unselfish, so i believe they may yet be very happy." "oh, i hope so, of course," edith said--and put up a furtive finger to wipe first one cheek, and then the other.... "poor maurice!" she said. chapter xxx when maurice got back to the firelit library, he said, filling his pipe with rather elaborate attention, and trying to speak with good-natured carelessness, "i'm afraid edith thought you didn't want her, nelly." he was sorry the next moment that he had said even as much as that: eleanor was breathing quickly, and her dark, sad eyes were hard with anger. "i don't," she said maurice said, sharply, "you have never liked her!" "why should i like her? she talks to you incessantly. and now, she _looks_ at you; here--before me! looks at you." "eleanor, what on earth--" "oh, i saw her, when you were talking over there by the window; i watched her. she looked at you! i am not blind. i understand what it means when a girl looks at a man that way. and now she's planning to be in mercer for three months? well, that's simply to be near you. she'd like to live in the same house with you, i suppose! if it wasn't for me, she'd be in love with you--perhaps she is, anyhow? yes, i think she is." there was a sick silence. "and, perhaps," she said, with a gasp, "you are in love with her?" he was dumb. the suddenness of the attack completely routed him--its suddenness; but more than its suddenness was a leaping question in his own mind. when she said, "you are in love with her?" an appalled "am i?" was on his lips. instantly he knew, what he had not known, at any rate articulately, that he was in love with edith. his thoughts broke in galloping confusion; his hand, holding the hot bowl of his pipe, trembled. he tried to speak, stammered, said, with a sort of gasp, "don't--don't say a thing like that!" then he got his breath, and ended, with a composure that kept his words slow and his voice cold, "it is terrible to say a thing like that to me." she flung out her hands. "what more can i do for you than i have done? oh, maurice--maurice, no woman could love you more than i do?... _could they_?" "i am grateful; i--" he tried to speak gently, but his voice had begun to shake with angry terror; it was abominable, this thing she had said! (but ... it was true.) "no; no woman could have done more for me than you have, eleanor; i am grateful." "grateful? yes. you give me gratitude." maurice was speechless. "i thought, perhaps, you loved me," she said. a minute later he heard her going upstairs to her own room. he stood staring after her, open-mouthed. then he said, under his breath, "good god!" after a while he went over to the fireplace, and, standing with one hand on the mantelpiece, he kicked the charred logs on the hearth together. "this room is cold. i must build the fire up.... yes, it's true.... the wood is too green to burn. i'll order from another man next time.... i suppose i've been in love with her for a good while. i wonder if it began that night jacky was sick ... and she kissed me? no; it must have been before that." he stooped and mended the fire, piling the logs together with slow exactness: "what life might have been!" he took up the bellows and urged a little flame to rise and flicker and lap the wood, then burst to crackling blaze. after a while he said, "poor nelly!" but he had himself in hand by that time, and, though this terrifying knowledge was surging in him, he knew that his voice would not betray him. he went upstairs to comfort her with kindly assurances that she was wrong. ("more lies," he thought, wearily.) but apparently she didn't need comforting! she was smoothing her hair before the glass, and seemed perfectly calm. he had expected tears, and violent reproaches, which he was prepared to meet with either good-natured ridicule or quiet falsehood, as the occasion might demand. but nothing was demanded. she continued to brush her hair; so he found it quite easy to come up behind her and lay a hand on her shoulder, and say, "nelly, dear, that wasn't a nice thing to say!" she did not meet his eyes in the mirror; she only said (she was trembling), "i suppose it wasn't." maurice was puzzled, but he said, casually, that he was sorry to have to rush off that night. "i've got to take the limited for st. louis. mr. weston wants some papers put through. i hate to leave you." she made no answer. "i shall be gone a week, maybe more; because if i don't pull the chestnut out of the fire in st. louis, i'll have to go to some other places." she hardly heard him; she was saying to herself: "i _oughtn't_ to have told him she was in love with him; it may make him think so, himself!" "guess i'll pack my grip now," he said. "maurice," she said, breathlessly, "i didn't mean--" she was so frightened that she couldn't finish her sentence; but he said, with kindly understanding: "of course you didn't!" it flashed into her mind that if she left him alone, he would know that what she had said was so meaningless that she didn't think it worth talking about. "i--i'm going to auntie's to dinner," she told him, on the spur of the moment. "do you mind?" "no; of course not. wait a second, and i'll walk round with you." she said, unsteadily, "oh no; you've got your packing to do--" then she kissed him swiftly, and hurried downstairs. "but eleanor, wait!" he called; "i'll go with--" she had gone. he heard the front door close. he stood still in his perplexity. what was the matter? she had got over that jealousy of edith in an instant; got over it, and accepted his departure without all those wearying protestations of love and loneliness to which he was accustomed. "is she angry," he told himself; "or just ashamed of having been so foolish?" mechanically, he picked out some neckties from his drawer, and paused.... "but she wasn't foolish. i do love edith.... how did she get on to it? she is so good to me about jacky--and i love edith!" he went on packing his grip. "i wonder if any man ever paid as i am paying?--i'll call her up at mrs. newbolt's, before i go, and say good-by." no doubt he would have done so, but when he went downstairs he found johnny bennett, smoking comfortably before that very cheerful little fire. "i dropped in," said johnny, "to ask for some dinner." "if you'll take pot luck," said maurice; "eleanor isn't at home, and i don't know what the lady below stairs will work off on us." (it would be a relief, he thought, to have somebody at table, so that he would not be alone with his own confusion.) "i came," johnny said, "to tell you i'm off." "off? when? where to? i thought your electric performances were panning out so well--" "oh, they're panning out all right," john said; "but they'll pan out better in south america. i'm going the first of the month." "south america! what's the matter with pennsylvania?" "well," johnny said; "i thought i'd light out--" then they began to talk climate, and consulates, which carried them through dinner, and went on in the library, and maurice's surface interest in johnny's affairs, at least kept him from thinking of his own dismay. "but i supposed," he said, and paused, "i sort of thought you--had reasons for staying round here?" "there's no use hanging round," john said; "it's better to pull out altogether. it's easier that way," he said, simply. "so i'm off for a year. they wanted me to sign for three years, but i said, 'one.' things may look better for me when i get home." maurice, standing with his back to the fire, his hands in his pocket, looked down at the steady youngster--looked at the mild eyes behind those large spectacles, looked at the clean, strong lines of the jaw and forehead. a good fellow. a very good fellow. he wondered why edith wouldn't take him? ("it couldn't make any difference to me," he thought; "and i want her to be happy.") "johnny," he said, "you can say, 'mind your business,' before i begin, if you want to. but i don't think anybody's cutting you out? better 'try, try again.'" johnny took his pipe from his mouth, bent forward to shake the ashes out of it, and stared into the fire. then he said, clearing his throat once or twice: "i've bothered her, 'trying,' i thought i'd start on a new tack." "you'll get her yet!" maurice encouraged him. he wondered, as he spoke, how he could speak so lightly, urging old johnny to go ahead and make another stab at it, and, maybe, "get her"! he wondered if he was looking at things the way the dead look at the living? he was not, he thought, suffering, as he had suffered in those first moments when eleanor had flung the truth at him. "you'll get her yet," he said, vaguely. johnny took out his tobacco pouch, and began to fill his pipe, poking his thumb down into the bowl with slow precision, then holding it on a level with his eyes and squinting at it, to make sure it was smooth; he seemed profoundly engrossed by that pipe--but he put it in his mouth without lighting it. "well, i don't know," he said; "i haven't an awful lot of hope that i'll ever get her. but i thought i'd try this way. maybe, if she doesn't see me for a year...." "there's nobody ahead of you, anyway," maurice said, absently. "well, i don't know," john bennett said again. his voice was so harsh that maurice's preoccupation sharpened into uneasy attention. johnny's hopes and fears had not really touched him. his encouraging platitudes were only a way of smothering his own thoughts. but that, "well, i don't know--" woke a keenly attentive fear: _was_ there anybody else? ("not that that could make any difference to me.") "you 'don't know'?" he said; "how do you mean? you think there _is_ somebody?" johnny bennett was silent; he had an impulse to say "you are several kinds of a fool, old man." but he was silent. "why, great scott!" maurice protested. "buried up there in the mountains, she hardly knows a fellow--except you!--and me," he added, with a laugh. "i think," said john, huskily, "she has ... some kind of an ideal up her sleeve. and i don't fill the bill. imagination, you know. a--a sort of sir walter raleigh business. remember how she was always sort of dotty on sir walter raleigh? an ideal, don't you know"; johnny rambled on: "girls are that way. only edith's the kind that sticks to things." "'try, try again,'" said maurice, mechanically; but his blood suddenly pounded in his ears. "i'm going to," johnny said, calmly; and began to talk south america. indeed, he talked so long that maurice, catching sight of the clock, exclaimed that he would have to run! "johnny, get eleanor on the wire, will you; at mrs. newbolt's, and tell her i'd have called her up, but i got delayed, and had to leg it to catch the train? or maybe you wouldn't mind going round there, and walking home with her?" "glad to," said johnny. when maurice, swinging on to the last platform of the last pullman, was able to sit down in his section, he was absorbed in johnny bennett's affairs. "what did he mean by saying that? did he mean--" johnny's enigmatical words rang in his ears; "i said to 'try again; nobody was cutting him out.' and he said 'she has some kind of an ideal up her sleeve.' ... 'a sir walter raleigh business' ..." johnny bennett, walking toward mrs. newbolt's, was also thinking, in his calm way, of just what he had said there by maurice's fireside. "of course he doesn't see why she hasn't fallen in love with anybody else. any decent fellow would be stupid about that sort of thing. but it's been that way ever since she was a child. and i've loved her ever since then, too. all the same, i'll only sign up for a year. then i'll make another stab at it ..." when he rang mrs. newbolt's doorbell, and was told that eleanor had not been there, he was perplexed. "i must have misunderstood maurice," he thought. chapter xxxi eleanor had no intention of going to mrs. newbolt's. "she'd talk edith to me!" she said to herself; "i _can't_ understand why she likes her!" instead of dining with her aunt, she meant to walk about the streets until she was sure that maurice had started for the train; then she would go back to her own house. so she wandered down the avenue until, tired of looking with unseeing eyes into shop windows, it occurred to her to go into the park; there, on a bench on one of the unfrequented paths, she sat down, hoping that no one would recognize her; it was cold, and she shivered and looked at her watch. only six o'clock! it would be two hours before maurice would leave the house for the station. it seemed absurd to be here in the dampness of the march evening; but she couldn't go home and get into any discussion with him; she might burst out again about edith!--which always made him angry. she wished that she had not told him that edith was in love with him. "it ought to disgust him, but it might flatter him!" and she oughtn't to have said that other thing; she oughtn't to have accused him of caring for edith. "of course he doesn't. and it was a horrid thing to say. i was angry, because i was jealous; but it wasn't true. i wish i hadn't said it. i'll write to him, and ask him to forgive me." but the other thing _was_ true: "i saw it in her eyes! she loves him. but i oughtn't to have put the idea into his head!" the more she thought of what she had put into maurice's head, the more uneasy she became. oh, if she only had jacky! then, edith could be as brazen as she pleased, and maurice would never notice her! "of course he doesn't love her; i'm certain of _that_!" she said again and again,--and all her schemes, wise and foolish, for getting possession of the boy, began to crowd into her mind. then an idea came to her which fairly took her breath away! a perfectly wild idea, which she dared not stop to analyze: suppose, instead of sitting here in the cold, she should go, now, boldly, to lily, and ask for jacky? "i believe _i_ could persuade her to give him to us! she wouldn't do it for maurice, but she might for me!" she got on her feet with a spring! her spiritual energy was like her physical energy that night on the mountain. again she was lifting--lifting! this time it was the weight of a love which might die! she was dragging it, carrying it! her very soul straining under her purpose of keeping it alive by the touch of a child's hand! ... why not go and see lily _now_? "she'll have finished her supper by the time i get to her house; it's at the very end of maple street!" if lily consented, eleanor might even get back to her own house in time to see maurice, and tell him what she had accomplished before he started for his train! but she would have to hurry.... she actually ran out of the park toward the street; then stood for an endless five minutes, waiting for the medfield car. "perhaps i can make her let me bring jacky home with me!" she said--which showed to what heights beyond common sense she had risen. at the little house on maple street she rang the bell, though she had a crazy impulse to bang upon the door to hurry lily! but she rang, and rang again, before she heard a child's voice: "maw. somebody at the door." "well, go open it, can't you?" she heard little scuffing steps on the oilcloth in the hall; then the door opened, and jacky stood there. he fixed his blue, impersonal eyes upon her, and waited. "is your mother in?" eleanor said, breathlessly. "yes, ma'am," said jacky. "who is it?" lily called to him; she was somewhere in the back of the house, and eleanor could hear the clatter of dishes being gathered up from an unseen supper table. jacky, unable to answer his mother's question, was calmly silent. "my land! that child's a reg'lar dummy! jacky, who _is_ it?" "_i_ do' know," jacky called back. "i am mrs. curtis," eleanor said; "i want to see your mother." "she says," jacky called--then paused, because it occurred to him to hang on to the door knob and swing back and forth, his heels scraping over the oilcloth; "she says," said jacky, "she's mrs. curtis." the noise of the dishes stopped short. in the dining room lily stood stock-still; "my god!" she said. then her eyes narrowed and her jaw set; she whipped off her apron and turned down her sleeves; she had made up her mind: "_i'll lie it through._" she came out in the hall, which was scented with rose geraniums and reeked with the smell of bacon fat, and said, with mincing politeness, "were you wishing to see me?" "yes," eleanor said. "step right in," said lily, opening the parlor door. "won't you be seated?" then she struck a match on the sole of her shoe, lit the gas, blew out the match, and turned to look at her visitor. she put her hand over her mouth and gasped. under her breath she said, "his _mother_!" "mrs. dale," eleanor began-- "well, there!" said lily, pleasantly (but she was pale); "i guess you have the advantage of me. what did you say your name was?" "my name is curtis. mrs. dale, i--i know about your little boy." "is that so?" lily said, with the simper proper when speaking to strangers. "i mean," eleanor said, "i know about--" her lips were so dry she stopped to moisten them--"about mr. curtis and you." "i ain't acquainted with your son." eleanor caught her breath, but went on, "i haven't come to reproach you." lily tossed her head. "reproach? _me?_ well, i must say, i don't see no cause why you should! _i_ don't know no mr. curtis!" she was alertly on guard for maurice; "i guess you've mixed me up with some other lady." "please!" eleanor said; "i _know_. he told me--about jacky." instantly lily's desire to defend maurice was tempered by impatience with him; the idea of him letting on to his mother! then, noticing her boy, who was silently observing the caller from the doorway, she said: "jacky! go right out of this room." "won't," said jacky. "she gimme the horn," he remarked. "aw, now, sweety, go on out!" lily entreated. jacky said, calmly, "won't." at which his mother got up and stamped her foot. "clear right out of this room, or i'll see to you! do you hear me? go on, now, or i'll give you a reg'lar spanking!" jacky ran. he never obeyed her when he could help it, but he always recognized the moment when he couldn't help it. lily closed the door, and stood with her back against it, looking at her caller. "well," she said, "if you _are_ on to it, i'm sure you ain't going to make trouble for him with his wife." "i am his wife." "his _wife_?" they looked at each other for a speechess moment. then the tears sprang to lily's eyes. "oh, you poor soul!" she said. "say, don't feel bad! it's pretty near ten years ago; he was just a kid. since then--honest to god, i give you my word, he 'ain't hardly said 'how do you do' to me!" "i know," eleanor said; her hands were gripped hard together; "i know that. i know he has been ... perfectly true to me--lately. i am not saying a word about that. it's the child. i want to make a proposition to you about the child." her lips trembled, but she smiled; she remembered to smile, because if she didn't look pleasant lily might get angry. she was a little frightened; but she gave a nervous laugh. she spoke with gentleness, almost with sweetness. "i came to see you, mrs. dale, because i hope you and i can make some arrangement about the little boy. i want to help you by relieving you of--of his support. i mean," said eleanor, still smiling with her trembling lips, "i mean, i will take him, and bring him up, so as to save you the expense." lily's amazed recoil made her break into entreaty; "my husband wants him, and i do, too! i thought perhaps you'd let him go home with me to-night? i--i promise i'll take the best of care of him!" lily was too dumfounded to speak, but her thoughts raced. "for the land's sake!" she said under her breath. she was sitting down now, but her hands in her lap had doubled into rosy fighting fists. her silence terrified eleanor. "if you'll give him to me," she said, "i will do anything for you--anything! if you'll just let mr. curtis have him." she did not mean to, but suddenly she was crying, and began to fumble for her handkerchief. "well, if this ain't the limit!" said lily, and jumped up and ran to her, and put her arms around her. ("here, take mine! it's clean.") "say, i'm that sorry for you, i don't know what to do!" her own tears overflowed. eleanor, wincing away from the gush of perfumery from the little clean handkerchief, clutched at lily's small plump hand--"_i'll_ tell you what to do," eleanor said; "_give me jacky!_" lily, kneeling beside her, cried, honestly and openly. "there!--now!" she said, patting eleanor's shoulder; "don't you cry! mrs. curtis, now look,"--she spoke soothingly, as if to a child, with her arm around eleanor--"you know i _can't_ let my little boy go? why, think how you'd feel yourself, if you had a little boy and anybody tried to get him. would you give him up? 'course you wouldn't! why, i wouldn't let jacky go away from me, even for a day, not for the world! an' he ain't anything to mr. curtis. honest! that's the truth. now, don't you cry, dear!" "you can see him often; i promise you, you can see him." in spite of her pity, lily's yellow eyes gleamed: "'see' my own child? well, i guess!" "i'll give you anything," eleanor said; "i have a little money--about six hundred dollars a year; i'll give it to you, if you'll let mr. curtis have him." "sell jacky for six hundred dollars?" lily said. "i wouldn't sell him for six thousand dollars, or six million!" she drew away from eleanor's beseeching hands. "how long has mr. curtis thought enough of jacky to pay six hundred dollars for him? you can tell mr. curtis, from me, that i ain't no cheap trader, to give away my child for six hundred dollars!" she sprang up, putting her clenched fists on her fat hips, and wagging her head. "why," she demanded, raucously, "didn't you have a child of your own for him, 'stead of trying to get another woman's child away from her?" it was a hideous blow. eleanor gasped with pain; and instantly lily's anger was gone. "say! i didn't mean that! 'course you couldn't, at your age. i oughtn't to have said it!" eleanor, dumb for a moment after that deadly question, began, faintly: "mr. curtis will do so much for him, mrs. dale; he'll educate him, and--" "i can educate him," lily said; "you tell mr. curtis that; you tell him i thank him for nothing!--_i_ can educate my child to beat the band. i don't want any help from _him_. but--" she was on her knees again, stroking eleanor's shoulder--"but if he's mean to you because you haven't had any children, i--i--i'll see to him! well--i've always thought, what with him fussing about 'grammar,' and 'truth,' he'd be a hard man to live with. but if he's been mean to you he'd ought to be ashamed of himself!" "oh, he doesn't even know that i have come!" eleanor said; "he mustn't know it. oh, please!" she was terrified. "don't tell him, mrs. dale. promise me you won't! he would be angry." her frightened despair was pitiful; lily was at her wits' end. "my soul and body!" she thought, "what am i going to do with her?" but what was all this business? mrs. curtis asking for jacky--and mr. curtis not knowing it? what was all this funny business? "now i tell you," she said; "you and me are just two ladies who understand each other, and i'm going to be straight with you: if mr. curtis is trying to get my child away from me, he'll have a sweet time doing it! there's other places than medfield to live in. i have a friend in new york, a society lady; she's always after me to come and live there. mind! i'm not mad at _you_, you poor woman that couldn't have a baby--it's him i'm mad at! he knows jacky is mine, and i'll go to new york before i'll--" "oh, don't say that!" eleanor pleaded; "my husband hasn't tried to get jacky; it's just i!" she saw, with panic, that what maurice had said was true--lily might "run"! if she did, there would be no hope of getting jacky ... and edith would be in mercer.... "mrs. dale, _promise_ me you'll stay in medfield? it was only i who was trying to get jacky; mr. curtis never thought of such a thing! i wanted him. i'd do everything for him; i'd--i'd give him music lessons." "honest," said lily, soberly, "i believe you're crazy." she looked crazy--this poor, gray-haired woman of pitiful dignity and breeding. ("i bet she's sixty!" lily thought)--this old, childless woman, with a "mrs." to her name, pleading with a mother to give up her boy, so he could have "music lessons"! "and mr. curtis's up against _that_," lily thought, and instantly her anger at maurice ebbed. "there, dear," she said, touching eleanor's wet cheeks gently with that perfumed handkerchief; "i don't believe you've had any supper. i'm going to get you something to eat--" "no, please; _please_ no!" eleanor said. she had risen. she thought, "if she says 'dear' again, i'll--i'll die!" ... "i promise you on my word of honor," she said, faintly, "that i won't try to take jacky away from you, if--" she paused; it was terrible to have a secret with this woman; it put her in her power, but she couldn't help it--"i won't try to get him, if you won't tell mr. curtis that i ... have been here? _please_ promise me!" "don't you worry," lily said, reassuringly; "i won't give you away to him." eleanor was moving, stumbling a little, toward the door; lily hesitated, then ran and caught her own coat and hat from the rack in the hall. "wait!" she said, pinning her hat on at a hasty and uncertain angle; "i'm going with you! it ain't right for you to go by yourself ... jacky," she called out to the kitchen, "you be a good boy! maw'll be home soon." eleanor shook her head in wordless protest. but lily had tucked her hand under her arm, and was walking along beside her. "he ought to look out for you!" lily said; "i declare, i've a mind to tell that man what i think of him!" on the car, while eleanor with shaking hands was opening her purse, lily quickly paid both fares, saying, politely, in answer to eleanor's confused protest, "_that's_ all right!" there was no talk between them. lily was too perplexed to say anything, and eleanor was too frightened. so they rode, side by side, almost to maurice's door. there, standing on the step while eleanor took her latch key from her pocketbook, lily said, cheerfully, "now you go and get a cup of tea--you're all wore out!" then she hurried off to catch a medfield car. "i declare," said little lily, "i don't know which is the worse off, him or her!" chapter xxxii eleanor, letting herself into her silent house, saw, with relief, that the library was dark, and knew that maurice had gone to the station and she could be alone. she felt her way into the room, blundering against his big chair; the fire was almost out, and without waiting to turn on the light she thrust some kindling under a charred log and knelt down and took up the bellows. a spark brightened, ran backward under the film of ashes, then a flame hesitated, caught--and there was a little winking blaze. "another failure," eleanor said. she remembered with what eager hope she had started for lily's house; "i was going to 'bring him home' with me! what a fool i was! ... i always fail," she said. once more, she had "marched up a hill--and--then--marched--down--again"! her sense of failure was like a dragging weight under her breastbone! she had not made maurice happy; she had not given him children; she had not kept edith out of his life. failure! failure! "but he loves me; he said so, when i told him i forgave him about lily. of course i oughtn't to have married him. but i loved him ... so much. and i did want to have just a little happiness! i never had had any." she sat there, the bellows in her white, ineffectual hands, looking into the fire; how capable lily's hands were! she remembered the sturdy left hand, and that shiny band of gold ... then she looked at her own slender wedding ring, and that made her think of the circle of braided grass; and the locust blossoms; and the field--and the children who were to come there on the wedding anniversaries! and now--maurice's child called another woman "mother"!... well, she had tried to bring him back to maurice; tried, and failed, with hideous humiliation--for, instead of bringing jacky back, this "mother" had brought her back!... "_and she paid my car fare!_" it was intolerable. "i must send her five cents, somehow!" she sat on the floor, leaning against maurice's chair, until midnight; the log burned through, broke apart, and smoldered into ashes. once she put her cheek down on the broad arm of the chair, then kissed it--for his hand had rested on it!--his dear young hand--in the deepening chilliness, watching the ashes, she ached with the sense of her last failure; but most of the time she thought of edith, and of what she believed she had read in those humorous, candid eyes. "she dared, _before me_!--to show him that she was in love with him! he doesn't care for her--i know that. but i won't have her come here, to my own house, and make love to him. how can i keep her from coming? oh, if i could only get jacky!" but she couldn't get him. she had accepted that as final. the talk in lily's parlor proved that there was not the slightest hope of getting jacky. so the only thing for her to do was to keep edith out of her house. when, at nearly one o'clock, shivering, she went up to her room, she was absorbed in thinking how she could do this. with any other girl it would have been simple enough; never invite her! but not edith. edith came without an invitation. edith had, eleanor thought, "no delicacy." she had always been that way. she had always lacked ordinary refinement! from the very first, she had run after maurice. "she is capable of _kissing_ him," eleanor told herself; "and saying she did it because he was like a brother!" strangely enough, in this blaze of jealousy she had no flicker of resentment at lily! lily (now that she had seen her) was to eleanor merely the woman to whom jacky belonged. looking back on those months that followed her discovery of lily, and contrasting the agony she had felt then with her despair about edith now, she was faintly surprised at the difference in her pain. this was probably because faithlessness of the body is not so deadly an insult to love as faithlessness of the mind. but eleanor did not, of course, make any such explanation. she just said to herself that maurice had been a boy when he had been untrue to her, and she herself had been, in some ways, to blame; and he had confessed, and been forgiven. so lily was now of no consequence--except as she interfered with eleanor's passionate wish to have jacky. so she did not hate lily, or fear her (though she was humiliated at that car fare!). but she did hate edith, and fear of her was agony.... so she would, somehow, keep her out of the house! just as she was getting into bed, she wiped her eyes, then cringed at a gust of perfumery--and realized that she had brought lily's handkerchief back with her! it was a last abasement: the woman's horrible handkerchief. she burst into hysterical weeping.... the next morning, when she came down to breakfast, her face was haggard with those ravaging tears, and with the fatigue of hating. even before she had her coffee, she burned the scented scrap of machine-embroidered linen, pressing it down between the logs in the library fireplace; but she could not burn her hate; it burned her! she was so worn out that when, a little before luncheon, edith suddenly came breezily in, she was, at first, too confused to know what to say to her.... it was an incredibly mild day; on the shady side of the back yard there was still a sooty heap of melting snow, but the sky was turquoise, soaring without a cloud and brimmed with light, so that the shadows of the bare branches of the poplar, clear-cut like jet, crisscrossed on the brick path; in the border, the brown fangs of the tulips had bitten up through the wet earth, and two militant crocuses had raised their tight-furled purple standards. eleanor, tempted by the sunshine, had come here, muffled up in an elderly white shawl, to sit by the little painted table--built so long ago for edith's pleasure! she had put old bingo's basket in the sun, and stroked him gently; he was very helpless now, and ate nothing except from her hands. "poor little bingo!" eleanor said; "dear little bingo!" bingo growled, and eleanor looked up to see why--edith was on the iron veranda. "hullo!" edith said, gayly; "isn't it a wonderful day? i just ran in--" she came down the twisted stairway and, unasked and smiling, sat down at the table. "bingo! don't you know your friends? one would think i was a burglar! oh, eleanor, the tulips are up! do you remember when maurice and i planted them?" eleanor's throat tightened. she made some gasping assent. "i came 'round," edith said--her frank eyes looked straight into eleanor's eyes, dark and agonized--"i ran in, because i'm afraid you thought, yesterday, that i wanted to quarter myself on you? and i just wanted to say, don't give it a thought! i perfectly understand that sometimes it's inconvenient to have company, and--" "it's not inconvenient to have company," eleanor said. edith stopped short. ("what a dead give-away!" she thought; "she dislikes me!") then she tried, generously, to cover the "give-away" up: she said something about guests and servants: "we're having an awful time at green hill--servants are the limit! when a maid stays six weeks, we call her an old family retainer!" eleanor said, "i have no difficulty with maids. that is not why i prefer not to have ... company." by this time, of course, edith's one thought was to get away, with dignity; but dignity, when you've had your face slapped, is almost impossible. so edith (being edith!) chose truth, and didn't trouble herself with dignity! "eleanor," she said, "i know it's me you don't want. i felt it last night. i'm afraid i've done something that has offended you. have i? truly, eleanor, i haven't meant to! what is it? let's talk it out. eleanor, what _have_ i done?" she put her hands down on eleanor's, clasped rigidly on the table. "please!" eleanor said, and drew her hands away. "oh," edith said, pitifully, "you are troubled!" eleanor said, with a gasp: "not at all ... edith, i am afraid i must ask you to ... excuse me. i'm busy." edith was too amazed to speak; she could not, indeed, think of anything to say! this wasn't "dislike." "why, she _hates_ me!" she thought. "why does she hate me? shall i not notice it? shall i talk about something else?" but she could not talk of anything else; she could only speak her swift, honest thought: "eleanor, why do you dislike me? maurice and i have been friends--we have been like brother and sister--ever since i can remember. oh, eleanor, i want _you_ to like me, too! please don't keep me away from you and maurice!" eleanor said, rapidly: "he's not your brother; and it would be difficult to keep you away from him. you go to his office to find him." there was a dead silence. edith grew very pale. at last she understood. eleanor was jealous ... of her! they looked at each other, the angry woman and the dumfounded girl. "jealous? of _me_?" edith thought. "why _me_? maurice only cares for me as if i was his sister! ... and i don't do eleanor any harm by--loving him." ... eleanor was gasping out a torrent of assailing words: "girls are different from what they were in my day. then, they didn't openly run after men! now, apparently, they do. certainly _you_ do. you always have. i'm not blind, edith. i have known what was going on; when you were living with us and i had a headache, you used to talk to him, and try and be clever--to make him think i was dull, when it was only that--i was too ill to talk! and you kept him down in the garden until midnight, when he might have been sitting with me on the porch. and you made him go skating. and now you _look_ at him! i know what that means. a girl doesn't look that way at a man, unless--" there was dead silence. "unless she's in love with him. but don't think that, though you are in love with him, he cares for _you_! he does not. he cares for no one but me. he told me so." silence. "can you deny that you care for my husband?" edith opened her lips--and closed them again. "you don't deny it," eleanor said; "you _can't_." she put her head down on her arms on the table; her fifty years engulfed her. she said, in a whisper, "he doesn't love me." instantly edith's arms were around her. "eleanor, dear! don't--don't! he does love you--he does! i'd perfectly hate him if he didn't! oh, eleanor, poor eleanor! don't cry; maurice _does_ love you. he doesn't care a copper for me!" the tears were running down her face. she bent and kissed eleanor's hands, clenched on the table, and then tried to draw the gray head against her tender young breast. eleanor put out frantic hands, as if to push away some suffocating pressure. both of these women--lily, with her car fare and her handkerchief; edith, with her impudent "advice" to maurice not to have secrets from his wife--pitied her! she would not be pitied by them! "don't touch me!" she said, furiously; "_you love my husband_." edith heard her own blood pounding in her ears. "don't you?" said eleanor; her face was furrowed with pain; "don't you?" it was a moment of naked truth. "i have loved maurice," edith said, steadily, "ever since i was a child. i always shall. i would like to love you, too, eleanor, if you would let me. but nothing--_nothing_! shall ever break up my ... affection for maurice." "you might as well call it love." edith, rising, said, very low: "well, i will call it love. i am not ashamed. i am not wronging you. you have no need to be jealous of me, eleanor. he cares nothing for me." eleanor struck the table with her clenched fists. "you shall never have him!" she said. edith turned, silently, and went up the veranda stairs and out of the house. chapter xxxiii when eleanor got her breath, after that crazy outbreak, she rushed up to her own room, bolted the door, fell on her knees at her bedside, and told herself in frantic gasps, that she would _fight_ edith houghton! grapple with her! beat her away from maurice! "i must _do_ something--do something--" but what? there was only one weapon with which she could vanquish edith--maurice's love for his son. _jacky!_ she must have jacky ... but how could she get him? she knew she couldn't get him with lily's consent. frantic with jealousy as she was, she recognized that! yet, over and over, during the week that followed that hour in the garden with edith, she said to herself, "if maurice had jacky, edith would be nothing to him." ... it was at this point that one day something made her add, "_suppose he had lily, too?_" then he could have jacky. "if i were dead, he could marry lily." at first this was just one of those vague thoughts that blew through her mind, as straws and dead leaves blow down a dreary street. but this straw caught, so to speak, and more straws gathered and heaped about it. the idea lodged, and another idea lodged with it: if, to get his child, he married jacky's mother, edith would never reach him! and if, by dying, eleanor gave maurice his child, he would always love her for her gift; she would always be "wonderful." and edith? why, he couldn't, he _couldn't_--if his wife died to give him jacky--think of edith again! jacky, eleanor thought, viciously, "would slam the door in edith's face!" perhaps, if maurice had been at home, instead of being obliged to prolong that western business trip, the sanity of his presence would have swept the straws and dead leaves away and left eleanor's mind bleak, of course, with disappointment about jacky and dread of edith--but sound. as it was, alone in her melancholy, uncomfortable house, tiny innumerable "reasons" for considering the one way by which maurice could get jacky, heaped and heaped above common sense: ten years ago mrs. newbolt said that if eleanor had not "caught" maurice when he was young, he would have taken edith; that was a straw. two years ago a woman in the street car offered her a seat, because she looked as old as _her_ mother. another straw! lily supposed she was maurice's mother! a straw.... edith admitted--had impudently flung into eleanor's face!--the confession that she was "in love with him!"--and edith was to be in town for three months. oh, what a sheaf of straws! edith would see him constantly. she would "look at him"! could maurice stand that? wouldn't what little love he felt for his old wife go down under the wicked assault of those "looks"?--unless he had jacky! jacky would "slam the door." eleanor said things like this many times a day. straws! straws! and they showed the way the wind was blowing. sometimes, in the suffocating dust of fear that the wind raised she even forgot her purpose of making maurice happy, in a violent urge to make it impossible for edith houghton to triumph over her. but the other thought--the crazy, nobler thought!--was, on the whole, dominant: "maurice would be happy if he had a child. i couldn't give him a child of my own, but i can give him jacky." yet once in a while she balanced the advantages and disadvantages of the one way in which jacky could be given: _lily_? could maurice endure lily? she thought of that parlor, of lily's vulgarity, of the raucous note in her voice when those flashes of anger pierced like claws through the furry softness of her good nature; she thought of the reek of scent on the handkerchief. could he endure lily? yet she was efficient; she would make him comfortable. "i never made him comfortable," she thought. "and he doesn't love her; so i wouldn't so terribly mind her being here--any more than i'd mind a housekeeper. but i wouldn't want her to call him 'maurice.' i think i'll put that into my letter to him. i'll say that i will ask, as a last favor, that he will not let her call him 'maurice.'" for by this time she had added another straw to the pile of rubbish in her mind: _she would write him a letter_. in it she would tell him that she was going to ... die, so that he could marry lily and have jacky! then came the mental postscript, which would not, of course, be written; she would make it possible for him to marry lily--_and impossible for him to marry edith_! and by and by she got so close to her mean and noble purpose--a gift in one dead hand and a sword in the other!--that she began to think of ways and means. how could she die? she couldn't buy morphine without a prescription, and she couldn't possibly get a prescription. but there were other things that people did,--dreadful things! she knew she couldn't do anything "dreadful." maurice had a revolver in his bureau drawer, upstairs--but she didn't know how to make it "go off"; and if she had known, she couldn't do it; it would be "dreadful." well; a rope? no! horrible! she had once seen a picture ... she shuddered at the memory of that picture. _that_ was impossible! sometimes any way--every way!--seemed impossible. once, wandering aimlessly about the thawing back yard, she stood for a long time at the iron gate, staring at the glimmer, a block away, of the river--"our river," maurice used to call it. but in town, "their" river--flowing!--flowing! was filmed with oil, and washed against slimy piles, and carried a hideous flotsam of human rubbish; once down below the bridge she had seen a drowned cat slopping back and forth among orange skins and straw bottle covers. the river, in town, was as "dreadful" as those other impossible things! back in the meadows it was different--brown and clear where it rippled over shallows and lisped around that strip of clean sand, and darkly smooth out in the deep current;--the deep current? why! _that_ was possible! of course there were "things" in the water that she might step on--slimy, creeping things!--which she was so afraid of. she remembered how afraid she had been that night on the mountain, of snakes. but the water was clean. she must have stood there a long time; the maids, in the basement laundry, said afterward that they saw her, her white hands clutching the rusty bars of the gate, looking down toward the river, for nearly an hour. then bingo whined, and she went into the house to comfort him; and as she stroked him gently, she said, "yes, ... our river would be possible." but she would get so wet! "my skirts would be wet ..." so three days went by in profound preoccupation. her mind was a battlefield, over which, back and forth, reeling and trampling, love and jealousy--old enemies but now allies!--flung themselves against reason, which had no support but fear. each day maurice's friendly letters arrived; one of them--as jealousy began to rout reason and love to cast out fear--she actually forgot to open! mrs. newbolt called her up on the telephone once, and said, "come 'round to dinner; my new cook is pretty poor, but she's better than yours." eleanor said she had a little cold. "cold?" said mrs. newbolt. "my gracious! don't come near _me_! i used to tell your dear uncle i was more afraid of a cold than i was of satan! he said a cold _was_ satan; and i said--" eleanor hung up the receiver. so she was alone--and the wind blew, and the straws and leaves danced over that battlefield of her empty mind, and she said: "i'll give him jacky," and then she said, "our river." and then she said, "but i must hurry!" he had written that he might reach home by the end of the week. "he might come to-night! i must do it--before he comes home." she said that while the march dawn was gray against the windows of her bedroom, and the house was still. she lay in bed until, at six, she heard the creak of the attic stairs and mary's step as she crept down to the kitchen, the silver basket clattering faintly on her arm. then she rose and dressed; once she paused to look at herself in the glass: those gray hairs! ... edith had called his attention to them so many years ago! it was a long time since it had been worth while to pull them out. ... all that morning she moved about the house like one in a dream. she was thinking what she would say in her letter to him, and wondering, now and then, vaguely, what it would be like, _afterward_? she ate no luncheon, though she sat down at the table. she just crumbled up a piece of bread; then rose, and went into the library to maurice's desk... she sat there for a long time, making idle scratches on the blotting paper; her elbow on the desk, her forehead in her hand, she sat and scrawled his initials--and hers--and his. and then, after about an hour, she wrote: ... i want you to have jacky. when i am dead you can get him, because you can marry lily. of course i oughtn't to have married you, but-- here she paused for a long time. i loved you. i'd rather she didn't call you maurice. but i want you to have jacky; so marry her, and you will have him. i am not jealous, you see. you won't call me jealous any more, will you? and, besides, i love little jacky, too. see that he has music lessons. another pause... many thoughts... many straws and dead leaves... "edith will never enter the house, if lily is here--with jacky.... oh--i hate her." you will believe i love you, won't you, darling? i wish i hadn't married you; i didn't mean to do you any harm. i just loved you, and i thought i could make you happy. i know now that i didn't. forgive me, darling, for marrying you... again a long pause.... i don't mind dying at all, if i can give you what you want. and i don't mind your marrying lily. i am sure she can make good cake--tell her to try that chocolate cake you liked so much. i tried it twice, but it was heavy. i forgot the baking powder. make her call you "mr. curtis." oh, maurice--you will believe i love you?--even if i am-- she put her pen down and buried her face in her arms folded on his desk; she couldn't seem to write that word of three letters which she had supposed summed up the tragedy, begun on that june day in the field and ending, she told herself, on this march day, in the same place. so, by and by, instead of writing "old," she wrote "a poor housekeeper." then she pondered on how she should sign the letter, and after a while she wrote: "star." she looked at the radiant word, and then kissed it. by and by she got up--with difficulty, for she had sat there so long that she was stiff in every joint--and going to her own desk, she hunted about in it for that little envelope, which, for nearly twelve of the fifty golden years which were to find them in "their field," had held the circle of braided grass. when she opened it, and slid the ring out into the palm of her hand it crumbled into dust. she debated putting it back into the envelope and inclosing it in her letter? but a rush of tenderness for maurice made her say: "no! it might hurt him." so she dropped it down behind the logs in the fireplace. "when the fire is lighted it will burn up." lily's scented handkerchief had turned to ashes there, too. then she folded the letter, slipped it into an envelope, sealed it, addressed it, and put it in her desk. "he'll find it," she thought, "_afterward_." find it,--and know how much she loved him!--the words were like wine to her. then she looked at the clock and was startled to see that it was five. she must hurry! he might come home and stop her!... she was perfectly calm; she put on her coat and hat and opened the front door; then saw the gleam of lights on the wet pavement and felt the march drizzle in her face; she reflected that it would be very wet in the meadow, and went back for her rubbers. when the car came banging cheerfully along, she boarded it and sat so that she would be able to see lily's house. "she's getting his supper," eleanor thought; "dear little jacky! well, he will be having his supper with maurice pretty soon! i wonder how she'll get along with mary? mary will call her 'mrs. curtis,' mary would leave in a minute if she knew what kind of a person 'mrs. curtis' was!" she smiled at that; it pleased her. "but she mustn't call him 'maurice,'" she thought; "i won't permit _that_!" the car stopped, and all the other passengers got out. eleanor vaguely watched the conductor pull the trolley pole round for the return trip; then she rose hurriedly. as she started along the road toward the meadow she thought. "i can walk into the water; i never could jump in! but it will be easy to wade in." that made her think of the picnic, and the wading, and how maurice had tied edith's shoestrings; and with that came a surge of triumph. "when he reads my letter, and knows how much i love him, he'll forget her. and when she hears he has married lily, she'll stop making love to him by getting him to tie her shoestrings!" it was quite dark by this time, and chilly; she had meant to sit down for a while, with her back against the locust tree, and think how, _at last_, he was going to realize her love! but when she reached the bank of the river she stooped and felt the winter-bleached grass, and found it so wet with the small, fine rain which had begun to fall, that she was afraid to sit down. "i'd add to my cold," she thought. so she stood there a long time, looking at the river, leaden now in the twilight. "how it glittered that day!" she thought. suddenly, on a soft wind of memory, she seemed to smell the warm fragrance of the clover, and hear again her own voice, singing in the sunshine-- "through the clear windows of the morning!" "i'll leave my coat on the bank," she said; "but i'll wear my hat; it will keep my hair from getting messy. ... oh, maurice mustn't let her call him 'maurice'! i wish i'd made that clearer in my letter. why didn't i tell him to give her that five cents? ... i wonder how many 'minutes' we have had now? we had had fifty-four, that day. i wish i had calculated, and put the number in the letter. no, that might have made him feel badly. i don't want to hurt him; i only want him to know that i love him enough to die to make him happy. oh--will it be cold?" it was then that she took, slowly, one step--and stood still. and another--and paused. her heart began to pound suffocatingly in her throat, and suddenly she knew that she was afraid! she had not known it; fear had not entered into her plans; just love--and maurice; just hate--and edith! nor had "right" or "wrong" occurred to her. now, old instincts rose up. people called this "wicked"? so, if she was going to do it, she must do it quickly! she mustn't get to thinking or she might be afraid to do it, because it would be "wicked." she unfastened her coat, then fumbled with her hat, pinning it on firmly; she was saying, aloud: "oh--oh--oh--it's wicked. but i must. oh--my skirts will get wet ... 'kiss thy perfumed garments' ... no; i'll hold them up. oh--oh--" and as she spoke her crazy purpose drove her forward; she held back against it--but, like the pressure of a hand upon her shoulder, it pushed her on down the bank--slowly--slowly--her heels digging into the crumbling clay, her hands clutching now at a tuft of grass, now at a drooping branch; she was drawing quick breaths of terror, and talking, in little gasps, aloud: "he'll forget edith. he'll have jacky. he'll know how much i love him...." so, over the pebbles, out on to the spit of sand; on--on--until she reached the river's edge. she stood there for a minute, listening to the lisping chatter of the current. very slowly, she stepped in, and was ankle deep in shallow water,--then stopped short--the water soaked through her shoes, and suddenly she felt it, like circling ice, around her ankles! aloud, she said, "maurice,--i give you jacky. but don't let lily call you--" she stepped on, into the stream; one step--two--three. it was still shallow. "why doesn't it get _deep_?" she said, angrily; another step and the water was halfway to her knees; she felt the force of the current and swayed a little; still another step--above her knees now! and the _rip_, tugging and pulling at her floating skirts. it was at the next step that she slipped, staggered, fell full length--felt the water gushing into the neck of her dress, running down her back, flowing between her breasts; felt her sleeves drenched against her arms; she sprang up, fell again, her head under water, her face scraping the pebbly sharpness of the river bed,--again got on to her feet and ran choking and coughing, stumbling and slipping, back to the sand-spit, and the shore. there she stood, soaking wet, gasping. her hat was gone, her hair dripping about her face. "_i can't_," she said. she climbed up the bank, catching at the grass and twigs, and feeling her tears running hot over the icy wetness of her cheeks. when she reached the top she picked up her coat with numb, shaking hands and, shivering violently, put it on with a passionate desire for warmth. "i tried; i _tried_," she said; "but--i can't!" chapter xxxiv it was after ten o'clock that night when eleanor's icy fingers fumbled at mrs. newbolt's doorbell. the ring was not heard at first, because her aunt and edith houghton and johnny bennett were celebrating his departure the next day for south america, by making a welsh rabbit in a chafing dish before the parlor fire. mrs. newbolt, entering into the occasion with voluble reminiscences, was having a very good time. she liked youth, and she liked welsh rabbits, and she liked an audience; and she had all three! then the doorbell rang. and again. "for heaven's sake!" said mrs. newbolt; "at this time of night! johnny, the girls have gone to bed; you go and answer it, like a good boy." "dump in some more beer, edith," johnny commanded, and went out into the hall, whistling. a moment later the other two heard his startled voice, "why, come right in!" there was no reply, just shuffling steps; then eleanor, silent, without any hat, her hair plastered down her ghastly cheeks, her face bruised and soiled with sand, stood in the doorway, the astonished john bennett behind her. everybody spoke at once: "eleanor! what has happened?" "_eleanor!_ where is your hat?" "good gracious! eleanor--" she was perfectly still. just looking at them, during that blank moment before everything became a confusion of jostling assistance. edith rushed to help her off with her coat. johnny said, "mrs. newbolt, where can i get some whisky?" mrs. newbolt felt the soaking skirt, and tried to unfasten the belt so that the wet mass might fall to the floor. eleanor was rigid. "get a doctor!" edith commanded. johnny ran to the telephone. "no," eleanor whispered. but nobody paid any attention to her. johnny, at the telephone, was telling mrs. newbolt's doctor to _hurry_! mrs. newbolt herself had run, wheezing, to open the spare-room bed and get out extra blankets, and fill hot-water bottles; then, somehow or other, she and edith got eleanor upstairs, undressed her, put her into the big four-poster, and held a tumbler of hot whisky and water to her lips. by the time doctor james arrived she had begun to shiver violently; but she was still silent. the trolley ride into town, with staring passengers and a conductor who thought she had been drinking, and tried to be jocose, had chilled her to the bone, and the gradual dulling of thought had left only one thing clear to her: she mustn't go home, because maurice might possibly be there! and if he was, then he would _know_! so she must go--somewhere. she went first to mrs. o'brien's, climbing the three long flights of stairs and feeling her way along dark entries to the old woman's door. she stood there shuddering and knocking; a single gas jet, wavering in the draughty entry, made her shadow lurch on the cracked plaster of the wall; it occurred to her that she would like to put her frozen hands around the little flame to warm them. then she knocked again. there was no answer, so, shaking from head to foot, she felt her way downstairs again to the street, where the reflection of an occasional gas lamp gleamed and flickered on the wet asphalt. "i'll go to auntie's," she thought. she had just one purpose--to get warm! but she was so dazed that she could never remember how she reached mrs. newbolt's; probably she walked, for there were no cabs in that part of town and no car line passed mrs. newbolt's door. the time after she left mrs. o'brien's was a blank. even when she had swallowed the hot whisky, and began to feel warmer, she was still mentally benumbed, and couldn't remember what she had done. she did not notice johnny bennett; she saw edith, but did not, apparently, understand that she was staying in the house. when the doctor came she was as silent to him as to everybody else. he asked no questions. "keep her warm," he said, "and don't talk to her." mrs. newbolt, going to the door with him, palpitating with fright, said, "_we_ don't know a thing more about what's happened than you do! she just appeared, drippin', wet!" "she has evidently fallen into some water," he said; "but i wouldn't ask her about it, yet. of course we don't know what the result will be, mrs. newbolt. i can't help saying i'm anxious. mr. curtis had better be sent for. telegraph him in the morning." he went off, thinking to himself, "she must have gone into the country to do it. if she'd tried the river, here, and scrambled out, she wouldn't have been so frightfully chilled. i wonder what's up?" everybody wondered what was up, but eleanor did not enlighten them; so the three interrupted revelers could do nothing but think. johnny's thoughts, as he sat down in the parlor among the welsh-rabbit plates, keeping the fire up, and waiting in case he might be needed, were even briefer than the doctor's: "tried to commit suicide." edith, standing in the upper hall, listening to mrs. newbolt at eleanor's bedside, exclaiming, and repeating her dear mother's ideas about catching cold, and offering more hot-water bottles, had her thoughts: "i won't go into the room--she would hate to see me! the doctor said she had fallen into some water. did she--do it on purpose? oh, _was_ it my fault?" edith's heart pounded with terror: "was it what i said to her in the garden that made her do it?" mrs. newbolt, in a blue-flannel dressing gown, and in and out of the spare room with sibilant whispers of anxiety, had, for once, more thoughts than words; her words were only, "i've always expected it!" but her thoughts would have filled volumes! mrs. newbolt had put her hair in order for the night, and now her crimping pins made the shadow of her head, bobbing on the ceiling, look like a gigantic spider. eleanor had just one hazy thought: "i tried ... i tried--and i failed." other people, however, didn't feel so sure that she had failed. she "looks like death," mrs. newbolt told edith the next morning. "we've got to find maurice! edith, why do you suppose she--did it?" "oh, but she _didn't_!" edith said. "what sense would there be--" "don't talk about 'sense'! eleanor never had any. i've telegraphed your mother to come. i wonder how bingo is? she understands her. the ashman has broken my new ash barrel; i don't know what this country is comin' to!" then she went upstairs to try to understand eleanor herself. "eleanor, what happened?" "nothing. i'm going home this afternoon." "indeed you are not! you're not goin' out of this house till maurice comes and gets you! _what_ happened?" she demanded again. "i fell. into some water." "how could you 'fall'? and what 'water'?" "i had gone out to the river--up in medfield. to--take a walk; and i ... slipped...." "now, eleanor, look here; if i have a virtue, it's candor, and i'll tell you why; it saves time. that's what my dear father used to say: 'lyin' wastes time.' i know what you tried to do; and it was very wicked." "but i didn't do it!" "you tried to. if you and maurice have quarreled, i'll stand by _you_." eleanor covered her face with her hands--and mrs. newbolt burst out, "he's treated you badly! you needn't try to deceive me,--he's been flirtin' with some woman?" her pale, prominent eyes snapped with anger. "oh, auntie, don't! he hasn't! only, i--wanted to make him happier; and so i--" she broke into furious crying. despairing crying. instantly mrs. newbolt was all frightened solicitude. "there! don't cry! have a hot-water bag. they say there's a new kind on the market. i must get a new pair of rubbers. your face is awfully bruised. he's puffectly happy! he worships the ground you walk on! eleanor, don't cry. how's your cold? the ashman--" eleanor, gasping, said her cold was better, and repeated her determination of going home. it was the doctor--dropping in, he said, to make sure mrs. curtis was none the worse for her "accident"--who put a stop to that. "i slipped and fell," eleanor told him; she was very hoarse. he said yes, he understood. "but you got badly chilled, and you had a cold to start with. so you must lie low for two or three days. when will mr. curtis be back?" eleanor said she didn't know; all she knew was she didn't want him sent for. she was "all right." but of course he had been sent for! "i don't know that it was really necessary," mrs. newbolt told mrs. houghton, who appeared late in the afternoon; "but i wasn't goin' to take the responsibility--" "of course not!" mrs. houghton said. "mr. weston has telegraphed him, too, i hope?" then, before taking her things off, she went upstairs to eleanor. "well!" she said, "i hear you had an accident? sensible girl, to stay in bed!" she took eleanor's hand, and its hot tremor made her look keenly at the haggard face on the pillow. "oh," eleanor said, with a gasp of relief, "i'm so glad you're here! there are some things i want attended to. i owe--i mean, somebody paid my car fare. and i _must_ send it to her! and then i want something from my desk; but i can't have bridget get it, and i don't want to ask auntie to. it's--it's a letter to maurice. i wanted to tell him something.... but i've changed my mind. i don't want him to see it. he mustn't see it! oh, mrs. houghton, would you get it for me? i'd be _so_ grateful! ... and then,--oh, that five cents! i don't know how i'm going to send it to her--" "tell me who it is, and i'll get it to her; and i'll get the letter," mary houghton told her; and went on with the usual sick-room encouragement: "the doctor says you are better. but you must hurry and get well, so as to help maurice with the little boy!" her words were like a push against some tottering barrier. "i tried to help him; i tried to get jacky! i went to the woman's, but she wouldn't give him to me! i _tried_--so hard. but she wouldn't! she paid my car fare--" mrs. houghton bent over and kissed her: "tell me about it, dear; perhaps i can help." "there is no help! ... she won't give him up. she insisted on coming home with me, and she paid my car fare! then i thought, if--i were not alive, maurice could get him, because he could marry her ..." instantly, with a thrill of horror and admiration, mrs. houghton understood the "accident"! "eleanor! what a mad, mad thought! as if you could help maurice by giving him a great grief! oh, i do thank god he has been spared anything so terrible!" "but," eleanor said, excitedly, "if i were dead, it would be his duty to marry her, wouldn't it? jacky is his child! oughtn't he to marry jacky's mother? oh, mrs. houghton, i owe her five cents--" the older woman was trembling, but she spoke calmly: "eleanor, dear, you must live for maurice, not--die for him." "promise me," said eleanor, "you won't tell him?" "of course i won't!" said mrs. houghton, with elaborate cheerfulness. she kissed her, and went downstairs, feeling very queer in her knees. she paused at the parlor door to say to mrs. newbolt and edith that she was going out to do an errand for eleanor; "i hope maurice will get back soon," she said. "i don't like eleanor's looks." then she went to get that letter which maurice "must not see." as she walked along the street she was still tingling with the shock of having her own theories brought home to her. "thank god," mary houghton said, "that nothing happened!" the maid who opened the door at maurice's house was evidently excited, but not about her mistress. "oh, mrs. houghton!" she said, "we done our best, but he wouldn't take a bite!--and i declare i don't know what mrs. curtis will say. he just _wouldn't_ eat, and this morning he up and died--and me offering him a chop!" bridget wept with real distress. "mrs. houghton, please tell her we done our best; he just smelled his chop--and died. you see, he hasn't eat a thing, without she gave it to him, for--oh, more 'n a month!" mary houghton went into the library, where the fire was out, and the dust on tables and chairs bore witness to the fact that bridget had devoted herself to bingo; the room was gloomy, and smelled of soot. little bingo lay, stiff and chill, on the sofa; on a plate beside him was a chop rimmed in cold grease,--poor little, loving, jealous, old bingo! "i hope it won't upset mrs. curtis," mrs. houghton told the maid; then gave directions about the stark little body. she found the letter in eleanor's desk, and went back to mrs. newbolt's. "love," she thought, "_is_ as strong as death; stronger! bingo--and eleanor." chapter xxxv maurice, followed by telegrams that never quite overtook him, did, some forty-eight hours later, get the news that eleanor had "had an accident," and was at mrs. newbolt's, who thought he had "better return immediately." his business was not quite finished, but it did not need mr. weston's laconic wire, "drop greenleaf matters and come back," to start him on the next train for mercer. he had been away nearly two weeks--two terrible weeks, of facing himself; two weeks of rebellion, and submission; of tumultuous despair and quiet acceptance. he had looked faithfully--and very shrewdly--into the "greenleaf matters"; he had turned one or two sharp corners, with entirely honest cleverness, and he was taking back to mercer some concessions which old weston had slipped up on! yes, he had done a darned good job, he told himself, lounging in the smoking compartment of one parlor car or another, or strolling up and down station platforms for a breath of air. and all the while that he was on the greenleaf job--in pullmans, sitting in hotel lobbies writing letters, looking through title and probate records--his own affairs raced and raged in his thoughts; they were summed up in one word: "edith." he could not get away from edith! he tripped a greenleaf trustee into an admission (and he thought, "so long as she never suspects that i love her, there's no harm in going along as we always have"). then he conceded a point to the greenleaf interests (and said to himself, "her hair on her shoulders that day on the lawn was like a nimbus around the head of a saint. how she'd hate that word 'saint'!"). his chuckle made one of the greenleaf heirs think that weston's representative was a good sort;--"pleasant fellow!" but maurice, looking "pleasant," was thinking: "i'd about sell my soul to kiss her hair ... oh, i _must_ stop this kind of thing! i swear it's worse than the lily and jacky business...." then he signed a deed, and the greenleaf people felt they had made a good thing of it--but maurice's telegram that the deed was signed, caused rejoicing in the weston office! "curtis got ahead of 'em!" said mr. weston. while he was writing that triumphant telegram maurice was wondering: "was john bennett a complete idiot? ... if things had been different would edith have ... cared?" for himself, he, personally, didn't care "a damn," whether weston got ahead of greenleaf or greenleaf beat weston. his own affairs engrossed him: "my job," he was telling himself, "is to see that eleanor doesn't suffer any more, poor girl! and edith shall never know. and i'll make a decent man of jacky--not a fool, like his father." so he wrote his victorious dispatch, and the weston office congratulated itself. maurice had been very grateful for his fortnight of absence from everybody, except the greenleaf heirs; grateful for a solitude of trains and lawyers' offices. because, in solitude, he could, with entirely hopeless courage, face the future. he was facing it unswervingly the day he reached chicago, where he was to get some final signatures; he came into the warm lobby of the hotel, glad to escape the rampaging lake wind, and while he was registering the hotel clerk produced the telegrams which had been held for him. the first, from mr. weston, "drop greenleaf," bewildered him until he read the other, "eleanor has had an accident." then he ran his pen through his name, asked for a time-table, and sent a peremptory wire to mrs. newbolt saying that he was on his way home, and asking that full particulars be telegraphed to him at a certain point on his journey. "let me know just what happened, and how she is," he telegraphed. "it must be serious," he thought, "to send for me!" it was hardly an hour before he was on a train for another day of travel, during which he experienced the irritation common to all of us when we receive an alarming dispatch, devoid of details. "economizing on ten cents! what kind of an 'accident'? how serious is it? when was it? why didn't they let me know before?" and so on; all the futile, anxious, angry questions which a man asks himself under such circumstances. but suddenly, while he was asking these questions, another question whispered in his mind; a question to which he would not listen, and which he refused to answer; but again and again, over and over, it repeated itself, coming, it seemed, on the rhythmical roll of the wheels--the wheels which were taking him back to eleanor! "if--if--if--" the wheels hammered out; "_if_ anything happens to eleanor--"? he never finished that sentence, but the beginning of it actually frightened him. "am i as low as this?" he said, frantically, "speculating on the possibility of anything happening to her?" but he was not so low as that--he only heard the jar of the wheels: "if--if--if--if--" when he reached the station to which he had told mrs. newbolt to reply, he rushed out of the car into the telegraph office, and clutched at the message before the operator could put it into its flimsy brown envelope; as he read it he said under his breath, "thank god!" it was from mary houghton: accident slight. slipped into water. all right now except bad cold. maurice's hand shook as he folded the message and stuffed it into his pocket. he had the sense of having escaped from a terror--the terror of intolerable remorse. for if she had not been "all right," if, instead of just "a bad cold," the dispatch had said "something had happened"!--then, for all the rest of his life he would have had to remember how the wheels had beaten out that terrible refrain: "if--if--if--" so he said, "thank god." all that day, while maurice was hurrying back to mercer, eleanor lay very still, and when mrs. newbolt or mrs. houghton came into the room she closed her eyes and pretended to be asleep. edith did not come into the room; so, in a hazy way, eleanor took it for granted that she had left the house. "i should think she would!" eleanor thought; "she could hardly have the face to stay in the same house with me." but she did not think much about edith; she was absorbed in deciding what she should say to maurice. should she tell him the truth?--or some silly story of a walk to their meadow? the two alternatives flew back and forth in her mind like shuttlecocks. there was one thing she felt sure of: that letter--which mrs. houghton had brought from her desk, which maurice was to have read when she had done what she set out to do, but which now she kept clutched in her hand, or hidden under her pillow--_maurice must not see that letter!_ if he read it, now, while she was (she told herself) still half sick from those drenched hours of the trolley ride and the dark wanderings from mrs. o'brien's to mrs. newbolt's, the whole thing would seem simply ridiculous. some time, he must know that she loved him enough to buy jacky for him, by dying--or trying to die! she would tell him, _some time_; because her purpose (even if it had failed) would measure the heights and depths of her love as nothing else could; but he must not know it now, because she hadn't carried it out. that first night, when she had found herself safe and warm (oh, warm! she had thought she never would be warm any more!)--when she had found herself in mrs. newbolt's spare room in the four-poster with its chintz hangings and its great soft pillows, she had been glad she had not carried it out. glad not to be dead. as she lay there, shivering slowly into delicious comfort, and fending off mrs. newbolt's distracted questions, she had had occasional moments of a sense of danger escaped; perhaps it _would_ have been wrong to--to lie down there in the river? people call it wicked mrs. newbolt, for a single suspicious instant ("she forgot it right off," eleanor said; "she just thought we'd quarreled!"); but mrs. newbolt had said it was "wicked." "but i didn't do it!" eleanor told herself in a rush of gratitude. she hadn't been "wicked"! instead, she was in mrs. newbolt's spare room, looking dreamily at the old french clock on the mantelpiece, whose tarnished gilt face glimmered between two slender black-marble columns; sometimes she counted the tick-tock of the slowly swinging pendulum; sometimes, toward dawn, she watched the foggy yellow daylight peer between the red rep curtains; but counting, and looking, and drowsing, she was glad to be alive. it was not until the next afternoon that she began to be faintly mortified at being alive. it was then that she had felt that she _must_ get that letter--maurice mustn't see it! little by little, humiliation at her failure to be heroic, grew acute. maurice wouldn't know that she loved him enough to give him jacky; he would just know that she was silly. she had got wet; and had a cold in her head. snuffles--not death. he might--_laugh_!... it was then that she implored mrs. houghton to get the letter out of her desk. yet when it was given to her she held it in her hand under the bedclothes, saying to herself that she would not destroy it, yet, because, even though she _had_ failed, there might come a time when it would prove to maurice how much she loved him. she was so absorbed in this thought that she did not grieve much for bingo. "poor little bingo," she said, vaguely, when mrs. houghton told her that the little dog was dead; "he was so jealous." now, with maurice coming nearer every hour, she could not think of bingo; she was face to face with a decision! what should she tell him about the "accident"? it was in the afternoon of the day that maurice was to arrive,--he had telegraphed that he would reach mercer in the evening;--that she had a sudden panic about edith. "she was here that night and saw me. i know she laughed at me because i hadn't any hat on! she may--suspect? if she does, she'll tell him! what shall i do to stop her?" she couldn't think of any way to stop her! she couldn't hold her thoughts steady enough to reach a decision. first would come gladness of her own comfort and safety, and the warm, warm bed; then shame, that she had faltered and run away from a chance to do a great thing for maurice; then terror that edith would make her ridiculous to maurice. then all these thoughts would whirl about, run backward: first, terror of edith! then shame! then comfort! suddenly the terror thought held fast with a question. "suppose i make her promise not to tell maurice anything? i think she would keep a promise...." it would be dreadful to ask the favor of secrecy of edith--just as she had asked the same sort of favor of lily--but to seem silly to maurice would be more dreadful than to ask a favor! she held to this purpose of humiliating self-protection, long enough to ask mrs. houghton when edith was coming down from green hill. "why, she's here, now, in the house!" edith's mother said. "_here?_" eleanor said, despairingly. if edith was here, then maurice, when he came, would see her and she would tell him! "she would make a funny story of it," eleanor thought; "i know her! she would make him laugh. i can't bear it! ... i would like to speak to edith," she told mrs. houghton, faintly. edith, summoned by her mother, stood for a rigid moment outside eleanor's door, trying to get herself in hand. in these anxious days, edith's youth had been threatened by assailing waves of a remorse that at times would have engulfed it altogether, but for that unflinching reasonableness which made her the girl she was. "it may be," edith had said to herself; "it _may_ be that what i said to her in the garden made her so angry that she tried to kill herself; but why should it have made her angry? i didn't injure her. besides, she dragged it out of me! i couldn't lie. she said, 'you love him.' i _would_ not lie, and say i didn't! but what harm did it do her?" so she reasoned; but reason did not keep her from suffering. "did _i_ drive her to it?" edith said, over and over. so when her mother told her eleanor wanted to speak to her, she grew a little pale. when she entered eleanor's room her heart was beating so hard she felt smothered, but she was perfectly matter of fact. "anything i can do for you, eleanor?" she said. she stood at the foot of the bed, holding on to the carved bed post. eleanor looked at her for a silent moment, then gathered herself together. "edith," she said (she was very hoarse and spoke with difficulty), "i don't want to bother maurice about--about my accident. so i am going to ask you, please, not to refer to it to him. not to tell him anything about it. _anything._ promise me." "of course i won't!" edith said. as she spoke she forgot herself in pity for the scared, haggard face. ("oh, _was_ it my fault?" she thought, with a real pang.) and before she knew it her coldness was all gone and she was at eleanor's side; she sat down on the edge of the bed and caught her hand impulsively. "eleanor," she said, "i've been awfully unhappy, for fear anything i said--that morning--troubled you? of course there was no sense in talking that way, for either of us. so please forgive me! _was_ it what i said, that made you--that bothered you, i mean? i'm so unhappy," edith said, and caught her lip between her teeth to keep it steady; her eyes were bright with tears. "eleanor, truly i am _nothing_ to--to anybody. nobody cares a copper for me! do be kind to me. oh--i've been awfully unhappy; and i'm _so_ glad you're better." instantly the smoldering fire broke into flame: "i'm _not_ better," eleanor said, "and you wouldn't be glad if i were." it was as if she struck her hand upon those generous young lips. edith sprang to her feet. "eleanor!" eleanor sat up in bed, her hands behind her, propping her up; her cheeks were dully red, her eyes glowing. "all this talk about making me unhappy means nothing at all. you have always made me unhappy. and as for anybody's caring for you--they _don't_; you are quite right about that. quite right! and i want to tell you something else: if anything happens to me, i _want_ maurice to marry again. but he won't marry you." "eleanor," edith said, "you wouldn't say such a thing, or think such a thing, if you weren't sick. i'm sorry i came in. i'll go right away, and--" "no," she said; "don't go away,"--her arms had begun to tremble with strain of supporting her, she spoke in whispered gasps: "i am going to speak," she said; "i prefer to speak. i want you to know that if i die--" "you are not going to die! you are going to get well." "will you _please_ not keep interrupting? it is so hard for me to get my breath. i want you to know that he will marry--that dale woman. because it is right that he should. because of the little boy. his little boy." edith was dumb. "so you see, he can't marry _you_," eleanor said, and fell back on her pillows, her eyes half closed. there was a long silence, just the ticking of the empire clock and the faint snapping of the fire. edith felt as if some iron hand had gripped her throat. for a moment it was impossible for her to speak; then the words came quietly: "eleanor, i'm glad you told me this. you are going to get well, and i'm glad, _glad_ that you are! but i must tell you: if anything had happened to you, i would have moved heaven and earth to have kept maurice from marrying that woman. oh, eleanor, how can you say you love him, and yet plan such terrible unhappiness for him?" she turned and ran out of the room, up another flight of stairs to her own bedroom. there she fell down on her bed and lay tense and rigid, her face hidden in her hands. this, then, was what maurice had meant? she saw again the wood path, and the tall fern breaking under maurice's racquet; she saw the flecks of sunshine on the moss--she heard him say he "hadn't played the game with eleanor." oh, he hadn't, he hadn't! then she thought of the dale woman. the accident on the river. the stumble at the gate and of maurice's child in lily's arms. "oh, poor eleanor! poor eleanor! ... all the same, she is wicked, to be so cruel to him. she is taking her revenge. jealousy has made her wicked. but, oh, i wish i hadn't hurt her in the garden! but how _could_ maurice--that little, common woman! how _could_ he?" she shook with sobs: "poor, poor eleanor ..." eleanor, on her big bed, lay panting with anger and fright. "_now_ she'll know i'm hiding something from him!" she thought; "i've put myself in her power by having a secret with her; just as i put myself in lily's power by asking her not to tell maurice i had been there. well, edith is in _my_ power!--because i've made her know he'll never care for her. and she'll keep her word; she'll not tell him about the river." the relief of this was so great that she could almost forget her humiliation; she gave herself up to thinking what she herself must do to keep maurice in ignorance. "auntie will be sure to say something. but he knows how silly she is. she thought we'd quarreled, and that i had tried ... i might tell maurice that? and he'll make fun of her, and won't believe anything she says! i might say that i went out to--to see our river, and slipped and got wet, and that auntie thought we'd quarreled, and that i had ... had tried to ... to--and he'll say, 'what a joke!' but maybe he'll say, 'why did you go out to medfield so late?' and i'll say, 'oh, well, i got delayed.' ... yes, that's the thing to do." so, around and around, her poor, frantic thoughts raced and trampled one another. when mrs. newbolt interrupted them with a tray and some supper, eleanor, with eyes closed, motioned her away: "my head aches. i can't eat anything. i'm going to try and get a little sleep." by and by, through sheer fatigue, she did drowse, and when the wheels of maurice's cab grated against the curb, she was asleep. edith, upstairs in her own room, heard the front door close sharply. "i _can't_ see him!" she said; "i mustn't see him." but she wanted to see him; she wanted to say to him: "maurice, you can make it all up to eleanor! you can make her happy. _don't_ despair about it--we'll all help you make it up to her!" she wanted to say: " oh,maurice, you _will_ conquer. i know you will!" if she could only see him and tell him these things! "if i didn't love him, i could," she thought.... maurice came hurrying into the parlor, with the anxious, "how is she?" on his lips; and mrs. newbolt and mrs. houghton were full of reassurances, and suggestions of food, which he negatived promptly. "tell me about eleanor! what happened?" "she's asleep," mrs. newbolt said. "you must have something to eat--" she was in such a panic of uncertainty as to what must and must not be said to maurice that she clutched at supper as a perfectly safe topic. "i--i--i'll go and see about your supper," said mrs. newbolt, and trundled off to hide herself in the dining room. mary houghton could not hide, but she would have been glad to! "eleanor is sleepy, now, maurice," she said; "but she'll want to have just a glimpse of you--" "i'll go right up!" "maurice, wait one minute. if i were you, i wouldn't get eleanor to talking, to-night; she's a little feverish--" "mrs. houghton!" he broke in, "eleanor's all right, isn't she?" his face was furrowed with alarm. (if that wicked rhythm of the wheels should begin again!) "oh yes; i--i think so. she hasn't quite got over the shock yet, but--" "what shock? nobody's told me yet what it was! your dispatch only said she'd slipped into the water. what water?" "we don't really know," said mrs. houghton; "and she mustn't be worried with questions, the doctor says. you see, she got dripping wet, somehow, and then had a long trolley ride--and she had a cold to start with--" "i'll just crawl upstairs, and see if she's awake," said maurice. "i won't disturb her." as he started softly upstairs, mrs. newbolt opened the dining-room door a crack, and peered in at mary houghton. "did you tell him?" she said, in a wheezing whisper. mrs. houghton shook her head. "well, i can tell you who won't tell him," said eleanor's aunt; "me! to tell a man that his wife--" "hush-sh!" said mrs. houghton; "he's coming downstairs. besides, we don't know that she did--" the dining-room door closed softly on the whispered words: "puffect nonsense. of course we know." maurice, tiptoeing into eleanor's room, thought she was asleep, and was backing out again, when she opened drowsy eyes and said, faintly, "hullo." he bent over to kiss her. "well, you're a great girl, to cut up like this when i'm away from home!" she smiled, closed her eyes, and he tiptoed out of the room.... back again in the parlor, he began, "mrs. houghton, for heaven's sake, tell me the whole thing!" he wasn't anxious now; as far as he could see, eleanor was "all right"--just sleepy. but what on earth-- she told him what she knew; what she suspected, she kept to herself. but she might as well have told it all. for, as he listened, his face darkened with understanding. "the river? in medfield? but, why--?" "edith says you and she had a good deal of sentiment about the river, and--" "at six o'clock, on a march evening?" said maurice. he put his hands in his pockets and began to walk up and down. mrs. houghton had nothing more to say; the room was so silent that the dining-room door opened a furtive crack--then closed quickly! mrs. houghton began to talk about maurice's journey, and maurice asked whether eleanor could be taken home the next day--at which the dining-room door opened broadly, and mrs. newbolt said: "if you ask _me_, i'd say 'no'! if you want to know what i think, i think she's got a temperature! and she oughtn't to stir out of this house till it's normal." "mrs. newbolt," said maurice, pausing in his tramping up and down the room; "why did eleanor go out to medfield?" "perhaps she was lookin' for a cook! i--i think i'll go to bed!" said mrs. newbolt--and almost ran out of the room. maurice looked down at mrs. houghton, and laughed, grimly: "you might as well tell me?" "my dear fellow, we have nothing to tell! we don't know anything--except that eleanor has added to her cold, and is very nervous," she paused; could she give him an idea of the extent of eleanor's "nervousness," and yet not tell him what they all felt sure of? "why, maurice," she said; "just to show you how hysterical eleanor is, she told me--" mrs. houghton dropped her voice, and looked toward the dining-room door; but mrs. newbolt's ponderous step made itself heard overhead. "she said--oh, maurice, this is too foolish to repeat; but it just shows how eleanor loves you. she implied that she didn't want to get well, so that you could--could get the little boy, by marrying his mother!" maurice sat down and stared at her, open-mouthed. "_marry?_ i, marry lily?" he actually gasped under the impact of a perfectly new idea; then he said, very softly, "good god." mrs. houghton nodded. "her one thought," she said (praying that, without breaking her word to eleanor, and betraying what was so terribly eleanor's own affair, she might make maurice's heart so ready for the pathos that he would not be repelled by the folly), "her one desire is that you should have your little boy." maurice walked over to the fireplace and kicked two charred pieces of wood together between the fire irons. in the crash of mary houghton's calm words, the rhythm of the wheels was permanently silenced. it was about four o'clock the next morning that the change came: eleanor had a violent chill. "i thought we were out of the woods," the doctor said, frowning; "but i guess i was too previous. there's a spot in the left lung, mr. curtis." chapter xxxvi when maurice saw his wife the next morning, it was with mrs. houghton's warning--emphasized by the presence of a nurse--that he must not excite her. so he sat at her bedside and told her about his trip, and how he had got ahead of the greenleaf heirs, and how he rushed back to mercer the minute those dispatches came saying that she was ill--and he never asked her why she was ill, or what took her out to the river in the cold dusk of that march afternoon. she didn't try to tell him. she was very warm and drowsy--and she held in her hand, under the bedclothes, that letter which proved how much she loved him, and which, some time, when she got well, she would show him. all that day the household outside her closed door was very much upset; but eleanor, in the big bed, was perfectly placid. she lay mere watching the tarnished gilt pendulum swing between the black pillars of the clock on the mantelpiece, thinking--thinking. "you'll be all right to-morrow!" maurice would say; and she would smile silently and go on thinking. "when i get well," she thought, "i will do--so and so." by and by, still with the letter clutched in her hot hand, she began to say to herself, "_if_ i get well." she had ceased worrying over how she was going to explain the "accident" to maurice; that _"if"_ left a door open into eternal reticence. so, instead of worrying, she made plans for jacky: "he must see a dentist," she told maurice. on the third day she stopped saying, "_if_ i get well," and thought, "when i die." she said it very tranquilly, "when i die maurice must get him a bicycle." she thought of this happily, for dying meant that she had not failed. she would not be ridiculous to maurice--she would be his wife, giving him a child--a son! so she lay with her eyes closed, thinking of the bicycle and many little, pleasant things; and with the old, slipping inexactness of mind she told herself that she had not "done anything wrong"; she had _not_ drowned herself! she had just caught a bad cold. but she would die, and maurice would love her for giving him jacky. toward evening, however, an uneasy thought came to her: if maurice knew that, to give him jacky, she had even tried to get drowned, it might distress him? she wished she hadn't written the letter! it would hurt him to see it.... well, but he _needn't_ see it! she held out the crumpled envelope. "miss ryan," she said to the nurse, huskily, "please burn this." "yes, indeed!" said miss ryan.... there was a burst of flame in the fireplace, and the little, pitiful letter, with its selfishness and pain and sacrifice, vanished--as lily's handkerchief had vanished, and the braided ring of blossoming grass--all gone, as the sparks that fly upward. nobody could ever know the scented humiliation of the handkerchief, or the agony of the faded ring, or the renouncing love which had written the poor foolish letter. maurice wouldn't be pained. as for her gift to him of jacky, she would just tell him she wanted him to marry lily, so he could have his child.... and edith? oh, he would never think of edith! so she was very peaceful until, the next day, she heard edith's voice in the hall, then she frowned. "she's here! in the house with him! don't let her come in," she told maurice; "she takes my breath." but, somehow, she couldn't help thinking of edith.... "that morning in the garden she cried," eleanor thought. it was strange to think of tears in those clear, careless eyes. "i never supposed she _could_ cry. i've cried a good deal. men don't like tears." and there had been tears in edith's eyes when she came in and sat on the bed and said she was "unhappy...." "she believed," eleanor meditated, her own eyes closed, "that it was because of _her_ that i went out to the river." she was faintly sorry that edith should reproach herself. "i didn't do it because she made me angry; i did it to make maurice happy. i almost wish she knew that." perhaps it was this vague regret that made her remember edith's assertion that she would do "anything on earth" to keep maurice from marrying lily. "but that's the only way he can be sure of getting jacky," eleanor argued to herself, her mind clearing into helpless perplexity--"and it's the only way to keep him from edith. but i wish lily wasn't so vulgar. maurice won't like living with her." suddenly she said, "maurice, do send the nurse out of the room. i want to tell you something, darling." she was very hoarse. "better not talk, dear," he said, anxiously. she smiled and shook her head. "i just want to tell you: i don't mind not getting well, because then you'll marry lily." "eleanor! don't--don't--" "and you can give little jacky the kind of home he ought to have." she drowsed. maurice sat beside her with his face buried in his hands. when she awoke, at dusk, she lay peacefully watching the firelight flickering on the ceiling, and, thinking--thinking. then, into her peace, broke again the memory of edith's distress. "perhaps i ought to tell her that i went to the river for maurice's sake? _not_ because i was angry at her." she thought of edith's tears, and said, "poor edith--" and when she said that a strange thing happened: pity, like a soft breath, blew out the vehement flame. it is always so; pity and jealousy are never together.... the next morning she remembered her words about jacky--"the kind of home he ought to have"--and again uneasiness as to the kind of "home" it would be for maurice rose in her mind. her head whirled with worry. "it won't be pleasant for him to live with her, even if she can cook. he loves that chocolate cake; but he couldn't bear her grammar. edith said i was 'unkind' to him. am i? i suppose she thought he'd be happier with her? would he? _she_ can make that cake, too. yes; he would be happier with her than with lily;--and jacky would call her 'mother,"' then she forgot edith. after a while she said: "maurice, can't i see jacky? go get him! and give lily the car fare." maurice went downstairs and called mrs. houghton out of the parlor; in the hall he said: "i think eleanor's sort of mixed up. she is talking about 'lily's car fare'! what do you suppose she means? is she--delirious? and then she says she 'wants to see jacky.' what must i do?" "go and get him," she said. for a bewildered minute he hesitated. if mrs. newbolt should see jacky, she ... would _know_! and edith ... would she suspect? still he went--like a man in a dream. as he got off the car, a block from lily's door, a glimpse of the far-off end of the route where "eleanor's meadow" lay, made his purpose still more dreamlike. but he was abruptly direct with lily: he had come, he said, to tell her that his wife wanted-- "my soul and body!" she broke in; "if she's sent you--" they were in the dining room, maurice so pale that lily, in real alarm, had put her hand on his arm and made him sit down. but she was angry. "has she got on to that again?" his questioning bewilderment brought her explanation. "she didn't tell you she'd been here? well, i promised her i wouldn't give her away to you, and i _wouldn't_,--but so long as she's sent you, now, there's no harm, i guess, telling you?" so she told him. "what possessed you to let on to her?" she ended. she was puzzled at his folly, but she was sympathetic, too. "i suppose she ragged it out of you?" maurice had listened, silently, his elbow on his knee, his fist hard against his mouth; he did not try to tell her why he had "let on"; he could not say that he wanted to defend his son from such a mother; still less could he make clear to her that eleanor had not "ragged it out of him," but that, to his famished passion for truth, confession had been the bread of life. he looked at her once or twice as she talked; pretty, yet; kindly, coarse, honest--and eleanor had supposed that he would marry her! then, sharply, his mind pictured that scene: his wife, his poor, frightened old eleanor, pleading for the gift of jacky! and lily--young, arrogant, kind.... the pain of it made his passion of pity so like love that the tears stood in his eyes. "oh, she _mustn't_ die," he thought; "i won't let her die!" when lily had finished her story he told her his, very briefly: his wife's forgiveness of his unfaithfulness; her desire to do all she could for jacky: "help me--i mean help you--to make a man of him, because she loves me. heaven knows i'm not worthy of it." lily gulped. "she ain't young; but, my god, she's some woman!" she threw her apron over her face and cried hard; then stopped and wiped her eyes. "she wants to see him, does she? well, you bet she shall see him! i'll get him; he's playing in at mr. dennett's--he's all on being an undertaker now. mr. dennett's a funeral pomps director. but he's got to put on his new suit." she ran out on to the porch, and maurice could hear the colloquy across the fence: "you come in the house, quick!" "won't. we're going to in-in-inter a hen." "yes, you will! you're going to put on your new suit and go and see a lady--" "lady? not on your life." "it's mr. curtis wants you--" then jacky's yell, "_mr. curtis?_" and a dash up the back steps and into the dining room--then, silent, grimy adoration! maurice gave his orders. "change your clothes, young man. i'll bring him back, lily, as soon as she's seen him." while he waited for the new suit maurice walked up and down the little room, round and round the table, where on a turkey-red cloth a hideous hammered brass bowl held some lovely maidenhair ferns. the vision of eleanor abasing herself to lily was unendurable. to drive it from his mind, he went to the window and stood looking out through the fragrant greenness of rose geraniums, into the squalid street where the offspring of the funeral pomps director were fighting over the dead hen; from the bathroom came the sound of a sputtering gush from the hot-water faucet; then splashes and whining protests, and maternal adjurations: "you got to look decent! i _will_ wash behind your ears. you're the worst boy on the street!" "eleanor tried to save him," he thought; "she came here, and begged for him!" above the bathroom noises came lily's voice, sharp with efficiency, but shaking with pity and a quick-hearted purpose of helping: "say, mr. curtis! could she eat some fresh doughnuts? (jacky, if you don't stand still i'll give you a regular spanking! i _didn't_ put soap in your eyes!) if she can, i'll fry some for her to-morrow." maurice, tramping back and forth, made no answer; he was saying to himself, "if she'll just live, i will make her happy! oh, she _must_ live!" it was then that, suddenly, agonizingly, in the midst of splashings, and jacky's whines, and lily's anxiety about soap and doughnuts, maurice curtis prayed ... he did not know it was prayer; it was just a cry: "do something--oh, _do_ something! _do you hear me?_ she tried so hard to save jacky. make her get well!" so it was that, in his selfless cry for happiness for eleanor, maurice found all those differing realizations--joy, and law, and life, and love--and lo! they were one--a personality! god. in his frantic words he established a relationship with _him_--not it, any longer! "please, please make her get well," he begged, humbly. at that moment, at the door of the dining room, appeared an immaculate jacky in his new suit, his face shining with bliss and soap. he came and stood beside maurice, waiting his monarch's orders, and listening, without comprehension, to the conversation: "nothing will be said to him that will ... give anything away. she just wants to see him. his presence in the room--" jacky gave a little leap. "did you say _presents_!" "--his merely being there will please her. she loves him, lily. you see, she's always wanted children, and--we've never had any." jacky's mother said, in a muffled voice, "my land!" then she caught jacky in her arms and kissed him all over his face. "aw, stop," said jacky, greatly embarrassed; to have mr. curtis see him being kissed, "like a kid!" was a cruel mortification. "aw, let up," said jacky. when he and mr. curtis started in to town his eyes seemed to grow bluer, and his face more beaming, and his voice, asking endless questions, more joyous every minute. in the car he shoved up very close to maurice, and tried to think of something wonderful to tell him. by and by, breathing loudly, he achieved: "say, mr. curtis, our ash sifter got broke." then he shoved a little closer. just before they reached mrs. newbolt's house the haggard, unhappy father gave his son orders: "there is a lady who wants to see you, jacky. she's my wife. mrs. curtis. you are to be very polite to her, and kiss her--" "kiss a lady!" "yes. you'll do what i tell you! understand?" "yes, sir," jacky said, sniffling. "you are to tell her you love her; but you are not to speak unless you are spoken to. do you get on to that?" "yes, sir. no, sir," poor jacky said, dejectedly. it was edith who, watching for maurice from the parlor window, opened the front door to him. she looked up into his eyes, then down into jacky's, who, at that moment, took the opportunity, sighing, to obey orders; be reached up and gave a little peck at edith's cheek. "i love you," he said, gloomily. "i done it," he told maurice. "_he_ said i got to," he explained to edith, resignedly, as she, startled but pleased, took his little rough hand in hers. just as she did so mrs. newbolt, coming downstairs, saw him and stopped short in the middle of a sentence--the relationship between the man and the child was unmistakable. when she got her breath she said, coldly: "there's a change, maurice. better go right upstairs." he went, hurriedly, leading his little boy by the hand. "well, upon my word!" said mrs. newbolt, looking after the small, climbing figure in the new suit. "i wouldn't have believed such a thing of maurice curtis--oh, my poor eleanor!" she said, and burst out crying. "i suppose she knows? did she want to see the child? i always said she was a puffect angel! but i don't wonder she--she got wet ..." eleanor was very close to the river now, yet she smiled when jacky's shrinking lips touched her cheek. "take her hand," maurice told him, softly, and the little boy, silent and frightened, obeyed; but he kept his eyes on his father. eleanor, with long pauses, said: "dear ... jacky. maurice, did you give her ... five cents? he must have ... music lessons." "yes, star," he said, brokenly. "jacky," he said, in a whisper, "say 'i love you.'" but jacky whispered back, anxiously, "but i said it to the other one?" "_say it!_" his father said. "i love you," said jacky, trembling. eleanor smiled, slept for a moment, then opened her eyes. "he doesn't look ... like _her_?" "not in the least," maurice said. jacky, quailing, tried to draw his hand away from those cool fingers; but a look from his father stopped him. "no," eleanor murmured; "i see ... it won't do for"--maurice bent close to her lips, but he could not catch the next words--"for you to marry her." after that she was silent for so long that maurice led the little boy out of the room. as he brought him into the parlor, henry houghton, who had just come in, looked at the father and son, and felt astonishment tingle in his veins like an electric shock. he gripped maurice's hand, silently, and gave jacky's ear a friendly pull. "edith," maurice said, "i would take him home, but i mustn't leave eleanor. will you get one of the maids to put him on a medfield car--" "i'll take him," edith said. maurice began to say, sharply, "_no!_" then he stopped; after all, why not? "she must know the whole business by this time. jacky's face gives it all away." she might as well, he thought, know jacky's mother, as she knew his father. jacky, in a little growling voice, said, "don't want _nobody_ to put me on no car. i can--" "be quiet, my boy," maurice said, gently. he gave edith lily's address and went back upstairs. henry houghton, watching and listening, felt his face twitch; then he blew his nose loudly. "i'll look after him," he told edith. "i--i'll take him to--the person he lives with. it isn't suitable for a girl--" in spite of the gravity of the moment his girl laughed. "father, you _are_ a lamb! no; i'll take him." then she gave jacky a cooky, which he ate thoughtfully. "we have 'em nicer at our house," he said. on the corner, waiting for the medfield car, edith offered a friendly hand, which he refused to notice. the humiliation of being taken home, "by a woman!" was scorching his little pride. he made up his mind that if them scab dennett boys seen him getting out of the car with a woman, he'd lick the tar out of them! all the way to maple street he sat with his face glued to the window, never speaking a word to the "woman." when the car stopped he pushed out ahead of her and tore down the street. happily no dennett boys saw him!--but he dashed past his mother, who was standing at the gate, and disappeared in the house. lily, bareheaded in the pale april sunshine, had been watching for him rather anxiously. in deference to the occasion she had changed her dress; a string of green-glass beads, encircling her plump white neck, glimmered through the starched freshness of an incredibly frank blouse, and her white duck skirt was spotless. her whole little fat body was as fresh and sweet as one of her own hyacinths, and her kind face had the unchanging, unhuman youthfulness of flesh and blood which has never been harried by the indwelling soul. but she was frowning. she had begun to be nervous; jacky had been away nearly two hours! "are they playing a gum game on me?" lily thought; "are they going to try and kidnap him?" it was then that she caught sight of jacky, tearing toward home, his fierce blue eyes raking the street for any of them there dennett boys, who must have the tar licked out of 'em! edith was following him, in hurrying anxiety. instantly lily was reassured. "one of mrs. curtis's lady friends, i suppose," she thought. "well, it's up to me to keep her guessing on jacky!" she was very polite and simpering when, at the gate, edith said that mr. curtis asked her to bring jacky home. "won't you come in and be seated?" lily urged, hospitably. edith said no; she was sorry; but she must go right back; "mrs. curtis is very ill, i am sorry to say." at this moment jacky came out to the gate; he had two cookies in his hand. he said, shyly: "maw's is better 'an yours. you can have"--this with a real effort--"the _big_ one." edith took the "big one," pleasantly, and said, "yes, they are nicer than ours, jacky." but lily was mortified. "the lady'll think you have no manners. go on back into the house!" "won't," said jacky, eating his cooky. his mother tried to cover his obstinacy with conversation: "he's crazy about mr. curtis. well, no wonder. mr. curtis was a great friend of my husband's. mr. dale--his name was augustus; i named jacky after him; ernest augustus. he died three years ago; no, i guess it was two--" "huh?" said jacky, interested, "you said my paw died--" lily, with that desire to smack her son which every mother knows, cut his puzzled arithmetic short. "yes. mr. dale was a great clubman. in philadelphia. i believe that's where he and mr. curtis got to be chums. but i never met _her_." edith said, rigidly, "really?" "jacky's the image of mr. dale. he died of--of typhus fever. mr. curtis was one of the pallbearers; that's how i got acquainted with him. jacky was six then," lily ended, breathlessly. ("i guess _that's_ fixed her," she thought.) edith only said again, "really?" then added, "good afternoon," and hurried away. so _this_ was the woman eleanor would make maurice marry! "never!" edith said. "never! if _i_ can prevent it!" upstairs in mrs. newbolt's spare room, as the twilight thickened, there was silence, except for the terrible breathing, and the clock ticking away the seconds; one by one they fell--like beads slipping from a string. maurice sat holding eleanor's hand. the others, speaking, sometimes, without sound, or moving, noiselessly, stood before the meek majesty of dying. waiting. waiting. it was not until midnight that she opened her eyes again and looked at maurice, very peacefully. "tell edith it wasn't what she said, made me try ... our river ... jacky will call her ... tell edith ... to be kind to jacky." she did not speak again. chapter xxxvii "i have an uneasy feeling," said mr. houghton, "that he is thinking of marrying the woman, just to carry out eleanor's wish. poor eleanor! always doing the wrong thing, with greatness." this was in september. maurice was to come up to green hill for a sunday, and the houghtons were in the studio talking about the expected guest. later edith was to drive over to the junction and meet him.... it was not only green hill which talked about maurice. in the months that followed eleanor's death, a good many people had pondered his affairs, because, somehow, that visit of jacky's to mrs. newbolt's house, got noised abroad, so maurice's friends (making the inevitable deductions) told one another exactly what he ought to do. mrs. newbolt expressed herself in great detail: "i shall never forgive him," she said; "my poor eleanor! _she_ forgave him, and sent for the child. more than _i_ would do for any man! but i could have told her what to expect. in fact, i did. i always said if she wasn't entertainin', she'd lose him. yes; she had a hard time--but she kept her figger. should maurice marry the--boy's mother? _'course not!_ puffect nonsense. you think he'll make up to edith houghton? she would have too much self-respect to look at him! and if she did, her father would never consent to it." the mortons' opinion was just as definite: "i hope maurice will marry again; edith's just the girl for him--_what!_" mrs. morton interrupted herself, at a whisper of gossip, "he had a mistress? i don't believe a word of it!" "but i'm afraid it's true," her husband told her, soberly; "there's a boy." his wife's shocked face made him add: "i think curtis will feel he ought to legitimatize the youngster by marrying his mother. maurice is good stuff. he won't sidestep an obligation." "i never heard of such an awful idea!" said mrs. morton, dismayed. "i hope he'll do nothing of the kind! you can't correct one mistake by making another. don't you agree with me?" she demanded of doctor nelson; who displayed, of course, entire ignorance of mr. curtis's affairs. he only said, "well, it's a rum world." johnny bennett, in buenos aires, reading a letter from his father, said: "poor eleanor!" ... then he grew a little pale under his tan, and added something which showed his opinion--not, perhaps, of what maurice _ought_ to do, but of what he would do! "i might as well make it a three-years' contract," johnny said, bleakly, "instead of one. of course there be no use going back home. eleanor's death settles _my_ hash." even mrs. o'brien, informed by kitchen leakage as to what had happened, had something to say: "he ought to make an honest woman of the little fellow's mother. but to think of him treating miss eleanor that way!" and now, in the studio, the houghtons also were saying what maurice ought--and ought not!--to do: "i'm afraid he's thinking of marrying her," mr. houghton had said; and his wife had said, quickly, "i hope so--for the sake of his child!" "but, mary," he protested, "look at it from the woman's point of view; this 'lily' would be wretched if she had to live maurice's kind of life!" edith, standing with her back to her father and mother, staring down into the ashes of the empty fireplace, said, over her shoulder, "maurice may marry somebody who will help him with jacky--just as eleanor would have done, if she had lived." "my dear," her father said, quickly, "he has had enough of your sex to last his lifetime! as a mere matter of taste, i think maurice won't marry anybody." "i don't see why, just because he--did wrong ten years ago," edith said, "he has got to sidestep happiness for the rest of his life! but as for marrying that mrs. dale, it would be a cat-and-dog life." "edith," said her father, "when you agree with me i am filled with admiration for your intelligence! your sex has, generally, mere intuition--a nice, divine thing, and useful in its way. but indifferent to logic. my sex has judgment; so when you, a female, display judgment, i, as a parent, am gratified. 'cat-and-dog life' is a mild way of putting it;--a quarrelsome home is hell,--and hell is a poor place in which to bring up a child! mary, my darling, you can derail any train by putting a big enough obstacle on the track; the fact that the obstacle is pure gold, like your idealism, wouldn't prevent a domestic wreck--in which jacky would be the victim! but in regard to maurice's marrying anybody else"--he paused and looked at his daughter--"_that_ seems to me undesirable." edith's face hardened. "i don't see why," she said; then added, abruptly, "i must go and write some letters," and went quickly out of the room. they looked after her, and then at each other. "you see?" mary houghton said; "she cares for him!" "i couldn't face it!" her husband said; "i couldn't have edith in such a mess. morally speaking, of course he has a right to marry; but he can't have my girl! let him marry some other man's girl--and i'll give them my blessing. he's a dear fellow--but he can't have our edith." she shook her head. "if it were not for his duty to jacky, i would be glad to have edith marry him. and as for saying that she 'can't,' these are not the days, henry, when fathers and mothers decide whom their girls may marry." while his old friends were thus talking him over, maurice was traveling up to the mountains. he had seen mr. and mrs. houghton in mercer several times since eleanor's death, but he had not been able to face the associations and recollections of green hill. this was largely because, though his friends had, with such ease, reached decisions for him, he was himself so absorbed in indecision that he could not go back to the careless pleasantness of old intimacies, (as for that question of the wheels,--"if--if--if anything happens to eleanor?"--eleanor herself had answered it in one word: _lily_.) so, since her death maurice's whole mind was intent on jacky. what must he do fear him? his occasional efforts to train the child had been met, more than once, by sharp rebuffs. whenever he went to see jacky, lily was perfectly good humored--_unless_ she felt she was being criticized; then the claws showed through the fur! "you can give me money, if you want to, to send him to a swell school." she said, once; "but i tell you, mr. curtis, right out, _i ain't going to have you come in between me and jacky by talking up things to him that i don't care about._ all these religious frills about truth! they say nowadays hardly any rich people tell the truth. and talking grammar to him! you set him against me," she, said, and her eyes filled with angry tears. "i wouldn't think of setting him against you," he said; "only, i want to do my duty to him." "'duty'!" said lily, contemptuously; "i'm not going to bring him up old-fashioned. and this thing of telling him not to say 'ain't,' _i_ say it, and what else would he say? there ain't any other word. he's my child--and i'll bring him up the way i like! wait; i'll give you some fudge; i've just made it..." maurice, now, on his way up to green hill, looking out of the car window, and remembering interviews like this with his son's mother, wondered if edith had seen lily the day she took jacky home? that made him wonder what edith would think of the whole business? to a woman like edith it would be simply disgusting. "i'll just drop out of her life," he said. he thought of the day he brought jacky to mrs. newbolt's door, and edith had looked at him--and then at jacky--and then at him again. _she understood!_ would she understand now? probably not. "of course old johnny'll get her ... but, oh, what life might have been!" edith had driven over to the junction earlier than was necessary, because she had wanted to get away from her father and mother. "they are afraid he'll fall in love with me," she thought, hotly; "if he ever does, nothing they can say shall separate us. nothing! but mother'll try to influence him to marry that dreadful creature, and father will say things about 'honor,' so he'll feel he ought never to marry--anybody. oh, they are lambs," she said, setting her teeth; "but they mustn't keep maurice from being happy!" at the station, as she sat in the buggy flecking her whip idly, and waiting for maurice's train, her whole mind was on the defensive. "he has a right to be happy. he has a right to marry again ... but they needn't worry about _me_!" she thought. "i've never grown up to maurice. but whatever happens, he shan't marry that woman!" when maurice got off the train there was a blank moment when she did not recognize him. as a careworn man came up to her with an outstretched hand and a friendly, "this is awfully nice in you, skeezics!" she said, with a gasp, "_maurice!_" he had aged so that he looked, she thought, as old as eleanor. but they were both laboriously casual, until the usual remarks upon the weather, and the change in the time-table, had been exhausted. it was edith who broke into reality--maurice had taken the reins, and they were jogging slowly along. "maurice," she said, "how is jacky?" his start was so perceptible that she said, "you don't mind my asking?" "i don't mind anything you could say to me, edith. i'm grateful to you for asking." "i want to help you about him," she said. he put out his left hand and gripped hers. then he said: "i'm going to do my best for the little fellow. i've botched my own life, edith;--of course you know that? but he shan't botch his, if i can help it!" "i think you can help it," edith said. his heart contracted; yet it was what he had expected. the idealism of an absolutely pure woman. "well," he said, heavily, "of course i've got to do what i honestly think is the light thing." "are you sure," she said, "that you know what the right thing is? you mustn't make a mistake." "i may be said to have made my share," he told her, dryly. she did not answer that; she said, passionately, "maurice, i'd give anything in the world if i could help you!" "don't talk that way," he commanded, harshly. "i'm human! so please don't be kind to me, edith; i can't stand it." instantly her heart pounded in her throat: "he _cares_. oh, they can't separate us. but they'll try to." ... the rest of the drive was rather silent. on the porch at green hill the two older friends were waiting to welcome him. ("don't let's leave them alone," henry houghton had said, with a worried look; which made his wife, in spite of her own uneasiness, smile, "oh, henry, you are an innocent creature!") after dinner mrs. houghton, determinedly commonplace, came to the rescue of what threatened to be a somewhat conscious occasion, by talking books and music. her husband may have been "innocent," but he did his part by shoving a cigar box toward the "boy," and saying, "how's business? we must talk weston's offer over," he said. maurice nodded, but got up and went to the piano; "tough on you, skeezics," he said once, glancing at edith. "oh, i don't mind it, _much_," she said, drolly. so the evening trudged along in secure stupidity. yet it was a straining stupidity, and there was an inaudible sigh of relief from everybody when, at last, mary houghton said, "come, good people! it's time to go to bed." "yes, turn in, maurice," said his host; "you look tired." then he got on his feet, and said good night with an alacrity which showed how much he "wished he was asleep"! but he was not permitted to sleep. maurice, swinging round from the piano, said, with a rather rigid face: "would you mind just waiting a minute and letting me tell you something about myself, uncle henry?" "of course not!" mr. houghton said, with great assumption of cheerfulness. he went back to the sofa--furtively achieving a cigar as he did so--and saying to himself, "well, at least it will give me a chance to let him see how i feel about his ever marrying again." edith was standing by the piano, one hand resting on the keyboard and drumming occasionally in disconnected octaves. ("if it's business," she thought, "i'll leave them alone; but if they are going to 'advise' him, i'll stay--and fight.") maurice came and sat on the edge of the big table, his hands in his pockets, and one foot swinging nervously. "i hope you dear people don't think i'm an ungrateful cuss, not to have come to green hill this summer; but the fact is, i've been awfully up against it, trying to make up my mind about something." henry houghton looked at the fire end of his cigar with frowning intentness and said yes, he supposed so. "weston's offer seems to me fair," he said (this referred to a partnership possibility, on which maurice had consulted him by letter); but his remark, now, was so obviously a running to cover that, in spite of himself, maurice grinned. "weston's a very square fellow," said henry houghton. "if you are going to talk 'offers,'" said edith, "do you want me to clear out?" "it isn't business," maurice said, quietly; "it's my ... little son. no; don't clear out, edith. i'd rather talk to your mother and uncle henry before you." "all right," said edith, and struck some soft chords; but her young mouth was hard. "of course," maurice said, "as things are now--i mean poor eleanor gone--i have thought a good deal of what i ought to do for jacky. it was nelly's wish that i should do the straight thing for him. there wasn't any question, i think, of the 'straight thing' for lily--" "of course not!" mary houghton agreed. and her husband said, "any such idea would be nonsense, maurice." "and i myself don't count," maurice went on. again mrs. houghton agreed--very gravely: "compared to the child, dear maurice, you don't." "you _do_!" edith said; but nobody heard her. "so at first," maurice said, "i kept thinking of how eleanor had wanted me to have him--legally, you know; wanted it so much that she--" there was a silence in the studio; "that she was glad to die, to make it possible." he paused, and mary houghton saw his cheek twitch. "well, i felt that clinched it. i felt i _must_ carry out her wish, and ask mrs. dale to--marry me." "morbid," said henry houghton. edith, listening, said nothing; but she was ready to spring! "perhaps it was morbid," maurice said; "but just at first it seemed that way to me. then i began to realize that what poor nelly wanted, wasn't to have me marry lily--that was only a means to an end; she wanted jacky taken care of"; (edith nodded.) "and she thought marrying his mother was the best way to do that." (edith shook her head.) "well; i thought it all over ... i kept myself and my own feelings out of it." behind those laconic words lay the weeks of struggle, of which even these good friends could have no idea! weeks in which, while mercer was deciding what he ought to do, maurice, "keeping himself out of it," had put aside ambition and smothered taste, and thrown over, once for all, personal happiness. as a wrestler strips from his body all hampering things, so he had stripped from his mind every instinct which might interfere with a straight answer to a straight question: "what will be best for my boy?" he gave the answer now, in henry houghton's studio, while edith, over in the shadows, at the piano, looked at him. her face was quite pale. "so all i had to do," said maurice, "was to think of jacky's welfare. that made it easier to decide. i find," he said, simply, "that you can decide things pretty easily if you don't have to think of yourself. so i said, 'if i marry lily, though jacky couldn't be taken away from me, physically, spiritually'--you know what i mean, mrs. houghton?--'he might be removed to--to the ends of the earth!' i might lose his affection; and i've got to hold on to _that_, at any cost, because that's how i can influence him." he was talking now entirely to edith's mother, and his voice was harsh with entreaty for understanding. he didn't care very much whether henry houghton understood or not. and of course edith could never understand! but that this serene woman of the stars should misjudge him was unbearable. "you see what i mean, mrs. houghton, don't you? i know lily;--and i know that if she thought i had any _right_ to say how he must be brought up, it would mean nothing but perfectly hideous controversies all the time! so long as she thinks she has the upper hand, she'll be generous; she doesn't mind his being fond of me, you know. but she'd fight tooth and nail if she thought i had any _rights_! you see that, don't you?" "i see it!" edith said. "yet from a merely material point of view," said mrs. houghton, "in spite of 'controversies,' legitimacy would give jacky advantages, which--oh, maurice, don't you see?--_your son_ has a right to!" but her husband said, quickly, "mary, living with a quarreling father and mother is spiritual illegitimacy; and the disadvantages of that would be worse than the material handicap of being a--a fatherless child." his daughter flashed a passionately grateful look at him. maurice, still speaking to edith's mother, said: "that's the way i looked at it, mrs. houghton. so it seemed to me that i could do more for him if i didn't marry lily." mary houghton was silent; it was very necessary to consider the stars. "i put myself out of it," maurice said. "i just said, 'if it's best for jacky, i'll ask her to marry me,' my honest opinion was that it would be bad for him." edith struck two chords--and sat down on the piano stool, swallowing hard. "you don't agree with me, i'm afraid, mrs. houghton?" he said, anxiously. "my dear boy," she said, "i am sure you are doing what you believe to be right. but it does not seem right to me." he flinched, but he was not shaken; "it isn't going to be easy, whatever i do. i want to educate him, and see him constantly, and influence him as much as possible. and lily will be less jealous of me, in her own house, than she would be in mine." edith got up and came and sat on the arm of the sofa by her father. "i can see," she said, "how much easier it would be for maurice to do the hard thing." maurice looked at her with deep tenderness. "you _are_ a satisfying person!" he said. henry houghton took his girl's hand, and held it in a grip that hurt her. "maurice is right," he said; "things are _not_ going to be easy for him. for, though he won't marry jacky's mother, he won't, i think, marry anybody else." "why won't he?" said edith. "there is no _moral_ reason why he shouldn't," her father conceded; "it is a question of taste; one might perhaps call it a question of honor"--maurice whitened, but henry houghton went on, calmly, "maurice will, of necessity, be so involved with this woman--and god knows what annoyances she may make for him, that--it distresses me to say so--but i can see that he will not feel like asking any woman to share such a burden as he has to carry." "if he loves any woman," edith said, "let him ask her! if she turns him down, it stamps her for a coward!" "don't you think i'm right, maurice?" her father said. "yes," maurice said. "you are right. i've faced that." edith sprang to her feet, and stood looking at her father and mother, her eyes stern with protecting passion. "it seems to me absurd," she said,--"like standing up so straight you fall over backward!--for maurice to feel he can't marry--somebody else, just because he--he did wrong, ever so many years ago! he's sorry, now. aren't you sorry, maurice?" she said. his eyes stung;--the simplicity of the word was like a flower tossed into the black depths of his repentance! "yes, dear," he said, gently; "i'm 'sorry.' but no amount of 'sorrow' can alter consequences, edith." "oh," she said, turning to the other two, "don't you want maurice _ever_ to be happy?" "i want him to be good," said her mother. "i can't be happy, edith," maurice told her; "don't you see?" she looked straight in his eyes, her own eyes terror-stricken. ... they would drive him away from her! "you _shall_ be happy," she said. they saw only each other, now. "no," maurice said; "it's just as your father says; i have no right to drag any girl into the kind of life i've got to live. i'll have to see lily a good deal, so as to keep in with her--and be able to look after jacky. personal happiness is all over for me." she caught at his arm; "it isn't! maurice, don't listen to them!" then she turned and stood in front of him, as though to put her young breast between him and that tender, menacing parental love. "oh, mother--oh, father! i _do_ love you; i don't want to do anything you don't approve of;--but maurice comes first. if he asks me to marry him, i will." under his breath maurice said, "_edith!_" "my darling," henry houghton said, "consider: people are bound to know all about this. the publicity will be a very painful embarrassment--" edith broke in, "as if that matters!" "but the serious thing," her father went on, "is that this woman will be a millstone around his neck--" "she shall be around my neck, too!" she said. there was a breathless moment; then truth, nobly naked, spoke: "maurice, duty is the first thing in the world;--not happiness. if you thought it was your duty to marry lily, i wouldn't say a word. you would never know that i cared. never! i'd just stand by, and help you. i'd live in the same house with her, if it would help you! but--" her voice shook; "you _don't_ think it's your duty. you know it isn't! you know that it would make things worse for jacky,--not better, as eleanor wanted them to be. so why shouldn't you be happy? oh, it's _artificial_, to refuse to be happy!" before he could speak, she added, quite simply, the sudden tears bright in her eyes, "i know you love me." he looked at the father and mother: "you wouldn't have me lie to her, would you?--even to save her from herself! ... of course i love you, edith,--more than anything on earth,--but i have no right--" "you have a right," she said. "i _want_ you," he said, "god knows, it would mean life to me! but--" "then take me," she said. mrs. houghton came and put her arms around her girl and kissed her. "take her, maurice," she said, quietly. then she looked at her husband: "dear," she said, and smiled--a little mistily; "wisdom will not die with us! the children must do what _they_ think is right ... even if it is wrong." she had considered the stars. the end the works of mary roberts rinehart love stories the review of reviews company publishers new york published by arrangement with george h. doran company. copyright, , by george h. doran company copyright, , , , by the curtis publishing company copyright, , by the mcclure publications, inc. copyright, , by the metropolitan magazine co. contents i twenty-two ii jane iii in the pavilion iv god's fool v the miracle vi "are we downhearted? no!" vii the game love stories twenty-two i the probationer's name was really nella jane brown, but she was entered in the training school as n. jane brown. however, she meant when she was accepted to be plain jane brown. not, of course, that she could ever be really plain. people on the outside of hospitals have a curious theory about nurses, especially if they are under twenty. they believe that they have been disappointed in love. they never think that they may intend to study medicine later on, or that they may think nursing is a good and honourable career, or that they may really like to care for the sick. the man in this story had the theory very hard. when he opened his eyes after the wall of the warehouse dropped, n. jane brown was sitting beside him. she had been practising counting pulses on him, and her eyes were slightly upturned and very earnest. there was a strong odour of burnt rags in the air, and the man sniffed. then he put a hand to his upper lip--the right hand. she was holding his left. "did i lose anything besides this?" he inquired. his little moustache was almost entirely gone. a gust of fire had accompanied the wall. "your eyebrows," said jane brown. the man--he was as young for a man as jane brown was for a nurse--the man lay quite still for a moment. then: "i'm sorry to undeceive you," he said. "but my right leg is off." he said it lightly, because that is the way he took things. but he had a strange singing in his ears. "i'm afraid it's broken. but you still have it." she smiled. she had a very friendly smile. "have you any pain anywhere?" he was terribly afraid she would go away and leave him, so, although he was quite comfortable, owing to a hypodermic he had had, he groaned slightly. he was, at that time, not particularly interested in jane brown, but he did not want to be alone. he closed his eyes and said feebly: "water!" she gave him a teaspoonful, bending over him and being careful not to spill it down his neck. her uniform crackled when she moved. it had rather too much starch in it. the man, whose name was middleton, closed his eyes. owing to the morphia, he had at least a hundred things he wished to discuss. the trouble was to fix on one out of the lot. "i feel like a bit of conversation," he observed. "how about you?" then he saw that she was busy again. she held an old-fashioned hunting-case watch in her hand, and her eyes were fixed on his chest. at each rise and fall of the coverlet her lips moved. mr. middleton, who was feeling wonderful, experimented. he drew four very rapid breaths, and four very slow ones. he was rewarded by seeing her rush to a table and write something on a sheet of yellow paper. "resparation, very iregular," was what she wrote. she was not a particularly good speller. after that mr. middleton slept for what he felt was a day and a night. it was really ten minutes by the hunting-case watch. just long enough for the senior surgical interne, known in the school as the s.s.i., to wander in, feel his pulse, approve of jane brown, and go out. jane brown had risen nervously when he came in, and had proffered him the order book and a clean towel, as she had been instructed. he had, however, required neither. he glanced over the record, changed the spelling of "resparation," arranged his tie at the mirror, took another look at jane brown, and went out. he had not spoken. it was when his white-linen clad figure went out that middleton wakened and found it was the same day. he felt at once like conversation, and he began immediately. but the morphia did a curious thing to him. he was never afterward able to explain it. it made him create. he lay there and invented for jane brown a fictitious person, who was himself. this person, he said, was a newspaper reporter, who had been sent to report the warehouse fire. he had got too close, and a wall had come down on him. he invented the newspaper, too, but, as jane brown had come from somewhere else, she did not notice this. in fact, after a time he felt that she was not as really interested as she might have been, so he introduced a love element. he was, as has been said, of those who believe that nurses go into hospitals because of being blighted. so he introduced a mabel, suppressing her other name, and boasted, in a way he afterward remembered with horror, that mabel was in love with him. she was, he related, something or other on his paper. at the end of two hours of babbling, a businesslike person in a cap--the probationer wears no cap--relieved jane brown, and spilled some beef tea down his neck. now, mr. middleton knew no one in that city. he had been motoring through, and he had, on seeing the warehouse burning, abandoned his machine for a closer view. he had left it with the engine running, and, as a matter of fact, it ran for four hours, when it died of starvation, and was subsequently interred in a city garage. however, he owned a number of cars, so he wasted no thought on that one. he was a great deal more worried about his eyebrows, and, naturally, about his leg. when he had been in the hospital ten hours it occurred to him to notify his family. but he put it off for two reasons: first, it would be a lot of trouble; second, he had no reason to think they particularly wanted to know. they all had such a lot of things to do, such as bridge and opening country houses and going to the springs. they were really overwhelmed, without anything new, and they had never been awfully interested in him anyhow. he was not at all bitter about it. that night mr. middleton--but he was now officially "twenty-two," by that system of metonymy which designates a hospital private patient by the number of his room--that night "twenty-two" had rather a bad time, between his leg and his conscience. both carried on disgracefully. his leg stabbed, and his conscience reminded him of mabel, and that if one is going to lie, there should at least be a reason. to lie out of the whole cloth----! however, toward morning, with what he felt was the entire pharmacopoeia inside him, and his tongue feeling like a tar roof, he made up his mind to stick to his story, at least as far as the young lady with the old-fashioned watch was concerned. he had a sort of creed, which shows how young he was, that one should never explain to a girl. there was another reason still. there had been a faint sparkle in the eyes of the young lady with the watch while he was lying to her. he felt that she was seeing him in heroic guise, and the thought pleased him. it was novel. to tell the truth, he had been getting awfully bored with himself since he left college. everything he tried to do, somebody else could do so much better. and he comforted himself with this, that he would have been a journalist if he could, or at least have published a newspaper. he knew what was wrong with about a hundred newspapers. he decided to confess about mabel, but to hold fast to journalism. then he lay in bed and watched for the probationer to come back. however, here things began to go wrong. he did not see jane brown again. there were day nurses and night nurses and reliefs, and _internes_ and staff and the head nurse and the first assistant and--everything but jane brown. and at last he inquired for her. "the first day i was in here," he said to miss willoughby, "there was a little girl here without a cap. i don't know her name. but i haven't seen her since." miss willoughby, who, if she had been disappointed in love, had certainly had time to forget it, miss willoughby reflected. "without a cap? then it was only one of the probationers." "you don't remember which one?" but she only observed that probationers were always coming and going, and it wasn't worth while learning their names until they were accepted. and that, anyhow, probationers should never be sent to private patients, who are paying a lot and want the best. "really," she added, "i don't know what the school is coming to. since this war in europe every girl wants to wear a uniform and be ready to go to the front if we have trouble. all sorts of silly children are applying. we have one now, on this very floor, not a day over nineteen." "who is she?" asked middleton. he felt that this was the one. she was so exactly the sort miss willoughby would object to. "jane brown," snapped miss willoughby. "a little, namby-pamby, mush-and-milk creature, afraid of her own shadow." now, jane brown, at that particular moment, was sitting in her little room in the dormitory, with the old watch ticking on the stand so she would not over-stay her off duty. she was aching with fatigue from her head, with its smooth and shiny hair, to her feet, which were in a bowl of witch hazel and hot water. and she was crying over a letter she was writing. jane brown had just come from her first death. it had taken place in h ward, where she daily washed window-sills, and disinfected stands, and carried dishes in and out. and it had not been what she had expected. in the first place, the man had died for hours. she had never heard of this. she had thought of death as coming quickly--a glance of farewell, closing eyes, and--rest. but for hours and hours the struggle had gone on, a fight for breath that all the ward could hear. and he had not closed his eyes at all. they were turned up, and staring. the probationer had suffered horribly, and at last she had gone behind the screen and folded her hands and closed her eyes, and said very low: "dear god--please take him quickly." he had stopped breathing almost immediately. but that may have been a coincidence. however, she was not writing that home. between gasps she was telling the humours of visiting day in the ward, and of how kind every one was to her, which, if not entirely true, was not entirely untrue. they were kind enough when they had time to be, or when they remembered her. only they did not always remember her. she ended by saying that she was quite sure they meant to accept her when her three months was up. it was frightfully necessary that she be accepted. she sent messages to all the little town, which had seen her off almost _en masse_. and she added that the probationers received the regular first-year allowance of eight dollars a month, and she could make it do nicely--which was quite true, unless she kept on breaking thermometers when she shook them down. at the end she sent her love to everybody, including even worthless johnny fraser, who cut the grass and scrubbed the porches; and, of course, to doctor willie. he was called doctor willie because his father, who had taken him into partnership long ago, was doctor will. it never had seemed odd, although doctor willie was now sixty-five, and a saintly soul. curiously enough, her letter was dated april first. under that very date, and about that time of the day, a health officer in a near-by borough was making an entry regarding certain coloured gentlemen shipped north from louisiana to work on a railroad. opposite the name of one augustus baird he put a cross. this indicated that augustus baird had not been vaccinated. by the sixth of april "twenty-two" had progressed from splints to a plaster cast, and was being most awfully bored. jane brown had not returned, and there was a sort of relentless maturity about the nurses who looked after him that annoyed him. lying there, he had a good deal of time to study them, and somehow his recollection of the girl with the hunting-case watch did not seem to fit her in with these kindly and efficient women. he could not, for instance, imagine her patronising the senior surgical interne in a deferential but unmistakable manner, or good-naturedly bullying the first assistant, who was a nervous person in shoes too small for her, as to their days off duty. twenty-two began to learn things about the hospital. for instance, the day nurse, while changing his pillow slips, would observe that nineteen was going to be operated on that day, and close her lips over further information. but when the afternoon relief, while giving him his toothbrush after lunch, said there was a most interesting gall-stone case in nineteen, and the night nurse, in reply to a direct question, told nineteen's name, but nothing else, twenty-two had a fair working knowledge of the day's events. he seemed to learn about everything but jane brown. he knew when a new baby came, and was even given a glimpse of one, showing, he considered, about the colour and general contour of a maraschino cherry. and he learned soon that the god of the hospital is the staff, although worship did not blind the nurses to their weaknesses. thus the older men, who had been trained before the day of asepsis and modern methods, were revered but carefully watched. they would get out of scrubbing their hands whenever they could, and they hated their beards tied up with gauze. the nurses, keen, competent and kindly, but shrewd, too, looked after these elderly recalcitrants; loved a few, hated some, and presented to the world unbroken ranks for their defence. twenty-two learned also the story of the first assistant, who was in love with one of the staff, who was married, and did not care for her anyhow. so she wore tight shoes, and was always beautifully waved, and read browning. she had a way of coming in and saying brightly, as if to reassure herself: "good morning, twenty-two. well, god is still in his heaven, and all's well with the world." twenty-two got to feeling awfully uncomfortable about her. she used to bring him flowers and sit down a moment to rest her feet, which generally stung. and she would stop in the middle of a sentence and look into space, but always with a determined smile. he felt awfully uncomfortable. she was so neat and so efficient--and so tragic. he tried to imagine being hopelessly in love, and trying to live on husks of browning. not even mrs. browning. the mind is a curious thing. suddenly, from thinking of mrs. browning, he thought of n. jane brown. of course not by that ridiculous name. he had learned that she was stationed on that floor. and in the same flash he saw the senior surgical interne swanking about in white ducks and just the object for a probationer to fall in love with. he lay there, and pulled the beginning of the new moustache, and reflected. the first assistant was pinning a spray of hyacinth in her cap. "look here," he said. "why can't i be put in a wheeled chair and get about? one that i can manipulate myself," he added craftily. she demurred. indeed, everybody demurred when he put it up to them. but he had gone through the world to the age of twenty-four, getting his own way about ninety-seven per cent. of the time. he got it this time, consisting of a new cast, which he named elizabeth, and a roller-chair, and he spent a full day learning how to steer himself around. then, on the afternoon of the third day, rolling back toward the elevator and the _terra incognita_ which lay beyond, he saw a sign. he stared at it blankly, because it interfered considerably with a plan he had in mind. the sign was of tin, and it said: "no private patients allowed beyond here." twenty-two sat in his chair and stared at it. the plaster cast stretched out in front of him, and was covered by a grey blanket. with the exception of the trifling formality of trousers, he was well dressed in a sack coat, a shirt, waistcoat, and a sort of college-boy collar and tie, which one of the orderlies had purchased for him. his other things were in that extremely expensive english car which the city was storing. the plain truth is that twenty-two was looking for jane brown. since she had not come to him, he must go to her. he particularly wanted to set her right as to mabel. and he felt, too, that that trick about respirations had not been entirely fair. he was, of course, not in the slightest degree in love with her. he had only seen her once, and then he had had a broken leg and a quarter grain of morphia and a burned moustache and no eyebrows left to speak of. but there was the sign. it was hung to a nail beside the elevator shaft. and far beyond, down the corridor, was somebody in a blue dress and no cap. it might be anybody, but again---- twenty-two looked around. the elevator had just gone down at its usual rate of a mile every two hours. in the convalescent parlour, where private patients _en negligée_ complained about the hospital food, the nurse in charge was making a new cap. over all the hospital brooded an after-luncheon peace. twenty-two wheeled up under the sign and considered his average of ninety-seven per cent. followed in sequence these events: (a) twenty-two wheeled back to the parlour, where old mr. simond's cane leaned against a table, and, while engaging that gentleman in conversation, possessed himself of the cane. (b) wheeled back to the elevator. (c) drew cane from beneath blanket. (d) unhooked sign with cane and concealed both under blanket. (e) worked his way back along the forbidden territory, past i and j until he came to h ward. jane brown was in h ward. she was alone, and looking very professional. there is nothing quite so professional as a new nurse. she had, indeed, reached a point where, if she took a pulse three times, she got somewhat similar results. there had been a time when they had run something like this: -- -- ---- jane brown was taking pulses. it was a visiting day, and all the beds had fresh white spreads, tucked in neatly at the foot. in the exact middle of the centre table with its red cloth, was a vase of yellow tulips. the sun came in and turned them to golden flame. jane brown was on duty alone and taking pulses with one eye while she watched the visitors with the other. she did the watching better than she did the pulses. for instance, she was distinctly aware that stanislas krzykolski's wife, in the bed next the end, had just slid a half-dozen greasy cakes, sprinkled with sugar, under his pillow. she knew, however, that not only grease but love was in those cakes, and she did not intend to confiscate them until after mrs. krzykolski had gone. more visitors came. shuffling and self-conscious mill-workers, walking on their toes; draggled women; a chinese boy; a girl with a rouged face and a too confident manner. a hum of conversation hung over the long room. the sunlight came in and turned to glory, not only the tulips and the red tablecloth, but also the brass basins, the fireplace fender, and the probationer's hair. twenty-two sat unnoticed in the doorway. a young girl, very lame, with a mandolin, had just entered the ward. in the little stir of her arrival, twenty-two had time to see that jane brown was worth even all the trouble he had taken, and more. really, to see jane brown properly, she should have always been seen in the sun. she was that sort. the lame girl sat down in the centre of the ward, and the buzz died away. she was not pretty, and she was very nervous. twenty-two frowned a trifle. "poor devils," he said to himself. but jane brown put away her hunting-case watch, and the lame girl swept the ward with soft eyes that had in them a pity that was almost a benediction. then she sang. her voice was like her eyes, very sweet and rather frightened, but tender. and suddenly something a little hard and selfish in twenty-two began to be horribly ashamed of itself. and, for no earthly reason in the world, he began to feel like a cumberer of the earth. before she had finished the first song, he was thinking that perhaps when he was getting about again, he might run over to france for a few months in the ambulance service. a fellow really ought to do his bit. at just about that point jane brown turned and saw him. and although he had run all these risks to get to her, and even then had an extremely cold tin sign lying on his knee under the blanket, at first she did not know him. the shock of this was almost too much for him. in all sorts of places people were glad to see him, especially women. he was astonished, but it was good for him. she recognised him almost immediately, however, and flushed a little, because she knew he had no business there. she was awfully bound up with rules. "i came back on purpose to see you," said twenty-two, when at last the lame girl had limped away. "because, that day i came in and you looked after me, you know, i--must have talked a lot of nonsense." "morphia makes some people talk," she said. it was said in an exact copy of the ward nurse's voice, a frightfully professional and impersonal tone. "but," said twenty-two, stirring uneasily, "i said a lot that wasn't true. you may have forgotten, but i haven't. now that about a girl named mabel, for instance----" he stirred again, because, after all, what did it matter what he had said? she was gazing over the ward. she was not interested in him. she had almost forgotten him. and as he stirred mr. simond's cane fell out. it was immediately followed by the tin sign, which only gradually subsided, face up, on the bare floor, in a slowly diminishing series of crashes. jane brown stooped and picked them both up and placed them on his lap. then, very stern, she marched out of the ward into the corridor, and there subsided into quiet hysterics of mirth. twenty-two, who hated to be laughed at, followed her in the chair, looking extremely annoyed. "what else was i to do?" he demanded, after a time. "of course, if you report it, i'm gone." "what do you intend to do with it now?" she asked. all her professional manner had gone, and she looked alarmingly young. "if i put it back, i'll only have to steal it again. because i am absolutely bored to death in that room of mine. i have played a thousand games of solitaire." the probationer looked around. there was no one in sight. "i should think," she suggested, "that if you slipped it behind that radiator, no one would ever know about it." fortunately, the ambulance gong set up a clamour below the window just then, and no one heard one of the hospital's most cherished rules going, as one may say, into the discard. the probationer leaned her nose against the window and looked down. a coloured man was being carried in on a stretcher. although she did not know it--indeed, never did know it--the coloured gentleman in question was one augustus baird. soon afterward twenty-two squeaked--his chair needed oiling--squeaked back to his lonely room and took stock. he found that he was rid of mabel, but was still a reporter, hurt in doing his duty. he had let this go because he saw that duty was a sort of fetish with the probationer. and since just now she liked him for what she thought he was, why not wait to tell her until she liked him for himself? he hoped she was going to like him, because she was going to see him a lot. also, he liked her even better than he had remembered that he did. she had a sort of thoroughbred look that he liked. and he liked the way her hair was soft and straight and shiny. and he liked the way she was all business and no nonsense. and the way she counted pulses, with her lips moving and a little frown between her eyebrows. and he liked her for being herself--which is, after all, the reason why most men like the women they like, and extremely reasonable. the first assistant loaned him browning that afternoon, and he read "pippa passes." he thought pippa must have looked like the probationer. the head was a bit querulous that evening. the heads of training schools get that way now and then, although they generally reveal it only to the first assistant. they have to do so many irreconcilable things, such as keeping down expenses while keeping up requisitions, and remembering the different sorts of sutures the staff likes, and receiving the ladies' committee, and conducting prayers and lectures, and knowing by a swift survey of a ward that the stands have been carbolised and all the toe-nails cut. because it is amazing the way toe-nails grow in bed. the head would probably never have come out flatly, but she had a wretched cold, and the first assistant was giving her a mustard footbath, which was very hot. the head sat up with a blanket over her shoulders, and read lists while her feet took on the blush of ripe apples. and at last she said: "how is that probationer with the ridiculous name getting along?" the first assistant poured in more hot water. "n. jane?" she asked. "well, she's a nice little thing, and she seems willing. but, of course----" the head groaned. "nineteen!" she said. "and no character at all. i detest fluttery people. she flutters the moment i go into the ward." the first assistant sat back and felt of her cap, which was of starched tulle and was softening a bit from the steam. she felt a thrill of pity for the probationer. she, too, had once felt fluttery when the head came in. "she is very anxious to stay," she observed. "she works hard, too. i----" "she has no personality, no decision," said the head, and sneezed twice. she was really very wretched, and so she was unfair. "she is pretty and sweet. but i cannot run my training school on prettiness and sweetness. has doctor harvard come in yet?" "i--i think not," said the first assistant. she looked up quickly, but the head was squeezing a lemon in a cup of hot water beside her. now, while the head was having a footbath, and twenty-two was having a stock-taking, and augustus baird was having his symptoms recorded, jane brown was having a shock. she heard an unmistakable shuffling of feet in the corridor. sounds take on much significance in a hospital, and probationers study them, especially footsteps. it gives them a moment sometimes to think what to do next. _internes_, for instance, frequently wear rubber soles on their white shoes and have a way of slipping up on one. and the engineer goes on a half run, generally accompanied by the clanking of a tool or two. and the elevator man runs, too, because generally the bell is ringing. and ward patients shuffle about in carpet slippers, and the pharmacy clerk has a brisk young step, inclined to be jaunty. but it is the staff which is always unmistakable. it comes along the corridor deliberately, inexorably. it plants its feet firmly and with authority. it moves with the inevitability of fate, with the pride of royalty, with the ease of the best made-to-order boots. the ring of a staff member's heel on a hospital corridor is the most authoritative sound on earth. he may be the gentlest soul in the world, but he will tread like royalty. but this was not staff. jane brown knew this sound, and it filled her with terror. it was the scuffling of four pairs of feet, carefully instructed not to keep step. it meant, in other words, a stretcher. but perhaps it was not coming to her. ah, but it was! panic seized jane brown. she knew there were certain things to do, but they went out of her mind like a cat out of a cellar window. however, the ward was watching. it had itself, generally speaking, come in feet first. it knew the procedure. so, instructed by low voices from the beds around, jane brown feverishly tore the spread off the emergency bed and drew it somewhat apart from its fellows. then she stood back and waited. came in four officers from the police patrol. came in the senior surgical interne. came two convalescents from the next ward to stare in at the door. came the stretcher, containing a quiet figure under a grey blanket. twenty-two, at that exact moment, was putting a queen on a ten spot and pretending there is nothing wrong about cheating oneself. in a very short time the quiet figure was on the bed, and the senior surgical interne was writing in the order book: "prepare for operation." jane brown read it over his shoulder, which is not etiquette. "but--i can't," she quavered. "i don't know how. i won't touch him. he's--he's bloody!" then she took another look at the bed and she saw--johnny fraser. now johnny had, in his small way, played a part in the probationer's life, such as occasionally scrubbing porches or borrowing a half dollar or being suspected of stealing the eggs from the henhouse. but _that_ johnny fraser had been a wicked, smiling imp, much given to sitting in the sun. here lay another johnny fraser, a quiet one, who might never again feel the warm earth through his worthless clothes on his worthless young body. a johnny of closed eyes and slow, noisy breathing. "why, johnny!" said the probationer, in a strangled voice. the senior surgical interne was interested. "know him?" he said. "he is a boy from home." she was still staring at this quiet, un-impudent figure. the senior surgical interne eyed her with an eye that was only partially professional. then he went to the medicine closet and poured a bit of aromatic ammonia into a glass. "sit down and drink this," he said, in a very masculine voice. he liked to feel that he could do something for her. indeed, there was something almost proprietary in the way he took her pulse. some time after the early hospital supper that evening twenty-two, having oiled his chair with some olive oil from his tray, made a clandestine trip through the twilight of the corridor back of the elevator shaft. to avoid scandal he pretended interest in other wards, but he gravitated, as a needle to the pole, to h. and there he found the probationer, looking rather strained, and mothering a quiet figure on a bed. he was a trifle puzzled at her distress, for she made no secret of johnny's status in the community. what he did not grasp was that johnny fraser was a link between this new and rather terrible world of the hospital and home. it was not johnny alone, it was johnny scrubbing a home porch and doing it badly, it was johnny in her father's old clothes, it was johnny fishing for catfish in the creek, or lending his pole to one of the little brothers whose pictures were on her table in the dormitory. twenty-two felt a certain depression. he reflected rather grimly that he had been ten days missing and that no one had apparently given a hang whether he turned up or not. "is he going to live?" he inquired. he could see that the ward nurse had an eye on him, and was preparing for retreat. "o yes," said jane brown. "i think so now. the _interne_ says they have had a message from doctor willie. he is coming." there was a beautiful confidence in her tone. things moved very fast with the probationer for the next twenty-four hours. doctor willie came, looking weary but smiling benevolently. jane brown met him in a corridor and kissed him, as, indeed, she had been in the habit of doing since her babyhood. "where is the young rascal?" said doctor willie. "up to his old tricks, nellie, and struck by a train." he put a hand under her chin, which is never done to the members of the training school in a hospital, and searched her face with his kind old eyes. "well, how does it go, nellie?" jane brown swallowed hard. "all right," she managed. "they want to operate, doctor willie." "tut!" he said. "always in a hurry, these hospitals. we'll wait a while, i think." "is everybody well at home?" it had come to her, you see, what comes to every nurse once in her training--the thinness of the veil, the terror of calamity, the fear of death. "all well. and----" he glanced around. only the senior surgical interne was in sight, and he was out of hearing. "look here, nellie," he said, "i've got a dozen fresh eggs for you in my satchel. your mother sent them." she nearly lost her professional manner again then. but she only asked him to warn the boys about automobiles and riding on the backs of wagons. had any one said twenty-two to her, she would not have known what was meant. not just then, anyhow. in the doctors' room that night the senior surgical interne lighted a cigarette and telephoned to the operating room. "that trephining's off," he said, briefly. then he fell to conversation with the senior medical, who was rather worried about a case listed on the books as augustus baird, coloured. twenty-two did not sleep very well that night. he needed exercise, he felt. but there was something else. miss brown had been just a shade too ready to accept his explanation about mabel, he felt, so ready that he feared she had been more polite than sincere. probably she still believed there was a mabel. not that it mattered, except that he hated to make a fool of himself. he roused once in the night and was quite sure he heard her voice down the corridor. he knew this must be wrong, because they would not make her work all day and all night, too. but, as it happened, it _was_ jane brown. the hospital provided plenty of sleeping time, but now and then there was a slip-up and somebody paid. there had been a night operation, following on a busy day, and the operating-room nurses needed help. out of a sound sleep the night assistant had summoned jane brown to clean instruments. at five o'clock that morning she was still sitting on a stool beside a glass table, polishing instruments which made her shiver. all around were things that were spattered with blood. but she looked anything but fluttery. she was a very grim and determined young person just then, and professional beyond belief. the other things, like washing window-sills and cutting toe-nails, had had no significance. but here she was at last on the edge of mercy. some one who might have died had lived that night because of this room, and these instruments, and willing hands. she hoped she would always have willing hands. she looked very pale at breakfast the next morning, and rather older. also she had a new note of authority in her voice when she telephoned the kitchen and demanded h ward's soft-boiled eggs. she washed window-sills that morning again, but no longer was there rebellion in her soul. she was seeing suddenly how the hospital required all these menial services, which were not menial at all but only preparation; that there were little tasks and big ones, and one graduated from the one to the other. she took some flowers from the ward bouquet and put them beside johnny's bed--johnny, who was still lying quiet, with closed eyes. the senior surgical interne did a dressing in the ward that morning. he had been in to see augustus baird, and he felt uneasy. he vented it on tony, the italian, with a stiletto thrust in his neck, by jerking at the adhesive. tony wailed, and jane brown, who was the "dirty" nurse--which does not mean what it appears to mean, but is the person who receives the soiled dressings--jane brown gritted her teeth. "keep quiet," said the s.s.i., who was a good fellow, but had never been stabbed in the neck for running away with somebody else's wife. "eet hurt," said tony. "ow." jane brown turned very pink. "why don't you let me cut it off properly?" she said, in a strangled tone. the total result of this was that jane brown was reprimanded by the first assistant, and learned some things about ethics. "but," she protested, "it was both stupid and cruel. and if i know i am right----" "how are you to know you are right?" demanded the first assistant, crossly. her feet were stinging. "'a little knowledge is a dangerous thing.'" this was a favorite quotation of hers, although not browning. "nurses in hospitals are there to carry out the doctor's orders. not to think or to say what they think unless they are asked. to be intelligent, but----" "but not too intelligent!" said the probationer. "i see." this was duly reported to the head, who observed that it was merely what she had expected and extremely pert. her cold was hardly any better. it was taking the probationer quite a time to realise her own total lack of significance in all this. she had been accustomed to men who rose when a woman entered a room and remained standing as long as she stood. and now she was in a new world, where she had to rise and remain standing while a cocky youth in ducks, just out of medical college, sauntered in with his hands in his pockets and took a _boutonnière_ from the ward bouquet. it was probably extremely good for her. she was frightfully tired that day, and toward evening the little glow of service began to fade. there seemed to be nothing to do for johnny but to wait. doctor willie had seemed to think that nature would clear matters up there, and had requested no operation. she smoothed beds and carried cups of water and broke another thermometer. and she put the eggs from home in the ward pantry and made egg-nogs of them for stanislas krzykolski, who was unaccountably upset as to stomach. she had entirely forgotten twenty-two. he had stayed away all that day, in a sort of faint hope that she would miss him. but she had not. she was feeling rather worried, to tell the truth. for a staff surgeon going through the ward, had stopped by johnny's bed and examined the pupils of his eyes, and had then exchanged a glance with the senior surgical interne that had perplexed her. in the chapel at prayers that evening all around her the nurses sat and rested, their tired hands folded in their laps. they talked a little among themselves, but it was only a buzzing that reached the probationer faintly. some one near was talking about something that was missing. "gone?" she said. "of course it is gone. the bath-room man reported it to me and i went and looked." "but who in the world would take it?" "my dear," said the first speaker, "who _does_ take things in a hospital, anyhow? only--a tin sign!" it was then that the head came in. she swept in; her grey gown, her grey hair gave her a majesty that filled the probationer with awe. behind her came the first assistant with the prayer-book and hymnal. the head believed in form. jane brown offered up a little prayer that night for johnny fraser, and another little one without words, that doctor willie was right. she sat and rested her weary young body, and remembered how doctor willie was loved and respected, and the years he had cared for the whole countryside. and the peace of the quiet room, with the easter lilies on the tiny altar, brought rest to her. it was when prayers were over that the head made her announcement. she rose and looked over the shadowy room, where among the rows of white caps only the probationer's head was uncovered, and she said: "i have an announcement to make to the training school. one which i regret, and which will mean a certain amount of hardship and deprivation. "a case of contagion has been discovered in one of the wards, and it has been considered necessary to quarantine the hospital. the doors were closed at seven-thirty this evening." ii considering that he could not get out anyhow, twenty-two took the news of the quarantine calmly. he reflected that, if he was shut in, jane brown was shut in also. he had a wicked hope, at the beginning, that the senior surgical interne had been shut out, but at nine o'clock that evening that young gentleman showed up at the door of his room, said "cheer-o," came in, helped himself to a cigarette, gave a professional glance at twenty-two's toes, which were all that was un-plastered of the leg, and departing threw back over his shoulder his sole conversational effort: "hell of a mess, isn't it?" twenty-two took up again gloomily the book he was reading, which was on diseases of the horse, from the hospital library. he was in the midst of glanders. he had, during most of that day, been making up his mind to let his family know where he was. he did not think they cared, particularly. he had no illusions about that. but there was something about jane brown which made him feel like doing the decent thing. it annoyed him frightfully, but there it was. she was so eminently the sort of person who believed in doing the decent thing. so, about seven o'clock, he had sent the orderly out for stamps and paper. he imagined that jane brown would not think writing home on hospital stationery a good way to break bad news. but the orderly had stopped for a chat at the engine house, and had ended by playing a game of dominoes. when, at ten o'clock, he had returned to the hospital entrance, the richer by a quarter and a glass of beer, he had found a strange policeman on the hospital steps, and the doors locked. the quarantine was on. now there are different sorts of quarantines. there is the sort where a trained nurse and the patient are shut up in a room and bath, and the family only opens the door and peers in. and there is the sort where the front door has a placard on it, and the family goes in and out the back way, and takes a street-car to the office, the same as usual. and there is the hospital quarantine, which is the real thing, because hospitals are expected to do things thoroughly. so our hospital was closed up as tight as a jar of preserves. there were policemen at all the doors, quite suddenly. they locked the doors and put the keys in their pockets, and from that time on they opened them only to pass things in, such as newspapers or milk or groceries or the braver members of the staff. but not to let anything out--except the staff. supposedly staffs do not carry germs. and, indeed, even the staff was not keen about entering. it thought of a lot of things it ought to do about visiting time, and prescribed considerably over the telephone. at first there was a great deal of confusion, because quite a number of people had been out on various errands when it happened. and they came back, and protested to the office that they had only their uniforms on under their coats, and three dollars; or their slippers and no hats. or that they would sue the city. one or two of them got quite desperate and tried to crawl up the fire-escape, but failed. this is of interest chiefly because it profoundly affected jane brown. miss mcadoo, her ward nurse, had debated whether to wash her hair that evening, or to take a walk. she had decided on the walk, and was therefore shut out, along with the junior medical, the kitchen cat, the superintendent's mother-in-law and six other nurses. the next morning the first assistant gave jane brown charge of h ward. "it's very irregular," she said. "i don't exactly know--you have only one bad case, haven't you?" "only johnny." the first assistant absent-mindedly ran a finger over the top of a table, and examined it for dust. "of course," she said, "it's a great chance for you. show that you can handle this ward, and you are practically safe." jane brown drew a long breath and stood up very straight. then she ran her eye over the ward. there was something vaguely reminiscent of miss mcadoo in her glance. twenty-two made three brief excursions back along the corridor that first day of the quarantine. but jane brown was extremely professional and very busy. there was an air of discipline over the ward. let a man but so much as turn over in bed and show an inch of blanket, and she pounced on the bed and reduced it to the most horrible neatness. all the beds looked as if they had been made up with a carpenter's square. on the third trip, however, jane brown was writing at the table. twenty-two wheeled himself into the doorway and eyed her with disapproval. "what do you mean by sitting down?" he demanded sarcastically. "don't you know that now you are in charge you ought to keep moving?" to which she replied, absently: "three buttered toasts, two dry toasts, six soft boiled eggs, and twelve soups." she was working on the diet slips. then she smiled at him. they were quite old friends already. it is curious about love and friendship and all those kindred emotions. they do not grow nearly so fast when people are together as when they are apart. it is an actual fact that the growth of many an intimacy is checked by meetings. because when people are apart it is what they _are_ that counts, and when they are together it is what they do and say and look like. many a beautiful affair has been ruined because, just as it was going along well, the principals met again. however, all this merely means that twenty-two and jane brown were infinitely closer friends than four or five meetings really indicates. the ward was very quiet on this late afternoon call of his save for johnny's heavy breathing. there is a quiet hour in a hospital, between afternoon temperatures and the ringing of the bell which means that the suppers for the wards are on their way--a quiet hour when over the long rows of beds broods the peace of the ending day. it is a melancholy hour, too, because from the streets comes faintly the echo of feet hurrying home, the eager trot of a horse bound stableward. to those in the eddy that is the ward comes at this time a certain heaviness of spirit. poor thing though home may have been, they long for it. in h ward that late afternoon there was a wave of homesickness in the air, and on the part of those men who were up and about, who shuffled up and down the ward in flapping carpet slippers, an inclination to mutiny. "how did they take it?" twenty-two inquired. she puckered her eyebrows. "they don't like it," she confessed. "some of them were about ready to go home and it--_tony!_" she called sharply. for tony, who had been cunningly standing by the window leading to a fire-escape, had flung the window up and was giving unmistakable signs of climbing out and returning to the other man's wife. "tony!" she called, and ran. tony scrambled up on the sill. a sort of titter ran over the ward and tony, now on the platform outside, waved a derisive hand through the window. "good-bye, mees!" he said, and--disappeared. it was not a very dramatic thing, after all. it is chiefly significant for its effect on twenty-two, who was obliged to sit frozen with horror and cursing his broken leg, while jane brown raced a brown little italian down the fire-escape and caught him at the foot of it. tony took a look around. the courtyard gates were closed and a policeman sat outside on a camp-stool reading the newspaper. tony smiled sheepishly and surrendered. some seconds later tony and jane brown appeared on the platform outside. jane brown had tony by the ear, and she stopped long enough outside to exchange the ear for his shoulder, by which she shook him, vigorously. twenty-two turned his chair around and wheeled himself back to his room. he was filled with a cold rage--because she might have fallen on the fire-escape and been killed; because he had not been able to help her; because she was there, looking after the derelicts of life, when the world was beautiful outside, and she was young; because to her he was just twenty-two and nothing more. he had seen her exactly six times. jane brown gave the ward a little talk that night before the night nurse reported. she stood in the centre of the long room, beside the tulips, and said that she was going to be alone there, and that she would have to put the situation up to their sense of honour. if they tried to escape, they would hurt her. also they would surely be caught and brought back. and, because she believed in a combination of faith and deeds, she took three nails and the linen-room flatiron, and nailed shut the window onto the fire-escape. after that, she brushed crumbs out of the beds with a whiskbroom and rubbed a few backs with alcohol, and smoothed the counterpanes, and hung over johnny's unconscious figure for a little while, giving motherly pats to his flat pillow and worrying considerably because there was so little about him to remind her of the johnny she knew at home. after that she sat down and made up her records for the night nurse. the ward understood, and was perfectly good, trying hard not to muss its pillows or wrinkle the covers. and struggling, too, with a new idea. they were prisoners. no more release cards would brighten the days. for an indefinite period the old frenchman would moan at night, and bader the german would snore, and the chinaman would cough. indefinitely they would eat soft-boiled eggs and rice and beef-tea and cornstarch. the ward felt extremely low in its mind. * * * * * that night the senior surgical interne went in to play cribbage with twenty-two, and received a lecture on leaving a young girl alone in h with a lot of desperate men. they both grew rather heated over the discussion and forgot to play cribbage at all. twenty-two lay awake half the night, because he had seen clearly that the senior surgical interne was interested in jane brown also, and would probably loaf around h most of the time since there would be no new cases now. it was a crowning humiliation to have the night nurse apply to the senior surgical interne for a sleeping powder for him! toward morning he remembered that he had promised to write out from memory one of the sonnets from the portuguese for the first assistant, and he turned on the light and jotted down two lines of it. he wrote: "_for we two look two ways, and cannot shine with the same sunlight on our brow and hair._"-- and then sat up in bed for half an hour looking at it because he was so awfully afraid it was true of jane brown and himself. not, of course, that he wanted to shine at all. it was the looking two ways that hurt. the next evening the nurses took their airing on the roof, which was a sooty place with a parapet, and in the courtyard, which was an equally sooty place with a wispy fountain. and because the whole situation was new, they formed in little groups on the wooden benches and sang, hands folded on white aprons, heads lifted, eyes upturned to where, above the dimly lighted windows, the stars peered palely through the smoke. the s.s.i. sauntered out. he had thought he saw the probationer from his window, and in the new relaxation of discipline he saw a chance to join her. but the figure he had thought he recognised proved to be some one else, and he fell to wandering alone up and down the courtyard. he was trying to work out this problem: would the advantage of marrying early and thus being considered eligible for certain cases, offset the disadvantage of the extra expense? he decided to marry early and hang the expense. the days went by, three, then four, and a little line of tension deepened around jane brown's mouth. perhaps it has not been mentioned that she had a fighting nose, short and straight, and a wistful mouth. for johnny fraser was still lying in a stupor. jane brown felt that something was wrong. doctor willie came in once or twice, making the long trip without complaint and without hope of payment. all his busy life he had worked for the sake of work, and not for reward. he called her "nellie," to the delight of the ward, which began to love him, and he spent a long hour each time by johnny's bed. but the probationer was quick to realise that the senior surgical interne disapproved of him. that young man had developed a tendency to wander into h at odd hours, and sit on the edge of a table, leaving jane brown divided between proper respect for an _interne_ and fury over the wrinkling of her table covers. it was during one of these visits that she spoke of doctor willie. "because he is a country practitioner," she said, "you--you patronise him." "not at all," said the senior surgical interne. "personally i like him immensely." "personally!" the senior surgical interne waved a hand toward johnny's bed. "look there," he said. "you don't think that chap's getting any better, do you?" "if," said jane brown, with suspicious quiet, "if you think you know more than a man who has practised for forty years, and saved more people than you ever saw, why don't you tell him so?" there is really no defence for this conversation. discourse between a probationer and an _interne_ is supposed to be limited to yea, yea, and nay, nay. but the circumstances were unusual. "tell him!" exclaimed the senior surgical interne, "and be called before the executive committee and fired! dear girl, i am inexpressibly flattered, but the voice of an _interne_ in a hospital is the voice of one crying in the wilderness." twenty-two, who was out on crutches that day for the first time, and was looking very big and extremely awkward, twenty-two looked back from the elevator shaft and scowled. he seemed always to see a flash of white duck near the door of h ward. to add to his chagrin, the senior surgical interne clapped him on the back in congratulation a moment later, and nearly upset him. he had intended to go back to the ward and discuss a plan he had, but he was very morose those days and really not a companionable person. he stumped back to his room and resolutely went to bed. there he lay for a long time looking at the ceiling, and saying, out of his misery, things not necessary to repeat. so twenty-two went to bed and sulked, refusing supper, and having the word "vicious" marked on his record by the nurse, who hoped he would see it some time. and jane brown went and sat beside a strangely silent johnny, and worried. and the senior surgical interne went down to the pharmacy and thereby altered a number of things. the pharmacy clerk had been shaving--his own bedroom was dark--and he saw the senior surgical interne in the little mirror hung on the window frame. "hello," he said, over the soap. "shut the door." the senior surgical interne shut the door, and then sniffed. "smells like a bar-room," he commented. the pharmacy clerk shaved the left angle of his jaw, and then turned around. "little experiment of mine," he explained. "simple syrup, grain alcohol, a dash of cochineal for colouring, and some flavouring extract. it's an imitation cordial. try it." the senior surgical interne was not a drinker, but he was willing to try anything once. so he secured a two-ounce medicine glass, and filled it. "looks nice," he commented, and tasted it. "it's not bad." "not bad!" said the pharmacy clerk. "you'd pay four dollars a bottle for that stuff in a hotel. actual cost here, about forty cents." the senior surgical interne sat down and stretched out his legs. he had the glass in his hand. "it's rather sweet," he said. "but it looks pretty." he took another sip. after he had finished it, he got to thinking things over. he felt about seven feet tall and very important, and not at all like a voice crying in the wilderness. he had a strong inclination to go into the superintendent's office and tell him where he went wrong in running the institution--which he restrained. and another to go up to h and tell jane brown the truth about johnny fraser--which he yielded to. on the way up he gave the elevator man a cigar. he was very explicit with jane brown. "your man's wrong, that's all there is about it," he said. "i can't say anything and you can't. but he's wrong. that's an operative case. the staff knows it." "then, why doesn't the staff do it?" the senior surgical interne was still feeling very tall. he looked down at her from a great distance. "because, dear child," he said, "it's your man's case. you ought to know enough about professional ethics for that." he went away, then, and had a violent headache, which he blamed on confinement and lack of exercise. but he had sowed something in the probationer's mind. for she knew, suddenly, that he had been right. the staff had meant that, then, when they looked at johnny and shook their heads. the staff knew, the hospital knew. every one knew but doctor willie. but doctor willie had the case. back in her little town johnny's mother was looking to doctor willie, believing in him, hoping through him. that night twenty-two slept, and jane brown lay awake. and down in h ward johnny fraser had a bad spell at that hour toward dawn when the vitality is low, and men die. he did not die, however. but the night nurse recorded, "pulse very thin and iregular," at four o'clock. she, too, was not a famous speller. during the next morning, while the ward rolled bandages, having carefully scrubbed its hands first, jane brown wrote records--she did it rather well now--and then arranged the pins in the ward pincushion. she made concentric circles of safety-pins outside and common pins inside, with a large h in the centre. but her mind was not on this artistic bit of creation. it was on johnny fraser. she made up her mind to speak to doctor willie. twenty-two had got over his sulking or his jealousy, or whatever it was, and during the early hours, those hours when johnny was hardly breathing, he had planned something. he thought that he did it to interest the patients and make them contented, but somewhere in the back of his mind he knew it was to see more of jane brown. he planned a concert in the chapel. so that morning he took elizabeth, the plaster cast, back to h ward, where jane brown was fixing the pincushion, and had a good minute of feasting his eyes on her while she was sucking a jabbed finger. she knew she should have dipped the finger in a solution, but habit is strong in most of us. twenty-two had a wild desire to offer to kiss the finger and make it well. this, however, was not habit. it was insanity. he recognised this himself, and felt more than a trifle worried about it, because he had been in love quite a number of times before, but he had never had this sort of feeling. he put the concert up to her with a certain amount of anxiety. if she could sing, or play, or recite--although he hoped she would not recite--all would be well. but if she refused to take any part, he did not intend to have a concert. that was flat. "i can play," she said, making a neat period after the h on the pincushion. he was awfully relieved. "good," he said. "you know, i like the way you say that. it's so--well, it's so competent." he got out a notebook and wrote "miss brown, piano selections." it was while he was writing that jane brown had a sort of mental picture--the shabby piano at home, kicked below by many childish feet, but mellow and sweet, like an old violin, and herself sitting practising, over and over, that part of paderewski's minuet where, as every one knows, the fingering is rather difficult, and outside the open window, leaning on his broom, worthless johnny fraser, staring in with friendly eyes and an extremely dirty face. to twenty-two's unbounded amazement she flung down the cushion and made for the little ward linen room. he found her there a moment later, her arms outstretched on the table and her face buried in them. some one had been boiling a rubber tube and had let the pan go dry. ever afterward twenty-two was to associate the smell of burning rubber with jane brown, and with his first real knowledge that he was in love with her. he stumped in after her and closed the door, and might have ruined everything then and there by taking her in his arms, crutch and all. but the smell of burning rubber is a singularly permeating one, and he was kept from one indiscretion by being discovered in another. it was somewhat later that jane brown was reprimanded for being found in the linen room with a private patient. she made no excuse, but something a little defiant began to grow in her eyes. it was not that she loved her work less. she was learning, day by day, the endless sacrifices of this profession she had chosen, its unselfishness, its grinding hard work, the payment that may lie in a smile of gratitude, the agony of pain that cannot be relieved. she went through her days with hands held out for service, and at night, in the chapel, she whispered soundless little prayers to be accepted, and to be always gentle and kind. she did not want to become a machine. she knew, although she had no words for it, the difference between duty and service. but--a little spirit of rebellion was growing in her breast. she did not understand about johnny fraser, for one thing. and the matter of the linen room hurt. there seemed to be too many rules. then, too, she began to learn that hospitals had limitations. jane brown's hospital had no social worker. much as she loved the work, the part that the hospital could not do began to hurt her. before the quarantine women with new babies had gone out, without an idea of where to spend the night. ailing children had gone home to such places as she could see from the dormitory windows, where the work the hospital had begun could not be finished. from the roof of the building at night she looked out over a city that terrified her. the call of a playing child in the street began to sound to her like the shriek of accident. the very grinding of the trolley cars, the smoke of the mills, began to mean the operating room. she thought a great deal, those days, about the little town she had come from, with its peace and quiet streets. the city seemed cruel. but now and then she learned that if cities are cruel, men are kind. thus, on the very day of the concert, the quarantine was broken for a few minutes. it was broken forcibly, and by an officer of the law. a little newsie, standing by a fire at the next corner, for the spring day was cold, had caught fire. the big corner man had seen it all. he stripped off his overcoat, rolled the boy in it, and ran to the hospital. here he was confronted by a brother officer, who was forbidden to admit him. the corner man did the thing that seemed quickest. he laid the newsie on the ground, knocked out the quarantine officer in two blows, broke the glass of the door with a third, slipped a bolt, and then, his burden in his arms, stalked in. it did not lessen the majesty of that entrance that he was crying all the time. the probationer pondered that story when she heard it. after all, laws were right and good, but there were higher things than laws. she went and stood by johnny's bed for a long time, thinking. in the meantime, unexpected talent for the concert had developed. the piano in the chapel proving out of order, the elevator man proved to have been a piano tuner. he tuned it with a bone forceps. strange places, hospitals, into which drift men from every walk of life, to find a haven and peace within their quiet walls. old tony had sung, in his youth, in the opera at milan. a pretty young nurse went around the corridors muttering bits of "orphant annie" to herself. the senior surgical interne was to sing the "rosary," and went about practising to himself. he came into h ward and sang it through for jane brown, with his heart in his clear young eyes. he sang about the hours he had spent with her being strings of pearls, and all that, but he was really asking her if she would be willing to begin life with him in a little house, where she would have to answer the door-bell and watch telephone calls while he was out. jane brown felt something of this, too. for she said: "you sing it beautifully," although he had flatted at least three times. he wrote his name on a medicine label and glued it to her hand. it looked alarmingly possessive. twenty-two presided at the concert that night. he was extravagantly funny, and the sort of creaking solemnity with which things began turned to uproarious laughter very soon. everything went off wonderfully. tony started his selection too high, and was obliged to stop and begin over again. and the two silversteins, from the children's ward, who were to dance a highland fling together, had a violent quarrel at the last moment and had to be scratched. but everything else went well. the ambulance driver gave a bass solo, and kept a bar or two ahead of the accompaniment, dodging chords as he did wagons on the street, and fetching up with a sort of garrison finish much as he brought in the ambulance. but the real musical event of the evening was jane brown's playing. she played schubert without any notes, because she had been taught to play schubert that way. and when they called her back, she played little folk songs of the far places of europe. standing around the walls, in wheeled chairs, on crutches, pale with the hospital pallor, these aliens in their eddy listened and thrilled. some of them wept, but they smiled also. at the end she played the minuet, with a sort of flaming look in her eyes that puzzled twenty-two. he could not know that she was playing it to johnny fraser, lying with closed eyes in the ward upstairs. he did not realise that there was a passion of sacrifice throbbing behind the dignity of the music. doctor willie had stayed over for the concert. he sat, beaming benevolently, in the front row, and toward the end he got up and told some stories. after all, it was doctor willie who was the real hit of the evening. the convalescents rocked with joy in their roller chairs. crutches came down in loud applause. when he sat down he slipped a big hand over jane brown's and gave hers a hearty squeeze. "how d'you like me as a parlour entertainer, nellie?" he whispered. she put her other hand over his. somehow she could not speak. the first assistant called to the probationer that night as she went past her door. lights were out, so the first assistant had a candle, and she was rubbing her feet with witch hazel. "come in," she called. "i have been looking for you. i have some news for you." the exaltation of the concert had died away. jane brown, in the candle light, looked small and tired and very, very young. "we have watched you carefully," said the first assistant, who had her night garments on but had forgotten to take off her cap. "although you are young, you have shown ability, and--you are to be accepted." "thank you, very much," replied jane brown, in a strangled tone. "at first," said the first assistant, "we were not sure. you were very young, and you had such odd ideas. you know that yourself now." she leaned down and pressed a sore little toe with her forefinger. then she sighed. the mention of jane brown's youth had hurt her, because she was no longer very young. and there were times when she was tired, when it seemed to her that only youth counted. she felt that way to-night. when jane brown had gone on, she blew out her candle and went to bed, still in her cap. hospitals do not really sleep at night. the elevator man dozes in his cage, and the night watchman may nap in the engineer's room in the basement. but the night nurses are always making their sleepless rounds, and in the wards, dark and quiet, restless figures turn and sigh. before she went to bed that night, jane brown, by devious ways, slipped back to her ward. it looked strange to her, this cavernous place, filled with the unlovely noises of sleeping men. by the one low light near the doorway she went back to johnny's bed, and sat down beside him. she felt that this was the place to think things out. in her room other things pressed in on her; the necessity of making good for the sake of those at home, her love of the work, and cowardice. but here she saw things right. the night nurse found her there some time later, asleep, her hunting-case watch open on johnny's bed and her fingers still on his quiet wrist. she made no report of it. twenty-two had another sleepless night written in on his record that night. he sat up and worried. he worried about the way the senior surgical interne had sung to jane brown that night. and he worried about things he had done and shouldn't have, and things he should have done and hadn't. mostly the first. at five in the morning he wrote a letter to his family telling them where he was, and that he had been vaccinated and that the letter would be fumigated. he also wrote a check for an artificial leg for the boy in the children's ward, and then went to bed and put himself to sleep by reciting the "rosary" over and over. his last conscious thought was that the hours he had spent with a certain person would not make much of a string of pearls. the probationer went to doctor willie the next day. some of the exuberance of the concert still bubbled in him, although he shook his head over johnny's record. "a little slow, nellie," he said. "a little slow." jane brown took a long breath. "doctor willie," she said, "won't you have him operated on?" he looked up at her over his spectacles. "operated on? what for?" "well, he's not getting any better," she managed desperately. "i'm--sometimes i think he'll die while we're waiting for him to get better." he was surprised, but he was not angry. "there's no fracture, child," he said gently. "if there is a clot there, nature is probably better at removing it than we are. the trouble with you," he said indulgently, "is that you have come here, where they operate first and regret afterward. nature is the best surgeon, child." she cast about her despairingly for some way to tell him the truth. but even when she spoke she knew she was foredoomed to failure. "but--suppose the staff thinks that he should be?" doctor willie's kindly mouth set itself into grim lines. "the staff!" he said, and looked at her searchingly. then his jaws set at an obstinate angle. "well, nellie," he said, "i guess one opinion's as good as another in these cases. and i don't suppose they'll do any cutting and hacking without my consent." he looked at johnny's unconscious figure. "he never amounted to much," he added, "but it's surprising the way money's been coming in to pay his board here. your mother sent five dollars. a good lot of people are interested in him. i can't see myself going home and telling them he died on the operating table." he patted her on the arm as he went out. "don't get an old head on those young shoulders yet, nellie," he said as he was going. "leave the worrying to me. i'm used to it." she saw then that to him she was still a little girl. she probably would always be just a little girl to him. he did not take her seriously, and no one else would speak to him. she was quite despairing. the ward loved doctor willie since the night before. it watched him out with affectionate eyes. jane brown watched him, too, his fine old head, the sturdy step that had brought healing and peace to a whole county. she had hurt him, she knew that. she ached at the thought of it. and she had done no good. that afternoon jane brown broke another rule. she went to twenty-two on her off duty, and caused a mild furore there. he had been drawing a sketch of her from memory, an extremely poor sketch, with one eye larger than the other. he hid it immediately, although she could not possibly have recognised it, and talked very fast to cover his excitement. "well, well!" he said. "i knew i was going to have some luck to-day. my right hand has been itching--or is that a sign of money?" then he saw her face, and reduced his speech to normality, if not his heart. "come and sit down," he said. "and tell me about it." but she would not sit down. she went to the window and looked out for a moment. it was from there she said: "i have been accepted." "good." but he did not, apparently, think it such good news. he drew a long breath. "well, i suppose your friends should be glad for you." "i didn't come to talk about being accepted," she announced. "i don't suppose, by any chance, you came to see how i am getting along?" he inquired humbly. "i can see that." "you can't see how lonely i am." when she offered nothing to this speech, he enlarged on it. "when it gets unbearable," he said, "i sit in front of the mirror and keep myself company. if that doesn't make your heart ache, nothing will." "i'm afraid i have a heart-ache, but it is not that." for a terrible moment he thought of that theory of his which referred to a disappointment in love. was she going to have the unbelievable cruelty to tell him about it? "i have to talk to somebody," she said simply. "and i came to you, because you've worked on a newspaper, and you have had a lot of experience. it's--a matter of ethics. but really it's a matter of life and death." he felt most horribly humble before her, and he hated the lie, except that it had brought her to him. there was something so direct and childlike about her. the very way she drew a chair in front of him, and proceeded, talking rather fast, to lay the matter before him, touched him profoundly. he felt, somehow, incredibly old and experienced. and then, after all that, to fail her! "you see how it is," she finished. "i can't go to the staff, and they wouldn't do anything if i did--except possibly put me out. because a nurse really only follows orders. and--i've got to stay, if i can. and doctor willie doesn't believe in an operation and won't see that he's dying. and everybody at home thinks he is right, because--well," she added hastily, "he's been right a good many times." he listened attentively. his record, you remember, was his own way some ninety-seven per cent of the time, and at first he would not believe that this was going to be the three per cent, or a part of it. "well," he said at last, "we'll just make the staff turn in and do it. that's easy." "but they won't. they can't." "we can't let johnny die, either, can we?" but when at last she was gone, and the room was incredibly empty without her,--when, to confess a fact that he was exceedingly shame-faced about, he had wheeled over to the chair she had sat in and put his cheek against the arm where her hand had rested, when he was somewhat his own man again and had got over the feeling that his arms were empty of something they had never held--then it was that twenty-two found himself up against the three per cent. the hospital's attitude was firm. it could not interfere. it was an outside patient and an outside doctor. its responsibility ended with providing for the care of the patient, under his physician's orders. it was regretful--but, of course, unless the case was turned over to the staff---- he went back to the ward to tell her, after it had all been explained to him. but she was not surprised. he saw that, after all, she had really known he was going to fail her. "it's hopeless," was all she said. "everybody is right, and everybody is wrong." it was the next day that, going to the courtyard for a breath of air, she saw a woman outside the iron gate waving to her. it was johnny's mother, a forlorn old soul in what jane brown recognised as an old suit of her mother's. "doctor willie bought my ticket, miss nellie," she said nervously. "it seems like i had to come, even if i couldn't get in. i've been waiting around most all afternoon. how is he?" "he is resting quietly," said jane brown, holding herself very tense, because she wanted to scream. "he isn't suffering at all." "could you tell me which window he's near, miss nellie?" she pointed out the window, and johnny fraser's mother stood, holding to the bars, peering up at it. her lips moved, and jane brown knew that she was praying. at last she turned her eyes away. "folks have said a lot about him," she said, "but he was always a good son to me. if only he'd had a chance--i'd be right worried, miss nellie, if he didn't have doctor willie looking after him." jane brown went into the building. there was just one thing clear in her mind. johnny fraser must have his chance, somehow. in the meantime things were not doing any too well in the hospital. a second case, although mild, had extended the quarantine. discontent grew, and threatened to develop into mutiny. six men from one of the wards marched _en masse_ to the lower hall, and were preparing to rush the guards when they were discovered. the senior surgical interne took two prisoners himself, and became an emergency case for two stitches and arnica compresses. jane brown helped to fix him up, and he took advantage of her holding a dressing basin near his cut lip to kiss her hand, very respectfully. she would have resented it under other circumstances, but the senior surgical interne was, even if temporarily, a patient, and must be humoured. she forgot about the kiss immediately, anyhow, although he did not. her three months of probation were drawing to a close now, and her cap was already made and put away in a box, ready for the day she should don it. but she did not look at it very often. and all the time, fighting his battle with youth and vigour, but with closed eyes, and losing it day by day, was johnny fraser. then, one night on the roof, jane brown had to refuse the senior surgical interne. he took it very hard. "we'd have been such pals," he said, rather wistfully, after he saw it was no use. "we can be, anyhow." "i suppose," he said with some bitterness, "that i'd have stood a better chance if i'd done as you wanted me to about that fellow in your ward, gone to the staff and raised hell." "i wouldn't have married you," said jane brown, "but i'd have thought you were pretty much of a man." the more he thought about that the less he liked it. it almost kept him awake that night. it was the next day that twenty-two had his idea. he ran true to form, and carried it back to jane brown for her approval. but she was not enthusiastic. "it would help to amuse them, of course, but how can you publish a newspaper without any news?" she asked, rather listlessly, for her. "news! this building is full of news. i have some bits already. listen!" he took a notebook out of his pocket. "the stork breaks quarantine. new baby in o ward. the chief engineer has developed a boil on his neck. elevator man arrested for breaking speed limit. wanted, four square inches of cuticle for skin grafting in w. how's that? and i'm only beginning." jane brown listened. somehow, behind twenty-two's lightness of tone, she felt something more earnest. she did not put it into words, even to herself, but she divined something new, a desire to do his bit, there in the hospital. it was, if she had only known it, a milestone in a hitherto unmarked career. twenty-two, who had always been a man, was by way of becoming a person. he explained about publishing it. he used to run a typewriter in college, and the convalescents could mimeograph it and sell it. there was a mimeographing machine in the office. the senior surgical interne came in just then. refusing to marry him had had much the effect of smacking a puppy. he came back, a trifle timid, but friendly. so he came in just then, and elected himself to the advertising and circulation department, and gave the probationer the society end, although it was not his paper or his idea, and sat down at once at the table and started a limerick, commencing: "_we're here in the city, marooned_" however, he never got any further with it, because there are, apparently, no rhymes for "marooned." he refused "tuned" which several people offered him, with extreme scorn. up to this point jane brown had been rather too worried to think about twenty-two. she had grown accustomed to seeing him coming slowly back toward her ward, his eyes travelling much faster than he did. not, of course, that she knew that. and to his being, in a way, underfoot a part of every day, after the head had made rounds and was safely out of the road for a good two hours. but two things happened that day to turn her mind in onto her heart. one was when she heard about the artificial leg. the other was when she passed the door of his room, where a large card now announced "office of the _quarantine sentinel_." she passed the door, and she distinctly heard most un-hospital-like chatter within. judging from the shadows on the glass door, too, the room was full. it sounded joyous and carefree. something in jane brown--her mind, probably--turned right around and looked into her heart, and made an odd discovery. this was that jane brown's heart had sunk about two inches, and was feeling very queer. she went straight on, however, and put on a fresh collar in her little bedroom, and listed her washing and changed her shoes, because her feet still ached a lot of the time. but she was a brave person and liked to look things in the face. so before she went back to the ward, she stood in front of her mirror and said: "you're a nice nurse, nell brown. to--to talk about duty and brag about service, and then to act like a fool." she went back to the ward and sat beside johnny. but that night she went up on the roof again, and sat on the parapet. she could see, across the courtyard, the dim rectangles of her ward, and around a corner in plain view, "room twenty-two." its occupant was sitting at the typewriter, and working hard. or he seemed to be. it was too far away to be sure. jane brown slid down onto the roof, which was not very clean, and putting her elbows on the parapet, watched him for a long time. when he got up, at last, and came to the open window, she hardly breathed. however, he only stood there, looking toward her but not seeing her. jane brown put her head on the parapet that night and cried. she thought she was crying about johnny fraser. she might have felt somewhat comforted had she known that twenty-two, being tired with his day's work, had at last given way to most horrible jealousy of the senior surgical interne, and that his misery was to hers as five is to one. the first number of the _quarantine sentinel_ was a great success. it served in the wards much the same purpose as the magazines published in the trenches. it relieved the monotony, brought the different wards together, furnished laughter and gossip. twenty-two wrote the editorials, published the paper, with the aid of a couple of convalescents, and in his leisure drew cartoons. he drew very well, but all his girls looked like jane brown. it caused a ripple of talk. the children from the children's ward distributed them, and went back from the private rooms bearing tribute of flowers and fruit. twenty-two himself developed a most reprehensible habit of concealing candy in the _sentinel_ office and smuggling it to his carriers. altogether a new and neighbourly feeling seemed to follow in the wake of the little paper. people who had sulked in side-by-side rooms began, in the relaxed discipline of convalescence, to pay little calls about. crotchety dowagers knitted socks for new babies. a wave of friendliness swept over every one, and engulfed particularly twenty-two. in the glow of it he changed perceptibly. this was the first popularity he had ever earned, and the first he had ever cared a fi-penny bit about. and, because he valued it, he felt more and more unworthy of it. but it kept him from seeing jane brown. he was too busy for many excursions to the ward, and when he went he was immediately the centre of an animated group. he hardly ever saw her alone, and when he did he began to suspect that she pretended duties that might have waited. one day he happened to go back while doctor willie was there, and after that he understood her problem better. through it all johnny lived. his thin, young body was now hardly an outline under the smooth, white covering of his bed. he swallowed, faintly, such bits of liquid as were placed between his lips, but there were times when jane brown's fingers, more expert now, could find no pulse at all. and still she had found no way to give him his chance. she made a last appeal to doctor willie that day, but he only shook his head gravely. "even if there was an operation now, nellie," said doctor willie that day, "he could not stand it." it was the first time that twenty-two had known her name was nellie. that was the last day of jane brown's probation. on the next day she was to don her cap. the _sentinel_ came out with a congratulatory editorial, and at nine o'clock that night the first assistant brought an announcement, in the head's own writing, for the paper. "the head of the training school announces with much pleasure the acceptance of miss n. jane brown as a pupil nurse." twenty-two sat and stared at it for quite a long time. that night jane brown fought her battle and won. she went to her room immediately after chapel, and took the family pictures off her little stand and got out ink and paper. she put the photographs out of sight, because she knew that they were counting on her, and she could not bear her mother's eyes. and then she counted her money, because she had broken another thermometer, and the ticket home was rather expensive. she had enough, but very little more. after that she went to work. it took her rather a long time, because she had a great deal to explain. she had to put her case, in fact. and she was not strong on either ethics or logic. she said so, indeed, at the beginning. she said also that she had talked to a lot of people, but that no one understood how she felt--that there ought to be no professional ethics, or etiquette, or anything else, where it was life or death. that she felt hospitals were to save lives and not to save feelings. it seemed necessary, after that, to defend doctor willie--without naming him, of course. how much good he had done, and how he came to rely on himself and his own opinion because in the country there was no one to consult with. however, she was not so gentle with the staff. she said that it was standing by and letting a patient die, because it was too polite to interfere, although they had all agreed among themselves that an operation was necessary. and that if they felt that way, would they refuse to pull a child from in front of a locomotive because it was its mother's business, and she didn't know how to do it? _then she signed it._ she turned it in at the _sentinel_ office the next morning while the editor was shaving. she had to pass it through a crack in the door. even that, however, was enough for the editor in question to see that she wore no cap. "but--see here," he said, in a rather lathery voice, "you're accepted, you know. where's the--the visible sign?" jane brown was not quite sure she could speak. however, she managed. "after you read that," she said, "you'll understand." he read it immediately, of course, growing more and more grave, and the soap drying on his chin. its sheer courage made him gasp. "good girl," he said to himself. "brave little girl. but it finishes her here, and she knows it." he was pretty well cut up about it, too, because while he was getting it ready he felt as if he was sharpening a knife to stab her with. her own knife, too. but he had to be as brave as she was. the paper came out at two o'clock. at three the first assistant, looking extremely white, relieved jane brown of the care of h ward and sent her to her room. jane brown eyed her wistfully. "i'm not to come back, i suppose?" the first assistant avoided her eyes. "i'm afraid not," she said. jane brown went up the ward and looked down at johnny fraser. then she gathered up her bandage scissors and her little dressing forceps and went out. the first assistant took a step after her, but stopped. there were tears in her eyes. things moved very rapidly in the hospital that day, while the guards sat outside on their camp-stools and ate apples or read the newspapers, and while jane brown sat alone in her room. first of all the staff met and summoned twenty-two. he went down in the elevator--he had lost elizabeth a few days before, and was using a cane--ready for trouble. he had always met a fight more than halfway. it was the same instinct that had taken him to the fire. but no one wanted to fight. the staff was waiting, grave and perplexed, but rather anxious to put its case than otherwise. it felt misunderstood, aggrieved, and horribly afraid it was going to get in the newspapers. but it was not angry. on the contrary, it was trying its extremely intelligent best to see things from a new angle. the senior surgical interne was waiting outside. he had smoked eighteen cigarettes since he received his copy of the _sentinel_, and was as unhappy as an _interne_ can be. "what the devil made you publish it?" he demanded. twenty-two smiled. "because," he said, "i have always had a sneaking desire to publish an honest paper, one where public questions can be discussed. if this isn't a public question, i don't know one when i see it." but he was not smiling when he went in. an hour later doctor willie came in. he had brought some flowers for the children's ward, and his arms were bulging. to his surprise, accustomed as he was to the somewhat cavalier treatment of the country practitioner in a big city hospital, he was invited to the staff room. to the eternal credit of the staff jane brown's part in that painful half hour was never known. the staff was careful, too, of doctor willie. they knew they were being irregular, and were most wretchedly uncomfortable. also, there being six of them against one, it looked rather like force, particularly since, after the first two minutes, every one of them liked doctor willie. he took it so awfully well. he sat there, with his elbows on a table beside a withering mass of spring flowers, and faced the white-coated staff, and said that he hoped he was man enough to acknowledge a mistake, and six opinions against one left him nothing else to do. the senior surgical interne, who had been hating him for weeks, offered him a cigar. he had only one request to make. there was a little girl in the training school who believed in him, and he would like to go to the ward and write the order for the operation himself. which he did. but jane brown was not there. late that evening the first assistant, passing along the corridor in the dormitory, was accosted by a quiet figure in a blue uniform, without a cap. "how is he?" the first assistant was feeling more cheerful than usual. the operating surgeon had congratulated her on the way things had moved that day, and she was feeling, as she often did, that, after all, work was a solace for many troubles. "of course, it is very soon, but he stood it well." she looked up at jane brown, who was taller than she was, but who always, somehow, looked rather little. there are girls like that. "look here," she said, "you must not sit in that room and worry. run up to the operating-room and help to clear away." she was very wise, the first assistant. for jane brown went, and washed away some of the ache with the stains of johnny's operation. here, all about her, were the tangible evidences of her triumph, which was also a defeat. a little glow of service revived in her. if johnny lived, it was a small price to pay for a life. if he died, she had given him his chance. the operating-room nurses were very kind. they liked her courage, but they were frightened, too. she, like the others, had been right, but also she was wrong. they paid her tribute of little kindnesses, but they knew she must go. it was the night nurse who told twenty-two that jane brown was in the operating-room. he was still up and dressed at midnight, but the sheets of to-morrow's editorial lay blank on his table. the night nurse glanced at her watch to see if it was time for the twelve o'clock medicines. "there's a rumour going about," she said, "that the quarantine's to be lifted to-morrow. i'll be rather sorry. it has been a change." "to-morrow," said twenty-two, in a startled voice. "i suppose you'll be going out at once?" there was a wistful note in her voice. she liked him. he had been an oasis of cheer in the dreary rounds of the night. a very little more, and she might have forgotten her rule, which was never to be sentimentally interested in a patient. "i wonder," said twenty-two, in a curious tone, "if you will give me my cane?" he was clad, at that time, in a hideous bathrobe, purchased by the orderly, over his night clothing, and he had the expression of a person who intends to take no chances. "thanks," said twenty-two. "and--will you send the night watchman here?" the night nurse went out. she had a distinct feeling that something was about to happen. at least she claimed it later. but she found the night watchman making coffee in a back pantry, and gave him her message. some time later jane brown stood in the doorway of the operating-room and gave it a farewell look. its white floor and walls were spotless. shining rows of instruments on clean towels were ready to put away in the cabinets. the sterilisers glowed in warm rectangles of gleaming copper. over all brooded the peace of order, the quiet of the night. outside the operating-room door she drew a long breath, and faced the night watchman. she had left something in twenty-two. would she go and get it? "it's very late," said jane brown. "and it isn't allowed, i'm sure." however, what was one more rule to her who had defied them all? a spirit of recklessness seized her. after all, why not? she would never see him again. like the operating-room, she would stand in the doorway and say a mute little farewell. twenty-two's door was wide open, and he was standing in the centre of the room, looking out. he had heard her long before she came in sight, for he, too, had learned the hospital habit of classifying footsteps. he was horribly excited. he had never been so nervous before. he had made up a small speech, a sort of beginning, but he forgot it the moment he heard her, and she surprised him in the midst of trying, agonisingly, to remember it. there was a sort of dreadful calm, however, about jane brown. "the watchman says i have left something here." it was clear to him at once that he meant nothing to her. it was in her voice. "you did," he said. and tried to smile. "then--if i may have it----" "i wish to heaven you could have it," he said, very rapidly. "i don't want it. it's darned miserable." "it's--what?" "it's an ache," he went on, still rather incoherent. "a pain. a misery." then, seeing her beginning to put on a professional look: "no, not that. it's a feeling. look here," he said, rather more slowly, "do you mind coming in and closing the door? there's a man across who's always listening." she went in, but she did not close the door. she went slowly, looking rather pale. "what i sent for you for is this," said twenty-two, "are you going away? because i've got to know." "i'm being sent away as soon as the quarantine is over. it's--it's perfectly right. i expected it. things would soon go to pieces if the nurses took to--took to doing what i did." suddenly twenty-two limped across the room and slammed the door shut, a proceeding immediately followed by an irritated ringing of bells at the night nurse's desk. then he turned, his back against the door. "because i'm going when you do," he said, in a terrible voice. "i'm going when you go, and wherever you go. i've stood all the waiting around for a glimpse of you that i'm going to stand." he glared at her. "for weeks," he said, "i've sat here in this room and listened for you, and hated to go to sleep for fear you would pass and i wouldn't be looking through that damned door. and now i've reached the limit." a sort of band which had seemed to be fastened around jane brown's head for days suddenly removed itself to her heart, which became extremely irregular. "and i want to say this," went on twenty-two, still in a savage tone. he was horribly frightened, so he blustered. "i don't care whether you want me or not, you've got to have me. i'm so much in love with you that it hurts." suddenly jane brown's heart settled down into a soft rhythmic beating that was like a song. after all, life was made up of love and work, and love came first. she faced twenty-two with brave eyes. "i love you, too--so much that it hurts." the gentleman across the hall, sitting up in bed, with an angry thumb on the bell, was electrified to see, on the glass door across, the silhouette of a young lady without a cap go into the arms of a very large, masculine silhouette in a dressing-gown. he heard, too, the thump of a falling cane. late that night jane brown, by devious ways, made her way back to h ward. johnny was there, a strange johnny with a bandaged head, but with open eyes. at dawn, the dawn of the day when jane brown was to leave the little world of the hospital for a little world of two, consisting of a man and a woman, the night nurse found her there, asleep, her fingers still on johnny's thin wrist. she did not report it. jane i having retired to a hospital to sulk, jane remained there. the family came and sat by her bed uncomfortably and smoked, and finally retreated with defeat written large all over it, leaving jane to the continued possession of room , a pink kimono with slippers to match, a hand-embroidered face pillow with a rose-coloured bow on the corner, and a young nurse with a gift of giving jane daily the appearance of a strawberry and vanilla ice rising from a meringue of bed linen. jane's complaint was temper. the family knew this, and so did jane, although she had an annoying way of looking hurt, a gentle heart-brokenness of speech that made the family, under the pretence of getting a match, go out into the hall and swear softly under its breath. but it was temper, and the family was not deceived. also, knowing jane, the family was quite ready to believe that while it was swearing in the hall, jane was biting holes in the hand-embroidered face pillow in room . it had finally come to be a test of endurance. jane vowed to stay at the hospital until the family on bended knee begged her to emerge and to brighten the world again with her presence. the family, being her father, said it would be damned if it would, and that if jane cared to live on anæmic chicken broth, oatmeal wafers and massage twice a day for the rest of her life, why, let her. the dispute, having begun about whether jane should or should not marry a certain person, jane representing the affirmative and her father the negative, had taken on new aspects, had grown and altered, and had, to be brief, become a contest between the masculine johnson and the feminine johnson as to which would take the count. not that this appeared on the surface. the masculine johnson, having closed the summer home on jane's defection and gone back to the city, sent daily telegrams, novels and hothouse grapes, all three of which jane devoured indiscriminately. once, indeed, father johnson had motored the forty miles from town, to be told that jane was too ill and unhappy to see him, and to have a glimpse, as he drove furiously away, of jane sitting pensive at her window in the pink kimono, gazing over his head at the distant hills and clearly entirely indifferent to him and his wrath. so we find jane, on a frosty morning in late october, in triumphant possession of the field--aunts and cousins routed, her father sulking in town, and the victor herself--or is victor feminine?--and if it isn't, shouldn't it be?--sitting up in bed staring blankly at her watch. jane had just wakened--an hour later than usual; she had rung the bell three times and no one had responded. jane's famous temper began to stretch and yawn. at this hour jane was accustomed to be washed with tepid water, scented daintily with violet, alcohol-rubbed, talcum-powdered, and finally fresh-linened, coifed and manicured, to be supported with a heap of fresh pillows and fed creamed sweet-bread and golden-brown coffee and toast. jane rang again, with a line between her eyebrows. the bell was not broken. she could hear it distinctly. this was an outrage! she would report it to the superintendent. she had been ringing for ten minutes. that little minx of a nurse was flirting somewhere with one of the internes. jane angrily flung the covers back and got out on her small bare feet. then she stretched her slim young arms above her head, her spoiled red mouth forming a scarlet o as she yawned. in her sleeveless and neckless nightgown, with her hair over her shoulders, minus the more elaborate coiffure which later in the day helped her to poise and firmness, she looked a pretty young girl, almost--although jane herself never suspected this--almost an amiable young person. jane saw herself in the glass and assumed immediately the two lines between her eyebrows which were the outward and visible token of what she had suffered. then she found her slippers, a pair of stockings to match and two round bits of pink silk elastic of private and feminine use, and sat down on the floor to put them on. the floor was cold. to jane's wrath was added indignation. she hitched herself along the boards to the radiator and put her hand on it. it was even colder than jane. the family temper was fully awake by this time and ready for business. jane, sitting on the icy floor, jerked on her stockings, snapped the pink bands into place, thrust her feet into her slippers and rose, shivering. she went to the bed, and by dint of careful manoeuvring so placed the bell between the head of the bed and the wall that during the remainder of her toilet it rang steadily. the remainder of jane's toilet was rather casual. she flung on the silk kimono, twisted her hair on top of her head and stuck a pin or two in it, thus achieving a sort of effect a thousand times more bewildering than she had ever managed with a curling iron and twenty seven hair pins, and flinging her door wide stalked into the hall. at least she meant to stalk, but one does not really stamp about much in number-two, heelless, pink-satin mules. at the first stalk--or stamp--she stopped. standing uncertainly just outside her door was a strange man, strangely attired. jane clutched her kimono about her and stared. "did--did you--are you ringing?" asked the apparition. it wore a pair of white-duck trousers, much soiled, a coat that bore the words "furnace room" down the front in red letters on a white tape, and a clean and spotless white apron. there was coal dust on its face and streaks of it in its hair, which appeared normally to be red. "there's something the matter with your bell," said the young man. "it keeps on ringing." "i intend it to," said jane coldly. "you can't make a racket like that round here, you know," he asserted, looking past her into the room. "i intend to make all the racket i can until i get some attention." "what have you done--put a book on it?" "look here"--jane added another line to the two between her eyebrows. in the family this was generally a signal for a retreat, but of course the young man could not know this, and, besides, he was red-headed. "look here," said jane, "i don't know who you are and i don't care either, but that bell is going to ring until i get my bath and some breakfast. and it's going to ring then unless i stop it." the young man in the coal dust and the white apron looked at jane and smiled. then he walked past her into the room, jerked the bed from the wall and released the bell. "now!" he said as the din outside ceased. "i'm too busy to talk just at present, but if you do that again i'll take the bell out of the room altogether. there are other people in the hospital besides yourself." at that he started out and along the hall, leaving jane speechless. after he'd gone about a dozen feet he stopped and turned, looking at jane reflectively. "do you know anything about cooking?" he asked. "i know more about cooking than you do about politeness," she retorted, white with fury, and went into her room and slammed the door. she went directly to the bell and put it behind the bed and set it to ringing again. then she sat down in a chair and picked up a book. had the red-haired person opened the door she was perfectly prepared to fling the book at him. she would have thrown a hatchet had she had one. as a matter of fact, however, he did not come back. the bell rang with a soul-satisfying jangle for about two minutes and then died away, and no amount of poking with a hairpin did any good. it was clear that the bell had been cut off outside! for fifty-five minutes jane sat in that chair breakfastless, very casually washed and with the aforesaid billie burkeness of hair. then, hunger gaining over temper, she opened the door and peered out. from somewhere near at hand there came a pungent odor of burning toast. jane sniffed; then, driven by hunger, she made a short sally down the hall to the parlour where the nurses on duty made their headquarters. it was empty. the dismantled bell register was on the wall, with the bell unscrewed and lying on the mantel beside it, and the odour of burning toast was stronger than ever. jane padded softly to the odour, following her small nose. it led her to the pantry, where under ordinary circumstances the patients' trays were prepared by a pantrymaid, the food being shipped there from the kitchen on a lift. clearly the circumstances were not ordinary. the pantrymaid was not in sight. instead, the red-haired person was standing by the window scraping busily at a blackened piece of toast. there was a rank odour of boiling tea in the air. "damnation!" said the red-haired person, and flung the toast into a corner where there already lay a small heap of charred breakfast hopes. then he saw jane. "i fixed the bell, didn't i?" he remarked. "i say, since you claim to know so much about cooking, i wish you'd make some toast." "i didn't say i knew much," snapped jane, holding her kimono round her. "i said i knew more than you knew about politeness." the red-haired person smiled again, and then, making a deep bow, with a knife in one hand and a toaster in the other, he said: "madam, i prithee forgive me for my untoward conduct of an hour since. say but the word and i replace the bell." "i won't make any toast," said jane, looking at the bread with famished eyes. "oh, very well," said the red-haired person with a sigh. "on your head be it!" "but i'll tell you how to do it," conceded jane, "if you'll explain who you are and what you are doing in that costume and where the nurses are." the red-haired person sat down on the edge of the table and looked at her. "i'll make a bargain with you," he said. "there's a convalescent typhoid in a room near yours who swears he'll go down to the village for something to eat in his--er--hospital attire unless he's fed soon. he's dangerous, empty. he's reached the cannibalistic stage. if he should see you in that ravishing pink thing, i--i wouldn't answer for the consequences. i'll tell you everything if you'll make him six large slices of toast and boil him four or five eggs, enough to hold him for a while. the tea's probably ready; it's been boiling for an hour." hunger was making jane human. she gathered up the tail of her kimono, and stepping daintily into the pantry proceeded to spread herself a slice of bread and butter. "where is everybody?" she asked, licking some butter off her thumb with a small pink tongue. _oh, i am the cook and the captain bold, and the mate of the nancy brig, and the bosun tight and the midshipmite, and the crew of the captain's gig._ recited the red-haired person. "you!" said jane with the bread halfway to her mouth. "even i," said the red-haired person. "i'm the superintendent, the staff, the training school, the cooks, the furnace man and the ambulance driver." jane was pouring herself a cup of tea, and she put in milk and sugar and took a sip or two before she would give him the satisfaction of asking him what he meant. anyhow, probably she had already guessed. jane was no fool. "i hope you're getting the salary list," she said, sitting on the pantry girl's chair and, what with the tea inside and somebody to quarrel with, feeling more like herself. "my father's one of the directors, and somebody gets it." the red-haired person sat on the radiator and eyed jane. he looked slightly stunned, as if the presence of beauty in a billie burke chignon and little else except a kimono was almost too much for him. from somewhere near by came a terrific thumping, as of some one pounding a hairbrush on a table. the red-haired person shifted along the radiator a little nearer jane, and continued to gloat. "don't let that noise bother you," he said; "that's only the convalescent typhoid banging for his breakfast. he's been shouting for food ever since i came at six last night." "is it safe to feed him so much?" "i don't know. he hasn't had anything yet. perhaps if you're ready you'd better fix him something." jane had finished her bread and tea by this time and remembered her kimono. "i'll go back and dress," she said primly. but he wouldn't hear of it. "he's starving," he objected as a fresh volley of thumps came along the hall. "i've been trying at intervals since daylight to make him a piece of toast. the minute i put it on the fire i think of something i've forgotten, and when i come back it's in flames." so jane cut some bread and put on eggs to boil, and the red-haired person told his story. "you see," he explained, "although i appear to be a furnace man from the waist up and an interne from the waist down, i am really the new superintendent." "i hope you'll do better than the last one," she said severely. "he was always flirting with the nurses." "i shall never flirt with the nurses," he promised, looking at her. "anyhow i shan't have any immediate chance. the other fellow left last night and took with him everything portable except the ambulance--nurses, staff, cooks. i wish to heaven he'd taken the patients! and he did more than that. he cut the telephone wires!" "well!" said jane. "are you going to stand for it?" the red-haired man threw up his hands. "the village is with him," he declared. "it's a factional fight--the village against the fashionable summer colony on the hill. i cannot telephone from the village--the telegraph operator is deaf when i speak to him; the village milkman and grocer sent boys up this morning--look here." he fished a scrap of paper from his pocket and read: i will not supply the valley hospital with any fresh meats, canned oysters and sausages, or do any plumbing for the hospital until the reinstatement of dr. sheets. t. cashdollar, butcher. jane took the paper and read it again. "humph!" she commented. "old sheets wrote it himself. mr. cashdollar couldn't think 'reinstatement,' let alone spell it." "the question is not who wrote it, but what we are to do," said the red-haired person. "shall i let old sheets come back?" "if you do," said jane fiercely, "i shall hate you the rest of my life." and as it was clear by this time that the red-haired person could imagine nothing more horrible, it was settled then and there that he should stay. "there are only two wards," he said. "in the men's a man named higgins is able to be up and is keeping things straight. and in the woman's ward mary o'shaughnessy is looking after them. the furnaces are the worst. i'd have forgiven almost anything else. i've sat up all night nursing the fires, but they breathed their last at six this morning and i guess there's nothing left but to call the coroner." jane had achieved a tolerable plate of toast by that time and four eggs. also she had a fine flush, a combination of heat from the gas stove and temper. "they ought to be ashamed," she cried angrily, "leaving a lot of sick people!" "oh, as to that," said the red-headed person, "there aren't any very sick ones. two or three neurasthenics like yourself and a convalescent typhoid and a d.t. in a private room. if it wasn't that mary o'shaughnessy----" but at the word "neurasthenics" jane had put down the toaster, and by the time the unconscious young man had reached the o'shaughnessy she was going out the door with her chin up. he called after her, and finding she did not turn he followed her, shouting apologies at her back until she went into her room. and as hospital doors don't lock from the inside she pushed the washstand against the knob and went to bed to keep warm. he stood outside and apologised again, and later he brought a tray of bread and butter and a pot of the tea, which had been boiling for two hours by that time, and put it outside the door on the floor. but jane refused to get it, and finished her breakfast from a jar of candied ginger that some one had sent her, and read "lorna doone." now and then a sound of terrific hammering would follow the steampipes and jane would smile wickedly. by noon she had finished the ginger and was wondering what the person about whom she and the family had disagreed would think when he heard the way she was being treated. and by one o'clock she had cried her eyes entirely shut and had pushed the washstand back from the door. ii now a hospital full of nurses and doctors with a bell to summon food and attention is one thing. a hospital without nurses and doctors, and with only one person to do everything, and that person mostly in the cellar, is quite another. jane was very sad and lonely, and to add to her troubles the delirium-tremens case down the hall began to sing "oh promise me" in a falsetto voice and kept it up for hours. at three jane got up and bathed her eyes. she also did her hair, and thus fortified she started out to find the red-haired person. she intended to say that she was paying sixty-five dollars a week and belonged to a leading family, and that she didn't mean to endure for a moment the treatment she was getting, and being called a neurasthenic and made to cook for the other patients. she went slowly along the hall. the convalescent typhoid heard her and called. "hey, doc!" he cried. "hey, doc! great scott, man, when do i get some dinner?" jane quickened her steps and made for the pantry. from somewhere beyond, the delirium-tremens case was singing happily: _i--love you o--own--ly, i love--but--you._ jane shivered a little. the person in whom she had been interested and who had caused her precipitate retirement, if not to a nunnery, to what answered the same purpose, had been very fond of that song. he used to sing it, leaning over the piano and looking into her eyes. jane's nose led her again to the pantry. there was a sort of soupy odour in the air, and sure enough the red-haired person was there, very immaculate in fresh ducks, pouring boiling water into three tea-cups out of a kettle and then dropping a beef capsule into each cup. now jane had intended, as i have said, to say that she was being outrageously treated, and belonged to one of the best families, and so on. what she really said was piteously: "how good it smells!" "doesn't it!" said the red-haired person, sniffing. "beef capsules. i've made thirty cups of it so far since one o'clock--the more they have the more they want. i say, be a good girl and run up to the kitchen for some more crackers while i carry food to the convalescent typhoid. he's murderous!" "where are the crackers?" asked jane stiffly, but not exactly caring to raise an issue until she was sure of getting something to eat. "store closet in the kitchen, third drawer on the left," said the red-haired man, shaking some cayenne pepper into one of the cups. "you might stop that howling lunatic on your way if you will." "how?" asked jane, pausing. "ram a towel down his throat, or--but don't bother. i'll dose him with this beef tea and red pepper, and he'll be too busy putting out the fire to want to sing." "you wouldn't be so cruel!" said jane, rather drawing back. the red-haired person smiled and to jane it showed that he was actually ferocious. she ran all the way up for the crackers and down again, carrying the tin box. there is no doubt that jane's family would have promptly swooned had it seen her. when she came down there was a sort of after-dinner peace reigning. the convalescent typhoid, having filled up on milk and beef soup, had floated off to sleep. "the chocolate soldier" had given way to deep-muttered imprecations from the singer's room. jane made herself a cup of bouillon and drank it scalding. she was making the second when the red-haired person came back with an empty cup. "i forgot to explain," he said, "that beef tea and red pepper's the treatment for our young friend in there. after a man has been burning his stomach daily with a quart or so of raw booze----" "i beg your pardon," said jane coolly. booze was not considered good form on the hill--the word, of course. there was plenty of the substance. "raw booze," repeated the red-haired person. "nothing short of red pepper or dynamite is going to act as a substitute. why, i'll bet the inside of that chap's stomach is of the general sensitiveness and consistency of my shoe." "indeed!" said jane, coldly polite. in jane's circle people did not discuss the interiors of other people's stomachs. the red-haired person sat on the table with a cup of bouillon in one hand and a cracker in the other. "you know," he said genially, "it's awfully bully of you to come out and keep me company like this. i never put in such a day. i've given up fussing with the furnace and got out extra blankets instead. and i think by night our troubles will be over." he held up the cup and glanced at jane, who was looking entrancingly pretty. "to our troubles being over!" he said, draining the cup, and then found that he had used the red pepper again by mistake. it took five minutes and four cups of cold water to enable him to explain what he meant. "by our troubles being over," he said finally when he could speak, "i mean this: there's a train from town at eight to-night, and if all goes well it will deposit in the village half a dozen nurses, a cook or two, a furnace man--good heavens, i wonder if i forgot a furnace man!" it seemed, as jane discovered, that the telephone wires being cut, he had sent higgins from the men's ward to the village to send some telegrams for him. "i couldn't leave, you see," he explained, "and having some small reason to believe that i am _persona non grata_ in this vicinity i sent higgins." jane had always hated the name higgins. she said afterward that she felt uneasy from that moment. the red-haired person, who was not bad-looking, being tall and straight and having a very decent nose, looked at jane, and jane, having been shut away for weeks--jane preened a little and was glad she had done her hair. "you looked better the other way," said the red-haired person, reading her mind in a most uncanny manner. "why should a girl with as pretty hair as yours cover it up with a net, anyhow?" "you are very disagreeable and--and impertinent," said jane, sliding off the table. "it isn't disagreeable to tell a girl she has pretty hair," the red-haired person protested--"or impertinent either." jane was gathering up the remnants of her temper, scattered by the events of the day. "you said i was a neurasthenic," she accused him. "it--it isn't being a neurasthenic to be nervous and upset and hating the very sight of people, is it?" "bless my soul!" said the red-haired man. "then what is it?" jane flushed, but he went on tactlessly: "i give you my word, i think you are the most perfectly"--he gave every appearance of being about to say "beautiful," but he evidently changed his mind--"the most perfectly healthy person i have ever looked at," he finished. it is difficult to say just what jane would have done under other circumstances, but just as she was getting her temper really in hand and preparing to launch something, shuffling footsteps were heard in the hall and higgins stood in the doorway. he was in a sad state. one of his eyes was entirely closed, and the corresponding ear stood out large and bulbous from his head. also he was coated with mud, and he was carefully nursing one hand with the other. he said he had been met at the near end of the railroad bridge by the ex-furnace man and one of the ex-orderlies and sent back firmly, having in fact been kicked back part of the way. he'd been told to report at the hospital that the tradespeople had instituted a boycott, and that either the former superintendent went back or the entire place could starve to death. it was then that jane discovered that her much-vaunted temper was not one-two-three to that of the red-haired person. he turned a sort of blue-white, shoved jane out of his way as if she had been a chair, and she heard him clatter down the stairs and slam out of the front door. jane went back to her room and looked down the drive. he was running toward the bridge, and the sunlight on his red hair and his flying legs made him look like a revengeful meteor. jane was weak in the knees. she knelt on the cold radiator and watched him out of sight, and then got trembly all over and fell to snivelling. this was of course because, if anything happened to him, she would be left entirely alone. and anyhow the d.t. case was singing again and had rather got on her nerves. in ten minutes the red-haired person appeared. he had a wretched-looking creature by the back of the neck and he alternately pushed and kicked him up the drive. he--the red-haired person--was whistling and clearly immensely pleased with himself. jane put a little powder on her nose and waited for him to come and tell her all about it. but he did not come near. this was quite the cleverest thing he could have done, had he known it. jane was not accustomed to waiting in vain. he must have gone directly to the cellar, half pushing and half kicking the luckless furnace man, for about four o'clock the radiator began to get warm. at five he came and knocked at jane's door, and on being invited in he sat down on the bed and looked at her. "well, we've got the furnace going," he said. "then that was the----" "furnace man? yes." "aren't you afraid to leave him?" queried jane. "won't he run off?" "got him locked in a padded cell," he said. "i can take him out to coal up. the rest of the time he can sit and think of his sins. the question is--what are we to do next?" "i should think," ventured jane, "that we'd better be thinking about supper." "the beef capsules are gone." "but surely there must be something else about--potatoes or things like that?" he brightened perceptibly. "oh, yes, carloads of potatoes, and there's canned stuff. higgins can pare potatoes, and there's mary o'shaughnessy. we could have potatoes and canned tomatoes and eggs." "fine!" said jane with her eyes gleaming, although the day before she would have said they were her three abominations. and with that he called higgins and mary o'shaughnessy and the four of them went to the kitchen. jane positively shone. she had never realised before how much she knew about cooking. they built a fire and got kettles boiling and everybody pared potatoes, and although in excess of zeal the eggs were ready long before everything else and the tomatoes scorched slightly, still they made up in enthusiasm what they lacked in ability, and when higgins had carried the trays to the lift and started them on their way, jane and the red-haired person shook hands on it and then ate a boiled potato from the same plate, sitting side by side on a table. they were ravenous. they boiled one egg each and ate it, and then boiled another and another, and when they finished they found that jane had eaten four potatoes, four eggs and unlimited bread and butter, while the red-haired person had eaten six saucers of stewed tomatoes and was starting on the seventh. "you know," he said over the seventh, "we've got to figure this thing out. the entire town is solid against us--no use trying to get to a telephone. and anyhow they've got us surrounded. we're in a state of siege." jane was beating up an egg in milk for the d.t. patient, the capsules being exhausted, and the red-haired person was watching her closely. she had the two vertical lines between her eyes, but they looked really like lines of endeavour and not temper. she stopped beating and looked up. "couldn't i go to the village?" she asked. "they would stop you." "then--i think i know what we can do," she said, giving the eggnog a final whisk. "my people have a summer place on the hill. if you could get there you could telephone to the city." "could i get in?" "i have a key." jane did not explain that the said key had been left by her father, with the terse hope that if she came to her senses she could get into the house and get her clothes. "good girl," said the red-headed person and patted her on the shoulder. "we'll euchre the old skate yet." curiously, jane did not resent either the speech or the pat. he took the glass and tied on a white apron. "if our friend doesn't drink this, i will," he continued. "if he'd seen it in the making, as i have, he'd be crazy about it." he opened the door and stood listening. from below floated up the refrain: _i--love you o--own--ly, i love--but--you._ "listen to that!" he said. "stomach's gone, but still has a heart!" higgins came up the stairs heavily and stopped close by the red-haired person, whispering something to him. there was a second's pause. then the red-haired person gave the eggnog to higgins and both disappeared. jane was puzzled. she rather thought the furnace man had got out and listened for a scuffle, but none came. she did, however, hear the singing cease below, and then commence with renewed vigour, and she heard higgins slowly remounting the stairs. he came in, with the empty glass and a sheepish expression. part of the eggnog was distributed over his person. "he wants his nurse, ma'am," said higgins. "wouldn't let me near him. flung a pillow at me." "where is the doctor?" demanded jane. "busy," replied higgins. "one of the women is sick." jane was provoked. she had put some labour into the eggnog. but it shows the curious evolution going on in her that she got out the eggs and milk and made another one without protest. then with her head up she carried it to the door. "you might clear things away, higgins," she said, and went down the stairs. her heart was going rather fast. most of the men jane knew drank more or less, but this was different. she would have turned back halfway there had it not been for higgins and for owning herself conquered. that was jane's real weakness--she never owned herself beaten. the singing had subsided to a low muttering. jane stopped outside the door and took a fresh grip on her courage. then she pushed the door open and went in. the light was shaded, and at first the tossing figure on the bed was only a misty outline of greys and whites. she walked over, expecting a pillow at any moment and shielding the glass from attack with her hand. "i have brought you another eggnog," she began severely, "and if you spill it----" then she looked down and saw the face on the pillow. to her everlasting credit, jane did not faint. but in that moment, while she stood staring down at the flushed young face with its tumbled dark hair and deep-cut lines of dissipation, the man who had sung to her over the piano, looking love into her eyes, died to her, and jane, cold and steady, sat down on the side of the bed and fed the eggnog, spoonful by spoonful, to his corpse! when the blank-eyed young man on the bed had swallowed it all passively, looking at her with dull, incurious eyes, she went back to her room and closing the door put the washstand against it. she did nothing theatrical. she went over to the window and stood looking out where the trees along the drive were fading in the dusk from green to grey, from grey to black. and over the transom came again and again monotonously the refrain: _i--love you o--own--ly, i love--but--you._ jane fell on her knees beside the bed and buried her wilful head in the hand-embroidered pillow, and said a little prayer because she had found out in time. iii the full realisation of their predicament came with the dusk. the electric lights were shut off! jane, crawling into bed tearfully at half after eight, turned the reading light switch over her head, but no flood of rosy radiance poured down on the hand-embroidered pillow with the pink bow. jane sat up and stared round her. already the outline of her dresser was faint and shadowy. in half an hour black night would settle down and she had not even a candle or a box of matches. she crawled out, panicky, and began in the darkness to don her kimono and slippers. as she opened the door and stepped into the hall the convalescent typhoid heard her and set up his usual cry. "hey," he called, "whoever that is come in and fix the lights. they're broken. and i want some bread and milk. i can't sleep on an empty stomach!" jane padded on past the room where love lay cold and dead, down the corridor with its alarming echoes. the house seemed very quiet. at a corner unexpectedly she collided with some one going hastily. the result was a crash and a deluge of hot water. jane got a drop on her bare ankle, and as soon as she could breathe she screamed. "why don't you look where you're going?" demanded the red-haired person angrily. "i've been an hour boiling that water, and now it has to be done over again!" "it would do a lot of good to look!" retorted jane. "but if you wish i'll carry a bell!" "the thing for you to do," said the red-haired person severely, "is to go back to bed like a good girl and stay there until morning. the light is cut off." "really!" said jane. "i thought it had just gone out for a walk. i daresay i may have a box of matches at least?" he fumbled in his pockets without success. "not a match, of course!" he said disgustedly. "was any one ever in such an infernal mess? can't you get back to your room without matches?" "i shan't go back at all unless i have some sort of light," maintained jane. "i'm--horribly frightened!" the break in her voice caught his attention and he put his hand out gently and took her arm. "now listen," he said. "you've been brave and fine all day, and don't stop it now. i--i've got all i can manage. mary o'shaughnessy is----" he stopped. "i'm going to be very busy," he said with half a groan. "i surely do wish you were forty for the next few hours. but you'll go back and stay in your room, won't you?" he patted her arm, which jane particularly hated generally. but jane had altered considerably since morning. "then you cannot go to the telephone?" "not to-night." "and higgins?" "higgins has gone," he said. "he slipped off an hour ago. we'll have to manage to-night somehow. now will you be a good child?" "i'll go back," she promised meekly. "i'm sorry i'm not forty." he turned her round and started her in the right direction with a little push. but she had gone only a step or two when she heard him coming after her quickly. "where are you?" "here," quavered jane, not quite sure of him or of herself perhaps. but when he stopped beside her he didn't try to touch her arm again. he only said: "i wouldn't have you forty for anything in the world. i want you to be just as you are, very beautiful and young." then, as if he was afraid he would say too much, he turned on his heel, and a moment after he kicked against the fallen pitcher in the darkness and awoke a thousand echoes. as for jane, she put her fingers to her ears and ran to her room, where she slammed the door and crawled into bed with burning cheeks. jane was never sure whether it was five minutes later or five seconds when somebody in the room spoke--from a chair by the window. "do you think," said a mild voice--"do you think you could find me some bread and butter? or a glass of milk?" jane sat up in bed suddenly. she knew at once that she had made a mistake, but she was quite dignified about it. she looked over at the chair, and the convalescent typhoid was sitting in it, wrapped in a blanket and looking wan and ghostly in the dusk. "i'm afraid i'm in the wrong room," jane said very stiffly, trying to get out of the bed with dignity, which is difficult. "the hall is dark and all the doors look so alike----" she made for the door at that and got out into the hall with her heart going a thousand a minute again. "you've forgotten your slippers," called the convalescent typhoid after her. but nothing would have taken jane back. the convalescent typhoid took the slippers home later and locked them away in an inner drawer, where he kept one or two things like faded roses, and old gloves, and a silk necktie that a girl had made him at college--things that are all the secrets a man keeps from his wife and that belong in that small corner of his heart which also he keeps from his wife. but that has nothing to do with jane. jane went back to her own bed thoroughly demoralised. and sleep being pretty well banished by that time, she sat up in bed and thought things over. before this she had not thought much, only raged and sulked alternately. but now she thought. she thought about the man in the room down the hall with the lines of dissipation on his face. and she thought a great deal about what a silly she had been, and that it was not too late yet, she being not forty and "beautiful." it must be confessed that she thought a great deal about that. also she reflected that what she deserved was to marry some person with even a worse temper than hers, who would bully her at times and generally keep her straight. and from that, of course, it was only a step to the fact that red-haired people are proverbially bad-tempered! she thought, too, about mary o'shaughnessy without another woman near, and not even a light, except perhaps a candle. things were always so much worse in the darkness. and perhaps she might be going to be very ill and ought to have another doctor! jane seemed to have been reflecting for a long time, when the church clock far down in the village struck nine. and with the chiming of the clock was born, full grown, an idea which before it was sixty seconds of age was a determination. in pursuance of the idea jane once more crawled out of bed and began to dress; she put on heavy shoes and a short skirt, a coat, and a motor veil over her hair. the indignation at the defection of the hospital staff, held in subjection during the day by the necessity for doing something, now rose and lent speed and fury to her movements. in an incredibly short time jane was feeling her way along the hall and down the staircase, now a well of unfathomable blackness and incredible rustlings and creakings. the front doors were unlocked. outside there was faint starlight, the chirp of a sleepy bird, and far off across the valley the gasping and wheezing of a freight climbing the heavy grade to the village. jane paused at the drive and took a breath. then at her best gymnasium pace, arms close to sides, head up, feet well planted, she started to run. at the sundial she left the drive and took to the lawn gleaming with the frost of late october. she stopped running then and began to pick her way more cautiously. even at that she collided heavily with a wire fence marking the boundary, and sat on the ground for some time after, whimpering over the outrage and feeling her nose. it was distinctly scratched and swollen. no one would think her beautiful with a nose like that! she had not expected the wire fence. it was impossible to climb and more difficult to get under. however, she found one place where the ground dipped, and wormed her way under the fence in most undignified fashion. it is perfectly certain that had jane's family seen her then and been told that she was doing this remarkable thing for a woman she had never seen before that day, named mary o'shaughnessy, and also for a certain red-haired person of whom it had never heard, it would have considered jane quite irrational. but it is entirely probable that jane became really rational that night for the first time in her spoiled young life. jane never told the details of that excursion. those that came out in the paper were only guess-work, of course, but it is quite true that a reporter found scraps of her motor veil on three wire fences, and there seems to be no reason to doubt, also, that two false curls were discovered a week later in a cow pasture on her own estate. but as jane never wore curls afterward anyhow---- well, jane got to her own house about eleven and crept in like a thief to the telephone. there were more rustlings and creakings and rumblings in the empty house than she had ever imagined, and she went backward through the hall for fear of something coming after her. but, which is to the point, she got to the telephone and called up her father in the city. the first message that astonished gentleman got was that a red-haired person at the hospital was very ill, having run into a wire fence and bruised a nose, and that he was to bring out at once from town two doctors, six nurses, a cook and a furnace man! after a time, however, as jane grew calmer, he got it straightened out, and said a number of things over the telephone anent the deserting staff that are quite forbidden by the rules both of the club and of the telephone company. he gave jane full instructions about sending to the village and having somebody come up and stay with her, and about taking a hot footbath and going to bed between blankets, and when jane replied meekly to everything "yes, father," and "all right, father," he was so stunned by her mildness that he was certain she must be really ill. not that jane had any idea of doing all these things. she hung up the telephone and gathered all the candles from all the candlesticks on the lower floor, and started back for the hospital. the moon had come up and she had no more trouble with fencing, but she was desperately tired. she climbed the drive slowly, coming to frequent pauses. the hospital, long and low and sleeping, lay before her, and in one upper window there was a small yellow light. jane climbed the steps and sat down on the top one. she felt very tired and sad and dejected, and she sat down on the upper step to think of how useless she was, and how much a man must know to be a doctor, and that perhaps she would take up nursing in earnest and amount to something, and---- it was about three o'clock in the morning when the red-haired person, coming down belatedly to close the front doors, saw a shapeless heap on the porch surrounded by a radius of white-wax candles, and going up shoved at it with his foot. whereat the heap moved slightly and muttered "lemme shleep." the red-haired person said "good heavens!" and bending down held a lighted match to the sleeper's face and stared, petrified. jane opened her eyes, sat up and put her hand over her mutilated nose with one gesture. "you!" said the red-haired person. and then mercifully the match went out. "don't light another," said jane. "i'm an alarming sight. would--would you mind feeling if my nose is broken?" he didn't move to examine it. he just kept on kneeling and staring. "where have you been?" he demanded. "over to telephone," said jane, and yawned. "they're bringing everybody in automobiles--doctors, nurses, furnace man--oh, dear me, i hope i mentioned a cook!" "do you mean to say," said the red-haired person wonderingly, "that you went by yourself across the fields and telephoned to get me out of this mess?" "not at all," jane corrected him coolly. "i'm in the mess myself." "you'll be ill again." "i never was ill," said jane. "i was here for a mean disposition." jane sat in the moonlight with her hands in her lap and looked at him calmly. the red-haired person reached over and took both her hands. "you're a heroine," he said, and bending down he kissed first one and then the other. "isn't it bad enough that you are beautiful without your also being brave?" jane eyed him, but he was in deadly earnest. in the moonlight his hair was really not red at all, and he looked pale and very, very tired. something inside of jane gave a curious thrill that was half pain. perhaps it was the dying of her temper, perhaps---- "am i still beautiful with this nose?" she asked. "you are everything that a woman should be," he said, and dropping her hands he got up. he stood there in the moonlight, straight and young and crowned with despair, and jane looked up from under her long lashes. "then why don't you stay where you were?" she asked. at that he reached down and took her hands again and pulled her to her feet. he was very strong. "because if i do i'll never leave you again," he said. "and i must go." he dropped her hands, or tried to, but jane wasn't ready to be dropped. "you know," she said, "i've told you i'm a sulky, bad-tempered----" but at that he laughed suddenly, triumphantly, and put both his arms round her and held her close. "i love you," he said, "and if you are bad-tempered, so am i, only i think i'm worse. it's a shame to spoil two houses with us, isn't it?" to her eternal shame be it told, jane never struggled. she simply held up her mouth to be kissed. that is really all the story. jane's father came with three automobiles that morning at dawn, bringing with him all that goes to make up a hospital, from a pharmacy clerk to absorbent cotton, and having left the new supplies in the office he stamped upstairs to jane's room and flung open the door. he expected to find jane in hysterics and the pink silk kimono. what he really saw was this: a coal fire was lighted in jane's grate, and in a low chair before it, with her nose swollen level with her forehead, sat jane, holding on her lap mary o'shaughnessy's baby, very new and magenta-coloured and yelling like a trooper. kneeling beside the chair was a tall, red-headed person holding a bottle of olive oil. "now, sweetest," the red-haired person was saying, "turn him on his tummy and we'll rub his back. gee, isn't that a fat back!" and as jane's father stared and jane anxiously turned the baby, the red-haired person leaned over and kissed the back of jane's neck. "jane!" he whispered. "jane!!" said her father. in the pavilion i now, had billy grant really died there would be no story. the story is to relate how he nearly died; and how, approaching that bourne to which no traveller may take with him anything but his sins--and this with billy grant meant considerable luggage--he cast about for some way to prevent the lindley grants from getting possession of his worldly goods. probably it would never have happened at all had not young grant, having hit on a scheme, clung to it with a tenacity that might better have been devoted to saving his soul, and had he not said to the nurse, who was at that moment shaking a thermometer: "come on--be a sport! it's only a matter of hours." not that he said it aloud--he whispered it, and fought for the breath to do even that. the nurse, having shaken down the thermometer, walked to the table and recorded a temperature of one hundred and six degrees through a most unprofessional mist of tears. then in the symptom column she wrote: "delirious." but billy grant was not delirious. a fever of a hundred and four or thereabout may fuse one's mind in a sort of fiery crucible, but when it gets to a hundred and six all the foreign thoughts, like seeing green monkeys on the footboard and wondering why the doctor is walking on his hands--all these things melt away, and one sees one's past, as when drowning, and remembers to hate one's relations, and is curious about what is coming when one goes over. so billy grant lay on his bed in the contagious pavilion of the hospital, and remembered to hate the lindley grants and to try to devise a way to keep them out of his property. and, having studied law, he knew no will that he might make now would hold against the lindley grants for a minute, unless he survived its making some thirty days. the staff doctor had given him about thirty hours or less. perhaps he would have given up in despair and been forced to rest content with a threat to haunt the lindley grants and otherwise mar the enjoyment of their good fortune, had not the nurse at that moment put the thermometer under his arm. now, as every one knows, an axillary temperature takes five minutes, during which it is customary for a nurse to kneel beside the bed, or even to sit very lightly on the edge, holding the patient's arm close to his side and counting his respirations while pretending to be thinking of something else. it was during these five minutes that the idea came into billy grant's mind and, having come, remained. the nurse got up, rustling starchily, and billy caught her eye. "every engine," he said with difficulty, "labours--in a low--gear. no wonder i'm--heated up!" the nurse, who was young, put her hand on his forehead. "try to sleep," she said. "time for--that--later," said billy grant. "i'll--i'll be a--long time--dead. i--i wonder whether you'd--do me a--favour." "i'll do anything in the world you want." she tried to smile down at him, but only succeeded in making her chin quiver, which would never do--being unprofessional and likely to get to the head nurse; so, being obliged to do something, she took his pulse by the throbbing in his neck. "one, two, three, four, five, six----" "then--marry me," gasped billy grant. "only for an--hour or--two, you know. you--promised. come on--be a sport!" it was then that the nurse walked to the table and recorded "delirious" in the symptom column. and, though she was a smith college girl and had taken a something or other in mathematics, she spelled it just then with two r's. billy grant was not in love with the nurse. she was a part of his illness, like the narrow brass bed and the yellow painted walls, and the thermometer under his arm, and the medicines. there were even times--when his fever subsided for a degree or two, after a cold sponge, and the muddled condition of mind returned--when she seemed to have more heads than even a nurse requires. so sentiment did not enter into the matter at all; it was revenge. "you--promised," he said again; but the nurse only smiled indulgently and rearranged the bottles on the stand in neat rows. jenks, the orderly, carried her supper to the isolation pavilion at six o'clock--cold ham, potato salad, egg custard and tea. also, he brought her an evening paper. but the nurse was not hungry. she went into the bathroom, washed her eyes with cold water, put on a clean collar, against the impending visit of the staff doctor, and then stood at the window, looking across at the hospital and feeling very lonely and responsible. it was not a great hospital, but it loomed large and terrible that night. the ambulance came out into the courtyard, and an interne, in white ducks, came out to it, carrying a surgical bag. he looked over at her and waved his hand. "big railroad wreck!" he called cheerfully. "got 'em coming in bunches." he crawled into the ambulance, where the driver, trained to many internes, gave him time to light a cigarette; then out into the dusk, with the gong beating madly. billy grant, who had lapsed into a doze, opened his eyes. "what--about it?" he asked. "you're not--married already--are you?" "please try to rest. perhaps if i get your beef juice----" "oh, damn--the beef juice!" whispered billy grant, and shut his eyes again--but not to sleep. he was planning how to get his way, and finally, out of a curious and fantastic medley of thoughts, he evolved something. the doctor, of course! these women had to do what the doctor ordered. he would see the doctor!--upon which, with a precision quite amazing, all the green monkeys on the footboard of the bed put their thumbs to their noses at him. the situation was unusual; for here was young grant, far enough from any one who knew he was one of the van kleek grants--and, as such, entitled to all the nurses and doctors that money could procure--shut away in the isolation pavilion of a hospital, and not even putting up a good fight! even the nurse felt this, and when the staff man came across the courtyard that night she met him on the doorstep and told him. "he doesn't care whether he gets well or not," she said dispiritedly. "all he seems to think about is to die and to leave everything he owns so his relatives won't get it. it's horrible!" the staff man, who had finished up a hard day with a hospital supper of steak and fried potatoes, sat down on the doorstep and fished out a digestive tablet from his surgical bag. "it's pretty sad, little girl," he said, over the pill. he had known the nurse for some time, having, in fact, brought her--according to report at the time--in a predecessor of the very bag at his feet, and he had the fatherly manner that belongs by right to the man who has first thumped one between the shoulder-blades to make one breathe, and who had remarked on this occasion to some one beyond the door: "a girl, and fat as butter!" the nurse tiptoed in and found billy grant apparently asleep. actually he had only closed his eyes, hoping to lure one of the monkeys within clutching distance. so the nurse came out again, with the symptom record. "delirious, with two r's," said the staff doctor, glancing over his spectacles. "he must have been pretty bad." "not wild; he--he wanted me to marry him!" she smiled, showing a most alluring dimple in one cheek. "i see! well, that's not necessarily delirium. h'm--pulse, respiration--look at that temperature! yes, it's pretty sad--away from home, too, poor lad!" "you---- isn't there any hope, doctor?" "none at all--at least, i've never had 'em get well." now the nurse should, by all the ethics of hospital practice, have walked behind the staff doctor, listening reverentially to what he said, not speaking until she was spoken to, and carrying in one hand an order blank on which said august personage would presently inscribe certain cabalistic characters, to be deciphered later by the pharmacy clerk with a strong light and much blasphemy, and in the other hand a clean towel. the clean towel does not enter into the story, but for the curious be it said that were said personage to desire to listen to the patient's heart, the towel would be unfolded and spread, without creases, over the patient's chest--which reminds me of the irishman and the weary practitioner; but every one knows that story. now that is what the nurse should have done; instead of which, in the darkened passageway, being very tired and exhausted and under a hideous strain, she suddenly slipped her arm through the staff doctor's and, putting her head on his shoulder, began to cry softly. "what's this?" demanded the staff doctor sternly and, putting his arm round her: "don't you know that junior nurses are not supposed to weep over the staff?" and, getting no answer but a choke: "we can't have you used up like this; i'll make them relieve you. when did you sleep?" "i don't want to be relieved," said the nurse, very muffled. "no-nobody else would know wh-what he wanted. i just--i just can't bear to see him--to see him----" the staff doctor picked up the clean towel, which belonged on the nurse's left arm, and dried her eyes for her; then he sighed. "none of us likes to see it, girl," he said. "i'm an old man, and i've never got used to it. what do they send you to eat?" "the food's all right," she said rather drearily. "i'm not hungry--that's all. how long do you think----" the staff doctor, who was putting an antiseptic gauze cap over his white hair, ran a safety pin into his scalp at that moment and did not reply at once. then, "perhaps--until morning," he said. he held out his arms for the long, white, sterilised coat, and a moment later, with his face clean-washed of emotion, and looking like a benevolent turk, he entered the sick room. the nurse was just behind him, with an order book in one hand and a clean towel over her arm. billy grant, from his bed, gave the turban a high sign of greeting. "allah--is--great!" he gasped cheerfully. "well, doctor--i guess it's all--over but--the shouting." ii some time after midnight billy grant roused out of a stupor. he was quite rational; in fact, he thought he would get out of bed. but his feet would not move. this was absurd! one's feet must move if one wills them to! however, he could not stir either of them. otherwise he was beautifully comfortable. faint as was the stir he made the nurse heard him. she was sitting in the dark by the window. "water?" she asked softly, coming to him. "please." his voice was stronger than it had been. some of the water went down his neck, but it did not matter. nothing mattered except the lindley grants. the nurse took his temperature and went out into the hall to read the thermometer, so he might not watch her face. then, having recorded it under the nightlight, she came back into the room. "why don't you put on something comfortable?" demanded billy grant querulously. he was so comfortable himself and she was so stiffly starched, so relentless of collar and cap. "i am comfortable." "where's that wrapper thing you've been wearing at night?" the nurse rather flushed at this. "why don't you lie down on the cot and take a nap? i don't need anything." "not--not to-night." he understood, of course, but he refused to be depressed. he was too comfortable. he was breathing easily, and his voice, though weak, was clear. "would you mind sitting beside me? or are you tired? but of course you are. perhaps in a night or so you'll be over there again, sleeping in a nice white gown in a nice fresh bed, with no querulous devil----" "please!" "you'll have to be sterilised or formaldehyded?" "yes." this very low. "will you put your hand over mine? thanks. it's--company, you know." he was apologetic; under her hand his own burned fire. "i--i spoke to the staff about that while you were out of the room." "about what?" "about your marrying me." "what did he say?" she humoured him. "he said he was willing if you were. you're not going to move--are you?" "no. but you must not talk." "it's like this. i've got a little property--not much; a little." he was nervously eager about this. if she knew it amounted to anything she would refuse, and the lindley grants---- "and when i--you know---- i want to leave it where it will do some good. that little brother of yours--it would send him through college, or help to." once, weeks ago, before he became so ill, she had told him of the brother. this in itself was wrong and against the ethics of the profession. one does not speak of oneself or one's family. "if you won't try to sleep, shall i read to you?" "read what?" "i thought--the bible, if you wouldn't mind." "certainly," he agreed. "i suppose that's the conventional thing; and if it makes you feel any better---- will you think over what i've been saying?" "i'll think about it," she said, soothing him like a fretful child, and brought her bible. the clock on the near-by town hall struck two as she drew up her chair beside him and commenced to read by the shaded light. across the courtyard the windows were dim yellowish rectangles, with here and there one brighter than the others that told its own story of sleepless hours. a taxicab rolled along the street outside, carrying a boisterous night party. the nurse had taken off her cap and put it on a stand. the autumn night was warm, and the light touch of the tulle had pressed her hair in damp, fine curves over her forehead. there were purple hollows of anxiety and sleeplessness under her eyes. "the perfect nurse," the head of the training school was fond of saying, "is more or less of a machine. too much sympathy is a handicap to her work and an embarrassment to her patient. a perfect, silent, reliable, fearless, emotionless machine!" poor junior nurse! now billy grant, lying there listening to something out of isaiah, should have been repenting his hard-living, hard-drinking young life; should have been forgiving the lindley grants--which story does not belong here; should have been asking for the consolation of the church, and trying to summon from the depths of his consciousness faint memories of early teachings as to the life beyond, and what he might or might not expect there. what he actually did while the nurse read was to try to move his legs, and, failing this, to plan a way to achieve the final revenge of a not particularly forgiving life. at a little before three o'clock the nurse telephoned across for an interne, who came over in a bathrobe over his pajamas and shot a hypodermic into billy grant's left arm. billy grant hardly noticed. he was seeing mrs. lindley grant when his surprise was sprung on her. the interne summoned the nurse into the hall with a jerk of his head. "about all in!" he said. "heart's gone--too much booze probably. i'd stay, but there's nothing to do." "would oxygen----" "oh, you can try it if you like. it's like blowing up a leaking tire; but if you'll feel better, do it." he yawned and tied the cord of his bathrobe round him more securely. "i guess you'll be glad to get back," he observed, looking round the dingy hall. "this place always gives me a chill. well, let me know if you want me. good night." the nurse stood in the hallway until the echo of his slippers on the asphalt had died away. then she turned to billy grant. "well?" demanded billy grant. "how long have i? until morning?" "if you would only not talk and excite yourself----" "hell!" said billy grant, we regret to record. "i've got to do all the talking i'm going to do right now. i beg your pardon--i didn't intend to swear." "oh, that's all right!" said the nurse vaguely. this was like no deathbed she had ever seen, and it was disconcerting. "shall i read again?" "no, thank you." the nurse looked at her watch, which had been graduation present from her mother and which said, inside the case: "to my little girl!" there is no question but that, when the nurse's mother gave that inscription to the jeweller, she was thinking of the day when the staff doctor had brought the nurse in his leather bag, and had slapped her between the shoulders to make her breathe. "to my little girl!" said the watch; and across from that--"three o'clock." at half-past three billy grant, having matured his plans, remarked that if it would ease the nurse any he'd see a preacher. his voice was weaker again and broken. "not"--he said, struggling--"not that i think--he'll pass me. but--if you say so--i'll--take a chance." all of which was diabolical cunning; for when, as the result of a telephone conversation, the minister came, an unworldly man who counted the world, an automobile, a vested choir and a silver communion service well lost for the sake of a dozen derelicts in a slum mission house, billy grant sent the nurse out to prepare a broth he could no longer swallow, and proceeded to cajole the man of god. this he did by urging the need of the nurse's small brother for an education and by forgetting to mention either the lindley grants or the extent of his property. from four o'clock until five billy grant coaxed the nurse with what voice he had. the idea had become an obsession; and minute by minute, panting breath by panting breath, her resolution wore away. he was not delirious; he was as sane as she was and terribly set. and this thing he wanted was so easy to grant; meant so little to her and, for some strange reason, so much to him. perhaps, if she did it, he would think a little of what the preacher was saying. at five o'clock, utterly worn out with the struggle and finding his pulse a negligible quantity, in response to his pleading eyes the nurse, kneeling and holding a thermometer under her patient's arm with one hand, reached the other one over the bed and was married in a dozen words and a soiled white apron. dawn was creeping in at the windows--a grey city dawn, filled with soot and the rumbling of early wagons. a smell of damp asphalt from the courtyard floated in and a dirty sparrow chirped on the sill where the nurse had been in the habit of leaving crumbs. billy grant, very sleepy and contented now that he had got his way, dictated a line or two on a blank symptom record, and signed his will in a sprawling hand. "if only," he muttered, "i could see lin's face when that's--sprung on him!" the minister picked up the bible from the tumbled bed and opened it. "perhaps," he suggested very softly, "if i read from the word of god----" satisfied now that he had fooled the lindley grants out of their very shoebuttons, billy grant was asleep--asleep with the thermometer under his arm and with his chest rising and falling peacefully. the minister looked across at the nurse, who was still holding the thermometer in place. she had buried her face in the white counterpane. "you are a good woman, sister," he said softly. "the boy is happier, and you are none the worse. shall i keep the paper for you?" but the nurse, worn out with the long night, slept where she knelt. the minister, who had come across the street in a ragged smoking-coat and no collar, creaked round the bed and threw the edge of the blanket over her shoulders. then, turning his coat collar up over his unshaved neck, he departed for the mission across the street, where one of his derelicts, in his shirtsleeves, was sweeping the pavement. there, mindful of the fact that he had come from the contagious pavilion, the minister brushed his shabby smoking-coat with a whiskbroom to remove the germs! iii billy grant, of course, did not die. this was perhaps because only the good die young. and billy grant's creed had been the honour of a gentleman rather than the mosaic law. there was, therefore, no particular violence done to his code when his last thoughts--or what appeared to be his last thoughts--were revenge instead of salvation. the fact was, billy grant had a real reason for hating the lindley grants. when a fellow like that has all the van kleek money and a hereditary thirst, he is bound to drink. the lindley grants did not understand this and made themselves obnoxious by calling him "poor billy!" and not having wine when he came to dinner. that, however, was not his reason for hating them. billy grant fell in love. to give the devil his due, he promptly set about reforming himself. he took about half as many whisky-and-sodas as he had been in the habit of doing, and cut out champagne altogether. he took up golf to fill in the time, too, but gave it up when he found it made him thirstier than ever. and then, with things so shaping up that he could rise in the morning without having a drink to get up on, the lindley grants thought it best to warn the girl's family before it was too late. "he is a nice boy in some ways," mrs. lindley grant had said on the occasion of the warning; "but, like all drinking men, he is a broken reed, eccentric and irresponsible. no daughter of mine could marry him. i'd rather bury her. and if you want facts lindley will give them to you." so the girl had sent back her ring and a cold little letter, and billy grant had got roaring full at a club that night and presented the ring to a cabman--all of which is exceedingly sordid, but rather human after all. the nurse, having had no sleep for forty-eight hours, slept for quite thirty minutes. she wakened at the end of that time and started up with a horrible fear that the thing she was waiting for had come. but billy grant was still alive, sleeping naturally, and the thermometer, having been in place forty minutes, registered a hundred and three. at eight o'clock the interne, hurrying over in fresh ducks, with a laudable desire to make the rounds before the staff began to drop in, found billy grant very still and with his eyes closed, and the nurse standing beside the bed, pale and tremulous. "why didn't you let me know?" he demanded, aggrieved. "i ought to have been called. i told you----" "he isn't dead," said the nurse breathlessly. "he--i think he is better." whereon she stumbled out of the room into her own little room across the hall, locking the door behind her, and leaving the interne to hunt the symptom record for himself--a thing not to be lightly overlooked; though of course internes are not the staff. the interne looked over the record and whistled. "wouldn't that paralyse you!" he said under his breath. "'pulse very weak.' 'pulse almost obliterated.' 'very talkative.' 'breathing hard at four a.m. cannot swallow.' and then: 'sleeping calmly from five o'clock.' 'pulse stronger.' temperature one hundred and three.' by gad, that last prescription of mine was a hit!" so now began a curious drama of convalescence in the little isolation pavilion across the courtyard. not for a minute did the two people most concerned forget their strange relationship; not for worlds would either have allowed the other to know that he or she remembered. now and then the nurse caught billy grant's eyes fixed on her as she moved about the room, with a curious wistful expression in them. and sometimes, waking from a doze, he would find her in her chair by the window, with her book dropped into her lap and a frightened look in her eyes, staring at him. he gained strength rapidly and the day came when, with the orderly's assistance, he was lifted to a chair. there was one brief moment in which he stood tottering on his feet. in that instant he had realised what a little thing she was, after all, and what a cruel advantage he had used for his own purpose. when he was settled in the chair and the orderly had gone she brought an extra pillow to put behind him, and he dared the first personality of their new relationship. "what a little girl you are, after all!" he said. "lying there in the bed shaking at your frown, you were so formidable." "i am not small," she said, straightening herself. she had always hoped that her cap gave her height. "it is you who are so tall. you--you are a giant!" "a wicked giant, seeking whom i may devour and carrying off lovely girls for dinner under pretence of marriage----" he stopped his nonsense abruptly, having got so far, and both of them coloured. thrashing about desperately for something to break the wretched silence, he seized on the one thing that in those days of his convalescence was always pertinent--food. "speaking of dinner," he said hastily, "isn't it time for some buttermilk?" she was quite calm when she came back--cool, even smiling; but billy grant had not had the safety valve of action. as she placed the glass on the table at his elbow he reached out and took her hand. "can you ever forgive me?" he asked. not an original speech; the usual question of the marauding male, a query after the fact and too late for anything but forgiveness. "forgive you? for not dying?" she was pale; but no more subterfuge now, no more turning aside from dangerous subjects. the matter was up before the house. "for marrying you!" said billy grant, and upset the buttermilk. it took a little time to wipe up the floor and to put a clean cover on the stand, and after that to bring a fresh glass and place it on the table. but these were merely parliamentary preliminaries while each side got its forces in line. "do you hate me very much?" opened billy grant. this was, to change the figure, a blow below the belt. "why should i hate you?" countered the other side. "i should think you would. i forced the thing on you." "i need not have done it." "but being you, and always thinking about making some one else happy and comfortable----" "oh, if only they don't find it out over there!" she burst out. "if they do and i have to leave, with jim----" here, realising that she was going to cry and not caring to screw up her face before any one, she put her arms on the stand and buried her face in them. her stiff tulle cap almost touched billy grant's arm. billy grant had a shocked second. "jim?" "my little brother," from the table. billy grant drew a long breath of relief. for a moment he had thought---- "i wonder--whether i dare to say something to you." silence from the table and presumably consent. "isn't he--don't you think that--i might be allowed to--to help jim? it would help me to like myself again. just now i'm not standing very high with myself." "won't you tell me why you did it?" she said, suddenly sitting up, her arms still out before her on the table. "why did you coax so? you said it was because of a little property you had, but--that wasn't it--was it?" "no." "or because you cared a snap for me." this was affirmation, not question. "no, not that, though i----" she gave a hopeless little gesture of despair. "then--why? why?" "for one of the meanest reasons i know--to be even with some people who had treated me badly." the thing was easier now. his flat denial of any sentimental reason had helped to make it so. "a girl that you cared about?" "partly that. the girl was a poor thing. she didn't care enough to be hurt by anything i did. but the people who made the trouble----" now a curious thing happened. billy grant found at this moment that he no longer hated the lindley grants. the discovery left him speechless--that he who had taken his hate into the very valley of death with him should now find himself thinking of both lindley and his wife with nothing more bitter than contempt shocked him. a state of affairs existed for which his hatred of the lindley grants was alone responsible; now the hate was gone and the state of affairs persisted. "i should like," said billy grant presently, "to tell you a little--if it will not bore you--about myself and the things i have done that i shouldn't, and about the girl. and of course, you know, i'm--i'm not going to hold you to--to the thing i forced you into. there are ways to fix that." before she would listen, however, she must take his temperature and give him his medicine, and see that he drank his buttermilk--the buttermilk last, so as not to chill his mouth for the thermometer. the tired lines had gone from under her eyes and she was very lovely that day. she had always been lovely, even when the staff doctor had slapped her between the shoulders long ago--you know about that--only billy grant had never noticed it; but to-day, sitting there with the thermometer in his mouth while she counted his respirations, pretending to be looking out the window while she did it, billy grant saw how sweet and lovely and in every way adorable she was, in spite of the sad droop of her lips--and found it hard to say the thing he felt he must. "after all," he remarked round the thermometer, "the thing is not irrevocable. i can fix it up so that----" "keep your lips closed about the thermometer!" she said sternly, and snapped her watch shut. the pulse and so on having been recorded, and "very hungry" put down under symptoms, she came back to her chair by the window, facing him. she sat down primly and smoothed her white apron in her lap. "now!" she said. "i am to go on?" "yes, please." "if you are going to change the pillows or the screen, or give me any other diabolical truck to swallow," he said somewhat peevishly, "will you get it over now, so we can have five unprofessional minutes?" "certainly," she said; and bringing an extra blanket she spread it, to his disgust, over his knees. this time, when she sat down, one of her hands lay on the table near him and he reached over and covered it with his. "please!" he begged. "for company! and it will help me to tell you some of the things i have to tell." she left it there, after an uneasy stirring. so, sitting there, looking out into the dusty courtyard with its bandaged figures in wheeled chairs, its cripples sunning on a bench--their crutches beside them--its waterless fountain and its dingy birds, he told her about the girl and the lindley grants, and even about the cabman and the ring. and feeling, perhaps in some current from the small hand under his, that she was knowing and understanding and not turning away, he told her a great deal he had not meant to tell--ugly things, many of them--for that was his creed. and, because in a hospital one lives many lives vicariously with many people, what the girl back home would never have understood this girl did and faced unabashed. life, as she knew it, was not all good and not all bad; passion and tenderness, violence and peace, joy and wretchedness, birth and death--these she had looked on, all of them, with clear eyes and hands ready to help. so billy grant laid the good and the bad of his life before her, knowing that he was burying it with her. when he finished, her hand on the table had turned and was clasping his. he bent over and kissed her fingers softly. after that she read to him, and their talk, if any, was impersonal. when the orderly had put him back to bed he lay watching her moving about, rejoicing in her quiet strength, her repose. how well she was taking it all! if only--but there was no hope of that. she could go to reno, and in a few months she would be free again and the thing would be as if it had never been. at nine o'clock that night the isolation pavilion was ready for the night. the lights in the sickroom were out. in the hall a nightlight burned low, billy grant was not asleep. he tried counting the lighted windows of the hospital and grew only more wakeful. the nurse was sleeping now in her own room across, with the doors open between. the slightest movement and she was up, tiptoeing in, with her hair in a long braid down her back and her wrapper sleeves falling away loosely from her white, young arms. so, aching with inaction, billy grant lay still until the silence across indicated that she was sleeping. then he got up. this is a matter of difficulty when one is still very weak, and is achieved by rising first into a sitting posture by pulling oneself up by the bars of the bed, and then by slipping first one leg, then the other, over the side. properly done, even the weakest thus find themselves in a position that by the aid of a chairback may become, however shaky, a standing one. he got to his feet better than he expected, but not well enough to relinquish the chair. he had made no sound. that was good. he would tell her in the morning and rally her on her powers as a sleeper. he took a step--if only his knees---- he had advanced into line with the doorway and stood looking through the open door of the room across. the nurse was on her knees beside the bed, in her nightgown, crying. her whole young body was shaken with silent sobs; her arms, in their short white sleeves, stretched across the bed, her fingers clutching the counterpane. billy grant stumbled back to his bed and fell in with a sort of groan. almost instantly she was at the door, her flannel wrapper held about her, peering into the darkness. "i thought i heard--are you worse?" she asked anxiously. "i'm all right," he said, hating himself; "just not sleepy. how about you?" "not asleep yet, but--resting," she replied. she stood in the doorway, dimly outlined, with her long braid over her shoulder and her voice still a little strained from crying. in the darkness billy grant half stretched out his arms, then dropped them, ashamed. "would you like another blanket?" "if there is one near." she came in a moment later with the blanket and spread it over the bed. he lay very still while she patted and smoothed it into place. he was mustering up his courage to ask for something--a curious state of mind for billy grant, who had always taken what he wanted without asking. "i wish you would kiss me--just once!" he said wistfully. and then, seeing her draw back, he took an unfair advantage: "i think that's the reason i'm not sleeping." "don't be absurd!" "is it so absurd--under the circumstances?" "you can sleep quite well if you only try." she went out into the hall again, her chin well up. then she hesitated, turned and came swiftly back into the room. "if i do," she said rather breathlessly, "will you go to sleep? and will you promise to hold your arms up over your head?" "but my arms----" "over your head!" he obeyed at that, and the next moment she had bent over him in the darkness; and quickly, lightly, deliciously, she kissed--the tip of his nose! iv she was quite cheerful the next day and entirely composed. neither of them referred to the episode of the night before, but billy grant thought of little else. early in the morning he asked her to bring him a hand mirror and, surveying his face, tortured and disfigured by the orderly's shaving, suffered an acute wound in his vanity. he was glad it had been dark or she probably would not have---- he borrowed a razor from the interne and proceeded to enjoy himself. propped up in his chair, he rioted in lather, sliced a piece out of his right ear, and shaved the back of his neck by touch, in lieu of better treatment. this done, and the ragged and unkempt hair over his ears having been trimmed in scallops, due to the work being done with curved surgical scissors, he was his own man again. that afternoon, however, he was nervous and restless. the nurse was troubled. he avoided the subject that had so obsessed him the day before, was absent and irritable, could not eat, and sat in his chair by the window, nervously clasping and unclasping his hands. the nurse was puzzled, but the staff doctor, making rounds that day, enlightened her. "he has pulled through--god and you alone know how," he said. "but as soon as he begins to get his strength he's going to yell for liquor again. when a man has been soaking up alcohol for years---- drat this hospital cooking anyhow! have you got any essence of pepsin?" the nurse brought the pepsin and a medicine glass and the staff doctor swallowed and grimaced. "you were saying," said the nurse timidly--for, the stress being over, he was staff again and she was a junior and not even entitled to a senior's privileges, such as returning occasional badinage. "every atom of him is going to crave it. he's wanting it now. he has been used to it for years." the nurse was white to the lips, but steady. "he is not to have it?" "not a drop while he is here. when he gets out it is his own affair again, but while he's here--by-the-way, you'll have to watch the orderly. he'll bribe him." "i don't think so, doctor. he is a gentleman." "pooh! of course he is. i dare say he's a gentleman when he's drunk too; but he's a drinker--a habitual drinker." the nurse went back into the room and found billy grant sitting in a chair, with the book he had been reading on the floor and his face buried in his hands. "i'm awfuly sorry!" he said, not looking up. "i heard what he said. he's right, you know." "i'm sorry. and i'm afraid this is a place where i cannot help." she put her hand on his head, and he brought it down and held it between his. "two or three times," he said, "when things were very bad with me, you let me hold your hand, and we got past somehow--didn't we?" she closed her eyes, remembering the dawn when, to soothe a dying man, in the presence of the mission preacher, she had put her hand in his. billy grant thought of it too. "now you know what you've married," he said bitterly. the bitterness was at himself of course. "if--if you'll sit tight i have a fighting chance to make a man of myself; and after it's over we'll fix this thing for you so you will forget it ever happened. and i---- don't take your hand away. please!" "i was feeling for my handkerchief," she explained. "have i made you cry again?" "again?' "i saw you last night in your room. i didn't intend to; but i was trying to stand, and----" she was very dignified at this, with her eyes still wet, and tried unsuccessfully to take her hand away. "if you are going to get up when it is forbidden i shall ask to be relieved." "you wouldn't do that!" "let go of my hand." "you wouldn't do that!!" "please! the head nurse is coming." he freed her hand then and she wiped her eyes, remembering the "perfect, silent, reliable, fearless, emotionless machine." the head of the training school came to the door of the pavilion, but did not enter. the reason for this was twofold: first, she had confidence in the nurse; second, she was afraid of contagion--this latter, of course, quite _sub rosa_, in view of the above quotation. the head nurse was a tall woman in white, and was so starchy that she rattled like a newspaper when she walked. "good morning," she said briskly. "have you sent over the soiled clothes?" head nurses are always bothering about soiled clothes; and what becomes of all the nailbrushes, and how can they use so many bandages. "yes, miss smith." "meals come over promptly?" "yes, miss smith." "getting any sleep?" "oh, yes, plenty--now." miss smith peered into the hallway, which seemed tidy, looked at the nurse with approval, and then from the doorstep into the patient's room, where billy grant sat. at the sight of him her eyebrows rose. "good gracious!" she exclaimed. "i thought he was older than that!" "twenty-nine," said the nurse; "twenty-nine last fourth of july." "h'm!" commented the head nurse. "you evidently know! i had no idea you were taking care of a boy. it won't do. i'll send over miss hart." the nurse tried to visualise billy grant in his times of stress clutching at miss hart's hand, and failed. "jenks is here, of course," she said, jenks being the orderly. the idea of jenks as a chaperon, however, did not appeal to the head nurse. she took another glance through the window at billy grant, looking uncommonly handsome and quite ten years younger since the shave, and she set her lips. "i am astonished beyond measure," she said. "miss hart will relieve you at two o'clock. take your antiseptic bath and you may have the afternoon to yourself. report in l ward in the morning." miss smith rattled back across the courtyard and the nurse stood watching her; then turned slowly and went into the house to tell billy grant. now the stories about what followed differ. they agree on one point: that billy grant had a heart-to-heart talk with the substitute at two o'clock that afternoon and told her politely but firmly that he would none of her. here the divergence begins. some say he got the superintendent over the house telephone and said he had intended to make a large gift to the hospital, but if his comfort was so little considered as to change nurses just when he had got used to one, he would have to alter his plans. another and more likely story, because it sounds more like billy grant, is that at five o'clock a florist's boy delivered to miss smith a box of orchids such as never had been seen before in the house, and a card inside which said: "please, dear miss smith, take back the hart that thou gavest." whatever really happened--and only billy grant and the lady in question ever really knew--that night at eight o'clock, with billy grant sitting glumly in his room and miss hart studying typhoid fever in the hall, the nurse came back again to the pavilion with her soft hair flying from its afternoon washing and her eyes shining. and things went on as before--not quite as before; for with the nurse question settled the craving got in its work again, and the next week was a bad one. there were good days, when he taught her double-dummy auction bridge, followed by terrible nights, when he walked the floor for hours and she sat by, unable to help. then at dawn he would send her to bed remorsefully and take up the fight alone. and there were quiet nights when both slept and when he would waken to the craving again and fight all day. "i'm afraid i'm about killing her," he said to the staff doctor one day; "but it's my chance to make a man of myself--now or never." the staff doctor was no fool and he had heard about the orchids. "fight it out, boy!" he said. "pretty soon you'll quit peeling and cease being a menace to the public health, and you'd better get it over before you are free again." so, after a time, it grew a little easier. grant was pretty much himself again--had put on a little flesh and could feel his biceps rise under his fingers. he took to cold plunges when he felt the craving coming on, and there were days when the little pavilion was full of the sound of running water. he shaved himself daily, too, and sent out for some collars. between the two of them, since her return, there had been much of good fellowship, nothing of sentiment. he wanted her near, but he did not put a hand on her. in the strain of those few days the strange, grey dawn seemed to have faded into its own mists. only once, when she had brought his breakfast tray and was arranging the dishes for him--against his protest, for he disliked being waited on--he reached over and touched a plain band ring she wore. she coloured. "my mother's," she said; "her wedding ring." their eyes met across the tray, but he only said, after a moment: "eggs like a rock, of course! couldn't we get 'em raw and boil them over here?" it was that morning, also, that he suggested a thing which had been in his mind for some time. "wouldn't it be possible," he asked, "to bring your tray in here and to eat together? it would be more sociable." she smiled. "it isn't permitted." "do you think--would another box of orchids----" she shook her head as she poured out his coffee. "i should probably be expelled." he was greatly aggrieved. "that's all foolishness," he said. "how is that any worse--any more unconventional--than your bringing me your extra blanket on a cold night? oh, i heard you last night!" "then why didn't you leave it on?" "and let you freeze?" "i was quite warm. as it was, it lay in the hallway all night and did no one any good." having got thus far from wedding rings, he did not try to get back. he ate alone, and after breakfast, while she took her half-hour of exercise outside the window, he sat inside reading--only apparently reading, however. once she went quite as far as the gate and stood looking out. "jenks!" called billy grant. jenks has not entered into the story much. he was a little man, rather fat, who occupied a tiny room in the pavilion, carried meals and soiled clothes, had sat on billy grant's chest once or twice during a delirium, and kept a bottle locked in the dish closet. "yes, sir," said jenks, coming behind a strong odour of _spiritus frumenti_. "jenks," said billy grant with an eye on the figure at the gate, "is that bottle of yours empty?" "what bottle?" "the one in the closet." jenks eyed billy grant, and billy eyed jenks--a look of man to man, brother to brother. "not quite, sir--a nip or two." "at," suggested billy grant, "say--five dollars a nip?" jenks smiled. "about that," he said. "filled?" billy grant debated. the nurse was turning at the gate. "no," he said. "as it is, jenks. bring it here." jenks brought the bottle and a glass, but the glass was motioned away. billy grant took the bottle in his hand and looked at it with a curious expression. then he went over and put it in the upper bureau drawer, under a pile of handkerchiefs. jenks watched him, bewildered. "just a little experiment, jenks," said billy grant. jenks understood then and stopped smiling. "i wouldn't, mr. grant," he said; "it will only make you lose confidence in yourself when it doesn't work out." "but it's going to work out," said billy grant. "would you mind turning on the cold water?" now the next twenty-four hours puzzled the nurse. when billy grant's eyes were not on her with an unfathomable expression in them, they were fixed on something in the neighbourhood of the dresser, and at these times they had a curious, fixed look not unmixed with triumph. she tried a new arrangement of combs and brushes and tilted the mirror at a different angle, without effect. that day billy grant took only one cold plunge. as the hours wore on he grew more cheerful; the look of triumph was unmistakable. he stared less at the dresser and more at the nurse. at last it grew unendurable. she stopped in front of him and looked down at him severely. she could only be severe when he was sitting--when he was standing she had to look so far up at him, even when she stood on her tiptoes. "what is wrong with me?" she demanded. "you look so queer! is my cap crooked?" "it is a wonderful cap." "is my face dirty?" "it is a won---- no, certainly not." "then would you mind not staring so? you--upset me." "i shall have to shut my eyes," he replied meekly, and worried her into a state of frenzy by sitting for fifty minutes with his head back and his eyes shut. so--the evening and the morning were another day, and the bottle lay undisturbed under the handkerchiefs, and the cold shower ceased running, and billy grant assumed the air of triumph permanently. that morning when the breakfast trays came he walked over into the nurse's room and picked hers up, table and all, carrying it across the hall. in his own room he arranged the two trays side by side, and two chairs opposite each other. when the nurse, who had been putting breadcrumbs on the window-sill, turned round billy grant was waiting to draw out one of the chairs, and there was something in his face she had not seen there before. "shall we breakfast?" he said. "i told you yesterday----" "think a minute," he said softly. "is there any reason why we should not breakfast together?" she pressed her hands close together, but she did not speak. "unless--you do not wish to." "you remember you promised, as soon as you got away, to--fix that----" "so i will if you say the word." "and--to forget all about it." "that," said billy grant solemnly, "i shall never do so long as i live. do you say the word?" "what else can i do?" "then there is somebody else?" "oh, no!" he took a step toward her, but still he did not touch her. "if there is no one else," he said, "and if i tell you that you have made me a man again----" "gracious! your eggs will be cold." she made a motion toward the egg-cup, but billy grant caught her hand. "damn the eggs!" he said. "why don't you look at me?" something sweet and luminous and most unprofessional shone in the little nurse's eyes, and the line of her pulse on a chart would have looked like a seismic disturbance. "i--i have to look up so far!" she said, but really she was looking down when she said it. "oh, my dear--my dear!" exulted billy grant. "it is i who must look up at you!" and with that he dropped on his knees and kissed the starched hem of her apron. the nurse felt very absurd and a little frightened. "if only," she said, backing off--"if only you wouldn't be such a silly! jenks is coming!" but jenks was not coming. billy grant rose to his full height and looked down at her--a new billy grant, the one who had got drunk at a club and given a ring to a cabman having died that grey morning some weeks before. "i love you--love you--love you!" he said, and took her in his arms. * * * * * now the head nurse was interviewing an applicant; and, as the h.n. took a constitutional each morning in the courtyard and believed in losing no time, she was holding the interview as she walked. "i think i would make a good nurse," said the applicant, a trifle breathless, the h.n. being a brisk walker. "i am so sympathetic." the h.n. stopped and raised a reproving forefinger. "too much sympathy is a handicap," she orated. "the perfect nurse is a silent, reliable, fearless, emotionless machine--this little building here is the isolation pavilion." "an emotionless machine," repeated the applicant. "i see--an e----" the words died on her lips. she was looking past a crowd of birds on the windowsill to where, just inside, billy grant and the nurse in a very mussed cap were breakfasting together. and as she looked billy grant bent over across the tray. "i adore you!" he said distinctly and, lifting the nurse's hands, kissed first one and then the other. "it is hard work," said miss smith--having made a note that the boys in the children's ward must be restrained from lowering a pasteboard box on a string from a window--"hard work without sentiment. it is not a romantic occupation." she waved an admonitory hand toward the window, and the box went up swiftly. the applicant looked again toward the pavilion, where billy grant, having kissed the nurse's hands, had buried his face in her two palms. the mild october sun shone down on the courtyard, with its bandaged figures in wheel-chairs, its cripples sunning on a bench, their crutches beside them, its waterless fountain and dingy birds. the applicant thrilled to it all--joy and suffering, birth and death, misery and hope, life and love. love! the h.n. turned to her grimly, but her eyes were soft. "all this," she said, waving her hand vaguely, "for eight dollars a month!" "i think," said the applicant shyly, "i should like to come." god's fool i the great god endows his children variously. to some he gives intellect--and they move the earth. to some he allots heart--and the beating pulse of humanity is theirs. but to some he gives only a soul, without intelligence--and these, who never grow up, but remain always his children, are god's fools, kindly, elemental, simple, as if from his palette the artist of all had taken one colour instead of many. the dummy was god's fool. having only a soul and no intelligence, he lived the life of the soul. through his faded, childish old blue eyes he looked out on a world that hurried past him with, at best, a friendly touch on his shoulder. no man shook his hand in comradeship. no woman save the little old mother had ever caressed him. he lived alone in a world of his own fashioning, peopled by moving, noiseless figures and filled with dreams--noiseless because the dummy had ears that heard not and lips that smiled at a kindness, but that did not speak. in this world of his there was no uncharitableness--no sin. there was a god--why should he not know his father?--there were brasses to clean and three meals a day; and there was chapel on sunday, where one held a book--the dummy held his upside down--and felt the vibration of the organ, and proudly watched the afternoon sunlight smiling on the polished metal of the chandelier and choir rail. * * * * * the probationer sat turning the bandage machine and watching the dummy, who was polishing the brass plates on the beds. the plates said: "endowed in perpetuity"--by various leading citizens, to whom god had given his best gifts, both heart and brain. "how old do you suppose he is?" she asked, dropping her voice. the senior nurse was writing fresh labels for the medicine closet, and for "tincture of myrrh" she wrote absently "tincture of mirth," and had to tear it up. "he can't hear you," she said rather shortly. "how old? oh, i don't know. about a hundred, i should think." this was, of course, because of his soul, which was all he had, and which, having existed from the beginning, was incredibly old. the little dead mother could have told them that he was less than thirty. the probationer sat winding bandages. now and then they went crooked and had to be done again. she was very tired. the creaking of the bandage machine made her nervous--that and a sort of disillusionment; for was this her great mission, this sitting in a silent, sunny ward, where the double row of beds held only querulous convalescent women? how close was she to life who had come to soothe the suffering and close the eyes of the dying; who had imagined that her instruments of healing were a thermometer and a prayer-book; and who found herself fighting the good fight with a bandage machine and, even worse, a scrubbing brush and a finetooth comb? the senior nurse, having finished the m's, glanced up and surprised a tear on the probationer's round young cheek. she was wise, having trained many probationers. "go to first supper, please," she said. first supper is the senior's prerogative; but it is given occasionally to juniors and probationers as a mark of approval, or when the senior is not hungry, or when a probationer reaches the breaking point, which is just before she gets her uniform. the probationer smiled and brightened. after all, she must be doing fairly well; and if she were not in the battle she was of it. glimpses she had of the battle--stretchers going up and down in the slow elevator; sheeted figures on their way to the operating room; the clang of the ambulance bell in the courtyard; the occasional cry of a new life ushered in; the impressive silence of an old life going out. she surveyed the bandages on the bed. "i'll put away the bandages first," she said. "that's what you said, i think--never to leave the emergency bed with anything on it?" "right-oh!" said the senior. "though nothing ever happens back here--does it?' "it's about our turn; i'm looking for a burned case." the probationer, putting the bandages into a basket, turned and stared. "we have had two in to-day in the house," the senior went on, starting on the n's and making the capital carefully. "there will be a third, of course; and we may get it. cases always seem to run in threes. while you're straightening the bed i suppose i might as well go to supper after all." so it was the probationer and the dummy who received the new case, while the senior ate cold salmon and fried potatoes with other seniors, and inveighed against lectures on saturday evening and other things that seniors object to, such as things lost in the wash, and milk in the coffee instead of cream, and women from the avenue who drank carbolic acid and kept the ambulance busy. the probationer was from the country and she had never heard of the avenue. and the dummy, who walked there daily with the superintendent's dog, knew nothing of its wickedness. in his soul, where there was nothing but kindness, there was even a feeling of tenderness for the avenue. once the dog had been bitten by a terrier from one of the houses, and a girl had carried him in and washed the wounds and bound them up. thereafter the dummy had watched for her and bowed when he saw her. when he did not see her he bowed to the house. the dummy finished the brass plates and, gathering up his rags and polish, shuffled to the door. his walk was a patient shamble, but he covered incredible distances. when he reached the emergency bed he stopped and pointed to it. the probationer looked startled. "he's tellin' you to get it ready," shrilled irish delia, sitting up in the next bed. "he did that before you was brought in," she called to old maggie across the ward. "goodness knows how he finds out--but he knows. get the spread off the bed, miss. there's something coming." * * * * * the probationer had come from the country and naturally knew nothing of the avenue. sometimes on her off duty she took short walks there, wondering if the passers-by who stared at her knew that she was a part of the great building that loomed over the district, happily ignorant of the real significance of their glances. once a girl, sitting behind bowed shutters, had leaned out and smiled at her. "hot to-day, isn't it?" she said. the probationer stopped politely. "it's fearful! is there any place near where i can get some soda water?" the girl in the window stared. "there's a drug store two squares down," she said. "and say, if i were you----" "yes?" "oh, nothing!" said the girl in the window, and quite unexpectedly slammed the shutters. the probationer had puzzled over it quite a lot. more than once she walked by the house, but she did not see the smiling girl--only, curiously enough, one day she saw the dummy passing the house and watched him bow and take off his old cap, though there was no one in sight. sooner or later the avenue girls get to the hospital. sometimes it is because they cannot sleep, and lie and think things over--and there is no way out; and god hates them--though, of course, there is that story about jesus and the avenue woman. and what is the use of going home and being asked questions that cannot be answered? so they try to put an end to things generally--and end up in the emergency bed, terribly frightened, because it has occurred to them that if they do not dare to meet the home folks how are they going to meet the almighty? or sometimes it is jealousy. even an avenue woman must love some one; and, because she's an elemental creature, if the object of her affections turns elsewhere she's rather apt to use a knife or a razor. in that case it is the rival who ends up on the emergency bed. or the life gets her, as it does sooner or later, and she comes in with typhoid or a cough, or other things, and lies alone, day after day, without visitors or inquiries, making no effort to get better, because--well, why should she? and so the dummy's avenue girl met her turn and rode down the street in a clanging ambulance, and was taken up in the elevator and along a grey hall to where the emergency bed was waiting; and the probationer, very cold as to hands and feet, was sending mental appeals to the senior to come--and come quickly. the ward got up on elbows and watched. also it told the probationer what to do. "hot-water bottles and screens," it said variously. "take her temperature. don't be frightened! there'll be a doctor in a minute." the girl lay on the bed with her eyes shut. it was irish delia who saw the dummy and raised a cry. "look at the dummy!" she said. "he's crying." the dummy's world had always been a small one. there was the superintendent, who gave him his old clothes; and there was the engineer, who brought him tobacco; and there were the ambulance horses, who talked to him now and then without speech. and, of course, there was his father. fringing this small inner circle of his heart was a kaleidoscope of changing faces, nurses, _internes_, patients, visitors--a wall of life that kept inviolate his inner shrine. and in the holiest place, where had dwelt only his father, and not even the superintendent, the dummy had recently placed the avenue girl. she was his saint, though he knew nothing of saints. who can know why he chose her? a queer trick of the soul perhaps--or was it super-wisdom?--to choose her from among many saintly women and so enshrine her. or perhaps---- down in the chapel, in a great glass window, the young john knelt among lilies and prayed. when, at service on sundays, the sunlight came through on to the dummy's polished choir rail and candles, the young john had the face of a girl, with short curling hair, very yellow for the colour scheme. the avenue girl had hair like that and was rather like him in other ways. and here she was where all the others had come, and where countless others would come sooner or later. she was not unconscious and at delia's cry she opened her eyes. the probationer was off filling water bottles, and only the dummy, stricken, round-shouldered, unlovely, stood beside her. "rotten luck, old top!" she said faintly. to the dummy it was a benediction. she could open her eyes. the miracle of speech was still hers. "cigarette!" explained the avenue girl, seeing his eyes still on her. "must have gone to sleep with it and dropped it. i'm--all in!" "don't you talk like that," said irish delia, bending over from the next bed. "you'll get well a' right--unless you inhaled. y'ought to 'a' kept your mouth shut." across the ward old maggie had donned her ragged slippers and a blue calico wrapper and shuffled to the foot of the emergency bed. old maggie was of that vague neighbourhood back of the avenue, where squalor and poverty rubbed elbows with vice, and scorned it. "humph!" she said, without troubling to lower her voice. "i've seen her often. i done her washing once. she's as bad as they make 'em." "you shut your mouth!" irish delia rose to the defence. "she's in trouble now and what she was don't matter. you go back to bed or i'll tell the head nurse on you. look out! the dummy----" the dummy was advancing on old maggie with threatening eyes. as the woman recoiled he caught her arm in one of his ugly, misshapen hands and jerked her away from the bed. old maggie reeled--almost fell. "you all seen that!" she appealed to the ward. "i haven't even spoke to him and he attacked me! i'll go to the superintendent about it. i'll----" the probationer hurried in. her young cheeks were flushed with excitement and anxiety; her arms were full of jugs, towels, bandages--anything she could imagine as essential. she found the dummy on his knees polishing a bed plate, and the ward in order--only old maggie was grumbling and making her way back to bed; and irish delia was sitting up, with her eyes shining--for had not the dummy, who could not hear, known what old maggie had said about the new girl? had she not said that he knew many things that were hidden, though god knows how he knew them? the next hour saw the avenue girl through a great deal. her burns were dressed by an _interne_ and she was moved back to a bed at the end of the ward. the probationer sat beside her, having refused supper. the dummy was gone--the senior nurse had shooed him off as one shoos a chicken. "get out of here! you're always under my feet," she had said--not unkindly--and pointed to the door. the dummy had stood, with his faded old-young eyes on her, and had not moved. the senior, who had the ward supper to serve and beds to brush out and backs to rub, not to mention having to make up the emergency bed and clear away the dressings--the senior tried diplomacy and offered him an orange from her own corner of the medicine closet. he shook his head. "i guess he wants to know whether that girl from the avenue's going to get well," said irish delia. "he seems to know her." there was a titter through the ward at this. old maggie's gossiping tongue had been busy during the hour. from pity the ward had veered to contempt. "humph!" said the senior, and put the orange back. "why, yes; i guess she'll get well. but how in heaven's name am i to let him know?" she was a resourceful person, however, and by pointing to the avenue girl and then nodding reassuringly she got her message of cheer over the gulf of his understanding. in return the dummy told her by gestures how he knew the girl and how she had bound up the leg of the superintendent's dog. the senior was a literal person and not occult; and she was very busy. when the dummy stooped to indicate the dog, a foot or so from the ground, she seized that as the key of the situation. "he's trying to let me know that he knew her when she was a baby," she observed generally. "all right, if that's the case. come in and see her when you want to. and now get out, for goodness' sake!" the dummy, with his patient shamble, made his way out of the ward and stored his polishes for the night in the corner of a scrub-closet. then, ignoring supper, he went down the stairs, flight after flight, to the chapel. the late autumn sun had set behind the buildings across the courtyard and the lower part of the silent room was in shadow; but the afterglow came palely through the stained-glass window, with the young john and tall stalks of white lilies, and "to the memory of my daughter elizabeth" beneath. it was only a coincidence--and not even that to the dummy--but elizabeth had been the avenue girl's name not so long ago. the dummy sat down near the door very humbly and gazed at the memorial window. ii time may be measured in different ways--by joys; by throbs of pain; by instants; by centuries. in a hospital it is marked by night nurses and day nurses; by rounds of the staff; by visiting days; by medicines and temperatures and milk diets and fever baths; by the distant singing in the chapel on sundays; by the shift of the morning sun on the east beds to the evening sun on the beds along the west windows. the avenue girl lay alone most of the time. the friendly offices of the ward were not for her. private curiosity and possible kindliness were over-shadowed by a general arrogance of goodness. the ward flung its virtue at her like a weapon and she raised no defence. in the first days things were not so bad. she lay in shock for a time, and there were not wanting hands during the bad hours to lift a cup of water to her lips; but after that came the tedious time when death no longer hovered overhead and life was there for the asking. the curious thing was that the avenue girl did not ask. she lay for hours without moving, with eyes that seemed tired with looking into the dregs of life. the probationer was in despair. "she could get better if she would," she said to the _interne_ one day. the senior was off duty and they had done the dressing together. "she just won't try." "perhaps she thinks it isn't worth while," replied the _interne_, who was drying his hands carefully while the probationer waited for the towel. she was a very pretty probationer. "she hasn't much to look forward to, you know." the probationer was not accustomed to discussing certain things with young men, but she had the avenue girl on her mind. "she has a home--she admits it." she coloured bravely. "why--why cannot she go back to it, even now?" the _interne_ poured a little rosewater and glycerine into the palm of one hand and gave the probationer the bottle. if his fingers touched hers, she never knew it. "perhaps they'd not want her after--well, they'd never feel the same, likely. they'd probably prefer to think of her as dead and let it go at that. there--there doesn't seem to be any way back, you know." he was exceedingly self-conscious. "then life is very cruel," said the probationer with rather shaky lips. and going back to the avenue girl's bed she filled her cup with ice and straightened her pillows. it was her only way of showing defiance to a world that mutilated its children and turned them out to die. the _interne_ watched her as she worked. it rather galled him to see her touching this patient. he had no particular sympathy for the avenue girl. he was a man, and ruthless, as men are apt to be in such things. the avenue girl had no visitors. she had had one or two at first--pretty girls with tired eyes and apologetic glances; a negress who got by the hall porter with a box of cigarettes, which the senior promptly confiscated; and--the dummy. morning and evening came the dummy and stood by her bed and worshipped. morning and evening he brought tribute--a flower from the masses that came in daily; an orange, got by no one knows what trickery from the kitchen; a leadpencil; a box of cheap candies. at first the girl had been embarrassed by his visits. later, as the unfriendliness of the ward grew more pronounced, she greeted him with a faint smile. the first time she smiled he grew quite pale and shuffled out. late that night they found him sitting in the chapel looking at the window, which was only a blur. for certain small services in the ward the senior depended on the convalescents--filling drinking cups; passing milk at eleven and three; keeping the white bedspreads in geometrical order. but the avenue girl was taboo. the boycott had been instituted by old maggie. the rampant respectability of the ward even went so far as to refuse to wash her in those early morning hours when the night nurse, flying about with her cap on one ear, was carrying tin basins about like a blue-and-white cyclone. the dummy knew nothing of the washing; the early morning was the time when he polished the brass doorplate which said: hospital and free dispensary. but he knew about the drinking cup and after a time that became his self-appointed task. on sundays he put on his one white shirt and a frayed collar two sizes too large and went to chapel. at those times he sat with his prayer book upside down and watched the probationer who cared for his lady and who had no cap to hide her shining hair, and the _interne_, who was glad there was no cap because of the hair. god's fool he was, indeed, for he liked to look in the _interne's_ eyes, and did not know an _interne_ cannot marry for years and years, and that a probationer must not upset discipline by being engaged. god's fool, indeed, who could see into the hearts of men, but not into their thoughts or their lives; and who, seeing only thus, on two dimensions of life and not the third, found the avenue girl holy and worthy of all worship! * * * * * the probationer worried a great deal. "it must hurt her so!" she said to the senior. "did you see them call that baby away on visiting day for fear she would touch it?" "none are so good as the untempted," explained the senior, who had been beautiful and was now placid and full of good works. "you cannot remake the world, child. bodies are our business here--not souls." but the next moment she called old maggie to her. "i've been pretty patient, maggie," she said. "you know what i mean. you're the ringleader. now things are going to change, or--you'll go back on codliver oil to-night." "yes'm," said old maggie meekly, with hate in her heart. she loathed the codliver oil. "go back and straighten her bed!" commanded the senior sternly. "now?" "now!" "it hurts my back to stoop over," whined old maggie, with the ward watching. "the doctor said that i----" the senior made a move for the medicine closet and the bottles labelled c. "i'm going," whimpered old maggie. "can't you give a body time?" and she went down to defeat, with the laughter of the ward in her ears--down to defeat, for the avenue girl would have none of her. "you get out of here!" she said fiercely as old maggie set to work at the draw sheet. "get out quick--or i'll throw this cup in your face!" the senior was watching. old maggie put on an air of benevolence and called the avenue girl an unlovely name under her breath while she smoothed her pillow. she did not get the cup, but the water out of it, in her hard old face, and matters were as they had been. the girl did not improve as she should. the _interne_ did the dressing day after day, while the probationer helped him--the senior disliked burned cases--and talked of skin grafting if a new powder he had discovered did no good. _internes_ are always trying out new things, looking for the great discovery. the powder did no good. the day came when, the dressing over and the white coverings drawn up smoothly again over her slender body, the avenue girl voiced the question that her eyes had asked each time. "am i going to lie in this hole all my life?" she demanded. the _interne_ considered. "it isn't healing--not very fast anyhow," he said. "if we could get a little skin to graft on you'd be all right in a jiffy. can't you get some friends to come in? it isn't painful and it's over in a minute." "friends? where would i get friends of that sort?" "well, relatives then--some of your own people?" the avenue girl shut her eyes as she did when the dressing hurt her. "none that i'd care to see," she said. and the probationer knew she lied. the _interne_ shrugged his shoulders. "if you think of any let me know. we'll get them here," he said briskly, and turned to see the probationer rolling up her sleeve. "please!" she said, and held out a bare white arm. the _interne_ stared at it stupefied. it was very lovely. "i am not at all afraid," urged the probationer, "and my blood is good. it would grow--i know it would." the _interne_ had hard work not to stoop and kiss the blue veins that rose to the surface in the inner curve of her elbow. the dressing screens were up and the three were quite alone. to keep his voice steady he became stern. "put your sleeve down and don't be a foolish girl!" he, commanded. "put your sleeve down!" his eyes said: "you wonder! you beauty! you brave little girl!" because the probationer seemed to take her responsibilities rather to heart, however, and because, when he should have been thinking of other things, such as calling up the staff and making reports, he kept seeing that white arm and the resolute face above it, the _interne_ worked out a plan. "i've fixed it, i think," he said, meeting her in a hallway where he had no business to be, and trying to look as if he had not known she was coming. "father feeny was in this morning and i tackled him. he's got a lot of students--fellows studying for the priesthood--and he says any daughter of the church shall have skin if he has to flay 'em alive." "but--is she a daughter of the church?" asked the probationer. "and even if she were, under the circumstances----" "what circumstances?" demanded the _interne_. "here's a poor girl burned and suffering. the father is not going to ask whether she's of the anointed." the probationer was not sure. she liked doing things in the open and with nothing to happen later to make one uncomfortable; but she spoke to the senior and the senior was willing. her chief trouble, after all, was with the avenue girl herself. "i don't want to get well," she said wearily when the thing was put up to her. "what's the use? i'd just go back to the same old thing; and when it got too strong for me i'd end up here again or in the morgue." "tell me where your people live, then, and let me send for them." "why? to have them read in my face what i've been, and go back home to die of shame?" the probationer looked at the avenue girl's face. "there--there is nothing in your face to hurt them," she said, flushing--because there were some things the probationer had never discussed, even with herself. "you--look sad. honestly, that's all." the avenue girl held up her thin right hand. the forefinger was still yellow from cigarettes. "what about that?" she sneered. "if i bleach it will you let me send for your people?" "i'll--perhaps," was the most the probationer could get. many people would have been discouraged. even the senior was a bit cynical. it took a probationer still heartsick for home to read in the avenue girl's eyes the terrible longing for the things she had given up--for home and home folks; for a clean slate again. the probationer bleached and scrubbed the finger, and gradually a little of her hopeful spirit touched the other girl. "what day is it?" the avenue girl asked once. "friday." "that's baking day at home. we bake in an out-oven. did you ever smell bread as it comes from an out-oven?" or: "that's a pretty shade of blue you nurses wear. it would be nice for working in the dairy, wouldn't it?" "fine!" said the probationer, and scrubbed away to hide the triumph in her eyes. iii that was the day the dummy stole the parrot. the parrot belonged to the girl; but how did he know it? so many things he should have known the dummy never learned; so many things he knew that he seemed never to have learned! he did not know, for instance, of father feeny and the holy name students; but he knew of the avenue girl's loneliness and heartache, and of the cabal against her. it is one of the black marks on record against him that he refused to polish the plate on old maggie's bed, and that he shook his fist at her more than once when the senior was out of the ward. and he knew of the parrot. that day, then, a short, stout woman with a hard face appeared in the superintendent's office and demanded a parrot. "parrot?" said the superintendent blandly. "parrot! that crazy man you keep here walked into my house to-day and stole a parrot--and i want it." "the dummy! but what on earth----" "it was my parrot," said the woman. "it belonged to one of my boarders. she's a burned case up in one of the wards--and she owed me money. i took it for a debt. you call that man and let him look me in the eye while i say parrot to him." "he cannot speak or hear." "you call him. he'll understand me!" they found the dummy coming stealthily down from the top of the stable and haled him into the office. he was very calm--quite impassive. apparently he had never seen the woman before; as she raged he smiled cheerfully and shook his head. "as a matter of fact," said the superintendent, "i don't believe he ever saw the bird; but if he has it we shall find it out and you'll get it again." they let him go then; and he went to the chapel and looked at a dove above the young john's head. then he went up to the kitchen and filled his pockets with lettuce leaves. he knew nothing at all of parrots or how to care for them. things, you see, were moving right for the avenue girl. the stain was coming off--she had been fond of the parrot and now it was close at hand; and father feeny's lusty crowd stood ready to come into a hospital ward and shed skin that they generally sacrificed on the football field. but the avenue girl had two years to account for--and there was the matter of an alibi. "i might tell the folks at home anything and they'd believe it because they'd want to believe it," said the avenue girl. "but there's the neighbours. i was pretty wild at home. and--there's a fellow who wanted to marry me--he knew how sick i was of the old place and how i wanted my fling. his name was jerry. we'd have to show jerry." the probationer worried a great deal about this matter of the alibi. it had to be a clean slate for the folks back home, and especially for jerry. she took her anxieties out walking several times on her off-duty, but nothing seemed to come of it. she walked on the avenue mostly, because it was near and she could throw a long coat over her blue dress. and so she happened to think of the woman the girl had lived with. "she got her into all this," thought the probationer. "she's just got to see her out." it took three days' off-duty to get her courage up to ringing the doorbell of the house with the bowed shutters, and after she had rung it she wanted very much to run and hide; but she thought of the girl and everything going for nothing for the want of an alibi, and she stuck. the negress opened the door and stared at her. "she's dead, is she?" she asked. "no. may i come in? i want to see your mistress." the negress did not admit her, however. she let her stand in the vestibule and went back to the foot of a staircase. "one of these heah nurses from the hospital!" she said. "she wants to come in and speak to you." "let her in, you fool!" replied a voice from above stairs. the rest was rather confused. afterward the probationer remembered putting the case to the stout woman who had claimed the parrot and finding it difficult to make her understand. "don't you see?" she finished desperately. "i want her to go home--to her own folks. she wants it too. but what are we going to say about these last two years?" the stout woman sat turning over her rings. she was most uncomfortable. after all, what had she done? had she not warned them again and again about having lighted cigarettes lying round. "she's in bad shape, is she?" "she may recover, but she'll be badly scarred--not her face, but her chest and shoulders." that was another way of looking at it. if the girl was scarred---- "just what do you want me to do?" she asked. now that it was down to brass tacks and no talk about home and mother, she was more comfortable. "if you could just come over to the hospital while her people are there and--and say she'd lived with you all the time----" "that's the truth all right!" "and--that she worked for you, sewing--she sews very well, she says. and--oh, you'll know what to say; that she's been--all right, you know; anything to make them comfortable and happy." now the stout woman was softening--not that she was really hard, but she had developed a sort of artificial veneer of hardness, and good impulses had a hard time crawling through. "i guess i could do that much," she conceded. "she nursed me when i was down and out with the grippe and that worthless nigger was drunk in the kitchen. but you folks over there have got a parrot that belongs to me. what about that?" the probationer knew about the parrot. the dummy had slipped it into the ward more than once and its profanity had delighted the patients. the avenue girl had been glad to see it too; and as it sat on the bedside table and shrieked defiance and oaths the dummy had smiled benignly. john and the dove--the girl and the parrot! "i am sorry about the parrot. i--perhaps i could buy him from you." she got out her shabby little purse, in which she carried her munificent monthly allowance of eight dollars and a little money she had brought from home. "twenty dollars takes him. that's what she owed me." the probationer had seventeen dollars and eleven cents. she spread it out in her lap and counted it twice. "i'm afraid that's all," she said. she had hoped the second count would show up better. "i could bring the rest next month." the probationer folded the money together and held it out. the stout woman took it eagerly. "he's yours," she said largely. "don't bother about the balance. when do you want me?" "i'll send you word," said the probationer, and got up. she was almost dizzy with excitement and the feeling of having no money at all in the world and a parrot she did not want. she got out into the air somehow and back to the hospital. she took a bath immediately and put on everything fresh, and felt much better--but very poor. before she went on duty she said a little prayer about thermometers--that she should not break hers until she had money for a new one. * * * * * father feeny came and lined up six budding priests outside the door of the ward. he was a fine specimen of manhood and he had asked no questions at all. the senior thought she had better tell him something, but he put up a white hand. "what does it matter, sister?" he said cheerfully. "yesterday is gone and to-day is a new day. also there is to-morrow"--his irish eyes twinkled--"and a fine day it will be by the sunset." then he turned to his small army. "boys," he said, "it's a poor leader who is afraid to take chances with his men. i'm going first"--he said fir-rst. "it's a small thing, as i've told you--a bit of skin and it's over. go in smiling and come out smiling! are you ready, sir?" this to the _interne_. that was a great day in the ward. the inmates watched father feeny and the _interne_ go behind the screens, both smiling, and they watched the father come out very soon after, still smiling but a little bleached. and they watched the line patiently waiting outside the door, shortening one by one. after a time the smiles were rather forced, as if waiting was telling on them; but there was no deserter--only one six-foot youth, walking with a swagger to contribute his little half inch or so of cuticle, added a sensation to the general excitement by fainting halfway up the ward; and he remained in blissful unconsciousness until it was all over. though the _interne_ had said there was no way back, the first step had really been taken; and he was greatly pleased with himself and with everybody because it had been his idea. the probationer tried to find a chance to thank him; and, failing that, she sent a grateful little note to his room: is mimi the austrian to have a baked apple? [signed] ward a. p.s.--it went through wonderfully! she is so cheerful since it is over. how can i ever thank you? the reply came back very quickly: baked apple, without milk, for mimi. ward a. [signed] d.l.s. p.s.--can you come up on the roof for a little air? she hesitated over that for some time. a really honest-to-goodness nurse may break a rule now and then and nothing happen; but a probationer is only on trial and has to be exceedingly careful--though any one might go to the roof and watch the sunset. she decided not to go. then she pulled her soft hair down over her forehead, where it was most becoming, and fastened it with tiny hairpins, and went up after all--not because she intended to, but because as she came out of her room the elevator was going up--not down. she was on the roof almost before she knew it. the _interne_ was there in fresh white ducks, smoking. at first they talked of skin grafting and the powder that had not done what was expected of it. after a time, when the autumn twilight had fallen on them like a benediction, she took her courage in her hands and told of her visit to the house on the avenue, and about the parrot and the plot. the _interne_ stood very still. he was young and intolerant. some day he would mellow and accept life as it is--not as he would have it. when she had finished he seemed to have drawn himself into a shell, turtle fashion, and huddled himself together. the shell was pride and old prejudice and the intolerance of youth. "she had to have an alibi!" said the probationer. "oh, of course," very stiffly. "i cannot see why you disapprove. something had to be done." "i cannot see that you had to do it; but it's your own affair, of course. only----" "please go on." "well, one cannot touch dirt without being soiled." "i think you will be sorry you said that," said the probationer stiffly. and she went down the staircase, leaving him alone. he was sorry, of course; but he would not say so even to himself. he thought of the probationer, with her eager eyes and shining hair and her warm little heart, ringing the bell of the avenue house and making her plea--and his blood ran hot in him. it was just then that the parrot spoke on the other side of the chimney. "gimme a bottle of beer!" it said. "nice cold beer! cold beer!" the _interne_ walked furiously toward the sound. must this girl of the streets and her wretched associates follow him everywhere? she had ruined his life already. he felt that it was ruined. probably the probationer would never speak to him again. the dummy was sitting on a bench, with the parrot on his knee looking rather queer from being smuggled about under a coat and fed the curious things that the dummy thought a bird should eat. it had a piece of apple pie in its claw now. "cold beer!" said the parrot, and eyed the _interne_ crookedly. the dummy had not heard him, of course. he sat looking over the parapet toward the river, with one knotted hand smoothing the bird's ruffled plumage and such a look of wretchedness in his eyes that it hurt to see it. god's fools, who cannot reason, can feel. some instinct of despair had seized him for its own--some conception, perhaps, of what life would never mean to him. before it, the _interne's_ wrath gave way to impotency. "cold beer!" said the parrot wickedly. iv the avenue girl improved slowly. morning and evening came the dummy and smiled down at her, with reverence in his eyes. she could smile back now and sometimes she spoke to him. there was a change in the avenue girl. she was less sullen. in the back of her eyes each morning found a glow of hope--that died, it is true, by noontime; but it came again with the new day. "how's polly this morning, montmorency?" she would say, and give him a bit of toast from her breakfast for the bird. or: "i wish you could talk, reginald. i'd like to hear what rose said when you took the parrot. it must have been a scream!" he brought her the first chrysanthemums of the fall and laid them on her pillow. it was after he had gone, while the probationer was combing out the soft short curls of her hair, that she mentioned the dummy. she strove to make her voice steady, but there were tears in her eyes. "the old goat's been pretty good to me, hasn't he?" she said. "i believe it is very unusual. i wonder"--the probationer poised the comb--"perhaps you remind him of some one he used to know." they knew nothing, of course, of the boy john and the window. "he's about the first decent man i ever knew," said the avenue girl--"and he's a fool!" "either a fool or very, very wise," replied the probationer. the _interne_ and the probationer were good friends again, but they had never quite got back to the place they had lost on the roof. over the avenue girl's dressing their eyes met sometimes, and there was an appeal in the man's and tenderness; but there was pride too. he would not say he had not meant it. any man will tell you that he was entirely right, and that she had been most unwise and needed a good scolding--only, of course, it is never the wise people who make life worth the living. and an important thing had happened--the probationer had been accepted and had got her cap. she looked very stately in it, though it generally had a dent somewhere from her forgetting she had it on and putting her hat on over it. the first day she wore it she knelt at prayers with the others, and said a little thank you! for getting through when she was so unworthy. she asked to be made clean and pure, and delivered from vanity, and of some use in the world. and, trying to think of the things she had been remiss in, she went out that night in a rain and bought some seed and things for the parrot. prodigal as had been father feeny and his battalion, there was more grafting needed before the avenue girl could take her scarred body and soul out into the world again. the probationer offered, but was refused politely. "you are a part of the institution now," said the _interne_, with his eyes on her cap. he was rather afraid of the cap. "i cannot cripple the institution." it was the dummy who solved that question. no one knew how he knew the necessity or why he had not come forward sooner; but come he did and would not be denied. the _interne_ went to a member of the staff about it. "the fellow works round the house," he explained; "but he's taken a great fancy to the girl and i hardly know what to do." "my dear boy," said the staff, "one of the greatest joys in the world is to suffer for a woman. let him go to it." so the dummy bared his old-young arm--not once, but many times. always as the sharp razor nicked up its bit of skin he looked at the girl and smiled. in the early evening he perched the parrot on his bandaged arm and sat on the roof or by the fountain in the courtyard. when the breeze blew strong enough the water flung over the rim and made little puddles in the hollows of the cement pavement. here belated sparrows drank or splashed their dusty feathers, and the parrot watched them crookedly. the avenue girl grew better with each day, but remained wistful-eyed. the ward no longer avoided her, though she was never one of them. one day the probationer found a new baby in the children's ward; and, with the passion of maternity that is the real reason for every good woman's being, she cuddled the mite in her arms. she visited the nurses in the different wards. "just look!" she would say, opening her arms. "if i could only steal it!" the senior, who had once been beautiful and was now calm and placid, smiled at her. old maggie must peer and cry out over the child. irish delia must call down a blessing on it. and so up the ward to the avenue girl; the probationer laid the baby in her arms. "just a minute," she explained. "i'm idling and i have no business to. hold it until i give the three o'clocks." which means the three-o'clock medicines. when she came back the avenue girl had a new look in her eyes; and that day the little gleam of hope, that usually died, lasted and grew. at last came the day when the alibi was to be brought forward. the girl had written home and the home folks were coming. in his strange way the dummy knew that a change was near. the kaleidoscope would shift again and the avenue girl would join the changing and disappearing figures that fringed the inner circle of his heart. one night he did not go to bed in the ward bed that was his only home, beside the little stand that held his only possessions. the watchman missed him and found him asleep in the chapel in one of the seats, with the parrot drowsing on the altar. rose--who was the stout woman--came early. she wore a purple dress, with a hat to match, and purple gloves. the ward eyed her with scorn and a certain deference. she greeted the avenue girl effusively behind the screens that surrounded the bed. "well, you do look pinched!" she said. "ain't it a mercy it didn't get to your face! pretty well chewed up, aren't you?" "do you want to see it?" "good land! no! now look here, you've got to put me wise or i'll blow the whole thing. what's my little stunt? the purple's all right for it, isn't it?" "all you need to do," said the avenue girl wearily, "is to say that i've been sewing for you since i came to the city. and--if you can say anything good----" "i'll do that all right," rose affirmed. she put a heavy silver bag on the bedside table and lowered herself into a chair. "you leave it to me, dearie. there ain't anything i won't say." the ward was watching with intense interest. old maggie, working the creaking bandage machine, was palpitating with excitement. from her chair by the door she could see the elevator and it was she who announced the coming of destiny. "here comes the father," she confided to the end of the ward. "guess the mother couldn't come." it was not the father though. it was a young man who hesitated in the doorway, hat in hand--a tall young man, with a strong and not unhandsome face. the probationer, rather twitchy from excitement and anxiety, felt her heart stop and race on again. jerry, without a doubt! the meeting was rather constrained. the girl went whiter than her pillows and half closed her eyes; but rose, who would have been terrified at the sight of an elderly farmer, was buoyantly relieved and at her ease. "i'm sorry," said jerry. "i--we didn't realise it had been so bad. the folks are well; but--i thought i'd better come. they're expecting you back home." "it was nice of you to come," said the girl, avoiding his eyes. "i--i'm getting along fine." "i guess introductions ain't necessary," put in rose briskly. "i'm mrs. sweeney. she's been living with me--working for me, sewing. she's sure a fine sewer! she made this suit i'm wearing." poor rose, with "custom made" on every seam of the purple! but jerry was hardly listening. his eyes were on the girl among the pillows. "i see," said jerry slowly. "you haven't said yet, elizabeth. are you going home?" "if--they want me." "of course they want you!" again rose: "why shouldn't they? you've been a good girl and a credit to any family. if they say anything mean to you you let me know." "they'll not be mean to her. i'm sure they'll want to write and thank you. if you'll just give me your address, mrs. sweeney----" he had a pencil poised over a notebook. rose hesitated. then she gave her address on the avenue, with something of bravado in her voice. after all, what could this country-store clerk know of the avenue? jerry wrote it down carefully. "sweeney--with an e?" he asked politely. "with three e's," corrected rose, and got up with dignity. "well, good-bye, dearie," she said. "you've got your friends now and you don't need me. i guess you've had your lesson about going to sleep with a cig--about being careless with fire. drop me a postal when you get the time." she shook hands with jerry and rustled and jingled down the ward, her chin well up. at the door she encountered old maggie, her arms full of bandages. "how's the avenue?" asked old maggie. rose, however, like all good actresses, was still in the part as she made her exit. she passed old maggie unheeding, severe respectability in every line of her figure, every nod of her purple plumes. she was still in the part when she encountered the probationer. "it's going like a house afire!" she said. "he swallowed it all--hook and bait! and--oh, yes, i've got something for you." she went down into her silver bag and pulled out a roll of bills. "i've felt meaner'n a dog every time i've thought of you buying that parrot. i've got a different view of life--maybe--from yours; but i'm not taking candy from a baby." when the probationer could speak rose was taking herself and the purple into the elevator and waving her a farewell. "good-bye!" she said. "if ever you get stuck again just call on me." with rose's departure silence fell behind the screen. the girl broke it first. "they're all well, are they?" "all well. your mother's been kind of poorly. she thought you'd write to her." the girl clenched her hands under the bedclothing. she could not speak just then. "there's nothing much happened. the post office burned down last summer. they're building a new one. and--i've been building. i tore down the old place." "are you going to be married, jerry?" "some day, i suppose. i'm not worrying about it. it was something to do; it kept me from--thinking." the girl looked at him and something gripped her throat. he knew! rose might have gone down with her father, but jerry knew! nothing was any use. she knew his rigid morality, his country-bred horror of the thing she was. she would have to go back--to rose and the others. he would never take her home. down at the medicine closet the probationer was carbolising thermometers and humming a little song. everything was well. the avenue girl was with her people and at seven o'clock the probationer was going to the roof--to meet some one who was sincerely repentant and very meek. in the convalescent ward next door they were singing softly--one of those spontaneous outbursts that have their origin in the hearts of people and a melody all their own: _'way down upon de s'wanee ribber, far, far away, dere's wha my heart is turnin' ebber-- dere's wha de old folks stay._ it penetrated back of the screen, where the girl lay in white wretchedness--and where jerry, with death in his eyes, sat rigid in his chair. "jerry?" "yes." "i--i guess i've been pretty far away." "don't tell me about it!" a cry, this. "you used to care for me, jerry. i'm not expecting that now; but if you'd only believe me when i say i'm sorry----" "i believe you, elizabeth." "one of the nurses here says----jerry, won't you look at me?" with some difficulty he met her eyes. "she says that because one starts wrong one needn't go wrong always. i was ashamed to write. she made me do it." she held out an appealing hand, but he did not take it. all his life he had built up a house of morality. now his house was crumbling and he stood terrified in the wreck. "it isn't only because i've been hurt that i--am sorry," she went on. "i loathed it! i'd have finished it all long ago, only--i was afraid." "i would rather have found you dead!" there is a sort of anesthesia of misery. after a certain amount of suffering the brain ceases to feel. jerry watched the white curtain of the screen swaying in the wind, settled his collar, glanced at his watch. he was quite white. the girl's hand still lay on the coverlet. somewhere back in the numbed brain that would think only little thoughts he knew that if he touched that small, appealing hand the last wall of his house would fall. it was the dummy, after all, who settled that for him. he came with his afternoon offering of cracked ice just then and stood inside the screen, staring. perhaps he had known all along how it would end, that this, his saint, would go--and not alone--to join the vanishing circle that had ringed the inner circle of his heart. just at the time it rather got him. he swayed a little and clutched at the screen; but the next moment he had placed the bowl on the stand and stood smiling down at the girl. "the only person in the world who believes in me!" said the girl bitterly. "and he's a fool!" the dummy smiled into her eyes. in his faded, childish eyes there was the eternal sadness of his kind, eternal tenderness, and the blur of one who has looked much into a far distance. suddenly he bent over and placed the man's hand over the girl's. the last wall was down! jerry buried his face in the white coverlet. * * * * * the _interne_ was pacing the roof anxiously. golden sunset had faded to lavender--to dark purple--to night. the probationer came up at last--not a probationer now, of course; but she had left off her cap and was much less stately. "i'm sorry," she explained; "but i've been terribly busy. it went off so well!" "of course--if you handled it." "you know--don't you?--it was the lover who came. he looks so strong and good--oh, she is safe now!" "that's fine!" said the _interne_ absently. they were sitting on the parapet now and by sliding his hand along he found her fingers. "isn't it a glorious evening?" he had the fingers pretty close by that time; and suddenly gathering them up he lifted the hand to his lips. "such a kind little hand!" he said over it. "such a dear, tender little hand! my hand!" he said, rather huskily. down in the courtyard the dummy sat with the parrot on his knee. at his feet the superintendent's dog lay on his side and dreamed of battle. the dummy's eyes lingered on the scar the avenue girl had bandaged--how long ago! his eyes wandered to the window with the young john among the lilies. in the stable were still the ambulance horses that talked to him without words. and he had the parrot. if he thought at all it was that his father was good and that, after all, he was not alone. the parrot edged along his knee and eyed him with saturnine affection. the miracle i big mary was sweeping the ward with a broom muffled in a white bag. in the breeze from the open windows, her blue calico wrapper ballooned about her and made ludicrous her frantic thrusts after the bits of fluff that formed eddies under the beds and danced in the spring air. she finished her sweeping, and, with the joyous scraps captured in her dust-pan, stood in the doorway, critically surveying the ward. it was brilliantly clean and festive; on either side a row of beds, fresh white for the day; on the centre table a vase of easter lilies, and on the record-table near the door a potted hyacinth. the nurse herself wore a bunch of violets tucked in her apron-band. one of the patients had seen the junior medical give them to her. the eastern sun, shining across the beds, made below them, on the polished floor, black islands of shadow in a gleaming sea of light. and scattered here and there, rocking in chairs or standing at windows, enjoying the sunday respite from sewing or the bandage-machine, women, grotesque and distorted of figure, in attitudes of weariness and expectancy, with patient eyes awaited their crucifixion. behind them, in the beds, a dozen perhaps who had come up from death and held the miracle in their arms. the miracles were small and red, and inclined to feeble and ineffectual wrigglings. fists were thrust in the air and brought down on smiling, pale mother faces. with tight-closed eyes and open mouths, each miracle squirmed and nuzzled until the mother would look with pleading eyes at the nurse. and the nurse would look severe and say: "good gracious, annie petowski, surely you don't want to feed that infant again! do you want the child to have a dilated stomach?" fear of that horrible and mysterious condition, a dilated stomach, would restrain annie petowski or jennie goldstein or maggie mcnamara for a time. with the wisdom of the serpent, she would give the child her finger to suck--a finger so white, so clean, so soft in the last week that she was lost in admiration of it. and the child would take hold, all its small body set rigid in lines of desperate effort. then it would relax suddenly, and spew out the finger, and the quiet hospital air would be rent with shrieks of lost illusion. then annie petowski or jennie goldstein or maggie mcnamara would watch the nurse with open hostility and defiance, and her rustling exit from the ward would be followed by swift cessation of cries, and, close to annie or jennie or maggie's heart, there would be small ecstatic gurglings--and peace. in her small domain the nurse was queen. from her throne at the record-table, she issued proclamations of baths and fine combs, of clean bedding and trimmed nails, of tea and toast, of regular hours for the babies. from this throne, also, she directed periodic searches of the bedside stands, unearthing scraps of old toast, decaying fruit, candy, and an occasional cigarette. from the throne, too, she sent daily a blue-wrappered and pig-tailed brigade to the kitchen, armed with knives, to attack the dinner potatoes. but on this easter morning, the queen looked tired and worn. her crown, a starched white cap, had slipped back on her head, and her blue-and-white dress was stained and spotted. even her fresh apron and sleevelets did not quite conceal the damage. she had come in for a moment at the breakfast hour, and asked the swede, ellen ollman, to serve the breakfast for her; and at half past eight she had appeared again for a moment, and had turned down one of the beds and put hot-water bottles in it. the ward ate little breakfast. it was always nervous when a case was "on." excursions down the corridor by one or another of the blue-wrappered brigade brought back bits of news: "the doctor is smoking a cigarette in the hall;" or, "miss jones, the day assistant, has gone in;" and then, with bated breath, "the doctor with the red mustache has come"--by which it was known that things were going badly, the staff man having been summoned. suggestions of easter began to appear even in this isolated ward, denied to all visitors except an occasional husband, who was usually regarded with a mixture of contempt and scepticism by the other women. but now the lilies came, and after them a lame young woman who played the organ in the chapel on sundays, and who afterward went from ward to ward, singing little songs and accompanying herself on the mandolin she carried with her. the lame young woman seated herself in the throne-chair and sang an easter anthem, and afterward limped around and placed a leaflet and a spray of lilies-of-the-valley on each bedside stand. she was escorted around the ward by elizabeth miller, known as "liz" in our alley, and rechristened elizabeth by the nurse. elizabeth always read the tracts. she had been there four times, and knew all the nurses and nearly all the doctors. "liz" had been known, in a shortage of nurses, to be called into the mysterious room down the hall to assist; and on those occasions, in an all-enveloping white gown over her wrapper, with her hair under a cap, she outranked the queen herself in regalness and authority. the lame mandolin-player stopped at the foot of the empty bed. "shall i put one here?" she asked, fingering a tract. liz meditated majestically. "well, i guess i would," she said. "not that it'll do any good." "why?" liz jerked her head toward the corridor. "she's not getting on very well," she said; "and, even if she gets through, she won't read the tract. she held her fingers in her ears last sunday while the bible-reader was here. she's young. says she hopes she and the kid'll both die." the mandolin-player was not unversed in the psychology of the ward. "then she--isn't married?" she asked, and because she was young, she flushed painfully. liz stared at her, and a faint light of amusement dawned in her eyes. "well, no," she admitted; "i guess that's what's worrying her. she's a fool, she is. she can put the kid in a home. that's what i do. suppose she married the fellow that got her into trouble? wouldn't he be always throwing it up to her?" the mandolin-player looked at liz, puzzled at this new philosophy of life. "have--have you a baby here?" she asked timidly. "have i!" said liz, and, wheeling, led the way to her bed. she turned the blanket down with a practised hand, revealing a tiny red atom, so like the others that only mother love could have distinguished it. "this is mine," she said airily. "funny little mutt, isn't he?" the mandolin-player gazed diffidently at the child. "he--he's very little," she said. "little!" said liz. "he holds the record here for the last six months--eleven pounds three ounces in his skin, when he arrived. the little devil!" she put the blanket tenderly back over the little devil's sleeping form. the mandolin-player cast about desperately for the right thing to say. "does--does he look like his father?" she asked timidly. but apparently liz did not hear. she had moved down the ward. the mandolin-player heard only a snicker from annie petowski's bed, and, vaguely uncomfortable, she moved toward the door. liz was turning down the cover of the empty bed, and the nurse, with tired but shining eyes, was wheeling in the operating table. the mandolin-player stepped aside to let the table pass. from the blankets she had a glimpse of a young face, bloodless and wan--of hurt, defiant blue eyes. she had never before seen life so naked, so relentless. she shrank back against the wall, a little sick. then she gathered up her tracts and her mandolin, and limped down the hall. the door of the mysterious room was open, and from it came a shrill, high wail, a rising and falling note of distress--the voice of a new soul in protest. she went past with averted face. back in the ward liz leaned over the table and, picking the girl up bodily, deposited her tenderly in the warm bed. then she stood back and smiled down at her, with her hands on her hips. "well," she said kindly, "it's over, and here you are! but it's no picnic, is it?" the girl on the bed turned her head away. the coarsening of her features in the last month or two had changed to an almost bloodless refinement. with her bright hair, she looked as if she had been through the furnace of pain and had come out pure gold. but her eyes were hard. "go away," she said petulantly. liz leaned down and pulled the blanket over her shoulders. "you sleep now," she said soothingly. "when you wake up you can have a cup of tea." the girl threw the cover off and looked up despairingly into liz's face. "i don't want to sleep," she said. "my god, liz, it's going to live and so am i!" ii now, the nurse had been up all night, and at noon, after she had oiled the new baby and washed out his eyes and given him a teaspoonful of warm water, she placed liz in charge of the ward, and went to her room to put on a fresh uniform. the first thing she did, when she got there, was to go to the mirror, with the picture of her mother tucked in its frame, and survey herself. when she saw her cap and the untidiness of her hair and her white collar all spotted, she frowned. then she took the violets out of her belt and put them carefully in a glass of water, and feeling rather silly, she leaned over and kissed them. after that she felt better. she bathed her face in hot water and then in cold, which brought her colour back, and she put on everything fresh, so that she rustled with each step, which is proper for trained nurses; and finally she tucked the violets back where they belonged, and put on a new cap, which is also proper for trained nurses on gala occasions. if she had not gone back to the mirror to see that the general effect was as crisp as it should be, things would have been different for liz, and for the new mother back in the ward. but she did go back; and there, lying on the floor in front of the bureau, all folded together, was a piece of white paper exactly as if it has been tucked in her belt with the violets. she opened it rather shakily, and it was a leaf from the ward order-book, for at the top it said: annie petowski--may sit up for one hour. and below that: goldstein baby--bran baths. and below that: i love you. e.j. "e.j." was the junior medical. so the nurse went back to the ward, and sat down, palpitating, in the throne-chair by the table, and spread her crisp skirts, and found where the page had been torn out of the order-book. and as the smiles of sovereigns are hailed with delight by their courts, so the ward brightened until it seemed to gleam that easter afternoon. and a sort of miracle happened: none of the babies had colic, and the mothers mostly slept. also, one of the ladies of the house committee looked in at the door and said: "how beautiful you are here, and how peaceful! your ward is always a sort of benediction." the lady of the house committee looked across and saw the new mother, with the sunshine on her yellow braids, and her face refined from the furnace of pain. "what a sweet young mother!" she said, and rustled out, leaving an odor of peau d'espagne. the girl lay much as liz had left her. except her eyes, there was nothing in her face to show that despair had given place to wild mutiny. but liz knew; liz had gone through it all when "the first one" came; and so, from the end of the ward, she rocked and watched. the odor of peau d'espagne was still in the air, eclipsing the easter lilies, when liz got up and sauntered down to the girl's bed. "how are you now, dearie?" she asked, and, reaching under the blankets, brought out the tiny pearl-handled knife with which the girl had been wont to clean her finger-nails. the girl eyed her savagely, but said nothing; nor did she resist when liz brought out her hands and examined the wrists. the left had a small cut on it. "now listen to me," said liz. "none of that, do you hear? you ain't the only one that's laid here and wanted to end it all. and what happened? inside of a month they're well and strong again, and they put the kid somewhere, and the folks that know what's happened get used to it, and the ones that don't know don't need to know. don't be a fool!" she carried the knife off, but the girl made no protest. there were other ways. the nurse was very tired, for she had been up almost all night. she sat at the record-table with her bible open, and, in the intervals of taking temperatures, she read it. but mostly she read about annie petowski being allowed to sit up, and the goldstein baby having bran baths, and the other thing written below! at two o'clock came the junior medical, in a frock-coat and grey trousers. he expected to sing "the palms" at the easter service downstairs in the chapel that afternoon, and, according to precedent, the one who sings "the palms" on easter in the chapel must always wear a frock-coat. very conscious, because all the ward was staring at his gorgeousness, he went over to the bed where the new mother lay. then he came back and stood by the table, looking at a record. "have you taken her temperature?" he said, businesslike and erect. "ninety-eight." "her pulse is strong?" "yes; she's resting quietly." "good.--and--did you get my note?" this, much as if he had said, "did you find my scarf-pin?" or anything merely casual; for liz was hovering near. "yes." the nurse's red lips were trembling, but she smiled up at him. liz came nearer. she was only wishing him godspeed with his wooing, but it made him uncomfortable. "watch her closely," he said, "she's pretty weak and despondent." and he looked at liz. "elizabeth," said the nurse, "won't you sit by claribel and fan her?" claribel was the new mother. claribel is, of course, no name for a mother, but she had been named when she was very small. liz went away and sat by the girl's bed, and said a little prayer to the effect that they were both so damned good to everybody, she hoped they'd hit it off. but perhaps the prayer of the wicked availeth nothing. "you know i meant that," he said, from behind a record. "i--i love you with all my heart--and if only you----" the nurse shook down a thermometer and examined it closely. "i love you, too!" she said. and, walking shakily to one of the beds, she put the thermometer upside down in maggie mcnamara's mouth. the junior medical went away with his shoulders erect in his frock-coat, and his heavy brown hair, which would never part properly and had to be persuaded with brilliantine, bristling with happiness. and the nurse-queen, looking over her kingdom for somebody to lavish her new joy on, saw claribel lying in bed, looking at the ceiling and reading there all the tragedy of her broken life, all her despair. so she rustled out to the baby-room, where the new baby had never batted an eye since her bath and was lying on her back with both fists clenched on her breast, and she did something that no trained nurse is ever supposed to do. she lifted the baby, asleep and all, and carried her to her mother. but claribel's face only darkened when she saw her. "take the brat away," she said, and went on reading tragedies on the ceiling. liz came and proffered her the little mite with every art she knew. she showed her the wrinkled bits of feet, the tiny, ridiculous hands, and how long the hair grew on the back of her head. but when liz put the baby on her arm, she shuddered and turned her head away. so finally liz took it back to the other room, and left it there, still sleeping. the fine edge of the nurse's joy was dulled. it is a characteristic of great happiness to wish all to be well with the world; and here before her was dry-eyed despair. it was liz who finally decided her. "i guess i'll sit up with her to-night," she said, approaching the table with the peculiar gait engendered of heel-less hospital carpet-slippers and mother hubbard wrappers. "i don't like the way she watches the ceiling." "what do you mean, elizabeth?" asked the nurse. "time i had the twins--that's before your time," said liz--"we had one like that. she went out the window head first the night after the baby came, and took the kid with her." the nurse rose with quick decision. "we must watch her," she said. "perhaps if i could find--i think i'll go to the telephone. watch the ward carefully, elizabeth, and if annie petowski tries to feed her baby before three o'clock, take it from her. the child's stuffed like a sausage every time i'm out for five minutes." nurses know many strange things: they know how to rub an aching back until the ache is changed to a restful thrill, and how to change the bedding and the patient's night-dress without rolling the patient over more than once, which is a high and desirable form of knowledge. but also they get to know many strange people; their clean starchiness has a way of rubbing up against the filth of the world and coming away unsoiled. and so the nurse went downstairs to the telephone, leaving liz to watch for nefarious feeding. the nurse called up rose davis; and rosie, who was lying in bed with the sunday papers scattered around her and a cigarette in her manicured fingers, reached out with a yawn and, taking the telephone, rested it on her laced and ribboned bosom. "yes," she said indolently. the nurse told her who she was, and rosie's voice took on a warmer tinge. "oh, yes," she said. "how are you?... claribel? yes; what about her?... what!" "yes," said the nurse. "a girl--seven pounds." "my gawd! well, what do you think of that! excuse me a moment; my cigarette's set fire to the sheet. all right--go ahead." "she's taking it pretty hard, and i--i thought you might help her. she--she----" "how much do you want?" said rose, a trifle coldly. she turned in the bed and eyed the black leather bag on the stand at her elbow. "twenty enough?" "i don't think it's money," said the nurse, "although she needs that too; she hasn't any clothes for the baby. but--she's awfully despondent--almost desperate. have you any idea who the child's father is?" rosie considered, lighting a new cigarette with one hand and balancing the telephone with the other. "she left me a year ago," she said. "oh, yes; i know now. what time is it?" "two o'clock." "i'll tell you what i'll do," said rosie. "i'll get the fellow on the wire and see what he's willing to do. maybe he'll give her a dollar or two a week." "do you think you could bring him to see her?" "say, what do you think i am--a missionary?" the nurse was wise, so she kept silent. "well, i'll tell you what i will do. if i can bring him, i will. how's that yellow-haired she-devil you've got over there? i've got that fixed all right. she pulled a razor on me first--i've got witnesses. well, if i can get al, i'll do it. so long." it did not occur to the nurse to deprecate having used an evil medium toward a righteous end. she took life much as she found it. and so she tiptoed past the chapel again, where a faint odour of peau d'espagne came stealing out into the hall, and where the children from the children's ward, in roller-chairs and on crutches, were singing with all their shrill young voices, earnest eyes uplifted. the white easter lilies on the altar sent their fragrance out over the gathering, over the nurses, young and placid, over the hopeless and the hopeful, over the faces where death had passed and left its inevitable stamp, over bodies freshly risen on this easter sunday to new hope and new life--over the junior medical, waiting with the manuscript of "the palms" rolled in his hand and his heart singing a hymn of happiness. the nurse went up to her ward, and put a screen around claribel, and, with all her woman's art, tidied the immaculate white bed and loosened the uncompromising yellow braids, so that the soft hair fell across claribel's bloodless forehead and softened the defiance in her blue eyes. she brought the pink hyacinth in its pot, too, and placed it on the bedside table. then she stood off and looked at her work. it was good. claribel submitted weakly. she had stopped staring at the wall, and had taken to watching the open window opposite with strange intentness. only when the nurse gave a final pat to the bedspread she spoke. "was it a boy--or a girl?" she asked. "girl," said the nurse briskly. "a little beauty, perfect in every way." "a girl--to grow up and go through this hell!" she muttered, and her eyes wandered back to the window. but the nurse was wise with the accumulated wisdom of a sex that has had to match strength with wile for ages, and she was not yet ready. she went into the little room where eleven miracles lay in eleven cribs, and, although they all looked exactly alike, she selected claribel's without hesitation, and carried it to the mysterious room down the hall--which was no longer a torture-chamber, but a resplendently white place, all glass and tile and sunlight, and where she did certain things that are not prescribed in the hospital rules. first of all, she opened a cupboard and took out a baby dress of lace and insertion,--and everybody knows that such a dress is used only when a hospital infant is baptised,--and she clothed claribel's baby in linen and fine raiment, and because they are very, very red when they are so new, she dusted it with a bit of talcum--to break the shock, as you may say. it was very probable that al had never seen so new a baby, and it was useless to spoil the joy of parenthood unnecessarily. for it really was a fine child, and eventually it would be white and beautiful. the baby smelled of violet, for the christening-robe was kept in a sachet. finally she gave it another teaspoonful of warm water and put it back in its crib. and then she rustled starchily back to the throne-chair by the record-table, and opened her bible at the place where it said that annie petowski might sit up, and the goldstein baby--bran baths, and the other thing written just below. iii the music poured up the well of the staircase; softened by distance, the shrill childish sopranos and the throaty basses of the medical staff merged into a rising and falling harmony of exquisite beauty. liz sat on the top step of the stairs, with her baby in her arms; and, as the song went on, liz's eyes fell to her child and stayed there. at three o'clock the elevator-man brought rosie davis along the hall--rosie, whose costume betrayed haste, and whose figure, under a gaudy motor-coat, gave more than a suggestion of being unsupported and wrapper-clad. she carried a clinking silver chatelaine, however, and at the door she opened it and took out a quarter, extending it with a regal gesture to the elevator-man. "here, old sport," she said, "go and blow yourself to a drink. it's easter." such munificence appalled the ward. rosie was not alone. behind her, uncomfortable and sullen, was al. the ward, turning from the episode of the quarter, fixed on him curious and hostile eyes; and al, glancing around the ward from the doorway, felt their hostility, and plucked rosie's arm. "gee, rose, i'm not going in there," he said. but rosie pulled him in and presented him to the nurse. behind the screen, claribel, shut off from her view of the open window, had taken to staring at the ceiling again. when the singing came up the staircase from the chapel, she had moaned and put her fingers in her ears. "well, i found him," said rosie cheerfully. "had the deuce of a time locating him." and the nurse, apprising in one glance his stocky figure and heavy shoulders, his ill-at-ease arrogance, his weak, and just now sullen but not bad-tempered face, smiled at him. "we have a little girl here who will be glad to see you," she said, and took him to the screen. "just five minutes, and you must do the talking." al hesitated between the visible antagonism of the ward and the mystery of the white screen. a vision of claribel as he had seen her last, swollen with grief and despair, distorted of figure and accusing of voice, held him back. a faint titter of derision went through the room. he turned on rosie's comfortable back a look of black hate and fury. then the nurse gave him a gentle shove, and he was looking at claribel--a white, madonna-faced claribel, lying now with closed eyes, her long lashes sweeping her cheek. the girl did not open her eyes at his entrance. he put his hat awkwardly on the foot of the bed, and, tiptoeing around, sat on the edge of the stiff chair. "well, how are you, kid?" he asked, with affected ease. she opened her eyes and stared at him. then she made a little clutch at her throat, as if she were smothering. "how did you--how did you know i was here?" "saw it in the paper, in the society column." she winced at that, and some fleeting sense of what was fitting came to his aid. "how are you?" he asked more gently. he had expected a flood of reproaches, and he was magnanimous in his relief. "i've been pretty bad; i'm better." "oh, you'll be around soon, and going to dances again. the maginnis social club's having a dance saturday night in mason's hall." the girl did not reply. she was wrestling with a problem that is as old as the ages, although she did not know it--why this tragedy of hers should not be his. she lay with her hands crossed quietly on her breast and one of the loosened yellow braids was near his hand. he picked it up and ran it through his fingers. "hasn't hurt your looks any," he said awkwardly. "you're looking pretty good." with a jerk of her head she pulled the braid out of his fingers. "don't," she said and fell to staring at the ceiling, where she had written her problem. "how's the--how's the kid?"--after a moment. "i don't know--or care." there was nothing strange to al in this frame of mind. neither did he know or care. "what are you goin' to do with it?" "kill it!" al considered this a moment. things were bad enough now, without claribel murdering the child and making things worse. "i wouldn't do that," he said soothingly. "you can put it somewhere, can't you? maybe rosie'll know." "i don't want it to live." for the first time he realised her despair. she turned on him her tormented eyes, and he quailed. "i'll find a place for it, kid," he said. "it's mine, too. i guess i'm it, all right." "yours!" she half rose on her elbow, weak as she was. "yours! didn't you throw me over when you found i was going to have it? yours! did you go through hell for twenty-four hours to bring it into the world? i tell you, it's mine--mine! and i'll do what i want with it. i'll kill it, and myself too!" "you don't know what you're saying!" she had dropped back, white and exhausted. "don't i?" she said, and fell silent. al felt defrauded, ill-treated. he had done the right thing; he had come to see the girl, which wasn't customary in those circles where al lived and worked and had his being; he had acknowledged his responsibility, and even--why, hang it all---- "say the word and i'll marry you," he said magnanimously. "i don't want to marry you." he drew a breath of relief. nothing could have been fairer than his offer, and she had refused it. he wished rosie had been there to hear. and just then rosie came. she carried the baby, still faintly odorous of violets, held tight in unaccustomed arms. she looked awkward and conscious, but her amused smile at herself was half tender. "hello, claribel," she said. "how are you? just look here, al! what do you think of this?" al got up sheepishly and looked at the child. "boy or girl?" he asked politely. "girl; but it's the living image of you," said rose--for rose and the nurse were alike in the wiles of the serpent. "looks like me!" al observed caustically. "looks like an over-ripe tomato!" but he drew himself up a trifle. somewhere in his young and hardened soul the germs of parental pride, astutely sowed, had taken quick root. "feel how heavy she is," rose commanded. and al held out two arms unaccustomed to such tender offices. "heavy! she's about as big as a peanut." "mind her back," said rose, remembering instructions. after her first glance claribel had not looked at the child. but now, in its father's arms, it began to whimper. the mother stirred uneasily, and frowned. "take it away!" she ordered. "i told them not to bring it here." the child cried louder. its tiny red face, under the powder, turned purple. it beat the air with its fists. al, still holding it in his outstretched arms, began vague motions to comfort it, swinging it up and down and across. but it cried on, drawing up its tiny knees in spasms of distress. claribel put her fingers in her ears. "you'll have to feed it!" rose shouted over the din. the girl comprehended without hearing, and shook her head in sullen obstinacy. "what do you think of that for noise?" said al, not without pride. "she's like me, all right. when i'm hungry, there's hell to pay if i'm not fed quick. here,"--he bent down over claribel,--"you might as well have dinner now, and stop the row." not ungently, he placed the squirming mass in the baptismal dress beside the girl on the bed. with the instinct of ages, the baby stopped wailing and opened her mouth. "the little cuss!" cried al, delighted. "ain't that me all over? little angel-face the minute i get to the table!" unresisting now, claribel let rose uncover her firm white breast. the mother's arm, passively extended by rose to receive the small body, contracted around it unconsciously. she turned and looked long at the nuzzling, eager mouth, at the red hand lying trustfully open on her breast, at the wrinkled face, the indeterminate nose, the throbbing fontanelle where the little life was already beating so hard. "a girl, rose!" she said. "my god, what am i going to do with her?" rose was not listening. the junior medical's turn had come at last. downstairs in the chapel, he was standing by the organ, his head thrown back, his heavy brown hair (which would never stay parted without the persuasion of brilliantine) bristling with earnestness. "_o'er all the way, green palms and blossoms gay_," he sang, and his clear tenor came welling up the staircase to liz, and past her to the ward, and to the group behind the screen. "_are strewn this day in festal preparation, where jesus comes to wipe our tears away-- e'en now the throng to welcome him prepare._" on the throne-chair by the record-table, the nurse sat and listened. and because it was easter and she was very happy and because of the thrill in the tenor voice that came up the stairs to her, and because of the page in the order-book about bran baths and the rest of it, she cried a little, surreptitiously, and let the tears drop down on a yellow hospital record. the song was almost done. liz, on the stairs, had fed her baby twenty minutes too soon, and now it lay, sleeping and sated, in her lap. liz sat there, brooding over it, and the last line of the song came up the staircase. "_blessed is he who comes bringing sal-va-a-a-ation!_" the junior medical sang. the services were over. downstairs the small crowd dispersed slowly. the minister shook hands with the nurses at the door, and the junior medical rolled up his song and wondered how soon he could make rounds upstairs again. liz got up, with her baby in her arms, and padded in to the throne-chair by the record-table. "he can sing some, can't he!" she said. "he has a beautiful voice." the nurse's eyes were shining. liz moved off. then she turned and came back. "i--i know you'll tell me i'm a fool," she said; "but i've decided to keep the kid, this time. i guess i'll make out, somehow." behind the screen, rosie had lighted a cigarette and was smoking, sublimely unconscious of the blue smoke swirl that rose in telltale clouds high above her head. the baby had dropped asleep, and claribel lay still. but her eyes were not on the ceiling; they were on the child. al leaned forward and put his lips to the arm that circled the baby. "i'm sorry, kid," he said. "i guess it was the limit, all right. do you hate me?" she looked at him, and the hardness and defiance died out of her eyes. she shook her head. "no." "do you--still--like me a little?" "yes," in a whisper. "then what's the matter with you and me and the little mutt getting married and starting all over--eh?" he leaned over and buried his face with a caressing movement in the hollow of her neck. rose extinguished her cigarette on the foot of the bed, and, careful of appearances, put the butt in her chatelaine. "i guess you two don't need me any more," she said yawning. "i'm going back home to bed." "are we downhearted? no!" i there are certain people who will never understand this story, people who live their lives by rule of thumb. little lives they are, too, measured by the letter and not the spirit. quite simple too. right is right and wrong is wrong. that shadowy no man's land between the trenches of virtue and sin, where most of us fight our battles and are wounded, and even die, does not exist for them. the boy in this story belonged to that class. even if he reads it he may not recognise it. but he will not read it or have it read to him. he will even be somewhat fretful if it comes his way. "if that's one of those problem things," he will say, "i don't want to hear it. i don't see why nobody writes adventure any more." right is right and wrong is wrong. seven words for a creed, and all of life to live! this is not a war story. but it deals, as must anything that represents life in this year of our lord of peace, with war. with war in its human relations. not with guns and trenches, but with men and women, with a boy and a girl. for only in the mass is war vast. to the man in the trench it reduces itself to the man on his right, the man on his left, the man across, beyond the barbed wire, and a woman. the boy was a canadian. he was twenty-two and not very tall. his name in this story is cecil hamilton. he had won two medals for life-saving, each in a leather case. he had saved people from drowning. when he went abroad to fight he took the medals along. not to show. but he felt that the time might come when he would not be sure of himself. a good many men on the way to war have felt that way. the body has a way of turning craven, in spite of high resolves. it would be rather comforting, he felt, to have those medals somewhere about him at that time. he never looked at them without a proud little intake of breath and a certain swelling of the heart. on the steamer he found that a medal for running had slipped into one of the cases. he rather chuckled over that. he had a sense of humour, in spite of his seven-word creed. and a bit of superstition, for that night, at dusk, he went out on to the darkened deck and flung it overboard. the steamer had picked him up at halifax--a cold dawn, with a few pinched faces looking over the rail. forgive him if he swaggered up the gangway. he was twenty-two, he was a lieutenant, and he was a fighting man. the girl in the story saw him then. she was up and about, in a short sport suit, with a white tam-o'-shanter on her head and a white woolen scarf tucked round her neck. under her belted coat she wore a middy blouse, and when she saw lieutenant cecil hamilton, with his eager eyes--not unlike her own, his eyes were young and inquiring--she reached into a pocket of the blouse and dabbed her lips with a small stick of cold cream. cold air has a way of drying lips. he caught her at it, and she smiled. it was all over for him then, poor lad! afterward, when he was in the trenches, he wondered about that. he called it "kismet" to himself. it was really a compound, that first day or two, of homesickness and a little furtive stirring of anxiety and the thrill of new adventure that was in his blood. on the second afternoon out they had tea together, she in her steamer chair and he calmly settled next to her, in a chair belonging to an irritated english lawyer. afterward he went down to his cabin, hung round with his new equipment, and put away the photograph of a very nice toronto girl, which had been propped up back of his hairbrushes. they got rather well acquainted that first day. "you know," he said, with his cup in one hand and a rather stale cake in the other, "it's awfully bully of you to be so nice to me." she let that go. she was looking, as a matter of fact, after a tall man with heavily fringed eyes and english clothes, who had just gone by. "you know," he confided--he frequently prefaced his speeches with that--"i was horribly lonely when i came up the gangway. then i saw you, and you were smiling. it did me a lot of good." "i suppose i really should not have smiled." she came back to him with rather an effort. "but you caught me, you know. it wasn't rouge. it was cold cream. i'll show you." she unbuttoned her jacket, against his protest, and held out the little stick. he took it and looked at it. "you don't need even this," he said rather severely. he disapproved of cosmetics. "you have a lovely mouth." "it's rather large. don't you think so?" "it's exactly right." he was young, and as yet more interested in himself than in anything in the world. so he sat there and told her who he was, and what he hoped to do and, rather to his own astonishment, about the medals. "how very brave you are!" she said. that made him anxious. he hoped she did not think he was swanking. it was only that he did not make friends easily, and when he did meet somebody he liked he was apt to forget and talk too much about himself. he was so afraid that he gulped down his tepid tea in a hurry and muttered something about letters to write, and got himself away. the girl stared after him with a pucker between her eyebrows. and the tall man came and took the place he vacated. things were worrying the girl--whose name, by the way, was edith. on programs it was spelled "edythe," but that was not her fault. yes, on programs--edythe o'hara. the business manager had suggested dehara, but she had refused. not that it mattered much. she had been in the chorus. she had a little bit of a voice, rather sweet, and she was divinely young and graceful. in the chorus she would have remained, too, but for one of those queer shifts that alter lives. a girl who did a song and an eccentric dance had wrenched her knee, and edith had gone on in her place. something of her tomboy youth remained in her, and for a few minutes, as she frolicked over the stage, she was a youngster, dancing to her shadow. she had not brought down the house, but a man with heavily fringed eyes, who watched her from the wings, made a note of her name. he was in america for music-hall material for england, and he was shrewd after the manner of his kind. here was a girl who frolicked on the stage. the english, accustomed to either sensuous or sedate dancing, would fall hard for her, he decided. either that, or she would go "bla." she was a hit or nothing. and that, in so many words, he told her that afternoon. "feeling all right?" he asked her. "better than this morning. the wind's gone down, hasn't it?" he did not answer her. he sat on the side of the chair and looked her over. "you want to keep well," he warned her. "the whole key to your doing anything is vitality. that's the word--life." she smiled. it seemed so easy. life? she was full-fed with the joy of it. even as she sat, her active feet in their high-heeled shoes were aching to be astir. "working in the gymnasium?" he demanded. "two hours a day, morning and evening. feel." she held out her arm to him, and he felt its small, rounded muscle, with a smile. but his heavily fringed eyes were on her face, and he kept his hold until she shook it off. "who's the soldier boy?" he asked suddenly. "lieutenant hamilton. he's rather nice. don't you think so?" "he'll do to play with on the trip. you'll soon lose him in london." the winter darkness closed down round them. stewards were busy closing ports and windows with fitted cardboards. through the night the ship would travel over the dangerous lanes of the sea with only her small port and starboard lights. a sense of exhilaration possessed edith. this hurling forward over black water, this sense of danger, visualised by precautions, this going to something new and strange, set every nerve to jumping. she threw back her rug, and getting up went to the rail. lethway, the manager, followed her. "nervous, aren't you?" "not frightened, anyhow." it was then that he told her how he had sized the situation up. she was a hit or nothing. "if you go all right," he said, "you can have the town. london's for you or against you, especially if you're an american. if you go flat----" "then what?" she had not thought of that. what would she do then? her salary was not to begin until the performances started. her fare and expenses across were paid, but how about getting back? even at the best her salary was small. that had been one of her attractions to lethway. "i'll have to go home, of course," she said. "if they don't like me, and decide in a hurry, i--i may have to borrow money from you to get back." "don't worry about that." he put a hand over hers as it lay on the rail, and when she made no effort to release it he bent down and kissed her warm fingers. "don't you worry about that," he repeated. she did worry, however. down in her cabin, not so tidy as the boy's--littered with her curiously anomalous belongings, a great bunch of violets in the wash bowl, a cheap toilet set, elaborate high-heeled shoes, and a plain muslin nightgown hanging to the door--down there she opened her trunk and got out her contract. there was nothing in it about getting back home. for a few minutes she was panicky. her hands shook as she put the document away. she knew life with all the lack of illusion of two years in the chorus. even lethway--not that she minded his casual caress on the deck. she had seen a lot of that. it meant nothing. stage directors either bawled you out or petted you. that was part of the business. but to-night, all day indeed, there had been something in lethway's face that worried her. and there were other things. the women on the boat replied coldly to her friendly advances. she had spoken to a nice girl, her own age or thereabouts, and the girl's mother or aunt or chaperon, whoever it was, had taken her away. it had puzzled her at the time. now she knew. the crowd that had seen her off, from the pretty coquette company--that had queered her, she decided. that and lethway. none of the girls had thought it odd that she should cross the ocean with lethway. they had been envious, as a matter of fact. they had brought her gifts, the queer little sachets and fruit and boxes of candy that littered the room. in that half hour before sailing they had chattered about her, chorus unmistakably, from their smart, cheap little hats to their short skirts and fancy shoes. her roommate, mabel, had been the only one she had hated to leave. and mabel had queered her, too, with her short-bobbed yellow hair. she did a reckless thing that night, out of pure defiance. it was a winter voyage in wartime. the night before the women had gone down, sedately dressed, to dinner. the girl she had tried to speak to had worn a sweater. so edith dressed for dinner. she whitened her neck and arms with liquid powder, and slicked up her brown hair daringly smooth and flat. then she put on her one evening dress, a black net, and pinned on her violets. she rouged her lips a bit too. the boy, meeting her on the companionway, gasped. that night he asked permission to move over to her table, and after that the three of them ate together, lethway watching and saying little, the other two chattering. they were very gay. they gambled to the extent of a quarter each, on the number of fronds, or whatever they are, in the top of a pineapple that cecil ordered in, and she won. it was delightful to gamble, she declared, and put the fifty cents into a smoking-room pool. the boy was clearly infatuated. she looked like a debutante, and, knowing it, acted the part. it was not acting really. life had only touched her so far, and had left no mark. when lethway lounged away to an evening's bridge cecil fetched his military cape and they went on deck. "i'm afraid it's rather lonely for you," he said. "it's always like this the first day or two. then the women warm up and get friendly." "i don't want to know them. they are a stupid-looking lot. did you ever see such clothes?" "you are the only person who looks like a lady to-night," he observed. "you look lovely. i hope you don't mind my saying it?" she was a downright young person, after all. and there was something about the boy that compelled candour. so, although she gathered after a time that he did not approve of chorus girls, was even rather skeptical about them and believed that the stage should be an uplifting influence, she told him about herself that night. it was a blow. he rallied gallantly, but she could see him straggling to gain this new point of view. "anyhow," he said at last, "you're not like the others." then hastily: "i don't mean to offend you when i say that, you know. only one can tell, to look at you, that you are different." he thought that sounded rather boyish, and remembered that he was going to the war, and was, or would soon be, a fighting man. "i've known a lot of girls," he added rather loftily. "all sorts of girls." it was the next night that lethway kissed her. he had left her alone most of the day, and by sheer gravitation of loneliness she and the boy drifted together. all day long they ranged the ship, watched a boxing match in the steerage, fed bread to the hovering gulls from the stern. they told each other many things. there had been a man in the company who had wanted to marry her, but she intended to have a career. anyhow, she would not marry unless she loved a person very much. he eyed her wistfully when she said that. at dusk he told her about the girl in toronto. "it wasn't an engagement, you understand. but we've been awfully good friends. she came to see me off. it was rather awful. she cried. she had some sort of silly idea that i'll get hurt." it was her turn to look wistful. oh, they were getting on! when he went to ask the steward to bring tea to the corner they had found, she looked after him. she had been so busy with her own worries that she had not thought much of the significance of his neatly belted khaki. suddenly it hurt her. he was going to war. she knew little about the war, except from the pictures in illustrated magazines. once or twice she had tried to talk about it with mabel, but mabel had only said, "it's fierce!" and changed the subject. the uniforms scattered over the ship and the precautions taken at night, however, were bringing this thing called war very close to her. it was just beyond that horizon toward which they were heading. and even then it was brought nearer to her. under cover of the dusk the girl she had tried to approach came up and stood beside her. edith was very distant with her. "the nights make me nervous," the girl said. "in the daylight it is not so bad. but these darkened windows bring it all home to me--the war, you know." "i guess it's pretty bad." "it's bad enough. my brother has been wounded. i am going to him." even above the sound of the water edith caught the thrill in her voice. it was a new tone to her, the exaltation of sacrifice. "i'm sorry," she said. and some subconscious memory of mabel made her say: "it's fierce!" the girl looked at her. "that young officer you're with, he's going, of course. he seems very young. my brother was older. thirty." "he's twenty-two." "he has such nice eyes," said the girl. "i wish----" but he was coming back, and she slipped away. during tea cecil caught her eyes on him more than once. he had taken off his stiff-crowned cap, and the wind blew his dark hair round. "i wish you were not going to the war," she said unexpectedly. it had come home to her, all at once, the potentialities of that trim uniform. it made her a little sick. "it's nice of you to say that." there was a new mood on her, of confession, almost of consecration. he asked her if he might smoke. no one in her brief life had ever before asked her permission to smoke. "i'll have to smoke all i can," he said. "the fellows say cigarettes are scarce in the trenches. i'm taking a lot over." he knew a girl who smoked cigarettes, he said. she was a nice girl too. he couldn't understand it. the way he felt about it, maybe a cigarette for a girl wasn't a crime. but it led to other things--drinking, you know, and all that. "the fellows don't respect a girl that smokes," he said. "that's the plain truth. i've talked to her a lot about it." "it wasn't your friend in toronto, was it?" "good heavens, no!" he repudiated the idea with horror. it was the girl who had to readjust her ideas of life that day. she had been born and raised in that neutral ground between the lines of right and wrong, and now suddenly her position was attacked and she must choose sides. she chose. "i've smoked a cigarette now and then. if you think it is wrong i'll not do it any more." he was almost overcome, both at the confession and at her renunciation. to tell the truth, among the older canadian officers he had felt rather a boy. her promise reinstated him in his own esteem. he was a man, and a girl was offering to give something up if he wished it. it helped a lot. that evening he laid out his entire equipment in his small cabin, and invited her to see it. he put his mother's picture behind his brushes, where the other one had been, and when all was ready he rang for a stewardess. "i am going to show a young lady some of my stuff," he explained. "and as she is alone i wish you'd stay round, will you? i want her to feel perfectly comfortable." the stewardess agreed, and as she was an elderly woman, with a son at the front, a boy like cecil, she went back to her close little room over the engines and cried a little, very quietly. it was unfortunate that he did not explain the presence of the stewardess to the girl. for when it was all over, and she had stood rather awed before his mother's picture, and rather to his surprise had smoothed her hair with one of his brushes, she turned to him outside the door. "that stewardess has a lot of nerve," she said. "the idea of standing in the doorway, rubbering!" "i asked her," he explained. "i thought you'd prefer having some one there." she stared at him. ii lethway had won the ship's pool that day. in the evening he played bridge, and won again. he had been drinking a little. not much, but enough to make him reckless. for the last rubber or two the thought of edith had obsessed him, her hand on the rail as he had kissed it, her cool eyes that were at once so wise and so ignorant, her lithe body in the short skirt and middy blouse. he found her more alluring, so attired, than she had been in the scant costume of what to him was always "the show." he pondered on that during all of a dummy hand, sitting low in his chair with his feet thrust far under the table. the show business was going to the bad. why? because nobody connected with it knew anything about human nature. he formulated a plan, compounded of liquor and real business acumen, of dressing a chorus, of suggesting the feminine form instead of showing it, of veiling it in chiffons of soft colours and sending a draft of air from electric fans in the wings to set the chiffons in motion. "like the aurora," he said to himself. "only not so beefy. ought to be a hit. pretty? it will be the real thing!" the thought of edith in such a costume, playing like a dryad over the stage, stayed with him when the dummy hand had been played and he had been recalled to the game by a thump on the shoulder. edith in soft, pastel-coloured chiffons, dancing in bare feet to light string music. a forest setting, of course. pan. a goat or two. all that sort of thing. on his way down to his cabin he passed her door. he went on, hesitated, came back and knocked. now edith had not been able to sleep. her thrifty soul, trained against waste, had urged her not to fling her cigarettes overboard, but to smoke them. "and then never again," she said solemnly. the result was that she could not get to sleep. blanketed to the chin she lay in her bunk, reading. the book had been mabel's farewell offering, a thing of perverted ideals, or none, of cheap sentiment, of erotic thought overlaid with words. the immediate result of it, when she yawned at last and turned out the light over her bed, was a new light on the boy. "little prig!" she said to herself, and stretched her round arms luxuriously above her head. then lethway rapped. she sat up and listened. then, grumbling, she got out and opened the door an inch or two. the lights were low outside and her own cabin dark. but she knew him. "are we chased?" she demanded. in the back of her mind, fear of pursuit by a german submarine was dogging her across the atlantic. "sure we are!" he said. "what are you so stingy about the door for?" she recognised his condition out of a not inconsiderable experience and did her best to force the door shut, but he put his foot over the sill and smiled. "please go away, mr. lethway." "i'll go if you'll kiss me good night." she calculated the situation, and surrendered. there was nothing else to do. but when she upturned her face he slipped past her and into the room. just inside the door, swinging open and shut with every roll of the ship, he took her in his arms and kissed her, not once but many times. she did not lose her head. she had an arm free and she rang the bell. then she jerked herself loose. "i have rung for the stewardess," she said furiously. "if you are here when she comes i'll ask for help." "you young devil!" was all he said, and went, slamming the door behind him. his rage grew as he reached his own cabin. damn the girl, anyhow! he had not meant anything. here he was, spending money he might never get back to give her a chance, and she called the stewardess because he kissed her! as for the girl, she went back to bed. for a few moments sheer rage kept her awake. then youth and fatigue triumphed and she fell asleep. her last thought was of the boy, after all. "he wouldn't do a thing like that," she reflected. "he's a gentleman. he's the real thing. he's----" her eyes closed. lethway apologised the next day, apologised with an excess of manner that somehow made the apology as much of an insult as the act. but she matched him at that game--took her cue from him, even went him one better as to manner. when he left her he had begun to feel that she was no unworthy antagonist. the game would be interesting. and she had the advantage, if she only knew it. back of his desire to get back at her, back of his mocking smile and half-closed eyes, he was just a trifle mad about her since the night before. that is the way things stood when they reached the mersey. cecil was in love with the girl. very earnestly in love. he did not sleep at night for thinking about her. he remembered certain semi-harmless escapades of his college days, and called himself unworthy and various other things. he scourged himself by leaving her alone in her steamer chair and walking by at stated intervals. once, in a white sweater over a running shirt, he went to the gymnasium and found her there. she had on a "gym" suit of baggy bloomers and the usual blouse. he backed away from the door hastily. at first he was jealous of lethway. then that passed. she confided to him that she did not like the manager. after that he was sorry for him. he was sorry for any one she did not like. he bothered lethway by walking the deck with him and looking at him with what lethway refused to think was compassion. but because, contrary to the boy's belief, none of us is quite good or quite evil, he was kind to the boy. the khaki stood for something which no englishman could ignore. "poor little devil!" he said on the last day in the smoking room, "he's going to a bad time, all right. i was in africa for eight years. boer war and the rest of it. got run through the thigh in a native uprising, and they won't have me now. but africa was cheery to this war." he asked the boy into the smoking room, which he had hitherto avoided. he had some queer idea that he did not care to take his uniform in there. absurd, of course. it made him rather lonely in the hours edith spent in her cabin, preparing variations of costume for the evening out of her small trunk. but he was all man, and he liked the society of men; so he went at last, with lethway, and ordered vichy! he had not allowed himself to think much beyond the end of the voyage. as the ship advanced, war seemed to slip beyond the edge of his horizon. even at night, as he lay and tossed, his thoughts were either of the next day, when he would see edith again, or of that indefinite future when he would return, covered with honors, and go to her, wherever she was. he never doubted the honors now. he had something to fight for. the medals in their cases looked paltry to him, compared with what was coming. in his sleep he dreamed of the v.c., dreams he was too modest to put into thoughts in waking hours. then they reached the mersey. on the last evening of the voyage he and edith stood on the upper deck. it was a zone of danger. from each side of the narrowing river flashlights skimmed the surface of the water, playing round but never on the darkened ship. red and green lights blinked signals. their progress was a devious one through the mine-strewn channel. there was a heavy sea even there, and the small lights on the mast on the pilot boat, as it came to a stop, described great arcs that seemed, first to starboard, then to port, to touch the very tips of the waves. "i'm not crazy about this," the girl said, as the wind tugged at her skirts. "it frightens me. brings the war pretty close, doesn't it?" emotion swelled his heart and made him husky--love and patriotism, pride and hope, and a hot burst of courage. "what if we strike a mine?" she asked. "i wouldn't care so much. it would give me a chance to save you." overhead they were signalling the shore with a white light. along with the new emotions that were choking him came an unaccustomed impulse of boastfulness. "i can read that," he said when she ignored his offer to save her. "of course it's code, but i can spell it out." he made a move to step forward and watch the signaler, but she put her hand on his arm. "don't go. i'm nervous, cecil," she said. she had called him by his first name. it shook him profoundly, that and the touch of her hand on his arm. "oh, i love you, love you!" he said hoarsely. but he did not try to take her in his arms, or attempt to caress the hand that still clung to him. he stood very erect, looking at the shadowy outline of her. then, her long scarf blowing toward him, he took the end of it and kissed that very gravely. "i would die for you," he said. then lethway joined them. iii london was not kind to him. he had felt, like many canadians, that in going to england he was going home. but england was cold. not the people on the streets. they liked the canadians and they cheered them when their own regiments went by unhailed. it appealed to their rampant patriotism that these men had come from across the sea to join hands with them against common foe. but in the clubs, where his letters admitted the boy, there was a different atmosphere. young british officers were either cool or, much worse, patronising. they were inclined to suspect that his quiet confidence was swanking. one day at luncheon he drank a glass of wine, not because he wanted it but because he did not like to refuse. the result was unfortunate. it loosened his tongue a bit, and he mentioned the medals. not noisily, of course. in an offhand manner, to his next neighbor. it went round the table, and a sort of icy silence, after that, greeted his small sallies. he never knew what the trouble was, but his heart was heavy in him. and it rained. it was always raining. he had very little money beyond his pay, and the constant hiring of taxicabs worried him. now and then he saw some one he knew, down from salisbury for a holiday, but they had been over long enough to know their way about. they had engagements, things to buy. he fairly ate his heart out in sheer loneliness. there were two hours in the day that redeemed the others. one was the hour late in the afternoon when, rehearsal over, he took edith o'hara to tea. the other was just before he went to bed, when he wrote her the small note that reached her every morning with her breakfast. in the seven days before he joined his regiment at salisbury he wrote her seven notes. they were candid, boyish scrawls, not love letters at all. this was one of them: _dear edith_: i have put in a rotten evening and am just going to bed. i am rather worried because you looked so tired to-day. please don't work too hard. i am only writing to say how i look forward each night to seeing you the next day. i am sending with this a small bunch of lilies of the valley. they remind me of you. cecil. the girl saved those letters. she was not in love with him, but he gave her something no one else had ever offered: a chivalrous respect that pleased as well as puzzled her. once in a tea shop he voiced his creed, as it pertained to her, over a plate of muffins. "when we are both back home, edith," he said, "i am going to ask you something." "why not now?" "because it wouldn't be quite fair to you. i--i may be killed, or something. that's one thing. then, it's because of your people." that rather stunned her. she had no people. she was going to tell him that, but she decided not to. she felt quite sure that he considered "people" essential, and though she felt that, for any long period of time, these queer ideas and scruples of his would be difficult to live up to, she intended to do it for that one week. "oh, all right," she said, meekly enough. she felt very tender toward him after that, and her new gentleness made it all hard for him. she caught him looking at her wistfully at times, and it seemed to her that he was not looking well. his eyes were hollow, his face thin. she put her hand over his as it lay on the table. "look here," she said, "you look half sick, or worried, or something. stop telling me to take care of myself, and look after yourself a little better." "i'm all right," he replied. then soon after: "everything's strange. that's the trouble," he confessed. "it's only in little things that don't matter, but a fellow feels such a duffer." on the last night he took her to dinner--a small french restaurant in a back street in soho. he had heard about it somewhere. edith classed it as soon as she entered. it was too retiring, too demure. its very location was clandestine. but he never knew. he was divided that night between joy at getting to his regiment and grief at leaving her. rather self-engrossed, she thought. they had a table by an open grate fire, with a screen "to shut off the draft," the waiter said. it gave the modest meal a delightfully homey air, their isolation and the bright coal fire. for the first time they learned the joys of mussels boiled in milk, of french _soufflé_ and other things. at the end of the evening he took her back to her cheap hotel in a taxicab. she expected him to kiss her. her experience of taxicabs had been like that. but he did not. he said very little on the way home, but sat well back and eyed her wistful eyes. she chattered to cover his silence--of rehearsals, of--with reservations--of lethway, of the anticipated london opening. she felt very sad herself. he had been a tie to america, and he had been much more than that. though she did not realise it, he had had a profound effect on her. in trying to seem what he thought her she was becoming what he thought her. her old reckless attitude toward life was gone, or was going. the day before she had refused an invitation to a night club, and called herself a fool for doing it. but she had refused. not that he had performed miracles with her. she was still frankly a dweller on the neutral ground. but to that instinct that had kept her up to that time what she would have called "straight" had been added a new refinement. she was no longer the reckless and romping girl whose abandon had caught lethway's eye. she had gained a soul, perhaps, and lost a livelihood. when they reached the hotel he got out and went in with her. the hall porter was watching and she held out her hand. but he shook his head. "if i touched your hand," he said, "i would have to take you in my arms. good-bye, dear." "good-bye," she said. there were tears in her eyes. it was through a mist that she saw him, as the elevator went up, standing at salute, his eyes following her until she disappeared from sight. iv things were going wrong with lethway. the management was ragging him, for one thing. "give the girl time," he said almost viciously, at the end of a particularly bad rehearsal. "she's had a long voyage and she's tired. besides," he added, "these acts never do go at rehearsal. give me a good house at the opening and she'll show you what she can do." but in his soul he was worried. there was a change in edith o'hara. even her voice had altered. it was not only her manner to him. that was marked enough, but he only shrugged his shoulders over it. time enough for that when the production was on. he had engaged a hoyden, and she was by way of becoming a lady. during the first week or so he had hoped that it was only the strangeness of her surroundings. he had been shrewd enough to lay some of it, however, to cecil's influence. "when your soldier boy gets out of the way," he sneered one day in the wings, "perhaps you'll get down to earth and put some life in your work." but to his dismay she grew steadily worse. her dancing was delicate, accurate, even graceful, but the thing the british public likes to think typically american, a sort of breezy swagger, was gone. to bill her in her present state as the madcap american would be sheer folly. ten days before the opening he cabled for another girl to take her place. he did not tell her. better to let her work on, he decided. a german submarine might sink the ship on which the other girl was coming, and then where would they be? up to the last, however, he had hopes of edith. not that he cared to save her. but he hated to acknowledge a failure. he disliked to disavow his own judgment. he made a final effort with her, took her one day to luncheon at simpson's, and in one of the pewlike compartments, over mutton and caper sauce, he tried to "talk a little life into her." "what the devil has come over you?" he demanded savagely. "you were larky enough over in new york. there are any number of girls in london who can do what you are doing now, and do it better." "i'm doing just what i did in new york." "the hell you are! i could do what you're doing with a jointed doll and some wires. now see here, edith," he said, "either you put some go into the thing, or you go. that's flat." her eyes filled. "i--maybe i'm worried," she said. "ever since i found out that i've signed up, with no arrangement about sending me back, it's been on my mind." "don't you worry about that." "but if they put some one on in my place?" "you needn't worry about that either. i'll look after you. you know that. if i hadn't been crazy about you i'd have let you go a week ago. you know that too." she knew the tone, knew instantly where she stood. knew, too, that she would not play the first night in london. she went rather white, but she faced him coolly. "don't look like that," he said. "i'm only telling you that if you need a friend i'll be there." it was two days before the opening, however, when the blow fell. she had not been sleeping, partly from anxiety about herself, partly about the boy. every paper she picked up was full of the horrors of war. there were columns filled with the names of those who had fallen. somehow even his uniform had never closely connected the boy with death in her mind. he seemed so young. she had had a feeling that his very youth would keep him from danger. war to her was a faintly conceived struggle between men, and he was a boy. but here were boys who had died, boys at nineteen. and the lists of missing startled her. one morning she read in the personal column a query, asking if any one could give the details of the death of a young subaltern. she cried over that. in all her care-free life never before had she wept over the griefs of others. cecil had sent her his photograph taken in his uniform. because he had had it taken to give her he had gazed directly into the eye of the camera. when she looked at it it returned her glance. she took to looking at it a great deal. two days before the opening she turned from a dispirited rehearsal to see mabel standing in the wings. then she knew. the end had come. mabel was jaunty, but rather uneasy. "you poor dear!" she said, when edith went to her. "what on earth's happened? the cable only said--honest, dearie, i feel like a dog!" "they don't like me. that's all," she replied wearily, and picked up her hat and jacket from a chair. but mabel was curious. uncomfortable, too, as she had said. she slipped an arm round edith's waist. "say the word and i'll throw them down," she cried. "it looks like dirty work to me. and you're thin. honest, dearie, i mean it." her loyalty soothed the girl's sore spirit. "i don't know what's come over me," she said. "i've tried hard enough. but i'm always tired. i--i think it's being so close to the war." mabel stared at her. there was a war. she knew that. the theatrical news was being crowded to a back page to make space for disagreeable diagrams and strange, throaty names. "i know. it's fierce, isn't it?" she said. edith took her home, and they talked far into the night. she had slipped cecil's picture into the wardrobe before she turned on the light. then she explained the situation. "it's pep they want, is it?" said mabel at last. "well, believe me, honey, i'll give it to them. and as long as i've got a cent it's yours." they slept together in edith's narrow bed, two slim young figures delicately flushed with sleep. as pathetic, had they known it, as those other sleepers in their untidy billets across the channel. almost as hopeless too. dwellers in the neutral ground. v now war, after all, is to each fighting man an affair of small numbers, an affair of the men to his right and his left, of the a.m.s.c. in the rear and of a handful of men across. on his days of rest the horizon is somewhat expanded. it becomes then a thing of crowded and muddy village streets, of food and drink and tobacco and a place to sleep. always, of course, it is a thing of noises. this is not a narrative of war. it matters very little, for instance, how cecil's regiment left salisbury and went to soissons, in france. what really matters is that at last the canadian-made motor lorries moved up their equipment, and that, after digging practice trenches in the yellow clay of old battlefields, they were moved up to the front. once there, there seemed to be a great deal of time. it was the lull before neuve chapelle. cecil's spirit grew heavy with waiting. once, back on rest at his billet, he took a long walk over the half-frozen side roads and came without warning on a main artery. three traction engines were taking to the front the first of the great british guns, so long awaited. he took the news back to his mess. the general verdict was that there would be something doing now. cecil wrote a letter to edith that day. he had written before, of course, but this was different. he wrote first to his mother, just in case anything happened, a long, boyish letter with a misspelled word here and there. he said he was very happy and very comfortable, and that if he did get his he wanted her to know that it was all perfectly cheerful and not anything like the war correspondents said it was. he'd had a bully time all his life, thanks to her. he hadn't let her know often enough how he felt about her, and she knew he was a dub at writing. there were a great many things worse than "going out" in a good fight. "it isn't at all as if you could see the blooming thing coming," he wrote. "you never know it's after you until you've got it, and then you don't." the letter was not to be sent unless he was killed. so he put in a few anecdotes to let her know exactly how happy and contented he was. then he dropped the whole thing in the ten inches of mud and water he was standing in, and had to copy it all over. to edith he wrote a different sort of letter. he told her that he loved her. "it's almost more adoration than love," he wrote, while two men next to him were roaring over a filthy story. "i mean by that, that i feel every hour of every day how far above me you are. it's like one of these _fusées_ the germans are always throwing up over us at night. it's perfectly dark, and then something bright and clear and like a star, only nearer, is overhead. everything looks different while it floats there. and so, my dear, my dear, everything has been different to me since i knew you." rather boyish, all of it, but terribly earnest. he said he had wanted to ask her to marry him, but that the way he felt about it, a fellow had no right to ask a girl such a thing when he was going to a war. if he came back he would ask her. and he would love her all his life. the next day, at dawn, he went out with eighty men to an outpost that had been an abandoned farm. it was rather a forlorn hope. they had one machine gun. at nine o'clock the enemy opened fire on them and followed it by an attack. the major in charge went down early. at two cecil was standing in the loft of the farmhouse, firing with a revolver on men who beneath him, outside, were placing dynamite under a corner of the building. to add to the general hopelessness, their own artillery, believing them all dead, opened fire on the building. they moved their wounded to the cellar and kept on fighting. at eight o'clock that night cecil's right arm was hanging helpless, and the building was burning merrily. there were five of them left. they fixed bayonets and charged the open door. * * * * * when the boy opened his eyes he was lying in six inches of manure in a box car. one of his men was standing over him, keeping him from being trampled on. there was no air and no water. the ammonia fumes from the manure were stifling. the car lurched and jolted along. cecil opened his eyes now and then, and at first he begged for water. when he found there was none he lay still. the men hammered on the door and called for air. they made frantic, useless rushes at the closed and barred door. except cecil, all were standing. they were herded like cattle, and there was no room to lie or sit. he lay there, drugged by weakness. he felt quite sure that he was dying, and death was not so bad. he voiced this feebly to the man who stood over him. "it's not so bad," he said. "the hell it's not!" said the man. for the time edith was effaced from his mind. he remembered the wounded men left in the cellar with the building burning over them. that, and days at home, long before the war. once he said "mother." the soldier who was now standing astride of him, the better to keep off the crowding men, thought he was asking for water again. thirty hours of that, and then air and a little water. not enough water. not all the water in all the cool streams of the earth would have slaked the thirst of his wound. the boy was impassive. he was living in the past. one day he recited at great length the story of his medals. no one listened. and all the time his right arm lay or hung, as he was prone or erect, a strange right arm that did not belong to him. it did not even swell. when he touched it the fingers were cold and bluish. it felt like a dead hand. then, at the end of it all, was a bed, and a woman's voice, and quiet. the woman was large and elderly, and her eyes were very kind. she stirred something in the boy that had been dead of pain. "edith!" he said. vi mabel had made a hit. unconscious imitator that she was, she stole edith's former recklessness, and added to it something of her own dash and verve. lethway, standing in the wings, knew she was not and never would be edith. she was not fine enough. edith at her best had frolicked. mabel romped, was almost wanton. he cut out the string music at the final rehearsal. it did not fit. on the opening night the brass notes of the orchestra blared and shrieked. mabel's bare feet flew, her loose hair, cut to her ears and held only by a band over her forehead, kept time in ecstatic little jerks. when at last she pulled off the fillet and bowed to the applause, her thick short hair fell over her face as she jerked her head forward. they liked that. it savoured of the abandoned. she shook it back, and danced the encore without the fillet. with her scant chiffons whirling about her knees, her loose hair, her girlish body, she was the embodiment of young love, of its passion, its fire. edith had been spring, palpitant with gladness. lethway, looking with tired eyes from the wings, knew that he had made a commercial success. but back of his sordid methods there was something of the soul of an artist. and this rebelled. but he made a note to try flame-coloured chiffon for mabel. edith was to have danced in the pale greens of a water nymph. on the night of her triumph mabel returned late to edith's room, where she was still quartered. she was moving the next day to a small apartment. with the generosity of her class she had urged edith to join her, and edith had perforce consented. "how did it go?" edith asked from the bed. "pretty well," said mabel. "nothing unusual." she turned up the light, and from her radiant reflection in the mirror edith got the truth. she lay back with a dull, sickening weight round her heart. not that mabel had won, but that she herself had failed. "you're awfully late." "i went to supper. wish you'd been along, dearie. terribly swell club of some sort." then her good resolution forgotten: "i made them sit up and take notice, all right. two invitations for supper to-morrow night and more on the way. and when i saw i'd got the house going to-night, and remembered what i was being paid for it, it made me sick." "it's better than nothing." "why don't you ask lethway to take you on in the chorus? it would do until you get something else." "i have asked him. he won't do it." mabel was still standing in front of the mirror. she threw her head forward so her short hair covered her face, and watched the effect carefully. then she came over and sat on the bed. "he's a dirty dog," she said. the two girls looked at each other. they knew every move in the game of life, and lethway's methods were familiar ones. "what are you going to do about it?" mabel demanded at last. "believe me, old dear, he's got a bad eye. now listen here," she said with impulsive generosity. "i've got a scheme. i'll draw enough ahead to send you back. i'll do it to-morrow, while the drawing's good." "and queer yourself at the start?" said edith scornfully. "talk sense, mabel, i'm up against it, but don't you worry. i'll get something." but she did not get anything. she was reduced in the next week to entire dependence on the other girl. and, even with such miracles of management as they had both learned, it was increasingly difficult to get along. there was a new element too. edith was incredulous at first, but at last she faced it. there was a change in mabel. she was not less hospitable nor less generous. it was a matter of a point of view. success was going to her head. her indignation at certain phases of life was changing to tolerance. she found edith's rampant virtue a trifle wearing. she took to staying out very late, and coming in ready to meet edith's protest with defiant gaiety. she bought clothes too. "you'll have to pay for them sometime," edith reminded her. "i should worry. i've got to look like something if i'm going to go out at all." edith, who had never thought things out before, had long hours to think now. and the one thing that seemed clear and undeniable was that she must not drive mabel into debt. debt was the curse of most of the girls she knew. as long as they were on their own they could manage. it was the burden of unpaid bills, lightly contracted, that drove so many of them wrong. that night, while mabel was asleep, she got up and cautiously lighted the gas. then she took the boy's photograph out of its hiding place and propped it on top of her trunk. for a long time she sat there, her chin in her hands, and looked at it. it was the next day that she saw his name among the missing. she did not cry, not at first. the time came when it seemed to her she did nothing else. but at first she only stared. she was too young and too strong to faint, but things went gray for her. and gray they remained--through long spring days and eternal nights--days when mabel slept all morning, rehearsed or played in the afternoons, was away all evening and far into the night. she did not eat or sleep. she spent money that was meant for food on papers and journals and searched for news. she made a frantic but ineffectual effort to get into the war office. she had received his letter two days after she had seen his name among the missing. she had hardly dared to open it, but having read it, for days she went round with a strange air of consecration that left mabel uneasy. "i wish you wouldn't look like that!" she said one morning. "you get on my nerves." but as time went on the feeling that he was dead overcame everything else. she despaired, rather than grieved. and following despair came recklessness. he was dead. nothing else mattered. lethway, meeting her one day in oxford circus, almost passed her before he knew her. he stopped her then. "haven't been sick, have you?" "me? no." "there's something wrong." she did not deny it and he fell into step beside her. "doing anything?" he asked. she shook her head. with all the power that was in her she was hating his tall figure, his heavy-lashed eyes, even the familiar ulster he wore. "i wish you were a sensible young person," he said. but something in the glance she gave him forbade his going on. it was not an ugly glance. rather it was cold, appraising--even, if he had known it, despairing. lethway had been busy. she had been in the back of his mind rather often, but other things had crowded her out. this new glimpse of her fired him again, however. and she had a new quality that thrilled even through the callus of his soul. the very thing that had foredoomed her to failure in the theatre appealed to him strongly--a refinement, a something he did not analyse. when she was about to leave him he detained her with a hand on her arm. "you know you can always count on me, don't you?" he said. "i know i can't," she flashed back at him with a return of her old spirit. "i'm crazy about you." "old stuff!" she said coolly, and walked off. but there was a tug of fear at her heart. she told mabel, but it was typical of the change that mabel only shrugged her shoulders. it was lethway's shrewdness that led to his next move. he had tried bullying, and failed. he had tried fear, with the same lack of effect. now he tried kindness. she distrusted him at first, but her starved heart was crying out for the very thing he offered her. as the weeks went on, with no news of cecil, she accepted his death stoically at last. something of her had died. but in a curious way the boy had put his mark on her. and as she grew more like the thing he had thought her to be the gulf between mabel and herself widened. they had, at last, only in common their room, their struggle, the contacts of their daily life. and lethway was now always in the background. he took her for quiet meals and brought her home early. he promised her that sometime he would see that she got back home. "but not just yet," he added as her colour rose. "i'm selfish, edith. give me a little time to be happy." that was a new angle. it had been a part of the boy's quiet creed to make others happy. "why don't you give me something to do, since you're so crazy to have me hanging about?" "can't do it. i'm not the management. and they're sore at you. they think you threw them down." he liked to air his american slang. edith cupped her chin in her hand and looked at him. there was no mystery about the situation, no shyness in the eyes with which she appraised him. she was beginning to like him too. that night when she got back to mabel's apartment her mood was reckless. she went to the window and stood looking at the crooked and chimney-potted skyline that was london. "oh, what's the use?" she said savagely, and gave up the fight. when mabel came home she told her. "i'm going to get out," she said without preamble. she caught the relief in mabel's face, followed by a purely conventional protest. "although," she hedged cautiously, "i don't know, dearie. people look at things sensibly these days. you've got to live, haven't you? they're mighty quick to jail a girl who tries to jump in the river when she's desperate." "i'll probably end there. and i don't much care." mabel gave her a good talking to about that. her early training had been in a church which regarded self-destruction as a cardinal sin. then business acumen asserted itself: "he'll probably put you on somewhere. he's crazy about you, ede." but edith was not listening. she was standing in front of her opened trunk tearing into small pieces something that had been lying in the tray. vii now the boy had tried very hard to die, and failed. the thing that had happened to him was an unbelievable thing. when he began to use his tired faculties again, when the ward became not a shadow land but a room, and the nurse not a presence but a woman, he tried feebly to move his right arm. but it was gone. at first he refused to believe it. he could feel it lying there beside him. it ached and throbbed. the fingers were cramped. but when he looked it was not there. there was not one shock of discovery, but many. for each time he roused from sleep he had forgotten, and must learn the thing again. the elderly german woman stayed close. she was wise, and war had taught her many things. so when he opened his eyes she was always there. she talked to him very often of his mother, and he listened with his eyes on her face--eyes like those of a sick child. in that manner they got by the first few days. "it won't make any difference to her," he said once. "she'd take me back if i was only a fragment." then bitterly: "that's all i am--a fragment! a part of a man!" after a time she knew that there was a some one else, some one he was definitely relinquishing. she dared not speak to him about it. his young dignity was militant. but one night, as she dozed beside him in the chair, he reached the limit of his repression and told her. "an actress!" she cried, sitting bolt upright. "_du lieber_--an actress!" "not an actress," he corrected her gravely. "a--a dancer. but good. she's a very good girl. even when i was--was whole"--raging bitterness there--"i was not good enough for her." "no actress is good. and dancers!" "you don't know what you are talking about," he said roughly, and turned his back to her. it was almost insulting to have her assist him to his attitude of contempt, and to prop him in it with pillows behind his back. lying there he tried hard to remember that this woman belonged to his hereditary foes. he was succeeding in hating her when he felt her heavy hand on his head. "poor boy! poor little one!" she said. and her voice was husky. when at last he was moved from the hospital to the prison camp she pinned the sleeve of his ragged uniform across his chest and kissed him, to his great discomfiture. then she went to the curtained corner that was her quarters and wept long and silently. the prison camp was overcrowded. early morning and late evening prisoners were lined up to be counted. there was a medley of languages--french, english, arabic, russian. the barracks were built round a muddy inclosure in which the men took what exercise they could. one night a boy with a beautiful tenor voice sang auld lang syne under the boy's window. he stood with his hand on the cuff of his empty sleeves and listened. and suddenly a great shame filled him, that with so many gone forever, with men dying every minute of every hour, back at the lines, he had been so obsessed with himself. he was still bitter, but the bitterness was that he could not go back again and fight. when he had been in the camp a month he helped two british officers to escape. one of them had snubbed him in london months before. he apologised before he left. "you're a man, hamilton," he said. "all you canadians are men. i've some things to tell when i get home." the boy could not go with them. there would be canals to swim across, and there was his empty sleeve and weakness. he would never swim again, he thought. that night, as he looked at the empty beds of the men who had gone, he remembered his medals and smiled grimly. he was learning to use his left hand. he wrote letters home with it for soldiers who could not write. he went into the prison hospital and wrote letters for those who would never go home. but he did not write to the girl. * * * * * he went back at last, when the hopelessly wounded were exchanged. to be branded "hopelessly wounded" was to him a stain, a stigma. it put him among the clutterers of the earth. it stranded him on the shore of life. hopelessly wounded! for, except what would never be whole, he was well again. true, confinement and poor food had kept him weak and white. his legs had a way of going shaky at nightfall. but once he knocked down an insolent russian with his left hand, and began to feel his own man again. that the russian was weak from starvation did not matter. the point to the boy was that he had made the attempt. providence has a curious way of letting two lives run along, each apparently independent of the other. parallel lines they seem, hopeless of meeting. converging lines really, destined, through long ages, by every deed that has been done to meet at a certain point and there fuse. edith had left mabel, but not to go to lethway. when nothing else remained that way was open. she no longer felt any horror--only a great distaste. but two weeks found her at her limit. she, who had rarely had more than just enough, now had nothing. and no glory of sacrifice upheld her. she no longer believed that by removing the burden of her support she could save mabel. it was clear that mabel would not be saved. to go back and live on her, under the circumstances, was but a degree removed from the other thing that confronted her. there is just a chance that, had she not known the boy, she would have killed herself. but again the curious change he had worked in her manifested itself. he thought suicide a wicked thing. "i take it like this," he had said in his eager way: "life's a thing that's given us for some purpose. maybe the purpose gets clouded--i'm afraid i'm an awful duffer at saying what i mean. but we've got to work it out, do you see? or--or the whole scheme is upset." it had seemed very clear then. then, on a day when the rare sun made even the rusty silk hats of clerks on tops of omnibuses to gleam, when the traffic glittered on the streets and the windows of silversmiths' shops shone painful to the eye, she met lethway again. the sun had made her reckless. since the boy was gone life was wretchedness, but she clung to it. she had given up all hope of cecil's return, and what she became mattered to no one else. perhaps, more than anything else, she craved companionship. in all her crowded young life she had never before been alone. companionship and kindness. she would have followed to heel, like a dog, for a kind word. then she met lethway. they walked through the park. when he left her her once clear, careless glance had a suggestion of furtiveness in it. that afternoon she packed her trunk and sent it to an address he had given her. in her packing she came across the stick of cold cream, still in the pocket of the middy blouse. she flung it, as hard as she could, across the room. she paid her bill with money lethway had given her. she had exactly a sixpence of her own. she found herself in trafalgar square late in the afternoon. the great enlisting posters there caught her eye, filled her with bitterness. "your king and your country need you," she read. she had needed the boy, too, but this vast and impersonal thing, his mother country, had taken him from her--taken him and lost him. she wanted to stand by the poster and cry to the passing women to hold their men back. as she now knew she hated lethway, she hated england. she wandered on. near charing cross she spent the sixpence for a bunch of lilies of the valley, because he had said once that she was like them. then she was for throwing them in the street, remembering the thing she would soon be. "for the wounded soldiers," said the flower girl. when she comprehended that, she made her way into the station. there was a great crowd, but something in her face made the crowd draw back and let her through. they nudged each other as she passed. "looking for some one, poor child!" said a girl and, following her, thrust the flowers she too carried into edith's hand. she put them with the others, rather dazed. * * * * * to cecil the journey had been a series of tragedies. not his own. there were two hundred of them, officers and men, on the boat across the channel. blind, maimed, paralysed, in motley garments, they were hilariously happy. every throb of the turbine engines was a thrust toward home. they sang, they cheered. now and then some one would shout: "are we downhearted?" and crutches and canes would come down on the deck to the unanimous shout: "no!" folkestone had been trying, with its parade of cheerfulness, with kindly women on the platform serving tea and buns. in the railway coach to london, where the officers sat, a talking machine played steadily, and there were masses of flowers, violets and lilies of the valley. at charing cross was a great mass of people, and as they slowly disembarked he saw that many were crying. he was rather surprised. he had known london as a cold and unemotional place. it had treated him as an alien, had snubbed and ignored him. he had been prepared to ask nothing of london, and it lay at his feet in tears. then he saw edith. perhaps, when in the fullness of years the boy goes over to the life he so firmly believes awaits him, the one thing he will carry with him through the open door will be the look in her eyes when she saw him. too precious a thing to lose, surely, even then. such things make heaven. "what did i tell you?" cried the girl who had given edith her flowers. "she has found him. see, he has lost his arm. look out--catch him!" but he did not faint. he went even whiter, and looking at edith he touched his empty sleeve. "as if that would make any difference to her!" said the girl, who was in black. "look at her face! she's got him." neither edith nor the boy could speak. he was afraid of unmanly tears. his dignity was very dear to him. and the tragedy of his empty sleeve had her by the throat. so they went out together and the crowd opened to let them by. * * * * * at nine o'clock that night lethway stormed through the stage entrance of the theatre and knocked viciously at the door of mabel's dressing room. receiving no attention, he opened the door and went in. the room was full of flowers, and mabel, ready to go on, was having her pink toes rouged for her barefoot dance. "you've got a nerve!" she said coolly. "where's edith?" "i don't know and i don't care. she ran away, when i was stinting myself to keep her. i'm done. now you go out and close that door, and when you want to enter a lady's dressing room, knock." he looked at her with blazing hatred. "right-o!" was all he said. and he turned and left her to her flowers. at exactly the same time edith was entering the elevator of a small, very respectable hotel in kensington. the boy, smiling, watched her in. he did not kiss her, greatly to the disappointment of the hall porter. as the elevator rose the boy stood at salute, the fingers of his left hand to the brim of his shabby cap. in his eyes, as they followed her, was all that there is of love--love and a new understanding. she had told him, and now he knew. his creed was still the same. right was right and wrong was wrong. but he had learned of that shadowy no man's land between the lines, where many there were who fought their battles and were wounded, and even died. as he turned and went out two men on crutches were passing along the quiet street. they recognised him in the light of the doorway, and stopped in front of him. their voices rang out in cheerful unison: "are we downhearted? no!" their crutches struck the pavement with a resounding thump. the game i the red un was very red; even his freckles were red rather than copper-coloured. and he was more prodigal than most kings, for he had two crowns on his head. also his hair grew in varying directions, like a wheatfields after a storm. he wore a coat without a tail, but with brass buttons to compensate, and a celluloid collar with a front attached. it was the red un's habit to dress first and wash after, as saving labour; instead of his neck he washed his collar. the red un was the chief engineer's boy and rather more impressive than the chief, who was apt to decry his own greatness. it was the red un's duty to look after the chief, carry in his meals, make his bed, run errands, and remind him to get his hair cut now and then. it was the red un's pleasure to assist unassumingly in the surveillance of that part of the ship where the great god, steam, ruled an underworld of trimmers and oilers and stokers and assistant engineers--and even, with reservations, the chief. the red un kept a sharp eye on the runs and read the chief's log daily--so much coal in the bunkers; so much water in the wells; so many engine-room miles in twenty-four hours--which, of course, are not sea miles exactly, there being currents and winds, and god knows what, to waste steam on. the red un, like the assistants, was becoming a bear on the speed market. he had learned that, just when the engines get heated enough to work like demons, and there is a chance to break a record and get a letter from the management, some current or other will show up--or a fog, which takes the very tripe out of the cylinders and sends the bridge yapping for caution. the red un was thirteen; and he made the chief's bed by pulling the counterpane neatly and smoothly over the chaos underneath--and got away with it, the chief being weary at night. also, in odd moments he made life miserable for the crew. up to shortly before, he had had to use much energy and all his wits to keep life in his starved little body; and even keeping an eye on the log and the chief's hair, and slipping down into the engine room, where he had no manner of business, hardly used up his activities. however, he did not lie and he looked the chief square in the eye, as man to man. the chief had salvaged him out of the hudson, when what he had taken for a bobbing red tomato had suddenly revealed a blue face and two set and desperate eyes. after that the big scot had forgotten all about him, except the next day when he put on his shoes, which had shrunk in the drying. the liner finished coaling about that time, took on passengers, luggage, steamer baskets and a pilot, and, having stowed the first two, examined the cards on the third and dropped the last, was pointed, nose to the east wind, for the race. the arrow on the twin dials pointed to stand by! for the long voyage--three thousand miles or so without a stop. the gong, and then half ahead!--great elbows thrust up and down, up and down; the grunt of power overcoming inertia, followed by the easy swing of limitless strength. full ahead!--and so off again for the great struggle--man's wits and the engines and the mercy of god against the upreaching of the sea. the chief, who sometimes dreamed his greatness, but who ignored it waking, snapped his watch shut. "eleven-eleven!" he said to the senior second. "well, here's luck!" that is what he said aloud; to himself he always said a bit of a prayer, realising perhaps even more than the bridge how little man's wits count in the great equation. he generally said something to the effect that "after all, it's up to thee, o lord!" he shook hands with the senior second, which also was his habit; and he smiled too, but rather grimly. they were playing a bit of a game, you see; and so far the chief had won all the tricks--just an amusing little game and nothing whatever to do with a woman; the second was married, but the chief had put all such things out of his head years before, when he was a youngster and sailing to the plate. out of his head, quite certainly; but who dreams of greatness for himself alone? so the chief, having glanced about and run his hand caressingly over various fearful and pounding steel creatures, had climbed up the blistering metal staircase to his room at the top and was proceeding to put down eleven-eleven and various other things that the first cabin never even heard of, when he felt that he was being stared at from behind. now and then, after shore leave, a drunken trimmer or stoker gets up to the chief's room and has to be subdued by the power of executive eye or the strength of executive arm. as most chiefs are scots, the eye is generally sufficient. so the chief, mightily ferocious, turned about, eye set, as one may say, to annihilate a six-foot trimmer in filthy overalls and a hangover, and saw--a small red-haired boy in a turkish towel. the boy quailed rather at the eye, but he had the courage of nothing to lose--not even a pair of breeches--and everything to gain. "please," said the apparition, "the pilot's gone, and you can't put me off!" the chief opened his mouth and shut it again. the mouth, and the modification of an eye set for a six-foot trimmer to an eye for a four-foot-ten urchin in a turkish towel, produced a certain softening. the red un, who was like the chief in that he earned his way by pitting his wits against relentless nature, smiled a little--a surface smile, with fear just behind. "the captain's boy's my size; i could wear his clothes," he suggested. now, back in that time when the chief had kept a woman's picture in his breast pocket instead of in a drawer of his desk, there had been small furtive hopes, the pride of the scot to perpetuate his line, the desire of a man for a manchild. the chief had buried all that in the desk drawer with the picture; but he had gone overboard in his best uniform to rescue a wharf-rat, and he had felt a curious sense of comfort when he held the cold little figure in his arms and was hauled on deck, sputtering dirty river water and broad scotch, as was his way when excited. "and where ha' ye been skulking since yesterday?" he demanded. "in the bed where i was put till last night. this morning early----" he hesitated. "don't lie! where were ye?" "in a passenger's room, under a bed. when the passengers came aboard i had to get out." "how did ye get here?" this met with silence. quite suddenly the chief recognised the connivance of the crew, perhaps, or of a kindly stewardess. "who told you this was my cabin?" a smile this time, rather like the senior second's when the chief and he had shaken hands. "a nigger!" he said. "a coloured fella in a white suit." there was not a darky on the boat. the red un, whose code was the truth when possible, but any lie to save a friend--and that's the code of a gentleman--sat, defiantly hopeful, arranging the towel to cover as much as possible of his small person. "you're lying! do you know what we do with liars on this ship? we throw them overboard!" "then i'm thinking," responded the turkish towel, "that you'll be needing another chief engineer before long!" now, as it happened, the chief had no boy that trip. the previous one had been adopted after the last trip by a childless couple who had liked the shape of his nose and the way his eyelashes curled on his cheek. the chief looked at the red un; it was perfectly clear that no one would ever adopt him for the shape of his nose, and he apparently lacked lashes entirely. he rose and took a bathrobe from a hook on the door. "here," he said; "cover your legs wi' that, and say a prayer if ye' know wan. the captain's a verra hard man wi' stowaways." the captain, however, who was a gentleman and a navigator and had a sense of humour also, was not hard with the red un. it being impracticable to take the boy to him, the great man made a special visit to the boy. the red un, in the chief's bathrobe, sat on a chair, with his feet about four inches from the floor, and returned the captain's glare with wide blue eyes. "is there any reason, young man, why i shouldn't order you to the lockup for the balance of this voyage?" the captain demanded, extra grim, and trying not to smile. "well," said the red un, wiggling his legs nervously, "you'd have to feed me, wouldn't you? and i might as well work for my keep." this being a fundamental truth on which most economics and all governments are founded, and the captain having a boy of his own at home, he gave a grudging consent, for the sake of discipline, to the red un's working for his keep as the chief's boy, and left. outside the door he paused. "the little devil's starved," he said. "put some meat on those ribs, chief, and--be a bit easy with him!" this last was facetious, the chief being known to have the heart of a child. so the red un went on the payroll of the line, and requisition was made on the storekeeper for the short-tailed coat and the long trousers, and on the barber for a hair-cut. and in some curious way the red un and the chief hit it off. it might have been a matter of red blood or of indomitable spirit. spirit enough and to spare had the red un. on the trip out he had licked the captain's boy and the purser's boy; on the incoming trip he had lashed the doctor's boy to his triumphant mast, and only three days before he had settled a row in the stokehole by putting hot ashes down the back of a drunken trimmer, and changing his attitude from menace with a steel shovel to supplication and prayer. he had no business in the stokehole, but by that time he knew every corner of the ship--called the engines by name and the men by epithets; had named one of the pumps marguerite, after the junior second's best girl; and had taken violent partisanship in the eternal rivalry of the liner between the engine room and the bridge. "aw, gwan!" he said to the captain's boy. "where'd you and your old man be but for us? in a blasted steel tank, floating about on the bloomin' sea! what's a ship without insides?" the captain's boy, who was fourteen, and kept his bath sponge in a rubber bag, and shaved now and then with the captain's razor, retorted in kind. "you fellows below think you're the whole bally ship!" he said loftily. "insides is all right--we need 'em in our business. but what'd your steel tank do, with the engines goin', if she wasn't bein' navigated? steamin' in circles, like a tinklin' merry-go-round!" it was some seconds after this that the purser, a well-intentioned but interfering gentleman with a beard, received the kick that put him in dry dock for two days. ii they were three days out of new york on the red un's second round trip when the second, still playing the game and almost despairing, made a strategic move. the red un was laying out the chief's luncheon on his desk--a clean napkin for a cloth; a glass; silver; a plate; and the menu from the first-cabin dining saloon. the menu was propped against a framed verse: _but i ha' lived and i ha' worked! all thanks to thee, most high._ and as he placed the menu, the red un repeated the words from mcandrew's hymn. it had rather got him at first; it was a new philosophy of life. to give thanks for life was understandable, even if unnecessary. but thanks for work! there was another framed card above the desk, more within the red un's ken: "cable crossing! do not anchor here!" the card worked well with the first class, resting in the chief's cabin after the arduous labours of seeing the engines. the chief was below, flat on his back in a manhole looking for a staccato note that did not belong in his trained and orderly chorus. there was grease in his sandy hair, and the cranks were only a few inches from his nose. by opening the door the red un was able to command the cylinder tops, far below, and the fiddley, which is the roof of hell or a steel grating over the cylinders to walk on--depending on whether one is used to it or not. the chief was naturally not in sight. this gave the red un two minutes' leeway--two minutes for exploration. a drawer in the desk, always heretofore locked, was unfastened--that is, the bolt had been shot before the drawer was entirely closed. the red un was jealous of that drawer. in two voyages he had learned most of the chief's history and, lacking one of his own, had appropriated it to himself. thus it was not unusual for him to remark casually, as he stood behind the chief's chair at dinner: "we'd better send this here postcard to cousin willie, at edinburgh." "ou-ay!" the chief would agree, and tear off the postcard of the ship that topped each day's menu; but, so far, all hints as to this one drawer had been futile; it remained the one barrier to their perfect confidence, the fly in the ointment of the red un's content. now, at last---- below, a drop of grease in the chief's eye set him wiping and cursing; over his head hammered, banged and lunged his great babies; in the stokehole a gaunt and grimy creature, yclept the junior second, stewed in his own sweat and yelled for steam. the red un opened the drawed quickly and thrust in a hand. at first he thought it was empty, working as he did by touch, his eye on the door. then he found a disappointing something--the lid of a cigar-box! under that was a photograph. here was luck! had the red un known it, he had found the only two secrets in his chief's open life. but the picture was disappointing--a snapshot of a young woman, rather slim, with the face obscured by a tennis racket, obviously thrust into the picture at the psychological moment. poor spoil this--a cigar-box lid and a girl without a face! however, marred as it was, it clearly meant something to the chief. for on its reverse side was another stanza from mcandrew's hymn: _ye know how hard an idol dies, an' what that meant to me-- e'en tak' it for a sacrifice acceptable to thee._ the red un thrust it back into the drawer, with the lid. if she was dead what did it matter? he was a literal youth--so far, his own words had proved sufficient for his thoughts; it is after thirty that a man finds his emotions bigger than his power of expressing them, and turns to those that have the gift. the chief was over thirty. it was as he shut the drawer that he realised he was not alone. the alley door was open and in it stood the senior second. the red un eyed him unpleasantly. "sneaking!" said the second. "none of your blamed business!" replied the red un. the second, who was really an agreeable person, with a sense of humour, smiled. he rather liked the red un. "do you know, william," he observed--william was the red un's name--"i'd be willing to offer two shillings for an itemised account of what's in that drawer?" "fill it with shillings," boasted the red un, "and i'll not tell you." "three?" said the second cheerfully. "no." "four?" "why don't you look yourself?" "just between gentlemen, that isn't done, young man. but if you volunteered the information, and i saw fit to make you a present of, say, a pipe, with a box of tobacco----" "what do you want to know for?" "i guess you know." the red un knew quite well. the chief and the two seconds were still playing their game, and the chief was still winning; but even the red un did not know how the chief won--and as for the two seconds and the third and the fourth, they were quite stumped. this was the game: in bad weather, when the ports are closed and first-class passengers are yapping for air, it is the province of the engine room to see that they get it. an auxiliary engine pumps cubic feet of atmosphere into every cabin through a series of airtrunks. so far so good. but auxiliaries take steam; and it is exceedingly galling to a junior or senior, wagering more than he can afford on the run in his watch, to have to turn valuable steam to auxiliaries--"so that a lot of blooming nuts may smoke in their bunks!" as the third put it. the first move in the game is the chief's, who goes to bed and presumably to sleep. after that it's the engine-room move, which gives the first class time to settle down and then shuts off the airpumps. now there is no noise about shutting off the air in the trunks. it flows or it does not flow. the game is to see whether the chief wakens when the air stops or does not. so far he had always wakened. it was uncanny. it was worse than that--it was damnable! did not the old man sleep at all?--not that he was old, but every chief is the old man behind his back. everything being serene, and the engine-room clock marking twelve-thirty, one of the seconds would shut off the air very gradually; the auxiliary would slow down, wheeze, pant and die--and within two seconds the chief's bell would ring and an angry voice over the telephone demand what the several kinds of perdition had happened to the air! another trick in the game to the chief! it had gone past joking now: had moved up from the uncanny to the impossible, from the impossible to the enraging. surreptitious search of the chief's room had shown nothing but the one locked drawer. they had taken advantage of the chief's being laid up in antwerp with a boil on his neck to sound the cabin for hidden wires. they had asked the ship's doctor anxiously how long a man could do without sleep. the doctor had quoted napoleon. * * * * * "if at any time," observed the second pleasantly, "you would like that cigarette case the barber is selling, you know how to get it." "thanks, old man," said the red un loftily, with his eye on the wall. the second took a step forward and thought better of it. "better think about it!" "i was thinking of something else," said the red un, still staring at the wall. the second followed his eye. the red un was gazing intently at the sign which said: "cable crossing! do not anchor here!" as the second slammed out, the chief crawled from his manhole and struggled out of his greasy overalls. except for his face, he was quite tidy. he ran an eye down the port tunnel, where the shaft revolved so swiftly that it seemed to be standing still, to where at the after end came the racing of the screw as it lifted, bearded with scud, out of the water. "it looks like weather to-night," he observed, with a twinkle, to the fourth. "there'll aye be air wanted." but the fourth was gazing at a steam gauge. iii the red un's story, like all gaul, is divided into three parts--his temptation, his fall and his redemption. all lives are so divided: a step back; a plunge; and then, in desperation and despair, a little climb up god's ladder. seven days the liner lay in new york--seven days of early autumn heat, of blistering decks, of drunken and deserting trimmers, of creaking gear and grime of coal-dust. the cabin which held the red un and the purser's boy was breathless. on sunday the four ship's boys went to coney island and lay in the surf half the afternoon. the bliss of the water on their thin young legs and scrawny bodies was heaven. they did not swim; they lay inert, letting the waves move them about, and out of the depths of a deep content making caustic comments about the human form as revealed by the relentless sea. "that's a pippin!" they would say; or, "my aunt! looks at his legs!" they voiced their opinions audibly and were ready to back them up with flight or fight. it was there that the red un saw the little girl. she had come from a machine, and her mother stood near. she was not a coney islander. she was first-cabin certainly--silk stockings on her thin ankles, sheer white frock; no jewelry. she took a snapshot of the four boys--to their discomfiture--and walked away while they were still writhing. "that for mine!" said the red un in one of his rare enthusiasms. they had supper--a sandwich and a glass of beer; they would have preferred pop, but what deep-water man on shore drinks pop?--and made their way back to the ship by moonlight. the red un was terse in his speech on the car: mostly he ate peanuts abstractedly. if he evolved any clear idea out of the chaos of his mind it was to wish she had snapped him in his uniform with the brass buttons. the heat continued; the men in the stokehole, keeping up only enough steam for the dynamos and donkey engines, took turns under the ventilators or crawled up to the boatdeck at dusk, too exhausted to dress and go ashore. the swimmers were overboard in the cool river with the first shadows of night; the quartermaster, so old that he dyed his hair for fear he'd be superannuated, lowered his lean body hand over hand down a rope and sat by the hour on a stringpiece of the dock, with the water laving his hairy and tattooed old breast. the red un was forbidden the river. to be honest, he was rather relieved--not twice does a man dare the river god, having once been crowned with his slime and water-weed. when the boy grew very hot he slipped into a second-cabin shower, and stood for luxurious minutes with streams running off his nose and the ends of his fingers and splashing about his bony ankles. then, one night, some of the men took as many passengers' lifebelts and went in. the immediate result was fun combined with safety; the secondary result was placards over the ship and the dock, forbidding the use of the ship's lifebelts by the crew. from that moment the red un was possessed for the river and a lifebelt. so were the other three. the signs were responsible. permitted, a ship's lifebelt was a subterfuge of the cowardly, white-livered skunks who were afraid of a little water; forbidden, a ship's lifebelt took on the qualities of enemy's property--to be reconnoitred, assaulted, captured and turned to personal advantage. that very night, then, four small bodies, each naked save for a lifebelt, barrelshaped and extending from breast almost to knee, slipped over the side of the ship with awkward splashes and proceeded to disport themselves in the river. scolding tugs sent waves for them to ride; ferries crawled like gigantic bugs with a hundred staring eyes. they found the quartermaster on a stringpiece immersed to the neck and smoking his pipe, and surrounded him--four small, shouting imps, floating barrels with splashing hands and kicking feet. "gwan, ye little devils!" said the quartermaster, clutching the stringpiece and looking about in the gloom for a weapon. the red un, quite safe and audacious in his cork jacket, turned over on his back and kicked. "gwan yerself, methuselah!" he sang. they stole the old man's pipe and passed it from mouth to mouth; they engaged him in innocent converse while one of them pinched his bare old toe under water, crab-fashion. and at last they prepared to shin up the rope again and sleep the sleep of the young, the innocent and the refreshed. the chief was leaning over the rail, just above, smoking! he leaned against the rail and smoked for three hours! eight eyes, watching him from below, failed to find anything in his face but contemplation; eight hands puckered like a washerwoman's; eight feet turned from medium to clean, from clean to bleached--and still the chief smoked on. he watched the scolding tugs and the ferryboats that crawled over the top of the water; he stood in rapt contemplation of the electric signs in jersey, while the ship's bells marked the passage of time to eternity, while the quartermaster slept in his bed, while the odours of the river stank in their nostrils and the pressure of the ship's lifebelts weighed like lead on their clammy bodies. at eight bells--which is midnight--the chief emptied his twenty-fourth pipe over the rail and smiled into the gloom beneath. "ye'll better be coming up," he remarked pleasantly. "i'm for turning in mysel'." he wandered away; none of the watch was near. the ship was dark, save for her riding lights. hand over puckered hand they struggled up and wriggled out of the belts; stark naked they ducked through passageways and alleys, and stowed their damp and cringing forms between sheets. the red un served the chief's breakfast the next morning very carefully. the chief's cantaloupe was iced; his kipper covered with a hot plate; the morning paper propped against mcandrew's hymn. the red un looked very clean and rather bleached. the chief was busy; he read the night reports, which did not amount to much, the well soundings, and a letter from a man offering to show him how to increase the efficiency of his engines fifty per cent, and another offering him a rake-off on a new lubricant. outwardly the chief was calm--even cold. inwardly he was rather uncomfortable: he could feel two blue eyes fixed on his back and remembered the day he had pulled them out of the river, and how fixed and desperate they were then. but what was it mcandrew said? "law, order, duty an' restraint, obedience, discipline!" besides, if the boys were going to run off with the belts some damned first-class passenger was likely to get a cabin minus a belt and might write to the management. the line had had bad luck; it did not want another black eye. he cleared his throat; the red un dropped a fork. "that sort of thing last night won't do, william." "n-no, sir." "ye had seen the signs, of course?" "yes, sir." the red un never lied to the chief; it was useless. the chief toyed with his kipper. "ye'll understand i'd ha' preferred dealin' with the matter mysel'; but it's--gone up higher." the quartermaster, of course! the chief rose and pretended to glance over the well soundings. "the four of ye will meet me in the captain's room in fifteen minutes," he observed casually. the captain was feeding his cat when the red un got there. the four boys lined up uncomfortably; all of them looked clean, subdued, apprehensive. if they were to be locked up in this sort of weather, and only three days to sailing time--even a fine would be better. the captain stroked the cat and eyed them. "well," he said curtly, "what have you four young imps been up to now?" the four young imps stood panicky. they looked as innocent as choir boys. the cat, eating her kipper, wheezed. "please, sir," said the captain's boy solicitously, "peter has something in his throat." "perhaps it's a ship's lifebelt," said the captain grimly, and caught the chief's eye. the line palpitated; under cover of its confusion the chief, standing in the doorway with folded arms, winked swiftly at the captain; the next moment he was more dour than ever. "you are four upsetters of discipline," said the captain, suddenly pounding the table. "you four young monkeys have got the crew by the ears, and i'm sick of it! which one of you put the fish in mrs. schmidt's bed?" mrs. schmidt was a stewardess. the red un stepped forward. "who turned the deckhose into the purser's cabin night before last?" "please," said the doctor's boy pallidly, "i made a mistake in the room. i thought----" "who," shouted the captain, banging again, "cut the quartermaster's rope two nights ago and left him sitting under the dock for four hours?" the purser's boy this time, white to the lips! fresh panic seized them; it could hardly be mere arrest if he knew all this; he might order them hanged from a yardarm or shot at sunrise. he looked like the latter. the red un glanced at the chief, who looked apprehensive also, as if the thing was going too far. the captain may have read their thoughts, for he said: "you're limbs of satan, all of you, and hanging's too good for you. what do you say, chief? how can we make these young scamps lessons in discipline to the crew?" everybody breathed again and looked at the chief--who stood tall and sandy and rather young to be a chief--in the doorway. "eh, mon," he said, and smiled, "i'm aye a bit severe. don't ask me to punish the bairns." the captain sniffed. "severe!" he observed. "you scots are hard in the head, but soft in the disposition. come, chief--shall they walk the plank?" "good deescipline," assented the chief, "but it would leave us a bit shorthanded." "true," said the captain gloomily. "i was thinkin'," remarked the chief diffidently--one hates to think before the captain; that's always supposed to be his job. "yes?" "that we could make a verra fine example of them and still retain their services. ha' ye, by chance, seen a crow hangin' head down in the field, a warnin' to other mischief-makers?" "ou-ay!" said the captain, who had a scotch mother. the line wavered again; the captain's boy, who pulled his fingers when he was excited, cracked three knuckles. "it would be good deescipline," continued the chief, "to stand the four o' them in ship's belt at the gangway, say for an hour, morning and evening--clad, ye ken, as they were during the said infreengements." "you're a great man, chief!" said the captain. "you hear that, lads'?" "with--with no trousers'?" gasped the doctor's boy. "if you wore trousers last night. if not----" * * * * * the thing was done that morning. four small boys, clad only in ship's belts, above which rose four sheepish heads and freckled faces, below which shifted and wriggled eight bare legs, stood in line at the gangway and suffered agonies of humiliation at the hands of crew and dockmen, grinning customs inspectors, coalpassers, and a newspaper photographer hunting a human-interest bit for a sunday paper. the cooks came up from below and peeped out at them; the ship's cat took up a position in line and came out in the sunday edition as "a fellow conspirator." the red un, owing to an early training that had considered clothing desirable rather than essential, was not vitally concerned. the quartermaster had charge of the line; he had drawn a mark with chalk along the deck, and he kept their toes to it by marching up and down in front of them with a broomhandle over his shoulder. "toe up, you little varmints!" he would snap. "god knows i'd be glad to get a rap at you--keeping an old man down in the water half the night! toe up!" whereupon, aiming an unlucky blow at the purser's boy, he hit the captain's cat. the line snickered. it was just after that the red un, surmising a snap by the photographer on the dock and thwarting it by putting his thumb to his nose, received the shock of his small life. the little girl from coney island, followed by her mother, was on the pier--was showing every evidence of coming up the gangway to where he stood. was coming! panic seized the red un--panic winged with flight. he turned--to face the chief. appeal sprang to the red un's lips. "please!" he gasped. "i'm sick, sick as h--, sick as a dog, chief. i've got a pain in my chest--i----" curiously enough, the chief did not answer or even hear. he, too, was looking at the girl on the gangway and at her mother. the next moment the chief was in full flight, ignominious flight, his face, bleached with the heat of the engine room and the stokehole, set as no emergency of broken shaft or flying gear had ever seen it. broken shaft indeed! a man's life may be a broken shaft. the woman and the girl came up the gangway, exidently to inspect staterooms. the quartermaster had rallied the red un back to the line and stood before him, brandishing his broomhandle. black fury was in the boy's eye; hate had written herself on his soul. his chief had ignored his appeal--had left him to his degradation--had deserted him. the girl saw the line, started, blushed, recognised the red un--and laughed! iv the great voyage began--began with the band playing and much waving of flags and display of handkerchiefs; began with the girl and her mother on board; began with the chief eating his heart out over coal and oil vouchers and well soundings and other things; began with the red un in a new celluloid collar, lying awake at night to hate his master, adding up his injury each day to greater magnitude. the voyage began. the gong rang from the bridge. stand by! said the twin dials. half ahead! full ahead! full ahead! man's wits once more against the upreaching of the sea! the chief, who knew that somewhere above was his woman and her child, which was not his, stood under a ventilator and said the few devout words with which he commenced each voyage: "with thy help!" and then, snapping his watch: "three minutes past ten!" the chief engineer of a liner is always a gentleman and frequently a christian. he knows, you see, how much his engines can do and how little. it is not his engines alone that conquer the sea, nor his engines plus his own mother wit. it is engines plus wit plus _x_, and the _x_ is god's mercy. being responsible for two quantities out of the three of the equation, he prays--if he does--with an eye on a gauge and an ear open for a cylinder knock. there was gossip in the engineers' mess those next days: the old man was going to pieces. a man could stand so many years of the strain and then where was he? in a land berth, growing fat and paunchy, and eating his heart out for the sea, or---- the sea got him one way or another! the senior second stood out for the chief. "wrong with him? there's nothing wrong with him," he declared. "if he was any more on the job than he is i'd resign. he's on the job twenty-four hours a day, nights included." there was a laugh at this; the mess was on to the game. most of them were playing it. so now we have the red un looking for revenge and in idle moments lurking about the decks where the girl played. he washed his neck under his collar those days. and we have the chief fretting over his engines, subduing drunken stokers, quelling the frequent disturbances of hell alley, which led to the firemen's quarters, eating little and smoking much, devising out of his mental disquietude a hundred possible emergencies and--keeping away from the passengers. the junior second took down the two parties who came to see the engine room and gave them lemonade when they came up. the little girl's mother came with the second party and neither squealed nor asked questions--only at the door into the stokeholes she stood a moment with dilated eyes. she was a little woman, still slim, rather tragic. she laid a hand on the junior's arm. "the--the engineers do not go in there, do they?" "yes, madam. we stand four-hour watches. that is the senior second engineer on that pile of cinders." the senior second was entirely black, except for his teeth and the whites of his eyes. there was a little trouble in a coalbunker; they had just discovered it. there would be no visitors after this until the trouble was over. the girl's mother said nothing more. the junior second led them around, helping a pretty young woman about and explaining to her. "this," he said, smiling at the girl, "is a pump the men have nicknamed marguerite, because she takes most of one man's time and is always giving trouble." the young woman tossed her head. "perhaps she would do better if she were left alone," she suggested. the girl's mother said nothing, but, before she left, she took one long look about the engine room. in some such bedlam of noise and heat _he_ spent his life. she was wrong, of course, to pity him; one need not measure labour by its conditions or by its cost, but by the joy of achievement. the woman saw the engines--sinister, menacing, frightful; the man saw power that answered to his hand--conquest, victory. the beat that was uproar to her ears was as the throbbing of his own heart. it was after they had gone that the chief emerged from the forward stokehole where the trouble was. he had not seen her; she would not have known him, probably, had they met face to face. he was quite black and the light of battle gleamed in his eyes. they fixed the trouble somehow. it was fire in a coalbunker, one of the minor exigencies. fire requiring air they smothered it one way and another. it did not spread, but it did not quite die. and each day's run was better than the day before. the weather was good. the steerage, hanging over the bow, saw far below the undercurling spray, white under dark blue--the blue growing paler, paler still, until the white drops burst to the top and danced free in the sun. a greek, going home to crete to marry a wife, made all day long tiny boats of coloured paper, weighted with corks, and sailed them down into the sea. "they shall carry back to america my farewells!" he said, smiling. "this to pappas, the bootblack, who is my friend. this to a girl back in america, with eyes--behold that darkest blue, my children; so are her eyes! and this black one to my sister, who has lost a child." the first class watched the spray also--as it rose to the lip of a glass. now at last it seemed they would break a record. then rain set in, without enough wind to make a sea, but requiring the starboard ports to be closed. the senior second, going on duty at midnight that night, found his junior railing at fate and the airpumps going. "shut 'em off!" said the senior second furiously. "shut 'em off yourself. i've tried it twice." the senior second gave a lever a vicious tug and the pump stopped. before it had quite lapsed into inertia the chief's bell rang. "can you beat it?" demanded the junior sulkily. "the old fox!" the senior cursed. then he turned abruptly and climbed the steel ladder he had just descended. the junior, who was anticipating a shower and bed, stared after him. the senior thought quickly--that was why he was a senior. he found the red un's cabin and hammered at the door. then, finding it was not locked, he walked in. the red un lay perched aloft; the shirt of his small pajamas had worked up about his neck and his thin torso lay bare. in one hand he clutched the dead end of a cigarette. the senior wakened him by running a forefinger down his ribs, much as a boy runs a stick along a paling fence. "wha' ish it?" demanded the red un in sleepy soprano. and then "wha' d'ye want?" in bass. his voice was changing; he sounded like two people in animated discussion most of the time. "you boys want to earn a sovereign?" the purser's boy, who had refused to rouse to this point, sat up in bed. "whaffor?" he asked. "get the chief here some way. you"--to the purser's boy--"go and tell him the red un's ill and asking for him. you"--to the red un--"double up; cry; do something. start him off for the doctor--anything, so you keep him ten minutes or so!" the red un was still drowsy, and between sleeping and waking we are what we are. "i won't do it!" the senior second held out a gold sovereign on his palm. "don't be a bally little ass!" he said. the red un, waking full, now remembered that he hated the chief; for fear he did not hate him enough, he recalled the lifebelt, and his legs, and the girl laughing. "all right!" he said. "gwan, pimples! what'll i have? appendiceetis?" "have a toothache," snapped the senior second. "tear off a few yells--anything to keep him!" it worked rather well; plots have a way of being successful in direct proportion to their iniquity. beneficent plots, like loving relatives dressed as santa claus, frequently go wrong; while it has been shown that the leakiest sort of scheme to wreck a bank will go through with the band playing. the chief came and found the red un in agony, holding his jaw. owing to the fact that he lay far back in an upper bunk, it took time to drag him into the light. it took more time to get his mouth open; once open, the red un pointed to a snag that should have given him trouble if it didn't, and set up a fresh outcry. not until long after could the red un recall without shame his share in that night's work--recall the chief, stubby hair erect, kind blue eyes searching anxiously for the offending tooth. recall it? would he ever forget the arm the chief put about him, and him: "ou-ay! laddie; it's a weeked snag!" the chief, to whom god had denied a son of his flesh, had taken red un to his heart, you see--fatherless wharf-rat and childless engineer; the man acting on the dour scot principle of chastening whomsoever he loveth, and the boy cherishing a hate that was really only hurt love. and as the chief, who had dragged the red un out of eternity and was not minded to see him die of a toothache, took him back to his cabin the pain grew better, ceased, turned to fright. the ten minutes or so were over and what would they find? the chief opened the door; he had in mind a drop of whisky out of the flask he never touched on a trip--whisky might help the tooth. on the threshold he seemed to scent something amiss. he glanced at the ceiling over his bunk, where the airtrunk lay, and then--he looked at the boy. he stooped down and put a hand on the boy's head, turning it to the light. "tell me now, lad," he said quietly, "did ye or did ye no ha' the toothache?" "it's better now," sullenly. "did ye or did ye no?" "no." the chief turned the boy about and pushed him through the doorway into outer darkness. he said nothing. down to his very depths he was hurt. to have lost the game was something; but it was more than that. had he been a man of words he might have said that once again a creature he loved had turned on him to his injury. being a scot and a man of few words he merely said he was damned, and crawled back into bed. the game? well, that was simple enough. directly over his pillow, in the white-painted airtrunk, was a brass plate, fastened with four screws. in case of anything wrong with the ventilator the plate could be taken off for purposes of investigation. the chief's scheme had been simplicity itself--so easy that the seconds, searching for concealed wires and hidden alarm bells, had never thought of it. on nights when the air must be pumped, and officious seconds were only waiting the chief's first sleep to shut off steam and turn it back to the main engines, the chief unlocked the bolted drawer in his desk. first he took out the woman's picture and gazed at it; quite frequently he read the words on the back--written out of a sore heart, be sure. and then he took out the cigar-box lid. when he had unscrewed the brass plate over his head he replaced it with the lid of the cigar-box. so long as the pumps in the engine room kept the air moving, the lid stayed up by suction. when the air stopped the lid fell down on his head; he roused enough to press a signal button and, as the air started viciously, to replace the lid. then, off to the sleep of the just and the crafty again. and so on _ad infinitum_. of course the game was not over because it was discovered and the lid gone. there would be other lids. but the snap, the joy, was gone out of it. it would never again be the same, and the worst of all was the manner of the betrayal. he slept but little the remainder of the night; and, because unrest travels best from soul to soul at night, when the crowding emotions of the day give it place, the woman slept little also. she was thinking of the entrance to the stokehole, where one crouched under the bellies of furnaces, and where the engineer on duty stood on a pile of hot cinders. toward morning her room grew very close: the air from the ventilator seemed to have ceased. far down in the ship, in a breathless little cabin far aft, the red un kicked the purser's boy and cried himself to sleep. v the old ship made a record the next night that lifted the day's run to four hundred and twenty. she was not a greyhound, you see. generally speaking, she was a nine-day boat. she averaged well under four hundred miles. the fast boats went by her and slid over the edge of the sea, throwing her bits of news by wireless over a shoulder, so to speak. the little girl's mother was not a good sailor. she sat almost all day in a steamer chair, reading or looking out over the rail. each day she tore off the postal from the top of her menu and sent it to the girl's father. she missed him more than she had expected. he had become a habit; he was solid, dependable, loyal. he had never heard of the chief. "dear daddy," she would write: "having a splendid voyage so far, but wish you were here. the baby is having such a good time--so popular; and won two prizes to-day at the sports! with love, lily." they were all rather like that. she would drop them in the mailbox, with a tug of tenderness for the man who worked at home. then she would go back to her chair and watch the sea, and recall the heat of the engine room below, and wonder, wonder---- it had turned warm again; the edges of the horizon were grey and at night a low mist lay over the water. rooms were stifling, humid. the red un discarded pajamas and slept in his skin. the engine-room watch came up white round the lips and sprawled over the boat deck without speech. things were going wrong in the red un's small world. the chief hardly spoke to him--was grave and quiet, and ate almost nothing. the red un hated himself unspeakably and gave his share of the sovereign to the purser's boy. the chief was suffering from lack of exercise in the air as well as other things. the girl's mother was not sleeping--what with heat and the memories the sea had revived. on the fifth night out, while the ship slept, these two met on the deck in the darkness--two shadows out of the past. the deck was dark, but a ray from a window touched his face and she knew him. he had not needed light to know her; every line of her was written on his heart, and for him there was no one at home to hold in tenderness. "i think i knew you were here all the time," she said, and held out both hands. the chief took one and dropped it. she belonged to the person at home. he had no thought of forgetting that! "i saw your name on the passenger list, but i have been very busy." he never lapsed into scotch with her; she had not liked it. "is your husband with you?" "he could not come just now. i have my daughter." her voice fell rather flat. the chief could not think of anything to say. her child, and not his! he was a one-woman man, you see--and this was the woman. "i have seen her," he said presently. "she's like you, lily." that was a wrong move--the lily; for it gave her courage to put her hand on his arm. "it is so long since we have met," she said wistfully. "yesterday, after i saw the--the place where you lived and--and work----" she choked; she was emotional, rather weak. having made the situation she should have let it alone; but, after all, it is not what the woman is, but what the man thinks she is. the chief stroked her fingers on his sleeve. "it's not bad, lily," he said. "it's a man's job. i like it." "i believe you had forgotten me entirely!" the chief winced. "isn't that the best thing you could wish me?" he said. "are you happy?" "'i ha' lived and i ha' worked!'" he quoted sturdily. very shortly after that he left her; he made an excuse of being needed below and swung off, his head high. vi they struck the derelict when the mist was thickest, about two that morning. the red un was thrown out of his berth and landed, stark naked, on the floor. the purser's boy was on the floor, too, in a tangle of bedding. there was a sickening silence for a moment, followed by the sound of opening doors and feet in the passage. there was very little speech. people ran for the decks. the purser's boy ran with them. the red un never thought of the deck. one of the axioms of the engine room is that of every man to his post in danger. the red un's post was with his chief. his bare feet scorched on the steel ladders and the hot floor plates; he had on only his trousers, held up with a belt. the trouble was in the forward stokehole. water was pouring in from the starboard side--was welling up through the floor plates. the wound was ghastly, fatal! the smouldering in the bunker had weakened resistance there and her necrosed ribs had given away. the red un, scurrying through the tunnel, was met by a maddened rush of trimmers and stokers. he went down under them and came up bruised, bleeding, battling for place. "you skunks!" he blubbered. "you crazy cowards! come back and help!" a big stoker stopped and caught the boy's arm. "you come on!" he gasped. "the whole thing'll go in a minute. she'll go down by the head!" he tried to catch the boy up in his arms, but the red un struck him on the nose. "let me go, you big stiff!" he cried, and kicked himself free. not all the men had gone. they were working like fiends. it was up to the bulkhead now. if it held--if it only held long enough to get the passengers off! not an engineer thought of leaving his place, though they knew, better even than the deck officers, how mortally the ship was hurt. they called to their aid every resource of a business that is nothing but emergencies. engines plus wit, plus the grace of god--and the engines were useless. wits, then, plus providence. the pumps made no impression on the roaring flood; they lifted floor plates to strengthen the bulkheads and worked until it was death to work longer. then, fighting for every foot, the little band retreated to the after stokehole. lights were out forward. the chief was the last to escape. he carried an oil lantern, and squeezed through the bulkhead door with a wall of water behind him. the red un cried out, but too late. the chief, blinded by his lantern, had stumbled into the pit where a floor plate had been lifted. when he found his leg was broken he cried to them to go on and leave him, but they got him out somehow and carried him with them as they fought and retreated--fought and retreated. he was still the chief; he lay on the floor propped up against something and directed the fight. the something he leaned against was the strained body of the red un, who held him up and sniffled shamefaced tears. she was down by the head already and rolling like a dying thing. when the water came into the after stokehole they carried the chief into the engine room--the lights were going there. there had been no panic on deck. there were boats enough and the lights gave every one confidence. it was impossible to see the lights going and believe the ship doomed. those who knew felt the list of the decks and hurried with the lowering of the boats; the ones who saw only the lights wished to go back to their cabins for clothing and money. the woman sat in the quartermaster's boat, with her daughter in her arms, and stared at the ship. the quartermaster said the engineers were still below and took off his cap. in her feeble way the woman tried to pray, and found only childish, futile things to say; but in her mind there was a great wonder--that they, who had once been life each to the other, should part thus, and that now, as ever, the good part was hers! the girl looked up into her mother's face. "the redhaired little boy, mother--do you think he is safe?" "first off, likely," mumbled the quartermaster grimly. all the passengers were off. under the mist the sea rose and fell quietly; the boats and rafts had drawn off to a safe distance. the greek, who had humour as well as imagination, kept up the spirits of those about him while he held a child in his arms. "shall we," he inquired gravely, "think you--shall we pay extra to the company for this excursion?" * * * * * the battle below had been fought and lost. it was of minutes now. the chief had given the order: "every one for himself!" some of the men had gone, climbing to outer safety. the two seconds had refused to leave the chief. all lights were off by that time. the after stokehole was flooded and water rolled sickeningly in the engine-pits. each second it seemed the ship must take its fearful dive into the quiet sea that so insistently reached up for her. with infinite labour the seconds got the chief up to the fiddley, twenty feet or less out of a hundred, and straight ladders instead of a steel staircase. ten men could not have lifted him without gear, and there was not time! then, because the rest was hopeless, they left him there, propped against the wall, with the lantern beside him. he shook hands with them; the junior was crying; the senior went last, and after he had gone up a little way he turned and came back. "i can't do it, chief!" he said. "i'll stick it out with you." but the chief drove him up, with the name of his wife and child. far up the shaft he turned and looked down. the lantern glowed faintly below. the chief sat alone on his grating. he was faint with pain. the blistering cylinders were growing cold; the steel floor beneath was awash. more ominous still, as the ship's head sank, came crackings and groanings from the engines below. they would fall through at the last, ripping out the bulkheads and carrying her down bow first. pain had made the chief rather dull. "'i ha' lived and i ha' worked!'" he said several times--and waited for the end. into his stupor came the thought of the woman--and another thought of the red un. both of them had sold him out, so to speak; but the woman had grown up with his heart and the boy was his by right of salvage--only he thought of the woman as he dreamed of her, not as he had seen her on the deck. he grew rather confused, after a time, and said: "i ha' loved and i ha' worked!" just between life and death there comes a time when the fight seems a draw, or as if each side, exhausted, had called a truce. there is no more struggle, but it is not yet death. the ship lay so. the upreaching sea had not conquered. the result was inevitable, but not yet. and in the pause the red un came back, came crawling down the ladder, his indomitable spirit driving his craven little body. he had got as far as the boat and safety. the gripping devils of fear that had followed him up from the engine room still hung to his throat; but once on deck, with the silent men who were working against time and eternity, he found he could not do it. he was the chief's boy--and the chief was below and hurt! the truce still held. as the ship rolled, water washed about the foot of the ladder and lapped against the cylinders. the chief tried desperately to drive him up to the deck and failed. "it's no place for you alone," said the red un. his voice had lost its occasional soprano note; the red un was a grown man. "i'm staying!" and after a hesitating moment he put his small, frightened paw on the chief's arm. it was that, perhaps, that roused the chief--not love of life, but love of the boy. to be drowned like a rat in a hole--that was not so bad when one had lived and worked. a man may not die better than where he has laboured; but this child, who would die with him rather than live alone! the chief got up on his usable knee. "i'm thinking, laddie," he said, "we'll go fighting anyhow." the boy went first, with the lantern. and, painful rung by painful rung, the chief did the impossible, suffering hells as he moved. for each foot he gained the red un gained a foot--no more. what he would not have endured for himself, the chief suffered for the boy. halfway up, he clung, exhausted. the boy leaned down and held out his hand. "i'll pull," he said. "just hang on to me." only once again did he speak during that endless climb in the silence of the dying ship, and what he said came in gasps. he was pulling indeed. "about--that airtrunk," he managed to say--"i'm--sorry, sir!" * * * * * the dawn came up out of the sea, like resurrection. in the quartermaster's boat the woman slept heavily, with tears on her cheeks. the quartermaster looked infinitely old and very tired with living. it was the girl, after all, who spied them--two figures--one inert and almost lifeless; one very like a bobbing tomato, but revealing a blue face and two desperate eyes above a ship's lifebelt. the chief came to an hour or so later and found the woman near, pale and tragic, and not so young as he had kept her in his heart. his eyes rested on hers a moment; the bitterness was gone, and the ache. he had died and lived again, and what was past was past. "i thought," said the woman tremulously--"all night i thought that you----" the chief, coming to full consciousness, gave a little cry. his eyes, travelling past hers, had happened on a small and languid youngster curled up at his feet, asleep. the woman drew back--as from an intrusion. as she watched, the red un yawned, stretched and sat up. his eyes met the chief's, and between them passed such a look of understanding as made for the two one world, one victory! transcriber's note: inconsistent hyphenation and spelling in the original document have been preserved. obvious typographical errors have been corrected. italic text is denoted by _underscores_. the annals of ann [illustration: ann] the annals of ann _by_ kate trimble sharber with four illustrations by paul j. meylan a. l. burt company publishers new york copyright the bobbs-merrill company the annals of ann chapter i my cousin eunice is a grown young lady and she keeps a diary, which put the notion into my head of keeping one too. there are two kinds of people that keep diaries, married ones and single ones. the single ones fill theirs full of poetry; the married ones tell how much it costs to keep house. not being extra good in grammar and spelling, i thought i'd copy a few pages out of cousin eunice's diary this morning as a pattern to keep mine by, but i was disappointed. nearly every page i turned to in hers was filled full of poetry, which stuff never did make good sense to me, besides the trouble it puts you to by having to start every line with a fresh capital. cousin eunice says nearly all famous people keep a diary for folks to read after they're dead. i always did admire famous people, especially lord byron and columbus. and i've often thought i should like to be a famous person myself when i get grown. i don't care so much about graduating in white mull, trimmed in lace, as some girls do, for the really famous never graduate. they get expelled from college for writing little books saying there ain't any devil. but i should _love_ to be a beautiful opera singer, with a jasmine flower at my throat, and a fresh duke standing at the side door of the theater every night, begging me to marry him. or i'd like to rescue a ship full of drowning people, then swim back to shore and calmly squeeze the salt water out of my bathing suit, so the papers would all be full of it the next morning. things don't turn out the way you expect them to, though, and i needn't count too much on these things. i might catch cold in my voice, or cramps in the sea and never get famous; but i'm going to keep this diary anyhow, and just hand it down to my grandchildren, for nearly _every_ lady can count on _them_, whether she's famous or infamous. maybe some rainy day, a hundred years from now, a little girl will find this book in the attic, all covered with dust, and will sit down and read it, while the rain sounds soft and pattery on the outside, and her mother calls and calls without getting an answer. this is not at all the right way to do, but what can they expect of you when your attic is such a very delicious place? ours is high enough not to bump your head, even if you are as tall as my friend, rufe clayborne, and where a part of the window-pane is broken out an apple-tree sends in a perky little branch. just before easter every year i spend nearly all my time up here at this window, for the apple blossoms seem to have so many things to say to me; lovely things, that i can _feel_, but can not hear, and if i could write them down this would be the most beautiful book in the world. and great sheets of rain come sometimes; you can see them coming from the hills back of mr. clayborne's house, but the apple blossoms don't mind the wetting. when i wrote "mr. clayborne" just then it reminded me of cousin eunice's diary. that was _one_ sensible word which was on every page. sometimes it was mixed up close along with the poetry, but i always knew who she meant, for he is my best friend and the grandest young man i've ever seen out of a book. his other name is rufe, and he's an editor when he's in the city. but before he got to be an editor he was born across the creek from our farm, and we've always been great friends. his father and mine are also friends, always quarreling about whose bird-dogs and hotbeds are the best; and our mothers talk a heap about "original sin" and chow-chow pickle. maybe my grandchildren would like to know a few little things about me at the time i started keeping this diary for their sakes, so i'll stop now and tell them as quickly as i can, for i never did think just my own self was so interesting. if they have any imagination they can tell pretty well what kind of a person i was anyhow from the grand portrait i'm going to have painted for them in the gown i wear when i'm presented at court. well, i was born in the year--but if i tell that you will know exactly how old i am, that is if you can count things better than i can. anyhow, when i read a thing i'd rather they didn't tell just how old the heroine is. then you can have her any age you like best. maybe if i were to tell exactly how many birthdays i've had you would always be saying, like mother and mammy lou, "you're a mighty big girl to be doing such silly things." or like rufe says sometimes, "ann, you're entirely too young to be interested in such subjects as that." so you will have to be satisfied when i tell you that i'm at the "gawky age." and a person is never surprised at anything that a girl at the "gawky age" does. i am little enough still to love puppies and big enough to love washington irving. you might think these don't mix well, but they do. on rainy mornings i like to take a puppy under one arm and _the alhambra_ under the other, with eight or ten apples in my lap, and climb up in the loft to enjoy the greatest pleasure of my life. i sling _the alhambra_ up on the hay first, then ease the puppy up and take the hem of my skirt between my teeth so the apples won't spill out while i go up after them. but i never even look at hay when there's a pile of cottonseed to wallow in. as to my ways, i'm sorry to say that i'm what mother calls a "peculiar child." mammy says i'm "the curiousest mixtry she ever seen." that's because i ask "why?" very often and then lots of times don't exactly believe that things are that way when they're told to me. one day at sunday-school, when i was about four, the teacher was telling about jonah. mother often told me tales, some that i called "make-believe," and others that i called "_so_ tales." when the teacher got through i spoke up and asked her if that was a "so tale." she said yes, it was, but i horrified every other child in the class by speaking up again and saying, "well, me don't believe it!" old as i am now, i don't see how jonah's constitution could have stood it, but i've got sense enough to believe many a thing that i can't see nor smell nor feel. an old man out in the mountains that had never been anywhere might say he didn't believe in electricity, but that wouldn't keep your electric light bill from being more than you thought it ought to be at the end of the month. speaking of bills reminds me of father. father is not a rich man, but his folks used to be before the war. that's the way with so many people around here, they have more ancestry than anything else. still, we have perfectly lovely smelling old leather books in our library, and when cotton goes high we go up to the city and take a suite of rooms with a bath. i am telling you all this, my grandchildren, to let you know that you have blue blood in your veins, but you mustn't let yours get too blue. father says it takes a dash of red blood mixed with blue, like turpentine with paint, to make it go. still, i hope the old place will be just as beautiful when my grandchildren get old enough to appreciate it as it is now, and not be sold and turned into a sanitarium, or a girls' school. the walls of the house are a soft grayish white, like a dear old grandmother's hair; and the mycravella roses in the far corner of the yard put _such_ notions into your head! there are rows of cedar trees down the walk, planted before andrew jackson's time; and at night there are the stars. i love stars, especially venus; but there are a lot of others that i don't know the names of. inside, the house is cool and shady; and you can always find a place to lie down and read. cousin eunice says so many people spoil their houses by selecting carpets and wall-paper that look like they want to fight. but ours is not like that. some corners in our library look like _ladies' own journal_ pictures. cousin eunice doesn't belong to our house, but i wish she did, for she's as beautiful as a magazine cover. and i think we have the nicest home in the world. besides being old and big and far back in the yard, there's always the smell of apples up-stairs. and i'm sure mother is the nicest lady in the world. she wants everybody to have a good time, and no matter whether you're a man, a young lady, or a little girl, she lets you scatter your pipes, love-letters and doll-rags from the front gate to the backest chicken-coop without ever fussing. mother admires company greatly. she doesn't have to perspire over them herself, though, for she has mammy lou to do all the cooking and dilsey to make up the beds. so she invited cousin eunice to spend the summer with us and asked bertha, a cousin on the other side, to come at the same time, for she said girls _love_ to be together. we soon found out, though, that some girls do and some don't. cousin eunice said i might always express my frank opinion of people and things in my diary, so i take pleasure in starting in on bertha. bertha, she is a _cat_! even rufe called her one the night she got here. not a straight-out cat, exactly, but he called her a kitten! you see, when bertha was down here on a little visit last year she and rufe had up a kind of summer engagement. a summer engagement is where the girl wears the man's fraternity pin instead of a ring. and when she came again this time it didn't take them two hours to get summer engaged again, it being moonlight on the front porch and bertha looking real soft and purry. then the very next week cousin eunice came! and poor rufe! we all felt _so_ sorry for him, for, from the _first_ minute he looked at her he was in love; and it's a terrible thing to be in love and engaged at the same time, when one is with _one_ girl and the other to another! and it was so plain that the eyes of the _potatoes_ could see it! but bertha hadn't an idea of giving up anybody as good-looking as rufe to another somebody as good-looking as cousin eunice, which mother said was a shame, and _she_ never did such a thing when _she_ was a girl; but mammy lou said it was no more than rufe deserved for not being more careful. but anyway, cousin eunice and bertha hadn't been together two days before they hated each other so they wouldn't use the same powder rag! they just couldn't bear the sight of each other because they could both bear the sight of rufe so well. this was a disappointment to me, for i had hoped they would go into each other's rooms at night and brush their hair, half undressed, and have as good a time as the pictures of ladies in underwear catalogues always seem to be having. but they are not at all friendly. they have never even asked each other what make of corsets they wear, nor who operated on them for appendicitis. bertha talks a great deal about rufe and how devoted he was to her last summer, but cousin eunice won't talk at all when bertha's around. she sits still and looks dumb and superior as a trained nurse does when you are trying to find out what it is that the patient has got. cousin eunice has a right to act superior, though, for while other girls are spending their time embroidering chafing-dish aprons she is studying books written by a man with a name like a sneeze. let me get one of the books to see how it is spelled. n-i-e-t-z-s-c-h-e! there! i got it down at last! and cousin eunice doesn't have just a plain parlor at home to receive her beaux in; she has a studio. a studio is a room full of things that catch dust. and the desire of her life is to write a little brown-backed book that people will fill full of pencil marks and always carry around with them in their suit-cases. she doesn't neglect her outside looks, though, just because her mind is so full of great thoughts. no indeed! her fountain pen jostles against her looking-glass in her hand-bag, and her note-book gets dusted over with pink powder. now, bertha is entirely different! no matter how the sun is shining outside she spends all her mornings up in her room shining her finger-nails; and she wears _pounds_ and _pounds_ of hair on the back of her head. father says the less a girl has on the inside the more she will stick on the outside of her head, and lots of men can't tell the difference. bertha certainly isn't at a loss for lovers. she gets a great many letters from a "commercial traveler." a "commercial traveler" is a man who writes to his girl on different hotel paper every day. these letters are a great comfort to her spirit when rufe acts so loving around cousin eunice; and she always has one sticking in her belt when rufe is near by, with the name of the hotel showing. every night just before or just after supper i always go out to the kitchen and tell mammy lou all the news i've seen or heard that day. she laughs when i tell her about how bertha is trying to hold on to rufe. "'tain't a speck o' use," she said to-night so emphatically that i was afraid the omelette would fall. "why, a camel can dance a virginny reel in the eye of a needle quicker than a gal can sick a man back to lovin' her after he's done took a notion to change the picture he wears in his watch!" mammy told the truth, i'm sure, for bertha has worn all her prettiest dresses and done her hair two new ways, trying to get him back; but he is still "coldly polite," which i think is the meanest way on earth to treat a person. not that bertha doesn't deserve it, for she knew they were just joking about that summer engagement, but she still wears the fraternity pin, which of course causes cousin eunice to be "coldly polite" to rufe; and altogether we don't really need a refrigerator in the house this summer. mammy lou and i had been trying to think up a plan to thaw out the atmosphere, but this morning a way was provided, and i greatly enjoyed being "an humble instrument," as brother sheffield says. everything was draggy this morning. bertha was down in the parlor singing "popular songs" very loud as i came down the steps with my diary in my hand. i _despise_ popular songs! as i went past the kitchen door on my way to the big pear tree which i meant to climb and write in my book i saw that mammy lou was having the time of her life telling cousin eunice all about when rufe was a baby. she had called her in there to get some fresh buttermilk, and cousin eunice was drinking glass after glass of it with such a rapt look on her face i knew she didn't realize that she couldn't get on her tight clothes till mid-afternoon. "of _course_ he's a extry fine young man!" mammy said, dipping for another glassful. "there never was nary finer baby--an' wasn't i _right there_ when mr. rufe was born?" "sure enough!" cousin eunice said, looking entranced. this wasn't much more entertaining to me than bertha's singing, for i had heard it all so many times before, so i went out to the pear tree and climbed up, but i couldn't think of even one word that would be of interest to my grandchildren. so i just wrote my name over and over again on the fly-pages. i wonder what makes them call them "fly-pages?" then i closed my book and climbed down again. i started back to the house by the side way, and met rufe coming up the walk toward the front door. "hello, rufe," i said, running to meet him and walking with him to the front steps. "i'm so glad to see you. everything is so draggy this morning. won't you sit on the steps and talk to me a while? or are you in a hurry?" "i'm always in a hurry when i'm going to your house," he answered with a look in the direction of cousin eunice's window. "and my visits always seem as short as a wedding journey when the bridegroom's salary is small." he dusted off the step, though, and sat down; and i told him that cousin eunice was drinking buttermilk in her kimono and wouldn't be in a mood to dress for another hour. then i told him what a hard time i'd had trying to think up something interesting to write in my diary. he said, looking again toward cousin eunice's window, that there was only _one_ thing in the world to write about! but he supposed i was too young to know anything about that. i spoke up promptly and told him a girl never _got_ too young to know about love. "love!" he said, trying to look surprised. "who mentioned love?" just then i heard the flutteration of a silk petticoat on the porch behind the vines, but rufe was gazing so hard at the blue hills on the far side of town that he didn't hear it. so, without saying anything to him, i leaned over far enough to look under the banisters, and saw the bottom of bertha's skirt and a skein of blue silk thread lying on the floor. so i knew she was sitting there working on that everlasting chafing-dish apron. then satan put an idea into my head. i think it was satan. "rufe," i said, talking very loud and quick, so bertha would just _have_ to hear me, "what's the difference between a kitten and a cat?" rufe at last got his eyes unfixed from the blue hills and just stared at me foolishly for a second. "am i the parent of a child that i should have to answer fool questions?" he said. "but the night she came you called bertha a _kitten_!" i reminded him, and he looked worse surprised. "and since i've heard her called a _cat_! how long does it take a kitten to grow into a cat?" "oh, i see! well, i'm better versed in feline ways now than i was that night; so i might state that sometimes you discover that a kitten is a cat! there isn't any difference!" we heard a clattering noise behind the vines just then, which i knew was bertha dropping her embroidery scissors. rufe jumped, for he had no idea anybody was hearing our conversation; and i know he wouldn't have said what he did about cats except he _thought_ i was too little to understand such figures of speech. then he got up to go in and see who it was. and i decided to disappear around the corner of the house. i didn't altogether disappear before i heard her say indeed he _had_ meant to call her a cat; and he said indeed he hadn't, but she hadn't been "square" with him, and they talked and talked until i got uneasy that cousin eunice would be coming through the hall and hear them. so i hurried on back to head her off. but satan, or whoever it was, put me up to a good job in that, for the next time i saw rufe he was wearing his fraternity pin and a happy smile. and bertha had red spots on her face, even as late as dinner-time, like consumption that lovely heroines die of. i've been too disappointed lately to write in my diary. somehow, i think like rufe, that there's only one thing worth writing about, and there's been very little in that line going on around here lately. poor rufe is having a harder time now than he had when bertha was on his hands, for cousin eunice has taken it into her head to show him that she doesn't have to accept him the minute he gets untangled from a summer flirtation. those were her very words. she and i go for long walks with him every morning, down through the ravine; and they read poetry that sounds so good you feel like somebody's scratching your back. and she wears her best-fitting shirtwaists. one good thing about cousin eunice is that her clothes never look like she'd sat up late the night before to make them. and when she's expecting him at night her eyes shine like they had been greased; and i can tell from the way she breathes quick when she hears the gate open that she loves him. yes, she adores the sound of his rubber heels on the front porch; but she won't give in to him. she's punishing him for the bertha part of it. mother says she's very foolish, for men will be men, especially on nights in june; but mammy lou says she's exactly right; and i reckon mammy knows best, for she's been married a heap more times than mother ever has. "the longer you keep a man feelin' like he's on a red-hot stove the better he loves you," mammy lou told cousin eunice to-night, as she was powdering her face for the last time before going down-stairs and trying to keep us from seeing that she was listening for a footstep on the gravel walk. "an' a husban's got to be treated jus' like a lover! a good, heavy poker's a fine thing to make a husban' know 'is place--an' lawk! a lazy husban's like a greasy churn--you have to give him a thorough scaldin' to do any good!" this morning at the breakfast table, after father had helped the plates to chicken, saving two gizzards for me, he said: "times have changed since i was a young man!" as this wasn't exactly the first time we had heard such a remark none of us paid any attention to it until we saw mother trying to make him hush. then we knew he must be starting to say something funny about cousin eunice and rufe, for mother always stops him on this subject whenever she can, because she doesn't want bertha's feelings hurt. but bertha never seems to mind. she's decided to marry the commercial traveler, i'm almost sure, although her people say he's not "steady." steady means staying still, so who ever heard of a traveling man who was steady? "times have changed, especially about courting," father kept on, pretending that he didn't see mother shaking her head at him. when father gets that twinkle in his eye he can't see anything else. "now in _my_ young days when a girl and a fellow looked good to each other they usually got engaged at once. but _now_--jumping jerusalem! no matter how deeply in love they are they waste days and days trying to get a 'complete understanding' of each other's nature. they talk about their opinion of everything under the sun, from woman's suffrage to belshazzar's feast." "lord byron wrote a piece in the fifth reader about belshazzar's feast," i started to remark, but i remembered in time to hush, for i've never been able to mention lord byron's name to my family in any peace since they found that i keep a vase of flowers in front of his picture all the time. they call him my _beau_--the beautiful creature! father didn't notice my remark, however. he was too busy with his own. "and instead of exchanging locks of hair, as they used to when mary and i were young, they give each other limp-backed books that have 'helped to shape their career,' and beg that they will mark the passages that impress _them_!" "uncle dan, you've been eavesdropping!" cousin eunice said, looking up from her hot biscuit and honey long enough to smile at him, but she didn't quit eating. it has got out of style to stop eating when you're in love, for a man admires a healthy-looking girl. i know a young man who had been going to see a girl for a long time and never did propose. she was a pretty girl, too, slender and wild-rosy-looking. well, she took a trip to germany one summer and drank so much of _something_ fattening over there that the wild-rose look changed to american beauty; and when she came home in the fall the young man was so delighted with her looks that he turned in and married her before christmas! cousin eunice knows these people too, and she does all she can to keep her digestion good, even to fresh milk and raw eggs. i hope _i_ can get married without the raw eggs part of it. and she tramps all over the woods for the sake of her appetite in stylish-looking tan boots. as we left the dining-room i noticed that she had on her walking-boots and a short skirt, so i thought rufe would be along pretty soon for us to go down to the ravine and read poetry. they always take me along because i soon get enough of the poetry and go off to wade in the branch, leaving them on their favorite big gray rock. sure enough, rufe wasn't long about coming, and i saw that his limp-backed book was labeled "keats" this morning. cousin eunice didn't have a book. she carried a parasol. a parasol is used to jab holes in the sand when you're being made love to. i don't know why i should have felt so, but just as soon as they got started to reading this morning i had a curious feeling, like you have when the lights burn low on the stage and the orchestra begins _the flower song_. the way they looked at each other made under my scalp tingle. now, if i ever have a granddaughter that doesn't have this feeling in the presence of _great_ things i shall disinherit her and leave my diamonds to a society for tuberculosis or pure food or fresh air, or some of those charitable things. [illustration: jabbing holes in the sand with her parasol _page _] before long they branched off from keats to shelley, and rufe didn't need a book with him. just after he had finished a little verse beginning, "i can not give what men call love," i had sense enough to get up and go away from them. although i have always been crazy to see a proposal, there was something in the atmosphere around that old gray rock that made me feel as if i were treading on sacred ground. (i hate to use expressions like this, that everybody else uses, but i can't think of anything else and it's getting too late to sit here by myself and try.) anyhow it's the feeling you have when you go into a cathedral with stained glass windows. so i went away from them, but not very far away, just a little distance, to where i have a lovely pile of moss collected on the north side of a big tree. and the smotheration around my heart kept up. it seemed to me the _longest_ time before anything happened, for cousin eunice was jabbing holes in the sand with her parasol like she was being paid to do it by the hour. finally, without any ado, he put his hands on hers and made her stop. "sweetheart," i heard him say, so low that i could hardly hear, for _the flower song_ was buzzing through my head so loud. then he seemed to remember me for he looked around, and, seeing that i was _clear_ gone, he said it again, "sweetheart." she looked up at him when he said it, and looked and _looked_! maybe she never had realized before just how big and broad-shouldered and brown-eyed rufe really is! neither one of them said anything, but he put both arms around her; and when i saw that they were going to kiss i shut my eyes right tight and stopped up my ears and buried my face in the pile of moss. even then i never felt so much like a yellow dog in my life! chapter ii you hear a heap of talking these days about "the divine mission of woman," especially from long-haired preachers that don't believe in ladies voting; and another heap of talk about the "rights" of women from the ladies themselves. there was so much of it going on last winter when i was at rufe's that i told some of it to mammy lou when i came home. she says it's every speck a question of dish-washing when you sift it down to the bottom. the women are tired of their job and the men are too proud to do it unless the window shades are pulled down. i don't blame the men for being proud. they have something to be proud of, for they can do exactly as they please, from wearing out the seats of their trousers when they're little to being president when they're big. when i was right little i used to think that the heathen over the sea that threw the girl babies to the crocodiles were doing it in hopes of killing out the girl breed, so the little new babies would have to be boys. a heathen is anybody that lives on the other side of the map from us. another good thing about a man is he can say, "damn that telephone!" rufe says it whenever he's busy and it bothers him, but cousin eunice can't. all she can do is to have sick headache when she gets worn out. i know one tired lady whose husband is a busy doctor and whose baby is a busy baby, and lots of times the lady has to stop up her ears to say her prayers. and she hardly ever has time to powder her face unless company is coming, but, sick or well, she has to answer that telephone! she says it is a disheartening thing to have to take her hands out of the biscuit dough when the cook's brother has died and go to the telephone in a big hurry where folks tell her every symptom of everything they have, from abscess on the brain to ingrowing toe-nails. and she never gets the baby well lathered in his bath of a morning but what some of her lady friends call her up and she has to sit and talk for politeness' sake till the baby almost drowns and gets soap in his eyes. she tries to believe in new thought though, and some days she "goes into the silence." this means wrapping the telephone up in a counterpane and stuffing up the door-bell until it can make only a hoarse, choking noise. then she spanks the baby and puts him to bed, and that house is like the palace of the sleeping beauty. yes, women certainly seem to have a hard time in this life. even when they marry rich and live in a hotel and never have any babies they seem to be worse tired than the ones that warm bottles of milk and peel potatoes. some of them that cousin eunice knows are called "bridge maniacs," and they shrug their shoulders and say "what's the use?" if you suggest anything to them. i have been home from cousin eunice's now for two weeks, for the stylish, private school i went to up there lets out soon. mammy lou says i'm the worst person to break out in spots she ever saw, and one of my "spots" last summer was keeping this diary, which i did for a while very hard and fast. now a whole year has passed and it is summer again and i am so lonesome that i believe i'll write a little every day and tell some of the things we did at rufe's last winter. if any of you grandchildren who read are afflicted with that trouble of doing things by fits and starts you may know who you inherited it from. i'm not really to blame so much for neglecting you, my diary, for all the time i needed you most last winter you were lost. this is a terrible habit that all my things have--getting lost. my garters do it especially and i have to tear great holes in my stockings by pinning them up and then forgetting to stand stiff-kneed. rufe told mother last fall that i was so precocious, which i looked up in the dictionary and admired him very much for, that i ought to be where i could have good teachers. so after he and cousin eunice had been married long enough to be able to bear the sight of a third party at the breakfast table they wrote for me to come and i went. i was kinder disappointed to see them looking like every-day folks again, for the last time i had seen them they were looking as they had never looked before and never will look again, for rufe says he'll be hanged if anybody can get him to appear in that wedding suit any more. but oh, that wedding! and oh, that wedding march played on a thundering pipe-organ that makes cold chills run up and down your back thinking what if it was happening to you! when the time comes for "i will" you nearly smother, you're so afraid they might change their minds at the last minute and embarrass you half to death right there before all those people. they didn't change their minds then, though, nor since then either, i honestly believe. they married safe and sound, and cousin eunice's favorite book now is _ , tried recipes_. and keats is lots of times covered with dust. i got this far last night when mammy lou passed by my window on her way to her house from the kitchen and stopped long enough to make me go to bed. she says it takes a sight of sleep and a "passel o' victuals" for a girl of my age, and i don't have enough of either. "i'se shore goin' 'er tell mis' mary how you set up uv a night," she said, very fiercely, but she couldn't shake her finger at me for it took both hands to hold the big pan she had under her apron. "an' as fer eatin'! why, a red bug eats more! an' such truck! candy and apples and fried chicken and fried saratoga chips! _fries_ nuvver was no good for nobody at the gawky age, nohow. it takes _boils_ to fatten them!" i promised i'd go on to bed and eat nothing but "boils" to please her if she wouldn't tell father and mother how late i sit up, so she promised. she never would tell anyhow. i believe the next thing i wanted to mention about was the theaters they used to take me to on friday night when there wasn't any lessons. i just love the theater. i believe if i don't decide to be a trained nurse, although i am sure that is what i was cut out for, i may be an actress. when they used to tell me pitiful tales at sunday-school about the heathen i was sure i wanted to be a missionary to japan. mother used to take me to a tea store with her every time we went into the city to buy things we couldn't get at home and the walls were covered with pictures of japan. i never will forget how blue the sky was nor how white the clouds, and it seemed the loveliest country in the world to me, except home. and i would look at mother and wonder how she would feel if i told her that some day i was going to leave her and father and sail away to that beautiful land where the poor, ignorant people didn't know how to wear corsets nor eat hog meat. of course they needed somebody to tell them what they were missing and i was eager to be that one! that was a long time ago! i know more about japan now! i know more about america too! doctor gordon said one night last winter that if some of the missionaries were to go all over this country and tell folks to open their windows and stop murdering their babies with candy and bananas they would do more good than trying to teach the japanese so much. he said he didn't know which was the more heathenish, to throw children in the river and let them have a quick death or stuff them on fried meat and pickles and let them die by slow torture. the mothers are hard to teach, he says, because they don't more than leave the doctor's office with a poor little pale baby than they meet an old woman who tells them not to let the child be doctored to death, to "feed 'im." they will tell the mother "didn't _i_ have eleven? and everything _i_ et, _they_ et!" he told us so many stories of murdered babies that i got to feeling like i'd prefer being a nurse in a day home. i love babies! and doctor gordon has the loveliest eyes!--but i haven't got to him yet. speaking of the theater, i got to see many notorious people on the stage this winter. rufe said i would get a great variety of ideas from the best plays. i did. i got a great variety of ideals too. one time he would be tall, fair and brave, with a scotch name, like marmaduke cameron, or bruce macpherson. then the very next time i'd go he'd change his looks and disposition. i loved some of the operas, too, especially _il trovatore_. i wish the singers were slender, though. it hurts your feelings to have the "voice that rang from that donjon tower" belonging to a great fat man with no head to speak of, and what he has consisting mainly of jaws. of all the songs on record (not phonographic record) next to _dixie_ and _la paloma_ i believe i love _ah, i have sighed to rest me!_ the words to this are not so loving, but the tune is so pitiful. i wish my name was dolores lovelock, or anita messala, and i could get shut up in a tower. i have a girl friend in the city and every time we write to each other we sign the name we're wishing most was ours at that very minute. her last letter was signed "undine valentine," but i don't think that's half as pretty as mercedes ficediola. it wouldn't hardly be worth while for me to change my name now, because i change my mind so often. i'm a great hand to start a thing and then branch off and start something entirely different, such as learning how to make the table walk, and pyrography. cousin eunice said one day when she looked around at the things i had in my room that it reminded her of pompeii when they dug it up--so many things started that never would be finished. one of the things we enjoyed most at cousin eunice's was walking out to a lovely old cemetery not very far from her house. it is so old and so beautiful that you're sure all the people in the graves must have gone to heaven long ago. along in april, when the iris and lilies-of-the-valley are in bloom and the birds and trees and sky all seem to be so happy, you look around at those peaceful graves and you don't believe in hell one bit. you think god is a heap better than folks give him credit for being. but i hope this will never come to brother sheffield's ears, for he thinks you're certainly going there if you don't believe in a hell worse than the standard oil company on fire. while i'm on this kind of subject i want to tell something that rufe said last winter, but i'm afraid to, for if mother ever saw it she would get brother sheffield to hold a special meeting for rufe. i might risk it and then lock my diary up tight. rufe said one time when i remarked that i liked st. john better than st. paul: "no wonder! st. john's _liver_ was in good working order!" cousin eunice and rufe are still very earnest and study deep things, even if they don't read keats so much. they know a jolly crowd of people that call themselves "bohemians." lots of nights some of them would come to cousin eunice's and we would cook things in the chafing-dish and "discuss the deeper problems of life." they are not real bohemians though, for, from what they said, i learned that a real bohemian is a person that is very clever, but nobody knows it. he "follows his career," eating out of paper sacks and tin cans and sleeping on an article that is an oriental couch in the daytime. then finally some rich person finds him and invites him to dinner, and this is called "discovering a genius." when our friends would come we would talk about the "brotherhood of man" and the north pole and such things as that. i listen to everything i can hear about the north pole for i never have got over the idea that santa claus lives there. and the "brotherhood of man" means we're all as much alike as biscuits in a pan, the only difference being in the place where we're put; and we ought to act accordingly. some of the young ones talk a great deal about how the children of the nation ought to be brought up, and they tell about what their family life is going to be like, though rufe says most of them haven't got salary enough to support a cockroach. i think the "brotherhood of man" business is a good thing to teach children, for i wasn't taught it and i shall never forget my feelings when i first learned that christ was a jew! i thought it couldn't be so, and if it was so i could never be happy again. so the bohemians are going to teach their children that the jew is our brother and that he hath eyes and if you prick him he will bleed. these are their own words. i'm sure the jews are lovely people since i've seen ben-hur on the stage and the picture of dis-disraeli. that's all i know about him and i'm not sure how to spell that. i'll skin my children if i ever catch them saying "sheenie" in my presence. and we make limericks! we don't make them in the chafing-dish though, as i thought when i first went there. a limerick is a very different thing from what you'd think if you didn't know. it's a verse of poetry that's very clever in every line. among the bohemians i liked best were a married couple and ann lisbeth. besides having the same name as mine, ann lisbeth is a beautiful foreign girl who was living across the ocean when she was born. her last name is something that _disraeli_ is not a circumstance to, and i'd never spell it, so i won't waste time trying. she's going to get rid of that name pretty soon and i don't blame her, although cousin eunice says it is a noble one across the ocean. _still_ i don't blame her, for the man is a young doctor, doctor gordon that i've already mentioned, and perfectly _precious_. next to a prince i believe a young doctor is the most thrilling thing in the world! ann lisbeth lived near cousin eunice and they were great friends. she and her mother were very poor because they got exiled from their home for trying to get ann lisbeth's father out of prison where the king had put him. oh, the people across the ocean are so much more romantic than we are in this country! now, father wouldn't ever get put in prison in a lifetime! ann lisbeth has to work for a living. she does embroidery--exquisite embroidery, and lace work that looks like charlotte russe. she is the kind of looking girl that you'd expect to have a dressing-table covered with silver things and eat marshmallows and ice-cream all the time. she is what cousin eunice calls a "lotus-eater." this like to have worried me to death at first, for i misunderstood it and imagined it was something like eating roaches. i wasn't going to blame ann lisbeth for it even if it _was_ like roaches, for i thought maybe it was the style in her country across the ocean. what is _one_ nation's style would turn another's stomach; and everybody likes what he was raised on, even chinese rats and limburger cheese. it was very romantic the way ann lisbeth met doctor gordon. she had gone down to the florist's one slippery day to spend her last quarter for white hyacinths to cheer her mother up when she had the good fortune to slip down and break her arm. doctor gordon happened to be passing at the time in his automobile and he carried her to the hospital and fixed the arm. he said white hyacinths were his favorite flower, too, so he sends them to her and her mother every day. poor doctor gordon! he's having a hard time to make a living like every other young doctor. he says sometimes he has a whole month of blue mondays come right together. and he says every time he happens to wake up with a headache he also has a blowout in his best tire and gets a notice from the bank that he's overdrawn the same day. i liked him extremely well myself for a while, and he seemed to like me. he called me his little sweetheart, but i soon saw that a little sweetheart has to take a big back seat when there's a grown one around. mother and i have been laughing all day about a little affair that happened here last winter while i was away at school. after christmas mother and father went back to stay at rufe's with me a few days, for they said the place was so lonesome when i left they couldn't stand it. of course they met doctor gordon and ann lisbeth, for we were always at each other's house, either to learn a mount mellick stitch or to play a piece from a new opera. mother liked ann lisbeth's sweet ways so much that she said she just must come down and make her a visit before she _thought_ of getting married. about the time for the first jonquils to bloom, early in february, mother wrote that they reminded her so much of me and made her so lonesome, that she wished ann lisbeth would come on then. so she packed her suit-case and went. everybody knows how the people in a little place will look at a stranger that comes in, because they're so tired of looking at each other. so they stared at her from the station clear up to the house. now, city people never get any enjoyment out of staring unless they see somebody in trouble, such as an unfortunate young man with his shoulder to the wheel, trying to repair a puncture, by the side of a muddy road. then they stare, and giggle too. there were several young men at the station that day, and, as ann lisbeth went down there not breathing to a soul that she was engaged, they came near losing their minds over her beautiful skin and foreign accent. the one of them that seemed to be most impressed was a bore--no, he wasn't just an every-day kind of bore that asks you if this is your first visit to that place and tells you afterward that he never has been so impressed in his life on short acquaintance. i've heard cousin eunice talk about them, but this man wasn't like that sort of bore. he was a perfect _auger_. many a time when he has dropped in to see father of an evening and i would have to put my book down for politeness' sake, i've sat there and pinched my face, the side that was turned away from him, till it was black and blue, to keep awake. pinching your arm or leg wouldn't have done any good with this man--you had to pinch up close to your brain. all the time ann lisbeth was there he showed so plainly that he was coming to see _her_ that mother and father would go out and leave them alone, though father said he felt so sorry for her that he promised always to do something to run him off by ten o'clock. every man knows how to do these things, i believe, such as taking off his shoes loud and telling mother to wind the clock, in a stagey voice, and making a great racket around the front door. and when the young man would hear these signs he would leave. right in the midst of ann lisbeth's visit one day she got a telegram from doctor gordon saying that he was coming down that evening and leave on the midnight train. this is a sure sign a man cares. he couldn't stand it any longer. well this mr. w. (i'll call him that for fear his grandchildren might feel hard toward mine if it ever got to their ears that i had spelt his name right out) had said he was coming over that night to bring some new records for the talking machine, to try them; but, when ann lisbeth told mother about doctor gordon coming, mother telephoned him, mr. w., i mean, not to come till the next night when father would be at home, as he wanted to hear the records. sure enough father did have some business out in the country that afternoon and didn't get home until about ten o'clock that night. he heard voices as he passed the parlor door, and thinking of course it was mr. w., decided that he would run him off right away so poor ann lisbeth could get some sleep. mother was already asleep and there was no way for him to know who it really was in the parlor, so he took his shoes off and slammed them down in vain, and rattled out the ashes, and wound the clock, and coughed and sneezed. by this time he was awfully sleepy, for it was a cold night and he had had a long drive, so he went to bed and to sleep. along about twelve o'clock father woke up, and seeing a light still in the parlor, tried to get mother roused up long enough to ask her what else she supposed he might use besides _dynamite_ to run that fellow off. mother was still so sleepy that she didn't say anything, so father got out of bed and opened his bedroom door. there were voices talking very easy in the parlor, so father, thinking that surely ann lisbeth would be ready to commit suicide by this time, decided he would walk to the front door and open and shut it real loud, knowing _that_ would run him off, without waiting to slip on his trousers. now, father is long and lank, and wears old-timey bob-tail night-shirts, winter and summer; and all the rooms of our house open _square_ into that one big hall--and there are no curtains to hide behind! just as father reached the front door and began tampering with the lock, out walked the happy pair from the parlor and they must have had a mighty tumble off of mount olympus or pegasus, or whatever that place is called. they jumped back as quickly as they could, but of course they couldn't get back quickly enough to suit all parties concerned. father finally got the door open and, to keep from having to pass the parlor door again, he ran _clear_ around that big, rambling house, bare-footed, and with the february moon shining down on him and the february wind whistling through his little bob-tail night-shirt. the noise of so many doors opening and shutting made mother wake up in a hurry, and, being used to father's ways of leaping, then looking afterward, she realized what had happened. poor father came around to the side porch and scratched on the bedroom door for mother to let him in. by this time she was so near dead from laughing that she could hardly speak, but managed to use her voice a little, just to pay him back for doing such an idiotic thing, she said. she opened the bedroom door a little, so doctor gordon and ann lisbeth could hear, then called out in a loud, distressed voice: "oh, dan! _have_ you come home in _that condition_ again?" everybody that knows father knows that he never drank a drop of anything stronger than soothing-syrup in his life; and when he had met doctor gordon in the city they hadn't been able to get off the subject of prohibition, they both were so temperate. it was a terrible thing to be called "in that condition" before _him_! but mother let him in, and doctor gordon caught his train back to the city where he sent father at least _two_ dozen funny post-cards on the subject of "that condition." chapter iii i always did admire surprises, my diary, so when mother came in from the station one day not long ago and said there was a surprise for me i thought sure it must be a dessert for dinner, or a package come by express, as it isn't christmas for anything to be in the toe of my stocking. but mother shook her head and smiled at all of these. she said it was a heap better, and it is. a curious thing has happened in this family. it's happened a little to father, for he's kept awake by it; a good deal to mother, for she has to tell how to tend to it; an awful lot to dilsey, for she has to walk it and feed it and get it to sleep; but it has happened most of all to bertha, for it's to _her_ that the stork (or the doctor, or out of the rose bush--they tell you so many different tales you never know which to believe) brought it. just about that time bertha happened not to be feeling very well, so mother wrote for her to come down to our house where the air would be good for her, and then she would have dilsey to tend to it. you'd never guess what it is, my diary, so i'll tell you. it's a baby! a live one with open and shut eyes, and can cry; you don't have to pull a string to make it, either. this makes it better than even the finest doll, and, as i'm above dolls anyhow, a baby is more suitable to one of my age. the only bad part about it is that you can't lock it up in the wardrobe when you get through playing with it. sometimes i have wished it was the kind you had to pull a string to make cry, and then i'd cut the string off so we would have a few peaceful nights, but apt as not this wouldn't be healthy for it, for i guess the stork (or the doctor, or out of the rose bush) knew best how to fix it. mr. parkes is the baby's father, and also bertha's husband. he is one of the nicest men you ever saw, pleasant all the time, which people say is because he's a drummer which sells things. he carries valises full of lovely crackers and little cakes with icing on the top, and calls it his "line." i've heard rufe and cousin eunice talk about "lines falling in pleasant places," and i think it must mean something like this, for our house has been a pleasant place since saturday night when he came to spend sunday with us and bertha. some days he sells as much as five hundred dollars worth of cake to _one_ man, though i don't see what keeps him from _dying_ that bought them of stomach ache, for i've had it myself since he's been here considerable. he and father talk a heap about mr. parkes' "house" in the city. he writes to the house every day and it writes back to him, and he is always saying what he'll do "when he hears from the house," just like it was folks. he wears an elk's head on the lapel of his coat for an ornament and another on his watch chain, and even has a pair of purple socks with white elks on them, and laughs a good deal, which has been a benefit to bertha's disposition since she married him. if the baby wakes up and cries for her bottle as late as _eleven_ o'clock at night, which would give most men room to say things, he's just as jolly as if it was broad daylight, and says so loud you can hear him in the next room: "tonsound her little skin! her is her daddy's own kid--_her_ knows that eleven o'clock calls for a bottle, only daddy wants _his_ cold, and her wants _hers_ warmed!" and out to the kitchen he goes and warms it like a gentleman. i believe mr. parkes would be a gentleman even if he had _twins_. of course there never is any good happens to your family without something bad happening along with it. a misfortune was sent to us one morning when the train came. it was aunt laura, mother's sister, and bertha's and my aunt. it is a habit of hers to come to our house every summer, but this time she came before we were looking for her, having got mad at the relatives where she was. so she has changed her will and is going to leave all her money to bertha's baby, and she told mother that she came right on down as soon as she decided on this to see if the baby was a nice, well-behaved child, as it didn't run in the family for the children to be any too well-behaved; and she looked at me when she said the last. bertha was in a flutter when she heard it, but mother just laughed and said the baby was equally as well-behaved as most eight-weeks-old children. aunt laura has spit-curls, but a great deal of money, having been a school teacher ever since she was born, and never spending her money buying her little nieces candy and pretty dresses. she admires church and preachers more than anything, but i don't, and when the money was willed to _me_ one time i lost my chance by saying at the table when brother sheffield was there eating chicken and said he liked the gizzard, right quick, before i thought of manners, "father, don't give it to him--_he_ ain't little!" the money has been willed to every member of the family, for she gets mad at one and unwills it away from them onto another, until we've all had a trial. but the poetry books say it's a black cloud that don't blow somebody a silver lining, and i guess the silver lining to aunt laura is that she's in love with brother sheffield, which will give me a good many new thoughts to write about; for before when i was writing about couples it was always the man that was trying to marry the lady, but now it's the other way, which you can always count on when you see spit-curls. even this is better to write about than just a baby, though, for they mostly do the same thing day after day; but you can never tell what a _loving_ person will do to thrill your diary. it was till plumb breakfast time this morning before aunt laura made known to us what new thing she's got up to talk about all the time. father calls it a "fad." he said the minute he saw her come he was willing to bet on anything, from the latest breakfast food to an aunty saloon league, but mother told him it was sinful to bet about such things, for last summer it was foreign missions. it is just as well that he didn't bet, for he would have lost, it being the heart disease which she has very bad. she said she didn't tell us right at first because she knew we didn't care anything about hearing it, but she thought we better be prepared in case a spell came on her suddenly, for she had felt worse symptoms lately than ever before. bertha had acted awful good all day and not let the baby cry nor slobber on aunt laura for the sake of the will. i guess i've been worse this last week than ever before, for it is the first time i've been ashamed to tell what i've done in my diary. bertha knows if aunt laura could get brother sheffield to marry her she would unwill the money from the baby; so she thinks up things to tell me to do to keep them from being together, and i've been doing them. one time i hid her purple sunday bonnet, then her curls to keep her from going to prayer-meeting, but i'm glad to say that i have never taken the dimes which bertha said she would give me for doing them. i hate aunt laura enough to do mean things to her myself, which is a better principle than to do them just for dimes. this is sunday again and i have to go to church. somehow, during the summer, sunday smells like black silk, for mother and all the ladies that can afford it wear it to church to let the others see how well off they are. when i was _right_ little and got tee-ninsy cards at sunday-school i imagined heaven looked like those cards, all lilies-of-the-valley and little pink lambs, but since i've grown older my views have changed. preachers always think you can't go to heaven unless you do just like they do, and i couldn't be like a preacher to save my life, except about chicken. aunt laura had to look all over the place for her black silk waist this morning and then not find it, so she got into a bad spell and couldn't go to church. after the sermon was over and we were trying to forget it by standing around and telling the other ladies how much fruit we had put up this past week, brother sheffield came up and asked mother if aunt laura was sick, not being out to services. mother said she was, but she hoped to find her all right when we got home, as she never was sick very long, and i knew she would be well because it was ice-cream for dinner. he said then he'd be over to see her this afternoon as he hadn't seen her in so long. well, it was awfully hot all the afternoon, and, as he wouldn't be over till late so as to be invited to supper, aunt laura decided to take off her front hair and have a nap after dinner. now, up to this time i have been afraid to mention even in my diary about bertha's bad habit. i really like bertha better than i did before she was married, and i knew if aunt laura was to catch on to it she would change from the baby right away, for brother sheffield calls it "the trade-mark of jezebel," which is a bible lady, though the preachers always throw her up to anybody they don't like. so bertha keeps this locked away good in the little left-handed drawer of her bureau, and don't anybody but me know it's there. it was getting late when brother sheffield drove up to the gate. he is an old man and his knees are so poor that they look like they would punch through his trousers legs if he was to get down on them to ask a lady to marry him, as they do in books. in fact, i have stayed around the parlor and watched considerable, thinking how mortified i'd feel if they were to punch through, but he hasn't ever got down on them yet. his name is gideon, which makes it worse for him, too. cousin eunice said ann lisbeth's name is a very old one in the country across the ocean where she used to live, but i know there ain't an older name on earth than gideon. aunt laura ought to have been named the feminine of it, instead of that beautiful name that has so much lovely poetry written about it. anyhow, i was surprised that she wasn't dressed up in a clean waist and down on the front porch to meet him, but i went up-stairs right quick to tell her he was there. she was still asleep and woke up as mad and red as folks always do that go to sleep in the summer. i told her he was already on the porch. "well, help me get dressed, won't you, instead of standing there staring at me as if you never saw anybody with their front hair off and their upper plate out before? run to the well and bring me some fresh water, and, say, come back by your mother's room and bring me her box of powder and puff. i spilt all of mine looking in the drawer this morning for that pestiferous waist. hurry!" i ran to the well and got the water, but coming back by mother's room i saw that brother sheffield was facing the door and would have seen me, which wouldn't have been nice to bring out a box and puff before a man, much less a preacher, so i didn't get the powder. i told aunt laura to get bertha's, when she commenced fussing, for i had passed her room and saw that she had dressed in a big hurry and left the bureau unlocked, the room being very hot and dark, the baby being asleep, on account of the flies. she hushed then and said for me to go down and tell him that she would be out in a few minutes, which i did. i left him on the porch fanning while i went out to a little place i have under the porch where it is nice and quiet and they can't find you reading fairy tales when they want you for something; but _you_ can hear _them_ talking. pretty soon aunt laura came out, and in her dressed-up voice commenced telling him how sorry she was that she kept him waiting. but before she had more than got it said he asked her excited-like what was the matter with her. it seemed like when he got excited she did too, so she grabbed her stomach (not that i saw her, but i know she always does it here lately when she gets mad or scared) and said: "oh, my heart! it must be the heart disease!" he interrupted her again, a heap too quick and sharp for a preacher: "your heart _nothing_! go and look at your _face_!" that was more than i could stand, so out from under the porch i slid, just in time to see aunt laura, with her face as red as the indians they have in sideshows, turn and run into the hall where she could look at herself in the hat-rack looking-glass. she gave one tremendous yell which woke the baby and made the rest of the family come flying in from where they were. it wasn't a minute before me and brother sheffield were in the hall with her and mother and father running in off of the back porch, and dilsey with the baby in her arms leaning over the banisters to see what was the matter. "it's my death stroke," aunt laura said, just like she knew what she was talking about. "the doctor's books say it comes on this way," she kept on, while the preacher fanned her and we were all flying around doing things for her, and me standing still wondering how on earth come her face so fiery red. "thank heaven, i die in the conviction of having lived a good life, _and_ willed all my money to the only member of my family that has ever treated me with any respect." this did look kinder like the truth, for the baby was the only member of the family which was crying over this sad occasion; but she was very loud and hard. "i've been visited by providence with a curious family," poor aunt laura said, looking very mad toward father and mother, "but they will soon have cause to regret all their strange ways with me. if there was _one_ person in this world that _did_ care for me, to _that_ one should my will be changed, for there is little consolation in leaving your property to a baby." brother sheffield here spoke up and said as aunt laura "so fully realized her hopeless condition he thought they better have some conversation together as to her spiritual welfare. he desired a few moments alone with her." "yes," said aunt laura right quick, "_private_ conversation. my soul's safety is not to be discussed in the presence of my enemies!" so out we all got, me along with the rest of them, which was a great disappointment, for i could have learned a good deal if there had been any way of staying in there. they talked a long time and we could hear a few remarks now and then, being as we couldn't think of anything to say ourselves, and it was very still on the porch. once or twice we heard her say very decided-like that indeed she _wasn't_ mistaken, for every book she had read on the subject said it was exactly that kind of a symptom. and then he would talk some, and one time he seemed to doubt her word so that she fairly yelled out, the way she does when he ain't around: "can you doubt the hideous mark of death that has this hour appeared upon my face? isn't it proof that my flesh is being prepared for the worms?" which _did_ sound pitiful and scary, too, it being kinder dark on the porch. this seemed to do the work, for in a few minutes she called us in and told us that brother sheffield had asked her to marry him, and although she had never before considered him in the light of a lover, still she was going to do it if the lord let her live an hour, while father could ride over for a preacher and she could change her will. brother sheffield was crying like he does when he is calling mourners, and his voice would hardly talk, but he managed to say: "yes, she has done me the honor to accept me; she, a woman of intellect and _wealth_, and me, only a poor, humble worker----" he couldn't get any further, but i had heard it so many times before that i knew it was "humble worker of the vineyard," though father says he is more of a _hungry_ eater of the _barnyard_. when aunt laura mentioned about being married in an hour brother sheffield seemed to take a second thought, and spoke up kinder weak and said he didn't know whether it was exactly right to be married on sunday or not. when aunt laura saw him begin to weaken it brought on such a hard spell that she laid back on the sofa with her eyes shut, like she was sure enough dead. this really scared mother, and she told mammy lou, who had her head poked in at the back door, to run for some water. mammy brought the bucket in off the back porch and commenced sousing it over aunt laura by the handsful, which didn't bring her to; but a strange thing happened, which, if it wasn't me that saw it, anybody would think it was a story, but i cross my heart that the water that dribbled down off her face on to her clean waist was _pink_! "jumping jerusalem!" father said, "the heart disease is washing off!" this made aunt laura open her eyes, and by that time mammy lou had got a towel and was wiping her face off all over, which seemed to make it look natural again. not one of us knew what to think of such a strange disease till all of a sudden i remembered bertha's bad habit! and then i knew it was all off with aunt laura and the marrying. it wasn't very long till they all caught on to what it was on her face; and the worst part of it was that brother sheffield said he believed she did it _a-purpose_. he rose up very proud, and looking kinder relieved and said he could never marry a woman who would "defile herself with the trade-mark of jezebel." when he commenced throwing up jezebel to aunt laura she threw up esau to him, which sold himself for a "mess of pottage," though this never did sound lady-like to me, even coming from the pulpit. so esau went out and drove straight home, and jezebel went up-stairs and packed her trunk to go home early in the morning, never having been so insulted by relatives before in her life. so the marrying is off and the baby is disinherited, which will be a relief to it when it gets big enough to understand. but the worst part is that aunt laura blames the whole thing on me, for she says i had her ruination in mind when i sicked her on to that little left-handed drawer. of course it ain't so, but it proves that people ought to raise the blind and be sure it's _whitening_ they're spreading on, even if the baby is asleep. chapter iv you remember, my diary, a good many pages back i mentioned in here a pair of bohemians that were married to each other and were friends of ours and would come to rufe's every week and we would all do funny things? well, i couldn't write about them then, for i didn't have any space for married people, wanting to save it purely for folks that loved each other. but now it does seem like providence that they've come down here to spend the summer in the country, for there's not a single loving soul left to write about, aunt laura being gone and brother sheffield never very loving when she was here, except chicken. their name is mrs. marie and augustus young. father says that adam or the legislature knew a thing or two when it named them _young_. he is a professor and owns a chair in a college that must either have gold nails in it or sit extra good, for rufe says it is worth five thousand dollars a year. mrs. young sings vocal. i wish she didn't, especially in a parlor. if anybody is singing or reciting a speech on a platform and flowers and electric lights it thrills you and you really enjoy it; but if they do it in a close room, especially if it trills high or has to kneel down and get red in the face, it makes you so ashamed for the one that's doing it, and for yourself, too, that you look straight at the carpet. even then the blood rushes to your head. they have built a house with such a wide porch running all around it that it reminds you of a little, tiny boy with a great big hat pulled down over his eyes, which is called a bungalow. they said they had brought a "complete outfit for light housekeeping" along with them, but when mother saw it she laughed considerable on the outside of the bungalow, for it was fifty-three books, mostly ending in "ology," a hammock and some chairs that lean away back, a guitar apiece, a great many little glass cases that you stick bugs and butterflies in if you can catch them, a picture of the apostle hosea, with his head all wrapped up like an old lady with the neuralgia, which they both said they could not live without, and a punching-bag, which they punched a great deal in the city, not having any baby to amuse themselves with, which was a good thing for the baby i reckon. so mother sent them over a great many things and professor young said she was the most sensible woman he ever saw, including a biscuit board and a sifter. they have been here a few days now and are delighted with the country air and the green scenery, and, although it does seem proud to say it, _me_. they thought very highly of me at cousin eunice's and said i was the most "interesting revelation of artless juvenile expression" they ever saw, which i wrote down on paper and when i came home taught it to mammy lou to give in at the experience meeting. one morning early, while mammy was beating the biscuit for breakfast, and i was up in the pear tree right by the kitchen door i nearly fell out with surprise when i saw professor young coming around the house with a pretty shirt open at the neck that he admires and two _great big_ dominecker roosters up in his arms which were both squawking very loud. mammy lou came to the door to see what all the noise was about, and he said she was the very person he wanted to see. "auntie," he commenced, trying to get into his pocket and wipe his face with his handkerchief, which was greatly perspiring, but he couldn't do it for the roosters, "my wife and i are in a quandary. we are both ignorant of the preferred method of inflicting a painless yet instantaneous death upon a fowl." mammy's eyes began to shine, for she loves big words like she loves watermelons, and without a sign of manners she never even tried to answer his question, but looked up at me in the tree and says: "baby, kin you rickollect all that to write it down?" professor young then looked up into the tree too and says: "why, mistress ann, how entirely characteristic!" and then he wanted to know what book i was reading and i told him, _john halifax, gentleman_, which i have had for my favorite book since i was eleven years old; and the roosters continued to squawk. i got down then and asked professor young if he wouldn't come into the house, but he said no and asked his question to mammy over again. she looked at me and to save her manners i told her right quick what the meaning of it was, me understanding it on account of being precocious and also at rufe's last winter, where they use strange words. "_thar now!_ is _that_ all it's about?" she asked awfully disappointed, for she thought from the words "painless death" it must be something about preaching. then in a minute, when she saw that he was still waiting, she turned around to him and said: "whar is the chicken _at_ that you want killed?" he held the roosters away from him and, looking at them as proud as a little boy looks at a bucket of minnows, he said: "these are they!" this tickled mammy so, and me too, though i remembered my manners, that she began to laugh, which shook considerable under her apron, and said: "well, gentle_men_! whut do you want to kill _them_ for?" "for breakfast," he said; and, noticing her laughing, his face got to looking so pitiful all in a minute that it made me just wish that cinderella's fairy godmother would come along and turn those roosters into nice little pullets all fried and laying on parsley. "why, mr. professor," mammy told him, "them roosters is so old that they will soon die a natural death if you leave them alone; and they're so big that you might fry 'em frum now till breakfast time on jedgment day, and then they wouldn't be fitten!" when she told him this he did manage to get out his handkerchief, i thought maybe to cry on, he looked so disappointed, but it was just to perspire on. "i--er, observed that they were unduly large," the poor man told her, "but i--er, thought maybe the larger a country thing was the better!" i thought of horse-flies and ticks, but was too mannerly to mention them, especially so near breakfast time. just then mother and father came out of the back door, and when they heard the tale of the roosters they both invited him to come right in and have breakfast with us, and said they would tie their legs together so they could flop around the back yard, but couldn't get away, and i could run over and bring mrs. young. last night when i got home i was too tired to write or anything else, for it was the night of the glorious fourth! professor young and mrs. young both kept remarking all day how lovely it was to be able to spend the fourth of july in a cool ravine instead of in the horrid city where there were so many smells of gunpowder and little boys. they said they must have me go along for the woods wouldn't really be woodsy without me, as i was the genius loci. i didn't know at first what that was, but i know now that it makes you tired and perspiry to be the genius loci of eight miles of woods on the fourth of july. rufe and cousin eunice couldn't think of half as many peculiar things to do when they were courting as the youngs. we ate a number of stuffed eggs which kinder made up for the tiredness, me being very fond of them, but professor young is crazy about mrs. young's singing voice and every time we'd come to an extra pretty place he would say: "marie, my love, sing something just here," so we'd have to stand still on our legs, it often being too snaky to sit down, while she sang. one time she thought up part of a song without a speck of tune to it, and it was in a language across the ocean. all i could make out was "parsifal," and every once in a while she would stop a minute in the song and say a word that sounded like "itch," though i don't suppose it was, being in a song. every time she would say itch he would scratch, for the poor man was covered with ticks. but the most trying thing was the bugs and butterflies, which being "naturalists" they caught. we had to run all over the ground and sides of the hills for them, and empty our dinner out on a nice, shady rock, so we could use the lunch box to put them in. when we got back we found it all covered with ants, but we were so hungry we thought we'd brushed them all off, though in the cake we found we _hadn't_. if a person hasn't ever eaten an ant, my diary, there ain't any use in trying to make them understand what they taste like, so i won't dwell on that. professor young said though he was willing to eat them for the sake of his beloved science, though i don't see how it helped science any. toward evening we got to a fine place in the branch to wade and mrs. young said, oh, let's do it; it would remind us of our childhood days. so we soon had our feet bare, with our thoughts on our childhood days, and never once stopping to remember that we didn't have a thing to wipe them on. nobody said so much as towel until we got out, and then it was too late, so we were very much pained and annoyed every step of the way home on account of our gritty feet. another morning early we decided to go out and see the sun rise, like thoreau. (they tell me how to spell all the odd words.) we went up to the tiptop of a high hill, and when the sun was just high enough to make you squint your eyes mr. young remarked that he realized his life was "replete with glorious possibilities," and he said in such moments he felt that he could "encompass his heart's desire." he said he fain would be a novelist. now, this is the only subject they ever fall out about, for he's always wanting to be something that he is not. last winter when he met doctor gordon at rufe's he decided he wanted to be a doctor, for he said they could always make a living, no matter where they were, while a poor college professor had to stay wherever he had a chair to sit in. so he went to a store where you buy rubber arms and legs and things and bought a long black bag like doctor gordon's, full of shiny, scary-looking scissors and knives which cost seventy-five dollars, to lay away till fall when the doctor's school opened up again. in two weeks mrs. young had got the store man to take the things back for half price because professor young had decided he wanted to study banjo playing instead of doctoring and had bought a banjo trimmed with silver. she knew whenever he said he wanted to _be_ anything it would cost as much as two new dresses, and then have to be exchanged for something else, so she asked him if he would have to buy anything to begin this novel-writing business with. he proudly told her no, for his "mother nature had endowed him with a complete equipment," and he thumped his forehead between his eyes and his straw hat. then she told him to go on. he said it would be a good time to get material from the study of the "primitive creatures" around here in the country. i hoped these "primitive creatures" were not the kind of insects you would have to empty the lunch box for, nor be careful not to pull off their hind legs while you were catching them, not knowing just what they were. i was scared good when he said he thought the girl that milked mrs. hedges' cows would be a good one to begin on. he said if marie didn't mind he would go over to the farthest pasture where he could see her then and _draw her out to see what was in her_! this sounded terrible to me, knowing that he used some sickly smelling stuff on the bugs that killed them before they had time to say a word, and i thought maybe because emma belle was a poor servant girl he was going to do her the same way. he had always seemed such a kind-hearted man to me, and i saw him and emma belle standing at the fence talking and he was not trying to hold anything to her nose, still i didn't feel easy till he got back. mrs. young asked him what he had learned, and if his novel would be along "socialistic lines" or a "romance in a simple bucolic setting." that "bucolic" reminded me of bertha's little innocent baby, and i wished i was at home nursing it even if it did cry, rather than be out sun-rising with such a peculiar man. he said it would be a "pastoral," and that the girl's eyes were exactly like his first sweetheart's, which was remarkable. mrs. young spoke up right quick and said there wasn't anything remarkable in _that_, because all common, country girls looked alike and they all had about as much expression as a squash. we haven't been out early acting like thoreau any more, for mrs. young said it was the most foolish of all the foolish things augustus had made her do, and he could continue to associate with milkmaids by himself if he wanted to, which he has. this morning she came over to our house early to ask mother if you singed a picked chicken over a blaze or what, and if she didn't think thoreau was an idiot. mother said yes, you did, if it had pin feathers on it, and she didn't know much about thoreau, but she preferred men that paid taxes and ate off of white tablecloths. mrs. young said she thought all men that read bugology and admired pictures like hosea were a little idiotic and she wished she had married a man like father. mother said well, she better not be too sure, for they all have their faults. after a good long time professor young came in, not finding marie at the bungalow, looking awful hot and cross. the sight of him seemed to make mrs. young feel worse than ever and she told him she had just come over to consult mother about her journey home to-morrow, although she hadn't mentioned it to us before. she went on to say that _he_ might spend the rest of the summer, or the rest of his life if he wanted to, boarding over at mrs. hedges' where he could see emma belle morning, noon and night, instead of only in the morning. he said why, he was utterly surprised for she hadn't mentioned such a thing to him before, but she told him he hadn't spent enough time with _her_ lately even to know whether or not she still retained the power of speech. he said right quick, oh, he never doubted _that_! she said, well, _she_ was going and he needn't argue with _her_. he said he wasn't going to argue, he was only too glad to leave such a blasted place, for he wanted material for his novel, but the farmer's girl he had talked with the _first_ morning, and the _plow-boys_ he had been associating with ever since were all such fools he couldn't get any material from them. the minute he said that she seemed to feel better and change her mind. she said augustus ought to be ashamed to talk that way about poor ignorant things which never had any opportunities! he said he wanted to go back to the city anyway where there was a bath-tub, but she told him he was very foolish to think about leaving such a cool, "arcadian" spot; their friends would all laugh at them for coming back so soon. she said she had merely mentioned going back for _his_ pleasure, for all the world knew how she _loved_ the country. he finally said he loved it too, so they would stay, but he would be forced to give up novel-writing because the country people around here are all fools. i've heard professor young talk about sitting in a college chair being a hard life, and doctor gordon says doctoring is a hard life, and rufe says that editing is a hard life, but, my diary, between you and me, from the looks of things this morning, i kinder believe that marrying is a hard life, too. chapter v did you ever think what a dear old thing anybody's black mammy is, my diary, especially when she's done all the cooking (and raised you) for twenty-five years? mammy lou has belonged to us just like father and mother ever since we've been at housekeeping, and my heart almost breaks to-night when i think of the fire in our stove that won't burn and the dasher in our churn that is still. ever since i've been keeping a diary i've been awfully glad to hear about anybody being in love, and took great pleasure in watching them and writing it all out, for i could _always_ imagine it was _me_ that was the lady. but i would rather never keep a diary another day than to have such a thing happen to mammy lou. when mother heard about it she said not to be an old fool, but mammy lou said, "either marse shakespeare or marse solomon said a old fool was the biggest fool and she wasn't going to make him out no lie. so marry that yankee nigger she was!" bill williams first came here to teach school, being very proud and educated. then he got to be dilsey's beau and they expected to marry. when he first commenced going to see dilsey mammy lou would cook the nicest kind of things for her to take to picnics, hoping to help her catch him in a motherly way. but when he started to promising to give dilsey a rocking-chair and take her to "george washington" if she would marry him, mammy lou changed about. she had always wanted to see a large city _herself_, and she thought it wasn't any use of letting dilsey get all the best things in life, even if she was her child. pretty soon she commenced wearing red ribbon around her neck and having her hair wrapped fresh once a week. then she told him she was the good cook that cooked all the picnic things, and ironed all of dilsey's clean dresses; also that she had seventy-five dollars saved up that she would be willing to spend on a grand bridal trip the next time she got married. mammy lou is a smart old thing, and so she talked to him until he said, well, he would just as soon marry her as dilsey, if she would stop cooking for us, and cook for _him_ and iron _his_ shirts all the time. she promised him she would do this, like people always do when they're trying to marry a person, although it looks very different afterward. none of mammy's other husbands had been so proud. _they_ would not only let her cook, but would come around every meal time, in the friendliest kind of way, and help her draw a bucket of water. this is why the whole family's heart is breaking and we feel so hungry to-night. she's quit, and the wedding is to-morrow. this morning early she came up to the house to ask mother if it would be excusable to take off her widow's bonnet, not being divorced from uncle mose but four months; also how she had better carry her money to keep bill from getting "a holt" of it. she said she wouldn't trust any white yankee with a half a dollar that she ever saw, much less a coffee-colored one. mother was so mad at her, and so troubled about the sad biscuits and the watery gravy at breakfast that she said she hoped he would steal every cent of the seventy-five dollars before the ceremony was over, and maybe _that_ would bring her to her senses. "and me not to get to go to george washington!" mammy said in a hurt-like voice. "why, mis' mary!" "where is this george washington?" mother took time to ask, thinking mammy would know she was just poking fun at her, but she didn't. "law! ain't it surprising how little my white folks do know! why, it's the place where the president and his wife lives. mr. williams is mighty well acquainted with the president and says he's shore i could git a job cooking for the fambly if i was 'round lookin' for jobs. but i ain't to cook for nobody but _him_ from now on." mother didn't encourage her to talk about her love and matrimony any, so she took me by the hand and we went out and sat down on the kitchen doorstep and had a long conversation. she seemed mighty sad at the notion of leaving us, but was so delighted at the idea of marrying a young man (as anybody naturally _would be_) that she couldn't think of giving that up. pretty soon in our conversation she commenced telling me about the things that happened many years ago, when i was a little child, like they say folks do when they're going on a long journey or die. she began from the time i was born, and said i was such a brown little thing that i looked like i had tobacco-juice running through me instead of blood. and i made use of a bottle until i was four years old. because i was the only one of mother's and father's children that lived and was born to them like isaac (_i_ don't know of any special way that isaac was born, but two of mammy's husbands have been preachers, so _she_ knows what she's talking about) they let me keep the bottle to humor me. it had a long rubber thing to it so i would find it more convenient. mammy said the old muley cow was just laid aside for my benefit, they thought so much of me, and when i got big enough to walk i'd go with her into the cow-lot every hour in the day and drag my bottle behind me to be milked into. i enjoyed being milked into my mouth, too, if my bottle was too dirty to hold it just then. mammy said i always admired the sunshine so much that i would sit out in it on hot days till my milk bottle would clabber, which was one cause of my brownness. when i found out i couldn't draw anything up through the rubber, being all clabbered, i'd begin to cry and run with my bottle to mammy. and she would quiet me by digging out all the clabber with a little twig and feed it to the chickens. they got to knowing the sound of me and my bottle rattling over the gravels so well that they'd all come a running like they do when they hear you scrape the plates. this, of course, was very touching to us both and we nearly cried when she talked about going off to washington where the people are too stylish to keep a muley cow. they won't even keep a baby in the families there, but the ladies keep little dogs and get divorces. mother wouldn't go to the wedding, for dinner and supper were worse than breakfast. the rest of the family all went except dilsey, who didn't much like the way her mother had treated her about bill. professor and mrs. young went, being still down there and a great pleasure to us all. they were delighted, being raised up north, and wanted to take pictures of everything. whenever we would pass a cabin door with a nigger and his guitar sitting in it and picking on it they would stop and say that it was so "picturesque." and the real old uncles with white hair and the mammies with their heads tied up they said reminded them of "aunty bellum days." everything went off as nice as could be expected under the circumstances until the preacher said, "salute your bride." then, when bill started to kiss her, mammy lou laid her hand against the side of his head so hard you could have heard the pop up to the big house and said she would show him how to be impudent to a woman of sixty, even if he was a yankee and educated. everybody passed it off as a joke, but the slap didn't seem to set very well with bill, being nineteen years old and not used to such. we left right after the ceremony and mammy lou and the others walked on down to her house to wait for the twelve o'clock train that they were going to leave on. although i always enjoy going to places with the youngs on account of the curious words and the camera they use, and although it was the sixth marriage of my old nurse, which you don't get a chance to see _every_ day, still when i think of breakfast, i must say it was the saddest wedding i ever witnessed. this morning when i first woke up and heard that regular old tune, _play on your harp, little david_, coming so natural and lifelike from the kitchen i thought surely it must be a dream, mammy being hundreds of miles away in washington. the song kept on, though, just like it has done every morning for twenty-five years, mother says: "_shad_-rach, _me_-shach, _abed_-ne-_go_, the _lord_ has _washed_ me _white_ as _snow_," so i got up. it never does take me a minute to wash my face of a morning, and this morning it took even less time. i hopped into my clothes and flew down-stairs. it wasn't any dream! there was mammy, not looking like she was married nor anything, and a good, cheerful fire in the stove, and the bacon smelling like you were nearly starved. i didn't ask any questions, but just said, "mammy," and she said, "baby," and there i was hugging her fit to turn over the churn. i asked her if mother knew that she come back and she said no, she had been easy and not made any noise, so as to surprise us all. i reckon mother and father are so used to having shadrach, meshach and abednego wake them up of a morning that they thought it was a dream, too. pretty soon they heard us talking though and came in. mother came first, for it is the gentleman's place to let the lady go first into the kitchen, especially when they think that breakfast is to be got. mother said, "what are you doing here?" and mammy lou said, "getting breakfast, mis' mary," which was about as straightforward as they could have been with each other. mother asked her if she wasn't still married, and she said no, for she had "had occasion to give that uppish yankee nigger a good whippin' las' night." and then she went on to say that she told dilsey _she_ could have him if she still wanted him, and said she hoped dilsey would take him for she would just _admire_ to be mother-in-law to that nigger. just then father came in, hearing the last remark about "that nigger," and asked mammy lou what the trouble was between her and her new husband. mammy was breaking eggs into the big yellow bowl which she was going to scramble for breakfast, and as she commenced telling us about her marrying troubles she began to beat them very hard, which seemed to ease her. it is a great help to people to think of their enemies when they are beating things, for it makes them beat all the harder and don't really hurt the enemies. mammy said when they got home from the wedding she started to change her white dress and veil and put on her good cashmere dress to ride on the train in. just about that time mr. williams spoke up and said he was sleepy and wanted to get a good night's rest so he was going to bed, but he wanted mammy to have him a nice rare steak for his breakfast. mammy then asked him if he had been born a fool or just turned that way since he had married so far above his station. he said he would mighty soon find out who the _fool_ was in that family--and she better have good beaten biscuits to go with the steak. when he said this mammy gave him another sample of her strength like she did in the church and told him to get out of there and change his clothes to go to george washington. then he gave a big ha! ha! laugh in her face, right before dilsey and the neighbors and said why, didn't she know that george washington had been dead and buried behind the church door for a hundred years? he kept on laughing and said the "ignorance of country niggers is really amusable." mammy said she hated to do it with her veil on, being a new veil and she hadn't used it but twice, but she couldn't wait to take it off, him grinning like a picture-taking man at his funny joke. all his teeth were showing, and, as mammy had always admired them for being so big and white, she decided she would keep a handful to remember him by; so she gave him one good lick in the mouth with her wedding slipper, which was large and easy to come off. this broke a good half of his front tooth, she said, besides drawing a lot of blood to relieve her feelings. while he was busy wiping away the blood and trying to open his eyes enough to see candle-light again, mammy sat down by him, and, before he knew it, she had dragged him across her lap and was paddling him like he was her own dear son instead of her husband. then she called dilsey and told her she might feel safe about marrying him now, if she still wanted him, for he had better sense than to try to fool with any member of _that_ family again. mammy lou said of course _she_ couldn't stay married to a man she could paddle. she was too much of a lady. but dilsey turned up her nose and said she wouldn't have any second-hand nigger, much less a whipped one. father spoke up then and said she couldn't give bill to dilsey without getting a divorce from him first. mammy lou said, well, marse sheriff might arrest her and marse judge might fine her, but she would see them all in the place that was prepared for them before she would waste twenty-five dollars for just _that_ little speck of marrying! father went on out to feed the chickens and mother went to wake up bertha (but not the baby) for breakfast, and mammy lou scraped the eggs into the dish i had brought her. "divorce _nothin'_," i heard her remark as she soused the hot skillet into water that sizzled, "i done bought a hundred dollars' worth o' divorces _already_, and if the lawyers wasn't all scribes and pharisees they'd let _that_ run me the rest o' my days." chapter vi "yuletide in the southland" is what professor young calls it, but you would never know from the sound how nice it really is. it means that the youngs have come down to the bungalow to spend christmas and have brought his brother, julius, to spend it too. now, i admire mr. julius young, both his name and his ways. he noticed me the minute he got off the train and said i would have to be his sweetheart. although i have learned, from being so deceived by doctor gordon's remarks like that, you mustn't depend on what they say, still you can't help but like a person when they say it to you. he is not a college professor like his brother, but he makes his living drawing pictures. now, the bad part about making your living out of poetry or art is that so _often_ you don't do it. this is the way with julius. he draws fully as good as other artists, but he never has been able to get people to notice it. professor young says his work lacks "the divine spark," and so the poor young man has to heat his coffee over the gas-jet, like they always have to do in pitiful magazine stories. so much poetry and art have made him real thin, with strange flannel shirts, and he looks half like a writing person and half like a hero which was raised out west. he doesn't act as peculiar as he looks, though, laughing as jolly as mr. parkes if anything funny happens. and he knows so much about horses, having traveled considerable, that father thinks he is very clever. father says you can excuse an artist with horse sense better than you can just a plain artist. rufe and cousin eunice are down in the country too, partly at our house and partly at rufe's folks'. this makes a nice reunion for them, being as marcella, rufe's sister, is home for the first time in three christmases, having been off studying how to play on the piano. ever since during the chestnuts getting ripe marcella has been good friends with me, for she loves the outdoors, and there wasn't anybody but me that had the time to spare to go with her through the woods. she felt sorry for me, too, not getting to go back to school in the city this fall, and so she has taught me a lot. mother and father said they just couldn't spare me, being the only one that lived, and born to them in their old age. it looks like if my brothers and sisters had known how inconvenient it was for me to be the only child they would have tried a little harder to live. marcella is not pretty in a blonde-headed way, like ann lisbeth and bertha, but her hair and eyes are as dark as chocolate candy when you've grated a whole half a cake in it, and her skin looks like cream does when it's nearly ready to churn. she wouldn't go with me and rufe and cousin eunice to meet the youngs at the train, being ashamed on julius' account, i reckon, both being single. but _we_ went and professor and mrs. young said they were too happy for anything to be back in the country again for a regular old-fashioned christmas. they said they were going to do everything just like it used to be in old england, which professor young had brought a book along to read about. they said this book would "infuse a genuine yule spirit," but if they had scraped as many cake pans and seeded as many raisins as i have they would have more of that spirit now than they could hold without a dose of cordial. well, this morning we collected on the other side of the creek to go after holly to decorate the bungalow with, me, the youngs, and rufe and cousin eunice. julius said a good many compliments about the nature you could see all over the hills, but rufe said shucks, if he had _plowed_ over that nature as often as _he_ had it wouldn't look so pretty. cousin eunice said let's go straight up through the woods and maybe we would meet marcella coming back from a poor person's house where she had been to carry sick folks' things to. this plan must have been made up between them, for, sure enough, when we got to the tip-top of the hill we found marcella sitting under some cedar trees resting, and leaning back against one, just like it was done for a purpose. she had on her red hat and her little red jacket, which set off her pale looks considerable, and if she _did_ do it for the sake of julius she knew the right way to get on the good side of an artist, for he commenced acting impressed from the start. if a person is trying to be romantic it is a better plan to meet a man under a cedar tree with a tired expression than it is to sprain your ankle so they will have to carry you home in their arms, like they do in books. i don't know _why_ authors sprain so many of their characters' ankles, and then let them make love smelling of liniment. mother says in olden times people married each other because the ladies were pretty and could make good cakes and the young men were able to take care of them, but nowadays they marry because they "feel" the same way about things. this is called congenial, and an _overly_ congenial person is an "affinity." cousin eunice and rufe felt the same way about keats and married. doctor gordon and ann lisbeth both loved white hyacinths and married, and this morning i heard marcella and julius say they felt the same way about music. marcella was playing on the piano in our parlor and we were all listening when julius remarked: "oh, isn't it rare to find a woman who can properly interpret beethoven?" father was in the room and spoke up. "yes," he said, "and rarer still, in these days, to find one who can properly interpret the _bake-oven_." marcella thinks the world and all of beethoven and wagner and other persons whose names are not spelt the way you would think. [illustration: for the sake of julius _page _] later, when there wasn't anybody present but just those two, i heard julius ask marcella if she would "sit" to him. i thought at first he must be proposing, for the folks around here say that widow hollis is "setting up to" anybody when she's trying to marry. but marcella said right away that she would be delighted, which i knew couldn't mean marrying, for when a young lady gets proposed to she never even _lets on_ how glad she is, much less says _delighted_ right out in plain words. he said her face was the purest greek he ever saw, which didn't make her mad, although it would me, for a greek is a smiling, oily-looking person which runs a candy kitchen. when he mentioned her face looking like a greek's face she acted so pleased that he went on to tell her he had never been so impressed with anybody's looks in his life as he was with hers that first day under the cedar tree. he said oh, if he had such a model he could do _anything_, for he was sure she had soul as well as beauty. the idea of him telling her she had a soul--as if anybody but foreign heathens didn't have! she said she thought it would be a noble life to be a model and inspiration to a man of lofty ideals--like dan t. gabriel rosetty's wife was, only sometimes the _woman_ was starved. if i'd been marcella i'd been ashamed to mention such a thing as not getting enough to eat, but it seemed to please julius, for he got over closer and commenced making a sketch of her on the back of an envelope. this morning early mrs. and professor young came over to ask father where they could find a yule log and a peacock. they said in the "eternal fitness of things" they must have a log to burn all christmas night and a peafowl to serve with "brilliant plumage" at the dinner table. mrs. young went around to the kitchen to ask mammy lou if she knew how to prepare the peacock the way they wanted it and brought to the table in its feathers with the tail spread. mammy wasn't a speck more polite than she was last summer about the roosters. "no, _ma'am_," she told her, "mis' mary won't let even so much as a pin feather come on her table, much less a whole crittur covered with 'em. looks like _that_ would turn a nigger's stomach, let alone white folks; but there ain't no 'countin' for the taste o' _yankees_." professor young tried to explain that he was cooked without the feathers which was put on afterward and an old english custom, but that wouldn't pacify mammy. "well, all i can say for the old english is that they must have stomachs on 'em like _buzzards_," mammy told them. the yule log was easier and so they got that, but it isn't to be lit till to-morrow night with ceremony. julius and marcella had a long walk through the woods after sarsaparilla vines this afternoon, and talked a good deal about how they would like a house furnished if they were going to furnish one. they never got as far as the kitchen and smokehouse, but they both agreed that they would love better than anything in the world to have a dark green library with dull brass jardinieres. (i had a _terrible_ time with that word.) julius then spoke up and said _any_ kind of a library that had her in it would be artistic enough for _him_, which i thought was saying a great deal, for artists make out like they can't live without their "atmosphere," meaning battered-up tea-kettles and dirty curtains from persia. marcella must have thought he meant something by it, too, for she turned as red as when you have a breaking out. i helped mother and mammy considerable this morning by tasting all the things to see if they were just right, for we are going to have a big dinner to-morrow and invite them all. to-night we all went over to the bungalow to hear professor young read about how they used to do christmas things in england before the pilgrim fathers. it sounded awful nice about the waifs singing, "god rest you, merry gentlemen," on the outside of your window, and the servants at dinner bringing in the boar's head, singing too. professor young said he thought these old customs ought to be revived, especially in the south, where we had old-timey houses and old family servants. father laughed and said, well, we _might_ get mammy lou to bring in the turkey to-morrow to the tune of "there _wuz_ er moanin' lady, she _lived_ in er moanin' lan'," which was all the tune she knew besides shadrach, meshach and abednego, one being about as christmasy as the other. after a while mrs. young started up the chafing-dish and called julius from over in the corner where he and marcella were talking very easy, to help her with the coffee. she hadn't more than said coffee when professor young picked up his book again. "why, marie, my love," he interrupted her, "coffee is not at all a drink in keeping with the season. to preserve the unities we ought to have a wassail bowl." then he read us how easy it was to make up the wassail. all you have to do is to take wine, or ale, and sugar and nutmeg, mixed with ginger and spice, then have apples and toast and roasted crabs floating around in it. you must mix it up in an old silver bowl that has been in your family a hundred years with the coat of arms on it. a coat of arms is two peculiar animals standing on their hind legs pawing at each other. mrs. young said she was as anxious to preserve the unities as augustus, but how could she when there wasn't any wine or ale or ginger or crabs, to say nothing of the silver bowl with the coat of arms marked on it. rufe said not to worry, for we might find it hard, along toward midnight and day, to preserve much unity between wassail and welsh rabbit, if we ate them together, so the wassail bowl was dropped. all during my diary there hasn't been a thing as thrilling to happen as what happened to-day, christmas day, to julius and marcella. getting your arm broken and carried to the hospital by your future husband wasn't anything to compare with this. everybody was happy at the dinner table, me especially, for besides all the books i wanted i got a pyrography set and a pearl ring. i don't think any girl is complete without a pearl ring. the company all praised mammy's cooking and julius remarked that after such a dinner as that it would be pretty tough on a fellow to go back to town the next day and live on coffee heated over the gas-jet and crackers. we laughed considerable over the gas-jet, all but marcella, who didn't look funny. just as we got the plum pudding burning and julius had said he wished he could paint a picture of it dilsey came into the dining-room with a telegram addressed to mr. julius young. this excited mammy lou, who admires him very much, so she nearly spilt all the sauce, saying, "thar! i jes' _know_ it's some of yo' folks dead!" julius laughed and told her he reckoned not, as all the folks he had on earth were right there at the table, and he looked at marcella when he said it in preference to his own brother! much to all of our disappointment julius never even opened his telegram and read it, although we didn't say anything about it. he put it in his pocket and went on eating pudding like it wasn't any more to be proud of than just a plain mail letter. after dinner father took them all out in the garden to look at some new hotbeds he was having made and julius and marcella went into the parlor. i stayed in the hall by the door, not being wanted in the parlor and not admiring hotbeds much. they didn't sit down, but went over and stood by the piano and all of a sudden marcella said nervous-like: "why don't you read your telegram? it might contain good news." "it _is_ good news, i feel sure," he told her, "and i wanted you to be the first one to know it--that's the reason i didn't mention it at the table." she said well hurry up and tell her, so he did. he said the day he saw her leaning against the cedar tree he thought she was so beautiful that he went straight back to the bungalow and made a picture of her like she was then and sent it to a large magazine up north which had promised to give five thousand dollars to the person which sent them the best picture by christmas, and he believed the telegram was to say that his was it. marcella told him well, he had a high opinion of his work to take it for granted that it had won such a prize as _that_. "not at all," he said, catching her hand in his, "for it was a picture of _you_." this sounded so loving that i wasn't prepared for what came next. i heard them tear open the telegram and marcella said, "_good-ness_;" and he said, "well, i'll be--i wasn't looking for this!" and it made me so interested that before i knew it i was in the parlor, though so easy and it nearly dark that i don't think they saw me. as near as i could make out the telegram told julius they thought his picture was so good they were not only going to give him the prize like they promised, but wanted to engage him to draw for them all the next year and how much salary would he do it for. "why, you can have your green library and brass jardinieres _now_," marcella said, still holding hands and her voice like it was about to cry. he just looked at her and looked a long time without saying a word. finally he put both hands on her shoulders and looked down into her eyes. "i can have nothing without you," he said in the most devoted voice i ever heard. "it is your beauty that has made my picture succeed. if i amount to anything you will have to come with me--will you?" "you want me for your model?" she asked very quivery and making out like she didn't know what he was driving at, but she put her hands up on his shoulders too, which was enough to give her away. "true, i can not draw without you for my model," he said so grand and sweet that it made you feel very strange listening to it, "but i can not _live_ without you for my wife." this won her. it was enough to win _anybody_, coming from an artist, and good looking at that. chapter vii being in love with marcella weighed so on julius' mind that he couldn't stay in new york but one week where the magazine is that he draws for, so he came back and has been here ever since, loving and drawing and sending them the jobs by mail. right away they set the wedding for the eleventh of april, which seems like it _never_ will come, me being in a big hurry for it. poor julius gets more and more delighted every day, talking a heap about what a happy home they're going to have, not realizing that chopin and dish-pan don't go together. he stays around and advises marcella about her clothes and such-like all day long. he says she reminds him of a narcissus, being tall and creamy-skinned, so he wants all her dresses to be either white or light green, the color of right young lettuce. but she knows when really to take his advice and when just to make like she's taking it, the way most ladies do with men. "why, it would take a little pink milksop like bertha parkes to wear such colors as _those_," she said behind his back one day. but i don't think marcella better be calling bertha a _milksop_ just because she has to handle baby-bottles all the time, for a person never can tell what might happen to them. one of the nicest things about the wedding is the bridesmaids. they consist of girls born partly here in the country, partly in the cities marcella has visited and made friends with. the one i like best is miss cicely reeves, though most people around here call her cis, being very small, with fluffy hair and cute ways and dimples. she has a good many lovers of different kinds, but don't seem to like one above another. she is a great hand to act romantic, such as falling in love with a man in a streetcar, or expecting her future husband to be a certain size and comb his hair a certain way and things like that. this often keeps young ladies from getting married a long time, for mother says you oughtn't to be too choice about size and hair, but i can't help being on that order myself. i do hope i can marry a man on a jet-black charger named sir reginald de beverley who owns _acres_ and _acres_ of english landed gentry. miss cis had that experience with the _name_ of julius' best man. it happened that we were all sitting on the front step one day when julius pulled a letter out of his pocket and told marcella that he had just heard from malcolm macdonald, and that he was going to be his best man. "_who?_" asked miss cis right quick, looking up from the sprig of bridal wreath she was pulling the flowers off of. julius told her the name over again and then told her that he was a very old friend of his and was a fine civil engineer. i used to think a civil engineer was a _polite_ man who ran the trains, but i know now he is a man that gets in the middle of the street with a string and a three-legged thing and measures the road. "is he married?" miss cis asked a heap quicker than she had asked who. "no, and not likely to be," julius answered, still looking over the letter absent-mindedly. "the name sounds good," miss cis commenced, her eyes sparkling. "i never heard anything scotchier. something tells me he must be my ideal." "then 'something' must be telling you a lie," julius said laughing, "for he couldn't be any woman's ideal. he is very _real_. an old bachelor, thirty-seven years, stern and precise; and he considers every woman on earth as a frivolous and _un_necessary evil." "the kind of man i adore," miss cis said joyfully, though anybody that knew her well could tell she was fooling. "my life will be a blank until he comes!" "it would be a blankety-blank if you had to live with him, for you are the kind of woman to torment such a man to death." "all the more reason for his falling in love with me, as i have fallen in love with his name, and if he doesn't i shall consider him a very _un_civil engineer." which was just her way of talking. this happened fully two months ago, but they have talked about it off and on ever since. and now he is coming to stay with julius till the wedding, to cheer him up i suppose. sure enough he did come to-day, although lots of times i imagine that i never will get to see a person i have heard spoken of so often and in such high tones--and sometimes i wish i hadn't. but it wasn't that way with mr. macdonald. nobody on earth could have been disappointed in _him_ for he is one of the tallest gentlemen i ever saw with trousers so smoothly creased that they look like somebody had ironed them after he put them on. he takes his own time about saying things, being very careful about saying "of whom" and "by which" like the grammar tells you to. julius brought him over to marcella's this afternoon so he could be making friends with her and the bridesmaids that were collected there. remembering how they had been teasing miss cis about him i kept my eye on her from the minute he walked through the door. i was greatly disappointed though, for she never _seemed_ to notice him. i guess she took a better look at him than i imagined though, for the minute they were gone she jumped clear across the room to where marcella was standing and grabbed her and danced up and down. "isn't he _beautiful_!" she said all out of breath. "i'm just crazy about him! did you ever see such gibsony feet and legs in your _life_?" which mortified her mother, it being impolite to mention feet and legs in her days. julius is romantic, too, for a man, and says he doesn't want any flowers used in connection with his wedding except the sweet, early spring ones that favor marcella so much. we have a yard full of them and so mother told them this morning that they better come over and gather them, knowing that young folks enjoy picking flowers together and they will stay fresh for several days if you put a little salt in the water. it was the most beautiful morning you ever saw, with birds and peach blossoms and the smell of plowed ground all making curious feelings inside of you. marcella, being a musician, noticed the birds, and julius, being an artist, noticed the peach blossoms, but mr. macdonald, being just a man, noticed miss cis. she would walk along without noticing him and take a seat in the farthest corner away from him, but anyhow she seemed to do the work, which taught me a lesson; that if you're trying to get a man to notice you it is the best plan not to notice them except when they ain't looking. they sat down on the porch and rested a while after they came while the narcissuses (narcissi _they_ called them, which sounds stuck up to me) smelled very sweet from the yard. julius remarked he wished they had made rufe come along with them so he could have said poetry out of keats, as it was just the kind of day to make you feel keatsy; and pretty soon he and marcella got on to their favorite subject, "the ruby yacht," which they say is a piece of poetry from persia. they talked and talked, which made me very sleepy and pretty soon i noticed that mr. macdonald was getting sleepy too. he leaned over to miss cis and said, kinder whispery: "i don't understand poetry, do you?" "no, i don't," she answered back, with a smile on her face which i knew she meant to be "congenial." i knew this was a story, for she talks about "the ruby yacht" as much as anybody when he ain't around, but i didn't blame her for telling one in a case like this. "i never could discover what the deuced ruby yacht was about, in the first place," he said. "it looks like, from the name," i said speaking up, "that it would be about a red ship," but before i could get any further they began to laugh and tell my remark to julius and marcella, which was mortifying. this broke up the poetry talk and they began gathering the flowers, miss cis and mr. macdonald picking in pairs, by which i knew they were getting affinityfied. after they had picked till their backs were tired mammy lou came out on the porch bringing a waiter with some of her best white cake and a bottle of her year-before-last-before-that's wine setting on it and her finest ruffled cap, very proud. she was curious to see the young man "miss cis was settin' up to, to see whether the match was a fittin' one or not." she took a good look at him, then called miss cis into the hall to speak her opinion. "he'll _do_," i heard her saying, while miss cis was telling her to "s-s-sh, mr. macdonald would hear her." "he'll _do_," mammy kept on, not paying any attention to what was told her, like she always don't. "he must be all right, for bein' a frien' o' mr. juliuses would pass 'im.' but, honey, he _is_ tolerable _po_-faced, which ain't no good sign in marryin'. if thar's anybody better experienced in that business than _me_ and king solomon i'd like to see the whites o' ther eyes; an' i tell you every time, if you want to get a good-natured, wood-cuttin', baby-tendin' husban' choose one that's _fat in the face_!" a good many wedding presents commenced to coming in this morning, which was a sign that the invitations got to the people all right. you often hear of things being worth their weight in silver, but there's _one_ thing you can count on it's being true about and that is wedding invitations. you never saw such delighted people as julius and marcella. they were laid out on tables in the parlor and greatly admired. "they're _ours_, dearest," he said, squeezing her hand right before everybody, "yours and mine! our lares and penates." this greatly impressed me and i looked it up in the back of the dictionary when i got home, which is a very useful place to find strange words. it said: "lares et penates, household gods," which didn't make sense, so i knew the dictionary man must have made a mistake and meant to say household _goods_. "gentle-_men_!" said mammy lou when i told the words to her, "if he thinks up such names as _them_ for his fu'niture what _will_ he do when he gets to his chil'en?" this remark seemed to put an idea into her head, for lovie, mammy's other daughter besides dilsey, has got a pair of two little twins that have been going around for the last five years in need of a name just because mammy lou and ike, their father, can't ever agree on one--a name nor anything else. "them's the very names for the little angels," mammy said, washing the dinner dishes deep in thought, "for the twins bein' boys and girls and the names bein' able to accommodate therselves to ary sect proves that they're the _very thing_." she studied over it for a good while, i guess on account of ike, although mammy is usually what she calls very plain-spoken with him. a plain-spoken person is one that says nasty things to your face and expects you not to get mad. when they say them behind your back they're "diplomatic." but finally she started off to name them, and, having had so much trouble already with ike, i saw her slip her heavy-soled slippers into her pocket before she started. she stayed away a long, long time, but when she got back she held her head so high and acted so stuck-up that i just knew she had got to use both the names and the slippers. "did you name 'em?" i asked her, going to the kitchen to get some tea-cakes, supper being very late. "_did i?_" she answered back, cutting out the biscuits with a haughty look, "you just oughter a _saw_ me namin' 'em!" "which did you name which?" i asked. "i named the precious boy penates, because i most know these common niggers roun' here'll shorten it to 'peanuts' which would be hurtin' to a little girl's feelin's." "well," i said, continuing to show a friendly interest, "ain't you glad they're named at last, so's if they die you could have a tombstone for them?" "glad!" she answered, putting the biscuits in the pan (but her mind still on the twins), and sticking holes in the top of them with a fork, "glad ain't no name for it! why, i ain't had as much enjoyment out o' nothin' as i had out o' this namin' sence the night i married bill williams!" it's a very thrilling and exciting thing to be a bride and if you can't be a bride you can still manage to get a good many thrills out of just a bridesmaid. all of marcella's have talked about how nervous and timid they are going to be--when the men are around--and some say they nearly faint when a great crowd stares at them, others say they bet folks will think they've got st. vituses' dance from trembling so; anyhow, they're all very modest. but miss cis, i believe, ain't putting on, for all she claims toward modestness is that her knees get so weak that they nearly let her drop when she acts a bridesmaid, which is the way a good many persons feel. the maids have laughed a good deal over her knees among themselves, never dreaming that the men would catch on to them, but they did in the following manner: miss cis stayed all night at marcella's last night to tell secrets for the last time, for after a lady is married you can't be too careful about telling her your secrets; and early this morning i ran over and saw her dressed in a pretty blue kimono, which set off her good looks greatly, down by the woodpile which they keep in the side yard. there is a hedge of honeysuckle which runs between the garden and the yard and she appeared to be searching on the ground for something close to this hedge. i went up to where she was, admiring her company, and she smiled when she saw me. "ann," she said, very pleasantly, "can you help me find two nice, little, smooth, thin boards?" i complimented her on her kimono and said yes'm to the board question, then asked her what she wanted with them. "my knees," she answered laughing, "they're so idiotic that when i get excited they threaten to let me drop. if i could strap two nice little boards to them, at the back, you know, it would prop them up and be _such_ a help!" "you couldn't walk very good," i told her, but she said oh, yes she could; and to prove it she commenced whistling the wedding march and walking stiff-kneed away from the woodpile to the tune of it. she looked so funny that i started to laugh, when just then i heard another laugh on the other side of the honeysuckle vines. i found a place where i could peep through and saw it was julius and mr. macdonald who had come out to view mr. clayborne's hotbeds, and greatly complimenting them, julius knowing that it's a fine thing to stay on the good side of your father-in-law in case you lose your job. i knew they heard what miss cis had said, for they were laughing very hard, which caused mr. macdonald to look real young, being as his eyes can twinkle. i knew it would be mortifying for her to see that they had heard her, so i hollered and told her that i heard marcella calling her from the up-stairs window, so she ran right on in without coming back to the woodpile. i started to go on after her, but just as i got to the kitchen door i remembered that i had left my pretty white sunbonnet that mammy lou had freshly ironed for me on the woodpile and ran back to get it. julius and mr. macdonald were right where they were, only looking in the other direction and talking very seriously, so i stayed a minute out of friendly interest. "although so bright and amusing she is never silly," i heard mr. macdonald's long, slow voice saying. "she is a very lovely, fascinating little woman." so i took a seat on the woodpile. "you'd better fall in love with her," julius said, cutting the briers off of a long switch he held in his hand, and talking careless like, as if he wasn't paying much attention. "your advice comes too late," mr. macdonald said, his voice so solemn that julius looked up in surprise. "what!" julius remarked. "yes," mr. macdonald said, sounding very devoted, "i did that very thing the first moment i looked at her dear, sweet face." julius stared at him a minute, then laughed a tickled laugh; and i moved my seat right up to the hedge so i could get a good look at them--it was the next best thing to a proposal. "that's the funniest thing i ever heard of," julius said after he had quit laughing. "it's devilish funny to _you_," poor mr. macdonald said, looking like he didn't know whether to laugh or to cry. "but--what am i to do?" "do?" said julius very businesslike, like folks talk when they're telling you to follow _their_ example. "what do men in your situation usually do? why, propose to her!" "but _she'd_ never marry _me_," he said looking right pitiful, for he spoke as humble as if he wasn't any taller than me, and him over six feet tall. "it would be the most absurd thing in the world for a man like me to propose to a woman like her!" "no, you're wrong," julius told him, still half laughing, "the _most_ absurd thing would be that she would accept you!" i'm awfully tired to-night and it would cramp my hand nearly to death to write all about the wedding--how julius looked happy up to the last, and how marcella cried just enough to appear ladylike on her lace handkerchief; and how the family relatives cried a little too. weddings are all alike, but proposals are all different, and i think i'd better use more space on them in my diary, so my grandchildren won't get sleepy over the sameness. but it would be a waste of handwriting to tell how miss cis tormented poor mr. macdonald all day, making him chase around after her trying to get in a private, loving word; and me just crazy to see whether she really was going to accept him or not, although i _might_ have known! he followed her up though, looking so brave and determined that he reminded me of "the boy stood on the burning deck." she worried him so that all through the ceremony he looked so pale and troubled that you'd have thought it was _him_ getting married. finally, just before it was time for the train that he was going back to town on to blow she changed about and commenced acting sweet. [illustration: he followed her up though _page _] all this was nice enough to watch, but is cramping to write about, and anyhow, the main thing with me was to see whether she was going to accept him or not. i stayed close to their heels all day, but he didn't get a chance to propose until just after dark, down by the front gate, with nobody around except me and a calecanthus bush and--well, you just ought to have _seen_ her accepting him! chapter viii ever since my last birthday there has a great change come over me for i have not kept my diary. mother took me to one side that morning and said it was time for me to act like i was growing up now. she said many a girl as big as me could pick a chicken and i couldn't do a thing but write a diary; and would even run and stop up my ears every time mammy lou started to wring one's head off. she said all the ladies of the neighborhood nearly worried her to death advising her to teach me how to work and saying it was simply ridiculous for a great big girl like me to lie flat on her stomach reading a book all day in the grass. this shows how i am misunderstood by my family, and i told mother so, but she said for goodness' sake not to get _that_ idea into my head, for girls that were always complaining about being "misunderstood" were the kind that got divorces from their husbands afterward. i know this won't be the way with me, though, for i expect to live on good terms with sir reginald, always wearing pink satin and spangles even around the castle; and never getting mussy-looking when i give the children a bath in hopes of retaining his affections, like they tell you to in ladies' magazines. but i didn't mention sir reginald to mother, or she would have misunderstood me worse than ever. goodness! i reckon the neighbors would have a fit if they could see me of a night when i dress up and step out on the porch roof, making like i'm juliet in shakespeare. i wear a lace thing over my head and let a pair of cousin eunice's last year's bedroom slippers represent romeo with fur around the top. they are the kind he wore the night they took me to see him and are all i can find in the house that looks at all like him. nobody gets to see me doing this, though, for i lock the door. somehow i think it would be a nicer world if you could always lock the door on your advising friends. last summer rufe said i was so clever for my age (_he_ said) that i ought to be in the city (i like this kind of advice) at a good school; so father and mother decided to move to the city and take mammy lou and spend the winter and all the other winters until i could get educated and live in a flat. so we went, me writing much sorry poetry about leaving my old home. the older i get the more i think of poetry and i reckon by the time i'm engaged i'll be crazy about it! our leaving was very sad, poor little lares and penates crying so hard at the depot where they went to tell mammy lou good-by that a drummer who was traveling with a kind heart gave them a quarter apiece to hush. i never admired the name of flat from the first and when we started to rent one i admired it less than ever. it consists of a very large house, divided up, and no place to kill a chicken. there is also no place to warm your feet, nor to pop corn. in fact, there are more places where you _can't_ do things than where you can. rufe took us to every one in town nearly, and mammy paid particular attention to how the kitchens were fixed and asked what became of the potato peelings with no pigs to eat them up. finally, after everything had been explained to her, she spoke up in the midst of a lady's flat with tears in her eyes and said: "mis' mary, le's go back to the country whar slop is called _slop_; up here it's '_gawbage_!'" father and mother were both delighted that going back had been mentioned without either one of _them_ saying it first, for both of their feet were sore from looking for flats; and they like to have fallen over each other in agreeing with mammy. "god never intended for _human beings_ to live in flats," father said, after the elevator had put us down on dry land once more, drawing a deep breath. "nor in cities either," rufe agreed, with a far-away look in his eyes, like he might be thinking of the chestnut hunts and black haws of his boyhood. that night they said well, they had found out they couldn't live in the city, and they weren't going to be separated from me, and i _had_ to be educated; so rufe then told them that a governess was the next best thing. this sounded so much like a young girl in a book that at first i was delighted. a governess is a very clean person that always expects you to be the same. only in books they are usually drab-colored young ladies without any nice clothes or parents, but the son of the family falls in love with them, much to their surprise, and they lose their job. then the son gets sent away to india with his regiment, where he hopes he can meet sweet death through a bullet hole. this is the way they are in books. mine, though, is not anything like that, being very pretty and pink, and with a regular father and mother like other folks have. but there is a great mystery connected with her. don't anybody but me know about it, and i don't know _all_ about it. from the very first she seemed to have something on her mind; this is very unusual for a young girl, so i tried to find out what the cause of it was. one day at the dinner table when she had been here about two weeks father remarked that i was learning faster from her than i ever had, and he hoped that she would stay here with us until i was finished being educated and not be wanting to get married, like most young ladies. miss wilburn, instead of laughing as one would expect, turned red in the face (her first name is louise) and said something that sounded like "oh no!" mammy, who was in the room at the time, spoke up as she usually does and said well, there must be something wrong with her if she didn't want to marry, as all right-minded women married once and extra smart ones married as often as there was any occasion to! instead of smiling miss wilburn looked more painful than ever; so mammy, who thinks enough of her to _even_ do up her shirtwaists, changed the subject. that night when i went into the kitchen to talk to mammy during the cooking her mind was still on the subject of miss wilburn and marrying. "honey," she said to me, flipping over the cakes with great conviction, "i've been thinking it over and the long and short of it is that pore child's been _fooled_! i know them _symptoms_! she's been fooled and she's grievin' over it. though thar ain't no use for a woman to grieve over nary _one_ man so long's she under forty and got good front teeth!" i said oh, i hoped not. i hated to think about the lover of my governess proving false! i told mammy maybe he had just died or something else he couldn't help. but she interrupted me. "died nothin'! that ain't no excuse, for thar's allus time to marry no matter what you're fixin' to do. thar ain't nothin' no excuse for not marryin' in this world," she kept on, "be it male or female. you needn't be settin' thar swingin' your legs and arguin' with _me_ about the holy estate!" the very first minute i thought there was anything of a loving nature connected with miss wilburn i got out my diary to write it down, as you see. she had told mother anyhow to let me keep it as it would "stimulate my mental faculties" and they would never be able to make a chicken-picking person out of me. i'm going to keep it right here in the drawer and jot down everything i see, although i am _convinced_ that the lover is dead. julius and marcella are down here now for the first time since they were married. we see them a great deal, for they love to go walking through the woods with miss wilburn and me; but i can't waste my diary writing about them _now_. i just happened to think what a pity it was that i didn't try to find out the mystery about miss wilburn from rufe and cousin eunice when we was up there last summer, for they knew her real well before we got her. in fact, for the first few days she and i didn't have any congenial things to talk about except them and tiny waterloo. waterloo's little name by rights is rufus clayborne, junior, and he occurred at a time when i wasn't keeping my diary; but my grandchildren would have known about him anyhow, he being their little fifth cousin. he is very different from bertha's baby, for he is a boy. i thought when i first saw him that if there was anything sweeter in this world than a girl baby it is a boy one! rufe and cousin eunice have lately been kinder new thought persons, which think if you have "poise" enough there can't anything on earth conquer you. rufe bragged particularly about nothing being able to conquer _him_ or get him in a bad temper, he had so much poise. but when little rufus was just three nights old and he had walked him the other _two_ and he was still squalling he threw up his job. "poise be hanged!" cousin eunice told us he said, "i've met _my_ waterloo!" and they've called him that ever since. when we were up there in the summer waterloo was giving his father considerable trouble about the editorials. an editorial is a smart remark opposite the society column; and rufe couldn't think up smart things while he was squalling. "oh, for a desert island!" he said one night when he was awful busy and couldn't get anything done. "oh, for a mammoth haystack where i might thrust my head to drown the noise--i've read that jean jacques rousseau used to do so! listen, i've made a rhyme!" "'tis not rhymes but dimes we need most just now; so go on with your work," cousin eunice said, gathering waterloo together to take him up-stairs. "merely removing the location of the noise will lessen it but slightly," rufe called to her as she got to the door. "seriously, do you know of a hayloft in the neighborhood where i might go?" "you might go next door to the williams' garage and thrust your head into their can of gasolene--_that's_ the latter-day equivalent for hay!" cousin eunice answered kinder-mad, for _she_ admires waterloo, no matter how he acts. so miss wilburn and i talked over all we knew about the little fellow; and i thought what a mistake i'd made in not asking cousin eunice what miss wilburn's lover's name was and where he is buried and a few other things like that. but then i couldn't, because i didn't know that there was a lover. still, mammy lou can talk till her hair turns straight and she won't get me to believe that he's anything else but dead. everything seems to point to it, from the fact of her not getting any letters from young men and looking lonesome at times and not wearing any diamond engagement ring. i'm sure he gave her one, but maybe his wicked kinfolks made her give it back to them after the funeral. or maybe she buried it in his grave. i don't know why miss wilburn never talks about him for one of our neighbors talks all the time about her husband which was killed in the war. i used to be delighted to hear her commence telling about him. he was killed at the battle of shiloh and was the tallest and handsomest man in the army. she takes a great deal of pleasure in talking about him, and when there are summer boarders at her house he grows to be nearly seven feet tall and so handsome that it hurts your eyes to look at him. her second husband is stone deaf and can't hear it thunder, which makes it nicer for them, for while it amuses her to talk about her first husband's good looks it ain't hurting to the second one's feelings. the autumn leaves are just lovely now and make you want to write a book, or at least a piece of poetry. it's right hard on you, though, not to have anything to write about but a girl without a beau. it's kinder like eating sweet potatoes without butter. i decided this morning that i better make the most of what i have got as a subject, so i started to writing one called _the maiden widow_. i've heard of a book by that name, but i don't reckon they'll have me arrested for writing just a short poem by the same name. we have some nature study every morning in the woods, which is one of the best things about having a governess. she lets me do just as i like, so i took my tablet and while she was writing some history questions i composed on my poem. it is very discouraging work, though, to write about widows, for there's nothing on earth that will rhyme with them. i got one line, "the maiden widow, she wept, she did, oh!" which was sorry enough sounding, but i didn't know whether or not it was exactly fair to have two words rhyming with just one. after a while i thought maybe a regular poet could do a better job by it than even i could, so i decided to ask marcella to ask julius to write me a few lines as a copy to go by, for anybody that can draw such lovely pictures ought to be able to write poetry. marcella came over this afternoon and i took her up-stairs very secretly to ask her about it. she said why, what on earth made me think that miss wilburn was grieving over a dead lover, and i told her that _everything_ made me think it. after studying about it for a little while she said well, it might be that i was right, for the girl did seem to have something preying on her mind. but she said such subjects were not suitable for children of my age to be writing about and that i ought to write about violets and sparrows. i said then would she please find out from julius whether or not there was a rhyme for widow, for i might want to write a poem on them when i got grown, but she said, "ann, you are incorrigible," which i keep forgetting to look up in the dictionary, although it looks like i would, for it has been said to me so many times. a thing happened this morning which made me understand what shakespeare must have meant when he said "much ado about nothing." it reminded me of the time cousin eunice rushed to the telephone and called rufe up and said, "oh, dearest, the baby's got a tooth!" this was harmless enough in itself, but it is when things are misunderstood that the trouble comes in. rufe misunderstood and thought she said, "the baby's got the croup," which is very dangerous. so he didn't stop to hear another word, but dropped the telephone and grabbed his hat. it was night, for rufe's paper is a morning one that works its men at night, and didn't wait for a car, but jumped into a carriage, which costs like smoke. he drove by doctor gordon's house and told the driver to run in and tell doctor gordon to come right on and drive to his house with him, as his baby was very sick, although doctor gordon has an automobile of his own. he and ann lisbeth happened to have a few friends in to play cards with them that night, but when she heard the news about the baby she told the company that cousin eunice was one of the best friends she had in the world and she would have to go on over and see if she could help any. so the card party was broken up and they all drove as hard as they could tear over to rufe's house, where they found cousin eunice tickled to death over the tooth and washing waterloo's little mouth out with boric acid water, which is the proper thing. this is what i call much ado about nothing, and i'm sure shakespeare would if he was living to-day. what happened this morning was equally as exciting and a long story, so i'm going to stop and sharpen my pencil, for i despise to write exciting things with a pencil that won't half write. i reckon some people might lay the blame on me for what happened, but it ain't so at all, if people hadn't just misunderstood me. anyhow, it may make me "curb my imagination," as julius says, for that is what they blamed it all on. when we started out for our nature study this morning father said if we could stand the sight of human nature a little would we go down town right after train time and get the mail? we said yes and marcella, who was with us, said she would be glad to go in that direction, for julius was there and we could meet him and he would walk home with us. she still likes to see him every few minutes in the day. there are usually several very handsome drummers and insurance men and things like that standing around the post-office which have just got off of the train at this hour, but this morning there wasn't anybody but one strange man and he was talking to julius like he knew him. when we passed by julius spoke to us and i noticed that the strange man looked at miss wilburn and looked surprised. all in a minute i thought maybe he was the lover which had just returned from some foreign shore, instead of being dead, and would run up with open hands and say, "louise," and she would say, "marmaduke," and all would be well. i learned afterward, though, that his name is mr. white and he lives in the city and has come down here on business and knew julius. after we had passed he remarked that he was surprised to see miss wilburn down here as he didn't know she was away from home. julius asked him if he knew miss wilburn and he said no, but he knew paul creighton, the fellow she was going to marry, mighty well. julius, instead of not saying anything as a person ought, spoke up and said why he understood that miss wilburn's sweetheart was dead. the strange man said why he was utterly shocked for he had seen creighton on the streets only a few days before, but he _had_ looked kinder pale and worried then. he said it made him feel weak in the knees to hear such a thing, and julius commenced saying something about it must be a mistake then, but mr. white said no, he guessed it was so, for mr. creighton had looked awful pale and thin, like he might be going into consumption. julius said well he was certain his wife had told him something about miss wilburn having a dead lover, but he hadn't paid much attention to what she was saying, like most married men; but it surely couldn't be so. by that time mr. white was moving down the street to where we were and was asking julius to introduce him to miss wilburn, so he could find out the particulars about poor old creighton. i _will_ give julius credit for trying to stop him, but he is one of the kind of persons that never knows when to say a thing and when not to, mr. white, i mean. and before julius could get him side-tracked they had caught up with us and there wasn't anything else to do but introduce him. miss wilburn smiled very joyfully when she heard his name, and in a minute he had got her off to one side and i heard him saying something about how horrified he was to hear the news about poor creighton. in just an instant miss wilburn was the one that looked horrified and said why _what_? this seemed to bring mr. white to his right mind a little and instead of going ahead and telling it he turned around to julius and said: "why our friend, young, here, was telling me that----" "i _told_ you that it must be a mistake," julius spoke up, looking awfully uncomfortable, "but i remember my wife saying that--oh, say, marcella, explain--will you?" "why, julius young," marcella commenced in a married-lady tone, "you promised me that you wouldn't say a word about it; anyway we only suspected----" "will _nobody_ tell me what has happened to paul?" miss wilburn said in a low, strangled voice, like she couldn't get her breath good. "ain't anything happened to him that _we_ know of," i told her, for julius and the rest of them looked like they were speechless. "we thought _you_ knew it!" "knew _what_? oh, for the love of heaven, tell me!" she said, poor thing! and i felt awful sorry for us all, but for miss wilburn and me in particular. i just couldn't tell her we thought he was _plumb_ dead, so i told her we thought he must be very sick or something. "he may be," she answered, not looking any happier. "i haven't heard from him since i've been here! oh, it serves me right for acting such an idiot as to run off down here and forbid his writing to me! he may be desperately ill! how did you hear it?" "ain't anybody heard it _yet_!" i told her, feeling so angry at marcella and julius and mr. white for telling such a thing and so ashamed of myself for making it up that i couldn't think very well. i kept wishing in my mind that it was the first day of april so i could say "april fool," or an earthquake would happen or _anything_ else to pass it off; but didn't anything happen, so i had to stand there with all of them looking at me and tell miss wilburn how mammy lou said _she_ believed she had been fooled because she looked so sad at the mention of marrying, but _i_ believed the gentleman was dead. well, it took every one of us every step of the way home to explain it to her and to each other, each one of us talking as hard as we could; and julius remarked what he'd do the next time he heard any such "sewing-society tales" under his breath. just as we got in sight of the house poor miss wilburn was so worn out with grief and anxiety that she sat down on the big stump and laughed and cried as hard as she could. mother saw her from the window and she and mammy ran down to where we were to see what it was all about. she patted miss wilburn on the back and on the head and said, "poor dear," while mammy said she would run right back to the house and brew her some strong tea, which was splendid when a body was distressed about a man. "there, dear, talk to us about him," mother said, after the whole story was told, "tell us about him, for talking will do you good. you've been unnaturally quiet about him since you've been here!" "i was trying to find out whether or not i really loved him," miss wilburn said, after julius and marcella had left us and we were going on up the walk. "it was silly of me, for all the time i've been so lonesome for him that i felt as if i should scream if anybody suggested men or marrying to me!" "yes, you pore lamb," mammy said, walking on fast to make the tea, "you loves him, you shore do. i knows them symptoms!" chapter ix i think if the person which remarked, "it is not always may," had said april he would have come nearer hitting it, for i think it is the most beautiful time of all. there's something in the very feelings at this time of the year that makes you want to write pretty things, whether you know what you want to say or not. so i have got out my diary and dusted it off, it being laid away in the drawer ever since last fall, when i told about me getting miss wilburn's affairs so mixed up because there hasn't been anything happening. one time not long ago i did get out my diary, for i got very excited over the news that a _widow_ was here, and i sharpened seventeen pencils so as to be ready for her. but she had the misfortune to marry, before i could get introduced to her, a man from her same city which had got on the train and followed her down here. she was a lovely, high-heeled, fluffy-petticoated kind of a widow and i could have written _chapters_ out of her i know; because all the time she was down here the ladies' sewing circle met three times a week and talked so that father said he heard they had to pass around potash tablets instead of refreshments for the sake of their sore throats. mammy lou made fun of me when i told her how disappointed i was over not getting to meet such a pretty lady and write her experiences. "looks like you'd a knew better than to expect a widow to waste time a-cou'tin'," she told me with that proud look coming over her face that always does when she begins to brag on herself. "_they_ don't cou't; they marries! thar ain't nobody able to dispute with _me_ over the ways o' widows, for ain't i done been _six_ of them _myself_?" this ain't exactly so, it's just five, for she never has got that divorce from bill williams yet; and she says now that she's going to spend the money that the divorce would cost in beautifying herself so she can marry again. she says she wants to buy her a stylish set of bangs and a pair of kid gloves to go with them, then she is going to let the next man make her a present of the divorce for a bridal gift. "and you needn't be settin' it down in that little dairy book o' yourn, neither, for your gran'chillen to be makin' spo't o' _me_ about after i'm done dead an' gone." i told her it was diary, not dairy, but she wouldn't listen to me. "go 'long with that stuck-up talk," she told me, "ain't i been knowin' about dairies all my life? an' i never even heered tell of a _di_-ry till i learned to my sorrow of that pesky little book that's always gettin' lost and me havin' to find it." and i couldn't blame her very much for this, me being a great hand myself to get words mixed up in my childhood, especially such words as epistle and apostle. i always thought that ignorant people said "epistle" and smart ones "apostle." but as i was saying, a sweetheart is the proper thing to get in the spring if you _can_ get one; but if you're too little for such a thing a kindred spirit is the next best thing a girl can have. a kindred spirit is a girl you lay awake till twelve o'clock of a night telling secrets to. of course _men_ never tell secrets, but they often need a kindred spirit, that is, a close friend, especially when they get so sick they think they're about to die they want the friend to run quick to their private office and burn up some letters in their desk that it wouldn't be healthy for them to let their wife know about, even if they were dead. so it is a convenient thing to have, male or female. the first night i laid awake with mine i told her all about stuffing my insteps to make them look aristocratic and kissing lord byron's picture good night every night, which i _never_ would have done in the daylight. at night things just seem to tell _themselves_, although you are very sorry for it the next day. men mostly propose at night; i guess one excuse is that the girls form such beautiful optical illusions under a pink lamp shade. well, i told her all i knew and she told me the story of her life, which is as follows: her name is jean everett, her mother's name is mrs. everett and her young lady aunt is named miss merle arnold on her mother's side. they are down here to spend the summer and are boarding close to our house. there is another boarder in the house for the summer which is named mr. st. john, and jean says if they had named him angel instead of just saint it wouldn't be any too good for him. and, if i do say it myself, he is as beautiful as a mermaid. mammy lou says he's got a "consumpted look," but to other people it is the height of poetry. jean is so full of poetical thoughts herself that her stomach is very much upset and nothing but chocolate candy will agree with her. she has promised the next time she stays all night with me she will tell me the one great secret of her life (as if i hadn't guessed it the minute she called mr. st. john's name.) she hasn't got much appetite and the smell of honeysuckle fills her with strange longings. she says she either wants to write a great book or live in a marble palace or marry a duke, she can't tell exactly which. but the poor girl is cruelly misunderstood by her family, because her mother is giving her rhubarb to break it out on her. jean came over early this morning and said she just had to talk to somebody about how spiritual mr. st. john looked last night with his fair hair and white vest on. "he looked just like a _lily_, ann," she said, with almost tears in her eyes, and me remembering doctor gordon didn't laugh at her. then, before i could comfort her, she had dropped down by the iris bed and was telling me the one great secret of her life, without waiting to stay all night and tell it in the moonlight. "_love_ him," she said, gathering up a handful of the purple irises, "love _him_? i'd _cook_ for that man." i didn't hardly know what to say in answer to this secret, which wasn't much of a secret to me; but she didn't wait for me to say anything for she went on telling me what big pearl buttons the white vest had on it and how mr. st. john said "i-ther and ni-ther," and how broken her heart was. she said she was the most sinful girl on earth, for she believed mr. st. john was about to get struck on her aunt merle, and here she was winning him away from her! i asked her if he had ever said anything about loving her and she said why, no; no well-behaved girl would let a man say such a thing to her until they had been acquainted at least a month, and they hadn't been knowing each other but twenty-two days. i then asked her if he had made any sign that he would like to say things to her when the month was out, but she said that was just where the trouble came in. she _knew_ she could win his love if she once got a _chance_ at him; but no matter how early she got up of a morning to go and sit with him on the porch before breakfast, which was a habit of his, he would just ask her how far along she was in geography and if she didn't think algebra was easier than arithmetic, and such insulting questions as that. then he would pace up and down the floor until her aunt merle came out of the front door, acting like a _caged bridegroom_! she said, oh, it would put her in her grave if she didn't get her mind off of it for a little while! then she asked me if we were going to have strawberries for dinner and said she would run over and ask her mother if she could stay. this morning jean asked me if i remembered what hamlet in shakespeare said about _words_. i told her i had just got as far as _the merchant of venice_ and was getting ready to start on hamlet when miss wilburn left. she said well, he remarked "words, words, words," but he didn't know what he was talking about. she said he meant that there wasn't anything in mere words, but he was badly fooled, for there was a heap in them. i told her yes, there was something in words, for i had read of a beautiful irish poet once that just couldn't think of a word that he wanted to finish up a song with. he studied over it for about three months, when all of a sudden one day his carriage upset and bumped his head so hard that he thought of it. jean said that was a _beautiful_ story and she would be willing to have her head bumped once for _every_ word, if she could just write poetry that would touch one cold heart that she knew of. i said well, how on earth did all this talk about words come up, and she told me that all her future happiness depended upon the meaning of just one word. then she went on to tell me that this morning she had seen her aunt merle on the porch talking to mr. st. john; so she slipped around to the end of the porch like i showed her how to do when there was anything interesting going on; and she had heard him tell miss merle that she mustn't "condemn the precipitation, but rather consider how he _could_ do otherwise." then he had made use of a word that she never heard of before in her life. it was _pro-pin-qui-ty_; and miss merle's face had turned as red as tomatoes when he said it. she said if it was a love word she was ready to commit suicide of a broken heart, but if it was a _hateful_ word and they were quarreling, then there was great hopes for her. we looked it up, but the dictionary man didn't explain it hardly a bit. finally i told jean as it was spelled so much like _in-i-qui-ty_ maybe they meant the same thing, and she went home feeling much easier in her mind. i'm in such a writable mood to-night that i don't know what to begin on, and i reckon i'll know less about where to stop. mammy lou started us at it, for her mind never runs on a thing except loving and marrying. she asked me early this morning if we wasn't going to try our fortunes to-day by looking down into a well at noon, this being may day. me, being of an affectionate nature, of course liked the idea, so i ran right over to tell jean, who was simply carried away. she said it would be such a relief to her to see the face of her beloved reflected in the well; but i told her that to see _any_ face would mean that she was going to get a husband, which a girl ought to be thankful for, and not get her heart set on any particular one. while we were planning about it miss merle came in and asked what it was. when we told her she smiled and asked if she was too old and grown-up to join in the game, but i told her no indeed, she didn't act at all like a grown person. i really think miss merle is very fascinating. even her name, merle, sounds soft and sweet to me, like a right fresh marshmallow. now, naturally anybody would be excited to think that they were going to see their husband's face at twelve o'clock in the bottom of a well, and it seemed to us that the time never would come. there is a very old well down in our pasture close by the fence which ain't covered over, and a lot of lilac bushes right around it in bloom, so you couldn't well pick a prettier spot for your future husband's face. mammy lou said we better all wear white sunbonnets, because they become you so, and miss merle looked awful pretty in hers, with her dark, curly hair. i don't know how the news that we were going to do such a thing ever got spread, for we didn't tell hardly a soul--just mother and mammy and mrs. everett and the lady they board with and her married daughter, which all promised that they wouldn't ever tell, but somebody else found out about it, as you shall see. we collected at the pasture gate at exactly a quarter to twelve and the minute the first whistle blew we raced to the well, for we were all anxious to see our husband if he was there. they said for me to go first as it was my well, but i said no, they must go first, because they were company, but miss merle said for me to look first, then she and jean would look at the same time, as their husbands wouldn't mind reflecting together, being that they were kin. my heart was beating so that i was about to smother, but i pulled my bonnet down low over my eyes to shut out any view except what was in the well, like mammy told us to do, and leaned 'way over and looked. now, up to this time, my diary, whenever i have mentioned sir reginald i was kinder half joking, and never really thought he would come to pass, as so many things in this life don't; but now i believe it's _so_. while i couldn't make out his face very well and don't know whether his eyes are blue or brown, and his nose roman or not, still there was something glittering and shining in that well which i firmly believe was meant to be sir reginald de beverley and his _coat of mail_! they were punching me and saying, "ann, do you see anything?" till i couldn't tell whether he smiled at me or not; but i remembered my manners even on such a critical occasion, so i got up and let them look. they commenced pulling down their bonnets like i did and leaned over the well. i was on the other side, facing the lilac bushes--and in less time than it takes me to write it, me being in a hurry and my pencil short, there was something happening that made me feel like i was in a fairy tale. i saw those lilac bushes move and the next thing i knew there was mr. st. john. not in a white vest, it's true, but looking beautiful enough, even in the daylight. he motioned to me not either to speak or move, though i couldn't have done either one, being almost paralyzed between seeing him and sir reginald at the same time. he tipped up right easy and leaned over the well, opposite to miss merle. when jean saw his image in the well she gave one overjoyed scream and leaned farther over to see more. "oh, it's mr. st. john," she called out to her aunt merle, her voice sounding very deep and hollow, but joyful. "it's _mr._ st. john! _he's_ going to be my future husband!" he and miss merle were about to kill themselves laughing, for miss merle had seen him from the first; but when jean looked up and saw him he looked at her so sweet that you felt like you could forgive him anything he was to do, even the "i-ther and ni-ther." "i'd like to accommodate you, jean," he said, laughing and catching her hand with an affectionate look, although he is usually very timid and dignified, "but the fact is--may i tell, merle?" and the way _he_ said "merle" sounded like a whole _box_ of marshmallows. miss merle smiled at him and then he told jean if she would every _bit_ as soon have it that way, he would be her uncle instead of her future husband. i was so afraid that she would faint or die right there in the pasture that i told them i heard mother calling me and ran as hard as i could tear. she came over this afternoon to tell me all about it and was feeling strong enough to eat a small basket of wild goose plums. "oh, it was a terrible shock at first," she said, stopping long enough to spit out a seed, "but the _minute_ he said _uncle_ my love changed. why, ann, an uncle is an _old_ person, almost like a grandpa! anyway, they've promised that i shall be in the wedding, dressed in a pair of beautiful white silk stockings." chapter x it ain't any easy matter to keep a diary with a baby in the house, especially if he's at the _watchable_ age, although he's such a darling one that you don't begrudge him the trouble he makes. before you more than get a sentence set down you have to drop everything and run and jerk the palm-leaf fan out of his hands, which he takes great pleasure in ramming the handle of down his throat. then he eats great handsful of the virginia creeper leaves if you leave him on the porch for a minute by himself. and at times he won't be satisfied with anything on earth unless you turn up the mattress and let him beat on the bed-springs, which i consider a smart idea and think cousin eunice ought to write out and send to a magazine under the head of "hints for tired mothers." but i say it again, there don't any of us begrudge him these many little ways, although it's hard to be literary with them; for when he smiles and "pat-a-cakes" and says "ah! ah!" you don't care if you never write another line. mother made cousin eunice turn over the raising of him to her the very day she got here, for everybody knows, my diary, how a lady that's ever raised a baby feels toward a lady that's just owned one a few months. "no _flannel_ on this precious child!" mother almost screamed the minute we got him off the train and started to drive home. "why, it's positively flying in the face of providence to leave his band off this early!" and mother looked at cousin eunice like she had done it a-purpose. "oh, aunt mary, please don't," poor cousin eunice said like she was about to cry. "for the last eleven months there has been scarcely a thing discussed in my presence but _belly-bands_!" (there weren't any men around.) "it seems if a woman ever has one baby her thoughts never travel away from flannel bands afterward!" "but pneumonia! cholera infantum! teething!" mother kept on, hugging waterloo close. "that's what _twenty-three_ of my neighbors tell me," cousin eunice answered, "then nineteen others say it's cruel to keep him all swathed up in this hot weather, while eleven said to leave it off until his second summer, and fifteen said for me to----" "what does doctor gordon say?" mother asked, to change the subject off of the neighbors. "he said, '_damn those old women!_'" cousin eunice told her, which made her jump, although it looks like she has lived with father long enough not to. right after dinner they started up the talk again. should waterloo be banded or disbanded? they hadn't talked long when mammy lou came into the room holding something under her apron. she looked kinder mad and dignified at mother and cousin eunice because they hadn't asked her for _her_ say-so about bands. "if it's entirely respectable for me to speak before i'm spoke to," she commenced, her voice very proud and haughty, "i'd like for you all to pay _me_ some mind. there's _two_ subject's i'm well qualified to speak about and one is babies. ain't i done raised a bushel basket full o' little niggers, let alone that one beautiful little white angel that's the peartest and sweetest of any in the state?" which made me feel very much embarrassed with modestness. "we all know that you made a good job of ann," cousin eunice said very pleasantly just to pacify her. "what would you suggest about little rufus?" "_these!_" mammy lou said, drawing her hand out from her apron like a man on the stage dressed in velvet does his sword and we saw a string of speckled beans. "job's tears," mammy told the company. "ther ain't no need to worry about bands when you've got _these_! ther nuvver has been a child that cut teeth hard from adam on down if his ma put a string of these aroun' his neck----" cousin eunice was beginning to say something nice when father spoke up and asked mammy who it was that put them around adam's neck, which made her mad. "poke all the fun you want to," she said, "but the time _will_ come that you-all 'ull be thankful to me for savin' these for mr. rufe's baby, or i'm a blue-gum nigger!" lots of times i take waterloo over to make jean a visit, which is easy on everybody, for the folks over there love babies so that they relieve me of his weight the minute i get there and leave me and jean free to do whatever we want to. she is teaching me what she calls "artistic handwriting" now, using an actress' signature for a copy. it consists of some very large letters and some very small ones, like the charts in an eye-doctor's office that he uses to see if you're old enough to wear spectacles. cousin eunice has time now with so many folks to help tend to waterloo to slip off every morning and go to a quiet place down in the yard with her paper and pencil and compose on a book she's trying to write. before she was ever married she wanted to write a book, and if you once get _that_ idea into your head even marrying won't knock it out. cousin eunice says i'm such a kindred spirit that i don't bother her when i go along too, but she has a dreadful time at her own house trying to write. she don't more than get her soul full of beautiful thoughts about tall, pale men and long-stemmed roses and other things like that before a neighbor drops in and talks for three hours about the lady around the corner's husband staying out so late at night and what her servants use to scrub the kitchen sink. i told her i knew one lady that hated so for folks to drop in that she unscrewed the front doorbell, so she couldn't hear them ring, but she got paid back for it next day by missing the visit of a rich relation. rufe and cousin eunice may live to be thankful for the string of job's tears, but i reckon to-night miss merle and mr. st. john wish that job never shed a tear in the shape of a bean, for they were what a grown person would call "the indirect cause" of a quarrel between them. it's queer that such a little thing as waterloo should be picked out by fate to break up a loving couple, but he did; although i ain't saying that it was _altogether_ his fault. this afternoon i took him over to jean's and we were having a lovely time out on their front porch, enjoying stories of her former sweethearts and a bottle of stuffed olives. she told me about one she had last winter that she was deeply attached to. she would see him at a big library in the city where she loves to read every afternoon. she saw him there one time and got to admiring him so much that she would go up there every afternoon at the time she knew he would be there and get a book and sit opposite him, making like she was reading, but really feasting her eyes on his lovely hair and scholarly looking finger-nails. "i never got acquainted with him, so never learned his name," she told me, jabbing her hat-pin deep down into the olive bottle, like little jack horner, "but he was always reading about 'the origin of the aryan family,' so i'm sure he was a young mr. aryan." i told her i certainly had heard the aryan family spoken of, i couldn't remember where, but she said oh, yes, she knew it was a swell family and that i must have read about it in the pink sheet of the sunday paper. then she said she had a souvenir of him, and, as i'm crazy about souvenirs, i begged her to go and get it, hoping very much that it was a miniature on ivory set in diamonds. "what is it?" i kept asking her, as she was trying to get her legs untangled out of her petticoats to get up and go after it; we were sitting flat down on the floor, which sometimes tangles your heels dreadfully. finally she got up, tearing a piece of trimming out, which she did up in a little ball and threw away, so her mother would lay it on the washerwoman when she saw the tear. "_ashes_;" she told me, kinder whispery, after she had reached the front door, for she was afraid somebody would hear; but it gave me a terrible feeling and i wondered how she got them away from his relations and whether she had to go to the graveyard in the middle of the night to do it or not. i comforted myself with the thought that they would be in a prettily ornamented urn, even if they were ashes, for i had read about urns in roman history; but shucks! when she got back it wasn't a thing but a pink chewing-gum wrapper full of cigar ashes that he had thrown away one day right in front of her as they were going up the steps to the library. before i had time to tell her how disappointed i was there came a picture-taking man up the front walk and asked us to let him take waterloo's picture for some post-cards. if you were pleased you could buy them and if you weren't you didn't have to. but he knew of course there wouldn't any lady be hardhearted enough not to buy a picture of her own baby. nothing could have delighted us more, unless the man had said take _our_ pictures; and jean remarked that waterloo ought to be fixed up funny to correspond with the string of beads around his neck. she ran and got a pair of overalls that belonged to the lady she boards with's little boy and we stuffed waterloo in. he looked too cute for anything and we was just settling him down good for the picture when jean spoke up again and said oh, wasn't it a pity that he didn't have any hair on his head, as hair showed up so well in a picture. i told her it was aristocratic not to have hair when you're a baby, on your head. she said shucks! how could anything connected with a baby be aristocratic? this made me mad and i told her maybe she didn't know what it was to be aristocratic. she said she did, too; it was aristocratic to have a wide front porch to your house and to eat sweetbreads when you were dining in a hotel. i was thinking up something else to say when the picture-taking man said hurry up. there is a great deal more to this, but it is so late that i'm going to leave the rest for to-morrow night. anyhow maybe my grandchildren will be more interested to go on and read, for magazine writers always chop their stories off at the most particular spot, when they are going to be continued, just where you are holding your breath, so as to make you buy the next number of the magazine. well, in just a minute after we were talking about the hair jean said she knew the _very_ thing! her aunt merle was up on the far back porch drying her hair that she had just finished washing, and had left her rat lying on her bureau. she had seen it there when she went to get the ashes of mr. aryan. she said it was a lovely rat, which cost five dollars, all covered with long brown hair; and she said it was just the thing to set off waterloo's bald head fine. so she ran and got it and we fixed it on. he looked exactly like a south sea islander which you see in the side show of an exposition by paying twenty-five cents extra. (an exposition is a large place which makes your feet nearly kill you.) but the picture-man said he looked mighty cute and snapped him in several splendid positions. now, if mr. st. john had just stayed where he belonged this would be the end of the story and i could go on to bed to-night, without having to sit up by myself writing till the clocks strike eleven, which is a lonesome hour when everybody else is in bed. but mr. st. john didn't stay away; and, as all the bad things that happen are laid on fate, i reckon she was the one that put it into his head to walk up those front steps and on to that porch before we noticed him, for we were trying our best to get waterloo back into citizen's clothes. he stopped to see what it was we were scrambling over, and when he saw that it was alive he threw up his nice white hands and remarked "heavens!" which is the elegant thing to say when you're surprised, although father always says, "jumping jerusalem!" "what is the thing?" he asked, after he had looked again. jean told him why it was just the lady over at our house's little baby dressed up. then he asked what that horrible woolly growth on his head was, which tickled jean mightily. then, just for the fun of seeing what he _would_ say when he was very much surprised, she jerked it off and held it up, like the executioner did mary, queen of scot's head, which gives me a crinkly pain up and down my back even to read about. the rat was just pinned together and set up on waterloo's little noggin, so jean jerked it off and explained to mr. st. john that it was her aunt merle's rat. _i_ always knew it wasn't any good idea to talk about such things before a man that was a person's lover; but i thought jean had had more experience in such things than i had and it wasn't my place to interrupt her. i am sure mr. st. john felt like saying "jumping jerusalem" when jean told him that the woolly growth was the rat of his beloved. if i was writing a novel i'd say that he "recoiled with horror," that is, he jumped back quickly, like he didn't want it to bite him, and sat down. "_imagine!_" he kept saying to himself like he was dazed; "imagine a man _touching_ the thing! _kissing_ the thing!" i thought, of course, he was talking about waterloo, and was ready to speak up and say, "i thank you, mr. st. john, my little cousin is not to be called a '_thing_,'" but jean spoke first. "what would you want to kiss _this_ for?" she asked him. "'tain't any harm to kiss in the _mouth_ after you're engaged, is it?" we might have been standing there asking him such questions as that till daylight this morning for all the answers we got out of him, but while he sat looking at us and we were trying to squirm waterloo's little fat legs out of the overalls and him kicking and crying, miss merle walked out on the porch. she saw mr. st. john first, as you would naturally expect an engaged girl to do, and started toward him, but just then she saw us and stopped. "why, what on earth are you children doing with my rat down here?" she asked, not looking a bit ashamed. we told her what we had been doing with it and she just laughed and said well, it was too hot to wear the thing on such a day anyway, although she had looked for it high and low. all the time we were talking mr. st. john looked at her in the most amazed way, like he expected to see her appear looking like a mexican dog, but was greatly surprised to see her with such a nice lot of home-made hair. if he had had any sense he would admire her all the more for not telling a story about that rat; for i've seen a thousand young ladies in my life that wouldn't have owned up to it for a hundred dollars, but would have made their little niece out a story and then boxed her ears in private. i hope when i get grown i won't be a _liarable_ young lady, although it does seem like they're twice as quick to get married as an honest one. he didn't act with good sense, though, for they soon got to talking and we could hear what they said (although we were out of sight) for they were high-toned remarks. he said he _hated_ shams, and she said well, that wasn't any sham for every blowsy-headed girl wears them nowadays and everybody knows it, even the poets and novel-writers that always make their heroines so fuzzy-headed. then she called him a prig and he said something back at her and she gave him back the ring, which was a brave thing to do, it being a grand diamond one with mizpath marked in it. of course the next thing that happens after an engagement is broken is for it to get mended again. all day we have hung around miss merle to see just when she gets the ring back again, but up to a late hour to-night, as the newspapers say about the election returns, there was nothing doing. oh, it does seem a pity that they would let the news go down to their children or be put on their tombstones that their lives were blighted on account of a rat! i've neglected you, my diary, for the last few days because my mind has been on other things. it rained all the next day after i wrote last and i couldn't go over to jean's, which put me out greatly. i finally thought about sending a note by lares and penates and paid them in chicken livers, me being so uneasy in my mind that i didn't have any appetite for them, and knowing that they loved them enough to fight over them any time. i told jean in the note to fix some kind of signal like paul revere to let me know the minute the ring got back to miss merle, for i was deeply worried, me and waterloo and jean being to blame for it. then, too, it is dangerous for an engagement ring to stay returned too long for it might get given to another girl. jean was delighted with my note and said she would certainly hang a lantern in the garret only she never could undo the chimney of a lantern to light it, and never saw a lady person that could; but it was a romantic idea. so she thought hanging a white towel in the window that faces our house for a signal would do very well, and i could know by that if it kept on raining and i couldn't get over there. well, i was so interested that i hardly moved from that side of the house all day, until it got so dark that i couldn't see the house, much less a towel. so i went sorrowfully to bed. the next morning i was delighted to see that i was going to get rewarded for my watching, for _long_ before breakfast i discovered a white thing, and it was waving from mr. st. john's window, which made it all the surer in my mind. although it was cakes and maple syrup i didn't waste much time over breakfast, but grabbed my hat and started for jean's. miss merle was on the front porch and i noticed mr. st. john just inside the hall, looking like he would like to come out, but was waiting for her to give him lief. she looked up at me quick. "why, ann," she said, "what are you in such a big hurry about?" i've often noticed, my diary, that when people are in a hurry and can't think of anything else to tell they tell the _truth_, although they don't intend to. it was that way with me. "oh, i'm _so_ glad you and mr. st. john have made up!" i told her, fanning hard with my hat, for i was all out of breath. she looked very strange and asked me, "what?" and so i told her over again. just then mr. st. john came out and asked who was that talking about him behind his back. he looked pitiful, although he tried to look pleasant, too. jean heard me talking and came running down the stairs just in time to hear me telling it over again to miss merle. "why, there ain't a _sign_ of a towel hanging out the window," she told me, looking very much surprised and me greatly mortified. "you must have dreamed it!" miss merle asked her then what she was talking about and it was their turn to look surprised when she told them. i told them i had felt awfully bad about the rat, because me and waterloo was partly responsible, and they kinder smiled. but i couldn't let them think that i had _made_ up the towel story, so i told them if they would come around on the side that faces our house i'd show them. mr. st. john and miss merle looked at each other very peculiar and he said: "it's a shame to disappoint the children!" which she didn't make any answer to, but she looked _tolerable_ agreeable. then i begged them to come on around to mr. st. john's window and i could show them i wasn't any story. "my window!" he said, looking surprised; then his face turned red. "why, it must have been my er--_shirt_ i hung there last night to dry after i was out in that shower!" we couldn't help from laughing, all of us; but he laughs like the corners of his mouth ain't used to it. that is one bad thing about a dignified man--they're always afraid to let their mouth muscles stretch. miss merle caught me and jean by the hand with a smile and said let's go and see what that signal looked like that brought ann over in such a hurry. "a shirt is a highly proper thing to discuss--since thomas hood," she said as we started down the steps. "pray don't," he said, the corners of his mouth wrinkling again, but his face just covered with red. "i'll be the happiest man on earth, merle, if you'll just forgive me for my asininity; but--_do_ come back!---- for it's an _undershirt_!" chapter xi "come on in, the egg-nog's fine," rufe called out to us as we came up the walk to the side gate this morning, a beautiful christmas morning, after a long tramp down through the wood lot and up the ravine. "come on out, the ozone's finer," cousin eunice sang back at him; then stopped still, leaned against the gate-post and looked up at the mistletoe hanging in the trees all about. "you can get ozone three hundred and sixty-five days in the year, egg-nog but one!" he hollered again, but i saw him set his glass down and start to swing waterloo up on his shoulder. no matter how long they have been married you can always find rufe wanting to be where cousin eunice is, and vice versa. long ago anybody reading in my diary would have seen that mother is the kind of woman who loves to mother anything that needs it, from a little chicken with the gapes to a college professor out in a storm without his rubbers; and the latest notion she has taken up is to see that miss martha claxton, one of the teachers in a girls' school that has been opened up near here, shall not get homesick during the week-ends. we all like her, mammy lou even saving the top of the churning every friday to make cottage cheese for her; and cousin eunice said she knew she was a kindred spirit as soon as she said she could eat a bottle of olives at one sitting and _loved_ baby stuart's picture. so we invited her to go walking with us this morning and cousin eunice told her all about her courting in the ravine. _i_ also knew about her _peculiarity_, which cousin eunice didn't; but i didn't like to mention it, for miss claxton had smashed her eye-glasses all to pieces yesterday and was wearing an embroidered waist and a string of coral, so instead of looking intellectual, as she usually does, she looked just like other girls. but the men of our family all laugh at her behind her back and call her "the knocker," because she carries a hammer with her on all her rambles instead of a poetry book, and knocks the very jiblets out of little rocks to see if they've got any fossils on their insides. in other words, she is a geologist. a person ought not to blame her though until she has had time to explain to them that her father was professor of it and had a chair in a college when she was born. so he taught her all about rocky subjects when she was little, and she's crazy about it. still, i would rather be with a person that is crazy about geology than one that isn't crazy at all. i hate _medium_ people. but, as i have said, we are all very fond of her, although she has never done anything since i've known her that would be worth writing about in this book, not having any lover; so it has been lying on the shelf all covered with dust ever since jean left. sometimes i think i'll never find another jean! to get back to my subject, though, this morning _was_ lovely--cool enough to keep your hair in curl (if you were a grown lady) and warm enough to make your cheeks pink. cousin eunice said she _couldn't_ go back into the house while the sunshine was so golden, so we leaned our elbows on the fence and miss claxton examined a handful of pebbles she had picked up on our walk. pretty soon rufe came out with waterloo on his shoulder and in his hands a horse that can walk on wheels and a mule that can wag his head, ears, legs and tail and say, "queek, queek," all at the same time. "oh, rufe, isn't it lovely?" cousin eunice said, looking away toward the hills and sighing that half-sad sigh that rises in you when you see something beautiful and can't eat it nor drink it nor _squeeze_ it. "isn't what lovely, your complexion?" he answered, just to tease her, for rufe loves the outdoors as much as any of us, and if waterloo takes after his mother and father both, he will never sleep in anything more civilized than a wigwam. "don't joke," she said. "it's too beautiful--and too fleeting! just think, in another week we'll be back, dwelling with the rest of the fools amid the tall buildings!" "it is everything you say," he answered soberly, looking in the direction she pointed, and he seemed to have that happy, hurting feeling that comes to you when you look at lord byron's picture, or smell lilies-of-the-valley. "don't you feel light on a morning like this?" cousin eunice said again, still looking at the hills. "couldn't you do anything?" "anything!" he echoed. "even push my paper to the hundred thousand mark--or carry a message to garcia." "especially the message to garcia! now _couldn't_ you?" she said with a bright smile. "i could do that myself, without even mussing up my white linen blouse!" miss claxton looked up at them with a puzzled look, and rufe and cousin eunice unhitched hands. "miss claxton," rufe began with a half-teasing twinkle in his eyes (i had heard father telling him a while ago about miss claxton being a knocker), "this little affair about the message to garcia happened a bit this side of the eocene age, so maybe you haven't bothered your head about it. i might explain that----" "nobody asked you to, sir," she said, with such a rainbow of a smile at him that i was surprised. if she could smile like that at a married man what would she do at a single one? "i know a lot more things than i look to--with my glasses on! that carrying the message to garcia was a brave thing to do, even aside from the risks. it is heroic to do the thing at hand. i'm trying to learn that lesson myself. i'm being a schoolmarm and wearing glasses to look like one, instead of following my natural bent in the scientific field," she wound up, still smiling. "what's your ambition?" cousin eunice said, looking at her wonderingly. "knowing what's to be known about primitive man," miss claxton answered. "he's the only man i ever cared a copper cent about!" "mine's writing a book that will make me famous overnight, i don't want to wait to awake some morning and find myself so," cousin eunice said, stooping over to set waterloo's horse up on his wheels, for he would come unfixed every time waterloo would yank him over a gravel; and all the time we were talking he kept up a chorus of "fick horte! fick horte!" rufe said his ambition was never to see an editor's paste-pot again, and he was turning to me to ask what mine is when the conversation was interrupted. i was glad that it was, for i should hate to tell them just what mine is. somehow it is mostly about sir reginald de beverley, and i'm old enough now to know that he may not be an english lord after all and dress in a coat of mail. he may be just a plain young doctor or lawyer, and we'll have to live in a cottage (only excuse me from a flat, i wouldn't live in a flat with lord byron) and maybe we'll just have chicken on sunday. but as long as he has brown eyes and broad shoulders and lovely teeth i shall manage to do with crackers and peanut butter through the week. a woman will do _anything_ for the man she loves. but i didn't have to tell them all this, for just then we heard the gate click and saw our friend, mr. gayle, coming up the walk. "there comes old zephyr," rufe said with a laugh. "it was the biggest lie on earth to name him gayle. even breeze would have been an exaggeration." "he's awfully smart," i told rufe, for i hate to have my friends laughed at. "i know you and julius joke about him on account of his gentle ways and broad-brimmed hats! father says it's better to have something _under_ your hat than to have so much style in its looks!" "well, he has something under his hat," cousin eunice said, "and hat enough to cover twice as much. but i think those old-timey things are becoming to him!" "what is the subject about which he knows so much?" miss claxton asked, following him with her eyes until dilsey let him in at the front door. "heaven," rufe answered her, "and hell. he writes deep psychological stuff for the magazines and they pay him ten cents a word for it. he must spend his dimes building model tenements, for he certainly doesn't buy new hats with them." "what does he say about heaven and the other place?" miss claxton asked, much to our surprise, for we had thought she didn't care about anything but earth. "he says they're both in your own heart. the heaven side comes up when you've done a decent job at your work--and loved your office boy as your own nephew!" "and----" miss claxton kept on. "and the hell part comes into the limelight when you've done anything mean, such as----" "spanking your waterloo when the telephone bell makes you nervous--_not_ when he's bad," cousin eunice said, gathering waterloo up in her arms and loving him. "him's a precious angel, and mudder's a nasty lady to him lots of times." "aunt mary is sending him out here to find us," rufe said, as we saw mr. gayle coming out of the dining-room door. "i hope she's filled him so full of egg-nog that we can have some fun out of him!" he had on a sunday-looking suit of black clothes and a soft black tie in honor of the day, and was really nice-looking as he came up toward us. and miss claxton threw away the last one of her pebbles, no matter what they had on their insides, and commenced wiping her hands vigorously with her handkerchief. "thank goodness!" i thought as i watched her. "i shall go straight up-stairs and wipe the dust off my diary with my petticoat!" i reckon rufe and cousin eunice both thought that mr. gayle and miss claxton had met before, for they didn't offer to introduce them, but i knew they hadn't, so i was the one that had to do it. i had forgotten how _the ladies' own journal_ said it ought to be done, and i was kinder scared anyway; and when i get scared i always make an idiot of myself. so i just grabbed her right hand and his right hand and put them together and said, "mr. gayle, do shake hands with miss claxton!" well, they shook hands, but the others all laughed at me. cousin eunice said she was sorry she didn't know they hadn't met before, or she would have introduced them. but mr. gayle smiled at me to keep me from feeling bad. "never mind," he said, "i'm sure ann's introduction is as good as anybody's. what she lacks in form she more than makes up for in sincerity." i thought it was nice of him to say that, but i was so embarrassed that i got away from them as soon as i could. i went out to the kitchen to see if mammy lou was ready to stuff the turkey. lares and penates were on the floor playing with two little automobiles that julius had brought them. mammy lou was fixing to cut up the liver in the gravy. "please don't," i began to beg her, "i'll go halves with lares and penates if you'll give it to me!" "you don't deserve nothin'," she said, trying to look at me and not laugh. "i seen you out thar by the side gate, aggin' 'em on! reckon you're in your glory, now that you've got a pair of 'em to spy on and write it all out in that pesky little book!" "oh, they ain't a pair!" i told her, slicing up the liver into three equal halves. "they soon will be if they listen to you!" "never in this world! she says she never has cared for anybody but a person she calls 'primitive man!'" "dar now! i bet he fooled her!" she said with great pleasure, for next to a funeral she likes a fooling, and she is always excited when she forgets and says "dar now." "if he has," she kept on, "she'd better do the nex' best thing and marry mr. gayle. he's got as good raisin' as ary man i ever seen, although he's a little pore. but they's _some_ things i don't like about fat husban's--they can't scratch they own back!" i was glad to keep her mind on marrying, for i thought i'd get a chance at the gizzard too, but she watched it like she watches her trunk-key when her son-in-law's around. i told her to go to the window and see what they were doing now, and she did it, poor old soul! when she came back the gizzard was gone, but she was so tickled that she didn't notice it. "they've done paired off and gone down by the big tree to knock mistletoe out'n the top," she told me, her face shining with grease and happiness. "i knowed 'twould be a match! needn't nuvver tell no nigger of my experience that folks is too smart to fall in love! ever'body's got a little _grain_ o' sense, no matter how deep it's covered with book-learnin'." "oh, they don't have to be smart at all," i told her, talking very fast to divert her mind from the gravy. "father says if the back of a girl's neck is pretty she can get married if she hasn't sense enough to count the coppers in the contribution box." "an' he tol' the truth," she said, stopping still with her hands on her hips like she was fixing for a long sermon. "an' furthermore, if she's rich she don't need to have neither. but marryin' for riches is like puttin' up preserves--it looks to be a heap bigger pile beforehan' than afterwards. an' many a man marries a rich girl expectin' a automobile when he don't git nothin' but a baby buggy!" mr. gayle has been coming over so early every morning since that first morning that he met miss claxton, and staying so late that i haven't had much time to write. i've been too busy watching. i've often heard doctor gordon say that diseases have a "period of incubation," but i believe that love is one disease that doesn't incubate. it just comes, like light does when you switch on the electricity. this morning mr. gayle came so early that rufe went into the sitting-room and began to poke fun at him, as usual. "hello, old man," he said, shaking hands with him. "i'm surely glad to see that it's _you_. thought of course when the door-bell rang so soon after breakfast that it was an enlarged picture agent!" "no, i'm far from being an enlarged anything," the poor man said, wiping off the perspiration from his forehead, for he must have walked very fast. "in fact, i'm feeling rather 'ensmalled,' as our friend, ann, might say. i have never before so realized my utter unworthiness!" "bosh," rufe said, slapping him on the shoulder in a friendly way. "why, man, you're on to your job as well as anybody i ever saw. why, your last article in _the journal for the cognoscenti_ made me give up every idea of the old-fashioned heaven i'd hoped for--a place where a gas bill is never presented, and alarm clocks and society editors enter not!" "mr. clayborne would have been worth his weight in platinum as court jester to some melancholy monarch in the middle ages," miss claxton said, looking up from her crochet work which mother is teaching her and cousin eunice to do, because it has come back into style, to smile at mr. gayle. "i'm not what ann calls 'smart'!" he said in answer to her, "but i remember enough history to know that the other name for jester is fool. i shan't stay where people call me such names!" so he got up and went out, which gave cousin eunice and waterloo and me an excuse to go too. so we left the lovers alone. "well, he's what i call a damn fool," rufe said in a whisper as soon as the door was closed so they couldn't hear. "coming over here every few minutes in the day, 'totin' a long face,' as mammy says, and hasn't got the nerve to say boo to a goose!" "saying boo to a goose wouldn't help his suit any," cousin eunice said; "besides, well-regulated young people don't get engaged in three days!" "what ill-regulated young people you and i must have been!" rufe said, then dodged waterloo's ball which she threw at him, saying what a _story_! it was nearly two weeks before they got engaged. "i advocate getting engaged in two hours when people are as much in love as those two we've just left. gayle hasn't red blood enough in him to stain a _chigoe's undershirt_!" hasn't anything happened worth writing about until to-day, but it has been happening so thick ever since morning that my backbone is fairly aching with thrills. and i'm _tired_! oh, mercy! but i'm going to stay awake to-night until i get it all written out even if i have to souse my head in cold water, or rouse up waterloo. right after breakfast this morning mr. gayle happened to see cousin eunice go into the parlor by herself to crochet some extra hard stitches, and so he went in after her and said he would like to have a little talk with her if she didn't mind. dilsey had left the window up when she finished dusting, which i was very glad to see, for i was in my old place on the porch. he told her he supposed he was the confoundedest ass on earth, but she said oh no, she was sure he wasn't so bad as that! then he plunged right into the subject and said he was madly in love and didn't know how to tell it. would she please help him out? "oh, don't mind that," she answered kindly. "all earnest lovers are awkward. the byronic ones are liars!" he said he knew she would understand and help him with her valued advice!---- but, just _what_ was he to say? and _when_ was he to say it? she told him she thought it would be a psychological moment to-night, the last night of the year, and they would all be going their different ways on the morrow. it would be very romantic to propose then, say on the stroke of twelve, or just whenever he could get himself keyed up to it. he said oh, she was the kindest woman in the world. she had taken such a load off his heart! he thought it would be a fine idea to propose just on the stroke of midnight--somehow he imagined the clock striking would give him courage! oh, he felt so much better for having told somebody! i felt that it would be a weight off my heart if i could tell somebody too, and just then i spied rufe holding waterloo up to see the turkeys down by the big chicken coop. i didn't waste a second. "oh, rufe, you'll be surprised!" i said, all out of breath, and he turned around and looked thrilled. "mr. gayle is _red-bloodier_ than you think!" then i told him all about it. "now aren't you sorry you called him a d---- fool?" i wasn't really minding about the cuss word, for rufe isn't the kind of a man that says things when he's mad. he's as apt to say 'damn' when he's eating ice-cream as at any other time. rufe was delighted to hear that it was going to happen while they were still here to see it; and we went right back to the house and planned to sit up with cousin eunice and see them after they came out of the parlor on the glad new year. julius and marcella were coming over to sit up with us anyhow to watch it in, so it wouldn't be hard to do. well, mother put enough fruit cake and what goes with it out on the dining-table to keep us busy as long as we could eat, but along toward ten o'clock we got _so_ sleepy (being just married people and me) that julius said let's run the clock up two hours. marcella said no, that would cause too much striking at the same time, but she said if _something_ didn't happen to hurry them up and put us out of our misery we would all be under the table in another five minutes. we were all so sleepy that everything we said sounded silly, so when a bright idea struck me it took some time to get it into their heads. "rufe's typewriter!" i said, jumping up and down in my joy, so it waked them up some just to look at me. "the bell on it can go exactly like a clock if you slide the top thing backwards and forwards right fast. i've done it a million times to amuse waterloo!" they said they knew i'd make a mess of it if i tried such a thing, but i told them if they took that view of what a person could do they never would be encouraged to try to do things. i knew i _could_ do it! marcella said then for rufe to place the typewriter close up to the parlor door, and they would all go out on the front porch to keep the lovers from hearing them laugh. so out they all filed. well, it was an exciting moment of my life when i was sliding that thing backwards and forwards and thinking all sorts of heroic thoughts, but i gritted my teeth and didn't look up until i had got the twelve strokes struck. then i went out on the front porch right easy and sat down by the others. julius tucked his big coat around me and we all sat there a little while, laughing and shivering and shaking until i felt that i'd never had such a good time in my life! then somebody whispered let's go in--and _then_ the unexpected happened. we heard a sound in the parlor close back of us and the _first_ thing we knew there was mr. gayle raising the window that opens on to the porch, and he and miss claxton came over and looked out into the night. they couldn't see us if we sat still, close up against the wall; and it seemed that none of us could budge to save our lives! it was a lovely moonlight night, clear and cold, that always reminds me of the night washington irving reached bracebridge hall (i just love it), and so he put his arm around her, mr. gayle i mean, not washington irving, and his voice was so clear and firm and happy that we all knew he had been accepted. "bid good morrow to the new year, my love," he said and kissed her on the lips a long, _long_ time. "there has been created for me this night not only a new year, but a new _heaven_ and----" "and a new _earth_," she finished up softly, and they closed the window down. "i hope she won't take her little hammer and knock on her new earth to see if it has petrified wiggle tails in it," rufe said, after we had filed back into the house and moved the typewriter away from the door. but his voice was solemn when he said it, and we all felt like _puppy dogs_ for being out there. and nobody said another word about staying up to see how they looked when they came out of the parlor. the next day everybody made like they were very much surprised at the way it had turned out except mammy lou. she looked as happy when miss claxton told us the news as if she had got herself engaged again. "you were right after all, mammy," cousin eunice told her. "in spite of all miss claxton's scientific knowledge she has preferred a _man_ to a career!" "an' shows her good sense, too," mammy answered, her old brown face running over with smiles, like molasses in the sunshine. "a man's a man, i can tell you; and a career's _a mighty pore thing to warm your feet against_ on a cold night!" chapter xii april is here! jean and april together! no wonder i haven't any sense! "and the rain it raineth every day," but for just a little while at a time, and the mud smells so good afterward that you don't care. the warm air comes blowing through my window so early every morning and puts such sad, happy thoughts into my head that i have to get up and wake jean. then we dress and go out into the side yard, where i try to find a calecanthus in bloom that is really sweet enough to go in front of lord byron's picture. and i try to make jean listen while i tell her all my sad, happy thoughts, that's what i invited her down here for, but she hardly ever listens. "isn't everything lovely?" i asked her this morning, after we had tiptoed through the house and out to the side porch. "and doesn't april just remind you of a right young girl, about seventeen years old, with hair made out of sunshine, and cheeks made of peach-blossoms; and eyes made out of that patch of blue sky over mrs. west's big barn?" that patch of sky over mrs. west's barn takes up a heap of my time on summer afternoons when i lie close to the windows and read. it is so deep and far-off looking that i get to dreaming about italy, and i call it the place where "tasso's spirit soars and sings." i learned this long ago out of the fifth reader, and i don't know what else tasso did besides soaring and singing. but jean wasn't listening to me. she had reached out and gathered a bunch of snowballs and was shaking the night before's rain off them. "oh, ann," she said, "don't they remind you of willow plumes? and don't you wish we were old enough to wear _them_ on our hats instead of sissy bows? you can get engaged in a minute if you have a willow plume on your hat!" this seemed to remind her of something, for she spoke again the next minute. "say, i've never told you about cassius, have i?" i told her no, although i knew a little about him myself, even if he wasn't in that easy shakespeare that lamb wrote for kids. and she seemed to be lost in thought, so i got lost too. it never is hard for me to. i thought: "mercy, how i have grown!" when i first commenced keeping this diary i just despised poetry, and never cared about keeping my hair tied out of my eyes, nor my hands clean. you know that age! but i soon got over that, for when you get a little bigger being in love causes you to admire poetry and also to beautify yourself. jean and i tried very sour buttermilk (the sourer the better) to make our complexion lovely, with tansy mixed in, until it got so sour that mother said, "whew! there must be a rat dead in the walls!" so we had to pour it out. in looking over my past life it seems to me that i've been in love with somebody or other ever since that night so long ago, when mammy lou washed me and dressed me up in my tiny hemstitched clothes. and with such lovely heroes, too! when i was awfully little i used to be crazy about the prince that the mermaid rescued while hans christian andersen stood on the beach and watched them. then i loved ben hur from his pictures when i was ten, john halifax when i was eleven, lord byron when i was twelve--i loved him then, do now, and ever shall, world without end, amen! it is so much easier to love _good-looking_ people than good ones! and, oh, every handsome young moor, who ever dwelt in "the moonlit halls of the alhambra!" washington irving will have a heap to answer for in the making of me. and i used to dream about "bonny prince charlie," although miss wilburn never _could_ hammer it into my head which one of the stuarts he was. and _actors_! well, i would try to make a list and write it on the fly-pages, only it might be a bad example to my grandchildren; then, too, there are so very few fly-pages. but i started out to tell how much i've changed since i began this book, for now i not only adore poetry, i write it! fully a quart jar full i've written since i found the first buttercup this spring. an ode to venus, an ode to venice, and a world of just plain odes. mammy lou washed out a preserves jar and put it on my desk for me to stick them in. it saves trouble for her. jean soon woke up out of her brown study and commenced telling about cassius. "i used to meet him on sunshiny mornings going to school," she said. "he was about nineteen and so pale and thin and sad-looking that i named him 'cassius.' he walked with a crutch. one morning when the wind blew his hat off i saw that his head was very scholarly looking, so from that hour i began thinking of him every second of the time. that is one of the worst features about being in love, you can't get your mind off of the person, and if you _do_ it's on to somebody else. now, just last week i burnt up a great batch of turkish candy i was trying to make on account of a person's eyes. they look at you like they're kissing you!" and she fell again into a study, not a brown one this time, just a sort of light tan. "whose? cassius's?" i interrupted, shaking her to bring her to. "pshaw! no! i had almost forgotten about cassius! i've never seen anything on earth to equal this other person's eyes! but, anyway, going back to finish up with cassius, i thought _of course_, from his walking with a crutch, that he must have had a bad spinal trouble when he was a child and used to have to sit still and be a scholar, instead of chasing cats and breaking out people's window-panes like healthy boys. i pictured out how lonely he must feel and how he must long for a companion whose mind was equal to his; and it certainly made a changed girl of me! i burnt out gallons and gallons of electricity every night studying deep things to discuss with him when i should get to know him well." "how did you know what kind of things he admired?" i asked, for some men like mathematics and some dickens and you can't tell the difference by passing them on the street. "well, it did make a heap of extra trouble to me," she answered, sighing as tiredly as if she had been trying on coat suits all day. "as i didn't know which was his favorite subject i had to study the encyclopedia so as to be sure to hit it." "gee whiz!" i couldn't help saying. "oh, that ain't all! i wrote down a list of strange words to say to him so that he could tell at a glance that i was brilliant. they were terrific words too, from aortic and actinic in the a's to genuflections in the g's. that's as far as i got." mammy lou called us to breakfast just then, but i could eat only four soft-boiled guinea eggs, wondering what on earth cassius had said in reply when jean said genuflections to him. "pshaw! the rest isn't worth telling," she said with a weary look, as i pulled her down on the steps right after breakfast and begged her to go on about cassius. "it ended with a disappointment--like everything else that has a man connected with it! you're a lucky girl to be in love with lord byron so long, for dead men break no hearts!" "well, tell it!" i begged. "oh, it's too disgusting for words, and was a real blow to a person of my nature! the idiot didn't have spinal trouble at all, i learned it from a lady who knew his mother. he had only sprained his knee, just a plain, every-day knee, with playing basket-ball at school, which was all the good school ever did him, the lady said. my life has certainly been full of disillusions!" "but, you've learned what genuflections means," i reminded her, for i think people ought to be thankful for everything they learn by experience, whether it's from an automobile or an auction house. pretty soon after this we heard the sound of horses' feet (when i saw who it was riding them i just couldn't say _hoofs_), so jean and i ran to the front door. we were very glad when we saw who it was, for if it hadn't been for this couple we should have had little to talk about down here in the country except telling each other our dreams and what's good to take off freckles. it was miss irene campbell riding past our house, with mr. gerald fairfax, her twin flame, in swell tan leggins that come to his knee. miss irene comes down here sometimes to spend the summer with her grandmother, mrs. west. she used to know mr. fairfax so well when they were little that there were always several planks off of the fence so they could visit together without going all the way around to the gate. but he grew up and went one direction and she went another and they didn't see each other again until late last summer; but they saw each other then, oh, so often! and they found that they must be twin flames from the way their "temperaments accord." i had heard doctor gordon say that i was of a nervous temperament and was wondering whether or not this was the kind you could have a twin flame with; but father says the temperament that mr. fairfax and miss irene have is what makes affinities throw skillets at each other after they've been married two weeks. but these two are not going to marry, for their friendship is of the _spirit_. they talk about incarnations and "karma," which sounds like the name of a salve to me. sometimes he seems to like her looks as much as her soul, and says she's a typical maid of andalusia. i learned about andalusia out of washington irving too, so i know he thinks she's pretty. she has some splendid traits of character, mother says, which means i reckon that she doesn't fix her hair idiotically just because other women do, nor use enough violet sachet to out-smell an automobile. miss irene is very sad, both on account of her liver and her lover. mrs. west says the books she reads are enough to give anybody liver complaint, but she has had a disappointment lately that is enough to give her appendicitis. his name is doctor bynum and he's as handsome as apollo and a bacteriologist, which is worse than a prohibitionist, for while the last-named won't let you drink whisky in peace, the other won't let you drink water in peace. still, miss irene says he has the most honest brown eyes and the warmest, most comfortable-feeling hands she ever saw and she was beginning to love him in spite of their souls being on different planes. "he doesn't care for _one line_ in literature," she told mother, who is very fond of her and would like to see her settled in life. "i've tried him on everything from marcus aurelius to gray's _elegy_. when i got to this last he said, 'good lord! eliminate it! it's my business to keep folks _out_ of the churchyard instead of droning ditties after they're in it!' now, do you call that anything short of savage?" "i call it sensible," mother told her. "but i hate sensible people--with _no_ nonsense." "oh, nonsense is necessary to the digestion," mother answered quickly, "we all know _that_. but a little sense, now and then, it takes to pay the market men." "which, being interpreted, means that you're like grandmother. you hope i'll marry doctor bynum, but you greatly fear that it will be gerald fairfax!" "all i have to say is that 'the raven' is not a good fowl to roast for dinner," mother answered, with a twinkle in her eye, for jean had come home from mrs. west's the day before and said that mr. fairfax had been reading _the raven_ so real you were afraid it would fly down and peck your eyes out. "oh, gerald and i don't believe in flesh foods!" she said loftily, then added quickly, "but i'm not going to marry _him_. neither am i going to marry a man who calls my reincarnation theory 'bug-house talk.' i came away down here the very day after he said that, without telling him good-by or anything. and i'm just disappointed to death that he has not followed me long ago. i thought sure he would!" "you don't deserve that he should ever think of you again," mother told her, looking as severe as she does when she tells me i'll never get married on earth unless i learn to be more tidy. "i confess the 'conflicting doubts and opinions' _do_ give me indigestion. doctor bynum has the most good-looking face i ever saw. and he's just lovely when he isn't perfectly hateful, and--mercy me! i think i'll get mammy lou to give me a spoonful of soda in a glass of warm water. i have an awful heaviness around my heart!" this talk took place two or three days ago and we hadn't seen her again until this morning when she came riding past our house. they waved at us as they got even with our gate and turned off the main road to the little path that leads to the prettiest part of the woods. "jean, what would you do if mr. fairfax looked at you the way he looks at her?" i asked, as we sat down and fixed ourselves to watch them out of sight. "i'd marry him quicker than you could hiccough!" she answered, gazing after them with a yearning look. "what would you do?" "i don't know," i told her, and i don't. "some people seem to be happy even after they're married, but i think it would be nice to be like dante and beatrice, with no gas bills nor in-laws to bother you." "shoo! well, i bet she marries him in spite of all that talk about the spirit. a spirit is all right to marry if he smells like good cigars and is _on the spot_!" "yes, i'm afraid doctor bynum has lost his chance; for a girl will love the nearest man--when the lilies-of-the-valley are in bloom." "but i heard mrs. west say the other day that mr. fairfax would make a mighty bad husband, in spite of the good looks and deep voice. he'd always forget when the oatmeal was out." "yes," i answered, "i heard her tell mother the other day that she would leave all she had to somebody else if she did marry him, for she believed in every married couple there ought to be at least one that had sense enough to keep the fences mended up." "why, that old lady's mind is as narrow as a ready-made nightgown," jean exclaimed in surprise. "why, affinities marry in every page of the pink sunday papers!" "but really who _does_ make the living?" i asked, for i had heard mother say that that kind of folks never worked. "the lawyer that divo'ces 'em makes the livin'," mammy lou said then, popping her black head out through mother's white curtains. "an' them two, if they marries, will fu'nish him with sev'al square meals! i've knowed 'em both sence they secon' summer," she said, a brown finger pointing in the direction they had gone, and a smile coming over her face, for second summers are to old women what war times are to old men, only more so. "i said it then and i say it now, he's too pore! across the chist! he thinks too much, which ain't no 'count. it leads to _devilment_! folks ain't got no business thinkin'--they ought to go to sleep when they're through work!" "but his sympathy----" i started, for that's what miss irene is always talking about, but mammy interrupted me. "sympathy nothin'! how much sympathy do you reckon he'd have on a freezin' mornin' with wet kin'lin' and the stovepipe done fell down? she better look out for a easy-goin' man that ain't carin' 'bout nothin' 'cept how to keep the barn full o' corn and good shoes for seven or eight chil'en!" mammy lou mostly knows what's she talking about, but somehow i hate to think of miss irene with seven children. she reminds me so much of a flower. when i stop to think of it, all the girls i've written about remind me of flowers. cousin eunice is like a lovely iris, and ann lisbeth is like a marechal niel rose. miss cis reeves used to look like a bright, happy little pansy, but that was before the twins were born. now her collar to her shirtwaist always hikes up in the back and shows the skin underneath and her hat (whenever she gets a chance to put on a hat) is over one ear, and lots of times she looks like she wishes nobody in her family ever had been born, especially the twin that cries the loudest. when i told miss irene that she reminded me of a flower, she said well, it must be the jasmine flower, or something else like a funeral, for she was as desolate as everybody was in _ben bolt_. (i always wondered why they didn't bury "sweet alice" with the rest of her family instead of in a corner obscure and alone.) i told her then just to pacify her that maybe she would feel better after she got married one way or another and stopped reading books named _the call of_----all sorts of things, and thinking that she had to answer all the calls. cousin eunice says her only troubles in matrimony were stomach and eye teeth and frozen water-pipes. she never gets disgusted with life except on nights when rufe goes to the lodge to see the third degree administered. she can even write a few articles now if she gives waterloo a pan of water and a wash-rag to play with, but she says many of her brightest thoughts never were fountain-penned because he happened to squall in the midst of them. for the last few days mr. fairfax has been riding around the country looking for a little cabin where he can be by himself and fish and read schopenhauer. i imagine from what they've read before me that he must be the man who wrote the post-cards you send to newly engaged couples saying, "cheer up! the worst is yet to come!" mr. fairfax says the blue smoke will curl up from his cabin chimney at sunset and form a "symphony in color" against the green tree-tops; and he can lead the "untrammeled life." he is begging miss irene to go and lead it with him, i'm sure; and she's half a mind to do it, but can't bear the _thoughts_ of it when she remembers doctor bynum's eyes and hands. altogether the poor girl looks as uncertain as if she was walking on a pavement covered with banana peelings. i think the blue-smoke-cabin idea is very romantic, but when i mentioned it to mammy lou she got mad and jerked the skillet off the stove so suddenly that the grease popped out and burnt her finger. "blue smoke! blue _blazes_!" she said, walloping her dish-rag around and around in it. "i hope that pretty critter ain't goin' to be took in by no such talk as that! blue smoke curlin'! well, _she'll_ be the one to make the fire that curls it!" it's a good thing that father gave me a fountain pen on my last birthday, for i should hate to write what happened last night with a dull pencil. mrs. west had invited jean and me to spend the night at her house, for miss irene was feeling worse and worse and needed something light to cheer her up. well, it was just long enough after supper for us to be wishing that we hadn't eaten so many strawberries when mr. fairfax came up the walk looking as grand and gloomy as edgar allan poe, right after he had written a poem to his mother-in-law. he said let's take a walk in the moonlight for the air was _madding_. i always thought before it was _maddening_, and should be applied only to nuisances, like your next-door neighbor's children, or the piano in the flat above you; but i saw from the dictionary and the way he acted later on that he was right, both about the word and the way he applied it. not far down the road from mrs. west's front gate is a very old-timey school-house, so dilapidated that jean says she knows it's the one where the little girl said to the little boy, forty years ago: "i'm sorry that i spelt the word, i hate to go above you; because," the brown eyes lower fell; "because, you see, i love you!" jean didn't mean a bit of harm when she quoted it, but the sound of that last line made them look as shivery as if they had malaria. we soon found a nice place and sat down on a log that looked less like snakes than the others, and when we saw that there wasn't quite room enough for us all jean and i had the politeness to go away out of hearing and find another log, over closer to the road. even then we could hear, for the night was so still and we were so busy with our thoughts. i began thinking: what if _i_ should have such a hard time to find a lover that is sympathetic and systematic at the same time? suppose sir reginald de beverley isn't sympathetic about lord byron! suppose he likes his parliamentary speeches better than his poetry, like one husband of a lady that i know does! but my mind was diverted just then by hearing words coming from the direction of miss irene and mr. fairfax so much like the little girl said to the little boy forty years ago that i was astonished. i had been told that a girl could always keep a man from proposing when she wanted to! but he was saying that she _should_ come with him and lead the untrammeled life, and she was looking pleased and frightened and was telling him to hush, but was letting him go on; and they were both standing up and holding hands in the moonlight. "i'm not at all sure it's the untrammeled life i'm looking for," she said in little catchy breaths; "but i'm so wretched! and you're the only one who cares! i suppose i may as well--oh, i wish i had somebody here to keep me from acting an idiot!" now, if shakespeare or "the duchess" had written this story they would have pretended that doctor bynum came around the curve in the road at that very minute and taking off his hat said: "nay, you shall be my wife!" but it was only mrs. west coming down the road, carrying a heavy crocheted shawl to keep miss irene from catching her death of cold! but listen! the minute we got back to the house the telephone bell rang and it was a long-distance call for miss irene. she knew in a _second_ from the city it was from that doctor bynum was at the other end of the line. she looked at that telephone like a person in the fourth story of a house afire looks at the hook-and-ladder man. mr. fairfax said well, he must be going; and we all got out on the porch while she and doctor bynum made up their quarrel at the rate of two dollars for the first three minutes and seventy-five cents a minute extra. (i know because father sometimes talks to that city about cotton.) and he's coming down sunday. and jean and i are holding our breath. we're having the very last fire of the season to-night! a big, booming, beautiful one that makes you think winter wasn't such a bad time after all! a cold spell has come, and oh, it is so cold! it makes you wonder how it had the heart to come now and cause the flowers to feel so out of place. but it has also caused us to have another fire and i love a fire. i even like to make them, and lots of times i tell dilsey to let me build the fire in my room myself. i sit down on the hearth and sit and _sit_, building that fire. then i get to looking into it and thinking. thinking is a mighty bad habit, like mammy lou says. i can't do this any more though--for to-night we're having the last fire of the season. to-morrow spring cleaning will be gone through with and the chimneys all newspapered up. no matter how cold it gets after _that_ you can't expect to have a fire after you've _sprung cleaned_! i never _am_ going to spring clean at my house. the dust and soapsuds are not the worst part of house cleaning, though they are bad enough, goodness knows! what i hate worst to see is the battered old bureaus and shabby old quilts that you've kept a secret from the public for years pulled out from their corners by the hair of their heads and knocked around in the back yard without any pity for their poor old bones! i never see a moving van going through the city streets loaded with pitiful old furniture without thinking "that used to be _somebody's_ lares and penates!" by-the-way, mammy lou is crazy for dovie to have some more twins so she can name them "scylla and chrybdis." she hasn't much hopes though, for she says lightning doesn't strike twice in the same place. father says it wouldn't be lightning, it would be _thunder_ to have two more little pickaninnies always standing around under his feet and have to explain to everybody that came along how they got their curious names. mammy lou heard miss irene say "scylla and chrybdis;" miss irene doesn't say it any more though. doctor bynum didn't wait for the train to bring him down here that sunday, but whizzed through the country in his automobile saturday night. then he "venied, vidied, vicied" in such a hurry that everybody in town knew it before nap time sunday afternoon. mr. fairfax has gone away on a long trip. jean said if he had had any sense he would have seen that miss irene campbell wasn't the only girl in the world, but he didn't see it and he's gone. next week jean is going home and when i think of how lonesome i'll be something nearly pops inside of me. they have been writing and writing for me to go home with jean and stay until rufe and cousin eunice and waterloo get ready to come down this summer, but mother says i may not go unless jean and i both promise to reform. we're not to eat any more stuffed olives nor write any more poetry--and, _think_ of it! i'm to stop writing in _my diary_! mother says i'll never have any practical sense if i don't begin now to learn things. i tell her, "am i to blame if i love a fountain pen better than a darning needle?" the lord made me so. and i _hate_ sewing. it's as hard for me to sew as it is to keep from writing. yet if i go home with jean i must quit writing. must give up my diary. must not write one line of poetry, no matter how much my head is buzzing with it! why, if poets couldn't _write_ their poetry they'd burst a blood vessel! i can't even take you with me to jean's house and read over what i have written in happier days, you poor little forsaken diary! chapter xiii it seems to me that the writing habit is kinder like poison oak; it's sure to break out on you in the spring, and you can never get it entirely out of your system. i've tried my best to keep from writing, and when you have done your best and failed, why i don't believe even robert bruce's spider could have done any more. i promised mother i would stop writing in my diary and i have--for such a long time that every one of the hems in my dresses has had to be let out since i wrote last. but now i just must break my promise, and i reckon if you are going to break a promise at all you might as well break it all to pieces. so i'll just dive in and tell all that happened since i wrote last. you remember that fluffy-skirted widow that i told you about being down here, my diary, and i sharpened seventeen pencils for--a long time ago? well, she said that _she_ believed every minute of this life was made for enjoyment. she told it to a young man that told it to father that told it to mother and i happened to hear. she said you ought to do the things you enjoy most, as long as they didn't bother anybody else, and if you did things you had to repent of afterward, why, even then, you ought to cut out your sackcloth by a becoming pattern! everybody in town heard that she said it, and brother sheffield said it was a _heathenish_ thing to say! he preached his jezebel sermon the very next sunday, although it wasn't due until nearer easter bonnet time. maybe he wasn't to blame so much, though, for the presiding elder was due that sunday and found out at the last minute he couldn't get there in time for the morning service; so brother sheffield had to preach the first sermon he could get his hands on, i reckon. the presiding elder (i _wonder_ if you ought to begin him with a capital letter? i never wrote "presiding elder" before in my life and maybe never will again, so it's no use getting up to go and look for it in the dictionary) well, he got in late that afternoon and spent the night at our house where he kept the supper table in a roar telling funny tales about the ignorance and tacky ways of the country brethren he had stayed with the night before. he was an awfully popular presiding elder with his members. but what i started out to say when i commenced writing to-night was that surely mother wouldn't be so cruel as not to want my grandchildren to know a few little last things about all the friends i've written of in here, and also a few little last things about me. i always like to read a book that winds up that way. for instance, you will enjoy hearing that miss irene is spending every minute of her time just about now running baby blue ribbon in her underclothes. and miss merle has long ago quit running it in hers! miss irene has stopped being a "pseudo-poe in petticoats," as father one time called her, but not to her face. doctor bynum told her that he thought one bright magazine story that would make a "t.b." patient sit up in bed and laugh was worth all the graveyard gloom that poe ever wrote. and before i get clear away from the subject of miss merle i must tell you that mr. st. john is still the most bashful, though married, man i ever heard of. i never shall forget the time he wouldn't let us see his undershirt--when it was hanging in an up-stairs window, too. but jean wrote me not long ago that when the census man came around to see how many folks lived there and how many times each one had been married and if they kept a cow, etc., mr. st. john happened to be the one to go to the door and answer the man's questions. now, it does seem that if he and miss merle have been married long enough for her to leave off the ribbon he might leave off the blushes; but they were all standing around looking at him, which of course made it worse. so when the census man said, "how many children is your wife the mother of?" instead of speaking out boldly, "none!" jean said his face turned every color in the curriculum and he stammered, "not any--that _i_ know of!" and then he looked around at them as if to see whether or not _they_ knew of any lying around loose about the house. i haven't seen jean since she was down here, but we write eighteen pages a week. i didn't get to go on my visit to her house as i expected, for we went to florida instead. we all went, that is, us three, and waterloo and his family besides ann lisbeth and doctor gordon. doctor gordon was the one that started it. he caught pneumonia one dreary day in the early spring when he was already sick in bed, but got up and went out to the hospital to operate for appendicitis. ann lisbeth almost went into catalepsy, trying to keep him from going, but it was a very expensive appendix, he said, so he got up and went out and bottled it. the changing from his warm room to the cold air gave him pneumonia, although the doctors say it is caused by a germ. i'll never believe this, not even if i marry one! well, he finally got over his spell by "lysis" instead of "crisis," but i hope this will never come to mammy lou's ears, or she will fairly long for more twins in the dovie family. when doctor gordon got able to be out a little all the other doctors told him that he had better go to a warm climate for a month or two, for it was still so cold, so he and ann lisbeth persuaded rufe and cousin eunice to go too, and they all wrote for us to hurry up and get ready so we could go with them. mother said she'd just _love_ to go, but she didn't see how we possibly could, for none of us had any clothes and she had always heard that florida was fairly alive with rich yankees! mammy lou spoke up then and said, well, she was sure ann looked exactly like a rich yankee, and she was the only one that folks was going to look at anyhow! so mother took heart and we went. father had to have a new overcoat, for the weather has been colder this spring than ever the oldest inhabitant can tell about, and as they wrote us to get ready in such a hurry, on account of poor doctor gordon's cough, he didn't have time to have one made at his regular place, so he bought one ready-made, a light tan one, the poor dear! and it had two long "heimer" names from chicago printed on the label at the collar. we got ready in such a rush that none of us had time to rip this label out, though i lived to regret it many a time! it was too hot to wear it when we got down there, but father had got scared up about catching pneumonia, so he insisted on carrying it around on his arm all the time, inside out; and there was not one millionaire, not one tennis champion, nor famous authoress we met, but what i saw the eyes of fixed, at one time or another, on those "heimer" names! that's one delightful thing about florida--you get to see so many people that you never would see at home. and everybody mixes like candidates! for instance, you may have a mosquito on you one minute that you will see on a russian anarchist the next. the mosquitoes down there are so big that you can easily recognize their features. and apt as not you'll go in bathing every day with a person _so famous_ when he's at home that he is never invited to dine with anybody that hasn't got monogram china and _pâté de foie gras_. i've noticed that the things people tell about after they come home from a trip depend a good deal on the disposition they carry with them on it. it's the way with florida. if you're an optimist you'll come back and tell about the palms, roses and sunsets. if you're a pessimist you'll mention snakes, hotel bills and buzzards. the honest truth is there's quite enough of them all to go around. you're impressed with the country from the first morning that you get into it and raise up (half way) in your berth and look out the car window. at first there seems to be a mighty lot of just flat scenery, with tall trees that have all their branches at the tiptop. these trees remind you of pictures of the holy land that you used to see in the big bible your mother and father would give you on sunday afternoons to keep you quiet while they could take a nap. you begin to think that what you're seeing is too beautiful to be true, though, from the first minute you look out on a blue bay that is deep green in places, and has purple streaks in it. but when you row over to an island all covered with palms and find a strip of beach that has bushels and bushels of tiny shells, that the mermaids used to make necklaces out of--why, nothing on earth but your _feet_ hurting so bad makes you believe it is not a dream! florida has all the things in it that you see when you shut your eyes and smell a jasmine flower! the climate is fine for the lungs, but very bad on the alimenary canal and curling-iron hair! we stopped at all the points of interest as we went on down. a point of interest is a place that the post-cards tell lies about. still i do think florida cards come nearer telling the truth than those of most places, for the country is very nearly as many colors as they make it out to be. cousin eunice said she thought sending post-cards was the _one_ melancholy pleasure of traveling, and so i bought a quarter's worth at every place. traveling _is_ a melancholy pleasure when you have a baby that you won't let drink a drop of water unless it has had the germs all stewed in it. waterloo is getting to be such a big boy now, too; but he still talks like a telegram--just the most important words of what he wants to say, with all the others left out. he's crazy about foot-ball, chewing-gum and billy-goats. and you just ought to hear him chew gum! among the points of interest we saw was the oldest house in america. it is a _very_ interesting place. it has a marble bust of lord byron in it! i don't remember another thing, i believe, except that! oh yes, i do, too! i do remember a startling thing i heard about a very old bed in that house. i heard the guide telling that this was the bed that william the conqueror and maria theresa slept on! i hate to hear folks get their history mixed, so i had just opened my mouth to say "why, they were not _married_," when i spied the bust of his lordship in the next room. after that i didn't care how many tales they made up on william and maria! poor little waterloo didn't much fancy the oldest house, but when we drove up to "the fountain of youth," and he saw the clear, sparkling "drink" that helped ponce get rid of his double chin and crow's-feet he commenced to howl for some. doctor gordon had told us before we got there that we mustn't dare drink any of it unless there was a signed certificate that there wasn't any "coli" in it. we looked all around, but as we didn't see any sign, rufe thought maybe he'd better not give him any. there didn't _look_ to be any "coli," either, but still rufe didn't like the idea of his drinking it. when waterloo saw that they didn't intend to give him any he commenced to kick and squall and get so red in the face with his dancing up and down that rufe finally screamed back to the carriage that doctor gordon was in and asked him if he thought one little glass would hurt waterloo. cousin eunice screamed back at the same time and said for doctor gordon to give his _honest_ opinion, for she wouldn't have the little angel catch anything so far away from home for the whole of the east coast. doctor gordon, who had been made nervous by his spell, screamed back to them for heaven's sake let the little imp drink till he _busted_--only he hoped it wouldn't make him stay as _young_ as he was then! so rufe motioned for the lady that hands you the water, with a north-of-the-mason-and-dixon accent, to hush talking about her friend, ponce de leon, long enough to give the glass an extra scrubbing and hand waterloo some water, which she did. this didn't do as much good, though, as we had hoped for. rufe was in such a hurry to get away from "the fountain of youth" that his hand trembled some and he spilt the first glassful down waterloo's little front. this made the darling so mad, and i don't blame him either, that he slapped the second glassful out of rufe's hand. he washed teddy bear's face with the third, and threw the fourth in cousin eunice's white linen lap, when she tried to soothe him. rufe ran his hand down into his pocket before he told the driver to drive on, for he knew that milk was fifteen cents a quart in florida, and water was almost priceless. the lady told him that she would have to collect fifty cents for the water that waterloo had wasted, and that washing out the glass was twenty-five cents extra. rufe handed her a twenty-dollar bill, but she couldn't change it. so he called back to doctor gordon to ask him if he could. "_change!_" said doctor gordon, looking surprised that rufe should have asked him such an embarrassing question. "why, i haven't a _thing_ left but my watch-fob and thermometer-case and wouldn't have had them if i hadn't worn them in a chamois bag around my neck!" so rufe told the lady he would mail her a check for the amount with interest. later on we saw ostrich farms and the biggest cigar factory in the world. i _think_ they said it was the biggest. anyway, if there's a bigger one i don't care about smelling it! it's long past time for the lights to go out, mine especially, for they never want me to sit up until i get really interested in anything; but i believe i will throw a black sateen petticoat up over the transom, which i have found out you can do very well if you have two nails up there to hang it on, and tell one more little thing that happened on that trip. i say "little thing," but it seemed a monstrous big thing to me at the time. when we were about half-way through georgia on our way home, some of us commenced having chills. doctor gordon had his first, but he didn't say anything about it to ann lisbeth until he got to shaking so that she saw something was the matter. then mother and cousin eunice had one apiece. doctor gordon said it wasn't anything to be alarmed about, for it was just a little malaria cropping out, but i felt so sorry for them that i told ann lisbeth if she would go with me i would go up to the baggage car and see if we could get out some heavy underclothes from our trunk. we had to stagger through a long string of sleepers, for we were in the backest one, but we were rewarded when we finally did get to the baggage car. there was a merry-eyed express messenger in there who said he would be _glad_ to pull and haul those fifteen or twenty trunks that were on top of ours! may the gods reward him, for it was an awful job! and so we got out enough clothes for our cold and destitute families. now, you may have noticed before this, my diary, that i am a forgetful person. i can remember the last words of charles ii, or anything like that, but i forget what i did yesterday. i had entirely forgotten about stuffing oranges in with all our clothes when i helped mother pack our trunks! and we were in such a hurry in the express car that we didn't stop to shake the clothes out as we fished them up from the trays; it wouldn't have been polite to, anyway, in front of that good-looking express messenger, and we didn't have room enough. so we had just lifted things out as we came to them and eased them up in our arms as we started on back on our walk to our sleeper. but the oranges hadn't forgotten about being there! i reckon they wanted to see what all that disturbance was about for, i cross my heart, _just_ as i got opposite the swellest-looking man in that whole string of sleepers, a man with silk socks and golf sticks, a long sleeve of mother's knit corset-cover dropped down against the seat in front of him and four oranges rolled out! they rolled slowly, one by one, and dropped to the floor with muffled thuds. then they rolled some more and didn't stop until they reached his feet. that's how i knew he had on silk socks. chapter xiv i'm as lonesome as _marianna in the moated grange_ to-night! isn't that the lonesomest poem on earth? everything about it is unsanitary, too, from the rusty flower-pots to the blue fly "buzzing in the pane." no wonder it got on marianna's nerves, in her condition, too! but she had one thing to be thankful for--she didn't know how many germs that fly had on its feet! i'm lonesome for jean--or somebody! thank goodness it is nearly time for waterloo to come! cousin eunice said in a letter that we had from her to-day she was trying to raise waterloo right, but he was a trial to her feelings! now, poor cousin eunice has read herbert spencer for the sake of waterloo's future education ever since he has been born, and she has never let him out of her sight with a nurse for fear she would feed him chewed-up chestnuts and teach him about the devil. i reckon you spell him with a capital letter, if you don't waste them on presiding elders. but waterloo doesn't always show how carefully he's been brought up. he is of nervous temperament and told a woman who was sewing on the machine right loud the other day: "hus', hus'! god's sake, make noise _easy_!" this is disheartening after all the trouble she has taken with his morals and diet and things like that! she never lets him eat the "deadly" things that doctor gordon is always talking about, but she _does_ keep a little pure sugar candy on hand all the time to be used only as a last resort. when she can't make him do any other way on earth she uses the candy. speaking of deadly things reminds me of doctor bynum's friends, the germs. he has told miss irene so many stories about their unpleasant ways that she got to not believing in kissing, but he said pshaw! it looked like we all had to die of germs anyhow, and so he'd rather die of that kind than any other! cousin eunice's letters always tell us so many interesting things about all our friends in the city. she and ann lisbeth still live close neighbors, but they have both bought beautiful places out on one of the pikes and each one is claiming to be more countrified than the other. one day ann lisbeth ran over and told cousin eunice that doctor gordon had heard an owl in their yard the night before, but cousin eunice told her that wasn't anything! she and rufe had had a _bat_ in their bedroom! doctor gordon has two automobiles now. he had them the last time i was in the city and i got to find out exactly what "limousine" means. i had an idea before that it meant _dark green_, because--oh, well, i needn't tell the reason; it was silly enough to think such a thing without making excuses for it. but you know so many swell cars _are_ painted dark green, and so many swell cars are limousines! ann lisbeth is a great help to doctor gordon in his practice, he says. she always remembers the different babies' names and looks up subjects for him in his surgical books that would knock the knee-cap off of jean's little word, "genuflections." no matter how fine a doctor a lady's husband is she is never permitted to mention it to her friends, for this is called "unethical." but if she's expecting company of an afternoon she can happen to have a bottle with a queer thing inside setting on the mantelpiece and when the company asks what on earth that thing is she can say, "for goodness' sake! my husband must have forgotten that! why that's senator himuck's appendix!" ann lisbeth seems to get sweeter every year and you would never know she has a foreign accent now except on sunday night when the cook's away and the gas stove doesn't do right. another good piece of news cousin eunice wrote to-day was that the youngs are going to try it again at the bungalow this summer. professor young has to go somewhere to rest up from his studies. for nearly eighteen months now he's been sitting up late at night and spending the whole of saturdays, even taking his coffee out to the laboratory in a thermos bottle, studying pharmacy. he is delighted with the progress he has made, for he says he has not only learned how to make a perfectly splendid cold cream for his wife's complexion, but has discovered just which bad-smelling stuff put with another bad-smelling stuff is best to develop his films. he says his knowledge of pharmacy has saved him a lot of money in this way. speaking of curious couples reminds me of the gayles. they're not half as queer now as they were before they married though. at present they are neither in heaven, nor on earth, exactly, but they are cruising on the mediterranean. they send me post-cards from every place and i stick them in my album with great pride. another family that we're always glad to hear from is the macdonalds. poor little fluffy-haired miss cis! i reckon the very last of her dimples will soon be changed into wrinkles, for there's _another_ one since the twins! nobody can say that miss cis is not bearing up bravely, though. she does all she can to present a stylish, straight-front appearance when she goes out, which isn't often. but at home they are all perfectly happy together, mr. macdonald getting down on the floor to play bear, and if he _does_ look more like a devil's horse while he's doing it, with his long arms and legs, the twins don't know the difference. marrying has helped julius' looks more than anybody i ever saw. his cheeks have filled out until he's as handsome as a floor-walker. and they're so contented that marcella says actually when she finds a pin pointing toward her she doesn't know what to wish for. you may have caught on to it before now, my diary, that the reason i'm telling you this very last news of all our friends is because i'm going to stop writing _sure enough_ to-night! i'm ashamed to keep breaking my promise to mother. the only ones i've left out, i believe, are aunt laura and bertha. i wish i had forgotten them for i don't like to say anything hateful in my diary. aunt laura has joined some kind of new thoughters and has grown quantities of new brown hair on the strength of it. and she dresses in champagne silk all the time. as for bertha--she _lives_ to keep up with the "best people," meaning by this that she runs up to the hairdresser's every other day to see if she can learn how many "society men" have thrown their wives down the steps or poured boiling coffee over them since she last heard. i'm sorry i thought of bertha so near the last, for i don't want to leave you with a bad taste in your mouth, my diary. so i'll branch off and mention something sweet right away. that blessed waterloo! he's the sweetest thing i know anything about! just about this time i reckon he's begging his "daddy-boy" to sing feep alsie, ben bolt, for that's been his precious little sleepy song ever since he's been born. when i think of those three and how happy they are, and how satisfied they are just to be together, i know that rufe told me the truth that day, a long, long time ago! there is only one subject worth writing about--or one object worth living for! may every one of you grandchildren find just such an object, and be as happy as they are while living for it! it does seem that i ought to be able to think of something beautiful to wind up my diary with! everything about me is beautiful! the honeysuckle is smelling like the very soul of spring and love just outside my window--and there's a bust of lord byron on my mantelpiece close by. such a tiny bust--the curly head just fits into the palm of my hand--when i get grown i'm going to have one big enough to burn candles before! not that i shall burn candles before it--for, to tell the truth, i'd much rather be burning my fingers cooking oatmeal for some big, brown-eyed "daddy-boy" and tiny, brown-eyed waterloo! mammy lou came to my window just as i wrote this last and stuck her head in. "name o' deuteronomy!" she said in a loud whisper when she saw this book open before me. "what good'll your _gran'children_ do you, i'd like to know--if you set up all night and lose your looks so you'll nuvver fin' a husban'?" the end popular copyright books at moderate prices any of the following titles can be bought of your bookseller at cents per volume. the shepherd of the hills. by harold bell wright. jane cable. by george barr mccutcheon. abner daniel. by will n. harben. the far horizon. by lucas malet the halo. by bettina von hutten. jerry junior. by jean webster. the powers and maxine. by c. n. and a. m. williamson. the balance of power. by arthur goodrich. adventures of captain kettle. by cutcliffe hyne. adventures of gerard. by a. conan doyle. adventures of sherlock holmes. by a. conan doyle. arms and the woman. by harold macgrath. artemus ward's works (extra illustrated). at the mercy of tiberius. by augusta evans wilson. awakening of helena richie. by margaret deland. battle ground, the. by ellen glasgow. belle of bowling green, the. by amelia e. barr. ben blair. by will lillibridge. best man, the. by harold macgrath. beth norvell. by randall parrish. bob hampton of placer. by randall parrish. bob, son of battle. by alfred ollivant. brass bowl, the. by louis joseph vance. brethren, the. by h. rider haggard. broken lance, the. by herbert quick. by wit of women. by arthur w. marchmont. call of the blood, the. by robert hitchens. cap'n eri. by joseph c. lincoln. cardigan. by robert w. chambers. car of destiny, the. by c. n. and a. n. williamson. casting away of mrs. lecks and mrs. aleshine. by frank r. stockton. cecilia's lovers. by amelia e. barr. circle, the. by katherine cecil thurston (author of "the masquerader," "the gambler"). colonial free lance, a. by chauncey c. hotchkiss. conquest of canaan, the. by booth tarkington. courier of fortune, a. by arthur w. marchmont. darrow enigma, the. by melvin severy. deliverance, the. by ellen glasgow. divine fire, the. by may sinclair. empire builders. by francis lynde. exploits of brigadier gerard. by a. conan doyle. fighting chance, the. by robert w. chambers. for a maiden brave. by chauncey c. hotchkiss. fugitive blacksmith, the. by chas. d. stewart god's good man. by marie corelli. heart's highway, the. by mary e. wilkins. holladay case, the. by burton egbert stevenson. hurricane island. by h. b. marriott watson. in defiance of the king. by chauncey c. hotchkiss. indifference of juliet, the. by grace s. richmond. infelice. by augusta evans wilson. lady betty across the water. by c. n. and a. m. williamson. lady of the mount, the. by frederic s. isham. lane that had no turning, the. by gilbert parker. langford of the three bars. by kate and virgil d. boyles. last trail, the. by zane grey. leavenworth case, the. by anna katharine green. lilac sunbonnet, the. by s. r. crockett. lin mclean. by owen wister. long night, the. by stanley j. weyman. maid at arms, the. by robert w. chambers. the lost trail by edward s. ellis author of "seth jones," "the forest spy," etc., etc. [illustration: "that indian has carried cora away!"--_frontispiece_.] contents. chapter i. the shadow ii. the adventures of a night iii. the jug acquaintances iv. an ominous rencounter v. gone vi. the lost trail vii. a hibernian's search for the trail viii. the trail of death ix. the dead shot x. conclusion list of illustrations. he held his long rifle in his right hand, while he drew the shrubbery apart with his left, and looked forth at the canoe. "a purty question, ye murtherin haythen!" "where does yees get the jug?" dealt the savage a tremendous blow "well, at-to-uck," said he, kindly, "you seem troubled." the trail was lost! "and so, teddy, ye're sayin' it war a white man that took away the missionary's wife." "it's all up!" muttered the dying man. "i am wiped out at last, and must go under!" "harvey richter--don't you know me?" he gasped. the lost trail. chapter i. the shadow. ye who love the haunts of nature, love the sunshine of the meadow, love the shadow of the forest, love the wind among the branches, and the rain-shower and the snow-storm, and the rushing of great rivers. listen to these wild traditions.--hiawatha. one day in the spring of , a singular occurrence took place on one of the upper tributaries of the mississippi. the bank, some fifteen or twenty feet in height, descended quite abruptly to the stream's edge. though both shores were lined with dense forest, this particular portion possessed only several sparse clumps of shrubbery, which seemed like a breathing-space in this sea of verdure--a gate in the magnificent bulwark with which nature girts her streams. this green area commanded a view of several miles, both up and down stream. had a person been observing this open spot on the afternoon of the day in question, he would have seen a large bowlder suddenly roll from the top of the bank to bound along down the green declivity and fall into the water with a loud splash. this in itself was nothing remarkable, as such things are of frequent occurrence in the great order of things, and the tooth of time easily could have gnawed away the few crumbs of earth that held the stone in poise. scarcely five minutes had elapsed, however, when a second bowlder rolled downward in a manner precisely similar to its predecessor, and tumbled into the water with a rush that resounded across and across from the forest on either bank. even this might have occurred in the usual course of things. stranger events take place every day. the loosening of the first stone could have opened the way for the second, although a suspicious observer might naturally have asked why its fall did not follow more immediately. but, when precisely the same interval had elapsed, and a third stone followed in the track of the others, there could be no question but what human agency was concerned in the matter. it certainly appeared as if there were some _intent_ in all this. in this remote wilderness, no white man or indian would find the time or inclination for such child's play, unless there was a definite object to be accomplished. and yet, scrutinized from the opposite bank, the lynx-eye of a veteran pioneer would have detected no other sign of the presence of a human being than the occurrences that we have already narrated; but the most inexperienced person would have decided at once upon the hiding-place of him who had given the moving impulse to the bodies. just at the summit of the bank was a mass of shrubbery of sufficient extent and density to conceal a dozen warriors. and within this, beyond doubt, was one person, at least, concealed; and it was certain, too, that from his hiding-place, he was peering out upon the river. each bowlder had emerged from this shrubbery, and had not passed through it in its downward course; so that their starting-point may now be considered a settled question. supposing one to have gazed from this stand-point, what would have been his field of vision? a long stretch of river--a vast, almost interminable extent of forest--a faint, far-off glimpse of a mountain peak projected like a thin cloud against the blue sky, and a solitary eagle that, miles above, was bathing his plumage in the clear atmosphere. naught else? close under the opposite shore, considerably lower down than the point to which we first directed our attention, may be descried a dark object. it is a small indian canoe, in which are seated two white men and a female, all of whom are attired in the garb of civilization. the young man near the stern is of slight mold, clear blue eye, and a prepossessing countenance. he holds a broad ashen paddle in his hand with which to assist his companion, who maintains his proximity to the shore for the purpose of overcoming more deftly the opposition of the current. the second personage is a short but square-shouldered irishman, with massive breast, arms like the piston-rods of an engine, and a broad, good-natured face. he is one of those beings who may be aptly termed "machines," a patient, plodding, ox-like creature who takes to the most irksome labor as a flail takes to the sheafs on the threshing-floor. work was his element, and nothing, it would seem, could tire or overcome those indurated muscles and vice-like nerves. the only appellation with which he was ever known to be honored was that of "teddy." near the center of the canoe, which was of goodly size and straight, upon a bed of blankets, sat the wife of the young man in the stern. a glance would have dissipated the slightest suspicion of her being anything other than a willing voyager upon the river. there was the kindling eye and glowing cheek, the eager look that flitted hither and yon, and the buoyant feeling manifest in every movement, all of which expressed more of enthusiasm than of willingness merely. her constant questions to her husband or teddy, kept up a continual run of conversation, which was now, for the first time, momentarily interrupted by the occurrence to which we have alluded. at the moment we introduce them the young man was holding his paddle stationary and gazing off toward his right, where the splash in the water denoted the fall of the third stone. his face wore an expression of puzzled surprise, mingled with which was a look of displeasure, as if he were "put out" at this manifestation. his eyes were fixed with a keen, searching gaze upon the river-bank, expecting the appearance of something more. teddy also was resting upon his paddle, and scrutinizing the point in question; but he seemed little affected by what had taken place. his face was as expressionless as one of the bowlders, save the ever-present look of imperturbable good-humor. the young woman seemed more absorbed than either of her companions, in attempting to divine this mystery that had so suddenly come upon them. more than once she raised her hand, as an admonition for teddy to preserve silence. finally, however, his impatience got the better of his obedience, and he broke the oppressive stillness. "and what does ye make of it, miss cora, or master harvey?" he asked, after a few moments, dipping his paddle at the same time in the water. "arrah, now, has either of ye saan anything more than the same bowlders there?" "no," answered the man, "but we may; keep a bright look-out, teddy, and let me know what you see." the irishman inclined his head to one side, and closed one eye as if sighting an invisible gun. suddenly he exclaimed, with a start: "i see something now, _sure_ as a bally-ma-gorrah wake." "what is it?" "the sun going down in the west, and tilling us we've no time to shpare in fooling along here." "teddy, don't you remember day before yesterday when we came out of the mississippi into this stream, we observed something very similar to this?" "an' what if we did, zur? does ye mane to say that a rock or two can't git tired of layin' in bed for a thousand years and roll around like a potaty in a garret whin the floor isn't stiddy?" "it struck us as so remarkable that we both concluded it must have been caused _purposely_ by some one." "me own opinion was, ye remember, that it was a lot of school-boys that had run away from their master, and were indulging themselves in a little shport, or that it was the bears at a shindy, or that it was something else." "ah! teddy, there are times when jesting is out of place," said the young wife, reproachfully; "and it seems to me that when we are alone in this vast wilderness, with many and many a long mile between us and a white settlement, we should be grave and thoughtful." "i strives to be so, miss cora, but it's harder than paddling this cockle-shell of a canoe up-shtream. my tongue will wag jist as a dog's tail when he can't kape it still." the face of the irishman wore such a long, woebegone expression, that it brought a smile to the face of his companion. teddy saw this, and his big, honest blue eyes twinkled with humor as he glanced upward from beneath his hat. "i knows yees _prays_ for me, misther harvey and miss cora, ivery night and morning of your blessed life, but i'm afeard your prayers will do as little good for teddy as the s'arch-warrant did for micky, the praist's boy, who stole the praist's shirt and give it away because it was lou--" "_look!_" from the very center of the clump of bushes of which we have made mention, came a white puff of smoke, followed immediately by the faint but sharp report of a rifle. the bullet's course could be seen as it skipped over the surface of the water, and finally dropped out of sight. "what do you say, now?" asked the young man. "isn't that proof that we've attracted attention?" "so it saams; but, little dread need we have of disturbance if they always kaap at such a respictable distance as that. whisht, now! but don't ye saa those same bushes moving? there's some one passing through them! mebbe it's a shadow, mebbe it's the divil himself. if so, here goes after the imp!" catching up his rifle, teddy discharged it toward the bank, although it was absolutely impossible for his bullet to do more than reach the shore. "that's to show the old gintleman we are ready and ain't frightened, be he the divil himself, or only a few of his children, that ye call the poor injuns!" "and whoever it is, he is evidently as little frightened as you; that shot was a direct challenge to us." "and it's accepted. hooray! now for some limerick exercise!" ere he could be prevented, the irishman had headed his canoe across stream, and was paddling with all his might toward the spot from which the first shot had been fired. "stop!" commanded his master. "it is fool-hardiness, on a par with your general conduct, thus to run into an undefined danger." teddy reluctantly changed the course of the boat and said nothing, although his face plainly indicated his disappointment. he had not been mistaken, however, in the supposition that he detected the movements of some person in the shrubbery. directly after the shot had been fired, the bushes were agitated, and a gaunt, grim-visaged man, in a half-hunter and half-civilized dress, moved a few feet to the right, in a manner which showed that he was indifferent as to whether or not he was observed. he looked forth as if to ascertain the result of his fire. the man was very tall, with a face by no means unhandsome, although it was disfigured by a settled scowl, which better befitted a savage enemy than a white friend. he held his long rifle in his right hand, while he drew the shrubbery apart with his left, and looked forth at the canoe. [illustration: he held his long rifle in his right hand, while he drew the shrubbery apart with his left, and looked forth at the canoe.] "i knew the distance was too great," he muttered, "but you will hear of me again, harvey richter. i've had a dozen chances to pick you off since you and your friends started up-stream, but i don't wish to do _that_. no, no, not that. fire away; but you can do me no more harm than i can you, at this moment." allowing the bushes to resume their wonted position, the stranger deliberately reloaded his piece and as deliberately walked away in the wood. in the meantime, the voyagers resumed their journey and were making quite rapid progress up-stream. the sun was already low in the sky, and it was not long before darkness began to envelop wood and stream. at a sign from the young man, the irishman headed the canoe toward shore. in a few moments they landed, where, if possible, the wood was more dense than usual. although quite late in the spring, the night was chilly, and they lost no time in kindling a good fire. the travelers appeared to act upon the presumption that there were no such things as enemies in this solitude. every night they had run their boat in to shore, started a fire, and slept soundly by it until morning, and thus far, strange as it may seem, they had suffered no molestation and had seen no signs of ill-will, if we except the occurrences already related. through the day, the stalwart arms of teddy, with occasional assistance from the more delicate yet firm muscles of harvey, had plied the paddle. no attempt at concealment was made. on several occasions they had landed at the invitation of indians, and, after smoking, and presenting them with a few trinkets, had departed again, in peace and good-will. not to delay information upon an important point, we may state that harvey richter was a young minister who had recently been appointed missionary to the indians. the official members of his denomination, while movements were on foot concerning the spiritual welfare of the heathen in other parts of the world, became convinced that the red-men of the american wilds were neglected, and conceding fully the force of the inference drawn thence, young men were induced to offer themselves as laborers in the savage american vineyard. great latitude was granted in their choice of ground--being allowed an area of thousands upon thousands of square miles over which the red-man roamed in his pristine barbarism. the vineyard was truly vast and the laborers few. while his friends selected stations comparatively but a short distance from the bounds of civilization, harvey richter decided to go to the far northwest. away up among the grand old mountains and majestic solitudes, hugging the rills and streams which roll eastward to feed the great continental artery called the mississippi, he believed lay his true sphere of duty. could the precious seed be deposited there, if even in a single spot, he was sure its growth would be rapid and certain, and, like the little rills, it might at length become the great, steadily-flowing source of light and life. harvey richter had read and studied much regarding the american aborigines. to choose one of the wildest, most untamed tribes for his pupils, was in perfect keeping with his convictions and his character for courage. hence he selected the present hunting-grounds of the sioux, in upper minnesota. shortly before he started he was married to cora brandon, whose devotion to her great master and to her husband would have carried her through any earthly tribulations. although she had not urged the resolution which the young minister had taken, yet she gladly gave up a luxurious home and kind friends to bear him company. there was yet another whose devotion to the young missionary was scarcely less than that of the faithful wife. we refer to the irishman, teddy, who had been a favorite servant for many years in the family of the richters. having fully determined on sharing the fortunes of his young master, it would have grieved his heart very deeply had he been left behind. he received the announcement that he was to be a life-long companion of the young man, with an expression at once significant of his pride and his joy. "be jabers, but teddy mcfadden is in luck!" and thus it happened that our three friends were ascending one of the tributaries of the upper mississippi on this balmy day in the spring of . they had been a long time on the journey, but were now nearing its termination. they had learned from the indians daily encountered, the precise location of the large village, in or near which they had decided to make their home for many and many a year to come. after landing, and before starting his fire, teddy pulled the canoe up on the bank. it was used as a sort of shelter by their gentler companion, while he and his master slept outside, in close proximity to the camp-fire. they possessed a plentiful supply of game at all times, for this was the paradise of hunters, and they always landed and shot what was needed. "we must be getting well up to the northward," remarked the young man, as he warmed his hands before the fire. "don't you notice any difference in the atmosphere, cora?" "yes; there is a very perceptible change." "if this illigant fire only keeps up, i'm thinking there'll be a considerable difference afore long. the ways yees be twisting and doubling them hands, as if ye had hold of some delightsome soap, spaaks that yees have already discovered a difference. it is better nor whisky, fire is, in the long run, providin' you don't swaller it--the fire, that is." "even if swallowed, teddy, fire is better than whisky, for fire burns only the body, while whisky burns the soul," answered the minister. "arrah, that it does; for i well remimbers the last swig i took a'most burnt a hole in me shirt, over the bosom, and they say that is where the soul is located." "ah, teddy, you are a sad sinner, i fear," laughingly observed mrs. richter, at this extravagant allusion. "a _sad_ sinner! divil a bit of it. i haven't saan the day for twinty year whin i couldn't dance at me grandmother's wake, or couldn't use a shillalah at me father's fourteenth weddin'. teddy _sad_? well, that is a--is a--a mistake," and the injured fellow further expressed his feelings by piling on the fuel until he had a fire large enough to have roasted a battalion of prize beeves, had they been spitted before it. darkness at length fairly settled upon the wood and stream; the gloom around became deep and impressive. the inevitable haunch of venison was roasting before the roaring fire, teddy watching and attending it with all the skill of an experienced cook. while thus engaged, the missionary and his wife were occupied in tracing the course of the mississippi and its tributaries upon a pocket map, which was the chief guide in that wilderness of streams and "tributaries." who could deny the vastness of the field, and the loud call for laborers, when such an immense extent then bore only the name of "unexplored region!" and yet, this same headwater territory was teeming with human beings, as rude and uncultivated as the south sea islanders. what were the feelings of the faithful couple as their eyes wandered to the left of the map, where these huge letters confronted them, we can only surmise. that they felt that ten thousand self-sacrificing men could be employed in this portion of the country we may well imagine. as the evening meal was not yet ready, the missionary folded the map and fell to musing--musing of the future he had marked out for himself; enjoying the sweet approval of his conscience, higher and purer than any enjoyment of earth. all at once came back the occurrence of the afternoon, which had been absent from his thoughts for the hour past. but, now that it was recalled, it engaged his mind with redoubled force. could he be assured that it was a red-man who had fired the shot, the most unpleasant apprehension would be dissipated; but a suspicion _would_ haunt him, in spite of himself, that it was not a red-man, but a white, who had thus signified his hostility. the rolling of the stones must have been simply to call his attention, and the rifle-shot was intended for nothing more than to signify that he was an enemy. and who could this enemy be? if a hunter or an adventurer, would he not naturally have looked upon any of his own race, whom he encountered in the wilderness, as his friends, and have hastened to welcome them? what could have been more desirable than to unite with them in a country where whites were so scarce, and almost unknown? was it not contrary to all reason to suppose that a hermit or misanthrope would have penetrated thus far to avoid his brother man, and would have broken his own solitude by thus betraying his presence? such and similar were the questions harvey richter asked himself again and again, and to all he was able to return an answer. he had decided who this strange being might possibly be. if it was the person suspected, it was one whom he had met more frequently than he wished, and he prayed that he might never encounter him again in this world. the certainty that the man had dogged him to this remote spot in the west; that he had patiently plodded after the travelers for many a day and night; that even the trackless river had not sufficed to place distance between them; that, undoubtedly, like some wild beast in his lair, he had watched richter and his companions as they sat or slumbered near their camp-fire--these, we may well surmise, served to render the missionary for the moment excessively uncomfortable, and to dull the roseate hues in which he had drawn the future. the termination of this train of thought was the sudden suspicion that this very being was at that moment in close proximity. unconsciously, harvey rose to the sitting position and looked around, half expecting to descry the too well remembered figure. "supper is waiting, and so is our appetites, be the same token in your stomachs that is in mine. how bees it with yourself, mistress cora?" the young wife had risen to her feet, and the husband was in the act of doing the same, when the sharp crack of a rifle broke the stillness, and harvey plainly heard and felt the whiz of the bullet as it passed before his eyes. "to the devil wid yer nonsense!" shouted teddy, furiously springing forward, and glaring around him in search of the author of the well-nigh fatal shot. deciding upon the quarter whence it came, he seized his ever-ready rifle, which he had learned to manage with much skill, dashed off at the top of his speed, not heeding the commands of his master, nor the appeals of mrs. richter to return. guided only by his blind rage, it happened, in this instance, that the irishman proceeded directly toward the spot where the hunter had concealed himself, and came so very near that the latter was compelled to rise to his feet to escape being trampled upon. teddy caught the outlines of a tall form tearing hurriedly through the wood, as if in terror of being caught, and he bent all his energies toward overtaking him. the gloom of the night, that had now fairly descended, and the peculiar topography of the ground, made it an exceedingly difficult matter for both to keep their feet. the fugitive, catching in some obstruction, was thrown flat upon his face, but quickly recovered himself. teddy, with a shout of exultation, sprung forward, confident that he had secured their persecutor at last, but the irishman was caught by the same obstacle and "floored" even more completely than his enemy. "bad luck to it!" he exclaimed, frantically scrambling to his feet, "but it has knocked me deaf and dumb. i'll have ye, owld haythen, yit, or me name isn't teddy mcfadden, from limerick downs." teddy's fall had given the fugitive quite an advantage, and as he was fully as fleet of foot as the irishman, the latter was unable to regain his lost ground. still, it wasn't in his nature to give in, and he dashed forward as determinedly as ever. to his unutterable chagrin, however, it was not long before he realized that the footsteps of his enemy were gradually becoming more distant. his rage grew with his adversary's gradual escape, and he would have pursued had he been certain of rushing into destruction itself. all at once he made a second fall, and, instead of recovering, went headlong down into a gully, fully a dozen feet in depth. teddy, stunned by his heavy fall, lay insensible for some fifteen or twenty minutes. he returned to consciousness with a ringing sensation in his ears, and it was some time before he could recall all the circumstances of his predicament. gradually the facts dawned upon him, and he listened. everything was oppressively still. he heard not the voice of his master, and not even the sound of any of the denizens of the wood. his first movement was to feel for his rifle, which he had brought with him in his descent, and which he found close at hand. in the act of rising, he caught the sound of a footstep, and saw, at the same instant, the outlines of a person that he knew at once could be no other than the man whom he had been pursuing. the hunter was about a dozen feet distant, and seemed perfectly aware of the irishman's presence, for he stood with folded arms, facing his pursuer. the darkness prevented teddy's discovering anything more than his enemy's outline but this was enough for a shot to do its work. teddy cautiously brought his rifle to his shoulder, and lifted the hammer. pointing it at the breast of his adversary, so as to be sure of his aim, he pulled the trigger, but there was no response. the gun either was unloaded, or had been injured by its rough usage. the dull click of the lock reached the ear of the target, who asked, in a low, gruff voice: "why do _you_ seek me? you and i have no quarrel." "a purty question, ye murtherin' haythen! i'll settle with yees, if yees only come down here like a man. jist play the wolf and belave me a sheep, and come down here for your supper." [illustration: "a purty question, ye murtherin haythen!"] "my quarrel is not with you, i tell you, but with your psalm-singing _master_--" "and ain't that _meself_?" interrupted teddy. "what's mine is his, and what's his is mine, and what's me is both, and what's both is me, barring neither one is my own, but all belong to master harvey, and miss cora, god bless their souls. don't talk of quarreling wid _him_ and being friendly to _me_, ye murtherin' spalpeen! jist come down here a bit, i say, if ye's got a spick of honor in yer rusty shirt." "my ill-will is not toward you, although, i repeat, if you step in my way you may find it a dangerous matter. you think i tried to shoot you, but you are mistaken. do you suppose i could have come as near and _missed_ without doing so on _purpose_? to-night i could have brought you and your master, or his wife, and sent you all out of the world in a twinkling. i've roamed the woods too long to miscarry at a dozen yards." teddy began to realize that the man told the truth, yet it cannot be said that his anger was abated, although a strong curiosity mingled with it. "and what's yer raison for acting in that shtyle, to as good a man as iver asked god's blessing on a sunny morning, and who wouldn't tread on one of yer corns, that is, if yer big feet isn't all corns, like a toad's back, as i suspict, from the manner in which ye leaps over the ground." "_he_ knows who i am, and he knows he has given me good cause to remind him of my existence. _he_ can tell you, if he chooses; i shall not. but let yourself and him take warning from what you already know." "and be the same token, let yourself be taking warning. as sure as i'm the ninth son of the seventh mother, i'll--" the hunter was gone! chapter ii. the adventures of a night. the echoing rock, the rushing flood, the cataract's swell, the moaning wood; the undefined and mingled hums-- voice of the desert never dumb! all these have left within this heart a feeling tongue can ne'er impart; a wildered and unearthly flame, a something that's without a name.--ettrick shepherd. with extreme difficulty, teddy made his way out of the ravine into which purposely he had been led by the hunter. he was full of aches and pains when he attempted to walk, and more than once was compelled to halt to ease his bruised limbs. as he painfully made his way back to the camp he did a vast deal of cogitation. when in extreme pain of body, produced by a mishap intentionally conceived by another, it is but following the natural law of cause and effect to feel a certain degree of exasperation toward the evil-doer; and, as the irishman at every step experienced a sharp twinge that ofttimes made him cry out, his ejaculations were neither conceived in charity nor uttered in good-will toward all men. still, he pondered deeply upon what the hunter had said, and was perplexed to know what could possibly be its meaning. the simple nature of the irishman was unable to fathom the mystery. he could not have believed even had harvey richter himself confessed to having perpetrated a crime or a wrong, that the minister had been guilty of anything sufficient to give cause of enmity. the strange hunter whom they had unexpectedly encountered several times, must be some crack-brained adventurer, the victim of a fancied wrong, who, most likely, had mistaken harvey richter for another person. what could be the object in firing at the missionary, yet taking pains that no harm should be inflicted? that was another impenetrable mystery; but, let it be comprehensible or not, the wrathful servitor inwardly vowed that, if the man crossed the path of himself or his master again, and the opportunity offered, he should shoot him down as he would a wild animal. in the midst of his absorbing reverie, teddy suddenly paused and looked around him. he was lost. shrewd enough to understand that to attempt to extricate himself would only lead into a greater entanglement, from which it might not be possible to escape at all, he wisely concluded to remain where he was until daylight. gathering a few twigs and leaves, with his well-stored "punk-box" he soon started a small fire, by the light of which he collected a sufficient quantity of fuel to last until morning. few scenes of nature are more impressive than a forest at night. that low deep roar, born of silence itself--the sad sighing of the wind--the tall, column-like trunks, resembling huge sentinels keeping guard over the mysteries of ages--the silent sea of foliage overhead, that seems to shut in a world of its own--all have an influence, peculiar, irresistible and sublime. the picket upon duty is a prey to many an imaginary danger. the rustling of a leaf, the crackling of a twig, the flitting shadows of the ever-changing clouds, are made to assume the guise of a foe, endeavoring to steal upon him unawares. again and again teddy was certain he heard the stealthy tread of the strange hunter, or some prowling indian, and his heart throbbed violently at the expected encounter. then, as the sound ceased, a sense of his utter loneliness came over him, and he pined for his old home in the states, which he had so lately left. a tremulous wail, which came faintly through the silence of the boundless woods, reminded him that there were other inhabitants of the solitude besides human beings. at such times, he drew nearer to the fire, as a child would draw near to a friend to shun an imaginary danger. but, finally the drowsy god asserted himself, and the watcher passed off into a deep slumber. his last recollection was a dim consciousness of hearing the tread of something near the camp-fire. but his stupor was so great that he had not the inclination to arouse himself, and with his face buried in the leaves of his bushy couch, he quickly lost cognizance of all things, and floated off into the illimitable realms of sleep--sleep, the sister of death. he came out of his heavy slumber from feeling something snuffing and clawing at his shoulder. he was wide awake at once, and all his faculties, even to his anger, were aroused. "git out, ye owld sarpent!" he shouted, springing to his feet. "git out, or i'll smash yer head the same as i smashed the assassin's, barring i didn't do it!" the affrighted animal leaped back several yards, as lightly as a shadow. teddy caught only a glimpse of the beast, but could plainly detect the phosphorescent glitter of his angry eyes, that watched every movement. the irishman's first proceeding was to replenish the fire. this kept the creature at a safe distance, although he began trotting around and around, as if to seek some unguarded loophole through which to compass the destruction of the man who had thus invaded his dominions. the tread of the animal resembled the rattling of raindrops upon the leaves, while its silence, its gliding motion, convinced the inexperienced irishman of the brute's exceedingly dangerous character. his rifle was too much injured to be of use and he could therefore only keep his precocious foe at a safe distance by piling on fuel until the camp-fire burned defiantly. there was no more sleep for teddy that night. he had received too great a shock, and the impending danger was too imminent for him to do any thing but watch, so long as darkness and the animal remained. several times he thought there was evidence of the presence of another beast, but he failed to discover it, and finally believed he had been mistaken. it was a tiresome and lonely occupation, this incessant watching, and teddy had recourse to several expedients to while away the weary hours. the first and most natural was that of singing. he trolled forth every song that he could recall to remembrance, and it may be truly said that he awoke echoes in those forest-aisles never before heard there. as in the pauses he heard the volume of sound that seemed quivering and swaying among the tree-trunks, like the confined air in an organ, he was awed into silence. "whist, ye son of patrick mcfadden; don't ye hear the responses all around ye, as if the spirits were in the organ loft, thinkin' ye a praist and thimselves the choir-boys. i belaves, by me sowl, that ivery tree has got a tongue, for hear how they whispers and mutters. niver did i hear the likes. no more singin', teddy my darlint, to sich an audience." he thereupon relapsed into silence, but it was only momentary. he suddenly looked out into the darkness which shrouded the still watchful beast from sight, and exclaimed: "ye owld shivering assassin, out there, did yees ever hear till how tom o'reilly got his wife? yees never did, eh? well, then, be aisy now, and i'll give yees the truths of the matter. "tom was a great, rollicking boy, that had an eye gouged out at the widow mulloney's wake, and an ugly cut that made his mouth six inches wide: and, before he got the cut, it was as broad as yer own out there. besides, his hair being of a fire's own red, you may safely say that he was not the most beautiful young man in limerick, and that there wasn't many gals that were dying of a broken heart for the same tom. "but tom thought a mighty sight of the gals and a great deal more of kitty mcguire, that lived close by the brook as yees come a mile or two out of this side of limerick. tom was possessed after that same gal, and it only made him the more determined when he found that kitty didn't like him at all. he towld the boys he was bound to have her, and any one who said he wasn't would get his head broke. "there was a little orphan girl, whose father had gone to ameriky and whose mother was dead, that was found one night, years before, in front of old mrs. mcguire's door. she was about the same age as kitty, and the owld woman took her out of kindness and brought them up together. she got to be jist as ugly a looking a gal as tom was a man. her hair was redder than his, and her face was just that freckled that yees couldn't tell which was the freckle and which was the skin itself. and her nose had a twist, on the ind of it, that made one think it had been made for a corkscrew, or some machine that you bore holes with. "this gal, molly mulligan, used to encourage tom to come to the house, and was always so mighty kind to him that he used to kiss and shpark her by way of compinsating her for her trouble. she used to take this all _very_ well, for she was a great admirer of tom's, and always spoke his praise. but tom didn't make much headway with kitty. it wasn't often that he could saa her, and when he did; she was mighty offish, and was sure to have the owld woman present, like a dumb-waiter, to be sure. she come to tell him at length that she didn't admire his coming, and that he would greatly plaise her if he would make his visits by staying away altogether. the next time tom went he found the door locked, and, after hammering a half-hour, and being towld there was no admittance, he belaved it was meant as a kind hint that his company was not agreeable. be yees listening, ye riptile? "tom might have stood it very well, if another chap hadn't begun calling on kitty about this time. he used to go airly in the evening, and not come out of the house till after midnight, so that one might belave his visits were welcome. this made tom feel mighty bad, and so he hid behind the wall and waylaid the chap one night. he would have killed the chap, his timper was so ruffled, if the man hadn't nearly killed him afore he had the chance. he laid all night in the gutter, and was just able to crawl home next day, while the fellow went a-courting the next night, as if nothing had happened. "tom begun to git melancholy, and his mouth didn't appear quite as broad as usual. molly mulligan thought he had taken slow poison and it was gradually working through his system; but he could ate his pick of praties the same as iver. but tom felt mighty bad; that fact can't be denied, and he went frequently to consult with a praist that lived near this ind of limerick, and who was knowed to cut up a trick or two during his lifetime. when tom came out one day looking bright and cheery, iverybody belaved they had been conspiring togither, and had hit on some thavish trick they was to play on little kitty mcguire. "when the moon was bright, kitty used to walk to limerick and back again of an evening. her beau most likely went with her, but sometimes she preferred to go alone, as she knowed no one would hurt a bonny little gal as herself. tom knowed of these doings, as in days gone by he had jined her once or twice. so one night he put a white sheet around him as she was coming back from limerick, and hid under the little bridge over the brook. it was gitting quite late, and the moon was just gone down, so, when she stepped on the bridge, and he came out afore her, she gave one shriek, and like to have fainted intirely. "'make no noise, or i'll ate ye up alive,' said tom, trying to talk like a ghost. "'what isht yees want?' she asked, shaking like a leaf, 'and who are yees?' "'i'm a shpirit, come to warn ye of your ill-doings.' "'i know i'm a great sinner,' she cried, covering her face with her hands; 'but i try to do as well as i can.' "'do you know tom o'reilly?' he asked, loud enough to be heard in limerick. 'you have treated him ill.' "'that i know i have,' she sobbed, 'and how can i do him justice?' "'he loves you.' "'i know he does!' "'he is a shplendid man, and will make a much bitter husband than the spalpeen that ye now looks on with favor.' "'shall i make him my husband?' "'yis; if ye wish to save yourself from purgatory. if the other man marries yees, he'll murder yees the same night.' "'oh!' shrieked the gal, as if she'd go down upon the ground, 'and how shall i save meself?' "'by marrying tom o'reilly.' "'is that the only way?' "'ay. does yees consint?' "'i do; i must do poor tom justice.' "'will ye marry him this same night?' "'that i will.' "'tom is hid under this bridge; i'll go down and bring him up, and he'll go to the praist's with yees. don't ye shtir or i'll ate yees.' "so tom whisked under the ind of the bridge, slipped off the sheet, all the time kaaping one eye cocked above to saa that kitty didn't give him the shlip. he then came up and spoke very smilingly to the gal, as though he hadn't seen her afore that night. he didn't think that his voice was jist the same. "kitty didn't say much, but she walked very quiet by his side, till they came to the praist's house at this ind of limerick. the owld fellow must have been expecting him, for before he could knock, he opened the door and let him in. the praist didn't wait long, and in five minutes he towld them they were man and wife, and nothing but death could iver make them different. tom gave a regular yell that made the windys rattle, for he couldn't kaap his faalings down. he then threw his arms around his wife, gave her another hug, and then dropped her like a hot potato. for instead of being kitty mcguire, it was molly mulligan! the owld praist wasn't so bad after all. he had told kitty and molly of tom's plans, and they had fixed the matter atween thim. "wal, the praist laughed, and tom looked melancholier than iver; but purty soon he laughed too, and took the praist's advice to make the bist of the bargain. whisht!" teddy paused abruptly, for he heard a prolonged but faint halloo. it was, evidently, the call of his master, and indicated the direction of the camp. he replied at once, and without thinking one moment of the prowling brute which might be upon him instantly, he passed beyond the protecting circle of his fire, and dashed off at top of his speed through the woods, and ere long reached the camp-fire of his friends. as he came in, he observed that mrs. richter still was asleep beneath the canoe, while her husband stood watching beside her. teddy had determined to conceal the particulars of the conversation he had held with the officious hunter, but he related the facts of his pursuit and mishap, and of his futile attempt to make his way back to camp. after this, the two seated themselves by the fire, and the missionary was soon asleep. the adventures of the night, however, affected teddy's nerves too much for him even to doze, and he therefore maintained an unremitting watch until morning. at an early hour, our friends were astir, and at once launched forth upon the river. they noted a broadening of the stream and weakening of the current, and at intervals they came upon long stretches of prairie. the canoe glided closely along, where they could look down into the clear depths of the water, and discover the pebbles glistening upon the bottom. under a point of land, where the stream made an eddy, they halted, and with their fishing-lines, soon secured a breakfast which the daintiest gourmand might have envied. they were upon the point of landing so as to kindle a fire, when mr. richter spoke: "do you notice that large island in the stream, cora? would you not prefer that as a landing-place?" "i think i should." "teddy, we'll take our morning meal there." the powerful arms of the irishman sent the frail vessel swiftly over the water, and a moment later its prow touched the velvet shore of the island. under the skillful manipulations of the young wife, who insisted upon taking charge, their breakfast was quickly prepared, and, one might say, almost as quickly eaten. they had now advanced so far to the northward that all felt an anxiety to reach their destination. accordingly no time was lost in the ascent of the stream. the exhilarating influence of a clear spring morning in the forest, is impossible to resist. the mirror-like sparkle of the water that sweeps beneath the light canoe, or glitters in the dew-drops upon the ashen blade; the golden blaze of sunshine streaming up in the heavens; the dewy woods, flecked here and there by the blossoms of some wild fruit or flower; the cool air beneath the gigantic arms all a-flutter with the warbling music of birds; all conjoin to inspire a feeling which carries us back to boyhood again--to make us young once more. as richter sat in the canoe's stern, and drank in the influence of the scene, his heart rose within him, and he could scarcely refrain from shouting. his wife, also, seemed to partake of this buoyancy, for her eyes fairly sparkled as he glanced from side to side. all at once teddy ceased paddling and pointed to the left shore. following the direction of his finger, richter saw, standing upon the bank in full view, the tall, spare figure of the strange hunter. he seemed occupied in watching them, and was as motionless as the tree-trunks behind him--so motionless, indeed, that it required a second scrutiny to prove that it really was not an inanimate object. the intensity of his observation prevented him from observing that teddy had raised his rifle from the canoe. he caught the click of the lock, however, and spoke in a sharp tone: "teddy, don't you dare to--" his remaining words were drowned in the sharp crack of the piece. "it's only to frighten him jist, master harvey. it'll sarve the good purpose of giving him the idee we ain't afeard, and if he continues his thaiving tricks, he is to be shot at sight, as a shaap-stalin' dog, that he is, to be sure." "you've hit him!" said his master, as he observed the hunter leap into the woods. "thank the lord for that, for it was an accident, and he'll l'arn we've rifles as well as himself. it's mighty little harm, howiver, is done him, if he can travel in that gay style." "i am displeased, for your shot might have taken his life, and--but, see yonder, teddy, what does that mean?" close under the opposite bank, and several hundred yards above them was discernible a long canoe, in which was seated at least a dozen indians. they were coming slowly down-stream, and gradually working their way into the center of the river. teddy surveyed them a moment and said: "that means they're after us. is it run or fight?" "neither; they are undoubtedly from the village, and we may as well meet them here as there. what think you, dear wife?" "let us join them, by all means, at once." all doubts were soon removed, when the canoe was headed directly toward them, and under the propulsion of the many skillful arms, it came like a bird over the surface of the waters. a few rods away its speed was slackened, and, before approaching closer, it made a circuit around the voyageurs' canoe, as if the warriors were anxious to assure themselves there was no decoy or design in this unresisting surrender. evidently satisfied that it was a _bona fide_ affair, the indians swept up beside our friends, and one of the warriors, stretching out his hands, said: "gib guns me--gib guns." "begorrah, but it would be mighty plaisant to us, if it would be all the same to yees, if ye'd be clever enough to let us retain possission of 'em," said teddy, hesitating about complying with the demand. "they might do ye some injury, ye know, and besides, i didn't propose to--" "let them have them," said richter. the irishman reluctantly obeyed, and while he passed his rifle over with his left hand, he doubled up his right, shaking it under the savage's nose. "ye've got me gun, ye old log of walnut, but ye hain't got me fists, begorrah, but, by the powers, ye shall have them some of these fine mornings whin yer eyes want opening." "teddy, be silent!" sharply commanded the missionary. but the indians, understanding the significance of the irishman's gestures, only smiled at them, and the chief who had taken his gun, nodded his head, as much as to say he, too, would enjoy a fisticuff. when the whites were defenseless, one of the savages vaulted lightly into their canoe, and took possession of the paddle. "i'm highly oblaiged to ye," grinned teddy, "for me arms have been waxin' tired ever sin' i l'arned the injin way of driving a canoe through the water. when ye gets out o' breath jist ax another red-skin to try his hand, while i boss the job." the canoes were pulled rapidly up-stream. this settled that the whites were being carried to the village which was their original destination. both harvey and his wife were rather pleased than otherwise with this, although the missionary would have preferred an interview or conversation in order to make himself and intentions known. he was surprised at the knowledge they displayed of the english language. he overheard words exchanged between them which were as easy to understand as much of teddy's talk. they must be, therefore, in frequent communication with white men. their location was so far north that, as richter plausibly inferred, they were extensive dealers in furs and peltries, which must be disposed of to traders and the agents of the american fur and hudson bay companies. the selkirk or red river settlement also, must be at an easily accessible distance. it may seem strange that it never occurred to the captives that the savages might do them harm. in fact, nothing but violence itself would have convinced the missionary that such was contemplated. he had yielded himself, heart and soul, to his work; he felt an inward conviction that he was to accomplish great good. trials and sufferings of all imaginable kinds he expected to undergo, but his life was to be spared until the work was accomplished. of that he never experienced a moment's doubt. our readers will bear in mind that the period of which we write, although but a little more than forty years since, was when the territory west of the mississippi was almost entirely unknown. trappers, hunters and fur-traders in occasional instances, penetrated into the heart of the mighty solitude. lewis and clarke had made their expedition to the head-waters of the columbia, but the result of all these visits, to the civilized world, was much the same as that of the adventurers who have penetrated into the interior of africa. it was known that on the northwest dwelt the warlike blackfeet, the implacable foes of every white man. there, also, dwelt other tribes, who seemed resolved that none but their own race should dwell upon that soil. again, there were others with whom little difficulty was experienced in bartering and trading, to the great profit of the adventurous whites, and the satisfaction of the savages; still, the shrewd traders knew better than to trust to indian magnanimity or honor. their reliance under heaven, was their tact in managing the savages, and their own goodly rifles and strong arms. the sioux were among the latter class, and with them it was destined that the lot of harvey richter and his wife should be cast. the indian village was reached in the course of a couple of hours. it was found to be much larger than richter could have anticipated. the missionary soon made known his character and wishes. this secured an audience with the leading chief, when harvey explained his mission, and asked permission for himself and companions to settle among them. with the ludicrous dignity so characteristic of his people, the chief deferred his reply until the following day, at which time he gave consent, his manner being such as to indicate that he was rather unwilling than otherwise. that same afternoon, the missionary collected the dusky children of the forest together and preached to them, as best he could, through the assistance of a rude interpreter. he was listened to respectfully by the majority, among whom were several whom he inferred already had heard the word of life. there were others, however, to whom the ceremony was manifestly distasteful. the hopeful minister felt that his master had directed him to this spot, and that now his real life-work had begun. chapter iii. the jug acquaintances. with that dull, callous, rooted impudence, which, dead to shame and every nicer sense, ne'er blushed, unless, when spreading vice's snares, he stumbled on some virtue unawares.--churchill. a year has passed since the events recorded in the preceding pages, and it is summer again. far up, beside one of those tributaries of the mississippi, in the western portion of what is now the state of minnesota, stands a small cabin, such as the early settlers in new countries build for themselves. about a quarter of a mile further up the stream is a large sioux village, separated from the hut by a stretch of woods through which runs a well-worn footpath. this arrangement the young missionary, harvey richter, preferred rather than to dwell in the indian village. while laboring with all his heart and soul to regulate these degraded people, and while willing to make their troubles and afflictions his own, he still desired a seclusion where his domestic cares and enjoyments were safe from constant interruption. this explains why his cabin had been erected at such a distance from his people. every day, no matter what might be the weather, the missionary visited the village, and each sabbath afternoon, when possible, service was held. this was almost invariably attended by the entire population, who now listened attentively to what was uttered, and often sought to follow the counsels uttered by the good man. a year's residence had sufficed to win the respect and confidence of the indians, and to convince the faithful servant that the seed he had sown was already springing up and bearing fruit. about a mile from the river, in a dense portion of the wood, are seated two persons, in friendly converse. but a glance would be required to reveal that one of these was our old friend teddy, in the most jovial and communicative of moods. the other, painted and bedaubed until his features were scarcely recognizable, and attired in the gaudy indian apparel, sufficiently explains his identity. a small jug sitting between them, and which is frequently carried to the mouth of each, may disclose why, on this particular morning, they seemed on such confidential terms. the sad truth was that the greatest drawback to harvey richter's ministrations was his own servant teddy. the indians could not understand why he who lived constantly with the missionary, should be so careless and reckless, and should remain "without the fold," when the good man exhorted them in such earnest language to become christians. it was incomprehensible to their minds, and served to fill more than one with a suspicion that all was not what it should be. harvey had spent many an hour with teddy, in earnest, prayerful expostulation, but, thus far, to no purpose. for six months after the advent of the missionary and his wife, nothing had been seen or heard of the strange hunter, when, one cold winter's morning, as the former was returning from the village through the path, a rifle was discharged, and the bullet whizzed within an inch or two of his eyes. he might have believed it to be one of the indians, had he not secured a fair look at the man as he ran away. he said nothing of it to his wife or teddy, although it occasioned him much trouble and anxiety of mind. a month or two later, when teddy was hunting in the woods, and had paused a moment for rest, a gun was discharged at him, from a thick mass of undergrowth. certain that the unknown hunter was at hand, he dashed in as before, determined to bring the transgressor to a personal account. teddy could hear him fleeing, and saw the agitation of the undergrowth, but did not catch even a glimpse of his game. while prosecuting the search, teddy suddenly encountered an indian, staggering along with a jug in his hand. the savage manifested a friendly disposition, and the two were soon seated upon the ground, discussing the fiery contents of the vessel and exchanging vows of eternal friendship. when they separated it was with the understanding that they were to meet again in a couple of days. both kept the appointment, and since that unlucky day they had encountered quite frequently. where the indian obtained the liquor was a mystery, but it was an attraction that never failed to draw teddy forth into the forest. the effect of alcoholic stimulants upon persons is as various as are their temperaments. the american indian almost always becomes sullen, vindictive and dangerous. now and then there is an exception, as was the case with the new-made friend of teddy. both were affected in precisely a similar manner; both were jolly. "begorrah, but yees are a fine owld gintleman, if yer face does look like a paint-jug, and ye isn't able to lay claim to one-half the beauty meself possesses. that ye be," said teddy, a few moments after they had seated themselves, and before either had been affected by the poisonous liquid. "i loves you!" said the savage, betraying in his manner of speech a remarkable knowledge of the english language. "i think of you when i sleep--i think of you when i open my eyes--i think of you all the time." "much obleeged; it's meself that thinks and meditates upon your beauty and loving qualities all the time, barring that in which i thinks of something else, which is about all the time--all the same to yer honor." "loves you very much," repeated the savage; "love mister harvey, too, and miss harvey." "then why doesn't ye come to hear him preach, ye rose of the wilderness?" "don't like preaching." "did yees ever hear him?" "neber hear him." "yer oughter come; and that minds me i've never saan ye around the village, for which i axes yees the raison?" "me ain't sioux--don't like 'em." "whinever yees are discommoded with this jug, p'raps it wouldn't be well for yees to cultivate the acquaintance of any one except meself, for they might be dispoused to relave yees of the article, when yees are well aware it's an aisy matter for us to do that ourselves. where does yees get the jug?" [illustration: "where does yees get the jug?"] "had him good while." "i know; but the contents i mean. where is it ye secures the vallyble contents?" "me get 'em," was the intelligent reply.. "that's what i've been supposing, that yees was gitting more nor your share; so here's to prevint," remarked teddy, as he inverted the jug above his head. "now, me butternut friend, what 'bjections have yees to that?" "all right--all be good--like miss harvey?" teddy stared at the savage, as if he failed to take in his question. "like miss harvey--good man's squaw--t'ink she be good woman?" "the loveliest that iver trod the airth--bless her swate soul. she niver has shpoken a cross word to teddy, for all he's the biggest scamp that iver brought tears to her eyes. if there be any thing that has nigh fotched this ould shiner to his marrowbones it was to see something glistening in her eyes," said the irishman, as he wiped his own. "god bliss miss cora," he added, in the same manner of speech that he had been wont to use before she became a wife. "she might make any man glad to come and live alone in the wilderness wid her. it's meself that ought to be ashamed to come away and l'ave her alone by herself, though i thinks even a wild baste would not harm a hair of her blissid head. if it wasn't for this owld whisky-jug i wouldn't be l'aving her," said teddy, indignantly. "how be 'lone?--mister harvey dere." "no, he isn't, by a jug-full--barring the jug must be well-nigh empty, and the divil save the jug, inny-how; but not until it's impty." "where mr. harvey go, if not in cabin?" asked the savage, betraying a suspicious eagerness that would have been observed by teddy upon any other occasion. "to the village, that he may preach and hould converse wid 'em. i allers used to stay at home when he's gone, for fear that owld thaif of a hunter might break into the pantry and shtail our wines--that is, if we had any, which we haven't. blast his sowl--that hunter i mane, an' if iver i cotch him, may i be used for a flail if i don't settle _his_ accounts." "when mister harvey go to village?" "whin he plaises, which is always in the afternoon, whin his dinner has had a fair chance to sittle. does ye take him for a michanic, who goes to work as soon as he swallows his bread and mate?" said the irishman, with official dignity. "why you not stay with squaw?" "that's the raison," replied teddy, imbibing from the vessel beside him. "but you will plaise not call miss cora a _shquaw_ any more. if ye does, it will be at the imminent risk of havin' this jug smashed over yer head, afther the whisky is all gone, which it very soon will be if a plug isn't put into your mouth." "nice woman--_much_ good." "you may well say that, mister copperskin, and say nothing else. and it's a fine man is mister harvey, barring he runs me purty close once in a while on the moral quishtion. i'm afeard i shall have to knock under soon. if i could but slay that thaif of a hunter that has been poking around here, i think i could go the christian aisy; but whin i thinks of _that_ man, i faals like the divil himself. they's no use tryin' to be pious whin _he's_ around; so pass the jug if ye don't mane to fight meself." "he bad man--much bad," said the savage, who had received an account of him from his companion. "i promised master harvey not to shoot the villain, excipt it might be to save his life or me own; but i belave if i had the chance, i'd jist conveniently _forgit_ me promise, and let me gun go off by accident. st. pathrick! _wouldn't_ i like to have a shindy wid the sn'akin, mean, skulkin' assassin!" "does he want kill you?" "arrah, be aisy now; isn't it me master he's after, and what's the difference? barring i would rather it was meself, that i might sittle it gintaaly wid him;" and teddy, "squaring" himself, began to make threatening motions at the indian's head. "bad man--why not like mr. harvey?" said the savage, paying no attention to teddy's demonstrations. "there yees has me. there's something atween 'em, though what it might be none but mr. harvey himself knows, less it mought be the misthress, that i don't belave knows a word on it. but what is it yer business, mr. mahogany?" "mebbe mr. harvey hurt him some time--do bad with him," added the indian, betraying an evident interest in the subject. "begorrah, if yees can't talk better sinse nor that, ye'd bist put a stopper on yer blab. the idaa of me master harming any one is too imposterous to be intertained by a fraa and inlightened people--a fraa and inlightened people, as i used to spell out in the newspapers at home. but whisht! ye are a savage, as don't know anything about fourth of july, an' all the other affections of the people." "you dunno what mebbe he done." "do ye know?" asked teddy, indignantly. "nebber know what he do--how me know?" "thin what does ye mane by talking in that shtyle? i warns ye, there's some things that can't be passed atween us and that is one of 'em. if ye wants to fight, jist you say that again. i'm aching for a shindy anyhow: so now s'pose ye jist say that again." and teddy began to show unmistakable signs of getting ready. "sorry--didn't mean--feel bad." "oh blarney! why didn't ye stick to it, and jist give me a chance to express meself? but all's right; only, be careful and don't say anything like it again, that's all. pass along the jug, to wash me timper down, ye know." by this time teddy's ideas were beginning to be confused, and his manner maudlin. he had imbibed freely, and was paying the consequences. the savage, however, had scarcely taken a swallow, although he had made as if to do so several times. his actions would have led an inexperienced person to think that he was under the influence of liquor; but he was sober, and his conduct was feigned, evidently, for some purpose of his own. teddy grew boisterous, and insisted on constantly shaking hands and renewing his pledges of eternal friendship to the savage, who received and responded to them in turn. finally, he squinted toward the westering sun. "i told mr. harvey, when i left, i was going to hunt, and if i expects to return to-day, i thinks, mr. black walnut, we should be on our way. the jug is intirely impty, so there is no occasion for us to remain longer." "dat so--me leave him here." "now let's shake hands agin afore we rise." the shaking of hands was all an excuse for teddy to receive assistance in rising to his feet. he balanced himself a moment, and stared around him, with that aimless, blinking stare peculiar to a drunken man. "me honey, isn't there an airthquake agitatin' this solitude?" he asked, steadying himself against a sapling, "or am i standing on a jug?" "dunno--mebbe woods shake--feel him a little--earth must be sick," said the savage, feigning an unsteadiness of the head. "begorrah, but it's ourselves that's the sickest," laughed teddy, fully sensible of his sad condition. "it'll niver do to return to master harvey in _this_ shtyle. there'd be a committee of investigation appointed on the spot, an' i shouldn't pass muster excipt for a whisky-barrel, och hone!" "little sick--soon be well--then shoot." "i wonder now whether i could howld me gun straight enough to drop a buffler at ten paces. there sits a bird in that tree that is grinning at me. i'll t'ach him bitter manners." the gun was discharged, the bullet passing within a few inches of the head of the indian, who sprung back with a grunt. "a purty good shot," laughed teddy; "but it _would_ be rayther tiresome killing game, being i could only hit them as run behind me, and being i can't saa in that direction, i'll give over the idaa; and turn me undivided attention to fishing. ah, divil a bit of difference is it to the fish, whin a worm is on the right ind, whether a drunken man or a gintleman is at the other." the indian manifested a readiness to assist every project of the irishman, and he now advised him to fish by all means, urging that they should proceed to the river at once. but teddy insisted upon going to a small creek near at hand. the savage strongly demurred, but finally yielded, and the two set out, making their way somewhat after the fashion of a yoke of oxen. upon reaching the stream, teddy, instead of pausing upon the bank, continued walking on until he was splashing up to his waist in water. had it not been for the prompt assistance of the indian, the poor fellow most probably would have had his earthly career terminated. this incident partially sobered teddy, and made him ashamed of his condition. he saw the savage was by no means so far gone as himself, and he bewailed his foolishness in unmeasured terms. "who knows but master harvey has gone to the village, and miss cora stands in the door this minute, 'xpacting this owld spalpaan?" "no go till arternoon," said the savage. "what time might it be jist now?" "'tain't noon yit--soon be--bimeby." "it's all the same; i shan't be fit to go home afore night, whin i might bist stay away altogether. and you, mr. copperskin, was the maans of gittin' me in this trouble." "_me_ make you drink him?" asked the savage. "you not ax for jug, eh? you not want him?" "yes, begorrah, it was me own fault. whisky is me waikness. its illigant perfume always sits me wild fur it. mister harvey was belaving, whin he brought me here, that i wouldn't be drinking any of the vile stuff, for the good rais'n that i couldn't git none; but, what'll he say now? niver was i drunker at donnybrook, and only once, an' that was at me father's fourteenth weddin'." "don't want more?" "no!" thundered teddy. "i hope i may niver see nor taste another drop so long as i live. i here asserts me ancient honor agin, an' i defy the jug, ye spalpeen of a barbarian what knows no better." teddy's reassertion of dignity was very ludicrous, for a tree had to support him as he spoke; but he evidently was in earnest. "neber gib it--if don't want it." "they say an indian never will tell a lie to a friend," said teddy, dropping his voice as if speaking to himself. "do you ever lie, mr. what's-your-name?" "no," replied the savage, thereby uttering an unmitigated falsehood. "you give me your promise, then, that ye'll niver furnish me anither drap?" "yis." "give me yer hand." the two shook hands, teddy's face, despite its vacant expression, lighting up for the time with a look of delight. "now i'll fish," said teddy. "p'raps it is best that ye l'ave these parts; not that i intertains inmity or bad-will toward you, but thin ye know----hello! yees are gone already, bees you?" the indian had departed, and teddy turned his attention toward securing the bait. in a few moments he had cast the line out in the stream and was sound asleep, in which condition he remained until night set in. chapter iv. an ominous rencounter. "i will work him to an exploit now rich in my device, under the which he shall not choose but fall." the sun passed the meridian, on that summer day in and harvey richter, the young missionary, came to the door of his cabin, intending to set forth upon his walk to the indian village. it was rather early; the day was pleasant and as his wife followed him, he lingered awhile upon the steps, loth to leave a scene of such holy joy. the year which the two had spent in that wilderness had been one of almost unalloyed happiness. the savages, among whom they had come to labor, had received them more kindly than they deemed it right to anticipate, and had certified their esteem for them in numberless ways. the missionary felt that a blessing was upon his labor. an infant had been given them, and the little fellow brought nothing but gladness and sunlight into the household. ah! none but a father can tell how precious the blue-eyed image of his mother was to harvey richter; none but a mother can realize the yearning affection with which she bent over the sleeping cherub; and but few can enter into the rollicking pride of teddy over the little stranger. at times, his manifestations were fairly uproarious, and it became necessary to check them, or to send him further into the woods to relieve himself of his exuberant delight. harvey lingered upon the threshold, gazing dreamily away at the mildly-flowing river, or at the woods, through which for a considerable distance, he could trace the winding path which his own feet had worn. cora, his wife, stood beside him, looking smilingly down in his face, while her left hand toyed with a stray ringlet that would protrude itself from beneath her husband's cap. "cora, are you sorry that we came into this wild country?" the smile on her face grew more radiant, as she shook her head without speaking. she was in that pleasant, dreamy state, in which it seems an effort to speak--so much so that she avoided it until compelled to do so by some direct question. "you are perfectly contented--happy, are you?" again the same smile, as she answered in the affirmative by an inclination of the head. "you would not change it for a residence at home with your own people if you could?" the same sweet denial in pantomime. "do you not become lonely sometimes, cora, hundreds of miles away from the scenes of your childhood?" "have i not my husband and boy?" she asked, half reproachfully, as the tears welled up in her eyes. "can i ask more?" "i have feared sometimes, when i've been in the village, that perhaps you were lonely and sorrowful, and often i have hurried my footsteps that i might be with you a few moments sooner. when preaching and talking to the indians, my thoughts would wander away to you and the dear little fellow there. and what husband could prevent them?" said harvey, impulsively, as he drew his wife to him, and kissed her again and again. "you must think of the labor before you." "there is scarcely a moment of my life in which i don't, but it is impossible to keep you and him from my mind. i am sorry that i am compelled to leave you alone so often. it seems to me that teddy has acted in a singular manner of late. he is absent every afternoon. he says he goes hunting and yet he rarely, if ever, brings anything back with him." "yesterday he returned shortly after you left, and acted so oddly, i did not know what to make of him. he appeared very anxious to keep me at a distance, but once he came close enough for me to catch his breath, and if it did not reveal the fumes of liquor then i was never more mistaken in my life." "impossible! where could he obtain it?" "the question i asked myself and which i could not answer; nevertheless his manner and the evidence of his own breath proved it beyond all doubt to my mind. you have noticed how set he is every afternoon about going away in the woods. such was not his custom, and i think makes it certain some unusual attraction calls him forth." "what can it all mean?" asked the missionary of himself. "no; it cannot be that he brought any of the stuff with him and concealed it in the boat. it must have been discovered." "every article that came with us is in this house." "then some one must furnish him with it, and who now can it be?" "are there not some of your people who are addicted to the use of liquor?" "alas! there are too many who cannot withstand the tempter; but i never yet heard of an indian who knew how to _make_ it. it is only when they visit some of the ports, or the red river settlement, that they obtain it. or perhaps a trader may come this way, and bring it with him." "and could not teddy have obtained his of such a man?" "there has been none here since last autumn, and then those who visited the village had no liquor with them. they always come to the village first so that i could not avoid learning of their presence. let me see, he has been away since morning?" "yes; he promised an early return." "he will probably make his appearance in the course of an hour or so. watch him closely. i will be back sooner to-day, and we shall probe this matter to the bottom. good-by!" again he embraced his wife, and then strode rapidly across the clearing in the direction of the woods. his wife watched his form winding in and out among the trees, until it finally disappeared from view; and then, waiting a few moments longer, as if loth to withdraw her gaze from the spot where she had last seen him, she finally turned within the house to engage in her domestic duties. the thrifty housewife has seldom an idle moment on her hands, and cora passed hither and thither, performing the numerous little acts that were not much in themselves, but collectively were necessary, if not indispensable, in her household management. occasionally she paused and bent over her child, that lay sleeping on the bed, and like a fond mother, could not restrain herself from softly touching her lips to its own, although it was at the imminent risk of awaking it. an hour passed. she went to the door and looked out to see whether teddy was in sight; but the woods were as silent as if they contained no living thing. far away over the river, nearly opposite the indian village, she saw two canoes crossing the stream, resembling ordinary-sized water-birds in the distance. these, so in harmony with the lazy, sunshiny afternoon, were all that gave evidence that man had ever invaded this solitude. cora richter could but be cheerful, and, as she moved to and fro, she sung a hymn, one that was always her husband's favorite. she sung it unconsciously, from her very blithesomeness of spirits, not knowing she was making music which the birds themselves might have envied. all at once her ear caught the sound of a footstep, and confident that teddy had come, she turned her face toward the door to greet him. she uttered a slight scream, as she saw, instead of the honest hibernian, the form of a towering, painted savage, glaring in upon her. ordinarily such a visitor would have occasioned her no surprise or alarm. in fact, it was rare that a day passed without some indian visiting the cabin--either to consult with the missionary himself, or merely to rest a few moments. sometimes several called together, and it often happened that they came while none but the wife was at home. they were always treated kindly, and were respectful and pleased in turn. during the nights in winter, when the storm howled through the forest, a light burned at the missionary's window, and many a savage, who belonged often to a distant tribe, had knocked at the door and secured shelter until morning. ordinarily we say, then, the visit of an indian gave the young wife no alarm. but there was something in the appearance of this painted sinewy savage that filled her with dread. there was a treacherous look in his black eyes, and a sinister expression visible in spite of vermilion and ocher, that made her shrink from him, as she would have shrunk from some loathsome monster. as the reader may have surmised, he was no other than daffodil or mahogany, who had left teddy on purpose to visit the cabin, while both the servant and his master were absent. in spite of the precaution used, he had taken more liquor than he intended; and, as a consequence, was just in that reckless state of mind, when he would have hesitated at no deed, however heinous. from a jovial, good-natured indian, in the company of the hibernian, he was transformed into a sullen, vindictive savage in the presence of the gentle wife of harvey richter. he supported himself against the door and seemed undecided whether to enter or not. the alarm of cora richter was so excessive that she endeavored to conceal it. "what do you wish?" she asked. "where misser richter?" "gone to the village," she replied, bravely resolving that no lie should cross her lips if her life depended upon it. "when come back?" "in an hour or so perhaps." "where ted?" "he has gone hunting." "big lie--he drunk--don't know nothing--lay sleep on ground." "how do you know? did you see him?" "me gib him fire-water--much like it--drink good deal--tumble over like tree hain't got root." "did you ever give it him before?" asked the young wife, her curiosity supplanting her alarm for the moment. "gib him offin--gib him every day--much like it--drink much." again the wife's instinctive fear came back to her, and she endeavored to conceal it by a calm, unimpassioned exterior. "won't you come in and rest yourself until mr. richter returns?" "don't want to see him," replied the savage, sullenly. "who do you wish to see then?" "you--t'ink much of you." the wife felt as if she would sink to the floor. there was something in the tones of his voice that had alarmed her from the first. she was almost certain this savage intended rudeness, now that he knew the missionary himself was gone. she glanced up at the rifle which was hung above the fireplace. it was charged, and she had learned how to fire it since her marriage. several times she was on the point of springing up and seizing it and placing herself upon the defensive. her heart throbbed wildly at the thought, but she finally concluded to resort to such an act only at the last moment. she might still conciliate the indian by kindness, and after all, perhaps he meditated no harm or rudeness. "come and sit down then, and talk with me awhile," said she, as pleasantly as it was possible. the savage stumbled forward a few feet, and dropped into a seat, where he glared fully a minute straight into the face of the woman. this was the most trying ordeal of all, especially when she raised her own blue eyes, and addressed him. it seemed impossible to combat the fierce light of those orbs, although she bore their scrutiny like a heroine. he had seated himself near the door, but he was close enough for her to detect the fumes of the liquor he had drank, and she knew a savage was never so dangerous as when in a half-intoxicated condition. "have you come a long distance?" she asked. "good ways--live up north." "you are not a sioux, then?" "no--don't like sioux--bad people." "why do you come in their neighborhood--in their country?" "'cause i want to--_come see you_." "you must come again--" at this juncture, the child in the cradle awoke and began crying. the face of the savage assumed an expression of ferocity, and he said, abruptly: "stop noise--me tomahawk if don't." as he spoke he laid his hand in a threatening manner upon his tomahawk, and the mother sprung up and lifted the infant in her arms for the purpose of pacifying it. the dreadful threat had almost unnerved her, for she believed the savage would carry it out upon the slightest pretext. but before that tomahawk should reach her child, the mother must be stricken to the earth. she pressed it convulsively to her breast, and it quickly ceased its cries. she waited until it closed its eyes in slumber and then some impulse prompted her to lay it upon the bed, and to place herself between it and the indian, so that she might be unimpeded in her movements if the savage should attempt harm to her or her offspring. several moments now passed without the indian speaking. the interval was occupied by him in looking around the room and examining every portion upon which it was possible to rest his gaze. the survey completed, he once more fixed his scrutiny upon the young wife, and suddenly spoke in his sententious, abrupt manner. "want sunkin eat." this question was a relief, for it afforded the wife an opportunity of expressing her kindness; but, at the same time, it caused a more rapid beating of her heart, since to procure what was asked, she would be compelled to pass out of the door, and thus not only approach him much more closely than she was willing, but it would be necessary to leave him alone with her infant until her return. she was in a painful dilemma, to decide whether it was best to refuse the visitor's request altogether or to comply with it, trusting to providence to protect them both. a casual glance at the indian convinced her that it would be dangerous to thwart his wishes longer; and, with an inward prayer to god, she arose and approached the door. as she passed near him, he moved and she involuntarily quickened her step, until she was outside. the indian did not follow, and she hurried on her errand. she had gone scarcely a yard, when she heard him walking across the floor, and detected at the same moment, the cry of her infant. fairly beside herself with terror, she ran back in the house, and saw the savage taking down her husband's rifle. the revulsion of her feelings brought tears to her eyes, and she said: "i wish you would go away, i don't like you." "kiss me--den i go!" said he, stepping toward her. "keep away! keep away!" she screamed, retreating to the door and yet fearing to go out. "kiss me--tomahawk pappoose!" said the savage, placing his hand upon the weapon. the young wife placed her hands over her face and sobbed aloud. she did not hear the cat-like footsteps of the savage, as he approached. his long arm was already stretched forth to clasp her, when the door was darkened, a form leaped into the room, and with the quickness of lightning, dealt the savage a tremendous blow that stretched him limp and lifeless upon the floor. [illustration: dealt the savage a tremendous blow.] "move a limb and i will kill you!" shouted the young missionary, his face all ablaze with passion. "cora, has he harmed you?" "no, no, no, harvey; have you not already killed him?" "pity that i haven't. he is not fit to live." "dear harvey, you are carried away by your passion. do restrain yourself." woman-like, the only emotion of cora richter was that of commiseration for the poor wretch that had been stricken down by the hand of her husband. she saw the blood trickling from his face and knew that he was dreadfully injured. the missionary, too, began to become more calm and collected; and yet, while regretting the occasion, he could but think he had done his simple duty to his insulted wife. had he been prepared as he entered the door, he would have shot the savage dead in his tracks. harvey picked up his rifle that lay in the middle of the floor, and approached the prostrate indian. after pushing and shaking, he gave signs of returning consciousness, and at length arose to his feet. his nose had bled copiously, and one eye was "closed," as if he had been under the manipulation of some pugilist. the wife brought a basin of water, and offered a bandage, while harvey proffered his assistance. but the indian, without speaking, motioned them aside, and made his way out the door. on the threshold he paused a moment and looked back--and that look harvey richter will remember to his dying day. both breathed freer when he had gone. they then looked in each other's faces a moment and the wife sunk into her husband's arms. "did i not do right, cora?" "yes; oh, yes; but, harvey, this will not be the last of it. you have made an enemy of that indian, and he can never be made a friend." "such is often the result of doing your simple duty. let us therefore trust to god and say no more about it. ah! here comes teddy." the irishman at this moment entered the door. he was still under the influence of liquor though he made ludicrous efforts to conceal it. the wife found opportunity to communicate to her husband all that had been told her, before the conversation had progressed far. the peril which she had so narrowly escaped decided the missionary to be severely just with his servant. "teddy, where have you been?" "won't that spake for itself?" he replied, holding up a handsome string of fish. "begorrah, but it was mighty poor luck i had hunting." "i should judge you had discovered something unusual from your strange actions." the face of the irishman flushed scarlet, and his confusion was distressing. "teddy," he continued, "i am displeased at the manner in which you have acted for the last week or two. had it not happened that i left the village sooner than usual to-day, most probably my wife and son would have been killed." the fellow was completely sobered. "what is it ye say, mister harvey?" "for several days you have failed to return in the time you promised, so that i have been compelled to leave them alone and unprotected. this afternoon, an indian came in the house and threatened the life of both my wife and child--" "where the divil is he?" demanded teddy, springing up; "i'll brake ivery bone in his body." "he is gone, never to return i trust." "be the powers! if i could but maat him--" "do not add falsehood to your conduct. he said that you and he have met constantly and drank liquor together." the expression of blank amazement was so genuine and laughable that the missionary could hardly repress a smile. he felt that his last remark was hardly fair. teddy finally burst out. "'twas that owld mahogany copperskin; but did i iver 'xpact he was up to _sich_ a trick and he would niver have l'aved me a-fishing. oorah, oorah!" he muttered, gnashing his teeth together. "what a miserable fool i _have_ been. he to come here and insult me mistress after professin' the kindest regards. may i be made to eat rat-tail files for potaties if iver i trust red-skin honor again!" "it strikes me that you and this precious savage had become quite intimate. i suppose in a few weeks longer you would have left us and lived with him altogether." the tears trickled down teddy's cheeks, and he made answer in a meek, mournful tone: "plaise forgive me, mister harvey, and miss cora. yees both knows i would die for yees, and it was little i dr'amed of a savage iver disecrating this house by an ungentlemanly act. teddy never'll sarve yees the like agin." "i have no faith in the promises of a man who is intemperate." the irishman raised his hand to heaven: "may the good father above strike me dead if i iver swallow another drop! do yees belave me now. mister harvey?" "you must not place the reliance in your own power, teddy. ask his assistance and you'll succeed." "i'll do so; but, ye saa, the only mill where i could get the cursed stuff was of this same indian, and as i politely towld him i'd practice wid me gun on him if he offered me anither drop, and, as i'd pick him off now, after this shine, as quick as i would a sarpent, it ain't likely he'll bother me agin." "i hope not, but i have the same apprehension as cora that he will return when we least expect him. we must manage so that we are never both away from the house at the same time. it is now getting well along in the afternoon, teddy; you may prepare your fish for supper." the irishman obediently moved away, and the young missionary and his wife were left together. chapter v. gone! alas, alas, fair inez, she went away with song, in sounds that sang farewell, farewell to her you've loved so long.--hood. alertness or watchfulness is sure to succeed the accomplishment of an enemy's designs. the moment danger is over, then the most vigilant preparations against it are made. the burglar knows better than to visit the same house two nights in succession. he is wise enough to wait until time has lulled the inmates into fancied security. with such an interest at stake as had harvey richter, one may well believe that no precaution was neglected which could operate to defeat the designs of the savage whom he had driven in anger from his door. he changed his hour of visitation from the afternoon to the forenoon. teddy needed no admonition against leaving the house during his absence. he kept watch and ward over the house as if he would atone by vigilance for past shortcomings. the missionary had dwelt long enough among the indians to gain a pretty accurate estimate of their character. what troubled him most, therefore, was a conviction that the savage's revenge, though delayed for ten years, for want of the convenient opportunity, was sure to be accomplished. he might have gone immediately to the north or east, there to remain with his own tribe until convinced that the moment had come to strike the blow--a blow, which no human influence, no personal danger, no suffering, could persuade him from inflicting upon the offending white man. but there was no certainty even of delay. did the savage believe the moment to strike propitious, he would be ready for the trial. even then, he might be skulking in the woods, with his black eyes fixed upon the cabin. it will be perceived, that, did he contemplate the death of either of the parties concerned, he could have compassed it without difficulty. opportunities offered every day for the fatal bullet to reach its mark; but the _insult_ to the indian was so great, that he contemplated a far sweeter compensation than death itself. whatever that might be, time would be sure to develop it, and that, too, at the moment when least expected. this fear became so ever-present and troublesome, that the missionary made it known in the village, where he could command the services of half a hundred warriors. a dozen at once made search through the woods to ascertain whether the savage was concealed anywhere in the vicinity. one of these chanced upon a trail, which, after following some distance, was lost in the river. this, however, he pronounced to be the trail of a _white man_. the suspected indian evidently, had fled, and no trace was discovered of him. another source of annoyance was opened to harvey. since the shot at teddy, nothing had occurred to remind them of the existence of the strange hunter, whose mysterious warnings had accompanied their advent into the country. richter could not believe that the man had left altogether, but regarded his actions with considerable equanimity, as it was apparent that his warning shots were intended rather to frighten than to kill. harvey never would converse with his wife about this white foe, and had cautioned teddy not to allude to him in her presence. the missionary had a strong hope that, some day, he would be brought face to face with this stranger, when an explanation would be secured and the annoyance ended. he therefore repeated his warning to the irishman not to shoot the hunter, unless compelled to do so to save his own life; but rather to use every effort to secure him and bring him to the cabin. about a week after the occurrence narrated, teddy went fishing, leaving the husband and wife together. he followed the shore of the river about a half-mile downward, when he settled himself by a huge rock that projected a few feet into the water. he had just thrown his line into the stream, when he heard the crackling of bushes behind him, and, turning, saw the hunter walking in a direction parallel with the river, with his head bent, as if in thought. apparently he was unsuspicious of the presence of any one. teddy at once sunk down to screen himself as he watched the movements of his old foe, out of all manner of patience with himself that he had left his rifle at home, and possessed only the arms that nature had furnished him. still, he resolved that the man should be secured, if possible. "arrah, now, be aisy!" he whispered, "and yees may cotch a fish that didn't nibble at yer bait. whisht! but do ye _saa_ him? but _isn't_ he a strappin' fellow, to be sure--a raal shark ten foot long, with claws like an alligator!" the hunter walked but a few rods, when he seated himself upon a fallen tree, with his back toward the irishman. this was the coveted opportunity. "yees have got the fellow now, teddy, barring yees haven't got him at all, but that ain't saying ye won't get him. be aisy now, and don't get excited! jist be as wise as a rat and as still as a mouse, and ye'll catch the catamount, if he don't catch you, that is." these self-admonitions were much needed, for the fellow was all tremulous with excitement and scarcely able to restrain himself. waiting a few moments until he could tone down his nerves, he commenced making his way toward his victim. he exercised extreme caution until within a rod, when a twig snapped under his foot. he made ready to spring, for he was certain of being discovered; but, to his surprise, the hunter made no motion at all. he evidently was so absorbed in some matter as to be unconscious of what was passing around. slowly and stealthily teddy glided toward the man, until he arose almost to the standing position, not more than a foot distant. then slowly spreading out his arms, so as to inclose the form of the stalwart woodsman, he brought them together like a vise, giving utterance at the same time to an exultant "whoop." "yer days of thramping _this_ country, and alarming paceable inhabitants are done wid, mister anaconda. so jist kaal over gracefully, say tin ave marias, and consider yourself in the hands of gabriel sint for judgment." all this time teddy had been straining and hugging at the hunter as if determined to crush him, while he, in turn, had taken it very coolly, and now spoke in his gruff bass voice: "let go!" "let go! well now, that's impudint, ye varlet. as if teddy mcfadden would let go hook and line, bob and sinker, whin he had got hold of a sturgeon. be aisy now; i'll squaze the gizzard and liver iv ye togither, if ye doesn't yield gracefully." "let go, i say! do you hear?". "yis, i hears, and that is the extint--" teddy's next sensation was as if a thunderbolt had burst beneath his feet, for he was hurled headlong full half a rod over the head of the hunter. though considerably bruised, he was not stunned by the fall, and quickly recovered. scratching his head, he cried: "begorrah, but yees can't repate _that_ trick!" making a rush toward his antagonist, who stood calmly awaiting his onset. "by heavens, i'll give you something different then!" said the man, as he caught him bodily in his arms, and running to the edge of the river, flung him sprawling into it. the water was deep, and it required considerable struggling to reach the shore. this last prodigious exhibition of strength inspired the irishman with a sort of respect for the stranger. teddy had found very few men, even among frontiersmen and indians, who could compete with him in a hand-to-hand struggle; yet, there was now no question but what he was overmatched, and he could but admire, in a degree, the man who so easily handled his assailant. it was useless to attack the enemy after such a repulse; so he quietly seated himself upon the shore. "would ye have the kindness, ye assassinating disciple of the crowner's jury, whin yees have jist shown how nately ye can dishpose of a man like meself, to tell me why it was you run so mighty harrd whin i took once before after yees? why didn't ye pause, and sarve me then jist as ye have done? i'd jist like to know that before we go any further wid _this_ matter." "it wasn't because i feared you!" said the hunter, turning sullenly away, and walking into the wood. "farewell!" called out teddy, waving his hand toward him. "ye're a beauty, and yees have quite taking ways wid ye; but it wouldn't be safe for me to find yees lurking about the cabin, if i had a rifle in me hand. you'd have trouble to fling a bullet off as ye flung me. be jabers, but _wasn't_ that a nate thing, to be sure. i'll bet a thousand pounds which i niver had, that that fellow could draw the mississippi up-stream if he was fairly hitched on to it. ah, teddy, you ain't much, afther all," he added, looking dolefully at his wet garments. teddy had been so completely outwitted that he was unwilling any one should know it. so he resolved to continue fishing until his clothes were thoroughly dry, and until he had secured enough fish to repay him for his journey. it was near the middle of the afternoon, and, as he had remained at home until the return of the young missionary from the village, there was nothing to disturb his labor, or sport as it might be called, except darkness itself. during this same afternoon, harvey richter and his wife were sitting on a bench in front of their cabin. the day was warm, but, as the bench always was shaded, it was the ordinary resort of the young couple when the weather was sultry. the missionary had been reading, but the volume was laid aside, and he was smilingly watching his wife as she sported with the boy in her lap. the little fellow was in exuberant spirits, and the parents, as a matter of course, were delighted. finally he betrayed signs of weariness, and in a few moments was asleep in his mother's arms. "i think it was a wise thing, for several reasons--that of changing your hour from the afternoon to the forenoon," said the wife. "why do you think so?" "we all feel more wearied and less inclination at this time of day for work than we do during the earlier hours. we could then be little together, but now nothing interferes with our afternoon's enjoyment of one another's society." "that is true; but you see the indians are more likely to be off fishing or hunting during the earlier part of the day. they have willingly conformed, however, to the change." "i think it is more in accordance with your own disposition," smiled the wife, "is it not?" "yes; i am free to admit that my lazy body inclines to quiet and rest after partaking of a hearty dinner, as i have done to-day." "if we think of rest at this early stage in our lives, how will it be when we become thirty or forty years older?" "i refer only to the temporary rest of the body and mind, such as they must have after periods of labor and excitement. such rest the youngest as well as the oldest requires. be careful, cora, you don't drop the little fellow!" "never fear," laughed the mother, as the youngster woke and commenced several juvenile antics more interesting to the parents than to any one else: "how lively!" remarked the proud father. "it seems to me i never saw a child at his age as bright and animated." and what father does not hold precisely the same opinion of his young hopeful? "look!" exclaimed the mother, "some one must be coming to see you." an indian woman was discernible among the trees, walking along the path at a rapid walk, as if she were greatly hurried. her head was bent, but now and then she raised it and glanced toward the cabin, showing that that was her destination. passing from the shadow of the wood into the clearing, the missionary recognized one of the worst women of the tribe. she had scoffed at his preaching, had openly insulted him, and during the first month or two had manifested a disposition approaching violence. to this richter only answered by kindness; he used every means to conciliate her good-will, but thus far with indifferent success. her husband, the-au-o-too, a warrior favorably inclined toward the white man, was thoughtful and attentive; and the good minister wondered that the savage did not restrain these unwomanly demonstrations upon his squaw's part. she approached with rapid step, until she stood directly in front of them. harvey saw that her countenance was agitated. "well, at-to-uck," said he, kindly, "you seem troubled. is there anything i can do for you?" [illustration: "well, at-to-uck," said he, kindly, "you seem troubled."] "me ain't trouble," she answered, using english as well as her very imperfect knowledge would admit. "me ain't trouble--_me_ ain't." "who may it be then?" "the-au-o-too--he _much_ trouble. sick--in woods--die--_berry_ sick." "what do you mean, at-to-uck?" asked the missionary, his interest strongly awakened. "has anything befallen your husband?" "he fall," she answered, eagerly, catching at the helping word, "he fall--much hurt--die--die--won't got well." "where is he?" she spun around on one foot, and pointed deeper into the woods. "he dere--lay on back--soon die." "and he wishes me to see him; is that it?" she nodded her head vigorously, but made no answer for a moment. then she suddenly broke forth: "send at-to-uck to git good man--hurry--berry hurry--he die--won't live. the-au-o-too say hurry--die soon--won't see good man--riher." harvey looked at his wife. "what must i do, cora? it will not do to leave you, as teddy may not return for several hours, and yet this poor indian should be attended in his dying moments." "you should go, harvey; i will not fear." he turned to the squaw in perplexity. "how far away is the-au-o-too?" "not much far--soon find--most dead." "it may be," he said in a low tone, "that he can be got to the house, although it would be no easy matter for us two to bring him." "i think your duty calls you to the dying man." "i ought to be there, but i tell you, cora, i don't like this leaving you alone," said he, impressively. "you know we made up our minds that it should never occur again." "there must be occasions when it cannot be avoided, and this is one of them. by refusing to attend this man, you may not only neglect a great duty, but incur the ill-will of the whole tribe. you know the disposition of this woman." the latter, at this point, began to give evidence of agitation, and to remark in her broken accents that the-au-o-too was dying and would be dead before they could reach him. the missionary, in sore perplexity, looked at his wife. "go," she said, or rather signified without speaking. "i will," he said, rising with an air of decision. "god grant i may never regret this." "i trust you never will." he kissed the infant, embraced his wife and then signified to the squaw to lead the way. "keep up a good heart," he added, turning, as he moved away. the wife smilingly nodded her head but said nothing. it did not escape the notice of her husband that there were tears in her eyes, and he half resolved to remain with her after all, but the next moment he moved on. the squaw took the well-beaten track, walking very rapidly and often looking back to see that she was followed. her strangeness of manner the missionary attributed to her excitement regarding her husband. several times she exhibited hesitation, and once or twice muttered something that was unintelligible to him. when they were about half-way to the village, she paused. "well, at-to-uck, what is the matter now?" "mebbe dead." "oh, i hope not," he answered, cheerfully. "do you turn off here?" she answered in the affirmative and asked him to lead the way. "no; i am unacquainted, and you ought certainly to know where to find your dying husband better than i do." she took the duty of guide upon herself again, and advanced but a rod, when she abruptly paused. "hark! hear groan? me hear him." harvey listened intently but heard nothing. knowing that the hearing of the indians is marvelously acute, he believed the squaw had heard sounds of distress; but, instead of quickening her steps, she now moved more slowly than ever. "have you lost your way, at-to-uck?" "no," she answered, in a significant voice. the suspicions of the missionary that had been slumbering were now fully roused. "what do you mean then?" the squaw turned full around and gave a leer which, if possible, made her face more hideous than ever. without thinking harvey caught her by the arm and shook her sharply. "explain this, at-to-uck. what is the meaning of this?" "he-he-e-e-e! _big_ fool. the-au-o-too hunt--_no hurt_!" a sharp reproof arose to the missionary's lips, but deeming it would be lost upon such a person, he merely turned his back upon her and walked away. she called and taunted him, but he was the last man who could have been roused to anger by such means, and he walked, with his arms folded, slowly and deliberately away toward the path. it had not occurred, as yet, to the mind of richter that anything more than a simple annoyance to himself was contemplated by this proceeding; but, as he resumed his steps homeward, a suspicion flashed upon him which almost checked the beating of his heart. "god save it being so!" was his mental prayer, as he hurried forward. a moment later he was on a full run. the afternoon was well advanced, but he soon caught a glimpse of his cabin through the trees. before this, however, he had detected the outcries of his infant, which struck him as a favorable omen, and he abated his speed somewhat. but, as he came into the clearing, his heart gave a great bound, as he saw his child lying upon the ground some distance from the house. his anxiety was so distressing that he dashed by it into the cabin. "cora, cora, what is the matter? where have you concealed yourself? why this untimely pleasantry?" he came out again, caught up the infant and attempted to soothe it, all the time looking wildly about in the hope of seeing the returning mother. "cora! cora!" he again called in agonized tones, but the woods gave back only the hollow echo. for a few moments he was fairly beside himself; but, at the end of that time, he began to reason more calmly. he attempted to persuade himself that she might return, but it was useless; and with a sort of resigned despair, he looked about him for signs of the manner in which she was taken away. the most convincing evidence was not wanting. the ground was trampled and torn, as if there had been a violent struggle; and, inexperienced as were his eyes, he detected the unmistakable impress of a moccasin upon the soft earth, and in the grass. the settle, too, was overturned and the baby lay in the grass as if tossed there by the act of some other arm, than a mother's. chapter vi. the lost trail. "'twas night--the skies were cloudless blue, and all around was hushed and still, save paddle of the light canoe, and wailing of the whippowill." on that sunny afternoon, the fish in a particular locality of a tributary of the mississippi did not take the bait very well. the spot to which we refer was that immediately surrounding teddy, whose patience was well-nigh exhausted. there he sat for several tedious hours, but had secured only two nibbles at his line, neither of which proved to be anything more. "begorrah, but it must be they'se frightened by meself, when that ould scalliwag give me a fling into the stream. jabers! _wasn't_ it done nately. hallo! there's a bite, not bigger, to be sure, than a lady's fut, but a bull-pout it is i know." he instantly arose to his feet, as if he were about to spring in the water, and stood leaning over and scanning the point where his line disappeared in the stream, with an intense interest which the professional angler alone can appreciate. but this, like all others, proved a disappointment, and he soon settled down into his waiting but necessary attitude of rest. "a half-hour more of sunshine, and then these same pants will be the same as if they've niver saan water, barring it's mighty seldom they have or they wouldn't be in this dirty condition. arrah! what can be the m'aning of that?" faintly but distinctly through the long stretch of woods came the sound of his name. it was repeated again and again until the irishman was convinced beyond all possibility of mistake. "what is up now?" he asked of himself as he drew in his line. "that is mister harvey's voice sure, and he is calling as though he was in a mighty hurry. faith, and i must not linger! if anything _should_ happen whin i was away i'd feel wus'n old boney at watherloo whin he lost the day an' his crown." the line was soon stowed away, and teddy made his way at a half-walk and ran in a homeward direction. he had gone about a hundred rods when he paused and listened. clearer and more distinctly came his name in tones whose earnest entreaty could not be mistaken. teddy rose on his heels and made reply to the hail, to assure his master, if possible, that he was approaching with all speed. the irishman's words were yet lingering in his mouth, when another and more terrible sound reached his ears. it was that of a suppressed, half-smothered woman's scream--a sort of gasp of terror. it was so short and so far away that it was impossible to tell its direction. he stopped, his heart beating like a hammer, but he heard no more. "god protect me, but there's something gone wrong at the cabin!" he exclaimed, dashing forward through the wood at a reckless rate. a few moments later it came in view, and he then saw his master walking to and fro, in front of the house, with the child in his arms. his manner and deathly pale face confirmed the forebodings of teddy's heart. "what's the matter, mister harvey? what's the matter?" "_that indian has carried cora away_!" was the agonized reply. "where has the owld divil carried her?" very naturally asked the hibernian. "i do not know! i do not know! but she has gone, and i fear we shall never see her again alive." "may me owld head be scraped wid a scalping-knife, an' me hands be made into furnace-grates for being away," ejaculated the servant, as the tears streamed down his cheeks. "no, teddy, you are not in the least to blame, nor is it my fault," impetuously interrupted the missionary. "till me how it was, mister harvey." the husband again became composed and related what is already familiar to the reader. at its close, teddy dashed into the house and brought out his rifle. "i'll murther that at-to-uck, be me sowl, and then i'll murther that haythen assassinator, an' iverybody that gits in me way. be the powers of the saints and divils, but i'll murther somebody. may the divil roast me if i--" "hold!" said the missionary, who by this time was himself again. "the first thing to be attended to is pursuit. we must not lose a second. we can never follow them ourselves through the wood. hold the child, while i go to the village and get some of the indians to help us." teddy took the child that had cried itself asleep, and the missionary started on a full run up the river. when he reached the settlement, it required but a moment to make his errand known. a dozen warriors volunteered at once, for these dozen would have laid down their lives for their faithful instructor. many of the squaws also gave utterance to dismal howls upon learning what had befallen their pale-faced sister. had the missionary chosen to tell the part taken by at-to-uck in the affair, it may be reasonably doubted whether her life would have been spared. but he was not the man to do such a thing. knowing how anxious teddy would be to participate in the pursuit, he secured the wife of one of the christian indians to return with him, and take charge of the boy during their absence. at the time of the missionary's visit, the chief and his principal warriors were absent on an expedition to the north. although holding little interest himself in the mission of the minister among his people, he would undoubtedly have led a party to the search for the audacious savage who had abducted the respected white woman; and, had he been overtaken, a swift and merciless retribution would have fallen upon the trangressor's head. harvey richter deemed it best to take but a few indians with him. accordingly he selected five that he knew to be skillful, and with them hurried at once in the direction of his cabin. he saw with a sinking heart, as he returned, that the sun was already low in the horizon, and the woods were becoming dark and gloomy. teddy was at his post chafing like a confined lion. "this woman, teddy, will take care of the boy, so that you may join us in the search." "bliss you for that! it would be the hardest work of me life to stay here when i thought there's a chance of gitting a whack at that thaiving villian. oh, _if_ i could only git howld of him, i wouldn't l'ave a piece of him big enough to spit on." "i think there's little probability of either of us obtaining a glimpse of him. we must rely upon these indians to take the trail and follow it to the end." "they're like the hounds in the owld country, barring they go on two legs an' don't stick their noses in the ground, nor howl whin they git on trail. they're mighty handy to have around ye at such a time as this, if they be savages wid only a spark of christianity in 'em not bigger than a tobaccy pipe." "it will be impossible, i think, for the savage to conceal traces of his flight, and, if there be any chance of coming up with him, these men will surely do so." "but suppose miss cora should be tomahawked and--" "don't mention it," said the missionary, with a shudder. while these words were interchanged, the indians had employed the time more profitably in solving the meaning of the footsteps upon the ground. a slight whoop announced the trail's discovery, and when the missionary turned, he saw the whole five gliding off in a line through the woods. they went in "indian file," and resembled a huge serpent making its way with all swiftness toward its prey. our two friends started at once after them. on reaching the edge of the clearing teddy asked, abruptly: "if the haythen comes back to the cabin while we's be gone?" "impossible! he cannot." "spowsen he hides his track in that manner, he may take a notion to gobble up the little boy." "he would not dare--" nevertheless, the remark of his servant alarmed the missionary, and he hesitated. there might be foundation for what had been said. the savage finding the pursuit too close to escape with his prey, might slay her and then return stealthily to the cabin and dispatch the boy. it would not do to leave him alone with the indian woman. "i can afford little assistance in the hunt, and will remain behind. hurry on, teddy, or they will be too far away for you to follow." the hibernian shot off through the trees, at a rate that soon exhausted him, while harvey richter returned within his cabin, there to keep company with his great woe, until the return of the pursuers brought tidings of the lost one. an indian on the trail is not likely to permit any trivial cause to turn him aside, and the five sioux made rapid progress so long as the light in the wood allowed them to do so. this, however, was a comparatively short time; and, after progressing fitfully and uncertainly for several hundred yards, they finally drew up to wait until the morrow. the trail, instead of taking the direction of the river, as the pursuers believed it would, ran precisely parallel to it. so long as the savage kept away from the stream--that is, so long as he did not take to a canoe--his trail could be followed with absolute certainty, and he be overtaken beyond doubt. impeded by an unwilling captive, he could not avoid a rapid gain upon him by his pursuers; and to escape certain capture, he must either abandon his prey or conceal his flight by resorting to the river. it might be, and the pursuers themselves half believed, that the fleeing indian did not fear a pursuit by any of his own race, in which case he could make a leisurely escape, as the unpracticed white men could not have followed him for a half-mile through the wilderness. if this were really the case, the sioux were confident of coming up with him before the morrow's sun should go down. the indians had paused but a few moments, when a great tearing and scrambling was heard, and teddy came panting upon them. "what be yees waiting for?" he demanded. "tired out?" "can't go furder--dark--wait till next day." "i'm sorry that yees didn't stand it bitter. i can go some ways further meself if yees'll be kind enough to show me the trail. but, yees don't pant or blow a bit, so i can't think ye're too much tired." "too dark--can't see--wait till sun." "oh, begorrah! i didn't understand ye. the injin 'l' git a good start on us, won't he though?" "ain't injin--_white man_!" "a white man, does ye say, that run off wid miss cora?" two of the indians replied in the affirmative. teddy manifested the most unbounded amazement, and for a while, could say nothing. then he leaped into the air, struck the sides of his shoes with his fingers, and broke forth: "it was that owld hunter, may purgatory take him! him and that owld mahogany, what made me drunk--blast his sowl--have been hid around in the woods, waiting for a chance to do harm, and one is so much worse than t'other yees can't tell both from which. och! if i but had him under the sight of me gun." the spot upon which the indians and teddy were standing was but a short distance from the village, and yet, instead of returning to it, they started a small fire and lay down for the night. _they were upon the trail_, and nothing was to turn them aside from it until their work was completed, or it was utterly lost to them. teddy was more loth than they to turn his face backward, but, under the circumstances, he could not forget the sad, waiting husband at home. so he returned to the cabin, to make him acquainted with the result of their labors thus far. "if the indian only avoids the river, he may be overtaken, but if he takes to that, i am fearful he can never be found." "be me sowl, mr. harvey, but thim savages says he's not an injin, but a _white man_, and yees know they cannot be mistook fur they've got eyes like hawks, and sinses sharper than me only needle, which, begorrah, hasn't got a point." "can it be that bra--that that hunter has done me this great wrong?" said the missionary, correcting himself so dextrously that his servant failed to observe it. "has such been the revenge that he has been harboring up for so many years? and he has followed us these hundreds of miles for the purpose of striking the blow!" "the owld haythen assassinator! the bloodthirsty beast, the sneakin' dog, the dirthy jail-bird, the--" "he has not shot either of us when we were at his mercy, for the purpose of lulling us into security, the better to obtain his revenge, and oh, he has succeeded how well!" the strong man, who still sat in the front of his cabin, where he might catch the first sound of returning footsteps, now covered his face, and his whole form heaved with emotion. teddy began to feel uncomfortable. he arose, walked to and fro, and wiped the tears from his own cheeks. despite his tears, however, he recognized in the exclamations of his master a reference to some mystery which he had long suspected, but which had never been cleared up. the missionary must have met this strange hunter before this encounter in the wilderness, and his identity, and the cause of his deadly enmity, must, also, be known. teddy had a great curiosity; but, as his master had repulsed his inquiries upon a previous occasion, he forbore to make any reference to it. he walked backward and forward until the good man's emotion had subsided somewhat, and then he said: "good master harvey, the owld cabin is so lonely wid the form of miss cora gone, that it's meself that couldn't very well stay here till morning. so, wid yer leave jist, i'll return to the injins, so as to be ready to folly the trail bright and early in the mornin'." "and how do you suppose i feel, teddy?" "god save us! it can be no worse than meself." "i am willing that you should go." the missionary had need, indeed, for the sustaining power which can come only from above. the faithful indian woman remained with his child through the night, while he, with bare head, and hands griped together, paced backward and forward until the morrow's sun had risen. how he prayed and agonized in spirit during those long, lonely hours, god and himself only know. when the day had fairly dawned, he entered the house, lay down wearily, and slept a "long and troubled sleep." with a heavy heart teddy made his way back through the woods to where the indians were congregated. they were seated around the camp-fire engaged in smoking, but did not exchange nor utter a syllable. they all understood each other, and therefore there was no need of talk. the irishman seated himself beside them, and joined an hour or two in smoking, when they all lay down and slumbered. all with the exception of teddy, who could not sleep. he rolled hither and thither, drew deep sighs, and took new positions, but it availed nothing. the events of the past day had driven sleep far from his eyelids, and he soon gave over the effort altogether. rising to a sitting position, he scratched his head (which was significant only of abstraction of thought), and gazed meditatively into the smoldering embers. while seated thus, an idea suddenly came to him which brought him instantly to his feet. the fact that it had not occurred to the indians he attributed to their inferior shrewdness and sagacity. he recalled that the abduction of the young wife took place quite late in the afternoon; and, as she must be an unwilling captive of course, she would know enough to hinder the progress of the man so as to afford her friends a chance to overtake them. such being the case, the hunter would find himself compelled to encamp for the night, and therefore he could be but a short distance away. the more the irishman reflected, the more he became convinced that his view was right; and, we may state, that for once, at least, his supposition had a foundation to stand upon. the matter, as has been evident from the first to the reader, rested entirely upon the impossibility of following the trail at night. thus far it had maintained its direction parallel with the river, and he deduced that it must continue to do so. such being the case, the man could be reached as well during the darkness as daylight. teddy concluded not to awaken the savages, as they would hardly coincide with him. so he cautiously rose to his feet, and walking around them, made off in the darkness. he was prudent enough to obtain an idea of the general direction before starting, so as to prevent himself going astray; after which he pressed the pursuit with all possible speed. at intervals he paused and listened, but it seemed as if everything excepting himself was asleep. he heard no sound of animal or man: he kept his eyes flitting hither and thither, for he had hopes of chancing upon the camp-fire of the abductor. it is always a difficult matter to keep one's "reckoning" in the woods. if they be of any extent, it requires extraordinary precautions upon the part of an inexperienced person to prevent himself from being lost. should he endeavor to travel by night, it would be almost a miracle indeed if he could save himself from going totally astray. teddy had every disadvantage to contend against, and he had not journeyed a half-hour, when his idea of his own position was just the opposite of truth. as he had not yet become aware of it, however, it perhaps was just as well as if he had committed no error. he was pressing forward, with that peculiar impelling feeling that it was only necessary to do so ultimately to reach his destination, when a star-like glimmer caught his eye. teddy stopped short, and his heart gave a great bound, for he believed the all-important opportunity had now come. he scanned the light narrowly, but it was only a flickering point, such as a lantern would give at a great distance at night. the light alone was visible, but no flame. it was impossible to form any correct idea of its location, although, from the fact that the nature of the wood must prevent the rays penetrating very far, he was pretty certain it was comparatively close at hand. with this belief he commenced making his way toward it, his movements certifying his consciousness that a mis-step would prove fatal. to his dismay, however, he had advanced but a dozen steps or so when the light disappeared, and he found it impossible to recover it. he moved from side to side, forward and backward, but it availed nothing, and he was about to conclude it had been extinguished, when he retreated to his starting-point and detected it at once. keeping his eye fixed upon it, he now walked slowly, but at the same point as before it disappeared. this, he saw, must arise from some limb, or branch or tree interfering, and it only remained for him to continue advancing in the same line. having proceeded a hundred rods or so, he began to wonder that he still failed to discover it. thinking he might be mistaken in the distance, he went forward until he was sure he had passed far beyond it, when he turned and looked behind him. nothing but the dim figures of the tree-trunks rewarded his gaze. fully a half-hour was spent in wandering to and fro in the further efforts to locate the light that had caught his eye, and he finally sought to obtain his first stand-point. whether he succeeded or not teddy never could tell, but he never saw nor learned anything more regarding the camp-fire to which he was confident that he had been in such close proximity. about this time, which was in the neighborhood of midnight, teddy made the discovery that he was lost, and, like a sensible person, gave up all efforts to right himself. he was so wearied that he did not awake until daylight, when he was aroused by the five indians, whose trail-hunt led them to the spot where he lay sleeping. the trail was now followed rapidly for a half-mile when, as the pursuers had feared all along, it made a sudden bend to the river, upon the banks of which it was totally lost. not to be baffled in this manner, a canoe was produced with which three crossed the river. the entire day was spent by these upon one bank, while the two other indians and teddy pursued the search for traces of the hunter's landing upon their own side of the stream. not the slightest evidence was discovered that he had touched shore after embarking. the man had escaped, and even the eagle-eyed sioux were compelled on the second night to return to their village with the sad announcement that the trail was lost! [illustration: the trail was lost.] chapter vii. a hibernian's search for the trail. "oh i let me only breathe the air, the blessed air that's breathed by thee; and, whether on its wings it bear healing or death, 'tis sweet to me." at the close of a windy, blustering day in , two men were seated by a camp-fire in the depths of the wilderness of the northwest. the wind howled through the branches with a moaning sound such as often heralds the approach of bitter cold weather; and a few feathery flakes of snow that sailed along on the wind, proved that the season of storms was close at hand. the fire was built down deep in a sort of gorge, where its cheery, crackling blaze could not be seen by any one until he was nearly upon it. the men sat with their pipes in their mouths, their rifles beside them and their feet toward the fire. from appearances they were on the best of terms. one of them needs no introduction, as he is our old friend teddy, who evidently feels at home in his new situation. the other is a man of much the same build although somewhat older. his face, where it is not concealed by a heavy, grizzly beard, is covered by numerous scars, and the border of one eye is disfigured from the same cause. his dress and accouterments betray the hunter and trapper. "and so, teddy, ye're sayin' it war a white man that took away the missionary's wife, and hain't been heard on since. let me see, you said it war nigh onto three months ago, warn't it?" [illustration: "and so, teddy, ye're sayin' it war a white man that took away the missionary's wife."] "three months, come day after to-morrow. begorrah, but it's not i that'll forgit that same date to my dying day, if, indade, i forgit it at all, at all, even whin somebody else will be wearin' me clothes." "it was a dirty trick, freeze me if it wasn't; but you can _allers_ find a white man to do a mean trick, when you can't a copperskin; _that_ you may set down as a p'inted fact, teddy." "i belaves ye, mister tim. an indian is a poor mean thing at the bist, an' their squaws--kah! they are the dirtiest beasts that iver jabbered human lingo; an' their babies, i raaly belaves, is caught with a hook an' line in the muddy creeks where the catfish breed; but, fur all that, i don't think they could have been equal to this piece of wickedness. may the divil git howld of his soul. blazes, but won't there be a big squeal in purgatory when the divil gits howld of him!" and teddy seemed to contemplate the imaginary scene in hades with a sense of intense satisfaction. "but it's powerful strange you could never git on the trail. i don't boast of my own powers, but i'll lay if i'd been in the neighborhood, i'd 've found it and stuck to it like a bloodhound, till i'd 've throttled that thievin' wretch." "the sioux spent the bitter part of the day in the s'arch, an' meself an' siveral other savages has been looking iver since, and none of us have got so much as a scint of his shoe, bad luck to him." "but, teddy, what made him do it?" asked the trapper, turning his keen, searching eyes full upon him. "there's where i can't answer yees." "there be some men, i allow, so infarnal mean they'll do a mean thing just 'cause they _like_ to do it, and it might be he's one of them." "it's meself that belaves he howlds some spite agin mister harvey for something done in years agone, and has taken this means of revinging himself upon the good man, as i am sure niver did one of his fellow-creatures any harm." "it may be there's been ill-blood a long time atween 'em, but the missionary couldn't a done nothin' to give the rapscallion cause to run off with his wife, 'less he'd run off with this hunter's old woman before, and the hunter was paying him for it." "git out wid yer nonsense!" said teddy, impatiently. "it couldn't been a great deal, or if it was, it couldn't been done purposely, for i've growed up wid mister harvey, and knowed him ever since he was knee high to a duck, and he was _always_ a boy that did more praying than fighting. the idea of _his_ harming anyone, is _pre-pos-te-trous._ after the haythen had fired at us, the good man actilly made me promise not to do the wretch hurt if the chance was given me; and a mighty foolish thing, for all it was master harvey who towld me, fur i've had a chance or two at the spalpaan since. oh blissed virgin, why _didn't_ i cut his wizzen for him whin i could have done it--that is, if i could!" "and you've been huntin' 'im these three or four months be you?" "the same, yer honor, huntin' constantly, niver losing a day rain or shine, wid indians an' widout 'em, cold, hungry and tired, but not a day of rist." "freeze me then, if you haven't got _grit_. thar ain't many that would track through the woods that ar long. and ye haven't caught a glimpse of the gal nor heard nothin' of her?" "not a thing yet; but it's meself that 'xpacts to ivery day." "in course, or ye wouldn' keep at the business. but s'pose, my friend, you go on this way for a year more--what then?" "as long as i can thravel over the airth and miss cora isn't found, me faat shall niver find rest." the trapper indulged in an incredulous smile. "you'd be doing the same, tim, if yees had iver laid eyes on miss cora or had iver heard her speak," said teddy, as his eyes filled with tears. "god bliss her! she was worth a thousand such lives as mine--" "don't say nothin'" interrupted the trapper, endeavoring to conceal his agitation; "i've l'arned years ago what that business is. the copperskins robbed me of a prize i'll never git agin, long afore you'd ever seen one of the infarnal beings." "was she a swateheart?" "never mind--never mind; it'll do no good to speak of it now. she's _gone_--that's enough." "how do you know she can't be got agin, whin--" "she was tomahawked afore my eyes--ain't that enough?" demanded the trapper, indignantly. "i axes pardon, but i was under the impression they had run away with her as they did with miss cora." "hang 'em, no! if they'd have done that i'd have chased 'em to the pacific ocean and back agin afore i'd give 'em up." "and that's what meself intends to do regarding miss cora." "yer see, yer don't know much about red-skins and their devilments, and therefore, it's my private opine, instead of getting the gal, they'll git you, and there'll be the end on't." "tim, couldn't yees make the s'arch wid me?" asked teddy, in a deeply earnest voice. the trapper shook his head. "like to do't, but can't. it's time i was up to the beaver runs this night and had my traps set. yer see i'm _compelled_ to be in st. louey at the end of six months and hain't got a day to spare." "mister harvey has money, or, if he hasn't, he has friends in st. louis, be the same token, that has abundance of it, and you'd find it paid you bitter in the ind than catching poor, innocent beavers, that niver did yees harm." "i don't foller sich business for money, but i've agreed to be in st. louey at the time i was tellin' you, and it's allers a p'int of honor with me to keep my agreements." "couldn't yees be doing that, and this same thing, too?" "can't do't. s'pose i should git on the trail that is lost, can yer tell me how fur i'd have to foller it? yer see i've been in that business afore, and know what it is. me and three others once chased a band of blackfeet, that had carried off an old man, till we could see the peaks of the rocky mountains, and git a taste of the breath of wind that comes down from their ice and snow in middle summer." "didn't yees pursue the subjact any further?" "we went fur enough to find that the nimble-footed dogs had got into the mountains, and that if we wanted to keep our ha'r, we'd only got to undertake to foller 'em thar. so we just tramped back agin, havin' our trouble for nothin'." "wasn't that about as poor a business, for yees, as this be for me, barring yees was hunting for an old man and i'm hunting for a young woman?" "it warn't as foolish by a long shot, 'cause we _war on the trail_ all the time, and kept it, while you've lost yours, and never'll be able to find it agin. we war so close more nor once that we reached their camp-fires afore the embers had died out and from the tops of two, three hills we got a glimpse on 'em on thar horses. we traveled all night a good many times, but it done no good as they done the same thing, and we found we war further away, if anything, next morning than we war at sundown. if we'd ever lost the trail so as not to find it we'd guv up and come home, but we never done that nor never lost more nor an hour in lookin' for it. you see," added the trapper, impressively, "you never have found the trail, and, therefore, there ain't the shadder of a chance." "begorrah, yees can't blame us whin we tried to the bist of our indeavor to find it and wasn't able." "yer done the best yer knowed, i s'pose; but why didn't four on 'em divide so as to let one go up one side the river and one t'other, and the same way down-stream. yer don't s'pose that feller was able to keep paddlin' forever in the river, do yer? and jist so soon as he landed, jist so sure would one of them sioux find the spot where he touched land, and foller him to his hole." "begorrah, if wees had only thought of that!" "a sioux is as cunning a red-skin as i ever found, and it's jist my opine every one of 'em _did_ think of that same thing, but they didn't try it for fear they might catch the varmint! they knew their man, rest assured o' that." teddy looked up as if he did not comprehend the meaning of the last remark. "'cordin' to yer own showin', one of them infarnal copper-gals was at the bottom of the hull business, and it's like as not the men knowed about it, too, and didn't _want_ to catch the gal!" "there's where yees are mightily mistook, as pat mcguire said whin his landlord called him honest, for ivery one of them same chocolate-colored gintlemen would have done their bist for master harvey. they would have cut that thaif's wizzen wid a mighty good will, i knows." "mebbe so, but i don't believe it!" said the hunter, with an incredulous shake of his head. "would ye have me give up the s'arch altogether?" "can't say that i would; howsumever, the chance is small, and ye'd better go west with me, and spend the winter in l'arning how to trap fur beaver and otter." "what good might result from that?" "none, as i knows on." "then it's meself that thanks yees for the offer and respectfully declines to accept the nomination. i'll jist elict meself to the office of sheriff an' go about these regions wid a s'arch-warrint in my shoes that'll niver let me rist until miss cora is found." "wal, i 'spose we'll part in the mornin' then. as yer say this are the first time you've got as fur north, i'll say i think you're nearer the trail than yer ever war yit." "what might be the reason for that?" eagerly asked teddy. "i can't say what it is, only i kind o' feel it in my bones. thar's a tribe of copperskins about a hundred miles to the north'ard, that i'll lay can tell yer _somethin'_ about the gal." "indians? an' be what token would they be acquaint with her?" "they're up near the hudson bay territory line, and be a harmless kind of people. i stayed among 'em two winters and found 'em a harmless lot o' simpletons that wouldn't hurt a hair o' yer head. thar's allers a lot of white people staying among 'em." "i fails yit to see what they could be doing with miss cora." "mind i tells yer only what i _thinks_--not what i _knows_. it's my private opine, then, that that hunter has took the gal up among them injins, and they're both living thar. if that be so, you needn't be afeard to go right among 'em, for the only thing yer'll have to look out fur will be the same old hunter himself." this remark made a deep impression upon teddy. he sat smoking his pipe, and gazing into the glowing embers, as if he could there trace out the devious, and thus far invisible, trail that had baffled him so long. it must be confessed that the search of the hibernian thus far had been carried on in a manner that could hardly be expected to insure success. he had spent weeks in wandering through the woods, sleeping upon the ground or in the branches of some tree, fishing for awhile in some stream, or hunting for game--impelled onward all the time by his unconquerable resolve to find cora richter and return her to her husband. on the night that the five sioux returned to the village, and announced their abandonment of the pursuit, teddy told the missionary that he should never see him again, until he had gained some tidings of his beloved mistress, or had become assured that there could be no hope of her recovery. how long this peculiar means of hunting would have gone on, it is impossible to tell, but most probably until teddy himself had perished, for there was not the shadow of a chance of his gaining any information of the lost one. his meeting with the trapper was purely accidental, and the hint thrown out by the latter was the reason of setting the fellow to work in the proper way. the conversation was carried on for an hour or so longer, during which the trapper gave teddy more advice, and told him the best manner of reaching the tribe to which he referred. he cautioned him especially against delaying his visit any longer, as the northern winter was almost upon them, and should he be locked in the wilderness by it, it would be almost impossible for him to survive its rigor; but if he should be among the tribe, he could rest in security and comfort until the opening of spring. teddy concluded to do as his companion advised, and, after more unimportant conversation, both stretched themselves out by the camp-fire and slept. just as the earliest light was breaking through the trees, the trapper was on his feet, rekindling the fire. finding, after this was completed, that teddy still slumbered, he brought him to his senses by several forcible applications of his foot. "begorrah, it's meself that's thinking yees 'av a mighty gintle way of coming upon one unawares, barring it's the same as a kick from a wild horse. i was dr'aming jist thin of a blast of powder in a stone quarry, which exploded under me feet, an' sint me up in the ship's rigging, an' there i hung by the eaves until a lovely girl pulled me in at the front door and shut it so hard that the chinking all fell out of the logs, and woke me out of me pleasint delusions." the trapper stared at the irishman incredulously, thinking him demented. teddy's gaping and rubbing of his eyes with his fists, and, finally, his stretching of arms and legs, reassured tim of the fellow's sanity, and he added: "if yer hadn't woke just now, i'd tried ef lammin' yer over the head would've done any good." "yees might have done that, as long as ye plaised, fur me sconce got used to being cracked at the fairs in the owld country." "i thought yer allers lived in this country." "not always, or how could i be an irishman? god plaise i may niver live here long enough to forgit owld ireland, the gim of the sea. what's the matter with yees now?" the trapper having wandered a few yards from the camp-fire, had paused suddenly and stood gazing at the ground. teddy was obliged to repeat his question. "what is it yees have diskivered?" "sign, or ye may shoot me." "sign o' what?" "injins, ye wood-head! what else could i mean?" teddy now approached and narrowly examined the ground. his knowledge of wood-craft had been considerably increased during the past month or two, and he had no difficulty in distinguishing the imprint of a moccasin. "look at the infarnal thing!" exclaimed the trapper, in disgust. "who'd a thort there'd 've been any of the warmints about, whin we took sich pains with our fire. why the chap didn't send a piece of cold lead into each of our bread-baskets is more nor i can tell. it would've sarved us both right." "p'raps thim tracks there was made fornenst the night, and that it's ourselves that was not here first." "don't yer s'pose i know all about _that_?" demanded the trapper, savagely. "them tracks was made not more'n three or four hours ago." as he spoke. tim turned and followed it a rod or two, and then, as he came back, said: "if i had the time i'd foller it; but it goes just t'other way from what i want to go. i think like 'nough it leads to the village that you want to find; so if yer'd like one of 'em to introduce yer to the rest on 'em, drive ahead and make his acquaintance. maybe he kin tell yer something about the gal." teddy determined to follow the trail by all means. he partook of the morning meal with the trapper, exchanged a pleasant farewell, and then the two parted never to meet again. the footprints were distinct and easily followed. teddy advanced with long, loping strides, at a gait considerably more rapid than his usual one. he indulged in curious reveries as he followed it, fancying it to be an unfriendly indian with whom a desperate collision must inevitably take place, or some friendly member of the tribe, of whom the trapper had told him, that would prove a boon companion to him. all at once he reached a small, marshy tract, where the trail was much more palpable; and it was here that he either saw or fancied the toes of the footprints turned _outward_, thus demonstrating that, instead of an indian, he was following a white man. the hibernian's heart throbbed at the thought that he was upon the track of the strange hunter, with all probability of overtaking him. it caused his heart to throb violently to reflect how close he was upon the critical moment. drawing a deep breath and closing his lips tightly, he pressed on ready for the conflict. the trail continued as distinct as ever, and the pursuit suffered no interruption until it entered a deep swamp into which teddy hesitated to enter, its appearance was so dark and forbidding. as he gazed into its gloomy depths, he was almost certain that he had discovered the _home_ of the hunter. that at that moment the criminal was within its confines, where perhaps the beloved cora was imprisoned, a miserable and pining captive. the thought maddened him, and he pressed forward so rashly that he soon found himself completely entrapped in a network of briers and brambles. carefully withdrawing into the open wood, it suddenly occurred to him, that if the hunter had passed through the thicket, there was no earthly necessity of his doing it. he could pass around, and, if the footprints were seen upon the opposite side, it only remained to follow them, while, if they were not visible, it certified that he was still within the thicket and he could therefore shape his actions accordingly. teddy therefore made his way with patience and care around one end of the thicket. he found the distance more considerable than he at first supposed. it was full an hour before he was fairly upon the opposite side. here he made a careful search and was soon rewarded by finding unmistakable footprints, so that he considered it settled that the hunter had passed straight through the thicket. "it's a quaar being he is entirely, when it's meself that could barely git into the thicket, and he might have saved his hide by making a short thramp around, rather than plunging through in this shtyle." teddy pressed on for two hours more, when he began to believe that he was close upon the hunter, who must have traveled without intermission to have eluded him thus far. he therefore maintained a strict watch, and advanced with more caution. the woods began to thicken, and the hibernian was brought to a stand-still by the sound of a rustling in the bushes. proceeding some distance further, he came upon the edge of a bank or declivity, where he believed the strange hunter had laid down to rest. the footprints were visible upon the edge of the bank, and at the bottom of the latter was a mass of heavy undergrowth, so dense as effectually to preclude all observation of what might be concealed within it. it was in the shrubbery, directly beneath him, that teddy believed the hunter lay. he must be wearied and exhausted, and no doubt was in a deep sleep. teddy was sure, in his enthusiasm, that he had obtained a glimpse of the hunter's clothes through the interstices of the leaves, so that he could determine precisely the spot where he lay, and even the position of his body--so eagerly did the faithful fellow's wishes keep in advance of his senses. and now arose the all-important question as to what he should do. he might shoot him dead as he slept, and there is little question but what teddy would have done it had he not been restrained by the simple question of expediency. the hunter was alone, and, if slain, all clue to the whereabouts of mrs. richter would be irrecoverably lost. what tidings that might ever be received regarding her, must come from the lips of him who had abducted her. if he could desperately wound the man, he might frighten him into a confession, but then teddy feared instead of wounding him merely with his rifle, he would kill him altogether if he attempted to shoot. after a full half-hour's deliberation, teddy decided upon his course of action. it was to spring knife in hand directly upon the face of the hunter, pin him to the ground and then force the confession from his lips, under a threat of his life, the irishman mercifully resolving to slay him at any rate, after he had obtained all that was possible from him. teddy did not forget his experience of a few months before when the hunter gave him an involuntary bath in the river. he therefore held his knife firmly in his right hand. now that he had concluded what to do, he lost no time in carrying his plan into execution. he took a crouching position, such as is assumed by the panther when about to spring upon its prey, and then drawing his breath, he leaped downward. a yelping howl, an impetuous scratching and struggling of the furious mass that he attempted to inclose in his arms, told teddy that instead of the hunter, he had pounced down upon an innocent, sleeping bear! it was well for the irishman that the bear was peaceably inclined, else his search for the lost trail might have terminated then and there. the brute, after freeing itself from its incubus, sprung off and made all haste into the woods, leaving teddy gazing after it in stupefied amazement. he rose to his feet, stared at the spot where it had last appeared and then drew a deep sigh, and sadly shook his head. "i say nothing! be jabers! it's meself that can't do justice to the thame!" harvey richter stood in his cabin-door, about five months after his great loss, gazing off toward the path which led to the indian village, and which he had traveled so many, many times. sad and weary was his countenance, as he stood, at the close of the day, looking into the forest, as if he expected that it would speak and reveal what it knew of his beloved partner, who was somewhere concealed within its gloomy depths. ah, how many an hour had he looked, but in vain. the forest refused to give back the lost, nor did it breathe one word of her, to ease the gloom which hung so heavily upon his soul. a footfall caught his ear, and turning, he saw teddy standing before him. the face of the irishman was as dejected as his own, and the widowed man knew there was scarce need of the question: "have you heard anything, teddy?" "nothing, sir, saving that nothing is to be learnt." "not my will, but thine, oh god, be done!" exclaimed the missionary, reverently, and yet with a wailing sadness, that proved how unutterable was his woe. chapter viii. the trail of death. these likelihoods confirm her flight from hence; therefore, i pray you, stay not to discourse, but mount you presently.--shakespeare. the trapper, after separating from the irishman, pursued his way through the woods with a slow tread, as if he were deliberating some matter with himself. occasionally he muttered and shook his head, in a manner that showed his conscience was getting the better of the debate, whatever it might be. finally he paused. "yas, sir; it's a mean piece of business in me. 'cause i want to cotch a few beavers i must let this gal be, when she has been lost to her husband already for three months. it's ongenerous, and _can't be done_!" he exclaimed, emphatically. "what if i does lose a few peltries when they're bringing such a good price down in st. louey? can't i afford to do it, when there's a gal in the matter?" he resumed his walk as slowly and thoughtfully as before, muttering to himself. "if i go, i goes alone; least i don't go with that teddy, for he'd be sartin to lose my ha'r as sure as we got onto a trail. there's no calc'latin' the blunders of _such_ a man. how he has saved his own scalp to this time is more nor i can tell, or himself neither, for that matter, i guess. i've been on many a trail-hunt alone, and if i goes--if i goes, why, _in course_ i does!" he added, impetuously. the resolution once taken seemed to afford him unusual pleasure, as it does with us all when the voice of conscience is a monitor that is heeded. he was tramping toward the west, and now that the matter was decided in his own mind, he paused again, as if he could better debate other matters that must in the circumstances necessarily present themselves. "in the first place, there's no use of going any further on _this_ track, for i ain't gettin' any nigher the gal, that's pretty sartin. from what that teddy told me of his travels, it can't be that she's anywhere in these parts, for if she war, he couldn't have helped l'arning something of her in all this time. there's a tribe up north that i've heard was great on gettin' hold of white gals, and i think i'll make a s'arch in that direction afore i does anything else." nothing more remained for tim but to carry out the resolution he had made, and it was characteristic of the man that he did it at once. five minutes after the above words had been muttered, he was walking rapidly along in a northern direction, his rifle thrown over his arm, and a beaming expression of countenance that showed there were no regrets at the part he was acting. he had a habit of talking with himself, especially when some weighty or unusual matter obtruded itself. it is scarcely to be wondered, therefore, that he became quite talkative at the present time. "i allers admire such adventur's as this, if they don't bring in anything more nor thanks. the style in which i've received them is allers worth more money nor i ever made trapping beavers. the time i cotched that little gal down on the osage, that had been lost all summer, i thought her mother would eat me up afore she'd let me go. i believe i grinned all day and all night for a week after that, it made me think i was such a nice feller. maybe it'll be the same way with this. hello!" the trapper paused abruptly, for on the ground before him he saw the unmistakable imprint of a moccasin. a single glance of his experienced eye assured him upon that point. "that there are injins in these parts is a settled p'int with me, and that red and white blood don't agree is another p'int that is settled. that track wasn't made there more nor two hours ago, and it's pretty sartin the one that made it ain't fur away at this time. it happens it leads to the north'ard, and it'll be a little divarsion to foller it, minding at the same time that there's an injin in it." for the present the trapper was on a trail, and he kept it with the skill and certainty of a hound. over the dry leaves, the pebbly earth, the fresh grass, the swampy hollow--everywhere, he followed it with unerring skill. "that injin has been on a hunt," he muttered, "and is going back home agin. if it keeps in this direction much longer, i'll believe he's from the very village i'm hunting after. heigh! there's something else up!" he suddenly checked himself and began snuffing the air, as though it was tainted with something suspicious. "i hope i may be shot if there ain't a camp-fire within two hundred yards of where i am standing." he looked sharply around in every direction, but saw nothing of the camp, although positive that his olfactories could not have deceived him. "whether it belongs to white or red can't be said, _sartin_; but it's a great deal most likely that it's red, and it's just about as sartin that that injin ahead of me has gone pretty close to the camp, so i'll keep on follering him." a short distance further he became assured that he was in close proximity to the fire, and he began to use extreme caution in his movements. he knew very well how slight an inadvertence would betray his approach, and a betrayal was almost fatal. advancing some distance further, he suddenly came in full view of the camp-fire. he saw three indians seated around it, smoking, and appearing as if they had just finished their morning meal. it seemed, also, as if they were discussing some matter that deeply interested all. the mumbling of their voices could be heard, and one of them gesticulated quite freely, as though he were excited over the conference. there was not even the most remote possibility that what they were saying was of the least concern to the trapper; and so, after watching them a few moments, he moved cautiously by. it was rarely that tim ever had a mishap at such perilous times as these, but to his dismay something caught his foot so dextrously, that in spite of himself he was thrown flat upon his face. there was a dull thump, not very loud, it is true, but he feared it had reached the ears of the savages. he lay motionless, listening for a while, but hearing nothing of their voices or footsteps, he judged that either they had no suspicion of the true cause, or else had not heard him at all. he therefore rose to his feet and moved on, occasionally glancing back, to be sure he was not pursued. the trapper proceeded in this manner until noon. had the case been urgent, he would not have paused until nightfall, as his indurated muscles demanded no rest; he could go a couple of days without nourishment, and experience little inconvenience. but there was no call for haste. he therefore paused at noon, on the banks of a small stream, in quest of some water-fowl. tim gazed up and down-stream, but saw nothing that would serve as a dinner. he could have enticed a fish or two from their element, but he had set his heart upon partaking of a bird, and was not willing to accept anything else. accordingly, he began walking down the bank of the creek in search of one. in such a country as was minnesota forty years ago, the difficult matter would have been to _avoid_ game rather than to find it. the trapper had searched but a short distance, when he caught sight of a single ptarmigan under the opposite bank. in a twinkling tim's rifle was raised, and, as it flashed forth its deadly messenger, the bird made a single struggle, and then floated, a dead object, down the current. although rather anxious for his prize, the trapper, like many a hunter since that day, was not willing to receive a wet skin so long as it was possible to avoid it. the creek could be only of inconsiderable depth, yet, on such a blustering day, he felt a distaste toward exposing himself to its chilling clasp. some distance below he noticed the creek narrowed and made a curve. at this point he hoped to draw it in shore with a stick, and he lost no time in hurrying to the point. arrived there, the trapper stood on the very margin of the water, with a long stick in hand, waiting for the opportune moment. he naturally kept his eye upon the floating bird, as any animal watches the prey that he is confident is coming directly into his clutches. from the opposite bank projected a large, overhanging bush, and such was the bird's position in the water, that it was compelled to float within a foot, at least, of this. tim's eyes happened to be fixed intently upon it at this moment, and, at the very instant it was at the point named, he saw a person's hand flash out, seize the ptarmigan by the neck, and bring it in to shore in a twinkling. indignation upon the part of the trapper was perhaps as great as his surprise. he raised his rifle, and had it already sighted at the point where he was confident the body of the thief must be concealed, when a second thought caused him to lower his piece, and hurry up-stream, to a spot directly opposite where the bird had disappeared. here he searched the shore narrowly, but could detect no sign of the presence of any person. that there was, or had at least been, one there, needed no further confirmation. the trapper was in no mood to put up with the loss of his dinner, and he considered it rather a point of honor that he should bring the offending savage to justice. that it was an indian he did not doubt, but he never once suspected, what was true, that it was the identical one he had been following, and who had passed his camp-fire. in a few moments he found a shallow portion of the creek across which he immediately waded and made his way down the bank, to where the indian had first manifested his presence. here the keen eye of tim at once detected moccasin prints, and he saw that the savage had departed with his prize. there was no difficulty in following the trail, and the trapper did so, with his long, loping, rapid walk. it happened to lead straight to the northward, so that he felt it was no loss of time for him to do so. it was morally certain the savage could be at no great distance; hence the pursuer was cautious in his advance. the american indian would rather seek than avoid an encounter, and he was no foe to be despised in a hand-to-hand contest. the trapper was in that mood that he would not have hesitated to encounter two of them in deadly combat for the possession of the bird which was properly his own, and which he was not willing to yield until compelled to do so by physical force. about a hundred rods brought the trapper to a second creek of larger size than the first. the trail led directly into this, so he followed without hesitation. before doing so, he took the precaution to sling his rifle to his back, so that his arms should be disencumbered in any sudden emergency. the creek proved to be of considerable depth, but not sufficient to cause him to swim. near the center, when it was up to his armpits, and he was feeling every foot of the way as he advanced, he chanced by accident to raise his head. as he did so, he caught a movement among the undergrowth, and more from habit than anything else, dodged his head. the involuntary movement allowed the bullet that was discharged at that moment to pass harmlessly over his crown and bury itself in the bank beyond. the next instant the trapper dashed through the water, reaching the shore before the savage could reload. to his disappointment and chagrin, the indian was gone. tim, however, was not to be baffled in this manner, and dashed on as impetuously as before. he was so close that he could hear the fugitive as he fled, but the nature of the ground prevented rapid progress upon the part of either, and it was impossible to tell for a time who it was that was gaining. "there's got to be an end to this race _some time_," muttered tim, "or i'll chase you up the north pole. you've stole my dinner, and tried to steal my topknot, and now you shall have it or i shall have yours." for some time this race (which in many respects resembled that of teddy and the strange hunter) continued, until the trapper found it was himself that was really losing ground, and he sullenly came down to a walk again. still, he held to the trail with the unremitting perseverance of the bloodhound, confident that, sooner or later, he must come up with the fugitive. all at once, something upon the ground caught his eye. it was the ptarmigan, and he sprung exultingly forward and picked it up. it was unharmed by the indian, and he looked upon it as a tacit surrender, on the part of his adversary, of the matter of dispute between them. at first tim was disposed to keep up the pursuit; but, on second thought, he concluded to partake of his dinner, and then continue his search for his human game. in order to enjoy his dinner it was necessary to have it cooked, and he busied himself for a few moments in collecting a few dried sticks, and plucking the feathers from the fowl and dressing it. while thus occupied, he did not forget to keep his eyes about him, and to be prepared for the indian in case he chose to come back. he discovered nothing suspicious, however, and came to believe there was no danger at all. at length, when the afternoon was well advanced, the trapper's dinner was prepared. he took the fowl from the blaze, and cutting a piece with his hunting-knife, was in the very act of placing it in his mouth, when the sharp crack of a rifle broke the stillness, and he fell backward, pierced through the body by the bullet of the indian whom he had been pursuing. "it's all up!" muttered the dying man. "i am wiped out at last, and must go under!" [illustration: "it's all up!" muttered the dying man. "i am wiped out at last, and must go under!"] the lost trail had been the means of tim, the trapper, discovering what proved to him _the trail of death!_ chapter ix. the dead shot. and now 'tis still i no sound to wake the primal forest's awful shade; and breathless lies the covert brake, where many an ambushed form is laid. i see the red-man's gleaming eye, yet all so hushed, the gloom profound, that summer birds flit heedlessly, and mocking nature smiles around.--lunt. five years have passed. it is the summer of . in that comparatively brief period, what vast changes have taken place! how many have come upon and departed from the stage of life! how many plans, intentions and resolutions have been formed and either failed or succeeded! how many governments have toppled to the earth, and followed by "those that in their turn shall follow them." what a harvest it has been for death! the missionary's cabin stands on the clearing where it was first erected, and there is little change in its outward appearance, save that perhaps it has been more completely isolated from the wood. the humble but rather massive structure is almost impervious to the touch of time. it is silent and deserted within. around the door plays a little boy, the image of his mother, while some distance away, under the shadow of the huge tree, sits the missionary himself. one leg is thrown over the other, an open book turned with its face downward upon his lap, while his hands are folded upon it, and he is looking off toward the wood in deep abstraction of thought. time has not been so gentle with harvey richter. there are lines upon his face, and a sad, wearied expression that does not properly belong there. it would have required full fifteen years, in the ordinary course of events, to have bowed him in this manner. the young man--for he is still such--and his little boy are the only ones who now dwell within the cabin. no tidings or rumors have reached him of the fate of his wife, who was so cruelly taken from him four years before. the faithful teddy is still searching for her. the last two winters he has spent at home, but each summer he has occupied in wandering hither and thither through the great wilderness, in his vain searching for the lost trail. cast down and dejected, he has never yet entirely abandoned hope of finding traces of her. he had followed out the suggestion of the trapper, and visited the indians that dwelt further north, where he was informed that nothing whatever was known of the missing woman. since that time his search had been mostly of an aimless character, which, as we have already stated, could be productive of no definite results. the missionary had become, in a degree, resigned to his fate; and yet, properly speaking, he could not be said to be resigned, for he was not yet convinced that she was entirely lost to him. all traces of the strange hunter seemed irrecoverably gone, but richter still devoutly believed the providence of god would adjust everything in due time. it is true, at seasons, he was filled with doubt and misgiving; but his profession, his devotedness to his work, brought him in such close communion with his divine master that he trusted fully in his providences. on this summer afternoon, thoughts of his wife and of the strange hunter occupied his mind more exclusively than they had for a year past. so constant and preoccupying, indeed, were they, that he once or twice believed he was on the eve of learning something regarding her. while engaged in reading, the figures of his wife and the hunter would obtrude themselves; he found it impossible to dismiss them, so he had laid down the book and gone off into this absorbing reverie. an additional fear or presentiment at times haunted the mind of the missionary. he believed this hunter who could resort to such diabolical means to revenge himself, would seek to inflict further injury upon him, and he instinctively looked upon his boy as the vulnerable point where the blow would be likely to fall. for over a year, while teddy was absent, richter had taken the boy with him, when making his daily visits to the village, and made it a point never to lose sight of him. during these years of loneliness, also, harvey richter had hunted a great deal in the woods and had attained remarkable skill in the use of the rifle--an accomplishment for which he had reason to be thankful for the remainder of his life, as we shall presently see. on a pleasant afternoon, he frequently employed himself in shooting at a target, or at small game in the lofty trees around him, until his aim became so unerring that not a warrior among the sioux could excel him. it may seem singular, but our readers will understand us when we say that this added to his popularity--and, in a manner, paved a way for reaching many a heart that hitherto had remained unmoved by his appeals. the year preceding, an indian had presented the missionary with a goat, to the neck of which was attached a large cow-bell, that probably had been obtained of some trader. where the animal came from, however, he had never been able to tell. it was a very acceptable present, as it became a companion for his charley, who spent many and many an hour in sporting with it. it also afforded for a while a much-valued luxury in the shape of milk, so that the missionary came to regard the animal as an indispensable requirement in his household. the goat acquired a troublesome habit of wandering off in the woods, with an inclination not to return for several days. from this cause the bell became useful as a signal to indicate the animal's whereabouts. it rarely wandered beyond hearing, and caused no more trouble than would have resulted from a cow under the same circumstances. for the last few weeks it had been the duty, or rather privilege, of charley to bring his playmate home, and the child had become so expert that the father had little hesitation in permitting him to go out for it. the parent had misgivings, however, in allowing him to leave the house, so near dark, to go beyond his sight if not beyond his hearing; and for some time he had strenuously refused to permit the boy to go upon his errand; but the little fellow plead so earnestly, and the father's ever-present apprehensions having gradually dulled by their want of realization, he had given his reluctant consent, until it came to be considered the special province of the boy to bring in the goat every evening just before nightfall. the afternoon wore away, and still the missionary sat with folded hands, gazing absently off in the direction of the wood. the boy at length aroused him by running up and asking: "father, it is getting late. isn't it time to bring dolly home?" "yes, my son; do you hear the bell?" "listen!" the pleasant _tink-a-link_ came with faint distinctness over the still summer air. "it isn't far away, my son; so run as fast as you can and don't play or loiter on the way." the child ran rapidly across the clearing in the direction of the sound, shot into the wood, and, a moment later, had disappeared from his father's sight. the father still sat in his seat, and was looking absently toward the forest, when a startled expression flashed over his face and he sprung to his feet. what thus alarmed him? _it was the sound of the goat-bell._ all of my readers who have heard the sound of an ordinary cow-bell suspended to the neck of an animal, have observed that the natural sound is an _irregular one_--that is, there is no system or regularity about the sound made by an animal in cropping the grass or herbage. there is the clapper's tink-a-link, tink-a-link--an interval of silence--then the occasional tink, tink, tink, to be followed, perhaps, by a repetition of the first-named sounds, varied occasionally by a compound of all, caused by the animal flinging its head to free itself from troublesome flies or mosquitoes. the bell in question, however, gave no such sounds _as these_, and it was this fact which filled the missionary with a sudden, terrible dread. suppose a person take one of these bells in his hand, and give a steady, _uninterrupted_ motion. the consequence must be a regular, unvarying, monotonous sound, which any ear can distinguish from the natural one caused by the animal itself. it was a steady tink, tink, tink, that the bell in question sent forth. the missionary stood but a moment; then dashing into the house, he took down his ever-loaded rifle and ran in the direction of the sound. in his hurry, he forgot powder-horn and bullet, and had, as a consequence, but a single charge in his rifle. he had gone scarcely a hundred yards, when he encountered the goat returning home. one glance showed there was _no bell_ to its neck, while that ominous tink, tink, tink, came through the woods as uninterruptedly as before. the father now broke into a swifter run, almost losing his presence of mind from his great, agonizing fear. the picture of the indian, whom he had felled to the floor, when he insulted his wife years before, rose before him, and he saw his child already struggling in the savage's merciless grasp. nearer and nearer he approached the sound, until he suddenly paused, conscious that it was but a short distance away. hurrying stealthily but rapidly several rods to the right, the whole thing was almost immediately made plain to him. two trees, from some cause or other, had fallen to the ground in a parallel direction and within a yard of each other. between the trunks of these an indian was crouched, who held the goat-bell in his left hand, and caused the sound which so startled the father. the savage had his back turned toward the missionary, and appeared to be looking in the opposite direction, as if he were waiting the appearance of some one. while the father stood gazing at this, he saw his boy come to view about fifty feet the other side of the indian, and, as if wearied with his unusual hunt, seat himself upon a log. as soon as the boy was visible, the savage--whom richter recognized at once as the same man that he had felled to the floor of his cabin, four years before--called into use a little common sense, which, if it had been practised somewhat sooner, must have completely deluded the father and accomplished the design meditated. if, instead of giving the bell the monotonous tink, the indian had shaken the clapper irregularly, it would have resulted in the certain capture of the child, beyond the father's power of aid or rescue. the missionary, we say, penetrated the design of the indian almost instantly. although he saw nothing but the head and top of one shoulder, he recognized, with a quick instinct, the villain who had felt the weight of his hand years before, and who had now come in the fullness of time, to claim his revenge. directly in front of the savage rose a small bush, which, while it gave him a view of the boy, concealed himself from the child's observation. the object of the indian seemed to be to lure the boy within his reach, so as to secure him without his making an outcry or noise. if he could draw him close to the logs, he would spring upon him in an instant, and prevent any scream, which assuredly must reach the father, who, with his unerring rifle would have been upon the ground in a few moments. it was an easy matter for the savage to slay the boy. it would not have done to shoot his rifle, but he could have tomahawked him in an instant; hence it was plain that he desired only to take him prisoner. he might have sprung upon his prey in the woods, but there he ran the risk of being seen by the child soon enough for him to make an outcry, which would not fail of bringing immediate assistance. his plan, therefore, was, to beguile the little fellow on until he had walked directly into the snare, as a fly is lured into the web of a spider. this, we say, was the plan of the indian. it had never entered into his calculations that the goat, after being robbed of her bell, might go home and tell a tale, or that there were other ways in which the boy could be secured, without incurring half the peril he already had incurred. the moment the father comprehended what we have endeavored to make plain, he raised his rifle, with the resolve to shoot the savage through the head. as he did so, he recalled the fact that he had but a single charge, and that, as a consequence, a miss would be the death-warrant of himself as well as of his child. but he knew his eye and hand would never fail him. his finger already pressed the trigger, when he was restrained by an unforeseen impediment. while the deadly rifle was poised, the boy stretched himself up at full length, a movement which made known to the father that his child was exactly in range with the indian himself, and that a bullet passing through the head of the savage could not fail to bury itself in the little fellow's body. this startling circumstance arrested the pressure of the trigger at the very moment the ball was to be sped upon its errand of death. the missionary sunk down upon one knee, with the intention of bringing the head of the savage so high as to carry the bullet over the body of his boy, but this he found could not be done without too seriously endangering his aim. he drew a bead from one side of the tree, and then from the other, but from both stand-points the same dreadful danger threatened. the ground behind the tree was somewhat elevated, and was the only spot from which he could secure a fair view of the bronze head of the relentless enemy. two resorts were at the command of richter. he could leave the tree altogether, and pass around so as to come upon the savage from a different direction; but this involved delay during which his boy might fall into the indian's power and be dispatched, as he would be sure to do when he found that the father was close at hand; and from the proximity of the two men, it could hardly fail to precipitate a collision between them. the indian, finding himself at bay, could not fail to prove a most troublesome and dangerous customer, unarmed, as richter was, with weapons for a close encounter. the father might also wait until the boy should pass out of range. still, there was the possibility of his proceeding directly up to the spot where the savage lurked, thus keeping in range all the while. then the attempted rescue would have to be deferred until the child was in the hands of the savage. these considerations, passing through richter's brain much more rapidly than we have narrated them, decided him to abandon both plans, and to resort to what, beyond question, was a most desperate expedient. the indian held the bell in his left hand. it was suspended by the string which had clasped the neck of the goat, and, as it swayed gently back and forth, this string slowly twisted and untwisted itself, the bell, of course, turning back and forth. the father determined to slay the indian and save his son by _shooting this bell_! it is not necessary to describe the shape and make of the common cow-bell in general use throughout our country; but it is necessary that the reader should bear them in mind in order to understand the manner in which the missionary proposed to accomplish this result. his plan was to strike the bell when in the proper position, and _glance the bullet into the head of the savage_! the desperate nature of this expedient will be seen at once. should the gun be discharged when the flat side of the bell was turned toward him, the ball would pass through, and most probably kill his child without endangering the life of the indian. if it struck the narrow side, it accomplished neither harm nor good; while, if fired at the precise moment, and still aimed but an inch too low, the bell would most likely be perforated. consequently, it was requisite that the rifle be discharged at the precise instant of time when the signal brass was in the correct position, and that the aim should be infallibly true. all this richter realized only too painfully; but, uttering an inward prayer, he raised his rifle with a nerve that knew no faltering or fear, holding it pointed until the critical moment should arrive. that moment would be when the string was wound up, and was turning, to unwind. then, as it was almost stationary, he fired. no sound or outcry betrayed the result; but, clubbing his rifle, the father bounded forward, over the trees, to the spot where the indian was crouching. there he saw him in his death-struggle upon the ground the bell still held fast in his hand. in that critical moment, harvey richter could not forbear glancing at it. its top was indented, and sprinkled with white by the glancing passage of the lead. the blood, oozing down the face of the savage, plainly showed how unerringly true had been the aim. something in the upward look of the dying man startled the missionary. "harvey richter--don't you know me?" he gasped. [illustration: "harvey richter--don't you know me?" he gasped.] "i know you as a man who has sought to do me a wrong that only a fiend could have perpetrated. great heaven! can it be? is this you, brazey davis?" "yes; but you've finished me, so there isn't much left." "are you the man, brazey, who has haunted me ever since we came in this country? are you the person who carried away poor, dear cora?" "yes--yes!" answered the man, with fainting weariness. such, indeed, was the case. the strange hunter and the indian known as mahogany were one and the same person. "brazey, why have you haunted me thus, and done me this great wrong?" "i cannot tell. when i thought how you took her from me, it made me crazy when i thought about it. i wanted to take her from you, but i wouldn't have dared to do that if you hadn't struck me. i wanted revenge then." "what have you done with her?" "she is gone, i haven't seen her since the day after i seized her, when a band of indians took her from me, and went up north with her. they have got her yet, i know, for i have kept watch over her, and she is safe, but is a close prisoner." this he said with great difficulty. "brazey, you are dying. i forgive you. but does your heart tell you you are at peace with him whom you have offended so grievously?" "it's too late to talk of that now. it might have done years ago, when i was an honest man like yourself, and before i became a vagabond, bent on injuring one who had never really injured me." "it is never too late for god to forgive--" "too late--too late, i tell you! _there!_" he rose upon his elbow, his eyes burning with insane light and his hand extended. "i see her--she is coming, her white robes floating on the air. oh, god, forgive me that i did her the great wrong! but, she smiles upon me--she forgives me! i thank thee, angel of good----" he sunk slowly backward, and harvey richter eased the head softly down upon the turf. brazey davis was no more. chapter x. conclusion. heart leaps to heart--the sacred flood that warms us is the same; that good old man--his honest blood alike we frankly claim.--sprague. the missionary gazed sadly upon the inanimate form before him. he saw the playmate of his childhood stricken down in death by his own hand, which never should have taken human life, and although the act was justifiable under the circumstances, the good man could but mourn the painful necessity that occasioned it. the story, although possessing tragic interest, was a brief one. brazey davis, as he had always been termed, was a few years older than himself, and a native of the same neighborhood. he was known in childhood as one possessing a vindictive spirit that could never forgive an injury--as a person who would not hesitate at any means to obtain revenge. it so happened that he became desperately enamored of the beautiful cora brandon, but becoming aware, at length, that she was the betrothed of harvey braisted, the young missionary in embryo, the disappointed lover left the country, and was never heard of by the missionary until he made himself known in the singular manner that we have related at the opening of our narrative. he had, in fact, come to be a sort of monomaniac, who delighted in annoying his former rival, and in haunting his footsteps as if he were his evil shadow. the abduction of his wife had not been definitely determined upon until that visit to the cabin, in the garb and paint of an indian, when he received the tremendous blow that almost drove the life from his body. davis then resolved to take the revenge which would "cut" the deepest. how well he succeeded, the reader has learned. the missionary's child stood pleading for an explanation of the strange scene before him. loosening the bell from the grasp of the dead man, the minister took the little hand, and, with a heart overflowing with emotion, set out for his cabin. it was his wish to give the hunter a christian burial; but, for the present, it was impossible. these dying words rung in his ears: "the indians took her from me, and went up north with her, where she now is, _and safe_!" blessed thought! she was then living, and was yet to be restored to his arms. the shadow of death passed away, and a great light illuminated his very being. the lost was found! when the missionary came to be more collected, he concluded that this must be the tribe of which teddy had once spoken, but which had been visited by him without success. the prize was too great to be intrusted in the hands of another, and harvey determined to make the search in person, to settle, if possible, once and forever, the fate of his beloved wife. he soon proceeded to the indian village, where he left his boy and gave notice that he should not be back for several days. he then called one of the most trusty and skillful warriors aside, and asked for his company upon the eventful journey. the savage cheerfully complied, and the two set out at once. it was a good distance to the northward, and when night came down upon them, many miles yet remained to be passed. there was little fear of disturbance from enemies, and both lay down and slept until daylight, when they were immediately on their way again. this journey through the northern wilderness was unvaried by any event worthy of record, and the details would be uninteresting to the reader. suffice it to say that, just as the fourth day was closing in, they struck a small stream, which pursued a short distance, brought them directly upon the village for which they had been searching. the advent of the indian and missionary among them created considerable stir, but they were treated with respect and consideration. harvey richter asked immediately for the chief or leading man, and shortly stood in his presence. he found him a short, thick-set half-breed, whose age must have been well-nigh three-score years, and who, to his astonishment, was unable to speak english, although many of his subjects spoke it quite intelligibly. he understood sioux, however, and the missionary's companion acted as interpreter. our friend made a full statement of his wife's abduction, years before, and of the assertion of the dying man that she had been taken from him by members of this tribe, who had retained her ever since. the chief waited sometime before replying; he seemed debating with himself as to the proper course to pursue. finally he said he must consult with one of his warriors, and departed abruptly from the lodge. ten minutes later, while the missionary, with a painfully-throbbing heart, was gazing around the lodge, with that minute scrutiny of the most trifling objects peculiar to us at such times, he caught the sound of returning footsteps, and turned to the lodge door. there stood the indian, and, directly beside him, his own lost cora! the next day at noon, a camp-fire might have been seen some miles south of the northern village of which we have made mention. an indian was engaged in cooking a piece of meat, while the missionary and his reclaimed jewel, sitting side by side, her head reclining upon his shoulder and his hand dallying with her hair, were holding delightful communion. she looked pale and somewhat emaciated, for these years of absence had indeed been fraught with suffering; but the old sweet look had never departed. it was now changed into an expression of perfect joy. the wife's great anxiety was to reach home and see the child she had left an infant, but who was now a frolicksome boy, and she could hardly consent to pause even when night overtook them, and her lagging limbs told her husband how exhausted she had become. cora never had suspected the identity of the indian and the hunter, until on that sad day when he sprung from behind the cabin and hurried her off into the wood. there was something, however, in his look, when he first felt the weight of her husband's blow, that never left her remembrance. while hurrying her swiftly through the wood he said nothing at all, and at night, while she pretended to sleep, he watched by the camp-fire. it was the light of this fire which had puzzled teddy so much. on the succeeding day the abductor reached the river and embarked in his canoe. a half-hour later he leaned over the canoe and washed the paint from his face and made himself known in his true character, as brazey davis, her former lover. he had scarcely done so, when an indian canoe rounded a bend in the river, and, despite his earnest protestations, the savages took the captive from him, and carried her with them to their village, where she had been ever since. retained very closely, as all prisoners among indians are, she had heard nothing of teddy's visit. she was treated with kindness, as the destined wife of a young chief; but the suit for her consent never was pressed by the chief, as it is in an indian's code of honor never to force a woman to a distasteful marriage. the young brave, with true indian pertinacity, could wait his time, confident that his kindness and her long absence from home would secure her consent to the savage alliance. she was denied nothing but her liberty, and her prayers to be returned to her husband and child. at this point in her narration, an exclamation from the indian arrested attention. all listened and heard but a short distance away: "begorrah, teddy, it's yerself that's entitled to a wee bit of rist, as yees have been on a mighty long tramp, and hasn't diskivered anything but a country that is big enough to hide the atlantic ocean in, wid ireland on its bosom as a jewel. the chances are small of yees iver gitting another glimpse of heaven--that is, of miss cora's face. the darlint; if she's gone to heaven, then teddy mcfadden don't care how soon somebody else wears out his breeches--that is, on the presumption that st. peter will say, 'teddy, me lad, ye can inter an' make yerself at home, to be sure!'" the husband and wife glanced at each other significantly as the fellow rattled on. "wait a moment," said harvey, rising to his feet, and carefully making his way in the direction of the sound. it was curious that the irishman should have paused for his noonday rest in such close proximity to our friends; but, he had learned from a trader who had recently visited the red river country, that there _was_ a white woman, beyond all question, among the tribe in the north, and he was on his way to make them a second visit. the missionary found his servant seated by a tree. teddy looked up as he heard a footstep. it seemed as if his eyes would drop from their sockets. his mouth opened wide, and he seemed, for the moment, confounded. then he recovered his presence of mind in a measure, and proceeded to scratch his head vigorously. that, with him, ever was a sign of the clearing up of his ideas. "how do you do, teddy?" at length the missionary said, after having enjoyed the poor fellow's confusion. "faith, but ye sent the cold shivers over me. _is_ it yerself, mister harvey, out in these woods, or is it yer ghost on the s'arch for misthress cora? i sometimes thinks me own ghost is out on the s'arch without me body, an' i shouldn't be surprised to maat it some day. but i'm mighty glad it's yerself an' not yer ghost, for, to till the thruth, i don't jist like ghosts--they makes a body feel so quare in the stomach." "come with me; i have an indian as company, and you may as well join us." the hibernian followed, a few paces behind, continually expressing his astonishment at seeing his master so far away from home. he did not look up until they were within a few paces of the camp-fire, when richter stepped from before him. "save us! save us! but if there isn't the ghowst of miss cora come to haunt me for not finding her afore!" exclaimed teddy, retreating a step or two in genuine terror. "saint patherick, saint pether, saint virgin mary, protict me! i didn't mane to get dhrunk that day, ye know, nor to make a frind of--" "i am no ghost but my own self, teddy, restored to my husband in safety. can you not welcome me?" "oorah! oorah!" and he danced a moment in uncontrollable joy. then he exclaimed: "god bliss yer own swate self!" taking her in his brawny arms. "god bliss you! no ghost, but yer own swate self. oh, i feel like a blast of powder ready to go off!" and again he danced a singular commixture of the jig and cotillion, much to the indian's amazement, for he thought him crazy. "i knew that i should look upon your face again; but, till me where it is yees have come from?" he finally subsided enough to ask. teddy was soon made to understand all that related to the return of the young wife. when he learned that mahogany, with whom he had so often drank and "hobnobbed," was only the hunter disguised, who was thus plotting his crime, the irishman's astonishment can hardly be described. he was irritated, also, at his own stupidity. "that teddy mcfadden iver should have been so desaved by that rascal of purgatory!" he exclaimed; but, as the evil man had gone to the great tribunal above, there was no disposition, even in teddy's heart, to heap curses on his memory. a few days more, and the three whites passed through the indian village on their way to the clearing. the joy of the savages at the return of their sweet, pale-faced sister was manifested in many ways, and she once feared they would never allow her to leave them and go to her own humble home. finally, however, they reached the clearing, and, as they walked side by side across it, opened the door and sat down within the cabin, and the fond mother took the darling boy in her lap, the wife and husband looked in each other's faces with streaming eyes, and murmured "thank god! thank god!" the end. * * * * * reasons why you should obtain a catalogue of our publications . you will possess a comprehensive and classified list of all the best standard books published, at prices less than offered by others. . you will find listed in our catalogue books on every topic: poetry, fiction, romance, travel, adventure, humor, science, history, religion, biography, drama, etc., besides dictionaries and manuals, bibles, recitation and hand books, sets, octavos, presentation books and juvenile and nursery literature in immense variety. . you will be able to purchase books at prices within your reach; 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life of benjamin franklin. from farm house to white house; life of george washington. from log cabin to white house; life of james a. garfield. from pioneer home to white house; life of abraham lincoln. from tannery to white house; life of ulysses s. grant. success and its achievers. tact, push and principle. these titles, though by different authors, also belong to this series of books: from cottage to castle; the story of gutenberg, inventor of printing. by mrs. e.c. pearson. capital for working boys. by mrs. julia e. m'conaughy. price, postpaid, for any of the above ten books, c. a complete catalogue sent for the asking. hurst & co. publishers, new york the white shield stories by myrtle reed author of lavender and old lace the master's violin old rose and silver a weaver of dreams flower of the dusk at the sign of the jack o'lantern the shadow of victory threads of grey and gold etc. illustrated by dalton stevens [illustration] new york grosset & dunlap publishers made in the united states of america copyright, by myrtle reed by myrtle reed: a weaver of dreams old rose and silver lavender and old lace the master's violin love letters of a musician the spinster book the shadow of victory sonnets to a lover master of the vineyard flower of the dusk at the sign of the jack-o'-lantern a spinner in the sun later love letters of a musician love affairs of literary men myrtle reed year book _this edition is issued under arrangement with the publishers_ g. p. putnam's sons, new york and london [illustration: "do you remember that awful quarrel we had about annexing canada to the united states?" asked robert. _from the drawing by dalton stevens._] contents page preface v morning vii the white shield an international affair a child of silence the dweller in bohemia a minor chord the madonna of the tambourine a mistress of art a rosary of tears the roses and the song a laggard in love trÄumerei "swing low, sweet chariot" the face of the master a reasonable courtship elmiry ann's valentine the knighthood of tony her volunteer in reflected glory the house beautiful from a human standpoint the editor desires to make acknowledgment to the publishers of the following magazines for their courtesy in permitting the use of certain stories in this collection: _munsey's magazine_, _the new england magazine_, _the pilgrim_, _the smart set_, _the woman's magazine_, _the national magazine_, _outing_. preface the editor takes great pleasure in being able to give to the public another volume from the pen of the lamented author--myrtle reed. these fascinating bits of fiction reflect the characteristics of the writer; the same vivid imagination, the quick transition from pathos to humour, the facility of utterance, the wholesome sentiment, the purity of thought, the delicacy of touch, the spontaneous wit which endeared her to friends and to thousands of readers, not only in europe and america, but also in australia and south africa, are here fully represented. her mission was largely one of comfort to the suffering and the sorrowing; letters of good cheer went to far-away countries where her personal ministry could reach in no other way, and her writings are rich with sympathy and hope which have poured the oil of gladness into many a wounded spirit. pathos is not sadness, but it is rather the sunshine gleaming through a passing cloud, and hence the writings of myrtle reed are illumined with the gladsome light of unfailing love. not only in her books and in letters to troubled souls, but also in her personal records, we find the unfading lines of a deeply devotional nature which was sacredly guarded from the careless observer and seldom discussed even with friends. but in this abiding faith was rooted the brave loyalty and high purpose which not only characterised herself, but also all of her productions. the beautiful stories here presented have given pleasure to thousands of readers in the magazines in which they first came into print, and it is to the unvarying courtesy of the publishers that we are indebted for the privilege of thus binding the scattered grain into a single golden sheaf. for the many letters of sincere sympathy which, in response to a formal request, have come from these stranger-friends, the editor is especially grateful. elizabeth a. reed. chicago, february, . morning by myrtle reed the magic east lies in enchanted shadow-- a titan dreaming fitfully of day, the ghostly mists are deep upon the meadow outlined against the hillside faintly grey; the portent of the dawn has strangely swayed the silver birches, trembling and afraid. too long the hosts of dark have held the plain, the king of night at last must end his reign; with rapturous accord doth earth acclaim the tidings of new life for heart and brain, behold the night hath passed away in flame! sea-born and strong, the winds begin to blow against the cliffs, the billows break in spray; returning waters meet and overflow-- white-plumed battalions marshalled for the fray; upon the beach the foaming cavalcade beats yet once more with rhythmic cannonade. afar the boundless reaches of the main show lines of white that fall and rise again, a morning song the sea's lips soon shall frame, insistent and with passionate refrain, behold the night hath passed away in flame! athwart the sombre east there comes a glow-- a thrill, a tremble, then a slender ray, a single arrow from the sun-god's bow strikes on the zenith like a star astray; swiftly does the light of venus fade, her gentle radiance for the night was made. the distant hills take on a crimson stain from fire-poppies set in golden grain that wrought of light puts harvest fields to shame; through feathery clouds there creeps a scarlet vein, behold the night hath passed away in flame! the ramparts of the sunrise glorious grow, of what lost rubies builded, none may say, what diamonds snatched from sunbeams or from snow-- what emeralds and violets lost by may in those far off celestial walls are laid! imperial columns of jacinth and of jade, like dreamer's castles built in sunny spain, before these jewelled entrances are lain; forgotten springs may summer now reclaim and visions of the autumn yet remain, behold the night hath passed away in flame! reflected splendour on the sea below hath blazoned through the waves a royal way-- a path of glory such as angels know, that leads the wondering soul to kneel and pray. stray threads of sun are shining in the glade, where dews of morning sparkle in the shade the pearly webs an alien beauty gain; high in the maple, down the leafy lane, a robin's song with neither words nor name falls in a cadence like a silver rain, behold the night hath passed away in flame! l'envoi "let there be light!" the angels now ordain, for links of morning, distant seas enchain, into the waiting heart new courage came, and from the deep there rose a siren strain-- behold the night hath passed away in flame! the white shield the white shield people said that joe hayward's pictures "lacked something." even the critics, who know everything, were at a loss to find where the deficiency might be. hayward, himself, worked hard studying the masters, patiently correcting faults in colour and perspective, and succeeding after a fashion. but he felt that art, in its highest and best sense, was utterly beyond him; there was a haunting elusive something which was continually beyond his reach. occasionally, when he sold a picture, he would give "a time" to a dozen artist chums from studios near by, as they did, whenever fortune favoured them; after this he would paint again, on and on, with a really tremendous perseverance. at length, he obtained permission to make an exhibition of his work in a single room at the art gallery. the pictures were only ten in number, and some of them were small, but they represented a year's hard work. when he superintended the hanging, on saturday morning, he was more nearly happy than he had ever been in his life. the placard on the door, "the hayward exhibition will open monday," filled him with pleasure. it was not a conceited feeling of importance, but rather a happy consciousness that he had done his best. at last he was suited with the arrangement. the men went out with the ladder and wire, and he stood in the centre of the room, contemplating the result. the landscape in the corner might be a little out of drawing, he thought, but the general public would not notice that. and the woman in white, beside it, which he had christened _purity_ certainly showed to good advantage. he remembered very well the day he had put the finishing touches upon it after the night of revelry in which he had helped jennings and a dozen other fellows from neighbouring studios to celebrate the sale of jennings' _study of a head_, and how he had thought, at the time, that he, who spent such nights, had no business to paint a figure like this of _purity_. as he turned to leave the room, he saw a grey gowned young woman, who evidently did not know that the pictures were not as yet upon public view. she passed him as she came in, with a rustle of silken skirts and a cooling odour of violets. seeing the key of the room in his hand, she turned to him and said: "pardon me, but can you tell me whose pictures these are?" "these are hayward's," he replied. "hayward," she repeated after him, as if the name were wholly new to her. "hayward is a young artist and of purely local reputation," he explained. "this is his first public exhibition." she surveyed the collection without any very strong show of pleasure, until he remarked, "you don't seem to think much of his beginning." she was prompt in her answer: "no, i do not, they seem to lack something." he sighed inwardly. that old, old, "something." hayward's pictures all lacked "something" as everybody said of them; but what that something was, his intimates, his fellow artists, were not the kind to know. "what is it, do you think?" he asked. "i don't know," she replied slowly. "if one knew the man, one might be able to tell." for the first time she looked him full in the face. he saw nothing but her eyes, clear and honest, reading him through and through. "yes," he answered, "if you knew the man, i think you could tell." "i'm not at all sure," she laughed, "it's only a fancy of mine." drawing a watch from her belt, she looked surprised and turned away. he listened until the silken rustle had completely ceased. then he, too, went out and on the stair he found a fine handkerchief edged with lace, delicately scented with violet, and minutely marked in the corner: "constance grey." on sunday night, the studio building where hayward and others painted glowed with light. the morrow's opening of "the hayward exhibition" was being celebrated with "a time" at the expense of the artist. glasses clinked, and the air was heavy with smoke, two women from a vaudeville theatre, near by made merry upon an impromptu stage. everybody seemed to be happy except hayward. the owner of the handkerchief was in his mind. he felt that those eyes of hers grey, deep, and tender, though they were, might blaze with anger at a scene like this. the handkerchief had no place in such an atmosphere. he went over to his book case, and put it between the leaves of his tennyson, smiling as he caught the words on the opposite page: "a man had given all other bliss and all his worldly worth for this, to waste his whole heart in one kiss upon her perfect lips." her handkerchief would feel more at home there, he thought, though as he closed the book, he could not help wondering what she would say if she looked into the room. a quick eye had followed his movement, and soon afterward its owner, jennings, took occasion to examine the volume. he waved the handkerchief aloft triumphantly. "heigho, fellows! hayward's got a new mark for his clothes! look here--'constance grey'!" hayward was shaken with mingled shame and anger that he could not explain, even to himself. the words and tone with which he commanded his friend to put the little thing back where he had found it were as hot as they were foolish. for a moment the two men faced each other; then jennings apologised, and afterward hayward murmured a sort of apology also. in sparkling champagne they drank to good fellowship again. but the incident was not without a certain subtle effect upon the celebration, and at one o'clock hayward sat alone with his face buried in his hands, a dainty handkerchief spread out before him, and beside it was the rapidly sketched outline of a face which he had just completed. he knew now why the action of jennings had made him so furious. the shaft of light from a woman's eyes, which once strikes deep into the soul of every man, had at last come home to him. the "opening" was auspicious. wealth and art alike were well represented. one of his most important pictures was marked "sold" before the evening was over, and everybody congratulated the artist upon his good fortune. in praise of his art, however, very little was said that did not somehow carry in it, perhaps silently, the old drawback--the implication that something was lacking; still exultation ran rife in his veins. there were throngs of beautiful women there and he was the centre of it all. toward the end of the evening, a lady who had once sat for a portrait came up to him. she was one of a little group who came in late after a theatre party, but she approached with the air of an old friend. "mr. hayward," she said, "i want you to know my niece." he followed her into the next room where a young lady sat upon a divan. her grey eyes were lifted to his face, and then suddenly lowered in confusion. "mr. hayward," she said, "i am so ashamed!" and when he tried to reassure her, she answered: "let's not talk about it--it's too humiliating!" so they spoke of other things. he learned that she had come from a distant city to visit relatives, and the aunt invited him to call upon them. friday afternoon came at last, when miss grey and her aunt were at home. other fridays followed, and other days which served as well as fridays. it was seldom that the girl looked him in the face; but when she did so, he felt himself confessed before her--a man with no right to touch even the hem of her garment, yet honouring her with every fibre of his being. they were much together and constance took a frank enjoyment in his friendship. he made every effort to please her, and one day they went into the country. constance was almost childishly happy, but the seeming perfection of her happiness distressed him when he learned that in a very few days she was to sail for europe, pass the summer and autumn in travel, and spend the winter in paris. at length they sat down under a gnarled oak tree and watched the light upon the river and in the sky. after an embarrassing silence hayward spoke: "i think you know the man now,--will you tell me what you think of his pictures?" she hesitated. "i do not know the man well enough to say, but i will give you my art creed, and let you judge for yourself. i believe that a man's art is neither more nor less than the expression of himself, and that, in order to obtain an exalted expression, his first business is with himself. wrong living blunts, and eventually destroys, the fundamental sense of right and wrong without which a noble art is impossible. when a man's art is true, it is because he himself is true. the true artist must be a man first, and an artist afterward." hayward took her admonition with the meekness becoming his position as her worshipper. the conversation ended with his declaration that he would not paint again until he had something in himself which was worthy of being put into his picture. "you'll help me, won't you?" he asked. her eyes filled. "indeed i will, if i only can." he went home with love's fever in his veins. she had promised to help him, and surely there was only one way. he wrote her an ardent note, and an hour later his messenger brought her reply. "believe me, i never dreamed of this, and you know what my answer must be; but i do not need to tell you that whatever sincere and honest friendship can offer is already yours. "with deep regret, i am as ever, "constance grey." the grim humour of the thing stunned him momentarily and he laughed harshly. then he flung himself down in a passion of grief. in the morning he took pen and paper again, after a night of sleepless distress. "you cannot mean what you say. that white womanly soul of yours must wake to love me some day. you have stood between me and the depths, and there has been no shame in the life that i offer you, since you came into it. "oh, you perfect thing, you perfect thing, you don't know what you are to me! constance, let me come!" the answer was promptly forthcoming: "i cannot promise what you ask, but you may come and see me if you wish." pale with expectancy, hayward was only the ghost of himself when the servant admitted him. he had waited but a moment when constance entered the room wearing the gown in which he had first seen her. he rose to meet her, but she came and sat down by his side. "listen," she said, "and i will tell you how i feel. i am twenty-five and i have never 'cared.' i do not believe that i ever shall care, for the love that we read of is almost incomprehensible to me. you cannot marry such a woman." his answer was fervent, his words crowded one upon another in a vehement flood, and his voice was low and hoarse with pent-up emotion, as he implored her to believe in him, trust him, and be his wife,--kneeling at her feet and kissing her hands in abject humility. it was very hard for her to say what she must, but with an effort she rose and drew away from him. "i must be true to myself and to you," she said, "and i can say nothing but the old bitter no." white and wretched, he went away, leaving her white and wretched behind him. for days and weeks thereafter, hayward painted busily. jennings went to see him one afternoon. "look here, old fellow," he said, "what's the matter? i know i was ungentlemanly about the handkerchief, but that's no reason why you should cut us all this way. can't you forget about it?" "why, jennings, old boy, i haven't cut anybody." "no, but you've tired of us, and you can't hide it. come down the river with us to-night. the fellows have got a yacht, and we'll have supper on board with plenty of champagne. won't you come?" hayward was seriously tempted. he knew what "the time" would mean--the ecstasy of it and the dull penalties which would follow. but that day by the river came into his memory: a sweet sunlit face, and a woman's voice saying to him: "when a man's art is true, it is because he himself is true." "jennings," he said, "do i look like a man who would make good company at a champagne supper? you know what's the matter with me. why don't you just sensibly drop me?" jennings begged, and mocked, and bullied, all in a good-natured way, but his friend was firm. when he went out, hayward locked the studio door and drew his half finished picture from behind a screen. "she was right," he said to himself. constance sailed. he dreamed of his picture as being hung in the salon, and of her seeing it there. by and by it was finished, but the artist's strength was gone, and his physician ordered him away from his work. when he returned, restored to health, the picture was placed on exhibition. crowds thronged the gallery, columns and pages were written in its praise, and astonishing prices were offered for it, but the picture was not for sale. it, too, crossed the water, and the dream which had comforted him for many months at last came true. when constance looked upon hayward's painting, her heart leaped as if it would leave her breast. white, radiant, and glorified, it was she herself who stood in the centre of the canvas. that self-reliant, fearless pose seemed to radiate infinite calm. behind her raged the powers of darkness, utterly helpless to pass the line on which she stood. her face seemed to illumine the shadows around her; her figure was instinct with grace and strength. below the picture was the name: _the white shield_. the beauty of the conception dawned upon her slowly. pale and trembling, she stood there, forgetful of the place, and the throng around her. at length she knew what she meant to him; that his art at last rang true because he had loved her enough to be a man for her sake. she dared not linger before it then, but she came again when the place was empty, and stood before her lover's work, like one in a dream. the fiends in the shadow showed her the might of the temptations he had fought down. she gazed at her own glorified face until her eyes filled with tears. with a great throb which was almost pain, constance woke to the knowledge that she loved him, even as he loved her--well enough to stand between him and danger till she herself should fall. the old grey guard, passing through the room, saw her upturned face in that moment of exaltation. it was the same that he saw in the picture above, and he quietly went away to wait until constance came out, her face flushed and her eyes shining like stars, before he locked the door. that night the cable trembled with a message to america. it reached hayward the next morning as he sat reading the daily paper. the envelope fluttered unheeding to the floor, and his face grew tender then radiant as he read the few words which told him that his picture had rewarded his love. "wait," he said to the messenger boy. hurriedly he wrote the answer: "sailing next steamer"--then, utterly oblivious of the additional expense, he added another word, which must have been very expressive, for constance turned crimson when it reached her--perhaps because the discerning genius who copies cablegrams in typewriting had put the last word in capitals, thinking that the message came from a mr. darling. an international affair an international affair the committee of literary extension was holding its first meeting. five girls sat around a glowing gas log and nibbled daintily at some chocolates which had been sent to the hostess. "come, margaret, you're the chairman of this committee; please tell us what it is all for," suggested grace hayes. "well, girls, i hardly know how to begin. most of us in travelling have seen those little huts along the railroad with a little bit of cultivated ground around each one. they are the very embodiment of desolation. i have seen whole families come out to stare at the train as it whirled by, and i have often wondered what place there could be for such people in this beautiful, happy world--why i should have my books and friends and the thousand other things that have been given to me, while other people, and worst of all, other women, have to live lives like that. "there are boys upon farms, in reform schools, and in little towns who scarcely ever see even a newspaper, and who do not know what a magazine is. "it is to reach this class of people that this work has been undertaken, and for this purpose our committee has been appointed. fifteen or twenty magazines and illustrated papers come to us every month--even to the few who are here to-day: perhaps some of you see even more than this. after we have read them, we might send them to these people instead of burning them, and who can tell how many starving minds we may make better, and happier, in this simple way, and with very little effort on our part?" "can they read?" it was grace, an always practical individual, who spoke. "if they can't, they can learn," responded miss stone. "it will be an incentive to their best efforts in every way." katherine bryant leaned forward, her face flushed, and her eyes shining. "girls," she said, "it's perfectly beautiful. we'll send all of our own magazines and illustrated papers, all we can collect from other sources, and we'll raise money to buy new ones. i don't know of any other way in which we can do so much good." plan after plan was suggested, and at last it was decided that the committee should write to a society in boston which did similar work, and ask for the names and addresses of twenty-five persons who were in need of reading matter. these could be removed from the lists of the boston society, as the committee on literary extension of the detroit young woman's club would attend to their needs in future. in due time the list arrived, with a few particulars opposite each name. the committee was again called together, and the chairman gave each girl five names. "katherine dear," she said, "there are some more names in the little note-book that is up-stairs in my desk. they are all boys who have left the reform school. a friend of mine, who is one of the directors, gave them to me, and there are only four or five. would you mind taking those in addition to your own?" "not at all," and katherine ran up to margaret's desk. "wonder where she keeps her note-book! oh, here it is, and here is the list." she copied busily. "one, two, three, four; that's all. no, here's another on the next page," and at the end of her slip she wrote: "robert ross, athol, spink co., south dakota." the work was taken up in earnest and many magazines were collected within the next few days. a strict account was kept of everything sent out, and occasionally the girls met to compare notes. margaret came home one day and found mrs. boyce waiting for her. "my dear," said the lady, "i've lost an address that troubles me, and i think it may have been on the card that i gave you the other day." "i'll see," replied margaret, "i copied them all that very afternoon." she took her note-book out of her chatelaine bag and handed it to mrs. boyce. "which one is it?" the elder lady laughed in a relieved way. "this last one," she answered. "robert ross. he's my favourite nephew, off on a shooting trip, and he wants me to write to him. he'd never forgive me, if i didn't. just give me a card, and i will try not to be so careless again." meanwhile katherine was absorbed in addressing magazines with great vigour. she had found a pile of back numbers in the attic and was trying to divide them properly. the household journals went to a woman in kansas, fifty miles from a city, others she mailed to a boy of sixteen who was on a farm in minnesota, and a copy of a popular magazine was addressed to mr. robert ross. at the top of each one she had written, "from miss katherine bryant, jefferson ave., detroit." a short time afterward, she received a pathetic letter from the woman to whom she had sent the household magazines. "i married for love," she wrote, "and have never been sorry, but i miss many of the things to which i was accustomed in my eastern home. a magazine is an unusual thing upon a kansas farm, and with all my heart i thank you for the great pleasure you have given a lonely woman." mindful of the fact that one of the objects of the committee was to get into correspondence with its beneficiaries, katherine sat down to write an encouraging note to her and also to others, but before she had finished the postman brought another letter. it had been mailed in south dakota. the paper was the white ruled variety, to be found in country stores, but the penmanship was clear and business-like. "my dear miss bryant," the letter began, "i am sure i don't know what good angel possessed you to send me a copy of my favourite magazine, but i am none the less grateful and only too happy to acknowledge it. i am hurt, but the doctor thinks not seriously, and that i shall be all right in a few weeks. the magazine which you so kindly sent has given me the first pleasant day i have had for some time. "i should be most happy to receive a letter from you, but of course that is too much for a stranger to ask, even though he be ill and alone. "sincerely and gratefully yours, "robert ross." katherine knit her pretty brows, and read it over again. "it's no queerer than the one i got from the kansas woman," she decided. "at any rate, they both seem glad to get them and they shall have some more." she wrote very kindly to robert ross, inquiring into the particulars of his injury, and whether or not he lived on a farm. she said he was very fortunate, if he did indeed live in the country, because so many people were pining away and dying in the great cities. the magazine she had sent was one of her own favourites also, and she would send the next number as soon as it came out. in the meantime, she hoped the package of papers she was sending in the same mail would prove acceptable. out on the porch of the athol house, mr. ross sat in the sun and reviled creation in general. it was a palatial hotel--for that region--but he seemed unmindful of his advantages. "oh, confound it," he groaned, "why couldn't i have shot some other idiot instead of myself? i ought not to be trusted with a gun! right in the height of the prairie chicken season too, and those other fellows, three of them, off bagging every bit of the game! i hope they won't forget to come back this way, and take me home with them! emperor, old fellow, it's hard luck. isn't it?" the irish setter, who had been addressed, came and put his cold nose into mr. ross's hand. the well-bred dog had refused to desert his wounded master, even for the charms of prairie chickens, and touched by his dumb devotion ross permitted him to stay. long conversations were held every day, and emperor told ross as plainly as a dog could, that if it hadn't been for that dreadful flesh wound they would be having a fine time in the fields, capturing more game than any other dog and man in the party. when the landlord returned from the post-office he brought a letter which emperor carried in triumph to his master. ross read it in surprise. who miss bryant might be, he did not know, but she wrote a pleasant letter, and it was certainly kind of her to notice him. he decided that the letter he wrote in acknowledgment of the magazine must have been extremely well done. he thought of the unknown fair one for some time, and then concluded to write again. he was non-committal about himself, fearing to spoil any delusion she might have been labouring under when she sent the magazine. when katherine received the second letter, she felt several pricks of conscience. it wasn't a nice thing she was doing, and she knew it. but a person shouldn't let squeamishness interfere with philanthropic work, so she answered promptly. she drew him into a discussion of an article on "the desirability of annexing canada to the united states," and he criticised it harshly. he forgot to tell her that he was a canadian by birth and a loyal subject of the king. his point of view was naturally distorted, and she replied with some spirit, dealing very patiently, however, with the frail arguments which he had submitted. katherine thought the discussion was a good thing. anything that would make him think was an unmixed blessing. she fairly glowed as she thought of the mental stimulus she might give to this poor dakota farmer, who had been hurt in some mysterious way, and her letters grew longer even as they increased in frequency, for mr. ross wrote very promptly indeed. she could well understand that, when a cripple had so little to occupy his time in that far away wilderness. ross was highly amused. he admired miss bryant's letters and wished he might see miss bryant herself. a bright idea (as he thought) occurred to him--why not? with very red cheeks, miss katherine read the latest news from spink county. her own beautiful irish setter put his head into her lap, and begged to be petted. "go away, rex, i want to think. the wretch! to ask for my photograph! he evidently doesn't know his place! i'll teach him where it is and then take the name of the impertinent creature off my list!" she sat down to compose a letter which should make mr. robert ross, alias wretch, squirm in agony. rex was persistent and put his paw up to shake hands. katherine turned and looked at him. "you're a dreadfully nice doggie, but i wish you'd go away and not bother me." then an idea came to her which startled her at first, but grew more attractive as she became better acquainted with it. she bent down and whispered to rex, and he wagged his tail as if he fully understood. "yes, rex, it's got to be done. i'm sorry to sacrifice any of your beauty, but you've got to get your mistress out of a scrape. come on!" and the willing rex was escorted into the back yard. sooner than he expected, mr. ross found a letter at his plate when he limped in to the customary breakfast of black coffee and fried eggs. on this occasion, he omitted the eggs and hastily swallowed the coffee, for the envelope was addressed in familiar style. it was a very pleasant letter. the writer seemed to meet his advances in a proper spirit, but there was no photograph. "i don't give my pictures to young men, nor old ones either, but i enclose a lock of hair which i have cut off on purpose for you, and i hope you will be pleased with it." he looked at the enclosure again and again. it was a single silky curl, of a beautiful reddish gold, tied daintily with blue ribbon. he certainly was pleased with it, as she had hoped. "hair like this and violet eyes," soliloquised ross. "i must write again without delay." so when the landlord went to the post-office he mailed another letter to miss bryant. the first page consisted wholly of raptures. he began to think that athol was not so dull a place as he had at first imagined. those fellows off in the fields shooting prairie chickens were not having any better time than he and emperor in this thriving town. it was true that emperor slept most of the time, but magazines, and papers, and letters not only made the time less tedious, but there seemed to be opening up a vista of romance which made the tramping in the stubbly fields look very much less attractive. while he thought of it, he would read miss bryant's letter again. he took it out of the envelope, and the curl fell unnoticed to the floor of what the landlord was pleased to term "the front stoop." emperor walked over, and seemed interested. his master did not notice him, being absorbed in the letter; at last the dog sniffed uneasily, and then growled, so ross looked up and was surprised to find him pawing something vigorously. still ross did not see what the dog had. "what's the matter with you, old fellow?" emperor growled again, and bit fiercely at the curl. its owner rescued it at once, but the dog would not be appeased. he made such a fuss that his master put the letter away. then emperor made another attack on the curl, and ross took it away from him again and examined it closely. a queer look came into his face and a queerer note into his voice. "emperor, come here. keep still." the long golden fringe that made emperor's tail the thing of beauty that it was, was drawn up on his knee and the curl was laid beside it. there was no doubt at all. it matched exactly. ross leaned back in his chair with a low whistle. "well--by--jove! i wonder if she'll tell me when she writes," he said to himself. with a despairing grin, he remembered his raptures on the subject and decided that miss bryant would be very certain to tell him where that "sweet curl" came from! when the missive from spink county reached detroit, miss katherine bryant was a very happy girl. as a rule, it takes very little to make girls happy. for the first time in her life, she longed for a confidant, and unlike most girls, she had none. she took rex for a long walk and told him all about it. the poor dismantled tail wagged in ecstasy, but his mistress was not sure that he understood the joke in its entirety. at last she would have her revenge and she took keen delight in answering that letter. "i quite agree with you concerning the beauty of the hair," she wrote. "it came from my beautiful irish setter, and i am very glad you are pleased with it, though to tell the truth, i should think you utterly heartless if you were not." ross sent an elaborate apology for his impertinence, and confessed that he admired her all the more for outwitting him. inwardly, he wished that emperor had made his discovery before he had mailed that idiotic letter. his manliness, however, appealed to katherine and she did not take his name off the list. in the meantime, the three other men returned to their wounded comrade. they had been very successful and were profuse in their expressions of regret. ross said nothing of his unknown friend. he felt that it would not be fair to her, and anyhow, when a girl has sent you dog-hair, and you have raved over it, it isn't best to tell of it. he was sure that all the circumstances were in favour of his keeping still about it. the ugly wound had quite healed when the four men started east together. at st. paul they separated, ross and emperor taking the night train for detroit and the promised visit to mrs. boyce. she was delighted to see her nephew, and emperor soon found his way into her good graces. his master took him out for a stroll the same day he arrived, the dog having been long confined in a box-car, and the released captive found his excursion especially refreshing. at a corner, however, he met another irish setter, also out for a stroll, and the two speedily entered into a violent discussion. a snarling, rolling, mahogany-coloured ball rolled toward ross, and a young lady followed, crying at the top of her voice, "rex! rex! come here." the owner of emperor rushed into the disturbance with his cane, and succeeded in resolving the ball into its component parts. rex, panting and injured, was restored to his agitated mistress, while emperor chafed at his master's restraining hand. apologies were profuse on both sides. "i'm stronger than you," ross said, "and if you can hold your dog until i get mine out of sight, we shall have no more trouble." miss bryant scolded rex until his head and tail drooped with shame, and relentlessly kept him at heel all the way home. at her own gate, she met margaret stone, to whom she told the story of her adventure with the handsome stranger, and the other dog, who "looked so much like rex that his own mother could not have told them apart!" margaret's errand was a brief one. mrs. boyce was coming over to the stone mansion with her nephew and she wanted katherine to come to dinner and stay all night. so katherine put on her prettiest gown and went over, little thinking what fate had in store for her. she instantly recognised in ross the man she had met a few hours before under very different circumstances. he was too much of a gentleman to allude to the occurrence, but she flushed uncomfortably. both girls found him an exceedingly pleasant fellow. katherine had recovered from her embarrassment, and was laughing happily, when mrs. boyce began to speak of the committee on literary extension and the good work the girls were doing. "do you know, bob," she went on, "that i nearly lost your address in that way? i gave it to margaret with the names of some boys from the reform school. it's a blessed wonder you didn't get magazines and tracts!" if robert had been an angel he would not have looked at katherine, but being merely human he did. miss bryant rose in a dignified manner. "margaret," she said unsteadily, "i must go home." "why, katherine, you were going to stay all night!" "my--head--aches," she answered. "bob," commanded mrs. boyce, "you must take katherine home." "it's not at all necessary," pleaded katherine piteously. "but i insist," repeated mrs. boyce with the utmost good will. mr. ross rose. "if miss bryant will permit me, i shall be only too glad to accompany her home," he said courteously. there was nothing to do but submit with the best grace she could assume. once out of doors, she was the first to break the silence: "i'm afraid to be out alone--in the city." "yes," replied her escort cheerily, "it's a pity you didn't bring your dog!" he could have bitten his tongue out for making such an unlucky speech, but to his surprise katherine broke down and sobbed hysterically. mr. ross took both her hands in his own. "you are tired and nervous, miss bryant, and i beg you to think no more about what has happened. you have no idea how much good you did me out in that miserable little place, and i shall be only too glad to be your friend, if you will let me." katherine wiped her eyes: "if you can be my friend, i ought to be very willing to be yours," and just outside of her door canada and the united states clasped hands in a solemn treaty of peace. safely in her own room, the mistress of rex sat down before the mirror and studied her face attentively. "katherine bryant," she said to herself, "you are an idiot! not foolish, nor silly, nor half witted, nor anything like that--just a plain idiot! he has graduated from the university with high honours, and you, with your miserable little boarding-school education, have instructed him on many subjects. i am thoroughly ashamed of you." when she finally slept, her dreams were a medley of handsome strangers, mixed with dogs, and reddish-yellow curls tied up with blue ribbons. leaning up against the corner lamp-post, mr. robert ross indulged in a spasm of irreverent mirth, but with a great effort he preserved a calm exterior when he again entered the drawing-room of his hostess. on their way home mrs. boyce said: "bob, why don't you go into business with your uncle and become a good american citizen? we'd love to have you with us, and there is surely a good opening here." "i'll think about it," he answered, and he did, with the usual result, for it is proverbial that he who hesitates is lost. mr. boyce was quite willing to shift a part of his responsibility to the broad shoulders of his nephew, and an agreement was easily reached. emperor was quartered in the back yard, where he fretted for a few days and then wreaked his vengeance on sundry grocery boys and milkmen. when his master went out, the dog usually went along except when miss bryant and rex were to be favoured with a call. if the two dogs met, the customary disturbance ensued. rex included ross in his hatred of emperor, and emperor was equally hostile toward miss bryant. "rex," said katherine, one day, "you are a very nice doggie, but i won't have you treat mr. ross with such disrespect. the other night, when we were going out, you had no business to growl when he buttoned my gloves, nor to sniff in that disgusted way at the roses he brought. if you ever do that again, i shall let the dogcatcher take you to the pound!" the imaginary spectacle of rex en route to the pound nearly unnerved katherine, but she felt that she must be severe. ross punished emperor with a chain, or with confinement in the back yard, which the dog hated, but where it was necessary to keep him a part of the time, and for a while all went well. but ross went away one evening without explaining matters to the sensitive being in the back yard. emperor knew well enough where he had gone--knew he was visiting that disagreeable girl who owned that other irish setter--a very impertinent dog whose manners were so bad that he was a disgrace to the whole setter tribe! he sulked over his wrongs for an hour or so, and then crawled out through a friendly hole in the fence which he had for some time past been spending his hours of imprisonment in making. the dining-room of the house on the avenue was lighted by a single gas jet, and the shades were lowered. miss bryant and the chafing dish together had evolved a rarebit which made the inner man glow with pleasure. "do you remember that awful quarrel we had about annexing canada to the united states?" asked robert. katherine remembered distinctly. he went over to her side of the table. "what do you think about it now?" it was a very ordinary question, but miss bryant turned scarlet. "i--i don't know," she faltered. he put his arm around her. "i give in," he said; "annexation is the most desirable thing in the world--when shall it take place?" katherine raised her head timidly. "say it, sweetheart," he whispered tenderly. it happened at this moment that emperor arrived in search of his master. rex was sitting on the front steps and declined to take in his card. then the shrieking, howling barking ball rolled into the vestibule, and ross made a dash for the door. with considerable effort he got rex into the back yard, and locked emperor into the vestibule. then he went back to katherine. he tried to speak lightly, but his voice trembled with earnestness: "dearest, this entire affair has been coloured, and suggested by, and mixed up with dogs. i think now there will be an interval of peace for at least ten minutes, and i am asking you to marry me." rex raised his voice in awful protest, and emperor replied angrily to the challenge, as he raged back and forth in the vestibule, but robert heard katherine's tremulous "yes" with a throb of joy which even the consciousness of warring elements outside could not lessen. the little figure against his breast shook with something very like a giggle, and katherine's eyes shining with merriment met his with the question: "what on earth shall we do with the dogs?" robert laughed and drew her closer: "it's strictly international, isn't it? canada and the united states quarrel----" "and ireland arbitrates!" said katherine. three months later, in the drawing-room on jefferson avenue, to the accompaniment of flowers, lights, and soft music, the treaty was declared permanent. there was a tiny dark coloured footprint on the end of katherine's train, which no one appeared to notice, and a white silk handkerchief carefully arranged hid from public view a slightly larger spot on the shining linen of the bridegroom, where emperor had registered his enthusiastic approval of his master's apparel. but the rest of the committee, in pale green gowns, were bridesmaids, while emperor and rex, resplendent in new collars, and having temporarily adjusted their difference as long as they were under guard, had seats of honour among the guests. a child of silence a child of silence at the end of the street stood the little white house which jack ward was pleased to call his own. five years he had lived there, he and dorothy. how happy they had been! but things seemed to have gone wrong some way, since--since the baby died in the spring. a sob came into jack's throat, for the little face had haunted him all day. never a sound had the baby lips uttered, and the loudest noises had not disturbed his rest. it had seemed almost too much to bear, but they had loved him more, if that were possible, because he was not as other children were. jack had never been reconciled but dorothy found a world of consolation in the closing paragraph of a magazine article on the subject: "and yet we cannot believe these children of silence to be unhappy. mrs. browning says that 'closed eyes see more truly than ever open do,' and may there not be another world of music for those to whom our own is soundless? in a certain sense they are utterly beyond the pain that life always brings, for never can they hear the cruel words beside which physical hurts sink into utter insignificance. so pity them not, but believe that he knoweth best, and that what seems wrong and bitter is often his truest kindness to his children." dorothy read it over and over until she knew it by heart. there was a certain comfort in the thought that he need not suffer--that he need never find what a world of bitterness lies in that one little word--life. and when the hard day came she tried to be thankful, for she knew that he was safer still--tried to see the kindness that had taken him back into the unknown silence of which he was the child. jack went up the steps this mild winter evening, whistling softly to himself, and opened the door with his latch-key. "where are you, girlie?" "up stairs, dear. i'll be down in a minute," and even as she spoke dorothy came into the room. in spite of her black gown and the hollows under her eyes, she was a pretty woman. she knew it, and jack did too. that is he had known, but he had forgotten. "here's the evening paper." he tossed it into her lap as she sat down by the window. "thank you." she wondered vaguely why jack did not kiss her as he used to, and then dismissed the thought. she was growing accustomed to that sort of thing. "how nice of you to come by the early train! i didn't expect you until later." "there wasn't much going on in town, so i left the office early. any mail? no? guess i'll take jip out for a stroll." the fox-terrier at his feet wagged his tail approvingly. "want to go, jip?" jip answered decidedly in the affirmative. "all right, come on," and dorothy watched the two go down the street with an undefined feeling of pain. she lit the prettily shaded lamp and tried to read the paper, but the political news, elopements, murders, and suicides lacked interest. she wondered what had come between her and jack. something had, there was no question about that; but--well, it would come straight sometime. perhaps she was morbid and unjust. she couldn't ask him what was the matter without making him angry and she had tried so hard to make him happy. jip announced his arrival at the front door with a series of sharp barks and an unmistakable scratch. she opened it as jack sauntered slowly up the walk and passed her with the remark: "dinner ready? i'm as hungry as a bear." into the cozy dining-room they went, jip first, then jack, then dorothy. the daintily served meal satisfied the inner man, and he did not notice that she ate but little. she honestly tried to be entertaining, and thought she succeeded fairly well. after dinner he retired into the depths of the evening paper, and dorothy stitched away at her embroidery. suddenly jack looked at his watch. "well, it's half past seven, and i've got to go over to mrs. brown's and practise a duet with her for to-morrow." dorothy trembled, but only said: "oh, yes, the duet. what is it this time?" "'calvary,' i guess, that seems to take the multitude better than anything we sing. no, jip, not this time. good-bye, i won't be gone long." the door slammed, and dorothy was alone. she put away her embroidery and walked the floor restlessly. mrs. brown was a pretty widow, always well dressed, and she sang divinely. dorothy could not sing a note though she played fairly well, and jack got into a habit of taking mrs. brown new music and going over to sing it with her. an obliging neighbour had called that afternoon and remarked maliciously that mr. ward and mrs. brown seemed to be very good friends. dorothy smiled with white lips, and tried to say pleasantly, "yes, mrs. brown is very charming, don't you think so? i am sure that if i were a man i should fall in love with her." the neighbour rose to go and by way of a parting shot replied: "that seems to be mr. ward's idea. lovely day, isn't it? come over when you can." dorothy was too stunned to reply. she thought seriously of telling jack, but wisely decided not to. these suburban towns were always gossipy. jack would think she did not trust him. and now he was at mrs. brown's again! the pain was almost blinding. she went to the window and looked out. the rising moon shone fitfully upon the white signs of sorrow in the little churchyard far to the left. she threw a shawl over her head and went out. in feverish haste she walked over to the little "god's acre" where the child of silence was buried. she found the spot and sat down. a thought of mrs. browning's ran through her mind: "thank god, bless god, all ye who suffer not more grief than ye can weep for----" then someway the tears came, a blessed rush of relief. "oh, baby dear," she sobbed, pressing her lips to the cold turf above him, "i wish i were down there beside you, as still and as dreamless as you. you don't know what it means--you never would have known. i'd rather be a stone than a woman with a heart. do you think that if i could buy death i wouldn't take it and come down there beside you? it hurt me to lose you, but it wasn't the worst. you would have loved me. oh, my child of silence! come back, come back!" how long she stayed there she never knew, but the heart pain grew easier after a while. she pressed her lips to the turf again. "good night, baby dear, good night. i'll come again. you haven't lost your mother even if she has lost you!" fred bennett passed by the unfrequented spot, returning from an errand to that part of town, and he heard the last words. he drew back into the shadow. the slight black figure appeared on the sidewalk a few feet ahead of him and puzzled him not a little. he followed cautiously and finally decided to overtake her. as she heard his step behind her she looked around timidly. "mrs. ward!" his tone betrayed surprise, and he saw that her eyes were wet and her white, drawn face was tear-stained. she shuddered. a new trouble faced her. how long had he been following her? he saw her distress and told his lie bravely. "i just came around the corner here." her relieved look was worth the sacrifice of his conscientious scruples, he said to himself afterward. "i may walk home with you, may i not?" "certainly." she took his offered arm and tried to chat pleasantly with her old friend. soon they reached the gate. she dropped his arm and said good night unsteadily. bennett could bear it no longer and he took both of her hands in his own. "mrs. ward, you are in trouble. tell me, perhaps i can help you." she was silent. "dorothy, you will let me call you so, will you not? you know how much i cared for you in a boy's impulsive fashion, in the old days when we were at school; you know that i am your friend now--as true a friend as a man can be to a woman. tell me, dorothy, and let me help you." there was a rustle of silk on the pavement and her caller of the afternoon swept by without speaking. already dorothy knew the story which would be put in circulation on the morrow. bennett's clasp tightened on her cold fingers. "tell me, dorothy, and let me help you!" he said again. the impulse to tell him grew stronger, and she controlled it with difficulty. "it is nothing, mr. bennett, i--i have a headache." "i see, and you came out for a breath of fresh air. pardon me. i am sure you will be better in the morning. these cool nights are so bracing. good night, and god bless you--dorothy." meanwhile bennett was on his way to mrs. brown's cottage. his mind was made up, and he would speak to jack. he had heard a great deal of idle gossip, and it would probably cost him jack's friendship, but he would at least have the satisfaction of knowing that he had tried to do something for dorothy. he rang the bell and mrs. brown herself answered it. "good evening, mrs. brown. no, thank you, i won't come in. just ask jack if i may see him a minute on a matter of business." ward, hearing his friend's voice, was already at the door. "i'll be with you in a minute, fred," he said. "good night, mrs. brown; i am sure we shall get on famously with the duet." and the two men went slowly down the street. they walked on in silence until jack said: "well, bennett, what is it? you don't call a fellow out like this unless it is something serious." "it is serious, jack; it's dor--it's mrs. ward." "dorothy? i confess i am as much in the dark as ever." "it's this way, jack, she is in trouble." ward was silent. "jack, you know i'm a friend of yours; i have been ever since i've known you. if you don't take what i am going to say as i mean, you are not the man i think you are." "go on, fred, i understand you. i was only thinking." "perhaps you don't know it, but the town is agog with what it is pleased to term your infatuation for mrs. brown." jack smothered a profane exclamation, and bennett continued. "dorothy is eating her heart out over the baby. she was in the cemetery to-night sobbing over his grave and talking to him like a mad woman. i came up the back street, and after a little i overtook her and walked home with her. that's how i happen to know. and don't think for a moment that she hasn't heard the gossip. she has, only she is too proud to speak of it. and jack, old man, i don't believe you've neglected her intentionally, but begin again and show her how much you care for her. good night." bennett left him abruptly, for the old love for dorothy was strong to-night; not the fitful flaming passion of boyhood, but the deeper, tenderer love of his whole life. jack was strangely affected. dear little dorothy! he had neglected her. "i don't deserve her," he said to himself, "but i will." he passed a florist's shop, and a tender thought struck him. he would buy dorothy some roses. he went in and ordered a box of american beauties. a stiff silk rustled beside him and he lifted his hat courteously. "going home, mr. ward? it's early, isn't it?" "but," with scarcely perceptible emphasis, "it's--none--too soon!" then as her eager eye caught a glimpse of the roses, "ah, but you men are sly! for mrs. brown?" jack took his package and responded icily, "no, for mrs. ward!" "cat!" he muttered under his breath as he went out. and that little word in the mouth of a man means a great deal. he entered the house, and was not surprised to find that dorothy had retired. she never waited for him now. he took the roses from the box and went up-stairs. "hello, dorothy," as the pale face rose from the pillow in surprise. "i've brought you some roses!" dorothy actually blushed. jack hadn't brought her a rose for three years; not since the day the baby was born. he put them in water and came and sat down beside her. "dear little girl, your head aches, doesn't it?" he drew her up beside him and put his cool fingers on the throbbing temples. her heart beat wildly and happy tears filled her eyes as jack bent down and kissed her tenderly. "my sweetheart! i'm so sorry for the pain." it was the old lover-like tone and dorothy looked up. "jack," she said, "you do love me, don't you?" his arms tightened about her. "my darling, i love you better than anything in the world. you are the dearest little woman i ever saw. it isn't much of a heart, dear, but you've got it all. crying? why, what is it, sweetheart?" "the baby," she answered brokenly, and his eyes overflowed too. "dorothy, dearest, you know that was best. he wasn't like--" jack couldn't say the hard words, but dorothy understood and drew his face down to hers again. then she closed her eyes, and jack held her until she slept. the dawn found his arms around her again, and when the early church bells awoke her from a happy dream she found the reality sweet and beautiful, and the heartache a thing of the past. the dweller in bohemia the dweller in bohemia the single lamp in "the den" shone in a distant corner with a subdued rosy glow; but there was no need of light other than that which came from the pine knots blazing in the generous fireplace. on the rug, crouched before the cheerful flame, was a woman, with her elbow on her knee and her chin in the palm of her hand. there were puzzled little lines in her forehead, and the corners of her mouth drooped a little. miss archer was tired, and the firelight, ever kind to those who least need its grace, softened her face into that of a wistful child. a tap at the door intruded itself into her reverie. "come," she called. there was a brief silence, then an apologetic masculine cough. helen turned suddenly. "oh, it's you," she cried. "i thought it was the janitor!" "sorry you're disappointed," returned hilliard jovially. "sit down on the rug again, please,--you've no idea how comfortable you looked,--and i'll join you presently." he was drawing numerous small parcels from the capacious pockets of his coat and placing them upon a convenient chair. "if one might enquire--" began helen. "certainly, ma'am. there's oysters and crackers and parsley and roquefort, and a few other things i thought we might need. i know you've got curry-powder and celery-salt, and if her gracious ladyship will give me a pitcher, i'll go on a still hunt for cream." "you've come to supper, then, i take it," said helen. "yes'm. once in a while, in a newspaper office, some fellow is allowed a few minutes off the paper. don't know why, i'm sure, but it has now happened to me. i naturally thought of you, and the chafing dish, and the curried oysters you have been known to cook, and----" helen laughed merrily. "your heart's in the old place, isn't it--at the end of your esophagus?" "that's what it is. my heart moves up into my throat at the mere sight of you." the colour flamed into her cheeks. "now will you be good?" he continued enquiringly. "kindly procure for me that pitcher i spoke of." he whistled happily as he clattered down the uncarpeted stairs, and helen smiled to herself. "bohemia has its consolations as well as its trials," she thought. "this would be impossible anywhere else." after the last scrap of the feast had been finished and the dishes cleared away, frank glanced at his watch. "i have just an hour and a half," he said, "and i have a great deal to say in it." he placed her in an easy chair before the fire and settled himself on a cushion at her feet, where he could look up into her face. "'the time has come, the walrus said, to talk of many things,'" quoted helen lightly. "don't be flippant, please." "very well, then," she replied, readily adjusting herself to his mood, "what's the trouble?" "you know," he said in a different tone, "the same old one. have you nothing to say to me, helen?" her face hardened, ever so slightly, but he saw it and it pained him. "there's no use going over it again," she returned, "but if you insist, i will make my position clear once for all." "go on," he answered grimly. "i'm not a child any longer," helen began, "i'm a woman, and i want to make the most of my life--to develop every nerve and faculty to its highest and best use. i have no illusions but i have my ideals, and i want to keep them. i want to write--you never can understand how much i want to do it--and i have had a tiny bit of success already. i want to work out my own problems and live my own life, and you want me to marry you and help you live yours. it's no use, frank," she ended, not unkindly, "i can't do it." "see here, my little comrade," he returned, "you must think i'm a selfish beast. i'm not asking you to give up your work nor your highest and best development. isn't there room in your life for love and work too?" "love and i parted company long ago," she answered. "don't you ever feel the need of it?" she threw up her head proudly. "no, my work is all-sufficient. there is no joy like creation; no intoxication like success." "but if you should fail?" "i shall not fail," she replied confidently. "when you dedicate your whole life to a thing, you simply must have it. the only reason for a failure is that the desire to succeed is not strong enough. i ask no favours--nothing but a fair field. i'm willing to work, and work hard for everything i get, as long as i have the health and courage to work at all." he looked at her a long time before he spoke again. the firelight lingered upon the soft curves of her throat with a caressing tenderness. her eyes, deep, dark, and splendid, were shining with unwonted resolution, and her mouth, though set in determined lines, had a womanly sweetness of its own. around her face, like a halo, gleamed the burnished glory of her hair. for three long years he had loved her. helen, with her eyes on things higher than love and happiness, had persistently eluded his wooing. his earnest devotion touched her not a little, but she felt her instinctive sympathy for him to be womanish weakness. "this is final?" he asked, rising and standing before her. she rose also. "yes, please believe me--it _must_ be final; there is no other way. i don't want lovers--i want friends." "you want me, then, to change my love to friendship?" "yes." "never to tell you again that i love you?" "no, never again." "very well, we are to be comrades, then?" she gave him her hand. "yes, working as best we may, each with the understanding and approval of the other; comrades in bohemia." some trick of her voice, some movement of her hand--those trifles so potent with a man in love--beat down his contending reason. with a catch in his breath, he crushed her roughly to him, kissed her passionately on the mouth, then suddenly released her. "women like you don't know what you do," he said harshly. "you hold a man captive with your charm, become so vitally necessary to him that you are nothing less than life, enmesh, ensnare him at every opportunity, then offer him the cold comfort of your friendship!" he was silent for a breathless instant; then in some measure, his self-control came back. "pardon me," he said gently, bending over her hand. "i have startled you. it shall not occur again. good night and good luck--my comrade in bohemia!" helen stood where he had left her until the street door closed and the echo of his footsteps died away. the fire was a smouldering heap of ashes, and the room seemed deathly still. her cheeks were hot as with a fever, and she trembled like one afraid. it was the first time he had crossed the conventional boundary, and he had said it would be the last, but love's steel had struck flame from the flint of her maiden soul. "i wish," she said to herself as she put the room in order, "that i lived on some planet where life wasn't quite so serious." for his part he was pacing moodily down the street, with his hands in his pockets. several times he swallowed a persistent lump in his throat. he could understand helen's ambition, and her revolt against the conventions, but he could not understand her point of view. even now, he would not admit that she was wholly lost to him. what she had said came back to him with convincing force: "when you dedicate your whole life to a thing, you simply must have it." "we'll see," he said to himself grimly, "just how true her theory is." months passed, and helen worked hard. she was busy as many trusting souls have been before with "the great american novel." she was putting into it all of her brief experience and all of her untried philosophy of life. she was writing of suffering she had never felt, and of love she could not understand. she saw frank now and then, at studio teas and semi-bohemian gatherings, at which the newspaper men were always a welcome feature. there was no trace of the lover in his manner, and she began to doubt his sincerity, as is the way with women. "so this is bohemia?" he asked one evening when they met in a studio in the same building as helen's den. "yes,--why not?" "i was thinking it must be a pretty poor place if this is a fair sample of the inhabitants," he returned easily. she flushed angrily. "i do not see why you should think so. here are authors, musicians, poets, painters and playwrights--could one be in better company?" [illustration: "so this is bohemia?" he asked one evening when they met in a studio in the same building as helen's den. _from the drawing by dalton stevens_] he paid no attention to her ironical question. "yes," he continued, "i see the authors. one is a woman--pardon me, a female--who has written a vulgar novel, and gained a little sensational notoriety. the other is a man who paid a fifth-rate publishing house a goodly sum to issue what he calls 'a romance.' the musicians are composers of 'coon songs' even though the african renaissance has long since waned, and members of theatrical orchestras. the poets have their verses printed in periodicals which 'do not pay for poetry.' the only playwright present has written a vaudeville sketch--and i don't see the painters. are they painting billboards?" "perhaps," said helen, with exquisite iciness, "since you find us all so far beneath your level, you will have the goodness to withdraw. your superiority may make us uncomfortable." half in amusement, and half in surprise, he left her in a manner which was meant to be coldly formal, and succeeded in being ridiculous. after a while, helen went home, dissatisfied with herself, and for the first time dissatisfied with the bohemia over the threshold of which she had stepped. always honest, she could not but admit the truth of his criticism. yet she was wont to judge people by their aspirations rather than by their achievements. "we are all workers," she said to herself, as she brushed her hair. "every one of those people is aspiring to what is best and highest in art. what if they have failed? not fame, nor money, but art for art's dear sake. i am proud to be one of them." * * * * * in the course of a few weeks the novel was finished, and she subjected it to careful, painstaking revision. she studied each chapter singly, to see if it could not be improved, even in the smallest detail. when the last revision had been made, with infinite patience, she was satisfied. she wanted frank to read it, but was too proud to make the first overtures towards reconciliation. the first three publishers returned the manuscript with discouraging promptness. rejected short stories and verse began to accumulate on her desk. sunday newspaper specials came home with "return" written in blue pencil across the neatly typed page. courteous refusal blanks came in almost every mail, and still helen did not utterly despair. she had put into her work all that was best of her life and strength, and it was inconceivable that she should fail. two more publishing houses returned her novel without comment, and with a sort of blind faith, she sent it out again. this time, too, it came back, but with a kindly comment by the reader. "you cannot write until you have lived," was his concluding sentence. helen sat stiff and still with the letter crumpled in her cold fingers. slowly the bitter truth forced itself upon her consciousness. "i have failed," she said aloud, "i have failed--failed--failed." a dry tearless sob almost choked her, and with sudden passionate hatred of herself and her work, she threw her manuscript into the fire. the flames seized it hungrily. then, someway, the tears came--a blessed rush of relief. hilliard found her there when he came at dusk, with a bunch of roses by way of a peace offering. the crumpled letter on the floor and the shrivelled leaves of burned paper in the fireplace afforded him all the explanation he needed. he sat down on the couch beside her and took her trembling hands in his. the coolness of his touch roused her, and she sighed, burying her tear-stained face in the roses. "i have failed," she said miserably, "i have failed." he listened without comment to the pitiful little story of hard work and bitter disappointments. "i've given up everything for my art," she said, with a little quiver of the lips, "why shouldn't i succeed in it?" the temptation to take her in his arms temporarily unmanned him. he left her abruptly and stood upon the hearth rug. "you are trying to force the issue," he said quietly. "you ar'n't content to be a happy, normal woman, and let art take care of itself. you should touch life at first hand, and you are not living. you are simply associating with a lot of hysterical failures who call themselves 'bohemians.' art, if it is art, will develop in whatever circumstances it is placed. why shouldn't you just be happy and let the work take care of itself? write the little things that come to you from day to day, and if a great utterance is reserved for you, you cannot but speak it, when the time comes for it to be given to the world." helen stared at him for a moment, and then the inner tension snapped. "you are right," she said, sadly, instinctively drawing toward him. "i am forcing the issue." they stood looking into each other's eyes. helen saw the strong, self-reliant man who seemed to have fully learned the finest art of all--that of life. she felt that it might be possible to love him, if she could bring herself to yield the dazzling vista of her career. all unknowingly, he had been the dearest thing in the world to her for some little time. bohemia's glittering gold suddenly became tinsel. there came a great longing to "touch life at first hand." he saw only the woman he loved, grieved, pained, and troubled; tortured by aspirations she could not as yet attain, and stung by a self-knowledge that came too late. a softer glow came into helen's face and the lover's blind instinct impelled him toward her with all his soul in his eyes. "sweetheart," he said huskily. helen stopped him. "no," she said humbly, "i must say it all myself. you are right, and i am wrong. i must live before i am a woman and i must be a woman before i can be an artist. i have cared for you for a long time, but i have been continually fighting against it--i see it all now. i will be content to be a happy woman and let the work take care of itself. faulty, erring and selfish, i see myself, now, but will you take me just as i am?" the last smouldering spark of fire had died out and left the room in darkness. helen's face showing whitely in the shadow was half pleading, and wholly sweet. speechless with happiness, he could not move. a thousand things struggled for utterance, but the words would not come. she waited a moment, and then spoke again. "have i not humbled myself enough? is there anything more i can say? i should not blame you if you went away, i know i deserve it all." the old tide of longing surged into the man's pulses again, and broke the spell which lay upon him. with a little cry, he caught her in his arms. she gave her lips to his in that kiss of full surrender which a woman gives but once in her life, then, swinging on silent hinges, the doors of her bohemia closed forever. a minor chord a minor chord one afternoon before christmas, a man with bowed head and aimless step walked the crowded streets of a city. the air was clear and cold, the blue sky was dazzlingly beautiful, the sun shone brightly upon his way, yet in his face was unspeakable pain. his thoughts were with the baby daughter whom he had seen lowered into the snow, only a few hours before. he saw it all,--the folds of the pretty gown, the pink rose in the tiny hands, and the happy smile which the angel of the shadow had been powerless to take away. "you will forget," a friend had said to him. "forget," he said to himself again and again. "you can't forget your heart," he had answered, "and mine is out there under the snow." through force of habit, he turned down the street on which stood the great church where he played the organ on sundays and festival days. he hesitated a moment before the massive doorway, then felt in his pocket for the key, unlocked the door and went in. the sun shone through the stained glass windows and filled the old church with glory, but his troubled eyes saw not. he sat down before the instrument he loved so well and touched the keys with trembling fingers. at once, the music came, and to the great heart of the organ which swelled with pity and tenderness, he told his story. wild and stormy with resentment at first, anger, love, passion, and pain blended together in the outburst which shook the very walls of the church. "god gives us hearts--and breaks them," he thought and his face grew white with bitterness. beside himself with passion, he played on, and on, till the sun sank behind the trees and the afternoon shaded into twilight. as the shadows filled the church, he accidentally struck a minor chord, plaintive, sweet, almost sad. he stopped. with that sound a flood of memories came over him--an autumn day in the woods, the trees dropping leaves of crimson and gold, the river flowing at his feet, with the purple asters and goldenrod on its banks, and beside him the fair sweet girl who had made his life a happy one;--and insensibly he drifted into the melody, dreaming, on the saddest day of his life, of the day which had been his happiest. he remembered the look in her eyes when he had first kissed her. beautiful eyes they were, brown, soft, and tender, with that inward radiance which comes to a woman only when she looks into the face of the man she loves. "i will go to her," he whispered, "but not yet, not yet!" and still he played on in that vein of sadness, the sweet influence stealing into his heart till the pain was hushed in peace. conscious only of a strange sense of uplifting, the music grew stronger as the thought of the future was before him. he was young, talented, he had a wife to live for, and a child--no, not a child--and the tears stole over his cheeks as he again touched the minor chord. the crescendo came again. the child was safe in the white arms of the snow, and she was hidden away from the sorrows of the earth in the only place where we are ever safe from these--in its heart. the moon had risen over the hill-tops, and the church was as light as if touched on every side with silver. the organ sounded a strain of exultation in which the minor chord was in some way mingled with the theme. he could face the world now. any one can die but it takes a hero to live. something he had read came back to him: "once to every human being, god gives suffering--the anguish that cuts, burns and stings. the terrible 'one day' always comes and after it our hearts are sometimes cruel and selfish--or sometimes tender as he wishes them to be." and the strong soul rose above its bitterness, for his "one day" was over, and it could never come again. his strength asserted itself anew as he came down from the organ loft and went toward the door. a little bundle in one of the pews attracted his attention, and he stooped to see what it was. a pale, pinched baby face looked up at him wonderingly, the golden hair shining with celestial glory in the moonlight. the hair, the eyes, the position of the head were much like those of the child he had lost. back came the rush of infinite pain--he was not so strong as he had thought--but only for an instant. hark! was it an echo or his own soul playing upon his quivering heartstrings the minor chord? again the new strength reasserted itself and into his consciousness rose the higher duty to the living over the love and faith for the lost. "was it you played the music?" said the sweet child voice. "i heard it and i comed in!" "dear," he said, "where is your home? are you all alone?" "home," she said wonderingly. "home?" without another word, he took the child in his arms and hurried out of the doorway. along the brilliantly lighted avenue he hastened, till he reached the little cottage in a side street. it was dark within except for the fitful glancings of the moonlight, and he deposited his burden in a big arm-chair while he went in search of his wife. "sweetheart," he called, "where are you?" the sweet face came into the shadow before him, and she laid her hand upon his arm without speaking. he led her to the little waif saying simply: "i have brought you a christmas gift, dear." she put out her empty arms and gathered the desolate baby to her breast. the eternal instinct of motherhood swelled up again and for a moment, in the touch of the soft flesh against her own, the tiny grave in the snow seemed only a dream. "theodora--gift of god," he said reverently. then as the clouds parted, and the moonlight filled every nook and corner of the little room: "dearest, we cannot forget, but we can be brave, and our gift of god, shall keep us; shall it be so?" the madonna of the tambourine the madonna of the tambourine with a discordant rumble of drums, and the metallic clang of a dozen tambourines, the salvation army procession passed down the street. when the leader paused at a busy corner and began to sing, a little knot of people quickly gathered to listen. some quavering uncertain voices joined in the hymn as the audience increased, then mindful of his opportunity, a tall young man in red and blue uniform began an impassioned exhortation. george arnold and his friend clayton lingered with half humorous tolerance upon the outskirts of the crowd. they were about to turn away when arnold spoke in a low tone: "look at that girl over there." the sudden flare of the torch-light revealed the only face in the group which could have attracted arnold's attention. it was that of a girl but little past twenty, who stood by the leader holding a tambourine. she was not beautiful in the accepted sense of the word, but her eyes were deep and lustrous, her mouth sensitive and womanly, and the ugly bonnet could not wholly conceal a wealth of raven hair. her skin had a delicate pearly clearness, and upon her face was a look of exaltation and purity as though she stood on some distant elevation, far above the pain and tumult of the world. after a little, the salvationists made ready to depart, and arnold and clayton turned away. "i suppose," said clayton, speaking tentatively, and gazing at the girl, "that we have no right to criticise any belief which puts a look like that upon a woman's face." "we have no right to say a word," returned arnold, "until we have the grace to do some of the things which they do." clayton soon forgot, but the glorified, childish face haunted arnold. in the hope of seeing her again, he frequented the curbstones where the meetings were held. often, he wondered at the holy peace in the eyes of so young a woman. he had seen the same expression before, but the face it illumined had always been battle-scarred and weary. "she hasn't suffered yet," he said grimly, "and that is the thing that tells." months passed and summer shaded imperceptibly into autumn. then, with little sharp flurries of cold, winter took its place. arnold was hard at work in that merciless slavery which is found only at the newspaper desk. "you're just a cog in the machine," he said to clayton one day. "some day the thing goes wrong, and they find out it's your particular cog, and they get a new one. that's all there is to it." clayton laughed at his friend's cynicism, as he could well afford to do, for he had just been called to a distant city to fill an important position upon the staff of a larger and more influential journal. for some time, arnold's particular cog did yeoman service. he ground out more "copy" than any man on the staff. he had the keenest nose for news--the most delicate way of handling a good story. sometimes as he wrote at his desk, the face of the young salvationist intruded itself between him and his work. he smiled at his foolish fancy, but dramatic incidents began to take shape about the image of that girl. he planned "the great american novel"--there is no newspaper man who could not write it, if he only had the time--and she was to be the central figure. all the possibilities of womanhood lay in that sweet madonna-like face. thinking along the lines of art the new century seemed to have laid down, he struck the key-note of his theme--the development of the individual. his madonna might suffer or not, but she must grow into her highest and best. he turned the story over in his mind, studying it from every standpoint. it was not yet ready for paper and pen. a year went by, and various kinds of trouble came to arnold. something eventually became wrong with the newspaper machine, for he worked only by fits and starts, and at last he was asked for his resignation. his face was white and determined when he handed it in, but he felt that he was facing failure. he had a little money laid by for an emergency; at all events, it was enough to supply his wants until he could write his book. he went at it feverishly, but the work soon began to drag. the far-off, elusive phantom of his ideal mocked at him behind its expression. then he went more slowly still, and, by almost imperceptible degrees, he went steadily down the pitiful ladder which leads from bad to worse. ambition faded, hope died, and at last he found himself on a level with humanity at its worst--an outcast of the slums. strong drink had done its work. he never knew how he happened to lose the remnant of his self-respect and get into a quarrel with a man distinctly his inferior, nor how he managed to slip on the icy sidewalk and fall heavily against the curbstone. merciful unconsciousness blinded him for a time, and when he came to his senses he was in a tiny room, scantily furnished, but exquisitely neat and clean. he was staring at the unfamiliar surroundings when a soft foot-fall sounded beside the bed. he looked up--to meet the clear eyes of the madonna. he was about to speak, but she stopped him by a gesture. "hush," she said, in a voice of mellow sweetness which soothed him inexpressibly, "you must not talk now." the touch of her cool fingers on his throbbing temples seemed to ease the pain. he was quite willing to obey her and keep quiet. it was not until the day following that he knew how badly he had been hurt, and that it would be at least two months before he could walk again. "compound fracture," the doctor said, and arnold shuddered, for he had heard of such things before. as the days went by, the gentle ministry of the madonna did not for a moment fail. "i say," he said huskily, one morning, "what makes you so good to me?" the high color mounted to her temples. "i want you to get well, that's all." she had a library card and brought books which he suggested. her room was near his and often in the night when he was restless with pain, she came in silently, and, holding his hot hand in her cool fingers, read until he went to sleep. he remembered her afterwards as she sat in the lamplight, her hair falling around her shoulders and over the loose black gown which she wore about the house. her voice soothed and charmed him. it was full of lights and, little caressing notes and a haunting sweetness which, someway, he could not forget. there had been but one woman in his life, and he knew there would be no other. the broken bones knit slowly, but the doctor was encouraging, and he tried hard to be patient. he was ashamed to give way to petulance in the presence of this gentle, sweet-voiced woman, whose name he knew, but whom he preferred to call "madonna." "it means 'my lady'," he said to her one day, "and that is what you are to me." through the whole of one painful night she read to him from mrs. browning, only resting at short intervals when from very weariness he fell into a short and troubled slumber. her education had been sadly neglected, he discovered, but her eager facile mind was quick to comprehend. she had too, that inner sense of beauty which makes all art its own. her voice suited itself to the exquisite melody of the words as she read "a denial." when it was finished she sat quite still, with a dreamy, far-away look in her eyes. "of what are you thinking, madonna?" he asked tenderly. "of this--of what it must be for a man and woman who love each other to go away like this--because it isn't right for them to be together--never to see each other again." then she read once more those four lines which have in them all the strength of loving and all the pain of parting. "so farewell, thou whom i have met too late to let thee come so near; be happy while men call thee great and one beloved woman feels thee dear--" something tightened around his heart and he took her cold fingers into his own. "there's nothing in all the world that hurts like that, madonna. god keep you from knowing about it, little girl." an older woman would have taken warning from his words, but she did not. the caressing way in which he said "little girl" filled her soul with strange joy. she had a childish, unquestioning faith in him. some day when he was better--but further than this her maiden thought refused to go. she simply waited, as a queen might wait for her coronation day. he was planning to repay her kindness if it were in any way possible. he knew she would not take money from him, but there were other ways. flowers--for he knew she loved them--the books that she liked best, and perhaps something for the unfortunates to whom she gave herself so unreservedly. the winter was over, and april, warm with may's promise, came in through the open window. even the sullen roar of the city streets could not drown the cheering song of two or three stray birds. the week before easter she brought home a tall slender lily in a pot, with a single bud showing at the top of the green shaft. "they told me it would blossom for easter," she said happily, but she did not tell him she had saved her carfare for days in order to buy it for him. he was able to sit up now, but she would not let him go until it was quite safe for him to walk. she seemed to cling, hungrily, to her last days with him. "after easter," she said bravely, "i won't keep you." he was watching the lily with impatience almost equal to her own, and tiny lines of white appeared on the green sheath. one day, it seemed as if it would blossom too soon, and again, they feared that it would be after easter when the perfect flower opened. "it had to climb up through a pretty dark place to find the light, didn't it, madonna?" he asked. "i suppose that's the way people do, and god knows i've had my share of the dark." her eyes filled with tender pity and he went on. "you know, madonna, there's a pretty theory to the effect that you must suffer before you amount to anything. a man can't write nor paint, and a woman can't sing nor play before a cruel hurt. i don't mean the kind that makes a few tears and is followed by forgetfulness--it's the kind that goes right down where you live and cuts and stings and burns. you never think of it without a shudder, even when the place heals up, if it ever does. if it's lost friendship, you never have such a friend again--if it's a lost love, you never can care again. suffering would make a saint of you, but i don't want you hurt like that--dear little girl." he spoke no more, but the questioning maiden eyes sought his. it was the day before easter, and on the day following it he was to leave her. for almost two months, she had been unfailingly kind to him; reading to him night and day, caring for him as though he were a child, and soothing him with her unspoken sympathy. memory brought it all to him with peculiar distinctness, and a new impulse came to him--an impulse to lay bare his heart before the deep peaceful eyes of this child. "dear little madonna of the tambourine," he began, "there's a lot of things i want to tell you before we say good-bye. "i saw your sweet face at a curbstone meeting once, in the days when i wasn't an outcast, and it's haunted me ever since. i wanted to find the peace which made you so secure and happy--to get at your secret of life. i wanted to be more worthy of--" he stopped and looked at her. her eyes were shining like stars and with a little catch in his voice, he went on. "there's a woman, madonna, and worthless as i am she loved me, and married me. we were happy for a little while, but i couldn't keep away from the cursed drink. that's what put me into the slums. at last her patience and her love gave out, and she sent me away from her. she told me to come back to her, either with my shield, or on it, and thanks to you, i'm going back to her to-morrow--with my shield." no sound escaped her, but her hand grew cold as ice. turning, he looked for those starry eyes once more and, in a sudden flash of understanding, he read her secret. he started to his feet. "can it be possible that you--that you--i never dreamed--oh, madonna! forgive me--if you can." there was a long silence, then she said trying to speak steadily, "you are not in the least to blame. i have had no thought of you she could not know." for a moment they looked into each other's eyes. "i am not worthy of it, madonna," he said huskily, "i do not deserve the love of any good sweet woman." "would--would you go away to-day?" she asked almost in a whisper; then with a brave little smile that went straight to his heart, she added: "it's better, i think, to be quite alone." he made his simple preparations, and she helped him as best she could with trembling hands, but it was dark when he was ready to go. neither could frame the words they were wont to speak at parting, so they stood in silence, hand clasping hand. with only pity and understanding in his heart, he wanted to take her into his arms for a moment, but she moved away from him. "no," she said brokenly, "it must be like this. be what she would have you be--she and i." she stood as he had left her until the street door closed below. she watched him on the sidewalk, walking with slow uncertain steps, until he was lost in the crowd. then, stretching out in the dark, her empty hands, she dropped on her knees beside the window. her shoulders shook with sobs, but there are no tears for such as she. she was far beyond the blessed flow which blinds some eyes to the reality of pain. the inner depths, bare and quivering, are healed by no such balm as this. she voiced only the simple question which women of all ages have asked in the midst of a cruel hurt--"why? dear god, why must it be?" some of the last lines of "a denial" came to her, seemingly in pitiful comment-- "so farewell, thou whom i have met too late to let thee come so near; be counted happy--" "if only she can care again," she said to herself, "it will not be so hard for me--if 'one beloved woman feels thee dear!'" the grey dawn broke at last and found her still upon her knees. with the brightening east the signs of life began again in the street below. after a little she stood up and looked far across the irregular lines of roofs and chimney tops to the glowing tapestry of the morning spread like a promise in the dull grey of the sky. "he didn't want me hurt like this," she said aloud. "he told me he didn't want me hurt like this." the first rays of the sun shot into the little room and rested with loving touch upon her face. the old childish look was gone, but in the eyes of the woman who had wrought and suffered, something of the old peace still lay. she turned back to her bare cheerless room, ready to face the world again, and then a little cry escaped her. white, radiant, glorified, her easter lily had bloomed. a mistress of art a mistress of art "you're not going out again this evening, are you, george?" pretty mrs. carson seemed on the point of dissolving in tears, but her liege lord buttoned his coat indifferently, and began the usual search for his hat. having found it, he hesitated for a moment, then came and stood before her. "see here, kitty," he began, not unkindly; "we might just as well understand this thing first as last. there's no use in your speaking to me in that tone just because i choose to go out in the evening. when i married you, i didn't expect to be tied to your apron string, and i don't intend to be. i consider myself as free as i was before i was married, and i am perfectly willing to accord the same freedom to you. when you go out, i never ask you where you've been, nor what time you came home, and i'd be glad to have you equally considerate of me. let's be sensible, kitty. i hate tears and heroics. see?" he stooped to kiss her, and then went off, whistling a jaunty air meant to indicate extreme cheerfulness. for three evenings of that week mr. george carson had sought relaxation and entertainment away from his own fireside. this made the fourth, and the wife of only six months' standing, had a heavy and joyless heart. twice before she had spoken of it,--the first time to be answered by a laugh, the second time by very visible irritation, and to-night by the very cool "understanding" chronicled above. kitty had made a marriage vow which was not in the ceremony, but which was none the less sincerely meant. "whatever happens," she said to herself, "i simply will not nag." she had read the journals for women, written and edited by men, and this seemed to be the corner-stone of every piece of advice; moreover, she believed in pretty gowns, good dinners, and bright conversation with sentiment omitted. "i can't think what it is," she meditated, during the long cheerless evening. mr. carson's appetite had proved beyond question that the dinner was good, and her pretty house gown was certainly becoming--and then kitty broke down and wept, for the gown was a new one and george had not noticed it. on such trifles does the happiness of women depend! in the journals for women, written and edited by men, great stress was laid on the fact that after a woman was married, she must keep her troubles to herself. she believed this, too, but the next day, her old school friend, helen everett, happened in, and she sobbed out her woes in the customary place--on the shoulder of a spinster--forgetting the deterrent effect on the marriage license business. "my dear," said that wise young person, "men simply will go out nights. i shouldn't care myself--it leaves a nice long evening to read or study, or embroider, or practice, and if mr. helen everett didn't want to stay with me, i'd be the last one to hint that i wanted him to." "you're a man-hater, helen," said mrs. carson, trying to smile, "but i'm not. i want george to stay at home a part of the time. of course i'm willing for him to go out occasionally, for of all things, i despise a 'sissy-man', but four or five evenings a week--is--too--much!" the dainty handkerchief came into use again. "philosophy teaches us," said helen, reminiscently, "that people, especially men, always want what they can't get." kitty was reminded of the scholarly tone in which helen had delivered her thesis at commencement. "to quote a contemporary essayist, 'if a mortal knows that his mate cannot get away, he is often severe and unreasonable.' there is also a good old doctrine to the effect that 'like cures like.'" "well?" said kitty, enquiringly. "i never put my fingers into anybody's matrimonial pie," resumed helen, "so i'll let you think out your own schemes to keep the charming mr. carson under his own vine and fig tree, but you know i live only three blocks away, and there are no followers in my camp. my brother would take you home, any time you might care to come." kitty was silent. "think it over, dear," said helen as she rose to go. after several minutes of hard thought, kitty arrived at helen's meaning. "this evening shall decide it," she said to herself. "if he stays at home, i shall think that he cares just a little bit; but if he doesn't, i'll make him care." there was a smouldering fire in kitty's brown eyes, that might at any time leap into a flame. the pretty house gown appeared at dinner again, but george, seemingly, took no notice of it. moreover, immediately after the meal he found his hat, and merely saying: "bye-bye, kitty," began the jaunty whistle. she heard it as it grew fainter, and at last, only lost it in the distant sound of a street car. the emancipated husband had no particular place to go, and his present nocturnal pilgrimage was undertaken purely in the interest of wifely discipline. he dropped into his club, but found it dull; and perhaps the thought of kitty's sad little face tugged remorsefully at his heartstrings, for he went home early. the lights were low in the drawing-room, she always left them so for him. "must have gone to bed about nine," he mused. he went up-stairs, expecting to hear her say: "is that you, dear?" but no sound of any sort greeted him. the house was as silent as a tomb. after a few minutes, it became evident that she was not at home, and he sat down with a book to await her arrival. it seemed strange, someway, without her,--perhaps because her gown hung from the back of a chair. it was a soft pretty thing of pinky-yellow--he mentally decided that must be the colour--trimmed with creamy lace and black velvet ribbon. it was a very pretty gown--a most adorable gown. it was half-past eleven, when kitty came home humming the chorus of a popular song. she started in apparent surprise when she saw him. "oh, it's you, is it?" she said indifferently. "certainly it's me," he responded irritably. "whom did you expect to see here?" kitty laughed pleasantly, and drew off her gloves. her tailor-made gown fitted her to perfection, it was his favorite colour, too, and her collar and cuffs were irreproachable. "where have you been, kitty?" he asked in a different tone. "oh, just out," she responded with a yawn. "where have you been?" "humph," responded mr. carson. the following evening, she appeared at dinner in the same severe gown. she was very pleasant and chatted on topics of current interest quite as if he were a casual acquaintance. she watched him with evident uneasiness afterward, and he was certain that he detected a faint shade of relief on her face when he commenced hunting for his hat. before ten he came home, and as he half suspected, kitty was out. his irritation grew until he was afraid to trust himself to speak, so he pretended to be asleep, when she came home. the cloud on the matrimonial horizon grew larger. outwardly kitty was kind and considerate, and her vigilant care for his comfort was in no way lessened. his things were kept in order and something he particularly liked was always on the table, but the old confidence was gone and in its place was something that he hesitated to analyse. she went out every night, now. more than once she had left him with a laconic "bye-bye," and he had spent a miserable evening before an unsympathetic fire. he learned to detest the severely correct gowns that she always wore now. "i say, kit," he said as he rose from the table, "don't you want to go to the theatre to-night?" "can't," she returned shortly, "much obliged for the 'bid' though." george carson's hair rose "like quills upon the fretful porcupine." he had a horror of slang from feminine lips, and he had been drawn to kitty in the first place, because she never used it. "bid!" oh, heavens! he paid no attention to her cheerful farewell when she left him. he poked the fire morosely, smoked without enjoying it, and at last cast about for something to read. one of the journals for women, written and edited by men, lay on the table, and he grasped it as the proverbial drowning man is wont to clutch the proverbial straw. he consulted the pages of the oracle anxiously, and he learned that it was not wise to marry a man who had served a term in the penitentiary, that it was harmless enough for either man or woman to kiss a lady cousin, but that a man cousin must be kept at a fixed and rigid distance--that it was wrong for cousins to marry, and that it was not only immoral, but very dangerous to bleach or dye the hair. no rule of conduct was specified for the man whose wife went out nights, and he wandered aimlessly into the street. the light and cheer of the club house seemed inopportune, like mirth at a funeral, and he retired into a distant corner to think. his intimates hailed him joyously, but were met with marked coldness. one of them, more daring than the rest, laid a sympathetic hand upon his shoulder. "what's the matter, old man?" "oh, the deuce," growled george, "can't you let a fellow alone?" he was glad that he got home before kitty did, for he could pretend to be asleep when she came in. he knew it would be only a pretence, and until midnight he listened for her latch-key in the door. it was long after twelve, when a carriage stopped at the door, and then he heard a manly voice say: "good night, mrs. carson." "good night, johnnie," she returned, "and thank you for a pleasant evening." "johnnie!" who in creation was "johnnie?" but there was no time to wonder, for kitty's foot was on the stair, and in a frame of mind not usually favourable to repose, he simulated sleep. there was a beautiful bracelet at her plate the following evening. "oh, how sweet!" she said, with evident pleasure in her eyes. "aren't you going to put it on?" he asked, when she laid it aside. "oh, yes," she answered brightly, "only i can't wear it with this gown. bracelets don't go well with linen cuffs." she didn't even take it from the table after dinner, as he noted with a pang. almost immediately she came in with her hat on and stood leisurely drawing on her gloves. "you're not going out again to-night, are you kitty?" he asked. "see here, george," she returned, "we might just as well understand this thing, first as last. there's no use in you speaking to me in that tone, just because i choose to go out in the evening. when i married you, i didn't intend to be tied to your apron string--i suppose, i should say, suspender, and i don't intend to be. i consider myself as free as i was before i was married, and i am perfectly willing to accord the same freedom to you. when you go out i never ask you where you have been, or what time you came home, and i'd be glad to have you equally considerate of me. see?" without other farewell, she slammed the outer door. he was petrified with astonishment. were such words ever before addressed by a tyrannical wife to a devoted husband? in the midst of his trouble, the door-bell rang. friends of his and of kitty's had come to call. "where's kit?" asked mrs. clay, after they had chatted a moment. "she's gone out a minute--yes--no--that is--i don't know," returned george incoherently. mr. clay's ready tact came to the rescue and he picked up a program which lay on the table, half hidden by a magazine. "tannhauser," he said cheerfully, "with gadski as elizabeth! so you went tuesday night? we wanted to go, but there were no seats left. how early did you get yours?" "i--ah--yes--gadski as elizabeth--that is--rather early. yes, she was very fine," said george miserably. the stunning revelation had come to him that on tuesday night--the evening in which he had heard the carriage and the voices, kitty had been to the opera with another man! and it seemed to fairly paralyse his powers of speech. after a little while the guests politely departed, wondering what in the world was the matter with the carsons. "is he crazy?" asked mrs. clay. "looks like it," answered her husband concisely. carson went up-stairs and searched the closet until he found the pinky-yellow gown with the black velvet bows. he sat down with the pretty fluffy thing in his hands. a delicate odour of violets clung to it--kitty always had violets around her--and the scent seemed like a haunting memory of a happy past, when he had a wife who wore soft womanly things--who loved to have him kiss her, and never went out nights. with a sudden rush of tenderness he held the little gown close, but it yielded him no caress in return, and he flung it bitterly aside, feeling as he did so, that he sat among the ashes of a desolate and forsaken home. he grew white and worn in the days that followed. he knew dimly what a grave might mean, since he felt the hurt of a living loss. he wandered through the lonely rooms evening after evening. the sight of her dainty fluffy things made him suffer keenly, and a tiny jewelled slipper he found on the floor almost unmanned him. he no longer went to the club, but sat at home among kitty's things while she went out as usual. one evening, after saying "good-bye" she caught her gown on a rocker, and turned back to free herself. he was sitting before the fire, his elbow resting on his knee, and his chin in the palm of his hand. it was a saddened face that kitty saw, with all the joy and youth gone out of it. the flickering light made the lines of pain very distinct, and her heart smote her at the realisation of what she had done. quickly she ran up-stairs and took off her tailor-made costume. when she came down, he was sitting as she had left him, unhearing, unseeing and unheeding. as she came toward him, he looked up. at the first sight of her in the pinky-yellow gown, he rubbed his eyes as if he had seen wrongly. she came nearer to him, smiling, her hands outstretched, and he sprang to his feet. "kitty," he cried, "are you going to stay at home to-night?" "to-night, and always, dear, if you want me," she replied. "want you--oh, my little wife!" he said brokenly, and gathered her into his arms. they had a long talk after that, and kitty explained that she had been spending her evenings with helen everett, who was writing a book, and reading it to her, chapter by chapter as it was finished. "who is johnnie?" demanded george abruptly. "helen's brother. he's only a boy, but he's a very nice one, and he takes us to all sorts of lovely places." after a moment she continued wistfully: "helen's awfully clever--books, colleges, degrees, and everything." "and you have only me," said george, laughing, and drawing her closer. "you're enough, if i can only keep you," she returned mischievously. his face grew very grave. "i have been a thoughtless brute, sweetheart. forgive me," he said kissing her fondly. "and know all men by these presents, i hereby confer upon you the degree of mistress of arts." a rosary of tears a rosary of tears the orchestra had paused, either through simple human pity, or, as seemed more likely, to rest. even a good orchestra must have time for physical and mental refreshment, and the guests at the st. james would gladly have accorded eternity to this one, had the management been kindly disposed and permitted it. a faint breath of the tropical night stirred the foliage in the palm-room, where there was light and laughter and the crystalline tinkle of glasses. the predatory lady from memphis, clad resplendently in white lace, and paste jewels, moved restlessly about the room. her blue eyes were cat-like in their quick intense scrutiny. they said, at the st. james, that nothing under the roof escaped her knowledge. designedly she passed the two who sat at a glass-covered table in a secluded corner, affecting not to notice them. when the rustle of her garments and the clatter of her high heels died away, the man spoke. "she must have spilled the peroxide," he said with a grating laugh. her hair was indeed more brilliant than usual. the woman laughed too--a little hysterical laugh which sounded more like a sob. she took her watch from the silver bag that hung at her belt, opened it, and laid it before them. "an hour more," she answered irrelevantly. "like cinderella, i must go at twelve." "are you afraid your auto will turn into a pumpkin drawn by white rats and your chauffeur into--let's see, who was cinderella's footman?" she shook her head. "i used to know, but it was long ago when i was a child." "you're only a child now," he returned quickly. "no, i'm a woman, and i must meet whatever comes to me as a brave woman should." she fixed her clear eyes on his and spoke steadily. "i mustn't be a coward, i mustn't refuse to do anything just because it is hard. i've got to be true to my best self, and you've got to help me." the war correspondent's face whitened for an instant, then the colour surged back in waves. "come out on the balcony," he whispered, "it's insufferable in here." she followed him through the french window. their two chairs were in their own particular corner still, placed as they had been every night for a week. he arranged the rose and green velvet cushion at her back precisely as she liked it, and drew his own chair near hers--just close enough not to touch. a white-coated waiter whisked out of sight tactfully. he was needed within where the lady from memphis had cornered a hardware drummer from pittsburg and was coyly inquiring whether or not champagne was intoxicating. "a week ago to-night," said the war correspondent abruptly. "i believe now that the world was made in seven days. mine has been made and shattered into atoms in an equal space of time." "don't say that! there's good in it--there's got to be good in it somewhere! we'll have to find it together, past all the pain." the late moon rose slowly above the grove of palms beyond them; the southern night breathed orange blossoms and roses. a tiny ray of blue light shot from the solitaire on the third finger of her left hand. it was the only ring she wore. "i can't believe it's true," he said, somewhat roughly. "if you cared as you say you do, you'd"--he choked on the word, and stopped abruptly, but his eyes made his meaning clear. they were unusual eyes--for a man. so she had thought a week ago, when she went down the corridor to her room at midnight, humming gaily to herself a little fragment of a love song. they were big and brown and boyish, with laughter lurking in their depths--they met her own clearly and honestly, always, and in their look there had never been that which makes a woman ashamed. yes, they were unusual eyes--for a man. "honour is an elastic word," she replied. "for most women, it means only one thing. a woman may lie and steal and nag and break up homes, and steam open other people's letters, and betray her friends, and yet, if she is chaste, she is called honourable. i made up my mind early in life, that i'd make my own personal honour include not only that, but the things men are judged by, too. if a man broke his solemn pledge, you'd call him a coward and a cur. so," she concluded with a pitiful pride, "i'll not break mine." her voice was uneven and he felt, rather than saw, the suffering plainly written on her face. "tell me," he began gently, "of him. what does he look like? what sort of man is he?" "i came away in such a rush that i forgot his picture, else i'd show it to you. i would have sent back for it, only i didn't want my people to think i was silly, and besides, there is no need, i could remember how he looked, and every tone of his voice until a week ago to-night." "is he tall?" the war correspondent himself was a trifle over six feet. "no, not very,--only a little taller than i." "smooth-shaven?" "yes." "dark?" "very." "what does he do?" "business in a stuffy office, from nine to six. he spends his evenings with me." "every evening?" "yes, and all day sunday. there are just two things in his life--the office and me." "go on," he reminded her, after a pause. "it's simple, and, in a way, commonplace. we met, and he cared--terribly--from the first. i didn't, because it was difficult for me to trust any man. i told him so, and he said he'd make me trust him. he did, but it took him a long time. it's pathetically easy for a woman to love a man she can trust. and so i wear his ring and have for two years. when i go back, we're to be married." "do you call it honourable to marry one man while you love another?" "he's been everything in the world to me," she continued, ignoring the thrust. "i've never had a doubt nor a difficulty of any kind, since i've known him, that he hasn't helped me through. every thought that came into my mind, i have felt perfectly free to tell him. we've never quarrelled. on my side, the feeling has been of long slow growth, but there are no hard words lying between us. it's all been sweet until now. he's clean-minded and clean-hearted and true-souled. if he has ever lied to me, i've never found it out. he has been absolutely and unswervingly loyal in thought, word, and deed, and as for jealousy--why, i don't believe he knows what the word means. "you know there are two kinds of love. one is an infinite peace that illumines all your life, so surely and so certainly that it's not to be taken away. it's like daily bread to you. the other is like wine--swift and terrible and full of fatal fascination. the one has come to me from him--the other from you." "honey!" it was the shrill, high, bird-like voice of the lady from memphis swiftly rounding the corner of the balcony. "is this your watch? i've found it on the table and i've been looking all over for you!" "thank you." miss ward took the trinket coldly and never turned her head. the man, having small respect for the lady from memphis, never rose from his chair. after a little hesitation she retreated, pausing in the background, among the palms, to shake a warning finger with assumed coquetry. "naughty," she shrilled. "you mustn't flirt! if you do, i'll write to your honey and tell him what you are doing. you see if i don't. and then he'll come and catch you at it, and where will you be then?" with a mirthless cackle, she vanished into the palm-room, where there was light and the tinkle of glasses and the bubbling of champagne. "half-past eleven," said miss ward dully. "thirty minutes more." the war correspondent caught his breath as if he had been suddenly hurt. "one little hour," he answered, his voice low and tense with suppressed feeling. "only one little hour to last us for all eternity, and we're wasting it like this. i love you, i love you, i love you! i love you with all my heart, with all my soul, with all my strength, and with all my will. i love you so much that heaven would be hell without you, and hell itself would be heaven if you were there. i love you with a love that will not die, when i do. i love you, do you understand? god knows i love you!" she turned her face towards him thrilled to the depths of her soul. "and i," she breathed, caught in the whirlwind of his emotion, "love you--in just that way!" his hands closed quickly over hers. "then," he pleaded, "come. there are no barriers between us--they are nothing but cobwebs. sweep them aside with one stroke of magnificent daring and come. we'll be married in the morning and sail for new york immediately, then go abroad for a year. two telegrams will set you free, and explain everything! come," he whispered, "only come! youth and love, and the wide world before us! we'll be together till death divides us! come--promise me you'll come!" in thought she surrendered for an instant, then broke away from him, shuddering. "don't," she gasped. "don't make it so hard for me to do what is right. i won't be dishonourable, i won't be disloyal, i won't be untrue. happiness that comes from wrong doing is always brief, but, oh, dear lad, i love you with a love nobody ever had before, or ever will have again. i'm not taking anything away from anybody else to give to you, so it isn't dishonourable--it can't be. tell me it isn't!" she cried. "oh, tell me." "it isn't," he assured her. "you couldn't be dishonourable if you tried. you're the bravest, finest woman i've ever known." from within came the notes of a violin muted. the piano, mercifully softened, followed the melody with the full rich accompaniment which even miserable playing can never wholly spoil. "the hours i spent with thee, dear heart, are as a string of pearls to me; i count them o'er, every one apart-- my rosary! my rosary!" "the pearls mean tears," she whispered brokenly. "our rosary is made of tears!" the lady from memphis clattered past them on the balcony, singing the words apparently to herself, but really with an eye to dramatic--and impertinent--effect. * * * * * for a week they had been together, the gayest of the gay crowd. that day all plans had mysteriously fallen through. miss ward's chaperon had been called home by a telegram. a letter had caused another unexpected departure, a forgotten engagement loomed up before another, a sick headache laid low a fourth, and only they two were left--the "tattered remnant of the old guard," she laughingly said that morning when they met in the palm-room after breakfast, as usual, to discuss the program of the day. "then," he retorted, "the old guard will make the best of it!" so they had spent the day together in public places, mindful of the proprieties. a long talk in the afternoon, full of intimate and searching details, had paved the way for the dazzling revelation made by an accidental touching of hands. in an instant, the world was changed. "suppose," she said, "that you had been obliged to go away this afternoon, before everything was fully acknowledged between us? oh, don't you see what we have? we've got one whole day--a little laughter, and a great deal of love and pain, crystallised by parting and denial, into something sweet to keep in our hearts for always. nothing can take to-day away from us--it's ours beyond the reach of estrangement or change. to-night we'll shut the door upon it and steal away, as from a casket enshrining the dead." "not dead," he flashed bitterly, "but buried alive!" "oh, memories that bless and burn, oh, barren gain and bitter loss, i kiss each bead and strive at last to learn to kiss the cross, sweetheart! to kiss the cross." the last echo died away, the violin rattled into its case, the piano was closed. the musicians went home, and there was a general movement toward the doors. a far clock chimed twelve and she rose wearily from her chair. "good night," she faltered, her hand fluttering toward his; "i cannot say good-bye, but we must never see each other again." how it happened they never knew, but he took her into his arms, unresisting, and kissed her fully, passionately, upon the lips. all the joy and pain of the world seemed crowded into the instant they stood there, locked in each other's arms. then the high, bird-like voice of the lady from memphis broke on their ears in a grating staccato. "she was out here, when i saw her last, flirting dreadfully with the war correspondent. i guess she didn't know you were coming on that late train." eagerly, happily, the other man rushed out on the balcony, crying boyishly, "mabel! are you here?" the words died on his lips. the man who held her in his arms kissed her again, slowly, hungrily; then reluctantly released her. she steadied herself against the railing of the balcony. in the moonlight her face was ghastly. the scent of the orange blossoms seemed overpowering her with deadly fragrance. "didn't i tell you?" asked the lady from memphis gleefully. from the open window she was enjoying the situation to the full. the other man was bewildered. "mabel," he said enquiringly, "i don't quite understand. didn't you get my wire?" the war correspondent stepped forward. he had faced the guns of the enemy before and was not afraid now. a single commanding glance, mingled with scorn, sent the lady from memphis scurrying back into the palm-room. "i know who you are," he said to the other man, "and i owe you an explanation. i love miss ward and i have been trying all day to induce her to break her engagement with you and marry me instead." the other man laughed. he went to the balcony rail, where the girl stood, half fainting, and put his arm around her. "i don't doubt it," he said. "isn't she the finest, sweetest, truest woman the lord ever made? any man who doesn't love her is a chump. you and i will be good friends--we have a great deal in common." he offered his hand but the war correspondent bowed and swerved aside. "good night," he said thickly. "i have played and lost. i lay down my hand." he went through the window hastily, leaving the two alone. "mabel, dear mabel!" said the other man softly. "you've been through something that is almost too much for you. sit down and rest--you're tired!" the words, calm and tender, brought back to her tortured soul a hint of the old peace. in a pitiless flash of insight she saw before her two women, either of which she might become. one was serene and content, deeply and faithfully loved, sheltered from everything love could shield her from, watched, taken care of in all the countless little ways that mean so much. the other was to know life to its uttermost, all its rage, jealousy and despair, to be shaken in body and soul by fierce elemental passions, to face eclipsing miseries alone, and drain the cup to the lees. the difference was precisely that between a pleasure craft, anchored in a sunny harbour, and the toiling ship that breasts the tempestuous seas. she sat down and suffered him to take her hand. he stroked her wrist silently, in the old comforting way he had when she was nervous or tired. his face was troubled--hers was working piteously. the lights had died down in the palm-room and the last of the revellers went away. the house detective paced through the long rooms twice and made a careful survey of the balcony. "darling," said the other man, "you don't have to tell me anything you don't want to--you know that; but wouldn't it make you feel better? you've always told me things, and i'm the best friend you've got. surely you're not afraid now?" his voice failed at the end, and the girl drew a quick shuddering breath but she did not answer. "he was kissing you, wasn't he?" asked the other man, "when i came?" "yes," she said dully, "he was kissing me, but it was for good-bye. he told me he loved me, and i had told him i loved him. i've known him only a week. he never so much as touched my hand until to-day, but it was only my own personal honour that kept me from marrying him to-morrow, as he begged me to do. i've told you the worst now. believe what you like--do what you will." the other man sighed. his mouth was boyish and for the moment unsteady, but his eyes sought hers as honestly and clearly as the war correspondent's, who had unusual eyes--for a man. "i think i understand," he said brokenly. "i don't blame any man for loving you, dear--i'm prepared for that--and we've been separated so long, and the moonlight and the palms and the roses and all, and you were used to being loved--i think that's why. you were lonesome, wer'n't you, sweetheart? didn't you want me?" infinite love and infinite pain surged together in her heart, blending into unspeakable tenderness. "yes, i wanted you," she whispered--"i always want you. i'm--i'm a bit upset just now, but i haven't taken anything away from you to give to anybody else. it's only an undiscovered country--a big one, that he found to-day. i haven't been intentionally dishonourable. i fought but it was no use--he simply swept me off my feet. forgive me if you can!" [illustration: "good night," he said thickly. "i have played and lost. i lay down my hand." _from the drawing by dalton stevens._] "hush! there'll never be any need of that word between you and me. i've forgiven you long ago, for everything you've ever done or ever can do. it's an unlimited fund to draw upon--that and my love. you know," he went on in another tone, "that if it were for your happiness, i could give you up, but i'm pretty sure it isn't. you'd never be as happy with anybody you'd only known a week, as you would with me, because i've loved you for years. you have my whole heart, mabel,--there's never been another woman with even a hint of a claim. i know all your little moods and tenses and you don't have to explain things to me. i know you can't ride backward and you don't like to walk when you have high-heeled shoes on, and a thousand other things that are infinitely dear just because they are you. i was thinking of them all the way down here, and loving them--every one." "i don't deserve it," she answered, and then broke into a wild sobbing. the other man moved his chair closer and drew her head to his shoulder. "there," he said, slipping a handkerchief into the hand that covered her eyes; "cry if you want to. you're tired--my little girl is tired." he held her so until the storm had spent itself. he kept his face against her hair, soft and silky, and fragrant with orris--forgetting himself utterly in his loving pity for her. at last she moved away from him. her tear-stained face in the moonlight, filled him with tenderness so great that his love was pain. "it's late," she said, "it must be after one o'clock. i must go up-stairs." she started toward the open window, but still he held her back gently. "dear," he said softly, "we've been away from each other four weeks and three days, and i've come two thousand miles to see you. you haven't kissed me yet. don't you want to? you don't need to if you'd rather not, but if you could----" his voice vibrated with passionate appeal. she lifted her white face to his and kissed him mechanically. "to-morrow," she breathed, "i'll be more like myself; i'll try to make up for to-night, but if you love me, let me go now!" he went with her to the elevator, and watched until she was lifted out of his sight, smiling at her until the last--the old loving smile. he went out to the balcony again, and sat down with his arms thrown over the back of the chair that had so recently held her. his brow was wrinkled with deep thought, but his boyish mouth still smiled. presently there was a step behind him and he turned--to look into the face of the war correspondent who spoke first. "i've come back," he said, "to shake hands with you, if you don't mind." the other man's hand met his, more than half-way. "and," continued the war correspondent, "i want to apologise. i've been all kinds of a brute, but what i said was the truth. i love her as no man ever before loved a woman. that's my only excuse." "you're not to blame for loving her," returned the other man generously; "nobody is. and as for her loving you, that's all right too. she's got a lot of temperament and she's used to being loved, and you're not a bad sort, you know--not at all." and he concluded fondly, "my little girl was lonesome without me." the war correspondent went away quietly. in the moonlight he could see the boyish face of the other man, radiant with an all-believing, all-forgiving love. "yes," said the other man again, after an interval, and not realising that he was alone, "that was it. my little girl was lonesome without me." the roses and the song the roses and the song there had been a lover's quarrel and she had given him back his ring. he thrust it into his pocket and said, unconcernedly, that there were other girls who would be glad to wear it. her face flushed, whether in anger or pain he did not know, but she made no reply. and he left her exulting in the thought that the old love was dead. as the days went by, he began to miss her. first, when his chum died in a far-off country, with no friend near. he remembered with a pang how sweetly comforting she had always been, never asking questions, but soothing his irritation and trouble with her gentle womanly sympathy. he knew just what she would do if he could tell her that tom was dead. she would put her soft cheek against his own rough one, and say: "i am so sorry dear. i'm not much, i know, but you've got me, and nothing, not even death can change that." "not even death"--yes, it was quite true. death changes nothing.--it is only life that separates utterly. he began to miss the afternoon walks, the lingering in book store and art galleries, and the quiet evenings at home over the blazing fire, when he sat with his arm around her and told her how he had spent the time since they last met. every thought was in some way of her, and the emptiness of his heart without her seemed strange in connection with the fact that the old love was dead. he saw by a morning paper that there was to be a concert for the benefit of some charitable institution, and on the program, printed beneath the announcement, was her name. he smiled grimly. how often he had gone with her when she sang in public! he remembered every little detail of every evening. he always waited behind the scenes, because she said she could sing better when he was near her. and whatever the critics might say, she was sure of his praise. it was on the way home from one of these affairs that he had first told her that he loved her. through the rose-leaf rain that fell from her hair and bosom at his touch he had kissed her for the first time, and the thrill of her sweet lips was with him still. how short the ride had been that night and why was the coachman in such an unreasonable hurry to get home? he made up his mind that he would not go to the concert that night, but somehow, he bought a ticket and was there before the doors opened. so he went out to walk around a little. people who went to concerts early were his especial detestation. in a florist's window he saw some unusually beautiful roses. he had always sent her roses before, to match her gown, and it seemed queer not to buy them for her now. perhaps he really ought to send her some to show her that he cherished no resentment. anyone could send her flowers over the footlights. the other men that she knew would undoubtedly remember her, and he didn't want to seem unfriendly. so he went in. "four dozen la france roses," he said, and the clerk speedily made the selection. he took a card out of his pocket, and chewed the end of his pencil meditatively. it was strange that he should have selected that particular kind, he thought. that other night, after he had gone home, he had found a solitary pink petal clinging to his scarf-pin. he remembered with a flush of tenderness that it had come from one of the roses--his roses--on her breast. he had kissed it passionately and hidden it in a book--a little book which she had given him. with memory came heartache, his empty life and her wounded love. the words shaped themselves under his pencil: "you know what the roses mean. will you wear one when you sing the second time? forgive me and love me again--my sweetheart." he tied the card himself into the centre of the bunch, so it was half hidden by the flowers. he gave them to the usher with a queer tremolo note in his voice. "after her first number, understand?" there was a piano solo, and then she appeared. what she sang he did not know, but her deep contralto, holding heaven in its tones, he both knew and understood. she did not sing as well as usual. her voice lacked warmth and sincerity and her intonation was faulty. the applause was loud but not spontaneous although many of her friends were there. his were the only flowers she received. when she came out the second time, he looked at her anxiously, but there was never a sign of a rose. he sank down in his chair with a sigh and covered his face with his hand. this time she sang as only _she_ could sing. oh, that glorious contralto! suggestions of twilight and dawn, of suffering and joy, of love and its renunciation. there was no mistaking her success and the great house rang with plaudits from basement to roof. he, only, was silent; praying in mute agony for a sign. she willingly responded to the encore and a hush fell upon the audience with the first notes of tosti's "good-bye." "_falling leaf, and fading tree._" oh, why should she sing that? he writhed as if in bodily pain, but the beautiful voice went on and on. "_good-bye, summer, good-bye, good-bye!_" how cruel she seemed! stately, imperious, yet womanly, she held her listeners spellbound, but every word cut into his heart like a knife. "_all the to-morrows shall be as to-day._" the tears came and his lips grew white. then some way into the cruel magnificence of her voice came a hint of pity as she sang: "_good-bye to hope, good-bye, good-bye!_" there was a hush, then she began again: "_what are we waiting for, oh, my heart? kiss me straight on the brows, and part!_" all the love in her soul surged into her song; the joy of happy love; the agony of despairing love; the pleading cry of doubting love; the dull suffering of hopeless love; and then her whole strength was merged into a passionate prayer for the lost love, as she sang the last words: "_good-bye forever, good-bye forever! good-bye, good-bye, good--bye--!_" she bowed her acknowledgments again and again, and when the clamour was over, he hastened into the little room behind the stage where she was putting on her wraps. she was alone but her carriage was waiting. as he entered, she started in surprise, then held out her hand. "dear," he said, "if this is the end, won't you let me kiss you _once_ for the sake of our old happiness? we were so much to each other--you and i. even if you wouldn't wear the rose, won't you let me hold you just a minute as i used to do?" "wear the rose," she repeated, "what do you mean?" "didn't you see my card?" "no," she answered, "i couldn't look at them--they are--la--france--you know--and----" she reached out trembling fingers and found the card. she read the tender message twice--the little message which meant so much, then looked up into his face. "if i could," she whispered, "i'd pin them all on." someway she slipped into her rightful place again, and very little was said as they rolled home. but when he lit the gas in his own room he saw something queer in the mirror, and found, clinging to his scarf-pin, the petal of a la france rose. a laggard in love a laggard in love "my dear," said edith judiciously, "i think you're doing wrong." marian dabbed her eyes with a very wet handkerchief and said nothing. edith adjusted the folds of her morning gown and assumed a more comfortable position on the couch. "they all have to be managed," she went on, "and you'll find that mr. thomas drayton is no exception. i'll venture that when he makes his visits, which are like those of angels, 'few and far between' you tell him how lonesome you've been without him, and how you've thought of him every minute since the last time, and perhaps even cry a little bit! am i right?" marian nodded. "if it wasn't for that hateful perkins girl, i wouldn't care so much. she's neither bright nor pretty, and i'm sure i don't see what tom sees in her. i think it's more her fault than his." "the perkins girl is entirely blameless, miss reynolds, though she certainly is unpleasant. it is tom's fault." the afflicted miss reynolds wiped her eyes again. "perhaps it's mine. if i were quite what i ought to be, tom wouldn't seek other society, i'm sure." mrs. bently sat up straight. "marian reynolds," she demanded, "have you ever said anything like that to tom?" "something like that," marian admitted. "what should i have done?" "thrown a book at him," responded mrs. bently energetically. then she leaned back among the pillows, and twisted the corners of her handkerchief. "don't be horrid, edith, but tell me what to do," pleaded marian. mrs. bently looked straight out of the window. "i've been married nearly ten years," she said meditatively, "and i point with pardonable pride to my husband. there hasn't been any of the 'other woman business' since the first days of our engagement. he never forgets the little words of endearment, he brings me flowers, and books, and he's quite as polite to me as he is to other women." "i know," replied marian. "i've seen him break away from a crowd in the middle of a sentence to put your rubbers on for you." "all that," resumed edith, "is the result of careful training. and what tom needs is heroic treatment. if you will promise to do exactly as i say, you will have his entire devotion inside of a month." "i promise," responded marian hopefully. "first, then, take off your engagement ring." marian's pretty brown head drooped lower and lower, and a brighter diamond fell into her lap. she felt again the passionate tenderness in his voice when he told her how much he loved her, and she remembered how he had kissed each finger-tip separately, then the diamond, just because it was hers. she looked at her friend with eyes full of tears. "edith, i can't." "take it off." marian obeyed, very slowly, then threw herself at the side of the couch sobbing. "edith, edith," she cried, "don't be so cross to me! i am so dreadfully unhappy!" "marian, dearest, i'm not cross, but i want you to be a sensible girl. the happiness of your whole life is at stake, and i want you to be brave--it is now or never with mr. thomas drayton. if you let him torture you now for his own amusement, he will do it all his life!" "i'll try, edith, but you don't know how it hurts." "yes, i do know, dear; i've been through it myself. now listen. first, no more tears or reproaches. secondly, don't allude to his absence, nor to the perkins girl. thirdly, you must find some one else at once." "that's as bad as what he is doing, isn't it?" "_similia similibus curantur_," laughed edith. "joe's friend, jackson, is coming to the city for a month or so, and he'll do nicely. he's awfully handsome, and a perfectly outrageous flirt. he always singles out one girl, however, and devotes himself to her, so we won't have any trouble on that score. people who don't know jackson, think that he's in deadly earnest, but i don't believe he ever had a serious thought in his life." "i think i have seen him," said marian. "wasn't he at the charity ball with you and mr. bently last year?" "yes, he was there, but only for a few minutes. now, let's see--to-day is thursday. have you seen tom this week?" marian hesitated. "n-no, that is, not since sunday. but i think he will come this afternoon." "very well, my dear, you have an engagement for the rest of the day with me. run home and put on your prettiest gown. we'll go to the art gallery and call on mrs. kean later. we both owe her a call, and i'll look for you at two." promptly at two o'clock marian appeared with all traces of tears smoothed away. "you'll do," said edith. "i believe you're a thoroughbred after all." at the art gallery they met what mrs. bently termed "the insufferable perkins" clad in four different colours and looking for all the world like a poster. she was extremely pleasant, and insisted upon showing them a picture which was "one of mr. drayton's favourites." miss reynolds adjusted her lorgnette critically. "yes, i think this is about the only picture in this exhibit which tom and i both like. i'm so glad that you approve of our taste, miss perkins," and marian smiled sweetly. edith squeezed her arm rapturously as they moved away. "i'm proud of you. those pictures were hung only day before yesterday. why, there's joe." mr. bently greeted them cordially. "jackson came this morning, edith, and i have asked him to dine with us monday evening." "that will be charming. marian is coming to visit us over sunday and i think they will like each other." "i hope so," was mr. bently's rejoinder. "it's really good of you to come, miss reynolds, for i very seldom see you, and jackson is a capital fellow." "come, marian," said edith, "you know we were going to make a call." "always going somewhere, aren't you, sweetheart?" and mr. bently smiled lovingly at his pretty wife. "never far away from you, dear," she answered and waved her hand to him as the crowd swept them apart. "you're going to stay all night with me, you know," edith said. "we'll stop at your house on our way back, and leave word with your mother--incidentally we can learn if any one has called." it was almost dark when they reached marian's home, and edith waited in the hall, while she went in search of her mother. as she came down-stairs, mrs. bently held up a small white card, triumphantly. marian's face flushed as she saw the name. "_mr. thomas e. drayton._" "it's all right," said her friend, "just wait and see." friday morning, the servant who admitted marian, said that mr. drayton had called the previous evening and left some flowers which miss reynolds would find in the library. a great bunch of american beauties stood on the table, and almost overpowered her with their fragrance. "dear, dear tom! he _does_ love me," she thought. "i'll write him a note." she sat down to her desk without removing her hat. "perhaps i've been mistaken all along." the words shaped themselves under her pen: "my dearest." then she stopped and surveyed it critically. "not in the present incarnation of miss reynolds." she tore the sheet straight across, and dropped it into the waste basket. taking another, she wrote: "my dear tom: "the roses are beautiful. i am passionately fond of flowers--of roses especially, and i must thank you for the really great pleasure the 'beauties' are giving me. "sincerely yours, "marian reynolds." over his coffee the next morning tom studied the little note. "i wonder what's the matter. 'my dear tom'! 'marian reynolds' and not a bit of love in it. it isn't the least bit like her. i must go and see her this afternoon. no, i'll be hanged if i will, she had no business to be out," and he chewed a toothpick savagely. "i'll ask her to go to the theatre." after much cogitation, he evolved a note which struck him as being a marvel of diplomacy. "my dear marian: "i am glad the roses give you pleasure. will you go to the theatre with me on monday evening? "yours in haste, "tom." marian's reply was equally concise: "my dear tom: "i am very sorry that i have an engagement for monday evening and cannot possibly break it. you know i enjoy the theatre above all things, and i am sure i should have an especially pleasant evening with you. "sincerely, "marian reynolds." tom grew decidedly uncomfortable. what the mischief was the matter with the girl! one thing was certain, next time he called, it would be at her invitation. but the following afternoon found him again at the house. "miss reynolds is out, sir," said the servant as he opened the door, in response to his ring. "i know," he responded impatiently; "i want to return a book i borrowed the other day." "certainly, sir," and the servant ushered him into the library. he put the book in its place, and his glance, travelling downward met the waste basket. marian's distinctive penmanship stared him in the face. "my dearest!" mr. thomas drayton was an honourable gentleman, but he wanted to examine that waste-paper basket. he rushed out of the library, lest he should yield to the temptation, and said to the servant in the hall: "say nothing of my having been here to-day, jones." "certainly not, sir." "the book is a joke on miss reynolds," he said putting a silver half dollar in jones's ready palm. "all right, sir, i see." and tom went out. before he reached the avenue, he was mentally kicking himself for explaining to a servant. he had of course noticed the roses on the table, and he was very sure they had not been in marian's room. once she had told him, how she had slept with one of the roses next her heart, and a thorn had pricked the flesh, making a red spot on a white petal. she showed him the rose with its tiny blood stain. he had kissed the flower and put it in a little memorandum book with a gold clasp. and he had told marian, over and over again, what a horrid rose it was--to hurt his sweetheart. he smiled grimly at his own previous foolishness, and felt sure that none of the american beauties would rest next to marian's heart that night. miss reynolds and mrs. bently sat in the latter's boudoir. edith nodded sagely over tom's note, and marian was curled up in a forlorn heap on the couch. "how does he usually begin his notes to you?" "'my dearest girl,' or 'dear sweetheart,'" answered marian. "h'm! well, my dear, you may depend upon it, he is 'beginning to take notice.'" sunday, tom spent morosely at his club, and was so disagreeable that his friends were very willing to give him a wide berth. marian was neither cheerful nor happy, and wept copiously in private, fancying tom worshipping at the shrine of miss perkins. monday evening she and edith dressed together. marian had a new gown of that peculiar shade of blue which seems to be especially made for brown eyes and hair, and looked, as her friend told her, "simply stunning." "joe has a box at the theatre to-night. isn't he lovely?" marian assented, but inwardly hoped that tom would not hear of her being there. mr. sterling jackson was a very pleasant fellow, with an inexhaustible fund of humour. he devoted himself to marian and looked unutterable things whenever opportunity offered. handsome, he certainly was, and she was secretly flattered by his evident adoration. tom didn't matter quite so much now. at the theatre marian sat in the front of an upper box beside mrs. bently. the devoted jackson leaned forward and talked to her in subdued tones. after the first act, edith whispered to her: "don't look, nor turn pale, nor do anything rash, but mr. thomas drayton is down in the parquet with miss matilda perkins." marian turned white and grasped the rail of the box. "don't faint till i tell you. he hasn't taken his eyes off you since he first saw you, and i don't believe he has seen the stage at all. perkins is simply green with rage, and i wish you could see her hat. it's a dream in pink and yellow--an equine dream." marian's colour returned, and conscious of looking her best, she flirted outrageously with the ever willing jackson, though she confided to edith at the end of the second act, that she was "perfectly wretched." "nobody suspects it," returned mrs. bently, "least of all tom. he's chewing perkins's fan, and she's trying to draw him out." for the remainder of the week mr. drayton studiously avoided the reynolds mansion. marian had been seen on the boulevard with the odious jackson, and miss perkins had suddenly lost her charm. marian was always at home on tuesdays. next week he would drop in, in the afternoon, and see how the land lay. mrs. bently had heard, through her husband, that drayton had gone out of the city, and the intelligence was promptly conveyed to marian. the solitaire lay in a corner of marian's chatelaine bag. she meditated the propriety of sending it back, but edith would not hear of it. her heart ached constantly for tom, and she flirted feverishly with jackson. "i am at home tuesdays," she said one evening when he left her. "come in for a little while and i will give you a cup of tea." he came early and found her alone. they chatted for a few minutes, and then mr. thomas drayton was announced. the two men were civil to each other, but marian felt their mutual irritation, and was relieved when jackson rose to take his departure. he crossed the room to tom and shook hands. "i am very glad to have met you, mr. drayton. i am sure we shall meet often, if you find miss reynolds as charming as i do." he bowed politely to marian and went out. "the insufferable cad!" thought tom. he shivered, and marian hastened to the tea table. "it's awfully cold outside," she said, "and these rooms are not any too warm. i'll make you some tea. you take two lumps of sugar, don't you?" tom said nothing. marian's pretty hands hovered over the teacups, and he noticed that the left one was ringless. "don't you wear your solitaire any more, marian?" his voice was strange and she was half afraid. "oh, yes," she responded brightly, "sometimes. the points of the setting catch in my glove though, and i am afraid of loosening the stone." "marian, don't you care for me?" "certainly." "how much?" "as much as you care for me, i think, don't you?" he went over and put his arm around her. she shrank a little at his touch, but he pulled her down on the sofa beside him. "marian, darling, tell me what the matter is. i know i don't deserve you, and i'll go, if you say i must. has that fellow jackson come between us?" marian disregarded one of edith's injunctions. "perhaps it's miss perkins." tom said a very emphatic swear word, which does not look well in print, then buried his head in one of the sofa cushions. she was frightened and sank down on her knees beside him, her armor of self-defence vanishing in womanly pity. "tom, dear tom! what is it? tell me!" he straightened up and lifted her to the sofa beside him. "i see, sweetheart, i've been a fool and a great deal worse than that. can you ever forgive me?" "one thing first, tom, do you love me?" "marian, dear, i never knew until this last wretched week, just how much you meant to me. i am yours, body and soul, to do with what you will. i have no right to insult you, marian, but will you take me back?" his voice trembled with the agony of love and pain, as she drew the solitaire out of the chatelaine bag at her belt. she held it silently toward him. "darling, is it good-bye?" "no, dear, i want you to put it back." and that evening, in accordance with instructions, the servant said to mr. sterling jackson, "miss reynolds is out." träumerei träumerei he stood at the side of the brilliantly lighted opera-house with a note-book and pencil in his hand. would that interminable symphony never be finished? the audience listened breathlessly, but he, the musical critic of a thriving daily paper, only drummed idly with his fingers and stared vacantly at the people near him. there was a momentary hush, the orchestra leader waved his baton, and the trained musicians, with perfect precision began the brilliant _finale_. the audience was unusually sympathetic, and for an instant after the closing passage all was still; then came a great burst of applause. the leader bowed his acknowledgment, but the clamour only increased. the critic sank wearily into an empty seat and looked across the house. he started and grew pale, as among the throng of fashionables he saw a face that he knew--that he had known. a sweet face it was too; not beautiful, but full of subtle charm and a haunting tenderness that he had tried to forget. he sat like one in a dream, and did not know that the orchestra was about to play the next number till its opening measures woke him from his abstraction. [illustration: music] träumerei! anything but that! oh, god, this needless pain! and he thought he had forgotten! [illustration: music] he stood again in a little room which the autumn moonlight made as bright as day. down below on the rocks was the far-off sound of the sea, and she, with his roses on her breast, sat before the piano and played dreamily, tenderly, yes, this same träumerei that was now breaking his heart. he had stood behind her, with his arms around her, his dark, eager face down close to hers, and whispered huskily: "sweetheart, i love you." and she had turned her face up to his and said, softly, "i love--you--too--dear;" and he had hugged her tightly to him and covered her face with burning kisses that were almost pain. and--that--had--been--their--betrothal. then for a little while there was happiness--then there was a misunderstanding--and there--she was--and---- up through those arches of light the clear, sweet melody stole. had he forgotten? had she? he seized his opera-glass and a quick turn of the screw brought her again close to him. yes, there were tears in her eyes; he could see the white lids quiver, and her lips trembled and---- with a deeper throb of pain than any he yet had known, the buried love came back, strong and sweet, as in those dear days when the whole world seemed aglow with love of her. he rose and walked nervously around the shining circle and down the aisle to where she sat. his breath came quick and fast, he hardly dared trust himself to speak, but with a great effort he commanded himself and bent over her chair. she looked up and her tear-wet eyes met his own. he whispered, hoarsely, "forgive me--come out a minute--i want to speak to you." hardly knowing what she did, she followed him into the dimly lighted, deserted foyer. [illustration] with the last strain of that wordless love-sweet song, the dear old dream came back and, unrebuked, he put his arm about her once more. "sweetheart," he said, "i love you." a soft arm stole round his neck, and she answered as of old, "i love you, too, dear." "swing low, sweet chariot" "swing low, sweet chariot" down in the negro quarters on a georgia plantation stood a quaint little log cabin overlooking cotton fields that were white with their snowy fruit. born in slavery, living in slavery and apparently destined to die in slavery, yet old joe was happy; for to him slavery was not bondage--only a pleasant way of being cared for. his days of active usefulness were over. he had served long and faithfully in those same cotton fields, then as a house servant and later as a coachman. now on account of age and the "misery" in his back, he spent his days in mending harness, telling stories to the children and making playthings out of the odd bits of rubbish they brought him. his wife, sally, was head cook at the mansion which stood in another part of the plantation, in the midst of trees and flowers. down a little farther was a tiny brook that sang all the livelong day and turned back, regretfully perhaps, to wind by the window of old joe's cabin. "the pines" was a most hospitable house and usually thronged with guests, for its young mistress had an indulgent husband and money sufficient to gratify every possible whim. mrs. langley she was now, but to old joe she would be "miss eunice" always. he had carried her when she was a baby, watched over her when she was ill, and once when a pair of maddened horses dashed down the drive, utterly beyond their owner's control, he had snatched the unconscious child from almost under the wild feet, and--saved her life, they said, but the brave fellow had received internal injuries and had not been able to do much since. "yes," he said one afternoon, to an appreciative audience of pickaninnies and white children who sat together around his feet in a truly democratic fashion, "dat ar day war a great time fo ol joe. i war jes agwine to de house wen i see dese yer hosses comin _ker-blip_! right whar miss eunice war a playin wid her doll-buggy. dere wasn't no time to call her, so i jes grab her and run, an my foot ketch in de doll-buggy an i trow miss eunice ober my haid in some soft grass an den de hosses tram on me an i kinder lost my 'membunce. pretty soon i fin mysel in de house an de doctor an ol missis war a standin ober me. doctor say, 'he come to all right,' an ol missis, she jes stoop down an kiss ol joe! tink ob dat!" "den miss eunice come in, an ol missis say 'come here dear, and see uncle joe. he done sabe yo life.' an den i lose my 'membunce again. one day mas'r walk in an he say, 'joe, here's yo papers, yo's free now, jus ez free ez i is.' i say mas'r, i don't want to go away from you an missis an miss eunice. i want to stay here on de ol plantation, along 'o my ol woman. and den he wipe is eyes an say, 'i'll gib sally papers too' an sally say, 'no mas'r, me an joe don't want to be free; we wants to stay here where we's happies' an mas'r say he keep dose yer papers for us till we done want em. dose was mighty fine times for ol joe!" and he beamed at the children around his feet who had been listening with ever-fresh delight to the old, old story. "now play something, uncle," the children cried, and tommy langley brought the fiddle that always hung in one corner of the cabin. his eyes brightened at the sight of the old brown thing, but he gently put the eager child away, saying, "no, honey, not dis time. i got de misery in my back wuss en eber. go way, chillens, ol joe's--so tired!" they obediently trooped out of the cabin and the old man's head dropped on his breast. the gaunt grey figure twisted with pain, and he did not move until sally came in to get his supper. "well, honey," she said cheerily, "how's yo back to-day?" "pears like de pain gets wuss, sally," he replied. "nebber yo min, yo'll get better byme by." coming closer she dropped a bundle of illustrated papers into his lap. "see wat miss eunice send yo, an look here!" she pointed proudly to her stooped shoulders, where a scarlet kerchief shone like a ray of light in the dim cabin. joe tried to smile, then said feebly, "miss eunice mighty good to us, sally." sally assented, and moving quickly about the cabin, soon had the evening meal on the table. "come, joe, move up yo cheer. dis yere hoe cake done to de tu'n!" "pears like i couldn't eat no supper," he said, then gave a half-suppressed groan that betokened an extra twinge of the "misery." "po ol man," said sally sympathetically, and she ate in silence, watching the kindly pain-drawn face, with ever-increasing anxiety. as twilight fell, the sufferer sought his couch, where he moaned and tossed restlessly, and the pitying sally, stretched wearily on a faded rug near the door was soon fast asleep. * * * * * up at "the pines" all was light and laughter and music, for a crowd of young folks were gathered 'neath its hospitable roof and guitars and mandolins made the whole house ring with melody of a more or less penetrating quality. in the midst of the gaiety, tommy stole up to his mother with a troubled look on his usually merry little face. "what is it, dearie?" she asked, putting her arm about him. "mamma, i'm afraid uncle joe is going to die. his 'misery' hurts him awful." "is uncle joe very sick, dear? i knew he was not well, but he has always been ailing, you know. i'll have the doctor see him to-morrow." "all right, mamma," and the little face grew bright again. she kissed him tenderly and said: "run away to bed, little son, the birds went long ago." tommy went off obediently, but mrs. langley felt worried about the faithful old fellow who had saved her life. "i'll see to him to-morrow," she thought and began to plan various things for his comfort and happiness. a little later a pretty girl with a mandolin, said: "do you know i feel like having a lark. excuse the slang, please, but there's no other word that will express my meaning." "try a swallow," suggested a young man in a way that was meant to be funny. "there's lots of lemonade left in the pitcher." she scorned the interruption. "i want a lark, a regular lark!" "how would a serenade do?" "capital!" she laughed. "just the thing! we'll take our mandolins and guitars into the moonlight and make things pleasant generally." "but," said a maid with a practical turn of mind, "who is there to serenade? there aren't any neighbours, are there?" "give it up!" "ask mrs. langley--she'll know," and a smiling ambassador from the merry group, mrs. langley's own nephew, went to the fair-haired hostess who sat with her husband in the library. "aunty, who is there in this charming spot whom we can serenade? the girls think it would be fun, but we don't know where to find a victim in this isolated eden." mrs. langley rose quickly, and going to the little party, told them of old joe and how she owed her life to those strong arms. she finished the story with an eloquent gesture that brought tears to the eyes of many, and added: "go down to the old man's cabin and sing the quaint negro melodies he loves so well--that he used to sing to me when i was a little child. and take these roses with you; he used to love them so; you can throw them in at the open window." as she spoke, she took a great handful of white roses from a vase and with a little pearl-handled knife, dextrously removed the thorns, then handed them to her nephew. "how do we get there, aunty?" he asked, with something like a tremor in his voice. "follow the brook," she replied. "it flows right under his window, and you cannot miss the place. i'd go with you, only i can't sing, and wouldn't be of any use." she smiled brightly at them as they went down among the shadows, then to the tiny brook that seemed like a musical stream of silver in the moonlight. the party was strangely silent for one bound for a "lark," and by much crossing of the little stream that wound its tortuous way through the grounds, they came to uncle joe's tiny cabin in an unseen nook of the plantation. they grouped themselves under the window in silence. "now then!" whispered one of them. the mandolins and guitars played the opening strains of the sweet old melody, then their fresh young voices rose high and clear: [illustration (music): swing low, sweet char-i-ot, com-ing for to car-ry me home, ] the old grey head turned feebly on its hard pillow, and sally stirred restlessly. [illustration (music): swing low, sweet char-i-ot, com-ing for to car-ry me home. ] above the song of the brook that seemed like a tender accompaniment to the tinkle of the mandolins the music rose, and old joe woke from his dream of pain. [illustration (music): i looked o-ver jordan and what did i see com-ing for to car-ry me home? a ] [illustration (music): band of an-gels com-ing aft-er me, com-ing for to car-ry me home. ] oh, light of the angels! oh, rapture of the song! the familiar words brought back so much to the old man's listening soul! [illustration (music): swing low, sweet char-i-ot, com-ing for to car-ry me home, ] the fragrant shower fell around him. he grasped a great white rose that was within reach of his hand and pressed it to his parched lips. [illustration (music): swing low, sweet char-i-ot, com-ing for to car-ry me home. ] out of the clouds was the chariot coming for _him_? yes--wrapt in celestial glory. [illustration (music): swing low, sweet char-i-ot. ] the song died away, and the singers heard no sound within. but the tired head fell back upon its pillow with a sigh of infinite content, the chariot came, and uncle joe forgot the "misery" and the roses alike in passing from supreme shadow to supreme dawn. the face of the master the face of the master in a little town in italy, there once lived an old violin maker, whose sole pride and happiness was in the perfect instruments which he had made. he had, indeed, a son, or rather a stepson, for his wife had been a pretty widow with this one child when he married her a year before. pedro was a dark little fellow, with great deep eyes which seemed to hold a world of feeling and sometimes sadness. he idolised his mother, but shrank from his father with a feeling of instinctive dislike. perhaps the old man noticed this, though he was so absorbed in his work and in directing his careless assistants that he seemed entirely oblivious to his surroundings. the child was errand-boy for the little shop, and all his tasks were patiently and cheerfully done. occasionally, one of the workmen would pat him on the head, and he distinctly remembered one day when the lady next door, gave him a piece of candy. before he and his mother came to live in the little shop, he had never seen a violin, and even now he could not be said to have heard one, for neither his father nor any of the workmen knew how to play;--they were quite content with putting the bridge in place, leaving the strings to be adjusted in the neighbouring town where the instruments found a ready sale. one day, the last touch was given to an unusually fine instrument, and in a moment of pride, the old man fitted it with strings. he placed it under his chin and touched the strings softly with the bow. faulty though the touch was, the answer was melody--a long sweet chord. pedro's eyes grew darker, and his little face was fearlessly upturned to the man who held the singer of that wonderful song. in the ecstasy of the moment, his foot touched a valuable piece of wood upon the floor. crack! it became two pieces instead of one, and with a curse and a blow, the trembling child was pushed, head foremost, into his own little room. a moment later he heard the key turn in the lock. pale and frightened, he sank into a corner, but the memory of the sweetness was with him still and in his soul was the dawn of unspeakable light. all was silent in the shop now, but shortly he heard the busy hum of voices and the old confused sound. then above the din, the violin sounded again. he listened in wonder. that single chord had been a revelation, and as a sculptor sees in a formless stone the future realisation of a marble dream, so pedro, guided unerringly by that faulty strain, saw through break and discord, the promise of a symphony. he fell asleep that night haunted still by that strange sweet sound, and dreamed that it had been his fingers to which the strings had answered. _his_ fingers? he awoke with an intense longing in his childish breast. oh, to touch that dear brown thing! oh, to hear again the whisper of the music! though the sun had risen he was still in a dream, and, mingled with the notes of the lark above his window, was the voice of the violin. presently his stepfather appeared in the doorway, and with more than usual unkindness in his tone ordered him away on an errand. pedro gladly went, and all that day tried ineffectually to conciliate the angry man by patience, gentleness, and obedience. night came, and though weary, he was sent on a still longer journey. he started with an important message from his father to the home of the man who was to furnish wood for a lot of new violins. he had often been to the shop, but it was late now, the man must have gone home, and his house was much farther away. he dared not complain, however, and trudged wearily on. but with all his fatigue, his heart was light, for he fancied there might be music in the home toward which he was hastening. some day, perhaps, he might hear the blessed chords again! he would wait. through his childish fancy flitted a dream of a symphony--the unthought melody which might be sleeping in those broken chords. he delivered his message safely, and the man kindly showed him a short cut home. it was very late, and the streets were still, but he was not afraid. he passed house after house that was gayly lighted, and looked longingly at the revelry within, but he hurried onward till he came to a little house in a side street. hark! he stopped suddenly. out of the darkness came the sound of music--was it a violin? yes, no, it could not be. he crept closer to the cottage. then a burst of harmony came into his consciousness--long, sweet, silvery notes; a glad rush of sound that brought tears to his eyes--a delicate half hushed whisper, and then the twinkle of a brook, with the twilight gentleness of a shadow. clearer and stronger the music grew, and the child's breath came in quick, short gasps. the brook was a river now, he could hear the swaying of the trees in the forest; the heart of the wind was in the music, and on it swept in glad resistless cadence, from the brook to the river, then down to the sea. a pause, a long low note, then a glorious vision of blue, as into the rush of the song, there came the sweet, unutterable harmonies of the ocean. he was in ecstasy; he scarcely dared to move. oh, could he but see whence the music came! could he look for a moment only, upon the face of the master! the moon came out from behind a cloud, and the child looked up. at the open window he saw an old man with deep-set eyes, a kindly smile, and long white hair that hung down to his shoulders. he held a violin in his hand, but the picture needed not this touch to tell the child who it was that had made this wonderful music, for he felt that he now looked upon the face of the master. with a sigh, the old man again placed the instrument in position, and drew the bow across the strings. the boy trembled. in slow, measured sweetness the music came--a deep wonderful harmony that held him spellbound. there was a tender cadence that swayed the player's soul, and into the theme crept the passionate pain of one who had loved and lost. the child knew that the man was suffering--that music like that could only come from an aching heart. with double notes, in a minor key, the master played on; then the violin slipped to the floor unheeded, and the old man laid his head on the window sill, and wept like a child. pedro crept away; he could bear no more. the glory had entered into his soul. he went noiselessly to bed, but he heard still that marvellous music and saw again the pain-shadowed face of the master. oh, could he but touch the magic strings! could he but play one note of the wondrous song! an idea seized him--he would try sometime. in a transport of joy he fell asleep, and dreamed all night long of the heavenly strains. he saw the clear deep blue of the ocean, he heard the wind symphonies in the forest, and always, too, before him was that white suffering face. the next day he was scarcely himself. he moved about as if he still slept, while his eyes were unusually sad and thoughtful. at night he could not sleep, and after making sure that every one else was in deep slumber, he slipped quietly out into the shop. the moon showed him where to go, and at length he picked up the new violin which had taken so long to finish, and which was the finest his father had ever made. where should he go? outdoors, assuredly. he went softly out into the moonlight and down to the brook which was some distance from the house. the silence, the beauty, the witchery of it all, was overwhelming. a gentle breeze swayed the tree tops, and, from the instrument in his hand, drew forth Æolian music. he started, placed it in position, and drew the bow across the wind-swept strings. his touch awakened the sleeping voice, and through his soul surged again the long, sweet chords that had made him glad, and shown him through the broken bits of melody, the grandeur of the symphony. tenderly, tremblingly, he touched the strings again, and another chord, a minor, struck deep into his heart. without thought or knowledge of the art he still blundered on, knowing naught save that it was _his_ fingers that made a wild, delirious, rapturous sound, and seeing only the remembered vision of the master's face. conscious of nothing else, he did not see that the sun had risen. suddenly he looked up. his father stood before him with a strange expression on his face. the terrified child dropped the instrument to ward off a blow, but the father said, with a tremor in his voice: "is it so, my boy? are you then a musician? you shall have lessons; i shall give you a violin; we go to-day to see the master. ah, the music! it is most wonderful!" the boy was dumb with astonishment. to learn? and who was the master? that afternoon he dressed himself in his best garments, which were worn only on festal occasions, and with his father went on the gladdest errand of his life. the master! could it be? the child's heart almost stopped beating. yes, down the little street they turned and went up to the door of the cottage. he could not speak. presently he found himself in a plainly furnished little room, and heard footsteps in the hall. the door opened, and pedro looked up to see those deep-set eyes that seemed to smile down at him. the father rose, and bowing low, he said: "signor, i would like my son to play the violin--you are a teacher--he will be a musician. i have no money, signor, but if you teach my boy how to play, i will make you a violin--the finest in the world." the master was about to refuse; his old violin was a good one, and he did not like to teach. he turned away hastily, but he caught a glimpse of the child's uplifted face. his soul was in his eyes, and in their depths the great artist saw an unutterable longing. he was touched. "child," he said, "would you like to play?" he laid his hand on the boy's shoulder. the touch and the kindly tone thrilled him unspeakably. to play? to hear again that infinite music? glad tears rushed to his eyes and his only answer was a sob. "ah, yes," the man's voice was tender. "you love it; i will teach you. come to-morrow at this hour and we shall begin." pedro went home, wild with delight. to play! to see the master's face! ah, it was too much! all night long he dreamed of that delicious melody, and the dear old head with its crown of silver hair that seemed like a benediction. his father gave him a little old violin. to him? was it all his own? "and when you can play, my boy," he said, "you shall have the 'beauty'." pedro's first lessons were a revelation. his face was a study for a painter, and the teacher saw that he had before him the promise of an artist. he gave himself willingly to the task and soon learned to dearly love his eager pupil. and pedro? no task was too hard, no study too difficult, no practice too long and tedious, if he might please his good old friend; and even while he struggled with the difficulties of technique, he never lost hope or patience, for before him always like a guiding star, was the serene white face of the master. so the years went by, and all italy was being searched for the finest wood that grew--for the sharpest tools. the wood for the master's violin must be well seasoned--it would take a long time--the longer, the better. for centuries the old tree had listened to wind, and river, and bird; the sounds of the forest were interwoven with its fibre, and now it must give up its buried music in answer to the strings of the violin. the childish stature was changed to that of manhood, and still the teacher found in pedro a devoted pupil. the youth had developed in many ways, but the artist seemed to be little changed. a little more bent, perhaps, but the same sweet soul. pedro had the "beauty" but the master's violin was not yet finished. he never asked for it, never spoke of it; in the delight of pedro's achievement and greater promise, perhaps he had forgotten the promise of the old violin maker. but the old man was growing feeble. a change was coming and the young man felt it too. he went one day for his lesson, and the housekeeper met him at the door with her finger on her lip. hush! the teacher was ill. but he would like to see pedro for a few minutes. he went in and spoke tenderly to the old friend, whose eyes shone with so much love for his pupil--his boy--as he still called him. pedro could not stay long--it was too sad, and the tears were choking his utterance. he went home with a sorrow-laden heart. his father said to him as he entered: "the master's violin is at last finished, my son. see?" he held up a beautifully fashioned instrument. "you shall take it to him to-morrow. ah, its tone! you will play?" "no, father, i cannot. the master, he is ill--dying--perhaps. oh! i cannot." the old violin maker laid the instrument gently in its case. there were tears in his own eyes--"the teacher! well, we must all die," and he turned to his work. night came, and pedro tossed restlessly on his couch. about midnight there was a rap on the front door of the shop. he went quietly and opened it. there was a messenger from the old housekeeper. the teacher was sinking fast. the physician said he could not last until morning. he was out of pain, and he knew the end was near. would pedro come and play for him? the night seemed so long! pedro dressed himself hurriedly. oh, if he should be too late! as he went through the shop he passed the table where lay the master's violin. a sob came into his throat as he lifted it from the case. he would play that. out into the still street he went with almost breathless haste. the moon shone gloriously, and the air was sweet with spring. he reached the cottage and went softly into the little room at the end of the hall where the man lay, looking like a piece of marble statuary, but still breathing. pedro bent over him and looked lovingly into his face. the master spoke with difficulty--"you are come, then, my friend--my boy?" the same old tenderness! pedro could not answer. "you will play to me? the end is so near, the night seems so long--play to me, my boy." the feeble man turned his face to the open window, which was on a level with his couch. with a sigh of content, he laid his head upon the sill. pedro started. the position, the moonlight, oh, that far-off night! again he was a child crouching in the darkness, and in the old ecstasy beneath that very window--he heard again that infinitely sad music, and saw again the white suffering face. he placed the instrument in position; step by step, unerringly, he followed the notes of the marvellous melody, for was not the musician before him, teaching him how to play it? the grey head turned towards the player--a strange new light in his eyes. but seeing only the vision of his childhood the young man played on and on, and somehow into the symphony crept all the love and sadness of a life time. as he played he threw his whole soul into the music. oh, the indescribable sweetness of the master's violin! at last his vision faded, and he saw the massive head drop on the same old sill--he heard once more the sobs that come with tears. the music ended with a broken chord, and he looked up--to find his friend gazing at him with ineffable happiness. "my boy, where did you learn that? it is one of my own compositions--i have never written it all down--where--where did you learn it?" pedro drew his chair to the couch, and, clasping the withered hand in both his own that were strong and young, and beating with life, he told the story. so long ago that he was but a child, he had heard the artist play it. he had known even then that it was born of sorrow, and to-night that far-off time came back into the moonlight, with the master's face. he had not played from memory only, for the teacher had shown him some of the notes and he had but followed. the man feebly raised his head and said brokenly: "my boy, you are right; i had a sorrow. you are young, but you will understand." no longer master and pupil, they were now friend and friend. "i loved her--the best of all the world. but with the end only, came the peace which had been denied me in life. she loved my music and i played to her when she lay dying. she did not love me as i loved her--i was her friend, always; 'her dear, dear friend,' she used to say. "but," and the voice grew stronger, "my arms were around her when the angels came--with my kisses on her lips she went to her grave--there are violets there--she loved them so--for thirty years i have watched them. her heart has blossomed into them, and they come from her to me. "she was so pure--so sweet--and her last word was for me. such a little word! with her last strength, she put her arms around me, and drew my face down to hers--such a little word--it was a whisper--_sweetheart_! she loved me then--i know she did. oh, love, could i break the bonds of the grave!" he was silent for a moment. "now you know--you understand. you will play it again." the night was deepening toward the dawn. once more pedro took the violin--and played the melody, instinct with the old, old story of love and pain. the man's eyes were closed; he lay contentedly and peacefully as a child. as the boy played, the darkness waned, and as he finished, not with a broken chord, but with a minor that some way seemed completion, the first faint lines of light came into the eastern sky. the master turned to the window again: "see, the day breaks." the sky grew gold and crimson, but a more celestial light seemed to live around the grey head, as if, in rifts of heaven, he saw her waiting for him. he stretched his trembling hands to the east, and whispered: "yes, i am coming! coming! you love me then? ah, yes! beyond the sunset--the dawn; i am coming--coming--coming--such a little word--_sweetheart_!" a look of unspeakable rapture; it was transfiguration; then the deep blue eyes were closed upon the scenes of earth. the first ray of the sun shot into the little room and rested with loving touch upon the couch. the sobbing old housekeeper came toward them, but pedro motioned her away. he knelt at the bedside, his own face shining with something of that celestial glow, and man though he was, with quivering lips he kissed again and again the dear white face of the master. a reasonable courtship a reasonable courtship when tom elliott graduated from harvard, that power of the mind which is known as reason had become a fetish with him. every human action, he argued, should be controlled by it. the majority of people were largely influenced by their feelings; he, thomas elliott, twenty-six, good-looking, and fairly wealthy, would turn his mental advantages to good account and be guided wholly by his reason. he explained his theory to an attractive young woman who had gone out on the veranda with him. partly because her mind was too much occupied with the speaker to comprehend the full purport of his remarks, and partly because her feminine tact forbade opposition to an unimportant thing, miss marshall nodded her pretty head in entire assent. "it is an assured fact," he went on, "that all the unhappiness in the world is caused by the inability to reason. married life is miserable just because it is not put on a sensible basis. any two human beings capable of reasoning would be happy together, if that point were kept constantly in view. perfect, absolute truthfulness, and constant deductions from it, form the only sure foundation for happiness. am i right?" she twisted the corners of her handkerchief. "yes, i think you are." elliott paced back and forth with his hands in his pockets--a symptom of nervousness which women mistake for deep thought; "belle," he said suddenly, "i have always liked you. you have so much more sense than most girls. i am not going to flatter you, but you are the only woman i ever saw who seemed to be a reasonable being. what i want to ask is, will you try it with me?" miss marshall opened her brown eyes in amazement. since she left boarding-school, the approach of the elliott planet had materially confused her orbit. she had often dreamed of the offer of tom's heart and hand, but for once, the consensus of masculine opinion to the contrary, a woman was surprised by a proposal. "what on earth do you mean?" she gasped. "just this. you and i are congenial, of an equal station in life, and i believe we could be happy together--happier than the average married couple. there's no foolish sentimentality about it; we know each other, and that is enough." there was a terrific thumping going on in the region where miss marshall had mentally located her heart. she took refuge in that platitude of her sex which goads an ordinary lover to desperation. "this is so sudden, mr. elliott! i must take time to consider." "very well, take your own time. i'll be a good husband to you, belle, if you'll only give me the chance." in the solitude of her "den" belle marshall gave the matter serious consideration. safely intrenched behind a formal proposal, she admitted to herself that she loved him--a confession that no woman ever should make until the rubicon has been crossed. but even the most love-blinded damsel could not transfigure elliott's demeanour into that of a lover. within her reach, in a secret drawer, was a pile of impassioned letters and a withered rose; on her desk a photograph of a handsome face, which she had last seen white to the lips with pain. he had called her cruel, and she had smiled faintly at the harvard pin which she wore, and bade him go. then there was another, of whom belle did not like to think, though she went to his grave sometimes with a remorseful desire to make some sort of an atonement. he was only a boy--and some women know what it is to be loved by a boy. she compared the pleading of the others with elliott's business-like offer, and wondered at the severity of fate. then she wrote a note: "miss marshall accepts with pleasure, mr. elliott's kind invitation to become his wife," and sent it by a messenger. before burning her relics, as an engaged girl should, she sat down to look them over once more. with a spartan-like resolve she at last put every letter and keepsake into the sacrificial flames. when it was over she sighed, for she had nothing left but memory and the business like promise of the morning: "i'll be a good husband to you, belle, if you'll only give me a chance." her note would doubtless be answered in person, and she donned a pretty white gown, that she might not keep him waiting. she vainly tried to tone down her flushed cheeks with powder. "you are a nice sort of girl," she said to herself, "for a reasonable marriage." just then the door-bell rang, and she flew to answer the summons. there was no one else in the house, the coast was clear and she was an engaged girl. she started in surprise, as elliott walked solemnly on by her, after she had closed the door. "nice afternoon," he said. there was no doubt about it; miss marshall had expected to be kissed. still unable to speak, she followed him into the parlour. he turned to offer her a chair and instantly read her thought. "you need fear nothing of the kind from me," he said in a blundering way, which men consider a high power of tact. "it's not hygienic, and is a known cause of disease. above all things, let us be sensible." "you got my note?" she enquired faintly. "yes, and i came to thank you for the honour conferred upon me. i assure you, i fully appreciate it--more, perhaps, than i can make you understand." throughout his call he was dignified and friendly, but she was in a state of nervous excitement which bordered on hysteria. "you are nervous and overwrought," he said in a friendly way. "perhaps i would better go. i'll come again soon, and you shall name the day, and we will make plans for our future." he shook hands in parting, and belle ran up-stairs as if her life depended upon it. once in her own room, she locked the door, then threw herself down among her sofa pillows in a passion of tears. "a--cause--of--_disease_--of--_disease_," she sobbed. "oh, the--brute!" she had kept her lips for her husband, and the wound went deep. when she descended the stairs, calm and collected, her eyes were set and resolute, and there was a look around her mouth that boded ill for mr. thomas elliott, of harvard, ' . the next day he asked her to drive. "i don't want to hurry you in the least," he said, "and the time is left to you. only tell me a little time before, that is all. and belle, remember this: i am going to be perfectly and absolutely truthful with you, and i expect you to be the same with me." it was not long before she found out that he meant what he said. "do i look nice?" she asked him one evening, when they were starting for the theatre. "i am sorry to say that you do not," answered elliott. "you've got too much powder on your nose, and that hat is a perfect fright." her eyes flashed, but she said nothing. offering him her handkerchief she commanded him to "wipe off the powder," and elliott did so, wondering in a half-frightened way, what the mischief was the matter with belle. they were early, and sauntered along the brilliantly lighted street, with plenty of time to look into the shop windows. one firm had filled its largest window with ties of a dashing red. "i think i'll get one of those," tom said. "they're stylish just now, and i think it would be becoming, don't you?" "no, i don't," she answered promptly. "only a man with a good complexion can wear one of those things!" tom had always thought his dark clear skin was one of his best points, and that belle should insinuate that it wasn't, hurt his pride. neither spoke until they entered the theatre; then man-like he said the worst thing possible. "that's a pretty girl over there," inclining his head toward a blond beauty. "i always liked blonds, didn't you?" belle was equal to the occasion. "yes, i always liked blond men; i don't care so much for the girls." elliott's lower jaw dropped thoughtfully. he was as dark as egypt, himself. neither enjoyed the play. "seeing it a second time has spoiled it for me," tom said. "i took miss davis last week and we both enjoyed it very much." belle's stony silence at last penetrated tom's understanding. "there's no reason why i shouldn't take another girl to the theatre," he explained, "just because i happen to be engaged to you. it isn't announced yet, and won't be until you are willing. and you know it doesn't change my regard for you in the least to go with any one else. you are welcome to the same freedom." a great light broke in upon belle. the next time he called she had gone to play tennis with a yale man. he saw them laughing and chatting a little way down the street, and the owner of the blue sweater was carrying her racket. tom was angry, for the yale man was an insufferable cad, and she had no business to go with him. he would speak to her about it. on the way home, he wisely decided to say nothing about it. perhaps belle wasn't as fully accustomed to being guided by reason as he was, though she was an unusually sensible girl. he must be gentle with her at first; she would grow by degrees. acting on this impulse, he took his cherished copy of spencer's _ethics_ and presented it to her. "you'll like this," he said, "after you have got into it, and it will help you amazingly about reasoning." a well-developed white arm threw the spencer vigorously against the side of the house. elliott was surprised, for a woman like this was utterly outside the pale of his experience. perhaps she didn't feel well. he put his arm around her. "what is it, belle?" he asked anxiously. the singular phenomena increased in intensity, for belle jerked away from him, with her eyes blazing. "how dare you touch me?" she said, and walked like an empress out of the room. inside of ten minutes the idea came to elliott that she did not intend to return until he left the house. her handkerchief lay on the table, and he picked it up. he looked carefully into the hall, and saw no one. then the apostle of reason put the handkerchief into his pocket and walked out of the room to the front door, then slowly down the street, still in a brown study. "what could a young woman mean by such vigorous hints of displeasure?" four years at college had taught him nothing of women and their peculiar ways, and he was evidently on the wrong track. it wasn't reasonable to humour her in such tantrums, but he sent a box of roses by way of a peace offering, and received in return a note which emboldened him to call. an old-time friendly chat put them on an equal footing again, and elliott grew confidential. "every thought of mine rightfully belongs to you, i suppose," he said one day. "every thought of mine _is_ of you," she replied softly, and he watched the colour in her cheeks with a sensation akin to pleasure. he thought about it in the night afterward. it was nice for a fellow to know that a girl like belle thought of him often. if it had been a proper thing to do, he wouldn't have minded kissing her when she said it, for he had never seen her look so pretty. the yale man had gone back to college and elliott settled down in business with his father. he and belle were the best of friends, and he looked forward with increasing pleasure to the day which she had not yet named. he planned a european tour which he was sure would both surprise and please her. he did not intend to mention it until after the ceremony. surely no lover ever had a more reasonable and attractive path to travel. belle was everything that could be desired. when his visits were infrequent, she did not seem to miss him, and--rarest quality in woman!--never asked him any questions as to the way in which he had spent the time away from her. tom felt like a pioneer who had emancipated his sex by applying the test of reason to every duty and pleasure in life. the summer waned, and beside the open fire in the long cool evenings she seemed doubly attractive. in a friendly way, he took her hand in his, as they sat in front of the flaming brushwood, then started in surprise. "what is it?" she asked. "the queerest thing," tom answered. "when i touched your hand just now, i felt a funny little quiver run up that arm to my elbow. did you ever feel a thing like that?" belle forsook the path of absolute truth. "no, how queer!" "isn't it?" he took her hand again, but the touch brought no answering thrill. "must have been my imagination, or a chill," commented tom. alone in her room, miss marshall laughed softly to herself. "imagination, or a chill! what a dear funny stupid thing a man is!" sunday evenings tom invariably spent with belle. when he called on the first evening of the following week, he was astonished to find that she had gone to church with the yale man. mrs. marshall explained to him that it was the young man's farewell visit; his mother had been ill and he had been unexpectedly called home, thus giving him a few days with old friends. [illustration: he saw them laughing and chatting a little way down the street, and the owner of the blue sweater was carrying her racket. _from the drawing by dalton stevens._] "must be very ill," said tom ironically, under his breath, as he went back to his cheerless room. there was a queer tightness somewhere in his chest which he had never felt before and it seemed to be connected in some way with the yale man. he slept fitfully and dreamed of belle in a little house, with an open fire in the parlour, where he would be a welcome guest and the alumni of the other colleges would be denied admittance. he was tempted to remonstrate with her, but had no reasonable ground for doing so. they would be married shortly and then the matter would end. the next time he went to see her, the peculiar tightness appeared in his chest again, and he could hardly answer her cheerful greetings. he noted that she had acquired a yale pin, which flaunted its ugly blue upon her breast. he trembled violently as he sat down and drops of perspiration stood out on his brow. she was alarmed and brought him a glass of water. as she stood over him, the womanly concern in her face touched him not a little, and he threw his arms around her and drew her down to him. "kiss me once, belle," he pleaded hoarsely. with a violent effort she freed herself. "it's not hygienic," she explained, "and frequently causes disease." tom stared at her in open-mouthed wonder, and soon after took his departure. once inside his room, he sat down to close analysis of himself. he had been working too hard, and was temporarily unbalanced. she was quite right in saying that it caused disease; such a thing must not happen. his reason had been impaired by long hours in the office; otherwise he would never have thought of doing such a foolish, unreasonable thing. in the morning he received a note from her. she had been summoned to the bedside of a sick sister, and would be away from home as long as she was needed. the next month was a long one for tom. he was surprised to find how much of his life could be filled by a woman. after they were married there would be no such separations. he wrote regularly and received in return such brief notes as her duties permitted her to write. then, for a week, none came, and he went to her home to see what news had been received there. the servant admitted him, half smiling, and in white house gown, by the open fire he saw belle. she had never seemed so sweet and womanly, and with a cry he could not repress, he caught her in his arms. she struggled, but in vain, and at last gave her lips willingly to his. in that minute tom learned more than all his college course had taught him. utterly unconscious of his own temerity, he kissed her again and again. the little white figure was silent in his arms, and bending low he whispered a word which no reasonable man would ever be caught using. her face shining with tears, belle looked up. "tom," she said, "do you love me?" "love you!" he said slowly. "why--i guess--i must." she laughed happily and he drew her closer. "dear little girl," he said tenderly, "do you love me?" the answer came muffled from his shoulder: "all the time, tom!" "all the time! you darling! what an infernal brute i have been!" he evidently intended to kiss her again, for he tried to lift her chin from his shoulder. providence has taught women a great deal about such things. her eyes flashed with mischief as she struggled to release herself. "you must let me go, tom; this isn't reasonable at all!" but his training with the harvard crew had given him a strength which kept her there. "reasonable!" he repeated. "reasonable be hanged!" elmiry ann's valentine elmiry ann's valentine "si," said mrs. safford, "didn't elmiry ann rogers come in here to-day to buy a valentine?" "yep," replied the postmaster, without interest. "one of them twenty-five cent ones, with lace onto it." "i thought so," grunted the wife of his bosom. "how, now, aureely? why ain't she a right to buy a valentine if she wants one?" "she's a fine one to be buyin' sech trash, when everybody in the corners knows she ain't hardly got enough to keep soul and body together, let alone clothes and valentines. i knowed she'd done it, jest as well as if i'd see her do it, 'cause she aint' missed comin' in on the twelfth of february sence we come here, and that is nigh onto fourteen year." "well," said silas, after a long silence, "what of it?" "si safford! do you mean to tell me you've been postmaster for fourteen year an' ain't never noticed that elmiry ann rogers _gets_ a valentine every year?" "no," replied silas, turning to meet a customer, "i ain't never noticed it." "men do be the beatenest," exclaimed aurelia under her breath. "evenin', mr. weeks." "evenin' mis' safford." "moderatin' any?" "nope, looks like snow, but i reckon it's too cold." for perhaps ten minutes the two men talked the dull aimless commonplaces of the country store. the single lamp with a reflector behind it, made all three faces unlovely and old. john weeks was a tall strapping fellow, slightly stooped, and about fifty years old. his hair was grey at the temples, but his eyes had a kindly twinkle that bid defiance to time. he bought some brown sugar and went out. one could not blame him for seeking other surroundings, for even at its best, the post-office and general store at the corners was a gloomy place. two well-worn steps that creaked noisily were the links between it and the street. the door opened by an old-fashioned latch, worn with much handling, and inside, a motley smell greeted the inquiring nostril unwonted to the place. the curious sickish odour was a compound of many ingredients blended into one by the all-powerful and all-pervading kerosene. the floor, moderately clean, was covered with sand and saw-dust, which was occasionally swept out and replaced by a fresh layer. on the right, as you went in, was a small show-case filled with bright coloured candies, displayed in the original packages. other boxes were piled in the window and still others on the shelf. within a radius of twenty steps one could buy calico, muslin, ruled stationery, or groceries and kerosene, as he might choose. once a year, the commonplace merchandise gave way to "christmas novelties," and during the first two weeks in february the candy show-case was filled with the pretty nonsensical bits of paper called valentines, with a pile of "comics" on top. every year on the twelfth of february, as mrs. safford had said, elmiry ann rogers came in and bought a valentine. every year on the fourteenth of february, as the postmaster's keen-eyed wife had noted, elmiry ann rogers had received a valentine. it was no comic, either, such as one might send to an unprepossessing old maid of forty, but a gorgeous affair of lace paper and cupids, in an ornate wrapping, for more than once, elmiry's trembling fingers had torn the envelop a bit, as if she could not wait until she reached home. in many a country town, the buyer of the valentines would have been known as "ol' mis' rogers," but the corners, lazy, rather than tactful, still clung to the name the pretty girl had gone by. there was little in elmiry to recall the graceful figure that was wont to appear in pink muslin or red merino at church and prayer meeting, for the soft curves had become angles, the erect shoulders were bent, and the laughing eyes were now filled with a dumb pathetic sadness. elmiry's hair had once fallen in soft curls about her face, but now it was twisted into a hard little knot at the back of her head. the white dimpled hands were dark and scrawny now, but people still spoke of her as "elmiry ann." the morning of the thirteenth dawned cloudy and cold. the postmaster went out of town on business, and his wife had her hands full. she moved briskly from one part of the store to the other, making change, rectifying mistakes, and attending to the mail. at noon a crowd of children came in after "comics" and john weeks stood by, watching aimlessly. "you want any valentines, mr. weeks?" asked mrs. safford. "reckon not, i've been growed up too long for that." "sho, now! you ain't much older 'n elmiry ann rogers, an' she buys one every year. it's a nice one too--twenty-five cents." "i ain't never sent but one," said mr. weeks, after a silence. "that so? well, some folks buys 'em right along. elmiry ann rogers gets one every year jest as regler as a tea party." "who'd you advise me to send one to?" "don't make no difference to us, so we sells 'em," laughed mrs. safford. "stock's runnin' down now, but if there's any lef they can be kep' over. we've had one now for goin' on five year. it's a fifty cent one, an it's pretty too. elmiry's looked at it every year but i guess it's too expensive." "lemme see it." it was the same size as the others but it had more lace paper on it and more cupids. weeks was evidently pleased with it and paid the fifty cents without a murmur. "makes me feel sorter silly to be buyin' one o' them things," he said awkwardly, "but i'm allers glad to do a favour for a friend an' i'll take it off your hands." "much obliged," returned mrs. safford. "who you lowin' to send it to?" weeks considered carefully. "i've got a little nephew over to taylorville," he said, "and i reckon he'd be right pleased with it." another avalanche of children descended upon the valentine counter and in the confusion he escaped. busy as she was, mrs. safford found time to meditate upon elmiry and her romance. "they do say that john weeks used to set up some with elmiry," she thought, "and then it was broke off, but there ain't either of 'em married. i sh'd think he'd want a woman to do for him, and poor elmiry--her little house is most eat up by the mortgage. the squire was a-sayin' the other day that he thought she'd soon be on the town 'cause she ain't paid the intrust lately. an her a-buyin' valentines! la sakes! well, it takes all kinds of people to make up a world!" early in the afternoon she sorted the mail, as usual, but there was nothing for elmiry. a strange fact of the case was that the valentine had always come from the corners. mrs. safford began to hope elmiry would not be disappointed, then the latch clicked, and she came in. "i want half a pound of dried beef, mis' safford," elmiry said, "an' a quarter of a pound of rice, an' a jug of merlasses, an' a spool of black thread, number sixty." "would you mind writin' down your order, mis' rogers? i'll send si over with it when he comes, 'cause i've got to get this mail off in a few minutes an' i ain't got time." elmiry seemed disappointed, but wrote her needs on a piece of wrapping paper, using the short blunt pencil which was suspended by a piece of twine from the show-case. her writing was cramped, old-fashioned, and as distinctive as it was odd. when mrs. safford had time to look at the order, she became greatly excited. "if that ain't the beatenest?" she said to herself. "who'd have thought it? 'course, maybe it ain't, but i'm goin' to make sure!" late in the afternoon elmiry came in again, and as before, she was the only customer. "i jest thought i'd take my things, mis' safford," she said by way of explanation, "'cause i want to use some merlasses right away and 't ain't no need to trouble mr. safford, if you've got time to do 'em up." "i've got 'em all ready, elmiry." so miss rogers arranged the bundles under her shawl and mrs. safford caught sight of something white, held tightly in the dark scrawny hand. "'t want thread, nor rice," she thought, as elmiry went out, "and i know 't want her handkerchief. i reckon 'twas her valentine she was lowin' to send away, and didn't, 'cause she thought i'd look. she ain't goin' to fool me though." dusk brought the storm which had threatened for two days, and a bitter north wind came with it. in an hour the world was white, and belated foot-falls were muffled by the snow. at nine the store closed, and at half-past nine, elmiry ann rogers wrapped her threadbare shawl around her and started down the street to the post-office. it was a difficult journey, for the snow was three inches deep and was still coming down, but elmiry knew the way so well that she could have gone with her eyes shut, if necessary. she was stiff with the cold when she got there, and was fumbling with the opening in the door marked "mail" when a deep masculine voice at her elbow startled her into an impulsive little scream. "why, miss rogers," it said, "what are you doin' here this time o' night?" "my goodness, mr. weeks, how you scairt me!" she answered trembling. "you shouldn't be out a night like this," he continued, "it ain't fittin'." "i--i jest come out to mail a letter,--an important letter," said elmiry weakly. "why that's funny--so did i! strange that we should meet, ain't it? and now, miss rogers, i'm goin' to take you home." "oh, you mustn't, mr. weeks," cried elmiry in a panic, "i'd feel wicked to take you out of your way a night like this, and 't'aint but a few steps anyway." "sakes alive! elmiry, how you talk! i'm a-goin' to take you home and we might as well start. come." he slipped her arm through his and turned down the street. elmiry felt a burning blush on her cold cheeks, for it had been years, more than she cared to remember, since any one had taken her home. as they went on, mr. weeks did the talking and elmiry endeavoured to collect her scattered senses. there was something strangely sweet in the feeling that she had a protector, and she wondered dimly how she had ever had the courage to take the trip alone. when they reached her door, she turned to bid him good-night, but he seemed to take no notice of it. "i guess i'll go in an' set a spell," he remarked. "i'm quite chill." elmiry had closed the door of the kitchen and turned up the light which was burning dimly before she remembered she had no fire. mr. weeks opened the stove door and found the interior dark and cold. then he looked behind the stove, but there was neither wood nor coal and the floor was spotlessly clean. "why, elmiry," he said, "i'll go right out and get you an armful of wood. it's been stormin' so you've got out. i'll bring in a lot of it." "no, no," she cried. "please don't! it's too late for a fire to-night and in the mornin' it'll be clear! don't go!" in her tone there was something more than polite anxiety to save him the effort, and he changed the subject. they talked commonplaces until he felt the cold in spite of his warm clothing. she still wore her shawl and looked pitifully thin and weak. "ain't you cold?" he asked. "no," replied elmiry with great dignity. "i'm warm-blooded an' most people keep their houses too hot. it ain't healthy." mr. weeks agreed and rose to go. she did not ask him to come again, and he was half-way down the street when he began to wonder about the fire. the light was out, so he went back, very slowly approached the wood-shed by a roundabout way, entered stealthily and struck a match, shading the light with his hand. on the floor, in the corner, was a very small pile of kindlings and the coal-bin was swept clean, no other fuel being in sight. "it's jest as i thought," he said to himself. "the poor little soul!" st. valentine's morning was clear and bright, but enough snow had fallen during the night to obliterate the telltale tracks around the wood-shed. mrs. safford was up betimes, eagerly anticipating her husband's peep into the soap box which held chance letters posted after the store had closed. there were two valentines there, both addressed to "miss elmiry ann rogers, the corners." "sakes alive!" said mrs. safford. "si! elmiry ann rogers has been a-sending herself valentines every year, regler. i wish 't i knew who t' other was from--this is the first time she's had two." "how'd you know anything about it?" "why one on 'em is in the same hand that was on the order she wrote, but t' other looks like a man's hand." "aureely," said the postmaster, "you keep still about valentines and everything else you see in the mail, or i'll lose the post-office, and you'll go to jail! the united states government don't stand no foolin'!" awed by her husband's stern manner, mrs. safford decided to keep still, but she watched elmiry ann closely when silas gave her the valentines. the thin sad face lighted up with pleased surprise, but elmiry did not stop. she clutched her treasures tightly and hurried out looking younger than she had for years. when john weeks came in during the afternoon the saffords were putting away the valentines. "this fool business is over for another year, john," said the postmaster. "we've sold one we've had for more'n five years. what you steppin' on my feet for, aureely? ain't you got room enough in the store to walk?" "'scuse me si, there's the squire comin' in." "mornin', squire." "mornin', si. has your clocks stopped, so's you don't know it's afternoon? how's biz?" "oh, so so. what's new?" "nothin', only the selectmen held a meetin' yesterday an' elmiry rogers is a-goin' to the poorhouse. she's back in her intrust, and ain't got no prospects, and the doctor has got to foreclose. they wanted i s'd tell her, but someways, i don't like the idea. she'll be kep' warm and she'll be better off, and she'll have plenty of comp'ny, but i knowed her when she went to school, an' i knowed her mother too. for the sake of auld lang syne i don't want to hurt her." "sho now, ain't that too bad?" said both the saffords together. nobody knew just when mr. weeks left the store, and elmiry ann was startled when she opened the door in response to his vigorous rap. she had not been at home long, and the colour still burned in her cheeks. the valentines lay on the table, presenting a strange contrast to their bleak and commonplace surroundings. "why, how do you do?" she exclaimed with a queer little note in her voice. "will you come in?" "yes, i'll come in," he said decisively. he shut the door with a bang and took the trembling frightened woman into his arms. "elmiry! you poor little soul! i've wanted you 'most twenty years, an' i ain't never had courage to say it 'til now. we've waited too long, an' i want you to come and be my valentine--will you, dear?" "why, mr. weeks," she cried in astonishment, "what's took you all of a sudden?" "it's sense, i reckon, elmiry, an' it's been a long time comin'. i was huffed 'cause you never made no answer to the valentine i sent you, an' i thought you didn't want me, so i just stayed away." "what valentine?" elmiry's eyes were very big and fearful. "don't you remember that valentine i sent you?--let's see, it's so long ago--i've most forgot what it was. it said: "'the rose is red, the violet blue, pinks are sweet and so are you; give me your heart, you have mine-- will you be my valentine?'" "yes," said elmiry slowly, "i remember." she went to the family bible which lay on the marble-topped table in the front room and took it out. it was worn and faded and there were spots on it which looked like tears. "did you mean that," she asked with difficulty, "for a-a----" "yes, i did," answered john, "an' i thought it was cunnin', but i see now, what a blamed fool i was. i should have come and asked you like a man an' not trusted to your understandin' no fool valentine. i made a great mistake--elmiry, dear, won't you never forgive me?" the poor little old maid smiled through her blinding tears. "oh, john," she said, "i've waited so long!" then she broke down and sobbed helplessly in his arms. elmiry forgot the empty years, and the pathetic valentines, so dearly bought--it was so sweet to be loved and taken care of by a masterful man. neither heard the jingle of sleigh-bells 'till a voice shouted: "whoa," outside, and doctor jones started towards the gate. "who's that?" said elmiry. "it's the doctor--he wants to see me about something and i'll go right out." "no, i'm sure it's me, he wants to see, john," said elmiry sadly. "'tain't neither. he see me a-comin' here." without stopping to put on his overcoat weeks rushed out slamming the door behind him, as he went. the conversation was brief, but to the point, and presently the doctor drove off with a smile on his face. "didn't he want to see me, john?" asked elmiry tearfully. "no, it was me, as i told you, but he sent in his congratulations." "his congratulations! oh, john! what did you tell him?" "i told him," said john, taking her into his arms, "that we was engaged an' that you was goin' to be my valentine." the knighthood of tony the knighthood of tony it was such a pretty bicycle! tony fondled the glittering spokes and examined the pedals with the air of a connoisseur. he forgot the hump on his back, and his solitary little house on the outskirts of the village in the joy of his new possession. only the night before mrs. carroll had sent for him and given it to him. "arthur wanted you to have it;" she said with a tremor in her voice. between tony and the delicate child for whom the wheel was bought, there had been a strong bond of sympathy. tony was always ready to talk to him, or to take him to the woods, and arthur was the only human being tony knew, aside from mrs. carroll, who did not jeer at the hump on his back, or shrink from him as though he were an evil thing. when arthur died, tony felt a terrible sense of loss, although he was a man in years and his friend was but a child. on account of his deformity, the wheel was none too small. if he could only ride it! he shivered as he thought of the shout of derision which would inevitably be his share, should he venture to ride it through the village streets. but there was the long smooth stretch of road which led to the next town, and there were innumerable paths through the woods that he knew and loved. the people in the village need never know that he had it. he could ride out there and no one be the wiser. he pushed it into his bedroom and shut the door. he had one other treasure--an old flute; and in spite of the cruel hump it was a very happy tony who went to sleep that night, with one hand stretched out upon the saddle of the beautiful new wheel. his father had been a shoemaker and by lifelong toil had left a little competence to his son. tony knew the trade also and sometimes worked at it. all that he was thus enabled to make by his own efforts, he invested in books at the store in the next town. he felt dimly that it would not be right to use his father's money in this way, but his own was a different matter. there was a tiny paint-box too, with which he sometimes copied the pictures in the books. on the white wall of his bedroom was a poor copy of a madonna, whose beauty he felt, but could not express. in some way, the madonna took the place of the mother he had never known, and whose picture, even, he had never seen. man though he was in years, tony had dreams of a soft hand brushing back his hair, and sweet cool lips pressed against his own. when he came back from his weekly trips to the village store, stung to the quick by the taunts and derisions of his fellow-men, he had sobbed himself to sleep many a time longing for that gracious hollow in a woman's shoulder, which seemed made for such as he. with the first streaks of dawn, tony started for the woods with his bicycle. there was a wide shady path, well hidden by trees, and here, he made his first attempts. it seemed a long, long time before he could ride even a little way, and the hard falls bruised, but did not discourage him. day after day, in the early light, he led his silent steed to the secret place and returned after nightfall that none might see him. the trees at the side of the path were more of a help than a hindrance. often he had restored his balance by reaching out to a friendly trunk. the feeling of confidence which every bicyclist remembers, came at last, and he rode up and down the path, making the turns at the end with perfect ease, until he dropped off from sheer weariness. the next day he took his flute and his wheel and a bit of lunch into the woods. he rode on the path until he was a bit tired, and then sat down on the grass and began to play. he knew no music but what the birds had taught him, and the simple little melodies he had heard his father hum. call after call of the mocking-bird and robin he imitated on his flute, until the little creatures flocked around him as if he had been one of them. tony found the purest pleasure in the society of his feathered friends. they never noticed his crooked body, but with that unfailing sight which seems to belong to birds and animals, recognised the soul within, and knew that they need have no fear of him. at that very minute, a robin was perched upon the handle-bar of his wheel, his bright eyes fixed upon tony, who was calling to him with his own voice in such a wonderful way that the red-breasted visitor was well-nigh dumb with astonishment. with a sudden cry of alarm, sir robin fluttered into a tree above and tony looked up to behold a strange and altogether lovely thing. it was only a pretty girl in a well-made bicycle suit of blue corduroy, with her wheel beside her, but to tony she was even more beautiful than the madonna. "excuse me," she said; "but i simply couldn't help stopping to listen." tony blushed uncomfortably but he made no reply. "it must be a great pleasure to be able to call the birds to you like that," she went on; "i really envy you the gift." he was transfixed with delight. this beautiful straight human being actually envied him the tiny bit of music he could make with his flute! his primitive hospitality came to the rescue. "won't you sit down?" he said timidly. she was very willing to sit down, and almost before he knew it, he found himself telling her about his little cabin, the father who brought him up, and how mrs. carroll had given him the bicycle because he had been good to her little boy before he died. she admired the wheel very much and talked over its good points with tony until he felt perfectly at ease. she asked him his name and gave him her own. she was miss atherton, staying in a house just outside the village with her invalid brother. the doctor thought the air of the woods would be good for him, so she had "packed up, bag and baggage," as she expressed it, and brought her horse, bicycle, piano and a trained nurse to the village for the summer. she wanted tony to come and see them the very next morning and bring his flute. her brother would enjoy the music and he could come up on his wheel and stay all day. she waved her hand to him as she rode away through the woods towards her home. it was the first time tony had ever been asked to visit any one except the little boy who had died. he remembered every detail of her face and dress, the velvety softness of the corduroy, the tiny watch at her belt, and the brown eyes, so much like those of the madonna, that he felt as if he had known her always. but one thing troubled him. she did not seem to see the curve between his shoulders. perhaps it was because he was leaning against a tree all the time she was there. if she had seen it, she would certainly have spoken of it. she might not make fun of him, but she would surely have pitied him, which was almost as bad. even mrs. carroll who was always kind, did that. no, miss atherton had not seen it, and his dread of her discovering it was the one flaw in his present anticipations. she, herself, in a pretty white gown, welcomed him at the door. mr. atherton lay in an invalid chair with a table at his side, and shook hands graciously with tony. it was such a happy day! he learned the first moves in chess and miss atherton played a tender, running accompaniment on the piano to the bird music he made with his flute. they all had luncheon on the wide veranda and tony had not dreamed such dainty things were possible. they talked of their travels in europe and egypt, before mr. atherton was taken ill, and showed him pictures of wonderful things in the lands across the sea. she read aloud and sang softly to the half-hushed chords her brother picked out on the guitar, and tony in a perfect wilderness of enjoyment, forgot all about his crooked shoulders. that day was the first in a long series of happy ones. he learned to play chess well enough to make himself a formidable antagonist, and after miss atherton taught him the notes on the piano he found them on the flute, and began to play simple melodies from the music. sometimes they all played together, very softly in the twilight--piano, flute and guitar; until it became time for the invalid to be wheeled into his room. sometimes even after that, tony would sit on the veranda while she sang or talked to him. through the long night he dreamed of her, as many a lover dreams of his sweetheart. beautiful miss atherton! he worshipped her from afar off, as a child looks at a star. it was tony who knew where the violets grew, and who in the dim silence of dawn laid handfuls of them at her door. and it was he who brought her a great sheaf of pond-lilies, dripping and sweet. "oh, tony!" she cried, "where do they grow?" his face flushed with pleasure. "i'll take you there if you want to go." "indeed i do," she exclaimed, "can we go on our wheels?" "yes, that's the best way, though it's rough in some places." "i don't mind that," she answered, "come early in the morning and we'll stay all day." that afternoon he went to the village store to buy his week's provisions. half-a-dozen men who were loafing in front of it asked no better sport than to get him into a corner, so that he could not escape, and fling at him taunts and jeers about his crooked body. it was fun to see the sensitive face flush with anger, or quiver with pain, and it was not until his self-control was entirely gone and he sank in a sobbing heap on the floor, that they let him go. the night was one of torture to him. it was not the mother he had never seen who could comfort him now, but miss atherton. his idea of heaven was a place where he might always be within the sound of her voice, within reach of her hand, and where she would look kindly upon him. he was thankful that the way to her house lay beyond the village and not through it. he would never dare to show himself there on his wheel. and the road to the lilies ran through the woods; none would see to-morrow when he went there with her. she was already on the veranda in her bicycle suit when he rode up the next morning. she tied a basket of lunch to his wheel and a book to her own. "you see we are going to stay all day," she said, "and i couldn't think of starting without refreshment for body and mind. my brother has an armful of new books which came from the city yesterday, and he didn't even hear me when i said good-bye." they started, miss atherton chatting busily and tony too happy to speak except in monosyllables. a turn in the road brought them to a branch of the river, white with lilies in full bloom. she dismounted with a little cry of delight. "oh, how white and sweet they are!" tony found a boat moored by the side of the stream and they soon had gathered a great sheaf of the golden-hearted censers, rich with fragrance, which they covered with cool ferns in the shade of the trees until they should be ready to take them home. being collected early in the day they were fresher and sweeter than if they had been allowed to feel the heat of the later morning sun. the lilies well cared for, they sat down under a tree and she read to him the story of launcelot. his brave deeds and manly service, his love for guenevere, and the spirit of romance and knightly courage which seemed to fairly breathe from the pages, held tony spellbound. "miss atherton," he said wistfully, as she finished, "i'd like to be one of those fellows." "you can be," she answered. "how?" he asked, his eyes wide open in astonishment. "any man is a knight," she said, "who does what is given him to do, wisely and well. it's not the horses and the armour, tony, it's the man, and you can be as brave and true as launcelot, if you only will. never permit yourself to speak, or even think slightingly of a woman, and if you have the opportunity to help one, do it at any cost. that's the foundation of true knighthood and true manhood, too. see, i give you my colours; be my knight if you will," and she leaned forward smilingly to tie a white fragrant scarf around his arm. but to her surprise, tony burst into tears. and then a part of his dream came true, for miss atherton put her arm around him and drew him close to her. "tony, dear, what is it? tell me!" with his face half buried in the sweet comforting place he had longed for, but had never known, he sobbed out all the bitterness of his heart. he told her of the taunts and jeers which made his crooked life a burden--of all the loneliness before he knew her, and someway too, he told her of his longing for his mother whom he had never seen, and whose place he had tried to fill with the picture of the madonna. that day in the woods gave tony undreamed-of strength. he even offered to do miss atherton's errands at the store. they did not know that he was a knight bearing his lady's colours--that he was in her service and would be to the very end of the world, for even death, he thought, could never make any difference in his loyalty to her. he was launcelot and she was guenevere--it was his secret, and even she must never know. toward the end of the summer he rode up to miss atherton's with a great bunch of goldenrod, which only he knew where to find. she came to the door white and worried. "my brother is very ill, tony," she said, "and i have sent my groom for the doctor, but he has been gone so long that i fear something may have happened to him. would you go--on your wheel?" for a moment, as the vision of the village store, on the only street that led to the doctor's house, with its crowd of loafers came before him, tony hesitated. would launcelot hesitate with guenevere in need? "i'll go, miss atherton," he said quietly. terror struck him as he came in sight of the store and saw the men he most feared, sitting in front of it. mutely praying for help, he bent to his pedals. but they had seen him, and rushed out into the street with a shout. it was an easy matter for them to stop his wheel. "let me go! let me go!" he cried, "miss atherton's brother is sick, and i'm going for the doctor!" "that's a likely story," said one of them. "bet a hat you stole this velocipede. she wouldn't send a hunchy like you anywheres." "mebby she might," said the keeper of the store. "that's the city gal he's goin' to marry. i seen her in the woods kissin' him!" white with rage, not for himself, but that the dear name of his lady should be soiled by their lips, tony raised his slender arm to strike. "say what you please to me," he muttered between his clenched teeth, "but if you dare to even _speak_ of her, i'll----" tony said no more, for one of the men half crazed with liquor, lifted the bicycle suddenly, and with a single blow across the curve between his shoulders, dashed him heavily to the ground. thoroughly frightened, the crowd dispersed leaving tony in the dusty road, amid the wreck of his wheel. meanwhile the doctor had arrived with miss atherton's servant. in half an hour the invalid was resting quietly, and as the doctor took his leave, miss atherton told him how she had sent tony after him on his bicycle only a few minutes before he arrived. "you shouldn't have done that," he said. "there's a rough crowd of men in the town, and they are very likely to harm the little chap if they have half a chance. i'll look for him as i go home and have him come and tell you that he is safe." not a man was in sight when the doctor found tony, and even the shades of the store windows were closely drawn. after vainly knocking at the door, he smashed in the window with a strong stick, and entering, found the men who were wont to loaf in front of the store, huddled in a corner of it. with the voice of one accustomed to command, he made them improvise a stretcher under his directions, and three of them helped him carry tony home. the doctor shook his head gravely when questioned as to the extent of the injury. "some one must stay with him to-night," he said. one of the men volunteered, but a look of such helpless terror came into tony's eyes, that he sent them all away, telling the last one to go for miss atherton. it was from him that she learned the whole story and fairly trembling with indignation, turned upon him. "there isn't one of you in this whole village worthy to touch even the hand of the boy you have killed to-day. he was a man--you are nothing but brutes. now go, and never let me see your face again." the doctor met her at the door of tony's little house. "you'd better stay with him," he said in a low tone. "he can't last until morning, and your brother will be perfectly safe with the nurse. i'll go up to your house and send down anything you may need. my man will come and stay within call." miss atherton gave him a note to the nurse, and then went in to tony. his eyes brightened at the sight of her, and he tried to speak. "hush, dear," she said, "it's all right. the doctor came just after you left, and my brother is in no danger now. i've come to stay with you." her cool hand brushed back the hair from his forehead, and moved by an impulse of womanly pity, she knelt beside him and laid her cheek against his own. he closed his eyes and seemed to sleep. her eyes wandered around the little room. a table stood in the corner of it. a cabinet photograph of herself in a pasteboard frame, around which tony had painted a wreath of pond-lilies, stood in the centre of it beside a cracked cup filled with early autumn flowers. the flute lay straight across the front, like a votive offering, and underneath the photograph was written in his large, unformed hand: "my guenevere." at last she understood, and feeling that his little shrine was too holy for even her eyes to see, she turned them away. tony stirred, and she slipped her arm under his shoulders. "miss atherton?" "yes, dear." "did--did--they--tell you--what they said?" "yes, dear." her eyes filled. "i didn't mind--for myself--but----" "hush, dear; i know." feeling herself unworthy in the presence of a true knightly soul, miss atherton held him untiringly in her arms. when he cried out with pain, she drew him close to her, and pillowed his head upon her breast. "am--i--going to--die--miss atherton?" she could hardly whisper the words: "i am afraid so, tony." "will you--stay--until----" "yes, dear." "and--afterward--you won't let--them--touch me?" "no, tony, no." his eyes followed hers as she looked at the little shrine again. "do you mind?" he whispered anxiously. "i thought--you wouldn't know--if i called--you--guenevere--at home." "tony, dear, no queen ever had a braver, truer knight than you have been to me. even launcelot was not half so noble in the service of guenevere, as you have been in mine." he smiled happily and seemed to sleep again. just at dawn, he said weakly: "miss atherton?" "what is it, tony?" "the lilies--are opening--about now,--ar'n't they?" "i shouldn't wonder. is there anything you want?" "would--you--you--kiss me--just--once? i used--to dream--you did--and--and----" with a sob she could not hide, she drew him close. he sighed contentedly as he put his frail arms around her, like a weary child, and with his guenevere's kisses on his lips and brow, her little launcelot blossomed into the light of which she had told him. her volunteer her volunteer the flags fluttered listlessly in the warm spring air, and the little group on jean perry's piazza was scarcely more energetic. there was a martial significance in the atmosphere, for the heavy tread of battalions reverberated in the hearts of those who had seen one war, and came forth with sudden force to those who were about to live through it for the first time. yet, the few who lounged in hammocks spoke in depreciation. "the regular army is enough," said one; "that's what those fellows are for. as for me, i'm not anxious to be shot at. i would rather be excused." two or three of the others agreed, but jack terrence was watching jean with grave trouble in his face. at the first sneering comment her eyes had flashed and then filled; now her breast was heaving with excitement, and her sensitive mouth was quivering. a passing breeze stirred the scarlet veined folds of the flag above her, and for a moment it seemed to wave in proud defiance. but even as the century of its glorious history came back to her, one of the men looking at it reminiscently, was moved to languid speech. "funny thing, that rag up there--i suppose it really means a great deal to some people!" "do you honestly think so?" jean's voice carried a note of fearful scorn. "i am proud to say that i am one of the people to whom it means something--more than your little mind can comprehend. if i could die fighting for it, and have it wrapped round me at the last, it would be glory enough for one small life, but i'm only a miserable woman, and i have to stay at home. why ar'n't you in the ranks, fighting like a man? what do you think would become of your country if all the men were like you?" she ended convincingly. the astonished individual whom she addressed made the earliest exit compatible with his dignity. the girls followed by twos and threes, and at last the time came to which terrence had looked forward for an hour--a solitary moment with jean. "let's go down to the river," he said, after waiting for her to speak. he took possession of her in the calm, masterful way that rests and soothes a nervous woman, and as his ring on her finger gave him the right to do. he found her hat and put it on her unresisting head without jabbing her with the pins, for which, even in her excitement, she was dimly grateful. "you're such a comfort, jack," she sighed restfully, as they strolled in the afternoon sunshine to the bank of the little noisy stream, that by courtesy was called a river. "i get tired and fretted, and when you come it's just like putting on a pair of old shoes after you've been wearing new ones." terrence laughed. he was used to jean's queer similes, and loved her all the more for her unexpectedness. "you take things too seriously, dear, but just the same i was very proud of you this afternoon. you scattered the enemy's forces neatly." he laughed again, but this time there was no mirth in his face. "i was glad, too, jean, because it makes it easier to speak of something i've been thinking about for the last two weeks." for an instant her heart stood still. she did not need to be told what had made him unlike his sunny self for the past few days. he turned his face away that he might not see the trouble in hers. she began to understand. after a little he spoke again. "dear little woman," he said softly, "it all rests with you. it is for you to decide--not me. if you feel that my first duty is to you, you have only to say the word; if you feel that, dearly as i love you, there is something beyond that, you--you need not speak at all." they were sitting on the bank of the stream now, and the late afternoon light was playing upon its rippling surface, while a glory of crimson and gold touched each rock and tree. half-way up the hill beyond, was a tiny two-story house in process of construction. on the crest, where the sun might shine on it longest, the flag seemed beckoning to them both. they felt its meaning. "jean," said jack again, and his lips trembled as they said the little name, "is the roof of our home coming between us and our flag?" "if it did," she answered slowly, "it could only be a house--not a home." in those few moments she had fought a gallant battle with herself. she was white now, but there was new strength in her voice. "brave heart," said terrence tenderly, "i knew what you would say!" then he went on to tell her of the regiment that was forming, and in which he had been offered a position in the line of promotion. something of the old fire came into her eyes. "never mind position or promotion. put on the private's uniform and fight in the ranks and be glad you've got the health and the strength and the right to do it. though," she added, as an afterthought, "i'd try to be reconciled to it, even if you were a major-general." she smiled slyly. there was no one to see him put his arm around her in the twilight and draw her close. the soft melody of the little stream, as it hurried noisily away, and the drowsy chirp of the birds came dreamily into the summer stillness. up on the hill, like a parting benediction, a soft sunset glow trembled and shone around the flag. "my sweetheart," he said, "i want to tell you something for you to remember for all time." a lump came into his throat, but he choked it down and went on. "it sounds like a joke in a comic paper for me to say you're the only woman i ever loved; but it's true, and you know it is, and it's the kind of love that couldn't die with the body of either of us, don't you know that, dear?" a sob from jean made him draw her closer still. "so i want to tell you now that, whatever happens, that will always be the same--nothing can ever change that. i want you to remember that. i haven't half deserved the love you've given me, but it's the sweetest thing god ever let a man dream of, and it's made me a better man, jean, and there won't be a moment while i'm away that i won't see your dear face, because i'm fighting for you as well as for my dear country--to be the man you want me to be, and to make you proud of your volunteer." the succeeding days were all confusion and preparation. to terrence, they were days of drill, recruiting and unaccustomed labour; to jean they were days of heartache, mingled with a strange pride that was neither wholly happiness nor wholly pain. the day came at last when the regiment was ordered forward, and the whole town turned out to give its boys a rousing farewell. the love of fight, mingled with the stern discipline and cool courage of the anglo-saxon, was in the face of every man in the regiment. jean never forgot the spectacle as they formed in marching ranks. in spite of the pain at her heart, she was unreasonably proud at the sight of jack in his new uniform--not that of a private, as she had wished him to go, but as first lieutenant, looking very handsome. the long column swung into line. quick and short came the word of command. her eyes were upon her volunteer, and across the crowd of waiting thousands, he saw only her--cheeks crimson with pride, eyes sweet with love, and lips that trembled and tried to be brave in spite of all. "forward, march!" it was the summons to the glory and the agony of battle for those who kept time with the music. it was the summons to as brave a faith to those who remained behind. after the first shock was over, jean became almost happy. jack wrote letters full of hope and good spirits. every amusing thing that happened in camp, he stored away to write to jean. he even had a little note-book in which to jot down, from time to time, things which would interest her. this was a never failing source of pleasure to his mates, and he was enthusiastically "guyed" by every man in the company. of course he told her this, and, womanlike, jean was much pleased. boxes of home delicacies sent to jack filled the entire company with a beautiful admiration for "terrence's girl." magazines, papers and letters almost flooded the mails. "poor terrence is getting pale," said one of them at mess. "separation," suggested the corporal. "naw," rejoined the other. "it's carryin' his mail from the post-office to his tent. that's what's wearin' on him." like a happy lover, terrence took the jokes cheerfully. the routine of camp life made some of the men complain bitterly, but he said never a word. it was for his country--and jean. after two months of waiting, the regiment was ordered to the front and the old confusion began again. the night in camp was a memorable one. already the star-spangled flag had been planted in new places, and the thirst for conquest, which is perhaps, more anglo-saxon than exclusively british, was upon every man in the army. there is no need to write of the gallant charge at santiago; no need to speak of the steadfast courage of those who faced three times their number in the narrow pass; no need to say that every lad in uncle sam's uniform proved himself to be the stuff of which republics are built--for the world knows it all. whatever criticism the strategists of the future, sitting in comfortable chairs, may make, as to tactics and military skill, the valour of the american army has been proved anew. up the burning, blazing heights, lieutenant terrence rushed with his men, stopping not for strange pitfalls and unknown dangers, facing volley after volley of explosive bullets, heeding not those who fell by the way, as long as through the smoke of battle, dimly lit by flash and flame, the flag called--"follow!" the orders had been brief: "take the blockhouse on the height by storm." and the charge began with a cheer. but only twenty-two of the seventy-five men reached the summit, and after a fierce hand-to-hand conflict, dislodged the superior force. the rest lay upon the hillside,--some past help, and all exposed to the fire of an unchivalrous foe. lieutenant terrence was among those reported "missing." the corporal spent the night in the underbrush with a lantern, but to no avail. "don't be so cut up, johnny," said a messmate, "you can't do him no good." "maybe he fell off the side," replied the corporal, after a long silence, "and, anyway, it's his girl i'm thinking of. i'm going to find him for her." over the wire from headquarters came the list of killed, wounded and missing. jean grasped the morning paper eagerly and then grew white "missing! missing!" a dull dead weight settled down upon her like a suffocating pall. with sudden meaning, what he had said came back to her: "it's you i'm fighting for as well as for my country--to be the man you want me to be, and to make you proud of your volunteer." the strained nerves and tortured heart could bear no more, and she was mercifully unconscious when they found her lying with the paper in her hands. there were hushed whispers in the house for days to come, and the wires were kept busy with eager questionings. the old family physician was fighting an unequal battle with death for jean had no desire to live. after a week, a telegram came for jean. it was the old doctor who opened it with trembling hands, dreading to give her the message he knew it must contain. after the first eager glance, his face changed mysteriously, and then became transfigured with a radiant smile as he read: "wounded, but not seriously. home on _olivette_. terrence." the little blind god has a healing power quite beyond prosaic belief and in a very short time jean was able to go out and once more the sound of building came from the hillside. all through the days that followed she listened to it with joy. every ring of metal or shout of command was a distinct pleasure. it was evening when terrence reached the town unannounced and unheralded with his right arm in a sling. those on the piazza merely knew that some one had entered the gate, but a white-robed figure flew down the steps with a cry of gladness that sent the family into the house. human hearts did not need to be told that a bronzed and bearded soldier was holding his sweetheart close, and that a woman was sobbing out more happiness than one heart could hold, on the shoulder of her volunteer. in reflected glory in reflected glory wheels! wheels! wheels! the boulevards were full of them, from the glistening up-to-date mount, back to the antiquated ' model with its hard tires and widely curved handle-bars. the sun struck the sheen of nickel and new enamel and sent a thousand little needles of light in all directions. even the ' model was beautiful in the light of the spring day, overtaken though it might be by the swiftly moving procession. wheels! every man, woman, and child in the city of chicago who could beg, borrow, or rent a bicycle, was speeding westward to the flagstaff at the entrance to the garfield park loop. every spoke and bar had been polished to the limit, and the long asphalt boulevard was a glittering, sparkling avenue of wheels. wheels! it was the day of the great road race, under the auspices of the associated cycling clubs. the twenty-five mile course had been smoothed and measured, the sky was blue and cloudless, and far away in wheeling four hundred eager cyclers awaited the bugle call. john gardner stood at the door of his news-room and watched with a wistful eye, the few hundred wheelmen who had chosen to ride on the business street that went past his door. the orange and black of the south shore club fluttered from many a shining bar, and at the sight of the colours the old man's face grew tender. for it was jack's club that boasted the orange and black--jack gardner of the "varsity, ' ," and his only son. a touch on his arm made him turn his face within. "father," said a gentle voice, "why don't we go to the doin's?" "land sakes, mother, who'd take care of the store?" "guess the store ain't goin' to run away, and we ain't been out in years. let's go, father, and see jack ride!" it was john gardner's way to oppose everything at first, and then to generously give in. he liked to feel himself master in his own house, so he hesitated. but the stronger will was fully settled upon going. "i'm a-goin' father, even if i have to go alone." she vanished into the back part of the store and began to brush carefully the state gown, the brown silk, made after the quaint fashion of a bygone day. after a few minutes the old man appeared in the door. "i reckon we'll go, hannah," he said, with the air of one granting a favour, "but it do seem wrong to leave the little store!" for many a year the little store had been open on all holidays, as well as weekdays and evenings, for jack in school and college had needed money, and a startling amount of it. old john gardner never complained. hampered, and made ashamed all his life by his lack of "book larnin'," he had vowed that his son should have "a bang-up eddication, the best they is a-goin'," if he could get it for him. to-day jack was to ride in the road race, and imbued with solemn importance gardner, senior, robed himself for the occasion. they made a queer picture as they stood on the corner waiting for a car. hannah's brown silk was wrinkled and shabby, but her thin gray hair arranged in tiny puffs around her forehead, looked, as her fond mate said, "right smart." twenty years ago, when jack was a little boy in dresses, his father had bought a silk hat to wear to a funeral, and it was this relic of past splendour which now adorned his head. once on the car, a new fear presented itself. "mother," he said, "sposen jack should see us!" for an instant her heart stood still. "he won't," she said bravely; "he won't see anything but that new bicycle of his'n and we will come home as soon as it's over." "i don't know's we'd ought," said the old man doubtfully. "he might not like it." "like what?" demanded hannah sharply. "our goin'!" "hush, father," she answered, "you know we don't see jack very often 'cause he has to live down where his school is. lemme see--it's three months now since he's been home, ain't it?" "three months yestidy." "so what's goin' to hurt if we see him ride to-day? he'll never notice us among all them folks." two girls who sat opposite were watching the old couple with very evident amusement. "there's rural simplicity for you," said one. "so i see," responded the other. "they appear to be attached to some jack. wouldn't it be funny if it were jack gardner?" they laughed in unison and hannah looked up into their faces. john's eyes followed hers and neither spoke for a moment. they saw nothing but the joy and happiness of girlhood and something blinded them both. jack was forgotten for the moment in the memory of the little girl who lay in the silent city beyond the smoke and dust of the town. they left the car when the others did and followed the crowd. "i don't b'leeve jack'll see us, mother," said the old man. "i ain't goin' to worry about it no more." twenty-five miles away, jack gardner surveyed his wheel complacently. every screw was tightened, his chains were just right, his tires were exactly mellow enough and his handle-bars were at the proper pitch. he was none the less pleased with his own appearance, for he had written his father that he needed a new suit in the colours worn by the south shore club. he had searched the town for the orange and black and finally found them. the s.s.c. on his black chest could be seen as far as his wheel could, and he had topped the glaring outfit with a flaming orange cap, with a black tassel to stream in the wind behind. "get on to the oriole!" the champion of a rival club was inclined to be sportive at jack's expense. he retorted with a fling at the green costume of the other, and then the bugle sounded for the flying start. anxious friends and trainers shouted, final directions from behind the "dead line," as jack called it. another blare from the bugle, a sudden whir, a flash of the shining spokes and they were off. as the last group flew over the tape the train started back to the city. a south shore club man climbed up on the locomotive to "josh" the engineer. "you'll have to get a move on you, if you catch gardner," he said. the engineer laughed and looked fondly at his giant of steel. perhaps an engineer enamoured of his engine can understand the love of a cyclist for his wheel. the people around the garfield park loop were beginning to get impatient. most of them had stood for two hours holding their bicycles, and even a well behaved bicycle is an awkward possession in a crowd. pedals scraped the shins of utterly strange riders, handle-bars got tangled in watch-guards, and front wheels got into mischief with unpleasant regularity. close to the course, and on the grassy bank, sat mr. and mrs. gardner. kindly souls had made way for them until they had at last reached the very front. the day and the multitude were almost spectacle enough, but a cry from the far north brought them to their feet. yes, there they were--a cloud of dust across the field. how small the riders seemed! nearer and nearer they came--how the shining wheels flew through the sunlight! tense, strained faces almost on the handle-bars: every man of them was doing his best, and the crowd was cheering like mad. the band played merrily, as on and on they flew,--past the judges' stand, over the tape and down, to the mingled praise and solicitude of their friends. the old people were very much disappointed. jack had not ridden after all! perhaps--but there was another cloud of dust and another cry from the north. on came another group of riders. they went by like the whirlwind, but no jack was there. "i sh'd have thought he'd got back somewheres near the front," said the old man. he was hurt to think his son was so far behind. group after group passed by, the old people watching anxiously; then hannah gripped his arm suddenly. see! down the course, only a faint speck now, shone the orange and black of the south shore club. perhaps---- yes, riding at the head of thirty tired wheelmen, to the stirring strains of a sousa march, their jack, strong, superb, excited, nerving himself for the final effort. their hearts stopped beating during the instant he was flying by. "there," she whispered reassuringly, "i told you he wouldn't see us. my! wasn't he fine?" but john gardner could not speak, for his eyes were dim with happy pride in remembrance of that superb specimen of perfect manhood six feet high--his jack, to whom he had given the "eddication." they watched the rest of the race with little interest, for the best of it all had gone by. when the last rider crossed the tape, the multitude stirred to go. "we better stand right here, hannah, till some of these folks gets away," he said. so they stood perfectly still and let the crowd surge around them. then a great huzza went up, the track cleared again, as if by magic, and down the course came a dozen men, shouting in unrestrained joy. aloft on their shoulders they held--the old people craned their necks to see--yes, jack--their jack--looking sheepish and very much ashamed. "why, mother," the old man cried, "he's won! our jack's won the race! do you hear?" mother's eyes were fixed on the black and orange sweater, for jack was once again in regulation bicycle attire, and her heart was too full to trust itself for speech. "three cheers for gardner! 'rah for the south shore club!" and the great field swelled and swelled again with bursts of applause. and then--the crowd parted some way and jack saw those pathetic faces upturned to him. it is said that when a man is drowning, in the flash of a second his whole previous life passes in review. something like this came to him at the crowning moment of his twenty-three years. at that minute he knew, as never before, how those hands had toiled for him, how those lips had prayed for him, and how those honest hearts had loved him ever since he was born. a sudden lump came into his throat, for he seemingly had withheld the only reward they wanted for it all. "let me down, fellows," he cried, "there's my folks." almost before they knew what had happened, he had rushed up to them with hands outstretched. "why, father! mother!" he exclaimed; "why didn't you let me know you wanted to come?" just a minute the old people doubted the wisdom of their course, then the gladness in jack's face set all at rest. the men from the south shore club gathered around and were presented, one by one. they shook hands with the old gentleman and told them how proud they were of jack, and doffed their caps to mrs. gardner, "just z's if i was a fine lady," she said afterward. then jack said everybody was going down to the club for lunch and his father and mother must come too. "no, no!" gasped mrs. gardner in affright; "no! no!" "well, indeed you are coming," said jack, with a charming air of proprietorship. "i guess when a fellow wins the race of the year that his father and mother will go to lunch with him." then he squeezed her thin wrinkled hand and whispered tenderly: "dear little mother! to think you wanted to come, and i didn't know!" the hero of the day turned to those who were with him: "will some of you fellows get a carriage? i don't think i want any more bicycle riding to-day and i'll go down with my father and mother if one of you boys will lead my wheel." it was an enchanted journey for the old people to roll down the broad smooth boulevard in a real carriage, with jack sitting in front of them telling them all about the race. the president of the south shore club, the son of a man known and honoured throughout chicago, had asked to be presented, and said he hoped jack's father would be willing to be his guest for the day. "i told him father would be pleased," concluded jack, "and he wanted mother too, but i said i guessed not, that i was going to have my little mother for my own guest." at last, when the carriage stopped before an imposing brown stone house, jack helped them out, and entered the club with the shabby little brown figure on his arm. "just wait here a few minutes," he said, "until i make myself presentable." he stationed them on a luxurious sofa, and ran off to the dressing-rooms. the old man looked after him fondly. "i didn't think jack would be ashamed of us, mother," he said. "no, father, and he ain't." "my, ain't this a grand place?" half awed, they gazed at the rich furnishings in silence. "seems like heaven don't it?" he murmured. "makes me think more of the chapter in solomon," she replied. "how's that, mother?" the little old lady looked up at him, her face shining with ineffable happiness, and repeated softly: "'_he led me into his banqueting house, and his banner over me was love._'" the house beautiful the house beautiful four years at college had given jack hardy high ambitions, but two years in society had perceptibly lowered them. jack had inherited enough money to make him a prize in the matrimonial lottery and he was not slow to see that the reason of it lay in his bank account. with a singular lack of conceit, he did not admit, even to himself, his personal charms. walking home one evening from a large reception, his indignation rapidly developed into a moving force, and in a sudden flash of insight he saw two paths which lay straight before him. one was smooth, leading to gardens of pleasure; the other rough, toilsome, and strewn with failures, but at the end of it was a goal well worth working for. his inheritance was all he needed to enter one; but on the other hand, hard, unfaltering work lay before him and was the only way to success. his strong young face was set in lines of unwonted determination. "farewell to an idle society life," he said aloud, "here's to hard work, self-respect, and perhaps an honourable name." there was not a little comment in his set when it became known that hardy had left town without assigning any reasons, length of stay, or even leaving an address. he retired to an obscure hamlet on the jersey coast and secured a room in a rambling old house which faced the sea. here he could work; he could study hard, or write, and become, perhaps, a strong man intellectually, instead of being a fastidious ornament in a drawing-room where he felt his financial value was the key-note to his popularity. the white-haired mistress of the mansion, however, had a confession to make which did not agree at all with his inclinations. "i've got another boarder," she said, "but she's a quiet, nice-appearing girl and i guess she won't disturb you any." "girl!" hardy scowled, then recovered himself. "please, don't take any more boarders," he said smilingly, "i'll make it worth your while." when he said "please" women instinctively obeyed him. mrs. kitson readily promised to abstain from further extension of the hilarious pastime of taking boarders, which she had hitherto found to be necessary to her pocket-book, if not to her inclinations. he spent the afternoon in getting his traps settled in his new location. the quiet was broken only by the boom of the breakers on the shore below, and the room was guiltless of sofa pillows and photograph frames with which women are wont to burden a helpless bachelor. he felt a certain sense of emancipation. it was rather awkward having a girl around, and he contemplated the propriety of bribing mrs. kitson to invent some excuse for dispensing with her presence. some country damsel, he reflected, perhaps a seamstress, or a teacher who "boarded round." he determined to treat her with cool politeness while he might be forced to endure her proximity. going down to supper he encountered the other boarder in the sitting-room. his hostess, rather uncertain as to the proper form of introduction, mumbled something he did not quite understand. he did not wish to appear at all concerned anyway, and bowed distantly. miss wheeler's dark eyes flashed and the colour came into her face. he noted the signs of resentment and wondered what he had done; not that he cared, particularly, only one should always be polite. the supper was delicious. everything was well cooked and well served. the china was dainty and the linen spotless. under the kindly influence of food which proverbially melts the masculine heart, hardy began to look occasionally, and with some curiosity at the girl opposite him. she was tall, and well formed, her head well poised, and her voice, when she spoke, was agreeably modulated. she must be the teacher who "boarded round." she was apparently unconscious of his presence. she drew mrs. kitson into volumes of personal reminiscence which prevented any awkward silence, and when they had finished, went with the hostess into the kitchen and helped her wash the dishes. hardy stood aloof for a moment, and then went up-stairs. he was accustomed to having girls all smiles and attention when he graciously consented to appear. this one, however, could not have been more politely unconcerned if he had been a door-mat! "she doesn't know," he began unconsciously, as the dull red flooded his face. "no, and she never shall!" with that desire for achievement which pique inspires, he went to work. he had a dim notion of writing a story, such as he used to do for a college paper, but it eventually became a short sketch, half humorous and half cynical in tone. when it was finished, he went out to send it off. he knew the street number of only one publication--a thing he had bought on the way down to appease the business instincts of the energetic and persistent train boy. when he returned, he glanced through the window of the sitting-room as he stepped upon the broad, old-fashioned veranda. there was no light except the driftwood fire in the big fireplace, and miss wheeler sat in a low chair watching it. it was an earnest womanly face full of purpose and aspiration. the repressed energy, which he had first noticed in her manner, was gone. she was off her guard, and her eyes were those of a wistful child, softened and made tender by her dreaming. when he went down to breakfast the next morning, he learned that miss wheeler had taken her bicycle and gone off to spend the day. with a little tact, he diverted mrs. kitson's conversation to herself. he did not wish to take an unfair advantage, and besides he was not at all interested. it was a long day, for he did not feel like work, so he tramped through the fields, sat on the sea shore, read a little, envied the consolation other men seemed to find in smoking, and was conscious of a new interest in life, when, just at dusk, miss wheeler rode up and dismounted at the gate. mrs. kitson's penetrating voice rang out clearly, and rose to his room. "how fur did you ride?" miss wheeler was bending over her cyclometer, but her reply was inaudible. "hey?" "twenty-three miles." her young voice was clear and strong this time. at supper he watched her closely for symptoms of weariness, but she was fresh and rosy, and unaffectedly hungry. she still wore her bicycle suit, and talked pleasantly with mrs. kitson. she answered hardy's questions, to be sure, but it was in monosyllables. "she must have the strength of an amazon," he mused, as he sat by the fire while she was helping mrs. kitson with the dishes, and laughing occasionally in a happy childlike way. a ten-mile ride would utterly exhaust any girl he knew, and she apparently considered twice that distance merely a pleasant outing! she came in after a while and sat on the other side of the hearth. mrs. kitson with many apologies, had gone "visitin'." after an awkward silence he laughed outright--the boyish hearty laugh that won him friends everywhere. "are you going to keep it all to yourself?" she asked smiling. "i was thinking," he returned, "of what the autocrat said when some one asked him to define happiness." she dimpled prettily. "yes, i know. 'four feet on a fender.'" hers were not so far away but that the contrast in size was evident. the ice was broken. "and are you happy?" he inquired tentatively. "why shouldn't i be?" she answered. "i've got a sound body, a clear brain, an honest name and a clean heart. isn't that enough?" she looked up smiling. he hesitated, for her point of view was new to him. "most people would include money in the list, i've got all the things you say make you happy, and yet----" "you haven't the money." she had finished his sentence for him. "you don't look as if it bothered you a great deal," she added shyly. he was silent. for once he had been separated from his birthright and considered apart from his inheritance. the sensation was distinctly novel. "do you ever think," she went on, "of the house you would build if you had all the money you wanted?" "i used to, when i was a very little boy," he answered with an effort. "i do even now, it's one of my daydreams and i call it my house beautiful," she said. he asked a timid question and something of the expression he had seen on her face in the firelight the evening before, returned to it. had she been dreaming of her "house beautiful" then? the mellow tones of her voice sounded full and soft in his ears. she was telling of a house of grey stone with wide porches and massive columns. she spoke of the reception hall, the stately stairway, and the tiger skin rug in the drawing-room. a tower room with windows facing both the sunset and the sea, beautiful things in costly woods, and fabrics in white and gold. he was interested, in spite of himself, and began to help her plan it. there was no difference of opinion, even in the smallest detail, and room by room, and floor by floor, they furnished their imaginary castle. on the very top of the tower, the stars and stripes would always flutter--"because it's the most beautiful flag in the world," with a little choke in her voice, "and it means the most." only a week before he had attended that offensive reception, and he was thinking of the contrast now. the men that night had spoken with an affected english drawl, and the girls were all "going abroad for the summer." and to-night he had forgotten his bank and mining stocks, and was sitting by a driftwood fire with a girl who had childish dreams of building a house, and choked when she spoke of the flag. "and the doors should open forever, and ever, to all who had done anything noble in the world, or had tried to do it." with a little lingering sigh, she stretched her white hands towards the flames. the house beautiful was finished, but she was still dreaming. he repeated her thought mentally: "the doors should be open forever, and ever, to all who had done anything noble in the world, or had _tried_ to do it." would that bar him out? he turned uneasily in his chair. mrs. kitson returned, and he felt that he must say something: "you should have gone to college," he ventured, in a tone which was meant to be both fatherly and cheerful. she rose smilingly and bade him good night. "i am a graduate of vassar," she said simply. a day or two later his heart fluttered gladly when the mail brought him a check for his sketch, and a request to submit further manuscript. he shut himself up in his room for a whole day and tried to work, but a far-away clack-clack grated on his nerves and made him irritable. he went off for a tramp and on his return found miss wheeler sitting on the porch. "did you hear that constant clatter this afternoon?" he asked. "yes, it was my typewriter," she answered demurely. she was evidently a stenographer. "i'm sorry," said hardy awkwardly, "but it disturbs me." then with more innocent joy than foolish pride, he continued: "i--ah--write, you know." miss wheeler gathered up her books. "i regret that it annoys you," she said frigidly, "but i cannot help it." then with an exact imitation of his tone and manner, she added: "i--ah--write, you know." and then she left him alone. hardy had business in town of such a pressing nature that he could not even stop to tell mrs. kitson that he was going. he sent her a telegram from the station, saying he did not know when he would be able to return. the gay streets of the city, brilliantly lighted, even in the early evening, were full of allurement, as they always are, to one who has been away. but a higher impulse within him was striving with the one that demanded pleasure. he would go back. so he bought some magazines, and sat down to wait for the outgoing train, the very next day. he cut the leaves mechanically, and dipped here and there into the pages. then the title of a story caught his attention, and he read it to the finish. it was a simple tale, told with no striving after effect, but the lines were broadly human, and it rang true. the signature was "constance wheeler." the consciousness of his own caddishness came home to him like a blow. they had a long talk the next day, and he told her what he was trying to do. "but you discourage me," he said. "i never can do it as you do." they were sitting by the sea, watching the sunset as the rich colours came over from the west, and touched the waves with tints of opal. "i've been doing it three or four years," she said, "and you are just beginning." then with unknowing comprehension she went on. "besides, what one accomplishes, doesn't matter in the least. it's the work that makes men and women of us." the light which was reflected back from the surf made her face tender then, and leaning forward, with a simple reverence which she could not misunderstand, he kissed her hand. the summer promised to be all too short. they studied and read together and criticised each other's work. hardy was fond of rowing, so they spent many hours together on the water. constance sat on a cushion in the stern and read aloud, while jack pulled vigorously or let the boat drift idly, as best suited his mood. one day the book was absorbingly interesting, and one of the oars slipped into the softly-lapping water, and set out for lands unknown. constance saw it first and her face changed. his eyes followed hers, but he sat quite still for a moment. they were but a mile from shore and the tide was going in. "we'll go in with it," she said bravely. with the remaining oar hardy turned the boat so as to catch the full force of the shoreward impulse, but in a very few minutes they saw the tide would not do as they wished. a sudden cloud obscured the sun. the wind shifted and grew cold. quick to act in an emergency, jack took off his coat and shoes and tied the anchor rope under his arms. in an instant she saw what he was going to do. "no--no, jack," she pleaded. it was the first time she had ever called him jack. the sky was threatening and the wind was growing stronger. "constance, dearest," he said tenderly, "there is no other way." he sprang into the water and struck out with long powerful strokes for the shore. as if conscious of its precious burden, the boat followed slowly and steadily, then more slowly, then in fitful jerks. they were half-way to the shore but jack's strength was failing fast. the sky grew darker, and there was a sullen roar of thunder. constance knelt in the stern, took off her dress and shoes, and took down her hair. she slipped into the water just as the storm broke, and jack was gasping when she swam up beside him. "it's a cramp," he said weakly. "i know. can you slip the rope over your head?" she held him up while he obeyed. the sea was rising and she felt her strength to the full. the boat drifted away and still holding him up she put the braids of her hair into his hands. as a drowning man will catch at a straw, he clutched it, then sank almost into unconsciousness, but still held with spasmodic grasp to the only hope within his hands. it was too dark now to see the shore, but constance struggled on, keeping his head above the water as best she could. she rested from time to time by floating and spending only strength enough to keep them from being carried out to sea, but she was rapidly becoming exhausted. at last, when she was too weak to swim another stroke, she sank despairingly, and found the firm ground under her feet. it was easy then, and she half dragged him ashore. when she awoke out of what seemed a horrible dream, she was in her own room, and mrs. kitson was bustling about her with motherly solicitude. jack was kneeling beside her, and when she opened her eyes, his were shining with the "light that was never on land or sea," as he took her hand. an answering glow crept into her face and he stooped, unafraid, to her lips. there was no need of words between them--love went to meet love with open arms. as soon as she was able to sit up, they made plans for their future. "just our two pens, jack," she said happily, "to buy everything we want. but we won't want much else, if we have each other." a lump rose in his throat, but it was not yet time to tell her. he went to the city every day now, "on business," as he said, and as the summer faded, and the leaves turned crimson and gold, constance began her wedding gown. she put so many hopes and fancies into it with the tiny careful stitches she took that had the white not been senseless, it must have turned to rose under her hands. they were married in a little church on a glorious autumn day. "i think it's the last day," she said; "the summer only just waited for us." he would not tell her where the wedding journey was to be, and she showed little curiosity. "i don't care where we go," she said as they left the house for the last time, "only you mustn't be extravagant." it was not until the train stopped at a little town by the sea, and very near the city, that he gave her any hint of his plans. they had taken a carriage and driven down a beautiful winding road. he waved his hand towards a distant hill. "that is where we are going," he said. "it's rather a pretty place," indifferently. "i think you'll like it." she saw a stately mansion of grey stone, with wide porches and massive tower, and where he knew the reception hall and the stately stairway were just as she would wish her own house to be--even the tiger skin rug in the drawing-room, and the beautiful things in costly woods, and fabrics of white and gold. he could stand it no longer and leaned towards her, thrilling with an unspeakable tenderness. "heart of mine," he whispered, "haven't you guessed it?" from a human standpoint from a human standpoint "will the madam please walk in to supper?" carroll stood in the doorway with a napkin over his arm, the very picture of servile obedience. katherine sprang from the sofa, saying laughingly, "indeed the madam will!" his obsequious manner changed at once, and he put his arm around her waist with a happy sense of proprietorship. the table was cosily laid for two, linen and china were of the daintiest, and the tiny kettle swung and bubbled merrily over the alcohol lamp. "how dear and homey it all is!" katherine exclaimed, as she sat down. "and how primitive," suggested robert. "but our respective professions are not worth much if our imaginations can't change our tea into a banquet. will you have a little of the quail?" he poised a mutton chop on his fork and looked inquiringly at katherine. "i'm afraid quail is too rich for me to-night," she answered, "but i will take a little of the toast which is commonly supposed to go with it, and some of the nectar which i shall brew myself." "lucky thing you don't like cream with your nectar," he responded, "for the cat got into it this afternoon. i'm afraid i neglect my housewifely duties for my art." "that doesn't matter, as long as art progresses. did mickey behave to-day?" mickey was the name katherine had given to carroll's model, who was posing for his "aurora." she had the fair skin and blue eyes with which ireland compensates her daughters for a somewhat unlovely mouth, and her hair was a flaming auburn glory which he tried in vain to paint. it was a little startling until you knew mickey. people who could pass hundreds without noting age, colour, or condition of servitude, would stop and gasp as she went by. but those who were privileged to know her intimately became so absorbed in contemplation of her manifold character that mere externals were passed unnoticed. "mickey did pretty well to-day," he said. "she put on your best hat while i was out, and i found her strutting before the mirror when i came back. i declare to you, solemnly, katherine, that the effect of your violets against that hair was absolutely _fortissimo_. she will wear it to church some day if we don't watch her. but she didn't cut my brushes into scallops, nor assist in the painting when my back was turned. no, on the whole mickey has been angelic. how did things go with you?" "about as usual, though i believe more than the usual number of freaky people have been in. they ask for everything from money and advice, up to a letter of introduction to the managing editor. they seem to think that a woman tied down to a newspaper desk, has only to beckon and the universe hastens to do her bidding. you remember i told you about the woman who came in last week with a yearning to do 'lit'ery work'?" robert nodded. "she was in again to-day. she is doing 'lit'ery work' and likes it very much. what do you suppose it is?" "give it up." "addressing envelopes! did you ever?" "great idea," said robert, "i'll tell mickey, and perhaps she'll clean my brushes. mickey shall be an artist." together they washed up the dishes, then robert hung the dish-towel out of the window to dry, and took off his apron. in the studio was an open fire, the single extravagance which the carrolls allowed themselves. perhaps it was not so extravagant after all, since it saved gas, and robert picked up most of the wood in his daily walks along the lake shore. "let's sit on the rug," said katherine, and they curled up like two children before the fire. robert rested his head upon his elbow, and looked up contentedly into her face. the sweetness of it was half hidden, half revealed, by the dancing firelight, but there were lines around the mouth, and faint marks of worry on the forehead. yet, it was a patient face--one to teach a man strength and kindliness. the hand that wore the wedding ring was thin, so thin that the ring slipped when she moved her fingers. he touched it tenderly. "dear, are you sorry?" "sorry! for what?" "for all you left behind to marry a poor artist." "we leave nothing behind when we gain happiness. don't you think i'd rather be here to-night with you, than to have the money without you?" katherine's father had proved himself the equal if not the superior of any stern parent in fiction. a stormy scene followed the announcement of her determination to marry the man of her own choice, rather than his, so they had slipped away to milwaukee--that haven of the fond and foolish--and set up housekeeping immediately on their return. robert had objected a little to the announcement cards, since they were not in a position to entertain, but they were sent out. upon the receipt of his, katherine's father had written a single line: "any time you may repent of this foolishness, your home is open to you." the avalanche of gifts had followed the wedding instead of preceding it. the usual miscellany of the very rich had been showered upon them, and katherine had often thought of the exquisite irony involved in the possession of gold candlesticks, real laces, a royal worcester chocolate set, and a genuine corot, while her shoes were out at the toes and robert's clothes were sadly frayed. still, eight months had passed and she had not repented of her foolishness. he still seemed more desirable than money, and she looked fondly at the corot which hung in the place of honour. "i cleaned all the silver to-day," he said, "and put our cut glass punch bowl safely out of mickey's reach." she patted his cheek affectionately. "you're a dear good boy, and an admirable housekeeper." "katherine, i can't stand it any longer," he blurted out. "i simply won't stay here and paint while you work your dear fingers to the bone in that confounded old office. it's my business to take care of you, not yours of me, and here you are, working like a slave, while i do the elegant leisure at home. it's simply infamous!" "hubby, dear," and katherine's tone was commanding. "i won't let you abuse yourself like that. in the first place you are working just as hard as i am, with your painting and keeping things cosy here, and accomplishing just as much. and it's only for a little while. as soon as your picture is done, you'll sell it, and i'll resign and do the housekeeping myself. you know how gladly you would do the same for me; why won't you let me do it for you? don't you love me well enough to let me help you?" "katherine! katherine!" he cried, "don't say that! don't question my love for you." "i don't, dear heart, nor should you question mine for you." * * * * * long after katherine had gone to bed, he lay on the rug and watched the fire. outside, cold, gray michigan beat against the north shore with the sound of the sea. in these last days of despondency the lake had grown into a companion with seeming sympathy for every mood of his. the vast expanse of water seemed to broaden his horizon. whenever he looked at it, it suggested a letting-go of all but the vital things. there was only one thing that was vital, and she slept in the little room beyond. even his art counted for nothing beside her, but she believed in it, and he must make something of it to please her. the shadows deepened until even the gold candlesticks ceased to shine, and he went to the window. slow, sombre, and restless, old michigan chafed against the shore. at times those cold arms beckoned him with compelling strength, and it was so to-night. katherine would go home to her father, and, in time, forget him. he pulled down the shade, shuddering as he did so, and at last fell asleep with a consciousness of utter defeat. * * * * * "it's busy i am these days. misther carroll, do be afther wantin' to paint me." "paint you, carrot-top! and thin may the blessed saints injuce him to make the hid of yez, some other colour." "ah, go on wid yez! what is the likes of yez to know about art?" it was mickey in the yard below, blarneying with the milk boy. the voices awoke carroll, and he discovered it was very late, indeed, and that katherine had gone down-town without waking him. there was a line pinned to the cushion: "good-bye, dearest. k." mickey appeared at the back door while he was finishing his breakfast. with unheard-of kindness, she offered to put things right in the studio, and he left her in charge with some misgivings. but the marketing had to be done, and it would be impossible to work rightly without a breath of fresh air. when he returned every chair was set demurely and properly against the wall and mickey sat on the floor with his cherished portfolio of gibson pictures in her lap. he repressed an angry exclamation, and ordered her, somewhat sternly, to put them back. she complied readily. "it's cross yez are this morning, misther carroll. thim pictures ain't got no paint on 'em, but i'm thinkin' they do be better wans than thim ye're afther makin'!" carroll made no reply. it was quite true that the gibson pictures were better than his, even without paint, but he did not relish her impartial announcement of the fact. the light was good, and he worked steadily for an hour, at the end of which time mickey announced the necessity for her immediate departure. in vain he protested and pleaded. the picture was nearly done, and only a few more sittings would be needed. but mickey was "goin' to the theayter wid a coosin--" and she went. so he put the house in order and decided he would make a cake for supper. he had never done anything of the kind, and katherine found him still deep in the problem when she returned. he couldn't find the cook-book, he said, so he just threw a few things in, the way she did when she made cake. it was going to be light too, for he had put in half a cupful of baking powder. katherine laughed until the tears rolled down her cheeks. it was a mean woman, robert said, who would go down-town and leave her husband with no cook-book! she pointed it out to him on the corner of the shelf, and he twisted his mustache thoughtfully, forgetting the flour with which his hand was covered. it took them both to make him presentable again, and then katherine threw the cake away, and in a very few minutes made the lightest, most wonderful biscuit that ever gave a man the dyspepsia. mickey was faithful during the following week, and the "aurora" was finished almost to his satisfaction. it was placed on sale in a wabash avenue gallery, and they anxiously watched the newspapers for notices. none came, however, and robert became despondent. an idea came to katherine, and she went with fear and trembling to the art critic of the _express_, whose judgment was accepted as law and gospel. unlike most women she came to the point at once: "mr. lester," she said, "my husband has a picture on exhibition at stanley & brown's, and a favourable notice would mean much to us both. none of the papers have spoken of it, and i have been wondering if you could not help us a little." philosophers have not yet determined why a woman feels free to ask anything of a rejected lover, nor why men so willingly grant favours to women whom they have loved in vain. "mrs. carroll," lester replied, "i should be only too glad to be of service to either you or your husband, but i have seen the picture, and i cannot conscientiously speak favourably of it. in fact, i had written a roast, and out of consideration to you burned it up." katherine's face fell and her eyes filled. he was afraid she was going to cry, and he went on--"but i'll tell you what i will do. i am called out of the city to-morrow, and it is the day for my notes; i'll ask carleton to let you do my work. you can write what you please." she clutched the friendly straw gladly. "you are very, very good. but please tell me what is the matter with the picture." "only one thing, mrs. carroll; it lacks humanity. pictures must be painted from a human standpoint. no doubt you will see what i mean if you will look at it critically. i haven't time to stop any longer now, but i'll tell carleton." an hour later, katherine was summoned to the office of the managing editor. "mrs. carroll," he said, "lester tells me he is called out of the city and suggests you as the proper person to do his work. i believe it is a little out of your line, but you can try. miss scott will do your department to-day, and you can take this afternoon to look around." so the newly fledged art critic went out to find her copy. there were several pictures to be noted and she spoke as kindly as she could of all, trying to mingle helpful criticism with discerning praise. none were condemned, for she knew what a picture might mean to the artist, and to the woman who loved him. unconsciously, she imitated lester's style; his full, well-rounded periods, and sharp, incisive sentences. very different it was from the chatty, gossipy way in which she filled the "woman's kingdom," on the back page of the _express_. she was afraid to say too much of robert's work, and toned down her enthusiasm three successive times. the last note satisfied her and she sent it up-stairs with the rest. when the paper came in the morning, he turned feverishly to the page which contained the "art of the week." his shout of joy woke katherine and together they laughed and cried over the "good notice." she felt wicked, but his pleasure was full compensation for her pangs of conscience. "lester's approval is worth a thousand dollars," he said. "i can go to work in earnest now." her face changed mysteriously. an overwhelming sense of the wrong she had done, came upon her, and he looked at her steadily. there was a queer note in his voice when he spoke: "katherine carroll, i believe you wrote that notice." it was useless to dissemble longer and she told the whole story. he was deeply touched by this proof of her devotion, but he shook his head sadly over lester's own comment. "it won't help any, little girl; you can't make fame for me in that way. my work must stand or fall on its own merits--and--it seems likely to fall." she tried to comfort him, but he put her away. "no, it's all wrong. i'm going to give it up, and try something else." after she had gone, he put his easel and paints away, and set the house in order. then he went into the city, as so many have done before, to find work, which seems little enough to ask in so great a world. at five he returned, utterly tired and cast down. he had tramped the streets for hours and had found absolutely nothing to do. half unconsciously, he turned to the window--to the vision of the lake which had meant strength before, but it brought only weakness now. "come,--come--come--" the waves seemed to say--instead of being cold and cruel, they were promising infinite rest. and it meant a luxurious home for katherine. his decision was quickly made, and he wrote a tender note to leave for her. he sobbed over that--for it wasn't like painting--he was putting his heart into it. then down to the inland sea he went, those impatient arms beckoning him still. but katherine had felt in the office that something was wrong with robert. a pang of sudden fear made it impossible for her to work any longer, and she hurried home. she found the note at once, and seeing only the "good-bye" at the end she hastened to the door. "robert, robert!" she called, but he was too far away to hear her. and katherine ran, crying as she went, "dear god, make me in time!" he stood at the end of the pier, old and decayed as it was, and looked at the sea and sky for the last time. the sunset gates behind him, royally beautiful with purple and gold, seemed a glimpse of the heaven he hardly hoped to reach, for though he knew that god was infinitely merciful, he knew that he was also infinitely just. he took off his coat and laid it on the pier, just as katherine, breathless, excited, her face tense with appeal, appeared beside him. his eyes lighted for a moment at the sight of her, then returned to their dull, hopeless look. "it's no use, katherine," he said unsteadily, "go back, darling." "not alone, dearest." "yes, katherine," he kissed her sadly. for minutes which seemed like hours, she stood there arguing, pleading, begging in vain. it was best for her--that was his one thought. he was a dull, dead weight upon her; it was right to make her free. and the blue arms beckoned still. suddenly she drew his face down to hers and whispered to him. what she said seemed to rouse him from himself. "really?" "yes, really. can you leave me now?" something more than the glory of the sunset shone in katherine's face as she stood between him and the water. she was subtly beautiful, with the infinite motherhood, which lives in every woman's heart, and as he looked at her, the shackles of his dead cowardly self fell away. a great resolve within him slowly swelled into a controlling power--he would be worthy of her who stood beside him, cost what it might. his voice was tender and caressing when he spoke again. "leave you? no, katherine, no." they walked home together and spoke of other things. there was a stronger bond between them, and the water seemed cold and bitter now--very different from the eerie, half-human thing that had tempted him an hour ago. he tossed restlessly through the night, thinking of what lester had said about painting from a human standpoint. perhaps he meant that he should paint men and women, instead of goddesses. the vision of katherine came into his mind as she stood with the blue water behind her and the sunset upon her face and hair; her eyes full of earthly longing, and more than earthly appeal. he would paint her like that, and he roused from his cowardly lethargy into high resolve. her salary was raised and she worked happily at the office, while robert painted at home. in the evening she sat and sewed on tiny garments for the human secret, which spring was to reveal. he sat and looked at her, seldom speaking, content to watch the holy joy in her face, and either that or his coming fatherhood, sometimes thrilled him with a tenderness so great that his love was almost joy. the "aurora" had been sold, not for a large sum, it is true, but for enough to take care of them both until the new picture should be finished. it was done at last and placed on sale. painted from a human standpoint it undoubtedly was, and it drew many admirers but no purchaser. for four weeks it had been at the gallery and robert began to grow despondent again. a fall morning dawned, gray and dull, and the lake seemed to tremble with portent of coming disaster. at night the wind rose and lashed the water into seething foam. the sound of the storm made katherine afraid, but she sank into a fitful slumber at last, while robert kept a light in the window, hoping none were at sea. but at half-past eleven there was a terrific rap at the door. it was mickey, disheveled and breathless. "there do be a wreck, misther carroll," she cried, "there's sky-rockets goin' off and the life crew be ordered out, and i thought ye'd be afther wantin' to see it." the thing was evidently a circus for mickey; we hold life so lightly at the age of sixteen. katherine, trembling and afraid, was already at the door. she wrung her hands, crying piteously, "oh, robert! robert! don't go." "i must go, sweetheart, they may need me." "then i am going too." and she began to hurry into her clothes. "dress warmly, dear," he called. "yes, i will, and we must take some blankets with us." once outside they had no difficulty in locating the wreck. the northern sky was aflame with rockets, and people from all directions were hurrying northward. the northwestern university life crew was already on the beach trying to shoot a line to the sinking ship, half a mile from the shore. the boat had been ordered back, for it was certain death in such a sea. the fourth attempt was successful and a shout of joy went up, dimly heard above the storm. mickey danced about excitedly as they tied rope after rope of greater strength to the slender cord, that had been shot to the upper deck, but katherine felt faint, even with her husband's arm around her, when they made preparations to pull the ship's life-boat ashore. it required almost superhuman strength, but the rush of water westward aided them materially. katherine never forgot that time of waiting--human lives on shore struggling to save the human lives at sea, and the tense cruel crash of the cold waves. lifted high upon an angry crest, the boat was dashed heavily upon the beach. the captain of the stranded vessel, eight seamen and one passenger, were helped out with eager hands. the passenger was a middle-aged man, who appeared dignified and prosperous, in spite of his damp and disheveled condition. his first remark was in the nature of a recapitulation. "well, of all the excitin' trips!" robert and katherine laughed in spite of themselves, and hastened to extend to the stranger the hospitality of their little home for the remainder of the night. it was barely one o'clock, and the honourable mr. marchand accepted gladly, if not gratefully. he trudged sturdily along in the blankets they had wrapped around him, disdaining robert's proffered assistance, but once stretched out upon their couch before a blazing fire, he became much more tractable. he called for a glass of whiskey complaining that what he had been through would be enough to kill him if he didn't at once supply this long-felt want of the inner man. a telephone message to the nearest drug store brought the quart of stimulant he thought he needed for the night, and when he was comfortably filled with his favourite beverage, life began to assume a more pleasant aspect. he graphically told the story of the wreck to his interested listeners and then imbibed a little more liquid nourishment. after a while he remarked sagely--"it's a lucky thing i didn't go down, some folks would have lost millions." "is that so?" asked katherine pleasantly. "yes, _millions_! look here, young woman, did you ever hear of a syndicate?" katherine thought she had heard the word somewhere. "well, i'm one of 'em!" the whiskey was evidently getting in its work in the way of lubricating the tongue of the shipwrecked capitalist, and after waiting a moment, he continued: "i'm on my way to chicago to perfect a combine in--" and he astounded katherine by unfolding the inside history of a daring and infamous combination--a gigantic steal, which if consummated, would change the ownership of millions. he named the leading conspirators, explained the vulnerable points in the scheme, and gleefully boasted of his own skill and diplomacy. he finally fell asleep, but not until katherine had got all the necessary points concerning the outrageous robbery which had been so adroitly planned. robert met her at the door. "got a scoop?" "well, i should say so. a big one too!" "how do you know it is true?" "_in vino veritas_," whispered katherine. "besides, carleton told one of our night men the other day, that promotion was in store for the fellow who 'got on to' any of the schemes of this new syndicate." she had heard so much newspaper slang that her lapse from the grammatical standard was perhaps pardonable. until nearly three o'clock she wrote hurriedly a description of the wreck, and also of the new "combine," robert dozing in an easy chair meanwhile. she woke him up to give him her manuscript. "to the telegraph office, quick! it'll be in time for the city edition." the honourable mr. marchand slept late the next morning, and katharine sent word to the office that she could not come until the next day. about noon, however, their guest took his departure, apparently but little the worse for his vivid night's experience. at a corner he bought a copy of the morning's _express_ and shortly thereafter leaned up against a wall for support. "gee whiz!" the honourable mr. marchand mopped his brow and read the startling headlines again. "might as well go back to cincinnati and cleveland and toronto, and all them towns i've just come from! wonder how in thunder the thing ever got out!" he strolled down wabash avenue to collect his scattered thoughts, and stopped half mechanically, to look into stanley & brown's window. carroll's painting stared him full in the face, and a great light broke in upon him. "that's her! that's the girl what done it! blamed if i don't like her for it!" that afternoon a messenger boy rapped at the studio door with a letter from the _express_ office for katherine. "dear mrs. carroll," it ran, "we think you deserve a two weeks' vacation at full salary which is now double the former sum, and we beg you to accept the enclosed check as a slight testimonial of our gratitude for the biggest scoop of the year. please report for duty on the eighteenth, and be ready to take the exchange editor's desk." she was dazed. "two weeks' vacation, double salary, promotion, and----" robert picked it up, it was a check for two hundred dollars. during the jubilation which followed, a telegraph boy pounded vigorously at the door, but he might as well have kept still, since his efforts were unheard. finally he opened it, and utterly unabashed by the spectacle of a gentleman kissing a lady, and the lady seeming to enjoy it, he fairly shrieked: "telegram." katherine vanished instantly, and carroll read the despatch. "picture sold for highest price. purchaser unknown. "stanley & brown." the mythical "quail on toast" became a reality that night, and the house seemed far too small to hold so much exuberant joy. in the morning, they went together to stanley & brown's to collect the picture money, and start a "really truly bank account," as katherine said. the firm was quite at a loss to know who the purchaser was, as he took the picture away with him in a carriage, and paid cash instead of by check, but the man who helped him put it on the back seat of the carriage reported that he had muttered to himself, as he was climbing in: "that's her! that's the girl what done it!" this may have given mr. and mrs. carroll some clue to the identity of the unknown benefactor. myrtle reed's novels may be had wherever books are sold. ask for grosset & dunlap's list _lavender and old lace._ [illustration] a charming story of a quaint corner of new england where bygone romance finds a modern parallel. the story centers round the coming of love to the young people on the staff of a newspaper--and it is one of the prettiest, sweetest and quaintest of old fashioned love stories, * * * a rare book, exquisite in spirit and conception, full of delicate fancy, of tenderness, of delightful humor and spontaneity. _a spinner in the sun._ miss myrtle reed may always be depended upon to write a story in which poetry, charm, tenderness and humor are combined into a clever and entertaining book. her characters are delightful and she always displays a quaint humor of expression and a quiet feeling of pathos which give a touch of active realism to all her writings. in "a spinner in the sun" she tells an old-fashioned love story, of a veiled lady who lives in solitude and whose features her neighbors have never seen. there is a mystery at the heart of the book that throws over it the glamour of romance. _the master's violin._ a love story in a musical atmosphere. a picturesque, old german virtuoso is the reverent possessor of a genuine "cremona." he consents to take for his pupil a handsome youth who proves to have an aptitude for technique, but not the soul of an artist. the youth has led the happy, careless life of a modern, well-to-do young american and he cannot, with his meagre past, express the love, the passion and the tragedies of life and all its happy phases as can the master who has lived life in all its fulness. but a girl comes into his life--a beautiful bit of human driftwood that his aunt had taken into her heart and home, and through his passionate love for her, he learns the lessons that life has to give--and his soul awakes. founded on a fact that all artists realize. _ask for a complete free list of g. & d. popular copyrighted fiction_ grosset & dunlap, west th st., new york ethel m. dell's novels may be had wherever books are sold. ask for grosset & dunlap's list. _the lamp in the desert_ the scene of this splendid story is laid in india and tells of the lamp of love that continues to shine through all sorts of tribulations to final happiness. _greatheart_ the story of a cripple whose deformed body conceals a noble soul. _the hundredth chance_ a hero who worked to win even when there was only "a hundredth chance." _the swindler_ the story of a "bad man's" soul revealed by a woman's faith. _the tidal wave_ tales of love and of women who learned to know the true from the false. _the safety curtain_ a very vivid love story of india. the volume also contains four other long stories of equal interest. grosset & dunlap, publishers, new york the master's violin by myrtle reed [illustration] a love story with a musical atmosphere. a picturesque, old german virtuoso is the reverent possessor of a genuine cremona. he consents to take as his pupil a handsome youth who proves to have an aptitude for technique, but not the soul of the artist. the youth has led the happy, careless life of a modern, well-to-do young american, and he cannot, with his meagre past, express the love, the longing, the passion and the tragedies of life and its happy phases as can the master who has lived life in all its fulness. but a girl comes into his existence, a beautiful bit of human driftwood that his aunt had taken into her heart and home; and through his passionate love for her, he learns the lessons that life has to give--and his soul awakens. founded on a fact well known among artists, but not often recognized or discussed. if you have not read "lavender and old lace" by the same author, you have a double pleasure in store--for these two books show myrtle reed in her most delightful, fascinating vein--indeed they may be considered as masterpieces of compelling interest. _ask for complete free list of g. & d. popular copyrighted fiction_ grosset & dunlap, publishers, new york kate douglas wiggin's stories of pure delight full of originality and humor, kindliness and cheer. _the old peabody pew._ large octavo. decorative text pages, printed in two colors. illustrations by alice barber stephens. one of the prettiest romances that has ever come from this author's pen is made to bloom on christmas eve in the sweet freshness of an old new england meeting house. _penelope's progress._ attractive cover design in colors. scotland is the background for the merry doings of three very clever and original american girls. their adventures in adjusting themselves to the scot and his land are full of humor. _penelope's irish experiences._ uniform in style _with "penelope's progress."_ the trio of clever girls who rambled over scotland cross the border to the emerald isle, and again they sharpen their wits against new conditions, and revel in the land of laughter and wit. _rebecca of sunnybrook farm._ one of the most beautiful studies of childhood--rebecca's artistic, unusual and quaintly charming qualities stand out midst a circle of austere new englanders. the stage version is making a phenomenal dramatic record. _new chronicles of rebecca._ with illustrations by f. c. yohn. some more quaintly amusing chronicles that carry rebecca through various stages to her eighteenth birthday. _rose o' the river._ with illustrations by george wright the simple story of rose, a country girl and stephen a sturdy young farmer. the girl's fancy for a city man interrupts their love and merges the story into an emotional strain where the reader follows the events with rapt attention. grosset & dunlap, west th st., new york after reading the rosary you will surely want to read the delightful companion story. may be had wherever books are sold. ask for grosset & dunlap's list [illustration] the mistress of shenstone by florence l. barclay in this delightful love story, a worthy successor of the rosary, in which mrs. garth dalmain again appears, we follow the fortunes of the young and lovely lady ingleby, recently widowed by the death of a husband who was never capable of really understanding her. while rusticating _incog._ in the country, she meets her heart's delight under the simple and classic name of "jim"--in reality an earl--and these two proceed to fall deeply and rapturously in love with each other. when he learns her identity, a situation of singular power and fascination is developed, which mrs. barclay handles in a masterly manner. a most absorbing and unusual story. _ask for complete free list of g. & d. popular copyrighted fiction_ grosset & dunlap, publishers, n. y. florence l. barclay's novels may be had wherever books are sold. ask for grosset & dunlap's list. _the white ladies of worcester_ a novel of the th century. the heroine, believing she had lost her lover, enters a convent. he returns, and interesting developments follow. _the upas tree_ a love story of rare charm. it deals with a successful author and his wife. _through the postern gate_ the story of a seven day courtship, in which the discrepancy in ages vanished into insignificance before the convincing demonstration of abiding love. _the rosary_ the story of a young artist who is reputed to love beauty above all else in the world, but who, when blinded through an accident, gains life's greatest happiness. a rare story of the great passion of two real people superbly capable of love, its sacrifices and its exceeding reward. _the mistress of shenstone_ the lovely young lady ingleby, recently widowed by the death of a husband who never understood her, meets a fine, clean young chap who is ignorant of her title and they fall deeply in love with each other. when he learns her real identity a situation of singular power is developed. _the broken halo_ the story of a young man whose religious belief was shattered in childhood and restored to him by the little white lady, many years older than himself, to whom he is passionately devoted. _the following of the star_ the story of a young missionary, who, about to start for africa, marries wealthy diana rivers, in order to help her fulfill the conditions of her uncle's will, and how they finally come to love each other and are reunited after experiences that soften and purify. grosset & dunlap, publishers, new york transcriber's notes obvious errors of punctuation and diacritics repaired. hyphen added: up[-]stairs (pp. , ), tear[-]stained (p. ), hyphen removed: door[-]way (p. ), spell[-]bound (p. ). p. : a little cry excaped her -> a little cry escaped her. p. : good-night -> good night. p. : more than ususal unkindness -> more than usual unkindness. p. : accept the enlosed check -> accept the enclosed check. ad following p. : delightful humor and spontaniety -> delightful humor and spontaneity.